Malfoy was staring transfixed at Quirrell, his cane quivering, as if he had suddenly lost his confidence in all those barriers.
“I am running out of time, I give you this one chance. You know what I can do, you know how little I care about your trinket. Remove all your barriers immediately, bow to me, bow to your Lord, to your God, to me, Voldemort!”
There was a deadly silence in the room. Quirrell—Voldemort? -- Quirrell apparently did not see the need to add anything, Harry couldn’t speak—could barely think! -- Lucius might as well be a deer staring into a truck’s headlights, his eyes flickering back and forth between his cane, Quirrell standing there with a seemingly relaxed poise, and the hearth. The hearth across the room, it could as well have been on another floor, impossibly far away.
The cane cluttered to the floor, Lucius Malfoy’s forehead followed immediately as he prostrated himself on the floor, voice quavering. “Forgive me, my Lord, for I have sinned. I am yours, now and forever, I will prove my loyal - ”
There was a flash, Harry didn’t see Quirrell so much as move his lips, yet Lord Malfoy, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, became part of history himself, his detached head plopping on the floor, looking—surprised. Harry felt his patronus slipping beyond his grasp as he was looking at the ruins of his plans rolling across the study, leaving a trail of blood. I hope it delivered the message! I have to buy time, somehow.
“I hate this role, it was necessary right then, but I really hoped to never adopt it again.” Quirrell wasn’t missing a beat, switching his attention to Harry.
“I know you can’t speak, and there’s nothing much to be said. Nothing to make a difference. Suffice it to say, yes, I used to play that comically evil character ‘Lord Voldemort’, yes I did kill your parents, an exit strategy was needed when noone rallied behind my Monroe alter-ego, not even the Goblins. Noone questions death-by-innocent-infant, not even Dumbledore. So no, I’m not sorry for that, it was for the greater good. For differing values of good, I suppose”, he added, musingly.
“I suspect you’re wondering where Dumbledore is, well, he must have met my anti-Phoenix ward by now. Improved by your very own methods of rationality, if you can believe it. Thank you for that. The ward may have killed a lesser wizard, but with him, you never know. In any case, it may be best if we do not tarry.”
Quirrell stepped towards Harry, a determined look on his face, staying well clear of the path that Harry’s wand was pointing. Where it was pointing. Harry’s mind was racing. It was pointing at nothing in particular, it was just pointing at air. Pointing at air! It’s a dumb idea a part of Harry thought, but it was his only idea. This may well prove to be a Pyrrhic victory; pro: you’ll surprise him, con: you’ll surprise him by killing yourself, probably.
Still, it was the last, best hope for victory—any kind of victory—that Harry had, a trump card he doubted Quirrell suspected. There was a glow emanating from his wand at Harry transfigured the air into nerve gas. Quirrell remained unaffected and a bubble head charm sprang up near instantly around Harry’s head, but Goyle’s head violently jerked backwards, his control wavering. Harry still couldn’t move, but yet again the strings relented, ever so slightly. It was enough. I may not be able to touch Quirrell—but my patronus might. Let’s start our own version of the Big Bang, those were Harry’s thoughts as he pictured Hermione coming back to life, “Expectopatronum!” once again bursting from his lips as fast as he could speak, as the glowing humanoid threateningly stepped towards Quirrell.
“Haaaaaaarryyyyy.” It was Hermione’s voice. It was impossible. The voice emanated from a walking husk, a corpse stumbling into the now crowded study. It was Hermione.
“I found your ‘secret’ ‘ring’, made her an Inferius, bound her to my will. She’ll never live again. Watch!”
Events seemed to happen simultaneously, Quirrell twitched his wand, Hermione’s tortured remains melting into a puddle on the floor, seeping between the wooden boards, Harry’s glowing human reaching for Quirrell, a sense of doom heavily protruding upon the room. The patronus shattered into shards of lights that bounced harmlessly off the floor, missing Quirrell, as Harry processed his words, the reality of the deed done.
“I suspect that was the last patronus you’ll ever cast, and right at the nick of time, too. We may finally be compatible enough. For what’s it worth, I’ll let you know that I am David Monroe, at least to a higher degree than any of my other sockpuppets. Much more so than I am evil Voldemort, the character I conjured up to unite the sheep. I’ll make up a more convincing caricature this time. And, as I promised, you will rule Magical Britain. Those galaxies, too, in time.”
David Monroe closed the gap between them. “At least, your body will.” His head was touching his wand, his wand touching, impossibly touching, Harry’s temple.
