Smile
Quirrell loved to watch Voldemort's facial expressions relax and change when he didn't think he was being observed and even more so when he knew; Voldemort's lips had a certain way of quirking at the corners whenever he met Quirrell's gaze, and that, Quirrell decided, was wonderful.
Apology
No matter how many times Voldemort told Quirrell that he was sorry for sending him to Azkaban, his burden always seemed to feel heavier, suffocating him until Quirrell would reach out and grasp his hand.
Smoke
Their relationship sometimes felt so ephemeral that Voldemort worried one day Quirrell himself might slip through his very fingers like fog on a chilly morning.
Confront
"I think we need to talk about this," informed a stiff Quirrell while holding up a broken flower pot to a horrified Voldemort, who tried his best to stifle his laughter.
Limit
"Please," Quirrell begged, tears in his eyes, relief so close only for Voldemort's hand to still once more, a ruthless and taunting smirk on his lips that he once used on countless enemies and now showed only to his writhing boyfriend when he yearned for release.
Wonder
Some people would gaze up at the stars and try to figure out what shapes they could discern or seek the greatest mysteries of the universe; Voldemort would gaze at Quirrell and try to figure out why the hell he decided to stay with him.
Connected
The first time Quirrell felt Voldemort on the back of his head, he nearly panicked, yet not out of fear or horror or repulsion; his life had been spent in solitude, and he suddenly realized he could get used to never being alone again.
Scream
The prisoners in Azkaban were all mad; they pulled at their hair, tore at their close, and shrieked their suffering to the stone ceiling dripping with musty water, and even though Quirrell still had all of his mental faculties, he couldn't keep himself from crying out as well.
Evil
"That's just wrong," muttered Quirrell when, upon discovering that Voldemort had taken it upon himself to clean their closet, he learned that he could not locate a single article of his own clothing.
Jealousy
Voldemort would never admit it (and he would curse you if you ever tried to make him) but he felt a quiet, white rage when he thought Quirrell might be gazing far too fondly at some of his flowers.
Cold
The moment Quirrell looked at him after learning the truth, the lies, the deceit, gooseflesh rose up the back of Voldemort's neck and down his arms, and he wondered if he would ever find a way to remove the ice from his veins.
Moan
"That really isn't necessary," Voldemort grumbled as Quirrell intimately acquainted himself with a Snickers bar, his exaggerated groans of pleasure the perfect payback for Voldemort breaking his potted plant.
Hell
For Quirrell and Voldemort, while one tried to rule the world and the other rotted in the unforgiving Azkaban, they learned the hard way that the absence of each other was more torturous than any fiery abyss a devil or demon could conjure.
Precision
Voldemort knew the exact amount of pressure to place upon his followers, his enemies, his victims to break them into submission, but he never expected to find someone who could do the very same to him.
Articulate
Voldemort's favorite days were when Quirrell was comfortable enough around him to relax; he longed to hear Quirrell speak without stuttering as the fluidity and eloquence of his words could steal the breath of even the Dark Lord.
Storm
"The news called for rain," Quirrell strictly reminded as he lit another candle to illuminate the dark house, his eyes narrowed at Voldemort, who had tried in vain to creep, wand in hand, toward the window to quell the squall depriving them of electricity.
Squirm
Quirrell rolled over once, then again, and again, and his determination to sleep on his own was worn down by his sheer exhaustion; grumbling incoherently, he gave up and aligned his back with Voldemort's, knowing full well he would owe his boyfriend five sickles in the morning.
Hesitant
Voldemort saw him lying there, his body curled with grief and his hands covering his head, and he almost ran away on the spot; he somehow managed to take a breath, steel himself, and find the strength to whisper, "Hey, you."
Rage
Quirrell's fury was a tempest as cold and cruel as the sea raging around Azkaban, but the moment he saw the man he thought to be dead, whose red eyes gleamed with more fear than Quirrell thought him capable of, he realized he'd already forgiven him.
Vulnerable
Quirrell had never seen the former Dark Lord so susceptible, so defenseless as he did just then, panting beneath him with swollen lips and a fear in his eyes that begged Quirrell to do something; he took pity on his former master and quelled that fear with a kiss from his mouth and a roll of his hips.
Strong
Quirrell's whole body shook, from the tip of his head down to his toes, but he still held his chin high as the Death Eaters marched him directly into the chilling, boney, cruel arms of the Dementors.
Plants
"We're going to run out of room," grumbled an irritable and stuffy-nosed Voldemort as Quirrell, eyes wide with wonder and excitement, dragged yet another ceramic pot overflowing with greenery into their home, but he would never have the heart to tell his Squirrel no.
Survive
Voldemort didn't know what had happened or how he managed to still be there after the Potter boy destroyed him; he could only think one thing with absolute certainty: he had to find Quirrell.
Parallel
"This is good," said a sleepy Voldemort as he settled into bed with Quirrell for the first time since their separation, satisfied to feel all of Quirrell's body tucked up behind his, "this is wonderful."
