Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

To revel with a Veela	By : Valehtelija Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 112937 -:- 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
- 3
- 4
- 5
It wasn't the first time that worried him, nor the second.
The first time he'd just about lost his mind and sanity in the midst of all that pleasure that Fleur wrought unto him.
The second time, he'd have done anything, no matter what it took, no matter what she asked, to slip into the oblivion of dreams. She was so fucking beautiful, fingers dipping into puddles of white, her dabbing them across those pouty lips of hers and then kissing him... fingers dipped again and again until he sucked them into his mouth and cleaned them dry, lapped at them with his tongue... crawling down and nuzzling his face against the muscles of her flat stomach, taking in the musk of his release, even as he sucked it in between his lips, even as he came close to her labia, the mound of it covered in streaks of cum, reeking of him, reeking of her... Merlin, he was so utterly fucked up he'd have done anything, anything at all she wanted of him, just to be done and over with the madness, just to sleep and dream of Fleur and her sweet, delicious cunt.
The third time, however, was all on him. He'd opened his mouth, knowing what Fleur stored in hers, knowing the thick cream that fell from her mouth and into his was his own cum, and he'd done more than merely accept it. He'd sought it out. His tongue had plunged into her mouth, he'd been the eager puppy, practically gagging for it, loving every second while Fleur pressed herself against him harder, feeding him and humming from joy all along. In those moments, Harry cared very little for any sense of propriety, for maintaining any shred of dignity. He only wanted to feel Fleur's maddening desire for him.
I wanted her to want me.
And Fleur most certainly did.
The sweet ache in his neck's tendons and the soreness of his cock was proof enough.
She sucked me off in front of her friends, mused Harry in the privacy of his mind and felt his cock stiffen at the thought.
Fleur was without shame, without remorse and... without a limit. He knew, without truly knowing how, that if he had no obligations outside of that room, he'd have stayed locked up with her until there was nothing left of him but a dry husk.
If he let them, these thoughts would plague him for the whole day, and more, which was not something he could allow. Not when he was supposed to finally get out of the boys bathroom in Gryffindor Tower and drag himself to the great hall for lunch.
Ron had a bit of a fit when Harry popped out of thin air in the middle of their dorm, though thankfully no one else was there. Subsequently, Ron was the first person to see his rather blemished neck, and then he tried and failed to contain his laughter. Still, Harry supposed him being amused by it wasn't all that bad. However, Ron's pique of laughter brought attention to them.
Dean and Seamus came in to see what was going on, only for Seamus to start howling and wolf-whistling at the sight of Harry.
"Blimey, mate, she's done a proper job on you, hasn't she? We were wondering where you were at breakfast," said Seamus, grinning, "but I suppose you had better things to do than eat."
"I was sleeping," muttered Harry, somewhat defensively. "Slept 'till noon or so." He hoped the answer would make the overtly cheerful and perky Irish boy go away and bother someone else. Sadly, it proved otherwise.
Seamus howled again and then he laughed, with Dean joining in. "Had a nooner then? Go on, mate, tell us: is she fit?"
What little good mood Harry had evaporated entirely with Seamus' continued intrusion into his privacy.
"Oh just piss off already, Seamus," said Ron, surprising all three of them. Seamus' mouth was agape. "What? Lavender leave you high and dry last night, so you're going on about scrounging for other people's scraps? Now that's low."
Things only escalated from there. Harry had to step in once it seemed wands would be drawn, though it looked like Ron was itching for a fight, no matter what the cause. Eventually, Seamus and Dean left the dorm, in a much darker mood, and Harry was left with Ron, quite confused with how he acted in front of the others. And then, just a moment later, he understood.
"You don't have to do that," said Harry.
Ron visibly tensed before he replied, "Yes, I do," in a quiet voice, his eyes avoiding to meet Harry's. "I've been a piss poor excuse for a friend since this whole thing started."
Harry came up to him, swiftly, and clasped him on the shoulder. "It doesn't matter. None of it does. Really, Ron, it was just a minor hiccup, nothing more. Besides, I'd prefer having my friend back rather than a Crabbe or a Goyle of my own."
