He didn't know how long he'd slept, but the smell of cooked food wafted over, waking Harry. He opened his mouth and yawned, taking a moment to stretch. He started to roll over, following the scent of food.

Harry groaned into the comforter before turning his head and trying to take a peek. There was a flood of light, and he hissed. He had forgotten to turn the light off last night, and the window offered no reprieve either. There weren't even curtains on them.

The thoughts of burying his head and just falling back to sleep were squashed when he got the second wave of delicious, delicious food. His stomach rumbled, and Harry agreed. It did smell really good. The teen sat up and realized his glasses must have fallen off his face at some point because he definitely did not remember to take them off. Feeling around he picked up the thin metal and plopped them back onto his face.

Looking to the far side of the room, where the desk sat, he noticed a tray. On the tray was a plate filled with a generous helping of eggs, what looked like toast, and some sort of meat. He was hoping it was bacon and not the flesh of Voldemort's recently deceased prisoners. His followers were called Death Eaters. He wouldn't put cannibalism past any of them.

Shaking his head to rid of his morbid thoughts, Harry prepared himself for leaving the bed.

His legs were tangled in the blanket, revealing crisp white sheets underneath. The robe he was wearing had ridden up to his thighs, pooling a large amount of fabric at his stomach, and behind his back. He shuffled a bit, removing himself from the mess, carefully swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

Using the extended leg of the bed frame, he helped himself up by testing his knee out. It still hurt like a bitch, and was double the size it should have been. Hopefully, Voldemort would fulfill his promise of healing him today, if not, Harry would go out of his way to be a massive headache. If Voldemort had lied to him, Harry would never believe another word the man said.

Bracing himself, Harry hobbled over to the desk. Grabbing onto the back of the small chair for support, he took his seat, slightly peeved about how out of breath these simple tasks made him. There was a cool glass of orange juice on the tray, a fancy set of utensils placed meticulously on the side. The meat indeed was bacon, eggs were sunnyside up, and the toast was toasted to a perfectly even brown.

Harry snickered to himself, imagining Voldemort standing over a fancy-looking stove and flipping eggs for Harry. There was no way Voldemort cooked this, meaning that either a follower was a designated chef, or it was a house-elf. The man was probably too paranoid to allow anyone else to cook for him. House elf it had to be then.

Picking up the fork Harry began to dig in. For a second Harry considered the food may be poisoned, but there was no way Voldemort would off him in such a muggle fashion. He didn't seem too trigger-happy with Harry after their little conversation last night, but one never knew with Tom Riddle.

Biting into his eggs, Harry hummed contently. The food was still warm, heating charms were a magical miracle. The yolk ran, and Harry happily soaked it up with a piece of toast. He picked through the bacon, finding the pieces that were more gooey than crispy. He was happy he was alone because he was not in the mood to be in his best manners.

He leaned on the table with his elbow and licked at his fork. When he took a large gulp from the glass of juice, he slurped. There were crumbs leading from the tray to where Harry sat, a little trail. Harry had issues with eating in front of people, it stemmed from growing up only receiving scraps from the Dursleys. He wasn't allowed to eat at the table, so he would be sent back to his cupboard with scraps.

When eating at Hogwarts he had trouble pacing himself. He felt like he needed to eat as much as he could because he never knew when he'd next eat. In his first two years, he had hidden food in his trunk, afraid that one day the feast wouldn't appear and he'd have to feel that empty feeling again.

Eating in front of others was awkward, so he forced himself to slow down, and only take smaller portions. He'd spend time cutting his food into small pieces, dividing them into equal piles. Only then would he allow himself to pick at the food. He had a system. It went like this: a vegetable, meat, and then a bite of whatever side he'd chosen. Usually, it was mashed potatoes because they slid down his throat easier.

Eating was a chore with others around, when alone he could let himself go. So he did. He ate like he was starved, with reckless abandon. No one was there to judge him.

Finishing off the glass, Harry decided to hell with it and licked his plate clean of the leftover yolk and bacon grease. He clumsily knocked the fork off the desk when bringing the plate up to his face, not realizing it because the sound was muffled by the carpet. He placed the plate back onto the tray. It immediately vanished as his finger left the porcelain.

Harry was a bit disappointed that he would not get to meet the house-elf as it was a possible way to escape. Voldemort was too cunning to let something like that slip through the cracks though. He doubted he'd see another living being as long as the man decided he was dead to the world.

Pushing the chair back, Harry exited his seat. He yelped loudly as his right foot came into contact with cold metal, once again jarring his knee while trying to hastily pull away. The hot throbbing pain that had subsided came back tenfold.

