Thank you again to everyone who has been reading this! I hope you continue to enjoy it, and I do hope the wait was worth it. As always, I own nothing.

When Voldemort woke up, it wasn't from being uncomfortable. Quirrell's weight wasn't exactly what he would call unwelcome, if he was being perfectly honest with himself. No, the fucking sun woke him up, glaring through the window and straight into his eyes. Muttering, a curse, he tried to turn his head and get comfortable again, and his arms came up naturally to cradle Quirrell closer.

Wait, what? Cradle? Quirrell? Closer?

He opened one eye and peered down at the sleeping form on top of him. He sure looked comfy! Snoring lightly, Quirrell had pressed his face into Voldemort's neck, and he thought he felt one of Quirrell's hands tightly gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Voldemort took a deep breath as anxiety began to course though his blood. This wasn't what they'd agreed on. They were trying to be friends, not…not this, whatever the fuck this even was. He didn't cuddle with anyone, not even Bellatrix (try as she might to demand it).

He tried to remain calm, but his arms and legs itched to move the longer he sat there with Quirrell on top of him. Why didn't he just wake the man up? Surely, the moment Quirrell realized how they were sleeping, he would freak out and apologize, when it wasn't entirely his fault. They were soulmates; maybe they just ended up sleeping like that? Instinct. Of course. What other explanation could there be?

Okay, think, Voldemort. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He could recall Quirrell falling asleep on his shoulder during Hairspray!, and he hadn't exactly objected… What the hell was in that Chinese food?

He knew interacting with Quirrell had been a bad idea. The man was becoming harder and harder to resist. Soon, Quirrell would have him fucking domesticated and all that shit that he spent his whole life trying to avoid. He was the fucking Dark Lord. He would not be domesticated!

But the moment he glared down at Quirrell, fully prepared to make him get the hell off of him, his speech died in his throat. He just looked so peaceful and happy. If he was being truthful, Voldemort really didn't want to disturb him.

Then his voice floated up from the unmoving form. "I can nearly hear your internal struggle. If you want me to move, you only have to say so, Voldemort."

Shit. Busted. He shrugged a little as Quirrell opened his eyes to peer up at him, and he wished he could've ignored the sadness he saw in his face. "You haven't been sleeping. I didn't want to wake you up," he explained shortly, voice huskier than usual.

"How did we even get like this?" Quirrell carefully sat up, a light yawn on his lips, and Voldemort couldn't help but thinking that half-asleep and rumpled Quirrell was quite possibly his favorite Quirrell. His disheveled hair and the adorable way he stretched his arms out when he yawned only made him even more endearing.

"Thought maybe you might know," Voldemort muttered, sitting up. His back should have been stiff from the position, but he was pretty sure he'd never slept so well in his entire life.

"The last thing I can remember is John Travolta in drag," Quirrell admitted sheepishly. "Sorry for falling asleep on you. Um, pun not intended. It's probably my fault we ended up sleeping like that." He just sounded so fucking dejected that Voldemort couldn't bring himself to agree with him. Sure, it probably was Quirrell's fault, but Voldemort had to be at fault too. After all, Quirrell may have been the one sleeping on him, but he hadn't exactly objected when he decided to fucking cuddle him.

"No, it's probably, you know…instinct."

Quirrell eagerly nodded. "Right. Soulmates. That would make sense."

"Yeah. No big deal. Not like it will happen again, so…"

"Of course." Quirrell looked down at his lap, shoulders slumped. Shit, he was making Voldemort fucking depressed. Did he actually want to sleep with Voldemort again?

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, each second frustrating Voldemort more and more. There had to be some way to cheer Quirrell up, get him acting like normal again. He could put his arm around him? But that might give him the wrong idea. Maybe something else. Something less like a relationship and more like a friendship.

"Uh, hey, Quirrell—"

"It's okay, I understand. You can go, if you'd like. I wouldn't blame you," Quirrell hastily interrupted, as thought he would have rather not said anything at all. Voldemort nearly chuckled. Could this man get any more precious?

