Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.
Chapter 7
~ Lucius Malfoy ~
The drawing room of Malfoy Manor was a mausoleum of breathing corpses.
The air was frigid, an unnatural chill that had nothing to do with the English weather rattling the high, diamond-paned windows and everything to do with the monster sitting at the head of the long, polished table. Lord Voldemort's fury was a silent, coiling thing, a pressure that made the eardrums pop and the fine crystal of the chandelier above tremble.
Lucius Malfoy stood by the hearth, the fire behind him offering no warmth. He felt like a ghost haunting his own life. His hands, clasping his cane, were white-knuckled, the only betrayal of the terror seizing his heart. He kept his eyes lowered, staring at the intricate patterns of the rug—a rug that had been in his family for four generations, now stained with the vomit and blood of the man screaming in the centre of the room.
It was Yaxley. The man was writhing, his spine arching at an impossible angle as the Cruciatus Curse tore through his nervous system.
"You bring me... nothing," Voldemort whispered. His voice was high, cold, and clear, cutting through Yaxley's ragged shrieks like a razor through silk.
Voldemort lifted his yew wand, and the curse lifted. Yaxley collapsed onto the floor, sobbing, a broken heap of black robes and twitching limbs.
"M-My Lord," Yaxley stammered, coughing up blood. "We found... ash. Only ash. The forest was... it was decimated. Greyback... the pack... there was nothing left to bury."
Voldemort rose from his seat. The movement was fluid, reptilian. He glided around the table, his red eyes burning with a malice that made the gathered Death Eaters flinch.
"Fenrir Greyback was a blunt instrument," Voldemort mused, his voice dangerously soft. "But he was my instrument. To obliterate a werewolf of his vitality, along with his lieutenants... this speaks of power. It speaks of a message."
He stopped in front of Lucius. Lucius stopped breathing.
"Do you know who sends me such a message, Lucius?"
"No, My Lord," Lucius whispered, his voice a dry husk.
"The Order," Voldemort hissed, turning away, his robes billowing like black smoke. "Dumbledore is dead, but his sycophants remain. Weasley? No. Shacklebolt? Perhaps... but no. They lack the cruelty for such annihilation."
Voldemort paced, his long, spider-like fingers twitching. "They seek to frighten us. They seek to show that they can hunt the hunters. They think that by removing my beasts, they can declaw the master."
A low, terrible chuckle escaped him. "They are mistaken."
Lucius closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. The humiliation of his current existence was a physical weight. Weeks ago, he had been the Dark Lord's right hand. Now, he was a pariah. The news of Narcissa fleeing from her family, from their cause, had shattered the Malfoy standing overnight. She had fled, vanishing into the night, and rumours swirled that she had sought sanctuary elsewhere, somewhere the Dark Lord had no influence.
Her name was now a curse in this house. Lucius felt the scorn of the others—Bellatrix, Dolohov, Avery. They looked at him and saw a man who couldn't control his wife, whose son was a failure, whose house was a thoroughfare for the Dark Lord's cruelty rather than a seat of power. Narcissa was gone. She was safe, supposedly. And Lucius was here, alone in the cold.
"Your wife, Lucius," Voldemort said, his voice caressing the word with venom. "Narcissa... she has chosen her path. She hides behind wards I have yet to breach, all because of your failure to control your wife. Useless. Just like your father. Just like your son."
Lucius flinched. He couldn't help it. The words the Dark Lord cursed him offered nothing but a venomous sting for his already open wounds.
"But," Voldemort continued, a cruel smile twisting his lip-less mouth, "there is another sister. Is there not?"
"Bellatrix," Voldemort said sharply.
Lucius's sister-in-law sprang from her chair, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes gleaming with fanaticism. "My Lord?"
"The blood traitor," Voldemort murmured. "The one who birthed the half-blood Auror mongrel. If the Order wishes to send messages written in the death of my servants, we shall respond in kind."
Bellatrix's smile widened, becoming a rictus of sadistic glee. She knew who he meant. "Andromeda."
"I want the Tonks line ended," the Dark Lord commanded, his eyes hardened with a finality that was reminisce of his declaration about Potter's fate. "I want Andromeda to scream as her filthy mudblood husband dies. And I wish her to be flayed, Bellatrix. Make an example of her."
