The evening sun cast a golden hue over the sprawling Château Deschanel, the primary one of the many estates owned by the illustrious Deschanel family. It reflected the modern beliefs of the family, or at least as modern as those of a pureblood family could be.
The Deschanels, unlike many of their contemporaries, had never subscribed to the rigid ideology of pureblood supremacy. It was an old belief, passed down from Alexandre Deschanel, a visionary ancestor who had argued that a strong bloodline was not one that remained untainted, but one that embraced diversity. He had pointed to the growing number of squibs in other noble families as a sign of their failing ways, their obsession with purity leading to genetic stagnation. The Deschanels, instead, had often married veela, muggleborns, and even carefully selected muggles who had proven extraordinary in their own right. This practice had been the foundation of their strength, ensuring their magic remained potent, their minds sharp, and their influence ever-growing.
Apolline Deschanel lounged in her private chambers, the silk of her robe slipping over her smooth skin as she lay draped across an antique chaise. Her attire was casual by aristocratic standards—a sheer, silken robe of pale lavender that barely covered the delicate lace lingerie beneath, having slipped off one shoulder already. She exuded confidence and sensuality, her silvery-blonde hair cascading in effortless waves over her shoulders, and her sharp blue eyes filled with amusement as she sipped from a glass of spiced wine. A book rested in her lap, one she had been absently flipping through while her mind wandered to more pressing matters.
The European Dueling Conference was days away, and this time, she would not be a mere spectator or an observer of politics. She would be representing Wizarding France. It was an honor, one she had earned through skill, discipline, and talent. And yet, there were whispers, murmurs behind closed doors from bureaucrats who believed her place had been handed to her. That, being a part-veela, she had used her charm, her allure, to sway the decision in her favor. The accusation was not new. She had heard it all her life from lesser men and jealous women who saw only her beauty and dismissed her talent.
In her younger years, it had frustrated her. Now, it amused her. They feared her, feared the unknown edge that came with being part of something they could not understand. But what they did not know—what they would never know—was that she had never used her veela abilities in her pursuits. Not once had she manipulated a decision in her favor, not once had she relied on her charm to gain an advantage. It was all her abilities and her magical prowess. However, despite all the abilities that she possessed, it did not mean she had to play fair.
A slow smile curled her lips as she considered the strategy she had put in place. The Deschanel family owned numerous estates across France, each one grander than the last. When the Ministry had sought locations to house the dignitaries and duelists coming for the tournament, the family had graciously offered these estates. They had insisted that hospitality would be their priority, ensuring the guests were treated with utmost care.
But hospitality was only part of the equation.
Each estate was managed by a veela, a woman whose purpose was not merely to oversee the logistics of the stay, but to provide comfort in all forms. These were not ordinary women—each was carefully selected, trained in the art of allure and discretion. The duelists they housed, the champions of their respective nations, were the very best. Some were unbeatable in fair combat, their prowess unmatched. But men were men, no matter how skilled they were in magic. A soft whisper, a lingering touch, a night of passion—these were enough to weaken their edge, to dull their focus just enough to matter when the duels began.
Apolline had been the one to devise this plan. It had come to her in a moment of inspiration, a solution to the problem of competition. She had no doubt in her own abilities; she was an exceptional duelist. But why should she fight an opponent at their peak when she could ensure they stepped into the ring already at a disadvantage? It would've been foolish, and she preferred to be smart.
She took another sip of her wine, savoring the rich taste as she thought of the days ahead. Her parents, for all their ambition, remained oblivious to this scheme. They believed in fair politics, in maneuvering through influence rather than deception. Her father was a respected figure in the French Ministry, her mother a celebrated enchantress with a reputation built on grace and wisdom. They would not approve of what she had done, but Apolline did not care. They played by rules that she had no intention of following.
To her, the only rule that mattered was winning.
Her fingers traced the spine of her book idly as she envisioned the scene unfolding across their estates. The champions, some of them married, others sworn to discipline, would find themselves surrounded by beauty, by temptation they could not ignore. Perhaps some would resist, but even those who did would be plagued by distraction, their minds unsettled when they needed to be sharp.
