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Title: The Famulus
Author: [info]iulia_linnea
Pairings/Characters: Bellatrix/Harry, Voldemort/Harry, Male Canon Character
Rating: NC-17
Warning (highlight to view): For non-con and character death.
Word Count: 2605
Summary: Harry discovers "the power the Dark Lord knows not."
Disclaimer: This work of fan fiction is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling and owned by J. K. Rowling and various publishers, including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from (and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by) the posting of this fan work.
Author's Note: Written to pay off a debt to [info]eaivalefay. Thank you, [info]stasia, for beta'ing.



It is as if you are being held suspended in a cauldron of choking pitch which no sound or sensation can penetrate. You almost like it because you are alone, and, although you cannot remember why, you know it is better to be where you are now than where you were . . . before. You ignore the suspicious susurration that slides through your mind and hope that they will leave you alone.

And then, as it always does when you rouse yourself to feel anything, your condition changes.

"She believes you to be her husband," a cold, familiar voice hisses against your ear as what feel like claws trail over your naked flesh, raising the delicate hairs about your nipples in their wake.

The unwelcome caresses—you were growing used to oblivion—cause you to struggle against the bindings you cannot see, but you are relieved to find that it is not an animal touching you while you are mastered by a magic you do not know. Some of us were given to the werewolves, you remember. It could have been Greyback, you think. You believe that you have been spared something worse, something your friends received after they fell.

But when one sharp, anonymous nail grazes your cock, digs into its throbbing vein and traces it up the underside before slicing across your glans, you whimper in reawakening fear. They are still angry at you, and your punishment is not yet at an end.

"Bella," his voice explains, "will be my instrument."

Whose voice? Who are you?

The sound of whispering reaches your ears as he asks, displeasure evident in his tone, "You truly do not know me?"

The whispering stops abruptly, and you tremble at the pervasive sense of menace which surrounds you now.

"Macnair, you have done your work too well," the wizard—yes, the wizard; you remember that much—declaims. "Silence!" he screams, drowning out an aborted exclamation of dismay. "I wanted him to know me."

The others, how many of them you cannot know, say nothing as the one called Bella, or so you assume, begins to fondle your testicles. You moan as she rolls them roughly through her grasping fingers, thrust forward your hips in spite of your fear, and low laughter washes over you as the menace disperses.

It is his laughter, the wizard's, but it holds no joy.

"He is ready, my lord."

This voice is a woman's, a witch's, the one with the sharp fingernails, and, although you know you should be fighting her, you wish that she would not speak, that she would take you into her mouth and suck. This is a response to fear, a reflection of your desperation. You feel as though you are only your cock, and your cock is needful.

You are comforted to consider this feeling only because you recall that the ones who hurt you—before—told you there was something inside of you had to surrender willingly to him, but you would rather submit for her.

She does not scare you as he does.

The wizard jerks your head back by the hair and hisses against your lips, "Yes, I imagine you would, but what you hold within yourself is mine to possess—you are mine."

"As are we all," you hear Bella say, her fingers clamping painfully around the base of your prick.

The others echo her words.

"N—no!"

"Oh yes," the lord replies, releasing his hold on your hair. "I made you, Harry Potter, and I, Lord Voldemort, will break you."

He shouldn't have named me, you realize, shuttering your mind as an onslaught of memories assault your consciousness and you project only your fear and baser feelings. You shroud the return of your grasp of reality behind a wall, and it is impervious, made so by the power you draw from the bitch's hands on you—you know her now.

"Bellatrix!"

"Yes . . . my . . . Rodolphus?" she asks, in between applying teasing licks of her tongue to the head of your leaking prick.

Oh, oh, oh, you think; no one has ever done this to you before.

"Yes, Bella. Rodolphus," Voldemort says. "Your husband. You love him, do you not?"

In answer, Bellatrix sucks your prick to the root. You struggle; you do not want her filthy mouth on you, but it feels good, so good, and you cannot help thrusting forward into the hot suction which drives your body to ignore your will.

"Not too well, my servant," Voldemort orders Bellatrix. "Do not love him too well—for he has betrayed me."

There is a sloppy slapping sound as your cock slides out of Bellatrix's mouth.

"What? What did you say, my lord?"

