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"There's a unicorn here," Anthony said the moment they were back in the woods.
"A unicorn," Sirius repeated. "That's about the farthest thing from Voldemort I could imagine."
"I'm not so sure," Anthony said, the image of the unicorn Quirrell had killed flashing in his mind.
They ventured deeper into the woods. Sirius was hyper-alert, scrutinizing their surroundings, practically ready to flip over every stone. Though he claimed not to see a link between Voldemort and a unicorn, his bright eyes and the tight grip on his wand betrayed him. The simple clue—magic was here in this forest—had ignited something in him.
They searched the area for a while longer before realizing they were hungry. Sirius had left all their luggage, including most of their food, back in the tent. Lunch was reduced to the slices of American cheese Anthony had in his pocket.
"If there are unicorns in this forest," Anthony said, tearing open the plastic wrap, "shouldn't the whole place be saturated with magic? Why did we only detect it on that little witch?"
"Because we're detecting magical traces," Sirius said, shrugging as he tossed a piece of cheese into his mouth. "Traces are left when magic is actively used. Unicorns are usually just… you know, running around. They don't go around casting spells."
"But the dragon dung—" Anthony stopped, unsure if this was suitable lunch conversation.
Sirius didn't care. He tore off another piece. "Who knows? Maybe dragons need magic to open their arses. I don't study dragons."
"Or maybe that dragon ate something with a very strong, persistent magical trace?" Anthony guessed. "Something that survived the digestive process."
"Maybe it was Voldemort," Sirius said.
"I doubt he'd taste very good," Anthony replied.
Sirius waved his cheese slice, perfectly rational. "But a dragon might disagree. You can't guess a dragon's palate. Maybe with the right seasoning, Voldemort tastes like lamb chops. Who knows?"
"Definitely not lamb chops," Anthony said. "Please, Sirius. Definitely not."
Sirius laughed, and for a moment, a flash of his old, mischievous youth lit up his face.
They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the woods. They did find two or three longer unicorn tail hairs caught on branches—worth a few dozen Galleons—but nothing more significant. By evening, they returned to the village, hoping for more clues, but only the little girl triggered Sirius's detection charm. They headed north, where a grey wolf began shadowing them. It fled the moment Sirius transformed into Padfoot, so Anthony privately guessed it wasn't Remus. Night fell, and a light drizzle started again. Sirius's good mood faded, perhaps reminded of the tent they couldn't pack away.
They felt their way back to the campsite in the dark, avoiding Lumos in case Voldemort (if he was truly nearby) might spot them. Sirius quickly checked the perimeter, confirming all their protective wards were intact, then gestured for Anthony to enter the tent.
The inside was far larger than the outside suggested: a kitchen, a bathroom, two bedrooms, a cramped closet where Sirius had wedged his motorbike upright against the wall, and even a small sitting room. Anthony boiled water in the kitchen, brewed some tea (Professor Sprout's gift), and he and Sirius ate biscuits with it.
Rain pattered softly on the enchanted roof. Anthony cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Should we look for the unicorn tomorrow?"
"I doubt a unicorn would willingly stay anywhere near Voldemort," Sirius replied, stirring his tea listlessly. "Besides, what do we do if we find one? 'Hello, have you seen a bloke who, Merlin knows what he looks like now?'"
Anthony corrected him. "'Hello, have you seen a half-dead bloke cursed by a unicorn?'"
"Voldemort is cursed by a unicorn?" Sirius looked up sharply. "He drank unicorn blood? That explains why Albus said he was so weak… But that doesn't make sense…" He stared at the empty vase in the middle of the table, frowning slightly, muttering to himself. "You lured him with the Philosopher's Stone, he got hurt in the trap but escaped… Where would he find a unicorn? Here, right? That's how Albus knew he was hiding in Albania!"
"Er, Sirius…"
Anthony suddenly remembered they'd only had time to tell Sirius last year's Defence professor was Voldemort and that no students were hurt. They hadn't mentioned the dead unicorn. To help conceal Anthony's identity as a necromancer, neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall had corrected Sirius when he assumed Voldemort had been injured escaping the Stone's trap.
Sirius shot to his feet, a grin spreading across his face. "Merlin, yes, Henry! We are going to find a unicorn! Tomorrow!" His eyes shone. He paced the small kitchen. "Unicorns don't like grown men, but I can be a dog… that should fool them…"
"Voldemort killed a unicorn in the Forbidden Forest, Sirius!" Anthony said loudly, cutting him off. "He was already weak before he walked into the Stone's trap—weak enough to need unicorn blood. I'm sorry, but the unicorns in Albania don't necessarily have anything to do with him—get down!" The last was directed at the ginger cat, which had leapt onto a cabinet and was silently stalking the jars of spices.
Sirius stopped pacing.
"Get down," Anthony said firmly. They couldn't afford to lose their salt in the middle of a forest, not if he wanted any hope of making candied potatoes.
"Right…" Sirius slumped back into his chair with a hollow laugh. "Well, it at least proves he's not thinking clearly. If he was that weak to begin with, why bother becoming the Defence professor? I can think of at least five ways to sneak into Hogwarts."
"He was injured during the term," Anthony said. "He was hit with… well, another curse. One I'm better at detecting." He wasn't sure if now was the right time to reveal his own secret. If Dumbledore hadn't told Sirius, there was probably a reason.
"Oh—" Sirius drew the sound out, perking up again. "I see, Henry. You're a curse-breaker. No wonder Albus said he trusted your professional judgement. What curse hit Voldemort? One of those 'loses power if you speak its name' types, right?"
