Chapter 1
Voldemort Had Won
He had defeated Harry Potter in the final battle.
Hogwarts lay in ruins, its once-proud towers reduced to ash and stone. Every “Mudblood” Voldemort found offensive was hunted down and slaughtered without mercy. The members of the Order of the Phoenix— met the same fate. Their bodies piled like discarded relics of a rebellion long crushed. It wasn't just about power; it was about erasing hope.
About ensuring no spark of resistance would ever ignite again.
The British wizarding world now lay entirely in his hands, ushering in a new era. A dark era for the rebellious and a bright one for those loyal to Voldemort. Soon, there would be no trace of impure blood left. And soon, his influence would stretch beyond Britain's borders, coiling around the world like a serpent tightening its grip.
And eventually, even Harry would submit to him like the others.
Voldemort's name was both a hymn and a curse-revered and feared in equal measure. No one dared to oppose him. The Aurors had fallen, their wands useless against the deadly green flash of the Killing Curse. The Minister for Magic were now like puppets with strings firmly clenched in Voldemort's fist.
Yet he still couldn't break Harry Potter.
The boy remained defiant. Unyielding. Even as his body grew frail and his spirit was battered by years under Voldemort's iron rule, the fire inside him never dimmed. Voldemort kept him prisoner in a mansion hidden deep within the Forbidden Forest—a sprawling estate nearly as vast as Malfoy Manor. It was cold, sterile, suffocating. The walls seemed to press in, painted a dull, soul-crushing gray designed to leech the color from life itself. A deliberate choice. A slow poison for the mind—A slow poison for Harry’s mind
The boy wore nothing but an oversized white shirt, the fabric thin and loose, hanging off his gaunt frame. Voldemort allowed him to roam freely inside the house. Why wouldn't he? There was nowhere to run. The mansion was surrounded by powerful dark spells—an invisible prison, impossible to breach. No wand. No allies. Only house-elves and Death Eaters who watched from the shadows, silent and indifferent. Nothing for Harry to engage with, nothing to befriend.
Voldemort hadn't killed him after the battle. Harry had stopped wondering why.
Maybe he wanted a trophy.
A living reminder of his triumph.
A plaything to amuse him when boredom crept in.
Harry found him pathetic.
His obsession with victory was a fragile thing. He needed Harry, not as a person, but as proof. Proof that he'd won. Proof that even the Boy Who Lived could be reduced to nothing more than a caged animal.
Yes, Harry was the trophy Voldemort couldn’t let go of. He was the proof of the Dark Lord’s so-called “greatness.”
If anyone asked Harry what Voldemort feared, he wouldn't say death.
No. Voldemort feared weakness. He feared being seen for what he truly was-just a half-blood clinging desperately to the illusion of superiority. A truth he'd spent his entire life trying to bury.
And that's why Voldemort hated Harry more than anyone else.
The boy was the one Voldemort most desperately wanted to imprison, torment, and break — deep down, Harry was the only person who truly saw Voldemort as weak.
And Voldemort knew it.
But that no longer mattered.
Voldemort had already said it once, hadn’t he? That anyone who crossed him would meet an incomplete end.
Harry Potter was stubborn to the core. A Gryffindor through and through. He didn't know how to give up, even when giving up might've been easier. No matter how dire the circumstances. So he tried to escape from Voldemort’s ugly, sprawling mansion. Harry knew about the magical barriers, knew Voldemort had taken away his wand, but did the Dark Lord really think that would stop him? He was once the Savior of the wizarding world, Voldemort’s sworn enemy since infancy, a boy who had faced death countless times—so what was one more magical barrier? Just another test of his magical prowess. Ha.
And, as all things must come to pass, Harry found his chance.
Voldemort grew complacent over time. He let Harry wander into the mansion's library-his first mistake. The room was filled with dusty books, ancient texts brimming with dark magic. Harry devoured them all. He studied the spells that bound him, traced the twisted lines of dark spells woven into the mansion's walls.
And he learned how to break it.
“Ruptura Vincula.”
With a single, wandless spell—one Harry had crafted himself after months of studying dark magic—the barrier shattered like glasses.
A smug grin curled on Harry’s lips, his face lifted with the proud defiance of a lion who’d just claimed its prey. Harry's breath hitched as he stepped outside for the first time in years. The sunlight was blinding, warm against his skin—a sensation he'd almost forgotten. His chest swelled with something fierce and wild. Dressed in nothing but that oversized white shirt and worn boxer shorts, he stood there victorious, if only for a moment.
Then, he ran.
