Despoiling Harry

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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

Scrimgeour's Man
by Amanuensis

Pairing: Harry/Scrimgeour
Summary: The Minister takes advantage of a desperate petitioner.
A/N: Thanks to Florahart and Cluegirl for the lightning-fast beta. Written for the pornish_pixies Fantasy Fest Spring 2006, for this prompt of a_brighter_dawn's: Scrimgeour/Harry, Harry needs the Ministry's help and Scrimgeour wants something in return; naked!Harry being f***ed over the Minister's desk by clothed!Scrimgeour. About 4000 words.

"Mr. Potter," said the Minister for Magic, "I hardly think the issue of your socks is the battle you want to choose at this moment." He curbed a smile, enjoying the sight of the furious young man attempting to shield himself behind the Minister's desk, but not wishing to provoke Potter further by displaying too much amusement at his distress. "Really, if someone does enter and finds us locked in congress, your innocence in the matter is unlikely to be supported by the issue of whether or not you retained your footwear."

Potter wanted to curse, he could tell, and why shouldn't he? Scrimgeour hadn't specified that Potter be polite about it, after all. Only that he comply.

Potter didn't curse. Jaw tight as a Gringotts' vault lock, the nearly-naked young man lifted a foot, reached down without looking and hooked a finger into the rear of his sock cuff, tearing it off and discarding it, and repeating the action with the other sock. All without taking those blazing eyes from Scrimgeour's.

Much better.

"Step out. Let me look at you."

"I thought you wanted a fuck. Minister." It was all the curse Potter needed.

"Indeed I do, but I should like to have a look at what I am fucking, to use your word, before I fuck it, during which time my view will be a bit narrower, shall we say. Ah, very nice," he bestowed as Potter stepped out from behind the desk into full view. "I see I did not set the bar for my own expectations too high. Indeed, I undercalled it. You are most well-formed, my dear young man."

Until this point the blaze had been confined to those furious eyes; now Scrimgeour's scrutiny, or perhaps his admiration, had undone Potter: his entire face flushed crimson red, threatening to sweep down his neck to his heaving chest. Potter gasped, tightened his lips as if by force of will he could deadfall the blush in its path.

"What a pleasant side of you to be viewing, Mr. Potter. I quite like this one, I must say." The visitor's chair had no arms to it; that would do well for his purpose. Scrimgeour set a hand on it and drew it further from the desk. "Indeed, I believe I have gained quite a bit of satisfaction from our agreement already." He spread his coattails to either side as he sat. "Come here."

"I'm not--" Potter cut himself off. Scrimgeour did not do him the kindness of supplying the answer to his misperception; he liked watching Potter falter and choke on the words, lips twisting as if the words would be as hateful in his mouth as the deed.

"No, Harry," he relented at last, all kindness, "I'm not asking you to come to me on your knees, nor to perform that particular act. Our bargain did not include it and I am neither so naïve nor such a villain that I would try to get that from you without further compensation." The kind expression still fixed, he patted his velvet-trousered thigh with one hand. "I should like to have you seated here for a bit closer observation, that is all."

All, as if he didn't perfectly well know it would be more difficult for Potter to endure that than the actual buggering yet to come. But Potter didn't have to know he knew.

"Come," he drawled as Potter continued to stand where he was, fists balled. "Such a small thing; you wouldn't wish to back out over it, would you?" He was careful. His tone was gentle, avuncular more than paternal. Had he let it slip to anything that bordered on gloating, Potter would surely ruin all his fun by insisting they hold to the letter of the bargain and not a liberty more.

Steps so slow and deliberate Scrimgeour could see the young man's toes curled under themselves in barely-checked anger, Potter crossed the short distance to Scrimgeour's chair. Scrimgeour patted his thigh again, reached up a benign hand to assist; Potter assented only by bending his knees and perching the taut curve of his arse on the edge of Scrimgeour's thigh with as little contact as he could make and still be called seated.

