Two days passed, and the trials to select the twenty-eight players for next week's mock games had ended smoothly.

  Apart from a small incident involving Harry Potter, nothing alarming occurred, and by the end, both students and teachers seemed pleased with the results.

  But there were a few notable names selected by Coach Steven that drew mixed reactions from both students and teachers. Among them were second-years Fred and George Weasley, as well as Cedric Diggory—the pretty boy who was to become Hufflepuff's Quidditch team captain next year.

  However, the biggest surprise of all was a first-year student and the standout star of the trials—Harry Potter himself. Nobody, not even the rival teams, protested his selection, as he had proven his skill by matching Flint's record, successfully passing twenty-nine out of thirty hoops with green, and did so in nearly the same timeframe.

  All four of them still had a gap between themselves and the top senior players, but Coach Steven remained optimistic. He believed they had great potential and was confident that with effort and dedication, he could shape them into fine players before the tournament—as long as they passed next week's assessment.

  Finally, the person most delighted was, of course, Professor McGonagall. Seeing so many talented Quidditch players from Gryffindor, she was absolutely thrilled. She couldn't stop smiling as she gathered the team together and praised them non-stop for their impressive skills.

  ....

  On Monday, the busy routine of learning for the students and teaching for the professors resumed. Only Maverick had the most free time, with only two classes, each an hour and a half long, spread over three days a week. The other two days were even lighter, with just one class in the morning.

  However, he was plenty occupied with other things. During his free time, he would head home to visit his family or stop by his company to check on the business and oversee things, especially now with the upcoming release of his new product at the end of the month.

  After teaching his two classes, he left the school and didn't return until after sunset. That evening, he had a meeting with the headmaster, giving him a brief summary of the trials held over the weekend.

  When he mentioned what had happened with Harry, Dumbledore didn't seem too concerned. He simply advised against pushing the students too hard but was otherwise very pleased with how things were going.

  By the time Maverick left the headmaster's office, it was already past curfew.

  As he walked toward his office, he suddenly sensed two fluctuations of magic at the level of mage apprentices—clearly two students moving suspiciously through one of the corridors. With midnight approaching, it was almost certain they were out past curfew, sneaking around where they shouldn't be.

  Feeling a little bored, he decided to see who they were and began moving in their direction. To his surprise, the closer he got, the more they seemed to move away, as if they could somehow sense his approach—almost like a form of Magical-Sense.

  But that would be impossible for mere mage apprentices. There was only one explanation—they were using an alchemical tool to track his movements.

  A smirk tugged at his lips as a sudden playful urge to catch the two little mice took over. He quickened his pace, already having a good idea of who they might be. After all, as an upright and responsible professor of the school, it was only right for him to discipline students who were misbehaving, wasn't it?

  So, in the next second, he snapped his fingers, letting the Disillusionment Charm wash over him. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he followed it up with a Silencing Spell, ensuring his movements and sounds disappeared without a trace.

  There was nothing he could do about being detected by an alchemy tool, at least not unless he got his hands on it and made a few tweaks. That was part of the reason he was about to play this game of cat and mouse. By studying the tool, he could also create a countermeasure to prevent anything like this from detecting his name again in the future.

  Once everything was in place, he observed the two little troublemakers' movements. He saw that they had stopped somewhere on the third floor—likely hiding, he thought with a smirk.

  Then, with a decisive push of his body, he shot forward like a silent arrow, zigzagging through the corridors and up the stairs. In just a couple of seconds, he was already standing in front of the two, who, to his surprise, were also under Disillusionment.

  "Huh... did you feel anything just now?"

  He heard a faint whisper coming from behind the statue in front of him.

  "What? No... but I think there's something wrong with the map, Fred."

  Although Maverick couldn't see them with his eyes, he could follow their actions just as clearly from this close using his Magical-Sense.

  "Look... the professor's name disappeared suddenly."

  "Disappeared?"

  "No, George. He's not disappeared... his position has changed. He... he seems to be..."

  Maverick heard their whispers falter, followed by an audible gulp, and a sudden urge to laugh stirred within him. But he held it back and continued to watch their next move with amused curiosity.

  "But I can't see anything, Fred."

  "Idiot... if we're under Disillusionment, then so can the professor..."

  There was an awkward silence for a few seconds before the drama continued.

  "What if... this is just our imagination, Fred? Maybe the map's damaged."

  "You're right, George. Professor Caesar can't possibly be here and not say anything by now."

  They whispered to one another, their thoughts in perfect sync, like two sides of the same coin.

  "Okay, let's go back."

  Hearing this, Maverick quickly dodged to the side, sensing them move like two cartoon characters—bent over and walking on tiptoe.

  Every few steps, they would stop to glance at the map, look nervously over their shoulders, gulp, and then move again—hoping the name they were seeing on the map following behind them was just a glitch.

  Maverick did his best to hold back the laughter bubbling in his stomach, deciding it was finally time to reveal himself.

  Just as the two redheads turned forward and started moving again, Maverick canceled his Disillusionment and cleared his throat, calling out to them.

  "Good evening..."

  Fred and George froze on the spot, and slowly turned their heads while their faces broke into ridiculous smiles.

  "Prof... professor. We were just..."

  They were met with their professor looking amusedly at them with an eyebrow raised, clearly not by accident.

  They tried to come up with an excuse, but seeing the smirk on Maverick's lips grow wider, they struggled to rack their brains to think of anything to say.

  "Well, shall we take a walk? I'm sure you can explain on the way," Maverick said, chuckling. He decided to spare them from the embarrassing torture.

  A couple of minutes later, the Weasley twins were seen walking on either side of Maverick. Their previous anxiety had disappeared, as they realized Maverick wasn't pressing the issue and simply seemed to be escorting them to the common room. Instead of worrying, they were now talking leisurely as they walked.

  "Well, I heard you like to make joke props. You know, that's also alchemy, and it can't be done without knowledge of rune circuits. Who did you learn from?" Maverick asked casually.

  "It's Dad, Professor," Fred said with a grin. "He loves to tinker with Muggle stuff and always tries to mix it with magic. We learned basic runes from him when we were little..."

