Disclaimer:
I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters, but I like having them run around in my sometimes twisted little world.
Unhappy Birthday
Quirrell was humming, when he returned to his private chambers. He was in a particularly good mood today. Only two pranks have been played on him in his classes which was quite unusual for a Thursday, so he considered this day a good day. And it was a special one, too. It was September 26th – his birthday.
No one had taken notice of it, of course, for only a few people at Hogwarts knew about it. Dumbledore, who was one of those few, had probably been too busy to remember his birthday, Quirrell assumed, and Snape, who knew Quirrell's birthday as well, would rather bite off his tongue than offer Quirrell his best wishes. A stern glare at lunch had been all Quirrell had received from Snape and when Quirrell had mentioned casually that he would be busy baking a cake in the afternoon Snape had just snorted and pointed out that there was too little salt on the potatoes.
Not that Snape was Quirrell's most favourite colleague, still, had he asked about the cake Quirrell might have invited him for tea this afternoon. But right now it looked like he would have to share the cake with his pet iguana Chuck. Originally, the reptile had been a subject for his fifth year Defence Against The Dark Arts classes, but after a while Quirrell had grown accustomed to having a living being around, so eventually the iguana had become his companion. And he was a good one. Chuck never complained about anything, especially when it came to food. He ate everything Quirrell would feed him, mostly a variety of exotic fruit that Quirrell nicked from the Great Hall during mealtimes. Chuck was also content with his modest accommodation, which was a simple old terrarium that Quirrell had found in the Room of Requirements when he was browsing for something he dreaded to think about.
Still humming, Quirrell unlocked the door to his living room, when suddenly a stinging headache made him wince.
"Will you stop that horrible noise?" a sharp voice in Quirrell's head demanded.
Quirrell sighed.
"But it's my favourite tune, master," he mumbled.
"It's annoying", the voice in his head answered. "I never want to hear you hum again, do you understand?"
"Why not, master?" Quirrell asked. "Are you not fond of music?"
It was meant to be an honest question, but he didn't receive an answer. Instead another sharp sting made Quirrell groan.
"This is the only sort of music I like, you imbecile," the voice in his head hissed. "Remember that if you ever feel like humming again."
"I'm sorry, master," Quirrell apologized.
"So you should be," the voice said without mercy. "Don't you realize that you are absolutely tone deaf?"
Quirrell hung his head and didn't object. He wasn't keen on getting into another quarrel with his master. Quarrels always lead to an extreme migraine and this was supposed to be a happy day, preferably headache-free. Since that was not going to happen, Quirrell at least wanted to keep the pain at bay and the best way to accomplish that was to hold his tongue.
Silently, he entered his private chambers and without making any noise he shut the door behind him.
The dungeon rooms were chilly, despite the cosy fire in the fireplace. They were also quite gloomy. Quirrell didn't care for chilly – or gloomy, for that matter. He liked things warm and bright.
Quirrell closed his eyes and thought of all the lovely places he had visited on his recent travels. He had seen some wonderful sunsets in the mountains and the most dazzling dawns by the sea. There was so much beauty in this world – the White Cliffs of Dover when the first ray of light hit them or Stonehenge when the sun was going down behind the huge megalithes …
And now he was stuck here in a damp dungeon, next to a grumpy man, who only wished him ill. Surely Snape had his reasons to dislike Quirrell. Snape disliked a lot of things, Quirrell had noticed, but strangely this place wasn't one of them and it was a complete mystery to Quirrell, why Snape was so fond of these dungeons.
He himself would have loved to live on the third floor, where the original classroom for Defence Against the Dark Arts was situated, but unfortunately the third floor was out of bounds this year. Quirrell had no idea why, but he hoped he would find out on that secret staff meeting Dumbledore had arranged for next Sunday.
Quirrell sighed. There were just too many things on his mind right now. He desperately needed a break – and he would take it by baking himself a birthday cake, he decided. Nothing could be easier than that!