It satisfied Scrimgeour well enough. He kept his eyes on Potter's face, maintaining his air of gentle approval, aware that the moment he let his pleasure become melodrama he would lose all his ground. "I know this was not an easy decision for you," he soothed, even as he brought his hand to the ruddy skin of Potter's own thigh. "You are in quite desperate straits, are you not? Once again, so much of the burden of your cause falls to you. I think you are quite brave." This, even as he reached to stroke one russet circle of a nipple with a fingertip, causing the young man to flinch, and then control his flinch, steeling himself for Scrimgeour's continued touch. Perfect.

He could feel his arousal answering that exploration, a pleasant discomfort in the stricture of his trousers against his rising erection. Potter's own cock had stiffened with exposure but not, it appeared, with interest, lying quietly reluctant upon his bare thigh as if it would like to sink down beneath the surface of it. Scrimgeour did not touch him there, not yet. Instead he curved a hand behind one hip, cupping the buttock as if only securing Potter's unsteady seat upon his lap.

Before Potter could hiss that he just get on with it--before Scrimgeour's thigh began a giveaway tremble under the young man's weight, he murmured, "All right. Go back to my desk, if you please." Now Potter was reluctant to stand, wasn't he, knowing what waited for him there. But he rose after a short hesitation, moving backwards towards the desk as if unwilling to turn his back on Scrimgeour. When he had the edge of it under his hand, he ducked around it once more, its solidity a last pleasant illusion of protection.

Scrimgeour allowed himself a bit of a smile. "If you would be so good, the waterglass--" Potter's position had left him with the closest access to it, and Scrimgeour's request left him no choice but to accede or look petulant. Potter curved his fingers around the thing as if it were Scrimgeour's throat, but handed the empty glass across with no more than a flare of the same heated expression.

"Saponificus," Scrimgeour murmured, as he slid his wand free of his sleeve and gave it a flick at the glass. The result was dark amber and jelly-like. "I haven't anything else on hand that will serve as well as this," he said with only the tiniest tone of apology. "Soap has the advantages of being clean and of the right consistency. You'll wish to wash soon after, though, as it can cause quite the itch as it dries."

Now he had Potter's attention, the young man's fury diminishing as he processed what Scrimgeour had had to say. Now Potter did not have room for both his fury and the necessity of submitting, here on the verge of the event. He stared at the glass and Scrimgeour could see his jaw loosen, cheeks hollowing faintly as he contemplated its stark implication.

Any command to assume a position would be amiss. "You might wish," he said, fingers scooping a useful dollop from the glass, "to brace your palms upon the desk. Your height might cause you to unbalance." And if that wasn't a kindly way of saying, bend over that surface and prepare yourself, he didn't know what was.

Potter did bend, and did brace his hands, not as securely as if a rousing bout of sodomy were about to take place, but as though an interesting species of butterfly had landed upon his shoulder blade, and he were inviting Scrimgeour to inspect it. No matter.

At the first touch of Scrimgeour's fingers upon his cleft, Potter did tense; Scrimgeour fancied that grip of his hands becoming a bit more white-knuckled now, no doubt. With an efficiency that he knew Potter would not fail to see as practiced, he twisted the soap-bedaubed tips of his fingers directly into the puckered dimple of the young man's anus, popping through in that one motion and stopping, giving Potter time to startle and stop and collect himself, to say nothing of biting down on the "Ah--" he had let slip.

"All right?" he said, with not the slightest tinge of irony in his voice. He waited for Potter to say, no, not at all, damn you; or what the hell do you think; or even perfectly fine, you perverted bastard; but after a moment, Potter chose the option Scrimgeour had anticipated would be the most likely and ducked his head in an abortive, silent nod.

"Push out. It makes it easier," he added, and without further elucidation twisted his fingers about again to advance them deeper, and still deeper, noting that Potter made an attempt to follow his instruction but then immediately thrust his hips forward, gasping, seeking escape. The edge of the desk caught him and Scrimgeour continued nonetheless, unhindered, resisting the urge to cluck and say he'd told him so.

