A/N: An extremely Quirrell-centred update. You should know by now he's my favourite of all time!

"I really messed up, huh?" Wang Mu mumbled, cradling her mug of hot chocolate.

Her and Voldemort were sitting on the carpet, backs against the front of the couch, legs stretched out. For a while, there was no response, but then Voldemort chuckled.

"I mean, if you want to get technical," he said, "we both totally screwed up back there, kiddo."

Wang heaved a sigh, leaning her head against Voldemort's shoulder. "I thought your Polyjuice would've lasted longer."

"You and me both," he muttered. "Don't know what happened. Been a while since I brewed it. Maybe when you get a little too heated, the effects wear off quicker. Either way – messed up. Really messed up."

Wang took a slow sip of her drink. There was something so good about the way her papa made it. "Daddy's not happy with us."

"Totally, deservedly furious," Voldemort agreed instantly. "I have a hell of a lot of grovelling to do. Don't know if it'll ever be enough, to be honest." He hesitated for a moment, sipping at his drink. "I've made a lot of mistakes when it comes to the way I used to treat people, Wang. You know that. And with your dad, there was a lot of…I wasn't exactly always nice to him, either."

"Duh," she said. "You didn't know what love was."

"That's right," he said, with a ghost of a smile. "He made me realise what it was pretty quickly. But I'm not just talking about that, I'm talking about…" He trailed off. He couldn't say it. It was the perfect opportunity, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "The thing is, when Potter said that thing about jinxing your dad, I – snapped."

"Because of Dad's wrist sores?" Wang asked hesitantly. "Yeah. That was – that wasn't nice of Harry. Especially 'cause he knew about the Dementors and what they did."

"I should've kept it together, though," Voldemort said. "I just saw the look on your dad's face. Saw how scared he was. I don't ever want him to be scared like that again, except now look at me. Made it ten times worse. Made us at the Potters total mercy."

"Dad'll forgive us," Wang said immediately. "And the Potters won't do anything. I mean, Albus and I had a really good talk. I told him all about us as a family, and he was listening. He wasn't arguing. If he can just tell Harry and Ginny that, then…"

"That's great, sweetie," Voldemort said, that ever-sinking feeling still in his chest. "The thing is, his parents – they have every right to hate me. I behaved like a total ass tonight. Wouldn't be the first time. Your dad kept telling me to leave it, and I didn't. So, as far as I'm concerned, your dad has every right to…"

Wang lifted her head from his shoulder in a sudden panic. "You're not going to get divorced, are you?"

"What?" Voldemort laughed, mainly in surprise, and then immediately stopped. "Uh. No. I mean – shit, I hope I didn't mess up that badly. Did he look like he wanted a divorce?"

"He looked like he wanted to get his wand and blast you out the window," Wang said. "Face first."

Voldemort winced, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah. That…That checks out. Oh, Wang, I'm so sorry for the shit I put you both through. For the shit I put the Potters through. I'm going to be so much better next weekend, I promise. Best behaviour."

Wang breathed out slowly, snuggling closer to him once more. "I don't want to head back to school tomorrow night," she said. "I need to…make things better."

"That's not down to you," Voldemort said soothingly. "And listen – whatever happens, the three of us will be ok. That's a promise."

"A promise?" Wang echoed, her big eyes looking up at him with open-ended trust. "Ok. You keep your promises."

Voldemort swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, and gently bopped Wang's nose. "I do," he assured her. "I used to be a total, utter douchebag with promises, y'know. But I swore to myself I'd keep them for the rest of my life after…" He trailed off, and rubbed at his eyes.

"Don't cry, Papa," Wang said hastily. "'Cause if you cry, then I'll cry, and I've cried loads already."

At that, Voldemort couldn't help but chuckle a little, bopping her nose again. "Yeah, that was a very impressive performance you gave back there," he teased. "Oscar worthy. Did you see the look on Ginny's face?"

"I wasn't totally faking," Wang said, though she was also trying to suppress a smile. "I mean, I maybe went a little overboard, but it worked, didn't it?"

"That's my girl," Voldemort said with a small smile. "Now, c'mon, time for bed. Everything'll seem a little better in the morning, alright?"

XxX

Quirrell was already wrapped up in the duvet when Voldemort entered the room, seemingly fast asleep. Voldemort carefully slid into bed next to him, lightly tracing his fingertips over Quirrell's forehead.

"Squirrel?" he whispered. There was no response, which was probably for the best. Maybe after a decent night's sleep, they could talk through everything that had happened. Voldemort planted a soft kiss on Quirrell's head before settling down properly.

