Word count: 1,800

Written for:

Last Ship Sailing Competition - Pairing: Quirrellmort. [Round 1 entry]. Chosen prompts: circus!AU, candlelight, knitting needles, navy, "Well, to be fair, you are pretty reckless". Bonus prompts: lazy, nervous habit, yellow.

Cards Against Humanity Competition - Q: What's fun until it gets weird? A: Dark and mysterious forces beyond our control.

Absolutely Insane Historical AU Challenge - #150: 1920s

The Game is On Challenge - "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent." - Sherlock Holmes

**This story is the first of a Quirrellmort collection written for the Last Ship Standing Competition on HPFC. It's a muggle!AU, a circus!AU, and contains a bit of crack. Read with caution.**

1

The Ringmaster's Revenge

The knitting needles clacked loudly each time they met - a repetitive pattern, since they were being used to make a lovely warm scarf. Quirrell made circles with his hands, dipping the needles repeatedly into the yarn. Knitting was a nervous habit of his that he hadn't yet conquered. Yet it was better than doing nothing all night. Why had the boss forced him to act as guard duty when plenty of other performers could have done the job?

Candlelight flickered in the background, calling attention to the pitch-black skies that Quirrell could spy through the window. He wasn't under the striped tent; he was in the DeathDeath Brothers Family Circus guard shack, alone. All because the lion tamer Dolohov was too sick to do his normal Tuesday shift.

Quirrell tried to ignore his annoyance, focusing on his knitting. He'd almost finished the yellow-and-navy fringed scarf - it would be ready to sell at the local flapper boutique by morning. This put a smile on his face, which lasted past midnight into the early morning hours. But once he had made every possible adjustment to the garment, Quirrell could think of nothing more to do with his time. He sat in a hard wooden chair. He wasn't allowed to leave, or eat, in case he "became distracted" and "failed in his duties." As if that would ever happen again.

So Quirrell was very bored when the first noise echoed around the tiny shack. He instantly stood up, grabbing his assigned nightstick and whirling around in hopes of spotting the intruder. But he was alone as ever.

"Hello?" he asked. "I must warn you, sir or madam, that I am armed." Quirrell waved his nightstick for emphasis, but there was no response from the outside or the tiny shadowed corner within the shack.

A sickly laugh swelled from nowhere, coming from above and then below and then right in Quirrell's stomach. It was impossible. The laugh was like a disembodied voice speaking from the beyond. Quirrel nearly called for his mother. But then-

"No weapon of yours could hurt me..." the laugher's voice said lazily. "Open your door and come outside. The air is sweet and warm."

Quirrell couldn't explain why, but he did as the voice asked and stepped out of the shack. Away from his post. Perhaps it was all a dream, and his greatest offense would be sleeping on the job.

"Who- what are you?"

He could feel the presence of something great, yet terrifying. A soul swirled around him, dipping in and out of his awareness - Quirrell thought he saw flickers of a face, but in a millisecond it was gone.

"I am the Ringmaster. For years I ruled over the DeathDeath Brothers Family Circus, but now I am nothing more than a spirit. A memory, if you will."

Before Quirrell could react, the spirit solidified into a ghostlike form. The man, as he could now see, wore a traditional Ringmaster's uniform, with all the frills and inches of top hat expected for a man of his profession. But it was all wrong. The ghost's face was deadly pale, barely human-looking. Quirrell stared.

"What's your name?" he asked bravely.

"Call me Marvolo."

"Marvolo," repeated Quirrell, speaking the strange word with his tongue as if it was another language.

The ghost interrupted his thoughts. "But as a performer, I was known as... Lord Voldemort."

"Lord Voldemort..."

Quirrell couldn't process what he was being told. What he saw. A ghost - growing ever more solid every minute - was speaking of his circus, but many years before - in the previous century, maybe. Weren't the 1800s a time of savage conflict, not amusement? Only recently had society progressed far enough to allow things like circuses and fairs to prosper... At least, that's what Quirrell had been told.

Marvolo floated in front of him, glowing ever brighter and more solid-looking. Quirrell, on the other hand, felt more and more tired.

"...Why are you here?" Quirrell asked finally, unsure of what else to say. He didn't want to offend Marvolo, but he wanted to finish the conversation before dawn. He had a sneaking feeling the ghost wouldn't stick around to see the freaks and beasts arrive in their jangling carts.

"I have always been here, watching over the circus," Marvolo said. "But tonight I saw promise in you, and decided to speak. Are you not grateful for my presence?"

"Of- of course I am," stammered Quirrell.

"Then I suppose you'll have to do," said Marvolo, sighing dramatically.

Quirrell scrunched up his eyebrows. "What? 'I'll have to do' for what?"

"I'll show you."

Marvolo floated high, higher, impossibly high into the night, then - without warning - dropped like a rock directly above his head. Quirrell ducked, but a cold shudder ran through him. He was locked into place, rigid as he stood, helpless to protect himself from Marvolo's attack.

