Work Text:
The Floo spits Harry out into an unceremonious heap on the ice-cold marble floor. Even after years of traveling by Floo, she’s never quite gotten the hang of it. The stack of important paperwork in her arms goes flying everywhere inside the entrance hall of the Minister’s grand manor, like a flock of white doves set free from their cages.
Welp, there goes the third round of edits to the pan-European free trade agreement from the German Minister of Commerce, Harry thinks resignedly. Not even the wizarding world had managed to escape the fallout of Brexit earlier in the year. As a result, Ministries of Magic across Europe have been scrambling to paper together a trade deal that would cover everything from wizarding products to mundane muggle wares. Harry starts carefully gathering the papers back together without a single crease in any of them, which Minister Riddle would definitely notice.
Brushing the soot from her shoulders, she gets to her feet and attempts to flatten her hair. She’s far too informal and out of place in this grandiose foyer that looks like it was designed by an insane interior designer with a fetish for ancient Greco-Roman architecture. Columns line the sides of the hall and stretch up to a vaulted ceiling adorned with gilded carvings of magical creatures from around the world. The polished white stone beneath her worn Chucks reflects a distorted likeness of herself, warped by the fire flickering inside the Floo entrance.
Harry’s week had been nothing short of exhausting. In any other department, minor oversights might have slipped by unnoticed, but Minister Riddle was extraordinarily exacting, and no such grace was to be had. Her standards were legendary; her rigour ever more. Even the slightest misstep would swiftly provoke her ire. So Harry had to operate at a level of painstaking precision that she hadn’t needed to do ever since brewing the most complicated of potions in Snape’s NEWT-level class.
(Rumor had it that Riddle’s previous assistant, after an egregious error that had set back Triwizard negotiations with the French Ministry by several months, had entirely vanished after a routine errand to the Department of Mysteries, never to be heard from again…)
Although it’s a Friday night, Harry has been tasked with delivering documents to Riddle’s home. She would need to come back tomorrow, a Saturday, to pick up the marked-up documents. It’s forced her to cancel the date she’d been looking forward to all week—the date she’d finally managed to secure, through a combination of Slughorn and Sirius’s connections, with the star Beater of the Holyhead Harpies.
If Harry didn’t know any better, she’d swear that Riddle had done it on purpose driven by some sadistic sense of glee in making sure no one around her ever enjoyed themselves…
But no. There was another, more sensible explanation that could very well be the reason for Harry’s after-hours errand. Riddle, after all, was a workaholic with zero personal life, and she probably assumed that everyone else around her also had no personal life.
Steeling herself, Harry resolves to avoid any blunders. Her task is simple: find Riddle’s study and leave the papers there. Even if her date was cancelled, her warm flat is waiting, and she’s looking forward to making a good curry and taking a long soak in her tub for the rest of the evening.
But as with everything else concerning Minister Riddle, it is easier said than done.
Harry’s eyes scan the handful of hallways branching off from the foyer. She has no idea where the study is located, and Riddle left no instructions. But she squares her shoulders and sets off down a hallway at random, doing her best to appear as though she knows exactly where she’s headed.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry still has not found the study.
However, what she does stumble upon makes her want to vanish into the air from sheer mortification.
Somehow, Harry has managed to wander straight into Minister Riddle’s personal bath—a beautiful, candlelit space, more opulent than any she’d ever seen, rising into a domed ceiling enchanted to display the constellations of the night sky, just like the Great Hall at Hogwarts.
In the center of the room, on a dais of onyx slab, stands a soaking tub as luxurious as the one in the Prefects’ bathroom at Hogwarts.
The currently very occupied soaking tub.
Her cheeks aflame, Harry stands at the threshold, papers in hand, unable to back away.
A jolt of dizzying, illicit want shoots through Harry, as she accidentally catches a glimpse of a sight she is surely not meant to see: Riddle lounging elegantly in the bath, tendrils of steam curling around the loose, dark waves framing her face, her hair streaked with an elegant grey.
And Harry tries to look away—she really does—but Riddle’s stunning figure—her lean, marble-like limbs, a statuesque height, and perfectly smooth, pale skin everywhere—is absolutely majestic to behold. The fog from the bath licks at Riddle’s cheek and draws the faintest rosiness onto her sharp cheekbones.
Paralysis strikes. Harry has always had a bit of a celebrity crush on her boss—gorgeous and unattainable and featured as Witch Weekly’s most powerful woman in the wizarding world for the last 25 years running—long before she had gotten hired as part of the Minister’s staff. But she always made sure to conceal it behind many layers of denial and Occlumency. Because she is a professional.
