Special delivery for venturous1 (x 3!!) Title: Mediation Author/Artist: Recipient's LJ name:venturous1 Pairing(s): Lucius/Hermione Rating: NC-17 Summary: Lucius is not happy with his grandson's sorting. Hermione is the lucky Wizengamot official who gets to hear his complaints. Word Count: 3700 Warnings/Content: Spanking. Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Author's/Artist's notes:venturous1, I hope you like this! I found all of your pairing choices so intriguing that I couldn't settle on just one. Special thanks to my beta for putting up with all my whining when my original idea proved way too complicated to finish in time.
She really ought to have known who sent the letter the second she opened it. He had been unbearable at the Wizengamot hearing the other day. Beautiful, and unbearable. She frowned, wondering where the former thought had come from, and shook her head to clear it. She'd grown used to Lucius Malfoy blustering about, flouting his family bloodlines and wealth as though he hadn't escaped Azkaban through only the narrowest of loopholes. As if he'd never been a desperate, cowering sycophant under Voldemort's command. She didn't understand how a man like that could afford to be so smug all the time. But this incident, the sorting of Scorpius Malfoy, had become an ordeal.
The letter, written in a classy, perfect script that Hermione recognized as the work of a Quick Quotes Quill, Elite Edition, was an infuriating and condescending piece of vitriol that she nearly incinerated before realizing that it wouldn't serve her purpose at all to erase the evidence of his impudence. Instead, she called for her assistant to pen a response. They would meet at the school a week from Thursday, and she would allow him to plead his case to her personally.
If Lucius Malfoy wanted a battle over Hogwarts, he would get one. If he thought he could bully Minerva McGonagall, the board of governors, and the Wizengamot into seeing that his grandson was the first student in the history of Hogwarts to be re-sorted, then he was going to find out exactly where the foolishness stopped. Hermione tapped the pointed toe of her boot smartly against the floor as she stewed.
The following week crawled by, and by the end of it, Hermione found herself obsessing over the upcoming meeting on an hourly basis. What, she wondered, was he hoping to accomplish by insisting that she meet with him in private to discuss his grandson? From what Rose had told her, Scorpius Malfoy was a perfectly lovely boy who showed no sign of being maladjusted or discontent. To hear Lucius tell it, however, the child was on the verge of a near breakdown at the mere sight of red and gold.
When he arrived at Hogwarts, Lucius delivered an abysmally long list of demands and conditions for this meeting, and Hermione complied with a growing level of irritation. The man was impossible. Finally, she found herself standing across from him, watching him take a seat as if he were the one presiding over this hearing.
"Well, Mr Malfoy," she said, standing primly in front of him, "you have everything you requested. The room has been warded for privacy and thoroughly swept for any devices of magical mischief. Now, shall we begin?"
"I should hope so," said Lucius. "As you well know, we are here to discussion the preposterous placement of my grandson. The Malfoys have had generations of Slytherins without blemish. The same can be said about the Greengrass family. Therefore, I find it simply unacceptable that Scorpius would be placed in any other house."
"But he was sorted into Gryffindor," she said.
"It is the responsibility of McGonagall and the board of governors to see that mistake remedied."
"Headmistress McGonagall," she corrected. "And Scorpius... doesn't wish to be a Gryffindor?"
"Of course not." She could feel him forcing each word through his teeth. They were lovely teeth.
Again, she wondered at the origin of that thought. She wasn't blind; she could appreciate Lucius Malfoy's looks and considerable poise while taking into account exactly what and who he was, but it troubled her that these thoughts kept cropping up at the most inopportune moments.
"Hmm. Did he tell the Hat? It's still rather new at this, you know."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, even the old Sorting Hat had difficulty at times without the proper input. Why, Harry told me himself that it tried to put him in Slytherin the first chance it got."
"Potter? In Slytherin? That's ridiculous."
"Clearly that's what Harry thought."
"We're not discussing Potter here today. We're discussing my grandson."
"Yes, Scorpius." Hermione smiled tightly. "And what you allege was his mis-sorting."
"This is not a baseless allegation as you seem to be implying. Tell me, Mrs Weasley, wasn't there a competent witch or wizard at the Wizengamot available to hear my case?"
"Your case, or Scorpius's? If I recall correctly, Mr Malfoy, you requested me personally. And for the record, it's Granger, not Weasley. I never changed my name."
"How very modern of you." One eyebrow rose in an elegant arch and she was immediately cross with herself for taking note of it.
"Indeed. And efficient. Now, answer my question. Are you here to plead your case, or Scorpius's?"
"I am here on behalf of my grandson." Lucius's voice rose, at the very end of his statement, just enough to make her feel smug.
One corner of her mouth curled up in unconscious imitation of him. "I see. And are you his legal guardian?"
"You know very well that I am not. He is legally in the care of his very capable parents, my son Draco and his wife Astoria."
"And the reason they are not here on his behalf?"
Lucius cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Call it a misplaced sense of social equity."
Hermione's smile flashed genuine amusement then. "I see. So Draco has finally moved beyond house rivalry?"
"As you are so fond of pointing out, we are here to discuss Scorpius. Not Draco."
"Hmm. Yes. Well, I think I've come to a decision."
"You certainly have not," said Lucius, his indignation thick on the air. "I haven't been able to address a single relevant point."
"Oh, but you don't need to," said Hermione. "I spoke with Scorpius this afternoon and he is perfectly happy to stay in Gryffindor."
Lucius was on his feet, looming--or, at least, trying to loom--over her. "How dare you? Who gave you permission to speak with the boy?"
"I need permission to speak with a school mate of my daughter?" said Hermione. "That's rather ridiculous, isn't it?"
"Your... daughter." Lucius pressed his lips together, leaning over her at such a dramatic angle that she felt the impracticable urge to reach out and pull the cane from his hand just to watch him topple forward.
"Yes. My daughter resides in Gryffindor as well."
"I suppose you find this all very amusing, don't you, Miss Granger?"
"Not at all," said Hermione. "In fact, I find it to be a colossal waste of my professional and personal time."
Lucius scoffed. "Professional? This is the least professional encounter I have ever had with a Ministry official and I'll have you know that I have spent an undue amount of time in the presence of that bumbling idiot Arthur Weasley."
"Don't you dare speak about Arthur Weasley that way," Hermione snarled. "You are not fit to polish his broom, let alone deride him in such a manner."
It was Lucius's turn to smirk in self-satisfaction. "Have I struck a nerve, then? You Weasleys do tend to rally 'round one of your own, don't you?"
"For your information, I am technically no longer a member of the Weasley family, however, I think you will find that my loyalty is as strong as ever."
Lucius was silent for a moment, a long, uncomfortable, scrutinizing moment. She found herself breathing hard, resentful of her lungs for the betrayal. Her marriage had faded over time into an amicable parting, and though she found it neither painful nor depressing to think about the split, she had no intention of letting Lucius Malfoy delve into her failed romantic endeavors.
And then he spoke again.
"Which one of you finally came to your senses?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed to poisonous slits. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that you are the most unbearable witch whose path I have ever had the misfortune of crossing--and I'll have you note that I have spent a significant amount of time in the company of Death Eaters--and that young Mr Weasley, whichever one of that litter you found yourself married to, was clearly out of his league."
She blinked. Then blinked again. Then once more just to be sure she wasn't going to suddenly wake from a very bizarre dream. Had he just smuggled a kind word into the conversation beneath that flurry of insults? Her caustic tongue found itself in a rare moment of stillness, and she raised her chin.
"If you think that one cloaked compliment is going to convince me to change my mind--"
"I'm no fool, Miss Granger," said Lucius. "If I choose to resort to... alternative methods in order to achieve my goal, I guarantee you will not be in a position to give me any cheek about it."
"Is that a threat, Mr Malfoy?"
"No," said Lucius, and his cane echoed through the empty classroom as he stretched it a step ahead of himself before taking two very deliberate steps forward. "But perhaps it is something of a proposition."
Hermione laughed, though the sound was more hollow than she would have liked. "What exactly are you proposing?" she asked.
"Miss Granger," his voice was melted sugar, "you've been married to a Weasley for all these years. Surely you're due for some... satisfaction."
