Hi! No I'm not dead. Yes I hit a terrible road-block. But I'll try to continue the stories later...don't hold your breath though.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine... Except for the OCs and plot.

Warning: Slash, Religion...if anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me. But don't fire cause I did sorta warn you.

Chapter 1: - Control

"He is not a sweet thing, Tom," Salazar warned him from his painting. His features had turned stone cold and serious. "Do not deny him what he asks."

Voldemort scoffed. "He is but a boy, Salazar. As soon as he sees his so called friends he will run to them; and if not, he will be killed! My missions are not for someone like him."

Salazar's eyes narrowed. "You are blinded by your prejudice." He ignored Voldemort's snarl of anger. "He is rather…different than you imagine. What he wants-"

"What does he want?" Voldemort snapped. "His friends? Family? Love? He's a seven-year-old child!"

"He wants blood."

There was a shocked silence, before Voldemort let out a cold, mirthless laugh.

"Blood…? How can you suggest such…?"

"Have you spoken to the boy at all?" Salazar said, his voice emotionless and patient. Voldemort frowned.

"No, but…"

"But what?"

"What do you mean, blood?" Voldemort snorted. "Revenge? He'd want revenge on us!"

Salazar sighed, his face betraying the annoyance his voice hid. "Did I say he wanted revenge? He wants blood. B-L-O-O-D. That red substance that runs inside living creature's veins that you are so fond of spilling?"

"I know what blood is!" Voldemort snarled, running a hand through his dark hair. "But…blood?"

"You are quite a bit slower than people give you credit for."

"He can't want blood!"

"Why not?"

"He's a child!"

"Is he?"

"Yes!"

"Think before speaking, you fool!" Salazar snarled, his patience snapping. Voldemort's mouth snapped shut as he bit back a shocked, angry reply.

"You know what he's seen. You know what he's done, even though for some stupid reason you deny his capability of it. Now I tell you he thirsts for blood. How can you call him a child?"

Voldemort frowned. "No matter what has happened around him, what happened to his family…it is disturbing, even for me. And I actually enjoy torture." He raised his eyes to Salazar's portrait. "You claim he wants blood. Have you spoken to him? Is he sane?"

"Yes I have, in fact. And as for his sanity, I cannot tell. He…does not seem insane. Physically."

Voldemort watched with interest how Salazar's face seemed to show uncertainty in his thoughts, and the carefully phrased words. He was silent for a while before nodding.

"Very well; I shall see the boy," he said, revealing his own new interest in his current capture. He bid Salazar a prompt farewell and left the room, ignoring the portraits warnings as he did. The boy was still a child, no matter what the old Founder claimed. He was probably claiming that he'd beat up all the Death Eaters, or something similar.

Voldemort's lip curled nastily at the thought. A stupid brat, it was. Probably wanted to be coddled and treated like the great savior he thought he was. His family's death must have shaken him after all.

Voldemort hadn't seen the Potter boy at all. He'd ordered his Death Eaters to bring him in and lock him up, but apart from that he'd ignored the boy. It was now three days later; it was time to do something, anyways.

He descended the stairs to the dungeons, where Potter was being kept. Approaching the boy's cell, he peered in through the bars. Potter was hanging on the back wall, his arms spread above him and holding up his body a foot off the ground. His wrists were bruised and bloody from being held up too long, and his body looked beaten and frail. Voldemort smirked.

"Potter. Wake up."

The boy did not stir, his face pointing downward. His hair obscured his face, so that Voldemort couldn't see anything. Voldemort sighed, annoyed, and unlocked the door to the cell. The groan of the metal hinges caused the boy to stir as the Dark Lord walked in, not bothering to close the door behind him.

"Look up, boy! I know you're awake!"

Potter shifted a little before letting out a soft sound; if took Voldemort a moment to recognize it, and his eyes widened. The boy was laughing. He snarled.

"What are you laughing at, boy?"

"He actually went and got you?"

Potter's cold, raspy voice caused Voldemort's eyes to widen. The youth hadn't moved, and his position made it seem as though it hadn't been him speaking, but it was obvious where the sound was coming from.

