A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 9 - Part 4
The air in the Swiss Alps was thin, sharp, and brutally cold. It was a sterile, glittering world of white snow and grey rock, a landscape that felt as if it had been carved from ice and arrogance. Daphne Greengrass moved through it with the effortless grace of a creature born to it. Her holiday was a performance, and the stage was the luxurious, Chalet Perfection.
Every day was a meticulously planned activity. In the morning, it was skiing. Cassius Greengrass believed that a pure-blood witch should be able to navigate any terrain with skill and poise, and Daphne was a prodigy. She carved through the pristine powder on her custom-polished ash broomstick, her movements a fluid dance of control. The wind bit at her exposed cheeks, but she barely felt it. Her mind wasn't on the mountain. It was in a cold, stone office, remembering the sharp, stinging slap of a hand on her ass and the deep, bruising ache of a cock splitting her open.
Her father watched her from the lodge, a steaming mug of mulled wine in his hand. "Excellent form, Daphne," he called out as she completed a perfect, sharp turn. "Your control is impeccable. A Greengrass does not flinch. We do not fall."
She gave him a polite, practiced smile before pushing off again, diving down the slope. Control, she thought, the word a bitter pill. He thinks this is control. This was just mechanics. This was simple, mundane magic. Uncle Roland had taught her what real control was. It wasn't about how well you could ski; it was about how well you could obey when every nerve in your body was screaming in agony, when your mind was a blur of pleasure and pain. It was about holding a non-verbal shielding charm while he fucked you into unconsciousness. This mountain was child's play.
The afternoons were for social warfare. The Zabinis, the Rosiers, and a half-dozen other ancient, wealthy families were also holidaying in the Alps, and their gatherings were a battlefield of whispered insults and strategic alliances.
Today's was a "casual" sledding party on a protected slope, which translated to an exercise in displaying one's pedigree. Daphne stood near a large, ornate sleigh, a cup of hot chocolate in her hand that she hadn't touched. She was listening.
"...and so I told the Committee on Experimental Charms," said a puffy-faced man named Lord Nott, "that if they insisted on standardizing the wand-wooing gesture, it would be the death of innovation. It's the flourish, the personal artistry, that separates a wizard from a mere spell-caster."
A murmur of agreement went through the small circle of adults. Daphne's father nodded sagely. "Well said, Nott. Well said indeed. Individual expression is the hallmark of a powerful lineage."
Daphne felt a flash of contempt. These were the people her father admired. Fussy, old men who equated a wrist flick with artistic genius. They saw magic as a set of rules to be memorized and performed correctly. They saw power as something you inherited, like a piece of jewelry.
They had no idea what real power was. Real power wasn't a flourish; it was a quiet word spoken in a dark room that could make you drop to your knees. Real power wasn't inheriting a name; it was being so thoroughly broken and remade by a man that his will became your own.
A sudden, vivid image flashed through her mind: Uncle Roland, his face calm and serene, casting a Rejuvenesco spell on McGonagall, turning the stern, elderly professor into a young, writhing creature of need. He hadn't used a flourish. He'd barely moved. But the power in the room had been so thick Daphne could taste it. These men were children playing with sticks. Roland was a god.
"Your daughter is quiet today, Cassius," Narcissa Malfoy's silken voice cut through her thoughts. She glided over, her white fox fur coat a stark contrast to the snow.
"Daphne is observing," Cassius said, a note of pride in his voice. "It is a Greengrass trait. We listen before we speak. We assess before we act."
Narcissa's eyes, as sharp and cold as chips of ice, flickered to Daphne. "A wise policy. Though in today's climate, a little... visibility can be beneficial. It prevents one from being overlooked."
The insult was subtle, but Daphne caught it. Overlooked. As if being a Greengrass wasn't enough. As if being the chosen protégé of the most dangerous man in the wizarding world wasn't enough. And then, the other thought, the one that poisoned everything: And that Granger girl. The Mudblood. She's with him right now.
The jealousy was a physical thing, a hot, acidic surge that rose in her throat. It was so potent it was nauseating. She was here, freezing her ass off and pretending to care about portents and progeny, while that little bookworm was back in Hogwarts, in his office, on her knees, learning the lessons Daphne had earned.
Her hand tightened on her delicate porcelain cup, the knuckles turning white. She wanted to apparate to Hogwarts that very second, drag the other girl out by her frizzy hair, and show her what a real Greengrass could do. But she didn't. She just smiled, a cool, polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Perhaps," Daphne said, her voice a silken contralto that matched Narcissa's. "But some of us prefer to be the ones pulling the strings, not the puppets dancing for attention. It's a matter of... taste."
Narcissa's eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, a flicker of annoyance in her otherwise composed facade. Daphne had scored a hit. It was a small victory, but it was hers. It was a drop of the power Roland had promised her.
The real test of the day came later, back at the chalet. Cassius called her into his study, a room of dark wood and old parchment that smelled of leather and old money.
"Zabini's son, Blaise," he said, without preamble. "What is your assessment of him?"
Daphne knew this was a test. "He's arrogant," she said, choosing her words carefully. "And not without cause. He's clever, but his cleverness is a weapon he uses to feel superior, not to achieve anything. He's a peacock. All feathers, no talons."
Cassius nodded, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "Good. You see the truth of him. He is not a threat. He is a tool. He can be used. His pride makes him predictable. And a predictable enemy is a defeated enemy."
