Hello, everyone. This is my second fanfiction. My main one I've been working on is a Naruto fanfiction. I never thought about writing a slash/Yaoi story before, but then a friend talked about how she only felt comfortable writing slash romantic scenes. I thought I'd give it a chance and attempt to write one. After all, love is love no matter who it is between, right? It shouldn't matter what age, race, or sex you are. That being said, when I read the Harry Potter books, I always thought Voldemort (I said it!) was way too obsessed with Harry, even considering everything that was going on. So, please enjoy this story. On with the demented writing!

!*!*! ATTENTION... AANDAG... KUJDES !*!*!

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Harry Potter. If I did, I would be amazingly rich with hordes of rabid fans. But, since I don't, please enjoy this fanficiton which completely ignores a quite a bit of J.K Rowling's work.

A man sat, or rather lounged, in a high backed black leather chair that strongly resembled a throne. His creamy white skin, almost corporeally pale, stood in vivid contrast to his coal black robes and dark surroundings.

Two years ago, his face had had waxy, flattened features, a snake-like visage. It had been transformed by dark magic to the point where it was terrifying and inhuman. But, his public relations manager had informed him that his appearance scared the polyjuice potion out of people, and so he had regained some of his old features.

A thick mane of dark brown hair fell in waves over a wide, intelligent forehead, high cheek bones, an aquiline nose, and perfectly sculpted lips. Only his eyes remained the same, scarlet depths glinting darkly. He features were still slightly blurred and snake-like, but he had regained his old Riddle handsomeness. Despite his age, and thanks to modern magic, he appeared to be in his mid twenties.

So, there he was, one of the most powerful wizards ever, with thousands of witches and wizards his to command, and he was completely and utterly bored.

He waved his wand lazily, idly carving random runes into the walls.

A rhythmic knock came at the door, and then the person came in without waiting for entrance.

The Dark Lord stared at the woman in front of him, vaguely wondering how he could keep from killing her, let alone stand her. Yet stand her he did, and he had even developed what might have been called a certain fondness for her.

Luna Lovegood stood before him, wearing robes of a orange so bright it should never have been invented and should be burned immediately, and sporting butterbeer cap earrings. Around her neck she wore a large electric blue amulet, which, according to her, kept the Frunglelimpits from affecting her.

As far as he could make out, Frunglelimpits were large, brown furry flies that made you crotchety and could only be seen on the full moon when you blew powdered Mandrake leaves on them.

How did he wind up hiring her again? However it had come about, it was fortunate. Luna Lovegood managed to get everything done without actually appearing to do anything at all but stand around smiling vaguely and making odd comments.

The Dark Lord waited as Luna looked around the room with slightly protuberant blue eyes. After several minutes of silence in which he waited for her to say something, and she stood there humming and smiling, he asked in a cold and imperial tone, "Ms. Lovegood, is there a reason why you came into my office?"

She diverted her attention from one of the runes he had carved to him. "You have a lot of Frunglelimpits effecting you today, Tom. Watch out. You don't want them to turn into Schnorkes, do you?"

This was her way of saying he was grumpy. And, no matter how many times he threatened to kill her, she insisted on calling him Tom, going on and on about the magic of birth names. How did she know his name in the first place?

He raised on perfectly arched eyebrow and said, "Now."

"Mmhmm. I could give you an amulet for the Frunglelimpits, if you like. Oh, and we have someone claiming they know where Harry Potter is."

Now that was interesting, in a sense.

In the beginning, when he had announced that anyone who could tell him the whereabouts of Harry Potter would receive two thousand galleons, the ministry had been swamped with people claiming he was hiding under their sofas and the like. But, since Lord Voldemort and quite a few members of his new staff were legilimens, the fakers, which had been all of them incidentally, were found out and punished with a well uttered crucio and a fine, the amount depending on how rich they were. After that, very few had come in claiming to know the Chosen One's whereabouts.

"And?" The Dark Lord prompted when Luna lapsed into silence once more.

"And I believe her. As far as they could tell, the legilimens said she was telling the truth. I thought you'd like to see her. Shall I bring her in?"

"Yes."

This, he thought with something resembling glee, if glee had an evil undertone, is exactly what he needed.

Luna opened the door to let herself out, but paused. "You're looking a little pale, Tom. I'll make you a cup of Pipgrook tea."

He twitched at the use of his name.

He didn't want to know what Pipgrook tea. From experience he'd learned that all food Luna offered him with odd names tasted like particularly nasty socks that were liquefied and mixed with jellied haddock.

The door creaked open and a single, quivering figure stepped inside. It was a woman, wearing burgundy robes that were clean but had seen better days. With clearly hesitant steps, she forced herself to walk until she stood a few feet away from him, separated only by a large claw-footed desk.

