Chapter 2: Cruel Intentions
The slam of the heavy library door did little to quiet the riot in Harry’s head. The silence of the corridor was a palpable thing, broken only by the whisper of his own robes and the frantic thud of his heart. He walked quickly, without direction, the image of Hermione’s confused, slightly flushed face burned onto the back of his eyelids. The shame was a cold stone in his gut, but it was no match for the heat still coiling low in his abdomen. He felt unhinged, a cauldron about to boil over.
He took a turn down a narrower passage, one lined with portraits of severe-looking witches and wizards in Slytherin silver and green. Their eyes tracked him, their murmurs a sibilant hiss in the stagnant air. He barely noticed. He was too busy trying to wrestle his own body back under control, to force his thoughts away from the soft curve of breast and the scent of Hermione’s shampoo.
That’s when he heard them. Laughter. High, sharp, and deliberately carrying. It echoed off the stone, a sound that didn’t belong in the near-empty hallway.
He rounded another corner and stopped dead.
They were clustered under a flickering torch: Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, and a few other Slytherin girls he recognized by sight. They were a wall of sleek black robes and knowing smirks. Pansy was leaning against the wall, one foot propped behind her, and she was the source of the laughter. Her eyes, dark and sharp, locked onto him immediately.
“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice like silk over glass. “Look what the Kneazle dragged in. Lost, Potter?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, willing his expression to remain neutral. “Just walking, Parkinson.”
“Looks more like you’re running away.” Her gaze swept over him, lingering for a moment on his disheveled hair and the tense line of his shoulders. A slow, cruel smile played on her lips. “Let me guess. Little fight with the Gryffindor princess? Did she finally get tired of you staring at her tits instead of listening to her lecture?”
The accuracy of the jab was like a physical blow. Heat flooded Harry’s face. Millicent snickered.
“Piss off, Parkinson,” he muttered, attempting to walk past them.
Pansy shifted her weight, deliberately blocking his path. She was shorter than him, but she carried herself with an unnerving confidence that made her seem larger. Up close, he could see the precise cut of her school blouse, how it hugged her narrow frame. Unlike Hermione’s soft fullness, Pansy was all sharp angles and tight, compact curves. Her breasts were small and high, their shape unmistakable against the thin fabric. The sight sent a fresh, unwanted jolt through him.
“Touchy,” she purred, not moving an inch. Her eyes dropped, and he knew with sudden, mortifying certainty that she could see the evidence of his earlier agitation still straining against his trousers. Her smile widened. “Or maybe not. Maybe you’re just all worked up about something else entirely.”
The other girls fell silent, watching the exchange with rapt attention. The air grew thick, charged with a different kind of tension now. This wasn’t confusion or shame. This was a challenge. A dare.
“What do you want?” Harry’s voice was rough.
Pansy took a half-step closer, invading his space. He could smell her perfume, something expensive and floral, a stark contrast to the dungeon damp. “Just making an observation. You look… tense. All that heroics must be very stressful. Need an outlet?”
Her meaning was unmistakable. She was toying with him, using his own obvious arousal as a weapon. He should have been angry. He should have shoved past her. But his body was betraying him again, responding to her blatant taunting with a stubborn, primal interest. The fantasy of Hermione was soft and warm; this was sharp, dangerous, and thrillingly direct.
He saw her glance down again, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes before it was masked by triumphant amusement. She knew the effect she was having.
“Maybe you should find a quiet broom closet,” she suggested, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Think about what you really want. Or who.”
With a final, mocking smirk, she turned and swept away, her cohort falling in behind her. Their laughter echoed down the corridor, sharp and lingering, long after they had disappeared from view.
Harry stood rooted to the spot, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cold stone of the wall felt grounding against his back. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run a mile. Pansy’s words echoed in his mind, mixing with the memory of Hermione’s concerned face. Think about what you really want.
The problem was, he didn’t know. He only knew the wanting itself, a restless, hungry thing that had taken up residence inside him, and it was starting to feel a lot like losing control.