Chapter 3: The Quill's Command
The morning came like an accusation.
Harry woke before Ginny, which was unusual. She was the early riser—Quidditch training had carved that habit into her bones—but today she slept on, her face peaceful against the pillow, her hair a tangled fire across the white cotton. He watched her breathe for a long time. In and out. In and out.
The guilt sat in his chest like a swallowed stone.
He'd cleaned himself up in the bathroom before dawn, scrubbing his skin raw under water so hot it left red marks on his thighs. He'd vanished the soiled sheets with a flick of his wand and replaced them with fresh ones from the linen closet, his hands shaking the whole time. Ginny hadn't stirred. She hadn't seen.
But he had.
Every time he blinked, he saw Rita's face. Her lips. The way she'd looked at him like he was something to be consumed.
He slipped out of bed and dressed quietly—jeans, a faded jumper, his trainers. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay here, in this room, with Ginny breathing soft and trusting beside him.
The kitchen was empty. Kreacher had retired to wherever Kreacher went when he wasn't being useful, and the fireplace was cold. Harry made tea he didn't drink and stared at the wall until the clock on the mantel chimed nine.
Then he felt it.
A pull. Subtle at first, like a hook behind his navel, tugging him toward something he couldn't see. He knew the sensation—Apparition, but not his own. A summons.
His hand went to his wand.
The pull yanked hard.
The world spun and compressed and shattered, and when it reassembled, Harry was standing in a room he'd never seen before.
It was circular, windowless, lit by candles that seemed to float in midair with no visible support. The walls were lined with shelves—hundreds of shelves—each one crammed with bottles of ink that glowed faintly in the darkness. Some were red, some black, some a sickly green that made his stomach turn. The air smelled of wax and old paper and something underneath, something metallic and sharp.
The Quick-Quotes Quill hovered in the center of the room, its tip scratching across a sheet of parchment that floated beside it. Harry couldn't see what it was writing. He didn't want to.
"Hello, Potter."
Her voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
Rita Skeeter stepped out from behind a shelf, and Harry's mouth went dry.
She was naked.
Not partially dressed. Not wrapped in silk. Naked. Her body was exactly as it had been in his dream—full breasts with dark, peaked nipples, a soft stomach, hips that curved wide and generous. Her skin was pale in the candlelight, crisscrossed with faint silver lines that caught the glow. Between her legs, a neat triangle of dark blonde hair.
She wore nothing but her jewelled spectacles.
"Like what you see?" she asked, and smiled.
Harry's hand tightened on his wand. "What the fuck is this? How did you—"
"Bring you here? The paper told me where you were. The paper tells me everything." She gestured to the floating parchment, and the quill paused mid-scratch. "It's very useful, this paper. It knows what you want before you do."
"I don't want anything from you."
"Liar."
She walked toward him slowly, her hips swaying, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. Harry tried to step back, but his legs wouldn't move. His whole body had locked up, frozen in place like a rabbit before a snake.
"The dream," he said. "That was you."
"That was me." She stopped inches from him, close enough that he could smell her—lavender and something darker, something musky and warm. "And you came so hard you soaked your sheets. Didn't you?"
His face burned. "That wasn't—I didn't—"
"You begged me to take you away from her." Rita reached up and traced a finger down his chest, over his jumper, over the scar beneath. "I have it in writing, Potter. Would you like to see?"
She flicked her wrist, and the parchment floated toward him. Harry didn't want to look. He looked anyway.
I want you to take me away from her!
The words were his. He remembered saying them. Remembered the taste of them on his tongue, bitter and shameful and true.
"That's not real," he whispered.
"It's as real as you are." Rita took the parchment from the air and rolled it up, tucking it into a pocket that didn't exist because she was naked and there was nowhere to put anything. The parchment vanished. "The question is what we're going to do about it."
"I'm leaving."
"You can't."
He tried to Apparate. Nothing happened. The room held him like a fist.
"I've warded this place against everything," Rita said. "Portkeys, Floo, Apparition. You're not going anywhere until I say you can."
