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Chapter Text

Voldemort’s eyes snapped open. The prison guard continued slamming his baton onto the door of his cell, hollering at the top of his lungs, “Up and at ‘em, boys! Time for a new day at Hotel Azkaban!”

Voldemort rolled over onto his stomach and groaned, burying his face into his pillow. Fuck, I hate my life…Voldemort always thought his life was shit. Like seriously, absolute shit. If life was a game of Uno, he had been dealt a never-ending stream of “draw-four” cards, slapping him in the face, yelling fuck you! But now, he’d really hit rock bottom.

Now, Voldemort was trapped in Azkaban, the place where they sent the worst of the worst to suffer in until they died. Where they had the tightest security out of all the prisons in the whole goddamned continent. Now, Voldemort was stuck in this shitty place and he didn’t even know why!

Every morning, after being rudely awakened by that dumbfuck prison guard, a question was always brought to the forefront of his mind. Why was he here? Someone, one of his so-called loyal Death Eaters, had betrayed him. But unfortunately, Voldemort had no idea who, or why. He was so nice to them, he hadn’t even beat up any of his Death Eaters in weeks! The last time I even scolded one of them was when that idiot Malloy almost threw out my High School Musical DVD collection. Voldemort huffed at the thought of Malloy, who was undoubtedly throwing out all his precious Zefron memorabilia that he had left in his manor. None of the Death Eaters had even come to visit him, since he was incarcerated 6 months ago. Cowards, the lot of them. Too afraid to face me after they ran off with their tails between their legs and left me to the grubby hands of those cops.

With a groan, Voldemort swung his legs over the side of his bed and stretched his arms over his head. A delicious crack of his back reverberated through the empty room. He glanced over at the opposite end of the room, at the empty bed that had been gathering dust for almost 6 months. He smirked to himself wickedly. Ah yes, the only silver lining in this whole shitshow was getting my own room. After years of having to share rooms with the other snotheads in the orphanage, and having Bellatrix paw at him every night, it was kind of nice to have some space to himself. Voldemort ignored the snooty voice in his head, who sounded remarkably like that prancing idiot Malloy. Congratulations, Voldemort, you have finally achieved a new level of loneliness!

Voldemort scowled to himself. He didn’t want a roommate. He wasn’t lonely, he was alone, there was a difference, thank you very much. He’d been alone all his life and that was just the way he liked it. Hell, he liked being alone so much, he broke his previous (and only) cellmate’s arm just so they would give him his own cell.

Shaking his head to get rid of the thoughts clouding up his mind, he strode over to the toilet. Ugh, another thing I hate about this place: How can I sleep and shit in the same room? It’s disgusting! He shuddered, thinking about all the nasty germs that would soon catapult over to his bed as he was about to flush. Suddenly, he heard the heavy metal door of his cell begin to screech open.

With a jolt, he whipped around, his eyes wide with shock. What the fuck? Which ass clown in this godforsaken prison would be trying to open his door? Or maybe it’s that stupid guard again, coming to ask me why I haven’t left my cell yet, Voldemort pondered.

Slowly, the door swung open, revealing an anxious pair of brown eyes. The eyes darted around the room nervously before resting on Voldemort’s snake-like visage. He didn’t think it could be possible, but the eyes grew even more fearful upon seeing his ugly mug. Voldemort smirked to himself, feeling a sense of satisfaction upon seeing the terror in the other’s eyes, albeit with a twinge of disappointment. Voldemort sighed. As usual, the sight of my face never fails to strike fear in the heart of others, even before I’ve said or done anything at all.

He tore his gaze from the other’s terrified eyes to scan the rest of his features. His gaze lowered below his eyes to the other man’s slightly large nose, and below that, rested a set of plump lips. The man’s face was framed by short tufts of brown hair that stuck up in awkward angles, as if he had run his hands repeatedly through his hair. Voldemort’s eyes trailed lower, to the prominent collar bones peeking out from beneath his collar. He did a quick sweep of the stranger’s build as well, noting his slim, lean stature that was drowning in the standard issue prison uniform given to all inmates-Wait, what? Why is there another inmate entering MY room?!

Voldemort’s suspicion only grew as the man was shoved forward through the door. Voldemort watched as the man stumbled forward, nearly faceplanting into the hard concrete. His fingers twitched, as he fought the urge to extend a hand to the guy who was practically oozing helplessness. You’re the Dark Lord, you idiot. You don’t help anybody, especially not pathetic losers that barge into your cell. From behind the door, a prison guard stepped into the room.

Voldemort glared at the guard. “Yo, Dumbfuck! Who is this and why the fuck is he in my cell?”

The guard, whose name Voldemort was pretty sure was Dumbledore, but preferred to call him Dumbfuck, sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Voldemort, I’ve told you a million times, my name is Dumbledore. Or Albus, or whatever. Just not Dumbfuck, okay?”

Voldemort scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tch, suuuure like I’ll just stop calling you Dumbfuck because you asked me so nicely. Anyway, answer the question. Why is he here?” Voldemort pointed at the lump on the floor, that was slowly picking himself off the ground and brushing the dust off his knees.

Dumbledore sighed again. “Look, I know you don’t play well with others and I know what you did to your previous roomie, so we’ve avoided placing you with another roommate till now. But today, that changes.”

Voldemort squawked in outrage. His mouth opened in protest, ready to unleash a litany of hellfire upon the dumbfuck guard. If he thinks for one second that I’ll agree to this, I’m gonna prove him so wrong, he’ll wish he never popped out of his mama!

Before he could unleash said hellfire, Dumbledore interrupted him. “Calm down, okay? I know this isn’t what you want, and believe me, I wouldn’t wish this on the poor soul who has to room with you either. But all the cells are filled, and this is the only available cell left.”

Voldemort’s mouth opened again.

“Nuh, nuh, nuh. Not another word about this. This is what’s happening, and that’s final. If you do something like breaking his arm, we’ll throw you in solitary, and it ain’t gonna be as cosy as this cell, you hear me?” Dumbledore admonished him.

Voldemort’s mouth snapped close. His lips formed into a pout. How dare this dumbfuck treat me like some petulant child? I’m the Dark Lord, damn it! But he kept his mouth shut, knowing that nothing he could say would change the situation.

Dumbledore, satisfied with his lack of protest, turned on his heel and left, slinging out a cheerful “Have fun!” as he swung the door shut behind him.

As the door shut with an ominous boom, Voldemort swung his gaze back to the stranger – his new roommate, apparently. The man’s gaze was cast nervously on the floor, but slowly, he dragged his eyes up to meet Voldemort’s. The man gulped nervously. Involuntarily, Voldemort’s eyes flicked down to follow the movement of his Adam’s apple. Quickly, he forced his eyes back up.

“Hi,” greeted his cellmate. “I-I’m Quirinus Quirrell, but you c-can call me Quirrell.”

Voldemort stared back silently. Instead of replying, he crossed his arms again, stretching the thin fabric of his sleeveless undershirt over his chest, and flexed his biceps to look especially threatening.

Quirrell went pink, his cheeks and ears heating up rapidly. His gaze flicked down temporarily to Voldemort’s sizable, toned arms and he gulped again. “L-Look, I know this isn’t w-what you wanted, b-but I hope we can be amicable? We are g-going to be prison roommates, so that’s probably going to be for a long w-while.” He wrung his hands nervously as he awaited Voldemort’s response.

Voldemort opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to mind. “What the fuck is amicable?”

Chapter Text

It was a seemingly normal Thursday afternoon when his life was strung up by the balls and tossed into the shredder.

Quirrell’s memories of the day were blurry and fragmented, the details disjointed at the edges. His mind fumbled with his thoughts, trying to piece together the fuzzy details of that fateful afternoon. As he delved into his mind to tease out his memories, the echoes of a piercing canine bark filtered back into his head, the sharp odour of a whiteboard marker re-assaulted his senses…

As he grasped at his memories, Quirrell remembered how the whole world had spun around him. The sinking feeling in his heart as his mind had tried to wrap itself around what the fuck just happened. For the first time in his life, Quirrell’s mind had been completely blank, devoid of all thought. He recalled how he had fallen into a shocked daze, unaware of the tight cuffs being snapped onto his wrists, his Miranda rights being read to him in a rough, authoritative tone. He could only remember a blanketing buzz in his ears, which matched the rapid beating of his heart, drowning everything else out.

Even now, a week after his arrest, Quirrell was still befuddled by the turn of events. How on earth did they get there…what the hell happened? The drugs found sequestered in the bottom drawer of his desk were not his. He had nothing to do with all the events that had been happening at Hogwarts, absolutely nothing at all.

Quirrell sighed to himself despondently. Not that my innocence mattered to anyone… All of them, even those he thought he could consider friends, just watched as he was shoved into the back of the police car and carted off to Azkaban.

Suddenly, a hand clapped onto his shoulder.

Quirrell jumped, jolting out of his brooding reverie. He jerked his head to the side to find a face smiling at him.

“We’re here. Welcome to your new home,” the guard proclaimed with flourish. The guard, whose name he’d already forgotten, gestured grandly to the rusty metal door before them. Quirrell eyed the door warily, already feeling the fear begin to creep in.

He’d been so focused on his own arrest and the flabbergasting circumstances of said arrest, that he hadn’t even considered what prison life would be like. Quirrell tried to recall any useful information that he might’ve picked up about life as an inmate but came up woefully short. The closest thing to he had to useful information was watching Prison Break, for heaven’s sake! And he didn’t even pay attention to the prison etiquette, or useful ways to you know, not die a tragic death in prison. Ugh, I was too distracted by the lead actor and his stupid hypnotizing blue-grey eyes! Quirrell mentally berated himself for his idiotic weakness for pretty eyes. Now, he was pathetically unprepared to live among criminals in this shitty hellhole. If he was already bullied by normal people in his life before prison, he shuddered to think how much bullying he would get from actual bad guys.

Taking a deep breath, he eased the door open slowly, wincing at the loud screech emanating from the rusted hinges. His heart, hammering like a jackrabbit, leaped into his throat. Summoning all his willpower, Quirrell poked his head through the gap and peered into the cell.

As his anxious eyes scanned the room, he noted the occupied bed on the right side of the room, with a small stack of neatly-folded uniform garments beside it. His eyes trailed over the meagre accommodations, which was pretty much just a bed, a small table and a shared toilet in the corner. Finally, his eyes rested on the sole occupant of the cell.

Quirrell’s breath caught in his throat. Someone up there must really be taking the piss out of me. The man before him had almost the same blue-grey eyes as the Prison Break actor, except so much fucking prettier. And that wasn’t enough, oh no, that someone up there was really messing with him. Those gorgeous eyes were framed by a face chiseled from goddamn marble. Quirrell swore mentally, noting the cheekbones that were sharp enough to cut diamond, coupled with a shock of ash blonde hair slicked over the man’s head.

Then, Quirrell’s eyes widened in embarrassment as he realized he’d been staring at the man for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Colour jumped into his cheeks as the other man sighed at him, displeasure crossing his chiseled features. Shit, the number one rule of prison etiquette is probably to not drool over one’s cellmate and well, there I went, raking my eyes over him like some horny pre-teen asshole. He mentally slapped himself upside the head for already inciting murderous rage in the other man, judging from the way his eyes narrowed into a glare.

Before he could collect himself, he heard the guard huff impatiently behind him. That was all the warning he got before he was pushed through the doorway, landing in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

Quirrell groaned internally. Great, just great. The first impression I’m giving to this Michelangelo statue is my butt sticking straight up into the air like-like a damn butt trumpet!

As he slowly picked himself up from his humiliating sprawl, he listened in carefully to the argument between the man (whose name was Voldemort, he discovered) and the rude, overly cheerful guard. He snickered to himself as Voldemort made a scathing pun of the guard’s name. Hmm, a little crude perhaps, but I’ve always been fond of wordplay, he mused.

The slam of the heavy door swinging shut behind him shook him out of his thoughts. He swallowed nervously before locking eyes with his cellmate. With his usual embarrassing stutter, he greeted the other, introducing himself to him.

To his delight horror, Voldemort crossed his arms, which drew Quirrell’s gaze to the man’s toned chest. Good lord, what’s the point of even wearing a shirt if I can see the exact curvature of his pectorals? Quirrell felt his face redden like an overgrown tomato at the sight of Voldemort’s hipbones peeking out oh-so-slightly from the gap between his low-slung pants and his tank top. Stop it, get a hold of yourself, you fool!

Collecting himself, Quirrell tried extending the metaphorical olive branch once more, forcing the words out through his stutter. “L-Look, I know this isn’t w-what you wanted, b-but I hope we can be amicable? We are g-going to be prison roommates, so that’s probably going to be for a long w-while.” He nibbled on his bottom lip as he waited anxiously for Voldemort’s response.

“What the fuck is amicable?”

Quirrell blinked at him innocently, like a startled doe.

Well, fuck, now I’ve gone and made myself look like such a butterface, groaned Voldemort to himself. Of all the things he could have said, all the things he could’ve done to intimidate the man, he instead made himself out to be some bumbling idiot. Well, sue him, he didn’t know what amicable meant! He didn’t exactly spend all day reading Shakespeare or Jane Austen, or whatever the fuck this nerd clearly read.

Quirrell cleared his throat and replied, “Well, I just meant that I hope we can be cordial to each other.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Uh, friendly, perhaps?” Quirrell’s voice lilted up in doubt, sweat breaking out above his brow.

Understanding flooded Voldemort. So, the little squirrel just wants to be friends, eh? Hah, didn’t he know who Voldemort was? Voldemort was the darkest of lords, he didn’t have friends! Voldemort summoned one of his infamous evil cackles from his tummy, grinning as he watched Quirrell begin to sweat nervously.

“Me? Friends with you? Do you even know who I am?” Voldemort glared expectantly at him.

Quirrell’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. (Voldemort absolutely did not find that adorable.)

“I’m the Dark Lord!” Voldemort widened his eyes, giving him a “duh” expression.

Quirrell’s eyes widened in terror. “O-Oh, I d-didn’t know you were him! P-please, don’t kill me, I’ll d-do whatever you want!” His flush intensified and spread even further down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. Voldemort eyed his blush curiously, wondering just how far down it spread.

He cleared his throat, ridding himself off those ridiculous thoughts. “Hmm, well, I have missed bossing my Death Eaters around…” He eyed the slim man before him skeptically. I guess I do have some use for him, even though he hardly seems Death Eater-material. He stroked his chin thoughtfully.

With his decision made, Voldemort uncrossed his arms and took a step towards Quirrell. The brunette stepped back instinctively in fear.

“Relaaaax, man. You said you’d do whatever I want, right? Well, here’s my proposition,” began Voldemort. He started pacing, his feet drawing small half-moons around the other inmate.

“I could do with a new slave to do my bidding for me, you know, trail behind my menacing shadow, clean up the cell, give me their pudding during mealtime- Can you believe those fools only give us ONE pudding a day? One! It’s fucking ridiculous! I have needs, you know.”

Though it seemed wholly impossible, Quirrell’s face turned even redder at his words.

“Yes, yes, yes, I think it’s high time Lord Voldemort had a minion again,” Voldemort declared, nodding to himself. “What do you say, Quirrell? Fancy serving me?” Voldemort stopped his pacing and gracefully spun to face Quirrell, arching an eyebrow at him expectantly.

Quirrell nibbled on his lip anxiously. He seemed to be weighing his decision, as he tugged his plump lip between his teeth. “Y-yes, my…my Lord?” He peered up at Voldemort beneath his eyelashes in uncertainty, looking for confirmation.

Voldemort’s eyes snapped up from where he had been focusing at the other man’s almost obscene display of lip biting. Ugh, what is wrong with me, why am I looking at his fucking lips? Snap out of it, man, he berated himself internally.

Voldemort threw his arms into the air in celebration, hoping Quirrell didn’t notice him staring at his lips for a suspiciously long time. His face split into a devious grin. “Of course, you are! Ooh, Quirrell we are gonna have some fun.” Voldemort threw his head back gleefully as his evil laughter echoed through the room.

Despite his rational brain telling him that this was a bad idea, Quirrell’s lips quirked up into a small smile in reciprocation, as a wave of relief rushed through him. Maybe…maybe with Voldemort’s protection as his peon, I can actually survive prison life, Quirrell thought hopefully. He locked eyes with the other’s stormy blue orbs and smiled, ignoring the fluttering in his chest.

Chapter Text

Quirrell shifted uncomfortably in his bed, resisting the urge to scratch his thigh. Ugh, these infernal sheets are killing me! Apparently, the bed had been empty for almost 6 months since Voldemort had chased away his previous cellmate. (Or, as Voldemort had put it, scared away the little sissy.) And with emptiness, came dust. Lots and lots and lots of dust.

He chuckled to himself as he recalled how Voldemort had reacted to the dust earlier…

Quirrell broke eye contact with Voldemort and cleared his throat. Heat rose in his cheeks as he wiped his silly smile off his face. Get ahold of yourself, man, stop smiling like a loon at the freaking Dark Lord, he admonished himself. Striding over to the left side of the cell, he turned around slightly to address the aforementioned lord. “I’m assuming this is my s-side, then?”

At Voldemort’s approving nod, Quirrell plopped down onto the bed. Big mistake. Plumes of dust exploded from the bed, catapulting into the air like firecrackers. Quirrell’s eyes widened in horror as he raised his arms to shield his face, still crouched atop the dusty mattress. His lip trembling in fear, he scolded himself internally. Oh shit, you’ve really done it now. If he didn’t want to kill you before, he definitely wants to now! Quirrell clenched his eyes closed as he waited for the dust to settle down slowly.

All of a sudden, he heard a strange noise coming from the opposite side of the room. It sounded like…a squeak? No, it was a tad too rough to be the squeak of a mouse. And it definitely wasn’t, heaven forbid, a fart. Perhaps Voldemort was clearing his throat, ready to tear him a new one for creating such a mess? Slowly, Quirrell peeked out from the gaps between his fingers. What he saw made his jaw drop and his eyebrows lift in surprise.

Voldemort, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord and leader of the Death Eaters, was currently standing before him with an adorably red nose and muffled squeaks emerging from his mouth. Looking at Voldemort’s face all scrunched up and nose as red as Rudolph’s, Quirrell melted into a veritable puddle of goo. Oh my heavens, could he get any cuter? The squeaks, Quirrell realized belatedly, were tiny little sneezes. Good lord, even his sneezes were adorable! He sounded like a damn Disney princess!

Quirrell hurriedly averted his gaze and scrambled off the bed, when he realized Voldemort had noticed his amused expression. “What, you think this is funny? God fucking damn it, Quirrell! Allergies are no laughing matter,” snarled Voldemort. Quirrell pressed his lips together in an attempt to keep from smiling. The man was just being so damn adorable. Voldemort fumed at him, his bottom lip jutting out into an involuntary pout.

…Quirrell’s smile faded as he thought about how Voldemort had then forced him to clean every inch of the room, for the past three hours, in retaliation. He groaned softly into his pillow, already feeling the aches settling into his strained muscles. He was sore, damn it! And not even in a good way, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind. Oh, hush you, Quirrell rolled his eyes.

To make matters worse, he had to wait till tomorrow to get fresh sheets! So, tonight, he was stuck with a dusty, musty bed, which was still disgusting no matter how many times he had tried to shake off the dust. Never mind, tomorrow is a new day. And tomorrow, everything will be better, Quirrell thought optimistically to himself. With a soft hum, he let his eyes slide shut, and slowly drifted off.

As usual, Voldemort found himself rudely awakened by the shrieking antics of that idiot guard. What was unusual however, was the loud thump he heard from the left side of the room. He rolled over onto his side to get a better look at the source of the noise. With a jolt, he remembered the events of the previous day. Right, I have a cellmate now, he groaned to himself.

Peering curiously at the scene before him, he eyed a sad lump wriggling about on the floor. It seemed that the little squirrel, startled by Dumbfuck’s yelling, had fallen out of his bed. He watched in amusement as the man struggled around in his blanket adorably, which he was currently cocooned in. Finally, the man managed to poke his head out of the blanket burrito, though his arms and legs remained entangled. Quirrell’s eyes searched the room frantically, before landing on his own.

“My-my lord, would you- I mean, do you think- could you help me? Please, I-I’m stuck,” he pleaded with the Dark Lord. Then, Quirrell did the one thing that Voldemort would never, ever, be able to forgive him for. Quirrell widened his eyes into these huge, adorable, puppy dog eyes.

Fuck! Why the devil are his stupid eyes affecting me so much? Voldemort swore furiously to himself. Stupid Quirrell’s eyes were so huge and chocolate-y and irresistible and pleading- ARGH! Don’t even get him started on the man’s lips, set into an adorable plump pout, looking all soft and kissable- Fucking hell, man, control yourself! Voldemort slapped himself mentally.

Voldemort steeled his resolve. No way, there was absolutely no way he’d be helping the little pipsqueak. He got himself into this blanket mess, so he’d have to get himself out of it on his own.

Then, Voldemort made the single greatest mistake of his life. He chanced a glance at Quirrell again. Poof! There went his steely resolve, which promptly crumbled into fluff. He sighed heavily and gave into the irresistible pull of those chocolate brown eyes. With a groan, he sprang out of bed and made his way over to the squirming burrito. Ah shit, those eyes look even cuter up close, he thought, as he crouched over the other.

Grumbling, he grabbed the end of the blanket and tugged, slowly unwrapping Quirrell from its clutches. Ugh, why is this taking so long? Voldemort, always the impatient one, decided to give the blanket a good, hard yank. Yes, yes, that’ll do it. (Un)fortunately for him, he’d woefully miscalculated the force behind the yank. The blanket remained trapped beneath Quirrell, and with Voldemort’s hand still clutching the blanket tightly, the rebounding pull of the blanket sent him careening towards Quirrell.

Quirrell’s eyes widened comically as he watched Voldemort descend towards him. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He felt so helpless; with his hands still entangled, there was nothing he could do to save the Dark Lord from his fall. As the distance between them grew smaller and smaller, Quirrell closed his eyes, bracing himself for impact.

A second passed. Then, another. Still nothing. Hmm, we should have collided by now.

“Hrk,” Voldemort grunted. Quirrell felt a puff of air hit his face and opened his eyes curiously. Then, fire bloomed in his cheeks as he realized the other man’s face was directly above his. Glancing to the side, he realized that Voldemort had managed to catch himself, but now his hands rested on either side of Quirrell’s head, with their faces inches apart.

Unable to stop himself, Quirrell stared up into the beautiful blue-grey eyes above him, framed by thick, dark eyelashes. Voldemort’s sleep tousled hair, no longer slicked back, caught his attention as well. A thick slivery lock tumbled down the side of Voldemort’s face, and the end of it tickled Quirrell’s own. Returning his gaze to his cellmate’s eyes, his breath caught in his throat as he saw Voldemort’s eyes flicker down to his lips.

Did…did he just look at my lips? Quirrell wetted his lips nervously. There, he saw it again! His eyes had definitely followed the movement of his tongue across his lip. Quirrell sucked in a breath. Time seemed to stand still as their lips grew closer, and closer. Quirrell’s eyes slid shut as he felt his breath mingle with the man’s above him. Just a little closer…

Bang! The sound of a baton hitting the cell door from outside had them both jumping out of their skins. Quirrell’s eyes snapped open in shock.

Voldemort jerked away from him, realization clouding his eyes. As he scrambled up, Voldemort took the blanket with him, finally freeing Quirrell from the cocoon. Voldemort cleared his throat, avoiding his eyes. Quirrell did the same, averting his gaze from the other and rubbing his neck awkwardly.

“Uh, thanks for-” “So, do you want to-”

Both of them broke off their sentences awkwardly. Voldemort chuckled nervously and ran his hand through his unruly pale locks. He repeated hesitantly, “Do you…want to go get some breakfast?”

Quirrell looked up in surprise. He wanted to get breakfast? He wasn’t going to kill me for our almost-kiss? Warmth bloomed in his chest. “Yeah, sure, I’d like that,” he smiled shyly at the other. He thought he saw pink splotches appear above Voldemort’s sharp cheekbones, but it must’ve been a trick of the light.

Biting his lip to hide a smile, Quirrell started heading towards the door before he was stopped in his tracks.

“Quirrell, just where do you think you’re going?” Quirrell turned around slowly, baffled by Voldemort’s sudden inquisition.

“We’re not going anywhere until you tidy up your bed! I know you’re changing your sheets later, but at least make it into a neat pile,” grumbled Voldemort, who was already tucking his bedsheet into crisp corners.

Quirrell’s mouth gaped open. Wow, who knew? The Dark Lord is a sneezy, gorgeous, adorable cleanfreak with OCD. His thoughts stumbled to halt when Voldemort turned back and raised his eyebrows threateningly at him, jerking his head meaningfully towards his unmade bed. Quirrell swallowed his smile and made his way over to his bed, fighting the rising affection he felt for the insufferable lord.

Chapter Text

Voldemort grumbled to himself. Pah, can’t believe that squirrel almost left before tidying up his bed. Such nerve! He took a step back and admired his work proudly. He eyed the crisp corners, a perfectly fluffed pillow, and the blanket folded into a symmetrical square at the foot of the bed. It was flawless, not a crease to be seen. Definitely one of his best work. His smile grew as he gave himself a well-deserved pat on the back.

He then turned around to inspect Quirrell’s work. The sight of his pitiful attempt at tidiness soured Voldemort’s smile. He eyed the shoddy work with distaste. Bleurgh, you call that making a bed? He sighed in disapproval. He truly was living with a barbarian. Oh well, he’d have loads of time to train Quirrell into being well, less Quirrell. For now, he was hungry and a hungry Voldemort waited for no man nor squirrel.

Voldemort reached over his head and grabbed the back of his ratted wifebeater, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. A strangled noise, almost like a dying cat, came from behind him, but he ignored it. He smirked to himself, figuring that Quirrell was finally feeling guilty about his incompetent tidying up. As he should be. Folding his top neatly (of course) and placing it onto his table to deal with later, he strolled over to the sink to splash some water onto his face. He hissed at the biting chill of the water.

Turning off the tap, he straightened up to peer into the small mirror above the sink. He grabbed his comb and began pulling it through his hair, taming the locks into his usual slick ‘do. He leaned closer and squinted into the mirror to examine his hair more closely. His eyes scanned his reflection for flaws. Oh, who are you kidding? Your whole fucking face is a flaw. Voldemort scowled and ignored the self-deprecating thought, continuing his search.

With a jolt, his searching eyes connected with Quirrell’s in the mirror. Wha-? Voldemort’s bafflement grew as he noted his cellmate’s flushed face. Barely a second later, Quirrell ripped his eyes away from his, breaking their strange moment of eye contact.

Voldemort pursed his lips, frowning. That squirrel really was strange. Red cheeks all the time, shying away from eye contact, why, he seemed to be running a fever! Worst of all, Voldemort seemed to be flushing more often as well, plus he kept having these strange, out-of-character thoughts. For fuck’s sake, he’d already thought about how adorable the man was a grand total of five times today. And it was still morning! Just the thought of earlier, when he and Quirrell were so close he’d felt the man’s cool breath on his lips, pinkened his cheeks. Ah shit, it isn’t contagious, is it? Ooh, if that Quirrell has given me germs, I swear-! Voldemort huffed, and filed away his suspicions to ponder about later. For now, breakfast awaited him.

Quirrell stared determinedly at the floor. He wouldn’t look up, no sir, he would resist temptation. Quirrell had a backbone of steel. The might of a god. The strength of Hercules. He had the power to resist the temptation of those exquisitely carved muscles, yes he did. He would be able to ignore the droplets of water trailing down that toned chest, those chiseled abs which caught the light with every twist, the prominent hips which angled seductively into a V… Quirrell sighed dreamily, a soppy smile gracing his face.

Argh! Stop that, god damn it! Thinking about your half-naked roommate isn’t helping your case at all. Quirrell clenched his eyes shut in mortification.

God help him, Voldemort was way too unbelievably hot. Quirrell couldn’t afford to slip up anymore. He’d already let out an embarrassing dying noise when Voldemort first slipped off his top, and even worse, he’d been caught staring at the other like a lecherous old man! He lifted his hands to his heated cheeks. Great, to top it all off, his face was also as red as a cherry.

“Hey Quirrell,” Voldemort called from across the room.

At the sound of his name, Quirrell looked up. To his disappointment relief, Voldemort was tugging a fresh shirt over his head. Quirrell mourned wistfully as the chiseled abs slipped out of view.

Voldemort cleared his throat to get his attention. “Ready to head down for some grub?”

With a jerk, Quirrell realized he would be meeting the other inmates down at the canteen. A wave of anxiety rushed over him. What if they try to hurt me or…or try to kill me? He’d once read a news article about inmates who died tragically in prison, shanked by their fellow prisoners. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! His turbulent emotions must have shown on his face, because Voldemort stepped forward, a perplexed look on his features.

“What’s wrong? You have this…” Voldemort gesticulated wildly around his face. “…weird look on your face.”

Quirrell bit his lip in hesitation. Should I tell him about my worry? What if he just laughs at me?

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “It’s not a case of the tootsies, is it? If you gotta go, you do it out of this cell, you hear me? As long as the door is opened during the day, you better shit somewhere else.” He paused thoughtfully and then added, “And if it’s night, well, you pray to God that you can hold it in.”

“W-What? No, no, no, my lord, that’s not at all what’s troubling me,” Quirrell quickly reassured the other.

“Well, then spit it out! What’s on your mind?”

Quirrell sighed in defeat. “Well…I-I’m a little nervous about going out. I’m afraid the other p-prisoners will try to kill me or s-something.”

To his surprise, his cellmate didn’t cackle wildly at Quirrell's words, but rather, the opposite. Voldemort scowled deeply, an affronted look on his face. “What do you take me for, Quirrell? Dumbfuck’s sweaty underpants?” A vein throbbed dangerously on Voldemort’s neck. “I’m the fucking Dark Lord, you think I’d let anyone just kill my peon? No one touches you but me,” Voldemort growled at him.

Quirrell blinked in shock. Then, heat rushed to his cheeks as Voldemort’s last sentence registered in his mind. Don’t get too excited, you know he didn’t mean it that way. “R-Really, you mean that, my lord?”

Voldemort rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yes, Quirrell. I mean it, duh! Now can we eat breakfast? I’m so hungry I could eat a unicorn!”

A pleasant warmth bloomed in Quirrell’s chest. “Yes, of c-course. My deepest apologies for keeping you w-waiting, my lord.”

“Now, to breakfast, my minion!” Voldemort exclaimed with flourish, yanking the cell door open enthusiastically.

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Quirrell stepped out of the cell with determination.

