Quirrell

Bloody hell, thought Quirrell as he sat in his office, writing a letter with his favorite color ink (yellow), I am actually going to do this.

It had taken weeks for him to learn how to emulate Fudge's handwriting. (The evil overlord living on the back of his head had used these sessions to deride Quirrell, with such admonishments as "It would've taken me a half-hour to forge the accursed letter, Quirrell!" or "Merlin, your penmanship is horrendous," or "I should've possessed a chimpanzee. They have more brain capacity at birth than you can ever hope of having. And they'd make a more respected teacher.") He could only practice when he was alone, and only when he had free time, which was a lot less often than one would think. The wretched Dumbledore kept giving him errands, and stamping 100's on everyone's exams and homework was such a long and daily chore that he could swear that his wrist muscles were deteriorating.

But finally, today was the day of action. Today was the day that he, Quirenius Quirrell would fetch the Sorcerer's Stone and become the most powerful being on the planet; He had no intention of helping the filthy ingrate grafted to the back of his head- the immense wealth and immortality would be all his.

Finally, Quirrell finished his letter, despite the dark mutterings of the back of his head (like "Quirrell, if you get that 'f' wrong one more time, I will personally murder you ten times over!"). He was just standing back to admire the work that took copious hours to complete...

Dear Dumbledore,
The Ministry's in trouble and needs you right now!
Sincerely, Cornelius Oswald Fudge

...when he heard a rapping at his chamber door.

Quickly, Quirrell stuffed the letter into his mahogany desk drawer, careful even in his fret to magically conceal the words on the parchment, and rushed to open the door.

"Why, hello, P-p-professor Snape, what brings you h-here?" asked a flustered yet courteous Quirrell, luckily remembering to employ the fake stutter that so effectively hid his distaste for the man.

"Shut it, Quirrell," said Snape, his spit splattering all over Quirrell's face and his eyebrows furrowed in menace. "You know perfectly well why I'm here- to see whether you're up to something."

"I d-don't know w-why you insist on checking m-my office every other d-day, P-p-professor," replied Quirrell innocently. Snape's visits had been another thing that strained his schedule greatly- he could do no plotting when the hook-nosed old bat was constantly looking over his shoulder. Then again, after what he had seen that day Quirrell let the troll in to the dungeons, he had reasons to monitor his activities.

"Didn't I tell you to stop speaking, Quirrell?" snarled Snape, already hurriedly sifting through some of the files on Quirrell's desk. The Potions Master continued to scan the office for any suspicious items or documents, searching every shelf and bookcase. Finally, after the search yielded no results, he turned to leave, but not before saying, "I'm watching you, Quirrell. Something funny's going on, that much I know. I have consulted the Headmaster, and keep in mind that it's extremely difficult to fool him. Especially for you."

"I wouldn't d-dream of d-doing anything l-like that, sir," replied Quirrell, anxious for Snape to leave.

"When did I tell you that you could talk, Quirrell?"

And with that, Snape slammed the door closed.
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Stage one of the operation went comparably smoothly for Quirrell (mostly because stage one was simply sending out an owl and lugging a Disillusioned harp to the forbidden third floor corridor), except for the fact that he forgot the harp the first trip down. "Quirrell, you imbecile, no wonder you were walking so fast!" the back of his head had hissed vehemently when he realized he had left the harp. "If I could see more than the back of this turban, I'd..." When he had gotten the harp and went downstairs with it again, the students just thought someone had put a Crippling Curse on him (which wasn't uncommon), for the heavy harp he carried was invisible.

Tentatively, he unlocked the third floor corridor door and entered the room, where he immediately set to work enchanting the harp. As he had expected, he heard the cacophony of growls coming from the three titanic heads of Fluffy and saw it unmistakably guarding the wooden trapdoor. The instrument started to play when the gargantuan canine was in mid-pounce- it fell instantly into a sleeping heap on the floor. Quirrell then proceeded to edge his way to the trapdoor, his wand hand held in front of him in case the music stopped playing for some reason. When he got to it, he had to gently move the dog's tail out of the way before opening it and looking down.

Gulp.

He could see only about a meter and a half in to the chute, the rest was covered in pitch-black shadow. Who knew how far down it was to jump? There wasn't any other means of getting down there, as far as he could tell...

