Hogwarts — Defense Against the Dark Arts Office
Status: Turban Transmission Online. One Very Twitchy Professor. One Spectral Overlord of Sass. Troll Pending.
Professor Quirrell's teacup rattled gently in its saucer, mostly because his hand was rattling. Honestly, the only thing keeping him from throwing the cup out the window was the fact that the window was enchanted shut—and, more importantly, the voice in his skull would find a way to haunt the shards.
"Quirrell," came the familiar icy whisper from behind his left ear. Inside his left ear. It was hard to tell anymore.
The professor froze, mid-sip. "…Yes, my Lord?"
There was a silence. Long. Calculated. Cold, like someone sharpening sarcasm into a sword.
"I've had time to reflect," Voldemort said finally, with the grim cadence of a man who'd just binge-watched a reality show and realized the hero wasn't the one he bet on.
"Reflect?" Quirrell echoed, already dreading the answer.
"On today's… performance." The pause that followed was more loaded than a Muggle lawyer's briefcase. "Tell me, Quirinus — and speak plainly — what in Merlin's asymmetrical underwear did I just witness?"
Quirrell winced. "I… I assume you're referring to the duel?"
"No, I'm referring to the moment our grand revenge plot got upstaged by a twelve-year-old with jazz hands and a cloud that does backflips." A beat. "Yes, I'm referring to the duel."
Quirrell sighed. "He… he's very talented."
"Talented?" Voldemort snapped. "He turned a wizarding duel into Cirque du Chaos. At one point, he levitated, spun, and summoned flaming lemurs riding mopeds while grinning like Loki won the lottery."
"Well, he is James Potter's—"
"I know, Quirrell. I saw it. I felt it. You blinked during the glitter tornado and I nearly blacked out from secondhand fabulousness."
"I apologize, my Lord."
"You should apologize to the concept of silence. And to Draco Malfoy, who may never emotionally recover."
Quirrell gave a nervous shrug. "Draco's always been… delicate."
"He got hit in the face with a paintball that spelled 'Cursed Nepo Baby.' In cursive. That's not delicate. That's a public relations crisis."
A pause. Then Voldemort exhaled the kind of sigh that sounded like dark silk being torn in half.
"In any case," he muttered, tone shifting from dry sarcasm to low, ruthless calculation, "Potter is no longer an ordinary variable. He is a wildcard. A statistical outlier. A magical glitch in the simulation. We must adjust."
Quirrell swallowed. "Adjust how, exactly?"
"We move the timeline forward. Halloween."
Quirrell choked on his tea. "That's six days away!"
"Correct. Would you like a medal for knowing the calendar?"
"I—I just meant, we're not ready. The wards, the timing—"
"The wards are an inconvenience. The chaos will be your entry ticket."
Quirrell set the teacup down with extreme caution. "Chaos. As in…?"
"A troll."
"A troll."
"A big troll."
"A big—of course. Of course." He opened his day planner and scribbled Troll (BIG. LOUD. NOT FROM SWAMP) next to Halloween. "Something loud and violent. A distraction while I slip past the third-floor corridor guards."
"Exactly. The troll creates panic. You enter the corridor. You disarm the enchantments. I handle the Stone."
"And Potter?" Quirrell asked, then immediately regretted it.
Voldemort's voice turned silky and cold. Like drowning in a glacier wearing silk pajamas.
"Let him bask. Let him smirk. Let him 'renovate Hogwarts' with rune cards and lemurs and egregious levels of sass. But the next time we meet… I'll test him myself."
Quirrell nodded furiously. "Of course, my Lord. I'll secure the troll. Something with flair. No glitter."
"And Quirrell…"
"Yes, my Lord?"
"No more swamp trolls. The last one smelled like despair and old cabbage."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Oh—and next time, when he's summoning lemur legions with flaming jazz hands and divine chaos in his eyes…"
"Yes?"
"Don't. Blink."
There was a snap, like a telepathic mic drop, and the voice went quiet.
Quirrell sat there for a long moment, blinking at his half-empty teacup.
"Honestly," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "I should've just taken the job teaching Muggle Studies. At least they don't summon glitter mammals with emotional trauma."
Then he pulled out his wand, scratched out the word "calm" from his weekly goals list, and underlined "find troll" three times.
