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 6
~ Harry Potter ~
The air in the training room of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, tasted of ozone and ancient dust. It was a heavy, metallic tang that coated the back of the throat, the scent of magic pushed to its absolute breaking point.
Harry stood in the centre of the room, his chest heaving, sweat slickening his skin and plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He was shirtless, his body a map of scars old and new. The freshest one, a jagged, angry line across his ribs where Fenrir Greyback had nearly opened him up, was a vibrant pink against his pale skin. It throbbed with a dull, phantom ache, a reminder of the mortality he had so narrowly escaped, but the pain was distant, muted by the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
The scar had left him with a few... interesting effects. His body felt more durable than before, his endurance higher as well. His appetite was now through the roof, unlocking a new ability that allowed him to feast on a number of steaks enough for a family of 12. His hormones were all over the place too. Maybe because he was living with 3 gorgeous women.
Around him, the room was a disaster zone. The enchanted dummies he had dragged down from the attic were reduced to smoking splinters. The stone floor was scorched in concentric circles radiating outward from where he stood.
He wasn't practicing 'Expelliarmus' anymore.
In his hand, the wand of holly and phoenix feather felt different. It was no longer just a tool for learning; it was a weapon of war. But lately, even that hadn't felt like enough. He had been diving into the Black family grimoires—books bound in pale, suspicious leathers that felt too much like skin, filled with incantations that whispered in his mind long after he closed the pages.
"Ignis Violaceus," Harry whispered, the words slipping from his tongue like oil.
He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The intent was the only thing that mattered now.
From the tip of his wand, a violet flame erupted. It wasn't the warm, orange fire of a hearth; it was a cold, devouring light. It twisted in the air, taking the shape of a baby dragon, it's tail coiling around his arm, perched over his shoulders without burning him. It was a show of dominance, a spell designed not just to burn, but to obliterate everything except the caster, just a step below Fiendfyre.
He held the spell, feeling the drain on his core. It was intoxicating. The magic of the House of Black was dangerous, powerful and borderline seductive. It didn't ask for permission; it took what it wanted. And Harry, having spent a lifetime asking for permission to live, found the philosophy incredibly appealing.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he dispelled the flame. The violet dragon growled, dissolving into smoke that smelled of sulphur and cloves.
Harry dropped his arm, exhaling a long, ragged breath. He felt stronger. He felt dangerous. The boy who had walked into the forest to die was gone. In his place stood the Lord of two Ancient and Noble Houses, and he was done playing by the rules of old men who were afraid of the dark.
He grabbed a towel from the bench, wiping the sweat from his face and neck. The silence of the house, usually oppressive, now felt attentive. The very walls of Grimmauld Place seemed to hum in recognition of his blood, of his power. The house had hated him once, sensing the light wizardry of Dumbledore's influence. Now? Now it purred like a giant cat basking in the sun.
He made his way up the stairs, the shadows lengthening in the corridors. He needed a shower. He needed to wash the smell of burnt wood and dark magic off his skin before dinner.
His chambers—the Master Suite, which he had finally claimed—were cool and dim. He stripped off his sweat-soaked trousers, leaving them in a pile, and stepped into the adjoining bathroom. The shower was scalding, the water beating down on his tense muscles, washing away the grime of the training session. He stood there for a long time, eyes closed, letting the water sluice over his face, his mind replaying the fight with Greyback.
The violence of it. The way the werewolf's ribs had cracked under his curse. The look of absolute terror in the monster's eyes right before the end.
Harry opened his eyes, staring at the tiled wall. He didn't regret it. Not for a second.
He turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a plush black towel around his waist. Steam billowed out into the bedroom as he opened the door, running a hand through his wet hair.
"You missed a spot."
Harry froze, his hand hovering near his neck.
Narcissa Malfoy was sitting in the high-backed velvet armchair near the fireplace. She looked immaculate, as always. She wore robes of deep midnight blue, cut in a way that accentuated the elegance of her neck and the proud slope of her shoulders. Her blonde hair was pinned up, but a few loose strands framed her face, softening the aristocratic sharpness of her features.
