A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 11 - Part 4
"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."
Daphne's jaw tightened, her grey eyes flashing with remembered irritation. "But the entire time I was there, freezing on those mountains and listening to their empty talk, all I could think about was you here. With her. While I was smiling through tedious conversations about who owed whom what from the last Goblin Rebellion, that Mudblood Granger was probably on her knees in your office every single night. Learning things I earned. Taking things that should have been mine."
There was no whine in her tone, no theatrical outburst. Just cold, focused intent laced with raw jealousy. She took a step closer, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of her perfume mixed with clean sweat.
"I practiced every night in my room," she continued, voice dropping. "Non-verbal shields until my magic felt raw. Quick-draw curses in front of the mirror until my wrist ached. I even tried occlumency against my own reflection, pushing until my head pounded and my eyes watered. I won't be second to her, Roland. Not in the classroom. Not with a wand. Not in power, not in usefulness…" Her gaze held his, steady and unblinking. "…and certainly not in pleasing you."
Roland studied her for a long moment. The torchlight shifted across her face, highlighting the faint flush on her cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers flexed around her wand, the determined set of her mouth. She was a blade that had been sharpened in the cold Swiss air—eager, dangerous, and entirely his.
"Then show me what you learned," he said simply.
Daphne's lips curved into a small, fierce smile. She raised her wand, grey eyes locked on his with unmistakable promise.
They started with non-verbal work.
Roland began simply, firing a series of stinging hexes and disarming jinxes without a single spoken word. The spells left his wand in sharp, silent bursts of red and blue light that cut through the torchlit air. Daphne moved with fluid grace, her fitted white blouse already starting to cling to the curves of her breasts as she twisted and blocked. Crisp, wordless Protegos shimmered into existence like panes of glass, absorbing the impacts with faint ripples. She countered almost instantly — a silent Trip Jinx aimed low at his leading foot. Roland sidestepped at the last second, the spell cracking against the stone floor where his boot had been.
He answered with a mild cutting curse at her ankles. Daphne leapt cleanly over it, her dark skirt riding up to reveal the toned muscle of her thighs, then followed through with a whispered Gust charm that kicked up a cloud of dust from the arena floor while she fired a non-verbal Stunner right behind it.
Roland deflected the dust with a casual wave of his wand and threw up a quick shield that absorbed the Stunner in a flash of light. He closed the distance in two long strides, grabbed her wand arm just above the elbow, and twisted with precise control — enough to disarm her without causing real pain. Her wand clattered across the stone. Daphne spun free immediately, breathing harder now, strands of blonde hair escaping her tight plait and sticking to the damp skin of her neck. She summoned the wand back with a sharp, wordless Accio, catching it cleanly.
"Faster," Roland said, voice calm and even as he circled her. "You're still thinking too much before you move. Anticipate. Don't react."
Daphne's grey eyes narrowed, a spark of fierce determination flashing across her face. She came at him again, more aggressive this time. They wove between the scattered stone pillars, using the environment exactly as they had practiced before the break. She slid low under one conjured barrier, firing a silent Jelly-Legs Jinx that nearly toppled him. Roland recovered with a quick hop, sent a disarming charm that clipped her side and made her stagger, then pressed the attack. She ducked behind a pillar, then emerged on the other side with a non-verbal Expelliarmus that forced him to shield hard, the force of it pushing him back a step.
She was improving — noticeably. Her movements were sharper, her timing better. But there was still that fraction of hesitation, that tiny tell before she committed to a spell. Roland noted it all while keeping the pressure on.
They moved through obstacle drills next. Roland conjured low barriers and shifting pillars that forced her to change direction constantly, testing her footwork and spatial awareness. Daphne adapted quickly, her athletic figure on full display as she vaulted, slid, and spun. Sweat had begun to bead along her collarbone and trickle down between her breasts, making the white blouse translucent in patches and outlining the firm shape of her nipples. Her skirt rode up with every aggressive movement, revealing the smooth, toned lines of her legs and the curve of her arse as she twisted to fire off another curse.
She landed a solid hit — a stinging hex that caught his shoulder and made him grunt at the sharp, burning pain. A flash of raw satisfaction crossed her face, lips parting in a brief, fierce smile. Roland returned it with interest, a body-bind curse that caught her mid-step and dropped her hard to one knee. For a moment she strained against it, muscles corded in her arms and thighs, then broke free with a surge of raw magical will. Sweat now ran freely down her neck and soaked the front of her blouse, plastering it to her skin.
