Dominus Recordatur
(The Lord Remembers)
written by Maddevillechilde
No, I do not own Harry Potter, so stop asking.
This one-shot is dedicated to fellow conspirator Sadademort!
He came around groggily, and he felt very light-headed. It took him a minute or so to realise why the door opened onto the cobbled ceiling; he was upside down and strapped to something wooden. He also wondered why there was a large marble tomb glued to its alcove on the same strange ceiling.
'Little bitty baby Potty,' someone cackled out of his range of sight.
He could only freeze in horror as he recognised the harsh voice and who it belonged to. He was still lingering on the bitter memories when whatever he was tied to was kicked; it was apparently some sort of wheel, and his head was only saved from flopping about by the thick leather collar around his throat.
He was spun around on the giant circle a few times before a foot stopped him from going around a fourth time; straining his eyes to the left, his worst fears were confirmed.
She was sitting on another tomb in another alcove, grinning at him like he was some sort of early Christmas present, which he supposed he was.
'So good of you to join us,' she said with a grating purr, 'and there I thought I had done permanent damage…'
He ignored her, his famous green eyes darting around wherever it was; it looked to be some sort of small family crypt, dank and damp and dark and deep down in the ground somewhere. The last thing he remembered, and fuzzily, was being…he had no idea. He suspected he might have been following someone, something, near or in Knockturn Alley…but he could not recall the thought with clarity. He only knew that the back of his head was throbbing, like someone had struck him from behind with something heavy; that or he had had another clumsy accident like the idiot he was.
He jumped as hands touched his ankles; the pressure on them from the manacles disappeared, and he suddenly fell onto the stony floor as the rest of his restraints vanished. His nose felt as though the fall had broken it; when he raised his numb hand to his face, it came away with blood on it.
'Come on Potty, get up,' Bellatrix nudged him in the ribs, 'his Lordship is waiting.'
Harry growled at her and dug his nails into the cold cobbles, even though he knew resistance would be futile; what he did not expect is what happened next.
The Death Eater waved her wand and he found himself very awkwardly bound moments later; what in he had no idea, but he supposed it was another torture device.
'It is called the stork,' Bellatrix told him with a smirk, as she attached a chain to the iron frame, 'the Muggles invented it, and seeing as you are one my Lord finds it suitable.'
A metal hoop encircled his neck and his hands were held by the smaller hoops; his feet were held by the bar and the stirrups as the contraption shoved him into a painful foetal position. He swore that his vertebrae would snap with the pressure and that his ribs would shatter. He found that he could not move either, except to be dragged along like a dog on a leash by the chain his capturer was pulling on. She pulled him painfully over the icily damp floor and into an unlit corridor; a rat squeaked somewhere not far away, and Harry hoped that it was not Wormtail.
The stairs were the worst to navigate to him, for he was not even granted the mercy of being levitated up the twelve steps; Bellatrix hauled him up them, bumping him over each worn step and juddering the iron thing that trapped him tight. At the top of the stairs she leered at him, paused and then kept walking, though her boots walked on tile and not paving as he was surprised to find out. They were in, he saw, a small church or a chapel, so the pews and benches told him as he was pulled past them and out through the rotten oak doors. The graveyard that he had been expecting was beyond them, with crumbling, mossy graves and weathered statues of guardian angels. There were shadows to make the gullible mind think of ghosts and barguests and overgrown weeds to tangle up unwary visitors; the relatives of the dead had long died themselves.
It was then that Bellatrix deposited him beside a particularly towering grave marker, and Harry groaned, sick to his stomach, when he realised whose it was, and all too well. The seraphim and its scythe to harvest souls still haunted his dreams as vividly as though the terrible night was happening all over again in some nightmarish déjà vu.
A large crack sounded nearby and it made him start, and it hurt to because of the Stork; the witch with him however turned around sharply and headed a few feet away to where the noise had come from. Harry strained his eyes to follow her, and somehow he fell from being propped up against a tomb to lying on his back on the long, dewy grass. His bones where dangled by the movement, but he now saw what Bellatrix was up to; she was talking to the stranger that had Apparated in, and probably from the big house that sat atop the hill nearby. Its windows reminded him of how the grey eyes that belonged to Cedric had looked after…
The stranger had a high, cold voice that was getting angrier and louder by the minute, and the shorter Death Eater appeared to be getting more and more desperate; she shut up abruptly as her Master delivered a ringing slap that made her cower away from him. This seemed to satisfy Lord Voldemort, as he sneered at her pathetic promises and swept past her like she was nothing. His ruby red eyes lit up though when he sighted the boy lying on the graves of his muggle forebears.
'Harry Potter,' he hissed.
The night remained stubbornly gloomy with smog and clouds, so that the only light there came from the two bloody pinpricks high above him. The monster laughed at his immovable plight and flicked his wand so that several braziers, either formerly hidden or of magical origin, appeared from the dark. They spluttered and spat brightly enough for the flat, snake-like face to be thrown into sharp relief.
'It was true then,' the Dark Lord softly, 'that you had gone missing from under the very eyes of the Order.'
