Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and tumblr messaged me. You have no idea how happy it makes me to know you guys are enjoying it!

Chapter Four—The Pain of Success

Voldemort tried not to think about it. He focused on cars, pedestrians, birds, whatever the fuck he could concentrate his mind on instead of the hand that was still in his. He had grabbed Quirrell's hand when they exited the dinner and just hadn't let go once they started walking. Nobody noticed. Nobody said anything if they did notice.

Quirrell sure as hell hadn't brought it up at all. He just kept walking like hand-holding was no big deal, but Voldemort saw the little quirk in his lips and the spring in his step. He was enjoying this. Voldemort was having a complete meltdown and Quirrell was fucking enjoying it. Who gave him the right to be so damn cute?

He thought about something else, not the hand in his. Not how the hand fit and felt so perfect right there, the fingers intertwined with his, the thumb absently rubbing the skin on his hand every now and then. Not about how happy Quirrell was just to be holding his hand or how happy it was making him, too. He should be happy. He should be shaking Quirrell off and reclaiming his limb.

"You can let go if you want, Voldemort." Quirrell glanced over at him with knowing eyes, and Voldemort wanted to kick himself for being so readable.

"No, no. This is fine. I'm cool with this." Lie. An obvious lie. Quirrell was going to see right through him.

Chuckling, Quirrell started to do it. He started to pull his hand away, and Voldemort held on for dear life. Fuck it all, he just didn't want to let go yet. Quirrell shrugged a little, still beaming, and hummed to himself. Did Quirrell just fucking test him? Wasn't that cheating? There had to be something in the soulmate rule book about that one. If not, Voldemort was going to fucking add it himself because Smug Quirrell was too fucking cute, and that was definitely against the rules. How was he supposed to resist with Quirrell being so cute all the time?

Maybe that was Quirrell's plan all along. Act cute until Voldemort couldn't resist him anymore. Or maybe Quirrell was just Quirrell and had no plan. The more time he spent with him, the harder it was becoming to imagine an ulterior motive.

"Here we are!" Quirrell tugged on Voldemort's hand, beaming at the building they approached. At this point, Voldemort tried to remove his hand from Quirrell's, but the squirrel was having none of that. Excited, he pulled Voldemort up and through the doors.

He'd never been inside a rollerblading rink before. He'd been expecting a dark atmosphere, like a club or something, but it was surprisingly light and reminded him of a bowling alley. Upbeat music played in the background, nearly drowned out by the laughter of the morons down on the oval-shaped rink. To their left, which Quirrell led him to, was the counter where they would pay and get their rollerblades. He turned, watching people spin and fall down on the floor, feeling incredibly sick and a little excited at the same time.

What had made him think that this was a good idea? He was going to fall on his ass and embarrass himself in front of Quirrell! Maybe Quirrell would fall on his ass, too. Then he wouldn't be alone. But Voldemort had the depressing notion that Quirrell was going to know what he was doing and wouldn't be doing any falling whatsoever.

"Here!" Quirrell dangled a pair of skates in his face. Hastily, Voldemort took them, looking them over.

"How did you know my shoe size?"

"Call it soulmate's intuition." Quirrell winked at him as he walked over to sit down and put on his skates. Voldemort stared after him, transfixed for a moment before he realized he even liked the way Quirrell walked (not a bad view, after all). With a quick shake of his head, he joined him.

These skates were going to be a problem. He could already tell. How did he get them on? How did he stand up once he had them on? He was going to fall before he even got to the fucking rink! He took off his regular shoes and tried not to think about how many other people wore these shoes. This couldn't be sanitary.

"You've never been roller-skating before, have you?"

He glanced over at Quirrell, who was smiling endearingly at him. He already had his skates on and had taken to watching Voldemort have his internal crisis. With a sheepish smiled, Voldemort crammed one of the skates on his foot.

"No, no, it's just been a while. I love rollerblading!"

Quirrell snickered. "Your club really does fall for your lies, don't they? Or do they just pretend you're telling the truth?"

"Probably the second one. I'm not sure about some of them, though. They are dense enough." Voldemort finished tying the shoes and paused, faced with the aforementioned problem of standing up and walking. Chuckling, Quirrell held out his hands, and Voldemort didn't even think twice about taking them and letting Quirrell pull him up. Last night, he would have found a way to get up on his own. What had really changed in less than a day…?

He wasn't really starting to accept this whole soulmate thing, was he? He knew that little squirrel would get under his defenses!

"Take it easy at first," Quirrell had started explaining while Voldemort spaced out. "If you try to move too fast, then you'll end up falling. I'll take it slow with you."

"Are you kidding?" Voldemort waved his hand and scoffed. "I don't need to take it easy, Quirrell. I know what I'm doing."

Quirrell blinked at him momentarily before his shock turned into a kind of smugness. Voldemort had the odd urge to kiss that smirk off his face. "If you say so, Voldemort. Let's go!" He stepped down onto the skating rink and did a graceful spin as he waited for Voldemort to follow him.

