A Star Is Born Chapter 27 (Patreon)

Chapter 27

The changing room at the League’s training grounds had not been designed to hold nearly sixty nervous Quidditch players. Broom cases crowded the walls. Kit bags had been shoved beneath benches or hung from pegs already bending beneath too much weight. The air smelled of broom polish, sweat, and the sharp medicinal scent of potions several prospects had rubbed into their shoulders before the testing had even begun.

Conversation filled every corner of the room until Harry stepped through the door. Then it stopped. Not gradually. Not one conversation at a time as people noticed him. The silence struck almost at once, spreading from the players nearest the entrance until even those at the far end had turned to look. Harry stood with his broom case in one hand and a small blue number pinned crookedly to the front of his training robes.

Fourteen.

The witch at registration had stared at his scar for so long that she had nearly forgotten to give him the rest of his paperwork.

“Morning,” Harry muttered.

A few players offered subdued greetings. Most continued staring. Harry crossed to the nearest open spot on the bench and set down his broom case. The broad-shouldered Beater beside him—number forty-three—immediately shifted his equipment farther away, as though Harry required more space than anyone else.

Conversation slowly returned, but it did not sound the same. Harry bent over his boots and tightened the laces.

“Why is he even here?” someone whispered from several benches away.

The speaker had clearly intended for Harry to hear. Another voice answered from somewhere behind him, “So they can pretend he earned it.”

Harry kept his head lowered. He had heard worse things from Death Eaters, reporters, Ministry officials, and frightened strangers who blamed him for not ending the war sooner. A few men in a Quidditch changing room should not have mattered.

Every professional club already knew Harry Potter wanted to play Quidditch. Most had sent letters. Several had sent representatives directly to his flat in London until Hermione threatened to begin hexing them from the front step. Harry had not needed a school coach’s recommendation. He had not needed to submit complete match records from a Hogwarts career interrupted by attacks, tournaments, Umbridge, and war. 

His name had been enough to place him in the room. What he did once the testing began would decide whether anyone believed he deserved to remain there.

A tall wizard in grey League robes entered and struck his clipboard against the door.

“Numbers one through twenty, outside. Physical assessment first. Brooms stay here.”

The room moved immediately. Harry followed the first group onto the wet grass. Four pitches stretched beyond the training facility, each divided into stations by floating signs and temporary barriers. Scouts stood along the boundaries wearing club colours or plain robes marked with badges. Quills hovered beside them, writing whenever a prospect’s number was called.

Harry found Oliver almost at once. He stood among the Puddlemere representatives beside Coach Deverell and a narrow-faced older wizard Harry did not recognize. Oliver met Harry’s eyes but did not wave.

Harry was grateful.

The opening tests had almost nothing to do with Quidditch. They sprinted. They lifted charmed weights whose resistance shifted without warning. They balanced on narrow platforms while instructors fired padded balls toward their heads. Healers measured grip strength, vision, flexibility, heart rate, and recovery time. Harry finished first in the opening sprint. He finished first again when the distance doubled. By the fourth sprint, one of the academy-trained prospects edged him by half a step. Harry watched the wizard’s stride during the walk back, noticed how little movement he wasted in his shoulders, and adjusted.

Harry won the next three.

During the reaction test, he caught the first padded ball instead of avoiding it. The instructor stared at him. “You are meant to move.”

Harry looked down at the ball in his hands. “Catching it seemed easier.”

Several scouts laughed quietly. The instructor took the ball back, looking impressed, and then increased the firing speed. Harry avoided the next twelve without being touched.

By the time the physical assessment ended, his lungs burned and sweat had darkened the front of his training robes, but only two prospects had matched him in more than one category. None had beaten him twice after he understood what the test required. The whispers changed when they returned for their brooms. They did not disappear.

The first handling course looked simple from the ground: a prescribed route through floating rings, a timed descent, and a narrow landing zone. Harry listened to the instructions, mounted his Firebolt, and launched. He was the fastest prospect through the opening half. Then he missed the third turn. The route required him to slow and cross behind the flyer beside him. Harry saw open air ahead and instinctively took it. By the time he corrected, he had clipped a boundary marker with his shoulder and added several unnecessary yards to the descent. He still recorded the fourth-fastest time.