—
Hogwarts Grounds – Forbidden Forest – 11:48 PM
Status: Curfew? Ha. Wards? Prodded like a sleeping dragon. Unicorn? Glowing and oblivious. Villain? Currently wheezing through a patch of poison ivy.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell stumbled over a root for what felt like the eighth time in as many minutes. He muttered something that probably wasn't Latin and definitely wasn't printable in a school newsletter.
"Honestly," he panted, clutching his side, "why is it always the Forbidden Forest? Why can't anything evil ever happen in a… a nicely paved courtyard or—oh, I don't know—a tea shop?"
The only reply was a silken voice in his head, as smooth and cold as a marble tomb.
"Because, Quirinus," Lord Voldemort drawled, "no one fears tea shops. Unless you're ordering chamomile. Then yes—utterly diabolical."
Quirrell flinched like someone had thrown a snowball down the back of his robes.
"I-I found the breach," he whispered. "West side. Just past the Thestral clearing. Small tear in the wards—more of a wobble, really—but I can widen it by Halloween."
"Mm. Adequate." Voldemort sounded like he was reviewing a subpar wine list. "Ensure it's ready. I do so enjoy a good All Hallows' Eve entrance. Drama, lightning, children screaming. Classic."
Quirrell ducked under a low branch, nearly tripped over a rock, and managed to knock his own hat off with his wand in the process. He grumbled, retrieved it, and pressed on, the glow of his Lumos casting eerie shadows.
"You know," he muttered, brushing moss off his sleeve, "this would be much easier if I had a proper flashlight. Or legs that weren't shaped like overcooked spaghetti."
"Do stop narrating your incompetence like it's charming." Voldemort sighed. "Your babble has the rhythm of a particularly lazy lullaby. Now hush. The unicorn is near."
And just like that, the forest shifted.
The air turned colder—like someone had opened a refrigerator full of dread—and the rustling started. Not wind. Not birds. Something… other.
Quirrell froze. A glow shimmered between the trees.
And then it stepped out.
A unicorn. Pure, starlit, unfairly majestic. Every inch of it screamed: Do Not Touch—Property of Every Fantasy Book Ever Written.
It looked at Quirrell with large, liquid eyes. Innocent. Trusting.
"Oh no," Quirrell whispered. "Oh, no no no. Don't do that. Don't look at me like that. That's cheating."
"Do it," Voldemort hissed. "Strike. Before I decide you're more useful as fertilizer."
Quirrell raised his wand. His hand shook like a leaf in a wind tunnel.
"This feels very morally complicated," he said, half to himself. "I mean, it's not even growling. Shouldn't it growl? Or snarl? Or maybe rear up dramatically? No? Just… existing politely?"
"Do you want to debate ethics or drink unicorn blood, Quirinus?" Voldemort purred, "because one of those will keep me alive and the other makes me want to light your spleen on fire."
Quirrell took a step forward. The unicorn didn't run. It just blinked, head tilted slightly, like it was waiting for him to apologize and go back to his knitting.
Quirrell grimaced. "I really hate this job."
And he struck.
The forest screamed.
Branches cracked. Leaves exploded off trees like nature was protesting. The unicorn reared, finally—hooves flashing, eyes wide with terror.
And something else stirred in the darkness. Watching.
Something not so trusting.
But Quirrell didn't notice.
Because Voldemort was laughing.
Low. Delighted. Cruel.
"Well done, Quirinus," he whispered. "Now... let's make a murderer out of you."
And just like that, the glow of innocence flickered… and bled.
—
At The Same Time – Gryffindor Tower – First Year Boys Dormitory
Status: Dreams Interrupted. Cosmic Trouble Brewing. Extremely Inconvenient Timing.
Harry Potter sat bolt upright in bed like someone had just dunked him in ice water and then shouted "Destiny!" in his face.
One second, he'd been dreaming of a lemur in a Viking helmet screaming something about squatters' rights in the Room of Requirement, and the next?
Boom.
Goosebumps. Drumbeat heartbeat. Ancient, primal pull. Like the universe had hit the emergency alarm labeled: "WAKE THE DEMIGOD."
Above his bedpost, Aether—his flying, sentient, puffball of a cloud—jolted awake with a startled poof, briefly morphing into the shape of a very concerned marshmallow.
Harry swung his legs off the bed, already moving.
"Something's wrong," he whispered, mostly to himself. "Something pure's being hunted."
In his mind, a voice stirred—sleepy, cranky, and very not happy to be summoned at witching hour.
