Is Horcrux Hunting Considered a Team Bonding Activity?

July 10th, 1992, Friday

The hallway was long, dark and cold. It seemed to suck out any of the warmth that entered. A chill ran down Quirinus’ back, and he had to suppress the urge to run back into the entry room. He turned around to glance at the door, desperate for what felt like his last look at light. But the door shut, and he was alone. Quirinus took another step down the hall, then another and then another. Slowly his nerves began to calm as the situation began to feel more normal. It was when Quirinus felt that he could do this, that an impossibly boney, and impossibly heavy, hand passed through his shoulder. His confidence withered and died a very pitiful death, as he turned to see a Dementor looming over him.

If you were to ask Quirinus, the very high-pitched noise that rang through the hall was a very squeaky door. In fact, this is what he will tell Professor Flitwick when asked. The Dementor tilted it’s head at him, before turning and slowly drifting down the hallway. It stopped before making a ‘come along’ gesture with it’s hand. Quirinus laughed nervously and apologized, as he forced himself down the hallway.

The Dementor drifted slowly down the hallway, with Quirinus trailing about six feet behind it. Quirinus’ hope that the six feet would be enough distance to, at least, hamper the effects of the Dementor was sadly misplaced. It still felt like he’d never see the sun again.

When they came to the door, it felt like it had taken far too long and not long enough to arrive. The Dementor tilted its head at the door and then at Quirinus. It was an old wooden door. Magic barely visible in the wood. It had ring door handles, and oddly enough, no locks. Quirinus ran a hand through his hair, trying to get in character. The Dementor tilted it’s head again, in what Quirinus could only presume was annoyance. Quirinus rolled his shoulders and tugged open the door.

Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, was charming. Sure, he was genocidal, manipulative, cruel, and had a tenuous (at best) grip on reality. But no one could deny that he was charming. All smiles and beauty, he was hard to ignore, and easy to listen to. It was easy to listen to him, because the words he said were so reasonable. So reasonable, until slowly, very slowly, the words became some of the most horrible, unreasonable words to be spoken. But the transition was slow, and the turn from young Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort was reasonable, understandable even. It was like boiling frogs.

Now Bellatrix Lestrange, like far too many, found Voldemort just as charming, and just reasonable. Not because of any slow boil, mind you, that woman leapt straight into the fire with little caution. She heard his words for their cruelty, their savagery, and did not care. That glint in Lord Voldemort’s eye? Bellatrix Lestrange did not assume charm or wit, like most, but instead called it the malice it was. She reveled in it all. The death, the destruction, the cruelty, Bellatrix Lestrange had, simply put, found her calling. The murder and maiming of those ‘lesser beings’ was a task she delighted in. Delighted in so much that Lord Voldemort had taken notice. He rewarded and elevated her, right to his side. As his loyal and chief servant, Bellatrix’s name was almost as feared as his. Almost.

And Bellatrix Lestrange rose and rose, but like Icarus she fell. She fell and fell and landed in Azkaban. And she crumbled into the sea.

Bellatrix Lestrange did not think on this, as she sat in her uncomfortable, wooden chair. No, she thought of murder. To be more specific, she thought of murdering the next Dementor to float in. She’d had, as far as Azkaban days went, an average day. She’d woken up, eaten her probably porridge, most definitely an edible mush of some sort. She’d bickered with Rodolphus for around an hour before exchanging blows. Ate her second serving of hopefully porridge. And she’d spent the next half hour moping about the cruelty of her fate. Now, if she had, say, an at least halfway developed sense of morals, she’d probably agree that wasting away in Azkaban was well deserved. But she didn’t. So it was, in her eyes, quite the injustice. The fact that literally no one, apart from Cissy (who really only visited once a year and had yet to bring her son, darling little Draco, with her, despite Bellatrix’s requests), visited her, had no bearing on the perceived injustice of it all. According to Bellatrix, her cohorts and family were merely biding their time. For what? Bellatrix did not know. But they, along with her Lord, would come for her. Eventually.

