Three days. It had been three days since he'd eaten a single bite. Three days since he'd heard a voice other than his own. Three days since he'd been left in that musty, run down, hell hole to rot. Worst of all, it had been three days alone with only his nightmares to keep him company.
On day one he'd scoured the whole house looking for any sign of a weak point to make his escape. He'd pulled every loose board, banged on every cracked window, and even looked up the chimney in hopes of finding a way out of his prison. All attempts proved futile though and he ended up collapsing on a filth ridden bed in an upstairs room.
Day two was, if possible, worse than the previous. He began by looking for any source of water or food to sustain the ache in the pit of his stomach and the numbness of his mouth. The closest thing he could come by was a drip that was seeping from a small crack in the attic ceiling. Unfortunately, the taste of tar and rotted wood that mingled in his mouth made it almost unbearable to drink. Gagging, he had been able to force it down for a while before retching it up later on.
By day three he had lost nearly all of his energy. He was sure now that Voldemort had left him there to die a slow death of starvation. In a last attempt, Harry had slid off the bed he'd been sleeping in and began to bang on the nearest window, yelling at the top of his lungs. He prayed for someone in the village to hear him as he screamed until his lungs burned. As failure set in, he'd collapsed back on the bed with a puff of dust surrounding him, his hopes fading with the setting sun.
On day four he awoke with some effort. He willed his eyes to open, staring blankly at the rafters above. "So this is how the Boy Who Lived dies," he croaked out to the empty room. Forcing himself to sit up on the edge of the bed, he fought back the nausea that accompanied the headrush he'd become all to familiar with.
Anger engulfed him as he took deep breaths to steady the spinning room. How could no one have found him by now? They had spies after all. Surely someone had been tipped off as to where he was being held. Maybe Dumbledore was biding his time; using him like some sort of pawn piece. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time.
The rage boiled up in him until he could no longer stand it. Seizing a nearby rickety chair, he swung it wildly against the window before him. Over and over he beat the termite ridden wood against the impenetrable glass, shards of rotten debree flying off in all directions. All the rage and sorrow he'd felt pored out with each swing and ragged cry until weaknesses overtook him and he collapsed to the dusty floor.
"Are you done with your little tantrum now, Potter?" A voice like ice drifted over to him, causing him to jump at the sound. He'd been alone for so long that the unexpected noise was enough to nearly have give him a heart attack.
Rolling to his side with obvious difficulty, he looked to the door to find the source of the voice. He was met with a surprising sight leaning nonchalantly against the rotted door frame. Instead of the snake like face he'd become accustomed to in his nightmares, he found an older version of the prefect he'd met in the Chamber of Secrets three years ago. Thick black hair now topped the once bald head, and a nose had seemingly grown since their last meeting. The only trait that remained was the piercing red eyes that were mocking him silently across the room.
Harry couldn't contain the puff of laughter, as he collapsed onto his back again. Either he was so exhausted from hunger or he was losing his mind, but something seemed funny about seeing Voldemort almost normal in appearance. "Couldn't stand looking in the mirror anymore then? " he asked in a cracked voice, still staring at the ceiling.
"I found it much easier to blend in if the Order has no idea what they're supposed to be looking for," came the off handed reply directly above him. Somehow the Wizard had made his way across the room without a single noise, and was now looking down at Harry with a smug grin. "Now if you don't mind accompanying me to the study, we have some business to tend to."
Harry shut his eyes, taking slow breaths before answering. " You know I don't think I can. I'm feeling a bit peekish. Something about not eating for three days does that to a person." His voice was thick with sarcasm as he dramatically draped his arm across his forehead.
A sharp pain shot through his scalp as he was hoisted mercilessly to his unsteady feet by the hair. Soon after standing he felt a tug behind his navel as they apparated from the small bedroom. The spinning did nothing to help the queasy feeling deep in the pit of his empty stomach or the dizziness when they came to a sudden stop in the downstairs study. Thankfully, he was forced roughly into the winged back chair he had sat in three nights previous.
Voldemort strolled behind the desk and seated himself across from Harry. Producing his wand from inside his cloak, he gave it a simple flick and a small plate of sandwiches appeared along with a goblet of what appeared to be water. Despite his hunger, Harry eyed the food suspiciously. He knew that if Voldemort wanted him dead it was just a curse away, however there could be any number of potions hidden in that food that would be much worse than death.
