Harry wasn’t sulking, not really. Sulking implied stubbornness, some childish refusal to yield. This was different—he simply didn’t have the energy to pretend that everything was fine. His fork scraped quietly against the porcelain, pushing the same piece of carrot back and forth across his plate, leaving faint streaks in the thin gravy.

He thought of Ron first. It was always Ron, because Ron’s absence was loud—too loud. Ron would’ve been here cracking jokes, rolling his eyes at whatever gloomy atmosphere Voldemort insisted on conjuring. Ron would’ve told him to eat, if only to annoy their host by staying healthy.

Then came Hermione. She’d be pacing in the library, muttering spells under her breath, her brow furrowed so deeply it might never smooth again. He could almost hear her voice, sharp with determination—lecturing Ron, scolding Harry, trying to hold the world together with sheer force of will.

Were they in the Gryffindor common room right now? The fire roaring, their chairs pulled close? Were they warm? Safe? Or maybe they were planning something—an attack, a rescue, anything.

And were they eating? Harry hoped so. He hoped they were getting second helpings and pumpkin juice and treacle tart, hoped they weren’t picking at their food the way he was now.

A hollow ache pressed at his chest, sharper than hunger. He missed them so much it hurt. It was a dull, constant thing that flared when he let his thoughts wander too far.

Voldemort had cut him off from the world entirely. No letters. No owl post. Not even a smudged, discarded Daily Prophet. Harry sometimes wondered if the man feared that the smallest glimpse of the outside would give him hope—and hope, in this place, felt like contraband.

Across from him, Voldemort sat perfectly still, his long fingers resting on the edge of his plate. The food before him was untouched. Harry knew he didn’t eat, not really. It was a performance, like so many other things in this strange captivity. The sight made the room feel colder.

Why even bother? Why the charade of a shared meal? Why plate food at all if it would never be touched?

The silence stretched. Harry shifted his fork in his hand, the clink of metal on ceramic unnaturally loud. Voldemort’s gaze didn’t waver—unblinking, steady, a constant weight pressing between Harry’s shoulder blades.

Harry’s fingers tightened around the fork, more for something to hold than any intent to use it. His appetite had long since withered away, yet the food sat there, steaming faintly, a mockery of comfort.

“You will eat,” Voldemort said at last, his voice quiet but absolute, each word wrapped in an unspoken command.

Harry didn’t answer.

The carrot remained on his plate, untouched.