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 13
~ Hermione Granger ~
The air in the cramped flat above the shop in muggle London did not smell of magic. It smelled of boiled cabbage, damp wool, and the was filled with the clouds of fear that had covered the entirety of the British Isles.
Hermione Granger sat at the chipped kitchen table, her posture rigid, the line of her spine right stiff with tension that had not relaxed in weeks. Before her lay a chaotic spread of maps of the British countryside marked with red ink, crumpled clippings from the Daily Prophet that screamed of disappearances and deaths, and a half-empty mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.
She stared at the ink stains on her fingers, the smudge of fading black against her pale skin looking too much like a bruise.
"He's not coming," Ron Weasley's voice broke the heavy silence. He was pacing the small strip of rug between the sofa and the fireplace, his movements jerky and restless. He had grown gaunt with worry, the freckles standing out starkly against his greyish complexion. "Kingsley said he'd be here by seven. It's past eight."
Hermione didn't look up. She couldn't bring herself to look at Ron. Not really. Not since the tent. Not since the moment they had disapparated away, leaving Harry standing alone in the clearing. The memory of that moment was a jagged shard of glass in her mind, turning every interaction with Ron into a painful reminder of their shared failure.
"He will come," Remus Lupin said from the corner. The werewolf looked older than his years, the grey in his hair having conquered the sandy brown almost entirely. He sat in a worn armchair, his hand resting protectively on the knee of his wife.
Nymphadora Tonks—she refused to be called Nymphadora, but even her defiance seemed muted these days—sat on the sofa, her body swollen with the late stages of pregnancy. Her usually vibrant, bubble-gum pink hair was a dull, listless mouse-brown, lank and lifeless against her pale face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy from crying or lack of sleep, or perhaps both.
"Dad hasn't answered the two-way mirror in three days," Tonks whispered, her voice cracking. She didn't look at anyone; her gaze fixed on a loose thread in the rug. "Mum hasn't sent a Patronus. The wards... I can't feel the wards anymore, Remus."
"The charms on the safe house are strong, Dora," Remus soothed, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his own terror. "Ted is a resourceful man. Andromeda is a daughter of the House of Black. They are likely just under deep cover. It's smart protocol."
"Protocol," Tonks spat the word, a flash of her old fire sparking briefly before dying out. "People are dying, Remus. Protocol doesn't stop Killing Curses."
Hermione closed her eyes, the ambient despair of the room pressing down on her chest like a physical weight. The Order of the Phoenix was shrinking. Every meeting, there were fewer chairs. Every report brought news of another safe house compromised, another ally vanished, another muggle-born registration commission atrocity.
They were losing. It was a slow, agonizing suffocation.
And somewhere out there, Harry was alone.
The thought made Hermione's breath hitch. She had tried to track him. She had tried to anticipate his movements, plotting potential Horcrux locations on her maps, trying to think like him. She had even delved deep into research about bypassing the Fidelius Charm to get a letter across with no luck.
But she realized with a sickening lurch that she didn't know how Harry thought anymore. The boy she had lectured about homework, the boy she had hugged after the Triwizard Tournament... he was a ghost.
The wards of the flat hummed. A low, vibrating tremor that rattled the teacups on the shelf.
Everyone froze. Ron's wand was in his hand in a heartbeat, pointed at the door. Remus stood, placing himself between the entrance and Tonks. Hermione gripped her wand, her knuckles white.
There was a heavy pause for a few seconds, even the sounds of their breathing ceasing.
Then, two rhythmic knocks. Pause. Two knocks. Pause Three knocks.
"It's Kingsley," Remus exhaled, lowering his wand but not holstering it. He moved to the door, undoing the series of intricate locking charms and bolts.
The door swung open, bringing with it a gust of cold, wet London air.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped inside.
Usually, the auror's presence was a calming force. But tonight, the mountain of a man with a voice that reverberated through their bones, Kingsley looked like a mountain that had undergone a landslide.
His blue robes were scorched at the hem. His breathing laboured, and his gold earring, usually glinting in the light, seemed dull. But it was his eyes that terrified Hermione. They were wide, haunted, and filled with a profound, bewildered shock.
He didn't speak immediately. He stepped into the room, re-securing the wards behind him with a flick of his wand that was too sharp, too hasty.
