Chapter Text
— ✦ present ✦ —
Harry grips the security pass tightly in his hand, but tries to relax the rest of his body. Loosen his shoulders, the grim set of his face. One does not accomplish what he's set out to do while making a face like he's walking to his death, even if that is what he's walking to.
Fortunately, Harry has experience with walking to his death.
There were differences from the last time, at the forbidden forest, though. This time, Harry can't act brave, can't be defiant, fight back–no.
He has to make himself compliant, open. No matter how much he tried, in front of the mirror, Harry couldn't force a smile that didn't appear more like a disgusted grimace, so he settled for making his eyes look at least a little less hostile.
He walked the familiar path. He's been visiting the ministry almost every other week since the war. A year passed by in a flash– slow healing wounds and fast moving society, wizardkind bouncing back from the ruins in its steady pace.
At least on the outside, at least to the public. Nobody but a precious few from the department and the minister himself knows the actual, terrible truth after all. The monster was not dead. The horror not eliminated, merely shackled.
Harry is cemented permanently in history as the wizarding world’s young savior. Defeater of the Dark Lord, a War Hero. The kind they make legends out of. Many years after his time, he will appear in textbooks, in the Hogwarts curriculum, in stories told around the fireplace–Odysseus, Achilles, Hercules and so the legends go, the boy who lives among their ranks.
Humans all share common fault in making symbols out of their heroes, making them holy, akin to God and often, so painfully often, stripping them of their humanity in the process, taking choice and agency from their hands–No, you are not a person, you do not belong to yourself–you are a symbol, you are hope and you are a weapon to serve a purpose. Often heroic, but not always.
Humans have also never hesitated to make villains or martyrs out of their heroes too, if that serves purpose.
Harry wasn't feeling particularly heroic right now, however. He too, a loyal weapon, is only playing the part the world now needs him to play. Before, it was to be the hero, the fighter who runs recklessly into battle where all others fail or cower, then it was a Martyr they needed, one who walks boldly to death–Harry did that too. Now….now he has a role to play as well, but not one he's accustomed to.
For his part, Harry did his best to clean up. A clean white shirt, tucked in his best pair of jeans, a set of sharp black robes he invested on for public meetings–Harry needs to look presentable–no, Harry needs to look appealable, fuckable for his purposes this evening and he knew he had his work cut out for him.
Average was the most achievable compliment for Harry Potter– Stringy hair, ever a rat's mess, crooked nose from one too many punches to the face, spellotaped glasses and an unimpressive stature– a frame caught between teenage gangliness and the underfed gauntness of childhood and the creeping hardness of adulthood.
Still, he did his best. He put some sweet smelling product in his hair that he got from Hermoine, scrubbed himself thoroughly–he even removed the hair on his chest and legs ! And of course, the potion.
The worst part of the plan was the potion. They've been planning this for a little over a month, right after they realised they've exhausted all other possibilities.
The potion is taken before his meals every morning, slow growing, a creeping pain and sudden sharp cramps constant with every step as his insides slowly rearrange, organs being pushed aside to make space for a womb, warm and new, grown for only one man to spill seed into. Only one man ever will.
The potion required blood of the man, and so his will be the only seed that could or ever will fertilize this womb.
It stilled cramped for every step he took, this new and tender organ, as Harry walks to his death, to the imprisoned monster, not as the jailer he's been for the past year, not even as the prophesied enemy, the bitter rival to the defeated Dark Lord, but as death's bride, tasked with gathering the seed of his enemy in his tender womb, nurture a life so that the Dark Lord may never be able to take another, ever again.
The metal of the bar screeches as it slides. Harry steps in and the door closes in a final thud, like the sealing of fate.
_______________________________
— ✦ Ten Months Earlier ✦ —
Why can't you clear the maximus opus for him ?” Ron asks for the 7th time since Harry started counting.
Unlike the first three times, Kingsley doesn't deign him with the same response, opting to continue staring expectantly at Harry as if Ron hasn't spoken at all.