  "Oh..." Interesting. Maverick thought. "So, you both like alchemy?"

  He saw them hesitate before Fred, on his right, added, "We love creating joke gadgets, professor."

  "That's right. But... we don't want to lie and say alchemy is our favorite subject. But we do love creating things."

  Maverick appreciated their honesty and thought that both of them could be useful in the future. At their age, being able to understand basic rune circuits and create simple gadgets without formal education in the subject was nothing short of genius.

  He then finally asked them what he had actually wanted to know.

  "By the way, how did you both know I was coming?" Maverick asked, keeping his tone casual. "I could sense through magic that you were aware of my movements."

  At his question, the twins exchanged a glance before nodding, silently coming to an agreement. For them, things weren't complicated. If they felt they could trust someone, they tended to be open. Maybe they thought they couldn't fool him with an excuse, or perhaps it was just that they felt a sense of trust from him. Whatever the reason, they decided to come clean.

  "We saw you on a map," Fred said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a rolled-up parchment, and handed it to Maverick. "We got this from Filch's office. It's called the Marauder's Map, and it shows everyone in Hogwarts and their movements."

  Maverick raised an eyebrow, looking like he was surprised. Of course, he knew all about the Marauder's Map, but the twins had no idea about that.

  "May I take a look?"

  The twins nodded in unison, handing him the rolled-up parchment. Maverick unfurled the map as they walked, without any halt in their pace.

  "It seems blank," he said, glancing at the empty rugged paper.

  "Well, that's because—" Fred started.

  "You need a secret phrase," George finished.

  They then stopped walking, and Maverick let them demonstrate. George raised his wand, waved it, and spoke the familiar words, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

  The parchment immediately came to life as black ink materialized, forming a detailed map with names and footsteps moving all around.

  "Fascinating..." Maverick couldn't help but say. It was true— even for him, a master alchemist, the map was a real masterpiece. It was hard to imagine that it had been created by a bunch of students during their leasure time.

  The twins noticed the genuinely interested look in their professor's eyes and exchanged a satisfied smile.

  After a while, Maverick rolled the parchment back up. Instead of handing it back immediately, he gave them a mistivious smile, holding it for just a moment longer.

  It was only then that the twins realized, despite Maverick being just a few years older than them and seeming easygoing, he was still a professor.

  A reluctant smile formed on their lips, regret clear in their expressions, and they finally nodded to Maverick for the inevitable confiscation they thought was about to happen.

  After a while, Maverick burst into a chuckle, letting the tension ease, and spoke, "Let me borrow this for a few days. You know I'm a man of alchemy, so when I see something this interesting, I just have to see how it works. But I promise to return it in a few days, and... I'll keep it a secret and pretend i know nothing about this." Maverick said, smiling and giving a wink at the end.

  The brothers' eyes immediately lit up, and they started bobbing their heads like chickens in agreement. Finally, a professor who understood their feelings, they thought excitedly, and even their eyes turned a little moist.

  Maverick's eyes twitched at their exaggerated reaction, and he quickly resumed walking, picking up the pace to send these two troublemakers back. After a few minutes of walking, they reached their destination.

  "I'll let you know when I finish studying this," Maverick said, and his tone turning serious before adding. "But... I don't want you spying on professors, even after you get it back."

  The brothers nodded quickly, their faces serious for a moment before their usual mischievous grins returned.

  Maverick sighed. "Alright, off you go..." he said, waving his hand dismissively. Just as the Fat Lady in the frame opened her mouth, they heard him call out one last time.

  "Oh, and... that will be 10 points from Gryffindor for each of you."

  Fred and George immediately turned to plead, but to their astonishment, there was no one there.

  "Wait... where did he go?" Fred asked, his voice confused.

  "I don't know, Fred. Let's just go in," George replied, equally bewildered.

  The twins stood there, confused for a while, until they finally shrugged it off and entered the common room.

  —————————

  After escorting the Weasley twins back to their common room, Maverick headed straight to his office without any detours. Settling into the comfort of his chair, his first order of business was to examine the map for any extraordinary characteristics. But within moments, his anticipation turned to disappointment.

  The map had only one feature: a basic-grade, radar-like function that worked solely within the confines of Hogwarts. He had hoped for something more, like a mini-map, but it seemed his expectations had been too high.

  Still, the map wasn't entirely useless. By studying it, he could figure out how to prevent his name or presence from being detected by such magical items in the future—and that, at least, was something.

  After some thought, he decided to keep the map for a few days, tweak it a bit for good measure, and then return it to the twins. Letting out a sigh, he rolled up the worn parchment, set it aside, and finally collapsed into bed, drifting off to sleep.

  Time passed slowly, and before anyone knew it, the weekdays had come and gone without anything out of the ordinary happening at school.

  The only noteworthy thing was the constant buzz about Quidditch and the team selection set for the following week.

  And so, on Saturday morning, the entire school gathered at the official Quidditch stadium to spectate this highly anticipated event.

  The 28 players were divided into four teams based on their positions, and the first match began quickly, without any complications or protests about the team assignments.

  Although there were rivalries and even grudges between the students, they didn't show it in front of Steven and seemed to have a good impression of his choices. Most of them were seniors from the fifth, sixth, and seventh grades, so they weren't as immature as the freshman who would turn everything to a fight.

  Throughout the match, Steven remained completely focused on their performance. As the referee and in control of the flow of the game, he thoroughly tested their speed, precision, teamwork, and adaptability. And the players gave their all, knowing that their performance would decide whether they earned a spot on the final team.

  Just before lunch time, the first game between the first 14 players ended amid loud cheers and chatter from the audience. However, unlike regular Quidditch matches held on this field, there were no calls of house names—just the roar of Hogwarts and the cheers of individual student supporters.

  After lunch, the remaining two teams took to the field for their turn. This match was just as competitive as the morning round, each player pushing themselves to their limit, determined to make an impression. Cheers and gasps echoed from the stands as the audience—students eager to witness the best their school had to offer—watched with rapt attention.