"Kingsley?" Tonks asked, pulling herself up on the sofa, her hands clutching her belly. "What is it? Is it... is it the Ministry?"
Kingsley turned to face them. He looked at Tonks, and for a moment, Hermione saw his composure crack. He looked like a man who had to deliver a death sentence to a child.
"I have come from Northen London," Kingsley said, his deep voice rumbling through the small room, devoid of its usual warmth. "From the safe house."
Tonks let out a small, strangled sound. "Dad?"
Kingsley closed his eyes for a brief second, gathering his resolve. "The house was attacked, Nymphadora. A massive raid. It... the wards were breached before they could signal for aid."
"Are they..." Remus started, stepping forward to catch his wife as she swayed.
"Ted is dead," Kingsley said softly. The words hung in the air, heavy and final. "We found his body in the garden. He... it was quick. A Killing Curse. He didn't suffer."
A wail tore from Tonks' throat, a sound of pure, animalistic grief as her trained auror composure lay forgotten, that shattered the stillness of the room. She collapsed into Remus's arms, sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking with the force of it. Remus held her, his own face a mask of sorrow, tears tracking silently down his scarred cheeks.
Hermione felt tears prick her own eyes, a wave of nausea rolling in her gut. Ted Tonks. The kind, jovial man who had fixed Harry's glasses once with a wink. Dead. Just like that.
"And Mum?" Tonks gasped between sobs, clutching Remus's robes. "Where is Mum? Is she... is she..."
Kingsley hesitated. He looked at Hermione, then at Ron, as if gauging their ability to handle what came next.
"Andromeda is missing," Kingsley stated.
"Taken?" Ron asked, horror dawning on his face. "If the Death Eaters took her... if they took her to... you know... the Malfoys..."
"We don't know," Kingsley said, and his voice took on a strange, hard edge. "Because the scene... the scene does not match a capture. It matches a slaughter."
Hermione frowned, wiping her eyes. The analyst in her, the part of her brain that solved logic puzzles to survive, latched onto the anomaly in Kingsley's tone. "What do you mean, Kingsley? If Ted is dead and Andromeda is missing, surely they took her?"
Kingsley walked to the table, staring down at Hermione's useless maps. He placed a large, charred piece of wood on the table. It smelled of ozone and sulfur.
"We found Ted," Kingsley repeated. "But we also found six Death Eaters."
"Six?" Remus looked up, distraction warring with his grief. "Andromeda and Ted were skilled, but... twelve?"
"They were dead," Kingsley said. "All of them. Scattered across the lawn and the living room. It wasn't a duel, Remus. It was an extermination."
The room fell silent, save for Tonks' ragged breathing.
"Who?" Hermione whispered. "Who killed six Death Eaters?"
Kingsley looked up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "That is the question the Dark Lord is currently screaming at his followers. My sources in the Ministry... the whispers are chaotic. Voldemort is furious. He is in a rage that has the entire dark faction and the Ministry trembling."
"Why?" Ron asked. "Because he lost some foot soldiers?"
"Because of who he lost," Kingsley said. He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a slender piece of wood. It was dark, curved, and rigid.
He placed it on the table next to the charred debris.
Hermione recognized it instantly from the descriptions Harry had given, from the nightmares that plagued Neville and the dossiers they had on high-ranking death eaters.
"Ebony," Kingsley murmured. "Dragon heartstring. Twelve and three-quarter inches."
"Bellatrix," Tonks whispered, staring at the wand with a mixture of hatred and disbelief. "That's Bellatrix's wand."
"We found it on the floor of the living room," Kingsley said. "Surrounded by the bodies of her squad. But Bellatrix was not there. No body. No sign of retreat."
"She lost her wand?" Ron's mouth fell open. "Bellatrix Lestrange doesn't just... lose her wand. She loves that thing more than she loves torturing people."
"Exactly," Kingsley said grimly. "Which means she was disarmed. Or incapacitated. Or worse."
Hermione's mind was racing, gears moving faster with each second. Six dead Death Eaters. Bellatrix Lestrange, the most feared witch in Britain, vanished, her wand left behind as a trophy or debris. Ted Tonks dead, but Andromeda missing—not dead alongside him.
