Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11871942.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Voldemort, Harry_Potter/Tom_Riddle
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Tom_Riddle_|_Voldemort, Albus_Dumbledore, Quirinus
      Quirrell, Severus_Snape, Ron_Weasley, Hermione_Granger
  Additional Tags:
      Slow_Burn, Moral_Ambiguity, No_character_bashing, Slow_Build, Sane
      Voldemort, Time_Travel
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-21 Updated: 2017-08-27 Chapters: 2/? Words: 7483
****** To Conquer Death ******
by Nanadaime
Summary
     After the Battle of Hogwarts Voldemort is dead. Until he isn't
     anymore. Without knowing how and why, he embraces his second chance
     at life. This time he will not fail. But death can not be conquered
     without a price.
Notes
     Welcome
     The beginning (meaning the starting point) of this story was inspired
     by one I read some time ago but can't remember the name of. I
     solemnly swear that I did not steal the plot or want to take credit
     that belongs to another, so please acknowledge that. Warning: this
     story contains swearing, graphic depictions of violence and murder,
     moral ambiguity and much later smut. Yes, this will be LV/HP
     eventually but... slowly. Of course I will try to avoid overly
     OOCness but the characters have to make different decisions than in
     canon, otherwise we won't have our story.
     I can not promise a regular update schedule, life is rather busy at
     the moment, but I have the whole plot written out in notes, so this
     story will be finished unless I die or World War III breaks out.
     Also: reviews make me happy and any constructive criticism is
     welcomed because I really want to improve my writing. So, if you
     would leave your thoughts you'd really help me and hopefully all
     other readers when my writing improves. English is not my first
     language and I fear my education wasn't very consistent concerning
     British English and American English. I try to write BE but mistakes
     will happen and I'd be much obliged if you could point out any
     glaring errors I made.
     Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the little story my mind has
     concocted.
***** Guess who's back *****
"Expelliarmus!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
He felt the Elder Wand being ripped from his hand almost as if the wand was
glad. Glad to be reunited with it's true master. So it was true... Potter was
the true owner of the Death Stick... But there wasn't more time to form another
coherent line of thought as his vision was consumed in green and then with a
rush descended into darkness.
When he came to it was to darkness again but it seemed to be slowly pierced by
light, softly illuminating his perception. Then it came to him that he had a
perception at all, which was... strange... unexpected maybe? Because he was
pretty sure that he must be dead. His own Killing Curse had hit him and since
he hadn't been forcefully ejected from his body like last time... well and with
all his Horcruxes destroyed apparently... being dead was the logical conclusion
to arrive at. And in all his terrified musings about what death would be like
and in all his attempts to avoid it, it had never occurred to him that his mind
and perceptiveness would be still intact. Yet...
Slowly he started to take stock of his surroundings. In wondrous amazement he
discovered that the light softly penetrating the darkness around him was caused
by an external source of illumination, flittering through his eyelids. Eyelids!
Salazar! If he had eyelids then... Slowly, hesitantly he tried to capitalize
from this new discovery and attempted to use them. Like butterfly wings they
fluttered open, only to instantly clench shut tightly when the surrounding
light proved to be too offensive for what must be his eyes. However, never one
to be deterred by unfavorable circumstances, he tried again and was after a few
more attempts successful. What he saw however... Well, it was literally
nothing. Or to be more accurate: whiteness. Everything was white, whiter than
freshly fallen snow. And it stretched on, and on, and on. No discernible shape
or contrast in sight. Nothing to provide a backdrop against this glaring
brightness. He deduced quickly that he must lie on some sort of surface, was,
however, unable to discern for how far it stretched. Frustratingly, the body he
inhabited appeared to be difficult to navigate. The muscles seemed too weak and
the proportions all out of bounds. Only awkward angles and sharp edges. After
an unreasonably lengthy struggle with his vessel he managed to bring his hands
into his line of sight. While a part of his mind noticed that he was panting
from the exertion and wasn't it curious that even in death he required oxygen,
the bigger part only thought loudly and evocatively: What. The. Fuck?
No, seriously: what the hell? While his palms were almost comically small his
fingers were unrealistically elongated. There seemed to be no flesh between the
bones and his skin. If the tissue covering his appendages could be classified
as skin. It was red, raw and bleeding. Steadily oozing blood and other liquids.
With the realization that he was hurt came the pain. He gritted his teeth. It
was not the worst pain he had ever endured. Nevertheless, the accompanying
circumstances made for a rather bleak assessment of the entire situation. He
was wounded, helpless and stranded in a world of endless white. His body could
only be operated under pain and tired easily. Oh, and he was fucking dead!
Suddenly his mind lost its clinical detachment and the emotions came crashing
down like thunder. Anger. Hate. Fear. Panic. Pain. And with the tempestuous
raging of emotions came another far more horrifying realization. Ever since he
was a child his magic had always responded to his emotions. This phenomenon had
continued throughout his whole life, even when he had only been a spirit. His
magic had always been there: burning under his skin, melting on his tongue and
cracking like static at his fingertips. But now... his emotions raged a war
inside of him and yet his magic remained silent. He tried to coax it, force it,
bend it to his will. Whispered the easiest and most basic spells under his
breath. But to no avail. Inexplicably his magic did not respond. Naturally this
sparked a veritable panic, terror consumed him and when he opened his eyes
again, without the knowledge to have closed them, he had to admit that one: he
seemed to have fainted in his hysteria. He would probably care if his fucking
magic wouldn't have been gone and he wouldn't have been trapped in infinite
whiteness in a parody of a human body. And two: he had no idea how to change
his circumstances.
The second realization left him much chagrined. He had never felt so helpless.
Not even when he possessed no body or when he had learned about the destruction
of his Horcruxes. Because he still had his magic then, thank you very much.
What to do? What to do?
===============================================================================
 