  But just when they thought the trials were over, Steven had one last test in mind. Without tracking scores, he set up a final match, rotating all 28 players frequently. This time, the focus wasn't on competition but on individual performance—how well each student could handle unexpected shifts, adapt to different teammates, and hold their ground under pressure.

  By the time the final match ended, exhaustion was clear on the players' faces, but more so was the anxiety about the selection. Steven gathered them all together and launched into a long, coach-like speech.

  He didn't outright tell them which players would be selected and which would be eliminated, but gave an encouraging speech, urging everyone to work hard. He reminded them that every year, the team would be chosen through a similar process, and their efforts now would lay the groundwork for future success.

  His words seemed to ease the tension among the students. While some still looked disappointed, the promise of future opportunities softened the blow. With that, Steven dismissed them, allowing the players to rest and the audience to disperse back to their common rooms.

  However, the real decision-making was yet to come.

  Later that evening, after dinner, Maverick, McGonagall, Steven, and Madam Hooch gathered in a classroom to deliberate over the final team selection.

  The mock matches had showcased each student's skills, and with their talents so evenly matched, the decision was more difficult than they had expected. Nonetheless, it had to be made, as only half of the 28 players would make the final cut.

  After about two hours of heated discussion, they managed to select a balanced team of seven starters and seven reserves. The team consisted of Marcus Flint as the captain, with Oliver Wood as the vice-captain, filling the positions of Seeker and Keeper. Meanwhile, Harry Potter, along with a Ravenclaw student named Grant Page, was selected as the reserves for their roles.

  For the Chasers, Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff, Roger Davies and Jeremy Stretton from Ravenclaw were selected. For the Beater positions, Peregrine Derrick, a seventh-year from Slytherin, and Maxine O'Flaherty secured spots on the starting team.

  Similarly, the reserve team was carefully chosen to maintain a balanced mix of players from all four houses.

  After some discussion, they decided to announce the fourteen names on the notice board the next morning rather than announcing them publicly. This way, any disagreements or complaints would be handled individually, rather than dealing with a large group of students confronting them all at once. If anyone had concerns, they would have to approach Coach Steven or the professors separately.

  Within moments, whispers turned into excited chatter as the names on the notice board were read aloud, and reactions began to spread throughout the corridor.

  By the time breakfast started, the Great Hall was buzzing with excitement. Congratulations and cheers erupted for those who had made the team, while others expressed their disappointment, quietly consoling one another.

  "Harry, you got in!" Ron Weasley exclaimed, clapping his friend on the back. "Well, as a reserve, but still!"

  Harry grinned, though a small part of him wished he'd made the main team. Still, he couldn't deny the satisfaction of being selected, even if he was a substitute.

  After being congratulated by Ron, Harry found himself surrounded by his housemates, who were eager to share in his achievement. For once, he felt genuinely pleased to be in the spotlight. Unlike before—when whispers and stares followed him due to the mysterious fall of the Dark Lord—this recognition felt different. This time, it was about something he had done, not an event shrouded in mystery that he had no memory of. It was a welcome change.

  At the same time Harry Potter was getting showered with attention, the other students who had been selected, as well as those who were eliminated were experiencing similar scenes.

  Some were being congratulated, their friends patting them on the back and exchanging excited words. Others, however, took the news of their elimination with a quiet acceptance, making comments to themselves about what they could have done better. And there were those who received words of encouragement from their peers, a few offering reassurance that they would have another chance next year.

  "I was this close," a seventh-year Hufflepuff sighed, gulping down his drink before setting the glass on the table with a soft thud. "Next year, I guess." He gave a small, rueful smile—clearly disappointed but trying to make light of it.

  "You won't have a next year," his friend pointed out.

  "Don't remind me," he groaned, slumping back in his seat.

  At the Slytherin table, Marcus Flint smirked, basking in the attention. "Of course, I made captain. Who else could lead this team?"

  At the Ravenclaw table, a group of students analyzed the selections with sharp scrutiny.

  "Diggory as a Chaser, huh?" one mused. "Didn't expect that."

  "He is good," another admitted, listening to the comments around him.

  "Good as you, Roger?" a third student chimed in, glancing at Roger Davies, who, like Cedric Diggory, had secured a Chaser spot on the full team.

  "We're a team now," Roger replied thoughtfully, avoiding a direct answer. "If he's better than me, then that's a plus for the team."

  "Tsk... you're really taking this teamwork thing seriously, huh?"

  "Of course," Roger said, his expression firm. He was an avid fan of Steven and had a high opinion of the new professor, whom he had met earlier on the train. Now that they were both leading the school team, Roger was determined not to disappoint them.

  And at the Gryffindor table, a group of seniors surrounded a burly boy, discussing his selection as one of the Beaters.

  "I knew you'd make it," one of them said, clapping him on the back.

  "Yeah, but I have to stay on top of my game," Maxine O'Flaherty replied, his expression more determined than celebratory. "Coach said if he's not satisfied, he won't hesitate to switch us out for the reserves at any time."

  Instead of feeling pressured, he grinned at the end. "Well, I won't let that happen. No Quaffle's getting past us without a fight."

  "That's the spirit!" another Gryffindor cheered.

  While the Great Hall buzzed with students commenting on the team selections, the staff table remained relatively quiet. Maverick, Steven, and McGonagall sat together, observing the excitement with quiet interest. Since it was the weekend, most professors were either out of school or busy with other tasks, leaving the table mostly empty except for the three of them.

  They had come prepared, half-expecting raised voices or complaints, but it seemed the results had been accepted more smoothly than they'd anticipated.

  "Well, this has gone much better than expected," Maverick said looking ahead with a hint of relief mixed in his voice.

  McGonagall gave a small nod while scanning the Great Hall. "Indeed... it seems most of them have accepted the results." She smiled before glancing at Steven on her left.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Thank you, Coach Steven..." Her approving smile grew wider. "I hope we can secure the cup with these boys and girls."

  Steven chuckled, setting down his goblet. "That's the plan, Professor.

