Late at night, the Forbidden Forest lay in silence. A gray-brown viper, five to six meters long, slithered out of a concealed burrow, its wide, triangular head raised high. Its tongue flicked in and out, gathering scents from the air and transmitting them to the Jacobson's organ for analysis. It had just caught the scent of prey and was preparing to follow the lingering traces in the air for a satisfying meal when—
Firelight erupted behind it.
A surge of violent magical energy, accompanied by the furious roars of a giant, shattered the tranquility of the forest.
With a swift Apparition, Quirrell dodged a massive tree trunk that came hurtling toward him. Holding his wand, he flicked it effortlessly—an intense blast of fire struck the half-giant's broad chest, scorching another blackened patch onto his already battered body. But such an injury was far from enough to bring the half-giant down. With a furious roar, he lifted the tree trunk once more and hurled it toward the black-robed figure.
Behind the half-giant, a unicorn lay on the ground, barely clinging to life. At the sight of it, a shudder of fear crept through Quirrell's heart. He dared not imagine the consequences of failing to present his master with the unicorn's blood in time.
Impatience set in.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The magically enhanced voice rang through the forest. Quirrell raised his wand, and a bolt of vivid green light shot toward the half-giant—only to be intercepted by the thick tree trunk in his hands.
With the Killing Curse now in play, the battle escalated dramatically. Nearby, Malfoy and his companions were already paralyzed with fear. The eerie green glow had barely lit up the night before they collapsed onto the ground, trembling uncontrollably.
Suddenly, Malfoy heard a soft sigh close by. Before he could react, a streak of red light shot out from seemingly nowhere, aimed straight at Quirrell's back.
But as if he had eyes in the back of his head, Quirrell vanished in an instant, Apparating away just as the spell was released.
"Who's there? Show yourself!" His eyes darted toward Malfoy and his friends, heart pounding wildly. If not for his master's warning, that Disarming Charm—launched at such a precise angle and with such impeccable timing—would have undoubtedly taken him down.
"Come out now! Or I won't guarantee these three little brats will still be breathing in the next minute!" Quirrell ceased his attack, one eye on Hagrid, the other scanning the empty air.
Seeing the black-robed man pause, Hagrid, panting heavily, finally let go of what remained of his battered tree trunk. His legs wobbled beneath him, and he nearly stumbled.
"Very well. Still refusing to show yourself?" A cold smile curved Quirrell's lips. He raised his wand and pointed it at Malfoy, who was frantically crawling backward, fear written all over his face.
"Crucio!"
The curse struck. Malfoy convulsed instantly, his body twisting and writhing on the ground like a worm. His delicate features contorted in agony.
But before he could even scream, another spell—brilliant red—shot out from the void.
Quirrell reacted swiftly. The moment the spell appeared, he lifted his curse and waved his wand, summoning a powerful Shield Charm around himself.
Yet, to his shock, the incoming spell was far stronger and faster than he had anticipated.
With a thunderous explosion, the black-robed figure was hurled backward, crashing into the thicket behind him.
As the force of the spell struck Quirrell, the excruciating pain vanished from Malfoy's body. But even though the torment had ended, the blonde boy remained curled up on the ground, trembling.
Hagrid, seeing the dark wizard flung away, felt a wave of relief wash over him. But before he could do anything else, his exhausted body gave out. With a dull thud, the half-giant collapsed onto his back, unconscious.
For a brief moment, the battlefield fell eerily silent.
The hidden figure made no further moves. The black-robed man in the trees remained motionless.
Just as Malfoy and his companions thought the nightmare was finally over, a massive serpent as thick as a barrel lunged from the shadows to their left, its gaping maw snapping toward them.
At the same time, to their right, a roaring lion composed entirely of flames surged toward them, its blazing form illuminating the terrified faces of the three young Slytherins.
"Let's see how you save your precious students now, Dumbledore!"
A hoarse voice echoed from all directions.
"You're still the same as ever, Tom."
A tall, elderly figure materialized in midair. With a sweeping motion of his wand, a surge of magic erupted from its tip.
"Finite Incantatem!"
A powerful, invisible wave radiated outward.
The moment it touched the serpent and the fire lion, both dissolved like snow under the blazing sun.
Borrowing Quirrell's body, strengthened by the unicorn blood he had stolen, Voldemort had briefly regained a fraction of his former power. Though fleeting, it was enough to restore him to his peak—if only for a moment.
A dark mist unfurled from the forest, shifting unpredictably as it spread.
Voldemort knew that with Dumbledore here, his plan to drain the unicorn's blood was now completely ruined. But before he initiated his backup plan, he was curious—just how far would Dumbledore go for these three little Slytherins?
The battle resumed, fiercer than before.
Unknown spells streaked through the air, dazzling transfigurations unfolded before their eyes. Malfoy and his friends felt like a tiny boat caught in a relentless storm, tossed about by the overwhelming forces clashing around them. At any moment, they could be swallowed whole.
And then—
"The Dark Lord is truly alive… but… Father always said the Dark Lord was the heir of Slytherin… So why… why is the heir of Slytherin attacking Slytherin students?"
The thought tangled in Malfoy's mind, a whirlwind of confusion. But before he could make sense of it, a dragon's roar split the night, followed by a thunderous impact.
The black mist was violently thrown back, crashing into a tree ten meters away with a loud thud.
And where the mist had hovered just moments before, a fully grown dragon—six meters long, with a wingspan of over four—now flapped its powerful wings, its massive form appearing out of thin air.
The black-scaled dragon opened its maw. Torrents of fire gushed forth, engulfing the night. Trees and foliage in its path ignited instantly.
