Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments) forum - Astronomy, #5

Prompt: write about somebody making a sacrifice.

Word count: 1011


Quirinus Quirrell was a strange squirrel.

That's what the children said, behind his back. Professor Quirrell knew he was teased for his stuttering and his appearance of weakness. It slightly irked him that the children cowered in fear from people like Professors McGonagall and Snape. Having been taught by McGonagall once upon a time, Quirrell understood the students' respect for her towering figure. However, the truth was Snape was teased just as much as Quirrell. But the students were more wary of Professor Snape swooping in on them and took extra precaution when even mentioning that sacred name.

Unlike Professor Snape, Professor Quirrell was a good man who had had an unfortunate incident with a vampire in Albania. Ever since that encounter, he was left a stuttering wreck.

Or so he let everyone believe.

In truth, Quirrell had sacrificed his reputation as a young, hardworking, ambitious man to serve the One Dark Lord to Rule Them All. In the forests of Albania, he had not discovered a vampire. He had found Lord Voldemort's spirit.

Through a heart-wrenching, soul-breaking experience, Quirrell agreed to harbour Voldemort's soul within his own body. Sacrificing his beautiful and refined appearance, Quirrell became a turbaned freak. An outcast who was patted on the back and referred to as 'a poor dear boy.'

The exchange didn't take long at all - a few minutes at most. But the pain.

It was the most excruciating torture Quirrell had ever experienced. Even the Cruciatus Curse was nothing to the feeling of having one's soul being sucked away.

He became a sallow, thin man when he returned to London. Everyone commented on his change. He had to think of something. And so the rumour of the vampire started.

Quirrell never liked to admit he had been bested by an imaginary 'vampire.'

"Pish-posh," he thought to himself, "as if vampires really exist!"

"Be careful, my boy," Lord Voldemort mind-spoke to him, "they really, really do."

In his mind, Quirrell imagined a handsome Voldemort smiling down upon him.

"Ah, forgive me, My Lord," Quirrell bowed.

"Oh, do get up! And stop with this 'My Lord' thing, alright? It gets annoying when I know everything you think and say."

Quirrell cowered a little at Lord Voldemort's tone.

"Oh for love of -" Voldemort exhaled forcefully and then took a deep breath in. "I'm sorry for losing my temper. It really gets to me, being confined in this cage."

"My body isn't a cage!" Quirrell yelped, forgetting his place.

"Insolence!" Voldemort cleared his throat. "Ah, excuse me. We share everything, Quirrell. There is no need to think we are not equals."

The honeyed tone of Voldemort's voice washed right over Quirrell. The young man was enamoured of his Lord and wanted nothing more than to please. What a clever lap-dog, Voldemort thought, looking into Quirrell's adoring eyes. The boy will do anything, just about anything.

"Steal the Philosopher's Stone," Voldemort ordered.

"Yes, m'Lord." Quirrell bowed again.

"Now, let's talk about this party. What did you wear and who did you see?" Voldemort adopted a very girly manner as he demanded to know everything about Quirrell's friends and the girls he met.

"I thought you knew, My Lord," Quirrell began.

"Just because I'm in your mind doesn't mean I can see with the turban covering me up!" Lord Voldemort practically screeched.

"Oh, right, right," Quirrell quickly placated Lord Voldemort by plunging into a detailed explanation of the party, the purpose and the guests of honour.

"Ah, so you didn't see any of my old crowd. Well, well, I wonder what Bellatrix and Lucius are up to," Voldemort mused.

"I'm sure I could find out," Quirrell said, wanting to please.

"No!" Voldemort snapped.

"I'm sorry," Quirrell whimpered.

"No, no, I'm sorry, my pet," Voldemort said in a more jovial tone, patting Quirrell's head. "Come, let us start our preparations."

And yet, despite Quirrell's eagerness to please, Voldemort never was able to communicate with Professor Snape. That Potter-brat kept getting in the way, or Filch and his stupid Squib cat came running to Quirrell or Snape to do something about a student or three running around the corridors late at night. Needless to say, Quirrell never found anything.

It was finally time to set Voldemort's brilliant plan in action.

Quirrell was marvelous, spouting the words Voldemort planted in his head in order to get a rise out of the damned Potter boy.

But it still wasn't enough. Somehow, Potter's touch burned. Voldemort screamed in pain as Quirrell felt his skin blister.

"Master! I cannot hold him!" Quirrell screamed.

"BITCH!" Voldemort howled. "HOLD HIM, DAMMIT! OR SO HELP YOU, YOU LITTLE PATHETIC WEAKLING! HE IS JUST A BOY! GIVE ME THE BOY!"

Voldemort's voice had become a roar that echoed throughout the room. The lit torches flickered as his voice exploded in the tiny space.

"MASTER! I CANNOT! I CANNOT - AHHH!" Quirrell screamed, feeling his skin burning up. "I am burning, Master! Please, help me! Save me!"

Voldemort promptly shucked his skin and floated away.

"As your last act to me, I now relieve you of your duty," Voldemort regally proclaimed, mock-bowing as a ghost would. "Quirrell, it has been a pleasure, my old friend and servant. But now, I really must go find a new body."

Quirrell realized he had been played. His ambition had gotten him in far too deep and now he lay on the cold flagged stone, feeling his life source drain out of him. All he felt was warmth. And then he passed on.

The last conscious thought he had was, "Master, are you happy?"

Bliss overtook him. And intense cold.

It was a snowy morning at the train station. He wondered what was going on until he saw the waiting train. Without thinking, Quirrell hopped on board. The conductor gave the signal and, releasing steam, the train shuttled forwards into white oblivion.