  —————————

  After the lively feast, students and teachers scattered to their respective spaces, chatting about the coming days with excitement.

  Back in his office, Maverick first loosened his robe and, with a casual flick of his wand, sent it floating to the hanger, making himself more comfortable. He then strolled to the window, gazing out over the darkened grounds toward the Forbidden Forest. A quick glance at his watch made him nod to himself, as if confirming something only he understood.

  It was almost ten in the evening here, which meant it was around five o'clock in New York. His meeting with his company's board of directors—one he had been postponing for days—was scheduled soon. They had important matters to discuss, especially the upcoming release of Magic Vision and a few other business concerns.

  Earlier that day, he had spoken with Ali, the man overseeing most of his company's operations, to set up the meeting for sunset. That still gave him more than an hour. Plenty of time to enjoy a quiet moment after a long, eventful day.

  Or so he thought.

  As his gaze drifted absently over the grounds, a flicker of movement caught his sharp eyes—a shadowy figure slipping quickly toward the Forbidden Forest.

  Maverick frowned. His passive Magical-Sense didn't extend that far, and he wasn't about to recklessly probe it actively outward without knowing who it was. But recalling some memories, he had a strong suspicion of whom it might be.

  The next moment, he retrieved the Marauder's Map from his storage ring, unfolded it, and scanned the parchment.

  There—just near the edge of the castle's detection range, a single name was moving toward the trees: Quirinus Quirrell.

  Interesting. He thought.

  The map, of course, showed nothing of the noseless wanker latched onto the man's head—apparently, it didn't register a leech of that sort as a separate life.

  Maverick tapped his fingers against the edge of the map, considering his options. He still had time before his meeting… and really, he wanted to see the novice village boss in action.

  With a smirk, he folded the map, tucked it away, and turned toward the window.

  With a few precise gestures, his combat suit wrapped around him, its enchantments activating instantly. The fabric shimmered briefly before rendering him invisible, its concealment charms suppressing any trace of his presence. He followed up with a few additional spells—silencing his footsteps, dampening his magical aura, and reinforcing the invisibility effect.

  Then, without hesitation, he stepped onto the windowsill.

  A moment later, he leapt into the night, soaring soundlessly toward the Forbidden Forest.

  ...

  The Forbidden Forest was deathly silent, the usual rustling of nocturnal creatures absent, as if they sensed something unnatural lurking in the darkness. Quirinus Quirrell tiptoed cautiously through the undergrowth, his breath shallow, his every step careful not to snap a twig beneath his boot. The hood of his robes was pulled low, concealing the grotesque presence latched onto the back of his head—the fragmented soul of Lord Voldemort.

  The air was cold, unnaturally so. Whether it was the chill of the night or the presence of his master, Quirrell did not know. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead despite the temperature.

  "You are too slow, Quirrell," a hissing voice sneered inside his skull. "Fumbling through the forest like a frightened child. Do you think the unicorns will simply lie down and wait for you to slit their throats?"

  Quirrell swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he steadied himself against a tree. "I—I am being careful, my Lord," he whispered hoarsely, afraid of being overheard even though he knew they were alone. "Th-the centaurs patrol this area. If they catch us—"

  "Excuses," Voldemort spat. "I did not choose you to be a pitiful, stuttering fool just to watch you scurry around like a frightened rat."

  Quirrell winced. He had tried. He really had. But hunting a unicorn in the dead of night, all while enduring the Dark Lord's relentless scorn, was far more terrifying than he had ever imagined.

  They pressed forward, Quirrell moving more quickly now, both out of fear and urgency. The moonlight barely pierced through the thick canopy above, casting eerie patterns on the forest floor. He clutched his wand tightly, his knuckles white.

  Then, after what felt like an eternity, he saw it.

  A unicorn.

  It stood in a small clearing, its silver-white coat glowing faintly under the moonlight. It was young, perhaps barely past foalhood, its movements graceful yet cautious. It lowered its head to drink from a small stream, completely unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.

  Quirrell's heart pounded. His breath caught in his throat.

  "Now, Quirrell," Voldemort commanded, his voice seething with impatience. "Do it."

  Quirrell hesitated.

  Quirrell's grip on his wand tightened, his fingers damp with sweat. The unicorn was so pure, so defenseless. Its mere presence made him feel... wrong.

  "Fool! Do not make me repeat myself!" Voldemort's voice lashed through his mind, sharp and cold. "Strike it down! I need its blood!"

  Quirrell flinched at the command, his body trembling. But he forced himself to act.

  With a quick thrust of his wand, he cast a Blasting Curse. The spell shot forward like a thunderbolt, but at the very last moment, the unicorn moved, just enough to avoid instant obliteration. The blast struck its side instead, sending it tumbling onto the damp forest floor.

  The creature reared back, letting out a piercing, heart-wrenching cry before its legs buckled. It collapsed, its luminous silver blood already pooling beneath its broken form.

  Quirrell swallowed hard, his stomach twisting.

  "Fool! Just use the Killing Curse!" Voldemort spat, his frustration simmering. "Must I guide your every pathetic action?"

  "I... I… I'm s-sorry, Master," Quirrell stammered. "I—I shall do it now."

  His wand trembled as he raised it, mouth dry, ready to cast the green light of death.

  But Voldemort stopped him.

  "Enough. It has nearly met its end."

  Quirrell hesitated, then slowly lowered his wand. His hands still shook, but he let out a shaky breath. It was done.

  The forest fell silent.

  Within the rustling of trees, unbeknownst to them, a hidden presence watched their every action from the shadows.

  ---

  Maverick remained perfectly still, his invisibility spell keeping him hidden among the thick foliage. He had followed Quirrell through the forest, tracking his movements with ease. Neither Voldemort's wraith nor the timid professor had noticed his presence.

  Now, as he stared at the fallen unicorn, something twisted in his chest.

  It was so small. So pure. Its silver blood began to pool beneath its drying body, shimmering under the moonlight like liquid stardust.

  His fingers twitched at his side. A part of him wanted—no, ached—to interfere. To stop this. He had the power to do so. He was nearing the rank of an Arch-Magus, and the Voldemort currently leeching off Quirrell was nothing more than a wraith. A mere shadow of the Dark Lord he once was.

