The Unmaking of Pansy Parkinson #1

Green light from the Black Lake filtered through the windows, painting the Slytherin common room in a cold, sickly glow. Draco Malfoy lounged on a leather sofa like a king on his throne, a smug smirk plastered across his pale face. His girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson, draped herself beside him, looking bored but watching everything with sharp, hungry eyes. The portrait hole swung open. Harry Potter stood in the entrance, his eyes immediately locking onto Draco, and the room’s lazy atmosphere snapped tight with instant, crackling tension.

He didn’t wait for an invitation, just strode right into the heart of their space, his boots silent on the stone floor. All conversation died. Every Slytherin watched him, a predator who had just walked into a den of vipers. His eyes never left Draco’s, a challenge burning in their green depths. Pansy’s feigned boredom vanished, replaced by raw curiosity. She sat up a little straighter, her focus narrowing on the boy who lived, the boy who constantly ruined their plans. Draco’s smirk didn’t falter, but it grew colder, more dangerous.

“You’ve been running your mouth for weeks, Malfoy.” Harry’s voice cut through the room. “All that talk about the upcoming match. About how you’re the better Seeker.” He took another step forward, closing the distance. The Slytherins watching seemed to hold their breath. “Seems like a lot of noise. Why don’t we make it interesting? A real bet. Then everyone will know for sure.”

Draco unfolded himself from the sofa, rising to his full height to meet the challenge. “A bet? You think you have anything I could possibly want?” He let his eyes sweep over Harry’s worn robes, a clear insult. The surrounding Slytherins let out a low, appreciative chuckle. Pansy watched, her lips parted slightly, her eyes moving between the two boys as if watching a thrilling duel.

A mocking smile spread across Harry’s face. “You’re stalling,” he noted, his tone flat and unimpressed. “Listing all the reasons it won’t work. Sounds an awful lot like fear to me.” He let the accusation hang in the air, watching the words hit their mark. “I didn’t take you for a coward, Malfoy. But I guess all that talk is just a shield.” He shrugged, a gesture of pure disdain. “Forget it then. We all know the truth.” He made as if to turn away, the dismissal more cutting than any direct insult.

Draco’s cool composure shattered. His face flushed an ugly red, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. “I am not scared of you, Potter!” he snapped, his voice rising sharply and losing its lazy drawl. The controlled mask of arrogance was gone, replaced by raw, bristling anger. He took a furious step forward, jabbing a finger in Harry’s direction. “You want a bet? Fine. You have a bet. And when you lose, you’re going to regret ever walking in here.”

His eyes glittered with pure malice. “So name it, Potter. What could you possibly offer that would be worth my time?” The challenge was thrown down, the air humming with the weight of it. Every student in the common room leaned in, desperate not to miss a single word. Pansy’s expression was now one of intense, calculating interest, her earlier boredom completely forgotten in the heat of the confrontation.

Harry wanted to laugh. It was so easy. He had him. “When I lose,” Harry stated, his voice ringing clear in the silent room, “I will stand in the middle of the Great Hall and declare, for everyone to hear, that Malfoy blood is superior to Potter blood in every way. I’ll say your family’s wealth, its name, its very legacy is greater.” He paused, letting the shocking offer sink in. “And I will publicly support your father’s… causes in the Wizengamot.” The promise was political dynamite, and a collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the Slytherin ranks.

Draco’s eyes widened, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph flashing across his face. It was everything he’d ever wanted, served to him on a silver platter. “Done,” he said immediately, the word clipped and sharp with delight. He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Merlin, I’m going to enjoy that. Now, your pathetic terms. What could you possibly want from me? New robes? A sack of Galleons to finally update your wardrobe?” He gestured dismissively. “It’s nothing. Name your price, Potter. I have it all.”

Harry’s eyes shifted from Draco’s smug expression to the girl next to him. He let the quiet hang in the air, building tension until it was almost too much to bear. When he finally spoke, his words were quiet. “I don’t want your money, Malfoy.”
He stared straight at Pansy. “I want her.”

Pansy jerked backward. Her face, which had been bright with cruel interest, twisted with anger and disbelief. “What? You filthy Mudblood! How dare you..!”

Draco’s hand snapped out, gripping her wrist to silence her. He kept his eyes on Harry. A amused smile crept across his face as he took in the boldness of the request. He even laughed softly.

Pansy ripped her arm away. Her voice came out shrill and hurt. “DRACO! You’re actually thinking about it? I’m not something you can just give away!”

Finally, Draco turned to her. His look was calm and superior. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her jaw in a gesture that felt like possession, not comfort. “Shh, baby. Potter isn’t going to win.” He spoke as if it were an obvious fact. “Do you trust me? I am a Malfoy. His shame will be our victory. It’s the perfect trap.” He faced Harry again. “She’s yours if you win, Potter.”

The surrounding Slytherins were utterly silent, mesmerized by the stakes.

“Not a week,” Harry corrected. “A month. And she attends every class with me, sits with me at the Gryffindor table, and acts as my… companion. Publicly. Unquestioningly.”

Pansy made a strangled noise of pure horror, but Draco’s eyes only glittered brighter. The sheer depth of the humiliation he could inflict was intoxicating.

