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In Which Quirrell Gets Some
This is my contribution to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mctabby's latest incarnation of Blaming Each Other. It's a bit later than I intended. Computer problems + real life stuff. Also, apologies to wired_lizard for the pairing I stuck her with.
She wanted "Quirrellsex. That's all I ask. Quirrellsex. Pre-or-post possession, het or slash (although I lean towards latter), doesn't matter. He needs to get some." I completely agree; Quirrell is an amazing character, sadly neglected. He's better at Dark Arts than Snape, better at forestry than Hagrid, better at sniveling the Pettigrew, almost better at scheming than Dumbledore. I'd been meaning to write some Quirrelfic for a long time; particularly since I'd read her Go East, which is the only Quirrel there seems to be on FictionAlley.
Incidentally, the only Quirrell on ff.net is self insert. Entitled Quirrell Sex! Coincidence? I think not.
At any rate, this iswired_lizard's fault.
Quirrell Does DaDA
Characters and setting belong to J.K.Rowling. I'm just borrowing them; I promise I'll clean them off afterward.
1.
A Slytherin at Hogwarts in the year just after the fall of He-Who-Must Not Be Named soon learned not to wander the halls alone; too many angry Gryffindors trying to prove their bravery, too many Hufflepuffs still obsessed with old loyalties. People started travelling in groups, and after the sixth near-fatal hexing of a young Slytherin the prefects assigned everyone official partners, to stay in each other's sight at all times and watch each other's backs.
This being Slytherin, they were experienced at looking out for one another, putting up a united front to a hostile school. And, being Slytherins, when they were among themselves they enjoyed nothing so much as ruthlessly crushing each other. But the partnerships somehow became something more: when you're trapped in an hidden corridor, surrounded by angry Hufflepuffs who are convinced that you, personally, killed their parents, you soon learn to trust the person who is saving your life.
But it was a very Slytherin trust. Quirrell, quiet and unobtrusive, was paired with Crouch, the son of the man who had sent so many of their housemates' parents to Azkaban, the boy who was rumored to still be a Death Eater. They trusted each other with their lives, and with such of their secrets as was necessary; but that was as far as it went. He never knew the truth of Crouch's loyalties, just as Quirrell never told the other of his secret ambitions.
But as their partnership continued, defending each other from the hatred of the teachers and students, working together to become the two best Dark Arts students in their year, Quirrell came to admire and respect the boy for his quick intelligence; his deep understanding of people; his selfless loyalty to his father and his principles; his ability to hide everything that was important while still being, essentially and unreservedly, himself. His impossibly large dark eyes that Quirrell could lose himself in. The way he tucked his wispy blond hair behind his ears. His almost childlike grace, and the way his arms moved when he raised his wand to curse a Gryffindor bigot.
Finally Quirrell found a secret he wanted to share with his partner. And to his deep surprise and joy, he discovered that was one secret that was already shared by them both.
2.
Whatever Quirrell did, he always put all of himself into it. When he was a pawn of the Dark Lord, he was the best pawn who ever grovelled. When he was fighting evil in Eastern Europe, he went right to the biggest evil of all. When he was a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher he spent all his spare time on lesson plans. When he was a freelance Dark defender he was famous around England. And when he was just out of school, working the Ministry's Support Services desk alone, and facing a suicidally depressed werewolf, he did all he knew to do. Which wasn't much-- Werewolf Support Services had always been a bit of a joke. That this one had even come to him showed how desperate he was for any sort of human contact.
So Quirrell locked the patronizing pamphlets and humiliating forms in the desk, hung up a sign saying "busy," told the man he was buying him lunch, and prepared himself to sit and listen. There was nothing more he could think of to do; and the pathetically grateful way the other accepted made him feel that perhaps he was doing some good after all.
Together they finished several bottles of claret, and Quirrell never made it back to the office. Oh, everyone knew the story of what had happened the day Harry Potter Lived, but for once the Ministry, out of either mercy or shame, had kept the details confidential. Now he heard the whole horrible tale from Remus Lupin, a man already carrying a terrible burden, who had been so intimately involved, who had lived and seen and lost everything that night; who had lost his three greatest friends to death in one horrible night, and had lost a fourth friend, to the greatest betrayal at all.
