Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

This Body is My Prison	By : JBankai89 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Voldemort Views: 25140 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, I gain nothing from this but a way to pass the time.

Chapter List
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Part II: Truth
Cassiopeia did not know what she had expected when she let her formal rival in on her true identity, but aside from looking at her with a guarded, wide-eyed shock, he acted no differently as he conducted his diagnostic charms, then relinquished his place to his superior. There was a distinct, alarmed look in his eyes, as though he was wondering if this was some sort of elaborate scheme to test his fealty to the Dark Lord, and she prayed that he did not latch on too firmly to that belief.
Healer Rook stepped up and down the length of her body like Malfoy had, casting a number of spells to check on the general health of her and her child, but did not cast the Birth-Image Charm, a tricky little spell that worked much like an ultrasound did in the muggle world. However, The Dark Lord would not allow it. In a strange way, Cassiopeia was almost grateful—if she couldn't see her child before they were born, it was marginally less painful when her husband ripped the minutes-old babe from her arms. It was still agonizing, but somewhat less so because of that. To this day, Cassiopeia was uncertain whether this was yet another method of torture, or a small mercy.

“Well, everything looks good,” the Healer said, “both mother and child are perfectly healthy. Are you quite certain that you would not like to know the sex of the child, my Lord?”
“You know that I enjoy to be surprised, Healer Rook,” Voldemort said smoothly, “it is only a few more weeks at most until we know if my fair wife has finally succeeded in bearing me an heir or not.”
As he spoke, Voldemort's hand had unabashedly slipped under Cassiopeia's dress, in full view of the two Healers, uncaring that they were still present as he began to tease her slit, and she swallowed a soft whimper. This action, she noticed, brought a fleeting look of abject horror to Malfoy's face, but it was gone so quickly that she wondered if she may have imagined it. She bit her lip to keep herself quiet as her husband's fingers began to roughly handle her.
“Yes, my Lord, of course,” the elder Healer said shakily as he bowed his head a little, and took a small step back. “I'll just—”
“—and where might you be going, Healer Rook?” Voldemort asked lightly while his fingers continued their rough assault upon Cassiopeia's body.
“I...I...”
“I have not dismissed you,” Voldemort said, and though Cassiopeia was not looking up, she could hear the amused smirk in her husband's voice. He dug his fingers deeper into her, and she whimpered while she struggled to not let his intimate touch affect her—to no avail. Voldemort had always been quite adept at leaching all manner of pleasures from her, no matter how unwanted the touches always were. “You will not move until you are properly dismissed; where are your manners?”
“I—I'm sorry, my Lord,” the Healer stammered, and out of the corner of her eye, Cassiopeia could see that the Healer's face was flushed with embarrassment as he tried to not look upon the whimpering, squirming young woman on the cot. “I acted in haste.”
“See that it doesn't happen again,” Voldemort said, his tone returning to its usual smooth tone, just as he pinched Cassiopeia's clit, eliciting a soft squeak from her. She trembled and dug her nails into the thin white sheets, humiliated as Malfoy and Healer Rook looked on. His fingers moved faster, though his expression did not change as her breath became steadily more ragged, and her husband did not stop his ministrations until he had forced an orgasm from her, and with it tears streaked her cheeks. She moved to bury her face in her hands, but Voldemort caught her wrist before she was able to do so.
“You see how you ache for me, my dear?” He purred while he showed her his shining, damp fingers as evidence, and her cheeks burned again with shame. “Without me, you are nothing; without me, you are merely pretty wrappings around a shell; without me, you will never be satisfied. I'll see you tonight.”
With the threat of another rape hanging over her head, Voldemort released her wrist, and she succeeded in burying her face in her hands. Uncaring if her former rival was still watching her or not, she opened the floodgates, and wept. Her husband turned and left, not even glancing back at her as she sat there, her entire form trembling as she cried.
“Draco,” the Healer said shakily in a moment of unprofessional familiarity, “keep the Lady company, if you please. I will have a house elf bring a calming tisane for her.”
“Yes, sir,” Draco replied, and his tone made it clear that he was just as unnerved as his superior was, but Cassiopeia did not bother to look up as she fought to calm herself and staunch the flow of tears. Usually, crying like this made her feel better, but with the knowledge at what was coming, it was difficult to feel anywhere in the realm of better.

