Chapter Text
Slinking, crawling, invading. Quiri tried to scream, tried to scream as loud as their lungs would allow, but they couldn’t. It felt like their vocal cords were frozen. They couldn’t so much as shut their still open mouth. In fact, they couldn’t move anything at all. Encased in those horrible inky, slimy, consuming shadows, all Quiri could do was stare in open mouthed terror, stare at the inky dark sky and its slowly shifting stars. Tears wet their cheeks, dampening their shirt. In this dark, silent forest, even the night creatures made no sound, as if aware that it was on the hunt. The only thing Quiri could hear was their laboured breathing and the rapid beats of their heart.
The shadows kept shifting along their body, exploring, searching. Searching for entrance. Quiri’s body ached with the need to shudder, to shake off this horrible thing. But they couldn’t. And it hurt so, so much. Their muscles' ached, forced to be still for far too long. Abdomen drawn taut, arm outstretched, and legs poised, as if to kick away. Their eyes burned, locked on the sky, where it– He had been last. And now He was, He wasn’t– Not yet at least. He hadn’t found whatever entrance he was looking for.
Quiri’s leg gave a twitch. And something like hope sparked in their chest. A small spasm from the left of their hip. Could I? But then, sharp like claws, He dug in. And Quiri moved, involuntary. Their head was flung back, cracking into a hard stone, their legs splayed and stiff. Their back was bowed, chest thrust up, as if they were offering their heart and soul to the stars twinkling above.
But it was not the stars that staked their claim. He surged forward.Quiri shuddered and twitched, it felt like their skin was being peeled away from their muscle and sinew, peeled away only to have something else slip in between. More tears slipped from Quiri’s eyes, as their chest heaved with unvoiced sobs, and their lungs burned with the screams kept inside. He spread through Quiri, like poisoned blood, and aided by the rapid beatbeatbeat of Quiri’s heart. Their hands spasmed against the earth below, trembling with the urge to claw out this foreign invader, to rip Him from their chest. But they could not remove what coursed through their veins.
Slowly, from the edges of their vision, like the vines of a Devil’s Snare, an all consuming black began to slither in. And in, and in. Until Quiri can barely glimpse the stars far above. And finally, He was fully sheathed. And Quiri’s body falls limp to the forest floor. As they slip away, Quiri doesn’t scream like they so wish to do, instead, from their loosened vocal cords, comes a small whimper. Terrified and plaintive.
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When the darkness receded Quiri surged forward, opening their eyes and letting loose the scream that’d been buried in their chest.
They screamed as loud and for as long as they could; at the dark forest around them. They dug their hands into the earth below them and kicked at that (shadowy, consuming, holding down and enteringenteringentering)
They couldn’t breath, it felt like they had too tight ropes wrapped around their chest. All they could feel was the slithering of the shadows, touching, claiming, every part of them. Their heartbeat pounded in their ears, all they could hear– until,
“Bloody Hell!” The man beside them yelled, “What’s wrong with you?!”
Quiri whipped their head to stare, suddenly aware that they were not alone. He was a very normal looking man, stout, with greying hair and a thick moustache. He didn't look like someone who’d wander around an Albanian forest. He also looked very cross. His brows were furrowed and face red, like he was going to yell. At least, until he got a good look at Quiri’s face. Then his face softened considerably.
Taking deep breaths, Quiri grew aware of the tears falling down their face, of the plush seat they were sitting on, and of the familiar movements of a train. They were on a train. But how?
To their right was a window, looking out, they stared at the golden fields. The man beside them sounded very British. And the view outside did not look very Albanian.
Quiri jolted at the heavy weight placed on their right shoulder. They looked back at the man, who now looked very concerned.
“Are you alright kid?”
Shaking, trying not to cry again, Quiri nodded. They doubted they were very convincing, but the man didn’t press and opted to go back to his newspaper. Quiri shifted closer to the window, watching, and trying to ignore their reflection.
As they watched the fields fly by, the shaking shifted into a more manageable tremble, and their breathing had leveled out somewhat. Quiri’s mind was still buzzing with questions, anxieties and fears. How did I get here? Where is here? What happened in the woods? What happened to (sliding, gripping, examining, over their skin, in their skin, i n s i d e them). They had to talk to Professor Dumbledore. Clenching their right hand, they were surprised to hear a crinkle. Looking down, Quiri realized that they were holding a train ticket. A train ticket to London. Fuck. Even though they did try to buy tickets in advance for the journeys they couldn’t make on foot (as any responsible traveller should), they hadn't bought a train ticket to London. Even worse was the date on the ticket, June 5th. It’d been May 30th when they entered the woods.
