Chapter Text
"Alas! Earwax!"
Dumbledore grimaced, and Harry gave a small laugh as he watched the Headmaster attempt to chew the deceitfully toffee-colored candy. The air was lightened after their deep conversation, but there was still an odd feeling Harry couldn't shake.
"Sir," he quietly began, "If Voldemort left Professor Quirrell to die..."
Dumbledore's expression sobered instantly, and he swallowed the candy. Before he could speak, Harry saw the change in his demeanor and finished the question before he could back out of asking it.
"...Is there a chance he could've survived? If someone had saved him?"
The long pause that came after had Harry wondering if he'd just gotten himself in trouble. Maybe Dumbledore was thinking he really did belong in Slytherin, if the thought of saving someone who worked for Voldemort had even crossed his mind. Or worse, he'd be expelled for being a traitor to the entire wizarding world.
What Dumbledore said instead filled him with equal parts relief and terror.
"He did survive."
"What!"
Shaking his head, he went on, "I should have told you. Letting you believe he died quickly was easier than the truth."
"The truth?" Harry asked, trying not to feel too disappointed that Dumbledore had tried to lie to him.
"The truth being, there's not much we can do now. We've managed to keep him alive this long, but I'm afraid he's beyond recovery. Most likely, he will die without waking up."
Harry was glad that at least the Hogwarts staff didn't seem to believe in passively letting people die, even if they were bad. Every other emotion he felt about the situation was too complex and confusing to pin down and focus on. He returned to the topic of the physical present instead.
"Was he really injured that badly?"
Dumbledore hesitated before answering, "If all he'd endured was the burning of his skin, I'd say it wouldn't be quite as dire. But you must understand, Harry, the effects of that sort of possession on the body--"
"Possession?" Harry cut in, his mind flooding with images of bleeding eyes and contorting limbs.
"Yes. Voldemort couldn't have attached himself to Quirrell's body without also attaching himself to his mind and spirit."
Harry did remember Voldemort mentioning people letting him into their minds, or something like that.
"In fact, I'd guess that the physical manifestation didn't appear for quite some time."
The imagery of possession Harry had seen in muggle films paled in comparison to the idea of having Voldemort talking inside his head.
"But then, does that mean Voldemort was in control of him the whole time?"
With a slight shake of his head, Dumbledore admitted, "That, I can't say. If Quirrell wakes up, he can tell us everything."
"And... if he dies?"
"We have other ways of finding out - we could right now if we wanted to - but I'd prefer to give him the chance to explain what happened for himself if he can."
Harry nodded, a whole new wave of even more conflicting emotions rising in him. The thought of magically taking information from an unconscious body felt wrong, but if Quirrell didn't make it then what other choice did they have?
And so that night, as he tried to sleep, Harry found himself hoping the man who had tried to kill him would live.
For the first time in months, Quirrell could hear his own thoughts.
This was not a good sign.
He tried to ask if anyone was there, but he couldn't move his mouth. He didn't think he could even feel it. Besides, if... He... was still here, there was no need to use his voice.
He couldn't remember what had led him here. The mirror hadn't given any clues as to the stone's location. Then the boy had shown up, and somehow he had the stone, and then all Quirrell could remember was pain.
Horror began to set in when he realized he couldn't feel most of his body. The obvious explanation was that he was dead, but if that were the case he wouldn't be starting to hyperventilate.
He had failed, and he was alone. The only thing keeping him from outright panicking was the fact that, for now, he was free from punishment.
But that didn't mean He wouldn't be back. Just because He had left his body didn't mean He wasn't coming back for him.
It gave him just as much hope as terror, but not as much terror as the thought of being left at the mercy of the Ministry. Or worse, Dumbledore.
It was too late for him to turn back and ask for help. He'd done too many horrible things to be let off with any sentence other than life in Azkaban. The thought that he could be forgiven and continue as a teacher was laughable.
No, he couldn't stay at Hogwarts. His only option was returning to Voldemort.
It was a long time before he was able to get his breathing to normal, and by then he could almost move his arms. Something was numbing them, and the skin all over his body felt like it was being pressed with tiny needles. The way it felt when he used to wake up with his arm twisted under his head after falling asleep reading at his desk.
It was impossible to keep track of the hours that passed as he waited there to be able to see something, or for something to see him. Now that all he had were his own thoughts, he couldn't stand it. He didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry, if it was even possible to do either.
Eventually, his view changed from black to a bluish grey that gradually brightened. He hadn't even known whether or not his eyes were open, but it filled him with unexpected relief to know that the sun was rising and he hadn't been banished to some kind of sightless purgatory.
The first thing he could make out was how white everything was, and the second was the curtains surrounding him. It slowly dawned on him that he must be in the hospital wing, with the curtains separating him from any other patients.
That could only mean his body was in a distressing state.
He attempted to flex his fingers as much as he could, just to be sure neither of his arms had been lost. The skin on his face and hands, or what was left of it, was really beginning to sting now, but at least he could feel it.
The relief faded as more time passed, slowly but surely turning the stinging into a searing pain that reached into his bones.
When he finally saw a shadow of a person behind the curtain, he could only scream.
Harry woke from a nightmare that had more or less replayed what had occurred beneath the trapdoor; All of the tests, Professor Quirrell removing his turban to reveal what was left of Voldemort, his skin burning where Harry had touched him.
He rubbed his eyes and figured he must not be fully awake, because he could still hear Quirrell screaming.
