WARNING: This is a slash story, which means it contains male/male erotic content involving consenting adults. If you're not of legal age or are offended by such material, please go find something else to read.

Title: Shadow Play
Author: Keieru (keieru@hotmail.com)
Archive: http://zenmai.net/keieru
Rating: mild R, I suppose
Pairing: Quirrell/Snape (Voldemort/Snape)
Disclaimer: Not mine; they're more trouble than they're worth.
Spoilers: PS/SS, movie
Summary: Quirrell has Voldemort in his head, and he rather likes it. Bad news for Snape.
Notes: This is moviefic, not bookfic. There is no movie evidence that Quirrell ever fought Voldemort's hold on him. Which implies that certain encounters could have been much more interesting.
Thanks: to Adai for the comments, and Canis M. for an incredible beta reading.


There was a time when Quirrell had been frightened. Though weak, he had protested, fought, struggled against the intruder with all his might. It hadn't helped, of course.

He couldn't even remember why he'd fought, now. Why had he ever wanted to rid himself of an alliance that brought such impossible glory, such wondrous new strength? His Master's magic whispered rich and potent through his veins. He could call full-grown mountain trolls with a snap of his fingers, make them do his bidding with a single word. Such amazing power.

And the best part was that no one knew. His stuttering, stumbling performance blinded all of the powerful, arrogant professors at Hogwarts. Not even Dumbledore suspected, the old fool. Everybody was taken in.

Well, almost everybody. There was one who suspected, so Quirrell had to be careful of him.

(Traitor,) hissed the voice in his head as he sat quietly at dinner, smiling his false trembling smile at one and all. (How dare he work for Dumbledore? Traitors deserve to die, you know. This one more than any. I'll kill him, of course, slowly, carefully. It would be no more than he deserves. He gave himself to me, many years ago, and that makes him mine. Still mine, no matter who he calls master now. My precious traitor, mine, always mine.)

"Of course," Quirrell murmured, soothing, picking at his food. The beloved inner voice was inconsistent. Sometimes it was clear and coldly logical, other times shrill and fractured like that of a mad child. "Of course he is."

Carefully, Quirrell looked sideways at the man beside him. Long, strong fingers were tapping impatiently at the tablecloth. The material of the sleeve gathered in lazy folds at the wrist, soft black velvet an intriguing contrast to the pale skin beneath. Quirrell traced the sleeve with his eyes, moving his gaze gradually up to the shoulder, then pausing to linger over the tantalizing curve of neck and jaw. Shifting his gaze even further up, he caught a glimpse of pursed, mocking lips, and hastily turned away.

It was too late; he had been seen. "Ah, Quirrell. Is there something you want? Who were you talking to?"

Quirrell stiffened, his movements deliberately jerky. "N-nothing. Nobody."

(Traitor,) shrieked the voice in his mind.

The traitor in question leaned over, eyes black and glittering. "Really. Then you may as well talk with me. Is there anything you'd like to share with me, Quirrell?"

Quirrell blinked. "I d-d-don't know what you're t-talking about."

"Oh, I think you do," Snape growled, but subsided at a sideways glance from Dumbledore. He settled for a glare, eyes slitted under trailing black hair. "We'll settle this later."

Quirrell bent to his meal, smiling faintly at the words forming inside his head. (Indeed we will. How dare he? He'll die for this, die under Cruciatus, pain for days unending. Surely he can remember how that feels; must I remind him? Better yet, Imperius and he'll skin himself alive at my command, an inch at a time. Unforgivable curses for the unforgiven, and isn't it appropriate? He was mine after all, is mine, mine to kill, forever mine. I'll make him drink his own blood, feast on his own flesh. I'll teach him to betray me.)

Quirrell glanced sideways. Snape was not eating, knuckles whitened around the stem of his goblet, eyes unfocused on his plate. His profile was clear and somehow sharp in the candlelight. "But that would be such a waste," Quirrell whispered under his breath. "Can I play with him first, Master?"

Muttering vengeance blossomed into black delight in his head. (A fine idea, my loyal one. We shall play with him together.)


The hallway at night was dark and ominous, scented with dust and old stone, swimming with shadows. Hogwarts was such a delightfully melodramatic place sometimes. Quirrell allowed Snape to seize a handful of his robes, let himself be pushed up against the wall. The stones against his back were cold with winter chill, and Snape was warm, very warm.