He sprinted as fast as he could, desperate to leave Voldemort’s mansion behind. Desperate to escape the suffocating darkness of the Forbidden Forest. Never had he run like this before. Despite his Gryffindor pride, he was like a hunted stag fleeing an invisible predator. He ran like his life depended on it, legs pounding against the earth, heart racing. The mansion faded behind him, swallowed by the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. He didn't care where he was going.
Anywhere was better than here.
The wind roared in his ears, his breath ragged, chest burning-but he didn't stop.
Until he saw it,
A blinding white light in the distance.
Freedom.
Hope surged in his chest as he sprinted toward it. He was sure it led to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, maybe even the Whomping Willow. After all, Voldemort liked to keep him close to the ruins of Hogwarts-a twisted joke. A reminder of Harry's failure.
Man plans, fate laughs.
For beyond the light was not the Whomping Willow.
It was not an exit.
It led him right back to Voldemort’s mansion.
What the fuck?
He spun around, ran again, faster this time. He didn't care that his legs burned, didn't care that every breath felt like shards of glass in his lungs.
Why? He was almost there.
His legs finally gave out, collapsing beneath him. Sweat drenched his forehead as he lay gasping on the ground.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps
Slow. Familiar.
"Had enough?"
Harry's head snapped up. His heart filled with fury, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
Voldemort stood there, his wand casually dangling between his fingers, a smirk twisting his snake-like features.
"Tsk, tsk, Harry... you disappoint me."
He strolled closer, his movements fluid, deliberate. He crouched down, lifting Harry's chin with the tip of his wand.
"I gave you freedom. You had the run of my home. And this is how you repay my kindness?"
Harry didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Instead, he spat in Voldemort's face.
The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed, but then—he smiled.
Unbothered, he wiped the spit with his fingers, then licked them slowly.
“Very well. I’ll make sure you live a life worse than death.”
“Crucio!”
That was the last thing Harry heard before the pain consumed him.
In a small room tucked away in the eastern wing of the basement, a frail figure sat hunched on a rickety bed, silently counting his fingers.
Harry sighed.
It had been three years since Voldemort imprisoned him. Three years that felt like an eternity—an endless descent into a living hell.
He was no longer the boy who had once been hailed as the Chosen One, the Savior of the Wizarding World. That boy had been stripped away piece by piece, replaced by something fragile, something hollow. Meals were scarce—barely a small bowl of thin gruel for breakfast and dinner, and on crueler days, nothing but a cup of cold water. The lack of nourishment had left his body gaunt, his skin stretched thin over brittle bones, each rib casting shadows beneath the sickly pallor of his skin. Bruises and scars marked him like a roadmap of suffering, each one a testament to Voldemort’s twisted brand of affection. Cuts crisscrossed his arms and legs, some fresh, some faded, all left untreated. He couldn’t feel his legs properly anymore, the numbness spreading slowly over time like an invisible frostbite. Gone was the proud lion of Gryffindor, replaced by nothing more than a caged animal—weak, useless, a prisoner in both body and mind.
But the worst wasn’t the physical pain.
It was the fear.
Harry was afraid.
Terrified, in fact—of Voldemort.
No matter how many times he told himself to stay strong, to be numb, to feel nothing when faced with the monster who had taken everything from him, the fear always crept in, slithering through the cracks like cold air in the dark.
Because Voldemort wasn’t just cruel.
He was fucking crazy.
The Dark Lord delighted in Harry’s suffering, finding new, grotesque ways to remind him just how powerless he was. Sometimes it was the lash of a whip across his back, the sharp sting of leather against broken skin. Other times, it was humiliation—forcing Harry to eat from a dog’s bowl, treating him like less than human, spitting vile words meant to shatter whatever shards of dignity he had left.
And on nights when the moon was full, Voldemort’s cruelty reached new heights.
He’d summon his Death Eaters to the basement, their laughter echoing off the cold stone walls. They’d strip Harry naked, exposing every scar, every bruise, every inch of skin marked by Voldemort’s rage. And then brutally raped the boy, beat him. The beatings were merciless, fists and boots raining down until Harry could no longer scream, until his throat was raw and his voice reduced to a broken rasp.
Then they’d leave him there, naked and shivering on the cold floor, bleeding into the cracks of the stone, the bitter chill gnawing at his bones. No healing spells. No bandages. Just pain left to fester, wounds left to rot.