"Some would say that this is a very bad idea."
"I know, I just haven't got a better one."
===============================================================================
 
Sometimes he imagined that he could make out shapes. He thought that there was
vapour coiling and twisting into something, anything. When he managed to focus
on the spot where he believed to have spotted this, however, everything
regained smooth unending whiteness. This place, whatever it was, wherever it
could be found remained unchanging to him. Only the edges of his vision were
teased with the tantalizing possibility of change in this eternity of
brightness.
The need to chase these potential changes in his surroundings soon vanished
when it became clear that every attempt at catching them would remain
fruitless. He got the distinct impression that who or what power controlled
this place was playing with him. When this idea first crossed his mind he had
been angry of course but now... now he was uninvested. Nothing ever changed.
There was no form or structure. No colours or shadows. No perceivable flow of
time. And no sounds apart from the ones he produced in his minuscule body, that
upon further examination reminded him of the husk he had inhabited when
Wormtail had found him. Not that any of it mattered. He was slowly but surely
becoming apathetic.
===============================================================================
 
"There is so much that can go wrong and so little which may go right."
"I know."
"Your hopes may come true but it is all depending upon happenstance."
"I know."
"It could turn out worse than before."
"I know."
===============================================================================
 
An idle mind is the devil's playground.
In death he found this to be true. But who would have thought that death would
be so uneventful? He certainly hadn't. Childishly perhaps he had always
depicted death as never ending darkness -how ironic- or maybe as the Christian
interpretation of heaven and hell. He blamed the orphanage, the old hag Cole in
particular: "Don't forget to say your prayers before bed." "Bad children won't
go to heaven, Tom." "Sinners will be punished in hell."
Well, if this was hell -because realistically he couldn't possibly go anywhere
else- all the religions certainly had it wrong and the believers would be in
for quite the surprise. There were no fiery demons torturing the deceased in
the flaming pits of hell but only nothingness and solitude, which he admitted
to himself might be even worse because he was slowly going insane. More than he
had been before anyway. He could acknowledge that now, that he might have been
slightly on the wrong side of mental stability. In retrospect his actions
seemed often harsh and confusing. Guided by a steady stream of rage and anger.
Damn him, but he had acted like a caricature of what he once was. Deranged
where he had been charming, forceful where he had been cunning. Salazar
Slytherin must be turning in his grave. Probably. Maybe he could ask him if he
showed up. If anyone would ever show up. Even Dumbledore and his condescending
self-righteousness would be a welcome distraction from this maddening monotony.
He shuddered. This thought alone gave evidence to the direness of his
situation.
The thought of Dumbledore showing up led to another far more unsettling
possibility. His mother. He had never seen her, had had no picture and at the
time he had not bothered to salvage an image of her from Morfin's deranged
mind. If she were to show up would he recognize her? Would he even want to meet
her when the extent of her care for her son had been giving him the name of his
despicable father and seeing him only as an extension of the unworthy muggle?
Dying on him when she could have lived? When she could have prevented the
orphanage?
Yes, he would like to see her if only to unleash all these years of frustration
and anger onto the woman who had given birth to him.
But would she like to see him? Probably not.
===============================================================================
 
"I slowly get the impression that you want to talk me out of this."
"On the contrary. I simply want you to understand all possible consequences
your actions could and will cause."
"Believe me I have thought about this... it's not like I feel comfortable with
the idea but..."
"You see no other option."
"Yes... it's a chance, a small one but still... it's better than no chance at
all."
"Very well. If you wish to proceed I will begin."
"... yes, please do."
===============================================================================
 
