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 3 – Enchanting Veelas
In the paranormally enchanting forests of Albania, amongst the shadows, lay a house separated from the rest of the world. For anyone else, the place might seem like the home to a family wishing to keep their privacy, their existence away from the prying eyes of the world. And they would be partially right.
The abandoned villa was definitely the home to someone who wished to keep the world's attention away from themselves.
But it wasn't a normal family.
It housed something sinister. Something malevolent that was plotting its return.
"The plan… is it ready?" a voice rasped, chilling the hallowed halls of the living room of this house.
A flinch, that was the first response of the man in the room, a man who looked more mouse than human at this point.
Peter Pettigrew clutched the potion vial in his hands, "Y-yes, m-my Lord. The potion has been brewed. But the supply will run out by t-the en-d of the y-year," he stuttered, bowing his head down, shivering as he stood. It was unclear whether it was due to the cold or the fear the voice struck in him.
"Good. And the boy?" the voiced hissed, looking at the rat in front of him squeak at the sheer venom in that question.
"He will not know what hit him, my Lord," a new voice declared, the fanaticism evident. Footsteps echoed through the hall as a man rushed forward, kneeling in front of the chair that housed the malevolent spirit.
"Yesssss, Barty. Remember, failure will not be tolerated," the voice declared, warning the occupants of the dire consequences they shall face if this task was not completed the way it needed to be.
No one knew that the shadows were creeping toward them.
Something the Dark Lord planned to capitalise.
"Let them enjoy the next few months," Lord Voldemort declared. "After this, their fate will be decided… by me."
Dark times were coming.
The world could only hope, their saviour would be there to shield them.
~ Fleur Delacour ~
Across the Channel, the sun was a brilliant, unforgiving thing. It beat down on the manicured lawns of the Delacour estate, turning the dew-kissed grass into a field of tiny diamonds. The air smelled of roses, salt from the nearby coast, and ozone.
Fleur Delacour's Bombarda Maxima was a thing of beauty. It bloomed from her wand in a perfect, shimmering sphere of violent blue light, a spell cast with the flawless form that had won her accolades since she first held a wand. It was elegant, powerful, and utterly useless.
The spell shattered a marble tile on the floor they were having this dance on, blasting it into a cloud of white dust. The space where Sebastian Gray had been standing was now empty. He didn't counter. He didn't apparate with an ostentatious crack. He simply ceased to be in one place and appeared in another, moving with an unnerving economy of motion that was less magical and more predatory.
The tip of his wand was a cold, hard pressure point against the delicate skin of her throat.
"Form over function, Delacour," his voice was a low murmur against her ear, a gravelly timbre that vibrated through her jaw. His breath was warm, smelling of clean air and something wilder, untamed. "You announce your attacks with your stance, with your breath, with the arrogant little tilt of your chin. Flair, while appreciated, will make sure that you lose."
Rage, sharp and potent, flooded her system, chasing away the cold spike of fear. She could feel the heat of his body behind her, a solid wall of muscle and power that seemed to suck the very air from around them. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird beating against a cage.
She hated him.
She hated the quiet confidence, the brutal efficiency that systematically dismantled every piece of her carefully constructed duelling style and exposed it as a fragile piece of art, unfit for a real fight.
"Get off me," she hissed, her voice tight with humiliation.
He didn't move for a long moment, the pressure of his wand a constant, intimate reminder of her failure. Then, he withdrew, and the absence of his presence was as jarring as its arrival. She spun around, her blonde hair whipping through the air. He was already several feet away, watching her with those piercing green eyes that missed nothing. They were eyes that didn't just see; they assessed, catalogued, and dismissed.
"Again," he said. It wasn't a request.
She snarled, a decidedly unladylike sound, and launched a volley of stunning spells, each one faster and more vicious than the last. He moved like smoke, weaving between the bolts of red light, his wand held loosely at his side. He wasn't even bothering to cast shields. He was simply… better. Faster. More lethal.
The realization was a bitter pill she was forced to swallow every single morning.
And yet, as she fought for breath, her muscles screaming in protest, a deeper, more treacherous part of her craved it. She craved the sharp remarks, the deconstruction, the raw, undiluted focus of his gaze. He was the first person to look at her and see not a Veela's allure or a champion's grace, but a girl with an ego the size of Europe that needed to be reminded of her betters.
And God help her, she had never felt more seen in her entire life.
From a high window in the chateau, Appoline Delacour watched, a porcelain cup of tea forgotten in her hand. She was not watching her daughter. Fleur's duelling, while improving in ferocity, was still a known quantity. Her eyes were fixed on the man in the simple dark grey robes. Sebastian Gray.
