Of all the ways Harry Potter expected to die, this one had never made the list. Being killed by Voldemort was probably the highest contender of ways for him to kick the bucket, followed by being killed by a Death Eater. Perishing by his own hand had been the idea that hovered guiltily out of sight, and he'd always fancied he might die in a duel. But this? It wasn't quick, or extremely painful, or even remotely heroic. He wasn't saving anyone by doing so, and he had no choice in the matter. He'd gotten sick.

At first, he'd expected to get better shortly, but as he was now floating several feet above his own head the idea seemed disproved. At least he wasn't sick anymore, Harry thought with a sigh. Always better to look on the bright side. It had been a miserable couple of weeks. Although, now the Wizarding World was going to need somebody else to kill Voldemort for them.

But wait. He couldn't just leave. Voldemort was his problem. He was supposed to kill the bastard.

Harry occupied himself with this conundrum for a few moments before deciding on the matter, the only possible solution. He would just have to come back.

Harry cast around for something to meld his essence with. It had to be something that called to him naturally, of which (funnily enough) nothing handy of the sort was sitting next to his deathbed.

He let himself be pulled vaguely from the room, trying to feel for any trace of magical resonance. Aha! Was that something? It was faint, and rather far away, but then, distance didn't matter much to a… whatever Harry was.

Finally, Harry felt himself coming closer to it. It was now exerting a pull on him, and he let himself be drawn closer. What was it? It had to be something useful.

Harry boggled. If he had eyes, they would have widened. If he had a mouth, it would have dropped open in surprise. The thing calling to him was…a unicorn?

Well, that wasn't a bad thing, Harry thought, and let himself be sucked in.

He woke up with a massive headache and an itch in his hoof. "Well, great," he said out loud, and tried to stand up. The prospect was rather daunting. After several failed attempts, he finally made a wobbly sort of uprightness. At his first attempt to walk, though, he came crashing down on all fours, and he could swear something was laughing at him. Harry stood up again. He tried the walking thing, taking more care where he put his legs.

He made it two paces this time. The problem, Harry thought, staring at the sky, was limbs. He had too many to them to coordinate at the same time. How were you supposed to walk with four legs? It was ridiculous.

Harry huffed, got up, and tried again. By the time darkness was falling, he'd pretty much managed it, as long as he didn't think too hard and remembered to look where he was going. Running, however, escaped him.

That done, Harry set out to find Voldemort. This was just as easy said as done, for Harry knew exactly where he was. Well, all right, he didn't, but that was of no consequence as Voldemort showed up all by himself.

In fact, he showed up in a cloak and looking quite unlike himself, but Harry knew it was him because his scar—er, the place where his scar would have been had he had one, was hurting. Voldemort shuffled toward Harry with his wand out, and Harry realized almost too late that he was planning on killing him.

With a panicked whinny, Harry tried to run to the side, got tangled in his own legs, and fell to the ground in an undignified heap.

Voldemort stared at him in confusion.

"What's the hold up?" Voldemort asked, after a moment. Harry looked around at the curious choice of words.

Voldemort was hunched down under his cloak, and looking, to Harry, rather nervous.

"I don't know, Master, the Unicorn just tripped on itself and fell." For some reason his voice sounded very different now, and rather familiar…

"That's ridiculous Quirrel, Unicorns don't do that," Voldemort answered himself.

"I know," Quirrel retorted in a whiny voice. "That's why I said—"

"Never mind, Quirrel, just do it," Voldemort answered impatiently.

Harry realized he should have gotten up while his foes were distracted, or at the very least begin to plan. But now Quirrel advanced upon him, holding out, not a wand, but a silver knife, gleaming in the moonlight…

Harry scrambled to his feet and looked around the forest wildly. What to do?

Quirrel was almost upon him…

With a wild desperation, Harry charged. He saw Quirrel's expression of pure surprise as his horn pierced the man's body, and his wail of pain mixed with something horrid and unearthly, the scream of a disembodied soul being sent to death at last.

Harry was rather pleased. This changed quite suddenly as he realized he could not get his horn free. "Oh, shit," he muttered miserably.

Harry now had the great opportunity of trying to learn how to walk backward with a dead Dark Wizard on the end of his horn. This was not a pleasant experience.

Finally, Harry dragged himself and his unwilling baggage to the lake, where he waded in. Now, finally, Quirrel decided to loosen up, and Harry shook him away.

With that done, Harry wandered out of the lake and looked around. He supposed the only thing for it was to hang about in the forest until Wormtail came by and then kill him too. After that he could relax, safe in the knowledge that the Dark Lord, wherever he was, would nevermore find a way to return.

Harry walked through the forest in high spirits and, finding a nice patch of mossy ground, settled in to a nice long rest. It was high time, he thought, and he rather deserved it.

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