The soft sound of one set of footsteps retreating filled the silence, and it was closely followed by the scrape of a chair across the ceramic tiles of the floor.
“Potter?” Draco's voice whispered suddenly, softly, “is it really you?”
Cassiopeia looked up, still sniffling a little, and she was startled to see the Malfoy heir holding out a cloth handkerchief to her. She accepted it with a nod of thanks, and mopped the tears from her cheeks.
“The walls have ears,” she warned, her voice barely above a whisper; her voice broke, and another tear streaked her cheek as his question registered in her mind. “I may have been him once, but I don't know who I am anymore...except the Dark Lord's whore, I suppose.”
She looked up at her once-rival, and she did not miss the way his eyes raked over her body, his gaze was uncertain and frightened, but the attraction that she saw there made her uneasy. Could she really trust him? If by some fluke this ended with her alive, would he expect her to—
Cassiopeia shook her head; she didn't want to think about it.
“My family have covertly done their part to conserve the...old ways,” Malfoy said, ignoring her jibe at herself while he raised his eyebrows in an obvious hint—clearly, he did not mean old pureblood customs. “We have eleven people under our...employ, so to speak, at the manor at present...nine gingers, a pretty blonde, and a brunette.”
Had she been standing, Cassiopeia was quite certain that she would have fallen over from shock.
“I—but, why? I—I thought the Dark Lord was going to have them...” she trailed off as her throat tightened. She couldn't say it—merely thinking of the Weasleys being murdered was enough to make her feel sick at heart.
“My father intervened and insisted that we needed them to attend to the various menial tasks that our house elves could not attend to,” Malfoy replied simply. “We respect the old ways, Pott—my Lady. More now than we did back then. We wish to see them again someday, but there is only so much we can do without certain relatives cluing in on our schemes.”
Cassiopeia did not need to be a genius to work out that Malfoy meant Bellatrix. She nodded her head once.
At the same time, she could all but hear the what can I do? in his voice. She knew that there was every possibility that he was bluffing, and that she might pay dearly for her trust in him, but what choice did she have? She had no friends, no allies—no one to confide in. Malfoy was really and truly her only hope. Not for the first time, she prayed that she wasn't making a huge mistake in trusting him. The fact that they were helping the Weasleys, of all people, was more than a little perplexing.
“Why do you even care? Why would you save them?” She asked, and Malfoy's open expression shifted to a familiar glare, with his lip curled in a sneer. It took him a moment to calm down enough to actually answer her question.
“We have our reasons. If we all get out of this alive...maybe I'll tell you.”
Cassiopeia could not help it—she rolled her eyes. She should have expected such a response from someone like Malfoy.
“That night,” she began, her voice hinting clearly that she meant the Battle of Hogwarts, “I was shown certain...truths. Memories of...” she trailed off and bit her lip. How did she tell Malfoy without risking someone overhearing them? “A man who cared deeply for you, who wanted to do all he could to help you, but you may have misinterpreted it as his bid to steal your...erm, glory.” Cassiopeia paused again, and Malfoy nodded to indicate that he understood what she was getting at. “His memories. What is contained in them needs to be fulfilled. After...” she placed a hand on her stomach, “after my child is born, regardless if they live to see their second day, I need to you help me finish the task that was...set.”

Draco Malfoy, I need you to kill me.

“I will see to it, my...Lady,” Malfoy said just as softly, “what of this task? What will it accomplish?”
“It is the last tether that holds him to the earth,” she said, and twitched her head in the general direction of the infirmary doors. “If it is completed, he can be killed.” Cassiopeia threw caution into the wind with her last statement, and held her breath as she watched the young man's eyes widen in understanding at what she was saying.
“I may have failed in my tasks in the past,” he began, his voice soft and uncertain, but filled with reassurance as he spoke, “but in this, I will not fail.”
“If you need help, seek out your servants,” she said, and arched a brow to hint that she meant Ron and Hermione. Malfoy nodded, and she continued, “tell them...tell them, 'Polyjuice Potion brewed in the girls' lavatory works best without cat hair.'”
Malfoy stared, his expression shifting from anguish and hope to complete confusion. He shook his head once, and nodded.
“It will be done.”

