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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.

Chapter Text

The longer Quirrell got used to being awake, the more his head cleared up. Maybe that was just the gradual state of indifference settling in, now that it was all over - or maybe He had influenced his mind more than he was willing to admit. He'd thought he was entirely in control of his body when Voldemort inhabited it, or at least it had felt that way. But now that he was slowly becoming more alert he realized that the haze being lifted was how he was supposed to feel - his normal state of mind up until he'd allowed Him in.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known what he was doing when he'd let the troll into the school, or tried to murder a child, but now that he was fully awake it was like he'd been doing it all on autopilot - like he was doing it all himself, but without any feeling or motive behind the actions.

But he had felt it at the time, hadn't he? Or had that all just been an extension of the demon inside him?

The anger with which he considered Voldemort surprised him. But He was a demon, or as good as one. Quirrell had once thought of Him as a new god, someone he could learn from and use for his own means.

But McGonagall was right - he had been used like a puppet. Even if he had found the stone, Voldemort would still have had no use for him afterward. His body would've been left and discarded either way.

Madam Pomfrey soon returned to replace the bandages around his arms and head. He noticed, as she assisted him in sitting up, that there were no other patients in the room.

"Is Potter a-alright?" he asked, his head spinning as he adjusted to being upright, "Where- Where is he?"

He was glad to be awake enough to speak above a slow whisper, but he cringed at himself for allowing the speed of his thoughts to trip him up. The last thing he needed was people thinking he was still pretending to stutter after being found out.

"Why? Ready to finish the job?" Madam Pomfrey asked flatly as she unwrapped his arm.

"I don't- I mean, that c-came out wrong."

"Harry Potter is alive and well, if you must know," she said, raising an eyebrow when he sighed in relief.

"I don't want him dead." It was technically the truth, now.

With a shake of her head, she muttered, "Maybe we should've taken you to the psychology ward at St. Mungo's."

He thought the same, though for different reasons.

"I know it sounds crazy, and maybe it is, I don't know how many p-people know what happened--"

"Oh, they know," she said, "Of course, they all think you're dead. Dumbledore never bothered to confirm anything, given the state you were in. But now that you've spoken with Minerva, I imagine she'll set the record straight at the end of year feast."

"I don't want t-to cause a stir," he quickly cut in, "I just hope nobody thinks I- I did it all myself."

"Trust me, nobody thinks you singlehandedly broke into Gringott's," she scoffed.

Before he could stop himself, he exclaimed, "That is just- just insulting! I'll have you know I did singlehandedly break into Gringott's!"

After a curious look, the nurse simply replied, "That's not going to look good at your trial."

His defenses dropped. "My t-trial? I thought I was going to- to Azkaban--"

"Not without a fair trial," she shrugged, finalizing the wrap on his arm, "Alright, onto the next one."

He had to look. He couldn't help himself.

The bandages unwrapped to reveal bright red skin, shiny and peeling. Looking at it made him realize how much it hurt - not as much as it had the previous night, as the effects of whatever she'd made him drink afterward hadn't worn off yet - but he could suddenly feel the surface level sting when she accidentally brushed her fingers over his skin.

"Does it hurt a lot?" she asked, noticing his discomfort.

"N-No, not too much, it's j-just strange to look at," he said, his other freshly wrapped hand subconsciously making its way to his face.

"It will take time, and there'll likely be scarring, but it will heal," she said, noticing the hand hovering over his hollow cheek, "though I've never known you to be a vain man."

His hand dropped, and he almost managed a laugh, "I-It's just that seeing a face in the mirror that's not mine-- Well, still mine, but different--"

And just when I got my body back, he thought but didn't say.

"It just scares me, that's all."

Madam Pomfrey gazed at him curiouly, the way he had often gazed at dangerous creatures or objects infused with dark magic. Like puzzles he couldn't solve.

"It's not that bad, your face."

Right. Of course she had seen it.

"If you don't want to look yet, that's fine," she went on, finishing up his arm, "but I have to switch out the bandages either way."

He would have to look eventually.

"Fine, o-okay."

"I do have a question, about a wound I noticed. You don't have to go into detail, especially if it's healed. I just need to know if it's recent."

He did recall a few marks on his legs from childhood, and a scrape on his neck from the vampire he'd based his cover story around - but nothing since the school year had started.

"This mark here, on the back of your head," she said, and he reflexively jumped.

"What?" he yelped, scrambling to cover the other face he could suddenly feel, as if it had never left.

And then, when his hands touched the skin, the face was gone. Of course it was.

"Don't touch it!" she gasped, coaxing his hands away and examining whatever was there, "Did you really not notice?"

"W-What is it?" He turned over his trembling hands, checking for blood, but there was none.

"It's a sort of scar, except it was bleeding when they brought you in. I cleaned it up as best I could, and it's been closed up since."

His head fell into his hands, and he hoped the darkness would keep his vision from spinning. The texture of his ruined face unexpectedly helped to ground him somewhat.

"Do you know what it is?" she asked, continuing when he didn't answer, "I wasn't going to ask, but does this have anything to do with why you shaved your head? It's none of my business what you do with your hair, but if--"

"I didn't shave my head," he blurted out.

He didn't quite know why that was the thing he addressed. Maybe because starting with something as unimportant as his hair was the only way he was going to open up. He was afraid if he didn't explain himself now, he never would.

"What does it look like? The sc-scar?" he asked before she could pry any more information out of him.

"It just looks like a long healed cut. Deep too, as if someone swung an axe into your head. How did you not notice it?"

He peeked out through his fingers and saw her brows furrowing, deep in thought, though he doubted she would come to the correct conclusion.

"Did you hit your head? Is that why you were all confused, trying to say you didn't attack Potter?"

"I wasn't confused," he corrected, "I-I said I don't want him d-dead, and that I wasn't acting on my own. I never said I didn't attack him at all."

She nodded and waited an elaboration.

"A-And my head is fine. Well, externally," he said, actually laughing in the nervous way he'd pretended to all year, "What happened was, I was in a st-state of... p-possession."

The nurse's eyes widened.

"The scar, i-it's... I think it happened when... when..." he stammered, raising his head but avoiding her gaze, "He left me."

He glanced at her, terrified to mention His name, praying she wouldn't make him say it.

"Who?" she asked, dread on her face.

He could only whisper, "I can't say His name."

 

Soon enough, it seemed half the Hogwarts staff was bustling around the room. Madam Pomfrey finished wrapping his head, once again concealing his face, and he cursed himself for missing the chance to look at himself and get it over with.

"You should have brought me as soon as he woke up," he heard Dumbledore say to her, quiet but harsh.

"I didn't know he was possessed!" she hissed back, "And by You-Know-Who!"

They all gathered around Quirrell, watching him like hawks. Snape was glaring especially coldly, even for him. McGonagall's stern eyes were uncharacteristically red-rimmed, though with everything going on he wasn't surprised she was losing sleep.

Dumbledore's expression was unreadable, and his presence silently commanded everyone's attention.

"Tell me everything," he said at last.

Quirrell hoped one of the other teachers would cut in and change the subject, but none did.

"I don't-- I don't know where t-to start," he conceded.

"When exactly," Dumbledore calmly went on, "did you first find Voldemort?"

A few people fliched at the name, but Quirrell jumped, his heart leaping into his throat.

"If I may, Albus," McGonagall cut in, "Perhaps it would be easier for all involved if you took his memory to the Pensieve."

"It would certainly give us a chance to see the truth instead of relying on his word," Snape agreed, looking right at him as if peering into the depths of his decaying soul.

"I'd like to hear it in your words anyway," Dumbledore said, addressing Quirrell directly, "but if you truly feel you can't, I must ask you to extract your memory for me to examine."

Quirrell might've actually been able to talk if Dumbledore hadn't added that last part. The unexpected consideration made his throat tighten around any words he might've said.

