Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/106047.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Dolores_Umbridge/Argus_Filch
  Additional Tags:
      Sexual_Fantasy, Sexual_Violence, Fetish, Object, Rape_Fantasy
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-08-08 Words: 3340
****** Sweet, Bitter, Salt ******
by redsnake05
Summary
     When Umbridge becomes the new Headmistress of Hogwarts, she finds
     that the things she once relied on are changing. But there is
     something new waiting for her, and that might just make up for it.
Notes
     All non-consensual and underage sexual activity is fantasised only.
Filch comes to her first, before the ink is even dry on the parchment of the
Ministerial decree. Dolores hasn't had a chance to fully taste the sweetness of
that triumph yet, but she can feel it on her lips, sugary and slick. She slides
her tongue out to chase the flavour. This is her moment, late at night in the
blaze of the candles in her office, with the decree, fresh from the Minister's
hand, spread out on her desk and her mind awash with plans and changes to set
into motion. She stands behind her desk and thinks of the future. The castle is
hers, now, and she will shape it faithfully in the likeness of the Ministerial
ideal: compliant, uniform, and unquestioning. Those with vision - the correct
vision - she will groom and train to be leaders in their turn. Dolores turns
that pleasing image over in her mind.
He stands in front of her desk, waiting her pleasure. Filch is dirty and
rumpled, subservient to her needs and desires. Grey and faded, hunched up into
his filthy coat and baggy trousers, his face is creased into an ingratiating
smile. He is out of place in her office, amongst the frills, the chintz and the
kittens. She likes the way her possession of the castle, of him, shapes the
servility of his stance, and the way he shifts from foot to foot anxiously. He
has already bowed three times.
"There will be changes, Headmistress?" he asks, and Dolores gifts him with a
smile in return. She knows what he wants from her, but she wants to hear him
ask for it. She wants him to lay out his petty, abject desires and then grant
them. She might well be a goddess, while he fills the role of petitioner.
"There will be many changes, Filch," she says, graciously. Taking a seat behind
her desk, Dolores sinks happily into the chintz cushions and surveys her
clipboard. She makes him wait for her next words, dragging out the moment of
power. There will be many more, now that she is headmistress, but this is the
first, and she wants to savour it; so very, very sweet on her lips and under
her tongue. She doesn't ask him to sit, so he stands there in front of her desk
and looks at her across it. He waits.
Putting the clipboard aside, Dolores clasps her hands together on the desk and
clears her throat. "I am ready to change Hogwarts into a place where children
receive a quality education in the approved branches of magic, and
troublemakers are not permitted to continue their reign of terror and anarchy."
He nods, and she can see he loves her vision. "To that end, we will, over the
next few days, be introducing a range of measures designed to ensure the
security and safety of this school, and to ensure the compliance of its
inhabitants. I wish from you, Mr Filch, to know how prepared you are for these
measures."
"I've had everything oiled and kept in readiness, Headmistress," he answers
promptly, and she smiles graciously. "He never would let me use any of it."
"You will find things will change rapidly under the new leadership of this
school," she said. "I wish to inspect your facilities. I am busy tomorrow
evening with the Minister, Mr Fudge himself, you know." Dolores clears her
throat again, waiting for him to look impressed at her eminence and importance.
He does not, but continues to stand in front of her desk like a ragged
scarecrow, all awkward angles and sallow skin. But Filch never is very
expressive, so she consoles herself with the thought that he must be impressed
on the inside, jealous of her favour. He must know that to stand in her shadow
is to stand in the shadow of the Minister of Magic himself, and to follow the
precepts of her vision is to do the work of the Ministry. "Perhaps we can meet
the next evening," she suggests, and he nods.
"You may go now," she says, graciously, guessing that he must be feeling sadly
overawed at being in her presence.
"Thank you, Headmistress," he says. "I shall show you the dungeons the day
after tomorrow. You'll find everything in order."
Dolores is left at her desk, official parchments in front of her, and all her
kittens looking down on her with pride. Tomorrow, she will wake and the school
will be hers to shape and mold. She looks forward to it.