She cleared her throat, pressing her thighs together as she took a short step back. "That is terribly presumptuous of you. As well as erroneous."
"Really?" He continued to advance. "You're looking flushed, my dear. I wonder why that is."
The backs of her legs butted up against a table as she tried to retreat further. "I was under the impression you were a married man."
"It appears you are not the only one to experience a recent separation," he said. He lifted the cane in his hand, reaching forward to brush her hair back from her shoulder with the handle.
"Lucky me," Hermione said, with another hollow laugh. She licked her lips. "Let me make sure I understand our terms. You are proposing sexual favors for another chance at pleading your case."
"Perhaps," he said, and his breath was warm on her forehead now, the wild curls that framed her face trembling against her skin. "Then again, perhaps I won't be the one pleading."
She smiled, the corners of her mouth turning up hesitantly.
"Oh, Mr Malfoy," she whispered, pressing the palm of her hand to his chest and sliding it up to his shoulder. "I don't think that is going to be the case at all."
Her hand shot out like a snake, capturing a fistful of his hair and twisting it brutally as she forced him to his knees. Though she was a great deal smaller than he, she understood the concept of leverage, and how just a little bit of pain and pressure, when applied correctly, could influence a much larger human being. Her other hand had already drawn her wand, and she held it to his throat, her grin turning wicked as she watched him.
"What were you saying about someone being out of his league?" she asked innocently.
"Unhand me immediately," Lucius hissed. "When your superiors hear about this--"
"Shh," Hermione murmured. "I wasn't finished talking." She raised on foot to rest the sole of her boot on his thigh, the toe pressing against his crotch. "But don't worry," she said. "I have every intention of letting you share in that long overdue satisfaction you were speaking of. Why Mr Malfoy, you're looking flushed. I wonder why that is."
The rush of power pulsed through her like a drug.
~@~@~@~
"I think I like you on your knees," she said. "It's very becoming."
He looked her in the eyes without raising his chin, defiant and proud and perfect there on the floor in front of her. In a room warded against intruders and noise. She smiled and drew her wand.
"Still, something must be done about your clothes." She flicked her wrist and the problem of his clothes disappeared. Lucius shivered. It was lovely.
Slowly, so slowly that it almost didn't seem to be happening at all, one corner of his mouth quirked up. Her gaze drifted down his chest, past his abdomen, past the jut of his hipbones, to his swelling cock, his erection coming to life much more quickly than she would have expected for a man his age.
"You're enjoying this," she said.
He started to rise. "It was, after all, my suggestion."
Hermione's foot darted out again and she jammed the toe of her boot into the crux of his hip joint, forcing him back to the floor.
"No one told you to stand," she said.
He cleared his throat haughtily. "What exactly do you intend to do with me, Miss Granger."
"I believe you can call me 'Hermione' if there's nudity involved, Lucius."
"Yes, well, the nudity seems rather one-sided at the moment, doesn't it?"
"Allow me to fix that," she said, and then she did. The room was draftier than she'd expected. She wondered if she should have kept the boots.
She sidestepped away from him so that he was facing the table directly.
"Put your hands on the table," she said, "palms down."
He leaned his cane against the table, then complied.
She circled him, leaned forward, and reached around to gently touch one fingertip to his chin and drag it back along his jawline. Again, it was perfect. She couldn't tell if that infuriated her, or just made her more eager to touch him. She straightened suddenly, pulled back her hand, then planted a firm smack on his bum.
"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed.
"Some men would call that foreplay."
"Some men have no dignity."
She swatted him again, harder this time, and her red hand print blossomed across his arse.
"But not you, Lucius. You're just brimming with dignity. You would never do anything untoward or scandalous. And certainly nothing like trying to bribe a Ministry official with sex in a Hogwarts classroom."
The muscles in his buttocks flexed and he made a soft whining sound.
"If you like," she added generously, "you may touch yourself."
"I hardly need your permission for that, Hermione."
"You called me 'Hermione'. I feel like our relationship is progressing."
