Infiltrating Daphne (Ch. 1 - The Party) (Patreon)

Daphne Greengrass was a problem.

Harry had been watching her for the better part of an hour now, leaning against a marble pillar at the edge of Blaise Zabini's obscenely lavish ballroom, a glass of firewhisky warming in his hand. He was supposed to be cataloguing her movements. Noting which guests she spoke to, how long she lingered, whether anything changed hands. The Minister's Special Investigations Task Force had spent three weeks preparing him for this moment, drilling him on suspected contacts, shipping routes, known associates. Proudfoot had made him memorise her entire social calendar. Edith had provided dossiers on every person likely to attend tonight.

And Harry had absorbed precisely none of it, because Daphne Greengrass was standing forty feet away in a backless silver dress, and his brain had simply stopped working.

Focus, he told himself. She's a suspect. A target. Possibly the most dangerous artifact smuggler in Britain.

His eyes drifted down the curve of her spine, following the line of bare skin from her elegant neck all the way down to where the fabric finally gathered at the small of her back. The dress clung to her like it had been painted on, shifting with each breath she took, each subtle movement of her hips. Her long blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder in loose waves, catching the candlelight whenever she turned her head.

She filled the power vacuum after the Malfoys fell, Kingsley had said, his voice grave. We believe she's running the entire operation now.

Daphne laughed at something one of her companions said, and Harry watched her lips curve into a smile. Full lips. Pink. Lips that made a man forget what he was supposed to be doing.

Surveillance, Harry reminded himself firmly. This is surveillance.

The ballroom was packed with pure-blood society's finest, glittering robes and ancient family crests wherever he looked, but none of them mattered. Not the clusters of old money whispering behind crystal goblets, not the politicians angling for influence, not even Blaise Zabini himself, who was holding court near the champagne fountain with the casual arrogance of a man who knew exactly how much his family vault contained. Harry's eyes kept sliding back to Daphne like she was the only person in the room.

She turned slightly, presenting her profile, and Harry's breath caught.

Her dress swooped low in front, plunging between her breasts in a way that seemed to defy several laws of physics. The neckline framed her tits magnificently, pushing them together, the pale curves of her cleavage catching shadows from the floating candles overhead. They were perfect. Full and round and barely contained by the silver fabric, rising and falling with each breath she took. Harry could see the faint outline of her nipples pressing against the thin material, two small points that made his mouth go dry.

Merlin's beard.

He took a long sip of firewhisky, hoping the burn would clear his head. It didn't.

His gaze travelled lower, following the curve of her waist where it narrowed dramatically before flaring out into her hips. The dress hugged every inch of her, leaving nothing to the imagination but somehow making him imagine everything anyway. Her arse was a work of art, round and firm and perfect, the fabric stretched tight across both cheeks. When she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, Harry could see the subtle movement of muscle beneath the silver silk.

She's a suspect, he thought desperately. She's smuggling dark artifacts. Focus on the mission.

But his cock was already straining against his trousers, and the mission felt very, very far away.

Daphne had positioned herself at the centre of a cluster of admirers, holding court with an ease that would have made royalty envious. Men orbited her like she was the sun, each one vying for her attention, her smile, the brush of her fingers against their arm. She granted them nothing. The Ice Queen of pure-blood society surveyed her subjects with cool amusement, accepting their worship as her due.

Dangerous, Harry thought. Definitely dangerous.

Though at the moment, he wasn't entirely sure if he meant dangerous to wizarding Britain or dangerous to his sanity.

A man in emerald robes leaned close to whisper something in her ear, and Daphne's expression flickered. Not displeasure exactly, but something close to it. She angled her body away from him, and the movement made her tits shift beneath the fabric of her dress, the soft flesh pressing together before settling into a new position. Harry watched the whole thing with an intensity that was definitely not professional.

