Harry had her against the headboard, one hand gripping the back of her knee and pushing it higher, driving into her with a slow and relentless rhythm that had her fingers twisting into the pillow above her head. Fleur's hair was spread everywhere, tangled and damp at her temples, and her lips were parted around the sounds she kept making, each one a little rougher than the last.
"Don't stop," she said.
He didn't. His hips rolled forward, burying himself deep, and held there for just a moment while she felt every inch of his cock inside her. Her eyes dropped shut and her spine arched off the mattress, a sharp breath pushing through her teeth.
"Harry," she breathed.
"I know," he said.
He pulled back slowly, dragging against her inner walls, feeling the tight wet heat of her pussy grip around him, and then drove forward again with enough force that the headboard knocked once against the wall. Fleur gasped. Her free hand found his forearm and her nails pressed in hard enough to mark.
He leaned down and took one nipple between his teeth, a careful scrape of pressure, and Fleur's hips bucked hard against him.
"Oui," she hissed, the word breaking apart. "Just like that, don't you dare stop—"
He sucked at her properly, pulling the stiffened peak into his mouth, his tongue working it in slow circles, and the sound she made low in her throat sent heat straight down his spine. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into the back of his thighs, urging him deeper. He obliged, dropping his weight into it, feeling the slick heat of her lower lips close around him as his pace built. Slow gave way to something harder, more urgent. The sounds Fleur made grew louder and less controlled, the kind she only made when she had stopped thinking about making them.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, harder—"
He got a hand between them and found her clit.
"Oh shit." Her thighs tightened around his hips like a vice. "Right there! Don't move your hand! Don't you dare move your hand!"
He kept his thumb exactly where it was, moving in tight, steady circles while his hips continued their work, and he watched Fleur's face come apart by degrees. The furrow between her brows. The way her mouth fell open. The flush spreading from her chest to her throat. The small desperate sounds stacking on top of each other as her body pulled tighter and tighter toward the edge.
"Feel good?" he said against her temple.
"You know it does," she said, the words barely coherent. "You know exactly what you're doing to me. You always know."
"Tell me," he said.
"Harry—"
"Tell me," he said again, and pressed his thumb a little firmer.
Her breath broke. "You're going to make me come," she said, her voice straining at the edges. "You always make me come so hard, I can barely—" She lost the end of that sentence in a sharp gasp as he thrust deeper and held it there, seated fully inside her, his thumb still working her clit in those unhurried circles.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Yes," she gasped. "Every single time. You know every part of me and it's not—it's not fair—"
"Not complaining," he said.
"Shut up and move," she said, and pulled him back into rhythm with her heels and her hands and the insistent roll of her hips.
He moved. He fucked her hard and steady and watched her face the whole time, the way pleasure tightened everything and then released it, the way her lips shaped sounds that were not quite words. Her breasts moved with each thrust, full and flushed. He reached up with his free hand and cupped one, squeezing, feeling the weight of it in his palm, his thumb brushing over the stiffened nipple, and Fleur arched sharply into the touch with a cry.
"Both," she managed. "Touch both of them—"
He moved his hand to her other breast and gave it the same attention, squeezing and rolling her nipple between his fingers while his thumb continued its work at her clit, and Fleur made a sound that was entirely helpless, her whole body rocking between his hands and his cock with nowhere to go except toward the thing building inside her.
"Look at me," Harry said.
Her eyes opened, dark and glazed as she looked at him, and he held her gaze while he worked her faster and his cock drove into her again and again, pushing her further and further until she came with a cry that she muffled badly against his shoulder. Her whole body clenched and shook, her pussy gripping him in rhythmic pulses that made it very difficult to think. He thrust through it, drawing it out, feeling her shake under him.
"Don't stop," she was saying into his shoulder, her voice ragged and broken. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't—"
He didn't. He kept going, his hips relentless, his thumb gentling only slightly to let her ride the tail end of her orgasm, until her sounds faded to something breathless and uneven and her hands went slack against his skin, her whole body going loose and warm beneath him.
He followed her shortly after. He buried himself deep and came hard, his face pressed to the side of her neck, one arm locked around her back, his cock pulsing as he emptied inside her. She held him through it, her fingers moving slowly through his hair, her other hand flat and warm against his spine, and neither of them moved for a long while.
