the flower dancer // quirrellmort

2 • ravenclaw's worst

Mornings were largely the same in routine throughout the castle. So, naturally, the Ravenclaw dormitory that held fifth-year Quirinus Quirrell awoke at the same time as Tom Riddle's. However, Quirrell didn't have any dreams to linger over before getting up.

The skinny boy slipped on his robes in the corner and softly made his way to the common room with everyone else. He was just about to make it all the way down the stone stairs without getting tripped (a record for him) before he felt his body lunge forward and his feet fly back behind him. His vision left, but he could still hear them: chuckles and snickers from all directions. Quirrell was never quite sure who tripped him. For all he knew, it could have been a different person every day. He didn't even really care anymore. Without a sound, he scooped himself up and moved past the others, his head down so as to not attract attention from anyone in particular.

Quirrell didn't talk to many people. He mostly kept to himself, living in his head. His inner dialogue was much more colorful than anything that would ever actually come out of his mouth. One of the only people that ever made an effort to converse with him was, just his luck, someone he disliked. Quirrell would never say "hate", but he surely strongly disliked Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Heya!" Gilderoy would say, moving to stick his arm around Quirrell's bony shoulders. Quirrell normally barely had time to work in a forced smile before the other launched into some long-winded monologue. Some riveting subjects included: the weather, schoolwork, professors, and Gilderoy himself. There was no talking point Gilderoy Lockhart loved more than himself.

Quirrell found him tediously annoying and fiercely arrogant, as well as often blissfully unaware of his surroundings. Still, Quirrell couldn't find it in himself to be rude to the boy, so he listened to each and every monologue Gilderoy could come up with. In fact, one night in year three, Quirrell made a passing remark about Gilderoy's fast-acting and very inventive tongue: "You should really be a writer, Gilderoy. You have... a way with words." Now Quirrell had to deal with being handed draft after draft of whatever came out of that delusional brain.

This particular morning, Gilderoy grabbed him in the corridor. "Gosh, isn't it a nice day? I think so. Isn't it just mad that we're fifth years now? I know I said that yesterday, but I must say it again. Our time at Hogwarts is really whizzing by, huh! My summer holiday was just lovely..."

It didn't take long before Quirrell's brain tuned out by default. It was far too early to pay attention to this, so Gilderoy's words merely flew past him. He managed to nod at times, and for that alone he was proud.

The chatterbox parted from him as they entered the Great Hall. Relieved, Quirrell took his usual spot at the end of the Ravenclaw table, far away from the other students. No one usually sat with him, for most favored sitting with their friends, which Quirrell found hard to have. Every once in a while, however, someone did come over to him: Myrtle Warren. She was also someone whom the general public seemed to be against, though she did have a few friends. Quirrell wasn't terribly close to her, but she did talk to him on occasion, just to make sure he wasn't completely alone. He appreciated her.

But this morning, Myrtle didn't end up coming to his rescue. Quirrell sighed to no one, and stared at his plate, keeping his eyes cast downward. He didn't want anyone to remember he existed, because that increased the likelihood of him getting jinxed.

His eyes were hard to control however, and ended up traveling to the table across from him. Quirrell spied some familiar Slytherins: he could recognize Lucius Malfoy's hair anywhere, and he was pretty sure so could the entire school. A pit formed in his stomach as he continued to look, his gaze automatically panning to the next person. Quirrell wasn't stupid. He knew who he would find if he was staring at Lucius Malfoy. But somehow, he wasn't prepared when he found himself spying a pale boy with sharp cheekbones and messy, dark hair: Tom Riddle.

Everyone at Hogwarts knew Tom Riddle. He was the strangest kid to ever set foot in the castle. He was mysterious, distant, and cold. Quirrell couldn't imagine being close enough to Tom Riddle to hear him insult him. But, before he could sheepishly bring his eyes back to his breakfast, a pair of icy blue ones snapped to them. A cough forced its way out of him, and Quirrell was choking on his own saliva while Tom Riddle eyed him. Tom seemed to chuckle at him for a few seconds before going back to his own conversation, and Quirrell felt his face go scarlet.

He quickly turned back to his food, the image of Tom's eyes meeting his still burned into his brain. Something about it was so chilling, in a way Quirrell had never experienced looking at another student. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling.