Author's Note:
All characters in this story have been aged up to 18 and above. This work contains mature content intended for adult readers only.
Harry Potter didn't ask for this.
He didn't even want to be in the bloody tournament.
The parchment with his name still sat on Dumbledore's desk, blackened at the edges like it had been cursed. Which, honestly, it probably had. His name wasn't supposed to come out of the Goblet of Fire. He wasn't supposed to be competing. He was supposed to be doing Arithmancy homework and finishing his notes on ancient wards for Flitwick's extra credit assignment.
He hadn't even gone to the feast.
What would've been the point? The Great Hall had been packed with excited students, buzzing with speculation about who would be chosen. The jocks were out in full force, all swagger and laughs and too much cologne. Malfoy had been strutting around like his name was already engraved on the trophy, and Warrington a beefy Slytherin seventh-year who looked like he bench-pressed trolls for fun, was already throwing bets on how many minutes would Hogwarts Champion last.
Harry had tried sitting at one of those tables once, just to be part of something, only to have Malfoy "accidentally" dump a full goblet of pumpkin juice over his notes and mutter something about "The Boy Who Can't Lift."
Apparently, even in the magical world, wizards could still be obsessed with gym culture. As if a Patronus was powered by protein shakes. You'd think they were training for Mr. Wizarding Universe, not N.E.W.T.s.
Harry had once asked the only person he could remotely call a buddy Ronald Weasley, now inexplicably buff and built like a red-haired centaur, what the obsession was. Ron just shrugged, cracked a hard-boiled egg with one hand, and muttered in that gravelly voice of his, "Hoes love it."
So instead, Harry did what he always did when the noise got too loud. He skipped the feast and slipped into the library, tucked himself into the far corner beneath a reading lamp lost himself in diagrams of old spell matrices.
And yet, even from there, the world dragged him back.
His name came out anyway.
Now he was here, back in the open, being stared at like he'd killed someone's owl and shagged the corpse. The whispers hadn't stopped since the announcement.
"Cheated. Obviously cheated."
"He just wants attention. As if he doesn't already get enough."
"Probably rigged it with Dumbledore. Typical Golden Boy move."
Harry kept his head down and let them talk. Let them guess. Let them think he was just some skinny, four-eyed fluke who got in because of his scar. They only cared that he was in.
The only remotely good thing to come of it was Cedric Diggory.
They weren't exactly friends, but Cedric had pulled him aside later.
"Dragons," Cedric had murmured. "Don't tell anyone I told you."
Harry didn't.
He went straight back to the library instead. Buried himself in books on draconic anatomy, nesting behavior, wing structure, breathing patterns, flight limitations, curse resistance. He found a six-hundred-page tome on the psychology of magical reptiles and read it cover to cover. Twice.
While the other champions trained their bodies, Harry prepared his mind.
Because now, like it or not, he was a Triwizard Champion.
One book, buried deep in the restricted section beneath layers of dust and protective wards, held a passage he read over at least five times to make sure it wasn't some kind of joke.
"In ancient magical history, Parseltongue was used by early dragon handlers to command and calm wild breeds. Though the practice has long since fallen out of use due to the rarity of Parselmouths, some dragons are still believed to understand the language instinctively, having once been bred with an affinity for it."
What everyone else saw as a dark, cursed relic of Slytherin's bloodline… might just be the one thing that kept him alive.
It was a stupid plan. Really, truly, astronomically stupid.
Harry knew it.
But it was the only one he had.
He was going to speak to a dragon. Not attack it, not run from it. Not hurl spells or summon brooms. No, his grand strategy was to walk into the arena, stare a fire-breathing apex predator in the face, and… beg. In Parseltongue.
Eighteen years old, supposedly the Boy Who Lived, and his plan boiled down to "please don't kill me, I swear I'm chill."
And yet, beneath the nerves and the quiet panic, there was a strange thread of calm winding through his chest.
He had a language. A cursed, blood-soaked language that made people flinch. But dragons didn't flinch. Dragons listened.
At least, the book said they might.
Three weeks later, Harry stood outside the Charms corridor with the other champions, waiting to be led down to the drawing ceremony. One by one, they'd pull tiny, enchanted replicas from a velvet bag, each representing the dragon they'd face tomorrow. After that, they'd have one full day to prepare. Or, more realistically, panic.