Finally, they were going to eat! Voldemort scoffed at the thought of Quirrell’s concern about being killed. Psh, like anyone would try to hurt him! Quirrell’s mine. Anyone who fucks with him, fucks with me. And no one ever fucks with Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort breezed his way down to the canteen, enjoying the familiar feeling of having a peon follow him again. He relished the fearful looks cast his way, the wide path created by the crowd veering away from his menacing march. He was the top dog of Azkaban, the boss behind bars, the most feared inmate around.

He settled regally into his favourite seat, smack dab in the center of the canteen. “Now Quirrell, fetch me my breakfast,” he ordered imperiously.

The other man nodded his acquiescence and trotted off quickly to the breakfast line.

Ahh, sure feels good to order people around again. After the betrayal that had led to his arrest, Voldemort’s walls went up. He had become soft, weak. Because he trusted the wrong man (or woman, it could’ve been Bellatrix, for all he knew), he was stuck here and left to die. But…there was something about Quirrell that made him want to let his walls down, just a bit. The man exuded such honesty and softness, Voldemort could hardly believe that he had been sent to Azkaban. I wonder what he did to end up in the prison for the worst of the worst…

At the thought of his cellmate, a fluttering feeling rose in his tummy. Ugh, what’s this strange sensation? He’d never felt such a thing before. Well, maybe once, when he had watched High School Musical for the first time. But that was different! That was Zefron.

This was just Quirrell. He scoffed at the thought of comparing Zefron to Quirrell. I’m just getting used to having someone around again, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, he reassured himself.

Suddenly, a strangled scream echoed through the canteen.

He whipped his head around to find the source. To his horror, he saw Quirrell, held up by the throat, feet dangling off the floor helplessly. His hands clawed frantically at the large, burly hand holding him up. His face grew redder and redder with each passing second.

Voldemort was frozen in his seat, his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. A feeling of dread spread through his body. As he stared at the scene with wide eyes, a voice in his head screamed at him. Do something! Anything! Don’t just sit there, help him damn it! He swallowed thickly and tried to move, but his joints felt almost locked in place.

Then, Quirrell’s eyes connected with his across the canteen. A silent plea in his chocolate brown eyes was all Voldemort needed to unfreeze his joints. With a snarl, Voldemort rose from his seat and ran towards Quirrell.

Chapter Text

Quirrell gasped desperately for his life. His lungs burned in his chest as if they were set on fire. As he scrabbled at the hand clamped around his throat, regret flashed through him. He didn’t even know what had happened, really. He remembered struggling to juggle both his and Voldemort’s breakfast trays, when he had collided headfirst into a wall. No, wait. It wasn’t a wall. It was a man. This man.

He glared down at the face of the brute who was slowly strangling the life out of him. This is exactly what he had feared! But Voldemort had promised that no one would hurt him…where was his Dark Lord now?

With his face turning alarming shades of purple, Quirrell’s eyes searched the canteen frantically. Come on, come on, it can’t be this hard to find the only head of silver hair here! His chest tightened in worry. There! His eyes found Voldemort still at his seat, staring wide-eyed at the two of them. A flicker of doubt rose in Quirrell. Why…why is he just staring at me? Isn’t he going to help? Doesn’t he…care? A sharp ache grew in his chest, in addition to the burning in his lungs. He was goddamn fool…how could he have thought that Voldemort cared about him at all? Tears pricked at his eyes, turning his vision misty.

No, no! He would not give up this easily. In a last-ditch attempt to save himself, Quirrell blinked away the haze of tears. He locked his eyes on Voldemort’s and pleaded silently. Voldemort, if there’s any part of you that has even a shred of care for me, save me, please.

With such great focus on the Dark Lord, he saw the precise moment that realization struck Voldemort and chased away the glazed look in his eyes. Hope bloomed in his chest when he saw Voldemort rise from his seat. Was he- Is he coming to save me? His heart soared when Voldemort began sprinting towards him, determination turning his blue-grey orbs to steel. With his heart fluttering wildly in his chest, Quirrell sneered down at the neanderthal holding him up. Ooh, you are going to get your comeuppance…

Bam! Voldemort’s fist flew into the bastard’s head. Quirrell collapsed onto the ground in relief, gulping in sweet, delicious air.

A rage like he’d never felt before flowed through Voldemort. How dare this piece of shit attack Quirrell like that? His vision tinted red in fury. Quirrell was his, goddamn it!

The fucker shook his head slightly, recovering from Voldemort’s punch. Voldemort didn’t wait for him to clear his head. He grabbed a discarded meal tray and raised it high in the air. Time to pay your respects to the Dark Lord, bitch. He slammed the tray down onto the other man’s skull. With a loud crack, the plastic tray snapped in half. Damn, that idiot Goyle really did have a thick head. Voldemort flung the halves of the tray aside and hauled the bastard up by his collar.

He wrapped his fingers around his throat, in a mimicry of what Goyle had done to Quirrell. In a feat of strength even he didn’t know he possessed, Voldemort strained his biceps to lift the gigantic man off the ground with a single hand, leaving him dangling uselessly in the air.

“Quirrell’s one of my Death Eaters. If you fuck with him, you fuck with me. So you don’t ever fuck with him, you understand?”

The numbskull nodded frantically.

Unsatisfied, Voldemort tightened his grip and drove his fist deep into the other’s solar plexus. Goyle doubled over in pain, moaning like the little bitch he was. Voldemort leaned in closer and hissed into the man’s ear.

“I said…Do. You. Understand.”

The idiot sobbed loudly, “Yes, yes! Please, I’m sorry, Dark Lord! Forgive me, I had no idea he was a Death Eater!”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. He still didn’t feel satisfied with that lackluster apology. The shithead deserves a lot more, after what he did Quirrell. He clenched his fingers around his throat tighter. Goyle began to choke as he flailed uselessly in the air. Voldemort’s maniacal grin widened as the man’s face turned an unflattering shade of chartreuse.

Then, a small touch at his elbow startled him. His head wrenched around to the left. Quirrell stood before him, his hand placed delicately on Voldemort’s elbow.

“My lord, you’re k-killing him,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Voldemort ripped his eyes from Quirrell’s. “He deserves it,” he growled, tightening his grip even more.

“Please, my… Voldemort, don’t do this,” Quirrell pleaded.

A jolt ran through his body at the sound of his name leaving Quirrell’s lips. Voldemort’s eyes found his again. At the sight of those wide brown eyes, something inside of him broke. With a snarl, he relented and shoved the brute away roughly.

At his release of Goyle, the whole canteen seemed to exhale in relief. Voldemort suddenly became aware of the few hundred pairs of eyes glued to him. What are these ass clowns looking at? He glared around menacingly, smirking when the nosy fools immediately averted their gaze. As he scanned the canteen, he sighed in relief at the lack of guards. Somehow, through sheer dumb luck, no guards had seen the altercation. Fuck yeah, no solitary for me! Which was good, especially since he couldn’t trust his inmates to not attack Quirrell if he wasn’t around.

He turned back to Quirrell, wincing in sympathy when he saw him massaging his throat tenderly. “Do you think you can still eat with your throat like that?”

Quirrell huffed softly, a slight smile on his lips. “I have t-to either way, heaven knows I’m skinny enough, without s-starving myself. Besides, I’m still hungry.” As if on cue, both of their stomachs rumbled loudly.

Voldemort cackled gleefully and snagged two breakfast trays, disregarding those who were still queuing up for their meals. Not like they’ll stop me, especially after I just showed to everyone that I’m the boss ass bitch around here. He balanced the trays expertly on his nimble hands and made his way back to their table, stepping over the still-collapsed form of Goyle.

Ooh, today is buttered toast! Voldemort grinned widely and dug in with relish. His tummy called out happily for the food, cheering in joy as he shoveled the crispy toast into his mouth.

A small whimper sounded from the man sitting before him. He paused mid-chew and looked up at Quirrell, with his cheeks bulging with bread. A strange sensation passed over him. The sight of Quirrell struggling in pain to swallow the food, made his chest ache with this weird feeling. It felt as if there was a heavy stone in his chest, which was sinking down into his tummy. It felt uncomfortable and strange and he didn’t like it at all.

Voldemort swallowed his food down hastily. There had to be something he could do to alleviate the sinking feeling in his tummy. It seemed that Quirrell being in pain was what was making him feel so bad. But how can I help him? He glanced down at his food sullenly, his keen appetite fading away as the pinching pain in his chest worsened.

Then, his eyes landed on his pudding cup. Yes, that’s it! Pudding was smooth, and soft, and totally awesome! And would definitely be easier to swallow than toast. He grabbed his pudding cup eagerly and presented it to his cellmate.

“Quirrell! Here, have my pudding. It’ll be easier for you to eat, with your throat being bruised and all.”

Quirrell’s eyes widened in surprise. “W-what? No, no, my lord, I couldn’t! In fact, I should b-be the one giving you my pudding. If I recall, one of my r-roles as your slave is to give my p-pudding to you,” he stammered, cheeks pink.

An odd sense of disappointment flooded Voldemort at hearing Quirrell address him as “my lord” again. But he’s your minion, he’s supposed to call you that. Before Azkaban, he’d never had any issues with Malloy or Bellatrix addressing him by his esteemed title. Voldemort shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“No, Quirrell, I insist. How can I expect you to be a good Death Eater, if you can’t even eat? You’ll just waste away and die! I can’t have that, now can I?” Voldemort declared dramatically. He shoved his pudding at Quirrell’s face again. “Now, take it and eat, goddamn it. That’s an order.”

Slowly, Quirrell’s hand lifted to the pudding cup thrust before his face. As he wrapped his fingers around the cup, their fingertips brushed slightly. Voldemort inhaled sharply. A spark of electricity travelled from his fingertips, up his arm, and spread through his body. His eyes connected with Quirrell’s chocolate brown orbs. His commanding gaze warmed, as he gave a small encouraging nod to the other man.

With a smile, Quirrell accepted his offered pudding. “Thank you, my lord. A-And thank you for saving me just now. If it wasn’t for you, well, I’d s-surely be dead meat by now.” Quirrell’s ears reddened slightly, as he peered up at Voldemort from beneath his lashes, smiling shyly.

A pleasant warmth bloomed in Voldemort, chasing away the ache from earlier. He beamed at Quirrell, enjoying the happy fluttering in his tummy. His cheeks pinkened in reciprocation. “No problem at all, Quirrell. What kind of Dark Lord would I be if I couldn’t take care of my Death Eaters?” He joked, ignoring the fact that he’d never given a rat’s ass about his servants before Quirrell. I’m just being a good lord, looking out for my new peon, that’s all. The warmth in his chest grew as Quirrell grinned back at him, biting his lip shyly.

Then, goddamn Quirrell had to go and ruin the moment. Voldemort’s smile slipped off his face as Quirrell sucked his pudding spoon into his mouth. His mouth turned dry as he watched him hollow his cheeks around the spoon. His heated gaze laser-focused onto the way Quirrell’s tongue poked out to give the spoon a kittenish lick. For Zefron’s sake, did the man even know what he was doing? Voldemort turned red and he felt his blood begin to rush southwards.

He watched in growing anticipation horror as his cellmate scooped another helping of pudding into his mouth. Fuckkk, he groaned internally. His eyes followed the sensual slide of Quirrell’s lips over the spoon. God, what is wrong with you? There shouldn’t have been anything about Quirrell eating fucking pudding, that sparked this much horniness. I’m just sexually repressed, okay! Being in Azkaban for the past 6 months has just given me a major case of blue balls, that’s all.

A delightful shiver ran through his body as Quirrell pulled the spoon out of his mouth with an almost obscene ‘pop’ sound. He blinked confusedly at Voldemort. “Is s-something the matter, my lord?”

Voldemort cleared his throat gruffly, averting his stupid, horny gaze. “Not at all, glad you’re enjoying the pudding, Quirrell.”

Quirrell beamed at him, his smile lighting up his entire face. A thrill ran up Voldemort’s spine and his heart fluttered in his chest at the look the man gave him. Ah fuck it, just admit it to yourself, man. He sighed heavily in his head. Voldemort, the Dark Lord of the most notorious street gang, was attracted to Quirinus fucking Quirrell. There, he said it. It was more than just blue balls. There was something about Quirrell that was just so damn attractive to him. He’d never felt so strongly attracted to anyone this way before. Sure, he was a man of equal opportunity, and had never shied away from those Death Eaters who threw themselves at him (cough, Bella and Lucius, cough). But he’d never felt this overwhelming lust for them, that he did for Quirrell.

He ignored the small voice in the back of his head that whispered, Suuuure, it’s just lust that you feel for him. Voldemort steeled his resolve. Just because he lusted after the man, didn’t mean he’d act on it. The strong attraction he had for Quirrell was a weakness, and Voldemort could not afford to be weak. He would simply ignore this ridiculous feeling until it went away, yes, he would.

With this determined thought in mind, Voldemort lifted his head bravely to meet Quirrell’s confused eyes.

Oh, shit. One look at Quirrell’s adorably befuddled face, and his resolve collapsed into smithereens. His cheeks heated up rapidly. At that moment, Voldemort knew there was absolutely no way he’d be able to deny his attraction towards Quirrell. Ah crap, I’m so utterly, and totally, fucked.

Chapter Text

Pudding was officially Quirrell’s new favourite food.

Why, you ask? Well, to kick things off, he was pretty sure Voldemort had suffered a minor cardiac arrest whilst watching him eat his pudding. Initially, Quirrell had been a tad concerned upon seeing the other’s rapidly reddening face and tightly clenched jaw. But luckily, this Professor of Literature prided himself on being exceptionally self-aware and perceptive. You see, despite his love for flowers, Quirrell was man enough to admit when he was attracted to someone else. Which currently, was his chiseled Michelangelo statue of a cellmate. Likewise, he was man enough to notice when others were attracted to him. So, Quirrell’s sharp mind had quickly recognized the symptoms afflicting the man before him.

Voldemort had been flustered because of his attraction to Quirrell. Specifically, his attraction to a pudding-eating Quirrell. The shocking realization had momentarily stunned him. Why, in the name of God, was Voldemort giving me those lusty eyes because of pudding of all things? Did the Dark Lord have some sort of strange fetish? Then, understanding had dawned upon Quirrell. He had quickly figured out where Voldemort’s burning gaze had been focused on.

Quirrell chuckled to himself at the memory as he changed his bedsheets distractedly. Who knew the Dark Lord would have such an oral fixation, especially on little ole me? A fixation which he had totally exploited the hell out of, by the way. A cheeky grin overtook his face as he thought of how he’d doubled his efforts on salaciously eating his pudding, after he’d comprehended the effect his actions had on Voldemort. A wave of heat rushed through Quirrell as he thought about the pure, unadulterated lust that had exuded from the man.

Oh wait, where was he? Right, why pudding was his new favourite dish. Sure, Quirrell loved the power that had rushed through him as he’d licked a sensual stripe up his spoon, while maintaining eye contact with the other. But more than that, the memory of Voldemort sweetly offering his pudding to him made his heart twist and flip around in joy. Especially after he’d just rescued him from that brute, like some valiant dark knight of his dreams. A dopey smile graced Quirrell’s face as he thought about his ridiculously fast crush on his cellmate. It was only his second day in Azkaban, but he was already gone for Voldemort. He knew crushing on the Dark Lord was probably the worst idea ever, but he just couldn’t help himself! The man was so damn sexy, charismatic and not to mention, adorable as all hell. Quirrell blushed furiously as he daydreamed about Voldemort. Great, you’re crushing on a man who you still call “my lord”, just how much of a masochist are you?

Oh, hush, Quirrell silenced the voice of reason in his head. It had been a while since Quirrell had last felt the fluttering feeling in his chest that came with a crush, and he was going to enjoy it, damn it! He hugged his pillow to his chest, sighing happily with a sappy smile on his face.

The sound of the cell door opening jolted him out of his daydreams.

Lo and behold, the object of his fantasies strolled in confidently. Quirrell’s eyes traced the gorgeous lines of his muscled frame longingly. Voldemort looked over at him and snorted in amusement. “If you’re done getting to second base with your pillow, do you want to get going?”

Quirrell’s face burned in mortification. He hastily tossed his pillow back onto his bed and sprang up. He cleared his throat, “Y-Yes, I just finished changing the sheets to the fresh ones, my lord.”

Voldemort eyed his bed with a look of disdain and sighed in disgust. “Quirrell, man, I don’t know how you’ve managed to live with yourself with such shoddy sheets-changing technique, but you’re lucky I’m here,” he grumbled.

To Quirrell’s utter surprise, Voldemort strode over and began straightening his untidy work, smoothening out creases and tucking in excess fabric.

Unbeknownst to him, the way Voldemort crouched over the bed provided an excellent viewpoint of his pert ass to Quirrell. Hmm, very excellent indeed. Quirrell’s face burned hotter as he took the chance to openly ogle the other man’s sculpted behind. The angle at which he bent over made his pants stretch tightly over the curves of his ass. He gulped as Voldemort’s well-shaped buttocks swayed hypnotically as he slid the bed from side to side to position it back into place.

He quickly snapped his eyes back up as Voldemort turned around triumphantly. “Now that’s how you change your sheets!” He grinned brightly, gesturing grandly to the perfectly tidied bed.

Quirrell smiled back shyly and decided to try his luck by flirting a little. “Thank you, my lord. I d-don’t know what I’d ever do without you.” He lowered his lashes demurely and peered up at Voldemort beneath them, (hopefully) giving him sexy, half-lidded eyes.

His stomach fluttered when he noticed Voldemort’s cheeks pinken slightly. Voldemort seemed to deliberate for a second, before responding, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re stuck with me, isn’t it?” He winked roguishly at Quirrell.

Heat flared in Quirrell’s cheeks. He hadn’t been expecting him to actually flirt back. A pleasant trill ran up his spine. He felt himself swoon a little as they shared a lingering look into each other’s eyes.

“So, are you ready to see Azkaban in all its wonder and glory?” Voldemort asked sardonically with a wry grin.

Quirrell blinked as he remembered the decision he’d made earlier. “A-Actually, I don’t really feel up to roaming around Azkaban just yet. The p-pain in my throat has started to really kick in and I kind of feel like just resting in here for today, if t-that’s alright with you? But please, go ahead and have fun outside!” He held in a breath as he waited for the other’s response. Voldemort may have been attracted to him, but he was still the Dark Lord, refusing his request could be akin to poking a tiger.

To his surprise, Voldemort slapped a hand to his forehead in a face-palm motion. “Oh right, shit I can’t believe I almost forgot! You were almost strangled to death today, of course you don’t feel up to exploring Azkaban just yet.” He raised his head to look at Quirrell. “Fuck, why am I such an insensitive asshole,” Voldemort’s eyes widened in embarrassment as if the last sentence had slipped from his lips accidentally.

He quickly smiled reassuringly at the other. “I know it said it earlier, but I’m so incredibly grateful to you for r-rescuing me, my lord.” Quirrell stepped closer to his cellmate, feeling a magnetic pull towards the other. “N-No one’s ever been so nice or protected me so fiercely as you have. I know I’m your s-servant but you didn’t have to help me the way you did.”

Voldemort’s features softened. He took a step closer as well. “Of course I did, Quirrell. I would never let someone hurt you, never,” he spoke earnestly. Pinkness overtook Voldemort’s cheeks as he looked a bit stunned at the words that had just come out of his own mouth. Voldemort leaned back from him. “And if you’re staying in, I’ll stay with you too, I can’t trust you to not die from choking or whatever while I’m out,” he joked hurriedly, easing the thick crackling of electricity that was sparking the air between them.

Quirrell’s eyebrows shot up. “W-What? No, no my lord, don’t you want to roam around outside, n-not cooped up in this cell?” Despite his words, he felt his heart lighten as he thought about staying in with Voldemort. If he stays with me, maybe we could talk more, really get to know each other. There was so much about the crime lord that he wanted to know.

“I already said I’m staying, Quirrell. Are you trying to disobey me?” Voldemort huffed at him, narrowing his eyes threateningly. In spite of the threat, Quirrell found that he didn’t feel the same fear he would’ve felt a mere day before. Somehow, he could sense the lack of murderous intent in his words.

“My apologies, my lord. I would never d-disobey you.”

Voldemort smiled winningly at him. “Well then, it’s all settled!” He paused, his brow furrowing. “Wait, are you sure you’d rather stay in than go to the infirmary?”

“Yes, I worry that the medical staff will ask t-too many questions if I go there. I don’t want to get us b-both in trouble for fighting,” he affirmed.

His cellmate grumbled before acquiescing to his well-reasoned rationale. “Alright, but first order of business: lie down and rest, man!” He fluffed Quirrell’s pillow before jerking his chin meaningfully towards the bed.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. Huh, he’s surprisingly domestic and dare I say, alarmingly similar to a mother hen fussing over her chick. He suppressed a smile and hopped into his bed obediently.

He turned to face Voldemort. To his disappointment, Voldemort didn’t linger but instead stalked over to his own side of the cell to putter around with his things. His heart sank. Ah, guess I spoke too soon. Quirrell sighed to himself, mentally berating himself for hoping that they could’ve had a nice long chat. Idiot, just because he’s staying doesn’t mean he wants to spend his time glued to your side. He huffed at his own stupidity before closing his eyes, hoping to get some rest since he clearly wasn’t going to get anything else.

Voldemort sifted through his belongings distractedly. He stubbornly refused to turn around to look at Quirrell. What was he thinking? Admitting to himself that he found his cellmate attractive was one thing, but this? Offering to stay with him, fussing over him, hell, he was about two seconds away from nursing him like some period drama heroine before he’d caught himself.

He pretended to look busy with tidying up for a few minutes. Hmm, Quirrell’s being awfully quiet over there. Unable to quell his curiosity, Voldemort peeked behind surreptitiously. What the Zefron-! The damn squirrel was just lying there with his eyes closed, about as carefree as anything. Pfft, and here I was with my emotional turmoil while he just ignores me and goes to sleep? He puffed up with indignation. Even though he’d been the one to practically sprint to the opposite end of the room, Voldemort felt irrationally bothered by Quirrell choosing sleep over him.

The longer he glared at the man, the more his irritation faded, however. He raked his eyes over Quirrell, studying his features at length for the first time. He really was beautiful. Sure, he was no bronzed god like Zefron but he had this beauty about him, that wasn’t immediately apparent upon first glance, but sort of snuck up on him and smacked him hard in the face with the full-force of Quirrell’s gorgeousness. Hmm, kind of sneaky but yet ferocious at times like a squirrel, I guess. Voldemort smiled softly to himself.

He studied the other’s face, eyes lingering a little too long on the set of plump lips, before sweeping his gaze over the man’s lithe figure. With Quirrell basically swimming around in the loose prison uniform, he couldn’t get a clear view of his body. He whined softly, pouting at the inability to see more.

Suddenly, Quirrell’s eyes flew open as a hacking cough racked through his body. He clutched his throat in pain as he choked on air. Voldemort froze in alarm, before dashing over to the bed. “Quirrell, man, are you okay?”

He nodded, even while he winced as his Adam’s apple bobbed painfully. Voldemort rushed back to his side of the room to grab his emergency bottle of water. He passed it to Quirrell, who sent him a grateful look in silent thanks. He opened the bottle and sipped the water slowly. Voldemort averted his gaze from the long column of bare throat presented when Quirrell tipped his head back.

Then, an idea struck him. He hurried over to the sink, grabbing a small handtowel along the way. For once, this freezing cold water will be useful. He soaked the towel in the cold water, before squeezing out the excess. He sidled back to Quirrell’s side. “Here, this can help with the pain and tenderness. I know you can’t go to the infirmary for a cold compress, so this’ll have to do.”

Voldemort ignored the hand that reached for the towel, instead applying it to Quirrell’s bruised throat himself. A startled noise escaped the man, before he hummed in relief as the cold seeped into alleviate the pain. Phew, my idea worked! After a few minutes of standing over his cellmate worriedly, awkwardness bled into Voldemort. Should he continue standing over him like this or should he just leave him be? He shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Quirrell looked up at him. Gently clearing his throat, he asked, “Do…Do you want to sit down maybe?”

A twinge of disappointment settled in his tummy. Right, he’s fine now so he wants me to go back to minding my own beeswax. Voldemort turned to go back to his own side of the room. “Wait! I-I meant sit here, with me,” Quirrell patted his bed hesitantly.

Shock flashed through Voldemort. No one had ever wanted him around: not the others in the orphanage, not the prospective parents whose gazes always skipped over him, and certainly not all the people who avoided the homeless teenager stalking the streets. The only people who’d ever welcomed his presence were his Death Eaters, and even that was debatable. He scanned Quirrell’s face for any trace of fear, which was always a telltale sign with his minions that they didn’t actually want him around.

A jolt ran down his spine as he found nothing, only an earnest, sincere smile on his face. He watched as the smile began to shrink, an uncertain look crossing Quirrell’s face at Voldemort’s continued silence.

“Y-You don’t have to, of course, I d-don’t know what I was thinking to ask you-”

“Sure, I’ll sit here,” Voldemort cut off his stuttering ramble. He perched gingerly on the bed, careful to not jostle the man too much. Warmth bloomed in his chest as Quirrell hurriedly scooted closer to the wall, beckoning him to seat himself more comfortably on the bed. Voldemort grinned as he slid closer towards Quirrell, who settled himself back onto his pillow while smiling up at the Dark Lord sitting by his hip.

“T-This was a really good idea, thank you, my Lord,” Quirrell gestured to the cold towel wrapped around his throat. Voldemort felt himself turn slightly pink at the praise. He wasn’t used to receiving genuine compliments.

“No problem, man, glad it helps the pain,” he responded awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with a bashful chuckle. It felt…kind of good to have someone appreciate him. Not because he was doing something spectacularly evil, which he’d always been good at, but for something he’d done that was actually nice. Yeah, Quirrell had thanked him for saving him from Goyle earlier, but all he’d really done was give the idiot a good (and totally well-deserved) beating. This was different. He hadn’t used his fists, or his scathing tongue, just a sincere desire to help his cellmate. He was reminded of how he’d given him his pudding earlier because he couldn’t stand to see the other in pain. Voldemort couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever helped anyone without an ulterior motive, or at least without using less-than-legal methods to do so. This really isn’t how I usually treat my slaves…What’s so different about Quirrell?

He locked eyes with Quirrell’s chocolate brown orbs and smiled shyly. The flutters in his tummy made their presence known as he gazed deeply into his hypnotic eyes. Everything. Everything about Quirrell is different, his mind answered.

Chapter Text

Voldemort guffawed loudly, clutching his stomach as he gasped for breath. “Wait, wait, wait, so the reason why you love flowers so much is because some bully tried to make fun of you by putting a flower crown on your head,” he waved his fingers in the direction of Quirrell’s head. “…But you decided you loved it?”

Quirrell blushed, smiling sheepishly at him. “Well…it was a f-flower crown! What’s there not to love? Besides, the best way to fend off bullies is to s-show them that they can’t hurt you, which I did by turning his mean trick into the start of a new love for mother nature’s best creations.” He grinned triumphantly, clasping his hands over his heart in a dramatic fashion.

God, he gets cuter by the fucking minute. Voldemort chuckled again. “Man, I would kill to see an eight year-old Quirrell prancing around in a flower crown. I bet you were just adorable,” he exclaimed. Wait, shit, did I just call him adorable to his face? Voldemort face-palmed mentally.

Thankfully, Quirrell didn’t seem to notice his slip up. Instead, Voldemort noted in confusion that the other’s smile seemed to dim a little. “And…And planting f-flowers with my mom was one of the last things we d-did together before she-” He broke eye contact to look down forlornly at his hands. “B-B-Before she passed,” he stuttered. “So, y-yeah, that’s why I love f-flowers so much.”

Voldemort’s heart sank in his chest. Seeing his cellmate’s downcast expression made his chest ache in reciprocation. He scooted closer towards Quirrell, nudging him with the thigh pressed against the other’s hip. “Hey you,” he whispered gently. The brunette looked up at him. “I think your mom would be happy that you’re honouring her through your love for flowers. It must be nice to have these fond memories with her to look back on,” he smiled softly at him.

Quirrell’s brow furrowed. “W-What did you mean by ‘must be nice’? Do you…do you not have f-fond memories of your parents?” he asked hesitantly, meeting his eyes cautiously.

He sighed in response, before plastering on a smile. “Nah, I just meant that it must be nice to have these memories of your mom. I grew up in an orphanage, so I never knew my parents. But that also means, unlike you, I can’t really miss people I don’t know,” he tried to say casually.

Quirrell’s brown eyes softened into molten pools of chocolate. He sat up further, leaning closer to Voldemort. “Oh, I had no idea you were r-raised as an orphan. But…just so you know, it’s perfectly okay to m-miss them, even if you never met them before. I miss my mom everyday, and it’s totally f-fine for you to miss the people who you never got to the chance to know. There’s n-nothing wrong in mourning the memories which you never got to have,” he laid a gentle hand on his knee.

Surprisingly, the warmth emanating from Quirrell’s hand didn’t spark lust in Voldemort, but rather provided a sort of comfort, that spread to his chest to soothe the ache inside. He searched the other’s eyes, looking for signs of deceit. He’s being too good to me, this can’t possibly be genuine…right? His search found nothing but a soft warmth in those brown eyes. Voldemort felt his tummy flutter. No one had ever responded to the news that he was an orphan the same way Quirrell had. At best, they cried fake words of pity. At worst, they sneered and mocked him for being so lousy, even his parents abandoned him. None had ever actually listened to him and tried to affirm his doubts and insecurities about not knowing his parents. He gazed deeply into Quirrell’s eyes, an unknown feeling building in his chest.

He smiled shyly at the other. “Thanks, Quirrell. I’ve had a long time to come to terms with being an orphan, but what you said does make me feel better about missing them.”

Quirrell smiled back at him. “I’m g-glad I could lift your spirits, m-my lord.”

Hearing his title fall from Quirrell’s lips made Voldemort jolt in surprise. He’d almost forgotten that he was talking to someone who he’d claimed as his slave. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he thought about Quirrell treating him as his master, and he treating him as a mere peon. He bit his lip in deliberation.

“Hey Quirrell, maybe…maybe we could drop the “my lord” bit?”

His cellmate’s eyebrows lifted alarmingly close to his hairline. “O-Oh, would you prefer ‘my liege’ or ‘my dark king’, p-perhaps?”

“No, no! I meant…I meant just call me ‘Voldemort’. I mean, we’ve just shared a heart-to-heart about dead parents, so I think we’re there, I think we’ve reached that point,” he joked while gauging Quirrell’s reaction closely. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me as anything more than an evil master to protect him during his prison stay? He felt nervousness rise up like bile in his chest. He eyed the brunette warily.

With relief, he watched as Quirrell’s lips pulled back into a brilliant smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. “Voldemort,” he rolled his name around his mouth experimentally. Voldemort suppressed a delightful shiver.  “So, if we aren’t treating each other as m-master and slave anymore then…what are we, f-friends?” Quirrell inquired with an easy grin.