  There was no threat here.

  And yet… he did not move.

  Not because he was afraid. Not because he was bound by the script of destiny.

  But because this needed to happen.

  The world needed Voldemort to return. The wizarding world needed chaos, needed fear. Only then would they be desperate enough to rally behind a true leader—someone strong enough to bring them together under one rule.

  Maverick exhaled slowly, forcing his emotions aside and watched as Quirrell knelt beside the unicorn's corpse, scooping a handful of silver blood before shakily bringing it to his mouth. He could see the hesitation, the revulsion flickering across Quirrell's pale face—but it didn't last long.

  "Drink, you pathetic fool." Voldemort's voice slithered through the air, laced with disgust and impatience.

  Quirrell flinched at the command, his lips pressing together in a tight line. Then, with a visible shudder, he obeyed.

  The first taste made him gag. He coughed, nearly spilling the shimmering liquid from his hands, but another sharp hiss from Voldemort silenced his resistance. His next gulp was steadier, and the one after that more desperate.

  The unicorn let out a weak, yet piercing wail. Its silver eyes seemed to be dimming with the last embers of life, but somehow, he felt it was staring directly at him.

  Was it a coincidence? Or had it sensed his presence?

  A strange, uncomfortable weight settled in Maverick's chest. He had seen death countless times, had caused it when necessary, yet something about this creature—its purity, its helplessness—made him hesitate.

  But this was not the time to play hero.

  Not yet.

  Perhaps, once Voldemort had taken what he needed, there would still be time to save it.

  So he waited, silent as a phantom, watching as Quirinus Quirrell knelt beside the dying unicorn. The timid professor hesitated for only a second before scooping up the shimmering silver blood with his hands and drinking greedily, gulping down mouthful after mouthful like it was the rarest delicacy.

  Maverick's magical senses stretched outward, studying them both. He could feel the shift—the slow but undeniable strengthening of the parasite attached to Quirrell's body. With each drop consumed, Voldemort's presence became heavier, darker, his aura clawing its way back from the brink of nothingness.

  But it didn't bother him.

  Even if Voldemort fully latched onto Quirrell, even if he claimed every last scrap of the professor's vitality, the most he could muster was the strength of a beginner Great-Magus. And that was nothing to Maverick.

  Ten minutes passed in eerie silence before Quirrell finally staggered back to his feet. His face, once gaunt and pale, now held the faintest hint of life. His breath no longer came in ragged gasps, and his stance was steadier than before.

  Then, from the back of his head, came a low, sibilant hiss.

  "Kill it. And save the rest of the blood for a later time."

  Maverick exhaled slowly, finally making up his mind..

  Just as Quirrell raised his wand, preparing to cast the Killing Curse, a heavy, distorted voice echoed through the trees—seemingly coming from everywhere at once.

  "Leave..." the voice rumbled, resonating through the dense forest and vibrating the air around them.

  Quirrell froze mid-motion, his eyes darting frantically in every direction. It was only one word, yet the meaning was clear in the tone. It was either oblige or perish.

  Voldemort's voice then followed, louder and more insistent, roaring in his mind.

  "Up, you fool! It's up there, ahead of you!"

  Quirrell hesitantly raised his wand, his breath shallow, and slowly turned his gaze toward the direction he was commanded.

  There, in the misty gloom of the Forbidden Forest, hovering above the trees under the moonlight, was a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette draped in black.

  —————————

  "Kill it. And save the rest of the blood for later."

  Voldemort's cold, dispassionate command sealed the creature's fate. The unicorn lay sprawled on the forest floor, its silver blood gleaming in the moonlight, its breath shallow but still there.

  Maverick had watched in silence until now. But this was enough. He exhaled slowly, positioning himself above Quirrell, his voice slipping into the deep, eerie resonance of the Bloodraven.

  "Leave..."

  The word echoed through the trees, thick with unspoken menace.

  Quirrell had his wand ready for the final strike but suddenly froze. His fingers twitched, and his body went rigid. Then, as if pulled by an invisible force, he took an unsteady step back, his eyes darting frantically through the darkness.

  Maverick had laced his voice with a sliver of his dominant spirit—just enough to push, just enough to make Quirrell feel that obeying wasn't a choice, but a command.

  Then Voldemort's voice lashed through Quirrell's mind like a whip.

  "Calm yourself, fool! Look up! Ahead of you!"

  Quirrell's breath came quick and shallow as he slowly lifted his wand and turned his gaze in the direction he was ordered.

  He saw a tall figure cloaked in black, hovering just above the trees. Its silhouette was sharp against the moonlight, watching with eyes as red as blood.

  Quirrell's eyes locked onto the figure, and in that moment, he felt as though he had been stripped bare—exposed down to his very soul.

  "Who… who are you?" he stammered, and instinctively took yet another step back.

  And there was no response to his question, instead he saw it descend slowly to the ground and hover just about a meter from the ground.

  The timid professor tightened his grip on his wand, gulped, and forced himself to speak again.

  "Who… who are you?" His voice was steadier this time. "Yu.. you realize you are trespassing? I am a professor at Hogwarts, and—"

  A low chuckle interrupted him.

  "The Forbidden Forest," the figure said, voice deep and resonant, "does not officially fall under Hogwarts' jurisdiction. Even the castle's wards do not extend this far."

  Quirrell faltered. That was true. The forest was dangerous, largely untamed, and beyond the castle's protective magic. He opened his mouth to respond, but the figure spoke again, this time with unmistakable mockery.

  "I must say, I never thought Hogwarts had such… low standards. Hiring a wraith-infested dark wizard to teach children?" It laughed, the sound rich with contempt. "I always hear Dumbledore was incompetent, but this?" He left the words unspoken.

  Quirrell stiffened, feeling a surge of indignation. But before he could gather himself to respond, Voldemort's voice rang sharp and commanding in his mind.

  "Let me speak."

  Quirrell hesitated, his breath hitching.

  "Now, worm!"

