This Body is My Prison

BY : JBankai89
Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Voldemort
Dragon prints: 10068
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, I gain nothing from this but a way to pass the time.

A/N: My goal with this was to write the weirdest, most screwball darkfic I could think of. I tried really hard to keep everyone in character, except Harry, but I think the reasons why he deviates will be pretty obvious as the fic progresses. Italic segments are flashbacks. I like to think I failed spectacularly, as my penchant for happy endings got in the way of making it as messed up as I wanted. This is my first foray into Harrymort, so I hope I did this screwball ship justice ^.^

TRIGGER WARNING: This fic will contain graphic rape, extreme body modification/genderswap*, multiple infanticides**, manipulation, mind control, sexual assault, spousal abuse, emotional spousal abuse, sexism/misogyny, referenced character death, and enslavement(not of the kinky variety). Those are all the major ones. Of course, it's tagged, but sometimes people overlook tags, and considering the type of story this is, I think it bears repeating.

*= as in forced to become a girl, both physically and mentally.

**= in case this is a term you have not heard before, I mean killing newborn babies.

This Body is My Prison

Part I: The Lady

“My Lord,” Bellatrix Lestrange purred reverently as she dropped to her knees as Lord Voldemort straightened up from his Apparition trip. Bellatrix did not look up at him as she kissed the hem of his robes, nor did she cast the person on his arm a glance.

She, like everyone else, knew better than to dare look at Lord Voldemort's consort directly without express permission.

“Stand, Bella,” he said smoothly, and she got to her feet, then stepped back with her eyes remaining downcast.

The other occupants of the house mirrored her—Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy all dropped to their knees in turn to kiss his robes, and did not stand again until they were instructed to do so.


Lord Voldemort, in the five years since his victory, had not changed at all.

Still tall and thin, pale, with a snakelike appearance, and red eyes. He was still as terrifying as ever, and now it was not just his followers that knew of his power, but all of Wizarding Britain.

“My bonded requires food,” Voldemort said, his voice cold, but smooth and soft, “in her delicate condition, you understand.” He chuckled, and the young girl on his arm shivered.

“Does the Lady desire something in particular?” Lucius asked timidly, “my—the house elves are quite proficient at many different cuisine styles.”

“My Lord, I'm all right,” she said softly, not looking at any of them, her green eyes downcast, one hand on her swollen belly. “I—I don't require anything.”

“Nonsense, Cassiopeia,” he said in the same tone, “you need to keep up your strength for my potential heir in your womb...assuming this time you are bearing one.”

She brought a fair, artfully manicured hand to her mouth to stifle a small sob. The Dark Lord would not console her, but merely gain pleasure from her tears.

Especially back when the world had known her as him.

When Cassiopeia Black, the long lost descendant of the Black line—had been known as Harry James Potter.




Harry stepped into the forest, ready to die, his heart in his throat as he faced the end of Voldemort's wand.

Except, the plan did not go off as Dumbledore or Snape had intended.

Oh, Harry,” Voldemort said, his high voice threaded through with amusement, “what is that I see affixed to your mind?”


Harry froze.


The Horcrux.


You two,” Voldemort said, and jerked his head at the Carrows. “I need to secure young Harry, and I do not trust any of you fools to not lose him again...”

W-what?” Harry asked, and scrambled back as Voldemort glided forward and closed a hand around the front of Harry's jumper.

Oh, Harry, I have a much better fate in mind for you...”

His horrified scream was lost in the crack of Voldemort's Disapparition.




“Thank you,” Cassiopeia said without looking up as the curried carrot bisque was placed in front of her, “I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Oh please, my Lady, it is our pleasure,” Bellatrix gushed, though Cassiopeia did not miss the note of envy in the other woman's voice. “You carry a gift inside you—we are pleased to do what we can to aid in its growth.”

Voldemort smirked rested a hand on Cassiopeia's knee, and she shivered. Even with her eyes firmly fixed upon the shallow bowl before her, she could feel what her husband wanted, even before his hand slipped under the satin folds of her dress and dipped between her thighs. After so long being bound to him, she would be a fool to not know.