He flicked his wand again and his prisoner groaned as his limbs were freed from the iron brace that had been holding him like an Egyptian mummy. A third flick though sentenced him to yet more suffering, for an iron gag closed around his head and forced a metal box into his mouth. In his struggles to rip it off his glasses disappeared into the thorns and weeds, leaving him blind and condemned to silence as Voldemort laughed mirthlessly.
A twig snapped and Bellatrix came back into view, looking somewhat more humbled than before. She walked around her Lord and reached behind a very large statue that was mostly obscured by shadow; there was a lumpy sack in her hands when she straightened.
'You were not lying then,' the monster hissed at her. 'Did you raid the Manor as well?'
In reply she threw the hemp sack down at her feet, its clinking contents spilling out onto the trampled grass. As he did no longer have his glasses on, Harry could not see what they were, but he guessed they were nasty because they made the Dark Lord laugh aloud and praise the mad witch for her ingenuity.
A hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hoisted him up; he distinctly heard the crunchy sound that meant his spectacles had been broken underfoot, probably deliberately. He found himself thrown against something tall and hard, a gravestone most likely, and a hand covered the tiny hole in the gag that gave him air.
'It is my decision, Mr Potter, that you are going to suffer horribly for every single year of pain and humiliation that you have put me though,' hissed the unnatural voice from somewhere around him, 'and maybe then I might grant you the mercy you never showed me.'
There was a high-pitched, crazy cackle, and before he knew it, Harry found himself thrown over the nearest flat topped tomb, which was like a marble table that a mortician would use. The chill of it seeped through his thin summer robes, and invisible hands pinioned his wrists above his head. He struggled, even more so when he felt his thin garments be ripped from his pitifully undernourished body.
The magical hands holding him pulled him along the tomb so that his head and shoulders hung off the carved edge as he wriggled in vain. The Dark Lord trailed his abnormal fingers up his body as the monster came to lean over him; Bellatrix was fiddling with something he could not, and did not, want to see.
'I think the rack will suit him first,' Voldemort told her, and her struggles with whatever it was stopped immediately.
It was then that thick ropes circled his thin ankles and the ones on his wrists got tighter. Harry heard the Dark wizard laugh as he slowly felt a pulling sensation in his arms and legs; he realised with a jolt exactly what was going to happen. He clenched his eyes shut against the increasing pain, which started in his tied joints as the rough hemp dug into them, making them bleed and slowly swell. The exertion of keeping silent made him start to sweat, and the muggy night hemmed in by the thick clouds worsened matters.
There was nothing to keep track of the time, but Harry doubted that he had been stretched overly long, though his shoulders were more than ready to pop out of their sockets; the Dark Lord had apparently gotten bored though of his hovering, taut state.
It was with a wave of his wand that the position of his prisoner was altered, from horizontal to slanted, his scrawny legs hanging off the tomb. The boy in question was unaware of the incantation that was muttered, the one that conjured up a whip made of chain from nowhere in particular. The first time that the victim became away of it was when the first lash of several lashes caught his shoulder brutally; the skin there was flayed off as though with a knife. The pain was excruciating, and his cries were muffled by the iron gag so that only a pathetic whimper escaped his bitten lips. It was only through dissatisfaction and vague clemency that the hail was let up after what could have been a mere half dozen or so wicked blows; Harry could not tell, and Bellatrix with all her insidious cackling was giving him a migraine.
The Dark Lord turned to the witch with a sneer on his serpentine visage.
'These tricks bore me; do something to amuse me.'
She laughed again; kicking her heels, she grabbed something and slithered closer to their bound and helpless prisoner, who writhed in shooting pain as her long nails scraped his grated back and shrieked with mirth. The ladle she was holding had a perforated cap, and when he shied away from her questing hand she flicked the strange instrument at him; he hardly registered that it held a liquid when some acid corroded yet more of his bloody flesh. The witch kept repeating the callous act until he got the message and suffered her cold hand on his back, where she rolled her fingers in the gory mess, painting them. She threw the sprinkler-thing away from her, and as she leered at her victim, her sticky fingers slipped down his fluid-streak sides and across his trembling inner thigh. The hand came to his balls, which she briefly squeezed with intent before she grabbed his flaccid cock; Harry swore that if it had not already shrivelled and fallen off from pain, it had most certainly done so from the horror of Bellatrix touching it.
The Death Eater pulled on it and crushed the cold flesh in her palm, lubricating the limp organ with his own blood. In a vain attempt to ignore her determined ministrations, he wondered where Voldemort had gotten to, for the more-monster-than-man wizard had been resolutely silent for what must have been an age; Bellatrix did not stint on coating her hand after all. Her caresses were a mocking parody of tenderness, yet his treacherous body responded to all the pinching, tugging and stroking that she put his weakened being through.
'He is ready, my Lord.'
The sounds of another approaching the tomb-cum-table made Harry shake himself from the vague mist that had started to cloak his blinded eyes.
'I think the thumbscrew will suit him,' and there was an audible taut grin in the abnormal voice.