"Son of a bitch!" Harry leaned fully on the desk, practically folded in half on it. He drew in a deep breath, someone once told him it would help with pain, probably Hermione. He stayed like that for a couple of minutes, shifting when he thought he wouldn't puke from the pain.

Looking over the edge of the desk, he saw the culprit. His fork! Luckily he hadn't stepped on the pronged end, only grazed it enough to warrant his reaction. It hadn't vanished with the rest of the tray, and Harry saw an opportunity. It could be a weapon, it could be anything he wanted. Leaning down, he swiped the utensil and held it against his chest. It was his, he licked it, he had claimed it. Now he just needed to hide it.

Looking around the room, Harry juggled his options. The desk didn't have any drawers, and he hadn't any tape to place it underneath. The dresser was a no-go, too obvious. Gazing at the bed, he had an idea. Under the mattress would work, and it would be pretty easy to get a hold of if placed correctly. Plus, what were the odds of Voldemort checking under his mattress?

Pushing himself off the desk, Harry made his way back to the bed. The small journey proved to be more difficult after re-hurting his knee, but he made it in one piece. Two pieces if you counted the fork. Resolved, Harry decided the fork would do best near the headboard, under the mattress below the pillow on the left side of the bed. He slipped the metal easily under the top mattress, the four prongs just barely a centimeter from the edge. It wouldn't be too difficult to pull it out with either hand if he was laying on the bed there.

It was at least something, a safeguard. He couldn't use magic, but he could wield a fork. As he had said to Voldemort, he still had his hands. Sitting up from his bent-over position, Harry sat on the edge of the bed. He looked out the window, to the great outdoors.

From where he was standing, it seemed to be a bit windy. The visible trees swayed in time with the long grass. A bird flew by, and Harry wished very badly that he could be flying too. He continued to watch the outside world, and then noticed something very peculiar. The trees swayed with the grass, and the bird flew. Then it happened again, and again. The window was showing him a loop. Harry couldn't believe it.

He wasn't even being given a real scene of the outdoors, only what Voldemort wanted him to see. That was insane… But also clever. It meant even if Harry was able to get in contact with someone from the outside, he couldn't give them any hints as to where he was. He doubted the scene before him was what the actual scenery looked like, wherever he was. He could be in the mountains of Canada or the deserts of Egypt.

Now thoroughly in a foul mood, Harry frowned at the window. The fake window. He heard the door open, yet refused to acknowledge the man.

"I have things I need to do today, let's finish this quickly," Voldemort strode into the room, the door closing behind him. Harry huffed loudly.

"You're the one with the wand," The Gryffindor grumbled.

"You'd do well to remember that." The Dark Lord snapped, patience running low already. He was also in a bad mood it seemed. Although, Harry surmised that it was the man's natural state. The Dark Lord walked into his peripheral, and Harry turned his head. The snake faced Lord, took his wand out, and motioned for Harry to stand. Grimacing, Harry complied. He shuffled to the end of the bed, and once again used the frame to hold himself up. "Lift your robe up, and do. Not. Move."

Harry fought the urge to act scandalized, maybe mention something about buying him dinner first. One look at the Dark Lord's face made Harry bite his tongue. Harry reached down to lift the large robe, it took him a couple of tries to gather it all up. His bare feet came into view, and he hiked it higher. Making sure not to go too far, because he didn't want Voldemort to see his pants.

His knee was a ghastly thing to look at. It was several shades of red and purple, grossly swollen. The bruising seemed to reach down past his knee, blood running underneath his skin. The whole picture wasn't pretty, the odd shape reminded him of the knobbly ends of the branches on the Whomping Willow. Cut his lower leg off and it would seriously look the same.

The Dark Lord came forward, leaning down and kneeling. His intense gaze fixed on Harry's knee. This encounter felt weirdly intimate. Harry fought the urge to run away as Voldemort raised his wand and began casting.

"Luminare Torpere-" A soft green hue encompassed his knee, and he felt relief immediately. Harry wanted to ask what the spell was but didn't want to upset Voldemort's concentration. "Musculus Emendo." There was an uncomfortable pulling sensation from below his knee, another above it. Just behind his kneecap, he felt the two join into one. "Fragmentum Mendacium, Inanis Sanguine."

A pink line flowed from his knee into the tip of the wand, and Harry watched in astonishment as his knee unswelled. The color started to resemble a normal skin pigment once again. "Lenio." Voldemort tapped his wand on Harry's knee, and opal droplets dripped out from the wand. Three taps, and the unique liquid absorbed into his knee. He felt slight tingling, and some of the soreness returned. Voldemort backed away from Harry, and his wand disappeared once again. "It will be sore, but it is healed as much as it can be with magic."