Apparently it could. It was already late in the afternoon when Quirrell had finally finished making the cake, which had been a lot more difficult than he had imagined and he was not sure if he had done it all right. Then again, how awful could the cake turn out?
A little timidly Quirrell switched on the old-fashioned stove that was standing next to his fireplace. This was also an abandoned item he had found in the Room of Requirements and it had come in quite useful for making tea in the evenings. Of course, Quirrell could have used magic, but, as a matter of fact, he wasn't the sort of wizard, who pulled out his wand on any occasion. A swish here and a flick there – that was highly overrated. Quirrell rather did things the Muggle way, things like boiling water for tea, for example, and saved his magic for the more important stuff.
Cautiously, Quirrell took the kettle holders from the hook next to the fireplace and opened the oven. Then he grabbed the cake tin and carefully shoved it inside, but just when he had closed the oven again a knock on his door made him flinch.
A visitor? Quirrell frowned. Who would call on him at this late hour? Maybe someone had remembered his birthday after all …
A little confused, but yet excited, Quirrell threw the kettle holders on the stove and went to the door.
"Who is it?" he asked, curiously.
"It's me, professor," a young voice answered and when Quirrell opened the door, he recognised a girl standing outside in the corridor, a heap of books tied together with a leather belt clutched to her chest and her frizzy hair ruffled.
"Yes, Miss …?"
"Granger, sir," the girl introduced herself, busily. "I am so sorry to disturb you, but I have a question about that essay we were supposed to write about …"
She stopped abruptly and sniffed.
"Is something burning here?"
"My cake!" Quirrell exclaimed and without as much as closing the door he hurried back to the oven.
But it wasn't the cake – it was the kettle holders on the stove which had caught fire. Quickly, Quirrell grabbed a towel and began hitting it on the flames. He managed to extinguish them, but unfortunately, his robes had caught fire instead and shrieking in panic Quirrell tossed away the burning towel.
"Is everything alright?" the Granger girl asked from the door.
"No!" Quirrell shouted, shrugging off his cloak. "My robes … they're on fire!"
"Why don't you try a fire extinguishing charm?" the Granger girl suggested.
Bewildered, Quirrell looked at her.
"A what?"
"A fire extinguishing charm."
The Granger girl entered the room.
"Like so," she said, pulling out her wand. "Aqua eructo."
Immediately, a spout of water emerged from the tip of her wand, which she directed at the towel and Quirrell's robes on the floor and within a few seconds the fire was out.
Quirrell exhaled deeply.
"Thank you," he said, gratefully. "Thank you for your cool nerve, Miss Granger, and your quick reflexes. I didn't even think of using magic myself. I … I just panicked …"
Quirrell looked at the Granger girl, who pocketed her wand again, smiling.
"You're welcome, professor," she replied. "That was nothing, really."
"Oh, I believe it was quite something," Quirrell contradicted. "If I am not mistaken, this fire extinguishing charm is not taught to you before your third year and seeing you're just a first year student, I dare say you have outdone yourself."
The Granger girl blushed a little.
"Well, I like to read ahead," she said, modestly. "I came across this charm last week when I was studying and I thought it to be useful, so I practised it a bit."
"A bit?"
Quirrell chuckled.
"You must have practised it very thoroughly for the charm worked perfectly."
"Yeah, I guess I did," the Granger girl admitted. "You never know when you might need a charm, so I rather put in some effort to do it correctly – just in case."
"Well done, Miss Granger, well done," Quirrell praised. "Unfortunately, I am not at the liberty to award Gryffindor any points for it, since this was entirely a private matter … I hope you understand."
"Absolutely, sir," the Granger girl replied. "And rest assured I didn't do it to gain points. I did it because … well, when you see someone in need, you are supposed to help him, right?"
Quirrell nodded.
"Right," he agreed.
"By the way," the Granger girl added. "Your sash is a little singed, too."
"Darn!" Quirrell muttered under his breath as he inspected the damage.
It was mendable, though, but he wouldn't dare take off his turban right now. Some things needed to stay concealed.
"I will see to this later," Quirrell established, then he looked at the Granger girl interrogatively. "Now … you mentioned something about your essay?"