He really was pathetic.

"Here you are," McGonagall said, handing him his wand.

He took it, annoyed at the gesture. He'd successfully beaten every trial standing between him and the stone, and still they thought he was weak enough to be trusted with his wand? If he weren't so tired, he might've said something.

Instead, he glanced up again at McGonagall's face. She looked down at him through her glasses, and there was something in her hardened expression that wasn't just disappointment. Something bright shone in her eyes.

Determination.

He silently counted himself lucky for the bandages over his face, as his skin burned with shame at his sudden anger. She really did have good reason to trust him, something he hadn't considered himself; If he was going to do anything to hurt them, he would have done so already.

Now, all he could do was extract the memory and hope his time in Azkaban wouldn't be long.

 

Harry stood outside Dumbledore's office with the invisibility cloak over his head. It bothered him to be sneaking around and meddling, but the last time he'd resisted the temptation had been when Quirrell was being threatened - maybe even tortured - by Voldemort. If Harry had stepped in, or even told another teacher, could they have caught Quirrell earlier? Could they have saved him?

He was pulled from his thoughts when Dumbledore swooped past him, holding a small vial. As he said the password and entered, Harry quickly followed.

The office was beautiful - there were shelves of magical items he'd never seen before, and a beautiful fire-red bird perched on the desk - but his attention stayed on the Headmaster as he made his way to a fountain-like thing on a wall.

Harry watched curiously as Dumbledore poured the contents of the vial into the small pool and suddenly dunked his head in.

The pool must not have been filled with water, because his head stayed under for quite some time. Harry felt quite awkward just standing there silently.

At last, Dumbledore stood up straight and hurried out of the room. Harry wasn't used to seeing him so rushed, so whatever had occurred in that little bowl must be important. It would be useful of him to look too. He could help.

Harry pulled down his hood, but kept the cloak around his shoulders. Peering into the pool, he was struck by what looked like silvery mist, or liquid glass.

Before he could change his mind, he took a breath and dove in.

Chapter Text

Harry suddenly found himself in the middle of a cold wood at night. He spun around, frantically searching for a landmark, anything that struck his memory - but there was nothing. Even the trees looked unfamiliar. He wasn't sure this was even the Forbidden Forest.

He heard a snake hiss, and a branch crack. Footsteps approached from behind him, crunching on the twigs and leaves, and he jumped out of the way.

A hooded figure rushed past him. Harry looked behind, wondering if the person was being chased, but nothing followed. He turned his attention back to the figure.

"Excuse me, um," he called reluctantly, "Where exactly are we?"

The person didn't answer, they just bent down to kneel in the middle of the forest. Harry approached quietly, waiting for an answer. None came.

He was about to call out again when the person removed the hood from his head, revealing shoulder-length hair and ghostly skin. Harry recoiled when he noticed what the person was kneeling before.

A black snake, flicking its tongue and slowly raising its head.

The man brushed a strand of hair behind his ear, and Harry gasped when he recognized the narrow face and pale eyes.

"Professor Quirrell!" he shouted without thinking, "What's going on?"

Neither the man nor the snake gave any indication that they'd heard him. Harry took a shaky step forward, then another, and he realized he might as well be invisible. He walked right up to them without receiving so much as a glance.

Quirrell was staring at the snake, his eyes wide and unblinking. Maybe it was the pure curiosity in his expression, or the fact that he was on the ground, but Harry had the sudden thought that if this was how he'd seen him for the first time, he would never have guessed Quirrell was old enough to be a teacher.

The snake, of all things, echoed this thought.

"I didn't expect to be found by one so young," it hissed.

Quirrell flinched, then abruptly lowered his head to the ground.

"Forgive me if I've insulted you," he said, then quickly added, "my lord."

"On the contrary," the snake smoothly said, "I find it impressive that after all this time, the one who found me was someone who must have only been a child when I went into hiding."

Quirrell raised his head slightly, and Harry could see a wide grin splitting his face.

"I was in my third year, i-if you want to be specific. At Hogwarts, I mean."

"You're no longer a student, then," the snake seethed.

Quirrell's smile faltered, and Harry saw his eyes flicker as he hurried to think of something to say that would calm the creature's sudden anger.

"I'm- I'm a teacher," he stammered.

"At Hogwarts?"

"Yes."

The snake suddenly dropped dead. Quirrell yelped, backing away from it. A dark smoke rose up from the snake's mouth and hovered in front of him. Harry could barely make out a pair of narrow eyes floating in the black void.

"Tell me, what is it you most desire?"

Quirrell straightened himself, standing eye to eye with the spirit, and answered, "I want to learn from you, if you'll allow it."

"How could I refuse such a willing subject?" Voldemort said, in a tone Harry thought sounded like mockery.

"Is there a way I can bring you back to the school with me?" Quirrell asked, his eyes bright.

Voldemort explained to him that he could only take the form of small creatures, preferably snakes, and that Quirrell could easily sneak him into Hogwarts. Harry could only watch, horrified, at what his teacher was doing.

Or, more accurately, what his teacher had done. By now Harry had reasoned that somehow, through the fountain, he had gone back in time.

The black vapor suddenly rushed at Harry, and he ducked with a scream. When the smoke didn't hurt him, he looked up just in time to see it entering the mouth of another nearby snake. A smaller, greener one than the last he'd possessed. The snake shuddered and twitched for a few moments, before slithering back toward Quirrell.

"What do you really want?" Voldemort asked again through the snake, drawing out every word with an air of superiority.

"I- I've told you," Quirrell answered, "haven't I?"

"There must be a reason you sought me out," Voldemort went on, "The knowledge you would gain from me is just a stepping stone to getting what you truly desire."

After a second, Quirrell managed a small nod. Harry frowned, awaiting his answer. This was sure to be the moment he revealed himself, or his family, to be followers of Voldemort.

"Tell me," the snake urged.

"I want to be known," Quirrell said at last.

"By who?"

"A-Anyone. Everyone," he admitted, waving his hands, "Oh, people tell me I'm bright, I know it too, but what's the point if I've never done anything... important?"

Harry was shocked. How could teaching at Hogwarts not be important? If he were a more violent child, he would almost want to smack some sense into the man.

"I'm not an important person," Quirrell went on, speaking rather lightly for such a depressing statement, "but I'd like to be."

"You wouldn't just like to be. I can see it, a void in your soul," Voldemort hissed, "You crave it."

Quirrell didn't answer, and Harry noticed him recoil for a moment before he caught himself. It was like Voldemort's statement had caused him pain.

"It hurts, yes, but when you let me in I can take that all away. I can show you how to obtain the power you deserve, and nobody will doubt you again."

The snake raised its head, and Quirrell bent down to pick it up. The snake spiraled up his arm and came to rest around his neck.

 

Harry's vision spun when the scene suddenly changed, sending him to what he assumed was Quirrell's office. He recognized the unique architecture of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, only this section was smaller and a little more cluttered.

Quirrell was hunched over his desk, a large book open in front of him. Voldemort, still possessing the snake, was watching him intently. They were talking about some dark magic Harry didn't understand. A few words he picked out were "azkaban" and "horcrux", though he hadn't the faintest idea of what they could mean.

A few more scenes like that played out, intriguing but uneventful aside from the magic. Harry tried to mentally take note of as many strange words as he could.

Then, the vision became darker. It was night time, and there was a new snake on the desk. It was almost entirely upright, staring down a frightened Quirrell.

"You've failed at the most crucial task, and you think you didn't do anything wrong?"

"I know I didn't," Quirrell insisted, "It went p-perfectly, exactly how I reasoned it would. But the vault was already empty, there was nothing I c--"

The snake hissed a spell Harry didn't recognize, and Quirrell screamed, his body seizing as if receiving an electric shock.