Shoving down the rising panic, Quiri forced their attention back to the window, more specifically, to their reflection. It was the same face they’d always had. Still round, still that same shade of brown. Nothing had changed, their brown eyes were still the same, and their freckles hadn’t shifted– but,
They couldn’t describe it, but they looked bloated somehow. Like there was something under their skin– no s o m e o n e. Their heart leapt in their throat. And Quiri barely caught the whimper in their mouth.Glancing towards the man’s reflection, they bit their lip as they made eye contact at through the window. The man was quick to glance away again. And Quiri raised their fingers to their face. Quiri pressed down, searching for the movement they saw in the reflection. Nothing. But it’s there, they know it, they feel it in their soul– in their soul. Shit.
Okay,okay. He doesn’t seem to be trying to regain control. Maybe He’s too weak? They need a plan. (what if He wakes up, or gains control or whatever– Professor Dumbledore’ll know what to do, he has to, he’s Dumbledore) They’ll– they’ll get off at London like their ticket says, take the Knight Bus to Hogwarts and find Professor Dumbledore. And he’ll hopefully know how to fix everything.
Having something resembling a plan, does little to soothe the beast of panic residing in Quiri’s heart. (He might wake up while I’m enroute, should contact Professor Dumbledore sooner, where, bathroom, but how,) Forcing themself to settle for wringing their hands, hoping that He– screw it, Voldemort didn’t rouse, and wishing that Professor Dumbledore had given them an easier contact method than letters and fires, Quiri sat in their seat.
Apart from carrying one of the worst wizards in recent history inside their body, and the concerned and unsubtle glances from the man, the train ride was relaxing. They’d always liked train rides, just sitting and watching the world fly by, the familiar rocking. It was probably because trains meant going back to Hogwarts. But their mind settled, and another idea popped in their head. But where was their satchel?
Glancing around, they tried to look for it without attracting the man’s attention. Even if the man seemed nice, Quiri didn’t want to drag him into their… situatio– Oh, by Merlin’s Left Nut They were possessed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… They weren’t dragging a Muggle man into this, even if it was to just find a misplaced satchel. Bouncing their foot nervously, Quiri tried to figure out where the storage compartments were, because, all they could remember was, (dark, dark, dark, couldn’t move, couldn’t scream).
Mercifully, their foot had shifted just right, and was now bouncing on the strap of their satchel. Letting out a relieved sigh, they pulled the leather bag out from under the seat. With less than a thought, Quiri pulled out some lined paper, and a Muggle pen.
As they wrote ‘Headmaster, I need help’, something in their hand twitched. Sucking in a breath, Quiri forced their spasming hand to paper. The hand jolted, refusing to put word to paper. Bile rose in their throat. Quiri switched to their right. They got another few words out, before that hand started to spasm too. They switched back to their left. It continued like that. Back and forth. Quiri trying to fight off what lay under their skin, and the ever increasing nausea. They felt the man staring at their hands. Shaking, Quiri mumbled a lie about muscle spasms, (they’d had them since they were a child, nothing to be worried about, used to it,) which wasn’t technically a lie, because sometimes Quiri did shake uncontrollably. But not at all like this. The man seemed to buy it at least.
An hour later they finished the letter. It was short, twenty words at most. But it looked like a child had written it, a child who got into their parent’s fire whisky collection. Wincing, Quiri folded it and wrote the address. Under their skin, Voldemort itched to tear, to rip up the letter. Putting the letter into their satchel, Quiri sat on their hands.
They’d make a stop at the Owl Emporium and pay for an express delivery.
In case something happened between London and Hogwarts– but,
It felt like something would happen right now. The overwhelming urge to rip and tear up the letter had invaded their brain.
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Eventually the train stopped, Quiri and the man got off. As they stepped onto the platform, the man bumped them, sliping a paper into Quiri’s hand.
‘Call if you need help,’ it said, attached was a phone number and a name, ‘Charles’
Charles was gone into the crowds before Quiri could thank him.
Biting back tears, they stuffed the note into their pocket and started towards Diagon Alley.