A Quest for the Delacour Sisters
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All characters are adult and above 18.
"As all of you should 'ave learnt by now, ze foundation of zis post-war exchange ees cultural understanding," droned Madame Maxime to the small classroom of Beauxbatons exchange students gathered in a borrowed Hogwarts study room on the fourth floor. "For zis week's 'omework I want each of you to select one element of British wizarding life and immerse yourself in eet. I expect a five 'undred word essay on your findings by Monday morning."
There was a small groan from the seven Beauxbatons girls. They had crossed the Channel hoping for an easy term, not extra parchments. A pale, slender hand shot up at the back of the room.
"Madame, may we work in pairs for zis?" called the blonde at the back. Fleur Delacour was twenty-two, freshly graduated, and currently serving as Madame Maxime's part-Veela liaison to Professor McGonagall for the duration of the programme. Every wizard at Hogwarts, from the wide-eyed third-years to the grizzled professors at the staff table, went weak at the knees when Fleur swept past in her pale silver-and-blue robes. Her younger sister Gabrielle was nineteen now, fully of age, and just as ruinous to the masculine concentration of the castle. Both girls had the silvery-blonde hair of part-Veela, faces that stopped conversation in any room they entered, slim curves and tightly tailored Beauxbatons uniforms that made hardened Aurors trip over their own boots. Their dormmates back in France had nicknamed them les Délicieuses.
Madame Maxime sighed. Fleur asked the same question every time homework was set, and the following Monday she invariably received two near-identical essays from the Delacour sisters.
"Very well," the headmistress rumbled, deciding it was not worth the fight.
"Magnifique!" squealed Gabrielle, tossing her long silvery hair.
"Eet ees all," Madame Maxime said. "I will see you on Monday."
"What culture should we pick?" Gabrielle asked her sister as they swept towards the door, the exchange boys quite openly staring at the pleasant sway of two perfect bottoms beneath two short uniform skirts. Gabrielle did not even notice. "Per'aps ze house-elves? I love ze little bowing ones in ze kitchens. Zey 'ave such kind faces."
"Non, I 'ave a much better idea," said Fleur smugly as they drifted down the corridor, drawing leering gazes from a pack of Hogwarts seventh-years. "Ze nerds."
Gabrielle frowned at that. "Nerds?"
"Granger told me about zem," Fleur explained patiently. "There ees a group, ze 'eroes of ze war themselves, 'oo gather every Friday night to play a muggle game. Donjons et Dragons. Granger's papa introduced eet to zem. No one else in our class will write zeir essay on a muggle game played by wizards. We are guaranteed an O."
Gabrielle smiled. "Zat ees brilliant, Fleur! Do we know zese nerds?"
"Non," Fleur admitted with a shrug that did mind-boggling things inside her silk blouse. "But zey are boys. When was ze last time a boy said no to us?"
"Never," Gabrielle agreed wickedly. "Let us find ze nerds!"
The Delacour sisters tracked their quarry to the seventh floor, where, as Granger had explained over breakfast, the Room of Requirement could be coaxed into producing whatever a person needed. Fleur paced three times in front of the patch of bare stone wall, thinking very hard of three British wizards playing a muggle game, and the door obliged.
Inside they found a long oak table cluttered with parchment, painted tin miniatures, and a frankly unreasonable quantity of strangely shaped dice. Two of their targets were halfway through an argument over a folded map.
"The changes Jackson made to the films were sacrilege!" Ron Weasley insisted, gesticulating with a quill. He had recently discovered Lord of the Rings, courtesy of Hermione's father, and would not shut up about it.
"No way, mate," Neville Longbottom shot back. He had broadened in the shoulders during the war years and broadened further in the greenhouses since, but his face still went the colour of a ripe pomegranate at the slightest provocation. "The book never could have translated to screen without changes. Tom Bombadil alone would have killed the pacing."
At the head of the table, behind a small folding screen of charmed parchment, sat Harry bloody Potter himself, scribbling notes about a dragon's hoard with the contented absorption of a man who had nearly died too many times to bother with dignity in his own free time.
Fleur cleared her throat pointedly.
The three eighth-years turned in their chairs and very nearly fell out of them. Ron's mouth dropped open. Neville went the colour of a bludger-bruise. Harry, who was the only one of the three who had ever held a coherent conversation with a Veela, simply blinked and pushed his glasses up his nose.
"We need your 'elp," Gabrielle said, after a silence in which neither boy across from Harry had managed a syllable.
Ron swallowed. His eyes were welded to the place where Fleur's silk blouse strained gently against itself.
"With us?" he managed, finally.
"Oui," said Gabrielle brightly. "We must find out what you boys do."
"Do?" Ron said faintly.
"Whatever you do, we will do eet too," Fleur said.
"Do," Ron whispered, no longer technically a speaker of any human language.
Harry took pity on his best mate. "We're playing Dungeons and Dragons," he said dryly. "Hermione's dad's set. It's a muggle role-playing game. You sit at a table and pretend to be heroes in a dungeon. There are dice. A lot of dice."
"Pretend to be 'eroes?" Gabrielle said. "Like ze acting? I love ze acting. I want to be on ze stage when I am older."
"Whatever," Fleur said. "When and where?"
"Now," Harry said, gesturing at the assembled chaos on the table. "Here. We're about to start."
Fleur considered, then set her bag down on a vacant chair with the air of a woman settling in for a tedious appointment at Gringotts.
"Très bien," she said. "We will play."
Rolling up two characters took the better part of an hour. The girls answered every question with the patient incomprehension of two queens being asked their preferences in plumbing.
"What class do you want to play?" Harry asked.
Fleur shrugged. "Muggle Studies?"
"No, what character class," Harry said. "Wizard, warrior, rogue, priest."
"I want to be a wizard like 'Arry Potter!" Gabrielle blurted. Fleur turned to her sister, mildly surprised that she was actually getting into this.
"I am Harry Potter," Harry said.
"Oui, but in ze game," Gabrielle said firmly.
"Right," Harry sighed.
"And you, Fleur?" Neville asked, voice trembling slightly as he tried very hard to keep his eyes on her face and not on the front of her blouse.
"Warrior, perhaps," she said with a shrug, picking at random.
"Now you need names," Harry said.
Fleur screwed her perfect face up. "We already 'ave names."
"For the characters," Harry said.
"We already 'ave names," Fleur repeated patiently, as one might address a small, slow child.
