Chapter Eleven
The morning light streaming through the high windows of the Entrance Hall illuminated the four enormous hourglasses, each filled with sparkling gems that represented the house points. Normally, the rubies for Gryffindor and the sapphires for Slytherin glittered proudly, but today, they were woefully diminished. Students passing by stopped and stared, whispering furiously to one another. Some even rubbed their eyes as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.
“It must be a mistake,” someone murmured.
But by mid-morning, the story of the chaotic Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson the day before had swept through the school like wildfire. Everyone now knew about the shouting match, the near-brawl between Ron and Draco, and the spectacular display of Professor Quirrell losing control of his class. Most importantly, they knew about the punishment: detention for the entire group and the unprecedented deduction of points. Gryffindor and Slytherin had been knocked so far behind that Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were now locked in a fierce race for the House Cup.
For Hermione, the aftermath was nothing short of a nightmare. She’d never been particularly popular, and she had been content with that, especially after finding loyal friends. But now, things were different. As she walked the corridors, the weight of what felt like hundreds of pairs of eyes followed her. Everywhere she went, whispers filled the air like an ominous hum, and students didn’t bother to lower their voices when hurling insults:
“Thanks for ruining it for everyone, Granger!”
“Should’ve just stayed home if you’re going to cost us like that.”
“Unbelievable! Seventy points in one go! Are you proud of yourself?”
It wasn’t just her own house that seemed to resent her; the other houses had joined in as well. Gryffindor and Slytherin’s shared disgrace made them mutual pariahs and students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw walked past with smug grins, savouring their newfound advantage—even going as far as to directly thank them for hand-delivering the House Cup to them.
Hermione felt like she’d been placed beneath a thousand blankets of guilt, all looking to suffocate her. She’d always prided herself on being a rule follower; someone who worked hard to achieve success and praise for that success. Now, her behaviour had directly been the catalyst for the largest point loss at a time that Hogwarts had seen in years.
The only silver lining in the storm was that she wasn’t alone. Every other first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin shared the same cold stares and hostile treatment. It created a fragile but surprising truce between the two groups, born out of necessity. They stuck together that morning, walking to lessons in clusters and sitting together during mealtimes. Safety in numbers made the rejection from the rest of the school a little more bearable.
Adeline, however, seemed immune to the chaos. The unflappable Slytherin had brushed off the entire debacle with a shrug and a confident, almost dismissive grin. “People here have the attention span of nifflers,” she said breezily in a quiet corner of the library during their Friday morning Study Hall session. “This will be old news by the end of next week. Something shinier will come along, and they’ll forget about it.”
Ron nodded in agreement when Hermione relayed this to him, Harry and Neville over lunch. “She’s right, you know. Fred and George have lost more points than we did, and they’re still heroes in Gryffindor. Last year, they lost fifty in one day for enchanting snowballs to pelt students in the back of the head in the halls.”
“Yeah,” Harry said glumly, “but have they ever lost seventy in one go?”
“Or one hundred and twenty,” Hermione murmured, voice heavy with shame. She had tried to push the guilt aside, but it clung to her like a second skin.
Ron scratched the back of his head. “Well—no,” he admitted, his attempt at consolation falling flat.
Harry let out a long, miserable sigh. “I bet McGonagall’s never been so disappointed in us before. Gryffindor’s practically out of the race for the House Cup.”
“I just—I shouldn’t have said anything to Malfoy,” Hermione said suddenly, burying her face in her hands. “If I’d just ignored him—”
“Oi, don’t start that,” Ron said firmly. “This isn’t all on you. Malfoy was being a prat. And besides, we all got involved. It’s not like you were the only one shouting.”
Hermione wasn’t sure that made her feel better, but she did crack a small, reluctant smile. Ron had a way of making things seem less catastrophic.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
By nine that evening, Hermione had worked herself into a frenzy awaiting their detention in the Forbidden Forest. She could not stop imagining what might lurk within its shadows. The fact that she didn’t know any useful defensive spells—unless blinding someone with Lumos or levitating them into a tree counted—only made her anxiety worse.