The moment Voldemort finally drifted to sleep, he was jolted awake by the sound of screams. Horrible, agonised, painfully familiar screams.

"Hey, hey, hey," he gasped, scrambling for the bedside lamp. "Quirrell, you're all ok, you're all good."

The bedroom was soon basked in the dim orange glow, so that Voldemort could properly deal with the situation at hand. Quirrell's forehead was damp with sweat, and he tossed and turned, clawing in the air at invisible perpetrators.

Voldemort instantly took Quirrell's hands to stop him from hurting himself in his sleep. "You're ok, babe," he said, a little short of breath from the abrupt awakening, and from seeing his husband in such obvious distress. "You're safe, you're ok."

Quirrell's eyes flew open, scream stuttering in the back of his throat. Voldemort carefully let go of his hands, making sure he was close by but also not overcrowding in case Quirrell didn't want that.

"Hey, Squirrel," he whispered, doing his best to keep his voice light. "Everything's ok. I'm right here."

Short, staggered breaths were the only response. Gently, Voldemort helped Quirrell sit up, knowing that was what was going to help him the most. Quirrell's brown eyes were glassy and unresponsive, mind trapped somewhere else entirely.

"We'll do some breathing," Voldemort said. "Longer exhales, taking our time. Can I hold your hand?"

There was no verbal response, but Quirrell didn't cower away or start to scream again at the touch, as Voldemort ever so carefully intertwined their fingers, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Within moments, their bedroom door flung open and Wang stood in her pyjamas, panting and clearly terrified. "Daddies!" she blurted. "What's going on? What's happening? Why's – Daddy?"

"It's ok," Voldemort said immediately. He knew full well how distressing it was to see Quirrell in so much mental pain, but he put on his best 'I've got this under control' voice so he didn't scare her. "Your dad's had a nightmare, but he's going to be ok. Fetch me some Calming Drought, kiddo, it's in the bathroom."

Wang needed no further instruction, and was back in the bedroom within twenty seconds. She hurried over to the bed, opening the vial and holding it out to Quirrell expectantly. "Here, Daddy," she said. "C'mon. It'll help."

Quirrell remained motionless, practically slumped against Voldemort as he shakily breathed in through his nose. Voldemort moved him so that Quirrell was sitting directly in front, back against Voldemort's chest.

"This hasn't happened in years," Wang croaked, eyes nervously darting towards Voldemort. "I've never seen it this bad, Papa. It's 'cause of me, isn't it? It's 'cause I brought the Potters here."

"Not your fault," Voldemort said immediately. "Nightmares happen."

Wang's eyes filled with tears. "Why isn't Daddy talking to me? It is my fault, I know it is."

"No, no, that's alright, he's just concentrating on the breathing," Voldemort said quickly as he took the vial, holding it by Quirrell's mouth. "He's not angry at you, sweetheart, he's – he's just trying to get back, ok?"

"Get…Get back?" Wang echoed, tentatively reaching out to touch Quirrell's hand. It was icy cold. "Papa, he's freezing. I can make him tea. Do you want tea, Daddy?"

"Don't worry about that for now," Voldemort said, even though he was getting increasingly concerned that Quirrell was still so zoned out. He thought having Wang Mu in the room would be helpful for him, but maybe it was having the total opposite effect. "Ok, Quirrell. Copy me, ok? Feel how I'm breathing?"

Finally, a nod. Quirrell was able to tune back into the real world and listen. Voldemort tried not to make his relief too obvious, as he gently wrapped his arms around Quirrell's waist. "Good! Great. In for four, let's go. Then out for six, through your mouth. Gotta love the longer exhales."

Quirrell nodded again, blinking fiercely to get rid of any remnants of tears. "O-ok," he finally croaked.

Voldemort exhaled softly, kissing the top of his head. "Good. Good, love, that's it. You're completely safe. You're doing so well, just keep breathing. Don't worry about talking, just breathe."

Hesitantly, Wang Mu edged herself closer to Quirrell, trying to meet his eyes. His gaze was still a little glassy and vacant, but she knew he was at least now properly seeing her. "Daddy?" she whispered.

With shaking hands, Quirrell reached out to cup his daughter's face. "B-baby," he replied, voice extremely hoarse. "So – sorry."

"What?" she exclaimed, loud enough for his hands to retract. "What're you sorry for?

"Sh-shouldn't –" Quirrell began, clearly making a monumental effort to get the words out. "See this."

