In Which the Dark Lord Disses my Girlfriend and Mooches off my Cookies
He was alone at the beach at night, walking the fine line between sand and water. The moon washed everything out a pale bluish-white; tinging the sand with a coppery glint and making the choppy waves look as though they'd been dusted with broken crystal. He smiled dreamily, peacefully, looking out over the sea: his heart was light for the first time in a while, and his hand was heavy with someone elses'. Quirrel opened his mouth to speak, but she smiled and touched one finger to her lips, then the same finger to his.
I miss you, he said silently, signing it with his empty hand. Her eyes sparkled, darker and lovelier than any he'd seen, warm and open like no black eyes he'd seen before. She put one hand to his heart, confidently. He stared at her face, trying to preserve it in his memory, to burn it on the back of his eyes.
I will save you one day.
Suddenly, though, her skin twisted; her eyes turned pale and ice-blue, her brown curls silvered and withered. Quirrel opened his mouth to scream, to capture that last fleeting glance of her, but it was too late. Voldemort stood before him, neatly and alone, slim and in a white suit and cane with his hands behind his back. Violently, Quirrel backed up, shaking his head, throwing himself into the sea and hoping the gaping blackness would swallow him up and take him away. His wish was granted---he slid sideways through his memories, shedding the dream as he went, gasping and sitting upright in his new office, from where he'd been lying on the cold stone floor.
"Stop," he choked brokenly, sobbing. His palms pressed against the floor, barely giving him any support. "Get out of my head. Find some other crony, or bitch, or whatever. What is it that you want with me, anyway?" Quirrel wiped away the tears leaking from his eyes, shakily standing and waiting for a reply. Voldemort seemed deep in thought before he let out a sigh.
Well, I keep trying to tell you, but you keep fainting. You faint like a cat in a barrel of vodka.
"Well, gee, maybe if the Dark Lord hadn't attached himself to my soul, I'd be able to stay sane for a couple minutes!" Quirrel was faintly disturbed by the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, but it was one of his lesser problems at the moment. He pressed his fingers into his temples, sighing, and went to his suitcase to start unpacking and maybe look for some tea. Before he unzipped it, however, he glanced around.
"You don't have some cousin in here, do you? I mean, I don't have to exorcize my books, right?"
That's ridiculous. Voldemort sounded either very amused or very angry. Cousins of mine would travel in better style.
Quirrel found a box of tea and felt for the china mug of hot water sitting on top of his desk, complementary of Madame Pomfrey. He threw in a teabag and plunked himself into a chair, angry but suddenly very tired. Voldemort dwelled mildly inside his thoughts, sifting through his memories.
"Hey! Stop that!" Swatting the air around his head as if there were an irritating fly encircling him, Quirrel twitched and spasmed, trying to dislodge Voldemort and maybe even send him flying out his ears. Unfortunately, when the Dark Lord stuck to your soul, he used some pretty strong stuff, and that wasn't the way it worked.
C'mon, kid. I have a right to do this now, I mean really. I just watched what looked like a bad Grey's Anatomy episode. Amused, Voldemort coughed. Who was that girl, anyway?
"You mean Mona?" Distracted, Quirrel unpacked some of his books and used magic to send them flying across the wall, where they settled neatly on a high oak shelf. He twirled his wand in his hand, throwing it up in the air and catching it behind his back, then executing a number of other badass wizard moves. Voldemort mentally slapped him. Quirrel recoiled.
"She was…my girlfriend in high school. She's deaf, so…I told myself if I could get a job here, I'd either make enough money to try and fix that or learn some way of fixing it with magic. I mean, I always knew I was a wizard, but she didn't, and…well, yeah. That's the story," he finished lamely. Quirrel didn't know why he was telling Voldemort this, other than the fact that he was inside Quirrel's mind and would learn it somehow anyway, but he felt being chummy with the Dark Lord would probably be a good thing in the future.
A stunning tale. You have the gift of words, kid.
"Sarcasm is only the defense of the weak," Quirrel said automatically, then flinched. Voldemort's anger flared up, and Quirrel prepared himself.
CRUCI-OCHOOOO. Sorry, that was simply a sneeze. Voldemort composed himself. Besides, I am not weak. I am merely…recuperating.
"You're definitely weak," Quirrel said, surprised at his forwardness. "You're pretty much the ultimate definition of a mooch. Being as you're on the back of my soul and all that, and you don't even contribute to my rent."
Careful, Voldemort said menacingly. I could hunt down that girl of yours. I could…I could…well, she's not really worth my wrath. Voldemort sniffed. She'd never measure up to what I could get back in the…are those cookies? Voldemort perked up. Quirrel was suddenly very hungry. He looked doubtfully down at the pack of Chips Ahoy cookies, slightly crumbly and battered from packing, and took them slowly out of the suitcase.
Quirrel, I command you to eat those cookies.
Quirrel stopped, giving the wall a withering look.
C'mon, boy, we don't have all day. Voldemort sounded impatient and not the least bit evil. Quirrel shrugged and opened up the cookies, taking one and putting it in his mouth. He'd been hungry anyway.
Mmmm…the preservative-y crunch….the fake-chocolatey goodness…Yes, Quirrel, yes….om nom nom nom….Quirrel stopped chewing, closing his eyes and feeling the happiest he'd felt in a long time. Voldemort was in ecstasy. Quirrel skeptically finished the cookies.
Sensing Quirrel's skepticism, Voldemort stopped giggling.
As a Dark Lord, we never get to eat these things. He sounded almost apologetic.
"That's no excuse to have a cookie orgasm in my brain," Quirrel muttered, throwing away the wrapper.
You try not having a mouth for hundreds of years and see where you get. Voldemort was snippy and standoffish all of a sudden.
"Nuuuuuurrrrrr," Quirrel groaned, a devastating comeback. Weakly, he slumped against the desk, banging his head on the flat surface. To make matters worse, his hot tea spilled across his shirt and all his work papers, causing him to jump up in pain and bang his head on the skeleton hanging over the door.
Coordination is always something I like in a man, Voldemort said, amused. Go get yourself cleaned up so you can go kill Harry Potter. Wait, did I tell you that's what you're doing? Well, now it is. Being the Dark Lord is so much fun.