It wasn't even halfway down the staircase when Harry heard it—Hagrid's voice, low but unmistakable, rumbling behind a thick tapestry just off the corridor.
"…Sixth one this week, Professor. I—I don't know what's doin' it, but it ain't normal. This one was just a foal."
Harry froze. Ron, who had been grumbling about needing a third helping of toast, stopped mid-step.
Behind the tapestry, Dumbledore's voice followed, quieter but firm.
"The Centaurs have said nothing yet?"
"No, sir. Not a word. And that makes it worse, don't it? If even they are scared…"
Harry leaned a little closer, holding his breath.
"…silver blood all over the leaves. The poor thing—must've been terrified."
A faint shuffle from behind them made him straighten suddenly. Sky Kingston had caught up, walking side by side with Hermione. The two were deep in one of their usual rapid-fire discussions. Hermione was waving a parchment accusingly, and Sky looked amused as always.
"You're off by three decimal points," Sky said, shaking his head. "Which in potion measurements is the difference between curing boils and growing teeth on your kneecaps."
"I am not off," Hermione snapped, "you just make things up when you don't want to admit I'm right."
"Guilty," Sky said brightly. Then, catching the look on Harry's face, he paused. "What'd I miss?"
"Unicorns," Ron mumbled, "Dead ones."
Sky's expression didn't change, but something about the way he blinked made Harry wonder if he'd heard the whole conversation already.
"Fifth?" Sky asked, voice quieter than usual. "Unicorns don't just die. Not unless something desperate is hunting them."
Hermione looked visibly disturbed. "That's… awful."
Sky nodded solemnly. "Yeah."
Then, as if flipping a mental switch, he bumped Hermione's shoulder and smiled. "Come on, Ron's already two sausages ahead of us. If we don't hurry, we'll have to fight him for the hash browns."
"I heard that!" Ron said indignantly, leading the way into the Great Hall.
The food tasted fine. The tension did not.
Harry couldn't stop glancing at the staff table. Quirrell looked terrible. Worse than usual. Pale, shaking, sunken eyes like he hadn't slept in weeks. He barely touched his food. Every few seconds, his hand would twitch toward his throat, fingers brushing the edge of his turban.
"Looks like he's about to cough up a lung," Ron muttered.
"Maybe he's allergic to his own fear," Sky offered from farther down the table, where he and Hermione were now arguing about wand core compatibility and the morality of binding contracts.
"I'm telling you, phoenix feather is overrated," Sky insisted. "It's dramatic, sure, but give me dragon heartstring any day. Practical. Reliable. Less likely to burst into flames when you're trying to make toast."
"That is not a real concern," Hermione argued.
"You've clearly never made breakfast with a wand that has opinions."
"Your wand doesn't have opinions. You do. And they're terrible."
"Oh, but they're well-dressed opinions. That counts for something."
Harry watched them for a moment. Sky seemed relaxed, but somehow… more alert than usual. His eyes kept flicking toward the staff table, then away again.
Was he suspicious too?
Harry shook the thought away.
Later that afternoon, after a double Charms lesson, Harry made an excuse to run back to the common room alone—he'd forgotten his parchment, he said.
In truth, he just needed to think.
He was passing the corridor near the staff wing when something caught his eye.
A black robe—crumpled near a laundry alcove. Nothing strange about that, usually.
Except this one had silver stains along the cuffs.
Harry crouched, heartbeat quickening. The shimmer was faint, but unmistakable. Not ink. Not dust. Something thicker. Sticky.
He didn't touch it. Just stared.
"Silver blood…" he whispered.
Behind him, faint voices—Sky and Hermione, walking the corridor.
"…if unicorn hair holds loyalty," Sky was saying, "imagine what unicorn blood holds. Or demands."
Hermione sounded disgusted. "Let's not imagine that. Please."
They walked past without noticing him. Sky didn't even glance in his direction.
But something about the timing made Harry's skin crawl.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was miserable.
Quirrell could barely stay upright. He wheezed through the lesson, barely managing to write a few notes on the board before retreating to his chair.
His handkerchief, when he coughed into it, caught the light.
Silver.
Harry sat stiffly in his chair, notebook untouched.
No one else seemed to notice. Ron was busy sketching dragons in the margin of his page. Neville was half-asleep.
Sky was two rows back, doodling as usual. Hermione beside him, murmuring corrections under her breath.
"You've drawn that same fox five times," she whispered.
"I'm trying to perfect the tail angle. There's grace in swoosh, Hermione."
"It's a Defense class. The only swooshing should be spellwork."
"Tell that to Professor Coughsalot up front."
Hermione nearly snorted but stifled it with her sleeve.
Harry's eyes flicked from the handkerchief… to Quirrell's shaking hands… to the turban.
No. He wasn't going to jump to wild conclusions.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
That night, the fire in the Gryffindor common room crackled softly. Most of the house had gone to bed.
Harry sat in one of the squashy armchairs, staring into the flames. Ron joined him, dragging a blanket and a half-eaten Chocolate Frog.
"You've gone quiet," Ron said, chewing. "That's never good."
Harry didn't answer right away.
Finally: "I think something's wrong with Quirrell."
Ron blinked. "You think he's the one killing the unicorns?"
"I don't know. But he's hiding something. He's sick—really sick—and he's getting worse. And that stain… the silver…"
Ron sat up straighter. "Like the stuff Hagrid said? From the unicorn?"
Harry nodded.
Ron whistled low. "That's… bad. Really bad."
"I just… I don't know what it means yet."
Ron hesitated, then said, "Should we tell someone?"
Harry looked toward the stairs. Thought of Dumbledore. Then thought of how little anyone ever really told them.
"…Not yet," he said.
Upstairs, on the landing, Sky Kingston walked silently past the boy's dorms, a thick book under one arm and a feather quill tucked behind his ear.
He didn't look down at the common room.
He didn't need to.