Wang's eyes widened in disbelief as she clutched her dad's hands. "Are you kidding?" she said. "Daddy. It's me. I know you, I love you. Please don't be worried about anything like that. Besides, this whole thing is my fault in the first place!"

Quirrell shook his head vehemently, turning his head to meet Voldemort's gaze. His eyes translated more than words ever could, and Voldemort vocally took over.

"Nothing is your fault, Wang," Voldemort said immediately. "Don't ever think that." A pause. "I mean, jeez, if it's anyone's fault, it's all mine–"

Quirrell groaned loudly in frustration. "B-both of you," he interrupted, "give – give it a rest."

Voldemort and Wang Mu fell silent, eyes downcast. Shifting slightly in Voldemort's arms, Quirrell sighed, the Calming Draught clearly having its effect.

"You're doing great, love," Voldemort said. "We're really proud of you. Don't worry about anything, ok? All you need to focus on is relaxing."

Quirrell's eyelids fluttered shut. "There were…Dementors," he mumbled sleepily.

"In your nightmare," Voldemort said. His heart throbbed in his chest at the mention of them; Wang was right, it had been years since a night terror like this. "Not here. Never here."

"Never, Daddy," Wang chimed in, still holding onto his hands. "I'm so sorry Albus brought them up at dinner tonight. He didn't mean to – honestly, we had no idea that they talked, we weren't trying to be funny –"

Voldemort shook his head again as Quirrell's breathing slowed and his body slumped against him in a sudden sleep. "Wang, it's ok," he whispered. "Please don't beat yourself up over any of this. Look, your dad's all ok, the Calming Draught's done its thing. He's going to get a good sleep, and so should you."

"I can't sleep," Wang insisted tearfully. "Papa, I've made such a stupid mess of everything, and now Daddy's going to start having nightmares all over again, and Harry Potter's going to be super annoying and in our business!"

"I mean, Potter's always been super annoying," Voldemort said in an effort to appease her. Thankfully, it did get a smile. "Listen, kid. Granted, there's a lot that the Potters and us will have to sort out now. But that doesn't necessarily mean it's all bad news. You've got a great best friend out of it, right?"

Wang gnawed at her bottom lip, eyes never leaving Quirrell. "I need to come back at the weekend, too," she said. "I have to, Papa."

"It would probably be a good idea," Voldemort had to admit. "The more they see that we're a proper, loving family, the better."

There was a small silence as Voldemort gently lay Quirrell back down against his pillows. For a moment, they both just watched him.

"Do Dementors really talk, Papa?" Wang suddenly whispered.

Voldemort hesitated, gaze drifting towards the now sleeping Quirrell. "Yes."

"And… they talked to Daddy?"

Breathing out slowly, Voldemort ran a hand through his hair. "Yes," he said again. "He said they talked to him quite a lot. Don't ask me what they said, though," he added as she opened her mouth. "That's your dad's prerogative, not mine."

"Prerogative?" Wang echoed. "Wow. Have you been reading dad's fancy books?"

He huffed a small laugh, giving her a playful push. "Get to bed. Your Dad's…He's gonna be fine, ok? We're all gonna be fine."

But even as he said it, he had the sinking notion that this was only the beginning.

XxX

Monday morning. Wang had gotten the train back to Hogwarts the prior evening, though Voldemort had been the one to drive her to the station and hide in the car as she left, seeing as Quirrell hadn't left his bed all day. Voldemort had fully been prepared to call in sick for him, but he'd woken up abruptly to the sound of Quirrell's alarm and was now watching his husband get ready for work.

Quirrell didn't really know what was going on in his mind, other than he had to get out the house today. For the life of him, though, he couldn't get his tie to look right. "Piece of shit," he muttered to himself in the mirror as he struggled with the useless material. It had been another sleepless night, and whenever Quirrell spoke, his voice was raspy and clearly sore.

Voldemort sat on the bed as he watched him, brow furrowed in clear concern. "Maybe you should take the day off, sweetheart," he suggested tentatively. "Catch up on some proper rest. You and I could actually, y'know…talk things through."

"So, which is it?" Quirrell asked, not even turning to look at him. "Do I rest, or do I talk to you? 'Cause they're not at all the same thing."

Voldemort stood, approaching Quirrell from behind and gently laying a hand on his shoulder. "Quirrell," he said quietly. "Please. Come back to bed. You're exhausted."

"I'm fine." Quirrell shrugged him off. "Or I would be, if this stupid tie would go right. All I need is some coffee."

