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This Body is My Prison	By : JBankai89 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Voldemort Views: 25130 -:- 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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A/N: Possible Trigger Warning/Squick: Since this is one of the few fic im writing and posting simultaneously, and sometimes untagged things pop up. There will be a detailed lactation kink scene about halfway/two-thirds of the way through this chapter, so keep an eye out for that if it's not your thing. It's tagged now for future readers! :)
Part III: Impending

With each visit to the infirmary, Cassiopeia became more and more apprehensive about her new alliance with Malfoy.
It wasn't that he wasn't that he was unkind to her, or gave the impression that he was likely to inform Voldemort what they were up to—it was all in how he looked at her.

Desire.

The first few times, it had been closer to an innocent look of attraction. She wasn't stupid—she knew that she was very pretty, and downplaying her appearance was made rather difficult by the horribly revealing outfits that she was forced into. Paired Voldemort's most unpleasant habit of forcing her into sexual situations before an audience, and she couldn't completely blame Malfoy for his reaction.
That did not make it any less unsettling, however.
Following the moments where Voldemort felt the need to reassert his hold on her before the Healers, Malfoy would almost immediately mumble something about needed to use the loo, and would hurry off.
The strange stiffness in his walk made it quite clear just how affected he had been by the so-called show.
Her subconscious took these memories and twisted them horribly, and her dreams were plagued by nightmarish scenarios wherein Voldemort had been defeated, and Malfoy would demand her body in recompense for his part in it. It seemed to matter little when she woke each morning when she reminded herself that if Voldemort was to be defeated she would not survive to see it, each night her dreams were the same, and she saw herself being passed from the hands of one tormentor to another, in the form of Draco Malfoy.

Three weeks after she had first revealed to Malfoy who she really was, Cassiopeia woke to a most unpleasant surprise.
Normally when she woke, her husband was already gone for the day, off to take care of the variety of tasks he needed to see to to keep the wizarding world so completely under his thumb. Though it was somewhat lonely to wake up to such an empty bed, it was always better than waking up in the arms of her rapist.

Not this morning, however.

She woke feeling both cold and hot, and at first she could not place what was the cause of the sensation. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, and then she felt it—a finger, very lightly tracing her slit. She let out a small whimper, and she tried valiantly to ignore just how good it felt, to no avail. Her body had once more betrayed her, and her lips grew damp with need.
“Still ever the cum-slut, I see,” Voldemort purred, and she whimpered again as he parted her lips and circled her clit with his third finger. She squirmed and shivered, but did not bother trying to get away—in her condition, she wouldn't get very far.
“M-My Lord, please...” she began, but hissed as he ignored her feeble plea, and forced her onto her back and flicked his wand sharply.
Cassiopeia let out a low moan, though it was not one of longing, but of fear and discomfort. She could feel her second entrance beginning to slacken, and without warning, it was just as suddenly filled.
Tears streaked her cheeks as her ample bosom heaved with each forceful thrust, her back aching from the force as her heavy chest jerked with each move, and despite her efforts to temporarily sever her mind from her body and not think about what was happening, for some reason, this time, she could not do it.

She felt everything.

Every thrust, every caress to her oversensitive clit, it was maddening in its intensity, and when she came, it felt as though every bone in her body had been turned to jelly.
Cassiopeia's orgasm came to her quickly, but her Lord's did not. He continued to use her hole, silent as the grave, and her only indication that he had reached his completion was the way he stiffened not two seconds before her arse was flooded with his seed.
She shuddered as he extracted himself from her and spelled his cock clean. She was deeply grateful for this—in the past, it had not been uncommon for him to demand that she lick it clean.
As she lay there, the distinct ache in her chest did not abate, and almost unconsciously she went to massage her chest, wholly unaware that her husband was still watching her intently.
“My dear,” he said suddenly, “you seem to be having something of a...problem.”
Cassiopeia blinked, and she noticed suddenly that Voldemort was not looking in her eyes; he was staring at her chest. She felt herself flush a deep, ashamed scarlet when she discovered the exact reason why.
She was leaking milk, and her chest had become somewhat stained with the thin, white liquid.
Chuckling with amusement, he stood and drew on his robes for the day, but when she began to get up to mirror her husband's actions, he threw his hand out and something that felt like a wordless and wandless impediment jinx hit her, it momentarily freezing her movements.
“Oh no, no, no, my dear...” he purred, “we must take care of this problem of yours. I won't have you ruining the pretty garments that I have acquired for you. Sit up, and stay there,” Voldemort commanded as drew his wand, flicked it, and the blankets pooled at her hips, leaving her entire upper half exposed to the cool morning air. She shivered, but did not ask what he was planning. Whatever it was, it was going to be unpleasant, and knowing in advance would not help to ease the sting.
Voldemort clapped his hands once, and a tiny house elf appeared before him.
“Master called?” it squeaked, and Cassiopeia shivered at the wicked smirk that suddenly crossed her husband's face.
“Please summon the young Healer, Draco Malfoy, to this room if you please,” he said, and Cassiopeia felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

