Under Dumbledore's lead, the group made their way out of the Forbidden Forest.
Unable to hold back any longer, Harry finally spoke up, "Professor Dumbledore, I need to know—who was that cloaked figure? And why does my scar hurt so much whenever I see him?"
Draco also turned to Dumbledore with curiosity written all over his face, while Wentworth remained calm—at least for the moment.
But that composure quickly faded.
Dumbledore's gaze swept across the three of them before finally settling on Wentworth. Then, he spoke.
"It seems that Wentworth has already figured out who that person is, haven't you?"
Harry and Draco turned to Wentworth in shock.
Meanwhile, Wentworth resisted the urge to roll his eyes and thought to himself:
Why is it always me? Why do I always have to be the one to explain? Can't you just say it yourself? This is between those 'chopstick brothers'—I'm just a bystander! Could you stop giving me so much attention?
Despite his inner grumbling, Wentworth smiled slightly and said, "Harry, Draco, when we saw that man tonight, what was he doing?"
The question took them by surprise. After a brief pause, Draco answered hastily, "He was drinking unicorn blood!"
Wentworth nodded slowly. "That's right. Unicorn blood can sustain life. Even if someone is on the brink of death, a single sip of unicorn blood can keep them alive—at least for a while."
His expression grew serious as he continued, "But unicorns are sacred creatures. The moment your lips touch their blood, you will be cursed for eternity."
He paused, then turned his gaze directly to Harry.
"As for why your scar hurts? That's because that cloaked figure—the one who dares not show his true face—is the very same person who left that scar on your forehead."
His voice grew even quieter, but its weight pressed heavily on the air.
"A man so desperate to survive that he drinks unicorn blood, a man who marked you with that scar... Tell me, who do you think he is?"
As Wentworth spoke, the answer became increasingly obvious. And because the truth was so undeniable, Harry and Draco were completely stunned.
After a long silence, Draco suddenly let out a shrill cry, making Wentworth jump.
"Ahhh! Wentworth, are you serious? It's really him? Are you saying that the one we saw was... was You-Know-Who? It was Vold...e...mort?!"
Draco was nearly hysterical.
Wentworth gave a firm nod.
Draco flailed his arms, as if he wanted to say something but didn't know how. Meanwhile, Harry stood frozen in place, completely overwhelmed.
At that moment, a noise came from ahead—then the sound of hurried footsteps. Shadows flickered in the darkness.
Wentworth immediately issued a warning: "Take my advice—don't tell anyone about Voldemort's return. It's for your safety, and for everyone else's."
Dumbledore's eyes filled with approval, while Harry and Draco nodded rapidly. Right now, the two of them had absolute trust in Wentworth.
Just then, a familiar voice called out:
"Thank Merlin! Dumbledore found you lot just in time—y'alright?"
Hagrid came bounding towards them, with Ron and Hermione close behind.
The half-giant carefully examined Harry, Draco, and Wentworth, checking for injuries. Seeing that they were a little dirty but unharmed, he let out a deep sigh of relief.
Moments later, the sound of more footsteps echoed from behind Hagrid. Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and several others emerged from the darkness.
After a brief conversation with Dumbledore, they escorted the students back to the castle.
Meanwhile, inside Hogwarts Castle, Argus Filch was patrolling the corridors when he sensed something flicker past behind him.
He spun around—but saw nothing.
Shrugging it off, he resumed his patrol. But after just a few steps, he noticed his cat, Mrs. Norris, had stopped in front of a door, completely still, as if something behind it had caught her attention.
Filch narrowed his eyes and stepped cautiously down the hallway, muttering, "Alright, who's the little rascal sneaking about instead of being in bed? Who's there? Show yourself—I've seen you!"
He was in no hurry. Whoever was behind that door had nowhere to run. In fact, he was already thinking about how he would punish the student he was about to catch.
But as he reached the door, he frowned.
It was the office of this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Professor Quirrell.
Filch's face fell in disappointment. With an irritated sigh, he nudged Mrs. Norris aside and continued his patrol.
Behind the door, pressed against the wood, Professor Quirrell stood trembling. One hand clutched his stomach, the other gripped his wand. Only when Filch's footsteps faded did he finally let out a shaky breath.
And then—a voice hissed from the back of his head.
"You fool. You've failed me again."
The words sent a chill down Quirrell's spine, snapping him out of his dazed state from blood loss.
Trembling, he stammered, "M-my lord, I-I didn't expect—a second-year student—to know such powerful Dark magic! I—"
"Idiot!" the voice cut him off, seething with rage. "A second-year student? Even now, you still believe he's just a normal second-year?!"
Quirrell immediately corrected himself, "Forgive me, my lord. I misspoke. He is... an exceptionally gifted second-year student."
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Quirrell was so used to being berated that the quiet unsettled him. Finally, he hesitantly whispered, "M-my lord?"
After another pause, the voice behind his head spoke again, this time laced with exhaustion.
"Are you truly a Ravenclaw graduate? Has that ragged old hat finally gone blind with age?"
Quirrell shuddered, swallowing hard.
The voice was weary—but far from defeated.
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