Harry jumped and shut his eyes, but it was over in just a few seconds. When he opened them, Quirrell was slumped over his desk, gasping with his head in his hands. Harry's eyes nervously flickered back and forth between him and Voldemort, waiting for the snake to strike again. But it didn't.

"You understand why I had to do that," it said.

Quirrell raised his head slightly and whispered, "Yes. I- I'm sorry."

"You can still redeem yourself," Voldemort offered, "Find out where the stone is."

"I think... I may already know," Quirrell said slowly, as if prepared to be hurt again if he talked too much, "If we go by the logical option that its owner wanted it in a safer place, the only place safer than the bank is Hogwarts."

Voldemort hissed approvingly and sneered, "Fools. They've moved it even closer to us. Still, don't overlook the other options. There could be a multitude of reasons why it was moved."

"Of course, my lord. I'll look into it right away."

The snake gave a slight nod, and said, "All of this could be made easier if we were on exactly the same page."

"What do you mean?"

"If I could hear your thoughts, and you could hear mine, imagine how simple it would be to work together to find the stone."

Quirrell considered the idea and said, "I don't know if such a thing is possible, but I can research and think on it--"

"I know it's possible," Voldemort cut in, "and there's no need for you to think on it. We both know you're not in any position to refuse."

What little color was left in Quirrell's face vanished, and he seemed to freeze in place. He looked the way Harry often felt when he saw Dudley approaching and didn't know if he had time to run.

Of course, if this was the real past he was watching, Harry knew Quirrell wasn't going to make it out.

"I- I wouldn't refuse, my lord," he stammered.

"I hope you believe that, because it will be difficult for you if you're not willing. It's the only way I can be sure you don't ruin this opportunity like you did with Gringott's."

Quirrell scowled for a split second, and Harry thought he was actually going to defend himself. Instead he looked down and kept his mouth shut.

"I'm so glad we've come to an understanding," Voldemort said, abandoning the snake and leaving it lifeless on the desk.

His dark spirit rose up from the body, and Quirrell watched with confusion, then terror, in his eyes. Harry could practically hear him trying to convince himself that he didn't know what Voldemort intended to do with him, that he was jumping to conclusions, that there had to be some other reason he would leave the snake when there wasn't another one to replace it.

"Remember, you brought this on yourself," Voldemort told him.

"Will you be in c-control of my body?" Quirrell asked.

"I cannot take full possession of a human body, but I'll be in your head."

"Possession," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, "Is that what this is?"

"It will only hurt if you resist. Let me in now if you don't want to suffer."

"Wait--" Quirrell tried to protest. As soon as he opened his mouth the black smoke was inside, forcing its way down his throat. Harry could only watch, terrified, as he choked. He stumbled away from his desk, only to collapse as the invading soul overtook him. He cried out in pain, writhing on the floor until the spirit was settled within its new flesh.

If Harry didn't know this was in the past, he might've thought Quirrell had died right in front of him. His body was still, but his eyes were open, vacant. It was so unsettling to look at, that, even though Harry knew it was pointless, he cleared his throat and said, "Professor? A-Are you alr--?"

To his shock, Quirrell woke with a gasp and began coughing into his arm. Once he caught his breath, his hands jumped up to his face, then to his disheveled hair, then the rest of his body, feeling for any difference.

"You won't change yet," Voldemort's voice said in a distant-sounding whisper, making both Quirrell and Harry jump, "But you will, if everything goes according to plan."

"Change? W-What do you mean?" Quirrell asked, looking afraid to even speak too loudly.

"Your body will become mine, and my glory will become yours."

"I- I thought you couldn't t-take full possession of a human."

"I don't need to take over your mind in order to control your body. Soon enough, you'll give it to me willingly."

The idea horrified Harry, but Quirrell didn't seem to react, accepting this fate much too easily for Harry's liking. He thought Quirrell must be too exhausted to fight back, or maybe he didn't think there was even a point in trying.

"And I'll give you what you want in return," Voldemort went on, "You'll be known as one of my most trusted confidants. Equally as praised and feared as I am."

"Feared," Quirrell murmured, shaking his head.

"To be feared is to be respected. There is no greater sign of power."

"I don't want anyone to be afraid of me."

"You can't lie to me. I can see every thought you've ever had. I know you've dreamed of revenge."

Quirrell's hands shook as he brought them to his mouth, as if stopping himself from speaking would keep his thoughts quiet too. Voldemort's voice just laughed.

"You can't hide anything from me. I can feel the pain they put you through, and the pain you wished to return to them."

"I- I was a stupid child--"

"It may feel like a lifetime ago since your school years -- but I know better. A few years is no time at all."

"That-- That doesn't matter, revenge would be pointless--" he insisted, "It would be evil."

"You forget who you're speaking to," Voldemort's voice said with almost a laugh, "But there is no such thing -- even I am not evil. Deep down, you know this. Otherwise you wouldn't have looked for me."

Harry watched Quirrell bite his long nails as he considered Voldemort's words.

"Most people are too weak to seek power like mine. But not you. You have proven yourself to be worthy of my association."

Quirrell hesitated, bracing himself for pain, before whispering, "Then w-why did you use the cruciatus curse on me?"

Harry didn't recognize the word, but based on Quirrell's reluctance to ask, he guessed it was the spell that had seemed to torture him. He was proven right by Voldemort's answer.

"Pain is one of the most efficient teachers."

Harry shuddered then, remembering how his aunt and uncle had often told him the same.

"I've had many wizards serve under me, and none of them were exempt from needing a bit of correction now and then. But I don't see you making a mistake again. You're better than that. You found me when none of my Death Eaters even tried, and you've already deducted the likely whereabouts of the stone. If you follow my orders, I'll have no reason to punish you."

Harry wondered if the possession was in itself a sort of punishment, and by the uneasy look on Quirrell's face, he seemed to think the same.

 

The vision changed again, but only slightly. Harry was still in Quirrell's office, but the lighting was dimmer with only the golden light from the setting sun coming through the windows.

He guessed it was another day than the last vision when Quirrell entered the room with his hair tied back, wearing different robes, and carrying an armful of textbooks. As soon as he reached his desk, he dropped the books, and his hands went for the back of his head.

Harry braced himself to see Voldemort come out, but he didn't. Quirrell was just poking at a spot that seemed to be bothering him. Harry thought it must be a bruise he couldn't see. Maybe Snape had thrown a book at his head or something.

The poking turned into scratching, angry and sharp, and Harry watched nervously as Quirrell violently tore the tie from his hair. With it came a fistful of the hair itself, and he froze for a moment.

The pain in his head forgotten, he frantically began running his thin fingers through his hair, and they came out holding more wispy strands. Not as much as the first handful, but enough to be worrying, which Quirrell clearly was.

"Okay, okay, okay," he muttered to himself, "This is fine, e-everyone loses their hair at some point. Maybe not this quickly, but I'll live--" he gasped, "Unless I'm sick? I knew I should have read more on Muggle diseases..." Whatever he said after that, as he rushed to his wall of books, Harry couldn't quite catch.

He didn't find whatever book he wanted, but even the act of looking through them seemed to do him some good. His hands seemed less shaky, his eyes more focused, as he returned to his desk. He tossed the fallen hair into the trash, and tied back what was left of it.

Just when he almost looked calm, something made him jump - a quick movement out of the corner of his eye. He let out a shrill laugh when he realized he'd just caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a mirror across the room.

He approached the mirror, checking to make sure the hair loss wasn't too obvious. It had looked like a lot had come out in the moment, but if there were any bald spots, they were hidden by having his hair tied back. If this continued, he wouldn't be able to hide it for long. He wasn't too concerned with his looks, but he knew children could be ruthless about such things.