"Drink this," a woman's voice ordered from across the room, and Harry groggily sat up to see who was there. Of course, it was Madam Pomfrey. A chill ran up his spine when he saw who her patient was, and he realized that he wasn't still dreaming.
Harry might not have recognized Quirrell if it weren't for the sound of his screams - which thankfully died down after he was forced to drink whatever potion the nurse had brought him. His arms, head, and face were completely wrapped in bandages, and he somehow looked even thinner than he had all year.
As relieved as it made Harry to know he wasn't a murderer (even if it hadn't been on purpose, even if nobody else would have called him that), seeing Quirrell at all gave him a sense of unease. It was still difficult to wrap his head around the fact that he had been pretending to be a whole different person all year. He hadn't been his favorite teacher, but Harry had still liked and trusted him. He remembered even feeling bad for him when he'd overheard him being threatened by Snape.
No, not Snape. Voldemort.
What had Quirrell said about that interaction? Something about him finding it hard to follow Voldemort's orders, and that he didn't forgive mistakes? The thought had Harry wondering how willing a servant he had really been, how much of his nervous act was an act at all.
His thoughts were interrupted by Madam Pomfrey gasping and suddenly pulling the curtain so that Quirrell, now unconscious again, was hidden from view.
"Potter, I didn't realize you were awake," she exclaimed, hurrying over to him, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine, thanks," Harry replied, though his voice came out faint.
Madam Pomfrey shook her head with a sigh.
"It is always difficult to see someone in such a state, much less your former teacher."
Harry nodded before asking, "Former?"
"Well, after everything he did, you don't think Dumbledore would keep him on staff, do you?"
"Right," Harry said, still conflicted, "But he will be alright, won't he?"
"If by 'alright' you mean 'alive' then yes."
"Oh," Harry said. His first instinct had been to say 'Good' but he wasn't sure it was. "Dumbledore said he was basically dead."
Madam Pomfrey replied, "Oh, please, he can't have that little faith in me."
Uncomfortably, Harry said, "Yeah. Well... Anyway, I really am feeling better. Can I go?"
She agreed, and he broke into a sprint for the Gryffindor common room as soon as he was out the door. The Fat Lady was so happy to see him alive and well that she opened the door before he could even think to guess the password.
"Harry!" Ron exclaimed almost immediately upon his entering the room. There was a clamor of excitement around him as other students overheard and flocked around them.
"You're alright!"
"Welcome back!"
"Do you have the stone?"
"Was Professor Quirrell really working with Voldemort?"
Hermione shouted, "Everyone shut up!" and though it made Harry flinch, he was grateful. Still, he felt he owed it to everyone to answer their questions.
"I'm completely fine," he explained as the others held on to every word, "The stone was destroyed so Voldemort can never get it, and Quirrell was sort of possessed, Dumbledore said."
He hoped that was a decent explanation. If Quirrell really had been under Voldemort's control, he didn't want to put him in too bad a light.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered.
"But how?" Hermione groaned, her head in her hands, "We saw everything Snape did!"
"It's a lot to explain," Harry sighed, "I don't want to think about it right now. How'd everyone's exams go?"
The next time Quirrell woke up, he was transported back to his time as a student when he saw Minerva McGonagall's disappointed face gazing down at him.
She must have seen the pain, or god forbid some other vulnerability, in what was visible of his face, because her expression softened. Though her voice was still sharp as a knife.
"I thought you knew better."
A thousand emotions clashed in his head in the split second that followed. The strongest was indignant rage. She had no idea what he knew, what he'd done to get where he was.
But where was that? Hiding in the shadows of the castle for months with his energy being consumed every second? Lying in the hospital wing half dead after being abandoned by the demon he'd sold his soul to?
"So did I," he managed, the words coming out in a harsh whisper. The truth in them made the anger twist and tighten around his chest.
Because despite all of his studying, all the late nights poring over details about Voldemort and piecing together His location, in the end he hadn't known anything about Him at all.
Professor McGonagall peered down at him for a long time before giving a slight shake of her head.
"Not in the way I meant it, I'm afraid."
Deep down, he knew that. Hypothetically what he'd attempted was possible, giving Voldemort life force in exchange for knowledge and real power, he just hadn't been the right person to do it. He had been so focused on the objective fact of it all that he hadn't considered his own inexperience and social naivety.
But if he knew McGonagall, that wasn't what she'd meant either.
"Really, Quirrell, I know you wanted more experience and knowledge, but to get it from... him? What were you thinking?"
He would've scowled if he could move the muscles in his face.
"I was thinking," he hissed, "that I was the only one who could figure Him out. And I was right."
Well, until he hadn't been.
"And in doing so, you allowed yourself to be used for evil."
That accusation hurt more than anything, because it was a truth he'd been trying to hide from since the day Voldemort had attached Himself to his body. He had been arrogant, and by the time he'd realized he was nothing more than a pawn, it was too late.
As for the "evil" part, he didn't know what to say. Now that his head was clearing up, he wasn't sure he still believed in the whole spiel about good and evil he'd given the boy in his search for the stone. He had certainly prioritized power over what was right or wrong, but he'd still done wrong.
"You did always say I was too curious for my own good," he said in a pathetic attempt to make her lower her guard.
Stone-faced, she quipped, "Curiosity killed the cat."
"But satisfaction brought it back," he finished, almost automatically.
McGonagall stood with a huff.
"Well, I hope you're satisfied."
With that, she pulled aside the white curtain and disappeared behind it.