“Done,” Draco answered, not even glancing at Pansy. “But when I win.. and I will win… you will do more than just make a speech. You will kneel when you say it. You will kneel before me in the Great Hall and acknowledge the Malfoy family’s superiority.”

Harry held Draco’s look for a long moment, then gave a single nod.

“Agreed.”

---

The news of the wager tore through Hogwarts like fiendfyre. By Saturday morning, cold and bright, the whole school was humming. The Slytherin-Gryffindor match was no longer simply for House points or the Quidditch Cup; it had become a battleground for a personal feud.

In the Gryffindor locker room, the tension felt different. Oliver Wood’s pre-match speech was more frantic than ever, his eyes darting repeatedly toward Harry, who stared vacantly at his broom.

“We absolutely must win today! It’s not just about the Cup anymore; it’s about everything!” Wood finished, his voice breaking.

Ron gave Harry a solid clap on the back, his expression grim. “You’ll crush him. Just catch the Snitch. Fast.”

Hermione offered a tight squeeze on Harry’s arm, her face a blend of fierce loyalty and sheer alarm.

Out on the pitch, the crowd’s roar was overwhelming. Harry soared into the air, the freezing wind biting his face. His eyes immediately searched for Malfoy. There he was, the Slytherin Seeker, already tracing lazy, superior loops above the goalposts, a mocking grin clear even from a distance. In the stands, Pansy Parkinson sat perfectly rigid in the Slytherin section, her face a pale, rigid mask.

The game began, and it was merciless. The Slytherin Beaters, obeying silent commands, targeted Bludger after Bludger straight at Harry with cutting accuracy, forcing him into a desperate, evasive flight. Fred and George Weasley fought back fiercely, but the Slytherin Chasers played a shockingly rough game, committing more fouls against Gryffindor players than attempting to score.

The score stayed close, a punishing stalemate. An hour slipped by. Harry’s entire focus was on finding the glint of gold, but Malfoy shadowed his every move, hovering just in view, mocking him with his presence.

Then Harry spotted it. A speck of gold near the Slytherin goals. He leaned forward, sending the Firebolt into a steep dive. Malfoy saw it a moment later and plummeted after him. They flew side by side, a streak of red and green, racing toward the ground. The spectators roared.

At the final second, Malfoy didn’t grab for the Snitch. Instead, he wrenched his broom sharply, crashing it into Harry’s. The jolt was intense. Harry’s hold faltered, and he was thrown sideways, his broom twisting wildly. He watched, his heart pounding hard, as Malfoy’s hand closed on nothing but sky. The golden ball had disappeared.

Madam Hooch’s whistle screamed. “Foul! Penalty to Gryffindor!”

But the harm was already done. As Harry steadied his broom, struggling for breath, Malfoy drew up beside him, his words a poisonous hiss on the wind.

“Just a sample, Potter,” he sneered, eyes gleaming. “The Snitch is just the start of what you’ll lose today.”

The penalty was awarded, but the game’s rhythm faltered. As Harry rose to a safe height, his thoughts were not on the Snitch. They were fixed on the pale, angry face in the Slytherin stands. Pansy.

The bet had nothing to do with politics. It was simpler. It all made sense after what he overheard.

A few weeks earlier, Harry had taken a shortcut through an empty corridor near the dungeons. He recognized the voices of Bletchley, the Quidditch captain, and Urquhart, a beater. Their tone was sneering. He slipped behind a suit of armor.

“I’m telling you, mate, Parkinson’s a dark horse,”

“Get off it,” Urquhart replied. “She’s all screech and nails. Looks like a pug.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Blaise Zabini got drunk after the last Slug Club party. He told me Malfoy was bragging.”

Harry went still.

“Bragging about what?” Urquhart sounded uninterested.

“About her,” Bletchley stretched out the word. “Said she’s different in private. Not so proper. Lets him take her up the arse.”

Urquhart whistled softly. “No. Really?”

“I swear. Said she loves it. Proper little filly.”

They laughed, a harsh sound that bounced off the stone walls. Harry stood frozen, his face hot. The image stuck in his mind. Pansy Parkinson, with her bossy voice and sneer, acting that way. It was the most surprising thing he’d ever heard. He couldn’t shake the thought.

He wanted to be the one. He wanted to find out if it was true. He wanted to steal what Malfoy bragged about and make it his. The bet was no longer about the game. It was a key.

A Bludger shot past his ear, jolting him back to the match. He dodged, heart pounding. Focus, Potter. His eyes found Malfoy across the pitch. That smug git had no clue.

He was going to win. He was going to take what Malfoy so carelessly bragged about. For a month, she wouldn’t be his. She’d be Harry’s. The thought was a jolt of pure adrenaline.

He’d parade her through the castle. He’d make her sit at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by his friends, and he’d watch her squirm. He’d make her follow him everywhere, a constant, pretty shadow. And at night… at night, he’d find out if the rumors were true. He’d see that sneer melt away. He’d make her admit, in whispers, that a Gryffindor, a Mudblood, was better than her pure-blood prince.

A Bludger screamed toward him. This time, he didn’t just swerve. He dropped into a steep roll, coming up on the other side of the pitch, his eyes scanning, hunting. He wasn’t looking for the Snitch for glory. He was looking for it as a claim ticket.

And then he saw the most beautiful sight of his Quidditch career.

