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Delicate Old Injuries	By : Hijja Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 3892 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Delicate Old Injuries
- 1
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling. No harm intended, no money made.
Pairing(s): James/Voldemort, James/Lucius
Warning: serious non-con, character death, darkfic
Note: An ever-so-slightly AU version of the Potters' last night at Godric's Hollow. Sequel/prequel (yes, both) to Secret Keepers, but can definitely stand on its own. Most humble thanks to lazy_neutrino for the beta, and to Thea, Chthonia and the fandomsymposium-people for their input! The title has been filched from a poem by Louise Erdrich.

Delicate Old Injuries

by Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)

James freezes in the middle of the staircase and clutches his wand, bare feet curling on cool wooden steps. It is aiming downstairs, at the enemies that have somehow invaded his secure little fortress. It is impossible, yet here they stand, four hooded figures forming a little half-circle around the landing, masked faces upturned towards him.
Then one of the figures takes a step forward. James can't make out its features, but the movement itself, that slight tilting of the head, cuts him to the bone. So very, very familiar.
Oh Merlin, no! If he had believed there might be a chance, even against four of them, that one small gesture has destroyed it.
"Do come down to us, James."
It is the tone, not the words, that sends a light spasm through James' muscles. A tone that belongs to the night indeed, but to a night of crisp sheets, tangled limbs and hair, and flashes of mind-numbing pleasure. Not to a night of hooded robes, raised wands, and death clinging to the air so thickly that its charred taste burns his tongue.
"Come and talk to us, James. It's impolite to leave your guests to yell halfway across the room."
James allows his wand to droop a little, as if he'd been reassured by the prospect of 'talk'. He pads down a few steps until there are only three stairs between him and the intruders. The staircase's angle still gives him an advantage in height, and leverage enough to aim.
He flicks his wand out of the wrist, giving them no warning whatsoever. Sirius taught him that trick, a long time ago.
"Revadere!"
If He managed to break through the Fidelius by force, a major Banishment Spell may cast them out of the house again and reactivate the Charm's protective powers, at least until he can call for help. Perhaps Albus and Alastor have already noticed the breach. All he has to do is to stall them, occupy them, keep them from Lily and the baby until help arrives.
The spell sweeps down the remaining stairs before him, humming and crackling.
The leader raises his hand, touching the first ripples almost curiously. James feels the fingertips touch his magic as if they were brushing his own face.
"Finite."
The magic evaporates as if it had never been cast at all. And He did not even require a wand to dispel it. Somewhere inside James, hope groans and lies down to die.
"Caedo!"
James throws the spell blade at the two Death Eaters to the left, as if once he managed to get rid of the entourage, he could bargain - or plead - with the leader. When all he really wants is to crawl into a corner and to never again tear his face from its shelter behind his hands to look at Him. But he can't run. That would leave them free to get at Lily, and Harry.
The taller of the two Death Eaters sidesteps gracefully, while his smaller comrade grinds out a strangled "Protego!". His spell deflects the curse, although it still retains enough force to send him stumbling backwards against the table. The fruit bowl on the tabletop wobbles, and sets to spinning noisily on the hardwood surface.
There is a small sound from upstairs, and then Lily's voice drifts down, muffled through the closed bedroom door.
"James?"
They had put up a Silencing Charm around the upper storey with the nursery after Harry was born, to keep the often boisterous get-togethers of the Marauders from disturbing mother or infant. It may just turn into a death trap now.
Despair burns in James' throat, bitter-sharp like bile. Muscles twitch in his cheek where Moony's claws sliced into Prongs to get at his prey, that long-past night in the Shack. Transformation mended the worst of it, and Madam Pomfrey healed every last bit of damage to nerves and skin afterwards, but adrenaline still leaves the old injury singing with memory.
James draws himself up and feels power thrum through him. He recalls another night years ago, when the fingers that have just stopped his spell traced invisible channels of magic along his naked skin, and then shook their power awake until he thought he would die from the ecstasy of it.
He raises his wand, this time directed straight at the leader's chest.
'Focus... aim... and mean it, with all your heart', as Gideon taught him.
"Avada Ked-"
Again, His hand comes up to touch the tip of James' wand. He feels each individual finger, tapping gently against his lips and silencing him without effort, without force. James just goes quiet in mid-spell, and the greenish glow that curls around his wand tip evaporates under those gloved fingers.
He gives a choked sob as the wand is plucked from his hand effortlessly.
Then the hand slides up to cup his cheek, and that oh-so-familiar voice asks, "Is this a way of greeting an old friend, James?"
And what can he answer to that, when at one time this man had been so much more than a friend, and yet the very worst of monsters?
***
It had all been Aberforth Dumbledore's fault, really. When James had apprenticed with Kassander Vance's Retriever Squad as a junior Diviner, he'd been put under Aberforth's tutelage. Aberforth, who was famous for hitting on everything that breathed: wizard, Muggle, house-elf, household pet and livestock, male or female. At least he understood the meaning of 'No!' - well, after three dozen repetitions and followed by 'I'd rather shag an unwashed goblin on a filthy straw pile!'. But James had realised that while Aberforth Dumbledore was perhaps the most repulsive humanoid on the planet, it was his personality and appearance that repelled him, not his gender.