"The magic," Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly. "Kingsley, describe the magic. How did the Death Eaters die?"
Kingsley looked at her with a sombre respect. "It was... brutal. Efficient. Not the work of the Order. We stun. We bind. We fight to imprison and survive."
He took a breath. "Three were crushed against the walls by a concussive force strong enough to crack the foundation of the house. Two were decapitated by a cutting curse so fine it was invisible. One... one was incinerated. Burned to ash. Beyond that, the entire house was a mess with extreme collateral damage."
"But the spell work," Remus pressed, his auror instincts kicking in through the grief. "Was it Dark?"
"It was powerful," Kingsley corrected. "There were traces of elemental magic. Lightning. Fire. But not Fiendfyre. Controlled fire. And... traces of ancient wards being manipulated. Whoever did this didn't just fight there. They dominated."
"Could it be someone from outside?" Ron suggested. "Foreign wizards? Mercenaries?"
"The number of mercenaries that can take on Bellatrix Lestrange and win are fewer than the number of clerks in the Ministry," Kingsley said dryly. "And they certainly don't bother saving Andromeda Tonks while leaving Ted's body treated with... respect."
"Respect?" Tonks asked, her head snapping up.
"Ted was covered," Kingsley said gently. "Someone had transfigured a sheet to cover him. It was a small act, but... distinct. And don't worry Tonks, his body has been replaced by my allies in the Ministry. We shall keep him with respect until it is safe enough for you to carry out his last rites."
Hermione felt a cold chill run down her spine. It started at the base of her neck and spread outward, numbing her fingertips.
A sheet. A moment of kindness amidst a slaughter of such magnitude.
She remembered the look in Harry's eyes in the forest—the cold, distant fury she had seen only briefly. She remembered the report of Fenrir Greyback's death weeks ago—incinerated in a forest in Wiltshire, his pack decimated.
"It can't be," Hermione whispered, the realization sitting heavy in her gut like a stone.
Kingsley looked at her. He didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes confirmed he was thinking the exact same thing.
"What?" Ron looked between them. "What can't be?"
"Harry," Hermione said. The name felt strange in her mouth, like a foreign word.
"Harry?" Ron scoffed, a nervous, high-pitched laugh escaping him. "Hermione, come on. Harry's good, yeah, but... taking out six Death Eaters? Beating Bellatrix? He's... he's just Harry. He knows Expelliarmus."
"He knew Expelliarmus when we left him," Hermione corrected, her voice hollow. "That was months ago, Ron. He's been alone. Alone with the Horcrux hunt. Alone with the war."
"If it is him," Kingsley said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, "then he has ascended to a level we cannot hope to match."
Kingsley began to pace the small room, his shadow stretching long against the peeling wallpaper. "We know the Potter and Black seats in the Wizengamot activated a few days ago. We felt the shift in the magic. We assumed he was just claiming his inheritance to access vaults or safe houses."
"But this..." Kingsley gestured to the report. "To walk into a Death Eater raid, out-duel Voldemort's right-hand, slaughter half a dozen dark wizards, and vanish with the target? That isn't a student fighting for his life. That is a man who has decided to put a stop to this atrocity."
"He saved Mum," Tonks whispered, a flicker of desperate hope lighting her eyes. "If it was Harry... he saved Mum. He has her."
"We believe so," Kingsley nodded. "The intelligence suggests Bellatrix is gone for good—captured or dead. And Andromeda is not in Ministry custody. Which means she is with the third party."
"The third party," Remus murmured, rubbing his face with his hands. "The Order. The Death Eaters. And Harry Potter."
Hermione looked down at her ink-stained hands. She felt a wave of crushing guilt, so potent it made her dizzy. They had abandoned him. They had unknowingly left him in the woods because they were influenced by the horcrux and scared and jealous. They had left him to die.
And he hadn't died.
He had become something else.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture Harry. But the image of the boy with the dirty glasses and the shy smile was gone. In its place, she saw a figure standing amidst the ruin of a burning house, wand raised, surrounded by bodies, stepping over the wreckage of the war they were supposed to be fighting together.
"He's using lethal force," Hermione said quietly. "He's not using Stunning Spells anymore."
