A/N: Recent research has shown that there is not NEARLY enough Voldemort/Quirrell fanfiction on the interwebs, so this is my contribution. Note that this is a hybrid of the A Very Potter Musical and the books canon. Most of the character interpretations come from AVPM, but I stray occasionally. If you haven't seen AVPM, I demand that you Google it immediately because it is totally awesome and you won't regret it. Take that two hours you were going to use to watch Transformers 2 and watch AVPM instead.

Also: I'm totally sorry that the rest of the stuff on this account sucks. Most of it was written when I was in middle school (Which would explain so much). Hopefully I'll be posting some more, newer, stories on here.

"You know… You could have everything you ever wanted."

Quirinus Quirrell had never been very good at standing up to people. Of course he was insanely bright, but he had hardly ever said 'no' to anyone. When the person talking was the strongest wizard in existence it was just that much harder.

"E-everything?" Quirrell's lips were dry. He was visibly trembling. He had heard of picking up strange diseases from strange places, but he'd never heard of catching strange people. Well. Strange wasn't the word. He had picked up He Who Shall Not Be Named as if he were a bad STD.

"Yes Quirrell. I know that you are… Talented. It is time you use your talents for something useful." The voice speaking to him was quiet, raspy. Weak almost, but Quirrell had no doubts that even at his weakest the Dark Lord would be able to kill him.

"I suppose I don't have a choice." Quirrell gulped, lightly crossing his arms over his chest. He was frozen in fear. As a Ravenclaw, bravery was never his strong suit; he still remembered when Voldemort was strong. As a muggle-born, You-Know-Who was one of the boogey men of his school days. The type of person that could only be described as Hitler like.

"Oh, don't say that. You always have a choice. Like now. Do you choose to serve me and be rewarded lavishly… Or to be disposed of like the rest of the mud-blood scum? The offer I'm giving you is far superior to anything you have ever been offered you know… You should feel honored."

A sob nearly escaped Quirrell's lips. God. Why was this happening to him? Why did he have to go to Albania during his one year sabbatical from Hogwarts? Zimbabwe or Romania or anywhere else would have been just as acceptable surely.

"I c-choose the obvious option. To s-serve you… My dark lord." The last part tasted like poison on his lips. Was he really going to give in this easily? He was talking to a terrorist for Wizard God's sake! He should be a martyr! He should fight!

Except no. That was stupid.

"Very good. I was beginning to tire of trying to convince you… Remember, Quirrell. No matter how useful you are… There's always someone more useful. You are replaceable."

"I… Will." Now he was beginning to shift his weight from foot to foot, one of his nervous habits. He wondered if this would be his life from now on. Perpetually living in a state of fear… Never knowing what it was to enjoy a book or watch a movie again. He regretted not watching 'She's All That'. Now he'd never get the chance.

The voice, 'V-V-Voldemort' seemed to be quiet for now. But Quirrell could still sense him. Watching him, in the same way he would be watching 'She's All That' if this all hadn't happened. No. Wait. He was too afraid to think of something as trivial as movies.

In a flustered flurry, Quirrell finally spoke out loud.

"W-what do you want me to do now?" He asked blindly, fearing what would happen if he did anything to displease the wizard now residing in his body. It was like having an evil Jiminy Cricket on your shoulder, except instead of being a cricket he was just a disembodied soul sucking the life out of him. Funny how things worked out like that.

"Oh. Well." For once, it seemed like… The voice… Had nothing else to say "Go on as you were. Don't do anything to kill yourself though. I'd have to kill you if you did." What a twisted sense of humor.

Quirrell thought it was odd how Voldem-… He Who Must Not Be-… His liege's tone changed constantly. One second it was like he was acting sugary sweet to get him to go along with the plan, the next he was using scare tactics.

He would get tired of this SO quickly.

Slowly, Quirrell made his way to a chair. He could just… Sit there. Yes. And he wouldn't break down, he couldn't let the Dark Lord see him cry. He may decide that Quirrell was too weak to be his vessel and kill him on the spot, and if that happened he'd be kind of dead. Which he decided would suck more then being the host to You-Know-Who.

"You know Quirrell…" The voice in his head rang again "You are very boring."