Ron shuddered, and all signs of stiffness from his posture vanished, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "That did the job, thanks a lot. But still..." Ron gnawed at his lip for a few moments, before his eyes met Harry's. "What about Hermione?"
His mood shifted again. What about Hermione indeed?
"What about Luna?" asked Harry instead, not all that willing to sour his mood any further.
To his surprise, Ron smiled, shyly. "Luna..." he struggled for words, which weren't really his forte. "She's absolutely barmy, but at the same time, she's got this, this.. ah, I don't know what it is! But she's brilliant! And she k-" Ron started to say, but suddenly cut himself off, though Harry didn't have long to guess what Ron almost said.
"And she kisses pretty well too?" he teased him further.
Ron blushed this time, right to the tip of his ears, sputtering something about not telling, though Harry was certain he could see a small love-bite hidden behind his ear. Oh the grief he'd give him, Ron certainly won't forget that.

Though tongues wagged all too gladly, that was still not the confirmation they sought of what they thought had happened.
Harry could have easily done without all the attention and subtle tries at poking him for answers. Really, did they have nothing better to do than continuously intrude into his life, over and over? It made him weary of it all.
And only the approach of Fleur lightened the weight of his thoughts.
She appeared from somewhere behind, with her two friends accompanying her. Fleur was quick to seat herself on the seat next to him at the Gryffindor table, while Amy and Dannielle took places of their own, not too far away. He simply sat there, stunned at her approach. It was so refreshingly direct. Harry might have gone on being numb of mind had Fleur not bent her head slightly lower and placed a chaste kiss on his lips.
"Bonsoir, 'arry. Eating well, I 'ope?" asked Fleur, completely ignoring the stares aimed at the two of them.
"Yeah," said Harry, ever so eloquently, a piece of shepherd's pie, barely touched, on his plate.
From somewhere, Fleur produced a fork of her own and took a slice of Harry's pie, nibbling delicately at the end, before her face scrunched up in a form of polite distaste. "Ah, Eenglish cuisine. I am afraid zat I am not a fan, 'arry. Too 'eavy." She turned around, wand in hand, and performed some minute motions with her wrist as she summoned a bowl from her former seat at the Ravenclaw table. When it settled down in front of her, Harry saw it was the very same meal she once asked him for: bouillabaisse, a French variation on fish stew. He had to admit that the smell of it was far more tantalizing than his pie.
Fleur saw his brief interest in her dish, the corner of her lips crinkling in a gentle smile. "Would you like a taste?"
He shook his head and said, "Wouldn't want to deprive you of a meal you can stomach," with a trace of amusement.
Her face assumed a haughty expression as she said, "I'll suffer zis once, if only so zat you could taste a bit of 'eaven."
Harry felt like teasing Fleur and said, in a tone so low only she could hear, "I've already had that, last night."
Nothing changed on her face in an instant, she still wore the same smile, her eyes remained the same as before, but Harry felt a small change in the air, as Fleur's lust was stirred from slumber, if it ever actually had been in one to begin with.
Her fingers lightly brushed Harry's as she removed the fork from his hand and set it aside. She brought the bowl of bouillabaisse closer to him, holding it up in one hand, while the other handled a small spoon that dipped into the stew and was brought up, up towards Harry's mouth, while those around them tried and failed to be subtle with their gawking.
"Open wide," said Fleur, her lips restraining themselves from forming into a full blown grin.
Thoughts of all else were gone from his mind ever since she sat down, so what else could he do but smile and obey?
It was a rather pleasant dinner, gawkers and all, and he fully intended on joining Fleur in some late night strolling, and more.
Unexpected, and unwelcome as far as he was concerned, was the sudden appearance of McGonagall at his side, just as he was about to rise from the table and join Fleur and her two friends. A summons as it turned out, from Professor Dumbledore. Fleur lingered at the exit of the Great Hall and looked at him inquisitively, then at the professor by his side, to which he only shook his head in reply, uncertain of why he was being asked to see the headmaster or how long it would take.
