Chapter 60
"It'll need some time to recover. Perhaps Hagrid could look after it for a while," Gray said.
Hagrid's face lit up with excitement. Truth be told, although he knew unicorns lived in the Forbidden Forest, he had never actually come close to a living one. They were proud magical creatures that never allowed him near.
"That would be most kind," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Let me see… the wizard Gray has protected a unicorn from harm in the Forbidden Forest. Gryffindor is awarded fifty points!"
His voice rang out clear and carrying, borne on the night breeze all the way to Hogwarts Castle. The great hourglasses that recorded the House points shifted accordingly. No doubt the Gryffindor students would wake up tomorrow morning and stare in astonishment.
At that moment, Gryffindor had climbed into second place—only a dozen or so points behind Slytherin.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, eyes bright with excitement and delight. They had been keeping close track of the scores all term; they instantly calculated exactly what this meant.
All the points they themselves had lost earlier in the year—because of their own misadventures—had now been more than made up for through Gray's and Hermione's efforts, and especially through tonight's events.
And Harry still had one Quidditch match left. That was when he could really make the difference. Win that, and Gryffindor could overtake Slytherin completely.
"Thank you very much, Professor Dumbledore," Gray said, a smile breaking across his own face.
"You earned it, my boy. Your Flame Charm was most impressive—though with a little more focus, it would have been even finer," Dumbledore replied.
More focus?
Gray didn't have time to dwell on it before Dumbledore continued.
"Now, children, I imagine you are all quite exhausted. Off to your dormitories and get some proper rest. Tomorrow is Saturday—you can have a nice lie-in."
Malfoy had been itching to leave from the moment they emerged from the forest. At Dumbledore's words he bolted forward—only to stop again when he realized Gray, Harry, and Hermione hadn't moved.
It wasn't that he wanted their company. The path back to the castle was pitch dark, and if that thing came back halfway… well, he certainly wasn't as capable as Gray.
Gray glanced at Dumbledore and at Snape, who stood beside him with his usual expressionless face. He guessed the two professors probably wanted to discuss what had just happened. He had no interest in listening in. He gave the unicorn a gentle pat, promising to visit her tomorrow, then started toward the castle.
Harry and Hermione fell in behind him. Malfoy hurried after them, keeping a cautious distance but not straying too far.
"Good night, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape," Hagrid called, then trudged off toward his hut. The unicorn had already moved to the side of the little house and settled in a sheltered spot to rest.
Now only Snape and Dumbledore remained. Black robes and white robes billowed in the wind like enormous wings.
"I told you I would protect Harry, Severus," Dumbledore said at last, his voice grave, his face devoid of its usual warmth.
"Gray came to no harm, did he?" Snape replied. His tone was as cold as the night wind.
"What you did was wrong, Severus. You placed the life of one student above another."
Dumbledore's words were calm, yet the disapproval beneath them was unmistakable.
"I have no wish to discuss this with you. No one was injured tonight. No one died. Your lecture is pointless," Snape said.
Silence fell—thick and heavy as the darkness itself—enveloping the two men.
"Did you catch him?" Dumbledore asked after a long pause, turning to another matter.
"No. He concealed himself very well," Snape answered. "But I could smell him. It was him. He has returned."
"He has returned," Dumbledore echoed softly. "Of course I knew he would. The only question is—in what form has he returned?"
That had been the true purpose of tonight's events—to discover the answer. Unfortunately, the chance had slipped away.
"You are too soft, Albus. If we simply seized Quirrell, I could have a hundred ways of making him tell us everything we need to know," Snape said.
"No. Quirrell must remain—for now," Dumbledore replied, refusing the suggestion.
"He is an anchor. As long as he stays within the school, Voldemort will not leave to wander elsewhere. This is our best opportunity. We must not scare him off."
"Do as you wish, Albus. I ask only one thing." Snape's coal-black eyes locked onto Dumbledore's brilliant blue ones.
"Why question an old man's love for children, Severus? No student will come to harm. You have my word," Dumbledore said.
Snape stared at him for a long moment, then turned and strode away.
The black wind caught his cloak and swallowed him into the darkness.
Dumbledore watched his retreating figure and let out a deep, weary sigh. The lines on his face seemed to deepen.
Deep in the Forbidden Forest, a figure wrapped entirely in a cloak lay writhing on the ground, body contorting as though in unending agony.
"Master… please… spare me, Master…" Quirrell begged, voice shaking, rolling helplessly across the earth.
"Why… just now… did you not let me take… your strength?" The cold, filthy voice rasped from the back of Quirrell's head, thick with rage.
If Quirrell had not resisted at that crucial moment, he would have killed the boy wizard with a single Killing Curse.
"Master… I was too weak… I could not withstand your possession," Quirrell groaned, clutching his head in torment.
The hood slipped back unintentionally, revealing a face pale and prematurely aged—covered in liver spots and deep wrinkles, eyes dull and lifeless, body frail beyond belief.
He gasped for breath, pleading with the thing that clung to him.
"Master, please… give me a little more time. I will find other magical creatures. Their blood will restore your strength."
"Fool… the centaurs have seen us. The Forest is no longer safe. We must return," Voldemort said coldly.
"I understand, Master. I will find the Philosopher's Stone. I will restore your power," Quirrell said quickly.
"This… is your… final… chance," Voldemort hissed.
As the words ended, a ferocious pull erupted once more—draining Quirrell's life force, his magic, everything.
Quirrell's face began to collapse inward, as though something monstrous were devouring him from within. He clawed desperately at his own cheeks, feeling life and power bleed away.
Fortunately, Voldemort still needed him alive. At the very last moment, the drain stopped.
Quirrell collapsed, gasping, weaker now than before—looking every inch like an old man with one foot already in the grave.
But he was still breathing. He was alive.
Relief washed through him. As long as he lived, there was hope.
Once Voldemort had absorbed enough life force and magic to sustain his own wretched existence, he sank back into dormancy.
Quirrell struggled to his feet. With trembling hands he drew a small vial of pitch-black potion from his robes and drank it down.
His already flickering life burned away even faster—but the weakness retreated just as swiftly. The wrinkles smoothed from his face; the dullness left his eyes.
The price was simple: he now had less than three months left.
And only one thing could save him was the Elixir of Life; The Philosopher's Stone.
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