You think I could resist? ^_^ 150 words, fifteen minutes, as per the rules.
That night she keeps Potter past midnight.
It is his seventh consecutive night--the last of his sentence--and the scar tissue is delightfully raw. The wounds stayed open from the first, tonight, and blood stains his sleeve, his robe, the table.
Dolores Umbridge rises, soon after midnight, and comes to stand behind Potter.
Rests a hand on his shoulder, as if she were not his enemy, as if she meant to reassure the boy.
Then slips her hand into his shirt collar, and down, to caress one adolescent nipple.
"Go on with what you're doing, Mr. Potter."
She can smell the indecision on him. Will he resist, incur another week of this?
Can he remain silent for another week? Will she force sound out of him, and win?
The quill moves. He writes.
Only hesitates a little, when her hand moves lower.
An hour later she lets him leave.