That part's sadder than I thought it would be.
Chapter Nine: Sacrificial UnicornIt had taken forever for the other boys to fall asleep. Harry had slept in the same room as Connor at home, and until now had never appreciated what a luxury that was, sharing space with only one other person. And Connor was a fairly heavy sleeper, too, unlikely to awaken if Harry wanted to practice spells under his breath or read a book under the covers with a Lumos going.
But he could put up with the noise, he thought, if only he could trust that the noise meant the other boys wouldn't be waking for the rest of the night.
After the fourth mumble-mutter that might or might not have been a snore from Blaise, Harry had had enough. He cast Consopio on all four boys, and listened as their breathing slid into a soft, relaxed rhythm. Harry sighed and crept out of the room. He should be back before the spell wore off; it was a gentle Charm that Lily had used on him and Connor when they were children and had been awake for more than twelve hours straight.
He had another Consopio ready on his lips when he reached the Slytherin common room, but for once no one had fallen asleep here. He increased his pace as he reached the common room door. Professor Quirrell might already have retired for the night. In fact, Harry reflected as he slid the door open and glanced up and down the corridor, that would be typical of the kind of luck he'd had today.
Could Marcus Flint be any more of a prat? Harry thought indignantly as he made his way down the empty hallway. Just because I didn't catch the Snitch in the first ten minutes doesn't mean I'm incompetent. Normally, he would have been pleased enough that someone else thought his performance below par, but not when Marcus might whine to Professor Snape and get Harry detention.
The very thought of that made Harry want to hex Snape, though preferably from a safe distance. What he was doing was important. It might mean lives, even more lives than Connor's, if Professor Quirrell was doing something dangerous. He could be a Death Eater, and not one who had reformed the way that Snape had. He could be a mere helper or ally of Voldemort. But Harry's dreams suggested he was more ominous even than that.
And that's another thing, Harry thought, as he ghosted up the dungeon stairs and towards the professor's office. Do I trust my dreams? I don't know why I'm even having them. It's not as though my scar is any kind of mark from Voldemort, the way that Connor's is.
He and Lily had tried to develop his ability to dream prophetically, despite Lily making loud and common comments about what a load of bollocks Divination was, but had had no success. True Seer ability was inborn, Lily had decided, like being a Metamorphmagus, and Harry simply did not have it.
Harry felt like hexing somebody again as he considered that. It was unfair that he not be able to develop any ability which could be the key to protecting Connor, now or in the future.
But maybe I finally have. And I would be foolish to ignore these dreams.
Harry halted near Quirrell's office door and listened carefully. He heard no sound. Of course, the professor had probably gone to bed already. With a sigh, Harry sat down near the door.
I'll fall asleep, he thought, pinching his arm to keep awake when his eyelids began to droop. It's these damn classes. Why do they give us so much homework? I have better things to do than write a three-foot essay on why you should never Transfigure a doorknob into a marble.
He was so convinced that he would find nothing today that he nearly didn't get out of the way in time when the door opened. Quirrell shuffled out as Harry ducked around the corner, then turned and locked his office door behind him. For a while, he stood there, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Harry frowned. He doesn't look threatening when he's like this.
Then Quirrell turned and strode down the hall, his face set as he passed Harry. Harry smiled as he followed. Here we go.
It was a dangerously difficult dance, making sure that he kept Quirrell in sight without letting himself be spotted. Hogwarts, with its propensity to shift staircases and walls at a moment's notice, made it harder. And there was still the disturbing pain in his scar, sometimes, and an occasional mutter from Quirrell that it frustrated Harry he was too far away to figure out.
Still, after the third staircase, Harry had to admit he was enjoying himself. He thought about that as best he could while still watching out for both Quirrell and the next good hiding place.
I'm finally putting my training to use, he decided at last, as he crouched behind a suit of armor when Quirrell glanced back. The troll was different. It attacked too fast. I just reacted out of rage. But this is the kind of thing that I trained for, hiding and spying and concealing things so that Connor won't be tainted by them. I think I'm allowed to be happy.
