Initiation

Initiation

Oh chosen love, Oh frozen love
Oh tangle of matter and ghost
Oh darling of angels, demons and saints
And the whole broken-hearted host.
---Leonard Cohen, The Window

He was on his knees, and he hated it.

Rodolphus Lestrange was not a man who was comfortable with being dominated. As it was, he was having considerable trouble wrapping his mind around the fact he was currently in the most subservient position possible; on his knees on a cold stone floor. His head was bowed, his dark hair falling on his face and covering dark eyes that were squeezed tightly closed. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, tension humming through his body as he waited.

There was only one reason he had allowed himself to be pushed into this position, and that reason was the figure enshrouded in funereal black in the center of the circle. Lord Voldemort, the man to whom Rodolphus was prepared to pledge his service.

“You dislike this, do you not?”

The Dark Lord’s voice was cold and fingers of ice traveled up Rodolphus’ spine—the sensation was not exactly unpleasant, but jarring on skin flushed with anticipation and eagerness. The room was cool and slightly damp, and his hands scratched at the light wool of his robes, the action oddly comforting. Here, Rodolphus was out of his element and he hated it, hated bowing his head and kneeling while the others stood, arms crossed and superior. He could imagine their smirks, even though he could not see them. He knew she watched; dark midnight eyes glowing like fire sparkling off the dark waters of a lake at midnight.

It galled him, that he was displayed such before her; before any of them. He opened his eyes, concentrating on the cracks cleaving the stone floor.

“I do,” he answered honestly. Do not lie to the Dark Lord; he will know. It will be worse for you, if you lie.

“You do not care to submit to me?”

There was a slight whisper in the crowd, a titter of laughter. He felt ire towards the raven-haired witch whose husky laugh he recognized, but he tampered his rage to direct his answer to the Dark Lord. “I am willing to submit to you,” he said. The slight emphasis he placed on the last two words left the rest of the sentence unfinished.

I will not submit to them. I will not submit to her.

“Rodolphus,” the Dark Lord said in a maliciously amused tone, “you will submit to them if I desire it. She is not yet one of us, her turn to stand where you are will come soon enough.”

“Yes, my lord.” He waited for the sting of Crucio, the bite of some curse that would boil his blood and stretch him until he and pain were intimately acquainted, until he could taste on his tongue the essence of what it meant to serve darkness.

The Dark Lord spoke no curses, but merely retreated further into the shadows; laughing quietly and making the hair on the back of Rodolphus’ neck stand up at the sound. He envied those tiny follicles—he would give anything to stand at attention, anything to push himself up and stand at equal height with those who would be his brethren.

“They will be, Rodolphus. They will be. First, to serve, you must endure.” The Dark Lord settled into a chair, dark eyes watchful. He waved a hand and said, “Lucius, attend me.”

A tall figure stepped out of the circle of Death Eaters, robed and masked as the others. He bowed low before the Dark Lord, and Rodolphus recognized him from their days at school, and from the night Malfoy had led him into the forest to meet the enigmatic stranger who promised to satisfy the darkest desires of his forbidden heart.

“You will break him, Lucius.” The words had the finality of a headsman’s axe, causing ice to trickle down Rodolphus’ skin like rain falling over him in the chill of the sepulchral chamber.

“As you wish, my lord,” Malfoy said, rising from his bow and walking over to where Rodolphus knelt. It seemed it took him an eternity to approach; Rodolphus watched the folds of Malfoy’s black cloak swirling around expensive black boots, clicking on the stones and echoing through the chamber like some morbid death-knell.

Malfoy stood behind him and placed one gloved hand on lightly on Rodolphus’ shoulder. When Lucius had embraced him earlier, it had felt brotherly, accepting. There was something darker beneath the gesture now, something far more sinister.

Malfoy placed his left hand on Rodolphus’ neck, and said simply, “rise.” Rodolphus did so, wincing slightly as the elder Death Eater applied enough pressure to hurt him as he did so.

“Do not move,” Lucius said, and then his gloved hand snaked around the front of his throat. He pulled sharply, and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I am doing what our Lord demands of me, nothing more. See that you remember that. If you seek to harm me in repercussion of this night, I will see you dead only after you have suffered more pain than you can possibly imagine. Do you understand me?”

His voice was cold and dark, whispered in the sensitive whorls of Rodolphus’ ear. The younger man nodded, unable to speak, but the gesture did not placate Malfoy. “Answer me, Lestrange,” he breathed, and his hand tightened on his throat. “I am your senior here; you will submit to me or you will not leave this room alive.”