"Actually, I was going to suggest we go out and do something today," Voldemort offered. He wished his voice didn't sound so fucking hopeful. Her wanted Quirrell to agree, but he didn't want Quirrell to know that.

Quirrell immediately looked up at him, curious. "You want to hang out more?"

"Yeah, why not? I don't have anything better to do. You look like you use some time out of the house."

"I'm not the one who's as pale as a sheet," Quirrell teased, still a little cautious. It wasn't like Voldemort was just going to change his mind or something. "What about your club?"

"Gang, Quirrell, they're a—oh, fuck it. They won't miss me." With a sigh of resignation, Voldemort merely shrugged, and Quirrell started to relax. "What about your papers?"

"I can finish grading them tomorrow." By now, Quirrell was smiling. Voldemort knew that he'd convinced him. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, we can go get something for breakfast, then I don't know… We could go rollerblading?" Voldemort shrugged, opting for the first thing that popped into his head. Normal people like to rollerblade, didn't they? He'd never been, but he figured Quirrell was the kind of guy who liked normal things like rollerblading. He couldn't exactly ask him to join him in causing mayhem in the city (evil didn't suit Quirrell anyways; he was far too nice).

"Rollerblading?" Quirrell's eyes widened for a moment before his lips curled secretively. "Voldemort, you like rollerblading?"

Voldemort furrowed his brow, trying not to get defensive. "I like it as much as anyone, and what's that look for?"

"I just never would have expected you to like rollerblading. But hey? What the hell. Let's do it. Just give me a minute to change clothes." Quirrell was halfway down the hallway when he backtracked, his ears a little red. "Um…do you need something to wear?"

"Do you even realize how scrawny you are? I doubt you have anything that would fit me."

Quirrell raised his chin, offended, and promptly left the room. Voldemort leaned back into the couch, confused. He hadn't insulted Quirrell, had he? Why would he be upset? He wasn't wrong. Quirrell was much smaller than he was. Next thing he knew, a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt landed in his lap. Voldemort looked them over before he glanced up at Quirrell, who was smiling pleasantly.

"Those should fit you nicely."

Voldemort inspected them once over. "Yeah, looks like it. Where did you get these?"

"Is black okay?"

"Black's great. Are you avoiding my question?" For some reason, that irrationally pissed him off. Quirrell couldn't have anything to hide from him. There should be soulmate rules about secrets or something.

Quirrell sighed. "Not that it's important, but they belonged to my ex. You can change in the bathroom if you'd like. This way." That said, he turned and started down the hallway again.

Voldemort was on his feet within seconds, his brow furrowed. Ex? Quirrell had an ex? He followed Quirrell to the doorway of the bathroom, his mind racing. It wasn't that surprising that Quirrell would have an ex. He was good-looking, nice, funny…

"Voldemort, are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" he growled a little angrier than he'd intended. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why the fuck was he so pissed?

Quirrell blinked, stunned only for a moment before he smiled gently. "As long as you say so. I'll wait out for you in the living room whenever you're ready. Oh, and there's some hair gel in the cabinet, if you'd like to use it."

Voldemort watched him walk into what he guessed was his bedroom and shut the door. What the hell was he smiling about? Did Voldemort miss something? Grumbling, he walked into the bathroom, all but slamming the door behind him. He tossed the clothes onto the sink and glared at them.

An ex, huh? Who had he been? When did they break up? Why did he leave clothes? Frustrated, he pulled out the hair gel. Had this been his hair gel, too?

More importantly, why the fuck did it matter? All of this was just pissing him off. It wasn't a big deal. Just some clothes, some hair gel. Some ex. Not a big deal. None of his business. He didn't want it to be his business. He screwed whoever the fuck he wanted; why should Quirrell not share the same opportunity?

