Chapter Text
“I refuse to live in a house where the colour scheme is anything other than green.” Voldemort snapped. They’d been having this debate for almost fifteen minutes now- at least, it would have been a debate had Quirrell actually contributed anything to the discussion other than “We’re not having green curtains in the living room,” and laughter. Voldemort really didn't see what was so funny- he just wanted to represent his Hogwarts house in the decor of his home. Even if it wasn't actually his home, he’d be living there, so shouldn't he have some say?
Quirrell had been laughing for a good five minutes now, and though Voldemort was still really really pissed off and even though he was the one being laughed at, he had to admit that Quirrell’s laugh was almost… pretty. He liked making Quirrell laugh. However, he did not like him laughing in the middle of a muggle department store. He needed to put a stop to it- now!
“Quirrell, seriously, what is so funny?”
“You are!” Quirrell finally stopped laughing, only to start grinning at Voldemort in a way that made him feel like he was still being laughed at. “The Dark Lord, getting annoyed about the colour of some curtains.” His teasing grin softened until it was nothing but fondness, and though he did not look like himself (both of them were Polyjuiced as muggle men for safety, as if either of them were spotted, Azkaban- or worse- would not be far down the line), Voldemort could still clearly see Quirrell in the unfamiliar man’s eyes. Voldemort abruptly forgot all about the curtains, and the shop, and found himself smiling back, reminded once again of how lucky he was to have Quirrell as a best friend.
Still, his stubbornness compelled him to carry on trying.
“But why can't we have green?”
“Because it’s my house and no offence, but I don't like it.”
Voldemort sighed, but his heart wasn't really in it. Quirrell’s smile had broken his determination… for now. “Fine.”
“Look, the living room doesn’t actually need new curtains.”
“Yes it does! The current ones are red! Red! Like a Gryffindor!”
Quirrell- still smiling, though the soft fondness from before had for some reason been replaced by the original mischievous grin- just shook his head, as if to say “Wow, he seriously cares this much about this?”
Unable to formulate a response that wouldn't make him look like even more of a whining child then he already was, Voldemort accepted defeat. “Lets just go home.” Voldemort quickly glanced around, making sure no muggles were watching, before taking Quirrell’s hand and Disapperating.
Home to them both now was a small two bedroom house in a muggle suburb that had apparently once belonged to Quirrell’s grandparents, before they died and left it to him. After Voldemort’s almost death and their joyful reunion two weeks ago, Quirrell had Apperated them straight to this house, and once they were there, Voldemort had fully expected Quirrell to tell him to go and find somewhere else to live. After all, Quirrell had been ridiculously kind to Voldemort whilst they were attached, more kind than anyone had ever been to him in his whole life, and how had Voldemort repaid him? By sending him to Azkaban and leaving him for Bellatrix Lestrange. Quirrell’s forgiveness and willingness to continue their friendship was already the most amazing thing that had ever happened to Voldemort without Quirrell letting Voldemort live with him, and he did not deserve it.
Their first week of living together had been interesting but wonderful, both of them still getting used to the other being an entirely separate person. They still liked to sit back to back occasionally, and bizarrely, Voldemort found himself not being able to sleep as well as he had back when they were attached, but other than that it was lovely to finally see Quirrell’s face properly. Almost everything was completely and utterly okay, a novel sensation for Voldemort, as he realised that he had never actually been completely okay up until then.
It was only now, at the end their second week of living together, that Voldemort began to find fault with their situation. There was the fact that they were living amongst muggles- not that there was anything they could do about that. After all, in the wizarding world Quirrell would likely be hexed or even killed on sight as people still believed him a murderer, and Voldemort was supposed to be dead. The whole thing where Voldemort had tried to take over the world had kind of ruined their chances of ever going back to the wizarding world unfortunately. Then there was the house itself. Not that he didn't love it- he really did! It was really just him being picky, and thought he knew he should stop, he just couldn’t. There was really only one major thing he disliked- that the colour scheme of the living room was red. He knew that it was a tiny, stupid thing but he couldn't let it go! He just wanted green curtains, why was that so funny to Quirrell?
