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Quirinus Quirrell had a simple upbringing, not to say that he was in any way unhappy, it had simply been… Boring.
His family were purebloods, but fairly recent as such went, and without any great fortune (although still wealthy) or clout. They did have a small tie to the Potter's three generations back, but that was about the only claim to any relevance they had, not enough to even have the Potter's acknowledge them as kin.
He was still considered a half blood by the upper echelons of society, something he disagreed with vehemently. All because his father was a squib. He forever resented his father for it. He was a Pureblood, yet his father's weakness barred many doors for him.
His parents had been distant anyway, not really interested in the whole child rearing thing - having simply done what was expected and continued the family. His mother was pleased he had magic at least, his father obviously jealous, forever distant and disappointing.
The young Quirinus had lost himself in search of knowledge, fairy tales and ancient history, anything to expand his mind, and allow him to dream of something else one day. He had a very vivid imagination, and liked to imagine he was part fae, only slumming it with these mere mortals.
He looked on with envy as the world seemed to pass him by, waiting for the day he'd go to Hogwarts, a niggling ambition buried deep within him, to be something more, to above all else, not be boring.
To not be a side note in someone else's story.
*Year One*
The first time Quirinus Quirrell stepped into the Great Hall of Hogwarts, he was overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the stormy sky outside, candles floated in midair, casting a warm glow on the tables where students sat, buzzing with excitement and anticipation. Quirrell, a slight boy with an unassuming demeanor, was sorted into Ravenclaw amidst polite applause. He wore a shy, nervous smile, but beneath that facade, his mind was already calculating.
The hat had sensed his deeply hidden ambitions, but he'd rejected Slytherin as a choice, pushing for Ravenclaw. It would be more boring, but he'd researched enough of history to realize he wouldn't be able to put his own mark on history until after he graduated anyway - so boring was best until then - just be the unassuming boy everyone expected and saw.
If he stood out too much, those in power would only use him, or remove him. History had shown that much.
In his first year, Quirrell quickly made himself a reputation as a studious, albeit timid, student. His professors praised his dedication to his studies, while his peers found him agreeable and non-threatening. What they didn't know was that Quirrell was already experimenting with Legilimency, the art of reading minds, something far beyond the abilities of most first-year students - something he'd found he had a natural talent in. He practiced in secret, using the cover of his extensive reading habits to delve into the forbidden texts on mind arts, hiding them as simple schoolbooks.
The Quirrells weren't ancient family rich, but they were purebloods, so it hadn't been difficult to acquire books from Knockturn Alley, his parents' apathy over what he'd spend his gold on a boon - as was their complete disregard for what he did during the day, allowing him to make the trip before Hogwarts.
Without his natural aptitude, it would have likely ended there. Only a fool touched mind magic that young, his sanity was likely helped by the fact he started with Legilimency, not Occlumency - that would just have been begging for lobotomizing yourself.
He might have been a fool, but a fool blessed by magic, because it worked.
He observed his fellow students closely, while continuing to keep up a facade, silently siphoning their surface thoughts and memories as he grew better. One of his classmates, a boisterous boy named Edward, often shared details of his wealthy family's secrets, albeit unknowingly. Quirrell stored this information away, already adept at using people's vulnerabilities to his advantage. Edward never suspected that his quiet, bookish friend was anything more than he appeared.
No one ever did.
He realized quickly that he was one of a kind, the other students around him not nearly as skilled, not nearly as observant.
They wasted their time on play and trivial pursuits.
He wondered for the first time…
Is this how the likes of Dumbledore and You-Know-Who had felt their first year?
*Year Four*
By his fourth year, Quirrell had perfected the art of appearing weaker than he was. His timid nature had become his armor, his shield. He had learned to appear unsure and easily cowed. This facade allowed him to move through the halls of Hogwarts without drawing suspicion. Meanwhile, his proficiency in Legilimency had grown. He could now penetrate the minds of the weaker of his professors, gathering valuable information that further fueled his ambition.
Occlumency once perfected was practically impenetrable, the real thoughts and memories buried in a void, only a fake mind available to grasp, but it turned out practically no one worked at the mind arts to that extent. His Professors were weak. Barring the few he didn't dare touch, like Dumbledore and McGonagall.
Slughorn was stronger than his appearance would suggest, but plied with alcohol, his mind loosened enough Quirrell could pry loose some secrets even there.
Still, he was almost angry.
To not advance your mind, to stagnate, it was anathema to the young Quirrell. He felt disgust at Hogwarts and its Professors for the first time. To be so accepting of weakness... To allow students to slack off and waste the gift of magic, it was, he realized, the effect of mudbloods diluting the essence of wizarding kind.
What else could it be?
That year, the Dark Lord fell to the Potter babe, and his fascination began.
In the library, Quirrell found books detailing the rise of the Dark Lord Voldemort, what was known of his history, he searched through newspaper archives, he devoured what knowledge he could find. One would think the Dark Lord falling to a babe wouldn't have inflamed such an interest in him - but Quirrell had from the beginning believed in the power of stories.
And he could literally smell fate on this. A babe defeating a Dark Lord? Preposterous. No… Magic and Fate had their hands all over this.
Divination, prophecy, Quirrell didn't have natural talent in the subject, but he found himself dabbling.
And he just knew it wasn't over. He knew how stories went, how in the end, the villain lost. He itched to throw that in disarray, upset fate.
The Dark Lord falling now wasn't the end, it was the beginning of a story.
Fate weaving something, threads of magic wrapping around the consciousness of the world, bringing the story into reality.
But…
What if the villain won?
He was captivated by the power and fear Voldemort commanded from what he'd read to begin with - the ability to wield so much power, so much influence… The stories of the Dark Lord's conquests intrigued him.
Quirrell devoured every bit of information he could find, his hunger for knowledge and power growing with each page he turned. Yet, he was careful. He knew that to reveal his true ambitions too soon would be disastrous. So, he continued to play the part of the meek, diligent student, all the while plotting his own path to greatness.
Surely, surely, the Dark Lord would be back one day, and he'd have to work hard to ensure he was right there, primed to live the fairy tale himself, and conquer it, throwing down fate itself.
Never let it be said he lacked ambition.
*Year Six*
By the time Quirrell reached his sixth year, he had become a master of deception. His classmates saw him as the same timid boy, now a bit taller, with the same nervous habits. He often sat alone in the library, surrounded by books, the picture of scholarly dedication. Yet, beneath that placid exterior, his mind was a whirlpool of dark ambitions and sinister plans.
