Pairing: Quirinus Quirrell & Lord Voldemort
WC: ~1600 words | AO3: here
CW: Mild, but includes: power imbalance, emotional coercion, pain, non-graphic magical torture, abuse dynamic, canon-typical violence.
Summary: A GoF post–graveyard encounter. Quirrell survives to answer a summons he was never given, and Voldemort receives the one servant who comes without a Mark.
Author's Note: Written with a Gothic lens, with Quirrell as a quasi-Jonathan Harker, Voldemort as the force that haunts the blood. A horror piece about obedience, memory, return, and belonging. Inspired by this ask from @voldemortbook.
Prompt #20, a voice you recognize, from Dreadcember via @monthlywritingchallenges
I feel him before I see him.
It's not the searing of a Dark Mark I never bore, just the old phantom pressure behind my eyes. As if a hand that isn’t mine closes around the spine of my thoughts.
A memory of him inhabiting me. A memory that should have died when I died before the Mirror.
But I came back again, a ghost of myself, and the memory of him came with me.
Memories are calls, sometimes. Especially those made of fear.
So I heed the call.
Away from Hogwarts, away from Dumbledore’s watchful disdain, away from the Muggle Studies office where I'm tucked away like a stain he doesn’t wish to scrub.
I heed the call even as my stomach knots and my breathing thins, even as reason tells me that this is idiocy. Treason. Suicide.
But what is left to lose?
My life is already lost. My love is already lost. I am already lost.
One last step, and I kneel when I reach the clearing. Before my body even knows what it's doing, my knees crack through the crust of snow, and the cold goes straight to the bone. This ache is nothing compared to what I've endured.
No matter the cost, I must answer his summons. This I cannot fail.
She would despise me for kneeling here. I cannot think of her now.
He comes without footsteps, as ever. The Dark Lord, my master, inhabiter of my body and mind.
I feel him before I see him, hear him before he speaks. His presence is memorised down to the quick of my soul.
“You came,” he says, as if he doubted it. As if he doesn't know I'll always be the one who comes when called. "You lived."
My head is bowed before him; there's been no command to lift it.
Do I deserve any better? I do not. I've failed my master, failed others before him.
But I know the Dark Lord is staring at me. The scars on the back of my head burn as if lit anew.
You lived, he's said.
After you came.
As if my obedience were the foregone conclusion rather than my survival.
It's correct, however. Obedience is the win condition, living is happenstance.
"Yes, Master." My voice is unsteady. Reedy. Quavering. He will hate that, he who knows my weakness better than I know it myself. "I felt…something."
"Did you now? And with no Mark upon you." The Dark Lord moves around me though I hear no footfalls. I can tell by the drift of his voice. "And you came to me all the same."
Something in my spine tightens, unbidden, as he passes. Every part of me trembles with fear and cold, no matter how I try to stop it.
I want to lift my head, to look into his eyes, but I dare not. This contemplative tone is not to be trusted, for it often precedes punishment.
"I followed you to my last breath, My Lord, to the edge of death," I whisper, as though death could undo the harm I've caused. "When I felt the pull, I came."
"Slowly," he says, still moving around me in a slow and ceaseless circle. "But you came."
There's a sense that he expects me to remain silent, though I can't say how.
Recall, perhaps, how it felt to have his mind inside me. To be known so intimately that even silence is a statement, like having a god inside the church of one's mind.
"However," he goes on, "you sought me of your own accord when the others would not. Only the most faithful of my servants would do that, but they're locked away in Azkaban." He moves again, closer to my ear this time. "You're a poor replacement for the faithful and the fallen, Quirinus Quirrell. Weak. Pathetic. Emotional. But you might be of some use in the meantime. Initiative is more valuable than cowardice."
"I don't know who the others are, Master, nor what they've done. I'm responsible only for myself."
"Responsible? A pity that you failed me time and again. You showed such promise too. Such aptitude. Responsibility means accepting punishment when it's due."
He laughs. It cuts with a deeper chill than the snow I'm on.
But something inside me stirs anyway. Aptitude. Promise. These are words I no longer associate with myself, yet the Dark Lord speaks them as if they're still truth.
I should know better.
Heat skids across the back of my skull before I feel the spell itself, a pressure like fingers forcing their way beneath the bone. Light explodes behind my eyes. My mouth opens but emits only a silent scream, hot tears prickle my eyes.
The world narrows to a point of white pain and the memory of him inside me returns so cleanly that for a moment I cannot tell past from present.
My hands fly to the snow before I can stop them moving. The cold bites into the burns on my palms, and still the pain in my head eclipses it.
