"I have to develop a flight spell."

As he sprinted through the Forbidden Forest, Tom urgently assigned this task to the old man inside his Learning Space. Forget whether it could surpass the combined effects of the Fleetfoot and Featherlight Charms in speed—just the elegance alone would be worth it.

Right now, with the sheer force of wind pressing against him, Tom's posture had degenerated into a full-on ninja run, like something out of Naruto. His path sent birds fleeing from treetops, and several timid magical creatures bolted in panic, abandoning their territories as he zipped past.

Inside the Learning Space, Grindelwald was forcibly summoned from Nurmengard, and Andros the Invincible startled awake from slumber.

The two watched the rapidly shifting forest scenery through Tom's vision and couldn't help but frown in confusion.

"Tom, what's going on? What's the emergency?" Andros asked, voice still groggy.

"My unicorn's being hunted. I'm going to save her. Running there like this is a joke—figure out a flight spell for me, ASAP." Tom replied mid-sprint, breath calm but tone sharp.

He didn't need to guess. The culprit had to be Quirrell. Alone, Quirrell wasn't a threat. But with Voldemort hitching a ride on his skull? Whole different story.

Tom, ever wary of death, had already prepped the Learning Space as backup. And if it came down to it, he'd throw Andros into the fray.

That was the proper way to handle this.

Grindelwald clicked his tongue. "Why not just use Apparition? What do you need a flight spell for? Style over substance, really."

"You could even manipulate air using Transfiguration," Andros added. "Turn it into solid blocks beneath your feet—hover that way."

"Heh."

Tom let out a cold laugh. "If you can't do it, just admit it. No wonder the history books call you a Dark Wizard and him the Dark Lord. Seems accurate."

Grindelwald shrugged off the jab—he was immune to this level of verbal sparring. Barely worth a deflection.

But then Tom landed a real blow:

"After all, the Headmaster handled you by sending Newt Scamander. But to deal with Voldemort? He's spent half his life and is still wracking his brains."

"You think I'm inferior to him?!" Grindelwald exploded.

He could accept someone being stronger—but Dumbledore caring more about someone else than him? Absolutely not.

"No one understands Dark Magic like I do! When I ruled across Europe, that nobody Voldemort wasn't even on the map!"

"Then quit yapping and start crafting that flight spell. Make me eat my words."

That shut Grindelwald up. Despite knowing this was Tom's obvious provocation, he couldn't ignore the truth buried in it. His competitive streak flared—he would show that glorified wraith who the real master of dark arts was.

Meanwhile, Tom kept up his furious pace, laughing inwardly as the old wizard took the bait.

The unicorn's icon on his hand was shifting directions constantly, and Tom followed it like a hawk. He could feel their distance closing—he was gaining ground. In the distance, he began to hear faint, desperate cries.

He vaulted over a thicket of birch trees—and finally saw it.

A black blur, serpent-like, slithered rapidly across the forest floor. The unicorn galloped ahead, panicked and bleeding, silver blood staining her coat. The black blur emitted ghostly pulses of light—several had already struck the unicorn, leaving cruel gashes.

Tom's gaze sharpened.

He raised his wand and fired a Blasting Curse, perfectly predicting the blur's path.

BOOM!

Earth and stone erupted, leaving a gaping crater. The blur was forced to halt.

A hooded figure rose from the bushes, voice hoarse and low.

"Med­dling little brat—"

"You brain-dead scum," Tom cut him off coldly. "Touch my unicorn again, and die."

He stepped between the figure and the unicorn, who had finally collapsed under an old tree, panting heavily. Sweat and silver blood mingled and trickled down her hide in haunting rivulets.

"Mmmmn..."

She let out a pitiful whimper. Tom could feel her grief—but now wasn't the time for affection.

His eyes never left the attacker.

ZING—!

A curse flew at him with no warning—silent and swift.

It struck his Protego Diabolica and ricocheted, smashing through a nearby tree.

Quirrell was panicking. He hadn't expected Tom to show up this fast. And with the noise building up, he'd wanted to flee.

But Voldemort hissed in his ear:

"Kill the boy. Now."

A Killing Curse? Already?

That wasn't first-year level anymore. That was war.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A streak of sickly green light surged from Quirrell's wand. Tom's shield spell couldn't stop it—no shield could.

There were only two ways to block a Killing Curse:

1. Another equally strong spell to cancel its power.

2. A living, magical creature with enough sentience to interrupt the death magic.

That was one of the reasons Voldemort feared Dumbledore. The man could conjure entire legions of sentient Transfigurations to absorb even the deadliest spells.

But Tom?

He didn't dodge.

He didn't flinch.

His golden eyes gleamed as he launched a crimson beam directly at the incoming death curse.

Magic collided mid-air with a shattering crack—red against green—like lightning striking fire. The energy crackled, exploded, and bathed the woods in electric white light.

Dragon's Might!

A wave of pressure rolled out from Tom's body—the aura of a higher being.

It slammed into Quirrell's mind like a thunderclap.

A ghostly dragon's roar echoed inside his skull. His muscles locked up. His grip loosened.

Tom's spell surged forward, obliterating the Killing Curse.

Quirrell regained his senses just in time to roll out of the way, instinctively sketching spell circles in the air.

A massive, thirty-foot serpent erupted from the earth, maw wide open, lunging toward Tom with monstrous speed.

CRACK—!

A thick, wooden arm burst from the base of a tree, seizing the snake by its throat. Then the entire tree ripped itself from the earth, branches whipping, roots flailing—joining the battle against the summoned beast.

Wood splinters flew. Blood sprayed. Forest shook.

Tom slashed his wand.

Sectumsempra.

Snape's signature spell—silent and deadly—sliced through the air.

Quirrell didn't even see it coming. A sharp scream ripped from his throat as the invisible blade found its mark.

He wasn't weak; not at all.

Among adult wizards, he was elite. Once a top Ravenclaw graduate, Quirrell had learned plenty under Voldemort's tutelage this past year.

The bumbling, stuttering persona he wore in class? Nothing but a mask.

This, was his true face.