Summery: In the Dementor induced dreams, Harry finds madness beyond all he had ever imagined. Disturbing.
Wastelands, part 2
It is not real.
It is not real.
It is not-
He could see her, his mother, clearer than he'd ever seen before. She was a quivering mass upon a grey and foggy floor, leaning away from the black, turbulent cloud of Lord Voldemort.
A flash of blinding light and a thump, awful in its finality.
It's not real. It's not, it's not.
There was red hair falling in thick strands upon a skin pale and lips red, in terror. And eyes desperately roving, here, there, hoping hoping…
Not real. Not real. Not…
And then a flash of green light illuminated this nightmare world. And a laugh…
No!
It was as it's always been, but different too. So much more clearly he could see her tears, her last regrets. He wanted to cry out for her as she died again and again in front of him, the curse blinding him but not muffling the chilling laughter that followed, or the forlorn cry of his baby self. He wanted to cry and scream and break against Voldemort, shatter that bastard into thousands of little pieces. He tried to look away as the mocking shine of the curse smothered him. But couldn't.
An ominous thump.
And laughter.
It was as it's always been, but different. He felt trapped here, in this room, in this memory, unable to turn, to close his lids, to gorge out his eyes as his mother died a thousand deaths and he just stood and watched. He tried to move himself, but couldn't. It was his mind and he was an omnipotent presence here, looking at her death from infinite angles. Small shards of these infinite visions jarred against him, flicking in and out, and so at once he was above her, in front of, behind and beneath. He enveloped her in every possible way, and her cries, her pleas, her desperate pathetic attempts to save in vain echoed against him.
The scene repeated.
Again.
Again.
NO!
Pain blossomed, so strange and so alien in this dreamscape, like a child's monster, red eyes and eight hoary arms. He didn't know what hurt, but something did and the death scene was now freckled with faint droplets of red. Time, or something akin to it, passed and the pain escalated. And the funeral procession repeated.
It was a strange sort of pain, accompanied with a feeling that scalded him and made the hairs at the back of his neck -
He wanted to laugh. What hairs? What neck?
He was trapped in this nightmare, watching his mother die, watching her as she screamed her one last scream, her chest thrust out before the fall. This was his world, and nothing beyond it. This vision, and now the pain.
Voldemort entered, shrouded in black. Red hair bobbed in panic back.
A scream emitted into the leaden air. A flash of green.
A blaze of red.
And he screamed.
A sudden, burning hurt surged through him, rattling his vision and his scream, his unending broken terrified helpless scream was cast out into the indifference of his own mind. It echoed and echoed back.
The grey and foggy floor turned red and glassy. The wood walls shattered, now veined with blood.
He was looking around in panic, trying to search for the attacker but only the multitudes of the dismembered visions stared back at him, bringing into disturbed focus the rise and fall of a helpless, lovely breast. The pain rose and seared again, accompanied by that strange, alien and somewhat familiar feeling that set him ablaze with this feverish…heat. He watched his mother as she died, but he watched now not her death, but her. He watched her tears trailing down her beautiful skin, her eyes his eyes opened wide in submission. A heavy breath expelled the pleas out of those lips and he watched her breasts dance with the rhythmic heave of her chest. Then that obscuring flash of green and that thump. In some forsaken, pain ridden corner of her mind he wondered if her breasts were sq-
NO!
What was he doing? He tried to back away, to run, to go so far that this vision, that his mother, that her breasts would shrink and die and disappear into a little pinprick in the blank wall of infinity. But wherever he moved, she was there. Whatever he did, the unbridled vision of his lust?… stared back at him, daring, baring…
NO!
There was pain. Beyond and above all else, there was pain that submerged him for long moments, blanking his vision until he kicked through its surface, blue and breathless. There were screams and self-loathing and disgust. He kicked against the fabric of his vision, willing it to tear, pleading with his deities. He kicked and scratched and screamed and tried to break through this fucking nightmare but those breasts those lips that hair that beautiful, beautiful body reeled him in…
…as it repeatedly died.