"Salazar." The boy clarified after a moment of silence. "He actually commented on me? I'm touched."

"He said I should come and see you." Voldemort normally would have cursed whoever dared to speak without prompting, but his interest was piqued. The boy was acting nothing like what he'd expected, even after Salazar's words.

"He did, did he?" the boy finally raised his face, and Voldemort had to make an effort not to gasp. The boy's face had been cut up carefully, leaving waving, twisting trails along the sides of his face and cheeks. There were trails of blood running along his neck, disappearing into his ragged shirt.

"Who…did that to you?" Voldemort asked, entranced by the beautiful painting on the boy's skin. Potter laughed. The movement caused the patterns to crack, and new blood started to fall.

"Who did what?"

"Your face…" Voldemort didn't even notice as he drew closer to Potter, so absorbed was he with the blood and patterns. Without realizing what he was doing, he brought a hand up and touched the boy's cheek. Potter grinned mirthlessly.

"I did this to me, a long time ago." The words snapped Voldemort out of his trance and he backed away a few steps, his eyes guarded.

"A long time ago?"

"Yes, and although they had healed already, it seems the time travel has…reopened them."

Voldemort's eyebrows shot up. This was one fact he had not heard before.

"Time travel?"

"You know, this conversation with an echo is starting to get boring."

For a moment, Voldemort was too shocked at the sheer cheek of the boy; then, his expression flared in anger. He raised his wand.

"Crucio!"

The curse hit Potter head on, but instead of screams of pain as Voldemort expected, Potter laughed again. The blood was now running freely on his cheeks.

"Do you think you can use such a curse on me?" Potter said, his eyes shining with insane glee. "It won't work on me. Not that kind of curse."

Voldemort was stunned, and starting to feel vaguely unnerved. Even he couldn't throw off Crucio after a direct hit in such a way, and the boy…Potter seemed to not be even feeling it.

"I'm not feeling it." Potter said, as if responding to Voldemort's thought, even though it was obvious that he had only to look at Voldemort's stunned expression to guess at his thoughts. "Crucio is a mind curse; nothing is actually happening to your body. Your mind is being tricked to think it is being tortured in the most horrible way possible, but it is merely a trick of the mind. If the mental barriers are strong enough, even Crucio can't get through. You'll find that a similar result happens with Occlumency; those who are extremely well versed in the art of it can block Crucio from taking effect. I'm surprised you didn't know this."

Voldemort had to force himself not to gape like a fish. Of course, he'd known in theory that this could be done; but in practice? He'd never heard of anyone able to do it. He took another step backwards.

"Who are you?"

Potter laughed again, but his time it was different. There was true mirth, and a definite undercurrent of insanity in his laugh. He suddenly stopped laughing, his expression switching with dizzying speed from joyful to cold-serious. If Voldemort had had any doubts about Potter's sanity, they were gone now.

He's completely out of it.

"I'm not insane, Tom." Harry said, and Voldemort jumped. He quickly checked his mental barriers, but nothing had gotten in. Was the boy using some other way to read his mind?

"I'm not reading your mind, you idiot." Potter snapped, rolling his eyes. Voldemort bristled, and was about to cast Crucio again before he remembered the boy's words. He grit his teeth and swallowed his anger, something he hadn't had to do since his Hogwarts days. It wasn't something he looked forward to doing often.

"How then?"

"You're easy to read." Potter said calmly, ignoring Voldemort's obvious rage. "Not to most, you're not, I'll admit. But to me, you're as obvious as a book. That's one thing I have to thank muggles for." He grinned lazily at the murderous expression on the Dark Lord's face. "Without Legilimency, they had to learn other ways to know what others are thinking. The long, physical way."

Despite himself, Voldemort was interested. Once again he swallowed his anger, vowing to make Potter suffer in some physical way afterward. Fuck Crucio.

"What do you mean?"

"Muggles, as you are well aware, cannot use magic. Therefore, they compensate. Have you ever heard of behaviorism?"

