Chapter Text
No one knows how they got there.
Harry went to sleep in his bed at Hogwarts and woke up in this place; the other prisoners have similar stories, from all the countries around the globe.
Months later, and still no one figured out what happened.
Harry would call his new home a prison; it is a prison, that is certain, only it has no guards.
During the months he spent there, Harry had not seen a single guard.
They have cells, rows upon rows of them, but while they can slide the bars shut, they won’t lock.
There are no windows, only bright neon lights that stay on for eighteen hours, before going out for six hours, plunging them in complete darkness.
From everything Harry saw, the cells are all identical, with bunk beds, a toilet and a shower head.
On the first level, out of four, there is an enormous open area.
Every twelve days an incredible pile of strange rocks appears there, along with crates of canned food, blankets, books or small comforts.
The rocks came with instructions. A single piece of paper with drawings. They also come with hammers. It is clear they are expected to break the incredibly hard and resistant rocks until they obtain a singly, tiny, red gem from their centre.
At first, they refused to do it. But the food and supplies stopped coming and they were left starving.
When they all do their part, when they carefully extract the gems, and the huge pile of rocks ends, they wake up with another pile, and with crates filled with necessities.
“They must gas us,” a muggleborn, American wizard says, when all their collective plans to have someone stay awake at all time to see who brings the rocks fail. Always, when all the gems are extracted from a pile, they all fall unconscious, and wake up to a new pile.
There were almost six hundred people there when they woke up in the prison, on that first day.
Five months later, sixteen of them are gone.
Seven died in the first week, when tensions were high, when language barriers and paranoia made some attack.
There are wizards and witches of every nationality Harry had heard of. Almost half a year later and Harry is yet to speak to even half the prison population.
There’s still plenty of distrust, everyone thinks someone must know something, that maybe a few of them are working with their captors, and they are undercover.
After the first week, every group chose someone to represent them. The Brits chose McGonagall.
And she, along with the other representatives vote fairly- how to ration the food, how to make sure everyone works equally on the rocks. They arranged for a library right next to the pile of rocks- the books, their only entertainment, are guarded by people in shifts that keep track of who lends them and when they give them back.
The elected leaders, all of them able to use wandless magic, settle disputes that are bound to arise every now and again.
After the first seven people died violently, there are no more deadly attacks.
Whoever keeps them prisoners took the bodies when they came with the new rocks and supplies.
But Harry still remembers the stench of seven rotting bodies coming from one side of the prison.
Three more killed themselves since then, but they had the decency to do it right before their jailers were due to bring other rocks, so they were speared of the awful smell.
One Finish woman died of natural causes, a Healer said. Her heart just gave out.
(-)
Harry shares his cell with Ginny. In the beginning, he shared with Ron, but now Ron is in the next cell, with Hermione, even if Arthur and Molly aren’t happy with the arrangements.
But they had to accept it.
The leaders do their best to keep spirits calm, to have order, to protect the oldest and youngest amongst them, take care of the frail ones, but there is nothing they can do when Omegas go into heat or Alphas into rut.
They tried- McGonagall and the others attempted to keep the Alphas in rut shut down in cells locked with magic; but when nine omegas and thirteen alphas went into ruts and heats at the same time, there was nothing to be done.
That’s how another five people die. Three Omegas, ripped apart by crazed Alphas, and two Alphas fighting to death for the same Omega.
(-)
“Omegas and Alphas must pair up,” McGonagall says to the group of Brits, a decision taken by all the leaders, together. “Every fertile Omega with every fertile Alpha. It is the only way to make sure no other tragedies happen.”
A logical plan.
Only harder to put in practice. Some of the younger ones haven’t presented yet, but they will. The most pressing problem: the Omegas outnumber the Alphas, three to one.
“Which is good,” Hermione says, trying to look at the bright side. “It’s easier to have a few Omegas share an Alpha.”
If it had been the other way….no Alpha would share.
There’s also the problem that some of them don’t want to be paired up. They have a partner back home, or they just don’t like the partner they are assigned.
Harry is incredibly lucky. Ginny just presented as an Omega and it’s a relief to have her.
Ron and Hermione are both Betas, so they don’t have to worry at all.
But not everyone is so lucky.
Still, when the waves of heats and ruts come, no one dies anymore.
Noise and the smell of sex fill the air, moans or cries, but it’s preferable to screams of help and the smell of rotting corpses.
The older Alphas take the young Alpha boys aside and try to teach them to avoid a pregnancy.
“Impossible,” an old Alpha Frenchmen, a grumpy one, sneers. “It’s a biological imperative. You really expect these young boys to keep their heads on their shoulders and not knot inside their sweet omegas?”
(-)
They have seventeen confirmed pregnant omegas in their sixth month at the prison.
“I won’t do that to you,” Harry whispers to Ginny, when they go to one of the vacant cells together. “I promise, Ginny, I’ll stop myself, I’ll-”
“Shh.” She smiles at him, sweetly. “I know you’ll do your best. I trust you.”
Harry gathers her at his chest, a fierce need to protect her, to care for her, almost suffocating him.
He hasn’t had a rut, yet. He’d only just presented a month before they were taken.