And then, when they stepped into the dueling ring, she would be waiting. At her best. Focused. Unyielding.
They would fall, one by one, and when she stood victorious, their complaints would mean nothing. Let them cry foul, let them whisper of unfairness. It would not change the outcome.
She leaned back against the cushions, the glow of the firelight illuminating her features. The thought of it thrilled her. For years, she had played by their expectations, proving her worth through hard work and discipline. And still, they doubted her. Still, they dismissed her. Now, she would give them a reason to.
A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She glanced toward the entrance, her lips curving into a knowing smirk.
"Enter," she called lazily.
The door opened, and one of her trusted attendants stepped inside, a composed veela woman with striking silver-blonde hair and piercing green eyes.
"The guests have arrived today," the woman said smoothly. "Everything is in place."
Apolline tilted her head, her smirk widening. "And our dear champions? How many have already succumbed?"
The veela's lips curled in a faint smile. "Three. The others will follow in due time."
"Good." Apolline set her glass aside, stretching languidly before rising to her feet. She crossed the room with effortless grace, her bare feet silent against the marble floor.
"Ensure that they remain so," she murmured, her voice filled with amusement. "They must feel welcome. And do not let them suspect foul play. It must all seem… natural. And when the duels begin, let them wonder why their hands shake, why their spells falter."
"Of course."
"Has Clarisse arrived?"
"Yes. She was talking to your mother. She must be on her way here."
Apolline nodded as the attendant bowed slightly before slipping out, leaving her alone once more.
She turned toward the mirror, regarding her reflection with quiet satisfaction. Some would call it cheating. Some would say she was proving them right about her kind.
But Apolline did not care.
She would win. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Her thoughts were interrupted when there was another knock at the door and a genuine smile emerged on her beautiful face.
"Come in," she called out, turning around.
The door opened, revealing a tall, elegant woman with silver-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Clarisse, the caretaker of Château Lumière, stepped inside, her expression as poised as ever.
"Ma chère Clarisse," Apolline purred, standing up with effortless grace. "You're finally here."
Clarisse offered a small, knowing smile. "Of course. I know better than to keep you waiting."
Apolline stepped forward and took Clarisse's hands, squeezing them lightly before leading her toward the plush couch by the window. They sat together, the candlelight casting a warm glow over their features. Apolline exhaled softly before speaking.
"I should apologize," she said, her tone unusually gentle. "For putting you in this position."
Clarisse blinked, wondering what her friend was talking about, before she let out a quiet chuckle. "Apolline, you of all people should know I do nothing I do not wish to do."
"I know," Apolline admitted, tilting her head and biting her lower lip gently. "But still…"
Clarisse shook her head. "I volunteered, and you know why. I'm in this with you. You don't have to pretend to be guilty when you're not."
Apolline's smile thinned, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her wine glass. Clarisse had always been sharp—one of the few people Apolline never had to dance around with words. She knew the truth. There was no remorse in Apolline's heart, only the satisfaction of a well-executed plan. Still, it was good to acknowledge the loyalty of those who stood beside her.
A moment of silence stretched between them before Apolline's expression shifted into something more serious.
"Who are you hosting?" she asked.
Clarisse leaned back slightly, resting her elbow on the arm of the couch. "Harry Peverell. From Wizarding Britain."
Apolline's expression soured immediately. "Britain," she muttered, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Why did you have to pick the short end of the stick?"
Clarisse raised a brow, her lips curled. "That's all you have to say?"
Apolline scoffed. "What more is there to say? They're brutes. No culture, no refinement. And their Ministry—" She cut herself off with a sharp sigh. "I will never understand how they continue to be taken seriously."
Clarisse watched her for a moment, waiting.
It took Apolline a second to realize something else had been said. Her brow furrowed. "Wait." She straightened, turning to Clarisse with an appraising look. "You said Peverell?"
Clarisse gave a slow nod. "I did."
