Chapter 124: Quirrell's Choice, Newt Arrives
In a little cottage in Dorset.
"Newt, are you finished?"
Hearing his wife call, Newt answered at once, "All done, darling. I will be right in bed."
He flicked his wand and dried the water from his clothes. It was the Kelpie courting season, and he needed to keep a close eye on things so a few Kelpies did not turn the Water Habitat upside down and disturb neighboring spaces.
"Mr. Scamander!"
With that familiar voice, a pale gold shape appeared right in front of him. Surprised that Aurelius had not knocked this time, Newt still smiled. "Oh, Aurelius. Has Leonardo sent you to deliver—"
Before he could finish, Aurelius cut in, breathless. "Mr. Scamander, the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest…"
As he spoke, he passed over the note he had been carrying on a bank of auspicious cloud and hit the key points in a rush. Sensing how grave it was, Newt scanned the paper quickly.
"Unicorn. Full term. Badly injured…"
He muttered it under his breath, then tapped his wand. A trench coat flew to his shoulders. His scuffed brown leather case sailed into his hand. He went to Apparate toward the Forbidden Forest on instinct—only for Aurelius to step forward and whisk him away in a blink.
A few minutes later.
A voice yawned in the cottage. "Newt, if the Kelpie is settled, do come to bed…"
Getting no answer, Tina rubbed her eyes, padded into the sitting room, and looked around the empty space. "Where did he go?"
…
In a cave somewhere in the Forbidden Forest.
A green flame shed a little light into the gloom.
"Quirrell" swung his wand without expression and stanched the blood at the shoulder. He peeled the clotted, silver‑white, viscous liquid from his cloak and mask and gathered it in the air into a hovering ball.
A second later, his features twisted.
"Ah—"
The hoarse cry tore out of his throat. Not only the pain of the severed limb, but the ache of flesh drained and warped into magic gnawed at him. He felt as though his soul had been kneaded and ripped.
He slumped against the stone wall and dragged in air.
"Drink it."
The cold, indifferent voice spoke in his mind.
At Voldemort's command, Quirrell clenched his jaw and stared at the ball of silver‑white blood floating before him. That thick, mercury‑like fluid looked like poison.
He knew what drinking unicorn blood meant. It would prop up his shattered life. The price was to become a cursed, half‑living thing.
His head roared with pain, his thoughts torn to tatters. He could not make sense of it.
Why?
Why had this night gone this way?
The long‑laid plan had failed entirely. He had not taken the unicorn foal's blood. When that strange creature appeared, Voldemort had changed the aim again, demanding its blood. And the result?
He had spent Quirrell's own flesh, driven an already failing life to the cliff's edge, and even that borrowed magic had not done the job. He had no blood from that creature.
No—judging by the agony when it touched him, even if he had it, he might not have been able to drink it and have Voldemort recover more quickly.
All he had was the male unicorn's blood. Quirrell would bear the curse.
He had lost an arm. His life truly guttered like a candle in the wind.
"If you do not drink, you will die tonight."
Voldemort's tone did not change, unmoved by Quirrell's thoughts or life. At worst, he would find another host and begin again. On the road to immortality, Voldemort had gone too far. With so many Horcruxes, who could truly kill him?
Whether Quirrell's line worked or not, Voldemort could wait.
Quirrell could not.
Drink the blood and drag this ruined body on, or let it end here in an unknown cave.
While he hesitated, the green flame guttered out.
He did not know how long had passed.
Glug.
A faint sound of swallowing echoed in the cave.
…
Inside the dome of red‑gold fire.
Leonardo's brow was a hard line as he cast out a dozen slender threads of magic from his wand. He traced Seleneia's wounds and the foal's, stitching where he could and pushing Qilin's spittle's life force to speed the healing.
Beside him, Asterion paced in fretful circles. His injury was lighter by comparison—his throat cut and much blood lost, but no Dark curse or potion poison in the wound. With Qilin's spittle to help, he could already move.
He lowered his head and touched his mate's horn, whickering a raw, grieving sound.
Leonardo wiped sweat from his brow. "The trouble is the potions. That composite poison is too hard to clear… And the foal—beyond the torn flesh, its magical pathways—how did they go wrong? Qilin blood brims with life far beyond spittle, but it does not seem to repair pathways."
As he worked, Leonardo felt something and looked up. Aurelius appeared, and with him a tall, thin, curly‑haired older man in a trench coat.
Asterion startled at the sight of a stranger and lifted his head, horn shining. "Asterion!" Leonardo's low command checked him, and Aurelius explained that this was help.
The unicorn dimmed the light at once and dipped his head to Newt.
Newt did not speak to Leonardo right away. He went straight to Seleneia's side, turned his wand into a trumpet‑like tool, wider at one end than the other, pressed the wide end to her belly and the narrow to his ear. After a moment, he spoke quickly.
"The foal is full term—today might have been the day. But the mother's too badly injured; she can't deliver." He indicated the deep slash across her abdomen. "The foal's worse off. We're out of time. We cut here, then treat mother and child separately."
Leonardo nodded. "Tell me what you need."
Newt flipped open his case. A worktable flew out, then bottles, jars, and a complete array of brewing tools. Without looking up, he poured liquids and powders, some to smear on the wound, some to feed the mare.
"Please brew me a few extra potions. The steps are…"
Leonardo listened, set his hands to the ingredients, and worked fast.
"Mr. Scamander, the foal's magical pathways are damaged. There is a clear break."
Newt's hands faltered. "That… I have never seen pathways repaired."