"I can do your tie," Voldemort suggested, attempting a smile. "I'm pretty good. Tea with honey might be better for your throat, too. I can make that for –"

"Can I not do anything my way, or do you always have to insist on butting in?" Quirrell burst as he turned around, and then immediately snapped his mouth shut. There was a silence, where Voldemort dutifully stepped away, palms spread. Quirrell exhaled shakily, closing his eyes. "Sorry. Sorry, Voldemort. I didn't mean that."

"It's alright," Voldemort said simply. "I get it. I'm just…trying to talk to you. You've barely said a word to me since Saturday night."

"Because I physically cannot stand it," Quirrell said, opening his eyes. "I'm so furious with you, Voldemort. I'm so furious at your stubbornness. At your pride. I told you I had it handled, and you insisted you had to swoop in and be some kind of protector."

Voldemort swallowed. "I know," he attempted. "I know, Quirrell. I'm an idiot."

"They weren't going to do anything to me, you know. They actually quite liked me. I was in no danger, and if I had been, I'd have handled it myself! I mean, come on. Harry and Ginny Potter?"

"Yes, the lovely Harry and Ginny," Voldemort scoffed. "The dream-team who threatened to fucking shackle your wrists together."

Quirrell turned back to face the mirror, his jaw set. "They only did that 'cause of you."

"Oh, so I'm the bad guy here?" Voldemort said, only to fall silent at the stupidity of his statement. "I mean, duh. 'Course I am, I know that. God, Quirrell, I know I've made such an awful mess of everything, but please – please can you and I just talk?"

"I need to go to work, Voldemort," Quirrell said. "Seems a bit of a waste, considering we'll both be in prison cells by next week, but oh well."

Voldemort shook his head immediately. "Love. That's not going to happen."

"Don't," Quirrell said, lifting up a hand to stop him. "Don't tell me what will and won't happen, because you have no idea. No idea."

"I know why you're scared," Voldemort attempted, "and it's completely valid, but everything is going to –" His words abruptly stopped as Quirrell turned back around to face him.

"You have no idea what I'm feeling," Quirrell whisper-yelled, eyes blazing with fury. "Your only knowledge of Azkaban comes from ordering Dementors around, not being their snack. Don't you fucking dare tell me my feelings are valid, like I'm just someone who's a bit stressed out."

With that, Quirrell yanked his tie off, dropping it to the floor. He stormed out of the bedroom without another word, leaving Voldemort to helplessly watch after him, a deep ache settling itself into his chest.

XxX

Wednesday morning. So far, Quirrell had spent the week feeling as though he was walking through fog. Everywhere he went, he was sure his students were complaining about him and how terribly their classes were going. They'd have every right to. He just couldn't bring himself to care.

He sat at his desk, aimlessly tapping his pen against his notebook, resting his chin in his hand. Parent-teacher conferences were tonight, which would make his day even longer and only serve to piss him off. Still, the more he was out at work, the more he could try to forget about everything that was happening at home.

"Um…" a small voice suddenly said, as a student seemed to miraculously appear in front of his desk. "We've all finished our tests," she said. "So we were wondering what we should do now?"

Quirrell blinked, the room slowly coming back into focus. All his students were sitting at their desks, papers closed in front of them, eyeing him expectantly. "Oh," he managed, glancing at his watch. "The…what? I gave you tests?"

"Yeah," the student – Sarah – said, handing him her paper. "It was, um. It was pretty hard."

Quirrell scanned the contents of the test, eyes widening. It certainly was pretty hard, considering it was a test supposed to be for seniors, and all these kids were barely twelve. "Ah," was all he said, and found he didn't even have the energy to continue.

He was very aware that Sarah kept looking at him. He rubbed his forehead, the words on the page swimming, as he tried to figure out how best to wing this glaring error.

"You, uh…You don't look so good, Mr. Q," Sarah said hesitantly.

Quirrell lifted his head to look at her, an eyebrow raised. "And you look like you could do with a detention," he retorted.

There was a stunned silence, and then Sarah burst into tears, blubbering a ton of apologies. There were shocked gasps from around the room, every student targeting a wide-eyed look of fear in Quirrell's direction. He blinked, before hastily scrambling from his desk to stand in front of the weeping child, hands on her shoulders.

"No, no, Sarah, I was – that was my totally awful attempt at a joke!" he managed. "Of course you don't have a detention. C'mon, don't cry, I'm so sorry."

The girl sniffled, looking up at him doubtfully. "I – I didn't mean anything – bad!"