Well, shit. Legs unsteadily shaking, Voldemort inched along the carpet until he reached the gleaming floor riddled with scuffs and scratches from wipeouts. He swallowed. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, leader of the Death Eaters, was nervous. Quirrell smiled expectantly, knowingly, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Fine. Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the skating floor.

And fell right on his ass.

"Fuck!" He hissed, pain shooting through his tailbone. He cringed and rubbed at his hip, waiting for Quirrell to start laughing. Hell, if Voldemort had been a bystander, he sure would have been laughing his ass off.

Instead, Quirrell extended a hand again, wearing that smile of his again. "I told you to take it easy. We aren't in any hurry, Voldemort."

"I know that…" Voldemort muttered, not taking Quirrell's hand.

Quirrell bent down to eye level, still managing to flawlessly stay on his skates. How the fuck was he even doing that? "Then what is it? It's not something silly, is it? You have silly ideas all the time. I won't think lesser of you if you can't rollerblade, Voldemort. I just want to spend time with you. Didn't I make that clear enough before?"

Voldemort stared at him, wishing he didn't second guess everything Quirrell said. Was it really all right to trust him and believe him? Around the Death Eaters, he had to be the best at everything, otherwise they might try to challenge him. Quirrell really didn't give a shit. How had he gotten so lucky?

Soulmates were a lottery. If the fates had been crueler, they might have paired him with Bellatrix. But, no. He'd gotten Quirrell. Kind, adorable, precious Quirrell who didn't want anything from him. Who didn't care if he could rollerblade or not. Who didn't even care if they had a relationship or not, as long as they could spend time together.

Voldemort didn't want a soulmate, though. He'd been fighting against it his whole life. So why was it that he needed to keep repeating that to himself? He wasn't good enough for Quirrell. In a fairytale, he was a bad guy. And Quirrell was the one he would get killed along the way.

But when Quirrell straightened again and held out his hand, Voldemort still took it and let himself be hoisted back to his feet. And when Quirrell didn't pull away, neither did Voldemort. They took it slow like Quirrell said they should, tiny baby steps that Voldemort couldn't believe he needed. He'd never needed led or showed before, but he was glad it was Quirrell. He loved that it was Quirrell.

Hell, he might even…

"Careful!" Quirrell laughed now whenever Voldemort fell, mostly because Voldemort made sure to shove Quirrell far enough away that he wouldn't drag him down too, nearly knocking him off his feet a few times as well.

"Yeah, you said that the last ten times," Voldemort grumbled, but he'd started laughing too. He didn't feel so bad now; even Quirrell had fallen a few times, but Voldemort had the sneaky suspicion those had been on purpose. His ass was killing him, and he didn't think he would ever recover from the torment he'd put his body through, but it had been worth it.

They spent most of the day there, watching the crowds shift around them. Voldemort had taken to pointing people out whenever they fell, and he even managed to get Quirrell to join a few times. He liked that; he liked hearing Quirrell laugh. Bellatrix and Lucius never laughed the way Quirrell did. They laughed like they had to laugh in his presence, not earnestly and with all of their being. Quirrell would never fit in with them.

As the day waned on, an announcement came over the speaker directed to all the skaters. "Couples only onto the floor!" Voldemort froze for a moment. He'd just started getting the hang of rollerblading, and he didn't really want to get off the floor yet. Quirrell had paused as well, looking worried and anxious.

"You r-ready for a break?" Stuttering. Fucking delightful stuttering. Quirrell tried to turn towards the exit, and Voldemort's hand shot out to take Quirrell's without thinking. Quirrell stood still, rigid, as though waiting for Voldemort to make the first move.

"Not really. Let's keep going."

Quirrell's expression had been worth it. Voldemort was pretty sure he'd never seen him look so happy before, not even when he'd suggested this date. Not even when Voldemort had grabbed his hand. Happy Quirrell meant everything.

After a moment of skating, their hands still connected between them, Quirrell casually inquired, "So are you going to tell me your real name yet?"

"My name isn't a big deal," Voldemort replied just as casually.

"Then why won't you tell me?"

His lips quirked. "I like there being something about me you don't know yet."

"That's completely uncalled for!" Quirrell laughed, raising his free hand to cover his mouth. Wizard God, he was so polite, it was adorable. "Now I see why they call you the Dark Lord!"

"Think so?" Voldemort narrowed his eyes, plotting. Quirrell bit his lip, shrinking back a bit, but he wasn't fast enough. Voldemort struck, aiming for the sides as he tried to tickle him to death. Other couples went around them as they squirmed around in the middle of the floor, Quirrell trying his best to evade him and Voldemort unrelenting.

Quirrell made a wrong move, or Voldemort did, and they both ended up in a heap on the floor. Voldemort landed on top of him, quickly checking to make sure Quirrell was okay. If he was hurt, he wasn't showing it. He relaxed, listening to his soulmate laugh hysterically.

"You okay?" He didn't need to ask.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm okay." Quirrell controlled his breathing and beamed up at him pricelessly, and Voldemort couldn't help but notice how the overhead lights made his eyes almost glow. Or was that from his smiling? "I'm wonderful."