He was in the middle of reciting the important dates of the first goblin
rebellion to himself when it started. Without warning everything began to shake
violently. A rumble vibrated through him and got louder and louder until his
eardrums threatened to burst.
Crack! The whiteness around him burst open in several places and darkness
seeped through the cracks. Mild panic gripped him, was he going to hell after
all? Crack!
And then he was falling. There was no light, only darkness.
"And in the beginning there was only darkness.", was his last thought until he
was swallowed whole.
When he came to it was to the distinct smell and flavour of... garlic? And -oh
joy- more darkness. He really wished death would be more constant or at least
more creative. First white then...
"Master?"
...black?
"Master?"
He knew this voice. Where had he heard it before? Quirrel! Of course! But...
how?
"Master?", the voice of presumably Quirrel had taken on a distinct undertone of
fear.
"Quirrel.", he said more question than statement.
"Yes, master. How may I serve you?"
To say that this was unexpected or downright illogical would be the greatest
understatement in the history of wizard kind.
"Unwrap me."
With shaky hands his once upon a time servant complied. Layer upon layer of
Quirrel's turban was divested from his face until he saw what was the defence
teacher's office at Hogwarts.
Valiantly he prevented his voice from breaking: "Conjure me a mirror!"
When a round mirror started to float in front of his face, he could not stop
his jaw from unhinging. Red slitted eyes, a pale gaunt face and nostrils where
should have been a nose. Yes, that was his face and it was obviously attached
to the back of Quirrel's head. Numerous questions clamoured to the forefront of
his mind. How? Why? What? And again How? Because he had been dead, there was no
doubt about it, all his Horcruxes had been destroyed and he had been dead. Was
this a creation of his own imagination. Had he made up a different reality in
order to escape the unchanging white? But surely his first idea would not have
been the period of time he had spent on the back of the head of this
incompetent excuse for a teacher? And everything felt and looked so real and
detailed, from the stench of garlic to the motes of dust swirling in the
sunlight.
"Quirrel, what day is it?"
"The 31st of October, my lord."
"The year, Quirrel, the year?"
While Quirrel's confusion was tangible, his fear prevented him from asking
questions.
"1991, my lord."
"Today is the 31st of October 1991?", he inquired sharply.
"Y-yes, my lord, All Hallows' Eve 1991."
Lord Voldemort couldn't help it. He laughed and laughed and laughed.
===============================================================================
 
"Ouch!"
A sudden spike of sharp pain in his forehead made Harry stop abruptly and smack
a hand onto his scar. His lightning bolt shaped scar was unnaturally warm and
sent bursts of pain throughout his skull. And as quickly as it started it
stopped.
"-rry! Harry!"
His friend Ron was looking at him with furrowed brows, confusion and worry
plainly written on his face.
"Are you alright, mate?"
"Yes, just a sudden headache."
"Really? Do you need to go to Madam Pomfrey? Get a pepper up potion?"
"Ron, I'm fine. It's gone now."
"Well, if you say so. Let's hurry then or we are gonna be late to the feast."
Harry shared a laugh with his freckled friend and continued their trek to the
great hall. His fingers lightly traced it scar. It felt perfectly normal, no
pain, no heat. But Harry was sure that he hadn't imagined the pain.
Strange.
===============================================================================
 
On the 31st of October 1991 no troll entered the castle. Harry Potter and his
friend Ron Weasley ate and drank until their pants felt at least one number too
small. However, as fate or maybe something else would have it they went to the
girl's bathroom to find a crying Hermione Granger. Apologies were awkwardly
given and chips filched from the feast in a couple of handkerchiefs were shared
between the three children. While this may not have been as eventful or
distressing as battling a mountain troll would have been, it still served to
forge a strong bond of friendship between them.
Consequently, Severus Snape was not injured by Fluffy and no further suspicion
was cast upon Quirinius Quirrel, who was extremely flabbergasted by his Lord's
unusual behaviour but was also, naturally, too afraid to question his master.
The master in question was still reeling. He had given the command to abandon
the mountain troll scheme -such an obvious ploy, what had he been thinking the
first time around?-, and then retreated behind Quirrel's turban to think. His
circumstances were impossible, illogical and utterly inconceivable. But against
all odds and laws of magic and nature he was, apparently, alive again and in
the past.
Around 4 o'clock the next morning Quirrel was roused from his slumber by his
Lord laughing. To be quiet honest he was terrified, he had never heard the man
laugh before and now two times in the last twenty-four hours. He cleared his
throat a few times and inquired scratchily:
"My Lord?"
Lord Voldemort let his laughter abide and focused his view on the wall he was
facing -Quirrel had to sleep on his side. He refused to have his face squished
into a pillow- and breathed deeply a few times.
"Rise Quirinius. There is so much work to do."
===============================================================================
 
