The Lord Who Lived
Quirrell knew from the moment he woke up that it would be a Big Day. He felt crucial, as if everything relied on him. It was the perfect day for planning an event, writing a notice signed by him, or assigning roles to everyone.
Like any morning, he paid a fellow teacher a visit. He arrived at sunrise, so the other teacher knew it was no ordinary stop over. Today was a perfect morning for hurrying round to McGonagall, and saying, "Very well, then, I'll tell Albus," and then going to Dumbledore, and saying "Minerva thinks — but perhaps I'd better see Filius first."
It was a Captainish sort of day, when everybody said, "Yes Quirinus" and "No, Quirinus" and waited until he had told them.
It might have had something to do with how he organised everyone meticulously, but Quirrell didn't have many friends among the faculty. Quirrell was a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which he liked awfully, because his students had to crane their necks to look up at him.
The atmosphere of Hogwarts remained rather subdued, due to the ongoing war, but that suited Quirrell perfectly because each day provided an opportunity to share news about it. To know something that others did not.
Presently Quirrell positioned himself at the front of his classroom, his back to the tall windows overlooking the grounds. Had he faced the window that morning, he might have found it harder to focus on his first years.
Owls, but thousands of them, hurricaned past. Everyone erupted into whispers, and craned their heads excitedly to look.
Quirrel said, “Yes, yes,” with an indulgent smile, not realising they weren’t looking at him. “Good morning to you, good morning. You’ve had me since September, you know? Ha, ha!”
He shook hands with his students, and patted the head of one girl, nodding importantly. “Please, sit back down. You have all year to see me…” And, "Ah, indeed, here I am," he said kindly, to the smallest student.
As eleven o’clock came round Quirrell abandoned his classroom before his students had packed up their things, so he could rush down the desks and out the door, looking like he had somewhere pressing to be; rushing with purpose made anyone look important.
He hurried through the corridors, and by-and-by came to the staff room where his colleagues spent their break. There seemed to be even more of them about than usual this morning, gossiping over nothing. Nodding to a teacher or two, he pretended he was too busy to shake hands. Instead, Quirrell waved over his shoulder, and was gone; leaving them with (he hoped) such an air of excitement and I-don't-know-what behind him, they would surely be talking about him for hours to come; about how busy Quirrell looked and how strange it was that he should be rushing about and where do you say he was going — but Quirrell was gone.
Quirrell sprinted to his next class, feeling more important every minute. Gathering his breath, he set his fifth years a quiz, so he could compose and position himself at his desk, intellectually; clearly thinking hard, his quill pressed to his lips with a narrowed look of importance. He had read a great many books. With a grave, thin face, he fell dreamily to considering what the reviews might say, his life’s book, and what other, renowned authors, might say on its front cover.
But in the Great Hall at lunch, his book was driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat at his usual place, he couldn’t help but notice there seemed to be a lot of students running back and forth. Clutching newspapers, carrying letters, stuffing Yorkshire Puddings into mouths and they squeezed into Houses they really probably shouldn’t be at, urging friends to slide up the bench. And the Professors did nothing.
Then, in the corridor outside his next class of the day, as a group of students squeezed through the door (Quirrell arrived, always, just after everyone else) he heard two girls whisper:
“You-Know-Who, that's right, that's what I heard—”
“—yes, the Potters, everyone’s talking about it—”
Quirrell stopped dead. Fear flooded him. Could someone have known about something important — before him...? He looked ahead to the open classroom door, as if he wanted to enter it, but thought better of it.
He hurried to a broom closet, snapped at a lost first-year, and locked the door behind him.
His heart pounded as he reached for the wall, then his wand, when he hesitated. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. No, he was overreacting. You-Know-Who's name had been whispered in fearful tones for years now; surely this was just another of the same dry, villainous deeds. There was no need to panic. He still knew all the real stuff that was going on.
You-Know-Who did lots of things, and no one thing more special than another; Quirrel would know if he'd done something different. He'd know how it happened, when it happened, and if it happened. Whatever It was.
He put his wand away, trying to convince himself that everything was under control.
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on his classes that afternoon, and when the last bell donged at six o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone at the top of the Grand Staircase.
“Watch where you’re going!” he grunted, as the boy stumbled and fell. He had to be a NEWT student for his age; Quirrell vaguely recognised him as one of the Muggleborns. He didn’t seem at all upset at being knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide grin and he said, as if it were great news, “Not at all Professor, nothing could upset me today. I wager you’re celebrating, too!”
The boy’s beaming smile fell from his face; for Quirrell had fisted his shirt and dragged him close.
