Slytherin's Lion
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
2,410
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
2,410
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Look at me now
CHAPTER 2
LOOK AT ME NOW
So that was six years ago. Now I’m entering my last year at Hogwarts, and I bet no one knows my name. That day, that fateful day, I slid into a seat at the Slytherin table and stared at the people around me. They seemed okay, I guess, but I was raised in the wizarding world and I know what kinds of wizards get put into Slytherin. I was in shock. Me? A Slytherin? There must have been some kind of mistake. Every single witch and wizard in my family—Mom, Dad, aunts, great-uncles—has been a Gryffindor. What does this make me? I felt tears well up as I realized I was the outcast of my family.
Well, I tried to make friends. Honestly. But I think the rest of them could tell, or something. My roommates, girls like Pansy and Millicent—they WANTED to be Slytherin. They were HAPPY to be a part of this House. I think they could just tell that I wasn’t as excited as they were about the situation. Most of them were from old wizarding families and knew of mine; they knew I came from a line of Gryffindors and they seemed to think it was hilarious that I’d somehow been thrown into this pack of lions. Or sorry—I meant snake pit.
Soon after, I was no longer just the outcast of my family, I was the outcast of my own House. The Slytherins felt that I didn’t belong; I learned to stay out of the way or risk being shoved there. I can’t say I had enemies. No one was there to throw a biting remark or well-worded joke my way. No one wasted breath insulting me, my family, or unfortunate blonde bimbo looks. Just… nobody knew me. I just concentrated on my studies and hoped that with good marks, I could be out of there and on my way without trouble.
Okay, so I lied. I had one friend. Well… not so much a friend as someone who knew I was there. He wouldn’t go out of his way to talk to me in our common room or anything, but if he passed me in the hall or the library or if I happened to be reading late in the common room as he slipped back inside after a night who-knows-where with who-knows-whom, he would smile quickly. Once, he came in past midnight with that tussled, just-fucked look I’d seen in a lot of my Housemates (Slytherins, it seemed, knew no hesitations—like societal expectations—when it came to their own pleasure), and he pulled my hand to his heart and quipped, “Waiting up for someone, Rose? I thought we really had something there!”
He knew my name. And I knew his. It was Blaise Zabini.
That night I replayed the scene over and over again. His hand warm against my hand, no indecision about it, just taking what he wanted from me, pulling it against his hard, muscular chest. I began to imagine I could even feel his heart pulsating and maybe his breath catching a little bit. Mine certainly was. Soon, as I laid in bed with my curtains carefully drawn as always, his gaze was raking over my body, pausing at the large breasts I always hid with buttoned shirts and modest robes. His fingers were caressing the back of my hand as he took it and placed it over his heart.
He made me move my hand a little bit, rubbing over his sweater, indicating what he wanted me to do to him. Cautiously—I had never done this before—I grazed his collarbone. It was hard, and smooth, and I didn’t even know if I was doing what he wanted right. Blaise smirked and stepped forward in my little fantasy. He mirrored my own ministrations, massaging my shoulder expertly, moving to the tops of my breasts.
My book had dropped and was long forgotten as he held me with that stare; I thought I’d never seen anything so sexy. He locked eyes with mine as he began to unbutton my white Oxford, slipping a hand inside to cup a breast as the other hand went on letting loose the buttons. I had never imagined feeling anything like this before. I stared at the ceiling as I daydreamed, rubbing my breasts the way I imagined Blaise doing.
I was a good girl, but as I tickled my fingertips around my areola, finally flicking over my nipples, I knew that I wasn’t going to be the same. I squeezed my breasts and rolled them around, the way that guys must like to do it to girls—do they knead it like dough? I tried it. Do they touch anywhere else? Of course they do.
With one hand still massaging a breast, I slid the other down my stomach until I reached my pajama pants’ drawstring. I tugged it and it loosed around my waist. I quickly slid my hand in underneath my underwear. Look. I may be a virgin, I may be socially unacceptable, but I’m not stupid. Sex is supposed to be good, right? So where does it all happen? I touched a finger to my lips down there. They were a little bit wet, but it was all I needed for what I intended. I rubbed my middle finger down the slit until I reached that virgin hole. I circled it, still imagining Blaise moistening me, getting me ready. I dipped an inch of my finger inside quickly—I was TIGHT. I remember thinking—“I don’t know how a whole dick is supposed to fit in there when nothing wider than my finger will!”
Just then, I heard Pansy wake up in the bed next to me. I yanked my hand out of my pants and pretended to be sleeping, even though my curtains were closed. I willed my breath to ease so that she wouldn’t suspect what I was doing, and I made myself fall asleep, all the while numbingly aware of a little nerve beating sensitively just a little bit above my cunt.