Of course he genuinely loved Lily and still had every intention to marry her as soon as they finished their respective apprentice years. But they were both occupied with their new duties and saw little of each other apart from nightly chats through the fireplace. James had desperately wanted to talk to Sirius about his sudden desires, especially since he suspected that there was something going on between his best friend and Remus. But they were extremely skittish about the issue and seemed to freeze at the mere thought that someone might suspect more than friendship between them. Sirius, in particular, kept coming up with ever more ridiculous explanations as to why he failed to return to the flat he shared with James at nights.
And Peter... no, James just couldn't approach Peter. Not because he was the least attractive of the Marauders - he was, and James would never have considered him had there been other options. But Peter's hero-worship practically guaranteed he'd go along with everything James suggested, and as much as James wanted to put these strange new urges of his to the test - ideally to discard them afterwards - he drew the line at taking advantage of one of the Marauders. He still remembered Peter's shock when that bastard Snivellus had asked, in front of a gaggle of chortling Slytherins, whether Potter let him ride his broomstick, or whether he was content with polishing it. They'd got back on Snivelly days later, leaving him stunned and tied up naked to Filch's memento-wall for the other Snakes to find, but James still remembered the hurt on Peter's face. They should have employed Filch's toys on the bastard as well before leaving him to his fate.
With all that on his mind, it had not taken much persuasion from the stranger, who had struck up a casual conversation in the shabby little Wizarding Oddities shop just off Knockturn Alley James tended to frequent whenever Sirius was too busy to show his face, to intrigue him into following him home.
"How did you know?" he'd asked Thomas Marvolo, weeks later when he lay spooned against his back and was drawing lazy designs on James' sweat-slicked shoulder.
"I just looked at you." Thomas smiled and nipped the back of James' neck with sharp teeth after brushing a few wild tangles out of the way. "Perhaps I saw your face in a vision, a long time ago." Another nip, and James savoured the pleasurable shudder it evoked. "It happens," Thomas added lightly. "You're a Diviner - you should know."
"I just find lost things," James objected without much emphasis. It wasn't as if he could see the future.
"Hm," Thomas agreed, abandoning his patterns to sling an arm over James' shoulder and gather him more closely against his chest. "So true."
They had been highly complementary lovers, the man who called himself Thomas Marvolo and James Potter. Thomas answered James' curiosity about the physical aspects of love between two wizards, and the pleasure he bestowed drew James back to his town house again and again. So much that he wondered - if only during the man's absences - whether such a near-dependence was healthy.
But yes, they suited each other; Thomas, as perfectly ruthless when it came to experimenting in bed as James was fearless. Even their looks were matching, and perhaps it was a narcissistic streak that had compelled the other wizard to choose a lover whose colouring so resembled his own. James knew he was attractive - he'd turned heads at Hogwarts wherever he went, as easily as Sirius and without Sirius' rebel image. But he wasn't sure whether looks alone could have kept the interest of someone as obviously experienced as Thomas Marvolo.
And it wasn't just the sex, though that eclipsed everything James could have imagined physical intimacy to be. But he also enjoyed the company of a wizard with Marvolo's brilliant mind and wry humour, and although James never pried into the privacy Thomas guarded so carefully, he realised that the man was quite well off, well connected, and likely from an old wizarding family.
And then had come the fateful night when James awoke to find himself overheated and so exhausted that keeping his bleary eyes open was a challenge, but dying for a drink of water. He crawled out of bed on leaden limbs, feeling as if he'd been hit with a Dreamless Sleep Charm, contemplated and discarded his wand on the nightstand, and padded over to the door on naked feet.
It was only when he returned from the adjacent bathroom, slightly refreshed at last, that he heard the sound of voices coming from the entrance hall. He peeked down from the balustrade above the hall, but saw no one. Of course he knew he shouldn't spy on Thomas, although he'd long been curious about what his secretive lover got up to outside the bed.
And so, Gryffindor that he was, he sneaked down the left spiral staircase until he could overlook the hallway proper. And froze.
Stuffing his fist into his mouth in time to silence a scream was all that saved his life that night.
He saw Thomas, still in the black embroidered dressing gown he favoured, but which acquired a sinister touch now, in the harsh light of the candelabra. At his feet knelt another black-clad figure, hooded and masked in a way James had only seen on grainy, distant Daily Prophet front page shots. The creature's left sleeve was pushed up to his shoulder, and he clutched a round brand on his upper arm that seemed to be pulsing dully. As James was watching, the man - if it was a man - bowed so low his hood brushed the floor.
"It will be done, my lord."
James stared for the additional moment he needed to prove to himself that he was not suffering from an exhaustion-induced hallucination. He was shaking with a terrible, bone-deep cold. All it would take was for one of them to look up, and he'd end up memory-charmed at best, or dead more likely. Trembling, he sneaked back up the stairs and slipped back into the bedroom. It had been mid-summer then, but his hands and feet were numb. He had never woken up in Thomas' bed before, well, not unless his lover had pried him from sleep with mouth, hands or cock for an amorous interlude. He'd always blamed his near-comatose sleep on the spells they cast to enhance their lovemaking. Now he'd seen the sinister truth behind it. He let the door click noiselessly shut and leaned his back against it for an instant.
There was the robe Thomas had discarded in the afternoon, slung carelessly over the arm of a chair. Thomas, whose body he'd come to know better than his own. Who had made love to him only this evening, laughed with him, fed him pumpkin pastries like an indulgent lover, not like the demonic creature he'd seen in the hall. Monster. Master of Death Eaters. How could he have come to... care about this creature - Lord Voldemort? What was the Ministry's sentence for sleeping with the Dark Lord? A life sentence in Azkaban? Revocation of his Crup permit? He stifled a hysterical giggle.