She wasn't looking at his face. Her grey eyes were traveling slowly, deliberately, down the length of his torso, lingering on the water droplets tracing the lines of his abdomen, pausing at the V-line of his hips where the towel barely clung to him.
"Narcissa," Harry said, his voice rougher than he intended. He didn't reach for a robe. He didn't cover himself. He stood his ground, letting her look. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I have been here for some time," she murmured, her gaze finally snapping up to meet his emerald eyes. There was a heat in her stare that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the grate. "The house let me in. It seems to recognize that I am... welcome here."
"Are you?" Harry asked, taking a slow step toward her. "Welcome?"
Narcissa stood up. The movement was fluid, graceful. She closed the distance between them, stopping just inches away. The scent of her—jasmine and something cool and crisp, like winter air—filled his senses, cutting through the humidity of the shower steam.
"You tell me, My Lord," she whispered, the title falling from her lips not with mockery, but with a husky reverence that sent a jolt of electricity straight to Harry's groin. "You saved my life. You gave me sanctuary. You slaughtered a beast that would have hunted us to extinction."
She reached out, her pale, slender fingers tracing the fresh pink scar on his ribs. Her touch was feather-light, yet it burned.
"You are becoming something else, my lord," she said softly, her eyes tracking the movement of her hand. "I felt the magic from downstairs. It shook the foundations. The Black blood... it sings in you."
"Is that what you like?" Harry asked, his voice dropping an octave. " The magic?"
Narcissa looked up, her pupils blown wide. "I like the man who wields it."
The tension that had been simmering between them since that desperate kiss in the hallway, since the moment she realized he was not a boy to be coddled but a king to be served, finally boiled over.
Harry didn't hesitate. He reached out, his hand tangling in the intricate bun at the back of her head, pulling her head back, exposing the long, elegant column of her throat. Narcissa gasped, a sharp intake of breath, her hands flying to his chest, clutching at his damp skin.
"Then show me," Harry growled.
He crashed his lips onto hers. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the tentative exploration of a teenager. It was a claiming. It was the kiss of a man who had stared death in the face and decided he wanted to feel alive.
Narcissa moaned into his mouth, her body melting against his. The cool reserve of the Lady Malfoy shattered instantly. She clawed at his shoulders, her nails digging in, pulling him closer, desperate to eliminate the sliver of space between them.
Harry walked her backward, not breaking the kiss, until her legs hit the edge of the heavy oak table in the centre of the room. He lifted her effortlessly, setting her onto the surface. Narcissa wrapped her legs around his waist, the friction of her robes against his bare skin maddening.
"Lord Black" she breathed, breaking the kiss for a second, her chest heaving. "The door..."
"Locked," Harry lied. He hadn't cast a spell, but he didn't care. He wanted her. Right now.
He pushed her robes up, his hands sliding over the silk of her stockings, finding the warm, soft skin of her thighs. Narcissa threw her head back, a keening sound escaping her throat as his fingers grazed her intimacy. She was wet. Soaking wet.
"You've been thinking about this," Harry murmured against her neck, biting lightly at the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"Since you walked out the door to kill Greyback," she confessed, her voice trembling. "Since I saw you covered in blood. You terrified me. And I wanted you so badly I thought I would go mad."
Harry growled in approval. He pulled back slightly, looking at her. She was flushed, her lips swollen, her hair coming undone. She looked ruined, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The power dynamic shifted, swirled, and settled. She was a daughter of the House of Black, proud and ancient, but here, in this room, she belonged to him.
"Take them off," he commanded softly.
Narcissa didn't hesitate. With trembling fingers, she undid the clasps of her robes, shrugging them off her shoulders, letting the expensive fabric pool around her waist. Beneath, she wore a corset of silver lace that pushed her breasts up, offering them to him.
Harry groaned, the sight nearly undoing him. He buried his face in her cleavage, worshipping the pale skin, his hands kneading her hips. Narcissa's hands were in his hair, gripping tight, anchoring him to her.
"Please," she whispered, the plea ragged. "More, please."
