The next Potions class began much like any other—cold, dimly lit, and scented with strange brews. Today, however, Professor Snape had something different in mind: a simple restorative draught, one few first-years mastered.
Neville approached his cauldron with trepidation. He murmured the incantation, stirred the mixture exactly fourteen times, and held his breath. To everyone's astonishment, when he tipped the completed potion into a test vial, it glowed a gentle lavender instead of exploding in a shower of sparks. Snape's dark eyes widened.
"Well done, Longbottom," the professor said quietly. "An… acceptable sample."
The class fell silent; Neville blinked at his vial, then at Snape, relief flooding his face. Hermione and Seamus exchanged delighted looks, and even a few Ravenclaws offered polite applause.
Afterward, students clustered around Neville. "How did you do it?" one asked.
Neville blushed and, in true Neville fashion, admitted, "I… I have private lessons."
At lunch, word spread quickly. A small knot of students cornered Harry at the Gryffindor table.
"Potter, did you teach him?"
Harry nodded. "But it's not free—100 Galleons per subject, per year."
A hush fell. Some students' faces paled; several quietly slipped away. But seven resolute souls remained—eager to learn.
"We'll meet in the unused classroom on the second floor " one declared, and the group nodded in agreement.
Harry allowed himself a small smile. Seeds planted.
That night, as the castle settled into quiet, Harry studied in his dormitory. The candlelight flickered across the pages of a rune book when a strange uneasiness prickled his heart—a silent call pulling him toward the Forbidden Forest.
Donning his cloak, Harry crept from the tower and followed the feeling through winding corridors, past sleeping statues, and out into the chilly night air. The forest loomed before him, dark and ancient. His heart thudded, but he pressed on.
Deep within the trees, he found it: a pure white unicorn lying in a small clearing, its flank torn and lungs heaving with pain. Harry's breath caught. Voldemort's cruelty, he thought, sensing the dark magic corrupting the wound.
Suddenly, a ripple of anger and desperation washed over him from the shadows—Quirrellmort watching, torn by his master's legacy. Harry's hand went to his wand.
"Bombarda!" he cried, and the forest echoed with the blast. Quirrell dodged but staggered. Without pause, Harry followed up, "Confringo!"
The second spell struck true. Quirrellmort hissed in pain, then fled into the darkness, too weakened to continue the fight.
Harry knelt beside the unicorn, which watched him calmly, trust shining in its pale eyes. He whispered, "It's okay. I'm here."
He first cast Episkey, soothing the unicorn's broken flesh. But the black magic remained, pulsating like poison beneath the skin. Harry frowned—he knew no healing spell strong enough to purge that corruption.
Then he remembered the Phoenix Force's purifying fire. Gathering a small flame in his palm—gentle, golden—he hovered it above the wound. His heart pounded as he let the warmth flow into the unicorn.
To his relief, the flame passed through the flesh without harm, burning away the dark taint. The unicorn's breathing steadied, and it nickered softly, nuzzling Harry's hand in gratitude.
Harry exhaled, exhaustion washing over him. He rose, brushing leaves from his robe.
To be continued…