"Go on and take a sandwich, Harry. I haven't poisoned them," Voldemort said with a generous smile as if reading his mind.
Against his better judgment, and because it felt as if his stomach would consume him, Harry reluctantly reached across the table and took a sandwich from the plate. He was just putting the stale bread to his lips when he was interrupted.
"Of course, there is a price," Voldemort said, a forboading gleam in his red eyes. Before Harry could respond he pressed on. " All I ask is for a look into that mind of yours; no resistance, no walls."
"Fat chance," Harry responded, tossing his sandwich back onto the plate .
Voldemort's smile only broadened as he rose to his feet and circled around behind Harry's chair. The boy felt like he was being stalked by a hungry shark, as he lost sight of the wizard. If the was anything more intimidating than having to face the Dark Lord, it was not being able to see what he was doing.
"Come now, Harry. We both know that on a good day your Occlumency is dismal at best." Voldemort's voice was directly above him now, and two cold hands clamped on either side of his shoulders. Harry repressed a shudder as Voldemort continued. "Imagine how insignificant it will be after not eating for three days. Now, you can give me what I want and be rewarded for it or," he paused here, rubbing Harry's shoulders encouragingly. " Or I can take it with little to no effort. What will it be? "
Harry sat silently picking at a hole in his filthy jeans, debating his options. He hated to admit that Voldemort would get what he was after whether he allowed him or not, but there was no point in denying how weak he had become. How was he suppose to fight the Dark Lord out of his mind when he could barely keep focused on a single thought? Deciding it was best to get some food while the opportunity was there, Harry gave a disinclined nod.
"That a boy," replied Voldemort with a clap on the shoulder. He perched himself on the edge of the desk directly in front of Harry's seat, eyeing him triumphantly. Harry couldn't help but take in that new face staring at him merely inches away. It was hard to imagine that it was even the same wizard he saw reborn at the end of last year. "Now I suggest you brace yourself, Harry. This will not be comfortable."
Without warning, Harry began to see images from his past swirl in front of his eyes. An emmince pressure overtook his head, and he involuntarily began to resist it. "Remember our deal, Potter," came a voice deep inside his mind. With some effort, Harry willed himself to relax against the unseen presence in his head.
The memories came in random sequence. A scruany black haired boy crying in a small dark cupboard. The same boy wailing as his aunt spanked him; a pile of soiled bed sheets littered the floor. An angry teen taunting his bigger cousin, hoping to initiate a fight. A trio of friends laughing beside a warm common room fire. A beautiful young red head girl, offering an encouraging smile.
Harry immediately scrunched his eyes tighter, trying to push the thought from his mind. For some reason the sight of Ginny's warm smile triggered a panic inside him. He didn't want Voldemort to see how much he cared for her, even though he had never truely admitted his feelings for his best friend's sister even to himself. However, it seemed the more he tried to rid his mind of any images of her the more they appeared.
"Ahh,"a voiced hissed in the back of his mind. "Have I hit a soft spot, Harry." The voice seemed amused by how much Harry was struggling against the images now flooding his view. He was standing in the Burrow, the first time he had spoken to Ginny. Then there was quidditch and seeing how brilliant she was at flying. Last came a blurred image of the tinny first year lying lifeless in a damp dungeon, her red hair pillowed around her.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, the weight was gone. "Well, well. Miss Weasley has grown into a beautiful young woman, hasn't she?"
Harry, who was doubled over rubbing his aching head, didn't respond. He didn't realize that Voldemort would remember Ginny; after all, it had only been his memory that had possessed her.
"Do you finally have feelings for her, Harry? She was madly in love with you a couple of years ago," he continued in a toying tone, placing a hand on Harry's head. "Maybe I should give her a little visit again. You think she misses her dear old Tom?"
Harry tore his head away from Voldemort's grasp, a surge of anger flowing through him. "You leave her alone,"he said through uneven breaths.
A bemused smile spread across the Dark Lord's face. Reaching out, he took Harry's chin firmly in his thin fingers. "Oh Harry, you can't begin to imagine the secrets I know about your little Ginny. After all, she spent nearly a whole year pouring her soul out to me." His eyes narrowed in excitement as he watched the seed of anger he had planted blossom into uncontrollable rage. The boy was literally shaking with suppressed fury.
