The very air in Professor Umbridge's office was an assault on the senses—thick with the cloying, sickly-sweet stench of cheap floral perfume. It clashed unpleasantly with the faint must of old stone and parchment, forming a dissonant blend that turned Harry's stomach. This wasn't the comforting scent of Hogwarts' ancient halls; it was a synthetic, saccharine veneer stretched thin over something rotten.
The walls were a grotesque parody of innocence, smothered in a jarring shade of bubblegum pink that seemed to vibrate against the dignified grey stone of the castle. Every inch was lined with simpering kitten plates—dozens of animated felines blinking slowly, purring in high-pitched, tinkling tones. Their soft chorus, meant to soothe, only deepened the unnatural stillness, as though the room itself held its breath.
At the center of it all sat Umbridge's desk—more like a judge's bench than a place for learning. It was raised slightly, dominating the space, and groaned under stacks of neatly arranged Ministry decrees, each sealed with the heavy stamp of bureaucratic power. Nestled between them were sleek black quills with gleaming, cruelly sharp nibs. They weren't tools for writing—they were promises.
Harry stood stiffly before it all, his threadbare school robes still damp from a miserable trek across the sodden grounds. Mud clung to his scuffed trainers, and the sour tang of stale chewing gum lingered on his sleeves—a parting gift from three hours of detention with Filch, scraping beneath desks with a blunt chisel. His fingers ached. So did his pride.
Now, in this nauseatingly perfumed hell, a familiar dread twisted in his gut, laced with a bitter surge of defiance. This wasn't a detention—it was a power play. And he already knew his role.
Dolores Umbridge sat primly behind her desk, swaddled in the garish pink folds of her cardigan like a venomous toad wrapped in cotton candy. Her round face was split by a syrupy smile, so wide and fixed it looked almost carved into her skin. Her small, glittering eyes sparkled—not with kindness, but with cold, calculated cruelty.
She didn't speak at once.
Instead, she inhaled delicately, a simpering breath that seemed to summon all the false patience in the world. Then, with a graceful, saintly gesture, she indicated a porcelain saucer beside her flowery teapot.
"Do sit down, Harry," she trilled sweetly, her voice like a poisoned treacle. "And perhaps a biscuit? A homemade digestive—soothing, don't you think?"
She slid a perfectly round, pink biscuit across the polished desk toward him. It was too symmetrical, too neat—like everything else in this wretched room.
Harry didn't move. He remained standing, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He met her gaze with a cold, simmering stare, refusing to touch the biscuit, to sit, to give her even the illusion of control.
"Thank you, Professor," he said tightly, his voice low and taut. Heat prickled at his cheeks—the warning signs of an outburst he was forcing back with every ounce of willpower.
Umbridge's smile widened. The effect was monstrous.
"Such lovely manners," she cooed as if praising a particularly obedient house elf. "Now, Harry, we must discuss your… unfortunate habit of spreading falsehoods. These stories about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return… it's all quite disturbing. Highly irresponsible. It causes unrest. Anxiety. And it rather undermines the Ministry's noble efforts to maintain order and calm."
Her words were gentle in tone, but every syllable was barbed. The false concern in her voice was a veil over something far darker—a subtle, slicing menace.
She went on, lazily stroking the shaft of one of the black quills, her fingers trailing along its polished body. A silent threat. A memory branded into Harry's flesh.
"It would be such a pity if a young man with your… history were to find himself in more serious trouble," she murmured. "Especially after such a challenging year."
Harry didn't flinch. Not outwardly. But inside, he seethed.
Order and Calm? She knows. She knows he's back, and she's lying. She's lying to every student, every teacher, the entire bloody wizarding world—and doing it with a smile."
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He remembered the pain of the words I must not tell lies carved into his skin. He remembered the endless Educational Decrees, the way she'd gutted the school of everything that made it home, the way she chipped at Dumbledore's authority with every smug breath.
"I am telling the truth, Professor," he said hoarsely, the rage thick in his throat. His eyes locked onto hers, burning with loathing.
"Voldemort is back."
The words landed with the weight of a curse.
For a fraction of a second, the veil slipped. Something flickered behind Umbridge's eyes—fear, recognition, maybe even panic—but it vanished beneath that ever-smiling facade, replaced once more by her mask of syrupy condescension.
She merely smiled—a terrifyingly placid expression—and let her gaze linger on the punishment quill.
"Mmm," she hummed, as though Harry had said something quaint and irrelevant, "We mustn't let our imaginations run wild, now, must we?"