The breath between each word was ragged when he spoke and from behind him, she watched his shoulders move as he worked over his erection. Warm sparks pooled low in her abdomen and she reached out to twist a lock of his hair in her fingers, then tug upward.
"Bend over the table," she said.
She watched a tremor run down his spine, and the low, throaty sound of indignation he made was belied by the way he rose from his knees and bent obediently over the table. She pressed her lips together, let him wait for a moment, then drew her wand. One murmured spell and the tip of her wand grew and spread into a wide, smooth paddle.
Lucius groaned. She gently nudged his feet apart with her toes. She could just see the hint of his knuckles beneath his balls every time his fist reached the base of his cock, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip. He shifted over the table and she brought the paddle down, landing it with a satisfying crack against his arse. Lucius gasped. She pressed the flat of the paddle against his cheeks and stroked the reddened skin.
Then another swat. He lurched forward in surprise. She salivated.
"Hermione." His voice was rough, pleading. She'd heard that tone before, so many years ago, the undercurrent of desperation that he just couldn't swallow down.
"Yes, Lucius?" She licked her lips.
"You wouldn't dare make me beg."
"Beg for what?" The corner of her mouth twitched. She struck him again, a solid, heavy thwack that echoed in the classroom.
"Hermione!"
"Yes?"
He made a sound, almost too much like a cough to be a word at all, and she sniffed.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Please." He said the word as if the taste of it were foul.
"Please," she murmured, slapping the paddle against the palm of her hand. She was wet now, so wet she could feel it on the insides of her thighs, and deep in her pelvis everything was thrumming, strung tightly with need. "Does that mean you're ready to withdraw your complaints?"
"No."
"No?" She arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "Then what are you begging me for, Lucius?"
"I don't beg."
"Oh, but I distinctly heard the word 'please'."
He drew a long breath through his nose, the rocking motion of his shoulder slowing as he stroked his cock more deliberately. "You are every bit the unbearable annoyance that my son described."
Once again the paddle clapped against his skin, eliciting a whimper. She shivered.
"I was begging," he began, his voice low and reedy; she could hear him scrambling to collect his dignity. "For you to get on with it already."
"Get on with... what, exactly?"
"Oh, by Merlin's beard, woman!" Lucius hissed. "If you make me wait any longer I'm bound to come all over my own hand!"
"Your proposition gets more romantic all the time," she said, but then she whispered the spell that returned her wand to its original state and set it on the desk beside her. His desperation made her just as hot as the blossoms of crimson decorating his pale arse. "Very well. Sit on the table."
His head jerked back and he looked at her over his shoulder, but instead of shock or defiance, his eyes flashed with conspiratorial anticipation. He liked this. She should have known.
"Up," she said impatiently. "Now."
Lucius complied, wincing as he rested his weight on his sore arse cheeks, and again when she climbed astride him. She pushed back the blond hair spilling over his shoulders to brace her hands on him, thumbs pressed against his collarbone, and a soft gasp was drawn through her lips as she rocked her hips forward, sliding wetly against his cock. She wouldn't be able to tease for long. Lucius braced one hand on the table behind him, the other resting warmly on the small of her back, urging her up, though it only encouraged her to move with less haste.
As she finally rose to just the right position, hovering above his impossibly hard erection, he rasped one more, "Please."
"Oh, darling, of course," she said haughtily, the swell of dominance peaking inside her as she slid, with measured pause, down the length of him.
"Does this hurt you, Lucius?" she asked, though she could muster no cruelty to her voice, not with his cock so deep inside her, the angle of his hips driving him into her just right. "That just makes you harder, doesn't it?"
"It appears," he grunted, his eyes narrowing, "that we find some things... mutually beneficial." He punctuated the statement with a gasp.
She opened her mouth to reply, but her wit seemed to have joined all of the blood in her body, rushing straight to her pelvis, and she drew her nails down his shoulders instead, riding him as if she expected to drive him straight through the table. He jerked forward, his mouth suddenly on her throat, hot breath and wet tongue and his lips sucking gently on the soft skin at the juncture of her shoulder and she came apart. With a cry, she grabbed his hair, pulling roughly, her body tight and trembling around him as all that delicious build up crested inside her.