~*~

Cassiopeia passed the remainder of her day alone.
Voldemort was a possessive and jealous man—if, after everything, he could even be called a man—and her only agemate nearby was Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately, she could not associate him under normal circumstances; her husband seemed to be certain that he would touch her 'inappropriately' if they were left alone together, and thus she rarely saw him, save for the few times he had dragged her along to the Malfoy Manor to show her off, or torment her, depending on the day. The incident in the infirmary had been a wild fluke, and after she had been discharged, her ever-present loneliness set in quickly. In the small moment with Malfoy, she had quite forgotten that she would spend the rest of her day alone with nothing to keep her company but her toxic, nervous thoughts.

~*~

“I am all that you will ever can be, my dear,” Voldemort purred, and Cassiopeia let out a soft whimper. She stood naked before a long, full-body mirror, while her husband stood at her back, one hand on her hip, and the other forcibly buried in her vagina. Her arousal trickled down his wrist as he rotated the appendage within her, and she squirmed in pain and unwanted pleasure. She turned her gaze away from both the shameful image and the sight of her distended, pregnant stomach, and in an instant Voldemort's hand moved to grasp her jaw, and forced her to gaze back at it.
“Look at yourself,” he hissed, “the great Harry Potter, reduced to my precious little whore. My fearsome, adolescent enemy, for all intents and purposes dead, and in his place a lovely, wonderfully fertile young woman who needs my seed, who craves it...”
“No,” she whimpered as a solitary tear streaked her cheek, and she whined as he moved his hand again. “No...I can't, I—I won't...”
“It's too late,” Voldemort purred, and slowly, gently, he removed his hand, and held it up in front of her, show her the pleasure he had bestowed upon her. “You need me.”
Without another word, he thrust inside her, and she stared blankly at the image of him raping her, while his high, cruel laugh filled the room and masked the sound of the wet slaps that brought her to another unwanted orgasm.

~*~

The memory brought with it another wave of misery, and her arms locked around her swollen belly as she walked the halls of the manor—her prison. The worst part was, when Voldemort denied her (which was rare to begin with) she did desire him. She knew that it was some sort of charm or curse upon her mind that he had placed there, but it did not change the fact that if she went a period of time without his touch, be it through penetrative sex, oral sex, or something else, she began to crave it.
And she hated it.
Worse still, even after the little show he'd forced her into in the infirmary, the promise of that night's activities had stirred her into a state of near-arousal. The thought of him splitting her open with his monster of an erection dampened her innermost thighs, and she swore the smell of it had begun to permeate the air around her like a perfume.
Horrified and ashamed, she slipped into the library in the hope that she might find some peace before her impending rape that evening.