"I know, I know," he soothed, rubbing her shoulders. "I'm just being a total jerk today, huh? Listen, everyone, forget the test. Rip it up. You shouldn't have to be so stressed at school. Let's, uh…Let's just put a movie on, ok?"

There were cheers from all the students as they flung their papers in the air. Even Sarah shot him a watery smile, which he attempted to return.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Q," she said. "I just…I just meant…Are you ok?"

"You have absolutely nothing to apologise for," he told her. "I'm fine, Sarah. Just a little…tired."

She nodded, and as he watched her go back to her desk, Quirrell had the feeling the parent-teacher conference tonight was just going to get a whole lot worse.

Xxx

Even though Quirrell was still barely speaking to him, Voldemort knew how tedious parent-teacher conferences were, so he'd bitten the bullet and showed up at the gates of the school with some coffees.

He wasn't sure if it was any consolation, but Quirrell didn't seem angry at him anymore. They hadn't talked about it – they'd hardly talked about anything – but Voldemort knew these kind of episodes. They weren't angry; they were all-encompassing sadness, and it made Voldemort's whole body ache at seeing Quirrell go through it again.

Devin emerged from the school gates, visibly brightening to see Voldemort standing there. "Thank God!" she breathed. "Joe! You're just the person I've been wanting to see."

Arching an eyebrow, Voldemort shot her a small smile. No matter how many years it had been, his fake muggle name still sounded weird to his ears. Still, anything was better than Tom. "Good to see you, too," he said. "What gives? I'm just waiting for –"

"Quirrell, yeah, I figured," Devin said. "Which is why I'm so pleased to see you, because what in the name of all that's holy is going on?"

"Uh…" Voldemort attempted to look impassive. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, something is obviously wrong with him," Devin said, lowering her voice as she glanced around. "He's having the mother of all relapses, Joe, anyone can see that."

Voldemort swallowed, his grip on the coffee cups tightening. He forced himself to relax his fingers before he actually crushed them and got scalding espresso all over himself. "It's been a little stressful at home," he attempted. "His PTSD nightmares have made a reappearance, after an extensive break, so – I'm taking care of it."

"This isn't a job just for you," Devin said. "He needs to go back to his therapist. Or psychiatrist. Or someone."

"Yeah, no, I – probably have to agree with you," Voldemort had to say. "But I can't just spring that on him, he'll get so defensive. I mean, he's barely talking to me as it is."

Devin frowned, clearly very concerned. "But… why? What's triggered it? I mean, I know sometimes these things just spring back, but this really has come out of nowhere. There were zero warning signs on my end."

"Like you said," Voldemort replied uneasily. "Sometimes it just…happens. You've known him long enough to appreciate that."

"Right," Devin said, unconvinced. "I'm just saying, it's very unusual behaviour to drop a mug and start openly sobbing in the middle of the staff room when you were totally fine before the weekend."

Voldemort winced. "Did…that actually happen?"

"Yes," Devin deadpanned. "Twice this week alone."

God, Voldemort really had made such a colossal mess of things. To his horror, he found his eyes stinging, and he hastily cleared his throat. "Shit," was all he said. "Ok. I hear you, loud and clear. I'll call the doctor when I…"

His words trailed off and he plastered a smile on his face as Quirrell came outside, satchel over his shoulder. Quirrell stopped in his tracks, blinking at Voldemort in surprise, as if trying to piece together what was happening.

"Hey, babe," was all Voldemort said. "I brought you coffee. Figured you'd need it, what with the parent-teacher conferences later."

"Oh." Quirrell blinked, looking at the outstretched coffee cup. "Oh, that's sweet. Thank you."

Voldemort smiled in relief as Quirrell accepted the cup. Devin smiled too, giving Quirrell's shoulder a playful pat. "Isn't he a keeper?" she teased.

"Uh-huh." Quirrell sipped at his coffee with a grateful sigh. "Oh, that's good. Thank you, Joe, I really did need this."

Voldemort's smile widened, and he even risked giving Quirrell a small peck on the cheek. "Anything for you," he said honestly. "I also thought we could go for a little walk. Get some fresh air before you're stuck in that classroom again. What do you think?"

"Um…" Quirrell hesitated, glancing at his watch. "I don't know if I really can. I've got quite a lot of shit to figure out."

"Ah, you'll be fine," Devin assured him. "This isn't your first rodeo, Quirrell, you've done a ton of these conferences before."

