Quirinus carefully laid the door to his room to rest behind him, the shaft of light beckoning him into the world outside became finer, thinner and finally dissipating, leaving him in the clogging darkness, the claustrophobia of night closing around him. The night didn't scare him, it never had before; it was what the night brought. What the solitude of his room, the separation from the world that came riding on the darkness brought. For here, and here alone, his master could do as he wished with him. His master could have his way, freely punish him for the sins of the day. And sins there were many.

Here, nobody could hear his pleas for mercy, his desperation, and his pain. Nor would he want them to. He knew his crimes, he deserved every scream he would cry tonight; he deserved every tear that would flow freely down his face in the agony. He deserved it because he was weak. He was a weak man. He could not please his master; he wanted to, but sometimes, he just could not. This was not the Lord's fault for making unreasonable demands, he never made mistakes, he never asked too much. It was his fault for not meeting them. So in his mind, or what he had left of it, he deserved it. But just because he deserved it didn't mean he didn't fear it. He feared it more than anything. He feared it more than death itself. He didn't know which he feared more, failure, or the pain it induced.

He flicked his wand to light the candles, dreading words that might invade his head any minute. Simple words, but they always came, without fail. The Lord didn't fail; he wasn't weak, like Quirinus.

Candles. Out. Now.

A shiver traced its way down Quirrel's spine and he knew better than to refuse, even though every instinct told him to run for his life. Difficulty was, he couldn't run from something that dwelled deep inside of him. That shared him. He had gotten himself in so deep, death was the only way out. Death or fulfilling his master's will. And there was absolutely no way Quirinus could kill himself. It'd mean he'd have to admit he was wrong. He could admit he was weak, he could admit he had failed, but there was no way this man would admit he was wrong. He did not have lapses in judgement. He knew if he kept struggling, if he worked hard enough, finally, his master would be sated and he could have his sanity back.

The candles were extinguished in another flick of the wand, and the room plunged back into an aching, intense umbra. The only thing that existed now was the voice. The voice that came from no mouth and was heard by no ears, it merely echoed inside his head. The voice that had seduced him into becoming this shell of a man, the voice that had offered him power, but so far, had only delivered pain.

Must you keep taunting me with your ineptitude?

He replied aloud, even though every thought he had was shared anyway. He had no privacy, he had nothing to himself. Nothing was sacred here. "My L-l-lord, I'm s-s-sorry. I will have it s-s-soon. I will."

Drop the stammer, Quirinus, it's irritating.

He did his best to control his voice, but this time, the stammer really was induced by fear, and not part of some elaborate façade. What had started as a clever ruse had quickly become the truth. "I really, r-really am s-sorry."

Sorry's not enough. Don't waste your breath on words you cannot fulfil. Apologise if you will not do it again. But you will. You always fail, Quirinus.

"I will not f-fail you n-next t-time."

And now you are making promises you cannot keep. Do you not learn?

Quirinus could sense the Lord's deep anger and fury within him, burning like a flame. Soon enough, that flame would reach out with its fiery fingertips and grasp his mind in a grip of white-hot iron, crushing it, burning it, pulling it apart at the seams.

He made a desperate plea, despising his weakness, knowing his pleas were futile, but his survival instinct took over, "Please my L-lord. D-d-don't hurt me. I'll d-d-do anything. A-anything you want."

You know full well what I want. And yet you fail to deliver. I'm not hurting you. I'm educating you.

The pain seared through his mind, lashing against every thought, slicing up what remained of his soul and his determination with surgical precision. The wounds in his mind bled freely, the agony elicited tears and induced screams, but the only thing he knew was pain. The Lord was convinced the only thing he understood was pain. The only way he would learn was through punishment. He had committed a crime; he must be punished. If anyone knew this, it was Quirinus Quirrel.

The suffering spread to his body with a zealous fervour, consuming and obliterating everything in its path, leaving only the ruins of a wasted soul in its wake. The torture refused to end, despite the protests from Quirrel's body, which writhed and bucked in an effort to escape the agony, but all to no avail, as he was unable to evade the pain emanating from within him, from the very depths of his weary mind.

As the pain subsided, he shivered in memory of the trance of pain he had endured, unable to remember any of the uncharacteristic curses that escaped his lips, unable to remember his screams, unable to remember why his face was laced in moisture and his sight, albeit into darkness was blurred, but reliving the pain over and over again. He grasped his head in his hands, as if he could tear the pain away, wrench it from his skin and cleanse himself of the nightmare he had lived through in the last hours, minutes, seconds even. He sat there for an equal amount of time, staring intently into the darkness, unaware of the tears running down his cheeks, unaware of everything bar the powerful, demanding voice in his head, carefully explaining how he was going to fulfil his duty and how he wouldn't fail this time.

He just kept getting the sense that no matter what he did, it was never enough, and the torture would never cease.