Chapter 2: The Cricket in the Curtains
The bedroom at Grimmauld Place had always felt like a tomb dressed in velvet, but tonight the walls seemed to breathe. Harry lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, the sheets tangled around his legs like restraints. Beside him, Ginny slept on her stomach, one arm flung across his chest, her red hair fanned across the pillow like spilled wine.
He could still taste the Firewhisky. Could still feel the ghost of Rita's mouth wrapped around him, wet and demanding, her tongue doing things he'd never asked for but hadn't stopped.
His cock stirred beneath the blanket. He shifted his hips, trying to will it down. Ginny murmured something in her sleep and nuzzled closer, her breath warm against his shoulder. The smell of her—lavender soap and something sweet, something hers—should have been enough to ground him.
It wasn't.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rita on her knees. Every time he blinked, he heard the scratch of that quill against the Voodoo paper, recording thoughts he'd never meant to think. He'd taken a shower when he got home, scalding water and soap that burned his skin, but he still felt dirty. Still felt marked.
Ginny's hand curled against his chest. Her fingers were callused from Quidditch, rough in a way that had always made him smile. Now they just felt like accusations.
He needed to tell her. He knew he needed to tell her. But how do you say I let Rita Skeeter suck my cock in the back of the Three Broomsticks and I came so hard I saw stars? How do you explain that without sounding like the worst person who ever lived?
The window was cracked open, just a sliver, letting in the cool night air. A breeze stirred the curtains—heavy burgundy things that Molly had insisted on, despite Harry's protests that they looked like something out of a vampire's wet dream.
Something moved in the folds of the fabric.
Harry's eyes snapped to the curtain. He watched, every muscle tense, as a small dark shape crawled up the velvet. A beetle. Fat and black and gleaming in the candlelight, its legs picking their way delicately across the fabric.
His heart stopped.
No.
The beetle climbed higher, settling into a fold near the top of the curtain, directly above the bed. Harry's mouth went dry. He told himself it was nothing. Just a bug. Just a normal, ordinary, non-magical beetle that had wandered in through the window.
But he knew better. He'd known better since fourth year.
He should move. He should wake Ginny. He should grab his wand and—
Ginny shifted, her arm tightening across his chest. "Stop thinking so loud," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "You're keeping me awake."
"Sorry." The word came out strangled.
She lifted her head just enough to squint at him, her brown eyes half-lidded and soft. "You've been weird all night. What's going on?"
"Nothing." He forced a smile. "Just... wedding stuff. Can't shut my brain off."
She studied him for a long moment. Ginny had always been able to see through him, even when he didn't want to be seen. It was one of the things he loved about her. Right now, it made him want to crawl out of his own skin.
"Okay," she said finally, and he knew she didn't believe him. But she was tired—he could see it in the shadows under her eyes, the way her body sagged against his. She'd been training hard for the upcoming season, and sleep was precious. "But we're talking about this tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," he agreed.
She kissed his shoulder, a soft brush of lips that made his chest ache with guilt, then settled back down. Within minutes, her breathing had evened out, deep and steady and trusting.
Harry lay rigid beneath her, watching the beetle.
It didn't move. It just sat there in the curtain folds, a dark stain against the burgundy velvet. Waiting.
He didn't know how long he stared at it. The candles burned low, their flames guttering, casting shifting shadows across the walls. The fire in the hearth had died to embers, orange coals that pulsed like a heartbeat.
His eyelids grew heavy. His thoughts grew fuzzy. He tried to fight it, tried to stay awake, but exhaustion pulled at him like a riptide, dragging him under.
He dreamed of red lips and wet heat and the scratch of a quill.
---
The beetle waited.
It waited until Ginny's breathing had deepened into the slow rhythm of true sleep. It waited until Harry's body had gone slack, his jaw loose, his hands uncurled from the sheets. It waited until the last candle sputtered and died, leaving only the ember-glow to paint the room in shades of orange and black.
Then it moved.
The beetle crawled down the curtain, its tiny legs picking a careful path across the velvet. When it reached the floor, it scuttled across the stone, past Harry's discarded trousers, past Ginny's Quidditch boots, until it reached the foot of the bed.
The transformation was silent. One moment, a beetle. The next, Rita Skeeter, crouched at the foot of the mattress like a cat ready to pounce.
She was still wearing her lime-green robes, though they were rumpled now, and her curled blonde hair had come loose from its careful arrangement. Her jewelled spectacles caught the ember-light, glinting like predator's eyes. In her hand, she held the Voodoo paper—unrolled now, blank and waiting. The Quick-Quotes Quill hovered beside her, its tip quivering with anticipation.
Rita smiled.
She crawled onto the bed, her movements slow and deliberate, careful not to disturb the sleeping couple. She positioned herself between their feet, her knees sinking into the mattress, and laid the Voodoo paper flat on the blanket.
Then she leaned close to Harry's ear.
"Let's see what you're really dreaming about, Potter," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.
The quill dipped to the paper.
And it began to write.
---
Harry didn't know he was dreaming.