There, hovering not five feet behind a preening Draco Malfoy, was the Golden Snitch. It bobbed gently in the air, its tiny wings whirring silently, practically tapping Draco on the back of his perfectly gelled head.

Draco, meanwhile, was too busy gloating to notice. He was sneering across the pitch at Harry, shouting something that was lost in the wind but was clearly an insult about Harry’s flying or his parentage. He gestured flamboyantly with one hand, completely unaware that the entire object of the game was using his blond hair as a landing pad.

Harry almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

He didn’t dive. . He just guided the Firebolt into a casual cruise directly toward his rival. He flew up until he was hovering right in front of a confused Malfoy.

“Alright, Potter?” Malfoy yelled, his sneer firmly in place. “Given up? Ready to kneel?”

“Nope,” Harry said calmly. He reached out his eyes locked on Malfoy’s. He didn’t even look at the Snitch. He just extended his arm around the side of Malfoy’s head.

Malfoy flinched, thinking Harry was about to punch him. “What are you…”

Clink.

The sound of Harry’s fingers closing around the small metal ball was absurdly loud in the momentary quiet between them.

Malfoy’s eyes crossed, trying to see what was happening beside his own ear. His brain, moving at the speed of a sleepy snail, slowly processed the sight of Harry’s clenched fist pulling back. His smirk vanished, replaced by a look of dawning, horrified comprehension.

Harry held up the struggling Snitch, giving it a little wave in front of Malfoy’s ashen face.

“Cheers, Malfoy,” Harry said, a wide, shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

---

Three days had passed since the match. Three days of Gryffindor celebration and Slytherin fuming. The terms of the bet were the only thing anyone could talk about. Harry had waited. He’d let the tension build, let Malfoy think he might have forgotten, or worse, that he’d chickened out.

He hadn’t.

On the evening of the third day, the stone wall to the Slytherin common room slid open without warning. Harry Potter stood in the entrance, just as he had before the match. The low, green-lit conversation died instantly. Dozens of eyes, wide with shock and hostility, snapped toward him.

Draco Malfoy was, predictably, holding court on the same leather sofa, Pansy draped beside him like a sulky accessory. He looked up, his face twisting into a mask of pure venom. “What is the meaning of this, Potter? Get out. You don’t belong here.”

“I’m not here for you,” Harry said, his voice calm and carrying through the silent room. His eyes skipped over Malfoy and landed on Pansy. “I’m here for what’s mine. The month starts now. We had a deal.”

Pansy’s face flushed with furious indignation. “I am not going anywhere with you, you filthy…” But her insult was cut off as Draco stood up, his wand appearing in his hand.

“The deal is void,” Malfoy snarled, pointing his wand at Harry’s chest. “I declare it void! Now get out before I hex you into next week.”

Harry didn’t even flinch. He just stared back, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips. “You can’t declare it void, Malfoy. You agreed. In front of witnesses. In this very room. Magic heard you.”

Malfoy’s arm, holding the wand, began to tremble. He tried to keep it raised, but an unseen, inexorable force pushed it down, forcing his hand to his side. He struggled against it, his face contorted with effort, but it was useless. He was forced into compliance, his own magic bound by the oath.

“No…” Malfoy gasped, his eyes wide with a new kind of horror. He wasn’t just being beaten; he was being rendered powerless by a law greater than himself.

Harry’s eyes never left Pansy. “Time to go… pet.”

The word was a slap. Pansy recoiled, a fresh wave of fury on her face. “I will not be called…”
She tried to remain seated, to defy him, but her body betrayed her. Her legs moved of their own accord, pushing her up from the sofa. She stood, her whole frame trembling not with fear, but with the immense effort of fighting the magical compulsion. It was a losing battle. Her feet shuffled forward, one step, then another, carrying her toward Harry against her will.

Her eyes were blazing pools of hate, locked on Harry. She looked like she wanted to murder him where he stood, but she was powerless to do anything but obey.

“Good,” Harry said, his voice soft but absolute. He turned his back on the entire stunned Slytherin common room, on a humiliated and magic-bound Draco Malfoy, and began to walk out.

With a face contorted in absolute fury, every step a silent scream of rebellion, Pansy Parkinson was magically compelled to follow her new master out of the only home she’d ever known at Hogwarts, leaving a room full of shocked and defeated Slytherins in her wake.

---

The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Entrance Hall, lighting up dust floating in the air. Harry came down the grand staircase, his hands in his pockets. The plan was ready. He told her to meet him at the gates at ten, to dress like she was going on a date, and to be ready to play the part.

He half-expected her not to show up, thinking the magic would have to pull her there. But when he pushed the heavy oak doors open, he saw her.

Pansy Parkinson stood just outside the gates, her back to the castle. She really had dressed for a date with him.

She wore a tight, short black dress that showed off her tits and ass, with see-through black tights and expensive boots that made her look taller and sharper. Her makeup was perfect and harsh, with dark eyeliner and sharp cheekbones. She was pure-blood style all over: cold, pricey, and out of reach.

Harry didn’t wait. He walked right up behind her. She must have heard him coming, because she went stiff, her shoulders tightening. Before she could spin around and hiss something nasty, his hands landed on her hips.