"Quirrell," screeched the back of his head, sensing his hesitation, "you must jump. An alarm must have gone off in Dumbledore's office by now. If the owl you sent out made the old Muggle-loving fool leave then there's no need to rush, but what if it hasn't? Time is of the essence. Jump!"

Still Quirrell stood there, paralyzed with fear. Then Voldemort sneezed because of the smell of garlic in his turban and Quirrell fell into the hole, just as heard the harp stop and three people enter the room with Fluffy.

It took a whole fifteen seconds of falling through the chute for him to land something. Quirrell thanked the almighty Scion of Darkness it was so nice and soft and comfy and... leafy?

As though waiting for the advent of mortifying recognition, the vicious plant's tendril-vines coiled around his arms and legs, barring any escape. Quirrell subsequently let out a girlie scream and struggled against the vine now threatening to bind his throat with all his might.

"Quick, set it on fire! I'm suffocating!" yelled the back of his head. "It's Devil's Snare, I've had to use cuttings of its leaves for countless potions!"

But Quirrell was too busy screaming and struggling to listen. In his panic, Quirrell dropped his wand, which got stuck in the thick, undulating and grassy undergrowth of the overgrown plant. The wand caught fire due to the friction of the rapid rubbing of the foliage against it. Immediately, the plant rescinded its vice grip on the almost-dead Quirrell in writhing agony. He landed hard on the floor (which snapped him out of his shock) and got up, staggering to the door at the end of corridor. As he opened the entrance to the next room, he could distinctly hear the regrowth of the Devil's Snare from the very stone-flagged floor.

Quirrell took a deep breath before closing the door behind him and looking at his surroundings. He spotted a pile of broomsticks at once, lying on the wall to his left. Their presence greatly proved an enigma too difficult for him to grasp. What did he have to do- swat a fly? Wax all the handles?

Then, while he was wondering whether he had to clean the dungeon, a whim made him look up. What he saw made his eyes bulge. There were at least seventy winged keys, flittering about at incredible speeds and wholly indistinguishable from each other at this distance. He then understood- he had to fly via broom to retrieve the correct key and advance.

"What are you waiting for, dolt? Ascend!" commanded a muffled voice in his turban. The Dark Lord was clearly impatient in his venture to grab the Elixir of Life.

"Um, I kind of... you see I never learned how to... I can't fly," said Quirrell quietly, whose head hung in shame.

Voldemort was utterly livid; he could feel the anger permeate through the entwined minds.

"WHAT? YOU'VE LOST OUR WAND AND YOU CAN'T FLY? YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A PUREBLOOD, YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE A MUGGLE RIGHT NOW!"

"Well, I can jump really high..." said Quirrell in a small voice.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Now, you know what we must do. You have to let me control."

"No!" exclaimed Quirrell at once. He knew how mind-crushingly painful complete possession was- he had read it in one of his Defense Against the Dark Arts books.

"You've no choice, Quirrell! Do it!"

Quirrell opened his mind to him in resignation, and Voldemort eagerly filled the void. His second face disappeared as his pupils became catlike slits and his voice became high and cold. Although only Quirrell felt the sting of unity, he knew he could not assume control for too long- that much pain for a prolonged period of time would surely kill him, and he desperately needed a host body.

Voldemort didn't need a wand to summon a broom. "Accio," he decreed lazily, and a broom shot at him with lightning speed. He grabbed it, mounted it, and set off in hot pursuit of the correct key. His highly developed senses led him to what looked like an early Renaissance key, probably from Florence, fitted with fragile, translucent wings. Despite not being used to such short fingers, he seized the airborne object within seconds, descended to the floor, kicking up dust, and jammed the key unceremoniously into the lock. Click.

The Dark Lord savored an evil smile as the hinge of the door creaked of its own accord. Yes, he quite liked having a body of his own. But to accomplish that he needed the Stone, which by now couldn't be far. No doubt Quirrell would give him the Stone once they found it.

So he reluctantly let Quirrell assume control again as the way back closed with a loud thud. Immediately, Quirrell's face returned to normal and Voldemort's face burrowed out of the folds of the back of his head yet again. Quirrell took a moment to catch his breath, shrugged off any lingering discomfort, and peered around him. He seemed to be in a statue room with a checkered floor; the room was fully square. Each statue depicted a medieval figure, weapons and armor intact, and were identical to at least one other statue except for color. It took him a while to put two and two together (both literally and figuratively). A moment's quiet speculation passed before he abruptly knew what to do: it was a giant chess board, and he would have to play his way across to evade the armed knights, deadly-looking halberds a-gleaming, guarding against entry to the next room.