"Just put your own names, then," Harry said with a sigh, deciding it was going to be a very long evening.
"My character is called Veldin the Black," Ron announced, drawing himself up theatrically. "A mighty wizard, twelfth level, master of fire."
"And I am Thrud the Barbarian!" Neville rumbled, flexing arms that were, to be fair, no longer skinny. "Half-orc. Warrior of the Northern Wastes. Wears almost no armour."
"Charmant," Gabrielle muttered, trading a look with her sister.
"Now, stats," Harry said, sliding two handfuls of dice across the table. They were all the wrong shapes and far too many colours.
"Zey look like little jewels," Gabrielle said.
"Gem dice. Roll the six-sider three times for strength, first," Neville said helpfully. Fleur picked up a die at random. "No, the six-sider," Neville corrected, pointing to the most ordinary-looking lump of coloured glass on the table.
"One small thing before we begin," Harry said, taking a translucent twenty-sider out of his screen and holding it up. It pulsed faintly, like a coal under thin ash. "Hermione spelled the dice for us. When you fail a save against a magical effect in the game, the effect actually happens. Briefly. Just to make it more immersive. Standard wizarding house rule. You only have to commit when you sit down."
Fleur, who had been about to declare the entire enterprise beneath her, found this rather more interesting. "Eet enforces ze rules? Like a contract?"
"More or less," Harry said. "After we start, the room polices it. It's only fun if everyone agrees up front."
Fleur shrugged her elegant shoulders. "Alors. We commit."
"We commit," Gabrielle echoed brightly.
Harry smiled to himself behind the screen.
"Right," Harry said. "The four of you are gathered in a campsite deep within the Forest of Doom. It is dawn but no light reaches the ground through the canopy above. Veldin holds a lantern as you all crowd around the treasure map in Thrud's enormous hands."
"Let us go and get ze treasure!" Gabrielle declared.
"Follow me, m'lady," Ron said, reaching across the table to gallantly kiss the back of Gabrielle's hand. Fleur rolled her eyes. Gabrielle giggled.
There was a slab of stone over a stairway down. Strength check. Gabrielle rolled fifteen and could not budge it. Neville rolled the same and shouldered it aside on the strength of Thrud's enchanted gauntlets and twelve levels of imaginary muscle.
"Why couldn't I move eet?" Gabrielle protested. "Because I am a girl?"
"Because that's what you rolled an hour ago," Harry said.
The party descended a stone staircase into a dungeon corridor. Three orcs charged from the shadows. Ron lobbed a fireball; one orc went up like dry kindling. Gabrielle, after some grumbling that her Feather Fall was not going to do anything useful in a melee, settled for stabbing with a dagger and missed. Fleur rolled twenty on her first to-hit, smiled smugly at her sister, and shaved a strip off the second orc's ribs. Neville cleaved the third one's head clean from its shoulders with what he insisted on calling a bastard sword. Gabrielle's second stab finished the wounded one.
"I do not understand zis game at all," Fleur said. "Eet ees worse than maths class."
The corridor stretched on. Neville rose halfway out of his chair and brought his fist down on the table with a satisfying thud.
"None shall pass!" he boomed in his very best Gandalf.
Fleur jumped. "What?"
"None shall pass," Neville repeated, grinning shyly. "Thrud blocks the way. None shall pass without paying the toll."
"I will push past ze idiot," Fleur said.
"None shall pass!" Neville boomed again, slamming the table a second time and making the dice jump. "Thrud demands a toll of any who would cross."
"What toll?" Fleur snapped, beginning to wonder what he was playing at.
Neville opened his mouth, closed it, and said in a very small voice, "You must, ah. Bare your bosom."
Fleur sighed and rolled her eyes towards the enchanted ceiling. With the offhand grace of a woman who had decided, at fifteen, that modesty was an inefficient use of her energy, she reached for the bottom of her blouse and tugged it up an inch, baring a strip of pale skin and the bottom edge of cream lace.
"No, I meant your character!" Neville stammered, going very pale and then very red. "I meant your character bares hers, in the game. I'm sorry."
Ron smacked the back of his best friend's head. "Idiot," he hissed, then turned hopefully to Fleur, who had frozen with her blouse halfway up her ribs. "Honestly, Fleur, ignore him. You're doing brilliantly with the role-playing. Whatever you, ah, want."
Fleur shot Neville a slow, superior smile, and lifted the silk all the way up over her head.
Ron made a sound like a kettle boiling.
Her bra was a small confection of cream lace and silver thread, lifting her perfect breasts and pressing them together into a warm shadowed valley. Her skin was the colour of honey under candlelight. Ron's quill rolled off the table and clattered onto the floor; he did not notice.
"Ze toll ees paid," Fleur said calmly. "May I pass?"
"Y--yes," Neville breathed, eyes very wide.
She tugged the blouse back down, smiled smugly at the table at large, and led the party deeper into the dungeon. It had not been the first time Fleur had used her chest to win an argument and she made a small note that the trick worked equally well in pretend dungeons.
"You walk for five minutes," Harry said, his voice admirably steady, "and reach an arched doorway. The door has rotted away on its hinges."
"I'll walk through," Fleur said with a shrug.
"Wait!" Neville cried. "Let me go first!"
"Too late," Harry said briskly, with a faint vengeful glint behind his glasses. He had been a generous Dungeon Master so far, but two stunning Frenchwomen had derailed his evening, and he felt no particular obligation to mercy. "As you cross the threshold, a four-legged beast leaps from the shadow. Bear-bodied, tentacles for a face, fur black as ink. It strikes you, Fleur, before you can react. Take six damage and roll a save against paralysis. You need eighteen or higher."
Fleur rolled. "Seven."
"You're paralysed," Harry said.
The dice on the table pulsed faintly. Across from him, Fleur went very still. Her elegant fingers, which had just been reaching for a chocolate, locked in mid-air. Her eyes widened, then narrowed at Harry; she could blink, she could breathe, she could speak if she chose, but the rest of her had been turned to graceful marble.
"Ohhh," Gabrielle said, fascinated. "Ze magic. Eet really works."
"Told you it was immersive," Harry said.
"Oh, no," Ron muttered, half worried, half something else entirely.
Neville leapt to his feet so fast his chair fell over. "I'll protect Fleur!" he declared, scrambling round the table and planting himself behind her chair with both hands carefully on her shoulders. "Thrud guards her with his life!"
