Part One

It sat in the corner of the room and caught his eye every time he had to look up. Normally his gaze would've passed over it without a second thought, but for some reason he couldn't ignore it today. Maybe it was because of the rain beating mercilessly against the window pain, or perhaps he was distracted by the scent of freshly baked bread emanating from the kitchen. Either way, he knew he would not be able to rest until he'd picked up the damn thing. He sighed. Just as he was starting to sink his teeth into his book.

Quirrell gingerly picked up the guitar as if it were made of explosives instead of wood. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even held such an instrument; it had been years of course, long before he'd come here... Long before he'd been freed. An idle part of his brain wondered whether he'd remember the chord shapes. Another part scolded him for even thinking such a thought. It's like riding a bicycle, he chanted silently. You never forget, but you can still fall and hurt yourself if you haven't practised in a while.

The first chord was simple: G major was easy enough no matter how foreign the instrument felt cradled in his lap. Still, the steel strings bit into his tender fingertips and it hurt like hell. Back when he used to play all the time he had developed rough callouses on the end of his fingers which made the pain more bearable. Not now though. Not anymore.

He played for a few more minutes while he got used to stretching his fingers in that way again. His other hand yearned for a pick- all this finger strumming was bound to form a blister and that would just be inconvenient. Nevertheless he played through the pain and found a sweet relish beneath the surface. Quirrell had forgotten how this music had been his lifeline when his life had looked most bleak. The dementors may have been able to suck all the happiness from him, but the simple pleasure of music must have been harder to sap. It had kept him sane at least, although it was a wonder they'd had guitars in Azkaban in the first place.

Finally Quirrell's fingers stopped aching and the noises coming from the wooden instrument sounded less like dying bees and more like music. Real music. The chords fitted themselves together again. He found himself humming, but he couldn't remember the words. Sad isn't it? He wanted to sing along, but part of his brain told him it was stupid. Humming would have to suffice for now.

G major. C major. E minor, D. Quirrell remembered it all now and the longer he played the easier he remembered what he lost. The room seemed to shine a little brighter. He didn't even realise that he was singing those forgotten words until a figure near the door coughed softly.

"I had no idea you could play." He'd been sitting with his back to the door, so he hadn't seen Voldemort com into the room. Needless to say he stopped playing abruptly in shock, but he also made a good show of knocking the guitar onto the floor. It clattered violently and the strings hummed against the fretboard, once again sounding like a small hive of flying insects.

"I-I can't really. Not a-anymore." Quirrell hated himself for blushing. He and Voldemort had lived together for nearly six months now- it was almost Christmas for Wizard God's sake- and yet he still found himself blushing and jittery every time they were in the same room. Logic said that it was leftover Azkaban trauma. Reason said something different. "I used to p-play a lot in... In y'know... A-Azkaban. I th-think it was the only th-thing that kept me going."

Internally, Quirrell sighed. He'd never had a stutter before- that had been purely for show- but Azkaban had twisted his mind. After Voldemort had come to collect him from that godforsaken spit of land he'd slowly withdrawn into himself, and the stutter was the proof. It had been very severe for a few weeks after, but thankfully he was starting to recover. Only just though.

Voldemort had nothing to say to that. What could he say? Quirrell knew he felt bad enough about that whole debacle, and he felt terrible himself for having to mention it. It was an unspoken burden that they both carried, sometimes mentally, sometimes physically when Quirrell woke up in the dead of night glazed in cold sweat and screaming himself hoarse. Still, Voldemort was always up in a flash, racing from his own room down the hall to sit at Quirrell's bedside until he fell asleep again. He really couldn't have asked for a better friend.

Voldemort was looking particularly handsome today and Quirrell wasn't ashamed to think that any more. He'd been afraid at first and hadn't wanted to admit to himself that he might have feelings for the former dark lord, but now he knew he couldn't do anything about it except accept that this was his life now. He mulled over these thoughts for the thousandth time while drinking in Voldemort's essence from across the room, from the overly cheerful Christmas jumper he was wearing to the smudge of flour above his left eyebrow.

"Well, I think you- I mean it- sounded beautiful." Voldemort stammered. He managed a soft smile before taking an unsure step into the room. Quirrell blushed again and ducked his head. Maybe it would be a good idea to pick up the guitar now?

"They-thank you." When he looked back up from the carpet Voldemort was a lot closer than he'd been a few seconds ago. In fact, Quirrell almost bumped the back of his head on his knees, but both guys were so unused to having personal space it was a pretty common event. "What've you been baking this morning then?"

"Fruit loaf and Gingerbread. Or at least it should be- sometimes my fruit loaf turn into scone halfway through." Voldemort tried wiping the flour from his brow, suddenly acutely aware of it, but ended up just spreading it across his whole forehead. Quirrell had to suppress a giggle and wiped it off for him using his sleeve. "Thanks. It might be the rising charm I put on them before they go into the oven, but I'm not sure."

"Maybe it's the raisins you use." Quirrell was never very good with jokes, but subtle humour he could just about manage. Even when he knew that Voldemort's face was probably only inches away. "I-I th-thought you said something about buying them from p-pixies."

This time it was Voldemort's turn to laugh quietly. "No, I said that I buy my raisins from Piskys, the new wholesale shop outside Hogsmeade- they deliver their produce buy Owl."

"I know." Quirrell smiled fondly again, although it was directed at the guitar in his hand rather than Voldemort. He wanted to say something more, perhaps about what they could do at the weekend. They hadn't actually been rollerblading and seen a movie together yet. But just as he opened his mouth the timer on the oven rang out from across the hall.

"I'd better get that actually." Saved by the bell. Quirrell sighed. "I mean it though, you sound good. You sing well too." He ducked around the doorway and was gone again just as quietly as he'd arrived.

Exhaling loudly, Quirrell sank back into his chair, still clutching the guitar firmly by the neck. His legs were shaking, his back ached from sitting up straight for goodness knows how long playing the guitar and he was pretty sure his upper lip was quivering. Plus his heart was racing a mile a minute and his cheeks were burning. Yet there was only one thought racing around his nimble mind.

I didn't even tell him it was about him.