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Chapter Text

The boy that slips into the other side of the confessional booth is unfamiliar to Harry. Not a face he’s seen yet during one of his Sunday services. Although, he’d only been assigned to the small parish in Little Hangleton just two months prior, so he is still acquainting himself with his new congregation.

It has been a slow Thursday night, with only a single visitor for confession so far: Mrs. Bulstrode, who confessed to indulging a bit too liberally in the brandy decanter during last Friday’s bridge game with the other elderly ladies in their small town. Harry had sent her on her way with a gentle admonition to practice moderation and a penance of three Hail Marys each day for the next three days.

To fill the lull between confessions, Harry has been reviewing his draft for the upcoming Sunday sermon, squinting at the stack of hand-written notes in the dim flickering light filtering in through the confessional screen. 

He sets his notes to the side as the boy settles in and slides the compartment door shut.

A soft, strained breath is exhaled into the stillness of the empty church.

Harry allows the boy some time to work himself up to speak. In his experience, he’s learned it’s best to stay silent and wait to let the penitent speak at their own pace. 

In the meantime, he takes a moment to study the boy’s features through the brass cross-hatch of the confessional screen.

He is, in a word, beautiful. 

His head is bowed, with soft, loose curls tumbling over a fine arch of forehead. Sharp cheekbones are perfectly offset by the lovely curve of his rose-petal lips. His skin is porcelain-smooth, unnaturally so for a teenage boy going through puberty. 

He looks like an angel descended from Heaven above. Harry’s breath catches in his throat. 

The boy parts his lips. The tip of his tongue darts out to rest against perfectly straight front teeth, as his dark eyes go unfocused, contemplating how he wants to start. 

It is a look Harry has seen countless times across the thousands of confessions he has witnessed.

Familiar words break the silence.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The boy’s voice is low, a scratchy grittiness in his throat. “It’s been… I don’t even know. I haven’t done this in years.”

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters,” Harry says. “What’s weighing on you, my son?”

“I need…” The boy pauses. Slides his gaze upwards to glance at Harry through the patterned screen, then looks back down at his lap. “I need – guidance.”

“Of course, my son. You are in the right place.”

The boy’s head is still bowed. Harry sneaks glances at him, eyes roving over his perfect features. The boy sits as still as a marble statue, carved out of unblemished smooth stone. Harry is entranced. It’s not often that he sees such unearthly beauty such as this in his own confession booth. 

When another five minutes pass without the boy speaking again, Harry tries to nudge the conversation forward. “May I know your name please?”

The boy sweeps his dark gaze back up, a piercing look in his eyes when he meets Harry’s.

“Father,” he starts haltingly, cautiously. “What I say here—anything that I share with you—it’s completely private, right? You’re not allowed to tell anyone?”

“Yes,” Harry replies. “Everything you share here is confidential under what’s known as the ‘seal of the confessional.’ No matter what you say, I am forbidden from disclosing it to anyone.”

Tom gives a brief, sharp nod. “Yes, alright,” he says. “I actually—I already knew that.” His lips give a brief quirk upwards, a touch of humanity breaking through that perfect porcelain mask. “I asked because I needed—I just needed to hear that directly from you.”

Harry nods. “I can certainly understand, my son. May I ask your name then?”

“It’s… Tom.”

The hesitancy, the careful manner in which Tom had asked about ensuring confidentiality—it all serves to make Harry extremely curious about what Tom has to say.

“Father,” Tom starts again, with a renewed resolve. His dark eyes make brief contact with Harry’s before he looks away again.

An electrifying thrill runs through Harry as he waits for Tom to share. 

“I’ve been… I’ve been having impure thoughts.”

But of course, Harry thinks to himself, hiding a smile.

He is very practiced, by now, at keeping his face perfectly blank and frozen. He cannot afford to let even a single, brief microexpression of excitement flash across his face. It would be too incriminating.

Something akin to a nicotine buzz—both energizing and relaxing at the same time—rumbles through him with a purring satisfaction, as he leans against the back of the confessional booth. The cool, smooth wood greets his shoulders with a grounding touch, as he awaits the rest of Tom’s confession. 

Confessions of this nature are something that Harry has heard very regularly from other teenage boys throughout the years. More often than not, the confessions are fairly benign and lacking in originality, though still titillating in their own simple, charming way. Occasionally, they take on a more intriguing turn, like an odd fetish originating from some childhood trauma, or someone seeking absolution for an attraction to the same sex. 

(And if Harry is lucky tonight—the darkest and most buried-away part of his mind whispers—then perhaps Tom, the beautiful angel boy, in an effort to seek guidance away from temptation, might—just might—even describe the specific thoughts he’s been having in more detail.)

As Harry’s mind drifts wondering about what direction Tom might take, he feels a familiar stir at the base of his stomach, a crude anticipation tugging inside of his gut. 

After all, it is the only indulgence that Harry allows himself these days. Especially after what happened in his last parish. No more taking matters into his own hands, he’s resolved. He came here for a fresh start.

When it appears that Tom won’t elaborate further without nudging, Harry clears his throat. “My son, these urges are perfectly natural, and it’s very common for your age group,” he starts in a reassuring tone. “What’s important is that you do not act lewdly on these urges and sully y—”

“No, Father,” the boy interrupts him, tone still low and raspy. Harry has to strain to hear him. “Not those – not those kinds of – urges.”

Harry’s interest sharpens. He keeps silent, waiting for Tom to share more. 

His patience pays off. Without further prompting, Tom starts speaking again within a few minutes. When he does, it is as though invisible floodgates have burst open, and a gruesome monologue comes tumbling out.

“I think about – hurting people. I want to hurt people. I think about it all the time. The thoughts – they’re always there, no matter what I’m doing. The urges are relentless. It’s all I can think about some days. It takes every last ounce of self-control not to just – give in. More than anything, I want to slice a blade along the fluttering pulse across someone’s neck; I want to feel the hot, thick blood pour through my fingers as their throat is carved open and then to feel it soak into my skin. I want to know what it’s like to guide a knife in between their ribs and straight through that pulsing, pounding four-chambered organ. I want to stare into their eyes as death clouds them over, to catch that last crackle of a death rattle from the bisected vocal chords. I wonder if I'd feel different afterwards—if I’d feel like a god, if I’d ever be able to come back from having had a taste of that glorious rush of power holding someone’s life in the palm of my hand. Or maybe it would feel like nothing at all, like scratching an itch that just keeps coming back.” Tom’s voice is still so low that Harry needs to strain to hear.