What would they feel like? The thought arrived unbidden and refused to leave. Heavy. Warm. Perfect handfuls of—

He shook his head sharply. He was here to gather intelligence. To identify her contacts. To note anything suspicious.

Instead, he was noting the way her nipples had stiffened slightly in the cool air of the ballroom. The way her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed. The way her arse looked absolutely incredible in that dress, tight and round and begging to be grabbed with both hands.

Professional distance, he reminded himself. Maintain professional distance.

His cock throbbed in disagreement.

The crowd shifted, and suddenly there was a clear sightline between Harry and his target. Daphne was facing him now, though her attention was on the elderly wizard to her right, nodding along to whatever he was saying. Her posture was perfect, her expression attentive, her tits positively magnificent from this angle. Harry could see down her neckline if he tilted his head just slightly, could catch a glimpse of the shadowed valley between those perfect breasts, could—

She looked up.

Their eyes met.

Harry's heart stopped. For one terrible, wonderful moment, he was certain she'd caught him staring directly at her tits. But Daphne simply raised one elegant eyebrow, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips, and turned back to her companion.

Fuck.

He needed to move. He'd been standing in the same spot for too long, watching her too obviously. Any trained operative would have noticed by now. Any—

Where was she?

Harry's stomach dropped. The cluster of admirers was still there, still chatting amongst themselves, but the centre of their orbit had vanished. Daphne Greengrass was gone.

No. No, no, no.

He pushed off the pillar, scanning the ballroom with rising panic. This was exactly what Proudfoot had warned him about. She's slippery, he'd said, jabbing his finger at the conspiracy board. The moment you take your eyes off her, she disappears. Harry had nodded seriously at the time, filing the information away. He hadn't mentioned that taking his eyes off Daphne Greengrass was going to be physically impossible.

And yet here he was. Eyes firmly on. Target firmly lost.

He moved through the crowd, weaving between clusters of guests, searching for a flash of silver, a glimpse of blonde hair. Nothing. She'd vanished like smoke. He checked the champagne fountain, the dessert tables, the balcony overlooking the gardens. Nothing.

She could be meeting with her contacts right now, he thought grimly. Handing off artifacts. Making deals. And I lost her because I was too busy staring at her fucking tits.

What would he tell the Minister? What would he tell Proudfoot? Sorry, sir, I failed to observe the suspect's clandestine meeting because I was fantasising about burying my face between her breasts.

The next hour was agony. Harry circled the ballroom like a shark, his earlier arousal curdling into anxiety. Every time he caught a glimpse of blonde hair, his heart leapt. Every time it wasn't her, his stomach sank further. The firewhisky turned sour in his mouth. He set the glass down and didn't pick it up again.

She's probably long gone, he thought miserably. Probably concluded her business and slipped out through the Floo while I was standing there with my cock pointing at the ceiling like a—

A flash of silver.

Harry's head snapped to the left. There, at the far end of the ballroom, a figure was disappearing through a doorway into a darkened corridor. A figure in a backless dress with blonde hair cascading down her shoulders.

Daphne.

He moved before he could second-guess himself, slipping through the crowd with practised ease, keeping his eyes fixed on that doorway. His wand was a comfortable weight in his sleeve holster, ready if needed. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to breathe steadily. This is it. She's meeting someone. I can still salvage this.

The corridor was dim after the brightness of the ballroom, lit only by a few scattered candles in wall sconces. Harry pressed himself against the wall, letting his eyes adjust, ears straining for any sound. Footsteps. Faint, uneven footsteps somewhere ahead of him.

He followed.

The corridor twisted and turned, branching off into smaller hallways, but Harry kept his ears trained on those footsteps. They were getting closer. Louder. More uneven.

He rounded a corner and stopped dead.

Daphne Greengrass was on her hands and knees in the middle of the hallway.

Her dress had ridden up. Way, way up. The silver fabric was bunched around her waist, and Harry was suddenly staring at the most perfect arse he had ever seen in his life.