I will kill you, Harry Potter,” Voldemort purred as he flicked his wand at Harry, and he cried out as his arms flew above his head, were bound together with rope, then affixed to a meat hook protruding from the ceiling of the prison cell that they stood in. “But perhaps not in the way you think.”

What are on about?” Harry snarled as he struggled against the bindings, “want to draw out my death, you sick bast—” Voldemort flicked his wand at Harry, and his voice disappeared.

The world will believe you to be dead,” Voldemort purred, “but why would I kill myself? Oh, no, no, no...I need to keep you close. You will live as long as I do, and I will not be parted from my dear Horcrux. But we must do something about your shape. I am not overly fond of men, you see...”




The loss of her manhood was still a painful memory.

Even after all this time, Cassiopeia had yet to grow completely used to her new body, the new curves, the new urges. She was not certain how much of it was natural, and how much of it was Voldemort's manipulations on her mind and body. Voldemort's hand between her thighs slid higher, and disappeared between her legs; she tensed, but forced herself to not pull away—Voldemort did not like it when she pulled away.

Cassiopeia ate her soup in silence, while Voldemort discussed with the others the ongoings in the wizarding world. Voldemort did not even change his expression as his long fingers slipped beneath her lace panties, and began to stroke her in lazy, but firm touches. Her breath caught, and her husband smirked.

“My Lord,” Lucius continued as though he had not noticed what was happening right in front of him, “the Mudblood Enslavement Program has been a resounding success. Those whom we have not chosen for experimentation to discover how they steal a wizard's magic have been dispersed amongst the pureblood families as servants, with their magic stripped from them and their wands snapped, of course.”

“Naturally,” Voldemort replied as he continued to finger Cassiopeia, and she struggled to not react to the intimate touches. “I understand you put out a special request for the mudblood you wished to have enslaved here?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius confirmed, “with your leave, of course...”




Where to begin?” Voldemort asked himself as he circled Harry's naked body. The implication behind Voldemort's words, and the absolute hopelessness of the situation had shattered what little fight he had left, and he allowed the tears to fall.

Yes, your eyes...” Voldemort chuckled, “no little wife of mine will carry such an imperfection...”

Without warning, Voldemort flicked his wand at Harry, and his eyes burned. He opened his mouth to cry out, but no sound escaped him. A long-fingered, cold, spidery hand closed around his throat, and something in his throat ached, as though he had suddenly swallowed a porcupine.

Another hand went to his hair, trailing through it with a terrifying gentleness, and he could feel the distinctive tingle in his scalp as the locks grew longer and longer.

Yes, lovely,” Voldemort purred as Harry sniffled and hiccoughed, “now for your other attributes...”

Voldemort's hands moved to his jaw, then brushed over his shoulders, arms, and hands, then jumped down to his legs. Harry did not dare look to see what the monster was doing to him—he didn't want to see; he didn't want to know.

Harry let out another soundless, anguished moan. His chest had begun to ache as a dual weight bore down on it, and his back twinged painfully from it. Cold hands trailed down his sides as he trembled, and more weight came to him, lower down this time, and he squirmed and struggled as Voldemort ran his hands over Harry's new, widened hips.

Say goodbye to your cock, Harry,” Voldemort said, his voice so close to teasing that Harry felt as though he might be sick.

No...” he tried to say, but his voice was still lost to him. The cold hand pressed his flaccid member against his belly, and incomprehensible pain flared in him.

It was beyond anything Harry had ever felt in his life. His back muscles seemed to seize, the familiar weight between his legs disappeared, and he could all but feel his insides rearranging themselves to make room for the new ones that Voldemort was adding.

When it was all over, Voldemort was laughing, but it was not a warm sound. Two fingers dipped into his new vagina, and he immediately jerked away.

My dear, what a sweet little pussy you have, you cannot walk around with such a thing and not expect your husband to wish to touch it, can you?”

Husband?” Harry sputtered soundlessly. His gaze snapped up to Voldemort, and the madman's mouth stretched into a smirk.

