Part I, Act I: First Year (1991 – 1992)
"When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened…"
– Chapter 2: The Vanishing Glass, pg. 30, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
"He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself…"
- Chapter 4: The Keeper of the Keys, pg. 58, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
"See what I have become?...Mere shadow and vapor…I have form only when I can share another's body…but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds…"
- Chapter 17: The Man With Two Faces, pg. 293, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
Chapter One: Omens
Lord Voldemort was certain that it was an omen from Dark Magic itself, when the first unfortunate person to come across his path was an Englishman and a professor at Hogwarts.
For many long and bitter years, he had been building up the strength to experiment and test the raw skill he had in magical possession. In this specter of himself, the ability to possess another being was very hard to put to use. He had been able to possess snakes and a few wild Dark Creatures that dwelled in the Black Forest – but not a human.
Not until the stumbling fool had literally tripped across the roots of a Dark Yew and half-fallen right into the hollow that Voldemort had been holed up in, nesting.
Voldemort had been surprised at his own strength, as he easily latched onto the wizard's magical core, burrowing viciously into the rich stores of magic that felt like an oasis to his depleted being.
Hungrily, he feasted on the poor Englishman's magic and anchored the rougher parts of his spectral being right into the deepest parts of his mind.
Quirrell, the man's name was.
A very young professor, who was trawling the Black Forest in an unusual act of bravery. He had come all the way to Eastern Europe, determined to gain practical experience that would make him a more qualified candidate for the Defense professorship at Hogwarts. He was due back in England, soon – this hike had been the last attempt to gain a rare magical flora that would be a part of his application's capstone.
Voldemort delighted in this pitiful, banal information, as he entrenched himself fully into Quirrell's body and settled into his first human host.
This was a good omen, indeed, that his first attempt at possessions after becoming this specter had been successful.
Quirrell had sobbed a bit, stumbling further around in the growing night of the Black Forest.
Voldemort would have sighed in relief if he had a physical body.
The richness of Quirrell's magic wasn't the most powerful, but it was magic!
The magic found in the roots of the Black Forest was ancient and undeniable, but it required so much work to source any magic to build his strength. He had been in the Black Forest for years, lurking amongst the ancient roots and trees and soil and the process had been tediously slow. This direct drawing from a living, active human's magical core, however – this was much faster, much more direct, and much more productive.
Voldemort burrowed into the deepest parts of Quirrell's mind, finding more magic to feed on the deeper he went.
Quirrell wandered the Black Forest for hours as his possession took root in him.
Sometime near dawn, Voldemort pushed his new human host down the right trails and paths that brought him out of the Black Forest.
Quirrell was shaking, bloodied from scratches and scrapes. He was convinced that he'd been chased and hunted by vampires and having hobbled out into the sunlight, he was finally safe again. Quirrell was reassuring himself that he had survived his encounter with the wild, Dark vampires, but he couldn't quite believe that he was alright, despite his survival. The wizard returned to his room at the local inn, shaken and determined to leave a week early for Britain; he was no longer enthused with Eastern Wizarding Europe as he had been, after that wild encounter he didn't know was possession.
Voldemort approved of this decision, entirely.
He needed to collect and gather the pieces of his soul back to himself, back to one whole being. Quirrell's fortune of being a young and talented Hogwarts professor had given him the misfortune of being the perfect, most useful victim for Voldemort. The most easily accessible Horcrux that he had was hidden in the ancient depths of Hogwarts; all he needed was the ability to get within Hogwarts and he'd be able to secure it, from there.
The sooner his human host returned to England, the sooner he would be able to seek out his Horcruxes and resurrect himself back to life, properly.
Voldemort found Quirrell to be a vital source of magic in the following weeks.
Quirrell was determined to keep to his own baseless perceptions of his assault in the Black Forest; thus, he had no idea that the invasive, subtle symptoms he was experiencing were the first indicators of magical possession. As any Ravenclaw alumnus would do, Quirrell began searching in books for what could happen in the aftermath of a vampire attack. All his searching was for naught, because nothing like exposure to vampires could account for the creeping sickness that was coming over him as an unknowing human host to Voldemort.
Quirrell's well-meaning but completely wrong focus benefited Voldemort better than he could imagine.
The longer Quirrell took to discover that what was happening to him was possession, the stronger Voldemort became. Quirrell was generating worrying amounts of magic to make up for what Voldemort was depleting him of; the more magic that he created, the more Voldemort had to feed from.
By the time Quirrell had received an owl with the news of his appointment to the Defense professorship, Voldemort could take control of Quirrell's body for hours at a time.
His first act, once he was able to control Quirrell's body as if it were his own, had been to go in search of what had happened in the years he'd been lost in the Dark wilderness.
Voldemort had known that it had been years; what he didn't know was what had happened in all those years. He needed to know what became of his Inner Circle who bore his Mark and his robed followers, his Death Eaters that had numbered gloriously at the height of the war. Obviously, the war had ended with his own violent disappearance. What he didn't know was if it had ended in victory for himself despite his disappearance or had been haplessly given over to a crippled Ministry who'd taken advantage of the vulnerability of his followers without a leader.
Over the course of several days, Quirrell found his body being taken over by the specter of Lord Voldemort, who was learning what the world had become after he'd been destroyed in Godric's Hollow.
By the time Quirrell received an owl from Hogwarts indicating he'd been appointed to the Defense professorship for the coming school year, he was significantly weaker, his greyish pallor not letting up even with fitful sleep.