>>>>
The Minister is busy with paperwork when his secretary shows Dolores in, and
doesn't bother looking up. She takes a seat on one of the unfortunately
utiliatarian seats he keeps in his office, and he sends her a distracted smile
over his stack of parchment as his secretary brings in a tray with tea and
biscuits. The sort used for staff, Dolores notes, not the sort used for
important visiting dignitaries. She takes it as a sign of favour, that despite
being Headmistress of Hogwarts, Minister Fudge still thinks of her as a
colleague. As someone as devoted to the Ministry as he is himself. She only
slightly regrets the biscuits and cakes given to dignitaries, as she bites into
the hard, slightly stale treat. Inferior chocolate and cheap sugar burst onto
her tongue, but she accepts her tea with a gracious smile and waits for the
secretary to leave her alone with the Minister.
Finally, Minister Fudge shoves aside his parchments and takes a hasty mouthful
of tea before turning his smile on her. She feels warmed, like a valued co-
conspirator in the pursuit of their shared vision.
"Dolores," he said, then stops himself, with a visible start, and smiles even
wider. "Headmistress Umbridge, I should say."
She feels a thrill run through her at his words, but she merely smiles
coquettishly. "I believe you can still call me Dolores... Cornelius." It is the
first time she dares to use his first name, feeling that now they are nearly
equals and she can take advantage of this new intimacy. The syllables are
deliciously weighty on her tongue. His smile retreats a little, becoming a
little fixed, but he merely fiddles with his quill. "It's a shame you could not
come to me at Hogwarts. There is quite a different air already, but there is so
much to do. Indeed, I have hardly sat down all day," she continues, waiting for
him to ask about what she has started, the first steps she has taken towards
their shared vision.
"A shame, yes, my dear, but things are so busy here that I cannot leave my
post." He shakes his head, looking suddenly tired, but Dolores is warmed by his
casual endearment. "We have had such a range of bad tidings and unquiet that I
really cannot spare the time to travel to Hogwarts in person."
Dolores wishes to talk of her new initiatives, of their vision for the castle
and for the future of the wizarding world. She wants to sit by his side in the
lamplight and share in his thoughts. She wants him to be pleased with her, and
to smile on her and the way she strives to make their goals a reality. He
should appreciate her, listen to her and, in turn, share his thoughts.
Cornelius - she will call him that now - merely shuffles his papers again.
"I trust you will find time to come to Hogwarts in the near future?" she asks,
clinging to her sturdy mug of tea and her vision of Hogwarts and the Ministry
united, with she and Cornelius at the forefront, guiding and shaping.
"I cannot tell when I will have time," he replies. "I know I can trust you to
follow a path that shapes Hogwarts in the vision of the Ministry." He glances
down at his watch. "Oh, dear, look at the time!" He stands, shuffling his
papers around even more, looking frantically for something. "My dear, I know
you will not mind, the call of duty, you know."
Of course she knows! Has she not answered the call of duty, at Hogwarts? She
leans forward and dares to pat his hand. "Indeed, Cornelius, I understand
well," she says, and stands. Summoning his secretary, he stands too, and leans
over the desk to shake her hand, pressing it just a little before he lets it
go. Dolores has to focus hard on the little touch of esteem and care. Of
course, she cannot expect much demonstration from him in his office, with all
these people about.
The corridors of the Ministry were hers once, and she walked them as people
shuffled from her path. Tonight it is deserted, with everyone gone, bar the
tireless few who slave to make the Wizarding world safe. Dolores wishes there
were people here, people who could edge to the side of the corridor and watch
her as she walks past in her best robes, Headmistress of Hogwarts, shaper of
young minds, safekeeper of the future of their world. The only thing missing is
Cornelius by her side, but he is so busy. She clings to that, as she walks the
lonely path to the atrium and the Floo points. He is so busy, but he knows he
can rely on her.
>>>>
Her tiny heels echo on the flagged stone of the lowest dungeon floor. Filch is
starting at the bottom and working up, showing her his domain one damp, mouldy
room at a time. She listens to him talk, watching him shuffle from room to
room, with a possessive touch of his fingers to walls and doors along with way.