Apolline's eyes narrowed slightly, as if assessing whether her friend was toying with her. "Peverell. As in the Peverells?"
Clarisse sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. "How do you not know who you'll be facing in the tournament?"
Apolline waved a dismissive hand. "Names are irrelevant until they're standing across from me in the arena. But Peverell…" She trailed off, her mind already pulling at the threads of history.
The Peverells were an old, near-mythical bloodline in Wizarding Britain, one whose origins were so ancient they bordered on legend. They were rumored to be descendants of the original three brothers who had supposedly mastered death itself. The Deathly Hallows, of course, were fairy tales, but the Peverells themselves were no fiction. They had been present in the shaping of Wizarding Britain for centuries, their influence waxing and waning with the tides of history.
And now, one of them was here.
Apolline's gaze flickered toward the window, where the moon hung high in the night sky. This was… unexpected. She had anticipated facing powerful duelists, of course, but the name Peverell carried a weight that was not easily dismissed.
Clarisse studied her reaction carefully. "Concerned?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Apolline clicked her tongue, annoyed at the implication. "Hardly."
But she was, a little. Not out of fear, but because unpredictability was something she disliked. Peverells were known to be skilled in magic that went beyond simple spells. They were once regarded as intuitive gladiators, ones who fought with an almost unnatural ease.
Then there was the sheer weight of the name. The history, the skill, the unpredictability—none of it sat well with her. She preferred knowing the battlefield before stepping onto it, and now, for the first time in a long while, she felt like she was walking into something unknown.
"Are you alright?"
Clarisse's voice cut through the silence, drawing Apolline out of her thoughts. Her gaze flickered toward her friend, who was watching her with careful eyes.
Apolline huffed lightly and waved a hand. "Of course I am."
Clarisse didn't look convinced, but she let it go.
Apolline shook off her moment of distraction and refocused, the distaste in her voice returning. "Regardless, I suppose it doesn't matter. He's British." She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I can already picture what he must be like—loud, boorish, with the manners of a wild animal. A brute with no subtlety, no grace."
She turned back to Clarisse with a smirk. "That must make your job rather easy, non? He must have been practically drooling the moment he arrived and took one good look at you."
Clarisse let out a short, shaky chuckle, her gaze uncertain.
Apolline immediately caught on. Her expression sharpened as she studied her friend, who, for the first time in a long while, looked… hesitant. Clarisse was always composed, always in control of every situation she entered. The veela blood in her made it easy—men bent to her will with little more than a glance. And yet, right now, she seemed almost nervous.
"What is it?" Apolline demanded, leaning in slightly.
Clarisse exhaled through her nose and shook her head. "You're wrong about him."
Apolline blinked. "Excuse me?"
"About Peverell," Clarisse said, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knee. "He's not what you think."
Apolline scoffed. "He's British."
Clarisse shot her a look. "And?"
Apolline gestured vaguely, as if the word alone should explain everything. "They're brutes. Every single one of them. Remember the little exchange program? I spent months at Beauxbatons listening to those insufferable Hogwarts students crash through the halls like trolls. I still can't believe Madame Maxime agreed to hosting them. Must've been the respect she has for Albus Dumbledore, who, let's be real, is the only person worthy of respect in that hellhole. And their Ministry—please." She wrinkled her nose. "Backward, undignified, and so utterly full of themselves. I have yet to meet a single Brit with an ounce of refinement."
Clarisse shook her head, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "That's because you clearly haven't met him."
Apolline's brows furrowed. "Are you suggesting that this Harry Peverell is different?"
"I am," Clarisse said. "And I am telling you now, Apolline, whatever you are imagining—whatever crude, loud, ignorant image you have conjured in your mind—it is wrong."
Apolline regarded her friend with a raised eyebrow, before she shrugged. "Then enlighten me."
Clarisse tilted her head slightly, as if considering how to explain something that could not fully be put into words. "He is composed," she finally said. "Still. Not in a way that suggests dullness or apathy, but in a way that suggests… control."
Apolline raised an eyebrow. "Control?"
