by arachne (aka Alsoa)

SUMMARY: Quirrell viewed from the outside
NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Response to easy pairing Snape/Quirrell)

Somewhat strange and experimental. Written in the second person.

Sometimes you stutter in your mind. Other days, other places, the words flow so fast and pure that it seems they may seep through your very pores in their effort to be heard. Appearances, you learned early, were deceptive.

"What do you think Iíve been doing?" You hear yourself now, speaking to Snape, the single sentence retort the product of torrents of thought that will never break past the set of your lips. At times like this it seems easy. You feel strong. Nourished by the life in your head, that other presence, at present resting quiet - sated. Loam from the forest flecks your boots, trails of silver drift down the black of your robes. The unicorn lay silent and still against the dark earth, its eyes untarnished even in death.

Snapeís gaze snaps up, caught by your tone and the perfect enunciation. He pushes you back hard against the stone wall. Itís cool on your skin, even through thick winter cloth. His voice is colder. "That, Quirrell, is what Iím waiting to hear."

"Violence Sev..Severus?" You combine insouciance with a hiss. His touch grounds you somehow, brings you back to yourself. You note Snape looks irritated. Not angry, just irritated. Of course, he never considered you strong enough to be a rival. Or interesting enough to be a friend. You consider telling him, but you know you never will. It would be different if he cared.

"If that is what it takes." Snape stares at the stains on your cloak with narrowed eyes. He puts out a hand and drops it, something like fear crossing his face before it is quickly masked. The moment is lost. Once more the power claims you. Foolish to think he could save you.

You smile now, and raise firm hands to Snapeís shoulders spinning him round so your positions are reversed. "It is what it takes." This time there is no stutter and his lips open easily under yours. He does not question or protest but there is tension in the slim hips that press so tightly against your own.

Your lips wrap around his flesh. Pale skin that flushes under the heat of your tongue as you gradually draw life from his centre. White seed splashes your face and chin. Tears run down your face. Unicorns bleed silver when they die. But only humans cry.