DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me. I do not own Harry Potter. *sob

WARNING: Slash, OOCness, definitely limes and possibly lemons, torture, abuse, self-harm.

A/N: This is my first fanfic so please review and let me know what you think =)

Whoah, I wasn't expecting that many people to follow my story, no pressure then! Sorry if it turns out crap guys :P

This chapter is dedicated to my lovely reviewer, aliengirlguy. =D

"Morning." Voldemort greeted Harry a little more curtly than he'd intended.

"Hi," answered Harry meekly.

"Sleep well?"

Harry simply nodded. Voldemort disliked when the boy was all monosyllabic, it made him feel awkward.

"Breakfast?"

"Sure," replied Harry non-committally, waiting for the usual fruit salad to appear before him, though truthfully he was fed up with it.

But it did not.

"This isn't a hotel Harry," said Voldemort with a smirk before walking back out through the door, leaving it open behind him.

'Leave the room?' He was excited to do so, but nervous too. Though claustrophobic, this room had been his home for nearly a month, the only other place he'd been was the en suite. It would feel odd going somewhere else. Voldemort was standing in the hall outside and made the familiar zigzag motion with his wand. The accompanying rustling sound made Harry smile and ignoring his nerves, he stepped tentatively through the doorway, unaware of Voldemort watching him curiously.

The boy was so young, too young to be so fragile. He wasn't sure why, but seeing Harry's face light up at the prospect of simply leaving his room made Voldemort's insides squirm. Perhaps he should've let him out sooner.

Voldemort strode along the seemingly endless hallway with Harry in toe, struggling to keep up as he took in his new surroundings. The air was noticeably colder and it smelt slightly musty. The hall was gloomy, dimly lit with glowing torches fixed with wrought iron brackets onto the dark, panelled walls, the pattern of which, Harry noted, was vaguely reminiscent of prison bars. Where the walls eventually met the ceiling they were draped with cobwebs of an impressive size. With a growing sense of unease, Harry was reminded of Aragog, and he couldn't help but think that there were bound to be far worse things than oversized spiders in Lord Voldemort's abode.

After what seemed like a fair few minutes, they reached the stairs. Harry reached for the banister, wary of his only recent ability to walk, but snatched his hand back again on meeting with several decades' worth of dust, deciding he would simply pay extra attention to his steps.

Focusing his gaze downwards, Harry noticed that the intricate carpet caressing his bare and ever-colder feet was not unlike Mrs Figg's, though perhaps darker and more expensive. It looked out of place, the only thing in sight that seemed to be less than a hundred years old. The whole place had the distinct air of having once been very grand, but years of neglect had made it eerie rather than majestic. Not helping matters was the ghostly silence which seemed to make the place feel emptier, colder. The only sounds were Voldemort's sweeping robes and the soft padding of Harry's feet on the many stairs.

Eventually they came to large mahogany door which opened as they approached. Stepping into the cavernous kitchen, Harry was relieved to find that it was warmer, cleaner and distinctly more welcoming than the rest of the house. It was not lavishly decorated, in fact it was not unlike the Hogwarts kitchens aside from the absence of a hundred or so over-keen house elves.

No longer nervous, Harry remembered to feel awkward. The image of Voldemort in a kitchen was a strange one. In Harry's dreams, he was always in the graveyard or else seated in a darkened room, but the sight of him amongst pots and pans almost made Harry laugh. Almost.

Harry's head was buzzing with questions. What kind of things did Voldemort eat? Did he even need food? Could he cook? Surely he had people to do it for him? He pictured Voldemort standing at a kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, chopping carrots. This time he allowed himself a small smile, the idea was after all, quite ridiculous.

Voldemort's voice jolted Harry back to reality. He flicked his wand lazily and everything he named appeared on a small oak table in one corner of the kitchen: a loaf of bread, pots of jam, a bowl of fruit and large jugs of milk and juice. It was a veritable feast. Harry made a beeline for the bread, having not been allowed it before, the smell renewing his love of food. It was whole however and Harry had no way to cut it.

"You haven't given me a knife."

"Is that wise?" Voldemort asked silkily.

Harry didn't answer. It seemed that every time he opened his mouth he just gave Voldemort more ammunition to use against him. Trying to gain back some sense of pride he moved over to the fruit, trying to look unperturbed.

