Chapter Text
Voldemort’s triumphant laughter echoed through the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Each peal of it was like a hammer blow to Severus’ chest.
"Victory," Voldemort declared, "belongs to those who have the power to seize it. Today, together, we have crushed the last, pathetic hope of those who would oppose us. The Boy Who Lived… is now the Boy Who Died."
Voldemort smirked at his own terrible joke. Before him, the crowd of assembled Death Eaters erupted into jeering laughter and cheers.
Standing discreetly near the back of the gathering, Severus clasped his hands behind his back, his face arranged into an expression of cold satisfaction. It was a mask he had perfected over decades, one that betrayed nothing of the howling void that had opened inside him the moment he had laid eyes on Potter's corpse at Voldemort’s feet, next to the bodies of his two friends, Granger and Weasley. Potter’s lifeless green eyes - Lily’s eyes - stared unseeingly up at the high arched ceiling.
He was dead.
Lily's son.
The last piece of her that remained in this world was gone.
There had been nothing that Severus could do. Severus had not even been present when Potter had been killed. He had been at Hogwarts, entirely unaware, engrossed in boring administrative matters of running the school even as Potter and his friends had gotten themselves captured. Potter, that damned idiot, had used the Dark Lord’s name in spite of the well-known Taboo. At once, he had been caught by Greyback and his band of snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor, whereupon the Malfoys had summoned Voldemort immediately.
And upon his arrival, Voldemort had not hesitated to simply slaughter them all.
Staring at the corpses of Potter, Granger and Weasley at Voldemort’s feet, all Severus felt was… nothing. He couldn’t even summon up the energy to feel rage or loathing, or anything other than blank, black despair.
He had dedicated seventeen years of his life to protecting that useless brat. He had even killed Dumbledore - the one man who had known the truth of his allegiance, the one man who might have vouched for his true intentions - on the old fool's own orders, all for the sake of his ultimate mission of defeating Voldemort for good. He had cemented his position as the Dark Lord's loyal servant beyond any possible doubt. And now that Potter was dead, killed by his own sheer stupidity and arrogance, what had been the point of any of it?
Now, Severus found himself here, standing in this opulent drawing room beneath Lucius’ gaudy crystal chandelier, forced to watch approvingly as his most hated enemy gloated over the corpse of his life's purpose. The revenge Severus had sworn to achieve, the atonement he had spent close to two decades pursuing, had now been rendered utterly meaningless.
Voldemort let his gaze drift over the cheering Death Eaters, savouring his victory, before turning to the Malfoys, who were standing together in a huddle at his right.
Draco stood rigidly beside his parents, white-faced and trembling despite his efforts to appear composed. His eyes remained fixed on some indistinct point ahead of him, determinedly refusing to stray toward the sprawled bodies of Potter, Granger and Weasley at Voldemort’s feet. Narcissa’s hands rested upon Draco’s shoulders, her grip so firm that her knuckles were white, her face pale and expression controlled. Every inch of her posture announcing that she intended to hold her family together by sheer will if necessary. Beside her, Lucius inclined his head as the Dark Lord spoke, managing a brittle semblance of a smile, even though the tension in his jaw and the slight flutter at his throat betrayed him.
“And the Malfoys,” Voldemort continued.
Lucius visibly jolted.
Voldemort said magnanimously, "They have redeemed themselves most admirably. It was in this very house that Potter was captured and secured. It was Lucius who summoned me with all haste, aided by Draco and Narcissa. Well done, my faithful servants."
Lucius bowed low. His long, loose blond hair fell forward momentarily to hide his face, concealing what Severus knew would be an expression of profound relief. As Lucius straightened up, there was a faintly stunned look in his grey eyes, as though he had not quite dared to imagine such a turn of good fortune - that after months of disgrace and degradation after his failures at the Department of Mysteries, he was now standing in favour once more.
Voldemort’s gaze shifted to Bellatrix, who stood a little further away from her sister Narcissa. He said indulgently, “And you, Bellatrix - your assistance in subduing the boy and his friend, the Mudblood and blood traitor, was exemplary.”