  His body jerked against his will as Voldemort forcibly seized control. Slowly, rigidly, Quirrell turned. His trembling hands rose to his turban, fingers fumbling slightly as he unwrapped it.

  Maverick's eyes twitched under the mask. He had seen a similar scene in the movie. But watching it in real life was something else entirely. The pale, grotesque face that emerged from the back of Quirrell's head was even more disturbing in person.

  A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them as Voldemort's sunken, snake-like eyes locked onto him. Maverick, still hovering just above the ground, stared back, unflinching.

  Then, Voldemort spoke. His voice was slow, thoughtful.

  "I did not expect there to be a new Arch-Magus."

  Maverick responded immediately, his voice thick with the ancient resonance of the Bloodraven.

  "If you think that," he said, "then you're even more stupid than I thought."

  Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously.

  "Who are you?"

  Maverick tilted his head slightly. "I should be the one asking you, right? Who are you, anyway?"

  Voldemort's voice became colder. "Do not test my patience."

  Maverick chuckled darkly. "I am merely here to meet the leader of the centaurs." He quickly invented a reason and spoke, "Imagine my surprise when I found a wraith lurking in Hogwarts."

  His voice turned sharp, mocking. "I recently had to deal with someone like you, a wizard dabbling in demonology. And yet, here you are. What a coincidence."

  Voldemort's expression twisted, his pale features contorting with rage. "A wraith?" he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "Is that truly what you think I am? I am Voldemort. The Dark Lord. The name alone struck fear into the hearts of millions—so much so that they dared not even speak it."

  "Oh..." Maverick smirked under the mask. "So you're that guy. The only King—wait, no, calling you a king would be an insult to every archmage. After all, you were brought down by an infant."

  He let out a sharp, derisive laugh, the sound distorted and heavy through his mask, dripping with mockery. To Voldemort, the metallic echo made it even more cutting, as if the very air was amplifying the insult.

  "Now look at you..." He continued, "a parasitic remnant of the once-mighty wizard. How the mighty have fallen."

  Voldemort's features darkened, but then, out of nowhere, his tone changed—silkier, more persuasive. "You clearly possess great power... I could grant you even more. Wealth, knowledge, magic beyond your imagination. Stand by my side, and—"

  Maverick cut him off with an even louder, sharper laugh.

  "You?" he scoffed. "You are in no position to offer anything. Look at you." He gestured lazily. "A whisper of what you once were. You're not even qualified to stand as my equal, let alone my superior."

  Voldemort's face contorted in fury.

  "You dare—"

  "I'm honestly surprised you're even alive," Maverick continued smoothly, as though Voldemort hadn't spoken. He leaned forward slightly, his crimson-tinged eyes gleaming. "I'm curious... how did you survive? How did the great Lord Voldemort come to this... clinging to the back of a little Magus like a parasite."

  That was it. Voldemort's patience snapped.

  "You insolent—" He roared, forcing Quirrell's body to raise his wand. "Avada Kedavra!"

  A jet of sickly green light erupted from the tip.

  Maverick didn't move—at least, not in the way Voldemort expected. With a flick of his finger, a metallic shield materialized in front of him. The Killing Curse struck its gleaming surface and dispersed instantly, vanishing as though it had never existed.

  The shield shimmered, its deep bluish sheen fading just a moment later as it began reverting to its original state. A near-perfect mimicry of vibranium—one of Maverick's more advanced transfiguration experiments. He could form it, but its structure was too unstable to last long. But he didn't need it to, as it was a perfect counter to the Killing Curse—perhaps even a bit excessive, if he was being honest.

  Lowering his finger, he looked at Voldemort while curling his lips in amusement under the mask.

  "Oh, how the mighty have indeed fallen." He shook his head, his voice rich with mockery. "Once, the Dark Lord's name was feared across the wizarding world. Now? You're not even a shadow of that name... That body you're parasitizing can't even muster the power of a Great-Magus. Pathetic."

  Voldemort seethed, his snake-like nostrils flaring.

  Watching Voldemort get riled up like this, Maverick's amusement grew even more. But he forced himself to hold back his thoughts as he had more important things on his schedule for the evening.

  Besides, he had no plans to take down Voldemort now. He wasn't even sure if it was possible, because Voldemort might just flee from Quirrell's body at the last minute, which would make the plot unpredictable for him.

  Voldemort had no knowledge of Maverick's thoughts. He only saw the figure in front of him, its crimson eyes narrow dangerously at him.

  Then suddenly, the weight of the sky pressed down on his already broken soul, causing his snake-like pupils to widen in disbelief. He had only guessed before, but now he was sure.

  "This is... Dominant Spirit... So, you are indeed a new Arch-Magus..." The heir of Slytherin stammered uncomfortably, but despite this, he did not lower his gaze. Evil as he was, his will was as firm as a mountain. If he were at his peak, Maverick figured he would have to unleash his spirit with full force to bring about a reaction.

  But that was an if. Right now, the Dark Lord was nothing in front of his eyes.

  "I don't have time to play with you," Maverick said in a dismissive tone. The indifference in his voice only fueled Voldemort's rage even more.

  How dare this unknown wizard speak to him like that? Not even Dumbledore had ever dared to address him so disrespectfully, Voldemort thought, his mind burning with raw anger.

  "You insolent—" he hissed, but then cut himself off. His anger burned hotter with every second, but beneath that fire, a cold, unwelcome truth gnawed at him. He was not at his full strength. The figure before him—whoever he was—was an Arch-Magus.

  And even if that assumption was wrong, he knew better than to pick a fight in his current state.

  The distorted voice once again, cut through the tension.

  "Disappear, Riddle. You are not welcome here!"

  Voldemort stiffened, his snake-like eyes glowing red with anger. The one thing he hated more than anything was the reminder of his Muggle heritage, and this figure in front of him knew about it.

  But before he could voice how this mysterious figure knew that information, he heard it speak again.

  "If we truly fight here," Maverick said, "the old monster in the castle might sense the magical fluctuations. I'm sure neither of us wants that to happen." He let the words settle, watching as Voldemort's expression darkened further. "Leave, and never return to harm the unicorns again. If you do, I will hunt you down."

