Monday had been weird. Unless Voldemort thought about it too much. Then he decided that no, Monday was perfectly normal, and he wasn't sure why he'd expected anything else.

He'd shown up in Trelawney's class without a book, and Bellatrix, being the best friend that she was, brought that small detail to the professor's attention. Trelawney turned to Voldemort and blinked her oversized, bespectacled eyes at him knowingly. He knew what she was about to say, and he wasn't even psychic.

"Yes… yes, I foresaw as much," she swooned dreamily, her hands clasped over her heart. Voldemort shared a disturbed look with Bellatrix. "And now Mr. Malfoy will strike a dramatic pose as he offers to share his book with you…."

"That's not predicting the future," Voldemort muttered. "That's what he always does!"

Lucius stood up, twirled around once, and then threw himself across several of the ridiculous pink cushions Trelawney wanted them to sit on. He draped a hand over his brow, eyes glistening with emotion, and proclaimed, "Do not fear, my lord! I shall defy the fates and refuse to share my textbook with you!"

Trelawney gasped and clapped a hand over her heart. "As I foresaw!" A series of gasps from the believers followed, offset only by the quiet groans of the nonbelievers, Voldemort included.

"But didn't you just say that Malfoy would offer his book?" Bellatrix tried to raise a single eyebrow, but when that didn't work out for her, she settled for narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "How can you predict both?"

"I predicted that my influence would change Mr. Malfoy's way of thinking and he would, indeed, refuse to share his copy of Unfogging the Future. Now Mr. Riddle, you must share, instead, with Bellatrix. Today, we shall be reading tea leaves… Will one person from each group please choose a tea set from the cupboard over there, yes… Mr. Malfoy, please allow your partner to retrieve the tea set, that's a good boy…."

Several moments later, a loud crash signaled that Malloy had decided to once again 'deny the fates' and knocked over several tea sets while striking a dramatic pose. But that wouldn't be enough to convince Voldemort that Trelawney was a real seer. Anybody would have predicted that Malfoy was going to break something. He did the same thing last week.

Voldemort didn't turn his head to see the mess, though. He was trying not to meet Quirrell's gaze, and he could definitely feel somebody looking at him. Had Quirrell figured out that Voldemort sold him the book he'd been saving for himself? Probably. He hadn't exactly been discrete about it.

Quirrell probably thought he was a giant idiot. Which wasn't far from the truth, unless you asked Bellatrix. She swore that Voldemort was omniscient, and the muggles, as she called the common folk, should cower before his divine knowledge and power. Voldemort just agreed with her when she was like that; it usually ended better for him.

Voldemort did what any sane person would do and decidedly went out of his way to avoid running into Quirrell all week. He managed pretty well, too, considering how busy Flourish and Blotts was with students running in to grab their books last minute. He and Bella barely had a moment to 'make evil plans,' let alone think about where Quirrell was and what he was doing and if he thought Voldemort was a complete weirdo or not.

Then came the weekend again, and just like every Saturday, Voldemort found himself leaning on the bookstore's counter, waiting and praying to hear the sound of the bell just to give him something to do. He'd already cleaned the counter top three times, reorganized the buttons, rearranged the buttons by specific type, and even took a power nap. But he'd left marks on the counter, so he had to clean it again.

His life would be so much easier if he liked to read. Then he could just grab a book and nestle in while he didn't have any customers. It wasn't for lack of trying, either. He'd grabbed some book earlier that morning and tried to get lost in it. Sure, maybe he shouldn't have tried to read Jane Austen, but he thought, hey, she was popular enough…

His book of choice definitely hadn't been influenced by a certain brown-haired, book-reading squirrel. No, definitely not. He wasn't the type of person to read a book just because he saw his crush with it. That was just low, and he wasn't that low.

He was probably lower.

Voldemort rubbed at a small indention in the counter and tried to think about how he could get over this. Crushes were just bad for his health. He wasn't sure how much more his heart could handle. Besides, what was the point in having a crush on Quirrell, of all people? They were so damn different; how in the hell would that ever work out?

In the event that Quirrell liked him back, of course. Which he didn't. Probably. He'd never given Voldemort any reason to believe otherwise.

He was surprised Bella hadn't popped up lately. She hopefully hadn't ditched while Voldemort was snoozing. Not that he would ever tell the manager if she did; he just didn't like being in the store by himself.