The bony hands returned to his cock which had already started to soften from allsorts; he found himself harshly coaxed back into full hardness before something metallic brushed against him. He flinched violently, and received a stinging slap on his scraped and sore backside. The ropes holding him tightened on his wrists as he recovered, and pulled his bleeding back a little straighter; Bellatrix forced something onto his erection, and gave up just past midway on it, as whatever the thing was refused to budge anymore. She left it and tightened the screws on it instead, which served to build the pressure and his pain.
It was barely a moment after her cruel hands had left him that another, larger and icier pair that came to cup his abused arse. The ropes around his sore ankles disappeared and without them he staggered, banging his knees against the stone box. The Dark Lord laughed and took the chance to pin Harry against his skeletal, clammy body; at some point the he had parted his robes to allow for his very obvious need to be freed.
The Boy Who Lived To Be Tortured tried to scream as the one holding him started to rut against his flayed back, just like Bellatrix had done with her fingers but a lot worse; he swore that his kidneys would be exposed with the frenzied frottage. The ferrous box in his mouth stopped his cries dead, and he was still whimpering from the many pains all over him as Voldemort got off of him for a few moments. It only happened because the snake-thing wanted to align himself for a better thrust; Harry screamed as the deliberately blood-slicked shaft breached his virginal hole.
He could hear the witch shrieking her glee from somewhere out of his poor circle of sight. He was bent backwards first and lifted up slightly so that the Dark Lord could get deeper into him, but when the monster found it to be too strenuous, he dropped his unwilling catamite onto the tomb, flattening him against it. The thrusts he delivered were brutal; they ripped and stretched with every driven stroke. It did not take long for the blood and the power to make Voldemort drunk and on the edge; when he came he sat himself deep into Harry and remained buried within the loosened channel a moment before he pulled out with an odious sucking sound and a thick dribble of some pink, sticky liquid.
There was, for a short while, the sound of panting in the overgrown graveyard, and sobbing that was quite hindered. It was not long before the beast of a man called out through the night, his red, pitiless eyes never leaving the broken and battered boy.
'I want you to ready it now,' he said with a hissing chuckle at the shadows, 'and be quicker about it than you were this morning!'
It was with sickening dread that Harry forced himself to remain conscious; he did not want to know what his two unsavoury companions would do to his unknowing body, and nor did he want to know what brutal ways they would stir him with. He could hear the sounds of metal being fiddled with, and the implements sounded to be quite formidable. The only thing he was grateful for at that very moment was that his cock had wilted, letting the torturous thumbscrew fall off, but not without leaving large and tender bruises in its wake.
'I have it, Master.'
'Then let us proceed.'
He flinched as a horribly familiar hand grabbed his backside, and at the same time the Dark Lord moved around to stand before him, leering. He was still hard, Harry saw, and not only that; the monster had failed to clean himself up as well. It was then that Voldemort laughed, and something nudged against his inhumanly used anus. He flinched, but the invisible ropes and hands returned, and they roped around his waist and clung to his narrow hips as they held him firm for whatever Bellatrix was trying to do.
The newest toy brought forth from the Malfoy arsenal poked his thigh as the witch waited for her Master to do what he was planning; it was not with displeasure that Harry let the iron gag be removed, and he gulped down mouthfuls of the almost stale night air with relief. He was, however, much less impressed when the filthy, unflagging erection that had been bobbing inches from him was forced towards his arid lips. He tried to move back from it, but, as he knew would happen, it angered Voldemort terribly. The monster snarled, and a nanosecond later the famous teenager found, and greatly more felt, the definitely not blunt spikes, of a very heavy wooden collar around his neck. He felt as though the bones there would be crushed under the mere weight of it, but as the foul thing that was covered in a congealing, sour slime reared near to his sore mouth again, he put his head back firmly.
And screamed.
It was apparent that there were sharp spikes not just inside the collar, but outside too, and the latter ones were even longer and razor-like than the former. His neck felt weighted and his back stung from the new wounds on the barely old, and with resignation he hung his head. The Dark Lord had been laughing mirthlessly whilst his loyal follower had cackled insanely; on seeing his mortal nemesis surrender, his large, spidery white hands reached for the sweaty and tousled mop of night-black hair. The unlucky boy had his head jerked up higher, so that the iron spines pricked his back and shoulders again, but nowhere near as deeply as before. The rough tug had been painful, and it had loosened several strands that Voldemort smirked at; they were surreptitiously stowed away for later in an old silver snuff box that disappeared again as soon as it first materialised.
The next yank was doubly painful to Harry, but it melted into his other hurts quite quickly; the thick organ insistently pushed past his chapped lips a moment later. It brought with it a disgusting taste that words failed to describe in any way, shape or form. He had to battle against the urge to choke on both it and the mass of rigid that was filling his mouth up completely; it cut off his oxygen supply and made his jaw ache to take it all in. The Dark Lord slammed into his face repeatedly as he caged the dark head in his skeletal hands, and he allowed for no expert technique, be it ball fondling or teasing with the befouled tongue. He watched as he thrust in and out and he grinned as he saw the parched bottom lip split as much as the other equally arse had done. It reminded him…
'I think you can start now, Bellatrix,' he said over Harry to the panting, staring woman, 'he is ready for it now.'