During a calculated pause, Umbridge leaned back in her chair, her eyes assessing him like a bug under glass. Then, with theatrical self-satisfaction, she gestured toward a small, ornate cabinet in the corner of the room. It was a nauseating thing—glass-paned and lined with frilly lace, housing dozens of delicate pink figurines. But it was not the décor she was after.
"Before we continue, dear boy," she said in a sing-song voice, "I think a small indulgence is in order. A little something to raise the spirits."
She rose with surprising grace for her squat frame and waddled over to the cabinet. With a ceremonial air, she opened the gilt-edged doors and retrieved a bottle—gaudy, heart-shaped, and unmistakably wrong. Its surface shimmered in the candlelight like a cheap Valentine's trinket, and the liquid inside bubbled unnaturally, fizzing with an eerie pink glow.
A ribbon was tied around its neck, and from it dangled a card in the loopy script:
From a Secret Admirer in the Ministry – For Boosting Morale! (Not Returnable. Results May Vary.)
She turned, bottle in hand, and beamed at Harry as if she were about to share something sacred.
"Isn't it darling?" she cooed. "A gift from our dear Minister—or so I suspect. A very special tonic to restore… loyalty."
Harry's mouth went dry. He recognized the handiwork. The bottle's glittery charm, the over-the-top branding—it screamed Fred and George. They hadn't sent it to her out of goodwill. This was a prank. A trap.
And she had just fallen for it.
A flicker of panic twisted in Harry's gut. Had they meant for him to drink it? No—no, they wouldn't. The twins were chaotic, but they weren't cruel. This was aimed at her. He was certain of it.
Still, the thought of being in this room when whatever was inside took hold made his skin crawl.
He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
With slow, deliberate care, Umbridge uncorked the bottle and poured the potion into one of her grotesquely delicate teacups. The liquid shimmered as it settled, catching the light like a liquid blush. She lifted the cup, gave a delicate sniff, then took a generous sip.
Harry watched in mounting horror.
At first, nothing happened.
Then her shoulders slackened. Her eyelids fluttered. Her pale cheeks flushed a deep, splotchy pink. The scent in the room—already thick with artificial floral perfume—seemed to double in strength, wrapping around Harry like a humid fog.
Her smile twisted. It no longer seemed smug—it was hungry.
"Ahhh," she sighed, her voice breathier now, deeper. "Delightful…"
Something primal flickered in her gaze. Her pupils dilated. Her lips parted slightly, tongue darting out just enough to wet them. And all the while, her eyes never left Harry.
Harry stepped back.
"Professor…?"
She rose slowly, abandoning the pretense of elegance. Her hands gripped the edge of her desk as she leaned forward, her voice thick and syrupy.
"Harry, dear," she breathed, "you really are so passionate when you speak. All that fire… all that defiance. It's terribly exciting."
His heart thundered.
This wasn't detention anymore. It was something worse. Far worse.
She took a step around the desk.
Harry backed up instinctively, his foot bumping into the leg of the stiff Victorian chair behind him.
Her eyes roved over him with a glint of lewd interest, her lips parting in a soft gasp.
"So intense," she whispered, taking another step. "So… virile."
Harry's spine hit the wall.
What the fuck was happening?
The potion. It had to be the potion. She'd drunk some kind of lust tonic—a powerful one—and now she was looking at him like he was dessert.
The pink haze in the room felt like it was pressing in on him, cloying and suffocating.
"Professor," he said, voice strained, "you should sit down. That drink—something's not right."
"Oh, but I feel perfectly right," she purred, swaying slightly as she advanced. Her cardigan had begun to slip off one shoulder, and she didn't seem to notice. Or care.
"Oh, Harry," she cooed, her voice thick and syrupy—utterly unlike her usual affected sweetness. "I always knew you possessed a certain… force. A heroic… a truly compelling virility that I find quite… irresistible."
Her eyes, wide and glassy, roamed over him with unsettling intensity, like a starving woman sizing up a feast.
"Why don't you come a little closer, dear boy?" she purred, her gaze dipping to his lips before flicking back up to lock with his. "We could discuss your… incredible potential... in a far more private manner."
Her plump, ring-laden fingers lifted to toy with a stiff curl of her unnaturally brown hair, twirling it with a grotesque parody of girlish charm. Then, slowly and deliberately, she smoothed the front of her pink robes, pressing her palm flat against the fabric just above her chest in a disturbingly suggestive motion.
Harry's insides turned to ice.