There was a difference between "happy" and "dangerously manic," of course, and Harry concentrated to make sure that he wasn't the latter. When he had to drop behind Quirrell on some tricky stretch of corridor where the moonlight coming through the windows could have revealed him even better than the shadowy light of torches, he let the professor get far ahead before following. And even when he knew for certain that Quirrell was heading out of the castle, he resisted the temptation to dart ahead and take a shorter route. Quirrell might have some reason for going this way. If so, Harry would find out.
It didn't seem that he did; perhaps he had taken the longest route on purpose to have more of a chance of spotting stalkers, Harry thought. Professor Quirrell stepped out of Hogwarts and waited for a long moment, as though he liked the feel of the cool November breeze on his face. Harry, crouched in the doorway, clenched his hands together and felt a delicious cold tingle in his heart. Was the professor headed to a secret meeting? Was he about to see it?
Instead, Quirrell turned and headed rapidly off across school grounds. Harry eyed the stretch of barren earth between him and his prey, sighed, waited, and then took a risk and cast the Disillusionment Charm on himself.
He shuddered at the feeling that passed through him, as if someone had broken an egg over his head, and then waited some more. Quirrell didn't look back at him. It seemed he could use magic, as long as he wasn't obvious about it.
Harry strolled carefully across the ground, letting the Charm reflect whatever was behind him at the moment. Lily had told him that someone who paid attention could make out the effects of the Charm by noticing a ripple, like a heat shimmer, wherever the person under it was moving. Unlikely as that might be in the moonlight and the open, Harry wasn't about to take a chance.
Professor Quirrell aimed past the hut of Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper, and into the dark mass of the Forbidden Forest.
Harry hissed. He hated forests for sneaking around in. He'd always done horribly in the ones near Godric's Hollow. And it was fall now, and with the amount of leaves on the ground and which could be dislodged from the branches…
Harry shook his head. He didn't know of any spells that would shield him from making noise without also obscuring his ability to make any noise out. And he definitely wanted to be able to hear, since he assumed that Professor Quirrell was probably meeting someone interesting indeed in the woods.
Resolving to ask his mother about teaching him noise-muffling spells as well as medical magic, Harry sped up a little and followed the professor into the Forest.
He hadn't expected it to be so dark, he admitted to himself after his first near-stumble on a sudden bump in the trail. True, it was night, but the Forest seemed to eat light alive, and exhale darkness. Life was around them, but it breathed, in turn, slowly and carefully, and Harry felt the unnerving tingle on his skin that came from the presence of powerful, nonhuman magical creatures.
Centaurs live here, at least, he thought, as he forced himself deeper and deeper, pausing to duck branches and figure out the best way around large piles of drifted leaves. What else?
The fact that he couldn't remember, exactly, annoyed him, and unnerved him further. And then Professor Quirrell sped up, and Harry had to follow him without making noise, and fast, and in the dark.
If Professor Quirrell hadn't been muttering to himself, apparently intent on a private conversation of some kind, Harry didn't think he could have managed it. As it was, he finally, finally got close enough to overhear what Quirrell was saying.
Unsurprisingly, it sounded like part of a Death Eater plot.
"—and they'll see then, the ones who laughed, the ones who turned their backs, won't they? Won't they?" Quirrell demanded as if someone had argued with him, using a force he had never displayed in class with his students. "The ones who pretended they were all under the Imperius, or spies, or for Dumbledore all the time. We'll show them. They'll know the folly of abandoning us."
Harry shook his head. The professor sounded barking, but he also hadn't stuttered once. And the way he was speaking sounded as if he were talking about the Death Eaters who had pleaded their own innocence, usually with the handy excuse of the Imperius Curse, after Voldemort's fall.
I don't understand. Dumbledore only hired Snape because he was a reformed Death Eater. How could Quirrell have hidden some kind of Death Eater affiliation from him? Wouldn't Dumbledore check to see that he'd reformed first?
Deep in thought, Harry nearly catapulted himself over his own feet as the path dipped. He winced, then saw Quirrell turning around. Harry took a deep breath and dropped, rolling sideways, so that he was half-hidden behind a large bush that swayed menacingly. Harry hoped it was only swaying with the wind.
