An eleven year-old Harry Potter is sitting on my lap, staring at me with his green eyes full of expectation, ready to hear the story of Gilles de Rais.

"We're in the fifteenth century. The dark part of Gilles de Rais' story starts after the sacrifice of Joan of Arc. That's when he started studying Alchemy, which was already forbidden by the Church then. He studied the texts of Albert the Great, Arnaud de Villeneuve, Raymond Lulle, Nicolas Flamel. In his castle in Tiffauges, Gilles built an alchemical oven, the athanor, and set up labs with pelicans, cresols and retorts. He wanted to find the Philosopher's Stone."

"Oh. I know his kind."

"If you're going to keep interrupting me..."

"Sorry, Severus."

"Very well. All Gilles' efforts were in vain. So he contacted more experienced wizards with great knowledge of the Dark Arts. One of those wizards was the famous François Prélati. At the time, magic was still much influenced by religion. Light Magic was Christian, and the Dark Arts were linked to Satan. Those medieval concepts are considered outdated in the wizarding world nowadays, but at that time, they were fully accepted by everyone. Those dark wizards were thus Satanists, and they believed that the best way of winning Satan's favour was by committing sins and crimes."

I'm sitting in the most comfortable armchair in my office, holding Harry sideways on my lap. I press his fragile, skinny body against mine.

"Gilles didn't like women. He preferred lying down with... boys. He would choose boys that were... 'as beautiful as angels', as he'd say himself. When he fought, those were the only ones he'd spare in his massacres."

Harry widens his eyes. I breathe deeply, brush his hair from his face and go on.

"Soon deflowering boys, tainting their purity, wasn't enough for him anymore. He had to go one step further on the stairs down to hell. The first victim of this new level of violence was a boy whose name is unknown. Gilles strangled him, cut his wrists, extirpated his heart, ripped out his eyes, and took him to Prélati's bedroom. Together, they offered the boy's organs to Satan."

There's a fascinated gleam in Harry's eyes. I lean my face against his hair, inhaling his sweet, childish scent.

"Go on, Severus. Please."

"As you wish, Harry. Very well. In spite of all Gilles' efforts, Satan did not show himself. The boy's blood was preserved for the writing of magical formulae and grimoires. That boy was only the first victim of a series of slaughters. Between 1432 and 1440, the list of missing children in Anjou, Britain and Poitou was immense. Gilles sent his servants to pick the children from the streets in bags and barrels. Those children were raped, decapitated, disembowelled. It's said about eight hundred children were brutally murdered."

"Eight hundred?!"

"Eight hundred." I stroke his chest slowly through his robes, playing with his young nipples. "Gilles and his friends would take them to a room in the castle's dungeons. There the boys were disrobed and gagged; Gilles would molest and rape them, then stab them with a dagger and dismember them, piece by piece. Other times he would cut their chests open and breathe in the air of their lungs; cut their stomachs open, smell them, rip their flesh apart with his hands and lie inside them, lolling in their hot entrails. And sometimes, as he did that, he leaned back for a moment, in order to contemplate the boys' expression in their last seizures, their last spasms."

Revulsion, fear and fascination seems blended in Harry's expression. He starts to get aroused by my caresses. I lift up his robe and touch his naked skin, his chest, his nipples, his back. He moans, and turning to face me, hugs me. I take off his robe; he's now in just his briefs.

"Gilles used to say he enjoyed the torture, the tears, the terror and the blood, more than any other pleasure. Eventually he grew tired of those games and began to make love with the dead... He set up beauty contests among the corpses. He grabbed the most beautiful ones by the hair and kissed their cold lips..."

I rub his lips with mine and he whimpers. My cock is rock hard and straining to be free from the clothes confinement. My voice sounds hoarse and breathy.

"For a couple of months, necrophilia was enough to sate him. Once, when his provision of children had run out, he came to the point of disembowelling a pregnant woman and raping the foetus."

Harry pales. Unable to restrain myself any more, and also to distract him a little, I lift my robe and free my cock from its prison. Harry looks at it, with that same look of fear and fascination.

"After those orgies, Gilles was worn out and slipped into some kind of coma, a deep lethargy. But those monstrous pleasures weren't enough for him. Now his ferocity wasn't only carnal anymore, it was spiritual. He wanted the children to suffer in body and soul. So he reached the lowest level of Evil. When one of those boys was sent to his room in the dungeons, he would be hung by a rope attached to a hook on the wall. When the boy was about to suffocate, Gilles would have him brought down, and take off the rope from around his neck. He would sit the boy on his lap and comfort him, caress him, dry off his tears, and point to his accomplices and say they were bad but obeyed him. He would tell the child not to be afraid, that he would save him and take him back to his mother. And when the boy, happy and grateful, hugged him, Gilles would cut his neck from behind, delicately, and then would knock him down and violate him. After those abominable games, he would say, full of pride, 'no one else on this Earth can do what I do'."

I look at him and see that he's trembling.

"Harry, let's take these off..." I touch his briefs "...and you will feel much better. I'm going to make you feel good."

He helps me to take off his briefs, writhing wildly. Finally, he's naked on my lap, his tiny and rosy cock erect, so eager for my hand. My cock throbs, a drop of pre-come already oozing out. I cup the boy's soft buttocks, squeeze them slightly, and turn him around. I take a vial from my pocket and spread the lube slowly, carefully, dipping a finger in his cleft, not very deep. Then I spread the lube over my own cock, hard and swollen, and lift him to nestle my cock into the crevice between his buttocks. I continue to tell him the story, murmuring the words in his ear.

"You know, after all that, Gilles couldn't go lower... Remorse began to assail him. As he remembered his slaughters, he would drop to the floor, crying. He begged God's forgiveness and promised penitence. He spoke of becoming a priest, going to Jerusalem, becoming a mendicant. However, those promises never lasted, and soon he would surrender to new horrors."

I take his thumb-sized prick in my hand. The boy moans and writhes. I start to rock against his tightness, rubbing my cock against his cleft, pressing only a little, not wanting to hurt him, just... oh, just enfolding the head of my cock. At the same time, I squeeze his cock in my hand, pumping it.

"He would seduce children once more, and then, laughing, beat them up until their brains burst out of their skulls."

I feel him holding his breath for a moment. Is he afraid? Of me? I run my thumb over the tip of his cock, just to distract him, and he cries in pleasure.

"After committing those atrocities, Gilles ran to the forest and the ghosts and the remorse would haunt him. One day, the trees surrounding him gained spectral forms, evoking the disembowelled children. Obscene forms rose from earth, lip-like clefts... wrinkly bodies full of limbs ...erect phalluses..."

I clench my own muscles against his tightness, and it's so good I almost can't speak any more. I press harder and faster, and pump him in the same pace.

"...moist drops reminding him of blood drops. With his dagger, he tried to stab those trees, eviscerate them, violate them. Covered in blood and sap, he struggled, caged by the lubricous branches that embraced him..."

The boy's cock throbs in my hand, and he comes. I grab his hips with my two hands and thrust against him once, twice, three times, until my body tenses and shakes in deep waves of pleasure, and my semen spurts. I hug him fiercely, almost hurting him.

"And then the body of Christ appeared before him, and he fell to the ground, defeated."

The End