Embarrassment flooded Voldemort. “I…I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted. He cast his eyes downwards, to the hands that he was wringing in shame.

Soft hands came into view as they wrapped around his own to still his erratic movements. Voldemort’s head jerked up in shock. Wha-? He saw Quirrell flinch slightly at the sudden movement, but his grip only tightened around him, a solid presence to draw Voldemort back in. Quirrell looked intently at him, a burning intensity in his gaze. “Well…you’ve got one now,” he responded with a shy smile.

Voldemort blinked, stunned by this turn of events. He had just wanted Quirrell to call him Voldemort, but now…now he had a friend. His first friend! Warmth and excitement bloomed in him. The fluttering in his tummy grew as he grinned back at Quirrell. Hell yeah! I have a friend now, bitches! Take that, all you snide assholes who’s ever accused me of being lonely (cough, Malloy, cough). He relished the joyful flips his stomach was making as he locked eyes with the other and beamed happily.

Heat rose to his cheeks when he realized that they had been staring deeply into each other’s eyes for the past minute. A very long minute. And they were still holding hands. Voldemort broke eye contact and cleared his throat gruffly. Quirrell removed his hands from his in haste, pink colouring his face. He leaned back onto his pillow.

“S-So uh, I told you about my love for flowers, but what about you? What do you like?”

Voldemort deliberated for a moment. Should I tell him about Zefron? Or is that too silly? He nibbled at his lip in hesitation.

“Come on, you c-clearly have something in mind! Just tell me,” encouraged Quirrell.

Voldemort groaned and buried his face in his hands. “You’re totally going to laugh at me and call me a butt trumpet and won’t want to be my friend anymore,” he whined dramatically.

Quirrell giggled at his antics. Voldemort froze at the sound, which sounded like adorable tinkling of bells to his ears. Ugh, why is he so goddamn cute? It’s ridiculous!

“Come onnnn,” Quirrell needled at him persistently.

Voldemort shook his head stubbornly, keeping his lips sealed shut.

“Voldemort…” Quirrell widened his big brown eyes at him and batted his eyelashes innocently. Oh shit. Voldemort felt his resolve melt into a big puddle of chocolate goo, which coincidentally, resembled the eyes of the sneaky, manipulative bastard lying next to him. Oh, for fuck’s sake!

“Gah! Fine, just stop with those-” He gestured wildly at Quirrell’s face. “-puppy dog eyes, man! Okay, so I may or may not be secretly obsessed with Zefron, particularly High School Musical Zefron.” He clenched his eyes shut in mortification. Please don’t laugh, please don’t laugh, please don’t laugh…

Silence.

That’s weird. He opened one eye in suspicion. Voldemort’s gaze found Quirrell looking adorably befuddled. “W-Wait…who is Zefron, exactly?”

Voldemort exploded. “WHAT?! What the flying fucking balls do you mean ‘Who is Zefron’?” His nostrils flared in rage. Quirrell was looking considerably less adorable right about now. “He is only the most bestest, most talented, most awesome, most foxy, most sexiest, most goddamn fucking beautiful actor of our generation. Why you little squirrel-!”

His rant was cut off by Quirrell breaking out into hearty guffaws. Voldemort watched in mystification as Quirrell gasped loudly for air in between peals of laughter.

“What the flippity flappity fuck is so funny?” he growled.

Quirrell paused his giggling (damn it, that was still cute as all hell) to wipe tears from his eyes. “Relax, I was j-just kidding! Of course I know who Zac Efron is, he’s goddamn Troy Bolton! I just couldn’t resist messing with you a little bit,” he grinned winningly at Voldemort.

Voldemort deflated like a balloon that had been pricked. Well, now I’ve gone and made myself look like a butt trumpet by exploding at him like that. He ran his fingers through his hair sheepishly. “Oh. Uh, well, sorry for raging out on you, but come on, I had to defend Zefron.”

Eyes twinkling with mirth, Quirrell waved off his half-assed apology. “Nah, you were p-pretty cute getting all hot and bothered about Zefron,” he smiled roguishly at him. Voldemort blushed. Relax, man, you’re just friends, remember? Don’t you get all hot and bothered now, he reminded himself.

“Yeah, yeah, hilarious. At least you know Zefron, if you didn’t, well, I don’t know if we could’ve remained friends.” He propped his elbow on his leg that was folded on the bed, leaning his chin on his hand to wink teasingly at Quirrell.

The brunette gasped dramatically. “How dare you throw our friendship away over Zefron!”

Voldemort chuckled in response. Friends… He sure could get used to this, if this was what friendship with Quirrell was going to be like.

Quirrell woke up slowly. His throat felt immensely better, despite the long night of chatting between he and his cellmate. In retrospect, talking probably wasn’t the best idea for my recovery, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. He and Voldemort had opened up to each other, hell, they were even friends now.

His chest warmed at the thought. Even if they never became more than friends, Quirrell would be okay with that because he’d never had a friend like Voldemort before. Someone so sweet, and kind, and caring to him… He ignored the sarcastic voice in his head that said, Sure, that all sounds like the qualities of friendship to me.

Awareness slowly filtered in as the last vestiges of sleep slipped away. Something was definitely off. His pillow was…different. It kept moving up and down slowly. His sleepy mind puzzled over this discovery. It felt almost as if his pillow was breathing…

His eyes flew open in shock. Oh dear flower God. His eyes fell on a set of firm pectorals wrapped in a sinfully tight shirt. A set of pectorals which his face was currently smushed against. With growing dread, his eyes darted up to see (surprise, surprise) the chiseled face of the one and only, Lord Voldemort. His breath caught in his throat. Ah hell, how did we even end up in this position?

He shifted slightly to try to escape the embrace without alerting the other. A jolt of electricity ran down his spine. What the-? His eyes snapped down immediately. Shit, shit, shit! Horror flooded his senses as he stared down at the tent in his pants incredulously. Of all fucking times, why now?! He noted with growing incredulity as his traitorous appendage twitched against Voldemort’s thigh.

Suddenly, his pillow began to stir beneath him. Quirrell’s heartbeat picked up as he panicked. Oh no, oh no, what do I do? He sucked in a breath as the other’s eyes opened. Ah, fuck.

Chapter Text

Voldemort hoisted Quirrell onto the table and kissed him hungrily. The brunette wrapped his long legs around his waist, pulling him in closer. He inhaled sharply as Quirrell ran his fingers through his ashy blonde locks, tugging deliciously on his hair. He pulled away from ravaging his cellmate’s lips to latch onto his neck. A wave of pleasure ran through him as he watched Quirrell throw his head back, revealing the long column of his slender neck.

He lavished the man’s neck with his tongue, feeling himself start to harden at the sound of the delightful moans coming from the other. Voldemort groaned in pleasure when Quirrell tightened his legs around him, connecting their cores together. He swore hotly into his neck, “Fuck, Quirrell, you feel too good to be real, I swear.”

Panting heavily, Quirrell chuckled, “Voldemort, what are you t-talking about? Of course I’m not r-real.” While talking, Quirrell’s hand snaked down to cup him. A loud moan escaped his lips at the feeling of his nimble fingers working him skillfully.

Voldemort tried to see through the fog of lust that descended upon him. “Wha-What do you mean ‘you’re not real’?” He unlatched his lips from the other’s neck and pulled back slightly to look at his face.

Quirrell grinned wolfishly. “Oh, you silly, don’t you know I’m just a dream? Your little sex fantasy?” He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously and giggled at the stunned look on Voldemort’s face. “Look around Voldemort, does any of this look real to you?” He gestured around the room.

With great effort, Voldemort stepped back from (dream?) Quirrell, unhooking the legs around him. He glanced around the room, realizing that he couldn’t see anything other than the man before him. Everything else was shrouded in mysterious, hazy shadows. Dreadful understanding dawned upon him. Shit, this is just a dream? But it felt so real… He looked back at the other incredulously.

Dream Quirrell smiled seductively at him. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed, Voldemort. I know I’m not even close to the real thing…but it sure was fun while it lasted, right?” He slid a finger down Voldemort’s chest slowly. He swallowed thickly, watching the finger descend down his abs. Dream Quirrell ghosted his hand above the waistband of his trousers, tugging the elastic band slightly, before retracting. What the-? Tease!

The brunette snapped his fingers in his face to get his attention. “Well, chop chop loverboy, time for you to get back to the real Quirrell.” His smile widened into a Cheshire-cat grin.

Voldemort blanched. “Wait, what? Hold on a sec-!”

But it was too late, Dream Quirrell had already begun to blur, fading away before his very eyes. Soon, all that was left was a glowing crescent moon of his pearly white teeth…

Voldemort woke up with a gasp. His eyes flew open. He blinked rapidly several times, before his vision focused on the sight before him. Specifically, on the face that was hovering above his.

“Wha-? Quirrell? What are you-? What’s going on?” Voldemort’s mouth gaped open in shock.

His thoughts were in a complete disarray. He’d literally just woken up from a dream about the man and now…Quirrell was here? Lying on top of him? In bed? What the devil is going on here?!

With a sick feeling in his gut, a horrifying thought sprung forth in his mind. Did- Did I make weird sex noises in my sleep? Oh my fucking Zefron, did I moan Quirrell’s name out loud? He felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

Before he could delve much further into self-wallowing, Quirrell cleared his throat. Voldemort’s gaze snapped to his face.

“G-Good morning?” Quirrell greeted with an awkward smile.

Voldemort blinked. “Uhh…good morning to you too?” His eyes darted around nervously. Then, he froze as a thought occurred to him. Wait, am I hard from the dream? He glanced down quickly. Fuck, I totally still am! His pulse picked up. Oh god, oh god. Okay, chill dude, play it cool. Voldemort tried to gather his wits about him. ‘Cool’ was his middle name, he could totally just laugh it off. Morning wood was normal, nothing to worry about. Nothing. At. All.

He chuckled with forced casualness. “So uh, any idea how we ended up like this?” Voldemort flapped his dead arm that was trapped beneath the other’s body.

Quirrell’s eyes widened in realization and he sheepishly rolled off Voldemort in haste.

Voldemort ignored the twinge of disappointment he felt at the loss of his warm body snuggled into his side. Then, his breath caught in his throat as he finally got a good look at his cellmate. A good look at one particular part of his cellmate. Voldemort’s jaw dropped. His eyes zeroed in on the man’s crotch. Fuck. Me. A wave of heat flashed through him at the sight of the thick line that was clearly visible through Quirrell’s trousers.

A high-pitched squeal startled him out of his lusty reverie. Voldemort’s gaze snapped up to see Quirrell’s face redden into the shade of a tomato. The brunette hastily covered his hard-on with his hands.

“Oh g-goodness, I’m so sorry, Voldemort. I-I swear this doesn’t have anything to do w-with you, it’s just…just m-morning wood, you know? Please, please don’t be angry-”

Voldemort cut off his babbling by clearing his throat gruffly. Play it cool, man, play it cool. “Uh, yeah sure, it’s fine, Quirrell. It’s totally fine.”

“N-No, really, I’m so incredibly sorry for all of this, Vo-”

“Quirrell!” Voldemort snarled at him.

The brunette’s mouth snapped shut, a slightly hurt look on his features.

Voldemort sighed. Look what you’ve done now, asshole. He softened his voice, “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just- I’m embarrassed too because well…” He trailed off to gesture at his own traitorous boner, which was still standing tall and proud.

Quirrell’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Oh. Oh. S-So you’re-”

“Yeah.”

“A-And it’s-”

“Yeah.”

“We’re both-”

“Yeah.”

An awkward silence descended upon them. Voldemort worried at his lip, as they looked away from each other, not daring to meet each other’s eyes. Tch, I’m mortified as all hell, but also kind of offended that he didn’t notice mine until I pointed it out? His was the first thing I saw, he thought petulantly. Voldemort sighed to himself heavily. He drummed his fingers aimlessly on his thigh, willing his hard-on to go away. Begone, you satanic little limb, he grumbled in his head. Eventually, he felt his boner start to die down. He turned back to Quirrell in relief.

 “Well…this is awkward. Guess there’s something in the air in Azkaban this morning,” he quipped wryly.

Quirrell’s lips quirked up slightly. “Y-Yeah, well, there’s no reason this has to make things weird between us, r-right?”

The brunette caught his eyes hesitantly. Voldemort felt his heart stutter at the earnest, hopeful look in the other’s eyes. He still wants to be friends! He broke into a large grin and nodded enthusiastically. Voldemort saw his relief mirrored in the other’s features.

Quirrell smiled widely and asked, “But uh, how did we end up in that p-position, anyways?”

Voldemort reddened, thinking about how it had felt to have Quirrell cradled snugly in his arms. How nice it had felt, how right it had felt to have that warm presence next to him. “Hmm, I don’t really know, man. The last thing I remember was talking a lot last night and then the next thing I knew, I was waking up next to you.” He paused to sift through his memories of the previous night. Nope, nada, still no clue how we ended up that way. “I guess…we were both so tired, we just fell asleep?”

The other hummed in agreement. “Yeah, probably. Anyways, I feel a lot better today so if you still wanted to take me on that Azkaban tour, I’m game.”

Excitement flushed through Voldemort. “That’s great! Oh man, I gotta show you all the weird, kinky shit that’s in this place. You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff they have here.”

Quirrell raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. Just you wait, you’re gonna see exactly what I mean soon enough.” Voldemort winked cheekily at the other.

Quirrell sputtered, his mouth opening and closing in shock. “What the- What the a-actual fuck?”

Voldemort guffawed loudly at his reaction.

“S-Seriously, Voldemort, what the hell is that?” Quirrell pointed frightfully at the leather whip displayed proudly on the wall.

“That, my friend, is a relic from the ‘good ole times’.” Voldemort finger-quoted with a roll of his eyes. “Azkaban used to be a prison in Medieval England, before it was brought over to America. The warden likes to honour the prison’s heritage by hanging historical kinky shit like this all over the place.”

Horror rose up like bile in Quirrell’s throat. Good God, this prison used to be some sort of…torturing facility? His face scrunched up in revulsion. “Those days are over though, r-right? We don’t have to worry about getting f-flogged or anything?”

A wicked smirk formed on Voldemort’s lips, before he schooled his expression into something more neutral. “Nah, we still have Whipping Wednesdays and Sexual Assault Sundays. The rest of the days are chill, though,” he shrugged casually at the other.

Quirrell’s eyes widened in panic. Oh my god, he’s kidding right?! “Please, please tell me you’re joking,” he pleaded.

Voldemort looked back at him stonily.

Fear gripped his heart with a taloned fist. “Are you s-s-serious right n-now?” He grabbed Voldemort’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Voldemort, do not fuck with me,” he demanded, glaring into his pale blue eyes.

The other stared back impassively.

Oh god, I am going to die in this place. Anxiety bubbled up in his chest. I’m a delicate flower, I’m not made for torture! He stepped back from the man, clutching at his hair in desperation.

Then, Voldemort’s stony façade cracked. His lip twitched, before he lost it and burst into laughter.

Quirrell’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Why, that asshole! How dare he joke about this? He glared accusingly at the other. “I knew it! I knew you w-were lying! I can’t believe you!” He fumed, pouting furiously at the cackling satan next to him. “O-Oh, you think this is sooo funny, Voldemort? Well, n-newsflash, there’s nothing funny about torture or rape! Those are very horrible, very t-traumatic things that have happened to people.”

Voldemort froze, sobering up instantly. “Shit, I mean of course I don’t think there’s anything funny about either of those things, I just…I just thought- I was just trying to tease you, okay? I didn’t mean to be like, offensive or anything!” He looked imploringly at the brunette.

Quirrell remained unmoved, scowling crossly at him. He folded his arms over his chest, staring coldly at the other.

Voldemort stepped closer to him, forcing him to look into his eyes. “Come on, Quirrell, please? Don’t be mad at me? I’m really really sorry, alright? I really didn’t think that joke through, I just wanted to get back at you for the whole Zefron thing! I won’t do it again, I promise.”

His anger began to wane as he thought about Voldemort’s hilarious fanboy rant. He seems pretty sincere… He uncrossed his arms and bit his lip in hesitation.

“Squirreeeeeel, come onnnnnn, forgive me?” The bastard batted his ridiculously long eyelashes at him.

His heart melted into a pathetic pile of putty. Goddamn it, you manipulative, irresistible piece of shit, he grumbled in his head. “Fine. But you can’t joke about that kind of stuff, okay? It’s not cool,” he reprimanded sternly.

Voldemort looked at him solemnly. “Of course, I promise that I’ll never joke about those things again. It’s just…well, no one’s ever told me off about this kind of stuff before,” he said.

Quirrell opened his mouth in protest. What, so just because no one’s told you off, it means it’s fine to joke about stuff like that? His anger started flooding back.

Voldemort continued before Quirrell could unleash a second wave of fury upon him. “But I’m glad you did. You’re the only one who’s ever been brave enough to stand up to me and I think- I think that maybe…maybe you’re making me a better person.” Voldemort glanced shyly at him.

Shock stole the words from his throat. Quirrell stared at Voldemort with a stunned expression. He…He thinks I make him a better person? Warmth bloomed in his chest. Do I really make such an impact on him?

“V-Voldemort…I’m g-glad you think I’m a positive influence on you, but you know I care about you just the way you are, right? I like you for you, not some ‘better’ v-version of you,” he spoke gently. Pink coloured his cheeks as the words left his mouth. “I-I mean, don’t feel as if you need to be better or anything like that. You’re my friend, and t-that’s all that matters,” he smiled shyly at him.

His heart fluttered wildly in his ribcage at the stunningly gorgeous smile that Voldemort directed at him in response. God…He’s just so- so beautiful. In every damn way. Quirrell nudged the other playfully with his shoulder, “So, ‘Squirrel’, huh?” He arched an eyebrow teasingly.

Voldemort blushed and chuckled nervously. “U-Uh, I mean, Squirrel and Quirrell kind of sound the same, right? It just slipped out of my mouth; I won’t call you that again if you don’t like it?” He glanced anxiously at him.

Quirrell grinned, waving away his uncertainty. “No, I-I actually liked it. It’s kind of nice to have a n-nickname, I’ve never had one before.”

Voldemort glanced around surreptitiously before leaning in to whisper quietly, “You know, ‘Voldemort’ is a nickname too.”

His eyes widened in shock. Wait, what? He leaned in closer as well to whisper, “R-Really?”

The other nodded. “Don’t- Don’t tell anyone, but my real name is Tom Riddle Jr. I was named after my father but it never really felt right to me. So, I did some reshuffling of my name and came up with Voldemort instead.” He looked down uncertainly at his feet.

Understanding dawned on Quirrell. “Ah, I see. Well, I like Voldemort better too, it feels more…you,” he said with a smile. Voldemort looked up at him with wide eyes. “And of course I won’t tell anyone w-what your real name is, I promise.” His stomach fluttered happily at the fact that Voldemort trusted him enough to tell him his real name.

Voldemort sent him a blinding smile in reciprocation. “So, Squirrel, now that I’ve shown you the crazy torture shit, what else do you want to see?”

He pondered silently about where he would like to go. Well, there were only two things in the world that he was really passionate about: books and flowers. “Does Azkaban happen to h-have a library or a garden, perhaps?”

Voldemort’s brow furrowed. “Hmm, I’m not too sure about a garden, but I think there’s a library?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think it’s somewhere in Block D, come on, I’ll take you there.” Voldemort held out a hand for Quirrell to take.

Excitement set his tummy aflutter. Finally! Jane Austen, I’m coming for you, baby! “Okay, t-then. To the library it is!” He grabbed Voldemort’s hand without a second thought.

It was only as they were walking halfway to the library, did Quirrell finally realize that they were holding hands. He froze. Oh, shit.

Chapter Text

Voldemort clenched his jaw tightly, his thoughts spinning a mile a minute. The warm heat from Quirrell’s palm blazed a trail of fire up his arm, a constant reminder of his utter stupidity. What the hell was he thinking, offering his hand to Quirrell? Now, they were holding hands and strolling down the halls of Azkaban like a couple of love-struck teenagers! Oh Zefron, how was he going to extricate himself from this? As much as the feeling of Quirrell’s slighter hand intertwined with his own felt really really nice- he refused to delve deeper into why that was so- he was still the Dark Lord. He couldn’t afford to be seen holding hands with his cellmate! He shuddered to think about what would become of his reputation as the HBIC of Azkaban.

But how the fuck was he supposed to retrieve his hand from the other? He couldn’t exactly just rip his hand away; he didn’t want to hurt his poor Squirrel’s feelings! Voldemort sneaked a peek at Quirrell, who was swinging their joined hands back-and-forth absent-mindedly, a carefree smile on his face. Oh my god, how is he so happy about this? Is he not worried about what people might think of us holding hands?! Maybe in QuirrellLand, two guys holding hands was perfectly normal. But in Azkaban? That was asking to get shanked in the showers! I mean, not that any of these buttfaces will be able to get an upper hand on me, but what if they go after Quirrell instead?! A pit of fear settled in his tummy. And even if no shanking happened, at the very least, his reputation would be ruined. Except for his inner, inner circle of Death Eaters, no one even knew that he batted for both teams. And I plan to keep it that way. Voldemort groaned, cursing himself for always getting into impossible situations because of his own idiocy.

Turning a corner, Voldemort froze in horror. Lo and behold, the first inmate that they’d chanced upon since they started their journey to the library. The inmate was still a distance away though and had yet to catch sight of their interlinked palms. Okay, Voldemort, this is your chance. Just be a man, you can do it. His eyes darted nervously to Quirrell. After catching his eyes, Voldemort flicked his gaze down to their interlocked hands meaningfully, before glancing back up to meet the other’s eyes once more and jerking his head towards the incoming inmate.

Quirrell looked back confusedly, his eyebrows furrowing adorably. Come onnn, Quirrell, catch my meaning. His heart sped up as the inmate approached them. Oh god, was he sweating? He felt dampness collect at the nape of his neck. Yes, I am totally sweating, fuck! The inmate was now a few feet away from them. Any moment now, his eyes would land on their joined hands. His heartbeat thundered loudly in his ears as his eyes darted back and forth between the incoming man and his cellmate. Fuck it, if Quirrell doesn’t pull away right now, then I’ll do it myself!

Voldemort sighed in relief as the brunette’s eyes widened in realization, his lips forming a surprised ‘O’ shape. Quirrell hastily released his grip, jerking his hand back as if he’d been scalded. Phew, just in the nick of time! Voldemort ignored the twinge in his chest at the abrupt loss of Quirrell’s steady palm pressed against his own. Stop it, we’re friends, okay? Friends don’t hold hands unless you’re like 5 years-old, and especially not in a maximum-security penitentiary.

He coughed awkwardly. “Sorry, man, it’s just…Azkaban, you know?” Voldemort said lamely, shrugging apologetically at the other.

Quirrell ducked his head down, cheeks flaming. “Y-Yeah, I hadn’t realized that we were-” He mimed hand-holding with his two palms clasped together. “-you know? I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you; it w-won’t happen again, I p-promise.” Voldemort’s heart lurched in his chest at the sadness he saw in Quirrell’s eyes. He noted the slumped, defeated curve of the other’s spine and regret bubbled up in Voldemort’s tummy.

Damn it, it’s not that I didn’t like it, it’s just…it’s just that holding hands isn’t something we can do around here. It’s not something I can do. His tummy twisted uncomfortably in his abdomen. Voldemort swallowed thickly, “Listen, Quirrell, I-”

“Oh, l-look, it’s the library!” Quirrell cut him off, pointing at the entrance to the library. Huh, I hadn’t even realized we’d reached Block D yet. “Wait, Squirrel, I just wanted to say-”

The brunette cut his words off once more, “Let’s go in, shall we?” Quirrell didn’t wait for Voldemort’s reply, instead brushing gently past him to enter the library. 

Voldemort stood pathetically at the entrance, staring speechlessly at Quirrell’s rapidly retreating back. He sighed glumly. I just can’t go one day without fucking things up, can I? He trudged in morosely after the brunette.

Quirrell squeezed his eyes shut, affording himself a second to wallow. His mind kept replaying the expression on Voldemort’s face when he’d silently asked him to remove his hand. God, he looked so embarrassed of me. And with good reason too; I was clutching at his hand like- like some ungodly barnacle! He groaned internally, his hand itching to slap himself upside the head.

Why the hell hadn’t he realized that they were holding hands? Of course Voldemort wanted him to stop hogging his hand like some needy boyfriend; they were only friends after all. But, Quirrell pondered to himself, what about the pudding then? Insidious doubt crept in. What, if by some cruel twist of fate, Quirrell had been reading the signs all wrong? For all he knew, maybe that spark of attraction he’d noticed during the pudding fiasco was merely indigestion. He had been wrong before… Or even if there was indeed something between them, Voldemort could be too stubborn, too deep in denial about it.

He sighed heavily to himself. Either way, you have to face it, Quirrell; he’s never going to like you the way you want him too. His heart ached in his chest at the thought.

He pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, feeling a constricting tightness stretch its way around his forehead. It was fine, it was totally and completely fine. Friends was more than Quirrell had expected to be with Voldemort. And if that was all it would ever be? Then, it would be just fine. He could handle the friend zone. Hell, Quirrell had been the goddamn reigning champion of the friend zone since middle school. I can do this; I can look him in the eyes and not swoon like an 18^th century damsel, he thought with firm conviction.

With that thought in mind, he snagged a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice off a shelf. Quirrell took in a deep breath, before finally whirling around to face Voldemort, who he’d spied from of the corner of his eye, silently slinking after him as he’d weaved around bookshelves.

Voldemort jerked to a stop at his sudden turn, his cheeks slightly flushed. Quirrell suppressed a smile at the adorable sight- goddamn it, be strong, Quirrell; be strong like Elizabeth Bennet!

Speaking of which, Quirrell waved the hefty book in the other’s face merrily. “Found it!”

The ash blonde scrunched up his face in confusion. “Huh?”

Quirrell smiled fondly at the other’s befuddled expression. “JAusten!”, he declared proudly. At Voldemort’s continued blank stare, Quirrell deflated slightly. “It’s P-Pride and Prejudice, my f-favourite book by Jane Austen,” he explained.

“Oh. Uh, cool. I don’t think I’ve heard of her before,” Voldemort shrugged.

His eyes widened comically. Indignation welled up in his stomach. How in the flowery hell does one not know Jane Austen? Quirrell’s chest puffed up with rage. “Jane Austen was the mother of literature, you…y-you dotard!”

The sight of Voldemort’s blank, confused expression only fueled his righteous fury. “Seriously, V-Voldemort?! I can’t believe you don’t know Jane Austen! I mean, I get if you d-don’t read her books, but to not even know her?” His voice reached decibels he hadn’t even known were humanely possible.

He watched as Voldemort shrunk back as realization began to dawn on him. Voldemort’s eyes darted around nervously, an ‘oh shit’ look on his face. He raised his palms in the air sheepishly in surrender. “Uh, we-ell, I mean…I just don’t really read any storybooks? Like, they just aren’t my thing?” He offered up weakly in the face of Quirrell’s rising ire.

Quirrell’s eye twitched dangerously.

“L-Look, I’m sorry, man! I know it sucks that I don’t know your favourite author, especially since you know my favourite actor, the O Amazing Zefron, but…maybe you could just tell me more about JAusten then? I’d love to know more about your literary idol,” Voldemort unleashed the wide puppy-dog eyes again, his stormy blue-grey orbs washing over Quirrell’s rage like gentle waves on a beach.

Quirrell felt himself calm down- Jeez, the effect that this man has on me, good god!- and spoke in a softer, level-headed tone, “You’re r-right, I’m sorry for losing my cool like that. You didn’t deserve to b-bear the brunt of my temper tantrum.” He peeked sheepishly beneath his lashes at the other. “I just…today’s just been a lot.”

Voldemort nodded understandingly and squeezed his shoulder in comfort. Quirrell struggled not to react to the warm touch that sent a thrill down his spine, his cheeks heating up instinctively. Get your shit together, it’s just a pat on the shoulder for flower’s sake! Quirrell cleared his throat and beckoned his cellmate to sit with him on a nearby couch.

“S-So, like I said, this is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. It’s been my favourite book since 8^th grade.”

Voldemort whistled, impressed. “Why am I not surprised that you were reading books the size of this-” He hefted the sizable tome in his hands. “-at an 8^th grade level? Why is it your favourite book, though?”

Quirrell bit his lip in deliberation. “Hmm, well, I’m not s-sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly what you’d call ‘popular’. So, books and f-flowers were my best friends, especially after my mom passed. And…I don’t know, something about Elizabeth Bennet- the main character- just spoke to me, I guess.”

A blush rose to his face as Voldemort shifted closer, till he could feel the warm, muscled line of the other’s thigh against his own. “You already know that I’ve never had a friend before you, Squirrel, but I seriously can’t imagine anyone not wanting to be friends with you! You’re…you’re amazing, you know?” Quirrell stared in wonder at the small spots of pink that appeared Voldemort’s cheekbones. He felt a soft, glowing warmth ignite in his chest and he ducked his head down to hide a goofy smile.

“That’s really sweet of you to say, Voldemort. But it was actually my s-stutter that was the catalyst for most of my bullying, even till today.” He toyed with a loose thread on his trousers. “I didn’t always stutter, you know? I can’t remember w-when it started but I know that it gets worse when I’m nervous or scared. Yet, for some r-reason, something about speech impediment seems to be hilarious to m-many people,” he added with a roll of his eyes.

Voldemort huffed. “Well, those people are assholes! A stutter is nothing to make fun of,” he grumbled.

Have I mentioned how much I love it when he’s protective of me? I mean, I’m a strong, independent man who doesn’t need no man to take care of me but…it’s still really nice. Quirrell smiled softly, before nudging him gently. “Hey, I know I said I’d tell you about JAusten but I’m curious: if Jane freaking Austen isn’t up your alley, then what kind of books do you read?”

Voldemort nibbled on his lip. “Honestly?”

“No, lie to me,” Quirrell replied sarcastically with the most deadpan expression he could muster.

His cellmate barked out a laugh and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny,” he sent Quirrell a fond look that made his stomach flutter. “I don’t actually read fiction. Never appealed to me, I guess. I like reading books about Chemistry, actually.”

Quirrell blinked in shock. His jaw went slack. His brain stopped working as he tried to process the words that just came out of the other’s mouth.

“What…W-What kind of books about Chemistry?” Maybe he means like romantic chemistry between lovers? He can’t possibly mean-

“Like books about, you know, molecular orbitals, tautomerism, stereochemistry, all that fun stuff. Organic chem’s my favourite, I’m not too hot about all the nomenclature though, wayyy too strict for me.”

Oh my goodness. He does mean Chemistry.

“W-Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, you’re telling me that…you’re a nerd?”

Voldemort puffed up in offense. “Pfft- no, of course not!”

“No…no, you are. You’re a n-nerd.”

