Harry Potter : Bloodraven-Chapter 67: Purity in Peril (I) (CH - 87)

After the lively feast, students and teachers scattered to their respective spaces, chatting about the coming days with excitement.

Back in his office, Maverick first loosened his robe and, with a casual flick of his wand, sent it floating to the hanger, making himself more comfortable. He then strolled to the window, gazing out over the darkened grounds toward the Forbidden Forest. A quick glance at his watch made him nod to himself, as if confirming something only he understood.

It was almost ten in the evening here, which meant it was around five o'clock in New York. His meeting with his company's board of directors—one he had been postponing for days—was scheduled soon. They had important matters to discuss, especially the upcoming release of Magic Vision and a few other business concerns.

Earlier that day, he had spoken with Ali, the man overseeing most of his company's operations, to set up the meeting for sunset. That still gave him more than an hour. Plenty of time to enjoy a quiet moment after a long, eventful day.

Or so he thought.

As his gaze drifted absently over the grounds, a flicker of movement caught his sharp eyes—a shadowy figure slipping quickly toward the Forbidden Forest.

Maverick frowned. His passive Magical-Sense didn't extend that far, and he wasn't about to recklessly probe it actively outward without knowing who it was. But recalling some memories, he had a strong suspicion of whom it might be.

The next moment, he retrieved the Marauder's Map from his storage ring, unfolded it, and scanned the parchment.

There—just near the edge of the castle's detection range, a single name was moving toward the trees: Quirinus Quirrell.

Interesting. He thought.

The map, of course, showed nothing of the noseless wanker latched onto the man's head—apparently, it didn't register a leech of that sort as a separate life.

Maverick tapped his fingers against the edge of the map, considering his options. He still had time before his meeting... and really, he wanted to see the novice village boss in action.

With a smirk, he folded the map, tucked it away, and turned toward the window.

With a few precise gestures, his combat suit wrapped around him, its enchantments activating instantly. The fabric shimmered briefly before rendering him invisible, its concealment charms suppressing any trace of his presence. He followed up with a few additional spells—silencing his footsteps, dampening his magical aura, and reinforcing the invisibility effect.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped onto the windowsill.

A moment later, he leapt into the night, soaring soundlessly toward the Forbidden Forest.

...

The Forbidden Forest was deathly silent, the usual rustling of nocturnal creatures absent, as if they sensed something unnatural lurking in the darkness. Quirinus Quirrell tiptoed cautiously through the undergrowth, his breath shallow, his every step careful not to snap a twig beneath his boot. The hood of his robes was pulled low, concealing the grotesque presence latched onto the back of his head—the fragmented soul of Lord Voldemort.

The air was cold, unnaturally so. Whether it was the chill of the night or the presence of his master, Quirrell did not know. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead despite the temperature.

"You are too slow, Quirrell," a hissing voice sneered inside his skull. "Fumbling through the forest like a frightened child. Do you think the unicorns will simply lie down and wait for you to slit their throats?"

Quirrell swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he steadied himself against a tree. "I—I am being careful, my Lord," he whispered hoarsely, afraid of being overheard even though he knew they were alone. "Th-the centaurs patrol this area. If they catch us—"

"Excuses," Voldemort spat. "I did not choose you to be a pitiful, stuttering fool just to watch you scurry around like a frightened rat."

Quirrell winced. He had tried. He really had. But hunting a unicorn in the dead of night, all while enduring the Dark Lord's relentless scorn, was far more terrifying than he had ever imagined.

They pressed forward, Quirrell moving more quickly now, both out of fear and urgency. The moonlight barely pierced through the thick canopy above, casting eerie patterns on the forest floor. He clutched his wand tightly, his knuckles white.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he saw it.

A unicorn.

It stood in a small clearing, its silver-white coat glowing faintly under the moonlight. It was young, perhaps barely past foalhood, its movements graceful yet cautious. It lowered its head to drink from a small stream, completely unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.

Quirrell's heart pounded. His breath caught in his throat.

"Now, Quirrell," Voldemort commanded, his voice seething with impatience. "Do it."

Quirrell hesitated.

Quirrell's grip on his wand tightened, his fingers damp with sweat. The unicorn was so pure, so defenseless. Its mere presence made him feel... wrong.

"Fool! Do not make me repeat myself!" Voldemort's voice lashed through his mind, sharp and cold. "Strike it down! I need its blood!"

Quirrell flinched at the command, his body trembling. But he forced himself to act.

With a quick thrust of his wand, he cast a Blasting Curse. The spell shot forward like a thunderbolt, but at the very last moment, the unicorn moved, just enough to avoid instant obliteration. The blast struck its side instead, sending it tumbling onto the damp forest floor.

The creature reared back, letting out a piercing, heart-wrenching cry before its legs buckled. It collapsed, its luminous silver blood already pooling beneath its broken form.

