Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

No one knows how they got there.

Harry went to sleep in his bed at Hogwarts and woke up in this place; the other prisoners have similar stories, from all the countries around the globe.

Months later, and still no one figured out what happened.

Harry would call his new home a prison; it is a prison, that is certain, only it has no guards.

During the months he spent there, Harry had not seen a single guard.

They have cells, rows upon rows of them, but while they can slide the bars shut, they won’t lock.

There are no windows, only bright neon lights that stay on for eighteen hours, before going out for six hours, plunging them in complete darkness.

From everything Harry saw, the cells are all identical, with bunk beds, a toilet and a shower head.

On the first level, out of four, there is an enormous open area.

Every twelve days an incredible pile of strange rocks appears there, along with crates of canned food, blankets, books or small comforts.

The rocks came with instructions. A single piece of paper with drawings. They also come with hammers. It is clear they are expected to break the incredibly hard and resistant rocks until they obtain a singly, tiny, red gem from their centre.

At first, they refused to do it. But the food and supplies stopped coming and they were left starving.

When they all do their part, when they carefully extract the gems, and the huge pile of rocks ends, they wake up with another pile, and with crates filled with necessities.

“They must gas us,” a muggleborn, American wizard says, when all their collective plans to have someone stay awake at all time to see who brings the rocks fail. Always, when all the gems are extracted from a pile, they all fall unconscious, and wake up to a new pile.

There were almost six hundred people there when they woke up in the prison, on that first day.

Five months later, sixteen of them are gone.

Seven died in the first week, when tensions were high, when language barriers and paranoia made some attack.

There are wizards and witches of every nationality Harry had heard of. Almost half a year later and Harry is yet to speak to even half the prison population.

There’s still plenty of distrust, everyone thinks someone must know something, that maybe a few of them are working with their captors, and they are undercover.

After the first week, every group chose someone to represent them. The Brits chose McGonagall.

And she, along with the other representatives vote fairly- how to ration the food, how to make sure everyone works equally on the rocks. They arranged for a library right next to the pile of rocks- the books, their only entertainment, are guarded by people in shifts that keep track of who lends them and when they give them back.

The elected leaders, all of them able to use wandless magic, settle disputes that are bound to arise every now and again.

After the first seven people died violently, there are no more deadly attacks.

Whoever keeps them prisoners took the bodies when they came with the new rocks and supplies.

But Harry still remembers the stench of seven rotting bodies coming from one side of the prison.

Three more killed themselves since then, but they had the decency to do it right before their jailers were due to bring other rocks, so they were speared of the awful smell.

One Finish woman died of natural causes, a Healer said. Her heart just gave out.

(-)

Harry shares his cell with Ginny. In the beginning, he shared with Ron, but now Ron is in the next cell, with Hermione, even if Arthur and Molly aren’t happy with the arrangements.

But they had to accept it.

The leaders do their best to keep spirits calm, to have order, to protect the oldest and youngest amongst them, take care of the frail ones, but there is nothing they can do when Omegas go into heat or Alphas into rut.

They tried- McGonagall and the others attempted to keep the Alphas in rut shut down in cells locked with magic; but when nine omegas and thirteen alphas went into ruts and heats at the same time, there was nothing to be done.

That’s how another five people die. Three Omegas, ripped apart by crazed Alphas, and two Alphas fighting to death for the same Omega.

(-)

“Omegas and Alphas must pair up,” McGonagall says to the group of Brits, a decision taken by all the leaders, together. “Every fertile Omega with every fertile Alpha. It is the only way to make sure no other tragedies happen.”

A logical plan.

Only harder to put in practice. Some of the younger ones haven’t presented yet, but they will. The most pressing problem: the Omegas outnumber the Alphas, three to one.

“Which is good,” Hermione says, trying to look at the bright side. “It’s easier to have a few Omegas share an Alpha.”

If it had been the other way….no Alpha would share.

There’s also the problem that some of them don’t want to be paired up. They have a partner back home, or they just don’t like the partner they are assigned.

Harry is incredibly lucky. Ginny just presented as an Omega and it’s a relief to have her.

Ron and Hermione are both Betas, so they don’t have to worry at all.

But not everyone is so lucky.

Still, when the waves of heats and ruts come, no one dies anymore.

Noise and the smell of sex fill the air, moans or cries, but it’s preferable to screams of help and the smell of rotting corpses.

The older Alphas take the young Alpha boys aside and try to teach them to avoid a pregnancy.

“Impossible,” an old Alpha Frenchmen, a grumpy one, sneers. “It’s a biological imperative. You really expect these young boys to keep their heads on their shoulders and not knot inside their sweet omegas?”

(-)

They have seventeen confirmed pregnant omegas in their sixth month at the prison.

“I won’t do that to you,” Harry whispers to Ginny, when they go to one of the vacant cells together. “I promise, Ginny, I’ll stop myself, I’ll-”

“Shh.” She smiles at him, sweetly. “I know you’ll do your best. I trust you.”

Harry gathers her at his chest, a fierce need to protect her, to care for her, almost suffocating him.

He hasn’t had a rut, yet. He’d only just presented a month before they were taken.

Ginny presented in prison. She hasn’t had a heat yet either.

They kiss and explore each other bodies, so they won’t have to do so for the first time when they are driven mindless with lust.

It’s one of the few joys Harry has in that place.

I am lucky, he reminds himself.

He has Ron and Hermione; he has Ginny, Luna, Sean, Dean, Neville, Parvati and Padma. He has McGonagall and half the other Weasleys.

Draco is not so lucky. There are some Slytherins with them in the prison, but none from his year. He has his mother, at least, but Narcissa is a fertile Omega and her husband isn’t there. Yet she is strikingly beautiful and apparently very pragmatic. When McGonagall said they must pair up, she saw the wisdom in that and she approached the most powerful looking Alpha wizard in the prison. An Armenian man, in his early forties, that used to work with dangerous creatures. One of the few to be able to do wandless magic almost perfectly.

Draco hates him with a passion. Draco hates his own assigned mate with a passion, too, even if his mother made sure Draco got a desirable, strong Alpha.

So many others there are without family or friends, simply plucked out of their world and thrown into this hell.

I really am lucky.

And Dumbledore will find them.

Other people, foreigners, also have hope some hero from their countries will find them.

Draco is determined his father will come for him.

Everyone hopes for someone.

(-)

When Ginny’s heat comes, triggering Harry’s rut, it’s hard to even remember his name.

It’s just need need need, a fire in his veins, a vicious protectiveness, ugly possessiveness taking hold over his entire being.

She smells lovely, tantalising, fresh and flowery and sweet.

Harry can’t part from her side. He’s always hard, at all times.

But, through all that, he reaches inside himself and he does not knot her. He promised. He doesn’t want to hurt her.

Something primal inside him wants her to fall pregnant. That’s just the rut speaking.

But something else, something tender that has nothing to do with biology wants to have a child, a family-

Not here. Not in a prison. Control yourself.

Harry does. He doesn’t even bite her, doesn’t claim her, because he doesn’t want it to happen in this place. He wants them to get married first, to do it properly.

“Amazing self control,” several Alphas congratulate Harry, patting him on the back.

(-)

In his seventh month there, with Molly pregnant and falling ill, every day a little more. Harry is desperate.

Ginny is crying all the time, at her mother’s side.

The other older pregnant women have trouble working on the rocks, so there’s a bigger load on the others, if they want supplies in time.

Alphas of pregnant women are getting restless, wanting to get more food for their mates, starting to get hostile.

Harry decides he has to stop waiting for Dumbledore and find a way to escape, though that is prohibited.

Several of the leaders had tried in the beginning. Powerful wizards and witches. All failed and now they are vigilant no one else is to even try.

“Too dangerous,” they keep saying.

Harry doesn’t understand why no one tries harder. So he’ll try.

(-)

He fails the first time; they get caught by other prisoners.

He fails the second time, too.

On his third attempt, thirteen months after they woke up in that place, Harry and Ron actually break through a vent. But they make too much noise, far too much, and people are coming to investigate-

“Go,” Ron and Dean lift Harry on their shoulder, until he grasps the edge of the vent. Neville, Luna and Hermione are trying to distract the other prisoner, but they’re failing. “Go, find help!” Dean urges him, looking up.

“Take care of Ginny until I am back!” Harry begs.

“I will,” Ron promises, and with a last look shared between them, Harry starts crawling through the vent.

He uses the maps Hermione and Seamus had made. He gets lost several times, but after checking multiple exists that seem to lead back to other cells in the prisons, he discovers a room that is different.

Empty, except for some strange devices. They hum, symbols brightly illuminated on screens attached to them. They seem distinctively muggle- electronic. Mechanical. Nothing magical about them.

From that room, Harry gets to another, by forcing open a small door. It almost looks like a doggie door, low on the floor. Harry has to use his magic, more than he was ever able to before, wandless as he is, but he makes it through.

Into another strange room, filled with strange devices.

They never end.

And then he hears a hissing noise, a part of the wall seems to just disappear-

Harry falls unconscious before he can even open his mouth.

(-)

He wakes up in a cell.

He feels dizzy, and he has a headache. He tries to stand-

“Lie down, Harry. You’re still recovering.”

He blinks. I’m dreaming.

He must be dreaming because that voice-

Dumbledore’s face comes into his field of vision, bent over Harry.

We’re saved. This is it. It will be over soon.

His heart fills with happiness. Relief like he’d never felt before-

“Professor!” Harry croaks. His voice is rough, like he hadn’t used it in a while.

An old, spotted hand cups Harry’s face, gently.

He’s really here. God, thank you.

“Professor! I-“

“Shh, Harry. Rest.”

But why are we in a cell if Dumbledore is here?

Harry frowns, and despite Dumbledore's gentle hands, he sits up.

It is a cell, but it’s different from all the cells he’d seen so far.

There are far more things scattered around, stacks of blankets, more bottles of water then McGonagall allows per cell, more books than one person can borrow at once.

“Where are we?”

Dumbledore looks older. His beard and hair are pure white, almost no silver left. His beard is short, and his face is gaunt, with big dark circles under his eyes.

“In hell,” comes a gruff answer and Harry startles, looks at the entrance to the cell and sees Moody there.

(-)

Harry is given tea. Actual tea. With honey- ‘just a little spoon, Alastor, the boy is in shock, don’t be greedy’- and lemon!

They boiled water over a little flame Dumbledore produced.

Harry tells his story, goes over what he went through, keeps starring at Dumbledore, Moody and now an Auror named Savage joined them, alongside Kingsley.

“That’s the last thing I remember,” he ends the story when the tea is over. “I didn’t even see who attacked me.”

“They must have moved you. Reclassified you.”

“What?”

“From my understanding, there are several prisons,” Dumbledore says, seated at the edge of the bed. He’s dressed in maroon trousers, with a red sweater and a blue scarf.

“Some are lower security, for witches and wizards they deemed docile and less powerful; for young people, or very frail. Like the one you were in. Other prisons seem to be made to host more dangerous prisoners. And then-“ he sighs. “Then there is this one. It was built for the most powerful of us. The most likely to cause issues.”

Harry needs some time to wrap his head around it. He just can’t-

There is no hope. They have been waiting for Dumbledore this entire time, but no rescue is coming. If they got Dumbledore…

“Who are they?”

“No one knows,” Dumbledore answers. “No one ever saw them.”

Harry doesn’t miss the look that Moody gives Dumbledore. It looks paranoid and distrustful. Doubtful.

“Here.” Dumbledore hands him a piece of chocolate. “Eat it. It will make you feel better.”

Harry blinks at it. “Why do you have sweets? And tea?”

“You didn’t get it?” Kingsley asks, curious.

“We only got canned food. Mostly. Sometimes we got bread and bananas, but that was all.”

“Like I said, we are more-hmm,” Dumbledore coughs. “Likely to cause trouble.”

Moody snorts. “We rioted. We stopped working on their stupid rocks.”

“We tried that, too! But then we didn’t receive any food or water.”

“Yes. But if they don’t give us food, we all die,” Dumbledore says. “We figured they need us alive. So we refused to work until they sent more supplies. Better ones.”

“You really were docile back there, weren’t you?” Moody grunts, narrowing his eyes at Harry.

“Alastor,” Dumbledore warns, when Harry splutters, indignant. “They had young ones with them. They would have died without food. They did the sensible thing in obeying.”

“There are no children here?”

Though Harry realises he’s no longer a child, either. He turned seventeen at some point, didn’t he? He was taken at the end of his sixth year at Hogwarts, and that was more than a year before.

“No. You’re by far the youngest person here,” Moody answers. “It’s like Albus said. This prison is full of the most dangerous, most powerful wizards and witches. Bunch of murderers, the lot of them. Half of Azkaban is here. The foreigners say they can see their own previously locked up criminals around here, too.”

There’s a commotion outside. Loud. Someone is yelling. Someone else is screaming Dumbledore’s name with a thick accent.

“Stay here, Harry,” Dumbledore says, standing. “Alastor, don’t let him out of your sight!”

And then he leaves.

Harry stands and walks right after him, Moody at his back.

They’re on a second floor, that oversees the first one. There are rows of cells on all sides, with narrow corridors leading to stairs. Harry leans over a rail and sees the same enormous empty area that they had at his last prison.

There’s a scuffle down there. It looks like a rugby match uncle Vernon used to watch, just a pile of men all over each other.

Dumbledore is running down the stairs, speaking loudly in a foreign language, shouldering his ways through a crowd that is jeering loudly.

“The Russians again?” Moody asks a tall man that is leaning over the rails to get a better look.

“No. The Bulgarians this time. They attacked one of the Arabs.”

Harry feels the violence in the air; it surrounds him like a second set of clothes, sinks into his skin, awaking his Alpha instinct.

“Better get a hold of yourself, Potter,” Moody says. “Stay close to us, or you’ll die before you can blink.”

Just then Dumbledore and a familiar looking wizard break apart the scuffle.

When they part, a man lies on the floor.

He’s partly decapitated.

Harry stares on, in shock, hoping to wake up.

“There were almost four hundred of us when we arrived here,” Moody says, completely unaffected by the events. “We’re short of two hundred now. Most died in the first two months, before a sort of hierarchy formed around here,” he explains as the prisoners drag the dead man away, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

“For a while there was a tentative peace. But then all the leaders of the major factions escaped.”

“What?” Harry turns to look at him. “Someone escaped?”

“They sure did. Four days they were missing before they were recaptured. Four days, Potter. Sixty men died in those days. I lost Scrimgeour then.” He sighs, eyes glazing over for a moment, lost in his memories, before he shakes his head. “They returned and now we have some semblance or order again; as you can see, it is very tenuous.”

Dumbledore is speaking with someone, pointing at the trail of blood. Another man approaches. A massive man, with a darker complexion and even darker eyes.

“That’s Amir. One of the leaders. We’ve got four of those. The four horsemen,” Moody says, with a snort.

The man named Amir stares down at the prisoner that was arguing with Dumbledore. The smaller man wilts under that stare.

“I am sorry,” Amir tells Dumbledore in a broken English. “A mistake.”

Dumbledore sighs, and Amir takes the other man by the neck and leads him away. Another group follows them to the northern cells of the first floor.

“So Dumbledore is one of the leaders? And this Amir?” Harry asks, confused.

“Yes. And then there’s Romanov.” Moody looks around at the people mingling downstairs, but gives up shortly. “He’s probably sleeping. You’ll see him soon, and then you’ll wish you haven’t.”

“And they all escaped?”

“They did. They’re the most powerful ones here. They command magic almost as well as they did with a wand. They still won’t tell us how they escaped. Or what they saw. They claim they can’t remember,” he spits, eye twitching.

“Alastor,” Kingsley warns, coming out of the cell. “We’ve been through this before. If we can’t trust Albus, then we can’t trust anyone-“

“Trust?” Moody barks.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, looking between Kingsley and Moody. “What happened?”

It’s odd to hear the venom in Moody’s voice when directed at Dumbledore.

Moody turns, abruptly, takes Harry’s shoulder so forcefully, Harry struggles-

He’s moved around until he faces the cells on the other side of the second floor.

A handful of men are standing there, all staring straight at Harry. And among them-

“That’s your fourth leader,” Moody points at Voldemort.

Harry needs to sit down, pinned down by red eyes

(-)

“It was bad in the beginning,” Dumbledore says, alone with Harry in the cell. “By no means do I want to diminish your own experiences, but you can’t understand how it went here. At first, most people grouped by nationality, drawn together by culture and language. The Americans stuck together with the Canadians. The Russians with the other eastern Europeans and so on.

Us Brits were divided. I had Moody, and Kingsley, a few other Aurors or old friends I could trust. Some lonely germans flocked to me. But the rest of the Brits…..they were brought straight from Azkaban. Voldemort’s loyal army. He came here with a ready to go army.” Dumbledore sighs.

There were far more Brits in Harry’s prison. But yeah- no Death Eaters.

Because they aren’t docile. Death Eaters are clearly likely to cause issues.

“The others were always infighting between themselves, who to lead a certain group, why someone should lead- complete chaos. Only the Death Eaters were organised. The chain of command is very clear there. They stuck together, they took orders from Voldemort without bickering and they were the better for it. You think we share food equally here? When food comes, we just do our best to get it. It was each man for his own in those first few drops. Like vultures. After a drop, at least ten people would die. And then another ten the following day, stealing supplies from each other.”

Harry shudders. In the previous prison, after those first confusing days, no one would kill over food.

“And then there’s Romanov. A Russian General, head of their magical law enforcement. He, too, came in with a ready army. I’ve heard of him before- he served the Russian Ministry for over three decades, and he’s one of the most powerful wizards in Europe. He and Voldemort were the quickest to ally. It put them in a very strong position.”

“But shouldn’t this General hate dark wizards - you said he’s an Auror-”

Dumbledore sighs again. “It doesn’t matter here that much. Survival takes precedence. He and Voldemort, with their men, took most of the food, hoarded it. They would only share with those that swore loyalty to them.”

Harry can’t imagine how those first months must have been here. They were bad enough in the first prison, but here?

“Voldemort approached me. He said it would be foolish for us Brits to be divided; that we can resume our conflict once we’re free. I was at a disadvantage. I am not…popular in this crowd. Most of the people here practice dark magic. Even Aurors from other countries, where it is still legal to do so. My stance was always against that. I helped make laws in the International Federation, laws that upset most everyone here. Everyone wanted to kill me for a while.”

Harry feels his jaw dropping.

“Of course, forgive my arrogance, they weren’t successful.” A tight smile. It looks warn. There’s no spark in Dumbledore’s eyes, and it’s so odd. Disheartening. “Amir- he leads quite a number of people, too-offered to be my ally, first. And then, Voldemort offered the truce. It was wise to take it. I had to. Believe me, it was not easy. But-”

“I understand,” Harry whispers.

He doesn’t really, because he simply can’t imagine all the things Dumbledore is saying. That level of violence is- even for Harry, who is no stranger to violence, it just is impossible to wrap his mind around the story.

“The four of us are the most accomplished wizards in this place and we are willing to carry the burden of leadership. We take responsibility for our men and we do our best to keep order. It isn’t ideal, there is always a problem with someone, but it’s the best outcome we can hope for.”

Harry nods, trying to take it all in.

“And now, I must talk to you about something else.”

Dumbledore tells Harry about Horcruxes. Of course, Harry already knew about those, he had lessons with Dumbledore for his entire sixth year.

What he had not known is that Harry has a piece of Voldemort inside him.

“I was forced to inform, him, too.” Dumbledore says. “When you were dropped here, unconscious- Harry, he wanted to kill you straight away. I had to tell him. Something happened to his other Horcruxes. He woke up here looking different, as you noticed, and I am positive that means something happened to the others.”

Voldemort looks more like the man Harry saw in one of Dumbledore’s memories- the one where he came to Hogwarts asking to teach. His face is weird, something serpentine about it, even if there is a nose now. Or so Harry thinks. He can’t be sure, he didn’t get a good look from so far away, but he thinks there was a nose, and he definitely has hair, dark and short.

“What happened to the other Horcruxes?”

“We have a theory, but it is nothing solid.”

We. It is extremely weird to hear Dumbledore refer to himself and Voldemort as ‘we’.

“He didn’t show it, but he was panicked. He thought he was mortal. When you showed up, and I told him-” Dumbledore runs his finger through his short beard. He looks exhausted. Harry never thought of him as such, there was always that endless energy clinging to him in the past. “He won’t hurt you, now.”

In a strange way, it makes sense. The revelation isn’t as shocking as he’d have expected. Deep down, he thinks he knew already. He touches his scar, suppressing a shiver.

He won’t ask Dumbledore what that means. If it means he has to die in order for Voldemort to die.

There’s just no point to it, not now. Once we are free. I’ll worry about that when we’re free.

(-)

There are only seven Omegas in the entire prison, Moody says, the following day, after Harry got some sleep. Quite a lot of sleep. In the old prison, no one was allowed to sleep more than six hours. They all had assignments, they needed to work on the rocks, with only short breaks allowed to eat, and only two hours allowed for ‘entertainment’.

But here, Harry was allowed to sleep for however long he needed.

Seven Omegas- six claimed, one unclaimed. Harry wonders how that is possible, how none of the dozens of Alphas claimed the lonely Omega.

“So,” Moody goes on. “When Alphas go into rut- they attack betas, or even other Alphas. Even outside of rut, rape is common here. Watch your back. You’re young and pretty. They’re already staring at you.”

Harry feels it. Feels their eyes on him when he first goes down to the common area to work on the rocks.

Larger rocks. Much bigger and far more resistant. Almost impossible to crack without magic. They, too, were given hammers.

Back in the first prison, they only used the hammers for the rocks. Here, the hammers are used to beat up other prisoners.

No one uses them for the rocks.

“It wouldn’t go through, anyway. Only magic does.” Dumbledore spends long hours trying to teach Harry how to crack the stones with magic.

Not all prisoners work equally. Far from it.

Voldemort is nowhere to be found, for example. Nor the Russian leader.

Several others are not participating.

In almost all circumstances, Omegas outnumber Alphas. Every country has more Omegas than Alphas.

This is the first place in history, probably, to have the opposite problem. Just seven Omegas and sixty-eight Alphas.

It makes sense, he supposes. Alphas tend to be hard to control. Likely to cause issues, as Moody put it. They are also far more likely to engage in criminal behaviour than Omegas or Betas.

So it figures there’d be so many in this particular prison.

There are few women there. Only twenty are still alive, Harry learns.

“They choose to work in their cells. Even if most are Betas, it isn’t safe for them to walk around the prison with so many frustrated Alphas. They stay hidden,” the tall man, a German named Steven that hangs around with Savage, explains. “Except for her.” He nods at one woman, a formidable looking middle-aged Turkish woman, with ink dark hair. She meets the stare of any man that leers at her.

“Powerful witch. She was serving life for a triple murder in a Turkish prison, before she was brought here. Few men try to bother her.”

She’s one of the rare Alpha women. Harry has only ever met one of those in his life.

“Shouldn’t Lestrange be here?” Harry asks Moody. “Bellatrix, that is.”

The Lestrange brothers are there. Harry glimpsed them a few times on the second floor, playing cards with other Death Eaters.

“She should be; she’s one of the most powerful witches in the world. But she isn’t; she never was here. Thank Merlin for small mercies,” Moody answers. “Enough crazy going on without her to add to it.”

(-)

They have a small pool in the common area on the first floor. “Magic,” Dumbledore says, when Harry asks how that is possible. “I made it.”

It’s used to wash clothes and sheets. The men that don’t have a good standing with any leader do it, trying to earn some favour. They are the ones being dragged into one cell or another whenever one of the high-ranking prisoner is in the mood.

The hierarchy here is brutal.

(-)

Harry sleeps in Dumbledore’s cell.

There are many free cells, what with them made to house four hundred prisoners, but more than half of those died.

Dumbledore used to sleep alone, but now he has Harry with him. He’s with Harry most of the day, too.

When he isn’t, there’s always Moody or Kingsley, sometimes Savage or Steven.

It irks Harry, ruffles his Alpha ego. He isn’t used to being protected. He is used to being a protector.

His rational mind knows it is needed, and he is grateful, but the rest of him is irritated.

(-)

With a Master of Transfiguration in their midst, they have many luxuries that Harry didn’t have at the other prisons.

Dumbledore makes cups and kettles, transfigures them from cloth. Combs, scissors, more comfortable mattresses.

Their clothes are better, thicker, and many men transfigured them into robes, unlike the muggle clothes their captors deliver on supplies days.

Harry has never seen so many styles of robes, from all corners of the world.

Voldemort, surprisingly, is most often in muggle clothes, though he clearly improves them. Black trousers and turtlenecks. Not that Harry truly sees him- just fast glimpses from afar.

The first time Harry sees Voldemort in the common room happens in his second week in the prison.

He walks calmly down the stairs. People part for him, quick to get out of his way. All eyes are on him, and the conversations going around the area die down to silence as he descends.

He’s wearing a robe this time, simple and black, and he carries a cup of tea, a beautifully transfigured one.

Harry stares at him, squashing the desire to run or hide. It’s just odd to be in the same place with this man and not get attacked on sight.

It’s nerve wracking watching him cross the open area, unhurried, probably basking in the discomfort that he causes.

He disappears into the southern corridors of cells, the ones Dumbledore warned him to stay clear of.

“Who stays there?” Harry asks, as conversations resume, once Voldemort is out of sight.

“Just an ancient warlock. Intriguingly, all his neighbours died shortly after we were brought here. The next men that tried to claim the cells next to him died soon, too.” Kingsley shrugs. “Rumour is he’s three hundred years old. A very famous dark wizard. Almost a myth. He never comes out of that cell. Never talks to anyone. Voldemort goes there once in a while and it appears he wriggles a word or two out of him, but it never last long. Just wait.”

Indeed, after only a handful of minutes, Voldemort comes out of the corridor. His eyes fall on Harry, quickly finding his scar.

“Would it kill you to lend a hand?” Amir asks from the other side of the room, surrounded by rocks. “We’re behind. Tomorrow we’re supposed to receive supplies and we still have many rocks-”

“My men did their share,” Voldemort says, taking his eyes off Harry.

Amir gives Voldemort a look. Several rocks crack around him, revealing much bigger green gems. His men polish them, removing any imperfections. “If you join me, we could finish all that’s left in an hour.”

Voldemort raises an eyebrow, already half up the stairs. “Why should I pick up after incompetent worms, Amir?”

Amir, whom Harry always saw frowning or barking orders at people, smiles up at Voldemort.

He said something in Arabic and Voldemort smiles back, but he doesn’t help with the rocks, just keeps climbing.

It’s jarring to see him. Harry can’t get used to the fact that he’s there and they’re supposed to be on the same side now.

His snake appearance has disappeared, but somehow he still reminds Harry of a snake.

When he’s safely in his cell, people relax and start talking again, though still mindful of Amir’s presence.

Harry thinks he likes Amir the best, from the leaders. Outside Dumbledore, that is.

He’s met the Russian, and he seems as terrible as Voldemort. He never helps with anything and has an evil look about him, always surrounded by his men that bend themselves backwards to please him.

Amir helps around with the rocks, or with magic, in any way. Moving a table, making a splint when a man breaks another’s man.

He’s harsh, but he seems stable, even if there’s a promise of violence around him.

Unsurprisingly, everyone comes to Dumbledore for aid, in all matters. He’s always running around settling fights or helping out.

(-)

“Potter,” Malfoy says, loitering in front of Harry’s and Dumbledore’s cell.

“Piss off, blondie,” Moody barks.

Malfoy ignorers him. “There is a rumour you were in another prison. A low security one. Was -”

He hesitates.

He looks- not as good as usual. His hair is brushed, his clothes are clean, but it is a far cry from his usual rich pureblood look.

“Do you- Have you heard anything about Draco?”

Harry takes pity on him. He steps out of the cell, even if Moody disapproves.

“Draco was there. And so was Narcissa.”

Malfoy looks immensely comforted. “Can you tell me about them?”

Harry does.

When he mentioned Narcissa’s new Alpha, according to the plan devised by McGonagall, Malfoy should be displeased. Alphas rage with jealousy on the best of days. Hearing one’s mate is with another Alpha-

But Malfoy only looks relieved, and Harry understands.

Considering the rampant rape going on in this prison, Malfoy is probably thankful there is an Alpha out there taking care of his wife and son.

After that day, Malfoy always nods his head at Harry whenever their eyes meet in the corridors or in the common room.

(-)

“The only truce we have on supply day is with the Death Eaters. All the others are fair game,” Savage warns Harry. “We will all try to take as much as possible. Better stay back.”

Harry refuses to stay back when they wake up from a deep sleep and they see the crates and new pile of rocks in the common area.

He rushes down the stairs, faster than others, his youthful body much more agile.

It’s chaos.

Everyone is trying to get something out of the crates.

Even Dumbledore is ripping boxes away from a group of angry looking Scandinavians.

The Lestrange brothers stab an eastern European in the neck almost as soon as they come down the stairs, stealing the man’s loot.

Voldemort waves a hand and sends an entire group to the ground.

He reaches for what seems to be a jar of marmalade. Harry lunges for it, because he suddenly wants marmalade like he never wanted anything in his life, but mostly just to piss off Voldemort.

He reaches the jar a second before Voldemort and he turns, victorious, clutching the jar-

The smell hits him.

Voldemort smells like a summer storm, like the solid wood his Firebolt was made of.

He smells like the wind. His scent is divine.

Voldemort, he realises with the shock of his life, is an Omega.

Harry blinks, struck dumb.

Voldemort reaches over calmly and plucks the jar out of Harry’s hand.

“We’re not supposed to steal from each other,” he says, and his voice is ridiculously deep, nothing like what it used to sound like in the graveyard. It sinks into Harry’s mind like poison. “Where is your nationalism, Potter?”

Harry keeps staring until someone slams into him, bringing him down.

A bunch of men are fighting over what appears to be a bottle of alcohol, and Harry is suddenly caught between them.

His Alpha senses are more acute than ever, after being so close to an Omega.

Harry is rarely violent, but his blood boils and he punches around indiscriminately.

In the very back of his mind he’s aware he is trying to prove his worth, his physical attributes, to an Omega.

And that’s a normal instinct, except this Omega is Voldemort.

Harry can’t stop himself.

He kicks, punches, wrestles, magic coming out of him until he finds himself standing, the bottle of alcohol in his hand.

He’s victorious and his eyes are looking around searching for the Omega- here, I am a good provider, I am the strong-

But Voldemort is no longer there and Harry comes back to his senses.

He has a broken nose, he thinks one of his ribs is broken too, all for a bottle he doesn’t even want.

“Here,” he snaps, incredibly embarrassed and furious with himself. He shoves the bottle in the hands of a nearby Russian, who looks truly shocked.

“Thank you,” the man says, and it’s been years since Harry heard someone thank him so truthfully.

Moody screams at him for giving away alcohol.

“Voldemort is an Omega!” Harry hisses at them in their cell, where everyone brought the loot they got.

“Shocking, no?” Kingsley asks.

“Stop blushing, boy!” Moody barks. “Merlin, is that way you decided to get between a Russian and his vodka?”

“What?” Harry splutters, mortified, especially when Dumbledore looks up from a box. “No!”

Savage laughs. “Don’t be embarrassed, lad. I tried to fuck him on my first rut here.”

Harry’s face falls.

“It only took you three weeks to be able to walk again,” Steven says. “He threw you away like you were a rag doll.”

“It is a natural reaction, Harry,” Dumbledore says, kindly.

“There was no reaction!” Harry insists.

“Shh, they’re coming,” Savage says.

And there is Lestrange with Avery and Yaxley, carrying a crate.

“This is yours,” Lestrange barks. “Give us our share.”

Apparently whatever the Death Eaters get, they hand off forty percent of the spoils to Dumbledore and his people.

And whatever Dumbledore’s group gets, they give sixty percent to the Death Eaters.

“How is that fair?” Harry inquires.

“Voldemort is not a fair man,” Dumbledore answers. “He demanded seventy percent at first, while offering just thirty in return, but after many, many discussions, I talked him down to what we have today. It is the price of peace, Harry.”

“Besides, he has more men to feed,” Steven points out. “The Death Eaters outnumber us.”

Their rioting in the beginning payed off. Harry sees fresh fruit, some spices, alcohol, many more books. There’s chocolate, and flavoured toothpaste, far better soap than the shity ones they got at their first prison.

“What happens to the dead?” Harry asks, because one man died in the struggle for the supplies, the one Lestrange stabbed. “How do you stop them from smelling?”

Grim looks are exchanged.

“Meat is meat,” Moody says. “At least for some.”

Harry’s stomach turns.

That night, some men are eating stew. With big chunks of meat. The smell is- would be-appealing, but Harry knows where it is from and he hurries to his cell and throws up.

He spends the night shivering in his bed.

Far after Dumbledore fell asleep, when the neon light are off, but candles are lit in the corridors, Harry gets out of his cell just in time to see Voldemort coming out of his own.

From the second floor, he watches Voldemort climbing down the stairs with a small crate of goods, a teacup steaming on top. He goes into the warlock’s cell and leaves it on the nightstand.

(-)

Now that he knows Voldemort is an Omega, the only unclaimed one in the prison, he understands the stares aimed at him better.

They are filled with fear, yes. But some are filled with lust, as well.

He understands why strict, impassive Amir always smiles at Voldemort whenever he sees him.

“It’s a sort of fucked up courting,” Moody says, watching Harry watching Amir looking after Voldemort.

“He didn’t speak a word of English when we came here. But he learned, fast, traded goods with an American to teach him the language.” Moody shakes his head. “One supply, when we finished the rocks far before the term was up out of sheer boredom, the fuckers sent us ten live chickens, as a reward I imagine. Amir and his men got four. But he strolled to Voldemort’s cell like a rooster himself and handed over one. His men were close to mutiny before Amir killed one and settled them down.” Moody seethes. “That bastard.” His eyes find Voldemort, who’s outside his cell, speaking to Lestrange. “Many Alphas, when they realised they can’t claim him by force, started giving him food, or goods, or whatever he wants in hopes he’ll accept them.”

Just days later, an Alpha goes into rut. He tries to go for the women first, but they’re safely locked away. And then he goes for Voldemort, who is sitting on a chair in the corridor, reading.

Voldemort doesn’t even look away from his book, simply waves his hand and sends the Alpha flying. He lands on his back with a painful noise, on the first floor, near the rocks.

Stubborn, the Alpha starts climbing again, growling, exactly like an animal in heat. A group of his friends intercept him and stop him from trying again.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Harry thinks he hears one of them saying, and even if it’s in Spanish, he still understands. After so much time spent with foreigners, Harry understands some words in several languages.

Frustrated, the Alpha sets his eyes on a weak Beta, one that isn’t high on the social scale.

Harry tries to intervene; he abhors rape. Moody stops him.

“Not your business. Not worth risking a war. The Alpha is under Amir’s protection. Let it be, Potter.”

Harry stares at Dumbledore, who avoids his eyes.

The price of peace is very, very high.

(-)

Yaxley and Avery get into a scuffle with a few Arabs over a game of cards.

It’s so stupid. But aggression is always high in the air, with so many Alphas, with so many criminals locked up together.

It gets ugly.

Dumbledore, Voldemort and Amir break them off, and then they go into a cell together, where they discuss repayment.

It’s so strange to see Voldemort sitting beside Dumbledore. They mostly ignore each other, but every now and again they shut themselves into a cell and talk.

Amir might be courting Voldemort, but one of his men died, and he demands compensation.

Voldemort and Dumbledore are forced to accept.

“I’ll deal with Avery,” Voldemort assures Dumbledore as they are climbing up the stairs. “He won’t do it again.”

Harry listens to Avery screaming for hours.

(-)

Eventually, Harry finds himself face to face with an Alpha in rut.

It’s his own fault. He’d wandered on his own, down in the cells on the first floor, the southern ones, curious about the old man that keeps receiving gifts from Voldemort.

He’s attacked before he can even tell a threat is near.

Harry has been in a few scuffles by then- it’s impossible to go more than a few days in that prison without a fight breaking out and sometimes Harry is caught in the middle.

But usually Moody, Savage, Kingsley, or Dumbledore are around, and they get him out fast.

He’s alone now.

And the man attacking him is massive. However, the most threatening thing about him is his hard cock, pressing into Harry’s belly.

Harry bites his nose, blood filling his mouth, pushes the man with all his might.

I’m going to make myself a knife, Harry promises himself. Please, God, just get me out of this, and I’ll make a knife. I’ll practice wandless magic more-

Harry seems to win for a second, but Alphas in rut are filled with energy. He won’t stop, and Harry is tiring, fear making him blind with panic.

The man is forcefully lifted off him, thrown away and Harry stands, fast. He looks up, expecting to see Moody-

It’s Lestrange. Rodolphus.

“Leave,” he snarls at Harry and Harry does. He runs away and Rodolphus tackles the Alpha that tries to follow him.

When Harry is in view of the second floor, he sees Voldemort watching him.

“What happened?” Moody asks, coming towards him. “Where did you disappear? Who broke your nose?”

Harry pushes past him, climbing with determination, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

He strolls up to Voldemort, who watches him approach with a raised eyebrow.

The scent- that distracting scent- hits him like a ton of brisk, but Harry does his best to ignore it, even if it makes his skin tingle. 

“What was that?” Harry asks, spitting out some blood. One of his teeth is loose.

Because Lestrange would never help Harry out of his own will.

Voldemort doesn’t deny he sent Lestrange, like Harry expects.

Dumbledore comes out of a cell at the other end of the corridor. He looks worried seeing Harry so close to Voldemort. “Harry?” he calls.

He comes towards them with amazing speed for someone so old.

Voldemort raises a hand. Harry flinches but doesn’t back away.

“You have something of mine,” Voldemort says, and his fingers briefly touch Harry’s scar.

It feels like fire.

Hot hot hot hot.

It never felt like this when Voldemort touched him, before. In the cemetery or in the ministry-

You didn’t yet present as an Alpha back then.

“It must be protected.”

Harry swallows heavily. He opens his mouth but Dumbledore is there, and he takes Harry’s shoulder and leads him away.

(-)

Harry can’t seem to forget that scent. It’s like it got stuck in his brain. It makes him twist and turn at night, on his cot, uncomfortable.

He can’t stop glancing at Voldemort either, when they’re somewhat in each other’s proximity.

It’s just the shock he’s an Omega, Harry reassures himself. Everything he knows of history claims Omegas almost never go into a position of authority- and the few that do chose jobs like teachers, or Healers, business owners.

Hermione always argued that can’t be true, that it’s just propaganda.

As always, she was right.

Voldemort, who controls an army made of half by proud Alphas, is an Omega.

There are also six other omega in that prison, so that means at least six other chose very dangerous jobs, too.

“The books are antiquated, and the Ministry refuses to update them,” Dumbledore tells him. “In reality, nothing stops an Omega from doing or becoming anything an Alpha aspires to. Well, the Ministry tries to stop them, but those views are incorrect. They are extremely biased. You were only exposed to Hogwarts. In the real world, it’s a tad different. Omegas are more vulnerable, it is true, and they have to work twice as hard to prove themselves, but it is possible.”

“Still,” Harry argues. “He’s the dark lord!”

Dumbledore smiles, sadly. “He was always determined not to let his designation or his muggle name stop him from getting what he wants.”

(-)

He can feel the shift in the prison.

It’s always tense there, but it suddenly becomes unbearable. Every Alpha is on high alert.

“Fuck,” Savage whispers, staring towards Voldemort’s cell.

Dumbledore is looking, too.

There are more Death Eaters than usual gathered around it; they’re usually scattered all over the second floor, some on the first one, cracking stones or playing cards.

But now they are all around the cell. Tense.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Voldemort is going into heat.”

Fuck, indeed.

Chapter Text

“See sense,” he hears Dumbledore muttering. “You shouldn’t be out! Pick one of them, and get it over it. Or, if you find the idea so reprehensible, you should be behind a locked cell, and you should let me stand outside and guard it. I am past my rut days. I won’t be affected-“

“I don’t need protection,” Voldemort hisses.

Harry only hears this conversation because he finds himself drawn to that side of the second floor.

Like a magnet. As the hours pass, the smell of wood and rain just grows more potent. Harry’s skin itches.

“Accept your biology! This is stupid, and you aren’t stupid. You shouldn’t-“

“I can defend myself just fine!”

The Alpha Death Eaters all look mighty uncomfortable.

Yaxley has fled from the corridor in the past ten minutes, with an obvious erection.

“Now, you can. But when your heat hits you fully, you won’t want to defend yourself. You won’t think straight.”

“Leave, or I will make you, old goat!”

Dumbledore sighs but admits defeat. “Have it your way.”

He leaves, sounding upset, getting out of the cell with a thunderous expression in his eyes. “Harry?” he asks, shocked to see Harry half hidden in an abandoned cell. “For Merlin’s sake,” Dumbledore mutters. “Stay away from him. I know it’s hard-“

“I was just curious to know why you wanted to talk to him,” Harry lies and follows Dumbledore to their own cells, even if something pulls him towards Voldemort.

Hours pass.

All the Alphas are getting riled up. Harry feels it too, his blood demands action. He’s restless, but he does his best to keep his composure.

Four fights break out, over nothing, men snarling at each other.

Vicious fights, bloody, and brutal, out in the open area. The winners look up at Voldemort when they defeat their opponent, proud of themselves, having proven their worth in combat; Voldemort, who is just leaning over the rails of the second floor, watching on in amusement.

This will end badly, Harry knows.

Amir paces in the grand room, a focused expression on his face. No one seems eager to challenge him.

Romanov shuts himself in his own cell, with his Omegas. Which is good, on one side- at least he won’t provoke trouble, but it is also bad because he’s not there to control his men. His second in command, an old man, possibly as old as Dumbledore, is left to contain the East-European alliance.

“Lock me in,” Savage asks, sweating, when the neon lights shut off and candles are lit. “Lock me in, Dumbledore, I can’t stand it anymore. Fuck him, the fucking prick, he should be hiding, not just staying there, like an offering-”

Dumbledore locks Savage in his cell. Steven asks to be locked away, too. “Just to make sure I don’t lose my mind.”

Harry can’t sleep. He’s hot. The smell now reaches inside his cell, invading his nostrils.

His cock is hard and it’s torture to know the man who killed his parents is responsible for it.

He tries to think of Ginny, but her face keeps turning into Voldemort.

She never smelled like this.

Oh, yes, when she was in heat she smelled lovely, she smelled sweet, but not like this. Voldemort doesn’t smell sweet.

Just…

Perfect.