He yelped, his hands over his chest, when there came a sharp knock at the door. Harry thought he must get tired of being so easily startled, because he didn't laugh this time. He just sighed, gave the mirror another glance just to be sure, and answered the door.

"Professor McGonagall. W-What can I do for you?" he greeted, managing a nervous smile.

"Good evening. I don't mean to intrude, but I need to speak with you before I get too busy with work and forget," McGonagall said, "Preparations for the upcoming year, you know."

"No, it's no t-trouble at all," Quirrell said, stepping aside to let her in, "I-Is there work you need help with?"

"It's nothing like that, I just wanted to make sure you're adequately prepared for the next year."

"Oh, y-yes," he nodded, "I've been going over the curriculums for each year of students, and--"

"That's not what I meant," McGonagall cut in, her brow furrowing in concern, "May I sit? I'd like to have a proper talk with you."

"O-Of course, yes," he said, rushing to his desk and pulling out the chair behind it for her, before sitting down in a smaller one in front.

McGonagall peered at him over her glasses, her concern much more apparent.

"Professor Quirrell."

"Yes?"

"This is your office."

He just looked up at her, awaiting an elaboration.

"It's your desk."

It took him a moment to realize his mistake, and when he did he jumped up and walked to the other side. McGonagall took the seat, and he took his behind his desk.

"Let me get straight to the point," she said, "I came here to make sure you're emotionally and mentally prepared for the upcoming year."

"Oh? I-Is this a new thing you're doing with all the teachers?"

"No," she said, "Forgive me for being blunt, but I don't see the other teachers struggling the way you are."

With a nervous laugh, he asked, "What m-makes you say that?"

"Don't play dumb with me. We're both smarter than that."

His smile faltered and he said, "I suppose I haven't e-exactly been the same s-since I've returned."

"That's why Professor Dumbledore asked me to check in with you."

Quirrell turned whiter than Harry had ever seen him. "A-Am I being fired?"

"No, you're not. He wants you to know that he'll allow you paid leave for the year if you need it. I'm here to determine whether or not you do."

"I-- No. I appreciate that, b-but I'm completely fine." He waved a hand dismissively, though it was a weak gesture.

"Are you?" she pressed, "You're always trembling, you jump at the slightest sounds, and your stutter is back for the first time since you were a student."

That his stutter had once been real was news to Harry.

"I know it's not easy for you to talk about your problems," she went on, and her intensity told Harry they'd had similar conversations in the past, "but I'm taking this very seriously, and I need you to be honest with me."

Quirrell's hands fell to the desk, and he sighed, "I d-don't know what to say."

"Tell me what happened that's made you so afraid of everything."

"It's n-not that I'm afraid of everything. Actually, what happened to me might have had an effect on my mind, i-in the sense that I just can't seem to be c-calm, ever," he explained, wringing his hands in a futile attempt to stop them shaking.

"And what was it that happened to you?" McGonagall asked quietly.

"There were a- a few incidents."

McGonagall nodded patiently.

"I th-think it was the v-vampires that got me the worst."

"Vampires!" she gasped, "Were you bitten? Have you experienced any symptoms of--"

"No, no, no, I- I wasn't bitten, j-just scraped up a bit."

McGonagall's entire body seemed to deflate with relief, and Quirrell seemed unsure of what to do.

"You could kill her."

Quirrell was so startled he nearly fell out of his chair, and McGonagall went right back to her uptight self.

"What on earth...? Are you alright?"

He glanced at every corner of the room, stammering, "Y-You d-d-d--"

"Slow down," McGonagall said, "Take a deep breath and clear your head."

He inhaled shakily, looking ill.

"Did you... hear something?" she asked, trying not to look horrified at the idea.

Quirrell froze for a moment, then shook his head.

"Oh, thank goodness," she sighed, "I didn't mean to accuse you of anything, but the way you just jumped out of nowhere--"

"I- I saw a spi-- a spider," he lied.

McGonagall shook her head with almost a hint of a smile, but it faded quickly.

"I must ask, and I'm sorry if I offend you..."

"O-Of course not, what is it?"

"Are you sure you're prepared for how the students might affect you? You know better than anyone how cruel some children can be."

Quirrell laughed, and it wasn't nervous like usual, or cold as it had been when he was looking for the stone. Harry thought it sounded almost normal.

"I can handle s-some teasing from students," he assured her, idly scratching the back of his head, "I-It's not like they can actually hurt me."

"It's not just teasing I'm concerned about. You're in a very delicate mental state. If someone were to disrupt class, or try to frighten you as a joke, are you sure you wouldn't panic?"

Quirrell pretended to consider it for a moment, of course knowing he would be fine. By now Harry had accepted that there was some truth to his nervous demeanor, but he doubted he was so traumatized by vampires that he wouldn't be able to teach. Any sympathy Harry had felt for him was overtaken by contempt as he watched him deceive the woman who had shown him so much kindness.

"I'm quite certain I'm past the worst of it," Quirrell said with a half-hearted smile.

McGonagall nodded and replied, "I'm glad to hear that. Is there anything else you want to talk about, or need help with?"

For a second he seemed to glitch like a frozen computer game, his mouth open but no sound coming out.

Just as McGonagall started to ask if he was alright, he said, "No, I- I don't need any help. Thank you for checking in with me, but there's n-nothing else to talk about."

"If you're sure," she said, standing up, "Then I must be going."

Quirrell followed McGonagall to the door and held it open. She turned back as she exited, giving him a long stare, and he was suddenly sure she could see right through him.

"I don't want to leave you with the impression that we think you're incapable, or weak. I wouldn't think that of you even if you did need the time off. Anyone would be traumatized by what you went through."

"Right, y-yes."

"And I hope you know how proud I am of you."

He gave another small laugh, as if he couldn't tell whether she was joking.

"I mean it," she scolded warmly, a talent that Harry suspected only she was capable of, "You've become a wonderful teacher, and the fact that you chose to work here after you had such a difficult time as a student is more impressive than I think you give yourself credit for."

Quirrell straightened out his face, perhaps trying to look serious, but to Harry his expression just seemed awkwardly empty.

"Thank you," was all he could think to say, before McGonagall gave him a pat on the arm and left the room.

As soon as he shut the door, Quirrell went back to his desk, but didn't sit. He just stood there for a minute before starting to pace, going back to scratching his head. It quickly escalated to vicious clawing, again yanking the tie from his hair so it was out of the way. Harry couldn't see exactly what was wrong, but he knew it must be bad when he saw red on Quirrell's fingertips.

Quirrell froze suddenly, and Harry thought he took must have realized his hands were wet with blood. Except he didn't make any attempt to clean them, or even look at them. He was still touching the wound, but he went from wincing in pain to wide-eyed horror. His legs gave out, and even then his hands never left his head.

Harry couldn't resist creeping up behind him. It was easier to get a better look with him kneeling on the floor.

There wasn't as much blood as he'd expected. Now that he was closer, he realized there was so little of it that it had already dried on Quirrell's nails. He probably hadn't felt it at all. Then Harry noticed what he'd actually felt, that had scared him to the point of collapse.

There was a small area on the back of his head where his hair was already gone, and in its place was something hard and white. At first it looked like part of his skull was visible, but Harry thought if that were the case there would be more blood.

As he peered more closely, he realized the white was emerging out of Quirrell's skin rather than exposed from beneath it. Even when he noticed that it wasn't one piece of bone, but a few small bits in a row, he couldn't figure it out.

It wasn't until Quirrell finally moved his hands, burying his face in them as he silently broke down, that Harry realized they were teeth.

His heart leapt into his throat, and his vision was suddenly swimming. He thought he might be passing out, until he found himself emerging from the Pensieve with a ragged gasp. Steadying himself with one hand on the rim of the pool, he swiped the other across his face to get the water out of his eyes and hair, but there was none.