"I loved him," he was saying. "I loved him, and he was a traitor. He killed them. And I still love him. I'll always love him." He looked at Quirrell with empty eyes. "I hate him, but I can't help it. Wolves mate for life."
Quirrell was shocked into speech. "You-- you--" he stuttered.
"Oh god," said Lupin, burying his face in his hands, "I shouldn't have ---"
"I c-can't believe--" said Quirrell. "You know that little about what you are? Wolves don't mate for life. Werewolves certainly don't. That's as silly as the one about the silver." Quirrell kept a perfectly straight face and added, "And you know I'm telling the truth; after all, I work for the Ministry."
Lupin stared at him for a minute, then they both burst out laughing. When he'd got his breath back, Quirrell added, with courage granted by the other's small smile, "Don't torture yourself with that. You must be going through hell as it is. There was a man, once, I might have loved," he looked up at Lupin's sudden intake of breath and nodded, smiling sadly, "He died in Azkaban. And I don't even know if he was guilty. But that didn't stop me from feeling what I felt."
"I'm so sorry," Lupin murmured.
"Don't be. It's nothing to what you faced. And I've accepted it. If you still love him," Quirrell said, meeting the other's eyes, "It doesn't make you a bad person. It makes him a better, because no matter what else he was, there is still something in him that is worthy of that love."
They were silent then, over the last glasses of wine, before Lupin said, with a forced lightness, "Thank you. You've done much more than I could have expected. I may have to stop being cynical about the Ministry at this rate."
Quirrell chuckled, staring into the remainder of his wine. "Well, then, if you'll forgive me for quoting Departmental directives, but the state you've been in you should probably avoid being alone for a while. You-- you're welcome to stay at my flat tonight."
He raised his eyes, and found them caught by the werewolf's earnest ones. "Yes. I think I'd like that."
3.
Mad-Eye Moody may have been semi-retired and half-mad, but he was still willing to mentor a young man with ambitions of fighting the Dark. Mentor in the old Greek sense of the idea.
And Quirrell learned a great deal from him. He learned things that could be done with a wand that he'd never even imagined before. He learned the importance of constant vigilance. He learned the many uses of a magical eye. He learned how to always come out on top. He learned that in certain positions, having a missing leg can actually be an advantage. He learned the value of taking good care of one's equipment. He learned endurance, flexibility, creativity. He learned to play to his strengths. He learned to be careful what he swallowed. He learned not to care about other people's whispers and stares. He learned why Mad-eye Moody had a seventh secret compartment in his trunk, one which opened into a hidden dungeon room already outfitted with chains and shackles.
4.
Quirrell woke to find himself alone and naked in a strange hotel room with a raging headache and only the vaguest idea of how he'd gotten there. This wasn't unusual enough to be distressing, but all the same it didn't exactly happen every day. He threw on his robe and peered out the window.
"The Bandon Inn," declared the sign over the door. This stirred his recollection. He'd come to this part of England on spec, hoping to be able to take out the famous Bandon Banshee who was still terrorizing the area. He'd been here several weeks but must not have had any luck, at least he didn't remember having any luck, although there seemed to be a strange blind spot in his memory when he tried to recall what he had spent the past two weeks doing.
In fact, his memory was worrying him at the moment. He did recall having a few drinks last night; he'd met a fellow freelance Dark defender at the bar and swapped stories over Ogden's for several hours, but his memory of what had actually been said was rather hazy as well. Which struck him as very queer, as he quite clearly remembered what had happened after the talking was finished, when they'd both been tipsy enough that inhibitions were down and he'd invited the other up for another drink in his room and they'd wound up in bed together; and he recalled that part quite clearly, and certainly neither of them had been drunk enough for it to interfere with that. So there was no reason for his memory to be pulling tricks on him like this.
A memory charm? That was the only logical answer. But why would the other fellow have charmed away the conversation but not the sex? What had his name been, anyway. Eckhardt? Hardy? Something like that. The sex had been entirely forgettable, anyway; he wouldn't have thought it possible to be that self-absorbed in bed. The conversation had probably been just as bad. Maybe the other had accidentally let something confidential slip and was trying to cover his bases. Quirrell filed the whole incident away as just one of those things, packed his bag, and decided to head back to London.
