Author's Note

Almost through the first school year! Note that Harry is extremely—perhaps excessively—cautious this year, willing to mostly sit back and watch. That is going to change in a big way, he's just trying to get his bearings in a new environment this year. He'll be making some big moves next year. The butterfly has flapped its wings; the tornado is on its way.

Fred and George had asked Harry to meet them after lunch, their usual cryptic smiles and nudging elbows suggesting they had stumbled upon something interesting. Harry agreed without much thought. The twins were proving to be useful allies, and when they hinted at information, it often turned out to be worth hearing.

He found himself in their makeshift hideout, tucked behind a false wall, a space that was more a jumble of half-finished pranks and strange objects than a functional room. Fred and George were tinkering with something in the corner—a cauldron bubbled quietly, its contents filling the air with a faintly acrid smell.

Fred glanced up from their project. "We've got something for you, Harry. Might interest you."

Harry leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching them closely. "Go on, then."

George wiped his hands on his robes. "We've been keeping an eye on Quirrell."

Harry's interest sharpened, though his expression remained neutral. "And?"

Fred sauntered over, pulling a stool and sitting across from Harry. "He's been sneaking out late at night. Heads toward the Forbidden Forest every time. Weird, right?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "The Forest? How often?"

"Three times this week," George replied. "Always around the same time, just after curfew."

Fred leaned in slightly. "We thought it might just be nerves. You know how jumpy he is. But then we heard about those unicorn attacks."

"Unicorns?" Harry's eyes flickered with interest. This was the first real connection he'd had.

"Yeah," George continued. "Hagrid's keeping it quiet, but word's going around. Unicorns being attacked in the Forest. People are saying it's something nasty."

Harry mulled it over, hiding the speed at which his mind raced through the possibilities. Quirrell sneaking into the forest, unicorns being attacked—it was starting to come together. Too perfectly to be a coincidence.

"And you're sure it's him?" Harry asked.

Fred nodded. "Saw him with our own eyes."

Harry let out a thoughtful hum. "Keep an eye on him. Let me know if anything changes."

Fred grinned. "You know us, Harry. Always watching."

Harry offered a small nod but didn't smile. He already had a new plan forming in the back of his mind. Whatever Quirrell was up to, it was about time he found out more.

Later that day, Harry sat with Hermione in the library, sunlight filtering in through the tall windows, casting long shadows over the tables. Hermione was hunched over a particularly thick tome, muttering to herself. Harry wasn't really paying attention to what she was reading—his thoughts were still on what Fred and George had told him. But when Hermione finally sat up, looking excited, Harry focused.

"I've found something!" Hermione said, her voice full of that characteristic spark when she uncovered something important.

Harry leaned back slightly. "Go on."

"Nicholas Flamel," she said, barely able to contain her excitement. "There's a mention of him in Studies of Recent Developments in Alchemy. He's connected to Dumbledore. That's why I couldn't find him before—he's a renowned alchemist. He created the Philosopher's Stone!"

Harry's expression didn't change, but inside, he was pleased. She was catching up.

"And the Stone," Hermione continued, "can grant immortality."

Harry tilted his head, pretending to consider this information. "Immortality?"

Hermione nodded eagerly. "Yes! That's what Quirrell and Snape must be after. Dumbledore's protecting it here at Hogwarts."

Harry didn't let his eyes betray anything. "So, what now?"

Hermione hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the book. "I've been thinking... maybe we should try contacting Nicholas Flamel. He might know more about what's going on."

Harry watched her for a moment, then offered an encouraging nod. Flamel was famously difficult to contact, but it could be a useful exercise for the girl. "Not a bad idea, Hermione. We'll need all the information we can get."

She smiled, looking determined. As she returned to her book, Harry leaned back, satisfied. She would reach out to Flamel soon enough, and just maybe—with a great deal of luck—provide him with more insight into Dumbledore's motives.

That night, Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, absorbed in a book he had borrowed from the private Ravenclaw library. The tome, entitled Basic Enchanting for the Inquisitive Mind, laid out the foundations of enchanting objects. It fascinated Harry how enchantments were essentially a series of highly specialized Charms woven together.

