Chapter 1
Sorting is nothing more or less than he remembers, right up until the hat rests on his head and hums. Harry tries very hard to clear his mind and think of nothing at all, but he's still pants at that kind of thing. The Sorting Hat laughs in his mind.
Oh Mister Potter, I'm afraid you're far from the first to attempt hiding yourself from me. Not the most successful attempt either, though I applaud your effort considering how truly lacking your training in the fine art of Occulumency is.
Harry scowls.
It's not an insult to you, merely an observation of our dear Severus Snape's teaching skills. Do you disagree?
No.
Harry would be lying if he claimed anything else.
I thought not. Now, that isn't terribly relevant, just a bit of chit chat between a thinking cap and one of the few students to don me twice.
I'm not the first?
Not at all! While far from routine, there have been plenty of situations that called for my judgement over the centuries. The current record for repeat Sortings is well into the double digits and I dare say you hope not to overtake it in pursuit of your goals.
Harry cringes at the thought. A second time is more than enough for him, thank you very much. He doesn't want to imagine what on Earth would require more than ten Sortings for a single student. Wouldn't the hat refuse after a point?
I would never. Such fascinating circumstances are welcome challenges to me... Though I dare say you are less of one than you used to be. No need to feel defensive, Mister Potter, there's nothing wrong with making things easy. This talk was more a matter of courtesy and curiosity than any real question that you belong anywhere but-"SLYTHERIN!"
The gobsmacked expressions that greet him when he pushes the brim up from his eyes forces his grimace into a hysterical little laugh of disbelief, and a few seconds drag on before McGonagall composes herself and takes the hat with a curt nod.
The hush breaks when someone at the Slytherin table whoops. The polite applause is a small fraction of what he'd gotten when sorted to Gryffindor, but it's understandable that a bunch of purebloods with plenty of relation to known Death Eaters wouldn't be falling over themselves to embrace the Boy-Who-Lived. His feet carry him to an empty place that crops up beside a beaming Draco Malfoy, yet his eyes are invariably pulled to the teacher's table; Dumbledore's smile hasn't faded as he thoughtfully strokes his beard, but it isn't the beaming approval that he had radiated before. There's some interested looks being exchanged at the table as well, and a few are aimed over at Professor Snape taking a deep drink from his goblet.
Bollocks. Harry could very much do without the scrutiny of a bloody spy on him, much less one so antagonistic, but if he can manage sneaking out of the dungeons as well as he can the tower, then it shouldn't be a problem. There's the impulse to flout the rules and break curfew every night to avoid the man, to hell with the house points and especially Slytherin's, and so it's with great reluctance that he reminds himself don't stick out.
Harry rolls his eyes before his professor turns around, reasonably sure that the undead parasite on the back of his head can see the disrespect, but it isn't as though Quirrel can react without giving anything away.
"Sir?" His young, high voice naturally sounds more unimposing than the one he'd had before, and he won't have to deal with it breaking embarrassingly for a few years now. Not much of a consolation prize for the undoing of his life really, especially if he thinks too much about it, so he doesn't.
He gets the feeling that if he scrutinizes any of this too hard everything will fall apart and have been nothing more than a vivid fantasy conjured up by his dying brain. Things aren't so terrible that he would hope for such a thing.
Harry waits for the man to pick up a particularly heavy tome from his desk with shaking fingers before speaking and idly wonders if even those tiny gestures were another part of the act, or if the broken man carrying Voldemort's spirit was already so badly off. It wouldn't be surprising if he were terribly ill already, considering that the madman is going to be drinking unicorn blood soon enough. Assuming he hasn't already begun. "As an expert on vampires," Harry begins with all the trusting curiosity an oblivious preteen can muster, "why do you think Voldemort didn't just turn into one of those for immortality? I mean he'd have needed to drink blood and stuff, which is super gross, but that can't be worse than getting himself blown up by a baby, right? It just seems awfully dumb of someone that was supposed to be an evil mastermind."