Ginny presented in prison. She hasn’t had a heat yet either.
They kiss and explore each other bodies, so they won’t have to do so for the first time when they are driven mindless with lust.
It’s one of the few joys Harry has in that place.
I am lucky, he reminds himself.
He has Ron and Hermione; he has Ginny, Luna, Sean, Dean, Neville, Parvati and Padma. He has McGonagall and half the other Weasleys.
Draco is not so lucky. There are some Slytherins with them in the prison, but none from his year. He has his mother, at least, but Narcissa is a fertile Omega and her husband isn’t there. Yet she is strikingly beautiful and apparently very pragmatic. When McGonagall said they must pair up, she saw the wisdom in that and she approached the most powerful looking Alpha wizard in the prison. An Armenian man, in his early forties, that used to work with dangerous creatures. One of the few to be able to do wandless magic almost perfectly.
Draco hates him with a passion. Draco hates his own assigned mate with a passion, too, even if his mother made sure Draco got a desirable, strong Alpha.
So many others there are without family or friends, simply plucked out of their world and thrown into this hell.
I really am lucky.
And Dumbledore will find them.
Other people, foreigners, also have hope some hero from their countries will find them.
Draco is determined his father will come for him.
Everyone hopes for someone.
(-)
When Ginny’s heat comes, triggering Harry’s rut, it’s hard to even remember his name.
It’s just need need need, a fire in his veins, a vicious protectiveness, ugly possessiveness taking hold over his entire being.
She smells lovely, tantalising, fresh and flowery and sweet.
Harry can’t part from her side. He’s always hard, at all times.
But, through all that, he reaches inside himself and he does not knot her. He promised. He doesn’t want to hurt her.
Something primal inside him wants her to fall pregnant. That’s just the rut speaking.
But something else, something tender that has nothing to do with biology wants to have a child, a family-
Not here. Not in a prison. Control yourself.
Harry does. He doesn’t even bite her, doesn’t claim her, because he doesn’t want it to happen in this place. He wants them to get married first, to do it properly.
“Amazing self control,” several Alphas congratulate Harry, patting him on the back.
(-)
In his seventh month there, with Molly pregnant and falling ill, every day a little more. Harry is desperate.
Ginny is crying all the time, at her mother’s side.
The other older pregnant women have trouble working on the rocks, so there’s a bigger load on the others, if they want supplies in time.
Alphas of pregnant women are getting restless, wanting to get more food for their mates, starting to get hostile.
Harry decides he has to stop waiting for Dumbledore and find a way to escape, though that is prohibited.
Several of the leaders had tried in the beginning. Powerful wizards and witches. All failed and now they are vigilant no one else is to even try.
“Too dangerous,” they keep saying.
Harry doesn’t understand why no one tries harder. So he’ll try.
(-)
He fails the first time; they get caught by other prisoners.
He fails the second time, too.
On his third attempt, thirteen months after they woke up in that place, Harry and Ron actually break through a vent. But they make too much noise, far too much, and people are coming to investigate-
“Go,” Ron and Dean lift Harry on their shoulder, until he grasps the edge of the vent. Neville, Luna and Hermione are trying to distract the other prisoner, but they’re failing. “Go, find help!” Dean urges him, looking up.
“Take care of Ginny until I am back!” Harry begs.
“I will,” Ron promises, and with a last look shared between them, Harry starts crawling through the vent.
He uses the maps Hermione and Seamus had made. He gets lost several times, but after checking multiple exists that seem to lead back to other cells in the prisons, he discovers a room that is different.
Empty, except for some strange devices. They hum, symbols brightly illuminated on screens attached to them. They seem distinctively muggle- electronic. Mechanical. Nothing magical about them.
From that room, Harry gets to another, by forcing open a small door. It almost looks like a doggie door, low on the floor. Harry has to use his magic, more than he was ever able to before, wandless as he is, but he makes it through.
Into another strange room, filled with strange devices.
They never end.
And then he hears a hissing noise, a part of the wall seems to just disappear-
Harry falls unconscious before he can even open his mouth.
(-)
He wakes up in a cell.
He feels dizzy, and he has a headache. He tries to stand-
“Lie down, Harry. You’re still recovering.”
He blinks. I’m dreaming.
He must be dreaming because that voice-
Dumbledore’s face comes into his field of vision, bent over Harry.
We’re saved. This is it. It will be over soon.
His heart fills with happiness. Relief like he’d never felt before-
“Professor!” Harry croaks. His voice is rough, like he hadn’t used it in a while.
An old, spotted hand cups Harry’s face, gently.
He’s really here. God, thank you.
“Professor! I-“
“Shh, Harry. Rest.”
But why are we in a cell if Dumbledore is here?
Harry frowns, and despite Dumbledore's gentle hands, he sits up.
It is a cell, but it’s different from all the cells he’d seen so far.
There are far more things scattered around, stacks of blankets, more bottles of water then McGonagall allows per cell, more books than one person can borrow at once.
“Where are we?”
Dumbledore looks older. His beard and hair are pure white, almost no silver left. His beard is short, and his face is gaunt, with big dark circles under his eyes.
