Chapter II

Everything hurt. His limbs were too heavy; his tongue was dry and sticky. He felt as though he'd been run over repeatedly in his sleep.

But he was, at least, somewhere safe and warm. Harry made a small noise of discomfort, stretching his aching arms. How long did he have before Hermione woke them? She'd probably already gotten started on breakfast...

And then the memory of her slackened face, the reflection of fire dancing in her wide, unseeing eyes, hit Harry like a sack of bricks. It was like a dam had burst open inside his mind; the images came rushing forth like icy water: the limp bodies of the dead and dying - Hogwarts, the only home he had ever known, roaring with flames - Snape and his mother in a grassy field - the forest...

Harry's eyes flew open with a shallow gasp. He was no longer in the empty clearing. Someone had brought him to a large bed in a small, dimly-lit room of stone. His fingers immediately grasped at his chest, but his wand was nowhere to be found. His clothes had been removed - someone had changed him into a simple black robe. He was utterly vulnerable. Mind reeling, Harry rolled over, his limbs groaning with the effort - and choked on a cry of shock.

Lord Voldemort stood at the end of Harry's bed, tall, pale, and terrifying.

"You!" Harry breathed in horror, and scrambled upright. Voldemort said nothing. "You - what did you do to me? What happened to the battle?-!"

"I killed you," Voldemort answered quietly. "I put your corpse on display for all to see and then, when I deemed them to have had their fill, I brought you here. You are dead, Harry Potter, to all those who would seek you out. You are mine."

The room seemed to be closing in on him. His lungs felt tight, like they couldn't fit in the proper amount of air. "No." He backed further up the bed, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. "No, that's impossible - I'm alive - they wouldn't simply give me up for - for dead -" He heard Neville's words, as though they had been spoken a thousand years ago: We're all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?

The crimson eyes glittered. "It is a very old Egyptian curse, similar to the Draught of Living Death. Quite effective, I assure you. In fact, the only reason we are having this conversation is because, in keeping you ensorcelled for another month, I would risk you slipping away altogether." Voldemort looked him up and down coldly. "I suggest you resign yourself to this situation, as I have, and abandon any notion of rescue or escape. Things will go much better for you if you do."

"Like hell I will!" Harry flew off the bed - and nearly fell over. His kneecaps screamed with pain; his entire body felt slow and heavy with disuse. But he forced himself to stumble painfully across the cold stone floor all the same, gasping, and collapsed against a hard wall. He used it to support himself, slinking backward into a corner. "There's no door here," he breathed, eyes darting around the room and back to Riddle. "There's no way out. You've strung up my body on display for a month and then locked me in a room with no bloody exit - and you expect me to simply resign myself to the situation?-!"

"You are exaggerating matters," Voldemort answered with chilly disregard for Harry's distress. "I would by no means risk damaging you by stringing you anywhere. I displayed you with dignity for three nights and them removed you to this place for safe-keeping, where you have remained in comfort ever since."

A bubble of mad laughter escaped him. Harry's fingers grappled for purchase against the smooth, stone wall. "How generous of you," he spat; he felt as though he might be sick. This was not the way things were supposed to have happened. "And you really think that you'll get away with this? That they'll let me stay here?"

"Of course," Voldemort answered immediately, "even if they thought you were alive - and I may say there were some very affecting farewells murmured over your casket - I am the only one who knows where we are and, just to be quite sure, I have employed a Fidelius Charm." The Dark Lord treated him to a taut, horrible leer.

It took every ounce of energy Harry had not to launch himself at Riddle's smug face. He had no wand, he reminded himself with excessive restraint, and his muscles had clearly suffered some kind of atrophy while he'd been under the influence of Voldemort's freaky Egyptian Dark curse - whereas Voldemort was armed with not only magic but also the knowledge of how the hell he could get out of here.

"Come," Voldemort held out a hand to him, "let us return you to bed and I shall summon you dinner. You are human and have not eaten for five months. It is only sensible."