The stout spud jabbed Harry in the leg again, and he felt it be pushed against his brutally used hole; he winced and felt more than inclined to bite down on the thing that was slowly and painfully suffocating him.
It was as the mad witch carefully pushed whatever it was into his rectum that he decided, to distract himself, that it was made of polished wood with some archaic design faintly etched into it; his shredded nerves allowed him to feel every worn grain like it was part of a piece of coarse sandpaper. The Death Eater, after several gradual minutes of distinct agony for the "Chosen One", finally managed to lodge the implement very deeply inside him. It, the implement, was much wider at the rounded tip than the whole length that was stuffed into his mouth was. The pain it created by simply sitting still was excruciating; the said cock in his other battered orifice hardly managed to distract him.
The Dark Lord hissed as his orgasm happened with a twitch; the come he produced made Harry gag and struggle, but the older wizard held him firm and sneered as white globs dripped out and down the bloodless chin.
'The time is at hand, Bellatrix!'
The antique thing inside of him shifted around a bit as a metal handle was gingerly cranked; when it became clear that it would not break off and spoil the game, the witch grew more vigorous with her toying. Harry tried to scream, but his cries were muffled by the renewed pounding that was taking place in his maw and gullet. He felt his torn channel be slowly stretched more widely than ever before; it felt like somebody was ramming a large fist with long, sharp nails into him, and worse, there was a load crack that made Bellatrix cease abruptly. The thing inside of him was still again, unlike Voldemort who kept pumping like some well oiled android. It was not until he came again that he issued his orders to his awaiting follower.
'It should be removed carefully, I think, lest we do more damage to Potter than need be.'
The witch grasped the item that was snugly settled in his rectum and gently pulled; he screamed, as he was now able to.
'It should be unwound,' the cold voice added, but not without considerable amusement.
The Death Eater murmured something and slowly cranked the thing that unnaturally widened him back from five painful inches to three. It lessened the pain a bit but left him feeling horribly stretched, and she compensated his frank relief by pulling whatever it was out of him with one forceful pull. He yelled out hoarsely, and swore that there were long splinters left embedded deep into his soft and raw insides.
The Dark Lord laughed mirthlessly and Bellatrix patted the dirty rump as though it was a dog she was rewarding for good behaviour. It caused the monster to laugh even harder, and he pulled his most faithful follower to him, to indulge in an act that was normal enough; it turned the already churning stomach that their unfortunate all the same. The two, one semi-naked and the other not, remained locked at the lips for several minutes, and neither drew breath for it; Voldemort looked like some giant, pallid leech as he sucked both blood and soul from the starved woman in his skeletal arms. He released her and leered as a dribble of crimson dripped from her white mouth, and then chortled when he looked over at Harry, who was trying not to stare with sick pity.
'I think, Bella, that you deserve a reward for your hard work,' he smiled, and it was ugly, 'what would you like for your loyal service?'
She smiled, and it made her ravaged face look like a grinning skull.
'I have always wanted a baby, my Lord,' she insinuated as she sunk to her knees on the flattened grass; her heavily-lidded eyes were suggestively lowered.
It was, to their captive at least, not surprising that the serpentine wizard threw his head back and let his cold bark of something amused ring out across the dark graveyard. The witch looked up at him with a slight frown on her hollow visage, but she quickly looked back down as her Master regarded her with his glowing red orbs.
'A baby is a fine request, Bella, and I shall grant you it.'
The woman starting rising to her feet without the behest of the monster, and her dark eyes glittered with almost frantic lust as she did so. She watched hungrily as Voldemort raised his wand again, but a flicker of uncertainty wavered in her face as he aimed for an empty space amongst the stones and within the unordered circle of braziers. It appeared that he has conjuring a vertical half of what was quite a large barrel. It was balanced on its side with two feet that rocking chairs had. The height of it was the same as any normal cradle, and after the Dark Lord pointed at it with a grin, Bellatrix tentatively neared the new attraction. She was trying to disguise a look of unadulterated disappointment on her face, and Harry thought that she was hoping to see a bassinet with black crepe that had a bawling sweetmeat inside to take her pleasure of. It was that or the other, more nightmarish idea, which was luring in the recess of his mind; he supposed that it was brutal sex that the Death Eater was really after, and an act that would lead to her popping out a bloody-eyed and natured sprog in the quite near future.
He watched as she peered into the cleaved barrel; even from a distance Harry saw her surprise before she reached a hand into it, a hand that she withdrew again some moments later with blood on; blood that came from several small wounds on her shrivelled palm.
The Dark Lord walked over to her, his flat face cast with a waxy hue from the poor light that lit their small arena.
'I take it then that it pleases you?' he said in his soft, cold voice.
'It does, my Lord,' she left her unspoken complaint hanging, try as she might not to.
The inhuman wizard chortled quietly.
