Illusions

Illusions

The interior of the small café gave no indication of the current oppressive times. Sunlight fell uninhibited through the wall of glass that faced the lonely streets. The scent of warm, cooked food spiced the thick air, mingling with the smell of the few wizards who dared creep from the safety of their homes, perhaps feeling protected by the bright midday sun. Sitting slightly apart from the meager crowd, a man sat with a carefree ease that seemed to belong to a brighter day and age. Around his temples, gray hairs shot through the black hair, making him look distinguished rather than old. His dark green robes hung elegantly off his tall frame, enhancing the man's already self-assured posture. His face appeared kindly, like that of a man who had just learned he was a grandfather. Bright, intelligent eyes flickered unnoticed over his fellow, more drawn and haggard, patrons; a pair of thin wire glasses gave him a look of wisdom while hiding the dangerous light that glittered in those roving, coal-like eyes.

A smile tugged at his lips.

I wonder, he thought lazily, What, exactly, would happen if I slipped from my illusion, revealing just how foolish they truly are to think that their nightmares would remain confined to the night? He sighed deeply, glancing with out interest at the newspaper laid out before him.

An idle curiosity was all that thought would amount to; the man found much more amusement sitting among the idiots who feared to even speak his name. It was no small feat to create a convincing illusion spell that could not be detected even by the Auror sitting mere feet away, and he took empty delight in this secretive display of his own power. Carefully, he suppressed the malevolent grin that bubbled within. It would give too much away. The green-robed man doubted the simpleton would ever guess who he really was, but paranoia ran so rampant now that he knew any sign of ill will could easily mark him as one of his own followers.

The Auror he observed now was especially apt to jump to conclusions. Watching his unwitting opponent's reflection in the silver teapot that sat on his table, the cautious man raised his brittle china cup to his lips, then chanced a glance over at the young Auror as he sipped the bitter liquid.

"Black, Sirius." The name rang in his mind as he reviewed everything his informants have told him about the boisterous young man. What came to the surface now, though, was that he would not ever assist the Death Eater's cause, nor turn on his friend, James Potter.

Through years of careful acting, the frown that might ordinarily have appeared at the thought of such a dedicated opponent remained carefully hidden beneath a friendly façade. Instead, the older man turned to study the true object of his outing.

He focused on the young sandy-haired boy that sat conspicuously close to his Auror friend, golden eyes sad and downcast as he talked to the third person at their table.

"Lupin, Remus, a werewolf." According to his best informants, Lupin was the one to recruit: intelligent, yet ostracized by his ailment, seemingly the perfect candidate.

It truly astounded the Dark Lord that he allowed such incompetents to work for him. But then, that was why he sat here now in the café. More than fifty years of life had taught him never to trust anyone's judgment but his own when something was important. After only two days of watching the young man, he knew Lupin was not what he wanted. Perhaps any other person in his place would be, but Lupin had too strong a sense of loyalty to his friends. His pack mates. It was likely merely wizarding bigotry--ordinarily a useful tool--that caused Lupin to appear the most likely suspect. Voldemort had suspected this would be the case. If anyone actually looked at the creatures past their own prejudices, they'd know that werewolves could be fiercely loyal people. In fact, thought the Dark Lord, I'd wager Black would be easier to break then Lupin.

He wasn't annoyed, though, as he might normally be after such a waste of time caused by a lack of information. The pathetic informant would likely still feel agony like he'd never known, but that was more for his Lord's amusement than because this outing had proved a failure. No, quite the opposite--Voldemort had found exactly what he needed.

*************

Peter lowered his gaze, unable to meet Lupin's golden eyes. "I know," he murmured, "I know and I understand . . . look." He chanced a glance at Sirius, who for once managed to look appropriately subdued --even though he'd gotten what he wanted. "I know you two are happy," Peter managed to get out, "so really...."

"Peter," Sirius mumbled, unsure of what to say. "Wormtail," he whispered the nickname so that it couldn't be overheard, "You're a good man."