Five months? Harry was not sure what was more shocking - that he had been sleeping for five months or that Lord Voldemort was offering him food. "I'm not touching anything you give me," he scowled, even though he was suddenly and painfully aware of how empty his stomach was.

"Potter, let me be clear," Voldemort said slowly, gliding toward him, "I will not allow you to starve. If you refuse to be sensible then I will return when you are insensate and force feed you. I am sure you will agree that such a thing would please neither of us. Come, spare yourself such indignity." A long-fingered hand was suddenly at his shoulder and his legs left the floor, lifting him smoothly back onto the bed.

He felt his rage build and welter beneath his skin, even as his aching limbs sighed in relief. He yanked himself violently out of Voldemort's grasp. "No - let me be clear. You've locked me in a windowless room hardly bigger than my aunt's kitchen and watched me sleep for five months. I don't think I've got much dignity left to lose. And if you really think you're going to keep me here, you can be sure I'm going to make this as difficult for you as I possibly can." Harry snarled at him. "You've taken everything from me! You've got nothing left to hang over my head. Dignity is the last thing on my mind right now."

Voldemort regarded him with an oddly solemn expression. "There is always further to fall, Potter, always more left to lose." He glanced away and, in that brief moment, Harry almost glimpsed pain in those awful crimson eyes, but then they were burning into his with a fury that ripped viciously into his scar. "You have no right to complain of such treatment, when you built this prison with each of my Horcruxes you destroyed!"

Harry's anger returned to him full-force. "You've been trying to kill me since before I could even talk! What did you expect, exactly?"

Voldemort shot him a poisonous glare. "You should be grateful I had cause to let you live - and live you shall - to preserve Lord Voldemort's immortality. That shall be the irony of the long, tedious life you have yet to live within these four walls."

"Anyone would rather be dead than stuck here with you," Harry hissed, gripping the sheets. "But that means you're stuck with me as well, aren't you? And I swear you'll soon be sorry it was me you went after that night - you'll be wishing you tried to kill any other infant in the entire world - because I'm going to make every moment of your bloody immortality as miserable as I'm able!"

"Crucio!"

Pain like he had never known shot through him; Harry's body thrashed and contorted across the bed. A scream broke through his teeth, digging brutally into his bottom lip to keep himself from crying out. He felt as though he'd been sliced open, pain reaching beneath his skin and gripping the very center of his being... Every cell in his body was aflame with agony... It would never end...

And then it did, leaving every part of him aching in its wake. "I urge you, Potter, not to confuse which of us has the ability to render the other's existence a misery."

Still panting, Harry summoned all of his strength and spat a mouthful of blood on Voldemort's robes.

There was a chilly sigh, as though the evil git was disappointed. "All of this really is quite unnecessary. If you continue with this behaviour you will force me to discipline you further. It would be far better for you to simply accept your fate. This need not be unpleasant, Harry..." And suddenly, everywhere there had been pain, a warm balm seemed to settle, as though he were sunning himself on a summer's day. All of the agony just melted away into a haze of pleasurable relief.

For a moment, Harry found himself simply sinking into the warm, sprawling pleasure of it - what had he even been so angry about, when he could just let himself feel so good instead? And then he caught a glimpse of red eyes through the fog enveloping him, and he was yanked swiftly back into his own thoughts. Still trying to catch his breath, he struggled pathetically across the bed, away from Voldemort, trying to recover his presence of mind - and then he rolled in a heap of painful limbs onto the hard, cold floor.

He groaned as Voldemort's magic abandoned him, leaving him sore and exhausted. He leaned his head back against the bed, closing his eyes and breathing heavily. "Go - to - hell."

Once again, the Dark Lord levitated him back onto the bed. "This is foolishness," he hissed. "You shall eat, and then I will leave you to rest." And Voldemort summoned a spoon and bowl of hot, sweet-smelling porridge and offered it to Harry. "Now, you may eat it yourself, or I can force you to do so. It is entirely your choice and a matter of perfect indifference to Lord Voldemort."

