What they fear, they seek to control
Quirrell stumbled into the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, his breaths ragged and his limbs trembling. His usually pristine robes were singed, and a thin line of blood dripped from his temple. The encounter with Harry Potter had left him shaken in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
It wasn’t the power of the boy’s spells or his quick reflexes that unsettled Quirrell most—it was the sheer coldness in his eyes. That detached, unflinching gaze belonged to someone far older than eleven.
He collapsed against a tree, clutching his wand tightly as his mind raced.
"Fool," came the cold, sharp voice from within him, echoing in his skull.
"My Lord," Quirrell gasped, his voice a pitiful whimper. "I—I underestimated him. He—"
"You failed." Voldemort’s voice was venomous, each word dripping with barely restrained fury. "You had him in front of you, vulnerable, and yet you let him walk away."
Quirrell flinched, his head pounding as Voldemort's presence surged forward, a dark and oppressive weight pressing down on his thoughts.
"I could have taken him," Voldemort hissed. "I could have ended it all tonight if you weren’t so weak."
Quirrell tried to steady his breathing. “He wasn’t... normal, my Lord. That boy... he didn’t react like a child. He didn’t fear me. He—”
“Silence!” Voldemort’s voice cut through Quirrell’s protests like a blade. “Do not make excuses for your incompetence. I saw through your eyes, Quirinus. I saw the way he fought, the way he moved.”
There was a pause, and Quirrell felt the temperature around him drop, the forest growing unnaturally silent.
“There’s something different about Harry Potter,” Voldemort mused, his tone shifting to one of cold curiosity. “Something... unnatural. That kind of detachment, that calculation—it’s not human for a child. It’s as if he’s been forged by something beyond pain and fear.”
Quirrell shivered, his mind replaying the encounter in the chamber. “He knew about the mirror,” he said quietly. “He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask questions. And the way he looked at me—”
Voldemort interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. “He’s hiding something. That much is clear. The question is... what?”
Quirrell hesitated before speaking again. “Should I—should we try again, my Lord? Perhaps I could lure him into a trap or—”
“No,” Voldemort snapped. “You’ll stay hidden for now. Your failure tonight has exposed us. Dumbledore will tighten security, and the boy will be on guard.”
Quirrell let out a shaky breath, relief washing over him.
“But mark my words, Quirinus,” Voldemort continued, his tone icy. “We will uncover his secrets. Whatever makes Harry Potter so... unique will be mine to exploit. He cannot hide forever.”
Quirrell nodded weakly, his body trembling as Voldemort’s presence receded slightly, leaving behind a suffocating silence.
As he slumped against the tree, his thoughts swirling with fear and shame, Quirrell couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something else—something Voldemort hadn’t acknowledged.
It wasn’t just Harry’s detachment or skill that unnerved him.
It was the boy’s presence.
There was a darkness in Harry Potter that Quirrell couldn’t quite place, a shadow that loomed behind his cold green eyes. And though he’d never admit it aloud, Quirrell had felt a chill crawl down his spine when Harry had stared him down in that chamber.
It was as if, for a moment, Quirrell had been the prey.
Far away, in the cold chambers of his own mind, Voldemort brooded. Harry Potter was an enigma, a riddle he hadn’t expected. But Voldemort prided himself on his ability to uncover and exploit the hidden truths of others.
He would figure out what made the boy tick. And when he did, he would destroy him.
For now, though, he would wait.
Patience, after all, was a weapon in its own right.