A/N: This idea would not leave me while I was studying, some time last year. It was intended as a relatively short one-shot but I got carried away…

Please enjoy.

Warning: light torture and blood.

Lord Voldemort did not enjoy being a disembodied face stuck to the back of Quirrell's head. Being trapped in a stuffy turban with nothing except Quirrell's aggravatingly formulaic stuttering and the insufferable chatter of idiotic children was driving him irreversibly insane. If wasn't already mad as a hatter, he most certainly would be by the end of the Hogwarts school year.

His hosts initial fumbled attempt at stealing the stone was, quite frankly, incredibly pathetic. The troll was an obvious distraction, and the faint couldn't have been more poorly acted, especially considering Quirinus was supposed to be an expert on trolls. He commanded to fool to do some basic research on the stone protections rather than rushing in headlong like some reckless Gryffindor, warning him that mediocre distractions like the troll were doomed to failure and would only get them caught.

Quirrell took a calmer more Slytherin approach after that, eavesdropping on conversations and wheedling information out of the other professors Dumbledore had entrusted with the creation of the defences. Things seemed to be going excellently. Then Quirrell had to ruin things. Again.

The moron, in an effort to prove himself, had gone and tried to curse Potter's broom during a Quidditch game. Quirrell's concentration had be broken when Snape caught on fire, and Potter had lived to see another day, catching the snitch in the process and securing a win for Gryffindor. Shame that he didn't choke to death on the blasted thing.

Severus had been annoyed, and was now even more suspicious of Quirrell, which limited his movements significantly. The increased scrutiny required Quirrell to ease off questioning and other suspicious behaviours. Their night-time escapades now had to be carefully planned and timed to avoid detection, a troublesome new set of obstacles to hamper their progress.

But Lord Voldemort wasn't one to waste perfectly good time being unproductive. Quirrell had to continue his usual act of being a cowardly and stuttering teacher focused on teaching his students and marking dull essays. Quirrell, formerly a Ravenclaw, was known to have an affinity with books. It was a simple task to cast a subtle and unnoticeable glamour on books with dubious content.

While Quirrell was the one reading the books, it didn't matter if he didn't understand the content. He was able to absorb the knowledge passively from Quirrell and interpret it from himself, sending that understanding back to Quirrell and forming a feedback cycle of knowledge and understanding. Making sense the dense alchemical texts was easier with two heads than one.

When the stone was finally in his hands, he would know exactly what to do to gain its power. Even now, he was planning what materials he would need to gather and thinking of the best ways to acquire them on short notice. Some reagents could be gathered now without suspicion under the guise of teaching Defence. Other ingredients could be gathered from the greenhouses in the dark of night or harvested in the forbidden forest. He also had Quirrell keeping an eye on the creatures Professor Grubby-Plank was bringing onto the grounds, aware that some components were not only valuable, but potentially useful in future spellcasting and rituals.

Satisfied, but only marginally, Lord Voldemort concentrated on preserving his strength, conscious that spending every minute of the day supervising Quirrell would only irritate and frustrate him to no end.

The holidays came and went, and now the end of year was quickly approaching. Lord Voldemort knew that the closer the end of the school year drew, the higher the likelihood of the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position would activate.

Dumbledore and Severus were keeping a close eye on Quirrell, so he needed to think of something, fast. During OWL and NEWT examinations, he made his move. Severus and other professors were busy with administering, supervising, and marking exams. It was simple to forge a message to Dumbledore, claiming to be from the Ministry of Magic requiring his immediate attention and presence for a meeting with the Department of Magical Education regarding concerns about the conduct of several examiners.

When Dumbledore was safely away from the castle, Quirrell would have only a small window of time in which to act.

Getting past the huge Cerberus was no trouble, Hagrid has spilled his drunk guts to a disguised Quirrell with nary a thought, thinking him to be a creature enthusiast from Greece. Not once did the oaf wonder where the hell this creature enthusiast got an illegal and dangerous dragon egg.