He focused on his breathing. On the facts. On not puking. On pretending this was just another weird school event and not a fire-breathing deathmatch.
A soft, quiet hum slipped into the hallway. Harry didn't need to look to know who it was.
Fleur Delacour walked in like the hallway was made to worship her, tits bouncing under a skin-tight white tank top that barely covered anything. No bra. Nipples hard as diamonds, poking through the thin fabric like she wanted everyone to see just how turned on she was. Her ass was packed into black leggings so tight they looked sprayed on, big and round and jiggling with every step, pure fucking heat molded into curves.
Harry blinked once, twice, and gave up pretending not to stare.
"Going to the gym?" he asked, voice too dry to cover the way his cock had just twitched hard behind his robes.
Fleur smirked and turned just slightly, grabbing the waistband of her leggings and yanking them up tighter, letting them slide even further into the deep crack of her ass. The fabric disappeared between her cheeks like it had been swallowed, and Harry got a full, unholy view of the way her ass bounced, hugged so tight it looked like it was being gift-wrapped. She looked over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out with a wicked grin.
"Oui," she said. "Need to work out a loooooot of stress after zis briefing."
Harry swallowed. His brain was still jammed on tits, ass, tongue, and now stress relief, which sounded like an invitation his cock was taking very seriously. He was seconds from saying something deeply regrettable, but somehow wrangled enough self-control to speak like a functioning person.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Makes sense."
Fleur turned to face him fully, arms crossed under her chest, pushing her tits up into a perfect little shelf of distraction. She cocked her head, eyes narrowing just a little.
"So, Potter," she said sweetly. "What is your plan?"
Harry blinked. "For…?"
"For ze dragon, évidemment," she replied, voice all mock surprise. "Or do you just plan to stand zere and cry until someone saves you?"
Harry stared, thrown off balance by the shift in tone. The sass came so naturally from her lips it almost felt like flirting but he knew. She was toying with him.
He cleared his throat. "I've got… a strategy."
Fleur raised a perfectly sculpted brow. "Oh, really?" she asked, dragging her eyes over him, slow and doubting. "You? With your little book and your blushing face?"
She leaned in just slightly, her voice soft enough to feel private. "I don't zink you'll last five minutes."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, heat rising to his face but the door creaked open behind them.
"Champions," Barty Crouch called from the chamber. "Inside. Now."
Fleur straightened with a little sigh, like she was being interrupted mid-entertainment. She gave Harry one last smirk, then turned without a word and strutted off down the hall.
Since she was being such a bitch, Harry decided he might as well enjoy the view so he let his eyes drop and locked onto that juicy, full, round masterpiece of an ass, bouncing in those painted-on leggings. Every step made it jiggle just a little more, hypnotic and unfair, and he followed her into the chamber with his cock still hard and his patience nearly gone.
A single pedestal stood in the center, covered with dark red velvet. On top of it sat a small drawstring bag, worn at the edges and faintly glowing with old magic. Crouch stood beside it, straight-backed and tense, his expression unreadable and his robes perfectly in place.
Dumbledore was nearby, speaking quietly with Madame Maxime. Karkaroff loomed by the wall, arms folded, already looking like he didn't trust the setup. The only real sound in the room was the hum of enchantment and the occasional shuffle of robes.
"You will each draw a model of the dragon you are to face tomorrow," Crouch said, his voice cutting clean through the silence. "Each miniature is marked with a number, which will determine the order of appearance. Your task is simple: retrieve a golden egg guarded by the creature."
His eyes swept across the four of them.
"You will be alone in the arena, armed only with your wand. No magical aid, no interference. Your dragon will not be restrained. The danger is real."
Harry stayed still keeping his eyes on the bag.
Crouch nodded once.
"Mr. Diggory," he said. "You first."
Cedric stepped forward, calm as ever, and reached into the bag. A soft pulse of magic rolled through the room as he pulled out a miniature Swedish Short-Snout. The little dragon flapped its silver-blue wings once and curled into his palm with a hiss.
"Number three," Crouch announced.
"Miss Delacour."
Fleur glided forward without hesitation. Her fingers slipped into the bag like she was picking out jewelry, not a fire-breathing monster. She drew a Chinese Fireball, its scales shimmering red-gold as it spun lazily in her hand like it was posing for attention.