"This- this is wrong. This is bad," he was able to mumble, squeezing the words between his frozen lips. Marvolo simply laughed, a painfully dry cough. It sounded like he hadn't laughed or even spoke in a long time.

"This is going exactly according to plan," Marvolo informed him. His voice was somehow inside Quirrell, travelling up his spine and into his head. Into his brain. That's when the world exploded and Quirrell collapsed to the ground, his nightstick lying forgotten by his feet.

.oOo.

His eyes opened to sunshine. He was outside. The sun beamed down from overhead, and Quirrell wished he wasn't wearing such warm clothing. The question, though, was why he had fallen asleep so far from the circus tent. Was he en route to feed the elephants?

Quirrell tried to sit up, but a heavy weight stopped him from lifting his head off the ground. His uncertain hand groped the back of his neck, feeling for the item that had surely become entangled in his hair.

There was no item. There was a lump.

A large lump.

His head was enormous, and the back had strange defined texture, almost as if - almost as if-

"A face!" Quirrell screamed, smacking his head in utter panic. "Get it off, get it OFF!"

"That's not very polite," said a familiar voice. But the voice was Marvolo's. And the voice was coming from the back of Quirrell's head.

Quirrell managed to get off the ground, but he immediately sank to his knees. "God Almighty, please free me of this devil that has clung so tightly to my soul."

"That's a bit impolite... referring to your new companion as a devil."

"It's evil! It has possessed me! It's-"

Marvolo made a sound of surprise. "You guessed it. You've been possessed by a ghost of a man long dead and gone."

"Please- ...What did you say?"

"Ugh. What did I do to deserve this stupid a host?"

Marvolo jerked Quirrell's head up and to the side, like he was rolling his eyes. Quirrell stopped praying and closed his eyes, letting small tears escape. Only a few hours earlier life had been normal, if the slightest bit boring. But now, his life was destroyed. How could he ever return to the circus, where he would be presented as the newest freak at the freak show? That, or he would be hung. But neither sounded like a good option.

"How will I go on?" he asked in despair, not expecting anyone to answer. But Marvolo cocked Quirrell's head and responded, quite sincerely.

"Buy a turban. You can be the Great Zambini, explorer of foreign lands and the mystic tribes of the beyond."

Quirrell shook his head. "No one would believe that."

"Really? People will believe anything, as long as there's good money involved."

"D'you think so?" Quirrell asked hopefully, trying to turn his head and see Marvolo. (Of course, he couldn't.)

"Why not?"

Quirrell grinned a bit insanely - he would forget what had happened, and go about his business as usual, but with a turban. This was all a dream, anyway. Why not accentuate the hilarity of the situation?

.oOo.

Quirrell waved to the audience, bowing repeatedly as they whistled and applauded his act. As he left the ring, he whispered to Marvolo, who seemed to be listening intently. "Is bowing a risk? What if my turban falls off?"

"Well, to be fair, you are pretty reckless," countered Marvolo. "That act on the trapeze? And the one with the lovely young lady on the horse? If it didn't fall during those, I don't suppose a bow would be much trouble." Marvolo used Quirrell's arms to hug his head's side of the body. "You were wonderful!"

"Thank you," Quirrell replied, trying to be modest. But he knew Marvolo loved to flatter him. "And you're sure you didn't stare too long at the lovely young lady you speak of?"

Marvolo chuckled. "How could I? I can't see through the turban's fabric. Besides..." Marvolo paused, like he was trying to set a mood. "I have eyes only for you."

"That's beautiful!" Quirrell exclaimed. "Let's retreat to the outdoors for some privacy." He winked, but none saw.

"I'd like that," said Marvolo.

.oOo.

Marvolo breathed long and slow as he lifted his ghostly form out of the performer's limp body. They hadn't been together long before his energy levels became depleted, and he was no longer of any use to Marvolo. Possession death and a clean beginning was the only option.

He hadn't minded the man he'd chosen this time - what was his name? Quirrell? -After they died, the names seemed less important. What Marvolo cared about was the energy he'd stored, the pure life energy that fueled him. One day he would have enough to rejoin the human world, but today was not that day.

The circus days were just too much effort. Marvolo resolved to pick a better human next time - one less affected by a spooky introduction and wild love affair. Or perhaps one that would serve him without being tricked in that way.

He was ready to move on.

The days of Quirrell and Marvolo were over, and good riddance.

He'd spent years, decades, centuries - feeding on the human mind and soul. He was ancient, a relic of a time when men died slowly and painfully and begged for death. That, thought Marvolo, was probably why he felt the need to remain. To live again. Why should he peacefully accept his death when others were granted years of memories more?

Marvolo grinned. The 1920s provided him with an endless stream of lights, glamour, and action. Life was infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. Perhaps he would have enough stored life to be human again, once the decade was through.

In the meantime, it was time to claim a new victim.

The 'lovely lady on the horse' seemed like a safe bet.