The ginger cat thumped onto the dining table, let out a long, disgruntled yowl, and stalked off in a foul mood.
"Good cat," Anthony said.
Anthony jolted awake in the middle of the night.
He moved a hand inside his sleeping bag to his chest, closed his eyes, and felt his heart beating steadily. A cool breeze brushed his nose. He opened his eyes to find the ginger cat peering down at him with solemn intensity. Anthony smiled and wrestled his hand free to pet it, but the cat nimbly leapt over him and vanished into the bush where the Wraith Chicken slept.
The rain had stopped. Silence, broken only by the occasional plip of a droplet into a puddle. Washed in moonlight, every leaf on the nearby bushes was clearly visible, but the woods beyond remained pools of dark shadow.
Anthony sat up. Despite choosing the driest patch of ground, his sleeping bag was covered in dewdrops, glittering silver under the moon. He brushed the drops away, watching them soak into the earth. He poked a finger at the damp, wilted grass beside him before retreating back into the bag.
The air was thick with moisture. He could smell the wet soil. Wind rustled the treetops, shaking loose a shower of droplets that pattered onto his sleeping bag. Above, a bird woke and let out a sudden, tremulous cry into the night.
Anthony opened his eyes, crawled out, and decided to move his sleeping bag under the tent's awning for the rest of the night. As he stood up, orienting himself by the moonlight, something near the tent felt… off.
He pulled on his shoes, muttered a non-slip charm under his breath, and crept toward the tent. The closer he got, the more certain he became: a human-shaped shadow lurked silently by the entrance under the awning. He held his breath. Quirrell? Voldemort? He couldn't believe they'd approach the tent so brazenly. He felt no necromancy. Had Quirrell recovered? Had they found a way to shed the necromantic taint? Had they even shaken the unicorn's curse? Quirrell—or Voldemort—was the wizard most deeply versed in soul magic Anthony had ever encountered. How far had they recovered? Would their souls still be within his grasp? What should he do? Lure them away, ensure Sirius's safety first, or try to contain them immediately?
Anthony moved with extreme care, calling mentally to his pets. The Wraith Mouse tried to sneak into the tent from the other side but was blocked by the protective enchantments. The cat climbed a tree, silently closing in. The Wraith Chicken waited in the woods, ready to burst forth.
A breeze shifted the figure. A faint glint of light revealed the face. Anthony's breath caught. It was Sirius. He sat with his back against the tent, knees drawn up, head bowed, his shoulder-length hair falling to either side of his face. He seemed to be studying something in his hands. He gave his head a slight shake to clear the hair from his eyes, and the object in his hand flashed.
Anthony stood, confused. What was Sirius doing out here?
Sirius's head snapped up. He looked directly at Anthony's position, sprang to his feet, wand drawn. "Who's there?"
"Sirius," Anthony called out.
"Oh. Henry." Sirius's wand didn't lower. "Prove it."
Anthony thought for a second. "Voldemort isn't lamb chops."
Sirius lowered his wand. "What are you doing up so early?"
Anthony walked over. "I wake up early often. What are you doing?" He finally saw the small mirror in Sirius's left hand.
"Nothing," Sirius shrugged. "I wake up early often too." He tucked the two-way mirror back into his pocket carelessly and rummaged inside. "Chocolate Frog?"
"Brilliant, thanks." Anthony sat down beside him, pulled out his wand, and Summoned his sleeping bag over to the awning.
The cat dropped from the tree, shaking its wet fur with disgust. Sirius reached out to pet it; it immediately hissed, spat, and swiped at him with unsheathed claws. Anthony scooped it up, deposited it onto his lap and into the sleeping bag. The cat wriggled free, shredded several long gashes in the fabric, tail held high, and leapt off into the woods towards the chicken.
"Reparo," Anthony said, almost on autopilot.
"Most cats don't like me," Sirius observed.
"Mine doesn't like anyone," Anthony said. "Sometimes I think it's just tolerating me."
"Right," Sirius said, watching the Wraith Mouse scuttle across the grass and vanish into the dark trees. "Has anyone ever told you your choice of pets is a bit… odd?"
Anthony thought for a moment. "Someone might have implied it." He glanced at Sirius. "It was Snape."
Sirius's mouth snapped shut. He chewed his Chocolate Frog in silence for a long while. Finally, he asked, "What's the plan for today?"
"Figure out how to pack up the tent," Anthony suggested. "Then we can check the remaining places on the list, decide if we want to focus on the unicorn hunt."
Sirius said nothing.
"Or we see what the Luck Compass suggests?" Anthony said, pulling it out.
Sirius tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Henry, the Luck Compass isn't a divination tool. It doesn't bring actual luck. In fact—ow!" He suddenly stood, flung open the tent flap, and ducked inside.
Anthony followed. "What is it?"
Sirius had already disappeared into the closet in a flurry of motion. A series of clatters and bangs echoed from the dim compartment. The motorbike now blocked the corridor, so Anthony leaned on the handlebars, trying to see what he was doing.
Sirius let out a triumphant shout.
"I can't believe I forgot!" he crowed, popping his head out of the closet, beaming. "This, Henry, is what actually brings luck."
He jumped out, opened his palm, and presented Anthony with a tiny glass phial. It was corked, covered in intricate silver filigree, and filled with a swirling, liquid gold so bright it seemed to glow.
"Felix Felicis," Sirius declared, then hesitated. "Well… that's what my mother's cellar said it was."
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