“In hell,” comes a gruff answer and Harry startles, looks at the entrance to the cell and sees Moody there.
(-)
Harry is given tea. Actual tea. With honey- ‘just a little spoon, Alastor, the boy is in shock, don’t be greedy’- and lemon!
They boiled water over a little flame Dumbledore produced.
Harry tells his story, goes over what he went through, keeps starring at Dumbledore, Moody and now an Auror named Savage joined them, alongside Kingsley.
“That’s the last thing I remember,” he ends the story when the tea is over. “I didn’t even see who attacked me.”
“They must have moved you. Reclassified you.”
“What?”
“From my understanding, there are several prisons,” Dumbledore says, seated at the edge of the bed. He’s dressed in maroon trousers, with a red sweater and a blue scarf.
“Some are lower security, for witches and wizards they deemed docile and less powerful; for young people, or very frail. Like the one you were in. Other prisons seem to be made to host more dangerous prisoners. And then-“ he sighs. “Then there is this one. It was built for the most powerful of us. The most likely to cause issues.”
Harry needs some time to wrap his head around it. He just can’t-
There is no hope. They have been waiting for Dumbledore this entire time, but no rescue is coming. If they got Dumbledore…
“Who are they?”
“No one knows,” Dumbledore answers. “No one ever saw them.”
Harry doesn’t miss the look that Moody gives Dumbledore. It looks paranoid and distrustful. Doubtful.
“Here.” Dumbledore hands him a piece of chocolate. “Eat it. It will make you feel better.”
Harry blinks at it. “Why do you have sweets? And tea?”
“You didn’t get it?” Kingsley asks, curious.
“We only got canned food. Mostly. Sometimes we got bread and bananas, but that was all.”
“Like I said, we are more-hmm,” Dumbledore coughs. “Likely to cause trouble.”
Moody snorts. “We rioted. We stopped working on their stupid rocks.”
“We tried that, too! But then we didn’t receive any food or water.”
“Yes. But if they don’t give us food, we all die,” Dumbledore says. “We figured they need us alive. So we refused to work until they sent more supplies. Better ones.”
“You really were docile back there, weren’t you?” Moody grunts, narrowing his eyes at Harry.
“Alastor,” Dumbledore warns, when Harry splutters, indignant. “They had young ones with them. They would have died without food. They did the sensible thing in obeying.”
“There are no children here?”
Though Harry realises he’s no longer a child, either. He turned seventeen at some point, didn’t he? He was taken at the end of his sixth year at Hogwarts, and that was more than a year before.
“No. You’re by far the youngest person here,” Moody answers. “It’s like Albus said. This prison is full of the most dangerous, most powerful wizards and witches. Bunch of murderers, the lot of them. Half of Azkaban is here. The foreigners say they can see their own previously locked up criminals around here, too.”
There’s a commotion outside. Loud. Someone is yelling. Someone else is screaming Dumbledore’s name with a thick accent.
“Stay here, Harry,” Dumbledore says, standing. “Alastor, don’t let him out of your sight!”
And then he leaves.
Harry stands and walks right after him, Moody at his back.
They’re on a second floor, that oversees the first one. There are rows of cells on all sides, with narrow corridors leading to stairs. Harry leans over a rail and sees the same enormous empty area that they had at his last prison.
There’s a scuffle down there. It looks like a rugby match uncle Vernon used to watch, just a pile of men all over each other.
Dumbledore is running down the stairs, speaking loudly in a foreign language, shouldering his ways through a crowd that is jeering loudly.
“The Russians again?” Moody asks a tall man that is leaning over the rails to get a better look.
“No. The Bulgarians this time. They attacked one of the Arabs.”
Harry feels the violence in the air; it surrounds him like a second set of clothes, sinks into his skin, awaking his Alpha instinct.
“Better get a hold of yourself, Potter,” Moody says. “Stay close to us, or you’ll die before you can blink.”
Just then Dumbledore and a familiar looking wizard break apart the scuffle.
When they part, a man lies on the floor.
He’s partly decapitated.
Harry stares on, in shock, hoping to wake up.
“There were almost four hundred of us when we arrived here,” Moody says, completely unaffected by the events. “We’re short of two hundred now. Most died in the first two months, before a sort of hierarchy formed around here,” he explains as the prisoners drag the dead man away, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.
“For a while there was a tentative peace. But then all the leaders of the major factions escaped.”
“What?” Harry turns to look at him. “Someone escaped?”
“They sure did. Four days they were missing before they were recaptured. Four days, Potter. Sixty men died in those days. I lost Scrimgeour then.” He sighs, eyes glazing over for a moment, lost in his memories, before he shakes his head. “They returned and now we have some semblance or order again; as you can see, it is very tenuous.”
Dumbledore is speaking with someone, pointing at the trail of blood. Another man approaches. A massive man, with a darker complexion and even darker eyes.
“That’s Amir. One of the leaders. We’ve got four of those. The four horsemen,” Moody says, with a snort.
The man named Amir stares down at the prisoner that was arguing with Dumbledore. The smaller man wilts under that stare.
“I am sorry,” Amir tells Dumbledore in a broken English. “A mistake.”