“Mens eo ipso imago infiniti est quo eius capax est!” [*The mind is the image of the Infinite, in that it is capable of it and can contain it.]
There was a splash as Goyle exploded as a magical vortex between Harry and Quirrell’s empty shell tossed them like dolls to different corners of the room, splattered in blood.
Then, for a time, there was silence, apart from a young boy, heavily breathing.
The study’s small window was ripped outward, taking most of the wall with it. A dishevelled Dumbledore appeared in the opening, eyes frantically scanning the room.
The-Boy-Who-Will-Live-Forever sat up.
“The danger is passed, Albus. The lingering illness is over at last. Voldemort is gone. I killed him.”
The headmaster, looking all his long years, opened his mouth as if to speak, only to suddenly cough, as if sniffing something in the air. His grim wand twitched towards his own head, no that’s not right, his hand did so. His wand had fallen out of his fingers which were flexing and unflexing uncontrollably, dropped on the floor. Dumbledore looked at his hand that had deserted him, a bewildered look on his face.
The boy watched dispassionately. “As I’m killing you now. Or rather, as Harry is killing you now.”
There was a lot of work to be done, he thought as he picked up his new wand.
An alternate ending: Quirrell taking over Harry as a final host, Quirrell admitting to his true identity: being Monroe more so than Voldemort, and to staging his own death, also tying up a few loose ends.
Probably my last prose contribution, judging by the reception. I did have an hour to kill, so I thought why not contribute the above speculation in a more interesting format.
What did you find so anticlimactic? Maybe the “Boy-Who-Will-Live-Forever” is easy to accidentally skip over, the last line is a reference to a poem and a chapter ending of Sanderson’s The Way of Kings.
Probably my last prose contribution, judging by the reception.
Speaking as one individual, it’s not that I dislike what you’ve written, or do not find it interesting in its own right.
It’s just that I come here, to a discussion and analysis thread, for information-dense texts which present their ideas clearly and concisely, because I find they give me the most value relative to time spent reading. Accordingly, when I see here a long prose text which is written to prioritise quality of narrative over efficiency of communication, I skim it quickly or not at all, and move on to other posts. They will contain a similar amount of value, but take a tiny fraction of the time to read and comprehend.
Also, I speculate that some people will think it inappropriate for you to “showcase” your own writing in a thread meant for discussion of someone else’s work, though I realise that’s not your intention.
I, for one, liked it. I’m not sure here is where it belongs (though I couldn’t say where else it does).
Seems pretty well-written and reasonably plausible; I like being reminded that Voldemort winning is a real possibility, and this seems like a way he might do so.
It seems weird for Harry to actually be disinterested in “all that signaling stuff”. He says he is to Draco in Chapter 24 (in nearly the same words), but this is because he wants Draco to try to plot against him.
Well, Harry probably was on the certain fora on the (early) internet too much and got annoyed at the high signalling-to-((object level) information) ratio. He did. Harry, I mean.
I think the anticlimax comes from the fact that Harry has basically no agency in the story at all. We get 4 lines of internal monologue, but really, this is Quirrelmort’s story, not Harry’s.
This isn’t because he wins, so much as it is because his winning suddenly in this manner basically invalidates the entire rest of the story. While this might be an accurate rendition of events according to characterization, it ignores almost every subplot, begs the question of why this didn’t happen at any other earlier event in the story, and doesn’t really fit Quirrell’s wistfulness over Harry’s similarity yet difference from himself. Obviously that could all have been a lie, but even assuming everything done recently was to bring Harry to the point of matching Quirrell enough for the spell, this doesn’t seem like the cutoff. The loss of Hermione’s body shouldn’t be the Despair Event Horizon for Harry—he was dedicated to getting to godlike power so he could just will it to happen.
Quirrell’s knowledge of Ringmione also puts him in the reader’s shoes really, it is something he could not have known, unless we assume a lot of things about the story were false.
I suppose a better term to describe the ending is “unsatisfying and plot ignoring”.
Professor Quirrell looked at Harry Potter, his face expressionless. For a moment Harry wondered if the man would reveal all his secret identities, quietly reveling in all his deceptions, all the wool he had managed to pull over Harry’s eyes. Or perhaps the Defense Professor would mockingly explain that it was by mastering Harry’s own techniques that he had managed to win so utterly.
Instead, Quirrell pulled out a gun and shot Harry.
Malfoy was staring transfixed at Quirrell, his cane quivering, as if he had suddenly lost his confidence in all those barriers.
