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Hello everyone,
I'm MetalShadowF, and I wanted to take a moment to introduce myself and this fanfic. I actually started writing it back in December of last year, but due to personal reasons, I had to leave it unfinished at Chapter 3. Recently, out of curiosity and a renewed interest in the story, I wrote it again.
I'd really love to hear your thoughts and opinions as you read. You might notice some inconsistencies between the first three chapters and the ones that follow, but those were never intended to be significant to the overall story.
Thank you.
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Wrexham, Wales
September 15, 2024
Tristan leaned against the cold brick wall of an alley near a café, his fingers tightly clenched around a steaming cup of coffee. The bustling street outside was filled with laughter and chatter, but inside, the atmosphere was charged with a different kind of energy: that of a heated debate. Across from him sat Carey, animatedly defending his position with the fervor of a true believer.
"The Harry Potter movies are classics! They're magical!" Carey exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "You can't deny that they've shaped a generation."
Tristan scoffed, shaking his head. "Magical? Rather inconsistent! I mean, how can they say Hogwarts students are forbidden from doing magic outside of school when Harry's Aunt Lily said she came back from Hogwarts and turned teacups into rats? It doesn't make sense!" His voice rose slightly, drawing curious glances from nearby tables.
Carey raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You're really going to nitpick a fantasy series? Come on, Tristan! They're just movies! You left off after the first book; you can't criticize what you haven't even seen!"
"I didn't leave off; I just realized that the magic system is poorly explained and full of holes!" Tristan shot back, his frustration bubbling over.
"Okay, okay! Just calm down," Carey chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not that serious. Besides, you should give them another chance. They're entertaining!"
Before Tristan could respond, a shadow fell over their table. A figure loomed behind them, and a chill ran down Tristan's spine as he turned to see a man pointing a gun directly at them.
"Don't move! Give me your phones and wallets!" the robber barked, his voice trembling slightly.
Tristan's heart raced as panic surged through him. He watched as Carey hastily fumbled for his belongings, his hands shaking. "Here! Just take it!" Carey stammered, trying to turn slightly to catch a glimpse of the thief's face.
"Don't turn around!" the robber shouted, but it was too late. In an instant of desperation, he struck Carey with the butt of the gun, sending him crashing to the ground.
"Carey!" Tristan shouted, instinctively moving toward his friend. The robber's eyes widened in fear as he pointed the gun at Carey again.
In that moment of chaos, both boys sensed something—they were not the most terrified in this situation. The robber was visibly shaken, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to maintain control.
Tristan's mind raced. He didn't know much about guns but believed it might not be loaded. Fueled by adrenaline and an overwhelming urge to protect Carey, he lunged at the robber in an attempt to disarm him.
The struggle was chaotic; they collided with force as Tristan grappled with the thief. Suddenly, there was a deafening bang that echoed through the street. The gun had fired.
Carey's eyes widened in shock as he realized what had happened. The robber stumbled back in surprise as well; none had expected this outcome. The sound drew attention from nearby pedestrians who turned their heads in alarm.
As sirens wailed in the distance and footsteps approached rapidly, panic seized the robber's face. He bolted away into the night while Carey remained frozen on the ground beside Tristan's crumpled form.
"Tristan!" Carey screamed, scrambling to his friend's side as he assessed the damage. Blood pooled beneath Tristan's body; it was clear that things had taken a tragic turn.
"Call… call for help," Tristan gasped weakly, each breath becoming more labored than the last. His vision blurred as he looked up at Carey's panicked face.
"I'm calling an ambulance! Stay with me!" Carey pleaded desperately as he fished out Tristan's phone from his pocket with trembling hands.
"I'm sorry… for everything," Tristan whispered between shallow breaths. "Thank you… for being my friend." His voice faltered as pain surged through him.
"Don't talk like that! Help is coming!" Carey's voice cracked as he pressed his sweater against Tristan's wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.
As more people gathered around them—Wrexham fans drawn by curiosity—Carey explained their predicament through tears. "We were robbed… he shot my friend!"
But it was too late; darkness began to envelop Tristan as he felt himself slipping away. "Tell… tell Mrs. Jenkins I'm grateful… for everything…" were his final words before everything faded into silence.
...
Hogwarts Infirmary
September 8, 1976
Tristan blinked awake in a dimly lit room filled with soft murmurs and the faint scent of antiseptic. Confusion washed over him like cold water as he took in his surroundings—a hospital bed draped in white sheets and walls adorned with portraits of stern-looking witches and wizards.
"What happened?" he muttered hoarsely to himself, trying to piece together fragmented memories that felt both foreign and familiar.
Panic surged within him when he attempted to sit up—his body felt smaller than it should be. Glancing down at his arms revealed pale skin devoid of any tattoos; they were thin and delicate like those of a child rather than an adult man who stood at 1.85 meters tall just moments ago.
Before he could fully process this bizarre transformation, the door swung open with a creak. A middle-aged woman entered—a nurse clad in crisp robes who bore an air of authority tempered by kindness. Her dark brown hair framed her face neatly while her blue eyes narrowed upon seeing him attempt to rise.
