Disclaimer: Not Mine. No Profit. No shit.

THIS STORY INVOLVES: INTENSE VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN, RAPE, AND INCEST!!! IF THIS KIND OF SUBJECT MATTER OFFENDS YOU, TURN BACK NOW!!! DON'T BLAME ME IF YOU'RE TOO FUCKING STUPID TO READ THIS FIRST!!! I GAVE YOU FAIR WARNING!!!

One Shot... Probably. (Post-OotP, Pre-HBP)

Author's Note at the bottom.

Exit Light, Enter Night

by Big D

“Well, you're a bloody sight, aren't you?” I whisper to myself.

I'm standing in the upstairs bathroom of Number Four, looking in the mirror, and admiring the broad, red cracks that lace my eyes. They're a vivid reminder of how little sleep I've gotten since I came back to the muggle world.

In truth, it had started before that. I'd been having trouble sleeping ever since Professor Dumbledore revealed the details of the prophecy to me.

From the day I set foot in the wizarding world, I'd been forced to develop thick skin, and a broad back. Thick skin, to resist the stares and whispers of my classmates, and broad shoulders to hold up under the crushing burden of expectations. The expectations were always there, no matter what anyone said.

In the eyes of most wizards and witches, I was destined to be a great wizard from birth. For the most part, I'm proud of how I've handled those expectations. Sure, I've stumbled a few times under the weight, but I always stayed on my feet, no matter what life threw at me. I had even stood up under the pressure of Snape's hatred, and Malfoy's idiocy. Not to mention an all-out smear campaign by the Minister of Magic himself, and private torture sessions with his Under-Secretary. I'm not a vain person, but I have no problem with admitting that I'm a very mentally strong young man.

But however strong I am, it's not strong enough. However broad my back is, it's still not broad enough to hold up against the weight that's been placed on it... no one's is. The fate of civilization itself has been put in my hands, and I can't handle it. It feels like the world is rising up all around me, getting ready to swallow me whole, and there's nothing I can do about it.

In the dark places of my mind, I always knew that I would one day face Voldemort, and on that day, one of us would die. In a way, I looked forward to it. I'm not afraid to fight the Dark Lord, and I'm not afraid to die. But knowing that the hopes and dreams of every man, woman, and child on Earth rides on the outcome of that confrontation scares me to death.

The fear gnaws at me like a cancer, filling my belly with acid and driving all other coherent thought from my mind. The rare times I do manage to sleep, I'm tormented by scenes of a world brought about by my failure. Of shattered buildings in burned-out cities. Of broken lives and streets filled with blood... blood that stains my hands as much as Voldemort's for my failure to fulfil the purpose for which I was created.

The reflection in the mirror gives me one last smug look as I slam my fist into it, shattering it, but not the feeling of helplessness inside. I don't even realize that I'm screaming until the door bursts open and Vernon shows his disgusting fat face. He opens his mouth to let loose with some no doubt profanity-laced tirade, but stops himself when I pick up one of the shards of mirror and show it to him. I don't waste my breath threatening him, I just show it to him, letting him know that, at this moment in time, I would have no particular problem with jamming it into the soft spot at the base of his neck. He retreats, and I console myself with the idea that I may one day follow through with it. After all, if I'm supposed to be a killer anyway, I might as well start somewhere small and work my way up to the Dark Lord of Magic.

I entertain myself with a daydream of making an enemies list and working my way up it. The Dursley's would have to go first, and of course Snape and Malfoy would have to be in there somewhere. The fantasy fizzles when Ron's name keeps popping up somewhere between Bane and Fudge. The idea of dragging Ron behind his father's car until the flesh is stripped from his bones is disturbingly appealing, though.

Lack of sleep and the pressure of the knowledge I now carry have combined to make my temper short and violent. If Sirius wasn't already dead, I'd probably put him on the list as well... maybe at the top.

My bones feel dense and heavy as I make my way downstairs. Bursts of irrational rage have become my caffeine, waking me up and making me alert, but leaving me even more weary when they pass. I'm looking for someone to take my frustrations out on, but Dudley is nowhere to be found. Instead, I find Petunia pretending to clean the kitchen. Vernon hired someone to do the cleaning, an old polish woman, but my aunt likes to pretend that she serves some purpose other than as decoration for Vernon's dinner parties, and as Dudley's piggy bank. I watch her for a moment, and wonder how her life will be affected when I fail. Will she run? Try to hide? Or will she try to fight against the oncoming storm? Against the legions of demons, monsters, and dark wizards that will sweep across the world once the last, paper thin barrier between Voldemort and his dream of a wizard-dominated world is broken?