Voldemort unhappily changed into the unknown ex's clothes and neatly folded his own. He didn't like these new clothes, didn't like the way they fit, even if they fit exactly like his normal clothes. They weren't his. They belonged to some other guy that Quirrell had been dating. Which didn't matter one bit. It wasn't like he was dating Quirrell or anything.

His hand froze halfway through applying fresh hair gel. Shit. Shit. He was fucking jealous. For no fucking reason. Quirrell wasn't his. Just because they were soulmates didn't mean he had a claim on him or anything. Sure, if he spotted someone flirting with Quirrell, he'd probably have them killed, but that was completely different, right?

He took a deep breath. He was the fucking Dark Lord. He shouldn't just get jealous over—well, over Quirrell. Not when they weren't involved or anything. Shit. That reminder really needed to quit depressing him, especially when it was his own fucking decision not to get involved.

A thought nagged at the back of his head. Then how does Quirrell feel?

Voldemort shoved that thought away with the hair gel he pushed back into the cabinet. He had to get ahold of himself. Quirrell was probably wondering what the hell was taking him so damn long. With a glare at his reflection, he hastily left the bathroom and headed back out to the living room.

His feet froze the moment he saw Quirrell. The little squirrel had picked up a book in his absence and stretched out on the couch. He looked deep on concentration, eyes wide with excitement as they darted from word to word, and he was absently (endearingly) chewing on his bottom lip as he read. He was so immersed, he hadn't even noticed Voldemort when he entered the room. Voldemort felt his heart flutter in his chest.

What? Fluttering heart? Could he get any more cliché and romantic? Next would be the domestication…

"So should I just leave you and the book alone for a little bit or..?"

Quirrell started and blinked up at Voldemort as though he'd forgotten about him. Nice to know all it took was a good book to distract him. Off-handedly, he wondered if that was one of the ones he got the day they met. He liked the face of Startled Quirrell, too (but Half-asleep Quirrell was still his favorite).

"Oh! Oh, no, I can finish the book anytime! Let's go. You wanted to grab a bite to eat, right? Have any place in mind?"

"Not really. You pick, I'll pay." Voldemort shrugged and went over to open the door for Quirrell in a friendly gesture. Friendly. That was all. Not like this was a gentlemanly thing to do on a date or anything because this was definitely not a date.

Quirrell's lips curled in a frown. "Voldemort, you don't have to pay for me."

"No, it's fine. I invited you, I can pay. Let it go and move your ass, will you?"

Still not entirely convinced, Quirrell let Voldemort usher him out, pausing only to lock the door behind them. "Follow me, I know a nice diner that's not too far from here. If we're lucky, they might still be serving breakfast! Then we'll go to the rollerblading rink…" Quirrell kept talking, but Voldemort's mind had started to wander.

Fucking Quirrell. Why did he have to insist on giving him a different pair of clothes to wear? Now Voldemort was curious about this ex of his, and no matter how much he tried to push them away, the thoughts came nagging back to him.

"Voldemort, are you listening to me?"

"Huh? Yeah. Plants. Couldn't agree more."

Quirrell hummed, amused. "Does anybody in your club actually buy it when you try to bullshit your way through a conversation like that?"

"My gang doesn't exactly question me, and I was paying attention!" If there was one thing he hated more than his curiosity about the ex, it was how Quirrell could read him so easily. Nobody else could! What made him so special?

"That must get boring, though. People following you around and listening to you all the time instead of challenging you. I make it my business to question everything."

Voldemort's lips quirked. "Yeah, I've noticed."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Quirrell feigned offense again.

"Just that you wouldn't fit in with my Death Eaters."

"I'm a school teacher, Voldemort. I'll take that as a compliment." He glanced over at Voldemort, biting into his lower lip again; Voldemort couldn't help but like that little habit of his. "Are you ever going to tell them about me? Not that I'm a big deal or anything. Just your soulmate." The longer he spent with Quirrell, the more important he started becoming. Voldemort couldn't help but feel this was getting risky.