Harry's heart hammered against his ribs. "What do you want?"
She smiled, and it was the smile of a woman who had already won. "I want you to admit that you want me. Not just your cock—though I'll take that too—but you. The part of you that's been screaming for something different. Something Ginny can't give you."
"You don't know anything about Ginny."
"I know she doesn't make you feel like this." Rita gestured to herself, to her naked body, to the candles and the shadows and the ink bottles glowing like poisoned fruit. "I know she's safe. Predictable. The girl next door who grew up to be exactly what everyone expected her to be."
She stepped closer, until her breasts brushed against his chest. Her nipples were hard, and he could feel them through his jumper, twin points of heat.
"And I know," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, "that you've been bored for a long time. Maybe not of her. But of this. The quiet life. The happy ending."
Harry's jaw clenched. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?"
Her hand found his cock through his jeans. He was already hard—had been since the moment she'd stepped out from behind the shelf—and she wrapped her fingers around him through the denim, squeezing gently.
"You want this," she said. "You've wanted it since the pub."
"I didn't—"
"You came in my mouth and begged me not to stop."
He had no answer for that.
Rita released him and stepped back. She walked to a raised platform in the center of the room—a dais draped in dark velvet, its edges trimmed with gold—and sat down on the edge, spreading her legs wide.
The view was obscene. Her cunt was pink and wet, glistening in the candlelight. Harry tried to look away, but his eyes refused to obey.
"I can make you do anything I want, Harry," Rita said. "The paper writes it, and you obey. That's how it works."
She gestured, and the Quick-Quotes Quill dipped to the parchment again. It began to scratch, the sound loud in the silence.
"You're going to strip," Rita said. "Then you're going to kneel. Then you're going to eat my pussy until I come on your face."
The words hit him like a physical blow.
"You're going to do it," she continued, "because the paper is writing that you want to. And the paper is always right."
Harry looked at the parchment. The quill was moving fast now, leaving trails of black ink on the yellowed surface.
He wants to taste her. He's been thinking about it since the pub. He wants to bury his face between her legs and lick until she screams.
"No," Harry said.
But his hands were already moving.
He pulled his jumper over his head and dropped it on the floor. His fingers found the button of his jeans and unfastened it. He kicked off his trainers. Peeled off his socks. His cock sprang free when he pushed down his jeans and pants, hard and leaking, aching with a need he couldn't name.
Rita watched him with hooded eyes.
"That's it," she murmured. "Good boy."
The shame was a living thing, coiling in his chest, but it couldn't stop him. His body moved without his permission, drawn toward her like iron to a magnet. He crossed the room. He knelt between her spread legs. The stone floor was cold against his knees, and he welcomed the pain.
Her pussy was right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to taste.
"Do it," Rita said.
He did.
The first lick was tentative, exploratory—the flat of his tongue against her slit, tasting salt and musk and something sweet underneath. She gasped and her hips bucked, pressing herself against his mouth.
"Again," she demanded.
He licked again. Slower this time. His tongue traced the length of her, from her entrance to her clit, circling the swollen nub before dipping lower.
"Fuck," Rita breathed. "You're good at this. Ginny teach you?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth was full of her, his tongue buried in her cunt, lapping at her like a man dying of thirst. She tasted better than he'd imagined. Better than anything he'd ever tasted. The dream had been a pale imitation; this was real, visceral, overwhelming.
The quill scratched faster.
He loves it. He loves the taste of her. He's never tasted anything so sweet, so perfect. He wants more. He wants to drown in her.
Rita's hand found the back of his head and pressed him harder against her.
"That's right," she said. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He couldn't. Her thighs clamped around his ears and her hips rolled against his face, grinding her clit against his tongue. He sucked it into his mouth and lashed it with the tip of his tongue, and she screamed—a high, broken sound that echoed off the walls.
"Yes—yes, fuck, yes—"
The quill was writing so fast the parchment was smoking at the edges.