It was easier said than done for Quirrell. Then again, most things were. But chess was particularly out of the reach of his understanding. Most witches and wizards had at least a basic concept of how to play chess when they were growing up. It was an archaic game first devised by the sultans of Persia back in some date he had never heard of. Quirenius, however, couldn't recall ever getting a birthday or Christmas present apart from a bale of hay someone had once thrown at him once. And even that was a bit suspect. Nevertheless, he decided to give it a shot. After a few botched and stupid moves, Voldemort let out an evil sigh and decided to carry things on. Every move Quirrell made was an echo of whatever order the back of his head barked at him. Every successful and tactically intelligent move he made he regarded as his own brilliant idea. Finally, it all came down to the last move.

"Say 'check'."

Quirrell cleared his throat. "Ahem. Check."

The cowering King dropped its sword and braced for impact, a weeping mess.

"Now say 'rook takes the king'," instructed the voice behind his face.

"Rook takes the king."

Nothing happened. The King looked up, now seemingly a little bemused.

"Ahem. Rook takes the king," said Quirrell again, loudly and clearly.

Still, nothing happened. The King let out a very gravelly belly laugh and pointed at Quirrell, openly mocking him.

That gesture had never deterred him before, and it sure as hell wasn't going to now. For four minutes Quirrell kept saying, "Rook takes the king! Rook takes the king!" until he finally thought to say something else.

"Pawn takes the King?"

The King stopped filing his nails and looked up in horror as the rabid pawn somersaulted into the air and executed its daring and devastating meteor-suplex-smash attack. Afterwards, the pawn squatted amidst the regal rubble, pilfered a pewter crown, donned it, and danced in exultation.

Quirrell wondered why he had to say "pawn" that time around as he walked over the shattered remains of the fallen pieces that littered the battlefield. Just as soon as he finished closing the door to the next chamber behind him, he heard the shifting of the chess pieces as they reassembled one another.

Quirrell smiled when he saw what was in this room. It was his obstacle. The towering mountain troll roared as it spotted Quirrell's advance. He only beamed wider. He had always loved trolls- they reminded him of himself.

The smelly monster wasted no time charging at him with its rough club raised high in the air, wholly absorbed in its bestial fury. Quirrell could hardly blame the poor creature- being stuck in a dungeon for months without food or drink would make him a little grumpy too. It saddened him that he had to kill it. A necessary sacrifice, thought Quirrell greedily. He loved the Sorcerer's Stone more than anything, let alone an old mangy mountain savage. Luckily he had made it his business one day to commit to memory how to slay the beasts, especially ones blinded by rage like this one. The trick was to use its own great stupidity against it.

Quickly, Quirrell picked up a small chunk of uprooted floor, which was obviously the troll's doing, and threw it at the spot on the wall closest to the rampaging brute. The troll changed direction to the nearest sound, its tiny mind comprehending the vibration as a new enemy, and ran smack-dab into wall. Flushed with his victory over the primal giant, Quirrell strode to the next door more quickly than ever- he was getting close; there couldn't be that many other obstacles now...

As soon as Quirrell closed the door of the next room behind him, flames erupted around it and the other door. Quirrell jumped to the side, startled. Realizing that this meant he could neither forwards to the next room nor backwards to the room previous, he started to panic- How was he going to get out of there? How would he ever cross the flaming threshold to what was surely the last room on the other side? How would he ever get to know what would happen to Jessibell's mother-in-law's cousin's fiancé's alien mistress on his favorite Wizarding Wireless soap opera if he died? To whom would he bequeath the lucky sandwich he had stashed in his turban since his bird watching trip to the Vatican? He stopped hyperventilating when he noticed a small table of potion bottles at the center of the room. There was a parchment next to them.

Severus Snape writes riddles!? Quirrell didn't know what sickened him more: the fact that he had to solve Snape's poem, or that Snape even wrote poetry to begin with. "Snape, the bard." He just couldn't see it.

