Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.
Chapter 9
~ Harry Potter ~
The heated water of the oversized, Roman-style bath within the depths of Number 12, Grimmauld Place was not merely hot; it was a scalding embrace, enchanted to maintain a temperature that would boil a lesser man. For Harry Potter, however, it was barely enough to penetrate the bone-deep chill that had settled into his marrow over the last twelve hours.
The bathroom itself was a testament to the Black family's decadent, if somewhat morbid, taste. The walls were lined with black marble veined with silver, glistening in the low, flickering light of a dozen floating candles. The tub—more of a small swimming pool sunken into the floor—was tiled in mosaics depicting magical creatures, the images moving lazily under the distortion of the rippling water.
Harry floated in the centre, his arms spread wide along the submerged ledge, his head tipped back against the cold stone rim. His eyes were closed, but sleep was a distant country he could not visit. Behind his eyelids, the green flash of the Killing Curse replayed on an endless loop, interspersed with the vacant eyes of Ted Tonks.
The physical toll of the raid on the Tonks residence was beginning to manifest as the adrenaline faded. His muscles, wound tight as bowstrings during the confrontation with Bellatrix and her ilk, now throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache. There was a bruise forming on his ribs where a banishing charm had clipped him, blooming purple and yellow against his skin, and the phantom sensation of dark magic still prickled along his forearms, a residue that soap and water could not easily wash away.
But it was the internal landscape that was far more treacherous than the physical one.
Harry brought a hand up, watching water cascade down his forearm, examining the scars that mapped his history. The basilisk bite. The graveyard slice. The words carved by a blood quill.
'Am I doing the right thing?'
The question floated in the steam, heavy and accusing.
He had saved Andromeda. He had captured Bellatrix. By the standards of the Order of the Phoenix, it was a victory. By the standards of the war Dumbledore had wanted him to fight, he had perhaps gone too far. Dumbledore would have preached mercy. Dumbledore would have wanted Bellatrix handed over to a corrupted Ministry to inevitably escape again.
'But Dumbledore is dead,' Harry thought, the realization no longer bringing grief, but a cold clarity. 'And the Ministry is fallen.'
He was the law now. He and the wand that hummed with his blood.
His mind drifted to the hunt. The Horcruxes. The Locket was gone, destroyed. The Ring was taken care of by Dumbledore. The Diary was ash. The Cup had been dealt with the help of the goblins. And then there was Harry himself.
That left possibly two more.
He sank lower into the water, letting it cover his chin, the heat stifling his breath. He needed to think. He needed to strategize. But his mind was too loud. The rage he had unleashed at the Tonks house hadn't fully dissipated; it had merely been capped. It was vibrating under his skin, making him want to shatter the marble tiles, to scream, to break something. Greyback's scar had not helped matters. Yes, his body had received unexpected physical advantages, but he also had to deal with these urges.
He was a vessel of violence trying to pretend he was a boy taking a bath.
The silence of the room was suddenly broken, not by his own thoughts, but by the tangible, mechanical click of the heavy oak door latch.
He heard the click of the heavy latch.
Harry tensed, his hand instinctively darting toward the marble ledge where his holly wand rested. But he stopped himself. The wards hadn't flared. No enemy could breach this room.
The door creaked open, pushing through the dense fog of steam.
Through the mist, a figure emerged. At first, she was just a silhouette, a curve of shadow against the light from the hallway. But as the door clicked shut, sealing the room once more, the figure stepped into the glow of the floating magical orbs.
It was Fleur.
Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his hand retreating from his wand. He watched her, captivated.
She was wearing a robe of pale blue silk that shimmered like water in the dim light. It was loosely tied, hinting at the pale, perfect skin beneath. Her silvery-blonde hair was loose, cascading down her back in a chaotic, beautiful mess, as if she had been running her hands through it.
But it was her eyes that held him. Those deep, sapphire pools were not filled with the usual playful haughtiness or the polite veneer she wore for the Order. They were dark, dilated, and burning with a fierce, empathetic intensity.
She didn't speak. She didn't offer a trite greeting or ask him how he was feeling. She simply crossed the expansive bathroom floor, her bare feet silent on the cold tiles. The heat of the room seemed to spike as she approached, the latent Veela magic she possessed reacting to the high emotions in the air.
Fleur reached the edge of the pool-like tub. She looked down at him, her gaze sweeping over his damp hair, his scarred shoulders, the tension evident in his jaw.
"You are loud, 'Arry," she said softly, her voice a husky purr that cut through the humidity. Her French accent was thick, rolling the 'r's in a way that always made his spine tingle.
"Loud?" Harry asked, his voice rough from exhaustion. "I haven't said a word."
"Not with your mouth," Fleur murmured. She knelt on the edge of the tub, ignoring the water soaking into the hem of her robe. "Your magic. It is screaming. It is a storm trapped in a bottle."
