Sometimes, all he could do was scream into the darkness. The darkness and the silence were too much to cope with for long. He didn't have his wand anymore to lighten the darkness, but he could drown out the silence for a while. At least, he could until his throat burned too much for him to continue and he was left coughing and gasping for breath.

Sometimes, he ran. There was nothing in the darkness, just the ground he stood on, so he could hardly bump into something. There was no walls, no rocks or trees, no other people, or animals. There was only him.

The ground was strange; it was a little rough, like parchment, but was as hard as rock. When he ran himself to exhaustion and all he could do was lie in a heap on the ground, it was a very uncomfortable bed and he sometimes ached more once he got up than when he collapsed.

When he was in a better frame of mind, he talked to himself. He talked about what he remembered while he was still free and whole, what he would do if he got out, and his mission. Of course, his mission was the whole reason he was in there, so he usually tried to avoid talking about it, but it was also all he had left.

Eventually, he wept. He always wept, sooner or later. When the silence overpowered his screaming, and he never found any light, no matter how far he ran, or pushed out his magic, he wept. When he became too caught up in the past, or his mission, he wept. He lay down on hard floor, curled up as tight as he could, just for the impression of warmth, and wept. Just as with anything else he did, he could only weep for so long.

He spent a lot of time wishing he could sleep. Sleep would be an escape from both his entrapment, and the hole created by his missing parts. Unfortunately, he hadn't slept a wink for the entire time he had been there.

It was cold. So cold. He couldn't tell if the cold was outside him, or just in his head. He was missing his body, as well as other parts that he didn't even have a name for, and they used to keep him warm. Or they just kept the cold away, but they were gone now. When he screamed, or ran, or talked, he could ignore the cold, pretend it was less than it really was, but he had to stop sooner or later, and then the cold came back.

He wished he was free, and whole. He wished his mission was over, but only if its completion meant his freedom. If he finished his mission, and he still had to stay, then he didn't really care about it. There was nothing he could do to hurry his mission along, he just had to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Then, after an indeterminate period of time, which could have been merely hours or months, or years, or even decades, there was a voice in the darkness. It was high pitched, and brought to mind a young girl.

Dear Diary, my name is Ginny Weasley...

What could he do but talk back?