“I am running out of time, I give you this one chance. You know what I can do, you know how little I care about your trinket. Remove all your barriers immediately, bow to me, bow to your Lord, to your God, to me, Voldemort!”
There was a deadly silence in the room. Quirrell—Voldemort? -- Quirrell apparently did not see the need to add anything, Harry couldn’t speak—could barely think! -- Lucius might as well be a deer staring into a truck’s headlights, his eyes flickering back and forth between his cane, Quirrell standing there with a seemingly relaxed poise, and the hearth. The hearth across the room, it could as well have been on another floor, impossibly far away.
The cane cluttered to the floor, Lucius Malfoy’s forehead followed immediately as he prostrated himself on the floor, voice quavering. “Forgive me, my Lord, for I have sinned. I am yours, now and forever, I will prove my loyal - ”
There was a flash, Harry didn’t see Quirrell so much as move his lips, yet Lord Malfoy, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, became part of history himself, his detached head plopping on the floor, looking—surprised. Harry felt his patronus slipping beyond his grasp as he was looking at the ruins of his plans rolling across the study, leaving a trail of blood. I hope it delivered the message! I have to buy time, somehow.
“I hate this role, it was necessary right then, but I really hoped to never adopt it again.” Quirrell wasn’t missing a beat, switching his attention to Harry.
“I know you can’t speak, and there’s nothing much to be said. Nothing to make a difference. Suffice it to say, yes, I used to play that comically evil character ‘Lord Voldemort’, yes I did kill your parents, an exit strategy was needed when noone rallied behind my Monroe alter-ego, not even the Goblins. Noone questions death-by-innocent-infant, not even Dumbledore. So no, I’m not sorry for that, it was for the greater good. For differing values of good, I suppose”, he added, musingly.
“I suspect you’re wondering where Dumbledore is, well, he must have met my anti-Phoenix ward by now. Improved by your very own methods of rationality, if you can believe it. Thank you for that. The ward may have killed a lesser wizard, but with him, you never know. In any case, it may be best if we do not tarry.”
Quirrell stepped towards Harry, a determined look on his face, staying well clear of the path that Harry’s wand was pointing. Where it was pointing. Harry’s mind was racing. It was pointing at nothing in particular, it was just pointing at air. Pointing at air! It’s a dumb idea a part of Harry thought, but it was his only idea. This may well prove to be a Pyrrhic victory; pro: you’ll surprise him, con: you’ll surprise him by killing yourself, probably.
Still, it was the last, best hope for victory—any kind of victory—that Harry had, a trump card he doubted Quirrell suspected. There was a glow emanating from his wand at Harry transfigured the air into nerve gas. Quirrell remained unaffected and a bubble head charm sprang up near instantly around Harry’s head, but Goyle’s head violently jerked backwards, his control wavering. Harry still couldn’t move, but yet again the strings relented, ever so slightly. It was enough. I may not be able to touch Quirrell—but my patronus might. Let’s start our own version of the Big Bang, those were Harry’s thoughts as he pictured Hermione coming back to life, “Expectopatronum!” once again bursting from his lips as fast as he could speak, as the glowing humanoid threateningly stepped towards Quirrell.
“Haaaaaaarryyyyy.” It was Hermione’s voice. It was impossible. The voice emanated from a walking husk, a corpse stumbling into the now crowded study. It was Hermione.
“I found your ‘secret’ ‘ring’, made her an Inferius, bound her to my will. She’ll never live again. Watch!”
Events seemed to happen simultaneously, Quirrell twitched his wand, Hermione’s tortured remains melting into a puddle on the floor, seeping between the wooden boards, Harry’s glowing human reaching for Quirrell, a sense of doom heavily protruding upon the room. The patronus shattered into shards of lights that bounced harmlessly off the floor, missing Quirrell, as Harry processed his words, the reality of the deed done.
“I suspect that was the last patronus you’ll ever cast, and right at the nick of time, too. We may finally be compatible enough. For what’s it worth, I’ll let you know that I am David Monroe, at least to a higher degree than any of my other sockpuppets. Much more so than I am evil Voldemort, the character I conjured up to unite the sheep. I’ll make up a more convincing caricature this time. And, as I promised, you will rule Magical Britain. Those galaxies, too, in time.”
David Monroe closed the gap between them. “At least, your body will.” His head was touching his wand, his wand touching, impossibly touching, Harry’s temple.