She and the Slytherins made their way to the Entrance Hall early, unwilling to risk the wrath of their professors by being even a millisecond late. They stood waiting beneath the towering clock that read seven to nine, the empty, echoing hall around them doing nothing to calm Hermione’s nerves.
“What do you think we’ll be doing?” Hermione asked her friends, her voice betraying her tension as she tapped her foot incessantly against the cold stone floor.
“It can’t be anything too bad,” Daphne offered, trying to sound confident but not quite convincing even herself. “They wouldn’t send first-years into the forest for something dangerous. We probably won’t even go beyond the boundary. It’s just a scare tactic.”
“Well, it’s working,” Alana chimed in, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I could throw up. I knew having soup for dinner was a mistake, but it looked too good to pass up.”
The Gryffindors arrived a moment later, bundled up in layers of warm clothing against the evening chill.
At precisely nine, Filch emerged from the shadows at the far end of the hall, a battered lantern swinging in his gnarled hand. The flickering light cast sharp, dancing shadows over his weathered face, making his usual sour expression even more menacing. “Follow me,” he growled, his voice gravelly and filled with relish as he led them out onto the grounds.
Outside, the night was colder than Hermione had anticipated. The air was sharp and biting, making her gasp involuntarily as they left the warmth of the castle’s protective walls. She burrowed her nose deeper into her scarf and pulled her robes tighter around her, shivering against the chill. Overhead, the sky stretched endlessly, black as ink and dotted with stars, but even their distant light seemed subdued. The grounds around them were eerily silent, save for the sound of their footsteps crunching on frost-tipped grass.
“Bet you’ll think twice about breaking school rules now, won’t you?” Filch cackled, voice cutting through the quiet like a rusty blade. “Hard work and pain are the best teachers for troublesome children if you ask me. Pity they banned the old punishments. Back then, they’d hang you by your wrists in the dungeons to straighten you out. Still got the chains in my office. Keep ‘em well oiled, just in case.”
“Who let this man around children?” Adeline muttered under her breath, her expression mirroring Hermione’s horror. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder the same.
Ahead, the dim outline of Hagrid’s hut loomed through the gloom, its windows glowing faintly with inviting warmth. Outside, the groundskeeper stood with Professors Snape, Sprout, and Kettleburn.
Hagrid was fastening a quiver of arrows over his shoulder and checking the tautness of an enormous crossbow. At their approach, he gave them an encouraging smile. “Evenin’. Hope yeh’re all warm enough. If not, Professors can cast warmin’ charms on yeh,” he said, his deep voice brimming with reassurance.
They eagerly stepped forward as the professors raised their wands, casting charms that enveloped them in a comforting warmth. Hermione sighed in relief as the chill melted away, wiggling her fingers and toes to fully appreciate the sensation.
“I wouldn’t be too friendly with them, Hagrid,” Filch sneered. “They’re here to be punished, after all.”
“That’s for us to enforce, Filch,” Snape said icily, his dark eyes narrowing at the caretaker. “You may return to the castle.” Filch sniffed indignantly but obeyed, stomping off toward the castle with his lantern swaying like a grim spectre in the night.
Snape divided them into groups, his commanding voice cutting through the frigid air. Hermione found herself with Harry, Theo, Parvati, and Adeline, assigned to assist Snape in harvesting potion ingredients.
He gave them curt instructions as they ventured into the forest, the dense trees swallowing the faint moonlight and plunging them into near-total darkness. Only the faint glow of their wands lit the way, casting feeble pools of light on the uneven ground.
The forest was alive with unsettling sounds. Twigs snapped in the distance, and the faint rustle of unseen creatures sent shivers up Hermione’s spine. The further they ventured, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, the canopy above sealing them off from the world beyond. It felt as though the forest was alive, watching, waiting. Every shadow seemed to move, every rustle felt like a predator stalking them. They were definitely past the boundary and if Daphne had been in her group, Hermione would’ve done well to point that out.