Peter tried to look appropriately pleased at the compliment. Normally he'd be overjoyed to hear such a thing from Sirius, but not right after admitting that he had lost Remus to the older boy.

Stop that, he chided himself. You didn't 'lose' Remus. He's still your friend, and he's not something you win or lose. Peter sighed. The old mantra provided no more comfort now than it usually did.

"We, we should be going," Sirius announced suddenly in a definitive voice, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Remus looked up at his beau and nodded. "You go ahead, Sirius. I'll catch up."

Sirius looked from one light-haired man to the other, then nodded and quickly left.

"Peter," Remus began tenderly as soon as Sirius had left.

"'Don't," Peter cut in. "L-l-look, if you say it w-wasn't me, or it's not my . . . my fault . . . it won't make me feel any better. J . . . just I . . . I need to ...to get used to you two and not us two."

Remus gave Peter a pained look but nodded. He opened his mouth, then shut it, deciding against saying anything that might be patronizing to his youngest friend.

"Remmie?" The small, almost pleading voice cut deeply into the werewolf.

"Yes?"

"One more?"

Remus blinked once, and then nodded. Bending stiffly across the table, he pressed his lips against Peter's.

The blond man leaned into the kiss; pushing slightly and feeling Remus stiffen, lips pressing close together. Peter maintained the chilled kiss a moment longer, then pulled away. Remus stood awkwardly, picking up his current book and tucking it under his arm.

"Are you coming?" he asked when he noticed Peter hadn't moved.

The chubbier man shook his head. "I'm gonna drown out some of my self pity by using Sirius's account to buy some chocolate cake."

A small line of worry creased Remus's forehead. "Don't stay here too long, Peter," Remus cautioned, "It . . .." The werewolf's gold-flecked eyes darted nervously around the room.

"Nothing will happen," Peter said reassuringly. "Go and be with Sirius. He actually looks like he feels bad about this, and probably wants to be with you."

Remus smiled down at his friend, wished him good day, and left. Peter watched as the door closed, then let his head hit the table softly. He felt too horrid to even think about eating.

Maybe if I lie here long enough, Peter thought, Some Death Eater will attack and then I won't have to face Sirius or Remus ever again. Peter exhaled loudly. And now you're being nothing but a self-pitying fool, Pettigrew. Grow up.

Peter, lost in his own morose thoughts, nearly leapt from his skin when he felt a large hand rest on his shoulder. Snapping his head up, he saw a kindly-looking man smiling down at him.

"You know, I don't think they've ever written a song that accurately describes just how painful breaking up really is."

Peter met the man's somewhat comforting comment with fearful suspicion. "I'm sorry, should I know you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

The older man's smile became just a little bit sad. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I didn't mean to scare you, you just looked rather dejected. I forgot things aren't the same with the . . . well, you know . . .."

Peter blinked, feeling suddenly foolish. "No, I should be sorry. I was rude. Please, sit. I'm Peter Pettigrew."

Voldemort smiled magnanimously as he gathered his robes and sat in the chair across from the rejected young boy. "Tom Dashel," he lied easily, holding out a hand in non-threatening manner "I've come over from the States to report on the situation here. Hopefully to try and recruit some people there." Voldemort knew he was taking a risk by using his previous first name, yet the game would not be any fun if he did not allow Pettigrew some outs.

"Really?" Peter asked in awe. "I guess that makes sense; you don't sound British. Pleased to meet you, Tom," Peter said, shaking the man's hand.

Tom smiled fetchingly. "It's nice to be received well for once. Generally people just assume I'm 'a damn bloody tourist.'

" Peter couldn't help chuckling at that. "I'd be careful, then," Peter said in mock-seriousness, "We toss those to the red caps in these parts."

Tom chuckled softly at the boy's joke, covering up the self-satisfied chortle, which he actually felt. You, child, he thought, mentally appraising his victim, are far too trusting for these times.