"Number two."
Crouch didn't even wait for her to step back before speaking again.
"Mr. Krum."
Krum stomped forward, silent and broad. He jammed his hand into the bag, pulled out a snarling Norwegian Ridgeback, and gave it a grunt of approval. The thing hissed back like it understood him.
"Number four."
Only one left.
Crouch looked to Harry.
"Mr. Potter."
Harry moved forward slowly. His heart thumped hard in his chest as he reached into the bag. The moment his fingers brushed the last figure, it clamped onto him strongly.
He pulled it out.
Hungarian Horntail.
Even in miniature, it looked pissed. Wings flared, tail lashing, mouth open in a snarl. Its little black eyes locked onto him like it knew.
"Number one," Crouch said.
Harry stared at the tiny creature in his hand. Shit.
Once it was over, the group was dismissed.
Harry turned to leave with the rest, still clutching the tiny Horntail in one hand.
Fleur was waiting by the door.
"You got ze Horntail," she said. "And you are first too. Poor boy."
Harry didn't respond. He just walked past her, grip tight around the tiny dragon still snarling in his hand.
She pushed off the wall and fell in beside him.
"You looked calm in there. But maybe zat was just shock."
He kept walking, ignoring her.
"Do you think it will be quick?" she continued softly. "Or will you scream for a while first?"
Harry stopped.
She took one more step before realizing, then turned back to face him.
He met her eyes, frustration boiling up in his chest.
"What do you want, Miss Delacour?" he snapped. "Why do you need my attention so badly?"
She blinked once, caught off guard. For a split second, the smirk slipped. Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, but interest, like she was seeing him for the first time.
"Pff," she scoffed, gesturing at herself with both hands. Her tits bounced violently with the motion, jiggling in her tank top. "Your attention? You stare at my big tits every time I walk by. Even now."
Harry's eyes dropped without meaning to.
She caught it instantly.
"There," she said, grin feral. "Caught again."
His face went red. He looked away fast, but she was already laughing, voice sweet and wicked.
"You want to touch zem, don't you? You think about them when you're alone?"
Harry didn't move. His cock was rock hard, throbbing against his trousers like it was trying to break free. She made his blood boil, and he hated how badly he wanted her. He couldn't help himself.
Fleur stepped in closer, like she could smell it on him.
"You can't even handle me, Potter," she teased. "What makes you think you'll last against a dragon?"
Harry clenched his jaw. "I'll survive."
She gave a soft, amused hum. "Mmm. I wonder. You look a little… tense." Her eyes dragged over him."Is it fear? Or just frustration?"
He burned hot. Embarrassed. Furious. And done.
"Not only will I survive," he snapped, "I'll outscore all of you."
Her brows lifted. "Oh? That sounds like a bet."
Harry stared her down. "Fine. Let's bet."
Fleur smiled wickedly. "If you lose, you're mine."
"For how long?"
She leaned in, just a breath from his face, her tits practically brushing his robes.
"A month," she said without hesitation. "You'll be my maid. You'll tie my shoes, fetch my tea, fold my panties, and follow me around like a good little puppy."
"And if I win?" he asked, voice tight.
Fleur grinned. "What do you want, mon nerd adoré?"
For a second, Harry hesitated.
Not because he didn't know the answer but because he'd spent most of his life never saying what he really wanted. Always holding it in. Always swallowing it down. He'd been bullied, ignored, turned into a symbol or a freak or a target, depending on the day. He was tired of pretending. Tired of being polite. Tired of acting like he wasn't furious and horny and fucking done with being the quiet one.
So he looked her dead in the eye and said it.
"I get to play with your tits."
~~~~~~~~~
When Harry finally made it back to his dorm that night, he jerked off three times.
He didn't even try to pretend it was about something else. It was Fleur. Fleur smirking. Fleur bouncing. Her ass was burned into his brain like a branding spell.
After the third time, his legs were jelly and his hand was cramping, but his head was clear.
He got dressed again and went to the library.
There were two rewards waiting for him now.
One was a golden egg.
The other was a pair of perfect, heavy, teasing French tits.
And for once in his life, Harry Potter was feeling motivated.