Bellatrix let out a cackle that chilled the marrow of Lucius's bones. "It would be my honour, My Lord! To purge the stain from the House of Black... to show Cissy what happens to traitors!"
"Go," Voldemort commanded. "Tonight. Leave nothing but blood."
As Bellatrix swept from the room, humming a discordant tune, Lucius felt a wave of nausea. Andromeda. Narcissa's favourite sister, once upon a time. The tangled web of the Black family was being torched, strand by strand.
Voldemort turned back to the trembling Yaxley.
"Now," the Dark Lord whispered, raising his wand again. "Let us discuss your failure to identify the magical signature at the kill site.
'Crucio!'
The screaming began anew. Lucius stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in his dead eyes. The Malfoy legacy was ash. He was simply waiting for the wind to blow him away.
~ Harry Potter ~
The atmosphere in the master bedroom of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, was a universe away from the frozen terror of Wiltshire. Here, the air was heavy, warm, and scented with the dark, masculine musk of sandalwood and the lighter, intoxicating fragrance of wild orchids.
Harry Potter floated in the abyss of a dreamless sleep. It was a heavy, restorative slumber, the kind that only came after magical exhaustion. The duel with Greyback and the earth-shattering removal of the Horcrux had left lasting effects on his core, and even with all the recovery potions, food, sex and sleep, he still needed more rest that usual.
He returned to consciousness slowly. It wasn't sound that woke him—the house was silent, insulated by the strongest wards in Britain. It was sensation.
Heat.
A wet, enveloping heat that was centred entirely around his groin.
Harry's mind was still foggy, the edges of his vision blurred with sleep, but his body reacted instantly. A groan rumbled deep in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He felt a weight on the bed, settling between his spread legs.
He cracked one eye open. The room was dim, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the morning sun, but a sliver of light cut across the bed, illuminating a cascade of silvery-blonde hair.
'Narcissa?'
His mind supplied the name instinctively. The memory of her on the table, the desperate, clawing passion they had shared before dinner, rose to the front of his mind.
But as his vision sharpened, he realized the shade was wrong. This wasn't the pale, icy gold of the Malfoy matriarch. This was liquid moonlight. This was ethereal.
The head bobbed, the hair swaying like a silken curtain, and Harry gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily off the mattress.
"Putain," a voice purred against his skin, the vibration travelling straight down his nerve endings.
Harry's eyes snapped fully open.
Fleur Delacour was kneeling between his legs.
She was a vision of debauched elegance. She wore nothing but a thin, silk robe that had slipped off her shoulders, pooling around her elbows, leaving the creamy expanse of her back and the curve of her breasts exposed to the cool air. But she didn't seem cold. She seemed to be burning.
Her hands were gripping his thighs, her nails digging into the muscle, holding him in place. Her head bowed over his erection, her technique agonizingly slow, impossibly skilful.
"Fleur?" Harry choked out, his voice thick with sleep and lust.
She paused, lifting her head.
The Veela allure hit him like a physical blow. Her eyes were a piercing, electric blue, glowing with a predatory hunger that made his heart hammer against his ribs. Her lips were slick, swollen and red, wrapped around a teasing smile that was equal parts arrogance and invitation. A strand of silver hair stuck to the corner of her mouth; she brushed it away with an impatient flick of her hand, never breaking eye contact.
"You are awake, 'Arry," she whispered. Her French accent was thicker than usual, a husky rasp that curled around his name. "Good. It is no fun if you are sleeping."
"What... what are you doing?" Harry asked, though the answer was excessively obvious. His hands gripped the sheets, his knuckles turning white.
Fleur laughed, a low, throaty sound. She crawled up his body slightly, ignoring his question, her gaze dropping to admire her handiwork.
"You have been asleep for a while," she murmured, running a hot hand up his torso, tracing the jagged line of the new scar Greyback had given him. "Ze magic... it pours off you, 'Arry. Even in your sleep. It calls to me."
She leaned down, her tongue darting out to taste the skin over his hip bone. Harry shuddered, his abdominal muscles contracting sharply.
"Fleur, what—"
She looked up at him, her expression shifting. The playful seduction hardened into something more intense, something competitive.
"Mother saw 'er," Fleur hissed softly, her eyes narrowing. "That old woman. Narcissa."
Harry blinked, the fog clearing further. "She told..."
