Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

To revel with a Veela	By : Valehtelija Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 112967 -:- Recommendations : 8 -:- Currently Reading : 8
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Harry Potter, or any of the characters, nor am I making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
That must be it. Of course, it was such a simple explanation for all of it.
I'm barking mad.
What else could have compelled him to act as he did? Thinking himself so bloody clever to go after Delacour, scampering behind her beneath his invisibility cloak, tracking her movements with the aid of the Marauder's Map, just waiting for an opportunity to talk in some semblance of privacy. After all, he'd seen how readily the older girl dispensed with unwanted suitors, and how sharp her tongue could be, while the sickly sweet smile adorned her face.
There was something deeply wrong about the witch, but her looks were the exact opposite of wrong.

Once he'd had more than a few days to wallow in the bitterness of Cho's rejection, and her subsequent conspiratorial giggling with Diggory, Harry had opted for asking the Beauxbatons champion, because what could possibly go wrong, right?
At first, he had tried convincing himself he just wanted to prove to Ron that he could ask her out and not drool all over himself, like Ron had done, which earned him a significant amount of talk from Hermione. Merlin, he loved his friends, he really did, even when they were senseless idiots who doubted him in moments when he needed them most, but they really ought to have just plain shagged each other and got it out of their systems, rather than getting out on all of the people surrounding them.
Hermione's response to Ron's suggestion, that Harry ask Delacour to the ball, had been blunt, if accurate up to a certain point.
"Don't be stupid, Ron, she's an awful, nasty girl, didn't you see how she rejected Collin? And Seamus? And Dean?"
Harry winced at the remembrance of the first. The younger Gryffindor actually had one of the milder rejections from Fleur Delacour's list of would-be companions for the Yule Ball, yet the boy still refused to go outside the dorms for anything more than classes and meals. It's just that... Harry didn't feel all that much sympathy for the muggleborn boy, Merlin-knows he had a jinxable face. That and Harry still vividly remembered being hounded across Hogwarts by him in his 2nd year, when the Basilisk roamed the halls, back when he was still taunted with being the Heir of Slytherin. Idiots, he couldn't help but think.
Still... things had gotten better since then. Professor Dumbledore had somehow managed to banish Voldermot once and for good in the middle of Harry's third year, he had found out about having a godfather, and he'd found he would never, ever go back to the Dursleys. That is, he'd never go back to them after his fourth year. Sirius, having been proven innocent, was being treated for his extended stay at Azkaban, and more for the mental health than the physical, the latter which was corrected more or less with potions, poultices and just plain, proper food which wasn't ground down and filtered into pure yellow slop.
So really, was it all that much to ask for just one, simple year where nothing happened, where he was just one among the mass of students at Hogwarts? Just a boy, and not the Boy-Who-Lived? Of course it was, how else would the wizarding world get its daily dosage of scandal and spectacle if not through their favorite orphan-hero?
Things had improved by a large margin after the First Task and both Hermione and Ron had all but begged him to forgive them for ever doubting him, for making him go through it all alone when they'd been together for all their previous adventures. Of course he'd forgiven them, how could he not? They were the best of friends. He was just a tad irked that they thought the mishaps in his life counted as adventures, but better that than nightmares, he supposed.
And then that incident with Cho. Honestly, he'd just gone to send off an owl to Sirius, asking him for more stories about his Mum and Dad, and he'd come upon her, then and there, all smiles and wrapped up in a blue-and-bronze scarf. Harry felt a rather distinctive churning in his gut, identical to the one he felt when he saw her on Hogwarts Express that year, and he was fairly certain the churning had little to do with indigestion. Probably. Who knows what they put in those Bertie Botts?
He remembered, with clarity that only resentment could bring, how it all went down.
"Cho!" said Harry, fiercely proud he'd managed his voice not to break in half.
Cho on her part seemed amused by how eager he was at the sight of her. "Hello, Harry. Owling someone?" Her eyes were so perfect in the darkened lighting of the owlery, and the smell of owl droppings didn't even get to him. Her smile... so cute.
"Uhh, yeah," said Harry, sloppily avoiding stammering or just plain gawking at her. A burst of that Gryffindor courage, and a small voice in the back of his head, that sounded a tad too like Sirius', told him: 'Put up or get out.'
Once more Cho acted gracefully, and didn't say anything about his reluctance to speak. She just had this odd look on her face.
"I was wondering," said Harry, without a single tremble in his voice, "you heard about the Yule Ball, right?" She nodded and her smile grew wider, warming Harry all the way inside, in a way no warming charm ever could. "I was just... wonderingifyoudliketogowithme."
Cho giggled. "Sorry, could you repeat that last bit?"
He drew his words out with more clarity this time. "I was just wondering... if you'd like to go with me to the ball?"
And though she still smiled, it was not quite the same. It turned at the edges, almost towards a frown. "Oh, I would, Harry, I really would, but..." she bit her bottom lip in a way that was definitely not cute, but pleasing all the same, "Cedric already asked me out and I said 'yes'. Sorry," she ducked her head down, as though she had a reason to be ashamed.
Harry was somewhat glad for the colder weather and his body's lowered chances of a blush response showing up. "That's fine. Perfectly understandble. Early bird and all that." He smiled without really meaning to, somewhat awkward in rejection.
"Sorry," said Cho one last time and went past him.
He might have gone on to bang his head against the wall if a certain snow-white owl hadn't announced her approach with a hoot and landed on his arm. Hedwig started nuzzling herself against Harry's cheek and his face broke into a grin.
"Well, I've always got you as a choice, don't I, Hedwig?" said Harry. "Wouldn't that be something, eh, you and me twirling about the Hall? Merlin, dancing," Harry shook his head, "I am so utterly fucked, aren't it?"
Hedwig seemed to have given it some thought before agreeing with him with a single hoot.
"Right then, I've got a letter for you here, girl. You up for a bit of travel to London?" He pulled the envelope from the pocket of his winter-robes and presented it for her to observe. "It's for Sirius." Hedwig puffed out her chest in response, as though insulted by his question, but soon she calmed down, took the envelope in one hand and nipped him on the ear good-naturedly before taking flight against the starch-white sky.
His friend, his beloved companion, drove dark thoughts away with the beat of her wings.