"Little Quirinus! You mustn't get up!" she scolded gently yet firmly as she approached him with purpose.
"Quirinus?" Tristan echoed incredulously, realization dawning upon him like a slow sunrise breaking through foggy skies.
As questions swirled in his mind about how he had arrived here.
The nurse, Madame Pomfrey, stood over Quirinus, her voice a steady stream of concern as she lectured him about the importance of resting and not rushing his recovery. However, Tristan—now trapped in the body of Quirinus Quirrell—was only half-listening. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. How had he ended up here? What was this place? And most importantly, how was Carey doing after that nightmarish encounter?
As Madame Pomfrey continued her sermon, her words faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the cacophony of thoughts racing through his mind. He couldn't shake the images of the street, the robber, and the gunshot from his memory. Just as he began to spiral deeper into his daze, Madame Pomfrey placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, jolting him back to reality.
"Quirinus! Are you with me?" she asked, her brow furrowed with worry.
"Where… where am I?" he stammered, blinking rapidly to clear his head.
"You're at Hogwarts," she replied softly. "I'm Madame Pomfrey, the head nurse here." Her blue eyes studied him intently, searching for signs of recognition. "Do you remember how you ended up in the infirmary?"
Quirinus shook his head slowly. "No… I have no idea how I got here."
Madame Pomfrey's expression shifted from concern to alarm as she pressed further. "Can you tell me your full name? Your age? What year you're in at Hogwarts?"
"I… I don't know any of that," he admitted, a sense of dread creeping into his chest.
Her worry deepened at his response, but she masked it well. "Just lie down and rest for now," she instructed gently. "We'll figure this out."
Quirinus complied, sinking back into the pillows as Madame Pomfrey moved about the room. She scribbled something on a piece of parchment before retrieving her wand. With a flick and a soft incantation, the paper folded itself into an origami bird that flapped its wings and soared out of the infirmary door.
As Quirinus lay there, lost in thought about his strange new reality and the fate of his former life, sleep began to claim him once more.
A few minutes later, a small figure burst into the infirmary with an energy that belied his stature. Professor Filius Flitwick—a man barely a meter tall with tousled brown hair and a friendly demeanor—entered with a smile that radiated warmth. His small beard added to his inviting appearance as he greeted Madame Pomfrey.
"Poppy! How is little Quirinus?" he asked cheerfully.
Madame Pomfrey returned his smile but quickly turned serious. "The good news is that he woke up; the bad news is that he may be suffering from amnesia," she explained. "He doesn't seem to remember his full name or age."
Flitwick's brow furrowed with concern as he approached Quirinus's bedside. He gently shook Quirinus's shoulder to rouse him from slumber.
"Quirinus? Can you hear me?" Flitwick's voice was soft yet insistent.
Quirinus opened his eyes slightly, still clouded with confusion. "Nikabrik?" he mumbled instinctively, recalling the character from a series he had once enjoyed.
Flitwick blinked in surprise at the unexpected name but quickly regained composure. "No, no! It's Professor Flitwick! You remember me?" he said excitedly.
Quirinus felt a flash of recognition in his mind as he opened his eyes fully and took in Flitwick's familiar features – he had seen this professor in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning – he was indeed in Harry Potter's world and had somehow been reincarnated as Quirinus Quirrell, the very character who would later become entwined with darkness, best known for harboring Lord Voldemort in the back of his head.
"I remember you," Quirinus said slowly, trying to sound coherent despite the chaos swirling within him. "But everything else is… confusing."
Flitwick's expression brightened at this glimmer of recognition. "That's wonderful! Can you tell me how you feel?"
"My head hurts," Quirinus admitted honestly. "But other than that… I feel fine."
"Good to hear!" Flitwick nodded approvingly. "Sirius Black, James Potter, and Lily Evans brought you here unconscious; they found you with quite a nasty bruise on your head." He paused for dramatic effect before continuing. "If it weren't for Madame Pomfrey's expertise, things could have been much worse."
Quirinus felt a knot tighten in his stomach at hearing those names—Marauders who were notorious for their pranks and mischief throughout Hogwarts. Flitwick leaned closer, concern etched across his face as he asked, "Do you remember how you got into that state? Was it related to Sirius Black or James Potter? They've been getting more undisciplined every year!"
"I really don't remember," Quirinus replied honestly, feeling helpless under Flitwick's scrutiny.
A regretful expression crossed Flitwick's face as he sighed softly. "Don't worry too much about it; just focus on resting for now." He straightened up and added cheerfully, "I'll have one of your classmates bring your notes so you won't fall behind in class! And don't forget to decide which electives you want to take this year."
With that, Flitwick turned to leave but paused at the door to glance back at Quirinus one last time before disappearing down the corridor.
Left alone once more in the quiet infirmary room, Quirinus lay back against the pillows and stared blankly at the ceiling above him. Thoughts swirled like leaves caught in an autumn breeze—he was now part of this world filled with magic and wonder but also danger and darkness.
His mind raced with questions: What would happen next? How would he navigate life as Quirinus Quirrell? Would he follow the path laid out for him or forge a new one entirely? As sleep began to tug at him again.