The room was the same—Grimmauld Place, the velvet curtains, the dying fire. But Ginny was gone. The bed was empty beside him, the sheets cold. And Rita was there, standing at the foot of the mattress, her robes pooling around her feet like spilled oil.
"Hello, Harry," she said, and her voice was honey and poison. "I've been waiting for you."
He should have been afraid. He should have reached for his wand. But his body wouldn't obey him. He lay there, frozen, as she climbed onto the bed and straddled his hips, her thighs pressing against his sides.
"You want this," she said. "The paper told me. The paper always tells me."
Her hands found the hem of her robes and pulled them over her head. Beneath, she was naked—full breasts with dark nipples, a soft stomach, hips that flared wide and inviting. Her skin was pale in the ember-light, crisscrossed with faint silver stretch marks that caught the glow like rivers on a map.
He should have looked away. He should have closed his eyes.
He didn't.
"You're engaged," Rita murmured, leaning down until her breasts brushed his chest. "But you're not married yet. And what Ginny doesn't know won't hurt her, will it?"
"Stop," Harry breathed.
But his hands were moving, sliding up her thighs, gripping her hips. His cock was hard, aching, pressing against her stomach. He could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and it made him want to sob.
"I'm not going to stop," Rita said. "And you're not going to make me."
She reached between them and freed his cock from his pajamas. It sprang up, flushed and dripping, and she wrapped her fingers around it with a satisfied hum.
"Look at you," she said. "So eager. So desperate. Does Ginny even know how to handle this? Does she know what you need?"
"Don't—" His voice cracked. "Don't talk about her."
"why not?" Rita stroked him slowly, root to tip, her thumb circling the head. "Afraid I'll be right? Afraid she doesn't make you feel the way I do?"
She shifted her hips, positioning herself above him. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, slick and hot, and Harry's breath caught in his throat.
"Beg me," she said.
"What?"
"Beg me to fuck you. Beg me to take you away from her. Beg me, Harry. The paper is listening."
He looked to the side, and there it was—the Voodoo paper, lying on the nightstand, the quill scratching furiously across its surface. He could see the words forming, black ink on brown parchment.
He wants to fuck her. He wants to come inside her. He wants to forget Ginny ever existed.
"No," Harry gasped. "That's not—I don't—"
"You do." Rita sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch, her cunt gripping him like a fist. "You do, Harry. You've always wanted this. You've just been too much of a coward to admit it."
She began to move—slow, rolling thrusts of her hips that made his eyes roll back in his head. Her cunt was wet and tight, clenching around him with every stroke, and he could feel himself losing control.
"Beg me," she said again.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
She laughed, low and cruel. "That's not begging, Potter. That's just sad."
She rode him harder, her breasts bouncing with the motion, her hands braced on his chest. He could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the familiar tightness that meant he was close.
"Beg me to take you away from her," Rita demanded. "Beg me to make you mine."
"I—"
"Say it."
"I want—"
"Say it!"
"I want you to take me away from her!"
The words tore out of him like a confession, like a curse, like something rotting that had been lodged in his chest for months. Rita's cunt clenched around him, milking him, and he came with a scream that he couldn't hear because the quill was scratching so loud, so fast, recording every filthy word.
He came and came and came, emptying himself into her, and she kept riding him through it, her nails digging into his chest, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
When it was over, she leaned down and kissed him.
His mouth opened for her. His tongue met hers. And somewhere far away, in a world he couldn't reach, he felt something wet spread across his sheets.
---
Harry woke with a gasp.
His heart was hammering, his body slick with sweat. The room was dark—the candles had burned out completely—and for a moment, he didn't know where he was.
Then he felt the wetness.
He looked down. His pajama bottoms were soaked, the fabric clinging to his skin, and the sheets beneath him were damp with cooling come. He'd had wet dreams before, but not like this. Never like this.
Ginny was still asleep beside him, her breathing slow and even. She hadn't moved. She hadn't seen.
Harry sat up slowly, his whole body trembling. He looked at the window.
The curtain was empty.
No beetle. No Rita. Just velvet and shadow and the soft glow of embers.
Had it been real? Had any of it been real?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his knees nearly buckling. His wand was on the nightstand, and he grabbed it, his fingers clumsy and shaking.
"Lumos."
The light revealed nothing out of place. The room was exactly as it had been—messy, lived-in, theirs. No Voodoo paper. No quill. No sign that anyone had been there at all.
But the wetness in his pajamas was real. The taste of Rita on his tongue was real. The echo of his own voice, begging—please take me away from her—was real.
He pressed his palm to his forehead and tried to breathe.
It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. Just his guilty conscience playing tricks on him.
But the Quick-Quotes Quill had written his thoughts into truth before. And Rita Skeeter had already proven she could get into places she wasn't wanted.
He looked at Ginny, still sleeping, still trusting.
Then he looked at the window.
And somewhere in the darkness of Grimmauld Place, a beetle crawled through a crack in the wall, carrying a rolled-up piece of Voodoo paper that was covered in words Harry couldn't remember saying.
But would soon.