Tom pauses to draw breath, then continues. “Father, these thoughts—they’re always there, eating away at me relentlessly. I’ve prayed to God to take these urges away, but no matter what I do, my mind won’t give me any respite. Every waking moment, I’m fighting against the darkness threatening to swallow me whole. I can see everything play out as plain as day. It’s constant, even in my dreams. Like a movie inside my head that I can’t turn off.” He draws a low shuddering breath. “The visions… they’re beautiful, in a way, but they’re a curse, tempting me towards something I cannot afford to lose control over, no matter how strong my resolve. Once I give in, there’s no going back… I know I’ll never be able to – to go without again…”

Harry is shocked into silence. This was not what he was expecting. The boy’s confession had veered in a direction that he could never have imagined.

It unsettles Harry more than anything he’s ever heard from any other teenage boy, even the ones with the most depraved fetishes or masturbation fantasies. Because those are just that—fantasies. But Tom is something else entirely. Tom sounds like he could actually be dangerous and violent, teetering on a knife’s edge, one bad day away from snapping.

Still, Harry tries not to let it show on his face how disturbed he is when he responds to Tom. He must remain a vessel of compassion and understanding, not condemnation.

“I am relieved you came to me tonight, my son,” he says in a tightly measured, controlled tone. “It must feel like you’ve been fighting these urges all on your own for far too long, but remember, God is always with you. You are never truly alone. Together, we will work to loosen the devil’s hold on you.”

“This is slowly ruining me, Father. It’s really hard to function normally when I’m constantly fighting these intrusive thoughts,” Tom rasps out. “Every last ounce of my willpower is consumed by keeping these base instincts in check. I can’t concentrate on anything else. My grades are holding steady for now, but I’m worried this will affect my A-level results. And I can’t tell anyone else because… because they’d think I’d need to be—” he swallows, then continues in a low undertone, “They’d think I’d need to be locked up.”

Privately, Harry agrees. But he swallows down his disquietude. “Tom, I know it feels hopeless right now, but these thoughts you describe—they’re not who you are. They’re something happening to you. It’s important to remember that.”

“But what if it never goes away? Is it going to be like this forever? Fighting every day not to—” Tom swallows, thickly, “—not to kill someone?”

“These urges may feel like they’re consuming you now, but that doesn’t mean they’ll always have this power. You’ve already taken a step by coming here today. That’s a sign that they don’t control you—you’re still in control,” he says firmly.

“It doesn’t feel that way, Father. I’m in control now, but what if I stop fighting? What if I snap and do something terrible? I don’t want to, but… what happens if I lose control?”

“Acting on these thoughts won’t bring you the peace you’re looking for, my son. The temptation you in feel inside would only grow. That’s why we need to open your heart to Jesus—to let Him guide you towards the light before you reach that point. Together, we’ll focus on surrendering to His grace and letting Him lead you away from the darkness.”

“How? How can I make this stop? I can’t live like this anymore. Even now, every second, I’m fighting five different trains of thought telling me to gut you from neck to waist, and how quickly I can get away before anyone discovers your body. All I can think about all day long is…” he lets out a low, keening breath, “killing people.”

Harry’s blood runs cold. Satan’s grip on this boy runs deeper than anything he’s encountered before. Steeling his voice, he says, “You’re not trapped, Tom. God sees your struggle, and He’s walking with you, even when it feels like you’re alone. We’ll take this one step at a time.”

“Tell me—just tell me what I need to do.”

“Your penance will be small steps. Begin each morning with three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. In the evening, dedicate at least thirty minutes to prayer. Ask God to bring you peace and to strengthen your resolve and your compassion for others. Remember, God’s love for us is infinite, no matter the darkness you carry with you in your heart—for we are all sinners in His eyes.”

“Will that really help?” Tom murmurs.

Harry honestly wants to suggest therapy, perhaps an extended institutionalization in a nice place with 24/7 guards and grippy socks, but Tom has come to him for spiritual guidance in his hour of need, and spiritual guidance is what Harry is best equipped to give him.

“Give this a try. You can come back next week, and we can adjust as needed. You need to trust in God’s mercy. I will be praying for you too, my son.”

“Thank you, Father,” Tom says. “For… for listening. For not judging me.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Tom. There is no judgment here. Only compassion and love.”

*

A quick perusal of parish records reveals that Tom lives with his paternal grandmother, Mary Alice Riddle, who has been attending church services in Little Hangleton for over 60 years. From the records, Harry learns that Mary is one of the parish’s largest tithers, and the boy’s mother, Merope Gaunt Riddle, had died in childbirth. Curiously, the boy’s father lives in London, working some high-end financial job, and Harry briefly wonders why Tom doesn’t live with Tom Senior. 

After Tom’s confession, the next few days pass for Harry in an antsy, restless state. The memory of the boy plays on a loop in his mind. His ethereal loveliness. His tortured anguish. 

(“I think about hurting people.”)

(“What if I can’t stop myself?”)

There are times that serious doubts wrack through Harry. Doubts about the enormity of his task and whether he is truly equipped to guide Tom away from the path of mortal sin and losing his soul. He knows there are counselors out there who have experience in handling budding psychopaths—specialized therapists who’ve helped rehabilitate such troubled young minds to function normally in society. He wishes that Tom had gone to one of them instead or submitted himself to a voluntary psychiatric hold. 

But as much as Harry may want to warn the authorities about Tom, he knows he can’t. No matter how conflicted he is, his hands are tied. What he told Tom was true: the seal of the confessional binds him. Everything that Tom had confessed will remain absolutely confidential, with only God as their witness. 

The following week, and the following week, and the following, Tom returns to confession. The conversation does not fail to test the limits of Harry’s faith every week. 

“Welcome back, Tom,” Harry greets him from the other side of the wooden booth. “It’s good to see you again. How has this past week been for you?”

Tom’s head is bowed. As Harry watches, he lifts an elegant, pale hand to scrub at his eyes, which Harry can see, even in the dim candlelight filtering through the confessional screen, are lined with dark circles. “Father, I’ve tried – I’ve tried to do everything that you said—praying each morning and each evening, asking for God’s mercy. But the urges keep coming back. No matter what I do. They keep telling me to do something horrible. The Headmaster at St. Joseph’s, Albus Dumbledore, you know him, I’m sure. He’s always had it out for me. Lately, it’s gotten so much harder to resist the urge to, you know, stab him through the eyes and see how much force I need to exert to pierce the back of his skull, or slice off his genitalia and see how long it takes for him to bleed out, or blast his face off with Grandfather’s hunting rifle. It would be – so easy… And I’m – I’m at a loss for how to make it stop.”

Every time Tom speaks at confession, Harry is truly horrified, sickened to his core. Tom’s descriptions of his visions are always disturbingly detailed and vivid, sometimes suspiciously so. 

