Chapter Text
Harry tried to resist the Anti-Magic Potion by refusing to eat or drink. He secretly disposed of the potion, but it didn’t escape his father’s notice.
“Not drinking water isn’t very good behavior,” Lord Voldemort said dangerously, snapping his fingers. Several ropes shot out from thin air, tying Harry up tightly. Voldemort pried Harry’s mouth open and poured the entire bottle of potion down his throat.
The bitter liquid rolled down, and Harry coughed dryly, feeling dizzy from the effects of the potion.
“Don’t be foolish, Harry. You and I both know there’s no way you can avoid this,” Voldemort declared loftily.
####
Voldemort watched the sleeping Harry, rolling up the boy's sleeve and drawing a bit of blood from the crook of his thin arm, storing it in the small vial he always carried with him. The bright red blood swirled and rippled within the crystal vial.
This wasn't the first time he had done this. He had also extracted Harry's magic, memories, life force, and even pulled out his hair... anything that could be taken from Harry, he hadn't spared. There were still many experiments he needed to conduct.
Of course, all these extractions were done while Harry was soundly asleep at his side, completely unaware. Voldemort never told Harry what he was doing, to avoid any trouble.
He tucked the vial of blood into the pocket space within his robe, then rolled Harry's sleeve back down and carefully pulled the blanket over the boy again. As he looked at Harry's pale face, drained of blood, Voldemort paused for a moment before waving his wand and casting a spell, kindly ensuring Harry would feel a bit more comfortable.
####
Voldemort didn’t come back often during the day, and Harry hadn’t been feeling well lately. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d been sleeping too much, but the more he slept, the more exhausted he felt. When he got out of bed, he was dizzy, weak, and a bit cold.
He didn’t even have anyone to talk to.
There was no internet access inside the barrier, no visitors, and in winter, even the mosquitoes had frozen to death. The only living being he could see was his father, though Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted him to come back—his father was the only person he had, but he didn’t want to see him.
His father still came back at night to sleep beside him, just like before.
Harry resisted every time, and even when under the Cruciatus Curse, he managed to successfully fight it off.
Voldemort sneered, “I thought you liked this? We both remember, you were quite eager before.”
“I don’t want it now, let me go!” Harry protested, struggling.
“Lord Voldemort doesn’t need your consent to do as he pleases. You have no right to influence his decisions. We’ve discussed this before, haven’t we?” With those words, he summoned several ribbons with a thought, tying Harry’s hands above his head while two more spread his legs apart. The Dark Lord used magic to shatter all of Harry’s resistance.
This forceful act triggered Harry’s PTSD, and Voldemort only grew angrier seeing Harry’s defiance.
At one point, Harry turned the question back on him, “If you feel no emotions, then why are you doing this?”
With malicious intent, Voldemort whispered in his ear, “Since Harry refuses to return to my side, to work for me, shouldn’t we explore other ways to make use of you? Fortunately, you’re quite good at this.”
Harry forced himself not to feel upset about it. He fixed his gaze on the flickering flame of the candle by the bedside, watching the way the flame danced.
“You… you never used to like doing this,” Harry asked again, receiving no response. He could only continue to stare at the candle. Each time they did this, the Dark Lord always lit a candle. Suddenly, the truth hit Harry. “Is this part of some magical ritual?” he asked, barely steadying his breath, his words faltering.
“Finally figured it out? Took you long enough,” Voldemort replied, slowing down slightly. “Sex magic is a form of dark magic that can create a connection between two people. Surely, Harry, you’ve read about it in those books?”
“But why do you want to form a connection with me? It doesn’t make sense.” Harry had never delved into the specifics of sex magic, nor had he ever considered it.
“Why do you think?” Voldemort merely increased his pace, not bothering to answer further. Following certain alchemical guidelines, he had also made minor modifications to Harry’s body.
Harry continued resisting. When he was forced to use his mouth, he dared to bite—hard.
