The Legacy of Salazar

The Other Prisoner

For the first time, doubt entered his mind.

Quirinus Quirrell had managed to remain strong during the entirety of the trial, never once second-guessing his loyalty to the Dark Lord. But now, flanked by dementors and escorted to his cell, he couldn't help but consider his life. Even if he didn't have old memories rising to the surface of his mind, putting into question every decision he'd ever made.

The Dark Lord had come to him like a light in the dark. Velvet words wrapped in bright packaging with his name written across it in a fluid glowing script. A beacon in a world plagued by judgment, insecurity, and pain. Quirrell had travelled to Albania for the sole purpose of finding him—though his plan after that had always been vague. Defeat his remains? But faced with the spectre, he'd dropped his wand and fallen to his knees.

He hadn't expected him to be so beautiful.

From his whispers to his presence, to his promise of sheer power—he'd promised Quirrell everything, and Quirrell couldn't deny him. Even now, as the dementor in front shuddered, sucking in a horrible ragged breath, Quirrell didn't regret it. But trying to steal the stone from Dumbledore? Well, that'd just been stupid. He wondered why the Dark Lord had even thought to suggest it.

And then there was Merlin Evans.

Quirrell hadn't noticed the boy for a long time. But when he did, he wondered how he had ever ignored him. Merlin felt—different, somehow. His aura possessed a quality that reminded him of that moment—in the forest of Albania. Nowhere near as hypnotic, or desirable. He couldn't even describe why it felt similar—there were no words of comparison—and yet, fighting the boy on the chessboard had summoned a feeling. It tugged on his mind.

Curiosity.

The dementors came to a stop, and he watched as they opened one of the cells. His new home for the rest of his life. Azkaban was cold, damp, and smelled strongly of mould. The rough stone walls kept out the wind, but he could hear it howling in misery against the rocks. The dementor in front of him gestured toward the cell, and not wanting to be touched again by those sickly looking hands, Quirrell entered of his own accord.

The door shut behind him with a deafening clang.

He threw himself down onto the mattress and stared at the floor. The last inmate appeared to have taken to scratching pictures into the stone with his fingernails. He could see blood ingrained in the lines of a crude image of a woman's face. How long would it be until he was driven to similarly self-destructive behaviours?

"Hey, new guy."

He started and looked up. The prisoner in the cell across him waved through his bars. His hair was long, matted, though beneath the filth appeared mousy brown. His hazel eyes were sunken, hallowed, but didn't possess the same defeated look Quirrell had noticed in some of the other inmates. His beard was patchy, long at some points, and shorter and others—indicating a young man. His garment hung loosely on his thin frame.

So that's what he had to look forward to, huh?

"What's the news?"

Quirrell blinked. "What?" he hissed, glancing down the hall. Were they allowed to talk to each other?

The guy rolled his eyes. The movement made Quirrell cringe—his eyes were almost too large for his sockets. "The news," he repeated. "In the world. The last prisoner came here six months ago, and it's not like we can subscribe to the prophet."

"Uh—" Quirrell lifted his head. "The Dark Lord is on the move once again."

To his surprise, the guy groaned. "Oh Merlin, another Death Eater? Please, I don't want to hear another spiel about him rising back to power soon blah, blah, blah. You lot have been saying it for ten years, and I'm sick of it. Hey—are the Weird Sisters still together? It'd be a shame if they stopped producing music."

Quirrell stared at him, open-mouthed. "Who are you?"

"Oh," and the guy smiled—actually smiled, in this godforsaken place. "I'm Byron. Byron Meadowes."