But Harry forces himself to maintain a calm and compassionate demeanor. While he has never come across a soul as black and corrupted as Tom’s, he is determined to save Tom, no matter what it takes. Even as his heart twists in disappointment every time that Tom comes back and further opens up about what goes on inside his head. 

Sometimes, it feels as though Tom is the trial that God put in Harry’s path in order to test him and the limits of his own empathy and his worthiness as God’s messenger on earth. 

“I can only imagine how difficult this is, Tom,” Harry responds. “You’re fighting for your very soul against the devil’s enticement, and it’s okay to feel as if progress is slow. But the fact that you’re here, seeking God’s guidance, puts you on the right path. There is no greater gift in the universe than God’s mercy, and His grace can purify even the darkest corners of your soul.”

Each evening, after he locks up the church doors at night, Harry kneels before the altar. He prays for each of his flock who are facing troubles, and lately, he’s been praying especially hard for Tom to resist the temptation that eats away at him relentlessly at all hours of the day. It must be a terrible burden to bear, Harry thinks, having struggled with his own dark passenger for years and years of his life.

“Lord, this boy is lost,” he murmurs. “He is possessed by demonic thoughts that torment him from morning til night, and I fear for him. I fear for what he might become if he cannot cast Satan out from his soul.”

The image of Tom’s angelic features, twisted with the agonized effort of fighting back his intrusive thoughts, flashes in Harry’s mind. He bows his head lower, pressing his forehead against the cool marble of the altar. 

“Give me the strength, Lord, to guide Tom back to you, to free him from the clutches of Satan. If it is Your will, let me bear some of his burden. Let me carry it, so that he might find salvation.” 

Before leaving, he lights a candle for Tom.

“Lord, do not let me fail him.”

Chapter Text

“I didn’t—I swear I didn’t do anything, Father. But she was just—it was—I couldn’t help it—there was just so much—” Tom lets out a small choked noise, “—there was just so much blood, everywhere. It was all over her, on the ground, on my hands…” His words tumble out in a frantic, rushed stream of consciousness. “I didn’t mean to—Father, I didn’t mean to—but I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s all I can see whenever I close my eyes. I’ll never be able to forget it, It’s burned into my mind, I’ve never seen anything like it. It was—the blood was so bright, and it was so red, and it was everywhere—”

“Tom—” Harry interrupts, his head spinning. It’s been over a month since they started meeting every week, and this is the most distraught he’s ever seen Tom. “Take a few breaths, and slow down. What happened?” Had Tom actually—had he—did something finally snap in him?

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Tom says breathlessly. “I was—I didn’t want to be, but I was – captivated by what I saw. It wasn’t my fault, I swear I didn’t do anything to her, and the EMTs said there was nothing I could have done, that she was already dead by the time I—I got there—” Tom’s voice remains pitched in a low undertone that Harry still has to strain to hear, though there’s an exhilaration underlying his words that sets off a spike of alarm within him. 

“What happened?” Harry presses, his tone more urgent now. 

“I saw… I saw her blood trickling from underneath the girls’ bathroom door on the second floor… I knew I shouldn't go in there, it’s a girls’ bathroom, but what if—what if someone was hurt?”

The way Tom inflected the question makes it sound like he had hoped that to be the case. 

“It was a girl in my year. Myrtle something. She had slit her own wrists and was bleeding all over the floor. I called for help right away, but it was too late. They said she had already bled out before I found her. Her blood got all over my uniform, and my nan burned it when I got back home… Father, I…” He tilts his head back, and his eyes flutter shut. With the bronze-cast light slanting in through the confessional screen, he looks like the very picture of divinity itself.

Tom opens his eyes, his black, fathomless gaze landing directly on Harry, as if he could see straight into Harry’s head and see all his thoughts. Suddenly, his countenance brightens, like the sun breaking out from behind the clouds on a gloomy day. Abruptly jumping topics, his mood changing as fast as flipping a switch, he brightly shares, “I feel so at ease with you, Father. I feel comfortable sharing things I’ve never told anyone else. I’ve never had anyone I could talk to so freely before. I feel like you genuinely want to help me. I feel that you can truly understand me, and even so, you don’t recoil from the darkness that you see in me, in a way that no one else has ever been able to. It means so much to me, Father.”

Harry’s breath is caught in his throat. For a moment, dread ripples through him, but—

But—no. It can’t be, he tells himself. It’s impossible that Tom knows. 

Harry knows there is darkness in him too. He too has been fighting his inner demons for nearly his entire adult life. But is that not the nature of man? That every person is born a sinner and was put on this earth to battle the sin within them. 

He has been so careful though, ever since he came to his new parish. Surely, it is impossible that Tom has seen through him; that Tom has somehow managed to clock exactly which kind of darkness lives within Harry…

Harry refocuses on the conversation at hand. “I’m glad you trust me to help guide you, Tom. You know I am always here for you,” he offers. 

“The school counselors gave me the week off to process the ‘trauma’—“ (said mockingly) “—but it only means I have a lot of time alone in my room to replay over and over again what I saw… It’s been two days now, and I’ve had to—I had to lock myself in my room, or I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from… you know. I’m struggling, Father. I’m struggling to keep these urges in check.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong so far, Tom. Temptation alone is not a sin in the eyes of God.”

“How do I make it stop, Father?” Tom groans. “I just want the urges to stop, so I can actually trust myself to leave the house. I fear that… that next time I’m at school, I’ll do something far worse. And then I’ll get locked up forever, and I’ll get sent to Belmarsh where all the violent offenders are, and it’s completely overrun by organized gangs, and I’ll be at least sixty by the time I’m eligible for parole, and then Nan will be left all alone, and I – I can’t let that happen—”

“Tom, slow down. First of all, you haven’t done anything,” Harry reminds him. “Secondly, you shouldn’t fear earthly consequences more than eternal damnation, you know.”

“I’ve tried everything you’ve suggested, Father, and nothing has worked. It’s only gotten worse. That first glimpse—I never should have gone inside the bathroom and allowed myself to take a look. Because now, I find myself consumed by the desire to see all that blood again… and again…”

Harry opens his mouth to deliver more reassurances, but the words die on his lips because Tom is right.

Tom sees himself clearly, and it’s been Harry who’s been delusionally clinging onto hope that his compassionate and merciful approach has been working. 

Indeed, nothing has worked so far, and it has been more than a month. Harry thinks he ought to try a different approach. He can’t just keep doing the same thing and expecting it to succeed. Tom will surely continue devolving if Harry doesn’t take drastic action, and soon. 

“The urges are getting worse, Father,” Tom breathes. “I can barely—I can’t—”

It is only a matter of time before Tom escalates, Harry is sure of it.

