Help Is Only So Far Away

Part 23

"So are we going to talk about what just happened?"

Voldemort groaned and burrowed his head further into the soft pillow. Tyler's voice grated on his torn nerves. His bed creaked as he turned to face the doorway.

Tyler's face - so usually filled with boyish enthusiasm - was suddenly aged with seriousness. His slouch spoke of years of tiredness that Voldemort had never seen on him before. He leant against the doorway as if he couldn't hold himself up and the glaze of drunkenness in his eyes and on his cheeks had sharpened into sobriety.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but Quirrell now has to deal with the fallout with Sarah and-"

"Tyler, I'm sorry." The words shocked Voldemort. He never intended to say them, but suddenly they were out there in the world. The man in the doorway came forward and sat at the edge of Voldemort's bed, making sure not to sit on the wizard's legs.

"....I know." Voldemort frowned. How could Tyler know if he himself didn't know? "I know you never meant for anything to happen. You always insist on being the arrogant bully, but you really aren't. I do have to ask though....do you....love Quirrell?"

Voldemort closed his eyes, ignoring the question, but the words rang throughout his mind. Images flashed across his eyelids: a small hard bed that was shared, a pile of clothes on a chair, a warm pub, a graveyard full of his death eaters, the kitchen of their apartment, a sofa, a table with flowers, some hats, some roller skates, a dance with warm hands holding onto him, sparkling brown eyes staring into his and finally a bright smile that caused Voldemort's heart to flutter and skip a beat. Quirrell.

"I'm going to take that as a yes." Voldemort buried his head again into the pillow, trying to swallow the emotion clawing at his throat. A large hand came to rest gently against his back and he felt it move ever so slightly, rubbing comfort into him.

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'The world is always hurting. Do what you can to help it, even when it's hard and it shall not forget when you yourself need it.'

Tyler's father used to sit him as a child upon his lap in the evenings and tell him stories of his own life. Young children running through forests fighting with sticks, the scary butcher who lived next door and when he was a little older, of wars and soldiers and brothers-in-arms. The day Harold Sladen told his young son Tyler this lesson about the world in pain was the anniversary of his militant partner's, Riley's, death.

All day memories of barracks and training, bloodshed and war, laughing and hugging, screaming and nightmares had plagued every thought. He had wept multiple times at the loss of a man who was his best friend, his brother and, in some ways, knew him better than he knew himself. It hurt. His dear Josalyn had understood and helped hold him together through the worst moments as she did every year on this date. He hid away in the attic and went through the chest in which he locked up his memories of the army. An old jacket of his, photos from numerous foreign countries of Harold, Riley and other lads they'd been friendly with and finally a medal of honour awarded posthumously to Riley.

He had tried to get through the day without running into his son. It was difficult to look into a face of such hopeful innocence when he himself was falling apart with his own concoction of survivor's guilt and grief. However, after he had finished his dinner, Tyler had slipped past his mother and gone off in search of his missing father for a story. He found him in the attic slumped over a chest, tears dripping down his face.

"Daddy...?" Harold turned and saw his young son, eyes wide in fear at the entrance to the attic.

"It's okay, monkey." He held his arms open and gestured him over. Tyler crept forward and was grateful when big strong arms pulled him onto a familiar lap.