Rehearsal (Daphne/Harry)

Daphne

Daphne threw her sculpting tools to the bench, letting an exasperated sigh escape her lips.

Sure, it would be simple for her to reach for her wand, to transfigure the block of marble in front of her into the exact shape she was imagining, but that just felt like it went against her intent, somehow. She mused that perhaps this was why the magical world of Great Britain didn't place much importance on artists: it wasn't particularly impressive to be capable of transforming a stone into a new object entirely when most children could do so with magic.

Sighing once again, she fished out a cigarette from the pack that Pansy had left behind and lit it. Daphne didn't consider herself a regular smoker, but ever since she'd started spending more time in the company of Pansy and Harry, she figured she might as well indulge herself now and then. Compared to muggles, it wasn't like she was risking her health, anyways – another way that the magical world had an almost unfair advantage over its mundane counterpart.

Daphne knew why she was upset, but she wasn't willing to admit to herself that her feelings were a bit stung. Pansy had been by earlier in the day, and the initially-flirtatious mood had rapidly soured when they had started getting into the topic of art. It was almost stereotypically pretentious, Daphne thought to herself, recalling how the argument had started over the admittedly-ridiculous stance of whether Art-with-a-capital-"a" was meant to inspire a feeling, or to communicate a message.

She even knew that this spat wasn't exactly a fight, not that the whole "friends with benefits, and maybe collaborating on displaying an art piece" relationship was one that had an avenue for proper fights – both Pansy and herself were stressed about things which had absolutely nothing to do with the other. Pansy, of course, was worried about the opening of Serpentine, her clothing shop where the potential display of one of Daphne's pieces therein had provided the surface reason for her visit.

Daphne, meanwhile, was not so much worried as experiencing a general unease which had only grown since she had last taken lunch with Astoria a few days ago: yet another reappearance of the subtle, yet distinctly pushy suggestions that Daphne start considering settling down with a nice pureblood wizard of some kind. Her sister had suggested, in particular, one Mr. Harry Potter - though of course Astoria had no idea that Daphne had just finished shagging said Lord Potter-Black alongside one Miss Parkinson.

She knew that Astoria genuinely meant well, and that her helpful suggestions would have probably been the same even if none of them had ever heard of wizarding society ("why don't you get together with my husband's best mate" wasn't exactly unreasonable), but she still found her mood worsening and her vices increasing over the next days at the mere reminder of fucking pureblood society and its bullshit.

On the surface, Pansy was supposed to be meeting with her to discuss displaying "drowning", one of Daphne's paintings, at her shop when she had the grand opening. Below the surface, Daphne was hoping to get Pansy between her legs for long enough to forget all about the roles or expectations of a "proper pureblood lady" even as she consciously dismissed them.

Instead, an innocent comment from Pansy ("it seems kind of bleak") had inspired Daphne to defend her painting ("finding rays of light while you're drowning is the feeling I wanted to get across"), which had led to – naturally – neither Slytherin woman being willing to back down from their own stance, which in turn led to Pansy storming off even though, objectively, they didn't even disagree with each other.

Daphne knew that Pansy and herself would probably hash it out in the near future (hopefully involving tongue-lashing of a very different sort), but this did nothing to alleviate her present frustration. Stubbing out the cigarette, Daphne shucked her clothes off as she made her way to her bath, hoping that a good, hot, soak would prove to be an acceptable substitute.

It hadn't.

Daphne lay back, the cool burn of another menthol cigarette filling her lungs as she rubbed her legs together absentmindedly, as if that would reduce her frustration. She sipped on the Green Fairy in her hand – a little hint of disinhibition potion granting it both its neon green colouring and an edge over the muggle equivalent of the drink – and perhaps due to this disinhibition, decided to resort to something she hadn't in a while: a booty call, as she'd heard muggles in New York City say.

"Hey," she wrote to Harry, "you fancy a drink?"

The reply came almost immediately, which made her suspect that Harry was likely in a similar kind of state: "Absolutely."

After the most perfunctory review of her own appearance (not much of an "outfit", really, simply wearing a kimono-styled robe and nothing else), she wrote her own hurried reply, "Excellent. My place." She arranged herself carefully on her chaise longue, a drink in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other, her robe open just enough to reveal her legs up to mid-thigh without being explicit, cultivating an appearance of casual sensuality.