He thought he handled his rejection by Cho Chang very well at the time. At least it was so, until he saw her in the Great Hall, sitting at Cedric Diggory's side at the Hufflepuff table - of which all but a few graced him with a unified glare - and then they both shared this positively sacharine laughter, which he might have gone on to ignore if they hadn't turned to look at him just in passing and those smiles on their faces spread. Cedric shrugged at Harry from a distance, as though to say 'Nice try, but not good enough,' and the worst part of it was that Cedric didn't mean it in a bad way. He could have handled that. He really could have, he would not have sought out the French witch and solicited her to accompany him to the Yule Ball, if only... if Cho had just kept her face away from him, if she didn't giggle right into Cedric's ear, who threw him yet another look while suppressing a grin from appearing on his face. Harry's stomach plumetted - it felt like a giant box of lead had been dropped inside.
Laughing at him. Not that he hadn't experienced it before, before or even at Hogwarts, but somehow this was different.
Somehow, this made him feel angry.
Angry like when that fat cow, Marge, insulted his parents, calling his mother a bitch with bad blood.
Angry like when Sirius and Remus told of, and revealed, the real traitor in their midst.
Angry like the first time he realized the Mirror of Erised offered nothing real, no mother or father he could ever hug.
It simmered, like a batch of poison that Snape always had over the flames, always hinting that that day was going to be the day he would test Harry Potter's potion's skills and knowledge, to see whether his antidotes would hold up to Snape's standards.
Angry in a way, he imagined, Voldemort once might have felt, before banished to whatever dismal afterlife awaited him.
I never should have told him about the dragons.
The thought came unbidden, with guilt and self-loathing following swiftly behind.
He quashed it. In that moment, in the Great Hall, when he bore witness to the callous cruelty of mockery, he strangled the rage in its infancy, while at the same time keeping it in his fisted hands, like one might hold a serpent at bay, but still in reach.
Where the hell did the idea to ask Fleur Delacour even come from? It's not like he failed to notice just how beautiful she was when she first came with the rest of the Beauxbatons delegation, or when she asked him for his portion of the French dish. It's just... it didn't matter then, did it? He'd still been very much fixated on Cho and her brand of beauty. Well, so much for that anymore. He no longer saw her quite as beautiful anymore, and he doubted she ever saw him as anything more than an ickle fourth-year to joke about with her friends, whether he was in sight or not. Oh Merlin, how the thought enraged him.
So what better way to show her, than to show up with most beautiful witch in all of Hogwarts? What better way to flick Cedric's good-natured amusement right on its nose, than to show up with a witch far more breath-taking than Cho could ever be?
Of course, that's where the plan had come to a bit of a snag really. How in the hells would she even accept his invitation?
Sure, she did accept it in the end, and under her own very specific terms, but mustering the nerve to ask her, finding the right time and place to do it, without chance of enhancing the humiliation he already had experienced at the hand of Cho... tricky.
While he hadn't had the chance to see how she handled her dragon at the First Task, stories of it sufficed, and both Ron and Hermione's retelling of every other champion had sort of ingrained itself into his mind. He'd wondered, as he wandered throughout Hogwarts, what could he possibly offer to entice the French champion, who'd bewitched a dragon to slumber?
He was right, of course, there was no way she would have fallen for simple praise, when she knew it was her due; however arrogant she might have been about it, Fleur Delacour was also very right in that assumption. So words of praise were just simply a no-go, but what else could he offer? What could she ever possibly ever want? He'd asked her that, if framed a bit more bluntly, and when her smile had turned genuine, a pleased gleam in her eyes, he felt a shiver go down his spine.
"For one, 'arry Potter, I want dancing," she had said.
"What?" Harry was completely wrongfooted by her seemingly all too easy given consideration.
"Dancing," she looked at him as though he was mentally impaired, before the smile returned full blast and he felt that sweetness, mixed in with scent of lonely nights, tingle every single one of his nerves. "You do know 'ow to dance, do you not?"
"I.. uhh..." said Harry, ever so eloquent. "No. Not really."
Fleur stepped up closer to him, seemingly taking measure of him in some way he didn't understand. After a few moments, she sighed. "Vairy well zen, I shall be your tutor, and you will be an eager pupil, won't you?" Her midnight-blue eyes bored into his emerald-green, like they were trying to find a single shred of defiance and drown it before it cried out.
Beffudled as he was, he only managed to ask, "So that's a yes then? To my invitation?" without really answering her.
She tilted her head slightly to the side. "Oui, 'arry Potter, that's a 'yes'." Fleur's lips curved into a small smile, and he had to repress the urge to come closer and see if he could brush his mouth against them. Another shiver crawled down his spine.
"Great!" said Harry smiling, with maybe just a spot or two of red on his cheeks from the sheer proximity to Fleur.
"When and where should we practice? I'm free from most classwork, but I still go to a few of them, thought they're mostly early in the day."
"I will look into finding us suitable quarters." Fleur made a pause before she spoke agan. "But zat is not all I want from you."
Of course not, why would things be so simple? Then again, I expected as much. "What else then?" he asked.
A few pearly whites showed themelves from behind those pouty pink lips of hers when she smiled again. "A proper invitation to ze Yule Ball, for one. In ze Great 'all. Ozzerwise, you may set yourself to the task of seeking anuzzer to accompany you."
Harry nodded, glad it was something so small and accomodating. "Today or tomorrow then?"
She shook her head. "Non, not tomorrow nor today. Let us say... seven days from now, Meester Potter?"
His brows furrowed together in confusion. "Seven days?" he asked.
"Oui, seven days," said Fleur.
He could do that. He didn't understand why, but he'd do it. No problem. "I'll do that then. Will that be all, Miss Delacour?"
How very stupid of him to be so hopeful, so naive and simple.
"Non, non, Meester Potter, zat is far from all."
At that she glided closer and he suddenly found himself backed against the bare stone, and cold, wall. Fleur brought one of her hands up to his face, fingernails grazing against his left cheek at first, then knuckles brushing against it.
She bent her head slightly down, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear. "I simply must insist," said the Beauxbatons champion, "zat you call me Fleur, and I shall call you 'arry in return. No need for formality between partners."
His breathing had become a strain, and he was fairly sure that his whole face matched the color of Ron's hair. Fleur was very, very close to him, her hands so near but not touching, her lips grazing but not kissing, her breath scalding but not mingling.
"I... uhh... I... yes, Fleur," said Harry, just on the edge of a whisper.
Fleur pulled away for a moment, letting him see her, looking oh so very pleased with herself, before she descended anew.
He once thought of how good it would feel to kiss Cho Chang and hold her in his arms.
He knew then and there that no lips would ever match those of Fleur Delacour, nor the fire that her gentle touch brought.
How little he knew. How little he feared.
And how futile both would have been.