He had refined his Legilimency to the point where he could extract secrets without the subject even realizing it no matter how deep he went - albeit sometimes he just brute forced it for enjoyment, mind wiping his victims afterwards.
His classmates and even some of his professors were unwitting sources of valuable information. He had learned of hidden passageways, secret alliances, and the private fears and desires of those around him. Knowledge was power, and Quirrell was determined to amass as much of it as he could.
So he might one day be able to wield it.
His studies of Voldemort had also intensified. Quirrell was fascinated by the Dark Lord's ability to inspire fear and loyalty in equal measure. He longed to understand the secrets behind Voldemort's power, and more importantly, how he could replicate it. If Voldemort could rise, so could he.
He cared not for the end result, whether he'd rise to be a Lord in his own right, or follow the Dark Lord to the end - as long as he achieved his goal, completely and utterly upending fate.
Changing the world forever.
*Year Seven*
In his final year at Hogwarts, Quirrell's ambitions were at an all-time high. He had meticulously maintained his guise as the shy, bookish student. His demeanor was even more unassuming, besides the Professor's, the student body was barely aware of his existence. Yet, his mind was sharper than ever. He had gathered enough secrets to manipulate those around him with ease, and his understanding of dark magic had grown exponentially.
He spent long hours in the library, often under the guise of studying for his NEWTs, but in reality, he was researching the darkest of arts - his pass to the restricted section almost unlimited, so trusted was he as a student. He was particularly drawn to the concept of immortality - knowing the Dark Lord must have achieved it.
Of course he never actually entered the dark arts sections to read anything, that would have ruined his facade, but just seeing the titles from a distance was enough to request them from Borgin's and Burke's, keeping them safely locked in a charmed and shrunk trunk, only reading them in the restricted section, where the wards wouldn't notice the difference between his dark books and the ones on the shelves a section over.
Unlike the small time books he'd read early on as a student that didn't contain enough to ping the wards, he was now reading true dark tomes, so he could not bring them out anywhere else in Hogwarts.
Despite his growing knowledge and power, Quirrell felt a constant undercurrent of frustration. How could no one see what he truly was? His professors still saw him as a diligent, if somewhat timid, student. His peers dismissed him as harmless. He seethed at their blindness, their inability to see the monster hiding in plain sight.
It worked for him, but he disliked incompetence in general, it only settled in him that the magical world needed complete upheaval. The world needed it.
They were in a rut, only doing the same thing over and over again, not growing, not changing. Adversity bred change, and the magical world despite their little tiffs, had not seen nearly enough adversity.
The same day he graduated, the same day he applied for the muggle studies post, was the same day he started thinking on how the destruction of the muggle way of life could help his ambition to destroy fate and its machinations.
What was destroyed could be rebuilt, but if they were crushed hard enough, not even the currents of fate could put things back on track.
By force, the magical world would have to adapt to the change. There would be no going back.
He also began thinking of ways to fix the planet they were destroying, mostly as a way to make the destruction of the muggle way of life palatable to most magicals - as they were sadly very limited in intelligence and couldn't see what he saw.
A timid and humble Professor arrived at Hogwarts, using the muggle studies post to dig deeper into the problems of the muggle world, using the Muggleborn who took his class for an easy credit.
Still he looked for signs of the Dark Lord, but while he did, he worked behind the scenes to craft a scenario that would please the champion of the dark.
His best shot at changing how magic itself worked.
And one day, he heard the whispers of a spirit in Albania…
Knowing some of what was coming the next year, Dumbledore not nearly as sly as he thought, not being nearly as careful with his words near the unassuming Quirrell - he knew the time was nigh.
Harry Potter would soon enter the magical world, if stories worked as he believed - the Dark Lord was ready to rise again.
The dark presence in Albania was his sign.
He immediately put in for a year's sabbatical 'to gain experience', promising to take on the DADA post on his return.
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The dense forest of Albania stretched out before Quirinus Quirrell like a dark tapestry, its gnarled trees and thick underbrush forming a labyrinth that only the determined or the desperate would dare navigate. For Quirrell, it was both. The path he walked was one of ambition, fueled by the burning desire to find his future master and cement his place at his side. The air was thick with humidity, and the canopy above allowed only sporadic rays of sunlight to penetrate, casting eerie shadows that grasped for him with each step he took.
The journey had been hard, but each obstacle only served to harden Quirrell's resolve. He had spent weeks traveling through the bleak and hostile terrain of Albania, evading the suspicious eyes of the locals who seemed to sense his dark purpose.
His sabbatical had been the best choice he'd ever made, Dumbledore allowing it struck him as a great irony, considering what he'd use it for. He could feel that this was the place, that he would succeed.
Quirrell's mind constantly wandered back to his days as the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts as the monotony set in. How he despised those days now, filled with insipid lectures and meaningless interactions. He had started to become weak, a shadow of the man he had originally been growing into - it was all good to use the Muggleborns, but he'd slowed down, stagnated, gotten too comfortable.
He hadn't even noticed.
He'd almost become that which he hated.
His disgust for Muggles and their world grew with each passing day. Their greed, their ignorance, their pollution of the earth with their machines and their pointless wars - it all fed into his growing contempt. Every broken-down village he passed through, with its starving children and hopeless inhabitants, only confirmed his belief in their inferiority. They were a blight upon the earth, and he felt no remorse in using them to further his own ends.
They'd need to suffer for the magical world to reign supreme, and for the shackles of fate and destiny to be removed from the essence of magic itself. From what he saw of the muggles, death was almost a mercy, their pointless lives amounting to nothing, just going through the same routine everyday, never accomplishing anything of note.
Quirrell's dark thoughts as he walked deeper into the forest were interrupted by the muffled sounds of sobbing now and then. He turned to look at the small, trembling figure trailing behind him - an enchanted Muggleborn girl he had kidnapped. Her eyes, still wide with fear, were glazed over, the result of the powerful compulsion charm he had placed upon her - allowing her to follow him, despite being fully aware of what was happening, hence the sobs. She stumbled over roots and rocks, her frail body bruised and bloodied from the harsh journey. But to Quirrell, she was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.
He'd have preferred a better temporary vessel if his Dark Lord was as he thought - without a body currently.
But in this pitiful country, the pickings had been slim. He only needed her to last a few days anyway. He'd already set in motion the steps to prepare her for the complete erasure of her being - the Dark Lord would understand on sight once he saw her.
"We're almost there," He muttered more to himself than to the girl. "The deepest part of the Dark Forest lies just ahead. And with it, the first step on the path to everything."