The key was the caster's skill and imagination, which dictated how flexible or complex the final enchantment could be, and how well layered Charms could interoperate. The more versatile the caster, the more creative the results.

As he skimmed through the section on modifying objects for durability, Harry sorted his thoughts. Much of magic boiled down to knowing which spell to cast and when to combine it with others. The intricacies felt logical to him, almost like solving a puzzle. But even the most advanced examples in the book seemed to lack the imagination Grindelwald had once demonstrated. There wasn't even a hint of what Harry knew was possible, having seen it with his own eyes.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. Harry's head jerked up, eyes narrowing in brief annoyance before he quickly pushed it aside. He closed the book and stood, moving toward the door.

When he opened it, Robert Hilliard, the male fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect, stood in the doorway. The older boy had a bemused smile, leaning slightly against the doorframe as though this errand amused him. "Harry, the Weasley twins have requested an audience."

Harry's mind sharpened at the words. Requested an audience—that was the phrase they'd agreed on. It meant Quirrell was on the move. His heart leapt with adrenaline, and before he could fully respond, Harry was already halfway to closing the door. He barely remembered to say, "Thank you, Robert," before slamming the door shut in the prefect's face.

The slight clatter of the door left Hilliard looking confused and slightly offended outside, but Harry wouldn't have cared even if he'd been able to see him. His focus had shifted to preparation. He threw his Hogwarts robes off in a hurry, tossing them onto the bed in a heap, and reached for his well-worn cloak, the one that had traveled with him through his time with Grindelwald. The cloak was spell-resistant, the perfect companion for situations like this that might… escalate. He slid it over his shoulders, the familiar fabric settling against him like a second skin.

Next, Harry grabbed his best sneaking boots—with soles of soft, flexible leather—and quickly tugged them on. In his haste, he almost forgot his wand, which still rested on the bedside table. He'd grown so used to relying on telekinesis and shadow-walking over the years that he sometimes forgot about his newly acquired magical focus. He dug it blindly out of his piled up Hogwarts robes on the bed, finding the cool wood with his hand. Ready to go, he thought.

Pushing his door open again, he hurried through Ravenclaw Tower. His heart pounded in anticipation, knowing he was already behind. In through the nose, out through the mouth. His pulse slowed with the deep, steady breathing.

Outside the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower, Fred and George stood waiting, their faces lit with mischievous excitement. George grinned as Harry approached. "Took your time, Potter."

"You'd better hurry," Fred added, his voice more serious than usual. "Quirrell's already at the edge of the map."

The Forbidden Forest loomed, thick with shadows and silence. Harry moved swiftly, his shadow-walking abilities not only keeping him unseen but allowing him to slip effortlessly through the underbrush. He had been following the cloaked figure since it left the castle, having been tipped off by Fred and George that Quirrell was slipping out after dark. Now, deep in the forest, the figure stopped.

Harry paused at the edge of a clearing. The cloaked figure knelt beside a fallen unicorn, its once-pure coat tarnished with silvery blood. The unicorn's breath was shallow, fading. In the figure's hand, a vial glimmered as it filled with the precious substance.

The cloaked figure was unmistakably Quirrell, though in the deep gloom of the Forest at night, Harry could only be sure because he had tracked him all the way from Hogwarts. He was about to step forward when he heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footfalls approaching from behind. Without hesitation, Harry melted into the shadows once more, his form blending seamlessly into the darkness.

Hagrid burst into the clearing, his massive form towering over the scene. Fang growled at his side, ears back. "Oi! What're yeh doin' here?" he roared, his eyes darting to the unicorn.

Quirrell tensed, clutching the vial tighter, but then dropped it in his panic. The vial shattered on the ground, and without a word, Quirrell turned and bolted into the forest.

Hagrid rushed forward, kneeling beside the unicorn, his face twisting with grief. "Poor thing…" he muttered. "Not a creature deserves this."

Harry, hidden in the shadows, watched silently. Quirrell's desperation was evident, and the significance of Voldemort's proximity struck him like a cold wave. But before he could process further, a soft sound reached his ears—the unmistakable clop of hooves.