Lord Voldemort had spent the whole night scheming and plotting, and was pleased
to tell that he had come up with a plan to turn everything in his favour. Of
course he still had no clue how exactly his second chance at life came to pass
but it was about damn time, in his opinion, that luck was on his side. Thus, he
would of course still research his unusual circumstances, even though he
doubted he would find any trace of another person coming back from the dead and
into the past. But he would not make it his first priority. No this was getting
a new body for himself, so he could operate at his best and make his plans come
into fruition.
He was disturbed from his train of thoughts by a voice he instantly recognized
but was severely displeased to hear: Severus fucking Snape had instigated a
conversation with the moron Quirrel over breakfast. As tempting as it was to
make Quirrel draw his wand and end the traitor's life there and then, it would
be quite counterproductive for his long term plans. And yet, Snape managed to
ignite a rage of epic proportions in him, he had betrayed him, betrayed him
when he had favoured him, taught him magic himself, saved him from his
despicable muggle father. And if what Potter said to him before their final
confrontation was to be believed Snape had betrayed him for a woman. A mudblood
no less. A woman who had rejected Snape, Voldemort recalled with no small
amount of vindication. But seriously, he remembered Lily Potter, she was
talented, he could admit that, and she had been beautiful but very narrow
minded in her perception of what was right and wrong. Severus, he recalled was
a lot more morally flexible. And then there was of course the fact that she
married his childhood tormentor and had a baby with him. Try as hard as he
might, Voldemort could not grasp Severus' motivation. Why betray him for a dead
woman, who had most emphatically rejected him and his beliefs and further
humiliated him by marrying his worst enemy. All because of a fallout over one
insult Severus had thrown at her in anger, after he had been loyal to her for
years. And then proceed to protect her son, whom he abhorred. Logically
speaking it made no fucking sense to Voldemort. Maybe Snape wanted his revenge
on him. He had promised him after all that she might live if she would be
sensible. Revenge was a motivation he understood. Revenge he could work with.
And he would work with it. Snape would pay for his betrayal, pay dearly, but he
would have his uses beforehand. He would serve as his spy again when he
returned. Only this time Voldemort was aware of his duplicity and would act
accordingly. He would give Snape all the information the old fool would expect
him to, and Dumbledore would be pleased with his little spy, he would trust him
but he, Lord Voldemort, would already be playing an entirely different game.
And when Snape's usefulness would run out... well, he would make an excellent
example to his Death Eaters concerning treason. In the meantime though, Snape
would unwittingly continue to serve him in a matter of utmost importance. He
would protect his little Horcrux. Because no matter how much he wanted to make
Potter choke on his own blood, he was his Horcrux and he would never knowingly
harm a part of his own soul. And this time he knew. Of course it galled him
that part of his soul was trapped in the person he hated almost as much as
Dumbledore but he would not harm him. Maybe later he would try to separate his
soul piece from the boy and find a more appropriate vessel, but for now no harm
must come to Harry Potter. The irony was not lost on him. Quirrel started to
move. First period were the first year Gryffindors. Time to start.
===============================================================================
 
Defence Against the Dark Arts was perhaps Harry's least favourite subject after
Potions. Not that the class did not interest him, it really did, but the
classroom always smelled like garlic, Professor Quirrel's stutter made it very
difficult to understand him and his head always hurt. So he was in equal parts
wary and excited when the Professor told them that today would be a practical
lesson.
"T-t-today we w-w-will be l-l-learning a l-l-little hex th-th-that is n-n-not
too a-a-advanced but may h-h-help you in a-a-a situation where you m-m-must
defend y-y-yourselves."
With a flick of Quirrel's wand an incantation appeared on the board.
"H-h-has anyone a-a-any idea what s-s-spell this is?"
Predictably Hermione's hand shot in the air, threatening to knock Harry's
glasses of.
"The nose-bleed hex, Professor."
"Correct. F-f-five points to G-g-gryffindor. A-a-as the name s-s-says this s-s-
spell makes y-y-your opponents nose b-b-bleed. It m-m-might come in h-h-handy
to get you o-o-out of a s-s-sticky situation. A-a-a demonstration. Mr. P-p-
potter, please come i-i-in front o-o-of the class."
Harry nearly groaned. Could Quirrel even execute the spell correctly, what with
his stutter and all? He liked his nose as it was, thank you very much. But Ron
pushed him encouragingly forward and Hermione muttered: "Lucky you."
She was unreasonably eager, in Harry's opinion, to act as a guinea pig. When he
stood a few feet across from Quirrel, the Professor raised his wand and pointed
it between Harry's eyes. The whole class seemed to hold their breath as one man
and when the silence started to get uncomfortable Quirrel moved. Harry only had
time to register that he didn't stutter when he said the incantation before he
felt something hot drip out of his nose, onto his lips and running down his
chin. He heard Seamus and Dean cheer and Ron cry out "Wicked!", but he only
frantically checked his nose. It didn't feel any different. Thank God. The
Professor appeared in front of him and touched his nose lightly with the tip of
his wand, immediately the bleeding stopped. Quirrel then pulled out a
handkerchief and proceeded to wipe away the excess blood on Harry's lips and
chin. When the man deemed his task successful he turned to the class.
"Th-th-thank you Mr. P-p-potter. F-f-five points f-f-for Gryffindor. Everyone,
p-p-please find a-a-a partner a-a-and practice the s-s-spell together."
For the rest of the lesson Harry and Ron proceeded to try make each others nose
bleed. Hermione finally managed to make poor Neville's nose bleed and was
awarded another five points after the Professor stopped his bleeding too.
Neither Harry nor Ron had mastered the spell when the bell rang but Ron assured
him that Harry had made his nose itch a few times, and in any case, if they
were ever in trouble they could simply punch the guy in the face. This made the
Gryffindor boys laugh uproariously on their way to their next lesson. Maybe
Defence Against the Dark Arts wasn't so bad, his head didn't even hurt today.
===============================================================================
 
