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Harry pushed open the heavy office door, stepping into Professor Umbridge’s pink, overly perfumed office. The room’s cloying sweetness felt oppressive, and the pictures of kittens adorning every available space only made the moment feel more creepy.

Professor Umbridge sat behind her desk, her lips stretching into a sickly-sweet smile. Harry was deeply uncomfortable but he refused to show it. She glanced up at Harry with a gleam of satisfaction, clearly relishing this opportunity to “put him in his place,” as she often reminded him.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," she said in that falsely pleasant voice. "I trust you understand why you're here?”

Harry nodded, swallowing back any retort. This was the latest in a string of detentions, each designed to undermine him in some way. It had already been a long, difficult week, and he felt the weight of exhaustion in every bone. He hadn’t even really done anything this time. But it had happened in front of a lot of people. Clearly, Umbridge didn’t do well with public humiliation.

"I’ve decided on a… more traditional approach today,” she said, lifting a thin cane from her desk. “One that will, I trust, impress the importance of obedience upon you.” The gleam in her eye seemed darker, more angry than usual. Apparently she really didn’t like public humiliation.

The realisation struck Harry hard, and his eyes flicked to the cane in her hands, a surge of anxiety building in his stomach. He was no stranger to discipline, but this was different, harsher. A knot of fear twisted in his chest – a knot that echoed the voices of the Dursleys and their punishments throughout his childhood.

"Turn around, Mr. Potter," she instructed, her voice as sweet as syrup, yet laced with cold authority. "You’ll count after each strike. I expect you to use this time to remind yourself why we don’t spread lies about the Ministry or this school, or me .” She seethed the last couple of words. “Hands on the table, Mr Potter.”

Harry clenched his fists, bracing himself against her desk as she instructed and fighting to maintain his composure. He didn’t dare let her see any hint of fear, not when he knew she was looking for it, craving it. At first, he worried it was going to be across his hands. There’s no way he’d be much use after that. It sounded like she wanted to cane him quite a number of times. But then, alongside the dread that pooled in his stomach and the bile rising in his throat, Umbridge cast a spell on his trousers, causing them to drop to reveal his backside. His whole backside.

Harry squeezed his thighs together in fear. Such a vulnerable position making his knees wobble, despite himself but his hands were glued in place. It was nothing like his embarrassed but decidedly necessary exposure with Snape, even if the… consequences were humiliating. This was with Umbridge. This was not something he wanted or needed. This felt vulgar. Harry felt sick.

Umbridge punished him with slow, deliberate precision, ensuring that each blow served as a reminder of his defiance. It was as much a punishment of pride as it was of pain, and Harry gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand tall. He’d already endured so much this year—he wouldn’t let her break him.

“Let this be a lesson, Mr. Potter,” she said with a twisted satisfaction in her tone, “and perhaps next time, you’ll think twice about what you say.”

When it was finally over, Harry silently pulled up his trousers, fastening them securely before turning back to face her, his face pale but resolute. He didn’t speak even then—he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing how much it affected him.

“Detention dismissed,” Umbridge said, waving him off with a final, cold smile. Harry left her office, his steps steady and his face set in determination, but the pain . The pain ricocheted all throughout his body, straight up his spine and down into his feet.

Harry knew he couldn’t risk going to Madam Pomfrey; she would be required to report any incident of physical punishment to Dumbledore. Especially like this. From there, word would inevitably reach the Order, and he could only imagine their reactions. They had enough on their plate already, and—if he was being honest—Harry wasn’t even sure he trusted Dumbledore completely anymore. He didn't need or want that many people knowing about this. A strange wetness began to rise in his eyes that he willed away with a swallow.

Reluctantly, he settled on the only other option that wouldn’t lead to an uproar. Professor Snape had helped him before, so Harry knew he was discreet. He had even offered more help despite the… accident. The thought of taking him up for his offer to help was daunting, yet the idea of facing tomorrow with untreated wounds was worse. He’d just have to bear the humiliation and hope Snape would handle it with his usual cold indifference. Gritting his teeth, Harry made his way to the dungeons, hoping he could just get through this without any questions—or at least without any he didn’t know how to answer. He already felt weak enough.