Clarisse nodded. "Nothing seems to unsettle him. He does not react impulsively, nor does he seek attention. He speaks when necessary and is very expressive. Confident would be the word for it, I guess, and he remains silent until he has the need to speak up." She leaned back against the couch, her gaze distant. "He is commanding, Apolline. Even without words. The kind of presence that makes you—" she hesitated, wondering how to properly frame her thoughts into words, and shook her head slightly. "That makes you aware of him the moment he enters a room."
Apolline studied her friend closely. There was something in Clarisse's voice, something unfamiliar. It wasn't just admiration. No—this was something else.
"Fascinating," Apolline murmured. "But I assume none of this means he is difficult to handle. Surely, even with all that… control, he is still a man. A man like any other. And it must be child's play for you to bend him to your will."
Clarisse let out a slow breath before looking Apolline straight in the eye. "He is immune to my allure."
A suffocating silence enveloped the room as the two women gazed at each other. For the first time in a long while, Apolline found herself utterly speechless.
She stared at Clarisse, waiting for her to continue, waiting for her to say anything that would make sense of what she had just heard.
But Clarisse said nothing. She simply let the words hang between them, the sheer weight of them settling over the room like a thick mist.
"…Immune?" Apolline finally repeated, slowly, as if she had misheard.
Clarisse nodded once, calm and composed.
Apolline's frown deepened. "That's not possible."
"It is," Clarisse said simply.
Apolline shook her head. "Even those trained in resisting veela magic are not immune. They can fight it, yes. Ignore it, even. But to be completely unaffected?" She narrowed her eyes. "No. You must have done something wrong."
Clarisse let out a dry chuckle. "Apolline, I have never done something wrong when it comes to men."
Apolline had no argument for that. Clarisse had been bending men to her will since they were teenagers. Even those who claimed to be immune found themselves hesitating, slipping, wanting, not that it ever went anywhere. None of them were desperate enough to succumb to weak men.
And yet, here she was, claiming that Harry Peverell had not so much as blinked in response.
"Explain," Apolline demanded.
Clarisse exhaled, running a hand through her silver-blonde hair. "I have tried everything. Not aggressively, of course. I am not desperate," she said with a small, amused smirk. "But I have given him opportunity after opportunity. I went with subtle in the beginning, but he didn't react in the slightest. Sometime later, I decided to look him in the eye and poured every bit of my veela magic into the moment. I have brushed against him, let my voice dip, let my presence linger… hell, I even used my veela magic to enchant a towel when he was done with his training—still nothing. He does not flinch, does not shift, does not so much as acknowledge it."
Apolline narrowed her eyes. "And what does he do instead?"
Clarisse's lips parted slightly before she let out a slow, almost shaky breath. "Nothing. He simply looks at me like normal. His voice is normal. His expressions are normal. Fuck, Apolline. I'd almost started to think he was gay or asexual until…"
Apolline waited as her friend trailed off.
Clarisse wet her lips, her fingers twitching. "I'm being honest with you here," she said softly, looking her in the eyes. "I am the one who feels it."
Apolline's stomach tightened slightly, her brows furrowing.
"Feel what?"
Clarisse's voice dropped lower. "There is… power in him, Apolline. And I do not mean magic, though I am sure he has plenty of that. No, this is something else. Something primal. Something undeniable." She exhaled, shaking her head slightly, as if trying to shake off the very memory of it. "The first time I saw him, the moment I felt him, my heart started racing."
Apolline's eyes widened slightly. "You're not saying what I think you're saying, r-right?"
Clarisse met her gaze, an unapologetic look on her face as she nodded. "I have never felt like this before."
Apolline leaned back against the couch, her fingers tightening around her wine glass. She had known Clarisse her entire life. She had seen her charm, manipulate, and control numerous men and women alike. And yet, she had never heard her say anything like this.
It unsettled her.
For the first time, a thread of unease slipped through her confidence.
Harry Peverell was not what she had expected. Not at all.
And that… bothered her.
