Title: Kyrie Eleison
Rating: M (!!!)
Pairings: priest!Voldemort/altar-boy!Harry, mentions of priest!Voldemort/Cedric
Disclaimer: Again: Confiteor Deo, omnipotenti, JKR owns these two, and I own nothing!
Warnings: AU, unholy priests, chan, noncon, Voldemort as a priest, a tad offensive, etc...

A/N - This grew from a picture I drew upon request from Anna Tramell. The web address is as follows (please remove spaces):

http //www . fanart-central . net/pic-509468 . html

I am also working on a doujinshi based upon this fanfic (weird, huh?) The beginning of the doujinshi can be found at my deviant art gallery

Pater Voldemort, who had been watching the congregation leave and contemplating on how many times the heathens would sin, turned around. Harry Potter, the youngest of the few altar-boys under his charge, was attempting to keep a firm grip on one of the candles that had been used in the service earlier that morn. Needless to say, those things were particularly heavy and the boy wasn't exactly enjoying the balancing act.

"Behind the sacristy," the priest replied, pointing a long, pale finger by way of the altar. "And be careful," he hissed in soft tones, violently red eyes boring into the emerald ones of the boy, "I'd rather not be the one to inform the nuns if something is broken."

It wasn't a secret that Pater Voldemort was a strange priest, not at all. The wee children of the school cowered in his presence; the elder students did their best to avoid him, some inconspicuously, others not so much. Gossip spread through the schoolyard like wildfire, and the parishioner’s rumors were not far behind, creeping about as vines. Even the sisters and other priests conversed in low tongues, whispering frantically, "Quasi homo mortuus est!"

Now, rumors don't start from just anywhere and for no reason; there is always a trigger before the bullet. Maybe it was the way he spoke, hissing softly as if he were the snake of Eden. Perhaps it was the sickly, dead appearance he wore that caused the clergy to give sideways glances or the nuns to mutter "He is a sort of dead man!" An explanation had been given, once, to answer for his deathly pale look: for thirteen years Voldemort had been terribly sick, and to regain health it had cost him beauty and youth. This, however, only made the questions worse: why was he sick? What cured him? Why had it taken something as odd as beauty or youth to get better? The only answer anyone could come up with was that he had sold his soul to the devil to become immortal. Everyone silently agreed to this; after all, it also explained his hell-red eyes, the eyes that seemed to look into your very soul. Those eyes, presently, remained locked upon the face of a certain candle-holding altar-boy.

"Yes sir, Pater," Harry replied quickly, trying to avoid the piercing eyes.

"Tum gaudeo," Voldemort murmured, still not taking his eyes of the boy. That was another thing that the people deemed different (and therefore wrong) about the so-called devil priest: he insisted on the old ways, the "pure ways" as he put it, of the Church. Ever since the Vatican Council modernized the Church, people forgot the Latin language and services were now held in English. Pater Voldemort, as evidenced by his title, made sure the dead language was taught to all students (every first year knew their "Pater Noster" by the second week of term) and enforced it upon them as well (God save you if at confession you fail to recall the "Confiteor".) This highly irked both students and teachers, although the latter were at least spared from teaching it. Still, nothing stopped the old priest from teaching the ancient texts and breaking a ruler over the head of anyone who screwed up (another minus to his popularity standards.)

There was only one student in the entire school who ever actually challenged the man. The student in question was over in the sacristy, trying to keep the candle in his hands steady enough so that he could walk without fear of dropping it. Yes, Harry was quite different from the others. He would question things that, to him, seemed utterly pointless. Of course the boy was punished (the ruler had been cracked on his head over a thousand times) yet he still persisted. However, Voldemort noticed, when Potter was placed into the role of an altar-boy, he became highly subservient and even sometimes submissive. But... Voldemort contemplated, how far will this submissiveness carry?

CRASH!

That submissiveness, however, did not guarantee freeness from error.

"Mr. Potter!"

The shrill voice of the Mother Superior rang through the sacristy and carried out into the empty church. Voldemort ran in the direction of the shout, a small smirk appearing on his face. Disappearing behind the altar, he found Harry, his altar-boy, and the Mother Superior, Minerva McGonogall, both standing over what was unmistakably a now-broken candle. Harry, blushing in shame and shock, didn't dare meet the eyes of the priest, instead finding particular interest among his shoelaces.

"Mater Superior," Voldemort bowed slightly to the head disciplinarian and nun, keeping his snakish face upright.