Maximus opus is what the ministry uses for the highest voltage prisoners of Azkaban. Propelled with centuries worth of security magic, despair etched into its very stones, it was a literal breeding ground for dementors, draining the will and fight out of the most volatile of prisoners -–it can contain criminal masterminds, unstable maniacs, dangerous killers– in other words : it was a child’s prison, essentially a cage with a paper lock for the Dark Lord Voldemort.
The first few weeks after the war, they tried exactly that. Put permanent magic draining shackles on him and locked him in maximum opus. Within a week, five out of the twelve other max opus prisoners were dead, either by suicide or some other unidentifiable clause–and the dementors there started behaving in a strange manner that has never been recorded before in their history–they showed behaviour indicating fear. A dementor. Afraid. The unspeakables weren't even aware Dementors had the emotional range for that.
Voldemort was immediately removed from Azkaban after that, instead placed deep inside the department of mysteries for now, under direct Auror control.
The Auror department and the unspeakables have tried all possible methods to kill the Dark Lord. Researched creative ways, dark spells, resorted to muggle methods even–
Each time, they kill Lord Voldemort–and he just wakes back up.
It took Kingsley a month to connect this to the prophecy, and so– he's here.
“Either must die at the hand of the other” Kingsley had muttered as soon as Harry, Ron and Hermione took their seats an hour ago– “Harry Potter, it has to be you who utters the killing curse.”
And Harry had agreed. They took him into the department of mysteries, in the room of chained cages, a room of magical void designed for the Dark Lord.
There was only a man in the cage, merely a man, no sight of the monster he was. Once, his appearance used to match the monstrosity in his heart but after Harry destroyed all his horcruxes, including himself, the monster regained his human flesh again, and what a beautiful flesh it was !
Even now, from months of imprisonment and torture, even from repeated deaths and repeated wakings from death, anybody could tell Tom Riddle was one clean scrub away from extraordinary handsome.
It was easier, Harry mused as he lifted his wand, when he was just a noseless snake face. Easier when he was the dangerous evil, than now, a prisoner at his mercy.
The man in the cage blinked, appearing disoriented. Long lashes on him, fluttering from the sudden light from their entrance. His brown hair was curling past his ear now, longer than he ever wore it and matted with days old blood.
This man does not look terrifying. He doesn't look like he's murdered thousands, created 6 horcruxes, laid waste on the wizarding world, doesn't look like the sort of person that could have terrified the dementors in Azkaban–Why, he looks like a kicked puppy ! Half naked, looking like a victim of bad prison keep by corrupted authorities.
the nerve of this monster to look–to look, so, so– pitifully human !
Harry blinks. Voldemort looks…. terrible. He notes. ‘Serves him right’ he also thinks, childishly bitter–before raising his wand without preamble, without giving himself room to think–
‘Avada Kedavra’
—---------
Harry's wand never lights the infamous green.
How could it ? Only a fool would have truly expected the boy to succeed. The Killing curse is not just a spell of mere uttered words and a twist of the hand in the shape of lightning. What matters more is the murderous intent and the cold and cruel heart to cast it. Even the most battle hardened of Aurors struggle with casting the curse, of course, Lord Voldemort is known for being able to cast the unforgivable as easy as he breathes.
A heart as soft and as weary as the boy's, a heart that's worn bleeding on his sleeve– there will never be a lifetime where the boy’s wand could cast the avada green. The imperious curse ? Harry is the only wizard known who breaks free of it. Harry can even cast the awkward cruciatus, if angry or desperate enough. But the killing curse ? No. Harry Potter is incapable.
This realization only makes the Auror department more desperate.
—----------
The next time the Ministry calls Harry in, they try different spells.
“ The Killing curse is preferred for its efficiency,” an unspeakable was explaining to Harry, “ it cleaves the soul clean from the body. But even seemingly normal spells can cause death, when used cleverly or sinisterly enough.”