He'll do anything for this. Anything. He'd give up everything—Ginny, the wedding, his whole life—just to keep his mouth on her pussy. Just to feel her come on his tongue.
Harry's cock throbbed between his legs, untouched and leaking. He was so hard it hurt. Every muscle in his body was pulled tight, straining toward release, but he didn't touch himself. He couldn't. He could only lick and suck and devour, his tongue buried deep in her cunt, his nose pressed to her clit, his whole world reduced to the taste and smell and feel of her.
"Look at you," Rita gasped. "On your knees. Face buried in my pussy. And you love it. You love every second."
He did. God help him, he did.
The shame was still there—would always be there—but underneath it was something else. Something raw and hungry. Something that had been sleeping for years and had finally, finally woken up.
Rita's thighs tightened around his head. Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting.
"Make me come," she said. "Make me come and I'll let you go."
He attacked her sex with renewed fervor. Two fingers slid inside her, curling upward, while his tongue focused on her clit. She was wet and hot and fluttering around him, her whole body shaking, and he could feel the orgasm building inside her like a storm.
"I'm going to—" Her voice broke. "I'm going to—"
She came with a scream.
Her sex clenched around his fingers, her juices flooding his mouth, and Harry drank her down like holy wine. He didn't stop until her thighs loosened and her fingers released his hair, until she sagged back on the dais, panting, spent.
The quill stopped writing.
On the parchment, in perfect black ink, the words floated up at him.
That was the best thing he's ever tasted. He would do anything for more. Anything.
Harry sat back on his heels, breathing hard, face slick with her. Cum dripped down his chin. His cock was still hard, still aching, still neglected.
Rita looked down at him and smiled.
"Anything," she repeated.
And the paper glowed.
The glow faded. The quill dipped. Ink bloomed across the parchment like a fresh wound.
Harry's knees ached against the stone. His jaw was slick with her, his chin dripping, and he could still taste her on his tongue—salt and honey and something darker underneath. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture felt futile.
Rita hadn't moved from the dais. She sat there, legs still spread, chest rising and falling with the aftermath of her orgasm. Her nipples were dark and hard, and a thin sheen of sweat covered her collarbones. She looked at him like he was a prize she'd already won.
"You're still hard," she observed.
He was. His cock stood up from his lap, red and straining, leaking onto the floor between his knees. He hadn't touched it. Didn't dare.
"The paper has more to say," Rita said.
The quill scratched. Harry watched the words form, black on yellow, and felt something inside him shift. Not resistance. Not shame. Something worse.
He wants her to control him. He's never felt this before—this surrender. It's the most alive he's been in years.
"That's not—" Harry started.
"It is." Rita cut him off. "It's exactly what you're feeling. You just don't want to admit it."
She slid off the dais and walked toward him. Her feet were silent on the stone. When she reached him, she knelt so they were eye to eye, her face inches from his. She could smell herself on his breath—the musk of her pussy, still fresh on his lips.
"You've been good for so long," she said. "The perfect boyfriend. The perfect fiancé. The perfect hero. Don't you want to be bad for once?"
His throat tightened. "I don't—"
"You do."
She kissed him.
Her mouth was soft and demanding, her tongue sliding against his with a possessiveness that made his stomach clench. She could taste herself on his lips—the same taste that was still coating his tongue—and the intimacy of it, the filth of it, made his cock twitch.
She pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. "Open."
He opened.
Her tongue pushed inside, claiming him, and Harry moaned into the kiss. His hands stayed at his sides. He didn't touch her. He couldn't. Something held him in place—not magic, not the wards, just the weight of her will pressing down on him like a hand.
She broke the kiss and stood. The quill scratched again.
He loves the way she tastes. He loves that she tastes like herself and him mixed together. He wants more. He wants everything.
"Sit," Rita commanded.
He sat. His back hit the edge of the dais, and he leaned against it, legs splayed, cock jutting up from his lap like an offering. Rita watched him with a hunger that made his skin prickle.
