Many people believe that my possession of that imbecile Quirrell was simply a strategic move that ultimately backfired as a result of both his ineptitude, and an astoundingly improbable confluence of factors involving the young Mister Potter and his cohorts.
Well, in truth I must confess that after a prolonged period of incorporeality, taking up residence on the back of that babbling twit's head was a desperate, impulsive maneuver that I soon came to bitterly regret.
I shall not ever discuss the turban.
I just...I won't.
Nor shall I ever speak of the unmitigated horror of what I was forced to witness of Quirrell's personal...habits from my unique vantage point.
If there was a single, loyal follower I could trust to simply erase those memories from my brain, I would. But, alas, I must endeavor to bear the trauma in a manner befitting a Dark Lord. Which basically means that on such occasions that I recall a particular awful memory, I will transfer my anguish to the nearest available recipient will all due expediency. It's surprisingly effective, and far less expensive than shelling out multiple galleons for the utterly extortive psychiatric copayment they want over at Mungo's.
The entire system really should be overhaul - oh, wait.
In retrospect, it was probably best that I was unable to ever fully wrest motor function control from Quirrell, as Dumbles might have grown suspicious far earlier if he'd seen him repeatedly punching himself in the face.
Honestly, if it had been possible, I would have shaken Potter's hand for burning that nattering moron to a cinder, but by that point I was once again reduced to a state of Cloudy with a Chance of Evil.
A