Harry nodded. He already knew the plan—Hermione had explained it to him in full. She’d applied to the Department of Mysteries straight out of school, and now, she was one of only three Unspeakables assigned to the Voldemort case.
These are simple tests, Harry,” Hermione had explained. “ We've determined that the Dark Lord can only be killed by your hand. But we are testing the limits of this rule. Today, all we need you to do is cast a simple levitation spell.”
There was a thin needle on the table before him, its edge so sharp it glinted against the wood.
Voldemort was asleep in his cage, head rested against the metal bars, neck bare and pale. The Aurors say that the man doesn't even bother waking for their visits anymore, lets them kill him however they want, quietly dies in sleep and eventually, wakes up.
‘He looks so famished.’ Harry thought. ‘Why don't they feed him? Even men on the gallows deserve food.’
Harry, a starved child in childhood, cannot fathom knowingly denying anybody food. He's not the type of person to administer anyone else the same suffering as himself, even if it was a monster, Harry would want to feed it. But he never understood the way of monsters, that they only eat flesh, that they will return his kindness by feasting on his bones.
Harry's gaze stayed fixated on the pale neck, even as Hermione spoke. There was a small X marked on it on the side of the neck, with a MagicoMarker.
“Harry, now, all you have to do–is levitate the needle to the cross marked on the skin. That's all you have to do, Yes, perfect–”
Harry mutters the wingardium leviosa, and aims the needle as instructed, closer, closer, he watches, transfixed, as the needle pierces the inked skin with a quiet splurt.
The whole room holds its breath.
Then Robards–the Head Auror– signals with his hand and an unspeakable immediately casts a diagnostic spell.
“Dead.” was the proclamation.
Robards holds his hand up, showing five fingers. Five minutes. Five minutes is the longest time Voldemort’s been dead for, in their records of the past year.
If five minutes pass and Voldemort's pulse stays quiet, the mission is done.
The next five minutes was the longest in Harry's life. He could do nothing but stare, seemingly rooted in spot, by the needle that he, he himself has all but struck into Voldemort’s neck, splurting red blood, red as his eyes were, back when he had his horcruxes.
Harry wondered what colour Voldemort’s eyes were now, with the horcruxes gone. His eyes were never clear in the memories Dumbledore showed him, though a pleasing shape framed with a thick fan of lashes, its colour was still a mystery to Harry. Too bad Harry will never get to know, five minutes have passed and the Murderer of the Dark Lord, Harry finally was.
As if on cue, the dead man's lashes fluttered, face twisted in discomfit. Then, eyebrows furrowed, Voldemort started thrashing about, determinedly quiet as he twitched helplessly against the binding chains as the needle pierces his blood vessel--body owing to die but nature and magic dictating he can't– the curse of immortality playing against him, making him suffer endlessly without death's relief.
Harry understands now why Voldemort opts to sleep when the aurors come. Being awake as he is killed and waked must be a torture beyond comprehension.
Still, Voldemort is silent in his panic, as if unwilling to give his captors the satisfaction of hearing his screams, even in this state.
Of course the man yearns to be in control of his own body, even in a situation where he has no autonomy at all, shackled and sentenced to repeated death– Lord Voldemort can bear it all.
But Harry cannot.
He cannot bear to simply stand and watch as someone struggles for life in front of him, even if it was Voldemort, especially if it was Voldemort–
Harry surged forward, unthinkingly, ignoring the warning yells and shouts of everyone else in the room. He bursts into the open cage, dropping to his knees in front of Voldemort, who was twitching in his chains as far as he could.
He leans over, gently removes the needle and immediately places his own hand to cover the gush of blood, muttering all the healing spells he knew.
It still won't be nearly enough, Voldemort would need medical attention, but for now, Harry clings to the older man's neck, reassuring himself with the rapid beat of the man’s pulse, acquainting himself with the warm brown of the man's eyes, the colour of melted chocolate.
Later, when Voldemort falls back asleep in his arms, gently lulled, Harry steps back out, ignoring the horrified looks of everyone in the room. Really, this entire room is complicit in cold, clinically planned murder–but Harry comforting a dying man is what disturbs them ?
