For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.
-Vincent Van Gogh
The month was summer, and even the nights were blistered with humidity. In the waning hours of darkness between twilight and dawn, one could find the Death Eaters, a widely popular high school gang with a claim on all the local turfs, creeping about in the deepest pits of the darkest shadows. Nobody really knew what the group did at such ungodly hours, but they would rather the gang slipped around in the middle of the night than in the day, where the chances of being terrorized were much greater.
Tom Riddle, a senior who preferred the sinister name Lord Voldemort, was the ringleader. Rumors said that even the teachers refused to whisper his name for fear of incurring his unquenchable wrath. Mostly, he kept to himself and let his lackeys do the rest.
Bellatrix, for one, was thirsty for blood. She valued pain and torture above all else, or so she boasted. No witness could testify to these violent claims of hers, but that could also hint that she never left any loose ends. In any case, her favorite nighttime pleasure was making as much noise as possible and trying to get into Voldemort's pants. One time she mistook Lucius for Voldemort, and things had been tense between her and her sister ever since.
Then there was Lucius himself. His penchant for torment was rivaled only by his passion for the performaning arts. He always seemed to be dancing somewhere and had a flare for the dramatics, always tossing his hair here and flicking his wrist there. Voldemort wasn't really sure what exactly he did in the gang.
Hell, Voldemort wasn't really sure what he did in the gang to get so famous in the first place. He only liked sulking about at night because less people stared at him that way and less people expected things from him. In the day, there was school and the orphanage; at night, he had solitude and peace, when Bellatrix and Lucius weren't ruining it with their antics.
Usually, the group had the whole city to themselves so late at night. Tonight, as Voldemort realized, they did not. Just as they were slinking past the park, he spotted a head of mousy brown hair heading toward the playground equipment. He squinted, trying to make out who the hell would be out so late. Trickles of sweat slid down his nose to bead in the corners of his eyes, and he had to look away to wipe them.
He recognized the kid. Quirinus Quirrell, senior. All around smart guy. Really liked books and plants. Voldemort had noticed him in the hallways once or twice, and he always found his attention focused completely on the scrawny guy who always kept to himself. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about Quirrell drew him in, beckoned him closer, and like a moth to a flame, he had trouble resisting.
"My lord? Did you see something?" Bellatrix appeared at his side, and he suppressed a groan. Couldn't they just leave him alone for once? Did she have to be so damn nosy about everything?
"Nah," he replied, shrugging his broad shoulders. More than once, the football coach had tried to get him to join, as had the baseball coach. And the soccer coach. Not to mention the wrestling coach. They all swore he had the body of an athlete, but he didn't want to join their stupid sports. No, he had a use for his well-built frame, and it did not include swinging a bat or throwing some pigskin around for points.
"You guys go on ahead," he insisted. He saw the moment when Bellatrix decided to argue; her eyes widened in something akin to horror, and her mouth opened to prattle that she would be accompanying him. No thank you. "No, really, go knock over a trash can or something. I wanna sit alone for a bit."
"My lord, are you sure?" Lucius asked theatrically, his arms bending out in some weird form of interpretive dance. Voldemort eyed him warily; the ideal scenario would be that Lucius threw his arms out, hit Bellatrix in the head, and knocked her out. Lucius was too precise in his fluid movements for that, but hey, Voldemort could hope.
"Yeah, positive. Trust me. Trash cans. Knock 'em over."
"All of them?" Bellatrix clarified, exhilaration alight in her eyes. Voldemort would never understand her enthusiasm for even the most miniscule amount of mischief.
"Uh, yeah. Sure, if that's what you want," Voldemort mumbled, but the rest of his statement was lost as Bellatrix cheered in glee. She clapped her hands, chaos on her mind, and took off running down the street. The rest of the Death Eaters followed, confused as to their true goal but too afraid of Bellatrix to stray. Even Lucius reluctantly followed, and Voldemort saw him dramatically tip over a trash can before he vanished from sight.
Now that they were out of the way, Voldemort jogged down the cement stairs toward the playground. Trees shifted in a nightly breeze, the air cool and refreshing as it tickled the beads of perspiration on his brow. An involuntary shudder passed through his body. His footsteps fell silent as he transferred from the pavement to the grass.