The door chimed for the first time in the past three hours, but Voldemort didn't get too excited. Last time, it had just been somebody asking for directions to the nearest Starbucks. Maybe that was where Bellatrix went. Starbucks. Maybe she would bring him back some.

Unfortunately, the person who stopped in front of him was not Bellatrix and probably wasn't about to ask for directions. It was Quirrell, of course, looking nervous and fidgeting with something small. Voldemort tried to sit up too fast, and his elbow slid along the freshly polished counter top. He just managed to catch himself before whacking his head on the wood. Smooth. Time to go find a new hole to crawl into.

"Uh, hi," he said lamely, his voice several octaves too high for his liking. He cleared his throat. "What can I do for you?"

"U-um… I th-think you gave me this b-by mistake," Quirrell mumbled and set the Jane Austen button on the counter. Voldemort stared dumbly at it for a moment before Quirrell elaborated, "It w-was in my b-bag from last w-weekend."

"Oh. Oh! No, that's for you. Keep it." Voldemort slid the button back across the counter at Quirrell, who looked adorably confused. Yeah, Voldemort's heart was sure to give out at any minute. Bellatrix would find him dead behind the counter. Death by Quirrell's cuteness. He could think of worse ways to go. At least it wasn't something stupid like death by two-year-old or something like that.

"B-but… won't you get in t-trouble?"

"For a pin that costs less than a buck? Nah, don't worry about it. Besides, you like Jane Austen, don't you? You were buying some of her books before." Voldemort wanted to hit himself. He just basically admitted to paying attention to what Quirrell was buying.

No, no, he could still salvage this. If Quirrell brought it up, all he had to do was shrug it off like he payed attention to all of his customers. Plus, it had been a slow day. Of course he would remember. Yeah. That sounded convincing.

Quirrell just smiled and accepted the pin back. Voldemort wanted to kiss him. Just lean over, grab him by his collar, and snog him right then and there. But then he'd probably never see Quirrell again, and wouldn't that be a shame?

"She's my f-favorite author. I just love all of her w-works." Voldemort noticed that when Quirrell was comfortable or distracted, he stuttered less. Call him crazy, but he wanted Quirrell to be comfortable enough around him that he never stuttered. He wanted that so much, his heart stung.

"Yeah, I tried reading one of her books this morning. She's a bit too, uh… intellectual for me," Voldemort rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. He hadn't even made it past page five.

Quirrell stifled a laugh. "She doesn't really s-seem like your st-style, anyways."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Voldemort put a hand over his heart, pretending to be offended.

"I th-think you would like Gothic literature b-better," Quirrell declared with a thoughtful nod. "M-maybe something less romantic and f-flowery."

Well, less romantic and flowery certainly sounded like him. Voldemort shrugged a little. "Hey, if you find a book you think I'd like, bring it up. I'll give it a shot. I trust your professional opinion."

"I-I'll keep you in mind when I'm b-browsing." Quirrell was smiling now, and Voldemort thought he was about to die. Quirrell. Keeping him in mind? This couldn't be real. He had to be dreaming.

Then Quirrell tilted his head and furrowed his brow, scrutinizing Voldemort critically as he asked his next question. "Did you sell me your D-Divination Theory book?"

Voldemort sputtered for a moment, searching for the perfect excuse or explanation. "What? No! No, why would I do-that book was for-yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

"Well, uh… you're probably more interested in the class than I am, and I've been thinking about dropping out of it… what's the point in having a book for a class I might not keep, you know?" That sounded convincing, right? Yeah, Voldemort was convincing. He was devious and cunning and ambitious and great at convincing. In just about every situation that didn't involve Quirinus Quirrell, of course.

"You d-don't like the class?"

"I thought it would be an easy elective," Voldemort admitted, "but I just don't believe in any of it. Tea leaves and death omens? Not really my cup of tea. Uh. No pun intended."

"W-well, if it's any consolation, I hope you don't see a giant black d-dog that leads to y-your death."

"Thanks, I appreciate that." Voldemort laughed quietly, wondering how he could be so charmed by this nervous squirrel. Usually he was the one doing the charming. Natural charisma and all that. Now that he was on the receiving end, he wasn't sure how he liked it.