It was funny that with all the rumors about "the priest with the devil eyes", no one ever questioned the mishaps that every now and then cropped up about the school. When Billy Stubbs's rabbit was discovered hanging from the belfry, not a soul looked to the priest for neither an explanation nor a confession. Nobody turned gossiping heads to Pater Voldemort the time little Amy Benson went missing, or the time wee Dennis was was discovered in an alcove above the choir loft. And when Cedric Diggory was found, beaten, raped, and murdered upon the Church's hallowed grounds, not even the police thought it right to interrogate the snakish priest. It was as if everyone was under the belief that no matter how eccentric or frightening, a priest could still do no wrong. Well, everyone, except for two.

"Don't start with me, Dom Voldemort," she snapped. "Mr. Potter here has just broken one of the candles; I don't need your "pure way" attitude."

"I will take care of him," the priest replied, red eyes lingering on Harry for a moment as he rested one of his pale, dead hands upon the boy's shoulder. "As for my attitude, Mater, I am simply referring to you by your proper title. Though, if you'd rather something else," he grinned nastily, "I could always call you Mater Fatuus."

"A plague on ye," Mother Minerva spat tartly. She turned to go, but then stopped abruptly, spinning on her heel and coming face to face with the deadened priest. "Tua culpa est illud Cedric Diggory moribat!" she hissed threateningly, determination flashing in her bespectacled eyes. Harry, knowing only the Latin he was forced to learn, caught three words, but important ones nonetheless: fault, Cedric, died.

"Is that what you and your bloody headmaster believe, Mater?" Voldemort responded scathingly. They had suspected him ever since that day, although no one had else questioned him. It was amazing how ignorant the majority of the populace was. "Nihil confiteor tibi aut Deo."

Glaring angrily, the Mother Superior stalked off in a huff down the aisle, stopping only to give one last, almost fearful, glance to Harry before leaving the holy grounds. Her departure was marked by the dull thud of the Church doors closing. Light cascaded from the beautiful windows that graced the stone walls. Harry was alone now; alone except for the priest, the devil priest whose eyes saw your soul. Looking up from the ground, Harry noticed a frightening gleam in his superior's eyes.

"I-I'll go get a broom to clean this up, Pater," he said, breaking contact with the crimson orbs and making his way past the man. He was stopped, however, as a cold hand was placed upon his head.

"Oh no, Potter," Voldemort whispered softly, "you've disobeyed me. I thought I told you to be careful." The grip on the boy's hair became more forceful. "And now you've got the Mater Superior on my case."

"I'm sorry, Pater," Harry cringed from the rough movement. He was surely going to be beaten for this, the boy could just see the sharp edge of the ruler coming his way. Of course, he was accustomed to it by now (having dosed off in Latin class ninety-seven times to date) but he never enjoyed its sting. The way Voldemort happily brandished that thing, you'd think he was getting ready to crack a whip across your back.

"Stand against that wall," Voldemort sneered, pointing dangerously towards the stone as he left to retrieve a ruler of sorts. Harry walked silently, passing one of the Church's magnificent statues. The stone formed the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God, and as the boy assumed the position he was forced into nigh every week (both palms flat against the wall, feet planted, back out) he realized that she stood across from him, a witness to his punishment. A second glance to the stone and Harry could've sworn she looked almost real, the solemn stone face echoing a real sadness.

Voldemort returned, carrying with him a thin, flat stick. The sun was well into the sky now, casting brilliant rays of light through the colored windows, illuminating the holy ground. Rubies, emeralds, and diamonds rained upon the priest's snakish features, the sun's warm light bringing vague traces of color back to the deadened man. Advancing slowly upon Harry, Voldemort caught sight of the statue and the boy's fleeting glance towards its face. He turned towards the statue, seeing it's saddened face. His gaze then shifted back to the boy who remained against the wall, eyes seeing nothing but stone. The deathly pale priest leered at the sensual sight before him.

Harry, expecting to feel the sting of the ruler, gasped softly as the weight of a cold, skeletal hand rested lightly on his lower back. Shuddering, he felt the priest's breath on the back of his neck. He blushed slightly as he felt the man standing flush against his back, throat slightly constricted by fear as he felt something hard pressed against his hip.

"P-pater what--?"

"Be quiet, Harry," Voldemort hissed dangerously, one hand caressing the boy's face from behind. "Just do as you're told and I promise not to hurt you."

Harry cringed, uncomfortable with the man's closeness. "What are you going to do to me?" the boy whimpered. At this, the so-called devil priest laughed, a high, cold, inhuman laugh. He began to slide his hand beneath his charge's surplice, bunching up the white material, and undoing the buttons of the boy's red cassock. Harry tensed as he felt the cold hand against his skin.

