"No, you are not sleeping in my bed!" The boy looked agitated as he points his finger at Voldemort who was curled up on top of the covers on the boy's bed. It was one of the warmest places in the house and Voldemort was feeling cold. Coincidently he also enjoyed sleeping in the bed. It was soft and the warmth from the Potter boy helped starve of the cold. Why the boy suddenly was against the idea he couldn't understand. He had been sleeping in the bed for the better part of five months. Not every night, but often enough. Sometimes he even curled up on top of the boy's chest, dreaming of killing him in his sleep. Unfortunately, he had reached the conclusion that killing the boy would be counterproductive so that option was of the table for the moment.

A part of him also enjoyed being so close to his last soul piece, another reason for not killing the brat. He was his last anchor to the living world should anything happen to him.

He blinked at the boy, unimpressed and curled up at the foot of the bed.

"I'm serious Voldemort, you are not sleeping here." Voldemort opened one eye and saw that Potter had crossed his arms over his chest and what looked like a determined look on his face. He closed his eye and ignored him. "I'll shove you off the bed," the boy threatened. An empty one though. Voldemort knew he wouldn't hurt him. It wasn't in the poor Gryffindor's nature. Luckily one might say. Continuing to ignore him, Voldemort shifted a bit before burying his muzzle under his tail and prepared to drift off to sleep.

To his surprise he suddenly felt two hands close around his middle and start to lift him. His eyes flew up and he twisted, lashing out and watch in satisfaction as he cut across one of the brat's arm, leaving behind five deep scratches. Hissing, he pinned his ears and growled. How dared the bloody fool think that it would ever be all right to lift him like some book?

"Auch, for crying out loud, Marv! Was that strictly necessary?" The boy glared as he clutched his bleeding arm. Muttering something Voldemort didn't bother to try and catch he disappeared into the bathroom.

The night ended with Voldemort sleeping in the bed.

######

He was bored... again. It was still snowing outside. For a country where there hardly ever was winter, this year it seemed like the weather gods had decided to go all out. The boy was out doing something. He hadn't said anything when he left, only pointed a stern finger and Voldemort and told him to behave. Voldemort had pushed the plant in the living room down from the table it was standing on. It made very satisfying sound as hit the floor and was turned into broken pieces. Of course, the damnable elf had come straight away to clean it up.

The mouse the mudblood had bought him was laying on the floor where he had discarded it. He really didn't like the bloody thing, but the cat nip in it was addictive. Standing he waltzed over and hit it with his front paw, watching as it skidded across the floor and into a corner. His tailed twirled and twisted. It often felt like it had a life of its own when it reacted to his moods.

The kitchen was empty, but his water and food bowl were there. Both were filled. One good thing he could say about the boy-who-bloody-well-wouldn't-die was that he harbored no hard or vindictive feelings towards Voldemort. Something that was a bit of a surprise. If the table had been turned then Voldemort would have relished in torturing the child, before killing him to make sure the prophecy came through. For a moment he wondered what this new predicament would mean for that. Or perhaps this was what it had meant the whole time? Perhaps this was what the prophecy had meant by vanquishing.

He stared down into the food bowl. The kibbles where probably first class, and they didn't taste too horrible. The ones the boy had dragged home this time had a taste of chicken. It was a bit like eating chicken tasting cereal, and it filled his stomach. Most evenings however the boy would give Voldemort some of the meat or fish from whatever the elf had cooked him for dinner. Occasionally, Voldemort would steal the food. He had figured out a way to open the fridge, but when the boy had discovered that he had put a charm on it which prevented him from continuing to do so.

Deciding he wasn't hungry he turned his back on the bowls and walked away. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs he crouched down before kicking off and running has fast as he could up the stairs. As he reached the top, he landed on the rug there and felt it give away under his weight as they sailed further down the hallway. If he could have grinned, he would. There was something exhilarating about running in this form. The power and feeling of moveability was something that couldn't be explained. He felt amazingly free in his animagus form. Then again, after being disembodied for 13 years, he would take any form possible. Leaving the rug in a crumbled heap he made his way down one floor and entered the library. The fire was burning. He had to give it to the house elf, it did a thorough job of taking care of the house.

He settled on the rug in front of the fireplace. Stretching out, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sense of the warmth against his fur. It wasn't long before sleep claimed him.

######

When he woke he was somewhat disorientated for a moment. He lifted his head and blinked against the slight light. He had slept more deeply than he thought he would. Sleeping was one of the things he was doing most, as his cat form seemed to need more sleep than his human form. In return he was more alert in the evenings as one would expect.

"You sleep like the dead." The voice startled him, and he whipped his head around. The boy was sitting on one of the sofas, a book in his lap. Blinking, he stretched out his body, yawning before twisting over to lay on his side, looking at the boy. A sudden urge took him, and he twisted and licked at his fur, not entirely sure why. When the cat in him was satisfied he turned his head towards the boy. Meowing he got to his feet and stretched one more time.

"Let me guess," the boy said. "You're hungry?"

Voldemort meowed again to confirm. Yes, he was hungry, but not for the kibbles. He wanted meat.

"You have a bowl of kibbles downstairs."

Voldemort gave him an unimpressed look. The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. "You're spoiled rotten," he muttered as he rose to his feet. "Come on then."

When they entered the kitchen, the boy opened the fridge and pulled out a steak. "I'm not even sure all this human food is good for you in that form," he muttered as he cut it into small pieces and added it to a plate. The cat instinct was pushing against his own and he suddenly found himself purring and leaning against the boy's leg, his tail standing straight up with a curl. Horrified at what he had done he jumped backwards.

The boy looked down at him with a strange expression on his face and the plate in his hand. "I'm going to assume that was your cat instinct taking over for a few seconds?" he asked, a frown on his face.

Voldemort nodded.

The boy nodded to. He put the plate down on the floor and Voldemort jumped on it, the cat in him was purring loudly, and to his embarrassment he realized it could be heard by the brat.

######

Go out, or not go out, that was the question. Voldemort lingered in the opening. He really wanted to go outside, but the cat in him recoiled at the sight of all the snow.

"Marv, in or out – decide!"

His tail twitched. He could feel the cat in him protest against the cold. On the other hand, he was so tired of being inside that perhaps even a trip out into the garden would help. Before he had the chance to decided he suddenly moved forward as the bloody Gryffindor pushed him out the door. Turning around he hissed and growled at the boy, who only laughed as he too stepped out into the garden, closing the door behind him.