Night had fallen in Scotland and Voldemort, having taken control of Quirrel's
body, sat at the man's desk and was writing out precise instructions on a piece
of parchment. This would be the stage of his plan with the highest risk of
failure but time was of the essence, he would like to avoid having to drink
Unicorn blood and therefore, had to proceed swiftly. Ideally, he would have his
new body before Yule. Sadly, it all depended on one of his other servants, one
even more incompetent then Quirrel, but beggars can't be choosers.
Today's lesson had been a success in more than one way. First of all he had
obtained a few drops of Potter's blood. Not, strictly speaking, forcibly taken
this time but with the other adjustments he planned for his resurrection it
would do the trick. Of course Potter would gain the prolonged protection from
his mother's sacrifice, since Potter's blood would flow in his veins again but
this would work out in his favour. As long as Potter was his Horcrux he
wouldn't want him to die anyway, and if he wanted to find a way to extract his
piece of soul from the boy, he would need to be able to touch him without
turning into ash. Yes, Potter's blood was still an essential component for the
construction of his new body. All he needed was in his grasp now, bar one
thing. And this was where the second success of the day came in. One well
placed Imperius Curse was all it needed...
As if on cue a scratching noise sounded from the door. Amused Voldemort stood
and strolled to the door. He opened it, smirked upon seeing the deserted
corridor and closed it again. With a few movements of Quirrel's wand he erected
strong wards around the office and then turned to attend to his guest. One
flick and swish later he cancelled the Imperius Curse and where before sat a
rat now was a rather rotund man, missing a finger and frantically looking
around in mounting panic.
"Crucio."
After relishing in the agonized cries for a minute, Voldemort stopped his
curse. The man on the floor was twitching and writhing pathetically, tears
streaming down his face.
"Who... who... are you."
"Hello, Wormtail. Long time no see."
***** The Heist *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry, but I got lost on the path of life, as Kakashi would say. Here
     is the next chapter. Thank you for your kind reviews. This chapter
     and probably the ones after it, will be quite fast paced, this is
     necessary so that Voldemort gets his body back and can really start
     working on his plans.
     Without further ado:
Winter was slowly coming for Hogwarts. The corridors got draughtier, in the
mornings the grass outside glittered with frost and the House Elves took great
pain in keeping all the fires burning. Hogwarts in winter had always enchanted
Lord Voldemort, since he had been a student himself. The castle, glittering
with ice and snow in the blinding winter sun had always appeared like something
out of a fairy tail to him. Also, it had been the time of the year where the
others had preferred the warmth of their common rooms to the biting winds of
the grounds or even the chill of the corridors. Thus, winter had been the time
when the young Slytherin Tom Riddle could wander the halls and grounds without
meeting anyone. He was all alone and took great comfort in his solitude, only
him and Hogwarts, boy and castle linked by the noble blood of Salazar
Slytherin. Naturally, he would like to wander for hours again, lose himself in
all the nooks and crannies his only real home had to offer. Sadly, it was not
to be. There was still much to do before his resurrection and he could not
afford to spent his time in idle reminiscence. But oh the longing... it had
been too long. Of course the last time did not count, it had been spring and
the Battle of Hogwarts had waged. His beloved castle was in ruins and he could
not appreciate anything, too consumed by his fear of an impending death, too
crazed in his blood lust. The last time he had leisurely wandered the castle
and grounds for hours and hours had been in the winter of his last year at
Hogwarts. He had been Head Boy and free to be out and about even after curfew,
he was a model student after all, the hero who caught the one who had killed
the girl in the bathroom.
One particular day came to mind. It had been December then and overnight the
world had been put under a thick blanket of snow. He had woken all alone in his
dorm, the other boys had all gone home to celebrate Yule, when the light of the
rising sun had pierced the frozen lake. The shattered light had illuminated the
dorm in all the colours of the rainbow and Tom Riddle had been mesmerized. All
his plans for the day had been left abandoned. He did not practice one spell,
did not read one book and did not brew one potion. Instead he pulled on three
of the grey and frayed sweaters from the orphanage and went outside. He circled
the frozen lake twice, went down the road to the school gates and back up
again, walked to the Quidditch pitch and trekked up to the Owlery and the
Astronomy Tower, where the wind blew so harshly that he feared that he would be
swept away if he jumped. Finally, when the sun began to set and the Thestrals,
who had wandered beside him through the snow covering the ground of the
Forbidden Forest, went so far in that even he was reluctant to follow them, Tom
Riddle returned to the castle. His customary impeccable appearance must have
been destroyed: his cheeks and nose were red, his normally neatly combed hair
tousled by the wind and sprinkled with snowflakes. But he did not care then. He
did not care that he did not further his goals this day or that the image he
crafted for himself ever since he sat foot into Hogwarts would have been
destroyed, had he happened upon another person. This day had been for him and
Voldemort swore now that he would return when he had a body of his own to see
the castle as it had been back then.
But in order to make that happen, he had to make Dumbledore take one other step
prematurely. Therefore, Quirrel stood before the Gargoyle guarding the
Headmaster's office one week before winter break, letting the Gargoyle jump
aside and stepping onto the moving staircase.
"Ah, Quirinius, come in, come in."
"H-h-headmaster."
"Sit, sit. Do you care for a sherbet lemon?"
"N-n-no. Thank y-y-you."
"What can I do for you then?", Dumbledore regarded his stuttering Professor
over his half-moon shaped glasses, suspicious but without proof.
"i j-j-just wanted t-t-to inform y-y-you that I w-w-will be l-l-leaving the c-
c-castle over the h-h-holidays. M-m-my Aunt r-r-requests my p-p-presence."
Dumbledore chuckled: "Requests? Sounds like a formidable lady. Are you sure
that you do not want to spend the festivities at Hogwarts?"
"I f-f-feel obliged t-t-to visit h-h-her, I'm a-a-afraid. She is v-v-very old,
you s-s-see, and h-h-her health h-h-has not b-b-been the best r-r-recently."
"I completely understand, Quirinius. Christmas is after all the time we should
endeavour to spend with our family. When do you intend to leave then?"
"I w-w-was thinking the l-l-last day o-o-of term, d-d-directly after c-c-
classes."
"This should not be a problem. Shall I open the Floo Network for you?"
"Th-th-thank you b-b-but I p-p-prefer to apparate."
"Very well. If this is all?"
"Y-y-yes headmaster."
While it was not uncommon for Professors to spend the holidays away from the
castle, Quirrel's intended absence would take Dumbledore by surprise. He was
the prime suspect for attempted theft of the stone after all. There was a sick,
old aunt but Quirrel would not be visiting her. No, he would finally help
Voldemort gaining a new body for himself. But if Voldemort's plans were to
proceed without a hitch, the pressure on Dumbledore had to be increased. This
sudden and uncharacteristic absence from the castle should make Dumbledore
wary. Hopefully wary enough to move a certain mirror early.
===============================================================================
 
