Dirty Little Secrets Ch. 2 [Exclusive]

A Dangerous Game 1/2 - HarryxDaphne

The grand ballroom of Malfoy Manor shimmered under the soft glow of floating chandeliers, their crystal droplets catching the light like fireflies frozen mid-dance. Every surface radiated opulence: polished marble floors, gilded accents on the high archways, and the scent of rare orchids mingling with aged firewhisky. Despite the grandeur, the room hummed with tension. Old rivalries lingered beneath polite smiles, as the wizarding elite pretended the war hadn’t left scars on everyone present.

Harry Potter was a beacon amidst the strained cordiality. He stood near the edge of the dance floor, clad in tailored black robes that emphasized his broad shoulders and trim waist. His tousled hair was charmingly unkempt, and the faintest shadow of stubble darkened his jaw. He held a glass of elf-made wine with the ease of someone who commanded attention without needing to demand it. Around him, witches leaned in closer, their laughter bright and eager, drawn to the magnetic confidence he exuded.

From across the room, Daphne Greengrass watched him. She hated how her eyes kept finding him through the crowd, drawn to the way he moved, the way he spoke. Tonight, he was focused on a voluptuous witch in a daring crimson gown that clung to her curves like molten wax. The witch’s glossy black curls cascaded over her bare shoulders, her fingers toying with the stem of her glass as she gazed up at Harry through thick lashes.

Daphne’s lips thinned. She told herself it wasn’t jealousy twisting in her chest, but irritation at the sheer spectacle. The witch was practically draped over him, her laughter too loud, her touches too lingering. Harry didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leaned into her proximity, his hand brushing her waist as he whispered something that made her blush and giggle. The sight sent a flicker of annoyance through Daphne, and she looked away, pretending to focus on a passing house-elf with a tray of champagne flutes.

It wasn’t working. She could still feel the pull of his presence. He was too bold, too unrestrained for an event like this. And yet, it suited him. Just as it suited him to ignore the carefully laid boundaries of a pureblood witch’s decorum, indulging instead in the eager attention of a woman who clearly didn’t know the meaning of subtlety.

Daphne’s nails dug into the stem of her glass as she sipped her drink, willing herself to remain indifferent. It wasn’t her concern. What did it matter if Potter wanted to debase himself with someone so obvious? Let him make a fool of himself. She had better things to do than stand here, pretending not to notice him.

Except she couldn’t stop noticing.

Harry’s laughter cut through the din of conversation, drawing eyes to him as he leaned closer to the witch in crimson. His hand rested low on her back now, the gesture both possessive and teasing. Whatever he said next made her throw her head back, her laughter ringing out like a peal of bells. Daphne’s jaw tightened. She’d never found Harry particularly charming before, but tonight there was something different about him. Something infuriatingly magnetic.

She forced herself to look away, focusing instead on her sister Astoria, who was deep in conversation with Blaise Zabini near the dessert table. Astoria’s delicate features were alight with amusement, her soft blonde hair pinned back with emerald combs that matched her robes. Daphne tried to join the conversation, but the words didn’t come. Her attention kept straying back to Harry and his crimson-clad conquest.

It wasn’t long before they slipped away together, disappearing through a side door that led to the manor’s labyrinthine hallways. Daphne’s breath hitched. She shouldn’t care where they were going. She shouldn’t even notice. But as the minutes ticked by, her irritation grew, morphing into a restless curiosity she couldn’t shake.

Without entirely meaning to, she followed.

The hallways were quieter here, the noise of the ballroom fading to a distant hum. Daphne’s heels clicked softly against the marble as she walked, her pulse quickening despite herself. She told herself it was just curiosity. She wanted to know how far Potter was willing to lower himself. That was all.

When she reached the corridor near the guest lavatories, she hesitated. The faint sound of a woman’s laughter carried through the air, followed by the unmistakable murmur of Harry’s voice. Her cheeks flushed, heat rising unbidden to her skin. She should leave. Turn around and forget she’d ever been here. But instead, she stepped closer, her movements silent now as she approached the door.

It was ajar, just slightly. Enough to let her see.

The witch in crimson was on her knees, her hands resting on Harry’s thighs as she leaned into him. Her dark curls spilled over his lap, hiding the lower half of her face, but Daphne didn’t need to see to know what she was doing. The soft, wet sounds filling the small space made it perfectly clear.

Harry’s head was tipped back against the wall, his lips parted as a low groan escaped him. His hand rested lazily in the witch’s hair, fingers threading through her curls as he guided her movements with an unhurried confidence. His other hand braced against the edge of the sink.

Daphne’s breath caught, her heart hammering against her ribs as she watched. She told herself to leave, to look away, but her body refused to obey. She was rooted to the spot, her wide eyes drinking in the scene before her. Heat pooled in her stomach, a mix of anger, jealousy, and something darker that she couldn’t name. Her fingers curled against the doorframe as she fought to steady her breathing.

Harry’s eyes opened then, and they met hers. For a moment, she thought he would stop, that he would pull away or send the witch off. But he didn’t. His lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk, and he held her gaze as the witch continued her work, oblivious to the silent exchange happening above her head.

“Just like that, babe,” he murmured, his voice rough with pleasure. He tugged the witch’s hair with a firm hand, pushing deeper into her mouth. A strangled, wet sound followed as he thrust forward, slow at first, then harder.

The witch gasped, but obeyed without hesitation, her hands gripping his thighs for balance. Harry’s eyes never left Daphne’s. The satisfied smile on his face widened, his gaze alight with something dark and teasing, a spark of sadistic pleasure dancing there as though he relished her reaction.