She reached out, her fingers trailing through the water, sending ripples toward him. "I can feel it from the hallway. The rage. The fire. The need."
Harry looked at her, defenceless. He couldn't hide from her. The Veela heritage gave her a sensitivity to emotional auras that was almost telepathic. She could taste his adrenaline.
"It was a long night, Fleur," Harry admitted quietly.
"I know," she whispered. "Maman told me. Andromeda... she will live. But you..."
She didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she moved.
With a fluid grace, she stood up and shrugged the silk robe off her shoulders. It pooled on the floor like a puddle of water, leaving her standing gloriously, unashamedly naked in the steam.
Harry's breath hitched. He had seen her naked before—they had crossed that a couple of days ago, finding solace in each other as the world fell apart—but the sight of her never failed to stun him. She was perfection made flesh, glowing with an inner luminescence. Her breasts were full and high, her waist narrow, her hips flaring into long, sculpted legs.
But tonight, she wasn't posing. She was moving with purpose.
She stepped into the tub. The water was hot, bordering on scalding, but she didn't flinch. She waded through the depth, the water rising up her thighs, her waist, until she was standing over him.
Harry looked up at her, mesmerized. "Fleur..."
"Shh," she commanded gently.
She sank down into the water, straddling his lap, her legs wrapping around his waist beneath the surface. The displacement of the water sent a wave over the edge of the tub, but neither of them cared.
She didn't kiss him. Not yet. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him forward, burying his face into her chest.
"Breathe, 'Arry," she whispered, her hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his wet, messy hair.
Harry closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. He was enveloped in her. The scent of her skin—vanilla, ozone, and something uniquely Fleur—filled his nose, overpowering the scent of the bath salts. Her breasts were soft and warm against his face, a stark contrast to the hard armour and cold stone he had been dealing with all night.
He let out a shuddering sigh, his resistance crumbling. He pressed his face deeper into the valley of her cleavage, his hands coming up to grip her waist.
"I can feel it," Fleur murmured against the top of his head. Her voice was vibrating through her chest, resonating against his cheek. "The adrenaline. It is poisoning you. It makes your heart beat too fast. It makes your blood hot."
She pulled back slightly, just enough to cup his face in her hands. Her blue eyes searched his, seeing the darkness that lingered there.
"You have too much death in you tonight, mon amour," she said, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. "You need to let it out. You cannot sleep with this fire in your veins. It will burn you."
"I don't know how to turn it off," Harry confessed, his voice muffled. "I close my eyes and I see them falling."
"Then do not close your eyes," Fleur said fiercely. "Look at me."
She leaned in, her lips brushing against his, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin.
"You are a warrior, 'Arry. A Lord. Warriors need an outlet," she breathed against his mouth. "You cannot bottle the rage. You must transform it. Give it to me. Pour it into me."
She kissed him then.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was heavy, wet, and demanding. Her tongue swept into his mouth, tasting him, claiming him. It was a kiss that tasted of promise and challenge. Her hands slid down his neck to his shoulders, her nails digging into the muscles, grounding him in the pain and the pleasure.
Harry's hands slid from her waist to her hips, gripping the smooth skin underwater. The sensation of her naked body pressed against his was overwhelming. The blood that had been rushing to his head diverted south with a vengeance. He hardened instantly, painfully, his erection pressing against her thigh.
Fleur broke the kiss with a gasp, pulling back to look at him. A smirk played on her swollen lips as she felt him grow against her.
"There," she purred, shifting her hips in the water to rub against him. "The life returns. The fire finds a new purpose."
She reached down between them, her hand slipping underwater. Her fingers wrapped around his thick, throbbing length, squeezing firmly.
Harry groaned, his head falling back against the marble rim. "Fleur, fuck..."
She stroked him, her touch confident and practiced. She knew exactly how he liked it—firm pressure, a twisting motion of her wrist. She pumped him slowly, her eyes tracking the pleasure on his face.
"You are hard like stone," she whispered, leaning forward to nip at his neck. "You want to use me, non? You want to take that anger and drive it into me?"
"Yes," Harry hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily against her hand.
"Good," Fleur said. She released him, standing up in the water. Water cascaded off her body, glistening on her skin like diamonds.
She didn't stay in the tub. She climbed out, moving to the wide, black marble rim that encircled the bath. It was low and broad, heated from within by charms.
Fleur bent over the edge, placing her forearms on the cool stone. She arched her back, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her wet hair clung to her back, framing the curve of her spine.
"Come," she commanded, her voice dropping an octave.
She spread her legs wide, the water dripping from her inner thighs onto the stone. She gave her hips a little shake, her ass jiggling invitingly, a wanton display that was purely for him.