"What in all Nine Rings of Celestial Shenanigans are you on about, kid?" said Jim, his ever-loyal (and ever-dramatic) magical staff-slash-loudmouth roommate. "Did someone steal your chocolate frogs again? Because I swear on my lacquered bamboo, if it's about snacks, I'm going back to bed."
Harry stood, already grabbing his cloak, boots, rune deck, and emergency snack bar (never go into the Forbidden Forest without carbs—it's just science). Aether zipped into motion, circling around his head like a protective scarf, glowing faintly blue in the moonlight.
"It's not snacks, Jim. It's... the Hunt. It woke me up."
There was a pause in his head. Then Jim, now fully alert, metaphorically slapped on a combat helmet and grabbed metaphorical popcorn.
"Wait, wait, wait—you mean THE Hunt? Artemis-level Hunt? Divine-tracker-gut-instinct-pulling-you-out-of-bed-at-stupid-o'clock Hunt? That one?"
Harry nodded as he yanked on one boot. "Yeah. That one."
"Hot monkey muffins," Jim muttered. "Okay. Okay. Big deal. Bigger than Professor Flitwick riding a unicorn into battle big. Grab your stick, grab your glitter bombs, we are now officially on Code Silver Alert: Creatures Are Dying And I'm Underpaid For This."
"You don't get paid at all," Harry pointed out.
"EXACTLY."
Aether twirled once in midair, then zipped down into Harry's satchel like a very soft cannonball. He let out a musical chime that translated roughly to: "I brought the sparkly bandages and the emergency duck whistle. Good boy, yes I am."
"Who's a good storm cloud?" Harry whispered, patting the bag. Aether purred, literally.
He turned toward the other boys. Ron was starfished across his mattress like someone who wrestled his blanket in his sleep and lost. Dean was snoring with a sock on his face. Neville's toad had somehow climbed on top of his head.
Harry shook his head, smirking faintly.
"If I don't come back," he muttered, "tell Hermione she was right about the glitter bombs being a bad idea."
Aether let out a ding-ding-ding.
Translation: "She was right. But also: worth it."
"Bold of you to assume you're not coming back," Jim said. "You're a genetically unstable cocktail of trickster god and moon huntress. You'll be fine. I, on the other hand, am a sentient stick. So please—if we're gonna die, at least make it look awesome."
Harry slung his cloak around his shoulders, and the shadows clung to it like loyal pets. He glanced once at the window. The moon was pale and full, like it knew what was coming.
Then, without another word, Harry Potter—Monkey Prince, son of mischief and moonlight—slipped out through the portrait hole.
It was time to hunt the hunter.
—
Absolutely! Here's the rewritten scene:
Rick Riordan style,
Jim Carrey–level Jim (chaotic, dramatic, and possibly caffeinated),
11-year-old Tom Welling–energy Harry (all sass, mythic potential, and instinctive badassery),
Aether being an A+ emotional support cloud,
More banter, visuals, dialogue, and magical drama.
Let's go full Monkey King mode:
Hogwarts Grounds – Forbidden Forest – 12:06 AM
Status: Flying Demigod Activated. Clouddog Online. Stick? Unhinged. Unicorn? Bleeding.
Harry soared through the night sky like someone had turned a bedtime story into a Marvel prequel.
Okay, fine—he wasn't technically flying. That credit went to Aether, who was zooming through the air like a sentient puff pastry with jet propulsion. But Harry looked like he was flying, which was honestly what mattered.
Cloak flapping. Hair windswept. Emerald green eyes burning silver at the edges.
He crouched low on Aether's back, rune cards in one hand, enchanted staff in the other. The air smelled like pine, prophecy, and someone about to regret their life decisions.
"Reminder," Jim said in Harry's head, "this is not a regulated aerial vehicle. You are not licensed. I repeat: you are ELEVEN."
"Add it to the list," Harry muttered, scanning the trees below. "I'm also a demigod, I own a sarcastic cloud, and last week I melted a hallway because I sneezed while holding a fire rune."
"Don't get me wrong, I love it here," Jim continued, "but this entire school is one glitter explosion away from becoming a health hazard."
Aether spiraled dramatically, dipping low over the treetops like a silver comet made of optimism and fluffy determination. His eyes glowed. His fluff fluffed. His tail (yes, clouds can have tails—don't question it) wiggled excitedly.
He gave a soft warning chime.
Danger. Close.
Harry tensed.
"There," he said, pointing. "Clearing up ahead."