Snape moved with confidence, his long strides unhesitating as he led them down an overgrown path. At various clearings, he stopped to instruct them on harvesting Wolfsbane, Valerian Root, and Moondew Berries. His voice, though sharp and clinical, carried an undertone of passion for the meticulous art of potion-making. “Careful,” he barked as Theo’s clumsy hands nearly crushed a delicate sprig of Wolfsbane. “These are rare and invaluable. Respect the ingredients, or you’ll find yourself regretting it.”
Despite her apprehension, Hermione found herself absorbed in the work. She loved Potions, and there was something grounding about the tactile process of harvesting. She wished she had thought to bring parchment to take notes, as Snape’s explanations were laced with insights that went far beyond their first-year curriculum.
“Knottgrass thrives in damp weather and has been flourishing with the turn of the season,” Snape explained as he handed out shears. “Harvest the stalks, but leave the roots intact to encourage regrowth.”
He was mid-instruction when a scream tore through the forest, high-pitched and filled with raw terror. It echoed off the trees, making Hermione’s blood run cold. A moment later, red sparks shot into the air, painting the canopy in ominous crimson.
Snape’s wand hand tightened imperceptibly, his expression hardening. “Follow me,” he ordered, his voice like steel. “Stay together.”
Hermione’s heart pounded as they hurried after him, stumbling over roots and uneven ground. Snape swept his wand in broad arcs, casting shimmering blue and gold spells that Hermione didn’t recognise but assumed were protective.
They emerged into a clearing where Hagrid stood shielding a trembling Neville, who clung to him as though his life depended on it. Draco Malfoy cowered under Hagrid’s furious glare, his pale face betraying guilt.
“What happened?” Snape demanded, his voice dangerously low.
“Malfoy thought it funny ta jump out an’ scare Neville,” Hagrid growled, his anger palpable. “Poor lad thought it was a werewolf.”
Neville stammered through tears, “I-I thought it was real. I didn’t know...”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Mr Malfoy, you are already in detention. Would you like another? The forest is not a place for childish games.” His tone was icy, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You will switch places with Miss Patil and join my group immediately.”
“What?” Draco sputtered. “It was just a joke—”
“Do not test me, Malfoy,” Snape snapped, his voice a venomous hiss. “Your father would be most displeased to receive yet another disciplinary letter.”
Draco slunk over to Hermione’s group, his expression sullen and defiant. Harry exchanged a grim look with Hermione as Draco joined them, the tension between them simmering.
Snape turned to Neville, his voice softening slightly. “Stay with Professor Kettleburn and Hagrid. They will ensure your safety.”
With the groups reshuffled, they pressed forward into the forest along a different path this time. Snape led the group with Hermione and Harry behind, followed by Draco, Theo, and Adeline.
Ancient trees loomed overhead, skeletal branches casting jagged shadows that seemed to reach for them. The air grew colder with every step, a biting chill that wormed its way into their very bones even with the warming charms. An unnatural silence blanketed the woods, as though every living creature had retreated into hiding. As the forest thickened, the oppressive quiet deepened. It wasn’t merely the absence of sound—it felt alive, almost sentient, as if the forest itself were watching.
Then, they saw it: a glimmer of silver cutting through the darkness, illuminated by the rays of moonlight that had managed to slip their way through the thick canopy above.
Snape froze mid-stride, the sharp gesture halting them all in their tracks. He crouched low, his dark robes pooling around him like liquid shadows, and dipped his fingers into the silvery substance. His posture changed immediately—gone was the measured professor, replaced by a warrior bristling with tension.
“Unicorn’s blood,” he murmured, more to himself than them. His wand snapped into his hand in an instant, and his sharp, obsidian eyes scanned the surrounding trees with a predator’s precision. “Stay close to me,” he commanded in a low, dangerous voice, “and do not move unless I tell you.”
They followed the blood trail, Snape leading the way with slow, deliberate steps. The path grew darker, the trees pressing in as if conspiring to trap them.
“That looked like a lot of blood,” Hermione whispered to Adeline, voice trembling. “Who would do this to a unicorn?”