"Sure," Quirrell said flatly, "but I've not exactly been at the top of my game this week, and I've got a lot of work to catch up on. I also made a kid cry yesterday, so I can't wait to meet her parents."

"You made a kid cry?" Voldemort had to ask. "I mean, all power to you, let 'em know their place. Was she being a total shit in class, or what?"

Quirrell shook his head with a small groan. "She did absolutely nothing wrong," he said. "I'm the one who's shit. I don't know how these kids are supposed to succeed with me as their teacher."

"What're you talking about?" Devin said in surprise. "Quirrell, you're an amazing teacher. You know that. So you've had a rough week at work – who hasn't?"

He shrugged tiredly. "Whatever."

Devin's frown increased, but Voldemort threw her a little warning glance to back off for now. "It's a hell of a long day for you," Voldemort said. "Let's just take a small stroll by the pond. See the ducks. We don't need to even talk to each other."

"It's cool," Quirrell said. "All I really needed was the coffee. Maybe a whisky when I eventually get home."

Voldemort nodded, attempting a smile. "Ok," he said. "Sure thing. I'll see you at home, then." He gave Quirrell another peck on the cheek, and a small wave as he headed off.

Quirrell stared after him, expression unreadable. He was only brought back into the present as Devin placed a hand on his shoulder.

"What's going on, honey?" Devin said, her tone gentle.

"Nothing's going on," Quirrell said. "I'm totally fine."

"You don't seem totally fine," she retorted. "You just sent away your besotted husband who came all the way here simply to give you coffee and check in on you. Any other day and you'd be all over him, borderline grinding in the car park."

Quirrell shot her an indignant look as he took another sip of coffee. "That's a total exaggeration," he said with a huff.

"Quirrell. I like to think I know you pretty well by now, and vice versa. Right? We've been friends for – I don't even want to say how long, 'cause that means we're getting older – so we don't bullshit with each other. So, I'm just gonna ask you outright, and it's coming from a place of love. Are you taking your meds?"

There was a long silence. Quirrell stared at her in bewilderment, eventually managing a feeble: "Huh?"

"Your medication. Your antidepressants and anti-anxiety stuff. Are you…" Devin hesitated. "Are you taking them? Because –"

"Did Joe put you up to this?" Quirrell demanded. "Holy shit, Devin. How could you ask me that? Of course I am, you don't quit that stuff overnight."

Devin held up a hand. "Joe didn't put me up to anything."

"I'm just a little stressed, ok? What, do you want to come round? Take pictures of my bathroom cabinets to keep track? I'm taking absolutely everything that I'm supposed to be taking."

"Ok, ok!" she said immediately. "That's - I'm sorry. I'm just worried about you. It just seems that, you know, this week you've been a little…"

Quirrell raised an eyebrow, staring her down. "Spit it out. You've already majorly insulted me, might as well finish me off."

To her credit, Devin didn't flinch, and offered him an equal stare-down. In the back of his mind, Quirrell could acknowledge that this was exactly why they'd been friends for so long. "I'm saying, Quirrell, that I think you're relapsing, and that it's ok to ask for help."

He couldn't help it; he snorted with laughter. "Oooh, my God," he drawled.

"I believe when you say you're taking your meds. But you know as well as I do that sometimes –"

"That sometimes it's not enough!" he interrupted, with a wave of his free hand. "Sometimes relapses happen, and they don't make any of your previous progress irrelevant, blah blah, fucking blah, I know all of this! Thank you for being my self-help guide, but I'm fine!"

Devin simply shrugged at his outburst, and made a gesture towards the school. "Ok," she said. "I'd better head back in. Get ready for the first lot of parents."

As she turned away, Quirrell opened his mouth to apologise, to grovel, to do anything to make up for the way he'd just spoken to her, but he found himself rendered still as stone. If he said anything, he'd burst into tears, and that wasn't exactly what he wanted to do right now. So he took another sip of his coffee, and watched her go.

XxX

Quirrell's car was already parked in the driveway by the time Voldemort was done with his much-needed run. He took a few moments to get his breath back, stretching out in the driveway, teeth beginning to chatter now that he'd stopped moving. Damn winter.

He pushed the front door open, taking off his running shoes and putting them away neatly in the cupboard. "Hey," he called out as he walked towards the living room. "How did it go? Parents all well-behaved?"

Quirrell was seated on the couch, still in his work clothes. A glass of Firewhisky was in his hand, the bottle already open and on the coffee table in front of him. He glanced up, eyes widening slightly as he looked Voldemort up and down. "You've been running?" he asked obviously, face flushed.