Dumbledore sighs, and Amir takes the other man by the neck and leads him away. Another group follows them to the northern cells of the first floor.
“So Dumbledore is one of the leaders? And this Amir?” Harry asks, confused.
“Yes. And then there’s Romanov.” Moody looks around at the people mingling downstairs, but gives up shortly. “He’s probably sleeping. You’ll see him soon, and then you’ll wish you haven’t.”
“And they all escaped?”
“They did. They’re the most powerful ones here. They command magic almost as well as they did with a wand. They still won’t tell us how they escaped. Or what they saw. They claim they can’t remember,” he spits, eye twitching.
“Alastor,” Kingsley warns, coming out of the cell. “We’ve been through this before. If we can’t trust Albus, then we can’t trust anyone-“
“Trust?” Moody barks.
“What’s going on?” Harry asks, looking between Kingsley and Moody. “What happened?”
It’s odd to hear the venom in Moody’s voice when directed at Dumbledore.
Moody turns, abruptly, takes Harry’s shoulder so forcefully, Harry struggles-
He’s moved around until he faces the cells on the other side of the second floor.
A handful of men are standing there, all staring straight at Harry. And among them-
“That’s your fourth leader,” Moody points at Voldemort.
Harry needs to sit down, pinned down by red eyes
(-)
“It was bad in the beginning,” Dumbledore says, alone with Harry in the cell. “By no means do I want to diminish your own experiences, but you can’t understand how it went here. At first, most people grouped by nationality, drawn together by culture and language. The Americans stuck together with the Canadians. The Russians with the other eastern Europeans and so on.
Us Brits were divided. I had Moody, and Kingsley, a few other Aurors or old friends I could trust. Some lonely germans flocked to me. But the rest of the Brits…..they were brought straight from Azkaban. Voldemort’s loyal army. He came here with a ready to go army.” Dumbledore sighs.
There were far more Brits in Harry’s prison. But yeah- no Death Eaters.
Because they aren’t docile. Death Eaters are clearly likely to cause issues.
“The others were always infighting between themselves, who to lead a certain group, why someone should lead- complete chaos. Only the Death Eaters were organised. The chain of command is very clear there. They stuck together, they took orders from Voldemort without bickering and they were the better for it. You think we share food equally here? When food comes, we just do our best to get it. It was each man for his own in those first few drops. Like vultures. After a drop, at least ten people would die. And then another ten the following day, stealing supplies from each other.”
Harry shudders. In the previous prison, after those first confusing days, no one would kill over food.
“And then there’s Romanov. A Russian General, head of their magical law enforcement. He, too, came in with a ready army. I’ve heard of him before- he served the Russian Ministry for over three decades, and he’s one of the most powerful wizards in Europe. He and Voldemort were the quickest to ally. It put them in a very strong position.”
“But shouldn’t this General hate dark wizards - you said he’s an Auror-”
Dumbledore sighs again. “It doesn’t matter here that much. Survival takes precedence. He and Voldemort, with their men, took most of the food, hoarded it. They would only share with those that swore loyalty to them.”
Harry can’t imagine how those first months must have been here. They were bad enough in the first prison, but here?
“Voldemort approached me. He said it would be foolish for us Brits to be divided; that we can resume our conflict once we’re free. I was at a disadvantage. I am not…popular in this crowd. Most of the people here practice dark magic. Even Aurors from other countries, where it is still legal to do so. My stance was always against that. I helped make laws in the International Federation, laws that upset most everyone here. Everyone wanted to kill me for a while.”
Harry feels his jaw dropping.
“Of course, forgive my arrogance, they weren’t successful.” A tight smile. It looks warn. There’s no spark in Dumbledore’s eyes, and it’s so odd. Disheartening. “Amir- he leads quite a number of people, too-offered to be my ally, first. And then, Voldemort offered the truce. It was wise to take it. I had to. Believe me, it was not easy. But-”
“I understand,” Harry whispers.
He doesn’t really, because he simply can’t imagine all the things Dumbledore is saying. That level of violence is- even for Harry, who is no stranger to violence, it just is impossible to wrap his mind around the story.
“The four of us are the most accomplished wizards in this place and we are willing to carry the burden of leadership. We take responsibility for our men and we do our best to keep order. It isn’t ideal, there is always a problem with someone, but it’s the best outcome we can hope for.”
Harry nods, trying to take it all in.
“And now, I must talk to you about something else.”
Dumbledore tells Harry about Horcruxes. Of course, Harry already knew about those, he had lessons with Dumbledore for his entire sixth year.
What he had not known is that Harry has a piece of Voldemort inside him.
“I was forced to inform, him, too.” Dumbledore says. “When you were dropped here, unconscious- Harry, he wanted to kill you straight away. I had to tell him. Something happened to his other Horcruxes. He woke up here looking different, as you noticed, and I am positive that means something happened to the others.”
Voldemort looks more like the man Harry saw in one of Dumbledore’s memories- the one where he came to Hogwarts asking to teach. His face is weird, something serpentine about it, even if there is a nose now. Or so Harry thinks. He can’t be sure, he didn’t get a good look from so far away, but he thinks there was a nose, and he definitely has hair, dark and short.
