Poor Quirrell was almost laughably naive. He had no idea how silent the Forbidden Forest had become, and the two unicorns were even more pitiful, dead before they had understood what kind of monster had come for them.
"Harry, don't you think it's too quiet around here?" Roger Williams asked, slowing his steps as he glanced between the trees.
"Isn't that a good thing?" Harry looked at him in confusion, one hand tight around his wand. Fang hadn't noticed any danger either, though the boarhound's ears twitched now and then as if even he disliked the stillness.
Harry always felt a little small when he stood beside Roger. Roger carried himself like a young prince, calm and precise in both speech and movement, the sort of person who made other people straighten their backs without realizing it.
If not for Harry's talent on a broom and the ridiculous reputation that came with being the Boy Who Lived, he sometimes thought he might not have dared meet Roger's eyes at all. It was hard to explain, but Roger made danger feel like something that could be measured, prepared for, and then crushed.
"This is the Forbidden Forest, not a Muggle park," Roger said, his gaze sweeping over the undergrowth. "Every creature here has territory, and outsiders don't wander through it without consequences. Stay sharp. I'm worried we've walked into something dangerous."
As he spoke, he unfastened the leather pouch at his waist and began taking out what he needed. Harry's eyes widened when he recognised the dark metal object in Roger's hand from the Dursleys' television.
"Roger, is that a pistol?" Harry asked, startled. He had no idea why a wizard would carry a Muggle weapon, much less bring one into the Forbidden Forest.
"A Stechkin APS machine pistol," Roger said, checking it with practised ease. "It might be enough to deal with whatever killed the unicorn."
The sharp metallic click made Harry flinch. A cold wind slid between the trees at the same moment, raising gooseflesh along the back of his neck.
"Shouldn't we use wands?" Harry asked, lifting his own as if to prove the point. The wand felt thin and fragile in his hand all of a sudden.
"This?" Roger glanced at it and smiled faintly. "When death comes for you, it doesn't stop to ask whether you're a Muggle or a wizard. Surviving is what matters."
Harry stared at him, unsure how to answer. Roger's eyes rested for a moment on Harry's wand, and there was something almost amused in his expression, as though Harry possessed a trump card he did not yet understand.
"Let's go," Roger said, thumb brushing the safety aside. "With luck, we won't need it."
Led by Fang, they moved deeper into the trees. The forest seemed older here, darker and heavier, and even the moonlight struggled to reach the roots beneath their feet.
Roger could not help thinking of how precious unicorns were. Their horns, blood, hair, and hides were rare beyond measure, not because no one wanted them, but because any wizard foolish enough to hunt unicorns would find the entire magical world on his trail.
Most wizards were not as reckless as Voldemort. He had cut himself off from wizarding society so completely that rules, outrage, and consequences no longer had any real meaning to him.
Professor Quirrell, you had better give it your all, Roger thought as he watched the branches sway in the darkness. He had a strong suspicion that their beloved Headmaster Dumbledore was somewhere nearby, watching everything unfold from a comfortable distance.
We'll see whether there's a chance to take the body with us afterward, he added silently. The thought had barely crossed his mind when Fang suddenly barked toward the trees ahead.
They had reached a stand of ancient oaks, their roots twisted together like the fingers of buried giants. A flash of green light cut through the darkness, followed by a pained, broken groan and the heavy thud of something collapsing among the roots.
Roger charged forward first. Beneath one of the oaks lay a unicorn, pure white and faintly luminous even in death, while a black-cloaked figure crouched beside it and stared hungrily at the exposed wound in its neck.
The figure crawled closer, low to the ground like a starving beast. Fang gave a furious bark and leapt forward, only for the shadow to snap its head around, eyes gleaming with a predatory light in the dark.
That single look was enough. Fang yelped, tucked his tail between his legs, and fled back the way he had come.
"You clever little coward," Roger muttered, without the slightest contempt. "At least you know when you're out of your depth."
Not everyone was qualified to join a private meeting between Harry Potter and Voldemort. Those who barged in uninvited usually paid for the privilege by learning far more gossip than they wanted.
The dark figure fixed on Harry. In the next instant, it rose and rushed toward him like a black whirlwind, robes snapping in the air.
Harry's hand flew to his forehead. A pain like white-hot iron stabbed through his scar, piercing deep into his skull and seeming to burn all the way into his soul.
He staggered, gasped, and fell to the ground. Roger did not hesitate for even half a heartbeat.
He raised the APS, pulled the trigger, and emptied twenty rounds of 9mm Makarov ammunition at Quirrell.
