Chapter 2: The way her heavy breasts sway as she leans forward makes Harry's cock twitch painfully in his trousers, their ripe fullness barely contained by the delicate fabric that clings to her aroused nipples.
The dungeon encounter haunted Harry’s every idle thought. It was a low, persistent hum beneath his daily routines—in Transfiguration, during meals, even while pretending to listen to Ron’s Quidditch strategies. The knowing look in Daphne Greengrass’s blue eyes had unlocked something restless and hungry in him. He found himself seeking shadows, avoiding the common room’s cheerful chaos, drawn instead to places of quiet and isolation. It was a self-punishment, a futile attempt to outrun his own fixation.
Three nights later, he slipped into the Restricted Section under the thin pretext of researching obscure defensive charms for N.E.W.T.s. The air here was different. It tasted of dust and secrets, of leather bindings cracked with age. The only light came from floating globes that cast pools of wavering amber onto the endless rows of shelves, leaving the aisles between them in deep, velvet gloom. The silence was a physical presence, broken only by the occasional scuttle of a book beetle or the soft, settling sigh of ancient pages.
He was tracing a finger along a spine titled “The Unspeakable Arts,” his mind mercifully blank for a moment, when he heard the soft click of heels on stone.
He froze. No one came here this late.
She emerged from between two high shelves like a phantom conjured from his own thoughts. Daphne. She was alone, her icy blonde hair a pale beacon in the dimness. She wore a simple outfit of black trousers and a blouse of some dark, silky material that whispered as she moved. It was untucked, flowing around her hips, but the top buttons were undone, revealing the delicate hollow of her throat and a hint of shadow beneath.
“Potter,” she said, her voice a low murmur that seemed to blend with the library’s whispers. “Fancy meeting you in the dark.”
Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Greengrass. Do you need something?”
“Just a book.” She tilted her head, her eyes glinting. “Magicke Moste Maligne. It should be… right here.” She took a step closer, her gaze not on the shelves, but on him. The scent of winter roses cut through the dusty air.
She reached up, stretching toward a high shelf. The movement pulled the silky fabric of her blouse taut across her torso. Harry’s breath caught. Unbound. He could see it now, clearly. No restrictive school sweater, no structured robes. The soft, dark silk clung to the full, heavy curves of her breasts, outlining their perfect, rounded shape without constraint. They moved with a natural, fluid weight as she stretched, the peaks visibly firm against the slick material. He could trace the full, lush slope from the open neckline down to where the fabric tightened around a narrow waist.
His mouth was desert-dry.
She plucked a thin, sinister-looking volume bound in what appeared to be grey flesh. “Ah. Here it is.” She turned, holding the book lightly. Then, with a casualness that was utterly deliberate, she let it slip from her fingers.
It thudded on the stone floor between them.
“Clumsy me,” she said, not sounding clumsy at all.
She didn’t kneel. She bent forward from the waist, slowly, a languid descent that felt like it lasted an hour. The dark silk of her blouse gaped open, falling away from her body. Harry’s vision tunneled. There they were. The soft, pale swells of her breasts, barely contained in a lace-edged bra of the same dark silk. The bra cupped them, lifting their fullness, the deep valley between them a shadowed crevasse that begged exploration. The lace traced the upper curves, and he could see the faint, tightened points of her nipples pressing against the delicate fabric. Heat flooded him, urgent and undeniable, a thick, aching pressure in his trousers.
She was taking an impossibly long time to retrieve the book. Her hair brushed the floor. Her eyes, when she flicked them up at him from her inverted position, were sharp with triumphant amusement.
“See something you like?” Her voice was slightly muffled, but the taunt was clear.
He couldn’t speak. He could only stare, memorizing the way the soft flesh swayed gently with her movement, the perfect, creamy skin revealed by the gaping silk. He wanted to drop to his knees, to bury his face in that warmth, to taste and touch and lose himself.
She straightened with the same infuriating slowness, the silk whispering back into place, obscuring the devastating view. She clutched the book to her chest, which only emphasized the soft pillowing of her breasts around it. “You’re staring, Potter. It’s rude.”
“You… you did that on purpose,” he managed to croak.
“Did what?” She took a step closer. The space between them vibrated. “Dropped a book? Everyone has accidents. Even,” she leaned in, her scent enveloping him, “the great Harry Potter. Or are yours always so… hard?”
The double meaning hung in the air. He was painfully, obviously erect, the fabric of his jeans straining. She glanced down, then back up, her smile a razor’s edge.
“Stop it,” he breathed, but it was a plea, not a command.
“Stop what?” Another step. They were almost touching. He could feel the faint heat radiating from her body. The top of her head was level with his mouth. “Stop existing? Stop breathing? Or just stop letting you see exactly what you want to see?” She held the book tighter, her knuckles white, but her expression was one of cool control. “You’ve been imagining it since the dungeons. Haven’t you? Wondering. Picturing them. My tits.”
The crude word in her polished mouth was a shock that went straight to his core. He nodded, a helpless, jerky motion.
“What did you picture?” she pressed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me.”
“I…” He swallowed. “Full. Pale. The… the nipples would be pink. I think.”
She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Close.” She looked down at herself, then back at him, a challenge in her eyes. “But not quite.”
It was an invitation, a dare. His hand, of its own volition, lifted. He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes—she hadn’t expected him to move—but she didn’t flinch. His fingertips brushed the space where her silky blouse parted. He felt the feverish heat of her skin, the firm curve beneath.
Then, a sound—the distant cough of Madame Pince—shattered the spell.
Daphne’s composure returned in an instant. She stepped back smoothly, leaving his hand hanging in the empty, charged air. The cold mask was back, but her cheeks were faintly flushed, her breaths a fraction too quick.
“This is a library, Potter,” she said, her voice regaining its customary chill, though it seemed slightly forced. “Control yourself.”
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking a steady, retreating rhythm on the stones. At the end of the aisle, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes traveled the length of him once more, lingering on the obvious evidence of his desire. A final, faint, utterly victorious smirk touched her lips.
Then she was gone, absorbed into the shadows.
Harry slumped against the cold shelf, his whole body trembling. The ghost of her heat was on his fingertips. The explicit image of her bare breasts, finally revealed in all their aching glory, was now burned onto the back of his eyelids, more vivid than any memory. She had shown him, and she had taken it away. The game was no longer just in his head. She was playing it, too. And he had never wanted anything more than to lose.