“What happened to the other Horcruxes?”
“We have a theory, but it is nothing solid.”
We. It is extremely weird to hear Dumbledore refer to himself and Voldemort as ‘we’.
“He didn’t show it, but he was panicked. He thought he was mortal. When you showed up, and I told him-” Dumbledore runs his finger through his short beard. He looks exhausted. Harry never thought of him as such, there was always that endless energy clinging to him in the past. “He won’t hurt you, now.”
In a strange way, it makes sense. The revelation isn’t as shocking as he’d have expected. Deep down, he thinks he knew already. He touches his scar, suppressing a shiver.
He won’t ask Dumbledore what that means. If it means he has to die in order for Voldemort to die.
There’s just no point to it, not now. Once we are free. I’ll worry about that when we’re free.
(-)
There are only seven Omegas in the entire prison, Moody says, the following day, after Harry got some sleep. Quite a lot of sleep. In the old prison, no one was allowed to sleep more than six hours. They all had assignments, they needed to work on the rocks, with only short breaks allowed to eat, and only two hours allowed for ‘entertainment’.
But here, Harry was allowed to sleep for however long he needed.
Seven Omegas- six claimed, one unclaimed. Harry wonders how that is possible, how none of the dozens of Alphas claimed the lonely Omega.
“So,” Moody goes on. “When Alphas go into rut- they attack betas, or even other Alphas. Even outside of rut, rape is common here. Watch your back. You’re young and pretty. They’re already staring at you.”
Harry feels it. Feels their eyes on him when he first goes down to the common area to work on the rocks.
Larger rocks. Much bigger and far more resistant. Almost impossible to crack without magic. They, too, were given hammers.
Back in the first prison, they only used the hammers for the rocks. Here, the hammers are used to beat up other prisoners.
No one uses them for the rocks.
“It wouldn’t go through, anyway. Only magic does.” Dumbledore spends long hours trying to teach Harry how to crack the stones with magic.
Not all prisoners work equally. Far from it.
Voldemort is nowhere to be found, for example. Nor the Russian leader.
Several others are not participating.
In almost all circumstances, Omegas outnumber Alphas. Every country has more Omegas than Alphas.
This is the first place in history, probably, to have the opposite problem. Just seven Omegas and sixty-eight Alphas.
It makes sense, he supposes. Alphas tend to be hard to control. Likely to cause issues, as Moody put it. They are also far more likely to engage in criminal behaviour than Omegas or Betas.
So it figures there’d be so many in this particular prison.
There are few women there. Only twenty are still alive, Harry learns.
“They choose to work in their cells. Even if most are Betas, it isn’t safe for them to walk around the prison with so many frustrated Alphas. They stay hidden,” the tall man, a German named Steven that hangs around with Savage, explains. “Except for her.” He nods at one woman, a formidable looking middle-aged Turkish woman, with ink dark hair. She meets the stare of any man that leers at her.
“Powerful witch. She was serving life for a triple murder in a Turkish prison, before she was brought here. Few men try to bother her.”
She’s one of the rare Alpha women. Harry has only ever met one of those in his life.
“Shouldn’t Lestrange be here?” Harry asks Moody. “Bellatrix, that is.”
The Lestrange brothers are there. Harry glimpsed them a few times on the second floor, playing cards with other Death Eaters.
“She should be; she’s one of the most powerful witches in the world. But she isn’t; she never was here. Thank Merlin for small mercies,” Moody answers. “Enough crazy going on without her to add to it.”
(-)
They have a small pool in the common area on the first floor. “Magic,” Dumbledore says, when Harry asks how that is possible. “I made it.”
It’s used to wash clothes and sheets. The men that don’t have a good standing with any leader do it, trying to earn some favour. They are the ones being dragged into one cell or another whenever one of the high-ranking prisoner is in the mood.
The hierarchy here is brutal.
(-)
Harry sleeps in Dumbledore’s cell.
There are many free cells, what with them made to house four hundred prisoners, but more than half of those died.
Dumbledore used to sleep alone, but now he has Harry with him. He’s with Harry most of the day, too.
When he isn’t, there’s always Moody or Kingsley, sometimes Savage or Steven.
It irks Harry, ruffles his Alpha ego. He isn’t used to being protected. He is used to being a protector.
His rational mind knows it is needed, and he is grateful, but the rest of him is irritated.
(-)
With a Master of Transfiguration in their midst, they have many luxuries that Harry didn’t have at the other prisons.
Dumbledore makes cups and kettles, transfigures them from cloth. Combs, scissors, more comfortable mattresses.
Their clothes are better, thicker, and many men transfigured them into robes, unlike the muggle clothes their captors deliver on supplies days.
Harry has never seen so many styles of robes, from all corners of the world.
Voldemort, surprisingly, is most often in muggle clothes, though he clearly improves them. Black trousers and turtlenecks. Not that Harry truly sees him- just fast glimpses from afar.
The first time Harry sees Voldemort in the common room happens in his second week in the prison.
He walks calmly down the stairs. People part for him, quick to get out of his way. All eyes are on him, and the conversations going around the area die down to silence as he descends.
He’s wearing a robe this time, simple and black, and he carries a cup of tea, a beautifully transfigured one.
