[Complete] Ch 2.2 Harry Potter and the Game of Desire (Patreon)

Harry Potter

and the Game of Desire

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Chapter 2.2 - 

Of Wishes and Desires

Disclaimer: Hogwarts starts late, and everyone here is an adult!

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Harry stopped just inside the threshold, letting his eyes adjust. The room was plain—unexpectedly so, given everything else about this mad evening. Dimmed lights cast a warm glow across bare grey walls. No windows. No other doors.

At the centre of the room sat a bed.

Heart-shaped.

Of course it was.

Malfoy stood a few paces ahead of him, her back rigid. One hand had drifted behind her, palm pressed flat against the curve of her arse where the costume's g-string left almost nothing to the imagination. From this angle, Harry could see the flush spreading down her neck and across her shoulders—pink against pale skin, visible even in the low light.

He wasn't delusional. Cassiopeia Malfoy was fit. Always had been, if he was honest with himself. Sharp features, grey eyes, and a figure that the bunny costume did absolutely nothing to hide. If she weren't such a spoiled daddy's girl—if she had an ounce of kindness in her—she'd have half the school chasing after her.

Well. Not that she wasn't popular in her own way. But everyone with sense agreed: don't stick your dick in crazy.

She'd probably say, "Wait till my father hears about this!" if you don't make her cum.

Malfoy stopped at the edge of the bed. She stared down at the silk sheets—emerald, naturally—and said nothing.

Harry approached carefully, giving her a wide berth. "What is it?"

No reply.

He came to stand beside her. Her hands shifted—both now pressed to her front, fingers splayed across her stomach as though she could hold herself together through sheer will. Her breathing came shallow and quick.

Harry followed her gaze. At the head of the bed, propped against the pillows, sat an envelope. Cream-coloured. Sealed.

He glanced at Malfoy. She still hadn't spoken.

Harry waited. Surely she'd say something. Some cutting remark about the décor, or his presence, or the absurdity of their situation. That was what Malfoy did. She filled silences with barbs the way other people filled them with small talk.

But she just stood there, jaw tight, hands trembling slightly against her own skin.

Then he remembered.

Should the offender keep silent throughout: fifty points to the offender.

Right. She was going for the points. Which meant she couldn't talk—couldn't make a sound, really, not if she wanted to win. And she definitely wasn't about to crawl across that bed to fetch the letter herself. Not when the view from behind would be... educational.

Harry sighed.

He climbed onto the mattress, knees sinking into silk, and retrieved the envelope. The paper inside was thick and expensive-feeling. He unfolded it as he settled back at the edge of the bed, Malfoy lowering herself gingerly beside him.

She winced as the movement shifted fabric against skin.

The handwriting was elegant. Feminine. Probably the demon's.

Oh, when I said silent, I meant Ms Cassiopeia Malfoy is not allowed to voice any form of pleasure—whether it be a moan, a gasp, or something more... vocal.

Good luck!

— M

Harry passed the letter over. "Here."

Malfoy took it. Read it. Her flush deepened.

"...Thanks," she said quietly.

Harry blinked. Had Malfoy just thanked him? Genuinely? Without a sneer or a qualifier or a 'Potter' tacked on like a curse?

The silence stretched.

Malfoy's breathing had grown heavier. She sat with her legs slightly parted—not an invitation, Harry realised, but necessity. Even pressing her thighs together must be overwhelming right now. Every shift of weight made her shoulders tense. Every brush of air from some invisible draught drew a small, bitten-off sound from her throat.

She looked... vulnerable.

It was deeply strange.

Harry exhaled slowly. "If you want, we can stop here. You don't have to—"

"Are you cra—" Malfoy whipped towards him, grey eyes blazing, and then froze mid-word. Her whole body had gone rigid. The sudden movement—costume sliding against oversensitised skin—had done something to her. Her lips parted. Her pupils dilated.

She recovered with visible effort, fingers digging into her own thighs.

"Do you have any idea," she said through gritted teeth, "how hard it is to have your body this sensitive? Every bloody breath feels like—" She cut herself off. Swallowed. "And if I don't finish this stupid task, it only gets worse. I should have just gone back to the dormitories when I had the chance."

"Why didn't you?"