"Bellatrix would flip out. She thinks I belong to her. If she found out you had a stronger claim, she might not take it very well."

Quirrell bristled. "I like her more and more every second," he muttered sarcastically and crossed his arms.

"Don't sound so jealous, Quirrell. I told you before, she's not my girlfriend."

"Just your whore, right?" He raised an eyebrow at Voldemort. "And why am I not allowed to get jealous, but you are?"

Shit. Busted again. He really didn't like how easily Quirrell could read him. "What do I even have to be jealous about, Quirrell? Don't be ridiculous."

Quirrell tried not to laugh. "You've been grumpier than usual since you found out I have an ex. If you aren't jealous, then I don't know what. It's a natural reaction."

"Natural. Right." Voldemort shoved his hands in the ex's pockets, refusing to acknowledge these fucking jeans as anything else.

"You can ask anything you want. I'll answer. I just don't think it's important at all. Oh, we're here!"

Voldemort internally cursed at seeing the diner that he and the Death Eaters had been arguing at yesterday. Fucking hell. Keeping his head down, he followed Quirrell in and hoped the owner didn't say anything about him being there. He had the distinct feeling he wasn't welcome anymore.

"Something the matter?" Quirrell asked as he led the way to a booth.

"Why are you always asking me that?"

"Because you're always acting like something is wrong," Quirrell laughed, and Voldemort couldn't stand how cute it was. What right did Quirrell have to even be that cute? Voldemort's heart felt tight whenever Quirrell was cute, and he didn't like it one fucking bit. He was trying to resist. Quirrell must be doing this to him on purpose.

"No, nothing's wrong, exactly…" He ducked his head again as the waitress, one of the girls that he recognized from last night, made her way over to their table. She set the menus on the table in front of each of them, taking extreme care not to meet Voldemort's gaze. It was more than a little annoying, but he had wanted a reputation that would strike fear into the hearts of civilians everywhere.

"Hey, Quirinus! I see you've brought a friend." She smiled nervously at Voldemort and fussed with her notepad as he glared at her.

"Hello, Amy. This is Voldemort." Quirrell beamed at her before his eyes started to skim the fine print on the laminated, folded paper in front of him. His brow furrowed for a moment before doe eyes flickered back up to her. "Can I still order breakfast?"

"For you? Of course! Um." She paused, glancing at Voldemort again before she continued, "The owner wanted me to pass along to, uh, Mister Voldemort that he and his friends are no longer welcome here, but he'll allow him in as long as he's with you."

Quirrell nodded thoughtfully, and Voldemort felt heat creeping along his neck. He'd been hoping to avoid something like this. He could only imagine what Quirrell might be thinking. Another reminder, he supposed bitterly, that he and his soulmate just did not fit together properly.

"Let him know that I said thank you and I appreciate it. Two coffees, please?"

"Sure thing!" The waitress walked away then, the sound over her shoes tapping against the tiled floor. Voldemort watched her leave; better to watch her than see Quirrell's expression. He'd have to look over eventually. Otherwise, Quirrell might draw attention to the how he refused to even glance at him, and that would only bring the topic into the conversation. Shit.

When he finally risked a gaze at his soulmate, all he saw was Quirrell intensely scrutinizing the menu. "Voldemort, what do you think? Eggs or French toast?"

"Is that all?" He almost couldn't believe his ears. No scolding? No questioning?

"Well, I suppose pancakes wouldn't be unwelcome, but I didn't want to leave myself with too many options. Then I'll never decide."

"No, forget breakfast! Is that all you have to say?"

Quirrell sighed and put down the menu. "What would you like me to say, Voldemort? Behave? Don't get thrown out of diners? I'm not your mother. I'm not even your partner. I don't really know what I am, truthfully. What trouble you get into when we aren't together is really none of my business. The thing that I really can't get over is Amy calling you Mister Voldemort. It really doesn't suit you at all."

