Professor Quirinus Quirrell sat alone in his chambers, staring at the letter that had ended his career.
The parchment trembled slightly in his hand, the neat, looping script of Albus Dumbledore almost mocking in its politeness.
Dear Professor Quirrell,
It is with regret that I must inform you that your position as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts shall be terminated at the end of this month's term. Please use the remaining weeks to conclude your lessons, return school property, and make suitable arrangements for your departure.
Sincerely,Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Quirrell read the words again and again until the ink seemed to swim before his eyes.
His fingers, pale and trembling, crushed the edges of the letter as his mouth twisted into a quiet snarl.
"Terminated," he whispered, his voice cracking around the word. "After all I've endured… all I've given."
The candles flickered.
A faint, rasping whisper slithered through the air behind him.
It had been a week since receiving this letter, and after investigating he'd found that his dismissal was not entirely dumbledores action it was started by the students who used the collective power they held to demand his replacement, and thanks to how they'd gone about it not even Dumbledore could save him now.
"Given?"
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere — cold as grave soil, smooth as oil, dripping with disdain.
Quirrell froze.
The stench of rot and ozone filled his nostrils as his body stiffened with instinctive terror.
"My—my Lord," he stammered, bowing his head, eyes darting toward the shadowed mirror across the room.
Its surface rippled faintly, as though something beneath the glass stirred at his words.
"I did not mean—"
"Silence."
The word hit like a physical blow.
Quirrell's knees buckled, and he caught the desk edge with one shaking hand.
"You speak of giving, Quirrel, but what have you given me? A host's body? A trembling coward's skin? You were chosen to serve me — to infiltrate the school, to find what I seek. Instead, you've drawn the gaze of the headmaster himself, and revealed your incompetence."
Quirrell swallowed, sweat slicking his brow despite the chill that seeped through the chamber.
"It wasn't my fault, my Lord," he whispered hoarsely. "The students— they— they cannot be trained to resist you- They've never— Hogwarts has never seen—"
"Silence!"
The command struck again, and Quirrell collapsed to his knees.
Pain seared through his skull — a white-hot spear from the back of his head where He lived, buried like a parasite beneath his turban.
The Dark Lord's laughter slithered through his mind.
"You think Dumbledore dismissed you because of the children's letters? Fool. He allowed the farce to unfold so he could rid himself of you without blame. You've failed to inspire loyalty, fear, or competence. Even your students see through you."
Quirrell gasped, clutching his temples as if he could hold the voice at bay.
"My Lord—please—"
"You have humiliated me."
The words turned molten, and the Cruciatus curse struck.
Agony.
Pure, liquid agony.
Every nerve lit aflame, every muscle convulsed as though torn by invisible claws.
Quirrell screamed, his voice breaking into animal shrieks.
He clawed at the floor, nails tearing against stone as the voice filled his skull.
"You were given power, Quirinus. You begged for purpose, for glory — and I granted it. You promised to bring me what is mine. And what have you done instead? Stuttered. Blundered. Trembled. You disgust me, as if i could ever be threatened by your properly teaching defensive tactics to mere school children."
The pain intensified.
His vision burst into white stars, and he could smell his own blood — metallic, sharp — dripping from his bitten tongue.
When the curse finally lifted, he lay gasping on the floor, shaking violently.
"Please," he croaked, his throat raw. "Please, my Lord, I can still— I can still serve. Dumbledore's dismissal… it gives us time. They'll think I'm gone. I can—"
"You will do nothing until I command it."
The mirror darkened further, the faint outline of a serpentine face forming within the glass.
Voldemort's voice became a whisper of ice.
"You have been exposed. Useless as a teacher, unwanted as a spy. Dumbledore watches now. Every eye in that castle will turn to you until you're gone."
Quirrell's chest heaved.
"Then— then what do we do?"
There was a long pause. Then, softly, the Dark Lord said:
"We adapt."
The reflection flickered — and for a brief moment, Quirrell saw what no mortal should: a face without flesh, eyes like red coals burning behind the glass.
"We shall leave the castle when your tenure ends," Voldemort hissed. "But we shall not go far. The forest is vast… ancient. Even Dumbledore's magic does not reach its heart. We shall dwell there for a time, until an opportunity presents itself to reclaim the Stone."
"The Forbidden Forest?" Quirrell whispered, horrified. "My Lord, it's—"
"Forbidden?"
The voice was a low chuckle, cruel and amused.
"To children. Not to me."
Quirrell dared not argue.
His head throbbed, his nerves still twitching from the curse.
"But the creatures— the centaurs, the acromantulas—"
"They will not touch us," Voldemort said simply. "The forest recognizes power. And if any beast should mistake us for prey… we shall feed upon it."
The tone turned colder still.
"You will make arrangements. When the time comes, we shall depart under the guise of dismissal. Dumbledore will think himself rid of you, and I shall watch unseen from the shadows. From there, we can strike when the Stone is most vulnerable."
Quirrell bowed his head, trembling.
"Yes… yes, my Lord."
"And Quirinus?"
He hesitated. "Y-yes, my Lord?"
"You will not fail me again."
The pain came once more — brief, searing, a reminder.
A leash tightening around his soul.
When it ended, he lay curled on the floor, sobbing softly. The mirror's surface went still, the faint hiss of breath vanishing into silence.
Only the flicker of dying candlelight remained.
Hours later, Quirrell dragged himself upright, clutching the desk for balance.
His body shook, his mind a haze of dread.
He caught his reflection in the mirror and for a moment did not recognize it — pale, hollow-eyed, with a dark smear of blood beneath his nose running across his face.
He touched the cloth of his unfurled turban gingerly, whispering through cracked lips.
"My Lord… forgive me."
He sank into the chair, staring once more at Dumbledore's letter.
Terminated.
Such a small, simple word.
And yet, in that single stroke of ink, his facade as a professor, his mask of normalcy, was stripped away.
For years he had taught Muggle studies, and yet now not even a month into his term as DADA professor his time at hogwarts has come to an end.
Still, beneath the fear, a faint ember of resolve flickered.
Dismissed he might be, but not defeated.
The Dark Lord still lived — within him, upon him, through him.
And if Voldemort commanded that they dwell among the monsters of the forest, then so it would be.
He would endure spiders, centaurs, wolves — even madness itself — if it brought his master closer to resurrection, and the fufillment of his promise for power and immortality.
Quirrell's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile.
Soon, Dumbledore's pity would mean nothing.
Soon, the Stone would be theirs.
And when the Dark Lord rose again, he would remember who had borne his burden — who had carried him, served him, suffered for him.
Or so Quirrell hoped.
He turned down the lamps one by one until his chamber lay in near-total darkness.