"No," Kingsley agreed. "He isn't. And frankly... looking at the state of the Ministry... looking at Ted..." Kingsley's voice broke slightly. "Perhaps that is what is required."
"But it's Harry!" Ron insisted, looking panicked. "He's not... he's not a killer! If he starts killing, is he any better than them?"
"He saved my mother," Tonks snapped, turning on Ron with sudden ferocity. "He killed the people who murdered my father! Don't you dare judge him, Ron Weasley. Not while you're sitting here safe in a flat!"
Ron shrank back, his face turning red.
"We can't say for sure," Remus interjected, trying to keep the peace, though he looked deeply shaken. "But if Harry has Bellatrix... if he has Andromeda... he is holding cards that even Dumbledore never held."
"Where is he?" Hermione asked, looking at the map. "If he's this powerful... if he's doing this... why hasn't he contacted us?"
Kingsley stopped pacing. He looked at Hermione with a sad, pitying expression.
"Why would he, Hermione?" Kingsley asked gently.
The question hung in the air, brutal and unanswerable.
'Because we left him,' Hermione thought. 'Because we broke the trust. Because when he needed us most, we chose comfort over loyalty.'
"He is operating from a position of old power," Kingsley continued. "Grimmauld Place is a fortress. With him fully claimed the Black Lordship, the wards there will be impenetrable to anyone he does not invite. The Fidelius is likely still active, but keyed to him alone now. We are locked out."
Hermione felt the tears finally spill over. It wasn't just grief for Ted. It was grief for the friendship she had destroyed. She had always thought she was the smart one, the logical one, the one Harry needed to survive.
She realized now, with a terrifying clarity, that Harry didn't need her. He had surpassed her. He had looked into the abyss of the war alone, and instead of blinking in fear, he had reached in and let it evolve him.
"He's going to fight Voldemort," Hermione whispered.
"What?" Ron asked.
"He's going to fight Voldemort," Hermione said, her voice trembling. "But he's going to do it alone. And when he comes out on the other side... I don't think he's going to be the Harry we knew."
The wind rattled the windowpane, a harsh, scratching sound against the glass.
Kingsley gathered his cloak, preparing to leave. "I must return to the Ministry. I have to play the part of the confused Auror. But be careful. If Voldemort finds out it was Harry... the hunt will intensify."
"Let it," Tonks said fiercely, wiping her tears. "Let him come for Harry. If Harry can beat Bellatrix... maybe You-Know-Who should be the one who's afraid."
Kingsley nodded once, a grave acknowledgement, and turned on his heel. With a soft crack, he was gone.
The silence returned to the flat, but it was different now. It wasn't the heaviness desperation anymore. It was the soothing silence of a storm front moving in.
Hermione stared at the clipping of Fenrir Greyback's death. She looked at the report of the Wiltshire raid. She traced the invisible line connecting them.
A shadow was growing over Wizarding Britain. It wasn't the skull-shaped shadow of the Dark Mark. It was the shadow of a stag, vast and antlers sharp as blades, casting a warm light that promised protection to the innocent and annihilation to others.
Harry Potter had become a king running his crusade against the evil wizard. And Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, was just a subject left behind in the cold, wondering if she would ever be granted an audience again.
~ Harry Potter ~
Harry Potter stood in the centre of the scorched duelling chambers of Grimmauld Place, his chest heaving with exhaustion. Sweat slickened his skin, plastering his dark, messy hair to his forehead. He was shirtless, his body a map of scars—some old, earned in the graveyard or the Chamber of Secrets, and some new, badges of honour from the brutal training regimen he had imposed upon himself since claiming his inheritance, and his vigilante excursions.
In his right hand, the wand of holly and phoenix feather hummed with a residual heat, vibrating against his palm. The tip glowed with a fading, sickly red light — the afterimage of a particularly nasty curse from the Black family grimoire he had just mastered. It was a spell designed to grow iron spikes within the body of the target, from the iron that flowed through their body in their blood.
"Enough," Harry rasped, his voice rough in the silence of the room.
He lowered his arm, and the oppressive weight of the magic in the room seemed to exhale along with him. The light died, leaving the room illuminated only by the enchanted torches that flickered along the walls.
He was exhausted. Not the kind of exhaustion that came from a Quidditch match or a long day of classes, but a bone-deep, marrow-seeping weariness that felt as much spiritual as it was physical.