Bellatrix looked as though she might faint from joy. Her eyes shone with manic devotion as she gazed up at the Dark Lord, who was radiant with gloating triumph.
Even Voldemort’s appearance had changed, too. How this transformation had occurred, Severus did not know - some dark ritual he had carried out at the moment of his victory, perhaps, or simply the natural outcome of a soul made whole by the murder of his fated enemy. But no longer did Voldemort look like the monstrous, snake-like revenant that had been resurrected in the graveyard three years before. Those slitted eyes, the flattened nose, the corpse-pale skin stretched too thin over bone had vanished entirely. Somehow, Voldemort had regained the appearance he once wore. His eyes, though still a vivid, unsettling red, were now set in a face that was undeniably human and strikingly handsome, with sharply cut, aristocratic features and framed by sleek dark hair that fell neatly to his shoulders. He looked less like a spectre and more like a king restored. Alive, radiant with power, and dangerously beautiful, his triumph casting a certain dark lustre over every line of his face.
Severus suppressed a shudder. He remembered that face. He remembered being seventeen years old, newly marked, and thinking that Lord Voldemort was the most compelling, most handsome man he had ever encountered. He remembered the way his breath had caught the first time those scarlet eyes had fixed on him with approval. He remembered wanting, with a desperation that had shocked even himself, to be worthy of that attention.
All of that had been before Voldemort set his sights on Lily, and Severus’ infatuation with him burned itself to ash.
And now, even the ashes of that old flame had crumbled even further to brittle remnants of black dust, as Severus gazed upon the visage of the Dark Lord triumphant.
"We stand at the dawn of a new age," Voldemort declared, spreading his arms wide. "With Potter gone, with my prophesied enemy killed at my hand, I have now conquered death itself! Nothing now stands between us and the future that should always have been ours. Wizarding Britain will be restored to its rightful strength, cleansed of the Muggle taint and rebuilt according to the principles of power and magic unrestrained. And you, my friends, who have served me faithfully, will find your loyalty to me repaid a hundredfold. You will take your places at the forefront of my new and eternal empire, honoured and enriched beyond anything you once imagined. Together, we will shape the world that is to come!”
The cheers of the Death Eaters were deafening. Severus clapped along, maintaining his cold, satisfied expression. Inwardly, however, he felt nothing at all. Not hatred, nor grief, nor even the bitter satisfaction of having been proven right about Potter’s reckless stupidity beyond all doubt. Merely a great, black emptiness that pressed upon him, numbing thought and feeling alike. Even the notion of drinking something swift and final upon his return to Hogwarts felt like too much trouble, an exertion that Severus could not summon the effort to make. So he simply clapped along mechanically with the rest of the crowd, a puppet mimicking joy in his front-row seat at the Dark Lord’s celebration of his victory, while hollowed out entirely within.
Voldemort’s scarlet eyes gleamed. He swept his hand out in an expansive gesture towards the crowd.
He said, "Now, you are all free to go forth and celebrate our victory as you see fit. You have earned it. All of you may go - except you, Severus. You will remain."
Gazes flicked towards Severus, some confused, some calculating. Severus did not react. Even that pronouncement did not penetrate the cold shroud of despair that had settled over his mind, not sparking even the mildest flicker of curiosity or surprise. He did not know what Voldemort wanted from him, nor did he care. Ideally, Voldemort would simply kill him and put an end to his troubles for good.
One by one, the Death Eaters began to Disapparate, some of them still casting Severus lingering, curious glances. Others avoided looking at him at all. Together with the Malfoys, Bellatrix swept by Severus with her usual theatrical flair, though her expression suggested she would have preferred to stay behind and bask in her Lord’s presence.
At last, they were all gone, leaving Severus alone with Voldemort in the vast, echoing drawing room.
Severus stood silently, back straight and hands clasped loosely behind his back, waiting numbly for Voldemort’s next words.
Whatever came next, it could hardly matter.
