Work Text:
The beginning of Quirrell's fourth year as a Hogwarts student was, for the first time, a happy one. It had been nearly a year since the defeat of the Dark Lord, but people were still celebrating as though it was only that day they'd heard the news. Colorful sparkles and fireworks lit up the artificial sky in the great hall, and groups of students at every table were singing various clashing songs.
Quirrell would never say it out loud, not when everyone seemed to have had terrible experiences or heard second-hand horror stories of the Dark Lord when he hadn't, thanks to his overprotective parents - but he found the development more sad, given that a baby had to become an orphan for the defeat to occur at all. Maybe he just wasn't in the loop enough to know if there were people mourning the young couple who'd been murdered, but even ten months later it felt in bad taste to celebrate.
But more importantly to Quirrell, and what made this first night back at school an overall happy one was the fact that the older students, who usually sought him out for their own amusement, were too caught up in the excitement to even notice him.
The same went for every other student too, even the kinder ones, but he didn't mind. He used to mind, back when he was new to the school and found himself unable to talk to other children without being laughed at, or given strained smiles that he'd eventually realized meant they were annoyed with waiting for him to finish his sentences but too polite to say so.
That revelation had hurt deeply, but by now he had come to expect it. Now, he was content to eat alone - and study alone, and read alone, and cry alone. He didn't think he'd cried so much as a younger child as he had in the last few years. He was somewhat accustomed to the bullying for his shyness and his stutter, but he knew it would only get worse if they ever found out how often he still cried over it.
Yes, he was happy to be alone. Or, as happy as he could be in a school with no friends and classmates who, at best, ignored him. It wasn't all bad, though. The teachers were kind to him, and he loved learning about magic. Nothing gave him more joy than having a question answered or a curiosity satiated. In the muggle world, children like him were bullied for that sort of thing too, but here his intelligence and thirst for knowledge were the only thing his classmates respected about him.
That night, in his dorm room where his roommates played a game together, Quirrell pretended to read while he glanced over at them from his bed. As much as it terrified him, sometimes he wished he could join the boys in their games and other activities. His roommates weren't terrible, just closer with each other and indifferent towards him.
He was openly watching them now, the book forgotten, but they didn't seem to notice. Not that he minded; If they did happen to realize he was watching, and invited him to join them, he would probably be too afraid to accept anyway.
Sliding the book under his pillow and lying down, he fell asleep listening to the background noise of their laughter, and counted himself lucky to be rooming with people who tolerated him at all.