Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a quiet, cloudless night on September 27th, 1998, when Quirrell realized he'd forgotten his own birthday.

He was gazing out the window as he often did nowadays, waiting for the kettle in the kitchen to boil. Throughout the few years it had taken him to get used to his new home, he had gradually become comforted by the pitch black outside. He was just wondering if it would be possible to see if someone was out there, when he noticed a tiny flame outside. It was impossible to discern how close it was. It could've been anything from a bonfire, far away somewhere in the forest surrounding his isolated home, to a candle right behind the glass, a small one that people stick into birthday cakes.

That was when it struck him.

He checked the calendar on the wall of his small kitchen, and sure enough, he had crossed off the 26th without a second thought. It didn't bother him too much, aside from the fact that his memory seemed to be deteriorating at the relatively young age of twenty-nine. No, thirty.

Anyway, it wasn't like he'd had plans. If it had been a work day, his co-workers at the muggle school he worked for might have said something. Other than them, he couldn't think of anyone who would have reached out. Certainly nobody magical. He would have stayed in touch with his parents, if they hadn't stopped talking to him when they learned of the treachery he'd committed. After that, and serving a year in Azkaban, his shame and despair had led him to cutting himself off from the wizarding world entirely.

He still practiced and studied magic. There was no real use for it, other than mundane things like chores, summoning the television remote, and retrieving things on shelves he couldn't reach, but it was a part of himself he couldn't give up. He didn't know who he was without it, even if the larger community was forbidden to him.

It was nice to imagine sometimes that there was no larger wizarding world at all, that he was just a single magical man in an otherwise ordinary world. And he had to admit to himself, the way his students had seemed to notice and form little conspiracies about him was amusing to watch.

He went back to the window, and nearly jumped out of his skin. On the other side, lit up by a flickering lantern, was a face.

A face that, upon closer inspection, had haunted him for seven years.

As soon as he recognized him, the boy was gone, and then there was a knock at the door.

He couldn't be sure if any of it was real. He took a shaky step toward the door, yelping when another, louder knock rang out.

"Professor Quirrell?" a voice, familiar and yet so different from that of the child he'd tried to murder, called, "I know you're in there."

He rushed toward the door, and peeked out as he opened it.

"P-Potter," he said, sounding much like he had when they'd first met. He hoped the boy didn't remember.

"You look different," Potter said, his eyes wandering over him curiously, perhaps realizing how small a man he really was.

"Thank- Thank you," was all Quirrell could think to say.

"You can drop the act. And it wasn't a compliment," he said, not exactly angry, but giving him a bit of a harsh stare, "I mean, the hair helps, but your face is even more messed up than I remember."

Quirrell absentmindedly ran his thin fingers over the uneven skin, before shaking his head and trying again, "No, I- I mean, thank you for- for k-killing him."

He cursed his nerves for making him stutter so badly for the first time in months.

"Voldemort?"

He flinched, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"He's gone. You said it yourself, I killed him. Anyway, can I come in?"

"Of- Of course, yes, but why- why are you here?" Quirrell asked, stepping aside.

Harry looked around at the inside of the small house, his expression unreadable, and replied, "I only recently learned you weren't dead, and I wanted to see for myself."

"Well, you've seen," Quirrell said with a nervous laugh, "But, you're m-more than welcome to-- Wait, d-dead?"

"Dumbledore conveniently implied to me that you'd died when Voldemort left you."

He jumped when he heard the name, and Harry sighed.

"What's wrong with you?"

Flinching, Quirrell forced a smile and said, "W-Well, that certainly t-takes me back."

"Sorry," Harry said, actually looking it, "I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

Peering at him suspiciously, Harry said, "He used to say cruel things like that to you, didn't he? That time I overheard you, and then you said he had to punish you..."

"No, no. Well, y-yes, I'm- I'm surprised you remember that," Quirrell said, his smile vanishing, "But that's not- not what I meant. P-People have been asking what's wr-wrong with me since long b-before that."

"Oh, I'm--"

"You d-don't have to apologize to me," he cut in, gesturing for him to sit down at the kitchen table, "Here, sit down, p-please. Would you like some- some tea, or an-anything? I was just m-making some."

"No, thanks," Harry said, though he accepted the offer to sit. The table was a bit cluttered with all sorts of little things; clumsily made clay plates glazed and painted with various swirls, scraps of pressed flowers and leaves, bracelets and necklaces with beaded patterns ranging from random to incredibly ornate.

"It- It's a bit of a mess, but I- I don't really get visitors," Quirrell explained, noticing Harry's interest in his things as he perused a cupboard full of tea boxes.

"You made these?" Harry asked, picking up one of the detailed bracelets.

"Oh, n-no, they're gifts from m-my students."

"You're still teaching?" Harry said, dropping it back where it was, "What subject?"

"Art, a-and chemistry, and a few d-different language electives, when they come up."

"I see."

"Anyway, I n-never thought I'd see you, but I- I'm so glad you're here," Quirrell said, sitting across from him with his tea in a little clay mug that matched one of the plates, "I don't know how to- to even begin to t-tell you how sorry I am for ev-everything I did."

Harry nodded uncomfortably. This was the best outcome he could've predicted for this visit, but he hadn't expected it at all. Over the years, most of his memories of the shaky, stuttering Quirrell had been overshadowed by the image of a hateful man who wanted nothing more than to kill him. Now, he was looking at a strange amalgamation of both versions of him who seemed to mean what he said.

Harry still wouldn't take anything he offered, just in case.

Quirrell went on, "And- And really, I owe you my life."