"I'm getting a real 'boss battle but low budget' vibe here," Jim muttered. "Please tell me it's not Voldemort again. I already used my one good insult."
The trees opened into a glade soaked in moonlight—and Harry's stomach flipped.
In the center lay a unicorn. Pale. Glowing. Blood silver and shimmering in the moss like someone had spilled stardust.
It was breathing, barely.
Beside it knelt a figure in a dark cloak, wand raised. Crimson energy pulsed at the tip like a heartbeat made of venom.
And that was all Harry needed to see.
He launched.
"HEY, DEATH TROLL!" he yelled midair. "STEP AWAY FROM THE MAGICAL HORSE OR I SWEAR I'LL UNINSTALL YOUR EXISTENCE!"
The figure flinched, spun—
—and fired.
The curse screamed through the air like an angry banshee with performance anxiety.
But Aether was faster.
He twisted sideways, carrying Harry in a barrel roll that looked way cooler than it had any right to. The curse missed by inches and fried a pine tree instead. (Sorry, pine tree.)
Harry flipped off Aether and hit the ground like a superhero who was one growth spurt away from total dominance.
He rose slowly. Staff in one hand. Runes in the other. Green eyes glowing like emerald fire in a thunderstorm.
"You've got three seconds to back away," Harry said, voice low. "And FYI—my three is usually followed by an explosion and a personalized roast."
"Harry," Jim said in his brain, "I'm detecting several layers of bad vibes. Graveyard funk. Dark magic cologne. Possibly someone who failed their soul hygiene check."
The attacker turned—but instead of fighting, they ran.
Coward move. Instant minus-five to their villain rating.
They bolted into the woods, vanishing in a swirl of smoke and budget evil theatrics.
"Originality is dead!" Jim yelled after them. "And so will you be if I catch you, you goth-wannabe goat-wrangler!"
Harry didn't bother chasing.
He had more important things to worry about.
He dropped to his knees beside the unicorn, hand already glowing with rune-light.
The creature was shaking. Silver blood soaked its side. Its breathing came in soft, pained gasps.
Aether floated down and landed beside them, curling protectively around the unicorn like a living weighted blanket. He let out a hum that sounded like a lullaby sung by a cloud-shaped guardian angel.
The unicorn's eyes opened. Just barely.
Harry pressed a hand to its forehead.
"You're gonna be okay," he whispered. "I've got you."
He pulled out a rune—ᚨ, Ansuz—divine breath, healing, light in the dark. Energy poured from his palm, silver and blue, crackling like frost and starlight. The unicorn twitched. Then breathed. Stronger.
The wound began to seal.
The glade hushed around him, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Even Jim was silent.
Then:
"…Okay, that was actually impressive," Jim said softly. "You did a thing. A legit mythological thing. I mean, it wasn't a glitter tsunami, but it'll do."
Harry exhaled slowly and sat back on his heels, sweaty and shaken but steady.
"You good, Aether?" he asked.
Aether made a proud chime, then sneezed sparkles and nuzzled the unicorn's nose.
Translation: "Patient stable. Cloud is helpful. Also, I am the best boy."
"You are the best boy," Harry agreed, rubbing his little cloudy head.
The unicorn stirred again, stronger now, enough to lift its head and blink at Harry with deep silver eyes. Grateful. Trusting.
But Harry wasn't smiling.
Not really.
Because something still buzzed in his bones. The Hunt wasn't done. The predator had fled, but the threat was still out there—somewhere beyond the trees, smug and cloaked and probably monologuing.
And Harry hated when bad guys monologued without him around to interrupt it.
"I want names," he muttered. "I want details. I want to find whoever did this and curse their eyebrows off."
"And I want waffles," Jim added, "but here we are."
Harry stood. He hoisted the unicorn gently into his arms—thank the gods he had demigod strength—and looked toward the edge of the glade.
"Let's get this one to safety," he said. "Then we track the creep. And then? Payback."
"Ohhhh," Jim purred, "I haven't had a good vengeance arc in centuries. I'm gonna yell insults while you leap dramatically through flames. Can we bring glitter bombs this time?"
"Only if we write rude messages in midair."
Aether sparkled once in agreement.
Jim cackled. "It's chaos time, baby."
And with the unicorn cradled in his arms, his cloak fluttering behind him, and storm-cloud and ancient staff in tow, Harry Potter—demigod, disaster child, and vengeance-fueled myth baby—vanished into the trees.