With practiced ease, Voldemort engaged Pettigrew in 'innocent' conversation.

**************

"You need to go already?"

Peter looked up at Remus and nodded his head. "I promised Tom I'd meet him tonight."

"Again?' Remus asked, raising a thick eyebrow. "Where are you two going now?"

Peter shifted, a little uncomfortable. "To . . . well, to his house, or flat rather," he finished softly. Remus looked at Peter, concern glittering in his eyes.

"How long have you known him, Peter?" he asked pointedly.

The blond man felt a small amount of irritation at his friend. "I've known him for a month now, Remus. You, Sirius, and James have all met him and agreed that he seems perfectly nice."

"James says something seemed a little off."

"James says that about everyone he doesn't know now, Remmie," Peter stated dismissively.

A loud sigh escaped the werewolf. "I know that, Peter, it's just . . . well, look, you don't know all that much about him and here you are rushing over to his flat . . . I just don't want to see you hurt."

"Is that all?"

Remus looked sharply up at the shorter man, pushing back slightly into the orange armchair in which he sat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, you were far less suspicious before we were dating, Remus."

"Peter, that's hardly fair. Before you were dating you two met in well-lit areas at decent hours of the day."

"So what? I can't date because everyone has the potential of being a Death Eater? You met him; you know what he's like."

"Peter, I'm a monster one night every month, but you can hardly tell that by looking at me." Remus said quietly.

The shorter man's round face began to turn slightly red.

"Look, Wormtail, I have nothing against you dating," Remus said trying to calm his quickly angering friend, "It's just I'd rather you date someone we knew better..."

"Well you didn't leave that choice open to me, did you?!" Peter snapped. "Who would you suggest I date? Snape? He's not attached, and hey, we know him better than Tom, so of course he's safer!"

'That's not what I meant, it's just dangerous now!"

"For the love of God, stop babying me!" Peter snarled.

Remus looked up at his friend, hazel eyes wide with shock. Silence hung thick around them as they both met each other's eyes.

Finally Peter looked away. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Accepted," Remus said softly, standing up and walking over to his friend. "I don't mean to be smothering; it's just, well, even if he's not . . . you know, you can still be hurt."

"I love him Remmie. He's funny and nice, gentle, caring. Won't you trust my judgment on this? I know what I want, and what I'm doing."

Remus wrapped his arms around his friend. "Just be careful, Peter, and if he does hurt you, tell me and I'll . . . I'll gnaw his arms off."

Peter chuckled.

"What? I'm serious!"

"I know--I was just thinking which part of the body Sirius would have offered to gnaw off for me."

The two friends put their heads together and laughed before pulling out of the familiar embrace.

"G'night, Moony. Say hello to Padfoot for me."

"I will, and I'll tell him what you said. And Peter . . .."

"I will be," Peter promised as he slipped from the crumbling flat.

*******************

Voldemort glanced around the apartment he rented for 'Tom Dashel,' checking once again to see that all the pieces were in order. He'd learned quickly that Peter preferred small, intimate settings that showed more heart than money. He allowed himself to be momentarily amused by what Lucius would say about the dwelling.

It was a small, two-roomed place with a kitchenette; nothing grandiose. The furniture was a plain, tan color, leaning toward the small side. Despite the cool air filtered into it, the room remained stubbornly humid and the smell of smoke clung to the air, left over from the previous renters. The bed, however, was more then big enough for its purpose, and Voldemort had taken care that it did not become uncomfortably humid in that room.

Gliding to the small dining table in two swift steps, the Dark Lord inspected the place settings. Languidly, he waved his wand and changed the color of the pates from their deep red to a soft, calming blue. Appeased, he held his wand over the tall glasses and filled them with a sweet dessert champagne. Not at all his taste, but Peter was more apt to drink large quantities of this than other, more bitter choices.

