Chapter 1: The Interview That Wasn't
The Three Broomsticks had emptied out hours ago, leaving only the low crackle of the hearth and the occasional clink of glasses from behind the bar where Rosmerta was pretending not to watch them. The velvet-draped booth in the back felt like a trap Harry had walked into with his eyes wide open. He knew better. He'd always known better when it came to Rita Skeeter.
And yet here he was.
"Relax, Potter. It's just a few questions about the wedding." Rita's jewelled spectacles caught the candlelight as she smiled, showing too many teeth. Her curled blonde hair bounced with the tilt of her head. "The public adores you. They simply want to know how the Chosen One plans to say 'I do.'"
Harry wrapped both hands around his glass of Firewhisky. The amber liquid burned when he swallowed, but not enough. "You said fair this time. No embellishments."
"Cross my heart." She drew an X over the lime-green robes that clashed spectacularly with the plum-colored walls. "My Quick-Quotes Quill will capture every word exactly as you speak it."
The quill hovered to her right, floating above a single sheet of parchment paper. It was an odd shade, brownish-red, with a texture that looked almost like skin. Voodoo paper, she'd called it—some rare enchanted stock from the Caribbean that she'd acquired for special interviews. Harry didn't like the way it seemed to pulse faintly in the candlelight, but he'd agreed to this. Ginny had been on his case about the press leaks, and if he didn't get ahead of the story, someone else would twist it.
"Fine." He leaned back against the booth's velvet cushions. "Ask your questions."
Rita's smile widened. She folded her hands on the table and leaned forward, close enough that her floral perfume invaded his nostrils. It was heavy and cloying, the kind of scent that clung to skin. Harry forced himself not to recoil.
"Let's start with the proposal. I heard you asked Weasley at the Burrow, in front of the entire family. Very intimate. Very... domestic."
"That's right." Harry cleared his throat. "Molly had been hinting for months, and I figured—"
He stopped.
The quill was writing, but the words appearing on the parchment had nothing to do with what he'd just said. He squinted, trying to read upside down.
Rita's mouth looks like it was made for taking cock.
Heat flooded his face. He blinked, certain he'd misread. But when he looked again, the words were still there, bold and unmistakable. His heart hammered against his ribs as the sentence vanished and new ones appeared.
Harry wonders if she tastes like the Firewhisky on the table—smoky and sweet and burning.
"What the hell is this?" His voice came out rough. He pointed at the parchment. "That's not what I said."
Rita tilted her head, feigning confusion. She picked up the paper and examined it, her lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Oh, that. The Voodoo paper doesn't just record words, Potter. It records thoughts. Feelings. Whatever's stirring underneath all those careful answers you've rehearsed."
She set the paper down and pushed it toward him. The quill continued scratching, filling the page with more of the same.
He can't stop picturing her on her knees.
"Turn it off." Harry's jaw tightened. "This interview is over."
"Is it?" Rita leaned closer, and the candlelight caught the fine lines around her eyes, the artful smear of red on her lips. She wasn't young, but there was something about her that commanded attention—a hunger that burned hot behind those spectacles. "Because from where I'm sitting, you don't seem like a man who wants to leave."
His cock twitched, straining against his trousers. He looked down, mortified to find that the evidence of his arousal was plainly visible. How could this be happening? He didn't want this. He loved Ginny. He—
He imagined Rita's mouth wrapped around him, her red lips stretched wide, her tongue sliding down his shaft. The thought came out of nowhere, vivid and filthy, and his cock throbbed in response.
"That's the thing about Voodoo paper." Rita's voice dropped to a murmur. She slid off her chair and moved around the table, her robes swishing against the wooden floor. "Every dirty word written on it becomes your truth. You can deny it out loud, but the paper doesn't lie."
She stopped beside his chair. Up close, he could see the generous swell of her cleavage beneath the lime-green fabric, the way her hips curved beneath the heavy robes. She was standing so close that her thigh brushed his shoulder.
"You're engaged," she continued, reaching up to trail one manicured finger along the collar of his shirt. "But you're not dead, are you, Potter? I've seen the way you look at me. I've interviewed you enough times to know."
"I don't—" His voice cracked. He tried again. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The quill was still writing. He caught a glimpse of the parchment from the corner of his eye.
He wants to fuck her face until she chokes.