"Oh", the Granger girl said, making a dismissive gesture. "Forget about it. Apparently, you are far too busy to …"
"No, no," Quirrell interrupted. "I am not busy. I am just messing up myself in the desperate attempt to bake a birthday cake, that's all."
"A birthday cake?" the Granger girl repeated. "And whose birthday would that be, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask?"
"My birthday, actually," Quirrell admitted, quietly. "I was baking a cake for myself. Well, I tried to, at least."
"I didn't even know that!" the Granger girl exclaimed. "Happy birthday, sir, and many happy returns!"
Now it was Quirrell, who blushed a little.
"Thank you, Miss Granger," he answered. "That is most kind of you."
"Not at all," the Granger girl replied. "I hope you have a splendid day."
With that she took a few steps backwards.
"Well, I better leave you now," she added. "There are probably a lot of things to arrange for your party and I don't want to bother you."
"Party?" Quirrell repeated. "What do mean, party?"
The Granger girl stopped, frowning.
"I assume you are going to have a party tonight," she explained. "With your colleagues …"
Quirrell huffed.
"My colleagues don't even know that it's my birthday today," he said, dully.
"Oh …"
The Granger girl bit her lips.
"Well, then with your friends, perhaps?" she suggested.
Quirrell shook his head.
"I don't have any friends," he admitted. "Never had, actually. So, I am having this little party all by myself …"
Too late Quirrell realized that the Granger girl must think now that he was fishing for compliments, so he paused, but to his surprise she just stared at him, blankly.
"I know what it feels like," she whispered. "You see, I don't have any friends either. And last week it was my birthday and I didn't receive a birthday card from any of my classmates. Not one. In fact, no one even congratulated me …"
She sighed, sadly.
"Sometimes it sucks, being top of the form."
"At least you've got your good grades," Quirrell replied, thinking back of the time, when he was a student at Hogwarts.
This was not a happy memory at all. He had always been brilliant in any subject, but when it came to people's skills he had been a failure. Whenever he had tried to make friends they had only picked his brains and as soon as the tests had been through he had been alone again.
"Yes, at least I have my good grades," the Granger girl echoed, tonelessly. "That's something, isn't it?"
"Would you rather have friends than brains, Miss Granger?" Quirrell asked.
The Granger girl shrugged.
"Actually, I don't mind being clever," she admitted. "The Sorting Hat nearly put me into Ravenclaw, because of my brains, but in the end it picked Gryffindor for me. I wonder why. Maybe Ravenclaw would have suited me better …"
"I think you would have done great in Ravenclaw," Quirrell said. "And I should know what I am talking about. I was in Ravenclaw myself."
"I am not surprised," the Granger girl replied, smiling. "A brilliant mind like yours …"
Quirrell averted his gaze. He wasn't used to receiving compliments and this was definitely a compliment. Not a great compliment but an honest one and Quirrell appreciated it.
"Thank you, Miss Granger," he mumbled. "You are quite a little brain box yourself."
The Granger girl nodded.
"And I wouldn't give that up for the world."
"Right …" Quirrell replied. "Who needs friends, anyway?"
"Well, they do come in handy if you want to celebrate your birthday," the Granger girl added for consideration. "Otherwise it is just a party of one."
"Not necessarily," Quirrell said, looking up again. "What would you say, Miss Granger, if I invited you to stay for tea and cake?"
The Granger girl blinked.
"What, me?" she asked.
Quirrell nodded.
"You are inviting me to be the only guest at your birthday party?"
"Yes."
"But … I am a student," the Granger girl pointed out. "I hope your realize that."
"I do," Quirrell answered. "But it seems you have missed your own birthday party this year and everyone deserves a birthday party."
"Who says I missed my own birthday party?" the Granger girl replied. "I had a lovely party and I celebrated until dawn …"
"Oh, really?" Quirrell asked, suspiciously. "What did you do?"
Averting her gaze, the Granger girl pouted.
"I studied," she finally answered, reluctantly.