Voldemort frowned, but shook his head. This innate thirst for knowledge was what had gained him his power, and he was now in the face of something which apparently worked, and was useful, and he'd never heard anything about. Any complaints and anger he might have melted away at the promise of more knowledge. It was a slight weakness he'd always had.

"Behaviorism attributes everything we do to habits and behavior. Behaviorists, people who study human behavior, claim that they can know what anyone will do with enough study of people's habits and usual mannerisms. By knowing how it is that they have reached their place, how they work, and what their usual mental state is, they can almost read their mind, so to speak."

Voldemort frowned. He seemed to have forgotten he was speaking with an apparent 7-year-old, but he was actually well aware of the fact. However, he knew from very personal experience that appearances were deceiving, and the boy had mentioned time travel; another subject he was itching to press on.

"But you don't know me. You say that one has to be well versed in the person's life and habits. We've never met."

"Ah, but you don't believe that do you?" Potter said, with an infuriatingly knowing smirk. "You remember the time travel I mentioned." It wasn't a question. "Although I will not elaborate, I'll tell you right now that I do know you. I know you well enough to be able to figure out your every move without having to know your exact thought. I'll admit, I have no idea of the actual factors of the equation, but I can figure out a similar enough result that the variation is minimal. And of course, while the other person has no idea of what I'm doing, they immediately assume I do know the truth, and reveal everything on their own."

Voldemort was not ignorant to the not-so-subtle slight to his intelligence, but he was feeling vague stirs of respect for the boy's knowledge, and he was willing to allow Potter his shots if his curiosity was to be satisfied. At least as the boy didn't step out of line.

"Then why tell me everything?"

"You're clever. You'd have figured it out soon enough, and I'd rather you stayed positive now that if you attacked me if you felt that I was insulting you by assuming your ignorance afterward." The fact that he was insulting him as he spoke was left unsaid. "Also, these chains are starting to chafe my wrists. Do you think you could let me down?"

Voldemort frowned. He still wasn't sure on the boy's apparent sanity. It was clear he was not…normal, but that did not mean he was out of his mind. Voldemort himself was the best example of this.

"What will you do?"

It was an open invitation to an insult, and they both knew it. Surprisingly enough, Potter ignored the obvious opening. "What do you want me to do?"

Voldemort understood what Potter was really saying. What do you offer?

"Join me." It was expected, but Voldemort was unwilling to go for any variation. Potter had said he was a trained - what was the word? - Behaviorist. He didn't want the boy to have any more leverage on his personality. He knew Potter could probably tell what he was doing, but it wasn't important at the moment.

Potter seemed to think it through before nodding.

"Two conditions."

Voldemort's eyebrow rose. He didn't have to accept any conditions to his followers, but he was interested in Potter. He obviously had a lot to offer.

"Yes?"

"One. You may mark me, but only in the mark which I design for you," Potter said, his voice soft but firm. "It will have most of the normal functions of a Dark Mark, but its shape and position will be different. As well, it will not pain me."

Voldemort considered the proposal. "I shall give my opinion on the mark when the full report is given."

"Of course," Potter conceded.

"Your second condition?"

"I will answer only to you." Potter grinned. Something about his expression promised a huge reward for this condition. "I will not participate in any raids where there are other Death Eaters; they will not know of me as anyone different, even though I, of course, am. I shall be yours and yours alone to command." The words caused a strange feeling of power to prickle in Voldemort's fingers and he swallowed. "Only you will order me what to do; and do it I will." His eyes hardened. "I will, however, kill in my own way and in my own time. But apart from that," his voice lowered, until he was almost purring, "you will have total control."

Voldemort's mouth had gone dry. The promise of having the obviously powerful and knowledgeable, if rather young, boy in his complete control was intoxicating. His logical mind was, however, screaming at him. There was no way someone as clever and powerful as Potter appeared to be would submit to him so easily. He himself would rather have had his magic stripped from him than to be forced into such a level of servitude.

"Why would you do that?" he asked, suspicious. "You could have asked to be my second-in-command, and I would have agreed. You could even have asked to be my partner, my equal; it would have been considered, but possible. Why do you ask to be…controlled?"