—
Hogwarts Grounds – Forbidden Forest Clearing – 12:14 AM
Status: Unicorn Rescue Ongoing. Myth Mom Hotline: Activated. Sibling Chaos: Incoming.
Harry crouched beside the wounded unicorn, his staff glowing softly at his side, the moonlight bouncing off the silver blood like someone had spilled glow-in-the-dark glitter paint. Aether floated close, letting out a worried chime that sounded like a cloud trying to hum a lullaby while panicking.
"You did good, buddy," Harry whispered, stroking Aether's foggy head. "But I think it's time we call in the big sparkle cannons."
"By which I assume you mean your mother, goddess of moonlight and mythical overkill?" Jim said inside Harry's head, voice just a little too dramatic. "Because if this ends with another glowing goddess lecture, I'm hiding in your sock drawer."
"Just shut up for two minutes and let me focus," Harry muttered. He closed his eyes, lowered his forehead to the unicorn's, and whispered, "Mom. Artemis. Please. I need you."
The world stilled. Even the trees stopped rustling like they were leaning in.
Then the wind hit.
It came all at once—cold and sharp and silver-edged, like the moon had decided to make an entrance. Light sliced through the clearing, too pure to be moonlight, too wild to be anything else.
Aether fluffed up protectively. Jim muttered, "Oh no. Here comes the dramatic lighting package."
She appeared like she always did: calm, lethal, and effortlessly awe-inspiring. Artemis, Huntress of the Moon, stepped out from between two ancient trees, bow glowing faintly, silver eyes cutting through the dark like twin full moons.
Behind her came Zoe Nightshade, in full Shakespearean scowl mode, and Atalanta, who looked like she could run a marathon and insult you to tears at the same time.
"Harry," Artemis said, her voice cool as moonlight and warm as starlight all at once.
Harry stood, staff braced against the mossy ground. "Hey, Mom. Nice entrance. Ten out of ten for mystical vibe."
"Your unicorn is bleeding out," Artemis said.
"Yup. That's why I called. I want to claim every unicorn in this forest. I'll guard them. Protect them. Name them if I have to. But they're mine now."
Jim let out a psychic groan. "You sound like a magical tax auditor."
Zoe stepped forward, arms crossed. "You summoned us at midnight. Doth thou plan to explain thyself fully, or—"
"Nope," Harry cut in. "And it's 'do you', not 'doth thou'. We talked about this, Zoe. We're in modern England."
Atalanta smirked. "Give him a break, Zoe. The kid did take down a black-market unicorn poacher with a stick, a cloud, and enough sass to make Apollo flinch."
"I also called the guy a death troll," Harry added, proudly.
Zoe pinched the bridge of her nose. "Truly, the gods weep."
Artemis stepped forward and knelt beside the unicorn. She pressed a hand to its side, and silver light flowed like water. The creature relaxed, its breathing growing steadier.
"They are under our protection now," she said. "You were brave to act. Reckless. But brave."
Harry blinked. "Did... Did you just compliment me without a lecture attached?"
Atalanta snorted. "Mark the calendar."
Zoe, deadpan: "The moon must be drunk."
Aether did a happy spin in the air, releasing a chime that sounded suspiciously like applause.
Jim, ever the buzzkill, muttered, "You know, it's touching and all, but we still have a homicidal smoke monster on the loose and zero snacks. Priorities."
Harry turned to Artemis. "There's more out there. The one who did this ran off like a coward with a smoke bomb. Real villain starter-pack energy. We need traps. Wards. Magical bear traps. And waffles."
"We will see to it," Artemis said. She brushed a strand of moonlight from Harry's hair. "But don't go running into danger without calling again. You are not alone, my son."
Zoe stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Next time you die, we will kill you."
"Noted."
Atalanta winked. "And we're staying until this freak shows up again. No way I miss Round Two."
Harry looked at the three most powerful women in his life. Family. Warriors. The reason his enemies needed therapy.
"Okay," he said. "Let's make sure the unicorns are safe. Then? We get waffles and revenge. In that order."
Jim squealed. "This is the best night ever."
And in the glow of moonlight, surrounded by celestial huntresses, cloud doggos, and one unicorn recovering from trauma, Harry Potter—the Monkey Prince, son of mischief and moonlight—prepared for the chaos still to come.
—
Hogwarts Grounds – Forbidden Forest Clearing – 12:32 AM
Status: Unicorn Stable. Smoke Monster Unseen. Centaur Vibes: Detected.