She sounds panicked. You, too, panic as Voldemort repeats, "He has betrayed me."

Suddenly Bellatrix presses her forehead hard against your own, takes your face in her hands, and demands, "How have you failed us? How have you failed him?"

You think that you understand, now, what form your punishment will take—he's going to have her destroy me, you tell yourself—but you are mistaken; you still do not know what is happening here.

"Tell me. Tell me. Tell me! TELL ME!" Bellatrix rages, ripping at your skin.

It stings and you bleed and you fear—but that is not all you feel: your desire has not abated; it has only grown more intense, and your cock pulses with it as your blood seeps from your wounds, carrying with it the scent of copper and . . . and power.

Power has a smell? you ask yourself, and Voldemort hears you, though you do not yet understand why he does.

"Oh yes, it does. Power is palpable. Power is magic," Voldemort says, jerking Bellatrix away from you.

You can hear her sobbing in the distance. You can detect other things now, as well; most strongly, you can feel the magic holding you.

But it does not bind you alone.

"It is my magic that you feel, Harry Potter, my power, that which I . . . placed within you."

Voldemort says this as if he intended to give you his power, but you know his words for the lies they are. You know, in an ache of insight—your cock wants attention still—something more than your lust and your pain and your fear: you know that what Voldemort was going to say, before he stopped himself, was "lost to you."

These three unspoken words give you hope and draw everything you could not remember before into sharp focus deep within your mind.

If he lost his magic to me then maybe Macnair was right. Perhaps I do have to surrender it to Voldemort in order for him to get it back.

The thoughts you entertained so recently of oblivion disperse under the force of your new awareness. Now that you understand for what you are fighting, what you fight against, you know.

I will not surrender!

But Voldemort does not notice your internal triumph, for he is occupied by the mechanics of his "victory."

"Bellatrix shall assist me as I reclaim that magic from the very threads of your being," you hear him say.

His words are met with raucous cheering, and you are content to be forgotten for the moment as you form the plan of your salvation.

The moment is short. Voldemort is impatient. He believes that he will have an eternity of adulation, and he wishes to greet his fate as soon as may be.

"Are you prepared, my servant?"

"I . . . I am, my lord," Bellatrix replies, struggling to compose herself.

"Why then, do not despair, Bella, for you shall do great work this day. You shall rid yourself of an unworthy husband—rid me of an unworthy subject—and help me destroy my greatest enemy."

You hear the relief in Voldemort's voice. You hear the susurrus at the edge of your consciousness. You hear the blood rushing through your veins. You hear Bellatrix's screech, "He is nothing to you!" You hear all these things at once; everything is happening now.

"He is nothing but need. Your binding has him, and he cannot control himself under your touch. Bring him to the point, and then I will take back that which has always been mine."

You feel it, the binding; in your mind's eye, you can almost see it—its coruscating webbing surrounding your body, Voldemort glowing redly in the distance, and beyond him, a half-moon of duller, orangish shapes. This is some form of sex magic, you think, and you know that it is coupling your power to your desire, that it is connecting you to Voldemort and his own lust for what you possess, that it is how he means to force you to surrender. You know that. You also know that some primal part of you does not care; you want Bellatrix to suck you. You want to be drained of anything that was Voldemort's—but you do not want Voldemort's mouth on you, even though, perversely, the thought of it does nothing to dampen your desire for release.

It's the spell, you tell yourself. I'm hard because of the spell. What is it about the sodding spell? you ask, prompted by the whispering in your mind, a whispering too subtle to adequately discern.

You stop trying for a moment, your breath hitching, as Bellatrix approaches you. Somehow, you can feel her presence before she touches you; you do not know why, but you do know that your cock is still hard, harder, and you fail to stop your moan, your plea, for her touch, even as she kneels before you and wraps her mouth around your prick.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Your obscene litany shields you from Voldemort's renewed interest in your thoughts as you feel your magic pool deeply within yourself.

Fuck—fuck me with your mouth! you beg silently, as Bellatrix heeds Voldemort's command.

You can feel the insistent susurration against your consciousness, pushing inside you more deeply than you thrust into Bellatrix's throat; you can hear chanting. You do not wish to hear anything, so great is your need to come, but you focus on the whispering because it anchors you.