Fleur was gracious as ever and only inclined her head once towards Harry, her fingers touching upon her lips as she sent him a kiss goodbye, a smile crinkling the corners of her mouth. She departed from the hall, as had Harry, moments later.

"Ah, Harry, thank you for accomodating me at such a late hour," said Albus Dumbledore from behind his desk, wearing yet another set of robes of garrish colours, with twinkling white stars and dangling, yellow crescent moons plastered all over.
Harry promptly seated himself in a chair and waited.
Dumbledore ran his fingers through his long, silvery beard, peering at Harry through his half-moon glasses, a gentle, grandfatherly smile on his face. "There has been significant progress in the investigation concerning how your name had ended up being drawn from the Goblet as the fourth champion. Professor Moody, along with a few of Madame Bones' Aurors, have almost completed their work and should have results before the end of January. However..."
"They know who it is then, Professor Dumbledore, the one who placed my name in the Goblet?" asked Harry, anxiously.
The elderly wizard moved his hand away from his beard and steepled his fingers, leaning forwards on the desk. "They have a strong suspicion about the person in question, a suspicion which will be validated soon enough, I've no doubt. But, Harry," the smile was gone from his face, replaced by an expression of grave concern and worry, "they have inquired as to whether we could push on with the Tournament, so as to provoke the individual into acting when their initial plans fail."
Harry was boggled with the implication. "They want me to wait and see if I get attacked?"
"And even if the suspect does not act, they shall be persecuted, you have my word on that," intoned Dumbledore solemnly.
Harry nodded. He had ample faith in the headmaster. "I'll sit tight and wait then, Professor. Was that all you wanted to see me for?"
Just like that, the mood in the room shifted, as the headmaster's face once more carried a smile.
"For the moment, yes. And may I say, Harry, you've done splendid work in the Tournament."

He ducked his head, shy from receiving praise from the most esteemed wizard in all of Britain. "Thank you, Professor."
"And Harry," Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled, "I congratulate you upon reaching such a high level of cooperation with Miss Delacour. That is, after all, the purpose of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, to engender friendships with foreign witches and wizards. Though, I trust, you have remained the utmost gentleman with the Beauxbatons champion?"
Blushing to the tip of his ears, Harry could only mumble his reply, "Yes, Professor, I have to go now, sir, curfew and all," almost tripping over himself in his hurry to leave the headmaster's office and avoid the talk about Hippogriffs and Thestrals.
With the doors closed behind him, he never heard the hearty, echoing chuckle of Albus Dumbledore.

Much of the next few days Harry had spent in the company of Fleur and her two friends - sadly, an event the likes of the one from the night of the ball had yet be repeeated, much to Harry's disappointment - though at first he'd been somewhat warry, and embarassed, of meeting Amy and Danni properly. The two French witches were quick to reassure him that what they witnessed was a matter that concerned only him and Fleur, and no other.
Though that is not to say they did not tease him, directing smirks and grins his way every now and again.
Then came the first Hogsmeade weekend in the year of nineteen-ninety-five. Harry had naturally asked Fleur if she'd like to come along and explore Britain's fully-fledged wizarding village and all its shops and stops. In hindsight, he shouldn't have mentioned shops, but his experience with witches thus far hadn't been anything like the one with Fleur, so he could be forgiven for thinking that his offer only included a shop or two before they settled in the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer.
Hogsmeade was quite a different place when one ventured there for a date, he'd found out. All of a sudden, Harry had noticed shops he hadn't before, ventured inside and lingered for quite a while, when Fleur wished to take a gander at the wares they had for sale. And though there were tedious parts - what did he really care to learn of perfumes or jewelry, let alone the myriad of scents and all the shades and tints of colours - there were parts he rather enjoyed.