LOOK AT ME NOW
So that was six years ago. Now I’m entering my last year at Hogwarts, and I bet no one knows my name. That day, that fateful day, I slid into a seat at the Slytherin table and stared at the people around me. They seemed okay, I guess, but I was raised in the wizarding world and I know what kinds of wizards get put into Slytherin. I was in shock. Me? A Slytherin? There must have been some kind of mistake. Every single witch and wizard in my family—Mom, Dad, aunts, great-uncles—has been a Gryffindor. What does this make me? I felt tears well up as I realized I was the outcast of my family.
Well, I tried to make friends. Honestly. But I think the rest of them could tell, or something. My roommates, girls like Pansy and Millicent—they WANTED to be Slytherin. They were HAPPY to be a part of this House. I think they could just tell that I wasn’t as excited as they were about the situation. Most of them were from old wizarding families and knew of mine; they knew I came from a line of Gryffindors and they seemed to think it was hilarious that I’d somehow been thrown into this pack of lions. Or sorry—I meant snake pit.
Soon after, I was no longer just the outcast of my family, I was the outcast of my own House. The Slytherins felt that I didn’t belong; I learned to stay out of the way or risk being shoved there. I can’t say I had enemies. No one was there to throw a biting remark or well-worded joke my way. No one wasted breath insulting me, my family, or unfortunate blonde bimbo looks. Just… nobody knew me. I just concentrated on my studies and hoped that with good marks, I could be out of there and on my way without trouble.
Okay, so I lied. I had one friend. Well… not so much a friend as someone who knew I was there. He wouldn’t go out of his way to talk to me in our common room or anything, but if he passed me in the hall or the library or if I happened to be reading late in the common room as he slipped back inside after a night who-knows-where with who-knows-whom, he would smile quickly. Once, he came in past midnight with that tussled, just-fucked look I’d seen in a lot of my Housemates (Slytherins, it seemed, knew no hesitations—like societal expectations—when it came to their own pleasure), and he pulled my hand to his heart and quipped, “Waiting up for someone, Rose? I thought we really had something there!”
He knew my name. And I knew his. It was Blaise Zabini.
That night I replayed the scene over and over again. His hand warm against my hand, no indecision about it, just taking what he wanted from me, pulling it against his hard, muscular chest. I began to imagine I could even feel his heart pulsating and maybe his breath catching a little bit. Mine certainly was. Soon, as I laid in bed with my curtains carefully drawn as always, his gaze was raking over my body, pausing at the large breasts I always hid with buttoned shirts and modest robes. His fingers were caressing the back of my hand as he took it and placed it over his heart.
He made me move my hand a little bit, rubbing over his sweater, indicating what he wanted me to do to him. Cautiously—I had never done this before—I grazed his collarbone. It was hard, and smooth, and I didn’t even know if I was doing what he wanted right. Blaise smirked and stepped forward in my little fantasy. He mirrored my own ministrations, massaging my shoulder expertly, moving to the tops of my breasts.
My book had dropped and was long forgotten as he held me with that stare; I thought I’d never seen anything so sexy. He locked eyes with mine as he began to unbutton my white Oxford, slipping a hand inside to cup a breast as the other hand went on letting loose the buttons. I had never imagined feeling anything like this before. I stared at the ceiling as I daydreamed, rubbing my breasts the way I imagined Blaise doing.
I was a good girl, but as I tickled my fingertips around my areola, finally flicking over my nipples, I knew that I wasn’t going to be the same. I squeezed my breasts and rolled them around, the way that guys must like to do it to girls—do they knead it like dough? I tried it. Do they touch anywhere else? Of course they do.
With one hand still massaging a breast, I slid the other down my stomach until I reached my pajama pants’ drawstring. I tugged it and it loosed around my waist. I quickly slid my hand in underneath my underwear. Look. I may be a virgin, I may be socially unacceptable, but I’m not stupid. Sex is supposed to be good, right? So where does it all happen? I touched a finger to my lips down there. They were a little bit wet, but it was all I needed for what I intended. I rubbed my middle finger down the slit until I reached that virgin hole. I circled it, still imagining Blaise moistening me, getting me ready. I dipped an inch of my finger inside quickly—I was TIGHT. I remember thinking—“I don’t know how a whole dick is supposed to fit in there when nothing wider than my finger will!”
Just then, I heard Pansy wake up in the bed next to me. I yanked my hand out of my pants and pretended to be sleeping, even though my curtains were closed. I willed my breath to ease so that she wouldn’t suspect what I was doing, and I made myself fall asleep, all the while numbingly aware of a little nerve beating sensitively just a little bit above my cunt.