Harry landed outside the marked zone and looked toward the red marker spinning above his failed attempt. An evaluator made a note.

“You followed the open line,” Oliver said from beyond the boundary rope.

Harry turned toward him. “It was faster.”

“It would have been if it were the route.”

“The turn didn’t make sense,” Harry said defensively.

Oliver folded his arms. “It wasn’t meant to test whether you could find a better one.”

Harry looked back toward the course. “What was it testing?”

“Whether you’ll follow instructions when you think you know more than the coach.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

Oliver nodded toward the starting line. “You get another attempt.”

Harry remounted. The second time, he followed the route exactly. He allowed the other flyer through, cut behind him, accelerated out of the final ring, and landed in the center of the marked zone. Fastest time of the morning.

When Harry glanced toward Oliver, the captain had already turned back to Deverell.

The tactical assessments exposed the largest gap in Harry’s experience. Hogwarts teams had formations, signals, and set plays, but nothing approaching the layered systems used by professional clubs. Harry’s role had usually been simple: avoid the Chasers, survive the Beaters, and catch the Snitch before the other Seeker. Even with Oliver’s obsession with formations, Harry felt slightly outmatched from the start.

An evaluator placed Harry inside a moving formation and asked him to identify where the defensive coverage would break. Harry saw the opening immediately. He moved before the Chasers created it. The defenders followed him, closed the space, and ruined the play.

The evaluator blew his whistle. “Number fourteen, what happened?”

“I went too early.”

“Why?”

“I saw where the opening would be.”

“So did the defence when you moved.”

Harry returned to his position without a word, absorbing what the evaluator had said. The formation reset. On the second attempt, he waited half a second longer. The left Chaser drew her defender across the pitch. Harry cut behind the movement and pulled the opposing Seeker with him, creating a clean lane toward the hoops. The Quaffle passed through untouched. The evaluator made another note.

The third attempt changed the formation without warning. Harry adjusted before the Chasers finished turning and placed himself exactly where the evaluator had been preparing to instruct him. The whistle did not sound again.

By lunch, Harry’s number appeared near the top of every posted assessment. First in reaction time. Second in acceleration. First in endurance across every position. First in broom handling after penalties. Second among the Seekers in tactical recognition.

The Seeker trials began shortly afterward. The first tested search patterns across an empty pitch. Harry climbed higher than the evaluators expected, swept the ground in wide sections, and caught the Snitch in forty-one seconds. The next-fastest time was fifty-eight.

The second flight placed Harry against a prospect everyone seemed to know simply as Ace. He had spent most of the day near the top of the same rankings as Harry and carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who had expected that result. For the first time that afternoon, Harry felt as though he had been placed opposite someone capable of genuinely testing him.

At the whistle, Ace flew a disciplined crossing pattern, rarely allowing Harry outside his peripheral vision. Harry watched him too closely. The Snitch flashed near the western hoops, and both Seekers moved. Ace cut across Harry’s line. Harry pulled up, lost sight of the Snitch, and spent the remainder of the flight reacting to Ace instead of searching. When neither of them located it, the evaluators called for a reset.

Oliver met Harry near the starting point. “You were watching him.”

“He was blocking me,” Harry defended.

“He blocked you once,” Oliver corrected. “You watched him for the rest of the flight and lost the Snitch.”

Harry glanced toward Ace. “What should I watch?”

Oliver looked unimpressed as he walked away, calling over his shoulder, “The Snitch would be a promising start.”

The whistle sounded again. Harry took off. This time, he ignored Ace’s first feint. He widened his search, caught a flash of gold near the southern boundary, and accelerated. Ace saw him move. Harry glanced sharply toward the center of the pitch. Ace followed his eyes. Harry cut in the opposite direction and caught the Snitch beneath him before the other Seeker realized he had been deceived.

He landed with the golden ball in his hand.

Oliver approached while Ace circled down farther away.

“What changed?”