5.
Rob the most secure vault at Gringotts? Fine. Bribe giants with smuggled dragon eggs? No problem. Murder the best-loved child in wizarding England? Why not. But there are some things that no Dark Lord should ever ask of his servants, and one of them is seducing Arabella Figg.
The Dark Lord hadn't even explained why this was necessary, although Quirrell had his theories. She had been prominent on Dumbledore's side in the last war, and there was no reason for her to be living as a Muggle in the most boring village in Surrey unless she was hiding something. Surely, though, there had to be a better way to get it out of her than sex, he thought, as he opened her front door to the smell of cabbage and too many cats.
The seduction itself was quite easy; he told her he was a student of the fall of You-Know-Who and had become an admirer of her exploits who wanted to know the woman behind the legend. She fed him stale cake and showed him scrapbooks, and he learned the story of the First Voldemort War from the perspective of her cats.
("That black one's Pipkin. He was a gift from old Algie. He always liked to climb on the china cabinet, and he was so fond of celery, until he was killed by Death Eaters on the Underground. And that's Lacey, a delicate little thing that I pulled out of the wreckage of the MacKinnons', I think her mother had been sheltering under their porch, that was a real shame, but Lacey never seemed bothered by it, she was so sweet-tempered, didn't even scratch when the AK's went by right over our heads . . .")
When he couldn't stand it any longer he made a pass at her, and to his dismay she immediately accepted. Actually bedding her, however, probably took more willpower than anything else he'd ever done. Especially when she insisted on changing into an ancient avocado-green negligee. And, at just the wrong moments, kept launching into reminiscences of the torrid affair she'd had with Albus Dumbledore during their shared youth. And every time a cat walked over them she had to pause the proceedings in order to introduce him to it, and share a story about its kittenhood.
When he'd finally satisfied her, he had his hat on and was out the door before there was any chance she'd wake up, and he took great pleasure in kicking several cats on his way out. Possibly by the strictest definition he'd failed in his mission, unless that fact that Piddles was about to have kittens was, indeed, a vital war secret, but at this point he didn't care. Some things are worse than Crucio.
6.
Quirrell stared down at the parchment in his hand, offering him the job of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts next term. My god, he thought, Those Defense people are desperate enough to take anyone.
It needs work-- I apologize especially for part 3, but I'm awful with Moody, I don't know why. I don't apologize for part 5, which is hands down my favorite.
Incidentally, I also got about 2000 words into a Bill Weasley/Quirrell story, which ranges from the halls of Hogwarts to the streets of Addis Ababa, and includes Newt Scamander, Snapesex, a creepy channish relationship with Percy, and purple turbans as gay pride insignia. But I realized it was attempting to become an epic, and would take me too long.wired_lizard can tell me if I have to finish it and blame that on her, too.
mctabby's latest incarnation of Blaming Each Other. It's a bit later than I intended. Computer problems + real life stuff. Also, apologies to wired_lizard for the pairing I stuck her with.She wanted "Quirrellsex. That's all I ask. Quirrellsex. Pre-or-post possession, het or slash (although I lean towards latter), doesn't matter. He needs to get some." I completely agree; Quirrell is an amazing character, sadly neglected. He's better at Dark Arts than Snape, better at forestry than Hagrid, better at sniveling the Pettigrew, almost better at scheming than Dumbledore. I'd been meaning to write some Quirrelfic for a long time; particularly since I'd read her Go East, which is the only Quirrel there seems to be on FictionAlley.
Incidentally, the only Quirrell on ff.net is self insert. Entitled Quirrell Sex! Coincidence? I think not.
At any rate, this is
wired_lizard's fault. Quirrell Does DaDA
Characters and setting belong to J.K.Rowling. I'm just borrowing them; I promise I'll clean them off afterward.
1.