Without thinking, Harry slapped the hand away from his chin and rose quickly to his feet, taking hold of the front of Voldemort's robes. With fist clenched tight, he rared back. "If you touch her I'll…" but his words trailed off suddenly. His tongue had become unbearably heavy in his mouth, and the view before him became blurred around the edges. Black dots began to blossom before his eyes, obscuring his vision, and he staggered forwards, collapsing against his enemies chest.
A cold laugh cut through his ragged breathing, as he fought to remain concussion. He could feel Voldemort's hands on either side of him, supporting his limp weight. "You'll do what exactly, Harry?" The voice came directly in his right ear, those thin lips nearly brushing his skin with each word. Harry would have given anything to have the strength to push away. "I love seeing you like this; so ….helpless."
Harry felt his body being shoved backwards into his chair. He could do nothing to control his decent, and landed with a thud, head hitting the solid wood. Leaning forward, head in hands, Harry tried to steady the swirling room around him. He could hear Voldemort moving away from him, an arrogant laugh trailing. "So, Harry we must get down to business. I know that you have been spying in on me throughout the year," he paused here taking a seat back behind the old desk. "What I would like to know is how?"
Harry shook his head, trying to find his voice again. "I... don't," he stopped to clear his dry throat. Looking up, he met those pitiless eyes staring a him. "I don't know. It was never on purpose. Only when you were mad or excited."
Voldemort eyed him skeptically. "But you have seen things through my eyes before. There has to be a connection; surely it work both ways."
Harry merely shrugged. Even if he knew how he was able to see through Voldemort's point of view, he wasn't about to share it with him. No doubt the dark wizard had something evil planned if he could figure it out.
Voldemort steepled his fingers and continued to stare at Harry. It seemed he was looking for some sort of switch or instructions to tell him how to get into the boys mind. After some time, he leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, as if meditating.
Finding the strength to sit up erect in his chair once again, Harry watched for several minutes as Voldemort remained motionless, eyes closed. That's when he saw it. Laying a few inches from Voldemort's hands, unguarded, was a wand.
A flood of excitement washed over Harry, and he had to force himself not to jump for it. Darting his eyes back to Voldemort's emotionless face, he made sure that the wizard's eyes were still closed tight.
What are you going to do with it? There's no way out. The small voice in the back of his head was right, but he couldn't squander such an opportunity for escape. Slowly, heart racing, he perched himself on the edge of the moth eaten chair, his quidditch reflexes ready to act. With one more deep breath, he plunged his arm forward.
His hand stopped suddenly, fingers just brushing the ornate handle. Gritting his teeth, Harry tried to force his hand past the invisible grasp keeping him from freedom. However, the more he willed his hand to grab hold of the wand, the farther it seemed to retreat.
A cold laugh, reminded Harry he wasn't alone. Snapping his attention back to Voldemort, he saw that his eyes were open again and staring victoriously. "You do see things differently don't you, boy?" he said cooly , confirming Harry's fear. "But, I think you need to be reminded of your place."
Snatching the wand from Harry's grasp, Voldemort gave it a flick that sent Harry spiraling back into his chair which toppled backwards with the force. Rounding the desk, Voldemort stood over the top of Harry, who was desperately trying to find his feet. Another high laugh accompanied the foot that pinned him painfully to the moldy carpet.
Gasping for breath under the weight on his ribs, Harry felt the Cruciatus Curse overtake his body. The more he struggled, the more pressure was put on his burning ribs. He felt that fire spreading over every bone in his body, making it impossible to hold in the cracked screams that broke through his lips. The screaming didn't last long, as his voice broke.
The pain was gone, after what felt like an eternity, leaving Harry on the verge passing out as he curled in on himself, trying to escape the aching that was left in the curse's wake. He could feel Voldemort's presence kneeling over him, but he made no move to acknowledge it.
"Oh Harry, when will you learn," he goaded in a quite voice. With a dramatic sigh, Voldemort took hold of Harry's arm and hoisted him up. The boy was so weak that he was forced to lean against his captor for support. "I think it best we return to Malfoy manor together tonight. I hate to leave you in such a state. I believe Lucius has a nice dungeon cell waiting for you."