He'd slipped back into bed, feigning spell-enhanced sleep when Thom... when He returned to the room. It was all he could do to suppress his violent trembling when the man ran a black-gloved hand over his naked shoulder before leaving him to his sleep and retiring to the adjacent study. James had lain there for hours until dawn, fitfully trying to calm the roiling of his stomach, wondering every so often whether he'd suffered from a hallucination caused by too much sex magic and exposure to the Daily Prophet. But he hadn't been asleep then, and he wasn't now.
In the morning, he rose on shaky legs, dressed himself with equally shaky fingers, suffered Thomas' kiss on his lips and took his Portkey home. As always, the tiny flat was empty, and Sirius was out. James grabbed his Shooting Star from the broom closet, crept under his Invisibility Cloak for good measure, and took off for Scotland.
He'd arrived at Hogwarts after shivering through a rough broom ride, Lord Voldemort's parting kiss still frozen on his lips, to throw himself, and his tale, on Albus Dumbledore's mercy. He cringed at Professor McGonagall's horrified gasp when he'd finished his story, but the Headmaster only turned his sad smile from him to her.
"Now, now, Minerva - Lord Voldemort has hoodwinked older and more experienced wizards than Mr Potter here."
Only that he hadn't been hoodwinked at all, really. Just... used.
Thomas - the man had cut so many forays into his soul that Imperius would have seemed downright kindly in comparison. But James had achieved an 'Outstanding' in his Defence N.E.W.T. and knew how to throw that Unforgivable eight times out of ten. Dumbledore stripped away the filmy layers of compulsion and mind-controlling spells that had been laid on him. There hadn't been all that many, just enough to keep James coming back, and keep him from asking questions about the many inexplicable details of his lover's life that seemed so glaring in retrospect. And the actual compulsion charms were the least of his problems, he'd realised as he waited for the extent of Thomas' betrayal to sink in, and for the pure flame of rage to burn away whatever affection still remained. It never came.
"I'd rather not touch the... others," Dumbledore had said, scratching his long nose under the spectacles. James flushed at the old Headmaster's delicate distaste. Those... others, the spells they had cast for pleasure, were... consensual, designed to strengthen their bond and increase their responses. Not quite Dark Arts, but close enough. Who knew how much of James' identity would be scraped off along with them? "You should be safe enough as long as you keep away from Voldemort's presence."
James had been determined to do exactly that for the rest of his life, and not just because of the spells. If they ever came face to face again, residual sex magic would be the least of his worries. A quick Avada Kedavra was the best he could look forward to in that case.
He'd heard the story of Tom Marvolo Riddle for the first time that day, although he'd had some weird recollection of polishing the trophy of a chap named Tom Riddle under Filch's narrowed eyes one half-forgotten detention. In retrospect, Thomas' alias made perfect sense - close enough to his real name to suit his arrogance, altered enough not to be immediately recognised. No, it didn't surprise James at all that he'd renamed himself 'Thomas' or 'Voldemort' to get away from plain, ordinary 'Tom'. Whatever he was, his Thomas, ordinary wasn't it.
When Dumbledore offered him a small safehouse of the Order in the hamlet of Godric's Hollow to protect him from Death Eater retribution, James knew he had no right to ask Lily to accompany him there as his wife. Being Gryffindor, he asked nonetheless. Whatever prompted her to accept him despite his sordid tale he never quite figured out. He knew that he didn't deserve her forgiveness, that he might not have found it inside himself to be as generous had their roles been reversed. But it was this shared secret, not to mention their enforced seclusion in a tiny wizarding village, which brought them close again.
He never told Sirius, even less Remus or Peter, about his 'fling' and its consequences, although he felt as if it stood, invisible, in the way of their friendship. Remus might have understood the irresistible compulsion of the Dark, but not Sirius. Imagining his best friend with the Dark Lord would have destroyed him. But even if Dumbledore had not advised him to secrecy, he'd have been too cowardly to come out with a tale like this.
And while Albus never alluded to a debt between them, James knew what was expected of him. And he wanted to serve the light beyond telling the Headmaster every detail he remembered of his time with Thomas, without offending the old man's sensibilities too much. He was there when the Order stormed Voldemort's town house, watched the bedroom they had made love in stripped for any clue it might provide, and then crumble slowly into ashes. They found no trace of the place's owner. James had never expected them to.
After that, he'd thrown himself into the work of the Order of the Phoenix to atone for his weakness, with a passion that served as inspiration for the other Marauders, and for Lily as well. And perhaps, it had brought him to this...
***
"You seem disappointed to see me," the Dark Lord remarks and sweeps his hood back with a casual gesture. Unlike his flunkies, he does not hide his face behind a mask.
James flinches at the sight. There is a reddish flame burning in the previously steel-grey eyes that he has never seen there before, and the mouth, never soft, has turned into a tight grey line, like a knife-cut slashing the formerly handsome face. It isn't all that much of a change, but the small touches serve to turn him from handsome to dangerous. As if he had been infected with something... not human.
The mouth curves into a nasty grin, as if Thomas - Lord Voldemort, James corrects himself vehemently - could pick up James' thoughts. Which he probably can. That had been part of the appeal in their lovemaking, that Thomas had always been aware of his needs, and projected his own desires right into James mind to fulfil. Who knew how deep his marks went?