“Of course I’m celebrating,” snapped Quirrell. “And I know exactly what I’m celebrating, but do you? ”
The boy, cross-eyed, said, “Err.”
“Well?”
“What do you mean, Professor?”
“Do you even know what you are celebrating? Go on, you might as well tell me.”
“What everyone else is, sir.”
Quirrell looked at him, and wondered whether to push him down the stairs; but feeling he could always do it afterwards, he tried once more to find out what everyone was talking about, without conceding his ignorance.
“And do you think it wise, celebrating, with everything going on?”
“What’s going on, sir?”
For a while Quirrel couldn’t think of anything more; and then, all of a sudden, he had an idea.
“Exactly,” he said imperiously. “Precisely.” And he added, after a little thought, “This must be even greater than the last time it happened.” And he studied the boy’s face intently.
“It happened before?” the boy gasped. “With a baby?”
Quirrell’s mouth opened very slightly, and closed, and opened. “Yes. Of course a baby. Should you have not said it, I would. I always said so: that it would happen eventually, and with a baby.”
When he reached the Great Hall for dinner, he had worked himself into a sweat.
“But surely, Quirinius, you know the news? Surely you're not behind?”
The pompous, plump Pomona Sprout gave him a look that was not at all agreeable. A nasty, knowing look from beneath her flyaway hair and her silly straw hat.
"Now don't interrupt," he begged of them. "I know all about what's going on."
You may be sure Quirrell did not. Professor McGonagall peered at him over square glasses perched exactly on her crooked nose.
"Why don't you tell us, Quirinius. Given how big this news is, you must know everything."
"You flatter me," said Quirrel, with a vindictive politeness. "You first," he said doggedly.
"You first," piled in Pomona.
It was dreadful the way all four were looking at him, Professors Slughorn, Flitwick, McGonagall and Sprout, just as if they did not believe him.
"We are waiting," said Minerva impatiently.
"It's all very well to say you are waiting; so am I waiting."
"Quirinius you must live under a rock!" said Slughorn, jovial. "Where have you been, my dear boy?"
"Look here, all of you," said Quirrell threateningly. "I don't need telling. I was the one to tell it —whatever it is— before the morning. Who do you think did? I was first to know and I — I sent the owls. I told everyone."
Professor McGonagall gave Quirrel such a look, not an angry look: she showed him the deep disappointment that makes young men so ashamed of their actions, and turned to talk to Pomona, dismissing him utterly.
"Much good," he said bitterly, "my wearing myself to the bone trying to help fellows in this school."
Filius looked at him archly, and Quirrell wondered whether to push him off his chair.
Slughorn shook out his newspaper, and handed it to him.
November 1, 1981
Dark Lord Defeated: Unbelievable Turn of Events in Godric’s Hollow
By Barnabas Cuffe
In a shocking development, the reign of terror brought upon the wizarding world by You-Know-Who has come to an abrupt end. Late last night, on October 31, 1981, reports began pouring in of the Dark Lord's sudden defeat in the small village of Godric’s Hollow. While details are still emerging and somewhat surreal, one thing is clear: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been vanquished.
The events unfolded at the home of James and Lily Potter, who were tragically found dead at the scene. The Potters, well-known activists for their resistance to the Dark Lord, had been in hiding under the protection of the Fidelius Charm. However, it seems the charm was compromised, leading the Dark Lord directly to their location.
What happened next defies all known theory and has left the magical world reeling in disbelief. According to eyewitnesses and magical residue analyses conducted by the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement, You-Know-Who attempted to kill the Potters’ infant son, Harry. Yet, instead of killing the child, the curse rebounded upon the Dark Lord himself, leading to his destruction. Our sources confirm that young Harry survived the ordeal with nothing but a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Celebrations have erupted across the country. Ministry officials have been working tirelessly to manage the aftermath, ensuring the safety of the population and providing support to those affected by the Dark Lord's reign of terror.
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, issued an official statement this morning: "Today marks a new dawn for the wizarding world. We owe an immense debt of gratitude to the Potter family and all those who have stood against the darkness. Let us honour their memory by building a future free from it."
Of course, no event of this magnitude would be complete without a few hiccups. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes has been working overtime to modify the memories of Muggle trick-or-treaters who witnessed the fiery aftermath. One Muggle child was overheard saying, "Best haunted house ever!" as his parents were Obliviated.
Let’s raise our wands and toast to Harry Potter — the Boy Who Lived, the baby who gave us all a reason to hope, and the wizard who, before he could even say "Accio," managed to send the darkest of dark wizards packing.
Barnabas Cuffe, signing off. And remember, folks, keep your wands at the ready and your spirits high, because if a baby can defeat the Dark Lord, there’s no telling what the rest of us can do!