A Slytherin at Hogwarts in the year just after the fall of He-Who-Must Not Be Named soon learned not to wander the halls alone; too many angry Gryffindors trying to prove their bravery, too many Hufflepuffs still obsessed with old loyalties. People started travelling in groups, and after the sixth near-fatal hexing of a young Slytherin the prefects assigned everyone official partners, to stay in each other's sight at all times and watch each other's backs.
This being Slytherin, they were experienced at looking out for one another, putting up a united front to a hostile school. And, being Slytherins, when they were among themselves they enjoyed nothing so much as ruthlessly crushing each other. But the partnerships somehow became something more: when you're trapped in an hidden corridor, surrounded by angry Hufflepuffs who are convinced that you, personally, killed their parents, you soon learn to trust the person who is saving your life.
But it was a very Slytherin trust. Quirrell, quiet and unobtrusive, was paired with Crouch, the son of the man who had sent so many of their housemates' parents to Azkaban, the boy who was rumored to still be a Death Eater. They trusted each other with their lives, and with such of their secrets as was necessary; but that was as far as it went. He never knew the truth of Crouch's loyalties, just as Quirrell never told the other of his secret ambitions.
But as their partnership continued, defending each other from the hatred of the teachers and students, working together to become the two best Dark Arts students in their year, Quirrell came to admire and respect the boy for his quick intelligence; his deep understanding of people; his selfless loyalty to his father and his principles; his ability to hide everything that was important while still being, essentially and unreservedly, himself. His impossibly large dark eyes that Quirrell could lose himself in. The way he tucked his wispy blond hair behind his ears. His almost childlike grace, and the way his arms moved when he raised his wand to curse a Gryffindor bigot.
Finally Quirrell found a secret he wanted to share with his partner. And to his deep surprise and joy, he discovered that was one secret that was already shared by them both.
2.
Whatever Quirrell did, he always put all of himself into it. When he was a pawn of the Dark Lord, he was the best pawn who ever grovelled. When he was fighting evil in Eastern Europe, he went right to the biggest evil of all. When he was a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher he spent all his spare time on lesson plans. When he was a freelance Dark defender he was famous around England. And when he was just out of school, working the Ministry's Support Services desk alone, and facing a suicidally depressed werewolf, he did all he knew to do. Which wasn't much-- Werewolf Support Services had always been a bit of a joke. That this one had even come to him showed how desperate he was for any sort of human contact.
So Quirrell locked the patronizing pamphlets and humiliating forms in the desk, hung up a sign saying "busy," told the man he was buying him lunch, and prepared himself to sit and listen. There was nothing more he could think of to do; and the pathetically grateful way the other accepted made him feel that perhaps he was doing some good after all.
Together they finished several bottles of claret, and Quirrell never made it back to the office. Oh, everyone knew the story of what had happened the day Harry Potter Lived, but for once the Ministry, out of either mercy or shame, had kept the details confidential. Now he heard the whole horrible tale from Remus Lupin, a man already carrying a terrible burden, who had been so intimately involved, who had lived and seen and lost everything that night; who had lost his three greatest friends to death in one horrible night, and had lost a fourth friend, to the greatest betrayal at all.
"I loved him," he was saying. "I loved him, and he was a traitor. He killed them. And I still love him. I'll always love him." He looked at Quirrell with empty eyes. "I hate him, but I can't help it. Wolves mate for life."
Quirrell was shocked into speech. "You-- you--" he stuttered.
"Oh god," said Lupin, burying his face in his hands, "I shouldn't have ---"
"I c-can't believe--" said Quirrell. "You know that little about what you are? Wolves don't mate for life. Werewolves certainly don't. That's as silly as the one about the silver." Quirrell kept a perfectly straight face and added, "And you know I'm telling the truth; after all, I work for the Ministry."
Lupin stared at him for a minute, then they both burst out laughing. When he'd got his breath back, Quirrell added, with courage granted by the other's small smile, "Don't torture yourself with that. You must be going through hell as it is. There was a man, once, I might have loved," he looked up at Lupin's sudden intake of breath and nodded, smiling sadly, "He died in Azkaban. And I don't even know if he was guilty. But that didn't stop me from feeling what I felt."
"I'm so sorry," Lupin murmured.