Such as when Fleur took to trying out new robes and other clothing, before parading it in front of him, while he tried to hide his too obvious reaction from her. Fleur being Fleur noticed it all the same and only teased him further with a brushing of her lips against his or by running her fingers down the back of his neck, while she asked for his opinion on the latest dress, staring into his eyes, her own filled to the brim with pent-up lust. Sadly enoguh, there were annoyances to it too, such as when the shopkeeper decided to pop in out of nowhere and ask Fleur this or that, thus preventing Harry from fully enjoying himself.
"Come, come, 'arry, you mustn't fret so much," said Fleur from inside the changing room. He heard a rustle of clothing as she tried out some new robes. "After all, I find myself lacking a razzer expensive dress robe, and zat, mon cher, is all your fault."
"My fault?" he asked, slightly bewildered as he recalled the exact details of how she came to lose her robes, and his as well.
"Oui," said Fleur, "after all, you were ze one who wanted to return ze favour, non? And speaking of favours..."
A hand reached out from the changing room, grabbed him by the collar of his robes and pulled him in, where he was treated to a most pleasing sight: Fleur standing in nothing but her underwear, minus the bra - which she never seemed to wear at all.
She was quick to press herself against him, her face close to his, her mouth blowing warm breath against the shell of his ear and the skin of his neck. "I have a most pressing need of you, 'arry, and I do hope you will oblige."
Her fingers circled his wrist and brought his hand down, between her legs, where he felt a wet spot forming.
"See what you do to me, with your pretty leetle eyes and zerr gaze," she breathed out into his ear, her hand in motion, guiding his fingers across the now damp cloth, and growing damper by the second. "Will you do zis for me, mon cher? I would razzer avoid staining any of ze robes I have here, and if left unatended, who knows what might happen, in full view of ozzers?"
Before Harry had a chance to reply, she started suckling on his earlobe, letting out the smallest of moans as his fingers crooked inwards, by happenstance. He'd thought, at first, to tell Fleur that now was neither the time nor the place for such things, but he felt a familiar fog descend on the part of his mind which governed reason, and was promptly lost to lust.
It wasn't all that long before he was on his knees and Fleur above him, her underwear pulled aside and his face buried in her wet folds. The mind-numbing mist was gone, all too easily replaced by the heady scent of Fleur's cunt and the sweet, nectar-like juices which kept pouring out on his tongue, which Harry valiantly tried to bury as deep as possible, more for his sake than hers. She had his back pressed against the wooden wall of the room as she fed him a veritable cornucopia, her voice faintly heard as she mumbled something in French, and once hissed from the sudden pleasure when he flattened his tongue inside her, brushing his flexible organ against her cum-dripping walls, and then rolled it around, the tip of it touching everywhere he could possibly reach, as his nose stimulated her clit with some minute motion on his part.
His glasses had fogged up, the metal of the frame kept digging into his skin, but Harry didn't care about any of that.
Fleur was what mattered. Fleur and watching her squirm above him, watching her twist and curse as he molded his tongue to her insides, thinking of how much he'd enjoyed the last time he gulped down her juices, so suddenly and forcefully on her part.
All too soon, for Harry's liking anyway, she pressed even harder down on him and flooded his mouth. It was a voracious need that drove him to swallow gulp after gulp of her sweet release. It was honest desire that had him crave more. It was greed that bade him clean her, lay kisses on her lower lips, fondle her perfect arse, hoping to entice her into another go at it.
Sadly for him, it was not so.
Fleur was heavy of breath, and a sheen of sweat clung to her forehead, though she still smiled at the sight of Harry.
"Beautiful," murmured Fleur, her hand pulling him up, gently, until he was near her face, where she took great care in cleaning her own mess up, occasionally nipping at his swollen mouth, giving a lingering kiss here and there, until he no longer had any trace of her pleasure upon his skin. At least, not in a visible way. Harry could still smell her in his nostrils when they eventually left the store behind, only a single bag in his arms, expanded via a charm and filled with several robes inside. Not even the chill of winter could rob him of the warmth that Fleur bestowed upon him, nor could it deprive him of her scent.
I probably look like a fool, love-struck, to anyone that sees us, but... he found himself not caring.
