Happy Camp – it's where troubled children go to learn how to be happy. Through happy music and happy dance.

After studiously re-watching the series, I decided it was time to give myself a go at writing for Young Dracula. The fandom certainly needs more stories. This one is set after "The Mummy".

Lastly, a huge thank you to drygionus for the support and motivation to write this.

Happy Camp

Chapter 1

Third Person POV

"This is completely unfair!"

"Now, now, Robin," said Mrs Branagh in a placating tone. "I'm sure you'll have lots of fun. You probably won't even want to leave once it's over!"

"But you heard what Vlad's dad said!"

"Mr Count," interjected Mr Branagh sternly, "is not your father."

"I wish he was," muttered Robin under his breath. Louder, he said, "I don't need to go to Happy Camp!"

"That's what we thought, too, until that incident with the kitchen." The man's face contorted into a grimace with the mere memory of it.

"I said I was sorry about that. How was I supposed to know home-made fake blood could be so explosive?" Robin grimaced too. "And stain so easily," he tacked on.

"We had to repaint the entire room," Mr Branagh chided.

"And I so liked that Sunflower Yellow shade," added Mrs Branagh.

Robin groaned and let his head fall against the window with a dull thud. Through the glass, he could see the surrounding countryside whipping by with an unwelcome speed. They'd been driving for well over an hour, and in that time Robin had tried everything he could think of to convince them to turn the car around. Pleading, faking an illness, offering to help with the housework (his mother had nearly given in then) and even promising to spend more time outdoors. But Mr Branagh was determined and nigh unshakable.

Robin started as his phone's message alert beeped, grabbing the device from the seat beside him and checking his inbox while his parents chatted obliviously about the weather. He had one new message from Chloe. Probably offering him last minute advice on fitting in and making friends – like he didn't already get enough of that. Rolling his eyes, he opened the message and was pleased to find it was actually from Vlad, borrowing Chloe's phone.

Robin, it's Vlad. Hope you're holding up okay. It's boring here without you. Good luck, and don't forget to write. Might be able to convince Dad to let me come on Visitor's Day. If not, I'll see you in six weeks.

Don't forget to write... Like he was going to miss an opportunity to communicate with anyone not on Prozac. Apparently, the camp had strict rules about contact with the outside world. Letters only. No phones, no television and no internet. To Robin, this meant one thing: no vampires. Well, probably not, anyway. With any luck, he'd stumble across another one at the camp. There certainly seemed to be more vampires in the world than he would've originally thought, though he doubted there were many with the same attitude toward "breathers" as Vlad.

Vlad. He missed him already. His first proper friend since kindergarten and he wasn't going to see him for at least another three weeks. Life was cruel.

His belief was officially confirmed as they turned into a long, dirt driveway with a loud sign overhead, bearing the words 'Hopkins' Happy Camp', with a glaringly yellow smiley face in place of the 'o'. Robin found he could do little but gape as they drove underneath it. As he chanted to himself ("This is not happening. This is not happening."), he wondered if it was possible for him to go through the five stages of dying without actually facing death. He dismissed the theory as he realised depression would have to be a stage for that to work, not a constant state.

"Ooh, look, Robin!" cried Mrs Branagh, interrupting his morbid musings and pointing to a distant cabin they were passing. She leafed through the brochure avidly. "I think that's yours."

"But... it's pink," Robin replied, his horrified awe wasting no time in becoming plain horror.

"Oh, don't be silly! It's fuchsia," said his mother, as though that made all the difference in the world.

Robin glanced around frantically as his father pulled into the carpark. Maybe he could wait for his parents to get out of the car, then lock the doors. No, Mr Branagh had remote locking doors.

Think, he urged himself, squeezing his eyes shut. There has to be a way out.

"Come on, Robin," said Mr Branagh exasperatedly from where he held Robin's door open, causing Robin to open his eyes in shock. His time was up. "You can't sit in the car forever."

Robin disagreed. He had a half-full water bottle and he was pretty sure there were some old crackers somewhere under the seat.

"Robin," began his mother, crouching down next to him, "we only want what's best for you."

"If that's true," said Robin quickly, "then you'll take me back to Stokely. The C- I mean, Mr Count thinks this place is awful, and he knows a lot about the world." He ought to after six hundred years.

Mrs Branagh bit her lip, looking on the brink of agreeing. Robin suppressed a grin. He could already smell the castle's dank stench.

"No, Robin," said his father, meriting a scowl from Robin. "We've been through this. Mr Count's opinion doesn't matter. I sometimes think he needs to go to Happy Camp as much as you do."

"Graham!" scolded Mrs Branagh. "You shouldn't judge Mr Count. It's been hard for him, raising two children on his own. It's no surprise he's a little bit down at times."

Mr Branagh looked slightly abashed, but blustered on regardless. "Well, it still doesn't change anything. Robin, get out of the car."

Robin moaned and painstakingly exited the vehicle, dragging the process out as much as possible. Once out in the open, he followed his parents to the gaudily painted administration building, giving the soles of his shoes a proper scuffing along the way. He knew he would come to regret this. The rubber was already wearing thin, and he hadn't brought another pair.

The inside of the room was, if possible, even worse than the outside. Layers upon layers of colourful posters and flyers were attached to several noticeboards, more than one of them advertising medication. Robin examined one as his parents talked to the receptionist.

Feeling down? it read in a nauseatingly fluorescent green. Not yourself? Antisocial? Not to worry! All are easily corrected with our new, herb-based tablet – Hapup-C! Available at...

Robin lifted his gaze from the advert as his parents called him over. As he approached the desk, the receptionist looked at him appraisingly.

"Hello, Robin," she said in the sort of voice one would use with a toddler, or someone they considered mentally deficient. "My name is Anne. I'm sure we'll become very good friends. You just come to me if you need someone to talk to, okay?"

Having not yet planned a course of action if such a situation arose, Robin merely stared flatly at her. After a few seconds, she coughed uncomfortably. "Yes, well, you should probably be going," she told Mr and Mrs Branagh, this time in a relatively normal tone. "Wouldn't want to be late for orientation."

"Oh, goodness, no," agreed Mrs Branagh. "Let's go meet the other campers, Robin."

Robin allowed himself to be steered through the doorway and down a worn path until they arrived at a stage with dozens of chairs facing it, most of them filled. As he inspected the other "campers", he became more and more assured that he didn't belong there. One of the teens had green hair and over a dozen facial piercings, for bats' sake!

Desperately trying not to freak out and make his parents even more certain he needed this camp, Robin walked behind them as they filed into a row. They sat in the plastic chairs, which were a varying array of bright colours, primarily yellow and blue (Robin eyed his father's pocket, where he had deposited the car keys, seriously considering making a run for it), and waited for someone to address them. Mrs Branagh placed a reassuring hand on Robin's shoulder, though it did little to dispel the feeling of imminent doom. Eventually, a blonde, perky looking girl, hair in pigtails and wearing what must have been at least eight different colours, bounded onto the small stage.

"All right! Who's ready to get happy?"

Robin's escape attempt was foiled by his mother's hand, which had suddenly gone from reassuring to restraining.

For anyone who's wondering, no, I don't have any idea where I'm going with this. Thanks for rubbing it in.

-TeamVampire