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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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Part V: Awakening

Cassiopeia had expected to awaken to noise—chaos, even.
Something.
Instead, she woke to near-dead silence, save for a soft, comforting gurgling, and a gentle, welcome weight against her chest.
Her eyes flicked open.
She paid the room she was in no mind, nor the musty smell that permeated the air, or the soft, distant rustle of wildlife running through the foliage of a forest, which gave her the impression that she was in some sort of cabin.
All her attention was focused on the tiny form that rested upon her chest, swaddled in a soft spring green blanket, his head curled forward to show her a tuft of untidy black hair, his mouth sucking absently on his little fist, even in sleep.
She hardly dared believe what she was seeing. Her child—alive.
Cassiopeia reached out an uncertain hand to brush her fingers across his little chubby cheek, and her breath caught as tears came to her eyes.
Next to her, someone stirred, and she turned, startled, to see the last person that she ever expected to see.
Draco Malfoy was seated in a chair next to the bed, still wearing his Healer's robes, and his body was bowed forward, arms folded on the bed, with his head pillowed on top of them. More startling still was the rusty swath of old bloodstains upon the fabric that she could not recall seeing there before, which decorated the sleeves and torso of his robes, and she was deeply chilled by how much of it there seemed to be.
Her gentle waking had roused him, and he woke slowly, smiling weakly at her, though there was a haunted look in his eyes that made her uneasy.
“Good morning, my L—Potter,” he said while he tried for an old smirk, but its confidence did not reach his eyes.
“Am I still Potter?” she asked, and winced at the hoarse quality of her voice. Her hands tightened on her child when he let out a soft gurgle, and to her question, Malfoy shrugged.
“You're still Potter if you want to be, I suppose,” he replied, “the Dark Lord is dead.”
“What?” she breathed, the bottom dropping out of her stomach at his words, “I'm sorry, I mean, what? How?”
To her questions, Malfoy dropped his gaze.
“I—when you fell unconscious, and the Dark Lord did as well, and I...I—God, I forgot myself.”
“Draco,” she said, his first name sounding strange on her tongue, and his gaze snapped up in surprise at the sound of it. She reached out and rested a hand over his as she pleaded, “please, tell me.”
“I have the memory ready if you wish to view it,” he replied softly, and jerked his head in the direction of a pensieve perched upon an old and rickety writing desk at the other end of the room. “I wasn't certain you'd believe me if I just told you. But...after, my aunt went berserk. She was convinced that you had done something to her precious Dark Lord, and she went after you and your son. I took you here before she could hurt either of you.”
“Where is here?” she asked as she slowly sat up, for the first time noticing that she was not in her usual clothes, but soft, comfortable black robes made of some sort of soft material. She realized with a sudden jolt that they were, in fact, the same ones that she had been wearing in her dreamscape with Dumbledore.
“The Black Forest, Severus took me here after...that night,” Draco explained, “he was concerned that the Ministry might come after us, and this was one of his safe houses. It has everything we need, and we can stay here until the dust settles.” He paused, and looked up and down Cassiopeia's body, but it was a clinical, cold look, and not sexual. This in itself helped her to find it comforting, rather than unsettling.
“While you were sleeping, I tried to break the transfiguration enchantments, but I couldn't,” Draco said, a distinct pain in his voice, “I could try contacting McGonagall, but I have a feeling that even she may be incapable of returning you to how you were.” His cheeks tinted a sudden pink, and she regarded him oddly, but for a long moment he did not explain the source of his embarrassment. When he did at last speak, his voice was halting and reluctant. “You are...quite beautiful, you know, so if you chose to stay that way I don't think anyone would fault you for it.”
“Looks aren't everything,” she answered with a small shrug, “to be honest, I don't know if I want to go back to being Harry, but I don't know if I can go on in an identity that Voldemort created for me, either.” Her hold tightened on the child in her arms, and he gurgled softly again, reaching up a tiny, chubby arm to grip at the fabric that covered her bosom.
“Then become someone new,” Draco suggested, and reached out for her arm, and stroked it gently. Though she knew that Draco likely intended the touch as comforting, and not some sort of a come-on, she could not help but flinch from it, and he quickly drew back his hand. “I'm sorry,” he said quickly, “I'm not very good at taking care of people yet.”
“Well, on the whole, you're doing admirably,” she replied, and grimaced at the breathless, frightened quality of her voice. “Just...please don't touch me. It's still too close to...everything.”
“I'm sorry,” he repeated, and sounded like he meant it, too. His gaze fell to the babe in her arms, and quickly Draco changed the subject. “He hasn't a name yet, you realize.”
