Chapter 113: Voldemort's Monologue
"Quirrell wasn't just influenced by you?" Professor Flitwick's voice was filled with a deep, visceral disgust. For years, Voldemort had been a plague upon the wizarding world, a force of death and corruption. And now, one of his own students, a man who had become a colleague, had fallen under his sway, had been... replaced.
The only reason they hadn't already apprehended him was that they were waiting for the powerful, custom-made magical array, sponsored by Nicolas Flamel, to fully activate. Voldemort's current posturing was a clear sign that he knew he was trapped and was trying to buy time.
"No, no, no, my dear Filius," Voldemort said, his voice dripping with condescending glee. "When Quirinus Quirrell left his teaching post to travel the world, he did indeed seek me out. The fool thought he could use the great Dark Lord for his own petty ambitions. But after a few... setbacks... he became a loyal and obedient servant, a hawk trained to my will."
"Silence!" Flitwick snapped.
"Let me finish," Voldemort said, his confidence growing. "You can choose to believe what I'm about to say, or not. The choice is yours. After your Professor Quirrell was... influenced... by Mr. Welles that night, he had a change of heart. He decided to defy me."
(Ryan: Bullshit! I didn't influence him!)
"But he overestimated himself and underestimated me. I crushed his pathetic little rebellion and imprisoned him in the depths of his own mind. He is, however, still alive."
Voldemort's words painted a vivid picture of that night in the Forbidden Forest. Quirrell, his legs rooted to the ground, fighting for control of his own body. The two voices, one his own, one an alien parasite, warring within him.
"You dare to defy me!"
"This isn't right."
"You are my slave! Find the unicorn! Bring me its blood!"
"Drinking the blood of a unicorn will curse me! I can't do it!"
"I have given you everything! Power, knowledge, respect! You owe me your devotion, your very life!"
"No!"
"I saw that he was wavering," Voldemort continued, his tone now almost conversational, "so I changed my tactics. I told him he was special, that he had potential. I spoke of the glorious future that awaited him, of the power and prestige I would grant him. I told him that to save the wizarding world, to restore it to its former glory, a few small sacrifices were necessary."
He then launched into a grand, self-aggrandizing speech, a tale of his own noble struggle against the oppressive Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix, of his quest to restore the pure-bloods to their rightful place, of the prophecy that had been his downfall, and of his tragic, humiliating exile. It was a masterful performance, a symphony of lies and half-truths designed to sway the weak-minded.
"But the fool was still resolute," Voldemort concluded with a sneer. "He refused to see reason. So I had to... discipline him. But by the time I had regained full control, the opportunity to get the unicorn blood was lost."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, trying to discern the truth from the fiction. The life of a student and a professor was at stake. Gellert, for his part, was growing impatient. Albus is too sentimental, he thought. Just grab the man and be done with it. Nicolas Flamel remained impassive, an ancient observer of life's endless tragedies.
"Oh, and by the way," Voldemort added, "Quirrell's stutter was an affectation, a disguise he adopted after he met me. I'm sure you all knew that."
"Of course," Dumbledore said, a look of dawning realization on his face. "Even after he supposedly broke with you, he still stuttered. I should have seen it sooner. From that night on, it was always you, wasn't it? Never Quirrell."
"So, Dumbledore," Voldemort said, playing his trump card. "Let me go, and I will release him. But if you attack, I cannot guarantee his safety." He was ecstatic. His decision to spare Quirrell's life, to use him as a puppet, had been a stroke of genius. He looked at the conflicted expressions on their faces, the impotent rage, and he wanted to laugh.
"Hahaha!" he cackled. "Who among you will dare to strike me down now?"
From "A New History of Magic, Vol. 3: The House of Gaunt":
He who would style himself the second Dark Lord was Voldemort, a man of the House of Gaunt, heir of Slytherin. Orphaned at a young age, he displayed extraordinary magical talent and was admitted to Hogwarts at the age of eleven. Dumbledore, then a professor, saw in him a cruel and lawless nature and sought to guide him. But Voldemort's ambition was insatiable. He gathered followers and, upon graduating, sought a teaching position, which Dumbledore denied him. In his rage, he cursed the post, a testament to his jealous and suspicious nature.
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