Author's Notes: Warning for underage and extremely dubious consent, rape, etc.
He knocks, the sound echoing around him in the narrow stairway. The door creaks open, and Harry is ushered forward into the Headmaster's office, the confines of which have become uncomfortably familiar to him. Fawkes' perch there, a spinning silver gyroscope over here...Dumbledore's magnificent oak desk presiding over the center of the room. Paperwork is stacked untidily on its polished surface, along with a tin of the ever-present lemon drops.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," Albus says with delight, looking up from said paperwork. His eyes twinkle at Harry as the boy shuffles forward. "Sit down, sit down. What brings you here today?"
"It's Wednesday night, sir," Harry whispers, shifting awkwardly. His cheeks stain red as he looks down at his lap, unwilling to look his mentor in the eyes anymore.
"Oh!" Dumbledore says, blinking a few times. "I'm sorry, my dear boy, I had completely forgotten. That's all right, though, all of this can be done tomorrow." He waves his wand, and the paperwork sorts itself. "Shall we?"
"Yes, sir," Harry replies, his throat tightening. He can feel his heart pick up speed, thudding against his ribs with painful precision. Standing up, he leads the way to the Headmaster's bedchambers, a place he's become intimately acquainted with in the first few months of sixth year.
"On your knees," the man directs, shrugging his robes off and unzipping his trousers. Harry thuds obediently to the ground, licking his lips as the Headmaster's cock springs into view. It smells musky but not wholly unpleasant, and Harry thinks maybe he can get through this without gagging for once.
As his head bobs and his tongue swirls and licks, Harry thinks how he's ended up in this position to begin with. It didn't start out this way. Dumbledore wanted to give him more information on Tom Riddle. A goal Harry couldn't help but strive toward. Yet somehow...he wasn't quite sure how...he'd ended up on his knees in Albus's office, his mouth stuffed full of Dumbledore's slightly wrinkled cock, and the man's hands fisted in his hair, and nothing had been the same since.
"There, yes," Albus pants, bringing Harry back to the present. Saliva drips freely from his mouth, collecting down his chin and in the older wizard's greying pubic hair. When the Headmaster comes, it is with a quick spurt down the back of Harry's throat, and he coughs, doing his best to swallow it all.
"Good boy," Dumbledore praises, ruffling the boy's messy hair and helping him to his feet. "Now, where were we? Last time, I believe we were talking about Tom's time at the orphanage..."
He leads the way this time, back to the office, and Harry follows on unsteady legs, his throat burning and Dumbledore's taste thick on his tongue.
It's for the greater good, he reminds himself, but the thought is not enough to make him feel better. It never is.