"Who's there?" said Quirrell, and his hand went for his wand. Harry laid his hand on his own, wondering if he was about to have his first proper battle with a Death Eater.
"Animals."
Harry shuddered. That voice was definitely not Quirrell's, high and cold and shrill. And it made Quirrell cower and turn about, his head in his hands. His turban bobbed and swayed as he uttered a cry.
"I'm sorry, my lord!"
"Animals," the voice repeated. "Get what we came for and get out. Someone will miss us soon."
"Yes, my lord," Quirrell whispered, and then took out his wand and cast some kind of complicated charm Harry had never seen before, involving at least seven separate wand movements. Harry frowned. What good would that kind of charm be in battle? Someone would probably kill you before you could cast it.
So it must not be a charm that has anything to do with battle.
And it didn't, as Harry saw after a moment, when the first true light in that dreadful darkness glimmered through the trees, and the unicorn approached them.
Harry stared. He'd seen images of unicorns in history books, and thought he was prepared; after all, wizards looked rather like their own portraits, so unicorns should, too. But nothing had prepared him for the pale coat, or the sheer shine of the horn, or the way the legs unfolded and stepped, more like a deer's legs than a horse's.
The unicorn paused a few steps away from Professor Quirrell, and sniffed the air. Harry wondered if it smelled the garlic that the professor used to keep vampires away. But the professor performed the charm again, which Harry thought was some variant of the summoning charm, and the unicorn came on, walking tamely towards Quirrell, now and then flicking its tail.
Harry swallowed. There was a thickness in his throat, and he did not think that Quirrell could intend anything good with the unicorn, for whatever reason he'd summoned it.
I could stop him from killing it, or hurting it, or whatever it is that he wants to do.
And then I'd reveal that I'm here, and Connor's life would be in danger without me. I think he could kill me. I'm just supposed to observe.
Harry considered looking away as the unicorn halted in front of Quirrell and the professor reached towards its neck. But he swallowed again and kept watching. His mother had told him that only cowards looked away from death, that many of the Death Eaters had killed people with their eyes shut. He would witness, since he couldn't rescue.
The professor reached up and whispered a spell Harry could not make out, and was not sure he wanted to. At once an immense, bloody gash sprouted down the side of the unicorn's neck, wreaking havoc on the silver fur, spreading blue-silver light and life that flared like the moon. The unicorn reared, screaming, and Harry shuddered, driving his fingers so hard into his own hands that for a moment he feared he'd snap his wand. He made no sound himself, though, and was glad when the unicorn fell to the ground, golden hooves thrashing like trailing meteors. It would have seemed disrespectful to take away from the sound of its death.
Quirrell knelt down beside the unicorn, avoiding the hooves, and bowed his head. His mouth went to the gash on the unicorn's neck, and he began to suck.
Harry fought furiously not to be sick. His mother had told him about people who drank unicorn blood. It was a heinous crime, and not just under Ministry law. There was something rare, magical, and pure about unicorns themselves. The blood made anyone who drank it immortal for a time, but shut off from the world, hidden behind hideous gray spiderwebs that concealed all emotions and humanity.
He couldn't watch, in the end. He turned away and crouched down, and waited until the sound of sucking stopped. The unicorn was dead by then—at least, he hoped so. He closed his eyes and listened.
"When?" Quirrell was asking, apparently declaiming to his invisible audience. "When can we hope that the insult will be avenged, the disloyal ones punished, and the Potter brat brought to heel?"
Harry's eyes snapped open again. Connor. They're talking about Connor. Him and—and whoever's with him.
The cold voice spoke, and at the same moment a burning pain came to life in Harry's forehead. He held still as it grew worse, because what that voice had to say seemed more important than any agony he might suffer.
"Not long now. Not long now. We will destroy their hope in the sight of all of them, and we will use the loyal ones to do it. There is one who can help us. He is trusted by the old fool. He will come."