Daphne’s pulse pounded in her ears, her skin flushed and hot. Her nipples tightened painfully against the thin fabric, and a damp heat settled low between her thighs. In her mind, she could see herself where the witch knelt, her knees sinking into the cold marble, her mouth stretching open to take him in. She imagined his hand in her hair, the burn of his grip sending shivers down her spine as he pushed her down further, forcing her to take all of him, to choke on him, to please him until he was groaning her name. The thought made her thighs clench, a humiliating wave of arousal rolling through her as she bit her lip to stop a sound from escaping. Her breaths grew shallow, her body traitorously responding to the scene before her, and all she could think was how much she wanted to be there—wanted him. She wanted to tear her gaze away, to walk away and pretend she hadn’t seen—hadn’t wanted—this.

But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t stop the traitorous thought that crept into her mind, unbidden and shameful.

It should be me. The thought didn’t just echo—it consumed her. She imagined the weight of Harry’s cock on her tongue, the stretch of him filling her mouth, the low groan he’d let out as she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper. Her knees would ache against the cold marble, but she wouldn’t care. Not when his hand gripped her hair, pulling her closer, forcing her to take all of him.

“You can do better than that,” he’d murmur, his voice rough and taunting, and she’d obey without hesitation, tears stinging her eyes as she swallowed him down. The pressure in her throat, the burn of his dominance—it would undo her.

The words echoed like a whisper in her skull, dark and insistent. It should be me on my knees. It should be me taking him into my throat, making him groan like that, making him look at me with that wicked satisfaction.

Daphne’s nails dug into the doorframe, her breath shallow as the witch choked softly, Harry’s hips driving forward with a cruel precision. His gaze never faltered, pinning Daphne in place as though he could see straight through her. He knew. Merlin help her, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

And he was enjoying every moment of it.

Harry’s groan tore through the small room, raw and guttural, as he thrust one final time. His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt, the witch choking softly around him. Her hands trembled against his thighs, her neck straining as she swallowed every thick pulse of his release.

“Fuck,” Harry growled, his voice breaking into something primal. His head fell back, lips parted, his jaw tight as pleasure wrecked him. His fingers twisted in the witch’s curls, holding her there as his cock pulsed in her throat, forcing her to take it—all of it. Daphne’s eyes were glued to the scene, wide and unblinking, as the witch’s throat worked, desperate and greedy, her soft whimpers swallowed up by Harry’s groans.

She didn’t pull back right away. No. She lingered, her mouth sealed tight around him, sucking softly—slow, filthy, deliberate. Daphne’s breath hitched as she watched the witch pull back at last, inch by inch, dragging her tongue along him with obscene precision until he slipped free with a wet pop. A faint string of spit glistened between her lips and the head of his cock.

Harry’s chest rose and fell, hard and uneven, his hand falling limp from her hair as he recovered, green eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse, a lazy smirk curling at his mouth. The witch flushed under his praise, a satisfied hum escaping her as she licked her lips—slow, lingering, catching every last trace of him. Her mascara was smudged, her cheeks pink, her chin damp with spit and… evidence of him.

Daphne swallowed thickly, heat pooling low in her belly. She should have looked away. Should have turned and left.

But Harry’s eyes found hers then.

Mesmerizing. Wicked.

The witch stood, unsteady on her heels, and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. She smirked up at Harry, clearly expecting something—a kiss, a touch, maybe a thank you.

But he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

Harry’s focus stayed on Daphne.

The witch’s smirk faltered, confusion flickering in her eyes as Harry refused to look at her. She turned slightly, her movements hesitant, until her gaze landed on Daphne. Her expression shifted—first startled, then sharp, as realization struck. Daphne stayed frozen, pinned under the weight of both their gazes, her face burning. The witch’s lips parted, as if to say something, but she thought better of it, stumbling toward the door. Her heels clicked unevenly against the marble as she fled, leaving the door to groan shut behind her—and leaving only silence… and him.

Harry moved slowly, tucking himself back into his robes.

“Enjoying the show, Greengrass?” His voice was a drawl, lazy and mocking.

Her mouth was dry. Her pulse thudded at her throat. “I—you—”

Harry stepped toward her. Just one step. But it was enough to make her back press into the doorframe.

“Didn’t look away,” he murmured, softer now, his eyes dragging over her face, down to the rise and fall of her chest. “Why’s that? Hm?”

“I wasn’t…” Daphne tried, her voice faltering.

“Wasn’t what?” Harry taunted, his tone turning darker, quieter. Another step. His heat wrapped around her, suffocating in the best and worst ways. “Wasn’t imagining it? My cock down your throat? My hand pulling your hair while you choke on me?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, breathless and furious.

Harry smirked—that slow, dangerous smirk that curled at the corners of his mouth like smoke. His eyes glinted as though he could see straight through her.

“Say it again,” he whispered, leaning in just enough that his breath fanned across her cheek. “Say it like you mean it.”

Daphne’s eyes fluttered shut, her entire body trembling with a mixture of humiliation, rage, and unbearable, pulsing need. She hated him. Hated how close he was, hated how much she wanted to grab him by the collar and drag him closer. Hated the throbbing ache between her thighs that screamed for something—anything.

But then, just as quickly as he’d closed the distance, Harry stepped back.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, the corner of his mouth curving into that infuriating smirk—one that said he’d already won. That he knew what she was feeling, what she was thinking, and he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

Daphne opened her eyes just in time to watch him turn away. He didn’t glance back as he strolled toward the door, hands tucked lazily in his pockets, his stride easy and unbothered—like none of this had even touched him.

She stayed frozen, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, her body tight with lingering heat. Her nails bit into the wood of the doorframe, her thighs pressing together instinctively as the unbearable ache continued to pulse low in her belly.

The sound of Harry’s footsteps faded, leaving Daphne alone with nothing but the memory of his voice, the weight of his gaze, and the pounding of her own traitorous heartbeat.

What the hell just happened?