Eat Out My Heart
It's frighteningly easy to forget where he is, that there's a war being waged beyond his chamber door, fought between the man who kidnapped him against his loved ones. If he tries not to think, it's easier to forget that he'd choose the man who was beyond the worst tragedies in his life over the people who gave him his best memories. There's probably a romance novel like the life he's been living, somewhere out in the world. He can't see the world anymore, so he can't look.
Harry spends most of his days alone. His chamber comes with many rooms. It's like an extravagant flat, made out of light grey stone and white marble decorated with glittering gemstones and precious, shiny metals. In an encyclopedia of phrases, a picture of his chamber with him sleeping in front of the fireplace rests by 'bird in a gilded cage'. He can't ever leave, he should feel trapped, angry, rebellious. He thinks he used to. He can't remember anymore.
He takes baths, reads books. He's teaching himself Latin. He began to make things to pass the time. His earliest works were crude, like a four year old had drawn it with a crayon instead of oil pastels. It evolved. He makes elaborate scenes of wild forests, battlefields, and the Dark Lord. He makes portrait after portrait of Voldemort, out of everything he's given. Pastels, paints, pencils, ink on paper and canvas. He writes poems to every portrait, short stories of love or sometimes hate. Sometimes both.
The occasional day, the Dark Lord comes to him. Voldemort helps him with his Latin, reads him books, bathes him, feeds him by hand. He dresses him and pets him. These are the days Harry enjoys the most. Voldemort will sit still and allow Harry to make a new portrait. Some of them are taken to be displayed elsewhere. Harry is always proud when one leaves, happy it'll get to see what he can't anymore.
No matter what kind of day it was, the nights were always the same.
The Dark Lord took him to bed. Harry was pinned down and fucked. No matter how often, he always bled a little. He was left with bruises in the hand of hands and teeth, long red lines sharp nails dug in and gashes where a knife had dug into him. He was always left white and red stained, decorated in hues of purple and blue. When he woke up in the morning, it was as though the night hadn't happened. Voldemort was kind, always healed him when he was through admiring his work.
"I love you." Harry whispers every night. He never gets a proper answer. He gets kisses or slaps, sharp thrusts or a knife slash.
Time passes by at a rate Harry can't be aware of. He has no windows to look out of. He only knows the time of day by his clocks and by the meals the House Elves bring to him.
He forgets very often there's a war beyond his chamber. He forgets his loved ones even more often. Harry guesses he doesn't think of them much because, if he did, he'd probably feel the guilt and the shame he should have. There are canyons full of shame, guilt, and self-pity waiting to cover him in it like lead paint. They rumble and quake with impatience, because they know Harry won't ever get close enough for them to try to even splash him.
Harry has the Dark Lord. He loves Voldemort, truly. He didn't at first. Who could? It grew as the time began to blur and Harry forgot what it felt like to feel the sun on his skin.
This drabble came out a lot darker than I intended lmao