“Ah.” Voldemort winced but didn’t rush. The immortality spell steadily healed the damage, and even if he were broken into pieces, he could recover. What was a minor wound? With a forceful move, he dislocated Harry’s jaw, continuing to use him. He even shoved the bitten-off piece back into Harry’s body.
Voldemort said, “Go ahead, keep biting, Harry. I’ll make sure every mold you create with your own mouth will stay inside you forever. After all, we’ve got plenty of holes to use, haven’t we?”
The next day, to punish Harry, Voldemort inserted three plugs into Harry’s body, locking him in a small cage by the bed for the entire day. The cage was so small that Harry could barely fold himself into it, leaving almost no room to move.
Still, at night, they slept together. Afterward, Voldemort would stroke Harry’s smooth, pale skin, clearly enjoying the feel of it.
Later, to save others in any way he could, Harry started thinking of ways to keep his father happy. He’d always had the ability to act accommodating, to serve others well. Harry found it ironic—after all this time, he’d ended up right back where he started. Perhaps he should be grateful for fate’s gift; the strange skills he’d learned long ago were finally useful again.
After the Dark Lord was satisfied, Harry would softly plead, “Please, Father, stop the unnecessary attacks.”
Harry had learned by now that it was ultimately pointless, but he had no other recourse.
Sometimes the Dark Lord would reply, “Oh, yes, there’s no need for extra attacks lately. You naughty child, you blew up my ritual… before I rebuild it, more deaths would just be wasteful.”
Harry carefully analyzed the man’s tone, detecting a mix of seriousness, resentment, and mockery, though he couldn’t tell if he was being humored or not.
Afterwards, they would still sleep together. Harry knew he could never strangle him in his sleep… the Dark Lord couldn’t die, couldn’t be killed. Their eternal magic ensured that. That’s why the Dark Lord slept so soundly beside him, without a care.
Harry couldn’t sleep, his eyes wide open, staring at the handsome face so close to him, filled with a complicated mix of emotions. Eventually, he sighed softly, barely audible. Yet the arm wrapped around him tightened. Without opening his eyes, his father softly murmured, “Harry, sleep.”
It seemed like everything in the house automatically returned to its original state. Harry had tried—it didn’t matter if he flipped tables or smashed windows, everything always returned to how it was.
At night, Voldemort would even tease, “Why is Harry still wrecking the house? I thought I’d adopted a cat.”
Harry eventually gave up on causing any more damage. Lately, he had been feeling unusually tired and sleepy, lacking even the energy to wreak havoc.
Everything would reset, except for the roses outside the window. Harry hadn’t watered them in days, and the once vibrant flowers were beginning to wilt.
On top of that, his scar had started to hurt again these days. Harry stood in front of the bedroom mirror, seeing nothing but a skinny boy. The collar of his shirt was open, revealing a few suggestive red marks on his pale neck. His face was pallid, and his hair was a bit messy. He raised a hand to brush aside the fringe on his forehead, revealing a faint, lightning-shaped scar, slightly to one side.
This scar… it was the mark left by the Killing Curse from when he first met his father. Harry couldn’t help but think, how great would it have been if the Killing Curse had worked? Why did Salazar have to cast that protective spell?
But why was the curse scar starting to hurt after all these years?
And it always seemed to hurt when the Dark Lord had negative feelings toward Harry… Harry could feel the magical fluctuations coming from the other side of their soul bond. The soul bond and the scar… what was the connection between them? Harry had always thought there was something strange about their soul bond, but being confined here, he had no chance to investigate further.
The soul bond reminded Harry of that humiliating sex magic—it, too, was about forming a connection. Why did the Dark Lord need this connection? Harry’s mind was hazy, his thoughts scattered, making it difficult to focus.
His daily food and water were laced with anti-magic potions, and the potion’s bitter taste had been clinging to his taste buds lately. “It’s disgusting,” Harry had complained to Voldemort, though Voldemort wasn’t about to stop because of something so trivial.
