122: Voldemort

He was drinking blood—unicorn blood.

This was no amusing matter. Unicorns, as one of the purest and most sacred creatures in the magical world, were born imbued with immense magical blessings.

Anyone who dared kill a unicorn would be cursed with a fate far worse than any blessing they might gain—a twisted half-life, a punishment for their heinous act.

Nolan knew this better than most. The creator of the wand he wielded—a wand tipped with unicorn horn—had suffered this curse. That wizard, infamous for crafting the most sinister wands in history, had seen his body rot away shortly after, reducing him to nothing more than a writhing mass of decaying flesh.

The world, despite its chaos, occasionally demonstrated a sense of fairness. Though infrequent, the principle of "gain always comes at a price" still held true.

Killing a unicorn invited a curse. But then, what could be so valuable as to make someone willing to bear such a burden?

Nolan's voice cut through the stillness. "If you're scared, stay here. I'll be back soon."

With that, his tall, lean figure disappeared into the shadows.

Hermione quickly turned to Neville. "Stay right here. If anything happens, send sparks into the sky. I'll come back for you!"

"Herm—" Neville barely managed to get her name out before the young witch darted off, hurrying to catch up with Nolan.

"You too?" Nolan asked without even looking back.

Hermione hesitated for a moment before speaking softly. "We're supposed to be investigating what happened to the unicorn. That's our task tonight, right? If you're going, then so am I."

"I don't care," Nolan replied with a small chuckle. He raised a single finger, teasing her like one would a child. "But whatever you see, I expect you to keep quiet. No talking, no interfering. That would help me the most."

Hermione bristled at his tone, biting back a retort. Nolan was insufferable! Still, she knew her magic was unlikely to be of much assistance, so she grudgingly nodded in agreement.

They followed a path only Nolan's sharp vision could discern, walking west for about two kilometers before reaching the scene of the unicorn's death.

It was a breathtaking sight, even in death.

The unicorn's body was a masterpiece of nature, its silver-white coat shimmering faintly under the moonlight. Long, soft hair cascaded from its hooves, each movement catching the light with a ghostly beauty.

Unlike a horse's bulky build or a donkey's diminutive stature, the unicorn's physique was slender, athletic, and elegant—like the model of the equinee world. Yet, even beyond its physical perfection, it possessed an ethereal grace that set it apart from ordinary creatures.

Even now, in death, it was mesmerizing.

Hermione stared, her mouth slightly open in awe. But then her gaze shifted to something grotesque—something horrifying.

A cloaked figure was hunched over the unicorn's body, its mouth pressed against the wound, greedily drinking the silvery blood.

"A vampire?" Hermione whispered in shock.

Nolan snorted. "You're giving this thing too much credit. A vampire? No vampire would stoop so low. Even if mortally wounded, a vampire could heal in a day with a single drop of virgin blood. They wouldn't touch this—knowing the curse it carries." He stepped forward, his voice turning colder. "How does it feel to be cursed, Voldemort?"

The figure froze, then slowly lifted its head. Dull, lifeless eyes stared at Nolan before a high-pitched, inhuman voice screeched, "Nolan Von Draugr! Who are you to call me by that name?!"

"Who knows?" Nolan said with a smirk. "Normally, I wouldn't say it aloud—I hate the idea of you eavesdropping on me. But now? You're right here in front of me, groveling like a dog. Of course, I'll call you by name."

He crouched down, using his wand—a unicorn horn wand—to push back the hood of the cloaked figure. Beneath it was a pale, familiar face.

"Professor Quirrell!" Hermione screamed.

"No, it's possession, Granger," Nolan corrected, his tone sharp. "Remember what I told you—don't speak, don't move."

Ignoring her terrified, wide-eyed expression, Nolan pressed the tip of his wand hard against Quirrell's face. "Game over, Professor."

"You think you can stop me, boy?" Voldemort hissed, first snarling with venom. But then his tone shifted abruptly, becoming unnervingly soft. "Child, you are a remarkable Slytherin. Through this worthless host's eyes, I have observed you—seen your strength, your power far beyond your years..."

"Enough games, Voldemort." Nolan's sharp wand pressed deeper into Quirrell's face. Though it already punctured the skin, he continued to push forcefully, an almost sadistic edge in his tone. "I knew something was off about Quirrell. No sane person could teach that abysmally and not care. So, he's your servant? You came to Hogwarts looking for the Philosopher's Stone?"

Voldemort remained silent, his malevolent presence weighing heavily in the air, clearly calculating his next move.

"You can't hold me here, boy—"

"I know I can't hold you," Nolan interrupted, his tone eerily calm. "After all, not even death could bind you. You could abandon Quirrell at any moment and flee. But…" He paused, a glint of cold steel appearing in his left hand, a silver dagger that seemed to have materialized out of thin air. "It wouldn't do to let a powerful Dark wizard like you keep a host who still has limbs, would it?"

Before Voldemort or Hermione could react, the blade flashed.

Hermione felt her heart stop as blood splattered across the forest floor.

Quirrell's arms had been severed in a swift, merciless stroke. The professor's screams of agony echoed through the Forbidden Forest, while Voldemort, his parasite of a host, bellowed in rage.

"You useless wretch, Quirrell! Are you so weak that losing your arms renders you immobile? I regret ever choosing you as my servant!"

"Oh, there's more," Nolan said nonchalantly, his voice void of emotion, as though he were commenting on dinner plans rather than committing an atrocity. Calmly, methodically, he began slicing through the muscle and tendons of Quirrell's legs, leaving nothing but mutilated stumps. "There. Now you won't be running off anytime soon, will you?"

Hermione, unable to bear the grisly scene, collapsed to her knees beside a bush, retching violently.

"Congratulations, Voldemort." Nolan's cold smile didn't waver. "Your future is looking very bright. You won't have to lift a finger, won't have to do anything at all. Dumbledore will make sure you're kept alive—at least until he figures out the secret of why you can't truly die. You'll exist forever, trapped in Quirrell's mangled body."

The Dark Lord roared in fury, disbelief etched into his tone. "Nolan Von Draugr! You think this is over? I will never forgive you! I'll see you die—worse than Potter! You'll regret this! Mark my words!"

"Empty threats," Nolan began with a mocking grin, but before he could finish, a low, gravelly voice came from the shadows.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The telltale flash of green light burst through the trees. The killing curse struck Quirrell's mutilated body, sending it flying several meters into the air before landing with a sickening thud.

When the body hit the ground, there was no movement. Quirrell's lifeless eyes stared blankly at the sky, devoid of the soul that had once inhabited him.

But it wasn't over.

From the remnants of Quirrell's corpse, a shard of Voldemort's soul emerged, screaming in rage and agony. The shadowy fragment shot into the air, whirling past Nolan and Hermione with a feral howl, before disappearing into the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

And then, there was silence.

Hermione, still trembling, managed to lift her head and whispered hoarsely, "Who—who cast the curse?"

Nolan didn't answer right away. His sharp gaze scanned the darkness around them, his wand at the ready. "Whoever it was," he said slowly, his tone laced with suspicion, "they wanted Voldemort out of Quirrell just as much as we did."

He turned to Hermione, his face unreadable. "Stay here. Don't move."

Hermione didn't protest this time. Her hands were still clutching her stomach as she fought to steady her breathing, the events of the night having pushed her far past her limits.

Nolan stepped cautiously toward the direction the curse had come from, his silver dagger gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

But the shadows yielded no answers, only the quiet rustle of leaves in the night wind. Whoever—or whatever—had intervened was already gone.

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