Oh, yes,” he purred as his fingers dipped back between Harry's thighs. “And what a perfect little wife you will be,” he continued as he began to stroke Harry's clit, and Harry trembled, hating how the gentle touches were affecting him against his will. “You will be bound to me for eternity, the Lord and Lady of the wizarding world—the pureblooded wizarding world. The mudbloods, halfbloods, and blood traitors will be executed or enslaved, of course.”

Ron and Hermione's fates were sealed with that simple statement.


In silence, she wept.




“...Yes, having Granger here would indeed be recompense for all the trouble she has caused your family. We shall kill the blood traitors—in front of her, I think—that would remind her of her place,” Voldemort mused, and he curled his finger inside of Cassiopeia at the same time, eliciting a soft gasp from her. She clamped her mouth shut, and did not look up. Cassiopeia refused to allow herself to respond to the sound of Hermione's name, or the reference to the Weasleys—that would be playing right into their hands.

“My Lady?” Narcissa prompted as Voldemort returned to idly stroking her, “are you quite all right?”

“F-fine,” Cassiopeia replied weakly, and she heard her husband chuckle. “J-just a little—er—kick, that's all.”

Kick, indeed, she thought miserably.




My dear, look at you,” Voldemort purred as he freed Harry's arms from their bindings and he almost immediately collapsed, had it not been for the fact that Voldemort immediately caught him. His skin crawled at the contact, but he was too drained to fight back. “Such a lovely specimen deserves a name that befits your dark beauty, my fair wife.”

Harry looked down as he struggled to ignore the cutting, demeaning words.

Big mistake.

His body was completely changed, and he did not recognize it at all.

Glossy black hair fell in waves down to her—his, he reminded himself—waist, which was pinched and hourglass shaped, with a heaving bosom that was clearly (likely deliberately) too large for her frame, and descending down further she saw her hips and arse were wide and rounded—child-bearing hips. Any body hair she had had was gone, and even body hair that would have been normal for a woman of her age was nowhere to be seen, and instead she was completely smooth.

Her bottom lip quivered as she wrenched her gaze away, and she heard Voldemort chuckle again.

You do not appreciate my hard work?” Voldemort asked, and punctuated the word hard by pressing his obvious erection against her arse.

No, please...”

Harry started slightly, because Voldemort had clearly taken the silencing charm off, and now her voice escaped her in a high, feminine lilt.

Oh, yes, my dear...” Voldemort said with a high, cruel laugh. “Harry Potter is dead, and you, my dear Cassiopeia...are mine.”




Cassiopeia returned home sticky and uncomfortable.

She refused to show Voldemort just how deeply his ministrations had affected her, but as she hobbled to the toilet, one hand resting over her swollen belly, she did not get very far before the Dark Lord's arms wrapped around her from behind, and frightened tears came unbidden to her eyes.

“M-my Lord, please,” she pleaded as the floodgates broke and the tears dripped from her chin and onto his white hands. “I—I—”

“Now, now, my dear,” he cooed in that sickly sweet tone of voice that made her stomach roil, “you are bound to me, I am your husband. You don't need to think, my dear, I do that for you. You do not protest, I tell you what to do and when to do it. Isn't it so much easier when I think for you?”

Her mind clouded at his words, and she shook her head, but it did not clear. Yes, she thought hazily, my life is not pleasant, but easier when he...wait, no, she shook her head again, and took a trembling breath. I can't let him win, not like this...

As her husband spoke, and she tried to force out his manipulations on her thoughts, his hand trailed down her front, over her swollen belly, and under hem of her dress. The folds of green satin pooled at Voldemort's wrist as he pushed aside her sodden panties and plunged two fingers into her, and she bit down on her bottom lip to stifle a cry.

“Come now, my dear,” Voldemort cooed as he began to thrust the two fingers in and out of her roughly, “take off that lovely dress of yours and open yourself to me. I know that you crave my much like the whore that I made of you.”

I'm not a whore, she thought, but knew better than to voice the protest. Her breathing had become more ragged as she jerked against his fingers unwillingly, her body, once more, betraying her completely. Ignoring her internal protests, knowing doing so would not impede Voldemort in any way, she lifted her trembling hands to the catch at the nape of her neck, and the satin pooled at her feet, encased in the matching pumps that she wore.