“Wha- I am most certainly not a nerd, how dare you accuse me of this?”, he growled irately.

Quirrell grinned smugly. “Voldemort, come on, there’s no shame in a-admitting it. It’s just the two of us here, this is a safe space.”

Voldemort gasped in indignation. “Well- Well, what about you huh, hotshot? You’re the one reading Jill Austen-” “Jane,” he interjected. “-Jane Austen novels! You’re clearly the nerd, here.” He lifted his nose haughtily in the air, sniffing daintily.

“Yeah, I am a nerd.” Voldemort snapped his head towards him, shocked at his easy admission. “I’m a total nerd for JAusten and I’m p-proud of it. But let me ask you this: if you’re reading Chemistry books for enjoyment, what do you t-think that makes you?” He arched an eyebrow expectantly.

Voldemort opened his mouth. And then closed it. Then opened it again. And closed it once more. He deflated, his lips forming into a pout.

“…A nerd.”

 “W-Welcome to the club, friend,” Quirrell patted him patronizingly on the back, relishing the petulant glare that he sent his way.

“So, tell me more about this passion of y-yours, oh fellow nerd,” he teased.

Voldemort bared his gritted teeth, “One more word and I’ll feed your little squirrel body to Goyle.”

Quirrell raised his hands in mock surrender, miming zipping his lips shut. His body shook with suppressed giggles as he pressed his lips together.

The ash blonde growled at him. Quirrell shivered slightly as the primal growl sent his stomach aflutter. Mm, he can growl at me like that anytime- oh gosh, stop this train of thought now! He delivered a mental slap to his face and refocused his attention back on Voldemort.

Voldemort huffed at the audacity of this Squirrel to accuse him of being a nerd. The nerve! It didn’t help that he was forced to admit that he was, in fact, a nerd.

He eyed the brunette before him, giggles still escaping his sealed lips. Fuck, those giggles will never stop being the cutest things in the whole damn world, will they? Goddamn adorable nerd dragging me into his stupid nerdy club. He pinned the other with a glare.

Sighing despondently, Voldemort began, “See, I was never great at school and all my teachers were idiot assfaces who didn’t know shit. But something about Chemistry was just so…like there was something so fascinating about how Chemistry could be the strictest, most rigid thing ever, with clear-cut rules, and yet, at the same time, it still held so much room for creativity, discovery and innovation. In fact, Chemistry was what got me my start in the drug business.”

Quirrell inhaled sharply, his spine stiffening.

Voldemort continued his ramble, unaware of the sudden tension running through his cellmate. “I started small by buying cough syrups. You see, most of these numbnuts just guzzle down the syrup or at most, extract the codeine. But I took it a step further. The only difference between codeine and its metabolite, morphine, is the demethylation to expose the hydroxyl group. And this small change resulted in a huge increase in binding affinity and potency!” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “From there, I went on to do more modifications, getting more creative, till eventually, I was designing new drugs from scratch. So, that’s the story of how I started out as a street rat, and ended up as one of the biggest drug bosses by the age of 21…” Voldemort frowned. “Well, at least until I landed in this shitshow.”

He arched an eyebrow as he turned towards Quirrell, who was uncharacteristically quiet. “So? Still think I’m a ner…” He trailed off when he noticed the man’s slight frame shaking. “Squirrel? What’s wrong?”, he asked worriedly.

Quirrell turned to face Voldemort slowly. In a soft tone, he asked, “You w-were a drug dealer?”

“Uh, correction: I am a drug boss. There is a difference, thank you very much,” he replied haughtily, with no small amount of sass.

To his surprise, the stony look on his cellmate’s face was unmoved. “So you designed d-drugs and sold them,” he said flatly.

“Well, yeah, of course! Quirrell, did you not hear anything I just said in the past 5 minutes?”

In response, Quirrell looked at him with incredulity, his eyes narrowing in anger. What the hell? Now, what did I do?

“Seriously man, what’s wrong?”

Quirrell’s features twisted into a sneer. “What’s wrong?” He laughed softly, a joyless sound which was a stark contrast to the delighted giggles just a few minutes prior. “What’s wrong?” He repeated, his tone rising in volume. “Do you even know the kind of h-harm that drugs can cause? Drugs ruin lives, Voldemort! They can kill, a-and even if they don’t, drug addiction takes years to recover from, tearing families apart in the process. H-How could you do that to people?”

Voldemort reeled back in shock. The conversation had somehow turned from a debate over his nerdiness to hurled accusations. Slowly, anger started to creep in. Indignation burned like acid in his stomach. “How could I? In case you forgot, Quirrell,” he spat the other’s name out venomously. “I didn’t grow up with a white picket fence or family who thought I would ever amount to anything. From the day I was left abandoned on the steps of Wool’s orphanage, to the day I dropped out of high school to live on the streets, I have had no one to rely on but myself. So, I did what any homeless 17 year-old would do: I did what I fucking had to survive.” He scoffed mirthlessly. “And guess what? I got lucky enough to amass enough followers and street cred to become a drug boss, which is a hell of a lot better than what happens to most homeless teenagers on the street.”

He stabbed an accusing finger in the other’s chest. “So, fuck your righteous moral outrage about what I had to do for a living, because you don’t get to talk shit until you’ve lived the life I’ve had.”

Voldemort’s eyes blazed in fury as he and Quirrell locked eyes in an intense stare-down. A muscle in his jaw ticked in time to the seconds that passed silently. He watched as Quirrell gritted his teeth, staring defiantly back at him. As time elapsed, his rationality started to flood back into his senses. A flicker of doubt rose in him. Maybe I went too far…I mean, he’s not exactly wrong about drugs ruining lives, but doesn’t he get that I didn’t have a choice? It was either a life of crime or starvation for me; so, of course I chose drugs!

Finally, Quirrell relented. He dropped his gaze, breaking their stare-down. The brunette wrung his hands in his lap, before saying, “Look…I’m sorry. It wasn’t f-fair of me to judge you so quickly and the way I did was much too harsh. I should have r-realized you had your own reasons for dealing with drugs.”

Voldemort softened, “Hey, it’s okay. I…I know I went a little too far and I’m sorry for that. You brought up valid points but I was too angry to really consider them as properly as I should have. I know that you don’t agree with my life choices…but I hope that you can understand why I made them.” He leaned forward slightly. “And if it helps, I mostly dealt with the higher-ups in crime, you know, those big mob bosses with too much money to spare? My designer drugs were just too expensive to be marketed to the general public. I had a smaller market, but a much higher payout,” he explained.

Quirrell whirled to face him, a hopeful look in his brown eyes. “Wait, so you never s-sold the drugs to kids?”

Voldemort reared back, “Wha- No, of course not! I would never sell drugs to kids! How could you even- Is that what this is about? You’re worried I was poisoning children? Quirrell, I promise that I have never and will never do such a thing; I even specifically instructed my Death Eaters to stay away from rich kids who thought they might get a kick out of my designer drugs.”

Hearing his words, the tension running through the other’s body like a live wire fled abruptly. The brunette let out a breath in a whoosh. “Oh. Well, I think I owe you m-more than an apology…I owe you an explanation.” Voldemort raised his eyebrows in interest. I wonder what made him so against drugs, particularly drug use among kids… “I teach- I mean, I used to teach English Literature at H-Hogwarts, a prestigious boarding school. It was my dream job; I could immerse myself in books all day and enlighten brilliant young minds to the w-wonders of the literary world. Then, horrible things began h-happening around campus.”

He faltered, melancholy swirling in his chocolate brown orbs. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I am going to kill whoever made my Squirrel this sad. “Hey,” Voldemort nudged him softly. “It’s okay, you can tell me anything.”

Quirrell took in a deep breath before continuing, “About a m-month ago, students started dying mysteriously; they were dropping like f-flies. Eventually, the cause of death was traced back to the same drug that they w-were all taking: something they called Floo Powder. But no matter how many times the police raided the campus, we still had no idea w-who was supplying the Floo Powder to them. Voldemort…so many of them d-died,” his voice broke on the last word.

A sharp pain stabbed Voldemort in the chest. He nibbled on his lip in uncertainty. Oh, fuck it. Making a split-second decision, he searched the library quickly, scanning for the presence of others. Good, no one’s here but us. With a surge of courage, his hand swooped down to rest over the other’s, squeezing gently.

Quirrell whipped his head up to stare at him in astonishment. Regret started to filter in. Voldemort’s bicep tensed as he prepared to withdraw his unwelcomed hand. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea- Then, he stared in wild-eyed wonder as Quirrell flipped his hand below Voldemort’s to face up and interlocked their fingers together. Slowly, Voldemort followed suit and curled his fingers around Quirrell’s.

“Are… Are you sure about this? You- Well, you didn’t seem very k-keen earlier,” Quirrell asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure; there’s no one here, I checked.” The brightness in his eyes seemed to dim slightly at Voldemort’s response, but Quirrell nodded in acceptance anyways.

With a newfound strength, Quirrell picked up where he left off. “Until one day, one of the K-9s seemed to p-pick up something. We were so excited, we thought that the culprit w-would be found and we could finally put the tragedy behind us. But…the dog led them straight to m-my office.”

Before he could stop it, a gasp escaped Voldemort’s lips.

“I know what you’re thinking but just- just let me finish, okay? Somehow, they found bags of Floo Powder in my b-bottom drawer. Before I could even process that, I was in handcuffs and shoved into t-the back of a cruiser.” Quirrell looked pleadingly into his eyes. “Look, I k-know how it sounds. It’s the typical ‘It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it, I don’t know how they got there’ story. But I swear I didn’t do it, Voldemort. Someone f-framed me,” he insisted.

Squeezing his hand gently, Voldemort smiled. “Squirrel, of course I believe you. Even if you hadn’t just yelled at me about the dangers of drugs, I would believe you in a heartbeat. I can’t even imagine you hurting a fly, let alone distributing drugs which killed multiple kids at your school.”

Quirrell sighed in relief. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear y-you say that. You’re the first- and only- person to believe me. It m-means a lot to me; thank you, Voldemort.”

A warm feeling bloomed in his stomach, matching the comforting warmth emanating from the brunette’s palm. A feeling bubbled up in Voldemort’s chest that he couldn’t quite identify. “Hey man, I know things got a little…tense between us today. But I just want you to know that I always have your back, okay?”

The fluttering in his chest tripled at the tender smile that Quirrell gave him. Why does he always make me feel so…ugh fuck, I don’t even know how to describe how I feel right now!

His cellmate cleared his throat. “So, uh, the Dark Lord loves Zefron and Chemistry. You’re j-just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Voldemort grinned wolfishly at the other. “Don’t forget about dancing.”

Quirrell’s eyes widened. “Wait, s-seriously? You dance too? Is there anything you can’t do?”

Voldemort shrugged coyly in response, winking roguishly at the brunette. His smirk grew as Quirrell flushed prettily at his flirtatious behavior.

With a jolt, he realized something. Despite the conflict-laden day, Voldemort was the happiest he’d ever been, sitting here on this dusty library couch with Quirrell. Sure, at the back of his mind, his darkest fears and worries resided, like his lingering paranoia that someone would stroll into the library or the way he and Quirrell clearly had vastly different outlooks on life. But those are problems for another time. Voldemort’s smirk widened into a broad smile. He let the joy fill him up as he locked eyes with the other, relishing the comforting embrace of the other’s hand in his.

Chapter Text

Quirrell sighed dreamily, a goofy smile adorning his face. A few weeks had passed since he’d first arrived in Azkaban and those weeks had been…unexpectedly fantastic. Never in a million years would he have expected to be having the time of his life in prison, but by flower god, he was. And it was all thanks to his cellmate.

The thought of Voldemort unlocked a new level of sappiness to the loony grin on his features. God, Voldemort is…Voldemort is everything, I swear. Not only did the ash blonde’s fiercely protective nature stay the hands of many unsavory criminals here, keeping him safe and sound, Voldemort brought a spark to his life that he’d never noticed was missing before.

Certainly, they were an odd couple. Who would have thought that Lord Voldemort, the leader of the Death Eaters and drug lord of a wildly successful drug business, and Quirinus Quirrell, a Professor of Literature at a preppy boarding school whose best friend was Jane Austen, would get along so well?

Quirrell blushed fiercely as he thought about the intense feelings he had for the other. It’s crazy, I know. But the more he got to know him, the more he’d realized that there was so much more to Voldemort than just evil plans and snakes. Yeah, Quirrell may not agree with some of Voldemort’s lifestyle choices, but he’d grown to realize that it wasn’t his place to judge the other. Rather than fixate on the criminal aspects of his cellmate, Quirrell was delighted to discover the hidden depths to Voldemort’s character. His borderline obsessive, albeit adorable, need to keep their cell tidy at all times, his daily fanboy rants about Zefron, and his petulant reluctance to join what Quirrell had proclaimed Nerd Club, endeared him to Quirrell.

Not to mention, woo boy, the man could dance. A shiver trilled its way down his spine as he recalled the fluid motions of Voldemort’s body and the powerful coiling of his muscles as he’d leapt across the room in a graceful arc. Another wistful sigh escaped his lips as he reminisced on the hypnotic sway of the other’s hips as he’d swiveled sultrily towards Quirrell during a cardiac arrest-inducing demonstration of his dancing prowess. Oh dear flower god, can you imagine all the things that Voldemort’s surprisingly flexible body can do to me? At the scandalous thought, blood rushed to his face and to…other places.

The only problem was, well, lingering looks into each other’s eyes and brief moments of electricity sparking between them was all that there was. Neither he nor Voldemort had made any moves towards each other. Instead, they were stuck in a sort of limbo: where they called themselves friends, acted like friends, but there was always something more that he could feel in the palpable tension between them.

However, at the same time, Quirrell still harbored doubts about the way Voldemort felt for him. A heated gaze sent his way could’ve easily been an upset tummy. The brief flicker of his eyes towards his lips could’ve been an eyelash stuck in his cornea. The gentle touches on his shoulder, his elbow, his back and the hand-holding could’ve simply been a tactile desire for affection from his first friend in more than 20 years. Oh, and speaking of hand-holding, Quirrell always let the other initiate it ever since that disastrous first time, and Voldemort had always seemed happy when they’d interlinked palms. But it had not slipped his notice that the ash blonde would only ever reach for his hand after scanning their surroundings thoroughly for others.

His stomach twisted unpleasantly. Is he embarrassed to be seen with me? But Voldemort had never made their friendship a secret, only the more…intimate aspects of their friendship were kept private. He sighed deeply. What is Voldemort so afraid of? What exactly is he trying to hide? It wasn’t just the other inmates who were kept in the dark; Quirrell was too. Every time he’d tried to approach Voldemort about this, the other had shied away and changed the subject abruptly. He huffed in frustration. If only Quirrell wasn’t too much of a damn chicken to make the first move…

“Hey, Squirrel! What’re you daydreaming about over there?” Voldemort asked with a suggestive waggling of his eyebrows, snapping Quirrell out of his contemplative ruminating. His cellmate winked salaciously, “Thinking about the missus back home?”

Was it just his imagination, or did Voldemort’s voice sound kind of strained in that last question? Also, what in the name of flowers did he just say?!

“Wha- What m-makes you think I have a ‘missus’ back home?” Quirrell questioned incredulously.

“U-Uh, I mean…” Voldemort was now looking distinctly uncomfortable. “It was a joke? Lots of guys here start to miss their girlfriends after a few weeks, so I, uh, expected that you’d be the same too, I guess.” He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Wait. Hold on. Does- does he think I’m…straight? His eyes widened as realization set in. Oh my flowery god, he does! He’d thought his sexuality was pretty evident, but apparently not. It would explain why Voldemort was hesitant to cross the lines of friendship and make the first move, if he wasn’t sure that Quirrell was attracted to men. Maybe if he knew for sure, he’d be more confident to express his feelings for me? Hope bloomed in his chest.

He turned to face Voldemort and looked him straight (hah!) in the eyes. “Voldemort…I’m gay,” he spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable to ensure no part of the message got misinterpreted.

Voldemort sucked in a breath, his eyes widening comically. “…What?”

“I t-thought you knew! I mean, I’m not exactly- I thought it was obvious that… C-Come on, look at me, I’m the very definition of a twink.”

The pale man sputtered, “But-but-but how was I supposed to know?”

Quirrell chuckled. “Well, maybe I wasn’t as obvious as I thought I w-was. But anyways, yeah, I’m gay. And b-before you ask, no, I do not have a mister waiting for me back home either.” He glanced sidelong at the other, hoping to see some sort of reaction to his declaration of being single.

“Oh. Well in that case, I’m so sorry, man. I had no clue.” He paused. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to tell you…”

Quirrell leaned forward eagerly.

“I…”

Quirrell hummed in encouragement, his heart pounding in excitement. Yeees..?

“I…”

Come on, you can say it! Tell me you like me! Please, Voldemort, you know I’m too much of a chicken to say it first…

“I… I have to warn you about the other guys here.”

Quirrell stopped short, his eyebrows pulled together in a confused frown. That…was not what he had expected Voldemort to say.

“Look, I’m honored you feel safe enough to come out to me and of course I like you just the way you are. You’re my best friend.” Quirrell winced. Friend. “But the others here aren’t so…accepting. So, for your safety, you have to keep the fact that you’re gay, to yourself.”

Voldemort stepped closer to clasp his hands gently in his own. “And to me,” he added as an afterthought. “I know it sucks, but you have no idea what the fuckers here will do if they find out that you like guys. It’s just not safe, okay?”

Quirrell reeled back slightly in shock. He’d never hid his sexuality from the world before. Why bother, when most of the world already made stereotypical presumptions that he was gay, based on his soft, flower-loving nature? And he’d been lucky to have grown up in a rather accepting community. Sure, he got bullied for his stutter, but never for his sexuality. He scanned Voldemort’s light blue irises, noting the sincerity and worry lurking beneath the gorgeous stormy colour.

With a nod, he acquiesced, “A-Alright, I’ll heed your advice on this. Thanks for warning me and…I’m glad you’re not b-bothered by me being gay.”

Voldemort stepped closer. “Hey, of course I’m not ‘bothered’. In fact, I…”

Quirrell’s head shot up, anticipation building in him.

“I…”

Then, he broke eye contact and looked to the side. “Never mind, I wanted to say that today’s my turn. And I feel like going to the gym.”

Disappointment flooded through Quirrell. I guess I was wrong…he really does only see me as a friend. His heart clenched painfully in his chest.

“Earth to Squirrel. Did you hear me?”

Right. He and Voldemort had worked up a schedule of sorts: each day, they took turns deciding what to do together. And today was Voldemort’s turn to decide. Great, he chose the gym. The one place where I will appear even more unattractive, whilst surrounded by sweaty, muscular men. Well, what did it matter? Voldemort clearly wouldn’t be looking in his direction, anyways.

“Yeah, yeah, s-sure,” Quirrell replied.

Voldemort frowned at his half-hearted response. He laid a hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes. “Hey…you okay?”

The fluttering of his heart warred with the dull ache reverberating through his chest. Fuck, why is this so hard? He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, before plastering a bright smile on his face.

“Of c-course! I’m just peachy.”

I am so damn screwed.

Voldemort breathed with control. In through his nose, out through his mouth. As he raised the weight up and down, he studied Quirrell from his vantage point.

He smirked slightly as he recalled the way Quirrell had squawked and sputtered when Voldemort had first asked the man to spot him. “I p-probably weigh as much as the amount you’re lifting!”, he’d protested. A heat stirred in his abdomen as he imagined lifting Quirrell’s body up into the air and other ways he might’ve liked picking up the slighter man. Eventually though, Quirrell had relented with a soft sigh and a softer smile, when Voldemort told him that there was no one else he trusted to do so.

Voldemort traced the sharp lines of the brunette’s jaw and pointed chin with his eyes. How is he so brave? He’d come out to Voldemort like it was nothing, like he was stating the weather, or his favourite movie, or that he liked pineapples on pizza. Though I’d probably have thrown a fit if it was the last one- Pineapples on pizza, gah! Must as well eat fucking garbage.

Anyway, back to the point, how the fuck did Quirrell do it? When his cellmate told him about his sexuality oh so casually, he’d tried to seize the opportunity to tell him about his own as well. But the goddamn words just wouldn’t come out! He huffed irately at his own cowardice. His balls must have run off in the middle of the night, because he sure as hell was one sackless bastard. Why the hell couldn’t he just tell Quirrell? I mean, it’s not like I’ve never told anyone before… But the Death Eaters who’d known? They didn’t matter! They were just pawns greedy for power, guys who were ready and willing to hop into bed with him the moment they knew of his bisexuality. That was the only reason he’d made his preferences known to the select few.

And, well, Quirrell mattered. Quirrell mattered a lot to him. He wasn’t just some Death Eater who Voldemort wanted to fuck- well, not that he didn’t totally want to fuck Quirrell- but his cellmate meant a lot more to him than just a fuck. He was his friend. His only friend, in fact. Which was why Voldemort had vowed to never pursue the ludicrous lust he felt for Quirrell. They were only friends, and he’d be damned if he let his stupid dick ruin the best thing in his life right now. Quirrell was his friend, and he was Quirrell’s friend. No point in rocking the boat of friendship with sex, because friends-with-benefits would never work out well.

Mmhmm, so I suppose friends hold hands and get that fluttery feeling in your tummy as much as you do? A snide voice at the back of his head commented.

Oh shut up, you. He dismissed the absurd notion. Indigestion was all it was, nothing more. He squished the thought back into the box from whence it came. Out of sight, out of mind. Pfft, they were just friends. Who liked to hold hands and hug and cuddle sometimes. It was all perfectly normal. The nasally tone piped up once more, Hah! Keep telling yourself that.

With a growl, Voldemort hefted the heavy weight back onto its stand and sat up. He ignored the startled noise that Quirrell emitted at his abrupt motion and stood, lifting the hem of his wifebeater to wipe at the sweat collected on his face. He turned to face Quirrell and inhaled sharply. Quirrell’s face was flaming red and his eyes were laser-focused on him, particularly, his abs. Is he…is he checking me out? Quickly, the brunette snapped his eyes back up, a slightly guilty look on his face.

Voldemort noted the other’s flushed features with confusion. No, no it can’t be… Just because he’s gay, does not mean he’s into you. Besides, of all the men in the world, he doubted that Quirrell would be attracted to his snake-y tragedy of a face. He shook off the outlandish thought and asked, “Aren’t you gonna work out too?”

Quirrell crossed his arms and huffed. “Does it look like I want to w-work out?”

“Um…Yeah?”

His cellmate groaned. “Ugh, Voldemort!” He raised his arms in the air in exasperation. “No, I do not want to work out. Just…d-do your thing and I’ll hang around you, okay?”

Aw, hell no. “Look, I know I chose the gym today, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun too!” Quirrell levelled him with a skeptical expression. “Come onnn, isn’t there at least one thing you wouldn’t mind trying out?” He gestured to the courtyard filled with various work out equipment. He waited in silence as Quirrell scanned their surroundings in deliberation.

After a minute or so, Voldemort huffed. Quirrell is taking way too long to decide. Seriously, how hard can it be to choose one? He followed the other’s eyeline to see what he was staring at so intently. To his shock, he realized that his cellmate’s eyes were trailing over the muscled forms of the other inmates.

His jaw dropped. Irrational jealousy bubbled up in him. His head whipped back to Quirrell. What the fucking flying Zefron?! How dare this Squirrel look at other- He cut off the thought before he could dig himself deeper into the rabbit hole. Friends, remember? Friends. He took a moment to calm himself.

He whispered, “Dude, what the hell? I thought I told you that the guys here aren’t very, you know, open-minded.”

Quirrell leaned in to whisper back, “Relax, I was just l-looking! Anyway, I don’t think any of them would notice anything short of D-Dumbledore walking around in flaming underpants, so…”

“Still. It’s too risky! What if someone notices the way you look at them? And why are you even looking at other guys? Do you want to get with them or…?”

“No! Well…m-maybe? I don’t know,” Quirrell sputtered, his cheeks turning pink.

Jealousy reared its ugly head once more. Voldemort’s jaw tightened in anger at the thought of Quirrell with one of those other guys. Oh, fuck no, he’s mine. His nostrils flared in fury.

Quirrell frowned. “Anyway, what does it matter to you?”

Voldemort erupted. “Of course, it matters to me!”, he spoke in a harsh whisper.

“Why?” Quirrell whisper-yelled at him, eye blazing.

“Because-”

The loud crackling of the overhead speaker cut him off. “Inmate #6287, report to the visitor’s area now. Repeat, Inmate #6287, report to the visitor’s area.”

Wait…that’s me! But why would he need to go to the visitor’s area? He hadn’t had a visitor in 7 months, who would come to see him now?

He turned back to face Quirrell. The brunette was breathing heavily, his eyebrows still arched, expecting an answer to him flipping his shit.

Fuck. “I… Sorry, I’ve got to go.” He pointed to the speaker in explanation before taking off in hurry, leaving Quirrell behind, red-faced and confused.

Oh my fucking god, what did I just do? He totally just went Conan the Barbarian on Quirrell, who was, as he’d reminded himself for the millionth time, just his friend. He groaned to himself in frustration. Why did the thought of Quirrell with another guy bother him so much?

You know why, the voice from earlier chimed.

As he stormed his way into the visitor’s area, he chanted to himself, we’re friends, we’re friends, we’re friends, we-

He jerked to a halt.

“…Malloy?”

Chapter Text

Voldemort jerked to a halt.

“…Malloy?”

Lo and behold, the irritatingly silky locks of one Lucius Malfoy swung effortlessly through the air as he whipped his head around to face his Dark Lord. “My Lord! Oh, it is so good to see you again, we’ve missed you terribly! Please, sit, my Dark King.” The arrogant little shit nodded eagerly towards the seat in front of him.

What the actual fuck? Voldemort squinted suspiciously at the Death Eater while taking his seat with caution, half expecting a booby trap to greet him. I wouldn’t put it past the snotty little bastard.

He fixed a glare upon Lucius, eyeing him the same way he eyed celebrities who fumbled around the dancefloor during season premieres of Dancing With The Stars. In short, he looked at Lucius like he was a foolish, bumbling dickwad. Which, in Voldemort’s expert opinion, Lucius totally was. 

“…What the hell are you doing here?” Voldemort said flatly. His eyes sparked with controlled fury, at odds with his stony expression.

Lucius flinched slightly, before schooling his expression. “Now, now, my Lord, I know it’s been a while-”

Voldemort lost it. “It’s been seven months, you fucking piece of shit! You, and all the other sniveling brats, left me to the cops. Left me here to rot, without a single word.”

The other’s mouth snapped close with an audible click. He shrank into his seat, looking for all the world that he regretted every decision he’d ever made in his miserable life.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Voldemort’s lips. “Yeah, that’s right: fuck you, asshole. One of you Death Eaters sold me out. How else would the cops have known to find me at that warehouse full of incriminating evidence?”

Lucius’s lips parted slightly, as if to pipe up.

Voldemort cut in before the asswipe had the chance. “And based off how the rest of you scattered like rats when the cops came rushing in? I’m not too sure it was just one Death Eater who sold me out. Maybe all of you were in on it, a ploy to take over my hard-earned drug empire perhaps?”

“No, no, it’s not like that at all, my Lord! I swear that I had nothing to do with it! We were just scared, okay? I had a wife and a baby on the way, I couldn’t afford to go to Azkaban-”

“Oh, and I can?!”

“No! That’s not at all what I meant. It’s just- I was scared. We were all scared. So, we ran. And the cops didn’t bother to chase us when they already had the kingpin delivered nicely to them by the mole. Speaking of, we still don’t know who sold us- yes, us- out. We were all in danger, not just you. And none of us have visited you yet because we didn’t want to raise suspicion on us. We figured that 7 months was long enough for the cops to stop sniffing around you anymore, and would be safe for us to pay you a visit.”

Voldemort leaned back with his lips pursed, considering the information dump that Lucius had just unloaded on him. Can I really trust Malloy? Sure, Lucius was one of his oldest, most faithful Death Eaters, as well as his occasional bed-partner, until he met Narcissa, that is. But Voldemort wasn’t naïve enough to ignore the fact that all of his servants were snakes. And not the good kind, like Nagini. More like the annoying kind, like rattlesnakes that keep shaking their butts at me.

All the same, Voldemort couldn’t deny the oddly earnest look in Lucius’s eyes as he pleaded for understanding. A lump appeared in his throat as the memory of a pair of chocolate brown eyes flashed in his mind. Plus, he’s right about visits being a risk. If the guards caught on to the other’s equally checkered past, Lucius was in big trouble. The real question was: why would Lucius put himself at risk by being here? What did he want?

Voldemort voiced his question to Lucius. “Let’s say I believe you. Why are you here, then? Where are the others?”

Lucius slumped in obvious relief at Voldemort not looking like he wanted to brutally murder him anymore. “Well, first of all, we missed you, my Lord.”

Voldemort sent him a look so dry, the Sahara desert cried in envy.

The other sputtered, “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s true. You were our master; you lead us, gave us direction. We were hopeless without you! You think the mole sold us out to steal your empire? Well, whoever they are, they did a pretty shit job if that was their plan. After you were put away, the empire crumbled without your leadership!” Lucius clutched imaginary pearls with a dramatic gasp.

“And to answer your second question, most of the Death Eaters abandoned the drug business and went dark. Like everyone else, they were afraid to be arrested too. Last I heard, Pettigrew was moonlighting as a furry- get this, apparently some people are actually into his weird fetish for Mickey Mouse-, Fenrir became some sort of hippie jungle man who lives with the wolves and Snape somehow got into politics or insurance or something boring and respectable like that.” He waved a hand airily. “As far as I know, only a handful have stayed loyal to you: me, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Yaxley. And we figured it would be too suspicious if all of us visited you, so…here I am!” He flaunted jazz hands obnoxiously in Voldemort’s face.

Voldemort batted the hands away in irritation. Prance-y little shit.

“Oh, sorry, my Lord.” Lucius snatched his hands back to where they came from, suitably cowed.

Lucius continued, with his hands clasped demurely on his lap. “So, the reason why I came to see you is,” His voice lowered to a whisper. “We want to break you out of Azkaban.”

His eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “WHAT?”

A look of utter panic appeared on Lucius’s face, as his darted around nervously.

Voldemort forced his voice to match the other’s. “What do you mean ‘break me out’?” He hissed quietly.

Looking more at ease with the lowered volume, Lucius replied, “Like I said earlier, we’re hopeless without you. We need you to lead the business. So, we’re developing a plan to help you escape.”

An unfamiliar warmth filled Voldemort’s chest. No, not exactly unfamiliar. It reminded him of how he felt whenever Quirrell was around. A pleasant, happy warmth. They actually want to help me escape? For real? For the first time in 7 months, hope bloomed within him. From the moment the Death Eaters fled and the cops slammed him against the floor to cuff his hands behind his back, he’d lost hope of ever seeing the outside world again.