“I understand, Malfoy,” Rodolphus gasped, pain and something else flowing through him at his treatment by the cold blond wizard. It was surreal, to be treated in such a fashion by a member of the highest echelons of Wizarding society.

“Good,” Malfoy said simply, and removed his hand from Rodolphus’ neck. The younger man gulped several breaths of air, fighting the urge to press his fingers against the skin rubbed by Malfoy’s leather glove. There was a rustling behind him, and Rodolphus saw the white mask as Malfoy tossed it to the floor.

He waited, unsure of what would follow, body tensing and waiting for the pain. He knew Malfoy’s specialty was the Imperius, but certainly that was not what the Dark Lord had in mind? Surely that would not be nearly painful enough. Rodolphus knew there would be no entry into these ranks without pain, and it was a price he was prepared to pay. He was becoming agitated, however, at the unknown nature of what form this pain would take.

Malfoy stepped up behind him again, and pulled Rodolphus’ body back hard against him. “There are other ways to break a man than torture, Lestrange,” he whispered into his ear, and his hands tightened on the younger man’s shoulders. “It won’t hurt…much.”

Rodolphus, confused, felt one of Malfoy’s hands slide down his chest and the fingers of his other hand encased in leather grasp his hair, pulling sharply. Rodolphus struggled briefly against Lucius’ hold as the other man laughed softly.

“Please, Lestrange, by all means struggle,” he drawled, “it enhances the…encounter…in ways I am sure you will soon appreciate.” Before Rodolphus could say anything, Lucius Malfoy leaned down and bit his neck.

Hard.

Chills ran over Rodolphus’ body as he finally grasped what form his submission would take. “Oh, you can’t possibly understand,” Malfoy murmured, biting again, as if he had read Rodolphus’ thoughts. “You will, before I am through. You will.”

Blood trickled out of the wound on Rodolphus’ neck, warm and fluid. Lucius licked at it, his tongue running up the column of the younger man’s throat. “Malfoy,” Rodolphus bit out, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

“Yes, Lestrange?” Lucius whispered. His mouth was next to Rodolphus’ ear, breath hot against his skin.

“I—nothing,” Rodolphus hissed, and he heard Lucius laugh darkly.

“I thought not,” he said, and then yanked harder on his dark hair. Rodolphus found himself staring up at Lucius, the other man’s eyes gleaming and his mouth twisted in a smirk. His face looked cruel in the muted light of the chamber, empty gray eyes narrowed as he stared down at him. “Do not speak again, Rodolphus, unless I give you leave to do so. Strip.”

Blinking once, Rodolphus found himself free of Malfoy’s painful embrace and with shaking hands he pulled at his robes until he stood wearing only trousers and a shirt. Malfoy held a hand up and said, “Stop,” to which Rodolphus obeyed immediately, hands at the buttons on the collar of the pressed white shirt. His fingers trembled slightly, a bead of sweat ran down his forehead to the bridge of his nose, and he struggled to keep from wiping at it, considering the gesture to be a sign of weakness.

“See how well he obeys,” a voice cooed in the darkness, reminding Rodolphus of their audience.

“Silence, Bella,” the cold, sinister voice of the omnipresent Dark Lord rang out from the shadows. “Else you shall have to miss the show. Do not forget, you should not be allowed to watch such things until you bear my Mark, which you do not. Remain silent in your good fortune and do not antagonize me again.”

Rodolphus bowed his head so that Bellatrix Black would not see him smiling as she murmured an apology.

Lucius, however, caught the expression and smirked. He held his wand out and pointed it towards a table in the corner of the room, and said almost lazily, “Accio knife.” A wicked, black handled silver knife tumbled through the air with sinister grace, coming to rest lightly in Malfoy’s gloved hand.

Lucius stepped to where Rodolphus stood with his head bowed, moving close enough to embrace him, but instead rested the knife at his side as he whispered once more in Rodolphus’ ear, “You want to hurt her, don’t you.”

Rodolphus, surprised by the question, nodded immediately. The thought was arousing, of wrapping his hands in all that dark hair and forcing her to her knees…his body stirred, and Rodolphus shifted uncomfortably.

Lucius laughed. “We all want to hurt her,” he said quietly, tracing the knife blade on the smooth skin of Rodolphus’ throat before flicking at buttons of his shirt and cutting them off. “Maybe you’ll be the one who gets to break her when her time comes,” he said, and Rodolphus closed his eyes at the feel of the cold steel of the blade on the skin of his chest as he imagined the ecstasy of such an occasion.

