Struggling To Live

Summary: "Life in Azkaban for crimes against humanity." Those were the last words Harry heard before the cell door slammed shut, and he knew he would never get out alive. H/D. MPREG. Slash.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any aspect of the series. I just play with the characters and mold them to my liking. I make no money off my stories. Le sigh...

Chapter 1 – Alone in Pain

WARNING: This chapter contains graphic scenes of childbirth. MPREG. Slash. Don't like, don't read.

He jolted awake panting and trembling. Sweat was dripping from his face onto his already damp blanket. His lower abdomen ached fiercely after his latest dream; a memory he told himself, though memories and dreams were beginning to run together.

He allowed his head to lull to the side weakly as a moan broke the silence. A sharp fire was burning through his abdomen, causing his breath to hitch with each unstable intake. The pain was continuous. He tried pressing his weak hands into the offending body part, against a hard mass that seemed to be the offense, but the pain didn't lessen any. He could no longer remember a time without the fiery pain.

His bladder was stinging with need for release, so he rolled over and attempted pushing himself to his hands and knees. He had already soiled himself once recently, evidenced by the soggy, reeking dirt and blanket below where he lay.

His genitals were burning with a heavy pressure, but he couldn't care to worry. He would never get out of here alive anyway. Basically, he was just waiting for whatever god existed to allow him to die. He had no hope of ever getting out. The ministry was too corrupt; anyone he had ever associated with outside this hell was living on a lower floor. He could hear the moans, groans, and screams from his own maximum security, solitary confinement floor. When they had first been brought to the island, Hermione and Ron had shouted injustice and encouragement so he could hear. It took two months for his best friends to succumb to the terrors of dementors.

He made his way slowly to the small, nearly full bucket in the corner of his cell. It was emptied at the end of each week. Or maybe at the beginning. He didn't care enough. He held his bits delicately as he relieved himself. A hoarse sob escaped him as lava burned through his penis. It felt like it would never stop, but when it did, he collapsed to the floor panting and whimpering. Something was seriously wrong, but no one here would care. There weren't even any guards on his floor or anywhere inside the prison for all he knew.

It had been six months to his best guesstimate since he had been locked away. The Minister's visits once a month to gloat and sneer helped him to gage the passage of time, along with the emptying of his bucket and the appearance of trays of slop.

When the pain finally subsided some, Harry dragged himself back to his soggy pallet. At least he could feel some semblance of warmth and comfort by cuddling his thin blanket to his chest. He imagined warm days in front of the fire in the Room of Requirement cuddled up closely with Draco, and sometimes, the warmth of his imaginings made him feel slightly less hopeless.

He missed Draco. Their fun camaraderie, their never-ending arguing, their passionate nights haunted his every waking moment. He could feel the ghost of Draco's lips caressing his own, teasing his nipples, taunting the sensitive spot just below his ear. His manhood feebly attempted to respond to his thoughts, but only a dull, throbbing pressure greeted him. He was broken, lost, suffering. He didn't care to live anymore. Draco was gone. Hermione and Ron were gone. His life meant nothing.

Six months in Azkaban prison was enough to turn the sanest people mad. Six months for Harry Potter was enough to make him want to end his life. He had been sentenced to life in prison for crimes against humanity in the defeat of Voldemort, and being the leader of the "revolt", he was sentenced to life in solitary confinement. He didn't know how any of his other friends were fairing. Hermione and Ron had been arrested at the time he had. They had been sentenced together. Hermione and Ron were sharing cells with the others captured because of Voldemort's war. He wasn't sure who had escaped and who was captured any longer. He assumed all the Weasleys, Longbottom, the Lovegoods, and Tonks and Lupin had been arrested. They had all been strong followers of his who would never deny their connection to him.

And Draco. Draco was a Slytherin. He looked out for his best interests, so Harry had no doubt in his mind that Draco was living his life, moving on. There was no way Draco was pining after Harry the way Harry was over him. Harry wasn't worth it. His thoughts conflicted with him. He wanted Draco to move on, to be happy, but he was angry and jealous at the thought of him doing so. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, but he ignored them. At one point he would have been embarrassed by them, but he didn't care any longer.

His and Draco's relationship had been passionate and loving, but short. They had secretly started dating in the beginning of their seventh year. Harry had known he was gay, but due to the teachings of his aunt and uncle, he refused to acknowledge the fact, instead, punishing himself for the dreams starring other boys. Draco had helped him come to terms with his feelings towards guys. It had only taken them an entire year of tenuously building a friendship with their sworn childhood enemies. Draco, himself, leaned on Harry for support after he ran away from home and outright refused Voldemort.