"I must be losing my mind…" Malfoy tilted his head back, staring at the magnificent beast before him, its flames reflecting in his wide, disbelieving eyes.
"But… it's beautiful… no doubt about it… That's a dragon."
Floating midair, Voldemort materialized behind the dragon, his expression dark and unreadable.
Had it not been for his mist form negating most physical damage, that collision alone would have been enough to kill him.
"Looks like... today isn't the day to defeat Dumbledore..."
After weighing both sides' current strength, Voldemort entertained the thought of retreating. However, even if he had to withdraw, he couldn't just flee in disgrace. Dumbledore was one thing—but that foolish dragon that dared to attack the great Dark Lord had to pay the price!
Under Dumbledore's curious gaze, Voldemort slowly raised his wand. Deliberately, word by word, he chanted, "A—v—a—d—a..."
Amidst a swirl of silvery mist, Harry Potter appeared behind Voldemort. In that instant, his right hand gathered magic, his entire mental focus exploding at once. A roaring torrent of crimson, composed of magical missiles, surged toward Voldemort at point-blank range.
The black mist shielding Voldemort trembled violently under the barrage. A second later, Voldemort, breaking free from the slowing spell, twisted in agony as the relentless pain seared through his back. His form flickered, and with a distorted movement, he vanished from the battlefield.
"I may have told you this before, Harry, but I must say it again—what an astonishing display of magic."
Dumbledore gave Harry a gentle smile.
"Headmaster, my attack isn't over yet," Harry pointed toward the sky, where a string of red lights streaked rapidly into the distance. "This thing won't stop until it hits its target."
"Oh?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow as he observed the vanishing crimson streaks in the sky. "Then it seems Voldemort is in for a bit of misfortune today."
"If he survives, he'll be lucky," Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. That massive volley of magic missiles had nearly drained his mental reserves. "But, Professor Dumbledore, perhaps you should start considering who will be taking over Defense Against the Dark Arts for the rest of the term. After all, even if Quirrell isn't dead, he's definitely crippled."
"Defense Against the Dark Arts, hmm... Don't worry, I happen to know someone who's been eager to teach the subject. I doubt he'd mind stepping in for the rest of the semester."
With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore transformed several branches into a stretcher, which landed before Goyle and Crabbe. "Mr. Vincent, Mr. Gregory, would you be so kind as to take Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing? As for your safety along the way, I trust Bain and his companions will see to it, won't you, Mr. Bain?"
The sound of hooves echoed through the air as a black-haired centaur emerged from the trees, accompanied by several fully armed comrades.
Their gazes swept across the battlefield—nearly razed to the ground—then landed on the now-normal-sized fire dragon, the black-haired boy playing with it, the unconscious Hagrid sprawled out on the ground, and finally, Dumbledore.
"We will escort these foals safely out of the Forbidden Forest," Bain said in a deep voice.
"Then I leave these three in your care." Dumbledore nodded at the centaurs with a smile.
Once the centaurs had led the trio away, Dumbledore approached Hagrid and flicked his wand. The half-giant slowly levitated, drifting weightlessly like an oversized balloon, tethered by an invisible string as Dumbledore led him along.
"Harry, after you return the little dragon to the centaurs, you should get some rest," Dumbledore said as he made his way back toward the castle. "And by the way, your detention is over. Try to ease up on the Forbidden Forest for a while—you're nearly wiping it clean."
Scratching his head, Harry mounted the little dragon and soared toward the centaur village.
Meanwhile, on a remote cliffside in another part of Britain, a loud crack announced the arrival of a figure.
Quirrell, his robes tattered and body covered in wounds, coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed to the ground.
"Master... help me... Master..." he muttered weakly.
"Useless! It's bad enough that you were ambushed, but you couldn't even see who did it? Pathetic!" The hoarse voice rasped from the back of Quirrell's head.
"I-I'm sorry, Master, but the opponent was too fast. I only caught a glimpse of a dark figure before everything was filled with blinding silver light..." Quirrell coughed up more blood, struggling to stand. "Master, Dumbledore has already taken notice of us. The Philosopher's Stone—"
"You incompetent fool! The Philosopher's Stone?! If I hadn't expended my power to get you out of the Forbidden Forest, you'd already be dead! Do you understand? You've been cast out of Hogwarts! Forget the Philosopher's Stone!"
"...Never mind. First, we need to find a place to heal your injuries. I recall a wizard in Knockturn Alley who's rather skilled in treatment. I'll tell you where to find him—you will go there. And—"
"I understand, Master!" Quirrell quickly dropped to his knees, kowtowing frantically. "I will cover the treatment costs myself! I won't trouble you with it!"
With another loud crack, Quirrell vanished, leaving behind only a few still-warm pools of blood on the cliffside.
...
In Knockturn Alley, a wizard named Claire Thompson ran one of the most renowned underground clinics, known for his exceptional medical skills.
That evening, after a long day's work, Thompson counted his earnings, then meticulously checked the layers of protective, counter-curse, and attack wards surrounding his home. Satisfied, he retired to his third-floor bedroom and fell into a deep sleep.
At precisely one o'clock in the morning, a series of explosions and the agonized screams of a grown man jolted him awake.
"Ugh, probably just some street wizards backstabbing each other again," he muttered, rolling over and attempting to resume his dream.
But just as he closed his eyes, the doorbell rang.
Despite the rude awakening, Thompson lived by a simple creed—never turn down paying customers. After confirming there was no immediate danger, he grabbed his wand and opened the door.
A man lay face-down on his doorstep, blood seeping from his torn robes at the sleeves and pant legs. A short distance away, scattered on the ground, were a severed foot and fragments of what had once been an arm."
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