Inspired by the HH-Sugarquill lj prompt of "Scents", this continues to look into the sequence of events that transpired between Quirrell and Voldemort.
The Tree of Knowledge
The nighttime forest sounds chittered around me, their eerie beauty a counterpoint to the ugly disappointment clenching my gut. Why did I come to Albania? This is a fool's errand.
But you're no fool, Quirinus, are you? Quite the contrary, little squirrel. The voice was sibilant, a gentle mental caress that was utterly alien.
My mind blanked in shock.
Yes, I know your names, even the secret ones. I know so very many things. There was a glittering precision to the words, a shine of intent. I know you can see spell constructs, for instance. Interesting talent, that. I was something of a synaesthete myself, when it came to spellcraft.
A fiery curiosity loosened my thoughts enough to reply. How so?
I could always smell them. The words curled and twisted, burrowing deeper. The clove and cinnamon musk of a Fiendfyre done just right, the smoky sweetness of a Morsmordre cast on a crisp night, like fresh hickory spiced with mint…
A deep, delicious shudder rolled through me. And others…other curses?
Sinuous amusement slid along his voice. Such as the Unforgivables, perhaps?
I moistened my lips, anticipatory.
Say it.
Confusion cracked through me. Say what?
Say what it is you want to hear.
Why?
Because I wish you to. That is my price.
I swallowed, fear and uncertainty squirming inside me. Something about this felt almost…indecent. Dangerous.
Yes, little squirrel. If you want this knowledge, you must sully yourself to get it. Admit what it is that you want. And then I will tell you.
I closed my eyes, trying to slow my rapid breaths, to find some small legacy of my grandfather's rampant courage. I want…please…
Yes? So patient now, as if he could wait forever.
Please, tell me what the Unforgivable curses smell like when executed absolutely perfectly.
A current of sly satisfaction rolled through my mind, carrying the force of his presence, stronger then it had been before. Indeed I shall. Which shall we begin with?
I bit my lip. Avada Kedavra.
His laughter crashed through me, a storm of approval, delight, and unmistakable viciousness. Excellent choice, little squirrel.