'A cradle is a tragedy when it is empty,' he added, 'it needs a baby.'
He turned around and pointed his wand at the abused and bleeding body lying almost abandoned on the nearby table-top tomb. It was then that Harry felt all his ropes and restraints melt from his limbs; the terrible collar disappeared too, to his immense relief. He then found himself lying in something that was lined with needle sharp iron spikes that were piecing his back and sides as he lay in what was obviously the strange cradle. He could feel new manacles on his thin wrists as well, and he was still bare of clothing also.
'I think congratulations are in order Bellatrix,' Voldemort told her with a smirk, 'it appears that you have a baby boy!'
His words made his insane fellow let out a pealing shriek of mirth; it made her "son" flinch as his ear-drums were stabbed. The veritable teeth that were biting in his flesh were also making him whimper and hiss with pain.
The Dark Lord looked at him with a manner of false concern.
'He looks restless; I think you should rock to sleep, Bella.'
It was a horrible sight to see the crazy escapee with many a crime to her name look utterly gleeful at he suggestion. She stretched out a hand and nudged the mock-up cot; it swung, and Harry screamed as the razor studs mutilated his scrawny body even more. It took Bellatrix several inexperienced pushes before she established a decent rhythm for rocking the spiked cradle, whilst all the while the Boy Who Lived howled and hollered at the new agonies being inflicted upon him for the sheer fun of it.
'He has a healthy set of lungs on him,' Voldemort commented mirthlessly and with his ugly look firmly in place.
'He has indeed, my Lord,' the witch was rather over-excited, 'he is a finer baby than ever I could have wished for!'
The Dark Lord regarded her for a moment, and then personally reached over and pulled her avid hand away from the torturous barrel.
'I think, Bellatrix, that you need to leave your son alone now,' she looked him with a faint frown, 'if you lavish attention on him he will become like that Malfoy boy.'
'A mummy's boy!' the Death Eater spat and she turned from her Master to stare at Harry in his prison of excruciating, sanguine pain.
'His cries though create a lovely symphony, though,' Voldemort said, taking the madwoman by her other as he pulled her into a traditional waltz position; flush against himself. 'It would be wrong to waste such music.'
The Dark wizard tapped on the wooden frame to cast a spell that was to keep the barrel in perpetual motion until his say-so; he led his partner in torture off into the night, her cackles brittle and him silent. They danced the Danse Macabre for what might have been minutes or hours; all the while one laughed and one was seemingly not there as the hoarse cries shattered the peace that the graveyard had been for fifty-some years.
He knew that the two had finally finished with their morbid games when his world started to slow down and grow marginally less painful on the remains of his leaking carcass. The spikes, which he swore were rusty as well as very pointy, had been lined all over the insides of the barrel, so that they reached into his most personal area, where the injuries were already innumerable enough as they were. The welts on his back were pitted with holes and his head stung and bled with injuries there.
The infernal device around him spilt open like a rotten fruit and spilt him with sticky juice over the long grass and wreckage. He groaned and coughed; a thick, hot liquid dribbled through his lips, and it tasted of copper. It was as he was lying on the ground, gulping down lungfuls of stale cemetery air that he felt himself be lifted up off of the floor; he had been lying prone, and in his maddened mind he wondered if his soul was drifting off to somewhere, like heaven, hell, or even limbo. He found it was not so though, as he was pulled upright and over to a strange monument. It was an obelisk, quite tall (more so than Voldemort) and a marker of some sort. He found himself hovered over it before he was carefully and precisely lowered onto the pointed pinnacle. A new collar materialised around his neck, although this one was a smooth iron hoop unlike the inverted, double-sided and wounding dog collar of earlier. There were three thin ropes attached to the small eyes that stuck out from the metal body, and these were fixed by an invisible pin to an invisible beam somewhere above his head.
'It is time for us to see how much of a man you baby really is, Bellatrix,' Voldemort smirked between her and Harry.
He felt the slow sensation of being gingerly rested on the aforementioned point; his body was wholly rested upon it by his screaming perineum; worse, he was twisted around a couple of times before he was allowed to rest in agony on the granite peak, with a darkened view towards the large, bowed yew tree. It was there that he saw the indistinct shape that was the Dark Lord shove the smaller and whiter person backwards; Bellatrix was naked and held against the tree. The scaly brown bark there grated painfully against her bloodless skin, and Harry heard her high keen of masochistic pleasure from afar. The monster of a man with her forcefully pressed her against the old symbol before he reached down to spread her legs wide for himself.
It was quite obvious that sex between them in their chosen position would be a little difficult due to a discrepancy of several inches in their heights; not that Bellatrix was short, but more because Voldemort was somewhat taller. The collar that Harry was wearing was friendlier to his flesh than the other had been, but his head was now all but locked in one direction. The act of moving only increased the torment between his thighs by tenfold, and so he was unable to budge a fraction lest he desired to worsen his hurts. He could make out the fuzzy blots that were the two living devils; he saw the taller one, whose large hand had been busy working in an intimate place to judge from the moans and pleads of the other, leave his fellow, a smirk on his snaky face.