As Voldemort’s footsteps approached, Severus did not look up, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered.
"Severus," Voldemort said. His voice was soft and intimate, almost a purr. "My most loyal servant. My most capable follower. You have served me faithfully for so many years. Even when others doubted you, even when those like Bellatrix questioned your allegiance, I alone knew the truth of your devotion. And you have been instrumental to my victory today. With Dumbledore and Potter both dead, there is not one person left alive who can topple my empire."
The irony of those words was like a blade twisting in his chest.
“It is my pleasure to serve you, my Lord,” Severus murmured, for lack of anything better to say. Regardless, Voldemort was generally satisfied with grovelling platitudes. Severus inclined his head further, keeping his gaze fixed on Lucius’ gleaming marble floor.
Voldemort said, "With all my foes dead, and the resistance thoroughly broken, we stand at the threshold of a new age. But an empire, Severus, cannot be built on pure might alone. It must be secured. It must be continued."
Voldemort paused. Then, he reached out and placed a finger under Severus’ chin, tilting his head up with gentle pressure until their gazes met.
"I need an heir," said Voldemort.
Severus’ eyes widened in surprise. To that, he did not quite know what to say. Voldemort had never before expressed the slightest interest in carnal matters. But circumstances had indeed changed.
Did Voldemort want Severus’ counsel on selecting a suitable partner? Among the Death Eaters, Bellatrix would be the clear choice, but surely Voldemort did not need Severus to point out something so obvious. Perhaps Voldemort wanted Severus to brew him and Bellatrix a fertility potion? If that was the case, Severus might be able to sabotage it somehow. Even if Voldemort was too canny to be poisoned, he might at least be able to kill Bellatrix off.
And then, Voldemort said -
"And who better to provide me with an heir than you?"
“Me?”
Severus’ jaw dropped. He gaped at Voldemort in pure astonishment.
“Yes, Severus,” Voldemort continued, his voice soft and terrible in its certainty. "You are my most intelligent, most loyal, most competent servant. You have always been the sharpest blade in my hand - ruthless when necessity demands it, subtle where others blunder, faithful beyond question, and possessed of a mind keener than all others. You alone have never disappointed me. You are the one I truly trust, the one whose brilliance has served me unfailingly. Who else, then, should bear the future of my empire? Who else could possibly be worthy of carrying my heir?”
For a moment, one crystalline, eternal moment, Severus's mind simply refused to process what he had just heard. The words hung in the air, completely incomprehensible, as if Voldemort had been speaking Parseltongue instead of English.
And then, with the force of a Bludger, understanding crashed through the blank numbness in his mind.
Voldemort. Wanted him. To bear his child.
Severus had thought himself incapable of feeling anything other than that vast, echoing emptiness that had consumed him since learning of Potter's death. At once, he had been proven spectacularly wrong.
With dawning horror and dismay, Severus stared wide-eyed and breathless at Voldemort. Unwillingly, he took in the sight of his master’s face, now no longer snakelike and monstrous but cruelly, heartbreakingly gorgeous. Voldemort’s crimson gaze was terrifyingly clear and free of any doubt.
“I…” Severus stammered weakly. “My Lord, I… I... this - this is a great honour, but... it… it’s not possible. I - I am a man -”
Even as he said it, he knew it was a futile objection. There was nothing that Voldemort could not do with his magic.
Voldemort smiled at Severus indulgently.
"Do not worry, Severus," he said. "That is no obstacle."
Severus had no time to react, no time to even blink, before Voldemort raised the Elder Wand and levelled it at him.
“Transfemus!”
A jet of golden light shot out of the end of Voldemort’s wand, striking Severus squarely in the centre of his abdomen.
Severus let out a choked cry, doubling over as his hands went instinctively to his stomach.
There was no true pain. But it all felt strange and wrong as the magic sank into him, as if someone had just reached inside him and begun rearranging his internal organs from the chest down with casual disregard for how things were supposed to fit together. He could feel his organs changing and shifting under his trembling palms. A new space was opening up inside him, unfurling and growing, being carved deep within his flesh.