The way Quirrel goes completely still makes him think he hit a nerve, and he can't quite hold back a grin. "Oh right, sorry, I keep forgetting that people are afraid of his name! It just sounds so silly, giving himself a name like that. Don't wizards normally have last names too, same as muggles?" Here he gives a thoughtful pause while pretending not to notice the way Quirrel looks at him over his shoulder without a single muscle moving unnecessarily, every inch a calculating predator. It's genuinely fascinating to watch in the same way as watching a boa constrictor move with lazy grace for the first time. How did he miss this the first time around? "Unless that is his last name and he made everyone call him that since his first one was too bland sounding, like Billy, or maybe Tom. I don't think anybody could be afraid of a Tom."
There's a funny swoop in his stomach when Quirrelmort fixes his full gaze on him now, a bit like when Harry is cutting things a tad too close in a quidditch match and has yet another brush with a terrible death. Those are always the most satisfying games.
...he definitely shouldn't be meeting the wizard's eyes, but it's been a few seconds and he's certain the jig would already be up if Voldemort could slip into his mind now.
Can he not practice legilimency when he's sharing a body? From how he's spoken aloud to Quirrel before, they must not share a mind or else they would have simply had a silent convention in Quirrel's doubly occupied head. That might be messing with things, or it could be that Voldemort is conserving his energy. It is only the beginning of the semester.
Either way, it's a lucky break for Harry, who blinks innocently in the heavy silence. Even wearing someone else's body Voldemort has a truly piercing gaze. The man's lips press together a bit before he finally speaks. "V-v-v-vampires, they a- they aren't im-mmortal, t-t-they are already d-dead b-by defin- definition, a-as they are und-dead."
This might be the only useful thing he'd say about vampires the entire semester considering some of the blatantly inaccurate stories he had fed the class in Harry's first life; not much of it had stuck if he was honest with himself, having tuned so much of the lectures out, but there were contradictions from even the required DADA textbook's section on them.
Harry's childish delight doesn't fade a bit. It's too fun to prod at the mighty Dark Lord hitchhiking in disguise. "Oh? Well that makes sense. Still, wearing a cursed corpse that needs blood to keep from falling apart must not be as bad as actually dying, or else the vampires wouldn't keep trying to eat people, so he still made a poor choice don't you think?" Quirrel's darkening eyes narrow and manage menacing despite how they're sunken into his sallow face. Voldemort probably has loads of experience on that front what with his snakeface. "Since he still died," Harry clarifies unnecessarily, just to rub it in.
"Perhaps so. Some say he'll be coming back fully, and unlike the vampires, will walk in the sun once more, but these are mere scattered rumors."
Oh how he wants to ask Voldy why he isn't bothering with the stutter now. Is he so nonthreatening as a young boy that the pretense is less important? Considering the whole supposedly slaying Voldemort before he could walk thing, Harry would have thought that there would have been more wariness. Or maybe he's losing his patience. Harry can understand that.
He could comment on how the speech impediment has fallen away, the sheer drama of the declaration, or how the man looks far taller when he isn't playing at being scared of his own shadow, and nearly does so before the possessed Quirrel puppet continues. "Why the interest?"
Harry shrugs and heads for the door. "You're the Dark Arts teacher, aren't you?"
It's just as much a gamble as anything else now, Harry reasons to himself. It's certainly not unethical to experiment with Voldemort's death considering the whole infant murder attempt, genocide, and the countless killings to come regardless of whether or not Quirrel dies. He's done it once before, and with concerningly little consideration for having taken a life so young now that he's looking back on it. Then again, it could be argued he first killed in self defense as a baby already, so of course Dumbledore hadn't made a fuss about the Boy-Who-Lived giving a repeat performance.
Maybe it's because there's less urgency now, no immediate threat of true death hanging over him, that Harry hesitates. As far as he knows, Quirrel took on the spirit of Voldemort willingly enough, and he had to have known it would likely kill him. The strain alone would eventually do him in if Harry were to spare his life.
It's with this on his mind that he tests the protective magic his mother left for him.