His arm started to cramp, and he bent it a little, hovering closer to Quirrell. He could almost feel Quirrell's breath on his cheeks, and he loved how it smelled like cool mint. Quirrell's eyes flared a little in shock, noticing how close they were, and he tried to say something insignificant (probably to suggest that they get up or that people were watching). Voldemort didn't care. He didn't care if people were watching or if the voice over the intercom was addressing them.

He kissed Quirrell anyways.

It was nothing like the roguish kisses he'd shared with Bellatrix, or the few dramatic ones from Lucius before he met Narcissa. Those kisses had been meaningless, unimportant, mere milestones on his way to kissing Quirrell. They didn't feel nearly like this. It was so right, it nearly hurt, and so addicting, he couldn't stop. Just the barest pressure in response from Quirrell encouraged him to keep going, to pull him closer, to kiss him harder.

He didn't doubt it much before, but now he knew for certain. Quirrell was his soulmate. He was meant to be with him, meant to kiss him, meant to love him. No matter how hard he tried to resist the pull that kept leading him straight back to Quirrell, he couldn't change the fact that he would never belong anywhere as much as he did right then and there. That alone scared the fuck out of him.

What the fuck was he doing? He and Quirrell were trying to be friends. Friends didn't snog like that! He would ruin whatever chance they had of going on the way they were, and he just couldn't do that. He hadn't wanted a soulmate; he had to come to his senses!

He rolled off of Quirrell quickly, ignoring the confused stare he received in return. "Sorry, man. I got caught up in… I don't know."

Quirrell's startled expression immediately closed off, and his eyes narrowed. His fists curled, and Voldemort wondered if he was going to hit him. He wished he would have. He deserved to be hit as many times as Quirrell could muster for all the pain he caused to him, and Quirrell was definitely in pain.

"That's new," Quirrell muttered bitterly. "A soulmate actually apologizing for a kiss. I thought I'd heard it all." His voice broke near the end, and he turned his head away from Voldemort, refusing to meet his gaze anymore.

Voldemort had to fix this. If he let things go, he had the horrible feeling that this would be it between them. He reached out to touch Quirrell's arm, to calm him down, but the expression on his soulmate's face stopped his hand in midair.

"Don't touch me, Voldemort. What the fuck was that even about? Why did you kiss me if you were going to apologize for it!?" He wiped his cheek, and Voldemort agonizingly realized that Quirrell was crying. He'd made Quirrell cry.

He opened his mouth to explain, but no words came out. What could he even explain? That he loved kissing Quirrell? That he just wasn't good enough? That he honestly believed they didn't fit together? That he just wanted to kiss him again?

Quirrell waited for him to say anything, watching him with tearful eyes that struck Voldemort deep in whatever soul he still possessed. When he didn't speak, Quirrell shook his head and looked down at his lap. "I can't do this, Voldemort. I thought maybe we could be friends. That I wouldn't want more. But tonight when you…I thought maybe you…" He shook his head again, more tears spilling over, and Voldemort knew what was coming next. How could he not know? He didn't think he could handle hearing it, not after how attached to Quirrell he'd grown. Not now.

"I don't want to see you anymore, Voldemort." A steel resolve hardened Quirrell's soft, broken voice. "I think it's better for the both of us. You don't want a soulmate, and a soulmate is all I want. I don't think I can handle getting hurt again."

"I didn't mean to hurt you." Voldemort could hardly breath, hardly speak, and it was a wonder Quirrell even heard him. But Quirrell's mouth quirked a little before he bit down hard on his lip again. He was waiting. He wanted Voldemort to stop him, to say something to convince him to stay, and Voldemort wanted nothing more than to pull him close to him and tell him what he really felt for his pure, little squirrel.

This was the opportunity he'd been looking for. He had to push it. For Quirrell's sake, he had to push just a little more.

"You're right, though. It's better for the both of us if we don't see each other. You should have realized, Quirrell. I told you from the beginning, that girl in the diner today even told you—I'm no good. I don't know why you didn't realize in the beginning that I would hurt you eventually." He measured Quirrell's reaction, waiting for more tears or more accusations. Quirrell only stared at him, brow knitted, and Voldemort should have realized what was coming next because he hadn't been convincing enough.

"I love you."

Voldemort didn't say anything. Over the years, he'd learned how to be heartless, how to control his emotions. Even at the sight of Quirrell's heart shattering right before his eyes, because of him, he didn't say what was on his mind. What he wanted to say. And he didn't stop Quirrell when he got to his feet, shaking enough to stumble on his skates. Voldemort only watched, waiting for him to turn and look back, but he didn't. He turned in his skates, put on his shoes, and left. The disappointed, brokenhearted expression was the last of Quirrell's he would ever see.

Voldemort wasn't sure how long he sat there on the floor, people passing him on their skates like undefined blurs skating and spiraling past him. The throbbing from falling so much had started to break through his stupor, reminding him that he wasn't dreaming.

Only one person in the world loved him, and he'd shoved him away. He really was the Dark Lord, cruel beyond measure. The pain in his heart heavier and greater than any bruise he might have received, he got to his feet and managed to steer himself over to the carpet.

If only he'd noticed the sets of eyes watching him menacingly from across the room, he might have been able to stop what happened next.