Midnight
The moon cast a pallor across Voldemort's back, making his already pale skin even more ghostlike, but Quirrell still looked up into his eyes and whispered, "Beautiful."
Morning
Voldemort would have scowled at the brilliant sunlight if not for the way the beams glistened on Quirrell's smiling face as he held out a fresh cup of coffee.
Pleasure
Quirrell desirously moaned, his eyes rolling back, and Voldemort laughed, "If this is how you're going to react, I'll cook for you more often."
Candles
The storm still raged, causing the house to tremble from time to time from the wind's violence, but Voldemort hardly took notice; the room smelled of vanilla and sweat, and he, entirely spent, could do nothing more than watch the flickering of firelight along Quirrell's bare back.
Staircase
Sometimes, even the strangest of places became the most convenient, and even the hardwood steps could feel as soft as a bed when Quirrell kissed the right spot on Voldemort's neck; they still couldn't locate some of their socks.
Broken
"There's something horribly wrong with me," Voldemort moaned, his nose stuffed, his voice raspier than usual, and he assumed the end was nigh, even when Quirrell assured him he'd just acquired the common cold.
Soup
A very sick Voldemort determined, as Quirrell pressed another full spoon to his lips, that Muggles had their own form of torture, and it came in the flavor of chicken and noodles.
Push
Voldemort's back hit the wall, and he stared, stunned, at the man who had put him there; Quirrell glowered at him, furiously trembling, and forced through gritted teeth, "It's okay to stop blaming yourself."
Grass
His knees would be green for a week, but it was worth seeing Quirrell writhe underneath him beside those plants he loved so much.
Wrong
Her touch was strange, erroneous, and it wasn't until Voldemort pressed his back against hers and imagined somebody else that he could stand the feel of her.
Right
"Yes," Voldemort whispered dreamily, his fingers clutching those of the man behind him, whose back he no longer had to imagine pressed against his own, and all was finally proper in the world again.
Home
"So you came back," exclaimed Quirrell, so outraged and so hopeful, and Voldemort knew he would never belong anywhere more than with the man standing in front of him.
Asset
If somebody had told him that choosing to attach himself to Quirinus Quirrell would turn out to be the best decision he could ever make, Voldemort would have laughed at the ignorance, the audacity… and then picked him anyways.
Couple
"I was going to introduce you as my boyfriend, if that's all right with you," said Quirrell as he adjusted his tie for dinner with his parents, and Voldemort felt his throat tighten with more emotion than he knew how to handle; "Y-yeah, that's okay," he managed to reply, his heart prepared to scream the word from the rooftops, and Quirrell's knowing smile betrayed that he felt just the same.
Drunk
Their laughter mingled, their joint body tripping over itself as Quirrell and Voldemort stumbled away from Hogsmeade and toward Hogwarts, their inebriated minds focused not so much on evil plans but, instead, on each other.
Intense
Too much, it's too much, Voldemort thought the moment he realized how he felt about Quirrell, and the overwhelming emotions were almost enough to make him run out of fear for his heart.
Betrayal
"I never saw that coming," Voldemort whispered, appalled and horrified and quite tearful, and Quirrell, who suspected Hans right from the very beginning, could only silently laugh and rub his boyfriend's back.
Adoption
"She's going to love you," promised Voldemort, chuckling as Quirrell paced back and forth in front of him; Quirrell paused, turning to face him, and smiled brighter than the sun as he said, "She's going to love you, too."
Performance
Voldemort always knew how to put on a good show—he'd been dancing his whole life and knew precisely how to command a crowd—but for the first time ever, as he listened to Potter and the spare boy ogle his dead father's grave and to Quirrell's anxious and excited breathing, he wished the curtain didn't have to close.
Weak
Wang Mu blinked up at Voldemort with all the manipulative innocence of a child, and Voldemort caved on the spot; after all, one Snickers bar wouldn't irreparably damage her upbringing… right?
Harsh
Whenever they fought—and, boy, did they fight sometimes—words would fly like killing curses, attempting to inflict as much injury as possible, which led to rough kisses, all teeth and tongue, and soon they couldn't remember what they were arguing about in the first place.
Thought
Voldemort had everything he could ever want—his death eaters, Cornelius Fudge dead at his feet, and Bellatrix's hands roaming over his chest—yet his mind kept returning to a mousy man who loved flowers.
Sweat
Quirrell was sticky, and Voldemort was sticky, and their chests rose and fell with exhaustion, and their eyelids drooped until—"Again," whispered one of them, or maybe both of them, and their damp limbs tangled once more as naturally as breathing.
Mastermind
"You got beat by a two-year-old," Quirrell reminded when Voldemort tried, vehemently, to swear that his evil plans never failed.
Temporary
He wouldn't be here long, Quirrell tried to reason with himself, but as the days stretched on the nights stretched longer, he couldn't stem the fear that Voldemort would not be coming for him.
Define
Quirrell's question hung in the air, causing Voldemort to look up with hope and wonder at the man standing before him, who planned to forgive him despite the lies, despite the deceit, and he could only think of one way to tell Quirrell exactly what okay was.