Cassiopeia felt Voldemort's mouth twitch into a smirk against the back of her neck as he drove the fingers in deeper.

“Good girl.”





Harry found himself shivering and wobbling in a pair of expensive white high heels, and wearing a tight, uncomfortable matching dress that showed off all the 'assets' that Voldemort had added to his body.

The neckline was deep and embroidered with glittering, silver patterns. The corset pushed up her—Harry shook the pronoun from his mind—his breasts, and pinched at the waist, clinging to his shapely bottom before tumbling down his legs in a sea of white silk. His hair had been immaculately styled by Narcissa, and white pearls had been pinned and woven through the curls.

He looked nothing like himself.

Harry Potter no longer existed.

His reflection showed a very pretty girl, without a shred of masculinity to his appearance.

Even his famous scar was gone, hidden beneath a powerful glamour so that none but Voldemort himself could break it and divulge his true identity.

All that remained of Harry was Lily's eyes, which Voldemort had for some reason chosen to keep.

The sight made him sick.

My dear,” Voldemort purred as he pulled him close, and pressed a kiss to Harry's plumped, effeminate lips. “Wasn't that a lovely ceremony? The remaining Black lines passing over the last Black daughter proudly to their Lord. Why, I can't recall when your...Cousins looked happier.”

Get off me,” he snarled, and tried to squirm out of the powerful grip, but he wobbled in the high heels, and did not get very far before Voldemort was on him again.

Now, now,” he said, holding Harry tightly against him, “is that any way to speak to your husband? I own you, my dear. You are mine, until death do us part,” Voldemort paused and smirked, “and since I cannot die, you will be mine...forever.”

I'm not yours, I'll never be yours,” Harry hissed, his voice cracking as a lump formed in this throat, and he bit back a frustrated curse. Ever since Voldemort's extreme change upon his body, tears came to him much more easily—and he hated it. “I don't care what you do to me, I won't—ahh!” She cried out in fright as Voldemort shoved Harry hard, she staggered back, and tumbled onto the wedding bed.

Voldemort stripped off her dress robes without any change to his expression, and Harry felt her panties dampen.

Harry shook his head violently. His.

What was happening?

Do you feel it, my dear?” Voldemort asked as he crawled, naked, on top of his young bride. He closed a hand around her throat and forced her back onto the bed. “That niggling, gentle nudging of your mind forcing you to accept your new self? As my wife, my consort, the future mother of my heirs...”




The word stirred in Harry a strange sensation, a warmth in her belly, and a sudden burning need—for what, she wasn't certain. A feeble moan escaped past her lips before she could stop it.


Yes, exactly, my dear,” Voldemort said, one hand still at her throat while the other dug under the front of her dress, and grabbed roughly at her breasts, eliciting another pained whimper from her. “You feel it, I know that you do. That need, that burning need to be filled with my semen, to swell with my child, that desperate desire—to be pregnant.”

No,” she repeated, but the word sounded less and less convincing in her own ears the more that she repeated it.

Voldemort ignored her as he took his wand out, and she tensed. He pointed it at her, and a soft gasp escaped her as quite suddenly, she was naked. Voldemort's free hand immediately forced its way between her legs, pinched her clit, and she yelped in both pleasure and pain.

You are mine,” he whispered, “mine. And I will fill you, oh, yes, and you will give me a son, an heir, or you will deeply regret it, my sweet...”


And regret it she did.




Cassiopeia stepped out of the painful shoes and fell back onto their bed. She stared blankly at the ceiling as her husband climbed on top of her, and grimaced as his painfully large, hardened member slipped into her.

Tears streaked her cheeks as her once-enemy pounded into her, grunting ever so softly as he took his pleasure, his hands grabbing roughly at her chest, hard enough to bruise, and after ten painful minutes his body stilled, and she felt his release fill her.

Without showing weakness in his fatigue, and rolled off of her, the drew her close, pinning her to his side as he fell asleep.

Cassiopeia stayed awake a while longer, her fair, dainty hands brushing over her distended stomach in a soft caress.