Fleur kept true to her word, and before the day had come to an end, she'd found them a room for practice. Naturally, they had not met again on that same day, but he felt someone was watching him, pretty common really, yet this time it was different, and had he turned, he could have easily traced the gaze to those dark blue eyes, full of wants and wonders and wickedness.
But Harry Potter knew little. And it didn't help that he had to find excuses for absconding from his friends' company, day after day, night after... well alright, not night after night. No, his nights were spent in solitude, and often behind the curtains of his four-poster bed, spelled shut in such a way so as to not allow anyone to interrupt him in the most vital of tasks.
Bless Sirius for his book of charms.
Who could blame him really? He was just a boy. Perhaps a bit shorter than others, but no less hormonally charged.
And he was very much charged during those days.
Those dancing lessons with Fleur left him so very stiff and hard after each session, a fact not lost on Fleur, who enjoyed teasing him with her rather fiendish body, always so close, just a few layers of cloth away. At first, he had blushed like mad, being touchy was not his forte, even less so with a girl, and Fleur was very much a girl, Harry had no doubt about that. In a way, it was... pleasant. Fleur was rather upfront about these matters, at least when it was just the two of them, showing little to no discomfort that any other might have experienced when confronted with a young wizard assailed by his hormones.
She'd had the most melodical of laughters when he tried pulling away from her for the first time.
"'arry?" said Fleur, her face framed in worry, while her hand still held his in a firm grasp. "Is somezzing ze matter?"
How could he tell her? How could he tell any girl about that? It was so sweet, so fucking lovely to be pressed against her body and to feel them contorting to each other, even if only by a little. It set his heart thumping and his blood flowing. Alas, there were reactions he could not entirely be discreet about, and even the bulky black robes provided only so much cover.
"I... I just need a bit of time-out, Fleur," said Harry, in vain trying to wiggle his fingers out of Fleur's hold, "just a bit.. umm.. hot."
Almost immediately, she grinned. And how she laughed. That sweet sound, Fleur pressing her hand to those lips in trying to be polite, but all the same, she laughed. Harry, to his surprise, found out he didn't mind. What he minded even less was when she took his hands into hers again. "Oh 'arry, it's a very normal reaction. Indeed, I consider it a compliment, in fact. Better zat," she gave a single furtive glance down below, grin still on her face, "zan nuzzing at all, and zat would 'ave been a razzer depressing zought. Now, come 'ere," she pulled him closer to her, until his full mast pressed against her midsection, and they danced.
While Harry just kept his head ducked down, cheeks burning with embarrassment he missed out on seeing the 'cat that got the canary and cream' look on Fleur's face. Several times during that first day of dancing, she kept pressing herself more and more than it was needed, until he'd been ready to burst, and had that happened, Harry would have just signed out of Hogwarts on his own, no need for Snape to help him along or anything. But Fleur gave not a single damn about what part of him pressed against her and that only made the witch seem so much more, to him, than what she truly was.
That day, sweet Merlin, he'd just waited for the first chance, the first unccupied bathroom stall, and he'd gone on in there, just barely having enough time to open his robes and pull out, stroking himself to the blissful finale in a matter of seconds. When the ejaculate did end up flying out of his slit, Harry was amazed at the sheer force of it, not to mention the quantity.
He'd seen stars burst from the exhaustion and exultation he felt as he sat down in the stall, recupperating steadily.
Up until recently, he didn't feel that much of a need for pleasuring and relieving himself, despite what Sirius talked about his own days at Hogwarts - from which, thankfully, his own father's exploits were exluded - during his fourth year.
Maybe I just didn't have the right inspiration 'till now, Harry thought to himself as he chuckled inwardly.
And most assuredly, Fleur counted as a divine inspiration for all things carnal.
He didn't mean to, honestly, but whenever he thought of her in those days prior to the Yule Ball, he only kept thinking of how she'd look in the nude, if she'd still carry that same smile about her face, still the same easy charm, grace and beauty. How would her white-gold hair fall when set free? Would it fall just far enough to cover her breasts? Would it tickle him as he kissed his way up from her belly to her mouth? Would she roll those delightful 'r's in his name as she moaned?
Visions of this, and more, consumed his thoughts daily, lower parts stirring at the very sight and thought of her. Those robes that Beauxbatons had their witches wear were completely unlike the ones the witches of Hogwarts had, instead of concealing the robes hugged their curves, they pronounced them, they enthralled and lured if one looked at them from the right angle. The French champion had more than her fair share of eye-appealing attributes, even when clothed. Especially when clothed.
And with all of that in his head, Harry Potter had to admit to himself that he was very much in lust with Fleur Delacour.
He didn't fool himself, thinking of Fleur as he did of Cho, as some sort of crush, the girl of his deams. Well, she was a dream-girl of sorts, save for the fact that the dreams she played part in were never to be disclosed to anyone, not to friends, not to Sirius, and most certainly not to Fleur, who was featured in a myriad of poses and situations that his young mind liked to conjure.
It should have felt very strange how comfortable he felt around her, but he supposed her being so up-front about nearly everything tended to dissolve whatever barrier might have sprung between them; as it had with Ron and Hermione, whom he had shuffled off to the side for the time being, pretending to work on preparing for the Second Task - of which he knew nothing, and that blasted egg just wouldn't stop screaming - whereas in truth he was only preparing himself for the ball.
Harry's lusting after Fleur aside, he did learn from his lessons. It took time, and a fair ammount of effort, but he'd learned the steps, the tempo, the moves, the motions, the right time when to be stiff, the wrong time to relax and so on. Fleur was a good teacher, and he did have plenty to aspire to, after all. She'd instituted, early on, a reward system in place.
"Dance well and you get a kiss," said Fleur. "Dance poorly and our sessions double, wizzout ze possibility of a kiss."
As it turned out, Harry was a quick and eager study.
He had no idea what to call the relationship between them though. They weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, even he knew that much, but what exactly were they? When they saw each other, or passed by one another, in hallways and halls where others dwelled they remained as they originally were, merely fellow champions and no more.
But when they retreated into that handy little room, with the wizarding wireless and its collection of music to choose from, they were something more, and something less, than friends. For when Fleur took to fancy, she liked to lead him in dance and pull him close to her bosom - which Harry tried to enjoy not too much, but he doubted he showed all that much reluctance - her fingers stroking his face or hair, always insistent on keeping eye contact, until the entire world was gone from his mind.
And when she kissed him? The kisses may have been chaste, just lips against lips, yet they felt anything but.