With a smile and a quiet nod, Quirrell left the counter to find his way into the fiction section again. Voldemort watched after him, sighing softly as his heart beat up a storm. Man, what he wouldn't give to follow Quirrell, slide him up against a stack of books, and just-

"Very smooth, my lord! You have him wrapped around your finger!" Bellatrix appeared beside him, coffee in hand, and slurped loudly. Voldemort gasped and then glared, both for sneaking up on him and also for not bringing him any coffee.

"Stop doing that! Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm the one wrapped around his finger," he muttered with another grumpy sigh. Things were not going as he'd originally hoped, and the last thing he needed was for Bellatrix to remind him.

She held out her coffee, and he accepted the swig, cringing momentarily at the overload of sugar. "Next, we need some traumatic event to send Quirrell right into your arms. We could light the bookstore on fire."

"Don't you dare," Voldemort muttered. "No traumatic events!"

"What about rollerblading? I could come up behind him and push him directly at you. You catch him, saving his life, and he'll be so grateful that he'll offer himself up right then and there!"

"Out of the question," Voldemort interrupted. "For one, I don't know how to rollerblade. Two, I don't just want to get in his pants!"

Bellatrix looked confused. "You don't? Then what-"

"And three, how exactly are you proposing we get Quirrell to the rollerblading rink in the first place? Doesn't seem like a usual haunt for him."

"Well, you ask him, of course!"

Voldemort felt the blood drain from his face. "You want me to ask him out? On a date? Bella, we don't even know which way this guy swings! If he swings at all!"

"He likes books and flowers. He's totally gay."

"And that's stereotyping! Cut it out! Just because a guy likes flowers doesn't mean he's gay."

"You'll have to ask him out eventually!" Bellatrix insisted, ignoring him entirely. Voldemort should've been used to this by now.

"No, actually, I don't. I can just sit here and watch him from afar."

She shook her head mournfully. "This is so sad. I can't stand to be around you right now."

"Yeah, you should probably be working, anyways. Did you finish up in the kids section?"

"No, I went out for coffee." When Voldemort gave her an accusatory glare, she just shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Don't give me that look, my lord. You were up here taking a nap!"

Voldemort opened his mouth to argue but decided against it. Arguments with Bella never ended well for him, and then she'd never get back to work. The last thing Voldemort wanted was for Bellatrix to still be up here when Quirrell came back. He didn't think he would ever outlive the humiliation.

"All the more reason to bring me coffee, too," Voldemort grumbled with a sigh. "Some best friend you are."

"Tough love, my lord." With a sympathetic pat on his shoulder, Bellatrix bounced back around the counter and vanished into the kid's section again. Voldemort watched her suspiciously; he'd never actually seen her do any work, and he'd started wondering what she even did at the store.

Before he could think any more on it, Quirrell had reappeared at the counter, almost as if he'd been waiting for Bellatrix to leave. He had a stack of books in his hand, a few on flowers and Emma by Jane Austen. He also had Mary Shelley's Frankenstein on top.

Voldemort wished he'd had a moment longer to prepare himself for seeing Quirrell again. He was going to make an idiot out of himself. He knew it. He would open his mouth, and something dumb would come out, and then Quirrell would hate him.

Well. Maybe not hate him. That was probably being melodramatic. Or maybe he was being realistic. People did tend to randomly hate him, thanks to Bellatrix and her ridiculous rumors about world domination (the only thing Voldemort wanted to dominate was the dance floor, but he'd sooner die before he let anybody hear that).

"That was fast!" Way to sound lame, Voldemort. Good job. He knew he was going to make an idiot out of himself.

Quirrell looked away shyly for a moment, a rosy color to his cheeks, and man, if that didn't do weird things to Voldemort's stomach. Was that even healthy? He remembered somebody saying something about butterflies, but he was positive that whatever was fluttering around in his abdomen was way too violent to be butterflies. Hippogriffs. Probably hippogriffs.

"Y-yeah, I knew wh-what I wanted t-today." Damn. Voldemort had been so hopeful that maybe Quirrell wouldn't stutter as much after their first chat. If only he could figure out what it was about Voldemort that made the squirrel so nervous.

"You, uh… you like to read, huh?" Shut the hell up, Voldemort! You sound like a moron!