But now, under the soft glow of candlelight, with Riddle’s skin as smooth and milky as alabaster...
Harry can no longer deny her attraction and longing.
“So, are you just going to stand there, Miss Potter?” Riddle’s voice cuts through the eucalyptus-scented steam.
For a moment, Harry forgets how to breathe.
Then the self-recrimination comes, and she feels like a fucking creep, accidentally peeping in on the British Minister of Magic’s bath in the privacy of her own home.
Drawing on every last ounce of her Gryffindor courage, Harry meets Riddle’s dark eyes.
The Minister’s gaze bores into Harry, assessing her from the crown of her tousled hair to the tips of her white-knuckled fingers, tightly clutching the stack of documents that she holds in front of her chest like a shield.
Riddle’s gaze—always so cold and dismissive during Ministry negotiations—now seems alight with interest.
“Oh shit, oh fuck—oh my god, Minister, I’m so sorry,” Harry blurts, as she wills herself to hold Riddle’s gaze. She refuses to let her eyes drift downwards, because once she starts, she knows she won’t be able to stop looking. She shifts awkwardly. “So I’ll—er—I’ll just drop these over... ah, over here...”, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of a blush-pink velvet settee a few feet away.
“Come closer,” Riddle instructs, clicking her tongue.
All kinds of thoughts tumble around in Harry’s mind like a Snitch in a thunderstorm. She has no idea what Riddle could possibly intend, and she doesn’t dare to hope—
“I believe I gave an order.” Riddle’s voice is silky and self-assured, and it makes Harry’s breath hitch.
“Yes, Minister.” Harry feels hypnotized, compelled to obey. Her feet seem to move of their own accord, carrying her to the edge of the oynx dais.
Riddle rises slightly from the water, droplets tracing languid paths down her body, accentuating every curve with a wet, glistening trail.
Harry tries to keep her eyes respectful, but she has wanted for so long. She thinks her crush on Tom Riddle started sometime in her second year, when the Minister appeared at Hogwarts periodically that year to judge the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry thought she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, even more so than the half-Veela competitor from Beaubatons.
“You’ve always managed to surprise me, Miss Potter. I’ve never had anyone quite like you, you know,” Riddle muses, tilting her head curiously like a cat toying with their prey. “Quite the irrepressible spirit you have.” Amusement bleeds through her tone, like she’s in on some grand secret that Harry isn’t yet privy to.
Harry can’t help herself. Her gaze skims across the gorgeous expanse of smooth, pale skin glistening with water droplets and foamy soap bubbles right in front of her. She is just close enough to reach out and touch. Riddle is majestic; she is temptation personified. Desire prickles deep within Harry.
“Sounds like a compliment,” she replies, lips twitching despite her predicament at being caught creeping on her boss like a peeping tom.
Riddle gives a single, low chuckle, a sultry sound that reverberates through the marble-lined floors of the master bathroom. The gleam in her eyes looks almost crimson in the dim light of the enchanted sconces.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Take off your clothes, and get in here with me,” Riddle casually urges, as if it were the most ordinary request in the world to make of a subordinate 40 years her junior—no different than asking Harry to fetch her coffee or make copies of a memo in triplicate.
Harry’s brain shorts out. It takes a few moments before it starts working properly again. She’d never been propositioned so boldly before. If she had, she probably could have gotten laid a lot sooner. In fact, she was hoping that something like that would happen tonight on her date with Gwenog Jones. “If only I’d known this was in the benefits package when I started at the Ministry last year,” she tries to joke, stalling for time.
Riddle raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Now, Miss Potter. Don’t test my patience.”
Harry hesitates only a moment before nodding, again feeling that irresistible pull to obey. Her movements are uncharacteristically awkward as steps out of her work robes. She can feel Riddle’s gaze chart her body as each piece of clothing is shed. Only her undergarments are left. She fights back a shiver.
“Very good. Excellent, Miss Potter.” The approval is clear in Riddle’s voice, now. “I knew you were hiding a beautiful figure underneath those lumpy, disheveled robes of yours.”
Harry’s heart flutters at the unexpected compliment.
Could she really go through with this?
But it’s far too late to back out now; abandoning this whole bewildering situation halfway through stripping would only make Monday morning a thousand times more awkward than simply following through with whatever Riddle would order her to do.
With her heart thundering in her ears, Harry peels off the last bits of her clothing—some old bra-and-panty set that she’d had since her Hogwarts days, which she had hastily thrown on that morning without giving any thought to it.
“Lovely, truly,” Riddle murmurs.
Harry feels exposed—more exposed than she’s ever been in her life. But fortified by Riddle’s praise, she takes those final few steps to plunge into the soaking tub, her ears and face bright pink.
