A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 12 - Part 4
The next morning at breakfast, everything looked normal on the surface. The Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter of students passing plates, the clink of cutlery, and owls swooping overhead with the morning post. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching on the floating candles that hadn't yet been extinguished for the day.
Ron piled his plate high with bacon, eggs, sausages, and toast, attacking it with the enthusiasm of someone who had barely slept. He kept flexing his bandaged hand between bites, wincing every time. "Still throbbing like mad," he grumbled around a mouthful of food. "Feels like Norbert took a chunk out of the bone itself. Hagrid better not ask us for any more favours after this. I'm done playing dragon nurse."
Hermione sat across from them looking fresh and composed, her bushy hair neatly brushed and tied back, uniform crisp and perfect as always. She buttered a piece of toast with careful movements. Only someone who knew her well would notice the faint shadows under her eyes or the way she shifted carefully in her seat, as if every small movement reminded her of something private. A tiny wince crossed her face when she crossed her legs under the table.
Harry watched her closely, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. "You got back late last night," he said, trying to keep his tone casual.
Hermione didn't miss a beat. She spread a thick layer of jam on her toast, smiling faintly. "Professor Greengrass wanted to go over some notes from the detention. Historical context on unicorn blood in dark rituals — how it's been used in old blood magic, the curses it can sustain, that sort of thing. It was actually really useful. He had some primary sources from the Restricted Section I hadn't seen before."
Ron shrugged, still chewing. "Lucky you. We just got told off by McGonagall this morning in the common room. Another ten points from Gryffindor for 'reckless behaviour near the Forest.' Brilliant. Like we asked to go wandering around looking for whatever killed that unicorn."
"Ten points?" Hermione frowned. "That's harsh. We were doing what Hagrid told us to do."
"Yeah, well, tell that to McGonagall," Ron muttered, stabbing another sausage. "She looked like she wanted to give us a month of detentions. Said we were lucky it wasn't more. Neville looked ready to faint when she started talking."
Harry said nothing. He kept eating mechanically, but his eyes kept flicking up toward the high table. Roland Greengrass sat between Professor Sinistra and Flitwick, looking calm and composed as always. He was discussing something quietly with them, gesturing with his fork. For a brief second their eyes met across the hall. Roland gave the smallest nod, almost friendly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Harry looked away first, jaw tight, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
The visions wouldn't leave him alone. Every time he glanced at Hermione he saw flashes of last night — the way she'd lit up when Roland called her name, the easy way she'd walked off with him. And behind that, older memories that weren't his: his mum's face, eager and flushed. He stabbed his eggs harder than necessary.
"You alright, Harry?" Hermione asked, tilting her head. "You've been quiet."
"Fine," he muttered. "Just tired after last night."
Ron snorted. "Join the club. My hand feels like it's on fire and I keep seeing that hooded thing every time I blink. What do you reckon it was?"
Hermione lowered her voice. "Nothing good. Firenze seemed genuinely scared. Unicorn blood… it's dark stuff. We should probably tell Dumbledore."
They kept talking in low voices about the Forest, the unicorn, what the hooded figure might mean. Harry nodded along, but his attention kept drifting back to the high table. Roland was laughing at something Flitwick said now, perfectly at ease. Like he hadn't just pulled Hermione away the night before. Like nothing was wrong.
***
Roland spent the rest of the day in his usual rhythm. He taught three classes, guiding fourth-years through the political fallout of the 1289 Goblin Rebellion with his typical mix of dry humour and sharp questions. He marked essays during his free period, scribbling notes in the margins about bias in wizarding historiography. Between lessons he had quiet conversations in the corridors — a few words with Professor Sprout about mandrake maturity, a brief chat with Flitwick about charm theory.
But his mind kept returning to the night before. Hermione had been especially responsive after the Forest. The adrenaline from the danger, the fear of the hooded figure, the risk of getting caught by Filch — it had all fed into how eagerly she'd taken him. She didn't just submit; she craved it. The way she'd ridden him on the couch, the desperate sounds she made when he fucked her ass, the hungry way she'd cleaned him afterward. He liked that about her. She was brilliant, ambitious, and increasingly addicted.
In the afternoon, while walking past the library, he caught a glimpse of Daphne through the open doors. She was sitting at a table near the windows, a book open in front of her, but her sharp grey eyes were fixed across the room on Hermione, who was returning some volumes to the shelves. That focused, predatory stare was unmistakable. Daphne's jaw was tight, fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. Good. The tension between them was building nicely, simmering just below the surface. Valentine's would be the perfect stage to let it play out — a little competition to see which of them could push the other further.
He smiled faintly to himself as he continued down the corridor and returned to his papers in the History of Magic classroom. The Stone, Quirrell, the Forest — everything was moving exactly as it should. He didn't need to rush. He just needed to keep his pieces in position.