Harry stares at him, squashing the desire to run or hide. It’s just odd to be in the same place with this man and not get attacked on sight.
It’s nerve wracking watching him cross the open area, unhurried, probably basking in the discomfort that he causes.
He disappears into the southern corridors of cells, the ones Dumbledore warned him to stay clear of.
“Who stays there?” Harry asks, as conversations resume, once Voldemort is out of sight.
“Just an ancient warlock. Intriguingly, all his neighbours died shortly after we were brought here. The next men that tried to claim the cells next to him died soon, too.” Kingsley shrugs. “Rumour is he’s three hundred years old. A very famous dark wizard. Almost a myth. He never comes out of that cell. Never talks to anyone. Voldemort goes there once in a while and it appears he wriggles a word or two out of him, but it never last long. Just wait.”
Indeed, after only a handful of minutes, Voldemort comes out of the corridor. His eyes fall on Harry, quickly finding his scar.
“Would it kill you to lend a hand?” Amir asks from the other side of the room, surrounded by rocks. “We’re behind. Tomorrow we’re supposed to receive supplies and we still have many rocks-”
“My men did their share,” Voldemort says, taking his eyes off Harry.
Amir gives Voldemort a look. Several rocks crack around him, revealing much bigger green gems. His men polish them, removing any imperfections. “If you join me, we could finish all that’s left in an hour.”
Voldemort raises an eyebrow, already half up the stairs. “Why should I pick up after incompetent worms, Amir?”
Amir, whom Harry always saw frowning or barking orders at people, smiles up at Voldemort.
He said something in Arabic and Voldemort smiles back, but he doesn’t help with the rocks, just keeps climbing.
It’s jarring to see him. Harry can’t get used to the fact that he’s there and they’re supposed to be on the same side now.
His snake appearance has disappeared, but somehow he still reminds Harry of a snake.
When he’s safely in his cell, people relax and start talking again, though still mindful of Amir’s presence.
Harry thinks he likes Amir the best, from the leaders. Outside Dumbledore, that is.
He’s met the Russian, and he seems as terrible as Voldemort. He never helps with anything and has an evil look about him, always surrounded by his men that bend themselves backwards to please him.
Amir helps around with the rocks, or with magic, in any way. Moving a table, making a splint when a man breaks another’s man.
He’s harsh, but he seems stable, even if there’s a promise of violence around him.
Unsurprisingly, everyone comes to Dumbledore for aid, in all matters. He’s always running around settling fights or helping out.
(-)
“Potter,” Malfoy says, loitering in front of Harry’s and Dumbledore’s cell.
“Piss off, blondie,” Moody barks.
Malfoy ignorers him. “There is a rumour you were in another prison. A low security one. Was -”
He hesitates.
He looks- not as good as usual. His hair is brushed, his clothes are clean, but it is a far cry from his usual rich pureblood look.
“Do you- Have you heard anything about Draco?”
Harry takes pity on him. He steps out of the cell, even if Moody disapproves.
“Draco was there. And so was Narcissa.”
Malfoy looks immensely comforted. “Can you tell me about them?”
Harry does.
When he mentioned Narcissa’s new Alpha, according to the plan devised by McGonagall, Malfoy should be displeased. Alphas rage with jealousy on the best of days. Hearing one’s mate is with another Alpha-
But Malfoy only looks relieved, and Harry understands.
Considering the rampant rape going on in this prison, Malfoy is probably thankful there is an Alpha out there taking care of his wife and son.
After that day, Malfoy always nods his head at Harry whenever their eyes meet in the corridors or in the common room.
(-)
“The only truce we have on supply day is with the Death Eaters. All the others are fair game,” Savage warns Harry. “We will all try to take as much as possible. Better stay back.”
Harry refuses to stay back when they wake up from a deep sleep and they see the crates and new pile of rocks in the common area.
He rushes down the stairs, faster than others, his youthful body much more agile.
It’s chaos.
Everyone is trying to get something out of the crates.
Even Dumbledore is ripping boxes away from a group of angry looking Scandinavians.
The Lestrange brothers stab an eastern European in the neck almost as soon as they come down the stairs, stealing the man’s loot.
Voldemort waves a hand and sends an entire group to the ground.
He reaches for what seems to be a jar of marmalade. Harry lunges for it, because he suddenly wants marmalade like he never wanted anything in his life, but mostly just to piss off Voldemort.
He reaches the jar a second before Voldemort and he turns, victorious, clutching the jar-
The smell hits him.
Voldemort smells like a summer storm, like the solid wood his Firebolt was made of.
He smells like the wind. His scent is divine.
Voldemort, he realises with the shock of his life, is an Omega.
Harry blinks, struck dumb.
Voldemort reaches over calmly and plucks the jar out of Harry’s hand.
“We’re not supposed to steal from each other,” he says, and his voice is ridiculously deep, nothing like what it used to sound like in the graveyard. It sinks into Harry’s mind like poison. “Where is your nationalism, Potter?”
Harry keeps staring until someone slams into him, bringing him down.
A bunch of men are fighting over what appears to be a bottle of alcohol, and Harry is suddenly caught between them.