“I made him watch me.”

“Good.”

Harry waited, but Oliver began walking away. “That’s it?”

Oliver looked back. “Next time, do it on the first attempt.”

The final simulation introduced Chasers, Beaters, and two additional Seekers. Harry lost sight of the Snitch twice and took a padded Bludger across one shoulder hard enough to spin his broom. He recovered before the Beater had completed his follow-through.

One Seeker dived. Harry checked the angle, saw no reason for it, and stayed high. The second followed. Harry remained where he was. The Snitch appeared above the northern hoops. Harry reached it seven seconds before anyone else. When he landed, the evaluators did not need to post the results. Every scout along the pitch already knew who had won the day.

The interviews began after sunset. Harry was called into more rooms than any other prospect. The first club asked whether he intended to continue working with the Auror Office. The second wanted to know how many security wizards would accompany him to matches. A third explained how signing Harry Potter could transform the club’s finances, international audience, and merchandise sales before asking a single question about Quidditch. One representative slid a proposed promotional schedule across the table.

“We believe people who have never watched a match will purchase robes with your name across the back.”

Harry looked down at the parchment. “What did your Seeker do last season? How many wins and losses?”

The wizard hesitated. “I would need to consult our coaching staff.”

Harry stood, shaking his head. “Then maybe they should be conducting the interview.”

Other clubs were subtler. They asked about crowds, hostile supporters, Ministry obligations, and whether Harry could accept beginning on the reserve side. None of the questions were completely unreasonable. That made them harder to dismiss. They had watched him finish at or near the top of every assessment. They had watched him adjust after mistakes and dominate the Seeker simulation. Yet most still spoke as though his greatest value would be measured at the ticket window.

Puddlemere was his final interview. Oliver sat at one end of the table. Coach Deverell sat in the center, with the narrow-faced wizard from the pitch beside him. Deverell looked down at Harry’s results. “You missed the route during your first handling trial.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry admitted.

“You anticipated the tactical break too early.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed.

“You allowed another Seeker to dictate your first paired flight.”

Harry glanced briefly toward Oliver before nodding. “Yes.”

Deverell folded his hands across the table. “You also recorded the fastest handling time on your second attempt, corrected the tactical error immediately, and dominated the remaining Seeker trials.”

Harry waited. The older wizard beside Deverell leaned forward.

“Robertson,” he introduced himself. “Seeker coach.”

“Harry Potter.” 

Robertson’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

It was the first reference to Harry’s name in the room. It was also the last. Robertson slid a diagram across the table. Three circles had been drawn around a simplified pitch. “Puddlemere is defending the northern hoops. The opposing Chasers have possession here. Where should the Seeker be?”

Harry studied it. “High on the eastern side.”

“Why?” Deverell asked.

“Their formation is pulling toward the west. If possession changes, I’m outside the passing lane but close enough to break north,” Harry explained.

“And the opposing Seeker?” Oliver asked.

“Probably watching for the turnover,” Harry said with a shrug.

“Probably?”

Harry moved one of the circles with a small gesture of his fingers. “They could be waiting here or here—unless they’re trying to draw me lower.”

Robertson’s eyes flicked briefly toward Harry’s hand in surprise, but his expression quickly recovered. He placed a second diagram beside the first without comment.

For the next twenty minutes, they discussed Quidditch. Professional search patterns. Positioning during offensive rotations. How much energy a Seeker wasted on unnecessary climbs. Whether Harry relied too heavily on acceleration to correct poor positioning.

No one asked about Voldemort. No one asked how many robes he might sell. Deverell finally closed the folder. “Why do you want Puddlemere?”

Harry had not decided he wanted Puddlemere until the question was asked. He looked toward Oliver, then Robertson. “Because you’re the first club that seems bothered by the things I did wrong.”

Robertson leaned back. “That’s an unusual selling point.”

“I can’t improve if everyone keeps telling me I’m brilliant,” Harry deadpanned.

Oliver made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.

Deverell studied Harry across the table. “You were the best player on these grounds today.”

Harry felt something tighten inside his chest. He waited for the qualification.