Strange how Fleur always had such an effect on him, to forget the world and care for nothing in it. Nothing but him and her.
She held such power over him and he wondered how much delight she took from that, for she was far from blind.

They settled into the Three Broomsticks near the end of their date, and Harry was surprised that they hadn't bought anything else for Fleur save what was already stored in the first bag. The rest, some trinkets and knick-knacks, she bought for her family and friends, gifts to be given when an opportunity presented itself.
In the crowd that seemingly occupied every available spot, Fleur and Harry went largely unnoticed, until Madam Rosmerta saw them standing by the entrance, looking for a place to seat themselves. She quicky made her way to them.
"Welcome, welcome!" said Rosmerta enthusiasticly. "Just one more Tri-Wizard champion and I'll have the whole set for the day! Come along now," she waved her hand at them, before turning around and walking off, "there's more seats available in the back, no need to worry now, come along, dears!"
Barely able to say anything in reply before she moved out of reach, Harry and Fleur looked at each other, shrugged and found themselves following after her, if only because she promised them seats. Along the way to the back-room, Harry noticed how he somehow garnered more attention than Fleur, a strange phenomen unto itself, more so because it seemed only witches noticed him, rather than the other wizards. For a moment, they'd cast a flicker of their gazes in his direction before they pulled themselves away and went back to whatever it was they were doing before. It was... disquieting.
He didn't have time to ponder on it any further, as they walked through a door and found themselves in a more sparsely populated room, where the booths seemed like worlds unto themselves. No one paid their entry any attention.
They were seated next to one of the windows, where they were treated to the sight of the beautiful, albeit cold, wintery landscape of Hogsmeade, as snow started falling again, in big and thick snowflakes. Madam Rosmerta was eager to take their orders, though she did look askance at Fleur when she ordered Firewhisky along with her Butterbeer.
The buxom proprietor soon came back, with two foaming tankards of hot Butterbeer and Fleur's shot of Firewhisky.
"Why Firewhisky?" asked Harry, between gulps, his eyes affixed on Fleur's mouth and the small trace of foam above them.
Fleur's tongue slowly crept past her pouty lips, the tip of it carefully scooping up all of the foam, but not before she dragged her tongue across her lips in full, wetting them further. "Why not? I've never 'ad any, and I am of age, aren't I?" She saw his lingering gaze on the small glass and smiled. "Would you like a taste, 'arry?"
He shrugged. "Not really."
But Fleur wouldn't let go of it. She took the Firewhisky in hand and walked around the table, seating herself next to Harry, his back to the window now. "I zink you are familiar with ze process," she teased him and downed the whole shot in one go. Then she quickly held his face steady with her two hands and pressed a kiss on him, roughly shoving her tongue in his mouth and making way for the burning liquid to trickle downward. He gasped when the drink settled in his gut and felt like a fire had been churning within, which was not that far from the truth. Harry might have gone on to reprimand Fleur for her actions, but she knew how to soothe his bruised pride: with ample kisses, with words of sweet nothings whispered in between them, with roaming hands and promises of things yet to come. At one point, she herself had let out a bit of a moan as Harry's hand came to settle between her legs, guided more by instinct than conscious mind, where it started to rub across her robes.
He was quickly turning the tables on her as she started, just barely, rocking her hips back and forth, and he might have had her utterly drenched in her own juices had they just been left alone. A throat was cleared in their vicinity and they were not all that quick to disentangle from each other, nor that willing. Harry saw anger flash in Fleur's midnight-blue eyes, her mouth turning from a smile and towards a sneer, but just before she turned around to see who was interrupting them all evidence of irritation had been wiped clean from her face, though Harry's wrist, where her own hand had settled moments ago, suffered for it.
When Harry finally turned away from Fleur and saw who it was, he had to fight down a burst of pure hatred aimed at the boy.
Cedric Diggory. And just a step or two away from him stood Cho Chang, apparently not all that eager to share their company. By the looks of the two, they seemed to have already been in the room, what with not having their winter robes or scarves on.