The playground held some fond memories for Voldemort. He remembered hiding out in the orange tube on the far left, eager to get away from the volunteer from the orphanage supposed to be watching him. She would search high and low for him and never suspect the orange tube. It had been a morose day for Voldemort when he outgrew that favored hiding spot.
He found Quirrell past the jungle gym and swing set, just beside the sandbox. He'd thrown down a blanket to sit on, and he held a pair of binoculars up to his face. Quirrell appeared to be looking at the sky, but when Voldemort looked up, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of stars.
"What are you doing?" he couldn't help but ask.
Quirrell nearly jumped out of his skin. As soon as he saw Voldemort, an emotion akin to sheer horror crossed his face, and he looked like he might book it. Voldemort hadn't realized the boy could be so panicky, otherwise he would've announced himself upon arrival. Lowering the binoculars, Quirrell swallowed audibly and straightened his back.
Well, at least this guy had some spunk. He wasn't bad to look at, either. He wouldn't say that Quirrell was conventionally attractive, Voldemort decided. He was just downright gorgeous. From the timid furrow of his brow to the willful quiver of his lips, Voldemort was enthralled.
Then he opened his mouth. "A-am I breaking one of your l-laws? I-is this section of the park o-o-off limits?" Despite his stutter, Quirrell had a strong voice, strengthened, he figured, from years of bullying. Voldemort would've enjoyed hearing it when he wasn't so anxious. Then again, Voldemort had that kind of effect on people, thanks to his reputation with the Death Eaters.
"No, man, relax. You're not breakin' any laws. I'm just not used to seeing somebody else out here so late," Voldemort explained, his hands raised in what he hoped would be a placating gesture. He felt like he was approaching a wild animal capable of inflicting great injury upon him if he wasn't careful.
Quirrell's warm, brown eyes narrowed at him suspiciously, waiting for the ball to drop no doubt, and said nothing else. Voldemort slowly lowered his hands, shifting uncomfortably at the tense silence constricting around them. He could only take so much before the pressure grew too unbearable for him, and he searched for a way of escape.
"You know what, you look like you're doing fine on your own, so I'm just gonna—"
Quirrell mumbled something indistinct, his cheeks reddening in the cover of darkness, and Voldemort tilted his head. He took a slow step closer, careful not to spook the guy. He would've sworn Quirrell rolled his eyes at the display.
"Sorry, what'd you say?"
"Stars," repeated Quirrell, louder and at wit's end. He pointed up at the dark sky again, and Voldemort looked this time. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of stars before. There were millions out there, all twinkling and sparkling and watching him make an idiot out of himself.
"K-keep watching," Quirrell insisted when Voldemort nearly tore his eyes away. Just what was he supposed to be waiting for? Yeah, stars, he saw them every night. Stars weren't a big deal. Not to him, not when he'd much rather—
Suddenly, a burst of light shot across the sky. So quick and so fleeting that if Voldemort had blinked for even a second, he would've missed it altogether. As spontaneously as it arrived, the beam of light vanished toward the horizon, leaving behind a tranquil sky still glistening with small lights. Amazed, he tore his eyes away to look at an amused Quirrell.
"What was that?!" he breathed in awe. He took another steps towards Quirrell, who pretended not to notice and only twitched with mild discomfort.
"T-tonight is the P-Perseids Meteor Shower," Quirrell told him, his eyes flickering back up to the sky. "T-t-two hundred meteors per hour at the peak."
"Is that why you're all the way out here?"
"Y-yeah. The sk-sky's darkest out here, so I can s-see more meteors." Quirrell looked back to Voldemort, looking like he very much wanted to say something. Voldemort got the hint; he was used to people wanting him to leave, and he didn't want to interfere with the meteor shower.
"That's, uh… that's really awesome. Sorry for invading like this. I'll, uh… I'll just be going and let you get back to your stargazing." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and prepared to retreat. Quirrell just kept watching him, waiting for him to make some sudden attack, and he thought he might go nuts.