The thick layer of foamy bubbles feels so soft against her skin. Riddle must have poured some sort of extra-strength muscle-relaxant potion in the bath, as every last bit of tension simply melts away from Harry’s body.
Riddle’s hands find Harry’s waist immediately. She pulls Harry close until they’re skin to skin and Harry is perched on the Minister’s knees, facing her. Riddle combs one hand through Harry's loose, unruly curls. "I've had a long week, you know." Her fingers curl inward along Harry’s scalp, sending a shiver rippling through Harry’s body despite the heat. “You can help me unwind a little.”
Harry’s stomach swoops. Never did she imagine the Minister to be the flirtatious sort. She attempts to flirt back. “Last I checked, that’s not in my job description,” she replies cheekily, but it comes out sounding, embarrassingly, less like a statement and more a question.
She feels dizzy, almost like she’s high off Neville’s secret Gillyweed stash. What she wouldn’t give for a few good hits right now to take the edge off her nervousness. But the perfumed bath on its own is doing a pretty good job of lowering her inhibitions. Harry’s senses have been utterly bewitched by the sharp, green scent of eucalyptus rising from the steam, mixed with the heady aroma of Riddle’s sandalwood perfume underneath the scent of the bubbles.
Riddle’s red-tinted eyes gleam with an unsettling interest. “You’ll find, Miss Potter, that under my purview, your ‘job description’ is quite… flexible.” She leans in, her grip possessively tightening around Harry’s waist, her intent unmistakable. A fleeting thought crosses Harry’s mind: that Riddle’s blood-red lipstick is the exact same shade as that strange tint in her eyes...
Those eyes that are now locked onto Harry's, dark and unwavering.
Yet, the first touch of those perfectly rouged lips to Harry’s still catches her unawares.
A warm tongue presses against Harry’s lips and licks into her mouth. Harry’s been kissed before—but not in a way that makes her head spin, makes her feel like she’s being devoured. The steam around them is so dense that it feels like she’s floating in a dream.
Riddle’s hands move to cup Harry's more modest breasts. Thumbs brush over her sensitive nipples, which harden immediately beneath Riddle’s touch. The sensation feels like a Lumos zinging through her veins. A demanding ache starts to grow between her legs.
Harry, feeling more daring, explores in kind. She cups one of Riddle's generous, heavy tits, feeling the heft of it in her hand. Her fingers sink into the warm, soft flesh, marveling at the sheer abundance.
A twinge of jealousy breaks through Harry’s haze of arousal. Not only is Riddle brilliant and rich and gorgeous, with everything going for her, but she also has to have one of the most stunning racks that Harry has ever seen!? It feels deeply unfair.
Tongues sliding hotly against each other, Harry moans into their kiss. The slippery soap eases her way forward in Riddle’s lap until their hips are pressed against each other, and her legs end up wrapped around Riddle’s waist. One of Riddle’s hands begins a slow descent, skimming over Harry’s stomach. The heat building in Harry’s lower belly thrums like a vibrating chord and spreads outwards along her limbs.
Riddle’s long fingers slip between Harry’s legs with a practiced ease. She starts gentle, almost teasing, along the soft skin of Harry’s inner thigh.
The first touch that brushes over Harry’s aching clit has her bucking up into Riddle’s hand. Her hips pump forward of their own accord, seeking more contact.
Riddle’s fingers, at first, stroke over Harry’s clit in soft circles. Pressure builds with each turn. Her touch becomes firmer, though remains unhurried, coaxing out moans that hitch and catch.
A sweet, throbbing ache emanates from that single point of contact. Harry’s legs tighten around Riddle’s waist, as she grows more desperate for harder, faster motions. Each graze feels simultaneously like ecstasy yet not quite enough.
“Please,” Harry begs. “More, please.” The aching coil in her belly winds even tighter as Riddle teases her with touches that are just a touch shy of the exact kind of pressure that Harry craves. It only makes Harry moan louder than she intends, the sound echoing around the grandiose bathroom.
Riddle’s other hand doesn’t remain idle, returning to one of Harry’s tits. Her fingers close around a peaked nipple and pinch hard enough to draw out a strangled cry.
“Oh fuck, yes,” Harry breathes, her chest heaving as the searing pleasure builds inside of her. Riddle continues working her clit with merciless precision, pulling noises out from Harry that sound uninhibited and primal. But she throws restraint to the side, with no room in her mind right now to overthink or worry about sounding undignified.
Harry feels herself starting to get close, but she should have known it was too good to last. Riddle’s fingers abruptly stop, then she teasingly drums them against Harry’s folds, one at a time.
