The stammer was gone.
In the privacy of his chambers, with the door sealed and the torches dimmed low, Quirinus Quirrell shed the meek, trembling mask he wore before students and colleagues. The nervous hands, the halting speech, the twitching glance over his shoulder—gone. His shoulders straightened, his breath steadied, and his eyes hardened with the cruel sharpness of a man who lived every day in fear of something greater than himself.
He pressed a palm to the side of his turban, grimacing. The voice inside him stirred again, curling through his mind like smoke.
You are pathetic, it hissed. All this time, and still no progress. Do you think I returned to waste away in shadows while a child plays his songs in the forest?
Quirrell flinched, though his expression didn't break. "I—Master, you know the situation has been… complicated. I—"
Complicated? The word was venom. Do not mistake excuses for explanations. You had months. The Stone remains protected. I remain weak. And you, my vessel, you cower like a rat waiting for scraps.
Quirrell dropped his gaze to the floor, jaw tight. "It isn't cowardice. It's caution. The professors have been more vigilant than I expected. And the Flamels…" His voice curled bitterly around the name.
There was silence, but the weight of the presence in his mind grew heavier, pressing down against his thoughts. Quirrell swallowed, forcing himself to continue.
"It is that boy, Oliver Night. Without him, none of this would have become such a spectacle. Before he arrived, I had freedom. My stutter kept them blind. No one suspected me. But then the phoenix appeared, and suddenly Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel themselves were seen walking Hogwarts' halls again. Do you understand what that meant? Their eyes on the castle, their ears on the whispers? I could not move near the 4th floor without risking their attention."
His voice grew harsher, sharper, though he kept it low. "Every step I took was watched, every corner whispered over. Even Dumbledore himself grew more present. And all because of a first-year boy."
The voice in his mind seethed, cold fury prickling against his skin. You let a child disrupt my return? You are weaker than I thought.
"I had no choice!" Quirrell snapped before he could stop himself. He sucked in a breath, forcing his tone down. "Master… understand. They saw that bird and they swarmed. It was not just the Flamels—it was Hagrid, Dumbledore, the entire school buzzing with attention. If I had tampered with the traps then, it would have been suicide. I am your servant, not your sacrifice."
The silence that followed was worse than shouting. Quirrell's heart hammered in his chest, his skin damp with sweat. Then, at last, the voice spoke again, lower, more dangerous.
And the unicorns?
Quirrell clenched his fists. His mind drifted to the forest, to nights when he had slipped into the shadows with his wand ready, only to be turned back again and again.
"Hagrid," he said tightly. "Always Hagrid. And worse, the boy himself. Night took to wandering with him, nearly every evening. Lantern light through the trees, his cursed guitar strumming… even Nyx. That infernal creature's glow carried for miles. I could not so much as step near the glades without fear of being seen. The beasts themselves gathered closer to him. Unicorns that should have been alone and vulnerable were clustered together, drawn by his music. He made the forest… alive."
He spat the word as though it were poison.
Voldemort's voice slithered colder. A phoenix. Music. Lanterns. And you let them drive you back?
Quirrell trembled despite himself. "It wasn't just them. Even the centaurs watched. They drew nearer when he walked among the trees, as if he had their respect. If I had harmed a unicorn with the boy nearby, I would not have faced only Hagrid's crossbow. The forest itself would have turned on me."
For a long, suffocating moment, there was nothing but the hammer of his pulse in his ears. Then came the voice again, sharp as broken glass.
You were meant to act. To drink, to sustain me. And instead you wait, and wither, and whimper excuses.
Quirrell's knees weakened. He clutched at the edge of his desk, the wood digging into his palms. "Please, Master… the boy was a disruption, nothing more. But now—now he is gone. He has left the castle. The Flamels are abroad. Their meddling will quiet for weeks. I will have the time I need."
The voice hissed with suspicion, though its fury ebbed slightly. Gone?
"Yes." Quirrell forced steadiness into his tone. "Night left this morning, on the carriages. He is traveling to France to stay with the Flamels. It will be weeks before he returns."
A pause. Then, at last, a laugh—cold, mirthless, scraping through Quirrell's mind until his teeth ached.
Then at last… you will have no more excuses.
Quirrell sagged against the desk, his breath ragged. He pressed a hand to his face, the mask of timidity he wore for others far from reach here. His skin itched under the turban. His heart thudded with dread.