A knot of dread clenched tight in his gut, ballooning into full-blown horror as her expression changed. The usual smug condescension had dissolved completely—replaced by something raw, desperate, and far more dangerous. It wasn't admiration in her eyes. It was hunger.
"Professor…" he managed, voice cracking under the pressure, "I… I really must be getting back to my common room. I've got… homework."
He took a step back. Then another.
Every nerve screamed to run.
His hand dipped into his pocket, closing around the handle of his wand. But he didn't pull it free. Not yet. Not unless he had no other choice. Drawing a wand on a professor—even one as revolting as this—could land him in deeper trouble than he could afford. Especially now. Especially with Voldemort back and the Ministry watching his every move.
He turned to the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed down.
Nothing.
He pulled harder.
Still nothing.
Panic flared, sharp, and immediate. The door was sealed—magically locked, immovable.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he yanked at the handle again, frantic now, muscles straining. No use. The door didn't budge. It might as well have been part of the wall.
Behind him, her breathing deepened—hot, panting, uneven. Sticky with potion-fueled lust.
"Oh no, Harry," she moaned, her voice hoarse, cracking at the edges with manic desire. "You're not going anywhere."
Swish.
The unmistakable sound of a wand being drawn cut through the air like a knife.
Harry spun, blood draining from his face.
Umbridge was standing just a few feet away, wand outstretched, her hand trembling. Not from fear—but from anticipation.
Her smile had widened into something grotesque, her lips twitching at the corners, teeth bared in a predatory grimace that no longer resembled anything human. Her eyes gleamed with warped desire, utterly fixated on him.
"You've been such a naughty boy, Mr. Potter," she crooned, stepping closer, her voice shaking with twisted glee. "And naughty boys need… special discipline."
Her wand flicked, the tip glowing a soft, dangerous pink.
A flash of sickly pink light—forever tainted now by the horrors of this office—erupted from her wand.
Harry barely had time to react before an invisible force crashed into him like a wall. The air was ripped from his lungs. He was frozen mid-step, suspended in a vice of magic, muscles locked, chest heaving. Panic surged through him. He strained against it, his heels scraping against the polished floor, but it was useless. His mind was his own—terrified, furious, revolted—but his body had been seized completely. Not a full-body bind. Not the usual jinx. He knew this feeling.
It was the Imperius Curse.
A scream fought to tear free, but nothing came. His throat moved, lips parted, but his voice was gone, smothered beneath the weight of her command.
Umbridge lowered her wand slightly, panting. Her eyes flicked toward the now-empty, gaudy bottle on her desk. For a moment, clarity returned to her face—sharp, resentful.
"An illegal potion," she spat bitterly. "Those filthy, meddling Weasleys…"
But the sneer vanished as quickly as it had come, overtaken by an all-consuming lust that twisted her expression into something feral. Her lips curled in grotesque satisfaction, and she stepped toward him, her breath labored.
"No matter," she murmured thickly. "It only affirms what I've always known... You want this, Harry. You were always meant for greater things. For me."
He tried to turn his head, to close his eyes—anything—but the curse held him too tightly. He could feel the compulsion coiling through his limbs, his nerves, his mind, coiling around him like a python.
"Don't scream," she said, low and threatening. "Don't struggle. You'll stay right where you are. Understand?"
The curse twisted in his skull, and he felt the words imprint on him. His lips trembled, then parted of their own accord.
"…Yes," he whispered hoarsely. Not his voice. Not his will. But it came all the same.
A faint shimmer of pink rippled across the sealed door. The Silencing Charm. No one would hear. No one would interrupt.
And then, like a grotesque ceremony, she turned back to her desk, lifting a silver carafe—elegant and out of place in this room of horrors. It was filled again, somehow, with that same obscene pink potion. She poured it carefully into a teacup, then turned, offering it with both hands.
"Now, my sweet boy," she said, her voice syrupy and trembling with hunger, "a toast… to obedience."
His hand moved against his will—shaking, uncertain, guided not by desire but by the invisible leash of the Imperius. Fingers curled around the delicate china. It was warm. Frighteningly so.
Somewhere inside, buried beneath layers of forced calm, Harry screamed.
He didn't want this. He hated her.
But his lips moved.
The cup touched them.
He drank.
The potion burned. It seared down his throat like liquid fire, and then, impossibly, bloomed into heat—thick, rich, and blinding. His vision blurred, the edges of the room pulsing with an unnatural glow. His breath hitched. His body flushed.
The revulsion remained. But it tangled now with something hotter, darker. An ache.
Not real.
It couldn't be real.