"Veldin and I will fight ze creature!" Gabrielle cried, leaning forward over the table, which did very interesting things to the front of her uniform.
While Gabrielle and Ron rolled to-hit, Neville stood behind Fleur with his hands on her shoulders and discovered, in the manner of a man receiving terrible news, that from this angle he had a perfect view straight down the front of her loosened blouse. The cream lace. The soft swell of cleavage. The faint flutter of pulse at her throat. He swallowed audibly. His grip tightened by half a millimetre.
It was almost an out-of-body experience. Neville watched, with growing horror, his own hand slide off Fleur's shoulder, hover in the air, and settle very gently over the curve of her right breast through the silk.
A soft, strangled noise escaped him as he squeezed. Her breast filled his palm completely, soft and warm and a great deal firmer than his imagination had allowed for. His fingers sank a little. It was the first time Neville Longbottom had ever, in his entire life, knowingly held a witch's tit.
"Excusez-moi!" Fleur snapped, slapping at his hand, since slapping was apparently within the paralysed creature's allowance.
"You're paralysed!" Harry called sharply. "You agreed to commit, Fleur. You can't move a muscle."
"Oui," Fleur said, with the bright fury of a Veela being told off in her own native tongue. "Naturellement. I forgot." Her hand dropped slowly back into her lap.
Neville's hand, after a frozen moment, returned to where it had been. He gave her breast another careful, awe-struck squeeze, as though confirming an unbelievable result.
Ron, who had been staring at Neville's hand for a full fifteen seconds, suddenly shoved his chair back and hurried round to Fleur's other side.
"Veldin shall also defend the warrior!" he declared, and brought his hand down over Fleur's other breast with the careful reverence of a man handling Goblin-made silver.
Fleur made a small exasperated noise that was not quite a moan, somewhere between offence and amusement. "Mon Dieu, ze nerds."
Gabrielle, abandoned to single combat with the tentacled beast, hit it twice in quick succession. On the second strike Harry rolled his own dice, sighed, and announced the creature dead.
"The paralysis lifts," he said.
Fleur instantly pried four eager hands off her chest. Her cheeks were faintly pink, but the smile she gave the boys was Veela-cold.
"Merci for ze protection," she said dryly, as Ron and Neville crept back to their chairs with crotches notably distended. "Lead on, Thrud. Try to keep your gauntlets to yourself, oui?"
Harry described the next room: a vast cavern split by a chasm, a thin stone bridge crossing the centre.
"We cross slowly," Neville said.
"Halfway over, the bridge starts to crumble," Harry said.
"Run for it!" Ron shouted.
"You sprint," Harry said. "As you near the far side, the gap widens. Neville is first across, easy. Fleur, roll a d10, you need a four. Ron, six. Gabrielle, you go last, and you need an eight or better."
Fleur rolled a seven and made it. Ron rolled a zero.
"You died, Weasley," Harry said.
"Mate, a zero is a ten."
"Oh," Harry conceded, grinning. "Fair enough."
Gabrielle picked up the die with a small focused frown. She closed her eyes and threw.
A two.
"You fall," Harry said, with terrible relish. He had not, on reflection, ever quite forgiven Fleur for ignoring him entirely at the Yule Ball years ago, and Gabrielle was simply downstream of that grievance. "Your character plummets into the chasm. You die."
"Just like zat?" Gabrielle gasped.
"Just like that. Rules are rules."
"I object!" Gabrielle declared, clearly drawing on some muggle court drama. "I demand an audience with ze Dungeon Master in 'is chambers."
"Chambers?" Harry blinked.
"Oui. Now. Privately."
Harry sighed. He had meant to be ruthless tonight. He had not anticipated being ruthless to a part-Veela who was looking up at him from under her lashes with a particular, unmistakable expression.
"Fine," he said.
He led her out of the door at the back, where the Room obligingly produced a small adjoining bedchamber for him: a single bed, a writing desk piled with parchment, a faint cellar smell. Gabrielle nudged the door shut behind them.
"Eez there no way for my character to live, Monsieur Potter?" she asked, stepping closer.
"Look. Rules are rules.."
"Rules are rules?" Gabrielle smiled. "Very British, you 'ave become."
She closed the gap. Her hand drifted up his chest. Harry, who had survived three Killing Curses and a basilisk, found that his mouth had gone strange and dry.
"Are you sure," she breathed, "we cannot work somesing out?"
"I, ah," Harry said.
"Anyzing," Gabrielle whispered. "I would do anyzing for my character to live."
"Anything?" Harry repeated, faintly.
She licked her lips. "What would you like me to do, 'Arry?"
He swallowed. Her chest brushed lightly against his. Her fingertips were already at his belt, soft, clever, very practised.
"Do you want me to unbutton your trousers?" she asked, looking up.
Harry nodded, helpless.
She unfastened him with two graceful flicks of her fingers. His cock was already aching against his pants. She paused, palm flat over the front of him.
"Do you want me to reach inside?" she whispered.
"Merlin, yes."
She slid a cool hand into his pants, drew him out, and exhaled a slow warm stream of breath along the head of his cock. Harry made a noise he was very glad no one else would hear. She lowered herself smoothly to her knees, her cheek brushing his belly on the way down.
"Do you want me to suck eet, 'Arry Potter?"
"God, yes."
"And my character lives?"
"Yes," he groaned.
"Ask nicely."
Harry bloody Potter, conqueror of Voldemort, leant back against the wall of a borrowed Hogwarts chamber and breathed, "Please suck my cock, Gabrielle."
She dived forward and swallowed him to the root.
Harry's hand found the back of her head almost without permission, fingers closing in her silvery hair as her mouth went to work on him. Her tongue worked the underside, her lips slid down the length of him, her nose pressed into his hair. A small hum vibrated up his shaft. She had clearly been to Beauxbatons in every sense of the phrase.
She pulled off with a slow, lewd pop, looked up at him, smiled.
"Fuck my mouth, 'Arry. Cum down my throat. Eet ees ze price."
He took her at her word. His hips snapped forward and for two solid minutes he held the back of her head and rocked into her mouth in a steady, helpless rhythm. Gabrielle moaned around him, her hands resting lightly on his thighs, her eyes half-closed. The wet slurping of her mouth and the obscene smacking of his hips against her chin filled the small room. He felt his balls draw up tight, felt heat surge up his spine, and shoved deep one last time as he came.