It had been a day since the ritual. Twenty-four hours since they had shattered the chains binding Bellatrix Lestrange to the monster who had enslaved her.
The memory of it still flashed behind his eyes whenever he blinked—the screaming shadow of the pseudo-Horcrux, the blinding light of the cleansing fire, and the look in Bellatrix's eyes when she had finally, truly woken up.
It was an undeniable victory.
They had struck a blow against Voldemort that the Dark Lord would feel in the very fabric of his mutilated soul.
But victory had a cost.
Bellatrix was alive, but she was fragile, her mind piecing itself back together after decades of torture and possession. She was currently tucked away in the guest wing, guarded by the fiercest protectors Harry could imagine she could have.
Her sisters.
Narcissa and Andromeda were with her constantly, the triad of Black sisters healing their broken bonds. Narcissa, with her calm efficiency and healing prowess, and Andromeda, with her fierce, maternal warmth, had barely left the room.
Harry wiped his brow with the back of his hand, grimacing at the slick feeling of sweat. He needed a shower.
He banished the ruined training dummies with a lazy flick of his wand, sending the splintered wood back to the corner of the room to repair itself, and turned toward the door. As he walked through the corridors of Grimmauld Place, he was struck again by how much the house had changed.
Under his Lordship, and under the diligent, if somewhat terrifying, command of Narcissa, the house was no longer a rundown mausoleum. The grime of centuries had been scrubbed away. The magical lamps burned with a clean, golden light. The shadows, once predatory, now seemed to bow to him as he passed, recognizing the magical signature of the Lord who walked their halls.
He climbed the stairs and as he passed the library and paused.
The door was ajar, and the soft, golden glow of reading lamps spilled out into the hallway. He could sense Fleur in there, her magical signature interwoven with her innate allure made it easy to keep track of her. It was a stark contrast to the heavy, oppressive weight of the Black family magic.
Harry smiled faintly. Fleur Delacour had taken to the Black library with a voracious appetite. She was combing through texts on ancient warding and curses, determined to be an asset, determined to help the man that had taken her in. He had assigned Kreacher to watch over her, a precaution that was supposed to be about her safety, with his knowledge about the dark objects and deadly magics that plagued these walls.
The elf on the other hand, had decidedly stepped up for different reasons. Kreacher would sooner cut off his own ears than let a "half-breed" mishandle the sacred texts of his late Mistress, though his attitude toward Fleur had softened considerably since she had helped cleanse Bellatrix.
Knowing she was safe, and likely deep in study about some obscure curse-breaking theory, Harry continued his ascent to the top floor.
The Master Suite.
It was his sanctuary. A space that Narcissa had prepared specifically for him, clearing out the remnants of her ancestors and filling it with heavy mahogany furniture, velvet drapes, and a bed large enough to sleep four people comfortably.
Harry pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside, immediately beginning to unbuckle the belt of his training trousers.
"I need a shower, a Firewhisky, and twelve hours of sleep," he muttered to himself, kicking the door shut with his heel.
He walked straight into the adjoining bathroom, a cavernous space of black marble and silver fixtures. He turned the taps of the shower on full blast, adjusting the temperature until it was just shy of scalding. He stripped off his trousers and boxers, leaving them in a pile, and stepped under the spray.
The water hit him like a physical blow, drumming against his tense muscles. He groaned, leaning his forehead against the cool tiles of the shower wall, letting the water sluice over his back. He stood there for a long time, watching the water swirl pink with the blood from minor cuts and grey with the dust of the training room before it finally ran clear.
He washed methodically, scrubbing his skin until it tingled, trying to scour away the lingering tension of the last few days. The weight of his new titles—Lord Potter, Lord Black—sat heavy on his shoulders. He was responsible for them all now. For Narcissa, for Andromeda, for Bellatrix, for Fleur and her mother. He was the pin holding this strange, makeshift family together against the coming storm.
He turned off the water and grabbed a thick, fluffy towel, wrapping it loosely around his waist. He ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking out the excess water like a dog, and stepped back into the bedroom.
The room was dim, lit only by the low fire crackling in the grate and the moonlight filtering through the enchanted windows. He was halfway to the wardrobe to find fresh clothes when he stopped dead.
