Fic: Arché [Peter/Harry + Voldemort, NC17, for hp_springsmut]

[jateshi]

Title: Arché
Author: jateshi
For: colors
Pairing: Peter/Harry with voyuer!Voldemort
Rating: NC17 or "adult"
Word Count: 2,536
Warnings: non-con, bloodplay, bondage/restraints, torture, mentions of past masturbations, voyuer!Voldemort, mentions of past voyuer!Peter/James and voyuer!Peter/Harry
Summary: The Dark Lord allows Peter to try a new tactic to break Harry's mind.
Author's Notes: Arché is the Greek term which was used to refer to the substance the ancient philosophers thought was the original 'element' that all things in the universe were made out of. While the ancient philosophers never agreed on what, exactly, the arché really was, many theories existed - everything from water to ether were offered and considered. One take on the arché is that it is the human mind, and imagination itself, which gives birth to all of the light and all of the dark of existence.

Also, many thanks to starrysummer for running the rantastic exchange!


Arché

Voldemort was no longer trying to trick Harry with false visions - Harry had even assured his friends that instead of abusing it, the Dark Lord was blocking the connection which Harry's scar had forged between their minds. With repeated assurances Harry's concerned friends grew satisfied, leaving the Gryffindor alone again as he prepared to sleep. Everything he was doing - it was all to bring Him down, Harry forcefully reminded himself. That didn't stop the scream from making it past his lips, joining the endless number of others he'd already given birth to in this nebulous void.

He'd purposely let the few Occulemency barriers around his mind fall one night, erecting only a mild resistance when Voldemort launched his mental attack. He'd handed the Dark Lord this victory with only a show struggle, all so that, in the end, he would be able to finally win. At first, Tom had delighted in trapping Harry's sleeping mind, a child playing nightly with His favourite, newly-discovered toy. But just as Harry had adapted to every other challenge life (or the Dark Lord) had thrown at him, soon the endless nights of Muggle torture and violence lost their horror; his throat was no longer bloody and raw, Harry not bothering to try to drown out the agonized cries and begging pleas of Tom's victims with his own voice.

The first night of this new stage in their mental dance, Harry had simply folded his arms and stood, watching silently as Tom tore a pregnant Muggle woman apart, limb by limb. At the lack of a reaction, the Dark Lord had seemed to become a petulant child, taking Harry's lack of a response as a stimulant to try to make the murder even more gruesome. When that failed, Tom had ranted in Parseltongue until Harry woke, a hiss following him for the rest of that morning. The second night Harry observed the killings without comment the dream had abruptly ended, a momentary flash of determination from Voldemort. Harry woke feeling as if he'd won some small battle between them, staying awake long enough to Occlude his mind before returning back to sleep.

Even though Snape wasn't the Potions Professor anymore, shaking hands mixed with volatile potions ingredients still resulted in disastrous accidents. The week's accident, courtesy of Crabbe and Goyle tripping on a loose cobblestone, sent Harry (and a large portion of the rest of the class, as well) to the Hospital Wing. Once under the Mediwitch's tender care, Harry found the seeping gash on his arm numbed and on its way to healing and a goblet thrust into his hand, fumbling to obediently drink the potion. Only when he could feel his arms grow lethargic did Harry dimly register a soft, mocking laughter in his ears, falling neatly through Morpheus' arms and landing - literally - on a rough, stone floor.

Palms smarting, bruised and scraped from the unintended fall onto his hands and knees, one small part of Harry's mind wondered when his dream world had once-more become so real. The air, chilled and smelling of old blood, swam around him as Harry stood, the Gryffindor ordering his dream-self to take a look around the place. Pulling his school robes closer to his body, noting that he was dressed exactly as he'd been when he'd gone into the Hospital Wing, Harry's green eyes slid from shapes to shadows.

The room looked-

"Ominous," a voice supplied with a lilt at the end, making it a question. Harry's mind scrambled to identify the voice, recognition of a new sound - Voldemort's dry, pleased chuckle - told him that someone else was with him. Them. Pieces fell into place as Harry drew his wand, whirling to shakily target the first voice's owner. Peter's rat-like brown eyes glowed from within as he stepped into a slot of light, another gleam catching Harry's eyes as the silver right hand came into sight, a wand held comfortably in Peter's fingers. Harry tuned his awareness to exclude Tom, his mind focusing on Peter as they both began to move, circling and stepping to always keep Peter opposite himself.