Still, Quirrell took care of the dog, conjuring a harp to play a short tune. In seconds the dog was asleep and his servant pushed aside it's middle head and left paw to open the trap and drop down. Quirrell was met with Devils Snare, easily identifiable and not at all difficult to deal with, a quick conjuration of flames and the vines retreated into the dark. Honestly, it wasn't even one of the more dangerous varieties that he knew Professor Sprout had. Curious, but unimportant.

The keys were just as laughable, not even an anti-summoning ward was in place. Was this gauntlet of trials supposed to stop wizards or muggles?

Minerva McGonagall's transfigured chess set was impressive, but Lord Voldemort didn't even have to assist Quirrell with the play. The magic and skill used were very impressive, but seemed to limited to McGonagall's actual ability to play chess, which was better than average. Not better than Quirrell unfortunately for Dumbledore.

The troll was next, but taking a page of out Harry Potter's book, bludgeoning its own club was both amusing and effective, leaving the beastly thing sprawled on the floor severely concussed and probably in a permanent coma.

Finally, his servant reached the task set by Severus, a potions puzzle. How quaint. Quirrell, the classic wizard that he was, didn't have an ounce of logic and began to panic, not being able to make sense of the puzzle. Heaving an internal sigh, Voldemort snapped.

"Shut up and let me think, you worthless fool!" his voice was muffled through the turban, but he could tell that Quirrell heard him loud and clear, whimpering at his displeasure.

Hmm, some of the bottle were poison, others were just wine. One would lead him and his host through the flames, the others would be useless at best and fatal at worst. After some consideration, a brief peak through Quirrell's eyes, he was confident in choosing a smallest bottle in the middle of the line-up.

"The smallest bottle, Quirinus. Drink it." He commanded.

"Yes, master. At once!" Quirrell replied, a flinging himself desperately at the potion bottle. He really does have flair for nonsensical dramatics, thought Voldemort.

Passing harmlessly through the flames, was the final room. Quirrell became absorbed in his task, showing him the mirror in the centre of the room on raise circular dais. Quirrell that he could see himself holding the stone and using it to achieve their goals. But Quirrell could not get it out, was mumbling to himself and poking at the mirror experimentally with his wand.

Then they were interrupted. Harry Potter walked through the flames, undisguised shock on his face. Through Quirrell's eyes he observed the one who had banished him from his body many years ago. He'd been focused on the stone and on alchemy all year, and now so close to his goal he came to thwart him. His green eyes were widened in surprise, he had obviously not been expecting Quirrell. He looked grimy and worse for wear, mop of black hair dishevelled and windswept. He had undoubtedly flown a broom to catch the key, it was exceedingly unlikely that any first year, no matter how skilled, had mastered the summoning charm.

"You!" gasped Harry Potter.

"Yes, it is I." replied Quirrell, "I wondered whether you would be joining me this evening Mister Potter." He continued. Voldemort knew that Quirrell had not been wondering that at all but was merely indulging in his love for theatre and grandstanding.

"But Snape – " Harry began, clearly trying to work through his shock.

"Ahh, yes. Severus. He does seem the type, doesn't he?" Quirrell announced to him. "After all, who suspect poor s-s-s-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell? Snape is certainly quite the villain."

"But Snape tried to kill me!" Harry insisted.

Voldemort interrupted whatever idiotic thing Quirrell was about spout, telling the boy all the details of the deception was terrible, stupid idea, and Quirinus looked to be settling into the role of monologing villain with enthusiasm. He didn't have time for monologue.

"Yes, he did try to kill you, didn't he? Very rude of him." Quirrell said instead, agreeing with Harry Potter.

Harry Potter look a little relieved, if even more confused that he had been moments before.