Malfoy pressed the blade harder, and a thin red line appeared on Rodolphus’ pale skin in the wake of the blade. He winced at the small hurt, and Lucius smiled at the sight. “Pain is so exquisite, don’t you think?” Malfoy’s voice was imbued with its usual drawling coldness, but there was an underlying huskiness that was new and heretofore unthinkable in his customary speech.

When Rodolphus did not answer, Lucius’ smile became a smirk. He drew the knife up to place the flat of the blade on the vulnerable hollow of Rodolphus throat, and said “you have permission to answer my question.”

“Yes,” Rodolphus gasped out, breathing shallowly. His body surged, the terror of what was happening, combined with the audience and the tantalizing, heady thoughts of reenacting these macabre theatrics with Bellatrix making him weak with fright and something else—the same thing that put the huskiness in Malfoy’s tone. There was a terrible decadence about what was happening; a lush eroticism enveloping the proceedings and affecting him in ways he had never imagined possible.

“Kneel, Lestrange,” Lucius said, and watched with narrowed eyes as Rodolphus complied immediately. “Remove your shirt,” he said, and with fingers tangling in his haste to comply, Rodolphus divested himself of the garment.

“Accio whip,” Lucius murmured behind him. “Bow your head, Lestrange. How many lashes do you wish for me to deliver, my Lord?”

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment as he thought.

“Your father, Rodolphus? He has been out of school for almost twenty-three years, has he not?”

Unsure if he was to speak, Rodolphus jerkily inclined his head in assent.

“And in those twenty-three years, he has never once pledged his loyalty to me. Waiting instead for his son to do so, it appears. I shall demand twenty lashes for his crimes, Rodolphus. The final three you have been spared as evidence of my generosity to those who follow me. Carry on, Lucius,” he said, and Rodolphus closed his eyes.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Lucius said, and drew a sharp breath.

The whip cracked in the air seconds before landing on his back; Rodolphus cried out at the sensation of the leather biting his skin. “Count them, Lestrange, or I’ll start over,” Lucius called out, amused.

“One,” Rodolphus bit out, fire snaking down his skin with every lash. “Two,” he snarled, his voice rising as the whip fell, relentless in its pursuit of pain. He felt the skin on his back break, felt the blood trickle down his skin in warm rivulets.

His head was bowed, his vision a red haze of anguish as the whip continued its excruciating caress. Somewhere beneath the agony, he thought he heard Bellatrix Black laughing in delight, and he imagined her on her knees, and him holding the whip, and the blood rushed to his cock as he continued to count. “Twelve…”

Lord Voldemort hissed a laugh. “Your thoughts betray you, Rodolphus,” he said, but fell quiet as Rodolphus counted, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

“Fifteen…”

“You are aroused, Lestrange, I know you are,” Lucius said, voice strained. The whip fell with practiced skill, and Rodolphus found himself swaying slightly into the leather as it cracked against him. Somehow the torment had shifted into a subversive type of pleasure as his nerves danced in a fevered tangle of sensation as the whip struck again and again.

“Nineteen…”

The last stroke landed lower on his back, on skin yet unmarked, and Rodolphus moaned at the sensation; it was not entirely a sound of pain. “Twenty,” he gasped out. Shaking and covered in sweat, he remained on the floor, hands on his knees as his entire body shook. His cock was pressed hard against his stomach as his adrenaline surged; the surcease of pain being the most exquisite pleasure of all.

“Now you know a bit of what it is to serve me,” the Dark Lord said softly from the shadows.

Lucius walked in front of him, and said sharply, “look at me, Lestrange,” and though the strain in his voice hinted at the effort the action of whipping him had caused, there was enough of an implicit command that Rodolphus obeyed without question.

Several strands of Lucius’ platinum hair had escaped his neat queue; his pale face was flushed from his efforts. He was breathing harshly, his slate eyes glittering, and there was an expression very close to lust on his face.

Rodolphus was bleeding, kneeling at the feet of his torturer, and completely subject to the elder Death Eater’s will. It was, he thought dazedly, enough to put that lustful look on Lucius’ face. He was not unaffected by the situation himself; if he were honest, not all of his arousal was from the dark kiss of Lucius’ whip.

“Constricto,” Malfoy hissed, and Rodolphus found himself hissing in pain as invisible bonds wrapped around his body, arching his back and securing his hands behind him. Malfoy murmured something else, and he was levitated upwards with his arched upwards.