No one gets much rest. Harry falls into a slumber a few times, only to be awakened by screams of agony, twice. They are fallowed by Voldemort’s laughter.

His sadistic laughter, but Harry is still hard. The smell has grown more potent as he tried to sleep.

He sees Dumbledore is up, trying to transfigure some cloth to use as sterile bandages. There’s only one candle burning, casting shadows on the walls.

“Try and rest, Harry,” he says.

“I can’t,” Harry admits, mortified. Dumbledore knows why Harry can’t sleep, surely. That his skin is burning up with lust.

“He used to do that at school, too,” Dumbledore says, with a sigh. “He presented late in his sixth year, and he would refuse to take suppressants. It was a nightmare.”

“But the rules-”

It is mandatory for teachers and students to take the potions. It’s too risky not to.

“They weren’t written down. Our bureaucracy - enough to say, no one bothered to make it a law, it was just common sense, and never did anyone fight it. Until Tom. That’s why the Ministry finally passed clear legislation on suppressant usage at Hogwarts. But as they rushed to formalise it, Tom would just walk around, agitating every Alpha in his proximity. Thank Merlin, they were under the potion, but even so- with an Omega nearing heat sharing a small space in a classroom- it wasn’t easy. He took so much pleasure in the control it gave him, watching all those boys losing their senses, trying to please him, to win his approval. He knew he was perfectly safe, because we were there, teachers all around to intervene in case an Alpha actually attacked him. Apparently, he still enjoys tormenting Alphas, even now, when he’s older, when he should know better. When there are no teachers to intervene in case things turn south.”

Dumbledore shakes his head. “Stubborn,” he mutters, busying himself with his transfiguration. “Stubborn, cruel and self-destructive.”

“Did he have a mate?” The question slips out of Harry without his permission. Too fast, too interested to pretend it is casual curiosity.

But Dumbledore is so upset, he seems not to notice Harry’s eagerness to know the answer.

“No. Not to my knowledge, at least. But he was particularly close with Abraxas- Lucius’ father.”

Harry feels his eyebrows rising.

“They were found in some…compromising situations after curfew. Yet no claiming bite occurred, as far as anyone is aware.”

Malfoy’s father. Christ. Malfoy!

“He’s too selfish to take a mate. It requires trust, care, love- he can’t feel any of that.” Dumbledore’s face closes off, hardens. Even from profile, Harry can see the shift in it. And then, almost in a whisper, he adds: “Not everyone is made to find a mate.”

He looks at Dumbledore’s neck, where his gland is- or used to be- there are no scars there. No traces of a claiming bite.

Harry quickly looks away, uncomfortable.

(-)

When the neon lights turn back on, very few people leave their cells.

Voldemort does, leaning over the rails, watching the few Alphas that mingle around.

He must get a kick out of it, Harry thinks, trying not to focus on the way that long body is slightly bent over.

If it were any other Omega so close to heat, or already in heat, all the Alphas would be on that Omega.

But everyone fears him, so they hide, instead of him hiding.

But he will fail soon.

No matter the fear, there will be Alphas, the most prideful and powerful of them, that will go into rut and go for Voldemort, anyway.

The only remaining Death Eaters around are the Lestrange brothers and Malfoy, the rest probably too tempted. They found cells on the first floor.

Rodolphus is standing very close to Voldemort, at his back, his fingers curling and uncurling into fists.

“That’s some self-control right there,” a Danish man, a Beta, says to Dumbledore, nodding in the Death Eaters direction.

“Lucius is properly bonded with his wife- an extremely strong bond, shared over two decades. One can’t tell them apart by smell anymore, that’s how close they are. It makes it easy for him to resist.”

Harry glares at Lucius. Does he look like his father, he wonders. Does Voldemort see Abraxas in Lucius?

“And the brothers?”

“The younger one is a Beta. The older one is bent,” Moody snarls, disgust all over his disfigured face. “A freak. His wife is an Alpha, too.”

“Alastor,” Dumbledore warns, voice tight. “There should be no place for such prejudice in your heart. It is no different from judging muggleborns for their blood. One’s preferences shouldn’t be ridiculed.”

“It’s plain unnatural, Dumbledore. You can’t convince me otherwise.”

Harry remembers reading articles suggesting the Lestrange husband and wife had gone mad and cruel because they partook in such a queer custom. Same designation couples are rarely heard about and harshly judged. Only Betas are allowed to marry each other.

Hermione droned on about it, adding it to her ever-expanding list of advocacy. She wants to fight for house-elves liberation, for Omega rights, and for same designation couples.

As the day crawls on, Voldemort grows less amused. When fights break out, or when some stupid Alphas parade around without their shirts, he seems to be appraising them, his red eyes becoming darker, lingering on one man or another. Lestrange tries to distract him, speaking in his ear.

Harry stares so hard, he thinks at some point he can read ‘why don’t we go inside’ on Lestrange’s lips.

If that is what he said, if not- Voldemort stays put.

Amir climbs up to him, to Lestrange’s obvious displeasure. Sadly, Voldemort doesn’t share Lestrange’s disapproval.

He lets Amir get close, closer than usual. Harry can’t hear what they are saying, and he doesn’t even realise he’s walking, until Moody grabs him by the back of his T-shirt, stopping him in his track.

“Potter.”

“What?” Harry snaps. “I’m just going to the loo!”

He’s forced to actually go to his cell, since he lied about it. He paces around for a handful of minutes, before he comes back out.

Amir now looks angry. He steps forward, and Lestrange bristles, tries to step around Voldemort to face Amir, but Voldemort clearly orders him to stop.

“Just pick someone!” Amir growls loud enough that his voice echoes around the prison. “Pick someone and be done with it!”

“If only there was someone worth picking,” Voldemort shoots back, and he makes a gesture of clear dismissal.

Amir growls again-

“Don’t make me put you in your place,” Voldemort says, turning around to gaze at the main area again, completely ignoring the other.

Several expressions chase each other on Amir’s face, dizzyingly fast. Muscles twitch on his neck and arms, and he’s clearly trying not to breathe in, so close to Voldemort.

He won’t make it, Harry thinks. He’ll jump him, this is it-

By some miracle, Amir steps back. One step, then another, and another. It’s a slow going process, and Amir looks in pain as he’s doing it, but finally he turns around and walks down the stairs again, where he promptly shoves another Alpha out of his way, so savagely the man’s arm breaks when he falls on it.

The Betas are all hidden away, in the cells closest to Dumbledore, because he’s the only one of the leaders that remains sane or present.

Harry can hear them. They’re taking bets on who will eventually fuck Voldemort.

The favourite is Amir, apparently. Someone bets an entire bottle of whiskey on it.

Dumbledore refuses to watch the proceedings any longer, busying himself with other prisoners, leaving Moody in charge of Harry.

Harry tries to breathe in his shirt, discreetly cover his nose, but there is no escape. That glorious scent is everywhere now, even in his clothes.

It will pass, he tells himself, trying to stay calm. All with pass.

No one cracks rocks that day. Everyone just waits.

And then it happens.

(-)

Voldemort reaches full heat, the kind where he loses his rational mind. He probably thought himself above it, he probably imagined he can’t fall prey to such a weakness. He lasted far longer than Harry thought was possible for any Omega to last, but he was doomed to fail. And he does.

Harry can pinpoint the exact moment. He can do that, because he’s been hanging over the rail staring at Voldemort all day long.

Voldemort’s threatening, alert eyes suddenly turn half-lidded.

Harry breathes in, and he thinks the entire prison holds its breath with him. The moment hangs in the air, time suspended-

And then Voldemort looks at Amir, still pacing in the common room and he smiles, lazily, languidly.

Amir freezes in place, and he swallows hard. It’s audible in the silence.

Voldemort straightens himself, as in a trance, and he tries to go for the stairs at the same time Amir starts to climb up-

Lestrange digs his fingers into Voldemort’s shoulder, pulls him back rather harshly, leaning in to say something in his ear.

Pandemonium follows when it becomes clear Voldemort is so out of his mind he allowed one of his Death Eaters to grab him like that and he isn’t fighting.

A dozen Alphas are running for him.

Lestrange snarls, growling deep and loud, placing himself in front of Voldemort. Who just stands there, motionless.

Malfoy and Rabastan join Rodolphus.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Harry is running for Voldemort, too. He evades Moody’s hand, and then he ducks as a wandless spell is sent his way.

“Dumbledore, Potter got away!”

Amir gets to Lestrange just as Harry is swallowed up by a dozen Alphas.

But, apparently, Amir is not a mindless animal, because instead of fighting Lestrange, he turns around to face the others.

Harry’s instincts scream at him to fight Lestrange and Amir, put them down and get to the Omega, but Harry is also not a mindless animal.

“Piss off!” he yells at everyone around him. “Go the fuck away!”

The mass of men presses forward. Harry is punching someone, whoever he can reach.

Dumbledore is calling his name.

A blow takes him in the stomach, but it’s as if he can’t feel any pain. In only makes Harry fight the others harder, trying to keep them away from the Omega.

Violence, screams, blood, and that scent mix in the air. A man goes flying over Harry’s head.

Snarls and shouts in different languages make everything so confusing. Harry’s own desire to get his hands on the Omega are in direct conflict with his instincts to protect, keep the Omega safe.

“Get him out of here!” Amir yells at Lestrange, magic pouring out of him, sending three men to the ground.

“Come,” Lestrange says, voice filled with Alpha Command and Harry, who’s twisted in a headlock by a strong, blond Alpha, sees Lestrange grab Voldemort again and shove him in his cell as Amir covers for them, keeping the others at bay.

A thick sheet falls over the cell, obscuring whatever is happening inside it from view.

And something must be happening, because Lestrange shut himself in with Voldemort.

Dumbledore reaches them, and he pulls Harry out of the fight.

(-)

“You’re a strong lad,” Dumbledore says, healing Harry’s injuries. “Only the strongest of Alphas could do what you did. Protect an omega in heat instead of-“

“We can all do that. Some just choose not to make the effort. I couldn’t- it’s not right. I couldn’t let them just get to him. Not when he can’t defend himself, when he doesn’t even know-”

Omegas in heat are so vulnerable. So incredibly vulnerable. Ginny was like that and Harry can’t picture Voldemort in that position.

Made helpless with lust, unable to fight off any Alpha.

His heart is racing, he’s still so agitated, even when the scent in the air dims down.

And there is only one reason why it would lower in intensity. It makes Harry furious.

“Lestrange, the fucker- he - he went in,” Harry says, breathing hard.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried!” Harry snaps at Dumbledore. “I’m just- it’s wrong, is all. He shouldn’t take advantage like that.”

Rodolphus, like Amir, seemed the type of man to be able to resist the pull. They are grown men, in charge of themselves. If Harry can do it, how can an older Alpha not resist?

He can’t believe Lestrange went in. The image replays in his head, on a loop, the moment Lestrange used Alpha Command, and shoved Voldemort into that cell.

“Voldemort put himself in that position,” Dumbledore says. “Make no mistake. He knew what would happen, and if Rodolphus acted the way he did, it means he got consent beforehand.”

Harry refuses to believe it. “Then why not pick Lestrange from the get go and avoid all this-”

“Because he will never act the way an Omega is supposed to act. He won’t let an Alpha get his way, while he is still able to think. He’ll wait until he truly is blinded by his hormones, forced into it. Those pre-heat days are supposed to be spent with one’s mate, with comfort and love, intimacy far greater than sex. Can you see him going through that while he’s sane? Can you imagine him cuddling and allowing an Alpha to look after him? No, that’s not him. He’d rather hold on to control until the very last second, even if it is painful for him, even if it goes against his nature. He wouldn’t bear to choose to be vulnerable for as long as he can help it. So he will strut around, fighting himself, enjoying the control, until he can’t. But certainly he ordered Lestrange to make sure he will be the one to spend the heat with him, once Voldemort is no longer in a position to pick.”

No. Harry doesn’t want to accept it. Lestrange- who would pick Lestrange when Harry is there-

Stop. Christ, just stop. Come to your senses.

“So he did this before? In prison? With Lestrange?”

“No. It’s his first heat here.”

Harry blinks. “How can that be? You’ve been here for almost two years.”

Heats are supposed to come every six months, at the very least.

“He’s old. His heats are coming to an end. With advanced age, they become irregular, if there is not a compatible mate to trigger one.”

(-)

Harry watches that sheet, covering the cell, for two days. He’s fidgety.

Men still wander close to it, but Malfoy and Rabastan are posted outside, glaring everyone down.

Thankfully, it seems there is a silencing charm cast over the cell, so Harry is at least spared of any unwanted sounds.

(-)

Voldemort comes out at the end of the second day. He’s still not over his heat completely. Most omegas stay in heat for a week; even after the worst of the heat passes, it is still customary to stay inside for a few more days. But he remembers what Dumbledore said, that Voldemort won’t do that, when he gets even a little of his rational mind back.

He still smells of heat, but he smells like Lestrange too, a powerful scent covering his own, making him almost repulsive to the other Alphas.

Dumbledore clearly knew what he was saying, because Lestrange follows Voldemort out.

How is he still alive? Harry had been sure Voldemort would murder him as soon as he got his senses back. But it seems he indeed must have chosen him beforehand.

Lestrange walks at Voldemort’s back, like a shadow.

Voldemort looks pissed off, and he’s at his most despotic since Harry arrived at the prison.

He barks orders at everyone, curses a man just for breathing too loudly, and he insists on lingering in the common area, as if to show everyone he’s not afraid of anything.

“Control yourself,” he snaps at Lestrange when an Alpha just happens to walk within fifty feet of Voldemort and Lestrange gets all tense, placing a protective hand on Voldemort’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Lestrange says, but he doesn’t take his hand off Voldemort, until Voldemort shrugs it off.

“Lucky man,” Amir says to Dumbledore, watching Rodolphus hovering over Voldemort.

Savage snorts. “I don’t know how you can like Voldemort when you’re not in rut. I’m disgusted with myself when I know I felt that pull, even for ten minutes.”

“What is there not to like?” Amir asks, choosing his words carefully, still not accustomed to English.

Moody looks at him like he’s insane.

“He’s a bloodthirsty tyrant.”

Amir smiles. “That is why I like him.”

(-)

In the narrow corridors of the southern cells on the first floor, the ones that everyone avoids on account of the mysterious warlock living there, Harry hears Lestrange grunt.

He knows it’s Lestrange, because he can smell Voldemort, that perfect scent, spoiled by Lestrange’s stench.

Heart beating wildly, Harry goes closer, trying to be as quiet as possible.

The dark magic in the air is very potent; it’s like a whisper in Harry’s head urging him to turn around. No one else but Voldemort dares to wander in this part of the prison, but Harry’s curiosity- the madness that took root inside of him- is strong enough to ignore the dark magic hanging in the air, even if it makes the hair stand on the back of his neck, on his arms.

He saw Voldemort and Lestrange retreating from the open area, disappearing inside these corridors, and Harry had to follow them, because he’s not in his right mind. Because he knows an Omega still needs an Alpha, in those first couple of days after the heat is done.

Ginny was like that, clinging to Harry, needing him close, wanting his knot, even when her heat broke.

He turns a corner and- his stomach lurches in disgust and arousal at the same time. In horror and in want.

Voldemort is facing the wall, his hands splayed on it, supporting his weight.

Lestrange is glued to his back; both their trousers are lowered around their upper thighs.

They both have their eyes closed.

“So good,” Lestrange moans, bliss in his tone. “You take me so well. Perfect.”

Voldemort shudders. Barely, but he does and Harry notices it.

Rodolphus grunts, hips snapping hard. “So good for me.”

Harry is seized by the urge to strangle the Alpha. Bludgeon him to death. Slowly. Painfully.

The need only increases when Lestrange kisses the back of Voldemort’s bent neck, one of his enormous hands wrapped around Voldemort’s torso, supporting him.

Voldemort turns his head and opens his eyes.

He’s looking straight at Harry.

Harry startles, steps back from the cell.

He steps on a rock shell, and Lestrange turns his head as well.

He bares his teeth at Harry, trying to move-

Voldemort catches his hand, keeps it on his chest. “He’s harmless. Just enjoying the show, aren’t you, Potter?”

Lestrange, like any Alpha with his cock buried inside an Omega, is not happy with another Alpha's presence.

He growls, low and aggressive, makes another attempt to move-

“Rodolphus,” Voldemort warns, harshly.

“Leave. Now!” Rodolphus barks, and Harry turns around, runs away.

A strange cackle rings through the corridors. An ancient, evil presence seemingly very amused.

Foolish boy, it speaks straight into Harry’s head, the voice as unbearable as nails scratching over a blackboard.

(-)

The images stay with Harry throughout the next days, disturbing him deeply.

That’s my Omega, a part of him screams in anger, whenever he remembers Lestrange kissing Voldemort’s neck, praising him, fucking him.

The other Alphas had calmed down, now that Voldemort’s heat broke and Lestrange’s scent lingers on him.

Harry doesn’t calm down. That’s not normal. It was normal perhaps to think like that when Voldemort was in full heat, but he’s not anymore, and yet that part of Harry still wants him.

He asks Moody to train him in wandless magic, just to take his mind off it, just to have an outlet for his aggression.

He wants to ask Dumbledore about the warlock, about the voice he heard in his head, but then he’d have to admit he ventured in those parts, when he was specifically prohibited from doing so. Dumbledore seemed more concerned about Harry going there than about Harry being in Voldemort’s proximity.

(-)

They’re behind on rocks again. They always are, because no one wants to work, and it’s hard to make people work here, if they don’t want to. Half of them are too proud to do it.

So they often leave it to the last days, and then it’s a scramble to finish in time for a supply.

Harry keeps working, even if the neon lights are shut off. But light is not such a problem in this place, with so many wizards able to float flames around, or transfigure something into candles.

Savage falls asleep beside Harry. Stevan looks tired, too.

Dumbledore has long gone to sleep.

Stevan yawns, stretching.

“Go to your cell,” Harry hisses, annoyed. He knows he and Savage stayed behind to look after Harry. “I’m fine!”

Steven opens his mouth, but another voice interrupts them.

“Move along, I’ll watch him.”

They both flinch. They didn’t hear nor see Voldemort approach.

Harry is instantly irritated. He doesn’t need protection. Especially from an Omega. Especially from Voldemort.

He wants to snarl, but he ends up laughing, instead, because Voldemort wants to protect him. That’s hilarious, after all the murder attempts.

He wants to protect his Horcrux.

Stevan, a German, and not very aware of the war they had in England more than a few basic details, stands. If it was any other British person, they wouldn’t leave Harry alone with Voldemort.

Voldemort takes his place, clearly pleased with Harry’s irritation.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he says, watching Harry trying to focus on his rock.

“Well, then you do it! You’d finish this pile much faster than anyone else.”

“No.”

“It’s your fault, anyway. Everyone was off the past week because of you.”

Voldemort shrugs. “Hardly my fault people can’t control themselves.”

What a prick. It would be nothing for him, and yet he prefers to sit there and watch Harry and the rest struggle.

He’s close to Harry, and Harry can no longer detect Lestrange scent on Voldemort, which pleases him beyond belief. It means they aren’t fucking anymore. 

Voldemort smells like his usual self, though much more subdued. 

Savage starts snoring, drooling on the table.

Voldemort sneers at him. “Quite the guards you have. Dumbledore was always so reckless with your life. Of course, now I know why. He probably wanted you dead.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deign to answer. He knows it’s not true. Dumbledore always did his best to keep him alive. 

“My little Horcrux,” Voldemort says, and a shiver runs through Harry’s spine, so many sensations awaking inside him, he can’t even tell them apart.

Distantly, he’s surprised Voldemort would talk of Horcruxes with an audience close by.

Granted, there are far fewer people than during ‘the day’ but still- they can be heard. They are. People keep glancing in their direction.

“Don’t call me that,” Harry snaps at him.

“Why not? It is the truth.”

Voldemort has an amused expression on his face, as if he’s laughing at a joke Harry doesn’t get.

It enrages Harry. Magic rushes out of him, flipping a chair nearby.

“Great! Why won’t it go into the stupid rock, instead?” he asks, frustrated. He’s been trying for an hour to focus his magic on the damn thing.

Before he can get even angrier, Voldemort is close, so close, and he’s placing his hand over Harry’s, on top of the rock.

Harry’s brain freezes, but his body burns. His vision fixates on their hands, Voldemort’s larger one covering his.

He can’t breathe. And yet, somehow, he can smell Voldemort, that delicious scent he has-

“Feel it. Don’t just stare at it like an idiot. Feel it.”

“Dumbledore says-”

“Dumbledore’s teaching methods belong in the last century,” Voldemort says. “Close your eyes and feel it.”

“No.”

He does not want to close his eyes with Voldemort, his mortal enemy, so close. It would be terribly stupid.

You don’t want to close your eyes because you like seeing his hand on yours.

Harry refuses to accept that. He closes his eyes. There, I don’t care about his stupid hand-

“You’ll focus better like this, with nothing to distract you.”

Voldemort distracts him. More than anything he could see.

“You don’t close your eyes when you crack rocks,” Harry whispers.

A soft laugh. “I’m a master of magic. You are but a child, finding his footing.”

Harry opens his eyes, turns to glare at him-

God, so close, noses almost touching. Harry swallows, forgets what he was about to say.

The rock cracks under his hand. But it wasn’t Harry. It was Voldemort, and to feel his magic traveling through Harry, seamlessly, like a bright, safe presence-

How can it feel so safe and nice when this man’s magic only caused him pain before?

“You’ll become better, with time. And you will have time. I’ll make sure you live forever.”

Harry gulps.

“Is that Parseltongue?”

Harry flinches. He looks to his left, and there is Amir.

“I didn’t know you could speak such an ancient tongue,” he goes on, eyes on Voldemort. “You are full of surprises.”

We were speaking in Parseltongue! That’s why Voldemort wasn’t afraid to bring up the Horcruxes with people nearby.

That’s why he was so amused, because Harry didn’t realise they were no longer speaking in English.

“I am a man of many talents,” Voldemort says, pulling back from Harry.

“I am a snake charmer myself,” Amir claims, completely ignoring Harry, as if he isn’t even there. He sounds teasing. Flirty.

Disgusting.

“I could tell you some stories.”

“Some other time,” Voldemort replies, with a smile of his own. He looks so different when he smiles. Softer. “I am busy babysitting.”

“Send the child to his keeper and join me for a cup of tea.”

Harry stands before he even thinks it through. There’s a growling sound, low and throaty, and it takes a second to realise he’s the one to make it.

He never made a sound like that before.

Amir laughs, pushes Harry aside and sits in his place. “Alpha puppies,” he says, smiling at Voldemort. “So entertaining, aren’t they?”

All the commotion woke Savage, and his hands grasp Harry’s shoulder just as Harry moves to-

He isn’t sure what he was about to do. Savage pulls him away, and Harry blinks, confused by how angry he is.

Amir, like many other older Alphas, makes fun of Harry because he is a young Alpha, just beginning to navigate all the feelings his designation brings. And Harry mostly laughs along with them, because it’s usually in good fun. Sometimes he gets irritated, but never enraged like what just happened to him, like he wanted to tear Amir to pieces.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

It’s just because Alphas don’t like being mocked by other Alphas with an Omega there to witness it.

It’s Voldemort! something yells inside his head, disgusted. Yet Harry’s instincts don’t care that Voldemort is Voldemort. They care that he’s an Omega, apparently.

Once he’s on the second floor, Harry doesn’t go into his cell, hangs around on the corridor, eyes fixed on Voldemort and Amir.

They’re talking quietly. Harry can’t grasp what is being said. All the other men leave, one by one, retreating to their cells.

Rocks crack open, seemingly by themselves, all around Voldemort and Amir. They’re not even paying attention to them, or the gems that fall out.

Harry can’t bear to keep looking at the small show of raw power, but he can’t look away either.

Eventually he convinces himself this is madness, and he needs to ignore Voldemort. When he turns to head back to his cell, he catches a glimpse of Lestrange posted on the other side of the floor, half draped in shadows, his gaze focused on Voldemort.

(-)

He murdered my parents, Harry repeats to himself, over and over again, hoping it would kill his erection.

It does not. It only makes him feel more uncomfortable, guilty, because apparently nothing matters to his stupid, traitorous cock.

He always thought the Alpha-Omega union was so romantic, wholesome. Find a mate and be with that person forever, build a connection Betas can never hope to achieve.

Always want your mate, always be sure they want you back-

But he never thought how horrifically twisted that could become, if one becomes attracted to an utter bastard.

It’s not something he can fight. He can’t stop himself from reacting to Voldemort, to his scent.

You’re not alone, he comforts himself. It’s natural. Even Savage tried to fuck him.

“Harry?” Dumbledore asks, and it only makes everything worse, because there he is, hard as a rock, in the same space as his professor. “You can’t sleep? I could brew you a cup of tea-”

“No!” Harry yells, because he cannot have Dumbledore getting up, making tea, notice the tent in Harry’s trousers.

He wouldn’t survive it.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, mortified. “Thank you, Professor. Please, rest.”

Harry stays still, ignoring his cock, trying to think of ways to convince Dumbledore to let him sleep alone, in his own cell. 

If he can just have some alone time, if he can come, maybe he wouldn’t be this irrational and the fire in his blood will die down.

But Dumbledore won’t let him go, obviously. Harry doesn’t need to ask. With good reason- he’ll probably end up on someone’s plate if he sleeps alone. 

(-)

The supply drop is chaotic, as usual. And even more bloody, since Voldemort seems determined to remind people he is Bad News, wrecking havoc in the common area.

This time Dumbledore stays very close to Harry, keeping him as far from Voldemort as it is possible.

When they are done, each retreating to their sides of the prison to take stock of their supplies and arrange them, people start to calm.

Harry goes to the common area to work on the new rocks. They seem, impossibly, even bigger than the previous lot. However, he’s determined to work on them constantly, so there will be no need to rush at the end.

Maybe his work ethic will inspire others. Dumbledore, of course, follows him out of the cell, seemingly just as determined not to let Harry out of his sight.

“Let me look at it,” Dumbledore tells Avery, whose hand looks like it had been slashed badly with a knife. Quite badly- Harry sees bone. Malfoy, Rabastan and Yaxley are trying to stop the bleeding.

“No,” Avery barks, pained eyes filled with hate when he glances at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore sighs. “Suit yourself.”

Amir, already there with some of his men, laughs. “They won’t let anyone but their daddy touch them,” he teases.

Avery opens his mouth, but when he meets Amir’s hard eyes, he reconsiders it and shuts up.

Harry picks a rock and tries to focus on it. They never changed sizes at the old prison. Always stayed the same. Here, it’s his second supply drop, and Harry can tell they are indeed getting bigger. The gems change colour too, once they get to them.

No one knows what the gems are, or what they are used for. But, apparently, this prison is far more apt in cracking them open, even if there are fewer inmates and half of them barely work, if at all.

No wonder they get better supplies.

“It must be muggles,” Harry says. “There are no muggles here, nor where they at the last prison, so clearly, they are behind it. And those machines I saw- they looked muggle.”

“Probably,” Dumbledore says.

“Now you see, old man, what we have been saying for decades?” Yaxley barks at him. “But no, you had to defend the poor muggles.”

“We’ve been through this before. I’m not talking in circles with you.”

“The civic spirit is remarkable,” Voldemort says, coming down the stairs. “The bees are already hard at work, it seems.”

His Death Eater laugh- none of them is currently working on the rocks.

“Who mauled you?” he asks Avery.

“One of Romanov’s men.”

“And you decided to bleed to death instead of coming to me?” Voldemort lifts an eyebrow, siting beside him.

“I didn’t want to disturb you, my lord.” Avery looks down.

What he means is, Voldemort has been volatile since his heat. Usually his Death Eaters go and whine to him about whatever problem they encounter, but now they’re grown more cautions, in the wake of his bad mood.

Voldemort takes his arm, studies it, and Harry tries hard to pay attention to the rock again and not look at how his face shifts when he is focused like that.

During the next hours, Alphas come to Voldemort, laying gifts on the table in front of him. Some do it with confidence, others more awkwardly.

Some lose their neves entirely and turn back before they even come close to the table.

Clothes, or food, or cans with God knows what, labeled in foreign languages, all brand new, from the supply drop.

Voldemort ignores them all, focused on Avery, his palm held open across the nasty wound. Very slowly, the skin starts knitting back together.

One Alpha is so upset when he brings over a gift and is faced with Voldemort’s dismissal, that he growls. An invisible force lifts him off his feet and slams him into a corner of the room, with a sickening crush. He does not get up.

Voldemort has a satisfied smirk on his face, as his magic retreats back into himself.

Rodolphus sorts through the pile, picks what Harry thinks it’s a bag of tobacco from it. “May I?” he asks Voldemort.

“If you don’t desecrate my books to make rolling paper,” Voldemort allows.

“I won’t, my lord.”

“Speaking of books.” Amir pulls one from his robe. It looks brand new, must have come with the new supplies. He, too, lays it in front of Voldemort, on top of the pile of items.

This one, Voldemort doesn’t ignore.

Ugly, sudden bitterness rises in Harry’s stomach, anger closely behind it. He can feel his lip turning in a snarl before he quickly realises it and makes an effort to relax.

Please, stop. God, please stop whatever it’s happening to me.

But when Voldemort smiles, the anger and bitterness turn swiftly to jealousy.

“I read that one,” Voldemort says, glancing at Amir.

“I imagine you read everything ever written,” Amir responds, with a smile of his own, leaning closer to Voldemort.

“You flatter me,” Voldemort says, mocking, eyebrow lifted, before he turns to tend to Avery again.

But even this pleases Amir.

Harry tries to focus on the rock in front of him, but only grows more annoyed when Amir starts cracking rock after rock with ease.

So does Dumbledore, but that doesn’t bother Harry.

When Avery is healed, Voldemort chooses to remain at the table, but he doesn’t help with the rocks. He takes the book instead, and gets lost in the pages.

Romanov and his second-in-command join them not long after that, and suddenly the conversations grow sparse.

At least he doesn’t give Voldemort gifts; instead, he rolls his eyes when others do.

He has the same oppressive aura, the same hostility embedded in his every feature that Voldemort carries. Only he doesn’t smell nice. He smells like danger to Harry.

But Harry won’t let himself intimidated. He refuses to leave the table, even if that magic is suffocating, and dark.

The entire open area empties, what with the four leaders there at once, and with Romanov staring everyone down; his own people are on their side of the first floor cell, enjoying the day’s loot.

Amir and Romanov exchange heated looks, like arrogant Alphas like to do, in an attempt to secure dominance.

The Lestrange brothers are tenser than they’ve been minutes before.

Dumbledore, although seemingly relaxed, sees more focused than usual.

Harry is barely stopping himself from retreating.

And there Voldemort sits, the Omega, completely engrossed in his book, unaffected by all the hostility going around.

How? Why?

You know why, another voice whispers. You just saw him throw a man away without moving a finger. The Alpha is still on the ground; he’s not dead, his chest moves, but he’s not alright.

Is Voldemort truly more powerful than Romanov or Amir? Or both at once? Is that why he isn’t worried?

“And who are you?” Romanov asks, with a heavy accent, eyes settling on Harry.

“One of my students,” Dumbledore answers, voice final.

“None of your business,” Voldemort says at the same time, tone just as final.

Harry gets annoyed with both, for speaking in his name. His fingers dig so harshly into his rock that he feels the skin under his nail break.

“I keep forgetting you are a teacher,” Romanov says, moving on to Dumbledore. “We wouldn’t allow power hungry, hypocritical, conniving men like you in our schools, or give them access to our young.”

Dumbledore doesn’t bother responding. Romanov’s second is staring at Dumbledore and Harry thinks that, impossibly, that makes Dumbledore tense, and not the General. The old man must be an Alpha, even if, like Dumbledore, his age is so great that he doesn’t smell like one anymore.

“I’ve never been to school,” Amir says. “My mama wouldn’t let me. Said I was too wild to play nice with others and would hurt the children.”

“I despise children,” Voldemort offers. “Screaming, snot covered parasites.”

Amir laughs, as he always does when Voldemort is close. “You must not have spent much time with them; your Omega nature would soften in their presence.”

In theory, it is said Omega love children, and children feel most at ease around an Omega. Clearly, Voldemort is an exception.

“I avoid them like the plague.” And then- “I think it was some eighteen years ago last I saw a baby.”

“And you didn’t have the urge to pick it up and give it a kiss?” Amir teases.

“No. I tried to kill him.”

Harry chokes on his own spit.

Rodolphus gives a barking laugh, throwing his head back.

“Must you say that?” Dumbledore demands.

“Tried to kill him?” Amir inquires. “Was it an especially smart baby to escape your famous wrath?”

“It was my soft Omega nature that didn’t allow me to see the job done.” Sarcasm drips from Voldemort’s every word.

More laughter from Lestrange.

Harry glowers at Voldemort. Did he really just make fun of the fact he tried to kill Harry?

His rock vibrates under his palms.

“Calm, Harry. Calm,” Dumbledore whispers in his ear.

“Britain must have useless Aurors if they didn’t catch you even when you commit crimes as heinous as hurting the young,” Romanov says, disapproving.

“On that, we agree,” Rodolphus says. “Moody was the best amongst them, and you’ve met Moody. Useless wankers, all of them.”

“Shameful. No wonder you were allowed to terrorise that island for decades, Voldemort.”

“Well, we do not have bloodthirsty law enforcement,” Dumbledore says. “Nor do we hire unhinged, violent Aurors.”

“Moody is unhinged,” Malfoy says. “He’s not all there.”

Romanov scoffs. “Then you will never catch unhinged, violent criminals. No dark lord raised in Russia while I was in charge of the department,” he boasts.

“I’ve murdered at least a dozen wizards all around Russia, Romanov,” Voldemort says, turning a page. “Your dogs couldn’t catch me for three years.”

“I was young back then, just started to work,” Romanov spits. “You wouldn’t have had such success in evading us if you came only ten years later.”

“We shall test that theory when we escape,” Voldemort offers, vaguely threatening. “So, Amir, who schooled you, if you didn’t attend any institutions?”

“My mama,” Amir says. “And then I schooled myself once she died. I became more powerful than any of those learned wizards and witches from my village.”

“Impressive,” Voldemort says and Amir preens at the praise, puffing his chest.

“You should have traveled to my country, not to Russia. We have friendlier people and far nicer weather.”

“I did travel there.”

Amir frowns. “I think I would remember hearing about a dark lord passing through. I kept… select company.”

Voldemort stands, taking the book with him. He gives Amir an amused glance. “You wouldn’t have been born at that time.” He pats Amir’s shoulder, in a very condescending manner. 

And then he’s off.

“How old is he, exactly?” Amir asks Rodolphus.

But all the Death Eaters get up, unwilling to stay near the General and his second in command without their protector there.

“My lord is ageless,” Rodolphus says, face straight, walking towards the stairs.

Amir sighs, eyes trailing after Voldemort.

“Pathetic, the way you drool over him.” Romanov shakes his head. “I could give you one of my Omegas, so you can stop making a fool of yourself.”

The lust disappears from Amir’s eyes, the easy going nature shifts as he turns to sneer at Romanov.

“I could have claimed one, if I wanted it. But I happen to want a willing Omega in my bed. And a male one, at that. So you can keep your toys, Romanov.”

(-)

“Potter, come here,” Voldemort calls after him.

Harry stops on the stairs, heart wild in his chest.

“Me?” he asks, stupidly.

God, you are a moron.

Voldemort doesn’t answer, just raises an eyebrow.

Harry climbs back to the second floor, approaching carefully.

Dumbledore looks at them from the common room, working on the rocks.

“What?” Harry asks, stopping within two feet of Voldemort, in an attempt not to expose himself to Voldemort’s scent.

Lestrange snorts, amused, all the aggression from two weeks before gone, now that Voldemort is completely over his heat.

Voldemort floats a knife, made from the hard carcasses of the rocks and polished to look extremely sharp, in Harry’s direction.

“Umm,” Harry says, apparently determined to act like an idiot. He takes it, grabbing the hilt. “What is it for?”

“To cut your apples,” Lestrange offers, making Voldemort smirk.

Harry really hates him more and more every day.

“It is generally used to stab people,” Voldemort says, condescending. “I’ve noticed you have a tendency to get in many scuffles. Dumbledore and his merry men won’t always be there to make sure you get out alive. And Rodolphus has others duties, he can’t monitor you all day.”

“Piss off, I don’t need stupid Lestrange!” Harry says, clutching the knife.

Voldemort’s smirk widens. “With that knife, you won’t. It’s charmed. It will always hit its target.”

Harry just stands there.

“You may leave,” Voldemort says, waving him away.

Harry wants to say something witty, but he decides it isn’t worth it.

He leaves.

He keeps the knife- he meant to make himself one, anyway, but Dumbledore kept saying there’s no need, that he or Moody or the others will be around to make sure Harry doesn’t get in too much trouble. He said pulling a knife during a fight would only escalate things to a lethal end.

Harry is glad to have one, and he tries not to think too much of the fact that he can feel Voldemort’s magic on it.

At night, in his bed, in the light of a candle burning, Harry plays with the knife, lets his fingers trace the intricate snakes carved on the hilt. They are entangled together, and Harry can’t tell if they are fighting to death or they are mating.

(-)

“You are an atrociously bad stalker,” Voldemort says, in the southern cells on the first floor.

Harry gets out of his poor hiding place.

“Why do you take care of the old man?” he asks. He must know. It drives him crazy.

He managed to get just a glimpse of the warlock, from behind, when he followed Voldemort to the warlock’s cell.

He saw Voldemort place a crate filled with goods on a table. A few words were exchanged, though in a language Harry doesn’t recognise.

The warlock’s voice sounded just as sharp as it did in Harry’s head, that one time. But this time, he sounded grumpy, not amused.

Voldemort gives Harry a look. A very intense one. Up and down his body, leaving Harrys’ skin burning wherever Voldemort’s eyes settled on.

“Don’t look so tortured, Potter,” Voldemort leans on a wall, at ease. “The only emotion as obvious on your face as arousal is your guilt.”

Harry winces. He knows he’s growing as red as a tomato.

“Desist glaring at Amir. You will upset him one day, and he might be so inclined to twist your neck.”

Harry huffs. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Voldemort rolls his eyes. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘Alphas, more pride than sense’.

“Dumbledore should have explained this to you, put you out of your misery. It is natural you developed an attraction. I am an Omega and you carry a pice of my soul in your forehead. It would be impossible to ignore that pull, locked up together in this place, the way we are. Don’t take it as a failing of your convictions.”

Harry’s ears burn.

I’m not attracted to you! But even in his head it sounds like a pathetic lie.

“Oh, yeah. That’s why,” Harry says, relieved to blame it on something. Of course it is the Horcrux! That’s why Harry seems more affected than the other Alphas. That, and his young age.

He hasn’t suddenly lost all his morals, after all. It’s just nature, and magic, and Voldemort’s bloody soul, stuck inside Harry.

Voldemort nods. “Come along, it’s best you avoid this corner.”

Harry falls in place at his side, though he has to make an effort to keep up with Voldemort’s long stride.

How is an Omega so tall? Of course Voldemort had to be the exception. Where most male Omegas are generally shorter, with delicate bones, he had to be a giant, with wide shoulders and a jaw that could cut granite. They should use Voldemort’s jaw to crack rocks, he thinks absurdly.

Harry is an exception to Alphas. He’s shorter than most of them. Skinnier, too. But lately his muscles are developing, more and more. It’s from all the fighting.

Sometimes Harry has wrestling matches with the saner Alphas, the ones on Dumbledore’s side. They bet goods on the fights. Harry wins some of them these days.

That’s when they only use physical strength. Harry is almost nineteen, he has more energy, his youthful body agile.

If magic goes into it- Harry is not yet at his magical prime. That comes in late thirties, early forties, people say. Not to mention he’s not as good with wandless magic as the others are.

There was a reason why he was placed in a low security prison, after all. He’s not as powerful as the inmates here; though he had to go ahead and escape, showing that he isn’t docile at all.

Harry doesn’t regret escaping. He misses his friends, he misses Ginny, but-

But he doesn’t regret being here, even with all the brutality.

“So,” he says, feeling his face growing redder and redder, burning. “If- I mean- with the soul thing and- Alpha- Omega- if it’s natural that I- you know- does that mean you-”  he trails off, realising what a mess of a sentence he’s made.

It’s not even a sentence. He doesn’t know how anyone could make sense of the verbal vomit that came out of his mouth.

That does mean you are also attracted to me, because of our designations and sharing your soul? There. How hard would that have been?

Voldemort gives him an amused glance.

Harry has to look up at him, and it makes his Alpha side feel insecure. One should not look up at an Omega.

“Yes,” Voldemort says, simply, just as they step in view of the common area.

Harry stops in his track.

Yes? Did he even understand the question?

He couldn’t have.

(-)

Harry looks at his knife every time he’s in bed. He accidentally cuts himself often, because the bloody thing is incredibly sharp. There are many droplets of dried blood on his sheet. He’ll have to wash it again.

Harry doesn’t like making the Betas do it. He hates the way the weaker Betas are being treated, the ones without protection from any leader.

Older Alphas mock him when he goes to the pool and washes his own clothes and sheets. “That’s an Omega’s duty,” they howl at him. “Are you a hidden Omega, boy? You certainly look like one!”

Harry easily ignores them.

But even with the cuts, he can’t stop himself from touching his knife every time he lies down. Even during the day, he reaches inside his pocket, where it’s secure in a sheathe, and touches the hilt. It’s reassuring to feel it there.

It’s a gift, he thinks. A courting gift. If it was only for practicality, Voldemort wouldn’t have bothered to carve such a nice hilt.

Well, the snakes are quite disturbing, true, but they must be nice to Voldemort, right?

He could have just handed a blade to Harry, instead of spending time and magic on the detailed snakes.

(-)

At the next supply drop, Harry quickly locates a jar of marmalade. It’s in the hands of a Canadian, but he’s an old Canadian. Harry slams him to the ground and takes it.

He clings to it, grabs a random box on his way and runs to his cell, waiting for the others.

It turns out the extra box was filled with matches.

He lucked out.

Well, Dumbledore and Moody both can make fire out of thin air, but matches are always useful, even if for just trading it with wizards that can’t summon fire.

He hides the marmalade under his pillow.

They sort through whatever else the others managed to get. A good loot. Savage is especially happy about a can of coffee he got his hands on.

Harry feels bad for his friends back at the other prison, that don’t receive anything like this.

But at least they don’t have to put up with so much mayhem, either.

The Death Eaters also got a great loot.

Lestrange and Yaxley come with their crates and leave with the ones Dumbledore prepared for them.