“No one good,” Adeline replied, the colour drained entirely out of her already pale face.
Hermione’s mind raced with possibilities, each worse than the last. But as the pool of blood widened and the metallic tang thickened the air, her thoughts dissolved into dread.
At last, they reached the source of the blood.
The sight was horrifying. The unicorn, a creature of unparalleled beauty and grace, lay crumpled on the forest floor, its once-lustrous coat matted with blood. A deep, jagged wound gaped at its neck, and over it hunched a cloaked figure. The figure moved with grotesque fervour, its face hidden beneath a hood as it drank hungrily from the unicorn’s neck. The sight was monstrous; wrong in every conceivable way. The sound of the creature’s feeding—a sickening slurp—cut through the silence of the forest, chilling Hermione’s blood to the core.
Snape moved like a striking snake. He thrust his arm out, pushing the students behind him. “Behind a tree! Now!” he hissed, not taking his eyes off of the figure.
The figure’s head snapped toward them at the sound of Snape’s voice, revealing cold, glowing red eyes that burned with malevolence. They locked onto the group, and an icy terror gripped Hermione’s chest. It wasn’t just fear—it was primal; a deep-seated instinct screaming that this was a spectre of death itself.
Harry staggered backward with a strangled cry, clutching his forehead as though it might split open. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground weakly.
“Harry, get up!” Hermione cried, her voice shrill with panic. She dropped to her knees, tugging desperately at his arm, but his body was limp, face twisted in agony.
The creature moved toward them—not walking, but gliding, its form hovering just above the ground like a shade given life. The closer it came, the more suffocating its presence became, a miasma of dread that pressed down on them like a concrete weight.
Snape acted with ruthless efficiency, his wand a blur of movement. A blazing streak of red shot from his wand, crashing into the figure and forcing it to pause. It turned its gaze to him, and the air grew colder still. “Move!” Snape barked, voice sharp as a whip crack.
Draco and Adeline scrambled to help Hermione drag Harry behind a tree while Theo watched their backs, wand extended just in case. A protective shield shimmered to life around them from Snape’s wand, a dazzling barrier that flickered like molten silver before vanishing into the air.
Once they were safely settled behind the tree, Theo cast red sparks soaring into the sky to alert the other professors. The signal hung in the dark forest like an ominous star for a moment, its glow briefly illuminating the fear etched on everyone’s faces, before fizzling out.
Now that they were protected, Snape unleashed himself on the figure like a tsunami taking the land. He moved with a feral grace, his every motion precise and deliberate; he was a lion enacting a hunt, or a snake laying in wait in the grass, ready to strike. Non-verbal spells were cast in rapid succession, his wand emitting bursts of fiery light that tore through the night. If Hermione wasn’t so terrified, she’d be in awe at the sheer power Snape emitted.
The creature retaliated, unleashing a wave of raw, dark energy that Snape deflected with an unyielding shield. The force of the impact sent shockwaves rippling through the ground that struck the dirt, sending leaves spinning in the air, but Snape held his ground, his expression carved from stone.
Meanwhile, Hermione knelt beside Harry, her hands trembling slightly as she assessed his condition. He’d been clutching his head before he fainted and that was what had Hermione concerned.
“W-What’s wrong with Potter?” Draco questioned. If Adeline had been pale before, Draco was somehow paler. His hands were shaking, pupils blown with terror, and Hermione felt a flicker of sympathy for him—after all, regardless of his pompiness, he was just a boy; a child like the rest of them.
“I think he’s just fainted,” Hermione answered, pressing her fingers to his pulse. It was racing a little, but that was expected with the situation they were in, so Hermione focused on the fact that at least he was breathing. Hermione lit her wand and moved it over his face for any injuries. When she moved it over his forehead, her stomach churned at the sight of his scar: angry and swollen, it radiated a malevolent energy that felt almost alive. As if in a trance, she brushed her fingers over it. The moment her skin made contact with it, a bone-deep chill—the very same she’d felt making eye contact with the creature—spread through her hand. Indescribable dread pierced her heart. Hermione quickly pulled her fingers away, the fog in her head instantly dissipating.