"I'm aware, my lord. Exciting people die young." Quirrell instinctively looked around over his shoulder to find the source of the voice even though he knew that he wouldn't see anything. Habits, he supposed.

"Why don't you… I don't know. Get out or something? Surely you have somewhere else you could be besides this God awful apartment…"

"…" Quirrell paused, not sure if he really wanted to ask "How is my ap-partment God awful? I think it's rather nice."

"Are you kidding? PUH-LEEZE. You have got to have the most boring apartment I have ever seen. And don't even get me started on the mess… For a prissy professor, you are not as neat as expected."

Quirrell decided to leave it there, not wanting to press his luck. But the nerve-! It wasn't his fault he never had any company, and hence no reason to clean. It wasn't like he was bringing girls (Or even boys) back to his apartment each night. This mess was HIS to command, not some strange dictator's.

"Get out, you say?" Quirrell sighed, "F-fine. Get out I will." He grabbed his robes, walking out the door. He didn't know many people, and even if he had he didn't feel like going over to talk with his best friend was the best idea at the moment. He didn't want to spread the Dark Lord virus.

What to do next was obvious. Get drunk.

"I hope you find the interior decorating of the Leaky Cauldron pleasing. Heaven forbid it not appeal to you."

"Hrm…" Voldemort seemed like he wanted to say something but didn't. Evidently, it wasn't worth it to dignify that with a response. "Watch your tongue before your Lord."

"Right…" Wait. Was he saying all this out loud? Curses. Now people probably thought he was insane. Talking to himself. Not that talking to He Who Must Not Be Named was any better, but still…

It seemed hardly a minute had gone by before Quirrell found himself in the wizardly (Wizarding? Wizardish?) pub. Thankfully they had beer, and stout, and basically anything that could get him very, very drunk. He'd need it. And maybe the headache would finish Voldemort off or something, who knew?

Wouldn't that be amazing. Dark Lord, feared by millions, wounded by a two year old, killed by a hangover.

"Give me t-the strongest stout you have." The innkeeper looked over to Quirrell, who had ordered before he even sat down.

"Of course. It's been a while, professor." Tom, the innkeeper, grinned his toothless grin at him. "'S good to see you're still around." He talked as he went over to the tap, some dark brown liquid falling out into a glass. No hands needed. Ah, magic…

"T-thanks" Quirrell muttered, not feeling very talkative today. Surprise, surprise.

For a little over half an hour Quirrell sat there quietly, drinking. It seemed that You-Know-Who was quiet. For now. Then he heard something.

"…Harry Potter!" He hadn't heard any of the preceding conversation, but he defiantly heard that part. Tom seemed to be talking to someone.

"It's him…" He heard a voice in his head hiss. Yes indeed. It was the boy who lived. Quirrell hadn't had a problem with him previously… But he got the feeling that now he'd have to feel some sort of resentment towards him. It was in the job description.

Without hearing anything, Quirrell felt willed to stand up and walk over to the small boy (Who, oddly, looked rather old. Almost college age even.) and the large man. Hagrid. A decent man, though sometimes a bit… Well, he respected Hagrid but he could hardly see him having him over for tea and crumpets every week.

"Ah. Professor Quirrell!" The giant greeted jovially, going on to tell Harry who he was.

"H-Harry Potter" Quirrell put on a grin, "It's a p-pleasure to meet you, of course" He paused a second, something telling him that he should avoid touching him. He figured it was his Dark Lord sense tingling, so he'd listen to it. "I w-would shake your hand, but I. Uh. Caught… The very contagious… Uh… Talking Lion Fever. Yes. V-very rare. I should recover, b-but I don't want to pass it along."

Harry seemed to stop paying attention after a second or so, deciding instead to look around.

"Yeah. Right. Anyways." He went off with Hagrid. "Do you wizards have any Advil or something? I've got this killer headache…"

And, for some reason, Quirrell felt like laughing. Evilly. Maybe he should start to practice his evil laugh. People always overlooked the laugh… But he wouldn't.


A/N: Aaand that was the first chapter. Yay. Now you (Yes you, reading this) go write a Quirrelmort fanfic right now, you swine.