Please, she thought, sending the prayer out to any deity that might hear her, please, please let it be a boy, I couldn't bear another girl...

“Please...” she whispered softly, and the Dark Lord's arm tightened around her.

The fluttering movement of a true baby kick followed her words, and her hands moved to her stomach again. She held it, and her prayer repeated over and over in her mind until she fell into a despairing sleep.




I have news for you, my sweet,” Voldemort said as he drew Harry to him, one hand splayed against her stomach, the other dipping down farther to roughly finger her sore, aching vagina. She whimpered, but did not speak. “I called on our resident healer while you slept, and we're to be parents in a mere nine months.”

The news made Harry feel sick, and she bowed her head, but it did little to calm her weighted misery. To look down she was once more confronted with her new body, currently forced into tight, revealing robes, and no undergarments—at her husband's request.

Of course, if you do not produce a male heir for me...” Voldemort continued, and dug his fingers in deeper, causing her to whimper, “I do believe I said something about you regretting it?”

I can't exactly control these things,” she sniped, and her husband chortled softly.

Oh, my dear Cassiopeia,” Voldemort purred, and Harry winced at the new name she had been given. It sounded so...wrong. “It is gestating in your body, and of my seed. I have offered the masculine aspect. If you do they say, we'll just have to try again, now won't we?”

The threat that hung over her was terrifying, and a soft, frightened whimper slipped past her lips before she could stop it.

Now, I believe we should celebrate this happy news properly,” Voldemort continued, “get on your knees.”

She slid down into position obediently, her form trembling as her husband opened the front of his robes and his hardened, thick cock bounced mere millimetres from her face, a pearly drop of precome clinging to its tip. It had to be magically enlarged—it just had to be; of that she was certain. No normal cock was so big.

Do I need to tell you how to suck cock, my dear?” Voldemort asked, his tone almost teasing, which was deeply unsettling. “Open your mouth, my pretty little wife, cover your teeth and hold your breath.”

That was all the warning she was given before Voldemort was pressing his enormous cock head against her lips, painting them with the clear liquid, and with tears once more coming to her eyes, she opened her mouth and did as she was told.




“Mistress Cassiopeia is to get up!” a little voice squeaked, and she groaned as she woke alone in bed, which was a small mercy, though if the way she ached was any indication, her husband may have taken advantage of her in sleep—again.

She sat up and the thin blanket pooled at her hips, though she was completely unbothered by her nudity in the presence of the little creature. After so long, it was no longer a source of embarrassment.

“The Dark Lord has instructed Grendel to help you dress, then you is to join him in the infirmary.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” she asked while she rubbed her eyes one-handed, and the other instinctively moved to rest on her swollen belly.

“He is wishing to have the healers check to see if you and your baby is healthy!” Grendel chirped, and she groaned. Of course.


The little creature bathed her, dried her, and sat her down in a towel before a mirror, where he styled her hair and did her makeup how her husband liked—her hair pulled back from her face, half of it piled high on her head, half a dozen pins with small diamonds affixed to the ends keeping it all in place, and the rest of her hair fell down her back in a glossy wave. Her makeup was simple foundation, deep red lips, and winged eyeliner with a green eye shadow that matched Lily's irises.

The elf then helped her into one of her 'maternity dresses'. They were still as revealing and uncomfortable as all her other ones she had been forced into over the years, but was blessedly devoid of the painful corsets that her husband liked her to wear, at least.

The black silk clung to her form, the deep neckline showed off her chest much more than she had ever been comfortable with, and there was a deep slit in the gown that stopped mere inches from the top of her thigh, meaning that she needed to walk slowly, or she risked showing off her most private parts to any who happened to be nearby. Once more, she was not offered any undergarments to wear.

Cassiopeia slipped her slightly swollen feet into the pair of heels that had been left for her, and with her head held high, she strode down the halls of the vast manor and down to the personal infirmary that she had been bound to more times than she could count over the years. It had never been a place that she associated with any form of joy




A girl,” Voldemort sneered, and Cassiopeia tightened her hold on the tiny newborn. “You birthed me a girl,” he repeated as the Healer nervously backed away, but the Dark Lord did not notice, his entire focus being on his consort.