They lay together in the dark, their breathing slowing marginally as time passed. Harry's weight settled beside her. Fleur turned her head toward the ceiling and closed her eyes, the pleasant ache of exertion spreading through her limbs. The room was warm and quiet and smelled of them.
After a while she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. Her hair fell across her shoulder and his. She watched him in the low light, the slack ease of his face in the aftermath, the way his chest rose and fell.
"My mother knows," she said.
Harry turned his head. "Knows what?"
"About us." She said it simply, without apology or alarm. "About you and me. And you and Gabrielle."
There was a moment of silence, and then Harry was fully awake. "How?"
Fleur made a small sound, almost a laugh. "Harry, she is a veela. A very experienced one. She sensed it the moment she walked into this house that night. The magic, the residue, as she put it. She said it was everywhere." She paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "I think she probably knew the moment she came through the door."
"And she said something to you?"
"This morning." Fleur pulled the sheet up slightly. "She called me while you were in the garden. Asked me to come by." She gave him a faint smile. "It was not exactly an ambush, but it was not not an ambush either."
Harry stared at the ceiling. "What did she say?"
"She asked questions, mostly. Whether I was happy. Whether Gabrielle was happy. Whether you were treating us well." Fleur tilted her head. "Typical motherly concerns. She was not angry. Surprised, maybe. But not angry."
"Did she say anything about the fact that it's both of you?" Harry asked. "At the same time?"
"She raised an eyebrow about that, yes." Fleur's tone was dry. "But she did not lecture me. Maman understands desire better than most people. It is not something she has ever been able to pretend does not exist." She paused. "She was more concerned about whether we were being careful. Whether anyone outside would find out. She worries about Gabrielle especially, given the maturity happened so recently."
"And Gabby?"
"Has not spoken to her yet. She gets home from her internship rotation tomorrow." Fleur's mouth curved with just a hint of amusement. "Her turn is coming."
Harry nodded slowly. He was quiet for a moment, his jaw working slightly. Fleur watched him, reading it easily enough.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"I'm thinking I'm not sure how I'd feel if your mother was angry about it," he said honestly. "She and Sebastian have always been good to me. I don't love the idea of that changing because of this."
Fleur's expression softened. "She is not angry."
"Still." Harry turned his head to look at her properly. "Your mother finding out that I'm sleeping with both her daughters isn't exactly a small thing, is it?"
"Non," Fleur agreed. "It is not small. But Maman is not a small woman." She reached out and traced a slow line down the center of his chest with one finger. "She raised two veela daughters, Harry. She understands more about this than you might think."
Harry took that in. He was quiet for long enough that Fleur closed the distance between them. She pressed her lips to his jaw, then his throat, her mouth warm and slow against his skin. Her tongue traced the line of his collarbone. Her hand slid down his chest and over his abdomen with entirely conscious intent.
His breath caught.
She found his cock and wrapped her fingers around it, feeling it react to her touch already. It brought a sultry smile to her face and she stroked once, slow and sure, feeling him respond even more under her hand. His hips made a small involuntary movement toward her and she did it again, a little firmer this time, her grip tightening around him as he hardened.
"Stop thinking," she murmured against his chest.
"I'm almost done," he said.
"You are not." She pressed her lips to his sternum, then lower, her mouth dragging a warm line down the center of his stomach while her hand kept its rhythm. His abs tensed under her lips. She looked up at him from where she'd moved, her hair falling across his stomach, her eyes dark and intent. "Let me take care of you."
She did not wait for an answer. She teased the tip of his cock with her tongue, slowly rolling circles around the crown as she leaned forward. Her lips parted around his length as she descended. She slowly took him into her mouth and his hand found her hair immediately.
She took her time. She worked him slowly, thoroughly, her lips moving down his shaft before pulling back up, her tongue tracing the ridge along the underside, learning what made his breath hitch and then returning to it intentionally. She felt him grow fully hard against her tongue, felt the tension building in the hand in her hair, and she swallowed him deeper until she heard the sound she was looking for, low and involuntary, drawn from somewhere he couldn't control.
