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Summary
It still cramped for every step he took, this new and tender organ, as Harry walks to his death, to the imprisoned monster, not as the jailer he's been for the past year, not even as the prophesied enemy, the bitter rival to the defeated Dark Lord, but as death's bride, tasked with gathering the seed of his enemy in his tender womb, nurture a life.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘮 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨?
Seduce the imprisoned Dark Lord into spilling his seed in Harry’s magically grown womb to bind them to each other under the magical laws of marriage—a surer prison than any cage, jail, or fortress.
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?
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according to the prophecy, Voldemort can only die by Harry Potter's hands but Harry cannot use the Killing curse. The ministry improvises with a.... unique solution.