Post Date: 19/20 December 2009 (I've got the flu, and I'm being kept up with a bloody nose, and I really don't care to check the time. DX)

A/N (or, the major sucking up of a sheepish writer, the sequel - damn, do I need to get better at this!): Okay, so still not having internet? Yeah, still sucks. Bigtime. The good news is that I've managed to get ahead in writing for this baby (and no, I won't say how far - I'll never hear the end of it, else), and the plot's coming along quite nicely, I must say. Anyhow, I'll be at my father's for the few days after Christmas, so expect another update then (I know, barely a week away! Aren't we proud? - Just watch, something happens and I don't update. -dead-)

In other news, the chapters are still incredibly short, which is only now starting to bug me, so I apologise to those of you who've complained about it (and, while I'm semi- on the subject anyhow, I do read every review - the problem is responding to them -sheepish-), but we're rolling into my favourite territory in the story - I'm giddy with this bit and the parts that come up soon, they were so much fun to write. I love this Harry. XD

So, ta, and I'll be seeing everyone around Christmas. -knocks on wood-

Until you see, how could you believe?
Until you've lived a thousand times
Until you've seen the other side
This is my chance

Savior, 30 Seconds to Mars

Chapter Six: Savior

I wake only several hours later, my body too used to forcing itself awake in order to keep from screaming at the nightmares.

I notice a tray on my bedside table filled with an assortment of foods. Thinking about it makes me feel sick, so I turn my attention to the note stuck on the tray:

You're probably not hungry, but you should eat something anyway.

I'll be back in a few hours; we'll talk then.

There wasn't a name at the bottom. There didn't need to be.

Deciding to worry about the meeting between Voldemort and myself after I had woken up fully, I turn my attention back to the breakfast. A bowl of porridge. A dish of fruit. A glass of milk.

My stomach lurches horribly. The last time I had eaten was a week and a half ago.

Damn those Dursleys for existing.

Why had I never done anything about them, again?

Oh, wait. That's right.

Dumbledore.

Never mind, then.

I sigh and run a hand through my already mussed hair, inspecting the room Voldemort gave me a little more closely than I had last night (or was it this morning?). The walls are a warm cream colour with soft blue accents, completely the opposite of what one would expect a room in the Dark Lord's manor house to look like. A humongous bay window, almost as big as the wall it was in, lays sprawling open, revealing grassy green hills and the sweet breeze and scent that lie in congruence with the ocean. I find myself currently sitting in a huge bed made of dark cherry wood, complete with sheets, blankets and pillows that matched the rest of the room's soft hues. A nightstand accompanies the bed, carved of the same wood, while a beautiful desk and armoire, also made of cherry, sit against opposing walls. Three doors rest in three different walls, and I can only guess that one is a bathroom and another is the way out into the rest of the home. All in all, it looks like a four-star hotel room, not residency in the mansion of Lord Voldemort.

As I sit comfortably, ignoring the slow deterioration of the food left for me in favour of inspecting the room I was placed in, the door directly opposite the bed opens, allowing Voldemort to poke his great ugly snake-face in the open space between door and wall. He looks pleased upon finding me awake and seemingly coherent, but scowls heavily when he sees the tray of food untouched.

"That breakfast wasn't put there so you could stare at it, boy," he says nastily, and while I feel absolutely disgusted with myself at being unable to suppress the flinch at the name, Voldemort's features soften noticeably, though his eyes narrow.

"I know food is the last thing on your mind," he amends, his voice a bit less harsh, "but you'll only lose more strength if you refuse nutrition."

"Speaking from personal experience, are we?" I can't help but throw at him. Voldemort looks at me then, and I mean really looks at me, before flicking his eyes away to something that won't stare back at him, but in those few moments, I am able to see the naked truth in those rubies, coupled with a deep understanding of the pain and humiliation that accompanies living with those who not only don't but won't understand you, what it feels like to be worthless…

I shake my head sharply, dispelling the strange thought. What the hell…?

Voldemort pulls himself out of whatever mental conflict he seems to be having with himself and answers my question with a frankness that, honestly, startles me more than I care to admit: "Yes, I am. And deterioration of your body from the inside is hardly something you should be doing to yourself out of some misplaced sense of guilt or responsibility. So please, eat."

I am quite sure that it is the please, more than anything, that makes me automatically spoon a glob of (surprisingly tasty) porridge in my mouth.

"We will… discuss… when you have finished."

My stomach lurches again at the thought, but I force myself to continue eating. And it's not Voldemort's stern look that makes me continue despite his horrid pronouncement – really, it's not.

This porridge is damn good, though.