Chapter 179 – The Expanding Field
Time: 11:30 p.m., in the Forbidden Forest.
Alexander Smith floated high above the group, unseen.
Around him, invisible magic shimmered like scattered starlight, pouring endlessly from him into the night.
In that moment he was like a living white hole, a source of infinite energy feeding into the world below.
The magical trait of the so‑called perpetual motion machine, once thought useless, now revealed its true worth in Alexander's hands.
Beneath him, the Forbidden Forest itself was subtly shifting. Every movement, every whisper, even the thoughts of those within it were subtly guided by Alexander's influence.
The hidden domain he had cultivated—his Moon Phantom Territory—overlapped invisibly with the dark trees, though none of those below sensed it.
Far behind the group, Albus Dumbledore watched intently. The Elder Wand in his hand felt heavy, almost inert; a mere relic compared to the forces Alexander wielded.
Dumbledore's sharp mind, shaped by Grindelwald's old philosophies, was unsettled by the futuristic feeling of Alexander's power.
But this domain would not harm him. It was power at Level Seven—beyond ordinary comprehension, yet restrained.
Even so, Dumbledore quickly shifted his attention back to Hagrid and the students.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, Tom Riddle's fractured soul—bound within Professor Quirrell—moved like a shadow. Voldemort's current form was pitifully incomplete, yet still more powerful and destructive than most living wizards.
Even with the Elder Wand, Dumbledore might only match him.
But against someone like Alexander, a wizard who had touched true Level Seven mastery, Voldemort was nothing more than a curious insect—dangerous, yes, but fragile and predictable.
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Starlight coalesced between Alexander's hands. He shaped it into a noble, silver‑white stallion—a magical construct so perfect it appeared alive. It landed softly among the leaves, its body gleaming with an ethereal light.
Any magizoologist would have sworn it was a unicorn.
But it was not.
It was Alexander's creation, a bait designed to draw Voldemort out.
And it worked.
Far ahead, Quirrell—still under Voldemort's control—felt the surge of pure, radiant magic. His hunger sharpened.
Hagrid, Harry, Ron, and Draco followed the trail of shimmering blood, deeper and deeper into the ancient trees. They knew nothing of the false lure leading them on.
Originally, Alexander had planned to simply watch and see how Dumbledore's scheme unfolded.
But when he sensed the real wounded unicorn nearby, his calm broke.
He hated it.
Hated the cruelty, the needless suffering.
If he had been weak, he might have had to endure, to wait for the right moment. But now? There was no need to be patient.
Compared to the beasts of old, most modern wizards were fragile—overly reliant on their little wooden wands. Without them, even skilled alumni of great schools could manage only trivial sparks of magic with gestures.
How, Alexander wondered bitterly, had such people come to dominate?
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Deeper in the shadows, Voldemort showed why.
Through Quirrell's body, he demonstrated the terrifying elegance of high‑level wizard combat.
The false unicorn screamed, its luminous blood dripping like falling stars—only to coil back into its body as Quirrell chanted strange incantations, drawing out its essence in cruel increments.
The creature's form blurred and darted, turning into streaks of light that struck at Quirrell in rapid succession. Yet each time its horn neared him, the spellwork around him twisted reality itself, slowing the strike, unweaving the attack.
It wasn't brute force; it was geometry, rhythm, and mastery of magical flow.
Even Filius Flitwick, with his famed Shield Charms, would struggle against such relentless precision.
Quirrell's hands moved like a chef's, his chants steady, his mind focused solely on siphoning life from the beast. The unicorn's noble power fought back, but its singular magic made it vulnerable to a master's counter‑techniques.
Alexander understood.
The Ministry's danger ratings for magical creatures weren't random—they reflected this truth. The more varied a creature's magic, the harder it was to subvert. That was why Cerberus‑type beasts, with their mixed magics, were so difficult, while a unicorn, despite its power, could be trapped by someone of Voldemort's skill.
The unicorn's body buckled. It raised its head and lunged, horn aimed at Quirrell's chest in a final desperate charge.
But the possessed professor did not move.
Instead, his incantation cut off abruptly—and the unicorn froze, its veins bulging, silver blood gushing directly into Quirrell's waiting mouth.
A terrible silence followed, broken only by the sound of liquid life being drained away.
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Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, Draco, and Hagrid pressed onward through the underbrush.
The path narrowed, twisted, and grew choked with roots. The air smelled of iron. A tree root ahead was spattered with blood, thick and drying, as if the animal had thrashed in agony nearby.
Through the tangled branches of an ancient oak, they saw it: a clearing lit by ghostly moonlight.
"Look," Hagrid whispered, throwing an arm out to stop them.
Something pale gleamed on the ground.
Hagrid motioned them to stay back and stepped forward carefully.
A unicorn lay there, still and silent. Its long legs were stretched unnaturally, its pearl‑white mane spilling across dark leaves. Its body was unnervingly dry, most of its blood already gone.
And then Hagrid froze.
Because he saw it.
The killer was still there.
In the shadow beyond the corpse crouched a hooded figure, hunched like a beast, mouth pressed to the wound in the unicorn's side, drinking what little blood remained.
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(End of Chapter 179)
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