Chapter 7: Public Decorum
The alcove was a bubble of sanctioned decadence, walled off from the main thrust of the Ministry Gala by heavy, velvet curtains the color of spilled wine. The air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of champagne and a dozen competing perfumes, a metallic hint of ozone from nearby magical displays cutting through the warmth. Harry Potter had Daphne Greengrass pinned against the gilded wall, his body a shield from prying eyes. His lips were at her ear, his teeth grazing the pearl stud there before nipping sharply at her lobe.
Pansy Parkinson, leaning against the opposite wall with a flute of bubbling elf-made wine, arched a meticulously drawn brow. “Getting bored, Potter?” she drawled, her voice a lazy mockery that didn’t quite hide her interest. “The Chosen One reduced to groping in corners. How the mighty have fallen.”
Daphne’s response was a sudden, choked-off moan, her eyes fluttering shut. Harry’s hand, which had been resting on her hip, had slid beneath the layers of her silk skirts. His fingers worked with a precise, ruthless efficiency between her thighs. His other hand rose, not to caress, but to settle at the base of her throat, his thumb pressing insistently against her pulse point. He felt the wild staccato beat there, a frantic bird against his palm.
“Continue,” Harry murmured, his voice low and raspy against her skin, the command meant for Daphne alone yet audible to Pansy. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly, a possessive pressure that was both a threat and a promise.
Daphne’s eyes snapped open. They were glassy with a mixture of humiliation and raw arousal, but her voice, when it came, was remarkably steady, a cool counterpoint to the heat flooding her body. “Not bored, Pansy,” she said, a faint tremor the only betrayal. “Merely… multi-tasking. We were discussing the new tariffs on imported wolfsbane, if you must know. Potter here has… compelling arguments.”
Pansy’s smirk widened. “I’ll bet he does.” She took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes dipping to where Harry’s arm disappeared under Daphne’s dress. “And what does the Bulgarian delegation think of your methods of persuasion, Harry? I heard Minister Oblansk is rather old-fashioned.”
Harry’s fingers moved again, a subtle, skillful motion that made Daphne inhale sharply. He kept his gaze locked on Pansy, a cold, calculating light in his green eyes that had long since eclipsed any boyish warmth. “Oblansk understands power,” Harry said, his tone conversational, as if they were at a board meeting and not in the midst of a deeply intimate violation. “He respects results. How one achieves them is merely… detail.”
Daphne’s breath hitched. She pressed her hips minutely forward into his hand, a silent plea for more, her own fingers digging into the sleeve of his dress robes. The silk was cool and slippery under her grasp. She was navigating this with the same sharp intellect she used to decipher ancient runes, each gasped breath and carefully chosen word a calculated move in a game they were all playing. The ambition that had always simmered beneath her icy exterior recognized its match in Harry. This was not about love or even simple lust; it was a merger, an alliance sealed in the dark, quiet spaces between public gestures.
“Results,” Pansy repeated, swirling the champagne in her glass. “Like ensuring the contract for staffing St. Mungo’s new ward goes to a Greengrass-affiliated agency? How very… efficient of you both.”
Harry’s thumb stroked Daphne’s pulse point, a gesture that could be mistaken for tenderness if not for the unyielding pressure surrounding it. “Efficiency is undervalued,” he said. His eyes flickered past Pansy for a second, toward the main hall. “Unlike spectacle. I see Weasley’s trying to get the goblins to dance again. It’s pathetic.”
The mention of Ron was a deliberate poke, a reminder of the world he’d left behind. The Gryffindor hero was a costume he’d shed, and in its place was this hardened man, who found power more intoxicating than praise.
Daphne, sensing the shift, seized the opportunity to regain a sliver of control. “Pansy, darling, shouldn’t you be seeing to your own date? I saw Theodore Nott looking rather lost by the punchbowl. He always had a weak head for spirits.”
Pansy’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Checkmate. She pushed off the wall. “Don’t let me keep you from your… negotiations.” Her eyes swept over them one last time, lingering on the faint blush staining Daphne’s cheekbones. “Do try not to make a scene. The Prophet’s Rita Skeeter is here, and she does so love a tragedy.”
As Pansy disappeared through the curtains, the alcove seemed to grow smaller, the air closer. Harry didn’t immediately remove his hands. He leaned in, his forehead touching Daphne’s, his breathing now uneven to match hers.
“You handled that well,” he breathed, his voice stripped of its prior coldness, replaced by a genuine heat.
“I know,” Daphne gasped, her composure cracking as his fingers intensified their rhythm. Her knees buckled, and he held her up, his body pressed flush against hers. “Harry…”
“She’s right about one thing,” he muttered, his mouth finding hers in a fierce, possessive kiss that tasted of champagne and ambition. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. “No scenes. But this isn’t over.” He slowly withdrew his hand from under her skirts, the gesture almost regretful. He adjusted the fabric of her dress with a strange, clinical care, his fingers brushing against her damp skin.
He stepped back, and the loss of his touch was like a withdrawal. Daphne leaned against the wall, smoothing her skirts, her body humming with unfinished energy. She watched as Harry straightened his robes, the Chosen One once more, his expression shifting back to that of a bored, powerful年轻 man at a party. Only the faint flush on his neck betrayed him.
“Come on,” he said, offering his arm with a formality that felt like another kind of intimacy. “Let’s go find Parkinson’s supposed tragedy. I want to see if the gossips are already buzzing about what Malfoy and Granger are doing on the balcony.”