"Case closed," Quirrell said, grinning, and the Granger girl let out a sigh.
"You're right," she admitted. "It wasn't a real party. It was just spending my time so I didn't have to think about what might have been if I had friends."
"Does that mean you are staying for tea and cake?"
The Granger girl hesitated.
"Wouldn't it be a little inappropriate?" she added for consideration. "I am a student and you are my teacher."
"That's true," Quirrell agreed. "Well, if you don't want to …"
"I never said I didn't want to," the Granger girl interrupted, quickly. "I just asked if it wasn't inappropriate."
"So, basically that's a yes?" Quirrell established. "You accept my invitation?"
"Yes," the Granger girl answered. "I accept."
"How wonderful," Quirrell exclaimed, gesturing at one of the two armchairs in front of the fireplace. "Take a seat, please!"
"I better close the door first," the Granger girl suggested. "Or would you rather keep it open?"
"Why would I want to leave it open?"
"So someone else might join your party."
"I don't think anyone will," Quirrell snorted. "Students don't come to my door often. And if they do it it's just to put a sign on it, reading 'Careful. Wet paint!' or something.
"That's horrible," the Granger girl said, compassionately, as she quietly shut the door. "So, you don't get many visitors, I take it?"
Quirrell shook his head.
"Not even Professor Snape?"
Quirrell looked at the Granger girl astonished.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because he lives right next door," the Granger girl answered. "I saw him walk past me, when I was standing in front of yours just now and he shot me a glance that made shivers run down my spine …"
She shuddered.
"Those black eyes of his …"
Quirrell nodded.
"I know what you mean," he replied. "He gives me the same glances."
The Granger girl hesitated.
"You don't like him much, do you?" she asked.
Quickly, Quirrell turned around and pretended to check on his cake in the oven, so he wouldn't have to answer. Unfortunately, the Granger girl was not someone who would drop a matter easily and when Quirrell had pulled out the finished cake she was still staring at him, her glance demanding an answer. Quirrell sighed.
"I respect him, as a colleague, of course," he said, evasively.
"But?"
"But what?"
"Well, it sounded like there was a 'but'," the Granger girl explained. "Is there a 'but'?"
"All right," Quirrell gave in. "He gives me the creeps."
The Granger girl chuckled.
"What about you, then?" Quirrell demanded as he placed the cake and two plates on a small table in front of her. "Do you like him?"
Now it was the Granger girl who hesitated.
"I respect him as a teacher, of course," she then replied, biting her lips.
"But?"
"But what?"
"Well, it sounded like there was a 'but'," Quirrell explained. "Is there a 'but'?"
The Granger girl scratched her head.
"I am not sure if I am supposed to tell you this …"
"Come on, Miss Granger," Quirrell taunted. "I just told you that Severus gives me the creeps!"
The Granger girl gaped.
"Severus?" she repeated.
Quirrell nodded, putting the kettle on.
"That's his first name," he explained. "Didn't you know?"
The Granger girl shook her head.
"And I thought my parents were cruel …"
"Why?" Quirrell asked. "What's your first name, then?"
"Hermione," she said, quietly.
"That's nice," Quirrell said, thoughtfully. "Ancient Greek. If I am not mistaken, Hermione was the daughter of Helen of Troy."
Hermione Granger nodded.
"I'm impressed," she said, admiringly. "You see, most people think it's Shakespearean."
"It is," Quirrell replied. "Hermione is also a character from Shakespeare's 'The Winter's Tale'."
Hermione Granger gasped.
"Is there anything that you don't know?"
"Well," Quirrell said, shrugging. "For a start, I don't know why you are so ashamed of that name of yours. You should be proud, really. You name is extraordinary, but in a good way, and not all too frequent."
"Yes, and not very popular, too," Hermione Granger added, miserably.
"Neither is my first name," Quirrell pointed out, but didn't elaborate.
Unfortunately though, Hermione Granger wouldn't be fobbed off with just that.
"What's your first name, then?" she asked, boldly. "Is it Shakespearean as well?"