The air in the bedroom had changed.
The air in the bedroom had shifted. The sharp tang of sweat was replaced by the heavy, sweet scent of sandalwood, expensive perfume, and the unmistakable arousal of a woman.
"You work way too 'ard, Monsieur Potter."
The voice was low, vibrating with a thick French accent that turned his name into a dirty invitation.
Harry didn't jump. He simply turned, his movements slow and deliberate. He wasn't the scrawny boy from the cupboard anymore; he was a Lord of multiple Ancient Houses, and he carried that power like a heavy cloak.
Sitting in the velvet armchair by the fire was Apolline Delacour. She had her legs crossed, showing off a length of thigh that seemed to go on forever. She was wearing a robe of sheer, icy-blue silk that might as well have been made of transparent latex. It clung to her curves, highlighting the heavy weight of her breasts, the curves of her figure and back, and the shadow between her legs.
"Apolline," Harry said, his voice deep and completely steady. He didn't bother tightening the towel around his waist. If she wanted a show, he'd give her one. "I didn't expect a guest tonight. Is there trouble?"
Apolline's eyes traced the lines of his body, lingering on his bulge before meeting his gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated hunger. She stood up, the translucent silk flowing over her skin like water.
"Non, 'Arry," she purred, walking toward him with a slow, predatory sway of her hips. "Everything is quiet. Fleur is asleep. Narcissa is wiz 'er sisters. Ze 'ouse is silent, and I was... lonely."
She stopped right in front of him. Her Veela allure hit him like a physical wave—not the frantic buzz of Fleur, but the deep, intoxicating pull of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
"I watched you from ze window," she whispered, her hand reaching out to trace the corded muscle of his chest. "You train like a beast. You carry ze weight of ze world on zese shoulders. It makes zem so... stiff."
"I have a war to win, Apolline," Harry replied, his voice a low rumble. He didn't pull back. He watched her, his green eyes dark glowing with a dominant fire.
"Even a King needs to be serviced, 'Arry," she murmured. Her fingers kneaded his pectorals, her palms slicking against his damp skin. "You are too tense. It blocks your magic. Let me 'elp you. I am a 'ealer. I know ze arts of ze body."
Harry looked down at her. She was gorgeous—a timeless, ripe beauty. "What kind of help are we talking about?"
"A massage," she said, her thumbs circling his collarbones. "Let me work ze tension out of you. You saved my daughter. You saved my family. Let me give something back to you."
Harry let out a short, dark chuckle. He knew exactly where this was going. He wasn't some naive kid she could play with; he was the one in control here. "Just a massage?"
Apolline's smile turned wicked, her eyes flashing with lust. "For now. Get on ze bed, 'Arry."
Harry didn't hesitate. He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor as he stood before her in his full, rising glory. Apolline's breath hitched, her gaze fixated on his length. He walked to the massive four-poster bed and lay face down, his muscles rippling under the firelight.
"Perfect," she breathed.
He felt the mattress sink as she climbed on. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood filled the air as she uncorked a bottle of warm oil. She draped a thin sheet over his ass, but it did nothing to hide the power in his frame, nor the arousal of the woman hovering above him. Then, she straddled him.
Harry felt her weight settle on his thighs, the heat of her pussy radiating through the thin silk of her robe and the sheet. Her hands, slick with oil, began to work his shoulders.
"You carry so much," she whispered, her accent thick and lulling. "Ze Lordship... ze mission... let it go, 'Arry. Give it all to me."
Her thumbs dug deep into his traps, finding every knot and grinding them into submission. It felt incredible. Harry groaned into the pillow, his body finally starting to loosen under her expert touch. But the massage was just a prelude.
As she worked her way down his spine, Apolline leaned forward. Harry's eyes snapped open as he felt two heavy, soft globes press firmly against his back. She wasn't just using her hands anymore. She was rubbing her chest against him, her hardened nipples dragging across his oiled skin through the sheer silk.
"Apolline," Harry growled, his voice a warning.
"Shh, my King," she breathed into his ear, her hot breath making him shiver. "Does zis not feel good? I can feel your power... it calls to my blood. We Veela crave ze alpha. We crave ze powerful."