All of the sudden, it seems totally irrelevant. Who really gives a shit whether Petunia Dursley dies of old age or at the end of a troll's club? I can't say that I do. Bloody hell, five minutes ago I was thinking about killing her and her family myself! If the outcome of the coming battle is as much of a forgone conclusion as I think it is, then what's the point of getting worked up about it?

For the first time in almost a month, the knot in my stomach loosens a little. I want to laugh out loud at the sheer pointlessness of life itself, and the entirely too-high value that society puts on it. What would the world be like if I had never been born? Pretty much the same. I may be the only one that has a chance to stop Voldemort, but that chance is so infinitesimally small that it's like fate playing a cruel joke on the world. What if Petunia had never been born? Boo-fucking-hoo, one less bitter, stuck up cunt walking the planet. Dumbledore? For all his formidable knowledge and carefully crafted plans, he'll eventually wither and die, his life's work unfulfilled, and after ten years of Voldemort's rule, no one will even remember he existed. Even Voldemort himself. If he never existed, who would care? People would still go about their useless, pathetic lives, a little happier but no more worthwhile.

I find myself laying on the ground, laughing so hard that tears stream down my cheeks and drip onto the white carpeting, and I laugh even harder at the idea that such a thing as white carpeting exists. What fucking idiot decided to make carpet that no one could walk on without ruining it? Didn't they realize that people put their dirty, filthy feet on the floor, and that covering it in white was the stupidest thing they could possibly do? Dimly, I hear someone screaming at me, and I raise myself up onto my elbows to see who it is.

“Have you finally cracked, you stupid boy?! Or did Vernon damage your brain when you broke that mirror?” Petunia screeches.

She's standing over me, staring at me like I'm some sort of deranged animal that has wandered into her home, rather than one of her closest blood relations. The fantasy I had entertained myself with a few minutes ago had been just that... a fantasy. But now I begin to truly wonder if I could do it. Could I really kill my only family in cold blood? Then another question occurs to me. Does such a pathetic example of humanity as Petunia Dursley even deserve to live? And does she deserve to benefit from my spilt blood? Why should I have to fight hopeless battles against living nightmares just so people like her can continue living their comfortable lives in peace?

Her sneer deepens. “If you're going to lay there like a useless lump, you could at least have the decency to be quiet while you do it.” she tells me, and turns away.

My head drops back to the floor with a heavy thud. 'Useless lump?' I think to myself with a wry chuckle, 'She has no idea how useless I really am.'

“Where'd Vernon go?” I ask, tilting my head so I could watch her wipe down the already antiseptic counter. She glances back at me and her lip curls in disgust at the sight.

“Your Uncle,” she says, putting emphasis on the second word, (Petunia always seems to find it offensive when I address her or Vernon by their given names.) “is taking Dudders to boxing camp in Manchester. They were just on their way when you made that god-awful racket upstairs.” She stalks over and jabs her toe into my ribs, not a true kick, but damned annoying all the same. “He's settling some business accounts while he's there, so he won't be back until Sunday morning. I expect you to carry your weight around here until then.”

She looks me over again, eyes glittering hatefully. Remembering my own recent self-inspection I doubt she's impressed with what she sees. For my part, I couldn't possibly care less. Once upon a time, before I learned I was a wizard, I would've given anything for my aunt's approval, but that seems like several lifetimes ago. Once again, she turns away and goes back to her fake cleaning. But this time I hear her mutter something under her breath.

“Useless little mongrel... if it wasn't for those freaks...” she trailed off.

She'd said far worse in the past. When I was younger, she'd been able to reduce me to tears with one cold, withering look, but over time I'd grown so used to her spiteful remarks that I hardly notice them anymore.

But this time I did notice.

For some reason, that one, almost inaudible threat, which wasn't even said directly to me, made my blood run hot in my veins. I rose and walked into the kitchen. There's a large table in the middle of the room that Petunia uses to prepare meals on and I lean against it, staring at the back of her head.

“Then what?” I ask in a sharp, demanding voice.

She stops what she's doing and looks back at me. I'm not sure what she sees, but her eyes widen when they meet mine and she takes an involuntary step back, bumping into the counter behind her.

She quickly recovers and glares at me. “What are you talking about?” she snaps.