Unsure if they’d have to run at some point if Snape ended up incapacitated, she knew she’d have to wake up Harry—particularly because she doubted they’d all be able to carry Harry over exposed roots, uneven ground and fallen trees, which was common this deep into the forest. She shook him gently, hoping not to shock him too much. “Harry, wake up.”
Harry didn’t wake slowly. He shot up like a canon, eyes wild and unfocused as he looked around him, voice rasping desperately, “Where is it?”
Adeline turned her head slightly from where she’d been peering around the tree, her voice tinged with a mix of fear and sarcasm. “He’s still fighting whatever nightmare fuel that thing is. I really hope it’s not a demon—I’ve watched enough horror movies to know I wouldn’t survive one. Snape’s winning, I think, so that’s good for my rate of survival.”
“I definitely think he’s winning,” Theo agreed.
Safe felt hollow with the fight raging so close. The creature was relentless, its attacking frenzied. It was a wild beast fighting not only for its life but its perceived dominance. Yet Snape met each assault with unwavering determination, his spells carving brilliant arcs of light. And just as the creature surged forward, intent on overpowering him once and for all, Snape unleashed a final spell so fierce it roared like thunder in their ears. The forest itself seemed to recoil as the creature let out an otherwordly shriek, its form faltering like a dying flame before it turned, fleeing into the depths of the forest before it could be permanently defeated. The silence that followed was deafening.
Snape was panting but kept his wand raised as his eyes scanned the treeline for any sign of movement.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps approached. Snape spun, wand extended in preparation, but it was just Hagrid. He emerged from the trees, crossbow wielded, flanked by the other professors. The undergrowth crunched under their hurried steps, and behind them, the other students hesitantly followed, unsure of what they’d just stumbled into.
“What happened here?” Hagrid boomed, his gaze sweeping over the scene.
Snape strolled toward the Professors who all bent their heads low, murmuring to one another. When they stepped back, their faces were pale and ashen, but none said anything as Professor Snape dispelled the protective barrier and moved toward the group still crouched behind the tree.
“Are any of you hurt?” he asked, eyes scanning them all analysing.
“Harry fainted, Professor,” Hermione answered before Harry could say no, and the boy groaned in displeasure as everyone turned to look at him. “It was only for a minute or so, but still…”
“I’ll check him over to make sure he’s well enough to make the journey back to the castle himself,” Snape answered, kneeling in the dirt, uncaring about sullying his robes. He raised his wand, casting a gentle Lumos spell up to his face. He checked Harry’s pupils, checked his pulse again, and then made sure Harry had no wounds on his head from potentially hitting his head when he’d fainted. Once he was assured Harry was alright, he stood. “Nothing to be concerned of, I believe, Mr Potter, but your scar will need to be looked over by Madam Pomfrey—it’s red and inflamed.”
Now that they got the tick of approval, Hermione helped Harry to his feet slowly so he didn’t get lightheaded. They all dusted themselves off and turned to surveil the damage done to the clearing in the fight. Trees had been struck, bushes and plants upturned, long streaks made in the dirt; some bushes were even smoking and Professor Sprout cast Aguamenti on them to make sure no fires started.
Hermione’s gaze drifted to where Professor Kettleburn was knelt at the unicorn’s side. Hermione approached, unable to tear her eyes away from its blood-streaked mane and pristine white coat that seemed to be dimming under the weight of its wounds.
“Is it going to die, Professor?” Hermione wondered, voice barely above a whisper.
Professor Kettleburn looked at her with mournful, tear-filled eyes. “I’m afraid so, my dear,” he said softly, stroking its mane. “But I’ve eased its pain so it won’t suffer any longer.”
Hermione sank to her knees beside him, moss soaking into the knees of her jeans. Professor Kettleburn guided her trembling hand to the unicorn’s face. Its pale-blue eyes locked onto hers and a lump formed in her throat. She could see the pain and fear emanating from its glance and it reminded her of the innocence of a child suffering in sickness. Tears sprung to Hermione’s eyes but she smiled down at the unicorn still, hoping it was reassuring, and began to hum a lullaby her Mum had always sung to her whenever Hermione was scared or couldn’t sleep.
