Disclaimer: In case you couldn't guess, I don't own anything. Not even the idea. The characters belong to the brilliant J.K. Rowling, who would be horrified at her character's thoughts in this fic. The idea belongs to a friend of mine, who likewise will be horrified at my butchering of her idea. Oh, and I don't own the line I stole from Shakespeare. The title of the story comes from a poem I wrote in 6th grade with my best friend Katie.

Author's Note: I am apologizing for this story now. Nothing in this should be taken seriously. Anything that sounds suggestive is, and if it sounds lame, it probably is…

He graciously allowed Wormtail to lick his boots. In rat form. It was a feat which took him hours to accomplish, and it always left the shoes a bit smudged. Voldemort knew that Wormtail had secretly enchanted the polish to taste like chocolate, but he hadn't called him on it yet. Had it been anyone else, they would have spent the week in a cell with the dementors. The Dark Lord smiled evilly (as if there is any other way to smile) as he thought of this. It was such a viciously merciful punishment. And none of them deserved it. Why, he was practically being sweet! Besides, one tended to become numb to the Cruciatus after a while; after being with those fiendish suckers of feeling, you felt everything with a heightened sense of awareness. As soon as the cold wore off.

He-who-must-not-be-named knew that for Wormtail, Crucio would never be any less of a punishment. You could tell by the way he twitched. His whole body twitched and shuddered like a mouse caught in a trap, a few seconds before its head exploded from the sheer force of the metal at its neck.

He would pretend he didn't know. It was a feeling he relished, the anticipation of the final climactic moment of imminent retribution. He would announce his knowledge of the insidious crime, in a dull, diabolical whisper. And the perpetrator would know that he had known for a long time. He would realize that all the malicious little comments the master had been making lately, had in fact been insinuations. The cat always plays with its pray, tosses it over his shoulder, grabs it again, whacks it with his paw, and just when the rat loses its concentration he delivers the final bite.

Voldemort sighed. He had been thinking in rodent metaphors an awful lot lately. He looked back down at his tall black boots. His rat was no longer there.

"M-m-master," squeaked the short man with the pale skin and pointed face. "I'm f-finished, master."

"Good, Wormtail. Now… why don't you light a fire? It is rather cold in here." Then, in a hollow undertone he added, "Not even warm enough to melt chocolate, is it?"

Wormtail looked up with wide, terror filled eyes. He hesitated for a moment, as if wondering what was going to happen. He teetered so that his weight was shifted from his heals to his toes. Then he scampered out the door, muttering shrilly, "a-all right, m-m-master."

Voldemort watched him leave without blinking. He never blinked in the presence of his followers. He wanted them to know that they were always being watched. That, and he knew it unnerved them. No, totally freaked them out was a better way to put it. He grinned at his own scariness, and then frowned at his choice of words. He was frightening no matter what he said, but certainly he could have come up with something more sinister or creative than "Not even warm enough to melt chocolate, is it?" For some reason Wormtail's presence made it harder to think straight. Perhaps it was because he never needed to say anything clever around him. Wormtail was devious in his own right, of course, but he worked well with subtle hints.

And now he knew that Voldemort knew about the chocolate flavored shoe polish. The master would let him think about his sin for a while; master and servant, cat and rat. Then he would say the word which inspired terror in everyone. "Crucio."

He took more pleasure in torturing Wormtail than he did in anyone else. He loved the way he twitched, the way his skin shone with sweat, the way his cheeks flushed, displaying that lovely shade of magenta. Yet, there was something about torturing his most loyal servant that pained him. Perhaps it was in the little rodent's eyes, as round and wide as a young deer's. They trembled and watered, until their surfaces looked like that of a lake struck by an earthquake. In this, one, seemingly insignificant way, he was like his master. He lost the ability to blink. And Voldemort knew that if he kept the curse on him to long, the tiny pools would overflow, and tears would poor down the man's face, mingling with cold sweat. The tears gave a certain sheen to his flushed cheeks, causing them to glimmer and sparkle in the light. Voldemort knew that that something in him snapped whenever he saw those gleaming red cheeks, those streaming tears, the hollow, mournful expression; he would give in and raise his wand.

He would say, "Peter," and the first name would cut through his soul; both souls. "Have you learned your lesson?"

He would twist his face into a sinister smile. And Wormtail would stutter something in reply, while his eyes shrank into their regular, beady form. Then he would leave. Only then would Voldemort stop smiling, haunted by those sweet tears. He had to keep up the show, the dreadful façade. If he slipped up, if he showed any tenderness of feeling, he would be done for. He would never be able to talk to Peter the way he wanted to. He would never be able to tell him that he was appreciated, respected, and loved. The Dark Lord would never be able to reveal his true feelings to anyone.

He was madly, clumsily, shamefully, agonizingly and hopelessly in love. Lord Voldemort, the most feared wizard in the world, was in love with his most deceitful, loyal, and treacherous follower. You-know-who was in love with Peter Pettigrew, who was dead to the world.

It wasn't as if Wormtail was that desirable, he reflected. The small beady eyes, the colorless hair, the balding head, the mottled, pasty skin which became so vibrant and beautiful when he was agitated. Voldemort knew hundreds of cooling spells, none of which was satisfactory in Wormtail's presence. To think he had just asked him to light a fire! As if Peter needed to light a fire to turn up the heat in any room! The thought of him bending over to complete the assigned task caused the Dark Lord to shift uneasily in his throne.

In a few hours he would torture him again, he would lift his wand against his beloved! His thoughts and desires plagued him at the thought. The sadistic part of his brain (and the happiest, I might add) enjoyed watching anyone suffer. It didn't matter who it was, how dear they were. Some lustful corner of his body enjoyed the after effects the Cruciatus had on him; the radiant, gleaming afterglow. However, the Love fought against it all. It tore at him, it tormented him, it begged him to come to his senses and help his darling one. How he longed to reach out to him. Long, bony fingers laced around short, coarse hands.

No matter how much his heart screamed he didn't do anything to head it. He just smiled that awful smile and said those awful things. Wormtail would wipe the sweat off of his face with his grubby hands. Oh, to be a glove upon that hand that he might touch that cheek! He could wipe off the cold sweat; he could be a source of comfort instead of the cause of suffering.

But it was not to be. He would remain the callous, spiteful master that he always was, and his tortured soul would remain locked behind impenetrable bars. Wormtail, forever his love, would never know what he was, and no one would ever be the wiser. He-who-must-not-be-named sighed a long drawn out sigh. Maybe someday things would change. Yes, when he ruled the world, things would be different. And Wormtail would be his queen.