In Which The Dark Lord Bitch-Slaps my Soul
Wake up, sleepy head, it's time to lie.
Quirrel groaned, putting his hand to his forehead. He was burning up, feverish. That must be why he was here, wasn't it? Why he was in the Infirmary? Moving stiff arms and legs, he sat slowly up, blinking in the soft early-afternoon sun gleaming from the windows. He was alone, at least for now----a red-headed girl was asleep in the bed next to him.
He'd been having the strangest dream. He'd come to work-----and then----and then the Dark Lord himself had glued himself to the back of his head. Him----Quirrel, the lonely man with nothing to his name but a suitcase, some books, and a bag of Chex Mix. Bemused, he shook his head, and an unearthly giggle escaped him, unexpected and choking and overwhelming in the feeling of calm insanity that it brought. He clasped his hand over his mouth, unnerved.
Yeah, that's my conniving evil laugh, Voldemort said apologetically. You're going to have to get used to it.
Shocked at the voice, Quirrel slammed his head against the bedpost, wincing in pain. When he gingerly put his hand to the back of his head, he found it bandaged but sticky with blood. But no face, he found with relief. Voldemort smirked as much as the voice inside your head can smirk.
You were muttering and twitching in your sleep, and kept banging your head on the post like you were trying to scrape my face off. I worked it out, though. I thought you would like it.
"What, that you're not on the back of my head anymore?"
Take it as a housewarming present.
"Does that…" Quirrel sounded hopeful, a happy emotion he was probably going to have to quench from his diet if Voldemort was going to have his way. "Does that mean you're more…gone? From me?"
Of course it does. I'm gone. You're one-hundred-percent Dark Lord free. Hearing ominous evil voices plotting to take over the world is just a side effect from Activia. Quirrel could almost taste the sarcasm dripping down Voldemort's words. Of course not, you silly boy. I'm still here, biding my time, quietly within you. You have to admit you like it better.
"Oh, yeah. Loads better." Quirrel sat up, sighing. "Definitely a better picture, having you sucking down my soul, biding your time and festering inside my chest….like a moldy grapefruit or something."
I am not a grapefruit! Voldemort said indignantly. I am not a fruit at all.
Quirrel giggled weakly in spite of himself.
Something more dignified…like…tangy apple crisp. Dammit, that's a fruit…granted, with more delicious brown sugar and tasty crumb crust. Quirrel giggled more. Stoppit! Why are you laughing?! Quirrel sobered up at once.
"Nothing, I just thought you'd be more…serious." Quirrel thought. "Maybe like celery."
Celery, hmmmm? Yes, it is quite evil, all those damn strings that get stuck in your…wait a minute…are you mocking me, Quirrel? Voldemort's voice got ominously silky and quiet.
"No, not at all, my dear Dark Lord---"
CRUCIO!
A strangled, gargled scream wormed its way out of Quirrel's mouth, and he fell to the floor, tangled in bedsheets and forced to his hands and knees. Through a fog of pain, he dimly registered someone falling to their knees to help support him----someone with brown curly hair who smelled like fresh flowers and the tang of medicine. Madame Pomfrey, the nurse.
Through vision fading darkly on all sides like an old photograph, Quirrel could make out another shadow, standing above Madame Pomfrey, crossing his arms disapprovingly. He heard someone moan, a weak, pathetic one, and realized it was himself.
"What happened?" the shape asked, and the woman shook her head worriedly.
"I don't know, he just collapsed. He's been muttering and shaking all night…I think the stress is too much for him, the poor dear, he hasn't even started the job yet."
"How do you know he's cut out for it?" The voice was low and greasy, blatant and demanding.
Look what you've done, Voldemort said disapprovingly. Now I'm going to have to fix it. IMPER-
"No, no more curses," Quirrel whimpered. He felt a strong rush of pain, and his head swum giddily.
Did you just bitch-slap my soul? Quirrel thought, and Voldemort sighed impatiently.
Yes, and don't make me do it again. Now shut up and look intelligent. IMPERIO!
Quirrel closed his eyes, aware they were still open, but at this point he didn't care. He could feel himself floating away from the scene at the Infirmary, hovering above his own troubled self much as Voldemort probably drifted, ghostly, above his head, looking for the weakest body he could find. Dreamily, he watched himself get up, right his glasses, straighten his tie, and produce a winning smile that Quirrel was sure he'd never seen before. He---Voldemort, or Quirrel, or someone---coughed and opened his mouth.
"Hello there, Snape. Madame, a pleasure as always," he said in a low purr, reaching to kiss Madame Pomfrey's hand. Quirrel, from his vantage point on the windowsill, gagged and hoped he never had to suck up like that again. Madame Pomfrey, however, giggled and turned a blotchy shade of scarlet, showing just how much Voldemort possessing your body can do for you. Great, Quirrel thought. Now I have a cougar on my tail. Quirrel looked over at Snape, greasy and dark as usual, and shuddered. Long black hair, black cloak with buttons----he was the epitome of foreshadowing and evil. Pair that with the grease in his hair glinting in the sun and the fact that his whole face shone a sickly yellow, and Quirrel was ready to throw up his rainbow sprinkly donut he'd eaten for breakfast. Quirrel wondered why evil always had to look so damn unattractive.
"Quirrel," Snape said, in a voice that would have given Quirrel goosebumps if he'd been particularly conscious. He'd met Snape only once, briefly, in an interview with Dumbledore and some other candidates for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. Snape had sat in a corner, arms crossed, muttering things occasionally but otherwise just looking like the Angel of Death. Not a particularly warm welcome, but Quirrel wasn't getting a lot of those lately anyway.
Snape coughed and continued, crossing his arms and walking around Quirrel, inspecting him closely as if Snape were a bat and Quirrel were a piece of fruit. Voldemort gave a bright cheeky smile, and began to talk.
"Sorry if you were worried. I've been plagued with terrible nightmares my whole life, and I faint often. Not something which should interfere with my teaching, don't you worry! I've a spell which should fix me right up. I think sleep was all I needed," Voldemort confided honestly, the Dark Lord with Quirrel's innocent face as a mask, and Quirrel almost found himself, sleepily, believing everything Voldemort said. The longer he stayed under the Imperius curse, the farther he slipped into whitewashed memories and dreams. It was kind of nice, actually.
…Mona…