Her eyes fell to the child—her child. She adjusted her hold slightly to lift a hand to his cheek again, and the soft touch was enough to rouse him. He stirred, and his eyes flicked open. In an instant, she felt her blood run cold.
Red eyes.
Everything that had happened over the last five years rushed through her mind in quick succession; her kidnapping, her forced change from male to female, the constant cycle of rape, pregnancy, and the anguish that followed Voldemort's murder of the her baby girls, one after another. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she clenched them shut as they streaked her cheeks, and her hold tightened on the child in her arms.
Was it even possible to love something unconditionally, and fear it at the same time?
“I don't know if I can do this...” she whispered weakly, not looking at Draco or her nameless child, though she still could not let go of the babe, “what child wants a mother who cannot look in his eyes without flinching?”
“Pott—My L—Cassiopeia,” Draco stumbled over the names and titles, and she looked up at him, eyes wide. He looked as though he wanted to embrace her, but she could also see that he was forcing himself to hold back. “This child is not the Dark Lord. He is descended from—him but he is not an evil being. He is a baby—a child—your child. Would you forsake him because of his parentage, like I...” he trailed off and looked away, a look of incredible guilt clouding his silvery gaze.
“Draco?” she prompted when he did not speak for a long moment, but he did not answer, and instead continued to stare at the warped wooden floor.
“I—I'm going to try and find something for you to eat. Be with your child. I shall be nearby should you require anything.”
Without another word, he stood and bolted from the room.

~*~

She stared at the rickety door that Draco had disappeared behind, and then looked back down to the infant. He was beginning to fuss, and instinctively she knew that he was probably hungry.
Feeling somewhat awkward, she loosed the buttons on the robe that she wore, and pulled them down enough for her son to latch on to the nipple, and began the suckle. It felt odd, but nowhere near as painful as she had expected. His little fist curled against her breast, and she felt her stomach clench with guilt, because Draco had been right.
She thought that she no longer cared that the child that currently lay nestled in her arms was of Voldemort's blood, as well as her own, but it was quite clear that she did. To look into those ruby irises, she could not help but see all the terrible things her child's father had put her through. She inhaled a shuddering breath, and reached down with her free hand to stroke the flyaway tufts of hair.
Just how mine used to be... she thought, and blinked back a fresh wave of tears. Am I even Harry Potter still? she wondered, who am I?
No matter how often the question repeated in her mind, no answer came to her.
Draco left her alone all night, but she welcomed the solitude, rather than reviled it. She did not sleep, but rather spent the night in deep thought, while she tried to come to a decision regarding the present and her uncertain future.
All the while, she held tightly to her son.
He slept through most of the night, waking only a handful of times to be fed, but strangely, never required a changing, which struck her as slightly odd. However, she all but clung to him, while the mixed feelings of fear and adoration for the tiny bundle in her arms almost overwhelmed her.
He looked nothing like Voldemort, save for the eyes, and every waking brought with it a soft coo as he began to fuss, but not once did he scream or cry loudly. And still, she had not named him.
In the twilight of dawn Cassiopeia finally fell asleep, one arm extended and curled around her son, with her body acting like something of a shield to keep him from possibly toppling from the bed. When she next woke, based on the quality of light streaming through the moth-eaten curtains it had to be around noon, and she found a wicker bassinet set up next to the rickety bed, and a plate of hot food that had been set up on the night stand. It was not the light or the smell of food that woke her, but the soft sounds of her child beginning to fuss again, and she quickly hoisted him up for a feed.
A soft tapping on the door broke the silence, and she heard Draco's muffled voice from the other side.
“It's me,” he said simply, “may I come in?”
“Yeah, it's okay,” she answered, and immediately Draco let himself into the room. He was dressed in fine black robes that seemed to border between casual enough for everyday wear, and fine enough to show off his aristocratic background. When he stepped in, his eyes immediately fell to her partially-exposed chest, but it was not a hungry or desirous look that she saw in his eyes, but a clinical one, reminding her once more that Draco was training to be a Healer, and bare breasts were hardly something new to him.
“I brought this for you,” he explained as he dug inside his robes and extracted her old phoenix feather wand, mended, and Draco extended it to her, handle first. “My mother had it, but I'm not certain where she got it or how.”
She accepted it from him, and a warmth spread from the wand through her fingers and up her arm, then a small shower of gold sparks erupted from its tip.