Instead, he offered a reassuring, "There we are," though he expected Potter might wonder where exactly, the phrase mountingly absurd in the face of Potter's continued gasps. He withdrew his fingers fractionally, let a third fingertip join, and slid all three back inside. Potter's torso straightened almost vertically, and Scrimgeour set his other hand between Potter's shoulder blades, coaxing him down again with careful pressure. "This will be done soon. Breathe, lad."

He did not let it be done too soon, however. Potter would not thank him for inadequate preparation prior to his actual rogering. When there was a fine sheen of sweat decorating the upper planes of Potter's back, Scrimgeour decided that, stoic as Potter was trying to be, this was likely confirmation that he'd done all the useful stretching of the young man's bunghole that he was likely to achieve on his first day.

He withdrew his fingers. "Stay like that," he said, gently, so that it still would not sound like a command. His erection formed a respectable tent in his trousers, and, as he undid the placket and let it emerge, it reacted to its new freedom and the heat, so near, of Potter's arse with a healthy rise in angle.

He dug fingers into the glass again and began to slick his own cock with the soap, feeling his bollocks tighten in eagerness. What was left on his hand he wiped between Potter's parted cheeks--Potter would need all of it, itching be damned.

When he stepped up against Potter's backside, the tip of his cock already poking into the greased cleft, Potter threw him a look over his shoulder. "You make me get starkers, but you're not going to bother?" he said with venom.

Scrimgeour knew it wasn't as if Potter was likely to be happier if he did disrobe, the silly creature. But he could afford to be generous, this close. "Alas, the rigors of age. I fear I have nothing so attractive, in the way of physique, underneath my own clothing to entice your heightened enjoyment in the act, my dear Mr. Potter. You will excuse my lack of reciprocity." And that was a command.

Potter was nearly lying upon the desktop, Scrimgeour's attentions having undone his control. Without preface, Scrimgeour set his fingers upon Potter's flank, then slid them to his belly, where the touch made him startle and arch. Which was what Scrimgeour wanted; using the space created, he touched, for the first time, Potter's cock, which was not completely stiff but not unaffected either. Cupping his hand beneath it, gathering the bollocks into that same handful, he lifted both upon the desktop, pushing Potter's arse forward with his own hips as he did so, so that the young man would not be able to pull back from the desk's edge. Potter might wish to conceal his arousal, but Scrimgeour was not about to allow that.

No words were exchanged. He was quite sure Potter knew what Scrimgeour intended by handling and positioning him in that way, and at least the lad had the grace not to protest or beg off.

One further detail, for Potter's regard. A light touch on the insides of the young man's thighs was enough to make his skin jump, and Scrimgeour's murmur of, "Move them apart, yes, spread your heels," gained him quick if not eager compliance. Potter stood with his legs spread apart, and Scrimgeour settled into the space between them--not that it had been strictly necessary for access, but he wished Potter to feel splayed open, vulnerable, a participant in his own helplessness.

He adjusted himself with forefinger and thumb to the proper angle, and settled the head of his cock against Potter's arsehole. He did not even need to seize Potter's hips in order to sink within; the two of them were nicely greased, and a mere push of his own hips allowed him to slip past the ring of muscle and be taken in. There was a sound; Potter had released his grip on the far edge of the desk and done something with his hands, banged his fists on the desk. He had voiced no cry, but on Scrimgeour's next thrust a huge huff of breath escaped him, along with a sound that would have been a groan but ended in a throat-catch that spoke volumes of loathing, some directed at his rapist and not an unmeasurable part at himself.

He took his time sheathing himself fully, for Potter's benefit and for his own enjoyment, pleased that the action was in both of their interests. Potter trembled and shuddered beneath him, and he could not tell if Potter's cock was growing harder or softening as his arse was violated ever deeper, not from this position, but that wouldn't matter shortly.