~~~~~~~~~~
Harry showed up early.
The waiting was the worst part. Sitting in the common room with people whispering like he was already dead, shooting him pitying looks or fake encouragement. Even the portraits seemed to eye him differently now, like they were preparing to host his memorial.
So he left. Slipped out before anyone could stop him and walked the long path down toward the stadium.
The closer he got, the louder it became. Cheers, chants, someone in the crowd already trying to start a betting pool. His heart was hammering by the time he made it to the outer edge, where the wizarding tent waited near the arena.
Two handlers were outside, adjusting their dragon-resistant gloves. Harry didn't mean to look. Through a gap in the far canvas, he caught a flash of black scales. A tail, thick as a tree trunk, dragging through the dirt.
The Horntail.
He almost shit himself.
Turning fast, Harry ducked into the wizarding tent.
The space was empty. Long table at the center, chairs waiting. A few parchment scrolls were stacked neatly beside a silver tray of water pitchers and matching goblets.
Harry made a beeline for one of the chairs and sat down hard. He was scared.
He planted his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. His wand rested beside him. He closed his eyes and began to rehearse the one thing that might actually keep him alive.
Ssaaa haethhh. I am not prey. I am not threat. I am calm. I mean no harm.
Again.
Ssaaa haethhh. I am not prey. I am not threat. I am calm. I mean no harm.
Each word had to be exact. Precise. He'd spent the whole last night memorizing the right phrasing, the right tone, the slight hissing stretch between sounds.
He didn't even notice the rustle of the tent flap.
Not until the scent hit him. Something warm and floral. A hint of vanilla.
His stomach dropped. Of course. Fleur had arrived.
She dropped into the chair across from him. Her legs crossed slow and high, dragging her skirt up just enough to make Harry's cock twitch like a traitor.
"Early," she said, dragging the word out like she was tasting it. "Eager little champion."
Harry didn't answer.
Too busy trying not to stare directly into the booby trap she called a uniform.
Her tournament gear was technically legal, probably, but barely. The dragonhide vest clung to her like it had been poured on and forgotten to harden. There was no bra. There was no way there could be. Her tits looked heavy and soft and annoyingly perfect.
And of course, she leaned forward.
"Potter," she cooed, all breath and bite, "if you die out there, who will play with my tits?"
Harry blinked. "Guess I'll have to live, then."
"Mmm. There's the Gryffindor spirit."
She reached for the water goblet in front of her, it gave her an excuse to arch her back, press those perfect tits even higher, and watch Harry try not to look.
"Still staring," she said casually, swirling the glass. "You know zey bounce harder when I run."
Harry swallowed. "You offering a demonstration?"
Fleur grinned. "You wish."
"No. You do."
That earned him a little hum of approval. She did not expected him to swing back that hard.
She looked at him, really looked, and for a second too long their eyes stayed locked. Blue on green, bright and unblinking, both waiting for the other to flinch and neither of them wanted to lose whatever this was, this slow-burn stare that said way too much.
Then, out of nowhere, her smirk slipped.
"Just… make sure you survive, yeah?" she said, voice quieter now. "Don't let them have the satisfaction."
And that should've been the moment he nodded politely, said something noble and brave and Very Boy-Who-Lived.
But Harry was so far past giving a fuck. So instead, he smirked.
"So you do want me to play with your perfect tits, huh?"
Fleur gasped.
Harry's eyes dropped to her chest, slow and shameless.
"Maybe I should've bet harder," he added. "Maybe you'd have given me a titty job."
She laughed, wicked giggle that slid straight down his spine. The smirk came back full force.
"Mmm," she purred. "So greedy already. And you haven't even earned one squeeze yet."
Before Harry could open his mouth to fire back, the tent flap rustled sharply.
Crouch strode in followed by the rest of the champions.
Harry forced his face into something neutral, but his blood was still hot, his cock still half-hard, and he was suddenly very aware of how tight his trousers had gotten.
Crouch didn't waste time.
"Champions," he said, voice clipped and formal, "this is your final briefing. From here, we will procced with task. When your name is called, you will enter the arena. Your task remains unchanged, retrieve the golden egg guarded by your assigned dragon."
He looked at each of them in turn. "You may use only your wand. No magical artifacts, no enchantments cast prior to entry. "
He looked at Harry.