“How?” she asked as Draco pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. Around the same moment, her child seemed to have had his fill, and she readjusted her robes, then cradled him in her arms again. Though it would have been more logical to let him rest in the bassinet next to her, she couldn't bring herself to let go of him—not yet.
“Ollivander, those Lovegood oddballs, and Granger,” Draco explained. “My mother only had the pieces. She gave it to them and they took the Dark Lord's wand and mended it with ease, I've no idea why or how his wand could mend yours...but it did. I promised to bring it to you.” He paused and regarded her in contemplative silence for a moment, then added, “I'm still not certain what I should call you, by the way. Or what you want to be known as—I'd assumed you'd want to go back to being Potter, but now...I'm uncertain.”
“Honestly, I don't know who I am anymore,” she replied with a weak shrug, “I was Harry Potter, then I was Cassiopeia. But...she was Voldemort's...” she trailed off and shuddered. “I'd never really had a chance to think much about who I am, or was, because of everything that went on when we were teenagers. I mean, losing my identity as a man hurt, but, at the same time, I feel nothing about it. I don't really miss it, but I don't know if I feel like a woman, either, or what it even means to be one.” She sighed heavily, and readjusted her hold on her child as she lifted the other to rake it through her long, unwashed hair. “It's really confusing.”
“Well, there's no rush to decide, the wizarding world on the whole thinks that you're dead, and if you do go back you'll be welcomed with open arms, but...” Draco trailed off, and his eyes fell to her child, “if you choose to return, you would need to never speak about his parentage. There's every chance that the Ministry may feel that he is destined to be the next Dark Lord and do something...rash.”
“Rash, like...killing him?”
“Most likely,” Draco replied, and her arms tensed around the baby as he let out a soft cry of discomfort. “No one, save my family and Healer Rook, know of his existence, and no one knows that you are here. You're safe, er...” he trailed off, and eyed her uncertainly.
“Cassie,” she said, testing the name out on her tongue, “call me Cassie.” Draco nodded, and offered her a most uncharacteristic smile.
“You're safe, Cassie.”

~*~

Cassie passed a week in the dreary little cabin without really leaving the bedroom she had woken up in, save for quick trips to the toilet. All that time, she had yet to let go of her son.
Her arms ached, but she could not bring herself to put him down—not yet.
Draco had claimed that Voldemort was gone, and she believed him, but it did not feel real to her, and more like a silly, outlandish daydream. Every moment, she expected to see him again—for him to burst in and take away her child, or finally try and kill her like he should have done all those years ago in the forest.
The unnamed child gurgled in her arms, and she laid him down on the bed, then stretched out next to him, using her body as a shield to keep him from rolling off the bed and hurting himself. He looked up at his mother with a toothless, happy smile as he let out a coo, and she smiled weakly at him, brushing her fingers over the tuft of black hair on his head, while she tried to avoid looking into his eyes.
Aside from the untidy black hair, she hated how little of herself she saw in the boy.
At first, she had believed that the only resemblance he had to his father were his eyes, but now she realized that he looked so much like Tom Riddle. With every day that passed, he looked more and more like his father, and not less, as she had hoped.
Cassie pressed her lips together, but the choked sob still escaped past her lips.
Draco was there in an instant, his eyes wide with worry.
“Cassie?” he asked as she sat up and gathered the child into her arms again, while she ignored the tears that streaked her cheeks. “What's the matter?”
“How—how am I supposed to parent a child that I can't look at without flinching?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “He—he looks so much like his father, I must be the worst mother in the world, I can't even look into my own child's eyes without being afraid.”
Another choking sob stopped her from continuing, and despite her deep, even breaths in an effort to calm herself, her tears would not abate.
Draco crossed the room without a word, and sat down on the chair next to the bed. He withdrew a handkerchief and handed it to her, and she accepted it, nodding her head in silent thanks.
“I think it may have been a mistake, letting you hide away in here for so long, I mean,” Draco said gently as he accepted the damp piece of cloth back from her, “you're in shock; nothing feels real to you, and you have lost every sense of identity—you haven't even given your son a name yet.”
Cassie bowed her head shamefully, but did not answer. Draco had fallen silent, but when she did not respond to his comments, he pressed on.
“I have some things for you,” he continued, “I—erm, I hope you're not terribly upset, but while you were sleeping I used a measuring tape to take your measurements, and I went out and bought you some things—clothes, hair potion, some cosmetics, I wasn't certain what you would want...”
Cassie watched him, and in particular how he went very pink as his explanation wore on. She felt warmed by his words, touched that he would do such a thing for her, but after a quick pause, she realized that he wasn't quite finished yet.