Over time, the injuries turned into permanent scars—dark, ugly reminders etched into his flesh, from his face down to his fragile, trembling frame. His lips were cracked and bruised, skin rough and sagging in places where it had once been smooth and vibrant. His eyes, once bright with defiance, were now swollen and dull, clouded by tears long dried. His hair hung in greasy, tangled strands, and his body was little more than skin stretched over bones, a shadow of the boy he used to be.
If two words could describe him now?
Utterly disgusting.
Harry Potter had once been exceptional—brilliant, quick-witted, courageous. Handsome, even, with that untamed hair and striking green eyes. A boy who carried both the charm of James and the fierce kindness of Lily.
A perfect balance of everything Voldemort could never be.
And that infuriated him.
Voldemort had confessed as much once, in a rare moment of unfiltered honesty—if it could be called that.
“I envy you, dear, ” he’d whispered, voice soft like a knife sliding between ribs. “Why should some useless half-blood like you be born with such beauty, such light? It makes me sick.”
Sick enough to break him.
To crush him until Harry would beg for death.
And Voldemort didn’t just threaten. He delivered.
Now Harry was neither alive nor dead—trapped somewhere in between. His face was unrecognizable, a grotesque parody of what it once was. His body felt foreign, unfamiliar. Each glance in a reflective surface twisted his stomach with disgust. He hated what he saw. Hated what Voldemort had turned him into.
But most of all, he hated himself for letting it happen.
Because Voldemort was winning.
Not just the war. Not just control over the wizarding world.
He was winning Harry.
He had almost succeeded in stripping away the last, fragile remnants of the boy who had once defied him. The boy who had faced death and darkness without flinching. The boy who believed in friendship, in hope, in love.
That boy was gone.
All that remained was a broken shell.
And maybe that had been Voldemort’s goal all along—not to kill Harry Potter, but to destroy everything that made him Harry Potter.
To rip apart his pride, his courage, his very soul.
To make him nothing.
There were moments when Harry dreamed of escape-of running far, far away, to a place where no one knew his name.There were moments when he tried. Moments when he clung to the fragile hope that someone-anyone-would come to save him.
But Voldemort crushed those hopes every time.
There were days when Voldemort's cruelty wasn't content with mere words or curses. Days when he'd stride into Harry's cell, his cold, snake-like fingers tangling in Harry's matted hair, yanking him to his feet with brutal force. No matter how weak Harry had become, Voldemort always treated him as if he weighed nothing, dragging him like a broken doll through the cold, stone corridors.
And then, there was that room.
A room Harry wished he could forget, though he knew he never would. Its memory carved into his mind deeper than the scars on his skin. Voldemort would throw him onto the floor, the sound of the heavy door slamming shut behind them echoing like a death knell. Harry's heart would pound in his chest—not with hope, but with dread. He never knew what awaited him inside, but he knew it would be worse than the last time. It always was.
Then came the blindfold.
Rough fabric pulled tight over his eyes, plunging him into darkness. But darkness was never the worst part. It was the sounds-the footsteps circling him, the metallic clink of chains, the cold scrape of something sharp dragged across stone.
Harry struggled every time, thrashing even though he knew it was pointless. His wrists were pinned down, his body forced into a chair as rough hands gripped him with bone-crushing strength. Voldemort never touched him with care-always with purpose, always to remind him who held power.
Then came the machine.
Harry never saw it. Blindfolded, all he had were sounds-the mechanical hum, the metallic click that echoed louder than it should have in the confined space.
But he felt it.
Voldemort's cold fingers wrapped around his wrist, squeezing until Harry swore his bones would snap.Then, with deliberate slowness, Voldemort forced Harry's trembling fingers toward the unseen machine. Harry tried to pull away, tried to resist, but there was nowhere to go. No strength left to fight.
"Hold him," Voldemort hissed, and one of the Death Eaters tightened their grip, pinning Harry down as if he were nothing more than an animal.
Then, the sound Harry would never forget-the sharp click of a button being pressed.
And the pain.
White-hot, blinding pain as the machine tore into his nail bed, ripping his fingernail clean off, leaving nothing but raw, exposed flesh. Harry's scream echoed through the room, ragged and desperate, but before it could even fully escape his throat, a hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his agony.
His body convulsed, trembling with the searing burn that shot up his arm, his vision behind the blindfold swimming with stars of agony. Blood-warm and slick-dripped down his fingers, pooling on the floor beneath him.
But Voldemort wasn't finished.
"Again," came the cold command.
And again, the process repeated.
Each time, the pain felt worse than the last, like his nerves were being shredded, like fire was eating through his bones. Harry's screams grew hoarse, his throat raw from the effort, but no one cared. The Death Eaters laughed, their cruel amusement filling the room, drowning out the sound of his suffering.