Out of the trees, three centaurs emerged. Tall, powerful, their forms half-human, half-horse. Their eyes gleamed in the low light, scanning the clearing with purpose. Harry held his breath, certain they couldn't see him, but something in their gaze seemed to pierce the shadows he used for cover—all three fixed him with a haughty, disapproving stare.

The lead centaur, golden-haired and regal, turned his head sharply toward the spot where Harry stood hidden. His voice was steady but commanding. "Reveal yourself, boy. We can see you."

Harry tensed, but his cover was broken. Slowly, he stepped out of the darkness, the cold night air prickling his skin as the centaurs' eyes followed his every movement. Hagrid, who had been focusing on the unicorn, straightened up, turning sharply to face Harry.

"Harry Potter?" Hagrid's voice was low and cautious, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "What're yeh doin' out here? This isn't a place for students."

The tension in Hagrid's tone was unmistakable. Harry knew the groundskeeper wasn't entirely comfortable around him—Harry suspected Dumbledore had informed the staff of his connection to Gellert, based on their guarded manner in his presence. Harry met his gaze coolly. "I was following him," Harry said, jerking his head in the direction where Quirrell had fled. "He's the one responsible."

The centaurs remained silent, but their eyes never left Harry. Hagrid looked torn, his gaze shifting from the dead unicorn to Harry, suspicion creeping across his face.

"Yeh shouldn't be followin' anyone into this forest," Hagrid growled. "And how do I know yeh weren't part of this?"

Harry's temper flared slightly, though he kept his voice level. "Do you really think I'd have stuck around if I were involved?"

Before Hagrid could respond, the lead centaur stepped forward. "Enough. This is no place for bickering." His gaze shifted to the unicorn, and his voice became solemn. "A dark force haunts these woods tonight. One who seeks to defile what is sacred."

Harry, however, was not ready to let the centaurs off the hook. He stepped forward, his voice cold. "And what have you done to stop it? You knew something was happening here, and you did nothing."

The golden-haired centaur's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "We know many things, boy. The stars have shown us much, but not all. This darkness is deeper than you understand."

"I understand more than you think," Harry shot back, his frustration rising. "This unicorn is dead because you chose to do nothing. You had the knowledge, and yet you hoarded it. If you'd acted, this wouldn't have happened."

The black-haired centaur took a step forward, his nostrils flaring in anger. "You presume to know our ways, boy? You, who skulks in shadows like a predator seeking to ambush prey?"

Harry's fists clenched, but his voice remained steady, biting back his frustration. "My prey murdered this innocent creature. If stopping Dark wizards from harvesting unicorn blood is questionable to you, then maybe you're prey too."

The clearing grew taut with tension. Bane glared at Harry, his muscles tensing as if ready to charge, but the golden-haired centaur raised a hand, silencing him. "Enough."

Harry's eyes remained fixed on the leader, his frustration simmering. He wasn't about to let them off the hook. "This unicorn didn't need to die. Your inaction—your passivity—is what caused this. If you had shared what you knew—with me, with Hagrid here, or with the Headmaster, for example—this could have stopped this before it happened."

The lead centaur regarded Harry steadily, though doubt flickered across his face for a brief moment. "Fate takes little account of the actions of mortal beings, child. The darkness surrounding Voldemort is deeper than you realize. There are forces beyond your control."

"Maybe," Harry admitted, his voice low but firm, then gestured at the dead unicorn. "But doing nothing can't be the answer."

The tension in the clearing was palpable. Bane's eyes were wild with rage, but he remained silent, kept in check only by the leader's raised hand.

The golden-haired centaur's voice softened, though his words still carried a warning. "The fight will come, boy. But be careful. Darkness consumes those who believe they can control it."

Harry met the centaur's gaze without flinching. "I won't be consumed by doing nothing."

The centaur held Harry's gaze for a long moment before turning to Hagrid. "Take the boy and leave. The battle is not tonight."

Hagrid, still visibly uneasy, gave Harry a sidelong glance. "We should be gettin' back, Harry. This place ain't safe."

Harry merely nodded, turning to leave the clearing. Hagrid's suspicion lingered in the air, but Harry's thoughts were already on the larger picture. If the centaurs weren't going to act, then it was up to him.