Quirrell rolled his eyes.
"I wish it was."
"You have to tell me," Hermione Granger insisted.
"No," Quirrell refused.
"I told you mine!"
Quirrell didn't answer. He was torn between what was the polite thing to do and what he was comfortable with and in the end he chose the latter and remained silent.
"Let me guess, then," Hermione Granger begged. "Please!"
"Alright," Quirrell gave in, reluctantly. "Guess."
"Something with a 'Q'," Hermione Granger mused. "Correct?"
Quirrell nodded.
"Quentin?"
"No," Quirrell said regretfully – for Quentin would have been a true blessing.
"Quinn?" Hermione Granger suggested. "Or Quintus?"
Quirrell shook his head.
"Quilliam, perhaps?"
"No."
Hermione Granger sighed.
"I am running out of ideas here," she admitted. "Why don't you just tell me?"
"I'd rather not," Quirrell said and quickly turned to the boiling kettle to prepare the tea.
"That's not fair," Hermione Granger said, pouting.
"Life rarely is," Quirrell retorted.
"But I hate not knowing the answer to a question!"
"Get used to it, Miss Granger," Quirrell replied. "It will happen to you once in a while."
"I still hate it."
Instead of an answer Quirrell made a gesture, indicating that this wasn't his problem, but he regretted it immediately. This girl was kind enough to stay for tea and cake and celebrate his birthday with him and he just gave her a polite brush-off for her honest question. That wasn't fair indeed.
Still contemplating, Quirrell poured tea into two cups, then he brought them over to Hermione Granger, handed her one and sat down in the opposite armchair. For a while they didn't speak. They just sipped their tea in silence and exchanged a glance once in a while.
"Quirinus," Quirrell finally mumbled and over the rim of his tea cup he watched Hermione Granger's reaction.
"Quirinus?" she repeated. "That's your first name?"
Quirrell nodded.
"Quirinus …" Hermione Granger said again, slowly and thoughtfully. "Quirinus …"
Quirrell inhaled deeply. In a way he liked how his name sounded when she said it – carefully, as if she wouldn't mistreat it, no matter what. And yet, it was disturbing ….
"Will you stop saying that?" Quirrell finally demanded. "I know it's a horrible name!"
"It could be worse," Hermione Granger contradicted.
"It could be worse?"
Quirrell threw out a laugh.
"What could possibly be worse?" he asked.
Hermione Granger shrugged.
"See?" Quirrell said. "You can't even think of a name that's worse!"
"But that doesn't mean that there isn't a name that's worse."
Quirrell snorted.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he demanded.
"Doesn't it?"
"No, it doesn't!" Quirrell snapped and Hermione Granger fell silent.
Again there was a long pause, but this time it was she, who spoke first.
"Do you have a middle name, perhaps?" she asked, carefully.
"Yes …"
"Great!"
"But that's positively ghastly," Quirrell added quickly. "And before you ask – I am not going to …"
"Mine's Jean," Hermione Granger interrupted and smiled broadly. "Yours?"
With a sigh, Quirrell put down his cup of tea.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I am very sorry, indeed, Hermione Jean Granger, but I am not going to tell you my middle name."
"Why not?"
Quirrell exhaled.
"Because."
"'Because' is not good enough."
"But it has to be enough," Quirrell demanded. "Please, accept that, Miss Granger, just as it is."
Hermione Granger looked at him. There was something in her eyes that nearly made Quirrell falter, but he didn't. For once he did not give in.
"Can I offer you a piece of cake?" he asked instead, even though part of him was sure she would decline.
But to his surprise she didn't.
"I'd love one," she answered politely and held out her plate. "It looks delicious."
She was exaggerating, of course, for the cake looked like no cake one would offer a guest should look like, but Quirrell didn't dare to object Hermione Granger again. Carefully he put a huge slice of cake on her plate, which she accepted with a smile and began eating immediately.
Quirrell helped himself to a slice as well but after one bite he gulped. Apparently, looks were terribly misleading for the cake tasted dreadful. And yet, Hermione Granger continued eating the cake straight-faced without making a complaint.