“I, ah, also have a few things for your child,” he said, and flushed again, “bottles, toys, some clothes...”
“Nappies?” she asked, and he smirked, nodding.
“I bought the No-Mess ones,” Draco explained, “they self-clean for ten days before they need to be changed with a new one. I think it would save us from building up an alarming amount of waste from his little bottom.”
“I appreciate it,” she said, then glanced down at her son, “we both do. But...why did you? What's in it for you?”
Draco's Trademark Malfoy smirk slowly dissolved, and it was replaced with a soft, genuine smile. She did not know what it meant, and she watched as Draco lurched forward, as though he wanted to touch her, or embrace her, but at the last moment he thought better of it and pulled back.
“I fancy you, Cassie,” Draco said simply, and she felt her face flush at the unabashed admission. “I fancied you when you were Harry, I fancied you when you were Cassiopeia, and I fancy you now. Your shape doesn't really matter to me, you're still you. I want to keep you safe—I want to help you, if you'll let me.” He paused, and looked down at his hands. He opened and closed them several times before he looked back up at her. “That doesn't mean that I, er, expect anything from you, but if you'll give me a chance, I'd like to help you find yourself again—whomever that may be.”
“I...” she paused, trailing off as she looked away from Draco. At the same moment, her child let out a familiar, gurgling whine, and she loosed the ties at the back of her robes, and they fell open to expose her chest. The little boy latched on and began to suckle, then when she was certain that he was comfortable, she turned her gaze back to Draco, who had been determinedly looking away from her, his face rather pink. “I don't really know what to say,” she said at last, “I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. I just...thank you, Draco.”
Cassie felt as though that simple 'thank you' was not enough to completely encompass all that she was feeling. Her deep gratitude, not just for Draco taking care of her, but for being decent—much more decent than she would have expected—was almost overwhelming.
“You don't have to say anything,” Draco replied, “I didn't do it for me, I did it for you.” He stood, and reached out to brush his hand over her shoulder in an affectionate gesture that lasted no more than a split second, far too fast for her to even react to it. “The things I bought for you are there,” Draco said, and motioned to the trunk at the end of the bed with his wand, and it popped open to display several stacks of neatly folded clothing, some items for babies, and a number of bottles and jars of the potions and cosmetics that Draco had mentioned. “When you finish, maybe find something you like, and come outside. You don't have to if you don't want to, but I think it'll be good for you two to have some fresh air. The warding stretches to five hundred metres around the house in every direction, so we're safe, more or less.”
Draco did not wait for a response, but instead swept from the room without another word.
Cassie sat upon the bed, rocking the child a little as he nursed, his little fist curled against her breast, and his eyes were flicking open and shut as he tried to stay awake. He lost the battle and nodded off, and Cassie gently pulled him away from her chest while she adjusted the garment, then carefully got up with the child still in her arms to inspect the contents of the trunk.
It was a relief to see that Draco seemed to have understood that her clothing while trapped in the manor was not what she would have liked to wear, and thus the contents of the trunk was wildly different from those revealing garments. Most of it contained muggle clothes—unisex T-shirts, a mixture of bottom undergarments for men and women, a number of different bras, and half the items of clothing seemed to be designed for men, and the other for women. The women's clothes were not overly revealing—there were a few tank tops, and women's shorts that barely went a third of the way down her thigh, but overall they seemed to be quite conservative.
The cosmetics, too, seemed to be a mix—deodorants in scents designed for men or women, a few items of makeup, perfumes and colognes, but nothing overt or gaudy like she had been forced to wear while at the manor.
Draco seemed to have gone overboard when it came to the baby clothes, however.
Onesies in every colour and pattern under the sun, little romper suits, baby leather jackets, tiny trainers, little T-shirts with nauseatingly adorable prints on them (Cassie's favourite being a shirt in sky-blue with the picture of a teddy bear on it) and a stack of the special nappies that Draco had mentioned. There was also a precious little stuffed dragon, green, with some sort of shiny material sewn onto its belly and the inside of its wings.
When Cassie picked the thing up, she realized that it was slightly frayed, but still in near-perfect condition. It also had a mothball smell to it, as though it had been stored away for a very long time.
Cassie turned it over in her hand curiously, and immediately nearly dropped it, for scrawled on the bottom of its foot in shaky, childish handwriting was a single word.

Draco.
A/N: I was a little nervous about how this chapter would be received, but my fanfic guinea pigs gave it a thumbs up, so...yeah. As for the specifics of how Voldy died, we'll get there in time, I'm not about to -not- address it.
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This Body is My Prison