Chapter 66: The Unicorn's Revenge

What the hell just happened? Harold stood there, utterly baffled. Dumbledore... wasn't using the Elder Wand. In fact, what he had barely even qualified as a proper wand. "Mr. Ollivander, is something the matter?" Dumbledore's voice snapped Harold out of his daze. "Sorry..." Harold muttered, giving the headmaster a second look. He couldn't help but ask, "Professor, your wand..." "Ah, I knew you'd notice," Dumbledore said without turning. "Yes, it broke—nearly snapped in half during a duel." He stepped through the black flames. Just as Harold prepared to follow, the fire suddenly closed, sealing the passage again. "It seems my magic's grown a bit rusty. My apologies, Mr. Ollivander. Would you mind waiting here for a moment?" With that, Dumbledore pushed open the door beyond the flames and vanished. Harold twitched the corner of his mouth. If he didn't want Harold to see what was happening in the final room, he could've just said so—no need to fake "rusty magic." What did he think Harold was, a gullible goblin? It was obviously Voldemort in there. Who cared? The only reason Harold insisted on tagging along was to see if he could make good on that ridiculous promise he'd once made—to let the unicorn get revenge personally. Originally, he'd hoped Harry could serve as his stand-in. But that plan had gone sideways when Fluffy suddenly went berserk. Now, Dumbledore wasn't even letting him watch. "Well, I tried," Harold muttered to the wand in his hand, "We'll have to wait for another chance." The unicorn didn't respond. Harold took that as silent agreement. Still, when Dumbledore had opened the door earlier, Harold had caught a glimpse of the chaos inside. Harry was unconscious, yet still clutching Quirrell's arm with a death grip. At least, he thought that was Quirrell. It was hard to tell. The figure had two faces, one arm, and half a body that looked like it had been turned to stone. Quirrell shrieked, twisted with agony, as if being ripped apart from the inside. Moments later, his whole form crumbled—dry and brittle as desert sand—before scattering into ash. The door shut. All was silent again. Harold had nothing to do but wander around the small space, eventually finding an empty vial on the floor. It was the potion that allowed one to pass through the black flames. He gave it a shake. "Wow, Harry really downed every drop." So much for sneaking in. Bored, he wandered over to the long table and examined the five remaining bottles. There had been seven. One Harry had drunk, and the other Hermione had taken to go back—leaving five. Judging by the gaps, Harold reconstructed their positions and, using the riddle, deduced the contents. Left-second and right-second were nettle wine. Cheap. Useless. The rest were poison. Might as well take them. He wasn't leaving empty-handed. After all, these were Snape's brews. Even if they turned out to be fake, just looking like poison would make them valuable on Knockturn Alley. Only question was... were they really poison? Snape did know Harry would be coming. If Harry had gotten the logic puzzle wrong, would he really have died? Unlikely. Even if Snape loved docking points and assigning detentions, he wouldn't actually kill a student. Chances were, all five were just nettle wine in disguise. Still, Harold pocketed the vials. Fake or not, they'd sell well. Just as he was cramming the last bottle into his robe, his wand suddenly began to tremble violently. A wave of icy cold swept over him. Harold's head snapped up. The black flames tore open without warning—and out of them surged a cloud of black mist, as if darkness itself had been unleashed. At the center of the mist was a terrible face, snarling curses at Dumbledore and Harry Potter. The wand in Harold's hand began to shake even harder. He understood instantly—it was the unicorn, urging him to act. Alright, he hadn't gotten the chance earlier. Now was his moment. "Let's see what you can really do," he muttered. In a flash, he raised the wand and pointed it at the incoming shadow. "Silvermane Starfall!" He didn't even get through the whole incantation. The tip of his wand lit up with a brilliant blue glow. A unicorn—smoky and ethereal—burst forth, mane whipping in the air, its gleaming horn aimed straight at the onrushing black fog. CRASH! "AAAAAGHHHHH!" Even Harold was stunned. He hadn't expected ghost-form Voldemort to scream so miserably. More surprising still—the unicorn's spirit form was actually hurting him. Really hurting him. The screams were all the proof he needed. "WHO ARE YOU?!" Voldemort's voice trembled with fury and disbelief as he locked eyes on Harold. Harold's answer? He turned away and showed Voldemort the back of his head. Was he crazy? That was Voldemort. He'd have to be a lunatic to voluntarily draw aggro. Sure, maybe it wouldn't work—but just maybe Voldemort hadn't really noticed him before. Dumbledore was nearby, after all. And with the unicorn attacking again, Voldemort wouldn't dare linger. And he was right. Though Voldemort wanted nothing more than to blast Harold into dust with twenty Killing Curses, he didn't dare stick around. Not with Dumbledore on his heels. And certainly not with the vengeful unicorn stabbing for his soul. Voldemort fled, the unicorn chasing him for a distance before eventually turning back, having lost its target. Harold noticed something strange as it returned. Hanging from the unicorn's horn was a dark, murky... thing—like a piece of shadowy cloud, exuding that same eerie chill. What was that? Before he could examine it further, Dumbledore emerged from the other room. He looked at Harold, saw that he was unhurt, and visibly relaxed. "Professor..." Harold said. "Some sort of... thing came flying out just now." "Thank you for the warning, Mr. Ollivander. But what matters most is that you're safe," Dumbledore replied. "Would you be so kind as to bring Mr. Potter to the hospital wing? I'm afraid I have a more urgent matter to attend to."