"Now, I wonder how this mirror works?" Quirrell said with faux interest. It was all clear now to Voldemort now. The defences for the stone weren't for him, they were for Harry Potter. Dumbledore was testing the boy and was openly pitting them against each other for purposes unknown. Whatever plan Dumbledore had was ridiculously convoluted, but somehow it ran it course and the two of them were together before the mirror.

What Dumbledore didn't expect was for him to have Potter play right into his hands.

"That's the Mirror or Erised." he blurted out. His exclamation was followed by the sound of the boy slapping his hands over his mouth, presumably wishing that he hadn't just said that.

Still, he continued to silently direct Quirrell, confident his plan would come together.

"The Mirror of Erised? Pray tell, what does it do, Mister Potter?" Quirrell asked idly.

The boy was uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed.

"Come now, it won't hurt to tell. The Mirror seems to be a complicated Defence that'll take a long time to dismantle either way." Quirrell wheedled.

"I'm not telling you." The boy said stubbornly.

"I see myself holding the stone, but how do I get it?" Quirrell said, ignoring his refusal. "What do you see in the Mirror, Mister Potter? Come step forward, look. Answer me this one question and I'll concede my defeat." He wheedled.

It almost physically hurt Voldemort to have Quirrell say something like that, but he was sure that somehow the boy was the key to getting the stone. Dumbledore, despite his absurd façade, was not a complete idiot. It was planned for Harry Potter to emerge the brave hero from this confrontation. Dumbledore in all his wisdom would have planned for him to valiantly protect the stone from the Dark Lord. But Potter needed to have the stone to protect it. Therefore, logically, it was the boy who would be able to retrieve the stone from the mirror.

Quirrell's wheedling seemed to have worked, for the boy took a few hesitant steps forward to peek into the mirror, keeping his distance from the dais. Harry Potter looked into the mirror, and something, surprise maybe, flashed through his eyes. For a moment there was hitch in his breath. Using his legilimency, Voldemort reached out to his mind.

He had it. He had the stone. He'd seen how Harry's reflection had winked at back at him, dropping the stone into his robe pocket. The boy could feel its weight tugging down on the fabric.

"I, uh, I see myself with the House Cup." Harry started haltingly, "Gryffindor's won and I'm shaking Dumbledore's hand."

Voldemort didn't care for the pathetic lie, the stone was now quite literally within his reach.

Within a second Quirrell's wand had flashed out, a swish and stab sending a jet of red light at the biy, rendering him unconscious.

Without prompting Quirrell went to the boy, rifling through his pockets and finding the stone immediately. He also pocketed his wand, which sent a tingling warmth through to Voldemort. Harry Potter's wand was strangely comfortable with him. A curiosity to think over later, they were running out of time.

The last thing that Quirrell drew out was a cloak, a shining silvery material that was felt like water woven into silk. When draped over his arm, it turned it invisible. No wonder the boy got into so much trouble when he was traipsing around the castle at all hours of the night with an invisibility cloak.

Deciding on a whim that the blood of an enemy that had once conquered him might be useful in any number of rituals, he instructed Quirrell to take the boy with them. Heaving his unconscious body around would be an unnecessary burden, but Quirrell was relatively skilled at human transfiguration, a naturally part of his tendency for histrionics.

The boy needed to be transformed into something inconspicuous, something that could be slipped into Quirrell's pocket without trouble, and that would not get lost. Eventually he decided on transfiguring him into a simple talisman, the common evil eye which was thought to ward against evil. Irony at its finest.

Quirrell slipped on his new talisman and threw the invisibility cloak over himself. Hastily he made his way out through the flames. He was back at the potions riddle, and he found the potion that would allow him to go back, thankfully a small amount still within the bottle. He gulped down a mouthful of the icy potion, and made his way through the flames, skipped past the dead troll, strolled over the chess set which was back to its original state of repair, and out the devils snare.