She swallowed every last drop. When he finally let her go she lifted off his cock, licked her lips clean, and pressed a single, almost chaste kiss to the tip.
"Now we cannot tell ze ozzers," she murmured.
"A gentleman never tells," Harry rasped, tucking himself away with shaking hands.
Back at the table Fleur arched a perfect eyebrow at her sister, who was rinsing her mouth with butterbeer. "Took long enough."
Harry, faintly pink, settled back behind his screen. "Right. Gabrielle didn't quite die. She got off her Feather Fall in time and landed on a ledge fifteen feet down."
"She can't cast Feather Fall while falling," Ron objected, "she only just.."
"She rolled brilliantly," Harry said firmly, glaring his best mate into silence.
"How do we get her up?" Neville asked.
"Rope?" Ron tried.
There was no rope. Harry looked very pleased about this.
"Oh," Neville said, the world's least subtle eighth-year. "We could tie our shirts together."
"Brilliant!" Ron beamed. "Hand them over."
Fleur paused, halfway through unbuttoning the silk. "What about yours?"
Neville pointed to his character sheet, which featured a very poorly drawn half-naked Thrud in a loincloth. "Thrud doesn't wear a shirt."
"And Veldin only wears a black robe," Ron added quickly. "If I take it off I'll be, ah, naked."
"How convenient," Fleur said. But she shrugged and pulled the silk blouse over her head a second time. Across the table Gabrielle was already halfway out of her uniform top; her bra was a confection of pale pink lace dotted with tiny silver fleurs-de-lis.
"Two shirts will be enough to reach her," Harry said helpfully.
"Ah," Harry added, after a moment. "In the original Dungeons and Dragons, there is no such thing as a bra."
Fleur narrowed her glorious eyes at him. "I just gave my sister, ah, very generous luck on 'er last roll. You are still being difficult, mon cher?"
"Role-playing rules," Harry shrugged.
"Bien sûr."
She unhooked the cream lace without breaking eye contact and let it slip into her lap. Across from her Gabrielle, never one to be outdone, reached behind herself and dropped her own bra in a single careless motion.
Ron's quill hit the floor for the second time. Nobody picked it up.
The two Delacour sisters sat at a Hogwarts oak table in their skirts and their hair and absolutely nothing else above the waist, looking faintly bored. Fleur's breasts were full and round and defiantly aloft against gravity, her nipples dark pink and pebbling in the cool air. Gabrielle's were every inch their match. Ron Weasley, in the privacy of his own thoughts, quietly thanked every god he had ever heard of.
"Using the rope of shirts," Harry managed, "you haul Gabrielle up. As she reaches the top, a tremor runs through the cliff. Your shirts fall into the chasm. Sadly, you can't get them back."
"Of course," Fleur said.
"Naturellement," Gabrielle agreed, not bothering to cover her chest.
Harry, fully committing now, conjured a second cavern with a second chasm and produced, out of nowhere, a small enchanted miniature carpet on the table.
"A magic carpet?" Ron lit up. "We can fly across!"
"It only seats two," Harry said.
"There are four of us."
"The girls could sit on our laps?" Neville suggested, with the casual innocence of a man who had clearly given the matter no prior thought whatsoever.
Fleur's eyes flicked to Harry. Harry, behind his screen, did his level best to look like a neutral arbiter and not a man whose Friday had taken an extraordinary turn.
"Fine," she said.
She rose, walked round the table, and lowered her bare-shouldered, half-naked self onto Ron Weasley's lap. Ron made a noise like a small explosion. Gabrielle, smiling faintly, perched herself on Neville's knee and let his enormous greenhouse-roughened hands settle gently round her waist.
"The carpet rises," Harry intoned. "The journey is rather bumpy."
Ron took this as instruction. He bounced his knees, rolling Fleur's perfect skirted bottom in slow circles against his crotch. Neville, less subtle, simply rocked Gabrielle against him in a steady, helpless rhythm. Both girls swayed and bounced, breasts moving heavily in the candlelight, the heat of two cocks unmistakable beneath them.
Fleur could feel Ron through his trousers, hard and impatient against the thin cotton of her knickers. He gave a small whimper into her hair. His hands at her waist had wandered up an inch and were now, very politely and very stupidly, brushing the undersides of her bare breasts on every "bump."
"Ron," she said warningly.
"Sorry," he gasped. "Bumpy ride, very bumpy, sorry. Oh.."
He gave a strangled yelp, his whole body lurched, and Fleur felt a sudden, mortifying spreading warmth against the back of her right thigh through his trousers. Her eyes widened. Ron's hands clenched on her ribs and immediately relaxed, mortified.
"Oh, mon Dieu," Fleur said.
"Mate?" Neville said.
"Did you just.." Harry started.
"I was role-playing!" Ron said desperately.
Fleur slid off his lap with the slow regal disgust of a Veela who has just discovered something unspeakable on her shoe. The back of her uniform skirt was visibly damp.
"You absolute weasel," she said.
"Fleur, I..."
"Lend me your robe, Potter," she said, ignoring him entirely. She popped the button on the side of her skirt and let it drop to the floor without ceremony. She had, quite clearly, done the maths in about half a second: she was already topless, this was already absurd, and she was buggered if she was sitting through another scene in damp clothing. Her knickers were a tiny scrap of cream silk that left almost everything on display, including the magnificent shape of her bottom.
Harry, mute, shrugged out of his outer robe and slid it across the table. She did not put it on.
Ron, whom no one was looking at, fled the room briefly and returned in a pair of shorts.
"You," Ron told Neville faintly, when he had returned, "have absolutely no room to laugh at me later."
"I would last ten minutes longer than you in any girl's mouth, Weasley," Neville muttered, surprising everyone present including himself.
"Bollocks you would."
"Care to test it?"
"Fleur," Ron began hopefully, "would you be willing to..."
"Absolutely not," Fleur said, sitting back down and crossing her bare arms over her bare chest with the offended dignity of a queen.
Harry, behind his screen, cleared his throat. He was, after all, the Dungeon Master.
"Make a willpower check, Fleur," he said sweetly. "If a player character has charisma greater than twelve and propositions you, you have to roll under your Wisdom on a d20 to refuse. Standard rule."
Fleur narrowed her glorious eyes. "What ees my Wisdom?"
"Six," Harry said, without checking.
