Chapter 19

The Inquisitive Quirinus Quirrell

Quirinus Quirrell had been the Professor of Muggle Studies at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for almost ten years, but even working at world renowned school under a brilliant headmaster did nothing to help the young wizard overcome his feelings of inadequacy and mediocrity. Quirrell was a gifted but, as his mother would say, delicate boy. He had never been blatantly harassed or bullied as a child but rather, ignored. He had never been considered a threat by, well, anyone really. Quirrell was part of the furniture, part of the background – he was always there, but no one ever cared or noticed.

This feeling of inadequacy persisted his whole life, a latent emotion hiding just beneath the surface, tainting every relationship he had ever had. Eventually Quirrell became consumed with making a name for himself, proving himself to the wizarding world – he wanted to matter, to make an indelible mark on history. To break free of his shortcomings and mature into a powerful wizard, world renowned. And it was this latent, ever present desire to make the world stand up and take notice that had led him here, to a dusty inn at the edge of an old forest.

But even here, on the outskirts of a small town in a small country, Quirrell could not get respect. The innkeeper had just spent the last ten minutes berating the clumsily dressed traveler for not having the correct currency. How was Quirrell to know that this specific town in Albania used a different kind of currency? It never occurred to him that a Professor of Muggle Studies should have been well versed in local customs and know that different countries used different currencies in the muggle world. Quirrell was finally able to extricate himself from the uncomfortable situation by giving the innkeeper his expensive watch and quickly went on his way.

Quirrell ruminated in a nasty mood – this "Grand World Tour" to gain real world experience and prepare himself for his new teaching post had gone from bad to worse. He was probably experiencing the worst sabbatical in Hogwarts' history. He always had grandiose plans that never seemed to coalesce properly from his dreams to reality. Why hadn't I planned better? Made a proper itinerary? What was my ultimate goal anyway? Did I really think I was going to capture the Dark Lord and bring him back to England? Parades and dinners held in my honor? Did I think I could force him to teach me the dark arts? Teach me the secret to surviving unforgiveable curses? Was He even still alive?!

Quirrell had blown through almost all of his travel budget and had nary a tale to tell. What was he going to regale his new students about? That time he had gotten lost in Rome for two whole days? Falling off that ship in the Mediterranean and having to be rescued by some muggle fishermen? He was supposed to gain self-confidence on this trip, not make himself feel worse – he felt more inadequate than ever.

Quirrell stopped for a rest and looked through his belongings. He had just enough money to make his way up to some of the Scandinavian countries he had read about – I could catch a slow moving train in two days' time from that old station. I'd have to camp out until then, but I can manage. Quirrell had heard that there was a fearsome creature who roamed the vast mountain ranges near Norway. The muggles called it a Yeti, a dark snow beast. The last in a long line of Norse Gods who had been trapped here on Earth, forever yearning to enter Valhalla. Maybe if he could capture one this "Grand" trip would not be a total waste…

Tom Riddle was beginning to lose faith. No, that was a damned lie. He had lost faith. In himself, in his abilities, in his future – how had it all gone so wrong? His family trees were cursed, the forsaken Riddles and indolent Gaunts, his pure blood heritage tainted by his cursed muggle father. What chance did he have, with the awful upbringing he had been subjected to? Was this how the last of Salazar Slytherin's heirs was to live? A dark shadow deep within an ignored forest? Forgotten by the world, forgotten by history, would anyone remember me?

Tom could not help but see the bitter irony in his current situation, such a cruel twist of fate. He had been preparing to make himself immortal since he had been a young boy at Hogwarts. A precious few wizards were known to have created a horcrux in their lifetimes and he had created two by the time he had turned eighteen! And now, he was ashamed to admit, he sometimes yearned for death. He could care less about the loneliness, the dull constant pain – such things had never bothered him. But living a mediocre, anonymous life? That was agony beyond endurance, true torture for Tom's soul. He had fallen to a solitary child – the hot shame was unbearable. What an ignominious end! He still could not understand what had happened that night. Must have been ancient magic…how had he not foreseen…Damn!