His Alpha senses are more acute than ever, after being so close to an Omega.
Harry is rarely violent, but his blood boils and he punches around indiscriminately.
In the very back of his mind he’s aware he is trying to prove his worth, his physical attributes, to an Omega.
And that’s a normal instinct, except this Omega is Voldemort.
Harry can’t stop himself.
He kicks, punches, wrestles, magic coming out of him until he finds himself standing, the bottle of alcohol in his hand.
He’s victorious and his eyes are looking around searching for the Omega- here, I am a good provider, I am the strong-
But Voldemort is no longer there and Harry comes back to his senses.
He has a broken nose, he thinks one of his ribs is broken too, all for a bottle he doesn’t even want.
“Here,” he snaps, incredibly embarrassed and furious with himself. He shoves the bottle in the hands of a nearby Russian, who looks truly shocked.
“Thank you,” the man says, and it’s been years since Harry heard someone thank him so truthfully.
Moody screams at him for giving away alcohol.
“Voldemort is an Omega!” Harry hisses at them in their cell, where everyone brought the loot they got.
“Shocking, no?” Kingsley asks.
“Stop blushing, boy!” Moody barks. “Merlin, is that way you decided to get between a Russian and his vodka?”
“What?” Harry splutters, mortified, especially when Dumbledore looks up from a box. “No!”
Savage laughs. “Don’t be embarrassed, lad. I tried to fuck him on my first rut here.”
Harry’s face falls.
“It only took you three weeks to be able to walk again,” Steven says. “He threw you away like you were a rag doll.”
“It is a natural reaction, Harry,” Dumbledore says, kindly.
“There was no reaction!” Harry insists.
“Shh, they’re coming,” Savage says.
And there is Lestrange with Avery and Yaxley, carrying a crate.
“This is yours,” Lestrange barks. “Give us our share.”
Apparently whatever the Death Eaters get, they hand off forty percent of the spoils to Dumbledore and his people.
And whatever Dumbledore’s group gets, they give sixty percent to the Death Eaters.
“How is that fair?” Harry inquires.
“Voldemort is not a fair man,” Dumbledore answers. “He demanded seventy percent at first, while offering just thirty in return, but after many, many discussions, I talked him down to what we have today. It is the price of peace, Harry.”
“Besides, he has more men to feed,” Steven points out. “The Death Eaters outnumber us.”
Their rioting in the beginning payed off. Harry sees fresh fruit, some spices, alcohol, many more books. There’s chocolate, and flavoured toothpaste, far better soap than the shity ones they got at their first prison.
“What happens to the dead?” Harry asks, because one man died in the struggle for the supplies, the one Lestrange stabbed. “How do you stop them from smelling?”
Grim looks are exchanged.
“Meat is meat,” Moody says. “At least for some.”
Harry’s stomach turns.
That night, some men are eating stew. With big chunks of meat. The smell is- would be-appealing, but Harry knows where it is from and he hurries to his cell and throws up.
He spends the night shivering in his bed.
Far after Dumbledore fell asleep, when the neon light are off, but candles are lit in the corridors, Harry gets out of his cell just in time to see Voldemort coming out of his own.
From the second floor, he watches Voldemort climbing down the stairs with a small crate of goods, a teacup steaming on top. He goes into the warlock’s cell and leaves it on the nightstand.
(-)
Now that he knows Voldemort is an Omega, the only unclaimed one in the prison, he understands the stares aimed at him better.
They are filled with fear, yes. But some are filled with lust, as well.
He understands why strict, impassive Amir always smiles at Voldemort whenever he sees him.
“It’s a sort of fucked up courting,” Moody says, watching Harry watching Amir looking after Voldemort.
“He didn’t speak a word of English when we came here. But he learned, fast, traded goods with an American to teach him the language.” Moody shakes his head. “One supply, when we finished the rocks far before the term was up out of sheer boredom, the fuckers sent us ten live chickens, as a reward I imagine. Amir and his men got four. But he strolled to Voldemort’s cell like a rooster himself and handed over one. His men were close to mutiny before Amir killed one and settled them down.” Moody seethes. “That bastard.” His eyes find Voldemort, who’s outside his cell, speaking to Lestrange. “Many Alphas, when they realised they can’t claim him by force, started giving him food, or goods, or whatever he wants in hopes he’ll accept them.”
Just days later, an Alpha goes into rut. He tries to go for the women first, but they’re safely locked away. And then he goes for Voldemort, who is sitting on a chair in the corridor, reading.
Voldemort doesn’t even look away from his book, simply waves his hand and sends the Alpha flying. He lands on his back with a painful noise, on the first floor, near the rocks.
Stubborn, the Alpha starts climbing again, growling, exactly like an animal in heat. A group of his friends intercept him and stop him from trying again.
“You’ll get yourself killed,” Harry thinks he hears one of them saying, and even if it’s in Spanish, he still understands. After so much time spent with foreigners, Harry understands some words in several languages.
Frustrated, the Alpha sets his eyes on a weak Beta, one that isn’t high on the social scale.
Harry tries to intervene; he abhors rape. Moody stops him.
