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Voldemort came awake with a soft huff of air between his lips. Before he opened his eyes, he knew he wasn't in his own bed. Before the scent of lemon and sage teased his nostrils, he knew he was damned.

Harry's bed. After all his talk about not getting personal, he was in Harry's bed. The man seemed intent on keeping him there, too. That wasn't going to happen.

Voldemort sat upright, white sheets pooling around his waist. He was naked and alone, but the indent on the pillow next to him let him know Harry had spent at least part of their slumber right there next to him. He rubbed the heel of one hand over his chest with a grimace. He needed to get the hell out while he still could.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and heaved a grateful sigh when he spotted his black jeans neatly folded and sitting on a nearby chair. He quickly pulled them on and looked around. He vaguely remembered Harry bathing him last night. The memory made him flush. He'd been so damn tired he hadn't gotten the chance to savour that. Maybe he'd find a way to talk Harry into a repeat performance, this time when he was fully awake and alert.

Low melodic music reached his ears, drifting in from the balcony, so he went that way, scrubbing a hand over his face. He found Harry sitting, legs folded under him, on a yoga mat, palms up on his lap with his eyes closed. Voldemort leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and watched him. Like him, Harry was bare-chested, but he wore dark blue lounge pants. He looked at peace sitting there, face relaxed and open. Nothing like the man Voldemort had first laid eyes on in that club. Something told him this was the real Harry Potter.

There was more to discover, more to learn about this man. Beyond his ability to give Voldemort exactly what he wanted, to dish out the pain. There was so much more, but he couldn't want it. He couldn't touch it. He bit his lip, the urge to run swelling in his chest until he couldn't ignore it, until his legs twitched. Turn around. Walk away. He gripped a fistful of the white curtains at the balcony entryway, staring at Harry.

"Hey."

Voldemort blinked. Harry smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, pleasure shining in his emerald green gaze. Pleasure. At seeing him. Such a good thing, but it hurt, too. It hurt, right there, in his chest. The expression on Harry's face hurt and Voldemort wanted to hide from it. From what it meant.

"Damn, you look good."

The hard heat in Harry's eyes sent warmth crawling down Voldemort's spine.

"So sexy."

Voldemort hid his inner turmoil with a grin and a wink.

"Who me? I woke up like this."

"Come."

Harry crooked a finger and Voldemort went, unable and unwilling, to do anything else. Harry got to his feet in a slow, fluid motion and when Voldemort finally stood inches apart in front of him, he slid a hand down Voldemort's chest, resting it just below his navel.

"Good morning, V."

Voldemort would've protested about that stupid nickname again, but Harry kissed him. Soft and sweet, and it stole Voldemort's words. He reciprocated with a low hum, falling into Harry's arms with a sigh.

What did it mean, this thing that made him ache at the thought of leaving Harry's embrace? What did it say about him that he wanted to bury his face in Harry's neck and stay there, wrapped up in the smell of the other man's skin? Was it weakness, to want this so much? To need this so badly? Harry murmured against his lips softly,

"Have breakfast with me."

Voldemort wrenched away from him.

"Don't. You know I can't."

But he wanted to. A muscle in Harry's jaw flexed, but he kept his voice low, his eyes soft.

"You can. V."

He cupped Voldemort's cheek.

"You can. Breakfast, just breakfast."

Voldemort pursed his lips and looked away. Harry finally whispered,

"I watched you sleep…. You in my bed, V."

His fingers tightened on Voldemort's face.

"You in my bed, I didn't know that would feel so good. Watching you sleep…"

Voldemort met his gaze, trying for a smile that barely formed before it broke and fell apart. Much like his resistance to Harry's words, his touch, his eyes.

"Sounds like the actions of a stalker."

Harry grinned, briefly.

"You would know, yeah? You stalked me until I gave in to you."

Voldemort snorted,

"You had no choice but to give in."

Harry nodded. His thumb swept over Voldemort's bottom lip.

"True. No choice against you."

His gaze had sharpened and now they pierced Voldemort dead center, stealing his breath, making his lungs burn. Voldemort licked his lips.