Daphne knew that she was, objectively, an attractive woman, but she'd always struggled to an extent with the subtler displays of promoting this attractiveness. Where Pansy practically dripped with smoky, sinful sexuality, or someone like Luna Lovegood possessed an ethereal beauty that seemed effortless, Daphne didn't quite know how to harmonize her so-called "ice queen" image with her distinctly non-icy desires.

As Harry appeared with the crack of apparition in her entryway, she banished these momentary insecurities with a smirk. She was sure that Harry would reassure her or compliment her appearance if she made him aware of these thoughts (he was just like that), but right now she didn't want reassurance or support, she wanted to get fucked.

"In here, Harry," She called out, the words only slightly clumsy with the effect of drinks on her tongue. As he walked into the bedroom, she quickly appraised him – where he immediately passed muster – he wore a perfectly nice button up, dark grey slacks, and a vaguely distracted expression on his face. "How're you?" she asked, hoping to bring his focus onto herself.

"Not terrible," He answered, seating himself beside her. Good, she thought, as one of his hands immediately fell on her leg, running his thumb over her calf. She'd been – not worried, of course – somewhat apprehensive that he might not be as comfortable with intimacy if Pansy wasn't also involved. "Dinner got a bit tense, I'm glad to get away, honestly."

"Oh?" Daphne asked, leaning forward towards him, proffering her cigarette towards Harry, and only coincidentally breathing in the scent of his cologne as she did so. "The kind of tense a drink could help?"

"Hah," Harry chuckled, "it just might."

"Allow me," She offered, rising from the chaise and allowing her leg to brush over his lap as she did so. Walking to the kitchen, she caught a glimpse of Harry staring at her arse in the reflection of a glass picture frame on the wall, and smirked as she entered the kitchen. "Anything in particular behind this tension?" she asked as began to mix up another Green Fairy. Okay she thought, maybe I'm a little smitten. Shut up, Astoria, she debated with an imagined version of her sister.

"Just some shite about the Wizengamot," Harry answered, a frustrated burr evident in his voice, "apparently I'm not doing my duty as a head of house."

"Mm," she answered, striding into her bedroom again, and noticing how Harry's gaze crept up her body in equal measure with the heat beginning to pool in her belly, "how's that?"

"I haven't been to the sessions in, well, ever," Harry answered, as Daphne trailed her fingers along his shoulder. This didn't seem like a particularly trying situation, in her estimate.

"So?" She asked, watching Harry's eyes flick from her chest to her eyes and back. "It's not like anything's happened lately that your delegates can't handle." Harry didn't seem to have a response to this, instead bringing his drink to his lips and taking a distinctly slow sip from it.

Of his more attractive traits, Daphne thought, the fact that he can actually pull off "brooding" is definitely one of them. She often liked to view people's tendencies through various metaphors involving water – her "ice queen" moniker wasn't exactly inaccurate by this device, as she considered herself to maintain her emotions beneath the – perhaps – frosty surface, whereas someone like Pansy might be more like a waterfall, all turbulence and turmoil but no less deep for it. Though she wasn't exactly privy to Harry's inner thoughts, she'd gotten to know him well enough over the past years (and especially over the past few days) to recognize that, as cliché as the descriptor would be for most people, Harry might well be an ocean: his emotions swept over his surface as plain as day, certainly, but she suspected there was something of a depth behind this particular sulk.

"Harry," she continued, cutting through the silence – though she didn't actually enjoy this aspect of her background, she could easily admit that she knew pureblood politics and the accompanying mechanisms better than most. "You know you can appoint someone to attend Wizengamot sessions in your name, right?"

"That's a… good idea," Harry answered, as he extinguished the cigarette, "not that I'm particularly interested in the whole pureblood politics thing."

"Me neither," She replied – understatement of the year, that - turning to face him, and extending one of her legs over his lap, bringing their seating from "close" to "intimate. "Still tense, though?"

"Mm," Harry said, the rough edge behind the utterance sending a little thrill up her spine, his hand that ran up the back of her leg capturing that thrill and multiplied it, "a little, I suppose."

"Well," Daphne breathed, shifting her weight so that she sat fully on his lap, pressing her body against his, "I think I can help with that."

Their lips met immediately, Daphne rolling her hips against Harry as his hands slid under her robe, gripping her arse. She'd initially been surprised at the strength present in his calloused hands, as Harry didn't seem like a particularly physically strong man, but she was perfectly content to correct her views on this matter. She suspected that he was more cautious with his strength than most would be, so the moan that escaped her lips when his grip tightened was partly to encourage this approach from him, and partly due to it being a genuine, unbidden reaction.