“If not for those freaks... then what?” I say, meeting her glare with a cold, flat stare that demands an answer.

There's a buzzing in the back of my head, a little voice telling me that nothing will be accomplished by pushing this, but I ignore it. In that moment, I finally understand the phrase 'straw that broke the camel's back'. I'd put up with the Dursley's casual threats and abuses for years, and looking back, I can't imagine why.

In the past five years I'd faced down things that would make the bravest man weep in terror. I'd survived the three most dangerous curses in the world, cast by the deadliest wizard who ever lived.

Who the fuck was Petunia Dursley to threaten me?

For whatever reason, she seems to be thinking the same thing, and for perhaps the first time in my entire life, decides to back down. “It doesn't matter.” she says, and turns away from me.

I grab the edge of the table in both hands, and with strength I never knew I had, fling it to the side. The solid wooden structure crashes upside down on the floor next to me with an almost deafening noise.

“DON'T YOU FUCKING TURN YOUR BACK ON ME!!!!” I roar. Stepping forward into the space the kitchen table had previously occupied, I grab her arm and spin her around violently. She lets out a gasp of pain as I almost wrench her arm out of its socket and her eyes nearly bug out in fear at the look on my face. I lean forward until our noses are almost touching and growl.

“Why don't you explain to me exactly what you would do if the Order wasn't watching.”

Her lips tremble in fear but she says nothing. I'm still holding her arm and I shake her hard enough to draw a fresh yelp of pain. Her body thuds into the counter so hard that the teacups sway on their hooks. The pain seems to clear her head a bit and she finally speaks.

“Let go of me.” she snarls, trying to pull her arm loose from my grip. Petunia is probably a good three inches taller than I am, but has practically no muscle to speak of, and the only thing she accomplishes is to deepen the already-darkening bruise around her bicep.

“Not until you answer my question.” I reply. Remarkably, in spite of the rage and adrenaline rushing through me, I feel totally in control of myself.

“I DON'T HAVE TO ANSWER TO YOU!!!” she screams, then tries to slap me with her free arm.

I block the feeble blow, then rear back and haul off on her jaw. Petunia's head snaps viciously to the side and the only thing that keeps her on her feet is the grip I have on her right arm. I seize her with both hands and straighten her back up before slamming my fist directly into her nose. It gives way beneath my knuckles with a wet crunch and a spurt of blood, some of which splatters on my face. The edges of my vision go red as I hold her by the throat with my free hand and hit her one last time, this time in the stomach. All the air goes out of her in one big “woof” and I let her go. She collapses to the tiled floor, her nose and mouth covered in bright red blood, unable to draw enough breath even to weep or scream.

I stare down at her for a moment. The buzzing, rational voice in the back of my head is now apoplectic, screaming that I'm an idiot for attacking my aunt, but the rest of me is glowing with a kind of fierce pride at the damage I'd caused. I leave her there and walk over to the far wall. The kitchen phone is there and I grab the whole thing, ripping it right off the plaster and throw it down, where it shatters to the sound of splintering plastic and little copper bells. I wander about the first floor of the house, making sure that all the doors are locked and the windows covered before moving back to the kitchen.

Petunia's not where I left her, but all I have to do is follow the short trail of spilled blood to find her. In her rattled state she hasn't gone for the nearby back door, but instead crawled on her hands and knees to the stairs, trying to get to her and Vernon's room. She's halfway up when I catch her. She lets out a quiet, wheezy scream and tries to move faster, but I grab her ankle and drag her back down, her body thudding against the unforgiving wood with each step. I yank her to her feet and swing her around by the hair so that she goes flying into the nearest wall. The sheet rock caves in on impact, but there's a stud halfway across and when she falls to the ground she clutches hard at her ribs.

I take hold of her wrist and drag her almost-limp body into the living room, depositing it in front of the gas fireplace before driving the heel of my foot into her back. Petunia screams in pain again and tries to curl up into a ball to protect herself, but I don't let her.

Taking her by the feet, I flip her over onto her back and pull her along the floor until she's stretched out. Her dress catches on the carpet and slides up, exposing her legs and the edge of her knickers. She screams once more when I straddle her torso, pinning her to the floor. Her wrists are so small that I simply hold them both in the same hand as I give her another hard slap to the face. The sound of my hand striking her is like a gunshot going off in the small room.

“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!?!” I scream, slapping her again. I grab a fistful of her hair and lean down to shout at her some more. “YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME?!?!” She just looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes and says nothing, so I slam her head into the floor in frustration. “SAY SOMETHING, YOU USELESS CUNT!!!!”