  A moment of silence stretched between them.

  Voldemort's eyes gleamed with malice. "You think you can order me?" he spat. "You overestimate yourself. I will return to my full strength soon enough, and when I do, you will regret this arrogance."

  Maverick tilted his head slightly. "We shall see."

  Voldemort bared his teeth, but after a tense pause, he turned. His form lifted off the ground, his lower body shifting into black smoke as he glided through the air. His dark robes billowed like living shadows, and within moments, he vanished into the night, his flight spell carrying him swiftly away.

  Maverick waited, watching the space where Voldemort had vanished. Only when he was sure the Dark Lord was far enough did he exhale quietly and turn his attention to the wounded unicorn.

  Kneeling beside the creature, he placed a hand gently on its pale, silver bloodstained fur. The unicorn was barely clinging to life, its breaths shallow.

  Without hesitation, Maverick muttered an incantation, channeling healing magic through his fingertips. A soft, golden glow enveloped the unicorn's wounds, sealing them slowly but steadily.

  But it wasn't enough.

  He reached into his storage ring and retrieved a handful of rare healing herbs, collected over the past two years during his travels across the world.

  He crushed them with precise movements, mixing them with a bit of his magic, and pressed the herbal paste onto the unicorn's wounds.

  Minutes passed in silence.

  Then, at last, the unicorn stirred. Its breathing, once labored, began to steady. The raw wounds faded, its strength visibly returning at a remarkable pace.

  Maverick watched, momentarily in amazement. No magical creature he knew of could heal this fast—except, perhaps, for a phoenix.

  He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing.

  Then, without looking up, he spoke, his voice shifting once more into the distorted resonance of the Bloodraven.

  "You can come out now."

  The forest remained still. But Maverick had known for some time that someone—something—had been watching since even before Voldemort had left.

  A faint rustling of leaves broke the silence. Then, from the shadows of the trees, a centaur emerged.

  —————————

  The Forbidden Forest was a vast, ancient realm where towering trees stretched endlessly into the night sky. It was home to creatures of every kind—beings of darkness, light, and myth. It was a place of undeniable danger, but also of opportunities for those who knew where to look.

  And deep within this vast, eerie forest, amidst the unsettling quietness broken only by the rustling of leaves and the occasional hoot of owls or distant howl of wolves, a shadowy figure could be seen kneeling beside a small, murmuring stream.

  Just beside him lay a wounded animal, seemingly a horse at first glance, with fur as white as snow. Yet it bore one unique characteristic—a single horn protruding from its head—revealing it to be none other than a creature of myth and legend, a unicorn. And right now, it was dying.

  Its body bore the marks of a destructive impact to the back, a half-foot-wide wound gaping deeply. A silver-colored liquid—its blood—seeped steadily into the damp earth, while its chest heaved heavily, each labored breath barely audible as it struggled to draw in air.

  But it seemed this was not the day for it to take that final breath, as the cloaked figure kneeling beside it had taken action after retrieving something with a tap on the ring on his finger. It was a paste or salve, possibly a healing remedy, and the figure carefully applied it to the creature's wounds while chanting in an unknown language.

  Moments later, a faint glow spread over the beast's terrible wound, and, at a speed visible to the naked eye, the torn flesh of the beast slowly began to knitt itself back together. Finally, the silvery blood which had been streaming gradually came to a stop.

  ...

  Not far from the small stream, hidden behind thick trees, a pair of sharp eyes had been watching everything from the shadows. It was another creature of magical origin—a centaur, and a resident of this very forest.

  The eeriness here was nothing unusual to it. But during a habitual stroll tonight, it had heard the pained cry of a creature, one very familiar, and under its kind's protection. So, without hesitation, it had rushed toward the source of the cry—only to find itself forced to hide, unable to intervene.

  After all, after witnessing the brief confrontation—if it could even be called that—and piecing together what it could from their conversation, it had quickly realized this was not a situation within its power to interfere with.

  Two mysterious wizards—one, the wraith of a dark lord, a lingering remnant of evil; the other, even more terrifying, an Arch-Magus hiding their face. It didn't take a genius to realize that neither wanted to be seen, and if it were discovered, it would be no match for either of them.

  So it watched. Even after the wraith-infected wizard had fled, even as the other figure tended to the wounded unicorn, it still did not dare to step forward. It did not dare risk its life trying to determine whether this mysterious figure was a friend or foe. Instead, it planned to take the matter to its leader as soon as the figure left—perhaps even involve the school's residing Arch-Magus.

  However, in the next moment, that deep, distorted voice spoke. It was so clear, so close, it felt as if the words had come from right beside its ear.

  "You can come out now, Centaur."

  It was so sudden that it instinctively shifted to the opposite side and looked around—only to find nothing. Then, as its gaze returned to the stream, it saw him now standing, staring directly at it with those crimson eyes that seemed to pierce straight into its soul.

  A tense silence followed. Only then did the centaur fully grasp that it had been discovered. Without a second thought, it gathered all its strength and prepared to bolt.

  No, this was no kind wizard.

  What kind of kind wizard had eyes as red as blood?

  What kind of kind wizard could make it feel so small with just a glance?

  But before it could even turn—before its powerful legs could even take a step—it felt something.

  A weight.

  An invisible force crashed down upon it, pressing into its very being. It was as if the air itself had turned to stone, heavier than anything it had ever known. How heavy did something have to be to render its six-limbed body completely motionless—not even able to flinch?

  It did not know.

  What it did know was that this was a being standing at the very peak of power. A presence that could not be challenged.

  The last time it had felt this insignificant was when its leader had once attempted to threaten Hogwarts' overseer—warning him and his students not to trespass into the forest.

  That day, every single one of its kind had understood what it meant to stand before absolute power.

  And now, for the second time, it felt it—that suffocating pressure, the unmistakable sensation of its own will being dominated.

  As far as it knew, only the Arch-Magus among human wizards possessed such a presence. Its earlier assumption had been correct.