“Mens eo ipso imago infiniti est quo eius capax est!” [*The mind is the image of the Infinite, in that it is capable of it and can contain it.]
There was a splash as Goyle exploded as a magical vortex between Harry and Quirrell’s empty shell tossed them like dolls to different corners of the room, splattered in blood.
Then, for a time, there was silence, apart from a young boy, heavily breathing.
The study’s small window was ripped outward, taking most of the wall with it. A dishevelled Dumbledore appeared in the opening, eyes frantically scanning the room.
The-Boy-Who-Will-Live-Forever sat up.
“The danger is passed, Albus. The lingering illness is over at last. Voldemort is gone. I killed him.”
The headmaster, looking all his long years, opened his mouth as if to speak, only to suddenly cough, as if sniffing something in the air. His grim wand twitched towards his own head, no that’s not right, his hand did so. His wand had fallen out of his fingers which were flexing and unflexing uncontrollably, dropped on the floor. Dumbledore looked at his hand that had deserted him, a bewildered look on his face.
The boy watched dispassionately. “As I’m killing you now. Or rather, as Harry is killing you now.”
There was a lot of work to be done, he thought as he picked up his new wand.
… Interesting, if an incredibly anticlimactic ending.
Is this supposed to be a theoretical future?
An alternate ending: Quirrell taking over Harry as a final host, Quirrell admitting to his true identity: being Monroe more so than Voldemort, and to staging his own death, also tying up a few loose ends.
Probably my last prose contribution, judging by the reception. I did have an hour to kill, so I thought why not contribute the above speculation in a more interesting format.
What did you find so anticlimactic? Maybe the “Boy-Who-Will-Live-Forever” is easy to accidentally skip over, the last line is a reference to a poem and a chapter ending of Sanderson’s The Way of Kings.
Speaking as one individual, it’s not that I dislike what you’ve written, or do not find it interesting in its own right.
It’s just that I come here, to a discussion and analysis thread, for information-dense texts which present their ideas clearly and concisely, because I find they give me the most value relative to time spent reading. Accordingly, when I see here a long prose text which is written to prioritise quality of narrative over efficiency of communication, I skim it quickly or not at all, and move on to other posts. They will contain a similar amount of value, but take a tiny fraction of the time to read and comprehend.
Also, I speculate that some people will think it inappropriate for you to “showcase” your own writing in a thread meant for discussion of someone else’s work, though I realise that’s not your intention.
I, for one, liked it. I’m not sure here is where it belongs (though I couldn’t say where else it does).
Seems pretty well-written and reasonably plausible; I like being reminded that Voldemort winning is a real possibility, and this seems like a way he might do so.
Maybe on ff.net as a one-shot spinoff?
“Commentfic” is a thing, after all.
It seems weird for Harry to actually be disinterested in “all that signaling stuff”. He says he is to Draco in Chapter 24 (in nearly the same words), but this is because he wants Draco to try to plot against him.
Well, Harry probably was on the certain fora on the (early) internet too much and got annoyed at the high signalling-to-((object level) information) ratio. He did. Harry, I mean.
Changed the ending, better now?
I think the anticlimax comes from the fact that Harry has basically no agency in the story at all. We get 4 lines of internal monologue, but really, this is Quirrelmort’s story, not Harry’s.
This isn’t because he wins, so much as it is because his winning suddenly in this manner basically invalidates the entire rest of the story. While this might be an accurate rendition of events according to characterization, it ignores almost every subplot, begs the question of why this didn’t happen at any other earlier event in the story, and doesn’t really fit Quirrell’s wistfulness over Harry’s similarity yet difference from himself. Obviously that could all have been a lie, but even assuming everything done recently was to bring Harry to the point of matching Quirrell enough for the spell, this doesn’t seem like the cutoff. The loss of Hermione’s body shouldn’t be the Despair Event Horizon for Harry—he was dedicated to getting to godlike power so he could just will it to happen.
Quirrell’s knowledge of Ringmione also puts him in the reader’s shoes really, it is something he could not have known, unless we assume a lot of things about the story were false.
I suppose a better term to describe the ending is “unsatisfying and plot ignoring”.
Professor Quirrell looked at Harry Potter, his face expressionless. For a moment Harry wondered if the man would reveal all his secret identities, quietly reveling in all his deceptions, all the wool he had managed to pull over Harry’s eyes. Or perhaps the Defense Professor would mockingly explain that it was by mastering Harry’s own techniques that he had managed to win so utterly.
Instead, Quirrell pulled out a gun and shot Harry.