A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 11 - Part 3
The Hogwarts Express rattled steadily northward, the Scottish countryside blurring past the windows in streaks of green and grey. Inside one of the private Prefect cabins near the front of the train, the air was warmer, quieter, the usual chatter of students reduced to a distant hum beyond the closed door.
Lily Evans sat on the cushioned bench, legs tucked beneath her, red hair loose and slightly tousled from the journey. She was in her fifth year, prefect badge gleaming on her robes, but right now she looked more like an exasperated teenager than the composed Head Girl she would soon become. Across from her, Roland Greengrass lounged against the opposite seat, one arm draped casually along the backrest, watching her with that calm, unreadable expression he wore so well.
"I swear, James has gone too far this time," Lily said, voice tight with frustration. She gestured sharply with one hand, the motion making her robes shift across her chest. "They cornered Snape near the lake again after Potions. Sirius thought it would be hilarious to levitate him upside down while James hexed his trousers off in front of half the school. Snape was dangling there, robes over his head, pants around his ankles, and they were all laughing. Peter was throwing ink pellets at him. It wasn't just teasing, Roland. It was cruel. Snape looked… broken. Humiliated. I had to step in and stop it, but the damage was done."
She exhaled sharply, cheeks flushed with lingering anger. "James keeps saying it's just 'Marauder fun,' that Snape hexes him first, but this wasn't retaliation. This was four against one. Again. I told him if he pulls something like that one more time, we're finished. I'm tired of defending him."
Roland listened without interrupting, his grey eyes steady on her face. The train's gentle rocking made the cabin feel intimate, the afternoon light slanting through the windows and catching the gold in Lily's hair. She was beautiful when she was angry—vibrant, alive, the fire in her eyes making her even more striking.
When she finally paused for breath, Roland spoke, voice low and even. "I don't really care."
Lily blinked, caught off guard by his blunt response. Then she laughed — a bright, surprised sound that filled the small Prefect cabin like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Of course you don't," she said, shaking her head, still smiling even as the frustration lingered in her eyes. "You never do. James and his lot could set the whole train on fire and you'd just watch from the sidelines with that same bloody expression, cool as ever."
She shifted on the bench, turning to face him more directly. The movement caused her fifth-year robes to part slightly at the collar, revealing a tempting glimpse of pale, freckled skin and the soft, full curve of her breasts beneath the white blouse. Her green eyes sparkled now with a different kind of heat, the lingering anger at James bleeding smoothly into something playful, intent, and unmistakably hungry.
"Well," she said, her voice dropping into a low, teasing murmur, "if you won't listen with your ears, maybe I'll make you listen another way."
Lily slid gracefully from the bench and knelt in front of him on the narrow floor of the cabin. The steady rocking of the Hogwarts Express made her body sway gently as she settled between his knees, her red hair cascading over one shoulder. She reached for the fastenings of his trousers with deft, sure fingers.
Roland's hand came down to rest on the top of her head, fingers threading lightly through her soft, fiery strands. He didn't let her open his trousers yet. Instead, he guided two fingers to her lips, tracing the plump lower one before pressing them slowly inside.
"Suck," he ordered quietly, voice low and rough.
Lily's eyes flicked up to meet his, bright with challenge and arousal. She parted her lips obediently and took his fingers into her warm, wet mouth, her tongue swirling around them immediately. Roland pushed them deeper, then slowly drew them back, fucking her mouth with deliberate, lazy strokes. The wet, obscene sounds of her sucking filled the private cabin, mixing with the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the tracks.
"That's it," he murmured, watching her lips stretch around his fingers. "Look at you. Perfect little prefect on your knees, sucking my fingers like a needy whore while your precious James is probably off planning his next prank with those idiots. Does he know his fiery Lily Evans gets this wet when she's being used by someone?"
Lily moaned around his fingers, the vibration traveling straight through him. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked harder, tongue flicking and pressing against the pads of his fingers as he slid them in and out, deeper each time until they nudged the back of her throat. Saliva glistened on her chin and dripped down onto the front of her robes.
"He's probably telling everyone how he 'won' the great Lily Evans," Roland continued, voice calm but filthy, his fingers still pumping steadily between her lips. "Bragging about the cleverest witch in their year finally letting him put his hands on her. But here you are, on your knees for me instead. Sucking my fingers like they're my cock while the train carries you back to him. Does that make you wet, Lily? Knowing you're his girlfriend on paper but my eager little cocksucker in private?"
She whimpered, nodding slightly as best she could with his fingers filling her mouth. Her hands came up to grip his thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers as she rocked forward, taking him even deeper. Her green eyes were glassy with lust, tears of effort pricking at the corners as she gagged softly but kept sucking, desperate to please him.
Roland finally pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting them to her swollen lips. He wiped them slowly across her cheek, smearing her own spit across her flushed skin.
"Open," he said.
Lily obeyed instantly, mouth falling open, tongue out, eyes locked on his. Roland freed his cock, already hard and heavy, and guided the thick head to her waiting tongue. She leaned forward eagerly and took him in, lips stretching wide around his girth as she sank down until her nose brushed his stomach.