"Don't be. It's nothing to what you faced. And I've accepted it. If you still love him," Quirrell said, meeting the other's eyes, "It doesn't make you a bad person. It makes him a better, because no matter what else he was, there is still something in him that is worthy of that love."
They were silent then, over the last glasses of wine, before Lupin said, with a forced lightness, "Thank you. You've done much more than I could have expected. I may have to stop being cynical about the Ministry at this rate."
Quirrell chuckled, staring into the remainder of his wine. "Well, then, if you'll forgive me for quoting Departmental directives, but the state you've been in you should probably avoid being alone for a while. You-- you're welcome to stay at my flat tonight."
He raised his eyes, and found them caught by the werewolf's earnest ones. "Yes. I think I'd like that."
3.
Mad-Eye Moody may have been semi-retired and half-mad, but he was still willing to mentor a young man with ambitions of fighting the Dark. Mentor in the old Greek sense of the idea.
And Quirrell learned a great deal from him. He learned things that could be done with a wand that he'd never even imagined before. He learned the importance of constant vigilance. He learned the many uses of a magical eye. He learned how to always come out on top. He learned that in certain positions, having a missing leg can actually be an advantage. He learned the value of taking good care of one's equipment. He learned endurance, flexibility, creativity. He learned to play to his strengths. He learned to be careful what he swallowed. He learned not to care about other people's whispers and stares. He learned why Mad-eye Moody had a seventh secret compartment in his trunk, one which opened into a hidden dungeon room already outfitted with chains and shackles.
4.
Quirrell woke to find himself alone and naked in a strange hotel room with a raging headache and only the vaguest idea of how he'd gotten there. This wasn't unusual enough to be distressing, but all the same it didn't exactly happen every day. He threw on his robe and peered out the window.
"The Bandon Inn," declared the sign over the door. This stirred his recollection. He'd come to this part of England on spec, hoping to be able to take out the famous Bandon Banshee who was still terrorizing the area. He'd been here several weeks but must not have had any luck, at least he didn't remember having any luck, although there seemed to be a strange blind spot in his memory when he tried to recall what he had spent the past two weeks doing.
In fact, his memory was worrying him at the moment. He did recall having a few drinks last night; he'd met a fellow freelance Dark defender at the bar and swapped stories over Ogden's for several hours, but his memory of what had actually been said was rather hazy as well. Which struck him as very queer, as he quite clearly remembered what had happened after the talking was finished, when they'd both been tipsy enough that inhibitions were down and he'd invited the other up for another drink in his room and they'd wound up in bed together; and he recalled that part quite clearly, and certainly neither of them had been drunk enough for it to interfere with that. So there was no reason for his memory to be pulling tricks on him like this.
A memory charm? That was the only logical answer. But why would the other fellow have charmed away the conversation but not the sex? What had his name been, anyway. Eckhardt? Hardy? Something like that. The sex had been entirely forgettable, anyway; he wouldn't have thought it possible to be that self-absorbed in bed. The conversation had probably been just as bad. Maybe the other had accidentally let something confidential slip and was trying to cover his bases. Quirrell filed the whole incident away as just one of those things, packed his bag, and decided to head back to London.
5.
Rob the most secure vault at Gringotts? Fine. Bribe giants with smuggled dragon eggs? No problem. Murder the best-loved child in wizarding England? Why not. But there are some things that no Dark Lord should ever ask of his servants, and one of them is seducing Arabella Figg.
The Dark Lord hadn't even explained why this was necessary, although Quirrell had his theories. She had been prominent on Dumbledore's side in the last war, and there was no reason for her to be living as a Muggle in the most boring village in Surrey unless she was hiding something. Surely, though, there had to be a better way to get it out of her than sex, he thought, as he opened her front door to the smell of cabbage and too many cats.
The seduction itself was quite easy; he told her he was a student of the fall of You-Know-Who and had become an admirer of her exploits who wanted to know the woman behind the legend. She fed him stale cake and showed him scrapbooks, and he learned the story of the First Voldemort War from the perspective of her cats.