"You see, Potter - really, I'll call you Harry because to me, Potter is (and always will be) your dearly-departed father - my Lord has grown weary." Peter slowly drove Harry back, his eyes losing some of their lustre as he spoke, chattering rapidly in a high-pitched voice. "You were no longer fun for Him to play with and that simply can't be, Harry-" A jump forward, Harry still skittering predictably backwards. "You know how He gets when He becomes unhappy, Harry." Peter watched as Harry continued to edge back, stumbling over an iron ring driven and then bolted into the flooring.

Fluidly, like quicksilver come alive, Peter helped Harry continue to stumble; shoving the Gryffindor against the wall, Peter closed his metallic hand around Harry's throat, squeezing. "So I promised my Lord that I would make Him happy with you, again." Frantically Harry clawed at Peter's arm, scraping and trying to dig his fingers into the man's skin but all he accomplished was a grate of nail against metal, finding no purchase. Flashes of grey danced across his vision as his air supply remained limited, Peter still speaking. "I promised my Lord that I could make you scream for him again."

For a moment, clarity struck Harry's mind - a last burst of mental comprehension; he saw Peter's eyes as he'd never seen them look - determined - before emerald-coloured eyes rolled up into his head. The sixteen year old sagged unconscious in Peter's grip, his hand falling slowly to his side. The Death Eater remained still, holding the boy's throat closed until a sharp command cut through his excitement. Releasing Harry, the gleam filling his eyes again as he saw the red, already-darkening marks on Harry's skin, Peter bowed deeply to his Lord in apology.

"You said entertainment, Wormtail," the Dark Lord hissed. Voldemort stood in front of the two Gryffindors, watching without any further comment as Peter first removed the boy's outer robe and then fixed shackles around Harry's thin wrists. Interest rose in the depth's of Voldemort's eyes as Peter bent Harry's prone body over a padded leather bench, securing his legs to rings in the floor with another set of shackles and then locking his wrists into the stone as well.

Peter walked over to a rack on the wall, the shadows parting and solidifying in turn to form a multitude of implements for Peter to chose from. With the start of a smile appearing on his lips, Peter picked out a razor-ended flail, the man stroking the wrapped, leather handle. Slapping the butt against the heel of his palm and starting to circle around the unconscious Gryffindor, Peter drew the flail's leather tails over his open and spread hand, stopped before the razors would have dragged over his skin. His pacing came to an end as he looked down, standing directly behind the boy.

Peter smiled. "I deliver, my Lord," he promised, the arm holding the flail dropping low, behind his body as the metal flashed and caught the light. The leather and metal made a graceful arc, a whistle as it cut through the air before ripping and digging into Harry's exposed back.

Rivers of fire tore down Harry's skin, pain the first thing his mind became aware of. As Peter ripped the flail free from his skin, shreds of his Oxford shirt (some scraps white but most of them stained dark red) followed the weapon. Harry came awake. He jerked against the iron shackles holding his body cruelly in place, trickles of blood winding down the creases of his palms as the iron cut through layers of his skin. His scream was ripped from his throat, Harry not even caring that there were tears pouring from his eyes and mixing with flecks of blood on his face. For a moment there was no concept of pride or honour to Harry - there was only pain.

Again Peter brought the flail down towards Harry's skin, watching as Harry tensed - the boy had picked up on the slight whistle of the metal passing through the air without ever consciously hearing it before - with expectation. And then Harry screamed, the sound filling the room. To the Dark Lord, looking down at the brat, the sounds Peter was drawing from him were more tinged with horror and agony than the ones He had succeeded in creating.

It was delicious, watching the proud Gryffindor cry out in agony. Harry was struggling so vainly against the metal binding him in place, his skin slicked with rich, red blood - but only where it wasn't a jagged tear, some cuts so deep that glimpses of white bone were visible before the blood started welling from the cuts. Blood from his back coated everything in the dream-room, drops falling like a crimson rain on Harry, on Peter, and on the intently-watching Voldemort.

Even when Peter stopped whipping him, Harry still sobbed and screamed; Peter had expertly laid down the blows so that there was no respite left for Potter - even breathing would pull open the fresh wounds. It was a masterfully created work of art, blood and skin and torn strips of flesh more satisfying as the time dragged on and, unlike the other dreams, where Harry had drawn himself away from the reality forced on his mind, the boy was unable to retreat from the scene.

Helpless.