Harry waits for days on end, sleeping on his jar, resisting the temptation to eat it.

He waits and waits until finally he finds a moment when all the men in his alliance are either sleeping or otherwise engaged, and the Death Eaters are equally absent.

Harry takes the jar, and the knife, and heads out of his cell, carefully, lest he wakes up Dumbledore.

It is a terrible idea to be out, with the lights out, just a few candles lit here and there. Some men stalk in the shadows, but they are Russian men, and they generally don’t have problems with those, thanks to Voldemort’s alliance to Romanov, only if someone is in rut,  fighting over a Beta.

They let Harry pass undisturbed.

Harry can see Voldemort at a table in his cell, bent over a book, a lonely candle at his side.

He knocks on the bars.

“Come in,” Voldemort says, without looking up from his book.

His cell is …nice.

He made his bed bigger; and it’s just one bed, not bunks like the other cells have. He has an armchair somehow, and Harry makes a mental note to ask Dumbledore to transfigure an armchair for their cell, too.

There’s a bathtub, too, claw-footed, so clean it sparkles in the dim light.

There is a ridiculous collection of books. He must get his hands on most of the books they receive at supplies drops. They are everywhere, arranged on transfigured shelves lining the metal walls.

It’s the nicest, cleanest, most organised cell Harry saw so far. Omega nest, something says in his head.

Omegas are known to have beautiful houses, to make a home wherever they are, arrange it carefully.

The entire cell smells like him.

Harry goes closer to the table, offers him the jar of marmalade.

Voldemort takes it, unimpressed.

Harry should know better than to expect gratitude, but he’d hoped for at least a smile or something.

Well, the stupid Alpha brain hoped for it.

Still, he accepted it.

Voldemort opens the jar.

“Do you want some?”

Harry did not expect that. “Ah, no,” he lies. “It’s for- I saved it- I mean I noticed last time that you- it’s yours.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“I swear I am not as stupid as I sound,” he adds.

That brings on a cruel smile.

“All Alphas your age are stupid. Sit.”

Harry sits, eager, skin itching. The cell smells so strongly of Voldemort- Harry can taste it at the back of his throat. It almost makes him sneeze.

Voldemort waves a hand, and a spoon flies from a cup on his nightstand.

He scoops up a sizeable chunk of marmalade and -

He must do it on purpose. The way he slowly shoves that spoon in his mouth, sucking it, his eyelashes fluttering in pleasure-

Harry breathes in, deeply. His hands are sweaty all of a sudden. He grips his legs, so he won’t do something stupid, like lunging at Voldemort.

And then Voldemort takes another spoonful and offers it to Harry.

“Thanks.” Harry takes it and when it’s in his mouth-

He really wanted to taste that marmalade. He did. For days on end. It’s been ages since he had something sweet.

But now he’s more preoccupied over the fact that the spoon has just been in Voldemort’s moth and now it’s in Harry’s, and Harry tries to detect a taste, tries to see if it taste like -

Like home.

Because that is how Voldemort smells like the strongest. Under all the rain and wood, he smells like home.

Like Hogwarts.

Harry is painfully hard.

He tries to shift so it won’t be noticeable, but of course- Voldemort sees it.

“Adorable,” he mocks. “So young, any little thing would excite you.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say.

It’s you, not every little thing.

I had an Omega before, an Omega I love. I shared a bed with her, in rut, and it never felt like this.

He chews on his marmalade.

“Are you- I mean- Lestrange-bonded?”

Voldemort always wears sweaters with a high neck. Harry can’t see if he’s claimed. He doesn’t smell like he is claimed, though.

And Lestrange doesn’t wear high-collared robes or shirts, and Harry can only see the scars of an Alpha claim there, most likely his wife’s.

Omega claiming bites are smaller, and Lestrange doesn’t have one, but Harry asks, anyway.

“No.”

“Ah.” Harry swallows. “Good. I mean-”

Voldemort stands and comes closer to loom over Harry, silencing him. “I am not terribly interested in sex,” he says.

What a tragedy.

“Yet I am only human,” he says, like it bothers him to admit it. “And my soul, right there-”

He puts a finger on Harry’s forehead and it’s only a miracle that stops Harry from coming.

He can’t describe the feeling that spreads through him. It’s like something inside him answers to the touch, wants to leap out of his body and into Voldemort’s.

That would probably be his soul.

“It is enticing, I admit.”

Don’t touch him, don’t touch him, keep your hands to yourself.

“You are an unusual Alpha, Harry.”

He can’t enjoy the sound of his name in Voldemort’s mouth. Because he feels like a failure. He is an unusual Alpha, the Omega said. He must find Harry lacking. Less powerful, less-

“You resist your instincts remarkably well. Rodolphus tells me you chose to fight off the other Alphas that were trying to get to me, instead of trying to fight him, for me.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah.” Like it was no big deal, like he didn’t have to fight himself all the time. Like he doesn’t have dreams- sometimes even when he’s awake- of having gone inside the cell with Voldemort that day. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Outside of heat, when the mood strikes me, I rarely chose to bed a male Alpha. Even in heat, I prefer female Alphas.”

“Oh.” Harry should not feel disappointed.

But he is.

Very much so.

“I also- I mean, I -before this-” he gestures between himself and Voldemort-“I also only liked girls.”

Voldemort bends over, face inches away from Harry’s.

“I did not say I don’t like men. I do. But I prefer to fuck them, not the other way around, and no typical Alpha accepts that.”

“Oh.”

Fuck.

Harry swallows.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Unnatural. You are the Alpha. You dominate. You lead. You fuck.

“But you are an unusual one,” Voldemort repeats.

He touches Harry’s shoulder. His hands are so hot, Harry feels their heat even through his thick sweater.

“I never- I don’t-” It’s so fucking hard to think or attempt to speak with Voldemort so close, his scent assaulting Harry from every direction. “I never thought of it. Like that.”

“Perhaps you’d enjoy it.”

Harry feels trapped. He’s still rock hard, but he’s also apprehensive. He eyes the exit.

How did it come to this? I only came to give him marmalade and get a smile, get a sense of satisfaction at providing for an Omega.

It wasn’t supposed to come to this.

Can I dart out?

But Alphas don’t run.

Alphas also don’t get fucked up the arse by an Omega.

But he smells so delicious.

Still, Harry isn’t sure he wants what Voldemort is suggesting, and he’s just decided to leave when Voldemort kisses him.

His brain stops working completely. He feels like he’s been struck by lightening, every nerve in him is alive and screaming.

Harry stands before he knows what he’s doing.

He supposes he stood up because Alphas don’t like being at a height disadvantage, but standing doesn’t help and Harry’s hands barely close around Voldemort’s shoulders.

He wants- needs- to push Voldemort on the floor, or against the nearest wall and fuck him senseless. It’s all he wants.

He growls, and he’s never made that sound, not even with Ginny. It shocks him back to his senses and Harry tries to keep his aggression under control.

He shouldn’t have bothered.

It’s Voldemort that slams Harry into the wall and a part of Harry really does not agree with it, but the other-

The other clings harder to him, trying to draw him closer. He stands on his toes, and Voldemort still has to bend his head considerably to keep kissing him.

It’s like a fever dream.

Nothing ever felt as right.

He’s frantic, desperate, getting lost in the feel of Voldemort so close to him, in his hands cupping Harry’s jaw, leaving only fire in their wake.

He doesn’t even realise when they end up on the bed.

He’s on his back. With Voldemort above him.

No, turn him around.

He tries to push Voldemort, but just then Voldemort decides to take off his turtleneck and Harry’s mouth waters.

When he places his hands on that chest, he forgets he meant to push him away.

He’s slim. Like an Omega should be. Ignoring the wide shoulders, Voldemort’s torso is the perfect Omega built. Perhaps a bit too long, but slim and almost delicate, narrowing down into his hips.

He’s taking Harry’s sweater off next and it feels so nice when Voldemort bends for another kiss, naked skin on skin.

In a distant part of his brain, Harry is a bit anxious. He’s not ready for this. It’s all so fast.

He’s not sure.

But Voldemort is very sure. Determined, when he shoves a hand in Harry’s trousers.

Harry chokes, a pathetic breathless sound escaping past his lips.

Only his own hand and Ginny’s has ever touched him there and it never felt like it does now. Voldemort has a firm grip, far longer fingers than Harry or Ginny.

“Already?” Voldemort asks, mocking, when his fingers find the base of Harry’s cock where his knot is half swollen.

Harry is so embarrassed, but it feels so good to be touched like that, especially since he didn’t even get to wank for some months, because there’s always someone there with him.

He saw others wank, he saw people fuck, shamelessly, but Harry isn’t like that, so he just suffered in silence.

“Poor thing. I bet I can make you come with a few stokes, can’t I?”

“Mhm,” Harry protests.

To all of it. To the words, the mocking tone, the very firm grasp. To how fast this is all going.

But when Voldemort takes his hand away, Harry instantly regrets it. His hips rise up, trying to find those fingers again.

Voldemort is pulling Harry’s trousers down and Harry is somehow facilitating this process, lifting his lower body so the garments can slide off easily.

And then Harry’s hands join Voldemort’s in working open Voldemort’s trousers-

Holy fuck!

That is no Omega cock. Granted, Harry had never seen one before, but he read about it, and it is common knowledge Omega men have smaller than average cocks. Smaller than Alphas, in any case.

Voldemort is huge. Long and thick, prominent veins all over his length. Harry swallows.

“Turn around,” Voldemort says, but Harry can’t.

It’s not normal. Don’t do it.

“I-” Harry’s voice is barely audible. He swallows past the knot in his throat.

He’s so confused.

Voldemort leans over again.

He kisses Harry, deeply. Demanding. Harry kisses back, aggressive, trying to dominate the kiss.

Voldemort draws back, but only slightly, and he moves Harry’s head a bit, lowers it in between Voldemort’s shoulder and neck, right over his mating gland-

The scent is maddening, there. Too much. Harry grips his shoulders, hard, pulling him closer, burying his nose deeper in that juncture.

It’s so perfect, that Harry isn’t even aware Voldemort’s hand is between them, between Harry’s legs, one finger lightly grazing over a place no one, not even Harry, has ever touched before.

He whines, torn between a desire to push Voldemort away or pull him even closer.

He wants to speak, to tell him no, but he can’t possibly break away from Voldemort’s mating gland. Harry mouths at it, licks it, and it’s just-

It’s impossible to push him away.

When Voldemort draws away, Harry tries to sit, so they won’t be separated. Voldemort pushes him back down, one hand over Harry’s chest.

He’s stronger than Harry, and he shouldn’t be.

Omegas are just as capable as Alphas. They can be just as smart, just as good with magic. They’re often more intuitive, but no Omega is as physically strong as an Alpha.

Rarely, very rarely, an Omega man can be as strong as a female Alpha, but that’s just an exception to a rule, and Harry is not a woman-

A can comes flying from somewhere in the room, lands on Harry’s stomach.

Voldemort uncaps it, dips his fingers in it-

Grease.

Voldemort scoops up some, warms it between his fingers, shoves the tin away.

“Wait,” Harry says, when Voldemort moves his hand back between Harry’s legs. “Listen, I-”

But then Voldemort leans over Harry again, lets him smell that perfect, perfect place and Harry’s mind is clouded, driven by lust.

His cock throbs between them.

Only Harry needs-wants-craves to be inside Voldemort and it’s not what’s happening-

He whines over Voldemort’s gland, when a finger pushes past Harry’s hole, slowly.

“Stop thinking,” Voldemort orders. “Just feel.”

It doesn’t feel bad.

It’s just that Harry can’t shake off the wrongness of it, the ‘it’s not supposed to be this way’.

It actually feels pretty damn good.

“Don’t bite,” Voldemort’s voice comes as if from far away, barely penetrating Harry’s scrambled brains.

“You’re so bossy,” Harry complains against his skin.

Ginny-though it takes Harry some seconds to remember her name- is also bossy. But she’d never order him around in bed. Never.

Ginny would never even think of shoving her fingers inside Harry, and Harry would never let her-

There’s two of them now. When did that happen?

And they’re brushing over a very sensitive place. Harry bucks his hips so violently, he almost knocks Voldemort off him.

Harry’s knot is dangerously close to popping and Voldemort isn’t even touching his cock.

The Alpha part of his brain is dying in embarrassment.

Don’t think. Just feel.

“Fuck,” Harry whines, so conflicted, when Voldemort’s fingers twist again inside him, lightly brushing over his prostrate.

He never knew pleasure could be so sharp.

“I shouldn’t- I can’t,“ he tries to say.

“A true Alpha does what he wants,” Voldemort whispers in his ear, his fingers moving expertly inside Harry. “Not what others tell him they should want.”

That’s true. Harry tries to cling to that, his bruised pride latching onto the words.

Only Harry isn’t sure what he wants.

“I-”

“I want to fuck you. It would please me, Harry.”

Harry’s heart flutters. Yes, that’s good. Harry should make the Omega happy. It’s all that matters. To give an Omega everything they need.

Three fingers.

It burns, uncomfortable and weird, but there’s his prostrate again, delighted, sending lightning through Harry, too much pleasure.

Harry bites his own lips, so he won’t bite Voldemort.

He sneaks a hand between them, blindly searching until he finds Voldemort’s cock.

He’s hard, leaking precome, and Harry’s absolutely intimidated by the sheer size of it. It makes him feel like an inadequate Alpha, because his own cock is not as big, but it also reassures him.

Voldemort likes this. He wants this, and Harry is providing it for him.

He doesn’t know how to touch him, and he worries about that, too- but just wrapping his fingers around it rips a soft sound out of Voldemort’s mouth.

It drives Harry wild to hear it. It’s the first proof there’s an Omega on top of him and not a particularly aggressive Alpha that’s having his way with Harry.

He explores that cock as Voldemort stretches his open-

Don’t think about it. Just feel.

There’s no knot. Another proof to reassure Harry he’s with an Omega.

He carefully touches around the base, but there’s no knot there.

Just as Harry starts to feel slightly more at ease, Voldemort withdraws his fingers and -

There is some relief, yes- but also, it’s like Harry’s body misses the intrusion immediately, clenching around air.

“Turn around,” Voldemort orders once more.

“Ok,” Harry whispers. “Ok, ok.”

He shifts, Voldemort shoving at Harry’s body until Harry is on his stomach.

And then he’s pulling at Harry’s hips until Harry is on his hands and knees.

No. Don’t. You’re an Alpha, stop him-

Harry shakes his head, trying to dispel that voice.

But it’s harder to do so, now that his nose is not directly in Voldemort’s mating gland. And then that massive cock is pushing at his hole.

It takes all Harry’s restraint, all his self-control and stubbornness to stay still, to just let it happen.

For a second, he doesn’t believe it will happen, there’s no room- just impossible, surely- but then the head pops inside Harry, pushing past a ring of muscles.

Harry groans, instinctively trying to move away from it-

One of Voldemort’s hand gripping Harry’s hip stops him. The other strokes Harry’s other side.

“Relax.”

“You relax with a cock up your arse!” Harry snaps, before he remembers Voldemort did have a cock inside him.

Voldemort facing that wall, Lestrange behind him, fucking in. ‘You take it so well, so good for me’

It enrages Harry- why was Lestrange allowed to fuck him, but Harry isn’t?

Lestrange would never let an Omega fuck him. He’s a better Alpha.

Harry moves, but so does Voldemort and his cock slides more into Harry.

“Fuck!” he groans.

It’s too much. The pain isn’t so bad, really, but just that stretching feeling- Harry has never felt so full.

He squeezes his eyes shut; he grips the sheet under his hands.

Inch by inch, Voldemort keeps going and Harry tries to remember how to breathe through it all.

Massive. He’s massive. Did he magically enhance it, Harry thinks, absurdly, as his eyes water from the sheer stretch. Really, who has a cock that big? Especially an Omega- just not natural.

Voldemort bottoms inside Harry; his narrow hips flush against Harry’s arse and then he leans over again, his chest covering Harry’s, his neck now in the range of Harry’s nose.

Better. Everything is better. More bearable.

Everything would be, with that scent so close.

“Mmm,” Harry huffs out.

Voldemort stays still like that for a handful of seconds and it’s almost good. Harry forgets anything, just basks in that scent, now more potent than ever, laced with Voldemort’s arousal.

Harry is satisfied his Omega is so turned on, and that’s all that matters-

But then Voldemort starts moving and Harry has to fight his own body and instincts, all over again.

He can’t even worry about how shameful this is for an Alpha; he’s too preoccupied to try to accommodate Voldemort’s cock, to relearn how to breathe, when he’s impaled like that.

It’s slow at first, shallow half thrusts, lazy almost.

Harry is sweating; he’s so hot, all over.

He tries to shift, to part his legs more, make more room for Voldemort’s cock, but the hands on his hips won’t let him.

Then the thrusts come faster, deeper.

“God,” Harry hisses. “Oh, Christ.”

He’s convinced he’ll be teared in two. It just feels that way. Voldemort finds his prostate again, and he’s angling for it.

Harry doesn’t know what to do with this sensation, no more than he knows what to do with all the other things he’s feeling.

Voldemort is so silent. If he’d only make a noise, Harry would feel better.

He’s the one whining and hissing and moaning, and it shouldn’t be like that.

Harry wants to hear Voldemort is enjoying this, it would just make him feel more at ease-

The hard cock in your arse is proof enough he’s enjoying it, his mind supplies.

And his scent, too. Harry breathes in lungfuls of it, twisting his own neck uncomfortably, just to be closer to Voldemort’s gland.

But he’d still like to hear something, a noise of approval- just anything.

It’s Harry that gets louder, when Voldemort fucks into him properly, deep thrusts, all the way in.

He’s dizzy. His arms give up and he falls on his face, his entire upper body collapsing on the bed, while Voldemort is holding his hips up, fucking into him.

“I can’t-“ Harry says. “I just- too much-“

Pleasure builds in his belly, at the base of his spine, more forcefully than it ever did before. It doesn’t feel like an orgasm is coming, more like he’ll die if he comes, he’ll just explode into tiny little pieces.

He’s convinced he must be dying. He never felt like this before.

“I’m close,” Voldemort says, and his voice only makes Harry shudder, makes that pressure-pain-pleasure mix burn hotter inside him.

Harry can hold on for a little while longer. He holds his breath, trying hard not to get more of that scent inside him, because every second feels like he’s about to fracture, and it’s so hard to stop it- maybe if he can’t smell Voldemort, he can stop himself from breaking apart at the seams.

And then Voldemort is the one with his nose in the side of Harry’s neck, inhaling deeply, his hands gripping Harry possessively on either side. Voldemort thrusts into him one last time and keeps still, his cock twitching, filling Harry up.

They stay like that, for a handful of moments, and Harry wonders- will he bite me?

That would be terrible.

And yet, a part of him clearly doesn’t think so, tilting his head to give Voldemort better access.

Voldemort draws back, pulls out and Harry can’t suppress a wince at the sting, and at the sensation of come dripping down his balls and legs.

He blinks, and he’s on his back, staring at the ceiling.

He’s breathing as if he ran a marathon, as if he’d just had the most demanding Quidditch practice of his life.

And all I did was stay still, he thinks, confused.

Voldemort kisses him, soft and languid, so very different from the frenzied kisses from before.

Yes, Harry thinks, raising his hand and curling his fingers around the back of Voldemort’s neck.

This feels so good.

Voldemort’s scent changed slightly, it has a relaxed quality to it, an undercurrent of peace and contentment.

All Harry’s misgivings go away, faced with that. Having a relaxed, satisfied Omega in his arms is the best thing in the world.

“Good? It was good for you?” he asks, though he was told to never ask an Omega that, because it would make him look insecure.

Voldemort laughs, and Harry remembers this is not just any Omega, but arsehole Voldemort.

“You know what?” Harry says, embarrassed and annoyed, a bit angry. “You can just-” he shoves at Voldemort.

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Voldemort says. He’s smiling, and Harry’s angers thaws faced with it.

It’s not one of his vicious, evil smiles.

It looks genuine. One of the rare soft ones.

Harry, like a fucking idiot, smiles back.

He still hasn’t processed everything that happened. His mind is just now wrapping around the fact that one, he had sex with Voldemort.

Two, he allowed Voldemort to fuck him.

It’s sure to keep him up for many nights.

Before he can properly get anxious over it all, Voldemort glides down his body, his hand curling around Harry’s painfully hard cock.

Harry shivers.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Voldemort bends his head and takes Harry in his mouth.

“Oh, fuck!” Harry’s heart, just starting to calm after everything, is now pounding again.

Voldemort is not shy about it. Oh, no. Nothing slow or careful.

He takes Harry in, so much deeper than Ginny ever could. It’s maddening.

Harry’s hands move to Voldemort’s hair on their own volition, but they are pushed away. With one hand, Voldemort grabs both of Harry’s wrists, pines them down on Harry’s stomach.

Harry’s cock is not as big as Voldemort’s- nothing is, really- but he knows he’s big, too, and thick and how is it possible Voldemort just-

The head of his cock goes down Voldemort’s throat, the tight muscles there squeezing at it.

This pleasure is more familiar than the one he felt before. It doesn’t feel like it will kill him, so Harry lets it happen.

His vision whiteness, a loud static noise rigging in his ears.

He is convinced he’s never popped a knot so fast.

Voldemort keeps him in his mouth, sucks, hard, until Harry is done, and the knot recedes, having found nothing to latch onto.

Harry hears him swallowing, and that pleases the Alpha inside him greatly.

Good Omega, he thinks and almost says it.

By a miracle, he bites back the words just in the nick of time.

Voldemort would have probably bitten his cock off if he’d have said it.

He releases Harry with an obscene pop and stands up, moves away from the bed.

No, come back.

Harry wants to hold him. He’s sleepy and satisfied and he just wants to hold Voldemort close to his chest, keep him safe and drift off to sleep.

But Voldemort is cleaning his hands on a piece of cloth he just poured some water on. When he’s done, he tosses it on Harry’s stomach.

Harry flinches. It’s cold.

But he takes it, and he runs it between his legs, cleaning up. When he goes over his hole, it feels tender, sore to the touch.

Harry flushes, and the contentment from seconds ago starts dissolving, replaced with shame and uncertainty.

“It’s best you return to your cell or Dumbledore will start searching for you,” Voldemort says.

By now Harry knows Voldemort is no usual Omega, but to just throw Harry out like that-

He’s supposed to want Harry there. Omegas are at their most needy and clingy after sex, just like Alphas.

“Yeah, alright.”

Harry stands and he winces at the feeling in his lower back and arse. When he pulls up his trousers and takes a few steps, he knows he’s walking carefully.

He finds his sweater on the floor and quickly puts it on.

Voldemort, only in his trousers, sits on his armchair, jar of marmalade already in his hand, the spoon in the other.

“Thank you,” he says, nodding to the jar. “Next time, get some chocolate.”

Chapter Text

Everyone knows he had sex with Voldemort. Everyone.

The Alphas can smell it on him, and they quickly inform the others.

At least they have no way of knowing Harry was the one getting fucked.

Unless Voldemort tells them. But Harry hopes he won’t, though it would be just like him, the arsehole.

Harry can’t meet Dumbledore’s eyes, when he drags himself back to his cell, only to find men already there, worried about where he disappeared.

“Disgusting,” Moody says, and he refuses to talk to Harry the next day.

Harry almost apologises for it, before he reminds himself it’s no one else’s business. They are all already in bed with Voldemort, as allies, so what if Harry made it more literal?

“Lay off him, will you?” Stevan barks at Moody. “The man is an Omega. The only unclaimed one here. And he, miraculously, accepted Harry. No Alpha would be able to refuse.”

“It’s easy for you to say,” Moody snaps back. “You don’t know what he did to our country. He killed Harry’s parents-”

“Alastor. Enough,” Dumbledore says, voice hard. Harry will not meet his eyes. He does not want to see the crushing disappointment there.

He slinks to the common area, because he can’t bear hearing what Moody has to say about him, he can’t bear Dumbledore’s silence, or Kingsley’s pitting glances.

Once in the common area, Amir gives Harry curious and unfriendly looks.

He’s probably wondering what sane Omega would pick Harry over an Alpha like Amir.

He’s not sane, Harry wants to tell him. He didn’t pick me because I am a better Alpha. He picked me because I am a weak Alpha, that allows himself to get fucked.

But, to his shame, Harry feels cocky. He can’t help it.

Amir doesn’t know what really happened. All the Alphas stare at Harry differently, like he must be something special.

A great Alpha, to subdue Voldemort, who spurred them all outside his only heat.

They don’t know Harry can still feel Voldemort inside him, that a shiver runs down his spine every time he sits down. The discomfort fills Harry with shame, but it also sends sparks of desire straight to his cock. 

No one is so eager to fight with him the next day. Alphas that easily dismissed him before, mocked him or barely looked his way now watch him with an appraising glance, as if trying to find a hidden strength in Harry.

“It’s what Voldemort intended,” Dumbledore says, softly, from below Harry’s bed, in their cell, at night. “He knew it would make the other Alphas think twice before attacking you. Most of them are afraid of him. They won’t risk hurting his mate.”

“I’m not his mate,” Harry says, staring at the ceiling.

“You smell like it.”

“So you are saying he only- that- this was only because he wants to keep his Horcrux safe?”

Harry can hear how wounded he sounds. How insecure.

“Oh, Harry…” Dumbledore sounds pitiful.

Harry blinks back tears of hurt and rejection.

Of course Voldemort can’t possibly want him. He just wants Harry alive, because he’s Voldemort’s immortality.

“It’s only because of the stupid Horcrux,” Harry says, wiping away a tear that escaped. “That’s why I am attracted to him. That, and he’s an Omega. I’m too young to resist. That’s all.”

Dumbledore says nothing to that, but Harry is only slightly comforted that the old man doesn’t look at Harry with disgust, like Moody.

He doesn’t seem to judge Harry at all.

(-)

Voldemort acts no different, keeping to his routine of scaring people, not helping with the rocks, only coming down to mock someone, otherwise staying down the corridor in front of his cells, surrounded by his Death Eaters.

Harry looks at Voldemort, sitting so close to Lestrange, whispering in his ear.

He loathes it. Loathes the stupid redhead with a fury.

Get away from him, he wants to scream. He wants to go up there and throw Lestrange over the rails.

Of course, he doesn’t, but a transfigured plate explodes beside him, injuring Savage.

Dumbledore sighs.

“Focus on the rocks, Harry,” he suggests.

(-)

“What are they doing?” Moody demands, pacing up and down the corridor. “Every week or so, they disappear for hours! I want to know what they’re doing.”

Indeed, even if they ignore each other thoroughly, every once in a while Voldemort and Dumbledore disappear together.

It makes Moody angry.

“Talking, I assume,” Kingsley suggests. “What else could they be doing? Dumbledore is past his rutting days, so it’s not-”

“Gross!” Harry says, shaking his head, because he does not want that image in his head.

“Why can’t they talk here, huh? Something is going on!”

But no one has any interest in Moody’s paranoia anymore. They’re all too exhausted, or too hungry, or just don’t care at this point about the war back home.

It doesn’t matter in the prison, and they’ve been together for almost two years, so Harry imagines they just let it go.

Moody won’t.

(-)

Just as Voldemort’s scent starts leaving Harry, and finally Moody doesn’t make disgusted faces whenever he’s in Harry’s proximity, Voldemort comes down to the common area, strolls right up to where Harry is seated, between Savage and Steven.

What now? Harry is stiff with apprehension, but also happiness, because Voldemort is finally looking at him, after a week of ignoring Harry.

“Um, what are you-” Savage tries to ask, standing when Voldemort reaches them.

Voldemort easily sends him to the floor, and just as Steven yells ‘hey!’ and Kingsley and Moody hurry to come down, Voldemort leans over Harry and-

He scents Harry. Right there at the table, with people all around. He noses at Harry’s neck, rubs his jaw against Harry’s skin.

“Voldemort!”

Dumbledore has come down, a hard look in his eyes, flanked by Kingsley and Moody.

Voldemort laughs, his breath hot against Harry’s neck. He straightens his back.

“What?” he asks, unbothered, already stepping away from Harry, walking towards Dumbledore.

Dumbledore doesn’t answer, his eyes, steely hard, meet Voldemort’s and something unspoken passes between them, but then Voldemort strolls around the trio and up the stairs again.

It was all so fast, so unexpected, Harry is left rooted to the spot, shame making his cheeks feel hot- because it is shameful, scenting is a private activity!- but also other things feel hot about him. And tight. His trousers are tight. He will not be leaving that table anytime soon, he knows. He has no desire to walk around with an obvious erection.

“Are you ok?” he asks Savage, who is getting to his feet, rubbing his elbow.

“Powerful maniac,” Savage mutters. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What is your name again?” Amir demands, his dark eyes fixed on Harry, from the other side of the table. “Who are you? What’s so special about you?”

But Dumbledore now comes to sit in Savage’s place, and he glares at Amir the same way he glared at Voldemort, so Amir sighs, and stops paying attention to Harry.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry tries to say, as quietly as he can.

“It’s not your fault,” Dumbledore says, kindly, even if his posture is still very much threatening, in a way it so rarely is.

Harry forgot how terrifying Dumbledore can be- he remembers that time, when the fake Moody dragged Harry into his office, after the Tournament, and Dumbledore broke down the door, fire in his eyes.

“How low you’ve fallen,” Romanov’s second in command says, from where he sits, further away from anyone at the huge table.

Harry never heard him speak before; he’s surprised how good his English is, almost without an accent.

“You can’t even control children anymore, Albus.”

Are you insane? Harry wants to ask that man. Is this really the time you decide to mess with Dumbledore, when he looks ready to bring the entire prison on our heads?

But Dumbledore doesn’t answer, doesn’t even acknowledge the man. Harry noticed Dumbledore always pretends the foreigner doesn’t exist.

“You’re taking orders from an Auror, old man. Following Romanov around like a faithful dog,” one of Amir’s men, an American, the one that taught Amir English, says. “I think it is you that has fallen low.”

Amir places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I would not pick on him if I were you.”

(-)

The supplies are late. Their jailers haven’t come to collect the stones, all ready and waiting. A day passes, then two, three, four, and soon the supplies are ten days late.

Everyone is tense and hungry.

Dumbledore is wise, he always keeps reserves, and he shares them between his men, but they all need to guard their cells, other prisoners circling around it, knowing there’s food there.

Harry hears whispered plans of killing some of the Betas and eating them.

Harry is starving, too. Not hungry enough to kill and eat a human, he will never be hungry enough for that.

But he is hungry. Yet he doesn’t eat the dried crackers Dumbledore hands him in what they consider morning. He slips them in his pocket, carefully.

He has to eat the few bites of canned peaches he is given, because there is no way to store those away.

At ‘dinner’, he gets a small ball of rice.

Dumbledore is trying to calm Moody down, stop him from going out and fighting the gathering Alphas at their cells. He is distracted.

So Harry takes advantage, turns around and pours the rice into an empty can. He takes the crackers from his pocket and puts them in the can, too.

He hides the can under his sweater, covering it with one of his hands. Many men hold their stomachs these days to soothe hunger pains. It doesn’t look suspicious.

He waits until some of the men outside their cells disperse. Harry goes out, one hand on his stomach, holding the can, the other holding his knife.

Outside, there are a few Alphas around their cells, and a few others gathered outside Amir’s cells, on the first floor.

The common area is completely empty, no one has the energy to walk around anymore.

All the gems are piled up on the table, waiting to be taken.

For a second, Harry is distracted by their beauty and shine. They always shine, especially when the neon lights shut down. Even more so, actually. In the darkness, there’s an unnatural light to them.

No one tries to fight Harry.

He makes his way to Voldemort’s cell.

He finds both Malfoy and Lestrange there. They’re lying on the bed, Malfoy dozing off.

Voldemort is perched on his armchair, reading.

He looks up when he sees Harry.

Lestrange also turns his head, taking him in.

Harry does his best to ignore Lestrange.

He pulls the can out of his sweater and puts it on Voldemort’s table.

He turns to leave, but Voldemort grabs his arm, stopping him.

“What?” Harry demands.

“I have food, Harry,” he says, softly. “Not much, but we have some rice left.

“Oh.” Harry shrugs, feeling stupid. “That’s good, then.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not that hungry,” Harry says, just as his stomach growls. “We have some stuff left over, too-“

“Sit. Eat. Half the can.”

“You don’t order me around!” Harry bites back, but he doesn’t have the energy to put much venom in his words.

He sits on a chair.

Lestrange snorts. “I thought you aren’t to be ordered around,” he mocks.

“Rodolphus, shut up.”

Malfoy startles awake at his lord’s sharp tone. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing. Rest.”

Harry is handed a fork; he starts eating. Slowly. To make it last.

“Lucius does not do well with hunger. It is a foreign experience to him,” Voldemort says into the silence.

It is not to Harry. Not to Voldemort either, raised where he was, in times of war.

Lestrange mustn’t have had access to feasts in Azkaban, either.

When Harry is done with half the can, after only a few mouthfuls, Voldemort takes it from him.

“Follow me.” He strolls out of the cell and Harry hurries after him.

“It’s not a good idea to flaunt food,” he hisses, when Voldemort doesn’t bother to hide the can.

“Who would dare attack me?”

“Hunger makes people do crazy things,” Harry says, paranoid, looking around.

“They are welcome to try.” Voldemort is unconcerned.

“I haven’t seen Amir in days,” Harry says. “Or Romanov.”

“They’re weakened by hunger. Romanov hides away, keeping his Omegas safe. Amir is keeping his men from eating each other.”

Some of Amir’s men stare at the can when Voldemort and Harry reach the first floor. Harry tenses at his side, going closer to Voldemort, placing himself in front of him.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Voldemort snaps, pulling Harry to the southern cells.

The old warlock is huddled on his bed, under many blankets.

Voldemort wakes him, saying something in a foreign language.

The man says something back, clearly not pleased.

He struggles when Voldemort pulls him in a sitting position.

Magic explodes around them, powerful and dark. Voldemort shields himself and Harry from it, before Harry can even blink.

“Are you done with the tantrum?” he asks, shoving the can in the man’s hand, waving a fork threateningly at him. “Will you eat on your own, or do I have to force feed you?”

Grumpily, the old man eats.

He really is old. His skin is dried, wrinkled, like ancient parchment. It’s spotted, big blue veins bulging from underneath it, sharp bones jutting out through wasted muscles.

His eyes are eaten up by cataract, almost white.

“Who is he?” Harry asks, in a low whisper.

“No one,” Voldemort answers, after a second.

“Why do you take care of him?”

Voldemort doesn’t answer.

“You took a mate?” the old man asks, in perfect English, sniffing in Harry’s direction. “You disappoint me.”

Voldemort huffs. “He’s my Horcrux.”

“Ah. That boy.” Blind eyes turn to Harry, squinting.

He eats in silence after that, chewing with very few teeth, yellow and broken.

Voldemort stands above him until he is sure the old man ate every bite. He takes a cup from the nightstand.

“I will bring you more tea later.”

“I hate you,” the old man says. And then something else in that strange language.

Voldemort pays him no mind, getting out of the cell.

“Why won’t you tell me who he is?” Harry insists, so distracted and disturbed to see Voldemort consistently taking care of someone, that he doesn’t notice they’re not taking the route back to the common area.

Voldemort waves a hand and bars melt together, shutting them off in a cell.

Harry’s heart goes wild.

Voldemort crowds him into a corner. Harry just lets him, too tired, too hungry, too excited to worry about Alpha and Omega roles and how they’re doing everything wrong.

And he doesn’t even have time to worry about it, because soon, Voldemort pushes him on a bed, takes Harry’s cock out of his trousers and bends over him to suck at it.

Harry closes his eyes, his body responding incredibly fast.

He hardens in Voldemort’s mouth, shivering at the feeling of a hot, agile tongue licking just in the right place, under the head.

Harry tries again to touch Voldemort, to run his fingers through his hair, but, like before, he’s not allowed, Voldemort pinning his wrists on the bed.

“God, it feels so good,” Harry says, between fractured breaths.

He wonders if Voldemort sucks Rodolphus off. He wonders where he leaned to suck cock so masterfully.

It makes him angry to think of that, to be forced to accept Voldemort had other Alphas in his bed, but the pleasure is too overwhelming to focus on the anger properly.

When he comes, he just lies there, panting, eyes closed.

Happy.

That’s the worst and the best. That only Voldemort can make Harry feel happiness in this place.

He blinks, slowly, coming back to reality. Voldemort is standing now, looking down at Harry.

There’s an unmistakable bulge in his trousers and Harry sits, uncertain, reaches for him.

Voldemort doesn’t move and Harry spends a minute struggling with the zipper, his fingers trembling.

Voldemort’s cock looks even more intimidating up close like that. It looks very… appetising, too.

His scent is stronger there, almost as strong as in his mating gland.

Harry licks his lips, and he tentatively wraps them over Voldemort’s cockhead.

It tastes like Voldemort, there is no other way he can describe it. A bit salty, but just pure power and wood and home.

Harry loves it.

Apparently he’s not great at it- and how would he be, he’d never done this before- because Voldemort sighs above him and starts giving Harry very precise directions.

Harry is so into it, his Alpha side doesn’t even get upset that an Omega is barking orders at him.

By the time Voldemort finishes, Harry’s jaw is both numb and sore. He pulls Harry’s hair, angling his head up, and comes half inside Harry’s mouth, half on his face.

Harry blinks up at him, and the look on Voldemort’s face as he takes Harry in is- hard to describe. But he feels how satisfied Voldemort is; it’s right there, in his scent.

He keeps Harry in that position for a few seconds more, before he lets go and conjures an old cloth, hands it to Harry, who wipes the come off his face.

Great, now I’ll reek of Voldemort even more than usual. Strangely, the idea brings more thrill than humiliation.

They walk out in silence; when they pass the cells by the open area, Harry sees Romanov’s second-in-command staring after them.

“Who’s that one?” Harry asks Voldemort, in a whisper.

Voldemort frowns at Harry. “You don’t know?”

Harry shrugs. He gets the feeling the man has or had a big reputation, everyone seems to be aware of him, but Harry, sadly, is not so familiar with the wizarding world. He tried to ask Dumbledore, but Dumbledore acted as if he didn’t hear, and Harry dropped it.

Voldemort pulls Harry to another empty cell. “How do you go through life so clueless?”

“I manage just fine,” Harry answers, narrowing his eyes at Voldemort.

Voldemort actually gives a small laugh.

Harry starts to smile, too, but then Voldemort speaks.

“Grindelwald.”

“What?” Harry turns, feels his mouth hanging open. He looks at the old man, who has not looked away from them. “Grindelwald? Gellert Grindelwald? The dark lord?”

“At least you’ve heard of him,” Voldemort mocks, and he, too, turns to glare at Gellert Grindelwald.

Who glares back, getting more comfortable in a chair, or an armchair, behind the bars of his cell.

“A pest,” Voldemort goes on. “When we woke up here, my first thought was to kill Dumbledore. But before I got the chance to get to him, in all that chaos, Grindelwald attacked him, first.” Another laugh. It sounds gleeful. “He lost, of course. Badly. It helped Dumbledore survive; people thought twice about trying to murder him, after that show of force.”

Even you thought twice about it, Harry thinks, but knows better than to say it.

“I thought he’s dead,” Harry says. “Didn’t Dumbledore defeat him like a hundred years ago?”

“He was locked up in Austria since the famous duel. And no-” Voldemort turns back to Harry. “It wasn’t a hundred years ago, you ignorant little shit. It was in my seventh year at Hogwarts.”

Harry bites his lip. Tries to keep silent. But he can’t. He feels a grin stretching on his face. “So…one hundred years ago.”

Voldemort’s fingers lock around Harry’s throat. He bends his head, to speak in Harry’s ear. “You are very lucky you are my Horcrux, boy. Or I’d have cut out your tongue.”

The way Voldemort is bent makes it easier for Harry to speak in his ear, too.

“I mean, you still can cut it out. I’m sure the Horcrux won’t be affected. It just needs me alive.”

Voldemort bites his mating gland, making Harry’s knee give out. His teeth don’t pierce the skin, just graze it lightly, but even so-

Harry is melting, pleasure exploding in his head.

Voldemort keeps Harry from collapsing, steadies him, and takes a step back.

“It will be hard for you to learn to suck my cock properly without a tongue,” he declares. “Come along.”

He leaves, and Harry tries to remember how to walk, going after him on unsteady feet. His fingers go to his mating gland, and he tries not to imagine how an actual bite would feel, how it would please him to have those teeth sink in.

“Here, you lost him again,” Voldemort says, loudly, when they’re back on the second floor, pushing Harry in the direction of Dumbledore’s side of the floor.

Dumbledore sighs, beacons Harry to hurry up, but doesn’t say anything about him sneaking out, stealing food and giving it to Voldemort.

(-)

Some hours later, when the entire prison suddenly smells like cooked meat, Harry just focuses on Voldemort’s lingering scent.

His stomach growls, and he goes out of his cell to see all the men out; even the Omegas are there. The Beta women have also come out.

No one has the energy to try to fuck them.

Harry looks at them, fascinated. He hadn’t seen a woman in months. He tries to keep his attention on them, so he won’t look at the plates with hunks of meat that are being passed around.

God, Harry is so hungry. It’s torture seeing it.

“No one would blame you, Alastor,” Dumbledore is telling Moody. “Any of you,” he adds to the rest of his men, all hanging over the railings.

“No. I’d rather die,” Moody says, weekly.

But they are all determined.

They don’t go down to join the feast.

Harry can see Yaxley and Malfoy on the other side of the second floor. They aren’t eating, either, a revolted look on their aristocratic features.

Lestrange is on the first floor, with the rest of the Death Eaters, making sure they get the most they can.

And there’s Voldemort, taking a bowl.

Please don’t eat that, Harry thinks.

Yes, eat it, the Alpha argues, wanting the Omega healthy, wanting Voldemort’s stomach filled with protein.

Voldemort doesn’t eat it. He takes it to the old man’s cell.

(-)

Supplies come two days later. More than usual.

Harry gets his hands on chocolate, though he fights terribly with a Polish man over it.

Dumbledore stitches his face back together, with a mix of magic and needles and thread. “It will scar.”

Harry shrugs. It was worth it. What’s one more scar to him, really? It actually looks kind of cool, he thinks, watching his reflexion in a conjured mirror.

It bisects his right cheek. Of course, what with the black thread keeping his skin together, it does look a bit freakish, but the thread will come out, eventually.

“It’s mine!” he growls at Moody when Moody tries to take the chocolate and divide it.

He gets a withering stare.