But beneath it all, a spark of relief burned. Oliver Night was gone. The forest would be silent again. The professors distracted with holiday cheer.
At last, Quirrell thought, his lips curving into a thin, bitter smile, he could act.
He closed his eyes, and in the darkness behind them, he saw the gleam of silver blood under moonlight.
Quirrell wasted no time once the castle settled into its holiday hush. By the third night after the last carriages had rattled away through the snow, he moved through the corridors with more purpose than he had dared in weeks.
The 4th-floor corridor loomed ahead, its torches guttering low, shadows stretching long across the stone. Quirrell's steps were soundless, his breath shallow, his wand clutched tight.
The wards shimmered faintly to his eyes—an interlocking web of spells, each with its own flavor. He pressed his palm to the air just short of the barrier, muttering under his breath.
"Sprout's work," he whispered. He could feel the pulse of life there, vines waiting to lash and strangle. He drew back and traced further. "Flitwick… charms to bind and silence. And here—McGonagall's signature. Transfigurations woven so deep they would turn against intruders."
The air prickled with power. His lips curled. If he could cross these, the Stone would be within reach. But he dared not yet. Not until his master was stronger, not until he himself had the strength to endure it.
Soon, the voice hissed in his skull. Test no more. The forest first. The blood first. Then the Stone.
Quirrell lowered his wand, retreating into the shadows once more.
The Forbidden Forest greeted him with silence.
Gone were the nights of lanterns swinging, of Hagrid's laughter, of music drifting like threads of light through the trees. Gone was the shimmer of Nyx's feathers casting starlight on the undergrowth. Tonight the forest was dark, empty, the hush so deep it rang in his ears.
His boots crunched on frost as he slipped between the trees, every muscle tense. He had always hated this place, hated the way its stillness seemed to listen. But desperation drove him now. His master's hunger gnawed at his bones, and he could no longer afford delay.
The moonlight broke faintly through the canopy, silvering the ground. And there—between the trunks—a glimmer moved.
A unicorn.
Its coat shone like liquid pearl, each step leaving the barest imprint on the frost. Its mane flowed like strands of silver, its horn gleaming with quiet purity. It bent its head to graze, utterly unafraid, as if the darkness itself would never dare harm it.
Quirrell's throat constricted. His grip on his wand slickened with sweat.
Do it, the voice commanded. Strike, before it senses you. The blood will sustain me. Move!
His hand shook as he raised the wand. "Avada—" No, not that. The Killing Curse was too loud, too final. He forced his voice to a whisper, twisting his wrist. The spell lashed out, green-tinged but muted, catching the unicorn's flank.
The creature screamed. It staggered, silver blood spilling like light onto the forest floor.
Quirrell's breath came fast, ragged. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside the creature as it collapsed. Its breath shuddered in and out, its eyes wide and shimmering with pain.
For a moment—just a moment—Quirrell faltered. The purity of the creature radiated around him, pressing against his chest, burning at the edges of his resolve. His stomach roiled.
Drink, the voice hissed, cold and merciless. Drink, fool, or both of us will waste away.
Quirrell leaned down. His lips touched the wound, and the taste flooded his mouth.
It was ice and fire all at once, cold searing through his veins, silver liquid coating his tongue with the weight of sin. His body shuddered violently, his insides twisting. He gagged, but he swallowed, and with it came strength. Dark, terrible strength.
Voldemort's laughter split his skull, triumphant and cruel.
Quirrell gasped, falling back, his hands shaking, his chest burning with cold light. The unicorn's breath grew shallow, its silvery coat dimming in the moonlight.
The forest itself seemed to recoil. The trees whispered with disapproval. Distant hoofbeats echoed—centaurs, perhaps, too far yet to stop him.
Quirrell staggered to his feet, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. His veins still pulsed with unnatural cold, but the weakness was gone. His master whispered with satisfaction, coiling tighter in his mind.
Yes… at last. You have done well. The Stone will be ours.
Quirrell pressed a hand to his chest, his breaths shallow. He dared not speak. He dared not think.
Behind him, the unicorn's silvery blood pooled like starlight in the snow. The forest, once alive with laughter and music, fell utterly silent.
And Quirrell, strengthened by blasphemy, melted back into the shadows, leaving behind a wound in the heart of the forest that no music could yet heal.