You focus on the whispering because it is as familiar to you as the cold voice of Voldemort, and in its half-understood meaning, you glean that which you need to know.

You are close, so close, but not so far gone that you cannot accept the assistance of your own famulus, and you let spill—beyond your fraying Occlumentical barrier—the refrain of, Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me . . . .

Voldemort knows instantly that you do not mean Bellatrix.

"Stop!" he orders, grasping the base of your prick to prevent your desire from cresting further.

You shudder at his touch.

"You wish me to kiss you?"

"Y—yes."

There is a murmur of astonished approval from the Death Eaters.

"You wish to surrender to me alone?"

"Oh yes, yes . . . my . . . my lord," you choke out from between dried lips, thinking, It isn't her. No one has ever made me feel this way. It isn't her—it's you. "I . . . I want you, Lord Voldemort!"

You will yourself to say these words because they are nothing but the truth: you do want Lord Voldemort; you want everything he is, and you hear the whispering more clearly now.

"I want everything you are, my lord. I want anything you'll give me. Please, oh please, please kiss me!"

Satisfied, rich, beguiling—that is the sound of Voldemort's laughter, and he laughs long. When he has command of himself again, he asks, "Shall I grant him his request, do you think?"

You hold your breath and wait for the response. It comes quickly.

"Yes, for you have always been gracious in victory, my lord."

This is a lie. You know that, but you hope that Voldemort will believe it because you think you know what his belief will mean. You hope and you throb and you wait, while the tendrils of spell-work surround you and coalesce within your body as if sentient and waiting, themselves.

And then a lipless mouth closes over yours, a leathery tongue entwines itself with your own, and you feel the power.

It is the power within yourself. It is the power of the binding spell. It is the power of Voldemort. It is the power that meets and combines at the junction of your mouths. It is the power that Voldemort seeks to take all for himself.

No. Not all of it, you think, as you focus on breathing through the horror of receiving Voldemort's touch, even as his sucking fuels the love at the heart of the binding spell and raises your desire. No, not mine—Bellatrix's, you realize. He used her love for her husband as the basis of the binding spell!

The susurration hovering on the border between your conscious and subconscious minds ceases its whispering because you know the magic now; it is fueled by desire, and desire fuels love. You know what love is as the Dark Lord knows not, and you accept it. It is your power, and you wield it.

You surrender to the spell.

As the binding magic infuses you, binds you more fully to Voldemort, you bind him to yourself, as well, and take also to yourself those who are bound to him; this comes as a shock to him, and he struggles, but you think only on the lesson of the whispering.

The matrix of the binding spell—which Bellatrix wrought at Voldemort's command, believing herself to be binding her husband for a ritual—was formed by love, and Voldemort, you know, is attempting only to use that spell as a guide, as a metaphysical funnel, if you will.

And yes, I see that you will, for I feel you, we all feel you, as you begin to draw forth not only the Dark Lord's power into yourself, but the medium he had Bellatrix create to channel your twain magics together. Voldemort is bound now to that medium, but you, you have become that with which he sought to control you, and he is helpless to fight.

The Dark Lord's body goes rigid as the invisible bindings suspending you disperse. You grasp him to your chest as a ball of thaumaturgical light emanates around you both, growing dim as you absorb what is not yours, but what is becoming yours.

The other Death Eaters stare in shocked incomprehension at the sight of you. They do not understand how what they are witnessing is possible. Even Bellatrix makes no move to stop you.

She cannot, for the draining action of the spell has also been turned upon her. I, too, feel myself weakening. I stare, knowing that I am lost, at the spectacle of the greatest dark wizard in ages being consumed from within; he is nothing but a husk, now, and we, all of us, are frail and dry, bereft of what protection the Mark gave us; yet we remain connected to the Dark—to Voldemort, who is utterly enthralled to you, and thus, we are doomed.

You know the magic now, and you are taking it, taking all of it, taking ours. You are killing us as surely as you are killing Voldemort. Your mind is closed to me, now, and I know that I will not live to see what you become. I fall to my knees in a facsimile of adoration before you, a witness to the birth of, perhaps, a Lord of Light, if there is such a thing, and I hope that my mission was not in vain. I hope that Albus was right about you. I hope, Potter, for oblivion, for I am tired of fighting, and my war is o—