But it was rising. Fast. Relentless.
His eyes snapped to her again. Not with fury, not with disgust—but hunger. False hunger. Manufactured. But consuming.
Umbridge's smile widened. Triumphant. Hungry.
"You'll do everything I ask, won't you, Harry?" she whispered, stepping closer, her voice sticky with vile affection. "Everything."
"Yes," he breathed.
And this time, the answer came far too easily.
"Good boy, Harry," she crooned, her voice thick with twisted satisfaction. "Now… we're going to get comfortable. Remove your robes, Harry. And everything else."
Her tone was silk over steel—commanding, final. No room for argument.
"Don't make me ask twice."
The magic inside him surged again, tightening around his will like a noose. The strength he had used to resist was slipping through his fingers, replaced by something pliant, submissive. His limbs, once trembling with fury and dread, now moved with eerie obedience.
Harry's body moved with calculated slowness, a marionette under the strings of magic and twisted intent; but this time, the strings were his own design. The heavy school robes, once a symbol of studenthood, now felt like a stage costume in a performance of power. His hands, steady despite the potion's seductive haze, unclasped the silver fastenings. The rustle of fabric falling to the floor was sharp and deliberate, like a taunt echoing through the air.
Next came the tie, then the shirt, each item discarded to reveal his lean, Quidditch-honed body: toned, agile, and flushed with artificial heat. His skin burned with the potion's fire, a crimson tint rising across his chest and neck. His trousers slid down his legs with theatrical grace, revealing a cock already stirring to life, rising in betrayal, or obedience, to the spellwork. His briefs clung tightly to the heavy swell of his balls before his fingers, no longer trembling, hooked the waistband and peeled away the final scrap of modesty.
He stood naked, exposed, his nine-inch erection proud and throbbing, not with shame, but with challenge.
Umbridge's eyes gleamed with unholy hunger, a grotesque spark lighting her pudgy face. A low, guttural sound crawled from her throat, animalistic and obscene, made worse by the heavy layers of garish pink makeup melting across her cheeks. "Magnificent," she breathed, voice thick with perverse pleasure as she drank in his form. "Absolutely… perfect."
Harry said nothing. He didn't need to. She saw what she wanted to see.
Her gaze roamed over him, consuming every inch. Her jowls quivered with a sickening anticipation as her grin widened. "Now, Harry," she purred, her voice a command wrapped in velvet and venom. "Tell me what you see. Describe me. Tell me what you desire, boy." She gestured at herself with stubby, splayed fingers, her arms out as though expecting worship. She shifted her weight with an awkward sensuality, basking in the illusion of control.
Then, with a sickening sigh of delight, she began to undress. Her movements, usually stiff, prim, and proper, were now deliberate, almost serpentine. The shocking pink robes slipped off her shoulders like molted skin, pooling at her feet to reveal sensible underthings that clung to her round, sagging form. Layer by layer, she peeled herself open, revealing flesh pale with age and soft with time.
Under the potion's influence, Harry's eyes were compelled to follow every motion, every wobble, every exposed roll. The magic twisted his senses, turning what would have been pure revulsion into something falsely divine. Wrinkles became "laugh lines." The softness under her chin appeared "voluptuous." Her drooping breasts seemed "full" and "ripe." What his rational mind screamed was grotesque, the spell transmuted into something "creamy," "yielding," and "lush with promise."
Her breasts, which Harry knew in his true mind to be smallish, perhaps a sagging 32B, and utterly out of proportion on her squat five-foot frame, were now, through the potion's twisted lens, "full and bountiful," "inviting warmth and comfort." His drugged eyes locked onto her nipples, visibly hardening in the cool air, their unnatural shade of pink eerily matching her lipstick. They stood pert and proud, captivating in a way that made his rational mind recoil in horror.
Her backside, fat in some places and bony in others, a shape he'd normally find utterly revolting, now appeared to him as "a delightfully cushioned behind," "ripe for exploration," "jiggling enticingly with every movement she made." Each shift of her hips sent a tremor through him, drawing his attention like a moth to a very unpleasant flame.
And then came the most grotesque detail: the letter 'M' shaved into her wiry pubic hair. Harry's consciousness screamed in revulsion, but the potion had its claws sunk deep. What should have been a repulsive, unhygienic sight now appeared as something sacred, an arousing emblem that made his stomach turn even as his cock twitched. In his distorted perception, it was "a mark of authority," "a sigil of feminine power," and with sickening clarity, he found himself thinking it might stand for "Ministry"… or worse, "Madam Umbridge." The idea thrilled him and made him harder, despite every fiber of his true self shrieking in protest.