"Whatever I want," the priest snarled, licking along the boy's jawline, a second hand between Harry's legs, feeling him through the fabric.

"Get away!" Harry cried, elbowing the man painfully hard in the ribs. Voldemort, unprepared for the assault, fell back against the ground, winded, as Harry tried to run. However, the boy forgot that the abusive priest still carried the thin ruler, and when it hit him in the centre of his Achilles tendon, Harry soon found himself lying at the stone feet of Mary. He was surprised to find himself shaking, not out of pain, but out of fear. It only then dawned on the boy that he had just angered Pater Voldemort, a man known for dishing out punishments and enjoying them to no end.

"Tsk tsk, Harry," came the soft, hissing voice. "You've disobeyed me again." His footsteps echoed about the church, a cold, deadly sound, more frightening than any funeral knoll. He stooped down, a pale hand grabbing the boy's hair fiercely. "There is a penalty to pay for this," the priest laughed darkly, tongue flicking out against the shivering altarboy's earlobe. He flipped the protesting boy over onto his back, fingers unbuttoning the rest of the boy's clothes.

"No, please, I'm sorry! P-please don't do this! Please!" Harry cried out, blushing scarlet as those red eyes roamed his body, deft fingers working their way along their victim's warm flesh. Voldemort ignored his protests, instead trailing his forked tongue along the boy's chest, teasing nipples to hardness and dragging out moans. He felt himself getting painfully hard, his charge's moans and pleas for mercy pushing him further and further to the edge. His tongue found the child's flaccid cock and, with cold, skeletal hands, he brought the unwilling boy to hardness.

Harry continued to struggle, writhing beneath the warm, skilled tongue that was making him moan like a shameless little slut, a whore, an utter disgrace. His heart was swallowed in humiliation and tears rolled down his cheeks when he came into the evil priest's mouth, crying out like an animal, body enjoying the heat, the wetness. Harry felt the being next to him shudder slightly and noticed the man's cassock was very disheveled. He realized that while Voldemort's tongue was busy, his hand had also been of use. Harry felt heat creep into his face, knowing the man had thinking of him when he did that. It made the boy want to hurl.

"So beautiful," Voldemort breathed, a cold hand resting against his charge's stomach. "And we're all alone." Harry found himself filled with hatred at this man. The priest leaned down and whispered cruelly, "You're mine and only mine, boy. I own you."

Infuriated by this remark, Harry lunged at the priest, biting into his exposed collarbone, fingernails scraping skin. Voldemort growled, clutching at his bloody shoulder. Believing escape was near, Harry made to run, to flee, to get as far away from this evil, devil priest as possible. Fate was not kind to him, however, as a pale, long fingered hand grasped his ankle, dragging the boy to the ground. Harry once again found himself beneath the skeletal body of Pater Voldemort, whose eyes were livid and burning.

"You insolent little wretch!" he snarled, hands circling about the boy's throat as blood fell from his shoulder. Snatching the metal sided ruler, Voldemort grinned maniacally. "Insubordination is something I cannot allow, Harry. Therefore, you must be taught," he leered, spreading the boy's legs wide. In one swift thrust, the metal sided ruler found itself within the boy's virginal anus.

Harry screamed, throat burning in pain as the sharp object cut through him. His entire lower body was on fire, blood was flowing steadily from between his legs. Voldemort, enthralled by so much pain and anguish, continued to thrust into him with the ruler, slicing away more and more flesh with every movement. Simultaneously, he began to fondle the boy, light caresses in contrast with sharp, brutal thrusts, and left bloody bite marks about the boy's pure, unmarked body.

"Please, take it out!" Harry cried, tears falling from his eyes as his assault grew worse. "Oh Lord, please, have mercy!"

"God has mercy," the priest sneered, his pace faster now. "I, however, do not." With that, he thrust the ruler so roughly that Harry was certain he'd split in two, crying out in pain and also in pleasure as the boy felt himself come. It hurt so much; blood and semen were everywhere, tears bathed flesh. Harry lay, amongst his cassock and surplice, bloody and broken, a play-thing of the twisted priest. Voldemort, having redone his own cassock and straightened the crucifix about his neck (a masque of holiness, Harry thought savagely) readied to take his leave when Harry, in less than a whisper, spoke up.

"You did this...to Cedric." It was not a question, it was a statement. "You killed him."

Voldemort grinned satisfactorily. Bending down so that they were nose to nose, he sneered. "Yes, I killed him. I led him behind the altar, stripped him of his clothes and dignity, raped him, and let him die," he replied, nonchalantly. Nothing seemed to faze him, he didn't care at all. "The boy was so handsome, and he screamed oh so well.