His body tingled all over and it was one of those rare few times he actually had loosened up enough to touch her a bit more inappropriately than he usually would. Harry's hands would not wander too much, personally he just liked placing them on that little spot above her bum, and moving his palms around in circular motion. Once or twice he even took to massaging her shoulders, and Fleur profusely thanked him for the small acts of kindness, rewarding him with further intimacy.
"Repressed, you Eenglishmen are so repressed," Fleur mercilessly teased him when one time she took to wearing nothing but a white, sleeveless shirt instead of her upper robes during their dance lesson, citing this or that reason; said shirt didn't leave much to imagination and judging by the smirks that Fleur cast his way, she was well aware of it. He didn't know whether the French really gave so little consideration to propriety when in private, but truth be told he didn't care much to ask around.
And kissing and teasing was not all that happened between them. They talked, for hours at times, of all sorts of things. One thing he came very much to like about Fleur was how she never pushed him, never asked him to elaborate on pieces of stories that ended abruptly, when he fell silent, too overwhelmed by emotions he thought he'd overcome long past. Yet all the same, he found himself telling her more and more of his life, bit by bit, and she did the same for hers. Fleur talked of her parents, her father's career in the French Ministry, her little sister's aspirations, her mother's vineyards, Beauxbatons... anything, really.
All things considered, Harry was having a brilliant time.

