..
Slughorn positioned himself behind the bent boy and raised the paddle up in the air.
The wide wooden paddle made a sharp sound as it forced air through the holes on the planks.
It landed with a heavy thud on the boy's left buttock; he gulped.
A "1," a black, glowing number, floated in the air in front of the desk where he lay prostrate. It was an automatic numbering spell installed in the office. Slughorn waited about ten seconds, then struck again, at the exact same angle as before.
Whack!
The boy swallowed hard, more urgently. His hips jerked. The glowing number in front of him changed to 2, and Slughorn paused for another ten seconds, letting the trembling in the boy's buttocks subside before unleashing another heavy WHACK.
The first two had been on his left buttock, but this one was on his right. Flint grunted, hugging the desk. The fourth, on the right cheek, made another THWACK.
"Ugh..."
The flimsy single layer of underwear provided no cushioning whatsoever. Two swats to each cheek made Flint's arse even more swollen than it had been the first time, pulling his once loose underpants taut. Nearly a third of the boy's exposed buttocks were red from the paddle strokes.
Slughorn lifted the paddle with a deft touch that belied the fact that he had been whining about being old and frail in front of Harry only an hour earlier.
Whack!
This time, the paddle hit both cheeks at the same time, the part that touches the chair when he sat down. His little arse bounced up reflexively. A pained hiss escaped the boy's lips as he clutched desperately at the desk. Slughorn pressed the boy's back against the desk.
"Two more to go, Flint, if you move any more you'll get two extra strokes."
"Yeah... yes, sir."
Slughorn raised the paddle again.
The sixth stroke landed with the same heavy thud on his bottom, and the boy let out a yelp of pain, tears from his eyes. Slughorn waited the same amount of time, then raised his arm high and struck again.
CRACK!
"Ahhhhh!"
The glowing black number changed to a 7, swayed from side to side for a moment as if asking the professor's verdict, then vanished in midair as Slughorn shook his head.
Flint was slumped over his desk, groaning. His swollen bottom jerked and twitched. Reddened bruises peeked through his thin underwear.
"Stand up and get dressed, Mr. Flint."
Slughorn instructed, retracting the paddle. Flint slowly pulled himself to his feet. His cheeks were wet with tears. Slughorn clicked his tongue as he watched the boy pull up his trousers.
"Herbology will be retested next week at a time to be determined by Professor Sprout. You'd better study hard, and honestly this time. If you get a failing grade, your parents will be notified, as a matter of course."
Flint shuddered. Professor Slughorn's paddle was severe, but nothing compared to the punishment he'd receive at home during summer if he got a failing grade and his parents found out about it. Not seven strokes, but maybe seventy. No, he might get seventy lashes of the curse spell!
"I'll do my best, professor. Please don't tell my parents."
I'll have to get an E no matter what, or else, Flint dreaded, and trudged out of the office, following the professor's annoyed gesture.
"Next, Wilkins..."
Slughorn, after filing Flint's disciplinary record, summoned Wilkins, who was waiting in the corner facing the wall.
"Wilkins, you'll also receive seven strokes of paddle. And..."
Professor Slughorn tsked in disapproval.
"Your individual point record is already minus thirty-two points, and with this point deduction, yours is over fifty points in the negative."
Wilkins hung his head.
"If you had stacked demerits that high at the end of the term, you should have behaved yourself. You know what a total of minus fifty points means, don't you?"
"...Yes, sir..."
With a nonverbal incantation, Slughorn summoned a straight wooden cane and set it down beside the paddle. It was a rattan, as thin as a pinky finger, but much longer than a paddle.
"Seven strokes with paddle, followed by five strokes of cane. Bend over."
Wilkins, sentenced to one more level of punishment than his friend, looked like death warmed up over him. He removed his robe, pulled down his trousers, and bent on the desk. Slughorn reprimanded him coolly.
"Underwear is not allowed for caning, Wilkins. You've been caned before, you should know that."
Wilkins swallowed hard. Which hurt more, the paddle or the cane, was a frequent topic of debate among Hogwarts students, but ultimately the cane always won, for this cause. The boy fumbled and began to pull his underwear down. Slughorn flicked his wand at the boy's waistline.
The next moment, Wilkins's uniform pants and boxers slid down in unison, catching around an ankle.
As the third-year lay on his stomach with his buttocks bared, the professor gave him a stern command.
"Bend over a little deeper."
Wilkins hesitantly stood on tiptoe and bent deeper over the desk, gripping the opposite side of the desk and pressing his upper body against it, the pale flesh of his buttocks pulled taut.
With the boy in front of him, ready to be punished, Slughorn turned his attention to Harry.
"I feel a little tired on my arm today, Professor Peverell. Would you mind helping me discipline the boy?"
The young man's pupils widened slightly, and he emitted an inaudible sigh. It wouldn't do to undermine the Head of House's authority in front of his students. It was unexpected, but it was something he would have to do regularly if he got a job as a professor in this school.
As he had done since childhood, Harry accepted what he felt was his duty and did it. Whether he liked it or not was a matter for later.
"With pleasure, Professor Slughorn."
Wilkins, from his prostrate position, stole a glance at the young man standing beside Slughorn. He had thought he was a guest of the Head of House, but then it seemed the man was a professor-soon-to-be.