Once, as a boy, I electrocuted myself by accident. I lost all feeling in my fingers and the arm that made contact with the wall outlet ached for hours all the way to the shoulder. My chest felt heavy and congested all day. This is only a whisper of that pain.
“Be still,” the Dark Lord says.
It is not a command, almost an amused observation.
I force my elbows to lock so I do not fall flat. My breath shudders in and out. A thin string of saliva touches the snow before I can swallow it back. Shame rises behind the pain, as sharp as the spell itself.
“This is all you can manage now,” he says, circling again. “A single touch and you fold.”
“I am sorry, Master.”
“You are sorry every time. Yet you fail spectacularly and repeatedly.”
His voice lowers until it is almost thoughtful.
“But you returned.”
The pressure inside my skull tightens once more. Not a full assault, not enough to tear a scream from me, only enough to remind me what he did to me and what he still can do. My arms tremble. I cling to the ground until my fingernails scrape the ice, an ignoble ruin, lying face-first in the snow.
At last the pain loosens. I suck in a breath that does not quite reach my lungs.
“Look at me,” he says.
My head lifts before I decide to lift it. This, too, is memory. This, too, is obedience.
He leans down, meeting my eyes, and studies me with an interest that is worse than hatred. Hatred would mean he feels something. This is curiosity. This is appraisal.
Voldemort's eyes, scarlet and terrible in the dying light, rest upon the long scar the left side of my face, where the boy's finger dug in. The pink and knotted flesh burns beneath his gaze.
The Dark Lord stands closer than ever before in a body of his own. The space between is like an invisible wire, thinner than the veil between thought and touch.
“This is the part,” he says, brushing spindly fingers through the air near the back of my head, “where I would mark a servant. But that assumes loyalty.”
“I am loyal,” I whisper.
“No.” His voice softens. It is worse than shouting could ever be. “You are devoted. It is not the same.”
He steps behind me. A cold fingertip traces the ridge of my scar, the place where he once lived. The touch does not hurt, not the way the spell hurt, but something inside me flinches all the same. There are wounds older than scars.
“You carry my scar already,” he murmurs. “That is your brand. You do not need another.”
For a moment, I do not breathe. He withdraws his hand and I feel the loss of it as sharply as the pain before.
“Rise, Quirinus Quirrell.”
Somehow, I rise to my feet on legs that feel like seaweed. Snow falls from my robes, the world wavering at its edges.
“You live because you crawled back to me,” he says. “Do not mistake that for mercy.”
I bow my head low. “Yes, Master.”
He considers me the way a scientist considers a fragile specimen that has survived the wrong experiment.
“You thought you had nothing left to lose,” he says. “But you do. You always do.”
He leans forward just enough that his voice rests against my ear like a blade.
“I can take back the life you begged for, but I prefer a servant who knows he is breakable. And you? You've already been broken once before. That makes for a fragile weapon, but jagged edges do the most damage."
My breath fogs in the cold, heart pounding once, twice, a furious flutter against my ribs. For a moment, the world turns grey and swims, as though I may faint, but somehow I hold on.
“Serve me well, be useful in your ruin,” he says, “and you may keep just enough of yourself to kneel again.”
And that is the moment that breaks me.
Not the spell, not the pain.
The promise of being allowed to kneel again.
It's not much, that promise, but it's better than being relegated to a draughty corner of the castle like a filthy secret. Never spoken of, only whispered about.
Desire wears a thousand masks, and not all desire is created equal.
I am unclean, and have known many shades of it in my thirty years; sex, hunger, greed, ambition.
This desire transcends all those, because it is the oldest human want of all: to belong, to be valued.
Life has been getting in the way a lot. You know the drill, exhaustion from work, exhaustion at home. Leaves me doom scrolling reels instead of trying to find creative mojo in my two hours of freedom each night.
Have another little snippet. Sorry these are so short, it's going to make the story lengthy. Comments and reblogs give me life. And gods forgive me that I heard a song that gave me an idea for another story but I will finish this one first if it kills me.
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Though covered by another sheet, the bed smelled a bit dusty. It made my skin itch despite the fine material. And the old mansion made a plethora of sounds, shifting in the wind throughout the night. Though by the time I took to the bed, it was probably early morning at any rate. It would be generous to say I slept fitfully; in reality I wasn’t sure if I slept at all. A fact that I was made acutely aware of by the heaviness of my eyes as the morning light returned. Making the shadows thin and trace back across the floorboards. I had left the sole large, smudged glass window uncovered to better track the time. Now, with the weight of my sleepless night and the dusty remnants of the sheets clinging to my skin, I felt as if I had become a part of the manor. As if the old building had a little magic of its own. The kind that seeped over you slowly, pinning you down until all concept of time and space dissipated and you grew cobwebs in its abandoned corners.