“You mean Voldemort’s?”

“Mind your fucking business, Moody!” Harry doesn’t back off, still high on the adrenaline of the fight, on the giddiness that he got something nice, something his Omega said he wanted.

He’s not yours, he tries to remind himself, but it does nothing to convince him or calm him.

Savage comes between them, speaking softly to Moody.

“It’s just biology, Alastor. You were once young and in his position and you didn’t have to care for an Omega in a prison full of dangerous Alphas. Try to imagine how that would feel for the boy.”

“Voldemort doesn’t need taking care of! He can get his own fucking chocolate!”

“I imagine that only makes it harder for Harry to feel useful,” Savage says, placating.

(-)

Harry is still all hyped up when he makes his way to Voldemort’s cell, after the lights go out.

He is buzzing with energy.

“Leave,” he snarls at Lestrange, when he finds him there.

If Harry had hackles, they would be raised. He hates Lestrange, hates his smell in Voldemort’s cell.

He just hates him.

Harry wants to tear into him.

He’s ready for battle, so when Lestrange simply gives an amused laugh, it just makes everything worse.

Harry steps forward, but Voldemort is suddenly gripping his arm. Tightly.

Harry suspects magic is involved in keeping him still.

“Rodolphus, go.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Voldemort pulls the sheet over the bars once Rodolphus is out. He looks at Harry carefully. “You’re going into rut.”

“No,” Harry denies.

Though he is awfully angry lately.

Voldemort rolls his eyes.

“I just don’t like Lestrange. I never did.”

“He’s my most trusted man. I suggest you don’t go all territorial or you will find me… displeased.”

Harry narrows his eyes, displeased himself.

He does his best to quench these instincts.

“I brought you chocolate,” he declares, instead, pulling the small package out of his trousers and offering it.

Voldemort takes it and goes to sit in his armchair. He opens it slowly, carefully. Voldemort is always so meticulous, all his moves so measured.

He breaks a piece of chocolate, a perfect square, and pops it into his mouth.

Harry smiles, all rage forgotten.

Omegas are said to like sweet things.

In the silly book he and the boys at Hogwarts read, pretending to mock it but actually very interested in the content- ‘How to charm an Omega’- it was one of the tips.

Sweets. Flowers, too. Perfumes and jewellery.

Would Voldemort like those? He certainly likes jewellery- The ring was a Horcrux, and the locket too. Dumbledore says he suspects he found Ravenclaw’s diadem.

You like shiny things, don’t you?

Harry sits on the bed, uninvited. He lies down, trying to move around as much as possible without attracting attention, just so he can leave his scent behind, to cover Lestrange’s stench.

“You should go,” Voldemort says, piercing Harry to the core.

He doesn’t want to go.

“Spending time with you when you are like this will trigger a heat.”

“Spending time with you triggered my rut- if this is what it is- so, really...”

It’s Voldemort’s fault. Ever since he almost claimed Harry that night, so close to biting his gland- Harry’s blood has been boiling, a restlessness like never before fell over him.

“Potter-”

“Don’t Potter me!” Harry snaps, and he hears the Command in his voice, that deep voice Alphas access only in rut.

Voldemort blinks at him, clearly unaffected, but Harry still feels absolutely terrible.

Using Alpha Command on an Omega is against the law; has been for at least fifty years.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting up, hastily. “I’m sorry, it just came out and-”

“Do not concern yourself. It wouldn’t affect me. You are far too young to have the necessary power behind it, and I am an experienced Occlumenes. I can defend myself from any influence.”

“Yeah, but- it’s awful. I’m really sorry-”

“Shut up.”

Harry does.

Voldemort takes another square of chocolate, before carefully folding the rest back into the wrapper and placing it in a box.

He comes to the bed, lies beside Harry.

It’s so nice. If it weren’t for the urge to mount Voldemort, an instant nagging in his head, Harry would be very content to just lie there with him.

He keeps himself stiff, fingers tightened in a pillow, legs locked together, completely ignoring his raging erection.

“Impressive,” Voldemort says, after what feels like an eternity. “It’s been ten minutes and you’re still keeping your hands to yourself.”

Impressive.

The compliment only ignites Harry more.

“’s hard,” he mumbles.

Voldemort looks at him, a pensive expression on his face. He shifts closer and he kisses Harry.

It feels like he’s on fire. A second ago, he was praying he could just touch an inch of Voldemort, any inch. Now that they are kissing, Harry wants more.

Breed him.

When Harry blinks, he finds himself on top of Voldemort, and he has only the faintest recollection of pushing, snarling, until he got on top.

But Voldemort doesn’t seem concerned. He looks amused.

Harry is basically humping his leg.

But it feels so good, even through the clothes, and Harry can control his movement this way, he can lead the kiss, and Voldemort seems satisfied with it, allowing it.

Harry comes very fast, in his trousers.

He tries not to be embarrassed. He heard it’s a common problem in most young Alphas. They come fast, but they recover fast, too.

He barely gets his breath back under control, and he’s hard again.

“When your heat comes, will you- can I-” Harry pants in Voldemort’s neck.

He wants to hear it now, wants to get Voldemort’s consent before the heat comes, before Voldemort can’t consent anymore.

Silence. Harry looks at him, panicked.

“I trust Rodolphus,” Voldemort says and Harry sees red for a second.

Kill Lestrange. Find him and kill him.

“Alright,” Harry says, trying to control his voice, to control the animal that awoke inside him and demands he should tie Voldemort up and keep him there, beside Harry. “If- I mean, I wouldn’t- I would-“

I would take good care of you. You’re safe with me. “You can trust me,” he settles on the easiest option to voice.

Voldemort stays silent for another second. He seems to expect Harry to say something else. Harry doesn’t know what.

“I will consider it,” Voldemort says, after some seconds, before he stands, goes to sit in his armchair. “Go back to your cell.”

No matter how much Harry insists, Voldemort doesn’t bulge, eventually physically throwing him out of the cell.

He didn’t even let Harry bring him off.

Failure. You’re a failure.

Go back and take him, just take him.

Harry huffs, walking away.

He sees the Polish man he fought for the chocolate standing near the stairs and-

Harry won’t be proud of himself when he’s in his right mind, but he punches the man for no reason other than he needs to punch someone.

“Aww,” someone mocks, nearby. “Our baby Alpha is growing up.”

Harry turns and hits that one, too.

But they all back away from him, refusing to fight him. For a second, he feels powerful, on top of the world. The others are afraid of him-

“Let him be,” someone else says. “You don’t want to hurt Potter, or Voldemort will have all our heads.”

(-)

He claims a cell of his own, the free one next to Kingsley’s.

He feels sick, his stomach all in knots. He thinks he has a fever.

Dumbledore doesn’t come to insist Harry is not to be on his own. There’s no reason.

No one will attack Harry, because they are afraid of Voldemort.

It crushes him, makes him feel so useless. Of course he wants Lestrange. How could he want me when he has to protect me, when he’s the one keeping me safe? What do I have to offer him?

(-)

He comes. Teeth snapping down into his pillow, mind a blur, a haze of want and desire and the fantasy that it’s Voldemort’s long, pale neck caught in a claiming bite. His orgasm doesn’t seem to end; it goes on, and on, and on, Harry hunched over, mouthing stupidly at his pillow, pretending it’s Voldemort.

When it’s finally over, he feels like he’s going mad. He wants to scratch the walls, to destroy whatever furniture he can. He feels wild.

He’s drenched in sweat, skin so hot it’s unbearable, he wants to rip it off him, he needs air.

God, I’m dying. This can’t be a rut. It was never like this.

He had two with Ginny, and it wasn’t-

Because you were with her nonstop. You were never apart, you had her scent to soothe you, you had her close to hold you, and you could keep her safe and satisfied at your side.

He thinks he can understand now why unmated Alphas- or worse, mated Alphas that are separated from their Omegas- go bonkers during ruts, why they sometimes snap and kill someone, or rape someone, or commit all sorts of atrocities.

He can feel his mind walking away from him, leaving just violence and lust behind.

He keeps biting his pillow until it’s completely destroyed.

He can’t stand the smells- he’s far more sensitive to them, and he can only smell Alphas. Enemies, all around. Danger. Competition.

Go out there and put them down. Annihilate them. Maybe then your Omega will find you worthy.

Crystal clear images of ripping Lestrange’s windpipe out of his throat assault his mind. Cutting Amir down, from neck to waist-

Better yet, you can just go claim your Omega. Whether he wants to or not. Subdue him, claim him, and then he’ll respect you. He’ll be yours, without a doubt.

The instincts are so revolting, even the little sanity Harry has left flinches from them, horrified with himself.

It’s like he’s losing his grip on who he is, like he is slipping away into a dark world.

God, they were right, he thinks, tortured. Those illegal articles slipped around through Hogsmeade, claiming unsuppressed Alphas are monsters, brutes that should be put down.

Harry flees to the southern block on the first floor, in the middle of the night, where he hopes he can’t be a danger to anyone, where the smells don’t reach him.

It’s so cold there, without the warming charms the other prisoners cast around the inhabited prison; cold, and dark.

That evil presence in the air, that warning that he should not be there. A great pressure trying to expel him.

A curse, Harry thinks. There’s a curse placed on these corridors.

Only then, when he’s so attuned to his primal senses, does Harry understand the potent repelling, repulsive presence is a very dark, powerful curse.

Dumbledore shows up, tries to coax him out a few times, but Harry can’t make himself talk anymore, tortured by his desire to have his Omega, to kill anyone else.

He even wants to hurt Dumbledore. He growls at him, because he knows his Omega hates this man.

If I kill this old Alpha, if I bring his head as a courting gift, maybe then my Omega will accept me.

Dumbledore retreats, eventually.

He’s really in rut, lost to it.

He’s a ball of lust and aggression.

And hurt. His Omega doesn’t want him.

He is not your Omega, his sanity tries to inform him, to no avail.

He goes to the old man’s cell, but he can’t open the bars. They’re sealed together by magic.

“Who are you?” Harry asks, chocked. “Why does he care for you?”

No answer, just a laugh.

Those milky, blind eyes find Harry

“He is a selfish boy,” the man grunts out.

“He’s not a boy.”

A shrug. “He is, to me. And you are nothing, child. Leave me alone.”

Harry inhales deeply, and he smells old. Earth, and power; dark magic, and blood. Evil. The old man smells like so much death.

But deep under that, Harry detects Omega.

He blinks, surprised.

Always that surprise, the old man says, even if his mouth doesn’t open. Harry can still hear him. In his head. Foolish, green boy. Leave me, before I turn you into dust.

(-)

Harry manages to calm himself down, if only a little. To control the darkest of fantasies, the ugliest of impulses.

He thinks of Ron, and of Hermione. Of Sirius. It’s them he clings to, when nothing else can ground him.

Ginny means nothing in that state; Dumbledore brings awful urges, Voldemort just makes him mad to think about. The other Weasleys, Hogwarts, the little he knows of his parents- nothing.

But Ron and Hermione- he holds on to them. He imagines Hermione beside him, reading out loud from a book, giving Harry advice on how to control what is happening. Her subtle Beta scent, unattractive, but so dear to him. She smells like books, and loneliness, of curiosity.

And Ron- Ron would pat his back, he’d say he doesn’t know how to help, but he’d say he believes in Harry, that he’s there for Harry. He smells of courage, determination.

And Sirius- God, he wants Sirius. Sirius was all Alpha, but he’d be the only Alpha Harry wouldn’t want to destroy.

He focuses on those memories. His Alpha side was just starting to develop, and Sirius was one of the first people Harry could actually scent. And he smelled dark. Like the ocean- salty. Harry only realised after Sirius died, in the departure of Misteries, that the Death Eaters there smelled like salt, too, all except Malfoy. He realised Azkaban was situated in an ocean.

But Sirius also smelled like a lovable dog. Sirius smelled like family, in a way the Weasleys never did.

“You’ll present as an Alpha,” Sirius told Harry, certain, in their first and last Christmas together.

“But my parents were Betas,” Harry argued, even though he, too, felt he was not going to follow them in that regard.

Sirius eyed his scar, fingers clasping around a bottle of whiskey. “Voldemort did something to you; I don’t know what, and Dumbledore plays dumb when I try to discuss it, but I can smell him on you, Harry. He left traces of himself on you, and I don’t know what he did, or if you were going to be that rare case of Alpha born of Betas anyway, but you are an Alpha.”

Sirius, Harry remembers, refused to take suppressants in Grimmauld, angering every Order Member.

“You think I can’t control myself? After twelve years in Azkaban, where, I assure you, no one gave us suppressants?”

Sirius went through this, too. He was in prison, just like Harry, in a dark, oppressive place, and he managed not to lose his mind when his ruts came.

You can do it, too, Harry imagines Sirius would tell him, if he was right there.

So Harry thinks of him, and of his best friends. He keeps them in his heart, and he calms.

Perhaps you aren’t as worthless as most Alphas, the warlock speaks in Harry’s head, startling him. Not many can talk themselves back from a rut craze.

(-)

Even calmer, more in control of himself, when Lestrange shows up, Harry snarls at him, standing up, knife already in his hand.

Lestrange rolls his eyes, dismisses Harry so easily, as if he’s no real threat, an annoying fly at best.

Harry stalks to him, determined to show him otherwise.

“The dark lord asked for you,” Lestrange says. “His heat is starting.”

(-)

Harry runs all the way up to the cell- all the violence disappearing from his head, replaced by Voldemort.

He finds Voldemort in his armchair, reading. The smell inside is… strong. Stronger than usual. And it will only get stronger.

Voldemort seals the cell after Harry comes through, but he doesn’t look away from his book.

He’s tense, though. His shoulders stiff.

Harry almost jumps him, this is what he wanted to do for so long, but then he detects the unease in the air, too.

Harry knows Voldemort doesn’t want this, any of it. That’s why the last time it happened he hung out in the open, until he literally lost it, he fought with himself until he couldn’t anymore.

Harry restrains himself.

“Wait,” he says, mouth dry. “I need water and-”

“I have all I need here,” Voldemort says.

Harry is already doing a bad job. He’s supposed to provide an Omega with water, and some food.

Though not a lot of food.

Harry is as clueless about male Omegas bodies as he is about female Omegas. He never understood why women have periods- he knows it happens, Ginny would tell him, but he was always too embarrassed to ask why or how.

And he knows male Omega’s bodies shift during heat, and that they should only eat very little, just hydrate, but he has only the faintest idea why.

Something about their passage rerouting to lead to their womb, and only that.

Must be painful, he thinks, moving closer.

Voldemort raises a hand, still focused on his book. “I’m reading,” he snaps at Harry. “You can rest until I am done. Or wash.”

He’s so difficult. Voldemort doesn’t need to read. He needs to let Harry take care of him-

Harry goes to the bathtub, fighting his own instincts. But it’s easier. Yes, he wants to fuck Voldemort right then, but he also needs to make sure Voldemort feel safe and calm.

Both desires are just as powerful, and Harry focuses on the latter.

The bathtub fills with water right under his eyes. Hot water.

It is no effort for Voldemort to do so.

“I can conjure water wandlessly now, too,” Harry says, taking off his shirt. “Not much, though.”

“Good for you,” Voldemort snaps. “You want an award?”

Harry wishes someone would have written a book about how to handle a stubborn, extremely self-sufficient omega.

Plenty of Omegas like that out there, but not in heat. Not with their Alpha.

You aren’t his Alpha.

Yes, I am.

Harry climbs into the bathtub. The hot water soothes his tense muscles, but does nothing for his erection.

He can’t stop staring at Voldemort, waiting for a signal, for something.

Nothing.

Even when Harry is done with the bath, Voldemort vanishes the water and he still doesn’t pay Harry any mind.

Harry tries to stay still, but he can’t, pacing around. He can feel other Alphas outside the cell, he can smell Lestrange and it makes him anxious.

What if they come through? Can I protect Voldemort from them?

I can’t. He knows it, too, and that’s why he doesn’t want me.

He wants you. He asked for you, not Lestrange.

(-)

It’s a different kind of torture, being in the same room with Voldemort, so close, his scent all over Harry, and not being able to touch.

“Those pre-heat days are supposed to be spent with one’s mate, with comfort and love, intimacy far greater than sex. Can you see him going through that while he’s sane? Can you imagine him cuddling and allowing an Alpha to look after him? No, that’s not him. He’d rather hold on to control until the very last second, even if it is painful for him, even if it goes against his nature. He wouldn’t bear to choose to be vulnerable for as long as he can help it.”

Dumbledore’s words ring through his head.

It is torture, but it’s an easier torture. Voldemort’s scent arouses him, but it also soothes Harry. At least Harry can see him now, know he’s there, that he’s safe, that he chose Harry, not another Alpha.

Harry only needs to be patient. He puts on the clothes Voldemort transfigures for him, and sits on a chair, as far from Voldemort as the cell allows.

Hours pass. At some point, Harry tries to suggest to Voldemort to drink some water.

He gets a death glare in return, and Harry backs down.

Waits.

When Voldemort finally can’t focus on his book anymore, he takes Harry to bed.

Only he’s still stubborn. He wants to fuck Harry. He’s straddling Harry’s legs, looming above him threateningly.

And maybe that satisfies Voldemort outside of heat, but in heat it won’t. He knows it, Harry knows it, but he insists he wants it.

“I can’t,” Harry tries to plead with him. “I’m in rut, I can’t just -”

“Then you can leave!” 

“Why are you-” Harry bites his lips. He knows why Voldemort is like this. He just can’t stand losing control. “Please,” he says, raising his hand slowly, as if trying to pet a wounded tiger. He carefully cups Voldemort’s face. “Please, just let me make you feel better.”

Red eyes glare down at him. “I don’t need help,” he hisses. “I don’t need you.”

He obviously does, that’s why Harry was called to begin with.

“I know,” Harry lies. “But you’d feel better.” He takes advantage of the fact that he still has a hand on Voldemort’s face, that it wasn’t cut in pieces.

It’s so good to be allowed to be gentle with him. Harry caress him, slowly, carefully. He moves his other hand to Voldemort’s waist, just as gentle.

They say Omegas liked to be told they are good, when in heat. That they want praise. Only Harry is terrified of saying anything of the sort. Voldemort is no regular Omega.

And yet.

“So good for me. You take me so well.” Lestrange did it, and Voldemort liked it, Harry thinks.

And then he’s angry, because he remembers Lestrange’s hands on-

He shakes his head. Voldemort is still glaring down at him, stiff as a statue above Harry.

Harry sneaks the hand on Voldemort’s waist under the shirt, touching hot skin. He moves his other hand to Voldemort’s nape. He very carefully applies some pressure, just trying it out, testing to see-

Voldemort allows it, and soon, he’s bent over Harry, chest to chest.

“You smell so good,” Harry says, nosing at Voldemort’s gland, guiding his head to be in a position so Voldemort can smell Harry better, too. “Like power.”

He does, but he smells like home the most. But Voldemort will like the power part better. At least he’s not attacking Harry.

He moves his other hand up Voldemort’s back, gently. Up and down, in a soothing motion.

Voldemort’s weight gets heavier and heavier as minutes trick away and he starts to relax above Harry, to lean more into him.

He can feel his breath on Harry’s mating gland.

Harry purrs, a noise he never heard himself make before, and that completely relaxes Voldemort; he just goes limp above Harry.

God, but he’s so big and heavy. But it’s fine. Harry can take it. What if he can’t breathe? What if his ribs feel like they’ll break? Who needs air and ribs when they can make their Omega calm, instead?

“Thank you,” Harry says into his shoulder. He really is very thankful Voldemort stopped freaking out. It’s not heard of to thank an Omega for acting like an Omega, but the words just seem right.

They spend a long time like that, Harry purring, stroking Voldemort’s back, trying to breathe, trying to ignore his cock.

Voldemort is not hard, not really. From what Harry knows, it’s more complicated with male Omegas. In the first part of their heat, they’re more in pain than they are aroused.

Harry does his best to soothe him, though Voldemort doesn’t act like he needs to be soothed. Harry does it anyway.

And then, when he feels like he’ll just suffocate, when he gets dizzy, he carefully rolls them on their sides.

Voldemort tenses again, blinks at Harry, red eyes clouded, but still somewhat alert- Harry goes closer, offering his gland again, happy to breathe once more.

“You’re so heavy. You almost killed me without even trying,” he says and Voldemort smiles. A tiny smile.

“If only I knew all I had to do was lay on you,” he says. Even his voice sounds lazy. Calmer.

“Can I?” Harry asks, reaching over, tugging at Voldemort’s shirt.

“May I,” Voldemort corrects.

Is he serious?

“May I?” Harry asks.

Voldemort closes his eyes and Harry thinks he somehow fell asleep, but then his shirt just disappears.

And feeling his magic is just-

Harry moans.

Voldemort tries to open his eyes again, and he’s losing focus, more and more.

“I kept a part of you safe for eighteen years,” Harry says, and he takes Voldemort’s hands and guides it to Harry’s scar.

The moment his fingers touch it, Harry shudders in pleasure. He thinks he’s moaning again.

He isn’t.

Voldemort leans in, and he is moaning, fingers pressing on Harry’s scar, hard-

“Mine,” Voldemort says. 

“I won’t hurt any part of you,” Harry says, mouth dry.

In a very, very distant part of himself, he realises Voldemort didn’t give him a Horcrux to keep safe because he trusted Harry; it wasn’t a romantic gesture. It wasn’t an Omega and Alpha.

It was a grown man that killed Harry’s parents and tried to kill Harry.

But it is far away. It stopped bothering Harry months before. It doesn’t matter how they got there, just that they are connected, and all he needs right now is to put Voldemort at ease, convince him to allow Harry to take care of him.

Harry wants that with more fervour than he’s ever wanted parents.

“Can you rest a little?” Harry asks him, drawing him even closer-

His own T-shirt disappears; Voldemort’s magic is so potent, even when he’s like this.

Their chests touch, heart beats sync up. Voldemort rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, close to his gland.

He falls asleep. Harry doesn’t dare to move a muscle. He tries to breathe as little as possible, not to disturb him.

And even if his hormones demand he buries his cock inside Voldemort, Harry already feels satisfied, just to have him near him this way.

Voldemort remains tense, even in sleep, all his muscles coiled up. He jerks awake soon after. His arms go around Harry, his head snuggled in Harry’s shoulder. A pained noise gets muffled in Harry’s skin.

“Does something hurt?” Harry asks.

Voldemort nods, once.

It hurts Harry to hear that vulnerable voice, to know his Omega is in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It will get better soon.” He hopes it will, anyway.

He remembers Voldemort in his last heat, standing outside, leaning over the railings; he must have been in pain then, too. He just pretended he wasn’t, holding on to his stubbornness.

It really does pain Harry to remember it, wounds him deeply, to know Voldemort never allows himself comfort, always fighting, even if his actions only hurt Voldemort more, along with others.

The desire Harry feels, the protective urge, the absolute bliss at having him close- he had that with Ginny, but it was muted, compared to what he feels now.

He is completely, utterly devoted, like this is his entire purpose in life. To care for Voldemort.

It’s powerful, and it scares him.

How will I stop myself from claiming him, knotting him? Because when Voldemort will be in full heat, soon, he’ll drag Harry right back into the thick of his rut.

He barely avoided knotting or claiming Ginny, but now it will be impossible to resist.

You have to. He trusts you, and you can’t betray that.

(-)

Next time Voldemort wakes up, there’s nothing alert about him anymore. Even so, Voldemort straddles him, pinning Harry’s arms to the bed, and Harry thinks that apparently it is actually possible for an Omega to be this bossy, it wasn’t just Voldemort refusing to give into his nature.

This is his nature. Rough, controlling, demanding. Even if he’s the Omega. His magic, which is supposed to be unreachable when in full heat, is not only there, but more, somehow.

“Slow down,” Harry asks him, when Voldemort vanishes the rest of their clothes without even moving a finger, without even blinking. “Just let me-”

Voldemort shoves his tongue in his mouth to stop him from talking.

Harry struggles, because Voldemort is trying to lower himself on Harry’s hard cock, and Harry wants that- oh, how he wants it- but he wants to prepare him, first, to stretch him, make sure he’s ready.

He struggles, but it’s in vain. It’s not only Voldemort’s taller body- no. He might be taller, but Harry has grown stronger, like any Alpha reaching adulthood. It’s the magic. Harry can’t even access the little he can do wandlessly, not when he is in rut. Even if he could, he’d be no match for Voldemort.

And then his mind whites out, when Voldemort forcefully impales himself on Harry’s cock-

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

Heaven.

Harry groans, but even so, he hears the hiss of pain above him, and his pleasure wars with his worry, with his need to have his Omega comfortable and in no pain-

He’s not ready, he’s not slick enough. Granted, he’s never been with a male Omega, but there’s supposed to be no difference, in heat. They’re supposed to get as wet as the female Omegas, and it’s not the case here.

“Stop,” Harry growls at him, and he feels how different he sounds. Alpha Command.

And this seems to work. Voldemort might resist that when he’s aware, when he can Occlude, but he doesn’t seem to be Occluding now.

He stops, as if frozen, a different kind of magic at work.

“Release me,” Harry commands, and when he tries to move his hands, he can. He grabs Voldemort’s waist, gently, eases him off his cock.

The friction makes him cry out, it’s that good, and Harry wants to slam him back on his cock-

He shakes his head and lowers Voldemort on his back.

He’ll fucking kill me when he’s back to himself, Harry thinks. Ordering him around like this…I’ll die a painful, slow death.

But it’s fine. He can die. It’s his duty to make sure his Omega is safe and unhurt. Even if he loses his life because of it, Harry is alright with that.

Harry stands, on shaky legs; everything inside him protests at putting distance between them, and Voldemort whines on the bed, a throaty, pitiful sound, that only pulls at Harry’s heart-

He shakes his head again, and it’s like defying gravity, but he forces himself to go to the table and look for that can of grease.

He’ll definitely kill me, Harry thinks, when he makes a mess of the orderly drawers, carelessly tossing things away, until finally, finally, he finds the can and he goes back to where he’s needed.

He kneels between Voldemort’s legs- they part for him with ease.

Harry looks at him and it’s -

Fuck, it’s terrifying.

The intense glare he receives. It’s not hateful, it’s just intense. The red eyes, the fervour behind them, the flush spreading on that pale skin.

Pale and scarred.

Harry’s anger sparks. His Omega was hurt, deeply, by others. And Harry wasn’t there to protect him, wasn’t there to care for him, die for him. Anything for him.

Harry trails his fingers over the scars, wishes so hard no one ever hurt Voldemort, or that he was there to help him. He kisses every scar, apologising for his absence, for not being born in the right time.

He wishes they were born together, in that awful orphanage, that they could have been friends.

Voldemort squirms beneath him, impatient, and Harry is reminded of the present.

He smears grease on his fingers, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, really, but he gently presses them inside Voldemort.

Too tight. Far too tight, and not enough slick.

Maybe he doesn’t want me that much. I don’t arouse him, that’s why he’s not properly wet.

It makes his eyes sting. He’s the deficient one, the useless Alpha that can’t even get his Omega to produce slick for him.

Voldemort’s body rejects him, and it’s painful-

Voldemort moans, throws his head back on the pillow, when two of Harry’s fingers are deeply inside him.

Like this, with his throat exposed, Harry’s eyes zoom on his mating gland, and his mouth waters; he can feel his canines elongating, slightly, preparing for a bite.

No No NO NO NO!

He forces himself to look back between Voldemort’s legs, to that impossibly large cock, rock hard now, as flushed as the rest of Voldemort.

It’s such a rush, to see his fingers, a part of himself, inside his Omega. It feels right. Divine, almost.

Harry twists his fingers, experimentally, and that’s met with another moan. He keeps at it, doing what feels right, what comes instinctively, lets his nature compensate for the lack of experience.

And then he feels it, feels more slick coating his fingers. Voldemort gets wetter, his walls get just a little bit looser.

“That’s it,” Harry says, mindlessly. “You’re doing so good.”

Another moan, another rush of slick.

Harry’s dizzy with the smell, that powerful, home smell.

He feels weak, he almost collapses on his Omega, but he makes a supreme effort to keep fingering him, harder now.

He tentatively adds another finger, and there’s resistance, but Harry doesn’t give up, murmurs encouragement, praise, and he insists, gently, until the third finger slips in.

Mount him. Now.

Harry resists, he won’t, not until he’s sure he won’t hurt his Omega.

Voldemort’s arms move, fingers tightening around Harry’s forearms, crushing and strong- why is my Omega so strong?- pulling at him.

“No,” Harry says. “Lie back.”

Even his Command seems to falter for a second; Voldemort doesn’t obey instantly, but he stops griping Harry so harshly.

“Lie back,” Harry repeats. “Be good for me.”

Voldemort swallows, his Adam’s apple moving so enticingly, his red eyes like beacons in the semi darkness around them.

He obeys.

Eventually it’s Harry that can’t resist the call any longer, and he pulls his fingers out, settles himself better between those long, perfect legs.

No, turn him around. Mount him. Breed him.

But Harry wants to see his face. Wants to see if his Omega is in any discomfort. His arms are shaking when he uses them to support his weight on either side of Voldemort.

When he pushes in, it’s as slick as it should be, the tightness isn’t almost painful as before.

And it isn’t painful for Voldemort, either. His stern face relaxes, eyes closed, and once again he exposes his mating gland for Harry.

Harry lowers his head against his will, he’s licking that delicious tendon before he even knows how he got there.

His cock slips all the way inside and Harry’s teeth graze the skin.

No. Stop.

He groans, and he sinks his teeth in Voldemort’s shoulder instead.

I can’t resist him, he thinks, with some panic, though it’s hard to properly panic when he’s inside his Omega, fully, when he starts moving.

But he must resist. Somehow, he has to go through the following days without claiming him or knotting him.

Impossible.

How did Lestrange manage? he wonders, and the anger that comes from remembering another Alpha was inside his Omega, helps to clear his mind a little.

“Is this ok? Is it good?” Harry whispers, and he knows he shouldn’t ask, Alphas shouldn’t sound insecure, they’re supposed to know what’s best for their Omegas, but he asks anyway.

This time Voldemort doesn’t laugh at him.

“Harder,” Voldemort says, voice so low it’s a wonder Harry heard him.

Harry complies, gives in to his desire to thrust harder, faster.

It’s perfect, he’s close, he’s been close since he started, his knot swollen from the moment he entered the cell and smelled his Omega.

He sneaks a hand between them, and his fingers barely close around that thick, long cock.

It doesn’t bother him anymore, that Voldemort is so big, bigger than him. He likes it

He remembers vaguely that Omega’s cocks are rarely a part of a heat-rut mating, between a male Omega and a male Alpha. After all, it’s important the Alpha comes, it’s all that is needed for breeding, but Harry can’t believe that was the case.

Surely, he’d read that wrong. How could he ignore Voldemort’s hard cock?

He will come just from having you inside him, another voice whispers. It’s all he needs.

Harry ignores it, moving inside him, but also moving his fingers over Voldemort’s cock. And when Voldemort comes all over Harry’s hand, Harry loves it, loves he can please his Omega.

He especially loves the sounds Voldemort makes, unguarded, ecstatic. He loves the softer noise that comes after that, the way he twitches around Harry.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life for Harry to pull out when he feels his knot is about to pop.

But he does, and he spends himself on Voldemort’s stomach.

Voldemort growls, annoyed. “No. Inside!”

“You don’t want that,”Harry says, when he recovers. “You’ll realise it when you’re in your right mind.”

(-)

The next hours are a blur of bliss and torture.

The cell smells like them, smells right, their scents mixing together.

At first, in a brief respite from sex, Harry tries to coax Voldemort to drink some water. He begs, when that doesn’t work, but Voldemort doesn’t want water, he wants Harry to fuck him. So Harry ends up using Alpha Command again, forces Voldemort to drink.

He forces Voldemort to stay still, Harry massages his shoulders, begging him to try to close his eyes and rest for a few minutes.

And then the sex- by the third time, Harry easily slips inside him, with no resistance. He always makes Voldemort come, first, and then the torture follows, because Harry reminds himself to pull out, and he doesn’t want to, Voldemort doesn’t want him to, but it’s what is right.

Voldemort actually hits him, the fourth time Harry pulls out. It’s so unexpected, Harry falls off the bed, mostly because of the surprise.

Before he can stand, Voldemort throws himself off the bed, too, straddles Harry, grabs him by the neck.

He leans in, noses touching. “Breed me,” he demands.

Just like that, Harry instantly grows hard, even if he just came, and the cycle starts again.

He keeps in mind Voldemort might hit him again, though.

Ginny never did that. She, too, wanted Harry to knot her, in her heat, she begged for it, she whined, but never did she hit him, nor did she try to strangle him.

Harry finds it hot; he is proud his Omega is so feisty, so stubborn. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

(-)

It happens late into that first day. Harry is fucking into Voldemort, eyes closed, chest tight, drained and yet full of energy at the same time.

Voldemort’s fingers twist in Harry’s hair, and then it’s too late.

He brings down Harry’s head, fast, and before Harry can even say something, before he can register what’s going on, he feels sharp teeth sink into his mating gland, painfully.

A jolt goes through him, a shock of pain-pleasure-rightness that travels from his throbbing neck, down his spine, straight to his stomach. Somehow, he feels it the most acutely in his scar.

He’s blinded by it, the feeling so intense, he can’t discern if it’s too painful or too pleasurable. It’s just too much.

Far too much, and when it retreats, when the world rearranges around him, when he can remember his name, he’s knotted inside Voldemort, cock trapped, and he’s coming more than he ever did in his life. Just when he thinks he will stop, it starts again. Harry’s mating gland is still trapped between Voldemort’s sharp teeth.

It’s a terrible position to be knotted into. Voldemort is flat on his back and Harry struggles to lift his weight off him, to let him breathe.

Finally Voldemort releases his gland.

His lips and chin are full of blood, and his eyes are shining red. He moans, back arched, tightens around Harry’s cock, making him come again, even if he just stopped a second ago.

“Mine,” Voldemort says, and he looks so satiated. “Mine.”

It lasts for a long time. Harry had no idea it would be like this; to be able to spend himself inside his omega is just indescribable. They are locked together, and Harry thinks of his knife, the carved hilt, with the snakes intertwined.

Harry focuses on them, and he hopes that will do it, he always needed to see or think of snakes clearly-

“You are perfect,” he says. As always, he can’t tell in which language he spoke, but Voldemort moans again, and Harry thinks it did come out in Parseltongue.

At least this, Harry knows, it is something only Harry can give him. There was no other Alpha to speak in Parseltongue with Voldemort.

When finally his knot retreats and Harry slips out and collapses beside Voldemort, that’s when the worry comes.

Fuck.

Voldemort claimed him, which, while rude, it doesn’t bother Harry so much. He already has a scar on his forehead, claiming him more thoroughly that a marking bite.

But the worst- Harry knotted him. That can be disastrous.

He could- No. No. Male omega pregnancy are not that easy to achieve.

Heats between Alphas and Omegas of different genders almost always end up in pregnancy.

But between two men, not even half of heats result in that. Less than half. And that’s with great care, with perfect nutrition, with a young, fertile Omega, that lives without any stress.

Nutrition is shit in prison. There is stress- Voldemort doesn’t show it, but he must be stressed. He’s old. So old, he’s close to the end of his heat days. That’s why he didn’t even slick properly, why Harry had to coax it out of him. That’s a sign of low fertility, he thinks. In female Omegas as well.

Not to mention all that dark rituals he did to himself, the period spent as a wraith Albania, the snake venom for his new body, the spilt soul- no, it’s fine.

It really is fine. It won’t happen.

A part of Harry, solely driven by his Alpha instincts, mourns at the idea that it will not happen. The rest of him is relieved.

(-)

He knots him again, the next time. And the time after that. It’s impossible to resist, now that he knows how good it it is. Now that he is claimed. He still tries not to, but Voldemort insists, flipping them around, holding Harry down and riding him until his knot pops.

Harry’s Command is far less effective now that he’s claimed.

When Voldemort’s heat reaches its ultimate peak, when he climbs on his hands and knees and growls at Harry, well-

Harry does what he wanted from the start. He kneels behind him and fucks him like that, hard and fast and lets his Alpha instincts rule him, allows all other worries to melt away, allows himself to be as savage as he feels.

It’s perfect.

He falls asleep while still knotted inside Voldemort; they’re on their sides, Harry holding his Omega to his chest, and he’s never felt so much peace before in his life.

(-)

When he wakes up, Voldemort is not in the bed. Harry jumps up, frenzied-

Voldemort is in his armchair, fully dressed, a book in his hands.

Harry gulps. Their scent lingers, but it’s clear a cleaning charm has been cast on him and the sheets, because he’s not sticky with all sorts of bodily fluids anymore.

Voldemort is out of heat, and Harry is back to himself.

He’ll murder me. Maybe not murder, Horcrux and all, but at least torture.

I knotted him. Fuck.

At least Harry didn’t claim him back. At least that. By some miracle, he abstained.

Voldemort didn’t. Harry’s throat throbs, painfully. The fucker. If I’d have done this to him, claim him without his consent, he’d be furious.

Harry, however, is not furious.

“Uhm,” he says. He feels very vulnerable, naked and spent like that. He is back to being intimidated by Voldemort, and ashamed for it, because Voldemort is an Omega and Harry shouldn’t be so wrong footed around him all the time.

It was so good in heat, when Voldemort was finally somewhat softer.

“Bathe,” Voldemort says, and his tone is hard, harsh. It was always like that, but Harry had forgotten, after the last days.

Harry stands. He grabs the sheet and fastens it around his midsection.

“I-um- can you look at me, please?”

Voldemort doesn’t, turns the page of his book.

Maybe it’s better like this. Maybe it’s better not to see hate in those eyes.

“I’m really sorry. About-” he gulps. “About -like- well, I tried not to- but. I’m sorry.”

That’s why Voldemort wanted Lestrange. Harry is certain the redhead didn’t knot inside Voldemort. 

He fucked up. Voldemort trusted, wanted Lestrange, and Harry insisted that he can be trusted too, that he won’t behave inappropriately, and he failed.

No answer.

“And I’m sorry for- for Alpha Command. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

Voldemort has no reaction.

He doesn’t apologise for claiming Harry, but Harry didn’t really expect an apology.

“Bathe,” Voldemort repeats.

Well, Voldemort is taking this all far better than expected. Harry is still not tortured.

He hops into the bathtub, filled with warm water, and a soap floats to his side.

Harry cleans himself, eyes on Voldemort. He wants to hold him. The heat is technically over, but not done entirely. During the first days, the Omega still wants an Alpha there, close, for comfort.

That’s how Harry stumbled upon him and Lestrange fucking in that cell, right after Voldemort’s first heat.

When Harry is dressed, Voldemort puts his book away, and with a wave of his hand the sheet over the bars rolls up, and the cell door clicks unlocked.

“Wait,” Harry says, panicked. He doesn’t feel safe outside their cell. He can’t protect Voldemort out there. Not from Amir or-

“I need to get out,” Voldemort says, and he sounds like he needs out.

He leaves the cell and Harry hurries after him.

Chapter Text

“Are you alright, Riddle?” Mulciber asks, down in the common room.

“Yes,” Tom lies. “Why?”

“You look flushed.”

Tom pays it no mind. He feels a bit under the weather, but no reason for concern. He was never one to fall sick, even when the other children at Wool’s were dropping dead around him, from a cough, or from a fever or for seemingly no reason at all.

Still, as the hours pass, he finds it hard to concentrate on his homework. His stomach hurts, and he feels more and more nauseous as he hunches over his books.

But he brushes it aside. It’s because he didn’t eat; sometimes he forgets to eat for a day or two until his stomach pains remind him to do it.

He heads for the Great Hall at dinner time, feeling more and more unwell.

He can’t eat. He’s hungry, despite the nausea, but everything looks and smells disgusting. Even the pot roast, which is, and always has been, his favourite.

But now it taste horribly when he makes himself take a bite. He tries something else, his most trusted meals, but he almost throws up.

Strangely, when the elves send over the desserts, it’s like they are calling to Tom.

He never liked sweet things, but now the tarts look appetising.

My blood sugar must have dropped, he rationalises it.

A military nurse inspected the boys at Wool’s just the past summer, to see if they will be fit for war. Billy fainted, and the nurse was kind, lied to him that his blood sugar must have dropped; it wasn’t that. It was fear. They were all terrified, except Tom, who knew no matter what, he will not allow himself to be sent off to war. Muggle war, no less.

But he’d been curious about this blood sugar thing, and he asked the nurse about it.

This must be it, he thinks, as he eats one tart, then another, then a third.

And then, a slice of cake. Chocolate cake. He used to hate chocolate, how nauseatingly sweet it was, but now-

Now he can’t stop. In the end, he forces himself to put the fork down and step away from the table.

He does feel a tad better.

He’s lucky it’s the spring holidays; most students are away with their families. Malfoy, sadly, remains behind, but Tom is pleased not to find him in their dormitory when he retreats to sleep.

He has that old dream, the one that plagued him since boyhood. He’s in a turbulent river, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Lightning strikes all around, turning the night sky into day.

In the distance, he sees a figure falling into the water. As always, he rushes over, dragging himself through the water that’s past his waist.

He wants to help whoever it is. They’re drowning, but when Tom reaches them-

It’s a man.

And then Tom starts pushing him down, holding him under the water. He can’t see, he never sees who it is. When lightning strikes, he only sees the angry waters, and a hand trying to breach it.

Tom pushes the man harder and harder.

Die, he thinks. Die, die, die!

He wakes up wet. For a second, he’s confused- was I actually in a river?

But no- he’s in his dormitory, in his bed. Drenched.

He’s burning up. He tries to sit, but the pain in his stomach returned with a vengeance. It hurts terribly, so much that he can’t stand.

And he has a high pain tolerance; he made a Horcrux, after all. Yet this pain cripples him.

Is this another side effect of the ritual? Albeit a delayed one?

It scares him how much it hurts- the fever is worrying, too.

I can’t die, he reminds himself, when that old fear tugs at his mind, slices through the pain, to bring panic along to the numerous things that plague him.

His neck hurts, too; a muscle ache. But it’s throbbing? Did I struggle in my sleep?

He lifts a hand to it, to the side-

He freezes.

It’s swelled up. Where a mating gland appears on Alphas or Omegas.

Alright, I’m not dying, he tries to reassure himself. I’m not ill. Just presenting.

Just another magical thing. Tom was shocked, and more than disgusted with all this secondary gender nonsense when he first learned about it, at eleven. Talk of rut, and heat, and sex- so much sex seemed to be involved. For a boy that was raised with strong, strict Christian values, it was hard to accept. But he accepted, like he accepted everything magical, and he was prepared for it, in case it came.