"How did you get around the Fidelius?" James croaks, only too aware of how stupid 'What do you want?' would sound.
"Yes, that's the interesting question, isn't it, little one?" Thomas gestures to his cronies. "I think we can forgo the masks, my faithful. We're among friends here, after all."
James bites back a sharp retort and watches the tallest Death Eater take off the mask and elegantly shrug back the hood of his cloak. Hair nearly as pale as the mask spills into the man's collar, and James doesn't need to see the face to recognise him. The hair alone is trademark enough.
The Malfoys have always had a reputation for dabbling in the Dark Arts, and this one in particular. Lucius Malfoy, arch-Slytherin, and Muggle-hater. James remembers him from his early years at Hogwarts, when the Slytherin prefect and his cronies had instilled holy terror in the hearts of fellow students and professors alike; never moving openly enough to force the Headmaster's hand, but famous for his cruelty and his skill at curses. In those first two years, the young Marauders had been careful messing about Snivellus, who had been adopted as some kind of house pet by Malfoy and his goons.
James knows that his expression of aloof contempt is firmly in place, even if the momentary cruel twitch of Malfoy's mouth makes his stomach churn.
When the smaller Death Eater next to Malfoy discards his mask, however, James' control is shot to the winds.
"Snivellus!" he spits and watches the pallid, ugly face tense. Black eyes narrow, hard as beetles burrowing under heavy eyelids. "So you've finally found a greater bully to suck up to than Malfoy."
Bringing the Dark Lord as backup is the only way the greasy shite would ever find the nerve to cross a Marauder's doorstep.
"So self-righteous, James?"
It's not just the threat in Thomas' voice that makes James' blood pulse faster through his veins. The tone alone is enough to swamp him with memories. "My Severus has chosen allies who will not try and do away with him for the sake of his mere existence. Surely you can't blame him for it."
Leave it to Snape to use that old story as a justification for his treachery, after James saved his bloody life!
"'Your Severus'?" he sneers. "My condolences, if you're reduced to sleeping with that nowadays."
Bloody-minded as it is to antagonise them, he hasn't lost his touch, James realises when something breaks in Snivelly's expression, like a gap opening up and pain spilling out. His 'master' seems oblivious to it.
"Prettiness without loyalty leaves a lot to be desired," he comments and nods at his third companion. The man, shorter even than Snivellus, hesitates for a second and his hands tremble as he reaches for the mask. "And I'm sure you'll understand now how unpleasant it can be to have misplaced one's trust?" Thomas adds.
"Peter?" James whispers. Suddenly he's cold as if Thomas had summoned a snowstorm to envelop him.
Peter doesn't make eye contact, but lets his gaze drop to the floor, a spot of colour forming on his cheeks.
Oh sweet Merlin, how did they find out, how could they've taken him?
"Peter?" he tries again to no avail, and then swivels around to Thomas. "What did you do to him?"
"Do?" the Dark Lord makes a small hissing noise, like a snake snickering. "Nothing but a bit of gentle persuasion from my friends here."
He reaches out and hooks a long finger into the waistband of James' trousers, pulling him close. His other thumb swipes fleetingly over a nipple, taut with cold and fear. James' heartbeat speeds up at that minimal contact until he thinks it must be visible beating against his chest. He can feel the familiar magic stirring underneath his skin, rising to greet its old master and bending James' will to his. It almost soothes the sting of Peter's betrayal, that touch. If it is betrayal. If it's not Imperius after all.
It's too much to fathom - Peter, who would do anything for him, because he always has, no questions asked. Peter loves him; they have always known, if never spoken of it.
Remus had been the one to refuse Fidelius outright. Remus, who once confessed to James one morning after a full moon, the lines of transformation still etched around his mouth and eyes, about the vague pull of the Dark that tugged at the corner of the wolf's mind. Like the faint beginnings of a toothache. Remus had feared the full focus of Voldemort's power on his wolf self, should the Dark Lord ever learn he was the keeper of the Fidelius Charm. And Sirius... Sirius had been willing, had been eager and insistent to be their Secret Keeper, and yet James was too acutely aware of what he and Remus shared together, and knew how it would grieve him should Lily take on such a potentially deadly responsibility.
So James had subtly fuelled Sirius' worries about security until his best friend had finally suggested Peter's name as a replacement, rationalising that Peter was the most slippery of them all; Peter, who, as a rat, could disappear and hide for years, unknown to anyone. Peter, who was the most expendable.
How could Thomas have poisoned that kind of bond?
"I think," the Dark Lord murmurs, almost against James' lips, "that after you lay in my arms, slept at my side, kissed me good-bye and flew off to betray me to my mortal enemy, it is only fair that I steal one of yours for myself, don't you agree?"
James' eyes travel, wide-open, over Snivelly, over the dull, safeguarded pain that crept onto his face when he realised that the 'Master' he'd thrown away his soul for had had his arch-enemy first, and cared enough to betray his hurt by this... travesty of revenge. Yes, love could twist, and turn, and melt into acid.
There is a sound from upstairs, from that upper stair that no amount of oiling spells had ever quite stopped from creaking, and James looks up to see Lily standing there on the top of the landing, baby Harry burrowed into her arms, her fiery hair muffled into a dull dark red by the shadows.
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's Him!" he screams hoarsely.
He can feel her eyes on him as she stands there, wide and horrified at the sight of the Dark Lord's hand on him. Lily, the only person apart from Dumbledore and McGonagall who knows about the bonds of magic between them.
