Quirrell was growing impatient, but as a dual-soul vessel, he immediately sensed Voldemort's rising irritation.
In truth, Quirrell had much to envy from his peers among the Death Eaters. Countless dark wizards dreamed of drawing even close to their lord, let alone forging such an intimate bond. Sharing a body with Voldemort was a privilege beyond their wildest aspirations.
"Master, please don't be angry," Professor Quirrell said quickly. "Erwin must have been delayed by something. You know he has to dodge so many people leaving the castle. If he's spotted, it'll ruin your plans entirely."
Voldemort's mind was clouded in his weakened state, and Quirrell's words rang true enough. He grunted, his fury ebbing slightly.
Quirrell exhaled almost inaudibly, relief washing over him. He'd bought a little more time—for now. Fooling the Dark Lord was growing harder by the day. Deep down, Quirrell sighed. This was all he could manage for Erwin. Ever since Voldemort's possession had taken hold, a strange clarity had pierced his haze. No more falling for the Dark Lord's manipulations.
Before today, he'd harbored faint hopes of redemption. But with the unicorn's death imminent—even if he didn't strike the blow himself—there was no turning back. His fate was sealed, his life no longer his own. All he could do was shield Erwin from harm. After years of swallowing insults and enduring sneers while playing the coward, Erwin's light had pierced his shadows. For that alone, Quirrell would protect him at any cost.
Meanwhile, Erwin was bargaining with a flying broomstick on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort didn't know he could fly on his own, and Erwin intended to keep it that way. It might prove useful later. Showboating before the Dark Lord would be folly, especially after he'd just had a hearty bowl of soup.
His voice was soft, coaxing. "Just take me into the forest—slowly, and land easy. Deal?"
The broom beneath him remained still as any ordinary twig. Erwin's smile sharpened, a glint of steel in his eyes.
"Three seconds to get me airborne at the gentlest pace, or I'll feed you to the Slytherin fireplace to join your kin. Clear?"
His tone stayed mild, like a warm breeze or a suitor's whisper. But the broom quivered. It rose slowly, floating with exaggerated care. No rider had ever treated it so delicately.
Erwin's first broom flight was awkward—the wood chafed between his legs—but he endured. He didn't steer aggressively, just pointed ahead, and the broom complied at a snail's pace. Compared to the others' wild rides, his was glacial, rock-steady. He could have pulled out Professor McGonagall's notes for a read, but that would have been daft.
Before long, the broom touched down softly. Voldemort emerged from the trees, his hooded form impatient.
"You're late, Erwin."
Erwin dipped his head, face shadowed. "Apologies, Master. Filch was prowling the corridors. You know I can't risk using the broom openly outside the castle—too many eyes. McGonagall's on patrol tonight; she'd have me out on my ear."
Voldemort nodded curtly. "That wretched Squib, Filch. The filthy wretch. Hogwarts grows more pathetic by the day, sheltering his kind. Absurd. Come—let's move."
Erwin fell in step behind, ignoring the rant. Voldemort's blood purism was unshakable; arguing was pointless. Let him prattle— it changed nothing.
They pressed deeper into the Forbidden Forest's gloom. Voldemort broke the silence. "Tonight, we hunt a unicorn. You'll assist with the Rope Curse—Incarcerous—to bind it. In my prime, I'd have felled it with a thought. But now, in this frailty, I need you to distract it while I strike."
"Of course, Master," Erwin replied smoothly. "As your loyal apprentice, I'd give anything for you. I hate that my power falls short; I'd gladly take on the kill myself to spare you the effort."
Voldemort's approval was palpable. "Your devotion warms me, boy. When I rise again, your rewards will surpass your dreams. But heed this: slaying a unicorn brings a curse that dooms the killer. Your path needn't end in shadow."
Erwin blinked inwardly, caught off guard. Had the Dark Lord truly bought the act? This was veering into unexpectedly sentimental territory. No matter—he was a chameleon, adept at tailoring words to his audience, and Voldemort's fractured state was ripe for it.
They trekked on until Erwin's peripheral vision caught a flash of green—a Bowtruckle, peeking from behind a trunk. With a subtle flick of his wrist, Erwin signaled it to vanish. The creature scampered behind a thicker tree.
Voldemort paused. "What is it?"
"Nothing, Master," Erwin said casually. "Just wondering where the unicorn might show."
Voldemort smirked faintly. "Then let me impart a lesson. Books claim unicorns favor watery glades, deeming them pure and averse to filth. Nonsense. I've encountered enough magical creatures to know better. Unicorns shun water; they thrive where moonlight pools, their herds gathering in silvered clearings."