Harry scowled at the bowl of porridge, furious with his stomach for choosing this moment to remind him of how hungry he was. "And how will you do that? Torture me some more, will you? I don't think I'll be able to hold very much down if you keep making me cough up blood."

Voldemort seated himself gracefully on the edge of the bed. "There are various hexes and rituals which would allow me to control your actions. The alternative, of course, would be to use the piece of my soul inside you to influence you, and I suppose there is always the option of outright possession available to me." Pale, spidery fingers held out the steaming bowl. "It really would be much more pleasant if you would simply eat it yourself, especially if you wish me to depart with any celerity."

Harry snatched the bowl from him. He did not think about how good it smelt as he stirred it with his spoon, and he certainly didn't enjoy the taste of it as he took a small spoonful. He ate in obstinate silence, staring fixedly at the wall. It felt strange, eating porridge in bed - a bit like being in the Hospital Wing while Madame Pomfrey was nursing him back to health. Except it was Lord Voldemort who was trying to make him feel better after forcing him into a coma for five months and then torturing him within an hour of waking up again.

"I have left you a pitcher of water and a receptacle for your ablutions is under the bed. Is there anything else you would like before I leave? Books, perhaps? Or possibly an animal to keep you company? I have always found an animal companion to be-" Voldemort's cold voice hitched "...soothing."

Harry said nothing, chewing angrily and staring at the wall. Had Neville killed the snake after all? He wasn't sure if he would even be happy about this. After all, the entire reason Harry had gotten into this mess in the first place was so that he could destroy Nagini himself; the thought that this might all have been for nothing was appalling to him.

"You are my last Horcrux and, while caution necessitates your captivity, it is not my aim to torment you. I know what it is to be cast into helpless exile from all you have known. If there is something that will ease the burden of your imprisonment here...?"

Harry looked up suddenly. "Molly and Arthur Weasley... Ginny Weasley... what happened to them? In the battle?"

"You will have to forgive me, I am aware of Arthur Weasley, but... Molly is the daughter and Ginny is the mother? Is that right?"

He could suddenly picture Ginny in his mind as clearly as though she were right before him - her flaming red hair, her bright smile touching her eyes as she turned to look at him... His chest tightened, and his mouth went very dry. "Ginny is - the daughter. A year younger than me. Please… did they survive?"

"Molly Weasley slew Bella Lestrange and then fell to my wand. Her husband escaped with some of their male children, but I have no knowledge of what befell their daughter - I did not see her amongst the living or the dead at the end. But I did glimpse her during the battle. A talented young witch and exceptionally valiant, from what little I saw of her."

Harry looked firmly down at his porridge, watching it swim in his vision. His heart felt very big and heavy. Mrs Weasley... dead. And Ginny... What was Voldemort getting at? "Well, if there's - any way you could find out about her..." It stung his mouth to ask Voldemort for anything, but Harry needed to know. "Please, I - don't need anything else from you... Just to know if she's all right..."

"If Miss Weasley is still alive I imagine she would wish to avoid my notice as much as possible. Nevertheless, I shall inform you should anything come to my notice. How strange to think that my diary possessed the girl once - I felt so sure the daughter was the one named Molly - imagine if the Horcrux had succeeded..." he mused softly, livid eyes staring past Harry into the distance. "I wonder, would I have killed him or locked him up as I must with you..."

Harry briefly imagined being locked in a room for five months with the young Tom Riddle from the diary. He couldn't decide if it would be better or worse than being locked in a room with Lord Voldemort. At least he didn't find Voldemort handsome, right? Harry looked up at Riddle, frowning and finding it very hard to believe that they had been the same person once.

And now he had been thinking much too long about this.

"Thank you," he muttered, glancing away and smothering the sharp spike of bitterness at having to thank Voldemort for anything in this ludicrous situation. But it was just for Ginny. Once he knew that she was all right, Harry wouldn't need anything else from him. Sullenly, he set aside the heavy, empty bowl; he had finished his porridge without even realizing it.

Voldemort nodded stiffly and stood, vanishing the bowl. "I shall return tomorrow at the same hour." And, with that, he disapparated with a smooth ripple of magic.