"No, you don't," Harry said, waving a hand dismissively, "I'm glad you seem to have changed and everything, but you don't have to be dramatic about it."

"I'm n-not being dramatic," he insisted, his voice strangely uneven, "Y-You saved me."

"I burned your face off."

Quirrell laughed, but in a way that sounded painful somehow.

"If- If you hadn't, he would've... He would've killed me," he said between choked breaths.

Harry wondered if Quirrell had swallowed his tea the wrong way, until he looked more closely at him and realized he was crying. Quirrell sensed him looking, and glanced up with a small smile.

"It was p-painful, yes, but it- it forced him t-to leave," he said, wiping away his tears with a shaky hand, "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," Harry said, not knowing how to react to the knowledge that he'd caused Quirrell so much pain that Voldemort himself couldn't stand it, "I didn't even know what I was doing."

Quirrell, despite continuously dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve, couldn't seem to stop his tears. He kept trying and failing to speak, and eventually broke down sobbing into his hands. Harry shifted awkwardly, unused to seeing a teacher cry so openly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, feeling quite stupid as he said it, "I mean, is there something that'll help?"

Shaking his head, Quirrell said, "No, n-nothing-- I'm- I'm just so glad I was able to- to t-t-tell you how- how grateful I am--"

"It's alright, really."

"I- I still have terrible nightmares, you know," he admitted after taking a deep breath, idly running his hands through his hair to dry them, which Harry couldn't decide was gross or not, "About him, a-about you, and- and about what m-might have happened if- if I had died."

Harry raised an eyebrow, asking, "Like what?"

"Nobody would know that I tr-tried to fight him off, how I d-didn't want to do it anymore, I- I was so stupid to join him, to think he- he was right about anything," he explained with a teary laugh, "And- And what my p-parents would think."

"That is scary," Harry nodded, "It's a good thing you got the chance to explain everything to them."

"I- I suppose it is, yes."

"Do you see them often?"

"No," Quirrell said, biting down on his lip in a futile attempt to stop it twitching, "They're-- They're not--"

"Oh. I'm sorry," Harry said.

"N-No, they're alive," he said quickly, "W-What I mean is-- They-- They d-dis-disowned me."

Harry's eyes widened when Quirrell finally got the word out.

"That's horrible."

"No, I- I understand it," he said, though the fresh tears running down his face said otherwise, "I denied it f-for years, but they deserve to live without the- the association of w-what I've done following them."

Harry still thought it was horrible, but he kept his mouth shut. Quirrell had given up trying not to cry, instead deciding he could at least do it quietly. He had a hand pressed over his mouth, and his shoulders trembled with the effort of keeping silent.

After a minute or so of sitting there uncomfortably, Harry said, "You've never talked about this, with anyone, have you."

"I- I'm so sorry--" Quirrell stammered, shaking his head, "You came here j-just looking for closure, and- and here I am t-telling you all of my--"

"Don't worry about it, really," Harry cut in, as he stood and slowly approached his end of the table. He placed a hand on Quirrell's shoulder, surprised by how thin he was.

Before Quirrell could react, Harry quietly said, "It sounds like you've needed some closure too, for a long time."

Quirrell felt a sudden pain in his side, and he froze. A strangled sound that he didn't recognize as his own voice was drawn out of him when something sharp was pulled out from his body. His head was spinning with confusion and a rush of dizziness, and he watched Harry pull away from him with a bloody hand - a bloody hand holding a bloody knife.

"Wh-What- What are you..." he gasped, his hands shaking as he brought them toward the wound. They were completely wet almost instantly, and he began to feel his soaked shirt clinging to him. He kept his eyes on Harry, not daring to look at the blood leaving his body.

"You said it yourself, Professor," Harry said, wiping the blade on his robe, "I came here for closure, and I found it."

"No- No, please, I won't t-tell anyone, p-please help," Quirrell managed as he forced himself to stand. He nearly slipped in the blood that had pooled on the floor around his feet, and in his effort to steady himself against the table, he knocked over the cup of tea. He miraculously didn't burn himself, but the sound of the clay shattering hurt just as much.

"Don't worry, I'll be sure to find your parents and tell them I've forgiven you," Harry said, making his way out the door, "Maybe they'll even come to the funeral. I'll tell them something nice, like you died protecting one of your students."

"Why?" Quirrell murmured, struggling to follow him, "Were you sent... sent by...?"

Harry paused in the doorway and scoffed, "No, I'm not following anyone's orders. For once, I'm taking things into my own hands."

With that, he was gone, and Quirrell stumbled after him. The night air was colder than he'd anticipated, and his breaths came in short gasps. It was only thanks to the lantern Harry was carrying that he was able to see him at all.

For a moment the light seemed to be suddenly flying over his head, until he realized it hadn't moved at all, he'd collapsed. He whimpered quietly when he tried to move and found he couldn't feel his legs. He kept his eyes on the light, and surprisingly it began retreating back toward him.

"I forgot to mention," Harry said, his face barely discernable in the flickering light, "McGonagall wanted me to tell you happy birthday. She tries to hide it, but she misses you. You've done a good job disappearing."

"I'm sorry," Quirrell whispered, weakly grabbing a corner of Harry's robe in an attempt to make him stay, "I shouldn't have run away, please... Please tell her."

Harry smiled warmly, and said, "Of course. I'm glad we got to have this last talk. Goodbye, Professor."

Turning away, he left Quirrell's hand to fall limply to the ground. Quirrell could only watch as the lantern got smaller and smaller until it disappeared, and he accepted the darkness enveloping him.