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Pyrexia	By : Andafaith Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 3039 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor various characters or plots from the world within. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. See full disclaimer below.

Chapter List
- 1-Pyrexia
- 1
Author's Note: Sometimes, when I have writer’s block, I roll a set of yahtzee dice that will give me a random [often ridiculous] pairing and then I come up with prompts/ideas. This is one result of that, which caught my imagination. I hope you enjoy!

P.S. This is set somewhere during Deathly Hallows and could be canon compliant, since we don’t exactly know what Charlie got up to that year.

Full Warnings/Kinks: Non-Con, Het, PWP, Torture, Violence, Blood, Scars, Fiendfyre, Humiliation, Handjobs, Fingernails, Rare Pairing, Age Disparity (Bellatrix is 41, Charlie is 26), Chains, Ambiguity, and Bellatrix being a psycho loonhead.

Full Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I do not own. This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and various publishers including – but not limited to – Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Pyrexia

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Charlie Weasley knows how to tame dragons. It’s a career he’s been interested in since he was very young, dragging around a stuffed Slovakian Stonejaw, which he made breathe fire when he was alone in his room with his childish magic. Creating and controlling fire has always been innate to him, except when it’s not and it gets out of control, like when he was seven and accidentally set his mattress ablaze with his little Stonejaw. The fire had spread to the ancient armchair in his room, where his mother once read him stories, and both bits of furniture were rendered unrepairable by magic.

Pure magical fire is like that. A scar from being burnt by simple flames and simple heat can be erased with the tap of a wand against his freckled skin, but magical fire requires more extensive work – especially if the fire originates in the belly of a dragon, or at the end of a dark witch’s wand, which he’s staring down right now.

Bellatrix Lestrange wears an expression like a Swedish Short-Snout stalking its prey as she circles him and there isn’t much he can do to stop anything she throws at him. Fiendfyre swirls in the air, and he pulls at his chains as it nears, warped demonic shapes singeing off strips of his clothing and sensitizing his skin beneath. She has him chained down to a table, where he had thought he’d surely die within minutes, brutally and painfully, but it hasn’t happened yet.

What she’s doing to him definitely hurts, although it’s not as bad as he had expected. It’s a type of pain he’s become accustomed to – touching a flame and pulling away before the skin starts to blister, but he’s not used to doing it over and over again. Another brush of Fiendfyre swipes along him and the remaining shreds of charred clothing cling to his sweaty heated skin.

“Look at what we have here,” Bellatrix taunts, trailing the tips of her fingers along his exposed torso. Every single chest hair had been scorched off and his freckled skin is reddened in places by deeper burns. There are scars there too – from a life filled with dragon fire and bites and angry claws – jagged shapes scattered all over.

“Little Charlie Weasley, all. grown. up.”

His abdominal muscles tense under her hand as her fingernails press into his flesh and drag over one of the harsher Fiendfyre burns. Air seethes between his teeth at the sharp sensation of fiery pain and the room echoes the mad cackle that spills from Bellatrix’s lips.

“That can’t possibly hurt,” she says – cruel and chastising – and she digs her nails deeper, drawing ragged lines of blood. He clenches his jaw, resolute to not make a sound, holding his breath. “Not for a filthy little blood-traitor with this many marks.” Her blood-soaked nails prick and prod at each blotch of shiny, silvery scar tissue, denting keloided skin – scraping over patches of old mended burns.

Under the glow of Fiendfyre, she looks even more crazed than usual, glee twisting at her haunted aristocratic features and her dark hair crackling with magic.

Charlie glares up at her. “What do you want from me? You know I don’t know much,” he growls through gritted teeth and his stomach drops as she cackles madly once again, flicking her wand.

The Fiendfyre swirling above them strikes at him, not burning him directly, but he feels his spilt blood boiling over his torso. He can hear it sizzle, emitting an acrid scent that stings his nostrils. His face scrunches in anguish and he chokes back a litany of curse words and screams that beg to escape him.

