Deep in the night, the dim glow of a kerosene lamp flickered along a path in the Forbidden Forest.
After nearly half an hour of trudging down a fork to the right, they had reached the heart of the dense woods. The night was dappled with shadows, eerily quiet, as if every creature had hidden away to escape the snow. A chilly breeze rustled the treetops, swaying in the moonlight.
Hagrid, the gamekeeper and overseer of Harry and Ron's detention, carried the lamp, his crossbow and quiver slung over his back, plodding through the snow with uneven steps.
A gust of cold wind swept through, shaking loose snow from the branches above with a soft rustle. Harry and Ron shuffled closer to Hagrid, using his massive frame to shield themselves from the chill.
The forest was unnervingly silent, the sound of falling snow unnaturally loud. Sensing the boys' unease, Hagrid chuckled and said, "What's got you two so spooked? You were plenty brave brawling in the school corridors. Show some Gryffindor courage!"
"Hagrid, we've walked those corridors a hundred times," Harry replied, sniffing as his breath formed a cloud of mist. "This is our first time deep in the Forbidden Forest. If you really want us to get to know this place, bring us back during the day for an adventure."
"Get George and Fred out here," Ron added, his neck tucked low under a knitted cap from Mrs. Weasley. "They'd love this."
"Don't even think about it," Hagrid huffed, his breath puffing out in white clouds. "Patrolling the Forbidden Forest is your detention, not some fun outing. You're only here because a professor's with you, and the centaurs have been patrolling lately, making the forest safer. Otherwise, not even Dumbledore's say-so would get me to agree to you lot wandering out here at night."
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, realizing it was the headmaster's idea to send them into the forest.
The biting wind died down, and the forest fell silent again. Hagrid forged ahead, clearing the path, while Harry and Ron trailed behind, eyeing the moss-covered stumps and the dark depths of the underbrush.
A faint rustling reached their ears, and the boys edged closer to Hagrid's moleskin coat. They waited, but no breeze followed. This wasn't the sound of snow falling from branches.
Hagrid sensed something off too. The trio stopped, listening intently.
Rustle…
Swish…
It wasn't snow. It sounded more like a cloak brushing through bushes or light footsteps crunching in the snow.
Hagrid, Harry, and Ron realized someone else was moving through the forest.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were leading groups along other paths, nowhere near here, and centaur hoofbeats didn't sound like this.
Hagrid quickly stepped in front of the boys, squinting into the surroundings. He couldn't see anything, but the sound circled briefly before fading off to their left.
"Strangers in the forest," Hagrid muttered. "Not from around here…"
"Who?" Harry and Ron asked, looking up at him.
"No idea," Hagrid said, shaking his head. "But I reckon that's why the centaurs have been on high alert. Never mind that now. We need to be careful and get back quick."
Though he said to hurry, they moved more cautiously. Hagrid shifted the lamp to his left hand, freeing his right to draw his crossbow if needed. Harry and Ron gripped their wands, alert to every faint sound.
For the next ten minutes, the strange noise reappeared intermittently, as if urging them deeper into the forest.
A sense of unease hung over them as they followed the rugged path. The trail grew narrower and harder to navigate. Harry's head started to throb, unsure if it was the cold or something else.
As they passed a snow-covered thicket, the sound stopped entirely.
"Maybe it was just an animal, startled by our steps and following us," Hagrid whispered, stepping through the tangled branches of an ancient oak. His words cut off abruptly.
Ahead lay an open clearing, bathed in clear moonlight, offering a wide view.
The trio stared into the clearing. Hagrid's face froze as he lowered the lamp and stepped forward, shielding Harry and Ron.
Ron peeked nervously past Hagrid's arm. Two figures faced each other in the clearing, their shadows stretching long across the snow. On the left stood a cloaked, hooded wizard; on the right, a pure-white unicorn.
The unicorn's sturdy horse-like body exuded a unique beauty, its muscles and bones striking in the moonlight. Its mane and tail shimmered with a holy silver glow, as if woven from moonlight itself. Its dark eyes sparkled with life, and its sharp horn gleamed.
Normally, seeing a unicorn—something Ron had only read about—would've thrilled him. But now, his throat tightened, and he could barely breathe.
The cloaked wizard turned slightly toward them, lifting his head. The hood's shadow hid his face, but his eyes glinted with malice. When they landed on Harry, they gleamed with a cruel, predatory stare, like a snake eyeing its prey.
Meeting that gaze, Harry felt a searing pain stab through his head, as if a red-hot iron pressed into the scar on his forehead. His vision blurred, the surrounding bushes seeming to sway.
"Ugh…" Harry stumbled, clutching Hagrid's robe to steady himself.
Before Ron could process what was happening, he saw Harry wince as if cursed. Panicked, Ron flicked his wand, sending a burst of red sparks exploding into the sky.
The mysterious wizard turned his wand toward the trio.
"Get back!" Hagrid roared, his voice echoing through the clearing.
With a shove, he sent the boys stumbling behind a sturdy oak. The unicorn, which had been standing still, suddenly lowered its head, its hind hooves kicking up snow as it charged the wizard, its horn glinting coldly.
Hagrid moved just as fast, nocking an arrow and drawing his crossbow in one fluid motion.
The arrows whistled through the air, three shots aimed at the wizard's throat and shoulders. Hagrid, an expert hunter, had blocked every possible dodge. His bowstring, made from dragon sinew, was too strong for any wooden bow, so he used a stone one instead. The cold iron arrows, traded from an Albanian merchant at the Hog's Head, were tipped with Essence of Dittany.
