Claimed
Voldemort raised his wand with effortless grace, swirling it towards the ceiling of the Great Hall as he spoke an incantation Harry couldn’t understand.
The room shifted again. The Great Hall dissolved into swirling black mist, and when it cleared, Harry found himself standing in the dusty sitting room of an old house—Grimmauld Place. But this wasn’t his memory.
This was a past he was never meant to see.
Before him, three people sat around a table, tension carved into their faces:
*****
James Potter, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, his entire posture tense.
Lily Potter, her face tight with worry, her fingers occasionally brushing over her swollen belly—the child within her destined to become him.
Sirius Black, leaning back in his chair with a stubborn set to his jaw.
And Remus Lupin, his eyes filled with something close to sorrow.
They were discussing something grave.
"James," Lily’s voice trembled. "You have to tell me the truth. I know there’s something about the Potter blood—something you don’t want to say."
James ran a hand over his face, looking burdened. "Lily… it doesn’t matter."
"Doesn’t matter?" Her eyes burned into him. "How can it not matter when our child might be targeted for something worse than that ridiculous prophecy?"
Sirius let out a harsh sigh. "Lily, I get that you're scared. But Voldemort is after plenty of families. Do you think you're the only ones in danger? Frank and Alice are being hunted too. This isn't just about you."
Lily turned to Sirius, frustration etched deep into her features. "You don’t understand! James, you don’t understand!"
For the first time, Remus spoke, his voice deep and grim.
"Lily is right."
The room fell silent.
All eyes turned to him.
"The Dark Lord… he doesn’t just want this child dead." Remus exhaled, his expression darkening. "He doesn’t want Harry as a Slytherin heir. He wants him as…" He hesitated, voice dropping to an almost-whisper. "An object to bear the strongest Slytherin bloodline."
The air turned ice-cold.
James went rigid. "What are you saying?"
Remus met his gaze, grief heavy in his eyes. "You know what I’m saying, James. You know why Voldemort is so obsessed with certain bloodlines. You’re a Peverell descendant. You carry ancient magic—magic Voldemort wants in his own lineage."
Sirius frowned, his expression hardening. "But… Harry is a boy."
Remus shot him a cold look. "Do you think that matters to Voldemort? There are spells—dark rituals—that can force a body to…" He didn’t finish the sentence, but they all understood.
Lily froze, her arms wrapping protectively around her stomach. "No…"
James surged to his feet, fury crackling in every movement. "I won’t let that happen! I don’t care how powerful he is—he cannot do that to my son!"
Remus held his gaze steadily. "You don’t know how far he’s willing to go, James. I’ve read about the rituals he’s used. If he truly wants the perfect heir, he will break every law, cross every moral boundary to make it happen. And if he sees Harry as the key to producing a stronger bloodline…"
"He won’t kill him."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Sirius paled. "No… this is madness. He wouldn’t—"
Remus cut him off, voice sharp. "Have you forgotten what he’s done to pureblood families? How he arranges marriages, manipulates bloodlines for stronger magic? This isn’t about love. This isn’t about choice. This is about legacy. And Harry…"
Lily bit her lip, her voice barely above a whisper. "Harry is a Peverell… one of the last."
James’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "If he lays a single hand on my son—"
Sirius stood abruptly, his eyes burning with defiance. "We won’t let it happen. Not ever."
The air felt suffocatingly heavy.
"But what if we fail?" Lily’s voice was fragile, her fear stark. "What if… Harry falls into his hands?"
No one had an answer.
****
The illusion shattered, crumbling into glittering fragments before Harry’s eyes.
Then, just as suddenly, he was back in the Great Hall, gasping for breath. His hands trembled. His skin was ghostly pale.
He wasn’t just a target.
He wasn’t just a child born to be killed.
He was an object.
An object for something far more horrifying than death.
His eyes darted to Voldemort, who still stood before him—wearing an expression of pure triumph.
"You understand now, don’t you?" Voldemort’s voice slithered through the air, venomous and all-consuming.
Harry’s hatred burned so fiercely it felt like his body might combust. "I would rather die."
Voldemort’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Die?" he echoed, almost amused. "Harry, you’ve always been so dramatic. Do you truly believe death is an escape?"
He stepped forward, tilting his head ever so slightly. "No… you will live. You will watch everything unfold with your own eyes. And in the end…"
His long fingers lifted, gesturing toward Harry like a creator observing his masterpiece.
"You will accept your fate."
Harry’s stomach twisted violently. A sickening nausea surged through him.
No.
No. No. No.
He wanted to claw himself open, to rip the blood from his veins.