The signs of her arousal were unmistakable: a glistening sheen between her thighs, and the overpowering scent of her aroused body, thick, musky, and heavy with pheromones. Under normal circumstances, he would have gagged. But now, it filled his senses like ambrosia, overwhelming, intoxicating. His pulse thundered in his ears. The fantasy was grotesque, but in the haze of magic, it felt inescapably real.
His vocal cords resisted, but the potion forced his mouth to move, dragging words from him like meat from bone. His voice, rough and low, was soaked in false longing, twisted adoration. "You are… magnificent, Professor," he rasped, the words vile on his tongue, each syllable tasting of shame and ash. "And if you were my secretary, this cock would always stay in your pussy."
It didn't stop there. The magic compelled him to go on, to pour his soul into flattery he didn't believe. His tone thickened with enchanted heat. "Once I've properly stretched that tight pussy for my pleasure, I won't stop until I've pounded your ass raw, daily."
Each word was a violation. A betrayal. They weren't his. They didn't come from him. And yet, they left his lips, a humiliating string of compliments for the woman he despised more than anyone else alive.
The sickly-sweet stench of her perfume intensified as she stepped closer, the cloying floral notes mixing horribly with her natural musk. Despite her squat form, she moved with unnatural grace, each step filled with practiced seduction. The Holding Charm kept him upright, but now—fueled by the potion—his limbs were soft, pliant, aching to obey.
"Come, Harry," she purred, her voice dripping with perverse delight. "Let's make this truly… memorable."
Her hand, soft yet possessive, curled around his arm and tugged him forward, leading him toward the plush pink rug unfurled before the hearth. Its thick pile promised grotesque comfort—a parody of intimacy laid bare. His bare feet dragged across the floor, his mind a silent scream of resistance, while his body pulsed with feverish anticipation, driven by the potion's cruel grip.
She reclined with theatrical flair, spreading her thighs and stretching her arms wide like some obscene goddess of bureaucracy and corruption. The face once twisted in disapproval now glistened with hunger, eyes alight, mouth slack and panting with feral need.
Then she descended.
Her head dipped into shadow, and Harry watched, frozen in helpless dread, as her painted lips parted and enveloped the full, rigid length of his cock. Her tongue, wet and disturbingly skilled, curled around him with practiced ease. His body jolted. A raw, involuntary moan tore from his throat. Every nerve sang with searing pleasure. The potion magnified everything—every wet suck, every flick of her tongue—twisting even revulsion into unbearable ecstasy.
His mind, still his, screamed beneath it all.
He felt the weight of her—her age, her authority—bearing down on him like a curse. The stench of her perfume clung to the air like rot masked in roses. The heat of her mouth should have sickened him, but it consumed him instead, his traitorous body arching into her touch. His fingers, no longer shaking, threaded into her unnaturally soft black hair, or seized her shoulders, pulling her closer—compelled by magic, not desire.
She controlled the rhythm with terrifying precision. Her lips glided down until her throat swallowed him whole, then back, slowly, torturously, savoring every inch. Her eyes met his again and again—glassy with lust, gloating in triumph. She drank in every gasp, every tremble, every humiliating twitch of his cock as if collecting trophies. And she owned him. Not Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived—but his body, his pleasure, the base, manipulated reaction of flesh stripped from the soul.
The pressure rose, unbearable, unstoppable. His hips bucked hard, and a hoarse, animalistic cry burst from his lips. Umbridge's eyes gleamed, wide and feverish.
"Oh, Harry," she moaned around him, pulling off just enough to gasp. "This is the biggest cock I've ever taken."
The words, obscene and twisted, didn't flatter—they branded him. The potion latched onto them like a command. His hands moved without consent, clutching her head with sudden force, thrusting into her face, driving himself deeper. His voice, raw and guttural, growled from somewhere he didn't recognize.
"Drink it," he snarled. "Swallow every fucking drop."
His climax hit like a spell gone wrong—blinding, violent, absolute. A thick, scalding flood of cum poured into her mouth. He slammed his hips forward, burying every inch down her throat, feeling her gullet flex as she swallowed greedily, obediently. She didn't miss a drop. Her lips were sealed tight, milking him dry as his body shuddered through the brutal aftermath of the release.
At last, she pulled away. Her mouth glistened, a mess of saliva and semen, and she licked her lips slowly, savoring every trace like a prize.