Harry grinds down against her hand in an unspoken plea. Riddle circles around Harry's entrance, skirting the edge. The motions slow and then speed up and then slow again, torturously, driving Harry to the brink, but never quite bringing her over, as her release hovers just beyond reach.
“Please, more, oh—fuck, please.” Harry's voice is ragged, raw need bleeding through as Riddle continues teasing her entrance. “I want more, please—”
Then Riddle relents—in one fluid motion, she pinches and twists Harry’s nipple at the same time that she drives two fingers deep inside Harry, her hands perfectly in sync with each other. “Aaaaahh—oh my god,” Harry cries out, phosphenes exploding at the edges of her vision. “Oh, fuck—”
A fresh wave of arousal crashes through Harry’s strung-out nerves. Riddle’s fingers pound against her sensitive g-spot. Each thrust and twist are precisely timed. Harry is hot all over, too hot, all coherence lost. The sweet ache builds relentlessly, a smouldering pleasure licking inside of her core until she is ready to burst.
“Come for me, darling,” Riddle murmurs in her ear, roughly finger-fucking three long digits inside of Harry, where the flesh is too-tender and aching and slippery wet. “Come for me now.”
When Harry comes, her orgasm explodes from deep within her in a burst of pure sensation. Wave after wave of pleasure reverberates through her body like the aftershocks of a Blasting curse. She feels as though she’s been teased for an eternity tonight, and her release mirrors that, drawn-out and intense.
Riddle, inexorable, finger-fucks Harry through the entirety of her orgasm. Harry rides out each convulsion until she’s left entirely spent, gasping into Riddle’s mouth.
Afterwards, it feels like that time Lockhart had vanished all the bones in Harry’s arm, but now it’s her entire body that’s boneless. She slumps against Riddle’s soft, pillowy tits.
Even as Harry's awareness floats away on a cloud of hazy bliss, the fleeting thought occurs to her that she should return the favor. It’s more than just a sense of obligation, though. She wants to see Riddle come undone, to experience that iron-willed, ascetic control yielding to purely hedonic indulgence.
“May I—?” Harry asks, her hand slipping down to Riddle’s waist.
Riddle catches her hand, a smirk playing about her stately features. “Let’s try something new, Miss Potter.” She pauses and tilts her head at Harry. “Well, at least, new for you,” she adds pointedly. “Get on your knees, and hold your breath for as long as you can.”
Harry blinks. How the fuck does Riddle seem to know the extent of Harry’s past sexual experiences? The thought should make Harry feel creeped out and unsettled, but instead, she feels excited.
“You mean… under the water?” she clarifies.
Riddle’s lips curve upwards. “Oh, darling. Don’t tell me you're afraid to get wet…” she practically purrs.
The prospect of eating the Minister out (holy fuck, Harry thinks) makes Harry hot all over again. Her cunt throbs with the exhilarating prospect of getting to taste Riddle’s pussy juices. She wonders what the other woman would taste like, if she would taste like Harry herself when she sampled her own fluids a few times out of curiosity.
Taking a deep breath, Harry sinks into the water, the layer of bubbles closing over her as she positions herself between Riddle’s thighs. She feels weightless as she settles there, like she’s in a sensory deprivation chamber, her eyes squeezed shut and the world above distant and muffled by the foamy bathwater.
Her mouth soon finds Riddle’s cunt with eagerness, tongue darting inside the slick folds to seek out her swollen clit with teasing strokes.
Above her, Riddle lets out a moan, loud enough for Harry to hear it through the water. Harry lets her tongue explore by pure instinct, testing different strokes over Riddle’s clit and trying to remember what she’d picked up from whispered confidences and trashy romance novels.
Her hesitancy fades as Riddle's sharp intake of breath and the shift of her hips provides wordless encouragement. Soon, she breaks the surface to draw fresh air, then dives down again.
Indeed, Riddle was correct about Harry. She hadn’t, in fact, ever done anything like this before, had only wondered about it late at night under her covers with her trusty vibrating toy.
Had it been a lucky guess, or did she pluck the thought from Harry’s mind one day? It was rumored that Riddle was an extraordinary Legilimens, but she had never publicly confirmed it.
Confidence growing commensurately with Riddle’s responsiveness, Harry’s tongue darts out with enthusiastic flicks, experimenting with pressure, as she pays close attention to each moan and sigh and quiver.
Also.
Did Riddle keep a file on all her staffers’ sexual histories, or was it just Harry?
Maintaining focus while fully submerged makes everything so much more challenging. Harry finds herself needing to surface every time it feels like she’s worked up to a nice rhythm, but she can’t help it when the pressure in her lungs starts getting impossible to ignore.