Did he know?

The house elf bowed, and disappeared with a sharp crack. Cassiopeia moved as though to cover up her chest with the thin blanket, but Voldemort refused her again, and yanked the satin folds from her fingers with another flick of his wand.
“Do not cover yourself, or I may feel the need to restrict how often I permit you to wear clothes, my dear,” he said sternly, leaving no room for argument. She bowed her head and nodded.
“Yes, my Lord.”

Cassiopeia sat in silence, and struggled to contain her minor tremors of fright at what Voldemort could possibly have summoned Malfoy for, while she tried to covertly cover herself with her arms. Voldemort seemed to see right through this charade however, and following one of his cold glares, she was always quick to drop her arms.

A soft knock not five minutes later broke through the quiet like a cannon-blast, and her breath caught.
“Enter,” Voldemort said at once, and the door creaked open. Malfoy took a small, uncertain step inside, but stopped short when he caught sight of Cassiopeia sitting naked in the centre of the bed.
“M-my Lord?” Malfoy prompted, confusion written all over his face, paired with just a hint of fear. Voldemort smirked, and with a flick of his wand, the door slammed shut behind the youth, causing him to jump.
“It is quite amazing what one can glean from the mere edges of one's mind,” Voldemort said while he levelled his gaze with Malfoy, who looked very nervous. “I could rip through your feeble Occlumency shields like rain through tissue paper, but there is no need, I think, for such effort on my part. You wear it as plainly as you do those Healer's robes of yours, Draco.”
“M-my Lord, I don't understand—” Malfoy began, but Voldemort was quick to interrupt him.
“—you desire my Cassiopeia,” Voldemort said simply, though strangely without the possessiveness that Cassiopeia had come to associate with him. “You have been looking. You are struggling to not look, now. And I think...” Voldemort trailed off and lifted his chin, his eyes never leaving the youth as he sized him up, “you may have an inkling as to my fair wife's true identity, do you not?”
“An inkling,” Malfoy confirmed, his voice shaking badly, “I—her past children had untidy black hair, and her eyes—there is only one other person who has eyes like that. It is merely a hypothesis—on my part.”
Voldemort briefly turned to Cassiopeia, as though trying to verify this story, then looked back to Malfoy.
“My wife, you think her attractive, do you not?” Voldemort asked, and Malfoy bowed his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Speak, boy. I have posed you a question.”
“Yes my Lord,” Malfoy said quickly, “she is very beautiful. I have always found her beautiful...no matter what form she is in.”
Cassiopeia's eyes widened, and her gaze caught Malfoy's as he raised his eyebrows in an obvious hint. She felt her skin burn, and she looked away.
“Well, you, yourself, are quite a handsome young man,” Voldemort said smoothly, his mouth twitching to a smirk when a look of complete bewilderment crossed Malfoy's face. “The unfortunate madness that pervades your mother's family aside, the Black line has always yielded beautiful children. I am not partial to men, but your waif-like fragility, your aristocratic grace, and your silver beauty have somewhat endeared you to me. I daresay that you and my Cassiopeia would look quite lovely together.”
“My Lord?” Malfoy said uncertainly, “I—I thank you for the compliments, it is kind of you to bestow them upon one such as me, but...I am not entirely certain why it is that you have called me here. What is it that you wish of me?”
“Well, your attraction to my wife, your knowledge as a Healer, and the fact that your shape is not wholly abhorrent to me has given me an idea,” Voldemort began, and Cassiopeia saw Malfoy tense, while she swallowed nervously. There was a wickedness in her husband's voice, like one who was cradling a bomb, and preparing to drop it.
“What is your idea, my Lord?” Malfoy asked, his uncertain tone making it sound as though he was reluctant to actually have an answer to his question.
“My Lady wife seems to be experiencing some pain and discomfort, her breasts, lovely as they are, are leaking. You will lay in her lap, and nurse from her. Ease her pain, and I shall watch.”
“M-my Lord!” Malfoy protested, “this...this is quite indecent, I—”
“Do you speak against your Lord?” Voldemort interrupted, the low calm of his voice far more terrifying than had he been shouting those same words. Malfoy's horrified look at what was being asked of him never left his eyes, but he fell silent and bowed his head.
“No, my Lord, I live to serve you,” he murmured, his soft tone so achingly familiar to Cassiopeia's that she almost broke down and wept, for it was the same tone of voice she often used when speaking to him as well. To hear it on another's lips was most unsettling.
“Too right you do,” Voldemort replied smoothly, “now, attend to my wife. Suckle as though you were her babe. I wish to see just how sensitive she truly is.”

