Chapter 4: The Hunter Becomes the Hunted
The note was slipped into his bag during Potions, a single fold of crisp parchment that smelled faintly of her frost-and-glass perfume. It contained only three words: North Corridor. Midnight.
Now, standing in the cold, deserted passageway, Harry felt the weight of his own recklessness. The air was still and silent, the only light coming from a single, guttering torch farther down the hall. The eyes of the sleeping portraits seemed to watch him from their frames. He should have burned the note. He should be in his dormitory, asleep. But the memory of her knowing smile in the library was a hook in his gut, pulling him here.
A soft footfall echoed behind him. He turned.
Daphne Greengrass emerged from the shadows as if she were made from them. She leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "Potter."
"Greengrass." His voice came out rougher than he intended.
"We have an interesting situation," she began, pushing off the wall and taking a slow, measured step toward him. "You, skulking under that cloak like a perverted ghost. Me, feeling distinctly... observed." She stopped just outside his personal space, close enough that he could see the flecks of silver in her blue eyes. "It's rude, don't you think?"
Harry's face burned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" She gave a low, soft laugh. "Let's not insult each other's intelligence. You wanted a look. That's the base currency of it, isn't it? A cheap thrill." She toyed with the hem of her school skirt, a casual, infuriating gesture. "I'll give you one."
His breath hitched. "What?"
"A look. I'll show you what you were hoping to see." Her lips curved into that predatory smirk. "But there's a condition. You have to prove you're not already hard for me. That this is just clinical curiosity for you. Show me you're soft, and I'll give you your peek."
His mind went blank. This was a trap. It had to be. She would laugh, she would call for a teacher, she would...
"Or you can walk away," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And we'll both know the famous Harry Potter is just a boy who gets a stiffy from looking at a girl in a library."
The challenge was a slap. The humiliation from the library curdled into a sharp, defiant anger. Fuck it.
His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, the metallic clink obscenely loud in the silence. He couldn't believe he was doing this. He pushed his trousers and boxers down to his mid-thighs, the cold air a shock on his exposed skin. His cock lay soft against his thigh.
Daphne’s smirk vanished. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her cool facade. She hadn't expected him to call her bluff. She stared for a long moment, her gaze analytical, almost clinical. "Well," she breathed. "You have a bit of nerve after all."
A slow, deep blush crept up her neck. The game had shifted, and she was now the one off-balance. She had given her word.
With a deliberate slowness that was pure torture, she reached for the buttons of her school blouse. One. Two. Three. The fabric fell open. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Her breasts were pale and full, with pert, pink nipples that tightened in the cool air. She stood there, allowing him to look, her expression now one of intense, focused assessment.
"See?" she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Satisfied?"
He wasn't. The sight of her, exposed and proud, sent a jolt of pure, undiluted lust through him. His cock, which had moments ago been limp, began to stir, thickening and lifting from his thigh.
Her eyes dropped to it, and her lips parted. "Oh," she said, a new, husky note in her voice. "It seems the clinical part is over."
Before he could process it, she closed the distance between them. Her hand, cool and sure, wrapped around his hardening length. He gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. Her touch was electric.
"A deal's a deal," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear as she began to stroke him, her fist moving with a slow, confident rhythm. "I showed you mine. Now you get this."
He was fully hard now, painfully so, his cock slick with pre-cum as she worked him. Her other hand cupped her own breast, thumb brushing over her nipple as she watched his face. "This what you wanted, Potter? To see if the ice queen melts?"
"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the cold stone wall. His own hand came up to cover hers on her breast, his fingers squeezing the soft, incredible weight of it. She let him, a sharp, approving hiss escaping her lips.
"Go on," she urged, her strokes on his cock becoming faster, tighter. "Don't just stare. Get yourself off. Show me what you do in your bed when you think about this."
Driven by her command and the overwhelming sensation, his own hand replaced hers on his shaft. He started jerking himself off in earnest, his fist a blur, his eyes locked on her naked chest, on the hypnotic motion of her fingers on her nipple. The filthy, wet sound of his hand on his cock mixed with their ragged breathing.
"Yeah, that's it," she coaxed, her cool demeanor fracturing into something raw and hungry. "Come for me, you little voyeur. Mark this spot. Make it yours."
Her words, her gaze, her exposed skin—it was too much. A guttural groan was torn from his throat as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick, hot streaks of cum shot onto the stone floor between them, splattering against the ancient rock.
He slumped against the wall, panting, spent. Daphne slowly buttoned her blouse, her face a mask of composed satisfaction, though her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was just a little too quick.
She looked from the mess on the floor back to his face. "Consider your curiosity satisfied." She turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "And Potter? Next time you want a show... just ask."
She disappeared into the shadows, leaving him alone in the corridor with the evidence of his shame and the terrifying knowledge that this was only the beginning.