He gave an experimental thrust, found himself at the limit of forward motion. They were efficiently joined, Potter's buttocks compressed against his pelvis, the desk solidly resisting movement. It would be a kindness if he did not begin vigorously spearing the young man right away, and so he remained where he was, allowing Potter to become used to his girth for a few moments longer. He hardly expected thanks--indeed, any moment he expected to hear Potter snarl at him to get on with it--but, though that snarl was easy to read in every tendon of Potter's body, again the young man kept his control, kept his grace, and gave nothing away but the sound of his panting and a few chest-deep groans.

Slowly Scrimgeour withdrew, not too far, and pushed forward. Now he did set one hand upon Potter's arse, steadying him in place for the thrusts. With his next withdrawal he glanced down, watching his cock emerging from Potter's stretched hole, enjoying the visible twitch of Potter's muscles as he slid the short distance back inside. Potter arched his arse upward with the forward thrusts, reflexively, Scrimgeour thought. He doubted Potter knew how enticing that was, or he'd likely have tried to suppress it.

Even without such enticement, Scrimgeour did not think his own orgasm would be long in coming. Pleasant as it might be to prolong it, it was, after all, his first time with Potter--possibly Potter's first time, full stop, he didn't doubt. He would have mercy on the lad.

But not too much. He set his hands on Potter's sides again and drew him upright, hands cradled on Potter's ribs so that the pressure of fingers lodging in tender ribspaces would be enough to make him rise. One arm he slid about Potter's chest, and with the other hand he cradled Potter's--ah, yes, erect--cock and balls, fingered the loose flesh of the bollocks, pressing with a finger just beneath their weight, even as he thrust his own cock in to its depth, anticipating the stimulation to Potter's prostate. Potter sucked in air, and as Scrimgeour curled his hand about Potter's cock and stroked its velvety underside a long, slow caress, the young man made a noise that was half-gasp, half-groan, and all moan.

To give him credit, Potter did not panic. Oh, he reached a hand to grab Scrimgeour's wrist, and held on to it for a long moment, but he resisted the need to pry Scrimgeour's hand away, peeling his own fingers off Scrimgeour's wrist with unhappy reluctance. Instead he formed a fist of that hand, which dropped down to Potter's side and stayed there. Scrimgeour didn't doubt that the nails inside that fist were scoring blood-deep crescents into the palm.

And it hadn't even taken a word from him to make Potter cease.

Scrimgeour did not try to put his mouth anywhere near the young man, though the smell rising from the back of his neck was heartily seductive. His face was close enough to Potter's as it was, and Potter was staying within the circle of his arm without breaking; best not to test him too far. He continued to work the hot silken length of Potter's cock in his hand, aided by the smear of glossy wetness that had begun leaking from its tip, and Potter obliged him with panting vehemence; arousal, fury, dread, all bound in one gordian parcel of Scrimgeour's creation.

Scrimgeour would not have been able to keep Potter his upright captive as the young man's orgasm approached, save for the physical urge that compelled Potter to arch his back, thrust his hips forward as climax gathered in his loins. The agitation of Potter's body would have torn him free in one violent moment; as it was, Scrimgeour watched as Potter was betrayed yet again, leaning back into Scrimgeour's chest as his arse was filled, his cock pumped in a hand not his, orgasm wrest from him in pearly white strings and in shudders of his hips, in a cry of "Ahh--" that brought Scrimgeour's own climax to the forefront as much as the heated depths of Potter's youthful arse had done. Scrimgeour had to resist the urge to latch onto Potter's shoulder with his teeth as his orgasm shook him, burst white-hot behind his eyes and left him ethereal as innocence.

Potter wanted free, and neither their position nor the circumstances were fit for staying in a post-coital embrace, so Scrimgeour relented soon after the aftershocks of his orgasm receded, while the pleasant otherworldliness was still upon him. He took hold of Potter's elbows, used them to press him forward as he withdrew his softened cock from the young man's arse, allowing him to collapse upon the desk and lie there gasping out his distress, any vestige of stoicism fled.