He hoped to remain a Beta, deep down, but he always knew there was a chance that would change.

Gathering his courage, he reaches a trembling hand into his underwear.

He isn’t shocked when he doesn’t find anything changed with his cock. It’s just how his life goes.

God hates him; God, or whatever deity is in charge of these things- if there is one. In any case, something, someone hates Tom.

Of course he’d be an Omega, and not an Alpha.

He tries to cling to the fury the thought brings on, but the pain is so great now that it obliterates even his wrath, his most trusted ally, one that never failed him before.

He can’t deal with it- he can’t. For a moment, he feels truly hopeless, just that poor orphan child sitting at his window, knowing nothing will come of him, that he’ll end up dead of consumption on the streets of London when he’ll be thrown out of Wool’s.

No. No, I’m not that child. I’m Slytherin’s Heir. I have magic.

He breathes in, trying to calm down. So what if he’s an Omega? What’s one more thing to overcome? Can’t possibly be worse than a mudblood in Slytherin, can it? He can hardly be more despised by his peers than he already is, looked down upon because of his blood, his name, his poverty, his still different accent.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. I’ll be alright. I’ll master this, too. He says it like a mantra, squirming in his bed, the pain wrecking him.

The pain- the pain is there because he’s developing a womb.

That knowledge threatens to send him into another dark pit of fear, so he dismisses it from his mind. It’s fine, he tells himself. It is. He’s not his useless mother. There are potions; he won’t die in childbirth. He won’t ever allow an Alpha to touch him.

You won’t be able to stop them, that voice inside him says, that awful voice that always points out the worst things in his life.

But Tom refuses to fall prey to despair. Eventually, he prefers to focus on the pain and stop thinking. The agony, even as horrible, is easier to withstand than the knowledge of how all of this will affect his plans, his goals- everything he worked for.

He gets lost in the misery, curled around himself on his bed, skin burning up, too hot or too cold, in turns, sweating or shivering.

“Riddle? Oh, gods- Riddle!”

Malfoy.

Life truly does hate him. It had to be Malfoy.

The others had started to accept him, even listen to him after the Chamber of Secret incident, but Malfoy never put aside Tom’s muggle name, never gave an inch, cold eyes filled with disgust when they fell on Tom.

Now no one will listen to you- they’ll all leave, they’ll all spur you once more.

But Tom would take anyone else finding him this way, anyone but Malfoy.

Rich, pureblood, Alpha Malfoy.

The unfairness of it all is like a knife stabbing in his heart.

But it is a wound you know well, isn’t it?

Hardly the first time life has been unfair to Tom.

“Get out!” he says, gathering as much dignity as he can muster, forcing himself to look at Malfoy, to meet that disgusted glare with one of his own-

But Malfoy, for once, does not look disgusted. His eyes are unguarded, as big as saucers.

“You-” he swallows. “You- oh, Merlin,” Malfoy stumbles.

They stare at each other, both confused.

“Teachers-help- get teachers. Yes,” Malfoy mumbles to himself, but he keeps staring at Tom. “Yes, get help.”

But he’s walking towards Tom.

Warnings flare in his head- yes, the other will spur him for being an Omega, they’ll think he’s less, but they will want to fuck him, won’t they?

Tom should grab his wand. It’s always under his pillow. But he doesn’t, because he’s fascinated by the want in Malfoy’s eyes.

He wants me. Me .

No one ever wanted him before.

It’s Tom that is suffering in the bed, it is his life that has just been thrown upside down, yet somehow it is Malfoy that looks frenzied, his usual composure failing with every passing second. He keeps trying to come closer to Tom, stops himself just short of it, retreats to the door, then tries to approach again. He calls for Slughorn, using his wand to send a signal for help, meant only for emergencies. And then, he mutters ‘you’ll be fine, Riddle, I’ll wait outside the door, I won’t let anyone in but Sluggy’ and he rushes out of the room before he reconsiders.

(-)

“Oh, Tom,” Slughorn sighs, hunched over him. “I assume you presented? Omega?”

Slughorn is a Beta, so he can’t rely on scenting. Malfoy must have informed him.

“I’m fine,” Tom says, uncomfortable. He’s not used to this, to lying in a bed and having someone look at him with worry and pity. To that soft tone aimed at him.

He’s not a weakling. He doesn’t need pity. He’s determined to not make any noise, to keep his face blank.

“The Matron needs to see you; she’ll help with- with your discomfort and she’ll explain everything to you.”

Tom needs no explaining. He’d read everything about this, years before, when he realised how much it matters to the wizarding society.

“But we can wait until night falls, so you - so the others are in bed. I can give you a pain relief potion until then. Your choice.”

Slughorn is offering to wait, so Tom won’t be seen by others in this state. He knows Tom is proud.

But this is not something that can be hidden, no matter how much Tom would like to hide it. Whether it is today, tomorrow, or in a week’s time, everyone will know.

He won’t cower in his room.

Tom stands, which does not agree with him; it feels like he’s under the Cruciatus.

Slughorn offers to support him, but Tom refuses. He throws a robe over himself, and even if the side of his neck is throbbing, making him want to keep his head and shoulders as relaxed as possible, he does not.

He keeps his shoulders stiff, his head high.

Let the pain feed me, he thinks, when every step feels like torture.

The castle is less crowded, due to the holiday, but every single person they meet stares at him and Slughorn as they walk to the Hospital Wing.

Tom ignores them; but it’s distracting. He can smell them now- he can instantly detect Alpha, from Omega, from Beta.

I’ll learn to deal with it, he swears to himself. I will.

(-)

The Matron fusses over Tom, wand trailing over him, a quill taking notes on a parchment floating beside her shoulder.

“Quite a late presentation,” she says. “But, so far, everything is progressing as it should.”

She gives him a pain-relief potion, and that helps immensely with his focus.

When he relaxes, after he drinks some water, she sprouts facts at him, about biology, about what is happening to him.

He knows, already, lets her words fly by his ears. But then her tone shifts from clinical to something soft and worried.

“You are quite… tall for an Omega. But do not fret, dearie. It’s not ideal, but there are very tall Alphas out there that will still find you pleasing.”

He blinks up at her. “What?”

She nods, pats his shoulder. “I know of tall Omegas that found good matches, I promise you. At least you are slim.”

Slim? Tom looks down at himself. He’d always been thin. But slim is not the word he’d choose, rather malnourished.

Every bit of weight he manages to put on during the school year melts away from him as soon as he’s sent back to Muggles and their war rations. Not that it was better before the war. He’s so used to being hungry, he even forgets to eat when he’s at school. Hunger has become a part of who he is, something easily ignored.

“You should let your hair grow,” she advises. “Such beautiful hair, I am sure it will curl if you let it grow, and it would hide that sharp jaw.”

I will strangle her, Tom thinks. He feels it, feels the murderous urge rise up inside him, making his fingers twitch.

“And you should sleep more. No need to bother yourself so much with your studies. Rest more, so those circles under your eyes will disappear.”

She gives him a smile. “You are a beautiful boy, you are. Just need some adjustments, more care, and everything will be alright.”

Beautiful. Already, in the span of a few hours, he’d gone from handsome to beautiful.

He sinks his fingers into the sheets, so he won’t sink them into her neck.

He tries to ignore her advises- and she has so many of them- about how he can ‘improve’ and ‘correct’ things about his body.

She’s nothing. Just a stupid woman. She knows nothing. Ignore her. Ignore her, ignore her-

All the railings on the beds surrounding him bend out of shape when magic lashes out of him.

It’s been so many years since he couldn’t control his magic.

She gasps.

“I apologise,” he snarls at her, unable to affect his usual polite demeanour. “I am exhausted, Miss, haven’t slept in ages. May I rest?”

Blessedly, she fucks off to repair the beds, drawing the curtains around him.

(-)

“Tom, Tom.” Dippet sighs, standing beside Tom’s bed. “What is this I hear about you refusing to take your suppressants?”

The Matron tried to give him the potion, after two days in the Hospital Wing. After his womb finished growing. When she failed to convince him, she called Slughorn. And when Slughorn failed-

“Headmaster,” Tom says, politely. He doesn’t feel ill anymore. The fever went away, the pain went away. His neck stopped throbbing.

He feels like himself, only no one will ever look at him as they used to. He’s no longer himself to others.

“You can’t leave the Hospital Wing until you get your suppressants. You presented, and soon you will go into oestrus, if you do not take the potion.”

“I will not take it, sir.”

There is little power that comes with being an Omega. It only comes with drawbacks. But there is power. He saw that power when Malfoy got a sniff of him. His scent is now a weapon, and Tom won’t let them take it away, subdue it with potions.

“Tom, this is not up for debate. The rules-”

“It is not a rule,” Tom cuts over him, as he cut over the Matron and Slughorn. “I know all the rules by heart, sir- it is a requirement when one is made Prefect.” He smiles. “And, I assure you, there is nothing in the rule book about suppressants.”

Dippet frowns. “That can’t be-”

“He’s right, Armando,” Slughorn says.

“But it’s been in practice for centuries,” Dippet says, bewildered.

“It is a practice, yes. Not a law.” Tom stands. “So, you cannot keep me in here any longer. I am healthy, and there is no reason I can’t return to my studies.”

(-)

He struggles with food. Omegas, the Matron mentioned, do not favour meats, especially red meat. They tend to avoid greasy food. But they like sweets.

Tom refuses. He stubbornly eats his old favourites, even if they repulse him now.

Flint, a fellow Slytherin Prefect, but one that never spoke to him outside Prefect duties, sits beside him.

He glares at her; he’s been glaring at people more than usual these past few days.

She loads a plate with soft-boiled eggs, a cup of yogurt, and an orange. She slides the plate towards him, and then she leaves, as suddenly as she’d arrived.

Fuck you, Tom thinks, and he vanishes the plate she put together for him. She ignored him for six years, prim, proper pureblood Omega that she is, and now- what? Does she plan to show him what to eat? Outrageous.

He forces another piece of disgusting bacon into his mouth.

(-)

They try to give him another room, a private one. Tom refuses to leave his dormitory.

“See sense, Tom. It’s for your own good, and for the good of Mr Malfoy and Mr Black, both Alphas-”

“You can’t make me move. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Cease this nonsense!” Dippet demands. “You refuse to take your suppressants. Until the Ministry solves this problem, you are to have your own room. Indecent, otherwise.”

“Indecent? What is indecent? My existence?” Tom growls.

Malfoy and Black certainly always thought that- Tom is an abomination, with his impure blood.

Yet now, Malfoy stands beside his own bed, watching on.

“Sir, it’s fine. Alphard and I are taking our potions. There’s no reason to move Riddle.”

Quite a far cry from an eleven-year-old Malfoy throwing temper tantrums that he won’t share a dormitory with a mudblood, lest he gets contaminated by breathing the same air. 

They can’t move him, in the end. Not when he has done nothing illegal.

Tom turns on Malfoy as soon as they are alone. “I never knew I had such a supporter in you, Malfoy,” he drawls. “I wonder why the change of heart.”

He knows why, of course. It’s his scent. Suppressed as Malfoy is, he can still scent him.

“What? No!” Malfoy rejects the implication, cheeks turning an unflattering red. “It’s not that, Riddle!”

“Then?”

Malfoy shrugs. “You’re apparently one of us. Mudbloods are always baseline. So, clearly, at least one of your parents was a pureblood or a half-blood.”

(-)

Indeed, when the rest of the Slytherins return from the holidays, even the worst blood purist cease calling Tom a mudblood.

Not that half-bloods are loved, by any means, but it is a far cry from mudblood.

(-)

His study group doesn’t want to practice dark magic with him any longer. “It’s not right,” Mulciber says. “You could get hurt, Riddle. A curse might damage your- agh-” he gestures to Tom’s mid section.

Tom curses him to an inch of his life. “Tell you what, Mulciber,” he hisses, while the others look on, in distress. “If the day comes when you can land a curse on my person, then I shall never pick up a wand again.”

It takes Mulciber a week to heal. His Knights never again bring up Tom’s Omega status.

But the rest of the school does. Alpha Prefects from other houses suddenly don’t listen to his advice anymore. Alphas, in general, lose the respect they held for him, dismiss him much faster when he catches them breaking rules in the corridor.

Even Omegas or Betas don’t listen to him as readily as they used to.

And Tom cannot Crucio them, like he did with Mulciber. He can’t hurt them, unless he wants to get expelled. Since Myrtle, Dumbledore is looking for any excuse to have Tom kicked out of school.

The Care or Magical Creatures and the Herbology professors suddenly send him with the other Omegas or pureblood Beta girls to oversee less ‘dangerous’ tasks.

Merrythought doesn’t let him duel anymore.

It’s humiliating. In just a couple of weeks, all his previous accomplishments seem to be forgotten.

(-)

Flint keeps loading plates of food for him, discreetly pushing them in his direction. And then Greengrass, another Omega, joins this effort.

He’s hungry, he hadn’t eaten in so long, unable to stomach his usual choices, and stubbornly refusing to touch anything else.

And then there’s a party in the common room, and the wine they usually drink taste like poison. He barely stops himself from spitting it out. He keeps drinking, because he won’t be like the Omegas, always with sweet, non-alcoholic drinks.

Especially since he’s a man. There’s only one other male Omega at Hogwarts, a seventh year Hufflepuff, a frail, dainty, useless thing, always nibbling on a sugar quill. Tom will not be like that.

“Have this,” Malfoy says, sitting beside him, extending a goblet of wine.

“Get lost, Malfoy.”

“Try it,” Malfoy insists, leaning closer, a dreamy expression on his face. “It’s not wine,” he whispers.

It looks like wine. Curious, Tom tries it. It’s good. Very good.

“My uncle is a male Omega,” Malfoy says. “He drinks this at formal dinners. It’s a special juice, made to look exactly like wine. I asked him to send me a flask and the recipe. You can have it.”

Strangely, the Slytherins are the only ones treating him almost normally.

He learns that in old families, Omegas bring just as much pride as Alphas. Of course, different things are expected out of them, but at least they still see them as something to be proud of, because it is magical. Something to set them apart from muggles.

All wizards and witches were once Alphas or Omegas. Yet as of late more and more Betas are born to magical families, due to some mudblood or half-blood marrying inside those ancient families.

Only the Blacks, with no impure blood ever allowed inside their family, can be counted upon to only produce Alpha and Omega children theses days.

(-)

Malfoy now joins the efforts to feed Tom during meals. It’s easier for Tom to accept his suggestions, than to accept them from the Omega girls. Those always pick fruits, or sweets, or puddings.

Malfoy, apparently well versed with rare male Omegas, gives Tom meat- lean cold cuts, or chicken cooked in a special way.

“I asked the elves to prepare it specifically for you,” he tells Tom, and when Tom eats it, Malfoy smiles with pride.

Obnoxious. Yet strangely…endearing.

The food is good. And having Malfoy, out of all people, suddenly so focused on Tom, so reluctant to upset Tom…

It is new. New, and satisfying.

In the privacy of their dormitory, Tom gives in and eats the expensive sweets Malfoy leaves on his bed.

(-)

His heat must be approaching, enhancing his scent, because suddenly many Alphas send him gifts. Even the ones that openly mocked him in the hallways just weeks prior.

He takes a special kind of glee in refusing those gifts, turning his nose up at them.

He takes even more glee in the fact that Malfoy gets so upset whenever an Alpha comes close to Tom.

No one ever defended Tom; and it’s not needed now, he can defend himself just fine, but to have Malfoy curse people around just because they dare approach Tom, bother him in the library- well, he likes that.

Malfoy, who never got a detention in his life, always the perfect student, now gets detention daily, for getting into fights.

His own gifts get more lavish. In public, he gives Tom expensive books, and he looks so smug when Tom accepts them, bragging to the other Alphas afterwards.

In private, he starts leaving jewellery on Tom’s pillow, next to the sweets. A golden, heavy watch. A simple, silver necklace, goblin made. A hand mirror, with gems encrusted on the fine edges. A beautiful Slytherin pin, the silver so fine, it looks alive.

When other Alphas bring him flowers, Tom rips them to pieces, sneers at them. He’s not a woman to receive flowers.

But when Malfoy leaves them on his nightstand, already arranged in a vase- he enjoys the way they smell.

He appreciates Abraxas’ way of guessing what would humiliate Tom in public, but he wouldn’t mind in private.

(-)

“Come here,” Tom demands, one Sunday morning. All the others had gone to Hogsmeade, but Tom wasn’t in the mood to be gawked at, and Abraxas swiftly changed his plans of joining his mates when he heard Tom was staying behind.

Abraxas scrambles out of his bed with poor grace, hurrying over to stand by Tom’s.

“Yes?” he asks.

He’s turned into a puppy. There’s no trace of the proud, arrogant Malfoy Heir when he’s in Tom’s presence.

Tom stands, slowly. He looks down at the blond, who is the only one in the year almost as tall as Tom. Only an inch separates them.

Tom grabs his jaw. Abraxas does not flinch away, seems to be alright with Tom’s half-blood touch.

Tom kisses him, curious to know why people seem to enjoy this activity so much.

(-)

“Don’t take your suppressant this month,” Tom says, breaking the kiss.

Abraxas pants on Tom’s neck, his fingers dig into Tom’s waist.

It’s not the first time they’re kissing in a cupboard.

“The Matron warns me my heat is a week or two away, at best.”

Abraxas groans. “Riddle-”

“Spend it with me. ”

“Fuck,” Abraxas groans again. “Fuck, Riddle.”

Tom runs his hands through the messy blond strands, enjoying how disheveled Abraxas is.

“Just- Just take the potion, Riddle. It would be best for you.”

“No.” He lowers his head to nose at Abraxas’ mating gland. He wants to know how much better he would smell without the potions interfering.

Abraxas shivers. “I’ve never spent a rut with an Omega,” he whispers. “I don’t know how-” he trails off.

“Don’t you want it?”

More silence. Tom can smell his nervousness.

“I do. But, Riddle, what if I claim you? That would be disastrous. My father would kill me.”

Tom licks his mating gland, and Abraxas shuts up, growls, and shoves his tongue in Tom’s mouth.

(-)

Abraxas still tries to protests the following day, when he isn’t in a cramped space with Tom, where Tom can’t kiss him to distraction.

They’re in the library, and Abraxas whispers :“You know I can never marry you.”

Tom rolls his eyes.

“And you must know that no important, rich Alpha will take you if you aren’t pure anymore.”

“I thought I am already impure,” Tom says, reminding Abraxas of his uncertain blood status. “Do you truly believe that’s my goal in life, Malfoy? To marry a rich Alpha? Don’t confuse me with Flint or Greengrass or-”

“No,” Abraxas says, watching Tom’s face carefully. “I know you don’t want that. But I just want to make sure you understand that in case you change your mind later, you won’t have the option anymore.”

“How chivalrous,” Tom snarls at him.

“This will fall on you. Everything. They’ll say you tempted me, everyone will blame you.”

“As always.”

“They’ll call you a whore. Your reputation will be in ruins.”

Tom holds his gaze, stubborn. “I’ve been called worse things.”

“Alright, then.”

(-)

“Riddle-”

“Shut up.”

Tom puts the blindfold on him, charms it in place. He’s weak, his heat already well underway; he feels ready to drop at Abraxas’ feet and beg for him to hold him, but he fights it, and he gets a rush of power at having Abraxas wanting him so badly, he’ll accept being blindfolded by a boy he’s hated for years.

Tom takes his hand; as soon as Abraxas’ fingers curl around his, Tom feels safe, something inside him calms.

He hates it, despises it, and does his best to ignore it.

He fights with himself all the way to the bathroom, all the way down the pipes, through the corridor leading to Salazar’s hidden room.

It’s the only place where they won’t be found. This will take days, after all. He knows teachers will look for them everywhere as soon as they don’t show up for class. 

“Where are we?” Abraxas asks, when Tom removes his blindfold. But then those grey eyes blink, once, twice, and then fall on Salazar’s statue.

“Take a guess.”

For a second, Abraxas looks terrified. Tom can smell it on him, and it puts the Omega inside him on edge, because a terrified Alpha is not exactly comforting.

But the fear passes, as soon as his eyes move to Tom, lust replacing it.

He’s just as enslaved by his instincts as I am, Tom reassures himself. It’s just as bad for Abraxas, surely, if he can dismiss the fact that he’s in the Chamber of Secrets, with a murderer.

Alpha, Omega, it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter.

“The monster is here, too. The one that killed the mudblood last year. The one I command,” Tom says. “If you claim me, it will kill you.”

Of course, no such thing will happen; the basilisk is asleep. But he hopes fear of death will be enough for Abraxas to control himself.

(-)

The Matron and the books warned him to never be alone with an Alpha, when in heat, because the Alpha will lose all reason and fuck him as soon as he lays eyes on him.

It isn’t so.

Abraxas is hard, that is true, and he tries to kiss Tom, but when Tom says no, when he tries to do his homework, Abraxas accepts it.

He growls, he looks upset, but he accepts it.

He attempts to interrogate Tom about being Slytherin’s Heir and not telling anyone, but Tom ignores him.

As the hours pass, it’s harder to say no to Abraxas. Tom can barely understand the words in his book. And Abraxas doesn’t take the rejection as easily.

“Let me read,” Tom insists, pushing Abraxas away. “I’m not in the mood yet!”

“Riddle, come on, let me scent you at least-”

“No. Piss off.”

“Shut up!” Abraxas snarls at Tom, and the Command of it sinks into Tom’s mind with the force of a dozen Imperius at once.

Abraxas’ scent has now soured with fury. Tom almost chokes on it.

Tom takes his wand, but when he opens his mouth to curse Abraxas, no words get past his lips.

“Drop your wand,” Abraxas says, and Tom-

He’s dropped his wand.

Fight it. Fight it! He tries to Occlude, but he can’t-

“For Merlin’s sake, Riddle, why are you so stubborn?”

Abraxas grabs his arm and drags Tom to the floor with ease.

“Fine, pretend you’re interested in your homework, but at least let me hold you,” Abraxas says, arranging them so Tom’s back is pressed to his large chest. “There,” he picks up a book at random and places it in Tom’s lap. “I’m doing my best, Riddle, but you have to let me hold you, at least.”

Tom stays stiff, trying to think, to find a way to fight back-

“Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you,” Abraxas says, sniffing Tom, probably smelling the fear in the air. “Just- just let me hold you. You need it, I know you do. I need it, too.”

Tom shudders. Even with the panic, Abraxas does feel good at his back.

He eyes his wand, fallen on the floor. But what use is it to him, when Abraxas can disarm him so easily, with just words?

He read he can protect himself from Alpha Command, with Occlumency. And he practiced- he practiced long before he knew he was an Omega, to protect himself from Dumbledore.

Tom is good at it, and yet- it failed him.

“Calm down,” Abraxas whispers in his ear. “Please. I’m sorry I snapped at you, I just- I won’t do it again, alright? Please, calm down.”

Tom has been lying to himself all this time that Omega doesn’t necessarily mean vulnerability. He tried so hard to dispute that notion. But it was a lie, wasn’t it?

He is vulnerable-

Abraxas is kissing the back of his neck, slowly. Tom leans into him, even if he’s still terrified. It’s like he can’t help it. He likes it. Or his body likes it, even if his mind wants nothing more than to kill Abraxas, to wake the basilisk and feed him to her.

But Abraxas keeps pressing kisses to his neck, to his shoulders, his hands roaming up and down Tom’s sides.

His body relaxes, and the fury in Abraxas’ scent goes away.

Without it in the air between them, Tom can manage to make order in his thoughts, to employ the Occlumency technics he so practiced.

Tom feels he could talk now, if he wanted, that he can bypass the command, but- but he’s not sure the flimsy shield would withstand a new command, and why would he talk? What he wants to tell Abraxas will only enrage him, and for once, both the Omega part of him and his rational side are in agreement.

You don’t want to irritate him now. Just keep silent.

Abraxas moves them again; Tom doesn’t fight it. No use in it. Besides, his body is betraying him, all too willing to being handled.

He’s on his side, facing Abraxas, on the transfigured mattress.

Abraxas’ usually grey eyes are almost black, all pupil, only a line of silver visible.

He kisses Tom, and Tom forgets why he hated Abraxas a minute before. He knows he was upset with something, but the more Abraxas kisses him, the harder it is to remember.

Soon enough, their clothes are discarded all around the floor.

“You’re still in pain?” Abraxas asks, looking down to see Tom’s limp cock.

“Yes,” Tom says, before he realises he’s speaking. He’s distantly surprised how easily he admitted to a weakness.

But it’s alright, isn’t it? He shouldn’t lie to the Alpha. He should say what bothers him, so the Alpha can take care of it.

And Abraxas pushes at Tom’s shoulders until he’s lying on his back. He kisses Tom again, climbing over him. He slides down, kissing Tom’s chest, his stomach, his belly button.

“Here?” Abraxas asks, a big hand on Tom’s lower abdomen.

“Yes.”

“It will pass, soon,” Abraxas says, moments later, his face back to hovering over Tom’s. He kisses him one last time, and then he gets off Tom, lies beside him. “Come here.” He drags Tom to his chest.

He’s so warm. Tom snuggles into him, lets his scent soothe him. So good. He makes a happy noise, and Abraxas pulls him even closer, holds him almost painfully tight.

He must fall asleep, or lose some moments, because when next he blinks, he’s on his back again, Abraxas’s hand between his spread legs, Abraxas’ lips around one of his nipples.

He’s no longer in pain.

When did I end up on my back? Tom wonders, a flicker of unease going through him.

He made a mistake… he shouldn’t have done this. He should have had Abraxas on his back instead, so that he could have the control. “Malfoy,” he says, uncertain, when Abraxas’ fingers go past his balls.

Abraxas doesn’t answer, busy licking Tom’s nipple.

And that feels good, Tom’s body arches into it, but he wants Abraxas to answer him.

His scent is even more potent now, burning in Tom’s lungs.

A finger breeches him, and Tom half flinches from it, half bears down on it.

He’s wet, he realises.

He tried to finger himself, days before, trying to get a sense of how it would feel like, but it wasn’t as easy- he needed oil, lots of it.

Not now, though. Just as he thinks it, Abraxas pushes another finger inside him, and Tom can feel himself getting even wetter.

“Malfoy,” he insists, even if his voice is almost unrecognisable to him, breathy and shaking.

He threads his fingers through Abraxas’ hair and pulls his head up-

Abraxas is no longer there, it strikes Tom.

Intense, hungry eyes stare back at him.

Tom swallows; his cock throbs, but there’s still that unease, that sense of danger plaguing the back of his mind.

He lets go of Abraxas’ hair, and immediately Abraxas goes back to his nipple. Sharp teeth close around it, and Tom flinches, tries to draw back, but there’s a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

And a third finger in his arse. That feels uncomfortable, too.

Tom tries to focus, to make sense of the rightness he feels at having Abraxas fingers inside him, and the wrongness of something else, something he can’t figure out.

“Malfoy-” he tries again, confused.

Abraxas is suddenly in his face, eyes glinting. His gaze is so intense, it raises the hairs on Tom’s arms. He can’t look away.

He doesn’t remember what he wanted to ask.

“You’re so beautiful,” Abraxas says.

His entire being sings in pleasure at hearing it. It makes him so happy to know he is wanted.

Abraxas turns him around, and Tom lets him position him how he likes.

When his cock pushes inside Tom, he ignores the pain, overwhelmed with the feeling of fullness, of his alpha inside him, as he should be.

There’s a flicker of anxiety, a displeased part of him that protests to -to all of it.

“Shh,” Abraxas bends over him, licks his neck, and Tom tilts his head, to give him more access.

No! No!

He doesn’t understand why not, and he just tilts his head more, exposing his gland.

Abraxas grunts, swears, his skin hot against Tom, his cock twitching inside Tom, his tongue wet against Tom’ gland.

Bite me, Tom thinks. Claim me.

He wants to belong to Abraxas. He wants to belong, to feel safe, to have someone. Someone to care for him, take care of him.

Love him.

The uneasiness goes away. Tom moans, pushing back against Abraxas, wanting more. 

“My greedy Omega.”

Abraxas starts fucking him, hard, eager thrusts, that threaten to push Tom to the floor.

It hurts, but it feels so good to be taken, that Tom braces his arms on that hard concrete, refuses to collapse, and attempts to meet every thrust.

The hurt turns into something close to unbearable when Abraxas swells inside him-

“Stay still,” Abraxas orders, holding him tight by the hips. “That’s it, take it, take my knot.”

(-)

“More,” he demands, when the cock inside him softens and slips out. Seed slips out, too, flows down Tom’s thighs, and he hates that, he needs it inside him.

“Drink.”

“No, just fuck me.”

“Drink!”

Tom gulps down the water, annoyed, but if it’s what his Alpha demands then he must.

(-)

He falls asleep on his side, with his Alpha’s cock locked inside him, filling him up.

He wakes on all fours, with the same cock thrusting deep inside him.

Sharp pain in his shoulder, teeth sinking in all the way past his skin, into his muscles.

But it’s not the right place, it’s not his gland- he whines, struggles against it, but the teeth just sink deeper, and a warning growl makes him go lax.

(-)

“You’re going to give me beautiful children, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he agrees. His arms tremble, barely supporting him, but a strong hold around his torso keeps him in place, anyway.

“I’ll take good care of you; I’ll give you everything you need, and you’ll give me children and open your long, perfect legs for me anytime I want you.”

He moans, tightens around his Alpha’s cock. He can picture it- someone giving him everything, taking care of him. No one took care of him and he wants it, badly. Wants to be treasured. 

Everyone hates him- he's not sure why, or who hates him, nameless faces he can’t place, but he knows he is hated, despised, always pushed aside, always judged. 

He wants a safe home. 

Home- he doesn’t have a home. He frowns, confused, but only grey walls take shape in his memory, screaming, hungry children all around- no parents, just a drunk, strict woman-

How is it possible he doesn’t have a home?

He struggles until he dislodges the Alpha from him; an angry growl meets him, makes the hairs on his arms stand out; he turns around, needing to see his Alpha. Blond, and large, and so warm. 

He pulls him closer, needing to hold him, trap him, make sure he won’t leave. 

He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. It hurts that he’s always been alone. 

(-)

“You have to rest, Tom. Just close your eyes for a bit.”

Tom. Who is Tom?

Someone I hate. Someone I hate deeply.

He hisses, but his Alpha pins him to the floor with his body.

“Calm down. Close your eyes!”

His body relaxes, his eyes close, even if he isn’t sure he made that decision for himself.

He dreams he’s swimming in a river during a thunderstorm. Lightning travels through the sky.

Someone is drowning in the distance.

He swims faster, wanting to help them. The river is angry, water going down his throat, but he keeps swimming until he reaches the figure struggling to survive.

He tries to help the man- he needs to help- but he’s pushing him under the water, instead. 

Die, he thinks. Die. I’m going to kill you.

Lightening strikes again.

In the brightness, he sees the face he’s keeping under water.

It’s himself.

He wakes up crying.

(-)

When Tom gains his mind back, when he feels in control again, he finds himself full of blood.

He knows how he got that way, remembers clearly Abraxas’ teeth tearing into his skin: into his shoulder, in two separate places. Into his neck, on the side without the mating gland.

Deep wounds, some still bleeding slightly.

The blood- Tom can live with the blood. It’s the come that bothers him more, tacky and dried, all over him. But that’s nothing to his own slick-

No reason to be embarrassed, he tells himself. This is who he is; he needs to accept it.

Avoid it, too. For as much as it is possible. He’s not eager to be that helpless again.

He remembers his whines, his pleas for Abraxas, his need- horrible.

But he’s done it. He knows what it is like, now. He knows how an Alpha in rut behaves, too.

Abraxas is fast asleep, draped over Tom, his face relaxed and peaceful.

Tom wants to kill him.

It’s not his fault; you wanted this. You asked for this. They warned you- the Matron, Slughorn, Dumbledore, the books- but you didn’t listen.

Tom drags himself to his feet.

His knees are red, scraped and irritated. His forearms, too. He’s trembling from head to toe, but he gets to his wand.

It takes a few tries to cast the cleaning spell. He’s so- he’s shaken, his mind all over the place, replaying images from the past days, memories that he lived, but now feels like it hadn’t been him going through it, that he was locked away in a part of his brain and he had to watch it all unfold, helpless.

He casts more cleaning spells, until every bit of come and slick and blood disappears.

Of course, it’s useless. The blood comes back, dripping down the side of his neck.

Slick and come drip out of his arse.

I can’t live like this. He has the strong urge to head into the basilisk layer, just feet away, and order her to swallow him whole.

The thought is sobering. For a second, he isn’t even afraid to die, he thinks he might prefer it to this.

He shakes his head. It’s over. This was it. I don’t have to do this again.

Yet he’ll always remember it; every second of it. It will be there, forever.

“Tom?”

“Don’t call me that,” he hisses, without turning, his fingers gripping his wand so harshly he’s afraid he might break it.

“Are you alright?”

He hears Abraxas moving behind him.

“Get dressed. We need to head back. They must be going crazy looking for us.”

Knowing Abraxas’ father, the man probably has Aurors combing the school for his precious son. 

“Tom-”

He whirls around, the other end of his wand digging into Abraxas’ chest.

“I said not to call me that.”

Abraxas looks like himself again, eyes as grey as ever, the all consuming hunger gone. He raises his hands in surrender.

“Alright.”

It takes moments for Tom to lower his wand; it takes effort to temper his need to make Abraxas suffer.

It’s not his fault.

They get dressed in silence. When Tom goes to blindfold him-

Abraxas smells like him. Like Tom.

He leans in, because it’s nice. It feels safe and comforting.

Snap out of it!

He steps back, just as Abraxas blindly leans in to kiss him. 

He takes a few moments to collect himself, and forces himself to take Abraxas’ hand and lead him out of the chamber.

He reminds himself he can’t kill a Malfoy. A Malfoy is not a second year mudblood. He won’t get away with it.

(-)

Malfoy Sr, Dumbledore, Slughorn and Dippet all stare down at Tom, who’s seated beside Abraxas in the Headmaster’s office.

They were found on the first floor, trying to sneak back into the common room.

When Malfoy Sr pulls Tom’s robe aside to look at his mating gland, Tom flinches, the smell of angry, adult Alpha smashing into him unexpectedly.

Abraxas stands with a growl, still affected by Tom’s scent and remaining heat, but then Malfoy Sr lets Tom go and turns to his son.

“Sit down, boy,” he demands, and he checks Abraxas for a bite, too.

When he finds none, he relaxes.

“Nothing irreparable took place,” he decides. “Just a case of a desperate Omega enticing my son.”

Tom glares at him. Something inside him, still in that post heat haze, urges him to lower his eyes when faced with the older Alpha, but Tom suffered all the humiliation he can stomach, already. He does not lower his eyes.

“Tom is an excellent student, Mr Malfoy,” Dippet says, and it’s Malfoy that breaks eye contact first.

“Excellent student? Isn’t he the one that refuses to take suppressants? That sounds like a whore to me.”

“Father,” Abraxas says.

“I will ask you to mind your words.” Dumbledore. Voice hard, as hard as it is when he addresses Tom. “Mr Riddle was not the only one that skipped the suppressants. It takes two to dance, Mr Malfoy.”

“He probably tempered with my son’s potion, to entrap him- “

“No,” Abraxas says. “He didn’t, father. I just forgot-”

“Shut up!”

Abraxas shuts up.

“You’ll give this Omega the contraceptive potion.”

Dippet gasps. “Mr Malfoy, I understand you are upset, but- you cannot mean such things. The boys are adults. It is up to the gods to decide the outcome of this…encounter, not to us.”

Malfoy looks ready to spit on Dippet, but he regains his sanity just in time.

“Of course,” he sneers. “Forgive me. Concern for my son blinded me. I forgot Omega is of age.”

“Understandably,” Dippet hurries to appease him. “But let us not talk such blasphemy again.”

Malfoy leaves, soon after, dragging Abraxas with him.

“I better go smooth things over,” Slughorn says, and when Dippet nods, he goes after the Malfoys.

Dippet launches into a speech about shame, and honour, and school rules.

“Armando,” Dumbledore interrupts, some minutes into it. “If I may, perhaps this is not the best time to talk to Mr Riddle. He should see the Matron, and you may discuss the repercussions afterwards?”

Dippet agrees, grumpily, as he always agrees to everything Dumbledore suggests.

“Are you alright?” Dumbledore asks him, after minutes of walking in silence.

“It’s just us, sir. No need to pretend you actually care to learn the answer to that question.”

“Tom-”

“I can find the way to the infirmary on my own.”

Dumbledore puts a hand on his shoulder. Tom flinches, again, like a weak, pathetic child.

Dumbledore immediately lets him go.

“Did he take advantage of you?”

Tom does his best to keep his voice steady. “Why do you ask, sir? Be honest, for once. He did not, but even if he did, who would believe an Omega over an Alpha? Why do you pretend it matters? Is it so you can hear yourself talk? So you can pat yourself on the shoulder for caring?”

Shut up! You’re crossing too many lines.

But it’s so hard to bottle up his rage.

Dumbledore has no answer for him. Intelligent men like them, and yet they can never answer each other’s questions.

In his vulnerable state, the thought makes him sad.

He starts walking again, and Dumbledore doesn’t follow after him.

He does not go to the Hospital Wing, but to his dormitory.

(-)

“Tom?”

He can’t do anything right. I should have waited another couple of days. He knew post heat days are still off, but he just couldn’t bear to wait a minute longer. He needs to make sure there is nothing growing inside him.

“I-”

But he can’t come up with any reasonable excuse for being caught in Slughorn’s office after midnight, with a notebook filled with prohibited potions in his hands.

Slughorn sighs, closes the door behind him.

“Sit.”

Without any choice, he sits.

Slughorn goes to his cupboards, and returns with a glass and a vial. He puts them in front of Tom.

“There was no need for you to break into my office, Tom.” He nods at the vial. “Mr Malfoy would not risk a pregnancy. I would have given it to you tomorrow.”

Oh, thank God.

Tom downs the potion straight from the vial, doesn’t bother with the glass.

They are committing a crime, a very serious crime, but they are committing it together. Slughorn brew the illegal potion, and Tom drank it. Mutually assured destruction in case either talks about it.

He wonders how much gold Malfoy gave to Slughorn for it. As if reading his mind, though he couldn’t have, Slughorn pulls out a sack of gold from a drawer. He puts it in front of Tom.

“Mr Malfoy seemed convinced you would refuse to take it, and you would need persuasion.” He sighs. “It’s quite a bit worth of persuasion, Tom. You can get yourself a flat after you are done with-”

“Keep it, sir.”

“I got my share, don’t you worry. This is for you.”

Slughorn could have said nothing about it, kept it all for himself, greedy bastard that he is.  

Tom will not forget this rare, kind gesture. 

“I don’t want Malfoy’s gold.”

“You are too proud for your own good, son,” Slughorn says, slamming a hand on his desk. “You have to come to terms with how the world works. You are my most talented student in- ever, actually. But it won’t matter, Tom. You are a half-blood, at best. Any road you take will be difficult, and you will need all the advantages you can. A big sack of gold is a nice beginning-”

“No.”

“Our society is not kind to people with muggle names, and it is not overly kind to Omegas, either. See reason! Make the best of what you’ve got! You are a Slytherin, Tom. Use everything you can to your advantage.”

“Oh, I will. But not this.” He jerks his head towards the money. He stands. “Thank you, sir. I will go back to the common-”

“Wait.” Slughorn grabs a quill and a parchment and Tom watches him write instructions. Many of them. Some fifteen minutes pass, before Slughorn rolls the parchment and hands it to Tom. “This is the recipe you were looking for. Read it, memorise it, and burn it. It is a difficult potion, but I know you. I know you can manage any potions. I hope you will never need it again. I dream you will see sense and find an idiot Alpha you can play on your little finger, marry him and have a life of luxury. But, deep down, I know that will not be the case.”

(-)

The curtains around his bed part, and the mattress dips under Abraxas’ weight. He sits on the edge, hesitant, but when Tom doesn’t move, he gains courage and lies beside Tom.

His scent is extremely comforting, and it will remain so for another couple of days, he knows. This is a time they are supposed to spend together.

Tom lets Abraxas hug him, tries not to enjoy it, to ignore how safe it feels.

In no time, they are both hard.

Only, it is different. Tom is not out of his mind with neediness. He’s sane. Maybe he should try sex out of heat. Perhaps it won’t be as humiliating.

So he turns around, pushes Abraxas on his back, and straddles him.

“Don’t move a fucking inch,” he warns.

Abraxas just nods.

Tom rides him.

(-)

Dippet calls him in his office and presents Tom with the suppressants and with a parchment detailing the recently passed law.

“You either take it, or you will be expelled.”

Tom takes it.

“Good. Now we can put this ugliness behind us.”

(-)

With the potion, he can stomach to eat what he did before. It’s not the same as it was before his presentation, but it’s not as bad as it was, after.

His emotions don’t oscillate as much, now that the Omega is suppressed.

Yet, even with his scent subdued, Abraxas still leaves gifts for him on the pillow. He still asks the elves to cook special things for Tom.

He follows Tom around, everywhere he goes.

Everyone in the castle knows they fucked- a tremendous scandal. Many theorise Tom was trying to get pregnant, so he could marry into the prestigious family. Some Alphas make the mistake of thinking Tom is easy, and would accept sleeping with them, too.

They pay for their poor judgement, with blood and tears, and no one tries to approach him again.

When Abraxas tries, Tom accepts, with a condition.

“If you want me, then you’ll let me fuck you.”

Surprisingly, Abraxas agrees. Tom likes it much better this way. It’s entirely different.

It goes on for years, even after Tom moves into a dilapidated flat in Knockturn Alley, even after Abraxas marries a perfect Omega his father picked.

Tom planned to never let a heat happen again, but his life is never easy. Eventually, he falls sick, his magic is affected, and he is advised he should go off suppressants once a year, at the very least.

He’s twenty-three when he has his second heat.

It’s not as intense. Abraxas knows to control himself better, and Tom, after years of Occlumency practice, can keep a smidgeon of control, of awareness, throughout the entire thing.

(-)

He misses Abraxas, once he leaves for Albania, but he refuses to admit it. Abraxas has his father, his wife- his mate- so Tom has no need of him. 

And after making more Horcruxes, when he must go off suppressants and find an Alpha, he is not as affected by all those ridiculous hormones. He can access and control his magic, even when in heat. It makes him feel much safer.

He never enjoys it; it’s just something he must do, for his health, now and then.