"Go! Run! I'll hold him off!" James yells, twisting away from Voldemort's hand in a desperate lunge for Peter's wand, hanging half-forgotten between his former friend's and Secret Keeper's fingers.
He isn't fast enough, although the Dark Lord does not make a move to interfere. Malfoy and Snivellus grab him before his hand can close around the wood, propel him around and capture him between them, each imprisoning one of his arms and twisting them up behind his back. James is shoved forward into a half-hanging position, his face twisting in pain as his joints protest the abuse. But out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lily's pale-green nightgown vanishing from the landing and into the nursery at the far back of the corridor. The door slams shut and the wood begins to glow with the energy of wards and locking spells Lily throws up inside.
Malfoy raises his wand and takes a step forward as if to follow her, and James prepares to throw himself on him, dislocated shoulders be damned. But Thomas stops Malfoy with a gesture.
"Leave her be for the moment - there is no place for her to escape to. We've shut down the Floo, warded for owls, put up anti-Apparition wards. No, let us deal with this pretty little traitor first."
"Gladly," Malfoy murmurs, too close behind James' ear and with lazy anticipation singing in his tone. Where Snivellus is gripping his wrist with all the disgust one would show a dead rat and otherwise avoiding any bodily contact, Malfoy actually leans into James' back, which has the muscles in his trapped arm creaking with pain. His hip and leg are digging into James' body, and the insinuating closeness bothers James more than the ache.
Helplessness weighs like lead in his bones as he struggles ineffectually against the hold; he is terrified, mostly for Harry and Lily, but also of Thomas - not of the Dark Lord Voldemort who will deal out pain and death, but of the former lover who has dug his hooks into James' soul and beyond.
When Thomas runs his fingers over the front of James' pyjama bottoms, he feels himself responding with a horrified sob. Behind him, Malfoy chuckles, and James can feel the disgust radiating from Snape almost as if it were a physical thing. The bastard grips his arms as if he was imagining wrapping his fingers around James' throat. There is a thin, poison-dripping smile on Thomas' lips as he slips inside the flimsy pyjama bottoms and shoves down the elastic to reveal James' prick, which has been half-hard ever since Thomas scraped his nail over James' nipple.
And being caressed by that masterfully skilled hand, whose touch he had tried to scour from his nerve ends for the last three years, brings tears to his eyes. Tears of pure longing, a desire to collapse into that touch, to beg to be forgiven and taken and cradled in those arms without ever succumbing to another thought but devotion.
Oh, he should have begged Dumbledore to cut Voldemort's magic out of him no matter the cost. It could not possibly have done him more damage than this!
"Ah, yes, you are enjoying this, aren't you?" Voldemort croons, and although James throws his head back in shame, there is no denying that he does.
He feels the magic that has been infused into him during those endless nights in Thomas' house, his bed, and in the circle of his arms. It sings through his bones, the wondrous siren song that even Dumbledore was afraid to try and exorcise. And although he tries to tell himself that it isn't him who reacts so traitorously, but the magic that chains him to Thomas, he knows that in the end, it will not matter.
"Don't pretend you don't know what brought us here," the Dark Lord murmurs.
"Revenge," James tries, flatly.
Thomas dismisses it with a snort.
"Oh, don't flatter yourself, James. I would have been perfectly content to postpone the settling of our scores until my rule has been established." He smiles, emphasising lips that have thinned almost into nothingness. "But then we found out about that Prophecy Dumbledore is so cagey about, and about your son's role in it." Reddish eyes flicker towards the staircase that leads up to the nursery, and back to James. "Of course I decided to pay you a visit first when we learned about the two children in question. Yours was the less well protected. So my dear old friend Albus decided to stand as Secret Keeper for little Longbottom, and left you to the not quite tender mercies of your so-called friends..."
An inarticulate sound escapes James' throat.
"No!" he protests, trying to catch the enemy's eye. "Not Harry - me!"
Thomas brushes a few tangled strands of hair out of James' face with terrible gentleness.
"But you aren't dangerous," he points out mildly. "Your son is."
James opens his mouth to speak - to plead - but that imperious fingertip comes to rest over his lips again.
"Tell me, James, about your dear wife - do you love her?"
Oh, please! James' mind whimpers. Please don't hurt her, please, someone help us, Sirius, Dumbledore, anyone!
He stares at the Dark Lord in mute despair. Lily - Lily, oh Merlin, if he says yes, they'll murder her out of spite, and if he says no, because of that!
He tries to put his desperate plea into his eyes, tries to make a connection to the man he once took for a human being.
"Answer me, James," Thomas prods.
"Yes!" James finally cries, hanging his head. "Her and Harry. More than anything."
"I'll let her walk away, then," Thomas promises. "Because unlike you, I have a modicum of respect for the concept of love."
James suppresses a snort with effort. He knows that Lily will fight to the death for their son, without a split-second thought for self-preservation. And he knows just as well that Thomas is a complete stranger to love. He may know everything about seduction, manipulation and magic, but nothing about emotion. James wonders how long it will take for Snivellus to learn that lesson. Maybe he'll learn it tonight.
Content with his pretence at generosity, Thomas turns to his henchmen.
"So, Lucius, what do you think of my faithless lover?"
Malfoy's lip twitches, a grimace so repulsive that James shudders inwardly. The man's grip on his elbow shifts somehow, from restraint to... taxing, without losing a fraction of its firmness.
