The room is five meters wide and eight meters long. Harry knows this like he knows that the door will never open. It's one of the facts that have come to him in his dreams - at least he thinks of them as dreams. They're really more like visions. They are the images of things he's not sure he was meant to see. He assumes that the connection went both ways.
At night, which could be anytime, since there aren't any windows in the room, he wanders from corner to corner, running his hands along the wall and counting the stones. One. Two. Three. Four. He thinks he's memorized them by now. The touch of them. The smell of them. The way they feel when he roughly bangs his head against them. He sits slumped in the corner and waits for night to come. Just a little longer now.
As the clock in his mind tolls the hour he rises to his feet and begins his walk. One. Two. Three. Four. He stops at five to throw his head against it. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Maybe it will end soon. He just needs to hit a little harder. Ah, that's the spot. He feels the blood trickle down his cheek and smiles before doing it once more. The blood is flowing freely now and he greedily laps it up. It's been so long…so very very long since he's had anything. And why shouldn't he enjoy his last meal?
As his vision begins to dim he sees flashes of a long red and gold donned table covered in food and hears the voices laughing around him. He would think about it more if he weren't so exhausted. When he sinks to the floor he thinks he hears someone calling his name. Someone with a voice like ice and a smile full of spite. Since when do angels have red eyes?