Her mind raced with everything Clarisse had just said as she exhaled a deep breath and regarded her. The sheer confidence in her friend's voice, the unwavering certainty in her description of Harry Peverell—it disturbed her.
Clarisse never exaggerated. She never spoke in half-truths. If she said a man was powerful, then he was powerful. If she said she had been affected by him, then there was no denying it.
And yet, Apolline struggled to believe what she was hearing.
A British wizard? A Peverell? Dominating her friend—the Clarisse, the veela who had reduced grown men to begging with just a glance? Apolline wasn't sure what to make of it.
Before she could speak, Clarisse continued.
"He didn't come alone, of course," she said, her voice still carrying that strange, conflicted edge. "He arrived with a healer and three Aurors as his escorts."
Apolline blinked, pushing past her lingering unease. "Why the focus on them? It's normal."
"It's who the healer and one of the aurors are," Clarisse said calmly.
"Start with the healer then."
Clarisse nodded. "Narcissa Black."
Apolline stilled at the name, her eyes widening slightly.
"And the Aurors?" she asked, though she already had an inkling that it must be another someone from a pureblood family.
"Two men I didn't bother learning the names of," Clarisse said dismissively. However, she smirked before the next. "But the third was Amelia Bones."
Apolline frowned slightly, rolling the names over in her mind.
The Blacks and the Bones.
Both were families of renown across Europe, though for vastly different reasons. The Bones were known for their prowess in law enforcement and their unwavering dedication to justice. Her father had once mentioned an auror from that family. She didn't remember the name, but he had been a rising star in Britain's Auror ranks during the war with Grindelwald, a man reputed to be as intelligent as he was ruthless. Her grandfather had told him the story of how fiercely the man had fought alongside him, but he had also mentioned how the man was not without faults of his own. He was an idealist of sorts, with strong views on certain topics that he did not shy away from expressing. Her grandfather had called it a lack of tact—a trait exhibited by the overzealous sort with little in terms of maturity.
The Blacks, on the other hand… Apolline barely resisted a sneer.
That family was the epitome of everything she detested about old wizarding society. Arrogant, elitist, so blinded by their obsession with blood purity that they married their own cousins rather than risk tainting their so-called sacred lineage. Apolline's father had spoken of them before as well, and always with a measured but clear distaste. The Deschanel family had long been looked down upon by purists like the Blacks because of their open-mindedness—their belief in keeping the bloodline strong through diversity rather than incestuous stagnation.
Apolline had never met a Black in person, but she had no doubt they would despise her on principle.
Her thoughts soured further. So, this was the company Harry Peverell kept? A healer from a family of inbred lunatics and an Auror from a family of self-righteous enforcers?
She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "I can't say I'm surprised. A man like him would surround himself with people of status."
Clarisse made a strange noise—something between amusement and hesitation.
Apolline's gaze snapped back to her. "What?"
Clarisse studied her for a moment before she spoke again.
"They're his women," she said simply.
Apolline frowned. "What do you mean?"
Clarisse sighed, tilting her head slightly. "I mean that Harry Peverell is not simply accompanied by Narcissa Black and Amelia Bones." She smirked slightly, but there was something almost breathless about it. "He is fucking them."
There was another moment of suffocating silence, and Apolline stared at her friend, waiting for the punchline.
It didn't come.
"…Excuse me?" she finally said, her voice flat.
Clarisse nodded. "You heard me."
Apolline let out a disbelieving scoff. "That's ridiculous. I don't know about Bones, but no daughter of the Blacks would ever cavort with someone outside wedlock. You're mistaken."
"It's the truth," Clarisse said calmly.
Apolline opened her mouth to argue but stopped when she saw the certainty in Clarisse's expression. Her friend was not joking.
"You must be mistaken," Apolline said, shaking her head. "You think he's bedding them, but—"
"I heard them," Clarisse cut in calmly.
Apolline froze.
"What?"
Clarisse exhaled slowly, as if recalling something too overwhelming to put into words. "For hours, Apolline."
There was something in her tone—something uncharacteristic. Apolline felt her stomach twist at the look on her friend's face.