Just when Harry thought the torment had reached its end, he realized how gravely mistaken he was.
The faint clatter of metal echoed in the room—a sharp, chilling sound that sliced through the thick silence like a knife through flesh. Harry’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing involuntarily as a cold shiver raced down his spine.
And Voldemort never disappointed.
The Dark Lord’s footsteps were slow, deliberate, echoing with ominous precision as he approached. In his hand, a gleaming blade caught the dim light, its edge glinting with malicious promise. Harry’s heart pounded against his ribcage like a drum, his battered fingers trembling in their blood-soaked ruin.
Voldemort didn’t hesitate.
With calculated cruelty, he pressed the sharp tip of the knife directly under the raw, exposed flesh where Harry’s fingernail once was.
And then he pushed.
Pain unlike anything Harry had ever known exploded through his body—a white-hot, searing agony that stole the very air from his lungs. He screamed, a ragged, desperate sound that echoed off the cold stone walls, mingling with the faint, cruel laughter of the Death Eaters watching from the shadows.
Harry thrashed, his body convulsing against the restraints that held him down. His legs kicked weakly, his arms pulled against the iron grip of the Death Eater pinning him in place. But it was useless. His strength was long gone, drained by years of starvation, abuse, and hopelessness.
Voldemort leaned in closer, his crimson eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he drove the blade deeper, the steel sinking further into the tender flesh beneath Harry’s nail bed. Blood welled up around the wound, dark and thick, trickling down Harry’s wrist in slow, sticky rivers.
Harry’s screams grew hoarse, his voice breaking into raw, guttural sobs. His vision blurred with tears—hot, stinging tears that carved paths down his dirt-smeared face. Every nerve in his body was on fire, every heartbeat sending fresh waves of torment through his mangled fingers.
But Voldemort wasn’t done.
No, this was far from over.
He twisted the knife.
A sickening, wet sound filled the room—a grotesque squelch as the blade tore through the fragile tissue. Harry’s back arched violently, another scream ripped from his throat, louder and more desperate than before. His entire body trembled, sweat mingling with blood as his mind spiraled into a haze of unbearable agony.
Voldemort’s laughter was the last thing Harry heard clearly.
Harry’s screams echoed through the hollow, stone corridors—hoarse, guttural, raw with agony. The sound was so piercing, so filled with unfiltered pain, that it could’ve reached the second floor above. But there was no one to hear. No one to come.
His tears had long dried up—his body too dehydrated, too exhausted to produce any more. All that remained were silent sobs, his face contorted with suffering, his features pale and sickly, almost translucent under the flickering torchlight. His skin had taken on a ghastly hue, drained of color from the relentless blood loss. His frail body felt weightless, floating in that hazy space between life and death, his mind foggy, thoughts slipping like sand through trembling fingers.
A ringing buzzed in his ears, drowning out the world around him. His breathing was ragged, shallow gasps mixed with involuntary sobs as his chest struggled to rise and fall. The muscles in his arms and legs tensed uncontrollably, seizing in painful spasms—a physical reaction to the overwhelming trauma. His nerves were on fire, a relentless, searing burn that refused to fade.
In that fleeting moment, Harry thought—this is it.
This time, he’s going to die.
His vision blurred, the edges darkening like ink spreading across parchment. The last thing he saw before collapsing was a smear of crimson—his own blood, staining the floor beneath him.
But Voldemort’s voice pierced through the darkness, low and rasping, seeping into the fragile remnants of Harry’s consciousness.
“So… this is how Muggles torture their own, Harry,” Voldemort whispered, his words dripping with mockery, each syllable deliberate, a dagger twisted deeper into Harry’s fractured mind. “Do you feel honored? Honored that I treat you no better than the filthy Muggles you so adore?”
“This is what happens when you dare try to escape me.”
A harsh laugh, cold and cruel, filled the room.
“You are mine—to break, to torture, to kill. Mine.”
When Harry awoke, the world was a dull blur of gray. The dim light from the torches cast long, wavering shadows across the cold stone walls. His body felt heavier than ever, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. His head throbbed with a dull ache, his mouth dry as ash.
His hands…
His hands were wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, the cloth stained dark crimson where fresh wounds had bled through. The crude wrappings had already loosened in places, exposing raw, torn flesh beneath—flesh that throbbed with every weak pulse of his heart. Strips of skin dangled like fragile threads, some blackened at the edges where necrosis had already begun to creep in.
The stench was suffocating—a sickly-sweet mixture of blood, sweat, and decay.