Round. Firm. Pale as moonlight. Her cheeks were completely on display, smooth and flawless, and between them...

Merlin's fucking beard.

A thin strip of silver fabric disappeared between her cheeks, the g-string barely covering anything at all. Harry could see the curve of her pussy lips on either side, soft and pink, peeking out from beneath the inadequate scrap of material. He could see the tight pucker of her arsehole, only partially hidden by the g-string, and his cock lurched so hard in his trousers that he nearly groaned out loud.

She was still fumbling on the ground, clearly having tripped over something, and she hadn't noticed him yet. Harry knew he should look away. He should announce his presence. He should do literally anything other than stand here with his mouth hanging open, staring at the suspect's exposed arse and pussy like he'd never seen a woman before.

But he couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except drink in the sight before him.

Her cheeks were perfect globes, round and full, and the g-string did absolutely nothing to hide them. It was more of a suggestion than actual coverage, the thin silver string bisecting her arse and leaving everything else on display. Harry's eyes traced the curve of each cheek, noting the way the candlelight caught the subtle dimples at the base of her spine, the way her thighs pressed together, the way her pussy looked so pink and soft and inviting that he could practically feel his cock begging to slide inside.

She's a suspect, some distant part of his brain tried to remind him. Dark artifacts. Smuggling. Mission.

Shut up, the rest of his brain replied.

His cock was straining painfully against his trousers now, harder than he could ever remember being in his life. He wanted to step forward and grab those cheeks with both hands, spread them apart, pull that ridiculous excuse for underwear to the side and bury himself in her warmth. He wanted to watch her arse ripple with every thrust, wanted to hear her moan his name, wanted to—

Daphne pushed herself up onto her knees and turned around.

Her eyes met his. Dropped to his obvious erection. Travelled back up to his face.

And then she smiled.

Not the polished smile of the Ice Queen. This smile was drunk and delighted and absolutely devastating. Her cheeks were flushed, her lipstick slightly smudged, her blue eyes bright with firewhisky and what looked dangerously like anticipation.

"Harry Potter," she purred, making no move to pull her dress back down. "Were you staring at my arse?"

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I... you fell," he managed.

"I did." She rose gracefully to her feet, the movement somehow both elegant and wobbly at the same time. Her dress fell back into place, but the image of her arse was seared into Harry's brain forever. "And you were staring."

"I was concerned."

"About my arse?"

Harry's face was burning. "About your... wellbeing."

Daphne laughed, a bright, musical sound that made his cock twitch. She stepped closer, and suddenly she was right in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, could see the faint shimmer of glitter on her collarbone, could count each individual eyelash framing those impossibly blue eyes.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to notice me?" she asked.

Harry blinked. "I... what?"

"All night." She reached out and placed one hand flat against his chest. Her fingers were warm through his shirt, and Harry felt his breath catch. "You've been watching me. I saw you. Standing by that pillar, pretending to drink your firewhisky, staring at my tits."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie." Her hand slid lower, trailing down his chest, over his stomach. "I could feel your eyes on me. Every time I turned around, there you were. Watching. Wanting."

Harry swallowed hard. "Daphne—"

"Do you want me, Harry?" She was so close now that he could feel the heat of her body through his clothes. Her tits were pressed against his chest, soft and full, and he could feel his cock straining toward her like a divining rod. "Because I want you. I've wanted you all night. Every time I caught you looking, I got a little bit wetter."

Oh, Merlin.

"I'm dripping right now," she continued, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "That pretty little g-string you were staring at? It's absolutely soaked. If you slid your hand between my legs right now, you'd feel how wet I am for you."

Harry's brain had completely short-circuited. He was aware, dimly, that he should be maintaining professional distance. That she was a suspect. That this was all kinds of inappropriate.

But her hand was sliding lower, fingers brushing against his belt, and every coherent thought he'd ever had was evaporating like morning mist.