He would have to take a firmer hand with the boy.

He considers—

No. 

He can’t. It’s—

It is completely outdated and very nearly barbaric and virtually unheard of these days.

But, it might be the only solution that works. It might be the only thing that helps Tom keep his urges in check. 

The moment that Harry’s mind lands on the unthinkable, it feels like a hundred-pound weight is lifted from his shoulders. He decides not to overthink it, instead taking it as a sign from the Lord that he is being guided along the right path.

“I have… an idea,” Harry says slowly. “A new direction that we can take. These urges that plague you—they are a trial meant to test you. The stronger your spirit, the harsher the test, as God does not give anyone trials that they are not ready for. You see, overcoming the devil’s hold over you will require both prayer and action.” He pauses, weighing how best to broach the topic. “And well, it is time to take more action, so to speak. You must strive to… to discipline your body, and through the practice of discipline, seek to purify your soul. It will help remind you that you are not ruled by these urges, but by God’s will.”

Tom lets out a huff. “So. More prayer, you mean?” he asks dryly. “Should I take a nightly bath in holy water?”

Harry shakes his head. “There is a practice,” he starts, “a practice rooted in our faith, which will guide you towards redemption and peace. It is not for the faint of heart, but for the strongest of God’s soldiers like yourself, it can be a path towards purification.” He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “What I mean is the traditional Catholic practice of mortification—that is, disciplining the body to strengthen the soul—as a way to achieve self-mastery.”

It takes a moment for Harry’s words to register with Tom, but the boy is quite quick-witted and sharp. He picks up on Harry’s meaning soon enough, and raises a skeptical brow. “You mean,” he asks, “physically disciplining myself? As punishment?”

“Not punishment, my son. Cleansing. Think of Jesus, scourged and crowned with thorns. He bore that suffering for us, in order to atone for our sinful ways. Such traditional practices of discipline allows us, in some small way, to honor His sacrifice and join in His Passion. It is not about punishing yourself, Tom, but about offering a small act of devotion and discomfort as penance.”

Tom tilts his head gaze upwards to meet Harry’s through the slotted screen. “You really think this will help? Isn’t it a bit, you know, medieval?”

Harry allows himself a faint smile. “We’re not in medieval times anymore. There aren’t any torture devices, or public pillories, or heavens forbid, hairshirts involved. For what you are struggling with, I would suggest starting slow, with something simple and symbolic at first. For example, fasting for a few hours each evening, or choosing a favorite thing to abstain from for a few weeks. By denying the flesh, you will train the soul to be more virtuous. You can also introduce a slight modification to your prayer sessions by simply kneeling on a hard surface in prayer for a set time. It may cause some temporary discomfort, but it is meant to instruct us that all we need is God’s strength in order to resist temptation.”

“I mean,” Tom scoffs, “isn’t praying pretty much what I’ve been doing all along?”

“God’s work in us takes time, Tom. I want you to give this a try. Try kneeling in prayer for half an hour each morning and night—actually kneeling the entire time, not just shifting to a sitting position and continuing to pray. This may not banish the thoughts immediately, but it will fortify you. Every minute you spend in prayer, every small act of devotion, is a step towards God and freedom from these urges.”

“And you really think this will work? Kneeling for longer?”

What did Tom want Harry to say? That the only thing that would probably work is spending some time away in a nice padded room somewhere?

But Harry knows that such a suggestion would do nothing for the fate of Tom’s soul, nor repair Tom’s relationship with God. It’s his duty to not only look out for Tom’s day-to-day life during his time on earth, but also where he spends his afterlife. 

“It is not just kneeling,” Harry explains. “It is a physical act of submission to God, a way to show your complete and unquestioning faith in His will. Over time, this practice will help quiet your thoughts, as you teach your mind to turn away from the dark urges and towards the light. But remember, it is not the pain or the struggle itself that redeems you—it is the grace of God working through your struggle and your earnest, hard-earned effort.”

“Okay,” Tom says. “Okay. If you think it will help. I just—I just want it to stop. I want to stop thinking about killing people all the time.”

“Perhaps, to start, this is something we need to practice together then,” Harry muses. He gets to his feet, despite how cramped the dimensions of the confession booth are, his head brushing the low wooden ceiling of the booth. “Kneel.”

“In here?” Tom looks dubiously around the cramped, lowly lit space inside his side of the confessional booth. 

Harry nods.

It is a tight fit, but Tom shuffles around until he finds a way to fold his long, slim limbs into a kneeling position next to the bench, angled so that his back is against the wall of the church and his face is turned towards the narrow door of the booth, head bowed.

Harry murmurs through the partition, “And now we pray together.” He clasps his hands in front of him and launches into prayer, “Lord, I bring before You a soul in turmoil, a child who has lost his way. Grant him the strength to find his way back to Your light. Drive out the darkness that is within him, and may Your mercy—” He continues in this way for some time, letting the soothing cadence of prayer still the stomach-churning feeling of unease roiling inside of him. 

A quarter of an hour passes. 

Harry’s eyes are fixed on Tom’s kneeling form, squeezed into the narrow space next to the bench. As Harry watches, he catches a spasm rip through the tightly bunched muscles along Tom’s shoulder blades. He holds back a tut of disappointment. 

Another five minutes pass. It happens again. Soon enough, Tom’s back—which had started out straight and rigid with pride—bows with discomfort as he rearranges himself into a new position, bending forward into a deeper huddle.

Harry interrupts his own prayer. “How do you fare, my son?”

Tom lets out a breath that’s half-sigh, half-groan. He’s clearly in discomfort from the sustained kneeling. “I keep replaying the memory over and over again in my head. All that blood… it was so bright and red against the bathroom tiles…”

“Do not let those thoughts take root, Tom,” Harry urges him. “It is in these moments where we feel the most challenged by the devil’s temptation that we are, in fact, closest to God. Have faith in God’s process. Let us pray together again.”

He launches into another prayer, but before long, he sees Tom shifting around on his knees, trying to find a more comfortable position. 

“Do not yield, my son,” Harry reminds him. “The devil is waiting for the smallest sign of weakness before he strikes.”

Tom’s back gives a spasm in response. Harry catches sight of small, minute rocking movements that Tom tries to stifle, as a low whine is swallowed back. 

“Try to cease your rocking, Tom, and harden your will. The point is to acclimate yourself to the discomfort, not to will it away.”

A low, strained groan escapes Tom’s lips, and when he straightens his back and glances up, meeting Harry’s eyes through the patterned partition, Harry can see that he’s been biting down on his lower lip, leaving bitten-white teeth impressions in the skin. A sheen of liquid coats his eyes.

