Chapter 59: Mysterious Runes 

Hagrid didn't know why Harold suddenly bolted toward the center of the Forbidden Forest, but seeing how urgent he looked, he didn't hesitate to follow.

Time passed slowly, and the deeper they went, the quieter the forest became. Their hearing seemed sharper too—every rustling breeze, every snapping twig echoed unnaturally loud.

No one knew how long they had been running when the trees started to grow denser, and the once-wide trail became nearly impassable. But none of them stopped.

Because the bloodstains around them were becoming more and more frequent.

By now, Harold no longer needed to lead the way.

Hagrid moved ahead, pushing aside thick vines and low-hanging branches so Harry and Harold could pass through.

Then, after parting another large patch of foliage, something pale burst into view.

A unicorn—barely alive—lay slumped against the roots of an ancient oak, trembling in agony. Silvery-blue blood glistened like jewels on its body, mane, and the forest floor.

Next to it, a dark figure was crawling slowly across the ground—its form hooded and cloaked, but its movements more beast-like than human.

Harry froze completely. He had never seen anything so beautiful, so tragic—and so deeply unsettling. He felt like he ought to do something.

But someone acted faster.

"WHAT ARE YOU?!" Hagrid roared, crashing through the underbrush. "Get away from the unicorn, or you'll be sorry!"

The figure hadn't expected to be interrupted. For just a second, it hesitated—but then lunged forward, pressing its face to the unicorn's wound and greedily drinking the blood.

As it did, the unicorn's struggles weakened. Its mouth opened and closed, but not a single cry escaped.

"STOP!" Hagrid's eyes turned bloodshot.

But just as he reached the creature, raising his fists to smash this unicorn-slaying monster, it slithered away like a snake—coiling around a tree trunk before vanishing into the blackness of the forest.

Blinded by rage, Hagrid gave chase without thinking, leaving Harold and Harry standing behind.

Soon, even Hagrid's heavy footsteps faded, leaving only the rustle of leaves in the wind.

"Do you think… it'll come back?" Harry asked quietly.

"I don't know," Harold murmured, eyes locked on the unicorn. Slowly, he stepped closer.

Harry followed immediately.

"Is it… dead?"

Harold didn't answer. He just stared into the unicorn's dimming eyes.

In those eyes, he saw so much: sorrow, rage, longing, pain… and a desperate plea.

"It's dying…"

"Who's there?!" a voice called from behind, startling Harry so badly he almost dropped his wand.

Bathed in faint moonlight, they could now make out the figure—a centaur, not Ronan or Bane, but a younger one with platinum blond hair.

"It's dangerous here, especially for you," the centaur said. "I can take you away. Do you know how to ride?"

"I…" Harry hesitated, then pointed at Harold. "What about him?"

Harold hadn't moved. He still stood before the unicorn, not reacting to their conversation.

"I'm sorry. I can only carry one."

"Then I'm not leaving," Harry said without hesitation.

He might be reckless, impulsive, but when it came to loyalty, Harry didn't falter. If Harold had heard him, he might have been deeply touched.

But he didn't.

Because right now, Harold was somewhere… else.

He was still physically in the Forbidden Forest—but what stood before him was a boundless white expanse, filled with distant silhouettes of flowers, lakes, and trees.

Looking down, he saw the border between the two spaces—one reality, one otherworldly—surging like waves crashing together, pushing, clashing, but never mixing.

And in the center of that white realm stood the unicorn.

No wounds. No blood. Perfectly whole.

That… wasn't possible.

Harold tried to step closer for a better look—but couldn't. They were separated by what seemed to be a mere five feet… or five hundred. No matter how he reached, he couldn't cross it.

Then, Harold glanced down at the Whomping Willow wand shaft in his hand.

Sometime along the way, its silvery-blue glow had vanished. The engraved rune had grown dim and fuzzy.

It seemed the unicorn had already died. But the wand shaft's runes—mistaking it for a dying wand core—had activated.

This particular rune was ancient, meant to protect wand cores.

And somehow, it had momentarily extended that protection… to the creature the core had once come from.

That was all it could do: stall death, barely, for just a few extra moments. Let the unicorn linger at the boundary between life and death.

But that was all. And when the rune faded completely… Harold would return to normal time.

Except now, there was another problem.

Harold looked at the wand shaft. Then at the unicorn.

He sighed.

This meant the Whomping Willow wand's core had to be chosen from this unicorn. He could only hope Hagrid and Dumbledore would let him keep the remains—after all, he had just helped them find it.

Harold's eyes drifted to the unicorn's horn.

It seemed such a waste to use only the tail hair with a wand shaft this good.

Apparently, his gaze was a little too greedy, because the unicorn suddenly tensed, as if it sensed his thoughts.

"What, you gonna headbutt me?" Harold muttered. "Relax. I won't take your horn for free. Tell you what—I'll let Harry use the wand."

"That way, when he kills Quirrell, you can count it as taking your own revenge."

The unicorn kept staring him down.

"What, you don't believe me?"

Harold sat down cross-legged, uncaring whether the unicorn could understand him or not.

"I'm a… let's say a somewhat special wandmaker. You know what a wand is?" He held up the shaft. "This. Not that you'd know, but whatever…"

As Harold spoke, the white world around the unicorn began shrinking, as if the sea of "reality" was slowly reclaiming the space. Soon, only a patch the size of a window remained.

At the same time, Harold began hearing Harry's voice. Faint at first, but growing clearer—it sounded like he was talking to someone. Maybe Hagrid?

Once the final patch disappeared, the unicorn's death would be final.

Harold stood up.

"Anyway, I'll put a part of you into this wand. Then I'll have someone use it to kill the creature that killed you. That thing's terrifying—you're getting a good deal."

Now, only a palm-sized patch of the white world remained. From afar, it looked like a lantern in the forest.

"What a bizarre experience," Harold thought. "I wonder if Grandpa Ollivander knew wand shafts could do this? He probably did. I'll write him tomorrow."

The voices around him grew louder. From behind, Harry had reappeared—but standing beside him now was a centaur.

So that's where the hoofbeats had come from…

Wait—if the centaur hadn't moved, why was there still hoofbeat sounds?

Harold turned sharply back toward the fading white space.

It was gone.

But the unicorn wasn't.

A ghostly, blue-glowing unicorn was galloping toward him, faster than thought, charging with all its might—

Straight for the Whomping Willow wand shaft in Harold's hands.

(End of Chapter)