The forest seemed to grow darker as they ventured deeper, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a nocturnal creature. Quirrell's heart pounded with anticipation and dread. He knew the dangers that lay within the forest - the dark creatures that lurked in its depths, the malevolent spirits that haunted its shadows. But his future master's presence, though faint, was a beacon that drew him forward.
The dark magic that had tainted his soul was unmistakable to Quirrell this close, he who had studied the dark arts so extensively. As a Professor, he'd had full access to everything in the Hogwarts library, without the wards snooping on what he took.
It was the major reason why he'd chosen to become a Professor in the first place, together with his wish to study the insipid little mudbloods and their thoughts and memories. His outside perspective of the muggle world tainted his view too much, he knew.
It's why he used the Muggleborn, to keep up to date and find new perspectives. You needed to study animals when they were either in their habitats - or fresh from them - to get the best results after all.
The terrain became more treacherous as they delved deeper into the forest. The ground was uneven, littered with roots that twisted like serpents waiting to trip the unwary. The air was thick with the smell of decay, a constant reminder of the forest's deadly nature - and a sign that death lurked nearby for all beings. Quirrell moved with purpose, his steps sure and deliberate, while the girl stumbled and faltered behind him, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
There wouldn't be much left of her in there soon, a decent temporary vessel, he'd slake his lusts on her to expedite the process, but touching animals that way… The thought just made him feel ill.
As night fell, Quirrell decided to make camp. He roughly pushed the girl to the ground, binding her with magical ropes that glowed faintly in the darkness - just in case. She whimpered, but the compulsion charm kept her from crying out further. Quirrell conjured a small fire, its flickering light casting sinister shadows on the surrounding trees. He sat down, staring into the flames as his mind raced with thoughts of power and ambition, all soon realized.
He had learned much during his short travels, not just about the dark arts as he let loose completely, but about himself. The timid facade of a Professor was gone - and he doubted he could stomach using it again - replaced by a man who craved power and control. He had seen the depths of human depravity when studying the muggle world, the cruelty that men could inflict upon one another, and he had embraced it. For in that darkness, he had found his true calling.
He'd cull them all, and in the end, magic would flourish through the chaos.
Quirrell's thoughts turned to his future master, the Dark Lord Voldemort. The name alone sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. To be at the side of the most powerful dark wizard of all time, to learn from him, to serve him - it was a pleasure that few could even dream of. He would prove his worth, he would show his future master that he was deserving of his favor. And once he had found him, once he had brought him back from the brink, Quirrell would be rewarded beyond his wildest dreams.
Surely he would see what Quirrell saw. The filth of the muggles, the ruin of their planet. Surely he'd see the shackles on magic, forcing them into following stories, some even written by muggles and disseminated so far it affected magic itself - digging into the world consciousness like a tick, poisoning the magical world with every Muggleborn brought into the world with their Cinderella's and Snow White's and other nonsense.
Mudbloods brought change to the fabric of magic itself, the proper magic blood having grown too stagnant. Muggle heritage influencing magic - what a joke.
More than ever he knew he was on the right track. Only through great upheaval would the magical world realign itself. The true masters of Magic and Fate were the Purebloods, not the mudbloods.
He looked over at the girl, her eyes wide with terror as she stared into the fire, incapable of anything but feeling what's happening, feeling her very soul slipping into oblivion, never to rejoin the cycle, the darkest of magic. "You will be my offering," He said softly, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "A token of my loyalty and devotion."
The girl did not respond, her mind too clouded by the enchantment to fully comprehend her fate. Quirrell felt a pang of something akin to pity for a moment, but quickly pushed it aside. Pity was for the weak, for those who lacked the strength to seize their destiny. He was no longer that man. He was stronger, more focused, more ruthless.
She was just a mudblood anyway, her sacrifice would be more than her blood was worth.
As the fire died down, Quirrell laid back on the hard ground, staring up at the canopy of leaves above - the area warded to hell and back. He could still feel the presence of the dark forces that inhabited the forest, their malevolence seeping into his very soul. He welcomed it, embraced it, for it was a sign that he was on the right path. The path to power, to glory, to the side of his future master.
Sleep came fitfully, his dreams filled with visions of darkness and power, of a world where he stood beside the Dark Lord, ruling over a new order. He awoke before dawn, the forest still shrouded in darkness. He rose, and untied the girl. She stumbled to her feet, her eyes vacant and unseeing. Her mind was seemingly beginning to break under the strain.
Good. It would make things easier.
"Come," he commanded, and she followed without a word.
The forest seemed to close in around them as they continued their journey, the trees pressing closer, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to snatch them. Quirrell's heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement. He knew they were close.
As they reached the heart of the forest, Quirrell saw it - a dark, forbidding cave, its entrance shrouded in shadow. He knew without a doubt that this was the place, he could feel the saturation of malice and hatred. He turned to the girl, a cruel smile on his lips.
"This is where it ends," He said softly, grasping her jaw, almost lovingly. "And where it begins."
He led her into the cave, the darkness swallowing them whole. The air was thick with the scent of decay. Quirrell's heart raced as he made his way deeper into the cave, the glow of his wand casting shadows on the walls.
Bones littered the cave, crunching under their feet, hundreds, maybe thousands of the forests denizens had met their end here.
They made their way into the deepest part of the cavern, two red eyes opening slowly in the darkness, a snake uncoiling itself as it watched him.
Quirrell felt a surge of triumph as the dark energy coalesced, forming a shadowy figure above the snake.
"My Lord," He whispered, his voice trembling with awe and reverence.
The figure solidified, taking on the form of a cloud of energy, before it attacked the woman, sinking into her very being, the woman unable to even scream as she was subsumed. Quirrell fell to his knees, his head bowed in submission.
"Rise, my faithful servant," Lord Voldemort spoke, the woman's voice cold and commanding. "You have done well."
Even as he spoke, the mudblood woman's skin was smoking. A possession like this wasn't meant to last after all, Quirrell had known as much since the beginning, she was too weak for one.
Proper rituals and alchemy were needed to properly bind the spirit to a body for more than a few days too, but it would be enough for them to leave Albania - to procure something more long lasting.
Quirrell looked up, seeing his dream coming alive before him , his eyes shining with devotion. "Thank you, my Lord," He said, his voice filled with fervor. "I live to serve you and Magic, in its entirety."
The woman smiled, a cruel, twisted smile that sent a shiver down Quirrell's spine. "And serve me you shall," Lord Voldemort said, lips flaking slightly into ash as the body burned slowly, the pain must have been agonizing, but Voldemort showed no sign of it. "To think a man not sworn to me would be my most loyal… You will be rewarded beyond comprehension for this, a place as my right hand…"
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Quirrell's heart swelled with pride and ambition. He had found his master, and with him, the journey could begin.
