((Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling or Warner Brothers. If I did, Snape would be alive, and the movies would be a lot cooler. Or at least missing a lot of Quidditch scenes. But alas.

This story was written actually about a year ago, but I never added it. Originally, this story was to be called "The Calling" and would be one story in a collection. This never panned out, so I'm just posting it as is, a two-shot.

Rated PG for some scary concepts and very, very mild innuendo.))

Into the Woods

by Nearly headless Natalie

Into the woods, and out of the woods, and home before dark!

--Lyrics from the musical Into the Woods

With a long, critical stare down into the drawer, Tarik, the manager of the pub nodded his head with begrudging approval and decided that, for a Thursday, it had been a very lucrative evening indeed. Valmir's wife had just given birth to their first child. Needless to say, the festivities were endless, the happy father sleeping on the bar counter as contentedly as his wife at home with the newborn certainly was not. There also was that strange Englishman in the corner, who had spent his night slowly drinking through pints and never so much as swaying. Tarik snorted. He thought that it had to be the horrible English food which kept his constitution so hardy.

A moment later, however, Tarik frowned. No matter how pleasant it was to have the Englishman's steady contributions to the money in the drawer (his wife had a tendency to have babies as well), he felt unnerved. Certainly, the Englishman looked about as dull as the rest of his countrymen--pale features, long nose, and twitchy eyes. But there was something undeniably different about this man, as though he were exuding an indescribable force from the tips of his boring unpolished brown shoes to top of his nondescript brown hair. Tarik had been in business long enough to instinctively rate and measure his customers the moment they stepped into the pub. The Englishman radiated with unspoken trouble.

It was a quarter after eleven now, and someone was rousing the now drooling and snoring new father. With a day of work ahead for the people of the village, not many would be frequenting the pub tonight. But still, the Englishman sat, watching nothing and everything with his inscrutable twitchy stare.

One of the barmaids, the manager's oldest daughter, Dafina, slipped over to the Englishman, her face alight with her well-trained smile. She asked the man something, presumably about wanting another drink. The Englishman blinked for a minute and then slowly shook his head in the affirmative. That had been another surprise--the few foreigners had been in the pub before usually never spoke a word of Albanian. It was always up to Tarik's sketchy hold of English to give the customer what he wanted, be it directions or a drink (usually the most expensive one possible, if the unfortunate victim seemed to have a purse full of lekes and a limited understanding of how much was being spent). The Englishman, however, seemed to let the words wash over him in dull incomprehension, blink several times, suddenly realize what was being said, and reply quite fluently. It only added to Tarik's uneasiness.

His daughter, the well-trained flirt that she was, playfully scooped up his empty pint and promptly came back with another, the foam bobbing like an unsteady buoy in a sea of beer. As she sat it down on the table, a rather tipsy celebrator, who was still laboring under the assumption that the congratulatory party was still rolling, bumped into her. He watched with frozen horror as the pint (that's a waste of good money! his brain screamed) flew from her hand and towards the lap of the strange Englishman.

Tarik blinked. When he opened his eyes the pint was sitting primly on the table, the froth still foaming obliviously, unaware that it had broken nearly every law of gravity that Tarik had ever known.

Dafina, who had been berating the staggering man quite fluently, turned to apologize to the Englishman and gave the pint a startled glance. The man turned his bland stare to her, murmured something softly, and returned to his pint as if nothing had happened.

Tarik, torn between instinctual superstition and his love of extra coins in his purse, turned away from the Englishman and looked forlornly out the window. The sight was not a welcoming one. In the midst of Albanian summer, which should have been dry and warm, a misty fog had settled into the town--and not just for a quick weekend trip. No, the fog had been hanging nearly incessantly for several unnatural years. It had become apart of the town as much as the pub had, hovering like an unwanted, overprotective parent, slowing smothering them of youth and life.

Tarik despised it, wishing with all his heart for a deep comforting sunburn.

The woods to the south of the village had also not thrived under the fog. While the trees were still growing and spreading normally, the leaves seemed thinner, more transparent, as if an abnormal autumn had overtaken the landscape and entirely removed summer from the calendar.

Those woods used to be cheerful and bright, a place where Tarik could bring his sons to fish in the stream and watch his daughters weave flower crowns. It had been a place of laughter and ease, away from the pub.

