Pianos.
Quirrell loved pianos. Always had. He could sit for hours on end in front of a piano, just marveling at it. Sometimes he would imagine his muse sitting opposite him, long delicate fingers playing notes that would resound in his soul for the end of time. Brown hair, most of the time flowing down her back, ringlets that never ceased to amaze him. Chocolate brown eyes, always full of light and beauty, looking down at the keys with a rare glance upwards. It was her eyes that entranced him most. Those marvellous eyes that seemed to give life a new meaning. Her pointy nose, he would laugh to himself, remembering the many times she'd gotten cake, or some other food, on her nose. Long, elegant neck giving her classic beauty a bit of a boost.
She was his muse, whether she liked it or not.
This was his favourite place. The piano shop. Grand pianos sprawled across the room, some smaller pianos but not many. He would come here, to this shop in Cologne, and listen to the world being played out by the many pianists that passed through its doors. Some were pitiful, many were half-decent but none came near to his muse. Or so he thought. That shop assistant was getting pretty good, he would murmur to himself as he wandered around the store, hoping to god they wouldn't recognise him again. That would be too embarrassing for words. He sat at a grand piano in the left corner of the shop, the cream-coloured walls closing in on him, he could never escape the numbing feeling of being alone, without his muse. He pressed his hands to the keys, making an awful racket as he laughed to himself. His muse would never have made such a disgusting sound if her hands were to slam down on a piano. He heard the familiar ring of the doorbell as someone walked in, he dared not raise his head in case it was someone from work, someone who would instantly inquire to his curiosity about pianos when everyone knew full well he was useless at playing any type of musical instrument.
"Guten tag Fraulein Wilkes!"
He raised his head, looking up at the shop attendant and her customer. There she was, classic beauty. The woman that never aged, he would chuckle to himself a few days later. Red lips standing out against porcelain skin. Lilac dress fluttering in the wind.
From his basic German, he knew they were talking about pianos. That bit was obvious. What else would they be talking about in a piano shop? He listened in, peeking from over a German manual for the piano he was sitting at. He was begging her in his mind to play. Please play Angie. Please. She smiled, looking slightly amused at the shopkeeper. It was times like this he had wished he had learnt German. Her English accent was non-existent it seemed, she sounded more German than anything. He heard a few familiar words thrown about, words he knew but just wanted to block out of his mind. He'd heard 'Avery' repeated several times. Sitting down at the large grand piano in the centre of the room, he watched, cold blue eyes showing a spark of life that only she could give them. It seemed like an eternity before her elongated fingers found the keys, walls closing in on him again as he watched, each movement taking a lifetime. It seemed like hours passed before she pressed down on the keys, Quirrell not daring to shut his eyes in case he woke up. Her mannerisms had barely changed, she looked up more often now, those eyes of hers spinning him into a web. After what seemed like forever, music began to swallow up the room. It was an unfamiliar tune, had she written it herself? He let himself become engulfed in the tune, not wanting her to stop. It was sad and dark, but at the same time it seemed as if there was a tiny bit of hope in the song, that small spark of hope igniting and making his eyes wet with tears. Why couldn't she just play for him forever? The song came to a halt, and he cowered under the manual, not daring to make a sound unless she saw him. He wiped his eyes, wishing she would start again. For the love of God Angie, continue, he willed her, please. Don't stop. He peered from the side of the yellowing manual, watching as she stood, obviously very pleased with herself. He watched her negotiate with the shopkeeper, who had come into the room grinning. What was going on? He cursed himself for not speaking German; he should have picked it up by now. Spending all this time in Cologne and never even daring to utter a word of German other than "Nein," or "Ja." What was wrong with him? She broke out into a grin, although now it seemed more composed and more forced than anything. She said her goodbyes to the shopkeeper and his assistant, walking out the door swiftly. Just like that, with the mere jingling of the bell that had ushered her back into his life, she was gone.
As he screamed in agony as Harry Potter cast his filthy hands against his skin and caused him to feel as if the flames of hell were burning him, his mind flipped back to that day. As Harry Potter slowly killed him, Quirrell could hear his muse making beautiful music in the small piano shop in Cologne. As he spiralled into unconsciousness, he looked into the Mirror of Erised and saw himself standing next to a piano, his muse playing that tune which had captivated him so long ago. Taking his last breaths, Quirinus Quirrell swore he could feel her soft lips against his again.