Pansy jumped, a sharp breath hissing out. “Potter, what are you…”

She cut off as one of his hands slid down and cupped her ass through the tight dress. It wasn’t some hungry grab; it was a calm move, like he owned her. Which he did. He pulled her back against him just enough to feel her shape.

Then he turned her around.

Her face was full of shocked anger, her painted mouth open ready to throw another insult. Harry didn’t let her. He leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t rough or controlling like she expected. It was soft. His lips were warm and firm against hers, a confident press that lasted only a few seconds.

Pansy went totally still. Every muscle locked up. Her mind raced with outrage…how dare he, this is gross, Malfoy would never…

But the magic, tuned to the “acting like his girlfriend” rule, felt her fighting it. A warm, heavy pressure spread through her chest and into her limbs. It didn’t make her like it; it made her give in. The stiffness left her body not from relaxing, but from surrendering. Her tight lips softened under his.

When Harry pulled back, her eyes were wide, the anger gone, replaced by pure shock. The magic hummed, reminding her of her role.

Harry looked down at her, a faint smile on his face.

“You look nice, Pansy. “

Pansy’s brain fumbled for something to say. An insult, a sneer, anything. But the magic pushed again, feeding her the lines. What would a girlfriend say?

“…Thank you,” she heard herself say. The words felt strange. Her cheeks burned with shame and something else.

“Ready to go?” Harry asked, holding out his arm like some old-fashioned gentleman.

The magic pulsed. Pansy’s hand lifted on its own and slipped through his elbow. Her fingers rested lightly on his forearm. She was holding onto Harry Potter. Willingly. Where people could see.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, her voice soft.

As they started walking toward Hogsmeade, a couple of third-year Hufflepuffs stared. Pansy tried to pull her hand back, to put space between them, but the magic held it in place. She was stuck, playing the loving girlfriend for her enemy, dressed like his Slytherin slut, and the weirdest part was that the kiss hadn’t been disgusting.

It had been gentle. And for one scary second, before the magic took over, her body had responded to that softness before her mind could shut it down.

Cobblestone streets passed by outside the pub window. Over a quiet dinner, Harry talked about Potions homework. Pansy barely touched her food, too aware of him sitting so close. Later, they walked by the shops. She paused at a jeweler’s display. Harry led her inside, pointing at necklaces. “Silver or gold? What about the stones?” His questions were casual, but they made her feel watched, assessed.

Near Gladrags, Pansy’s eyes went straight to a short, pleated skirt on a mannequin. It was a habit, checking what would look good on her.

Harry saw her looking. His gaze moved from the skirt back to her, a slow smirk forming. “Bold choice, Parkinson. Your ass would look incredible in that.”

The crude, direct words sent a shock through her. Heat rushed up her neck, mixed with a sudden thrill. With Malfoy, praise was always about her family. This was about her. Her body.

She forced a sneer. “Yeah? You’d like that, Potter? Getting an eyeful?”

“I meant it.” His eyes held hers, the smirk still there. “Try it on. I want to see.”

Pansy froze. This was the line. Trying it on for him was a choice, a surrender she was making herself. Her pride fought a secret part of her that was tired of being proper and wanted to be wanted. She grabbed the skirt and walked to the fitting room, her heart pounding. Harry picked up a small stool and set it facing the curtain before sitting down to wait.

A few minutes later, the curtain moved. Pansy stepped out. The skirt was even shorter on her, the hem high on her thighs. She did a slow turn.

Harry watched her, not speaking. His silence felt heavier than any comment.

“Turn around,”

She turned her back to him.

“Now bend over.” The command was soft but left no room for argument. “Slowly. Let me see the fit.”

Pansy’s whole body tingled. This was it. The thrill beat out everything else. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, back arched. The skirt rode up, showing the backs of her thighs and the tight curve of her ass, barely covered by a thin black lace thong.

“Perfect. Just like I thought. You’re a good girl, Pansy.”

Good girl. The words sent a sharp, hot jolt straight between her legs, so strong her knees felt weak. It was a validation she never knew she needed. Her face was hot, but this time from pure arousal.

She stayed bent over, completely still, soaked in the feeling of his eyes on her, on the lace, on how his quiet praise had lit a fire inside. The magical command was nothing compared to this. This was her own choice, and it was so much more powerful.

After a long, charged moment, Harry finally spoke. “Stand up.” His voice was a little thicker than before.

Pansy straightened up, her face flushed, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. She felt exposed and… powerful.

“Try the red one,” he said, nodding toward a slinky, crimson dress on a nearby rack. It had a complicated back with a long zipper and dozens of tiny buttons.

Wordlessly, Pansy took it and retreated behind the curtain. Her hands were trembling. She shimmied out of the skirt and slipped the red dress over her head. It was a fraction too tight, hugging her every curve. She managed to get the zipper up an inch, but the intricate buttons at the top were impossible. She could just walk out and ask the shop assistant. But she didn’t want the shop assistant.

Taking a shaky breath, she pulled the curtain back just a few inches, enough to peek out. Harry was still sitting on the stool, watching the curtain intently, as if he’d been waiting for this.

“Potter.” Her voice came out soft, almost a whisper.

He stood up at once, a smirk on his lips. He stepped through the curtain into the fitting room with her and let it fall shut.