Voldemort stared, dumbfounded. "Uh…"

"You could always tell me your real name, but I don't think we're there yet." Smiling, Quirrell returned to the menu, lips curling under suddenly as he remembered his current impasse.

"Get the eggs. I'll get the French toast, and we'll share." Voldemort didn't even glance at the menu. All he wanted to do was make Quirrell happy. If he wanted eggs and French toast, Voldemort would make that happen. How else could he keep Quirrell smiling in front of him like that?

What the hell; he didn't even want this. He never wanted his soulmate. He'd planned, plotted, and assumed he was ready to ignore that special person on the day he was destined to meet them. Why had it never occurred to his him that his soulmate might change his mind? He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to accept this, accept whatever was forming with Quirrell.

Quirrell, far too observant for his own damn good, must have realized this plight because he suddenly said, "His name was Tom."

"Huh?"

"My ex. I said, his name was Tom." Well of course he fucking was.

"What happened to him?" Voldemort grumbled irritably, unreasonably pissed off about Quirrell's ex having the same name as him. Did God have something against him? Damn that two-faced prick…

Quirrell shrugged. "He found his soulmate. I wasn't terribly heartbroken, if I'm being honest. He would have done the same for me had I found my intended first. We both knew it wasn't a permanent relationship. I didn't love him. How could I? He wasn't my…well. I was glad for him."

Voldemort saw the change in Quirrell's expression, the sadness in his eyes, and Voldemort felt the sharp pang of it in his chest too. He'd had relationships before; none of them had been serious. Some of them had found their soulmates, and they stopped coming to Voldemort for sex then. He never really cared before, never really thought about it. He never saw those flings as relationships to begin with. This with Quirrell was foreign, new, and he didn't know how to react.

Voldemort stayed quiet throughout breakfast. If Quirrell noticed his sudden silence, he pretended not to. He chatted about anything and everything: about his job, about the book he was reading, about the food in front of them. Voldemort decided that he liked listening to Quirrell talk, no matter what the subject was. He liked hearing his voice, liked watching his lips curve and form the words and his tongue flicking across straight, white teeth. Every time Voldemort got too distracted with Quirrell's mouth, he took a swig of the strong coffee, as dark and black as his soul, and tried to remember that even if they were meant for each other, he and Quirrell just didn't (and never would) fit.

Quirrell tried to pay for his plate, but Voldemort caught him in time and handed the waitress a few bills, more than enough for their meals and a sizeable tip. Quirrell eyed him, probably wondering where he got the money from, but never asked. Voldemort followed him out of the diner and back onto the sidewalk, which was far more crowded now that the afternoon had started. They had to press together to keep from getting jostled and separated.

"The rollerblading rink is this way," Quirrell nodded to their left and started to lead the way. Before he could press into the busy throng of people, Voldemort grabbed his hand. Quizzically, Quirrell glanced from their entwined hands up to Voldemort, waiting for something—an explanation, a declaration, a decision. Even Voldemort didn't really know what had made him do it, but he knew what he needed to say.

"Before, when you said you weren't sure what you are to me?" He waited for Quirrell's nod and took a deep breath. Damn, this emotions thing was harder than he thought it would be. "I have an answer for you. You're Quirrell. That's all you need to be."

Quirrell stared up at him wordlessly. Voldemort started to panic. Had he crossed some unspoken boundary? Had he said too much? Quirrell could just do something, say something, anything! He was taking too long. Voldemort hated waiting, more than he hated not knowing.

But the wait was worth it. Because when Quirrell finally smiled, Voldemort thought his heart might explode and his brain might short out at the sight of those broadly curled lips. And a thought occurred to him, a thought that he would have considered dangerous and ridiculous not even a day ago.

He could get used to seeing that smile.

As always, hope you enjoyed it. I loved writing it. I'll start working on the next chapter immediately! Thanks for reading!