The sound the rubik cube made as he allowed it to fall to the floor was intensified as it echoed off the walls of the empty cell. The cub rolled once before coming to a stop, the perfect red surface glaring back up at him.
He stared at it for a couple of minutes before picking it back up and twisting the sides into a complete chaos of colours. With a sigh he then started twisted the sides. He had lost count as to how many times he had solved the cub by now, but there was not much else to do. Expect to think and wait. Or perhaps worry? No, he pushed that thought away.
The constant light of the cell and the lack of windows made it impossible to tell if it was night or day. It had become somewhat distorting over the years, especially if he had spent some time upstairs. Down in the cell he never knew how much time had passed. The only indication he had that time did move was the arrival of food, but he could not use even that to tell time. He had tried, in the beginning, but the bowls of food did not follow a set interval and would be delivered at different times. It had turned out to be impossible to find some sort of logic. He assumed the boy had done that on purpose. Not bad for someone who was not trained in the art of breaking someone.
He did know however when the seasons turned and winter was approaching. The cell would get ice cold, and not even the blue blanket the boy had given him that first winter would do much good. It was as if the walls stole any warmth that came close. How many winters had passed? Three? He really should pay more attention to the time if he wanted to protect his mind. Or, make sure that he got out of the cell more often. Preferably permanent.
Unfortunately, the boy had not turned out to be as weak and easily fooled as he had thought the first years.
He remembered the rage he had felt when he had woken up in the cell. Rage that had given away to annoyance once he had discovered the bracelets around his wrists that blocked his magic. In the beginning he had believed that his magic would be strong enough to break through them. It should have been. He was the most powerful wizard alive and he had never met any kind of restraints that could contain him. Not permanently.
The wards had given off the same magical signature as the bracelets, and he had thought the same about the wards that he had about the bracelets. The larger an area the wards were meant to protect, the weaker they would become. Not these. There were no weak spots to be found. The only thing he had gained was some nasty burns.
Then there was that idiotic child. He really should have killed him when given the chance. That the child had not handed him over to the Ministry was a surprise. Perhaps not an unwelcome one. The Ministry would either have found a way to kill him. He shuddered at the thought and the familiar feeling of fear ran through him. Or, they would have tortured him in retaliation for all the crimes he had commited during the war. And their version of torture would have been something else.
He had believed it would be possible to manipulate the child in the beginning, to trick him into giving him the possibility to escape. After all, the boy did believe that love could fix everything. Simply to say, that plan had not turned out as expected either. Thinking back it would seem that no plan that involved Potter ever turned out the way they were supposed to, starting with his foolish attempt to kill the boy when he was a child.
Master of Death. What higher being in their right mind would grant such a title to a seventeen year old boy? A very powerful twenty something old youth now, a little voice reminded him. Yes, unfortunately he could not claim that the boy was powerless, or even average. He had believed he would be able to escape, to find a way out of the bracelets and wards in the beginning. He saw no reasons why not. Therefore he had fought the boy at most turns. Only submitting to gauge the boy's reactions in order to determine how best to manipulate him.
Once the boy's anger had run its course he had calmed down and become more reasonable. Willing to give Voldemort more comforts in exchange for obedience. He had been left alone for long periods of time. And when he had become sick, because of the boy's action he had felt the boy's regret and worry clearly.
The red side of the cube clicked into place. He frowned as he considered how to fix the green side.
He refused to be grateful to the boy for leaving him with the cube after he had discovered that Voldemort had tried to smuggle it with him.
Sleep never came easy in the cell. The floor was hard and the blanket didn't give him much comfort. Additionally the lights didn't help either. When he did fall asleep he kept being haunted by memories of the war, of his childhood, of dying, or believing he was dying.
He would often find himself being woken by his own screams that echoed off the walls, making him flinch and curl up.
Slowly the loneliness was getting to him. The isolation and the simple nothingness of having nothing to occupy his brain was slowly eating at him to the point where he almost longed for the boy to show up. Even as a wraith in Albania he had been able to move around, to watch and observe. Here he couldn't even do that.
He moved, trying to find some sort of comfortable position. His thoughts turned to the bed and comfort upstairs, but he refused to dwell on it. He was Lord Voldemort. He would endure.
Or, that was what he had told himself the first two years.