Uncomfortably, Quirrell cleared his throat.
"Well?" he asked, frowning.
Hermione Granger looked at him.
"Do you want it sugar-coated?" she asked. "Or right between the eyes?"
"You decide," Quirrell answered, expecting the worse.
"I have never eaten anything like this …"
"That's not so bad," Quirrell interrupted, delighted.
"Let me finish," Hermione Granger suggested.
"Sorry," Quirrell apologized. "Please, continue."
"This cake tastes disgusting," Hermione Granger said. "It's the worst cake I have ever eaten in my life. Honestly."
"Hmmm," Quirrell mused. "Is it too late to get it sugar-coated?"
"That was sugar-coated," Hermione Granger answered, dryly. "Unfortunately, the cake isn't. Otherwise, it might have tasted better."
Quirrell nodded.
"I guess I have mixed up the recipe."
"You will do better next year," Hermione Granger said, confidently, but Quirrell shook his head.
"I'll never make a cake again," he said, dully. "I'm just not good at it."
"But you are very good when it comes to making conversation," Hermione added for consideration. "I never expected it, really."
Quirrell frowned.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well," Hermione Granger said, putting down her empty plate. "If you don't mind me saying … you always seem so nervous in class. You hardly bring out one whole sentence without stuttering and look at you now! You haven't stuttered once during our whole conversation."
Quirrell felt himself pale. His stutter! He had totally forgotten about it. It was part of his act – to make everyone believe he was just a timid little man, but Hermione Granger knew now that he was perfectly able to talk normally.
"You damn fool," a sharp voice in his head hissed and Quirrell had to suppress a groan.
His headache had returned again and this time it felt like his head was going to explode. Quirrell hardly managed to put down his plate, before he held his head in both his hands, pressing against his temples to get rid of the horrible pain.
"What is it?" Hermione Granger asked, concerned. "Are you ill?"
"Headaches," Quirrell whispered. "I sometimes have them …"
"You are not taking offence to what I have said, are you?"
"No, no," Quirrell said, quickly. "You were quite right … with everything. The cake was disgusting … and about my stutter …"
He inhaled deeply, trying to find an explanation, but the headache nearly made him faint.
"I'm just … shy," he finally managed. "I find it hard … to talk … in front of … many people …"
"Then maybe teacher is not the right job for you," Hermione Granger pointed out.
"Possibly," Quirrell agreed. "I must … try … to overcome my … shyness."
He smiled crookedly.
"Or just quit."
"That would be a pity," Hermione Granger said. "I think you might be a good teacher if you just got this nervousness out of the way. You have talked so well just now …"
Quirrell was just about to thank her for those kind words, when another wave of headache made him wince.
"I think it's best if I leave now," Hermione Granger suggested. "You seem to be in a lot of pain …"
"I am …" Quirrell groaned. "So, if you don't mind …"
"No, of course not!"
With that Hermione Granger stood and gave Quirrell a smile.
"Don't bother showing me to the door," she said. "I'll see myself out."
Weakly, Quirrell nodded and closed his eyes against the pain. Every movement hurt terribly and only faintly he noticed the door falling shut.
Immediately, the pain subsided and Quirrell heaved a sigh.
"You are such an idiot," the voice in his head taunted him. "Letting the girl in, talking to her, inviting her for tea, confiding in her! Are you out of your mind?"
"Master, I …"
"Don't you dare to talk back to me," the voice warned. "You make all these mistakes and almost blow your cover and yet you think that I am a merciful Lord and forgive you for your incompetence? Well, think again!"
"I'm sorry, master," Quirrell whispered. "I know I am not worthy to be your servant, but …"
"Why are you still making excuses?" the voice demanded. "Are you trying to annoy me?"
"No, master," Quirrell said. "I'm just …"
"You are making excuses again, pillock," the voice established. "Stop it! Or I shall punish you like you have never been punished before!"
"Please, don't, master," Quirrell begged. "I will do better next time. I will never fail you again."