In a tavern in Greece, he reads, amused, that Abraxas pushed the Wizengamot into outlawing Alpha Command outside of mating rituals.

They used to exchange some heated words about Command, at different points in time. Apparently, Abraxas listened to him.

(-)

In the end, he was right. Secondary genders do not matter much. Voldemort is above such things.

He might be a half-blood, he might be an Omega, he was born in poverty and misery, but he becomes the most feared dark lord in history by the time he’s fifty, despite all the roadblocks life tries to put in his way; he smashes every single one and comes out victorious. 

(-)

It’s never quiet in the prison; when the lights go off, the shouts and pained cries from the beginning had settled into whispered, low voices or muffled whimpers.

But there is no hope for silence. No one rests easy. Two years had passed, yet the fear in the air never quite left. It isn’t as sharp as it used to be, but it is present.

And there is nothing more unsettling than the scent of a scared Alpha. Voldemort can taste it at the back of his throat, a bitterness that is hard to dispel.

Being who he is, he was constantly surrounded by Alphas, and he terrified most of them. A distressing scent, one that puts him on edge, an instinct embedded in his nature that understands fear is not a natural reaction for Alphas.

Of course, he long learned how to ignore these basic reactions, but it doesn’t mean it is pleasant.

“My Lord,” Rodolphus whispers, from the shadows. He’s always there, at Voldemort’s back, unless he’s specifically ordered to be someplace else. It used to anger Voldemort, when they first met. Rodolphus’ stubbornness in trying to protect him enraged him- yet, with time, he understood it had nothing to do with their designations; even if they were both Betas, Rodolphus would still behave similarly. His devotion burns deep. “You should rest.”

“Soon,” Voldemort says, and Rodolphus falls silent, slinks back into the shadows, as if he’s not there at all.

He doesn’t fear- there is none of that in his familiar scent. Because he trusts Voldemort.

“I know you will get us out of here,” he said, during the first day, when everyone was losing their minds; even Voldemort was distraught to find himself held captive in this strange place. But Rodolphus’ trust in him quickly reassured him.

Voldemort only felt a moment of genuine fear in that place. It was when he scented Dumbledore’s fear.

Dumbledore was never afraid. But for a moment, during that first day, he had been, and that made Voldemort afraid, because Dumbledore-

Dumbledore is always in control; of Hogwarts, even when he wasn’t the Headmaster; of Britain, even when he isn’t the Minister.

The world made no sense, realigned itself around Voldemort when, for just one moment, Dumbledore showed vulnerability. It went away as quickly as it came, but it had rattled Voldemort.

“I am dying,” Dumbledore says, calm as ever, some months into this sentence they are all serving, though they do not know the judge. He takes off the glove he’d been wearing, and Voldemort sees the black, almost charred skin. “I have a week or two left, at best.”

He lifts the sleeve of his sweater; the blackness extends past his elbow, over wrinkled, freckled, spotted skin.

“Who did that?” Voldemort snarls, because Dumbledore is his to defeat. No one else’s.

He would have thought he only wants the old professor dead, by whoever’s hand, but now, seeing him dying, quickly proves him wrong.

“You did, Tom,” he says, softly. “The ring. I put it on.”

The ring. Yes, he did curse the ring.

Another thing to have made him afraid, after an extended talk with Dumbledore, after they escaped only to be faced with the severity of their situation-his Horcruxes are gone; and not just the ones destroyed by Dumbledore and Potter.

He is mortal.

But he cannot think of that, otherwise the terror threatens to swallow him up.

“What possessed you to touch it?” he asks, bewildered. “Surely, you realised it was cursed.”

“An old man’s folly,” Dumbledore says, and he does look so old. He looks ancient. Terrible. He cut his great beard, his half-moon glasses lack their usual shine, and his eyes are dead already.

Voldemort walks closer, closer than he’s been to Dumbledore in decades. He reaches out, and the man does not flinch. He never flinched from Voldemort.

The cursed skin is freezing to the touch when Voldemort takes his hand between his own.

“You should have been dead already,” he points out.

“Severus was helping me contain it. He gave me a year, but now the year is up, and he is no longer around to-”

“Shut up.”

Blessedly, Dumbledore does. Voldemort examines the damage, recalls the complex curse he had crafted, his own invention. He examines the arm for a long time, seated in a hidden cell, focused.

Frustratingly, he cannot deconstruct it. He wouldn’t be able to, even with his wand. The curse is already intertwined with Dumbledore’s magic.

But-

“I can contain it for another couple of years,” he says, finally.

Dumbledore smiles, and a trace of his infuriatingly twinkling disposition flashes through his eyes. “Why would you do that? Why are you protecting me, Tom? I know it is you that stopped Romanov’s men's constant assassination attempts.”

Dumbledore’s position is precarious in the prison. He is formidable, but he is sick. And old. And just one man. The few allies he has are nothing. He would have been murdered, eventually, if Voldemort hadn’t interfered.

“I need to get out of here,” Voldemort responds. “You are the most intelligent man I know. You are useful. Have no concerns, as soon as we are back home, I will kill you.”

It is not a lie. Dumbledore is useful. He was the one that discovered the way out- he didn’t have the power to go through it- it took Voldemort, Romanov and Amir to channel their magic through the gap, but it was Dumbledore that discovered it.

“You already did,” Dumbledore says, unbothered, nodding to his rotting arm. He sighs. “I can’t get us out of here. This is not a war I can win.” He gazes into Voldemort’s eyes. “If there’s anyone to win it, it is you.”

Two years have come and gone, and Dumbledore is still clinging on to life, if barely. Voldemort is stubborn; he refuses to be defeated by his own curse, so he hides away with Dumbledore every week and does his best to slow it.

Amir gets out of his cell, down on the first floor, to relieve one of his men from guarding duty. He looks up and smiles when he sees Voldemort.

He can hear Rodolphus growl in annoyance behind him.

Amir, like Rodolphus and Romanov, is one of the few that do not fear. His steady scent is a welcome change from the other ones.

He’s too confident; he’s enjoying their situation, in fact. After all, he was serving a life sentence in a prison in the Middle East, locked away in solitary confinement. This prison is an improvement for him. The same can be said about Grindelwald, who enjoys walking around, stretching his stiff limbs.

Even Rabastan said he’d take this over Azkaban any day. Of course, Rabastan, unlike the other two, has no idea where they are, otherwise he wouldn’t be saying that. In Azkaban, there was always hope of being rescued.

No one is going to rescue them from this place.

“No,” Dumbledore says, when Voldemort explains his plan, the only solution he could find. “It’s too much of a gamble.”

“It’s brilliant,” Amir dismisses Dumbledore. “I volunteer to help you with it.” He winks at Voldemort, and then winces when Voldemort sends a mild curse his way.

Romanov thinks it through; a man of action, yet all his actions are well thought out, deliberate; a truly dangerous man. If there’s someone in that place that could defeat him, it’s the Russian General. “It could work,” he says, after some seconds.

Yet now Voldemort hesitates, because it’s Dumbledore’s opinion he values the most.

They go over it, hours on end, hidden in the southern cells, with the warlock, to make sure they have privacy. And, when they squabble with no decision in sight, it’s the warlock that decides for them.

“It is the only way,” he speaks directly into their heads, because no Occlumency will keep him out. “But you shouldn't go first, Voldemort. Send the girls beforehand. Train them, best you can, and have them ready.”

“You want us to entrust this to the Omegas?” Romanov demands, outraged.

“Why not? They are hidden away. They have no contact with the rest of the prisoners. Who will they tell?”

The warlock is not wrong. Four of the Omegas are already under Romanov’s control, sequestered in his cells. The other two have joined Voldemort during the first day, before they could be snatched up by the others.

Dumbledore does not like it. He takes Voldemort aside, further from the other two.

“I don’t think you realise how it would affect you.”

“You underestimate me.”

“I think you’re underestimating yourself. You are human. It will be impossible to ignore-”

“Quit pretending you’re worried for me, Dumbledore. Now, tell me. Do you think it could work?”

Eventually, Dumbledore nods his acceptance, though his jaws remain clenched.

When Voldemort goes to retrieve the Omegas, to hand them over to Romanov, Lucius almost protests.

The man is so worried about his son, lost to him, that he’s transferring the protection and worry he has for Draco and Narcissa onto the two Omegas.

They scream and fight back something awful as Voldemort and Romanov drag them away.

“Traitor,” one shouts at Voldemort, in Dutch, as they lock them up with the other four Omegas.

Voldemort walks away from the rail, heading for the stairs. The candles flicker, creating shadows in which men hide, but he is not concerned. He is not a victim; he has never been a victim, and everyone knows it.

Rodolphus still follows him, faithfully.

“Do you ever sleep?” Amir asks, when Voldemort reaches the first floor.

“Sleep is for weaker men. I don’t require it,” he replies, and Amir’s smile only widens.

“I got my hands on some of that English tea you like. Would you join me for a cup?”

“Later,” Voldemort says, moving past him.

Amir thinks he knows exactly what Voldemort enjoys. He’s bribing Rabastan, grilling him for information about Voldemort’s tastes.

Rabastan is clueless, but it doesn’t stop him from inventing all sorts of ridiculous things, telling Amir Voldemort likes one thing or another, and getting cigarettes and alcohol in return.

It amuses Voldemort. Rabastan was always very creative and highly adaptable, so Voldemort makes sure Rodolphus doesn’t learn of this side hassle, otherwise he quite possibly would murder his younger brother.

“No further,” a Russian snarls at Rodolphus, when they reach the end of Romanov’s cells, where the Omegas are kept. The safest cell in all the prison, guarded constantly by no less than five Beta men. Even Grindelwald takes shifts, too old to have a rut. The only Alpha allowed to enter that cell or go anywhere near it is Romanov.

“Stay,” Voldemort orders, and only then does Rodolphus accept remaining behind.

He advances down the corridor until he reaches the cell; the guards part for him, and he uses his magic to open the heavy door, that’s been modified, the bars melted together, so no one can peek inside it. There’s a potent silencing charm placed on it, too.

They are all sleeping. Five are left, and by the looks of it, they will only be four, soon enough.

Voldemort casts a diagnosis charm, and it comes back fine. They are in good health; they should be- they get the best food in the entire prison, the most nutritious, and they do nothing but rest all day.

They sleep easily, as Omegas do when they are together, snuggled into each other on an enormous bed. 

They are powerful witches, dark witches, formidable in their respective countries. And now, after Voldemort trained them for two years, they’re only growing stronger.

He wakes them; by now, they had stopped with the dramatics. They’ve accepted their fate, some even take pride in it, so two of them help Voldemort subdue his target as he kneels beside her.

He takes out the vial with the crystal shavings. Even the dust glows in the dark.

Romanov and Amir shave the gems carefully, slowly, and so far it has gone unnoticed. They never take more than the smallest trace of dust from the crystals.

“Come now, you should be used to it by now,” Voldemort chides the woman, when he pours it on her arm and she starts screaming as he spells it under her skin.

She says something terribly rude, yells it in his face, but he ignores it, focused on his spells.

When he’s done, he goes to the southern cells. Even Amir complained how unpleasant is to stay there, when they get in range of the curse the warlock maintains over the area.

But it is not unpleasant to Voldemort. There are many dark wizards in that prison, but he is made of dark magic, sustained by it, like no one else is. It’s in his very soul, or what remains of it. It is a safe embrace, a gentle whisper in his ear.

His cell is safe too, especially since he often has Rodolphus lying around in it, leaving his familiar scent behind. Lucius is there often, too, because his scent resembles Abraxas’, and that, too, is familiar and comforting to Voldemort.

But it is never enough; never safe enough to sleep.

He can only sleep in the southern cells, in the warlocks’ cell, that only opens for him.

Now that he’s out of sight, that no one can possibly see him, he relaxes his shoulders, and he more drops than lies beside the old man.

A laugh. “Remember when you would swear you will kill me? I wish you’d have kept your word.”

“Oh, shut up,” Voldemort snaps at him, his eyelids so heavy it feels like bliss to close them.

“You were so entertaining, struggling in that cage. Young and stubborn.”

“I opened it, did I not? I warned you I would, despite your insistences that no one ever escaped you.”

“You did, child, you did. And you’ll open this cage, too. Sleep now.”

(-)

The only times when he sleeps outside the warlock’s cell is when the strange fumes descend over the prison.

Though he wouldn’t call that sleep. Just unconsciousness. They know when to expect it- when they finish the batch of rocks they are given, they are drugged and they wake up with new rocks and supplies.

Voldemort is getting better at resisting it. The first few rounds, he’d be knocked out as soon as the fumes started.

Now, he manages to hold on for minutes; enough to crawl into the nearest empty cell.

(-)

“Romanov says the Omega is gone. They took her,” Amir yawns, groggy, standing over Voldemort.

Rodolphus has not yet woken up, fallen a few steps behind Voldemort, but he’s starting to stir.

“Good,” Voldemort says, standing. It’s always better to get to the supplies while half of the prison is still struggling to wake up.

“They dropped off a boy with the supplies.”

“Oh.”

That happened once before. A confused man was apparently transferred from another prison to this one.

The idiot only survived for a couple of hours.

“He must be one of yours. That wooden man was yelling for his friends to immediately wake Dumbledore. He seemed to know the boy.”

Voldemort starts walking, resisting the impulse to rub his eyes.

And then-

Then he sees him.

Lying unconscious, besides a crate of food, with Dumbledore bending over him.

Potter.

Glee fills him. Finally, finally, he can kill the brat.

(-)

As always, Dumbledore ruins all his plans.

“He’s your Horcrurx,” he whispers in Voldemort’s ear, when Voldemort was so, so close to stabbing Potter in the heart.

That changes everything.

(-)

Potter walks the line between a typical freshly presented alpha, and a very atypical one.

He doesn’t pay attention to the jokes or insults the other prisoners throw his way; he doesn’t avoid fighting out of fear, it’s obvious. He just doesn’t let the others get to him, even laughs along if he considers the joke amusing enough.

He has a temper, but as soon as it flares, Potter gets himself under control fast enough.

Voldemort can detect himself in the boy’s scent, now that he knows to look for it.

He hears others comment on Potter’s unusual scent, because under the sharp, strong Alpha, one detects something sweeter. They assume he’s mated, and his mate’s scent clings to him, but Voldemort knows better.

When Rodolphus gets a good whiff of him, his brows furrow in confusion; unlike most, he’s so intimately familiar with Voldemort, that there is no hope for him to mistake the undertones of Potter’s scent.

“He is not to be hurt,” Voldemort tells him. “Make sure the others understand it.”

Rodolphus obeys without question, as always, summoning his fellow Death Eaters. When Voldemort sends him to make sure Potter survives the usual day-to-day activities around the prison, he doesn’t complain.

Lucius can be counted upon to watch over Potter when Rodolphus has to rest. The blond feels more at ease, more focused now that he learned his wife and son are alive and relatively safe.

Voldemort watches the boy as he washes his own clothes, down by the pool, trying to be kind with the Betas around him that are there to serve other Alphas.

All the Betas are older, stronger than Potter, far more magically skilled, and criminals to boot, but Potter instantly takes pity on them, considers them to be underdogs and seeks to protect them, almost throwing a fit when one Alpha drags a Beta to a cell to have his way with him.

Potter looks outraged, and a bit disgusted with Moody and Kingsley, who have long accepted such acts of violence and refuse to interfere.

Others mock him that he has Omega traits and sensibilities, that there’s an Omega side to him, but even if Voldemort knows there’s an Omega soul piece literally stuck inside him, he also knows it is not what makes Potter act this way. If anything, that bit of soul that attached itself to Potter is likely to make him more aggressive, not less.

Voldemort wonders if that is the reason Potter has such remarkable self-control for someone his age. If he subconsciously tried to temper a voice inside his head that urged him to hurt, that filled his mind with dark fantasies and a desire for power. Had Potter always fought the Horcrux, without realising, saving himself from possession? Is that why he can subdue his most extreme Alpha urges with relative ease?

(-)

Potter’s face is priceless when he realises Voldemort is an Omega, on supply day.

Voldemort never hid it; he was on hospital grade, strong suppressants, of course, but not to hide it, just to avoid accidentally going into heat in the middle of a battle, or sending one of his Alpha Death Eaters into rut.

Yet the Ministry hid it, because it does not suit their propaganda of weak Omeags that need constant protection, that are unable to resist the big bad Alphas, so they must be kept at home or in safe environments, non-taxing jobs.

But for Potter not to know it... what a bastard Dumbledore is, Voldemort thinks, watching Potter’s face transformed with shock.

And instant attraction.

(-)

Annoyingly, it works both ways. Voldemort is not smitten, as the boy seems to be; he enjoys Potter’s scent, but not necessarily more than he does others. Amir smells just as enticing, if not more.

Yet Voldemort starts feeling the first signs of heat mere hours after he interacted with Potter and stole his marmalade, touching him in the process.

How frustrating; he was waiting for a heat, needed one, it is necessary for their plan, but not so soon.

And he planned to spend it with Amir, even though he was not at all eager for the experience.

Amir is the type of Alpha Voldemort always avoided during heat. Still, he would have made the sacrifice.

Yet now he won’t need to. When the time comes, Potter is far more suited for his plan.

Meanwhile, Rodolphus will serve. 

Yet, when the heat advances, he finds himself drawn to the corridor; he feels Potter’s attention, like a flame licking at his skin.

He enjoys the way the other Alphas are trying to impress him, fighting down in the open space, but as the hours pass, the amusement turns to frustration, because a particular Alpha does nothing to court him.

Voldemort tries to dismiss the thought, but it’s too late; he’s slipping into that horrendous heat mentality, and there’s no stopping it.

“Let’s go inside,” Rodolphus suggests, his familiar, safe scent soothing an agitated part of Voldemort.

“No.” Too early for that. The heat is taking over, but he’s still somewhat rational, and that sane part of him refuses to give in, until he has no other choice.

Even if it is painful to stand now, even if he needs to support himself on the rail, it’s far more bearable to suffer in silence than have an Alpha console him.

When Amir climbs up to him, he can barely resist him, he lets him get too close, because he smells like a capable Alpha, a strong one, one that-

Voldemort is still vaguely present, so he manages to send him away.

He’s distracted, aware of the Alpha on the other side. Now, that one smells like no other. He smells like they belong together, like they’re meant to be one. Like they are mates.

It’s just the Horcrux, he tells himself, and he knows it is so, but the Omega part, gaining ground fast, doesn’t care why, it just wants.

It is also offended that the Alpha makes no move to come to him.

Why doesn’t he want me? he thinks, as the fever takes over. His skin is itching, he’s hot-

Why am I out in the open?

He shouldn’t be. He should be inside, with an Alpha.

And if the one that smells like a home he never had doesn’t want him, then-

That one will do, he decides, eyes on the hulking beast downstairs. Yes, come here, he thinks, smiling at him. He lets go of the rails, because he isn’t in pain anymore, he just feels hot, and he starts walking towards-

“No.”

A strong hand pulls him back.

He knows that smell; it’s safe. Not particularly attractive, and he knows the Alpha doesn’t find him particularly attractive either, that there’s no fire there- but there is care, and loyalty and safety.

Strong Alpha, he knows, and he’s not concerned when others come his way, aggressive and hungry.

He knows this Alpha is capable to protect him. In fact, he preens when he sees him throw away the others easily.

(-)

He wakes up sane, with Rodolphus’s weight around him, his arm over his shoulders.

Voldemort shoves him away, angry. Not at Rodolphus, but at himself. And Potter.

It’s been decades since he lost himself like that, and in public, no less, the stupid boy’s scent affecting him like no one else’s ever did.

Rodolphus wakes, but he can’t get away, since there’s a knot tying them together.

Voldemort makes a frustrated sound.

“Try to sleep some more, My Lord,” Rodolphus suggests.

“I can’t,” Voldemort hisses.

“Sleep,” Rodolphus Commands, and Voldemort can fight it, but why?

He lets it take hold and the next time he opens his eyes, Rodolphus is dressed, sitting on the armchair, brewing some tea.

Voldemort bathes in silence, though there’s still that post heat haze insisting he shouldn’t bathe, finding comfort in Rodolphus’ scent.

They take their tea in silence, too, because if they’d talk, he’d snap at Rodolphus, and he doesn’t want to snap at him. He can keep his anger contained for another ten minutes, and then he can go downstairs and unleash it on anyone that crosses his path.

When he gets out of the cell, his Death Eaters hide away, long accustomed to his moods after a heat. Except Rabastan and Lucius, who know they are safer than the rest. Rabastan smells like his brother, and Lucius smells like his father, both scents that are dear to Voldemort, so he rarely lashes out at them when he’s still slightly affected by his heat.

He feels better once he puts some foreign Alphas in their places, but then Potter- fucking Potter comes down and his scent-

A new wave of lust crushes over Voldemort; his own, and Potter’s, seeping into his mind easily, since Voldemort’s Occlumency is not as vigilant as usual.

He drags Rodolphus to the southern cells, because they are closer than his own, up the stairs.

(-)

Potter brings him a jar of marmalade, all shy, cheeks red, eyes lowered, no trace of Alpha arrogance in his posture.

But there’s no fear in his scent. There’s apprehension, nervousness, but not fear, Voldemort is relived to discover. He wouldn’t want to put up with that.

He persuades Potter to his bed in no time, and finally he can satisfy the want that ignited inside him from the first time he touched the boy in prison.

He rarely, if ever, respects people, but he respects Potter’s willingness to allow himself to be fucked, even if Voldemort has to coax him to it. So very few Alpha men agree to it; not even Rodolphus, who would give his life for Voldemort without blinking- he wouldn’t let Voldemort fuck him.

It’s been some time- more than a decade, since Voldemort had an Alpha man this way.

He had Bella to satisfy his urges, so he didn’t need to look for another.

He forgot how much he enjoys a male body writhing under him.

(-)

“He is your immortality,” Dumbledore says, as Voldemort works on his cursed hand. The rot engulfed his shoulder, black tendrils making their way to his chest. To his heart.

They don’t have much time left.

“Don’t break him. Care for him, as best as you are able. Protect not just his body, but him.”

Voldemort says nothing. He knows Dumbledore could have, potentially, stopped Harry from falling for Voldemort. But he didn’t interfere. The man knows he’s dying, and he wants Harry to enjoy Voldemort’s protection, once he is dead.

“He is a good boy,” Dumbledore goes on. "He would be good for you.”

Harry is, indeed, a good boy. Voldemort can’t argue against it.

“He bends to my whims easily,” he says, finally. “And those that bend do not break.”

If Harry was stiffer, more rigid in his ways, he would break under the pressure Voldemort will put on him.

But the boy is adaptable. A true Alpha, one that is more focused on protecting, rather than owning. One that is focused on the comfort of those around him, not on his own needs.

A rare specimen, these days.

“He can be more than a pawn,” his old professor suggests.

Harry is a pawn, that is certain. Dumbledore treated him as such, too, and if not for the new threat, he’d have moved Harry on the board, manipulated him right to his death, so the Horcrux could be destroyed.

At least the old man doesn’t pretend otherwise.

“I know you will use him, but you can be fond of him, too, if you allow yourself a smidgeon of humanity. A mate like him would keep you sane-”

“It’s not humanity I need. Our world doesn’t need my humanity. It needs my brutality. Even you must recognise it now.”

“No. This new world needs your strength, your unparalleled intellect, not your cruelty. Our designation do affect us, Tom. A mate would temper you, but also fuel your power,” he says, doing his best to appeal to what would interest Voldemort the most. “Wizards in mated pairs become stronger. You’ve seen how incredibly strong Bellatrix and Rodolphus became once they were mated.”

Indeed. “Thank God you never had a mate, then,” Voldemort mutters.

“I regret it, now,” Dumbledore says, after a few seconds. “I was afraid that becoming his mate would make him even stronger, but I didn’t consider it might temper him. Calm him.”

Voldemort frowns.

“No,” he says, once his mind goes through the possibilities. All the small clues, here and there, ever since they landed into the prison. “Grindelwald?”

Dumbledore nods, not meeting Voldemort’s eyes.

“How terrifying,” he says, without thinking, because those two together would have posed a problem.

“I thought so, too,” Dumbledore says, like the sacrificial lamb he likes to pretend to be. Giving up on his potential mate, so he could save the world. “But I suspect I was wrong. I feared he would corrupt me, but I should have considered I could have softened him. With me at his side, he wouldn’t have lost. He wouldn’t have drowned in cruelty. And by the time you would have come to Hogwarts, you would have found a better world, where Omegas or half-bloods wouldn’t have been considered less. Instead, you came in the middle of a war, with tensions and extremist views running high, on both ends. You came when I was at my worst, when I was gripped by fear and paranoia and guilt.”

How pathetic. Voldemort doesn’t like where this conversation is heading- oh, he hates how he was treated, back then, but the way Dumbledore is going on almost implies Voldemort wouldn’t have become who he is if only he was treated better.

My greatness and my path are my own, and Dumbledore had nothing to do with it.

“Don’t go sentimental on me, old man. It wasn’t paranoia. You were right to suspect me.”

“Oh, I know. I only wish I’d have done more for you, not just suspect you and keep you at arm's length. I could have tried to guide you, instead of pushing you away.”

“I needed no guidance. And, looking at how you guided Potter, what you turned him into- I am thankful you didn’t think me worthy of your time.”

Dumbledore sighs.

“When will you tell the boy you’re not going to last much longer?” Voldemort asks, when Dumbledore pulls the sleeves over his blackened limb.

“I won’t.” Dumbledore doesn’t even hesitate in his answer.

Voldemort snorts. “You truly are a heartless bastard.”

Instead of preparing Harry, Dumbledore will just die one day and have the boy’s world collapse around him.

When he gets out of the cell, Dumbledore remains behind, seemingly lost in thought. He seems small, in a way Voldemort can’t truly describe. Alone, only with his many plots whirling inside that big brain of his.

It fills him with anxiety- this is exactly why he hates death. He doesn’t know how Dumbledore can stand it, how he isn’t dissolving into a panicked mess, knowing he will soon cease to exist, that he will crumble to nothing-

He breathes in. That will never happen to me. Not as long Harry stays alive.

Still, the image of Dumbledore, alone and decaying already, waiting for death to claim him-

(-)

“What do you want?” Grindelwald asks, impertinent as usual, when Voldemort finds him guarding the remaining Omegas.

“Dumbledore is dying,” Voldemort informs him.

At first, Grindelwald’s face remains neutral, as if he didn’t process it. Voldemort understands that quite well- Dumbledore is almost a legend, undefeatable, untouchable. It’s hard to accept he'll be gone.

And then panic flares on the other dark lord’s face.

Voldemort turns and heads back to the common area. Harry sees him coming and smiles, shyly, green eyes bright and so frighteningly innocent. 

Chapter Text

Voldemort is as despotic and bad-tempered as he was after his last heat. It was obvious then, too, but now Harry can feel it, and he’s sure it has something to do with the mating bite on his neck; that, coupled with the Horcrux, probably.

Down in the open space on the first floor, Harry hovers around Voldemort, at a loss for what to do or how to act. He knows Dumbledore is somewhere around, but Harry can’t focus on that right then; he’ll have to face his old professor at some point, but now it’s not the moment.

Voldemort sits at the table and starts glaring at people, trying to find a reason to pick on someone.

Harry growls at Lestrange when he and Malfoy come close.

“He’s still a little addled,” Voldemort says, voice dripping with contempt. “Better stay away for today, Rodolphus.”

“My lord,” Lestrange agrees and backs off a little.

Harry gives Malfoy dirty looks but accepts his presence beside Voldemort, because Malfoy keeps a proper distance, and Harry never saw him fucking Voldemort, did he?

Amir is also in a bad mood, sitting at the other end of the table, sneering at Harry and his mating gland, which is still bleeding slightly. It throbs painfully, but Harry cherishes every throb, nonetheless.

He’s proud of it because it says what Harry would love to yell out: ‘he picked me!’.

Dumbledore comes to the table, eventually, but Harry still can’t look at him, not when he’s seated so close to Voldemort.

Who is upset. Harry can smell the discontent on him, the tension. Tentatively, Harry moves his leg under the table until it's in contact with Voldemort’s longer one.

Slowly, the distress that emanates from Voldemort withdraws. It’s only natural; he barely got out of heat, and the Omega inside him still wants the Alpha close, touching. Harry would love to touch him more, but Voldemort would hate that in public.

He’d love to take him back to the cell, where no one would be watching, but Voldemort stubbornly insists on hanging around in the common room. For once, he’s working on the rocks when it becomes apparent no one will give him a reason to start a fight. The hard shells crack ominously around them.

The hours trickle by slowly, uncomfortably.

He knows Amir is talking about him, even if he doesn’t understand the language. But the way he looks at Harry and smirks at a friend while saying something in a sarcastic tone makes it obvious.

Harry does his best to ignore it, even if it is harder to control his temper when he is still ‘a little addled’ as Voldemort put it.

I must.

Harry shouldn’t start fights, especially fights that he can’t win.

Even when Amir switches to English, Harry does his best not to pay attention to the many jabs aimed at him.

A part of him insists that he’s acting shamefully by not responding to the challenge, especially since his Omega is right beside him, to witness it all. But the rational part of Harry knows Voldemort doesn’t care about that. Voldemort wouldn’t be impressed even if Harry was able to beat up Amir.

There are few people at the table, what with Voldemort and Amir both obviously in a mood.

The ones that stay are silent, minding their own business, working on the rocks. A few of Amir’s friends, sitting around him; Malfoy, seated on Voldemort’s other side; Lestrange, standing behind them, never far from his master. And there’s Dumbledore, Moody and Kingsley on the other side of the table, some Russians nearby.

Dumbledore tries to get a conversation going, probably to cover Amir’s endless string of insults that ring into the silence, but he’s unsuccessful. Not even Moody can focus on what Dumbledore is trying to say.

Harry can see men on the second floor hanging over the rails, taking bets, probably about when Amir will finally rip Harry’s head off.

Harry isn’t afraid for his head. He’s only concerned about his Omega. Who will care for Voldemort if Harry is headless?

He truly does his best to ignore Amir for what feels like a long time. And maybe he’d have continued to resist, if Amir hadn’t switched his gaze from Harry to Voldemort, the hate replaced with lust, a predatory glint in the corner of his lips when he smiles, and that’s it.

Harry slams his fist on the table, startling Kingsley, and he stands, snarling at Amir, before he can control the rage taking hold of him.

Amir is so satisfied that he finally provokes a reaction; he looks at Harry, amused.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Harry demands, voice shaking with anger.

He expects Amir to laugh at him, say something about ‘cute baby Alpha’ or something of that nature.

Instead, those very broad shoulders stiffen, worry flashing briefly on his features, and he’s standing, too. God, but he’s so tall and wide. What did his parents feed him?

For a second, Harry feels proud. Finally, he’s taken seriously enough to be considered a threat-

Voldemort’s fingers curl on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry realises he also stood up behind Harry, and, of course, that’s what worried Amir.

Voldemort’s scent changed again, but there’s no distress in it, just anger.

Danger. Harry can feel the volatile, dark magic taking over the room, crackling in the air.

He shoves Harry back to the bench and takes one step forward.

“You talk too much,” he says, voice low but so easily heard now that the entire prison had gone deadly quiet.

Lestrange comes closer; the men on the second-floor retreat to their cells.

Dumbledore sighs. He looks exhausted.

“It’s irritating, and you don’t want to irritate me, Amir,” Voldemort goes on. His shoulders roll, a tense but elegant movement as if there’s so much magic inside him that it’s trying to get out of his body.

Harry knows this Voldemort very well. He looks somewhat different, he has a nose to start, yet he’s definitely the man that raised from a cauldron, the sight that inspired dread in Harry, when he was tied to the gravestone, the sort of dread he had never felt before and never since.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Amir says, yet Harry had never seen him speak so carefully. There’s no trace of his usual smiles, smirks, or the easy contempt he displays around Harry and other ‘lesser’ Alphas.

“Best you do not give me cause to make you fear me,” Voldemort says, and he takes another step forward. “Leave Potter alone.”

Harry tries to stand, but he can’t, magic keeping him in place on the bench.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, he’s not needed, because after a brief stare-off, Amir turns around and heads to his cells, his men trailing after him.

Voldemort sits. The next rock he cracks splits perfectly, as if cut by an invisible sword; there’s so much magic behind it that the gem is cut clean in half, which Harry had never seen happen so far. If the rocks are hard, it’s nothing to the gems inside them.

Dumbledore sighs again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to return to your cell-” Harry starts to say in a whisper, but then he finds himself on the receiving end of that red glare and trails off.

(-)

Later that day, a fight starts by the stairs between Dolohov, Yaxley and three other men. Something stupid, apparently one of them touched someone else’s shoulder on their way down; sadly, on some days, that’s all it takes for people to snap.

Harry is so used to all this violence that he barely looks at them.

It goes on for a few minutes, and usually, that’s when it ends, too, but then Voldemort waves his hand, and three conjured blades fly through the air before Harry can even say anything.

He watches the steel travel fast, bypassing Dolohov and Yaxley and-

“Nice aim, my lord,” Lestrange says, from behind them, as three bodies hit the floor.

They’re dead.

Harry feels a bit of nausea, some horror, but above everything else, he feels glee- a twisted, corrupted sort of joy. And he knows that feeling doesn’t come from him but trickles through the half-formed bond.

“Thank you,” Voldemort answers, and he smiles, all relaxed now, the tension from the day finally seeping away from him.

Everyone leaves in a hurry. Malfoy bolts away, and even Moody hobbles with a spring in his wooden leg. Dolohov and Yaxley flee to the first free cell they find, leaning on each other.

There’s no need for it, Harry feels how content Voldemort is now, how relaxed, but he supposes no one else can feel that, and they probably assume he’s in a murderous mood.

Because he just killed three people.

Only Dumbledore remains at the table and Lestrange behind Harry and Voldemort.

He’s never seen the prison so empty.

“Do we have tea left?” Voldemort asks, still smiling.

“I’ll bring you a cup,” Rodolphus says, and he goes on his merry way.

“You didn’t need to kill them,” Dumbledore says. “You could have stopped it without-”

“I am past the point in my life where I kill because I must,” Voldemort interrupts him. “It’s always a choice now, and this is the choice I made today.”

They were murderers themselves, Harry tries to rationalise it. One of them was the arsehole that kept forcing Beta men to sleep with him.

It doesn’t really work. The horror is still there, but it’s confusing, mixing with Voldemort’s content.

His Omega is satisfied, and it is difficult for Harry to feel disgusted about it, connected as they are.

That’s not good, he thinks, but it’s also hard to worry.

“Well, you always made bad choices, so I can’t say I am surprised,” Dumbledore states.

But even he doesn’t look particularly bothered; the fire in his eyes is not there. Dumbledore seems resigned lately. About Harry sleeping with Voldemort, about the mating bite on his neck, about the violence around them, about everything, really.

He doesn’t even seem bothered when Grindelwald gets out of a cell and makes his way to their table, sitting right beside Dumbledore. Which is odd because Grindelwald always bothered Dumbledore before, even more so than Voldemort.

Yet now he doesn’t react to his presence.

“You’re surrounded by death, you’ve accepted it, you know it is necessary in this place, yet you don’t want to be a ripper in your own right,” Voldemort tells him. “Don’t lecture me, Dumbledore.”

“Loathe as I am to admit it,” Grindelwald says, “he has a point.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dumbledore snaps at him, but he acknowledges Grindelwald, which he never did before.

And Grindelwald smiles at him.

What the fuck? Harry wonders, looking at them, so he won’t have to look at the dead bodies by the stairs. Did I miss something while I was in rut?

Eventually, when they deem it safe to be in Voldemort’s sight, other men come out of the cells and take the corpses away. 

(-)

The murders must have put Voldemort in a great mood because shortly after them, he takes Harry back to their- his- cell. 

Only Harry already thinks of it as theirs because it smells like them, and it's where Harry spent the best days of his life. 

In no time, they're naked, on the bed, Harry on his back. Voldemort's body is so familiar to him, it's hard to believe they've only spent one heat together. 

It's the bond at work. Harry found Voldemort attractive, felt drawn to him, even before the bite, but now it's tenfold. 

It must affect Voldemort, too, even if not equally, because he still doesn't say anything about Harry knotting him, using Alpha Command on him. Not only that, but he straddles Harry instead of parting his legs. 

Harry swallows, dizzy with arousal. Long fingers trail up his chest, to his neck, over the bite. Voldemort tilts Harry's head to the side, to better examine his handiwork. 

Or is that teeth work? Harry thinks, absurdly, mind clouded with desire.

The bite throbs even harder under Voldemort's gaze and touch. Sharp sparks of delight travel down his spine. 

Harry grips Voldemort's hips, possessively, wanting to hold on to him, to bring him closer, to- 

His hands fly away forcefully; in a moment, his wrists are held down by magic above's Harry's head, pressing into the mattress. 

Harry misses the control he had during Voldemort's heat, he misses how right that felt, but this doesn't feel bad, either. 

The Alpha part of him bristles, but it's easy to push it aside, especially when Voldemort lowers himself on Harry's cock. 

His fingers are still around Harry's neck, but now they're not just touching; they're gripping. Not too tightly, but there's definitely pressure. 

In a way, Harry is grateful- he wants to be the one in control, it felt so nice in heat, but he knows he'd be intimidated to do it when Voldemort isn't out of his mind. 

And it's pretty amazing to see Voldemort practically fucking himself on Harry's cock, using Harry to his satisfaction. 

The only thing he doesn't like is that he can't touch Voldemort. He struggles against the magic binding his wrists together, unable to help himself. He needs to touch him- any part of him. He wants to hold him, to take that massive cock in his hand, anything. But the magic is impossible to bypass. 

"I'm going to-" Harry chokes out, mere minutes into it, overwhelmed by pleasure. 

The fingers around his throat tighten, and seconds later, Harry comes, pure bliss rushing through his body. 

He only just recovers, coming back to himself, when the fingers are replaced by teeth, Voldemort is leaning over him, and he bites Harry. 

He thinks he comes again- it feels like he's coming, but it's actually Voldemort's orgasm that he experiences through the bond. 

The pain in his neck is definitely his own, sharp and unrelenting, but he doesn't mind it; not at all. He tilts his head to give Voldemort better access, and he tries to breathe through all of it. 

When his heart rate goes back to normal, he discovers he and Voldemort are knotted together. 

Of course, there's no danger in knotting an Omega out of heat- male Omegas can only get pregnant while in the thick of heat-so perhaps this is why Voldemort doesn't mind it. 

Voldemort, who'd gone lax, slumping over Harry with all his weight. He'd let go of Harry's mating gland at some point, but his head remains slotted between Harry's neck and shoulder. He can feel slow, steady breaths on his skin. 

It tickles, but Harry doesn't dare move, because he thinks Voldemort has fallen asleep. They are both still a little 'addled', even if Voldemort did his best to ignore it all day. Now it must have all caught up to him. 

Harry is tired, too, and Voldemort's proximity and skin-to-skin contact make him cosy, luls him into a state of security. Even with the spikes of pain from the bite, his eyelids keep dropping, but he struggles to stay awake. He doesn't want to move in his sleep, or snore, or do anything to wake Voldemort. 

He murdered three men, Harry's conscience says.

Well, since you got over the fact that he killed your parents, what are three savage criminals compared to that? another part of him asks.

But Harry didn't see Voldemort kill his parents, or at least he doesn't remember it, and it was long ago. Voldemort killed those men mere hours ago, and he liked it. Taking their lives made him feel better.

How sick is that?

Very. So why does it feel like Harry is trying to convince himself it was, indeed, sick and vile and all of that?

The bond must be at fault. The heat, too. Seeing Voldemort like that, almost docile, vulnerable, and then feeling Voldemort's anxiety once the bond solidified…

In this place, anything goes, Harry tells himself. In fact, others there do much worse than kill. It's a godforsaken place with no rules, and Voldemort was protecting his men. Men that he needs so his alliance can be strong, so they can keep some semblance of peace.

He decides not to think about it anymore.

But what will happen if we get out of here? That annoying voice asks. When it's not just violent murderers, cannibals and rapists that are at the mercy of Voldemort's moods?

We won't get out of here. Strangely, before, that thought brought him to despair, but now it's comforting. If they remain in prison, Harry doesn't have to deal with the fact that Voldemort would be a danger to innocent people, people Harry loves and cares about.

It's so hard to remember this man is a danger when he noses at Harry's jaw in his sleep, makes a content noise. 

Harry's heart flutters, and he wants so badly to stroke his hair, or caress his back. 

Slowly, he moves his hand, finds that he can move it, and, with extreme care, he places it on Voldemort's shoulder. 

He doesn't wake up. Instead, he makes another one of those happy sounds.

It makes Harry smile. 

He dozes off too, but not wholly,  the drive to protect Voldemort and ensure he's comfortable keeping him somewhat aware, even if he is half asleep. 

And when Voldemort tenses above him, Harry immediately snaps into full awareness. 

"Hey-" he says, but he's cut short. 

"Shut up," Voldemort orders, climbing off Harry. He waves his wrist and a cleaning charm settles over them, but Voldemort is not satisfied with it, and he summons a towel. Another spell and Harry can see it's now infused with water, as Voldemort runs it over his body. He throws it at Harry when he's done. "Get on the chair," he hisses. 

He's displeased, Harry can feel it. 

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, standing up. Harry really doesn't want to leave, but if it would make Voldemort more comfortable...he's resigned himself to the fact his Omega is difficult. 

"I said get on the fucking chair. Are you deaf?"

Wow. He's especially bitchy tonight. 

Harry bristles, but he keeps his mouth shut and moves to the chair, using the towel to wipe his stomach of Voldemort's dried come, even if a part of him wouldn't mind staying filthy like that. 

They don't talk anymore, Voldemort tossing and turning in bed. The Omega in him still needs Harry around, but the rational part of him clearly doesn't like the prospect of sleeping with Harry there. 

It must be so hard to be so conflicted at all times. Or at least in these times, pre and post-heat. 

It takes ages for him to fall asleep, and he often wakes, glaring at Harry from the bed. 

Eventually, Harry mercifully goes to sleep, too, even if the chair is not very comfortable. 

A rough shake wakes him up. Harry blinks, looks up, a crick in his neck now accompanying the painful bite mark. 

Voldemort is looming above him, and Harry can smell it on him: the heat is finally over. 

"Out with you," Voldemort orders. 

(-)

When he goes to the old cell he shared with Dumbledore, he finds Grindelwald there.

Before Harry enters, he hears Dumbledore chuckle.