She’s a Hungarian Horntail toying with its meal – a Peruvian Vipertooth sinking its teeth in, injecting anti-coagulating venom and dragging him back to its lair to bleed out and rot for a more flavourful feast.

Her fingernails walk over his skin, flaking off flecks of blackened blood and revealing tender spots of scalded flesh that make him inhale sharply as she traces over them. It’s a wracking paper cut-like pain, acute in its ceaseless torment.

“A tragedy, really – that you choose to defy your own; that you choose to crawl about in filth when you could be much more…” she whispers scathingly, but there’s a hungry glint in her eyes as she looks at him and her fingers are trailing lower and lower and–

“No,” Charlie breathes, straining against the sweltering metal chains wrapped around his forearms and calves, which don’t budge an inch. “Don’t – I’ll tell you anything about the Order–”

“Stop talking, you useless wretch! You do not have knowledge of anything that we don’t already know.”

His trousers and pants are charred ribbons of fabric and all-too-easily rid of with a crisp pull, much to his dismay. The hungry glint in her eyes turns rapturously greedy.

“Ooh, someone likes to play with fire!” Her hands are on him then and he’s half hard and she’s laughing her wicked laugh, ignoring his protests. She tugs at his cock, tangling pleasure with the thrum of blistering ache that pulses through him.

“It’s the adrenaline–” He tries to twist out of Bellatrix’s grasp, but she holds him down, her sharp nails raking against his thighs and making him suck in a breath. “–from the pain.”

“You cannot lie to me,” she hisses, rough deliberate strokes along his cock underlining her words, “I can see the truth in your weak, pathetic mind; I can feel it under my hand. This never lies.”

“It does! I’m not–”

When she flicks her wand up toward the Fiendfyre, fear lodges itself in the pit of his stomach, mixing with a cocktail of epinephrine and shame-filled arousal, cutting his words short. Writhing flames dance over his skin and obscure his view of her relentlessly stroking, but he can still feel it and it’s just as intense as the burning heat against his hypersensitive skin. It’s a fever that permeates every inch of him, inside and out.

His nerves prickle with torturous pleasure and agony, and his chains rattle against the table as he trembles, struggling to stifle the noises welling up in his throat. This is worse than the Cruciatus Curse – well beyond overstimulation, sensations constantly contrasting, and once it’s all over it’s not going to leave him. It seems to go on forever, more than mere minutes, and Bellatrix squeezes his cock tighter, moving at a destructive pace that makes his head spin in an inebriating way through the all of the pain. His blood surges, rushing in his ears so loudly he can barely make out the crackling roar of fire that’s scorching and steaming the sweat off his skin.

Then, finally, as the Fiendfyre twirls away – receding and churning overhead – a long traitorous moan of relief passes through his lips and he’s suddenly coming, hard, shooting thick ropes of fluid that feels cold as it lands on his tender flesh.

Vaguely, he registers Bellatrix’s shrill mirthless laugh and feels her hands on his skin, and he tries to tamp down the wave of humiliation that presses insistently up his spine. It’s only a biological reaction, he tells himself, breathing deep breaths and willing himself to open his eyes.

Wet, sticky come-covered fingers smack against his face and he winces, glaring.

“Filthy,” Bellatrix spits before straightening up, her disgust palpable as she considers him with a tilt of her head. Her dark eyes remind him of staring down a wild Romanian Longhorn, waiting for it to charge. “But, I suppose, you may have your uses, after all; perhaps I shan’t kill you just yet.”

Incredibly wary, he’s not certain whether to feel hope or despair – if he can even believe what she says – and he braces himself as her wand flicks up toward the Fiendfyre. This time, however, instead of seeking his battered skin, it follows her manic stride toward the door like a lost puppy as she cackles, “We’re going to have heaps of fun, you and I!”

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Author’s Note: Thank you for reading!
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Pyrexia