Severus’ bones shifted, reshaping themselves with a series of nauseating cracks and pops that resonated through his entire skeleton. His robes, which had always hung loosely on his thin frame, suddenly felt too tight around his widened hip bones and newly rounded ass. His waist narrowed, his pelvis tilted, his thighs filled out, and the sudden change in his weight distribution made him stagger as his centre of gravity abruptly shifted.
And then there was the change between his legs - the most intimate and humiliating transformation of all. All at once, Severus’ cock and balls vanished, replaced by something new and utterly strange. His… his new cunt. A soft and sensitive little cunt where his cock and balls had once been, wholly unfamiliar and completely unwelcome.
Severus fell to his knees, gasping. That movement sent a sharp jolt through his newly transformed body. A most uncomfortable and disorienting sensation shocked through him as he was abruptly made aware of new nerve endings and sensitivities.
From his kneeling position, Severus looked up at Voldemort through eyes wet with tears of shock and dismay. He pressed his hands hard against his changed abdomen, as though he could somehow push everything back to the way it had once been.
“Master… please…”
But his plea fell on deaf ears.
“Perfect,” Voldemort said approvingly, his crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Stand up, Severus.”
Trembling, Severus forced himself to comply. His body felt wrong. Alien. As he got to his feet, every shift of muscle brought a new awareness of unfamiliar weight and sensation. Every movement, every breath, was a sharp reminder that he was no longer the same man he had been mere moments ago. Severus bowed his head, unable to meet Voldemort’s eyes, wishing desperately that he could simply Disapparate away. But there was no escape. He was trapped in this new body, remade by the Dark Lord, and there was nothing that he could do about it.
Voldemort circled Severus slowly, looking him up and down with unconcealed satisfaction. Severus’ skin crawled under his scrutiny.
"Undress," Voldemort commanded. “Let me see what I have wrought.”
Severus froze.
He could not move. His body simply refused to comply. The very idea of removing his robes, of having to bare his newly-transformed body to Voldemort's covetous gaze, filled him with a panic so intense that it threatened to overwhelm him entirely.
“Severus,” Voldemort said patiently.
Severus swallowed hard. He could not delay further. White-faced and visibly shaking, he fumbled futilely at the fastenings of his robes as he tried to force himself to comply. He did not dare defy Voldemort or refuse a direct command, but his body seemed unable to cooperate. His fingers were clumsy and uncoordinated as they struggled with buttons that suddenly seemed impossibly complex; his breath coming too fast, shallow and uneven. More tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision.
This was happening. This was actually happening. Voldemort was going to take him here and now, on the floor of the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Voldemort would push him down and claim him in the most brutal way possible, would -
"Stop."
The word cut through Severus's spiralling thoughts.
Severus’ hands froze mid-fumble. He looked up at Voldemort, unable to hide his confusion, only to find Voldemort watching him with an unreadable expression.
Voldemort stepped back.
“I know this has been rather a shock to you, Severus,” he said. “I will give you some time to adjust to your new circumstances. You will remain here instead of returning to Hogwarts. Tomorrow night, at nine o’clock, you will report to me again at my quarters in the East Wing. By then, I trust you will have composed yourself sufficiently to fulfil your purpose with appropriate grace.”
Severus stared at Voldemort, speechless.
A day’s reprieve. Was Voldemort actually taking pity on him? The thought boggled the mind. Or was this a new test - some form of psychological torture? He didn't understand what was happening. Why would Voldemort transform him and then not immediately follow through with what he wanted?
Whatever the reason, Severus was in no position to question it. He bowed his head and whispered shakily, “Yes, my Lord.”
“Good. You may go.”
Severus bowed once, deeply, and then turned and practically fled the room, departing as fast as he could without appearing rude before Voldemort could change his mind.
The last thing he saw as the door of the drawing room closed behind him was Voldemort's face, beautiful and terrible, his scarlet eyes watching Severus with dark satisfaction.