The unicorn whined softly, stretching its neck toward her. Hermione looked to Professor Kettleburn helplessly. “It wishes to reward you for your kindness by giving you something,” he answered. “Take its blood.”
“A-Are you sure?” Hermione whimpered brokenly and Professor Kettleburn nodded before requesting one of Snape’s free vials.
Snape knelt at Hermione’s side and held it out to Hermione. He helped her press it gently to the unicorn’s neck and they watched as the vial filled with silvery blood.
A moment later, the unicorn exhaled a final, shuddering breath, and its eyes dimmed. As Hermione watched its body go still, it felt like for a moment, the forest seemed to mourn with her.
Hermione remained with the unicorn for a few minutes before Professor Kettleburn gently told her they’d need to bury it before any creatures came exploring at the scent of death. Hermione gave its mane one last stroke before standing.
She watched as Professor Kettleburn and Sprout set their wands to the ground, and, with deliberate movements, began to dig a grave for the creature. The rich earth yielded to their efforts, and when the grave was ready, they gently levitated the shimmering, lifeless creature into its final resting place.
Professor Sprout, expression a mixture of sorrow and determination, bloomed a cluster of delicate, white flowers on the edge of the grave at the base of a modest headstone. Hermione appreciated the gesture deeply.
They lingered in silence for a moment, a shared grief settling over them before Professor Sprout straightened her robes and said softly, “Come, let us return to the castle. It’s late and I’m sure we could all appreciate the chance to rest.”
They turned to leave when the sudden crack of a snapping twig shattered the stillness. Everyone froze. The professors immediately formed a circle around the students, wands at the ready as they scanned the shadowed forest line.
“Who’s there?” Hagrid bellowed, crossbow raised in warning. “Show yerself—we’re armed!”
From the shadows emerged a centaur. His upper body was that of a man, with fiery red hair and a thick beard, but below the waist, he was all horse, his chestnut coat gleaming faintly in the moonlight. His reddish tail swished lazily behind him as he raised a hand in greeting.
“Oh, it’s just you, Ronan,” Hagrid said, lowering his weapon. “How are yeh?”
Ronan inclined his head with a small smile. “Good evening to you, Hagrid. Were you going to shoot me?”
“Can’t be too careful, Ronan,” Hagrid said, patting his crossbow affectionately. “There’s summat bad loose in the forest—just killed a unicorn. The students an’ Professor Snape found it while servin’ detention. We’re takin’ ‘em back to the castle now.”
Ronan’s expression darkened. “Always the innocent are the first victims. So it has been for ages past, so it is now.” His voice carried a weight that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. Tilting his head back, he gazed at the sky with a mournful air. “Mars and Leo are bright tonight.”
Before Hagrid could respond, the rustling of leaves heralded the arrival of two more centaurs. One had a wild, black mane and an imposing, coal-black coat. The other was younger, with striking white-blond hair and a palomino body. His sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with an almost ethereal light.
“Hullo, Bane, Firenze,” Hagrid greeted them. “All right?”
Bane’s dark gaze flickered briefly over the group before he replied, “Good evening, Hagrid. I hope you are well?”
“Well enough,” Hagrid said, though his tone was weary. “Look, I jus’ bin askin’ Ronan—have you seen anythin’ odd in here lately? There’s a unicorn bin murdered—would yeh know anythin’ about it?”
Bane strode forward to stand beside Ronan. He, too, turned his gaze upward, his voice low and measured. “Mars and Leo are bright tonight.”
“Yes, we’ve heard,” Snape said again, his voice edged with irritation.
“Let’s go,” Hagrid said, clearly sensing the centaurs’ reluctance to share more. “If yeh see anythin’, let me know, won’t yeh?”
“I will escort you,” Firenze interjected, stepping forward. Bane’s tail lashed angrily, his nostrils flaring, but he said nothing.
