Chapter 67: Fragment of Voldemort

Before Dumbledore emerged, the unicorn had already returned to the wand, so he didn't see what had happened. The only thing that puzzled him was the scream Voldemort let out just moments earlier—far more agonized than when Quirrell had crumbled to ash. What exactly happened in here...? Dumbledore glanced at Harold, who was stuffing potion bottles into his pockets. He hesitated but didn't ask. Instead, he simply said, "Could you take Harry to the hospital wing?" Harold nodded. "By the way," Dumbledore added, "nettlepine wine has its charm." "No room left," Harold replied coolly, while instinctively touching the robe pocket where he'd stashed his wand. A thin layer of frost had formed over the fabric. Thankfully, the Hogwarts uniform was dark. Dumbledore didn't seem to notice. But Harold had learned something else from the headmaster's reaction: the three remaining potions definitely weren't poison—just clever fakes. Not that it mattered. Their only use now was filling his pockets or getting hawked in Knockturn Alley. Worst case, it would be Snape's reputation taking the hit, not his. "It's time to go back," said Dumbledore. With a flick of his wand, a stretcher floated out of the shadows—Harry lay unconscious upon it. "I'll leave him in your care." Harold still wanted to figure out what the unicorn had dragged out of Voldemort, but Dumbledore had asked him directly. He couldn't really refuse. Before he could think more about it, they were already back—standing above the trapdoor. It had happened so fast, Harold hadn't even felt a thing. No tug of a Portkey, no contact for Side-Along Apparition. One moment they were in the chamber; the next, they were in the corridor. How? He glanced at the stretcher, then back down at the floor. The trapdoor was gone. Just solid floor. What? It had been there. He'd seen it. Unless... the castle itself had changed. Maybe he hadn't moved at all. Maybe the rooms had vanished. "Even I don't claim to know all the secrets of Hogwarts," Dumbledore said from behind, his voice soft. "I recommend a bit of Dreamless Sleep Draught. You've earned a good rest tonight." With a parting look, the headmaster turned and walked briskly down the hall. Harold stared at the floor for a while longer before pushing Harry's stretcher toward the hospital wing. Along the way, he passed Professor Flitwick, soothing a grumpy painting, and Professor McGonagall, resetting the staircase. Hermione and Ron weren't around—they'd likely been sent back to bed. When Madam Pomfrey saw the unconscious Harry, she became visibly anxious. She immediately placed him on a bed and examined him with her wand. "Severely depleted—both magically and physically. I've never seen anything like this in the school before," she muttered. "What, did he fight Death Eaters for three straight days?" Harold shrugged. Not three days... but he had fought the head of the Death Eaters. Madam Pomfrey didn't press further. She quickly poured two different potions down Harry's throat and rushed off to prepare a third. As soon as she left, Fred and George popped out from behind a curtain. "Harold! What happened to Harry?" "And Ron? He was brought in earlier, but McGonagall won't tell us anything!" "Ron?" Harold turned and noticed the drawn curtain around another bed—soft snores drifted out. That had to be him. "He didn't tell you?" Fred groaned. "Pomfrey was here the whole time. We had to pretend to be asleep." "She finally left, and Ron fell asleep for real!" George growled, even shaking slightly with frustration. "He was fine when we saw him in the Entrance Hall," Harold muttered. "I figured he would've spilled everything by now." "He went where?" "To the fourth floor. They went through the gauntlet." "What gauntlet?" "I knew there was something up there!" Their eyes gleamed. Harold was about to elaborate when Madam Pomfrey returned. "No shouting!" she snapped. "People are trying to rest." She glared at Harold. "Do you need anything else?" "No, Madam Pomfrey." He turned and left, ignoring Fred and George's pleading expressions. Both twins stood there in stunned silence. They'd barely gotten a taste of the story! You can't just dangle that and walk away! Even a third would've sufficed! But Harold wasn't trying to be cruel. He really did have more important things to do. "And you two—if you don't go to sleep now, I'm closing the curtains and no more visitors!" Madam Pomfrey's scolding voice faded into the distance as Harold returned to the castle proper. He didn't slow down. He made a beeline for the eighth floor. The common room lights were still on. When he walked in, he saw Hermione apologizing to Neville for using the Body-Bind Curse on him. Poor Neville. Must've been laying there half the night. As soon as she saw Harold, Hermione shot to her feet. "Harold, were you with Dumbledore? Is Harry okay? What about the Stone?" "He's fine—already in the hospital wing." Harold yawned. "Sorry, Hermione, I'm dead tired. Can we talk tomorrow?" Without waiting for her reply, he climbed the stairs to his dorm, shut the door, and locked it tight. Only then did he toss aside the useless potion bottles and gingerly pull out his wand—Starfall. This time, it looked different. A faint gray mist clung to the wand's surface, icy to the touch. "Silvermane Starfall." The unicorn spirit burst forth once more—and immediately began thrashing its head in irritation, trying to shake something off its horn. "Wait, hold on—calm down..." Harold whispered. But his gaze was locked on that dangling mass of gray mist. His pulse quickened. So that's why Voldemort screamed like that. The unicorn had ripped something off him. A fragment? A piece? Did... did the unicorn loot him? A Voldemort Fragment? ...