"Apart from his shortcomings in character, he is certainly pretty enough, my lord," Malfoy drawls. "In an ungroomed way."
James bites back the insult that wants out. The pressure of Malfoy's leg against his hip intensifies.
"Would you be interested in sampling his charms?"
The words slice like a knife across James' consciousness. He cannot mean to make such a mockery of everything they've had together - such a mockery of his death.
"Here?" Malfoy's eyebrow quirks with interest.
"Why not?" Thomas' grey eyes have held any number of emotions for James to mirror himself against, but he's never seen them as pure shards of ice, cold and with a reddish glow around the iris. "It's not as if we're going to be disturbed." An ugly downturn of the mouth. "This place is protected by Fidelius, after all. How about you, Severus?"
"No!" James spits reflexively, only to curse himself a second later. Don't give them the satisfaction! "Stop it!" he snaps at Thomas - Voldemort - his fury echoing through the link he knows is still there. Thomas has always picked up the deepest desires of his heart, and body. There is no answer.
"Why not?" The long, spidery hand runs over his shoulder and down to pinch his nipple again between sharp nails. "Surely you can't believe you don't deserve it?"
James bites the inside of his mouth to stop himself from screaming.
Malfoy grabs hair at his neck and cranes his head back until it is forced against his shoulder. James has never been so close to a Death Eater before - well, no, he has, he realises with a jolt and a look at Peter. Malfoy's robe is thick and soft. Madam Malkin quality, and whatever scent he wears, it's as unobtrusive as it is expensive.
"He seems to favour me over you, Severus," Malfoy mocks. "How amusing."
James sees Snivellus' blank face out of the corner of his eye and considers a cutting retort, but swallows it at the thought of Harry and Lily. If he can keep them occupied, maybe Lily will be able to find a way out with the baby. She's a supremely gifted witch, and has been poring over ancient Charms tomes ever since Harry's birth to augment the protective spells Dumbledore has cast on his son and his home.
And he just can't manage to think clearly with Thomas' hand on him and the magic thrumming under his skin and in his blood. There is a shred of the same sick familiarity emanating from Malfoy as well, as if the mere fact that he wears the Dark Lord's Mark had infected his essence, too.
Thomas plays thumb and index finger over James' cock, an insidious, sinuous dance, and then dips down to spread his legs apart, unmindful of the elastic waistband digging into James' thighs, to roll his balls inside their loose skin, and to stroke torturously over his perineum. He doesn't moan, that's the only thing James can cling to for pride, but he does in his mind, and that is all it takes for Thomas to hear.
"Mmh, very nice," the Dark Lord comments, lipless smile radiating down at James while at his side Snape bares his teeth in an unconscious grimace of revulsion.
James' mind is thrown wide open, more vulnerably exposed than years ago, when his then-lover at least upheld the pretence that their magic bonding was about affection, not control. It feels as if James, too, carries Thomas' Mark, not etched into his arm, but stamped into his blood and skin.
And then Malfoy gives his pyjama bottoms another tug down to bare his arse, and James flails in disgust, because despite the indignity of being fondled in public, he never expected Thomas to permit them to go this far, not with him!
"Do hold him, will you, Severus, Wormtail," Thomas admonishes, and James cringes to hear that name given away so casually, worse than the slithering cold of Malfoy running his leather-gloved hands over James' bare arse.
Thomas pushes James' head back against Malfoy's shoulder. His hand rests on James' cheek for a moment, cool palm soothing his fevered skin. James lets his eyes fall shut.
"Do try and take your punishment like an adult, not like a cringing child," Thomas chides while his other hand teases James' erection to harden even more. It is pleasant, so much that James could just abandon himself to it and let it unmake him utterly. Hot tears sting his eyes, but refuse to fall. Revenge should never be this cruel, nor should it feel quite so seductive.
So he keeps still even as Malfoy struggles with his robes behind him, and just concentrates on keeping his breath from turning into moans and trying not to face up to the fact that he's about to be raped in front of his worst enemy, his former lover and one of his best friends.
He burns under Snivellus' hateful stare, but it's Peter's face, wide-eyed with his mouth half-open in unconscious lust, that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life, if there was a life to look forward to after this.
Malfoy mutters a spell behind him, evidently for his own benefit because there is no familiar slickness in James' nether regions. Malfoy's hands grab James' arse, still with those gloves whose embroidered seams pinch the taut, vulnerable skin, squeezing his buttocks cruelly for a moment before pushing his knees apart. Only a Malfoy, James thinks with hysterical humour bubbling up in his chest, would fuck with gloves on.
Malfoy's prick, when it nudges against his opening, is hard enough to make James wonder if it's his wand for a second, and slick with spell ointment. Designed to minimise Malfoy's discomfort, not by any means enough to smooth his entry.
James is determined not to betray his pain at the forced invasion, and instead concentrates on Thomas' provocative fingers on his cock. He feels a surge of pleasure when the magic inside him reacts to this acknowledgement. The invisible runes criss-crossing his body pulse with energy and wring a whine out of James at last, and he thrusts up into Thomas' hand sharply. It provokes a low, satisfied chuckle, and Thomas lifts his fingers, bone-white and cool, to stroke James' bitten lip.
"I think you can fuck him now and he'll enjoy it no matter what you do," Thomas comments to Malfoy over James' shoulder, with terrible amusement. "He could never get enough when he was writhing under me either. That's the nature of his kind of slut, betraying himself worst of all."