She pulled back and kissed her way up his stomach and chest and then kissed his mouth. He kissed her back hard, one hand cupping her jaw and the other reaching out to squeeze her breast.
She pushed herself up and swung her leg over his hips, settling herself astride him. The sheet fell away entirely. She sat back and looked down at him, taking her time about it. His cock was hard against his stomach, his chest rising and falling faster, and his eyes moving over her body in the low light with the kind of unhurried focus that made her feel it like a physical touch.
She rolled her hips forward, dragging her lower lips against him, slick and warm and slow, not taking him in yet. His hands found her thighs immediately.
"Fleur," he said, warning and request in the same breath.
"I know," she said, and rolled her hips again, feeling his cock pressing insistently against her, feeling how ready she was.
His grip on her thighs tightened. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Of course I am," she said pleasantly.
"You're going to drive me insane," he said.
"That is the general idea." She reached down and ran her thumb slowly along his length, enjoying the sight of his jaw clenching. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want," he said.
"I want to hear you say it," she said. She pressed herself down against him again, letting him feel how slick and warm she was right where he wanted to be, and his hips rolled up involuntarily. "Go on."
"I want to be inside you," he said, the words rough. "Right now. Fleur—"
She guided him to her entrance and sank down slowly. Both of them went still. She could feel every inch of him filling her, the deep satisfying stretch of it, her body opening around him, and she let herself sit with it for a moment before she moved. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin of her inner thighs, holding on without rushing.
She braced her hands flat against his chest and began to move.
She started slow. Long, rolling movements of her hips, finding the angle that worked, feeling him drag against her front wall in a way that made her thighs tremble. His head pressed back into the pillow. She watched his face, the effort it took him to let her have control, the tension in his jaw and the way he breathed through it.
She leaned forward and changed her angle a fraction, and the sound she made was entirely involuntary.
"There," she said, her voice breaking.
"Yeah?" His voice had gone rough.
"Right there," she confirmed. "Don't let me move away from that."
His hands shifted on her hips, not directing, just guiding, and she kept that angle and moved faster. His cock hit the same spot with every stroke now, deep and perfect, and the sounds she was making had grown louder without her quite noticing.
"You feel incredible," Harry said, watching her. "Every time. You feel perfect every single time."
"Don't stop saying that," she said, her voice unsteady.
"I mean it," he said. His hands slid up from her hips, over the curve of her waist, up her sides, and she shivered despite the heat. "I mean every word."
She leaned forward and kissed him, still moving, and he kissed her back hard, one hand coming up to the back of her neck to hold her there. She was close already, still sensitive from before, and the friction was building fast, every stroke feeding into the last.
She sat back up and braced herself and rode him properly now, hard and rhythmic, her breath sharp and loud and unguarded. The sounds of their fucking filled the room entirely, skin against skin and her own voice underneath all of it, and she let herself be loud because there was no reason not to be.
"Fuck, Fleur," Harry said, watching her with his jaw tight. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
"Now you know how it feels," she managed, breathless.
"Fair," he said, and moved one hand from her hip to find her clit with his thumb, pressing in soft tight circles without breaking her rhythm, and Fleur's movements stuttered for half a second before she found it again, harder than before. His other hand slid up her stomach and cupped her breast, squeezing, his thumb brushing over her nipple until it hardened under his touch.
"Harry—" His name came out fractured. "I mean it, don't stop—"
"I'm not stopping," he said. "I've got you. Come on."
She moaned, her voice rising as she kept climbing, and Harry grunted as he felt her walls tightening around him once again. He began to thrust up inside her and Fleur came hard, shuddering from her thighs to her shoulders, crying out with her head dropping back and her hair falling loose behind her. She rode it out with her hips still moving because stopping was impossible, and she kept chasing each wave until they faded into something soft and pulsing and warm. Harry's hands moved to her waist and held her steady through the last of it, sure and firm.
She kissed him and felt him still hard inside her and made a low sound against his mouth.
"Your turn," she said.
He flipped them. He had her on her back in a single smooth motion, her legs already wrapping around him before he'd even settled, and he started moving with a directness that left no room for anything except heat and sound. He fucked her hard and she held on and was loud about it as she dug her nails into his back and pulled him deeper.