By the end of the combat portion she was breathing raggedly but still controlled, chest heaving, blonde hair coming fully loose from its plait and framing her flushed face. Roland had her backed against one of the taller pillars, the stone cool against her back. He stepped in close, one hand resting lightly on her throat — not squeezing, simply holding her in place with the weight of his palm — while the tip of his wand pressed just under her ribs.
"Good," he said quietly, studying her flushed face and the way her grey eyes burned up at him. "You're improving. Noticeably. Your timing is cleaner, your footwork stronger. But you're still telegraphing your intent a fraction before you cast. That hesitation will get you killed if it ever matters."
Daphne's chest rose and fell against him, her breasts brushing his torso with every breath. Sweat glistened on her skin, her blouse now nearly see-through and clinging to every curve. She looked up at him, frustration, determination, and that deeper, sharper hunger she never quite hid all warring in her expression.
When he finally released her and stepped back, Daphne stayed leaning against the pillar for a long moment, her wand hanging loose at her side. Her chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths as she stared at the stone floor, strands of damp blonde hair clinging to her flushed cheeks and neck. Sweat traced slow paths down her skin, soaking the front of her white blouse until the fabric clung transparently to the full, firm swell of her breasts, outlining the stiff peaks of her nipples. The ache between her thighs had only grown sharper during the fight, a hot, insistent throb that matched the rapid beat of her heart.
Then her shoulders squared. She lifted her head and met his gaze directly, grey eyes burning with unwavering intensity.
"I am a Greengrass," she said, her voice low, steady, and filled with quiet conviction. There were no theatrics, no raised volume—just raw, honest declaration. "I will not be second to that Mudblood. Not in anything."
She took a small step forward, the torchlight catching the sheen of sweat on her collarbone and the way her soaked blouse molded to every curve.
"In the classroom, I will be sharper, faster, more ruthless with my answers. I will anticipate every question, every trap you set, and I will surpass her. I will make sure every student—and especially you—sees that my mind is superior. That my understanding runs deeper than her frantic note-taking and bushy-haired eagerness."
Daphne's fingers tightened around her wand, her grip firm.
"With a wand, I will be deadlier. I have spent every night in Switzerland drilling non-verbal spells until my arm burned. I will master the curses you teach me. I will anticipate your moves before you make them. I will stand at your side in any fight and be the weapon you need—precise, unrelenting, and without hesitation. No Mudblood bookworm will ever match what I can do with magic."
Her voice dropped further, becoming huskier, more intimate, as her eyes darkened with intent. She licked her lips slowly, tasting the salt of her own sweat.
"And in your bed…" She let the words linger, stepping even closer so the heat of her body brushed against him. "I will not be second there either. I will kneel for you whenever you want, wherever you want. I will take you down my throat until my eyes water and my jaw aches, swallowing every drop like the eager little slut you've trained me to be. I will spread my legs and beg you to fuck me raw—my cunt, my arse, my tits—however you desire, as many times as you need. I will ride you until I'm shaking and dripping, then clean you with my tongue afterward. I will let you use me in front of her if that's what it takes. I will let you bend me over your desk while she watches, or ride your cock while she sits in the corner waiting her turn. I will do anything—everything—to prove that my body belongs to you more completely than hers ever could. I will be wet and ready for you every single night, no matter how sore or exhausted I am from training. Because pleasing you is what I was made for."
The words hung between them in the torchlit space, heavy and unyielding, thick with raw desire and absolute commitment.
Roland holstered his wand slowly. He watched her for a long beat—the sweat glistening on her skin, the rapid rise and fall of her chest that made her breasts strain against the soaked fabric, the fierce set of her jaw, the way her blouse clung transparently to the flat plane of her stomach and the hard points of her nipples. He took it all in, letting the silence stretch.
"We'll see soon enough," he said simply.
He offered nothing else—no praise, no comfort, no immediate reward or punishment. He simply turned toward the door, his robes settling around him as he walked away.
Daphne remained against the pillar, fists clenched tightly at her sides. The ache between her legs throbbed in time with her racing pulse, hot and insistent, while the sting of his cool indifference burned hotter than any hex he had thrown tonight. She wanted to call after him. She wanted to demand he turn around and finish what the fight had started. Instead she stayed silent, breathing through the frustration until it settled into something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous.
She would prove it. She would overshadow Granger in every single way that mattered — in magic, in usefulness, in the way she could take him, please him, serve him. And when the time came, Roland would have no choice but to see exactly who belonged at his side.
The lesson wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
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