Curtains
He rubbed his hands together, waiting for his master's signal. Even with his put on stutter, his false eye-twitch, there were some nasty habits of his that distracted greatly. His clammy hands were one of them.
Behind him, Quirrell could hear his Lord mutter. He had been pleased, wonderfully pleased when his host had spoken up about his skill with trolls – that mountain troll that was currently loose was all too easy to control, Quirrell had thought, making their plan easier to launch forward.
But then…it wasn't his plan was it? It was his Lord's, and he was just the pawn, the host to his actions. The grim mood that was wrongly linked to Halloween made Quirrell think of himself as an executioner, while his lord was just the hand that had written the death warrant.
Quirrell would have scoffed at his own imagination if he let his emotions get away from him. He'd learned better than that, practiced better than that, been tortured enough to know that he was just a servant to his master – a silent one, that was not to speak unless asked to.
It was a role that he had not originally wanted, but like any actor he took it with grace. Perhaps one day, once his master was corporeal again, and out of his body Quirrell would be given a stronger role, perhaps a main part.
As a young child, Quirrell had been brought by his muggle-loving mother to the theater. And though in later years he denied it…he was thrilled by the acting on the stage, the magic without any physical substance. By a group of ten people, muggles all, Quirrell had been taken away to another land, another place. For a thrilling hour and a half he'd been taken away from his biased father, his rigid home life, and not been himself.
Ever since then, Quirrell had done the same for himself – perfecting his skills, learning his lines, memorizing the actions to be anyone, anywhere but the truth.
Theater had been expensive though. His father disapproved of it, and had not given his mother much money for 'Muggle-silliness'. But his mother had realized that Quirrell did have an attraction to the performing arts, like she once had, and she encouraged it in the way she could.
A Muggle television was smuggled into the broom shed, a place his father would not venture either.
His father had been part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he was guaranteed to be off certain nights for certain periods. He and his mother had snuck into the broom shed, and curled up with him as they watched whatever played, speaking in hushed tones of what they would have done instead – how that one played the part too poorly, how that plot line was so obvious in the end.
Quirrell's mother had been the one thrilled when he became professor of Muggle Studies – she had whispered to him plans for bringing the concept of theater, of movies, of acting and performance to the Wizarding world. She couldn't wait for their reception, their reaction, for how could they not love the idea of theater the way she did? That was one of her wonderful traits, so hopeful for the things she loved to occur.
"Two minutes," came his Lord's sibilant voice. "I can feel it calling to me, just out of my reach now…"
It was a pity really, that she had to be killed earlier that year. But as his lord ordered, his servant obeyed. Quirrell personally considered it more of a pity that his father had died earlier that year to spattergroit.
Quirrell found himself wondering whether his mother really knew, even as her death was before her, her son her own reaper, that acting had been in the Wizarding world for centuries. Even now, all his plans – all his master's plans, he meant, were to come into place because of simple deception! As his master had done before him, he would do the same, bring the world to greater heights and fuller powers, all started by the simple thing of deceptive performances…
"Now," hissed his lord suddenly. "Now – go – it's time, now!"
A quote, a movie he had seen on a whim only a few years prior, with a Mudblood girl whom he had never had the courage to speak to about his feelings, came to his mind as his fingers brushed the heavy doors. It had been Halloween then too, and the film's feeling had fit in with the Wizarding tradition – themes to scare even the eldest, but humor all about. Quirrell's lips betrayed his acting skills in a parody of a smirk, as the line fittingly slipped from his mouth.
"It's Showtime."
He slammed open the doors as the play began.
A/N: Happy Hallowe'en Everyone! This was written for the Hallowe'en Project at the Review's Lounge. Like my story 'One Day' in the Labyrinth section, it's going to be posted on their round robin 'Something Wicked This Way Comes'. There's already some fantastic work in that archive - I suggest checking it out!
I claim no ownership of the world of Harry Potter, nor the quote Quirrell uses. A pumpkin pasty to any person who can name the movie it's from!
Thanks for your time reading this and do take the extra minute to review please!