The day had come. The big day. The day of judgment. Cast the apple and envy appeareth a-plenty.
There was just that pesky matter of getting out of the common room and down to the Great Hall.
"Honestly, Harry, you should have asked someone as your date for the ball already, most of the girls have chosen with whom they'll go and the longer you wait, the lesser your chances of going with someone whom you'd find tolerable enough."
Hermione's rebuke about Harry's passivity for acquiring a date for the ball was getting on his nerves. It was far from the first time she spoke of it, but after today, it would be the last. And won't that be a surprise to her. Well, her and everyone else.
It was true, though, what she said. Most have already paired off, and there had even been the occasional, courageous under-fourth-year matching up with an older student so as to get a chance at seeing the Great Hall in its greatest splendor. Ron, in fact, had been snagged by a rather quirky Ravenclaw witch, who turned out to be a friend of Ginny's. She wasn't quite exactly a looker, but there was an odd air about her, along with a healthy disregard for what counted as casual conversation from what Harry had witnessed up so far, and for some reason Ron had indeed ended up asking her to the ball.
Hermione was mighty miffed by it, no surprise there, even though she herself had apparently been asked out by persons unknown before Ron and accepted. So really, she didn't have a leg to stand on, but Ron being Ron, he proceeded to insert foot in mouth and was on the outs with her from there on.
Which meant Harry was the recipient of all her frustration, the not-so-willing ear for her rants about the house elves, the purebloods usual bigotry, the ball, how dangerous the first task was, how dangerous the next ones might be, how Ron was being thick and rude for no reason, how she really didn't see the point for restricting who gets to go to the ball and so on.
Personally, Harry could've done without the drama about the ball, but then... I wouldn't have met Fleur properly, now would I?
"Look, Hermione," said Harry, just as she was about to start another rant, "how about if I go and do it right now?"
"Do what right now?" asked Hermione, utterly nonplussed by his interruption.
"Go and ask someone to be my date for the ball."
She shook her head. "Oh Harry, " said Hermione, the smallest of smiles on her face, a sign of friendly concern, "you can't do it like that. You can't just," she lifted her arms away from the book in her lap and waved them around, "go and approach any witch like she's one of your dormmates and pop the question all willy nilly."
He felt amused by this side of Hermione, so unlike her, so very... girly.
"And why not?" asked Harry, suppressing a smirk.
It wouldn't have been much of a surprise if she suddenly pulled out a list from somewhere beneath her robes, but it seemed Fate didn't want the muggleborn witch teased too much, so she settled for ticking off the list on her fingers. By the end of it, he was suppresing the grin from breaking out on his face, but judging by the small scowl on her face, he'd failed.
"Hermione, did you read about this in a book?" he asked her and judging by the red appearing on her cheeks, he'd guessed right. "Hermione," he calmed her down, before she could go off on yet another rant, "I already know who to ask, so don't worry." He hoped his confident smile put her at ease; after all, he did know who to ask and what she'd say.
Her imminent speech forgotten, Hermione's eyes went slightly wide, a tad incredulous perhaps. "You do?" she asked.
Harry opted to nod, rather than verbalize his reply. Then he had an idea. "How about this: I go and invite someone now and if they say 'yes', you tell me and Ron who asked you out?"
"First," said Hermione, "it's 'Ron and I', and second, I won't be telling you no such thing."
"Why? What's the big secret?" Harry frowned. "It's not Malfoy, is it?"
Hermione's face got green all around. "What? No! Don't be disgusting! That's... that's horrible. Why would you think that?"
He shrugged. "It's not like you to be so secretive, 's all. Besides, gotta poke fun at you sometimes."
"It's one thing to poke fun," said Hermione, "and another to be so vulgar. Malfoy makes my skin crawl."
"So that's a 'no' then?" asked Harry.
"No! I mean, yes, that's a no! You're being a prat, Harry. Now shoo, find your date now before she gets taken by someone else."
And so he found himself stumbling out of the Gryffindor common room, suppressing laughter that was bubbling up from inside. He'd rarely seen Hermione so flustered about a date, which meant this meant a lot to her, one way or another. Still shaking his head in amusement at the whole thing, he failed to notice one of his Quidditch teammates coming up the stairs to reach the Fat Lady's portrait and they ended up bumping heads right in front of it.
"Ow! Bloody hell!"
"Sorry," said Harry sheepishly, still in good cheer, as he helped Katie Bell rise up from the floor. "Didn't see you there."
The muggleborn Chaser shook her head, muttering something about Seekers, bats and Snitches. Then her face lit up.
"Harry!" said Katie, rather enthusiasticly, with a big smile on her face.
The smile made Harry feel somewhat uncertain, but he figred she was just reminiscing about a last year's match or something.
"Yeah, Katie?" asked Harry.
For a moment there, Katie Bell looked unsure of herself, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. "You nervous about the ball?"
Not really sure where she was going with this, Harry just replied with, "No. I mean, I was, but not anymore."
"Good, good. Got your dress robes all ready then?" He nodded. "Got a date for it?"
"No, not yet," said Harry, his face almost by reflex turning towards a smile at the thought of Fleur and how gorgeous she'd look at the ball; it didn't really matter what kind of dress she wore. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't see it coming. He should have, he really should, but then again, no one would ever say Harry Potter was a master of insight into things concerning girls.
"Well, how about it then?" Katie asked. His face must have shown confusion he felt on the inside, so she elaborated. "You and me," she grinned, tucking a few strands of brown hair behind her ear, "together for the ball?"
"Oh," said Harry, the almost-smile from thinking about Fleur completely vanished. "I.. uhh, Katie, it's not that —"
Quick as a flash, the smile on Katie's face was gone, the shine in her eyes dimmed, and she suddenly rushed past him.
Well, that wasn't awkward at all.
A significantly less cheerfull Harry Potter made his way to the Great Hall, before slumping down at the Gryffindor table. Ron noticed his deflated mood, gave him a once-over, but stayed quiet, thinking Harry would say something if he wanted. He knew better than to try and dig it out of Harry, that was Hermione's job. And just as he thought of her, there she came, almost storming towards the table, and rather pissed off at that. Judging how she gave Ron only a furtive glance, it was safe to say Harry was her mark. What soon followed only confirmed as much.
"Harry Potter!" said Hermione angrily, while trying to keep her voice down. "What did you do?"
Her abrupt approach brought him back up to his full faculties. "What?" asked Harry, mildly confused.
"You've just barely gone out of the common room," said Hermione, "and in comes Katie Bell, red-faced and teary-eyed. Alicia and Angelina went to comfort her, and in the middle of it out comes your name. What did you do?" she pointedly asked.
"Nothing," blurted out Harry, suddenly very aware of what transpired, "she just asked me to go with her to the ball."
"And?"
"And," said Harry, elongating the word, "I might have been trying to, uhh, tell her that I had someone else in mind, but I didn't really get a chance to do that before she just went by me."
Hermione seemed conflicted on what to say. "You told me you didn't ask anyone yet."
Harry nodded. "I didn't. I mean, I haven't, not yet, but I was coming here to ask them."
"Well?" she asked, as if she didn't quite believe him, as if she dared him to do it right then and there.
This was turning into a nightmare. Why was she upset with him for not accepting Katie's proposal?
"Fine," said Harry through his teeth, rising up from the Gryffindor table.
He took out his wand, tapped it a few times against his robes, muttering the necessary incantation for straightening them out. He didn't want to look like a slob, and though he wished he knew a spell to fix up his perpetual rat's nest of a hair, all the same he turned around and faced the Ravenclaw table, while also suddenly noticing how many eyes were on him. Harry resisted the urge to ball his hands into fists or grit his teeth from frustration, even as a few of those 'Support Cedric Diggory' badges suddenly appeared on the robes of several people in his sight. Slowly, but surely, Harry walked towards the Ravenclaw table, right towards where Fleur Delacour and her two friends were sitting about.
It was oppressive, the number of gazes against him, as though they all expected he'd fail and embarrass himself.
Well, they have another thing coming if that's what they're hoping for.
He reached Fleur fairly quickly and slowly she turned around. Had he not spent the previous week in her company, he would not have know the glint in her eyes was borne of good-natured amusement, rather than scorn or spite. Her mouth, along with the rest of her face, was affixed in a neutral tone, as though they were strangers who did not know each other, who'd never shared a single kiss or touch or a word with one another. Yet despite the obvious lack of warmth and familiarity from Fleur, he felt infused, a sudden rushing of his blood, the pounding of his heart in his ears, and a stiffness that couldn't be denied beneath the layers of his clothes, inside his trousers. Harry had to fight dearly not to allow the smile to show up on his face, and all the more fiercely not to lean towards Fleur and kiss those pouty lips of hers again and again and again, no matter who watched.
An eternity died and was born again in a moment as he kept the urges under check, strangely encouraged by what he'd felt.
Without any tremble whatsoever in his voice, or the slightest stutter in the words he was to utter, Harry said, "Miss Delacour, would you give me the honor of accompanying me as a fellow champion, and date, for the Yule Ball?"
One could hear a pin drop in the Great Hall.
It seemed as though all sound had died a sudden death.
And only the answer from Fleur Delacour would give it back its life.
One corner of her mouth turned slightly upward, barely noticeable, before those pink lips fully parted and gave their reply.

Ron was disbelieving at first at what happened, though he did come around later on and said, "Nice one, mate," goofy smile plastered across his face, completely ignoring the glares sent his way. Chief among those glares was Hermione's, of course.
She was incensed when she asked, "Fleur Delacour?" the name spoken like a curse. "Harry, you rejected Katie for her?" Hermione was well and truly mad. His choice in whom he would date apparently grated a lot with her. "Of all the..."
He was really tired of this song and dance. "'Of all the' what, Hermione? Go on, what were you going to say?"