The younger man might have more strength in his arms, but a rookie teacher is typically inexperienced with punishment. Most likely, it'd be a light beating, he figured.
Behind the slightly relieved boy, the man picked up the paddle and swung it a few times in the air. The wind whistled through the holes in the wooden planks and made a snapping sound. Wilkins's arse flinched reflexively.
"Hmm." The young man next picked up the cane lying next to him. A thin, harsh sound, different from the paddle, cut through the air.
Harry nodded and picked up the paddle again, the resistance in his hand giving him some idea of the severity. He walked over to where Slughorn had stood and took a position.
"Seven paddle strokes first. Keep still."
The voice was uncharacteristically calm for a young man, and the boy's round bottom twitched nervously. The next moment, a smooth wooden paddle cut through the air with a whoosh.
Whoosh-THWACK!
A nasty scarlet mark rose in the center of Wilkins' pale cheeks. The boy gulped air. His arse felt like it was on fire for a moment.
The four-inch-wide paddle came down again, in the exact same spot as the first stroke.
"Ouch!"
The boy hissed as the flames doubled in size in the center of his buttocks. Unconsciously, the smugness he felt toward the young professor completely evaporated. It was much harsher than he remembered being paddled for a misbehavior a couple of months ago.
SMACK!
The third swat landed right in the middle of his bottom. Wilkins gasped in pain, no longer dignified. His arse felt like it was going to swell up into a red, hot balloon. He could feel the two air holes in the paddle making circular marks on his arse.
Whoosh!
The boy hissed and squirmed desperately. It was only the fourth stroke, but the pain in his arse was worse than the six strokes he had received two months earlier. His eyes were already watering from the unrelenting blows that landed without the protection of an underwear.
On the fifth stroke, the paddle began to fall at a slightly different angle.
Whooosh!
"Ouch!"
Pain radiated from the underside of his buttocks. The lower half of his cheeks, which had remained white until now, turned red.
Whoosh!
"Awhhh!"
Further down, at the line between his cheeks and thighs, where the flesh was thin, the swat came down hard. The boy howled in pain. The flames in his arse doubled, quadrupled, and his eyes welled up with tears he couldn't hold back.
The pain in his backside didn't subside after a few moments, but only intensified as the lash was applied to his sensitive flesh. On the boy's quivering buttocks, the stiff paddle made another heavy sound.
The seventh SMACK landed in the same place.
"Awwrhhh!"
Wilkins dropped his dignity and howled out loud. His entire bottom burned like it was on fire, and his cheeks seemed to double in size. This searing pain was rather high price for the prank he'd pulled with his friend, sneaking an automatic writing pen.
"Next, you will get five strokes of the cane."
The man's calm voice made Wilkins' mind go completely blank. Before he could formulate a response, the new professor put down his paddle and picked up a rattan cane. His red, swollen buttocks were about to receive the cane!
The long tip of the cane flicked across his buttocks. The sting was enough to send shivers of pain through his reddened flesh. Wilkins wriggled and squirmed, cursing his friend Flint, who had already gotten away with seven paddle strokes. If only he didn't have a stack of demerits!
After what seemed like seconds, maybe minutes, but was in all practicality too soon, a long rattan cane cut through the air.
CRACK!
"Aaahhhhh!"
A long howl erupted from the student on his stomach. The cane swiftly made its way over his swollen buttocks, leaving a straight crimson stripe across the paddle marks.
Harry pressed down firmly on the boy's back as he unconsciously tried to wiggle his legs.
"Four more to go."
And if he moved before the punishment was over, extra strokes would be added. Wilkins, who knew the protocol of school discipline well, swallowed back tears and gripped the end of the desk tightly.
CRACK!
THWACK!
The boy cried out in wet tears as he felt the stinging strokes carved into his buttocks.
Paddle versus paddle, no matter which side won, the overwhelming loser was himself, with the first round of paddling and the second round of caning. Wilkins, bent over the desk, didn't find the realization at all pleasant.
Whip! THWACK!
"Urghhhhhhh!"
The fourth stroke came down at a different angle, cutting diagonally across the three horizontal weals of his arse. The pain from previous three lashes seemed to carve into his bottom again.
Snap! CRAACK!
"Aaahhhh!"
He hoped the last one to be a little less forceful, but it was the most vicious of all. Wilkins howled with tears streaming down his face with his bottom feeling like it was being split in two.
The boy, who received a total of twelve strokes, remained slumped over the desk, his shoulders heaving, for some time after Harry retrieved the cane. Harry retrieved the tools of discipline and returned them to the closet, snapping his fingers. The pants and underwear that had been hanging around one ankle snapped up and slipped on.
Executing the non-verbal, wandless spell effortlessly, Harry kept his voice deliberately cool.
"Stand up, Wilkins."
Wilkins gripped his hips with a hand and pulled himself up gingerly, his eyes glazed over.
Slughorn showed no sign of sympathy and gave the boy a stern lecture before sending him away.
After Wilkins had limped out of the Professor's office, Slughorn grinned.
"Well done, Harry, my eyes do not deceive me; you'd be a brilliant Deputy Head of Slytherins!"
"...Um... Thank you for the compliment...?"
Despite his doubtful answer, the old Slytherin professor only smirked.
...