"Hmm," Harry coughs awkwardly, and for a second, he sees the smile on Grindelwald's old, wrinkled face before it's wiped clean when he notices Harry.

Dumbledore is still smiling, even if he seems exhausted and a bit ill.

What the hell happened?

"Harry! Come in, come in."

Grindelwald says something in a foreign language before he leaves them alone, hard eyes searching Harry's face on his way out.

"Professor?" Harry asks, confused. "Are you- I thought- I mean-"

Dumbledore smiles wider. "In this new world, we must make peace with old enemies. I think you see the value in that, too."

Harry's face burns with shame, and he forgets all about his curiosity regarding this sudden friendship with Grindelwald.

"I-"

"You don't need to explain yourself, Harry." Dumbledore stands from his chair, only to move to his bed. He wobbles on the way.

"Professor, are you alright-"

"Yes, yes. A tad dehydrated. I'll be fine after some rest. With Voldemort…hmm, occupied… and Amir in a bad mood, I had to stay up and help Romanov keep the order." He sits on his bed and smiles up at Harry. "How are you feeling?"

Harry sits on the chair, biting his lip. He doesn't know how to talk about this; about feelings. Especially with Dumbledore. It was hard enough with Hermione, one of his best friends, and even then, he avoided it.

Alphas don't talk about feelings. Or so they say. Harry, specifically, never talked about anything, with anyone, for the first eleven years of his life.

"Guilty," Harry whispers, lowering his eyes.

"Oh, Harry-"

"Guilty about not feeling guilty enough?"

It's hard to explain it. Harry knows he should feel more guilty; Voldemort killed his parents, he - he did a lot, and yet a part of Harry seems not to care about all that. 

Dumbledore sighs. "You're such an extraordinary young man. Did I ever tell you that?"

"Uhm, yeah," Harry says, still staring at the floor.

"Guilt is a heavy weight to bear. Especially when none of this is your fault. There's a connection between you; you share a soul. And he's such a magnetic presence that when he wants someone to like him, he will succeed."

"He never managed to make you like him."

"Harry, look at me, please."

Harry does, with great difficulty. Dumbledore might be tired, the twinkle in his eyes gone, but that blue gaze remains exceptionally sharp. There's no hiding from it, like it's reaching into Harry's soul.

"When Tom tried to impress me, I was a man in my prime. And, forgive me for saying so, I am his equal, intellectually."

It takes him a second to realise Dumbledore is calling Harry stupid, in not so many words. He almost laughs. He knows Dumbledore doesn't truly mean it that way; he's just expressing that he and Voldemort are outrageously intelligent, far more so than even regular smart people.

"You are so young, Harry. You share a soul, and, unlike me, you are predisposed to have far more empathy for an orphan raised by muggles and mistreated by them."

"You have empathy!" Harry blurts. "You're the kindest man I know-"

Dumbledore sighs again. "I am not. At least I was not kind to him. Because you see, Harry, even if I was a grown man and not easily fooled, I was afraid of him, ever since I met him. He always shined so brightly. His charisma terrified me, and I chose to keep him at arm's length just because I knew how easy it would be to care for someone like him and ignore the rot that was there. I was already seeing myself making excuses for him, trying to help him, change him, and losing sight of reality in the process. So I kept him away; I abandoned him."

"I- so it's wrong that I am hoping to -" not change Voldemort, exactly. Or is that it? Is Harry hoping Voldemort is not that monstrous after all? Is he hoping an Alpha like him could potentially calm him?

"You can't change him," Dumbledore says, slowly. Almost regretfully. "Trust me, that never works. His childhood left deep wounds that cannot be healed, and on top of that, I believe he was born…different. The Gaunts were unwell, had been so for generations, and Tom clearly inherited some of that wrongness. And he's old, Harry. Old dogs don't learn new tricks."

"But he's -"

"He is what this world needs right now. In times of peace, men like him shouldn't be allowed to exist. But we are no longer in times of peace. We are under attack, and the enemy at hand cannot be defeated or tricked by kind, peaceful men."

"Why were we attacked?" Harry asks, for the hundredth time. "Why-"

"Because of our magic."

"So he was right; the Death Eaters were right-"

"No." Dumbledore waves a hand. "They thought we would be attacked because others would fear our magic. That we would be exterminated. Instead, we are kept here because our magic is useful. It defies the laws of nature and prevails against the most stubborn difficulties those without magic would encounter."

"Like the rocks," Harry whispers.

"Yes."

"What do they do?"

"I have no idea. I am not familiar with technology. Amir and Voldemort believe the crystals can be turned into some sort of fuel." Dumbledore shrugs. "When I was born, cars were not yet invented, so you'll forgive me for not understanding how these new inventions and machines work or why fuel is so important." He waves it away. "In any case, do not feel guilty, Harry. We cannot help who we are attracted to. That is true for everyone, but especially for you. Your destinies are tied together. You were fated, one might say."

Harry frowns. "What if we weren't taken by the muggles? What if there were no new enemies? We were working on destroying him."

Dumbledore keeps Harry's gaze, calm.

Harry's frown deepens.

“Your destinies are tied together.”

I would have had to die, so he could be killed. We would have died together.

And Dumbledore knew this. He had always known it- wait, when did he realise Harry was a Horcrux?

"How long?" Harry asks. "How long have you known I would have to die?"

"In a way, I knew since he attacked you, and you survived. But I knew you were a Horcrux since your second year."

No wonder Dumbledore isn't surprised Harry is as naive as to fall for Voldemort. Not when he trusted someone who planned to see him dead since he was twelve.

"I told you I am not as kind as you think," Dumbledore says, and somehow he still sounds kind.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry stands. "That last year at Hogwarts, as we discussed Horcruxes- when were you planning to tell me I am one and that I'll have to die?"

"Never," Dumbledore says without missing a beat. "I would have never told you, Harry. I wanted you to enjoy what little life you had left without a sword hanging over your head. It is not…pleasant to know you'll die soon," he says, with a sigh, looking at his lap, where his gloved hands are intertwined. "I wanted to spare you that burden." He looks back up at Harry. "I knew you would eventually put it together, or Miss Granger would. That's why I allowed you to tell your friends about Horcruxes. I would have been too cowardly to tell you myself, so I hoped she might do it for me. But I had no doubt that, once you knew, you would lay down your life to save the wizarding world."

I would have, Harry, knows, instinctively.

"And now you must live to save our world. You are a tether that gives strength and hopefully some clarity to Voldemort. And he's the man to save us."

"You said he can't change," Harry says, choosing not to focus on the betrayal he feels, the pain. That Dumbledore planned for Harry's death all these years, and now he speaks about it so calmly-he can't focus on that right then. "If he can't change, men like him don't want to save anyone."

"He wants to save himself. And he wants to rule over people, not ashes. Over his people. Wizards. He wants to be worshipped and he needs people around him for that to happen." He sighs, rubs a hand over his face. "Once, I thought I was working for the greater good. I told myself sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. Yet now…now the only hope that remains is the lesser evil. And that's Voldemort, in this case."

(-)

"Why are you sulking?" Voldemort asks, leaning over the rails of Harry's cell.

"I'm not sulking," Harry says, staring at the ceiling. He feels numb.

"What would you call this, then?"

Harry shrugs.

He feels the first tendril of something good since his talk with Dumbledore a few days ago. And it's because his Omega is close. His scent warms something in Harry's chest.

Voldemort comes closer, and the bed Harry was lying on shifts beneath him, becomes larger. Voldemort sits on the edge.

He just sits there without saying a word. Harry doesn't feel anything through the bond. No anxiety, no glee, nothing. It's just there between them. A connection.

Destinies are tied together.

"He wanted me to die so you could die," Harry says, eventually, because he needs to tell someone, and he has no one to tell. He has no friends there. He has no one.

And he was used to that; he had no one for many years, alone, in a cupboard, rejected, yelled at to shut up, to hide out of sight so he won't spoil the picture-perfect family the Dursleys were trying to be.

But now, since Voldemort and the bond, it feels like he's no longer alone. That he's linked to someone, someone that never had anyone, either, growing up.

It just happens that he's also a homicidal, ruthless Omega.

"Obviously," Voldemort says. He gives Harry a look. "You only now figured that out? You really aren't very bright."

"Yeah, seems I'm not." He breathes in deeply. "It's just that- he never told me. That's what bothers me the most. That he sat there with me for hours on end, in his office and-" 

"Dumbledore likes his secrets," Voldemort agrees. 

"I had a right to know." 

Voldemort snorts. "You people and your 'rights'. No one is owed anything. It's absurd to expect people will hand you things you don't fight for. You decided to place your trust in him, you chose him as your leader. So, he had every right to decide how to use you. My Death Eaters chose me as a leader, and I have the right to do what I want with them." 

Harry glares at him. "That's just- God, I don't even know where to begin." 

"Try," Voldemort says, sarcastic. 

"Everyone has rights. We all- we have the right to know the truth." 

Another snort from Voldemort.

"And," Harry says, louder. "I wasn't a Death Eater-" 

"You were a soldier. The name doesn't matter. You were his soldier. Ah," Voldemort says, seemingly figuring out. "You didn't want to be just his soldier. You thought he was your friend." 

"Not friend, no." A mentor, more like. A- "I thought he cares for me," he says, wincing, knowing he'll be mocked for it. He blinks rapidly to stop the tears threatening to gather in his eyes.  

He waits for the ridicule. For a derisive speech, for an insult about how naive he is. 

But Voldemort just looks at him in silence for a while, searching Harry's face carefully. 

"He does care," he says, which is shocking. "But Dumbledore is used to sacrificing things that matter to him if he thinks it would benefit the world. He's intelligent, he's magically skilled, but he's weak. He could have been anything. He could have had all the power in the world, but he chose to play shepherd for idiots, to keep them safe from big, bad wolves. He sacrificed Grindelwald so the world would be saved-" 

"What? What do you mean sacrificed-" 

"So you are also blind, not only stupid. They were together." 

"What?" 

"But Dumbledore put him in a cage because he thought that was best for the world. He cares about you, but he'd have sacrificed you to save the world, even if it would have hurt him. It's who he is. He's so focused on being a goodie two shoes that he won't stop at anything- he'd give his life for it, if it's any consolation. It's not just yours or Grindelwald's or whoever else's. He'd give his own. Like I said: weak." 

"That doesn't make it any better," Harry says, pondering over everything.  

Voldemort shrugs. "Oh, well, I tried." 

It makes Harry smile; he thought nothing would make him smile again. Voldemort is absolute shit at comforting people, but he tried. He tried. 

Voldemort narrows his eyes at the smile. "I tried because I can feel your pathetic emotions through the bond. It's distracting and unpleasant." 

"You brag that you're a great Occulmenes. I'm sure you can block me," Harry teases him, feeling lighter. 

Voldemort didn't just block their connection. Maybe, just maybe, Voldemort likes having it there, likes having that warm presence, and that is why he kept the connection. 

He wonders how a two-way bond would feel, how much stronger the bond would be if Harry claimed Voldemort back. 

He wants it; no matter who Voldemort is, how evil he can be, Harry wants to claim him, wants to properly make him his Omega, beyond doubt. 

"Come along." Voldemort stands. "You need to eat. I'm not going through all this bother to keep you safe only for you to die of starvation." 

Harry follows him back to his part of the prison, refusing to think of Dumbledore any longer. 

Fuck all that. 

Voldemort dumps Harry on Malfoy once they reach his cells. "Here, you can stop sulking, too, and father this one in your son's absence. Have fun," he drawls and retreats to his cell. 

Harry and Malfoy look at each other, equally unhappy. 

Malfoy's cell is nowhere near as comfortable and luxurious as Voldemort's, but it's tidy and has clearly been modified because it seems vaster than most others. 

He was lying in his bed, but now he stands, resigned to his fate apparently. 

"I don't need taking care of," Harry tells him. 

Malfoy snorts. 

"I don't! I basically raised myself so-" 

"It doesn't matter; what matters is that he ordered it." 

(-)

Harry spends his days with the Death Eaters due to a combination of spite at Dumbledore and a desire to be close to Voldemort, who is always surrounded by Death Eaters. 

Most of them seem afraid to talk to Harry, ignoring him completely, which is fine by Harry. 

The other Lestrange has no such issues. Harry tries not to like Rabastan, he keeps telling himself this psycho tortured Neville's parents, but it's hardly Harry's fault Rabastan is the funniest of the lot, is it? 

Malfoy is the most normal, the sanest by far, but Rabastan is fun, filled with energy, and the only one willing to train with Harry. 

And he apparently was Sirius' friend, once upon a time. Not only that, but he was even friendly with Harry's father for a short while. 

"Sirius used to drag Potter along for some of our birthdays in the summers of his first years at Hogwarts." He shrugs. "Potter wasn't so bad, back then. He was good to have on your side in a Quidditch match, and he wasn't yet obsessed with that mudblood-" 

"Oi-" 

"With Evans," Rabastan corrects, rolling his eyes. 

For some reason, Harry never imagined his father would have known some of the Death Eaters, would have been on friendly terms with them at some point. He says so.

"He was a rich pureblood. We were rich purebloods," Rabastan points out." We were all friends with Sirius, and we were kids, very young, barely aware of politics." 

But if he knows only little of Harry's father, he has a lot of stories about Sirius. Harry can't believe all of them are true, but they are fun nonetheless. 

"We're all curious about The Situation," Rabastan tells him once, when Voldemort is away to visit the warlock and can't possibly overhear. He points at Harry's bite mark. "Are you that good of a lay that our lord changed his mind about offing you?" 

"Yep," Harry says, smirking. 

"Mind your business, Lestrange," Malfoy interferes. 

While Harry wouldn't say Malfoy fathers him, as Voldemort put it, there is something paternal about the man, undeniably so, even for Harry, who has no idea what a father would act like. 

Small things, like reminding Harry to drink water or stopping Rabastan and Harry from training when he thinks they're entering dangerous territory. 

"You might be the youngest here," he tells Harry, and clearly, the fact that Harry is Draco's age has eventually endeared him to the blond, "but Rabastan is acting like he's perpetually a child." 

It's from Malfoy that Harry learns more about Alphas and Omegas and how these things work in practice, not just in books allowed in Hogwart's library, about traditions and what's considered normal or not. 

"So you didn't mind Draco presented as an Omega?" Harry enquires one day. 

Most Alphas want Alpha sons. Harry knows in old families parents take pride in Omegas, too, but in Omega women. And in Alpha men. 

"No," Malfoy says without hesitation. "It came as no surprise, anyway; it was clear he would be an Omega since he could crawl." He smiles, a softer smile than Harry has ever seen on his face, or on anyone's face in this prison filled with murderers. "Always so clingy and hard to please. Besides, Alphas tend to be very independent from a young age. That was not Draco." 

The smile disappears; he probably wonders how his son is fairing in the other prison, without his Alpha father there to protect him, as he did his whole life. 

After witnessing how hard life can be for a male Omega, Harry starts regretting picking on Draco at Hogwarts because of it. It was stupid, but then Draco was always insulting people for any little reason, so when he presented as a male Omega, everyone was kind of gleeful. 

It makes sense now why Draco didn't seem at all upset about his designation. Many speculated his father must be disappointed, but apparently, he wasn't. 

Voldemort spends most of his days reading or talking to Lestrange. The bad Lestrange. 

They're both bad, a voice screams inside Harry's head. 

Harry's loathing for the older Lestrange did not decrease one bit. In fact, it only mounts as he witnesses how close he's allowed to sit beside Voldemort or that he can make Voldemort laugh occasionally. 

But Harry spends what they count as afternoons with Voldemort, in their cell. Sometimes they just sit there, Voldemort reading, Harry staring at him. Other times they eat together. 

Sometimes they fuck. Voldemort is back to fucking Harry, but Harry learned to like it. 

It actually feels pretty amazing once Harry lets go of the notion that an Alpha should never take it up the arse. 

Every time they fuck, Voldemort bites Harry again, reinforcing his claim. Harry's neck is a constant bruise at this point, and he's proud of it. Instead of hiding it under a high collar, Harry likes to display it. 

He hasn't spoken to Dumbledore in some weeks, but he sees his professor strolling around with Grindelwald every now and again, though they mostly stay in his cell. Voldemort visits them on occasion. With Amir and Romanov. 

Harry isn't allowed to come along, and he fumes with jealousy and worry, knowing Voldemort and Amir are in a room together and they are doing something together, something Harry doesn't know. 

Rabastan has no idea, either. 

"I don't suggest asking my lord," he tells Harry. "Not only will he not tell you, but you may end up bedridden for a couple of days." 

Apparently, Moody abandoned Dumbledore. He was already disgusted with Harry shacking up with a dark lord; seeing Dumbledore with another must have been the last straw. 

"Not only that, but he's known for his hatred for Alpha Alpha couples," Rabastan informs him as they watch Moody moving into the Russian side of the prison with fellow Aurors, even if foreigners. Rabastan bends closer, whispering, keeping an eye on his brother, not very far away. "To be honest, I would agree with Moody. Two Alphas together is such an unfortunate combination. Batshit fucking crazy, I tell you. This prison feels peaceful after having to share a house with Rodolphus and Bella going at each other." 

Kingsley moves into Moody's new cell a day after him. 

It seems Dumbledore doesn't care, because he does nothing to get them back. More and more of his people are leaving him, and yet Dumbledore remains in his cell with Grindelwald. 

They can't possibly be fucking, Harry thinks, with horror. But what else would they be doing there at all times? Why won't they come out? 

(-)

Lucius will be pissed, Harry thinks, when he sees Amir blocking the exist to the cell. 

The blond did tell Harry to never go anywhere alone, and usually, Harry doesn't, but he was working on the rocks and had to piss, so he went to one of the cells in the southern block, since almost no one ever enters that area, what with the strong curse the warlock maintains over it. 

He's just done zipping up his jeans when he turns and is faced with Amir. 

Once more, he notes how ridiculously huge he is. Built like a bull. Everyone is losing weight or struggling to maintain it in prison, but Amir has no such issues. Harry can see the outline of his bulging muscles through the thin T-shirt the man is wearing. 

Probably having an endless supply of protein helps Amir and a few others keep in shape. 

Now that he had stopped smiling at Harry, Amir looks quite deranged. Terrifying, actually. His dark eyes are hard, devoid of all emotion, his face made of stone. 

Harry can't believe that he once thought Amir was the friendliest of the four leaders, except Dumbledore. 

"How does it feel," he asks, slowly, "to be an Omega's bitch? To have an Omega protecting you?" 

Harry scolds his face into a smirk. "Pretty great, actually," he says. 

Amir walks closer. 

Harry doesn't back down. Amir might be terrifying, but Harry faced Voldemort at eleven. After that, every other threat pales in comparison. 

"How does it feel knowing you lost to a scrawny Alpha half your age?" Harry asks back. 

Amir keeps coming. Harry ignores his frantically beating heart. He keeps his head high, though he comes up to Amir's chest. Barely. 

"At least I'm not scared of Voldemort. You are. Who's the bitch, now?" He forces himself to smirk again. 

Amir is upon him, and Harry hates that he has to crane his head back so he can attempt to maintain eye contact. Slowly, he reaches behind him, and his fingers close around the knife Voldemort gifted him. Harry never parts with it. 

"Feeling brave, I see," Amir says in his annoyingly deep voice. He puts Command behind it, and it's such a reprehensible thing to use that voice against another Alpha. 

Most Alphas can't even access it outside of rut, or very close to it, but those that do can occasionally use it to subdue weaker Alphas. 

Harry feels the dominance behind it, and it makes his knees grow weak, but Amir severely underestimated Harry's will. 

Harry might not be much of a fighter compared to him, he's not very tall, he's not so muscular as to have trouble fitting through doors, but he has will, aplenty. 

He resists the instinct to bow his head. 

"You would feel brave, with two great men offering you protection. Far greater men than you will ever be. But Voldemort and Dumbledore won't always be here to have your back. We'll see, then, if you will feel as brave. We'll see, then, who is the bitch." 

Harry's mouth is dry, but he forces the words out, he forces himself to keep Amir's gaze. 

"Are you making a pass at me? Christ, you suck at it. No wonder Voldemort rejected you." 

Amir just keeps staring at him. Harry should go- he wants to go- but his knees are still wobbly. 

"Harry," Lucius' voice comes, and Harry never thought he'd be so relived to hear a Malfoy. 

He can't see Lucius yet, what with Amir taking up all the space. 

"My lord is waiting for you," Lucius says. Clever of him to remind Amir of Voldemort. 

He finally steps away. 

"Wouldn't do to keep the lord waiting," he says, pleasantly, a smile on his lips. 

"It would not," Lucius says, dead serious. 

Harry's legs remember how to function. He takes a step, and really, all would have ended well, if not for Lestrange showing up. 

"What's going on?" he demands, staring at Amir, but presumably talking to Lucius, because he's the one that answers. 

"Nothing, we were on our way-" 

"I was having a chat with the baby Alpha," Amir says. 

"You were told to leave him be." 

Amir laughs. He starts walking. "I don't always do what I'm told; a foreign concept for you lot, I know. Now, you boys run back to your daddy and complain of big bad Amir-" 

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. Lestrange jumps him. 

"Fuck," Lucius says, with pathos. Harry had never heard him swear before. "Potter, stay back." He lifts his sleeve and presses his Dark Mark. 

Lestrange somehow tackles Amir, rugby style. They both crash through the metal bars of the cell. The bars snap, and the snarling Alphas spill into the hallway. 

Lucius yells at them, but Harry can't really hear him because the violence in the air must trigger his own Alpha instincts. He can't look away, and every other noise or distraction disappears from his field of vision. 

Amir gains the upper hand, flipping them around, a knee on Lestrange's chest. Luckily, Lestrange ducks just in time, otherwise he would have died right then, because Amir's fist goes through the floor, sending cement everywhere when he punches down. 

It can't take Voldemort that long to make his way from the second floor to the southern cells, but it feels long. 

Lestrange and Amir are bloodied beyond belief, several bars have been snapped in half, and there are holes in the walls and the floor. 

Harry attempts to get in between them, more instinct than rational thought, but Lucius grabs him tightly, stopping him. 

In a way, watching the fight is fascinating, a rare display of Alpha strength and wandless magic from two highly qualified men. 

Other men arrive, Death Eaters, Amir's people, some Russians. Many try to stop the fight, but Harry sees now why Lucius keeps such a tight hold of him. 

It is not at all a good idea to get between these beasts. Whoever tries, pays for it in blood. 

And then Voldemort arrives, the crowd parting for him. 

"No!" Harry shouts, renewing his struggles against Lucius because he can't let his Omega place himself in such danger. 

Of course, it was just the mindless Alpha inside him thinking that; in reality, Voldemort separates the two with a powerful burst of wandless magic, sending both of them into opposite walls. 

Immediately, men come forward, getting between Amir and Lestrange. 

Lestrange is truly lost to it, snarling, attacking everyone around him, and attempting to make his way back to Amir. 

Voldemort grabs his shoulders. "Snap out of it!" he demands, but Lestrange doesn't, he growls- 

"Calm down," Voldemort says. "Right now!" 

It doesn't work, and Harry doesn't know how Voldemort will solve this without attacking Lestrange because an Alpha in that state is past obeying any order, no matter who issues it- 

Voldemort moves so fast that Harry barely catches it. His fingers close around Lestrange's left wrist. Over the Dark Mark. 

Lestrange blinks. He still looks mad, but in a human way, cognition returning to his eyes, replacing the animalistic savagery. 

"Walk away. Now," Voldemort hisses. 

Lestrange still hesitates, but only for a handful of seconds, before he turns and attempts to walk away. 

He collapses a feet into his journey. Dolohov and Rabastan lift him up. 

And then Voldemort turns towards Amir. 

Who is smiling. 

That's why he's so dangerous. He didn't lose himself to an Alpha craze, like Lestrange. He leans on a wall, enjoying the fear of the men around him. 

He wipes the blood off his face with the back of his hand. 

"You should keep Lestrange on a shorter leash," he says. "Who'd have thought he'd be so sensitive, hulking brute that he is." 

Lucius lets go of Harry, so he can quietly walk away, doing his best to put distance between himself and Voldemort, even if the narrow hallway makes it difficult. 

The other men, too, retreat to a safer distance. 

Harry notices they are parting, Amir's men to one side, Voldemort's to another. The Russians go with the Death Eaters. Lucius joins them. 

They're all waiting, eyes on their leaders. 

Voldemort just glares at Amir. 

"What was that English expression? Something about sticks breaking bones but words not hurting anyone? Lestrange must not have heard it, because his little feelings got hurt by mere words. I didn't attack him." 

Voldemort doesn't talk, keeps glaring. 

Harry feels his anger through the bond. It's- maddening, even second-hand like that. It makes Harry's head cloudy. 

He wonders if this is how Voldemort feels when he gets in one of his infamous rages. Well, he would feel it even more acutely since Harry is only getting leftovers. 

He's trying so hard to control it.

The silence is deafening, especially after all the noise from before. It's as if no one even breathes in it. 

Amir keeps smiling, but he's visibly uneasy, too. Yet he doesn't look away from Voldemort, and he doesn't stop talking. 

"You seem upset," he goes on. He pushes himself off the wall and takes a few steps forward. Blood runs thickly down the side of his face, dripping to the ground. 

Harry moves, too. He quickly goes to stand by Voldemort. 

Amir doesn't even glance at him. 

"It would be a pity for such a harmless misunderstanding to come between us," he says, and he's so close now Harry has to look up again. 

Harry can barely think, the rage coming from Voldemort clouding his mind. 

Kill kill kill.

He shakes his head. Voldemort is made of marble beside him, somehow still holding himself back, but he'll snap; he'll snap, and soon. 

Harry has seen Voldemort snapping in the past. 

Would that be so bad, though? Amir should die. 

He doesn't even hear steps until Romanov has joined them. He stops on Voldemort's other side. 

"Look at all of you," Amir laughs. "So much fuss for little old me." 

"You belong in a hole in the ground," Romanov spits out, with his thick accent. 

"You did lock me in one,  Auror. And yet here we are. Together. Isn't life funny?" 

"I'll lock you in another one," Romanov says, tone even. 

Amir's smile finally disappears. "You got lucky. It won't happen again." 

"I'm trying to sleep here," a voice says, and suddenly the hallway gets darker. The neon lights flicker in and out of existence, as solid shadows seem to form on the walls. 

It gets cold, too. Freezing cold. Harry shivers. Voldemort flinches, startled, and the hot rage clouding Harry's head retreats. 

The warlock hobbles down the other end of the hallway. Harry's never seen him leave his cell before. 

"A misunderstanding," Voldemort tells Amir. It comes out as a hiss, anger behind every prolonged 's' but clearly, he's taking control of his mindless rage. "We'll leave it at that." 

"Good. As entertaining as this was, I'm tired. And you're all bothering me," the warlock says. 

He's tiny, so so tiny, all hunched up. 

The shadows start separating from the walls. Someone screams and runs away from the other end of the hallway. 

Amir's smile is back in place, and this time his shoulder have relaxed, too. He transforms back into the easygoing man Harry thought he was. He looks at the warlock. 

"If I had met you at least a century or two ago when you still had your teeth, I bet I'd have fallen in love with you. Nothing more appealing that a powerful Omega wielding dark magic." 

"Insolent child," the warlock mutters.

Two shadows come for Amir, as fast as a snake striking, but Amir laughs, ducking away. He waves his hand, and the shadows retreat. Thankfully, so does Amir. 

He says something in Arabic, and his men seem happy to follow him out of there. 

Romanov starts speaking in rapid-fire Russian, turning to Voldemort. 

Harry's understanding of languages has improved, what with all the foreign languages spoken in both prisons. Still, he cannot decipher much of what he's saying. 

But he heard 'kill' many times in Russian, so he recognised that. He recognises 'kill him', he recognises 'I told you'. 

He also easily understands what Voldemort answers, the Russians' favourite word around the prison: 

"No." 

Romanov spits on the ground, but he leaves, too, and his men retreat with him. 

"Scatter," Voldemort snarls at his Death Eater, who all look very relieved to fuck off. 

"You're losing your grip on these unruly Alphas, boy," the warlock says, when they're alone. 

The shadows disappear, the neon lights stay on, and the temperature returns to normal. 

Voldemort doesn't deign to answer, harshly grabbing Harry by the shoulder and dragging him away. 

“It was a good thing you were here, little Horcurx,” the warlock speaks in Harry's head. “Your presence helped him keep his awful temper in check. Without your bond, he'd have ripped Amir to pieces.” 

“Would that have been so bad,” Harry asks, struggling to keep up with Voldemort's longer stride. 

“Oh, yes. Very, very bad.”  

(-)

Dumbledore truly can't be arsed these days, if not even that commotion got him out of his cell. 

Harry frowns, staring through the bars of Voldemort's cell, at Dumbledore's. A sheet obscures it and its inhabitants from view. 

It is unlike him. Something must be wrong. 

Harry should stop acting childish and go see him. 

Yet is he acting childish? Is it not normal to be a little upset at how casually Dumbledore planned and spoke about Harry's death? 

One problem at a time, he thinks and turns back to face Voldemort, who is sitting in his armchair, drinking a cup of tea and glaring at his desk as if he wants to burn it. 

"I'm sorry." Harry thinks it's safe to start with that. "I didn't mean to cause-" 

"Did you stalk Amir? Did you pick on him?" Voldemort demands, turning his gaze on Harry. 

"No-" 

"Did you attack him?" 

"No." 

"Then why are you sorry?" 

Harry bites his lip. 

"Does your masochistic streak run so strong you think everything is your fault?" Voldemort asks, antagonistic. 

I'd have been better off not saying anything. 

"Fine," Harry snaps. "I'm sorry I said I'm sorry, then!" 

For a second, he actually thinks Voldemort will curse him, the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. But then he sighs and leans back into the armchair. 

"What do you need Amir for, anyway?" Harry asks. 

"Never you mind," Voldemort snaps at him. 

They are surely planning an escape- that's why they are meeting, that's why they all try to get along even if they can't stand each other. 

And no one tells Harry. Not Dumbledore, not Voldemort. 

It feels unnatural for Harry not to be part of the escape plan; he's always been in the thick of things, always been-

"At Hogwarts, with incompetent supervisors," Voldemort says. "Mind you, Dumbledore isn't incompetent, he just wouldn't have been so bothered if you ended up dead in one of your adventures. But this is not Hogwarts; let the adults handle it." 

"How are you reading my mind? You weren't even making eye contact!" Harry barks, exasperated, refusing to focus on the flash of pain he felt when Voldemort said Dumbledore wouldn't have minded Harry dying. 

"Guess," Voldemort drawls. 

"The bond? The Horcrux? But I can't read yours! I only get your rage." Loads of good that serves him. 

"Tough luck," Voldemort says, but just like that, his mood improves, the sadistic prick.  

It's because Voldemort bit Harry, and not the other way around. Also, it probably helps that Voldemort is both a Legilimese and an Occlumenes. 

"My lord," Rabastan says from the other side of the bars. It's the second time he comes, asking for help with healing Rodolphus. 

Voldemort refused, so far. 

"What?" 

"I think he's about to kick it," Rabastan says. "Just in case you are interested to know." 

"Serves him right," Voldemort mutters, but with another sigh, he puts down his tea and goes to Lestrange's cell. 

He doesn't return. Harry falls asleep in their cell, though he usually doesn't sleep there because Voldemort is too paranoid to sleep beside anyone. Harry is made to sleep in Lucius' cell, but that night he remains in Voldemort's. 

He's still not returned when Harry wakes up. He brushes his teeth but doesn't dare go through Voldemort's supplies to eat something for 'breakfast'. 

He exits the cell, surrounded by yawns and the sound of boiling water, the usual clamour of the prison population starting to wake up. 

On his way to Lucius' cell, he passes by the Lestranges one; Rabastan is perched on the top bunk bed. 

On the other one, Rodolphus lies unconscious. Voldemort sits beside him, still healing his wounds. 

It takes days until the older Lestrange is well enough to stand again and resume his place as a shadow at Voldemort's back. 

Amir walks around with a slight limp and half his face swollen, painted in different shapes of blue.

Yet everything returned to 'normal', as if nothing happened. Amir is being his helpful self, lending aid to whoever needs it, cracking rocks and cracking jokes. 

He greets Voldemort every morning and invites him for a cup of tea at least three times a day. 

Romanov, as usual, spends most of his time with his heavily guarded, out of sight Omegas, in his side of the prison; when he comes out, he glares at Amir as he always did, but is civil enough. 

Dumbledore remains in his cell. Harry stares at it with mounting apprehension. 

(-)

With the exception of the brawl between Amir and Lestrange, the past two months had been relatively peaceful. In fact, they're the best two months Harry can remember. 

Far better than a day with the Durselys. It really says something about that awful family if Harry prefers prison to living with them. 

But he feels more content than he'd been at Hogwarts, too, and Hogwarts was his home. 

But back then, Voldemort was trying to kill him- or someone was trying to kill him, at all times. 

Now, Voldemort is his mate, half-mate, and no one tries to kill Harry or hates him in particular, no more than all inmates tend to hate one another. 

He really underestimated the bond between an Alpha and Omega, the way it makes him feel, all warm inside. 

And during the past two months, through sheer will and perseverance, Harry is allowed in Voldemort's cell often. 

Some days, he even manages to wring some words out of Voldemort. Harry is dying to know more about him; he knows shockingly little. Voldemort has always been such a huge fixture in his life, yet Harry never knew much about him. 

He's trying to learn, and sometimes Voldemort answers his questions; other times, when he's in a mood, he suggests Harry should ask Dumbledore. 

"After all, he is under the illusion he knows me very well. Certainly, he can tell you all about me." Then, with an evil smile: "Though I suppose since he didn't bother to inform you I was an Omega in all those years, he might not be inclined to share his wisdom." 

Voldemort knows all about Harry, however,  what with his ability to get whatever he wants through the bond. 

One 'afternoon' when Harry dozed off in their bed, as Voldemort was reading, he had a nightmare about being locked in his cupboard, hunger gnawing at his stomach. He's a small child again, crying out for his aunt, promising he'll behave, he'll do anything if she just lets him out. 

He wakes with a gasp, only to find Voldemort looking at him, book forgotten in his lap. 

The familiar rage trickles through the bond, trails down Harry's spine and gathers in the pit of his stomach. 

"I cannot wait to meet those muggles," Voldemort says. 

"You won't," Harry says, voice hoarse. 

"Of course I will. I am your mate, Harry. I'm supposed to meet your family." 

Harry doesn't believe they're getting out of prison- he's counting on it, in fact, so he tries not to worry about Voldemort killing his horrid family, if one can even call them that. 

Instead, warmth spreads through him, banishing Voldemort's rage. "Nice of you to care, though," he says. 

Voldemort huffs. "It's nothing to do with you. Any muggle that mistreats a magical child deserves to be skinned alive. Slowly and painfully." He picks up his book, turns his back to Harry, and turns a page. "That's what I did with the matron at Wools. I went back for her once I was done with Hogwarts. Very cathartic." 

Harry shudders. 

(-)

He's eagerly waiting for Voldemort to go into heat again. It must happen soon. After all, Harry triggered two heats in him already, almost back to back, and they weren't mated back then. 

Surely another one is coming, eventually? 

Harry cannot wait. 

Oh, they have sex with some regularity, but it will be different in heat. Not only would Harry be the one doing the fucking, but Voldemort will be softer. 

Harry will be allowed to be softer with him, kiss him slowly, hold him close, and take care of him. 

Though he worries, too. About Amir. If not even Lestrange can keep him at bay...with Voldemort out of it, who will stop him from barging in and- 

"He's not a rapist," Voldemort says. 

Harry is already used to having him finish the thoughts Harry is having. 

"Are you always in my head?" he inquires. 

"No. It's not a pleasant place to be in, I assure you." 

Harry rolls his eyes, used to the charming insults, too. 

"I must say, I've never met someone so unbothered at having their privacy violated." 

"I've nothing to hide," Harry answers. He'd gladly tell Voldemort what he thinks if only Voldemort would ask. But the man is not big on conversations, resorts to mind reading instead.

"You're too honest," Voldemort critiques. 

Harry raises his hand, where the old scars are still visible. "I must not tell lies," he says, mocking. 

Voldemort's jaw gets tenser. "I can't wait to meet her, too." 

Maybe he's wearing Harry down, or maybe Umbridge is just that horrible, but that's one person Harry wouldn't mind too much if Voldemort were to encounter. 

His blood boils when he thinks of all the kids that woman tortured. 

"Is this still not about me?" Harry teases him. "The Dursleys mistreated a magical kid, and you have personal issues with that, fine. But what about Umbrige. If it's not about me, then-" 

"You're my Horcrux, Harry. I don't want anyone touching you, hurting you, endangering you in any way." 

"You're awfully friendly with Amir when we crack rocks in the common area," Harry points out, unable to contain the jealousy. 

"He didn't hurt you. He is bored and takes rejection badly, so he antagonises you. He knows better than to inflict real damage." 

Whatever. 

Even if it's all about the Horcrux, and it most likely is, the Horcrux is a part of Harry. A part of Harry that Voldemort is very fond of. 

"You're incorrigible," Voldemort mutters. "And as delusional as Dumbledore when it comes to guessing anything about me." 

"I'm not going to let you ruin it for me," Harry announces.

Voldemort cares about him, wants to protect him, wants him close by where he can keep an eye on him, and that's all that matters. The 'why' is not so important, Horcrux be damned. 

Sometimes he's even nice to Harry; at the last supply drop, Harry fought really hard to get Voldemort whatever sweets he could, and when he came into their cell all bloody but victorious, Voldemort actually smiled at him. 

For an unknown, strange reason, Voldemort skipped the last two supplies drops, though he usually participates, what with his ability to get whatever he wants. Yet he only stood on the second-floor hallway, looking at everyone fighting. 

"You have good instincts," he comments, patching Harry up. "And you do very well under pressure." 

It makes Harry feel proud, especially when he sees Voldemort devouring the entire marmalade jar in a single sitting. He's usually very good at rationing, but to see him enjoy something so much, something Harry got for him- it pleases the Alpha part of Harry very, very much. 

(-)

Just as Harry's life was going well- or as well as it can get in a prison- everything goes to hell. 

At first, he doesn't pay it any notice when he comes into their cell one morning, as he always does as soon as he wakes up, and finds Voldemort still in bed. 

He's usually the first one up, dressed and ready before anyone else; in fact, Harry isn't even sure when the man sleeps. 

So he brushes it off, telling himself Voldemort's human nature has caught up with him, and he just needs some extra rest.

He brushes off the crankiness, too. Voldemort is often in a mood, after all, so he thinks nothing of it when he snaps at everyone, right and left, his temper shorter than ever. 

When Voldemort asks him to sleep in their cell, Harry is only happy; finally, he's making progress. 

Finally, Voldemort trusts him, because he falls asleep as soon as they are in bed. 

And it's so nice to sleep at his side, surrounded by the comforting scent of his mate. 

Even when Voldemort doesn't seem inclined to get out much from their cell, preferring to lounge in bed or on the armchair, Harry brushes it off and is satisfied to be allowed to stay there with him. 

Perhaps it's the bond finally affecting Voldemort, too, making him more...domestic, for lack of a better word. 

But then Harry wakes up nauseous one morning, out of sorts. When he looks over at Voldemort, he's paler than usual. 

"Is the flu going around?" Harry asks, getting up to make tea. As he boils the water- and now he can start flames on his own; in fact, his magic has improved overall in the past months- Harry's nausea disappears. He feels like himself as he prepares breakfast, but Voldemort still looks ill, and he refuses to eat anything, dozing on and off throughout the day, 

By nightfall, Harry starts to get worried. Voldemort hasn't said a single word, hunched over himself. And he must be finally blocking the bond, because Harry doesn't feel anything coming from him. 

As he lies awake, he starts to realise Voldemort has been acting unusual for a while now. Harry has been so eager to think it's because of him, that Voldemort simply wanted to spend more time with his Alpha, alone, but...

When Voldemort wakes up next, he throws up. 

"That's it," Harry says, anxiety rolling over him. "I'm getting a Healer- one of the Eastern Europeans was a Healer before they kicked him out for unauthorised experimentations, but he's still a Healer, right?" 

"I don't need a Healer," Voldemort growls at him, though he doesn't get up from the floor beside the toilet. 

"Yes, you do! You're sick!" 

"Get out!" Voldemort orders, but without the usual ferocity behind the words, because he's just that tired, even if he spent the last two days sleeping almost at all times. 

"I'm getting a Healer," Harry says stubbornly, walking closer to Voldemort, attempting to touch him to see if he has a fever. 

"Rodolphus!" Voldemort asks, and even though he barely raises his voice, Lestrange must always be close by, probably right outside the cell, because the man bursts inside immediately. 

"Get him out of here." 

Lestrange grabs Harry by the shoulders and manhandles him out of the cell. He's an awfully large beast. 

Harry struggles all the way to the hallway, where Lestrange pushes him into another cell. 

Harry already has his knife out, and he'll use it, he will-

"Let him rest," Lestrange says. "Don't upset him." 

"He's fucking sick; he needs me-"

"He's with child." 

Harry throws up, too. 

(-)

He's alone in Malfoy's cell, where Lestrange left him. 

No. No. This can't be happening. 

He'd forgotten about the possibility in the past two months since the heat. He thought they got away with it and dismissed it from his mind. 

How could this happen? Well, he knows how, but it's just that Voldemort is old. Sure, the fact that he still experiences heats does imply some sort of fertility, but he's still old! And a male Omega, which in theory means he's less likely to get knocked up as easily as the female Omegas. 

But there they are. Life always likes to throw impossible things at Harry. After all, surviving a killing curse is far more unlikely than an older Omega getting pregnant. 

Being an accidental human Horxrux is not that common either, is it? A sarcastic voice supplies, just to torment Harry. 

What will we do now? 

Male Omega pregnancies are complicated in the best of circumstances, and they are far from the best, locked up as they are.

Then the actual birth can only happen by a procedure; Harry forgets its name, but basically, someone has to cut the Omega open and pull the baby out. 

From Harry's limited knowledge, the procedure is without risks, but that's in St Mungo’s. With Healers- Healers that have wands. With potions, blood replenishing ones, especially. 

They have none of that there. They have one Healer who was kicked out of his Order and imprisoned because he did unspeakable things to his patients. Hardly reassuring. Doesn't even have a wand, in case anyone would trust him enough to cut Voldemort open. 

But he must be useful, right? Harry hadn't seen the Omegas in that prison, locked away with Romanov, but surely they'd fallen pregnant and given birth. 