Voldemort turned around to walk away and found his eyes drifting upward again to watch the night sky. Meteor shower, huh? So that meant he'd see more if he kept looking, right? That actually was pretty cool. His feet slowed to a crawl as he distracted himself, almost unaware of Quirrell still observing him from behind.
"W-wait." Quirrell's voice drew his attention away from the stars. He pivoted, curious, and found Quirrell fidgeting with the strap on his binoculars. "Y-you could… i-if you want to watch the m-meteor shower… y-you could sit here? With me?"
"You mean it? Are you sure? I don't wanna make you uncomfortable." But Voldemort was already walking back over to Quirrell, unable to keep himself away. Damn, he had it bad for this guy.
"'m not unc-unc…." Quirrell swallowed and looked down at his lap. Voldemort raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed, and waited patiently for Quirrell to finish. "'m just nervous."
"Is that why you're stuttering? What do you have to be nervous about?" Voldemort crouched down beside Quirrell, mere inches away from him. The aroma of lavender made its way to his nose. Lavender. The scent went well with boy in front of him. Quirrell's eyes downcast to his lap, and Voldemort would've sworn he saw a red tint to his cheeks in the starlight.
"Y-you're V-Voldemort," he reminded. "L-leader of the Death Eaters. Known all over t-town as the D-Dark Lord."
"Yeah, I dunno where they got all that from," Voldemort admitted with a laugh. His balance wavered, but he kept it. Thank you years of dance lessons. "I don't really do all those things that everyone says I do. Bellatrix, Lucius, and the rest just sorta follow me around and cause havoc."
"Wh-where are they now?" Quirrell looked around furtively, as though expecting the Death Eaters to burst out of the bushes and terrorize him.
"Off knocking garbage cans over."
Quirrell pursed his lips in disapproval. "That's vandalism."
"Yeah, but it keeps them out of my hair." Voldemort made to sit down in the grass, but Quirrell grabbed his arm in protest. He hadn't been expecting that, so he froze, half-suspended in the air like some sort of idiot. Did Quirrell just have a talent for making him act like a fool?
"N-not there! Ants! They'll b-bite. Sit here on the blanket." Quirrell patted the spot beside him for emphasis. Voldemort just stared uncertainly, surprised that he should be invited so close when Quirrell really didn't want him there in the first place.
But who was he to turn down such a polite offer? He walked around to the other side of Quirrell and looked down at the blanket. Then looked again. A grin split out on his face.
"Is that a High School Musical blanket?" he asked needlessly. Of course it was. He would recognize that glowing smile anywhere. He was going to sit on Zefron's face. Far too excited, he sat down, beaming like one of his life goals had been achieved. Quirrell watched him, entertained, and the corners of his mouth began to twitch into a smile.
"You're-you're different from what I expected," he confessed.
"Why? Because I'm a High School Musical fan? Hey, nobody loves Zefron more than me," Voldemort solemnly swore, and his serious expression made Quirrell laugh. Now that was something. His own excitement began to wane as he, enthralled, watched Quirrell's smile and listened to his infectious laugh. That was something he could get used to.
"Your hands," Quirrell requested, leaving Voldemort's question to hang about in the air. Voldemort did as he asked and stretched out his hands, and Quirrell rustled around his bag for a moment. All the sudden, something thick and wet plopped into Voldemort's palm.
"What is this stuff?"
"L-lavender lotion. The mosquitos hate it," Quirrell explained simply. He capped the bottle and stowed it away again, while Voldemort sat there with his palms still up, unsure what to do now that he'd been tainted. Quirrell raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, rub it in."
"I think you just want me to smell like a flower," Voldemort accused as he obediently rubbed his hands. The smell really wasn't that bad, now that he was getting used to it.
"Lavender does s-suit you," Quirrell teased gently, a twinkle in his eye that reminded Voldemort of the stars gleaming above them. He stretched out on the blanket, his head against the cushioned ground, and Voldemort followed suit.
Able to stare up directly now, Voldemort watched in amazement as meteor after meteor shot across the glistening firmament, each one stealing his breath away and bringing his heart up into his throat in sheer awe. The longer he stared, the more stars he could see, all twinking and glowing without a care in the world. All those nights he spent sulking around the city, he never once thought to look up at the wonder right there above his head.