As he makes to leave, Harry turns to Robards. “ And give him some food. What's the point in starving him out ? It's not like he's going to die of hunger.”
_____________________
“--No?!” Robards slams the table, almost upsetting the drinks laid under the statis charm. “What do you mean you won't cooperate, Potter? Do you realise what you are talking about !? This is about the fate of the wizarding world !”
“Yeah, and it's your job as the Head Auror to keep it safe.” Harry hissed back, holding his ground. “ I said I'm done. I did my part, I fought the war. I gave my childhood to it–now I want my life back. I'm not– you can't force me to become a murderer.”
“I'll make you cell next to that psychopath, Potter.” Robards’ next threat was uttered quietly, “ I'll throw you into jail for obstruction of justice–He–As long as he's alive, the world is never safe.”
Robards cannot be fully blamed for his unfair, violent anger. Like most people, he too suffered personal losses from the war. His father, older brother. For Kingsley, it was his beloved wife.
So many deaths, directly or indirectly because of one genocidal maniac who just won't die.
Hermione stands up. “Chief, that's uncalled for. Harry hasn't done anything nearly wrong. He's just turned eighteen, barely even legal age to use the curse that most field aurors struggle with. And he's the Savior, Sir. Threatening to lock him up is–”
Robards turned to her, magic wavering unstably. “Shut up, Granger, you–” one of the armoury spears wobbled, before diving to face the pointy end at Harry and consequently, Hermione, standing next to him.
Immediately, there was a movement on Harry's right, even as Harry himself moved in front of Hermione to shield her. But Ron had been startlingly faster, his magic almost snapping out, disintegrating the sharp blade.
Then, Ron dropped to his knees in front of Hermione, hands pressed over her stomach. “You okay ?” He muttered, his actions indicating the whole thing was instinctual, carried out without a thought.
It was. Hermione was pregnant. And it is magic’s most ancient decree that a man protect the one carrying his seed with everything and from anything–even himself.
The stronger one's magic, the greater is the instinct to protect. Wizarding spouses united by magical vows are magically bound to each other and helplessly protective with each other.
Kingsley observed the chaotic scene quietly, the barest threads of what must be done unveiling before him, a solution for the future of wizardkind.
The minister says nothing to Harry’s refusal. He doesn't shout like Robards—not because he’s more tolerant, but because he understands.
Albus Dumbledore did not make Harry walk through his own death willingly through threats or coercion. What he used was a grandfatherly touch, a paternal smile.
Harry Potter is weak to the promise of family, to the promise of care. Even now, he stares longingly at his best friends, at this family they've built, at Ron Weasley’s gentle, proud touch and Hermione Granger's swollen stomach.
Kingsley knows what he must do. He won't have to force Harry. He just needs to show him what he’ll lose if he refuses. The right words, the right image—Harry will walk back into the fire on his own.
After all, the boy might say he wants his life back, but he also doesn't have much of it anyway, outside of the Dark Lord he was raised to defeat. And now Kingsley is going to offer him a chance to have the family he's always dreamed of.
_____________________
Kingsley was right. Harry might have spoken with bravado at the ministry, telling them to leave him to live his life alone–but Harry doesn't have much of a life to live.
When the war ended, he was optimistic. A chance. A chance for a normal life ! He could go back to Hogwarts, finish school, then he could go anywhere. For Auror training, like his parents and continue the fight like everyone expect him to, he could go into professional quidditch– a career he would undoubtedly enjoy and no league will refuse him on merits of his talent alone or he could get any desk job at the ministry– which sounds like a boredom from hell, but it was still something to do.
And the world was waiting for Harry Potter to do something.
It seems Harry has grown incapable of doing even the basic things, unfortunately. Nightmares plagued his nights and bled over his days as well, morphing into figures only he can see. Fred Weasley’s grinning face staring at him in accusation whenever he visits the Burrow, each shadow in Grimmauld Palace was Sirius Black falling into the veil, Hogwarts a prison of fresh wounds, Auror training and the ministry just a reminder that Harry was too soft for the field, he can't even manage to kill his worst fucking enemy !