Clarisse shifted slightly on the couch, crossing her legs. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she admitted. "But it was impossible not to hear. The moment the door closed, it began. And it did not stop. For hours."
Apolline swallowed. "You're exaggerating."
"I am not." Clarisse's voice was firm. "I stood outside that door for what felt like an eternity. I don't even know why. I couldn't move. I couldn't think. I just… listened."
Apolline was almost afraid to ask. "And?"
Clarisse exhaled. "And I was more aroused than I have ever been in my life."
Apolline tensed, her eyes widening.
Clarisse let out a slow, shaky breath. "Apolline… I have never heard a man like him before." Her fingers curled slightly, as if recalling the sensation of something that was not truly there right now. "His voice, the way he commanded them, how he called their names—there was no hesitation. No uncertainty. He knew exactly what he wanted. And they—" she let out a soft, breathy laugh, "—they worshipped him for it."
Apolline shifted in her seat. A strange warmth had begun coiling in her stomach. She could feel her nipples begin to harden, poking against the inside of her bra. Her toes curled, her hands shaking.
Clarisse didn't stop.
"I returned to my room when I couldn't take it anymore," she admitted, chuckling shakily. "And I had the most violent orgasm of my life."
Apolline inhaled sharply, her toes fully curled tight.
Clarisse smirked slightly, but there was no humor in her eyes. Only a lingering need. "I was done, and even then, I returned. Only to find them going at it without stopping for a moment. Dinner was delayed by three freaking hours, Apolline! And that's when I knew," she said, her voice resigned. "I could throw myself at him for an entire day, an entire week, and it would make no difference. Harry Peverell is too strong and capable to crumble like that. He is unshakable."
Apolline stared at her friend, feeling something unfamiliar settle in her chest. Breathing was coming hard to her right now, and had she lost sensation in her legs, from a mere tale?
But it had come from this woman! Clarisse had been with men before. Strong men whom she had deemed worthy of laying with. She had enjoyed herself, played her games, indulged her desires. But never—not once—had she spoken of a man with such raw reverence.
It unsettled her.
It intrigued her.
Apolline shifted her legs, her inner thighs brushing against each other, and she was shocked to find that she was wet down there.
Clarisse gazed at her with a knowing look on her face, having sensed her arousal already. She sighed, shaking her head. "You need to be careful, Apolline," she said. "This tournament is not what you thought it would be. The other duelists might give in, but Harry Peverell is different. He is not what you thought he would be." Her gaze darkened. "Your veela magic will not work on him. And I cannot help you either."
Apolline didn't speak. She couldn't.
Her mind was too full—full of contradictions, full of curiosity. She had dismissed Harry Peverell as just another British fool, but now…
Now, she wasn't sure what to think.
And that, more than anything, bothered her.
-Break-
Clarisse stepped out of the floo sometime later, her conversation with Apolline swirling in her mind. She knew her friend was unsettled, and frankly, so was she.
Her heels clicked against the polished marble floor as she walked, and without meaning to, her gaze flickered toward the far end of the hall—the corridor that led to his suite.
Her body reacted instantly, and she knew.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, her breaths uneven. She knew she should turn away. She knew she should retreat to her chambers and clear her thoughts. But the pull was too strong. Curiosity, hunger, need—they all swelled inside her like a tidal wave, drowning out reason.
Before she could stop herself, her feet carried her forward.
Each step made her pulse pound harder, anticipation curling low in her stomach. She had been near him before, had felt his presence in a way that rattled her very being, but as she approached his door, the sheer weight of it became unbearable.
The air was charged. Thick with raw, primal sex.
Her veela magic reacted instinctively, thrumming beneath her skin. She clenched her hands into fists, trying to suppress it, but it was useless. He was there. And he was unrestrained.
The moment she stepped into the corridor, a wave of something primal crashed into her.
Clarisse staggered, her breath catching. Her body burned, her knees nearly giving out. She sucked in a shaky breath, willing herself to stay upright. But it was everywhere—the intoxicating pulse of desire, the raw, undeniable energy radiating from behind that door. And as a veela, she was more sensitive to this than any other.