Finishing that, Voldemort created two medium-sized chocolate mousse desserts. Black eyes glittered he pulled a small vial from his emerald-green robe and poured the meager contents into the dessert across the table.

Peter's trusting, and easily-led nature had surprised Voldemort, surpassing his wildest hopes. Based on the boy's understanding, naïve nature, a seed of a plan had blossomed. He doubted, though, that even Peter would be as understanding as Voldemort required without something to relax him.

He had just concluded his preparations when a soft knock came from the door.

Putting on his most pleasant expression, Voldemort slipped into his 'Tom' character and greeted his young paramour.

*****************

Peter practically fell across the threshold and into Tom's arms.

"What's this?" Tom asked, laughter adding a special intimacy to his tenor voice. "Not that I'm not thrilled, Peter," he quickly added, seeing an embarrassed flush began to creep up the boy's neck.

"Sorry, just I had a fight, but you don't want to hear about it, really."

"Nonsense," Tom said, waving his hand toward the couch. "I want to listen to anything you need to tell me, love."

That, and your problems with your friends are the best information I've had in a quite a long while, Voldemort thought as he tenderly placed his arm around Peter's shaking shoulders.

Peter relaxed into his love's arms and began to retell his argument with Remus.

Voldemort attempted to keep his expression attentive, yet caring. There was nothing in this story that would help him, and the trifling argument was unbelievably boring. But Peter, he knew, could go on for quite sometime. Voldemort needed to cut the rambling boy off before his boredom became obvious.

Gently, he leaned down, his hand slipping beneath Peter's chin. Lifting the blond's mouth toward his, he captured Peter's trembling lips.

He could feel the younger man submit beneath him, opening his mouth to allow Tom's tongue to delve deep inside. Tom broke the kiss off only when Peter had fallen completely into his arms; his reactions directed more from instinct than thought.

"Better?" Tom questioned, before planting a loving kiss on Peter's forehead.

"Much," Peter panted, arms still encircling Tom's strong chest.

Tom grinned at the smaller man, who beamed up at him, and smoothed some the blond's disheveled hair back into place. "I made your favorite dessert," Tom cooed, taking Peter by the hand and helping the still-trembling young man to his feet.

"Oh, what?" Peter looked followed Tom's gesture and his flushed face brightened.

"Did you make those?" he squealed delightedly.

Yes, by hand, just for you."

Peter wrapped his arms around Tom's neck, standing on the tips of his toes to give his love a quick kiss. "You're wonderful," Peter purred.

Tom's tone suddenly became sad. "Not as much as you think," he murmured. His shoulders slumped and he looked away from Peter's suddenly confused face.

"What? No you're fine . . .." Tom silenced Peter's protests by pressing one long finger against the blonde's pale lips.

"Peter, love, I can't keep this up."

"What?" Peter felt his stomach lurch into his throat, his heart beating like a frightened rabbit's. He can't. Oh God please tell me I haven't messed this up, too.

Tom seemed to read Peter's expression. Bending over, he pulled the frightened man into his arms and kissed him warmly. "It's all right," he whispered, his lips barely parting from Peter's. "I'm not leaving you. I won't leave you unless you want me too."

"I would never--" Peter began, but he was silenced by Tom's finger again.

"Don't say that until I've explained."

Tom sat down at the table and nibbled at his chocolate mousse nervously, eyeing Peter. The uneasy blond sat opposite him, also nibbling at the dessert, his blue-gray eyes darting from the table up to Tom's face. The hand that rested on the imitation-wood surface left a visible sweat-mark when Peter lifted it to wipe it absently on his gray robes.

"You like it?" Tom asked, letting his voice tremble just a bit.

"It's great," Peter squeaked, not wanting to mention the odd chalky under-taste. Tom had never claimed to be a good cook, and Peter didn't want to hurt his feelings by being too honest.

They finished their food without the usual teasing or innuendos. A highly unusual awkwardness hung between them, setting Peter's nerves on edge. He never liked awkwardness or insecurity, and this was worse then normal because he'd never seen this side of Tom before.