He seems to take up more space down here, and it sounds as if the low mutter of
his voice is louder, as if the very stones hear him and echo him. She follows
and listens.
"And I told him, told them all that they don't have any respect," he says, and
she listens. She doesn't feel the need to talk over him, to outline her vision
and rules and the glory of the Ministry's plans for Hogwarts. She's had a long
day, and the low mutter of his voice is soothing over her skin as he shuffles
from room to room. "They talk about earning respect, but you should take it,
should be allowed to take it, along with their tears and crying. It's just
doing your duty, that's all."
He leads the way up the last set of stairs, and she follows behind, her feet
starting to ache in their too-tight shoes. He fishes yet another ring of keys
out of his pocket, selecting a large one and slotting it into a door on the
landing. He pushes it open and stands aside for her to enter.
"After you, Headmistress," he says, and she sweeps past him. His servility has
not wavered in the time since her appointment, he is always there when she
calls for him, and her title falls from his lips with a gratifying inflection
of respect. She stops just inside the room. This is not his office. She has
seen that; the overflowing filing cabinets and boxes of confiscated items all
labelled in his crabbed handwriting, everything dark and musty and covered with
dust and worn with neglect. This is different.
Candles in sconces give ample illumination here, and the walls and floor are
relatively clean. But the table in the middle of the room, that is scrubbed and
it gleams in the warm glow of the lights. Lying on top, curved metal and
polished leather shine invitingly. Dolores walks forward to stand next to the
table. She clears her throat.
"What is all this?" she asks.
The door behind her clangs shut, and she can hear the faint whisper of his feet
on the floor, but she doesn't turn. She can't look away. Stopping next to her,
a little to the side and back just a bit, Filch reaches past to trail his
fingers over the heavy arc of a pair of shackles.
"This is how we do it, how we make them respect us," he said. His voice sounds
lower, rougher, but more confident that the mutter she's accustomed to.
"This?" she asks, sweeping her hand in front of her at the paraphernalia on the
table. Some things, she doesn't recognise. She doesn't have names for them past
things that make people hurt.
"Yes," says Filch, still behind her. "It's beautiful, Headmistress. Watching
them struggle to escape, twisting against the shackles. They rub their wrists
raw; they bleed, and the blood trickles down their skin, slick over the sweat.
You should see them."
"You discipline them?"
"They learn," he says. His fingers move, sliding from the shackles over a long
metal bar with two metal cuffs, one at each end. These are shiny and bright,
and his fingers leave smudges on them, tiny little marks of possession. "They
learn, yes they do. When they hang there and scream until they're begging with
whispers, until they'll do anything if you'll just stop. But you don't have to
stop, do you? They cry, and it's so pretty to watch the streaks on their cheeks
as they call for their mamas. No one can help them here."
Dolores looks over the table again, seeing the loving work of hours in each
item, the way it would fit so lovingly in Filch's long fingers, how
unforgivingly they would shape the bodies of those imprisoned. She can nearly
taste it, the salt of sweat, tears, blood on the metal and soaking into the
leather. The smell in the air, and how it would linger even after they'd been
sent back to their beds. She reaches out and touches the end of a paddle, black
leather under her skin.
Sucking in a breath, she realises that Filch has moved. He's directly behind
her now. She exhales in an unsteady rush when his hand, rough and heavy against
the delicacy of her blouse, shoves in the front of her cardigan and grips her
breast harshly. He presses against her back, pushing her against the table, and
she spreads her hands over the top to steady them both.
"It's a heady feeling," he says, the hand on her breast moving in firm circles
that skitter over her nerve endings and make her nipple peak inside her bra.
His other hand grips her hip, and his breath puffs over her neck. "Knowing
you've done that, knowing that you've broken them and taken them apart. When
you hear the heavy smack of the whip into their skin, and listen to them moan
underneath it." His fingers grip tighter and she twitches. "When you see them
arch and writhe. Struggle." The last word is spoken into the skin of Dolores's
throat, and she can't help the noise she makes, something soft and vaguely
needy.
