Oh, the first day of school, Quirrel thought stoically, lugging his heavy trunk over the cracked marble steps that signaled his entry into Hogwarts. More specifically, the Hogwarts bathroom---it was his first time on the job and he wanted to make a good impression, and he had this funny feeling like his hair was sticking up in the front again. He'd always been the kid in school to get over 100 percents on tests you couldn't get extra credit on, greet all the teachers with a toothy, suckup-esque grin, and wear suspenders with his pants yanked up to his shoulders. Okay, so he maybe wasn't that bad, but he still clung to some of his elementary school grandeur---glasses and hair that wouldn't lie flat. Quirrel took a deep breath and gave the stone lion at the door a superior glance. It stared him down. He cowered and crossed his arms awkwardly, hoping the lion couldn't detect his low self esteem.
Okay, Quirrel, he challenged himself, swinging open the bathroom door with confidence. Challenge one: hair. Challenge two: people. Eeeew, people. Quirrel wasn't sure when he'd seen one last. Sometimes they'd knock on the door to his apartment, but usually he ninja-dove to the floor, flicked all the lights off, and prayed they'd go away so he didn't have to open the door in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas.
Quirrel sunk against one wall of the bathroom, the cold from the blue-and-white tile walls seeping through his clothes and into his skin. He'd picked out his most mundane tie today, black, with a white shirt that was almost ironed. His hair was definitely not flat, though: he could see it from where he was crumpled against the wall, sticking up like a duck's butt. Reaching over to his suitcase, he unzipped it and felt around for a comb.
Whoosh. The high-vaulted ceiling of the bathroom rattled, and the lights flickered ominously. The already chilly bathroom went suddenly very cold, like being plunged unexpectedly into a bucket of Arctic seawater. Quirrel, frightened, scrabbled up into the corner. His shaking hands grasped the corner of something in his suitcase---he pulled it out---it was a 900-page volume of War and Peace. Hmmm. He held it up threateningly, bracing himself up against the wall.
"Don't come near me," he said haltingly, praying his voice wouldn't crack. It did. Good one, irony gods. "I've got…a book." Hmmm. Very useful against air.
That's exactly right. No knowledge can protect you now.
For a moment, all was silent, and Quirrel's breathing hitched. Had he imagined that, that whisper echoing hollowly throughout his mind? Time seemed to mock him, alone in the bathroom, silent and scared.
Slam. His thoughts broke into a scattered frenzy of wild runaway imaginings as his whole body was slammed up against a wall, jarring some of the tiles loose and sending them crackling to the floor. War and Peace dangled uselessly (as usual) from his hand. Flailing out with the other arm, he tried to fend off his attacker, but it was useless. There was nobody there.
Feeling alone, are we? Yep, it was definitely coming from inside his head. It was a breathy, high voice, but not without dignity. Quirrel liked to think that the voice inside his head, the one that sounded out words when he read, was affected and British, or at least Morgan Freeman-y, so this breathy womanly voice was starting to unnerve him. Quirrel's head twitched; a drop of cold sweat slid down his cheekbone. Frightened, pulse quickened, he slid shakily up, climbing hand-by-hand up a porcelain sink. Bracing himself on the sink's rim, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Brown eyes stared back at him, a cut dripped above his eyebrow from where a broken edge of tile had sliced his forehead. He looked down, breathed once or twice.
"I'm okay," he said slowly.
Yeah, that's all I'd give you on a scale from one to ten too. With a decent haircut you could almost look like me.
Quirrel looked up in shock---only to see his own face, bone-white and with a bluish tinge, staring back at him. But wait----was it? There----superimposed, ghostly, over his own face—dark sockets, aquiline nose, a grin that was slowly starting to pull the corners of his own mouth up. Quirrel giggled weakly, hands still clutching the sides of the sink basin, knuckles white and knobbly, like the bones of a fish. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth----the hand that went to wipe it away was not his own. But that was okay, wasn't it? He was so tired, too tired to do it himself.
Shaking his head violently, Quirrel backed away from the sink.
"No. No, I'm going crazy. It must have been all that Albanian liquor…" If any more blood drained from his face, Quirrel thought he could be eligible to be a vampire. Albania. Wasn't that where…couldn't that have been…what if he was…
Lord Voldemort's personal body and soul? The amused voice spoke again. Someone give the kid a gold star.
Silence. Silence. Silence. Then, out of all the shock and despair and horror, Quirrel posed a question of utter intelligence.
"Did you possess my suitcase?"
Silence, again. For the first time, Voldemort seemed flustered, or at least sheepish.
Well…I had no choice. Nice boxers, by the way.
Quirrel ran his hands----Voldemort's hands----through his hair, leaning his head against the wall in shock. His sweaty hair fell into his eyes.
"Oh my God. Voldemort is my suitcase. Oh my God, I'm going to die." Quirrel was aware that he was babbling, but aware as if from a very far away place, somewhere safe and comfortable and warm. He could hear himself getting quieter, like he was under ten feet of water and listening to a conversation at the surface of the waves.
Well, actually, Voldemort said mildly, I am you now. Sort of. Actually, I'm more like the constant parasite on the back of your soul that you must obey, or else die. But that's a lot better than dying wham-bang right here, isn't it?
Quirrel's breathing was getting increasingly faster, the hands through his hair faster and more agitated. Suddenly, though, he stopped---his hands brushed something gently at the back of his head. Tentatively, carefully, he stroked the back of his head again.
A face. Definitely a face. Oh my God, he thought hysterically, I can eat dessert at the same time as dinner now.
Well, you can't blame me, Voldemort said drolly. I didn't want to have to stare at you everyday too.
"Get off of my head! Get out of my mind-----get out of my….my…." Quirrel's train of thought slipped---his head slumped forward onto his chest. He left off clawing the back of his head, agonized words slipping into nothingness. The pages in War and Peace gave a feeble flicker, and he was gone. Voldemort sighed, the weak evil in him melting away, for the moment, with the last of his strength.
I'll negotiate your terms when you wake up, you poor idiot. Seeing Quirrel slumped on the ground, cold and shivering and pathetic, was like watching kittens be kicked.Voldemort mentally shook his head. Don't you become a big softie, Voldemort. You're the Dark Lord, you're not a babysitter.