But not anymore…not since…

Tarik shivered. He would not think of it. He would not think of that face, its mouth gaping in terror, its bulging eyes staring at something invisible and unthinkable but real, just beyond the curling talons of fog that beckoned and threatened the unwary to come and see what lay beyond in the unfathomable dark--

When Tarik heard a throat being cleared behind him, he couldn't help but jump.

It was only the Englishman, standing nonchalantly at the bar, blinking his dull stare. Disturbingly dull stare.

"Yes?" Tarik asked, uneasily, "How can I help you, sir?"

The Englishman gave him a smile (after processing what Tarik had said, with that thoroughly blank look) that might have been meant to be reassuring. Instead, Tarik had the oddest desire to pick up his cashbox and run without looking back.

"I wondered," the man asked cautiously, "If you had lived in his town for long?"

Tarik mentally cursed himself. There was nothing wrong with this man--well, excluding the blankness he exerted in every step that he took. That simply wasn't natural. And there was that pint…

"Been here for years," Tarik answered noncommittally, "Since Dafina--" he gestured to his curvaceous daughter, who was skillfully and politely declining the advances of a customer while playfully convincing him to buy yet another drink "--was a baby."

The man nodded, as if pleased. "Then you know this town well?"

"Yes," Tarik answered warily, picking up a glass and cleaning it with a towel, not noticing that he had just cleaned it moments ago.

"Then you can tell me about the forest, then."

Immediately, Dafina uttered a shrill little cry, the man who had passed out on the counter long before jerked his head up in bleary interest, conversation halted, and Tarik--a man known for his stringent economy--dropped an expensive glass on the ground and didn't pay it a bit of notice.

He stared at the man in front of him, with his unconcerned expression, as he felt his blood slowly drain out of his face. He barely noticed that his hands were shaking.

"You should not ask about the forest," Tarik choked out, after a moment, a mere strangled whisper.

"Why not?" the man calmly asked.

Tarik nodded to Dafina to continue what she was doing. The drunk flopped his head back down on the counter. Slowly, conversations began again, suspicious glances continually flicking toward the Englishman.

"Because," Tarik replied, in English, "The forest is…is…" He struggled with his limited vocabulary to describe it. "Bad." The word was ineffective in the extreme, but it was all he could manage.

"Why would you think that?" the man asked.

Tarik struggled to place his thoughts together in English, resorting back to Albanian when he could not grasp the proper word. "The forest has a bad--no, an evil presence. About ten years ago, toward the end of summer, we heard horrible noises in the forest. The animals, they were--shrieking. We did our best to ignore it, thinking that it was just another creature on the hunt…but then the fog came. And the cold weather. And the forest was silent and still. A few people that were brave enough to venture in the forest a few weeks later found scores of animals…dead. They weren't bitten or strangled or shot…they were just…dead. The animals were dissected, and…there was no cause of death. They were just--dead." Tarik gulped. The Englishman blinked indifferently. It was all Tarik could do not to reach across the bar and throttle him.

"What's your name, sir?" Tarik asked coldly.

"Quirrell," he answered, "Quirinus Quirrell."

"Mr. Quirrell," Tarik continued, "That was the last time any one…normal came out from the forest."

"Normal?" Quirrell asked slowly.

Tarik took a deep steadying breath. "Eight years ago--a boy--a foolish boy decided to go into the woods on a dare. Alone. At night. We heard his screaming in the night…the next morning he walked into town…his eyes were glazed over, nearly popping out of his head…his mouth was open, as though he were screaming, but…but nothing would come out. He just stood shaking in the street, looking around at us…"

He exhaled shakily. "He didn't speak for a year. Then, without warning, he went in the forest again and no one has seen him since."

Quirrell listened to the news with a simple nod. "I understand. And you have no idea what this…presence might be?"

Tarik looked steadily at the man in front of him. "Mr. Quirrell, I do not want to know. No one wants to know. And if you are going to continue to ask about the forest, you can leave."

Quirrell looked at him calmly. Then, he drew the correct coinage for his last drink--the pint that miraculously landed on the table--and nodded his head. "Thank you for your assistance."

Without a word more, the mysterious Englishman swept out of the pub, leaving Tarik with only a shiver of an unspoken fear to comfort him.