Another class passes and Harry remains in the room as the other students filter out. His natural inability to fit in suits him here- nobody is concerned enough about him to linger and ask questions, except for his greatest enemy of course, who is currently paid to mind him. "M-mister Potter, y-you wouldn't want-t -t-to be late f-for your ne-ext-"
"I think I would, actually," Harry cuts in and pulls a folded piece of parchment from his robe to offer Professor Quirrel, just out of the man's reach. He doesn't move to take it. Bastard.
"A-ah, r-r-right, if y-you have- if you have any h-homework to turn in-"
Harry isn't sure if Voldemort has any knowledge of what protective magic clings to him or if he was sensibly trying to avoid being seen getting close to Harry so as to evade scrutiny. The trembling, frightened persona that is currently cowering behind his desk as though he were truly concerned that the offered slip of parchment might be cursed- that act would work like a charm in either circumstance if not for Harry's foreknowledge. Placing the dummy note on the desk with one hand, the other flies out to snatch Quirrel's thin wrist with a seeker's reflexes and smoothly intercepts him before the man can find it to be blank.
Tension rapidly fills the room, a sort of static that speaks of powerful yet unused magic welling up around them and skimming its heated touch over their skin. It tastes of bitter ozone, green wood, and ash. It isn't Voldemort's magic and it certainly isn't Harry's. The sense of it fills him with a dizzy familiarity that makes him want to bask in the iron-rich feeling of it.
Eyes darting up to Quirrel's, he can't quite help the laugh that bubbles out at the momentary shock that registers there before being overtaken by dark anger. Harry presses his thumb into the blue veins just under the surface of thin skin and wonders if the pulse is normal even as he shudders at the growing hum where they touch grows into an inaudible buzz of a trapped insect.
The first time he felt this, he chalked it up to the adrenaline rush of defeating a Dark Lord in his first year at Hogwarts. A figment of his imagination. This time, while still woefully uneducated on more complex magic, Harry immediately recognizes this as the final gift from his mother.
It's sweet melancholy to have evidence of her love staying with him beyond another grave.
The older man makes no move to pull away. His eyes bore into Harry's and silently convey a number of threats that the boy has heard many times before. "You know, I bet if I truly considered you a threat to me, this would hurt a lot more. Or at all, really." Pet project would be a more accurate description.
Quirrel is no longer there, or if he is, he's completely eclipsed by the force of Voldemort's personality rearing up to examine the threat evolving before him. For all that his body remains, the affectations have fallen away to reveal its true master. There's a calculating look to him that takes Harry by surprise in its familiarity, flinging him back into the memories of a boy orchestrating his escape from pages and into flesh once more. This Voldemort, shockingly, seems closer to the Tom Riddle he had met than the raving monster that Harry had met on the battlefield, making him far more dangerous. The magic gathered where their skin meets warms to just shy of uncomfortable as blood red eyes do their best to bore into him.
Harry smiles, and he can feel Voldemort's rage burning behind his scar. The adrenaline coursing through him dulls it and by now he can pick out the fierce scrutiny among what once had been only incoherently howling wrath.
Something else is thrumming too, dark and gratingly low, but the haze of magic around them is so thickly intermingled that he finds himself shivering and afraid to pry deeper for now, already so awash with something that he could be pulled under. It's a steady baseline played with the whole of his body, too-heavy and relentless beneath his skin and dancing behind his eyes. It's so familiar that he's unsure if there was ever time before it. Green so deep that it threatens to burn with its chill, high and sharp like the winter air above the Quidditch field as he tips into a deep feint, an acidic undertow in his magic-
Fingers tighten around his wrist in turn, and Harry blinks from his trance as Quirrel's bone grinding grip pulls him back into the moment. Oddly, the hatred lancing through his skull has shrunk, though he doesn't feel any less in danger for it. If anything, the calculating look Voldemort is giving him feels more unsettling than one of the usual murderous tantrums. Harry shivers once more and breaks the weighted silence between them. "Hey. That was weird right?"
