A/N: So I skipped the Keeper of Keys chapter, since there was no other PoV really available. By the way, if you think of any ideas for future chapters, feel free to let me know because I might miss stuff out! Enjoy

DIAGON ALLEY

QUIRINIUS

The Leaky Cauldron was always busy during summer. With another Hogwarts year pending, students and their parents came bursting through the pub entrance all day.

There was, however, one man who had remained inside the pub while the witches and wizards rushed past. Quirinius Quirrell had been waiting, albeit nervously, for the hubbub to die down, before he entered Diagon Alley himself. He had been putting off the moment when he would leave for most of the afternoon, and had sensed Voldemort's impatience grow with every hour, particularly after Harry Potter had passed through. Quirrell suspected the boy's appearance had roused an even greater urgency in Voldemort to get to the Stone.

Get up, you fool, came Voldemort's voice now. We've wasted enough time.

Quirrell choked on his drink, drawing looks of concern from those seated along the bar. The sky outside was darkening and the oil lamps hanging by the pub tables had been lit.

Yes, Master, he thought, and got to his feet.

'Thank you, T-Tom,' he stammered to the barman. 'I ought to b-be off. That book on v-vampires isn't going to b-buy its-self.'

'Right you are, Professor,' said Tom, taking Quirrell's empty glass with concern etched on his own face. 'You sure you'll be alright on your own?'

'Yes, th-thank you. Good day.'

'Good day, Professor.'

Quirrell ducked out the back entrance and into the square yard filled with bins. The spirit of Lord Voldemort was drifting alongside him – or within him. It was very difficult to tell sometimes. There were even times when Quirrell wondered whether he was just imagining something was there at all.

Oh, I'm certainly here, came Voldemort's sneering voice. And if you fail in this task, you will be punished in a way that will ensure you never forget I'm here again.

'That's unfair, Master,' Quirrell hissed as he passed through the brick archway into Diagon Alley. The cobbled street was still fairly busy; they passed Ollivander's, inside which a pale, blond boy was trying wands, and a pair of twin girls having robes fitted in Madam Malkin's. 'I have served you well these last few months. I took you out of exile. To punish me in the failure of a near-impossible task, a task which requires powers far beyond my own, would be –'

Beyond yours, perhaps, but not mine. Would I have asked you to complete this task if I did not think it were possible? No. I have faith in you, Quirrell. Together, we shall succeed.

At these words, Quirrell was filled with a sense of security – confidence, even.

The marble tower of Gringotts stood out easily. The security goblins bowed him through and, ignoring the threatening message engraved on the second set of doors, Quirrell entered the main hall.

More goblins lined the two long counters facing each other. Quirrell approached the weakest-looking one and with a shaking hand withdrew a small key from his robe pocket.

'Good afternoon, Professor,' croaked the old goblin. 'How may I help?'

'I only wish to m-make a monetary withdrawal, if you p-please. I'm starting a new p-post at the school this year, you see … Defence Against the D-Dark Arts is much more expensive to t-teach than Muggle St-Studies.'

'Of course,' replied the goblin, climbing down from his stool. 'Follow me, Professor, I'll lead you to your vault.'

Quirrell's heart rate doubled as they passed through the next set of doors. He had to act soon. Down the stone passageway, lit with torches … Then, as soon as the goblin had summoned the cart –

Now! hissed Voldemort, his voice colder than the underground air.

Quirrell raised his wand and pointed it at the goblin.

'Imperio.'

The goblin climbed into the cart obediently. Quirrell followed, feeling the sense of control and power shared between himself and Voldemort's disembodied presence.

The cart shot off. They hurtled downwards, the most direct route to the high-security vaults. Voldemort's reassuring voice carried over the rattling of the wheels and the whistling of the wind.

You are doing well, Quirrell, but you must prepare for danger. As soon as you have the Stone, waste not a second.

'Yes, Master,' muttered Quirrell. There was no turning back now.

Finally, the cart screeched to a halt in the very depths of the labyrinth. The goblin got out immediately, but Quirrell hesitated. The lack of security outside vault seven hundred and thirteen was disconcerting.

What are you waiting for? said Voldemort's gleeful voice; it was clear even he had not expected such a straightforward heist.

Quirrell snapped into life. Stepping into the cold, stale air, he ordered the goblin to run his finger over the door. It had barely melted away before Quirrell leapt inside, his hand already outstretched – but the vault was empty.

His numb shock was soon punctured by Voldemort's explosion of fury.

'M-Master, it's gone!' said Quirrell in disbelief, and his stammer was genuine.

Go! Screamed Voldemort.

Quirrell didn't need telling twice. He practically threw the goblin back in the cart and they sped up and away. It was only then he realised they'd left the vault open.

Forget the vault, hissed Voldemort. Save your own skin, so I can punish you properly.

'Master, please,' gasped Quirrell, blinking away tears of anguish. 'How can this possibly be my fault?'

That vault was emptied today, you fool! If you had acted sooner, instead of wasting away the hours like a coward, that Stone would be mine!

Once the cart reached the stone passageway, it took all of Quirrell's willpower to compose himself. He lifted the Imperius curse and modified the goblin's memory to fabricate a trip to Quirrell's own vault. Very little acting was required to return to his twitchy, nervy persona.

'Have a good day, Professor,' said the goblin somewhat dreamily, returning to his stool at the counter.

Quirrell left as quickly as he could. Voldemort's anger was about to peak, he knew it. He wanted to run, and never stop.

You can't outrun me, Quirrell. You know you must be punished for this.

Quirrell bolted down Knockturn Alley, his tears flowing freely now.

Then pain like no other engulfed his whole head, and he collapsed against an empty shop window, forcing himself not to cry out. Voldemort was closer than ever, his scream mingling with Quirrell's – Quirrell clutched his head, willing more than anything for the torture to stop. The skin above his neck was stretching and reshaping itself and Voldemort was no longer separate from him.

At long last, the pain began to subside. Gasping and sobbing, Quirrell straightened up, still leaning against the shop. By the reflection of both windows on either side of the alley, he could see the back of his head. He nearly fainted.

'Now,' said Lord Voldemort in a high, clear voice. 'Do not fail me again.'