***
A few days later the castle began showing the first undeniable signs of Valentine's Day. Pink and red hearts floated lazily near the ceilings in some corridors, bobbing gently in the drafts. Garish posters advertising ridiculous singing valentines had appeared on several noticeboards, promising "enchanted declarations of affection that will make your crush swoon!" Students walked the halls in small groups, whispering about cards, secret admirers, and who might ask whom to the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.
In History of Magic that afternoon, Roland kept the lesson light but pointed. He paced slowly between the desks, hands clasped behind his back, voice carrying easily through the room.
"Love potions, affection charms, the old Celtic binding rituals," he said, pausing to tap a finger on a desk. "History is full of people who thought they could force desire. Most of them regretted it bitterly. Power like that tends to twist back on the user — sometimes in ways far more painful than the loneliness they were trying to escape."
His eyes flicked briefly to Hermione, then lingered a moment longer on Daphne. Both girls sat up straighter in their seats. Daphne's grey eyes burned with fierce determination, her quill hovering motionless above her parchment. Hermione's cheeks carried the faintest flush, her fingers tightening around her own quill as she met his gaze for a split second.
Daphne's mind raced. He's looking at me. At us. He knows exactly what this week means. The thought of competing openly with Granger sent a hot thrill through her — part jealousy, part savage excitement. She would not lose. Not to a Mudblood. Not when it came to him.
Hermione's thoughts were simpler and far more heated. A competition. The word alone made her shift in her seat, the faint ache from the other night flaring pleasantly. She wanted it. Wanted to prove she was the one he kept coming back to.
After class, as students filed out chatting about the upcoming holiday, Roland caught Hermione's eye. "Miss Granger. A moment."
She stayed behind while the others left, the door clicking shut with a soft, final sound. Roland leaned casually against the front of his desk, arms crossed.
"Valentine's is in a week," he said without preamble. "Small competition between you and Daphne. My office, after curfew. Both of you. I want to see which one of you really wants it more."
Hermione's breath caught. A bright spark of pure excitement lit in her eyes, her cheeks flushing deeper. "I'll be ready," she said quickly, voice steady despite the rush of heat between her legs. "I'll make sure I'm better."
"I know you will." He didn't touch her. He simply let the promise hang in the air between them, heavy and full of possibility.
Hermione left the classroom with a small, determined smile tugging at her lips. Daphne can train all she wants, she thought as she walked down the corridor. She'll never understand what I'm willing to do for him.
A few minutes later, Roland stepped into the corridor and caught Daphne just before she disappeared around the corner. "Miss Greengrass. A word."
Daphne turned immediately, her expression shifting from cool composure to sharp focus in an instant. She followed him back into the now-empty classroom. The door shut again.
"Valentine's," Roland said, repeating the essentials. "One week. My office after curfew. You and Granger. I want to see which one of you truly wants this more."
Daphne's grey eyes flashed with fierce hunger. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips. "I won't disappoint you," she said, voice low and intense. "Granger may be eager, but she doesn't understand what this really means. I do. I've trained for this. I'll show you exactly how much I want it."
Roland studied her for a long moment, noting the way her posture straightened, the subtle press of her thighs together. "Good. I expect you both to come prepared."
Daphne left with her chin high, mind already spinning with plans. Finally. A chance to prove I'm superior in every way. The jealousy that had simmered since the holidays now felt like fuel. She would make Granger watch her take everything — and enjoy every second of it.
***
That night, back in his private quarters, Roland poured himself a glass of elf-made wine and settled into the armchair by the fire. The flames crackled softly, casting warm light across the stone walls. He took a slow sip, letting the rich, smoky flavor roll over his tongue as the events of the past weeks played through his mind.
Norbert was gone — safely on his way to Romania with Charlie's friends. The trio had done their part without realizing how neatly they'd been guided. Quirrell was getting sloppier by the day, his turban slipping, his stutter worsening, the scent of decay growing stronger whenever he passed. Dumbledore was watching everyone, including him, but the old man's attention was divided. And Harry… the boy was clearly starting to put pieces together. Voldemort's visions were probably affecting him, making him wary, uneasy. Roland didn't mind. A little pressure on the Boy Who Lived kept things interesting without derailing anything important.
As long as no one interfered with his own arrangements, the plot could unfold mostly as written. He had other priorities.
He thought about Hermione on her knees the other night, collar snug around her throat, ass up on his desk as he took her. The desperate sounds she made, the way she'd cleaned him so eagerly afterward. Then he pictured Daphne — her fierce ambition, the way she'd trained in secret during the holidays, the burning determination in her eyes whenever she looked at him. Both of them were useful in different ways. Both of them were becoming exactly what he wanted: sharp tools and willing vessels, each pushing the other to new heights.
Valentine's would be entertaining. A controlled collision of their rivalry, right here under his roof. He could already imagine the tension, the competition, the way they'd both strive to outdo one another for his attention.
He finished his wine, set the glass down on the side table, and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
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