He stared into the dancing flames: hypnotic almost-shapes coiled within the leaping fire in sacred communion with fate, a pyromantic prophecy unfurling before Lord Voldemort's avid gaze. Victory, the fire hissed, spat, and whispered, the boy will die by your hand and you shall triumph. But suddenly the oracle was a pyre engulfing his childhood wardrobe and he was a boy again, howling in shock and rage as all of his Horcruxes screamed, trapped within. He banged his fists against the door, but it would not open, and now pain licked up his arms and he too screamed...

Voldemort awoke to cloying fear that choked his insides and, instinctively, he reached for Nagini only for his hands to brush against empty silk. He flinched and curled into himself. Nagini...

He stood abruptly, throwing on a new pair of robes and a cloak, and leaving his secluded home for the cities of his dominion. He cursed, hunted, and killed. He drowned his fears in blood and exhilaration, threads of thought unravelling in vicious delirium.

No harm must come to his dear Nagini. She must remain close now, no longer sent to do his bidding... He had concealed her in a far-away place, how happy she would be to see her master once more.

She lay coiled upon the bed, her soft, sleeping breaths almost sighs. He caressed her scales with crimson-dipped fingers, consumed by relief that his treasured serpent was safe. She, his faithful companion in immortality, could never die. Such a notion was absurd.

In this space empty of daylight and time, the days bled into each other, one long, endless blur of monotony. Nothing changed here. The pitcher of water on the nightstand refilled itself magically whenever it got too low; the chamber pot beneath his bed magically emptied itself whenever Harry used it. There were no windows, no ways for him to distinguish the time of day; the only indication of the passage of time were Voldemort's daily visits, in which Harry would begrudgingly force down a plate of food and Riddle would make strained conversation with him. Harry slept intermittently and often, for there was not much else for him to do and no clock to tell him when it was appropriate for him to be awake.

The enchanted candles floating in the corners of the room sensed when Harry wanted to sleep, dimming and lighting according to his state of activity. Which was why, when he awoke in the middle of a particularly good stretch of sleep to the sensation of fingers stroking his back, the room was still completely dark.

His first thought, absurdly, was that it was Ginny. He'd been dreaming about her a lot these days, as the walls seemed to get smaller and smaller around him. The life he would have had. Harry kept his eyes firmly shut, grasping loosely at the tail of the retreating dream, trying to will himself to stay asleep. He focused on the thought of her long, slender fingers running across his shoulders - but no, he frowned. That wasn't right. Her hands had always been so small when he'd held them. Harry tried to correct this in his imagination - but then the sharp edge of a nail scraped against his bare neck, and Harry's eyes flew open.

Ginny wasn't here, in his imagination or otherwise - and he definitely wasn't dreaming.

Heart racing, Harry dared a glance over his shoulder, the breath still in his lungs with horror. And there was Lord Voldemort, a deranged look on his face in the dim light, touching Harry's back, of all things. He felt himself go completely stiff. "Er... what do you think you're doing?"

Voldemort said nothing, his crimson eyes glowing blankly in the gloom, and there was a faint smile on those horrible, thin lips. The fingers moved to Harry's arm, brushing across hairs standing on end.

Harry yanked himself away before he could stop himself, flustered and disturbed. "Hey! Cut it out!"

The Dark Lord looked up suddenly, his hand grasping empty air, glancing about himself as though lost. He patted the bed where Harry had been, as if expecting something to be there. The pale hands were spattered with something that looked suspiciously like blood. "Where is she?" Voldemort hissed at him. He seemed childish and unsure, nothing like the superior git Harry was used to.

"Where is who?" Was he talking about Bellatrix?

"She was here," Voldemort murmured, still casting about as though he expected to find anyone except Harry in this prison, and wiping what was Harry was now pretty sure was blood onto the covers. "She would not leave without my permission."

"There's no one else here," Harry said slowly, with growing bewilderment and alarm. "Just me, Harry."