"I kept thinking about it," Daphne murmured. "While I was out there, pretending to listen to those boring old wizards. I kept thinking about you. About your cock. About how good it would feel to have you inside me."

Her fingers found his erection through his trousers. She squeezed, and Harry groaned out loud.

"Fuck," he breathed.

"That's the idea." She pressed herself against him, and Harry felt her tits crush against his chest, soft and warm and perfect. "I want you to fuck me, Harry. Right here. Right now."

This is a terrible idea, his brain screamed. She's a suspect! You're on a mission!

But his cock was screaming louder.

"I want to feel you push me against this wall," Daphne continued, her breath hot against his ear. "I want you to shove that dress up over my arse and pull my panties to the side. I want you to slide that big, thick cock inside my tight little cunt and fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

Harry's hands moved to her hips of their own accord. The fabric of her dress was slippery under his fingers, and he could feel the warmth of her skin underneath.

"I'm so wet for you," she whispered. "So ready. All you have to do is turn me around and take what you want. I'll be so tight. So warm. I'll squeeze your cock so hard you won't be able to think about anything except filling me up."

His fingers dug into her hips. His cock was throbbing, aching, demanding release. The rational part of his brain had retreated to a tiny corner and was making increasingly pathetic protests that nobody was listening to.

"Come on, Harry." She bit her lip, looking up at him through her lashes. "Don't you want to know what I feel like? Don't you want to spread my cheeks and watch your cock disappear inside me?"

Yes, his entire body screamed. Yes, Merlin, yes.

"Think about it," she purred, grinding her hips against him. "My arse in your hands. My pussy wrapped around your cock. Me, moaning your name while you pound me into this wall. Wouldn't that feel amazing? Wouldn't that feel so fucking good?"

She reached for the straps of her dress, fingers hooking under the delicate fabric.

"Do you want to see my tits, Harry? I've noticed you looking at them all night. You weren't exactly subtle." She laughed, low and intoxicating. "I bet you've been thinking about them. About how they'd feel in your hands. How they'd taste in your mouth."

She pulled at the straps, and the neckline of her dress slipped lower. Harry watched, hypnotised, as more and more pale skin was revealed. The tops of her breasts swelled above the dropping fabric, and he could see the beginning curve of—

"Daphne!"

Harry jerked backward so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Tracey Davis was standing at the end of the corridor, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. Her dark hair was perfectly styled, her burgundy dress immaculate, and she was looking at Daphne like a nanny who'd caught her charge stealing biscuits.

"Tracey," Daphne whined, her fingers still hooked in her straps. "I was busy."

"I can see that." Tracey marched down the corridor, grabbed Daphne by the arm, and started pulling her away from Harry. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you're trying to flash Harry Potter in a hallway."

"I wasn't trying." Daphne stumbled along beside her friend, throwing a look over her shoulder at Harry. "I was succeeding."

"You're drunk."

"I'm inspired."

"You're going home."

"But—" Daphne dug her heels in, and Tracey sighed heavily. "Just let me— Harry was going to—"

"Harry was going to watch you embarrass yourself, apparently." Tracey gave Harry an apologetic look. "Sorry about her. She gets like this when she's had too much to drink."

"I am not sorry." Daphne wrenched her arm free and spun back toward Harry. Before he could react, she was pressed against him again, her lips soft and warm against his cheek. The kiss lingered, and Harry felt his cock throb painfully at the contact.

"That's to remember me by," she whispered against his skin. "Next time, Potter, I'm not letting you get away."

And then Tracey was dragging her down the corridor, and Harry was alone.

He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, cock aching, the warmth of her lips still burning on his cheek. His trousers were painfully tight. His brain was absolute mush. And he had no idea how he was supposed to explain any of this to his team.

Dark artifact smuggler, he reminded himself weakly. Most dangerous witch in Britain.

The image of her arse flashed through his mind. The sound of her voice, telling him how wet she was, how tight she'd be, how good it would feel.

Fuck.

He was in so much trouble.