Wizarding World One Shots (Discontinued)

Quirinus Quirrell x Severus Snape

There was a time when Quirrell had been frightened. Though weak, he had protested, fought, struggled against the intruder with all his might. It hadn't helped, of course.

He couldn't even remember why he'd fought, now. Why had he ever wanted to rid himself of an alliance that brought such impossible glory, such wondrous new strength? His Master's magic whispered rich and potent through his veins. He could call full-grown mountain trolls with a snap of his fingers, make them do his bidding with a single word. Such amazing power.

And the best part was that no one knew. His stuttering, stumbling performance blinded all of the powerful, arrogant professors at Hogwarts. Not even Dumbledore suspected, the old fool. Everybody was taken in.

Well, almost everybody. There was one who suspected, so Quirrell had to be careful of him.

(Traitor,) hissed the voice in his head as he sat quietly at dinner, smiling his false trembling smile at one and all. (How dare he work for Dumbledore? Traitors deserve to die, you know. This one more than any. I'll kill him, of course, slowly, carefully. It would be no more than he deserves. He gave himself to me, many years ago, and that makes him mine. Still mine, no matter who he calls master now. My precious traitor, mine, always mine.)

"Of course," Quirrell murmured, soothing, picking at his food. The beloved inner voice was inconsistent. Sometimes it was clear and coldly logical, other times shrill and fractured like that of a mad child. "Of course he is."

Carefully, Quirrell looked sideways at the man beside him. Long, strong fingers were tapping impatiently at the tablecloth. The material of the sleeve gathered in lazy folds at the wrist, soft black velvet an intriguing contrast to the pale skin beneath. Quirrell traced the sleeve with his eyes, moving his gaze gradually up to the shoulder, then pausing to linger over the tantalizing curve of neck and jaw. Shifting his gaze even further up, he caught a glimpse of pursed, mocking lips, and hastily turned away.

It was too late; he had been seen. "Ah, Quirrell. Is there something you want? Who were you talking to?"

Quirrell stiffened, his movements deliberately jerky. "N-nothing. Nobody."

(Traitor,) shrieked the voice in his mind.

The traitor in question leaned over, eyes black and glittering. "Really. Then you may as well talk with me. Is there anything you'd like to share with me, Quirrell?"

Quirrell blinked. "I d-d-don't know what you're t-talking about."

"Oh, I think you do," Snape growled, but subsided at a sideways glance from Dumbledore. He settled for a glare, eyes slitted under trailing black hair. "We'll settle this later."

Quirrell bent to his meal, smiling faintly at the words forming inside his head. (Indeed we will. How dare he? He'll die for this, die under Cruciatus, pain for days unending. Surely he can remember how that feels; must I remind him? Better yet, Imperius and he'll skin himself alive at my command, an inch at a time. Unforgivable curses for the unforgiven, and isn't it appropriate? He was mine after all, is mine, mine to kill, forever mine. I'll make him drink his own blood, feast on his own flesh. I'll teach him to betray me.)

Quirrell glanced sideways. Snape was not eating, knuckles whitened around the stem of his goblet, eyes unfocused on his plate. His profile was clear and somehow sharp in the candlelight. "But that would be such a waste," Quirrell whispered under his breath. "Can I play with him first, Master?"

Muttering vengeance blossomed into black delight in his head. (A fine idea, my loyal one. We shall play with him together.)

--

The hallway at night was dark and ominous, scented with dust and old stone, swimming with shadows. Hogwarts was such a delightfully melodramatic place sometimes. Quirrell allowed Snape to seize a handful of his robes, let himself be pushed up against the wall. The stones against his back were cold with winter chill, and Snape was warm, very warm.