The livid eyes glared, "I am no fool, Potter! You have taken her from me, you - you... have..." the words petered out into a chilly whisper and the slit-pupilled eyes met Harry's gaze and then looked quickly away, "I... I shall leave you to your rest."

Harry edged carefully to the other side of the bed. For the first time in many days, Voldemort was frightening him. "You think you can just - wake me up in the middle of the night and not explain yourself?"

The glittering, feral eyes blinked across at him. "It was not my intention to disturb your rest. I... I was looking for someone and I..." Voldemort glanced down at the red smeared across his white digits, "It matters little, I assure you."

Harry stared. "Who would you be looking for?"

"That is hardly your concern," Voldemort replied coldly, but Harry could hear the edge of hurt in that soft voice. The Dark Lord was rattled.

"It's the snake," said Harry suddenly. "You were looking for your snake. You thought I was... oh, god..." A flush spread up that almost translucent skin as though Voldemort's gaunt cheeks were blue with bruising. "Well, if that could just - never happen again... right..."

"I..." Voldemort was avoiding his eyes again.

"She's really dead then, isn't she?" said Harry, watching him carefully.

"Do you imagine I would be seeking her out in such strange places as this if my dear one were not-? That is why you must be locked away, Harry Potter. Because you are the last. I was flush with victory, careless..."

The last. Harry felt any hope of ever escaping this place drain away. He was the only piece of soul Voldemort had left. There was no way Riddle would ever allow him to escape. Harry swallowed down sudden fury, felt it hit his stomach like a heavy rock. "Who did it?"

"What does it matter? They are as dead as my precious one now." Voldemort rubbed his skeletal hands together, his snake-like nostrils widening as though inhaling the scent of blood. It seemed to calm him.

"But not before they got to your snake," Harry said with bitter glee, unable to help himself. It had been Neville - he was suddenly sure of it. "Killing them didn't bring her back, did it? How did that feel, Riddle? To watch someone murder something so close to you?"

Voldemort shrieked and nails sunk into Harry's face and then ripped viciously down his cheek, digging flesh away. The crimson eyes were bright with rage. Harry cried out, blood pouring down the side of his face, and he swung wildly in the dark at Voldemort. His closed fist connected solidly with a sharp cheekbone, shooting pain up his knuckles. The serpentine wizard hissed in distress and recoiled from the blow into a predatory crouch at the edge of the bed, baring his clenched teeth. Harry had always thought the Dark Lord's teeth would be crooked and yellowed like Snape's, but they were just as long, pale, and inhuman as the rest of Voldemort's features. It took him a moment to realise that the furious red eyes were blinking away tears.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" There was still blood dripping down Harry's face, but the sting in his cheek was worth the satisfaction of seeing Lord Voldemort this way. "Knowing you'll never be able to see her again? That she's gone forever?"

"You are unworthy to speak of her! She and I were one! We coiled and hunted together - drank of each other's thoughts! The chosen companion of Lord Voldemort to bear his soul and share in his immortality!" Voldemort's unguarded thoughts transformed the giant, murderous, man-eating snake into a lovely creature curled in his lap or sharing trust in the dark, wound together in affectionate coils; her yellow, slit-pupilled eyes always open while his red ones were closed. "And, instead of my beautiful Nagini, I am left with a stubborn, obstreperous child who - who loathes me - and, in a moment of cruel delirium, I thought you dead and her returned..." he faltered. My only precious one, my dear friend...

"Well, she's dead," said Harry viciously, pulling away from Voldemort's disturbingly tender thoughts about that awful creature, "and you're stuck with me now, and it's all your own fault."

"I was distracted... I did not protect her..."

"That's right," said Harry, even as his heart contracted at the memory of Ron and Hermione, dead - the poisonous thoughts that had been haunting his endless hours in this claustrophobic room. Harry hadn't been able to protect them, either... "That's right..." he repeated, his own self-loathing creeping into his shaking voice, "You could have stopped it if you'd stopped to think about anyone but yourself for one bloody moment..." He looked back at Voldemort, eyes hardening. "Well, I hope it was worth it, Riddle. I hope your immortality was worth all the lives you destroyed along the way. Because you're going to be paying for it for the rest of eternity."