If the boy wants to give up, Harry will not let that happen. He will not let this boy falter on his watch. Determination hardens his resolve.

“You can do this, Tom,” he says firmly. “And you must.” 

As though guided by an invisible force, Harry reaches for the handle of the confession booth. H’s feet step out from his side of the booth, then turn and step into Tom’s side. 

He clicks shut the door behind him. 

“The path you’re on is not meant to be easy. But you must keep fighting. You must not let Satan win.” 

It is a tight squeeze. Still kneeling, Tom had automatically leaned back when Harry entered the narrow booth to make room for him, his back straight and pushed against the wall behind him. 

“You must rise above the pain, Tom, and learn to ignore the earthly discomfort,” Harry instructs. “If you can build strength in this endeavor, you can overcome your other urges too.”

Tom’s shoulders give a slight twitch as he tries, again, to hold himself perfectly ramrod straight, crowded against the back of the booth with Harry blocking his way out. 

“Father, may we break for the night?” 

A flare of annoyance rises within Harry. It makes him want to press harder, to impose his will—God’s will—on the recalcitrant boy. “I thought you were committed to this process, Tom,” he chides him. “This practice is not just meant to silence your thoughts—it is also meant to purify your soul. Christ Himself bore the cross on His back over the course of days as He was tortured and beaten. Do you think He would have found it easy and painless? Would it have required no sacrifice of Him?”

“No, Father.” A soft moan breaks out from between Tom’s clenched jaw.

Harry’s hand rises automatically to cup the side of Tom’s smooth jaw and thumb Tom’s bottom lip downwards. 

A flush rushes to Tom’s cheeks, painting that perfect curve of bone in rose.

Something that feels like a divine, purifying fire ignites from deep within Harry.

“And yet He carried it, out of love for us and obedience to the heavenly Father. Now He asks you to carry your own cross, Tom—not alone, but with His help.” 

Before Harry can stop himself, he brings his other hand to rest against his beltline, fingers flitting automatically to undo the button in the center of his dark trousers. 

“Each time you kneel in prayer, each time you resist these urges, you are honoring him. ‘Take up your cross and follow Me,’ Jesus declared. Matthew 16:24.”

A feeling of rightness clicks into place. Harry pulls Tom’s face closer to him, heat now pooling in his lower gut. It feels only natural for him to unzip and dig himself out from between the split zip of his trousers. His cock is weeping a clear bead of fluid at the tip, exactly like the tear gathering in the corner of Tom’s eye.

As Harry watches, the tear spills over and leaves a clear, shiny trail running down the side of Tom’s face.

He must teach Tom to overcome this weakness. 

“The struggle is part of the journey, Tom,” Harry explains, as the head of his cock breaches Tom’s lips. He pushes into velvet-soft warmth and wetness, the fire inside of him burning through each one of his nerve endings. Tom’s dark eyes are widened in surprise, like a deer caught in headlights. “When we kneel before God, we humble our bodies and quiet our minds. It teaches us to endure our trials with patience and faith.”

Harry pushes deeper inside. He feels Tom’s tongue curl around the sides of his cock to make space for the intrusion, wrapping soft heat around the sensitive head and flicking experimentally along the underside. Licks of white-hot flames lap against Harry’s insides with every tentative lick of Tom’s tongue. 

“I know what you’re thinking right now. How is kneeling supposed to help?” Harry thrusts forward, sliding further down the curve of Tom’s tight, hot throat, his voice unwavering. “The point is that it’s not about comfort or quick solutions. Discipline teaches the soul to rise above the flesh and to resist temptation.”

More whimpers escape from Tom’s lips as Harry works up to an unforgiving rhythm, bruising the back of Tom’s throat with every thrust in, his hand still cupped around Tom’s jaw, keeping him close.

“You are strong enough, Tom, because God’s strength is within you,” Harry preaches, in between thrusts. “When you feel like giving up, remember that there are no easy answers; you must trust in God’s plan, even when you cannot easily see the results yet.”

The back of Tom’s throat squeezes in a tight, nearly painful, spasm around Harry’s cock. 

“You need to stay the course, no matter how difficult. Continue your prayers—do not give up! Even when the discomfort starts to overwhelm you. You must offer your pain to God as penance.” 

Tom moans around Harry’s cock, sending a burst of blinding-hot pleasure flooding through Harry.

His voice rises in volume, “When the urges return, do not fight them alone. Drop to your knees and pray, ‘Lord, I trust in you. Take this burden from me.’ Keep saying it until the urges start to subside. Say it over and over. Say it, my son!” 

With this last outburst of exhilaration, Harry reaches his end down the boy’s throat. It is so pure and overpowering that it feels like holy fire has swallowed him whole. 

As Harry pulls back, Tom hurriedly gulps down air, trying to hide his coughing and spluttering. A small creamy trail of Harry’s spend trickles down the side of his mouth. 

“Very good, Tom,” Harry praises, stroking the side of Tom’s face. “Very good. You have performed admirably tonight, prostrating yourself before the Lord. You have come this far, and you have not turned away. That is no small feat.”

“Thank you, Father,” Tom croaks, voice completely hoarse. “I’ll—I’ll do what you advise. If you think this will help, I’ll try harder.”

“Good. I will pray for you, Tom. The path of righteousness is never easy, but it is always worth it. Trust in the Lord, and He will guide you.”

*

When the boy leaves, Harry is left alone with his thoughts. 

He knows what he proposed is unconventional.

But the boy is already so corrupted, his soul so stained, that nothing Harry can do can ruin him further. 

Right?

The boy can’t get any worse. Which means that whatever Harry does—if it has any impact at all—it can only serve to fix him. 

To save him.

Chapter Text

The grandfather clock in Harry’s office strikes eleven. He starts preparing to lock up for the night when he hears a soft knock on his office door. He opens it to find Tom standing on the threshold. His shoulders are tensed, his face pale and expectant.

“Tom, it’s so late,” Harry remonishes. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I needed to see you, Father.” Tom’s hands are clenched at his sides, his breathing uneven.

Harry hangs his key ring on the hook by the door. “Does your nan know you’re here? You have school in—” He glances at the clock, “—less than seven hours.” 

Tom shakes his head. “It’s the urges, Father. They’re getting worse. I don’t think I can—I’m having trouble controlling them. I’ve been praying like how you said, and fasting too, sometimes for a day or two at a time, but it hasn’t been enough. I need… something more. I need you to tell me what to do.”

Harry tilts his head and gives Tom an appraising look. “But Tom, you must learn to strengthen your own relationship with God, and prayer is the best way to develop a direct relationship with Him. I am but His servant.”

