"Look closely—these silver stains are irregularly oval in shape. Here, here, and here."
Sherlock crouched down, pointing them out to Harry one by one.
"They clearly show signs of dragging and splattering.
That means the unicorn was running at speed or leaping—some intense movements.
It was clearly startled or frightened and bolted."
Sherlock looked up, his grey eyes gleaming.
"Even though Hagrid didn't give us much to go on, the unicorn has left behind an important trail.
I believe… we'll be meeting him very soon."
Hearing this, Harry tensed up. "What if we really do run into him…"
"Cast fire with your wand immediately, and strike without hesitation," Sherlock answered plainly.
"Got it!"
With the lead detective giving the order, Harry's resolve firmed.
This was exactly why Sherlock had brought him into the Forbidden Forest.
That ancient curse…
As the two boys and the dog delved deeper, the forest thickened, the path nearly impassable.
In contrast, bloodstains grew more frequent.
Sherlock even found a tree root almost completely dyed silver.
He knelt to inspect the blood and frowned in thought.
Fang was getting increasingly restless.
The dog even tried to tug Sherlock's robe, attempting to pull him back the way they came.
"Shh…"
But Sherlock had no intention of retreating.
After calming Fang, he stood. "Harry, stay hidden."
They stepped over the root and walked a few more paces. Sherlock came to a stop.
The silver blood trail curved around an ancient oak, and beyond it, a clearing opened up.
A heart-wrenching cry broke the silence.
Something white glinted on the ground ahead.
It was the unicorn Hagrid had been desperately searching for.
But its condition was dire.
Its legs were still twisted from the fall, its flawless white mane spread across the blackened leaves, and in its fading gaze, a flicker of pleading remained.
It was alive—but barely.
Sherlock didn't rush forward. Instead, he motioned for Harry and Fang to stay back and watch.
Just as he expected, the bushes at the edge of the clearing began to rustle.
Sherlock snapped to attention.
A hooded figure slithered out from the shadows, crawling toward the fallen unicorn.
He was unmistakably human, yet the way he crept—low to the ground, beastlike—was unnerving to the core.
Harry and Fang froze in horror.
The scene had paralyzed them.
But Sherlock, who had anticipated this, acted differently.
He slowly raised his wand, aiming at the cloaked figure.
Yes, fists were useful—but Sherlock hadn't forgotten: he was now a wizard.
The shadowed figure reached the unicorn, leaned down—
—and began to drink from the creature's wound.
The unicorn, dazed as it was, sensed its life ebbing away and let out a sorrowful cry.
Though its legs were shattered, it thrashed in defiance. The horn on its brow burst into radiant white light, as though trying to repel death itself.
But no light could stop what was happening.
Sherlock didn't hesitate. He fired the spell he'd prepared long ago:
"Petrificus Totalus!"
It struck with full force.
The figure, blindsided, was thrown back into the underbrush.
Harry and Fang finally snapped out of their stupor.
Fang yelped and bolted.
Just like Hagrid had said—he really was a coward.
Harry fought through his fear and raised his wand to launch fire, just like Sherlock had instructed.
But at that moment, a piercing pain shot through his scar—as though it had burst into flames.
He'd never felt anything like it.
Even when facing Snape—or rather, Quirrell—that time, it hadn't hurt this badly!
His vision swam. He staggered backward.
Sherlock gave him only a glance before casting his next spell toward the fallen attacker:
"Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse, when fully formed, packed a punch equal to several kilos of TNT.
However, it rebounded unpredictably upon impact.
Used too close, and you could easily blow yourself up.
Luckily, Sherlock was far enough, and he wasn't aiming precisely—just enough to test his luck.
As expected, a sneering grunt rang out. A magical shield shimmered into existence, deflecting the spell.
And a sinister voice followed:
"Interfering brat—DIE!"
The figure flicked his wrist and shouted:
"Reducto!"
But this Reductor Curse didn't behave like a normal one.
The black waves it unleashed crashed forward like a tide of destruction.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
That's not how Reducto is supposed to look. Has he… corrupted it?
He'd already moved to cover. As the enemy raised his hand, Sherlock was ready with another spell:
"Impedimenta!"
Sherlock's mind moved sharply, even in combat.
The moment the man drank the unicorn's blood, Sherlock had noticed something was off.
And after that modified Reducto spell—his heavy breathing, his sluggish movements—it was clear.
Based on Hagrid's words and his own knowledge of magical creatures, Sherlock was certain:
This man was clinging to life—and magic.
He needed the unicorn's blood.
Desperately.
Time was not on his side.
If even Hagrid arrived, he'd be in serious trouble.
Sherlock dashed forward, wand still raised.
He was a wizard.
But close combat was still his specialty.
Before the cloaked man could react, Sherlock was behind him.
The enemy tried to cast Protego silently—but he had no idea the attack wouldn't be a spell.
The blade had already been drawn.
With a swift motion, Sherlock plunged his sword into the man's exposed side.
Cold steel, glinting in the moonlight—his sword and wand gleamed in harmony.
Blood sprayed.
Unfortunately, Protego worked against physical force too.
The blade struck, but not deep enough—missing any vital organs.
Just then, a flare of red light burst into the sky.
Harry, fighting through the pain, had managed to raise his wand and fire the agreed-upon signal.
"Damn it!"
The cloaked figure cursed and tried to flee.
If Dumbledore saw that signal, it was over.
But just as he turned—
Agony ripped through his waist.
Sherlock had yanked the blade free and was ready to strike again.
The man froze.
This eleven-year-old—this child—was going for a second stab?!
What kind of mad bravery was this?!
"Outrageous!"
Fueled by fury, the man retaliated.
"Impedimenta!"
Same spell—but his still had bite.
Though he raised a shield charm in time, Sherlock's second strike was halted.
The man flew backward like an arrow, vanishing into the trees.
Sherlock, now freed from the spell, didn't lower his guard.
Instead, he pulled out a round shield he'd prepared earlier.
"Crucio!"
A shriek came from the trees. The scarlet glow of the Cruciatus Curse lit the entire forest.
Cautious, Sherlock didn't block.
He hurled the shield and dove aside.
BOOM!
The curse struck the shield head-on, the resulting shockwave tearing up the earth.
But the shield had held.
Sherlock exhaled.
He's gone. For real this time.
Harry ran over, helping Sherlock up.
"Sherlock, I—I'm sorry. My scar, it just—"
Leaning on Harry, Sherlock patted his shoulder.
"Dear Harry, pain that intense makes it impossible to concentrate. That's not your fault."
"How did you kno—"
Harry blinked, then sighed, remembering Sherlock's talents.
"But I didn't help at all—we were supposed to do this together, and I just stood there while you fought alone…"
"If you hadn't fired the signal, he wouldn't have run."
Sherlock nodded at the ground. "Harry, can you pick that up for me?"
Harry picked up the 'shield'—and froze.
This wasn't a shield.
It was a stack of rock-hard cakes—Hagrid's rock cakes—processed and pressed together, with a strap added on the back.
Harry gaped.
"Sherlock… you actually turned this into a shield?"
The shock was so great he forgot his guilt.
He remembered Sherlock once joking:
"If you don't treat it as food, but as a weapon or armor, it can be quite practical."
He had actually done it.
Sherlock, reading Harry's face, chuckled.
"It was practical, wasn't it?"
Harry: ○|￣|_
What could he say?
Just… total admiration.
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