An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
SUMMARY:
Harry Potter fails to die.
“Behold The Boy Who Lived, your precious chosen one, your supposed hero… in shackles.”
Lord Voldemort reigns supreme.
With the afterlife refusing to keep his soul and his freedom stolen by Voldemort, Harry must navigate the delicate tightrope between willful resistance and lives of his friends. What if he refuses Voldemort’s demands too much? What if precious lives are taken from him because he didn’t give into Voldemort?
“What if I’m doing this all wrong?”
Yet… something greater calls their attention.
The Master of Death has not been seen for a thousand years and the dead are restless. Something ancient demands restoration to the balance between birth and death.
The cycle must continue.
For neither the light nor the dark can be seen without the other.
—
SEVEN EXCERPT:
“Perhaps… Ms. Umbridge had a valuable point,” whispered Voldemort.
He lazily flicked his wand at Harry. Magic bodily moved him, drew Harry to his knees, and bowed him forward as if in penance to a god. His suit robes, his vest, and dress shirt vanished, cool air brushing against his bare skin. Harry’s breath hitched.
“We have eternity,” whispered Voldemort, a blazing whip unfurling from the tip of his wand. “We will see which one of us bends to the knee first.”
Fiery burning pain exploded in a single stripe across Harry’s back. Harry’s head flung upwards in a cry. Another rained down on his skin. Harry gasped, doubled over, his hands slamming down on the wooden floor.
“Is this what you want, Harry?” said Voldemort, so unfairly chidingly. “You have all but begged me to discipline you, like the spoilt little boy you are. I have given you a warm bed, food in your belly, endless magic at your fingertips, and books for your entertainment—and yet you still scorn the hand which feeds you.”
Harry’s head flew upwards, falling back; he spat at Voldemort’s boots. “Fuck. You,” he hissed.
A lash cut across the entirety of Harry’s back. His jaw tightened over a scream and he doubled over again, chest heaving in deep breaths. It burned. Somehow, it was ten times worse than the cruciatus curse. Fuck. The pain was different, burning, fiery, unyielding.
But he could endure it.
It wasn’t anything new.
Magic wrapped around his wrists and pulled his arms backwards. Harry twisted, trying to tug at them, but to no avail. Another line of fire cracked across his back, stealing his breath away. Harry sagged, his lungs expanding for desperate air, going lightheaded with the pain.
Boot clipped behind Harry; a hand gripped him by the hair and jerked his head back; Voldemort loomed in his vision.
“Beg for my mercy.”
“No.”
“Why will you not break?” demanded Voldemort.
Harry laughed, bitter. “Someone broke me long before you came along. Did you really think you’re the first?”
Voldemort’s brow furrowed. He threw Harry’s head forward; another lash cracked across his back.
“I will never—” Harry sucked in a gasping, sucking breath of air, the pain of another lash nearly whiting out his vision. “—give you what you want.”
Magic whipped around him, furious and irritated, a terribly beautiful dichotomy of vicious heat and soothing comfort.
Again and again, the lashes fell. Harry bit his lower lip, blood pooling into his mouth. He couldn’t hold back the involuntary sobs, but he bore through it. In between each lash, he drew in a shuddering breath, preparing himself for the next blow.
He’d been trained well.
A blessed lull gave Harry some much needed relief. He shivered, his back aflame with throbbing, burning pain. His head spun; nausea rose up in his throat, his gut churning. He slowly lifted his head. Coated in dried crimson and fresh bruises, the white sclera burst with blood, Voldemort gazed down at him with a mixture of feigned indifference and trembling bewilderment.
“Still not gonna submit,” whispered Harry hoarsely.
Magic released him; he collapsed onto his chest, the cool tiles a balm to his aching body. A spell fell over Harry and the flesh on his back knitted together. Exhausted, phantom pain still pulsed through him, but the fiery agony was now gone.
Harry frowned and lifted his head.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, his lips curling. Thin slitted nostrils flared. Silence reigned between them, scarlet red equally matched with verdant green.
And in the midst of the moment, an odd sense of loss warmed inside Harry’s chest, an ache more fierce than the crack of a lash and more ancient than the earth and universe itself.
‘I’m so sorry.’
“I will break you,” whispered Voldemort. “One way or another.”
Harry chuckled, weak and breathless. He sat up, struggling to his feet. “Well, it’s like you said,” he whispered. “We’ve got an eternity to watch you try and fail.”
Eternity.
Over and over.
Again and again.
An endless cycle of which neither could break.
“Do we now?” asked Voldemort, soft with a hiss, harsh with a growl; his tail snapped, writhing through his robes. He licked his lips, blood flaking off. “Well, certainly not all of us do.” With a heaving sound, he snapped his attention towards Barty. “Bring me the girl.”