Bellatrix’s average Azkaban day turned into one quite unusual, in that, in the middle of her moping, a trio of Dementors had come to her cell. This was quite odd, as normally the Dementor’s paid her no mind, due to the fact that they’d long sucked out any joy she might’ve had (And that Bellatrix made a very conscious effort to be as miserable as possible, it made her harder to feed on). Her day got even stranger as the Dementors opened her cell. Ah, she thought, they’re here to Kiss me. So naturally Bellatrix began to kick and fight and curse (the swearing kind, tragically not the spell kind), because, despite her miserable existence, Bellatrix Lestrange did not want to lose her soul. Even stranger, they did not Kiss her. They just... grabbed did not describe the sensation. It was more like they plucked her up by her soul (the invasion made her wail) and dragged her to this room. This dingy, quiet, little room. All she knew was that she wasn’t getting the Kiss, because this was the Visitation Room.

So Bellatrix sat in her splintery little chair, plotting, planning. She’d kill the next Dementor that’d enter, before making a dash for freedom. Because there was at least another month until Cissy’s next visit, and no one visited her. Bellatrix kept her eyes locked on the door and her body tense. The door did not open. She dug a claw-like nail into the table’s grooves. The door still did not open. But then, there was a shuffling behind the door. And then, then-

The door opened with a creak and Bellatrix got ready to lunge, but, but it wasn’t a Dementor that entered. With smooth graceful movements, a young man, closer to a boy, entered. He was small and trim, with long, dark robes that were tailored to fit. The robes were double layered, with sleeves a lighter grey, and the outer robes folded over each other and with detailed embroidery along the outer edges. She couldn’t see his face, as the boy kept his back to her while he shut the door. She thought that the elegance in his movements were familiar. But then he turned. And Bellatrix thought to herself that he was quite pretty. Freckles splashed across dark skin like stars, curly hair tied up, and a familiar (beloved) glint in his eyes. Bellatrix gasped. Lord Voldemort tilted his head to the side, and a smile, that didn’t quite fit his young form, slashed its way across his face.

“Lord Voldemort!” Bellatrix stood before collapsing to her knees. Brushing her matted hair out of her face and adjusting her prison robes. She was improper. She should apologize. But, but, her Lord laughed. It was softer and far gentler than what it usually was. She raised her eyes to his and he strode across the room, heels clicking against the floor, until he was a hair’s breadth away.

His hand cupped her cheek. It was soft. It was warm. And despite her best efforts, Bellatrix leaned into it, closing her eyes. Without her say so, her hand came up, resting against Lord Voldemort’s. And they stood there like that, together. It was a blissful few minutes. And it felt like Bellatrix could breathe again. She soaked up his presence, until he tilted her head up. She met his eyes. There was a foreign tenderness in them. Bellatrix did not care. And, as if he’d given a command, she rose. Lord Voldemort's eyes scanned her form, there was only that gentle tenderness. He hummed to himself. But he met her eyes again, his expression full of nothing but tender fondness.

“I am,” he paused, “glad to see my favoured still remembers me,” Lord Voldemort’s voice was, softer, somehow. And his words sounded strange too, like he was used to a different way of pronouncing them.

“Oh, oh mi 'Lord, I’d never, I’d never-” He pressed a finger to her lips,

“And I’ve never doubted, but, perhaps, it might be best, if we kept our...” another pause, as if looking for the right word, “relationship, and my... identity, to ourselves. I imagine the Dementors would not appreciate my presence here.”

Bellatrix gasped and nodded; she murmured her apologies as she raised his knuckles to her lips.

Internally Quirinus recoiled and tried to fight off the steadily rising nausea. Merlin, he’d rather be anywhere. Now, Quirinus wasn’t the sort to skirt away from danger, quite the opposite in fact! It was a trait he’d discovered during sabbatical. All of the running and fighting and barely outwitting had seemingly awoken something in him. A special sort of thrill, a spark that only came from dancing with death (it had been on Quirinus’ heels all his life anyways, why not have some fun?). But this? Sure, it was dangerous, but it was a danger that Quirinus found disturbing. It made him feel dirty in some sort of way, it made him feel wrong. To be frank Quirinus didn’t want to manipulate Bellatrix Lestrange. Sure, she was the torturer of the Longbottoms, murderer of many and utterly devoted to Lord Voldemort. And Quirinus knew the reverence she held, saw the worship in her eyes. Could remember how she clutched at his- (not Quirinus’- his) robes, could remember the feel of her lips against his (Voldemort’s) knuckles. Quirinus could still see it, the frenzied devotion glittering in her wild eyes, in her cracked lips, parting over yellowed lips, in the barest approximation of a smile. It felt cruel to use this. Perhaps deserved, but still cruel. It’d be kinder to forcefully extract and kill her.