The two of them spent the time conversing quietly. About anything, about everything. About plans, about the future. About Quirrell's flower garden and ability to quote Jane Austen verbatim and Voldemort's love of dance. Quirrell's stutter gradually dispersed the more comfortable he became, and at one point, he even took Voldemort's hand to point out some of the constellations up in the sky.
"That's Cassiopeia," he explained, and Voldemort tried to listen, he really did. Something about the way Quirrell held his hand, their fingers entwined in a comfortable tangle, made his heart thunder uncontrollably in his chest. He numbly followed the path Quirrell traced with their fingers, throat dry, palms sweaty. Quirrell didn't notice. "And that's Andromeda, which means Pegasus is the big one there, and you can see Pisces right below it and Aries over here. See?"
"Y-yeah, I see." Voldemort didn't see. They all looked like just a bunch of shiny dots to him, but Quirrell's enthusiasm was what really entranced him. Quirrell loved this. A few more meteors cascaded across the black, making Quirrell's smile grow.
All at once, he let go of Voldemort's hand. "S-sorry. You probably don't care about all this nerdy stuff."
"No, man, it's really awesome! I don't know how you can remember all of that! Hell, I didn't even know there was a meteor shower tonight! If not for you, I wouldn't have even looked up." He gazed back up, his red eyes scanning the deep expanse with meaning for one of the first times in his life. Stars were everywhere, their friendly winking making his stomach queasy in the best of ways.
Or maybe that was from Quirrell's hand taking his own again.
"Why not, Voldemort?" The question was innocent enough, but Voldemort struggled to find the right words to explain himself. His mouth felt dry, his heartbeat anxious. Quirrell's thumb traced calming patterns on the back of his hand, heating the skin there, and Voldemort took a deep breath to settle his pattering heart. Just what the hell was Quirrell doing to him?
"You remember being a kid, Squirrel? Always looking up and hoping to see a shooting star so you could make a wish? I quit doing that when I was really young. I never saw the point in searching for false hope when I knew my dreams would never come true. I'm not headed anywhere in life. I'll be lucky if I even get a job after we graduate. Lucius is getting married to Cissy once we're out of school. Bellatrix wants to get into politics and be the next dictator or something. You want to go to college to be a teacher. Everybody has a plan but me. I quit making wishes. I quit dreaming."
Quirrell fell quiet. Voldemort expected that; he didn't know why he said all that stuff, especially to somebody he barely knew, but he felt like he could say anything to Quirrell and not get judged for it. He just felt comfortable with him. Even their silence was comforting. He'd never felt so at ease in his life.
"Why not start now?"
Voldemort looked over inquisitively. Quirrell still stared up at the sky, and the rocketing meteors lit up his eyes. He grinned that infectious way again, bringing Voldemort's heart to a stutter. "Why don't you start now? Make a wish."
"Do meteor showers count as shooting stars?"
"I don't see why not. Start small, pick something you want, and wish for it! It's never too late to start dreaming, Voldemort. Who knows? Maybe your wish will come true!"
Voldemort simply stared at him. Quirrell meant it. He really meant every word. He actually thought Voldemort could have a wish. That Voldemort deserved it. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him. Nobody had ever encouraged him.
He knew what he wanted.
Voldemort licked his lips nervously. "What should I wish for?"
"Anything! Anything you want! Maybe you should start small, since it's your first time," Quirrell suggested helpfully, all but bouncing with excitement.
"Anything I want?" The question thickened the air between them until Voldemort nearly couldn't breathe. His heart hammered even faster the moment Quirrell turned his eyes on him, his meaning understood. He waited with bated breath for Quirrell's answer, suffocated by the August heat. Quirrell's lips turned up in the corners, and Voldemort watched the movement almost hungrily.
"Anything you want," Quirrell murmured, and he inched just a bit closer. Voldemort moved too, destroying most of the gap between them until only a sliver of space existed. Quirrell's breath fanned out on his cheeks, the intoxicating aroma of lavender filling his head. He could definitely grow to love lavender.
"You never know," he added just before Voldemort pressed his mouth to Quirrell's, "your wish just might come true."