"Use me, 'Arry," she begged, her eyes flashing with lust. "Do not be gentle. I do not want gentle. I want the Lord who defeated his enemies. I want you to hammer me until you are satisfied. Until you are empty."
Harry didn't think. The primitive part of his brain, the part that had been honed by hunting and fighting, took over.
He surged out of the water. He didn't bother with a towel. He crossed the short distance in two strides, water sluicing off his body.
He stepped up behind her, his hands coming down to grip her wide hips. Her skin was cool from the air but heating rapidly from the blood rushing to the surface.
"Fleur," he growled, the sound animalistic.
"Do it!" she cried out, pushing back against him. "Fill me!"
Harry lined himself up. The tip glistening with pre-cum, his cock achingly hard and heavy. He placed the head against her wet, slick entrance. She was already soaked, her body reacting to his presence and her own arousal.
He didn't ease in. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and thrust forward with all his strength.
He buried himself in her to the hilt in one stroke.
"OH!" Fleur screamed, her head thrown back, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the marble edge. It was a scream of shock and pure, unadulterated pleasure.
The sensation was blinding. She was tight, incredibly hot, and gripped him like a velvet vice. The friction was exquisite. Harry let out a roar, a release of tension that had been building for hours.
He withdrew almost completely and slammed back in.
Slap.
The sound of his hips hitting her buttocks echoed off the stone walls, loud and sharp.
" Oui!" Fleur moaned, pushing back to meet him. "More! Harder, 'Arry! Harder!"
Harry lost his restraint. The last threads of civilization snapped. He wasn't the Boy Who Lived. He wasn't the Chosen One. He was a man with too much power and too much rage, and he had found the perfect vessel to contain it.
He started to hammer into her, a relentless, punishing rhythm. Every thrust was an exorcism. With every slam of his hips, he pushed away the image of Ted's body. With every groan, he released the sound of the curses.
Fleur took it all. She was strong, her Veela blood giving her a vitality that matched his wizarding power. She rocked with the force of his thrusts, her moans turning into a chaotic melody of French and English profanities.
" Putain! Yes! Deep! Mon Dieu, you are so big!" she cried, her voice breathless.
Harry reached around, his hands finding her breasts. They were heavy and swaying with the motion of their bodies. He grabbed them roughly, his fingers kneading the soft flesh, tweaking her nipples which were hard as pebbles.
Fleur cried out, biting her lip. "Yes! Play with them! Hurt me a little, 'Arry! Make me feel it!"
Harry released one breast and brought his hand down, delivering a sharp, stinging slap to her right buttock.
Smack.
Fleur squealed, her vaginal muscles clamping down on his cock in a spasm of pleasure. " Oui! Again!"
Smack. Smack.
Harry spanked her, his palm stinging, leaving red handprints on her pale skin. He synchronized the strikes with his thrusts. Thrust. Slap. Thrust. Slap.
"You like that?" Harry growled into her ear, biting down on the sensitive cord of her neck. "You like being my bedwarmer? Taking my anger?"
"I love it!" Fleur sobbed, drool escaping her mouth as she lost all composure. "I love it, My Lord! Use me! Break me! Baise-moi jusqu'à ce que je ne puisse plus marcher!"
Her words drove him crazy. The submission, the acknowledgement of his power, the desperate need in her voice—it was the ultimate aphrodisiac.
He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back so she had to look at him upside down. Her face was flushed crimson, her eyes rolled back, her mouth hanging open.
"Look at me," Harry commanded, his voice raw.
She focused on him, her eyes hazy with lust.
"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else, Fleur," Harry promised darkly.
"Good," she choked out. "Do it."
He let go of her hair and grabbed her waist again, anchoring her. He increased the pace, moving so fast it was a blur of motion. He was fucking her with a roughness that bordered on violence, but she met him thrust for thrust, grinding back against him, milking him with her internal muscles.
The room was filled with the wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin, the splashing of water disturbed by their movements, and their ragged breathing.
Harry felt the pressure building at the base of his spine. It was a tsunami, towering and inevitable.
"Fleur, I'm close," he groaned, his rhythm becoming erratic, desperate.
"Don't stop!" she begged, shaking her ass, feeling him hit her deepest spot over and over. "Fill me up! Breed me! Give me everything!"
~ Apolline Delacour ~
Outside the heavy oak door, in the dim, shadowed corridor of Grimmauld Place, the air was thick with a different kind of tension.
Apolline Delacour, the matriarch of the Delacour line and a Veela of considerable power in her own right, was not in her guest bed. She was down on her knees on the lush Persian rug, her silk dressing gown hiked up around her hips.
The door to the bathroom was not fully closed. The latch had not caught when Fleur had entered, leaving a sliver of a gap—perhaps an inch wide. It was enough.
Through that narrow fissure, Apolline had watched everything.
