A/N: One of my reviewers asked if I would be posting an NC-17 version of this fic on another site. Sadly, I will not be, partly because I am not too fond of being very descriptive in this kind of situations, and also because I'm too lazy. (: Someone else asked who was left alive. I haven't decided exactly who I want to be playing major parts yet but that will be clarified later on in the story. Now on with the story..

It had taken weeks and many new forms of torture for Harry to break, and by then he was so mellow that when Voldemort said to jump, he would ask how high. And slowly, the obedience turned to a twisted kind of longing and affection. Some people called it the Stockholm syndrome, Harry called it love.

Now, Harry was sitting at the window seat in Voldemort's suite of rooms, waiting for his master. Harry himself did not have his own room. He stayed in Voldemort's quarters and slept on a rug on the floor at the foot of his master's bed, and occasionally, when Voldemort was feeling generous, on the bed itself.

Harry stared at the setting sun, at the sky filled with blues and pinks and oranges, and thought longingly of his friends. His master was more than adequate to accompany and occupy him, but he still missed the boisterous bantering between him and Ron, and the quiet, steady friendship that Hermione provided.

The last time he'd saw Ron had been months ago, at the Halloween ball during which, as Voldemort's pet, he'd had to play host to the pets of all the other death eaters. Ron had looked bad, with bruises covering most of his face, which was the only part of him Harry could see. He had been given to Lucius Malfoy, and Malfoys were well known for protecting their property.

He hadn't seen Hermione in even longer than that, and he could no longer recall the occasion. Macnair, whom Hermione had been given to, had not deigned to bring 'the mudblood' to an important ceremony such as the Halloween ball. He was sure that Hermione would be in worse shape that Ron, as Macnair was as brutal with his 'pets' as he was with animals.

A door opened and closed somewhere near, and Harry was jerked out of his thoughts. He dropped to his knees as he spotted his master, then crawled to him and kissed his feet.

"Rise, pet." Voldemort murmured, and Harry rose obediently. He took the robe as his master shed it, and hung it neatly in the closet. Then he crossed the room to kneel at Voldemort's feet as his master settled in one of the armchairs. Voldemort began stroking his hair absently as he read reports from his death eaters. Voldemort's hand abruptly clenched in Harry's hair, pulling painfully at some strands. Harry looked up in surprise at his master, and spotted the deep frown on Voldemort's face.

"What is wrong, master?" he asked softly, not wanting to anger his master further.

"It appears that pockets of resistance have been found on the borders on Italy." Voldemort answered, and Harry knew by his frown that he was only irritated, not yet angry. After conquering Britain, Voldemort had proceeded to France and Egypt and the rest of the countries with large wizarding populations. By now, he had most of them under his control, and was moving on to the smaller, insignificant countries.

Italy was one country that Voldemort had not yet targeted. Their magical population came up to a hundred at best and fifty at worst. Its capital being the Pope's residence, the country was swarming with Christians and Catholics. Therefore, many witches and wizards were afraid of being discovered and prosecuted, should they chose to live there.

"Is it a problem, master?" Harry questioned.

"No," said Voldemort, waving his free hand, "they will be easily captured."

Then he set his papers down. "Is the bath ready, pet?"

"Yes, master," Harry followed his master to the bathroom and helped his master undress. Each piece of clothing slipped of slowly, revealing a tanned and muscular body. Shortly after the final battle, Voldemort had been able to locate his destroyed diary and had Snape, who had turned traitor; make a potion that had allowed him to take Tom Riddle's appearance once again. From then on he started aging naturally.

Since two years had passed, he looked 18, the same age as Harry.

Harry tried to focus his mind on the task, washing Voldemort's back carefully and gently, but his mind kept wandering back to the resistance. He felt a sense of disappointment, but it felt far away, as though he knew he should be feeling it, but he wasn't. Harry knew he was being selfish; but he wanted things to stay as they were.

Life was good for him, now. Well, as good as things can get, being Lord Voldemort's pet. After the initial stages, his master had not been exceptionally cruel or harsh to him. He was well-fed, had good clothes (which he wore when it suited his master), and a roof over his head. It was more than he had had at the Dursleys, at any rate.

Also, he didn't think he could bear to leave his master now. Not being able to see him for even a day pained Harry so, and it was unthinkable to oppose his master. He lived for his master, he loved his master, and he would not leave his master.

A/N: I can't post this right away as my internet is down and I'm really pissed because it just got fixed too. The Stockholm syndrome makes it all complicated doesn't it? –grins evilly-. So sorry I had to make you wait for this chapter but the computer guy is coming in a few days and I only have this one comp. Sorry.