Artemis rose from the unicorn's side, head tilting slightly—her gaze sharp enough to slice through prophecy. She held up a hand, and the forest responded with a hush so deep it made silence sound loud.
"They are watching," she said softly.
Aether growled again—fluffy but furious—and nestled close to Harry's leg like a moody thundercloud toddler.
Jim muttered, "If it's another murder squirrel, I swear I'm quitting this brain."
But Artemis was already looking into the shadows.
"Come forth, children of starlight and wisdom," she commanded, her voice thrumming with ancient, echoing power. "This is my realm, and I do not tolerate skulking."
Leaves rustled. Trees shifted. The underbrush parted like a curtain on an opening night.
And the centaurs stepped out.
Tall, proud, and shimmered with astral energy, they moved with the quiet grace of seasoned warriors. The leader—a storm-gray stallion with eyes like ancient stone and a braid of silver woven through his dark hair—stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
"Artemis," he said, bowing his head. "Lady of the Hunt. We felt your presence stir months ago. Power curled through the forest, divine and moon-bound. But we never imagined it would be because…"
He looked at Harry.
"…you have a son."
The silence crackled like an awkward family dinner where someone brought up politics and also dropped the fact that the turkey is sentient.
Harry raised a hand. "Hi. That's me. Son of a maiden goddess. I know, plot twist."
Zoe crossed her arms. "It's a long story. Strap in."
The centaur leader frowned, clearly baffled. "But… Artemis is a maiden goddess. One who has never lain with any man. How is this possible?"
Artemis stepped forward, her face unreadable. But when she spoke, the forest itself seemed to lean closer.
"It was punishment," she said. "By decree of Zeus. For centuries I rejected all sons of man. So I was made to become one—a mortal woman. Stripped of divinity. Given a name: Lily Evans."
The centaurs froze. Murmurs stirred among them.
"I lived. I loved," Artemis continued, eyes glimmering not with tears, but memory. "And James Potter—he was no ordinary man. He was Loki, the trickster god of Asgard, living a mortal life to understand the hearts of men. We met. We married. And we bore a son."
She looked at Harry.
"Haris Lokison. Child of moonlight and mischief. Divine by birthright, forged in mortal fire."
The centaurs stared at Harry like he'd just sprouted wings and a second staff made of lightning and sarcasm.
One of them whispered, "The moon and chaos. United in flesh."
Harry raised a brow. "Yeah, that's me. Your new forest landlord. I accept cookies, blood oaths, and occasional fan mail."
The centaur leader knelt fully now, pressing one hand to his chest in solemn reverence.
"We recognize your claim, Haris Lokison. Heir to the Hunt. Prince of Forest and Storm. You have laid divine claim to this sacred wood—and we, who have guarded it for centuries, now serve you."
As one, the centaurs bowed. Deeply. Fully.
Aether let out a delighted chime, did a barrel roll midair, and exploded in a puff of celebratory fog glitter.
Jim screamed, "THIS IS THE BEST SIDE QUEST!"
Zoe blinked. "Well. That's new."
Atalanta elbowed Harry with a grin. "Congrats, Your Moony Mischief-ness. You just became the CEO of the Forbidden Forest."
Harry blinked at them, eyes wide. Then he looked down at the unicorn. At the trees. At the silver light curling through the moss.
"Cool," he said. "Now let's set some monster traps, do a perimeter ward sweep, and see if Hagrid has waffles."
"Priorities," Jim agreed solemnly. "Always snacks before strategy."
Artemis smiled faintly, but there was pride in it. She placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Lead well, my son."
Harry nodded. "I will. And next time something creepy, magical, and metaphorically smoky comes knocking?"
He turned, staff glowing.
"We knock back."
—
Hogwarts – Defense Against the Dark Arts Office – 12:34 AM
Status: Ego: Critically Wounded. Unicorns: Missing. Plans: Flailing. Fireplace: Judgy.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell burst into his office like a man personally chased by karma, a tree root, and the crushing realization that he was definitely not paid enough for this nonsense.
He slammed the door behind him, slapped on so many locking charms it sounded like a one-man percussion concert, and collapsed into the nearest chair with the grace of an emotionally exhausted pudding.
His turban hissed.
Literally.
The voice that followed could've iced over tea. "Explain."
"Ah—yes, of course, my Lord," Quirrell said quickly, already fumbling for his teacup like it might protect him from a dark lord's emotional weather patterns. "I—uh—we encountered… unexpected interference."