"That is not my name!" Riddle spat. "And it is not a question of worth, it is a necessity. Why any witch or wizard should simply allow themselves to die when they have the means to prevent it is beyond my understanding."

"Because this is the price," Harry shot back at him, snarling. "You did this to yourself - you sacrificed your precious snake. You made me into your Horcrux. You're all alone and your soul is all but destroyed - and you don't even have the comfort of knowing that your long, miserable existence is going to end one day. I don't know about you, but death doesn't sound too bad compared to all that."

"You are quite right," Voldemort said quietly, "you do not know about me. Yes, I am alone, and my safeguards are in tatters, but I have endured worse. I have my power, my mind is intact, and I can feel the bruise blossoming on my cheek - I can see, hear, and speak - and I rule Wizarding Britain. I shall miss Nagini, but such cruelty is the stuff of life. It goes on and we with it."

Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. "You're incredible," he said, shaking his head and wiping some of the blood off his face. "You mean to tell me you'd honestly rather be alone, and miserable, and delusional for the rest of eternity - than dead?"

"We are all alone," Voldemort scoffed, "and there is nothing worse than death, Potter."

"You know what I think? I think you're just scared of it."

"You believe that I am too proud to admit my fear? I am not. I feared death so I strived to achieve immortality. Bravery is not merely the act of flinging yourself into the abyss, it is also having the courage - every single day - to endure the unendurable."

"Bravery isn't about running away from your fears," Harry said. "It's about accepting them. And I think I've got plenty of it, thanks, seeing as I'm being forced to endure you."

Voldemort sighed, "I did not mean to suggest that you are not brave, Potter. I have long acknowledged and admired this quality in you. I was merely pointing out that - ah, never mind." The Dark Lord shook his head.

Harry did not press him. Swallowing his frustration, Harry scowled and dabbed at the scratches on his face with his robe, watching the blood vanish magically from the cloth. He thought distantly that Ron would benefit greatly from some self-cleaning robes - and then he remembered that Ron was dead.

Suddenly, there was an itchy heat against where Voldemort's nails had gauged and then skin began to heal back together. The Dark Lord stood by the side of the bed, expressionless, wand outstretched as he healed the wounds he had caused. Harry's chest tightened; he suddenly wanted to look anywhere in the room but at Riddle.

"Why are you acting like this?" he blurted out. "Giving me books... healing me... Why aren't you trying to make this as horrible as possible? It shouldn't make any difference to you, as long as I'm still alive."

Voldemort regarded him thoughtfully, his eyes still strangely empty. "It does not make any difference to me, but it would seem to make a great deal of difference to you."

"Because you care so much about what makes a difference to me," Harry said incredulously.

"I can cease to do so, if it causes you such consternation," Voldemort drew his wand away from Harry's only half-healed cheek.

Harry scowled. "Pardon me for being confused. You've been so kind to me in the past - I don't know why I would find it strange."

Riddle began to pace the small room, as though collecting his thoughts. "I have endured years of enforced isolation in my life, Potter. I therefore have some sympathy with your predicament. But, more than any other concern, you are my Horcrux - a part of Lord Voldemort - and it is my responsibility to care for your needs. I promise you I am not so monstrous as I appear. Treat me with courtesy and I shall offer you the same consideration."

Harry stared at him, trying to make out his expression in the dim light. Was this some sort of trick? Perhaps Voldemort was only offering him this so that he could yank it away when he wanted Harry to cooperate. Harry had said himself, after all, that Voldemort had nothing left to hang over his head.

"Constant strife will please neither of us," Voldemort went on. "You are at my mercy, I have no cause to deceive you. We shall be in this situation for an extremely long time and I simply do not see how treating you poorly would benefit me."

"Oh, I dunno - maybe because you're evil?" It had to be a trick. There was no other explanation. This was exactly what Voldemort was trying to do - act all kind and reasonable so that, when he next sunk his claws into Harry's face, it would be all the more painful.