“That does not mean you are ready to be the best Seeker in this league.”

“I understand.”

“Do you believe you can become that?”

Harry thought of the route he had missed, the formation he had ruined, and the single flight he had allowed Ace to control. Then he thought of everything that had happened afterward. “Yes.”

Deverell nodded once.

“So do we.”

.o.

The memory released him slowly.

Harry sat inside his quiet apartment with his quill resting above the parchment. The firewhisky beside his hand had gone untouched for several minutes. His combine had been unfair. Some clubs had been willing to overlook any flaw because they wanted his name. Others had searched for weaknesses because they resented the attention surrounding him. But Harry had still been the best prospect there. He had not been drafted first because the League wished to reward the Boy Who Lived. He had been drafted first because the combine confirmed what Hogwarts had only suggested... Harry was a rare Seeker, and when someone showed him a weakness, he corrected it almost immediately.

Demelza would not enter her combine with that certainty.

She would not have every scout studying her before she mounted her broom. She might perform well and still disappear among dozens of other Chasers who were fast, strong, and accustomed to being the best player at their school.

Harry dipped his quill into the ink.

Beneath MY COMBINE, he wrote:

They already knew I was worth watching.

He considered the sentence before adding another.

Demelza has to prove it.

.o.

Harry arrived at Ron and Hermione’s shortly after six with his notes tucked beneath one arm and a bottle of firewhisky held by the neck in the other. Ron opened the door, looked first at Harry and then at the bottle. “That isn’t the rubbish George used to keep beneath the counter, is it?”

“Definitely not,” Harry said cheerfully, handing it to his best mate.

Ron turned the label toward the light spilling from the sitting room. His eyebrows rose. “We’re drinking the expensive stuff now?”

“I’ve acquired more sophisticated tastes from some of the company I’ve been keeping,” Harry said in a pompous imitation of Adrian Pucey.

“You used to complain if George charged more than three Sickles,” Ron deadpanned.

“It tasted like broom polish,” Harry countered.

“It got us through the war.” Ron shrugged.

Harry followed him into the flat. “I think several things deserve more credit for that.”

Hermione was in the kitchen, leaning over a pot that smelled considerably better than anything Harry had eaten all week. She glanced toward the bottle as Ron placed it on the table. “Are we celebrating something?”

“The bye week,” Harry said.

“That is not an achievement,” Hermione said, exasperated.

“It feels like one.” Harry shrugged.

Ron had already found three glasses during the exchange. Hermione gave him a look both boys recognized.

“What?”

“I haven’t even served dinner.”

“I’m letting the bottle breathe.”

“It’s firewhisky.”

Ron removed the stopper.

“Anything to make the burn more bearable.”

Harry laughed and dropped into the nearest chair, spreading his notes across the table and immediately steering the conversation toward Hogwarts and the prospects they might see.

His first glass disappeared while Hermione finished dinner. The second arrived with plates of roast chicken, potatoes, and vegetables. Harry pretended not to notice Ron transferring food from Hermione’s plate to his own whenever she turned away. By the time the dishes had been cleared, Harry’s notes covered most of the table and the liquid in the bottle had fallen farther than Hermione appeared pleased to see. 

Ron leaned over the list of names expected to play in the match tomorrow. “Roberts is the clear talent to look out for.”

“That's what it looks like to me,” Harry said.

“To everyone. Gryffindor captain, good numbers last year. She was in the DA, even served as a medic after the Battle of Hogwarts. People know who she is,” Ron explained easily.

“Even professional scouts?” Hermione asked as she put away dishes, trying to keep up with the conversation.

“They’ll know enough to look twice,” Ron admitted.

Harry rolled the glass between his palms. “That’s more than most of them get.”

Ron glanced at Harry, who tapped the parchment containing his combine notes. “Everyone was watching before I mounted my broom. Half of them wanted me because of my name. The rest wanted to prove I wasn’t as good as people thought. Demelza might get ten minutes before someone decides she looks like every other decent school Chaser.”

“Then she needs to do something worth remembering,” Ron offered.