He held no doubts that his master would come to see things his way.
It was the only logical way forward.
Magic needed to be reborn.
And what better way to be born than in the baptism of a billion or two of dead muggles?
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Romania, two weeks later,
Quirrell lovingly touched the mark on his arm, his fingertips grazing the extra band around it, the added condition only he had been offered.
Lord Voldemort was on his third body now, the alchemy required to graft him onto a magical being more properly, needing reagents they hadn't had on hand.
Quirrell had broken out his limited divination abilities and found the most likely spot to gather them, and they'd arrived in Romania.
They'd finally gathered it all, and now he watched, as his Lord possessed another body, a half blood Romanian of no consequence. The ritual had been interesting, the knowledge hungry part of Quirrell salivating at the knowledge he'd gain from further service - simply by observation.
As the man screamed hoarsely, as his Lord began the end game, crushing the man's psyche to fully take control of the body and graft himself into its very flesh - Quirrell kept playing with the ritual tattoo on his arm, stroking the band.
The blood oath binding them together, or more him to his Lord, ensuring Quirrell could never betray his Lord, like some of his followers had dared.
Quirrell didn't mind that he was bound, it was ideal actually. It meant his Master had no reason to doubt his words, his cooperation.
His Master had turned out to be very receptive to his ideas for the muggle world, and after his fall against Fate's champion - was also very interested in Quirrell's thoughts on Fate and Destiny.
Everything was proceeding perfectly.
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Durmstrang, early summer.
Quirrell had thought himself powerful, had thought he was beyond most wizard kind.
He was nothing against the might of Lord Voldemort.
Durmstrang was a bastion. Compared to Hogwarts, it was weaker in magic, but when you were talking about a fortress that later turned into a school, the weakness was marginal.
And his Lord, while possessing a weakling, was able to devise rituals to bypass the wards in its entirety, albeit by piggybacking off Karkaroff's mark, yet still - his depth of knowledge was so deep that even Durmstrang and its history of perfecting brutal war wards stood no chance.
Again, the body was smoking, skin flaking off as ash, as they moved through the school in the dead of night.
Quirrell knew his Lord would need a new body soon due to the expenditure of magic. Yet his lord moved with purpose, wasting body after body to achieve his ends, almost like Quirrell and his ideas and ambitions had taken hold of his Master and shown him a vision, one he marched towards with indomitable will.
Within an hour they were within the quarters of Igor Karkaroff.
"M-master…" Karkaroff whimpered weakly, as he fell to his knees, his legs just folding under him, fear wafting off him as he suddenly found Lord Voldemort in his bedchamber.
Lord Voldemort glided around the terrified man, red eyes wroth, "I can smell the guilt on you, Igor, you've forsaken me in your heart, foolish to believe Lord Voldemort would ever relinquish that which he owns…"
"M-master! Please! I am a loyal and faithful servant!" Karkaroff begged, eyes wide and fearful.
"Crucio."
Karkaroff's screams were a balm to both the other occupants of the room.
Lord Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel and pleased smile, as Quirrell anticipated his wishes, and tortured the headmaster.
Quirrell knew his master could not afford to use unforgivables right now, lest his body would break down further, too soon. So as a good right hand man, he performed the task.
With the blood binding on him, his loyalty was assured no matter what. He could literally not lift a finger against his Lord. He was trusted. Unlike filth like Igor Karkaroff.
"Igor… I have a task for you, you'll eagerly perform it, I'm sure…" Lord Voldemort hissed, one hand grasping the trembling man's hair, twisting it, forcing him to gaze up into his eyes.
"O-of course, M-master, anything!"
"Quirrell, make sure he understands the price of failure." The Dark Lords hand did not move as he held Karkaroff in place, watching him as the torture began anew.
Quirrell knew that the man would not betray them now, he'd never dare.
They left the castle, one weak and pathetic headmaster primed to follow, to support their efforts.
His weakness was at this time to their benefit.
Quirrell knew the man would not survive the year, eyes gleaming with pleasure at knowing the headmaster of Durmstrang was nothing but a worm, below him.
Truly, his life was going exactly as he'd envisioned it.
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Hogsmeade, 2 weeks before the start of term.
Quirrell felt stronger than ever. The months of tutelage from the Dark Lord had shown him the errors of his thinking. He'd thought himself strong, but the Dark Lord proved to him that he was only a child, beginning the journey to ultimate power.
Flamel had unfortunately eluded his attempts, but it was no matter, Dumbledore would step in, of that his Master was certain. So Hogwarts would be the resting place of the stone - how deliciously arrogant of the old Headmaster.
Plans had been set in motion, a few trusted Death Eaters had been contacted. Karkaroff was in place to provide the Muggleborns they needed for his Master's possessions throughout the year - they were almost ready.
Quirrell was the one to deliver the final ingredient, entering his master's abode with the trembling figure of Argus Filch following.
Quirrell could have simply imperioed the squib, but he'd found it much more pleasing to threaten and hex the man into compliance. So that he'd be fully aware of what was happening, so that Quirrell could see the realization on the filthy man's face.
Lord Voldemort turned from where he stood by the fireplace, his body half ash, the skull-like face of the Muggleborn he'd possessed last, showing bone throughout the jaw and cheeks. "Argus Filch… The inconsequential and useless squib…" Lord Voldemort said, letting out a hissing laugh.
Filch immediately lost control of his bladder, jaw gaping as his eyes bulged out in complete terror, eyes locked onto the red malicious eyes of the greatest Dark Lord in history.
Quirrell gave him a distasteful look, "Master, are you sure about this… It's a filthy squib…"
Although he obeyed of course, he was a loyal servant, he really couldn't stomach the idea of this.
Lord Voldemort let out another hissing laugh, "Albus Dumbledore thinks he knows me, Quirinus…" He leered at Argus Filch, the man fainting, eyes rolling as he slumped to the floor. "With you acting far from the meek persona you crafted, he'll be watching you, suspicious of your intentions, and he'll never ever suspect Argus Filch."
Of course he wouldn't, no one would. Still, Quirrell didn't like it…
"It's… Improper." Quirrell said hesitantly, not willing to argue too much with his Lord, but spending the year as… That… It was not right.
"Imperio." Lord Voldemort said, controlling the caretaker, even with the inferior wand he was forced to use it was easy. He didn't bother answering his servant, he rarely did when his mind was already made up.
Quirrell sighed, and began prepping the other Muggleborn for his Master's possession. Using an unforgivable would have his body breaking down shortly. Thankfully something like the Imperio worked through his Lord's magic, so he wouldn't have to recast it every time he switched bodies.