For the second time that night, Harry finds herself wishing for some Gillyweed. A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up as she imagines growing gills and breathing slits on her neck, just to be able to stay underwater for an hour to eat her boss out. In fact, she could probably feast on Riddle’s cunt for hours if Riddle lets her.
The scented bath hasn’t washed away the distinct, intimate taste of Riddle, and Harry loves the taste of pussy on her tongue. She focuses on that central spot, alternating between steady pressure and brief touches of hard suction, her tongue drawing circles that tighten every so often.
Then Riddle’s fingers tangle themselves in Harry’s hair, and she yanks in a way that sends a bolt of adrenaline straight through Harry and makes her cunt clench with need. Harry determinedly pushes deeper into that delicious, soft heat, trying to replicate the patterns that elicit the most responsiveness from above.
Riddle’s fingers massage their way across Harry’s sore, tender scalp, then pull tight again. The pain amplifies Harry’s arousal and adds an edge of sharpness to her arousal.
Is Riddle close? Harry wonders, lungs aching with the effort of staying submerged. She’s starting to feel lightheaded from holding her breath for so long, and her world is narrowed down to Riddle's soft, slick folds and the tug of Riddle's hand directing Harry’s every move.
Riddle’s grip intensifies, holding Harry in place. Harry can’t surface even if she wants to, even as her lungs begin to scream for air.
If she loses consciousness and starts drowning, Riddle wouldn’t let her die… right?
…Right??
Or is this what happened to Riddle’s previous assistant that fucked up?
All told, death by snu-snu would not be a terrible way to go, Harry thinks deliriously.
Despite the insistent burn in her chest, Harry stays down, drawing motivation from the knowledge that Riddle must be close—so close. Push through, Harry urges herself, focusing on those last few hard, probing flicks, pushing the limits of her endurance as Riddle’s legs close around her.
Her vision starts to narrow, dark spots bubbling at the periphery. It is exhilarating, like that last burst of intense effort at the end of a Quidditch game right before catching the Snitch, her endurance pushed to the absolute limits.
Suddenly, Riddle tenses, her body shuddering with her climax. Her fingers twist even tighter in Harry’s hair, and Harry tries to maintain her steady pace, letting Riddle ride her face until she hears the moans above her start to soften.
When Riddle is done, Harry nearly swallows a gulp of water in her relief, having pushed past what she thought she could endure. With the last bit of her strength, she bursts from the water. The first hit of air cuts through her lungs with sharp relief. The rush of oxygen back to her brain feels like another orgasm in and of itself, one that lasts for a full minute as she regains her breath.
When Harry can see straight again, she glances up to see Riddle watching her, an approving smile flitting about her rogued lips, makeup still flawless and untouched by the evening’s activities. "Come here," Riddle murmurs, and Harry crawls up Riddle's chest. Her palms brush against soft skin, reverently cupping Riddle’s ample curves.
Their lips meet, and Riddle kisses her with extra relish, savouring the taste of her juices on Harry’s tongue as though it were the finest wine she’s ever tasted.
It makes Harry’s mind spin with fresh arousal. When Riddle pulls back, her smile has turned lazy and utterly satisfied. “Let’s move to the bedroom,” she suggests, cupping the side of Harry’s face. “I hope you’re ready for round two.”
Harry nods, hardly believing her luck. Riddle wanted to spend more time with her!? She must have done something right just now, despite this being the furthest she’s ever gone with another woman. "Oh god," she breathes. “Oh, fuck yes.”
“Good. It’s not like you had other plans for tonight anyway.”
But Harry did, but—wait.
Wait—did Riddle know?
There’s a thought that occurs to Harry that the timing of this Friday night emergency errand was just a little bit too perfect in terms of making Harry cancel her first date she’s gotten in months.
(But it still makes Harry smile to herself, despite how creepy and inappropriate it is for Riddle to take advantage of her seniority and position as Harry’s boss to sexually proposition her.)
So she willingly goes along as Riddle guides them from the water. Riddle reaches for two large, fluffy towels, and wraps one around Harry. A nonverbal drying charm hits Harry’s hair and vanishes the water from it in an instant.
Riddle opens the door that leads to her bedroom. Harry steps in behind her. Leather rope ties hang from around the bedposts, and the sight of it sends a deep throb of arousal through Harry in anticipation.
She glances at Riddle, who nods towards the bed. “I could — be generous and spare you the extra trip out here in the morning,” she remarks loftily, as though she’s made Harry the most magnanimous offer in the world. “You can thank me by warming my cunt with your tongue for the rest of the evening.”
Harry thinks she can get used to this.