“That’s what Pucey said. More or less,” Harry said with a smirk.

Ron grimaced. “I don’t like agreeing with him.”

“He's growing on me, but definitely a tough pill to swallow,” Harry agreed.

Ron blinked, confused at the reference, while Hermione settled into the remaining chair with a cup of tea instead of the firewhisky Ron had poured for her. “You’re both assuming she is ready.”

“I’m not,” Harry said.

Ron picked up the parchment with Demelza’s name and moved it toward the center of the table. “Neither am I. That’s why I’m going.”

Harry looked at him.

Ron shrugged. “You’re there because she asked you for advice. I’m there because there are four seventh-years who’ve been mentioned to me, and I’d rather see them before the combine than hear afterward that I should’ve been watching.”

“Four?” Harry asked.

“Demelza, the Ravenclaw Keeper, one of the Hufflepuff Beaters, and the Slytherin captain who is also a Chaser. Their matchup will be one of the highlights of the Hogwarts scouting season.”

“That sounds promising,” Hermione added.

“Typically, big matchups don't live up to the hype. One will fold, one will rise...usually,” Ron added as an afterthought.

Harry smiled and refilled his glass. Hermione’s eyes followed the bottle, though she said nothing. They spent the next hour discussing the upcoming match. Harry took another drink while Ron studied him over the rim of his glass.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” Ron said quickly.

“You’re doing that thing,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes.

“What thing?” Ron asked indignantly. 

“The thing where you look at me like Hermione does when she disapproves of something I do.”

Hermione did not look up from the parchment she was reading. “There are several possible ways for me to interpret that, but I think I was just insulted.”

Both boys chuckled, but Ron explained by pointing toward Harry’s glass. “You’re ahead of me.”

“I didn't realize we were keeping pace,” Harry said with a laugh.

“That's what blokes do! We follow the others' lead,” Ron defended with a chuckle. Hermione didn't look as amused, even though Harry laughed and leaned back in his chair. The warmth from the firewhisky had spread pleasantly through his chest and shoulders. The apartment felt comfortable. Familiar. Ron’s feet were propped against the edge of the table despite Hermione having told him twice to move them, and the remains of dinner still scented the room.

For the first time since Monday, Harry was not thinking about what Demelza needed to hear.

Hermione reached for a paper that was on the counter and showed it to Harry. “Are we going to discuss this?”

Harry’s smile faded by a fraction. “There's not much to discuss. It was just dinner with a friend.”

“Some friend there, mate,” Ron joked. “She's practically Puddlemere royalty. I know you read the article.”

“It was just dinner,” Harry lied.

Unfortunately, both of his friends saw through it, but neither commented for a moment. Hermione decided to break the silence. “Well, you looked like you were having fun. Not like with Susan and Hannah either. It looked more...wholesome.”

It was clear Hermione had searched for that word, and Harry had the feeling she avoided several others that might've offended him. Instead, he shrugged. “We had a great time. Daphne has some obstacles she would rather not tackle, though. Her best friend being my worst enemy in the press is one. Dealing with celebrity life is another. We agreed to keep it friendly and stay on good terms. She even wrote to me earlier in the week telling me not to be a stranger.”

“Well, did you write back?” Hermione asked hopefully.

Harry was a little surprised neither had even brought up the fact that Daphne had been a Slytherin, but instead of commenting on it, he just shrugged. “Not yet.”

“Well, it sounds like she left the invitation open,” Ron offered optimistically.

“Maybe,” Harry offered without further comment and drained the remainder of his glass.

The conversation moved on, but not completely. Harry listened while Ron returned to talks of Quidditch and outlined what he wanted to see from Demelza during the match. Harry contributed where he could. His answers remained sensible. At some point, however, the notes began sliding out of order, and he stopped correcting them.

By ten, Hermione was getting ready for bed, and Ron had stopped drinking. Harry had not.

“You can stay here,” Hermione said when he stood.

“I’ll just Apparate home. No big deal,” Harry countered easily, pulling the witch in for a hug.

“You’ve had more than Ron,” Hermione said as she embraced him.