Quirinus Quirrell had quickly learned his lot in life. There were people that were universally adored by all, admired for their unending values and talents. Quirrell, who had been a few years younger than James Potter and Sirius Black, the princes of Gryffindor, saw them as the perfect example for such heraldry. There were also people who gained almost universal disdain, hatred, and mockery for all their attempts. One Severus Snape, the brunt of nearly every Marauder prank, could be placed in that infamous category. However, Quirrell could claim neither of these places, but instead lurked in a place in between the cracks. He was so common and dull that no one thought to dislike him--or like him, for that matter. He was a man with no attributes whatsoever, a man that, at his funeral, everyone would have lovely, vague things to say but actually remember nothing about him. To put it frankly, Quirrell was boring.

When he was young, it didn't bother him. His parents, both magical, felt sure that he would find his niche when he could attend a wizarding school. But Hogwarts years passed, without a glimmer of acknowledgment to brighten the lonely young wizard's days. Disliked and loved by none, Quirrell, a Ravenclaw, spent his days in obscurity, reading in the library. By the time he graduated, Quirrell gained only the innocuous description of "nice," a bland description of a bland person.

What a nice man, that Quirinus Quirrell. What a nice, boring man. What a nice, boring, forgotten man.

Quirrell had developed a strong hated for the word "nice."

He thought he had impressed Dumbledore with his knowledge of the Dark Arts. The Headmaster, straining his aged brain to remember the former Ravenclaw, remarked that he did not recall Quirrell having a particular ability at the Dark Arts.

Quirrell, at the time, smiled politely and said nothing. Just as a nice, boring, forgotten man should do.

Standing in the front of the forest, nearly obscured by the fog, it made his blood boil.

Dumbledore had sent him out for practical experience. Ha! As if he, who had tirelessly read every Dark Arts book he could grasp, who existed for the DADA classes in Hogwarts, who lived and breathed werewolves, Boggarts, and--his specialty--trolls, would need practical experience. He had covered the ground Dumbledore had suggested (more like commanded, with a smile, a twinkle, and an offering of candy) to him, chatting with giants in the mountains, interviewing a vampire in Italy (while drinking some very questionable red wine…he tried not to remember that), and--naturally--helping out villages with their troll difficulties. Oh yes, Quirrell needed practical experience. He needed practical experience like Snape needed another cauldron.

His interest peaked, however, at some of the stories he had heard about a little village in Albania, a village blanketed by a thick, forbidding fog and haunted by a creature in the woods of untold evil. He had been there for a week, Disillusioned, watching the Muggles, determining where he could acquire the information he needed. He then went nightly to the pub, charming all the alcohol to evaporate from his body on contact with his stomach. Then, with the Translation Charm also firmly in place, Quirrell was able to listen to the conversations of villagers huddled over half-drunk pints.

Quirrell had assumed that the fog was caused by nothing more than a deranged wizard who decided to retire there and wished for the inhabitants to keep away. But the story the pub owner had told him made this assumption seem too innocent.

There were rumors, of course. Not a single witch or wizard had heard of him since that fateful All Hallow's Eve night. His followers were either hiding, lying, or raving in Azkaban, and their leader had disappeared from all wizarding knowledge. And there was a creature of great power living in a distant forest in Albania, surviving off the souls of animals and casting an evil air around the town.

Curious, indeed.

"Does this count as practical experience, Dumbledore?" Quirrell asked softly, staring into the depths of the twilight forest, "Would you like a teacher who faced He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and lived to tell the tale?"

For a brief moment, his eyes flashed a headline across the Prophet: "Teacher Defies Dark Lord!" It was beautiful, breathtaking--a moment of glory that had been denied him for too long.

Nice, boring, forgotten Quirrell was going to earn his just recognition at last.

Without a glance behind him, Quirrell entered the forest.

((This was a one-shot, but I divided it up into two parts. I'll be adding the Quirrell/Voldemort interaction in the next section.

Some notes: No, I've never been to Albania, but I looked up usual regular weather paterns and such...so this would be unusual weather for the country.
Tarik, Valmir, and Dafina are also common Albanian names, apparently. So my computer tells me so. Also, lekes is the correct currency of Albania.

This story is also based on the theory that Dumbledore SENT Quirrell to have some more experience in the field, so he could keep Quirrell as DADA for more than a year (assuming that he taught half a year of DADA and then returned the beginning of Harry's year). Perhaps Dumbledore's way around Voldemort's jinx on the position? In any case, that is NOT canon, so I thought I would explain myself. In addition, Quirrell is also in Dumbledore's employ before, as a Muggle Studies teacher, according to HP Lexicon.))