Chapter 4: Caught in the Act
The three days that followed were a study in slow disintegration.
Harry moved through them like a man underwater. He went to work at the Auror office, nodded through briefings, signed paperwork he didn't read. He ate meals he couldn't taste. He kissed Ginny goodnight and lay beside her in the dark, staring at the ceiling, his mind a loop of blonde curls and jewelled spectacles and the taste of someone else's cunt on his tongue.
She knew something was wrong. He could see it in the way she looked at him—a question she was afraid to ask. But she didn't push. That was Ginny's way. Give him space. Let him come to her when he was ready.
He would never be ready.
The parchment haunted him. Not literally—he hadn't seen it since the chamber—but the memory of it burned behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. The words. The way they'd appeared before he'd even moved, as if the paper knew him better than he knew himself.
He's going to fuck me on the floor like an animal.
No. That hadn't happened yet. That was from the chamber. But the memory of it—the way she'd written it and then made it true—made his stomach clench with something that wasn't quite disgust.
On the third night, he made a decision.
Ginny was asleep. The house was quiet. He pulled on his cloak, grabbed his wand, and Disapparated before he could talk himself out of it.
Rita's flat was in a part of London that wizards didn't usually frequent. The building was old, Victorian, its facade crumbling in a way that suggested neglect or concealment—probably both. Harry stood on the pavement and looked up at the dark windows, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He didn't have a plan. Not really. He just knew he couldn't let the paper keep writing. Couldn't let her keep using it to pull his strings.
He found the door unlocked.
That should have been his first warning.
The flat was a labyrinth. Yellowed parchment covered every surface—stacked on tables, spilling from shelves, pinned to walls like the skin of dead things. Half-empty vials of potions crowded the windowsills, their contents glowing faintly in the dark. The air smelled of burnt sage and something older, something metallic that caught in the back of his throat.
And there, in the corner, humming faintly: the Quick-Quotes Quill.
It sat on a desk buried under stacks of manuscript pages—Quibbler submissions, from the look of them, all handwritten and eccentric. The quill wasn't moving. It was waiting.
Harry's eyes found the parchment.
It lay on the desk, unrolled, blank except for a single line of text that glimmered faintly in the gloom.
He wants to be caught.
His blood went cold.
"No," he whispered. "No, that's not—"
The words shifted. New text bled through the old, black ink spreading like a stain.
He's been thinking about it for three days. Three days of pretending. Three days of lying to himself and to her. He's tired of pretending.
"I'm not—" Harry stepped back. His heel caught on a stack of papers and he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the desk. His hand landed on the parchment.
The world exploded.
Visions slammed into him like a physical force. Rita, naked, straddling him in the chamber, her tits bouncing as she rode him. Rita, alone in this very flat, her fingers buried in her, his name on her lips. Rita, lying on her back with her legs spread, beckoning him closer, closer, closer—
He was hard before he knew what was happening. His cock strained against his jeans, aching, leaking. The visions kept coming, each one more vivid than the last. Her mouth. Her hands. Her cunt, wet and waiting, gripping him like a fist.
Stop, he told himself. Stop, stop, stop—
His hands moved on their own.
He tore at his cloak, his shirt, his jeans. Buttons scattered across the floor. He kicked off his shoes. His clothes lay in a heap around his feet, and he stood there in Rita Skeeter's living room, naked and trembling, his cock jutting up from his body like an accusation.
He wrapped his hand around it.
The first stroke was electric. The second made his knees buckle. He leaned against the desk and fucked his fist, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the visions still playing behind his eyes. Rita's mouth. Rita's cunt. Rita's voice, whispering in his ear.
That's it, Potter. Touch yourself. Think about me. Think about how good it felt to be inside me.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He didn't hear the door open.
He didn't hear the footsteps.
He didn't know she was there until she laughed.
Harry froze. His hand still wrapped around his cock, his body slick with sweat, his face flushed with a shame that burned like fire. Rita stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her jewelled spectacles glinting in the candlelight.
She was wearing a dressing gown—silk, emerald green, tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was down, curled around her shoulders. She looked at him like he was the most entertaining thing she'd seen in years.
"Well," she said. "This is a surprise."
"I—" Harry couldn't speak. Couldn't move. His hand was still on his cock, still gripping it, and he couldn't make himself let go.
"Don't stop on my account." Rita walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the carpet. "You were doing so well."
