Title: A Whiter Shade of Pale
Characters: McGonagall, Harry, Voldemort, Dumbledore, Grubbly-Plank
Setting: During fall term of Year Six (HBP); this story should fit into the canon cracks, I hope.
Disclaimer: All things Potter belong to JKR and her various legal entities. I make no copyright claims; I certainly make no money.
Summary: Voldemort makes Harry watch something. How will Harry and McGonagall cope with what he sees?
A/N -- A rapefic -- Somehow you can't write about Voldemort and not write about that. Or at least, I can't.
I've tried not to eroticize the rape or make it more violent than it needs to be for narrative purposes. I'm not sure, myself, if the story works. Do let me know if you find it melodramatic, overwrought, overwritten, or otherwise ineffective.
The Quidditch pitch was dark, so dark that Harry Potter couldn't see the stands or the goals or even the other players. But he knew he had to get the Snitch; everything depended on it. Everything. He flew blindly, hands groping, but all he found were the rotten flobberworms that he'd just spent the evening sorting in detention with Snape.
Harry flung the worms from him, and as he did, they turned into the familiar golden glitter of the Snitch. A light appeared at the end of the field, and the Snitch was flying toward it and so was Harry and then he was inside the light. . .and the light was inside a dungeon. The room was dim, the air seemed tinged with red, and he felt a tingle in his groin. Oh, no, he thought desperately, not an erection, not during Quidditch. . .
But the dream had shifted into something else entirely -- not really a dream at all. . .
Quidditch was forgotten as Harry looked slowly around the stone room, at the single torch in a bracket, at the narrow shelf of a bed jutting from the wall. He stretched his white, scaly hands in front of him, groping. . .He was more aroused than he had ever been, and he itched to take someone violently, against their will. . .
There was a movement from the bed. A figure was sitting up, pressing itself back as if to escape his notice. Harry flicked his tongue across his lips and gazed, to both his horror and his glee, into the pale, tense face of Professor McGonagall. When she realised that he was staring at her, she squared her shoulders and stared back, though her eyes widened at the sight of him.
"Don't tell me you don't recognize me, Minerva?" Harry heard himself say.
Her hat was gone, her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her cheek had been grazed by some sort of curse, but none of that did anything to diminish the power of the McGonagall glare. "What is the meaning of this, Tom?" she demanded, sounding for all the world as if she'd just discovered a fourth-year sneaking into the common room after hours. "What do you think you're doing?"
Wheezing sounds came from Harry that he recognized as laughter.
"You were stupid," he said. "Drinking Rosmerta's scotch without spell-checking it first. A rare error, I grant you, but if you will hand me such opportunities, you can't expect me to ignore them. And incidentally, don't bother trying to transform. The room is protected."
"What do you want, Tom?"
"Oh, I want many things, my dear Minerva, and I shall have them. All of them. The first is that you will stop calling me 'Tom.' 'My Lord' will do."
"You are no one's lord, Tom Riddle," she retorted.
Anger surged through Harry, and he raised his wand. "Crucio!"
McGonagall fell back, her hands clawing at the side of the cot, her body arching against the agony of the curse. But she didn't scream, not until Harry pointed his wand once more.
And then she did.
Harry felt his erection growing, and finally he lifted the curse, ending the pleasure of her pain only because of the greater pleasure he knew lay in store.
Shaking, McGonagall tried to sit up, but Harry was too fast for her. He watched his scaly hands shove her back on the bed, watched his wand Vanish her robes, watched his snake-like pale fingers reach toward her bare throat.
"Arrogant Gryffindor bitch!" he hissed, tightening his hands around her neck. "Too good for me when we were at Hogwarts, were you? Well, how times change." Grabbing her hair, he pulled her face to his as she gasped for breath and tried to push herself away. "You should thank me, Minerva. I'm going to give you the first real fuck you've had in fifty years."
McGonagall stopped struggling and spat at him, eyes blazing. "Go on, do it, then! If you can get your limp Slytherin dick up."
A tiny part of Harry heard these words with a shock, but this part was overwhelmed by a rush of rage and arousal. He rammed himself inside her with all the force he possessed and was deeply gratified to hear her cry out. Holding her hands tightly above her head, Harry thrust and thrust, marveling at how good it felt. "Tell me your little girlfriends were ever a match for this!" he grunted.
He expected McGonagall to turn her head or close her eyes, try to shut him out, but she fixed him with a steady stare of loathing and contempt.
"This the only way you can get any, Tom?" she taunted between ragged breaths. "Forcing yourself on dykes?"
Fury and orgasm built in him equally, and Harry felt himself pounding, roaring, coming . . .