He pulled a rolled-up parchment from a drawer in his desk and spread it out. It was a family tree, intricate and detailed, with lines of red and green ink connecting various names.
"This is the Zabini family tree," Cassius said, pointing to a specific branch with a long, thin finger. "Look here. His mother's line. The Travers. There was a scandal, about fifty years ago. A marriage contract that was broken. A blood oath that was violated. The Travers family never forgot. They are old, and they are patient. And they hold a grudge better than any family I know."
Daphne leaned in, studying the chart. This was the kind of knowledge her father valued. The secret histories, the hidden debts, the strings that could be pulled to make the puppets dance.
"I am not asking you to use this," Cassius said, his voice low and serious. "Not yet. I am asking you to know it. To understand that power isn't just about what you can do with a wand. It's about what you can do with a secret. It's about knowing that young Blaise's entire position in society rests on a foundation of forgotten shame. And if the time ever comes when you need to bring him to heel, you don't curse him. You whisper."
Daphne nodded, absorbing the lesson. It was useful, she supposed. The kind of surface-level political maneuvering that was the Greengrass family's stock-in-trade. She stored it away in the back of her mind, in a folder labeled "Boring Fatherly Advice."
But in the front of her mind, Roland's lessons were screaming. This is all a game, Daphne. A game of whispers and polite smiles. But real power isn't in whispering. It's in a wand aimed at the heart. It's in a spell so dark and so fast that your enemy is ashes before he can even finish his secret.
"Thank you, Father," she said, her voice demure. "I understand."
"I know you do," Cassius said, rolling up the parchment. "You are a Greengrass. Now, go and get ready for dinner. The Lestranges are joining us. Try not to make Mrs. Lestange cry this time. Her histrionic episodes are so tiresome."
As Daphne walked out of the study, the taste of her father's approval was like ash in her mouth. His lessons were about surviving the game. Roland's lessons were about burning the game board to the ground and walking away through the flames.
That night, as she lay in her bed, the room dark and silent, she couldn't sleep. The memory of Hermione Granger, the smug, superior look on her face as she'd been made Roland's "assistant," was eating her alive. She wasn't just learning from him; Daphne was *sure* of it.
She slipped out of bed and padded over to the window, looking out at the moon-drenched mountains. The jealousy was a cold fire in her veins. She was his niece. His blood. She was the one who had surrendered everything, who had endured the pain and the pleasure, who had been broken and remade in his image. Not some bossy, know-it-all Mudblood who probably thought a good time was a new book.
Her hand went to her throat, where the phantom feeling of Roland's hand had been, squeezing her airway. The memory made her cunt clench, a hot, needy ache. She wanted him. She needed him. And she knew, with a cold, hard certainty that was sharper than any avalanche, that when she returned to Hogwarts, she would prove it. She would show him. She would show Hermione.
She walked back to the bed, the silk of her nightgown cool against her flushed skin. She lay down, the images already starting in her head. It wasn't a memory this time. It was a fantasy, a dark, jealous fantasy born of the cold fire in her gut.
She pictured them. Not in a classroom, but in his office. The one she knew so well. She pictured Granger on her knees, her head bobbing, those bushy brown hair locks spilling over Roland's thighs. Daphne could almost hear the wet, choking sounds, the sounds of a girl who was still new to it, still learning. A novice.
*Probably gagging on it,* Daphne thought, a flicker of cruel satisfaction cutting through her jealousy. *He hates that. He likes it when you can take it all.*
Her hand slid down her body, over the flat plane of her stomach, and under the silk of her nightgown. Her fingers found the slick heat between her legs. She was already wet. She was always wet when she thought of him.
She started to rub her clit in slow, tight circles, her breath hitching. The fantasy grew clearer. Roland got bored of Granger's fumbling attempts. He pulled her off his cock, leaving her gasping and drooling. He pushed her over his desk, yanking up her stupid school skirt.
"Pathetic," Daphne imagined him saying, his voice a low growl. "You try your best, Granger, but your best isn't good enough."
Then he looked up, his eyes finding Daphne standing in the shadows of the doorway, watching them.
*Daphne.* he'd say. *Show her how it's done.*
And in her fantasy, she would. She would stride across the room, shrug off her robe, and take Granger's place. She wouldn't kneel. She would bend over the desk, her perfect ass presented to him, an offering he would never refuse.
Her fingers moved faster, sliding inside herself, her palm pressing against her clit. She imagined him entering her from behind, one brutal, perfect thrust that filled her completely. She imagined his hands on her hips, pulling her back onto him, the way he always did. She imagined Granger watching, her face a mask of shock and humiliation as she saw what a real woman looked like when she was being properly fucked.
"Tell me who you belong to," he would snarl in her ear.
"You," Daphne would moan, her voice thick with pleasure. "Only you, Uncle Roland."
The fantasy was so intense, so real. She could feel the phantom stretch of him inside her, the pressure building deep in her womb. Her fingers flew over her clit, her hips bucking up to meet her own hand. The image of Granger's defeated face was the final push she needed.
Her orgasm ripped through her, a sharp, violent wave of pleasure that left her gasping and shaking. It wasn't a gentle release; it was a declaration of war. A promise.
As the aftershocks subsided, she lay there, her body trembling, her nightgown damp with sweat and her own juices. The jealousy was still there, a cold, hard knot in her stomach. But now it was mixed with something else. Something harder. Something sharper.
She was not just a Greengrass. She was Roland's. And she would tear apart anyone who dared to forget it.
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