But this was the easiest option. The safest. So, Quirinus swallowed his nausea, and didn’t change his gentle, if slightly patronizing expression. With an ease that Quirinus did not naturally possess, he removed his hand from Bellatrix’s and placed it on her arm, leading her back to the table to continue their... conversation.

Bellatrix moved to her seat, head resting on hand, and expression eager. Quirinus kept his movements graceful and methodical, Voldemort moved like a dancer, every action precise and with purpose. The first thing Quirinus noticed upon sitting, was that the chairs were uncomfortable. And splintery. Presumably, meant to discourage visitors. He smoothed out his robes and sat, leaning back ever so slightly. Perfectly comfortable. Voldemort did not complain about splinters.

“Now,” he reached for Bellatrix’s other hand, “I’m sure you’re wondering why the... new look, my dear,”

The knowledge that Voldemort used pet names for Bellatrix Lestrange was, simultaneously, amusing and horrifying.

Bellatrix gave no answer, but her eyes widened like she realized that was a question she should have. Quirnus gave her hand a little squeeze. “After my removal from power I spent many years wandering the Wilds of the World, looking for a body to inhabit. I’m sure you understand I had to be picky about such things after all, I was not going to inhabit some Muggle! But, to my luck, a young wizard eventually came my way, and now-”

Quirinus chuckled, gesturing to his body, “I’m here now.”

Bellatrix bared her teeth. Wait- no, that’s a smile. Dear Merlin. “Ah, well, it is nothing like your old face mi’ Lord, but it is not a bad looking one,”

In his head, Quirinus gags. His body barks out a laugh, “I suppose, I suppose. But Bellatrix, I need your assis-”

“In killing that wretched little boy!” The not quite joy is gone now. Replaced with something far more predatory. “I’ll make him pay mi’ Lord, he’ll suffer and burn, that nasty horrible, little-”

“Bellatrix.” he doesn’t raise his voice, just hardens it. The effect is instant. Like a dog struck, Bellatrix looks down. “Don’t be rash, dear. I know you’re better than this. The Potter child is inconsequential. It is the cup I need your help with.”

She looks up and tilts her head. “Is my vault not secure enough for you, mi ‘Lord?”

Quirinus waves his hand, and explains. He does not doubt that Bellatrix has provided the best security she could, it is that he, Voldemort, is weak. Bellatrix gasps. She looks offended at the notion. Quirinus leaned in.

“I am admitting this to you, because you are the only one I’d ever trust with this information,” Quirinus’ skin prickled as he watched her preen at the praise and how her eyes lit up. “Coming back from death is a draining this, dearest. If I were to merge my soul with the horcrux you guard, I should regain my strength.”

Bellatrix nods, serious. “What do you need of me?”

“I need you to sign a waiver, stating that you grant me, Quirinus Quirrell, and my accompaniment, access to your vault.” at the raise of her eyebrow at the word ‘accompaniment’, Quirinus continues, “I have gained some allies as of late, I assure you that you’re still my favoured.”

Bellatrix seems satisfied with that explanation. She nods. “Of course, of course, mi' Lord, whatever you need>”

He pointedly does not shudder at the glint in her eyes, the hunger he sees, the viciousness that’s eager to break free. Instead Quirinus nods, approvingly. And reaches into his robe pocket. A statement of consent. He slides it to her, alongside some ink and quill. There is not a moment of hesitation as she signs. The room is filled with the scrawling of quill on scroll. And Quirinus stares at her words. Making sure nothing is hidden in her writing, in case she saw through him. Bellatrix sets down the quill and stares at him. Desperate, seeking. He takes the scroll, his own eyes searching, for a glint of magic that should not be, an incorrect word, but Quirinus finds none. Only then does he give Bellatrix the approval she craves.

Tucking the scroll and writing implements back in their waterproof pocket, Quirinus makes his way to Bellatrix’s side. And despite his every inclination, Quirinus presses his forehead against her’s. Bellatrix leans in, her hands coming to grasp the sides of his face. It is intimate. Quirinus so badly wants to vomit, but he looks at her, with all the tenderness he can muster, fingers caressing her cheek;

“I will be back soon, Ma Belle.” And she stares at him, with hope and such keen adoration in her eyes. Quirinus pulls himself away and heads to the door, back straight and movements smooth.