"Just breakfast?"

A spark of triumph shone in Harry's eyes, but he just nodded.

"Yes."

Voldemort turned away from him,

"Good"

He walked inside and said over his shoulder

"And stop calling me V."

Voldemort washed up in Harry's bathroom, using the new toothbrush Harry produced before he grabbed his phone and followed Harry's directions to the living room. He found Harry sitting at the fancy dining table, way down at the end reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. Dishes clattered from the kitchen, and the sound of running water made Voldemort frown.

"Who's in the kitchen?"

Harry looked up.

"Oh, that's Debra. Housekeeper extraordinaire."

Voldemort narrowed his gaze,

"Does she know I'm here?"

Harry lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.

"Don't know. Does it matter?"

Voldemort glared at him. See, this was why he didn't do personal.

"Calm down, Debra is my housekeeper. Not my mother."

Harry slammed his coffee cup down on the table.

"Do you want to run?"

Voldemort stubbornly kept his mouth shut. Harry sighed.

"I can see it in your eyes, V. You can't hide from me."

"Don't call me—"

He stopped when a tiny woman came into the room. She froze when she saw him, eyes wide.

Harry picked his newspaper back up and shook it out loudly,

"Close your mouth, Debra. This is V, he'll be staying over every so often. V, this lovely lady is Debra. She takes care of me."

Damn him. Voldemort threw Harry a cutting glare, but the bastard wasn't even looking at him, he was pretending to read his newspaper with a smirk playing on his lips.

"Good morning, Mr. V."

Debra just stood there, ogling him and he glanced down at himself, face growing hot. His upper half was bare, so she could see all the tattoos,

"Debra."

He nodded at her.

"Pleased to meet you."

He offered up a small smile and she reciprocated with a hesitant curve of her mouth. She really was tiny, with really light brown skin and thick, wavy salt and pepper hair pulled into a short ponytail. She wore a simple blue dress with a yellow and white apron over it. Her hands were linked in front of her. He'd peg her to be in her late fifties, early sixties, and she had a slight accent. An Island accent,

"What would you like for breakfast, Mr. V?"

Voldemort fidgeted under her direct stare. He jerked his chin in Harry's direction,

"Uh, what's he having?"

Debra's tone was sufficiently disapproving.

"Mr. Potter has already been served."

Voldemort glanced over Harry.

"Coffee? That's breakfast?"

Harry smiled at Debra, a gesture meant to placate.

"Hey. That's what I always have. Debra knows that."

Voldemort walked over and pulled out the chair to Harry's left.

"Bacon, scrambled eggs. Waffles? I like waffles."

He licked his lips and Harry stared at him, or rather his mouth.

"So, yeah, we'll have that."

He waited for Harry to contradict him, but he didn't. He turned to find Debra staring at him with an indecipherable expression that made him self-conscious. She left the room with a small nod in his direction, and he faced Harry,

"Really? Just coffee?"

Harry replied indignantly without looking away from his newspaper,

"What? I'm usually too busy for anything else."

Voldemort snorted, Harry put the newspaper aside and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Debra likes you,"

Voldemort frowned,

"What? She just stared at me the whole time."

Harry pursed his lips with a nod,

"Yep. Totally likes you."

Voldemort ducked his head then snapped upright,

"I know what you're doing."

Harry lifted an eyebrow,

"What am I doing?"

"You—You want me to see what it's like."

He'd been going for outrage, but each word came out softer, rougher than the last.

"What it could be like."

He looked down at the table, trying to hide the hope he just knew was on his face. Harry touched Voldemort's arm and asked,

"What if I am? V, what if I am?"

Voldemort tugged his hand away. He refused to look up, refused to go where Harry wanted them to go.

"It's not going to work."

Harry's chair scraped the floor when he pushed away from the table.

"Come here."

Check out my other fanfic named "Ensnared". It's actually a Harry Potter Version of "The Beauty and the Beast" Let me know what you guys think. Just follow the link below or visit my profile. Looking forward your feedback

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