"Now tell me," Snape hissed. The moonlight whitened his face, made his eyes into dark sunken holes. "What is it you're after?"

Quirrell stared. "I d-don't understand."

"There wasn't a sign of a troll in the dungeons. It was summoned directly to the third floor." Another shove, bringing them closer together. "You're hiding something, Quirrell, and I want to know what it is."

Quirrell was barely listening. He could almost feel Snape's heart beating against his chest, feel the blood racing vibrant under the skin. (Life,) mourned his Master faintly. (How dare he have life when I have none?)

He realized belatedly that he ought to make some sort of answer. "Severus, p-please. I know n-n-nothing, I s-swear." But it was so hard to keep his mask in place, hard to concentrate at all when Snape was so near and so fascinating, the shadows gathering in his long black robes.

"Don't think you can fool me," Snape growled.

At that, his Master roused, the inner voice rising compellingly. (Oh, so does he think himself strong? I remember what he looked like in pain, the sound of his screams. Curses spilling silver from my tongue and he'd fall, shivering, begging, crawling like a worm in the dirt while I watched. Can he have forgotten? I shall have to remind him. How dare he stand in my way, how dare he defend the Potter boy? He will bleed for this, you know. He will bleed, bloodred warm and living, bleed for me.)

Snape was still talking. "...the third floor corridor on Halloween, then? I can find the signs of Dark Arts if I'm looking for them. I know more than you've ever learned; did you think you could fool me? What are you hiding, Quirrell? Does it have something to do with Harry Potter? Or with the Stone? What is it that you want?"

So many unnecessary words, crowding the air between them. Snape was too fond of words. Quirrell limited himself to the absolute minimum. "N-nothing."

Another shove, and their noses almost touched. "You're lying. Do you think you can get away with lying to me? Do you take me for a fool?"

"T-take you..." He choked back the sudden hysterical laughter. Sometimes words weren't needed. There were other, more potent tools at his disposal, and he used them -- subtle relaxing of muscles, a quiet pressing forward, his body asking questions he did not need to voice. Yes, Severus, what is it that you want? Do you want this, Severus? Do you want me?

Slight puzzlement skittered across Snape's face, and his throat worked as he swallowed. A gloating, vicious sort of joy ran through Quirrell's veins. He couldn't tell if it was his emotion or his Master's. It made no difference, really.

Fractional, deliberate shift of hips, and Snape's cheeks flushed dark in the moonlight.

Sliding down in the small space between them, Quirrell sank to his knees. He dropped his gaze to the floor, brought his hands to Snape's thighs. Stroked there, lightly, experimentally.

"Quirrell..." The threat was not quite there.

Quirrell didn't look up, not trusting his expression. Instead, he angled his head slightly, brought his face closer, parted his lips. Offering.

Snape said nothing, did not move. His body against Quirrell's was wonderfully warm. Quirrell set his hands on Snape's hips and nuzzled gently, teasingly, rubbing his cheeks against warm fabric and what lay beneath. He heard Snape's breath catch, heard his Master's laughter in his head. (Oh, perfect, perfect. This, too, I have seen before, this at least he must remember. On his knees before me, so young, so proud. So sweet. Would you like to see, loyal one?)

An intriguing image flashed to the front of Quirrell's mind. It startled him, enticed him, and he paused for a moment. It was enough for Snape to regain his poise. The fists in Quirrell's robes tightened, jerking him upright. Snape's next words were spat directly into his face. "Don't play games with me."

Quirrell did not have to feign the shivering, not with his Master sending him such intoxicating visions. Remembered images of Snape convulsing on the ground, long-fingered hands clutching at air, mouth open, head thrown back. Quirrell didn't know whether the writhing he saw was sexual or spellcast, and didn't care. Delicious either way, and suddenly he wanted to see it for himself.

(You will,) he was promised. (You will see it. Someday. Soon.)

Quirrell did not smile, but his eyes on Snape's were bright with knowledge.

Snape released him roughly and stepped back. Quirrell let himself crumple to the floor. The face he raised up was carefully arranged in lines of fear.

"We'll... talk later." Scrape of bootheels against the ground and Snape was striding down the hall, cloak billowing.

Quirrell stood, brushing himself off. "Later," he echoed. "I'll hold you to that, Severus."

(I can give you this and more, give you everything you want. Give me life, my servant, and he shall be your reward.)

"Then I shall certainly do my best, Master."