The creak of the door a few hours after sunrise had me nearly jumping out of my skin, bringing me back to life and out of my weighty, swirling thoughts. I flung the old sheets off and had my bare feet on the floor before Hector was halfway through the main door. He scowled at me as our eyes met across the rooms, dropping the covered silver tray on the small table with a clatter.
“Breakfast.” He told me. I decided his voice sounded like a permanent hiss of steam.
“Poisoned?” I asked, coming around to the archway with my bare arms half crossed over my chest to ward off the morning chill.
He cocked a brow at me, his lips pursing. “Tempting though it was, I managed to resist.”
“Shame.”
His scowl deepened. “I am not sure why his Lordship insists on your presence in these halls, but while you are here you will maintain a modicum of decorum.”
“Can’t say I know the meaning of the word.” I mused.
“There are rules.” He replied, his tones dark. “I expect you to keep them.” He adjusted his cuffs and straightened his vest. He didn’t wait for my response before ticking them off. “You will bring your concerns and needs to me to address. You will never enter a room closed to you, even if the door is open. You will not leave your rooms after dark unless summoned-”
“Oh you must be joking.” I muttered.
The manservant’s scowl grew even more severe, burrowing deep lines into his thin features. “You will knock twice before entering any room.” He continued. “If there is no answer, you will wait a minute before entering. However, if his Lordship knocks, you will answer. Immediately. If he does not, you wait. His tower is completely off-limits to you. If I even see you near them, I will make sure you find the same hospitality as your first stay here.” I resisted rolling my eyes, and his narrowed as he continued. “You will never touch his Lordship or address his Lordship by his first name. You will never eat or drink off his Lordship’s plate. And, most importantly-” He took a startling sharp step forward, fully bringing my attention to him “-You will never touch the pendant. Do I make myself clear?”
Though thin and spindly, Hector was a tall man, and he used his greater height to tower over me now. I studied him for a moment, leery of any response. Feeling my hackles raised and my heart racing in my breast.
A light knock at the doorframe had me jumping a bit.
“Am I interrupting something?” Thaddeus asked, tucking his hands into the small of his back once more.
“Of course not, my Lord,” Hector replied, still fixing me with a sharp eye for a moment more before he turned to address the noble, “Deepest apologies, is something amiss? Was your morning meal unsatisfactory? I can speak to the cook before he leaves for the day.”
Thaddeus waved his concerns away. “I simply thought to dine with Miss Cora this morning.” Dark eyes flicked to me. “If she is willing.”
My heart skipped a bit at the passing glance. I thought I saw Hector’s face grow even darker with the suggestion, though he had cleared the worst of the clouds by the time the young noble looked back at him.
“I fear that would be… inappropriate, my Lord.” Hector intoned in an almost hissing drawl.
Thaddeus offered a tiny nod, dropping his gaze to the floorboards. “Perhaps under normal circumstances. However, I feel needs must in this case.”
“Don’t do me any favors.” I put in dryly, which had those dark eyes flicking back up to me.
The noble considered that for a moment before speaking. “We have matters to discuss. I would believe them in need of hasty resolution.” He glanced over at Hector. “The sooner they are resolved, the sooner we might return to our usual status quo.”
The servant seemed satisfied with the offering, though reluctantly so. He cast me a sour look, then walked over to pick back up the tray.
“I shall bring your meals to the sitting room.” He asserted, offering the young noble a tiny bow on his way out.
“You must forgive Hector,” Thaddeus said to me once we were alone again, “He is set in the old ways of regency, and fairly protective of me.”
“Aggressively protective.” I mused, rubbing my bare arm with one hand.
His dark eyes flicked over me again at the movement. “I’ll have him commission some clothing items for you.” He informed me. “I am certain you would be eager to have fresh garments.”
I gave a tiny shrug. “I’m comfortable in this.”
“Your stay is indefinite,” He reminded me, “I must insist.”
“All the better to match your ‘status quo’?” I asked, cocking a brow at him.
He fixed me with a steady gaze, causing my heart to skip again. “I do not know what the future holds for us, Miss Cora, or what the past once held for you. But I find myself of the mind that we shall have to find a new modal now.” He paused, shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the other. “… I apologize for how we left things last night.”
“I poked at a sensitive topic.” I reasoned, my mind spinning with his words. I tilted my head to one side, wondering at his proposed ‘future’. “Our current partnership is tentative, isn’t it? Or does your bloodline grant skill in fortune telling?”