James feels a surge of emotion from Snivellus to his right, so acute that it's almost like a verbal outcry.
So you really love him, Snivelly? he sneers mentally, trying to distract himself from the pain of Malfoy working himself deeper into his arse. Figures! And doesn't it just burn - burn, oh Merlin, yes! - to see him - both of them - so familiar with the body of your worst enemy?
Then he arches his back and he tries to squirm away from the source of the agony after all. Distraction only goes so far. Malfoy and Voldemort share a low laugh as his arms are pinned securely again, Snape shoving James' wrist up behind his back until it nearly breaks to make up for Peter's weak hold. He digs his knee into James' hip and drives him back onto Malfoy's cock, and for an unguarded second James screams out loud before trying to swallow the sound on its way out of his mouth. It comes out as a horrible, choked screech that betrays him worse than any outright scream would have.
"Careful," Malfoy admonishes. "We don't want to numb him before he's had time to... savour the experience."
"Yes, be good, James," Thomas adds and gives James' cock a rough squeeze before reaching down to twist his balls until they're pulled taut just a touch shy of pain. The sudden shock runs like ice water over James' back. He forces his knotted muscles to relax as much as possible and lets his head fall back against Malfoy's chest as if in defeat. He does not want to give them an excuse to mutilate him. He knows what they're capable of - the Daily Prophet may only report vague details, but the Order has seen it firsthand. James was there when they found the few scattered remains of Benji Fenwick.
Malfoy leans in until his nose brushes James' ear, and swipes a wet tongue over his cheek and down to his chin. James' stomach heaves once at the sickening sensation and he realises he'd probably throw up if Malfoy tried to kiss him.
But he just gives an appreciative, endlessly patronising "Mmh," and pulls his prick out a little, only to thrust it deeper. The sheer force pushes him into Thomas' hand, and the man finally, blessedly, releases his trapped balls to resume playing with James' erection.
Despite the utter humiliation of growing harder and harder under the enemy's hand, the caresses help against the pain until Malfoy is sheathed balls-deep inside him and James is not quite so close any more to emitting whimpering noises like a cropped Crup. His fingernails tear crescent marks into his palms regardless, and it's bad enough to know he's trying to numb Thomas' - Voldemort's - touch far more than Malfoy's violence. But of course Thomas knows exactly what he's doing to him; after all, it was Thomas who had placed those runes and marks on James' body in the first place.
Then Malfoy gives another thrust seemingly intended to scrape James' insides raw, and a blinding rush runs though him as it brushes that accursed spot deep inside him that only Thomas has ever touched before. He is too hard, too aroused by Thomas' ministrations between his splayed legs not to feel the rush, and a horrified moan escapes his chewed lips.
"I told you he'd like it - he's one of the most responsive bodies I've ever had in my bed." Thomas nods to Malfoy, who chuckles and does it again, right there, and James sees sparks exploding in front of his eyes. It feels as if someone had poured warm butter inside his bones. He collapses helplessly against the unyielding body behind him, trying furtively to ignore Snivellus' disgusted, "Oh Merlin!" and to overlook the expression of covetousness mingling with shame and contempt on Peter's face.
His cock is producing a steady trickle of precome now, and Thomas obligingly rubs it over the painfully sensitive head he's teased out from its foreskin, a gloss that seems to heighten the intensity of each touch tenfold. James knows he is going to come right now if they keep this up, despite the shame, despite the fear that they will go after Harry and Lily once they've finished amusing themselves with him.
He fights it desperately and without hope, but even the cruel scrape of Malfoy's prick inside him - purposefully rough to hurt, but aimed just right to make the pain not matter - can't stave off the impending rush. James writhes in the arms that restrain him without achieving anything but to burrow himself more deeply into the circle of Thomas' curved palm. Thomas smiles, so patronising that James wants to be sick from the overload of stimulation, while Malfoy just pounds away, each thrust rocking James' entire frame.
Malfoy's fingers creep up to James' bare chest and take hold of a nipple. James bites back a moan as he squeezes the stiff nub brutally, and then yells and jumps when Malfoy twists the abused nub for good measure. He jerks, impaling himself more deeply on Malfoy's cock, until the Death Eater utters a contented hum and wetness spills into James' insides. He gives a few last jabs as his prick softens - no less acutely present, but less painfully hard - to savour the aftermath of his release. He grabs hold of James' messy hair and pulls his head against his chest so that James' spine is half-arched, moulding against the curve of Malfoy's body and pressing his prick firmly into Thomas' hand.
Thomas smirks down at his prisoner, who is panting convulsively and pinned in the most exposed way possible between his henchmen. With every tug and slide of those inhumanly skilled fingers, he propels James closer towards the brink of the abyss. The tight-lipped mouth leans closer, so that James can see the reddish glow that has stolen into the furthest depths of the steely eyes, the unnatural pallor of his skin, the nose that seems noticeably flatter than before. He even smells different.
Did I do that to him? James wonders. Did he decide to dispense with the last vestiges of his humanity when I ran from him?
"You've always been quite beautiful when you come, my James..." The terribly familiar voice slithers over James' skin with just a hint of emphasis on the final 's'. "Let me see that abandon one last time, love."
Despair crashes over him like a tidal wave, because everything about him wants to do Thomas' bidding - his prick, so hard it hurts, the magic bubbling in his bloodstream, his very essence.