Quirrell’s heart sank. It simply lowered the whole tone of his day. People relied on him for news – to be told – what was he, if he could not tell people how it is, when it is, and what to do?
“I knew this yesterday. I was only jesting. What fun!” he said doubtfully.
Still they ignored him. Everyone was so busy celebrating they didn’t notice Quirrell at all.
"That's right," he muttered as he strode later through the dark halls, "Coddle yourselves! Don't listen to hard truths. Just debauch yourselves by mindlessly absorbing third party news. I am only the most connected individual here, only the most observant, most generous.”
"After all," muttered Quirrell to himself, hurrying about his room, pulling on clothes for the cold. "Albus depends on Me."
"He's fond of Minerva and Filius and Pomona, but they haven't any sense. Never notice things. And that Defence teacher is even newer than I and Binns is too dead to be of any help, so there's really nobody but Me, when you come to look at it. I'll go and see what they've missed. Albus will need the information they've failed to acquire, the real meat of it. The stuff they don't have, I always get. It's just the way of things."
He donned his travelling cloak, and left for Godric’s Hollow.
"Let them doubt!" he said recklessly. "Let them see!”
"I am the fastest at acquiring news, at telling people how it is, at knowing. Who cares if I was not first? It's the quality of the thing, not the quantity, oh yes… I'll have a depth of picture they can only dream of… that they will beg for! I'll have the fuller story, the secret to the Dark Lord's fall! Oh, yes. Professor Quirrell, none other…”
Anyone who knew Quirrel well could tell he would amount to great things. But each night he was visited by a dark, terrible anxiety. Quirrel worried that no one cared about Quirrell's importance.
And so Quirrel raced to the scene of the crime, to know what no one else knew.
Godric's Hollow was a village of wonky half-timbered mediaeval cottages. A stone wishing well sat in the middle; only a church, a post office, and fields surrounding.
It had snowed in the West Country. Aurors swarmed over the white village and the field beyond, and a crowd sprinkled over the hill like ants in a sugar bowl. A firework trailed through the night.
The aurors didn't let him near the blown-up house, so he hurried to the nearest landmark he was allowed: a sleepy cemetery, hidden by the church. Its fence bordered the Potters’ frozen vegetables.
Quirrel wove through the graves, his wand out and his eyes narrowed, casting diagnostics as close as he dared on the house above him. He had to duck a few times when an auror moved above; a gaping wound opened the house to the elements, through which snowflakes drifted. He could hear boots across the creaking floorboards.
For all his bluster he crept silently now; he seemed to realise he was being watched. Something felt wrong. Despite the crowd on the other side of the house, despite the noise they must surely be making, here in the cemetery, everything was muted, sucked up into the frigid night sky. A black vacuum through which pale stars shone, but weakly.
Small sounds came distinct: an owl from the trees hooted once; the crunch-crunch-crunch of his shoes on the snow.
Suddenly, all the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Ahead, a dark huddle of Yew trees arched over a shadow. A swirling, not-quite-there shadow, it roved over and back, flipped onto itself, round and round, a snake of smoke across the ground.
Quirrell slid something from his robe’s pocket. It seemed to be two small pebbles. He rubbed them between fingers and thumb, and did not take eyes from the shade.
Like a spark from a flint the Glowstones created a light; a pale wan light, but lumos-clear. It appeared in the air beside Quirrell like a will-o’-the-wisp, casting eerie blue across his face.
“Who’s there?” he called. “Come out, I say, you can’t be here. There’s an investigation on.”
The wisp floated closer to the Yew trees. As it did it grew progressively blacker, the globe of its luminance turning dull, until it bobbed by the trees, shining a worrying, dim grey.
Quirrell stiffened at the colour change. His breathing turned shallow, and fogged about his mouth. “I said show yourself!”
The shadow condensed and began to rise, until it stood amongst the Yews. It took Quirrell a while, blinking furiously, to understand what he was seeing; a figure, as though someone had cut a man-shape out of the night sky, carefully selecting a piece devoid of stars.
The Glowstone light should make sense of its shape, but Quirrel had to squint: the shadow rose higher, and higher. With his wand pointed, Quirrell stood tall, to demand, “What are you?”
“What am I?” a voice murmured in echo.
A long, thunderous moment of silence. The air trembled like a soap bubble. Its next words came, black and low, in a tone that carried an alarming sense of ritual.
“I am the serpent in the worm-cleansed skull. I am the living and I am the dead. I am the end of the fearful; and the beginning of the brave. I am the god of those who dare.”