"Slut," Gabrielle teased in flawless French, grinning.
Fleur ignored her. She picked up the d20 and gave it a gentle, careful breath, the way one might encourage a reluctant niffler.
"Voilà," she muttered, closing her eyes and dropping the die.
"Eleven!" Ron whooped.
She opened her eyes. The dice pulsed faintly. Quite suddenly, the back of her neck warmed; her hands drifted, almost of their own accord, towards Neville's belt. Her own face gave her a moment of frank astonishment at this, then settled into something far more dangerous, half resignation and half calculation. Right, she thought. We commit.
She slid down off her chair and onto her knees between Neville's, in nothing but her cream knickers and her hair.
"Warn me before you cum, Longbottom," she said.
"Mighty Thrud will last," Neville promised, with the weak smile of a man whose mighty Thrud was, frankly, not sure of anything.
She drew him out of his trousers. He was, she conceded, rather better put together than expected. She wrapped one cool hand around his shaft, leaned in, and took him into her mouth.
Neville's eyes rolled back so far Ron honestly worried he might pass out. Fleur was technically gifted in the way of a woman who had not chosen to be talented at this but had decided, several years ago, that since she occasionally found herself doing it, she might as well do it competently. She put tongue and hand to work in a slow rhythm. Across the table Gabrielle leaned against the back of her own chair and watched her sister with frank professional interest.
Ninety seconds later Neville yelped, his hips kicked, and Fleur, with a small offended noise, pulled off just in time to take a single rope of him across one perfect cheekbone.
"Espèce d'imbécile!" she snapped. "I told you to warn me!"
"Sorry, sorry, sorry.."
"Ten seconds," Ron crowed. "Mate. Ten seconds. I was timing."
"Thrud's constitution is eighteen!" Neville protested, looking pleadingly at Harry. "Make a stamina check. Thrud wouldn't have lost it like that."
"Fair," Harry sighed. Neville rolled a six. "Thrud makes the save. Fleur, you have to keep going. Role-play, please."
Fleur looked down at Neville's spent, glistening cock with the expression of a woman being asked to eat a cold croissant.
"It's just acting," Harry said gently. "You're not actually..."
"Oui, oui. I commit." Fleur lowered her head and proceeded, with rather more spite than Neville strictly deserved, to demonstrate that a Veela determined to win a bet on her own terms was perfectly capable of bringing a teenage wizard back to full hardness inside two minutes. She tongued him clean first, slow and meticulous; then his balls; then took the softening shaft back into her mouth and worked him with her lips noosed snug around the length of him until she felt him thicken on her tongue. Neville made a noise that Ron would be quoting for years. By the time Harry called time on the exercise, Fleur was bobbing smoothly over a cock that was, frankly, doing its best impression of a level-twelve barbarian, and Neville was clinging to the chair like a man on a broomstick in a storm.
"Time," Harry said cheerfully. "Thrud is restored."
"Aw, mate, I was just warming up again!" Neville complained.
Fleur sat back, took a long swig of butterbeer, and dabbed Neville's ill-considered contribution off her cheek with Harry's borrowed robe.
"Where are we?" she asked, business-like.
"Halfway point of the adventure," Harry announced. "Take five. Drinks. Snacks. Ron, you're on butterbeer."
Ron, grateful for an excuse to leave the room briefly, did so. He returned in another fresh pair of shorts, with a tray.
Harry levelled the players up while they ate. Neville got an extra ten hit points. Ron earned a new spell. Fleur picked up a better attack bonus.
"What about me?" Gabrielle asked.
"You can learn a second spell now," Harry said.
"How?"
"You need to get a more powerful wizard to bestow it on you," Harry said carefully, with an idea blooming behind his glasses.
"Like Veldin?" Gabrielle said, looking at Ron.
"Sure," Ron said, with the eagerness of a man who has just been promised a Christmas in mid-March. "I'll teach you."
"Magical energy is transferred through sexual energy, of course," Harry added gravely. "Standard wizarding RPG mechanic. Roll a d4 for the method."
He shot Ron a small, very subtle wink behind the screen. Ron mouthed thank you across the table.
Gabrielle sorted through the dice with a small frown until she found a four-sided pyramid. "How does zis one work?"
"When it lands, the numbers along the bottom edge are what you rolled," Harry said.
She rolled. "A two."
"You must, ah," Harry said, "use your bosom to draw the magic out of him."
Gabrielle gave him a dubious look. "I titty-fuck Veldin to learn ze spell?"
"That's the method," Harry confirmed.
"Oh, eet ees not so bad," she decided, comparing it favourably to the alternatives Fleur had endured. She slid out of her chair and knelt between Ron's spread knees on the carpet of the Room of Requirement, in nothing but her knickers now, since she had been taking notes on her sister's strategy.
Ron's breathing went ragged the moment her hands reached his shorts. She unfastened him, drew him out, and ran her cool fingers up over his thighs and balls before circling him in a loose, unhurried fist. His cock was already half-hard from watching Fleur work; under Gabrielle's clever fingertips it surged the rest of the way in seconds.
"Are you ready, Veldin?" she asked, looking up.
"Oh, yeah," Ron managed.
She gave him a wicked little smile, lifted her own breasts in her hands, and pressed his cock into the warm, soft valley between them.
She moved over him in slow, generous strokes, sliding her chest up and down his length. The head of his cock peeked out between her cleavage on every upward push. She had a wicked little smile and she was watching his face the entire time, and when his breath caught she squeezed her chest tighter around him and rolled her shoulders and rocked harder.
"Are you ready to receive ze magic, Veldin?" she whispered, his shaft slick and red between her breasts.
"Oh, fuck yes!" Ron moaned.
Ron lurched to his feet, took his trembling cock in his own hand, and finished himself over her chest with a high, undignified cry. The first rope painted her collarbone. The second landed across the upper slope of her breast. He sagged against the chair with a long, shaky groan.
"Congratulations," Harry said gravely, scribbling on her character sheet. "You have learned the Magic Missile spell."
Gabrielle wiped her chest with a hand-towel Ron had thoughtfully brought out with the butterbeer. She slid back into her seat without a hint of self-consciousness.
"Now," she said, bright as a bell. "Where to next?"
The party pressed on down a stone hallway that opened, after another two hundred yards, onto a wide arched doorway. A shimmering blue field of energy crackled across the opening. Around the rim of the arch ran a line of strange flowing script.