Voldemort was significantly stronger, however.
He had picked up enough to determine what had happened in the ten years he'd been without a body and clinging to the shreds of life that his Horcruxes had enabled him to keep hold of.
It was more important than ever that he reached Hogwarts and access his closest Horcrux.
He had lost ten years, his war, and there was much to rebuild, the least of which being his body.
Quirrell began losing his hair in early July.
His body and his magic were laboring futilely against the powerful, Dark possession.
Voldemort was strong enough to feel a wicked amusement over how his human host wailed and quibbled over what was happening to him, what would happen to his coveted Defense professorship if the Board of Governors or headmaster found out something was wrong with him. The Quirrell fool had been appointed to be Defense professorship but was completely lost as to what was happened to him. He refused to accept that his chosen field was about more than how to protect against Dark creatures, plants, and spells.
Dark magic was something that the foolish boy could hardly comprehend – and, thus, he continued to weaken under the steady strength of Voldemort's ever-stronger possession.
Voldemort was eager for July to continue pushing forward.
Quirrell was due back at Hogwarts well before students were to arrive. The less people who would be at Hogwarts as he searched out his Horcrux, the better.
On the last day of July, Quirrell set out on a fretful journey to Diagon Alley. The oozing sores on his bald head were clearly the mark of Dark Magic but unknowing of this, Quirrell was more focused on a salve that would stop the pain of the sores and magical headwear that would conceal the stench and presence of his wounds.
Voldemort receded somewhat from the consciousness of Quirrell's mind when the wizard entered Diagon Alley from Muggle London.
Quirrell thought that he was getting relief from the constant headache he had lately. He was unaware that the destructive Dark magic was only going deeper, gnashing on parts of his mind and magic he didn't know could be destroyed. There were parts of the pitiful boy's mind that were still untouched from the possession, holding out from being contaminated.
Voldemort found them to be the most nourishing parts to nestle in when he needed to retreat from active possession. Voldemort was feeling particularly enriched, feeding deeply off a hidden well of pure magic that he'd found deep in Quirrell's mind –
When he felt it.
His magic.
Voldemort had felt his own magic.
Startled, Voldemort became still, as he rarely did. Then, he surged forward, actively wrenching hold of Quirrell's body as he did not often do when in public. He had to see. He had to see, even if it was through Quirrell's own pitiful eyes, what it was that Quirrell was doing that brought him in contact with Voldemort's magic –
Voldemort was stunned to find himself shaking hands with a pale, underfed child.
A child who he'd tried to murder somewhere around a decade ago.
A child who was his Horcrux, by the feel of the spiky connection of Darkest magic that twined throughout the body's frail little body, concentrated in the pulsing, snarling cluster of Dark Magic that leaked from the brutal, lightning-bolt scar upon his forehead.
The Potter child seemed reluctant to break the grip of their handshake.
Bright, unnervingly green eyes were wide and fascinated, as the boy stared up at Quirrell's ill, sickly face from behind poorly repaired glasses. Voldemort was struck at how eerily he was reminded of the Killing Curse. That shade of green wasn't natural, it couldn't be.
The thick web of Dark magic that pulsed in and around the child's face, because of his scar – it was very likely that the Dark magic contributed to how vibrant and unnerving the boy's gaze felt.
"Hello, professor," said Potter, quietly, hesitantly. The boy seemed to be unsure why he couldn't let go of Quirrell's hand but was not alarmed. If anything, Potter was peering at him harder, as if trying to determine what it was about Quirrell that was drawing him in. "What type of magic will I be learning from you?"
Voldemort answered through Quirrell's mouth but used his own words.
"The Dark Arts, as well as the Defense Against the Dark Arts. The two disciplines are vital to each other; one cannot be taught without the other." The dull roar that surrounded them covered his words mostly, but Potter had heard him quite clearly. "I'm certain with as legendary as you are, you're well-prepared for the challenge of my coursework. I look forward to encountering you at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter."
Potter paled.
"Oh, no sir. I'm not sure what you think, what you've heard – I only learned about magic, last night. I'm afraid I don't know anything about –"
Potter's words were cut off.
The crowd jostled them both at that moment. The connection between them was broken, as Potter's clammy hand was jerked from Quirrell's grip; Voldemort instantly felt the absence of the rich source of Dark magic that he craved more than any other. An eager admirer had grabbed up the child's hand, another two or three people were patting him on his thin shoulders.
Within seconds, the crowd surged with more exuberance and Quirrell's body was shuffled roughly backwards.
Voldemort's brief connection with the Potter boy and his Dark-cursed scar had ended as quickly as it had begun.
A short while later, Quirrell returned back to his modest flat with plenty of wound salve and a variety of turbans that were enchanted to be resistant to smells or stains.
He promptly collapsed.
The wild surges of magic that had been necessary for Voldemort to take hold of his body were harder on him these days.
Voldemort found himself relieved when the panicky, thrashing sensation of Quirrell's mind quieted into blank unconscious. He was strong enough now after these few short weeks that he felt more like a person again, his own being. He still had no body of his own, but his mind was becoming sharper and more clearer with every hour he fed off Quirrell's magical core.
An echo of his powerful mind seemed to be returning to him as he dwelled on the shocking experience of coming across a Horcrux of his own – as a child, no less!
A child who had been prophesied to become his enemy.
His enemy was his Horcrux.
Perhaps this was a greater omen than Quirrell, the discovery that the prophesied Potter child was a vessel for his soul, a rare human Horcrux whose value and power had yet to be uncovered.