Now that she was close enough, he could see her face. It was a smiling face, but the beginnings of worry lines creased her forehead, and her soft brown hair, streaked prematurely with threads of silver, was pulled back in a loose bun.

"What is your name?" he inquired gently, trying to put her at ease.

She looked like a good woman who had fallen on hard times. "Amelia Myrtlerford." She paused and then added, almost proudly, "Half-blood."

"Well, Amelia, why don't you have a seat and tell me about Harry Potter?" Sometimes being charming got much better results than being frightening and torturing people, even if it was less fun.

With a flick of his wand, a squishy emerald armchair appeared, and she perched on the edge of it. She licked her lips, gathering courage, and Voldemort resisted the impulse to simply forcibly take what he wanted from her memories.

"I have a friend, a muggle friend, who makes jewelry. She gives her pieces to me, and I spell them never to tarnish or to shine brightly. She just thinks I use a special type of polish." She sighed heavily. "She pays me, and I need the money."

Amelia stopped, as if waiting for him to interrupt or curse her for her confession, but he merely motioned for her to go on.

"One day, we were talking, just chatting, and she mentioned a friend named Harry. I didn't think anything of it. After all, it's a common name. She was talking nonsense about how his eyes had inspired her to make a new line of jewelry with only green stones, and she wanted me to come and meet him. A new line of jewelry meant more work, more money for me , so I went with her. When we got there, just sitting there was someone who I'd seen in the daily prophet so often. I'd never been more surprised when the Harry she'd been talking about was Harry Potter! In London all this time…"

The dark lord's thoughts were whirling.

Two years. In two years, so much had changed. Dumbledore was dead, killed by the progression of the curse on his hand before he, Lord Voldemort, even got a chance to kill the man and savor the moment. The ministry had crumbled, and he'd taken control easily. Since Dumbledore was gone, Hogwarts quickly followed.

Originally, the plan had been to throw out all of the muggle-borns and enslave them, but then he'd seen the grades of muggle-borns were far higher than those of purebloods. It hadn't fit. Muggle-born's were supposed to be inferior, but there was proof suggesting otherwise. He tried to argue that grades didn't matter, but most of the new potions, spells, and inventions were coming from half-bloods and muggle-borns as well.

Then, he'd understood.

They muggle-borns were entering a new world that they had never known existed, and they had something to prove. Purebloods were more staid, choosing the old ways, and they were content with them. So, while he was brilliant and evil, he wasn't crazy, or at least not completely crazy. Taking the muggle-borns away wouldn't help a thing. To everyone's surprise, Hogwarts had been allowed to remain virtually the same.

Under his control, things had actually improved for the wizarding world. Employment was up, and crime was down. The latter mainly because the criminals were too afraid to be criminals. Selling phony amulets could get a witch or wizard a week-long trip to Azkaban and a hefty fine. Selling harmful magical items to muggles could get a stay of a month or more in the dementor ridden prison, as well as having your life savings confiscated by the ministry. After one visit, no one was eager to go back to the wizarding prison.

Voldemort's new government struck hard, fast, and out of the blue at people doing illegal activities, so that the criminals never felt safe and were always afraid. It was a deterrent from others entering a life of crime as well.

Yes, things had been going well, but one thing had always nagged at his mind. Harry Potter. The Chosen One. The Boy-Who-Lived.

He had just vanished two years ago without a trace. No speech, no note, just there one moment and gone the next. He had disappeared before Dumbledore had died, before the ministry had fallen. Some people expected him to show up and for them to duel epically, but he never resurfaced, and now most believed he was dead.

Voldemort knew better. He still felt flashes of the boy's emotions, although they were becoming increasingly infrequent. But, no, Harry Potter was very much alive, and living right under his nose.

Realizing that he had been absorbed in his thoughts, he brought his attention back to the woman in front of him. She was pale and shaking. She was probably waiting for him to punish her for using spells on muggle items, he mused. But, he was in a good mood. He could just ignore that little detail.

"Where does Mr. Potter work? Where did you see him?"

Her answer surprised him. "You aren't going to hurt him, are you?"

How sweet. After everything, she still wanted to make sure that she wasn't indirectly hurting him.

"What is the address?" he asked again.

"Promise you won't hurt him," she almost whispered.

"I'm not going to promise any such thing," Voldemort said, amused. His eyes glittered darkly. "But you're going to tell me anyway. We both know you are. You're going to sell him out for the reward money. You wouldn't have come here otherwise."

Her shoulders slumped forward and she bowed her head, the picture of a broken woman. "134 Cross St," she choked out.

He slid a large bag across the desk; a golden galleon glinted from its depths.

He favored her with an almost grandfatherly smile, that is if said grandfather was a human heart eating psychopathic mass murderer, and said, a plan already forming in his brilliant, if twisted, mind. "Now, Amelia, this is what I want you to do…"