His loyalty was absolute, of course. But sometimes he wished his master would take some of his counsel a little more often.
At least his master wouldn't actually have to be Filch often. His master would just control him to do his usual drudge work through the imperius, while using polyjuice in his possessed Muggleborn body to move around the castle during the night as Filch, while keeping the real Filch in a trunk in his office.
No one ever paid much attention to Argus Filch, he'd be able to move around unhindered.
His master would be able to work all year on subverting Hogwarts wards, all in the background.
Quirrell would draw all the attention.
He could hardly wait.
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Hogwarts, September,
Quirrell held a piece of his master's soul in his hands.
He knew this would not have happened if he wasn't thrice bound by the blood oath ritual, body, magic, and soul.
His Lord could trust him completely, because he owned Quirrell completely.
And he'd been tasked with fetching a piece of his Lord's soul. Hidden within Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem. Quirrell only wished he could one day tell people about it. The look on all those boring Ravenclaw students he'd had to surround himself with would be exquisite if they found out about the sacrilege.
His Master wanted to strengthen himself by adding more of his soul back, furious at the long period of weakness he'd been forced to endure. He was not willing to trust in a system again that would require someone else to resurrect him. Not with the failure of his Death Eaters, who had all failed to find him.
His master would find a new way to discover immortality, of that Quirrell was sure. And with his soul returned, he'd surely only grow stronger, and be able to find his way through the wards quicker, the stone was practically theirs already.
With their plot to completely reimagine magic itself, Voldemort would become a god. And surely immortality would come with that?
As he stepped out of the room of requirement, and what a lovely little secret that was… He ran into a mudblood, one of the new ones. His first instinct was to rip its secrets out and then kill it. But… It was too much, too soon. Dumbledore would not be able to ignore it.
He settled for an Obliviation, but decided to keep an eye on the little mudblood for the future.
It surely was no accident he'd arrived at the time he had.
Quirrell wondered…
Was a new story being woven?
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As the year went on his way, he watched the little mudblood, and started pondering on his oddities.
Divination should not work as well as it seemed to do for him.
Did the boy have a direct line to Fate itself?
If so…
Well, they might leave with a second prize in the end.
Plundering his mind had given him plenty to think about for the muggle world, but it was his strange tie with Fate he was most interested in, and so was his Master once he drew attention to it.
Lucas Greenwood…
Their own chained up little prophet soon enough, Quirrell was looking forward to that day.
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Right before Halloween, Hogwarts, Forbidden Forest.
The night was dark and still as Quirinus Quirrell ventured deep into the Forbidden Forest - into the depths wizards rarely ventured, the beasts here enough to kill even an accomplished wizard. The canopy of ancient trees above blocked out the moonlight, casting the forest floor into near-total darkness. Quirrell moved with purpose, his wand emitting a faint glow to light his path. He knew the risks of this mission, but the command had come directly from his Master, and he would not fail.
If the dark beasts hidden deep inside the forest would bother him, he would show them he was no regular wizard.
At the appointed clearing, Quirrell paused, casting a series of protective charms around the perimeter. He needed to ensure that their meeting would remain undisturbed. He waited, the silence of the forest pressing in around him, until he heard the faint rustling of leaves and the soft footfalls of approaching figures.
His Master had used his connection to Quirrell to call on them through his mark, leading them to this location. As they were far out from Hogwarts wards, apparation was possible, and they had even been clever enough to not apparate right in, approaching from a distance.
Quirrell silently designated them as not completely useless.
Four figures emerged from the shadows, their faces hidden beneath masks and dark hoods. They moved with a predatory grace, their presence exuding menace. The largest of the four stepped forward, his towering frame imposing even in the darkness.
"Obelisk," Quirrell greeted, his voice steady and commanding. His Master had given him a primer on the Death Eaters, and he was the only one beneath the Dark Lord to actually know the names of his forces outside a singular cell.
All four of the people here today were cell leaders, and people the Dark Lord believed would not betray him while he was momentarily weakened.
Yet there was no point in taking chances, so Quirrell was the go between.
Obelisk inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment. "Professor Quirrell," He replied, his voice a deep rumble. "We are here as we felt the call, although seeing you is… A surprise, even with your recent awakening to what is right. What is the purpose of this meeting?"
Quirrell's eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and authority. "You have been summoned to receive new orders from our Master, who has returned, disgusted by your failures. But first, I must ensure your loyalty. Each of you will introduce yourselves by your codenames, and pledge your obedience, swearing a magical oath on blood that you will not betray this knowledge to anyone."
Obelisk turned to the others, his gaze cold and unyielding, felt even through the mask. "You heard him. Introduce yourselves."
One of the Death Eaters, a slender figure with a sharp, feline grace, stepped forward. "Aphrodite," she said, her voice low and sibilant.
The next was a stocky figure with an aura of quiet strength. "Relic," He introduced himself, his voice gruff.
The final Death Eater was tall and lean, his movements jerky. "Pantheon," He said lowly.
Quirrell directed each of them through the bloodletting, swearing them to silence. The fear of their Master, or their loyalty, inducing them to follow through.
Quirrell nodded, satisfied. "Very well. You are here because our master has deemed it necessary to take action. You will follow my commands without question, as they come directly from the Dark Lord himself."
Obelisk crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. "What are these orders?"
Quirrell stepped closer, his voice dropping to a gleeful whisper. "Our master's return is imminent. Your task is to prepare the ground for his arrival. You will sow chaos and fear within the magical community quietly, and behind the scenes, one family at a time, keeping the DMLE busy by letting them catch on to one now and then, while slowly weakening the department if they deploy too hastily."
Aphrodite's eyes gleamed with anticipation, her mask fluidly matching her savage expression. "What specific actions do you require?"
Quirrell's smile was cold and calculating. "You will target key figures within the Ministry of Magic. Spread disinformation, create conflict among the departments. Relic, you will focus on the Aurors, undermining their trust in each other. Pantheon, you will infiltrate the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, planting false evidence to incite paranoia and fear, forcing them to look inwards."
By the end of the year, the DMLE should be markedly less effective, everyone keeping a wary eye on their friends.
Obelisk nodded slowly, absorbing the instructions. "And what of me?"
Quirrell's gaze fixed on the largest Death Eater. "You, Obelisk, will coordinate these efforts. Ensure that each operation runs smoothly and that our activities remain undetected. Use whatever means necessary to achieve our goals. Failure is not an option - you might also have a special task towards the end of the year, I will give you details as my Master releases them."