Her lips parted, her heart hammering against her ribs.
And then she heard it.
Low, husky murmurs. Two soft, distinct feminine gasps. The unmistakable sounds of skin against skin, the quiet moans slipping through the thick wooden door, the sharp intake of breath that spoke of overwhelming pleasure.
Clarisse squeezed her eyes shut. How many hours had it been? Did he never tire out?
Something within her called for her to leave, to turn away before she fell apart right here, and—
A particularly deep, commanding voice broke through the air, sending a violent shiver down her spine.
Her nails dug into her palms, her body trembling.
She had never—never—felt anything like this before.
She stood there for what felt like an eternity, her body rigid and her breathing erratic.
Another part of her emerged victorious—the part she had never acknowledged before—begging her to stay.
And against all reason, she did.
Clarisse leaned against the cold stone wall, her breath shaky and uneven. She knew she should leave, knew she was already too far gone, but her body refused to listen. The heat between her legs was unbearable, her thighs pressed together in a desperate attempt to ease the ache.
Her hand trembled as it slid down, hesitation flickering for only a moment before instinct took over. The pull was too strong, the sensations overwhelming her like nothing had ever before. She clenched her eyes shut, biting her lip as she moved her fingers through the waistband of her knickers, her other hand gripping the fabric of her dress.
The sounds from behind the door filled her ears—low murmurs, soft gasps, the unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving together. Each noise sent another wave of heat through her, pushing her further past the point of reason. The raw sexual energy emanating from the room overloaded her veela senses
Her fingers moved faster, her body reacting to the pure power radiating from the room. Every brush of her own touch sent sparks of pleasure through her veins, her breathing growing heavier as she kept plunging her fingers through her gushing, needy quim.
She was losing herself, her veela magic slipping free in waves. She had never felt like this before—never so helpless against her own desire.
Clarisse's body tensed, her breath hitching as the pleasure built higher, overwhelming her senses. Her fingers moved with desperate urgency, chasing the release she could already feel creeping up on her. The sounds from inside the room only pushed her further—deep, steady, and commanding. She could picture it too clearly, the power behind those movements, the way he controlled everything, how he drilled into the two women who were so eager to worship him, and unbidden, she began to imagine herself writhing under him as he had his way with her.
Her thighs trembled, her grip tightening on her dress as the tension inside her snapped. A sharp, muffled gasp escaped her lips as waves of pleasure crashed over her, leaving her shaking in place. She was barely able to stay upright, her free hand gripping the handle of the door as firmly as it could. Her eyes were closed tight, and her body pulsed with aftershocks, her mind hazy, her chest rising and falling with deep, unsteady breaths.
For a long moment, she couldn't move. She remained leaning against the wall, her body warm and weak, her legs barely holding her up. The pleasure faded slowly, leaving only the pounding of her heart and the lingering ache between her thighs.
As clarity returned, so did the realization of what she had just done, and where. Her fingers twitched, her breath still uneven, her face hot with lingering arousal.
She was just outside the door, and any of those three could pull it open and see her like this. What would she say? She did not know. What would he say? Would he even say anything, or would he simply pull her inside, and have his way with her?
As Clarisse thought about it, she realized she wouldn't even protest if he did that, and the realization jolted her to the core. She could not believe how quickly this had happened? Was there truly some truth to the belief that a veela could not control herself when faced with a truly worthy mate? Had she truly found hers?
Clarisse did not know, and right now, she was not sure she wanted to find out. She wanted to be in control of herself right now, to think with clarity. Her gaze lingered on the closed door for a few more moments as she fully came down from her orgasmic high. They were still hard at it, and she could hear the sheer pleasure in those moans and cries.
One thing was for certain—Harry Peverell was a truly gifted lover if those noises were anything to go by.
Clarisse shook her head slightly. She should not be here right now, and she knew that. With a shaky inhale, she pulled herself together, straightened her dress, and forced herself to walk away.
TBC.
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