Harry retained the presence of mind to scramble off to the side of the path as Professor Quirrell walked back along it. He never looked to the side. His voice had returned to its constant low muttering. Harry didn't attempt to follow, just kneeling where he was until the pain in his scar had passed.
And, all the while, he considered what he'd heard, and what he was going to do about it.
It was the first time he'd seriously considered turning to the professors for help. He didn't know if he could face a Death Eater—or whoever else Professor Quirrell had been talking to—on his own. He was beyond unsure what might happen if they attacked Connor, in whatever fashion they planned. Maybe he wouldn't be in the right place, at the right time. Thanks to Draco, he almost never was anymore.
And he really should tell someone about seeing the unicorn killed.
But two things stopped him. For one, he'd have to reveal that he'd been out here, and that he'd been spying on Quirrell because of his dreams, and that would draw attention to him that he didn't want, from the professors and eventually from the Death Eaters. The whole point of training as he had was to keep back, to discourage anyone from thinking that he was in any way more than an ordinary, slightly sulking wizard child awed by his brother's reputation. He would destroy every advantage of that if he went to the professors now.
And the second thing…
"There is one who can help us. He is trusted by the old fool. He will come."
Who was that?
Harry was horribly afraid that the cold voice meant Dumbledore, and that meant someone he trusted was a traitor, someone who would conspire to hurt Connor. Dumbledore was not infallible, as his hiring of Quirrell proved. And even if Harry went to him personally, rather than a professor, Dumbledore could tell the news to the traitor under the impression that he would help defend the Boy-Who-Lived.
I'm afraid it's Snape, Harry admitted to himself, but I don't have any other proof than my dislike. And Dumbledore trusts an awful lot of people.
No. He would have to rely on himself, as he had trained.
And the unicorn was a casualty of war.
Harry forced himself to leave his sheltered space behind the bush, and forced himself to walk over to the dead unicorn instead of retreating up the path at once. He looked down at it for a long moment, and wished fiercely that it were still alive. He wanted to say something, but couldn't think of any words that would stand up to what had happened.
"Goodbye," he said at last.
He turned and left, listening to the speech their mother had given him the day before they left for Hogwarts playing over and over in his head.
"War requires sacrifices, Harry, sacrifices from all of us. It requires time, and blood, and sweat, and lives. And, most of all, it requires part of the souls of those who participate in it." Lily had closed her eyes, looking ill, and Harry knew she was remembering some of the things that she had seen and done during the time of Voldemort's first rise. Then she opened her eyes, and they burned into his, intense, opaque green. These were the eyes that neither her husband nor her younger son ever saw, the look she reserved for Harry alone.
"People around you are going to die, Harry," she'd said quietly. "People will be injured, and have their lives taken away, and have bits of their souls snatched when friends are injured or die, or when they kill. I think that last is the worst. It tainted Voldemort. It could taint Connor."
She'd reached forward and clasped his hands, holding them firmly, his new wand caught in between them. "I'm asking you not to let that happen to him, Harry. He has to grow up as normal as possible, even though he's the Boy-Who-Lived. If he gets used to killing, to fighting too young, then he won't retain the essential purity and love he needs to defeat Voldemort. I know that I'm asking you to sacrifice your own innocence, and I'm sorry for it. But this is war, Harry."
Harry had nodded then, and he nodded now, biting his lip. The unicorn was a sacrifice. He'd been a sacrifice, in Lily's terms, even though he didn't think of himself that way; he was just making sure that Connor got to enjoy a chance in the sun that would otherwise be snatched away, and unfairly.
And he loved his brother enough to lie for him, and to burn a troll for him, and to let a unicorn die for him.
He loved him enough to play Quidditch against him—
Harry froze between one step and another, remembering what else that cold voice had said.
"We will destroy their hope in the sight of all of them…"
They were going to attack Connor on the Quidditch pitch, during the Gryffindor-Slytherin game, in front of the whole school.
Harry hurried frantically towards the castle now. He could see no sign of Quirrell anywhere, and he had to get even better at wandless magic than he was by the time Saturday rolled around.