Harry kept on hammering away inside her, his knees planted on the mattress as he chased his own release, and he groaned against her throat when he came, buried to the hilt, his whole body shaking as he emptied inside her.
She held him with both arms and traced slow lines up and down his back while he caught his breath.
They lay together in the quiet afterward. The room had gone entirely still and warm.
Fleur stared at the ceiling. She thought about the dinner, about the expression she had seen on her mother's face when Fleur had reached across for Harry's wine glass and her hand had lingered on his a moment too long. Apolline had noticed everything, the way she always noticed everything, and the look in her eyes had been something Fleur recognized now that she knew what to look for. Not anger. Something quieter than that, and more complicated, and considerably more familiar.
Gabby's turn tomorrow, she thought, and let her eyes close.
xXx
Three days later, Harry was in his garden.
It was the kind of afternoon that made France rather pleasant in summer: warm without being oppressive, the sky an unambitious blue, and the air smelling of cut grass and something floral on the breeze. Harry had his sleeves rolled up and his hands in the soil, working through the herb bed that had gotten slightly away from him over the past few weeks. It was not sophisticated work, but it occupied his hands and left his mind quiet, and some days that was exactly what he needed.
He was reaching for the trowel when his wards registered a presence at the property boundary.
He looked up.
She was walking along the lane beside his garden wall and stopped when she saw him. The sundress she wore was pale yellow, fitted at the waist and falling just below the knee, the kind of thing that managed to be entirely appropriate and entirely impossible to ignore. The fabric moved when she did. Her platinum hair was loose in the afternoon sun, bright and calm, and she lifted her hand in a small wave.
"Harry," Apolline called.
He straightened and brushed his hands on his jeans. "Apolline." He crossed to the garden gate and opened it. "Didn't know you were coming by."
"I was on a walk," she said simply.
"On a walk," he repeated.
"It is a nice afternoon." Her smile was pleasant and completely unapologetic. "I thought perhaps we might talk, if you have a moment."
He held the gate open. "Come in."
She followed him through the garden and into the house. He was aware of her presence behind him in a way that had nothing to do with his wards. She had her allure out, and it was hard at work.
"Tea?" he asked, moving to the kitchen. "Coffee, juice if you'd prefer something cold."
"Tea would be lovely," Apolline said, settling at the dining table with perfect ease as if she had sat there before, which she had, at dinner roughly a week ago, though those occasions had felt rather different.
Harry put the kettle on and reached for cups. He was aware the entire time that she was watching him move around the kitchen. Not in an uncomfortable way, exactly. She had the kind of attention that was simply complete: when Apolline Delacour looked at something, she looked at it properly. He had noticed that about her for years and had spent most of those years pretending he hadn't.
A few minutes later, he brought the tea over and sat across from her. Neither of them said anything immediately. He poured. She picked up her cup and held it in both hands, watching the steam.
"So," Harry said finally. "How are you finding being home after the vacation?"
Apolline gave him a small smile. "It is good," she said. "A relief, in some ways. Vacations are wonderful but extended ones grow tiresome. There is something to be said for one's own bed, one's own routines."
"I can imagine," Harry said as he took a sip of his tea.
"And you?" Apolline looked at him across the table, and something in her expression shifted, subtle and intentional. "How was your time while we were away? The girls have had some rather interesting tales to share."
Harry felt the tips of his ears warm. He kept his expression neutral through some effort. "It was good," he said carefully. "Kept busy."
Apolline set down her cup. "Harry," she said, her voice gentle but clear-cut. "You spent the better part of three weeks with two young veela women, one of whom recently underwent her full maturity. I think we can agree it was rather more than just good."
Harry set his cup down, scratching his cheek. "Well, this is a bit of an unusual conversation to be having with their mother," he said.
"I imagine it is." She did not look troubled by that. "But I would rather have an unusual conversation honestly than a comfortable one built on pretense." She tilted her head slightly, looking at him with those intense blue eyes. "You agree?"
He looked at her for a moment, taking in her expression. "Yes. Alright."