Harry's arm found itself wound around Fleur's waist before he even said, "Cedric," and nodded at the Hufflepuff.
Fleur leaned slightly back into Harry's embrace and asked, in a casual tone, "Diggory, won't you join us?"
The Hufflepuff champion attempted a grin, but failed. His eyes seemed to twitch a lot. "No, thank you, this will only take a minute," said Cedric, strainedly. "I'd just like to have a word with Harry." Who looked at him with confusion, until Diggory elaborated. "About the favour I owe you." Cedric's eyes constantly flicked from Harry to Fleur and back, for a minute or so.
Harry found himself straining for a balanced tone in his voice when he said, "It's fine, Cedric. You'd have done the same for me, you don't owe me anything," because Fleur's left hand was resting atop his thigh, rather close to his crotch. It didn't help that she was moving it about and occasionally brushed against his slowly stiffening cock, but thankfully the angle of the table, along with the cloth hanging from it, prevented anyone from seeing the act taking place.
Perhaps Cedric had seen in Harry that he would not move apart from Fleur and converse with him somewhere more private, perhaps he thought this was the only chance he would get, because all the other times before Harry had seemed to avoid him, for one reason or another, never knowing that Harry simply felt irritated whenever he saw the Hufflepuff.
"I insist," said Cedric. He cast one glance back at Cho, who seemed to be grow increasingly uncomfortable, if that slight prespiration and fidgteing was anything to go by. "Remember that egg we got? Try taking it for a bath."
Harry blinked owlishly.
Has he gone mad?
"A... bath?" asked Harry, with a slight wavering in his voice at the end. Fleur had grabbed him by the cock and was busying herself, stroking it to full hardness, which didn't take long, all the while her face showed no sign of the lewd act.
"A bath," said Cedric, hastily. "Look, I have to go now, Cho's waiting for me. I'll talk to you later."
The Hufflepuff wizard and the Ravenclaw witch left, all too eagerly it seemed.
Harry might have mused on what Cedric had tried to say, but Fleur had no intention of letting him. She hid her face in the crook of his neck, as her shoulders shook with muffled, melodic laughter. But that did not mean she had stopped for a moment in her ministrations, and Harry found it increasingly difficult not to let the other people in the room know what was going on.
"Oh, mon cher, did I distract you too much?"
For the first time, but not the last, Harry uttered, "Bitch," into her ear, with no small amount of affection before his mouth assaulted hers, to better hide a moan that escaped from his throat and into her mouth. The harsher he was with his tongue, the more demanding with his flesh and his grip around her waist, the faster was Fleur with her hand, the more earnest her reciprocation, the stronger her desire, the sharper her teeth. The half-mad beginning of a rut didn't last long.
With shame and lust, intertwined as they were, engulfing his whole being, Harry proceeded to soil his underwear and some of his robes, without Fleur ever coming in direct contact with his - now slowly turning flaccid - cock.

She carded her fingers through his hair and gently pressed his sweaty forehead to the front of her robes, where he could rest his head, lean his ear to her chest and hear her heart, the violence with which it beat only moments ago slowly dying.
It would be a while before they departed from the Three Broomsticks, but not each other.

She'd talked him into - not that it took much convincing - coming back to her room in the carriage for a shower before he went back to the Gryffindor Tower. "You reek of sex," she'd said to him, amused. Harry had no doubt about that, for as they were moving through the crowd in the tavern, their presence attracted even more attention than before, and not just from the witches. He couldn't possibly imagine going through the whole of Hogwarts and hope that no one would stop him somewhere along the way, where they might yet somehow guess at what he'd been doing with Fleur in Hogsmeade.
Harry had known - and hoped - that he would not be left on his own in the shower for long.
The sliding of the glass-paneled doors, once to open and once more to close, proved him right.
In the thick, warm steam that rose from the floor, Fleur's breath should have gone unnoticed, but he felt it strike at the back of his neck and he shivered, more so when Fleur wrapped her arm around his waist and nestled her hand atop his crotch.