“I know, Father. But I can’t—I haven’t been able to…” Tom swallows. “When you give me something to focus on, it feels like I can fight it. I need it… please…”

“Alright. Come on in.” Harry directs Tom to take a seat opposite him as he settles back in his desk chair.

“So I… I might have misled you about Myrtle, Father,” Tom starts, gaze off to the side. “I did find her there, as I told the paramedics, but she was not… she had not fully passed on when I found her. I actually—” He glances back at Harry, and a bright, wicked light seems to light up his eyes. “—I actually held her through her last breaths. I wanted to see what it was like for the life to fade from someone’s eyes…”

A raw, biting anger wells up inside of Harry. He is both upset by his own impotence in this matter, with his hands tied by the dictates of the Catholic Church, unable to seek outside help for Tom, and also so disappointed in Tom, who could have saved the girl’s life but instead stood by and let her die. He did not technically kill her, but he effectively played God. 

Harry stands, abruptly, behind his desk and gestures to the ground in front of his feet.

“On your knees,” he orders.

A brief flash of doubt flickers across Tom’s face.

“Now, Tom. On your knees.”

Tom walks over to Harry’s side of the desk and drops to his knees in front of him.

Harry grabs a fistful of Tom’s loose, soft curls and bends Tom’s head back to look him in the eye. “I know what you want,” he murmurs. “I know what you came here for. But I’m not going to give it to you yet. We’re going to try something else, first.”

Tom gives a silent jerk of his head.

“Stay,” Harry orders him, like a dog.

Swallowing down his anger, he stalks over the other side of his office and opens a creaky oak cabinet. Reaching all the way to the back, he presses a latch, and a hidden compartment slides out and reveals the metal circlet within. 

Returning to Tom, he presents Tom with the relic. It’s a braided metal chain made up of delicate interwoven circles, with small hooks spaced an inch apart along each ring. A few moments pass as Harry admires the fine craftsmanship of the instrument. Deliberately, he pricks the tip of his index finger against one of the sharp hooks and relishes the zing of pain that runs through his nerves as a bright drop of blood wells up. 

“This is a historical artifact from the late 12th century,” he explains. “It’s called a cilice. It was once worn by our faith’s most devout to remind themselves of Christ’s Passion. You will wear it around your thigh for an hour each day, starting right now.”

He hands the cilice to Tom, his expression firm. 

Without blinking, Tom takes the chain within his hands and starts to loop it around his upper thigh.

“Your bare thigh,” Harry clarifies. He leans closer, his voice lowered to a rough whisper. “This is not just about silencing your urges, Tom. This is about saving your soul. Do you understand the weight of that?”

Tom shows Harry that he understands, not with a nod, but with a slow unbuckling of his trousers and sliding them down to mid-thigh. His hands do not tremble or shake as the clasp closes around his thigh. 

A flare of approval surges within Harry as he admires the way the hooks dig into Tom’s milky skin, the small wince that flashes across Tom’s face whenever he gives a slight shift, the way his throat flutters as he swallows down his pain. 

He settles himself back in his chair and glances at the clock. Half eleven. “Your hour of penance starts right now,” he informs Tom, unbuckling his trousers and stroking himself to full hardness. He plants his feet on either side of Tom’s thighs and brings Tom’s head forward. 

Automatically, Tom’s lips fall open wide enough for Harry to push his cock inside. He relishes the feel as he slides himself down the back of that tight, hot throat. Pleasure bleeds through his anger and deflates it somewhat. 

“If you falter, we will start the clock again,” he informs Tom, picking up his notes for next Sunday’s sermon and flipping through them to make edits. “No more excuses. No more lies or misleading tales. You will learn to endure, as Christ endured.” He thrusts upwards and pushes himself deeper down Tom’s throat, holding his head in place with a tight grip around Tom’s curls.

Once in a while, Tom lets out an uncomfortable whimper, or his face spasms in pain, as the metal hooks along the chain continue to dig into his thighs without mercy or reprieve. 

After the third such instance, Harry chastises him. “You seek penance not out of remorse, Tom, but to bury your own guilt. But true salvation will only come if you are sincere in your efforts. Only God can be the judge of that.”

Tom lets out a soft moan of assent around Harry’s cock.

“With every breath, you must strive to purge the wickedness from your heart, my son. No more indulging in your dark impulses. If you do not crush them now, they will lead your soul to damnation.”

Tom’s throat tightens, almost painfully, around Harry’s cock, but his eyes remain wide and fixed on Harry’s.

“Oh yes,” Harry murmurs, seeing that he seems to finally be getting through to Tom, “Eternal hellfire awaits your soul if you do not make some drastic changes very soon.”

As the clock ticks past midnight, Harry has to slow down and control his breathing a few times, lest he lose control over himself before the hour is up. Yet each time he thinks about how Tom’s knees must ache against the hard wooden floor and how the barbed cilice must cut into his thigh, his heart quickens, and his body floods with a fresh wave of heat and divine purpose.

Tom’s suffering is exquisite. It is the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen. The very picture of divinity itself.

Harry is certain now that God has anointed him as the sole vessel worthy of bearing this burden. His heart swells to the brink of bursting. It feels as though a thousand suns are burning bright-hot within his chest. God could not have chosen a more faithful vessel than him to carry out this heavy task. 

The clock strikes half past midnight. 

“God sees your sacrifice, my son, and He appreciates your efforts,” Harry says, giving Tom an approving nod for his hour of effort. He sets his papers aside and finally allows his hips to free reign to slam upwards, pumping his straining cock down the back of Tom’s throat. 

It only takes Harry a few hard and frantic thrusts before a rapturous wave of divine ecstasy crashes through him, and his seed spills down the back of Tom’s throat. 

He keeps himself buried all the way down the boy’s throat, feeling the muscles spasming and tightening around him, until every last drop is swallowed.

A few minutes later, Harry releases the grip on Tom’s soft curls. Tom unclasps the cilice and sways to his feet. The hooks have left deep red impressions in his skin, some of them having broken the surface and drawn out bright red droplets of blood. 

“If you fail yet again, Tom,” Harry cautions, “It is not me that you disappoint—it is the Lord Himself. This practice is meant to remind you of the sacrifice that Jesus made for our sin.”

“I won’t fail, Father,” Tom rasps out, his throat scratched raw. “I promise.”

“You have endured this penance tonight, but this is only the beginning. You will return tomorrow night and wear the cilice again. You will submit fully to this practice, and in doing so, these demonic urges that torment you will be subdued.”

“Yes, Father, I understand. This actually... this did take my mind off of things for a bit. So I think—I think it might have helped.”