A convenient fiction, that name. She knew power when she saw it. It rolled off him in subtle waves. It was in the predatory stillness before he moved, in the absolute certainty of his every action. Her husband, a good and gentle man, saw a highly competent bodyguard, a necessary precaution for the tournament. Appoline saw something else entirely. She saw a predator walking in a garden, his true nature cloaked in civility as easily as he wore his robes. She saw an echo of the wild, passionate currents she had thought buried forever beneath years of mere contentment and aristocratic duty. A call to her true, primal nature as a Veela.
He moved again, disarming Fleur with a flick of his wrist so casual it was insulting. Her daughter's wand flew through the air, and he caught it without looking. He tossed it back to her, the motion dismissive. Appoline watched the flush of fury and something else—something raw and desperate—on Fleur's face, and a slow, calculating smile touched her own lips.
The game of glances, she decided, was over.
~ Harry Potter ~
Night fell over the chateau like a shroud of deep blue velvet. The air grew cool, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the distant, rhythmic sigh of the sea. Inside, the great house was silent, a sleeping giant of stone and polished wood.
Harry, or Sebastian as he was known here, found a moment of quiet in the grand library. The room smelled of polished wood, old paper and leather. A low fire crackled in the hearth, its light dancing over the spines of a thousand books, a thousand mysteries bound and shelved. He stood by the massive windows, gazing out at the moon-drenched grounds, his senses attuned to the house's nocturnal rhythms. It was a habit ingrained in him by a master who believed complacency was the seed of destruction.
"You are difficult to find when you are not actively tormenting my daughter, Monsieur Gray."
The voice was like cooled honey, smooth and rich. He didn't turn, having sensed her approach long before she spoke, watching her reflection as she approached him. Appoline Delacour moved with a liquid grace, the silk of her azure dressing gown whispering against the antique rug. She stopped near the fireplace, the warm light catching the silver threads in her blonde hair and the knowing glint in her eyes.
"I wasn't aware I was hiding, Madame Delacour," he replied, his voice a low counterpoint to hers. He finally turned, leaning back against the cold window frame, his arms crossed.
She traced the rim of a rather fancy lamp on a nearby table, her touch feather-light. "Fleur 'as been facing discrimination against 'er looks and 'er Veela nature since she was a leetle girl," she murmured, her gaze never leaving his. "Thus, she believes 'er worth as a witch should lie in proving to everyone 'er mettle as a skilled duellist, and now a Triwizard Champion. She believes zat will give 'er ze respect she is entitled to."
A deliberate, weighted pause hung in the air. "A charming… but naïve… worldview. Don't you sink so?"
He held his tongue for a bit, letting her words drown out the silence that stretched between them.
"It's a worldview that gets people killed," he said, cutting through the layers of her subtext with surgical precision.
Her lips curved into a genuine smile, a flash of something far more dangerous than polite amusement. "Précisément. "You see, zat is what my 'usband does not understand. 'E sinks 'e 'as 'ired a shield. But you are not a shield, are you, Monsieur Gray? You are a weapon. And a weapon should be appreciated for its true purpose."
She glided closer, the scent of jasmine and her own unique, womanly fragrance enveloping him. She stopped just outside of his personal space, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"Tell me," She said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "what is it you truly want? Beyond ze gold my 'usband pays you. A man of your… capabilities… does not sell 'is services so cheaply."
"I want to do the job I was hired for," he answered, his own voice flat, unyielding. "To make sure Miss Delacour remains safe, while making sure her skills are polished enough to protect her in case she and I are separated during an attack."
"And you do it so well," she purred, taking the final step that erased the distance between them.
She laid a hand on his chest, right over his heart. Her touch was electric, a brand against his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
"All zat control. All zat power, leashed and waiting. It must be… exhausting."
His hands, of their own accord, came up to grip her waist. His fingers pressed into the yielding curve of her hips, the silk of her robe gliding like butter in his calloused palm. He could feel the slight tremble in her body. Her eyes, the colour of a summer sky, held his, wide and full of a knowing, ravenous hunger that mirrored the one clawing its way up his throat.
"You have no idea what you're playing with," he growled, the sound ripped from deep in his chest. The last time he had let his desires get the better of him, they had been banned from an entire country.
"Do I not?" she breathed, her lips parting. "I 'ave been watching you since you arrived. I know exactly what I am playing wiz."
She rose on her toes, her mouth hovering a breath from his.
"Ze question is, Monsieur Gray… are you going to play back?"
The last vestige of his control shattered. His mouth crashed down on hers, a brutal claiming, not a gentle kiss. It was a collision of want and will. She met him with equal force, her mouth opening, her tongue tangling with his. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, her body arching against his as her breasts pressed themselves against his chiselled form. A low moan escaped her, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and triumph.
He backed her against the heavy mahogany of the desk, not with a shove, but with an inexorable dominance that left her no choice but to yield the ground. His hands didn't tear at her silk robe; they gathered the material at her waist, a slow, deliberate act of possession.