The Dark Lord neared him and laughed at his pitiful plight. He raised his wand aloft and made Harry start to spin again, like he was a fixture being screwed onto a wall or mantelpiece. He yelled and his tears left wet trails down his drained face. He started to beg, asking for anything that would end him or otherwise; death, the Cruciatus curse, a hungry dementor. The wizard below him merely was his mirthless self, and he did not look way as the groans and frustration of his loyal follower wafted over to them on a chill breeze. A spidery hand stretched itself upwards instead, and the long fingers quested for something as the victim beseeched for clemency. There was none given though, and the cold digits pushed themselves deep into the ruptured orifice, the long nails scraping the exposed and overloaded nerves of what had once been a healthy rectum. The exalted Chosen One shrieked and on instinct tried to pull away; he deafened even the tombstones with the cry he bellowed as a result. He bucked from the pain and just kept going on with screaming; his young throat would doubtless resemble his other similar channel before the dawn rose over the big hill.
The fingers retracted themselves with a nauseating, squelchy sound. The renewed feeling of warm stuff slicking the backs of his legs sickened him, as did the mere feel of it oozing out of his torn muscles. A well of bloody semen had been sitting inside of him in a deep wound for a good part of the night. It was a horrid feeling to have it slime inside him for that long, and he saw that the white fingers were now a dark pink as he slathered his bobbing cock in his foul reapings. He sneered at his veritable cow of odious lubricant before he turned around and returned to where the Death Eater was crooning and rubbing herself up against the hallowed tree still. The Dark Lord grabbed at her as he got close to her again; he cupped her arse and lifted her up, using the said ancient tree to hold her pinned. It was at the same time that the inhuman wizard thrust himself deep into her more than ready-and-willing body; Harry looked away even though his vision and the visibility were already poor, and not least because of the mist of pain that was shrouding his bright green eyes. He heard the grunts and hisses all the same, as they two fucked like rabid beasts on a Sabbath night; he could here the sound of skin being chafed painfully against rough bark. The recipient female did not appear, by her noises, to mind though. It was much more likely that Bellatrix was actually loving the feeling of having such abrasion done to her smooth and flawless pureblood skin.
It was not long before she climaxed with a great howling scream; she shuddered with racking spasms as her fellow came silently. He let her down onto the grass so that she sprawled at his feet, sweat soaked and with her muscles pulverised to gelatine. The Dark Lord laughed at her and flicked his wand over his shoulder, so that Harry was also released and free to fall to the packed-earth floor. He was sobbing and shaking as he landed and he remained where he was, unmoving but for the gasps and trembling in his stick-thin limbs. He was left where he was for a while more as Voldemort smoothed his robes and spoke to his more than amiable servant.
'I need cleaning, Bellatrix,' he said softly, and like a wraith the starved woman got up from her belly and onto her knees. She crawled the short distance that her Master had put between them, and on reaching him she greedily devoured his proffered organ. It appeared that she was not repulsed by the foul layers of fluids on the thing that was pumping in and out of her mouth with care; she seemed to relish the taste above all else. It was with all his might that Harry tried not to watch the sick display of devotion, but a spell cast in his direction twisted his used and bruised body around to watch them engage in unabashed carnality.
The pale man slowly wound him way over the obelisk and the broken thing at the foot of it. He kicked Harry Potter over onto his badly injured back, ignoring the pain that his actions caused to erupt. He swooped down and forced one of his still dirty hands between the unresisting thighs, before straightening up with a sneer. It twisted his non-existent lips as he looked at the fresh blood that made his pale fingers doubly filthy.
'It appears, Bella, that you are actually the mother to a girl,' he chuckled.
The act of being balanced upon the pinnacle of the obelisk had pierced his perineum, and this was clearly something that Voldemort found humorous. He wiped his hands on the stone monument and beaconed his most faithful closer to him.
'I think your little baby has already grown as well,' he continued, 'and that now she can be wed to a fine man.'
The woman at his side cackled in excited anticipation of what was to come.
'I think, my Lord, that you would be the best man for her; you are strong where she is weak, you are powerful where she is impotent-'
'It is a matter of great importance to me to know this, Bellatrix, a very great matter; is she a virgin?'
The Death Eater adopted a look of untrue shame, and she lowered her dark eyes with pity.
'I fear not, my Lord; a wicked man had his evil way with her when she was naive-'
The Dark Lord shook his head unhappily.
'I find that a great tragedy, Bellatrix. I would have thought that you would have kept away such bad men from your daughter.'
'It was not until long ago, my Lord, that I though her to be a boy.'
'A boy?' the Dark Lord laughed without mirth, 'I must say, Bellatrix, I think your child is very unlikely to be a boy…'
The crazy woman nodded in understanding, and looked at Voldemort hopefully. He in turn looked at her and then back at Harry.
'I will take her, but not before the ceremony is performed.'