When she opened her eyes, still rocking over him, breathless and momentarily spent, she met his eyes and saw the flicker of triumph there. He had finally got a reaction out of her. Oh, let him have it, chided her conscious. He bloody well deserves it after that. And it was right.
She bit down on her lip, the sound of their bodies clapping together again and again growing faster, more intense, until he was shaking with anticipation. His moment was over, she decided, and she leaned close to his ear, her breath ruffling through his hair as she whispered hoarsely to him, "Are you going to come for me, Lucius?"
And he did. Oh, Merlin, how he did. His fingers left dark imprints on her hips, and the sounds he made echoed off the high stone walls. Hermione wriggled on his lap in satisfaction, half-considering the outrageous urge to snuggle her head against the curve of his neck for a moment as the both came down. Instead, she slid from his lap, her body silently protesting as she pulled off his cock.
Her wand had not landed far from where she stood, and she felt some vague sense of modesty as she bent to retrieve it, knowing that his eyes were on her now. With a rather complex charm, she was dressed and set to rights again, and that was when she turned around to find Lucius in a similar state.
"So was your audience with a Wizengamot member all you had hoped it would be?" she asked.
"Indeed," he said, rising to his feet. "In fact, I may consider filing another complaint on behalf of my grandson. What this school deems an appropriate diet for children is ghastly."
She examined his face for a moment, thought over the veiled offer he presented. Then she smiled.
"Please be sure to file your grievance with my office directly, Mr Malfoy," she said as she started to leave. "I would hate for you to waste the time of some other Ministry official."
"Of course," he said, making no move to exit as he watched her walk to the door.
"And by the way," she said airily, glancing at him over her shoulder, "in case you regain enough presence of mind to be concerned about it, I am on the potion. After all, I would hate to see you in distress over the prospect of another offspring in Gryffindor."
With that thought, she left him alone in the classroom.
Title: Incorporeal Author/Artist: Recipient's LJ name:venturous1 Pairing(s): ghost!Lily/Snape Rating: NC-17 Summary:She was perfect in life and now, long after her death, he knows that she is perfect still. Word Count: ~1300 Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Author's/Artist's notes:venturous1, I hope you like this! I found all of your pairing choices so intriguing that I couldn't settle on just one. Special thanks to my beta for putting up with all my whining when my original idea proved way too complicated to finish in time.
He can feel her when she's there, though at first she does not reveal herself to him. She doesn't speak, like the myriad ghosts of Hogwarts, and he cannot see her at all. But he doesn't need that.
As if he wouldn't know her presence through death and beyond. She was perfect in life and now, long after her death, he knows that she is perfect still. It has been three weeks of sensing her, of learning to feel her glide through his dank classroom, or hover near the corner of his office, and now he's scowling at the front of the room, his narrowed gaze focused on the boy serving detention in front of him. He watches the boy copy lines, long fingers, like hers, curled around the quill.
She is there, near the cabinet, and she can feel his want, his lust, and his ears burn red with shame. It's the eyes, he knows. Her eyes. So instead he focuses on the glasses, on the hair, on every hint of the father he hated, instead of the mother he loved, or the boy he... what, exactly? It is no matter. His life is filled with the things he cannot have. This is no different.
She is leaning over his shoulder now, and he has to look away.
"You may return to your dormitory," he says, and when the boy opens his mouth to question the sudden reprieve, he turns swiftly and stalks away.
***
Her emotions run through him as steadily as his own pulse. Forgiveness. Regret. Fond reminiscence. He wants more.
He wants the heat of her desire, the weight of her longing. Instead there is only her steady, almost constant presence. Her sad detachment. The reminder of her impermanence in his world. He wants her to be a fixture, but instead, even though she is always there, she is a shadow.
Maybe it's madness, he thinks, but in his heart he knows he is painfully sane. He would much rather be made with this beautiful figment by his side than be sane enough to know that she doesn't really exist in his world at all.
He tries to speak with her, twice.
The first time, he turns toward his workbench, where she has been hovering all day. He speaks her name and her presence vanishes, and it is hours before she returns.