In some ways the boy had surprised him. The torture had been expected, but he was suprised the boy could stomach it. As much as the boy probably thought he was being cruel, the torture was farely low scale when compared to what Voldemort himself had inflicted on both followers and enemies. The humiliating demands for him to kneel, to eat from his hand was also not much of a humiliation compared to what the boy could have demanded. Although, Voldemort was still a tad worried about when the collar the boy had bought would show up again. He had a suspicion it would end up around his neck for all that he would fight it.
Only, he reminded himself, if the roles had been reversed then he would have done far worse to the boy than what he himself had experienced so far.
But, apparently, the boy had a dark side, perhaps born from the war he had been thrown into against his wishes. It was a bit unsettling to hear him speak so openly about it. How he was frank when he told Voldemort he kept him alive to satisfy his own dark needs that he could not do with someone else. There was a darkness in the green eyes that Voldemort couldn't ignore. Still, after that first year the boy had stopped beating him just because he could. Mostly he just beat him the times Voldemort had given him an excuse to do so and if Voldemort managed to behave it could go a very long time between those incidents.
Voldemort assumed the boy had the same motto as Dumbledore, the old fool. They were both fond of second chances. Unfortunately that didn't mean that the boy was naive. Voldemort had tried several approaches to see if he was receptive to manipulations. In some ways he had been, but in others not. Voldemort was honestly not sure what worked and what didn't.
Some part of the boy obviously saw him as human. That had been clear when he had let him upstairs to bath and sleep and eat. But the boy also knew just who and what Voldemort was, and there was no way he was going to forget that. That combined with the boy's need to have someone to use as an outlet for his own dark needs, made Voldemort very unsure as to his own standing.
He refused to become some obedient pet who knelt and bowed, but the problem was that for all that he wanted to deny that the torture, isolation combined with some small kindness was getting to him, he couldn't.
That was the nature of this kind of treatment. The brain would start to drift and focus on the behaviour which was good for the body and that brought about the least amount of damage and pain. Given enough time even the strongest mind could be conditioned. Even his, and that was what he feared. He feared the effect he could already see in his own behaviour. How he was starting to fear the boy and the power he had over him. How he would more easily accept the rules and guidelines the boy set, just to be allowed to stay in the rooms upstairs.
How tired he was. And how painful it was for him to admit that he was tired. More than tired, really. He was exhausted. The time as a wraith, then his resurrection and the war that followed had worn him down. He had not noticed at the time, but now, with nothing else to do but think, he did notice. And that was dangerous. He was tired of fighting og trying to keep up the apparench of the unbreakable Dark Lord. Especially since they both knew it was just a matter of years before that too would be history.
The carrot the boy had dangled in front of him of being allowed to go to the village alone, to have access to the grounds around the property, it was tempting.
For all that he would love to tell himself that he would find a way to be free, a small part of his mind was starting to think that perhaps it would not be possible. The magic in the braclets, in the wards - it was ancient.
Perhaps it would be prudent to take the boy up on the offer. Why suffer, confined to the cell, when he could have the range of the whole house in exchange for some simple obedience? It was not much the boy asked of him really. He could clean and kneel and bow his head for the time being. And perhaps, just perhaps, the boy in time would allow him more freedom? Or would he find a way out? It would be easier to do so if he was not confined to the cell. Perhaps he could even gain access to some of his magic?
The allowance the boy had made that one day for him to use magic had surprised him, but the feeling of using his magic had been addictiv. He found himself almost willing to do anything to have access to it, if only parts of it. Anything would be better than nothing.
But, there was one thing that worried him. The way the boy would sometimes look at him with something that looked too much like interest in his eyes. He knew Tom Riddle had been attractive, and his current body was so much alike the young Tom Riddle he had once been. There was not much he could do if the boy decided he was done just looking, but he dreaded the outcome. Then again, perhaps he could use that to his advantage, perhaps to gain more freedom or access to his magic? It would be the perfect way really.
Still, he hesitated. The bargain was a one time chance. If he misbehaved the boy had been clear in his words that he would be returned to the cell for good. Then again, what did he have to lose? After all, the boy had put him back in the cell for him to decide when he had failed to provide an answer when he had first asked the question two weeks ago.
"I'll give you three choices and you can choose your own fate because I'm tired of your schemes and subtle manipulations, plans and ideas. I can kill you if you want. I can return you to the cell one last time and keep you there, or you can stay here. If you chose the last option then this is your last chance. If you deliberately disobey me again then I will lose my patience and lock you in the cell downstairs. What will it be?"
The words echoed in his head. What would it be?
Did it really matter in the end?