Malfoy hesitated, but when an irritated and impatient look crossed Voldemort's face, he began to reluctantly shuffled towards the expansive bed.
Cassiopeia watched Malfoy approach, his face flushed with shame and reluctance, clearly showing that though it was true that he desired her, he had no desire to do things to her—not like this. She nodded to him in an effort to reciprocate that she understood, but the horrified look never left his eyes.
He eased down onto the soft blankets, and paused long enough to breathe a whisper of, “I'm sorry,” before he rested his head against her swollen belly, and closed his lips over her right nipple.
Despite her shame at what was happening, the moment Draco began to suckle, a low moan escaped her before she could stop it. The ache lessened, and her highly sensitive flesh tingled in response to him, and she even felt herself grow slick again at the sensation.
She had half-forgotten that her husband was even there, and when she next looked upon him, he was seated across the room, his gaze darkened, and his right hand had disappeared into his robes, clearly stroking himself while he watched. She closed her eyes and tried to not think about it, while her hand moved to stoke Draco's fine hair, though whether the touch was encouragement or reassurance, she wasn't sure.
Draco moved to her other breast, this time with slightly more enthusiasm, though his halting, reluctant movements told her that he still did not like being forced on her like this.
The attentions to her other breast, paired with the distinct lack of pain now was almost too much for her, and she trembled as she tried to ignore the building pleasure his light touch had caused. Such tenderness was not something she found at the hands of her husband, and thus the contact was heightening her arousal, instead of dampening it.
Cassiopeia fidgeted as she took a deep, shuddering breath. Draco had taken more than a few liberties with the task he had been assigned, and she felt his tongue swirl around the hardened nipple, nip at it, anything to keep her mind on him, and not on their silent observer. However, her deep breath had been her downfall, as just as suddenly, she heard her husband laugh.
“Oh, look at what you have done, Draco,” he purred as he stood, using his wand to erase the white mess from his hand as he strode forward. Draco sat up and gazed at Voldemort nervously, his eyes wide and almost devoid of their usual silver, with the pupils blown wide in his own arousal. “You have stimulated my fair Cassiopeia, and now she is longing for release.”
“My Lord, I—I did not intend to cause her, er...discomfort,” Draco said meekly, while he gazed up at Voldemort with wide eyes, his expression riddled with uncertainty. Cassiopeia could sympathize with that—what exactly did Voldemort want him to do?
“A gentleman never leaves a lady unsatisfied,” Voldemort said smoothly, “and you have made this mess, you must now clean it up.” Voldemort groped himself crudely through his robes, “use your mouth, and she will use hers,” Voldemort said, while he withdrew his already half-hard cock from his robes once more, and Draco's eyes bulged at the sight of it. “Cassiopeia, you know what to do. Lie down with your head dangling off the bed.”
“My Lord!” Draco squeaked, his eyes wide, “this—this is most improper! She is your wife, what pleasure do you get from seeing her with someone else?”
“Do you dare to delve into my private matters, Draco?” Voldemort asked softly, and Draco blanched. “You will do as you are commanded, or I will have you replaced my someone more willing.”
“I beg your pardon, my Lord,” Draco said almost immediately as he dropped his gaze, “it's just...” he paused and shook his head. “My apologies, my Lord, for my continued protests. I am used to partners who are wholly willing, not...reluctant.”
“Ah, dear boy,” Voldemort said with a chuckle as he grabbed Cassiopeia by the shoulder and forced her down onto the bed, her head dangling off the side, and her horrified, mournful tears trickled into her hair while her husband spoke. “You will soon learn that there is a lovely thrill to taking what you want from a partner, instead of asking for it.”
If Draco answered Voldemort's last statement, Cassiopeia did not hear it. Her focus had shifted to the red, hardened, impossibly thick cock mere millimetres from her face, and she forced her throat to relax while she licked her lips, and opened her mouth.
Even though she knew what was coming, it still did not adequately prepare her for the agonizing, choking sensation of Voldemort pushing his cock into her mouth and down her throat without pause. The force of it was painful, and she struggled to breathe while at the same time a shudder passed through her when she felt an uncertain tongue swipe over her swollen and throbbing clit.
A strangled moan escaped her past the cock down her throat, just as Voldemort drew back, paused long enough for her to gasp for breath before he plunged back in.
Draco, in contrast, was gentle, but impassioned. She was uncertain whether or not he had done this before, but as time wore on and he suckled on her clit in the same way that he had done to her nipples, interspersed with soft caresses to her inner thighs. It was so unlike any sexual experience that her female body had heretofore experienced, and the pleasure that she drew from his touch was confusing, because though it was unwanted—even under normal circumstances she was uncertain if she would ever willingly accept touch from Draco Malfoy—it felt wonderful.
Her husband reached orgasm at the same moment that Draco leached hers from her body, and she shuddered at heat raced through her and she attempted to cry out around the appendage lodged in her throat.
Cassiopeia felt the satin bedsheet being pulled over her lower half, as though in an effort to preserve some of her dignity, while Voldemort slowly drew his cock from her throat, apparently pleased with himself. Draco scrambled quickly off the bed, and would not look at her as she sat up.
“Hm, yes,” Voldemort said as his eyes flitted between the two of them, “your task is to see to my dear wife's chest when she is experiencing discomfort. Of course, only when I am present. You are a young man, after all, and one can never trust a man's hands not to wander. Dismissed.”
Draco rushed from the room without a word, and Voldemort was quick to follow, leaving her alone with only her thoughts for company.
When the distant echo of their footsteps died away, Cassiopeia buried her face in her hands, and wept.