Finally, she finds her voice again. “pl-p-please... st-stop,” she whispers between sobs, “I'm s-sorry... please don't h-hurt me anymore.” I let go of her wrists and she reaches up, hands trembling, to clutch at my shirt. “I'll do anything you want,” she says, her voice getting slightly stronger, “just please stop.”

I bat her hands away and look at her contemptuously. “Why should I stop?” I bark. “You never did. You and those two fat greasy maggots, always running me down, hurting me for no other reason than because you could get away with it...” I close my eyes and my entire body trembles with long-suppressed emotion, with the memories of all the times I had to just sit there and take it, of all the times I wanted to strike back, to wipe the smug smiles off their faces. Of all the times I stopped myself because it wasn't the “smart thing” to do.

When I open my eyes, I'm surprised to notice that tears are falling from them. Even more surprising is the heartbroken sound of my voice when I speak.

“Why couldn't you just love me?” I ask desperately, “I was just a baby... I didn't know anything, and you hated me even then... why?” An anguished sob falls from my lips and I feel that I'm dangerously close to breaking down. I look back down at Petunia, and just the sight of her is enough to sharpen my anger again.

“ANSWER ME, YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!” I scream in her face. My hands wrap around her slender throat and I begin to squeeze. “WHY?!?” I scream again. Her face turns purple and she tries to hit me with her hands, but I hardly notice. She begins to thrash beneath me, heedless of her injuries, trying to escape before I strangle her to death, but I hold on, choking her even harder. Her lips turn blue from lack of oxygen and her movements become sluggish.

All the sudden, I feel a blinding pain on the side of my head. When Vernon had converted the fireplace to gas, he'd kept the rack containing the small shovel and other accessaries that had come with the original. For purely decorative purposes, of course. But there was nothing decorative about the way Petunia walloped me upside the head with the poker she'd caught hold of with one flailing hand.

I roll off of her in shock. The blow was more surprising than painful, really. She was swinging one-handed and her strength was almost gone, but she'd still hit me as hard as she could. I pick myself up off the floor and put a hand to my head. My fingers come away streaked with blood. She must've clipped me with the hooked edge of the iron implement.

I round on her in a rage. Too weak to run or continue fighting back, she'd scooted into a corner and curled up in the fetal position. She looks up at me, blue eyes filled with terror. Without taking my eyes off of her, I pick up the discarded poker and give it a few test swings.

Petunia realizes what's coming and tries again to beg me off. “No!” she rasps, her throat still constricted from my attempted throttling, “Please, God, no!” She shakes her head wildly in desperation and tries to back even deeper into the corner. “Please, I don't want to die!!!” She lets out a coughing, rasping sob that shakes her whole body. “I'm sorry!!!” she pleads, “I'm so sorry!!! Please, God, don't kill me!!!”

I almost stagger at the feeling of unbridled power that sweeps over me in that moment. I feel like some kind of avenging god, the heavy poker in my hand like a thunderbolt I'm about to send down on some poor mortal who has dared to defy me. Petunia tries again to back away from me, not even noticing the wall behind her. Her legs push futilely at the carpet, one foot bare from where a shoe had been knocked off earlier. Her skirt is pushed up somewhere around her hips and I can see the junction between her thighs, covered by simple, white cotton knickers. The sight inflames a new feeling in me... an uncontrollable desire to prove my dominance over my aunt once and for all. My cock begins to rise, pushing out the front of my shorts, reaching for Petunia like some sort of hungry monster.

I toss the poker aside and reach for the hem of Petunia's dress. Taking hold of the fabric, I give it a powerful yank. The sound of tearing fabric and Petunia's shrill scream fills the air. The skirt doesn't tear all the way the first time, and she's pulled out of the corner, halfway across the room. I step on her stomach, bracing myself and pull again. This time it gives way and she's left exposed from the waist down. I drop to my knees and straddle her hips, reaching for her blouse. The buttons pop every which way as I rip it open. She's wearing a small white bra, and I grab the clasp between her breasts, breaking it with one hand.

A pair of surprisingly firm breasts spill out. Unthinkingly, I bend over and take the left nipple into my mouth, biting down on it until warm, metallic blood washes over my tongue. Petunia screams again, but I ignore her. The blood tastes like honey to me and I lap it up like a dog, exposing a pair of angry-red semi-circles on my aunt's breast where I'd marked her with my teeth.