For everything they hated each other for before, they found they had in common. Both were competitive, loved Quidditch, and were eager in their knowledge of defense. Through Draco, Harry even learned a love of Potions. It was much like cooking, which he was intimately knowledgeable about. Draco was still a git, but it made Harry laugh. He could tell the emotion behind each of Draco's masks and knew the sneer he put on was just a front. Often, the sneer was to keep hidden the smile over something someone was doing. Harry spent a lot of time watching Draco from across the room, wondering how no one knew or could see through Harry's charade.

It was because of their secret relationship that Draco was able to move on after Voldemort's defeat. He had never been associated with Harry. Draco, for all intents and purposes, had been neutral in the war, and Harry was thankful for that misconception. Harry and a select few were the only ones who knew it was Draco who killed Crabbe and Goyle Sr. It was Draco who killed Fenir Greyback after he attacked Remus. It was Draco who killed Bellatrix mid curse as she tried attacking Harry from behind. And it was Draco who killed Lucius Malfoy as he tried to kill Harry when he collapsed after Voldemort died.

When Fudge and the aurors showed up when Voldemort was felled, Draco was completely overlooked. Harry was barely conscious to see Draco try to step in and argue when the aurors began arresting members of the Order of the Phoenix. He vaguely saw Snape grab Draco by the arm and apparate away before he lost all consciousness.

When Harry awoke, he was in a small, cold cell inside the Ministry. A man he didn't know was standing over him with a wand pointed at him.

"Up, Potter. You've been sleeping enough. Time for your trial." The man grabbed Harry roughly and dragged him from the cell.

Harry was weak and couldn't get his feet under him. His head was spinning and his stomach was revolting. It felt as if he was woken too early. His body wasn't prepared to be functioning yet. He was dragged up stairs, bypassing the elevators completely, and dropped in front of the chair he had sat in during the fiasco of a trial before his fifth year. The chains not only rattled this time but wrapped around his legs and arms like vines. The chains tightened harshly against his wrists, yanking him from his ungraceful position sprawled on the floor and up into the chair.

The trial was a sham. Harry had no say for his own defense. He had no representation without Dumbledore. Draco was sitting next to Snape in the back of the room. Harry could tell Draco was barely holding himself together, and when their eyes met, neither looked away until Harry was dragged from the room.

Nothing mattered to Harry any longer.

With a small metallic clink, a steel tray with oatmeal and two sausages fell to the stone floor. A fresh cup was dropped beside the tray, and Harry slowly scooted towards it. He was starving all the time now. Had been starving since he arrived in this hell. The only food served in Azkaban was small, dry breakfast sausages, plain oatmeal, wilting vegetables, and dry loaf bread. Harry missed the delicious feasts at Hogwarts, but he couldn't think of things like that.

An unbearable pain shot through his back and into his stomach, and he couldn't stop the sob that escaped him. He hadn't even been able to make it the six feet to the tray of food. Tears streamed from his eyes as he screamed through his pain. Within moments, it was over and he lay there hopeless, still crying, and breathless. After a long time, he felt strong enough to try making it to his tray again.

His stomach burned with need for food. He pulled himself up to lean heavily against the solid steel cell door as he pulled his tray to him. His arms were so thin he looked like a skeleton with skin. He reached his short bony fingers for his spoon and was disgusted by how badly his hands shook.

He was able to choke down almost half his oatmeal and both his sausages before he was overcome again by the sharp pain. He fell to his side grasping at his stomach as his food threatened to come back up. His spoon had fallen halfway to his mouth and the runny glop splattered on the floor in front of him.

Harry gasped as he felt a tearing down below. It felt like his anus was splitting open towards his balls. He unconsciously reached down to press his fingers to the spot and was horrified to find blood. His soft cries became harsh sobs as he curled in on himself, clutching his burning abdomen.

It felt like forever when the pain went away almost completely, and he was left gasping for breath. He knew he was going to die. Whatever was wrong with him was going to kill him. The hard mass in his stomach was growing and was swelling his stomach. He had noticed it for a couple weeks, but didn't pay it any attention because he had no hope of getting out of here alive.

His genitals felt like they were on fire again. He prayed the split in his perineum wasn't lengthening over his testicles and onto his penis. He was petrified by what was happening to his body.

It wasn't fair! A sob escaped him as the back and stomach pain returned fiercely. He had saved the bloody world, and now he was going to die a very slow and painful death in prison. He had lived most his life in fear; first from punishment from his obese uncle and cousin, then from the mad Dark wizard who wanted nothing but to kill him. It was supposed to be time for him to live, for him to finally have a life!