So when the ministry sealed letter comes, with the potion attached, there's not much of a decision to make.
His friends all had lives to live, a future to look forward to. Nobody else could be burdened with this, nobody else should be. Ron and Hermione won't understand, they'd fight him on it, fight the ministry ... .but this has always been Harry's responsibility and he would do anything to ensure a safe future for everyone.
It was also an escape. The past year after the war, Harry understood the feeling of being a weapon displayed on a wall, a rusted knife on the floor–something stripped of purpose.
Now he had one again.
He took the potion dutifully, every day. It burnt down his throat, a terrible taste, like swallowing fire. And it was not pleasant on his stomach. For a month, Harry was plagued with a sick constitution– unused to illnesses, he was a healthier teenager than most despite his childhood. But the potion upset his body.
It caused nausea every morning, making him lightheaded throughout the day. Harry shut himself in for the whole month of preparation, only corresponding to Ron and Hermione by owl. It made each joint in his body ache, a bone of deep tiredness, erasing hunger, thirsty until all he could think of was the burning in the pit of his stomach as his organs shifted themselves, viscerally–hollowing out space of flesh and blood.
It was okay. The physical pain distracted him from the emotional ones. And Harry had taken to running his hands reverently over his stomach, over the aching pain– will a child truly grow here ? Children are symbols of a happy future, are promises of affection and love– will Harry truly get to have it ?
A small home by the sea, miles off Azkaban, A handsome husband to care for. A hearth to tend to. And many, many children to love.
___________________________
— ✦ present ✦ —
Voldemort was awake in his cage.
The man looked better than the last time Harry had seen him—not naked, for one.
He wore simple black robes. His skin looked clean and dewy, hair freshly washed. No doubt the Auror guards in charge had allowed him to wash, anticipating Harry’s arrival and the… plan.
Harry opened his mouth—but no words came. He just stood there, shifting nervously on his feet, suddenly robbed of words and feeling terribly, terribly unsure of himself.
What the fuck am I doing?
Seduce the imprisoned Dark Lord into spilling his seed in Harry’s magically grown womb to bind them to each other under the magical laws of marriage—a surer prison than any cage, jail, or fortress.
How the fuck is he supposed to do that?
What did Hermione call it? PTSD? Post-war depression? Harry didn’t know anymore. He felt mad—mad enough to agree to the ministry’s even madder scheme. He knew he should have consulted Hermione beforehand—
Would Kingsley let him back out if he pleaded insanity?
Harry steels himself and steps inside the cage, designed to only let authorised personnel in. So he's caged himself in with his murderous prisoner who's got magic draining cuffs on his slender (pretty) hands–hands that he can use to choke Harry to death with.
Or not. But Harry won't bet on it. Voldemort's known for always feeling particularly murderous around him.
Harry raises his hand and waves it in a universal sign of peace. “Hello, mate ?” He flashed the only grin he can manage, sure it comes off as the grimace.
Great going, Potter. Bet that's got Voldemort all hot and bothered. They should have made you into a honeypot rather than the chosen one.
Seconds tick by and the man in the chains makes no reply, doesn't seem to share Harry's increasing awkwardness as he just……stares.
For lack of better options, and with Voldemort’s intent, curious gaze twisting knots in his stomach, Harry gripped the second bottle of potion the Unspeakable had handed him today—uncorked it—and swallowed it in one go.
The first potion—taken daily for a whole month—had slowly grown the womb. This potion showed its effects almost immediately.
Fire exploded in his lower half–and Harry crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
It was agony. A searing, throbbing agony– like fire, like fresh wounds– concentrated below his genital area.
Harry let out a broken scream, hands clutching helplessly at his groin.
‘If–if the ministry was just trying to kill him, this is a needlessly elaborate plan’ Harry thought. Not to mention it was cruelly painful.