He sent out tendrils of fire to burn the vines, and levitated himself up through the trapdoor, casting a quick activation spell at the harp for it begin its soothing melody again. Voldemort would have preferred to kill the Cerberus, but there was no sign of Dumbledore yet, best to let the fool think he was still down in front of the mirror duelling the boy.

With a spell to silence his footsteps, he made his way down the forbidden corridor, anticipation flooding the possessed body. Escape was a hairs breadth away.

Reaching the stair-well he was frozen. Dumbledore was thundering up the stairs, faster than would be expected for a man his age. The grandfatherly exterior that he so carefully crafted was nothing more than bluff. Those with no knowledge or awareness of manipulation would lower their guards around Dumbledore without a second thought.

However, so intent on his task of racing to Harry, Dumbledore didn't notice Quirrell standing completely still beneath the cloak. When the older man passed, Quirrell waited a beat before heading to entrance hall at a light jog. Slipping through the front doors, he went for broke and sprinted to the gates, clutching the invisibility cloak tightly.

Out of breath and panting heavily, he made it to front gates with no sign of pursuit. Voldemort was victorious! He had the stone, he had Harry Potter and soon… soon he would have a new body.

With a resounding crack, Quirrell vanished.

Quirrell reappeared on the edge of a cliff above the ocean, somewhere along the coast of Wales. He walked along the edge of the rugged cliff in the direction of a small hut that was next to an old abandoned lighthouse. The two structures were never visited by muggles, and Quirrell had warded them with muggle repelling charms and concealment enchantments. The location was unplottable, could not be reached by owl post, and any magic occurring the area would not be detected by the Ministry.

Setting up the safe-house had been the very first thing Voldemort had Quirrell do. It couldn't be a place that linked directly back to him in any way, not when he was so vulnerable with just himself and host body.

Entering the decrepit old shack, Quirrell cleaned it up with a wave of his wand. He was exhausted from his adventure, but there was still so much to do. The shack was a stone structured two-story building with a cellar. The ground floor was open plan, just a small rustic kitchen and dining area with a corner dedicated to reading and lounging space. The stairs to the right lead upstairs to where there were two main bed rooms. A bathroom was tucked beneath the stairs. The cellar was dark and damp, but would serve well as a ritual room.

First thing first, the boy needed to be dealt with. Going upstairs, Voldemort guided Quirrell through wards that would need to be cast on the room. The wall, windows, and door would need to be reinforced, alarms set up in case someone tried to break in, or out in this case. Complicated locking charms were also applied to the door and to the window. Finally, a very gentle heating charm if only because if he left the boy in the room he would surely freeze to death.

Quirrell added also cast a few cleaning charms on the room, vanishing the dust from the floor and surfaces, and freshening the sheets on the single bed shoved up against the wall. A small tub, bucket, and basin were in the far corner. The basin and tub were filled with water and were spelled to be self-refilling. Some quick sanitary charms were cast around the bucket, the makeshift toilet for his prisoner. There was no toilet paper, so the pillowcase from the bed would have to do, a light self-cleaning charm more than adequate for the moment.

Quirrell removed the talisman and placed it on the bed, un-transfiguring the boy carefully. When he was done, Potter was still unconscious. He left him on the bed and exited the room, both Quirrell and Voldemort exhausted after the evening's events.

The next morning dawned bright and clear.

Quirrell was refreshed and replenished after his rest, but was now on a tight schedule. Voldemort had no idea if his kidnapping of the boy was common knowledge yet. He waited impatiently as Quirrell had a quick breakfast of boiled eggs and sliced bread – a small selection of items having been placed under preservation charms when the hut had been set up all those months ago.

Voldemort didn't need to do any further research; his resurrection ritual having been constructed throughout the school year. Now it merely required a little tweaking based off the stones size and power.

It was the real thing. The magic in the stone was distinct and too complex to be a counterfeit created simply to lure him. A quick test with some rusty nails proved it to be true. All he had to do was tap the stone with his wand, and direct the power of the stone to the iron nails, turning them into pure gold.