Yes, but they're girls. All of them. They can give birth on their own, or Hermione said the majority of them can. 

He tries to think about what happened in the former prison. Several Omegas were pregnant by the time Harry left, including a male one, yet he didn't stick around for the birth. 

Harry is desperate. 

And disgusted with that tiny bit of him, that animal inside that is delighted with the fact he's gotten his Omega pregnant. 

(-)

"Don't look so spooked," Voldemort tells him when Harry gathers the courage to return to their cell.  

Someone brought Voldemort tea, and he looks a tad better, resting on his armchair, his usual sickly parlour, but at least not tinged with green. 

"I'm so sorry," Harry says, not daring to meet his gaze. 

He tries not to look at Voldemort's midsection. 

It's useless, in any case, Harry saw him naked just a couple days before, and there was nothing there to take note of. Voldemort remains worryingly malnourished. 

"There's- I know there are ways to- " Harry swallows. "Just- make it go away." 

He's not sure how that is supposed to be accomplished, any information about abortion is illegal, but Hermione and other muggleborns were intent on forming a club to research it and advocate for...Harry's not sure for what. He sometimes zones out when Hermione goes on about the several wrongs she finds in their society. 

And this particular matter was very delicate, even more controversial than her bid to give house-elves rights. 

Even Harry disagrees with it. Hermione is a Beta. She can't possibly understand. 

It feels evil, just to mention it. 

Harry always wanted a child, but not like this. Not in this place. Not when it endangers Voldemort. 

"I'm not getting rid of it," Voldemort says, vehement and a part of Harry warms hearing it. 

He wants it, Harry's Alpha part preens in delight. He wants my child. 

Voldemort is an Omega, after all. Omegas are very protective of their children. It's said they are the ones that are adamant abortions or protection should remain illegal. 

Hermione said that's nonsense, she said she was willing to bet her life it wasn't true, and it was Alpahas that are responsible for the laws, but what does Hermione know? She's just a Beta. 

"But what will- I mean, it's...dangerous. How will-" He can't make himself say 'baby' in front of Voldemort, and he can't make himself ask 'how will they get the baby out of you?' either. 

Voldemort doesn't answer. 

(-)

Harry goes to Dumbledore. Fuck whatever happened in the past; Harry's feeling of betrayal doesn't matter, nothing matters now. He needs Dumbledore, his old, knowledgeable professor. 

But when Harry enters his cell, carefully, unsure of his welcome, he finds Dumbledore looking very ill, and Harry is sure he is not pregnant, so what is wrong with him?

Grindelwald is there, too, at his side, both of them perched on a transfigured couch. 

"Harry!" Dumbledore smiles when he sees Harry, his eyes twinkling again, filled with warmth, even if there are deep, almost entire black circles under them. 

"Are you alright, sir?" Harry asks, momentarily forgetting to be worried about Voldemort, now concerned over Dumbledore. 

"Just very old," Dumbledore says, waving it away. 

Very old and in a terrible place, with insufficient food and constant exhaustion. 

Grindelwald shakes his head in disapproval at his side. He's also ancient, must be Dumbledore's age, but his health seems adequate. 

"Can I- I need to speak to you," Harry says. 

"Of course-" 

"Alone," Harry clarifies. 

Grindelwald is not pleased when Dumbledore asks him to leave. He says something in a foreign language, Harry can't even detect which one, but he understands the words 'right outside'. He puts a blanket around Dumbledore's shoulders before he leaves, glaring daggers at Harry on his way out. 

"Are you sure you are alright?" Harry asks again. "I haven't seen you out of the cell in...months." 

"Ah, just catching up with an old friend, making up for all those lost years. Enough about me. What is the matter with you?" 

"Voldemort is...arr..." Harry feels a flush spreading over his face. "Pregnant," he whispers. 

Dumbledore doesn't look surprised. "I bet he's a delight to be around," he mutters. 

Harry ignores the slight. Now he understands where Voldemort's extra crankiness is coming from and why he consumed an entire jar of marmalade in one sitting when he barely eats anything else. 

Suddenly, he remembers Voldemort's strange reticency to participate in the wild fights for supplies on the days of the drops. 

Fuck, how long has he known without telling me? 

And damn his Alpha side, which immediately takes joy in Voldemort avoiding a fight to protect their baby. 

"I'm worried. I-" 

"Of course you are. At his age..." Dumbledore sighs. "But he's stubborn. He's always been stubborn. And he usually gets his way. He'll be alright, Harry." 

Harry wants to believe him. That's why he came to Dumbledore because he has blind trust in him.

He finds a tendril of hope in Dumbledore's words, even after everything Dumbledore hid from him. 

"Male Omegas had children long before Hospitals were around," Dumbledore says. "It's usually why Omegas are wooed by strong, skilled Alphas. Because they would be the ones to perform the rather simple cutting charm and then seal the wound back up." 

Harry pales. "I'm not doing that! I don't have a wand, and I don't know how to- no!" 

He knows how to perform a cutting charm, but not with precision or anything. 

Dumbledore smiles. "I didn't mean you should do it; I was merely telling you Omegas successfully had babies without trained Healers at their side. He'll survive, I assure you, as he always did. It's the rest of us that might not survive this pregnancy. He’s going to make everyone around him suffer for it. He thinks himself above his biology, he thinks it won't affect him in any way. As always, he is approaching this rationally, but this is not a matter of intelligence."

"Wait- you talked to him about it? You?" 

Dumbledore shrugs. The blanket falls off his shoulder, and it seems it's too much effort to lift it up. 

"Former students reach out to their old professors in times of doubt," he says, gesturing at Harry, who, indeed, is doing just that. "Even professors they hate." 

"I don't hate you," Harry says quickly. 

Dumbledore's smile turns sad. "As I said, you are a remarkably kind young man, with an astonishing capacity for forgiveness.”

(-)

Voldemort continues to feel ill and sleeps away most of the day. Harry doesn't leave his side, and while Voldemort is a right bastard when awake, when he's unconscious, he seeks Harry's warmth in their bed, presumably comforted by Harry's scent. 

They don't speak about it. They don't speak much, really, because Harry is determined not to upset or annoy Voldemort in any way. 

He already looks plenty annoyed; he keeps the connection blocked, but Harry doesn't need the bond to feel how pissed off Voldemort is. He can see the constant irritation on Voldemort's face, he can smell the unease in his scent, especially once the sickness gets better after a couple of weeks and he feels well enough to gets out of his cell again. 

His appetite returned too; if before it was clearly a struggle for him to keep the food in, now he eats everything he finds. 

Luckily, there's plenty of food for him. 

Word spread like wildfire. Soon, everyone knows of Voldemort's condition. 

A pregnant Omega is sacred to Alphas. Even when the child is not their own, it is ingrained in every Alpha to protect and provide for a pregnant Omega. 

Cold, unfeeling Romanov shells out whatever food he has, gives it to the Death Eaters to hand over to Voldemort. He doesn't come in person because God forbid anyone tries to be kind to Voldemort directly or offer him any positive attention. 

Voldemort is a menace, thrice as bad as he usually was. He stares down at everyone, clearly waiting for any excuse to go off on someone. 

Amir sends trays of food over to Voldemort's cell, daily, entire boxes of tea and sugar. 

"How can you afford to give so much away?" Harry once overhears Rabastan asking him. "Can you feed all your men with what remains?"

Amir shrugs. "I could do with fewer men." 

(-)

It only gets worse when his body starts changing. Pregnant Omegas are supposed to be soft, but there's nothing soft about Voldemort except his possibly expanding stomach. 

Harry has no way of knowing because Voldemort never gets naked. He starts wearing two or three layers at once, loose and ill-fitting, and everyone learns the hard way to never even glance at his body. 

Even Harry got a stinging hex to the face when he was tired, and he accidentally allowed his gaze to lower past Voldemort's chin. 

Voldemort takes it as a challenge if everyone meets his eyes, but if one looks lower than his chin, he goes crazy. 

One can't ignore him either; that sets him off, too, so the entire prison is walking on eggshells. 

Even Rodolphus looks scared in his presence, keeping his eyes somewhere on Voldemort's cheek, shoulders tense. 

Harry is now sleeping on the armchair every night because God forbid he accidentally touches Voldemort by mistake in his sleep. 

It's only Dumbledore that doesn't set Voldemort off, which is beyond weird. Voldemort goes to the professor's cell, Grindelwald is kicked out of it, sulking in the hallway, and they spend hours there, talking about God knows what. 

Harry visits Dumbledore often, too, though unlike Voldemort, he can't kick Grindelwald out. So he has tea with yet another dark lord. Grindelwald is quiet, lets Harry and Dumbledore do the talking. 

It pains Harry that both Voldemort and Dumbledore look so warn out and terrible. 

It's felt throughout the prison. It's obvious Dumbledore is frailer these days, and Voldemort is so busy hating everything about himself, that he rules nothing. 

Harry doesn't understand why he chose to keep the baby, when he so obviously despises everything about it. 

Once, when Voldemort was sleeping, his Occlumancy failed and Harry got a dose of pure loathing and disgust coming from Voldemort, who even in his sleep felt all that so keenly. For once, it isn't aimed at others. 

It breaks Harry's heart. Harry has experience with being hard on himself, questioning his choices sometimes, and blaming himself for the people that lost their lives to protect him. But he never felt such pure hate for his own person, and it's unbearable to know Voldemort feels this way, Voldemort, who always seems to treasure himself way too much. 

Amir and Romanov are now in charge of the prison, and the situation grows tenser, spirits more agitated without Dumbledore to keep the peace; without Voldemort, who apparently acted as a buffer between Amir and Romanov. 

All of Dumbledore's former men join the remaining two leaders. Harry notices the British Aurors go to Romanov, while the non-Aurors go to Amir. 

The Death Eaters stay out of it, loyal only to Voldemort, even if Voldemort isn't there to give orders any more. 

They keep to themselves, gathered around Voldemort's cells, paranoid and huddled into each other. 

Harry is still surprised at such loyalty. Sure, pregnant Omegas are to be treasured and kept safe, but to see a bunch of Alphas or strong Betas follow a pregnant Omega, especially one that hides away in his cell....it's more than impressive. Not one single Death Eater abandons Voldemort to seek protection form the remaining two leaders. 

"Rodolphus is still here," Rabastan says on one of the many occasions Harry is thrown out of his cell because Voldemort wants space. Harry voiced his awe at all of them sticking by Voldemort. "If someone jumps ship, he'll rip their heads off. Besides, we all know our lord will eventually be himself again, and we don't want to face his wrath if he learns someone lost faith in him." 

(-)

"I need you to agree to something," Voldemort says one day. "You won't like it, it will hurt, but you must do it." 

"Alright," Harry agrees because his pregnant, miserable Omega is asking, and Harry won't deny him anything. "What is it?" 

"I need to make sure the Horcrux inside you is protected. I never finished the ritual, and this one needs extra... safety measures. I don't want it to be ripped away from you." 

Is he worried he'll die in childbirth? Harry's stomach rolls, because he is worried something horrible will happen when the time comes. 

So he nods. Anything to keep his Omega safe. 

He does argue when Voldemort orders Rodolphus to bring Amir over. 

"What does he have to do with anything?" Harry demands. 

He's always been jealous of his Omega being close to other Alphas, especially that one, but now it's far worse. The protectiveness Harry feels towards him is insane.

"My magic is unstable due to the... thing," Voldemort sneers. "I need a conduit." 

Harry has no idea what's a conduit or how it would work. Then again, he didn't finish his education, and the little he had was always interrupted by Voldemort's shenanigans. Most of Harry's end-of-the-year exams had been cancelled for one reason or another. 

It's a wonder I know as much as I do, really.  

"But why him? Can't you use someone else as a conduit?" 

"He's the only one powerful enough to sustain such magic." 

And so Amir comes with his usual easy smile. Harry half hopes he'll make a stupid comment and hit on Voldemort, so hopefully, Voldemort will snap and kill him, but apparently, even Amir understands to thread very lightly. 

They exchange some words in Arabic, and if Harry can guess some words in many different languages, Arabic is not one of those. 

Amir frowns at whatever Voldemort is telling him, but he must agree to it as well, because soon after that, Voldemort tells Harry to lie down on the floor. 

He does. Amir and Voldemort kneel by each of his sides, and it dawns on Harry he's on the floor, willingly accepting to have something done to him, staring up at two psychopaths. 

But the Alpha side makes most decisions for him these days, and it wants Voldemort happy. 

Even when Voldemort takes out a knife, Harry tenses but remains still. 

He slashes Harry's T-shirt apart. 

"Hold him," he says, and Amir grabs Harry's shoulders. He bristles at being touched by a rival Alpha, but Harry grits his teeth and bears it. 

Voldemort cuts something into the skin above his heart. 

It doesn't even hurt as much; Harry's been through way, way worse. In fact, it feels much like the blood ink he used in his fifth year. 

But then, when Voldemort is done with whatever he wrote on Harry's skin, probably a rune- then the magic starts. 

And..yeah. Amir was needed. Not only to serve as a conduit for Voldemort but to keep Harry on the ground. 

Harry tries to fight him off, mindless with pain, forgetting why he's there, what they're doing, uncaring about anything other than getting away from the unbearable pain. It's horrendous. 

But there's no way out. Strong arms hold him down. He trashes and screams, scratches at whatever skin he finds, but there is no relief. 

Blessedly, he loses consciousness at some point. 

Only to wake up to more pain. 

Again, and again, and again. At some point, he sees Lestrange is there, too, holding Harry's legs down. 

Eventually, it ends. Harry blinks, confused, on the floor. Slowly, he remembers why he's there when he hears Amir speak. 

"That was a soul-trapping ritual, wasn't it?” he asks, and he's looking at Harry, dark eyes focused. "He’s a Horcrux? A human Horcrux?" 

Voldemort doesn't answer. He's wiping his hands of blood on a towel. 

In his state, and with Voldemort not paying attention, Harry finally dares to take in Voldemort fully. He's wearing many layers of clothes and a robe on top, but even with all that, Harry can distinguish his swollen stomach. 

His child is there. His child. 

His body is all a mix of numbness and pain, but his lungs constrict at the sight, his brain floods with warmth. 

"Now it finally makes sense why you'd choose him over me," Amir says, and he looks away from Harry to smile at Voldemort. 

"You understand why he must be kept alive. You will make sure he survives." 

"I will," Amir says. He moves closer to Voldemort. Harry tries to stand, to snarl at him, but he's so weak he can't even make his fingers twitch. "Come now, cheer up. You're not like the others. They're all concerned and pessimistic. You and I, we're different. It will work. No need for the gloom and doom going around." 

"Easy for you to say," Voldemort snaps. "It's I that will do all the work. It's I that needs to make sacrifices." 

Amir laughs. "That's why I'm not worried. Because it all depends on you. You'll do just fine." 

"Don't start a war with Romanov. I mean that." 

Amir shrugs. "I won't. But he might. He wanted me dead for a decade; man just won't let it go." 

"He agreed he'll let you be as long as you don't provoke him." 

"When have I ever provoked anyone?" Amir starts with a mischievous smile, but Voldemort holds out his hand. 

"Get out. I'm tired." 

(-)

"You are resilient," Voldemort says when he helps Harry drink a glass of water. "Impressively so. I value that." 

Harry smiles at him weakly. Everything still hurts, even if he's now swaddled by blankets in their comfortable bed. "You are, too." 

Harry often thinks about that; too often. When he sits in his armchair, watching Voldemort struggling in his sleep or curling into himself, Harry thinks about how hard Voldemort fought to overcome every obstacle placed in his way. 

It's a nice 'night'. Voldemort isn't acting like a jerk, he watches over Harry, and even sits by him on the bed. 

He's hurting all over, and the rune on his chest throbs and itches, but Harry thinks it's a fair exchange for peace, for the rare chance to interact with Voldemort when he's in a charitable mood. 

As soon as Harry recovers, Voldemort falls back on his default meanness.

He rarely leaves the cell these days, except to see Dumbledore, the warlock or, lately, disappear to Romanov's side of the prison. 

"He wouldn't allow your presence," Voldemort says when Harry insists on accompanying him. 

"But why?" 

"Because you're an Alpha. No Alpha is allowed near his Omegas." 

Indeed, even Lestrange is made to wait for Voldemort at a safe distance. 

"What are you doing with the Omegas?" Harry keeps asking until Voldemort snaps at him. 

"Braiding each other's hair and gossiping about strapping, handsome Alphas, like Omegas like to do," he snarls. 

(-)

"What's this?" Harry asks, so startled he doesn't even care about waking Voldemort. 

Who, in his sleep, moved around until the sleeves of his many sweaters and shirts rolled up, and Harry saw his skin glowing. 

Red and green dancing under his skin, brightly and terrifying. 

Voldemort throws him out of the cell, annoyed to be woken up, and ignoring Harry's question. 

When Harry asks Dumbledore, Grindelwald tells Harry it's time to leave because Dumbledore needs rest. 

"No fucking clue," Rabastan says, shrugging. "No one tells me anything. They're up to something, clearly, but only Rodolphus knows. Maybe Lucius, too, but that's it. 

If Lucius knows, he pretends that he doesn't.

It must be from the rocks. Harry has only seen that unnatural glow from the gems they extract. 

Is Voldemort stealing gems or parts of gems? Hiding them under his skin? But why? 

No purpose in asking again. Voldemort's temper gets worse and worse with every passing hour, feels like. 

He stops talking, not even to bark orders at Lestrange. He starts wearing more clothes, which can't comfortable. 

He stops going to Dumbledore or to the Omegas, only rarely gets out to visit the warlock. 

And, one day, he doesn't return. 

(-)

"Leave," the tiny, ancient Omega hisses at Harry when Harry goes to retrieve Voldemort. 

"But-" 

"Leave, child. He doesn't want you here." 

Voldemort has his back to Harry, seated in the corner of the cell, and he doesn't turn around. 

(-)

"He doesn't want to be seen that way," Lestrange says when Harry goes to him, hoping maybe he can convince Voldemort to return to their cells. "Just let him be." 

"But the old man-"

"Is practically blind." 

Right. 

Harry stalks around the southern cells every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of Voldemort. 

He is almost always unsuccessful. Voldemort is so out of it he doesn't detect Harry spying on them, but there's no fooling the warlock. 

However, one day, perhaps the warlock grows bored with chasing Harry off so often. 

Harry sits on the floor on a cell close to the warlock's just to hear Voldemort breathe, to know his Omega is alive. 

There's very little talk going on between the two Omegas. Whether because they don't speak, whether because the warlock can have a conversation in someone's head...it is unclear. 

But one day, they do talk out loud. 

"I despise it," Voldemort says. "I can't stand it." 

"It will pass," the old man says. "Stop being stubborn. You have to wash. And you're boiling in those clothes." 

"I don't want to see myself."  

"You took many forms during your life. You were a handsome boy, you were a wraith, you possessed animal bodies, you became a half human half serpent; how is this so different?" 

"It's unbearable, as if I am trapped in a body that's not mine. That wasn't meant to be mine. Even possessing snakes or other people never felt this way."

"Well, you wanted to get pr-"

"Don't say that word!" 

"You wanted it." 

"I didn't expect it would make me feel this way. I hate it when Dumbledore is proven right."  

"You insisted on keeping me alive, Voldemort. Now that you got me this far, if you don't make sure I will die back home, I shall curse your name for eternity. And you know my curses run strong and true. So better get yourself together. You need your wits about you." 

"I'll be fine as soon as this thing is out. While I'm indisposed, you have to keep an eye on Harry and council Rodolphus. Keep Amir and Romanov of each other throats. Dumbledore is dying. I'll be surprised if he has days left. I can't count on him. As always." 

"That boy…what a time to die."

A peal of short, strangled laughter echoes off those cold walls. "Thanks," Voldemort says. "Didn't think I'll find anything amusing again, but it never gets old hearing you call that old goat a boy." 

(-)

"It's a natural part of life," Dumbledore says in his bed. "I'm only sorry I can't be here for you." 

He really is dying. Harry can't believe it. He kept hoping Dumbledore is simply tired but that he'll recover and-

"I need you," Harry says. "I've never needed you as much." 

He's trying to guilt Dumbledore into staying alive. 

"Tom will prevail. He'll succeed, and he'll get you out. You're his Horcrux. He'll make sure you'll survive." 

"How?" 

Dumbledore starts reminiscing about his Hogwarts days, and Harry sits beside him, holding his old, gloved, frail hand. 

"There's nothing to be done?" Harry asks Grindelwald, when Dumbledore falls asleep. "What caused this? It can't be simply old age!" 

Grindelwald's jaw twitches. "It is." 

"You're ancient, and you're fine!" 

"Not everyone is built the same," Grindelwald snaps. "Get out." 

Harry lingers outside their cells, spying through a small hole in the sheet covering the bars. 

Grindelwald had taken Harry's place, sitting beside Dumbledore. His mean features soften as he pushes a strand of white hair out of Dumbledore's face. So very gently. 

Harry swallows back his tears and lets them be, goes back to sit in that empty cell, just to listen to Voldemort breathe. 

(-)

He wakes by the stairs, in the open common area, between crates filled with food and commodities. 

Harry remembers he was on his way to visit Dumbledore when the fumes descended over the prison. 

He grunts, picking himself up and away from the stairs because, soon enough, everyone will come to get their hands on the supplies. 

Indeed, men are waking up all around, and they're starting to make their way to the crates. 

They stop, confused. 

Harry turns around, and he sees the warlock perched on the table, now stacked high with new rocks to be cracked. 

Most people in prison probably forgot he exists since he never comes out.

People frown, whisper between themselves, intrigued by his presence.  

Amir approaches him. "Well?" he asks. 

"It is done," the warlock answers. "They took him." 

"Who?" Harry asks, an awful knot in his stomach. "They took who?" Deep down, he knows. He knows because the bond isn't there anymore. Voldemort kept it blocked in the last many months, but Harry could still feel the tendril between them, like a small light inside his heart. 

It's gone now. 

He feels empty. Bereft. 

He barely sees Romanov coming out of his part of the prison, blinking sleep away. 

"Did they take him?" he asks, voice gruff. 

"They did," the warlock repeats. 

"WHO?" Harry lunges at him. Someone stops him; hands close around his shoulders but he doesn't care. "Where is he? Who took him?" 

They don't answer him. He sees red, choked with fear and desperation. They took my Omega. 

Gone gone gone gone. 

The Alpha takes over, and he attacks anyone in his reach. 

(-)

They tell him it took two days to calm him down. Harry doesn't remember those days. It's worse than rut, because in rut he still has some semblance of control, and he can recall everything after it's done. 

Now, he only remembers rage. 

When he comes to, he finds himself chained to the wall in their cell. There's still an open book on the desk, where Voldemort left it before he abandoned everyone to go and hide with the warlock. 

He's gone. Now, with the rage out of his system, Harry only feels shattered. 

He can't be gone. They're mated, even if just halfway. They belong together. 

Their destinies are tied, that's what Dumbledore said. He can't be gone. 

He pulls at the heavy chains. They make a lot of noise, but they don't break apart. 

"Are you rational?" Lestrange asks, coming inside the cell. His face is bruised, and he has scratches all over his arms. 

Harry doesn't remember, but he just knows he's the one that put them there. 

"Where is Voldemort? Who took him? What is going on?" 

Rodolphus moves to the desk, takes a bottle of water and comes near Harry, bending down at his side. 

"You'll drink this, you'll calm yourself, and then I will show you." 

(-)

Harry wouldn't call himself calm, but he's abstaining from lashing out at the people they pass by, following Lestrange. 

All the way to the southern cells, but they go deeper inside those hallways than Harry ever did before. 

The curse is stronger the more they advance, something dark trying to repel them. 

Harry's skin crawls. 

They reach a dead end. 

"Take the glamour off," Lestrange demands. Clearly, he's not speaking to Harry, because Harry has no idea about any glamour. 

Probably the warlock. 

Harry blinks, and the wall he was looking at is now blown apart. There's a huge hole in the middle of it. 

Rodolphus walks through it, and so does Harry. Only to find himself in a room identical to the strange ones he encountered when he was escaping his old prison. 

Immaculate, cold, filled from floor to ceiling with machines that make strange noises. 

"Is this how they escaped? Voldemort, Dumbledore, Amir and Romanov?" Harry asks. 

"Yes." There's another hole in another wall, and Harry follows Lestrange into a new room, where more devices line the walls. "The damage their magic left behind as they forced their way out cannot be repaired. So they had the warlock maintain a glamour over it, at all times to make sure the other prisoners won't stumble over it. My Lord and Romanov kicked everyone out of the cells in this part of the prison, and the warlock is maintaining a repelling, dark curse over the hallways to discourage people from lingering around. That's why he never goes far from his cell. His presence is needed for the curse to work." 

"But why?" Harry asks. "Why don't they want the other prisoner to find it? Why can't we get out, if they were able to break out?" 

"You'll see in a second," Rodolphus says. "It's easier to see it, because you won't believe it if I explain it. Even I didn't believe my Lord when he told me. I had to see for myself." 

They walk through more rooms until finally, finally, Harry sees the sky in the distance through another hole. It's overwhelming. He stops, struck dumb because it's been years since he saw the sky. 

"Keep walking," Lestrange demands and Harry hurries, runs ahead of Lestrange, until he's out, out in the open- 

Something is wrong, he realises immediately, though he's not sure what. It's night outside, the stars are bright, but something is not quite right. 

"What is this?" Harry asks, because it looks like they're on a huge metal platform floating in the air. There's metal all around, with buildings rising here and there. 

"There." Lestrange caught up with him, and he turns Harry around. He points in the distance, and Harry sees. He sees-

"Apparently that's Earth," Lestrange says. "Or so my lord said." 

It looks like Earth, or at least how Earth was portrayed in space, in the movies he watched from the doorway of Dursley's living room, as the family watched the telly on the couch. 

Holy fuck, I'm in space. 

Harry must be dreaming. 

"I can breathe," he says. 

"That's good," Lestrange says after a second, looking at Harry oddly. 

"No, I mean- why can I breathe? I don't think one can breathe in space? I must be dreaming." 

"Ah," Lestrange's frown clears. "Look." He points up. Harry looks up, but he only sees stars. In a different pattern than they look from- from fucking Earth, apparently. That's how Harry knew something wasn't right. 

"What am I looking at?" He asks calmly because he's sure this is all a strange dream. 

"There's a shimmer. Focus. My Lord said it's like a dome, and inside it they imitate Earth conditions, like oxygen. So we won't die. The machines we just saw help with cycle- no, was it recycles- bicycle?" Lestrange shrugs. "I don't fucking know, but it does something to the air in prison, too." 

Now that the man mentioned it, Harry can glimpse a distortion way above them. 

They're on a bridge, he also notices, when he stops staring at the stars. A metal bridge leading to another building, further away.

"What's that?" he asks. 

"Another prison. All the prisons are here," he adds, pointing at more buildings all around. This place is a...wait- how did Amir call it? A saltlite?"

"Satellite," Harry says mindlessly. 

"That's the one. A big satellite. Whatever that is. My Lord tried to explain it, but I didn't get it. What I know is that we're in space, and strange creatures are keeping us here, so we can crack their stupid rocks." 

Aliens. Great. What a weird dream. 

"Where are they?" Harry asks, still calm. Excited, even, because hey, it's a nice dream. Very realistic, too, but it just can't be real. 

"No idea. I saw one when my Lord took me out here. It screeched at us, pointed a weapon thing in our direction, and we went back inside. My Lord said there's not too many of them, since there's no need to heavily guard us. Not like we can run away, can we?" 

"Oh, we can," Harry says confidently, looking around. "Look, that's a spaceship. Or, well, that's what it looks like. I saw some movies where they had spaceships. Looks a bit different than that, but recognisable." He points to the spaceship docked further away in the distance. 

"You know how to drive that thing? My Lord and Amir said we wouldn't know how to use it. They got to it, when they escaped, but they couldn't figure it out." 

"Pilot," Harry corrects, walking down the bridge. "You pilot a spaceship, not drive it." 

He hopes no one wakes him up before he gets to pilot a spaceship. He's sure he can do it; after all, it's his dream, and he can do whatever he wants. He played a video game once, on Dudley's Playstation 2. It wasn't that hard to pilot a spaceship. 

But Lestrange grabs his shoulder and pulls him back. "We should head inside. Apparently, the aliens get upset when we come out, and then they punish us by delaying the supplies." 

"But I want to pilot a spaceship!" Harry complains. 

"Are you alright, Potter? My Lord did say the air could be thinner out here, without the machines to correct it or whatever. You're taking all this rather well. I freaked out." 

"It's just a dream," Harry says, following Lestrange back inside the prison. 

Lestrange laughs. "Right. Denial works, I guess." 

(-)

Harry only realises it wasn't a dream when they arrive back into the southern cells, the glamour is placed back over the hole in the wall, and he doesn't wake up. 

He goes straight to Dumbledore. 

"We're in space!" he yells, beside himself. "In fucking space!" 

"Shhh," Grindelwald admonishes him, quickly casting a spell over the cell, presumably so they won't be heard. 

"We are," Dumbledore says from the bed. 

"With aliens! Aliens kidnapped us! What the fuck?!" 

"Mind your tone with him," Grindelwald growls. He might be ancient, no longer going into rut, but his Alpha instincts haven't gone away completely. 

"My tone? WE'RE IN SPACE! How could you not tell me?" 

"Precisely because we're in space. That's why we haven't told many people. We can still handle the population here if they have some hope they're getting out. But telling them we can't get out, and we're just going to be slaves, forever- well, it's hard to keep them under control and convince them to work on the rocks, once they know that, don't you think? When hope is lost, people cannot be controlled anymore. And we need to keep order, or whatever order is to be had around here," Dumbledore explains. "We needed time to come up with a plan." 

"Plan-what plan? WE'RE IN SPACE!" 

"Yes, Harry, we established that. Have a seat." 

"Sit? We're in-" 

"Gods help me, if you say space one more time, I'm going to slap you," Grindelwald warns him. 

"Gellert," Dumbledore admonishes. "The boy is in shock, let him take it in. Help me sit up." 

Grindelwald moves around some pillows until Dumbledore is in a somewhat sitting position. 

"When we escaped, we spent quite some time climbing on those bridges, up and down. There is no way to go back home. We even entered some machines that Tom called spaceships, but we didn't know what to do with them. Amir argued he could start the... engine, was it? with magic, but the problem is we wouldn't really know how to direct that thing home. We can see Earth, but there are so many problems in this equation, like gravity or how to reenter Earth's atmosphere and with what speed, that we decided we would most likely crash and die if we use it." 

Harry sits down. He must, because he's feeling dizzy. 

"The bright side," Dumbledore said, and Harry perks up. There is a bright side. "These beings are susceptible to magic. We...encountered a few on our first trip outside and they were easily subdued, I must say. At least by magic as powerful as Tom's. Though I recall Amir simply took one down with his physical strength. That man is built differently, isn't he?"

"I'm certain he's at least a quarter giant," Grindelwald mutters. 

"More like a tenth, I'd wager," Dumbledore retorts. 

"I'm sorry, can we go back to the aliens?" Harry snaps at them. 

"Right. We couldn't converse with them, you see. We don't speak the same language. I'm not sure if they can speak at all; they just made wheezing sounds. Who knows how they communicate between themselves. But they do have a brain and eyes- they're quite humanoid or near enough, in fact- so we took a peek inside their minds. We discerned that they brought us here to extract the gems from the rocks. Apparently, nothing but magic works. Even if the weakest of us need tools, we are still wizards. Consciously or not, every one of us uses magic to break the shells. So they need us for it. From what I could glimpse in its head- and was that an experience, I tell you! They don't think the way we do, but they store images and memories similarly, so I was able to access that. In any case, they found other species on an obscure planet with some sort of magic, only they died with prolonged exposure to the rocks. The rocks are- how did Tom call it, Gellert?" 

"Radioactive." 

"Oh, no," Harry says. "Oh, that's bad.”

"Yes. But us wizards don't seem to be affected. Our magic neutralises it, as it neutralises most anything that destroys muggle cells. That's why we never get their diseases. That's why we live very long lives compared to them. We regenerate very fast. Even so, some fell sick. That's why we get larger rocks here, in this prison. We have very strong magical reserves, so we can handle more stones. Or at least that's what we gathered from their memories." 

"I- what was the bright side?" Harry asks. 

"Yes, yes. See, children take a while to generate magic. Some show signs at two years old, some at seven, and some even as late as ten. Wizards and witches are born with magic, it is in our genes, but it takes a while for it to manifest. In the womb of a magical person, a child is protected. But once outside of it, it would be affected by this-" 

"Radiation," Grindelwald supplies again. 

"Yes. Children would die. So they take pregnant people back to Earth to give birth. We glimpse some locations where they hold the bearers and then the children until they show signs of magic. Presumably, the intention is to bring them up here once their magic is strong enough to protect them. We are a valuable resource. They don't want us to die off; they want us to multiply, so we can service them." 

"So-" Harry breathes in, a little hopeful. "So they took Voldemort back home?" 

"Yes. That's why he wanted to fall pregnant. That was the plan. We quickly separated the Omegas from the rest of the prison and gave them to Romanov to keep safe. Voldemort trained them as well as he could- and I must admit, he is a good teacher, I should have hired him when he asked it- and Romanov got them all pregnant, in turns, so they could be sent home. They are to scout the area, learn all they can, convince other mothers or male Omegas there to join in on the plan, and then wait for Voldemort to arrive. Once that happens, they're supposed to escape. Now, the problem was we couldn't be sure Voldemort was able to go into heat anymore, what with his age, so we planned on Amir to try to induce him into one once the time came-" 

"Induce him?" 

"A powerful, compatible Alpha could trigger a heat in an Omega, especially if dark magic is used. But you showed up and triggered him all naturally. A bit sooner than expected. He was supposed to wait a little longer. He should have left last; as it is, there's one more Omega woman left, but she's pregnant too. They'll take her soon enough." 

"Alright," Harry says, able to breathe again now that he knows his mate is safe. Hopefully safe. "So they get there, and they escape. Then...what?" 

"We disagree on the matter, but some of us-" 

"You. It's just you," Grindelwald points out. 

"Fine. I don't believe the muggles are aware of what is happening. The others disagree and are convinced muggles are in on it, and that they sold us to the aliens. However, I think I got through to Tom to at least give them a chance. He's supposed to go to the Prime Minister and tell him all about it." 

"You never change, do you, you naive idiot," Grindelwald mutters. "Muggles will never help us. Even if they didn't know, when they'll find out, they'll be happy about it." 

"No," Harry says. "Not really. They won't be happy there are aliens prancing around on Earth without their knowledge. And if some muggles agreed, I bet those are the leaders. The general population wouldn't be aware of it. They'd freak out if they were to be made aware." 

"Indeed," Dumbledore says, smiling at Harry. "Besides, these crystals are valuable. We saw the aliens use them as fuel. Apparently, it's incredibly potent. So we put some shavings of it under the Omegas' skin to bring proof to the muggles and have their scientists look at it. If it's that valuable, they'll want it, too. They'll go to war for it." 

"Well," Grindelwald concedes. "That sounds right. Muggles do like war, and they are greedy." 

Dumbledore rolls his eyes. 

"But if they know?" Harry asks. "If they agreed to this? What then?" 

"Well- that's the problem. I'm sure they will never recapture Tom again. Not even most of the women or male omegas that are on Earth. We can protect ourselves from the fumes they used to put us to sleep. We just didn't know it would happen. But now that we know...magic provides ways to keep them safe on Earth." 

"But how will he come back for us if muggles won't help?" 

Can muggles help? Harry hopes so. He isn't up to date, but he knows muggles can travel in space, at least to a certain distance. They have their own satellites and their own ships and rockets. Earth looked close. Not that he can appreciate distances in space, but it looked huge. And it must be close since, obviously, it didn't take loads of time to bring wizards to the satellite. Harry didn't wake up in prison looking years older than when he went to sleep. 

"I don't know," Dumbledore says. "It's for him to figure something out once he's free." 

"I'm still doubtful he would want to come back for us. He doesn't seem like the dashing hero hurrying to save us all," Grindelwald comments. 

"I thought that, too. Until Harry came. Leave us for a bit, Gellert." 

Grindelwald isn't happy, but he leaves the cell. 

"The Horcruxes on Earth were destroyed the second Voldemort left Earth's atmosphere, we theorised," Dumbledore says. "We can't be sure, but since he looks more human, we think the shards pieces were compelled to follow him. A soul is meant to be whole, and while it can be fooled that it is still in one piece when it's locked into separate containers- well, Harry, no magic can fool those shards anymore when the original is flung out of Earth's reach. This is like death, let us say. The Horcruxes would have felt he died, and joined him, since his spirit wasn't around to walk the Earth as a wraith, the way he did in Albania."

"That's...insane," Harry says, after a second.

"Being able to rip apart a piece of soul- more a concept than a tangible thing- could also be called insane. But that's magic. We defy any laws. That's why we're so useful to these aliens, too. We can do the impossible." 

"Alright." Harry just goes with it, like he has done since he was eleven and saw red-headed Weasleys run through a wall. Magic needs to be accepted, not approached with logic. "But then why wasn't the piece in me-" 

"Because you came with him. We were most likely on the same ship. The piece in you still felt him close by, it didn't think he died for good." 

"Oh." 

"I don't know if he went through with it, but he meant to ward the Horcrux inside you, so it won't rip away when he's taken to Earth-" 

"Oh, he did," Harry says, touching the rune on his heart. 

"I'm sorry," Dumbledore says, looking at his lap. "That is a ....painful process." 

You can say that again.

"But at least we know he will attempt to come back for you. You carry his soul. He will want you back with him."  

(-)

Harry feels adrift, and that's not because he now knows he's floating on a satellite in space. 

He just misses Voldemort keenly. But he takes hope in the fact that Voldemort will be free. 

He stays in his cell, curled in sheets that he refuses to wash because he can still smell Voldemort on them. 

A part of him thinks Voldemort won't come back for them. That they'll spend the rest of their lives in that place, cracking rocks. He'll be all alone. He won't even have Dumbledore. 

In order to keep the despair at bay, Harry closes his eyes and imagines Voldemort in a green field. It's sunny outside, and there's a castle nearby. Hogwarts. 

Glorious Hogwarts. 

The sun warms Voldemort's skin. He's happy and free. 

And, running around him, chasing a butterfly, there's a child. 

Harry cries into his pillow. 

(-)

"I know what it's like," Lucius says, attempting to convince Harry to eat something. "To be apart from your mate and your child. But you have to be strong. You have to eat. If you don't, Rodolphus threatened he'll force-feed you. I don't know why he's suddenly invested in your survival, but he will force-feed you, and it will not be pleasant." 

"Why are you invested in my survival?" Harry mutters. "And how do you stand it? How do you stand being apart from Narcissa and Draco?" 

"I'm still her husband. I'm still his father," Lucius says. "I'm still their Alpha, and while I can't physically protect them now, I have to stay alive for them. So I can hopefully see them once more." 

"Do you know where we are?" 

He frowns. "What do you mean?" he asks, and Harry realises Lucius doesn't know they're in space. 

"Nothing," Harry says. 

"As for why I am invested in your survival..." Lucius smiles. "You are my son's age. I should hope someone is there to care for Draco, too." 

(-)

Harry eats, but only when Lucius insists. 

He would have never left his cell again if Grindelwald hadn't called for him. 

"If you want to say goodbye," he says, steely eyes shiny with unshed tears. "It's time." 

Harry is already hollow, he's already consumed by darkness, so he walks numbly to Dumbledore's cell. 

"I'll give you a moment, like you asked," Grindelwald tells Dumbledore. "But make it fast." 

Harry sits gingerly. Dumbledore is nothing like his professor anymore. He's frail, small in a way he has never been small, swallowed up by blankets. 

"Come closer," he whispers, voice rough. 

Harry bends until Dumbledore's lips are at his ear. "When you go back, you need to collect your cloak and the ring that was Tom's Horcrux. You need to find my wand, too. They should all be at Hogwarts, where we left them." 

"Professor," Harry says, confused. 

"Shh, there's no time. Pay attention. Those three objects together will grant you a power above any other. They will turn you into the Master of Death. I always meant for you to have them, Harry. Always. Look at me." 

Harry draws back a little, and he's faced with those pale blue eyes. 

"I would have never sent you to your death. I would have made sure you were protected. Even if Tom would have killed you, the Horcrux would have been destroyed, but the Hallows- the three objects- would have brought you back to life." 

"Professor- please," Harry chokes up, the dam of numbness inside him breaking, shattering him to pieces. 

"I want you to know that. I love you, Harry. I lied to you, but I would have never betrayed you. And I want you to have the Hallows now, because while I hope Tom will protect you, I cannot know for sure. The Hallows will grant you power and protection against which he cannot fight. Don't ever tell him. Use this time when he's away to learn Occlumency. There's a journal on my desk with instructions on how to guard your mind against him, even with the bond. I'm sorry I had to let you believe I would have been fine with you dying, but I couldn't risk telling you the truth, knowing he would see it in your mind. Guard your mind and never tell him. And you must act fast, as soon as you arrive home. Gellert knows about the Hallows. You cannot let him have them. Ever. He claims he is a changed man, but I told you, old dogs cannot learn new tricks. Hide them, never flaunt them. Promise me. I want to know I am leaving you with all the protection I can." 

"Professor," Harry cries. "I-"

"Promise, Harry." 

"I promise," Harry says. "I promise. I'm sorry I was upset with you, I'm sorry I doubted-" 

He doesn't even know what these Hallows are, but just to hear that all this time Dumbledore was looking out for him... And Harry ignored him, for months, even as he was sick and dying- 

"Do not ever apologise to me. I am honoured to have known a young man like yourself." 

Dumbledore coughs. He winces, and one of his frail hands moves to clutch his chest. "Call Gellert," he whispers. 

"Grindel-" 

Harry barely spoke before Grindelwald barges in. He shoves Harry aside and takes Dumbledore's hand. 

Harry backs away, vision blurry with tears. They probably want to be alone now, to have the chance to exchange some final words. 

(-)

Dumbledore goes to sleep, and he never wakes up. 

Harry and Grindelwald burn his body, so no one will try to eat him. 

"We wouldn't have bothered," Amir says. "Stringy, hard meat." 

Harry punches him. 

He wakes up several days later, beaten to a bloody pulp. He hears Lestrange barely got him out of Amir's hands. 

It takes him weeks to recover, alone in his bed, sinking into a deep depression. 

The only thing keeping him alive is the fantasy of Hogwarts and a child running down the hallways, happy and carefree. There's always Voldemort there, too, keeping the child safe.