After a quick glance around to make sure nobody was there to see him, he pulled the hood of his invisibility cloak over his head and fled Dumbledore's office.

Chapter Text

Harry made his way back to the hospital wing, with the hood of his cloak concealing him from view. With Quirrell being the only patient in the room, it was easy to navigate without bumping into anyone. Unfortunately, the bed Quirrell was now awake and sitting up in was crowded by other teachers, including Dumbledore who had long since returned.

Part of him was relieved though. As much as he'd wanted to ask Quirrell about everything, the man had still tried to kill him. Maybe just listening to the other teachers talk to him would be enough to satiate his curiosity, and judge from a distance whether he was still dangerous.

Holding his breath and careful to make sure his feet or fingertips weren't sticking out of his cloak, Harry tiptoed closer to the group.

 

Quirrell wanted nothing more than to leave the room and hide as Dumbledore told everyone what he thought of the memories he'd seen, but he managed to keep his back straight and head high enough not to look completely pathetic. Still unable to meet their eyes, however, he kept his gaze focused on his own hands. If he were standing with the others, he might look as if he were haughtily looking down his nose at them. As it was, he hoped none of them would read his posture that way. Besides, they were the ones all looking down on him, literally and otherwise, weren't they?

He couldn't even have the small comfort of biting his nails or wringing his hands. Any time he tried to squeeze them together, Madam Pomfrey would lightly swat him on the shoulder. He had to admit it was for good reason; the searing pain in his skin was too much to be a simple distraction anyway.

It was Snape's voice, regretfully, that pulled him out of his own head.

"Do we still believe he even deserves a trial?"

Despite Quirrell's own disbelief that he did, hearing Snape say it made his vision go white with rage.

"A-And where was your trial as a De-- as a Death Eater?" he demanded, hoping his stammer didn't detract from how serious he was, "Master told me you were once his most trusted spy!"

A terrible, thin smile stretched across Snape's face, and he sneered, "And yet, I'm not the one still calling him 'Master.'"

It took Quirrell a moment to realize his mistake, but he was mortified when he did.

Dumbledore shook his head and said, "Come now, Severus, we can't very well blame him for slipping up when he just got--"

"No, I- I- I mean, you're right," Quirrell rambled, gesturing to Snape but still refusing to look at him, "I c-can't defend myself at a trial if- if I can't even go a minute without thinking I'm still- still serving him."

"As I was saying, you just got your own mind back. Of course you're having trouble remembering that after nearly a year of possession," Dumbledore said, "and personally, I think what he put you through all that time is punishment enough."

Quirrell glanced up, just in time to see Snape scowl and McGonagall give Dumbledore a look of horrified disbelief.

"He helped me," he argued without thinking.

"Clearly," Snape muttered.

"He ga- gave me knowledge, and power," Quirrell insisted, uncomfortable to be looked at with pity -- actual pity, not the kind they'd given his easily frightened persona. That pity, and annoyed looks, and playful teasing from students hadn't bothered him, because they weren't really for him. If anything, it had given him comfort to know he was successful in tricking them all.

Now that it was real, he hated it.

"Knowledge in exchange for your mind? Power in exchange for your life?" Dumbledore challenged, "He may have had you convinced he was helping you, but the body doesn't forget that kind of pain. I saw how you reacted every time he threatened you with punishment."

"It wasn't punishment," Quirrell snapped, "It was necessary t-to change me, to push me to work harder. I- I just wasn't strong enough."

McGonagall, out of nowhere, swiftly turned and walked away. There was that twinge of anger again, but he took a deep breath and buried it. He couldn't expect someone as good and level-headed as her to understand. She didn't know what He was like.

"Severus, Poppy, would you kindly follow Minerva? She's been quite shaken up by this situation," Dumbledore said, to which Snape and Madam Pomfrey wordlessly obeyed.

Once they were gone, Dumbledore turned his attention back to Quirrell and gave him a long stare.

"Now, usually I wouldn't ask such a rude question, but given the circumstances; Are you really stuttering, or is it still an act?"

The topic being brought up made Quirrell feel like a child again, being asked by adults what his problem was and the resulting self-consciousness only making it worse.

"I d-don't know why I am now, of all t-t-times," he answered, recoiling, "I- I suppose it's a penalty for pr-pretending."

He started to laugh, but stopped when he realized it might make Dumbledore think he wasn't taking him seriously.

"N-No, that was a joke," he quickly explained, "but really, i-it's not an act. I have no- no reason to pretend now."

"What reason did you have to pretend in the first place?" Dumbledore asked.

"I was worried a-about slipping up and saying something I shouldn't, and- and- and-- Sorry. When I was younger, when I d-did actually st-st-st--" He made a frustrated sound and exclaimed, "Fuck!"

He thought he heard a gasp from somewhere after he cursed, but Dumbledore didn't react. He just blinked, waiting patiently. Quirrell supposed after letting Him into his head, auditory hallucinations weren't out of the question.

"Sorry. B-Back then, as a child, people either th-thought I was stupid or felt bad for me, so I thought if- if I made everyone see me like that again, I wouldn't be s-suspected. And after everything I experienced when I t-traveled, it made sense to say-- to say it had all traumatized me so much that all of my p-progress with my speech, a-and everything else, came undone."

"I see," Dumbledore said, "I only ask because it's unfairly common for people to see nerves in a trial and assume guilt based on that alone."

"But I- I am guilty," Quirrell pointed out.

"Even so, based on your memories I don't think you're as guilty as others may see you."

"If you m-mean to say he made me do all of those things, y-you're wrong."

"He tortured you."

"He showed me how weak I was. How- How weak I am."

"Tell me," Dumbledore said, staring at him intensely, "Are you happy he's gone?"

Quirrell couldn't answer. He hadn't even considered the question himself.

"I... I feel like I can think again. But I can't s-say whether I'm happy, or- or sad. I think I'm more scared than an-anything, but that's n-not much of a change."

"Scared of what?"

"How p-people will look at me," Quirrell answered, "What he'll do if- if he comes back for me."

"Did he say he would?" Dumbledore asked, suddenly alert.

"No, a-at least not that I remember. I hoped he would, w-when I first woke up. The idea terrified me, but the idea of being left here, being seen for what I r-really am, was worse."

"And what is it exactly, that you really are?"

Quirrell looked away and murmured, "A traitor, a- a villain-- and a useless one. A failure both to him, and to the entire magical c-community."

Dumbledore idly stroked his beard and mused, "I'm beginning to see why you wanted him to come back for you."

"If- If I went back to him I would be... safe," Quirrell elaborated, "I'm really glad I didn't, now that I- I know I'm okay here, a-and I don't know what other t-terrible things I would've done, had he asked. I never wanted t-to hurt anyone, and I never, ever, agreed with him about the b-blood purity thing-- I'm not even a pureblood!"

Dumbledore nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"I just-- I overestimated my own skill when I went looking for him, and once he had me I was so-- so afraid all the time, to be hurt, or to d-die."

"Were you afraid to die, when you tried to?" Dumbledore cut in softly, "I saw that memory too."

Quirrell shook his head, failing to hide the shudder that went through him.

"I was more scared then than ever. I d-didn't really want to die-- What I m-mean is, I just wanted to- to stop him. But if it wasn't me, it would be someone else, a-and what good would I do by dying just to curse them?" he eerily laughed without smiling, "I should've realized then how- how disposable I was. Especially a-after what he did to stop me. All I could do after that was keep thinking, 'If I can just get the stone, i-it'll all be over,' I- I didn't have space in my head for anything else."

"Do you still believe he helped you?"

"I- I know he did. I got wh-what I wanted, didn't I? Experience, knowledge... He- He made me feel important. I know now that he n-never meant it, but that feeling was..."