For a split second, relief fills her eyes when I get off of her and stand up. But it turns to horror again when I seize a fistful of her hair and begin dragging her towards the stairs. Too weak to resist, the best she can do is to try to protect herself on the way up.

I kick open the door to the master bedroom and toss her down on the bed. Moving to take off my shirt, I don't see her dive for the bedside table. When I raise my head back up, she's laying on the bed, naked save for her knickers, her face bloody and her body bruised.

In her trembling hands is a .38 revolver.

I don't even have time to duck before the barrel erupts in flame. She empties the gun at me from less than three meters away, the sound so loud it causes the windows to rattle in their frames. Every time she pulls the trigger her skinny arms jerk wildly. Six times the gun roars and six times I feel the wash of streaking bullets go past me. It takes me several moments to realize that I'm not hit, though when I do, it's not relief I feel, but a fresh wash of cold anger.

I slowly raise my eyes to meet hers. “Is that the best you can do?” I ask. My voice is so low as to be almost inaudible, but it seems to scare Petunia even more than when I'd screamed at her. I calmly walk around the bed towards her. She keeps the empty gun trained on me, but looking into her eyes, I can clearly see that she's given up. Reaching out, I pluck it out of her limp fingers. “Don't feel too bad.” I tell her, inspecting the illegal weapon, “You're hardly the first person to try and kill me, without success.” I chuckle ruefully. “Hell, you're not even the first one this month.” I open the cylinder and let the spent cartridges fall to the floor. They land with little pattering sounds on the carpeting, tiny trails of smoke wafting from the hollow ends.

“If it makes you feel any better, you came a lot closer than most of the others did.” I say, flicking my wrist and closing the cylinder with a loud metallic snap. “Still,” I continue conversationally, tilting my head back to her, “I can hardly let it go without some sort of punishment.”

Quick as a striking snake, I backhand her with the gun. The blow catches her on the cheek and I actually see several teeth pop out of her mouth and go bouncing against the far wall. The force of the collision is so powerful it sends Petunia sprawling face-down across the bed.

I pounce on top of her, forcing her face into the mattress and lifting her hips so her bum sticks up in the air. I grind myself into her, my rock-hard cock splitting her cheeks. The only thing separating us is my shorts and her knickers. I rut hard against her, relishing the power I feel surging through my veins. I can taste it, almost reach out and caress it. Her fear, her hopelessness is a living thing, feeding me, feeding my desire, driving me on in spite of the fact that I've never had the slightest sexual desire towards my aunt before. Its not sexual gratification I'm seeking, but to prove to her, beyond all possible doubt, that I'm stronger than she is. That I'm greater than she is, greater than she could ever be.

I reach down and free myself. My cock is as hard as an iron bar, harder than it's ever been before. Her flimsy faux-silk panties are no match for me, I simply rip them off of her. Her body is shaking, partially in fear, and partially from her sobs. Spreading her cheeks, I let the purple head of my tool rub up and down inside her crack. Her body spasms slightly, and I get the impression that she's only just holding back vomit, but I couldn't care less. Petunia's nether lips are cool and dry when my cock finally touches them, but I don't care about that either. I prepare to thrust into her, but there's one thing I have to do first.

One thing that will make it perfect.

I grab her hair and jerk her head up. Frankly, I don't want to look at her damaged face, so I keep her pointed away from me when I speak.

“Ask me for it.” I say in a deadly whisper.

To my surprise, she has just enough fight left in her to shake her head in refusal. I feel my teeth bare of their own accord at this final act of defiance, and the deadly whisper becomes a full-throated growl.

“Ask me, or I'll make it worse... don't think that I can't.”

I can almost feel her will break. One second, she's hanging on to control by the lightest of threads, the next, the thread is cut, and she's just falling... falling into nothingness, her soul shattered into an uncountable number of pieces. The sensation is like a sound just on the edge of my hearing, like a word on the tip of my tongue... undefinable, but awesomely compelling. In an instant, I'm hooked. Whatever else happens to me, however many lives I have to destroy, I know that I'll spend the rest of my life chasing that feeling.

“I want it.” she says, her voice soft and defeated, but understandable, “P-put it in me.”

I shake her by the hair.

“Beg me.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Please... please do it. Please f-fuck me.”

“Say my name.”

“Please fuck me, Harry. Use me.” she whispers, then all but breaks down weeping.