"Mr. Potter. You're first."
Harry swallowed hard. He stood slowly, wand in hand, breath held somewhere deep in his chest.
Cedric stepped close and clapped a hand to his shoulder.
"Good luck, mate," he said, quiet but sincere.
Harry gave a tight nod. "Thanks."
Then he walked.
Through the flap. Down the ramp. Out into sunlight that felt too bright, too open, like the world had been stripped bare just for this.
The roar of the crowd was distant, muffled by enchantments. Somewhere high in the stands, people were chanting his name. Or calling him names.
The Horntail was coiled in the far end of the arena. Its black scales shimmered like polished armor, tail thumping once against the dirt with a bone-rattling crack. Wings half-spread. Yellow eyes gleaming.
Harry kept moving. Step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat, boots dragging through hot, loose dirt like it might swallow him whole. His palms were slick, his robes already clinging to his back, and every instinct in his body screamed at him to run, to dive, to hex the sky and hope for the best. But he didn't. He couldn't. He had one chance and it wasn't in his wand. He had to speak. Had to make it count. Had to make the dragon hear him.
He stopped close enough to smell the heat. He swallowed, tasted ash, and hissed,
"Ssaath-kareshh."
The dragon's head dipped low, smoke curling from its nostrils. Its eyes locked onto him, voice dropped straight into Harry's chest like a stone.
"Speaker?"
Harry nodded once. He was pretty sure he shit himself.
"I'm not prey," he said. "I'm not here to hurt you."
As Harry stepped forward, the Horntail rose to meet him. Wings stretched wide, joints cracking loud as stone, tail curling through the dirt with slow, lethal weight. It was massive. Taller than he'd imagined, longer than anything should be, a wall of black scale and muscle and fire waiting to happen.
Albus Dumbledore had lived long enough to witness a great many things. Miracles, horrors, and magic so ancient it had no name. But as he watched the Horntail rise, wings flaring wide and claws gouging deep furrows into the dirt, he braced himself for yet another tragedy. Poor Harry. Too bright for his own good, too stubborn to quit, and now standing before a death he hadn't asked for. Dumbledore had seen that look in a dragon's eyes before: rage. Pure, ancient rage. He adjusted his half-moon spectacles, prepared to watch a boy burn.
Harry looked up, throat dry. "One egg is fake," he hissed. "Not yours. I need it." The Horntail's eyes narrowed. Smoke curled from her nostrils. She didn't move. Just stared. Harry forced himself to stay still, every muscle screaming to run. "I won't touch the others," he added, quieter now. "Just that one."
The Horntail turned. Her tail dragged a deep groove through the dirt as she moved to the nest. She sniffed each egg, slow and rough, the sound like bellows flaring. On the fourth pass, she froze. Her head jerked back, nostrils flaring wide. She roared, loud and furious, Harry's knees nearly give out. She swung her head toward him, eyes burning. "Who did this?" Harry flinched. "Not me," he said fast, hands up. "Not me."
The Horntail stared him down, smoke pouring from her jaws in short, angry bursts. "Then take it," she hissed. "Before I burn this place to ash. They dared to trick me." Her wings twitched, half-open. "But you…" Her voice dropped. "A speaker. After so long. I thought your kind were gone." She looked at him, but this time Harry could swear he saw Dragon smiling. "This pleases me."
Harry stepped forward, careful but trying not to look like he was about to piss himself. The Horntail watched, still as stone. He reached into the nest, grabbed the fake egg, and backed off slow, keeping her in his sights the whole time. His hands were shaking. She didn't move. When he hit the edge of the arena, he glanced back at her one last time. "Thanks," he muttered, and then he turned and walked the hell out.
Harry stepped back into the tent, still holding the egg, clothes damp with sweat, hands trembling just a little. All three champions stared at him like he'd walked in dragging a corpse. Cedric looked stunned. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "How. I mean. What. She didn't even attack." Harry didn't look at him. He sat down at the table, set the egg in front of him, and said, "Dragons speak Parseltongue." He rubbed his palms on his trousers. "I got lucky."