Malfoy's jaw tightened. She didn't answer.

The silence returned. Heavier this time.

Harry sat with his hands on his knees, acutely aware that he was supposed to be doing something. Two hours. Find her most sensitive spot. Simple enough in theory. In practice, he had no bloody idea where to start.

"Well?"

He turned. Malfoy was glaring at him, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the way she kept shifting her weight and the flush that now reached her ears.

"Are you just going to sit there like a lump?"

For some reason, Harry found it endearing. The way she couldn't quite manage her usual venom. The way her voice kept catching.

He shook his head, banishing the thought.

"I was about to start," he said. "But you've been so quiet. Did you even read the letter properly?"

"Do you think me daft, Potter?" Malfoy's chin lifted. The movement made her wince. "What, is it because you're a virgin that you don't know what to do? Need written instructions?"

"Oi—" Harry felt heat rise to his own face. "You're one to talk. You're probably a virgin as well."

"That doesn't mean I'm inexperienced!"

Harry turned to face her fully, one eyebrow raised.

If anything, Malfoy flushed deeper. "We are not the same! I'm definitely more knowledgeable than your virgin arse!"

"Fine, fine." Harry held up both hands. "Can you calm down? I'm really going to start, but—" He gestured vaguely at the bed. "Can you, er, lie down?"

Malfoy let out a derisive huff as she lay back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. She turned her face away, but her arms stayed crossed firmly over her chest, hands pressed flat against the costume's inadequate coverage.

Harry moved closer. Her silver-white hair was tied into a single long braid that trailed across the pillow, and her bangs swept to one side, exposing the sharp line of her jaw. Even now, flushed and trembling, she managed to look imperious.

"I'll begin."

"Let's just get it over with!"

"Oi. You could have said no back there."

Malfoy's lip curled. "Again—you have no conception of what I'm feeling right now, that I would allow a half-blood to lay hands on me."

Harry's jaw tightened. Something hot flared in his chest—not arousal, but anger. Pure and clean.

He reached forward and grabbed her breast. Squeezed hard.

Malfoy's whole body went rigid. A visible wince crossed her features, her breathing sharpening into something ragged. She turned back to face him, grey eyes blazing with fury.

Harry didn't release his grip. Instead, he began kneading the modest flesh, working his palm in slow circles until he felt something firm press against the centre of his hand.

"I'm certain you're having a grand time," Malfoy spat, voice strained. "The privilege of touching your better like—"

He didn't let her finish. His thumb found her hardened nipple and pinched, rolling it between his fingers with deliberate pressure.

Malfoy's hand flew to her mouth. She bit down on the meat of her palm, teeth sinking in hard enough to leave marks. Her chest heaved. No sound escaped.

'Just this much, and she's already struggling. She really is that sensitive.'

Harry tugged at the emerald fabric covering her chest. "You don't need this."

The costume shifted without resistance, sliding down to expose her breasts to the cool air. Malfoy sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, her skin prickling visibly.

Harry cupped both breasts now, watching her reactions carefully. Her eyes squeezed shut. The muscles in her neck stood taut as cords.

'Did I figure it out already?'

She glared up at him, silent, defiant. But she didn't push him away.

'No. Too easy. Let me compare.'

Harry released her breasts and shifted his weight, moving to straddle her properly. His knees bracketed her hips, but he kept himself raised, hovering above her without pressing down.

"Is that all, Po—"

His fingertips landed on her side, just above her hip. He traced a slow circle against the bare skin of her stomach.

Malfoy wasn't chiselled—purebloods rarely were, not in that Muggle-athlete way. But she was the Slytherin Seeker. There was lean muscle beneath the softness. Her stomach wasn't flat, but it held no excess either. Just... skin, warm and impossibly responsive.

She shuddered at even this light touch.

Harry smirked.

There was something satisfying about this. About being the one in control, for once. About watching Cassiopeia Malfoy—who had mocked him, insulted him, wished him dead in the Chamber—bite back every sound like her life depended on it.

"Why not give in?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "You might actually enjoy this if you stopped fighting."

No answer. Just that furious glare.

His hand drifted lower. Past her navel. Along the curve of her hip, then down the outside of her thigh. Then he traced the line of exposed skin with his fingertips.