Hunting a unicorn was a vile act, a slaughter of something pure and innocent to cling to a wretched life—only the darkest wizards would dare. Hagrid loosed his arrows without hesitation, reaching for more as he prepared to keep fighting. A wizard hunting unicorns in the dead of night was no friend, and as gamekeeper, Hagrid's duty was to protect this forest.
None of the arrows hit their mark. A few feet from the wizard, they froze in midair, as if caught in an invisible barrier. The charging unicorn halted too, its hooves off the ground, floating helplessly like a lamb awaiting slaughter.
Hagrid didn't stop. Ignoring the blood dripping from his torn hand, he fired again, nearly emptying his quiver. Each arrow carried enough force to pierce a boar or bear.
The wizard flicked his wand, and the suspended arrows turned slowly, now aimed at Hagrid. They shot back toward him, glinting in the moonlight.
Hagrid's face paled, his eyes twitching. He hated wizards who played dirty like this. A normal spell, he might've shrugged off, but this was trickier.
Ducking and covering his chest and head, Hagrid braced himself as Harry and Ron screamed. Suddenly, a whirlwind erupted in the clearing, swallowing the arrows in a surge of snow.
"Hagrid, protect the children," Professor McGonagall's voice rang out, calm but firm. Her wand was already aimed at the dark wizard in the clearing.
Pansy and Daphne, two Slytherin girls, crouched behind another tree, heeding McGonagall's earlier instructions. Despite their fear, they stayed composed. Hagrid, knowing he'd only hinder McGonagall here, hurried to the boys' side.
"Whoever you are, dark wizard, in the name of Hogwarts, I order you to stand down," McGonagall declared, her wand steady.
The mysterious wizard stared silently at her, slowly backing deeper into the forest, the levitated unicorn trailing in his spell's grip.
The unicorn's heavy breathing echoed through the trees, its dim eyes suddenly flickering as it glanced toward the forest. From that direction came the sound of hoofbeats and the creak of drawn bows.
Three centaurs emerged from the woods, their upper bodies clad in bear pelts for warmth, their muscles like chiseled marble. The two on the sides had reddish-brown and silver coats, while the one in the center had a black mane.
"Firenze, Bane, and Ronan from the patrol," Hagrid whispered to McGonagall.
The centaurs moved with steady steps, their bows drawn just as steadily. Their arrows weren't metal but tipped with dark, plant-like spines.
The wizard no longer dismissed these arrows. It wasn't the centaurs he feared, but the risk of splitting his focus while McGonagall, a formidable witch, stood nearby.
Both Voldemort and Quirrell had been taught by McGonagall.
When Dumbledore taught Transfiguration, McGonagall was his assistant. Voldemort, wary of Dumbledore, often sought her guidance instead. Years later, when Quirrell was a student, McGonagall was Gryffindor's Head of House, teaching him the basics of Transfiguration and its use in dueling.
Decades apart, Quirrell had competed in dueling tournaments, never making it past the early rounds. He'd heard rumors that Flitwick, a multi-time dueling champion, was only about as skilled as McGonagall, who simply wasn't interested in titles.
Facing a seasoned professor of unknown strength, three troublesome centaurs, and all escape routes blocked, the four closed in with silent coordination, tightening the circle. Escape was slipping away.
Quirrell rapidly fired off curses, one after another.
Each time, the snow on the ground surged like waves, swallowing his spells.
Melvin, watching from behind a beech tree twenty feet away, kept one hand on Hermione's head and the other on Draco's, holding them down. Neville stayed quiet, perfectly hidden.
This was McGonagall's mastery of Transfiguration at work. With a thought, she shaped the snow into barriers that blocked every curse.
Most dark curses in the wizarding world were tricky to counter directly with specific counter-spells or Protego. Often, duels became a chaotic exchange of offensive spells—Stunning Spells against Repelling Charms, speed and frequency determining the winner as the slower caster faltered.
Such fights were rigid, like Muggle street brawls. Only untrained wizards dueled this way.
Skilled duelists used subtle, efficient spells to counter powerful attacks, waiting for their opponent to tire. But this approach could backfire against wizards who specialized in relentless, sustained curses. A simple spell might only delay the inevitable, leaving the caster vulnerable.
Trying to block Voldemort's Killing Curse with a Repelling Charm, for instance, would be disastrous. The same went for a certain Chosen One's Disarming Charm.
McGonagall's approach was textbook perfection. Any spell could be blocked by a physical barrier, and her Transfiguration turned snow into an effortless, flawless defense.
In the clearing, Quirrell realized he was being outmaneuvered. He shifted his wand, pointing it at the floating unicorn. "Stop!" he shouted, furious. "Come any closer, and I'll kill it now!"
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression grave. She stopped, but her wand stayed trained on him.
The centaurs halted too. Ronan, the red-maned one, shifted uneasily, pawing at the snow. Firenze, with his silver coat, remained vigilant. Bane, in the center, glared with fury. "You dare hunt a unicorn in our forest and think we'll let you leave?" he bellowed.
As he spoke, Bane released his bowstring. The arrow whistled through the air, less intimidating than Hagrid's but no less deadly. McGonagall moved simultaneously, firing Stunning Spells to cut off escape routes as the snow surged like waves toward the wizard.
Quirrell's anger boiled over. Ignoring the incoming attacks, he swung his wand viciously at the unicorn's neck.
The arrows and spells wouldn't kill him, but his body was rotting, teetering on collapse. Without unicorn blood tonight, even escaping this trap would mean death.
If he fell unconscious, the Dark Lord could take over, and with unicorn blood fueling his magic, these pests and that old witch would all die here tonight.
His eyes burned with malice as he poured magic into his wand, its tip flashing with cold light.
The unicorn's eyes gleamed with despair.
From his hiding spot, Melvin whispered, "Protego!"