'I came home.' The quirk of his head indicates how truthful and sincere he feels as the light from the knowing moon gleams down upon the wreck of earth rising up from the sea. With about four meters between them, Voldemort finds himself rueing how he has made Quirrell turn his head, but as his companion turns back Voldemort sees that Quirrell has been biting his hand; this grants a wonderful reassurance over Voldemort.
'I am rather angry at you.' Voldemort says, coming forwards enough so that he can see Quirrell better.
'My lord,' Quirrell starts, distressed, 'what have I done to displease you?'
Voldemort dips his head as an indication of how he feels Quirrell is being in some way silly. 'I told you not to call me that.' He begins, raising his face to stare at Quirrell with slight disapproving. 'I am angry at you because...' And then words falter him.
Quirrell, concerned, but in the habit of being subservient, denies himself the right to refer to Voldemort by any name. 'What is it? Can I make it up to you?'
Voldemort raises his head and, with a bounce of heart, smiles. Quirrell looks upon the smile with a vaporous recognition that he has never ever seen Voldemort smile like that around anyone else before. He doubts the man ever had either. There is nothing wicked or sinister about the smile; there is yet no more plotting to be achieved.
Both resigned to the new world order, they just stand there for a while, contemplation evident in their stances. Yet, they find it hard to keep their eyes off each other. The wind around them, coming in from three angles as it blasts itself over the fortress of Azkaban, denies them any form of solace in their musings; Voldemort thinks about what he should say now he has been defeated. Now he doesn't have power. And Quirrell is deciding whether, and how, he should suggest that they leave together... be together.
They both start to speak at the same time; Quirrell blurts out 'Do you want too..!' whilst Voldemort rushes 'You probably want me to go.'
'I don't want you to go anywhere, Voldemort.' Quirrell says, slightly empowered by the innocence and insecurity in Voldemorts dark eyes.
'Do I want too what, Quirrell?' Voldemort asks, he himself empowered slightly more. He wonders if Quirrell is going to ask whether he wants to start it all over again; the control, the deaths, the rise to glory. Yet, Voldemort is scared for this question, because he knows he will have to admit that he wants to just slow down and stop.
'Do you want to leave this place?' Quirrell asks, gesturing around the rocky landscape lit by the tired, cloudy beams of moon.
'Where will we go?' Voldemort asks, coming a little closer so that they can scheme.
'I have a house.' Quirrell says. 'I have a house down in Kent.'
Needy and hungry, Voldemort nods his head and allows Quirrell to guide them there by side along apparation.
The journey feels almost extra long and breathless but, arriving outside the darkened farmhouse brings a keen sense of relief. Something in the house must register Quirrells presence, because the lights in one of the downstairs rooms ignites and bathes the front garden they are standing in.
Visible now to Voldemorts eyes is the bricks and mortar that sustain and contain the heart of a beautiful English life. Being here to enjoy himself, to live in the light of his companion, for the very first time tries to sicken him. He has never considered living in a house of such earthy decadence before, but that is probably because he has never had the choice to live in any form of decadence that was not spoiled by his evil and nefariousness.
But instead of allowing himself to feel sick, he allows the burgeoning excitement to fill him. Quirrell extends his hand, and Voldemort takes it for the very first time. 'Is this okay to be your home?' Quirrell asks, voice steady and uncompromising.
'It is wonderful.' Voldemort replies with an honesty of good heart he has never given anyone else before. With the tawdry events of the past year squeezing him tight through a tube towards his future, he follows Quirrell to the old wooden front door, that beside it have panes of colored glass that cast a kaleidoscope of color on the front porch.
Voldemort, for all his power that he once had, can feel the house responding too Quirrell and as Quirrell touches the front door handle, there seems to be no resistance in opening it. Quirrell almost pulls Voldemort inside and the movement is warm, longing and confident.
Before the door shuts, Voldemort has a few seconds where he is able to listen to the sounds around them. Silence is broken by the moo of a cow, the hoot of an owl and the far off whizz of a muggle car. But all in all, there is a promise of solitude and forgiveness here that doesn't worry Voldemort.
'Would you like to watch a film, my lord?' Quirrell asks. Both of them don't register the submissive end that Quirrell is so accustomed to giving.
Voldemort shakes his head, and with those sad sorrowful eyes, looks up at Quirrell. 'Not tonight Quirrell, I'm ready for bed.'
Quirrell squeezes his hand; they have not parted from the touch yet. With the connection, Voldemort is guided through the small hall and into the main body of the house, where some bare wooden staircase leads them up. Lining the staircase is pictures that Voldemort is curious to see, this giving him insight into Quirrells life, but there is an eagerness in Quirrell he cannot ignore and so keeps pace. Voldemort steps into line with Quirrell as soon as there is a change in direction on the staircase that bends to the left.
At the top, doors face them. Which one, Voldemort wonders, will Quirrell choose. 'I can put you in this room-'
Voldemort, in all his drunken-like state, snaps to sobriety. 'You shall do no such thing. I am to sleep with you tonight.'
Quirrell has that same feeling as when Voldemort said he'd come home; it started at the heart, a sort of clenching, that spread in tingles of the joy of a thousand rejoicing angels throughout his body. 'Okay.' He responds, really tugging now to get Voldemort to bed.
It is the last door down the hall that they reach. 'Everything is clean and tidy, M'lord.' Quirrell stammers, 'I have a house elf in my service. There should be nothing to your disliking.' Voldemort thinks this rather assuming of Quirrell but then remembers it doesn't matter anymore.
None of that matters.
Quirrell lets go of Voldemorts hand and whispers a spell that forces the candles in the room to burn and glow. He walks around the room to the other side of the four poster, where he meets a door. 'I must shower.' He says. 'There are books, in that cabniet over there...' He points and then quickly goes away.
Voldemort does not read a book. Instead, he lovingly casts his eyes around the room, gaining unintrusive insight into Quirrell until his companion comes back. There is a towel around Quirrels waist, and there is renewed life in his eyes.
With rejuvenation, Quirrel almost skips to his dresser. 'I'll just find something to wear for bed.' He explains, almost embarrassed.
'Quirrell, come here.' Voldemort demands, softly and knowing what it is he wants from the other man, despite the fact he has surprised himself by being so confident about it.
Quirrell cocks his head; his skin almost gold in the candlelight. 'My lord?' He questions.
'Just come here.' Voldemort says, firmly now.
Quirrel hesitantly goes towards Voldemort and his heart starts pounding. The small windows in the cottage, he fears, might break under the will of all the pressure in the room. He is sure he can hear his pulse in his ears. Voldemort, sitting on the bed, trains his eyes on Quirrells and it isn't very long before he is looking up at Quirrel.
There is severe, heart aching determination in Voldemorts eyes. For a second, he does nothing until he reaches out and pulls Quirrell towards him by wrapping his hands around Quirrels toweled thighs.
He buries his nose in the whisps of hair on Quirrels stomach.
Quirrell shuts his eyes.
'Merlin...' Voldemort breathes. 'I was so worried I had lost you.'
Quirrell lays his hands on Voldemorts hair. 'Never, my lord. Not now.'
Voldemort removes his hands and instead, takes Quirrels in his own. This gives him firm allowance to pull Quirrells upper half towards him, face close and lips near. He lets go of Quirrels right hand and runs his own up Quirrells arm and around his head, enough so he can gently pull Quirrell in and kiss him softly on the lips.
'You were wrong, my lord.' Quirrell states a moment later. 'This is home.'