But what did it matter?
Voldemort didn’t care. He never had. Harry was nothing more than an object to him—a plaything to be broken, mended, and broken again.
When the wounds festered too much, when Harry teetered too close to death’s edge, Voldemort would simply wave his wand, murmuring healing spells with casual indifference. Just enough to keep him alive. Just enough to ensure he’d survive for the next round of torture.
There was no kindness in the healing. No relief.
Only the cruel cycle—pain, near-death, temporary reprieve, then back to pain.
A never-ending loop.
Since that day, the idea of escape had become nothing more than a distant, cruel fantasy in Harry’s mind—something abstract, like a dream half-remembered upon waking. The will to run, to fight, had been buried beneath layers of pain and humiliation.
Lost in a haze of thoughts, Harry was abruptly dragged back to the present by the harsh creak of the heavy iron door swinging open. His heart stuttered in his chest, panic rising like bile. His breath quickened, shallow and ragged, as he instinctively scrambled into the corner of the small, filthy cell, pressing himself against the cold stone wall as if it could somehow shield him.
He’s back.
Voldemort.
Harry wasn’t ready—he was never ready.
fuck fuck fuck
But instead of that familiar, terrifying silhouette, another figure stepped inside. A voice followed, soft yet sharp against the oppressive silence.
“Hello, Potter. I brought you some food.”
Harry’s blood ran cold. His wide, hollow eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway, disbelief etched into every battered line of his face. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. His throat was dry, too raw from screams and sobs to form coherent sounds. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly against the fragile skin stretched thin over his neck.
Draco Malfoy.
For a fleeting moment, confusion flickered through Harry’s battered mind. Then anger surged, sharp and bitter.
Of course.
Of course Voldemort had sent Draco. Another layer to the endless game, another way to strip Harry of whatever dignity remained. This wasn’t just about pain anymore—it was about humiliation, about grinding Harry’s pride into dust beneath the heel of his captor.
Harry’s eyes narrowed, the hatred simmering beneath his exhaustion. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His glare said enough. But when Draco stepped closer, Harry’s bravado cracked for a heartbeat. His body tensed, shrinking back further into the corner like a wounded animal expecting another blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, bracing himself for any spells, for insults, for the familiar sting of pain.
But none came.
Instead, Draco’s voice was quieter this time, almost hesitant.
“Don’t worry, Potter. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Harry didn’t believe him. He refused to believe him. This was just another trick, another setup, another layer of Voldemort’s cruelty. So he kept his mouth shut, staring at the cracked stone floor, his breathing harsh and uneven.
Draco sighed, the sound heavy with something unrecognizable—was it regret?
“I know it’s strange seeing me here,” Draco continued, his voice flat, emotion carefully tucked away beneath years of practiced indifference. “The Dark Lord wants me to ‘look after you’ while he’s away. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Harry flinched at the mention of “The Dark Lord,” his gaze snapping to Draco’s face. But he didn’t reply. Words felt meaningless, pointless. What could he possibly say to someone like Draco Malfoy? Someone who had stood on the other side of everything that mattered?
To Harry, Draco was no different from the rest of the Death Eaters—cowards draped in black, servants to a monster, hands stained with the blood of Harry’s friends, of his family.
But Draco wasn’t the boy Harry remembered from Hogwarts. The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a tight, weary expression. His pale face was shadowed, gaunt around the edges, and his once meticulously kept blond hair now hung limp and dull. There was something brittle in his gray eyes—something Harry couldn’t quite place.
Draco hesitated, shifting awkwardly as if standing in Harry’s presence was more difficult than expected. He turned to leave, his hand brushing against the doorframe.
But then he stopped.
His eyes fell on Harry’s hands—wrapped in dirty, blood-soaked bandages, crusted with dried crimson, the edges dark where infection had begun to set in. His brow furrowed, the slightest twitch of concern flickering across his face before he could mask it.
Harry noticed the glance and instinctively pulled his hands closer, hiding them under the tattered fabric of his oversized shirt. But Draco was faster. He stepped forward, grabbing Harry’s wrist—not with force, but with an unexpected gentleness.
“How the hell are you supposed to eat with your hands like this?” Draco muttered, more to himself than to Harry.
Harry tried to jerk away, his body trembling from both fear and fury, but Draco’s grip was firm.
“Relax, Potter,” Draco snapped, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness. “Just sit still. Let me help.”
Draco reached for the cold, half-congealed bowl of gruel he’d brought, scooping a small spoonful and holding it out toward Harry’s mouth. Harry recoiled, shaking his head stubbornly, turning away with defiance etched into every fragile line of his face.