"Good." She folded her hands around her cup. "Then I will tell you what I wish to know, and you will tell me the truth."
She asked about Gabrielle first. Not accusingly, just directly: was she being cared for, not only in the physical sense, had she had support during the transition of the maturity, had she felt safe. Harry answered honestly. He told her how Gabrielle had come to him and what she'd needed, how Fleur had been steadier than either of them through it, how the three of them together had found something that worked. He watched Apolline listen and saw the tension in her shoulders ease after each sentence.
Then she asked about Fleur. Whether the start of it had been Fleur's choice, whether Harry had pushed. He told her the truth without dressing it up: Fleur had decided, had come to him, that he had not asked, and that Gabrielle also had a role to play in it. The last part drew a chuckle from her.
After he was done, Apolline stayed quiet for a moment. "She does not trust easily. Fleur."
"No," Harry agreed.
"The fact that she has trusted you this much says a great deal about you." Harry was not sure if it was a compliment, exactly or an observation, carefully weighed. He did not dwell any further on it though as she continued, "She has not done that with anyone, to my knowledge. Not in the years I have watched her build walls around herself and call it independence." She paused, taking a drawn-out sip of her tea. "You should understand what you have been given."
"I do," Harry said.
She looked at him steadily and seemed to decide she believed him. She moved on to discretion: the practical reality of two young women with careers and reputations in a world that would not be kind about gossip, especially considering their veela heritage. Harry told her what he'd told Fleur. Nobody talked. Nobody would. He wouldn't allow it.
"I would not risk either of them," he said. "Not for anything."
Apolline looked at him for a long moment. Something in her posture settled, almost imperceptibly, like a door closing softly.
"Good," she said.
She picked up her cup and drank, and for a moment the conversation sat between them in a way it hadn't before. The careful interrogation portion of the afternoon had ended. What remained in its place was something else, something that had been underneath the whole conversation from the beginning, patient and waiting.
"They spoke about you," she said. The quality of her voice had changed. Quieter. More calculated. "Both of them, when I asked how they'd been while we were away. With a great deal of enthusiasm." She paused. "And rather vivid detail."
Harry thought the temperature in the room had raised by several degrees as he took a measured sip of his tea, and it had nothing to do with the summer. "Is that right?" He muttered.
"It is." Her eyes stayed on his, steady and warm. "Their mother found herself somewhat at a loss for how to respond. Which is not a position I am typically found in."
"I imagine not," Harry said.
"You imagine correctly." She set down her cup. Her fingers rested on it for a moment. Then she stood.
Harry watched her as she walked around the table and came to stand behind his chair with a directness that left no ambiguity about the choice involved. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, pressing into the muscle at the base of his neck with such certainty that it made it clear to Harry that she knew exactly what she was doing.
He went still.
"You have tension here," she said conversationally. Her thumbs moved in slow, firm circles. "You always have. I noticed it years ago."
"Occupational hazard," Harry said. His voice was carefully even.
"Perhaps." She worked deeper, finding the tightest places with an accuracy that could not be explained away as casual. "Or perhaps you simply carry more than you should and have no one to tell you so."
"I have people," he said.
"Do you?" Her fingers spread across the width of his shoulders, working methodically. The warmth of her hands was steady and impossible to ignore. "You have people who need things from you. That is not the same."
Harry said nothing to that, because she wasn't wrong.
"But that is not why I came," she said. Her thumbs pressed in at the base of his skull, slow and precise, and he felt the tension there release against his will.
"I know," he said.
Apolline made a soft sound that was almost a laugh. "Do you?" Her hands continued their movement, sliding down along either side of his spine. "Then perhaps you can tell me."
"I have a reasonable idea," Harry said.
"Tell me," she said, her voice dropping slightly. Her hands stilled for a moment and then resumed.
"You came because of what your daughters told you," he said. "And because of what you sensed at dinner. And because you've been thinking about what to do about it since then."
Apolline paused. "Yes," she said simply. "That is exactly right."