Now he existed deep within an old forest, in a foreign land – a place he had visited only once before. He had been in search of an object of great power back then. He had been young and virile, full of confidence and terrible purpose. He had found what had been hidden so many years ago, he had never failed at anything during those times. He knew he would be safe ensconced here in the forest, for the locals stayed away and never came prying. They believed the forest cursed ever since a maniac had butchered a beautiful, intelligent young girl here, so many years ago. The girl had stolen something precious and had hidden it here, in these very woods, woods which now hid what little remained of the greatest dark wizard of all time.

Surviving on muddy rain water, insects and discarded remains – what kind of life is this? Tom had tried – oh, how very hard he had tried – to successfully possess the creatures of the deep dark he had come across. But their bodies were ill suited for magic and they could barely accomplish the simplest of spells. They would wither and die within a few short days, and the pain and frustration of leaving them was not worth the effort to possess them to begin with.

After the first few weeks in the Albanian forest, subsisting on rotted fruits and berries, Tom had decided to venture near a few small towns located on the outskirts of the forest. The locals in these towns were ever wary, always on their guard. The forest terrified them and they rarely walked anywhere without company.

It was much easier to possess a weak willed individual when they were alone, unprotected and away from any friendly faces. Tom had floated through the towns at night, probing, yearning to reenter the physical human world. He took note of a few outcasts, misanthropes, people who would not be missed. Society's ignored and downtrodden would make viable possession candidates and Tom had finally settled on a young orphan who frequented one town's stables at night, finding warmth sleeping near animals.

One night Tom left the safety of the woods and floated towards the stables. As he glided towards the stable doors, they were suddenly thrown open and…no, it couldn't be! The old fool was here! In Albania! Fear coursed through the broken spirit of Tom Riddle. He shrank bank into the forest, his eyes never leaving the tall wizard. How did he know Tom was here? How did he know where to look? How did he even know I was alive?

Since that day, Tom had never summoned the courage to visit any place inhabited by muggles or wizards. He stayed hidden deep within the forest, where only dark and fearsome creatures lurked. Where shadows, silence and monotony were Tom's only companions.

Tom stared hard at the tree branch, willingly his ghostly hand to make a fist and pick it up. He had struggled for weeks to fashion the branch into a wand and was now attempting to wield it. Why hadn't I studied wand lore more intently when I was younger?! Why hadn't I treated the subject with more respect?! Tom swore to himself if he ever came into power again, he would pursue wand lore with a fanatical zeal and learn all he could. He would track down the most powerful wand in the world and ensure that he could never be defeated again!

But for now…he again stared down at the branch and his hand, tried to channel what little strength he had still possessed. A voice floated down to Tom as he hovered in a dark cave. There was someone nearby, it sounded like a young man. Was he talking to a companion? No, he was alone.

Who was foolish enough to venture this deep into the forest all alone? Tom drifted out of the cave and began slithering along behind the wizard. Based on the young man's mutterings, he seemed to be another weak willed wizard, mediocre like so many others. He would be so easy to possess, but then what? These pathetic souls could never duplicate the magic he had been able to exercise! Still, it was better than staying here, barely existing. Who knows when another random wizard might stumble across his path again? On the other hand, he had finally been able to fashion a wand back in the cave.

As Tom was debating with himself, he noticed something the young wizard had dropped. It was a piece of cloth, a beautiful handkerchief, and it stirred something deep within Tom, reminded him of a time long ago. Only a certain type of person would carry such an emblazoned cloth, the insignia was an intricately sown phoenix. A gift given to teachers, teachers who belonged to a famous school from Tom's past. Amazing! The wizard he was following must teach at Hogwarts!

It had been a long hike and Quirrell was tired – here was as good a place as any to set up camp for the night. Tomorrow he would head towards the train station, leave behind this boring country, another unsuccessful stop on his travel tour. Quirrell waved his wand at a tree and a few branches broke themselves off a hanging limb and walked into a large pile. The pile then magically erupted in flames, warming Quirrell as he threw off his sack and began to make up a small bed. The flickering fire was throwing shadows all over the small encampment, so Quirrell did not notice one particular dark shadow slowly moving with purpose, drifting lazily towards him.