Creating gold was not his goal.

Quirrell retrieved his possessions, all of which were stored in a shrunken trunk that he had taken within him when he went after the stone. Inside were all the plans and diagrams needed for the ritual, as well as the ingredients. Mostly it involved a large slab of clay and a variety of sharp-smelling herbs and plants.

Most importantly, with Harry Potter in his possession, he could substitute boomslang blood for human blood. The blood of his enemy. Quirrell had found a nasty burn on his chest where the transfigured talisman had sat. Voldemort suspected that whatever power was protecting Harry Potter's home were also protecting him. By incorporating her blood into the ritual, and therefore into his body, he would be able to overcome whatever protection he had, regardless of whether it was bound to blood or magic.

Voldemort watched in growing anticipation as Quirrell prepared the slab of clay and the herbs that had to rubbed into the surface. It was laborious work that needed to be done my hand. Like most rituals, it had to be done with as little polluting magic as possible, otherwise unexpected consequences would arise. More than one lazy with or wizard had prepared their ritual with magic, most of leading to grisly deaths as the ritual destabilised, or at best a permanent disfiguration or injury from the backlash.

An outline of the ritual circle and runes was draw across the floor in chalk, surrounding the clay slab. The chalk it would soon be replaced with Harry Potter's blood. The Philosophers Stone was placed on top the clay, Quirrell using a soft blade to gouge runes around the stone. He had to be careful and exact, the clay was soft and malleable, and the smallest mistake could be catastrophic.

It was time to get Harry Potter. He was awake when Quirrell came in through the door. He had scrubbed some the grime off his face and arms, but was clearly exhausted and scared. Voldemort could sense that he had barely slept after the stunner had worn off, and that he had spent most of the night worrying and trying to get one of the doors or windows open. The alarm ward hadn't activated, and he was still in the room, indicated clearly that his escape attempts had been far from successful.

"Where am I? Why did you bring me here?" he cried out at Quirrell, scrambling up from where he was sitting huddled up on the bed, leaning against the wall.

Quirrell ignored him, and instead concentrated on the sleeping enchantment Voldemort was guiding him in.

"What are you doing?" he asked fearfully, jumping up from the bed. "S-Stop it!" he demanded.

A dreamless sleep potion would have been faster and less work, but Voldemort couldn't risk magical traces in his blood. A sleeping enchantment was safer, it affected the mindscape, not the physical body, keeping the blood clean for the ritual. The potion the biy had taken to pass through the flames last night was long gone by now.

Harry had begun to move forward, perhaps hoping to do something to interrupt Quirrell's casting from the doorway. He moved too late, and had collapsed in the middle of the room, falling into a deep slumber that would take more than three days to fade unless the counter-spell was performed.

Quirrell lifted the boy from the floor and carried him down to the prepared cellar. Numerous candles were burning brightly, illuminating the damp space. The walls were rough and earthen, the natural walls of the cave which had been carved by hand over a hundred years ago. Salazar knew how long it had taken the unfortunate muggles.

In a small bowl an athame was soaking in salt water mixed with valerian root, sage, rosemary, and lavender. A traditional mix of purifying herbs. Having placed the boy on the floor, Quirrell plucked the athame from the water and dried it with a clean cloth from woven from silk.

The blade glistened forebodingly in the candle-light, the edge sharp and deadly. Quirrell used it to cut into Harry's arm, creating a deep vertical cut his left wrist. He propped the injured wrist in flat and shallow copper bowl, so that excess would not drip onto the floor.

Dipping a unicorn hair brush into the fresh liquid, Quirrell began the tedious process of drawing over all the chalk runes in bright red. He had to do it quickly, otherwise he'd have to keep reopening the wound over and over again.

There was a lot of shuffling involved, flitting from one side of the room to other, having to return to Harry when the brush needed more blood.