The room felt small and hot. She stood facing the mirror, her back to him, watching his reflection as he moved closer.

His warm fingers touched her skin as he took the zipper. He pulled it up slowly, then moved to the small buttons. He worked his way up, his knuckles brushing her spine with each button. Every touch sent a shiver through her.

Pansy’s breathing quickened. She felt the heat of his body close behind her.

When the buttons were done, his hands didn’t pull away. They slid down her sides, gripped her hips, and pulled her back against him.

She gasped.

She could feel him…hard and pressing against her ass through his pants. A rush of lust went through her. Without thinking, she rolled her hips back into him, grinding slow.

Harry let out a low groan. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her still as he rocked against her.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s it. You can’t help yourself, can you?”

He moved one hand from her hip, sliding it around her front and down over the red fabric, pressing between her legs. She was already wet, the fabric damp under his touch.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he growled, sounding pleased. “Just from trying on a dress. You love being my pretty little slut, don’t you?”

The word, his touch, the feel of him.. it broke her. A moan slipped out, her head falling back against his shoulder.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice throaty. She arched her back, pushing into his hand, grinding harder against him.

He laughed, a dark, happy sound. “Good slut. Such a good, horny little slut for me. You like that? You like rubbing your ass on my cock right here?”

“Yes,” she moaned, eyes shut tight. “Harry, yes…”

“Then prove it.” His rough whisper brushed her ear. “Hold still.”

His hand stayed pressed against the damp fabric between her legs. His fingers curled, gathering the thin material of her dress and thong. A sharp tear ripped a seam open.

Pansy gasped, a sound of pure anticipation. The cool air hit her skin, then the heat of his bare fingers sent a jolt through her.

“Magic has its uses.” His fingers traced her wetness, making her shake. “But some things are better done by hand.”

He took his time. One finger slid through her slick folds, circling her clit with a light touch that made her whimper and push her hips back. He explored her, learning what made her moan.

“Please.” Her composure shattered. She was just a body on fire, writhing against him. “Harry, please…”

“That’s it. Beg for it. You want my fingers inside you, don’t you, you dirty little slut?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes!”

He pushed a single firm finger deep inside her. Pansy cried out, a sharp sound of relief. Her head fell back against his shoulder, her hands gripping his thighs for support. He started a slow, steady rhythm, his thumb rubbing tight circles on her clit.

“It’s not enough, is it?” He felt her muscles tighten around him. “You need more.”

A second finger stretched her, filling her completely. The pace quickened, the slow tease turning into a hard, driving fuck. The room filled with their ragged breathing and the wet sounds of his fingers moving in her. Pansy was lost, her moans loud and wild, her body moving with his, chasing her climax.

“You’re going to come for me.” His voice was a dark promise. “Right here, in this dress I put you in. You’re going to come all over my hand, and you’re going to be quiet about it. No one hears you but me.”

The command, the possessiveness, the overwhelming feeling.. it was too much. The pressure in her belly broke. Her whole body went stiff against his, a silent scream on her lips as a powerful orgasm shook her. Her knees gave way. Only his arm around her waist and the fingers deep inside kept her up as she convulsed, waves of pleasure washing over her until she was limp and panting against him.

He held her, his breathing heavy. When the last shake faded, he slowly pulled his fingers out. He showed her his wet hand, the proof of her climax glistening.

“Good girl.” He turned her head and kissed her, deep and possessive. “Now let’s get out of here before I fuck you right through this curtain.”

---

The carriage rolled forward, leaving the bright village of Hogsmeade in the distance. Inside, the only light came from the moon through the window.

Silence hung between them, heavy with what they had just done. Pansy looked out at the trees rushing by. Her body felt hot and restless, tangled up with shame and want. She could feel him watching her.

“You’re quiet.” His voice rolled through the dark. She flinched. “What’s on your mind, Parkinson?”

It was a dangerous question. The spell from their bet woke up, wrapping around her will. She tried to fight it, to think about class or Malfoy’s hair, but her mouth opened anyway.

“I’m thinking about your… cock.”

Her hands flew to her lips, eyes wide. She hadn’t meant to say it. The magic had pulled it right out of her.

Harry chuckled. “Yeah?” He sounded pleased. “Pretty specific thing to fixate on.”

She froze as his hands went to his pants. The zipper slid down, loud in the quiet. He left it open. Not taking anything out, just waiting.

“Long way back to school. Want to see it?”

She bit her lip. She wanted to say no, to turn away, but her eyes stayed on that open zipper. Heat spread through her. The magic didn’t make her say yes, but it wouldn’t let her lie. She nodded, once, stiffly.

His smile was all victory. “Thought so.” He leaned back, legs apart. “Your turn. Show me your tits. Let me see what you’ve got.”

The magic pushed gently. Her hands lifted on their own. She unbuttoned her robes, fingers shaking. Underneath, she wore a black lace bra.

“That too,” he said, watching closely. “I want them bare.”

She paused, a last useless try to fight it. Then, with a soft sound, she reached back, unclipped the bra, and let it fall.

Cool air touched her skin. Her nipples hardened. She was topless now, her tits bare in the moonlight. She kept her eyes on his open zipper, breathing fast, waiting. The game was his, and she was right where he wanted her.

