Erwin's frustration was genuine, etched deep into his furrowed brow. Anyone watching might have assumed he truly couldn't recall the spell—and that's exactly what he wanted them to think.
Voldemort seethed with barely contained fury. But Erwin's expression rang true; the boy wasn't feigning ignorance. He really couldn't—or wouldn't—summon the Killing Curse on command.
Professor Quirrell, oblivious to his master's inner turmoil, sensed only the boiling rage radiating from the back of his head. He hastened to intervene. "Master, please, don't lose your temper! Erwin's still just a boy, and he hasn't had much practice with the Killing Curse. This is a real fight, after all—he's never even seen how unicorns battle. It's no wonder he's drawing a blank!"
Voldemort hadn't truly faulted Erwin in the first place. The young wizard was his most valued asset—his only real protégé, in fact. He respected Erwin's talents, whether they stemmed from his lineage or something more innate. Quirrell's words were mere icing on the cake; the Dark Lord's anger ebbed as he turned his attention back to the towering male unicorn charging toward them.
Yet resentment gnawed at him. Why had he crossed paths with one of these beasts here, of all places? Unicorn herds rarely boasted more than three males: the king and his two elite guards, often the king's own kin from his days of conquest. The rest were exiled upon maturity to found new herds—a pragmatic blend of instinct and survival, ensuring the species' bloodlines didn't stagnate. These majestic creatures, with their keen intelligence, knew better than to gamble everything on a single nest.
Erwin held back, conserving his magic. No point wasting it now. He couldn't let Voldemort slaughter the unicorn through Quirrell's body—that would invite a curse far worse than any spell. Whatever hold Voldemort had over Quirrell—promises of power or sheer terror—the professor was aiding in something monstrous. Erwin shook his head inwardly. The man must be deranged.
But a new dilemma loomed. What if Voldemort couldn't claim the unicorn's blood? Would he perish? Unacceptable—that would derail Erwin's entire term at Hogwarts.
He observed the clash, mind racing for a solution. Saving Quirrell's life might be feasible, but how? In the original tale, Voldemort clung to Quirrell's form like a parasite, their bond so toxic that Harry's protective blood scorched the host upon contact. Yet when Quirrell crumbled to ash, Voldemort's wraith escaped unscathed, drifting as a spectral remnant. It screamed inequality: Voldemort dominated, Quirrell endured the vulnerabilities of both soul and flesh. To sever the tie, Voldemort would have to will it himself.
Under what pressure might the Dark Lord abandon his vessel willingly?
Erwin's eyes gleamed with sudden inspiration. A reckless idea, but potentially brilliant. If it worked, he might end up with a spectral advisor of unparalleled cunning at his beck and call. The thought sent a thrill through him—Voldemort, leashed and loyal.
It would demand careful maneuvering, of course. But the seed was planted. Erwin began sketching the outlines in his mind.
Meanwhile, the duel between Voldemort and the Unicorn King hurtled toward its climax. Credit where due: the Dark Lord was a force of nature. Even reduced to a soul hitched to Quirrell's frail frame, he wielded power that could shatter mountains.
Erwin drank in the spectacle, committing every detail to memory. This was a masterclass in wizardry at its most lethal.
Voldemort's Apparition bordered on artistry. He'd strike from one angle, vanish in a swirl of dark smoke, then rematerialize elsewhere for a fresh assault. Without the System's generous head start—max-level Apparition from the outset—Erwin could never match that fluidity.
Apparition was no trifling charm; it was a rite reserved for wizards of age, tested and licensed for a reason. It exacted a toll on the mind: laser focus on your destination, an ironclad will to arrive, and the fortitude to withstand the spatial wrench that followed. One flicker of doubt, and you'd splinch yourself into oblivion.
Voldemort executed it effortlessly amid chaos, his concentration unyielding. Veteran wizards like him seemed immune to the disorienting tug of space. Erwin had once believed the discomfort faded after the first attempt, a mere rite of passage. But repeated practice revealed the truth: adaptation, not elimination. You grew numb to it, surrendering to the pull rather than resisting.
Combat Apparition amplified the peril tenfold. It demanded anticipating enemy strikes while scouting optimal counterangles—all in split seconds. The cognitive load was staggering.
Erwin's gaze never wavered, absorbing the lessons like a sponge. Such opportunities were rarer than dragon's teeth. Snape had mentioned that Dumbledore, in the interest of fairness for his looming Quidditch showdown with Grodia, would suspend the arena's anti-Apparition wards. Both combatants could pop in and out at will within the pitch. Erwin could have bypassed them anytime, but optics mattered. Snape insisted on the gesture to bolster Erwin's prefect credentials—no one wanted whispers of favoritism tainting his win.
A true duelist separated the Apparators from the amateurs. Erwin needed every edge, and shadowing Voldemort's style was priceless tuition.
In a blink, Voldemort Disapparated once more. He reappeared at Erwin's side, clamping a hand on the boy's shoulder before vanishing again in a rush of displaced air.
They rematerialized at the Forbidden Forest's edge, the treeline looming like silent sentinels.
Erwin met Voldemort's gaze, biting back a smirk. "Master," he said, voice laced with feigned concern, "you've gone completely off the rails!"