I am not a tool. I am not a vessel. I am not an object!
His breath hitched, his hands clutching at his chest as if trying to hold himself together.
Voldemort chuckled softly. "That’s it, Harry. The more you loathe yourself, the more you realize… you are bound to me. You cannot escape this."
Don’t listen. Don’t believe it. Don’t—
But the words seeped into his mind like a cursed lullaby, impossible to shake.
"You are mine."
And in the deepest part of himself, a quiet, terrifying voice whispered:
"No matter how hard you fight, Harry… you know he will never let you go."
***
Harry woke up in darkness.
He didn’t immediately recognize where he was. There was only the biting cold against his skin, the heavy iron chains wrapped around his wrists, and the damp scent mixed with metal—blood.
Then, the memories hit him.
The illusion of the past. Voldemort’s words.
"You are mine."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling violently.
No.
He didn’t want to remember.
But the memories kept forcing themselves upon him. The conversation between Lily, James, Sirius, and Remus—the fear they had felt even before he was born.
"Harry is not just a target… he is an object."
Harry bit his lip hard, trying to suppress the desperate whimper clawing at his throat.
This was too vile. Too horrifying.
He wanted to reject it. He wanted to scream. But even his voice felt trapped in his chest.
With shaking hands, he pressed against his stomach. There was nothing unusual there. Nothing had changed. Nothing was different. But he felt filthy. As if his body no longer belonged to him.
A sudden urge surged within him—an urge to claw at himself, to erase every part of him that Voldemort might desire.
He was not a vessel. He was not a tool. He was not…
Harry gasped, trying to steady his ragged breaths.
It was just magic. It was just nonsense.
But… what if it wasn’t?
What if Voldemort truly had a way to force him?
A small voice in his head whispered, "If you cannot die… then what if you eliminate the possibility yourself?"
Harry stared at his trembling hands. He could do it. He could—
But the sound of rusted metal creaking open made him freeze.
Soft footsteps entered the room.
He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
The dim light from the corridor cast a shadow over the tall, skeletal figure draped in black robes, crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Voldemort stood there, observing Harry like a predator that had finally claimed its prey.
Harry clenched his teeth, ignoring the tremors in his body, ignoring the revulsion creeping over his skin.
Slowly, he lifted his head, his jaw tightening as if trying to contain something burning in his chest. His emerald-green eyes blazed with fury, but there was something deeper than hatred—something more fragile, more agonizing. His vision blurred with unshed tears, but he refused to let them fall. Not in front of Voldemort.
Harry’s voice nearly wavered, but he stood firm, staring straight into the crimson eyes before him.
"I have always belonged to someone." His voice was cold, almost a whisper laced with thorns. "I was the Dursleys' to torment, Dumbledore’s to sacrifice, the wizarding world’s to save. And now, yours?"
He exhaled sharply, as if trying to suppress something that threatened to break free within him. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms until they almost drew blood.
"From the moment I was born, my life has been dictated by others," he continued, his tone lower but filled with sharp bitterness. "I was never given a choice. I was only ever an excuse, a tool, or an enemy."
For a moment, there was only silence between them. But beneath the burning glare, beneath the clear hatred, there was a wound far deeper—and Voldemort had surely seen it.
At last, the tears that had long threatened to fall trickled down, staining Harry’s scarred cheeks.
His body trembled ceaselessly, his eyes shutting tightly as if trying to contain the overwhelming pain swelling inside him.
"Can I… be free… just once?" he whispered, barely audible, as if the question was meant only for himself. The words hung in the air—no answer, no hope, only the suffocating emptiness closing in on him.
His knees buckled, and before he even realized it, his body collapsed. He wasn’t sure if he hit the ground or not—everything felt distant, blurred, as if his consciousness was lagging behind.
The only thing he knew was one simple truth: his body had reached its limit.
Voldemort, who had remained silent all this time, moved soundlessly, catching Harry before he could crash onto the floor. His grip was firm, yet there was no tension in his hold—just a reflexive movement, an instinct even he did not fully comprehend.
He gazed down at Harry’s pale face, his breath shallow, his body weak as though every ounce of strength had been stripped from him. Voldemort could still feel the faint, unsteady heartbeat—slow, fragile, but still there.
His crimson eyes remained fixed on Harry, and for the first time, his expression was unreadable.
There was no mockery, no triumph, no rage.
Only a void, growing deeper, growing quieter.
If Harry had been awake, he would have been confused by that look.
A look emptier than ever before, as if Voldemort had just realized something he himself did not want to acknowledge.