The pressure against his genitals from the inside of his body was increasing, and he squeezed his knees to his chest with his weak arms. He cried from the pain, sick of getting dealt the bad hand time and time again. He just wanted it to all go away. He wanted to give up.

Hours later and he was still lying in the same place, in the same position. Two more meals had been brought and taken away uneaten. The pain had only increased, and he was weak and nearly delirious. He could swear the mass in his abdomen had moved positions, and there were more masses oddly shaped.

He had cried and sobbed himself completely dehydrated. His lips were bone dry, and his swollen tongue did nothing to alleviate the chap. He was craving water like a dying man in the desert, but he couldn't move to get a glass from the sink.

The pressure on his genitals had increased exponentially, and it felt like the mass was trying to push its way out.

Two more meals came and went, but Harry barely noticed in his feverish nightmare. He would doze when the pain subsided to a fiery burn, and awoke to sharp knife thrusts in his pelvis and genitals. His body naturally reacted to the thrusting pain with his anal muscles clenching and bearing down as if he were using the loo. The fire coursing through his anus nearly always made him feel faint after his muscles clenched. He felt like his insides were ripping open.

He had at some point rolled onto his back, the cold stone floor easing the ache in his lower back somewhat.

He didn't know how it was humanly possible, but the pain increased. His legs automatically bent at the knee, and he pulled his knees to his chest, crying out as his anal muscles clenched and pulsed. He felt a gush of liquid splash from the gash below his testicles, but he didn't care. This was the end of his life. God was finally going to kill him and end his torture. His muscles kept clenching and pushing, the mass getting lower and lower in his pelvis. After some harsh sobs and arching against the pain and clenching, the mass was pressing against his anus. He reached down, trying to ease the fiery pain as his muscles continued to push against the offending growth.

A slimy mess of hair was just beneath the last ridge of muscles. He removed his hand, bloody and dripping with clear, slimy fluid and gripped at his knees, pulling them apart as if displaying himself to Draco's needy, lustful gaze. He bore down instinctively and gasped in relief as the initial portion of the mass escaped his body, giving him some form of relief. He breathed in gulps before his body began its pushing again. The pain increased again, burning and tearing.

His body pushed and clenched against the pain, and Harry tried to help it along by bearing down again. It seemed to help the last time.

A loud cry of pain fell from his mouth as the mass finally broke free completely from his body and fell to the hard floor with a cry.

Harry rolled to his side, his knees still tucked close to his body.

A choking, coughing cry, one that didn't belong to him, kept Harry from falling into oblivion. He couldn't breath as he pushed himself up enough to see what had just come from his body.

His head swam alarmingly and his anus ached fiercely, but he continued to push himself up. He was going to throw up. He tried holding it in, but a sharp throb in his head forced anything available up and out of his mouth. He gagged and heaved a few seconds before pushing himself all the way to a sitting position.

A tiny, slimy baby was crying and choking frantically between his legs. The baby was face down, and Harry began patting it on the back to try and clear whatever it was choking on from its throat. A long cord ran across the grimy floor from underneath the baby to Harry's body.

Remembering the coldness from the floor, he scooped up the baby, a boy, and held him face down against his forearm as he continued to pat the baby's back. After a few coughs, the baby's frantic choking turned into screaming cries. The bluish hue to his skin turned into a flushed pink. Harry slowly pulled his moth-eaten tunic over his head, hoping its scratchy material wouldn't hurt the baby's skin as he draped it over himself and the baby.

Harry's body felt weak, but he knew he had to separate the baby from him somehow. He felt his magic pulsing so close to the surface that he knew just for this, his inherent magic would help him. He turned the baby over gently and pinched the cord close to the baby's body. His magic cut off and sealed the cord, it dropping from the baby's body to lay limply on the floor beside Harry.

A sharp pain, a lot more manageable than the previous pain ripped through his lower back and abdomen causing Harry to cry out in surprise. He felt the pulsing, throbbing of his anal muscles and prayed he wasn't about to push out another baby. He lay back with the baby on his chest, the pain nothing compared to before, and after a few minutes of pushing, a splash and a glop were the only things that told Harry it was over.

He groaned and pulled the screaming baby closer to his chest. Harry rolled onto his side again, his arm protecting the child from the harsh cold on the stone floors, and sobbed. He buried his face against the baby's wet, bloody hair and cried everything he had left. The tunic that had been the only thing Harry had worn for 6 months lay discarded on the floor. He pulled it over the baby and draped it across his own chest, keeping the baby's warm skin against his own.

He cried himself into a fitful state of unconsciousness, the warm, bloody body of the baby making him feel safe and secure for the first time since he could remember.