When Peter, James and Sirius had become Animagi, Prongs and Padfoot had a good
laugh about his animal. Rats were, after all, not the most useful animals for
keeping a werewolf in check. Too small. What if Moony accidentally swallows
you? What if Prongs steps on you? Then there were the negative connotations
associated with rats. Filthy. Disease carrying. Traitorous. Well... there was
that. But his Animagus form was what enabled him to survive Sirius' attempted
revenge and possible angry Death Eaters, who thought that he led their master
to his downfall on purpose. First he had lived with other rats until he found a
wizarding family to take him in. He was fed, cared for and always looking out
for news on either his erstwhile friend or his master. Quite clever actually.
Then he had snapped out of the Imperius curse only to be tortured by the
stuttering fool who taught Defence Against the Dark Arts for this year. Only it
had been his Lord. His Lord was back, or as good as, and possessed the Defence
Professor.
He was lucky in a sense. Only one round of the Cruciatus when he still vividly
remembered a time when the Dark Lord had thrown the Unforgivable around like
Leprechauns did gold. And as long as he would perform according to his Lord's
expectations, he would remain under the Dark Lord's protection. This was his
best bet at survival now. And yet his first task deeply unsettled him. It
wasn't particularly difficult or dangerous, but as the rat stopped before the
little cottage with half the roof missing he wished that he were anywhere but
where he was now.
James... Lily... They had been his friends and he had led death into their
home. Sometimes he told himself that he had done it to end the war, only three
more deaths and the Dark Lord would have won. The truth was much simpler: he
had been afraid. Afraid of being on the losing side and he had been prepared to
sacrifice his friends to ensure his own survival.
The rat scurried through the hall. James had died here. James who had chased
the bullies away, James who had mocked his performance in class.
Up the stairs he went. He knew the house well, had been a frequent guest after
all.
The nursery. Lily had died here. Lily who had been kind, Lily who had always
looked at him with pity.
He transformed back into a man. Moonlight fell through the blasted roof,
illuminating the crib in which little Harry had survived. Peter wanted to cry.
Wanted to beg for forgiveness and wanted to go back to when they had all been
at Hogwarts, young and save and innocent. But he had made his choice. And while
Lily and James had to die for it, he had to live with it.
Nervously his eyes darted around the room. It was still the same as it had been
ten years ago, persevered by magic. He noticed a little stuffed dragon on a
shelf, he had given it for little Harry's first birthday. He wanted to leave.
"Err... I am here to retrieve the Dark Lord's wand.", he felt stupid but his
Lord had told him that the wand would revel itself if he felt someone with the
intention of reuniting it with his master approaching, that it would have
concealed itself because it was only loyal to its master.
Then a beam of moonlight fell in front of the crib and there it was. Thirteen
and a half inches and bone white. The wand that struck fear into the hearts of
men and women. Almost as much fear as its master.
Carefully, Peter shuffled closer and reached for it. The wand felt cold,
freezing cold in his fingers. He could nearly feel the wand's disgust and
unwillingness, he doubted that he could manage to cast a spell with it, sooner
the wand would harm him. Peter shuddered. A terrifying wand for a terrifying
wizard. Time to leave, the Dark Lord was waiting for his wand.
===============================================================================
 