Potter grinned. "That is something that you will find out with time. Do know, however, that when I say control…I do mean control."

Voldemort could sense that something was not quite as was being said. All his senses where telling him that this was a trap, and that Potter was simply saying what he knew Voldemort would like to hear. Hadn't he claimed he knew Voldemort inside and out? However, the offer was very tempting. Regardless of his knowledge of Potter's manipulation, Potter was in fact hitting something deep inside him. Tom loved having control over power; Potter radiated power. Ignoring all instincts in a move he needed no Seer powers to know he would regret later, Voldemort sighed. "Agreed."

Potter smiled. It was the most innocent, age-fitting smile Voldemort had seen up until now, and for some reason that made it even more unsettling.

"Wonderful!" Potter said, with this apparently usual bi-polarity. "If you'll let me down now, Master?"

Voldemort opened his mouth to do so, when his brain registered the word Potter had used.

"Master? Why do you call me that?" he asked, surprised. Not that it annoyed him; far from it, he probably could have asked it of the boy himself, but to have it said without prompting was rather unexpected.

Potter looked at him with an expression that clearly said that he thought that was a stupid question. Voldemort wasn't given an answer. Still getting over the unexpected title, he waved his hand. There was a pop, and the shackles holding Potter up, snapped. The boy fell from his strung position and crumbled to the ground. He gave a small groan, and fell silent.

Voldemort waited for a moment for the boy to move, but no reaction emanated from the small body. For a moment, a thought raced through Voldemort's head; he's a child!; but it was quickly replaced by mild impatience.

"Get up, already"

Immediately, the boy rose to his feet, a gracefulness is his movement that looked unnatural from the strained appearance. His eyes held a coldness which betrayed the tight control he was maintaining, and Voldemort felt a thrill run through him at the show of immediate compliance. Not even his most loyal followers showed the level of submission that Potter was now showing; they bowed, they accepted, they deferred – but the resistance to it all was still there. Potter screamed obedience and compliance with his very breath. His magic hummed with it.

"Come over here," Voldemort said, his voice softer and deeper, thrumming with pleasure. The boy immediately walked up to Voldemort, stopping at the older man's feet, his gaze trained on Voldemort's collarbone in a subtle show of submission.

Voldemort was stunned. With the boy this close, he could feel the boy's power pushing against his own. He knew Potter was holding back as much as he could of his power, from the tightness in his gaze and posture; he greatly reassembled a large feline, trapped inside a cage with little space to move in. His very walk trembled with controlled energy, a chained power which begged to be unleashed. There was a slight jitter to his steps which made it seems as if he was prepared to burst out running at any moment, and was barely holding back. It was mesmerizing to watch.

"What shall I call you?" Voldemort said, after a moment of thought. The word 'Potter' sounded rough on his tongue when applied to the boy. He needed another name, at least for him. To the rest of the world, Harry Potter was still supposed to be at his house in the Muggle world; no one knew the boy had been kidnapped, not even Dumbledore. Voldemort had initially planned to simply kill the boy, after holding him as a threat to the Light. However, now a new plan was hatching, and it involved another name for his new…acquisition.

"Are you asking me to chose?" the boy asked. His voice was still as it had been before, for all his physical submission; there was a light joking tone to it that made it so Voldemort always felt that the boy was insulting him, or he was not being serious. It was not as grating as it had been before, now that he was getting used to it.

"I'm asking you to suggest a name. I'm sure you are aware of the possibilities and need of this."

The boy nodded. He could tell what Voldemort was planning, even though the specifics would not be obvious to him until Voldemort chose to reveal them himself. If he was to integrate himself within the Light side without suspicion, it would undoubtedly require a name change. At least between Voldemort and him.

"Gabriel."

Voldemort's eyebrow rose. "Gabriel?"

"Do you know what it means?"

Voldemort shook his head. Normally, he loathed admitting to his lack of knowledge in any subject, but he knew that the boy was well aware of his limits. Something about the tightly strung control the boy had over what he was showing set Voldemort at ease.