In a moment, Hermione seemed to have realized how far she must have gone, but apparently she let her own prejudices override common sense and reason.
"Harry," said Hermione calmly, "Fleur Delacour is a horrible girl, she's mean and nasty."
"No, she isn't," said Harry vehemently.
"Yes, she is," hissed Hermione. "She humiliates whomever she pleases, and looks down her nose on the whole of Hogwarts."
"No, she doesn't." He was getting tired of repeating himself. "They embarrassed themselves and she had nothing to do with it."
"Harry, she's part Veela, they couldn't hel—"
"Oh of course!" Harry snapped his fingers. "Of course they couldn't help themselves, and that somehow makes it her fault. She's done nothing to you and I've never heard her say a single bad thing about Hogwarts or anyone for that matter, but you seem to have something against her. Why, Hermione?" Harry was truly puzzled by his friend's behavior, quite unlike her.
But rather than answer the question, Hermione focused on the sentence that preceeded it. "You never heard her say anything bad?" Her eyes narrowed down suspiciously. "When exactly have you had the time to be around Fleur Delacour, Harry, to hear her say anything at all?" As suddenly as they narrowed down, so they widened apart. "Harry, you didn't! You told us you were trying to solve the golden egg you got from the First Task!"
Caught in a lie, he no longer cared. "The Second Task is two months away, Hermione! Two months! So what if I asked her out, so what if instead of working on the golden egg I chose to spend my time with her? Hermione," he tried for a calmer approach, "Fleur's not bad. Sure, she might seem like that occasionally to you and others, but imagine if you were asked all the time out by people too dazed in the head to notice they drooled at the sight of you - no offence, Ron," he nodded at his friend who just chose to duck his head and hide, "and even so they asked you out only because of how you looked and nothing more."
"And you didn't ask Delacour out because of how pretty she is?" asked Hermione, all bristled up.
He threw his arms in the air. "I give up, you're impossible. I spent a whole week with her, Hermione. A week, and I got to know her, I'd like to think better than the rest of them ever tried to, and yes I know she's pretty, more than just pretty, but that's not all she is."
How could he make her understand? Could he? Did she even want to understand?
"Oh yes, I'm sure the two of you talked," Hermione emphasized the last word, "a whole lot, but Harry," her voice softened, "I'm not being unreasonable here. You can't say her laughing at those boys that asked her out and deriding them verbally afterward wasn't mean of her." For what it was worth, Harry tried to get where Hermione was getting from, but he'd been around Fleur, spent hours upon hours, and not once, not a single time, did she ever show herself to be a cruel, cold-hearted witch. Quite the opposite in fact, Fleur Delacour was a very warm, if a bit inappropriate at times in terms of intimacy, person.
They could have gotten over this hurdle, a pair of friends mending the fences together, if only she had not said, "She's using you, Harry. I don't know how or why, but that girl's no good for you. It's all going to end in tears, and you'll know I was right."
Harry stormed out of the common room without a word, rather than choosing to yell at his friend.
When she looked back, years later, at this moment, Hermione would say to herself she would have preferred the latter.
Maybe it would have kept him the same as he was, the same Harry that her and Ron had known before it all changed.

She found him, almost miraculously quickly, just a short while after the episode in the common room with Hermione.
Harry didn't even notice her entering the room, so deep into his thoughts that writhed with bitterness and anger.

Only when she was a few steps away from him, the door closed and securely locked behind her, did she call his name.
"'arry."
Startled as he was he started to fall from the desk where he sat, and would have fallen down on the ground, landing on his back, had Fleur's hand not reached out, lightning-fast, and grabbed hold of him to keep him steady and upright.
At the sight of who it was, his face momentarily turned from panic to a smile. "Fleur," said Harry, "what are you doing here?"
He felt, more than saw in the poor lighting, her hand settle atop his own. "You were upset when you left ze Great 'all."
Harry sighed. "A bit of a row with Hermione over..." he hesitated.
And she finished. "Over me," said Fleur softly. Her fingers intertwined with his and her hold grew firmer on him. She chose to seat herself next to him, though there wasn't much space left on the desk and so they sat shoulder to shoulder, hand still in hand. It was a simple gesture, nothing grand about it, but it helped in ways he could not describe. Fleur didn't say a thing about Hermione, neither foul nor good; she let the silence reign instead and she let him come to her instead of his own free will.
Harry turned his head to the side and, rather than speak, chose to press his mouth against Fleur's, barely resisting the primeval urge to part her lips open with his tongue, to grab hold of her head and push himself closer, to take in the scent, the taste, to allow the maddening lust and affection he felt for the French witch to overtake him, all worries of the world be damned and gone. But he didn't. As always, he restrained himself, like so many times before, respecting her restraint in turn.
The two kept each other warm, until the late hour of the night, in the only way they knew how.

And it had come upon them, so swiftly and suddenly.
The evening of the Yule Ball.
Harry had gone down to the entrance hall with Ron by his side, who had been swiflty scooped up by his Ravenclaw date, and Hermione nowhere in sight. For the past few days since their fight, neither had spoken to the other, hoping perhaps that if they ignored the matter it would soon come to fade from memory. Looking around, Harry saw no hide or hair of Hermione, wondering if perhaps she might have fabricated a date for the ball altogether, and hoped that her friends might have spent it with her, rather than any other girl. In the pit of his gut, he started to feel the churning of guilt, with ample self-loathing to boot. It might have gone on and festered further, had it not been for the impending distraction that thralled his mind.
The other Tri-Wizard champions had arrived.
First among them was Cedric with Cho by his side, both of which were dressed impecably, the former in black, majestic robes and the latter in an oriental-styled silvery dress, that went up from her ankles to the top of her neck. She was beautiful.
And she was nothing when compared to Fleur.
Fleur Delacour took his breath away and he breathed in rather sharply at how magnificent she looked. Robes of silver-grey satin, with floral patterns and swans embossed on top of it, hugged her milky-white skin, exposing it in seemingly randomly placed patches; the tip of her right shoulder, a transparent line beneath her right knee on the front, the sliver of skin down her neck. Her hair, lustrous and splendorous, was suspended above her neck, in a rather complex and ornate looking bun, with a lock of hair on each side of her face, framing it, accentuating symetrical perfection, pronouncing the dimples when she smiled.
And when she smiled at the sight of him, the world no longer mattered. He came back to it when she extended her hand towards him, only to bow low and place a kiss on top of her knuckles, sweetest nothings escaping his mouths as they brushed against her skin. Harry raised his head and saw the gleam of satisfaction in her midnight-blue eyes, lips pursed in amusement.
"Shall we, Fleur?" asked Harry, as he lowered her hand and let go.
Gracefully, in one motion, she maneuvered herself by his side, her arm loped through his and held it close to her side.
"Oui, 'arry'. We shall," said Fleur smilingly.
They positioned themselves right next to Cedric and Cho, who stood between them and Krum and his date.