It felt like dipping your face into a fresh basin filled with ice water after a long run, reinvigorating and refreshing. Tom felt like a man reborn as he entered the physical being of Quirinus Quirrell. Amazing, the man was out here all alone and had no mental defenses up. It had been so easy to slide into his mind, like slipping into a warm rob, cozy and inviting.

Tom waltzed around Quirrell's memory house, the young man's fears and inadequacies laid bare before him. Tom felt the desire for greatness and the pent up frustration with repeated failures, searching in vain to achieve recognition and respect. The young man tried to resist, struggle against this invasion of privacy – this rape – but he was no match for Tom, even in this ghostly, weakened state.

When Tom finished with his memory exploration, had fully combed through the last vestiges of Quirrell's long forgotten dreams, he knew everything stored in that weak mind – the old fool was still running things, his name was barely mentioned anymore, people had such short memories! Many of his loyal followers had deserted him, renounced his name to escape punishment – one had even begun working at the school…but Tom had also discovered something amazing, some so fortuitous he could scarcely believe it…Quirrell had overheard the old fool talking about a certain stone…

Tom was energized with this miraculous turn of events. How serendipitous it had been to cross paths with this gullible, weak willed man. It must be a sign of heavenly providence, an offering from fate, a twisted interpretation of a personal manifest destiny.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Quirrell screeched, his frightened voice echoing within his own mind.

"I think you know…Professor."

"What is it you want? I…I…promise…I won't tell a soul about you!"

"Is it not what I want, Quirinus. Rather, it's what you want that interests me."

"I…I don't want anything! Please…please…"

"My dear Quirinus, I have no desire to hurt you or destroy your mind. I want…no…I need your help."

"My help? I know nothing! Please…"

"I have borne witness to your life's work and seen all that you have accomplished. Vast intelligence, sly cunning…and now a respected Professor at such a venerated institution. You have much to offer me Quirinus. You have much to offer to anyone."

"Th-Thank you."

"I can see you do not know much about me, do not know the real truth, only vile falsehoods that have been maliciously spread about me by my enemies…you only know what you've read in the papers and from the exaggerated stories people have created during my recent…absence. All I ask is your help to bring me safely back to England. I have some…unfinished business to attend to."

"I see…and what do I…get in return?"

Tom smiled to himself. In the end everyone is really only concerned about themselves, it was simply man's true nature. He was glad he not tried to threaten Quirrell or forcibly seize control of the young man's mind. Convincing someone it was in their best interest to serve him worked much better than with threats of violence or force. He was in a weakened state, yet he could have dominated Quirrell – his mind was as sharp as it had ever been. A self-serving desire mixed with a fear of angry reprisal – a twisted type of loyalty – was what would serve Tom best in this case.

"I can teach you the power of the dark arts. At my side you will learn to bend people to your will, learn the deepest secrets of dueling, create magic the world once thought impossible… and of course become privy to my deepest secret."

"What's that?" asked Quirrell hungrily, slowly becoming transfixed by the persuasive tongue – Tom was settling into the deepest recesses of Quirrell's mind, projecting images of grandeur into the young man's psyche.

"Isn't my conversation with you proof enough?"

"Proof? Of what is it proof of...my…my Lord?"

"The fact that I have solved the world's oldest puzzle…I have the answer to life's most important question…I can survive a killing curse…I can overcome grievous injury…I can teach you how to cheat death itself…"

The empty promise echoed loudly in Quirrell's mind, and soon he became hooked on the drug that was Tom Riddle. But this would not be a symbiotic relationship, a thoughtful mentor and a dedicated student. Tom was a virus, a germ, an insidious infection and once Quirrell become of no use to the Dark Lord, well, a sickness left untreated could only lead to one outcome.