"I saw the way ze walks around this 'ouse now," Fleur said, her voice dripping with disdain. "Like ze owns it. Like ze owns you."
She moved back down, her hands circling his hardening length, stroking him with a rhythm that made Harry's breath hitch.
"Ze thinks because ze is a Black, because ze is old... ze thinks ze has claimed the prize," Fleur muttered, mostly to herself. She looked up at Harry through her long, pale lashes. "Ze thinks ze can satisfy a wizard of your power?"
Fleur scoffed. "Ze is dust and old parchment. I am fire, 'Arry. I am Veela."
She leaned in close, her warm breath ghosting over the sensitive head of his cock. Harry's hips twitched, his resolve crumbling under the sheer sensory overload. The magic in the room was spiking, reacting to his arousal and her allure. The shadows in the corners seemed to lengthen, watching.
"I am not letting zat old hag pull ahead," Fleur whispered, a competitive purr that sent a jolt of electricity down Harry's spine.
Before Harry could form a response, before he could process the sheer absurdity and hotness of Fleur Delacour engaging in a sexual turf war with Narcissa Malfoy, she descended.
This time, there was no hesitation.
She took him into her mouth with a relentless enthusiasm that robbed Harry of the ability to speak. It wasn't tentative. It was her claiming her position. Her tongue swirled, hot and wet, teasing the tip before she took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate him with a skill that spoke of determination.
"Oh, god," Harry groaned, his head falling back against the pillows.
The sensation was blinding. The combination of the Veela allure, which projected waves of pure, focused desire directly into his brain, and the physical reality of her mouth was overwhelming. She hummed against him, the vibration driving him mad. Her hands weren't idle; one gripped the base of him, guiding, while the other wandered up to cup his balls, fondling them with a gentle, rhythmic pressure.
Harry looked down. The sight was seared into his memory instantly. The curve of Fleur's cheek, the hollow of her throat as she bobbed up and down, the fan of her silver hair spread across his thighs. Her blue eyes were open, locked onto his, watching his face for every micro-expression of pleasure.
She wasn't just servicing him; she was studying him. She was learning exactly what made him tick, what made him gasp, what made his hips jerk upward.
He reached down, his hands tangling in her hair. He meant to push her away, or at least that's what his conscience whispered, but his body betrayed him. Instead of pushing, he gripped her head, guiding her, establishing a rhythm.
Fleur moaned around him, a muffled sound of approval. She picked up the pace, her head moving faster. The suction was incredible, a tight, hot vacuum that felt like it was drawing the soul right out of his body.
"Fleur," he gasped, his voice ragged. "Fleur, fuck, I'm close."
She didn't stop. She didn't slow down. If anything, she doubled her efforts. She pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, her lips glistening.
"Give it to me," she commanded, her voice raw. "Do not 'old back, My Lord. Show me your power."
The title—My Lord—used with that thick French accent, shattered the last of his control. It was the same title Narcissa had used, but where Narcissa whispered it with reverence, Fleur pleaded for it with passion.
Harry growled, his hips snapping forward. He buried himself in her mouth, deep, hitting the back of her throat. Fleur gagged; her mouth vibrating as she moaned in gratitude, her eyes fluttering shut as she drank him down.
The release hit him like a truckload of pleasure. It started at the base of his spine and exploded outward, a white-hot explosion that made his toes curl and his back arch off the mattress. He groaned, a long, guttural sound, as he poured himself into her, his hands gripping her head, pushing her down as the base of his cock touched her perfect, pouty lips.
Fleur swallowed everything. She milked him dry, her tongue working tirelessly until the last tremors of his orgasm faded into the heavy silence of the room.
Harry collapsed back onto the pillows, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. The room felt charged, the air tasting of ozone and sex.
Fleur pulled back slowly. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, cat-like and satisfied. She sat back on her heels between his legs, pulling her silk robe back up onto her shoulders, though she didn't bother to tie it.
She looked at Harry, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. Her skin was flushed a lovely shade of pink, and her eyes were bright, the Veela magic slowly receding from a boil to a simmer.
"Voila," she whispered.
Harry stared at her, his brain slowly rebooting. "Fleur... that was..."
"Better zan ze Malfoy?" she asked, arching an elegant eyebrow.
Harry let out a breathless laugh, running a hand over his face. "Different. You're both... bloody hell. You're trying to kill me."
