Title: A Question of Authority
Author: centaury_squill
Characters/Pairings: Harry/?
Rating: R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: authority figure roleplay, body writing
Other Warnings: none
Word Count: 1,250
Summary/Description: Harry Potter has a problem with authority.
Author's Notes: Themes chosen for help_japan winners.

Mods, could I have an author tag, please?


A Question of Authority
Kingsley leans across his desk. Harry, sensing his earnest stare, refuses to look up and meet his eyes.

"Harry. Work with me here."

Silence.

"Harry, you know I want what's best for you. You can't go on like this."

Silence.

"Don't you want to continue as an Auror?"

Finally, Harry reacts.

"Yeah – yeah, I do. Of course I do. It's just –"

He retreats into silence again.

"I have here –" Kingsley shuffles papers on his desk – "reports on your recent missions, assessments from your immediate supervisor." He looks up. "Would it be fair to say you have some – issues – with your immediate supervisor?"

Harry mumbles something; only the word arse is audible.

"Quite," murmurs Kingsley. Harry thinks he can hear a hint of amusement in his voice. Then it turns steely.

"This is non-negotiable, Harry. If you really do want to continue as an Auror, here's what's going to happen..."

*
Harry trudges along the now-familiar corridor in the Department of Mysteries. It's the third time he's been here this week – Kingsley's condition for his continued employment. The first session was OK – just 'meeting' the Ministry therapist Kingsley foisted upon him. Although how you could call it a meeting when Harry hadn't even seen him – didn't even know it was a him – just heard the whispered Legilimens from behind the bright light shining into his eyes...

Even the second session, when he confronted the therapist Polyjuiced into Uncle Vernon, wasn't too bad. Quite enjoyable, in fact: he gained immense satisfaction from standing in a replica of number four Privet Drive's front room, telling his uncle exactly what he thought of him.

He has an uneasy feeling today's session won't be nearly so easy, and when he walks into the shadowy room he's certain.

It's a facsimile of Snape's office.

Harry looks around, taking in his surroundings. The desk, covered in homework parchments scribbled over in derisive red ink; the murky jars filled with slimy, nameless things; the flickering candlelight casting ominous shadows – all combine to make him feel like an apprehensive schoolboy again. Which is, presumably, the idea. One of the parchments even looks like one of his own Potions essays under all its gleeful red crossings-out.

"Good of you to turn up, Potter."

That voice. Deep, measured, delicately scornful. Sexy. Harry hastily pushes away this last thought and turns around. The dark-robed figure standing much too close to him could almost be Snape. A pale hand reaches past him to the desk, picks up the parchment signed Harry Potter between disdainful finger and thumb.

"Just what did you think you were doing, Potter? Did you somehow mislay your Potions essay and hand in something you found lying in a Hogsmeade gutter, instead?"

Snape tears the parchment in two, and then in two again – slowly, deliberately – and drops the pieces to the floor.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor."

Harry forgets he's no longer at Hogwarts, forgets that Snape has been missing-presumed-dead for over a year, that he himself has been an Auror for almost as long.

"That's not fair!"

A faint look of contempt comes over Snape's face. "As I've pointed out to you before, Potter, on numerous occasions: Life. Isn't. Fair."

Harry glares back at him, almost trembling with rage. "I KNOW that!" he shouts, "but there's no need for you to be such an ARSE!"

They are nose-to-nose now, both refusing to back away. Snape holds Harry with his black gaze for a long moment, then his eyes travel slowly down over Harry's body.

To his horror, Harry realises that he's hard; not only that, but his erection is plainly visible through his trousers. Blushing, he shifts his weight on one foot, trying to swing his Auror robe across in concealment. He has the illusion that the air between them has thickened. He can hardly breathe. His heart thumps painfully, his mouth's dry. He stares dumbly at Snape, unable to form a coherent sentence.

Then the silence is broken by the loud chiming of a clock.

Snape raises an eyebrow lazily, and smirks, stepping back.

"Today's session is concluded, Mr Potter."

*
When Harry arrives for his next session, his first reaction is one of relief. The nauseatingly pink walls, the vile kittens running around their plates – he won't embarrass himself in this scenario: he doesn't find Dolores Umbridge in the least attractive.

"Hem, hem."

It's another uncannily accurate impersonation, even down to the pink flowered robes which almost made Umbridge disappear against the flowery cloth draping her desk.

"Sit down, Mr Potter."

Harry sits at the small table, identical to the one where he spent so many hours being tortured, back in his fifth year. He involuntarily flinches, glancing at the pale scars which still mar the back of his left hand.

Then he sees the pen, and for the first time there's an anomaly in the almost-perfect scenario. It's not abnormally long and thin, with a wickedly sharp point, but medium-sized, thick, with a bulbous, spongy end. He picks it up and examines it. It feels warm, almost alive under his touch.

It's more like a cock than a pen.

Harry catches his breath, looks up at Umbridge. "What do you want me to write?"

The bulging eyes stare back at him unblinkingly. "Well, Mr Potter, since this is supposed to be a voyage of self-discovery for you, how about – I like men?"

"But I don't –" Harry stops, remembering the previous session, the one with Severus Snape.

"Yes, Mr Potter?"

"Fine," he grinds out, pulling a piece of parchment towards him. He eyes the 'pen' doubtfully; will it pull the blood from his veins? And if so, which ones? Gingerly, he presses it on the parchment, slowly begins to trace out the words:
I – like –

He stops. The words appear, but they're not blood-red, and instead of pain in his hand – or elsewhere – he feels a thrilling tingle in his groin. The pen is leaving a shiny, translucent trail – almost like precome – Harry's cock twitches. He finishes the sentence:
– men.

It is precome. He can feel it ooze from his cock even as it appears on the page.

By the time the sheet of parchment is filled with declarations of his sexual preferences, Harry's cock is throbbing and dripping. Every stroke of the pen makes his arousal stronger. He squims desperately in his seat, trying to get some friction, and looks up in silent appeal.

Umbridge has a wide smile on her toad-like face. "Oh, you haven't finished yet, Mr Potter. But perhaps a new sentence? How about – I want it up the arse."

She places a thick stack of parchment on the table in front of him.

Harry moans.

This time, as he writes, his cock jumps in a sort of controlled orgasm; he can feel the words being traced across his own flesh even as they appear, white and thick, on the parchment in front of him.
I want it up the arse.

A drop of spunk trickles down his leg. His cock recovers.

He writes another line. The same thing happens again.

And so it goes on – and on – and on.

At last Harry looks up, spent and panting. Over an hour has passed since he entered the room; the figure regarding him hungrily from the other side of the desk no longer looks remotely like Dolores Umbridge.

"Oh," Harry says, in tones of wonder, "it's you."


-fin-