Harry hesitated in front of Snape’s door, running through every way this could go wrong. Or, more accurately, thinking of how surely this couldn’t go as wrong as last time. But even if it did go wrong, Professor Snape had still gotten the job done last time. He raised his hand and, before he could overthink it any further, knocked.

There was a pause, then the door opened to reveal Snape’s severe expression. His gaze softened ever so slightly when he took in Harry’s slouched, uncomfortable posture. Harry’s gaze ran quickly over Snape’s outfit. He was still wearing formal attire; a shirt and trousers. So he hadn't woken him.

"Potter," he said, his voice sharp but quieter than usual. "It’s rather late. What brings you here?"

Harry cleared his throat, feeling his face flush as he avoided Snape’s eyes. “I, er... I need some help. Madam Pomfrey isn’t really an option.” He took a steadying breath. “Umbridge gave me detention tonight. She... she didn’t use a blood quill.”

Snape’s expression darkened with grim curiosity. His usual mask of disdain slipped, replaced by a look Harry couldn’t quite read—somewhere between anger and something that almost seemed like concern.

“Come inside,” he said briskly, standing aside.

Harry stepped in, glancing around. Snape’s quarters were dimly lit with candles and the hearth. The small lounge area was filled with shelves of potion ingredients and an assortment of books. Despite the circumstances, it was strange to be here, in this private space he hadn’t imagined the professor occupying.

“Show me the injuries,” Snape said, a bit more gently.

Harry felt a surge of embarrassment but turned, lifting his shirt and lowering his waistband just enough to show the marks that cut across his lower back – as low down as he was willing to go. He winced as the fabric brushed over the raw welts.

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. He moved toward a cabinet on the wall, rummaging through it before he returned with a small jar. “Fortunately for you, she used no magic to produce these welts. This balm will heal them by morning.”

Snape held out the jar, and Harry took it, swallowing his discomfort. “Thank you, Professor. Really.”

Harry realised then, that with how much it hurt, and how far he’d have to reach the welts and cuts, he wouldn't be able to get to them all.

“Professor, I don’t– I don’t think I can actually reach them.”

“No, I suppose not.” Snape sighed before hesitantly asking, “Do you… have anyone you could ask to–?” He gestured to the jar of balm.

Harry shook his head vigorously. Who on earth could he ask to.. Touch him–?

Snape's eyes snapped to the ceiling so quickly Harry saw a flash of solid white eyes that strangely suited him, despite his dark aesthetic.

Harry was rapidly realising his predicament. Anyone he could possibly try to ask to apply the balm, would need an explanation as to why it was like that. There was no way anyone would excuse this and it would spread like wildfire between all of the Order and eventually Dumbledore. Madam Pomfrey would definitely be required to report such an injury. The whole of Hogwarts would know about the state of his backside within a couple of days. He shivered.

Snape was silent, clearly trying to think of alternatives to the predicament presented to him. His grimace clearly meant he hadn't.

“It would… perhaps be wise… for someone to see the extent… of the damage.” Snape looked like he’d rather be in the centre of a whole school group hug than be letting the next words leave his mouth. “So, it would not be… most unproductive… to help you.”

Harry did not want to ask for clarification. He did NOT want Snape to specify what he was talking about. Harry simply nodded. A silent agreement passed between them: they will never ever talk about this again. Just like last time. Harry was fairly certain he was going to die from humiliation long before he had the opportunity to tell anyone, even if he did want to. Which he resolutely did not.

Snape wordlessly transfigured a desk into a hospital bed like those in Madam Pomfrey’s hospital wing and yes, that's genius . Almost instantly Harry felt less like he was about to be butt-ass naked in Snape’s personal quarters, and more like he was getting an important but uncomfortable medical examination.