Even though Harry was trying hard to break through the potion’s limitations, he hadn’t succeeded. He couldn’t use magic, so he couldn’t probe what was going on with his scar.
Harry rubbed the scar that throbbed faintly, feeling the heat radiating from it. When he touched his forehead, he realized it was burning up. Ah… he had a fever, which explained why he felt so cold.
Harry thought to himself indifferently, Could a fever kill me? If only.
####
Every evening, Voldemort would visit the newly built cottage where Harry stayed. On this particular day, when he arrived, he noticed that most of the roses outside the window had withered, likely due to a lack of water. As he walked past, he casually plucked one of the remaining flowers, crushed it in his hand, and let the broken petals fall onto the soil.
Upon entering the house, he realized Harry was gone. The protective barrier he had set around the house had been breached.
Damn it, the boy had drunk the anti-magic potion—how could he have escaped?
But even if Harry managed to flee the house, he could never escape from the isolated space outside. After all, this place was the culmination of generations of powerful Dark Wizards' work, protected by an incredibly complex and strong barrier that essentially detached the entire space from reality.
Meanwhile, in the forest, Harry was struggling to escape when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his scar. He clutched his forehead, barely suppressing a scream.
The mental connection conveyed a faint anger. His father had surely discovered Harry's escape.
Harry continued deeper into the forest.
The forest was dangerous, filled with "pets" left behind by famous Dark Wizards in their family history, now in an ownerless state. The shadows of the trees were layered, with faces resembling those of screaming people growing on them. This forest, teeming with Dark Magic creatures, always carried an air of mystery for Harry. Though he had often ventured into it as a child to gather magical materials, treating it like his backyard—well, it was technically his backyard—his knowledge of the forest was limited. Even his father couldn’t know all its secrets.
Maybe there was a weak spot in the barrier? He had to keep looking. Or perhaps, with all the hidden paths in the forest, he could find a place where his father wouldn’t be able to track him. Either way, he couldn't stay in that house—no, prison—any longer.
Harry struggled to work around the anti-magic potion’s effects, managing to cast a few wandless spells to blast away some fanged, hopping mushrooms blocking his path.
####
By the time Voldemort caught up, Harry was locked in battle with a grotesque, tentacled creature, and he was losing, unable to perform his magic properly.
A bright green light shot past, hitting the creature dead-on, illuminating Harry's green eyes to an almost blinding brightness. Though it was merely a simple Killing Curse, the power behind the curse was so immense that the static electricity it generated made the hair on Harry’s arms stand on end. The immense magical force shattered the creature's magical defenses, and the numerous eyes it bore slowly shut.
Harry fell to the ground and scrambled backward, gasping for breath. Voldemort grabbed him by the collar, lifting him effortlessly.
"Resisting the anti-magic potion and still trying to escape? Well done. Have I been too lenient with you? Do you really think I wouldn’t kill you?"
“No one wants to be trapped here!” Harry snapped back, still reeling from the realization that his hope of escape was crushed. If Voldemort wanted to kill him, so be it—he wasn’t afraid of death.
"You're hoping to run back to Dumbledore, aren’t you? Hoping to oppose me again? Keep dreaming. You won't get the chance to collaborate with Dumbledore."
Harry snorted dismissively, refusing to answer. For a moment, silence fell between them, the shadows of green and purple trees casting ominous shapes as the distant howls of dangerous beasts echoed through the forest.
"And don’t think he can protect you!"
"I never did."
Voldemort spoke softly but with a deadly edge, "You know, Harry, if Lord Voldemort wants you dead, you will die. You’ll die in an instant, no matter where you run."
"Then why not do it now?" Harry asked provocatively. "Say the curse. 'Avada Kedavra.' It wouldn’t be hard for you." He locked eyes with the Dark Lord, unflinchingly meeting his crimson gaze. Harry had long wanted to die—he almost welcomed it.