"Fuck, that's good," he groaned, hand tightening in her hair. "So much better than anything James could ever give you. He probably fumbles around like a nervous schoolboy, doesn't he? Quick and eager and over too fast. But you need this, don't you? You need to be used properly. You need someone who'll fuck your throat until you can't speak for days and still beg for more."
Lily moaned loudly around his cock, the sound vibrating through him as she bobbed her head faster, taking him deeper with every pass. Her hands gripped his thighs for leverage while the train's motion helped rock her forward onto him. Wet, choking sounds filled the cabin as she worked him eagerly, saliva dripping down her chin and onto her heaving breasts.
Roland kept talking, voice low and steady, each filthy word punctuated by the wet sounds of her mouth.
"Look at you, Evans. Prefect. Top student. Everyone thinks you're so pure, so untouchable. But the second you're alone with me you drop to your knees like a trained slut. James has no idea his perfect girlfriend is choking on another man's cock right now, does he? No idea you're dripping down your thighs just from tasting me."
Lily pulled off just long enough to gasp, "He doesn't… he could never…" before she dove back down, taking him to the hilt again with a desperate moan.
Roland's grip tightened in her hair, guiding her rhythm as he fucked her mouth in slow, deep strokes. "That's right. He'll never know how much you love this. How much you crave being ruined by someone who actually knows how to handle you."
The vision burned itself into Harry's mind in vivid, unrelenting detail.
Harry jolted awake with a sharp gasp, heart hammering violently against his ribs. The boys' dormitory was still dark and quiet, the curtains around his four-poster unchanged. His face burned with shame, a sick, twisting heat pooling low in his stomach that he desperately tried to ignore. He could still hear the wet sounds, still see his mother's green eyes looking up with that wicked, needy expression, still feel the rhythmic clatter of the train echoing in his ears.
He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, trying to scrub the images away, but they lingered — vivid, damning, and impossible to forget. His mother and Professor Greengrass. Not just friends. Something far, far more.
Harry rolled over, burying his burning face in the pillow. Sleep didn't come again for a long, long time.
***
Roland stepped into the Room of Requirement just after curfew. The door shimmered into existence at his quiet request and sealed behind him with a soft sigh. The chamber had reshaped itself exactly as he'd pictured: a wide, torch-lit dueling arena with smooth stone floors, high vaulted ceilings, padded sections along the walls, and scattered stone pillars and low barriers for cover. The air smelled faintly of dust and old magic, warm from the flickering torches. It was perfect for what he had in mind tonight.
Daphne Greengrass was already waiting near the center of the wide dueling arena. Torchlight played across her figure, casting warm highlights and deep shadows that accentuated every line. She stood with the effortless poise of someone raised to command rooms without effort, but the fitted white blouse and dark skirt she wore revealed the athletic body she had been honing. Her breasts were firm and high, pressing against the crisp fabric with each measured breath, the subtle outline of her nipples visible where sweat had already begun to dampen the material. A narrow waist flared into shapely hips and long, toned legs that spoke of hours spent skiing and practicing dueling stances in secret. Her arse was tight and rounded, the kind of athletic curve that filled out her skirt perfectly. Blonde hair pulled back into a tight, practical plait left the elegant column of her neck and sharp cheekbones exposed, a few rebellious strands already sticking to her damp skin from whatever warm-up she had put herself through.
She looked every inch the poised Greengrass heiress—until her grey eyes met his. Something sharper flickered there, a volatile mix of hunger, jealousy, and simmering frustration that made the air between them feel thicker.
Roland closed the distance with measured steps, shrugging off his outer robe and rolling up his sleeves as he went. "Evening," he said calmly. "You're early."
Daphne gave a sharp, controlled nod, her wand already held loosely at her side. "I wanted time to prepare properly. The Alps were… instructive in their own way, but they weren't enough. Not nearly enough."
Roland raised an eyebrow, giving her space to continue as he loosened his collar. Daphne took a slow breath, clearly choosing her words with care, though the edge in her voice betrayed how much she had been holding back.
"Father insisted on that ridiculous chalet in Switzerland," she began, voice low and even, carrying the crisp accent of old pure-blood breeding. "Endless days on the slopes pretending we were there for the scenery. I carved through the powder every morning, pushing myself until my thighs burned and my lungs ached just to stay sharp. Then came the evenings—interminable dinners with the Zabinis, the Rosiers, the Notts, and half a dozen other families circling like vultures. All of them droning on about bloodlines, marriage contracts, and ancient alliances as if whispering the right name at the right party could still reshape the world."
She shifted her weight, the movement drawing Roland's gaze briefly to the subtle flex of muscle in her thighs and the way her blouse clung to the swell of her breasts. Her eyes never left his.
"I smiled when I was supposed to smile. I nodded at their boring lectures about leverage and old grudges. Blaise Zabini spent half the trip trying to impress me—newest broom model, some exaggerated tale about nearly outflying a Hungarian Horntail during a reserve visit. As if any of that mattered. He's all feathers and no substance, just like the rest of them. Pathetic."
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