Quirrell's voice trailed off, and he suddenly smacked himself in the face with both hands, the impact of it along with the burning of his skin bringing him back to reality, away from the dreamlike state that he hated himself for missing - and there was that small shocked voice again, somewhere, invisible, in the room. He buried his face in his hands with a sob that painfully tore itself from his chest.

"You d-don't know what he was like, how he would get in my head and-- I already lost- lost my mind to him, a-and now that I'm alone I- I think I'm losing it all over again!"

"I know what he was like. I believe you," Dumbledore said, allowing Quirrell time to catch his breath, "and I think you're in remarkably good condition, given everything. The fact that you can recognize your own mental decline is proof that you've not lost as much of your mind as you think you have."

Quirrell inhaled deeply, but shakily, and managed a nod.

"Now, I'll see what I can do about arranging a more quiet trial, if it would make you more comfortable speaking."

"You're leaving?" Quirrell asked, his head snapping up, "I- I mean, thank you, I'm- I'm sure I d-don't deserve it, but please--"

Dumbledore turned his head and gazed off into a corner behind him, saying, "I know you're afraid of being alone, but you have no reason to be."

He then gave a quick smile and left the room.

Quirrell would usually relax after such a draining conversation, but his body was still in a defensive state, his eyes flickering around the empty room.

Then came quiet footsteps.

He shut his eyes and tried to ignore them, but they were getting louder - closer.

"I- I'm just hallucinating, there's n-nothing here, I'm alone now, I'm alone..." he muttered to himself, hands over his head.

The steps quieted, and he was almost calm, until a small voice spoke.

"Um, I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't mean to scare you."

He jumped, with no choice but to look. When he opened his eyes, there, of all people, was Harry Potter.

They stared at each other silently. The boy was looking at him with a sort of apprehensive curiosity. Quirrell tried to speak, but he had both too much and nothing to say.

At last he settled on, "You d-don't have to c-call me 'Professor' anymore."

"Oh," Harry said, "I just wanted to ask you ab--"

"Me? Do you have no self p-preservation?" Quirrell asked, "I could k-kill- kill you right now, a-and then what?"

He said it with about as much conviction as he would threaten to take house points from a rowdy classroom, and Harry took the threat no more seriously.

"Forgive me for saying so, but I don't think you could, sir," he said, looking up and down the bandages that covered Quirrell's face and arms, signifiers of the damage Harry had done to him.

"Listen to me," Quirrell said sternly, making Harry flinch, "There are m-more ways to kill than with your hands, especially magically. Y-You shouldn't have come here."

"Why not? You won't kill me."

"You d-don't know that," Quirrell argued.

"I do," Harry insisted, "You said you didn't want to hurt anyone. And if it's so easy to kill, you would've done so already."

Quirrell sighed, retreating back into his hands.

Harry sheepishly explained, "I just wanted to know more about... everything. I am sorry I made you think you were hearing things, though. I was trying to be quiet."

Quirrell peeked up and thought back to those small breaths he'd heard. One when he'd cursed, he remembered that, and the other... It could've been a reaction to any of the horrible things he'd described.

At least now he knew he wasn't hallucinating.

"Y-You shouldn't have heard a-any of that," he said, not scolding, but stating a simple fact.

"Maybe not," Harry agreed, "but still, I had to ask you about--"

"Don't- Don't say his name!" Quirrell exclaimed, his eyes flickering about the room as if the mere mention of Voldemort would summon him.

"I don't mean him," Harry said, startled.

"You don't?"

Harry shook his head, saying, "I mean Professor Snape. You said he was a spy, and a... a Death Eater? What is that?"

With a small shiver, Quirrell said, "That's w-what You-Know-Who's followers are called. The close ones, who work d-directly for him."

"So... Snape really is one of his followers?"

"Was," Quirrell corrected, "I- I don't know a lot about the s-situation, only that Professor Dumbledore trusts him more than anyone. They're v-very close. There's a lot of- of history there, I think."

Harry pondered his answer for a moment, before his eyes suddenly lit up.

"You mentioned that my father and Snape hated each other. Did you know him? And what about my mother?"

Quirrell's expression, or what Harry could make of it through the bandages, softened.

"I d-didn't know them, no. I was o-only in my third year at school when they d-died."

"Oh, right, I knew that," Harry said, "Thanks anyw--"

"How- How did you know that?" Quirrell asked, a suspicious edge to his voice.

"What?"

"How did you know w-what year I was in when they- they died?"

Harry turned his gaze to the floor and admitted, "I saw some of your memories after Dumbledore looked. You mentioned it to Volde--"

"Don't say his name!!" Quirrell screamed, his eyes wide, and terror coursing through his body.

"Sorry, I forgot," Harry said quietly, a little scared underneath the sympathy he now felt.

He went from scared to horrified when Quirrell suddenly began hitting himself in the head again, as if trying to knock whatever thoughts were tormenting him out of his skull.

"Wha--? Stop it, don't!"

Harry grabbed his wrists with barely a struggle, surprised at how easily he was able to overpower him. The little energy Voldemort had left Quirrell with wasn't enough to fight back against even a child -- which gave Harry relief in the moment, but a deep sense of unease as well.

He forced himself to look at Quirrell's face, and the uneasy feeling grew when he found his eyes unfocused and vacant. He let go of his hands, watching them fall limply.

"Professor? Can you hear me?" Harry quietly asked.

Quirrell made a small sound in the back of his throat, and Harry took that as a good sign.

"Are you alr--?"

"He's still-- He's still in my head."

Harry shook his head and said, "No, he's not. It's just... because I said his name. I'm sorry about that."

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," Quirrell said rapidly, making Harry unsure if he was stuttering over the word or just repeating it that many times on purpose, "D-Don't- Don't apologize. It's n-not your fault I'm g-going mad."

Harry didn't think it was Quirrell's fault either, but he kept his mouth shut.

"I'm sorry, a-about everything," he went on, not waiting for an answer, "Just t-tell me you didn't see the- the poison."

Harry skimmed through his memory of the memory, and shook his head.

"I don't think so, but... poison? Did you really kill someone then?"

"No, I- I didn't," he said, leaning back against the headboard with a deep sigh of relief, "It's just s-something a child shouldn't see."

Harry had an idea of what that might mean, based on what Dumbledore had said.

"Did you really... try to die?" he asked hesitantly, unsure if he had even understood that conversation.

In an instant, Quirrell was back to his tense, upright position. Harry was taken aback to see him staring at him intensely, his eyes wide -- not with fear for once, but with fury.

"How- How much did you hear?" he demanded.

"Um, everything that was just between you and Dumbledore. A bit before that as well."

Quirrell shut his eyes and, in a tense and strangely high-pitched voice, said, "You really are the m-most nosy child I've ever met."

"Sorry," Harry said, "but in my defense, everything was kept a secret from me my whole life."

After a taking a few very, very deep breaths, Quirrell opened his eyes and said, "That's no reason t-to go around listening to adult conversations. Y-You're ten years old, you have n-no business--"

"Eleven."

"Eleven! Far too young to know that p-people can kill themselves!"

Harry shrugged, refusing to admit he was right. He was glad to have learned the other bits of information he had, but that topic did make him uneasy.

"P-Promise me you won't sneak around like that, o-or look at m-my- my memories again."

It struck Harry that unknowingly having someone look through his darkest memories would be rather violating. He understood the request, not as a harsh command from a teacher, but as a last attempt at defense from someone whose mind had been violated too much already.

"I promise, I won't," he said, as solemnly as he could convey.

"Thank you," Quirrell murmured, his posture slumping in both relief and defeat.

Harry pushed down his nerves and said, "but I think it's a good thing I heard what I did, some of it."

"Enlighten me."

"I found out that you're not really a bad person."

Quirrell glanced at him, shaking his head with the same sort of cold smile he'd given him in front of the mirror. Harry couldn't help wondering for a split second if Quirrell had been acting again this entire time, until he spoke.