But…Quirrell. As fast as the hope had bloomed, a wave of cold dread extinguished the warmth. He couldn’t leave Quirrell here alone; his poor Squirrel would be eaten alive by the other inmates!

“My Lord? Are you alright? You don’t seem very happy at the thought of leaving this place…”

“Of course I’m alright, you simpleton.” He snapped. A feeling that felt suspiciously like guilt welled up in him at the kicked-puppy look Lucius adopted at his harsh retort. Ahh fuck, don’t tell me I’m getting soft, I can’t be! Remember: I’m a bitch, I’m boss and I shine like gloss. No way I’m getting soft. Voldemort cleared his throat and tried to soften his tone a little. “And how is the plan coming along, then?”

Lucius shifted uncomfortably. “To be honest, it’s not coming together very well. Lack of resources and manpower and well, a lot of things, really.” He paused to eye Voldemort warily, as if expecting a vicious backlash for his incompetence.

Voldemort merely sighed heavily and narrowed his eyes at the other, urging him to continue.

Lucius relaxed minutely. “But we are certainly working hard at it, and I expect that we should be able to break you out in about one or two months.”

One or two months. Could he really do it? Leave Quirrell behind? His chest tightened at the thought. Not now, do not think about this now. He pushed his anxiety to the side for the moment.

“…I see. Well, I expect to see you soon for an update on the plan, Malloy.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Lucius bowed his head submissively to him. “With your permission, I’ll take my leave for now, then?” He peered up in askance.

“Wait,” The word tumbled out of Voldemort’s mouth before he’d thought it through. Shit. Well, might as well ask now. He swallowed. “When I was arrested, Narcissa was, what, five months pregnant?” “Four.” Lucius corrected. “Right, four. So…is everything okay? The baby’s fine and all?”

A blinding smile appeared on Lucius’s face. He gushed excitedly, “Yes, everything’s perfect. We have a beautiful, healthy baby boy. We’ve named him Draco. Would you like to see him?” Without waiting for his response, Lucius proudly whipped out his phone to show Voldemort a photo of his son cuddled up with a snake plushie.

Aww. A soft smile crept onto Voldemort’s face without him realizing. “The boy has good taste. Well then, I’ll see you soon. Say hi to Draco and Narcissa for me.”

“Will do. Goodbye, my Lord.” With that, Lucius left his seat and trotted off to the office to sign out.

As Voldemort watched him frolic out of the prison gates, his smile faded, thinking about the escape plan. More specifically, the ‘leaving Quirrell behind’ part. Oh, fuck me. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Chapter Text

Voldemort trudged back to his cell, his skull pounding with anxiety. On one hand, he hated Azkaban with all the passionate teenage angst that Zefron has summoned for his performance of Bet On It in the second High School Musical movie. That is to say, a lot of angst. Being locked up like an animal, trapped in this hellscape with nothing to do but roam aimlessly, work out and- bleurgh, chores.

But ever since Quirrell came stumbling through his cell door like a newborn fawn, complete with the huge doe-eyes, well…Azkaban didn’t seem that bad anymore.

Now, whenever he jolted awake due to Dumbfuck’s incessant screaming, he could turn over to face his roomie and his day would just seem that much brighter. With Quirrell by his side as he stalked the meandering halls of Azkaban, trading jokes and stories from their lives before, he almost felt like he had created a new life here. A life that…he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to give up.

He halted before the door to his cell. Oh god. Voldemort inhaled deeply, before steeling his nerves and gently easing the heavy door open. Fuck it, just get it over with, then.

Quirrell perked up, his eyes brightening as Voldemort stepped in. “H-Hey, how’d the visit go? Who- uh, who came to visit you?”

Voldemort hesitated, his gut clenching uncomfortably. Come on, just tell him. Quirrell will know what to do, he always does! His stupid fucking jaw refused to cooperate. Silence filled the room.

The brunette raised his eyebrows in confusion, before his expression shuttered. “Oh. I-I mean, you don’t need to tell me anything, if it’s p-p-private. I understand.”

Guilt pooled in his belly at the crestfallen face that Quirrell sported. This is all your fault, asshole. He blurted, “No, no! It’s fine, it’s just- one of my Death Eaters came and visited me today.”

“Oh?” Quirrell quirked an eyebrow.

“Yeah, he’s one of my most faithful servants, been with me since before I even started building my empire.”

An odd look crept its way into Quirrell’s face. “…Oh. That’s nice.” The man averted his gaze and stared determinedly at the ground. “W-What…What did he want, then?”

Go on, tell him about the escape plan. “He- He just wanted to check up on me.” You motherfucking coward. Voldemort sighed and ran a hand over his spineless face. “I was suspicious at first, considering none of them buttwads visited me since I got here. But he explained why they didn’t, and though I’ve never really trusted anyone before, I guess he was always the closest to earning my trust.”

Voldemort snuck a glance at the other. Quirrell hummed non-committally. Before he could bite back his words, he added, “Other than you, of course. I…I trust you.”

His chest warmed as he watched a pretty blush take over Quirrell’s cheeks at his words. Finally, the brunette lifted his head to lock eyes with him. “I trust you too, Voldemort.” The warmth in his chest spread outwards to envelop his entire being.

They continued staring into each other’s eyes for a moment, probably a little too long of a moment, but Voldemort found that he could not, for the life of him, tear his eyes away from Quirrell’s. His cheeks flushed the longer he stared into the other’s deep chocolate pools.

After a while, Quirrell cleared his throat and his gaze flicked away nervously. “A-Also, uh, should we- should we talk about earlier? You know, b-before you went to see your Death Eater?”

Voldemort froze, his expression shifting into one reminiscent of the time he was caught stealing gummy bears from the orphanage’s kitchen. Right, when I transformed into a crazy jealous caveman over Quirrell. Shit.

“Uh…what do you mean?” He plastered on an overly casual, innocent smile that he was sure had fooled no one in the history of the universe.

Quirrell’s brows furrowed slightly. “Y-You know, when you got angry-”

“Ohhh, that. Well, it was nothing, just me being…” He arms flailed somewhat spastically in the air. “Me. You know, that’s me, the Dark Lord, always doing crazy stupid shit, am I right?”

Quirrell stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

Fuck fuck fuck! He is NOT convinced. Think of something else, dipshit. Slightly hysterical laughter bubbled from his lips.

The brunette narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him. Just me being me? You’re such a bad fucking liar, oh my god. Voldemort resisted the urge to slap himself silly.

“Anyways, I have an idea!” Voldemort blurted out in an attempt to distract the other.

Thankfully, Quirrell’s intense scrutiny eased up. He raised an eyebrow skeptically. “A-An idea?”

“I’ve been feeling a little, uh, stressed lately and I thought maybe tonight, we could- we could blow off some steam together?”

To his surprise, Quirrell’s cheeks reddened instantly, and his eyes blew wide open in undisguised shock.

Why does he looked so shocked and embarrassed? What did I even say- Oh fuck. His cheeks flamed rapidly as he realized his phrasing was not quite as innocent-sounding as he’d intended.

He recovered quickly, “I mean- I’ve got a bottle of whiskey that I save for occasions when I wanna forget where I am, for a little while at least. I haven’t touched it since you arrived, but I thought maybe we could drink tonight, play some drinking games, let loose, you know?”

“…Oh.” A sheepish smile made its way on Quirrell’s features. “Yeah, sure, I guess. Sounds fun.” Pink lingered on his cheeks still, reluctant to relinquish its hold on Quirrell’s delicate features.

Voldemort stifled the alarming thought that a blushing Quirrell was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. Dude, get it together. Friends, remember? Friends.

Sipping slowly on his first glass, Quirrell peered over at his cellmate.

Voldemort’s pale skin highlighted the flush that traveled over his skin magnificently. Already on his fifth glass of whiskey in the past hour, the other tipped his head back languidly with a smile, drawing Quirrell’s greedy eyes to the long column that looked so damn kissable.

Quirrell jolted slightly in surprise as Voldemort rolled his head to face him, squinting in displeasure. “Quirrrrrrrellllll… You’ve barely touched your drink! What’s wrong? Do you not like it?” Before he could answer, Voldemort slumped dramatically. “Oh, you hate it, don’t you? Ugh, I’m a terrible friend, making you drink something you hate, I’m horrible-”

“N-No, I’m fine!” Quirrell interrupted. “I just…haven’t gone drinking in a while, that’s all.” As if to prove his point, Quirrell took a large gulp of the whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn that traveled down his throat.

The blonde grinned widely. “Yes, Quirrell, that’s the spirit! We deserve to have a night of fun.” With flair, Voldemort tipped the remains of his drink back into his mouth. Again, Quirrell’s eyes honed into the Adam’s apple bobbing hypnotically as the man swallowed. Fuck. Me. This is simultaneously the best thing ever and the worst torture I could’ve ever dreamed up. With a gulp and a traitorous blush creeping up his neck, Quirrell reached for his glass again and drained it.

Soon, Quirrell found himself leaning happily into Voldemort, swaying slightly in a pleasant warm haze. “Okay…I had a pet mouse named S-Snuggles, I once stole a pack of candy when I was 13, and I’ve never had sex in a p-public place before. Which is the lie?”

He turned to Voldemort with a smug smile. Hah, he’ll never guess the right answer. The other blinked confusedly, his eyes slightly glazed. “Uhh repeat the question?”

Quirrell stifled a giggle into Voldemort’s shoulder and repeated the question slowly.

Voldemort hummed in contemplation, his face scrunched up adorably as he tried to think through the hazy fog of drunkenness. “I’m…gonna go with the stealing one as a lie. There’s no way goody-two-shoes Quirrell stole shit when he was 13. No way.”

Gotcha! He thrust his arms up into the air triumphantly, narrowly missing punching Voldemort in the jaw. “Wrong! The real lie is: I’ve never had sex in public. D-Drink up!”

Grumbling to himself, Voldemort raised his glass to his lips. And then froze. “Wait what?! Squirrel… You- You had sex in public before. You. You had sex in public. Public. Sex. You.”

He smirked smugly. “R-Repeating it won’t change its meaning.”

Voldemort snorted, before drinking as promised. “Well, colour me surprised. Quirinus Quirrell, you dirty dog.”

Quirrell choked on the small sip he was taking. Excuse me?! “Oh ho ho, like y-you’re one to talk! Pot. Kettle.” He fixed a faux glare upon Voldemort’s dumb, extremely kissable face.

Voldemort returned his glare stubbornly, before breaking composure. He waved a hand airily, “Ah, fine fine, you caught me. You should’ve seen all the freaky sex I had with Bella and Lucius back in the day. Whoo! I had mad game with the bitches.”

Sinking further into the comforting warmth of Voldemort’s side, Quirrell asked, “Bella and Lucius?”

“Two of my inner circle Death Eaters. Oh! Actually, Lucius is the guy who came to visit me today! How ‘bout that.” He grinned lazily, leaning his head atop Quirrell’s mop of brunette curls.

Quirrell hummed pleasantly in response before the words registered in his head. Wait… Lucius is the guy who visited him today. And this same Lucius is one of the Death Eaters he’s had freaky sex with. Ergo…Voldemort likes guys?! His eyes widened. Excitement and hope bubbled up in his chest. Sure, his gaydar had pinged like crazy the more he got to know Voldemort, but doubt still plagued his every thought, especially after Voldemort remained silent when he came out to him. A huge weight felt like it had been lifted off his chest at finally receiving confirmation about his suspicions.

Then, he paused. Shit. Voldemort wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind right now… Later, would he be upset that he’d accidentally come out while drunk off his ass? Quirrell worried at his bottom lip.

“Voldemort…you- you like guys too?” He asked hesitantly.

To his relief, Voldemort nodded his head enthusiastically. “Of course I do, Squirrel! What, haven’t I waxed enough poetry about Zefron’s pecs to make you realize that I swing both ways?”

“Well, y-yeah, that was a pretty clear indicator, I guess. But…why- why didn’t you say anything when I came out to you?”

Without warning, Voldemort’s expression darkened, his eyes turning hollow. “…It’s a secret. I- I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” Then, like a switch was flipped, his face lit up once more. With a giggle, he added, “So, remember, shhhhhhh… You can’t tell anyone.”

Quirrell’s chest tightened. Whoever hurt this beautiful man and told him that bisexuality was something to be ashamed of and hidden away, is a monster. A goddamn monster. He reached up and combed his fingers through those silky ash blonde locks, the way his fingers had itched to do the moment he’d first laid eyes on him. “I know that you’ll most likely regret telling me all this tomorrow morning, but for what it’s w-worth? I’m glad you told me and I’ll a-always have your back. I hope you know that you don’t need to hide secrets from me, I won’t j-judge.”

His hand stopped its ministrations when a larger hand settled on top of it. Voldemort gently lifted his palm off his hair and twined their fingers together, resting their joined hands over his thigh. He sighed softly, rubbing a thumb over Quirrell’s knuckle absent-mindedly. “I…I have one more secret to confess.”

Quirrell perked up in curiosity. All the revelations thus far had cleared his head immensely. “W-What is it? You can tell me anything.” He sent him an encouraging smile.

“Lucius came to see me today because…” His voice dropped to a mere whisper. Quirrell strained to hear his next words. “He, and my few remaining Death Eaters, want to break me out of Azkaban.”

His stomach dropped. Break out? I must’ve heard him wrong.

“He said that they should be able to do it within one or two months. But… But I’m not sure I want to leave.”

Quirrell jerked in surprise. His hand tightened around Voldemort’s involuntarily. “What do you m-mean you don’t wanna leave? Are you telling me that you a-actually want to stay here, in this sh-shithole?”

Voldemort averted his gaze.

“V-Voldemort? Talk to me. W-Why…why don’t you want to leave? What’s s-stopping you?”

The other dragged a hand wearily over his face before draining his glass. “I… I’m drunk. I’m talking nonsense, just ignore me, okay?”

Without thinking, Quirrell reached forward to cradle Voldemort’s cheek in his palm, turning his face towards him. A warm feeling struck his chest at the way Voldemort unconsciously leaned into his touch. “Hey, hey, p-please don’t shut me out now, okay? You t-trust me, don’t you? That’s what you said earlier: you trust me.”

With a sigh, Voldemort fluttered his eyes close, nuzzling slightly into his palm. “I do trust you. And that’s exactly why I don’t wanna leave.” He blinked his eyes open. “I can’t bear leaving you behind.”

Quirrell’s heart stopped. Did he…did he really just say that? “You- You’d rather stay here with me than leave Azkaban w-without me?”

Voldemort nodded firmly in response, rubbing his cheek into his palm like a 6-foot tipsy kitten.

Quirrell’s heart restarted as a wide, joyful smile crept its way onto his face. “Why not…Why not t-take me with you? W-When you make your escape, I mean.”

The blonde stilled. And then, without warning, he sprang to life. “Oh my fucking god, Quirrell, you’re a genius!”

He reeled back slightly in shock, sputtering. “Uh, um, th-thanks, I guess?”

“No, seriously, you’re fucking amazing. My dumb ass was torn between leaving you behind or staying here with you, when the solution should’ve been so clear! Take you with me! Fuck, this is exactly why I need you, man.”

Quirrell’s cheeks warmed beneath the praise. He squeezed Voldemort’s hand gently. “So, it’s settled then, we’ll escape t-together?”

The other grinned widely as he pumped a fist into the air sloppily, alcohol muffling his control of his motor functions. “Fuck yeah! God, I should’ve just told you earlier instead of trying to drown my troubles with whiskey. I’m such a fucking moron,” To Quirrell’s horror, Voldemort slammed his fist against his own head repeatedly. “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” Voldemort muttered to himself.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Quirrell pried Voldemort’s fist away from his head gently. “None of that self-deprecating shit, okay? Y-You’re not stupid.”

“Yes, I am-”

“No, you’re not. You are many things, Voldemort. T-Terrifying at first impressions, violent, totally OCD, w-wildly defensive-”

“Is there a point to this?” Voldemort deadpanned.

“-But you are also kind, g-gentle, understanding, protective and…s-so intelligent. Did you forget? You’re part of the nerd club with me, r-remember?”

Voldemort snorted loudly, “Fucking nerd club. You know, Squirrel, you’re the only person I’ll ever let call me a nerd.”

Quirrell grinned happily in response, glad to have shaken Voldemort from his self-deprecating state. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take that as a c-compliment.”

At that moment, he realized that while he’d been focused on reminding his cellmate how amazing he was, he and Voldemort had been gradually drifting closer and closer, till they were inches apart. Quirrell sucked in a breath. Unconsciously, his eyes darted down to Voldemort’s lips, which were flushed pink like his face and neck from the copious amounts of whiskey he’d chugged tonight. He watched as Voldemort’s amused expression faded into an intense one as he too realized their close proximity.

He was close enough to count the unfairly long eyelashes that framed the other’s stormy blue eyes. His heart stuttered as Voldemort wet his lips, his pink tongue darting out and sliding over his lip in a way that sent Quirrell’s blood pumping. Shakily, Quirrell released his grip on Voldemort’s wrist that he realized he was still holding and returned to cradling his cheek like before.

He swallowed thickly and inched closer. “Voldemort…” he murmured softly.

Quirrell’s stomach swooped as he felt the other’s breath fan over his face, their breaths mingling the small space between them. Voldemort swayed closer. This is it, finally, after weeks of pent up tension…

Anticipation built up as he watched Voldemort’s eyes flutter shut…before his head promptly sagged down abruptly.

What.

“U-Uh, Voldemort? Hey, you okay?”

No response.

He shook the blonde’s shoulder slightly. “Voldemort?”

A soft snore sounded from the unresponsive man. He’s…asleep? Well, fuck. Quirrell felt disappointment surge through him and he sighed heavily. With a groan, he flopped backwards onto the bed bonelessly. So. Fucking. Close.

Then, he yelped in surprise as arms wrapped around his middle and a weight thumped itself on top of his chest. Quirrell frowned curiously and peered down to see Voldemort cuddling him like a teddy bear in his sleep.

A smile spread across his face at the sight. Well, I guess this isn’t so bad either. Voldemort snuffled adorably, nuzzling his cheek onto Quirrell. His chest glowed with affection for the man using him as his very own snuggly pillow.

He whispered, “Sweet dreams, Voldemort.”

Gently, he returned to stroking those irresistibly soft blonde locks as his eyes drifted close, the whiskey-induced haze pulling him under as well.

Chapter Text

Voldemort groaned softly as he came to, his head pounding like a jackhammer on steroids. His head swam briefly as he tried to raise it, and with a soft sigh of defeat, he leaned back down gently.

Despite the million anvils prodding viciously at his skull, Voldemort felt strangely content, relaxed, carefree; the tension that usually thrummed beneath his skin was mysteriously missing. Strange… Like an overgrown cat, he stretched languidly, a sigh of satisfaction escaping him when a delicious crack reverberated from his spine. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open.

Immediately, his eyes widened to comic proportions. What the fuck?! Beneath his head was a slim, lightly muscled chest that rose and fell evenly. Voldemort’s eyes travelled the length of the chest, to a slender neck, and finally, to the adorable face of one Quirinus Quirrell. Oh my fucking god! His jaw dropped in absolute shock.

Instinctively, Voldemort jerked away from his cellmate.

To his surprise, Quirrell cracked an eye open sleepily and grumbled incoherently, before dragging him back to his spot on his chest with nary a warning. With an impossibly cute grunt, the brunette smiled contentedly and shut his eyes once more.

What.

Voldemort remained frozen as a statue, muscles tensed and rigid. Seriously! What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening. His heart pounded rapidly, his face flushed bright red. Chancing a peek up at Quirrell, he noted that the other man had fallen back asleep, happy as a goddamn clam. Meanwhile, Voldemort was freaking the fuck out.

The last time they’d woken up cuddling in bed together, they’d sprang apart like teenagers caught making out in their parent’s basement. Of course, it hadn’t helped that he’d just woken up from a sex dream about his cellmate on that occasion. Oh good god, now he was imagining him and Quirrell in that wildly compromising position he’d dreamt up. Abort, abort, this is not the time to be thinking about Quirrell that way.

He frowned as he pondered the issue at hand. Why were they continuing to cuddle, instead of hastily running away like the last time? Granted, the previous time was a pretty long time ago and they’d definitely grown closer since… Had they reached the level of friendship to be cuddling in bed together and he hadn’t realized? I didn’t even know cuddling was something friends did… Then again, he is my first friend ever.

Voldemort eyed his cellmate again, smiling involuntarily when Quirrell’s face scrunched adorably in his sleep, before evening out.

Maybe- maybe I like this new level of friendship. Cuddling was…nice. Surprisingly so. Voldemort couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever just laid in bed and snuggled together with someone. Every hookup he’d ever had ended with him kicking the other out once they were done, or them leaving on their own after sex. A warm feeling blossomed in his chest. Yes. This is really nice, he thought.

Finally, Voldemort exhaled in relief and relaxed, melting into the slim, toned chest beneath him. Carefully, he wrapped an arm gently around Quirrell’s abdomen and wriggled closer till his body was flush against the other’s.

He hummed as he toyed with a loose thread on Quirrell’s shirt, content to daydream lazily atop his chest while waiting patiently for the other to wake up. Voldemort’s lips twitched upwards into a grin. Yep, cuddling is definitely nice.

Quirrell hissed from the biting chill of the water hit his face in full-force. Damn, Voldemort wasn’t kidding about how cold the water is here. Even after all this time, he still wasn’t used to the freezing cold tap water that tortured him mercilessly everyday.

Nonetheless, he was grateful for it today as the shocking temperature served to relieve some of the atrocious hangover that he was currently experiencing. He turned to face his cellmate. Voldemort wasn’t looking too hot either, his face slightly ashen as he stumbled unsteadily to his feet.

Waking up with Voldemort in his arms this morning was…certainly a surprise. A very good surprise, no doubt, but still a surprise. Quirrell vaguely recalled waking up briefly to pull Voldemort back down for a cuddle earlier, the memory of which sent blood rushing to his cheeks. God, I can’t believe I just dragged him back to me while half-asleep.

The real surprise though, was waking up a second time to find Voldemort perched atop him, fully awake and aware, yet still cuddling him of his own volition.

In response to his very manly squeak of surprise, Voldemort had merely blinked owlishly up at him, before murmuring a “Morning, Squirrel” - which bless him for saying softly because Quirrell was definitely hungover as fuck - with an amused twitch of his lips.

The thought of Voldemort willingly cuddling with him in bed, not because he was drunk or asleep or otherwise unaware but because he wanted to, filled him with a profound sense of awe and joy.

The clearing of a throat brought his mind back to the present. Voldemort asked, “So, your turn: What’s on the agenda for today? Please, for the sake of Zefron, don’t say-”

“-Library!” Quirrell exclaimed with undisguised glee.

Voldemort groaned, flopping face-first back onto the bed. “Why? Whyyyy? Why must you torture me so, you cruel man? My hungover brain cannot deal with words today. Quirreeeeeeeeell,” he whined petulantly, his words muffled from where he’d buried his face into the mattress.

A rush of affection for the man acting like an oversized toddler overwhelmed Quirrell for a second. With a triumphant grin, he replied, “Nuh uh, you made me go to the fucking g-gym yesterday. The library is in n-no way near as bad as that. Besides, who says you have to read? We’re going to the library because I want to read; you can just s-sit there and look pretty.”

Voldemort whipped his head up so fast, Quirrell winced in sympathy for the sake of his vertebral column. A light blush overtook Voldemort’s cheeks, while a paradoxical shark-like grin formed on his face. “Oh? So, you think I’m pretty, huh?”

Before he could help it, Quirrell’s cheeks flushed red. Damn it. Those traitorous fiends.

So this is how he wants to play it. Well, at least he already knew that Voldemort was bi, so maybe it was time to take the flirting up a notch. Okay, alright, bring it on. An uncharacteristic wave of courage washed over him. “Of c-course, Voldemort! You’ve always been the prettiest,” he replied with an exaggerated wink.

Shock flickered briefly on Voldemort’s face before his blush deepened beautifully. Take that!

Like the stubborn asshole he was, Voldemort refused to cower, and instead narrowed his eyes at Quirrell with steely resolve. Quirrell stared back impassively, summoning all the strength he had to keep his poker face from dissolving into a puddle of girlish, squealing giggles. Deliberately, he arched an eyebrow challengingly at the other, upping the stakes in the gayest game of chicken-slash-staring-contest ever.

Seconds passed.

Voldemort’s eyelid twitched.

Then, finally, he broke eye contact, casting his eyes downwards as his cheeks flamed bright red.

Quirrell crowed internally. Hah! Success! Victory is mine!

A “hmph!” noise sounded from Voldemort. “Shut up,” he grumbled, still unable to meet his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything,” Quirrell replied, batting his eyelashes innocently.

Voldemort pouted adorably. “Your stupid face says it all.” With that, he stood and stomped away to freshen up.

After going through the motions of their morning routine, they were finally ready to leave for the library. As Voldemort stepped away from his (always) perfectly made bed and headed for the door, Quirrell yelped, “W-Wait!”

Anxiety thrummed through him. “Before- Before we leave the room, I think we should t-talk first.”

He watched as Voldemort stepped away from the door hesitantly, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

Quirrell took in a deep breath. You got this, Quirrell, you got this. “So…last night, you confessed a lot of- secrets to me. Now, I don’t know if you even r-remember our conversation, but nevertheless, it h-happened. So, what I’m trying to say is that I f-fully support your sexuality and I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry, and you’re s-still my best friend. Nothing will ever change that. And I’m very p-proud of you for being brave enough to come out to me, even if we were very drunk at that point in t-time.”

He paused slightly, eyeing Voldemort warily. The only visible reaction he received from the man was a slow blink.

Quirrell trudged on, “I also do not hold you to the decisions that you made while d-drunk, so if you’ve ch-changed your mind and don’t want to bring me with you when you escape, well,” He swallowed thickly, ignoring the sudden ache in his sternum. “That’s y-your decision to make.”

Exhaling heavily, he waited anxiously as Voldemort processed his little speech in silence. Was that too much at once? Maybe he doesn’t remember anything of last night and is downright horrified that he told me all those things. Maybe he would rather me pretend to not remember it too. Maybe-

“Squirrel.” Voldemort’s voice jolted him out of his spiralling reverie. “I- Uh. I remember last night. Mostly. I think.” He scratched his head, avoiding Quirrell’s gaze. “Um. Thank you. For being so supportive of my- you know. It’s something I don’t share easily, but… I trust you and- fuck, I should’ve told you ages ago and I don’t know why I couldn’t, I just-”

Without realizing, he’d crossed the room and gathered Voldemort in his arms, hugging him to his chest. “H-Hey, it’s okay, Voldemort, it’s okay. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Telling the t-truth about yourself is hard and I don’t b-blame you for having difficulty doing so.” He ran his palm in soothing circles round Voldemort’s back. Apart from tensing initially, Voldemort relaxed, melting into the hug as he clutched Quirrell to him tighter.

A few soothing pats later, Voldemort made a strange noise and pulled back slightly, holding Quirrell’s shoulders in a firm grip.

Quirrell drew his eyebrows together in confusion. What now?

“Dumbass!” Quirrell recoiled from Voldemort’s outburst. What the fuck? Voldemort continued, “Of course I’m gonna bring you with me when I break out of here, how dare you think otherwise, you moronic dipshit.”

Quirrell relaxed back into the embrace. Oh.

He chuckled slightly. “Wow, I’m r-really feeling the love here, Voldemort.”

Voldemort scoffed, even while his lips were turning upwards into the most brilliant, radiant smile he’d ever seen. With a fond roll of his eyes, he repeated, “Dumbass.”

Voldemort shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a better position for his butt that was slowly becoming more numb as the seconds ticked by. Quirrell pursed his lips and glared pointedly at him. Oops. He quit his squirming, thus stopping the hideous squeaks coming from the chair and enveloping the library in blessed silence once more.

Blessed - boring as all fuck - silence.

He sighed heavily, sagging pathetically into the stupid, ridiculously uncomfortable chair – who the fuck even designs these torture devices, god – and wallowed in self-pity. Voldemort rolled his head to the side to see Quirrell devouring his book with fervour, the total nerd. He noted with interest the way his sigh made Quirrell’s grip tighten ever so slightly on his book. Hmm…

Taking in a deep breath, he expelled the air in an exaggerated sigh. He may even have ruffled Quirrell’s hair with how forcefully he sighed. He cackled internally. That ought to do it.

True to form, Quirrell stiffened and his grip on his book tightened to point of irreparably crumpling its pages. A big no-no for bookworms. Bad Squirrel, Voldemort admonished gleefully in his head.

Suddenly, Quirrell slammed the book close, the resounding clap echoing throughout the library. He hissed, “Alright, that’s en-enough. I have one more chapter to finish, and I swear in the name of f-flowers that I will finish it, even if I have to b-banish you from my side.”

Something lurched in Voldemort’s stomach. Wha- Banish?! He voiced his freak out concern.

Quirrell’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Yes, banish. You are a h-horrible distraction, so I need you to just go- somewhere else and entertain yourself, w-without disturbing me.”

Voldemort sputtered. I’m not a fucking child, how dare he banish me-

His train of thought ground to a halt as he latched onto one particular part of Quirrell’s reprimand. Time to pay him back for earlier. His insulted expression morphed into a sly smile. “Distraction? Oh my, Quirrell, are you implying than my prettiness is distracting you?”

The look that came over Quirrell’s face in response genuinely made Voldemort fear for his life. Mistakes were made. I repeat, mistakes. Were. Fucking. Made. Quirrell’s face turned an apoplectic shade of purple. Between clenched teeth, he hissed, “Go.”

Voldemort hesitated.

“Now.”

He didn’t dare test Quirrell’s patience for any longer. Voldemort sprang out of his seat and scurried away to the shelves, just anywhere away from the seething bookworm, really.

Shit, I forgot how crazy Quirrell gets about Jane Austen. Seriously, the man was usually so sweet and kind, with a surprisingly sharp-witted humour once you got to know him, but his protectiveness over JAusten never failed to make his personality do a 180 spin. Voldemort shuddered slightly. Quirrell’s volcanic eruptions over books was among the only three things in his life that actually scared him.

With a sigh, Voldemort meandered over to the nearest shelf, snorting when he realized that it was occupied by trashy romance novels. What part of prison screamed a yearning for soft-core erotica and passionate, unrealistic declarations of love? What idiot decided to include these in the library’s selection? Probably Dumbfuck, now that I think about it.

For a lack of nothing better to do, Voldemort reached for one of said novels, nearly pissing himself by laughing at the cover art. The cover depicted a couple: the man was shirtless and waxed, long wavy hair blown back in the wind, and the woman was draped over the man, in an outfit that left quite little to the imagination. Do people actually read these? Holy fucking hell, this is straight up terrible.