It's not my fault,” she protested, and winced at the frightened tone of her voice. The baby gurgled softly when she clutched to her even more firmly.

You gave birth to a girl,” Voldemort said simply, “how is it not your fault?” he demanded while he advanced on her again, and she shrunk back a little, but in her weakened state, she was bound to the bed, and thus could not go far. “I warned you that you would regret doing such a thing, did I not? And yet you throw my hospitality back in my face.” He spat the last word as he stopped before her, and she whimpered as an icy, spidery hand closed over her throat.

A woman's place is to obey her husband,” he hissed, “and now you will find out what happens when a woman chooses to disobey...”

His hand tensed for a moment, and she braced herself for pain, but instead he released her, and snatched the babe from her arms.

No, no! My Lord, please, what are you doing?” she cried as she watched Voldemort hold her child aloft by the ankle and pointed his wand at it.

If at first you don't succeed,” Voldemort began over her child's cries, “I'll kill her, and we'll try again.” Cassiopeia felt as though she might be sick.

NO!” she shrieked, but her husband ignored her cries, and the tears that came to her eyes.

“Avada Kedavra.”




Five girls in five years.

Five little graves in the back garden—the one small mercy that her husband had allowed her.

Some sort of healing charm had enabled Voldemort to impregnate her within hours of giving birth, and as a result, she had been in a state of near-constant pregnancy ever since. The sixth one weighed heavily on her, a result of the strain it put on her body, not that the Dark Lord cared how much or little she suffered because of it. Trapped like this, she had never before felt so helpless, so completely incapable of protecting her own children. Would the fate of this child be the same as all the others before it?

It mattered little to her that the father was Voldemort—she had stopped caring about that a long time ago—it was still her child.

Cassiopeia's hands tensed over the swell of her stomach as she stepped into the infirmary, dressed up less like she was going to see a Healer, and more like she was going to a ball. But that did not matter; her husband always wanted her done up; she was never to look less than this.

“Ah, my fair wife,” Voldemort said as he swept toward her, and pressed a hand to her belly as he dragged her in for a rough kiss in greeting, and she forced herself to return it. “Come, it is time for the Healer to check on the health of my child that grows in you.”

Her eyes downcast, Cassiopeia followed Voldemort's lead farther into the infirmary, but started slightly when she caught sight of not one Healer waiting for them, but two.

And the second one she recognized at once—that pointed face and platinum blond hair she would recognize anywhere.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord and Lady,” the Healer next to Malfoy said, “but young Mister Malfoy is to complete his Healer Training with me, would you feel uncomfortable with his presence while I examine you?”

Voldemort went very rigid next to her, and his arm tensed around Cassiopeia's waist in a possessive hold. Malfoy kept his head respectfully bowed, and none spoke as Voldemort worked the request over in his mind.

“That would be fine,” he said at last, “provided he conducts himself appropriately.” He shoved Cassiopeia forward slightly, and she stumbled in her heels, but thankfully remained standing.

“Come, my Lady,” her usual Healer said, lifting an arm to guide her to the examination bed, but not daring to physically touch her, “this will not take long. Mr Malfoy, with me, if you please.”

Malfoy snapped up and obediently followed the elder Healer as Cassiopeia lay down on the bed and took a few breaths to calm herself. After being witness to so many deaths in this room, it was difficult to stay in here and remain calm.

“Malfoy, please check her vitals while I prepare the salve,” the Healer ordered, and Malfoy circled the bed to stand at her side, and began to flick his wand here and there over her body. He eyed her curiously, apparently picking up on her nervousness.

“Are you scared, my Lady?” he asked softly.

Looking back on it, Cassiopeia did not know what possessed her to say it.

An opportunity—the opportunity presented itself to covertly cry for help, and though she doubted Draco Malfoy of all people would be willing to help her, after five years in the Dark Lord's bed, she had to do something, if nothing else, to protect her unborn child.

Her voice dropped into a lower, even octave, still nothing close to the sound of her old voice, but she saw that the words registered with the Malfoy heir immediately.

“You wish.”

He dropped his wand.

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