"It means 'Man of God'," the boy said, his voice teasing but his eyes serious. "Gabriel is, in Catholic myth, one of God's closest archangels. Some even say he was best-friends with Lucifer, before he fell. Fitting?"

Voldemort's lip quirked. "I never knew you followed a Muggle religion."

The boy's lips twisted in a sneer for a moment, before his features relaxed again. "I don't. But I like their stories. When I was young, I'd often go to Muggle churches and borrow their Bible. It's how I learned to read. The church people were nice enough, and they seemed inordinately pleased that such a young child was showing such interesting in Jesus." He snorted. "One even asked me if I was planning to become a priest when I grew up. I told him I was aiming…a little bit higher than that."

Voldemort shivered at the maliciousness he could see in the boy's eyes, straining to break free. The boy's magic was swirling chaotically inside the boy's self-imposed barriers, smashing against he borders before retreating like a wounded animal, and then attacking again. Voldemort had a feeling he could sense the violent display only because the boy allowed it.

Voldemort suddenly cleared his throat, drawing the boy's gaze to just below his own.

"Master?"

At the word, Voldemort felt a sudden shiver of disgust. It sounded like what Wormtail called him, like what that fanatical, insane witch Bellatrix called him. Both were useful, and both were high on his ranks, but than did not mean he held any respect for them as people. He frowned.

"Don't call me that."

The boy's brows furrowed in confusion; Voldemort knew that it was uncharacteristic of him to demand someone not to call him Master. It was the first time he'd done it, and it felt weird, even to himself.

"Then what shall I call you? I cannot go around calling you Voldemort or Tom, for obvious reasons."

"No…" Voldemort thought for a moment. The boy's earlier words came back to him. "What other name if there for 'God'?"

The boy looked surprised for a moment, before his lips slowly morphed into a smirk. "There are several. I do believe, however, that…Yahve…would be the most appropriate. It is the God of the Old Testament, before he had Jesus as a son. He was a cold, cruel God. He punished his followers most severely and people on earth feared his wrath. There was none of the 'Love' crap Christians are so fond of now. The name would…suit you."

Voldemort laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Meant in kind."

Voldemort smirked.

"Gabriel," he said, the name rolling off his tongue pleasantly.

The change was immediate in the boy. Gabriel's posture stiffened and his gaze lowered to Voldemort's collar-bone. The quiet show of confidence and power from just a moment was gone.

"…Yahve."

And Voldemort understood. For someone as versed in Muggle religion, calling him 'Yahve' was like calling him 'God', and the immediate responses and expectations came into play when talking to such a person. It was an ingrained system in the boy from…youth.

He still had to figure out what had happened to the Potter boy, and when Gabriel had come forth. Time travel, he'd mentioned?

"I mean to ask you more of your…travels. But not now. I shall lead you to your temporary quarters in the Manor, where you will be staying for two days. We shall discuss your situation once you are…," his eyes lingered on the swirls on the boy's face, "…better."

Gabriel nodded.

Voldemort twirled and, not pausing to see if the boy followed, exited the cell to start up the stairs. After they'd reached the exit from the dungeons, Voldemort heard a slight cough behind him. He turned.

"Yes?"

Gabriel lowered his head.

"Yahve, I have not eaten for three days. I was wondering…?"

The request was clear. Voldemort cursed under his breath. The boy's state was obvious to see, but it had not been obvious to him that the boy had not been fed at all during his stay. He looked sickly enough, and 3 days without food for someone as thin as Gabriel looked to be, was a much more dire stretch.

"Come then. Normally we'd go to your quarters first, and then call a House Elf for food, but you look as if you are about to pass out. The kitchens are closer."

Gabriel shot him a tiny thankful glance before averting his eyes and nodding.

"Thank you."

Voldemort frowned before turning. The kitchens were indeed much closer, and after two more turns, they'd arrived. The Manor was gigantic, in an of itself; as an addition, however, many of the rooms had been Enlarged. The kitchen, which would have been rather large as it was, was one of them.

