Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: James Potter wasn't executed immediately on that fateful night. Hallow's Eve, 1981, after the successful assassination of Lily and Harry Potter. AU, obviously. Set in Voldemort's lair. Written for the Worst Nightmare Challenge and the Non-Con Challenge. It's up to you to decide which of the nightmares is mine--Peter's or James'. Those who know me will guess correctly.

You don't want to, of course. You know this. It sickens you.

It's the ash that revolts you, the ash on his skin, naked and gleaming like moonstone in the night. It's the ash that makes you think of his death, even though he's still alive, even though feel the heat of his body, smell the stench of his fear, his tears.

You know he's alive because you see the shocked shine of his eyes when he recognizes you--the shape you, the familiar shape of his best friend, one of his best friends, among the cowled shapes of so many others. Because he recognizes your voice when you say 'Yes, my Lord' to the figure on the throne; because his bound mouth moves, even through the moist binding, and you hear nothing but a muffled croak that sounds vaguely like Peter.

It sickens you that you have to do this. Never mind that Voldemort seems to find it amusing, as he ruffles through your mind with one casual flick of his eyes--never mind that Voldemort knows your dreams now, dreams of red Gryffindor curtains black in the moonlight, as black as the blood on James' back is now; dreams of kissing that hand with its clever fingers, dreams of those fingers curling around your cock instead of the Snitch, except that your cock flutters too, eager with pulse and heat, and in your dreams James' mouth curls with the warmth of victory.

You don't know if Voldemort's giving this to you as a reward or as a test--whether he thinks he's giving you what you want, even though you quiver in denial and you hear his amused, sibilant hiss in your mind (but you do want this, you little rat, don't you?)--or whether he's testing you to see if you can really do this, if you can really fuck James, rape him, mere moments before James' death. Perhaps it's a matter of loyalty. Perhaps it's a matter of Voldemort getting his kicks. Your frantic mind thinks, thinks, but you were never very good at thinking, and Voldemort's mind gives you a little push so that you stumble forward. No. Towards James, whose eyes are so filled with tears that you can't see if he hates you anymore, whose bare shoulders flinch when you step on his fallen glasses by mistake--clumsy clumsy Pete you're always clumsy--and the crunch is loud in the silence.

You don't want to. You don't want to.

It's dangerous to think that, but you can't help it--because if you don't say it, at least in your mind, you'll stop believing it.

James' skin is warm under your hands, smooth, when you touch it--and you're embarrassed to see that your hands are shaking, blunt and rough and unsteady, as you stroke James' arse and the silky hair on his thighs. He's so beautiful, beautiful, that it isn't wrong for you to grow hard--who wouldn't, in this situation? You don't want to, of course--it sickens you--and you avoid touching the bloody whip-cuts on his back when you kneel between his parted legs and place your hands on his shoulders for balance. You avoid hearing the strange, stifled sobs he makes, no doubt begging for escape.

You're not rough about it, because Voldemort only told you to do it, not how--and you find it easy to pretend in the darkness that there aren't others watching you, that there isn't a rustle of robes as quiet as leaves around you, silent as the Death Eaters are upon Voldemort's command. It's almost sacred, this, your knees rough against the stone as you hoist your robes up--it's meant to be sacred, because they'll trust you after this, you'll be safe after this, and it's ritual after all, and it's not your fault, it's not your fault, because all of them do this.

Better you than them, right? Better you than Malfoy?

It's not your fault. Not your fault.

You press a damp kiss to James' shoulder as you mutter the lubrication spell, slicking James up for you--and it's strange, because you've only had two other occasions to do this--once with a girl at the Three Broomsticks who got too drunk to see your face and laugh at your offer, and once on yourself, naked and shivering in bed, as you slid your own wand into yourself and imagined James' cock there.

Strange that you should be taking him now.

Strange that you don't want to.

Strange that you're still hard.

When you start to enter him, you hear Voldemort release a tight little sigh behind you--but you ignore it, since you've always been good at ignoring things, and you ignore the unnatural stillness of James' spell-lax muscles, the stark pain and horror of his face as it is pressed, sideways, against the stone. You don't look at it after that--focusing on the back of James' neck instead, glistening with cold sweat, and the curls of his hair above, not-quite-soft and a little rough when you run your fingers through it.