"That was brilliant-why aren't you a healer or something? You could be doing good with-"

"I'm not going to have this conversation with you."

"But-"

"Stop trying to leave the room." Was all he got before Voldemort disappeared in front of him. A puff of smoke and a loud crack was left in his wake.

"Stop trying to leave the room." Harry mocked. As if. Looking around, Harry realized that he had nothing to do, and had no idea when he'd next see Voldemort. This was going to blow. There were no books, not a single piece of parchment. He was alone here with his thoughts, and that scared him an unfair amount. This was just a larger, brighter version of his cupboard.

At least there at the Dursleys, he had his imagination and a couple of toys. He could leave whenever he wanted into his little world, pretending to be Harry Potter, the boy who someone cared about. He would lay in his small bed and close his eyes, imagining himself in a house with a family. He'd live in a big house, with too many bedrooms for the number of people living there.

They had bathrooms with slides and a backyard with swings. His pretend-mom would wake him up in bed with a kiss, and then they would share a delicious breakfast cooked by his pretend-father. He was an amazing cook, and always made Harry's favorites. They never told him his hair was too messy, or that he was a freak. This was before he knew he was a wizard, so his pretend-parents couldn't do magic. But they accepted him. Sometimes they would ask him to do stuff for them. "Harry dear, would you please make the salt fly over here?" or "Show me how you can teleport!".

Magic in his daydreams was a wonderful thing that they loved, a stark contrast to the Dursleys and their hate for it. He didn't use the word magic in his daydreams, instead, he used to call it "The Strange".

Harry tried to think of other memories from before Hogwarts. Most were tarnished with Dudley's face, more so his fist. Vernon and Petunia never right out hit him, unless it was a swat on the butt or to the back of the head. No, they hurt him in different ways. Vernon constantly berated him, horrible comments that fueled Harry's belief of there was something wrong with him.

He was rough too, when he'd grab Harry he left bruises. He was thrown into his cupboard on multiple occasions, resulting in him hitting his head or knees. Petunia put him in harm's way. Forcing him to cook at the hot stove, he'd burn himself often, or not take care of Harry's wounds, letting them fester. He truly would have been dead if he didn't have his magic.

She'd also let him do dangerous things, he'd not been old enough to realize the consequences. Like mowing the lawn, and not warning him against the powerful blades. Keeping electricity-powered objects away from the water was another thing he wasn't taught. He had learned the hard way about running into the street as a child when he'd simply toddled into the road and was almost hit. She had never told him to look both ways.

That was also another thing, he was often left unattended. Playing outside where anyone could snatch him up, or being alone in the house for hours on end when the rest of the family left to go on some fun excursion.

Dudley however, had no qualms about hurting him directly. Pushing him around, punching and kicking. Dudley liked to ram his big body into Harry's much smaller one and knock him into various items or people. Harry suffered from a sprained ankle when his cousin decided to kick at his leg at an angle. He was lucky there wasn't a break. Because of his horrid attention from Dudley, the other kids stayed far away from him. They didn't want to become targets as well. So Harry was usually alone.

He had trouble with reading and writing because the Dursleys would never help him with his homework, most of the time he wasn't able to do it because he couldn't see in his cupboard. He couldn't distinguish the difference between letters that looked the same, like b, d, p, q, and s, z. His writing took a huge hit, and he still had problems with holding his pen or quill correctly.

Harry could list a million ways he was tortured by his supposed family, and he could talk for days about the repercussions of it. But he never did. It was different thinking about it vs talking out loud. It made it more real, and Harry knew he had issues with feelings of shame and guilt. It was one of the big reasons he listened to Dumbledore and tried his best to be a good boy who lived.

Thinking of Dumbledore made Harry feel a multitude of emotions. He so badly wanted to see the good in the man, but he was angry. Voldemort was right when he told him that. Harry was upset, he was sick of being kept in the dark. Being used and thrown around when needed, and then being cast away when inconvenient. He was a person, not a weapon, not a doll.

Harry had moved to lay on the bed at some point, his eyes closed. He was starting to have trouble perceiving if he was Harry Potter the Gryffindor or the freak under the stairs. His body felt like it wasn't his own like he was an imposter. Was he here right now? Had he ever been to Hogwarts, or was that his active imagination?

For a moment he felt like he was looking down at his laying form, floating just in the corner of the room. He could see his unruly hair, and black eyelashes were drawn. The steady rise and fall of his chest matched the beat he could still feel.

His heart sped up, and Harry realized he was outside his own body.