Harry felt Fleur's eyes on him the entire time until she was called. He didn't even register Cedric or Krum being summoned, didn't hear the cheers or gasps, didn't notice anything past the warm hum in his skull that meant he was still alive. He'd survived. He could rest, just for a moment. Then the tent flap snapped open and Crouch stepped in, brisk and clipped, pulling him back into the world. Fleur returned a second later, her battle gear shredded, dragonhide clinging to her in scraps, one tit nearly falling out, but she didn't seem to care. Cedric limped in with his arm half-slung. Krum had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. Madame Pomfrey was already fussing. Crouch cleared his throat and held up four golden eggs. "Inside is the clue to your second task," he said. "You have one month."
After that, things went back to normal. More or less. He was still getting shoved in hallways, still hearing people mutter about cheating when they thought he couldn't hear. Lessons were still boring, and Snape was still a dick. But he was alive, and he was still smart, so he cracked the egg in a week. The clue wasn't that hard if you actually read the right books. And Harry already had a plan. The bet, though? Yeah. That was harder. Turned out talking to a dragon was easier than asking the hottest girl in school if he could squeeze her tits. So he didn't. And on the official standings, Harry was first, Fleur second, Krum third, Cedric fourth. Not that it mattered.
It happened on a Tuesday. Harry was coming back from Ancient Runes, bag slung over one shoulder, brain still half-fried from translating two feet of badly-scanned Norse. He turned a corner and Fleur was there, waiting. Before he could even blink, she grabbed his tie, yanked him into an empty classroom, and slammed the door shut behind them. His bag hit the floor, books and parchment exploding across the stone.
"What the fuck?!" he said, stumbling back.
Fleur planted herself in front of him, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. She was wearing the most unfair outfit he'd ever seen, some slinky little black cardigan with nothing under it, halfway buttoned, plus a plaid skirt that did not meet regulation length and thigh-high socks that were absolutely a hate crime.
"You are avoiding me," she snapped, voice thick with that French bite that made every syllable sound like foreplay and fury at the same time. Harry blinked, heart already racing.
"What are you talking about?" he said, trying not to stare at the line of cleavage threatening to breach the last two buttons.
"Do not play dumb. You won ze bet." She stepped closer.
"You said you wanted to touch my tits. And now you run away like a scared little boy." Her eyes narrowed. "So. What is it? Did you lie? Or are zey not good enough for you?"
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, face hot. "I didn't lie," he said. "I just… didn't know how to bring it up." Fleur stared at him for a second, like she was trying to decide if he was pathetic or adorable. Maybe both. Then she shrugged. "Alright. You won the bet. Just say it. Tell me you want to see my tits and play with them, and I'll let you."
Harry was hard. Like really, painfully, full-on hard. He shifted, trying to hide it, but Fleur saw. Her eyes dropped for half a second, then came back up with a smirk that made his stomach flip. She stepped in close until her tits were brushing his chest and leaned right into his ear. "You're so easy," she whispered, slow and dirty. "All I have to do is breathe near you and your cock's already begging." Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscles, slow and firm like she was warming him up. "Bet you think about them every night. Big French tits bouncing right in your face." She kissed the edge of his jaw, light and wet. "Say it," she breathed. "Say you want them." Harry couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His cock was throbbing so hard it hurt.
"I want to see your tits," he growled. "I want to play with them."
Fleur let out a soft, filthy little moan, then looked him dead in the eye as she licked her lips. "Yes, sir."
Fleur's fingers moved slow, almost teasing herself more than him, undoing one button, then the last. The cardigan slipped open, and her tits spilled free like they'd been waiting for this just as long as he had. Full, round, stupidly perfect. Her nipples were already hard, flushed pink against smooth, pale skin. Harry's breath caught. His cock throbbed like it was going to explode through his trousers. He didn't even think, just reached out and grabbed one, big and warm in his hand. She gasped pleased, and his knees almost gave out. It was like all that softness went straight to his cock, every squeeze making him harder. Fleur leaned in, voice honey-slick and filthy. "Squeeze them harder, baby. You earned it."
Harry groaned, deep in his throat, and stepped closer like he couldn't stay away for another second. He kissed her, messy, desperate, lips crashing against hers like he was starving. His hands came up, grabbing both tits now, squeezing them like he needed to memorize the feel. Fleur moaned into his mouth, her hands sliding over his shoulders, fingers digging into the tight muscles of his neck like she was trying to melt him from the top down. She kissed him back just as hard, biting his bottom lip before pulling away, lips brushing his ear. "You want to fuck these tits, don't you," she whispered, breath hot. "Want me on my knees, looking up at you while you slide that big cock between them. You want to make a mess on my chest, mon nerd?"
