Voldemort's Desire:
The Dark Lord didn't sleep, not really. But while he had space, alone, and it was quiet he closed his eyes briefly. It was then that he had an odd sensation. One he hadn't felt since boyhood: desire. This desire was not the same as his fierce determination and thirst to conquer death and the world. This desire was a more primitive kind. A biological need for sexual contact. The new feeling surprised him. Why would he be feeling such things now?
His mind flashed to an image of a bed, a bed he recognized even if it had been too many years since he'd seen one; a Hogwarts four poster. He realized he was connecting with Potter. There connection was always stronger when Potter's frail body slept but as Potter opened his eyes the Dark Lord realized Potter was not sleeping.
The Dark Lord could feel arousal, ecstasy. Normally the Dark Lord would have taken control of the weaker wizard and given him some sort of nightmare or just left him alone as the boy was of little consequence to the Dark Lord. But something gave him pause. Being submerged in Potter's head he could feel the boys body tensing in pleasure. He could see the flaming red hair of Potter's lover, even in the dim of the night. Potter's hands squeezed the bed sheets, his teeth clenched to keep from screaming in pleasure.
The Dark Lord could feel the tension drain from the boy, his body reeling in the afterglow of his orgasm. The red headed girl laid beside Potter and he kissed the top of her head.
"You always make me feel better Gin." he whispered.
Her blush was cute as it brightened her pale cheeks.
"You made me feel better first." she assured him.
He smirked, "Will you lay with me for a while?"
She snuggled into his arms, "Of course."
The Dark Lord dragged himself away from the boys mind. It hurt to be in there. The love of it was too much. What were these latent feelings inside him? Sexual desire? Longing?
The Dark Lord shook himself, no, that's ridiculous. He stormed out of the room.
"Malfoy," he barked. "What progress is Draco making?"
Before Narcissa could answer he snapped, "Well he's not being fast enough."
These were feelings Voldemort knew and could handle: anger, fear, he reveled in control. He would forget about the feelings he had had inside the boys head, they weren't his feelings they belonged to the retched boy.
It was time to speed up this process: The boy who lived had to die.