"Veldin," Harry said, "you recognise the writing as elvish."
"I'll read it. What does it say?" Ron asked.
"This field can only be broken by the most voluptuous of women," Harry intoned.
Fleur frowned. "What does zis mean?"
"The biggest tits," Neville supplied, unable to keep his eyes off Gabrielle's chest.
"Zat ees me, then," Fleur said, arching her back and pushing her bare breasts proudly forward.
"Mine are bigger zan yours," Gabrielle objected, sticking out her own chest.
"Non, you little goose. Mine."
"You bitch."
Neville glanced from one set to the other, head tilted in honest professional consideration. "Both look pretty big, honestly."
"Don't argue, ladies," Harry said, leaning back behind his screen with the slow contented stretch of a man whose evening had decided to keep on giving. "I'll judge. Stand up, side by side. As Dungeon Master I hold the deciding voice on questions of, ah, voluptuousness."
Both stunning nineteen- and twenty-two-year-olds rose obligingly, Fleur in nothing but her cream knickers, Gabrielle in nothing but pale pink ones. Harry got up and walked round the table to stand in front of them, expression as professional as a Healer.
He reached out and cupped a single breast in each palm, one of Fleur's and one of Gabrielle's, weighing them lightly. Gabrielle gasped softly at his touch. Fleur said nothing, watching Harry's face with the patient amusement of a woman entirely aware of what was happening.
"Hmm," Harry said.
He moved to stand directly in front of Gabrielle. He cupped both of her breasts now, one in each hand, gave them a slow firm squeeze, watched the flesh well up between his fingers. He lifted them carefully on his palms as though weighing pumpkins at the harvest fair. He spread his fingers wide and let her nipples settle against his palms while his fingertips traced the curves at the sides. Then, professional as ever, he pressed her chest gently together and watched the cleavage swell.
"Hmm," he repeated, with a small departing squeeze.
He stepped sideways and gave Fleur the same treatment. He squeezed, lifted, weighed, pressed. He spent rather longer at it than was strictly required; Fleur arched a perfect eyebrow at him but did not interrupt.
"It's very close," he announced gravely, returning to Gabrielle for a confirmatory examination. He mashed her breasts more firmly this time, lifted them by the nipples, watched the soft flesh quiver.
"Hmm," he said for a third time, returning at last to Fleur for one more careful, comparative grope.
It was a full ten minutes before he stepped back from the two sisters, having performed what was, by any reasonable standard, an extraordinarily thorough comparison.
"You both have very fine, very large racks," Harry pronounced. "But I think Fleur's are ever so slightly bigger."
"Damn," Gabrielle muttered, plopping back into her chair.
Harry returned to his screen and discreetly adjusted the front of his trousers as he sat. "As Fleur steps through the field, the blue light shimmers and vanishes. Beyond is a chamber of pure, magical darkness. Even Veldin's lantern cannot pierce it."
"Magical darkness," Ron said, in a tone of mild academic awe. "I'll put on my Ring of Infravision before stepping in."
"Me too," Neville added quickly.
"What's infravision?" Fleur asked.
"You see in the infrared," Ron said. "Like the night-sight goggles muggles use, but better."
"Do we 'ave one too?" Gabrielle asked hopefully.
"No," Harry said. He produced two black silk strips from somewhere behind his screen, transfigured cleanly out of two cocktail napkins. "Put these on to simulate the dark."
The two topless girls, no longer the slightest bit precious about their nudity, took the blindfolds and tied them on. They allowed themselves to be drawn to their feet by warm hands at their bare waists and led carefully a few steps across the room.
"Mind the door," Neville whispered to Fleur, his hands settled gently on her hips. As he steered her past an imaginary threshold, he looked down at her bottom in its scrap of cream silk. The lace framed each cheek perfectly. He let one hand drift, almost without permission, off her hip and onto the round curve of her arse.
"Wow," Neville breathed. The flesh was cool and far firmer than he had expected. He gave it a small experimental squeeze.
Fleur did not protest, since there was, technically, supposed to be magical darkness.
Harry positioned the two girls in the centre of the open carpet area where the Room had thoughtfully provided a pair of soft cushions on the floor. He let them kneel down on the cushions; Gabrielle had already sniffed about the prospect of kneeling on bare stone.
"On the far side of this chamber," Harry announced, "are three penises set into the wall. Two belong to elves. One belongs to an orc. To pass, you must each correctly identify and grasp one of the elf cocks. To tell them apart, you may use only your mouths."
He had completely abandoned any pretence that this was a real adventure.
"I will play the role of the orc," Harry continued. "Ron and Neville, you'll stand in for the two elves. Each of us will present, one at a time. After all three, you call us by number. Wrong choice and your character dies."
He waited for either girl to object. Neither did.
All three boys quietly and without ceremony stepped out of their trousers.
"Number one," Harry called.
Neville, trembling slightly, stepped up. He was already half-hard from the blindfold. He approached Gabrielle first, brushed the head of his cock against her closed lips. She parted them obediently and accepted him into her mouth, sucking with the same brisk enthusiasm she had shown earlier with Harry. Neville stifled a groan as her tongue went to work. He watched the clock for a full minute before reluctantly drawing himself out.
He stepped sideways to Fleur. She accepted him into her mouth with the sigh of a woman resigned to a tedious obligation, but she was, as Neville had recently learned, technically gifted; within ten seconds Neville was making small embarrassing noises and quietly thanking Merlin for stamina checks. After his minute he pulled away, knees shaking.
"Number two," Harry said, stepping forward himself.
Harry was already fully erect. He went to Gabrielle first, slipped between her parted lips, gripped a soft handful of her hair, and used her mouth with the easy confidence of a man who had received certain very recent training. He kept it brief, regretfully, and switched to Fleur.
He pressed himself between Fleur's lips with rather less ceremony than he had used on her sister. She gagged briefly at the sudden depth of him, then settled into rhythm; Harry held a careful fistful of her silvery hair and drove himself in and out of her mouth for a full minute as though her mouth were her cunt. Both of them were breathing hard when he stepped back.
"And number three," Harry called, after carefully returning to the cluster of boys before speaking, so as not to give away the order.
Ron, by now hard as a wand, presented himself to Gabrielle first. She slurped on him with practised, almost sisterly enthusiasm. He gave her his minute and then moved to Fleur, who took him in cleanly and worked him with full lips and tongue while he stared down at her, dazed.