Quirrell's attention had been entirely on Harry. He had not spared a glance for the young wizard beside him, and by the time muzzle flashes tore through the darkness and gunfire cracked between the trees, warning bells were already screaming in his head.
It was too late to cast properly. Too late to raise a clean shield, too late to step aside, and far too late to pretend Muggle weapons were harmless toys.
Just as the bullets were about to punch through his skull, some mysterious force intervened. A half-formed magical barrier dragged against them, slowing and bending their paths by the narrowest margin.
Quirrell could see the yellow streaks hanging in the air, see the bullets trembling as if caught in thick glass. One by one, the flattened pieces of metal lost their force and dropped to the forest floor with a sharp metallic clatter.
"You damned little wizard!" Quirrell rasped, his face deathly pale beneath the shadow of his hood. "How dare you ambush me with Muggle weapons!"
He knew perfectly well that without his master's intervention, he would already be dead. The thought left him cold with rage and humiliation.
"Not bad," Roger said lightly, lowering the smoking pistol. "You do have some skill. Let's see how you handle this."
He tapped his pouch, and a dozen high-explosive grenades rose into the air around him. The metal bodies gleamed faintly in the greenish light still lingering between the trees.
Roger was just about to pull the pins and have a very serious conversation with Quirrell and Voldemort when a centaur burst from the undergrowth. He was tall, powerful, and wild-haired, his hooves tearing up clods of damp earth as he charged.
Quirrell twisted away from the attack at once. His body seemed to melt into shadow, and in the next breath he had fled into the dense forest, leaving only the dead unicorn and the stink of dark magic behind.
"Beautiful teamwork," Roger said, curling his lip as he recalled the grenades to his pouch. "A few seconds later and I might actually have killed him."
The proud centaur gave him no answer. Instead, he moved to Harry's side and helped him sit up.
"You are the Potter boy, aren't you?" the centaur said, his voice carrying a strange tremor of excitement. His eyes were fixed on the lightning-bolt scar on Harry's forehead.
Roger, thoroughly ignored, clicked his tongue and walked toward the fallen unicorn. He was not entirely sure how effective it would be, but he still raised his wand and cast a Freezing Charm over the body to preserve it as best he could.
"My name is Firenze," the centaur said. He folded his front legs and knelt low enough for Harry to climb onto his back.
"Child, unicorn blood will keep a wizard alive," Firenze warned, watching as Roger slid the unicorn's body into a bag enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. "But it leaves him half-dead, cursed from the moment it touches his lips."
"A curse?" Roger straightened with open interest. Following Harry really did have its advantages; at the very least, the battlefield cleanup was excellent.
"That is an interesting question," he continued, taking out his notebook. "Does the wizard become half-dead because of a curse within the blood, or because the blood itself carries a unique magical property? Could there be a connection between that and blood maledictions?"
He wrote quickly, then looked Firenze up and down with a cool, clinical gaze. It was not the look of a child seeing a talking centaur for the first time, but of a young researcher imagining exactly where the first incision would go.
What kind of skeletal structure supported such a massive body? How many hearts did a centaur have? Was the stomach in the human torso, the equine body, or both?
"Your gaze feels dangerous," Firenze said, his expression hardening. "Look elsewhere."
"Oh?" Roger smiled and closed the notebook. "I meant no harm. I thought centaurs only cared about the planets, but it seems you understand people rather well too."
Before Firenze could answer, the sound of more hoofbeats echoed through the trees. Ronan and Bane had separated from Hagrid and found their way to the clearing at last.
Roger glanced at their heaving flanks and sweat-darkened coats, wondering why they had been in such a hurry. If they had only rushed over after learning where the unicorns were, then they were obviously late.
"Firenze!" Bane roared, rearing slightly as his eyes landed on Harry. "What are you doing? Have you no shame? Are you allowing yourself to be ridden like a common donkey?"
"Maybe his name isn't Firenze at all," Roger said, watching the argument with clear amusement. "Maybe it's Mule."
A mule, after all, was an even nastier insult than a donkey. Firenze glared at Roger, but his anger turned quickly back to his own kind.
"Did you even see who he is?" Firenze demanded. "Harry! Harry Potter! The boy who defeated Voldemort!"
The other centaurs remained unmoved. Firenze snorted white steam from his nostrils, turned sharply, and carried Harry away through the trees.
"Oh, it seems he doesn't agree with your views," Roger said, shaking his head as he looked at Bane and Ronan. "Perhaps the stars in the sky are no longer worth his attention."
.....
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