“You should thank the Lord for His mercy, then,” Harry murmurs. “Make sure you get home safely, my son.”

Once alone, Harry puts the cilice inside his desk and clicks the drawer shut. Though the hour is late and he is suddenly hit by a wave of exhaustion, his spirits are buoyed by his newfound conviction that his responsibility to save Tom’s soul is divinely appointed. He murmurs to himself, “He is my burden to carry. My sacred duty to fulfill. Through me, Lord, You will save him.”

*

As promised, Tom has returned to Harry each evening over the next couple of weeks to fulfill his penance. Harry prays every night that their daily efforts will lead to Tom’s redemption.

One night a few weeks later, Tom misses their appointment. Harry lingers past the time that he normally locks up the chapel. He is close to leaving when he hears the sound of footsteps echoing on the hard wooden floor of the chapel. 

Harry turns to face the boy. “You’re late, Tom,” he points out.

“I’m sorry, Father. I came as soon as I could—"

Harry cuts him off. “Do not waste my time with excuses. Each time you waver, it allows the devil to gain more ground in your soul.”

“Father, I—” Tom’s dark eyes take on a reddish glow from the hundreds of small candles set out on the altar. “I did something bad, Father. Worse than before.”

Harry’s stomach plunges. Did Tom finally—

“The worst part is… I liked it, Father. It roused me.” Tom’s voice is low and strained, as quiet as it was on the first night that he’d ever confessed to Harry. “I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. It was only a stray cat—” (and here Harry unclenches his shoulders in relief, because that means he isn’t too late to save Tom’s soul from being damned to Hell for eternity, at least for now) “—but I… I couldn’t stop imagining that it was a man underneath me, clawing at me, fighting for his life. I want—” He swallows. “—I don’t know if I’ll be satisfied with just a cat next time.”

A long silence follows as Harry fully processes what Tom shared. “You took carnal pleasure in the act of killing,” he murmurs, astonished at the boy’s audacity. 

“I can’t say that I didn’t.” Tom shoots Harry a quick glance, the look in his reddish eyes defiant and unrepentant.

The casual flippant tone inflames Harry even more. Tom couldn’t even pretend to show an ounce of decency. 

“You came to me for guidance, and you misled me. I believed you were wholly committed to ridding yourself of these vile urges. And yet, when you were given the chance, you chose to indulge in them instead. You reveled in the suffering of one of God’s innocent creatures. You deserve to go to—” Harry cuts himself off before he says something he regrets, something wholly unbecoming of a man of the cloth. 

“I thought… I couldn’t help it, Father—it’s gotten harder for me to fight, even with all of our daily practice…” 

“Satan does not relinquish his hold so easily. He knows your weaknesses, Tom, and he will exploit them at every turn,” Harry snaps. His mind whirls as he considers how to proceed. “Without a firm hand guiding you, you will be lost.”

“Tell me what to do, Father.” Tom looks nearly demonic in the low flickering light. 

Harry never thought he would need to resort to this, but Satan has almost overtaken this boy entirely. He knows that he, and only he, can save this boy’s soul from eternal damnation. 

“Very well, then,” Harry says as he reaches a conclusion on what he needs to do. “You have demonstrated, time and time again, that an ordinary course of penance is not enough for a soul as corrupted as yours. You leave me with no choice. If you wish to truly save yourself, you will submit to my guidance fully, and without hesitation.”

“Yes, Father, I will.” A pink tongue darts out to wet Tom’s lower lip. He looks almost excited, the deep red reflected in his eyes now turning brighter, gleaming like a spun-sugar Christmas candy. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Harry lays a hand on Tom’s shoulder and turns him towards the front of the altar. Instead of guiding him towards the confessional booth, he moves towards the sacristy, tucked away behind an unassuming door to the side. 

The door shuts behind them. The small, rectangular room contains only a wooden table pushed against the back wall and a matching wardrobe to store Harry’s priest vestments and other supplies. 

“Kneel,” Harry instructs Tom, pointing to the hardwood floor between them. “You will not move until I say otherwise.”

He opens the wardrobe and digs around for a bit before he finds what he’s looking for—a small whip of braided cords. When he turns back to Tom, the sight of it makes Tom widen his eyes. 

“Flagellation is practiced by a small minority of extremely devout, traditional Catholics even today,” Harry explains, giving himself an experimental swat on the palm. The sting radiates outward from his hand and travels up his arm. “Tonight, you will strike yourself with this scourge until I tell you to stop.”

He pauses for a moment to let the words sink in.

“This is not punishment, Tom,” he adds. “It is purification. With every strike, you will offer your penance to God for the harm that you have done.”

“I put my faith in you, Father,” Tom replies. The deep red gleam in his dark eyes seems to only grow more intense. 

“Good. Now remove your shirt.”

As Tom’s long, delicate fingers skate down the buttons of his shirt, more of his perfectly smooth, milky skin comes into display and makes Harry’s mouth water. 

He places the scourge in Tom’s hand, then steps back and crosses his arms across his broad chest.

“Begin.”

Tom raises the whip and strikes himself over the left shoulder with it. His movement is clumsy and hesitant. The first strike lands lightly against his back. 

“Like you mean it, Tom,” Harry reminds. “Do you think Satan will flee from such feeble effort? Again.”

The next strike of the whip lands with a loud snap and sharp inhale from Tom. The muscles along his back seize up with the sudden pang. Red blooms across the pale expanse of skin of Tom’s back, and Harry has never seen a more enticing sight. 

“Again.”

As Tom raises the scourge and steadies his hand before  striking himself again, Harry steps behind him and pushes his shoulders forwards and down, until Tom is on all-fours except for the hand he’s holding the whip in. 

A sharp crack echoes throughout the small room as the whip makes contact against Tom’s skin. 

Tom recoils.

As if operating on autopilot, Harry tugs Tom’s trousers down to mid-thigh in one deft motion. He cups one hand, tan and roughened and work-worn, against the perfectly smooth porcelain-like flesh of Tom’s arse, and squeezes, appraisingly.

“Father,” Tom moans. “P-Please.”  

With his other hand, Harry reaches to the side and retrieves a small vial of holy oil. He pours it directly over Tom’s exposed hole, and his right thumb glides over to rub the oil in circles around the entrance, puckered and tight.

He loves the way that Tom’s body is so responsive to his touches, the way the furled entrance twitches and responds to Harry gradually warming it up and teasing it open.

Then his thumb pushes all the way in. 

Tom lets out another moan. 

Harry holds his thumb firmly inside, the oil-slick heat squeezing tightly down on it in all directions. “Let each lash remind you of the weight of your sins, Tom. Let it cleanse you of these wicked urges.”