  This was another king.

  "L—Lord Wizard-King, I did not mean to offend," it stammered, struggling to hold onto its own thoughts, which felt as though they were being squeezed from all directions. "This... this is my home. I was only passing—"

  But then, its words caught in its throat.

  Because it saw the impossible.

  The unicorn—so gravely wounded that it had believed no amount of magic could save it—slowly, shakily, rose to its feet.

  The wound was barely visible now, nothing but a crimson scar. Its large, luminous eyes carried exhaustion, but beyond that, there was something else. Something the centaur had never expected to see.

  Trust.

  The unicorn, a creature that did not seek the company of other sentient beings—one second only to a Qilin in its ability to sense the purest of hearts—took a slow, deliberate step forward. Then another.

  And then, despite its weariness, it gently rubbed its milk-silver coat against the shadowy figure's legs.

  Affection. Gratitude.

  Even if this wizard had somehow miraculously saved it, even if it had been pulled from the very brink of death, the centaur knew—a unicorn would never act this way unless it sensed true goodness.

  Had it been wrong?

  Was this figure, who looked like a demon, truly a saint in disguise?

  ...

  Maverick looked down, bewildered, at the majestic creature rubbing against his legs like an affectionate puppy.

  To be honest, he had only saved it on a gut feeling—not expecting anything in return, much less this.

  After tending to its wounds and using up some of his most precious medicinal ingredients, his plan had been to 'kindly ask' the centaur to keep what had happened here a secret, then leave.

  He hadn't intended to wait for the unicorn to recover, let alone receive gratitude he hadn't even known they could express.

  And yet, here it was, nuzzling against him like a loyal companion.

  The strangest part, however, was because this was a unicorn.

  Every book he had ever read suggested unicorns were second only to qilins in purity, creatures that instinctively avoided those with even a sliver of corruption in their hearts. So why was this one acting this way toward him?

  Surely, it didn't think he was pure-hearted?

  Unfortunately, unicorns couldn't speak.

  Under the watchful gazes of both centaur and wizard, the unicorn affectionately rubbed against his legs a few more times before, with a slight limp, disappearing into the depths of the forest.

  Weird.

  Maverick pushed the strange thoughts aside and turned his attention back to the centaur.

  Their eyes met, and Maverick could see that the centaur's earlier wariness had now changed into… fanatic.

  "Speak your name, centaur..." he said, adopting the tone of Bloodraven.

  "It is Nebulon, great king…" The centaur lowered his head in what seemed like submission. "I apologize for doubting your majesty earlier. Had I known, I would not have acted so disrespectfully."

  The crimson eyes narrowed at the centaur. "Doubting what… exactly?" His tone remained even, though inwardly, he grew more puzzled with each word this horse-man spoke.

  Nebulon looked almost ashamed. "That you might be an evil wizard. But after witnessing the unicorn perform the blessing ritual, I feel ashamed for even entertaining such blasphemous thoughts."

  "Blessing ritual?"

  Nebulon nodded and explained without a beat. "The unicorns in the Forbidden Forest are under our protection, so we know much about them... ancient knowledge... It is said that if a unicorn shows affection three times in a row to a being... like it did with you, rubbing its head against you exactly three times... then that person is safe from all soul and spirit-related curses, for as long as that unicorn shall live.

  Any curse you may carry will be passed on to the unicorn itself and negated. It's common knowledge that unicorns are immune to all curses."

  The shadowy figure's crimson eyes narrowed, its gaze fixed on the centaur as Maverick racked his memory for things related to unicorns he had read. But nothing came to mind.

  In a normal world, he might have laughed it off, but this was the world of magic, where curses were all too real and could be incredibly dangerous.

  However, this didn't sound like a bad thing. In fact, it sounded rather favorable to him. His curiosity piqued, Maverick turned his gaze to the submissive-looking horse-man. "What do you mean unicorns are immune to all curses?"

  Nebulon's voice was excited as he explained, "It's exactly as it sounds, great king. All soul and spirit curses are ineffective against the pure spirit of unicorns." He paused, thinking the figure infront was concerned about the unicorn. "So, you need not worry. Any curse passed onto the unicorn will be cancelled, ineffective... You are truly blessed. We, even the tribe that protects these majestic creatures, have never received such a blessing. And today, I am truly honored to witness it myself."

  Listening to the centaur speak with such passion and belief on the matter made Maverick consider whether he should study magical creatures more seriously. Perhaps he could ask Newt for some materials, he thought.

  But that could wait. Right now, he was late for a meeting, and this unexpected encounter with Quirrell and the unicorn had already taken longer than expected.

  He looked at the centaur, and Nebulon saw those unsettling crimson eyes narrow at him.

  "What has happened here… I don't want another soul knowing about it. Do you understand?"

  The centaur responded immediately without hesitation. "Yes, great king. I will keep this secret. You have my word."

  Maverick observed the centaur's emotions carefully for any flicker of deceit or hesitation. There was none. No sign of dishonesty, no trace of guilt or evasion. Still, words were only words.

  "I need your oath. Bind it with your magic." He added, just in case.

  Nebulon's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly realized this was to be expected. After all, he and this shadowy figure—whose name he didn't even know—were strangers.

  Even if he now believed this figure to be a kind wizard after witnessing the unicorn's actions, that didn't mean the wizard felt the same way about him. So, after carefully considering it, he did not hesitate. He raised his hand and spoke the magic that would bind him.

  "I swear, by my spirit and by the ancient bonds of my people, I will keep this secret, as you command. May the stars bear witness to my word."

  Maverick felt the change in magic settle and knew the oath had taken effect. Satisfied, he turned away without another word.

  With a slight motion of his hand, the space around him trembled. Then, as if reality itself had cracked, a dark rift split open before him.

  Nebulon's breath caught in his throat. His kind had many records of human wizards and the forms of magic they wielded. And this… this was another confirmation of his assumption. As he stared in disbelief, the shadowy figure stepped forward, weightlessly floating into the tear in space.

  And then, just as smoothly as it had appeared, the rift closed, swallowing him whole.