The second time, he is in his bedroom, undressing in the dark, and he can feel her suddenly there. The curtains are drifting on a breeze that doesn't exist, the window shut tightly behind them, and he knows it is her. She is there. And he calls out for her. "Please," he says. "Please. You cannot leave."
But she does.
Perhaps she only wants to show him that these decisions are not his to make.
***
One time, she follows him to Hogsmeade. It is winter and his boots leave a crisp, solitary path in the snow. He can feel her beside him, but he has learned to bear her presence in silence now. It is almost companionable if he can push away enough of the reality to pretend.
He stops in the street, across from the Three Broomsticks, watching children bustle past. They all think he is all alone.
Why, he wants to ask. Why me? Why not your son? Or Lupin? Why not your dreadful sister and her whelp? What has he done to deserve her presence here?
This is the first time he feels her hand on his shoulder, the cool weight of it present despite the thickness of his coat. He wants to unwind the scarf from his neck, to feel her ghostly hand brush against his bare skin. He wants her to be more than the absence of winter wind, more than this empty space beside him. Perhaps her existence is not proof of his sanity after all.
He harrumphs softly, crossing his arms over his chest as he continues down the road, in search of company more subdued than children.
She is laughing at him, he thinks, as he glances over at the snowflakes that dance and twirl unnaturally by his side. She finds his temperament amusing. His lips give way to the faintest of smiles, and he turns his head from the students on the street, still walking.
***
The first time she touches him, really touches him, he is methodically undressing for bed. This time, her fingers slip into his hair, at first like a draft, and then a gradual solidity emerges.
He turns his head to the side, feels her hot breath over his lips, then his throat, then his chest.
"What magic is this?" he whispers. Ghosts should be cold, translucent clouds of ice, not warm and substantial like her.
"Shh." The first sound of her phantom voice caresses his ear. He stills.
She pushes him down to the bed and he melts beneath her hands, allowing her to press and shape him into whatever form she sees fit. He has always known that he is a passionate man, but knowing and being are two different things, and it feels as though her ghostly hand has reached inside him and turned some special switch, and all that passion is finally, finally, able to manifest as something more than bitter conflict. He is glad that he cannot see her because, despite the urge to touch, it is all he can do to focus on her touching him, on the sensation of bare thighs spread across his hips, on the delicate unseen hand closing around his cock.
He grunts and pushes up. She moans and rocks against him, hotter now than the breath on his ear, with a wetness that leaves no trace across his skin.
"Please, Lily. Please..." He throws his hands above his head, afraid that to touch her, to feel her, would bring him to completion before he's had time to be inside her.
"Sev."
He is nearly undone.
And then she is on him, and he is in her, and he opens her eyes and she's there. She shimmers in the light of one flickering candle against the wall. It doesn't matter now how translucent she is, his mind can fill in all the blank spaces: the red of her hair, teasing at her breasts as her head falls back, her green eyes, glazed and unfocused, but locked on him. And it might be magic, it might be insanity, it might be real, or perhaps all three at once, but it's perfect and he doesn't care. He inhales sharply between his teeth, her fingertips caress his lips.
When she comes, candlelight shining through her, hands tousling her hair above her head, he knows why he has never dared to imagine this moment before. Even the scope of his impressive mind could not have invented this. Her parted lips, her low, throaty whimper, the shudder that wracks his body as well as hers, these are etched into his memory in vivid intensity. He will never let this moment go.
It is soon, too soon, when the muscles in his thighs go taut and he arches back, off the bed, into her, and suddenly again she is gone. He falls back with a moan, his stomach splattered wetly with the evidence of their lovemaking. He wants to wince in response to the way his inner narration has framed the scene, as if it is something out of a desperate witch's romance novel.
She is still there, incorporeal again, invisible by his bedside. He cleans himself, rolls to the side, warm and alone beneath the blankets. He looks up to where he can feel her presence.
"Why me?" he whispers. "Why now?"
She draws one ghostly finger across his cheek, and then nothing more. In her silence, he discovers that he does not really need to know.
It is enough to love her always.