Harry’s eyes moved over her bare tits like he owned her, making her skin tingle. He didn’t touch himself, just smiled slowly, teasing her.

“Wanna see it?” It wasn’t really a question.

Pansy could only nod again, her eyes glued to his open zipper.

Slowly, he hooked his thumbs in his pants and pushed them down just enough to let his cock spring free.

Pansy gasped. Her eyes went wide.

It was huge. Thick, veined, and hard. Way bigger than she ever imagined. Her head spun with lust and magic, and right away she thought of Malfoy. Their rushed, clumsy times in empty classrooms felt like nothing now. Malfoy was a boy. This was a man. It wasn’t just size; it was power. Harry wasn’t just showing her his dick. He was showing her what she’d been missing.

Heat flooded between her legs, so strong it almost hurt. Her shame melted into raw hunger. She stared, turned on, blushing hard for a new reason.

Harry watched her, smirking with triumph. He saw the awe and fear in her eyes, the wanting. He knew what she was thinking.

“See something you like, Parkinson?” He gave himself a slow stroke that made her throat clench. He was teasing her, loving her stunned silence. “Bigger than what you’re used to?”

The magic forced the truth out of her. “Yeah,” she whispered, shaking. “So much bigger.”

“Good.” His green eyes sparkled. “Since you’re so impressed… get on your knees. It’s rude to stare without saying hello.”

The command pulled at her. Pansy didn’t hesitate. The spell and her own wild desire were too strong. She slid off the seat and knelt on the hard floor. Everything else faded. All she saw was his cock, right in front of her.

She looked up at him, scared and turned on, ready for what came next.

“Open.” Harry’s voice left no room for argument.

Her lips parted. This time she didn’t wait. She leaned forward and took him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip like she’d done it a hundred times before.

A sharp hiss escaped him. “Merlin, look at you. No hesitation. You were born for this.”

She moaned around him, the vibration pulling another groan from his throat. She bobbed her head, growing more confident with every movement. Having Harry Potter moaning because of her felt intoxicating.

“That’s it.” His hands cradled her head, guiding without forcing. “Such an eager little cocksucker. Look how greedy you are.”

He let her set the pace for a moment before his tone shifted.

“It’s almost sad. Malfoy. He’s a child. A spoiled little boy pretending to be a man.” He chuckled. “He thinks power is money and a name. He doesn’t get how things really work.”

Pansy whimpered, unsure if she should answer. The magic stayed quiet.

“Look at this.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “His pure-blood princess, the girl he shows off like a prize… on her knees in the dirt. Sucking my cock. And you’re not fighting it. You love it.”

He thrust gently into her mouth, and she took him deeper, her thong growing wet. The difference was clear: Malfoy’s weak ideas versus Harry’s real control.

“He probably wouldn’t even care,” Harry mused, sounding almost sorry for her. “He’d just see you as used goods. Something he doesn’t want. He doesn’t see what I see. He doesn’t see this perfect, filthy mouth.”

The words were a dagger of ice to her heart. Damaged goods. The ultimate pure-blood fear. To be used and discarded. A cold dread pooled in her stomach. But as she looked up the long, hard length of him, a traitorous heat flooded her, so intense it was dizzying. The fear of being unwanted by anyone twisted violently with the shocking, wet pulse between her own legs.

Her mind fragmented. One part was screaming in pure, unadulterated shame. You are Pansy Parkinson. You are on your knees. Your makeup is ruined. Your dress is torn. You are sucking Harry Potter’s cock like a common whore.

But the other part, a raw, primal thing she never knew lived inside her, was chanting something else entirely. Look at him. Look how big he is. How hard. How he fills your mouth so completely you can barely breathe. Malfoy never made you feel this full, this owned, this used.

The shame wasn’t a deterrent; it was a fuel. The more degraded she felt, the wetter she became. The fear of being thrown away by Draco was suddenly eclipsed by a terrifying, thrilling new fear: that she might prefer this. That she might need to be Harry Potter’s filthy little secret more than she needed to be Draco Malfoy’s pristine trophy.

So she didn’t suck him out of a desperate bid to earn a place. She sucked him because she was starving for it. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate his size, a skill she didn’t know she possessed. She moaned around him, the vibrations a direct feedback loop to her own clit. She was humiliating herself, and she was loving it. She was proving herself to him, yes, but more importantly, she was proving this new, shocking truth to herself: she was a natural-born cocksucker, and Harry Potter’s was the best she’d ever tasted.

“That’s it.” His composure broke. “Fuck, just like that. Trying to prove your worth with that mouth?”

His hands tightened in her hair. The gentle guidance turned to control. He started fucking her face, setting a rough rhythm that made her eyes water. She gagged, but he didn’t stop.

After a minute, he stilled, pulling almost all the way out. “Stop.”

Pansy looked up, dazed and breathing hard, spit connecting her lip to his cock.

“Suck my balls now. Show me how devoted you are.”

She obeyed, lowering her head. She took one of his balls into her mouth, sucking gently. The act felt even more degrading than before. As her mouth worked, Harry sighed. “You know the best part of the bet? It wasn’t the Quidditch. It wasn’t making him kneel. It was this. The time.”

He grunted as her tongue moved. “I heard something in the dungeons. Bletchley and Urquhart. They said Malfoy bragged about you. Said he fucks your ass. Said you love it.” Pansy froze. Her most private secret was just gossip to them.