Draco exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. But beneath the surface, something unsettled churned inside him. This was Harry Potter? The boy who had defied Voldemort, who had faced down death more times than anyone should in a lifetime?
This broken thing?
It was almost unrecognizable.
Gone was the fierce boy with fire in his eyes and a stubborn tilt to his chin. In his place was a fragile shell—hollow cheeks, sunken eyes dulled of the vibrant green that once shone with defiance. His body was a collection of bruises and scars, his wrists marked by the permanent indentations of shackles. His legs were thin, bony, and bruised purple around the ankles where chains had bitten into his skin. The faint clink of metal echoed with every slight movement he made.
And beneath the oversized, threadbare shirt—nothing more than a flimsy veil of dignity—Draco could see faint outlines of whip marks, old bruises layered upon newer ones. His gaze drifted to Harry’s hands again, noting the missing finger, the blackened edges around the bandages.
Infected, Draco thought grimly.
Rotting.
He swallowed hard, pushing down the bile rising in his throat—not from disgust at Harry, but at himself. At Voldemort. At the world they’d both been trapped in.
“You have to eat something,” Draco said quietly, trying again, holding the spoon a little closer.
Harry didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just kept staring, his expression hollow, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
Draco didn’t know what to say.
What could he say?
They weren’t friends. They never had been. But this—this wasn’t about Hogwarts rivalries anymore. This wasn’t about Gryffindor and Slytherin, about bloodlines or house points.
This was about survival.
survival
Draco sighed, a deep, weary exhale that seemed to carry the weight of years—years filled with regret, fear, and choices he could never take back.
He and Harry had been enemies once, back at Hogwarts. But that felt like another lifetime, a distant memory from a world that no longer existed. Back then, their rivalry had been petty—house pride, blood status, the childish need to feel superior. How foolish it all seemed now.
How many years had it been since those days in the Great Hall, filled with laughter, rivalry, and the illusion of safety? Draco didn’t know. Time had blurred, twisted into something meaningless under Voldemort’s reign.
Voldemort.
The name alone left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Draco’s parents were gone—murdered—by the very man they had once pledged their loyalty to. His mother, Narcissa, had lied to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, claiming Harry Potter was dead when he wasn’t. A single act of defiance, a flicker of humanity amidst the darkness.
She paid the price for that lie with her life.
But Voldemort spared Draco.
Why? Not out of kindness. Not even out of pity.
No, Voldemort saw potential in Draco—a pawn, a tool, something useful.
And Draco let it happen.
Coward.
And Draco Malfoy was terrified of dying.
So, he bowed his head. He donned the mask of a loyal Death Eater, inked with the same Dark Mark that had cursed his father. He played the part, spoke the words Voldemort wanted to hear, executed the orders he was given.
If Draco looked closely—closer than he wanted to—he’d see that Harry wasn’t even wearing pants. Just a pair of black, threadbare boxers, barely clinging to his frail hips beneath the oversized, stained shirt. Between his inner thighs were faint, ominous hickeys and remains of sperms, making Draco’s brows furrowed at the sight.
When Voldemort had handed him the list of tasks, Draco had felt a flicker of surprise. “Feed the prisoner. One bowl of porridge per day. If not, a cup of water. Your choice.” The words had been scribbled with careless indifference, as if Harry Potter—the Harry Potter—was nothing more than a pet that needed occasional feeding.
Draco hadn’t known what to expect. He thought he’d grown numb to cruelty, hardened by the years spent under Voldemort’s shadow. But seeing Harry like this—reduced to skin, bones, and bruises—was different.
Harry had always been the defiant one. The boy with fire in his eyes, the lion-hearted Gryffindor who’d faced monsters without flinching.
Draco thought he had suffered. Thought he had endured enough, having watched his family fall apart under Voldemort’s reign. But this?
Maybe death would’ve been kinder.
He sighed, glancing down at the bowl of cold, congealed porridge in his hands. It was hardly food—more like a tasteless paste, thick and grayish, the kind of thing you’d feed to someone you didn’t care if they lived or died.
“You should eat,” Draco muttered softly, his voice devoid of its usual sharpness. “It’s better than nothing.”
Harry didn’t respond. His body trembled, though Draco couldn’t tell if it was from fear, cold, or both. Probably both.
His instincts—ones he’d long buried under layers of arrogance and pride—kicked in. Draco hesitated, then slowly reached out, his fingers brushing against Harry’s bruised cheek. The skin was cold, clammy, and far too fragile beneath his touch. His thumb gently traced the edge of a fading bruise, dark purple against sickly pale skin.