And so, that afternoon, Voldemort had dragged Quirrell out in search of curtains of a different colour. While the trip had proved fruitless on the curtains front, Voldemort had very much enjoyed seeing Quirrell laugh… As the dreaded red living room materialised around them, Voldemort decided that he could maybe tolerate the curtains a little while longer.
As long as they went sometime.
xxXxx
“Well that was a waste of Polyjuice.” Quirrell said in mock anger as the unpleasant sensation of Apparition faded and the living room materialised around them. He forced himself to let go of Voldemort’s hand far earlier than he would have actually liked to, missing the sensation of Voldemort’s warm, soft skin the instant it disappeared. He wasn't actually angry of course- he didn't think he could ever be truly angry with Voldemort. Hell, if he could forgive Voldemort after he sent him to what was basically hell on earth, he could forgive him anything.
“Tea?” Voldemort asked as he took off his cloak. Though never having even drunk tea before coming to live with Quirrell, after being taught the basics, Voldemort had proved himself to be very competent at making it.
“Yes please! I’ll go light the fire.” As he spelled the logs into a little stack in the middle of the fireplace, Quirrell tried not to let himself think about how…there really was no other word for it… domestic they had become in the space of just two short weeks of living together, and he especially did not let himself think about how that made him feel. Thoughts like that were dangerous- they had the potential to destroy their wonderful friendship, and Quirrell knew without a doubt that he would rather Avada Kedavra himself than see that happen. They were just friends, and no matter how much Quirrell might wish for more than that, they would have remain like that forever. The crushing pain Quirrell felt at this fact was almost too much to endure, but he knew he had to hide it from Voldemort. If Voldemort ever found out about his stupid little crush… well, it didn't bear thinking about. The terror he had felt earlier on in the shop, when he realised that he had started smiling at Voldemort like the smitten idiot he was, was alarming in its intensity. No, Voldemort could never know. Voldemort was straight (at least, Quirrell assumed he was. They’d never actually talked about that, but given that Voldemort had never shown any interest in a man and every interest in Bellatrix Lestrange, it seemed like a logical assumption) and so he could not love Quirrell back. And that was okay. Quirrell would rather die than force Voldemort into anything, and so he would have to be content with friendship. That was fine, except that it just hurt so fucking much…
Quirrell’s depressing train of thought was cut off by the odd sensation of the Polyjuice wearing off, and by the sound of Voldemort’s approaching footsteps. “Tea.” Voldemort said, smiling, as he presented Quirrell with a steaming mug. Quirrell accepted it gladly, and they both sat down on the sofa in front of the fire.
“So, man, what movie are we going to watch tonight?” Voldemort asked. It had become a little tradition of theirs that, every night before bed, they would drink tea and watch a movie together.
“I was thinking High School Musical; it’s basically the only Zefron movie we haven't seen yet.” Quirrell did not share Voldemort’s Zac Efron obsession (far too tanned for his taste) but he loved making Voldemort happy, and some of the movies had actually been good (Hairspray! was a particular favourite of his). Voldemort nodded in agreement and got up to put in the disc.
Before long, it was 11pm. The movie (so bad it was good) was over, the tea was long since drunk, and it was time for them to part. They said their goodnights, and as they walked away from each other, Quirrell tried his very best not to imagine an alternate universe in which they did not separate, and instead walked hand in hand to one shared bedroom… and failed miserably. He saw it all in perfect clarity, and his heart leapt at such a prospect, only to be crushed once more as he remembered that it could never be so. With his heart heavy, Quirrell curled up in his far too empty bed, and sank into oblivion.
xxXxx
In the other bedroom, Voldemort thought about how lucky he was to have Quirrell as a friend, and fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Only a hour later, Voldemort was abruptly jerked back into consciousness by a sound that rang throughout the house and replaced his blood with ice…
xxXxx
Hope you enjoyed! Reviews/ comments would really be appreciated! TBC ;)