Peter stood facing his Lord, fastidiously pulling snagged flesh and cloth from the barbs and razors, tossing them to the floor. He made sure enough effort went into the toss so that the mixed flesh and blood fell easily within Harry's sight. At a sound, one that didn't match the wet slap of peeled skin hitting stone flooring or the soft, wet drip of fresh blood joining the pool forming around Harry, Peter looked up and met his Lord's gaze. The command was a silent one, neither captor speaking, instead both pairs of eyes moving to look at Harry.

Hooking a finger under the last scrap of waistband holding shreds of trousers and pants up, Peter pulled back. Harry came alive again, Voldemort watching as his eyes widened in fear, and dawning comprehension. The boy first yelled a string of incoherent nonsense and then, when Peter slid a finger down a patch of unmolested skin, directing a stream of blood to flow down the curve of his ass, Harry tried to bodily pull away.

Voldemort smiled coldly at the sight: Harry screaming to Peter in an appeal for him to stop. Peter laughed at Harry, robe dropping to the floor as he shrugged it off.

Peter stayed behind Harry, watching the boy's mind work through sounds as he undressed himself. Harry struggled wildly, like a trapped animal and that sight was what brought a rush of power, of need, and violent desire into Peter's blood. As the last part of Peter's costume fell off his body, leaving the man naked as he looked down at his toy, Harry tried a new tactic.

"I spared your life! I spared you, Peter-" On and on he went, a wild jerk against the iron shackles at odd intervals.

Using the boy's own blood already on his hand as lubricant, Peter stroked his hand up and down his cock. Harry was James, as Peter had always wanted him to be - begging for something he'd never get. He couldn't get James back for anything - not for treating him like a lackey in school, not for wanting (and getting) to shag everyone but him - but he could make James' son pay for his father's sins. His hand pulled harder and quicker, working his prick up with memories of James first learning how to masturbate, adding the precious memories he had from the time as the Weasley's rat when Harry had forgotten silencing spells for his wet dreams.

Blood - Harry's - dripped from Peter's hard cock as he moved into position behind the teenager. Blood coated Peter's finger as he roughly pushed the digit into Potter's tight anus, the teen's cry hitting and then breaking into a new octave range, driven by fear. Positioning the almost plum coloured head of his prick at Harry's tight hole, Peter leaned over the boy's back, lips just behind Harry's ear when he spoke.

"Be a good boy, Harry-" Peter's voice was cruel, the man starting to push his way inside Harry's unprepared body. "Scream for me?" And then viciously Peter shoved, forcing past the ring of resisting muscle, feeling it tear around his stiff and swollen cock. And Harry screamed until he was out of breath, screamed as Peter rammed his body again and again until he was seated in Harry's ass, screaming again as Peter started to move. Harry yelled, cursed, and then sobbed as Peter crooned mockingly into his ear.

"My good boy, aren't you? First you bled for me, just like I wanted," Peter was driving Harry hard into the leather, knocking the breath from the teen's lungs. "And then you screamed for me." With one hand, Peter fisted Harry's hair, roughly prying his head back. "And now you're getting fucked by me. Do you know what you feel like, around my cock? You're hot and wet and broken, and all for me."

Harry was past the point when he could make his vocal chords form a word, still sobbing and trying to beg Peter with sounds, now. It was too delicious, too perfect - Peter drove himself deeply into Harry's torn anus with a triumphant yell, spilling his come and filling the boy's abused body with his seed. Still pistoning his hips in and out, the motion easier now that his semen coated Harry's inside, acting as a lubricant, Peter only slowed when his orgasm drew to an end. Withdrawing his prick with a suctioning sound, Peter again crooning that Harry was his good, broken fuck, Peter held his prick as he shot off one last string of come onto Harry's back.

Muttering a spell to clean himself up, Peter lazily picked and slipped on his trousers. Doing up the zip, the Death Eater bowed to his Lord. Releasing Harry's wrists and legs from the shackles with another spell, Peter stood in silence now. The boy didn't seem to notice the change, still remaining slumped over the bench exactly as Peter had left him, legs spread wide in a wanton invitation, blood and spunk seeping from his ass.

With a wave of His hand, Peter bowed again and then faded out of the dream. The room itself swirled, dissolving until Harry was left in a circle of light and blood, arms now hugging his chest and his legs curled up so that he was in a protected ball. Standing, Voldemort smiled warmly down at the still madly-sobbing Gryffindor before his image, too, began to fade.

"Pleasant dreams, Potter." His eyes remained, hovering at the edge of the Gryffindor's mind. It would be quite some time before Harry could disassociate himself from this sort of dream.

Entertainment, indeed.