He didn't make her wait. He stripped off the towel, letting it fall to the floor. Narcissa's eyes widened as she took him in, a flash of intimidation warring with hunger in her gaze.
"My Lord," she breathed.
Harry stepped between her legs, pressing the tip of himself against her entrance. She was hot, slick with desire. He grabbed her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh, and thrust into her.
Narcissa screamed, a high, sharp sound that was swallowed by Harry's mouth as he kissed her again. She was tight, incredibly tight, clutching him like a vice. Harry gritted his teeth, holding himself still for a moment to let her adjust, his forehead resting against hers.
"You okay?" he panted.
"More," she hissed, bucking her hips, demanding him. "Don't you dare stop."
Harry let go.
He moved with a rhythm that was primal, driving into her with a force that shook the sturdy oak table. Narcissa met him thrust for thrust, her nails raking down his back, leaving stinging red welts. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, gasping his name like a prayer.
"Please... harder... oh gods..."
It was a frenzy of friction and heat. Harry watched her face, the way her eyes rolled back, the way her lips parted in silent cries of pleasure. He felt powerful. He felt dominant. He owned this moment. He owned the pleasure he was giving her.
"Look at me, Narcissa," he commanded, his voice a dark growl.
She opened her hazy eyes, locking onto his intense green stare.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You," she sobbed, her body shuddering as she approached the edge. "I belong to you. My Lord."
The words shattered his control. Harry slammed into her, hard and fast, chasing his own release. Narcissa cried out, her body bowing off the table, clamping down on him as her climax hit her. The ripples of her pleasure triggered his own. Harry groaned, a guttural sound torn from his chest, as he poured himself into her, his magic flaring around them, rattling the windowpanes.
They stayed like that for a long time, Harry slumped over her, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them gasping for air. The room was heavy with the scent of sex and musk.
Slowly, reality began to bleed back in.
Harry kissed her shoulder, lifting his head. Narcissa looked wrecked in the best possible way. Her hair was a bird's nest, her lips were bruised, and there was a satisfied, sleepy smirk playing on her mouth.
"Wow," she whispered, breathless. "That was... certainly worth the wait."
Harry chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. He moved to pull away, to help her up, when the door handle clicked.
Both of them froze.
The door to the Master Suite swung open.
" 'Arry? Narcissa? I was wondering if you wanted to—"
Apolline Delacour stood in the doorway. She was dressed in elegant periwinkle robes, looking every bit the refined Matriarch.
She stopped dead.
Her blue eyes went wide as saucers. Her gaze travelled from the discarded black towel on the floor, to the robes pooled on the table, and finally to the two of them. Harry, stark naked, standing between Narcissa's spread legs, Narcissa dishevelled and half-dressed on the table, her corset undone.
The silence that stretched in the room was louder than a screaming Mandrake.
Harry felt the blood drain from his face, then immediately rush back in a blush that covered his entire body. Narcissa, to her credit, merely stiffened, her chin lifting in a defiant attempt to salvage some dignity, though the bright red flush on her chest gave her away.
Apolline's mouth opened, then closed. She blinked rapidly as she spotted Harry's rather endowed modesty. A distinct, rosy hue began to creep up her neck, clashing with the cool tones of her robes. The Veela allure in the room spiked weirdly—a mix of shock and a sudden, involuntary flare of arousal that made the air feel thick.
"Oh," Apolline squeaked.
She took a half-step back, her hand flying to her mouth.
"I... I see zat dinner is... being prepared," she stammered, her French accent thickening in her mortification. "I... I will just... wait downstairs. In ze kitchen. Far away. Pardon!"
She spun around with impressive speed, practically sprinting out of the room and slamming the door behind her.
Harry and Narcissa stared at the closed door.
Harry looked at Narcissa. Narcissa looked at Harry.
Harry let out a snort. Then a chuckle.
Narcissa buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, by the Founders," she muffled into her palms. "I can never look her in the eye again."
"I think she was more embarrassed than we were," Harry laughed, stepping back and finally—belatedly—grabbing his towel. "Though I suspect Fleur is going to hear about this in approximately three minutes."
