Quirrell, for all that he acts like a bumbling fool, is quite perceptive. Once he finally rouses from unconsciousness, he notices how Voldemort is paging through the textbooks and carefully writing out homework assignments. He says, "Are you enjoying this, My Lord?"
"Perhaps," Voldemort allows.
"Do you wish to take over teaching entirely?"
"I'm considering it…"
"But you're still too weak."
"I'll figure something out," Voldemort says. Perhaps his presence is like a muscle; the more he exerts it, the stronger he'll get.
As if reading his thoughts, Quirrell offers, "I'm sure the Philosopher's Stone would help you regain all your strength."
That is certainly why he was hunting for it in the first place. Still, though, to dedicate any amount of time to search for it would be time spent away from properly teaching the students, and that thought fills him with nearly unbearable sorrow. His grip tightens on his quill and, just like that, the nib snaps. He wishes he could get his hands on a fountain pen or, even better, a regular muggle pen. Those were reliably hard to snap. When he says as much, Quirrell offers to enchant all his quills so that their nibs become harder to break.
"Besides," says Quirrell, "you'd much prefer these than anything made by filthy muggles, My Lord."
…Right.
A/N (posted 2022-10-31 on ao3): omg might be my last update let's see how this goes lol
(update: this was not, in fact, my last update. fear not, there are more chapters to come!)