All around, House Elves were running. Several were carrying finished dishes, but most were rushing haphazardly around, carrying vials and ladles and pots and ingredients. It was dizzying at first sight, and Gabriel blinked several times before giving up.

"Ditsy!"

Voldemort's voice carried over the room, and within a moment a small female elf had popped up in front of them.

"Master! What is Ditsy getting youse today?"

"Bring me a glass of milk and two peanut-butter sandwiches. Also my usual breakfast."

"Yes, Master!"

A pop and the elf was gone. Gabriel's eyebrow rose.

"I never would have guessed you knew what peanut butter is."

Voldemort's lip twitched in a faint grin. "Seems like you don't know me all that well?"

Gabriel snorted. "To the contrary. In fact, I can guess from the way you are acting right that you in fact dislike peanut butter, but know that it is one of the more substantial methods to get my body working properly again. As well, you use it as a ration food when you need to stay out, even through your dislike of the…texture."

Voldemort's eyes widened. "You…how…"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "I do understand your habits and thought processes. I just don't know the actual specifics."

Voldemort nodded, accepting the difference was rather large between one and the other. He walked over to an isolated section of the kitchens, where there were a few tables with chairs littering the sides. He sat down on one side, motioning for Gabriel to take the chair in front of him. The boy did, after accepting the invitation.

Not a moment after he'd sat down, food suddenly appeared in front of both of them. Gabriel, through all his control, couldn't help the gape that he knew was on his expression once he saw what Voldemort had as a 'usual breakfast'.

The Dark Lord had in front of him a stack of 10 pancakes, 5 boiled eggs, a 5-people's-worth plate of cut fruit, a plate stacked with toasts and a large cup of coffee. He was looking at it all with an expression than bordered on boredom. Then his eyes rose to Gabriel's, and his lips curled

"What is it?"

Gabriel's eyes flashed back to Voldemort's. "You…eat all that?"

Voldemort frowned. "It's one price of my transformation." He gestured to his body, which had the appearance of a 24-year-old in the general sense, but when looked at in detail, one could easily see something was not quite right. His hands were thin and beautiful, but there was a bony texture which normally only people who were well into middle age had; his face was structured and his skin pale and faultless, but there was a nearly imperceptible sallow tint that betrayed the man's true age. His hair was full and dark, but the texture was thin and wispy.

His eyes, a vibrant maroon, shone with the life of someone with their whole life ahead of them.

Gabriel grinned. "I think that's a bit much, even for teenager."

Voldemort shook his head. "Thrice as much, actually. My body and my magic constantly have to be fed a stream of energy to keep up my…appearance. This state is not permanent, but it is not temporary either. As long as I can keep up with my intake of food and potions, I can stay this way for as long as I want to."

Gabriel nodded. "I was aware of some of that, which is why your appearance didn't shock me too much. You look like this in my time too." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Well, not exactly. You look about a decade older, maybe. Your power reserves are also quite a bit larger." His eyes danced with mirth before turning to the sandwiches on his plate. "Do you mind…?"

"Go ahead."

Gabriel lifted one of the sandwiches, and brought it close to his mouth. He took out a tiny bite and proceeded to chew on it slowly. Voldemort watched in curious interest as he slowly finished chewing and swallowed delicately.

The boy then suddenly opened his mouth as wide as it would go and bit off a fourth of the sandwich, chewing on it vigorously. The scabs on his cheek shuttered and split, and a column of blood ran down the boy's cheek, onto the sandwich still on the plate. Gabriel, as he chewed, almost absentmindedly moved the sandwich he was holding until it, too was being covered with red trails.

"You do realize you are bleeding all over your food?" Voldemort said after a moment of subsequent chewing, his own food still untouched. Gabriel's eyes flickered over and landed on his own for the first time since their agreement. Voldemort suppressed a slight shudder at the sheer, insane delight he could see in his new possession's eyes as Gabriel took another huge bite of the now red-soaked bread.

"I know. I like the taste."

TBC-

Ps. Reviews help me write faster (nudge nudge, wink wink, hint hint)