"You're going to stay still," she said. "You're not going to touch me unless I tell you to. You're not going to come unless I say you can."
Harry's breath caught. "What if I—"
"You won't."
She straddled him.
Her thighs bracketed his hips, and her sex pressed against his cock, hot and wet and slippery with her own come. He could feel her heartbeat through the slick heat of her, rapid and insistent. She shifted her weight, grinding against him, and he had to bite his lip to keep from thrusting up into her.
"Not yet," she said. "Not until I'm ready."
She reached between them and wrapped her fingers around his cock. He hissed through his teeth as she positioned him at her entrance, the head of him pressing against her cunt, teasing the opening without pushing inside.
"Please," he heard himself say.
"Please what?"
"Please let me—"
"You want to fuck me?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want to fuck you."
She smiled, slow and vicious. "Good boy."
She sank down onto him.
The heat was overwhelming. Her pussy gripped him like a fist, tight and wet and pulsing, and Harry's vision went white at the edges. He grabbed the dais behind him, knuckles blanching, and forced himself to stay still.
Rita didn't move. She sat there, fully impaled, her hands braced on his shoulders, and watched him struggle.
"How does it feel?" she asked.
"Good." His voice cracked. "Fucking good."
"Better than Ginny?"
He didn't answer.
"Better than Ginny?" she repeated, and squeezed her internal muscles around him.
"YES—" The word tore out of him. "Yes, fuck, yes—"
"Say her name when you answer me."
"What?"
"Say her name. Tell me you like fucking me better than you like fucking Ginny."
Harry's chest heaved. The shame was a knife in his ribs, but the pleasure was a flood, and he couldn't hold both. One of them had to drown.
"I like fucking you better than Ginny," he said.
The quill scratched. Faster now, almost frantic.
He means it. He hates himself for it, but he means it. Her pussy is better. Her body is better. She is better.
Rita began to move.
She rode him slow at first, rolling her hips in lazy circles, her cunt milking him with every shift of her weight. Her breasts swayed in front of his face, close enough to touch, but he kept his hands behind him. Kept them still.
"You want to suck them?" Rita asked.
"Yes."
"Too bad."
She moved faster.
Her thighs slapped against his hips. Her sex clenched around him with every downward thrust. The sound was obscene—wet and rhythmic and loud in the candlelit dark. Harry could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the familiar tightness that meant he was close.
"I'm going to—"
"No."
She stopped. Just like that. She went still, her pussy still gripping him, her body still pressed against his, and Harry nearly sobbed with frustration.
"Not yet," she said. "Not until I say."
"I can't—"
"You can. And you will."
She began again. Slower this time, drawing it out, each stroke a deliberate torture. Harry's whole body was shaking. Sweat dripped down his temples. His balls ached, heavy and full, and every time the pleasure crested, she stopped, leaving him gasping on the edge.
"Please," he begged. "Please, Rita, please—"
"Please what?"
"Let me come. Please let me come."
She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear, and whispered, "Not until I've come again."
She rode him harder.
The rhythm shifted—faster, deeper, her cunt taking him to the root with every stroke. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. Harry watched her face, her eyes closed, her mouth open, her whole body chasing release.
When she came, she screamed.
Her sex clamped down on him like a vice, rippling and fluttering, and Harry felt his own orgasm surge up his spine. He tried to hold it back. Couldn't.
"Now," Rita gasped. "Come for me."
He came with a shout.
The release was violent, almost painful, his cock pulsing inside her as he emptied himself into her cunt. Wave after wave hit him, and she rode him through all of it, her hips still moving, her cunt still milking him until he was dry and shaking and boneless.
When it was over, she stayed on top of him.
Her sex still clenched around his softening cock. Her breath was warm against his neck. Harry felt hollowed out, scraped clean, like something had been taken from him that he'd never get back.
The quill scratched one final time.
He's still hard. He's still wanting. He'll always want more.
Rita lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were bright, her smile triumphant.
"You see?" she said. "The paper is always right."