It's so hot in there--in James--so tight that you come almost immediately--but you clench your teeth and pull back at once--letting cold air cradle the base of your cock, your balls, before you thrust gently back in again. So slick, so smooth, so tight--a channel so cruel and relentless that it seems almost unreal, it couldn't belong to a human being, and for a moment you're not fucking James at all, just this tight, pulsing, living thing--a hole so wet and hot that it swallows you like the smallest of mouths, and you hear yourself moaning and groaning as stars gather behind your eyes, but you're still so gentle, so gentle, and even though you make the mistake of looking at James' face again it doesn't bother you, because you're too far gone, and all you hear is the roar of your own pulse, all you feel is the trickle of sweat down your temple and down your chest within the suffocating heat of your robes--all you know is the fiery pressure around your cock at every thrust, the tightening of your balls, the huffing of your own breath in and out of you. The tears that dampen the stone next to James' face make no sense at all, and you watch them distractedly, disconnectedly, as you clench his shoulders and move harder, harder, until your thrusts start to lift James' limp body off the stone, and then your balls slap James' skin one last time and you come, strong and hot and fervent, bending to hide your flushed face in James' neck, moving your hips in short, quick stabs as you fade.

Reality comes back in pieces.

The stone, still rough and raw, scraping your knees. James' skin, wet and sticky with the heat of your tears. James' hole, warm and wet and open around you, no longer so tight now that your cock has shrunk.

You withdraw slowly, by wet degrees, and hear a whine from James' throat that could be anything, really--it could be I hate you or Why or You win or Yes, thank you, I love you, yes, Peter, yes.

Anything.

You hear a sibilant laugh again as a breeze-like touch stirs your mind--but when you turn your head Voldemort's mouth is closed, his fingers poised against it as though stopping himself from saying something he is sorely tempted to.

You stand back up and are so embarrassed that you let your robes fall immediately, before even cleaning your cock--and the skin in the soft, dark hollow between James' buttocks glistens wet in the moonlight instead.

You wonder, absently, why Voldemort doesn't like light--and you take a step back from James, and another, and another, to his right instead of his left, so that you can't see his face anymore.

Everyone around you seems to be breathing a little louder--a quiet, silent chorus that speaks in almost one voice--and as the sweat cools on your body and makes your robes stick to you, and to your limp cock, you become desperate to hear something. Anything. Even James is silent now, and you don't think if he's wondering that Lily's dead, and little Harry--you don't think of what's going through James' mind at all, if it's rage or grief or sheer emptiness, because it's your mind that feels empty now.

'The Muggle-Lover stinks,' says Voldemort finally, loudly--and everyone jumps.

There is bloodjoy in his voice--a familiar slither that sounds almost like Parseltongue--and nobody talks, nobody, because Voldemort's order not to speak until spoken to still stands, and no one dares talk to him unless called upon personally.

'No prophecies to fulfil. It's the last of his line now, and what a fitting end for it, too.'

An expectant pause, which is obligingly filled by a the Death Eaters' nervous chuckles.

'How does it feel, Potter? Fucked so soon after your wife's death? Your child's? I do hope your friend Wormtail comforted you appropriately.'

You flinch--and for a moment Voldemort's sharp eyes dart to you, as if in warning--but then he smiles, his mouth a thin, pleased sickle of flesh in the moonlight.

'Come to think of it, you stink too, Pettigrew. Although who can blame you. Performing your duty like the good little rat you are. Isn't that right?'

His voice is almost soothing, loving. You find yourself nodding before you can even think, and the slight shiver in your mind tells you that he's seen what you think, and that it either pleases him or doesn't displease him too much.

'Get out of my sight,' he says with a flick of his fingers. 'And get washed. You haven't earned the right to witness an execution yet.'

You stumble back, sickened, relieved--and again you wonder if this is Voldemort's reward, that you don't get to see James' death--or if it is a punishment. You're the newest here, except for Tescher, but Tescher's killed so many while you've killed none.

You haven't killed James after all--you haven't killed him, not really. You just... you just said...

Voldemort's still waiting, you realize, and you bow unsteadily, almost falling over, and say: 'Yes, my Lord.'

The only words you've spoken tonight.

He looks away immediately. 'Lucius. I believe I might need to... have some words with you later.'

Everyone knows what words, and what their Lord uses Lucius for--and for a moment you want to throw up thinking that Voldemort liked what you did to James today, that now he wants to... wants to...

'But first we have some business to settle, don't we?'

A casual question--and just before you Apparate you see a figure step out of the crowd and walk towards James--smooth, confident, obviously Lucius Malfoy--and when it raises its wand you clutch your own, and close your eyes, and don't open them until you're back at home again.