Author's Notes: Response to the HP_Despoiled Non-Con Challenge.

Fluctuations of the Mind

By Queen of the Castle


It occurred several times before his cries for me to stop triggered my conscience into something more that simple denial. By that time, the cries had actually become more like pained murmurs, as the boy's hopes that I'd ever listen rapidly depleted. After all, if I hadn't heeded his words the last several times, why would I suddenly come to my senses now?

And, true enough, I could not seem to stop this thing for which my body screamed its enjoyment even as my reasonable mind recognised it as an act against god and man and all that is decent and good. It had been too long since I'd had full control of what thoughts filled my head. Now, as I result, I did not have full control of movements, either. My body took the comfort and pleasure it so desired while my conscience simply shrieked uselessly that I was going to depths of hell never before imagined.

The boy had trusted me with his life. Certainly, his trust for me had been far more overpowering than his will to stay with his relatives. That had been why he had run away with me, only to find upon our arrival at the small abandoned cottage I'd scouted out that there were worse fates than remaining in the care of negligent relatives.

I wasn't nearly as dependable as he'd hoped, or as I'd led him to believe.

I barely remembered the acts I committed upon him the first time I betrayed his trust. Only vague recollections of my own grunts, moans and pleasured sighs still resided in my mind as testimony to the fact that I raped a boy of his innocence that night. And he was very much an innocent; still was after all that, in many ways. I did not succeed in breaking him completely. For example, I remembered well the fact that the boy made my excuses for me the following morning: I'd been mentally tortured for over a decade, so there were bound to be a few ‘episodes', he said, but he trusted that I wouldn't do it again because I cared for him too much to do such a thing to him again. You didn't mean it, he'd repeated vehemently, and I'd nodded diligently the whole time he spoke, even managing to state at some point that I loved him, very much, just as I had loved his parents. Strangely, my betrayal of their trust has yet to have its impact.

But he could not honestly claim to have any idea what I meant, or felt, or who in the world I actually was, no matter what I said or did to him. I didn't know these things about myself, anymore.

Yet the boy remained oblivious to the fact that I was a complete and utter stranger – a dangerous one, at that – and his conviction that I would never again betray his trust didn't waver in the slightest, as if it was simply a fact that the experience of the night before had been a one-off and he was simply speaking that aloud to make sure that I knew he understood.

His naivety was surprising, even for a boy who had yet to even turn fourteen.

But after another night of me ruthlessly thrusting myself into him as he sobbed for it to end, for me to just listen to him, his understanding nature severely lessened. In fact, he barely said two words to me in the aftermath the following day. I steered clear of him as much as possible as well. Even the demonic alter ego of the sane portion of my mind agreed that he deserved to be free of me in the daylight, if nothing else.

The third night – which, if my perception of reality hadn't completely left me, was last night – I remembered a little more clearly. At least, I remembered the slick feeling of my flesh running across his sweat-soaked back, and the soft squelching sound as my hardness almost completely withdrew from him and then re-impaled him, again and again until I found my climax and slipped into slumber.

This morning he had shared breakfast with me for the first time since our arrival at our new home, seemingly acting as if nothing abnormal had happened between us. Or so I believed, until I looked up to see his emerald eyes burning holes in me. Looking back on it, that was the first noticeable sign he gave in my presence that this horrific loop I was forcing both him and myself to endure might not be permanent.

In the afternoon I saw no trace of him, which did not worry me. Let him have that time to himself, the darkness of my mind hissed. So it was early in the night that I found myself back in his doorway, unable to fight the lure of his warm, receptive (though not willing) body. Tonight, though, he was not merely reading or watching the Muggle television, or anything else he might have been prone to do when he still had hope that I wouldn't come to find him again.

Rather, he had his wand directly aimed at my chest, and his eyes were narrowed to slits.

I said nothing of it, and my legs took me across the room toward him as if there was nothing out of place about my being there, let alone my being there with him poised to strike at me. I was calling his bluff, seeing if he would actually attack me. Some part of me (I assumed it was my ineffectual conscience) hoped he would, that he would be strong enough to defend himself against something from with I'd failed dismally at protecting him.

There was no spell. Where I'd subconsciously prayed for a six-syllabled phrase and a flash of green, I received only silent darkness. The only sound that filled the air was his stifled sob as I lay my body on top of his and gently pried the wand from his fist, placing it on the table just to my right, followed closely after by the glasses I couldn't imagine him wanting to wear through the ordeal. Better to allow him the illusion blurriness awarded that it might be someone else forcing these unspeakable acts upon him.

Perhaps some part of me knew that tonight was different in some way (apart from the obvious fact that he had made some attempt to stop me). For after devouring his mouth forcefully with my own (still somehow surprised that he didn't attempt to bite down on my lip), I flipped our bodies so that he was on top and pushed him down so that his mouth was level with my crotch. I grabbed his messy hair with a strength that easily prevented him from pulling away, and I heard myself – as if from far away – order him to suck.

I hated myself in that moment, even as the hot wetness covered my erection in a very physically pleasing way. I'd never before forced him to actually participate in his rape. He had in the past been nothing more than a body which I used to achieve my pleasure. This was too much, even to my own half-crazed mind. I hated even more the fact that I was unable to tell if I was actively forcing this to continue or simply failing to fight against it.

Was I really that aggressive rapist who cared for nothing but himself, or was I somehow being possessed by some wicked force? I was losing track of who I was, and what was happening around me. I did not even know anymore whether my thoughts were that of my conscience or of the perverted section of my mind that was causing me to sodomise the boy. Perhaps my conscience was causing me to thrust his head onto my erection. Even the part of me that was cursing this was still in some way enjoying it, after all.

I would have to have been made of stone not to enjoy his talented young mouth working over me. I used my grip on his hair to push him further down my length, nearly choking him but unable to force to the surface or even find the part of me that cared.

I fell asleep almost immediately after I had released into his mouth and watched him clean from his face the white strands that had dribbled out of his inexperienced mouth.

When I woke once more, the bed was empty but for myself and a scrap piece of parchment covered in angry red print. The boy had remained in the bed with me until I rose each of those previous mornings, though he had lain on the very edge of the bed (as far away form me as he could manage) with his arms curled around himself.

The parchment contained very few words, but it told me enough:

I love you, Sirius, but I can't stay with you.

The words that weren't written there – I won't be your whore or I'll find someone to help you – didn't need to be said. I already knew exactly what he had meant, where he was headed and what he would do. All conveyed to me in ten simple words.

And then – then when it didn't even matter because the boy was already out of my grasps – my conscience regained its control, and I collapsed crying on my godson's bed until my tears dried up. I wrapped my arms around myself as the boy had done each morning after I raped him and simply rocked myself into silence, the wracking sobs eventually drying up just as the tears had.

Had I known that he was leaving, I did not know if I would have tried to keep him there with me. I didn't know who that shell of a person the Dementors had left behind was, so I could not possibly have guessed at what he/I would have done. But right now I feel very proud that my godson is someone as strong as Harry Potter, and that he was indeed strong enough to run from this before I stole his soul just as surely as mine has been forever ruined.

He'd have gone to Hogwarts, no longer being welcome at the Dursleys. He'd have to have tell Dumbledore what drove him there, for the Headmaster would not rest until he had a confession out of him. And I, now being a rapist – a real criminal rather than a wrongly-convicted one – would be escorted back to Azkaban by a very lethal Dumbledore. There would be no Harry with his Patronus to save me from the swarm of Dementors this time.

I very much hoped that they might give me a kiss as dark as those I bestowed on my beloved godson.



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