"You'd better!" the voice said, coldly. "Or the consequences will be severe."
Quirrell nodded.
"Now, enough with this birthday nonsense," the voice added. "Your aging is not worth celebrating, nor is the day you were born."
"Yes, master," Quirrell answered, miserably, when his gaze fell on the small table where Hermione Grangers empty plate and tea cup were still sitting.
"What are you waiting for?" the voice said. "Go back to work! Find a way to get me the Philosopher's Stone."
"Can I just …"
"Now!" the voice interrupted. "I will not repeat myself."
Obediently Quirrell nodded again and did as the voice in his head demanded.
It was half past eleven, when the headache finally had subsided and relieved Quirrell stepped towards the window and opened it. What a beautiful night it was. The sky was dark and full of stars and the air was fresh and clear. These were the nights in which Quirrell thought it had been better if he had never encountered his master, but he never dares to think this out loud. His master could be so cruel and merciless and he would punish every tiny mistake …
Quirrell inhaled deeply and looked into the far, when suddenly a noise cut through the silence that sounded like swift wings. He soon realized that it was swift wings and they belonged to an owl. Not any owl but to a huge eagle owl that suddenly landed on the window sill, presenting an envelope that it had in its beak. Hesitantly Quirrell took it, but before he could offer the owl some sort of payment it had taken off again and vanished into the dark night.
Quirrell turned the envelope in his hand a few times, then he took a closer look at it.
"Professor Q. Quirrell" was written on it in a neat handwriting and instantly, Quirrell knew who had sent this note. Smiling, he closed the window and strode to his desk.
"What is it, Quirrell?" the voice in his head asked. "You are excited. Why is that?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Quirrell said, evasively. "Just … a letter."
"A letter?" the voice repeated. "From whom?"
"Hermione Granger," Quirrell answered. "The girl, who visited me this afternoon."
"Open it!" the voice demanded. "What does it say?"
His fingers were shaking, when Quirrell opened the seal on the envelope and pulled out a piece of parchment.
"Dear Professor Quirrell," it said. "Thank you for your kind invitation this afternoon. The cake was horrible, yet, the tea was delicious and our talk was just lovely. I enjoyed it immensely. Have a very happy birthday! Hermione Granger."
"Well?" the voice pressed. "I don't hear you reading."
"It's only a thank you note," Quirrell said, dismissively. "I don't wish to bore you with it, master."
It was a very clever move, but unfortunately his master didn't buy it.
"Burn it, then," he suggested.
"Master?"
"Is anything wrong with your stick-out ears?" the voice hissed. "I said, burn it!"
"Why?" Quirrell dared to ask.
"Because I said so!"
Quirrell swallowed hard.
"But it's just a thank you note …"
"You just told me it was boring," the voice explained. "So, you should get rid of it. It is not important! Burn it!"
"The fire is almost out …"
"Do I have to punish you again, Quirrell?" the voice asked, matter-of-factly. "Do as I say or bear the consequences!"
Quirrell pressed his lips together and with a heavy heart, he went over to the fireplace, threw the envelope into the flames and watched as the rims began to singe, until the paper was entirely black and finally fell into pieces.
"Is it gone?" the voice asked.
"Yes," Quirrell whispered.
"Good," the voice said, satisfied. "You may turn in now. You have got a lot of work to do tomorrow."
"Yes, master," Quirrell answered, quietly. "Thank you."
The voice didn't reply. Quirrell waited for a long time and when he didn't hear any remark in a while, he finally dared unfolding the piece of parchment again, forcing himself to stay calm.
"Have a very happy birthday!"
Quirrell read through this line a couple of times then he folded the parchment neatly and stuck it into the top drawer of his desk. His master didn't need to know that Quirrell had only burned the envelope. He didn't need to know that Quirrell had kept the letter with those kind words and intended to save it for a rainy day – a rainy day that would come eventually.
Quirrell figured that things were probably going to get tough very soon and that the time might come, when he would need to take comfort in a few friendly sentences. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day – perhaps another ordinary Thursday ...