“Not your business. Not worth risking a war. The Alpha is under Amir’s protection. Let it be, Potter.”
Harry stares at Dumbledore, who avoids his eyes.
The price of peace is very, very high.
(-)
Yaxley and Avery get into a scuffle with a few Arabs over a game of cards.
It’s so stupid. But aggression is always high in the air, with so many Alphas, with so many criminals locked up together.
It gets ugly.
Dumbledore, Voldemort and Amir break them off, and then they go into a cell together, where they discuss repayment.
It’s so strange to see Voldemort sitting beside Dumbledore. They mostly ignore each other, but every now and again they shut themselves into a cell and talk.
Amir might be courting Voldemort, but one of his men died, and he demands compensation.
Voldemort and Dumbledore are forced to accept.
“I’ll deal with Avery,” Voldemort assures Dumbledore as they are climbing up the stairs. “He won’t do it again.”
Harry listens to Avery screaming for hours.
(-)
Eventually, Harry finds himself face to face with an Alpha in rut.
It’s his own fault. He’d wandered on his own, down in the cells on the first floor, the southern ones, curious about the old man that keeps receiving gifts from Voldemort.
He’s attacked before he can even tell a threat is near.
Harry has been in a few scuffles by then- it’s impossible to go more than a few days in that prison without a fight breaking out and sometimes Harry is caught in the middle.
But usually Moody, Savage, Kingsley, or Dumbledore are around, and they get him out fast.
He’s alone now.
And the man attacking him is massive. However, the most threatening thing about him is his hard cock, pressing into Harry’s belly.
Harry bites his nose, blood filling his mouth, pushes the man with all his might.
I’m going to make myself a knife, Harry promises himself. Please, God, just get me out of this, and I’ll make a knife. I’ll practice wandless magic more-
Harry seems to win for a second, but Alphas in rut are filled with energy. He won’t stop, and Harry is tiring, fear making him blind with panic.
The man is forcefully lifted off him, thrown away and Harry stands, fast. He looks up, expecting to see Moody-
It’s Lestrange. Rodolphus.
“Leave,” he snarls at Harry and Harry does. He runs away and Rodolphus tackles the Alpha that tries to follow him.
When Harry is in view of the second floor, he sees Voldemort watching him.
“What happened?” Moody asks, coming towards him. “Where did you disappear? Who broke your nose?”
Harry pushes past him, climbing with determination, adrenaline rushing through his veins.
He strolls up to Voldemort, who watches him approach with a raised eyebrow.
The scent- that distracting scent- hits him like a ton of brisk, but Harry does his best to ignore it, even if it makes his skin tingle.
“What was that?” Harry asks, spitting out some blood. One of his teeth is loose.
Because Lestrange would never help Harry out of his own will.
Voldemort doesn’t deny he sent Lestrange, like Harry expects.
Dumbledore comes out of a cell at the other end of the corridor. He looks worried seeing Harry so close to Voldemort. “Harry?” he calls.
He comes towards them with amazing speed for someone so old.
Voldemort raises a hand. Harry flinches but doesn’t back away.
“You have something of mine,” Voldemort says, and his fingers briefly touch Harry’s scar.
It feels like fire.
Hot hot hot hot.
It never felt like this when Voldemort touched him, before. In the cemetery or in the ministry-
You didn’t yet present as an Alpha back then.
“It must be protected.”
Harry swallows heavily. He opens his mouth but Dumbledore is there, and he takes Harry’s shoulder and leads him away.
(-)
Harry can’t seem to forget that scent. It’s like it got stuck in his brain. It makes him twist and turn at night, on his cot, uncomfortable.
He can’t stop glancing at Voldemort either, when they’re somewhat in each other’s proximity.
It’s just the shock he’s an Omega, Harry reassures himself. Everything he knows of history claims Omegas almost never go into a position of authority- and the few that do chose jobs like teachers, or Healers, business owners.
Hermione always argued that can’t be true, that it’s just propaganda.
As always, she was right.
Voldemort, who controls an army made of half by proud Alphas, is an Omega.
There are also six other omega in that prison, so that means at least six other chose very dangerous jobs, too.
“The books are antiquated, and the Ministry refuses to update them,” Dumbledore tells him. “In reality, nothing stops an Omega from doing or becoming anything an Alpha aspires to. Well, the Ministry tries to stop them, but those views are incorrect. They are extremely biased. You were only exposed to Hogwarts. In the real world, it’s a tad different. Omegas are more vulnerable, it is true, and they have to work twice as hard to prove themselves, but it is possible.”
“Still,” Harry argues. “He’s the dark lord!”
Dumbledore smiles, sadly. “He was always determined not to let his designation or his muggle name stop him from getting what he wants.”
(-)
He can feel the shift in the prison.
It’s always tense there, but it suddenly becomes unbearable. Every Alpha is on high alert.
“Fuck,” Savage whispers, staring towards Voldemort’s cell.
Dumbledore is looking, too.
There are more Death Eaters than usual gathered around it; they’re usually scattered all over the second floor, some on the first one, cracking stones or playing cards.
But now they are all around the cell. Tense.
“What?” Harry asks.
“Voldemort is going into heat.”
Fuck, indeed.