"Yeah." Voldemort stretched his arms over his head. "Figured I might as well get some miles in. Sorry, I thought I'd be back way before you got home, but once I got started…"

Quirrell shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. "It's ok," he said. "You don't need to apologise. Parents were fine, thankfully."

"That's great." Voldemort couldn't help but notice that Quirrell was eyeing him almost…hungrily. His gaze was particularly focused on Voldemort's strong arms. "Well, I'm gonna grab a shower and then I'll come join –"

"No," Quirrell said suddenly. "Don't go. Come sit."

Well, Voldemort certainly wasn't going to pass that offer up. This had probably been the most they'd talked all week. He noticed that Quirrell had left an empty glass out for him, and smiled as he reached for it. "Ok. If you're sure you don't mind me being all sweaty and gross."

Quirrell simply watched him; Voldemort could practically feel his skin burning from the intense gaze. And then: "Fuck me."

Voldemort had been pouring himself some Firewhisky, and very nearly dropped the bottle. "Huh?"

"C'mon. I know you want to." Quirrell tugged at his tie, loosening the knot and yanking it off. "You know I want to."

"I don't know, actually," Voldemort had to say. "This entire week, you couldn't stand to have me around. Deservedly, maybe, but still – Quirrell, what're you doing?"

Quirrell had put his glass down and was unbuttoning his shirt haphazardly. "Fuck me," he said, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit, as if challenging Voldemort. "Fuck me like it's your last chance to do so, 'cause it very well might be."

Voldemort swallowed, his throat suddenly inexplicably dry. "I can't, babe," he said. "You've had way more whisky than me, for a start. And I don't think that's the best idea when we haven't properly spoken to each other this week."

Quirrell stopped what he was doing, shirt half-unbuttoned, displaying only his collarbones and a sneak peek of his smooth chest. Voldemort had to resist the urge to get closer, to place his hand on Quirrell's warm skin. He swallowed again, and deliberately took a seat in the opposite armchair.

"Right," Quirrell said eventually. "Ok."

"It's not that I don't want to," Voldemort felt the need to say. "I want to be with you so badly. It just – doesn't feel right. Not when you're feeling so…"

Quirrell raised an eyebrow, reaching for his abandoned drink. "So…?" he prompted.

"So…clearly not alright," Voldemort said, cursing himself for how useless he sounded. "I just wish you would talk to me. The only time you've let me hold you is after a nightmare. Other than that, I've no idea what's going on in your head. I can guess, but that's not fair, either. I don't want to guess what you're thinking. I just want to help you through it."

Taking slow, methodical sips of his drink, Quirrell shrugged. "I'm terrified," he said bluntly. "But I also feel absolutely nothing."

Voldemort breathed out slowly at this monumental progress, and gave Quirrell a nod. "Go on," he said.

"I'm just so…numb. I didn't want to get out of bed today. Not 'cause I was tired, even though I'm exhausted, but 'cause I don't see the point." Quirrel took a deep breath. "I don't see any good outcomes from this. I'm going back to Azkaban, Voldemort. Or they're going to take you away from me. And I can't cope with either of those options."

Voldemort opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped. Quirrell didn't need his opinion. He just needed him to listen.

"I can't wait for this weekend to be over, but I'm also totally dreading it," Quirrell said. "I can't stop thinking that maybe…Maybe it would be better to just…" he gestured at the side of his head. "Obliviate them. You know?"

Voldemort shook his head slowly, swirling the Firewhisky around in his glass. "You don't mean that."

"I do," Quirrell challenged, leaning forward. "Think about it. It makes the most logical sense. Do it right, and it doesn't need to affect Wang and Albus' friendship at all. Just enough of a blast to make sure they forget all about last weekend."

"Quirrell," Voldemort said quietly. "We can't do that. You can't do that."

"Sure I can," Quirrell said, taking a long gulp of his drink. "It'd be fucking easy for me."

"That's not what I meant. Morally, you can't do that."

Quirrell arched an eyebrow. "Ok, Mr. Big Shot. I'm trying to save us from total destruction over here. What ideas do you have? Shall we bake cookies and talk about our feelings?"

Voldemort rubbed his forehead with a long, weary sigh. "Quirrell. I'm trying here, man. I'm doing my best. I'm going to fix everything, ok? I promise."

"Promises, promises," Quirrell muttered, downing his drink and immediately reaching for the bottle to top himself up.

Voldemort watched him, the ache in his chest only intensifying. "Squirrel. No matter what happens, you and Wang are going to be ok. It's me they have the problem with, not you two."