"Choose," Harry said, when Ron had stepped back. "Fleur first."
"Number one, please, Master of ze Dungeon," Fleur said.
Neville stepped silently in front of her. She raised a hand and wrapped her fingers around his hard cock.
"Gabrielle?"
"Number three," Gabrielle said. Ron stepped in front of her.
"Take them in your mouths," Harry said. "Then remove the blindfolds."
The girls leaned forward and took the cocks back into their mouths, then reached up and tugged the silk off their eyes, blinking in the candlelight to see whose cock they had chosen.
"Yes!" Gabrielle exclaimed around Ron, beaming.
Fleur lifted her mouth from Neville's cock with calm satisfaction.
"How did you guess?" Gabrielle asked her sister, as everyone returned to the table without bothering to put on trousers.
"Ze second cock was ze biggest and ze roughest," Fleur said. "I almost choked. I assumed eet must belong to an orc, not an elf."
"Smart," Gabrielle said.
"And you?"
"Oh," Gabrielle said brightly, "I just recognised ze taste of 'Arry's.." She stopped abruptly, mouth still open.
Fleur arched a perfect eyebrow.
"..lucky guess," Gabrielle finished, blushing for the first time all evening.
Fleur smiled slowly but did not push the point. Harry took rather a long swallow of butterbeer.
"As you correctly identify the elven cocks, light floods the chamber," Harry said. "The three cocks vanish back into the wall. Beyond, a long hallway stretches into shadow. As you make your way down it, you hear a roar from further ahead."
"We ready our weapons and continue," Neville said.
"At the end of the hallway you find a vast chamber. Inside is a minotaur. Half-man, half-bull. As you enter, the beast roars."
"I will fuck ze minotaur into submission," Fleur announced, "so we may pass."
Everyone looked at her in surprise. Gabrielle gasped. Harry's quill stopped on the parchment.
"Ah," Harry said carefully. "All right. Roll a d4, then."
"Like Gabrielle's spell lesson?" Fleur asked, picking up the small pyramid die.
"Yeah."
She rolled, hoping privately for a two; she had rather enjoyed her sister's titty-fuck and she would happily settle for one of her own, anything but another blowjob.
"A four," she said. "What does zat one mean?"
"Anal," Harry replied, scarcely able to believe his luck.
Fleur's face went paler than her hair. "Eww. I do not do zat. Eet ees gross."
"You rolled a four," Harry said sternly, reaching beneath the table to adjust himself. "There is no choice. Besides, your character loves it. You only need to role-play."
Fleur considered. "Oh," she said, brightening slightly. "Eef eet ees only acting, zen I suppose eet ees not so bad. My character loves zis, you say?"
"Adores it," Harry assured her, standing up and stroking himself in one hand. "I'll act out the minotaur. Bend over the table. Assume the position."
"Bien sûr," Fleur said, with surprising cheer, rising and bending over the edge of the table on her forearms. Her perfect breasts squashed flat over her own character sheet. The strip of cream silk between her cheeks looked absurdly small against the rounded firmness of her arse.
Harry walked round behind her, licked his lips, and ran a slow hand over the smooth globes. He hooked a finger into the back of her knickers and tugged the strip aside. In her bent position her pussy and arse were both on display between the perfect rounds.
He slipped a finger gently into her arse. Fleur sucked in a sharp breath.
"I might need a little lubrication," Harry said. "Gabrielle. Pull your chair over."
Gabrielle, eyes bright with interest, slid her chair across the rug. Sitting, she was at exactly the right height. Harry withdrew his finger and slid it instead into Fleur's pussy, working slow and deep there while he offered his cock up to Gabrielle's lips.
"Make it sloppy," he murmured.
Gabrielle parted her lips and went to work without complaint. She slurped noisily over Harry's shaft, taking him deep, while Harry pumped his finger steadily in and out of Fleur's cunt. Fleur moaned softly into the parchment beneath her cheek.
When Harry was satisfyingly slick and rock-hard, he drew out of Gabrielle's mouth, withdrew his finger from Fleur, smeared her own wet onto her tightly puckered hole, and lined the head of his cock up there.
"Are you ready to subdue the minotaur?" he asked.
"I think so," Fleur said tightly.
His hands closed on her slim waist and he pushed forward steadily. The head of his cock breached her arse with a slow, insistent pressure. Fleur gasped, her body tensing as he pressed deeper.
"Fuck, that's tight," Harry groaned, beginning a slow careful rock to ease her open. He ran his palms admiringly up the smooth bare expanse of her back. "The minotaur is loving this, Fleur."
"Isn't zis 'ot?" Gabrielle whispered across the table to Neville, who could only nod.
"Oh, yeah," Harry breathed, looking down at the magnificent sight of her bottom clenched around the base of his cock. He picked up the pace. His hips began to slap against her arse, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room as he drove into her with steady increasing force. Fleur moaned and pushed back to meet him, less out of desire than out of a practical wish for him to finish faster; his cock in her arse was distinctly uncomfortable, and like a bull he was rapidly pounding her.
"Lick my balls, Gabrielle," Harry commanded. "It'll get the minotaur off quicker."
Gabrielle slid neatly out of her chair and crawled beneath the bucking pair. From below she could see Harry's cock pumping in and out of her sister's snug arse, his balls slapping with each thrust. She craned up and her tongue flicked across them.
"Oh, yes," Harry groaned. Her tongue fluttered and then swiped up the length of Fleur's pussy. Fleur gasped sharply, her moan joining Harry's.
Harry shuddered, stopped thrusting, and buried himself deep as he came. His cock pulsed inside her; Gabrielle sucked at his balls as they tightened. Fleur cried out as her sister's chin scraped against her clit and Harry's cock filled her arse.
"Yes," Harry grunted, spending himself.
He withdrew at last and staggered back to his chair, breathing hard. Gabrielle gave Fleur's pussy one last long lick before sliding out from beneath the table. Fleur straightened slowly, accepted a hand-towel without comment, and slipped out of the Room briefly to clean herself up.
She returned a few minutes later, draped in Harry's robe, her composure intact.
"Ze minotaur ees defeated, oui?" she asked.
"Defeated," Harry said hoarsely. "Spectacularly so."
"With the minotaur defeated, you have reached the goal," Harry announced. "In a glowing pool of light at the centre of the next chamber sits a chest. Solid gold. The size of this table."