"Hmm... okay... carry the seven... subtract it by the length of the second hypotenuse... divide by the circumference and times it by its atomic number... three plus five is eight, not thirty-five, I keep forgetting... add it to the quotient of the present and past participles... What was the name of Paraguay's capitol?" Quirrell wracked his mind. "Ah yes, now I remember. Canberra... the square root of the average annual number of poinsettias in Indonesia... to which power would cross-breeding a carburetor and a gallery of peanuts get you?... 88... rearrange the digits so that they look like a dinosaur... I've got it! It's the brown potion!"

"Quirrell, you insufferable moron, there is no brown potion!" shrieked the Dark Lord, desperately wishing for hands to wring his neck with.

"But... my calculations!" argued Quirrell, pointing animatedly at the back of the parchment of the riddle he had used as scrap paper.

"It is obviously the smallest potion, by the terms of the riddle." Voldemort then grumbled, "No wonder you flunked Arithmancy..."

Quirrell started to scratch his head in puzzlement (which wasn't smart, for his large turban rendered any head-scratching impossible), disbelieving him. The former teacher threw caution to the winds and downed the smallest potion only after he was told for about the fiftieth time to do it. In his haste proceed to the next room, Quirrell accidentally left a little potion in the bottle.

The next room (and final room, for there were no other doors) had- there were no other words to describe it- an enchantingly powerful artifact at its center. Quirrell paced his way towards it as though afraid any loud noises could disturb it. It was a mirror. But it wasn't just any mirror- it was the most beautiful mirror he had ever seen in his life. It had the ancient grace of the great-lost civilizations of man and the eloquent embroidery of mere centuries past. Quirrell was entirely captivated by the mirror, entranced by its wondrous elegance and remarkable splendor. It was calling to him. He read the engraving at the top of the relic aloud- "The Mirror of Erised". He wished he could read the pretty glowing runes that seemed to pop out from their opal and obsidian surface. The magnificent mirror had almost lured him to its brilliant, crystalline glass and pushed any thoughts of the Sorcerer's Stone firmly from his mind until an image started forming in the mirror.

Quirrell backed away, startled by the sudden change of his reflection. Light and color swirled in the glistening glass, forming a picture that showed him-- he was holding something... a red something... he was holding the Stone!

Quirrell's mind reeled as a hundred thoughts (much more than his average of ten thoughts per hour) flitted in and out of it. What did the image mean? Did it show the future? Quirrell quickly concluded that it must- this was the last room of the dungeon! The stone had to be here somewhere, figured Quirrell, and he would soon clutch its supreme authority. But where was it? Quirrell looked around wildly, almost dislodging his turban, but couldn't see it anywhere. Was the stone invisible? Should he feel around for it? Perhaps it was underground- perhaps he had to dig. Maybe it was inside the mirror- yes, the mirror has to have something to do with this. Should he break it?

After a long time of idle thought, Quirrell was becoming maddened by the wretched mirror's tantalizing and empty promise. In his frustration, he bellowed, "WHERE IS THE STONE?" as though hoping it would magically appear out of thin air (which actually might have worked, but didn't). The Mirror of Erised, however, seemed either ignorant of his plight or perfectly content in stubbornly continuing to broadcast the image of him using the Stone anyway. It was driving him to the brink of his sanity.

Then, quite unexpectedly, someone entered the room. Quirrell looked around and saw a boy... a black-haired boy with glasses...
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Quirrell lay there, and suddenly his consciousness returned. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was blistering skin and lethal pain...

Was this death? If so, it wasn't that bad after all... he felt a kind of floaty, windy sensation, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He almost felt as if he were one with the universe. Quirrell raised his spirit a bit, hoping to ascend and see where he was. However, he soon found out that he was bound to his dead body as though by eerie astral chains, especially at the joints of his arms and legs.

He then abruptly knew what he had to do, what the universe was asking him to do- it was like his head had been pried open and a thought placed inside. He had to choose what to do next. Should he become a ghost and linger on the earth, in a feeble form of semi-life? Or should he go on into the afterlife, and risk oblivion or bliss?

A brief rift in space-time above him opened, visible only to his spirit. Inside the planar portal, he could see the pulsing core of the universe; the generator, originator and purveyor of magic throughout the infinity of space. Again, a thought was planted in his head. A soothing, karmic voice told him it was called the Maginitesis. Eagerly, Quirrell's newly unshackled spirit entered the mystery of the unknown afterlife through the cosmic gateway.

No longer a cur or a toady. No longer a disciple to a cruel master. Pure energy.