“That sounds like Ron’s failure,” Harry teased.

Ron leaned heavily against the table. “I paced myself.”

“You’re practically married now. It’s made you cautious,” Harry said with a laugh.

Both his friends blushed while Ron glared at him. “It made me aware that vomiting in the sitting room has consequences.”

Harry pulled on his coat, preparing to dismiss the concerns of his friends.

Hermione crossed her arms. “You are not Apparating.”

“I’ll walk,” Harry said, raising his hands in defeat.

“All the way home?” Hermione asked in disbelief.

Harry paused. He had forgotten, briefly, that Ron and Hermione’s flat was nowhere near his own. “I’ll Floo.”

“Better. You can use ours and sleep in your own bed,” Hermione said. “Or sleep here.”

“I’ll go home.”

Ron handed him the folder of notes. “Ten tomorrow. At Hogwarts.”

“I know.”

“Ten means ten.”

“I’ve played professional matches before noon,” Harry joked as he stumbled towards the fireplace. The last thing he saw before the green flames rose was Hermione watching him with an expression he chose not to interpret.

.o.

The fireplace deposited Harry inside his flat with enough force that he caught himself against the mantel. He stood there for a moment, waiting for the room to settle. The apartment was dark and cold.

Harry lit the lamps with a flick of his wand, removed his coat, and placed the notes on the table. Daphne’s letter remained where he had left it several days earlier, the Greengrass seal broken neatly across the envelope. He picked it up. The handwriting seemed sharper than he remembered.

Don’t be a stranger, and feel free to write back. It’ll make a girl feel important.

Harry read the line twice. He could answer now. There was parchment already on the table. Ink. A quill.

Instead, he looked toward the window and the city of London beyond it. He had meant to write. Visiting seemed better.

He collected his coat and notes, then Flooed to Puddlemere Stadium. Harry offered Rex a cheerful greeting on his way out and crossed into the village. Even for a Friday night, the streets were beginning to empty, and the cold air cleared his head just enough for him to recognize that visiting Daphne was probably a poor idea—not nearly enough to make him turn around.

By the time Harry arrived at Daphne’s cottage, enough sense had returned for him to realize that knocking on her door after ten o’clock, Friday night or not, was probably a poor idea. He hesitated, remembering how rude it would be to arrive uninvited. What if she had company? Or worse, male company?

Harry raised his fist to knock, but Daphne opened the door before he touched it. She wore a green dressing gown over her nightclothes, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. Surprise flickered across her face before her gaze moved over him more carefully.

“Harry.”

“Hello,” Harry said cheerfully.

She looked past him toward the closest street lamp. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Late,” Harry admitted.

“An impressive deduction,” Daphne offered sarcastically.

Harry smiled.

Daphne did not. Her gaze settled on his face. “You’ve been drinking.”

“A little.”

“That usually means considerably more than a little.”

“I had dinner with Ron.”

“And afterward you came here.”

Harry shifted a few of the notes beneath his arm before remembering he was still holding them. “I wanted to answer your letter.”

Daphne looked at the street again. “You are aware that letters can be answered with other letters?”

“I thought this might be better.”

“Did you think that before or after the firewhisky?”

Harry opened his mouth, but no useful answer presented itself.

Daphne studied him for another moment. “You should go home.”

“I wanted to see you.” The words left him without effort. They were true. They were simply not the entire truth. Something in Daphne’s expression softened, though the caution did not disappear.

“Harry,” Daphne began.

“I should’ve written,” Harry interrupted.

“And?” Daphne asked.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

He almost laughed, but her face stopped him.

Daphne rested one hand against the edge of the door. “Why are you here?”

Harry could have blamed the letter. He could have said that he wanted to explain Saturday, or that he had been busy preparing for Hogwarts, or that he did not want her to think he had forgotten her. None of those answers felt convincing while he stood outside her cottage at this hour smelling of firewhisky.

“I didn’t want to go home yet.”

Daphne’s eyes closed briefly. When she opened them, she looked disappointed but not surprised as she bit her lip. “That,” she said quietly, “I believe.”