With renewed vigour, Voldemort reached for another, studying the cover art and comparing the two. Oh Zefron, this one is even worse. An idea struck him. While waiting for Quirrell, maybe he could reorder all the books based on how obscenely nauseating the covers were. Could be fun. Definitely better than sitting on that chair till my ass fell off from how numb it was.

He hummed quietly as he got to work, studying each cover intensely, before slotting it accordingly into his slowly growing scale of raunchiness.

One cover showed two lovers simply staring into each other’s eyes lovingly, without being in states of undress. Hmm, definitely a contender for level one on the raunchiness scale. A weird feeling settled into his tummy at the sight of the cover, though.

It reminded him uncomfortably of the way he’d look at Quirrell sometimes, knowing that his lingering looks were lingering for far too long, but unable to tear his eyes away. Something about Quirrell just- entranced him, put him under a spell that he wasn’t quite sure he’d want to break free from, even if he could (he couldn’t, he’d tried many times before, especially in the beginning; now he just sighed and accepted his fate).

He wasn’t quite sure of it, but he also suspected that he’d caught Quirrell looking at him that way a few times as well. Which didn’t make any sense, whatsoever, because why would Quirrell ever look at him with that incredible softness in his eyes? As if Voldemort was something that deserved to be treated with such softness.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he sighed tiredly. His feelings for Quirrell had been…weird lately. He found himself needing to give almost daily reminders to himself that they were only friends. Something niggling in the back of mind said, More.

No. No, stop that. You are not going to ruin the only good thing in your life right now. With practiced ease, Voldemort gathered the weird feelings he had when it came to Quirrell and shoved, pushing them down into a neat little coffin in the depths of his head. Friends, he thought firmly to himself.

With a tinge of desperation, he grabbed the next novel and peered at the cover. Ew. This one was bad. The cover of The Nanny depicted a man and the presumed nanny locked in a passionate embrace, practically dry humping on a desk in some sort of office. Voldemort shuddered. A level ten on the raunchiness scale, for sure.  

He reached for the next novel and with a jolt, he realized he’d looked through the entire shelf without noticing. Damn it. He pouted, sad that there were no more covers to make fun of. He peeked around the bookshelf at Quirrell. Fuck, the nerd is still reading; I can’t go back yet!

Pursing his lips, he looked back up at the shelf. Wait. Hold on. Right at the top, secreted in the furthest corner, was one more trashy novel. Yes!

Voldemort grinned widely. Ooh, I have a good feeling about this one. Based on the title that he could just make out, the cover was going to be downright scandalous. He reached up for it. His fingers brushed air. Fuck. He strained, raising onto his toes to reach further in. Though his fingertips brushed the spine of the book, no dice. The book was still out of reach, fuck!

He grit his teeth and huffed, annoyed at his stupid body failing him when it was so fucking close. Voldemort debated briefly, on whether to ask Quirrell for help retrieving the book. The brunette only had a few inches on him, but that might be enough to reach that stupid elusive motherfucker.

A wave of nonono washed over him at the thought of interrupting Quirrell’s reading, just to get a trashy romance novel for the sake of making fun of it. Nope, Quirrell will most definitely strangle me if I asked him that. He’d specifically banished him to get some peace in order to finish his book.

Ah, shit. Guess he had to do it himself, then. With a groan of reluctance, Voldemort gingerly placed his foot upon the lowest shelf and heaved himself up. The added height secured, he reached into the top shelf once more, groping blindly for the book. His fingers caught on its spine. Fuck yeah!

Victory thrilled through him as he finally caught that elusive little shit. Gripping the novel tightly in his hand, he pulled his arm out excitedly, and then- Oh.

With a creak that sounded like the mouth of hell opening up, Voldemort felt the bookshelf he was clinging to like a limpet give, tilting backwards at a speed that left him frozen in shock. A swooping sensation filled his stomach as he felt himself careening towards the ground.

Panicking, he unlocked his iron grip on the shelf and dropped to the floor, trying to crawl away from the rapidly approaching slab of steel.

He’d barely a chance to say “Fuck- shit, Quirrell help-” before the shelf was flying towards the ground with him beneath it and-

Darkness.

Chapter Text

“Go.”

Voldemort hesitated. 

“Now.”

He didn’t dare test Quirrell’s patience for any longer. Voldemort sprang out of his seat and scurried away to the shelves, just anywhere away from the seething bookworm, really.

Quirrell grinned to himself, revelling in the blissful silence that had descended upon Voldemort’s departure. Ahh, finally. Now, he could focus on the piece of divine art in his hands, written by the Mother of Literature herself. Humming pleasantly, he flipped a page, eyes scouring across the words with deep fervour. Sweet, sweet silence. He tucked his feet beneath him as he settled deeper into the chair, cradling the JAusten novel in his hands carefully.

Unbidden, a voice chided him softly in the back of his head, admonishing him for insisting on going to the library with Voldemort, yet banishing him rudely when the blonde’s restless fidgeting became too distracting. His gut twisted uncomfortably in guilt at the thought. I was rather rude, wasn’t I? His subconscious scoffed. You were a downright asshole, you mean.

He sighed heavily. Even when Voldemort wasn’t around, he still occupied the majority of Quirrell’s headspace, making it close to impossible for him to focus on reading. Stupid Voldemort, he grumbled internally.

He paused, worrying at his lip, before shaking his head slightly. No, not stupid Voldemort. Stupid Quirrell. Stupid Quirrell who lost his temper over a fucking book and scolded the other man like he was an insolent child. Stupid Quirrell who’d been pathetically pining over said man for weeks and yet, treated Voldemort like shit the fucking day after he’d accidentally come out and confessed his plans for escape. Stupid Quirrell who asked Voldemort to get out of his sight, when all he wanted to do now was pull the man he cared so deeply for into his arms and apologize sincerely.

Shame and regret pooled in his stomach like lead. I really am a fucking prick, aren’t I? He lifted his gaze from the book that he’d been staring blankly at during his internal debate. Quirrell scanned his surroundings, searching for the strong, muscular figure that always sent a little thrill to his heart whenever he laid eyes on it.

A rustling sound to his right caught his attention. He whipped his head around in that direction. It must be Voldemort; pretty much no one else comes to the library, he thought excitedly. Hopeful anticipation thrummed through him. Quirrell listened carefully as he heard a triumphant cheer of “Aha!” whispered by the person obscured by the bookshelf.

Quirrell grinned widely. He’d know that voice anywhere.

Setting the novel down gently, he stood, ready to slink over to the bookshelf and sheepishly coax his way back into Voldemort’s good graces with an apology. However, after only taking a few steps towards the shelf, Quirrell jerked to a halt.

A creaking groan sounded from the shelf. In slow motion, Quirrell watched in horror as the bookshelf began tilting backwards.

But. But…Voldemort. Voldemort was at that bookshelf. And the bookshelf was falling.

The pieces finally clicked together in his brain which had been frozen along with his body. Oh god, the bookshelf is falling on Voldemort! His mind screamed at him. Ice filled his veins at the realization. Quirrell’s heart pounded rapidly as dread seeped into every cell of his body. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He lunged forward, scrambling to get to the shelf – get to Voldemort – before he was crushed by the metal omen of death that was rapidly descending. But his limbs felt as if they were moving through cement, movements slow and sluggish compared to the furious pace of the falling shelf. No, no, please! Quirrell forced himself to move incrementally faster, determination fuelling his every step. He had to get there first. He had to.

Just as he came within arms’ reach of the shelf, a scream of “Fuck- shit, Quirrell help-” was all he caught before a resounding boom echoed through the entire library as the

shelf

collapsed

on

top

of

Voldemort.

Time stilled. Quirrell felt as if someone had plunged their claws into his chest and pulled out his beating heart. A soul-wrenching keening sound filled the air. It took him a moment to realize that the noise was coming from him. His vision blurred almost instantly as tears sprung from his eyes.

No, no, no, this isn’t happening, he’s still alive, he has to be, his mind insisted. Taking shaky steps, he crossed the distance between him and the bookshelf unthinkingly. With trembling arms, he held tightly to the edge of the bookshelf and heaved. His muscles screamed protests at him as his knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of the shelf. Come on, come on, you have to do it. Do it for Voldemort.

Quirrell gritted his teeth and pulled with all his might. His fingers shook from the strain of gripping the bookshelf. Come on, damn it! A guttural scream escaped his lips as he pulled harder and harder, adamantly refusing to give up. Slowly, but surely, the shelf conceded to his demands and righted itself.

He took a moment to huff out a breath of relief, swiping beads of sweat from his forehead. Then, he hurried to Voldemort’s side and gasped. Oh god. Apart from the bed of books littered around and beneath Voldemort’s body – which in any other situation, would’ve been hilarious given that books were Voldemort’s mortal enemy – the rest of the scene made his heart stutter to a stop.

A deep red stained Voldemort’s temple, colouring his ash blonde locks to sickening scarlet. His right arm was clearly twisted in an unnatural angle, the sight of which sent Quirrell’s stomach turning. He dropped to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. Please, please, please, he chanted as he raised a trembling hand to Voldemort’s neck. Anguish screamed through him as his fumbling fingers searched his neck sloppily. Where is it?! Fuck, where the hell is it, I can’t feel anything!

Sobs rose from his throat unconsciously, racking through his frame in waves. And then-

There! Relief sliced through his grief like a knife through butter. Despite the horrific sight of his body crumpled beneath a towering steel behemoth, Quirrell finally found the pulse of Voldemort’s carotid artery, slow but steady.

Finding his voice, he called out hoarsely, “V-V-Voldemort?” No answer. He shook him slightly, careful to not jostle his injuries. No response.

Pushing down the renewed wave of panic, Quirrell stood on shaky knees, gathering Voldemort in his arms as gently as he could. His arms screamed at him once more, furious at being used so soon after righting the bookshelf. He ignored the pain and staggered forward, the deadweight in his arms – he stilled, shaking the thought away – the man in his arms was almost too much for his slight frame to bear. Suck it up, Voldemort needs help, he told himself firmly.

He yelled, “Hello? We need m-medical attention! Help!”

Quirrell turned the corner and shuffled forward at a snail’s pace, hating every inch of his weak, feeble body for being unable to pick Voldemort up easily. He would’ve been able to stroll out of here like I weighed nothing, had it been me who got crushed. Torment tore through his chest. It should’ve been me. This is all my fault.

He continued calling for help, his cries echoing into empty hallways. Fuck, where is everyone?! His grip was beginning to slip, sweat-slicked palms and trembling biceps straining with every step forward. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

Quirrell looked down at Voldemort, eyeing the sluggishly bleeding head wound and broken arm with anguish. He yelled out again, “P-P-Please, anyone, help!”

Then, like an angel had answered his call, Dumbledore rounded the corner, his face morphing into a shocked expression when he caught sight of them. “What the-” His expression then immediately shifted to one of alarmed concern as Quirrell’s trembling arms finally gave out. Lunging forward, Dumbledore scooped Voldemort up before his body hit the ground.

“It’s okay, I got him.” Dumbledore reassured him calmly. “What the hell happened?”

Despite the relief singing through his muscles, Quirrell’s arms felt oddly empty now that Voldemort’s weight had been removed. He hugged his slender arms around himself, “I- I’m not really s-sure what happened. I just know that a b-b-bookshelf fell on him in the lib-library. It’s…bad, it’s r-really bad. P-Please, you have to help him.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened, before narrowing in suspicion. “Well, shit.” Adjusting his grip on Voldemort’s form, he said, “Come on then, let’s get him to the infirmary.”

Waiting outside of the infirmary for what felt like ages, Quirrell checked the clock for the umpteenth time. Fuck, what is taking so long? Is he okay? Why won’t they let me see him? His leg bounced anxiously as his mind swirled with images of Voldemort’s broken body. God, please let him be okay.

Finally, Dumbledore emerged from the infirmary. Quirrell jumped to his feet, questions on his lips. Before he could voice them, Dumbledore reassured him, “He’s fine.”

Immediately, Quirrell sagged in relief, his breath leaving him in a whoosh. Thank fucking god.

Dumbledore continued, “They stitched up his head wound and set his arm in a cast. He just regained consciousness a few minutes ago. You can go in, he’s been asking for you.”

Sucking in a breath, Quirrell rushed eagerly towards the infirmary, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and turned towards Dumbledore with curiosity and fear in equal measure. “W-What?”

Dumbledore hesitated. “Look, I…I don’t know what happened between you two, but you need to be more careful around him. He’s not your average criminal; he’s dangerous. There’s a reason we never gave him a roomie until we didn’t have a choice anymore.”

Anger and disbelief flared through Quirrell like wildfire. He scoffed, “You don’t even kn-know him. He would never hurt me.”

The other raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Really? Then how did he get hurt in the library? There must have been some sort of scuffle that led to the shelf collapsing on him…” He trailed off, his meaningful gaze and suggestive tone indicating his suspicion that more nefarious events had occurred. He sighed, “I don’t know why you’re covering for him, or maybe you’re trying to cover for yourself, but I’m just telling you to be more careful, dude. You may not always have bookshelves around to protect you from him.”

Quirrell’s jaw dropped. What the flying fuck? With no small amount of incredulity, he asked, “Wait- You- You think he was a-attacking me? And I pushed a shelf on him in self-defence? Th-That’s what you think happened?!”

Dumbledore shrugged. “Well, yeah. And luckily for you, he ain’t dead so you don’t need to worry about adding manslaughter to your sentence, but I’d advise you to be on your guard around him. I’ll see if maybe I can swing for you to switch cells-”

“No!” The yell escaped him before he could stop it. “P-Please don’t. I don’t want to switch cells. He’s hurt, he n-needs me now, more than ever. Please d-don’t make me leave him.”

Dumbledore stared at him like he’d grown a second head. The seconds ticked by. Quirrell fidgeted, uncomfortably aware of the guard’s arm still resting on his shoulder. Eventually, Dumbledore’s eyes widened as realization set in. “Oh.”

Quirrell nodded slowly, eyeing him warily for signs of aggression. “Can I g-go in now? I need to see him. I n-need to know that he’s okay.” His voice broke on the last word.

The guard retracted his arm and nodded dumbly, clearly still reeling from his revelation. Without sparing a second thought, Quirrell burst into the infirmary.

Voldemort’s gaze was immediately drawn to the slender brunette who had rushed into the infirmary like a man on a mission. Affection surged through him at the sight of the other.

“Hey,” he greeted from the tiny bed that he was propped up in.

Taking a quick look around for anyone watching, Voldemort used his uninjured arm to beckon him over, reaching for his hand when the man was finally in reach.

The look in Quirrell’s eyes as he took him in, swathed in bandages and all, made Voldemort’s heart beat faster. I could have died, he realized. I could have died and never have been able to see Quirrell’s eyes, or his smile, or hear his voice ever again. Voldemort returned an equally adoring look to his cellmate and clutched his hand tighter.

“Thank g-god you’re okay. I was so s-s-scared,” Quirrell breathed shakily.

Voldemort let out a weak chuckle. “Psh, like I’d let a bookshelf be the end of me.”

To his utter shock, Quirrell’s face crumpled as he burst into tears. “Fuck, I’m s-so sorry, Voldemort. This is all my f-fault. I should n-never have forced you to come to the library with me, and I d-definitely shouldn’t have asked you to go away. I’m so s-s-sorry,” he cried guiltily.

Voldemort’s eyes widened. What the-? “Hey, hey, no, it’s not your fault, okay? It’s mine!”

Quirrell only sobbed harder.

“Listen, really, it was just me being a dumb fucking shit and trying to climb onto a bookshelf. I basically asked for it to fall on me!”

With a trembling voice, Quirrell insisted, “You w-wouldn’t even have been there if it wasn’t for me. I- Fuck- I’m so sorry, V-Voldemort.”

You stubborn little shit, he groaned internally, before heaving himself into sitting up with a loud grunt. Quirrell panicked at the clear pain he was in and tried to gently nudge him back into a supine position. His efforts were quickly silenced by the stern glare that Voldemort sent his way, however.

“Now, you listen here, man. This was not your fault. You saved me, got it? If you hadn’t lifted the shelf off me and gotten me to the infirmary, I’d probably have died there-” A whimper escaped Quirrell. “Hey, none of that now. You saved me, Squirrel, so quit blaming yourself for stuff that wasn’t even your fault.”

Voldemort’s eyes softened. In a gentler tone, he repeated, “You saved me.”

Quirrell nibbled on his lip, eyebrows pulled together. He looked conflicted, his guilt and shame warring with what Voldemort was trying to convince him of. “But-”

Before he knew what he was doing, Voldemort surged forward and captured Quirrell’s lips with his own. Cradling the other’s cheek gently in his hand, he poured every bit of the affection he felt for the man into the kiss, hoping to convey what he had failed to do so in words.

Then, he froze, as his mind caught up to what his body was doing.

Told you so, a smug voice chimed in from the back of his head. What? I- What the fuck? He felt his world tilt on its axis as the lies he’d told himself finally, finally, came crashing down.

He gasped suddenly, jerking away from Quirrell as all the feelings he’d repressed came rushing forward. How much his heart would flutter when Quirrell smiled, the way his tummy swooped every time Quirrell held his hand, the warmth in his chest when they’d cuddled in the morning. He liked Quirrell. He liked him way more than just a friend.

And…he’d just kissed him. Out of nowhere, without any warning whatsoever.

Mortification flooded his senses as he realized that Quirrell was as still as a statue. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck- fucking shit fuck!

“Oh shit, I’m sorry-”

Voldemort’s words were cut off as Quirrell pulled him back, crushing his lips to his in a bruising kiss. His subsequent gasp was swallowed by the other as he licked his way into Voldemort’s mouth in a sinful motion that would’ve surely made his knees buckle, had he been standing.

Slowly, the ferocity of the kiss faded into something sweeter, something so soft it made his heart ache. As their lips brushed against each other’s, Voldemort thought to himself that he would be happy to just stay here in this moment, forever. Eventually, though, they had to part for air, gasping somewhat idiotically with goofy grins on their faces.

Voldemort brushed his thumb gently over Quirrell’s cheek as he gazed deeply into those beautiful brown eyes. “Squirrel, I…I really like you. I think I’ve liked you for a really long time too, but I was too- stupid to see it until just now.”

Quirrell huffed in amusement, though mirth couldn’t hide the fondness in his eyes. “I r-really like you too, Voldemort. But I was too scared to tell you how I felt. How I f-feel. I wasn’t sure if you saw me that way too.”

Voldemort’s smile widened. “So, we’ve just been idiots this entire time, yeah?”

The brunette snorted, “Pretty much, yes.” His eyes softened into molten pools of chocolate. “I would go through all of the d-doubt and worry over whether you liked me back again, if it meant that I would have you h-here, alive and in my arms.”

His heart thudded loudly in his chest as a wave of warmth enveloped him from head to toe. “Quirrell, you fucking sap,” he teased good-naturedly.

He was rewarded by the sight of Quirrell blushing prettily. A random thought struck him. “Oh hey, who would’ve thought you’d get more exercise lifting shelves and my body in a library than in the fucking gym?”

Quirrell gasped at his nonchalant attitude towards today’s events, before huffing slightly, “It’s not funny, you could’ve d-died!”

Voldemort shrugged cheekily, before adding, “Well, maybe it’s a sign that you should be hitting the gym more.”

He gasped again, “Don’t you dare.”

Voldemort waggled his eyebrows smugly in response.

“No, n-no, I am not going to the gym- Voldemort, you just got in-injured, why are you even talking about the gym- Fuck this shit, I r-refuse and you cannot make me-”

His rant was muffled by Voldemort capturing his lips once more. Immediately, the brunette sighed and leaned into the kiss, his lips curled up into a soft smile.

Finally, Voldemort sighed happily to himself. Finally.

Chapter Text

“Quirreeeeeeeell…”, he whined exaggeratedly. Voldemort pouted as he glared petulantly at the brunette. The brunette who was totally being an absolute shithead.

Quirrell giggled adorably around the spoon stuck between his unfairly luscious lips, damn him. The smug bastard sobered before sighing, “Okay, okay, fine.” Quirrell scooped a healthy portion of pudding onto the spoon before bringing it over to Voldemort’s mouth.

“Thank you,” Voldemort sniped pointedly, before leaning eagerly towards the spoon. Just as his lips were a hairsbreadth away from the delectable treat, the spoon was snatched away by the fucking hellion masquerading as his boyfriend and delivered straight into said hellion’s waiting mouth. Again.

“GODDAMN IT, QUIRRELL!” Voldemort exploded furiously.

Quirrell collapsed into peals of laughter, his entire lithe frame shaking uncontrollably.

Motherfucker asshat piece of bastard shitheel, he growled internally. His eyes narrowed dangerously into slits before his tense frame relaxed. A change in tactics is required. Widening his eyes imploringly – Quirrell had confessed to him that he found his stormy eyes rather intoxicating, an admission which had both delighted and filled Voldemort with scheming, exploitative glee – and adopted an oh so pitiful tone.

“Squirrel, how could you? When you offered to fetch me pudding since I am so very incapacitated right now,” he shifted his bandaged arm pathetically, “I thought to myself, wow, I have such a kind and compassionate boyfriend.” Voldemort batted his eyelashes for good measure. He knew he was laying it on thick, but goddamn it, the bastard was stealing his pudding!

“But instead, you’re- oh, you’re such a tease! You wave the pudding at me but stuff it in your mouth! Now, Quirrell, is that really how you should treat your poor, injured lover?” He shook his head slowly in faux disapproval.

To his extreme satisfaction, Quirrell wilted in guilt, a sheepish expression chasing away the smugness from before. Bashfully, the brunette lifted another spoonful of pudding to his lips once more. Voldemort eyed him suspiciously. He better not steal my pudding again, or I swear to fucking Zefron I will murder him. With all the wariness of an alley cat, Voldemort inched forwards slowly, before capturing the spoon with his lips.

“Finally!” Voldemort moaned somewhat indecently. He savoured his mouthful of chocolate pudding, which was the sweet heavenly nectar of the gods, in his expert opinion.

“S-Sorry,” Quirrell murmured apologetically, ducking down to hide his face as he curled into himself.

Voldemort’s pudding-induced trance shattered. His eyes widened in realization before his eyebrows pulled together into a frown. With his good hand, he tilted Quirrell’s chin up to gaze at his face. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s all good. We’re good.”

Staring deeply into the other’s eyes, he leaned in slowly to press his lips to the other’s, pouring his feelings into every slide of his lips. He felt Quirrell sigh softly into the kiss, the tension seeping out of his body in waves.

The pudding was all but forgotten as Quirrell pulled him closer, burying his hand in Voldemort’s silky platinum locks, while delicately avoiding the freshly stitched wound. His heartbeat picked up as he clutched Quirrell’s shirt in his fist, groaning at that thing Quirrell did with his tongue.

The sound of approaching footsteps filtered into his ears. Shit! Fear and alarm hit him like a bolt of lightning as they sprang apart immediately, breathing heavily with a foot of space restored between them.

The MO, whose name Voldemort remembered to be something lame like McDonalds or some equally stupid name, rounded the corner and raised an eyebrow at their dishevelled states. Voldemort felt beads of sweat collect at the nape of his neck as he averted his gaze hastily in a misguided attempt to act casual. Ugh, Voldemort, you stupid shit! Avoiding her eyes is probably the biggest red flag you could be doing apart from her actually catching you and Quirrell making out. Voldemort facepalmed mentally, closing his eyes briefly in mortification before he lifted his gaze in what he hoped was a calm, level-headed manner. It probably wasn’t. Fuck.

She cleared her throat to dispel the lingering tension in the infirmary, “Alright then, so we’ve kept you in here for observation for the past few days, but your head and arm seem to be healing nicely.” She clapped his hands together. “Voldemort, it’s time for you to head back to your cell.” The MO directed a pointed look at his cellmate, “You too, Quirrell.”

Quirrell, bless his pure soul, blushed sheepishly before nodding. Voldemort replied, “Okay, thanks doc.”

The MO acknowledged his thanks with a curt nod. “In about 6 weeks’ time, we’ll bring you back here to remove your cast. In the meantime, keep that arm immobilised and stop getting crushed by bookshelves,” she added in a deadpan tone.

Heat rose to his cheeks. “Will do,” Voldemort choked out, resisting the urge to tack on a ma’am at the end. With that, the stern-faced MO turned on her heel and marched out of the infirmary.

“Phew, that was a close one,” Voldemort sagged into his cot in sheer relief. “So, Squirrel, ready to head back to normal Azkaban life?”

Over the past few days that Voldemort had been kept in the infirmary, Quirrell had stuck to his side like a very adorable, cuddly barnacle. Despite his presence at Voldemort’s bedside rather than in his cell being wildly against protocol, Quirrell had somehow managed to finagle Dumbfuck’s help. To his shock, Dumbfuck had pulled some strings to allow Quirrell to bunker down by his side. Hmm, maybe I should stop calling him Dumbfuck… The guard had been surprisingly helpful and nice, after all. Hmmmmmmmm…nah. Once a dumbfuck, always a dumbfuck. Voldemort would just try to be less of a little shit to the guy from now on.

Quirrell’s voice stole his attention from his wandering thoughts. “Yeah! N-No offence to McGonagall,” Ah, so that’s her name! “But I’m r-real glad to be going back to our cell where she isn’t always there giving those judge-y eyes.”

Voldemort huffed in laughter before worry twisted at his gut. “Do you…do you think she knows about us? I mean, we really haven’t been as careful as we should be.”

Quirrell gave him a look that said, And whose fault is that, before shaking his head, “No, I don’t th-think she knows for sure. But even if she suspects, which I think she does, she hasn’t s-said anything so I don’t think she ever will.” He winced slightly, “D-Dumbledore probably does, though. I may have been…a bit too concerned for you when you were injured. But he s-seems supportive!” His voice lilted up in a hopeful tone.

Chuckling, Voldemort shrugged, “Yeah, I figured Dumbfuck knew.” He pushed away the niggling fear in his chest. If the guard hasn’t done anything by now, and even helped us stay together, we should be fine…right? “Might be good to have him on our side, even.” With his worry eased for the time being, he sprang out of bed with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Which is to say, not much. Still, he slung his good arm over Quirrell’s slender shoulders and declared, “Now, Quirrell, let us return to our chambers. Onwards!” He pointed in the general direction of the infirmary door as they shuffled forwards in their awkward embrace.

As the footsteps of their fellow inmates drew near, Voldemort pulled his arm away from him. Quirrell swallowed heavily, mourning the loss of contact. He bit back a noise of protest and scolded himself internally. Just because you’re together now, doesn’t mean he’s ready for the entire world to know. Don’t push him, Quirrell reminded himself sternly.

Instead, he focused on the way the other prisoners whispered and pointed at them like a bunch of middle-schoolers. Wait… His blood ran cold. There was no way that the others knew of their newfound relationship, right? His heartbeat picked up.

Quirrell’s eyes darted to Voldemort, noting the confusion and worry that flashed across his features. He looked back at the others, dread trickling into his senses. How the hell did they find out- Oh.

With a jolt, Quirrell realized that the inmates weren’t gossiping about their relationship, but rather, were eyeing Voldemort’s cast and head gauze with abundant curiosity. Relief cut through him at the epiphany. Chancing a glance at his cellmate, Voldemort seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

Then, Quirrell watched in absolute awe as Voldemort morphed into a different person. Gone was his sweet, cuddly boyfriend with the soft smiles (though the man in question would sooner die than admit he was as soft as a marshmallow), and in his place was the stone-cold Dark Lord. Voldemort straightened his spine and levelled an icy glare at anyone who crossed their paths. The effect was immediate. The whispering ceased as everyone averted their gazes and scooted hastily away from them. A small shiver ran up his spine at the sight. As much as Quirrell enjoyed the hidden sweetness of Voldemort that only he got to see, he couldn’t deny that Voldemort in full Dark Lord mode was sexy as all hell. He resisted the inane urge to swoon at being in the presence of such raw power exuding from the ash blonde.

With his thoughts occupied by Voldemort’s very chiselled cheekbones, they arrived at their cell in what seemed like no time at all. Inexplicably, Quirrell felt a sense of home wash over him as they stepped into the cell. Which was utterly and completely stupid, obviously. This was prison. But…sharing that space with Voldemort, a space just for the two of them, made it feel like home. Voldemort made it feel like home.

He cringed internally. Oh fuck, Voldemort was right; I’ve really gone and turned into a sap. He bit his lip. Ah hell, can you blame me, though? Just look at Voldemort, look at him! Who wouldn’t turn into a sap for that man? Quirrell pressed his lips together to hold in a wistful sigh that threatened to escape. I still can’t believe I get to call him mine…

Quirrell jumped a foot into the air when the door shut close behind him with a loud clang. He whipped around to see his cellmate standing by the door with an awfully smug expression. Why, that little shit.

“V-V-Voldemort! You s-startled me-”

“You know what I missed most about our cell, Quirrell?” Voldemort interrupted him. With a sly smile, he continued, “The privacy. The solitude. Just you. And me. Alone.”

The wolfish, almost predatory look on Voldemort’s face made his heart skip a beat. Blood rushed to his cheeks. “W-What do you m-mean?”

Voldemort sauntered forward, his hips swaying hypnotically with each step that put Quirrell in a near- trance. He gulped as Voldemort reached him and set a burning palm against his chest. He purred, “What I mean, Squirrel, is that I haven’t been able to take my mind off you since I first saw you. And this is the first time we’ve been alone together in days. The first time since we admitted how we feel about each other.” Voldemort’s hand lit a trail of fire as he dragged his palm slowly upwards till it rested against the side of Quirrell’s neck, gripping it gently.

Quirrell’s breath hitched. Oh. Fire ignited in his lower abdomen, spreading outwards.

Then, he remembered their circumstances. Shit. As much as it pained him to do so, he reminded the other, “But…you’re still r-recovering, Voldemort. This doesn’t seem like a safe...activity to do while you’re healing. Plus, anyone can still walk by and s-see us…” He trailed off, gesturing to the small, but very present window on their cell door.

Voldemort chuckled in response, warmth emanating from his eyes. “I’ll be fine, don’t you worry about me, Squirrel. What’s a little pain when I’ve been literally craving you from the moment you stumbled into my cell?” His hand crept up and he brushed his thumb against his lip in a gentle motion that sent a shiver down Quirrell’s spine. “And I’ve been in this cell for 6 months before you came along. I know exactly where the blind spots are, the human traffic at this time of day, how to make sure no one will…interrupt us.” His stormy eyes darkened in want.

Quirrell flushed at his words. Fuck. I really want to, god, there’s literally nothing more that I want right now. But…his injuries. He hesitated, biting his lip in uncertainty.