"Unexpected," Voldemort repeated, voice silkier than betrayal at a family reunion. "Do elaborate, Quirinus. Was it the Ministry? Dumbledore in battle robes? Or perhaps a feral centaur union protest?"
Quirrell winced. "It was… Potter."
The silence that followed could've shattered windows. If silence had a blade, this one would've been the fancy, cursed kind you find behind glass in creepy museums.
"...Potter?" Voldemort finally said.
Quirrell nodded so fast it looked like he was headbutting invisible guilt. "Flew in on a cloud. A flying cloud."
"Are we talking Nimbus 2000 with weather charms or cumulonimbus with personality?"
"A sentient cloud," Quirrell corrected, voice cracking. "With what I believe was… an emotional support tail."
Another pause. Then: "You're telling me James Potter's offspring stormed into a restricted forest on an enchanted emotional support cloud like some sort of prepubescent weather demigod?"
"He was also wielding a sentient staff, summoning rune magic, and threatening to uninstall my existence. Oh—and he called me a Death Troll."
Voldemort was quiet for a beat, probably re-evaluating the meaning of evil, life, and who cursed him to share a skull with a man who could be publicly insulted by an eleven-year-old with glitter bombs.
Then: "Did he at least stutter?"
"No, my Lord. He was… alarmingly articulate."
"Was there a monologue?"
"Several."
Voldemort exhaled slowly, like he was trying very hard not to crush a soul or ten. "You're describing an eleven-year-old who sky-surfs into combat, throws magic like confetti, insults your fashion sense, and wields enough divine flair to make Apollo jealous."
"Yes."
"Quirinus."
"Yes, my Lord?"
"This is no ordinary boy. This is a sentient plot twist in child form."
Quirrell shrank slightly in his chair. "Should we be… concerned?"
"Concerned?" Voldemort let out a cold, soft chuckle. "No, Quirinus. We are so far beyond concerned that concerned is waving at us from a distant mountaintop with a telescope."
Quirrell fidgeted with his sleeve. "I mean, technically, he is the Potter boy. You-Know-Who scar and all."
Voldemort's voice dropped into the kind of tone usually reserved for dramatic Shakespearean betrayal scenes.
"He may wear James Potter's name, but there's something else in him. Something that bends fate. I saw it. Felt it. When he summoned that rune… the forest paused, Quirinus. The trees were impressed. Trees."
"…They did lean in a bit."
"Do you understand what that means?"
Quirrell blinked. "We're losing the arboreal vote?"
"It means," Voldemort growled, "that the Potter boy is not just inconvenient anymore. He's dangerous. Myth-grade dangerous. He's the kind of child who would accidentally unlock immortality while looking for a biscuit."
"Is that even a thing?"
"I once watched a demigod defeat an entire cult with a sandwich," Voldemort muttered. "Never underestimate snack-based motivation."
Quirrell cleared his throat. "So… what now?"
"You botched the unicorn. You let the boy escape. That means we need to move quickly."
"I can try the Forest again—"
"No. Potter's aura has stirred the magic too deeply. Any more dark rituals in that forest and the centaurs will start sending complaint letters in star-ink. No, we're buying it."
"…Buying?"
"Yes, Quirinus. Unicorn blood. Knockturn Alley."
"Tonight?!"
"Do you have tea with Dumbledore I'm unaware of?"
"But—but the black market is dangerous! And terribly unhygienic. I once got sneezed on by a goblin there. I'm still emotionally recovering."
"Then wear a mask. And get over it. Go now. Take the Floo."
Quirrell stood reluctantly, looking like he was walking into his own funeral with a to-do list. "Anything else while I'm out, my Lord? Murtlap essence? Throw pillows? Basilisk-safe soap?"
"If they sell dignity, buy yourself some."
"Ha ha."
"Oh—and no glitter. I am still internally exfoliating. That child weaponized sparkle. It took three spectral purges to get it off my metaphysical robes."
Quirrell rolled his eyes (discreetly—he wasn't suicidal) and reached for the Floo powder. "Knockturn Alley," he grumbled, stepping into the fireplace like it was about to ask him his feelings on taxes.
Green flames whooshed—and he was gone.
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Then Voldemort's voice floated out, soft and venomous:
"He called me a cape-fetishist loser."
The fire crackled.
"One day," he whispered, "I'm going to murder that boy so hard, time itself sends me a thank-you note."
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