Harry collapsed on the rug, breath ragged, chest heaving. His vision swam. Every muscle ached with spent magic. Inside, he howled silently, a scream caged behind glass.
She leaned over him again, face alight with twisted satisfaction. Her voice was a purr, low and smoky with triumph.
"Magnificent, wasn't it, Harry?" she cooed. "You really are… quite talented. Do you know how many promotions I've earned thanks to this little skill?" She smirked, tongue flicking over her teeth. "It's opened many doors for me over the years. And now, thanks to you… Cornelius will soon make me headmistress of Hogwarts."
With deliberate grace, she stood. A flick of her wand summoned a wave of sickly pink magic, coalescing into a strap-on harness. The dark leather gleamed ominously, taut and purposeful. Attached to it was a double-ended dildo—deep, venomous purple—its twin shafts polished to a sinister sheen. One was gently curved to nestle perfectly inside her, the other thick and cruelly ridged, sculpted to invade him.
Umbridge fastened the harness with practiced, methodical precision. The inner shaft slid into her with a soft, wet sigh, eliciting a low moan from her throat. Her gaze—sharp, hungry, and possessive—never left Harry. She conjured a shimmering coat of slick lubricant over the outer shaft, watching it catch the flickering candlelight like blood on polished obsidian.
The air was heavy with magic and the scent of sweat, sex, and candle wax. Her wand twitched. The Imperius Curse tightened its invisible grip on him, wrapping around his limbs like a coiled rope.
"On your knees. Face down," she commanded, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife through silk.
His body, devoid of will, obeyed. He collapsed onto all fours, muscles trembling. His cock twitched, painfully sensitive from his recent, unwilling climax—still slick with his shame.
Behind him, Umbridge loomed, the dildo's cool, unyielding tip pressing against his entrance. She paused, savoring the moment, the cruel anticipation blooming in her eyes. Her wand pulsed in her grip as the effects of the potion in Harry's blood began to peak—specifically brewed to convert pain into electric, euphoric pleasure.
"Beg for it," she hissed. The curse twisted around his throat, choking off resistance, wrenching the words from him.
"Please… Professor Umbridge… fuck me." The words burned as they left his mouth, hollow and foreign, his voice rough, trembling with forced desire.
She laughed—sharp, victorious—and slammed into him. The dildo forced him open with merciless pressure, and the pain instantly warped into an unbearable surge of corrupted pleasure. He groaned, body jerking forward, fingers clawing at the stone floor. Behind him, Umbridge moaned shamelessly as the inner shaft struck her G-spot, sending shivers up her spine.
"Touch yourself," she snapped. The curse compelled Harry's hand to wrap around his cock, already painfully hard. He began to stroke—haltingly at first, then faster, guided by her hand clutching his, forcing the rhythm into a punishing pace.
"Faster, Potter. Show me how much you need to cum."
His back arched under her brutal thrusts, body slick with sweat, pre-cum dripping steadily to the floor. The sensation was overwhelming—her cock hammering into him, his own fist-pumping madly, both acts feeding the potion-fueled storm crashing through his nerves.
Somewhere inside, Harry screamed. This isn't me. This isn't real. But the curse muffled it all, replacing his truth with whimpers, gasps, and hoarse moans.
"Professor… Umbridge…" he sobbed again, the words shattering what remained of his dignity.
"You loved my mouth, didn't you?" she cooed, her breath hot against his ear. "Now you love this."
"Yes, Professor," he gasped—because the curse demanded it because the potion made every thrust feel like ecstasy and agony spun together.
The floor beneath him was slick with pre-cum, reflecting distorted candlelight like an oil-slicked mirror. Her thrusts grew savage, unrelenting, hips slapping against his backside. Their joined hands blurred over his cock, soaked and throbbing.
His second climax hit violently. Cum splattered the floor in thick ropes, his body convulsing, his voice a strangled cry. But she didn't stop. She couldn't. The inner shaft of the dildo had driven deep into her, grinding against that molten core with every thrust, sending pulses of unbearable pleasure clawing up her spine.
"Yes," she gasped, hips slamming harder. Her hands gripped his waist like a vice, nails digging into his skin as she used him like a toy.
Her climax crested suddenly, a blinding wave that ripped a howl from her throat—ragged and animal. Her thighs shook. Her back arched like a bowstring drawn to its breaking point. The inner shaft milked her G-spot with surgical cruelty, setting her nerves ablaze. Magic surged from her body in wild, erratic pulses—candles flaring, shadows dancing madly along the walls.
She bit her lower lip until it bled, her body spasming as the orgasm tore through her like wildfire. "F-fuck—yes, yes—yes, Potter!"