~*~

Cassiopeia did not see Draco Malfoy for three days.
She suffered rough treatment of her body at her husband's hands—though never roughly enough to risk injury to the babe that grew within her—but he still knew how to make her draw pleasure from it, which easily worsened her disgust at herself for feeling anything good at his hands. She would have assumed that she would never see Draco, had it not been for her mandatory visits to the infirmary for her checkups with Healer Rook—thankfully, Voldemort had so far not called on him for another 'session'.
Draco did not meet her eyes during her weekly visit to the infirmary, but instead saw to his duties in silence. His entire body seemed to radiate shame for what he had been forced to do to her, and Voldemort seemed strangely pleased by his attitude. The Dark Lord smirked as he looked on at him, once more casually touching Cassiopeia intimately before the Healers with little regard for the discomfort of his wife or their would-be 'audience'.
“Everything seems to be fine,” Healer Rook said with a small, forced smile, “however, my Lord, I would caution you to not unnecessarily stress your wife—depression, stress, anxiety...it may lead to birth complications, early labour, or something more serious.”
“These complications...would they pose any true threat to the life of my wife or unborn child?” he asked in a light, casual tone, as though he was not sexually assaulting his wife right in front of them. With ashamed tears streaking her cheeks, he shoved two fingers into her, and the other pressed down hard against her clit, which caused her hips to involuntarily twitch.
“Th-they might, my Lord. It is difficult to say what, exactly, may happen,” Healer Rook said, determinedly keeping his eyes off his patient, “these things can be quite unpredictable. I have some paperwork in my office that I can show you if you wish to see more detail about what sort of complications may arise...”
Voldemort did not immediately answer, but instead picked up his pace, and brought Cassiopeia to a rough, painful orgasm before he turned to the Healer, seemingly pleased with the look of unease upon his face.
“Please, show me your work,” he said, while at the same time he forced the fingers that he had been using on Cassiopeia into her mouth, a silent command to lick them clean. She did so, knowing that really, she had no choice, and when he deemed his hand sufficiently unsullied by her orgasmic juices, he withdrew his hand and followed the Healer from the room.
The moment that they had gone, Draco sat down upon the edge of her bed. She jumped a little as he took her hand gently in his own, and gave it a small squeeze. He quickly let go.
“I promise,” Draco whispered, “I promise that I will end this. For you, for me—for all of us.”
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This Body is My Prison