Harry passed Snape the healing balm and slowly took off his robes. He placed the robes on the back of the armchair, unbuttoned and removed his shirt, and nervously placed his fingers on his trousers. Harry removed his trousers swiftly, leaving behind only his boxers. He left them on as he clambered on to the hospital bed. If Harry closed his eyes very tightly, he could maybe convince himself that he wasn't about to be naked in front of Snape… again .

He heard Snape uncap the balm and that really was the last moment he had before he had to pull his boxers down. This was it. He was doing this. This is just a medical treatment . 

Harry lifted his hip and swiftly pulled both his underwear down to his knees. His hands flew to his face and he hid his face with them. That was a bad idea. Removing his underwear like that had felt so much more exposing than just climbing on the table in the nude. What’s done is done. The cold air stung the wounds stretching from lower back to mid thigh. Harry remembered that this was going to hurt just as bad as the punishment, if not worse.

Snape’s silence was actually helpful in this situation. Harry didn't think he’d be able to handle his biting remarks. Harry cringed at his choice in wording; biting . Why was he thinking about it? No, stop. He felt a deep ache in his dick and he wanted to die on the spot. If he got hard during this he was fairly certain he’d perish. Which naturally, caused him to think of the last time he was getting help from Snape and what that ended up entailing.

Harry had whole-heartedly expected the whole ordeal to be extremely painful. So much so that when the first touch of the cool balm was applied to the edge of a stinging cut on his thigh, Harry moaned at the relief if brought. And god, was he embarrassed. He stuttered his apologies before deciding it was best to be silent. 

Snape’s calculated but gentle hands made quick work over his thighs first. And nevermind, he definitely would NOT be getting hard during this because holy FUCK. Harry gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw painfully, tensing his whole body as the pain shot through him. He groaned, long and agonising but he couldn't keep it in. He relaxed immediately after every rub only to lock back up when the pressure returned. It took all of his effort not to hex Snape into oblivion by an accident.

On more than one occasion, Harry realised during a particularly long reprieve Snape had given him – thank you merciful God - that he had been grinding against the table in his efforts to both escape and stay put. It was embarrassing, but not because of the action. No, the action probably looked quite proportional to the situation to Snape, tensing up on the table normally caused someone to move. No… it was the reaction that Harry was embarrassed by. A reaction that Snape couldn’t even see, but now Harry knew, he felt like crawling into a pit and curling up to die.

He was hard.

Somehow, in all of this messed up, excruciating pain, Harry’s dick had decided the grinding was good enough to ignore it all and become aroused. It was like a switch was flicked. The second Harry realised he was hard, he was suddenly, rushingly, aroused. The next groan that came out of his mouth didn’t sound much like a pained one. Snape wasn’t even touching him. Harry could only hope it at least sounded like one of relief for the break.

Now, as well as the pain, Harry had to purposefully channel every single reaction into one that sounded like pain. Every swipe of Snape’s thumb and fingers, getting ever closer to where he wanted them to– No. Absolutely not. Harry didn’t want them anywhere. That was his dick talking and as far as Harry was concerned, his dick can go screw itself. It twitched. The resulting butterfly effect meant that the head of his very sensitive cock rubbed between the table and his stomach, causing an electric shock of pleasure to rip him and shocked a startled moan out of him, like an electrocuted hand would twitch.

Snape’s fingers paused.

Oh fuck– Snape’s fingers paused . Which meant he heard. He knew. Heknewheknew.

Harry’s breaths shuddered deeply as he listened for any reaction from Snape. Any comments, any movements, any thing . But nothing came, almost like nothing happened Snape resumed his ministrations and Harry went back to pretending he was in pain. Though, and Harry would never admit it, he didn't try quite as hide to disguise his moans.

It was over after what felt like an eternity and yet what didn't feel like long enough. Harry felt boneless, abused but in all the right ways. He was still hard. It pulsed like a deep never-ending orgasm was rippling through him without pause.