It was the last day of class before the Christmas holidays and mentally Harry
was already outside, having a snowball fight with Ron, Fred and George. Alas,
before he could leave the stuffy classroom for real, he had to sit through one
last Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. He should be reading and summarizing
the chapter in his book on minor hexes, like the one they had practised last
time but Harry found that he vastly preferred practical lessons over
theoretical ones. That was why Hermione glared at him and Ron disapprovingly,
while the two boys played tic-tac-toe on a piece of parchment. Not that Quirrel
would notice, the man seemed to be fully engrossed with the papers on his desk.
"Harry. Ron.", Hermione hissed.
"What?", his red-headed friend hissed back.
"You should read the chapter in the book."
"Hermione, it's almost Christmas, and look nobody except you is doing
anything."
Ron was right. Neville was dreamily staring into space, Seamus and Dean were
swapping Chocolate Frog Cards under their table and Pavarti and Lavander were
whispering and giggling. Hermione glared at them all and took a deep breath, no
doubt to start lecturing Ron and Harry on why they should take their work more
serious when the door to the classroom was thrown open and banged against the
wall.
Black cloak billowing, Snape strode in with a look on his face as if Neville
had melted another cauldron. His black eyes bore into Quirrel, who had jumped
slightly in his chair and was now rapidly paling under Snape's unforgiving
stare. Harry could really commiserate with him.
"S-s-severus..."
"We need to talk, now. Class dismissed."
Not one student waited for Quirrel's approval. Books, quills and parchments
were hastily stuffed into bags and everybody practically ran for the door.
Snape stalked threateningly towards Quirrel and despite Ron's quiet protest
Harry started to loiter around, packing his back with excruciating slowness.
What had Snape in such an angry mood? He looked murderous and Harry felt pity
for poor Quirrel. Was he save? Could he be left alone with the Potion's
Professor? Harry strained his ears in order to pick up pieces of Snape's
furious whispering.
"It's gone... still there yesterday... where is it... don't want me as your
enemy..."
Suddenly, Snape grabbed Quirrel by the throat, lifted his wand and intoned
darkly: "Legilimens!"
Quirrel's eyes were wide and glazed over, his mouth opened in a silent scream.
Abruptly Snape let go of Quirrel who fell against his desk and gasped: "T-t-
told you... w-w-was teaching a-a-all day... n-n-nothing to d-d-do with..."
"Silence!", Snape barked, "If what you say and what I have seen is true you
surely won't object to a search of your chambers."
"O-o-of course n-n-not, I h-h-have nothing t-t-to hide..."
"We'll see.", the greasy haired man concluded silkily and whirled around.
"Potter! Weasley! What are you still doing here? Ten points from Gryffindor
from each of you and now get out!"
Both boys raced out, terrified. They only stopped to gasp for breath when they
had managed to get one floor between themselves and Snape.
"Blimey, what was that all about?", Ron inquired.
"I have no idea, but it sounded like Snape was threatening Quirrel."
"Yeah, I figured that out for myself."
The two friends remained silent for a long moment, trying to make sense of what
had occurred in the Defence classroom.
"D'you reckon he is okay?", Ron finally asked, "Quirrel, I mean."
Was he? Snape had looked murderous. And what did he say? Something was gone and
Quirrel said that he had nothing to do with it.
"I don't know, Ron. What was this spell Snape used?"
"I have no idea, Legi-, Legi- something. Maybe Hermione knows."
"Right, look let's find Hermione and tell her. Maybe she has any idea at all."
===============================================================================
 