Maybe I am rushing, Peter thought, Maybe he's going to say we need to slow down. Maybe he didn't mean tonight to be what I think it is and he doesn't know how to tell me. As worry after worry ran through Peter's head, Tom rose from the chair and swung his hands toward Peter as though planning to talk, but then he sat down, his long fingers running through his hair.

"Tom," Peter murmured gently, rising from his chair and shuffling toward the distraught-looking man. He swayed a bit on his feet, suddenly feeling light headed. He shrugged the feeling off, though, sure that half a glass of champagne would not make him drunk. Besides, this was clearly important to Tom, and Peter didn't want to delay the conversation. The short man knelt down beside the person he loved and rested his head on the older man's knees. "Whatever it is, I'll still love you."Â

The young man sighed softly as he felt Tom rest a heavy hand against his head.

"I hope that's true, Peter," he whispered, leaning close to his love and nuzzling the young man's neck. Peter closed his eyes, wanting to forget about everything but Tom's closeness, his warm hand against his skin, and soft lips just tickling the hairs of Peter's flushed neck. Everything somehow felt right, dreamy. A warm feeling rolled through his body his Tom began to stroke the side of his face. If Peter could have, he would have purred.

"Peter," Tom whispered, letting his tongue brush against the small man's sensitive ear.

"Mmmmm?"

"Can you keep your eyes closed for a bit and listen to me?"

"Yeah," Peter agreed easily, willing to do just about anything, though he hoped it wouldn't be too hard to follow. His ability to concentrate seemed to be dissolving.

"How do you feel about the Ministry's actions?"

"You know how I feel. We're talked about how they're overreacting, authorizing the use of the unforgivable curses, the way they treat werewolves, Remus. Sometimes they're not much better then them. God, Sirius would yell at me for saying that."

"And Voldemort?"

Tom grinned as he felt Peter tense beneath him, reacting to the simple name.

"He's . . . he's the most evil wizard in this country." Peter stammered. "You-know-who is . . . is . . .."

Tom laughed softly and pulled Peter against him. "Why is it everyone is afraid of that name? A name can't hurt you."

"I don't know."

"I'm pretty sure the name won't hurt you; in fact I can assure you Voldemort won't hurt you."

At this Peter laughed. "Of course he would. I'm helping the light side."

"Light side? Dark side? Who decided those were the sides. Calling one side good and the other evil is a simplification, don't you think?"

"I dun know, the Death Eaters have done horrible things, killed whole families. They seem pretty evil."

"And you think Voldemort is the monster behind this?"

"It's what they say..."

"Yes, that is what they say," Tom whispered, letting his hand slide down Peter's back.

"Wormtail?" Peter grinned; he loved hearing Tom say that name. A part of him still felt bad, telling his new love about his illegal ability. It had, however, brought them closer, and honestly, James had told Lily, so it stood to reason that he could tell Tom.

"Wormtail, are paying attention?" Tom asked in a teasing voice.

"Sorry, Tom, just thinking. What did you say?"

"I asked you to look at me."

"K, what is it..." Peter froze, his light eyes widening in fear. A small, strangled noise escaped his tight throat as he pushed away from Tom. His mouth open in a silent scream, and he stumbled awkwardly away from the nightmare before him.

"Peter," Voldemort cried in alarm, catching him before he fell. The Dark Lord pulled the shaking man against him, holding him tightly.

"I won't hurt you; I won't hurt you," Voldemort cooed gently, massaging Peter's shaking shoulders.

"You . . . you're . . . oh, God . . . you're him, bu . . . bu . . ." the frightened man stammered witlessly as he stared up at the ash-white face.

"I'm a really that scary?" Voldemort asked, smiling sadly down at Peter.

Peter looked up into Voldemort's face, "S-s-scary, you . . .."