"Let us 'ave a closer look," Fleur said. She had worked hard for this treasure and was, frankly, beginning to feel she had earned it.
"The chest is ornate," Harry said. "There is no obvious lock. As you touch the lid, glowing red writing appears across it, in the same elvish script as before."
"Veldin reads it," Ron said. "What does it say?"
"This treasure chest can only be opened," Harry intoned, "by intense sexual energy."
"How are you supposed to manage that?" Neville asked, almost offended.
"Let us all fuck," Gabrielle suggested, brisk and bright. The minotaur business had, on balance, made her rather excited. She stood and slipped out of her knickers without ceremony. "You take me, Neville. Ron, you 'ave Fleur."
Neville, who had been a perfect gentleman through every previous indignity, finally cracked. He kicked his chair over getting to his feet. He crossed the rug behind Gabrielle in three long strides as she dropped onto her hands and knees on a thick cushion the Room had, with admirable foresight, arranged. He ran one large palm down the smooth curve of her back to her arse and then up under her, cupping one full breast.
"Do you want it up the arse?" he asked, with the eager hopefulness of a man who has run out of restraint.
"In my pussy, 'oney," Gabrielle said.
Fleur, having looked at Harry once, briefly, had stripped off the borrowed robe and her knickers and was lowering herself onto her own hands and knees beside her sister. She still felt rather sore from Harry's recent attentions and was in no mood to repeat the exercise.
"Pussy only, Weasley," she said over her shoulder. "Try anyzing creative and I will turn you into a small newt."
"Right," Ron breathed.
"Oh, fuck, that's good," Neville gasped as he sank into Gabrielle, hands on her hips, his entire length sliding home in one steady thrust.
Beside him Ron rubbed the head of his cock down over Fleur's slightly tender arse, then over the slit of her pussy. She moaned softly as he nudged her clit. He pressed forward and slipped inside her with a long groan.
"This is so cool," Neville grunted to Ron, turning to grin at his best mate as they fucked the two sisters side by side.
"Hell, yes," Ron agreed.
Harry rose from his place behind the screen and walked around to the front of the kneeling girls. "The chest groans," he said, dropping to one knee. "The lid lifts a crack. The energy is working."
He offered his still half-hard cock up towards Gabrielle's mouth. She took him in without breaking rhythm, sucking on him while Neville drove into her from behind. Harry reached over with his free hand and squeezed one of Fleur's breasts where it swung beneath her with each of Ron's thrusts.
"Let's swap," Neville said, after a few minutes.
"Cool," Ron breathed, and the two of them changed places. Ron sank into Gabrielle, who sighed appreciatively around Harry's cock; Neville thrust into Fleur with a low, awed grunt. At the front Harry slid his cock free of Gabrielle and offered it to Fleur instead. She accepted him with the expression of a woman noting a familiar vintage.
The Room of Requirement was a riot of wet sounds: the heavy slap of skin on skin, the slick wet of cocks moving in and out, four sets of moans rising and falling in their own counterpoints. The candles flickered. Somewhere in the rafters Harry was almost certain he heard the Room itself give a faint, satisfied creak.
After another minute Harry pulled out of Fleur's mouth and pressed the head of his cock between the two sisters' faces, one hand resting on the back of each silvery head. He drew their cheeks together until they were both nuzzling the underside of his shaft.
"Suck my cock, ladies," he murmured. They did, tongues meeting in slow unhurried laps over his length, fingers helping each other where they had to.
"I'm gonna cum soon," Ron groaned, picking up speed in Gabrielle.
"Me too," Neville rasped, hammering into Fleur. "Let's swap one more time."
Ron nodded, breathless. They changed places one final time. Neville sank back into Gabrielle, the friction of returning to her hot pussy enough to send him over almost immediately. He came hard, hands locked on her hips, with a hoarse cry. Gabrielle moaned around Harry's cock as her sister's bedmate emptied himself into her.
Ron, beside them, drove into Fleur with the desperate single-mindedness of a man whose best friend has just finished first. He buried himself deep on his last thrust and came with an undignified yell. Fleur's pussy clenched around him; whether she had reached anything herself was unclear, but she did sigh, satisfied, around Harry's cock.
Harry, who had already had his turn that evening, had nothing left to give. He gently pried both girls' mouths off him and stood up.
"As Veldin and Thrud cum," he announced solemnly, "the lid of the chest rises. Inside, a vast pile of gold. Adventurers, you have completed your quest."
"Woohoo!" Gabrielle cried, beaming. "We did eet!"
"Mission success," Harry confirmed.
"Zat ees eet?" Fleur asked, sitting back on her heels, slightly wobbly.
"That's it. All done."
"I do not understand," Gabrielle said, frowning. "I saw ze dungeon, oui, but where was ze dragon?"
About twenty minutes later, once the Room had thoughtfully provided a screened washbasin and everyone had cleaned up and dressed, the three boys saw the Delacour sisters to the door.
"Thanks for coming," Ron said, twisting the hem of his shirt. He had just spent rather a lot of the evening inside both of these women and, in defiance of any logic, had reverted entirely to the stammering boy he had been at Shell Cottage. "Hope it, ah, helped your essay."
"Eet will be a wonderful essay," Fleur said graciously. "We will get an O."
"What time ees ze game next week?" Gabrielle asked.
The boys stared at her.
"Are you joking?" Harry managed.
"Non," Gabrielle said. "What time?"
"You enjoyed that?" Neville asked, hopelessly.
"Hell yes," Fleur and Gabrielle said in perfect chorus. "Eet was wonderful, we cannot wait!" Gabrielle added, beaming.
The door of the Room of Requirement closed gently behind them.
--
On Monday morning Madame Maxime, in the Beauxbatons-corner of the Great Hall, received two essays. Both were five hundred words long. Both received O grades. Both bore the title Une Soirée Avec Les Nerds Britanniques: A Cultural Study, and both ended with a single, identical sentence:
In conclusion, we 'ave found ze British wizarding nerds to be most generous of spirit, most committed to ze rules, and most welcoming to international guests. We will, of course, be returning every Friday for further research.
Hermione Granger, glancing over Fleur's shoulder, choked on her pumpkin juice.
"Friday?" she asked.
"Oui," Fleur said, smiling serenely as Ron Weasley walked past with a small pleased limp. "Ze boys 'ave invited us for ze full campaign."
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