"But of course," the evil priest smirked, "he did not scream as well as you." And, gracing the boy with a chaste kiss, he left down the aisle, humming "Ave Maria" softly under his breath.

Nothing had happened. There had been no rape, there had never been a murder. At least, this was how it was to the priest, to Pater Voldemort. And this was how it would always be. In years to come, another boy would become altar-server, another boy would be left alone with him, another boy would be raped and left for dead. It was a never ending cycle of death; a game for this devil priest, this godless man.

Harry lay there, helpless and forgotten. He was dying and he knew it. The ruler's motions, its jagged edges, had damaged too much internally. His only hope was for someone to find him and bring him to a hospital, but it would be hours before they realized he was missing. Sadly, there were no traces of semen from the man to identify that Pater Voldemort had done this, and both their blood had mixed together when he bit that bastard. There was no hope left.

Hugging himself gently, Harry listened to the faint noises from outside the hallowed walls of the Church, a building of sanctuary now holding as a prison, a death row. Children were playing outside, their tiny voices laughing and giggling.

"Now, Jeremy, that's unsanitary. Please go put it back and wash your hands."

"Yes ma'am."

"Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man, of my virtue I am justly pr--"

"Katie, for the hundreth time, stop singing that infernal song!"

"Yes sir."

Wee children, so kind, so gentle, so innocent. It made Harry's heart ache at the thought that everyday, they could be the next child whom Pater Voldemort "punishes". Harry huddled about his torn clothes, cold even though the sun was shining directly on him, bathing his body in rainbows of light. It must be high noon now, the poor boy thought absentmindedly.

Huddling even closer about himself, Harry remembered how he had seen the statue of Mary, the Mother of God. She had appeared so sad and lonely, having lost her only son, having watched him die. Looking up, Harry realized that he had been beneath her feet the entire time. Her stone face, chiseled into the finest of marble, seemed to have grown even more depressed, even more morose. He was dying before her stony eyes, just as her son had died before her many years ago. Unlike Cedric, who had been led behind the altar where no one could see, Harry had been defiled before the Mother of God, the Mother of all children, the Mother of all beings in the world. He had a witness; that's all the broken child could ask.

His vision blurring even more, Harry held onto her stone feet. He didn't have much longer to go. Coughing slightly, he began to pray in what was just barely a whisper, hoping his Mother would hear him.

"...ora...pro nobis peccatoribus...nunc et...in hora mortis...nostrae..."

Amen

"tum gadeo" then I am gald
"quasi homo mortuus est" he is a sort of dead man
"pater" father
"mater superior" mother superior (the head of the nuns, pretty much)
"dom" from Latin dominus; used in France as a title for the clergy (ex. Dom Claude Frollo)
"mater fatuus" mother moron
"tua culpa est illud cedric diggory moribat" it is your fault that cedric diggory died
"nihil confiteor tibi aut deo" i confess nothing to you or god
"ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae" pray for us sinners now and at the hour of death (last lines of the Hail Mary)

Okay, McGonagall as Mother Superior makes me laugh because, if you've seen the movie Sister Act you'll know that Dame Maggie Smith plays the Mother Superior. And besides, can't you just see Professor McGonagall running around in a nun habit and hitting people on the hand with rulers?

Secondly, if anyone's seen the 1939 Charles Laughton Hunchback of Notre Dame, there is a scene in which Esmeralda and Frollo are in the cathedral after the feast of fools (a lot like Disney, actually.) Anyways (and if you've seen Disney you'll remember the statue) Esmeralda's standing by the statue of Mary, whom she's just learned is the Mother of God (she's in awe about this and hopeful towards her, like Disney's Esme) and when Frollo accuses her of being evil because she is a gypsy, saying all gypsies should die, etc., Esmeralda's all "don't say those things! The Mother of God is listening!" And she says "Mother of God" like 50 times in 3 sentences. And sounds like a little girl. I dunno, it's hysterical to me (maybe because my humor's a little twisted, I dunno!)

Whoo, self-insertations and singing of "Hellfire" (sorta :P)

Oh, and to any religious, biblical, "OMG YOU'RE ALL HEATHENS MUST CONVERT NOW "people out there: uh, yeah, I'm Catholic, no, I'm not a Satanist, and I think Mary's great. Probably since she's a mother and as children we instantly go to our mothers, especially girls. I dunno, don't get all philosophical on me! Gyah::collapses::

Please, read and review! - Sadademort