She leaned down, and her voice came close to his ear, the warmth of her breath against his skin making him tighten his hold on his cup. "I will tell you the rest of it, because I think you deserve to hear it clearly rather than implied." Her hands moved again, slower now, less functional. "My daughters have been coming home glowing. Both of them. I know what that looks like in a veela woman because I wore it myself once, years ago, when everything between Sebastian and me was still new." Her fingers traced the line of his shoulders. "I know what causes it. And hearing my daughters describe you the way they did, with that kind of warmth, that particular light in their eyes, about a man I have known for years and have always been..." She paused, choosing the word. "Aware of. It woke things I had been content to leave quiet for a long time."
Harry's hands were flat on the table. "Apolline—"
"I am not finished," she said, gently. Her right hand left his shoulder and traced a slow line along the side of his jaw, feather-light and entirely intentional. He felt it from his jaw to his sternum. "You have always been attractive, Harry. Since before it was appropriate for me to notice. I told myself it was admiration. You were young and brave and it was easier to leave it as admiration." Her fingertips rested at the hinge of his jaw. "And then you grew up from a teenaged boy to a man, and the thing I was calling admiration became increasingly difficult to maintain."
"How long have you been managing it?" he asked.
"Too long," she said. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw slowly, forward and back. "It became more difficult after you moved here. After you came back into our lives as yourself rather than a symbol. And then these past years, seeing you every day, and now with my daughters, the way you are with them, the way they are with you." Her voice was quiet. "I am their mother. I am not supposed to feel what I feel. And I have been very well-behaved about it for a very long time."
She came around to stand beside his chair and looked down at him, and when he turned his head he was looking up at her directly. The afternoon light came through the window behind her and caught the pale gold of her dress, the bright of her hair. Her eyes were the same blue as her daughters', but steadier, deeper, settled entirely in themselves.
"Sebastian is a good man," she said, without apology or cruelty. "He is a wonderful husband. But he is aging, and what he can give me has changed over the years in ways that neither of us chose and neither of us speaks about." She held his gaze. "There are things that a veela needs that have gone without for long enough that it has begun to feel like a particular kind of hunger. You understand hunger."
"I do," Harry said.
"After what I know now," she said, "after listening to my daughters speak about you with no small amount of feeling, after watching you at that dinner and sensing everything I sensed..." Her hand moved from the side of his chair to his shoulder, resting there lightly. "Something in me decided it was finished waiting."
She looked at him for a long moment, her thumb moving in a single slow stroke along the curve of his shoulder. "My daughters gave you their trust completely. That matters to me more than anything else. What you have been to them, how you have been with them, the way they came home, that is the thing that brought me here today." Her voice dropped lower. "I want to trust you the same way. To be myself with you without pretense or performance. The way they have been." Her hand lifted from his shoulder to the side of his face, warm and cautious, her fingers curling slightly. "I believe you can give me that. And I believe that I have wanted you long enough to stop pretending otherwise."
Harry looked up at her. The kitchen was very quiet. The afternoon light was gold and still.
"I've been aware of you too," he said. "For the record."
Something moved through her expression, something warm and slow. "I know," she said softly. "I noticed. I have been noticing for years."
Her fingers rested against his cheek and she held his gaze and tilted her head, her eyes closing, her chin lifting slightly. The line of her throat was exposed. The invitation was clear and quiet and completely without performance.
Harry stood up.
He moved in a single motion, one arm going around her waist, and kissed her. She made a sound against his mouth, relief and hunger arriving at once, and kissed him back without hesitation. Her hands gripped the front of his shirt, fistfuls of fabric, pulling him in, and she kissed the way someone does when they've been thinking about it for a very long time and have finally stopped finding reasons not to.
He walked her backward one step until her hips met the edge of the table and she pulled him closer still, her arms sliding up around his neck. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress, the press of her body against his, and he kissed her deeper and felt the careful composure of the entire afternoon dissolve completely.
She broke the kiss just enough to breathe, her lips still brushing his. "I have been wanting to do that," she said, her voice lower than he'd ever heard it, "for a very long time."
"So have I," he said, his voice rough. "Longer than I should have."
She made a low sound at that before she pulled him back down.
The afternoon light was gold and still around them, outside in the lane the breeze moved through the garden leisurely, and inside the kitchen was warm and quiet where Apolline Delacour kissed him like she had no intention of stopping.
She didn't.
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