He felt himself be levitated off of the cold floor and be righted as he was. He was then thrown hard against the obelisk that he had previously been painfully balanced on. The wand that belonged to Voldemort was pointed at him and thin ropes appeared from nowhere to bind him to the big marker. The new bonds bit into his legs, his chest and his right arm and he noticed with a sore head that the lower half of his left arm had been clear of rope but for the wrist, which was tied up and starting to bruise already. A cool hand grasped the same arm and held it; he struggled as Bellatrix leant in and planted a kiss on his sweat-and-blood matted temple. She cackled and was replaced by the terrible image that was the Dark Lord Voldemort, his face a grinning amalgam of human, demon and reptile features. The graveyard around them was dark where the braziers cast no dim light and it was still stubbornly cloudy overhead. The air was heavy and dense and close and stale; the dead could almost be smelt rotting in their wormy beds.
The wand that had ruined and stolen an unknown number of lives was clutched tightly in a large and white hand. It was stretched out from the long and black sleeve to a space on the bony bare arm; the wand tip was forced into the quivering colourless muscle. The spell that the monster uttered was one that Harry could recognise even through his ravaged state; the area below his elbow on his inner left arm burned badly for a moment, and his two nefarious companions laughed aloud with happy glee.
'And now we are wed,' the monster leered.
The ropes disappeared. It was then that Voldemort grabbed him; he was pushing him bodily against the taller stone thing. He was positioned so that he was facing his "husband" who was still grinning madly.
'The best part of a marriage is the act of consummation on the wedding night,' he hissed, 'virgin you may not be, but I intend to enjoy it still!'
The Dark Lord took the time to rub his unflagging erection in the blood from the torn strip of skin and muscle; the contact of the cold rod against the wrent area made Harry whimper in pain.
'And as you are a girl you should be taken like one!'
The torment of having the monster milk him for lubricant again was not nearly as bad as when the fairly slicked thing was shoved deep inside of his rectum for the second time that night. The feeling was a lot worse than what it had felt the first time as well, because of the unnamed implement that Bellatrix had used on him without a single qualm. It had left horrific injuries he knew, and to have the Dark Lord battering and ramming himself in his torn centre made the agony indescribable.
The said witch was close by them; he heard her cackle 'You are pure where she is not, my Lord!".
It was apparent that age was against Voldemort and that it favoured Harry; being over seventy years old in age the much older wizard came very quickly, though it still seemed like an eternity to the other, who squirmed as the half-hard cock slipped out of him and the hands on his shoulders released him. He fell to the floor once more, and watched blurrily as the witch who had been hovering nearby wafted over and resumed her delirious suckling. She apparently deemed the mix of tacky semen and ferrous blood that her Master has smothered on himself twice to be a veritable ambrosia. He was not complaining about her new addiction at any rate, and Harry was too exhausted to not close his eyes against the ongoing show of fanatic devotion.
He woke up to feel himself being suspended at a slant. He could also feel the familiar biting burn of ropes around his wrists and ankles; he heaved a sigh, dreading what would inevitably happen. He heard maniac cackling and felt himself be stretched like before, so that his shoulders and legs felt like they were going to be wrenched out of their places. The ropes were tilted at a greater degree than before, so that his bare back was exposed enough for a clean whipping; it was clearly what was had in mind. He heard long lengths of chain clink and for a moment he wondered exactly what he was going to be flogged with; his shriek was loud with shocked surprised when he was struck with the three pieces of tubular iron linked together by hoops of silver steel.
The blood blossomed from the old wounds and dripped down his thin back like moisture on a cave wall; the metal lengths had been tipped with small barbs it seemed.
He let the tears roll down his colourless cheek all the more faster as the blows rained down on him without mercy; it was not clear to him whether man or magic was wielding the newest amusement. He did not really care either as he solely wanted the impossible to stop; he wanted to be let alone and he was unaware of the pleas that were escaping his howling mouth. It was several minutes later that the chain whip was thrown aside and Harry felt himself being turned over and under through the air before he felt himself be slammed into the same table-top tomb as he had originally been baptised in blood on. He groaned and hissed at the feel of the cold marble under his flayed back and thrashed buttocks; he flinched as he felt something crawl over him with trailing hands that stroked his sore skin obscenely. The encroaching being cackled as he felt her long nails digs into his sternum before she yanked them all the way down to his lifeless penis. He yowled and it was the unnecessary excuse she needed to shriek her mad mirth out to nothing and nobody in particular; the noise made the ear drums that belonged to her victim prickle unpleasantly. He whimpered as she bodily flipped him over onto his stinging stomach; she summoned something and fiddled a moment with hovering and getting a-hold of whatever she had enlisted.
It was then that he felt a great heat a bare inch from his flogged back; he hissed at the intensity and then screamed as four white hot points about an inch apart were pressed into his torn flesh. The witch slowly drew the hot iron talons down his body in an act of mimicry, and he howled in agony. He heard someone chuckle coldly and the woman sitting on his hips muttered something; the claws ripped themselves out of him and flicked back into his shoulders before they repeated their blistering path again. It was as he was having the feline paw inflicted upon him that he felt fingers with needle-sharp ends poke and prod his gaping and leaking hole; the bony digits quested inside of him like fiery pokers in their own right. She crooked them to add to the pain as she tried to cup the icky mess that she in her warped mind though as sweet as honey was to a bear. She cackled as Harry squirmed and begged, and she slapped him on the rump for good measure as she kept on fighting to eat the vomitous mixture that was curdling in his bowels.