The pleasure twisted into something monstrous, something sacred. Her entire body pulsed with it. Her cunt clenched violently around the invading shaft, hips jerking with every aftershock. The walls of the room seemed to tremble as her aura exploded in a haze of magical release—thick, pink, and suffocating.
But even as her orgasm consumed her, she kept fucking him.
"Again," she snarled through gritted teeth, face flushed, hair plastered to her temples with sweat. Her wand twitched violently. The curse surged anew. His hand moved on its own, now slick with fresh cum, stroking his raw, hypersensitive cock. He sobbed, helpless.
The cycle repeated. A third climax. A fourth. Her thrusts never slowed. The potion heightened every nerve until his entire body was aflame. Her face—flushed and radiant with perverse triumph—twisted into a mask of sadistic bliss, the lingering afterglow of her orgasm still rippling through her limbs.
Finally, she slowed, chest heaving, satisfaction oozing from every pore. She pulled out. The dildo, coated in slick and seed, gleamed obscenely. Harry collapsed, ruined, dazed, limbs trembling.
The Imperius Curse didn't release him. It coaxed him to crawl to her like a beaten pet, pressing his face into her lap. Her perfume, once a choking, saccharine horror, now seeped into his corrupted senses—warm, wet, almost comforting.
His hands clutched at her. His face pressed against her breasts. And when he looked up, his eyes were glazed—vacant, yearning—a puppet mask of worship carved by magic and alchemy.
But deep within, something screamed.
It wasn't him. It wasn't real.
But now, Umbridge was no longer consumed by lust. The heat drained swiftly from her eyes, replaced by something far more chilling: cold calculation. That terrifying shrewdness returned in an instant. A slow, smug smile curved her lips as she looked down at him, at the boy trembling beneath her, bound by magic and humiliation. His expression, the slavish, helpless devotion in his gaze, was everything she needed.
Already, her mind was ticking, categorizing. She would have to be careful. No one at Hogwarts, absolutely no one, could ever know. The notion that she, Dolores Umbridge, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, had fallen victim to a prank potion was not only unthinkable. It was unacceptable.
But the thought of Harry's face, if he remembered. The horror. The shame.
A dark thrill shivered through her, low and thick.
She would make sure he did not forget. Not entirely. Just enough.
"Enough, Harry," Umbridge snapped. Her voice sliced through the lingering haze of the potion like a blade dipped in ice. The sharp, commanding tone had returned, though a faint huskiness still clung to her words, an aftertaste of exertion she could not quite erase. "Get dressed. We have matters to conclude."
There was nothing warm in her voice now. Coldly clinical, stripped of any intimacy, she spoke as though what had just passed was no more than an unpleasant administrative task.
Harry, still dazed and disoriented, felt the potion's hold, diminished but not yet gone, tugging at him like a tether. He obeyed mechanically. Each motion was stiff and slow as if he were a puppet moved by fading strings. His fingers fumbled at his shirt buttons, the fine tremble in his hands betraying the deeper shake within.
Though the fever in his limbs had begun to ebb, it left behind a raw, disquieting void. But worse, far worse, was the echo. The memory of pleasure was forced upon him. The betrayal of his own body. That lingered. That would not fade.
While he struggled with his uniform, Umbridge moved with disturbing precision. She adjusted her hair, smoothing the tight brown curls into place, and straightened her pink robes with brisk, practiced tugs. With a flick of her wand and a whisper-soft incantation, she cast a cleansing charm, wiping away every trace of what had transpired: the scent, the wrinkles, the flecks of fluid betraying the truth. Her face slid back into that grotesque mask of smug composure, a perfect parody of propriety.
She even glanced toward the wall of kitten plates, as though reaffirming the illusion of innocence, of order restored.
When both were dressed and the room had resumed its disturbingly saccharine normalcy, Umbridge fixed him with a cold, unwavering gaze. She began to pace in short, measured strides, her squat figure moving with unsettling focus.
"Now, Harry," she began, her voice low and deliberate, each word laid down like a brick in a carefully constructed prison. "About our discussion." She let the word linger, thick with implication. "It is imperative that this little private lesson remain entirely confidential. Ministry affairs, you understand."
Her eyes bored into his, hard and bright and unyielding. "Upon leaving this room, you will remember nothing of what transpired here. Absolutely nothing."
She raised her wand slowly and deliberately, leveling it at his forehead.