He started to turn around, but she didn't let him; her hold was reinforced as she pushed him forward, towards the wall.
One kiss after another she lavished across his shoulderblades, after which her face nuzzled against the back of his head, while soft, loving words caressed the shell of his ear, her hand tenderly stroking him to hardness. She was gentle, above all else.
He was panting heavily - not even fifteen minutes later - his skin tensing, his whole body aflame, just waiting for the right moment to burst, but Fleur didn't waver for one moment in her approach. She toyed with him: fingers touching the had of his cock, stroking down its full length, pulling back and forth his foreskin with every motion; fingers fondling his sack, so full despite what she'd done to him earlier, as if she were to squeeze the seed right out of them; fingers wandering even lower, beneath and between until her middle finger trespassed across a hole that instinctively clenched tight.
Harry had no way of knowing that her goal was to slowly drive him mad with lust, mad enough to beg, mad enough to plead, mad enough to tell her, "Please, Fleur, please!" in a desperate wail, on the verge of crying from the ravaging of his senses.
Her mouth pressed against the side of his neck, where she laid but a single kiss. "Not zis way, mon cher." Her hand moved away from his stiff, throbbing cock, pulsating and leaking, to the side of his face as she turned his head her way, until green met blue. "I want all of you. Not just what we 'ad done so far, but more, 'arry. I want everyzzing. Would you give yourself, all of it, to me?"
"Yes!" he cried out.
She held his head in place with her hand, kissing him, while the other hand moved lower, down his back, where her fingers left faint marks of red upon his skin, where she felt another shiver consume his body, almost never ending, his knees trembling. But she didn't stop there, lower and lower she went until her hand cupped his bum, and squeezed it just once before departing.
"All of you, 'arry," she repeated herself.
"Yes!"
"All?" she asked one last time.
His, "Yes," was a pathetic whimper that he feared she might not hear at all and leave him to suffer.
He felt the change within her, even though her body reflected little of it, and he felt himself grown warmer than he thought possible, even while they both still stood under the steady fall of hot water from the affixed shower-head. Warmer and warmer, until he was a flame, ready to dance and twist at Fleur's command.
"Spread your legs," said Fleur, in a whisper that brooked no disobedience.
Where she kept her wand, he could not tell, but he felt its smooth wooden texture across his skin, traveling from below until its tip rested between his cheeks. Once again, his hole clenched shut, and he feared pain would come, he feared this was all a sick game to Fleur, who'd only meant to humiliate him, only to make him bleed, make him weak and break him apart.
The pain didn't come, only a breeze-like sensation in his insides and Harry didn't know what that meant.
When Fleur pulled away from him, he despaired for her touch and just as he was to call out her name, he felt her.
With each hand placed upon the cheeks of his arse, Fleur spread them wide. In this too, she was gentle, as she was when she gave him his first kiss down there, all wetness and tongue. Harry tensed, resisting the urge to put himself higher in the air by standing on the tips of his toes. He didn't understand any of it, could not even begin to see why Fleur wished to do this.
But he let her, all the same. She lathered him in saliva, her velvet-like tongue gliding across his hole, the tip poking at it from time to time, as she took to distracting, and relaxing, him by taking hold of his cock, aiming it downward, as if to milk him.
Then suddenly, in the moment when tension finally left his body, Fleur's tongue went past the rim of his hole, touched his insides, touched him in ways he never thought of before, squirming and wiggling, deeper than he thought possible. Heat surged through him, all over, alien and stronger than anything he ever felt before.
Was it from shame? Was that his voice giving out? Was that a moan?
He shut his eyes tightly; at the same time trying to repress the odd sensation, welling up from inside, and embrace it, pushing himself backwards, further onto Fleur's face, much like how she had done to him on a previous occasion. Clearly, she found the act pleasing as her hands had taken to kneading his cheeks, squeezing the flesh until it fit through the gaps between her fingers, and all along her tongue worked its magic on his hole, making him squirm and moan and gasp.