“You have given your obedience. You have given your blood. Will you give your service?” Lucius asked, and he raised the whip.

Rodolphus flinched as he fully expected Malfoy to whip him again on his chest, but that did not happen. Instead, Malfoy ran the leather straps down his body, in a light, almost gentle fashion. Rodolphus shivered at the innocuousness of the gesture, mind whirling. It was as tantalizing as it was horrifying—the very essence of what it meant to serve Lord Voldemort.

“Will you give your service to the Dark Lord, Rodolphus?” Malfoy repeated, drawing the leather whip down his body; it was an unexpected and purely sensual caress. “You may answer,” he said, the tendrils of the whip moving softly lower, and Malfoy’s eyes looked like heated mercury as he expertly flicked his wrist.

“Yes,” Rodolphus said, voice strong in his promise, a heady desire warring with the pain he felt from his injuries. “Yes, I will give him my service.”

Malfoy nodded, and the whip moved lower, tantalizingly close to flesh that strained against his trousers. “Will you give life itself, Rodolphus, to the lord of Death? Will you give this to him, so that you may find immortality?” Lucius’ voice was a reverential hush, throbbing with some sinister mania he had not thought the dissolute Malfoy heir capable of.

“Yes,” he answered, body still bound by the spell, straining flesh bound by the constricting fabric of his trousers. The sound was ripped from his very soul, as he arched into the leather which finally descended, rubbing against his cock ruthlessly, teasing the hot flesh beneath.

There was silence broken only by the sound of Rodolphus’ gasping pleasure as the whip rubbed him mercilessly; the blood dripping from the wounds on his back falling on the stones beneath him, mingling with his sweat as he succumbed to the pleasure he was being forced to endure.

Malfoy stepped closer to him, continued his ministrations, his gloved hand flicking at the buttons of Rodolphus’ trousers. His cock free at last, Malfoy ran one long, leather-encased finger up its throbbing length, smirking as Rodolphus thrashed in his bindings, moaning as easily under Malfoy’s ministrations as he had bled under the bite of the whip.

Lucius moved back to continue pressing the leather against him insistently, and said in a cold voice, “then come, Rodolphus, and give us the very essence of life so that you may serve death.”

Rodolphus was unable to stop it; even as shame and pain and terror whirled around him, he moaned long and loudly as his release overtook him. At the exact moment his pleasure crested, he heard Malfoy murmur and was abruptly turned over so that his release spilled to the floor beneath him, mingling with the blood and sweat that stained the dark green stones.

Rodolphus breathed heavily and stared, slightly horrified and enthralled by the sight of come and blood—all of it his—swirled together on the stone floor below him. He shook his head as he was lowered and his bindings removed, as he struggled to stand to his feet, strong and proud as did the rest.

The Dark Lord emerged from the shadows, though they seemed to cling to him still in the form of his voluminous black cloak. He said in his chilling, dead voice, “be welcome among us, Rodolphus Lestrange, Death Eater.” Malfoy grabbed his arm, turning Rodolphus’ left forearm out to the Dark Lord. Voldemort moved silent as a specter, his wand grasped between fingers that were bony and starkly white against the black fabric of the cloak. He placed the tip of the wand on Rodolphus’ skin, and murmured the incantation as Rodolphus swayed, exhausted and shaken from his ordeal.

The pain was harsh and immediate, and he felt it tenfold after his brief respite. Lights danced behind his eyes, sparkling and somehow obscene in their brightness. When darkness finally descended and sweet unconsciousness claimed him, the last thing Rodolpus Lestrange saw was Lucius Malfoy’s smiling face, and the smell of burnt flesh was putrid and hot in the air that he breathed in deeply, in one great, gasping gulp, before falling gracefully in a heap on the stone floor.

Lucius Malfoy drew the hood of his cloak over his face and knelt to retrieve his mask, placing it over his face until he was merely a pair of slate eyes staring out of a sea of white, covered in the dark fabric of his wool cloak. He turned towards his master and bowed low; over the prone form of their newest Death Eater, lying unconscious at his feet.

“Well done, Lucius,” the Dark Lord said, pleased. “Well done indeed.”

Malfoy inclined his head, and turned to take his place in the circle. He saw Bellatrix, hooded and cloaked but not yet worthy of the mask, staring at Rodolphus with a hungry look in her obsidian eyes. He smirked, glad the mask covered his expression, and faded back into the shadows among his brethren.