She ground her hips down, her pelvis grinding against his ass. A low, vibrating moan escaped her. "I saw you in ze ritual room. I saw you command ze magic. I want to be useful to ze Lord of Black."
She moved her hands down to his biceps, gripping them tight as she rubbed her breasts harder against his back.
"You are so strong," she cooed. "A true Lord. A King. I saw what you did to the werewolf. It made me so wet, 'Arry."
Harry's blood began to boil, the exhaustion giving way to a surge of testosterone and desire.
"You like that?" she teased, nipping at his earlobe. "You like having a Veela matriarch serving you? Rubbing her body on you like a bitch in heat?"
The dirty talk was a shock, a stark contrast to her elegant exterior, and it hit Harry like a punch to the gut. It aroused him more than he thought possible.
"I want to please you," she whispered, her voice trembling with her own arousal as she repeated her thoughts. "I want to be useful to the Lord of Black. I want to take your stress, your anger, your seed. I want you to use me."
The dirty talk was the final straw. He wasn't going to let her tease him anymore.
With a guttural snarl, Harry exploded into motion. He twisted, his hands catching her waist and digging into her soft flesh as he flipped her onto her back with effortless strength.
Apolline let out a sharp cry of surprise that immediately dissolved into a needy moan as she hit the mattress. Harry was over her in a second, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. Her robe had fallen open, and he was staring down at her, naked and dominant.
"You want to be used, Apolline?" Harry growled, his voice a dangerous baritone. "You want to see what being with a Lord feels like?"
Apolline looked up at him; her eyes glazed with pure, submissive ecstasy. She writhed under him, her legs wrapping around his waist. "Yes! Fuck me, 'Arry! Take what you want!"
Harry didn't waste another second on words. He crashed his mouth against hers, a claiming, brutal kiss that tasted of desire and raw attraction. He devoured her, his tongue conquering hers while his free hand roamed over her body, cupping her heavy breasts and teasing her nipples until they were hard as marbles.
He moved down, his hand sliding between her thighs. She was soaking, her juices slicking her inner thighs. "You're fucking dripping for me," he noted darkly.
"Always for you!" she gasped, arching her back.
Harry didn't go for her pussy yet. Instead, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her up, forcing her to sit against the headboard. He knelt before her and grabbed her heavy breasts, bunching them together until they overflowed between his hands. He took his cock, thick and throbbing with a dark, pulsing need, and began to slide it between her oil-slicked tits.
"Oh, Mon Dieu!" Apolline shrieked, her head snapping back. "Yes! Fuck my breasts, 'Arry! Paint me with your power!"
Harry used her like a toy, sliding his length through the deep, slick cleavage she provided. The friction of her soft skin and the warmth of the oil made him groan. He slapped his cock against her flushed skin, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"You like this, don't you? You elegant bitch," Harry taunted, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "Waiting in my room like a whore in heat, begging for your Lord to fill you."
"Yes!" she wailed, her accent thickening with lust. "I am your slut, 'Arry! Fill my pussy with your royal seed! I want to taste your magic!"
Harry let go of her breasts and spread her legs wide, pinning her knees to her chest. He looked at her dripping, swollen folds, her juices mixing with the massage oil. He positioned himself at her entrance and, without a word of warning, slammed into her.
He buried himself to the hilt in one powerful, violent motion. Apolline screamed, a raw sound of lust and agony, her head tossing back as her nails dug into his shoulders. "OH GOD! YES! FUCK ME!"
Harry set a punishing, rhythmic pace. His hips slapped against her ass with a wet, meaty thud, making her entire body jiggle and shake with every strike. He pounded into her with the force of a battering ram, driving deep enough to hit her womb, making her cry out in garbled, incoherent French. The heavy oak bedframe groaned and cracked under the force of his assault.
"Harder!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Fuck me harder! Give me all of it! Fill me wiz your seed, you rampaging brute! I want to feel you flood me! I want to be marked by ze alpha!"
Harry growled, his movements growing frantic and primal. He grabbed her hips, his fingers bruising her skin as he pulled her onto his cock with every thrust. His thumb found her clit, grinding against it with brutal precision as he railed her. The room was a cacophony of wet friction, the scent of sex, and her desperate, animalistic cries.