"I came to—" He swallowed hard. "I came to destroy the paper."
"Did you?" She stopped in front of him, close enough to touch. Her eyes traveled down his body, lingering on his cock, on the pre-come leaking from the tip. "Looks like you came to do something else."
The parchment rustled behind him.
Rita glanced at it, and her smile widened.
"He's going to fuck me on the floor like an animal," she read aloud.
The words hit Harry like a blow to the chest.
"No," he said. "I'm not—"
The paper glowed. The quill dipped.
He wants to. He's been wanting to since he walked through the door. He's just too proud to admit it.
"I'm not proud," Harry said, and his voice cracked on the last word.
Rita untied her dressing gown.
It fell to the floor in a whisper of silk. She was naked underneath—had been naked the whole time, he realized, the robe was just a wrapper—and her body was exactly as he remembered it. Full breasts. Soft stomach. Hips that curved wide and generous. The dark triangle of hair between her legs, already damp.
"You're going to mount me," Rita said. "Right here. On the floor. And you're going to fuck me until I can't walk."
Harry's cock twitched. A bead of pre-come slid down the shaft.
"Why?" he asked. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because I can." She knelt on the carpet, her knees sinking into the thick pile. "Because you want me to. Because the paper says so."
She went down on her hands and knees.
The position was obscene. Her arse was up, her back arched, her cunt visible between her thighs—pink and wet and open. She looked over her shoulder at him, and her eyes were bright with challenge.
"Well?" she said. "Are you going to stand there all night?"
Harry moved.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He just crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees behind her, his hands finding her hips, his cock finding her entrance. She was so wet he slid in without resistance—one thrust, all the way to the hilt, and she gasped and pushed back against him.
"Fuck," she breathed. "That's it. That's—"
He started to move.
The first thrust was rough. The second was rougher. He fucked her like an animal, exactly as the paper had promised, his hips slapping against her arse, his balls swinging with every stroke. The sound was obscene—wet and rhythmic and loud in the quiet flat. The quill scratched behind them, writing furiously, but Harry didn't care. Couldn't care. All he could feel was her cunt gripping him, her body yielding to his, the heat building at the base of his spine.
"Harder," Rita demanded. "Fuck me harder."
He obeyed.
He grabbed her hair and pulled, yanking her head back, and she moaned—a low, guttural sound that made his cock twitch inside her. He fucked her faster, deeper, his thighs burning with the effort. The carpet rubbed his knees raw. Sweat dripped down his back. He was grunting with every thrust, animal sounds that he couldn't control.
"YES—" Rita's voice was hoarse. "YES, FUCK, YES—"
The quill scribbled.
He's an animal. He's a fucking animal. He's fucking her like he owns her. Like she's his. Like nothing else matters.
Harry reached around her body and found her clit. He rubbed it with two fingers, rough and fast, and Rita screamed. Her cunt clenched around him like a fist, rippling and fluttering, and he felt her orgasm hit—felt her whole body shudder and shake beneath him.
"Come," she gasped. "Come inside me. Fill me up."
He did.
The orgasm tore through him like a storm. He emptied himself into her with a shout, his hips still pumping, his fingers still working her clit. Wave after wave hit him, and she took all of it, her cunt milking him dry until he collapsed on top of her, spent and shaking.
They lay there on the carpet, tangled together, their breath coming in ragged gasps. The quill stopped writing. The parchment lay on the desk, covered in black ink, and Harry didn't want to know what it said.
But Rita did.
She crawled out from under him and stood, stretching like a cat. Cum dripped down her thigh. Her hair was a wreck. She looked thoroughly fucked—and thoroughly pleased with herself.
She walked to the desk and picked up the parchment.
"Let's see what we have," she said.
Harry closed his eyes.
"'He's going to fuck me on the floor like an animal,'" Rita read. "'He's going to grab my hair and pull. He's going to make me scream. He's going to come inside me and then he's going to hate himself for it.'"
She paused.
"'But he'll be back,'" she finished. "'He'll always be back. Because he's mine now. Whether he knows it or not.'"
Harry opened his eyes.
He was still on the floor, naked, covered in sweat and her scent. The mark on his chest—the scar from the chamber, the one he'd tried to hide from Ginny—throbbed with a dull ache.
Rita folded the parchment and tucked it into the pocket of her robe.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
The quill dipped. The paper glowed.
He'll be here.