It takes far too much effort to not scramble out and slam the door. But he doesn’t. And when the door shuts, Quirinus slumps against it. Feeling terribly ill. Bellatrix Lestrange is a horrible person. The fact that this was for the greater good does nothing to mitigate the fact that what Quirinus did to her was a cruelty. The fact that Voldemort treated her no different does nothing for Quirinus. Voldemort did not care for her. He saw Bellatrix’s reverence of him, the hunger in her eyes and used it to his advantage. And Quirinus did the same. His knees scream in pain as he slams to the ground, his hands dig into his sleeves, and Quirinus can feel the sting of tears prickling in his eyes. Something digs its claws into his stomach, something slams against his lungs, and Quirinus can’t fight his nausea and Quirinus can’t breathe, can’t scream, can only sit, crouched upon Azkaban’s floor, heaving. The tears are falling now, hot against his skin. And if he thinks, he would notice the noises coming from his mouth. Keening, desperate, like an animal dying in a snare. But he cannot hear the noises, he is only aware of the taste in his mouth and the horrible knowledge of what he’s done.

And it is almost a relief when The Dementor comes. It’s cold creeps its way down Quirinus’ back and he jolts, slamming back into awareness. He scrambled to his feet, narrowly missing the bile on the floor. He stared at it. The Dementor stared at it. He supposed he was lucky; he only had some cream crackers. At the least, there wasn’t much of a mess. Quirinus sent the Dementor a sheepish glance. For a creature that didn’t have a face, it could sure emote disdain. Stuttering weak apologies, Quirinus gives a wave of his hand, spelling away the mess.

All the Dementor does in response is point down the hall. Quirinus goes. Well, his body goes. Everything has shifted from a keen awareness of the world to an odd fuzzy state. He sees, he feels, he hears, but nothing connects. His body tugs the door open, dimly aware that the walk was shorter than before, and enters the lobby. And then he is surrounded. His coworkers’ faces seem concerned. He thinks someone is yelling. (Oh hell, bloody Dementors must’ve fed?!) Their mouths’ move and words come out, but they don’t register, bouncing off his head like pebbles against a tree. (What happened? Are you okay? Quirinus? Quirinus!) Quirinus doesn’t think he wants to answer them right now anyways. Professor McGonagall motions for them to back off. She wraps an arm around his shoulders and begins to lead him out. Through the fuzz, Quirinus thinks she says something about leaving. He’s okay with that. He wants to leave. They make their way to the doors, its enchantments and charms glisten. It’s pretty. They stop and Quirinus only focuses on the door. And then hands, large and calloused, thrust a chocolate bar into his own. Quirinus runs his fingers over the wrapper, it crinkles. And somebody, presumably whoever handed him the chocolate bar pats his back. He stumbles forward. And clutches the chocolate bar against his chest. The Ministry Official, Lucretia (?), is in front of him now. She’s looking him dead in the eyes. Worn face marred with concern. (Kid, kid c’mon now. Y’ve gotta eat it) He blinks. Lucertia makes a grab for the bar. He jerks back. Lucretia looks at someone else. (I don’ think he’s been fed on or anything, jus’ out of it) There is talk Quirinus is shoved to the center of the group, Professor Sprout rests her hand on his back. The door opens. And they’re led to the boat. All the while, Quirinus fiddles with the chocolate bar. It crinkles, and the metal sheen of the wrapping is quite pretty. The sound of the sea rushes to his ears. And the gales blow away the fuzz.

Quirinus blinks rapidly. Head clear now. And awareness surges. Professor Sprout’s arm rests over his shoulders, pressing him against her body. She’s warm. Quirinus raises a hand to rub at his face. Dried tears? But the motion signals his arrival into awareness, and every one’s head turns to him. All eyes are on Quirinus. Even Lucretia’s. No one says anything, they all just stare and Quirinus stares back. Brows are furrowed with concern. Eyes shine with worry.

“You all right love?” Professor Sprout’s voice cuts through the silence (as silent as the sea will allow). Quirinus jolts and turns to meet her eyes. They are dark and warm.

“Oh-uh ye-yeah. I din-dinnae kn-know wh-what ca-came oer me. I’m s-sorry." He honestly didn’t. Admittedly, the fuzz and disconnect wasn’t new or anything, but he still didn’t know where they came from. Apparently, his answer was acceptable, as there was a silent breath of relief, and everyone went back to what they were doing before.

But... out of the corner of his eye, Quirinus could see Professor McGonagall and The headmaster exchange looks. The Headmaster nodded. And Quirinus felt like he missed a very important conversation.