Slowly, Harry rose from the table, blush prominent on his face – hell probably his whole body was red. His brain was so fuzzy and melted after the whole ordeal he forgot he should have made more of an effort to hide his erection. If he was in his right mind, he also would’ve spotted the obviously wet streak rubbed into the material of the table from where he laid. But, he stood and put on his trousers, careful to not disturb the wounds on his body more than necessary, completely unaware of the tense air around him. His muscles felt like they’d been massaged to high heaven and were now goop, ready to sink into a soft mattress and sleep. More importantly orgasm.

Harry dazedly looked up at Snape’s searching eyes.

Snape gave a curt nod, glancing down to the front of Harry’s trousers. “Potter, you’re not to hesitate if… this happens again.”

“Yes, Sir.” Harry’s chest fluttered at the unusual softness and concern in Snape’s voice. Harry couldn't even imagine how bad his body looked. He couldn’t imagine much right now. A soft, gentle, rising voice in his head focusing only on more primal immediate gratification. He left Snape’s quarters feeling like he’d made the right choice, even if he felt way more than a little exposed. Something in Snape’s gaze stayed in his mind.

He slipped quietly into the common room, where a few stragglers were still chatting near the fire, and hurried up to the dormitory. Thankfully, Ron was already snoring softly, along with the others, and Harry could finally change into something more comfortable and sink onto his bed with a groan. He lay on his side, careful not to let the covers irritate the raw, tender skin. The balm had helped, true, but the memory of Snape’s touch had left him feeling some kind of way.

It was just that he’d never really thought of Snape as anything other than his cold, snide professor. Even that brief moment of gentleness and concern… it had thrown him. Harry let out a frustrated sigh, trying to push the thought from his mind. But no matter how much he tried, he kept circling back to it. Snape had seen him wounded, vulnerable—and he’d actually helped him. Not only that, but Harry was pretty certain that his reaction wouldn’t have been the same with just anyone.

He couldn’t help but wonder what Snape had thought of him, standing there awkwardly, asking for help with the fresh reminders of his punishment. Harry scolded himself, attempting to shake the thought loose, but the more he tried, the more his face warmed. What had he thought of him when he moaned?

He didn’t really notice it happening until his dick was trapped between the mattress and his stomach, little grinding movements of his hips giving him an unproportional amount of pleasure. He was so close. He whined, high but near silent. Pressing his face further into his pillows, he thought back to the whole ordeal, letting the memory of expert fingers run over him, rubbing into his muscles and feeling his body. He imagined what else those skilled fingers could do; tugging on his hair, slipping into his mouth, wrapping around his dick, stretching his hole– 

Harry moaned and whined into his pillow (thanking his habit of casting silencing charms around his bed). He rutted into the bed faster until the delicious lick of pleasure built even thicker in himself. It was almost like it was running through his bloodstream. He could feel his heart beating with an almost concerning strength, like it was going to beat right out of his chest. He could feel his temples pulsing with energy and excitement as he built and built towards that impending finish line. Oh GOD , Harry couldn't control himself. His breathing picked up as his hips ground harder, jostling the already healing wounds, milking them for the residual pain.

White. Harry’s ears rang and his vision even behind his eyelids shook. Everything went white, then colours rained into his vision like a hallucinogenic circus performance before finally he could breathe again and his entire body went slack. He mumbled a quick Terseo . Another reason to thank Snape because that was the best orgasm in his entire life so far, certainly his most awakening one (and that's saying something considering what happened with Snape last time), and thanks to Snape it was as easy as muttering one word to clean all evidence from his body and his bed.

Harry laughed into his pillow tiredly, imagining the face on Umbridge to learn her punishment was basically for naught.

Before he knew it, exhaustion pulled him into sleep. But even then, his mind wouldn’t quite let go of the nagging thoughts. His dreams brought back the strange sensation of Snape’s hands, steady and careful, the trace of something intense just beneath the surface as they rubbed along his skin. They rubbed everywhere, skillfully and in such a way that was entirely targeted specifically to Harry’s body. When Harry awoke, he did his best to completely forget what must have been a pain-induced dream, including his orgasm.