'The boy will run dry if you keep on devouring him,' the Dark Lord interrupted after an unknown amount of time, 'it is time you did something else I think.'
The witch looked somewhat put out but badly disguised her opinion with a surly pout as she banished the hot rake and turned her gibbering victim back over again. He mewled to feel the slightly warmed stone on his scalded and cauterised back; she just laughed and straddled him for the next round.
'He needs to be bound, Bellatrix, lest you receive a whiff of your own medicine,' the monster leered.
It was then that ropes wound around his wrists and pulled his arms back with a brutal jerk; he was being held with his taut limbs pulled downwards at an angle. The shape between the tomb and the ground and his arms was like a strict trapezium, and it hurt as the creeping root like bindings scratched and left deep abrasions. He groaned and he heard something be wrenched out of the overgrown earth with what was almost a pop; it was apparent that the Death Eater atop of him was the culprit. He strained his blurred eyes to see what she had done and he saw that she had summoned a gravestone from the packed soil; the size of the granite lump suggested that it had marked where a child was lying in the ground. He grunted as the cold weight was carefully lowered onto him so that his diaphragm, ribs, lungs and belly were all repressed beneath it. The woman cackled and she moved so that her again naked breasts, which were somewhat shrivelled from her long stay in Azkaban, were pressed up against the carved stone; her slight body mass felt more like a tonne to the boy trapped under her.
He whimpered as he felt a hand slide along what of his thigh there was before it was wrapped tightly around the unfeeling organ between his legs. The madwoman laughed as she tugged on it and rubbed it between her skeletal hands; she sought to coax warmth and hardness back into it, and she succeeded as it twitched in avid interest. She laughed and Harry fought to cut his mind off from the treacherous body part, although he failed miserably as a tepid mouth swallowed him whole and started to suck on him forcefully. He supposed that she had to hollow her gaunt cheeks to make him useable and he snorted; the thought of a hoity-toity, high-and-mighty pureblood and professed would-be killer working to give him a rock-solid erection tickled him. The gravestone on him though stopped his addled giggling short and he wheezed; he felt squashed. It was just then that Bellatrix decided he was ready enough for her; he hissed a little at the loss of her mouth because cooler air now caressed him instead of her acid tongue. She cackled and moved up his body, gripping the stone that pinned him down before she sat up somewhat and dropped herself heavily down onto him. The breath was knocked from him as she squashed him and the feel of her already well slimed insides made him cringe in sickened horror as he slid into her. He wriggled in a vain attempt to be away from and out of her but she only moaned gutturally; she petted his sweaty and bloody mop of black hair as she started up a sort of rocking action on her knees. It was only as she grew faster and harder in her movements that she slowly sat up and arched herself; as if from nowhere Voldemort appeared to join in with the unwilling tryst.
He reached down and grabbed Harry by the hair. He pulled his head enough so that he could slide his thrice renewed hardness into the dry opening beneath him. He cared not that the owner choked as he pushed himself in and out and not in the same frantic rhythm as Bellatrix at that. The one being forced to swallow the pulsing the wretched length struggled for the polluted cemetery air all the while, until he felt the wet walls tighten around him painfully; the Dark Lord came in his mouth almost immediately afterwards.
The latter monster removed himself as soon as he had been cleaned by the boy; he had pinched the small nose tight to suffocate him until he obeyed. He rewarded the small service with, firstly, undoing the ropes that Harry personally swore had all but dislocated his shoulders. The second mercy was that the great weight on top of him was turned to purplish rubble; it was a great surprise to the witch who squawked and managed to topple off of the tom in an undignified and naked manner. The Dark Lord laughed at her and spelled her dark robes onto her back; the creeping flush of faint mortification was evident in her skull-like face.
'It is time,' Voldemort said, as his red eyes flickered towards the paling horizon, 'that Mr Potter was sent home for the night.'
He waved his wand and Harry found himself on his feet and clothed again, though the wool felt itchy and irritable against his numerous scrapes and wounds. He flinched as he pulled the material tighter around himself all the same, and he mustered what defiance he had left through his torture-induced brain fog to glare at his mortal enemy and the woman he hated the most.
'Good night, Mr Potter,' the monster leered, and with flick of he long wand his world went quickly and thankfully black.
A/N-This took me a very long time and my hands are killing me about now, so i hope you like it...or it horrifies you. Either way, this was fun for me to write all the same (call me a sicko and i will agree). I hope to have a short epilogue up soon to complete it, but in the meantime please take a few moments to read about the MA petition. Signatures are very welcome and are needed desperately if this plan is to even dare come to anything. Also, if you want to know more about the implements used in this fic or what some are, just address a PM to me on my private account Maddevillechilde.
Please review.