("That black one's Pipkin. He was a gift from old Algie. He always liked to climb on the china cabinet, and he was so fond of celery, until he was killed by Death Eaters on the Underground. And that's Lacey, a delicate little thing that I pulled out of the wreckage of the MacKinnons', I think her mother had been sheltering under their porch, that was a real shame, but Lacey never seemed bothered by it, she was so sweet-tempered, didn't even scratch when the AK's went by right over our heads . . .")
When he couldn't stand it any longer he made a pass at her, and to his dismay she immediately accepted. Actually bedding her, however, probably took more willpower than anything else he'd ever done. Especially when she insisted on changing into an ancient avocado-green negligee. And, at just the wrong moments, kept launching into reminiscences of the torrid affair she'd had with Albus Dumbledore during their shared youth. And every time a cat walked over them she had to pause the proceedings in order to introduce him to it, and share a story about its kittenhood.
When he'd finally satisfied her, he had his hat on and was out the door before there was any chance she'd wake up, and he took great pleasure in kicking several cats on his way out. Possibly by the strictest definition he'd failed in his mission, unless that fact that Piddles was about to have kittens was, indeed, a vital war secret, but at this point he didn't care. Some things are worse than Crucio.
6.
Quirrell stared down at the parchment in his hand, offering him the job of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts next term. My god, he thought, Those Defense people are desperate enough to take anyone.
It needs work-- I apologize especially for part 3, but I'm awful with Moody, I don't know why. I don't apologize for part 5, which is hands down my favorite.
Incidentally, I also got about 2000 words into a Bill Weasley/Quirrell story, which ranges from the halls of Hogwarts to the streets of Addis Ababa, and includes Newt Scamander, Snapesex, a creepy channish relationship with Percy, and purple turbans as gay pride insignia. But I realized it was attempting to become an epic, and would take me too long.
wired_lizard can tell me if I have to finish it and blame that on her, too.
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Will have to remember to check your LJ again if you work on it any more.
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And thanks muchly for the rec, too.
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Aah. Thank you for brightening the life of a character who, while evil, might not have deserved a year-long bad hair day.
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The more I've looked at Quirrell the past week, the less evil he seems. I mean, all he did was act a bit too ambitious for his own good and get possessed by Lord Voldemort. Ginny did the same thing, yet very few people call her evil.
I'm now imagining Ginny having a "bad hair day". Arg.
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Now I no longer feel bad about my bad memory on friday.
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I only used the word "dearest" when I'm channelling Arabella Figg. "Like poisoned honey".
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*nodnod* poor boy.
I'm now imagining Ginny having a "bad hair day". Arg.
How would you fit that in the series's continuity?
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However, everybody seems to forget that Hogwarts uniforms include a plain pointed hat, so I s'pose it's possible during CoS . .
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all throughout, the dry humor is charming and fun.
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-D.M.P.
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(Anonymous) 2003-04-27 11:05 pm (UTC)(link)--C
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They are people who actually *enjoy* HP fanfic, not just stalking their girlfriend's little sister.
Let's see.
They are people who actually *enjoy* HP fanfic, not just stalking their girlfriend's little sister.
Let's see. <lj site="livejournal.com" user="idle_cyan"> is apparently a quebecois who likes sf in general and farscape in particular, and drawing characters in leather dom outfits.
<lj site="livejournal.com" user="jenlee2"> writes fun pg-rated HP stories, supports Harry/Ginny (yay)! and wrote yummy Sirius/Petunia for the same challenge this is for.
<lj site="livejournal.com" user="ajhalluk"> wrote what is probably the best HP fanfic ever, <a href="http://homepage.ntlworld.com/russell.baldwin/ebooks/lop/lop1.html" Lust over Pendle</a>.
<lj site="livejournal.com" user="rivetcat"> is writing an incredibly good Draco/Snape story, which zie needs to finish *right now*.
<lj site="livejournal.com" user="dmp"> wrote <a href="http://www.schnoogle.com/authorLinks/D_M_P/">Sin of Lycaos</a> and sequel, seminal Lupin stories which I really should read if only for the title.
<lj site="livejournal.com" user="speakerender"> is . . hmm, I have no idea . .
aren't you glad you asked?
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