“Don’t stop.” His order was sharp. She started again, burning with shame.

“That’s what I wanted. I wanted to see if it was true. I wanted to take what he was proud of and do it better.”

He shifted. “Now. Lick my ass, Pansy. I want to feel that tongue everywhere.”

The command landed like a physical blow, freezing her in place. Her mouth went dry. She slowly released his balls from her mouth, swallowing a mouthful of spit that tasted of him. Her mind, which had been riding a wave of shameless arousal, screeched to a halt.

Lick his…?

She had never. Not even with Draco. That was a line. A filthy, unthinkable line that pure-blood girls like her didn’t cross. It was a act for… for other kinds of people. For Muggles. For animals.

But her body was screaming a different story. A fresh, hot gush of wetness soaked her thong, her cunt pulsing with a needy, empty ache. The sheer taboo of the command was, to her horror, the most potent turn-on she had ever experienced.

She hesitated, her eyes flicking up to look at him. From her knees, he seemed like a giant, a dark god of pleasure and punishment. Her lower lip trembled.

And she saw it. That cruel, knowing smile on his face. He wasn’t just ordering her to do something dirty. He was watching for this. For the hesitation. For the internal battle. He was savoring the exact moment he broke another one of her precious pure-blood boundaries.

A hot tear welled in the corner of her eye and spilled over, tracing a path through her smudged makeup. She wanted to cry. She wanted to sob from the sheer, overwhelming humiliation of it all.

But the magic, and something far deeper and more frightening within her, wouldn’t let her refuse.

A broken, shuddering whisper escaped her lips. “Please…”

It wasn’t a plea for him to stop. It was a plea for strength. A plea for him to understand the magnitude of what he was asking, of what she was about to give him.

His cruel smile only widened. He understood perfectly.

“Now,” he repeated, his voice soft but utterly inflexible.

Closing her eyes, as if that could shield her from the reality, Pansy Parkinson lowered her head. She pressed her face between his muscular cheeks, the scent of him, musky and intensely male, filling her senses. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Then, with a final, internal shattering of her old self, she extended her tongue and obeyed.

The act was so profoundly debasing that her mind seemed to short-circuit. It couldn’t process the reality of what she was doing.. Pansy Parkinson, licking the ass of Harry Potter in a moving carriage. So it detached, floating away from her body, leaving only a vague awareness of the salty taste of his skin, the coarse texture of hair, and the low, approving groans rumbling from above her.

Her body worked on autopilot, her tongue tracing and probing in a way that seemed to please him immensely. But her consciousness retreated inward, seeking shelter in memories, and in doing so, it began to connect dots she had always refused to see.

As she serviced Harry, a crystal-clear image flashed in her mind: Draco, rolling off her in a dusty classroom, panting, immediately starting to complain about Potter, about his father, about his marks…never asking if she’d finished. She never had. She’d always faked it, thinking the problem was her.

Another groan from Harry vibrated through her, and another memory surfaced: Draco criticizing her dress for the Yule Ball, nitpicking the cut, the color, comparing her to some other witch from a “better” family. He’d never looked at her the way Harry had looked at her in Gladrags. He’d never made her feel desired, only approved of.

Her tongue worked faster, spurred by a sudden, fierce anger. Harry’s hand came down, tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding, possessing.

Draco’s touch was always… performative. Like he was checking his reflection in my eyes, she thought, the realization as sharp and sudden as a knife. He cupped her cheek to show others he owned her. He held her hand to prove a point. His touch was never for her.

But Harry’s… Harry’s touch was only for her. It was hungry. It was selfish. It was real. It was meant to take and to brand, and in that taking, it made her feel more seen than Draco ever had.

A tear, hot and silent, dripped from her chin onto the carriage floor. She was crying, but not from the shame of licking Harry’s ass. She was crying from the shame of realizing, in this most degraded position, that her relationship with Draco Malfoy had been a hollow, brittle shell. He’d never made her come. He’d never made her feel good. He’d only ever made her feel proper.

And being proper felt incredibly cheap compared to the raw, shocking, world-shattering pleasure of being Harry Potter’s good slut.

Her whimpers changed then, mingling with the wet sounds of her tongue. They were no longer sounds of pure distress. They were the sounds of grief for a life she thought she wanted, and the terrifying, exhilarating birth of a new understanding of what she truly needed.

Harry’s groans were the soundtrack to her awakening. Each one was a hammer blow shattering the illusion of her old life, and with every broken piece, she felt a little freer, a little more his.

Suddenly, his hand fisted tightly in her hair, not gently anymore, but with a primal need. He pulled her head back, wrenching her mouth away from his ass. Her eyes, blurred with tears, looked up at him. His face was a mask of fierce pleasure, his green eyes blazing with lust and victory.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He guided his slick, hard cock back to her lips. But before he could push, Pansy lunged forward. Mmmmfff… She took him into her mouth herself, deep, swallowing him to the root in one desperate, hungry motion.

A ragged, shocked groan tore from Harry’s throat. “Fuck, yes… like that…” This was all her.

And then she broke completely.