Harry's gaze fell briefly to her lips. For several seconds, neither moved. Then he looked up.

“This is a bad idea,” she said.

“Probably.”

Then Daphne stepped back from the doorway. She held his gaze, waiting perhaps for him to disagree or offer some sudden proof that he had come for better reasons. Harry had none. The firewhisky had left him warm and unguarded, but not drunk enough to misunderstand the choice she was making.

Daphne’s eyes lowered briefly to his mouth.

“You are going to regret this in the morning,” Daphne whispered.

“Are you?” Harry asked with a gentleness that seemed to surprise her for a moment. Then her expression tightened, but she did not answer. Instead, she reached forward, caught the front of his coat, and pulled him across the threshold.

Harry barely had time to let the folder of notes fall onto a nearby table before Daphne kissed him. There was nothing hesitant about it. Her fingers slipped behind his neck, holding him close as his hands settled against the lace of her dressing gown. For several seconds, the unanswered letter, the late hour, and every sensible reason he should have gone home disappeared between them.

Daphne broke the kiss first, though she remained close enough that her breath still touched his lips. “This changes nothing,” she whispered.

Harry nodded as he pressed his lips back to hers and slid his hands lower to grip her bottom.

Lemon Can Skip

Daphne didn’t immediately fold to the increased intimacy. Instead, she seemed prepared to make Harry work for what he wanted as he gripped her ass and pulled her against him until she was standing on her toes, tilted backwards beneath the strength of his grip.

As her feet began to slide out from under her, Harry easily shifted her weight against his body as her legs swung around his waist. He never broke the kiss as he lowered her gently onto the couch, slightly straining beneath their combined weight, his usual athletic coordination dulled by the firewhisky.

“Very graceful, Potter,” Daphne whispered, though her fingers tightened in his hair before he could answer.

All thoughts of Hogwarts, Ron, Hermione, and Puddlemere disappeared as Harry’s hands slipped beneath Daphne’s short green dressing gown.

Soon Harry was grazing her folds with his fingers as he continued to rub the front of her body. Daphne’s moans deepened as her hips began to rock more insistently against his hand until he slipped down her torso, planting kisses along the way, and positioned his face between her legs.

Harry lost track of how long he remained between her thighs. The taste of her, the tightening of her fingers in his hair, and every increasingly broken sound she made drew him deeper into the moment until her body began trembling beneath him.

Daphne had her fingers threaded through his hair, gripping him hard by the time she had become a trembling mess beneath him. Instead of continuing between her thighs, Harry rose back over her, drawing her legs around his waist as he settled between them. When Daphne pulled him closer, Harry positioned himself at her entrance and slowly pressed forward, sliding inside her as a needy moan escaped them both.

Before long, Harry had settled into a steady rhythm inside Daphne, each movement drawing another broken sound from her as she tightened her legs around him. Her earlier hesitation had disappeared. Her eyes were wide with pleasure as her body writhed beneath him and another orgasm overtook her. Harry had not yet come, but he could feel himself approaching his limit as she slowly descended from her own high.

Harry finally pulled away, earning a frustrated sound from Daphne before lifting her into his arms and carrying her toward the bedroom. She kissed him the entire way, her tongue moving hungrily against his. When they reached the bed, Harry lowered her onto the mattress. Daphne immediately turned toward him and took him into her mouth without hesitation.

One hand worked the length of him while her mouth moved over his tip. Harry’s head fell back, his eyes closing as he surrendered to Daphne’s attention. His control nearly gave out before he slipped a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face toward him. Harry guided Daphne onto her knees near the edge of the mattress. She looked back over her shoulder as he moved behind her and drew her hips toward him. 

Cries of his name echoed around Daphne’s bedroom, and the broken sounds that followed steadily wore through Harry’s control. Daphne tightened around him, her body shuddering against the bed, and moments later Harry followed, holding her firmly against him as the last of his control disappeared. Neither spoke. Daphne curled against his side while Harry stared into the darkness, unable to silence the first stirrings of guilt. He could only hope she would not regret opening the door when morning came.