Suddenly he felt Voldemort behind him and whipped around.

He had a knife.

He twirled it idly between his long, white fingers before offering the handle to Harry who grabbed it and pulled sharply in case Voldemort was simply teasing him. He hoped at the very least to cut Voldemort's hand, but no such luck.

"You underestimate my reflexes Harry." Voldemort's voice was calm but inside he was desperately curious. This knife was not unlike the one he had seen in Harry's flashbacks and he wondered what reaction seeing it might trigger.

Harry paused. He had a knife. Voldemort had given him a knife. Did the man trust him? Did he think Harry would just turn around now and simply cut some bread? He had a knife for Christ's sake. He considered his options. What would he have done had he been in this position two or three weeks ago? Cut himself? Kill himself? He could maybe even kill Voldemort if such a man could be killed by something as mundane as a kitchen knife. But Voldemort must be expecting all three, so why had he given it to him? Perhaps he thought that Harry wouldn't want to use it? Surprised at his realisation, Harry concluded that the man was right and turned to cut himself some bread.

Voldemort smiled. Despite being a little disappointed at the lack of drama, he was relieved that Harry didn't want either of them dead. He hadn't expected Harry to go for him of course, but he was surprised that Harry hadn't tried anything on himself, not that he'd have been successful. 'Three emotions at once and I'm still smiling,' he noted and turned away, enjoying Harry's shock as he casually ruffled his hair.

XXx Small Time Gap xXx (Must find out how to put in lines)

It wasn't that he had liked it, Harry was sure of that. But surely it wasn't wrong to feel comforted when someone, well… comforted you? But this was Voldemort. Voldemort's touch should be making his head split in two, not making him feel warm and tingly. Disgusted with himself, Harry finished his food, hoping that Voldemort couldn't hear what was going through his mind.

As it happened, Voldemort was too busy inside his own head to notice what was going on in Harry's. It had felt so natural just to reach out and touch the boy and what's more, apart from looking a little stunned, he didn't appear to mind. But could that be the Stockholm Syndrome gaining potency? This was a dangerous path, with both of them suffering from strange new emotions that they wouldn't normally have. He could only hope that Harry had more control over his hands than he did. But it hadn't been suggestive or flirtatious, at the very most the gesture was fatherly. He wasn't attracted to the boy for Christ's sake. Though he could tell that Harry wasn't unattractive, he didn't feel things like that about anyone, let alone the Boy Who Lived. There was maybe a slight fondness there but it was definitely caused by their connection and not a natural occurrence. He was not typically one to enjoy the company of others but Harry was quite unlike anyone else he'd ever met. He'd been surrounded by the same kinds of people his whole life, drooling admirers, the weak seeking shelter, the ambitious and the power-hungry hoping to share the glory…all Slytherin, all pureblood.

And then there was Harry. An oddity, a half-blood, a strange mish mash of Gryffindor and Slytherin. Harry who loathed him, who wanted to kill him, wasn't afraid to speak his mind to him. Such people usually died at his hand but now, being forced to spend time with the boy… They were alike in so many ways but in others they were virtually opposites. Harry fascinated him.

Harry's voice brought him back down to earth.

"er, thanks," he said half-heartedly, shuffling his feet.

Voldemort smiled, he loved it when it was Harry who felt awkward and not him.

"Come here."

Something in Harry did a backflip at his tone of voice. It was gentle, tender even. He stayed where he was.

"Come here." His voice was more commanding this time but not harsh. Slowly, Harry walked over to him looking extremely apprehensive. He stopped before he reached him, trying to maintain a safe distance between them.

Voldemort however, was having none of it and he closed the gap between them in two elegant strides.

Harry froze as Voldemort brushed his cheek with one of his ice-cold hands. He stared defiantly up into the scarlet eyes, he would not react. The man was messing with him, trying to unnerve him. It was definitely working. Harry watched the eyes travel over his face and neck and was just about to pull away when Voldemort spoke.

"Still so pale…"

He retracted his hand and met the green eyes, searching for something… anything, any trace that the boy felt for him. He did not find any. Relieved, he adopted his Dark Lord persona once more.

"Come, we're going outside."

Harry, who was suddenly feeling very claustrophobic, nodded shakily and followed Voldemort as he swept out through a small, creaky door in the corner of the room.

