Lord Voldemort stared out his window and sighed. Despite regaining corporate form, it had been a rather trying week. First that Potter boy eluded death yet again, then came the realization that his Death Eaters had degenerated largely into idiots, and, to top it all off, Barty Crouch still hadn't come to report if he finished the job or not...

That, in particular, was truly annoying. Voldemort hated loose strings. Barty had been the best he had left, perhaps the last of his Death Eaters to express the needed view of worshipfulness towards their lord. He missed that worship quite a lot.

You're not a god, you know...

I am to you.

Is that why you keep giving me a next time, then?

Because you worship me? Yes.

No. He wasn't going to think about that. Wasn't going to remember. Not when forever barely lasted a few years after leaving Hogwarts.

The door behind him opened slightly. "Barty Crouch here to see you, my lord," Wormtail's whiny voice announced.

"Let him in," Voldemort replied, still staring out the window. It had been a night like this, fifty-two years ago...

There were muffled footsteps and the sound of the door shutting. "I must apologize for being much later than I should have been, my lord," said a voice that though unexpected was very, very familiar.

Voldemort turned around more quickly than perhaps was dignified as Moody-Crouch continued, "However, I've experienced certain revelations since September. These things happen when you question people under Imperius Curse, of course. At least now I know why you ordered me to keep him alive..."

The level of adoration in the faux Moody's eyes was unearthing things Voldemort would have rather remained buried. He opened his mouth for an angry retort and possibly a Crucio when Crouch asked, "You were punishing him, weren't you? For deciding that being an Auror more important than his duty to you..."

Voldemort's jaw snapped shut and he nodded grudgingly, wondering why he didn't just teach Barty some manners now that his time as Moody had evaporated them.

Moody-Crouch knelt down, clutching the ends of Voldemort's robe as if they were a religious talisman. "Punish me, my lord, in place of him. Vent your frustrations at him as if this truly were his body."

Lord Voldemort laughed highly, coldly, as he looked down.

There's no one I hate more than you, you know...

I know. You hate everything about me. You hate the way I am, the way I was, the way I will be-you hate the way I breathe. Mostly you hate the way I make you come.

Mmm... make me come, Tom...

Ask nicely.

Voldemort took the business of torturing slowly but efficiently. He started out with a full minute of Crucio, amazed at how Crouch had even managed to capture the counterpoint of pleasure in Moody's pain screaming.

Then, with the strength that came as an asset of his current form, he flung Moody-Crouch on to the bed, stripped off robe and undergarments, and proceeded to literally rip Moody's clothes off him, including the peg leg, all of which he piled on top of his own robe and wand.

Then he started with his nails. They were sharper than they had been fifty years ago when he had trimmed them for appearance's sake. In his changed form they were sharp enough to part flesh and they did so easily, little rivers of blood trickling down Moody's torso.

Then, seeing the old scar, he bit down on Moody's shoulder. The skin broke even more easily than before and Voldemort let the sweet coppery fluid fill his mouth, suckling at the wound like a child. It had been too long since he'd tasted blood, much less the blood of a bedmate.

Once the blood ceased to flow so quickly, Voldemort turned Moody over onto his stomach. After taking the time to claw more blood onto Moody's back, he then shoved himself inside, smirking at Moody's muffled grunt of what might have been either pain or pleasure, at least if this had been the real Moody.

He had meant to take his time fucking Moody, make the discomfort last longer, but the combination of having sex for the first time in decades and the sheer satisfaction of having Moody below him again ended up causing him to orgasm after only a few minutes. Winded, Lord Voldemort flopped down on the bed beside him.

Moody yawned slightly, then wriggled over so that the two were touching. "That was wonderful, Tom. Let's never wait near half a century again..."

You do know what they say about hate, Tom, right?

They say that hate is love wearing different robes, Tom.

Or no robes at all.

The words shocked Voldemort out of his afterglow. He stared at Moody and realized it had been over an hour and Crouch still hadn't changed back. Which meant that this was actually Moody. He groped for his wand but then realized it was piled over by a foot of clothing and a wooden leg.

Moody lay his head upon Voldemort's chest, as if the last fifty years had never happened to them and they were back at Hogwarts, teenagers again. "I missed you, Tom. It nearly drove me crazy. Sometimes I think it actually did."

Voldemort squeezed his scalp. After all these years the now white hair still bounced back from his touch. "I would think so too, given that you kept trying to kill me all those years."

Moody shook his head. "I never tried to kill you. I sent people to, that was my job, but I always managed to make sure that they were our least competent Aurors."

"You tried to kill my Death Eaters," Voldemort reminded him. "Succeeded more often than not, as well."

"Of course I did!" Moody answered indignitely. "Enjoyed killing them too. Why you couldn't be satisfied with real worship from one istead of false worship from many, I'll never know. Just because I objected to you taking over the world..."

Voldemort chuckled. "I do believe you are jealous of my Death Eaters, Moody. How amusing."

"Yeah, yeah. Very humourous," Moody grumbled. "Anyway, I'm here because I got rescued, Crouch got dementored, and I really did do some thinking while I was stuffed in my chest."

"Oh? What about?" asked Voldemort, falling into the slow, easy pattern of carressing the other man as he spoke.

"I'm retired, for one thing. I won't even be sending people to kill you now. And Albus doesn't dare call in any favors considering what happened last time. And, well, those years with you truly were the happiest in my life." He took a deep breath. "I guess what I'm trying to say is I want you back. If you'll have me, I mean."

Voldemort pushed Moody's scar-ridden face upward and looked him straight into his good eye. Adoration and fear. Voldemort liked that. "Ask nicely and perhaps I will."

All right. Until then, I'm yours.

And I'll be yours 'til I die.

Don't make promises you aren't prepared to keep.

Shouldn't have marked me, then.

Oh, I'll keep you to that promise, all right. I just wonder if you'll like it.