While Quirrel had been indeed teaching classes all morning, one rat had entered
the forbidden third floor corridor only armed with the Professor's wand and a
piece of parchment containing instructions written by his Lord.
The deeper Peter entered into the dungeons, the more convinced he became that
his Lord was a genius. He had correctly anticipated every single obstacle and
given precise orders on how to circumvent them.
He had put the three headed dog to sleep and used fire against the Devil's
Snare. He had used the advanced Summoning spell the Dark Lord had written down,
even though he needed several tries to get it right, to get the correct key and
advance to the next room. He had beaten the giant chess set -how on earth did
the Dark Lord even know which moves to use and how the enchanted pieces would
counter?-, and he had knocked out the troll with his own club. Snivellus'
riddle had not been a problem, he had simply grabbed the bottle his Lord had
noted down and went through the flames.
The last room was empty, except for a giant claw-footed mirror standing in the
middle. Peter glanced down at the parchment.
If the mirror is there, stand in front of it and wish to find the stone.
The stone. Peter had no idea what stone only that he had to find it. Find it
and bring it to his Lord. He stood in front of the mirror and saw nothing
except his own reflection staring back at him. Slowly shapes began to form in
the background, with a squeak he jumped around but there was nothing. Meanwhile
the shapes in the mirror took form, humans, three men and one woman. Slowly
they became clearer. When Peter recognised them he screamed.
James, Lily, Sirius and Remus stood at his side and they were all smiling and
laughing with his own grinning self.
No, no, no.
The room remained empty but the James in the mirror slung one arm around
Peter's shoulder, while Sirius flicked his hair back and Remus sniggered. Lily
watched them with a smile on her sweet face.
No, no, no. Stop. It hurt. It hurt to see his friends, it hurt to see them
happy and alive, laughing and joking with him. He wanted it to stop. He just
wanted to find the blasted stone and get out of here.
The image in the mirror changed and his reflection stood alone again. It winked
at him and put one hand into its pocket. When the reflection pulled it out, it
had a red stone in its hand. It grinned and put the stone back into the pocket.
Peter froze. He could feel a weight in his own pocket. His real pocket. Witch a
shaking hand he reached inside and pulled out the red stone he had seen in the
mirror. It was coloured like a ruby and roughly the size of his palm. This had
to be the stone his Lord had wanted him to find. Well, he did. Now he could
leave, leave this mirror and the haunting images behind him. He would leave the
castle immediately and go to the place the Dark Lord had told him about. A
muggle village. There he would wait for the Dark Lord. Peter turned around. He
did not dare to look into the mirror again.
===============================================================================
 
In a quiet corner in the Gryffindor common room three friends sat after dinner
to discuss, yet again, the events of today's DADA class. When Ron and Harry had
found Hermione after class and told her about what happened she had been as
confused as the boys.
"I never heard of this spell either."
Ron had paled: "What if it's something really dark and forbidden?"
Hermione had bitten her lip, "I don't think so... look I mean Snape is a
teacher..."
"But,", Harry had interjected, "he was threatening Quirrel and you didn't see
him. It was scary."
Ron had nodded his head emphatically. They kept their discussion going
throughout the rest of the day, without coming to any conclusion. When dinner
rolled around the news had spread and everybody was whispering and throwing
glances at Snape's and Quirrel's empty seats.
Back in the common room speculations were still going strong but when Fred and
George started one of Dr. Filibuster's enchanted firecrackers, most students
decided that they would rather celebrate the start of the holidays than
speculate about Snape and Quirrel.
There was a lull in their conversation and Harry was watching Percy trying to
stop the twins from causing more mayhem, when Ron suddenly exclaimed: "Maybe
Snape offed him and that's why he hasn't been at dinner."
"Ron!", Hermione exclaimed scandalized.
Ron only grinned. "Aw, come on he did. And then he chopped him up and used his
body parts for potion ingredients."
Harry laughed. Hermione tried not to and failed.
"You are unbelievable, Ronald."
He mock bowed. "Thank you."
Later, while Harry and Ron played a game of chess and Hermione sat reading by
the fire, Harry resolved that he'd better stay out of whatever transpired
between Quirrel and Snape. Snape already hated him enough. And if Snape had
really cut him up and used in his potions they wouldn't find him anyway.
===============================================================================
 
Quirinius Quirrel was glad. Glad that his Lord had protected his mind with
false images when Snape had attacked, glad that he had nothing incriminating in
his chambers and glad that Dumbledore seemed to consider the possibility that
someone from outside the castle had entered and potentially stolen the stone.
Most of all he was glad that he could leave. The plan was clear. He would meet
Wormtail, who had the stone and then, under the Dark Lord's supervision, would
brew a potion and prepare a ritual. He was intrigued. It sounded like nothing
he had ever even heard of before and he was a Ravenclaw. If all went according
to plan, the Dark Lord would rise again in his own body. And Quirrel's would be
his own again.
Naturally, he was afraid. Although the Dark Lord had never said so, but Quirrel
suspected that he might die when his master would leave his body. But he had no
choice, it wasn't like he could run and if he survived... He would learn magic
from the Dark Lord himself. Magic he could only dream about. It was worth the
risk.
When he had left Hogwarts behind him and entered the road leading down to
Hogsmead, he felt his master take control of his body and with a crack they
apparated. He came to, standing before a muggle house, which had been long ago
perhaps been stately and grand. Now ivy snaked up the facade and the doors and
windows were barred with wooden planks. The walls were of a dull grey colour
and the grass and hedges were overgrown.
"Welcome, Quirinius.", the Dark Lord said amused, "Welcome to my father's
house."
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!