If he were honest, the terrified wizard would have to admit that Voldemort did not look that much different from Tom. His healthy tanned skin, though, had been replaced by an ivory white covering that reminded Peter more of a reptile's hide than human skin. His eyes were slanted and larger, but still the same warm black that they had been before. And he wore the same expression that Tom did whenever he thought he'd upset his nervous beau. He even tugged absently at his graying black hair as he always did. He certainly did not look scary; merely odd, and not unattractive.

"I don't understand," Peter whimpered, still shaking.

"I oppose everything the Ministry stands for, Peter; of course they paint me as a monster. Did you study Muggle history at Hogwarts?"

Peter nodded.

"How did the democracies portray communists? Do you think all communists were what they were said to be?"

"No, but the . . . the . . . Death Eaters, and the families . . ." the confused wizard mumbled. He was having trouble getting his thoughts in order, and what Voldemort had said made sense, in a way.

Voldemort cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I started a movement against the Ministry, Peter. I won't deny that. But I never intended it to become what it is." Tom, Voldemort, sat on the couch and looked up at Peter, his tone pleading. "Some people have taken what I started in a direction I never intended to go."

"What about Muggles? Lily's Muggle-born and there's nothing wrong with her! If you think--" Peter suddenly clapped his hands over his mouth, realizing he could not have a normal lovers' spat with this man.

Voldemort, however, ignored the outburst, and instead laughed. His laughter, though, was quickly replaced by another sad look. "That's the direction I didn't want it to go. Peter, I'm Muggle-born." Inwardly, Voldemort winced at admitting this to such a young fool, yet if it drew him in, it was a valuable tool. He could easily dismiss it as simply another lie, later.

As Voldemort had hoped, Peter's entire demeanor changed, the fear slipping slowly away. "You're . . . you're not serious."

"Yes, I am, Peter."

"Oh dear God," The short man mumbled taking Voldemort's hand. "Why don't you tell them what's going on?"

"Who would listen? Everyone's so scared. Would your friends listen? What would they do if you told them who I was?"

"They'd tie me down and keep me from ever seeing you again. Remus would gnaw off your arms, at the very least," Peter added.

"I'm sure, but that's not what I meant. What would they do if they found out everything you told me--not that there's been anything wrong with it," Voldemort added hastily, "But you've told me about Remus, about your being an Animagus, as are Potter and Black."

Peter turned white. "They'd . . . they'd say I was a Death Eater. Crouch would want me put in . . ." Peter's eyes became even wider, "Azkaban," he breathed.

"For doing nothing but being with the man you loved," Voldemort finished.

Peter began to tremble in fear again. "What do I do?"

"Well, I'd understand if you wanted to stop seeing me; really, I should never have . . . I just get so lonely."

"NO!" Peter yelled desperately. "No, that's not fair."

Voldemort smiled at Peter, before bending over and kissing the young adult on the forehead "You're the most understanding person I've ever met, Wormtail."

Peter nearly glowed at that comment. Pressing his face against Tom, he hugged the older man tightly.

"I told you I'd love you no matter what. And I've known you, really known you, and you're not what everyone says. You're the nicest person I've ever met. If you say you're not really behind those atrocities, well, then I'll believe that. It's not like the Ministry has any evidence, really, if you think about it."

Voldemort smiled and lifted the young man into his arms. "I don't deserve a person as wonderful as you," he cooed. Peter gasped in delighted surprise as he felt himself lifted off his feet. Before he knew it he found himself sitting on the couch, staring up at Voldemort. For a brief second Peter pushed past the haze that had been with him all night to wonder if this really was a good idea, but then Voldemort caught him up in a kiss that drove any such worries out of his mind.

*******************

"Are you all right, Wormtail?" Voldemort purred as he pulled himself from Peter. He reached down, indolently letting the tips of his fingers slide down along the younger man's smooth chest and over the small rise of the boy's belly.