The shade’s words lay under the skin of the visible world, dimpling the surface tension. The space where the voice came from felt infinite in its dimensions. It stretched out forever, in all directions. When the shadow spoke, the air about it throbbed with potential.
“I am the one who went beyond any before him; and ever after him. I am the one who transcended the body at the walls of the veil, under witness of the Black Gate; and before the eye of Horus. I am the haunt in the wind and the dusk of the burial chamber. I am the voice of your future and fate.”
“I am the Lord who flies from death. I am the Lord who Lived.”
The thing pulsed and expanded, flamed a plume of smoke-like tendrils.
“I am Lord Voldemort.”
Quirrell panted, his eyes wide, and throbbing with adrenaline, hardly believing his luck. Lord Voldemort spoke big words, but here the fellow was, all shadow and vapour – nothing!
"You fel creature! You shade villain! Come quietly, and I'll grant you mercy. It will be Professor Quirinus Quirrel who apprehends the Dark Lord. Oh, yes, they'll not mock me now..."
A slit in the region of a face finally opened and stretched, Cheshire-wide, a starless crooked smile. From that crevice, millennially stale, hot air escaped it.
"Is that so?" it crooned.
And then: it was upon him.
It descended in a shadowy dive, like an enchanted cloak, a living shroud, or some cruel Lethifold.
For a startling moment, Quirrell felt as though he had backed onto the edge of a sheer drop. Empty space before him, blackness behind. And all around deep, eerie silence. Voldemort's mind touched his with an emptiness he could feel, the cold horror-personality of nothingness.
Then Quirrel realised: no, not nothing. Heat so scalding it felt cold, like dunking one's head into boiling water. The Dark Lord's mind radiated incandescent fury. It opened up between them both, a vast wound beneath the skin.
Quirrell threw back his skull and screamed.
‘Do you really think that you are fighting me?’ Voldemort asked softly in his mind, as Quirrell's mental defences slammed home. He could feel the Dark Lord wrapping over and under his walls, plying them apart. ‘Your mind is so pliable, so soft. I could squeeze it to a pulp between two of my fingers.’
Quirrell had no breath to spare on trivialities or wit, to point out the Dark Lord possessed his shortage of fingers. A wave of energy hit him; it began at the top of his skull like a cracked yolk that slid down, white hot, over his neck to spread across his chest, and locked up his throat. His scream choked.
With a mental pause that carried over it an alarming sense of weight, as if Voldemort were mentally rearing back, like some cobra, his mind paused just above Quirrell's. Then he slammed forward and with a violent rip, and opened Quirrell's mind out like a flood.
The pain nearly ended it, but: a gasp torn from his curled lips, teeth bared, eyes slamming shut, Quirrell found that -
- the world vanished.
He had a last second glimpse of the cemetery blurring and felt like he fell, stomach dropping, so flushed with heat that his body was numb, he was floating, down and up and apart, even to the last moment where the air went white and he swore he was melting.
Then: there were images. Fast-motion snapshots as Voldemort rooted through his mind, faster than anyone should be able. Wave upon wave of images crashed in, of his life, and thoughts, and memories: bombarded by power, engulfed by a singing, screaming, crying blast of force.
He was propelled through the wormhole, all colour and light and sound and here was McGonagall mocking him; here was Dumbledore following the feast telling everyone Lord Voldemort had fallen, the world was changing; and Harry Potter.
The images came to a sudden, fixed halt. Voldemort zeroed in on the boy’s name in the paper, the lightning bolt scar, the detail, anything of note. Frustration filled Quirrell’s mind. Frustration but also — curiosity? A dreadful, black curiosity.
The Dark Lord scrutinised the scene at Quirrell’s own dinner, Dumbledore’s speech, Professor mcGonagall's voice trembling as she said to Pomona, 'He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke — and that's why he's gone.'
‘After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?’
'We can only guess,' said Horace. 'We may never know.'
Then Quirrel was soaring through time and space, lifting up from the ground as it —oh, Gods, what?— actually shrunk away from him. He wasn’t in his mind. He was in the air. His body hurtled in terrible acceleration, a hundred feet and rising, the graveyard vanishing below him, flickering city lights winking out as dazzling starscapes swept above. An ocean of night, stars blinded in their heat. Power poured off his puppeteered body as neon lights detonated behind his eyes, and he realised Voldemort was flying, genuinely flying , using his body but near burning out his core, eating up his magic —
Quirrell was thrown through the air, over terrain and hillside, at such speed his cheeks and skin moved, his teeth exposed, veined eyes wide in shock. And he thought he saw, before his mind gave out, a giant man on a motorbike, rumbling through the night.