The pain cut through the world and the vision swam and he, incoherent in hurt and in putrid lust opened some godforsaken mouth and screamed into the uncaring expanse… the pressure built and built, a heavy throbbing roar that drowned all else…
And something like a flash of light cut through the vision. The pain immediately dimmed and his mother disappeared and he found himself in a hazy, bleak fog, lost, alone and broken with helpless tears. He was thirteen. This was madness. An instant in infinity passed and the fog cohered around him. He felt impelled to walk towards it and as he did, little intangible slivers of silver, sparkling with black tore through him and submerged themselves into the fog…building a picture. He felt impelled to walk even though he had no legs, no arms, no limbs, just a lost, scared consciousness intrigued and frightened by what it encountered. He walked -
And suddenly the world was new and raw again. And sharp. The contrast grated against his nerves. He tried to move his head and found that he was still trapped. Still bloody trapped. The world was as and bleak as before and he had not escaped, but just been thrust into another sort of hell. He looked around, trying to understand where he was. The pain had nearly died…
He looked away, in mortification. There was a woman, and below her was, was a penis and she was having…having that…having sex and he was, he was IN her? Looking through her eyes?
How! How was this possible?
The arousal rose like bile burning through his throat and he wanted to turn away but couldn't, and stared as the penis thrust and thrust into that between her disgusting fat legs. It was putrid and disgusting and sick and…fascinating. He had never felt like this. The arousal rose and he knew that if everything was alright, he would have been touching himself down there, watching this with wide hungry eyes…
The scene shifted. The hazy distorted world started to twist and tumble in a mess of skin and sex and he wished so bad he was, that everything was normal. The desire rising through him prickled in some-
And then he saw. Himself. Wild black hair matted in its roots will blood… greens eyes lifelessly staring into him, set into a bleeding and torn eye socket, cheeks punched in… a face broken and bashed and dying. He saw his body dangling between the woman's massive legs, swinging like a pendulum, like a puppet until it kissed her foul breasts, and then thrown back, arched, straining, breaking. His penis attached to her, thrusting on its own accord…
And he screamed and screamed.
The vision dissolved and his mother was back, dying with her beautiful breasts thrust outwards in aggression and submission. He screamed in his arousal and in his disgust. He wanted to touch them. He wanted to cut off his hands. The pain was back, along with that arousal, building in him like a crescendo, enveloping him, caressing his desires.
And the world flickered again, and he was dragged screaming into the woman, starring at a dead himself as he thrust and broke, like a wave breaks against a cliff. There were sounds too now, inhuman moans and screeches, high pitched and warring against him. And there was blood, the overwhelming crushing scent of blood and arousal. He wanted to retch, to retch, to retch his inside out so that he could escape, this horrible, horrible -
His mother, dying. The curse cleared and he saw that as she fell she moaned, and writhed upon the red in a glassy floor. And he watched-
He watched himself, screaming. He watched himself being contorted into inhumane postures, his lower self fervently, mindlessly thrusting while his upper stretched and stretched and came into aching, breaking contact with sharp vicious teeth and a fat lip hungry for sexual contact. The black night enveloped then. A candlelight flicked, and the pale dancing flames across his body-
His mother. His beautiful, redhaired greeneyed, slim, undiscovered, unknown, dead, dead as dead can be mother was beneath him, her eyes wide and pulsating in terror, her lips snarled and bared like an animal and he thrust, and thrust and screamed even as arousal ripped and broke and shattered him. The ground beneath her was crimson with their blood and she slid across his madness, and he reveled in the intense pleasure that his penis buried in his mother gave him.
It was a dream and he was…
…So close to that bloody woman's face that their lips were touching. His arousal impelled him to move but he was trapped within her hulking body. He watched as her tongue slithered into his mouth and she licked his lips, swiping the blood along with the…
And she exploded into movement. A loud snap ringed his ears as a bone broke? Her mouth thrust forward, like the snout of an animal and bit upon his lips…
And he was back in his mother, crying and aroused and broken. She was sobbing, pleading, “Please not him, take me instead...” and he was, he was taking her, breaking her. And a flash of green, and she slumped, dead eyes and cold feverish skin, naked as the day she was… and as beautiful as he needed her to be. Dead eyes and mouth slightly parted in a plea to save him as he madly thrust into her, taking her dead body across the floor slick with their blood, her cold and lifeless vargina unresponsive to his assault. He was omnipotent here. He watched himself from all possible angles, shards of infinite visions jabbing into his engorged desires and escalating into a...
Release.
End Notes: Well...I don't think Anybody would have expected that :P. Anyways, if you do decide to review reader, please just answer this one question:
Did it have that palpable sense of 'Horror'?
On the language: I've tried a completely different style, since the earlier was from the PoV of Poppy, and this is a 13 year old Harry.
Anyways, I hope you...err, like it? Enjoy it?
Well, I hope it sticks. :P
Anyways, I've decided to write a part or two more. Next: Wastelands, The Vitruvian Man