"Wonderful," the exhausted blond murmured pushing up a little into the caress. Voldemort examined the prone body beneath him, taking in the limp limbs and the heated flush across the man's chest and chubby cheeks that was slowly dying away. Peter watched him from behind half-closed, glazed eyes. Imitating an adoring look, Voldemort stroked Peter across the forehead, letting his hand slip down along the wizard's cheek He watched clinically as Peter moaned softly and nuzzled into the gentle hand.

The young man beneath him was less than coherent, responding without thinking to his lover's touch.

"Tom," Peter mumbled as he cuddled deeper beneath the warm blankets. "You should lie down."

"No," Voldemort responded silkily. "I like studying you." He watched as his words caused another flush to creep across the young man's round cheeks.

"Oh, okay," was the quiet response.

"You're very expressive," Voldemort purred, "I like that. I know you haven't got a mask on when you're with me."

Peter managed to fight off enough of the sleepy haze to give Voldemort a quizzical look.

"Why would I?"

"So many people do when they're with me." Voldemort shrugged and gave the young man a handsome smile.

"Oh," came Peter's breathed response as he quickly slipped back into his relaxed half-awake state.

"Peter, are you mine?"

Peter didn't even need to contemplate that. He quickly nodded his head yes. A moment later he felt the soft stirrings of a small spell on him. Again, he woke enough to look questioningly at his lover.

"A silencing spell," Voldemort explained jovially.

Before Peter could even mouth the word why, his world exploded into agony.

Voldemort held in a laugh of delight as he watched his newest toy spasm on the bed, reacting with the same mindless instinct to pain as he did to pleasure. The boy's body shuddered, flailing about without any conscious thought. His mouth was held open in a silent screech and those blue-gray eyes were clenched shut as though they could somehow block the pain.

Voldemort basked in the control he took from his young victim, the elated laughter now pushing against his lips. Finally though, it had to end. The Dark Lord had no desire to clean up, even magically, should Wormtail lose control of his bodily functions, and the infant seemed on the verge of doing so.

Slowly, he lowered his wand, removing both spells. Crossing his arms, he gazed down at the quivering, panting form on the bed, curious to see the reaction that Wormtail would have. Almost instantly, Peter began to sob brokenly, his shaking hands clutching desperately at the bed sheets.

"Peter, Peter," Voldemort cooed, his voice like honey. He felt the man's shaking increase at his touch, and then the boy jerked away, whirling to stare at him with the eyes of a whipped puppy. Voldemort could only smirk back.

"Well you seem to have more of a grasp on reality than I was going to credit you with," he said, the honey replaced by ice.

"Why?" Peter managed to choke out between sobs.

The Dark Lord smiled lazily. "You agreed you were mine, and I can do what I like with what is mine, can I not?"

Peter stared at the older man. Horror, and understanding, slowly seeped into his eyes. Slowly, he began to crawl away, but Voldemort's hand snaked out and caught him roughly around the waist.

"Don't worry, Wormtail," he laughed, raising his wand. Peter flinched away, beginning to shake uncontrollably. "I won't let the memory of this trouble you any longer." His face split into a cruel grin. "At least for right now, Obliviate."

Peter's eyes obediently unfocused and Voldemort used that small window of unawareness to pull the pliant, naked man back against him.

"Tom?" Peter whispered softly, confusion tinting his voice.

"Yes?"

"Did I fall asleep?"

"Yes, love."

"Oh . . . Tom, I hurt."

Voldemort put on a concerned face. "I must have been too rough. I'm sorry."

"No," Peter murmured, cuddling into the warm embrace. "You were fine."

"You enjoyed it?" Voldemort asked with the appropriate amount of tenderness.

"Yeah," Peter breathed as his eyes slipped shut.

"I'm glad," the Dark Lord said, his sweet voice covering up the cruel smirk. "You should sleep now, Peter."

"'Kay," came the barely conscious reply. Obediently, Peter relaxed into his lover's arms and let the familiar loving embrace lull him into sleep.