Her flingers fluttered up the front of his shirt, undoing buttons as they went, Harry showing his approval by pulling her against him, his own breath coming heavier and faster against her mouth as their tongues ran over each other. Harry's skill at snogging was another pleasant surprise the former hero had been, apparently, hiding. Speaking of hidden qualities, she mused, as her fingers delicately traced the lines of one of his tattoos, his torso bared against her. Her robe had fallen open by this point, her breasts pressed firmly against his chest, as she pressed herself against Harry's lap needfully.

Words weren't required as she pulled back from him, her hands urging him forwards, to stand before her, as she rotated their position in an awkward, interconnected kind of dance so that he was backed into her bed. Pushing him into it, she shrugged her robe off entirely – thoroughly enjoying the hissed breath Harry drew in through his teeth – before running her palm over his rapidly-stiffening groin, pulling his belt open. Harry helped by shimmying out of his trousers and underwear alike, as she pushed him back against her headboard, seated so they faced each other, straddling his lap and taking his manhood into her hand.

Daphne usually enjoyed foreplay, sometimes even more than the race towards orgasm itself, but on this occasion, it would merely be a distraction from what she was seeking. Still kissing Harry, she lined him up against her pussy, then sat down firmly, taking his cock inside her with a breathy "fuck" as she voiced her inner thoughts. They went slowly, at first, each rocking their hips subtly against each other as she adjusted to the feel of him, gaining speed as she began to kiss him more messily, more desperately.

Daphne counted herself lucky that it was not overly difficult for her to reach orgasm, but the speed (and strength) that the first one came at would have surprised even her, were she actually keeping track of these things. She was more than content to lose herself in the moment, beginning to bounce up and down on top of Harry, who for his own part was perfectly happy to take the passive role in this position.

Not that he's idle, she thought, in a warm haze, as he gripped her arse firmly, aiding her motions, latching on to one of her nipples with his mouth. Harry wasn't the tallest wizard – she was very nearly the same height as him – but in this particular position, his less-than-gigantic height was a definite asset.

When Harry bucked his hips against her for the first time, meeting her downward motion with his own push upwards, it broke whatever restraint she had remaining, the pace and vigor of her motion increasing as they began to fuck in earnest, her bedroom filled with the sounds of their hips meeting and the moaned profanities escaping from her mouth.

Her second orgasm made the first look weak in comparison, as she cried "fuck" once more, the intensity of her sex clutching around Harry's cock enough to push him out of her entirely – an absence which she intended to immediately rectify. Quickly extricating her legs from their place around his torso, she turned over, basking in the low moan that came from Harry as she pushed her arse into the air. Daphne moaned in response as Harry – without hesitation – returned his hands to her arse, subtly spreading her open and pushing her hips forward as he realigned himself, then pushing back into her once more.

Fuck was the only coherent word in her thoughts by this point, as she fell to her elbows, Harry pounding into her from behind, his cock hitting a pleasurable spot deep inside her. She babbled wordlessly at times, reaching out to grab hold of one of his hands placed against her bed, pushing her hips back against him insistently. Harry fell forwards, his torso pressing her into her bed, his hips slapping against her as he pistoned in and out, and she turned to take his mouth with her own, pushing her tongue against his as he loosed a rattling moan and came inside her.

As the pleasant afterglow faded, he rolled off of her, both of them lying upside-down on her bed.

"Mm," She began, words still not entirely within her grasp, "that was nice."

Harry smirked – a bit of cockiness that she decided she would definitely enjoy cultivating from him – and idly ran his fingertips against her spine.

"Y'can stay, if you want," she offered – maybe it wasn't the best idea to maintain this "friends with benefits" scenario, but at this point, she much preferred the idea of sleeping beside his solid form than without.

"Sounds nice," Harry replied sleepily, rising to his knees as he re-oriented himself in her bed.

As Daphne – with legs which only slightly shook as she walked – went to her bathroom, she noticed that the notebook on one of her bedroom tables blinked with a little "PP" insignia, indicating a message from Pansy. Glancing back at Harry (who seemed to already be well on his way to sleep), she opened the notebook, reading the message: "So the opening date is set. Next Friday night. Are you free?"

Ah, the opening night of Serpentine. Six days away.

"I have plans for that night," Daphne replied, smirking. Six days is more than enough time to prepare.