"We're husbands, you dolt," Quirrell said. "I'm with you no matter what."

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Voldemort's mouth. "You don't have to be," was all he said. "I mean, for all I've put you through. Not just this week, but in general."

"Stop it," Quirrell said immediately, eyes narrowed. In an instant, he was up from the couch, and knelt in front of Voldemort, staring up at him with those big doe eyes that always rendered Voldemort speechless.

Carefully, Voldemort cupped Quirrell's face, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. "Quirrell…" he began, and then swallowed. He just looked so beautiful, face flushed and hair tousled, shirt still half unbuttoned.

"I know I've been…a total dick," Quirrell said suddenly. "I was…unbelievably angry. And then it was like a switch, where I couldn't bring myself to care about anything. In my nightmares, it's – it's always the same. I'm back there on the island, staring at the water, having just heard you'd been killed. And there are so many Dementors, and they keep telling me to just – to just jump, and end it, and I can't help but sometimes think that they're – that they're right."

At that, Quirrell's resolve completely crumbled, and he bowed his head, shoulders shaking. In an instant, Voldemort found himself on his knees too, hands still cupping Quirrell's face.

"Squirrel. Please, don't cry."

"I don't know what – what to do!"

"You don't need to do anything," Voldemort told him. "You've done so fucking much already. Please, love, I just want you to rest. I want you to take tomorrow off, I want you to call your therapist, and I want you to know that I've got you. That I'm here for you, always. Ok?"

Voldemort brushed Quirrell's tears away, pressing a firm kiss to the top of his head, and held him as he cried it out. Eventually, Quirrell's sobbing died down, but Voldemort still kept his arms firmly wrapped around him.

"What's going to happen to Wang?" Quirrell croaked. "Are they – gonna try and take her away?"

"Like hell they are," Voldemort said, nostrils flaring in sudden anger. "We'd never let that happen."

"They're – gonna take a lot of convincing, th-though," Quirrell said. "And I'm not exactly – on top form."

Voldemort ran his hand through Quirrell's hair soothingly, giving his head another kiss. "All we have to do is tell the truth about us," he said. "It's Potter. He goes for all that love shit, doesn't he?"

Quirrell huffed a small laugh, feebly hitting Voldemort's chest. "Love shit," he echoed. "Yeah. True."

"I know you might not believe it right now," Voldemort said. "But you are so fucking brave."

Shifting slightly, Quirrell pulled away from Voldemort's hold so he could look at him. "I'm relapsing," he said. "Like, total, off-the-walls relapsing."

Voldemort nodded carefully. "That's – I mean, obviously, it's not ok. But it will be. Thank you for…I don't know, for wanting to tell me."

"You already knew," Quirrell said with a roll of his eyes. "I've not exactly been subtle. I've been a complete ass to everyone around me. I have some major grovelling to do when I next see Devin."

"Relapses happen," was all Voldemort said. "Happened before. She knows that, too. I know this time it's a bit different, 'cause the Potters are…Well, the Potters. But the fundamentals are the same, yeah? You and I work through it together."

Quirrell shrugged, in a way that told Voldemort he wasn't fully convinced. Gently, Voldemort lifted his chin up so that their eyes met again. "I'm just glad you're talking to me," Voldemort had to admit. "I…missed you. I know I deserved the silent treatment, but…"

"It wasn't deliberate," Quirrell countered, and then there was a flash of a smirk. "Ok. Maybe it was at first."

Voldemort laughed, giving Quirrell a tiny push. "All power to you, man," he said. "'Cause a silent, angry Quirrell – Yikes. Felt like I was one of your students."

"Oh, shush." Quirrell rolled his eyes, a ghost of a smile still on his face. He allowed himself to relax back against Voldemort, exhaling slowly. "We'll be ok?"

"We'll be more than that," Voldemort told him softly. "The three of us."

He continued to hold Quirrell until his husband ultimately gave into his exhaustion and fell asleep, slumped against him. Voldemort knew they'd have to move soon, otherwise Quirrell was going to have a hell of a sore back tomorrow, but he couldn't bring himself to wake him just yet.

"I've got you," he whispered, and he meant it with his whole heart. "No matter what shit they try to pull. I've got you."

A/N: Listen…I had to cut this here because I've already written about 2000 more words and this update was already over 6000 so…More incoming.

I also realise this fic has gone from one-shots to just a fully-fledged plot. Oops! It's my comeback, I can do what I like!