WalksInDarkness
Dark Ferret
As Seen Through a Moldy Turban Quirrel didn’t have his mind on the game. He was actually looking at his toes and wishing to Merlin he’d listened to his mother when he was young. Of course, he had no idea what his mother had told him, since he hadn’t listened.
Normally, the Dark Lord wouldn’t have cared less whether or not Quirrel was enjoying or paying attention to a Quidditch match. However, normally the Dark Lord wasn’t possessing the fool, stuck underneath a smelly purple turban hearing muffled commentary,
and stuck in the fool’s head.
It was really quite grating to be stuck watching the man’s moronic musings as to whether or not he should have written his mum a letter after her last Christmas card had reached him. What would have had said? “Sorry, Mumsy, can’t write right now, am busy acting as host for the man you always dreamt I’d defeat.” Not exactly what one calls family gossip, as it were.
The commentator yelled something about a foul, but Quirrel humming too loudly for Voldemort to hear what had happened. Apparently, even the last Quidditch game of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin even, wasn’t enough to get that man’s interest.
The Dark Lord wondered viciously why the man had even bothered to go to the match at all. Perhaps he was hoping to jinx the boys broom and actually manage it this time. For the hundredth time the Dark Lord sifted through Quirrel’s memories trying to find a reason for the slip. ‘Slip’ to be taken literally. Nothing. Just a moment of panic, and then lost eye contact. The idiot hadn’t even set up a ‘watch your back,’ spell.”
“FOUL!” screeched the commentator. “You can’t DO that! Grabbing Harry Potter’s glasses just is NOT cricket!”
A moment of silence, where thank Circe the fool had stopped humming, before the commentator added, “Of course it’s not Cricket- it’s Quidditch! But still FOUL!”
Inwardly, the Dark Lord grinned, joyous that somebody at least had managed to bring that wretched boy down a tad. As soon as he managed to get out of the bloody turban, he would have to find that player that did it and give him a reward. Perhaps the death of some troublesome family member.
Before the announcer could mention whether a penalty had been given, Quirrel began to hum to himself, again drowning all other sound out. At least it spared the Dark Lord the trouble of having to hunt down the Referee if a penalty HAD been awarded for what was clearly a legal move. Glasses grabbing had always been a part of Quidditch. Or would be when Voldemort took over the world.
Whoever it was sitting next to Quirrel said something about, “better not try it again,” but before the Dark Lord could figure out who it had been, Quirrel began to hum even louder, answering, “I’ve told you before, Professor, it was all a tragic accident, quite tragic.”
Even Quirrel’s incessant humming couldn’t drown out a roar from the stands at something or other. However, the humming could, and most definitely DID drown out the announcer explaining what it had been. Hopefully another foul against Harry Potter. Hopefully a bludger to the back of the head.
Voldemort could take it no longer. Quickly taking over the man’s mind, he sent a spark of pain down the man’s spine. “Stop humming,” he snapped, before his strength gave out, and he had to relinquish control.
Quirrel twitched at the pain, and stopped humming. The irritating little fool couldn’t even stand a little pain. Voldemort wondered for the hundredth time why he hadn’t just waited for Lucius or Severus to come along, somebody who already knew his motives and methods and would better help him along. WHY had he succumbed to temptation and spent so much of his precious remaining strength to possess this imbecile?
Desperation, he admitted to himself. Nobody had come. Apparently, they were still too busy, according to Quirrel, trying to find out just what had happened back at Godrick’s Hollow to actually go out and look for him. Voldemort sighed, or rather, inadvertently caused Quirrel to sigh, and contemplated punishing them all later. That would at least be more fun than stiffling to death in a garlic inbued turban in the staff seating, and not even being able to SEE the Quidditch match he was suffering for.
Nevermind making glasses grabbing legal. Voldemort resolves to BAN Quidditch as soon as humanely possible. Nobody, not even a Mud-Blood should have to endure such torment.
Another roar from the stands, but the announcer was impossible to hear since Quirrel wasn’t listening to him, but rather running a list of homework assignments through his head that he had yet to grade.
A lurch that would have turned his stomach if he had still had one of his own, and Voldemort knew that Quirrel had left the stands, and that the game was over. Idly, he wondered who had won, and planned on punishing his irritating host for subjecting him to it in the first place.
Signature: Pure Goals. Pure Hearts. Pure War.
Round Four - The Quidditch Match, Short Story Challenge
evlpez Round Four - The Quidditch Match Oct 23 2004, 01:45 AM
Oct 23 2004, 01:45 AM
Unlike Round 3 (The Magic Box Challenge), the submissions for this challenge do not make a continuing story. Each submission must stand alone as a short story.
Note to ferrets: Remember that you are writing fan fiction as though you are the Floo-Between user you've chosen. This means that if you've chosen Snape, you are writing as though Snape is writing fan fiction, not as though he is a part of the story. Each character may write as many submissions as they wish for this challenge, as long as each submission is significantly different from their others. The deadline for submissions is Wednesday December 1st.