Voldemort had been holding Harry by the collar but now wrapped an arm around his back, pulling him into a disturbingly intimate embrace. His long fingers traced Harry’s forehead, gently outlining the lightning-shaped scar, as though caressing a piece of art.
Harry didn’t resist, though he felt like laughing. Suddenly, the old scar on his forehead began to throb with pain. He bit down on his lip, stifling a groan.
Voldemort seemed excited by Harry’s attempt to endure the pain. "This scar... Do you remember? It's from our first encounter, left by that Killing Curse."
Harry felt magic coursing through the scar. He had long suspected something was off about it. The scar radiated lethal energy, and he had once believed it was just a remnant of the curse, but now he realized it had a deeper source. "You…"
"When you were just a child, I left a curse here, one that can drain your life away at any moment. Whenever I wish, you’ll collapse dead."
For years, Harry had paid little attention to it, never imagining his father had planted a ticking time bomb on him from the very beginning. "So… you've been guarding against me all this time, even back then?" Harry’s voice faltered, laced with a different kind of pain.
"Now, doesn't it seem wise that I did? My little traitor."
Harry almost laughed. "Is it really necessary to go to such lengths? I’ve always wanted to die anyway. You might as well lift the curse that prevents me from killing myself, then you wouldn’t have to do it yourself." He said with bitter sarcasm.
Voldemort’s voice was soft but commanding. "I can kill you whenever I want, but as I’ve said before, you still have a purpose. When the Dark Lord doesn’t allow you to die, you will not die. Your life belongs to me, and I control it completely."
"So you put another curse on me to stop me from committing suicide. Two curses—you really control my life and death. That’s just like you."
"I’ve told you, don’t try to challenge the Dark Lord’s decisions. You don’t have that right." Voldemort added quietly, "And you know you have a fever, don’t you? You should take better care of your body and avoid doing dangerous things. You belong to me. Don’t think you can end your life on your own. I have plans for you—this is your fate."
"And running away... deserves punishment." Voldemort said dangerously, "Are you eager to be locked in a cage again?"
Voldemort took Harry back to the house, tending to his wounds carefully, even though Harry was still bleeding. Then, he prepared a golden birdcage, tall enough for a person, and set it amidst the withering roses. He placed Harry inside, locking him in with some magical restraints. The cage door disappeared, leaving only the golden bars. From inside, Harry glared at Voldemort with fury, his bright green eyes standing out in the sea of dying roses. Voldemort found the scene to have an artistic appeal.
He even took out the phone Harry had given him and captured the moment in perfect composition and lighting.
Harry spent several days locked in that cage, shivering from the cold despite curling into himself for warmth. As he sat there, his mind wandered back to his suspicions, which now seemed confirmed. The scar on his forehead held a curse placed by the Dark Lord, deeply entwined with his soul and linked to Voldemort’s very will. That was why the scar always hurt... The lethal curse and the bond of love between them resonated together. Their relationship was nothing short of tragic irony.
Harry mocked his own ridiculous life and then sneezed. Even though there were warming charms around, the November air was still bitterly cold, and Harry, dressed lightly, had no way to escape the golden cage. Voldemort would only release him when he needed Harry for something.
Perhaps it was because Harry was still weak, or maybe he had caught a cold, but eventually, he came down with a high fever again, collapsing into unconsciousness inside the cage. Only then did Voldemort allow him back into the house.
Harry, lost in fevered dreams, once again found himself in nightmares. He seemed to always be trapped in nightmares. Then suddenly, he woke up with a start.
"Awake? How are you feeling?" The handsome yet dangerous man was sitting next to him, with a look of concern on his face.
"I'm fine," Harry answered instinctively, but he knew that wasn’t the truth. At this rate, his body would probably break down long before his mind did...
In truth, the real cage imprisoning Harry wasn’t the physical one—it was the barrier with no exit, Voldemort’s control, and the anti-magic potion.
Since Harry had resisted once already, Voldemort decided the dosage needed to be increased. He would have Severus brew a stronger potion for him later.