The daylight came as a bit of a shock after the gloom of the house and Harry was squinting against the low rays of morning sunshine. Feeling the warmth of the sun on his bare arms was so uplifting that Harry almost forgot about the incident in the kitchen. As Voldemort lead him around the side of the house to the sloping, overgrown lawn at the front, Harry couldn't help but think that he was probably the best looked-after prisoner that could still be labelled as such.

They walked a short way around the neglected garden in silence. It was not an awkward silence, nor was it companionable, it was… contemplative.

Voldemort could tell that Harry was happy to be outside and he in turn was quite content. He understood now why people were nice to each other. There was nothing saintly about it, they weren't better than him because of it, they did it to feel good. It was addictive, the feeling he got when he was nice to Harry, but he could not rely on it. It was a symptom, it would not last, he had to keep focused on his goal, he would kill Harry Potter.

There was a sharp intake of breath to his left, Harry had stopped and had his hand pressed to his scar.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Harry, "It just… never mind."

Voldemort brushed the hair away from Harry's scar, looking intrigued, but there was also a hunger there... He longed to touch it, the mark that connected them, that marked Harry as his supposed equal. It reminded him who this boy was and what he meant to the world, what it meant that the boy was completely at his mercy, so close he could touch him… but he didn't. It would be too painful, especially for Harry. Instead he continued walking.

"Does it hurt often?"

"Not so much now," Harry admitted, "Dumbledore says it hurts when you're nearby or if you're really angry but…"

"I'm pretty near now and it doesn't hurt," Voldemort finished for him.

Harry nodded and more silence followed.

"Do you like it here Harry?"

Harry began an indignant response but seeing Voldemort smirking knowingly at him, he sighed.

"Only because you're being nice to me," he said defensively, "I don't know why, but I do know you don't mean anything by it, I haven't forgotten who you are."

"You assume I'm faking it?"

"You're Lord Voldemort," he replied, as if this explained everything.

"That I am."

XXx Time Gap xXx (Must find out how to put in lines)

The heat of the past week had worked itself into a violent storm. Voldemort entered to find Harry sat on the windowseat, his knees at his chest, watching the storm through the rain-splattered windows. It was late evening and the jagged forks of lightning were clearly visible against the darkening sky.

Voldemort approached the window and sat the opposite end from Harry, leaning casually back against the glass and looking far more dignified than Harry.

They sat in silence, watching the storm with each occasionally stealing glances at the other when they weren't looking, trying to ascertain the mood. After half an hour, Voldemort rose.

"Can I get you anything?"

"No thanks, I'm fine," he said unconvincingly.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at him.

"Ok ok fine it's just…"

"Yes?"

"I… I get, bored a bit. I just thought…" His uneasy voice trailed off into nothing.

"Perhaps a book?"

When Harry gave him one of his shy half-smiles he wasn't sure if he wanted to vomit or smile back.

"One minute then."

"Nothing evil!" Harry called out after him.

Voldemort laughed.

"Don't worry Harry, I'll be sure to find something perfectly PG."

It took Harry a moment to pick up on the muggle phrase and Voldemort was gone before he could mock him for it. He returned a few minutes later with a small yellow book which he handed to Harry.

"1001 Things You Never Knew About Quidditch…" Harry read out.

Voldemort smiled.

"I'm told you play."

Harry was speechless. He opened it, skimming over the contents: The Wronski Feint, Troy's Own Goal, The Cleansweep 7 Scandal…"

"Thank you." It was all he could say and for the first time, it was not forced or born of an awkward silence, he was genuinely grateful.

Voldemort grimaced slightly at the grotesquely human glow he felt at Harry's reaction. It was, after all, quite sickening.

"What's wrong?"

Harry had seen his expression.

"Nothing, I just… don't see the attraction," he said, gesturing at the zooming figures on the cover of the book.

"You didn't play, even at Hogwarts?"

"I have better things to do with my time."

"Like babysit me?"

Voldemort scowled at him.

"That," he replied, "Is a necessary evil."

"No such thing."

"Well I assure you it's not my favourite past time either."

"And yet here we both are."

"Goodnight Harry." Voldemort's tone told him very clearly that the conversation was over.

"Night."