Fleur crawled up the bed, moving with the predatory grace of a lioness. She settled beside him, resting her head on his chest, her fingers idly tracing his newly developed biceps.
"We are not trying to kill you, 'Arry," she murmured, her voice vibrating against his ribs. "We are simply ensuring that the Lord of the 'ouse is... properly attended to."
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. The playfulness was back, but beneath it lay that steely core of determination.
"Ze offers you politics. Ze offers you cunning," Fleur said softly. "But I offer you fire. I offer you passion. And I offer you loyalty."
She leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.
"Do not forget it," she whispered.
The door to the bedroom clicked.
Fleur didn't move. Harry tensed.
The door pushed open, and Narcissa Malfoy stepped in. She was carrying a silver tray with a pot of tea and two cups. She was dressed impeccably in high-collared robes of emerald green, her hair pinned up in a severe, elegant style.
She stopped. Her grey eyes took in the scene instantly. Harry, dishevelled and naked under the sheet. Fleur, wearing nothing but a silk robe, draped over him, her hair messy, her lips swollen. The scent of sex in the room was undeniable.
Narcissa didn't drop the tray. She didn't blush. Her expression didn't change, save for a slight, icy narrowing of her eyes.
"I see you are awake, My Lord," Narcissa said coolly, her voice perfectly level. "And I see you have... pests."
Fleur sat up, not bothering to cover herself. She glared at Narcissa, her blue eyes flashing. "I was merely tending to 'is needs, Madame. Something that requires stamina. Perhaps too much for someone of your... vintage."
Harry felt the temperature in the room drop ten degrees. He pulled the sheet higher, suddenly feeling very exposed in the middle of a war zone that had nothing to do with Voldemort.
Narcissa placed the tray on the bedside table with a deliberate clink, a bit harder than her usual placing. She straightened up, smoothing her robes, and turned her gaze on Fleur. It was a look that could strip paint.
"Experience, my dear, is about quality, not flailing enthusiasm," Narcissa said with a terrifyingly polite smile. "But do run along. I believe your mother is looking for you. Something about peeling potatoes. Suitable work, I imagine."
Fleur hissed—actually hissed—her fingers curling into claws for a second before she composed herself. She looked down at Harry, gave him a wink that promised unspeakable things for later, and slid off the bed.
"Au revoir, 'Arry," Fleur said, sashaying toward the door. As she passed Narcissa, she purposely bumped shoulders with her. "Try not to bore 'im to sleep."
Fleur vanished into the hallway.
Narcissa stood still for a moment, staring at the empty doorway. Then, she let out a small, uncharacteristic huff of air and turned to Harry. The ice melted from her expression, replaced by a look of possessive hunger that mirrored Fleur's, though it was darker, heavier.
"Did she behave?" Narcissa asked softly.
Harry swallowed dryly. "She... made her point."
Narcissa's lips quirked. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Then I suppose I shall have to work twice as hard tonight to remind you who this house—and its Lord—truly belongs to."
She poured a cup of tea and handed it to him.
"Drink, my lord," she commanded gently. "You need your strength. It seems you are going to be a very busy man."
Harry took the cup, the china rattling slightly in the saucer. He looked at the closed door, then at Narcissa's smouldering grey eyes.
Outside, the world was falling apart. Voldemort was hunting. Bellatrix was sharpening her knife. The Ministry was trembling.
But in here? In the heart of Grimmauld Place?
Harry took a sip of tea.
It was perfect.
The air in the room, already thick with unspoken desires, grew heavy, charged with a new, potent energy. With a deliberate, unhurried motion, she reached for the elegant clasp of her robes. The silk slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her feet, revealing the delicate lace of her chemise beneath, a tantalizing glimpse of her tits teased Harry.
She moved with feline grace, gliding towards the vast bed that dominated the chamber. Her eyes, luminous in the dim light, never left his as she settled between his legs, her hands drifting out to caress his now hardening length. Her voice, velvety and sensuous, that promised everything, reached his ears. "Will you not serve me my reward, my Lord?"
Harry's grin widened, a knowing light in his emerald eyes as he set the teacup aside, the clink echoing softly in the charged silence. "Yes," he said, his voice a low rumble, filled with a newfound confidence that thrilled her.
"I think I am."
Author's Notes
Better than before? Thoughts?
Write them down.
See you soon.