"You wanted a lesson," he murmured against her lips, his voice a low vibration that resonated through her bones as his length, thick and pulsing, sprang free from the confines of his trousers. "The first is about control."
Her own hands came up, not to push him away, but to lock behind his neck, her fingers tangling brutally in his dark hair. An invitation. A need. "Then teach me," she gasped, her head falling back as he bent her over the polished wood.
The desk was cool against the bare skin of her back as he pushed the robe aside. He didn't waste time with preliminaries. His hand shot between her legs, finding her cunt to be already slick and swollen, a testament to the weeks of unspoken desire that had simmered in the Veela's mind. She cried out, a sharp, ragged sound as his fingers delved into her heat, testing her, stretching her, preparing her.
He positioned himself behind her, one hand splayed on the small of her back, pressing her down, the other gripping her hip in a possessive hold. He drove into her with a single, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her welcoming tightness. Appoline screamed, a sound of ecstasy echoing through the library, her nails digging into the wood of the desk. The sheer size of him filled her, stretching her obscenely, lighting every nerve in her body on fire.
He fucked her with a brutal efficiency that made the Veela within her sing. There was no tenderness, only a raw, primal claiming. Each thrust was a statement, claiming her to now be his. It was a declaration of power, a surrender to lust. The library was soon filled with the slap of flesh on flesh, her ragged moans, and his guttural groans. He pulled out almost completely before slamming back into her, again and again, chasing her climax, driving her higher.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice raw.
She twisted her head, her eyes wild and unfocused, meeting his intense gaze in the reflection of a silver letter opener on the desk. She saw the raw possessiveness in his expression, the sheer, untamed force of the man she had unleashed. It was terrifying. It was the most exhilarating thing she had ever experienced.
"Mine," he growled, his pace quickening, his balls tightening.
"OUI!" she sobbed, the declaration a release in itself. "Oui, yours!"
That was all it took. Her own climax ripped through her, a violent, soul-shattering cataclysm that made her body seize and convulse around him. Her scream was muffled against the wood as he followed her over the edge, roaring his own release. He pumped his seed deep inside her, hot and thick, filling her canal until his balls were completely empty of his essence. He didn't stop until the last shudder wracked his frame, collapsing against her, his chest heaving, his sweat mingling with hers. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged, desperate gasps for air.
~ Fleur Delacour ~
A nightmare, sharp and visceral, of a green light and a high, cold laugh, had torn Fleur from her sleep. Her heart was pounding, a cold sweat clinging to her skin. She needed… she didn't know what she needed. A distraction. An answer to a question about a shield-breaker combination he'd shown her.
An excuse.
She needed to see him.
The chateau was dark and silent as she padded down the grand staircase, her bare feet silent on the cool marble. A sliver of light from beneath the library door drew her forward. She assumed he was reading, or studying, always vigilant. She reached for the heavy brass handle, a question already on her lips.
A low sound from within stopped her cold. A woman's gasp, sharp and stolen. It was a sound of pain, or pleasure, or both. It was a sound she knew intimately. It was her mother's voice.
Her blood ran cold. The door was ajar, not fully latched. Curiosity, a powerful thing, warred with a sudden, inexplicable dread. She pushed the door open a fraction of an inch more, her breath held tight in her chest.
Through the crack, she saw the firelight glinting off the curve of her mother's bare back, her hands braced against the desk, her elegant blue robe pooled around her ankles. And him. He was behind her, his dark head bowed, one hand splayed possessively on the pale, sweat-slicked skin of her mother's hip, his trousers undone and pushed down his thighs. He was moving, a slow, powerful rhythm that made the whole scene feel unreal, like a fever dream.
The world tilted. The air in her lungs turned to glass, sharp and brittle. It wasn't jealousy that lanced through her first, or even betrayal. It was a white-hot, suffocating wave of something else entirely. A sickening, thrilling recognition. The raw power he held back in their training sessions, the brutal force she both feared and craved—it was unleashed now. On her mother.
As she watched, frozen in the doorway, he pulled out and then drove back in, a single, deliberate thrust. Her mother cried out again, a choked, desperate sound of pure ecstasy. And Fleur felt it. A hot, shameful pulse of arousal clenched deep in her belly, so powerful it made her knees weak. A dampness bloomed between her legs, a traitorous response to the obscenity before her.
Shock. Betrayal. A possessiveness so fierce it was a physical ache in her chest. And beneath it all, this dark, coiling thrill. To see him like this, untamed and dominant, taking what he wanted. To see her elegant, composed mother broken and undone beneath him.
The sight was burned into her mind, a brand on her soul.
She did not even realise, her fingers had slowly etched right onto her core. And as her fingers started to work their way up and down her slit, only one thought dominated her conscience.
'Zat should be me.'
Author's Notes
Took a while but here we are. I am still working on my smut. Do drop your comments and let me know how you liked the chapter. You can find Appoline's images attached on patreon.
See you in the next update.