Harry groaned, eyes dark, hands locked tight around her tits. "You're such a dirty tease," he said, voice rough and low. Fleur laughed, filthy and proud, her body pressing into his. "Is that what you wanted, hmm? Do these titties live up to your fantasies, monsieur champion?" Her accent made it worse, every word rolling over him like sex.
Harry's brain was melting. He was so fucking hard it hurt. He'd never kissed a girl before this, never touched one, and now he was playiong with hottest tits he'd ever seen, while the sexiest girl in the school begged for more.
It flipped something inside him.
He grabbed her tighter, kissed her like he meant it, deep and messy. Then he dropped his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth, hard, tongue swirling, lips wet and hungry. Fleur gasped, loud and breathy, her fingers tangling in his hair.
After few seconds of his sucking she grabbed his hair and tugged him back just enough to look him in the eye. "Tsk. The bet was touching, not sucking," she said, smirking. "But since you're being such a sweet little pervert about it, maybe I'll be sweet too." Her hand slid down between them without warning, palming the bulge in his trousers. The second she touched it, she froze. Her eyebrows lifted, eyes wide, smirk switching into something closer to awe. "Oh. Oh wow. So the quiet little bookworm is hiding a monster in his pants." She gave a slow squeeze, lips parting as her eyes darted back up to his. "This is what you've been keeping from me?"
Harry groaned loud, eyes squeezing shut as his hips bucked into her hand. He couldn't help it. Fleur giggled, soft and breathless, totally turned on by how easy it was to make him fall apart. "Look at you," she whispered. "Moaning like a little slut. And I've barely even touched you." Her hand kept working, dragging over his cock through the fabric until he was panting. Then, without a word, she popped the button on his trousers and pulled his zipper down. Her hand slid inside and wrapped around him, skin to skin, and then she pulled him out.
She froze.
Her mouth dropped open. She licked her lips slow, eyes wide, staring like she'd just found her new religion. "Holy fuck," she muttered. Then, with a soft, hungry sound, she sank to her knees in front of him like it was the only place she ever wanted to be.
Harry couldn't look away. He just stood there, cock in her hand, staring down at Fleur like his brain had completely short-circuited. She was on her knees, right in front of him, tits out and bouncing slightly every time she shifted. Big, perfect, heavy things with stiff pink nipples he could still taste.
Her skirt had ridden so far up it was basically a belt. He could see the tops of her thighs, bare and smooth, her legs hugged by those stupidly hot little white-ruffled socks. It made her look obscene in the best fucking way, like a filthy dream dressed up in schoolgirl drag.
She looked up at him through her lashes, lips parted, wet, like she was seconds from drooling over his cock. Her mouth was made for sin. Glossy, soft, full enough that he could already imagine how it would feel stretched around him. Her eyes were glassy with heat, cheeks flushed, and that look on her face, needy, cock-drunk, completely gone, burned straight into the back of his brain.
Harry stared at her, breathing hard, committing every single filthy detail to memory. He didn't even care how obvious it was. He'd remember this forever. Every inch of her. Every sound. Every look. Fleur Delacour, hottest girl in Hogwarts, thick and perfect and on her knees for him.
Fleur didn't hesitate. She spat into her hand, thick and wet, then wrapped both hands around his cock. The spit made everything slick and messy, and she started stroking him slow, dragging it up and down his shaft. Harry moaned loud, hips jerking forward, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. "Fuck," he gasped, barely able to stand still.
Fleur looked up at him through her lashes, eyes dark and hungry.
"That's it," she purred. "Let me hear you."
Her hands pumped him harder now, twisting slightly, her spit dripping between her fingers. "You've got the kind of cock girls dream about. Thick and heavy and just begging to be played with."
Harry groaned again, one hand flying to her shoulder to steady himself. She kept going, stroking him like she was trying to make him lose control right there on the spot. Her tits bounced with every motion, soft and perfect.
