A big problem

Poppy eyed her young charge with pity, as he laid there writhing and moaning on the too small bed.

She had to accept the decision of the Mediwizard that specialized in half blood medicine: this one should never be allowed to father children, and with the voracious appetites of his Giant ancestry, this was difficult to accomplish.

Much research had gone into his treatment, and cruel as it might seem, it was the only one that offered hope.

Twice a month the twelve year old came to the infirmary, being told he needed some vaguely described potion "for his development".

Twice a month, the gentle, kind child looked her trustingly in the eye, and downed the offered potion.

Twice a month, the young, unripe body was forced into blind lust, and the cruel concoction transformed those feelings into searing pain.

Twice a month, she steeled herself into stripping the crying child, caressing his throbbing erection to its fullest, and sending him into a paroxysm of torture, that rose to its peak at his orgasm. He had vomited, the first times, but now he fainted, sometimes even before he came.

Afterwards, the boy was so scared, so very scared; not knowing what happened to him, or why, and she had to soothe him into taking another potion: one to reinforce the connection of sex and pain to his brain and nerves; observe his reactions to it; and write a detailed report of them.

She was happy to find that his reactions were what were expected, if anything the treatment worked better than foreseen. She wrote this into her report too, angrily wiping at a tear that escaped the shackles of her professionalism, and hoped the treatment could be stopped soon.

The boy had fallen asleep, finally. Soon, she would wake him briefly and Obliviate him.

He would leave in the morning, love and gratitude shining in his liquid black eyes, and she would be left in her pristine white environment.

She always made sure no patients were left in these rooms meant for healing, before she spelled the doors locked and windows opaque and broke down.

She screamed, broke some things, and cried. Why was she the one who had to condition an innocent into impotence? Why was she the one who had to be the only person to touch the boy in ways only lovers should – and afterwards make him forget? Could those fools at St. Mungo's not see this boy would never do anything that justified this returning ordeal? She had tried to make them see reason, but they told her it was the only way the boy would be allowed to be raised a wizard.

And thus it came, that she, twice a month, wilfully hurt a child, damaged him beyond repair, and left him no memory of this. Perhaps she should leave some memory of these sessions in his possession, she thought once, but then realised: it would break the child, break his trust and love, and make him into something he was not meant to be.

Of course, he wasn't meant to be impotent either, but people lived with things like that. Once she no longer had to submit him to this biweekly hell, she might let him get her to know better. She would be able to make him feel loved, she was sure. Never would she allude to his condition, never would she demand him to have sex with her, like others surely would.

Perhaps it was indeed for the best, if it would lead him to her, in the end.