Quirrell swallowed hard, his stomach twisting.

"Fool! Just use the Killing Curse!" Voldemort spat, his frustration simmering. "Must I guide your every pathetic action?"

"I... I... I'm s-sorry, Master," Quirrell stammered. "I—I shall do it now."

His wand trembled as he raised it, mouth dry, ready to cast the green light of death.

But Voldemort stopped him.

"Enough. It has nearly met its end."

Quirrell hesitated, then slowly lowered his wand. His hands still shook, but he let out a shaky breath. It was done.

The forest fell silent.

Within the rustling of trees, unbeknownst to them, a hidden presence watched their every action from the shadows.

---

Maverick remained perfectly still, his invisibility spell keeping him hidden among the thick foliage. He had followed Quirrell through the forest, tracking his movements with ease. Neither Voldemort's wraith nor the timid professor had noticed his presence.

Now, as he stared at the fallen unicorn, something twisted in his chest.

It was so small. So pure. Its silver blood began to pool beneath its drying body, shimmering under the moonlight like liquid stardust.

His fingers twitched at his side. A part of him wanted—no, ached—to interfere. To stop this. He had the power to do so. He was nearing the rank of an Arch-Magus, and the Voldemort currently leeching off Quirrell was nothing more than a wraith. A mere shadow of the Dark Lord he once was.

There was no threat here.

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And yet... he did not move.

Not because he was afraid. Not because he was bound by the script of destiny.

But because this needed to happen.

The world needed Voldemort to return. The wizarding world needed chaos, needed fear. Only then would they be desperate enough to rally behind a true leader—someone strong enough to bring them together under one rule.

Maverick exhaled slowly, forcing his emotions aside and watched as Quirrell knelt beside the unicorn's corpse, scooping a handful of silver blood before shakily bringing it to his mouth. He could see the hesitation, the revulsion flickering across Quirrell's pale face—but it didn't last long.

"Drink, you pathetic fool." Voldemort's voice slithered through the air, laced with disgust and impatience.

Quirrell flinched at the command, his lips pressing together in a tight line. Then, with a visible shudder, he obeyed.

The first taste made him gag. He coughed, nearly spilling the shimmering liquid from his hands, but another sharp hiss from Voldemort silenced his resistance. His next gulp was steadier, and the one after that more desperate.

The unicorn let out a weak, yet piercing wail. Its silver eyes seemed to be dimming with the last embers of life, but somehow, he felt it was staring directly at him.

Was it a coincidence? Or had it sensed his presence?

A strange, uncomfortable weight settled in Maverick's chest. He had seen death countless times, had caused it when necessary, yet something about this creature—its purity, its helplessness—made him hesitate.

But this was not the time to play hero.

Not yet.

Perhaps, once Voldemort had taken what he needed, there would still be time to save it.

So he waited, silent as a phantom, watching as Quirinus Quirrell knelt beside the dying unicorn. The timid professor hesitated for only a second before scooping up the shimmering silver blood with his hands and drinking greedily, gulping down mouthful after mouthful like it was the rarest delicacy.

Maverick's magical senses stretched outward, studying them both. He could feel the shift—the slow but undeniable strengthening of the parasite attached to Quirrell's body. With each drop consumed, Voldemort's presence became heavier, darker, his aura clawing its way back from the brink of nothingness.

But it didn't bother him.

Even if Voldemort fully latched onto Quirrell, even if he claimed every last scrap of the professor's vitality, the most he could muster was the strength of a beginner Great-Magus. And that was nothing to Maverick.

Ten minutes passed in eerie silence before Quirrell finally staggered back to his feet. His face, once gaunt and pale, now held the faintest hint of life. His breath no longer came in ragged gasps, and his stance was steadier than before.

Then, from the back of his head, came a low, sibilant hiss.

"Kill it. And save the rest of the blood for a later time."

Maverick exhaled slowly, finally making up his mind..

Just as Quirrell raised his wand, preparing to cast the Killing Curse, a heavy, distorted voice echoed through the trees—seemingly coming from everywhere at once.

"Leave..." the voice rumbled, resonating through the dense forest and vibrating the air around them.

Quirrell froze mid-motion, his eyes darting frantically in every direction. It was only one word, yet the meaning was clear in the tone. It was either oblige or perish.

Voldemort's voice then followed, louder and more insistent, roaring in his mind.

"Up, you fool! It's up there, ahead of you!"

Quirrell hesitantly raised his wand, his breath shallow, and slowly turned his gaze toward the direction he was commanded.

There, in the misty gloom of the Forbidden Forest, hovering above the trees under the moonlight, was a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette draped in black.

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Author's Note:

Just a quick update — up to Chapter 120 is already available on P AT r30n!

PAT r30n [.] com / RyanFic