Voldemort’s smile faded and a worried, uncertain look replaced it. “…Unless you don’t want to?” His expression fell and he dropped his hand like it was scalded. “Shit, I’m sorry, Quirrell. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that, fuck-”

Lightning fast, Quirrell clashed their mouths together in a searing kiss and Voldemort made an adorable little mmph sound. After disconnecting, he grinned at the stunned, glazed look on Voldemort’s face. “F-Fuck yeah, I want to, dumbass! I’m just w-worried about your injuries…”

The other snapped out of his daze and perked up. “I promise I’m good to go. Come on, Quirrell, please? I’ll be fine, I promise.” He widened his eyes at him, fully knowing the effect it had on him, the treacherous bastard.

Quirrell felt his resolve crumble like a house of cards. He could tell the moment that Voldemort realized he’d given in, for the other’s eyes lit up with triumph and his mouth twisted into an unfairly gorgeous smirk. The platinum blonde nudged him towards a corner of the cell – one of these “blindspots”, I’m guessing – with a gentle, but firm hand on his hip. Eagerly, Quirrell brought their lips back together in a bruising kiss that set his nerves alight.

His mind swirled in a haze of fiery touches and hot breaths mingling between their lips. Quirrell swore hotly when Voldemort ran his calloused fingertips over his nipples – when had his shirt even come off? who knew? who cared? – and tugged impatiently at the hem of the other’s top. He sucked in a breath at the sight that greeted him when the dastardly article of clothing finally came off. This was the torso that haunted his dreams, filled him with unimaginable lust and made him lose all rationality. And it was here, beneath his slightly trembling hands that ached to caress every dip and curve with reverence.

Voldemort pinned him against the wall, slotting his knee between Quirrell’s legs that parted easily, welcoming him. “Fuck,” he groaned, “I’ve been wanting you for so fucking long, Quirrell, you have no idea.”

With a sly grin, Quirrell snaked a hand down the other’s abs and cupped his hardening length. “I think I have s-some idea.” His grin widened at the choked noise which Voldemort emitted.

As swift as a whip, Voldemort retaliated with a predatory glint in his eyes. With his good arm, he hiked Quirrell’s leg up, wrapping it around his waist. Then, he ground his hips against Quirrell, pressing him into the wall with a twist of his hips that made Quirrell’s eyes roll back in his head. Oh my fucking god, that is not fair. A moan escaped his lips, which Voldemort happily swallowed down.

For a good while, the two of them rolled their hips together in tandem, dry-humping like a couple of horny teenagers. Well, based on how Quirrell’s brain had devolved into a puddle of lusty goo, ‘horny teenager’ was not that unfair of a description.

“We-” Voldemort broke off in a moan from a particularly aggressive swivel of Quirrell’s hips. “We should…we should probably take our pants off before they get too dirty.”

Quirrell stilled, the words taking a while to register in his mind, before bursting into loud, raucous laughter.

His cellmate reared back, an affronted expression gracing his features. “What-”

In between giggles, he said, “Only you, Voldemort, would be worried about the c-cleanliness of our clothing while we’re doing this.” He punctuated his statement with a thrust of his hips.

Voldemort turned bright red, a slightly sheepish look on his face. “Well…I mean, we don’t have unlimited pants, you know? These have gotta last us a few days! And if you think that washing them in that shitty ass sink with that shitty ass soap is gonna be enough, you have another thing coming to you-”

Quirrell cut him off with a kiss, licking his way into the other’s mouth languidly while flipping their positions to pin Voldemort against the wall instead. “It’s okay, I get it.” In one swift motion, he yanked Voldemort’s pants off, biting back a moan when he realized the other had gone commando. Fuck. Me. In the next heartbeat, he spared Voldemort the effort by shimmying his own pants off and kicking them aside. If he asks me to fold up the pants though, I will punch him.

He groaned as the ash blonde reached into his boxers to pull out his cock, which was already weeping from their extended foreplay. Quirrell saw stars as Voldemort lined up their cocks, wrapping his large hand around them both. The feeling of the other against him was heavenly, the slick slide of flesh aided by the copious amounts of pre-cum leaking from them both.

“Fuck, Quirrell, you feel so good,” Voldemort growled in his ear. Quirrell moaned in response, and joined his hand into the fray, wrapping it firmly around them. Voldemort let out a strangled moan, throwing his head backwards in pleasure.

“FUCK-” Voldemort bit off a yell as he grabbed his head, eyes screwed shut in pain. Panic raged through Quirrell as he watched Voldemort breathe heavily through his nose, riding out the waves of agony. Shit, fuck, no, I knew this was a bad idea, fuck! Eventually, Voldemort’s pain seemed to ease up and he cracked his eyes open slowly.

“Are…are you o-okay? W-What happened? I’m so s-sorry, we shouldn’t have d-done this, you’re clearly in p-pain. What was I th-thinking, letting you convince me that you were f-fine? You have s-stitches, for god’s sake!” Guilt coursed through him.

“Hey, hey, I’m okay and it isn’t your fault, Squirrel.” Voldemort reassured him with a gentle hand on his cheek. “I’m the idiot who was so caught up in you that I forgot I had a head injury and threw my head against the wall.”

Quirrell glanced at the wall, and then back at Voldemort, his eyes widening in realization. “Shit, are you s-sure you’re okay? Do we need to go b-back to the infirmary?”

Voldemort winced. “To be honest, I’m a little dizzy right now, but I don’t think I need to go back yet. I just…fuck, I was really looking forward to this, you know?” He shook his head sadly, before stopping with his face scrunched up in pain. Voldemort slid down against the wall. “It’s just- I’ve never been in a relationship before. The closest thing I’ve come to it is…sex. Sex is pretty much all that I know, so I don’t know how to function in a relationship if sex isn’t a part of it. And that’s all my fault for being so fucking injured that I can’t even last through a goddamn handie.” He muttered bitterly.

Quirrell swallowed nervously, before sinking down to sit across the other. “Is…is that the only r-reason why you want to have s-sex? Because you d-don’t know anything else?” His heart sank in his chest. I should’ve known he didn’t really want me. How could he, when he looks like an Adonis and I look like a pre-pubescent paper boy. In a small voice, he said, “You don’t really want to have s-sex with me, do you?”

Voldemort’s eyes widened into saucers. “No! I mean, yes! I mean, I do want to have sex with you, trust me, I really really do. I’m just- worried that if I can’t contribute sex to this relationship, then…well, I have nothing else to contribute. But believe me when I say that I would literally love to fuck you all day, every day.”

The brunette blushed, “O-Okay, I believe you. But Voldemort, you have to know that you contribute so much m-more than sex. You’re amazing, and I d-don’t ever want to hear you say otherwise, you got that?”

Voldemort looked at him, really looked at him, with eyes that sparkled with awe. “…Yeah, okay, I believe you too.”

Quirrell’s cheeks flooded with warmth and his gaze dropped bashfully. Then, his breath hitched as he caught sight of Voldemort’s cock, still half-hard and so fucking gorgeous that he licked his lips unconsciously. Nestled in a bed of platinum curls and framed by the deep V-cut of his hips, Quirrell thought that it was safe to say that Voldemort definitely had the prettiest cock he’d ever seen. A burst of courage seized Quirrell. Here goes nothing. “W-Well…since you’re dizzy, what do you say you let me take c-care of you, huh?” He slunk over to rest between Voldemort’s legs, his hands trailing up the other’s thighs suggestively.

Quirrell smiled as Voldemort’s eyes lit up with desire, but then the other frowned. “What about you, though? As much as I’d love to pick up where we left off, I really don’t think I can right now.” A devastated sigh escaped Voldemort’s lips.

He rubbed his palms over Voldemort’s smooth thighs – the man had a surprisingly small amount of body hair, which only helped cement Quirrell’s belief that his boyfriend was a chiselled statue come to life – and reassured him, “That’s okay, we can do more together once you’ve r-recovered. For now, I just want to make you f-feel good. Please, baby, c-can I?”

He watched as Voldemort’s eyes glazed over with lust and he nodded dumbly. With a smile, Quirrell reached down and grasped him in his fist. Slow, languid strokes coaxed the other back to hardness. Voldemort moaned softly, taking care to not hit his head once more.

Unable to resist any longer, Quirrell crouched down, ass up in the air as he leaned down to lick a stripe up his cock. “F-Fuck!” Voldemort stuttered out a moan as he eyes flew open to watch Quirrell. The brunette grinned lasciviously before sinking his mouth down over the other, not stopping until his nose was buried in those platinum curls. “Oh fuck, Quirrell, you have no idea how fucking hot you look right now.” Quirrell hummed in response, the reverberations drawing out another slew of swears from the other.  

“Squirrel, can…can I?” Quirrell peered upwards to see Voldemort’s hand hovering uncertainly above his head. He nodded eagerly in response, well, as much as he could nod with a cock in his mouth. Quirrell purred contentedly as Voldemort’s fingers sunk into his hair, gripping his locks firmly but not painfully.

As he bobbed his head vigorously, Quirrell’s hand snaked downwards to grab his own leaking cock, moaning at the touch. Voldemort panted, “I’m- fuck, I’m close, Quirrell.”

Quirrell redoubled his efforts, going deeper and faster, swirling his tongue around the head in a way that made Voldemort’s hips stutter with strain of holding back from thrusting into his mouth. He pumped his cock harder, his hand flying and twisting and stroking in all the ways he’d learnt since he first hit puberty.

“I- Fuck!” With a bitten off shout, Voldemort’s back arched beautifully as he came down Quirrell’s throat, spurting load after load. A split second after, Quirrell fell over the edge as well, the glorious sight of Voldemort coming was too much to bear. His hips jerked as he emptied himself onto the ground, moaning around the cock in his mouth that was still weakly spurting.

With a sigh, Quirrell slumped bonelessly over Voldemort, draping himself over his lap like a sun-bathing feline. Voldemort said breathlessly, “Wow, that was…wow.”

Quirrell chuckled softly, before leaning up to join their lips. To his surprise, instead of wrinkling his nose and refusing, Voldemort kissed him passionately, his hand brushing gently over his cheekbone.

Minutes or hours could’ve passed while they stayed locked in their embrace, lazily trading kisses while holding each other gently. Quirrell couldn’t keep track of something as insignificant as time when his world had shrank down to Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort. Eventually though, as all things do, the moment came to an end.

“Oh, we are filthy. We definitely need a shower.” Voldemort complained when their sweat cooled and the stickiness of their flesh became much too obvious.

Quirrell whined in protest. He was so comfy where he was, he didn’t want to go out for a shower!

Voldemort said sternly, “Quirrell. This is not a request. We are not, and I repeat, not going to sleep covered in sweat and cum. I refuse. Now, get your cute ass up. We’re going to take a shower.”

The brunette groaned before getting up, carefully avoiding the spot where he’d blown his load. Eurgh. He was definitely gonna have to clean that up, judging by the glint in Voldemort’s eyes as he noticed the mess.

A wave of affection washed over him at this adorable, clean-freak of a man. God, he’s perfect. He stole one more kiss from Voldemort before pulling on his clothes.

Chapter Text

Voldemort woke slowly, drifting slowly out of the pleasant haze of sleep. The source of his transition from asleep to awake made itself known once more, in the form of an errant brunette curl tickling his nose.

A much too sappy smile graced his face. Quirrell. His arms tightened involuntarily around the slighter man burrowed against his chest, loving the feel of his boyfriend cuddled against him. A pleasant warmth enveloped him. The past month and a half since they’d admitted their feelings for each other were undoubtedly the best time of his life. And it was all due to the very man drooling slightly on his shoulder.

Wait, drooling?!

He stifled the urge to cringe. He’d been trying to be less…Voldemort about all the germ-y stuff when said stuff came from Quirrell. The key word was trying. As Quirrell would undoubtedly point out, he’d had very limited success in his endeavour. Still, as much as his clean-freakishness amused Quirrell, he knew that the other appreciated his efforts to let some uncleanliness get away scot-free. He sighed in resignation, ignoring the drool (Oh dear sweet god, save me) to run his hand gently through the other’s hair.

It was then that Quirrell stirred, pink pouty lips opening into an ‘O’ as he yawned gently. Slowly, his eyes blinked open, revealing his large brown eyes. He’s a literal fucking bambi, for Zefron’s sake. Voldemort grinned down at him, “Morning, Squirrel.”

In a sleepy, gravelly tone, Quirrell replied, “Morning.”

Well, fuck him if that surprisingly rough tone didn’t do wonders for waking Voldemort up. Waking up specific parts of him, to be exact. He leaned forward to capture his cellmate’s lips in a lazy kiss, slow and languid like Sunday morning. Hah. Ironic, considering it was morning and it was indeed a Sunday. Quirrell responded in kind, his supple lips sliding smoothly across his.

After a few minutes lost in each other, Voldemort ended the kiss regretfully with a light peck. “Come on, we have a big day ahead of us.”

Quirrell’s eyes widened as he perked up. “R-Right! The cast is finally coming off today.”

Voldemort nodded in response, his eyes shining with excitement. Finally, after weeks of having to do everything one-handedly, he was regaining use of his other arm. And Voldemort. Had. A. Plan.

He’d been plotting for weeks. The thing was, Voldemort lov really liked what he had with Quirrell. Quirrell made him smile, made him laugh, made him feel all sorts of things he honestly never thought himself capable of. Like- literally, never in a million, trillion, fucking gazillion years. And that was why it pained him so much to see Quirrell’s eyes dim ever so slightly each time Voldemort withdrew his hand from his or flinched away from Quirrell’s unintentionally intimate touches when they weren’t alone. He knew that Quirrell always tried to hide it, pasting on a large smile to cover up the hurt -- the way Voldemort hurt him.

And so, Voldemort had decided to enact a plan. He’d given himself the past six weeks to mentally prepare himself, slowly overcoming more than two decades’ worth of internalized repression, he parroted to himself in the snotty tone of one of those stupid therapists he’d seen on daytime TV. It had been hard, working up the courage to make this decision. But, he told himself, it’ll be worth it. For Quirrell. And the day for courage had finally arrived.  

Voldemort sat in silence as the buzzy saw-like thingy -- Okay, sue him, he didn’t exactly know what that weird little contraption was called, goddamn it -- made its way across his cast. Damn, that thing looked lethal. Voldemort eyed it warily. He huffed a small sigh of relief when McGonagall put down the saw. His eyes flicked up briefly to Quirrell, who gave him a reassuring smile.

His leg jumped impatiently as the MO took her goddamn sweet time spreading the cut edges open, before bringing in a scissors to finish the job. With one last snip, the cast sagged open, allowing her to tug it gently away from his newly freed arm.

Voldemort grinned broadly, unable to hold back his happiness. At last! FREEDOM! He waved his hand through the air in amazement, slicing loops into the space. Quirrell giggled at his antics, causing Voldemort to double his efforts, swanning his hand through the air with flourish.

“Not so fast, Bruce Lee. Take it easy on your arm. It’s gonna take some time for it to get back to normal.” McGonagall levelled him with her signature deadpan stare.

He stilled his movements, lowering his arm sheepishly. Suitably chastised, he nodded silently. Pursing her lips in displeasure, probably at the mere concept of his existence, she turned heel and left them alone in the infirmary.

“So, how does it f-feel to be free of that thing?” Quirrell pointed at the discarded cast.

Voldemort smiled. “Feels pretty fucking weird, actually. But good weird. And…” He took Quirrell’s hand in his own newly freed one. Time to be brave. “I promised myself that this was going to be the first thing I did after getting the cast removed.”

With his heart thudding loudly in his ribcage, he tugged Quirrell towards the door with a smile. Quirrell frowned confusedly when he didn’t peek surreptitiously around the hallway as he normally did, instead keeping his hand firmly clasped around the other’s as they left the infirmary.

Quirrell planted his feet to the ground, grounding them to a halt. “Wha- Voldemort, what are you d-doing? Aren’t you afraid that people are going to s-see?”

Voldemort sighed, before turning towards him earnestly. “Look, I know I’ve been scared of being open about our relationship but…I don’t wanna do that anymore. I- I’m really happy with you, Squirrel, and I don’t want to hide that -- I wanna be proud of what we have. I wanna scream out to the world that I am totally and completely into Quirinus fucking Quirrell!”

Quirrell blushed prettily at his declaration. “A-Are you sure, Voldemort?”

“Yes!” His eyes shone with sincerity. “I’m sure, Quirrell. But…only if you are too, though.” His tone lilted up slightly in uncertainty. He was pretty sure Quirrell had been raring and ready to go public since Day One, but one could never be too sure.

The brunette snorted in amusement. “Of course, I am, you idiot.” His adoring expression betrayed his not-so-adoring words as he tightened his hold on Voldemort’s hand.

Voldemort beamed, his chest glowing with happiness. With twin smiles, they marched forward, hand in hand, ready to show the world just how much they meant to each other.

The hallways of Azkaban had never been so silent. Every single head in the place swivelled towards them, eyes bulging as they caught sight of their linked palms. Voldemort ignored the rush of unease that swept through him, the kneejerk reaction of no no no hide hide hide that prickled his skin. Instead, he focused on the warmth of Quirrell’s palm, the way his boyfriend’s eyes had sparkled with joy when he’d grabbed his hand and didn’t let go. He pasted a wide smirk onto his face, staring their audience right in their eyes, refusing to cower. I’ll be damned if they make me feel bad about the one fucking good thing in my life.

He squared his shoulders as he sauntered onwards, not letting them see even an inch of anxiety. A quick glance towards Quirrell showed that the other man was doing the same, an uncharacteristic confidence filling out his frame.

Thank Zefron that the image of him and Quirrell swanning about holding hands seemed to have struck their audience speechless. He didn’t know what he would’ve done if someone had come up to them and thrown insults. Kill them, probably.

The pin-drop silence followed them as they made their way back to their cell. On the way, Dumbfuck caught his eye, giving them a small, encouraging smile. Ah shit. He really doesn’t deserve to be called that anymore, does he? God fucking damn it. He gritted his teeth. Fine. He returned a single nod to Dumbledore in response.

Then, finally, the door of their cell was in sight. He had to mercilessly beat down the urge to quicken his pace. Don’t let them see that they get to you. With a small squeeze to Quirrell’s hand, he lingered at the doorway for a moment, before sending a cheeky wink to the open-mouthed masses on an impulse. Then, he darted in after Quirrell, slamming the door behind them with a loud clang.

He and Quirrell stared at each other for a moment, before they burst into shaky, breathless laughter. “I- I can’t believe you d-did that!” Quirrell gasped with an incredulous smile.

Voldemort shrugged. With a chuckle, he said, “I just- I didn’t want them to think that their opinions mattered to me. So, I did all I could think of to make sure they knew I don’t give two fucks about what they think of us. All that matters, is you.”

Quirrell’s face melted into a soft smile. “Now, who’s the sappy one?” He teased.

Voldemort gasped in mock outrage, but allowed Quirrell to tug him closer into a gentle kiss. He enjoyed the slow slide of their lips before pulling away with a quick “Wait, hold on.” He grabbed an old shirt and strode over to the door to drape it over the small window. “There. Now that everyone knows about us, we don’t really have to hide the fact that we’re, you know, getting it on. Just gotta make sure we get some privacy from any creepy old perverts.”

Quirrell smiled fondly at him, “Do not talk to me about creepy old perverts when I’m trying to kiss you. Get b-back here, you.” With a wolfish grin, Voldemort sauntered back to Quirrell, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. He nudged the other backwards gently until they reached his bed. With one last push, Quirrell’s knees hit the bed and folded, causing him to fall backwards with a gasp.

Voldemort grinned wickedly as he climbed over Quirrell, pinning him to the bed. Hovering over him, he asked, “Am I still...sappy to you?”

Quirrell recovered quickly from his unexpected fall and smirked. “Of course, you are.”

Growling, Voldemort leaned forward to kiss his neck, laving his tongue over the spot he knew drove the other crazy. “How about now?”

It took him a while to respond in a more breathless tone, “Yeah, you’re a total sap- Ohhh.” Quirrell’s answer dissolved into a moan as Voldemort bit gently into his neck, sending tingles shooting through his nerve endings.

Voldemort pulled back from his neck and smirked roguishly. “You were saying?”

Quirrell glared, “Oh, shut up and kiss me already.” With a hand at the nape of his neck, the brunette pulled him down into a bruising kiss. Voldemort moaned happily into the kiss as he slid his hands underneath Quirrell’s shirt, trailing over the lithe muscles in delight. Disconnecting briefly, he pulled Quirrell’s shirt over his head, before yanking his own off in a swift motion.

He felt the brunette’s lips turn upwards into a smile as the other ran his hands over Voldemort’s hard-earned abs, before rolling a nipple between his fingers. The motion sent a frisson of pleasure through Voldemort’s spine and he felt himself harden in his trousers.

“Off, off,” he muttered, rushing to strip them both of their pants. He couldn’t help himself; Quirrell was just so fucking irresistible. Now fully divested of clothing, Voldemort took the opportunity to thrust his hips against the other’s, both of them moaning at the feel of their bare skin coming into delicious contact with each other.

With only one intent in mind, Voldemort kissed his way down Quirrell’s chest, making sure to pay special attention to his two dark pink nubs. Finally, he reached his prize, hanging heavily between Quirrell’s thighs. He bit his lip in anticipation. Deliberately, he looked up to lock eyes with Quirrell as he oh-so-slowly sank his mouth over the other’s leaking cock. Quirrell gasped, biting his fist to keep his moans in.

Maintaining eye contact, Voldemort bobbed his head, slowly working his way down his shaft until his nose was buried in the thatch of brunette curls. Evening out his breathing and relaxing, he didn’t flinch when he felt the head of Quirrell’s cock hit the back of his throat. A strangled moan sounded from the brunette. Having built up a fair bit of saliva, he pulled up with more ease, before sinking back down. He swirled his tongue around his cock, laving patterns across the hardened flesh.

Finally, he pulled off with an obscene ‘pop’, before darting back to lick a long stripe over the underside of his cock. He looked at Quirrell with a question in his eyes. Immediately, Quirrell nodded vigorously. “Yes, please, yes, fuck.” God, he sounded absolutely wrecked.

Voldemort reached down to grab his bottle of lube from their little hiding spot and squirted some onto his fingers. While rubbing his fingers to warm up the lube, he enveloped Quirrell’s cock in the warm heat of his mouth once more, suckling on his blushing head. Slowly, he teased his rim before gently working one finger in. Glancing up, he saw Quirrell staring down at him, open-mouthed and flushed with pleasure. Fuck, he’s beautiful.

Now, he was even more glad that they didn’t have to hide their relationship anymore, if it meant that he could see Quirrell like this. No more fumbling in the dark after lights out or hiding in the cramped corner of the cell. Now, he could lay Quirrell out on the bed like he deserved and take his time to watch him fall apart.

Working another finger in, he scissored them, searching for that spot. He knew he’d found it when Quirrell seized up like he’d been electrocuted. “Fuck-” A bitten off moan escaped his lips. Now directing all his attention to that spot, Voldemort worked a third finger in, pumping them in and out slightly. Quirrell keened, his eyes glazed over. “Fuck, fuck, Voldemort please, just fuck me. I wanna c-come with your cock in me.”

Fuck. Me. Voldemort felt a wave of heat flare in him at his boyfriend’s words. Not needing further encouragement, he lubed up his own weeping cock, sighing at the small relief that each stroke gave him. He opened his eyes to see Quirrell watching him with hunger, biting his bottom lip in a way that drove Voldemort mad. Swooping down to capture that kissable pout, Voldemort lined up his cock before easing in slowly. Quirrell swallowed his moan with his lips.

Finally, he bottomed out, his chest heaving with the strain of staying still. He ran a hand over Quirrell’s arm in a soothing motion until he felt the tension in Quirrell’s shoulders ease. Then, he began thrusting slowly, pulling out slightly, before sliding back in. Gradually, he picked up the pace, speeding up his thrusts as they moaned together in tandem. He pulled out until just the tip of his cock was left in Quirrell, before driving forward to bury himself deeply. Quirrell screamed into his shoulder as Voldemort hit his prostate.

Grinning widely, he repeated the motion, slamming repeatedly against the spot, again and again, until Quirrell was practically sobbing. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Voldemort, you feel so good, fuck,” Quirrell moaned into his mouth. Voldemort watched lustfully as Quirrell’s cock bounced against his stomach in time with his thrusts, flushed and weeping.

Voldemort panted harshly against the brunette’s lips as he felt pleasure building in the base of his spine. Fuck, he knew he wasn’t gonna last much longer. “Fuck, Quirrell, how are you so fucking good,” he moaned.

“V-Voldemort, I think- I’m so fucking close, please, don’t stop,” he begged.

Voldemort kept going, aiming every thrust precisely at his prostate, while reaching down to grasp Quirrell’s cock in his hand. With just a few pumps, Quirrell was gone. He came with a choked noise, his entire body shuddering in pleasure as milky white spilled over Voldemort’s hand and onto his chest.

The sight of Quirrell falling apart and the spasms around his cock were too much for Voldemort to take. With a bitten off yell, he buried himself deep in the other, spurting load after load into Quirrell. Finally spent, he pulled out and collapsed beside the brunette bonelessly.

Turning his head, he found Quirrell already watching him with a soft look in his eyes. Voldemort leaned forward to kiss him gently, feeling his affection for him bubble up effervescently in his chest. He sighed contentedly, leaning his forehead against the other’s to stare happily into those chocolate brown eyes.

So, of course it hit Voldemort like a truck full of surprise! when Quirrell opened his mouth and said,

“I love you.”

Voldemort froze. What. He must have misheard, there’s no way that Quirrell said I lo-

Quirrell giggled, a beautiful sound of pure joy. “I love you,” He repeated with conviction.

He remained mute, shock turning him into a frozen statue with eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Quirrell smiled adoringly at him. “I mean it, I love you. I’m not just saying this because we just had mind-blowing sex, I really do m-mean it.”

“I… I…” Oh, for fuck’s sake, now I’ve turned into a braindead fool.

“It’s okay,” Quirrell smiled in understanding. “I didn’t tell you I love you to pressure you into saying it back. I told you because it’s t-true. Because today, you were so brave. You overcame years of fear for me. So, I f-figured that if you were brave enough to do that, I should be brave enough to tell you how I feel about you.”

He stroked his fingers across Voldemort’s cheek, gently brushing back a stray lock of hair. “Don’t worry about saying it back, okay? I just h-had to tell you how much I love you. I couldn’t keep it in any longer.”

Voldemort felt stunned to the core. His mouth closed with an audible snap. He’d…he’d never considered this a possibility. Love. As strange and alien a concept as, well, aliens! But…looking into Quirrell’s eyes, he truly could find no hint of deceit. Sincerity poured from the other man. Which made no fucking sense because he’s talking about being in love with me. Love. Voldemort. Two words which had no right in being put together in the same sentence.

“No one… No one’s ever told me they love me before,” Voldemort whispered in shame, casting his eyes downwards. “Are- Are you sure? Maybe… Maybe you’re just confused.”

To his shock, Quirrell’s eyes turned from soft to molten pools of fierceness. “Yes, I’m sure. I fucking love you, and I will not h-hear of you talking about yourself in that way, as if you’re some sort of…s-some sort of unlovable person. Because you’re not,” His eyed burned heavily into Voldemort’s. “You’re not unlovable, Voldemort.”

His expression softened when Voldemort peered up hesitantly to meet his gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I love you, Voldemort. And I will say it as many times as needed until it gets through that th-thick skull of yours.” He nudged his temple playfully with his knuckle.

That prompted a watery chuckle from Voldemort and he finally relaxed, the tension seeping out of him. Could he really love me?  He bit his lip, before smiling softly at Quirrell.

“…Okay.” He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

The past week or so since he and Voldemort had revealed their relationship to the unwitting populace had been- strange, to say the least. It was somehow completely different from before, and yet, exactly the same.

For the two of them, coming out had lifted the gut-wrenching fear that had formed heavy manacles around their ankles, and for the first time, they were able to walk freely. And walk freely, they did. Voldemort never missed an opportunity to hold his hand ever again, which would always make Quirrell blush madly without fail. It didn’t help that Voldemort would always tease him mercilessly about his reddened cheeks, the bastard.

All that weight lifted off them also brought them undeniably closer than before. Hell, he even confessed his love to Voldemort on the very day that they went public, the time since then feeling like a blur of soft touches and whispered words of affection. Quirrell sighed contentedly, a lovesick grin finding its way onto his face.

However, the reception from their fellow inmates were rather…mixed. Some, after recovering from the absolute shock that had befallen them, picked their jaws up and turned the other way, not really caring to make a fuss of anything. Others…not so much. Thankfully, no one had the balls to actually do anything thus far, but the heated glares of disgust thrown their way were more than indicative of their displeasure. Quirrell sighed again; this time, not out of happiness.

It was still more than he could’ve ever hoped for, though. Glares and sneers: he could handle. For flower’s sake, he’d been bullied for over half his lifetime, so it was just par for the course, really. He couldn’t help but worry about how Voldemort was handling all of it, however.

While Quirrell may have been used to people treating him like his sexuality was the only defining aspect of his personality, Voldemort had been wearing a mask for years. To finally reveal his true self and be subject to the cruel judgement of others? Well, Quirrell could only imagine what he was going through. Nonetheless, he tried his best to be there for him, squeezing his hand when the stares got too much or distracting him with a debate on which was the best Zefron movie -- Quirrell was a staunch advocate for Baywatch because those gleaming muscles, but Voldemort insisted on High School Musical being the eternal number one. Thus far, it seems to have worked, thank goodness for small mercies.

So, yeah, the past week or so had been strange, no doubt about that. But Quirrell wouldn’t trade it for the world. He and Voldemort were finally free to be themselves and openly express their love -- at least, his love -- for each other.

He was jolted out of his musings by a pained groan coming from none other than the star of his daydreams. “Squirrelllll…Quit doing that,” Voldemort whined.

Hmm? Quirrell’s eyebrows rose in confusion before the realization hit. While daydreaming, he’d been unconsciously sucking on his pudding spoon like his life depended on it. Clearly, his oral ministrations had not gone unnoticed by his boyfriend. Ha! The pudding strikes again!

Quirrell blinked innocently. “Stop doing what?” He pulled the spoon free from his mouth with a lewd ‘pop’ sound.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, you cheeky bastard.”

Shrugging nonchalantly, Quirrell sniffed daintily. “I haven’t the faintest idea, my dear,” he replied, all while scooping another heap of pudding into his mouth, accompanied by his tongue peeking out to trail along the rim of the spoon.

Voldemort made a sound like he’d been punched ruthlessly in the gut.

Quirrell hid his smile behind the pudding cup, his cheeks heating up. No one had ever made him feel as wanted and beautiful as Voldemort did. Ever since their first attempt at sex, Voldemort made it point to always shower him with compliments and very explicit descriptions of just how sexy he found Quirrell. With a flushed face, Quirrell admitted to himself that he had begun to develop a praise kink of sorts.