Narcissa peeked through her fingers, her grey eyes dancing with mirth and lingering heat. She slid off the table, adjusting her ruined corset with a dignified sniff.
"Then we had best get dressed, My Lord," she purred, walking past him and trailing a hand across his chest. "We wouldn't want to keep our guests waiting. Or give them the impression that we are entirely uncivilized."
Harry watched her walk to the bathroom to fix herself up, the sway of her hips mesmerizing. He grinned, feeling lighter than he had in years.
Yeah. Life at Grimmauld Place had definitely improved.
~ Hermione Granger ~
The new headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix smelled of boiled cabbage, damp wool, and despair.
Remus and Tonks's flat was serviceable, but it was a far cry from the sprawling, ancient majesty of Grimmauld Place. It was cramped, the wallpaper was peeling, and the magical expansion charms on the living room felt strained, as if the very walls were groaning under the pressure of containing so many anxious people.
Hermione sat at the scratched kitchen table, a stack of maps and Daily Prophet clippings spread out before her. She rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the headache that had been her constant companion for the last three days.
"It has to be a dark wizard," Ron said for the tenth time, pacing the small stretch of rug between the sofa and the fireplace. "Look at the reports, Hermione. The trees were shattered. The ground was scorched. Greyback wasn't just killed; he was obliterated."
"I'm not disputing that it was powerful magic, Ron," Hermione snapped, her patience fraying. "I'm disputing the logic. Why would a Dark Wizard kill Greyback? Greyback was a snatcher. He was aligned with You-Know-Who. It makes no strategic sense for a Death Eater to take out one of their most effective terror weapons."
Remus Lupin sat in the corner, nursing a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. He looked tired, greyer in his hair than usual, but there was a grim satisfaction in his eyes.
"Dark Wizards aren't known for their loyalty," Remus said quietly. "Infighting is common. Perhaps Greyback overstepped. Perhaps he stole a kill from someone more important."
"Or maybe," Tonks chimed in, her hair a dull, mousy brown since it made it easier for her to blend in, "It's a third party. Someone we don't know about. A mercenary."
"A mercenary who can cast Incendio Maxima with enough power to turn a werewolf to ash?" Hermione countered, tapping the report. "That requires a level of magical core strength that is... frankly, terrifying. Dumbledore could have done it. You-Know-Who could do it. Maybe Bella or Dolohov on a good day. The list is short."
She looked down at the map of Wiltshire. The red X marking the site of the battle felt like a taunt.
"It's good news, isn't it?" Ron asked, stopping his pacing to look at them with wide, hopeful eyes. "I mean, who cares who did it? Greyback is dead. He can't... he can't hurt anyone else." He glanced briefly at Remus, then at the scars on Bill's face in his memory.
"It is a victory," Hermione conceded softly. "But an uncontrolled variable is dangerous, Ron. If there is a wizard out there this powerful, and we don't know whose side they are on, we are vulnerable. What if they decide the Order is next?"
The room fell into a heavy silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes, sounding too much like scratching claws.
Hermione sighed, pushing her hair back. "And we still haven't heard from Harry. It's been weeks since the ambush. If he... if he heard about this..."
"Harry is fine," Ron said, though his voice lacked conviction. "He's hiding. He's smart."
"He's alone," Hermione whispered. "He's all alone out there."
The crack of Apparition shattered the quiet.
Everyone jumped, wands drawn in a heartbeat.
Kingsley Shacklebolt materialized in the centre of the room. He looked imposing in his flowing blue robes, his gold earring glinting in the lamplight. But his expression was grave. He didn't lower his wand immediately, scanning the room to ensure it was secure.
"Kingsley," Remus breathed, lowering his wand. "What is it? Has something happened?"
Kingsley holstered his wand and looked at them. His deep voice rumbled through the small room, carrying a weight that made Hermione's stomach drop.
"I have just come from the Ministry," Kingsley said. "From the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Administration Services of the Wizengamot."
"Is it about Greyback?" Tonks asked.