The Death Eaters exchanged glances, their resolve evident. Quirrell felt a surge of confidence. These were seasoned operatives, loyal to the cause and skilled in the dark arts. With their help, the path to the Dark Lord's return would be cleared.
Quirrell raised his wand, casting a faint light over the group. "Then go forth and fulfill your duties. Our Master's reign is at hand, and we will be his instruments of power."
The Death Eaters bowed their heads, then melted back into the shadows, their forms disappearing into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. Quirrell watched them go, his mind already racing with the plans and machinations that would follow. The game had changed, and he was at the center of it, a crucial player in the Dark Lord's rise to power.
As he turned to leave the clearing, Quirrell felt a chill run down his spine. The forest seemed to whisper around him, a symphony of dark magic and ancient power. He had no illusions about the danger ahead, but he welcomed it. The rewards for success were beyond measure, and the price of failure was unthinkable.
The path was set, and Quirrell would stop at nothing to ensure that the Dark Lord's return was triumphant. With the Philosopher's Stone in hand and the Death Eaters mobilized, the wizarding world would soon know the true meaning of fear and power. And Quirrell would stand at the right hand of the Dark Lord, basking in the glory of their conquest.
They'd usher in the new God of Magic.
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Ministry of Magic, After Halloween.
The cold stone walls of the interrogation room felt oppressively close as Quirinus Quirrell sat at the center of the solitary wooden chair, the only furniture in the stark, dimly lit chamber. Quirrell's hands rested in his lap, fingers intertwined, but his demeanor was far from nervous. He appeared relaxed, almost casual, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
He found this amusing, if anything. It did do a good job at furthering the suspicions of the Hogwarts staff, but he was surprised, his Master had by no means intended for Quirrell to be detained, he wondered how that had come about…
His Master was not one to leave evidence behind, and it wouldn't have been anywhere near him either way.
The heavy door creaked open, and the two highest-ranking officials of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement entered the room. Leading them was Rufus Scrimgeour, his lion-like mane of hair and piercing eyes giving him an intimidating look. Beside him was Amelia Bones, her stern expression and no-nonsense demeanor marking her as a formidable presence - to regular wizards anyway.
Quirrell had seen the truth of magic itself, these people could not intimidate him, even if he wasn't bound to protect his Lord's secret.
Quirrell's smirk widened slightly as he regarded his interrogators. He knew they suspected him, but he also knew he was innocent of this particular crime. Someone was trying to frame him for his Master's little trick, and he intended to use this opportunity to sow confusion and frustration among his accusers.
"Professor Quirrell," Scrimgeour began, his voice a low growl, "You are here because we found residue of a dark control potion outside your office. This, combined with the recent incident involving the Cerberus in the Great Hall, has raised serious concerns."
Quirrell leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs casually. "Auror Scrimgeour, Madam Bones, I assure you, I had nothing to do with the release of the Cerberus. The potion residue you found must have been planted to frame me."
Bones' eyes narrowed as she studied Quirrell. "You seem very sure of yourself, Professor. Can you explain why someone would go to such lengths to implicate you?"
Quirrell spread his hands in a gesture of mock helplessness. "Jealousy, perhaps? Envy of my position or my skills? There are many reasons someone might want to see me discredited." He scratched idly at his chin, "Severus was oh so jealous of me ascending to the position he wanted as DADA Professor, a potions master as we all know…"
Scrimgeour's gaze was unyielding. "We have witnesses who saw you near the area shortly before the Cerberus was released. Your presence there is highly suspicious."
Quirrell raised an eyebrow, his smirk never faltering. Because he knew dear old Rufus was lying. He hadn't been anywhere near it. "Suspicious, perhaps? If by that you mean these so-called witnesses that I'm sure exist." He drawled with a superior smirk on his face.
Bones leaned forward, her voice cold and precise. "Professor, we found traces of dark magic inside your office as well... This isn't just about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your recent activities have raised questions about your loyalties."
Some of the laws passed after the war carried steep penalties for most dark magic. Unluckily for them, one of the few loopholes was for Hogwarts Professors, specifically the DADA Professor, because how can you combat dark magic without at least a smidge of knowledge of it?
Quirrell's expression remained calm, even amused. "Ah, the traces of dark magic. Those are likely remnants from my defense experiments. As a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, it is my duty to understand and counteract dark forces. Any magical residue in my office would be from legitimate academic pursuits." Prove otherwise, even with Veritaserum I'd win this round…
Scrimgeour's eyes flashed with frustration. "And the potion residue? How do you explain that?"
Quirrell's smirk widened. "As I said, someone planted it there to frame me. Perhaps you should be looking for the real culprit instead of wasting time interrogating an innocent man."
Bones exchanged a glance with Scrimgeour before turning back to Quirrell. "We will investigate that claim. In the meantime, we will conduct a thorough examination of your office and quarters. If you have nothing to hide, you should have no objections."
Quirrell's eyes sparkled with mirth. "Oh, I have no objections. In fact, I welcome the scrutiny. It will only prove my innocence." After all, anything objectionable is with my Master…
No one would ever think to investigate the caretakers office. No one but Filch ever went to the caretakers office.
Scrimgeour's jaw tightened. "We have already searched your personal belongings and your old apartment. We found nothing of note, but that does not clear you of suspicion, if anything it shows your skill in deleting evidence."
How amusing. The reach of Dumbledore no doubt, making it take longer to gain permission to search his office, then it took to search his apartment, which he hadn't even lived in since going on a sabbatical, he wondered what they'd expected to find there?
The hidden cupboard in his office would require something special to find, hidden by the darkest blood magic and soul magic his master had taught him. He doubted Dumbledore could stomach what it would take to reveal it.
Quirrell feigned surprise anyway at the head Aurors assertion. "Nothing of note? How disappointing for you. I had hoped you might find something to exonerate me completely."
Bones' expression hardened. "This is not a game, Professor. The safety of Hogwarts is at stake. If you know anything about the incident, now is the time to speak."
Quirrell's smirk faded slightly, his eyes locking onto Bones'. "Madam Bones, I assure you, I am committed to the safety of Hogwarts. I have dedicated my career to protecting the students and ensuring their education. If I had any knowledge of who released the Cerberus, I would share it willingly." The tiny note of sarcasm he added to his little speech had both of them glowering at him, but he simply smiled.
It was hard to worry when he knew how much better he was, how insignificant those around him were compared to his Master's magnificent abilities, and to his own now…
Scrimgeour leaned in, his lips curled in distaste, "Then explain why you were seen in the area just before the incident." He barked.
