Despoiling Harry

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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

All For a Good Cause
by Amanuensis

Summary: Moody makes sure his student understands.
Pairing: Harry/Moody
Categories: PWP, slightly AU (see A/N below).
Kinks/Warnings: Chan. Non-con.
Notes: For the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest request made by [info]biichan "Professor Moody systematically seducing and despoiling a young male student. GOF AU. D/s. Moody very experienced and not Crouch."
Thanks to betas [info]florahart and [info]fabularasa.


Potter's on his knees.

"Crawl to me, lad."

He's on his knees, but--here's what makes Moody's pulse race and his eye fix--he's not on his hands and knees. And he's not moving.

"Crawl to me."

Potter can throw it off. Fourth-year student, thirteen--what, fourteen?--years old, and he can resist Imperius.

You can't afford to let that kind of talent languish, Potter. You know what I mean--and I'm not speaking of the bloody Triwizard Tournament. Come and see me tomorrow night.

Potter's juvenile Adam's apple moves just that much, to show Moody that he's swallowing, fighting the compulsion.

"Crawl to me."

"No." He speaks. Under Imperius, and he still speaks. Protests. Moody is almost giddy with it.

"Stand." Ah, now he's thrown the spanner into the works. Will Potter obey, seeing it as the counter to the command to crawl? He wants to be on his feet, after all. Or will he try to resist this new command instead? Moody watches as Potter slowly rises.

And he presses his advantage: "Get your robes off."

The momentum of obedience brings Potter's hands to the clasp of his school robes--but there they hesitate. They fumble. The clasp opens, but Potter grips the collar of the robes, does not shrug out of them. Wonderful, willful boy.

No Death Eater will have mercy on this boy. So Moody will not either.

"Get them off."

The hands twitch. A vein pulses in Potter's temple.

"Stand still."

And Potter does--showing that he has not learned from the earlier example. Once again, obedience to the command is his undoing, and he does not move, cannot move as Moody crosses the few steps to him, and takes the robes off him in one motion.

"Dissuo." The buttons on Potter's shirt all unbutton at once. Moody slips the shirt from Potter's shoulders and arms. The hands almost lift, as Potter fights, but only almost. Moody takes those hands in his own, places them on the waist of Potter's trousers, then steps back. "Off with the rest of your clothes. I want to watch you." Command before the expression of desire, that's the way to do it. Not vice-versa: wrong. Gives the subject a moment to gather his resistance.

Potter's hands tremble, but the zip of the trousers descends under his own, traitorous power. The pants follow, as do the shoes. Potter almost wins on the socks; his hands form fists as he struggles not to remove them. And Moody wishes momentarily that he could let them go--Potter's sweetly pubescent nudity is only enhanced by the boyishness of those socks. But he cannot let Potter have any victory that he does not win for himself. "Off with them, lad."

Potter bends and strips the socks from his calves. Moody's cock gives a twitch, and he does not try to suppress it. Desire is a potent motivator to one's magic. He has no intention of sparing the boy a thing.

"You'll stay where you are." There. It's perhaps the hardest command to throw off. One thing to refuse an act; quite another to make oneself act. Potter's skin and bones shiver as if he's afflicted with nervous tics. But nothing coordinates enough to make him leave the spot where he stands.

One-eyed, Moody regards his hapless little subject.. (The other eye's on the door; locked it may be, but the last thing he wants are poxy interlopers questioning his unorthodox methods. The very last thing.) Pale where he isn't tan, except for the ruddy pinkness of his cock and balls; almost hairless except for dark wisps about his nipples and the patch at his groin. Moody's cock rises in further appreciation. It costs him a little guilt to enjoy his work so, but only that.

"Think this isn't fair, do you?" Moody reaches out a hand, touches Potter's chest. "There's not a Death Eater out there who isn't above using humiliation as a weapon. There's a fair lot who revel in it. And who'd love nothing better than to have a young piece like you in their hands, just for the sheer fun of it." As he speaks, that hand descends down Potter's breastbone, to his belly, all the way to his groin. He lets it linger only a moment, feeling Potter tremble, then lifts that tender young cock in his fingers, bouncing it like a galleon. A sound in Potter's throat; his hands form fists at his sides. "You'd be but a mouthful for them. Crunched down in an instant."

And, having teased Potter with that metaphor, Moody lowers himself to his knees--he doesn't do it much; dreadfully inelegant getting back up again--bends, and takes that soft pink prick into his mouth; pops it in like a boiled sweet, sucking it down to the root. He can feel what it does to Potter: his terror, his revulsion palpable in his every limb, as he tries to shake off the curse, find the strength to push Moody away--but Moody himself is galvanized by the taste, the feel of Potter's chaste flesh on his tongue, and his own will strengthens the Imperius on Potter by that much more. The boy voices a little cry, and that is all the resistance he can give.

When he has sucked the outraged cock to erection, Moody releases it, watching it weep its indignation in a driblet of clear ooze as he fondles the bollocks behind it. His other hand curves about the boy's arse, rudely pushing the buttocks apart to expose the boy's bumcleft to his fingers. "So very helpless, you'd be." One circles the boy's pucker, pushing in dry. "Unless you fight. Not by clenching your arsehole, you daft creature. When one of them raises his fingers to your mouth--" Moody removes his hnd and does just that-- "and tells you to get his fingers wet, do you drool on them, knowing all you can hope for is a bunghole that isn't quite so sore? Or do you bite them off? Do you, lad? Can you?"

He pushes his fingers into the boy's mouth. It's worth the risk--and the healing spells. But Potter neither bites nor sucks. Ah, well. He's expected nothing different, this first time.

"Learning, aren't you?" He withdraws his fingers, returns them to the boy's bumcleft, and pushes a spittle-slick digit inside Potter, his own cock now hard and aching under his robes. "What it is to be helpless in front of an enemy. Don't like it much, do you?" Moody doesn't mistake the twitch of Potter's hips, of his cock, for eagerness. Potter's body fights him every heartbeat, protests the arousal, even as his spine stiffens and his bollocks tighten with the stimulation and the boy's prostate proves a veritable button of fleshly need, under Moody's probing finger. The cock spills its adolescent seed onto Moody's palm, as Potter cries out wordlessly and then sways on his feet, exhausted by the lost fight.

Moody withdraws his hands, wiping soiled fingers on Potter's belly as he gets to his feet. "How will it be when I tell you to perform such an act on yourself, Potter?" he says, brushing at his palms. "Or on me? Ready to try that one, are you?"

Potter lifts his head. Fixes Moody with a glare. Hisses. "F-fuck you," he says.

And he takes a step back. Just one.

And then another. And he drops to the ground, panting, pushing himself backwards in a crab-crawl, away from Moody.

Moody allows himself a smile. "Good lad," he says.

He lifts his wand for the Finite Incantatem. Next time, he might not even get Potter's clothing off.

He feels both pride and a twinge of regret. Moody knows that he enjoys his work too much.


Despoiling Harry

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