He turned, gesturing towards the hall with one long arm extended. “’Sensitive’ would be an understatement.” He replied dryly. “And while I hold no claims to… the mystical arts…” He paused, thinking that over. “… I have a feeling.”
“Should I be concerned?” I teased lightly, following him as he turned to lead us down the hall.
“That remains to be seen.” He rebutted genially. “However, I resolve to be more open in our conversations. Hoping that should inspire you to the same.”
“Have I been anything but?”
He offered a tiny inclination of his head. “I would not know. Yet our current path demands a bit of faith in one another, I would say.”
“What path is that?” I asked as I followed him into a small sitting room adjacent to the main hallway, where Hector had arranged pair of chairs across from each other at the sole table, each with a silver tray waiting. The room was windowless but warm, with a large portrait of a portly woman in fine garments whose eyes seemed to follow us as we moved. A small pit of smoldering coals in the fireplace lent a smokey stain to the air.
Thaddeus offered one chair to me graciously. “The path towards discovering my would-be exposer. And your would-be murderer.”
That set a cold stone dropping in my stomach, and I placed one hand on the back of the seat distractedly. Feeling a chill rushing through me that left me light headed. The noble lingered for a moment indecisively before moving to the chair opposite mine. Waiting beside it until the moment passed and I found a bit of my grit again to sit. He lowered himself more slowly, then reached to open my tray before his own.
“Do you remember anything else about whomever hired you?” He asked after a moment, tracing his thumb up and down the silver spoon as he poked at his breakfast.
I brushed away weighty thoughts. Unable to shake the feeling that the cracked painted eyes of the woman were watching me intently from her place above the fireplace.
“He was magically masked.” I told him. “His face and voice shifted constantly while we spoke.” I picked up my own utensil absentmindedly. “And I say ‘he’ in the loosest sense of the word. I really couldn’t tell. Just something about his phrasing and manners.”
“What manners were those?” Thaddeus pressed, “Anything distinct in them?”
I thought it over, tracing my food around the plate. For some reason, it all tasted a bit over salted.
“He seemed… rushed.” I decided at last. “As if he didn’t have much time. But also curt and specific in his instructions.”
He nodded slowly. “I see.”
“He kept to his words like a script.” I recalled. “Sometimes he’d say the same line over, and he didn’t really act like he heard any of my questions.”
I noticed that while half my plate was picked through, barely any left his. His brow furrowed a bit, and I thought I saw a flicker of something flash across it. I almost jumped when his eyes flicked up to mine, catching me studying him.
“What did he say of the pendant?” He asked.
I shrugged a little, releasing a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. “Not much. He told me what room to find it in.” I couldn’t help sneaking another peek at him as I shuffled my eggs about my plate. “I assumed I was to find it in a chest or case or something…” My expression turned sheepish. “I ended up too impatient when I recognized it.”
Thaddeus sighed a little, leaning back in his chair. “It is like a game of chess,” He confided quietly, “Yet I cannot fathom his play.”
“Chess?” I echoed.
A spark of light came to his dark eyes as they flicked to me. “Are you familiar?” I shook my head. “Here, I can show you.”
Before I could fully react he had cleared the trays off to the side and brought out a strange checkered board and a small, finely carved wooden box. He set the board between us and once he had settled back into his chair he began to pull little carved figures out of the box. Setting them strategically around the board. I had barely registered his movement before I realized he was speaking as well. Explaining the mechanics of the game he was laying out.
“Did the man warn you about anything?” He asked me after we had settled into a simple ‘beginner’s play’, as he called it.
“No.”
“He was only after the pendant?”
I shrugged again. “That’s what it seemed like.”
The reminder had me studying the features of his face again. Remembering the copper red tones, the scarlet eyes, the thick black hair. I tried to remember the full shape of his horns, and the point of his ears. Had they been longer than human ears? Or just appeared that way due to their shape? I found I couldn’t recall what his hands might have looked like, though I remembered him reaching one towards me for the pendant.
“… Can I see it again?”
His eyes jumped up to my face over the board. I was almost certain I hadn’t imagined the flash of red there as they did before they settled back into their usual dark brown as he tried to ascertain my meaning.
“Your… other form.” I clarified.
There was a weight to the silence that stretched between us following my words. I almost felt as if the walls themselves had shrunk, and the air had become difficult to draw into my lungs.
“Please, Miss Cora,” He replied finally, shifting ever so slightly, “Do not tease me.”