As they moved deeper into the forest, Hagrid muttered, "This is bad, Harry. Merlin, real bad."

Harry said nothing, casting one last glance at the sacred creature's corpse before following Hagrid into the trees. His resolve hardened. He would act—even if no one else would. Those with the strength had a duty to.

Harry and Hagrid moved through the darkened forest in silence, the tension from their encounter with the centaurs still lingering in the air. The path ahead was uneven, and Harry kept his senses alert, though his mind was already racing with thoughts of the dead unicorn and the mysteries surrounding Quirrell. The night air was cold, which Harry appreciated; it helped keep his wits and senses sharp.

As they continued, a soft rustling from the underbrush made Hagrid pause. "Hold on, Harry," he muttered, raising a hand to signal for quiet. Harry stopped beside him, eyes scanning the darkness. Something large was shifting through the trees ahead.

A moment later, an enormous spider, easily the size of a small carriage, emerged into the clearing. Its dark, hairy legs moved slowly, and its many eyes gleamed in the faint moonlight. Harry tensed, though not out of fear—he was merely surprised that Hagrid made no move to defend them. The creature advanced, pausing only when it was a few feet from Hagrid.

"Well, if it isn't Aragog," Hagrid said, his tone softer, almost fond. "Not often we see yeh wanderin' this far out."

Harry studied the creature, intrigued by the sheer size and power of it; he hadn't thought they could get this big. Acromantulas were considered Dark creatures, forbidden by most magical laws, but Harry, unlike most wizards, was not bound by the same prejudices. What surprised him was that Hagrid—one of Dumbledore's loyalists—would befriend something so closely associated with Dark magic.

"An old friend of yours?" Harry asked, his voice neutral.

Hagrid grinned, though it was clear he was still wary of the giant spider. "Aye, this here's Aragog. Raised 'er meself years ago."

Harry's mind quickly shifted to a practical thought. Acromantulas were renowned for their spider-silk, and while most wizards would run from a creature like Aragog, Harry saw an opportunity. Without missing a beat, he stepped forward, addressing the giant spider directly.

"I've heard your kind spin the finest silk," Harry began, his tone respectful but calculated. "I'm in need of a supply for some… projects. I'm sure we could come to an agreement."

Hagrid looked startled for a moment but didn't interrupt. Aragog, however, tilted its head slightly, its many eyes gleaming with curiosity. "What would you offer in return, young wizard?" Aragog's voice was rasping, slow, but held an unexpected intelligence.

Harry didn't hesitate. "That depends on what you want. Surely there's something of value that a wizard like me could provide." His eyes gleamed slightly in the dim light, his offer genuine. He could trade knowledge, magical items, information—anything that might prove useful to an Acromantula colony.

Aragog's legs shifted, the giant spider considering the proposal. "Perhaps," the creature said slowly. "I will think on it. When I have decided, I will tell Hagrid. He can pass the message to you."

Harry nodded, satisfied. "Fair enough."

Hagrid, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of confusion and admiration, finally spoke. "Blimey, Harry. Never thought I'd see anyone try to strike a deal with Aragog." He chuckled, a rare note of respect entering his voice. "Yer a bold one, I'll give yeh that."

Glancing at Hagrid, Harry nodded, his tone matter-of-fact. "I don't let opportunities slip by."

The conversation had shifted the mood. Hagrid seemed less suspicious of Harry now, though the underlying tension still remained—after all, Hagrid knew where Harry's loyalties ultimately lay, and Harry knew Hagrid would always follow Dumbledore. But for the moment, there was a shared understanding, a small bridge between them built over mutual respect.

"Well, I'll be sure to pass the message along," Hagrid said, giving Aragog a gentle nod. "We best be off, now. Don't want to be lingering in the forest too long."

Aragog stepped back into the shadows, its massive form disappearing into the underbrush. Harry and Hagrid resumed their walk, the silence between them less heavy than before.

As they neared the edge of the forest, Hagrid glanced at Harry again, this time with a more thoughtful expression. "Yer different than I thought yeh'd be, Harry."

Harry shrugged, his gaze still focused ahead. "People usually are."

They continued in silence, but the distance between them had narrowed—at least for now.