He panicked and desperately tried to get back to himself. But all he could do was float, suspended in the corner of the room. His body stayed still, looking peaceful asleep. He felt anything but peaceful.

"Help me!" He tried to yell, but the words never formed. He couldn't do anything, he was stuck. Like a helpless wraith, as Voldemort once was. "Please!" He begged no one, in particular, no one could hear him anyway.

Harry watched as the door to his gilded cage opened, and a dark figure slinked through the entrance. It was a snake. A big snake. And it was approaching Harry's body. Now in hysterics, Harry was yelling for the snake to get away from him. It was going to eat him. Swallow him whole. And he was going to have to watch the whole thing.

The beast began unhinging its jaw, opening its mouth in an ungodly way. It moved towards his feet, now up on the bed with him. The snake closed in, and Harry sat straight up. His screaming startled him awake. He was back on the bed. Flinching away from the end of the mattress, where he saw there was no snake. There was only a discarded duvet and ruffled sheets. His heart hammered so hard in his chest, and he was covered in sweat. The thick robes clung to him, heavy. It was a dream, just a nightmare. A terrible, horrible nightmare.

Harry let out a ragged breath and ran his hand through his hair. It had been so real, so vivid. No matter how many times he had nightmares, they never got easier. He often had bad dreams, enough that his four-poster bed was spelled quiet before bed every night, they never let up, always plaguing his worst fears.

He'd never had a nightmare like that one though. The out-of-body experience was frightening. He wondered if Voldemort had felt the same when the killing curse backfired and destroyed his body. How long did it take his wraith form to realize what had happened? He must have been horribly disorientated. Had it hurt, being ripped away from yourself like that? Harry had to think so.

Calmed down a bit, he decided it was time for another bath. No, maybe a shower this time. He couldn't risk falling asleep in the tub and having another dream like that. He really would drown himself accidentally.

The shower was quick, not relaxing like his bath the previous night. He felt chilled, but feverish as well. He needed a distraction. Something to do. But the only items he had was the clothing he wore, his old muggle clothes had vanished from the bathroom. He also had the fork. What could he possibly do with a fork? Carve into the wooden desk or dresser? Maybe destroy the walls. He could throw it into the ceiling…

He could throw it into the ceiling? Like how students in his class used to do with pencils, where they would try to get them stuck. It was at least something… could he do it? Should he? The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it. It was stupid, so stupid.

Harry quickly dressed in a new set of pants and robes, still perturbed with the idea that they were His. Then he went to his hiding place. The fork was where he left it, and he thanked whoever was listening that it hadn't vanished. He really would have gone mad, not being able to at least attempt it. He looked at the ceiling and tried to pick a spot, it had to be somewhere he could move the chair in case the fork got stuck.

He had a perfect expanse of ceiling between the bed and window, he could even sit on the bed while throwing it.

Holding the heavy utensil, Harry felt giddy. It was really, very stupid. It shouldn't even sound fun, but he'd never gotten to try the pencil game in school. He couldn't afford to lose the only pencil given to him. This was his weird redemption to his younger self then. He owed it to lonely little Harry. With that thought he flung the fork with his dominant hand, it hit the ceiling with a loud 'thwump' and fell straight down. It landed silently on the carpet a few feet away from him. Disappointed, Harry got up to try again. And again. And again.

He must have gone for hours, throwing this fork. He ended up getting it stuck a couple of dozen times, he was getting the hang of the angle and force needed. He was trying to break his record of how many times he could get it stuck in a row. He was at 5. Which was an incredible feat in his opinion, considering how difficult it was. One time he threw it and it lined up perfectly with holes already there. Harry cheered loudly, throwing his hands in the air as if he was playing quidditch and catching the snitch.

If anyone had told him that this was how he'd spend an entire Friday evening, he would have laughed in their face. He only stopped his strange game when a tray of food suddenly appeared on the desk, ruining his throw. The fork clattered to the floor once more, and Harry decided to give it a break. The ceiling wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. Placing the fork back into its home, he went to his supper.

He hadn't received lunch, or maybe he had slept in long enough that he did receive lunch and not breakfast. Without a clock, watch, or his wand to cast Tempus, he was shit-outta-luck with knowing the direct times. The window wasn't a reliable source either.

He ate his steak and kidney pie with more etiquette this time, watching the loop outside. It seemed the times of day had their little loops. There was no longer a breeze and the bird did not fly by. The stars that started to shine in the slowly darkening sky twinkled in a pattern. Knowing that it was fake took away any beauty of the image. Bullocks.

Harry took a vicious bite into his steak. He hoped tomorrow wasn't going to be as bland.