Shortly thereafter, the entrance hall grew silent, the lights dimmed, McGonagall came about and the doors opened.

Had anyone told Harry Potter that he'd actually come to enjoy dancing and twirling about in front of the eyes of hundreds upon hundreds of witches and wizards, completely uncaring what they thought of him, what they saw, he would have called that person a madman. He would never come to thrill in being the center of attention, such was his soul and heart. But with Fleur in his arms, one hand in his, the other placed atop his shoulder, while his held her by the waist, he could dance the night and his whole life away. They twisted and turned, and without Harry knowing, or even feeling it, Fleur had spread the wings of her Allure and cast it wide, turning everyone's minds and eyes towards them, as befitting a bewitching beauty of her stature.
The first dance came to an end and they departed from the floor, while scores of witches and wizards flooded in their place.
The champions shared their table with the Hogwarts, and visiting schools, staff and judges, though thankfully Harry had avoided sitting anywhere near Percy, who had replaced Barty Crouch as the head of Department of IMC after the older wizard's demotion from when the debacle regarding Sirius' lack of trial surfaced in the Daily Prophet.
Harry had found himself sitting next to Krum, while Fleur was placed right besides Cho, who stole the occasional glance towards them; though out of curiosity, envy or something else, neither knew and neither cared. They'd made their opinion of the champion and his date known when they asked them to switch partners mid-dance. Both Fleur and Harry found themselves saying, at the same time, a very clear and loud 'no'. The look on Cho's face was that of outright shock, like the one that adorned her features when Harry first asked Fleur to accompany him to the ball, instead of the pitying smile she initially wore.
Glee had replaced his own initial outrage at the question, and it had since settled into his gut, purring from delight.
But a greater cause for his anger was yet to come, when they took to the floor once more and danced anew.

Harry didn't pay heed to Krum and his date, as they came closer and closer, the witch's face wrought with worry. Had they not come so near that they almost could touch Harry and Fleur, he would have never looked upon them, not even once, during the rest of the night; such was Fleur's beauty, such was his willing enthrallment to her. But they had come close.
And he looked upon the face of a friend.
And Harry saw only red.

Once more, he had been shown how skillful Fleur was, this time with magic of words, rather than wand. She'd chased them away, the Durmstrang champion and... and... Hermione Granger. It felt sickening, to think of her like that, like she was just another student, just another Gryffindor with whom he had only passing contact, and not years of friendship intertwined.
He loathed her. He hated her.
"Hypocrite," Fleur had muttered in French, the word, having had no language barrier to pierce, cutting deep and true.
And he wanted to kiss Fleur. Wanted to take her in his arms and give unto her hundreds, if not thousands, of thank-you's.
It was frightening how a witch that he knew for less than two weeks could see the storm of rage brewing in his eyes, and yet his friend of three years hoped against hope that it would pass and everything would be well and alright.
If Ron hadn't shown up... Harry shuddered at the conclusion of the thought.
Ron. Who would have thought it? Between him and Fleur, Hermione was dealt with swiftly, shamed and shunned to the side.
"After all the trouble you've given him for asking out Delacour," said Ron, eyes averted from Fleur so as to avoid a familiar situation from reocurring, "you actually went out with Krum?" The name couldn't have sounded more like a curse if it were one. His once-hero now turned horrid-villain. How very strange it was that Ron gave well deserved grief to Hermione, rather than reverse.
Ron. He'd remember that look his friend gave him, one that told him he had his back no matter what. Ron, faith restored.
But it was not enough, not nearly enough, and right when he came close to the edge of blowing up, raised voices and damned be all who thought he gave a single shit for what they saw or heard, Fleur acted yet again. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and took his from her waist, before clasping the remaining one in both of hers and leading him out. Out, past the doors of the Great Hall, out, past the vast emptiness of the entrance hall, out... until both of them were under the stars.
They were alone in the courtyard, where carriages stood empty, decorated hedges and bushes lighting up night with magic.
She had lead him to some obscure corner, where no one would stumble across them, not before they heard them approach.
Fleur dropped his hand from hers, which disoriented him for a moment - what was he without her touch? - and then raised one of them up, her smooth palm against his cheek. Harry leaned into it, gladly, desperate for any contact between them.
"Oh, my sweet 'arry," whispered Fleur before her mouth came to brush against his.
It was almost enough and when he bunched his face in frustration, she took her chance.
It was not him, as he liked to imagine, parting her lips with his tongue.
It was not him pressing her against the wall, head bending lower to devour her gasps.
And he didn't give a single damn.
Harry Potter let go of his restraint as he closed his eyes and so in turn followed Fleur Delacour.
The moment she felt the change within him, eerily sensing it happening, she too had changed in her approach. Whereas her tongue first plied gently against his, slowly familiarizing him with its own taste, now it had become a ravenous thing. She plundered his mouth for all its worth, and cared nothing for when her perfect and pristine teeth grazed roughly against his lips. Her fingers that were tangled in his hair and robes curled inwards, looking more alike claws than human digits.
Behind closed lids, her blue eyes turned darker until they became utterly black, iris indistinguishable from pupil.