The burning in his eyes spills over at last into a hot tear that seeks its path down his flushed cheek. But, strangely enough, what echoes in his mind is another sob, swallowed by his own, a sound so full of protest and anguish that it cuts. James can't help but marvel how no one but himself can hear it. For the first time in his life, he feels a sliver of pity for Snivellus Snape.
"Let go for me, James," Thomas coaxes, kneading the head of James' cock between prodding fingertips and pressing the nail of his index finger over the slit, just a fraction. James bucks and wails like a tortured animal and lets completion take him, dragging him down like quicksand that engulfs his prick and then his spine until it swallows up his brain too with an almost sickening sound. Giving up the fight has never been so sweet before.
His mind is split into halves like fruit, laid bare to that other mind that has its hooks sunk into him, and there is no way of holding back anything with his brain swept bare by the white flames of pleasure. His shields don't even have the time to crumble before they disintegrate under the flare.
He feels Voldemort's mind settling down over his, stroking every inch of his being, not searching for anything in particular, just savouring his victory and laying claim to his victim to prove he can. James lies motionless under this violating presence, all thoughts of resistance burned out by the force of his orgasm. And what would Thomas search for anyway? Information about the Order and the Prophecy that Peter has already given away? The extent of James' feelings for him all those years back, beyond those he fashioned himself with his magic? No, there is nothing he might want from James except an admission of defeat. And he can have that. James chuckles painfully, because he's Gryffindor, and Gryffindors don't lie. Not where it matters.
He lets the vague sense of regret that he does feel over running to Dumbledore without a second thought drift to the surface of his consciousness, because he knows it will please Thomas, and his sorrow over Peter's betrayal. He'll leave rage and vengeance to Sirius and Remus because he can't bring himself to hate Peter. Not now. They've been friends once, and what little spirit is left inside him is too precious to waste on hate.
Let it be enough, he pleads through the wide-open link, furtively babbling out at nothing. Please, not Lily, not Harry!
Your wife will live if she doesn't force my hand, the mental voice of the Dark Lord comes back to him at long last, tinged with impatience. Don't question my word, James. There's a touch of expectation in that voice, too, James realises from his long familiarity with the man as a lover. He's waiting for a personal plea, just as he always got off on hearing James beg for him in bed.
Don't let them see me like this, he begs, at last, for himself. He can't be found with his prick hanging out, pants around his ankles, his thighs spread and bruised and stained to display how he has been used to even the most casual observer. Sirius and Remus can't remember him like this!
Thomas reaches out to trace James' lower lip, leaving the taste of James' own desperate flesh and the bland salt of his come. Then he wipes his fingers fastidiously on the ill-used fabric of James' pyjama bottoms, and Thomas' wand takes their place, laid gently against James' lips.
James composes his features into a brittle mask of calm, careful not to pull at the arms that still restrain him, nor to react to Malfoy's fingertips that play up and down his spine, rubbing whatever unmentionable fluid into his skin. He'll meet death with whatever little dignity he has left.
But he does give in to the persistent nudge against his lips, allowing the tip of the Dark Lord's wand to slip into his mouth until it comes to rest against his tongue. It's smooth and well-worn, that wood, with the smoky taste of old magic and a dry tang of sun and scales on a rock. James curls his tongue around the rounded tip; none of the familiar taste of Thomas' skin, even though it has rested in his palm all night.
Thomas smiles down at him. James doesn't need the mind-link between them to feel the terrible elation in those burning eyes, and behind it the hesitation to end this awful charade as long as a drop of satisfaction may still be wrung from it.
We'll leave you decent, his thoughts brush James' brain at last. The Prophecy has to be fulfilled in the name of the Cause. This - he presses the wand against James' tongue in a way that sparks memories of his mouth curled around Thomas' slick cock - this is just between us.
James' head suddenly feels too heavy and he leans it carelessly back against Malfoy's shoulder. The man's chuckle rumbles against the back of James' neck like a purr. It amuses them to no end, observing him surrendering like this, heedless that Peter has released him and steps nervously out of the way of the impending curse.
"Are you sure you want no taste of my wayward lover, Severus?"
Leaning on Malfoy allows James a glimpse of Snape's eyes, blank and hurt and hard like the shells of beetles. His head snaps to the side, curt and sharp in denial. James allows the smile that's forming at the sight to shadow his lips around Thomas' wand. Poor Snivellus. Here is James, having stolen his friend and protector and his beloved master at the same time. Still beaten by James Potter, even in death.
Thomas stands very close, and smoothes a flyaway strand of hair out of James' eye with his wandless hand. It feels nice, not like death at all.
Voldemort's mind retreats from his, a spider retreating from the drained husk of its prey. Then a whisper reaches James' ear and he tastes green. It spills onto his tongue, and the last thing he sees is Snape's face, cut in stone.
And even as the Dark Lord takes his revenge, James knows with the certainty of a Diviner that he has stolen Severus Snape from him as a final victory. He has no idea what good can come of disenchanting the greasy git with his Master, but he knows that the beaten track of the future has been altered tonight. He knows it with the same unerring certainty that helped him find his way around Hogwarts to write the Marauder's Map, that earned him full marks in Divination, his profession as a Retriever and his value for the Order's missions. A knowledge which only let him down once, when it put him, unerring, in Tom Marvolo Riddle's path one grey autumn evening off Knockturn Alley.
He knows.
Such is his gift.

~ finis ~

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Delicate Old Injuries