Neither of them spoke as they put themselves to rights, but Scrimgeour's silence was that of a man comfortable in his surroundings, while Potter's was punctuated by his clumsy agitation, his inability to muster his rage so that it might raise him above his misery. That was well; all was as it should be. Bitterness, a quieter loathing...all that would serve Scrimgeour's purposes better than Potter's earlier heated fury. He would not underestimate Potter, but Potter was, after all, still a very young man. No real match for him in this.

He knew Potter would say something before he left Scrimgeour's office, and he did. "You'll keep your word," he said, a question despite its lack of inflection, though there was a smouldering renewal of his anger in it. It suited the Potter Scrimgeour knew. No good to imagine a bit of buggery would cow him completely. Scrimgeour wouldn't have wanted it anyway.

"Yes, Mr. Potter," he said, nodding, grave. "Every term of our agreement, in spirit as well as in letter. I shall keep my word."

Potter's mouth had diminished to an incensed mote. Scrimgeour noticed he didn't add and you'll tell no one. Possibly he did not even realize that the caution would be appropriate; he might think that only he had the power to reveal the damning secret. Minister of Magic Filthy Degenerate! Coerces Needy Suppliants to Deviant Acts!, no doubt ran the headlines in Potter's head. Oh, how sorely the media could be underestimated.

Potter did have the poise, however, to refrain from adding you had better or anything so childish. He took a step towards the door, checked himself after that one step, taking an additional moment to verify he had not put his shirt on inside out or left his trousers undone or anything equally likely to have been missed in the fluster of the aftermath, crossed the remainder of the room in three long strides and exited, managing to push the door shut behind him with a swing that was not quite a slam. Excellent lad.

Scrimgeour settled into his chair behind his desk, thinking he would like to ring for tea but that it would certainly be unwise before he had cleaned the desktop.

There was a soft throat-clearing behind him. Scrimgeour spoke without turning. "Did you enjoy that? I didn't think you were likely to sleep through it."

"Such a line you walk, Rufus, my boy." The voice was throatier than usual, betraying any lust it might have tried to deny.

"I have a long history of precedent behind me, as you'd well know."

"Yes, well, I may have tried to seduce you--"

"Would you call it that? I recall differently." There was no ire in Scrimgeour's voice. Any anger had long since burnt away.

"--but I never tried to do it in the actual Minister's office."

"Given that you were, in fact, the actual Minister--" Scrimgeour cast a brief Scourgify at the desktop, a bit reluctantly, but he couldn't be sniffing at Potter's effluvia like some randy teenager--"I don't see what difference it would have made. Besides, it's the place least likely to generate rumors about secret meetings."

"Tosh. No one ever caught me at what I was about."

Scrimgeour did turn now, cast a jaded eye at the portrait of the former minister. A number of years had passed from the time the man had made a highly inappropriate offer to a young, green lobbyist and the year when the portrait was painted, and Scrimgeour thought it a sign of his own advancing age that his memories could no longer dredge up that younger appearance, and in fact didn't recall there'd been much difference. "And you consider that a virtue, do you. No wonder there's been no change in the ethics of this office in several hundred years." He glanced at the now-pristine desktop. "Whom do you think Fudge had over this desk, I wonder? Or Bagnold, probably entertained by some young gamahucheur in this very chair."

"I could tell you." That, sly, as if waiting to be begged.

Scrimgeour didn't rise to it. "No doubt."

"Will you have him again?"

Scrimgeour's eyes went to half-mast. He could almost see the drool on the portrait's lips, and it hadn't been a pretty sight even when the man had been younger. "Of course. Soon Potter's fear of having the event revealed will overcome even his hatred of me. Soon enough I will be able to suggest a little more of the same will ensure our...alliance in the matter, yes, I think that will be a good word to use."

"Have him here, Rufus. I like watching you."

Scrimgeour reached up and, with a twist of his wrist, turned the portrait to face the wall. He wished he might just hex the thing properly, but that would lead to broken glass and too many awkward questions.


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