Quirrell met Scrimgeour's gaze without flinching. "As I said, if there are any witnesses I can't imagine why they would say that at all… Perhaps the witnesses were mistaken in their timing."
Bones tapped her fingers on the table, her eyes never leaving Quirrell's face. "We have corroborated statements. The timing is not in question. Your presence there is a significant piece of evidence."
Oh, even she is getting in on the lying. I must have done a better job playing the villain than I'd thought if even the head of the DMLE is willing to bend some rules…
Quirrell shrugged nonchalantly. "Someone is obviously trying to use my alleged proximity to the incident to frame me - maybe you should investigate these… Witnesses of yours."
Scrimgeour's frustration was evident in his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. "Professor, the residue found outside your office is not something that can be easily dismissed, witnesses or no witnesses." The Head Auror changed tack, going back to the potion spill.
Something Quirrell did find interesting. Because his master had not done that. So it meant someone had tried to frame him. Someone with access to some dangerous potions…
Why, Severus… How cute of you… He thought.
Quirrell's eyes gleamed with a mix of defiance and amusement. "Then perhaps you should find the person who planted it there. I have nothing to hide, and your investigation will prove that."
Bones leaned back, her gaze sharp and penetrating. "We will find the truth, Professor. Make no mistake about that."
Quirrell's smirk returned, his confidence unwavering. "I look forward to it, Madam Bones. The truth always prevails." He said, laughter in his voice.
Silly Wizards and Witches.
They couldn't understand what was coming.
They couldn't understand why he was so amused at their waffling about.
He didn't use divination as much as he probably should, but perhaps it was worth a try. His Master did enough to shield himself and Quirrells secrets, but perhaps their enemy had not.
Yes…
That was the way forward.
…
Upon his return to Hogwarts, it was no hardship to perform a minor divination ritual, sacrificing a random muggle he'd picked up to boost it, due to Hogwarts wards. His Master's slowly expanded loopholes through the wards assisting him as well in making it work, as his talent did not lay in this particular subject.
Finding that the little mudblood was behind it? Interesting… Very interesting.
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Throughout the year, he kept running into the same thing, the little Greenwood mudblood working against him.
Oh, not on a consistent basis, he was busy with his studies and ritual research as well - which in its own way was interesting.
Because how much had he missed while plundering the boy's mind to miss all this potential?
How had the boy hidden it?
His Master's interest was peaked as well, enough that he decided that Harry Potter was a secondary concern.
A child that could not only divine the future to such an extent, but was also unscrupulous enough to commit illegal acts to get Quirrell out?
Despite his heritage, it was too interesting.
They wouldn't leave Harry Potter alone of course, he was likely Fates champion. So they'd need to involve him either way, or the threads of Fate would find a way to insert him.
But Lucas Greenwood seemed to have his own ties, something more than those around him.
Quirrell quite enjoyed watching him across the year.
Just waiting for the time when he'd get to take the boy with them, waiting for the moment the uppity mudblood would get to see that he'd be nothing but a chained puppet for the rest of his existence.
Of course then the boy had to upset everything by revealing Aurora had been imperiused.
Quirrell was a mite bit upset at that. But his Master had been amused, having seen something that eluded Quirrell, and refusing to share.
No matter, he was delivered to Quirrell in the end by his Master, who then went off on his own task, penetrating the wards around the Headmasters office, while Quirrell would brave the third corridor, waiting for his Master at the end, with his two hostages.
They were covering all angles. Either the stone was in the third corridor, or it was a trap with fake bait, and the Headmaster kept the real thing in his office.
Since the third corridor was a trap for Lord Voldemort, Quirrell would step inside it, while his Master performed the likely harder task of breaking into the Headmasters office without setting of an alarm for Dumbledore himself.
He had no worries, his abilities in divination could not match the mudblood unfortunately, but it had said he would not die today.
So the trap would be overcome.
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Quirrell walked through the entrance of the third corridor, two unconscious students bobbing in the air behind him. Harry Potter had been too easy to fetch, Gryffindors really had no self preservation.
He easily floated down the trapdoor in the empty room that had once held a Cerberus.
Coming to face the first obstacle - Professor Sprout's contribution, a never-ending mass of fae vines. The vines shifted and twisted, half in existence and half phasing in and out of reality. Their ethereal nature made them almost impossible to predict or completely remove. As he stepped forward, he felt a tug at his magical core; the vines were not just a physical barrier but also capable of draining his magic.
With a determined look, Quirrell raised his wand, trying to cast a dark fire spell to clear a path. However, the vines absorbed his magic, leaving him momentarily weakened. Realizing brute force wouldn't work, he began to move cautiously, relying on his wits and agility to navigate the ever-changing maze. Each step was calculated, avoiding the vines' reach and their draining touch. His eyes darted around, searching for patterns in the chaos, hoping to find a way through this enchanted and perilous obstacle.
He kept the students back, after one attempt at seeing if the vines would let them pass, almost drained Harry Potter dry.
There was no path through, the vines would have to be destroyed to pass. It would cost Quirrell to do so, but he would not fail.
Quirrell knew he had to resort to a desperate measure, but he also had faith he could handle it. He gripped his wand tightly and, with a deep breath, incanted "Fiendfyre." A roaring, serpentine blaze erupted from his wand, a living inferno that hungrily consumed the air and magic itself. The fiendfyre surged forward, engulfing the fae vines in its path. The vines, once shifting and ethereal, now crackled and shriveled under the ferocious flames, even the ethereal vines shifted out of the dimension no match for the fiendfyre.
The heat was unbearable, and controlling the fiendfyre proved to be a herculean task. Sweat poured down Quirrell's face as he wrestled with the blazing beast, directing its destructive force towards the labyrinth of vines. The fire roared and writhed, threatening to spiral out of control. Quirrell's concentration wavered, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he might be consumed by his own spell.
With a final, desperate effort, he managed to subdue the flames. The fiendfyre flickered and died, leaving behind a room scorched and free of the fae vines. The air was thick with the smell of charred vegetation and magic. Quirrell stood amidst the scorched remains, his breath heavy but his path forward now clear.
If each room taxed him so, he would be almost out of juice by the time he hit the end.
Quirrell stepped into the next chamber, immediately greeted by the sight of an ever-shifting maze - he was seeing a pattern already. Walls and floors continuously morphed, transforming from stone to wood to metal and back again, creating a bewildering, fluid environment. This was Professor McGonagall's challenge, a testament to her mastery of Transfiguration.
He was reluctantly impressed.