"Uuh...ughh..ughh..hugh..guh..uugh..ughh..guhh! Aaahhhh! Ooohhh yeahh....! Nnghh!~" She cried out, her mouth hanging agape, her eyes rolling back as she felt him buck into her body faster and faster.
But he wasn't finished exploring her yet. With a low growl, he pulled back, the sudden absence of his heat making her moan in protest. Before she could recover, he flipped her onto her stomach, shoving her face into the silk sheets and hiking her hips high.
He pinned her in a brutal prone-bone hold, leaving her no room to escape. His free hand reached down to hold her open, thumb pressing firmly into the crease at the base of her spine, while the other guided his cock back to her soaking entrance. The bed seemed smaller now, her body stretched and splayed so perfectly for him that she could feel the heat of his thighs brushing against her as he prepared to ruin her again.
As he began to slide back in, the pressure was staggering. Apolline felt him in her belly, in her hips, occupying the softest, most vulnerable spaces of her depths. "Ohh—g-god, it's so… deep…" she breathed, her voice catching on a long, involuntary moan. Her walls clung desperately to him, fluttering in a panicked rhythm of want, each pulse answered by the steady, primal throb of the length inside her.
Harry didn't hold back. Every inch forward felt like he was rearranging her insides like a madman possessed. The scent of her Veela musk, heightened by the friction and the heat, swirled in his lungs, making his blood spike.
The next push came with no mercy—the slow, unyielding drive of his hips as he buried himself to the hilt. Her ass pressed flush to his groin, the fullness making her entire frame lock up. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry before the sound tore out of her in a shaky, breathless moan. "Ahhh—nnnghh… ohh, f-fuck… it's all the way…"
He stayed there for a heartbeat, seated in her very core, letting her feel the impossible reality of his size. He leaned over her, his chest pressing into her back, his magic humming between their skin. "You're not going to forget this, Apolline," he whispered, his voice a jagged edge. "Every time you close your eyes, you're going to feel me right here."
The first withdrawal was agonizingly slow, a heavy, dragging pull that made her internal muscles clutch at him as if trying to keep him prisoner. When only the head was left inside, the sudden emptiness left her gasping. Then, he drove forward again, his hips snapping against her with an obscene smack that echoed through the room.
The room became a cacophony of wet friction and animalistic cries. Harry's movements grew frantic, his fingers bruising her hips as he pulled her back onto him with every thrust. His thumb found her clit from behind, grinding against the sensitive nub with brutal precision. Apolline was a wreck of sensation, her mind a haze of golden sparks and the heavy, musky heat of the man behind her.
"I'm going to fill you," Harry rasped, his jaw tight as his magic flared, engulfing them both in a warm, protective aura. "I'm going to mark you so deep you'll never forget who owns you."
"Yes! Seed me, 'Arry! Mark me wiz your magic!"
With a final, explosive roar, Harry slammed into her one last time, pinning her to the mattress as he hit his limit. He pumped wave after wave of hot, thick seed deep into her, his magic discharging in a blinding flash that felt like liquid fire in her veins. Apolline's body convulsed violently, her internal muscles clamping down on him like a vice as she hit a screaming, soul-shattering climax. Her toes curled, her fingers clawing at the sheets as she sobbed from the sheer intensity of the release.
They collapsed together, a tangled mess of sweat, oil, and cooling magic. Harry stayed buried inside her for a long moment, savouring the rhythmic pulsing of her walls as they tried to milk the last of him.
Eventually, he rolled off, pulling her into his side. Apolline looked absolutely wrecked—her silver hair was a tangled nest, her skin was flushed a deep, bruised pink, and a trail of his seed was already beginning to leak from her overfilled core.
"Better?" she whispered, a smug, exhausted smile playing on her lips as she nuzzled into his chest, her voice still a bit hoarse.
Harry chuckled, the dark fire in his eyes cooling into a satisfied ember. He kissed her forehead, his fingers tangling in her messy hair. "Much better, Apolline."
He lay there, feeling the deep, satisfying ache in his muscles and the grounding weight of the woman beside him. There were still challenges to face. A couple more Horcruxes and then Voldemort himself. He needed to move.
But tonight, he had found his release. And as Apolline curled into him, her hand resting over his heart, Harry finally let sleep take him.