Making small talk was a skill he had never mastered. He never really saw the point. Bellatrix basically declared herself his best friend, and he met his other friends through her. They were all he needed, most of the time.

Then Quirrell came along. Quirrell was the first person he ever actually tried to talk to, and that was going so well for him. Still, Voldemort couldn't just give up. Literally. He'd lost complete control over his mouth.

Quirrell hummed the affirmative. "B-books are nice. They d-don't bother you o-or judge you or say nasty things." Or make stupid small talk. Quirrell didn't say that or hint at it, but Voldemort's anxiety-ridden brain liked to jump to its own conclusions. He should probably figure out how to fix that.

Step one: stop trying to hit on a guy who clearly isn't interested.

"N-nothing better to do on the weekends, a-anyways."

Voldemort numbly began to ring up Quirrell's books. "What, no hot dates?"

Step two: figure out how to keep his damn mouth shut.

Quirrell blushed again and shook his head, averting his eyes once more. "N-no, I'm n-not, uh… wh-what about you? Y-you're always working on the w-weekends. Doesn't that upset you're g-girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" Voldemort laughed a little too loudly. When Quirrell's brow furrowed questionably, Voldemort cleared his throat and turned away to put the books in a bag. "I don't have a girlfriend. Or a guyfriend. Boyfriend, I mean. I'm bisexual." He didn't sound nearly as smooth as he'd been going for.

At this, Quirrell smiled and tried his best to suppress a chuckle. He failed. Voldemort felt the overpowering urge to kiss him again, get a taste of that laugh right off the tip of Quirrell's tongue. "I know," he said, indicating to Voldemort's new seven bisexual pride wristbands.

Voldemort laughed again, nervous, and fiddled with the bracelets in question. "U-uh, yeah. Probably overkill, huh?"

"I'm wearing p-pride socks," said Quirrell with a shrug, and Voldemort had to restrain himself to keep from looking over the side of the counter to stare at Quirrell's feet.

He had pride socks. Quirrell. Pride socks. Gay pride. Gay pride socks. No matter which way Voldemort repeated the phrase to himself, every conclusion pointed to the same thing: there was a slim possibility that Quirrell was gay. Gay or an ally, and he hoped to Wizard God that it wasn't the latter.

Quirrell handed Voldemort his card, a curious expression on his face, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite figure out how to voice it.. Voldemort could feel himself being watched and wondered what Quirrell was thinking about. He wanted to ask-man, he wanted to ask so badly-but he held himself back. Play it cool. Let Quirrell come to him. Plus, if he kept his mouth shut, he was less likely to humiliate himself any more.

"So you're not dating B-Bellatrix?" Quirrell finally mumbled, his voice low and quiet as if he thought saying Bella's name would summon her from the very depths of the bookstore or something. Which honestly wouldn't have surprised Voldemort at all.

"Me and Bella? Nah, she's my best friend. We tried that whole dating thing. Or, she tried to convince me to try that whole dating thing, but she's not really my time."

"That's good." Realizig what he'd said, Quirrell froze, his hand still poised to accept his card back. Voldemort tilted his head, an odd feeling quickening his blood.

"Good? Why's that good?"

"U-uh." Quirrell swallowed, his cheeks getting redder by the second. The weird feeling increased until Voldemort was pretty sure his heart shouldn't be beating that fast. But here was Quirrell, flustered and trying to stutter his way through an excuse, and Voldemort just couldn't keep the grin from his face.

"W-well, I j-just-what I-I'm trying t-to say is, uh-Ihavetogo." Quirrell quickly shoved away his debit card and reached for the bag, and Voldemort let him take it.

"Yeah, no, go ahead. I'll see you in class. Enjoy your books!"

Quirrell nodded nervously, managed a shaky smile, and then bolted from the bookstore. The bell chimed, the door inviting in some of the Saturday chatter from outside before the exit slid shut again, leaving Voldemort peacefully to his thoughts. He leaned his elbow on the counter again and tried to quit smiling, but he couldn't do it. Not with their last conversation playing on repeat in his head.

Good. Quirrell said it was good that he and Bella weren't dating. It was good that Voldemort was single.

Whistling, Voldemort began to fiddle with the bisexual pride pins again, the same thought occurring to him again and again until he thought he might be sick from the excitement.

He might actually have a chance.