“Quirrell, stop, please. We’re in the middle of the cafeteria right now, you tease,” Voldemort chided. Quirrell giggled but conceded, dropping the spoon into the now empty cup. Smiling fondly at his antics, Voldemort said, “I’m gonna badger Filch for more pudding. You want one?” He pursed his lips, considering for a moment, before shaking his head.

As he watched Voldemort stroll off, a loony grin on his face, a wave of contentment washed over him. A wave, that was rudely interrupted by the sudden thud of a tray hitting a table. Quirrell glanced up, startled by the loud noise. Seated two tables away from him, a man scowled over his food at him.

Quirrell sighed heavily. Yet another homophobe that just couldn’t stand to see them be happy together. He averted his gaze from the stranger’s stony glare, fiddling aimlessly with the empty pudding cup.

At least Voldemort isn’t here to witness this asshole trying to burn holes into me with his eyes. The last thing he wanted was for Voldemort to end up fighting these kinds of guys. Ever since the Library Fiasco, Quirrell had grown somewhat protective over Voldemort, convinced that he was going to fall into mortal danger every time he turned his back.

Though, a small niggle at the back of his mind told him that he was familiar somehow, like he’d seen him before or knew him in some way. But no matter how many surreptitious glances he snuck, the details escaped him like an elusive devil.

Before he could ponder the mystery further, Voldemort returned, blocking his view of the table. “Pudding!” He exclaimed brightly. Distracted from the strange man, Quirrell’s lip twitched as he watched his boyfriend dig in with gusto.

Voldemort flopped bonelessly onto the bed, exhausted after several rounds of rather enthusiastic love-making. Next to him, Quirrell tucked his head into his sweaty shoulder, small puffs of breath tickling his skin.

“So, Lucius should be by at the end of the week.”

Like a bedraggled woodland creature, Quirrell’s unruly brunette head popped up from his shoulder. “Excuse me? I just gave you like, f-four orgasms and the first thing that comes to mind is Lucius?”

Voldemort’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake. Oh shit. He quickly sat up and ran a soothing hand over the other’s mussed hair. “No, no! I was just thinking that we’re going to be free soon, together. I’m just excited, that’s all.”

Quirrell narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing him. Voldemort gulped audibly. Then, Quirrell’s hackles lowered and he sank bank onto his chest, laying his head gently down on him. “I’m looking f-forward to it too, I am, but…”

Furrowing his brows in confusion, Voldemort asked, “But? What’s wrong, Squirrel?”

The brunette sighed. “I…I’m just w-worried. Worried that when we’re out of Azkaban, things won’t be the s-same between us, you know?” Voldemort let out a befuddled grunt. Quirrell huffed and sat up, depriving Voldemort of his comforting weight. His hands twitched as he resisted the urge to make grabby hands at his boyfriend.

Quirrell looked down solemnly at his hands. “I just- What if we only work because we’re in p-prison? Because we don’t exactly have many options. Maybe- maybe after we escape, we won’t…w-want to be together anymore. Maybe we’re going to want other people.”

Voldemort sat up too, panic effusing his entire being. “Is- is that what you want? To be with other people?”

“No!” Quirrell exclaimed a little too loudly for a time past lights-out. “No,” he repeated more softly. “I love you, Voldemort, of c-course I don’t want anyone else. But…things aren’t going to be the same after we leave. You’re going to have all these Death Eaters th-throwing themselves at you and- and what about the drug business? Are you going to go back to that? Where do I f-fit into your life post-Azkaban?”

Voldemort stared at him, shocked. He had no idea that these fears had been eating away at Quirrell. Guilt surged through him as he noted Quirrell’s slumped shoulders, the insecurity plain as day in his eyes. “Quirrell…” he breathed. I love you. “I…care about you. So much.” Pussy, he scolded himself.

“I promise you that nothing is going to change between us. I promise. I only want you. I need you Quirrell, and I’m not going to fuck off with some Death Eater the moment we escape. You’re my…everything. And as for the business, I don’t know. I haven’t actually thought about it in ages. But whatever happens, I’m not leaving you, okay?” Voldemort leaned forward to touch his forehead to Quirrell’s staring deeply into his brown eyes as if coming closer would drive his point home further. “We’re in this for the long-run, okay, Squirrel? Just you and me,” he whispered.

Quirrell’s eyes searched his, uncertainty flickering between his irises before conviction took hold. “Okay,” he breathed, “I believe you. J-Just you and me, Voldemort.” His lips turned up into a slightly watery smile which Voldemort mirrored. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around the smaller man’s body, hugging him tightly like he would disappear if he didn’t keep him tethered.

“You know, speaking of the business, what kind of fucking idiot calls a drug Floo Powder? What, did they source My Little Pony for a name like that?”

His question broke the tension in the cell like a hot knife through butter. Quirrell giggled, recalling his confession about the absurdly named drug that he was framed for circulating around the school. “I don’t know, I think the kids l-liked that kind of name.”

Voldemort scoffed, “Bah! Whoever was selling those drugs was clearly a shithead. I mean, come on. Floo Powder? Before I got arrested, I was working on a new product that I’d planned to call Nagini, after my pet snake. Now that is a badass name.”

“Of course, that’s the b-best name,” Quirrell crooned somewhat patronizingly with a smirk.

Voldemort squinted at his boyfriend, offended. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I would’ve made bank with Nagini, okay? I got sent on some seriously wild trips with that one.”

Quirrell chuckled, “Sure, sure. What happened with Nagini after you got put away? Did any of your Death Eaters help to sell it?”

He shook his head in response. “Nah, it wasn’t quite ready for the market yet, it still needed a few tweaks. The only reason it hadn’t killed me when I tried it was because my body’s so fucked up from all the shit I’ve put in it already.”

Quirrell sat up, alarmed, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“Relax, Squirrel. I was fine.” He waved hand airily. “Besides, they couldn’t sell it anyway, because none of them knew where my stash was -- I usually tried to keep them hidden in case those nitwits got any delusions of going solo.” Then, he frowned. Hold on. “Hmm…wait, no, there was- one Death Eater who knew where Nagini was. But he wouldn’t have- he couldn’t- he…” The blood drained from his face as he sprang up. “Fuck.”

“Voldemort?” Quirrell questioned, alarmed at his stunned silence.

Meanwhile, Voldemort’s head was spinning. It couldn’t be, could it? Snape was one of his most loyal Death Eaters, had been with him since the early days, part of his inner circle. It simply couldn’t be!

But…it all made sense. Snape was the one who set up the deal at that warehouse for him, yet was mysteriously absent when the deal went down. Snape was the only one who knew where he had kept Nagini. Snape, with his ungodly greasy hair and weird fucking nose and the most goddamn nasal voice on the whole fucking planet, which practically screamed suspicious. Fucking Snape!

Quirrell was getting increasingly worried, waving his hands frantically around Voldemort’s face to get a response. “V-Voldemort? What’s w-wrong? Are you okay? Are you having an aneurysm? A-Answer me!”

Voldemort caught his hands gently, staring dazed at the other. “I…Fuck. I know who did it now. Why I’m here. It was- It was one of my Death Eaters. He did this to me. He set me up and then stole my stash. I- What the fuck.”

Quirrell’s expression softened considerably and he breathed out, “Oh.” Then, he cooed softly, gently tugging Voldemort down to rest his head on his chest, running his fingers through his blonde locks. “I’m so sorry, Voldemort. It must h-hurt to have someone you trusted betray you like that.”

Voldemort sighed heavily, “I just- I knew someone had betrayed me when I got arrested, I fucking knew. But I was never able to figure it out and I kind of resigned myself to never know who it was, but…now that I know?” He drew aimless circles over Quirrell’s chest, before sighing again. “I don’t know how to feel. Should I be relieved that the mystery’s solved? Or should be I be very fucking pissed at Snape and dream about flaying him alive? Fucking hell. How the fuck didn’t I realize it was him sooner? Severus Snape! I never would’ve thought it was him. Honestly, I thought it would’ve been Pettigrew, that sneaky rat-”

“Wait, did you just- did you say Severus Snape?” Quirrell interrupted his musing with an incredulous tone.

Frowning in confusion, Voldemort replied, “Um, yeah…Why?”

“There was a- No, it’s probably not- But the timing of it-”

His frown even deeper than before, Voldemort demanded, “What? What is it, Quirrell?”

Quirrell sucked his lip in, chewing on it in deliberation. “I…There was a new teacher at Hogwarts who went by the n-name Severus Snape. He started about two months b-before I was arrested. Black, greasy hair, almost sh-shoulder-length? A hooked nose? Does this r-ring any bells?”

Mouth agape, Voldemort stared at him. Holy shit. His jaws closed with an audible click. “…Yeah. That’s him. Severus fucking Snape.”

Then, he gasped loudly as a thought occurred to him. Hold on, what if… It can’t just be a coincidence right? Snape’s a two-faced buttfuck who stole my drugs and then the school he works at has a drug problem? It has to be connected.

“Quirrell! What did the Floo Powder-” he shuddered as he uttered the horrific name, “-look like? Was it a bright green colour, kind of like that evil dragon-witch lady from Pretty Sleepy?”

Quirrell squinted at him. “Do you mean…Maleficent, from the D-Disney movie, Sleeping Beauty?”

Voldemort snapped his fingers in triumph. “Yes! That! Magnificent!”

“Malefi- Never mind,” Quirrell flapped his hand, “But yes, Floo Powder looked exactly like th-that…why?”

Voldemort looked at him solemnly, his jaw clenched tightly. “Nagini.”

Quirrell’s brows furrowed for half a second before they levelled out and then climbed into his hairline. Eyes wide, he echoed, “Nagini.”

Voldemort buried his face in his palms, groaning. “Oh my Zefron, I’m so sorry, Quirrell. It was my product that got you arrested. It was my product that killed all those kids, fuck.” Guilt coursed through his veins, thinking about all the devastation wreaked by Nagini. It was all his fault. Fuck, Quirrell was framed because of him, he did this to him.

He startled when Quirrell gently pried his hands away from his face, staring at the other with wide eyes. “V-Voldemort, it’s not your fault. It’s Snape’s. He’s the one responsible for everything: m-my arrest, your arrest, e-everything. I don’t blame you, I could n-never.”

Voldemort protested, “But it was my dr-”

Quirrell cut him off, “But he sold it. H-He made the decision to steal it from you and give it to k-kids. We were both screwed because of him. You’re a v-victim too, Voldemort. It wasn’t your f-fault.”

He stared at Quirrell, his eyes shining and his lip trembling. Quirrell doesn’t blame me? His head swam as he tried to wrap it around the concept. It just didn’t make any sense. Quirrell was framed because of his product. Quirrell should be hating him and swearing vengeance on his forefathers right about now! Instead, here he was, consoling him and reassuring him about his faultlessness.

Voldemort opened his mouth again, a defiant glint his eyes, ready to protest once more, when Quirrell crushed his lips to his. His words were swallowed by the bruising kiss, which quickly softened to a sweet caress, soft brushes of their lips against each other. As Quirrell pressed feather-light touches to his lips, he whispered between kisses, “I.” kiss “Do.” kiss “Not.” kiss “Blame.” kiss “You.”

Quirrell pulled back slightly to look him in the eyes, deeply and sincerely. “Please, p-please, don’t blame yourself. I don’t want this to eat away at you. I don’t want th-this to hang over our relationship, because it wasn’t your fault. O-Okay?”

Voldemort leaned in to touch his forehead to the other’s, inhaling deeply, before nodding. “Okay,” he brushed a thumb over Quirrell’s cheek. “Okay.”

The responding smile that Quirrell gave him made his chest glow with warmth, his own lips tugging up unconsciously. Fuck, I love him so much.

And, he thought to himself as his grin turned somewhat shark-like, I am so going to murder the shit out of Snape.

Voldemort sauntered into the shower room before him, giving Quirrell the opportunity to eye the very delicious behind of his boyfriend. At least until said boyfriend turned around before Quirrell could direct his eyeline elsewhere, leaving him to suffer the full intensity of Voldemort’s knowing smirk. Which, coincidentally, was also unbearably sexy. God save his soul.

“Eyeing the goods, are we?” Voldemort, the cheeky bastard, delivered a light tap to his buttock.

Red flooded Quirrell’s face, “Wha- No. W-why would you think that-”

Voldemort raised a single brow.

“…Okay, f-fine. I was. What’s wrong with ch-checking out my boyfriend?” He admitted defensively.

“Nothing! I was just asking because I thought maybe you’d want more than just this…visual feast.” Voldemort said, with a salacious waggle of his eyebrows and a wave down his feast of a body.

Based on the unsubtle glances towards the empty shower room -- they usually picked times when they knew there wouldn’t be many around, though a total absence of others was a pleasant treat -- Quirrell had a sneaking suspicion of what “more” entailed. He reddened immediately, “V-Voldemort! People could come in at any time; it’s too risky!”

Unfortunately, this only seemed to spur the other on. His lips twitched into a playful smirk as he stalked forward to invade Quirrell’s space. “Come on, Quirrell, live a little! What’s life without some risk, hmm?” Voldemort bit down on his bottom lip as his gaze caressed Quirrell’s form so intimately that it made him shiver.

With a jerk, he realized that he’d been unconsciously swaying forward, leaning towards Voldemort’s intoxicating presence. “No,” he said firmly, “We are n-not having sex in the shower.”

Voldemort stepped back, withdrawing his enticing scent from him, much to Quirrell’s relief. He pouted adorably.

An idea sprung to life in his head. “Besides, do you r-really wanna do that in a place where hundreds have been in? It’s so very unsanitary and unhygienic, isn’t it?” A teasing smile lingered over his lips.

He knew he’d won when a grimace of disgust spread over Voldemort’s face. “Ugh. Yeah, didn’t think about that.” Quirrell smiled fondly at his boyfriend.

“Ah, shit.” He looked over curiously at Voldemort’s exclamation. “My towel is dirty; I’ll have to go back to get a new one. I’ll be back in a few, okay, Squirrel?”

Humming his acquiescence, Quirrell leaned over to give him a quick peck, smiling when Voldemort deepened the kiss and got a little too handsy. Delicately removing his hand from his ass, Quirrell chided, “Down, boy. Go on, th-then. I’ll see you soon.”

Over the sound of Voldemort’s retreating footsteps, he flipped on the tap and flinched at the torrent of icy water flung mercilessly at him, pattering to the floor thunderously. Luckily, it didn’t take long for the water to heat up, though it only ever went to luke-warm.

Quirrell stepped under the stream, sighing. One thing he missed about the real world was being able to turn the heat up to a nice, almost-scalding temperature. And baths! Oh dear flower god, baths. He then blushed furiously as the image of him and Voldemort in a clawfoot tub rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden. He imagined dragging a soapy sponge over that chiselled chest, and then dipping his hand underneath the bubbles to soap up another part of Voldemort that he very much liked.

So caught up in his lusty daydreams, Quirrell was startled when his ears picked up on the approaching footsteps. “Oh, th-that was fast. Did you get your towel…”

He trailed off when he turned around and saw someone who was not his boyfriend. A small “eep!” escaped his lips and his hands darted down to cover himself, though he was sure that the other must’ve already gotten more than an eyeful.

“Well, well, well…” The man drawled in a deep voice, crossing his considerable arms over his chest.

Heart pounding in his chest, Quirrell gulped nervously. “…Um, h-hi?”

Chapter Text

“Well, well, well…” The man spoke in a deep voice, crossing his considerable arms over his chest.

Heart pounding in his chest, Quirrell gulped nervously. “…Um, h-hi?”

The man standing before him looked familiar; Quirrell could’ve sworn he’d seen him before. As the other inmate stared at him with a sharp smile, all teeth and gums bared threateningly at him, Quirrell inhaled sharply as the dots connected in his brain.

The stranger from the cafeteria. Dolores “Mama” Umbridge. Arrested a year or so before him for a string of murders. Their victims were young, old, rich, poor, of every gender and race. These victims only held one commonality: they were deemed “abnormal” and needed to be “taken care of”, in the eyes of the psychotic criminal.

It was rumoured that Umbridge had some condition that resulted in them being AFAB, but when puberty hit, male characteristics began appearing -- apparently, the resultant mockery fuelled their hate for everything they thought was abnormal in the world, including themselves. Mostly, the queer community was their target, but Umbridge also branched out to interracial marriages, people who wore crocs in winter, twi-fans who supported Team Edward, anyone who they thought was unnatural, really.

The media had a field day with their arrest; they were as notorious as Voldemort, except where his boyfriend was a closet teddy bear, Umbridge did not seem to have much cuddliness hiding beneath their bubblegum pink outfits. The victims were found with their bottoms spanked black and blue, and suffocated to death by copious amounts of cheesecake stuffed down their throats. Cheesecake! Oh good god.

Quirrell’s blood ran cold as Umbridge continued staring at him, a shrewd glint in their eyes. Why are they here? Unease slithered up his neck and coiled around his throat, making his breathing speed up.

“Wh-What do you w-w-want?”

He shuddered as Umbridge pulled their lips up into a caricature of a smile, twirling a blonde curl between their fingers. “Why so hostile, Squirrel? Mama just wants a chat with Voldy’s new plaything, that’s all.”

Quirrell startled slightly; it wasn’t often he heard others refer to Voldemort so casually. Almost everyone he’d met were too afraid of Voldemort to address him with such disrespect, even those who looked like mountains of beef that were twice the size of Quirrell. Then again, Umbridge had the same, or maybe even worse, reputation as Voldemort, with other inmates steering clear of the self-monikered Mama.

Then, the words registered fully in his head and he gulped. He didn’t like Umbridge’s tone, or the pet name -- Voldemort’s pet name for him -- being used, or the way their eyes were poring over his vulnerable, naked form like Umbridge was an overzealous exterminator and Quirrell was the last rat up for grabs. Meekly, he reached behind him to switch off the tap, not daring to turn his back to the other. He swallowed heavily. “I-I don’t want any t-t-trouble, okay? I’ll just leave you b-be.” 

As he reached blindly for his clothes, Umbridge barked out a laugh, the demented sound of their “Uh-dur dur dur dur dur dur” making him flinch.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I interrupting you? Is my presence bothering you?” They asked in a sugar-sweet tone, well, as sweet as their absurdly deep voice could be.

“I…I…” He stammered nervously, his brain clouded over by fear and confusion.

“That’s too bad. I really hate bothering people. But do you know what I hate even more?” They stepped closer to Quirrell, making his heart jump into over-drive. “I hate it when people bother me. And you, with your prancing about holding hands with Voldy, IS BOTHERING ME!” They spat the last few words out with vitriol, hurling them at Quirrell with the force of a cannon.

Despite the panic creeping up his throat, Quirrell stuttered defiantly, “W-W-Why? Why does that b-bother you? We’re j-just in love and we want to sh-show that to the world. Why can’t you just a-accept us for who we are? Didn’t y-you ever wish that someone would accept you for who you a-are?”

Umbridge’s advance halted and they stared at him with an unreadable expression. Quirrell’s heart skipped a beat as hope flushed through his body. Maybe I got through to them, maybe they’ll realize that it isn’t right to take the suffering that they’ve had inflicted upon them and force it onto others. I can help them; they aren’t alone in the world.

Then, Umbridge’s face darkened considerably, their lip curling into a pronounced sneer. Quirrell’s stomach sank, plunging downwards quickly. Fuck. He’d definitely made a mistake.

“What are you saying, you little turd? That there’s something wrong with me? That nobody accepts me for who I am- is that what you’re saying? THERE’S NOTHING WRONG ME, I’M PERFECT, GODDAMN IT!” Umbridge bellowed loudly at him, spittle flying from their lips. “YOU’RE THE ONE WHO’S WRONG, YOU’RE THE ONE!”

Oh shit.

Umbridge lunged at him, their strangely perfect nails heading straight for his jugular. Quirrell yelped and by a stroke of luck, managed to dart away, the shiny claws missing his throat by a hair. He ignored the shout of surprise from them and just ran, praying to every deity he knew of that he would make it. His heart pounded like a jackrabbit as he sprinted towards the exit; he just had to find Voldemort.

He’d just made it to the door of the showers, when a hand clamped atop his shoulder and yanked. Quirrell flew backwards, airborne for a heart-stopping second, before landing painfully onto the slippery tiles. Pain skyrocketed up his spine from his tailbone that had collided with the linoleum.

Quirrell didn’t have time to process the pain from his fall, because a foot slammed into his ribs, forcing his air out in a wheeze. Agony bloomed through his lungs, making them constrict and spasm with waves of pain. He curled uselessly into a fetal position on the ground, gasping ragged breaths through his bruised lungs.

“Help! Voldemort, someone, help!” He screamed as loud as he could.

Their demented laughter filled the shower room, seeping into his dazed mind till it was all that he could hear. “Go ahead, keep yelling for him! After Mama’s done spanking the bad out of you, it’ll be his turn.” Umbridge hissed in his ear, pearly whites mere inches away from his lobe.

Quirrell shuddered before quietening. “P-P-Please, don’t d-do this. L-Leave us alone, p-please. I’ll do anything, just d-d-don’t hurt him.”

Another round of that bone-chilling, deranged laughter. “P-P-Please, don’t d-do this?” They mocked. “No, no, no, Voldy’s gonna get what he deserves too. Mama’s just trying to make you better. All you have to do is listen to Mama.” Their hand brushed his brunette locks away from his face, petting them gently. Quirrell flinched, shying away from the unwanted caress.

“P-Please, you don’t have to d-do this…” He begged, lip trembling and eyes shining.

Umbridge’s hand stilled, before the claws sank into his scalp, yanking harshly on his hair. “Shut up, you turd! Don’t you know? It’s Mama’s world now. And in Mama’s world, we do things my way.” With a firm grip on his hair, Umbridge dragged Quirrell onto his feet. He yelped in pain, stumbling in the direction that they were pulling on unsteady legs like a newborn colt.

Umbridge glared at him with crazed eyes, their pupils blown wide with adrenaline. “We do things THE UMBRIDGE WAY!” With a roar, they slammed his head down ruthlessly onto a sink.

Overwhelming pain struck his skull, spreading outwards like bolts of electricity through his brain. Quirrell whimpered, pleads for mercy forgotten as a loud ringing resonated through his ears. Everything became blurry and unfocused, and he was distantly aware of a chunk of the porcelain sink falling to the linoleum and being roughly flipped over onto his stomach, his cheekbone digging into the cool tiles.

A sharp pain bloomed in his behind like the strike of a whip. They’re literally spanking you, a drowsy voice reminded him from the small part of his brain that was still functional. His head swam, clouded by pain and fear ravaging through him. Voldemort, help me, please.

It was his last thought, before the throbbing in his head took over and darkness consumed him.

Voldemort whistled happily as he strolled towards the shower rooms, a fresh towel in his hand. He was eager to join Quirrell, used to spending every minute of every day with his boyfriend.

Abruptly, he jerked to a halt as a loud scream pierced the air.

“Help! Voldemort, someone, help!”

With a jolt of horror, the blood drained from his face. Voldemort knew that voice; it was a voice that was ingrained into every crevice of his being. Fear, panic and rage crashed into him like a tidal wave. Quirrell! Without a second to waste, he dashed to the shower room like the devil was on his heels.

Some bastard was laying their hands on his boyfriend, and Voldemort wasn’t there. Fuck! He should never have left him alone there, what the fuck was he thinking?

When he reached the threshold of the room, his heart stopped at the sight that greeted him. Dread slithered over his spine as he saw Quirrell’s form lying face-down on the ground, bloodied and beaten and much too still.

Crouching over him was Dolores fucking Umbridge. His vision tinted violent red as Umbridge, unaware of his arrival, delivered a mighty swing to Quirrell’s butt while his other hand held tightly to his boyfriend’s shoulder so that the blow didn’t send Quirrell flying into the other end of the room.

Voldemort froze for a second, anger and confusion warring within him. What in the kinky hell-? Then, a sickening sense of realization filled Voldemort as a memory floated to the forefront of his mind; images of broken bodies and cheesecake accompanied by the psychotic smile of the blonde serial killer flashing on the television. Thin streams of crimson caught his attention as they trickled down Quirrell’s temple, drip, drip, dripping onto the tiles.

That fucking madman dared to hurt my Quirrell?!

With an animalistic growl of fury, Voldemort rushed forward and tackled Umbridge to the ground. The man shouted in shock as Voldemort slammed him hard onto the wet tiles. He delivered blow after blow to Umbridge’s face, painting the other’s lips bloody. His knuckles stung, ripped open by the other’s teeth and his newly healed arm ached but he didn’t fucking care. This shitstain upon humanity was about to- was going to- Fuck!

Distracted by his spiralling thoughts, Voldemort was taken off guard when Umbridge bucked his hips abruptly, tossing him off and onto the linoleum. The air rushed out of his lungs in a whoosh as he landed roughly on his back. He barely received a moment to catch his breath before Umbridge was upon him, fists wrapping around his throat.

“Not so tough now, are you, Voldy?” Umbridge sneered down at him with a bloody grin. “You know, I always thought you were a little unnatural, with your lack of nose and all -- like the what the fuck is up with your nose? But this?” He questioned in an incredulous tone. “Being with another man? That’s wrong and you know it.”

His grip tightened into a vise as he cooed, “But it’s all going to be okay, Mama’s here to fix you. Both of you.”

Voldemort scrabbled at the hands wrapped around his neck, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Panic surged through him, stealing his breath and squeezing his breath in time with the deranged killer. Despite the black dots dancing over his vision, alarm and fury spiked in Voldemort. Quirrell. I can’t let him get Quirrell!

Abandoning their post at his neck, his hands crept towards Umbridge’s eyes, blindly searching through his rapidly darkening vision. One of his hands struck gold, his thumb sinking viciously into the soft sclera.

The pressure around his throat released suddenly, as Umbridge shrieked and fell backward, clutching at his eyes. Voldemort doubled over, gasping and wheezing horribly as air flooded his lungs once more. Before he could recover and get to his feet, however, Umbridge turned back to him, his single good eye blazing.

He advanced towards him, “You little shit. I’m going to enjoy beating the fag out of your boyfriend, hearing him scream and beg the entire time while I teach him some discipline. And I’m going to make you watch it, you fucking-”

Crash!

A chunk of porcelain slammed into the back of Umbridge’s head, sending blood splattering to the ivory tiles and felling the blonde psycho as he collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Behind the fallen man stood Quirrell, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The porcelain slipped from his finger and landed on the ground with a loud clatter. A weak chuckle emerged from his lips, “H-How’s that for irony, h-huh?” One of his legs crumbled beneath him and Voldemort rushed forward to gather him in his arms, just in time, right before Quirrell hit the ground.

“Squirrel! Are you okay? Talk to me, baby, please,” Voldemort begged.

Quirrell’s eyes fluttered as he smiled softly up at him, a perfect smile marred by the trails of scarlet framing his face. “I love you, V-Voldemort.” His head slumped down onto his lap, as the strength needed to hold it up waned. Quirrell repeated, “I-I love…you…” before his eyes slipped close and his body turned boneless in Voldemort’s arms.

A bright light greeted him when he first came to, a piercing assault to his senses. Quirrell groaned, a wordless plea to the flower gods to have mercy on his eyes.

A gentle touch on his hand caused his eyes to fly open once more. He inhaled sharply as he slowly adjusted to the light, blinking rapidly as his pupils slowly narrowed. After a few seconds, his vision sharpened and his gaze caught onto the form of his boyfriend, staring down at him with worry.

“Voldemort…” He croaked.

“Hey there, Squirrell.” A rush of affection filled him at the pet name, sounding so much sweeter than it had coming from Umbridge- Wait, Umbridge! What happened with them?

His eyes widened as he exclaimed, “Umbridge! Where are they?” However, with his unused voice and parched throat, an unintelligible stream of “Ubba! Woo ah da?” came pouring out instead.

Voldemort shushed him gently and waved a straw before his face, urging him to take a few sips from the cup of water. Quirrell accepted it gratefully and took some time to study the other. He noted the deep, dark eyebags that had not been there previously, and the unkempt, greasy hair his boyfriend was sporting, which normally the crimelord would never have been caught dead having. God, how long was I out for? What the hell happened?

Before he could repeat his question more articulately, Voldemort answered, explaining how he had rushed to his aid, fought with the “bat-shit crazy she-man” -- to which Quirrell frowned disapprovingly at Voldemort’s insensitivity, even if they were psychotic and tried to kill him -- and then brought him to the infirmary where he had been unconscious for the past two days.

Quirrell blinked, stunned. Two days? Wow. He asked, “What about Umbridge? What happened to them?”

“Well, he’s blind in one eye now, thanks to my quick thumbs.” Quirrell startled, his jaw dropping in shock. “He was strangling me, what else was I supposed to do?” Voldemort replied defensively.

Quirrell smiled fondly at his boyfriend -- Wow, he actually gouged their eye out? Holy shit, Voldemort -- before gesturing for the other to continue.

“They transferred him to a psychiatric ward in St. Mungo’s, because man, that dude is fucking insane. Also, because I would never stop trying to kill him if he stayed in Azkaban, I don’t give a shit about the guards,” He added on.

Quirrell breathed out in relief. It was good to know that he’d never have to see the crazed killer again, or worry about them stalking the halls and waiting at every corner. It was also a relief to know that Umbridge was receiving help for their mental health. Clearly, they’d been mistreated in their youth, causing some wildly delusional opinions to take root in their headspace.

As much as Quirrell wanted to hate Umbridge wholeheartedly, he had a feeling that all the atrocities that the blonde had done came from a place of hurt and suffering. It didn’t excuse any of their actions, of course, but it made Quirrell understand Umbridge’s actions a little better, and made him hope that they would receive some much-needed help.

Voldemort sighed, causing Quirrell to turn his attention back to his boyfriend who- who’s eyes seem a little misty?

“Quirrell, I- I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had died. When I reached the shower room, it was…it was like Umbridge had pulled it straight out of my worst nightmares. You were so still, covered in blood and I- I lost it. I went rushing at Umbridge with zero strategy and I almost died, which would’ve left you at his mercy, if not for you. You amazing man, who stood up after getting your head smashed in and then smashed his head in.” A watery laugh escaped his lips.

“You’re so fucking amazing, Squirrel. And…and for one moment, when I thought you were dead, all I could think about was, ‘How could I let him die without telling him that I love him?’”

Quirrell’s eyes widened at the words that left the other’s lips. Did he just-? He sucked in a startled breath as warmth began blooming in his chest, a yearning to hear it again pounding against his ribcage.

Voldemort’s stormy eyes gazed deeply into his own. “I love you, Quirrell. And I should’ve said it earlier, I should’ve said it so much earlier but I’m saying it now. And I’ll say it a million times more, Squirrel. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Quirrell breathed out softly, his face breaking into a watery smile.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered: not Umbridge, not the faint throbbing in his skull, not the sharp sting of disinfectant and bright fluorescent lights. All that mattered was the two of them, hands clasped tightly and hearts bursting with love for each other.