Harry watches, in a haze, as Voldemort approaches him.
The man bends down and picks up the vial then leans in to sniff it. “ Smells like…..orchids. Vanilla beans” The man hums thoughtfully. His voice was a delightful baritone, it sent shivers down Harry's spine and made him feel wet between his thighs.
Voldemort regards the writhing boy before him. “Well Potter, even with my expertise at potions, I can't say I can immediately discern what you've got yourself into this time. It looks like I'll be forced to find out, anyway.”
Harry let out another warbled gasp.
Voldemort sighed, resting his handsome face on his hands as he kneeled in front of Harry in a gesture so juvenile that Harry would have laughed, if he could. “ But I do wish you'd stop all the screaming. My time here has made me especially sensitive to sounds, you see.”
“--not by ch–choice, asshole,” Harry gasped out, glaring.
Great. Five seconds in and he's already insulted the man.
“No! I mean, no– I mean, sorry, how've you been….?” Harry babbles. Then he squeezes his eyes and waits to be choked to death. He even welcomes it. Who enquires after the health of someone you locked deliberately in a cage and tried to kill, repeatedly? Anyone might get annoyed enough to murder, after that. Let alone the Dark Lord.
But Voldemort only smiles. Voldemort’s smiles are really beautiful, his lips shaped like cupid's bow–shame a monster wears it. “ I've been getting by. It's been a bore mostly, when I'm not getting killed. Perhaps they are hoping the boredom will do me in where their spells couldn't.”
Harry closes his eyes and sighs. Each word from Voldemort washed over him like warm honey, reverberating down his spine and making him feel wetter and wetter between his legs, where the fire of pain was still licking.
“You…you don't sound very bothered.”
And Voldemort doesn't. For a proud, narcissistic maniac, who just lost a war, his followers, his horcruxes and pretty much everything, who just spent the last year in captivity, repeatedly dying–he sounds fine. Not even angry.
Voldemort says something in reply that Harry couldn't hear, blacking out momentarily. When he came to, he was seated snugly on the older man’s lap and the fire of pain in his lower half was completely gone–like it was never there at all.
In its place, was an overwhelming, gaping wetness. Harry braced his hands on Voldemort’s chest and looked down– he was soaking both their robes.
Harry's face burned with humiliation. He–he didn't just wet himself, did he. And sitting on Voldemort's lap too !
“No, Potter. You did not. However, I believe this answers the question of what the potion you so recklessly drank, does.”
Right.
Right.
The mission. Harry's here on a mission. He has to make this work, make Voldemort want Harry, want to bury himself inside Harry– give Harry his vows and his children. He's doing this for the safety of the wizarding world, to protect it from an evil, immortal, genocidal, horrible, handsome man.
Harry snaps up to look at Voldemort again, suddenly afraid to look down. “Please.” He swallows. “ I'll…uh…I'll be good. I mean, I'm good. I–I can please you. Uh. I mean–don’t, don't you want to…?”
Powder ! There was another vial– of powder this time– and not for Harry but for Voldemort. A virility potion. The unspeakable told him just a whiff would be enough– just in case Voldemort can't get it up. (Highly plausible, he's a million years old.)
Harry twists around, searching his robe pockets– where, where did he– it was with the other potion–
Voldemort held up the glass vial to Harry’s eye level. The vial is filled with hot pink powder. “It fell when you took the potion out.” The man told Harry. “ I must commend the ministry, this is a particularly ... subtle plan. Very… stealthy….to administer pink powder” Voldemort was rolling his eyes.
He then uncorks the screw– “just a whiff is enough, yes?” He mutters, before spilling the entirety of the contents all over the both of them, the air around them poofing in a pink haze.
You see, The Ministry overlooked minor details, leading to bigger problems, as usual. Magic draining cuffs can't work efficiently on a natural Legilimens, someone who has no need to cast a spell for legilimency. And Harry is famously shit at occlumency.