Malfoy's leg twitched.

He continued down. Past her knee. Along her calf. When he reached her ankle, he paused, then lifted her foot and pressed his thumb into the arch.

Her toes curled. A shaky exhale.

'Sensitive, but not the spot.'

He repeated the exploration on her other leg. Same result. Responsive, but manageable.

"Running out of ideas already?" Malfoy's voice dripped contempt, though it came out breathier than she probably intended.

Harry's eyes narrowed.

He shifted forward again, leaning down until his face hovered inches from her neck. His breath ghosted across her skin.

Malfoy went very still.

He pressed his lips to the column of her throat. Soft. Experimental.

Her pulse hammered against his mouth.

He kissed a line up towards her jaw, then detoured to her ear. His tongue traced the outer shell, and he felt more than heard the strangled noise she swallowed. When he caught her earlobe between his teeth and tugged gently, her hand shot up and seized his shoulder—nails digging in hard enough to hurt.

'Close,' he thought but he still wasn't sure.

He pulled back slightly, studying her face. Her cheeks were scarlet. Her lips parted. Her eyes, when they met his, held something beyond anger. Something desperate.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked. "Can't keep up?"

"Fuck off, Potter."

He kissed her cheek. The corner of her mouth. Her forehead. Each point of contact made her flinch, made her breath catch. But she held firm.

'Everywhere is sensitive. But there has to be one spot that's worse than the others.'

His hand found the junction of her thighs.

Malfoy's entire body jerked.

Even through the thin fabric of the costume's g-string, he could feel the heat of her. The wetness that had soaked through. She was drenched.

"Seems like someone's been enjoying this after all."

"Shut—"

He pressed his palm flat against her mound and rubbed.

Malfoy's back arched off the bed. Both hands flew to his forearm—not to push him away, but to anchor herself. Her nails dug in deep enough to draw blood.

Harry didn't stop.

He worked his hand in slow, firm circles, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit through the soaked fabric. Her thighs clamped around his wrist, trembling violently, but she didn't close her legs all the way. Couldn't, maybe. The sensation was too much.

Her breath came in sharp, staccato bursts. In. Out. In. Out. Too fast. Too shallow.

She bit down on her hand again—hard this time, hard enough that Harry saw the skin go white around her teeth. Her eyes screwed shut. Her whole body had gone rigid, every muscle straining against the pleasure crashing through her.

He increased the pressure.

A high, thin whine built in her throat—he could feel it vibrating through her chest—but it never escaped. She swallowed it down, along with every moan and gasp and cry that her body demanded she release.

"That's it," Harry murmured, voice rough. "Just let go."

Her head thrashed against the pillow. No. Refusing. Even now.

He slipped his fingers beneath the g-string.

Bare skin. Slick heat. His fingertips found her entrance and traced upward until they reached the swollen nub at the apex.

Malfoy's whole body convulsed.

He rubbed directly against her clit—no barrier now, just skin on skin—and felt her shatter.

Her orgasm hit like a wave. Her back arched impossibly high, suspended there for one endless moment while her thighs clenched and her walls fluttered and her entire being seemed to come apart at the seams. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Her nails raked bloody furrows down his arm.

No sound.

Not a single moan. Not a gasp. Not even a whimper.

She collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, limbs trembling, utterly spent.

Harry sat back on his heels, breathing hard himself. His arm stung where she'd clawed him. His heart pounded against his ribs.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Malfoy's eyes snapped open.

Before Harry could react, she surged upward. Her hands hit his chest and shoved, sending him tumbling backwards onto the mattress. He landed flat on his back with a grunt.

She was on him in an instant.

Malfoy straddled his hips, knees digging into the silk sheets on either side of him. Her braid had come half-undone, silver strands falling across her face. Her costume was dishevelled, one breast still exposed, the g-string pulled aside. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes blazed.

She looked like a mess.

She looked magnificent.

Her palms pressed flat against his chest, pinning him down with surprising strength.

"You're so arrogant," she hissed, voice raw. "A virgin, making me feel good when I'm already horny and oversensitive. You think that makes you special?"

Harry stared up at her. His mouth had gone dry.

Malfoy leaned down until her lips brushed his ear.

"Let me show you how it's really done."

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End

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