His cock jerked. A wet spot was forming against his trousers, and he couldn't move, couldn't look away from Rita's knowing smile.
"I'll make this simple for you." She sank to her knees between his thighs. Her hands settled on his knees, warm even through the fabric. "You can walk out that door right now. We both know you won't, but you could. Or you can let me show you what happens when you stop pretending you're above this."
Her fingers moved to his belt. She unfastened it with practiced ease, then popped the button on his trousers. The sound echoed in the empty pub, obscene and final.
"This isn't—" Harry started.
"Shh." Rita pulled down his zipper, and his erection sprang free, thick and flushed and aching. She licked her lips, and the sight of her pink tongue dragging across that red mouth made his balls tighten. "Look at you. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the man who saved the world, and you're sitting here with your cock out for me like some desperate schoolboy."
The quill scratched against paper. He didn't need to look. He knew what it was writing.
He's going to come down her throat and he won't even feel guilty about it.
Rita wrapped her hand around the base of his shaft. Her fingers were cool and sure, and she stroked him once, slow, from root to tip. A bead of precum glistened at the head, and she smeared it with her thumb, spreading it over the sensitive flesh.
"Fuck," Harry breathed. He gripped the edge of the booth so hard his knuckles went white.
"That's the idea." Rita's eyes met his, and she opened her mouth, letting her breath ghost over the head of his cock. "Now be a good boy and don't move. The paper's watching."
She took him deep.
The wet heat of her mouth engulfed him in one smooth motion. Her lips stretched around his girth, sliding down until the tip of his cock bumped the back of her throat. She didn't gag. She just held him there, her eyes watering, her throat working as she swallowed around him.
Harry's hips jerked involuntarily, and she pulled back just enough to keep from choking. Then she did it again—slow this time, her tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft as she bobbed her head. She twisted her wrist in time with her movements, her hand working the part of him that her mouth couldn't reach.
"God—" He squeezed his eyes shut, but that made it worse. All he could feel was her, wet and warm and eager, the suction of her mouth, the way her other hand had found his balls and was cradling them gently, rolling them between her fingers.
The quill was writing faster now. He could hear it, the frantic scratch of it against the paper, recording every filthy thought that raced through his head.
Her mouth is a fucking weapon.
I want to grab her hair and fuck her face until she cries.
She's better at this than Ginny.
That last one made him want to vomit, but his cock didn't care. His cock was rigid and leaking, and Rita was taking him deeper with every pass, her throat relaxing around him, her lips meeting her fist at the base. She hummed, and the vibration sent sparks shooting down his spine.
"Stop," he gasped. "I'm going to—"
She didn't stop.
She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing the head of his cock, her hand still stroking him. "That's the point, Potter. The paper wants your truth. And the truth is, you're going to come in my mouth, and you're going to love it."
She dove back down before he could respond, taking him all the way to the root, her nose pressed against the thatch of dark hair at his base. Her throat constricted around him—once, twice, three times—and Harry shattered.
His orgasm ripped through him with enough force to bend him double. He came with a broken cry, his hips bucking, his fingers tangling in Rita's hair, holding her in place as he emptied himself into her throat. She swallowed greedily, her throat working, her tongue lapping at his shaft until he was oversensitive and shaking.
When she finally pulled off, a thin string of saliva and seed connected her lips to his softening cock. She wiped it away with her thumb, then brought that thumb to her mouth and sucked it clean.
The quill had gone still.
Harry looked at the parchment, and there it was, written in elegant script at the top of the page:
He'll be back for more. He knows it. She knows it. The wedding of the century might never happen at all.
Rita rose gracefully to her feet. She smoothed down her robes, adjusted her glasses, and smiled at him like nothing had happened.
"That's all I need for now," she said. "I'll be in touch."
She collected her Voodoo paper, folded it once, and tucked it into her robes. The quill floated to her pocket, disappearing inside.
Harry sat frozen, his trousers still open, his cock still exposed, his heart still pounding. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He could only watch as Rita Skeeter strolled out of the Three Broomsticks, her heels clicking against the wooden floor, leaving him alone with the dying fire and the taste of shame burning in his throat.
The door swung shut behind her.
Harry closed his eyes.
And the worst part—the part that made him want to break every bone in his own hands—was that he could still feel her mouth on him.