"I-It's not that simple, to say I'm good or bad. I may not have k-killed anyone, but that doesn't mean I'm not a bad person. You must be m-more careful."

Harry didn't think that was something a bad person would say, but he just nodded and said, "Yes, sir."

"Potter!" an angry voice cut in, "What are you doing here?"

Harry looked up to see Snape rushing toward him, and before he knew it he was being swept away in a flurry of black fabric. He thought he saw Quirrell give him a wave, but he couldn't be sure.

Once they were out the door, Snape let him go and demanded, "Well? I'm waiting."

Harry tried to think of a convincing lie, before deciding he didn't really have any reason to.

"I was just talking to Professor Quirrell."

"Tell me what you think you were doing, speaking with a madman who tried to kill you."

Taking a few steps backward, Harry glared up at Snape. He understood how strange it might have looked, but on the other hand Snape wasn't ignorant to the way Quirrell had been manipulated, or innocent himself.

"Do you really think you're any better than him?" Harry said, his heart pounding with the terrified thrill of talking back to an adult, "You didn't have to be tricked into working for Voldemort, did you?"

Snape's face twisted into the most livid expression Harry had ever seen, even for him. He thought Snape might actually hit him, before he straighted his features and hissed, "Don't ever bring that up to me again."

"Yessir," Harry squeaked. Still, a part of him was proud he'd managed to unsettle Snape of all people.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Sir?"

Scowling, Snape said, "Quirrell. Did he do anything to you?"

"Just now? No, not at all," Harry said, then added, "He was a little scary, though."

"Are you surprised, after what he did?"

"No, I mean..." Harry said, taking a moment to get his thoughts together, "He hurt himself, and talked about dying, and screamed when I said Voldemort's name."

"As I said, he's mad. You should have stayed away from him."

"It's not him I'm scared of," Harry insisted, "I think he really needs help."

"He'll get the help he needs in Azkaban."

"Azkaban?" The word sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"I'll speak with him. You get back to your dormitory, now."

Before Harry could argue, Snape disappeared and shut the door behind him.

Chapter Text

When Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room, Ron and Hermione were huddled on a couch waiting for him.

"Where have you been?" Hermione exclaimed, as Ron jumped up from his seat.

Harry sank into a cozy chair across from them and said, "The hospital wing."

"What happened?" Ron asked, "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, I was just... talking to Quirrell, actually."

"What?!"

Harry quickly explained, "I saw some of his memories, in this sort of pool thing..."

"A Pensieve?" said Hermione.

"I don't know. If you think that's what it is, then probably."

"Did you see...?" Ron hesitated, "You know."

"Voldemort?"

Both Ron and Hermione cringed.

"Not exactly. He was there, but he didn't have a real body. He was mostly possessing some snakes before he possessed Quirrell."

"So then, was Quirrell really being controlled?" said Ron.

"Not completely," Harry clarified, "Voldemort was in his head, but he couldn't control his body."

Hermione said with a look of disgust, "Then he was a follower of him the whole time?"

"That's not completely true either. I heard him tell Dumbledore that he didn't believe in... blood purity," Harry recalled, "I don't exactly know what that means, but it must be something Voldemort believes in."

"It's the entire reason he became a murderer," Ron said solemnly.

"What does it mean?"

"Well..." he hesitated, glancing at Hermione, as if asking for permission.

Hermione crossed her arms and explained, "Some witches and wizards are born to muggle parents, or to parents who are one of each."

"Right?" Harry nodded, thinking of Hermione's own parents, and remembering that Seamus had mentioned having a muggle father.

"Pureblood families are those without any muggles involved at all. Like Ron's family, or the Malfoys. People who believe in blood purity consider anyone with muggle parents or ancestry to be lesser witches and wizards."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Harry said.

"Well, we know it doesn't," Hermione agreed, "But not everyone does."

Ron said quickly, "And not all pureblood families think that way. My dad would be ecstatic to meet more muggles."

"That's good to know," Harry said, quietly absorbing this new information, "Quirrell said he wasn't a pureblood, and I had no idea what he was talking about."

"Why would he join You-Know-Who then?" Hermione asked.

Harry looked around to make sure nobody else was there, before saying, "When I looked at his memories, he told Voldemort he wanted to learn from him. I don't think he ever planned on working for him at all."

"Then why did he? He tried to kill you!"

"He wouldn't have done a lot of the things he did if Voldemort hadn't... Well."

"What?"

Harry leaned forward and whispered, "Tortured him."

Hermione paled, and Ron said with a nervous gulp, "You... saw it happen?"

"It wasn't bloody or anything, at least the bit I saw," Harry said, "He used a spell that seemed to really hurt him, and the way Dumbledore and he talked about it, I think Voldemort did it more times than I saw."

"That's terrible. How can a spell like that exist?" Hermione gasped.

"I don't know," Ron shrugged, "but I've heard scary things about magical torture. People have gone mad from it."

"I think Quirrell really might have," Harry said, though he felt a twinge of guilt as soon as he heard himself say it.

"He can't be that bad if you were able to talk to him," Ron said, "What could you have possibly talked about anyway?"

"I asked him about Snape, and my parents, and something I heard him say to Dumbledore... I don't know if I can say it."

"Nothing about You-Know-Who?"

"I think I saw enough of him in the memories, and bringing him up with Quirrell made him really..." Harry hesitated before ending with, "uncomfortable."

"What did he say about Snape?" Ron asked.

Harry's eyes widened as he exclaimed, "I almost forgot-- He used to work for Voldemort!"

"No!" Hermione and Ron gasped.

"Yes," Harry insisted.

"But how do we know Quirrell wasn't lying?" said Hermione.

"I sort of spied on all of the teachers talking," Harry admitted, "Quirrell said Snape was a Death Eater, which I know now is what Voldemort's followers are called, and none of them argued."

"You mean everyone knows, and they still work with him?" Ron asked.

"Quirrell said Dumbledore trusts Snape more than anyone," Harry recalled, "He said they must be very close."

"Did he know anything about your...?" Ron asked, trailing off awkwardly.

"My parents?" Harry said with a shake of his head, "No, he didn't know them. They'd already graduated when he started school."

Hermione nodded, and Ron said, "I'm sorry."

"What was it you heard that you don't know if you can say?" Hermione hesitantly asked.

"Well, you can't expect him to outright say it," said Ron.

Harry kept his mouth shut as he pondered on the topic. It was one thing to ask Quirrell about his attempt at ridding himself of Voldemort, but it felt wrong to repeat it to anyone else.

On the other hand, these were his best friends. If anyone could help him with the unsettling information he'd learned, it would be them. And it wasn't like Quirrell had asked him to keep it a secret.

"It's a strange subject to talk about," Harry said, picking at a loose thread on his trousers, "and it was sort of an adult conversation. Quirrell said I shouldn't have heard it at all."

"And he still talked about it with you?" Hermione asked, looking like she wanted to become Headmistress just so she could fire Quirrell herself.

"Not really, at least not in detail. He just confirmed what I'd heard, he didn't seem to want to talk about it at all. I didn't quite understand it, but now that I do, I... I don't know."

"Did it scare you?"

"A little," Harry said.

"Maybe you'd be less scared if you told us," Ron offered.

"Well..." Harry began, "When I looked at his memories, I only saw a few before I got scared and sort of jumped out."

"Right."

"Dumbledore saw all of it, though, and he asked Quirrell about a specific memory he saw. A memory of him trying to..."

The others looked at him expectantly.

Harry took a deep breath and finished, "To kill... himself."

"Ah," Hermione said as Ron's eyes went wide.

"I didn't understand what it meant. I mean, I did, I just couldn't believe it, that someone could do that."

The others nodded, looking pale.