He tried to chart a path forward, but every step he took seemed to render his previous observations useless. The maze's layout changed in the blink of an eye, thwarting any attempt to navigate it through conventional means. In a fit of frustration, Quirrell aimed his wand at a section of the wall and blasted it with a powerful spell, reducing it to rubble. However, before he could even contemplate moving through the debris, the broken pieces reassembled themselves, transforming into new sections of the maze.
And all sections of the maze tried to kill him, whenever he stepped forward. He didn't dare try and float the children forward to test things again, or he might lose one, and his Master would be very upset with him.
Although… He eyed Harry Potter thoughtfully, could Fate be averted so easily, if he just… Killed the boy here and now?
Or would something arrive to stop it?
Well, he had his Master's orders, so it was a moot point.
Quirrell quickly realized brute force would only lead to more frustration and dead ends and he didn't have unlimited time. He needed a different approach, one that accounted for and dealt with the maze's constant transformation. With his mind racing, he decided to observe the pattern of changes, seeking any minute clue that could offer a way through this bewildering challenge.
He knew if he brute forced his way through all of these challenges it would cost him, and no doubt the alarms for each Professor were ringing due to his presence here. They'd be busy for quite awhile thanks to his Master - but not indefinitely.
He knew he could handle any two of them in a duel, but all four… No. And as magically drained as he'd likely be at the end of this, he'd likely fall to even one of them.
Realizing the futility of conventional methods, Quirrell decided to take a darker path. He quickly rolled up his sleeve and made a small, precise cut on his forearm, allowing blood to drip onto the floor. He carved runes into the ground with his wand, his movements hurried yet meticulous. The ancient symbols began to glow with an eerie light as he chanted the incantations, his voice echoing through the shifting maze.
The ground beneath him shuddered, resisting the magic at first, but the power of the blood ritual took hold. The shifting walls and floors halted, frozen in place by the binding spell. Quirrell wasted no time, darting through the now-still maze, his heart pounding as he raced against the inevitable, the boys bobbing along behind him.
Just as he reached the other side, the ritual spells power waned. The maze roared back to life, the walls and floors snapping back into motion with a vengeance. He barely escaped, the path behind him collapsing and crushing the space where he had stood only moments before, the boys with him, just by a hair's breadth. Breathing heavily, Quirrell looked back at the now impassable labyrinth, grateful to have made it through by the skin of his teeth.
Using his own blood had further drained his stamina, but using the boys might have consequences in this maze, Dumbledore struck him as the type that would do something like that.
Quirrell entered the next chamber, his senses immediately assaulted by a dazzling array of reflections. This was Professor Flitwick's challenge, a room lined with mirrors on every surface. Each mirror reflected Quirrell's image back at him, but with a sinister twist - the reflections wore twisted, grimacing expressions, looking at him with hatred and malice.
He took a cautious step forward, and in unison, the reflections raised their wands. Beams of light erupted from the mirrors, spells hurtling towards him. He dodged and deflected as best he could, quickly realizing that some of the spells were mere illusions, vanishing harmlessly upon impact. However, a searing pain in his shoulder made it clear that not all the attacks were false.
He left the boys at the door, it wouldn't do for them to be harmed now, as he stepped away, taking fire for the choice.
Rage and the dwindling stamina that was making him sweat drove him to lash out, aiming spells at the mirrors themselves in an attempt to shatter them. But no matter how many spells he cast, the mirrors remained intact, their mocking reflections continuing their relentless assault. Each strike he took further eroded his patience, but also strengthened his resolve to find the solution.
He would not fail his Master.
After a particularly intense barrage, Quirrell paused, his mind racing. A realization dawned on him. When he first entered the room, something felt different - almost as if he had stepped into another world. The clue clicked into place. He hadn't just walked into the room - he had stepped into a mirror.
That's why nothing stuck, somehow Flitwick had charmed a mirror into its own small dimension, the spells that he was hit with, even before he'd fired one… Were the same he'd fired later, even space and time fluid inside.
Filius… I've vastly underestimated you…
With newfound determination, Quirrell turned his wand on himself. Summoning all his courage, he cast a spell directly at his own reflection. The moment the spell hit, his image shattered like glass, and the world around him seemed to implode.
When the dust settled, Quirrell found himself standing in an empty room. The mirrors were gone, and he was uninjured. The trick had been to realize his entrapment within the mirror and break free by shattering the mirror image of himself. With a sense of relief and a renewed sense of purpose, he moved forward. He knew he only had one challenge left.
And because it was Severus' challenge, he knew it would be much more low-key.
Quirrell entered a dimly lit chamber, where a table laden with potions awaited him. At the far end of the room, a wall of ominous black fire blocked the only exit. A note, written in Severus Snape's meticulous hand, lay beside the vials, presenting a riddle:
"One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore, To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four."
Quirrell smirked, recognizing Snape's handiwork immediately. "So simple, so very Severus," He muttered, beginning to work through the riddle. The logic puzzle was straightforward for someone of his intellect, and within minutes, he had identified the potion that should allow him to pass through the black fire.
Despite his confidence in solving the riddle, Quirrell's mistrust of Snape ran deep. He didn't believe for a second that there was anything but poison in the vials. Snape, ever the cunning and cautious man, would not leave a way to pass through. Quirrell knew he had to find another way to bypass the obstacle.
Ignoring the vials completely, Quirrell turned his attention to the wall of black fire. He began to methodically study the runes and enchantments that powered the deadly flames. Using a spell that allowed him to see beneath magic itself, past the black flames, to the runes buried under the floor.
Drawing upon his extensive knowledge of curse-breaking, he set to work. His wand moved with precision, carefully unraveling the intricate spellwork that held the fire in place.
It was painstaking and delicate work. One wrong move could trigger the flames to explode or set off another hidden trap. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he meticulously countered each rune, slowly weakening the spells power, Quirrell's focus never wavered.
Even as he felt even more drained.
Finally, with a muttered incantation and a final wave of his wand, the black fire flickered and dissipated. The way forward was clear. Quirrell straightened, a triumphant but cautious smile on his lips. He had bypassed Snape's challenge without touching a single potion, relying instead on his skill and cunning. He moved forward, ready for whatever lay beyond.
The stone would be theirs.
Only after stepping through, and feeling time become malleable around them all, did he realize what Dumbledore had intended.
The traps were difficult, but nothing Lord Voldemort wouldn't have been able to breach.
He'd wanted his Lord overconfident, to then step in this room, and be caught forever in a time loop of some sort.
He'd felt the time around him jerk when he stepped in, just to come to a halt as the boys floated in half a second later, before he could be forever caught, the floating spell moving them forward on their own.
That… Had been close.
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