"Evil?" The most evil Dark Lord in history frowned, as though confused by the idea.

"Yeah, evil. You know - murdering babies... feeding live humans to your snake... getting your jollies from torturing people..."

"I had never considered it in that light," Voldemort said simply, "I believe in neither good nor evil. They are mere ideas created to shield the minds of the powerless. I do not act to no purpose, Potter. I end those who resist me. I punish those who displease me. And why should anyone inhume or burn corpses when an animal requires sustenance and a source of meat is readily available?"

"Because it's the decent thing to do?" Harry stared at him, trying to figure out if he was joking. "It's great that you think you have some great plan to justify all the horrible things you do, but when your plan is evil, I don't think it really counts. And killing people is evil," he added quickly. "Torturing people is evil. Flattening the entire world so that you can simply get what you want is evil, no matter which way you look at it."

"I disagree," Riddle said mildly, as though they were discussing which Quidditch side would win the cup this year. "Nature is murder. Small creatures killing those even smaller than themselves, others picking over the remains, and blood and bone sinking into the earth to feed the greedy roots of trees..."

Harry unconsciously inched backward on the bed, away from Voldemort, who was now standing beside it. "Most people would say that's what separates us from animals. What makes us superior. We don't need to kill each other for food, or survival, do we? We're, y'know... civilized."

"Our superiority over mere animals has nothing to do with morality and everything to do with our ability to rule over them. Humans are rational. Why should they fight unless it is necessary? Why should they hunt each other if their diets are amply supplied by weaker, less intelligent creatures who are easier to subdue, by far?"

"Our opinions might differ a bit on what constitutes necessary," Harry said dryly. "I s'pose all that blood on your hands right now - whoever you were roughing up before you came here - that was all necessary, right?"

"No," Voldemort murmured softly, an eerie, distant look crossing his glowing red eyes, "I was dreaming strange dreams and what seemed, in that moment, to be a cure only dragged me deeper under such unsettling currents... the weak, in the end, are little but fodder..."

"Er... right..." Harry frowned, not eager for Voldemort to fall back into that weird trance again. "Well, if you could just remember next time that I'm not your dead snake... that would be great..."

"I will endeavour to remember," Riddle remarked dryly. "Ah, before I depart, I discovered the fate of your Weasley girl."

Ginny. Harry's heart lurched and quickened. "Oh?" he said, as casually as he could. He'd thought Voldemort had forgotten about her; it'd been at least a week since Harry had first asked, and Voldemort hadn't given any indication that he'd been doing anything about it since.

"This is only a rumor, you understand. I am by no means certain of its veracity."

His entire body was completely tense. He could hardly breathe. "Right. Of course."

"I have heard that Miss Weasley fled to France to stay with her sister-in-law's family, the Delacours, in Paris."

"Paris." Harry seemed to visibly deflate with relief. She was safe. But something nagged in the back of his thoughts, some vague and unexpected sense of betrayal. Could Ginny really have simply given up and run away? Harry had been so certain that she would still be fighting... that she would be looking for him... "And it's - from a reliable source, is it?"

"I am certain he was not lying. All agree that Miss Weasley left soon after the battle and my servant insists that he saw her there with Gabrielle Delacour, but he may have been mistaken."

Harry felt very far away from his dark prison; his mind was in France with Ginny. She'd always wanted to travel. And, most importantly, she would be safe there. Voldemort hadn't been interested in taking over the rest of Europe, had he? It would make sense for her to go there; she could start a new life and forget about all the horrors that had happened to her and her family.

And still, Harry couldn't banish the niggling sensation that she had deceived him somehow, that she'd broken his trust in her...

"Thanks," he heard himself say, looking past Voldemort at the unyielding stone walls which delineated his existence.

The Dark Lord nodded and retreated from him - a white mask on a black-draped pole - fading away like a ghost. Harry could not fall back asleep. He was left alone with a thousand heart-aching memories of Ginny and the bittersweet knowledge that she was off somewhere, right now, starting a new beginning - safe and happy and without him.