Disclaimer: These characters belong to Madame Rowling. We're not worthy, we're not worthy, we're not worthy, yadda yadda yadda…
Author's Notes: Because I got dared by Tribble Master, I inflict this upon the 'Net. It's a little different than what we talked about, girl, but I gots to go where da Plot Bunny drags me. Total and utter crackness follows.
Quirinus Quirrell woke up and noticed three things straight away, in the following order:
Item One: He was sprawled face-down on an incredibly lumpy mattress someplace in one of Europe's more run down hotels.
Of course you're face-down, he thought bleakly as he tried to fight his way back to consciousness. You'd catch eighty kinds of hell in Lord Voldemort woke up with his face buried in this tatty old pillow.
Item Two was that he was extremely hung-over. "R-really hit the Firewhisky a little t-too hard," he muttered.
A harsh chuckle scraped against the inside of his brain. "Sleep well, my minion?" asked Lord Voldemort. Or to be more accurate what was left of him. The most dangerous Wizard the Magical World had ever known was currently making his residence on the back of Quirrell's head.
If anyone else who knew Quirrell's secret was allowed to live (which they weren't), it would've been quite the conversation piece.
Since nobody else could know, Quirrell kept his master under wraps – literally. Under a large turban to be exact, while the Dark Lord gathered strength for his return.
This morning, however, his master seemed in a most talkative mood.
"Y-yes, my Lord. I –" Whatever he'd been about to say was abruptly silenced as he noticed Item Three: his waist was on fire. At least it felt like it was. Quirrell gasped in pain as he sat up in bed. "Wh-what did I…?"
"Ah, yes. You did need to 'fortify' yourself quite a bit before…" The voice trailed off.
"B-before what?"
"Take a look, minion."
Quirrell slowly got out of bed, went to the mirror shoved into the furthest corner of the room. He wiped at the flyspecked glass and stared.
And blinked.
And stared some more.
And then shook his head, an action that made his master snap out "Stop that!"
Quirrell could only gape at his reflection… and at the snake tattoo that ran across his waist like a slithering belt. He turned to the right a little – the tip of the serpent's tail began right at his hipbone, traveled over his waist, the coils dipping under his navel. The head rested on his left hipbone. He squinted – clutched in the snake's mouth was…
"A p-purple butterfly?"
"Like it? It just came to me last night. Quite the work of art. And trying to get you to explain to the tattoo artist what we wanted was no mean feat." Lord Voldemort sounded quite pleased with himself, until he took notice of Quirrell's silence. "So, what do you think?"
When all else fails, Quirrell thought, stick to total honesty.
"It d-defies description, my Lord."
More Author's Notes: And there it is. The Tribble Master and I were PMing about Quirrell getting a tattoo and what it would look like. I decided to go with something cute and slightly evil – which may or may not also describe my personality.