"You feel it too, don't you?" he asks, and his hand on her breast unfastens
buttons deftly and slips inside, so his thumb can rub over her nipple. Dolores
bites back a moan at the feeling, as the arousal pools low in her belly. "You
know how it feels, when you watch them, when you hear them, when you smell
their fear. Some of them get off on it, and that's the best, watching their
humiliated little faces and their shiny hard cocks or wet pussies."
Dolores pants a little, constricted in her clothes, and grinds back against
Filch, just enough that she knows he feels it. The hand on her hip slides down
and rucks up her robes and her skirt, pulling the fabric out of the way so his
hand drags over her skin all the way up her thigh. She feels flushed, and she
can feel his dick pushing insistently into her back. She's wet already, soaking
through her frivolous knickers and onto his fingers, when he skims them over
the crotch. She hasn't felt like this ever, hot and tense and eager. She is
caught in the moment, in Filch's unexpected strength at her back, and it is
intoxicating.
"There's something about it," Filch continues, in her ear, "something about
forcing them, that makes all the rest of it worthwhile. All the years of being
laughed at and jeered at. Who's going to laugh now?" His fingers brush over the
crotch of her knickers again, dragging on the thin, filmy silk, and she pushes
back against him. The hand on her breast squeezes, and he pinches her nipple,
chuckling low into her neck as she gasps. He moves to the other breast,
dragging her shirt open and tugging aside the thin material of her bra. His
bare fingers, callused and dirty and rough, close on her skin with a series of
sharp tugs followed by the scrape of his thumb. Eyes fluttering closed, she
gasps and spreads her legs, arching back into him. This is like nothing she has
ever done before, so filthy and hot.
Filch's hand slides away from her breast, over the table. She feels it come
back, with the cold slide of leather over her skin. He trails it down, between
her breasts and over her belly, under her bunched up robes and skirt and up
hard against her clitoris, through her knickers. She jerks against it and he
chuckles into her skin again, swapping hands to bring the whip handle down
further. Pushing her knickers aside, he thrusts the handle hard into her and
she jerks again, this time forwards and then backwards into him. His cock,
still trapped behind dirty tweed, rubs over her, but she hears the metallic
sound of a zipper. Then his cock is against her bare skin, pre-come smearing
wetly on her back.
He fucks her quickly, now that he's started, moving the handle of the whip in
and out of her body. He's jacking off against her back, deep, breathy murmurs
against her ear. She's panting, turned on by the wet sounds and the scrape of
his jaw over her throat. The whip handle inside her feels big, pressing hard
against all the best spots and stretching her open around it. It's unyielding;
Filch twists it as he pounds in and out. She braces herself with one hand and
brings the other down to press over her clit.
Moaning softly, she feels him driving her closer to the edge with each sharp
thrust. She feels open and wanting in a way she never has before. She wants to
see the things he describes, the sweat sheening on tortured skin and the
pitiful gasps and pleas. She wants to watch him work them as capably as he's
working her, pushing her to incoherence. She presses down sharply on her clit
and comes with a shudder and gasp, tightening around the whip handle and
pressing back against Filch as much as she can.
"It's so good," Filch grunts into her neck as she shudders through the
aftershocks. She feels him tense and shake behind her, come splashing against
her skin and trickling down over her arse. Then he stills and drops his head
into the curve of her neck, biting hard through the material of her blouse
where it ruffles against her throat, and she moans once more, in a helpless
aftershock.
He straightens slowly, pulling the whip from her body and tugging her knickers
back into place. He steps back a little and she turns to see him running a
finger along the handle, now all shiny and smeared. He lifts the finger to his
nose and sniffs deeply before licking, consideringly, looking straight at her.
"You're always welcome down here, Headmistress," he says, and she can hear the
servility still in his tone, even as she thinks about how she must look, so
rumpled and wrecked. But his voice hasn't changed, and she thinks of this room
and the things she might see here. She knows she will be back.
"Thank you, Filch," she replies. "You have been most helpful."
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