A beat, then the man narrow's his eyes threateningly. This is more familiar territory. "What are you playing at, boy?" His grip doesn't let up despite Harry letting go and attempting to withdraw his hand.
Harry decides not to just bite Voldemort's hand, mainly because he does not want to know what possession tastes like, then shrugs, hoping the spark of amusement can be felt through the bond so that Voldemort can be pissed off at how unafraid he is. There's something hilarious about this absurd situation that Harry won't bother dissecting at the moment. "Life? I'm not very good at chess, wizarding or not." It's a toss up in his mind if he should simply punch Quirrelmort right in the nose for the simple satisfaction of it, or if he should give him a good kick, because he doubts that anything good is going to be waiting at the end of this situation anyway. His curiosity about what would happen in this particular circumstance has been mostly satisfied, and while the magic is absolutely fascinating, Voldemort's reactions are a let down in comparison. "Mostly I just wanted to see what would happen. You kind of suck at this. I mean it's impressive you can still so much as talk after being a sliver of a ghost by yourself for years, except for snakes maybe, but I think Filch could do a better jobbing of breaking through those defenses than you are."
The grip tightens enough to make him gasp, and because he's this deep already, he continues. "Seriously! If a first year can make it through them all with no planning, I don't see why you couldn't have managed already. A clever and determined muggle could have gotten the stone. Sure, Dumbledore probably would have noticed, but there's no way you don't have some kind of escape plans ready-"
Harry's jaw aches where Quirrelmort has seized it, forcing his face up towards him. Harry raises both eyebrows. "Where have you gotten this information, and what purpose do you have in showing your hand so early. If your answer is unsatisfactory, you will find that even hobbled I am more than capable of the killing curse."
Cheeks a bit smushed, Harry answers, "You mean like the one I reflected back at you? Sure, let's see if it works the same the second time around." Clearly taken aback for a second, Voldemort gives the impression that he is unused to being taken wrong-footed, and fully intends to take out his displeasure on someone soon. "Mostly I'm just bored. if you're going to kill me again can you get to it? Avada is a pretty okay way to die, nobody ever mentions that. I know you're probably thinking in terms of efficiency and difficulty in blocking over any kind of mercy, but it's practically friendly compared to plenty of the muggle ways, and we both know how creative they can get. Nerve gas was still being used when you were small, right?"
Voldemort scowls, and Harry waits patiently for his response. "There is something deeply wrong with you, child."
"I don't know what you expected; you of all people should understand that being killed messes with your head a bit. Frankly you should be grateful I didn't make a scene in front of everyone at the sorting by going after you right at the table. Fuck. I should have done that, actually. It would have been hilarious for the supposed savior to make his debut into the wizarding world by killing a teacher before he's even put in a House, since I was getting thrown in with Slytherin anyway." It's oddly freeing to talk at Voldemort like this. He doesn't need to keep up appearances much and so long as he doesn't spout off about the future, there's no danger of his secret being guessed. Time travel of a sort might be suspected, but if Voldemort had known even an inkling of what Harry could do, he would stop at nothing to claim the ability for himself. There would be no conversations beyond whatever slipped out between Crucio's.
Releasing Harry's chin, Quirrelmort smoothly reaches for his wand, and Harry has a flash of concern about what might happen if Obliviate is the spell of choice, or something else that won't send him back with his memory intact. He doesn't like the idea of possibly being trapped in some kind of loop, unaware of the details of his death and therefor being unable to avoid it endlessly reoccurring. As it is now, he's still making progress through his life, just with a few backward steps now and again.
Instead of allowing whatever the man is updating his plans to, Harry turns sharply and mostly fails to apparate thanks to the wards, but he puts enough power behind it that a few significant portions end up two feet to the right of where his head used to be, and fall to the floor.
He's more than a little pissed that he ended up face down in the seconds remaining between then and brain death, because he would have loved to see Voldemort's reaction. Ah well. There's always next time he backtracks.
Harry leaves a crude poppet with two faces in Quirrel's desk the following night, pins stuck through one and into the other.