With the next strike, Harry pulls his thumb out, then shoves two fingers inside. The pained hiss that escapes from Tom’s lips stokes a deep, gratifying sense of fulfillment inside of Harry. As clear of a sign as he could have asked for that he is on the right path. 

Another lash, another thrust of his fingers deep inside. 

“Your salvation is worth any amount of earthly suffering,” Harry urges Tom. “Every strike you endure is a step closer to God. As you share in the sufferings of Jesus, you drive the darkness from your soul.” 

Tom’s hand shakes with the effort of keeping the scourge steady. Harry is thrusting repeatedly now with three of his fingers stretching Tom’s tight, untouched hole. 

“Do not stop until I tell you, Tom. This is the price you pay for your defiance of God’s will.”

Harry unbuttons his trousers and digs his cock out. He tips nearly the full amount of the small vial of holy oil over his erect length, then smears it all over, the oil and friction from his hand warming him up.

Tom lets out a sharp exhale as Harry replaces his fingers with the dripping-wet tip of his cock. His hole is almost too tight at first to accept the unfamiliar, thick intrusion, but Harry slowly but firmly pushes it inside of Tom across the span of the next two to three lashes, until his head pops all the way inside. 

It’s so tight it almost squeezes the breath out of Harry, but he perseveres, thinking of his sacred duty. 

Once the blunt head is fully in, the rest of Harry’s cock is able to inch forward with only moderate resistance, until he’s buried entirely inside of Tom. 

The clench of muscles around his cock, each time the whip strikes along Tom’s back, feels more satisfying than anything Harry has felt before.

“Through me, Lord, let this sinner be saved,” he declares, as he pulls back and then bottoms out again inside of Tom.

It feels like God’s avenging fire has ignited inside of him and enveloped his entire being. As Harry speeds his thrusts up in time with Tom’s lashes, he hears the boy let out some muffled grunts from underneath him. He pushes harder, trying with all his might to burn away the filth that has consumed Tom. 

However, as the stark pattern of red marks spreads across Tom’s back, he notices the boy’s breathing start to grow more ragged, and the time between his self-inflicted lashes stretch on for longer, as he hesitates between raising the whip for additional strikes.  

Dissatisfaction twists inside of Harry. He compensates for Tom’s waning efforts by increasing the forcefulness of his thrusts inside. 

“You believe this is pain, child?” he demands, urging Tom to increase his efforts. “You think this suffering? Let me tell you—this is nothing compared to the fires of Hell, Tom.” He pauses, for effect. “Which is where you are headed if you don’t make some serious changes to your life, starting now.”

Tom glances back at Harry, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. His eyes are glazed over by the constant and unrelenting sting of the red marks criss-crossing his skin, and Harry can see he’s approaching the brink of exhaustion. 

“Pass me the scourge,” he orders, holding his hand out. “From now on, I will deliver your penance. Perhaps then you will understand what it truly means to surrender to God.”

As the whip in Harry’s hand comes down with a sharp crack, Tom’s entire back flinches, and he is unable to bite back a moan. Harry slides back and then pushes forward,  burying himself to the hilt. Then delivers another strike, then another, pacing each one steadily with his thrusts inside.

“Lord, I feel Your power working through me. Strengthen my resolve, so I may see this through. Let this boy be saved!” Harry brings down the scourge with three sharp strikes in a row.

With every lash, every thrust forward, he imagines himself purging the evil that Tom has allowed into his soul. 

“Lord, let Your mercy bless his soul! Glory be!” 

Harry loses himself in the rhythm of delivering Tom’s penance, his arm and back and thighs never tiring despite the repetitive movements and raw physicality that his task requires. 

He feels utterly consumed by holy fire, the searing heat rising to a conflagration inside of him. 

“Father…” Tom lets out a ragged moan. “Please, Father…”

Harry throws the scourge to the side and pours more holy oil on his hand. He reaches around and wraps it around Tom’s cock, hot and hard and straining in his grasp. “Lord, bless us!” he proclaims, thumbing at Tom’s slit. “Amen!” 

“Amen,” Tom gasps, his voice scraped raw and hoarse, then gives a great shudder around Harry’s cock, squeezing around Harry tighter than anything he has ever felt before. 

Harry feels the boy’s spend spill all over his hand, hot and sticky and signifying the evil being purged from Tom’s body. When Tom is done, he collapses forward onto his elbows, and Harry holds him up at his hips, continuing to bury himself all the way inside, over and over again. 

Harry has found the perfect solution. One so clear, it feels ordained. 

He is God’s deliverance, God’s judgment and punishment all in one. 

God has entrusted him with this divine purpose, and he will not let God down. 

The holy fire swells inside of Harry until he is burning up with pleasure and divine ecstasy. 

Then it comes crashing down all around him, matching a tidal wave in its force and power that almost knocks Harry off his feet. He swears he can see a vision—clear as day—of orange and yellow fire rippling atop waves in the ocean, just as it was proclaimed in Revelations. 

Harry can tell he’s emptied every last drop inside of Tom; it goes on for what feels like minutes and minutes as he tries to bury his seed as deep as possible inside of Tom’s virginal womb.

When he’s done and his vision has cleared, he stares down at Tom, his back laced with red welts. Bright droplets of blood line the lash marks. 

“Well done, my son. Not everyone would have been able to endure this trial.” Harry’s tone is softer than he expected. “Return, and we will continue tomorrow night.”

For a moment, doubt flickers in Harry’s mind, but he forces it away.

*

(Two months later)

The distinctive crack of leather on skin skin sings through the air. 

“Do you feel the influence of Satan fleeing?” Harry demands, gripping Tom’s hip with his free hand, as he steadies the slide of his cock inside of Tom, not allowing himself to go too fast and end this session too soon. 

“Yes, Father,” Tom moans in response. “Yes, please, I can feel it. I think it’s working. I think I may need a bit more reinforcement, though...” He arches his back and roughly shoves himself backwards, so that Harry is planted all the way inside. 

“Do the demonic urges continue to disrupt your daily peace?” 

“No. I haven’t felt out of control since—since when we started this practice.”

“Good,” Harry replies with a grim satisfaction. “Then it is working. Then we shall continue.”

Tom moans his assent. 

“Through suffering, we are made whole,” Harry pronounces, laying down another crack of the whip. His spirit is alight with the fervor of fulfilling his sacred duty. “Through self-discipline, we are saved.”

He plants a rough kiss on Tom’s shoulder where blood has welled up. “Do you understand?

Underneath him, Tom gives a jerky, swift nod, his entire body lurching forward each time Harry thrusts inside that tight, hot passage of his.

“Yes, Father. Yes, I understand.”