Chapter 4: Broken Chivalry
The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows across the worn tapestries of the private room. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, old wood, and the sharp, clean sweat of their bodies. Harry Potter was on his hands and knees on the rug, the coarse wool rough against his skin. His glasses lay discarded by the hearth, blurring the edges of the world into a warm, indistinct glow.
Daphne Greengrass moved behind him with a predator’s grace. The leather harness creaked softly with each measured thrust of the sleek, black silicone strapped to her hips. She’d worked him open with a cruel, patient expertise, her fingers and then the toy, until he was loose and ready, his body accepting the invasion with a shameful, eager compliance.
“Fuck, just like that—” Harry gasped, his voice strangled as she changed the angle, the head of the toy striking that deep, electric spot inside him with unerring accuracy.
His own cock was hard and leaking, swaying heavily between his legs with every jarring impact of her hips against his arse. The obscene, wet sound of the toy pistoning into him filled the small space, a stark counterpoint to the pop and hiss of the fire.
Daphne’s hand, cool and steady, snaked around his hip. Her fingers circled the base of his cock, not to stroke, but to hold, to restrain. Her other hand fisted in his messy hair, yanking his head back sharply, arching his spine.
“Does the Chosen One need permission to come?” Her voice was a low, mocking whisper in his ear, devoid of warmth. It was a question of pure control.
He tried to thrust into her hand, to find some friction, but her grip was like iron. “Daphne… please.”
“Please, what?” She drove into him harder, deeper, the force of it pushing him forward on his hands. “Use your words, Potter. You’re not a beast. Or are you?”
He was close, so close. The dual sensations—the brutal fullness inside him and the desperate, denied ache of his cock—were coalescing into a blinding pressure. “Let me come,” he begged, the words filthy and foreign on his tongue.
She slowed her thrusts to a maddening, shallow rhythm, each one a teasing promise. “Is this what you’ve become? Groveling for your release from a Slytherin bitch? What would your friends say? What would Granger think of her noble hero now?”
The mention of Hermione’s name, the reminder of the world outside this room, should have shamed him. Instead, it sent a fresh, dark thrill through his veins. This was who he was now. This was the price of power, and the reward.
“They don’t matter,” he ground out, pushing back against her, demanding more.
“No,” Daphne agreed, her voice dropping to a intimate, conspiratorial tone. “They don’t.” Her hand began to move on his cock, a tight, punishing stroke that matched the renewed, ruthless pace of her hips. “Come for me, Harry. Show me what you’re worth.”
It was the permission he needed. A broken, guttural shout was torn from his throat as he climaxed, his release spurting over her hand and the rug beneath him. His body convulsed, clenching tightly around the toy still buried deep inside him as waves of intense pleasure-pain wracked his frame.
She held him through it, her thrusts not ceasing until the last shudder had left his body. Then, with a final, deliberate push, she stilled. For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. She withdrew the toy with a soft, slick sound and released her grip on his hair.
Harry collapsed onto his side, spent and boneless, the firelight warm on his skin. He watched as Daphne unstrapped the harness with efficient, unhurried movements. She laid it aside on a velvet-covered chair as if it were a piece of formalwear, then Summoned a damp cloth from the washstand. She cleaned her hands first, then, with a strange, detached courtesy, began to clean him.
The silence stretched, comfortable and loaded. It was Harry who broke it, his voice hoarse. “Hermione got a tip. From Malfoy.”
Daphne didn’t look up from her task. “Oh?”
“The Parkinson estate. They’re voting against the Magical Regulatory Bill.”
She finished cleaning him and vanished the cloth with a flick of her wrist. She settled onto the rug beside him, drawing her knees up and resting her chin on them. Her blonde hair gleamed in the firelight. “I know.”
Harry turned his head to look at her. “You know?”
“Astoria is having tea with Pansy tomorrow. She’s going to suggest that a vote against the bill would be seen as… old-fashioned. A clinging to outdated prejudices that could harm their prospects for lucrative potions contracts with the Ministry.” Daphne’s smile was a small, sharp thing. “Pansy is many things, but she’s not stupid. She’ll see the logic. And she’s always been easily led by my sister.”
A slow, cold admiration unfolded within Harry. This was why he was here. Not just for the sex, though that was a potent, addictive bonus. But for this. For the sharp, unflinching intellect that operated in shadows he was only learning to navigate.
“You already had a countermove in play,” he stated.
“I always have a countermove in play, Harry.” She reached out and traced the line of his jaw, her touch now surprisingly gentle. “You wanted power. Not the loud, brash kind Dumbledore had. The real kind. The kind that moves in whispers and decides things in rooms like this long before they’re ever voted on.”
He caught her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. Her skin was cool. “And what do you want, Daphne?”
Her ice-blue eyes met his, and for a second, the mask of cool composure slipped, revealing a vast, matching ambition. “I want to be the one whispering in the ear of the man who has it all.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his. “Now, let’s discuss what we do about the Macnair family. Their allegiance is still volatile.”
Harry pulled her closer, the political scheming as much of an aphrodisiac as the sex that had preceded it. The fire cast their entwined shadows, large and distorted, against the wall.