As they walked, Hermione couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Firenze,” she ventured, “why did Bane seem upset you offered to help us?”
Firenze hesitated before replying, his voice calm and steady. “Centaurs observe the stars, and we interpret their will. Many of my kind believe we should not interfere in human affairs, for doing so would set us against the heavens. But what I have seen in this forest is worse than mere prophecy. If assisting humans is what it takes to confront this darkness, then so be it.” He paused, glancing down at her. “You showed kindness to that unicorn, child. Such acts are not unnoticed.”
Hermione looked up at him in surprise, wondering how he knew, but Firenze merely smiled. “We centaurs know more than humans think,” he said cryptically. His expression grew sombre. “To kill a unicorn is to slay something pure and defenceless. It is a monstrous act, done only by those who are desperate; those with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Drinking unicorn blood will sustain life, even on the brink of death, but at a terrible cost. It condemns the drinker to a half-life—a cursed existence.”
Hermione shuddered at his words. “But who would be desperate enough to do that?” she asked quietly. “Surely death is better than such a curse?”
“To most, yes,” Firenze said gravely. “But to one who fears death above all else? Someone who craves power and immortality? Such a person would choose even the most cursed existence if it meant a chance to regain their strength.”
“Firenze,” Snape interjected sharply, his voice laced with warning.
Firenze inclined his head but said no more. As they reached the forest’s edge, he came to a halt. “This is where I leave you. Take care, and may the stars guide you.” With a graceful bow, he disappeared back into the trees.
As they headed up the slope toward the castle, lit by the backdrop of a billion stars and the flickering of torchlight in windows, Hermione considered Firenze’s words. There was only one kind of person Hermione imagined to be desperate enough to slay a unicorn even at the notion of cursing themselves, and that kind of person was one with no morality or regard for rights or wrongs; the kind of person who cared not for others as long as their actions meant their survival. And, from what history books said, Voldemort had been at the top of that list.
People said he was dead, but many theorised he was too powerful—that he’d had plans to ensure his survival. Besides, Hermione had thought it kind of silly that wizards believed a baby had been the demise of one of the darkest and most powerful people to ever exist. But could it be? Could he still be alive, lingering only a forestline away? The thought sent that same coldness down her spine she’d felt when locking eyes with the figure and touching Harry’s scar. She wanted to dismiss the thought entirely, but something deep inside her told her it was true and she didn’t know what option scared her more—it being true, or it being false and another person of that lack of morality being out in the world.
Once they were back in the common room, the others headed up to bed immediately, feet dragging with exhaustion, but Hermione hung back.
“Professor Snape?” she called softly before the man could exit the common room knowing they’d arrived safely.
He stopped, turning back to regard her with an expression that betrayed both curiosity and immense fatigue. “What is it, Miss Granger?”
“That was Voldemort in the forest, wasn’t it?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
For a moment, Snape’s face was unreadable. Then he inclined his head slightly. “Yes, Miss Granger. I believe it was.”
Hermione inhaled sharply, her fears confirmed. “Should we be scared, Professor? Should Harry?”
Snape’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “The castle is well-protected, Miss Granger. Neither Professor Dumbledore nor I would allow harm to come to any student under our care.” His voice was firm, reassuring, and strangely comforting. “Now, off to bed.”
Hermione nodded but hesitated. “Thank you, Professor,” she said earnestly.
Snape said nothing, merely inclining his head before disappearing down the corridor in a swirl of dark robes.
Thoughts churning relentlessly, Hermione showered the dirt off of her and climbed into bed, pulling the covers tight around her, and staring out into the Black Lake. Voldemort, alive and lurking in the forest, was a reality too horrifying to ignore.
She’d have to tell Harry. After all, Voldemort had personally targeted Harry and his family, until he’d killed his parents and almost killed Harry. If anyone would be at risk, it’d be Harry. But she didn’t know how to go about it. How could she look her friend in the eyes and tell him that the person who’d murdered his parents in cold blood and permanently scarred him with the mark of the killing curse was alive still?