"You should've bet for more," she whispered, biting her lip. "If I knew you were hiding this, I would've offered my tits, my throat, anything. I'd let you fuck me anywhere just to feel it."
Fleur's breath ghosted over the head of his cock, warm and shaky, so close it made Harry twitch. She was staring at it like it was magic, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly open, completely mesmerized. Harry couldn't look anywhere else. "Stroke that cock, baby," he moaned loudly.
That's when her eyes finally lifted.
They met his, wide and hazy, pupils blown, and she moaned for him, soft and filthy, like it came straight from her core.
"Mmmh… oui, mon dieu,"
She leaned in even closer, her face inches from his cock now, her breath washing over the tip with every exhale as she started stroking faster, tighter, completely locked in on making him fall apart.
"Fuck… yeah… yeah…" he groaned, loud and messy, hips twitching into her fist. He couldn't stop himself anymore. It felt too good, too much. Fleur answered with soft moans of her own, little needy sounds spilling from her lips every time her hand pumped over his cock.
She rose up on her knees, chest pushing forward, tits swaying, and pressed them together around his cock in one smooth motion. The heat of her skin swallowed him, soft and wet and perfect. She started bouncing her chest, fast and filthy, fucking him between her tits like she was made for it.
"Oh fuck, oui. You like zat? My big slutty tits all over your cock? So hard for me. So fucking hard."
Harry just threw his head back and moaned, lost in the slick squeeze of her body, her voice, her skin, every inch of her working to push him over the edge.
"Eyes on me," Fleur growled, breath hot and hungry. "Watch me while you cum for me."
Harry looked down just in time to see his cockhead slide up between her perfect tits, swollen and leaking. Fleur's tongue was already there, waiting. She licked across the tip with a soft, filthy moan, then let it sink back between all that soft, bouncing flesh. Again. And again. Every thrust pushed his cock through her cleavage and right against her greedy mouth, and every time, she licked it, slow and wet and needy.
His legs shook. His stomach clenched. His whole body was strung tight, so close he could barely breathe.
"Such a good cock," Fleur moaned. "So hard. So full. Give it to me. Cover me in it. Be a good boy and cum all over these tits."
That was it. He snapped.
Harry grabbed the back of her head, fingers tangling in her soft blonde hair, holding her right where he needed her. His cock throbbed between her tits, thick and twitching, and then he came like his body had been saving it for years.
"Take it," he groaned, voice shaking. "Take that fucking cum."
And she did.
His hips jerked forward hard, cock pressing against her chin as the first thick shot painted her face. Hot streaks hit her cheeks, her lips, her nose, messy and fast, more than he thought was even possible. It just kept coming, spurting over her tits, across her flushed skin, dripping down the curve of her chest. Fleur moaned through it, mouth open, tongue out like she wanted to taste all of it, eyes half-lidded with the filthiest smile he'd ever seen.
Harry couldn't stop. His whole body was locked up, chest tight, legs shaking, pleasure crashing through him in waves. He groaned loud, almost desperate, holding her in place while his cock spilled every last drop all over her perfect, ruined face.
She looked up at him, covered in it, licking a line off her lips, and smiled like she'd just won.
Harry stood there frozen, face red, trousers still open, cock twitching slightly as the last wave of his orgasm faded. And then, like a switch flipped, the reality of what he'd just done hit him all at once.
"I… shit… sorry," he blurted, voice cracking as he stared down at her ruined face. "That was… I didn't think I'd… there was just a lot, and I…"
Fleur burst out laughing. Full, delighted, breathless laughter that made her tits bounce and her cum-covered cheeks glow with wicked amusement.
"Mon dieu, Potter. You came like a bloody centaur. Is that what you've been saving up in the library? Thinking about my tits while pretending to study ancient spells?"
Harry made a strangled noise that might've been "no," but it didn't sound convincing.
Fleur wiped her cheek with two fingers, slid them past her lips, and smirked. "You owe me a towel. But I'll take that load as a compliment. You are really obsessed with my boobies, huh?"
Harry's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Nothing came out.
Fleur just grinned wider. "Thought so."
Chapter 2 teaser:
The second task is just days away, and Fleur still hasn't cracked the golden egg's secret. Luckily, she knows one mysterious nerd who definitely has the tools to help her solve it… in more ways than one.
https://certherverse.com/