Title: Cat and Mouse Author/Artist: Recipient's LJ name:venturous1 Pairing(s): Flitwick/Umbridge Rating: NC-17 Summary: Dolores Umbridge's interrogation of Professor Flitwick does not go as she planned. Word Count: ~1600 Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Author's/Artist's notes:venturous1, I hope you like this! I found all of your pairing choices so intriguing that I couldn't settle on just one. Special thanks to my beta for putting up with all my whining when my original idea proved way too complicated to finish in time.
Dolores Umbridge is pacing her office like a cat in heat. Filius thinks he can, if he tries, see her upturned tail twitching behind her, wanton and wanting. He knows she started this 'routine questioning' by thinking of him as prey, as a mouse with his tail pinned in the trap, just waiting for her to swipe at him with her killing blow. Instead he met her questions with artful deflection. Her frustration now is palpable. He can almost taste it.
"I get the distinct impression this interrogation is not going your way, Dolores," he says.
She switches directions, changing tactics just as fast. Her wand is a blurry arc against the clear blue sky outside the window.
Leather straps shoot out of the chair like snakes. Filius drops his own wand purposely. He could have easily disarmed the chair and thwarted her interrogation, but this hex is darker than just the bonds catching his wrists and ankles and he knows it. He wants to play with it. She thinks she has him cornered.
She's so very wrong.
A slow, wicked smile lights up his face. "You are not one for research, are you, Dolores?"
"What," she says curtly, "is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that if you had done your homework, you would know very well that what you've just done, the enchantment on my... manly bits,"--she clears her throat at this and he smirks at her discomfort--"Would you rather I use the term cock and balls? Oh, don't look so abashed, Dolores. You are the one who just cast the charm, are you not?"
She looks away. "You were saying?"
"Ah, yes. I was saying that you would know that I myself had published several notable articles on pleasurable and erotic extensions to this particular charm in my younger years."
"Erotic extensions?" Dolores says.
"You heard me," says Filius, and he watches her face. He has never found Dolores Umbridge particularly attractive before, but looking at her now, her poorly masked anticipation quivering just below the surface, he feels a frisson of excitement that runs deeper than the hex she's cast.
She clears her throat, raises her chin, tries to look important again. She's practically panting.
"Some of them are delicious," says Filius. "Would you like to hear about them?"
"Of course not," she snaps. Her voice wavers. "That is not why I'm here."
"Well, I should hope that's not why you're here," says Filius. "The Ministry certainly has more productive ways to use its most valuable resources than exploring the sexual deviations of Hogwarts teachers."
She makes a sound, a whimpering, slightly shocked, failed imitation of her usual "hem hem", and blanches.
Filius wriggles in the bonds. Dolores stops pacing.
"Fine," she says.
"Fine?"
"You are clearly going to be no help to me, Professor Flitwick, until I let you speak your mind. But please hurry. I haven't got all day and this interrogation must be resumed as soon as possible."
"Or else?" says Filius.
"Or else?" she repeats.
"Or else what?" says Filius. "The interrogation must be resumed as soon as possible or. Else. What?"
"I--I don't understand."
"Then let me give you an example," says Filius. "My erection--which is extremely distracting at the moment, I might add--needs attention in relatively short order or else I am afraid I will be even less use to you than I am now."
"Professor Flitwick! Are you implying that I--that I... That I touch you?"
Filius shrugs amicably. "Only if you wish, dear Dolores. As I said before, this charm has myriad possibilities when it comes to relieving all manner of sexual urges."
She is sizing him up now, her wide-set eyes darting over him from head to toe and back again, pausing at his crotch each time, a hesitation that Filius acknowledges with a subtle thrust of his hips. He wiggles his eyebrows. She scowls. He whispers a charm.
The fabric of his trousers peels open from the seams and folds away like flower petals and his cock bounces free. Dolores Umbridge gasps.
"More than you expected?" asks Filius. Her gaze is glued to the thin silver snakes winding tight paths around his cock and balls.
"I wasn't... expecting..." Words are lost to her. She moves closer, so close now that she's nearly pressed up against him.
"Sit," he commands, and is only moderately surprised when she does. She sits to one side, resting her arse across his leg, shimmying herself closer with a soft gasp. Her hands are clasped primly across her abdomen.