When they had separated from each other for air, she still had not let go of him and pressed him harsher against the wall, her body contouring to his own, one of her legs finding its way between his, as it settled against his crotch in a slow grind.
"Mmm, my pretty 'arry," purred Fleur, in between caressing kisses.
Harry opened his eyes and saw her, saw her as if he was seeing her for the first time in his life.
The beauty that she was, unrealistic and fantastical, superimposed over the common and rather dreary reality.
"What to do, mmm?" asked Fleur, fingers moving through his hair, her breath scalding Harry's skin. He'd felt the need to writhe under her touch, to seek it out more, to ply and demand in equal measure for more of Fleur. More of whatever she had to offer, more of anything, so long as it was willingly and freely given. He said as much.
"More."
Fleur smiled and he felt the expression spread against his forehead as her lips rested on it. "More?" asked Fleur. "Are you certain, 'arry, zat you want more of me? It's not somezzing I will allow you to retract, no, most certainly not."
Unwilling to do so at first, but doing it all the same, he pushed her away from his face so that he could look into her eyes.
"Yes," said Harry in a scratchy voice, his throat feeling parched. "Please, Fleur." He never begged, not anyone, not for anything.
The movement from her leg stopped all of a sudden and he felt how stiff it had made him in its absence.
Harry throbbed with lust for Fleur, blood rushing to his member, fully engorging it.
But for Fleur that was not enough. "Encore, 'arry," said Fleur, her neck bent lower, pouty lips moving across the line of his jaw, across his cheek and down his neck. Little by little, they left their moist imprint behind, but nowhere near as strong as when Fleur's mouth latched onto the skin of Harry's neck, just a little below his ear, right on the tendon, and started suckling.
Harry moaned. He didn't mean to. It wasn't a conscious thought. It was a primitive response to pleasure. So he gave into her.
"More, Fleur. Please, Fleur," said Harry, repeating himself over and over, her mouth moving all over his neck, sometimes suckling, something biting, something tickling with her breath, but always in motion, even as her hand slowly traversed the full length of his dress robes and reached the low point of its midsection. He had not seen it, but he felt it most keenly.
Fleur pressed her palm against his full length and laughed delicately into his ear, just as her mouth moved onto its lobe.
"Encore," commanded Fleur and Harry obliged.
Please, please, please kept falling out of his mouth as Fleur's delicate hand deftly worked at searching for something beneath his robes. Upon finding it, she smiled the most wicked smile she ever had and gently squeezed the sack that throbbed in sync with his length. She was brutal in a certain way, fondling and rolling the soft part of the organ between her fingers, muttering words in French, words Harry didn't know the meaning of, words he didn't rightly care for in the moments this was happening, words utterly irrelevant as those slim fingers of her easily wrapped themselves around the base of his fully erect cock.
"So zis is what you pressed against me all zose times, eh, 'arry?" teased Fleur, whispering. "Little boy, I said, but I was wrong." She squeezed him just once, cutting off the bloodflow and effectively preventing his premature climax. "I wonder," breathed Fleur into his ear, "how big you really are. Tell me, 'arry, 'ow many times?"
Dazed as he was, and a somewhat comedic sight with his glasses askew, green eyes half-glazed, Harry only said, "What?"
Fleur released her hold, and slowly started stroking, up and down. "'ow many times did you zink of me, 'arry, when you ran to zose bazzrooms? 'ow many times, with cock in 'and? Did you dream of me, 'arry? Dream of me touching you?"
"Yesss," hissed Harry, halfway falling into Parseltongue. Her stroking had increased in pace, frantically so, and he knew he would not last for long, but thoughts of whether he was done fast or slow never entered his mind. He only wanted it now.
Fleur pulled her face away from the side of his head and kissed him on the mouth, even as she worked his cock with her hand, cool winter breeze completely disregarded by both of them, the heat from flesh-touching-flesh keeping them warm. Harry felt as if he was melting in her hand, as if he was all liquid and not skin and bone, even as he pushed himself depeer and harder against the palm of her hand, so selfish for his own release. Her touch was better than anything he dreamed of, her words silkier and more lewd than he thought her capable of. And as it was all coming to its inevitable conclusion, he thought of how beautiful her face would look, covered with streaks of his own sticky climax, smiling with those pearly white teeth of hers.
"Bon," said Fleur, "as it should be. Now," an imperious tone entered her voice and her felt a surge go through his body, "cum."
Harry could ony do as she bid him to. He felt himself convulsing, cock hardening more than ever before, as it splurted out its load, rope after rope of sticky semen, hitting Fleur's dress, his own robes, the ground and eventually her hand near the end.
His breath was ragged and she not been there to hold him, he would have collapsed down on the floor.
A moment later, he winced, as he felt Fleur's hand still milking his cock, forcing out what little cum remained out, now staining more against his robes than the ground or Fleur's own hand. He didn't tell her to stop, however, and rode the wave of pleasure through the pain, forehead clinging to Fleur's shoulder as she refused to give up her task of wringing him utterly dry.
Eventually it did end and Fleur's hand pulled away, while he was pushed back against the wall for stability.
He thought himself fully spent for the night. Never had he climaxed as much as he did now, not in quantity, not in such force.
How surprised he was to see Fleur smiling at him wickedly, full of her own unspent lust, and raise the semen-stained hand up to her mouth, where on close proximity her pink tongue darted out from behind those lips and started cleaning her up. Even exposed as he was, flaccid cock hanging out of his robes, even against the winter's chill, he felt a new rush of blood flow downwards as he beheld the sight in front of him. Like a feline, she had licked her hand clean.
And then she bent low once more, kissing him fully on the mouth, tongue against tongue.
There was a heavy, bitter and salty taste to her - a distant part of his mind told him he was tasting himself, but he did not care in the slightest - yet that did little in preventing him from responding back to her, utterly uncaring of the stains that covered both of their robes now. Every now and again, the taste would come stronger and he'd feel another glob of semen mixed with saliva fall down into his mouth, pushed out by Fleur's tongue and then kept there until he swallowed.
When Fleur parted from Harry's face for the last time that night, breathing rather noticeably, she had only one thing to say.
"I zink zat you and I shall have a great deal of fun, 'arry Potter."
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

To revel with a Veela