“If you don’t eat, your wounds won’t heal,” Draco whispered, his voice softer now, almost tender. “Just… listen to me, Potter. Eat.”
For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. His breathing was ragged, shallow, his body stiff with mistrust. But then—slowly, cautiously—he lifted his head. Their eyes met.
Green against gray.
But the green had faded. Dull, lifeless, nothing like the fierce glare Draco remembered from Hogwarts. It was like staring into hollow glass, reflecting nothing back.
Harry hesitated, his gaze flickering between Draco’s face and the spoon hovering inches from his lips. Suspicion lingered in his eyes—Why? they seemed to ask. Why would you help me? What’s your game?
Draco didn’t flinch. He just waited.
And finally—finally—Harry parted his lips, just enough for Draco to gently slip the spoon between them.
The first bite went down with difficulty. Harry’s throat worked to swallow, his face contorted slightly from the unfamiliar effort of eating after what must’ve been days—weeks, even—of neglect.
Without a word, Draco scooped another spoonful and brought it to Harry’s lips. And again. And again.
There was a rhythm to it—mechanical, almost clinical—but something in Draco’s chest twisted with each bite Harry took. It was the realization of just how fragile he’d become.
When the bowl was finally empty, Draco set it aside, pulling a small, surprisingly clean handkerchief from his pocket. He reached forward, gently wiping the remnants of porridge from the corners of Harry’s mouth. His movements were careful, precise, as if afraid Harry might break apart if he wasn’t gentle enough.
Draco smiled then—a faint, brittle thing, more pity than warmth.
“Was it good?” he asked quietly, not expecting an answer.
Harry didn’t give one. He simply lowered his head, staring at the floor, his shoulders hunched inward like he was trying to disappear.
“If you liked it, I’ll get you more.”
Draco stood, the empty bowl cradled in his hand, his movements stiff but with an awkward gentleness.
But before he could take more than a step to leave, Harry’s frail hand shot out, gripping the hem of Draco’s robes with surprising strength.
“No.”
The word was soft, fragile. Draco turned, startled, his gray eyes meeting Harry’s piercing emerald gaze.
There was something in those eyes—familiar, haunting. A flicker of the boy he once knew at Hogwarts, for a brief, jarring moment, Draco was transported back to their school days, to shouted insults in corridors, wands drawn in dark classrooms, fists flying when words weren’t enough.
“Why not?” Draco asked, gently trying to pull away.
But Harry’s grip tightened, his thin fingers trembling but determined.
“You’re skin and bones. Just sit down, Potter. Let me get more food.”
Harry shook his head violently, his grip still firm despite the weakness in his body. His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat. Draco frowned, confused by the sudden resistance.
“What is it? What’s your problem?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended.
Harry’s face twisted slightly—not in anger, but in something Draco couldn’t quite place.
Then Harry spoke, his voice barely a whisper, hoarse from disuse and too many screams swallowed in the dark.
“If you bring more… Voldemort will be angry… he’ll hurt you.”
The words hit harder than Draco expected.
For a moment, the room was silent—just the faint metallic clink of Harry’s chains shifting as he loosened his grip. Draco swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Then, forcing his voice steady, he replied, “He’s gone. On some… ‘mission’ or whatever he calls it. He won’t be back for a month.”
Harry’s eyes didn’t brighten. No relief, no hope. Just a flicker of disbelief, quickly replaced by resignation.
Draco crouched down again, his voice quieter now, softer in the stale air.
“He won’t know, Potter. Stop worrying.”
But Harry didn’t let go immediately. His fingers remained curled around Draco’s sleeve as if it was the only thing tethering him to reality. Then, slowly, with a trembling breath, he released him, his hand falling limply back to his side.
Draco stood, clearing his throat to chase away the tightness that refused to leave.
“I’ll be back in a minute. Just… sit still, yeah?”
Draco didn’t wait for Harry’s consent. As soon as he pulled free from Harry’s grip, he hurried down the cold, stone corridors, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly in the dimly lit halls. As Draco reached the kitchen, he grabbed another bowl of porridge. But this time, he didn’t settle for the tasteless, watered-down slop Harry had been surviving on. He added bits of meat, carefully stirring it until it was warm and steaming. On a whim—or maybe out of some misplaced guilt—he poured a cup of hot tea too, its faint aroma cutting through the stale, metallic scent of the dungeons.