The day passed by faster than she would have liked, and she only began to make for the bedroom when she had blown past exhaustion entirely, and could barely stay standing as she headed up to the room she shared with her husband. With every step, the arousal that had been with her all day became more acute, and she shuddered as another wave of shame engulfed her.
This isn't me, this is his doing, she thought miserably, but one way or another, he'll force my body to enjoy it...
When she at last stepped inside the bedroom, Voldemort was nowhere to be seen.
This was a brief reprieve, she knew that, but she embraced it all the same as she wiped off her makeup and washed her face, then brushed her teeth before she slipped back into the bedroom and reluctantly peeled off the uncomfortable dress—she had never once been offered the luxury of pyjamas during her time at Voldemort's side, and she hated how exposed she felt in sleeping naked.
“My fair wife, there you are,” a sudden cold voice spoke from the doorway, and she whirled around, her eyes wide as she saw Voldemort slip into the room. “And ready for me, I see,” he purred, while he fixed his gaze on her naked body, in particular, her dampened crotch. She wrapped her arms uselessly around her chest and crossed her legs, but Voldemort completely ignored her attempt at maintaining what little dignity she had left. He swept forward and forced her arms out of the way as he grabbing her breast in his left hand, while he knocked her legs apart and the fingers of his right immediately dove between her thighs.
As with every other time Voldemort had done this, he was not gentle. He pinched, groped, and twisted, he used his fingers roughly, but with well-practised touches that earned him a bodily response, regardless that his wife's mind still resisted with all that she had. Tears streaked her cheeks, which he ignored, and he peeled off his own clothes as he stared down at his fair consort, his thick erection sending a thrill of terror and desire through her at the sight of it.
“The Healer has advised me that at this late stage, rough vaginal sex has its risks,” he said smoothly, while he continued to stroke her, and she felt as though she might be sick. The wicked gleam in Voldemort's eye told her exactly where he planned to seek his pleasure from without him having to say it, and she felt her stomach somersault with both arousal and fear. Though she would never admit it, it was the kind of sex that her body reacted most favourably to—the kind she liked the most. She didn't want to like it, and the prospect of an enjoyable sexual encounter with her enemy and husband in one was well beyond humiliating.
“No,” she whimpered, unable to stop the plea, despite the futility of the action, “my Lord, please, please, don't...”
Voldemort ignored her, and shoved her hard.
She fell back onto the dark bedspread, and her breath hitched with fright as she felt her husband's wand press against her anus, and tears once more sprung to her eyes.
Cleansing and Lubrication Charms rushed through her, and she whimpered, but did not move. She stared up at the ceiling silently, with tears beginning to streak her cheeks, and she struggled to swallow the soft moan of anticipation that had bubbled into her throat. She jerked her head to the side in a quick half-shake as she felt the enormous cock head brush her tight, unprepared opening.
No, she thought viciously, I'm not enjoying this, I won't enjoy this...
Voldemort pressed against her, and Cassiopeia forced herself to relax, otherwise, she knew, it would be incredibly painful.
At first, it felt like he was pressing against an expanse of skin, and not an entrance into her body. The taut muscle refused to give, when just as suddenly, the guardian muscles bowed to Voldemort's cock, and he shoved himself all the way in with one thrust.
Despite her best efforts, she let out a moan of both pain and pleasure. She felt so full—impossibly and well beyond full, and it felt almost more than a normal human body should be able to reasonably take.

The worst of it however, was how good it felt.

Even without the presence of a prostate in her arse, when Voldemort began thrusting, it felt beyond good—and she hated it.
Cassiopeia panted heavily as she stared past the body crushing into hers and up to the ceiling, while the tears continued to fall. The slick lubrication had eased his passage into her hole, but without preparation, it still hurt more than a little.
The pain, however, was secondary to the overwhelming shame she felt at how he so easily made her enjoy the sensation, no matter how much she did not want to.
Pleasure radiated through her as Voldemort continued his onslaught upon her body, one hand at her hip and the other roughly playing with her clit. The ecstasy only he seemed able to bring out of her became all-consuming, and she was unable to focus on anything but the pleasure he was giving her. She did not even have enough presence of mind left in that moment to realize that she was moaning, and meeting his thrusts with her own movements.
Her halting, unwilling cries choked their way out of her throat as she clenched around the cock in her arse, and with a soft grunt he filled her with his seed.
She came down from the orgasmic high slowly, while her husband cleaned himself up, but did not offer her the same courtesy. He slipped under the covers and drew her close in a possessive hold, and she felt her despairing anguish and shame return as the semen leaked from her abused hole and dried against the back of her thighs.

Please Malfoy, she thought miserably as she lay there, please don't fail me.

~*~

The next time that Cassiopeia saw Malfoy she knew that he had done as she had asked. She rested a hand upon the swell of her stomach as he helped the Healer with checking her over, while he regarded her with a look of deepest betrayal. However, intertwined with it was a look of resignation—Malfoy seemed to understand that it had to be done, no matter what his own feelings on the issue were.
“If this fails,” Malfoy muttered softly when Healer Rook stepped out of the room, “you understand that you'll be leaving your only child to be raised by the Dark Lord.”
“Assuming my fair husband allows them to live,” she hissed back acidly, and Malfoy winced. “I know that when this is all over, Ron and Hermione will adopt my child—they will be taken care of. I trust them with my life.” The fact that she had not voiced trust in him showed in his eyes, and he regarded her with a look of hurt, but at the same time, he seemed to understand why she had not extended him anything that might resemble genuine trust. Their alliance was too new, too tenuous to risk such blind faith—not yet.
“For their sake,” Malfoy muttered, “I hope that you know what you're doing...Potter.”
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This Body is My Prison