“I’m not.” I assured him, feeling a bit more life return to me at the sound of his voice. “The sight of you is burned into my mind’s eye, yet I cannot find the edge of my memory. And it is fading.” I traced one finger over what he had called the queen piece, watching him through my lashes. “It feels like a dream.”
His lips pursed slightly. “A nightmare I would not subject you to again.”
“I was not afraid of you.”
“You could not help but be.”
“Perhaps.” I conceded. “But only out of surprise. I had not expected to find a demon in a noble’s bed.” I smiled even as he flinched slightly. “But… I want to see it again.” I hesitated, chewing it over. “I want to see you again. That is you, isn’t it?”
“Miss Cora-”
“Just Cora.” I reminded him.
His eyes flicked back to mine hesitantly. “… Cora. I do not… That is…” He sighed quietly, looking away. “It is not wise.”
“I am not afraid.” I pressed. “You won’t scare me away.”
“Perhaps.” He agreed, a bit reluctantly I thought. “However… I do not…” He cleared his throat, straightening himself out. “It does not work like that.”
I shifted a piece into play, feeling his eyes following my every move. “How does it work then?”
I saw him shift in his seat slightly out the corner of my eye. Watched his hand go almost instinctively to the pendant at his neck.
“The pendant helps keep it under control.” He said after a long moment.
“But not completely.” I concluded.
He glanced at me through his dark lashes, his face forlorn. Perhaps heavy with the weight of my confirmation that his mask was imperfect.
“No.” A long pause, then “Strong emotions weaken the magic.”
I offered him a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. If I poke a bit too much.” I sighed, looking back down at the chess board. “I’ve just never met anyone like you before.”
“Dangerous.” He assumed.
“Fascinating.” I corrected, looking back up at him. “… I wish I could see more.”
Our eyes met, and I watched him search mine. Perhaps for some lie, some deception. Some reasoning for my interest. Or maybe out of hope, out of need. I couldn’t tell, but saw his skin flicker, like firelight over stone, saw his brow soften a little. The weight of his chains lifting, if only for a moment.
“It is better this way.” He said at last, his flat tone belittled by his lingering glance.
I nodded, dropping my gaze. Feeling his eyes upon me for a moment more, as well of those of the old painting above the fireplace. As if the manor itself was watching our interaction play out.
We returned to the game, his instruction now coming few and far between. Our conversation completely stifled. I did try to focus. Tried to remember the mechanics of the game. But I couldn’t help glancing at him whenever I thought his attention was elsewhere. Wondering what he was thinking, or if he had really dismissed my request so easily. His brow returned to its furrow, his voice a deep, quiet rumble whenever he spoke. Sounding distant even to my ears. I tried to decide if he was lost in thought or distancing himself from the moment.
When the game finished, he nodded slowly.
“Perhaps we should adjourn for now.” He offered.
“If you’d like.” I replied, standing.
He followed my lead, tucking his hands into the small of his back. Dipping his head to me politely and making his way to the door. I trailed behind him, wondering how to best conclude our time spent together without losing what little ground we had gained. My thoughts twisting and turning as I struggled with what to say.
“Here.”
I was pulled back to the present by his soft, deep voice. His hand extended towards me. He kept it low, but palm up. Waiting in the air between us, the other still tucked into his back. I blinked a bit in surprise, then, with a little prompting in the form of a gentle nod, placed my hand in his.
Slowly, he closed his fingers around mine. Running his thumb over my own, encasing my pale hand in his. As I watched, the skin rippled, becoming the copper, molten hue. I almost gasped in delight, feeling a brightness fill my face. I brought my other hand around, running it over the back of his. Watching the rippling color solidify into copper, seeing the way his hand seemed to almost double in size. Completely engulfing mine beneath.
His skin was hot to the touch, but his grip was gentle. He moved his thumb across mine, then opened his hand once more so I could run my fingers over his. Tracing the lines, studying the slight claws and strong muscles. His fingers curled under my administrations, as if bowed by the feeling of my touch.
I thought I heard his breath catch, and looked up at him. Scarlet red eyes watched me, the rest of him frozen solid. I smiled wider, taking up his hand in both of mine. Clasping it gently.
“Thank you.” I said.
His eyes studied my face for a long moment. Then he nodded. Slowly drawing his hand back. The skin rippled and shifted away from my touch. Back to his more human hue. But his eyes lingered in scarlet tones.
Finally, he dipped his head again. Reaching out to open the door.
This image showcases a surreal city designed as chess pieces, featuring intricate clockwork mechanisms and gothic spires under a cloudy sky. Rendered in a dark fantasy watercolor style with muted blues and silvers.
