Pairing: Voldemort/Pikachu.

Rating: R.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: Punishment, Voldie-style. (Webmaster: Yet another Sushi masterpiece.)

"You have failed me." The Dark Lord flicked his forked tongue and raised his wand at his spy. "You were supposed to bring them to me!"

On the ground, a small, pudgy minion huddled within the depths of his shapeless black cloak. "Pika!" he pleaded. "Pika pika pika chu!"

"SILENCE!"

"P-pikaaa..."

Lord Voldemort flicked the yew branch clutched between his fingers. The creature yelped. Sparks flew from his body as he clutched his head in his hands. Guilt rose in his blood, sweet and intoxicating, as sweet as innocence had been. Still, his master circled, circled, his cloak trailing in the grass with a slither like a giant snake. His red eyes were cold in the moonlight.

"You," he hissed, "were supposed to be the key to my victory. I chose you, Pikachu!" A long, sharp finger thrust through the air at the trembling Death Eater. "They thought you were harmless. Cute, even. Safe, warm, loving. Oh, and that wretched boy. He and his empty-headed friends knew nothing of their true purpose. What happened? Why did you fail?"

"Pikaa..."

"I said silence! When I wish you to beg, I shall beat it from you!" In a rush of robes, he swooped down, kneeling over Pikachu. He traced the tip of a cone-shaped ear.

"I shall tell you why you failed," he whispered, low and seductive. "You stole too much of their precious innocence too quickly. They flocked to you, my pet, in droves, begging and pleading. You, Psyduck, Charizard, all one hundred and fifty of my collected special minions. And more, oh, yes. There were more of you, weren't there? Each more exotic than the last. But you stole, and they took away. Once their childlike delicacy had been sapped... yes, yes, my little one. They forgot you. And now, out of the teeming hordes of my failed army, only you," he brushed his lipless mouth over the dome of Pikachu's head, "still live."

Pikachu lifted his face from the ground. He stared at the Dark Lord, pleading with limpid, tear-filled eyes. "Pika pika chu chu?"

"No, my beautiful, I shan't kill you now."

Pikachu gulped. "Pika," he whispered.

"Yes, yes, you're sorry. You're so painfully sorry." Lord Voldemort reached down to cup Pikachu's chin in his hand. He lifted the wide yellow face with its red cheeks and rodent-like nose. "It's not all your fault. You simply got greedy."

"Chuuu."

A soft smile broke the Dark Lord's stony stare. "I know you did it for me. And for that, my Pikachu, I am grateful."

Pikachu sagged. He rubbed his face against his master's palm. His dumpy body shook with the first cathartic sobs. "Pika," he whispered, kissing Lord Voldemort's palm. "Pika pikachu."

"What makes you think that?"

Pikachu stiffened. He looked up, confusion wrinkling his brow. "Pika."

"I only said I wouldn't kill you now. I made no other promise."

"Pi... pika."

"Yes, little one."

"Pika?" Pikachu glanced around, head thrashing from side to side. Gravestones stood all around, towering, crumbling, rising up before him in stark and morbid beauty. An angel, the Angel of Death, sat above them all, its wings folded, its arms outstretched to steal him away, its form frozen in stone. A cold pit formed in the middle of Pikachu's belly as he realised that he would not be allowed the sweet, warm mercy of the angel's release until he was too far-gone to wish it. He staggered once on his hind legs, fell to all fours and ran.

"Catenatus Pikachus!"

Chains wrenched him back. They pulled him taut and spread-eagled in midair, wrenching his arms and legs further from his body than they were ever meant to go. Two of the chains wrapped themselves around the angel's outstretched hands as well, the others planting themselves deep in the ground with a loud sucking sound. He screamed, "Piiikaaachuu-u-u-u!"

"Yes, scream, little one." The Dark Lord's voice was a whisper. "Scream for me your sorrows. And your pleasures." His upper lip curled away from his teeth in a bitter leer. He slipped the cloak from his shoulders. It hissed as it ran over soft, dark leather. It made a shush when it hit the ground.

"Tell me, my pet," Voldemort murmured, walking a slow circle around his whimpering victim, his wand bending oh-so-slightly between his hands, "how did it feel to have so much power? So many innocent, willing minds at your whim?"

Pikachu's head drooped. "Chu..." he whispered. A single fat tear rolled from his eye. It splashed to the ground beneath his feet.

"Yes. It is intoxicating." Lord Voldemort closed his eyes, a sharp breath running through his flat nose. "Such power. Such power." Suddenly, his hand shot out. The crack of wand against flesh echoed, as did the squeal it provoked. The Dark Lord sighed. "Such power."

"Pika... pikachu..."

"Shh, save your strength, little one. You have time yet to weep." Pale fingers traced the narrow welt rising along Pikachu's flank. Lord Voldemort knelt. He mapped it with his mouth, his flickering tongue, eyes falling shut in rapture.

"Pika?"

"Ah, my little one. More than you could ever dream."

Pikachu lifted his face to the moon. It looked too bright that night, or perhaps it was only the veil of his tears. He stared at it as the wand hissed through the air once more and the welt of electric guilt ran wild and rampant through his body. He gasped, nerves singing with tension and energy. "Chu..."

The Dark Lord paused. He tucked his wand under his arm and took Pikachu's face between his hands. The long leather robe made a soft, thick sound as he stepped closer. "Yes, it's the moon."

"Pika pika. Chuu."

"Yes, I imagine it shall outlive you."

"Pika pi?"

A tender thumb stroked the short fur beneath his eye. "No, little one. Not even the moon shall outlive me."

Pikachu nodded. He took a breath and waited, electricity dancing a static dance along his skin. As long as it danced, as long as it burned his flesh and made the guilt of the lash run sweet and toxic through his blood, as long as that deceptive mouth tasted each wound as it rose, he would gladly suffer these last heady hours until the sun rose and seared the pleasure from his bloody flesh.

He welcomed the pain.