Her breath came in short, shallow hitches, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress. Her face, usually a mask of composed French aristocracy, was flushed with a deep, rosy hue. Her full lips were parted, swollen, and her eyes, glittering with the same sapphire fire as her daughter's, were glued to the scene unfolding within the steam-filled room.
She watched her daughter, her precious Fleur, being taken with a savagery that would have terrified a normal human mother. But Apolline was not human. She was Veela. And what she saw did not terrify her.
It enthralled her.
She listened to the wet slap of flesh against flesh, the guttural groans of the young warlord, the desperate, begging cries of her daughter. It was a symphony of primal lust, a song that resonated deep within Apolline's core.
Her hand was buried between her own legs, her fingers moving in a frantic, blurred rhythm against her clitoris.
"Ah… ah… oui…" she whispered, biting her lip to stifle a moan that might alert the lovers inside.
As she watched Harry Potter—no, Lord Potter—dominate her daughter, bending her over the marble rim like a common concubine, a stark, painful comparison rose in her mind.
She thought of Monsieur Delacour. Her husband. Jean.
Jean was a good man. He was kind. He was wealthy. He was safe. He treated her like a porcelain doll, terrified of breaking her. His lovemaking was gentle, predictable, and remarkably brief. He asked permission. He apologized if he was too rough. He worshipped her beauty, but he never challenged her fire.
She had never been fucked like that.
She had never been taken with such raw, unbridled possession. She had never felt a man's rage transmuted into pleasure so intense it sounded like pain.
Watching Harry grasp Fleur's hair, watching the muscles across his entire body ripple with power as he drove into her, Apolline felt a pang of jealousy so sharp it nearly stopped her heart.
'He is a King,' she thought, her fingers digging deeper into her own slick heat. 'A young, brutal King.'
The magic rolling off him was intoxicating. Even through the door, she could taste it—metallic, heavy, dark. It was the scent of a wizard who had killed and would kill again to protect the people he loved. It was the scent of a mate who could withstand the full force of a Veela's allure without burning up.
Most men were paper to a Veela's fire. Harry Potter was forged steel.
Inside the room, Harry roared his release. Apolline watched as Fleur collapsed, completely undone, completely satisfied.
Apolline's hips bucked forward, her own climax hitting her with the force of a stunning spell. She stifled a scream into her shoulder, her body shuddering violently, her vision going white as she spilled her own arousal onto the dark rug.
She stayed there for a moment, panting, her forehead resting against the wood of the doorframe, listening to the heavy breathing from the other side.
Slowly, the fog of orgasm cleared, replaced by the sharp, calculating clarity of her heritage.
She adjusted her dressing gown, covering her exposed, glistening thighs, though she made no move to stand up yet. She peered through the crack one last time.
Harry was pulling away from Fleur now. He looked exhausted, but revitalized. He looked like a god who had just been fed a willing sacrifice, a lion who had completed his hunt.
Apolline licked her lips, tasting the salt of her own sweat.
Fleur was young. Fleur was beautiful. But Fleur was inexperienced. She was a budding flower.
Apolline looked down at her own body. She was mature. She was in her prime. Her curves were fuller, her knowledge of the arts of pleasure vastly superior to her daughter's. She knew tricks that would make a man lose his mind. She knew how to please a man who carried the weight of the world, how to be not just an outlet, but a sanctuary.
'Would he appreciate a more... seasoned, more vintage lady?' she wondered, a wicked smile curling her lips.
The thought took root and bloomed instantly.
Why should Fleur have all the fun? Why should the House of Delacour limit its alliance to just one connection?
And more deliciously...
She imagined the scene again, but this time, the massive tub was not so empty. She imagined herself there, entering the water. She imagined Fleur on one side, herself on the other. Mother and daughter, sharing the same flame, sharing the same Lord.
The Veela did not share human taboos about such things. To a Veela, power was to be sought, to be surrounded, to be consumed. And Harry Potter was the greatest source of power she had ever seen.
Inside, she heard the water splashing as Harry moved to get out of the tub.
Apolline rose to her feet, her legs slightly shaky but her resolve ironclad. She smoothed her silk robe over her hips, ensuring it draped perfectly.
She would not go in tonight. No, tonight was Fleur and his. Tonight, he needed sleep.
But tomorrow...
Tomorrow, the Lord Potter would find that the hospitality of the Delacour women knew no bounds.
Apolline turned and walked silently back down the corridor toward her room, her hips swaying with a new, purposeful rhythm. She cast a glance back at the closed door of the master bedroom where Narcissa Malfoy slept alone.
'Poor Narcissa,' Apolline thought with a smirk. 'She thinks she can satisfy him alone. She does not realize that to hold a dragon, you must be willing to burn.'
And Apolline Delacour was more than ready to play with fire.