"Dolores," he murmurs, and she shudders, the ample swell of her breasts pressed to his collarbone.
Filius grins and whispers another spell. Her hands are snapped back behind her, wrists locked into place with small silver snakes that writhe over her skin, tiny tongues flicking out to tease the sensitive spot on the inside of her wrists.
"Erotic extensions," she says, her voice trembling.
"Quite," says Filius. He whispers another and the snakes around his cock surge up, pushing the tip of his erection against her thigh and rubbing it there. One snake nips at his foreskin. Filius shivers. She shivers and purrs on his lap.
"I always thought there was more to you than meets the eye, Dolores," he murmurs. "And look at you now, a veritable sex... kitten." His lips twitch.
"Silence," she snaps. She wriggles her hips, her skirt working its way up over her thigh, then higher still, until he can feel her wet and warm and pulsing against his leg.
She turns on his lap, pinning his cock between her arse and his stomach, then rides up his body slowly as she pushes back. She smells surprisingly good, Filius thinks, his head turned to the side as the wool of her jacket rubs against his cheek. As she slides down on him, Filius groans. No knickers. He hadn't seen that coming. He rocks his hips back, just a bit, the most he can move in the bonds, and her body swallows him up completely. He tips his chin up against her back and whispers the spell.
"Repeat it," he says, and she does.
Immediately the snakes holding tightly to him like a cockring slither upward, flittering up beneath the waistband of her skirt, writhing and undulating against her skin. The tremor that shakes her body reverberates around his erection and he gasps, pressing upward with a soft grunt. She bounces hard on his lap, the backs of her thighs slapping his trousers, and Filius's hands grip the arms of the chair. Without the snakes to bind him, it isn't long, all of that delicious anticipation coalescing in time with her wheezing breath.
When he comes, it's with a shout, and she's wiggling on his lap, trembling all over.
"You, Dolores Umbridge," said Filius, breathless and exhilarated, "are naughty, nasty piece of work. You abuse your authority, treat my students dreadfully, and disgrace the once prestigious name of the Ministry." He clears his throat, flexing his hips and driving up into her again, still impossibly hard. It's always taken him a long time to get soft again once he's spent. She's obviously taken notice. "However, in light of your impressive talents when it comes to erotic charms, I have a proposition for you."
She is trying hard to compose herself. He can feel it, even as her body quivers and shudders around him. The snakes that bind her wrists hiss softly, then twine around one another and disappear up her sleeve.
"Oh?" is all she can manage as she rubs her wrists.
"I am writing another paper on the use of charms of an... adult nature. Naturally, these charms need to be tested. Extensively."
She clears her throat, rises to her feet, slipping off him. Her arse shimmies as she pushes her skirt back down to her knees.
"You want me to be your test subject," she says.
"Would you find the term 'lab partner' less offensive?" he asks.
She coughs behind closed lips, then straightens her shoulders, pulls her wand from her pocket, and releases him from the chair. Filius looks down at his lap, at his spent cock and the strips of his trousers, peeled away and draped over his lap.
"My wand, please," he says politely, gesturing toward the floor.
She picks it up, then steps back so she has to lean forward to hand it to him, as if she's drawn and invisible line around him and fears contamination of some sort if she dares to cross it. He fixes his trousers with a swish and a flick and smiles up at her.
"That's better. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, my upcoming experiments. You have a talent, Dolores, I will give you that."
She blinks. "My... interrogation..."
"Is over," says Filius. "Don't you agree?" He hops down from the chair. Their considerable size difference is more noticeable now than when she was writhing about on his lap, he notes. "Why don't I give you some time to consider the offer? Perhaps three days will be enough? Very good. I will expect to hear from you then. In the meantime, Dolores, I'd be careful if I were you. My article was widely circulated amongst the staff here. And I think you'll find that some of our staff members are not so... accommodating."
He throws a friendly smile over his shoulder as he leaves her alone in the office, humming under his breath as he passes a cluster of students examining the newly posted rules that Dolores Umbridge has enacted. In spite of the dire mood in the school today, Filius thinks things may be looking up.