"In a way," Kingsley said. He walked over to the table, looking down at Hermione's maps. "The news of Greyback's death has caused a stir. The Death Eaters are panicked. They don't know who did it. Voldemort is reportedly furious."
"Good," Ron muttered.
"But that is not the news I bring," Kingsley continued, his dark eyes locking onto Remus. "Something happened this morning in the Wizengamot chambers. The magic of the Ancient Seats... it woke up."
Hermione frowned. "Woke up? What do you mean?"
"The seats are sentient, in a manner of speaking," Kingsley explained. "When a Lord claims his ring, when he accepts the magic of his House, the seat in the chamber reactivates. It glows. The family crest manifests. It signals to the body politic that the House has returned to power."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
"Two seats activated this morning," Kingsley said quietly. "Simultaneously."
Remus stood up slowly, his face pale. "Which seats, Kingsley?"
Kingsley took a deep breath.
"The Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter," he said.
Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Harry..."
"And," Kingsley's voice dropped to a whisper, "The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."
The silence in the room was absolute. It was a vacuum, sucking the air out of their lungs.
"Black?" Tonks squeaked. "But... Sirius... Sirius is dead. And Draco..."
"Draco Malfoy has not claimed the Lordship," Kingsley said firmly. "If he had, only the Black seat would have lit up. But they lit up together. Bound by a single magical signature. A signature that the Chief Warlock described as... overwhelming."
Hermione's mind was racing, connecting dots she hadn't even realized were there. The savagery of the attack on Greyback. The raw power needed to incinerate him. The disappearance of Harry. The blood connection to Sirius.
"It's Harry," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling. "He's claimed his inheritance. He's Lord Potter-Black."
"But that means..." Ron stammered, looking between Hermione and Kingsley. "That means he's not just hiding. He's... he's playing politics? Harry?"
"It means he has declared himself," Remus said, sinking back into his chair, looking stunned. "To claim the Black Lordship... you have to accept the family magic. It's dark magic, Hermione. It's old, heavy stuff. It changes a man."
"He's alive," Tonks said, a grin breaking out on her face. "He's alive and he's powerful enough to scare the Wizengamot!"
"He's rogue," Kingsley corrected, his tone sharp. "He didn't come to us. He didn't contact the Order. He claimed his titles, and three days prior, someone with an insane amount of magic slaughtered Fenrir Greyback and a quite a few of his pack members in a manner that would make a Death Eater flinch."
Kingsley looked around the room, his gaze serious.
"The boy we knew is gone," he said heavily. "Harry Potter is operating on his own terms now. And with the combined political and magical power of Potter and Black behind him... he is a third faction in this war."
Hermione stared at the map of Wiltshire again. The red X seemed to glare back at her. She thought of Harry—sweet, awkward, brave Harry—and tried to reconcile him with the image of a Lord who burned werewolves alive and terrified the Ministry.
She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty apartment.
"Where is he?" Hermione asked, her voice small. "If he's claimed the Black seat... surely he must be at..."
"Grimmauld Place," Remus finished, staring into his tea cup as if it held the answers to the universe. "Potter Manor was destroyed in a Death Eater attack during the last war. James lost his parents along with Sirius' grandfather, Arcturus Black that day. He's at Grimmauld Place. And if he's accessed the Black library... God help us all."
"We have to go to him," Ron said, grabbing his jacket. "We have to talk to him!"
"We can't," Kingsley said, raising a hand. "The wards around Grimmauld have shifted. I tried to go there before coming here. The Fidelius is still active, but the war wards have been keyed to a new blood signature. Unless he invites us in... Number 12 is a fortress. And the doors are locked."
Hermione slumped back in her chair. Harry was alive. He was powerful. He was fighting back.
But for the first time since she had met him on the Hogwarts Express at eleven years old, Hermione Granger was terrified of what her best friend might do next.
The game had changed. And Harry wasn't a pawn anymore. He was the King on the board, and he had just made his opening move.
Author's Notes
Back at it with this one. Leave your thoughts down below. Chapter 7 and 8 already uploaded. Use the link mentioned in the notes.
See you soon.