After almost half an hour he was finished, putting the last few drop of blood on the runes on the clay. Harry was incredibly pale, but his face had shown no visible sign of reaction or discomfort throughout the whole process.

Quirrell had his own place in the circle, the point where true north lay. He began his chant, which Voldemort had made him practice until he could recite It in his sleep. It was in Ancient Sumerian, a common language for rituals.

As predicted, the circle of blood and runs took on a sinister red glow, the ones on the clay shining more intensely than any others.

What happened next was excruciatingly painful for Quirrell. Voldemort was ripped from the host body violently by the building ritual magic. His blackened shade swirling in the air above the circle. Tendrils of white light reached out from the runes carved into the clay, latching onto Voldemort's shade which struggled against the bindings. The light won out, dragging the shadowy smoke down, pulling it into the clay.

Voldemort screamed in pure agony. Was it supposed to hurt like? Quirrell had failed! Betrayed him! Sentenced him to etern–

Oh. Never mind.

Voldemort raised himself off the ground with careful movements. The clay had been reshaped into a physical body, the Philospher's Stone sinking down into what was now his chest. He was stark naked and freezing in the cold cellar, a fine powder coating his skin. It was amazing. Finally, he could feel again. Magic was at his fingertips and thrumming beneath his skin. Skin! He had skin again! He would never take his physical form for granted ever again. Suffering as a bodiless shade that relied on possessing woodland creatures and snakes was a fate almost as bad as death. He would not be defeated again.

He ran his hands, his perfect wonderful hands, over this body, exploring its shape and curves. The fact that Quirrell might be watching registered briefly in his mind, but he didn't particularly care. He felt the planes of his face, sharp cheeks and chiselled jaw, aristocratic nose and delicate brow. His head was bald, and suspected that he would even start to grow hair.

The new body didn't have the same fearsome snake-like qualities as he had before getting blown up by a rebounding killing curse, but it would do. There was a slight shine to his skin, visible even below the thin powder. On closer inspection he discovered a faint pattern of scales on his skin, resembling near-invisible scars. He was deathly pale, tall, and extremely thin. A little sun and some food would do him good.

Circe, he couldn't wait to feel the sun on his skin and taste food again. It had over a decade since he last ate. Yes, this life was going to be good. Very good.

Trust Quirrell to interrupt the pleasant day dream.

"My Lord!" the man cried, prostrating himself before his naked body. Voldemort sighed.

"My robes, Quirrell." He said, adopting a bored tone of voice.

"Of, course. Right away, Master." Replied Quirrell, grovelling on the filthy cellar floor. He watched as the exhausted wizard practically crawled to where some black robes were neatly folded atop a stool. Quirrell hastily snatched the robes and the brought them over to him. Voldemort took his time dressing himself in his robes, unconcerned about sullying the material with the leftover clay dust. He marvelled at the feeling of the smooth acromantula silk, and found the sensation of clothes brushing all over his body a curious one after so long without proper form.

With a touch of wandless magic is smoothed out creases from the clothing and dispelled the clay dust. Taking a deep breath, he savoured the taste and smell of the damp and stale air of the cellar. It was like being born anew.

Surveying the room, his eyes fells on the sleeping Boy-Who-Lived-And-Who-is-About-To-Bleed-Out.

"Quirrell," he commanded. He loved his voice, it sounded so much more deep and rich than the high-pitched cold rasping it had been on the back of Quirrell's' head. "Heal the boy and administer a blood replenishing potion. I have use of him yet." At the very least, before killing the boy he was going to discover how he had survived that night at Godric's Hollow, although his suspicions were that his mudblood mother might have more to do with that than Harry himself. Still, worth investigating, he wasn't going anywhere for now.

"Yes, Master." Quirrell replied, hurrying to his task.

Leaving them in the basement, Voldemort headed up the stairs, intent on finding some food, drink, and a spot of sunshine.

AN: Part 2 is in progress. Please tell me what you think so far :)