Slurp… She began to bob her head in a frantic, wild rhythm, a sobbing, crying mess who was also the most eager cocksucker in the world. Schlllp… Mmmm… Tears streamed down her face, mixing with spit and pre-cum, but her mouth never stopped its wet, noisy work. Glllk… It was a frenzy, a desperate attempt to drown the screaming vortex of emotions inside her. the grief, the shame, the terrifying freedom… in the obscene physical sensation of pleasing him.

The fire between her legs was an inferno, a painful, throbbing ache that demanded relief. Without a thought, her own hands flew from his thighs to her breasts. She squeezed her tits through the fabric of her dress, hard, her fingers finding her nipples and pinching, twisting them through the cloth. Mmmphh! The sharp jolts of pain-pleasure were a distraction and a catalyst, feeding the madness, making her cunt clench around nothing, amplifying the sloppy symphony of her sucking.

Slurp. Schlllp. Gulk. She was a spectacle of abandoned composure. A pure-blood princess gone feral on her knees, crying and moaning around her enemy’s cock while she groped herself. Her mind was a white-hot blank of need. There was no more Draco, no more Slytherin, no more pride. There was only the taste of him, the smell of him, the feeling of his heavy balls slapping her chin, and the desperate, clawing need to make him come, to have his climax be the thing that finally, mercifully, silenced the war inside her head.

She felt it happen first. A deep, twitching pulse at the root of his cock, a sudden, impossible hardening a moment before the storm. His hand clamped like a vice in her hair, holding her head utterly still.

“Here it comes, you filthy slut. Take it all!” he growled.

Then, with a roar that seemed to shake the carriage walls, he erupted. Glllk! The first hot, thick pulse hit the back of her throat, shocking in its volume. He didn’t just let it flow; he fucked her mouth through his orgasm, short, brutal thrusts that pumped his seed deep into her. Mmmph! Mmmph!

Gulp… She fought to swallow the first wave, but a second, thicker one came instantly, flooding her mouth. It was so much. The salty, musky taste was overwhelming. Gulp… Gulp… She swallowed convulsively, tears of effort now joining her tears of shame, her throat working desperately. A third pulse, and she felt a trickle escape her stretched lips, dripping down her chin. She was drowning in him.

Her vision started to spot, dark at the edges. The lack of air, the sheer physical shock of swallowing so much, made her head spin. She was vaguely aware of her own body betraying her completely. While her mouth was being used as his cocksleeve, her hand, still on her breast, clawed its way under her skirt. Her fingers, slick with her own wetness she hadn’t even realized was there, plunged into her aching, empty cunt.

The double sensation his hot cum flooding her throat, her own fingers finally filling the void between her legs was the final trigger. A scream, muffled by his cock, vibrated through her as a cataclysmic orgasm ripped through her. Her back arched violently, her hips bucked against her own hand, and her inner muscles clenched around her fingers in tight, helpless spasms.

Harry roared again, emptying the last of himself into her with a final, shuddering thrust. Gulp… She swallowed one last time, the act reflexive now.

He held there for a long moment, panting, before slowly, slickly, pulling out of her ruined mouth.

Pansy collapsed forward, catching herself on her hands. She was trembling uncontrollably, a string of spit and semen still connecting her lips to his glistening cock. She gasped for air, her body convulsing with aftershocks. She could still feel her own fingers buried inside her, a final, humiliating testament to her complete and total surrender. She had not just been conquered; she had been utterly remade.

Slowly, weakly, she pushed herself back until she was sitting on her heels. She just stared at the opposite wall of the carriage, her vision blurred. Then, the tears came again. Not the frantic, overwhelmed tears from before, but a quiet, soul-deep weeping. They were tears of grief for the person she was an hour ago, a person who was gone forever. She cried for the shattered illusion of her relationship, for her pride, for her dignity. All of it left in a puddle on the floor between them. Her breasts were still exposed, the cool air of the carriage pebbling her nipples, a final layer of humiliation.

Eventually, the well of tears ran dry. A hollow emptiness settled in her chest. The crying stopped as suddenly as it began, leaving her face puffy and streaked with black mascara. With a stillness that mirrored his own, she slowly, mechanically, got to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly, but they held.

She turned her back, a gesture that felt both submissive and strangely defiant in its privacy. With a quiet, shuddering breath, she pulled the top of her dress back up, covering herself. The silk felt alien against her sensitized skin.

She finally turned to face him, her expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality.

Harry watched her, his green eyes missing nothing. He saw the tremor in her hands and the slight puffiness her spells couldn’t erase. He saw the icy composure she had pulled around herself and knew it was the thinnest veneer. Beneath it, she was utterly broken, and beautifully his.

A genuine, warm smile softened his features, a stark and terrifying contrast to the cold victor of moments before.

“That was perfect, Pansy,”

He reached out and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek. She flinched at the touch, a tiny, involuntary spasm she couldn’t control.

He didn’t seem to mind. “I had a really good time.” The understatement hung in the air, obscene in its pleasantness. “I’ll see you next week. We’ll… continue this.”

Just then, the train’s brakes hissed and the carriage jerked, slowing for its arrival at Hogwarts. The moment broke. Harry pushed himself off the wall, his movement easy and satisfied. He straightened his robes, his smile never fading, a promise and a threat in one.

“After you,” he said, gesturing gracefully toward the door as the train came to a complete stop.