The key to a good lie is timing. And props. And if you're particularly theatrical, maybe a bit of sparkle—though in my case, that bit of sparkle would come later. At the moment, I didn't even have the paint.
Which was, frankly, unacceptable.
I adjusted my scarf—not because I was cold, but because I was stewing over the fact that I'd completely forgotten about the unicorn deaths. The five unicorns. How had I missed that? I'd known it would happen. I'd read it. Seen it. Lived with it. And still, somehow, I'd let the reality of the moment slip through the cracks.
Had I not looked out the window this morning, I wouldn't have even noticed the corpses lying by Hagrid's Hut.
I didn't feel guilt, not exactly. But I did feel… disturbed. Something close to shame, wrapped in frustration. I was supposed to be ahead of things. That was the deal. That was the entire reason I existed outside the story—to predict, to manipulate, to survive.
So why had this hit me like a punch to the chest?
The irritation simmered in my chest, bubbling just beneath the surface as Hermione launched into her morning lecture.
"You're off by three decimal points," I said, mostly to cover my scowl. "Which in potion measurements is the difference between curing boils and growing teeth on your kneecaps."
Hermione waved the parchment at me like a duelist with a wand. "I am not off! You just make things up when you don't want to admit I'm right!"
"What's your point?" I said shamelessly, tossing her a grin. It was easier to keep smiling than explain that my head was now filled with panic and paint plans. I couldn't let her see that something was off.
We turned the corridor, and that's when I heard it—Hagrid's voice, low and shaken, behind a thick tapestry.
"…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."
In Hagrid's arms was a baby unicorn.
My blood went cold as I instinctively moved in front of Hermione, shielding the view.
They shifted their positions slightly behind a banner as they talked, which thankfully moved the foal from clear view.
Behind the fabric, Dumbledore's voice answered, calm but serious.
"The Centaurs have said nothing yet?"
"No, sir. Not a word. And that makes it worse, don't it? If even they are scared…"
"…silver blood all over the leaves. The poor thing—must've been terrified."
I exhaled slowly.
I'd forgotten. I forgot. How could I forget?
I couldn't fix the past. But I could shift the present. Guide it. Point Harry in the right direction without ever appearing on his path. Because if no one else was going to act on this, then I would. I'd lead him like a shadow.
"Unicorns don't just die," I said quietly. "Not unless something desperate is hunting them."
Hermione glanced at me, surprised at the seriousness in my tone. But I didn't give her long to process.
I elbowed her gently and forced a grin. "Come on. Ron's already two sausages ahead of us. If we let him get to the hash browns, it's civil war."
"I heard that!" Ron barked from around the corner.
As we entered the Great Hall, I mentally reorganized my day. First stop after breakfast: paint.
The Great Hall buzzed with morning chatter and clinking cutlery. I kept my posture slouched and my smile lazy, the picture of a bored first-year.
But my mind was anything but lazy.
Quirrell looked awful. Pale, damp, twitchy. Every motion screamed of something wrong, something half-alive. I chewed toast absently while planning which corridor to use for the robe. Which book I'd need to plant. And the paint.
This wasn't about mischief anymore. This was about balance. About making sure things played out with just the right push.
After breakfast, I made my way up alone—Hermione had darted off to fetch a forgotten textbook, and Ron had vanished in pursuit of his third helping of pumpkin pasties. I used the opportunity to head straight for the Room of Requirement, my steps quiet, my purpose sharp.
The Room of Requirement didn't disappoint. It never did.
Inside: my tools, my supplies, my carefully labeled vials. I grabbed the smallest jar of silver paint, still magically reactive but subtle enough for fabric use, and one of my older handkerchiefs. No blood, no danger—just suggestion.
By the time I returned to the main corridor, I found Hermione waiting by the stairs, arms folded and eyebrow raised.
"Where did you wander off to?"
"Nowhere dangerous," I said with a grin. "Just had an idea I needed to capture before it slipped away."
She gave me a narrowed look, but said nothing more as we walked back toward our next class.
"I'm telling you, unicorn hair is the most stable wand core," she said, mid-rant.
"Until it frays," I replied. "You've never seen a wand backfire during a sneezing fit."
"That's not a thing."
"It is. Just not a legal thing."
She scowled. I grinned. And under the table, slipped the now-painted handkerchief into a pouch.
The day was just beginning.
Between classes, I waited until Hermione became distracted by a curious notice board near the stairwell—the kind that always seemed to list half-true club announcements and mysterious chess tournaments that may or may not have been real. While she puzzled over whether or not the "Enchanted Badger Society" actually existed, I slipped away unnoticed. I drifted down the corridor toward Quirrell's office with casual confidence and a touch of aimless wanderer.
The hallway was mostly empty. Quirrell was coughing again, bent over a desk nearby. Perfect.
I leaned briefly against the doorframe, watching his hand fumble with a bundle of tissues.
"Professor?" I said, slipping into the room like I belonged. "You dropped this."
I held out a folded cloth—my handkerchief, the silver paint now dry and perfectly streaked for effect.
Quirrell took it with a mumbled thanks. He looked too exhausted to question anything.
Hermione spotted me rejoining her moments later. She didn't ask where I'd gone.
Bless her. She really did believe I was just always around.
In the library that afternoon, I managed to sneak the marked Defense book onto a table just before Harry and Ron walked in.
Hermione had me pinned in another debate, this one over wand cooking.
"Sky, caramelizing onions with a wand is not practical or precise. You'd burn half of them."
"You say that, but I've never met an onion that didn't deserve to be flambéed."
"You're impossible."
"And yet, still charming."
She rolled her eyes. I nudged the book into place with my elbow.
As the sun dipped lower, I made one last detour.
The robe went into the alcove near the staff hallway, just barely visible beneath a forgotten cleaning cloth. I fluffed it a little for dramatic flair and let the painted silver glimmer faintly beneath the folds.
That done, I walked away without looking back.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell coughed into my handkerchief.
The silver caught the light.
Hermione leaned in. "You've drawn that same fox five times."
"I'm working on tail physics."
"It's Defense class."
"Tail defense."
She groaned. I added a monocle to the fox.
That night, as I crossed the landing above the Gryffindor common room, I heard Ron's voice drifting up.
"You think he's the one killing the unicorns?"
Harry said something in a lower tone. I caught the word "silver."
I didn't pause. Just smiled, pulled out a book.
Now the waiting game.
I should also find a way to keep Quirrell distracted.
Also, If I hammer enough of these clues into Harry, I may be able to speed up cannon.
I suddenly had a grim thought. 'How many unicorns died in cannon? and did I make it worse by putting Quirrell into his desperate situation? Shit, I hate this.'