Panic surged in Harry's chest, raw and immediate. He wanted to speak, to object, to ask something, anything, but the potion still clouded his mind. It wrapped around his thoughts like a net pulled tight. All he managed was a strangled grunt, a weak shake of his head, and a final, futile protest that died on his lips.
Then came the strangest sensation of all: loss. Not relief. Not even fear. But a deep, hollow ache, as if something vital was already slipping through his fingers. The blankness approached, vast and merciless, like a tidal wave. He could feel the memory—the shame, the horror—being pulled from him, strand by strand.
He was utterly passive. Powerless. A slate being wiped clean by the very woman who had orchestrated his degradation.
Still slightly unsteady, Harry took a hesitant step toward the office door. But Umbridge stopped him with a single word, spoken softly, almost gently.
"Harry."
He turned, eyes still glazed, a faint frown creasing his brow as he struggled to focus. Her expression had changed. The smugness had ripened into something worse. It was no longer merely self-satisfied, but cruel, malicious. There was nothing left of the Ministry official. What stood before him now was the unmasked predator.
She raised her wand with barely a motion—no words, no flash of light. Just a subtle shimmer in the air, and Harry felt it. A ripple, like heat rising from scorched stone. His skin prickled. Dizziness swept over him as if the floor had tilted beneath him.
Then, it was gone.
Her voice returned, low and deliberate, each word dripping with venom.
"And as a little memento of our time together, Harry. A reminder of who truly holds the power."
She stepped closer, her perfume sickly-sweet, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Not joy—pure, vengeful triumph.
"You will find your preferences... permanently altered."
She let the words linger, stretching them like a curse.
"From this day on, you will feel yourself drawn—irresistibly—to women who are older, heavier, and utterly beneath the standards of what your kind would find appealing. You'll want them, Harry. You'll crave them. You'll worship them. And you'll never understand why."
It wasn't a threat. It was a desecration. A violation of his very being, carved deep into his subconscious where no one could reach it.
Umbridge stepped back, her eyes sparkling with vicious pride. She giggled—a high-pitched sound that quickly twisted into something worse. Her laughter filled the room, cruel and triumphant, bouncing off the walls.
Harry, unaware of the curse now planted deep inside him, turned toward the door. The memory of the past hour was already slipping away, dissolving into fog. He would not remember, but the spell would remain, silently rooting itself in the bedrock of his desires.
As he stepped through the office door, the sickly pink glow of Umbridge's domain gave way to the cold, familiar stone of the corridor. The final wave of the memory-wiping spell hit him with sickening finality. A violent wave of disorientation crashed over him as if something vital had been ripped from his mind, leaving behind a raw void.
A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, pressure building beneath his skull like a storm waiting to break.
He paused, one hand still gripping the brass doorknob, brow furrowed. The corridor stretched before him, lined with familiar archways and faded tapestries. But something was wrong. It wasn't obvious—just a quiet, ambient wrongness, like the muffled dissonance of a dream.
There was a hole in his memory.
He felt it immediately—a detachment from time. Like he'd blinked and lost hours.
Had he served detention? With Umbridge?
He couldn't remember.
His eyes dropped to his watch, searching for some clarity. But the missing time mocked him. He had been somewhere. Something important had happened. And it was gone.
Behind the door, faint and muffled, Umbridge's laughter echoed—a shrill, triumphant sound that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He shuddered, though he didn't know why, slowly letting go of the doorknob as though it might burn him.
He turned and walked, the corridor stretching out like a tunnel in a dream. His shoes echoed on the stone floor, each sound sharper than it should have been. His chest tightened, his thoughts clouded.
Then, something stirred inside him.
A warmth.
Subtle. Strange.
Passing a portrait of a frumpy older witch, Harry glanced at her—then did a double take. His eyes lingered longer than they should have. Something like interest flickered at the edge of his awareness. It was brief. Fleeting. But it was real.
He blinked, shaking his head, unsettled. Disgusted, maybe. Or confused. He kept walking, disturbed by something he couldn't name.
Later, it would happen again.
He might pass Professor Grubbly-Plank tending to a wounded Skrewt, her robes dusty, her graying hair askew—and feel it. The flicker. The strange tug.
Or Madam Pomfrey scolding a third-year, flushed with frustration, sharp with authority—and that same inexplicable warmth would rise again.
The curse had begun to take root.
It wound itself deep inside him, patient and cruel, warping not just his desires, but the very lens through which he saw the world. Quietly reprogramming something intimate, something sacred.
And as Harry made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, his shoulders hunched against an unseen chill, he remained unaware of the legacy left behind in that room.
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