"And he said Voldemort did something to him, to make him stop. He said he hoped I hadn't seen it. I hadn't, but just hearing about it... disturbed me."

"I can see why. It must have been horrific if he'd rather he were dead," said Ron.

"Still, that doesn't mean he's good, or safe to be around," Hermione warned, "He did try to kill you, and would have brought You-Know-Who back if it hadn't been for your mother's protection."

"I don't entirely blame him. I mean, what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't even die -- if he did, Voldemort would have just found someone else," Harry argued.

"But--"

"I'm not saying he's innocent," he cut in, "but he's not dangerous."

"How can you be sure? He had us fooled all year," Ron pointed out, "Even the other teachers."

Harry shook his head and said, "You didn't see his memories. I know I didn't see them all either, but I saw enough to know he didn't want any of this. And if you'd talked to him..."

"It sounds like he's really become the person he was pretending to be all year," said Ron.

"It's worse," Harry said with a nod, "He was scared to even be in the room alone. When he heard me under the cloak he thought he was hallucinating. He started screaming when I said Voldemort's name."

Ron and Hermione gave each other worried glances.

"There was a point where he sort of zoned out and started hurting himself. And on top of that, he couldn't even fight me when I stopped him."

"That's... That is worse," Hermione admitted.

"You were probably right, then," Ron added, "about him being mad."

Harry quickly said, "I didn't mean it. That is, it wasn't a very nice way to put it."

"It seems awfully dangerous to leave him alone in that state," Hermione said.

"Well, he's not alone now. Snape's with him."

"You know, maybe he would be better left alone than with him," said Ron.

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other, neither wanting to admit they agreed.

 

Quirrell couldn't stop his hands from shaking as Snape once again entered the room, alone. Any attempt at clenching his hands together only made it worse, not to mention the stinging of his skin he'd almost forgotten about.

Snape opened the conversation with, "Potter told me you screamed at him," as he casually pulled up a chair.

His stomach twisted with guilt as he frantically explained, "I- I'm so sorry, I- I mean, it j-just happened, I couldn't-- I didn't mean to fr-frighten him."

"You didn't," Snape said coldly, "What's most perplexing to me is that he's more concerned about you."

Looking down at his hands with a shake of his head, Quirrell replied, "He seems t-to have this idea that I'm a- a victim, of... Y-You know."

"Are you?" Snape asked.

"No, it- it was all m-my own fault, I- I- I should have made that c-clearer to him."

Snape's face remained neutral as he demanded, "How could you make it any clearer when he saw your memories himself?"

"I don't know," Quirrell said as he absentmindedly chewed on the bandages covering his fingernails, "It's all a blur, I- I was just t-trying to get through the conversation with- without traumatizing him any more than I alr-already had."

Snape continued to stare off, unamused, but not as angry as Quirrell had anticipated.

"I see," was all he said.

"Do you?" Quirrell asked nervously.

Snape's hair whipped around his face as he swiftly turned to look Quirrell in the eye, asking, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I-It sounds like you st-still don't trust me," he answered, "and I c-completely understand that, of- of course, I would just hate for anyone t-to think I--"

"I don't like you," Snape cut in, "Let me make that perfectly clear."

Quirrell shut his mouth, at least relieved that after years of awkward tension, Snape was finally upfront about it.

"But I trust what Professor Dumbledore has said led you to do what you did, which therefore necessitates that I trust you no longer have any allegiance to the Dark Lord."

"N-No, none whatsoever."

"Well, there we have it," Snape concluded.

After a moment of hesitation, Quirrell said, "I'm- I'm sorry a-about bringing up your past in- in front of everyone, I- I had no right to say that."

Glaring, Snape said, "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Apologize when you don't mean it."

He could only blink in response.

"You may not be working for the Dark Lord," Snape went on, "but you're still just as two-faced as you always have been."

Quirrell flinched at his word choice, unsure if he knew.

"I d-don't know what you--"

"You fawn, and people-please, and apologize for any negativity you invite because you're so afraid of conflict. It's revolting."

Quirrell prepared to argue, and found he couldn't. Instead he asked, "Is- Is it so wrong to consider other people?"

"You don't consider other people," Snape shot back, "You just don't want them to know how bitter you really are."

His bold claims made Quirrell all the more angry. Still, he remained silent and continued biting his bandaged nails.

"That's why you never fought back when the Dark Lord had you."

That caught his attention, and he found himself glaring at the other man.

"Do you really m-mean that, or- or are you just trying to get a reaction out of me?"

"It looks like I don't need to try."

"Answer me, damn you!" Quirrell snapped before he could even think, then rapidly backtracked, "I'm sorry, I d-don't know what's gotten into me--"

"Nothing's gotten into you, it's something you're trying not to let out," Snape sneered, "Why are you trying to deny it when it's so obvious?"

"Well, w-what do you want me to say? That I'm not sorry?"

"Have you ever considered thinking for yourself?"

Despite his better judgement, Quirrell shouted, "Do you think I want to- to be like this?"

"You tell me."

Quirrell shook his head, sighing into his hands. He felt his throat tighten, but he refused to cry. He hadn't cried this whole time since he'd first woken up here, and he would not let Snape of all people be the one to make him.

After inhaling deeply, he looked up and said, "Why are you doing this? T-Talking to me like a- a therapist or something?"

Snape's mocking smile straightened into a serious stare as he said, "Because weak people who lie to themselves, and everyone else, have no right to teach at this school."

"I'm- I'm not t-teaching at this school."

For the first time, Snape was caught off guard.

"You quit?"

"I-I'm..." Quirrell said slowly, "I'm going t-to prison."

"We don't know that yet."

"And if- if I don't? I'll just go back to t-teaching like nothing happened?"

Snape responded coolly, "The Headmaster hasn't made any statement, and he's quite convinced that you're not a danger to anyone now that you've regained control of your body."

Quirrell didn't think it was entirely accurate to say he'd ever lost control of his body, but in a way it wasn't inaccurate either.

"I still think your dishonesty makes you unsuitable to represent this school, but I trust that you're not a threat at least."

"Thank you," Quirrell murmured.

"That wasn't a compliment," Snape said, standing up, "I'll fetch Madam Pomfrey to fix your bandages."

Quirrell looked down at his hand to find his fingers poking out, and the gauze unwinding around his hand. He winced as he noticed the feeling of the air on his raw skin.

There had been moments like that with Him in his head, where Quirrell wouldn't feel pain until the injury was pointed out to him; a bloody papercut noticed by a student, a bruise on his arm quietly brought up in the staff room.

Luckily these injuries were never anything more than small clumsy accidents, but the growing disconnect between his body and mind was what really scared him. He supposed it was an effect of the torture, or some other psychological damage He had inflicted on his brain.

He glanced back up to thank Snape, but he was gone.

 

The young Gryffindor trio decided amongst themselves that maybe they should go back to the hospital wing, just to be sure Snape wasn't being unnecessarily harsh on Quirrell. He may not have been the one trying to steal the stone, but the children knew how cruel he could be to anyone he had a problem with.

And, alright, maybe Hermione and Ron were a little curious to see what Quirrell was like now too.

As they made their way down the stairs, Harry asked, "By the way, what's Azkaban?"

The others froze for a moment, and they nearly missed the next staircase before it moved.

"It's a prison," said Ron, clinging to the railing, "for the worst kinds of wizards and witches. Mostly followers of You-Know-Who, but there have been some who are just evil for their own reasons too."

"I've read that it's impossible to escape, and it's surrounded by these ghastly creatures that eat your happiness," Hermione added with a shiver.

"Dementors," Ron nodded.

Harry stared at them, shocked, and asked, "How does something even eat happiness?"

"They sort of suck out your energy, I think."

That just raised even more questions that Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know the answers to. He just nodded and followed the others down the stairs and into the corridor.