My hips buck hard into her and she screams in shock at the sudden pain. I let her head drop back to the mattress and take hold of her ass, digging my nails into her deep enough to draw blood. My aunt's pussy is fairly tight, but not wet at all, and it's a struggle to move inside of her. I give another vicious thrust and my pelvis slaps against her backside.

She lets out a high-pitched, wailing moan that trails off into desperate prayers and sobs as I continue to force my way in and out of her. In my mind, the outside world has faded away, and all that's left is my hatred for the woman in front of me. I can hardly even feel my cock moving inside of her. Any pleasure that I might receive from the act is secondary to causing her pain and humiliation.

“You did this, you know.” I tell her as I continue to violate her, “You raised me like a criminal, like an animal, and that's exactly what you got.” As I stab in and out of her, small drops of blood begin to leak from our joining and stain the crisp, white bed sheets. Soon, the small drops grow into a steady flow that leaks down her legs to form a wide stain beneath us.

“Are you happy?” I snarl at her, “Was it worth it, treating me like shit for all those years? What did you think would happen? Did you think that when I turned seventeen I would just walk away and leave you to your normal, pathetic little lives? That I would just forget? How long would I have lived underneath your stairs like a dog if I'd never gotten my letter?”

My climax catches me totally by surprise. There's no warning, no warm tingle or rising sense of pleasure. One moment I'm consumed with punishing my aunt, the next my cock gives a mighty heave and coats the inside of Petunia's twat with my cum. I shorten my thrusts and let my orgasm drain out of me. I want her to feel it, feel my cock swelling and spurting inside her. I want her to feel my hate, my contempt.

When it's done, I pull out of her and force her onto her back so I can sit on her stomach. One of her eyes has swollen completely shut, and more blood is flowing from her mouth and nose. Deep bruises have begun to form on her neck, where I had throttled her earlier. Her good eye is wild with fear, but she still manages to summon the strength to beg for her life.

“Please.” she whispers desperately, “I'll do anything you want... I'll never tell anyone.” She shakes her head and fresh tears stream down her face. “God, I don't want to die...”

I lean down and whisper in her ear. “It doesn't matter anymore what you want... it matters what I want.”

She lets out a keening sob as I reach across the bed for the gun. I hold it by the barrel like a hammer, heavy wooden grip facing down. “And what I want to do is watch you die.” I say, before smashing her in the face with the makeshift club. My arm moves of its own accord, rising and falling over and over again, until I feel the bones of her face begin to splinter and warp. The sound of wood and metal pounding flesh drives me on and soon Petunia's forehead is dented in. The wall behind the bed is flecked with blood, bone, and unidentifiable bits of meat. My arm is red up to the elbow, but still I don't stop. Vaguely, I hear a sound behind me, like a bellowing voice, but I assume it's mine.

Suddenly, the whole world seems to lurch on its axis, and I find myself flying off of the bed and tumbling into the far wall. A man in a dark blue uniform is on top of me, trying to hold me down, but a lifetime of fighting with Dudley has taught me a few things. I hook his arm under mine and twist it back before slamming my fist into his throat. He goes into an uncontrollable coughing fit and his grip on me loosens. All I notice is a flicker of motion to my left before my vision goes totally white. I have just enough presence of mind to curl up into a ball as the second cop begins to lay into me with his nightstick. A few seconds later I feel the first cop join in, and blows seem to rain in from all sides. As I slide into the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness, one thought goes through my head.

'Ding, dong... the bitch is dead...'

AN: Pretty fucked up, huh? This started out as a response to a challenge at the Demon God of Chaos Group to write a rape fic featuring Harry and Lily. Rape isn't my thing, but I became intrigued by how something like that might work, so I decided to give it a try.

Now, you can't just have Harry flip out and fuck his mom, it would make the whole thing more unbelievable than it already is, so what I decided to do was build it up by having him kill Petunia first. I showed what I was working on to both the Potter's Place 3 and Demon God of Chaos Groups, and people on both sites recommended that I have him rape Petunia as well. I was concerned that having two rapes would take away from the emotional impact of the act, but I decided to give it a shot.

Didn't work.

I wanted to explore a Harry who had completely cracked under the pressure of his destiny, but having him rape his aunt, then his mother, in the same one-shot would have just cheapened the whole thing and turned Harry into some kind of sex-monster, which wasn't what I wanted at all. So after thinking about it for a long time, I decided to scrap the Lily part for now and post this as a standalone. Depending on the response, I may continue it, or maybe use it as the backstory for a future fic.

Big D