Before heading back, he made a quick detour to the small, dusty infirmary tucked away near the servants’ quarters. He wasn’t a Healer, not even close, but he knew enough to understand that Harry’s wounds needed more than just temporary magic. He grabbed bandages, gauze, and whatever antiseptics he could find, stuffing them into a worn plastic bag.
Twenty minutes later, Draco returned to the small, dark cell that had become Harry’s world.
The sight of Harry—still huddled in the corner, still wrapped in fear—hit Draco harder than he expected. He set the bag of medical supplies on the rickety table, then carried the steaming bowl of porridge to Harry’s side. Sitting down on the creaky bed, he carefully scooped a spoonful and held it out.
Harry hesitated, his eyes flickering with the same wary suspicion as before. But hunger—and perhaps exhaustion—overpowered his doubt. Slowly, he opened his mouth, accepting the warm food.
This time, the porridge wasn’t cold and lifeless. It was warm, filling, and for the first time in what must’ve been weeks—maybe even months—Harry felt the faintest sense of comfort. The warmth seeped into his chest, battling the cold that had taken root there for so long.
“You’re weak,” Draco murmured, his voice softer than usual, almost gentle. “For now, just eat this. I’ll bring something better tomorrow.”
Harry didn’t reply. He simply ate, spoonful after spoonful, until the bowl was empty. Draco handed him the cup of tea next, watching as Harry struggled to hold it with his trembling, bandaged hands. Draco steadied the cup for him, pretending not to notice how Harry flinched at every small movement.
Afterward, Draco stood, wiping his hands on his robes before reaching for the plastic bag. He pulled out the medical supplies and sat back down, his expression shifting from passive detachment to something more serious.
“Let’s deal with those hands.”
As Draco reached for Harry’s bandaged fingers, Harry instinctively recoiled, his body tensing with fear. His eyes widened, head shaking furiously as if expecting pain, punishment—torture.
Draco froze, realizing the depth of Harry’s terror.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice dropping into a rare, soothing tone. “It’s okay. I’m just going to clean them. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Harry’s breathing was ragged, but after a long pause, he hesitantly extended his hands, trembling like fragile leaves caught in a storm.
Draco carefully unwrapped the old, blood-soaked bandages. As the final layer peeled away, he swallowed hard, his stomach knotting at the sight.
The damage was worse than he’d imagined.
Harry’s fingers were raw, the skin torn and bruised, deep gashes where fingernails had once been. Some of the wounds were dark and infected, the edges swollen and angry. Draco clenched his jaw, forcing down the surge of anger—not at Harry, but at Him. At Voldemort.
Silently, he pulled out his wand, pointing it toward Harry’s mangled hands.
“Vulnera Sanetur.”
The healing charm glowed faintly, its light casting soft shadows on the walls. Harry winced, his body jerking slightly from the stinging sensation as the magic seeped into the wounds. He bit his lip hard, trying to stifle any sound, his eyes squeezed shut against the burning pain.
Draco worked quickly, though his movements were far from perfect. He wasn’t a Healer, and the spell wasn’t as smooth as it could’ve been, leaving Harry’s face pale and damp with sweat from the effort of holding in his cries.
Tears welled at the corners of Harry’s eyes, but he blinked them back, swallowing the sobs that threatened to escape. He didn’t want to cry—not in front of Draco. Not in front of anyone.
When Draco finished, he gently wrapped fresh bandages around Harry’s hands, careful not to pull too tightly. His fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary, as if silently apologizing for the pain he couldn’t completely erase.
Standing up, Draco gathered the used supplies, stuffing them back into the plastic bag. He hesitated at the door, glancing over his shoulder one last time.
“I’m done here, Potter,” he said quietly. “Get some rest.”
But just as he was about to leave, something made him stop. He turned back, his brows furrowing slightly.
With a flick of his wand, he muttered, “Tergeo.”
Harry stiffened, his body freezing as the spell swept over him. The gentle charm cleaned away the grime, the dried blood, the sweat that clung to his battered skin. Draco’s face remained neutral, but his voice softened.
“You… uh, had some sticky stuff on you. I just wanted you to feel more comfortable, that’s all.”
With that, Draco turned and left the small, dimly lit cell. His steps were brisk, his posture stiff with the same cold indifference he’d worn like armor for years. But his eyes—his eyes betrayed him.
The door clicked closed, leaving Harry alone once more. The room felt emptier than before, but not in the way he was used to.
It’s been so long…
So long since he’d seen a face from the world beyond these walls. A face from Hogwarts.
Even if that face belonged to Draco Malfoy.
Of all people.