It was teasing, of a sorts.
"Please, Fleur," he managed to gasp out one time.
She moved her face away for a few moments and, unseen to him, smiled. "Please, what?"
"More," pleaded Harry, pitiful and embarrassed.
When she rose from the ground and her breasts once more pressed on his back, he thought she would simply grab him by the cock and wrench his release from him with gusto. Fleur, however, had other things on her mind.
"More what, 'arry?" asked Fleur, smug in the knowledge that she had him where she wanted.
"Anything. Everything."
Harry gasped out sharply once he felt two of her fingers at the front of his hole, just circling around the entrance, teasing.
Fleur would oblige him, gladly, if he would only, "Beg." Her arm circled him 'round his waist again, but the hold she had on him was far from the gentleness of before; steel-like vice more like it. "Beg for me, mon cher, beg and I will grant you everyzzing."
He opened his eyes and turned towards her - emerald-green and midnight-blue clashed - knowing her smile was anything but innocent, that those dark eyes of hers held no kindness in them, nothing but savageness and lust.
"Please."
Barely had the word left his mouth and Fleur's fingers plunged, having encountered little resistance, until she'd pushed them past the second knuckle, side by side, letting him adjust to the feeling of both their length and girth.
"Oh, 'arry," she moaned, her voice taking on a lilt, "you are so very, very good to me. I," her fingers pulled slightly backwards before she pushed them deep inside, in search of that one special spot that would make him melt in her arms, "will treat you like no ozzer ever will. I will keep your secrets, keep all you wish to give me. I will make our days nuzzing but pleasurable."
Harry had no words to offer in kind, he was beyond them, for Fleur had finally come across what she'd been seeking out.
A sharp twist in his insides as something stimulated him from within, as something pushed at him to leak precum from his slit in a steady drip, as if it were milk and not the telling of seed yet to be spilled on the shower's beige floor. He moaned louder.
"Sacré Morgana, vous êtes beau!"
She was without mercy, but not without care or affection.
All that she wrought brought him pleasure never before imagined in his wildest dreams.
And he ached for release, oh how he ached!
But Fleur would not let him find it with his or her hands and kept his cock standing on its own, pulsating, while she clung tightly to him as her fingers pushed at him from the inside, as she coaxed moan after moan and words he never thought to utter.
The closest her fingers came to his cock was when she placed them beneath the head, letting them be spilled over, only for Fleur to bring them up to Harry's mouth and have him suckle upon each digit that was slick with his own bittersweetness.
The more she fed him, the hungrier he became until his mouth sought out her fingers voluntarily, until he sucked them clean, bucking his hips, impaling himself further on her fingers, until they were fully inside and the pressure became maddening.
To his everlasting shame - even when they would look up on this moment as his first true surrender, he could not banish that feeling, suffusing his whole being so strongly, but weaker than the lust Fleur evoked - he came, more than ever.
His cock had not been touched - played with, yes, even teased, but not touched for the final release, for the dam to burst - and it throbbed angrily as spurt after spurt of his thick cum erupted from the slit of his cock-head, painting the wall pearly white.
Plenty of the pungent seed had landed in the palm of Fleur's hand and she only had to bring it close to his face before his tongue found its way past the lips and started licking and, before too long, lapping it up like a dog driven mad by thirst.
It settled uneasily in his stomach. He felt ill, but only for the span of a single moment that existed before Fleur captured his lips with her own, as hungry for him as she made him for herself. Harry hadn't known how deep the rabbit hole went, but Fleur was all too glad to show him, all too eager to make him depraved, to have him become a reflection of herself.
His legs finally gave out and he fell into her arms, unconsciousness' pull far too strong to resist this time.
His dreams were of Fleur and him, in a proper rut.

Harry awoke in Fleur's bed, with her watching over him, fingers moving his unruly strands of hair away from his eyes.
She leaned down and gently kissed him. "You were magnificent," said Fleur as she took to caressing his face. He felt like flinching away from his touch, as memories of what he'd done assailed him came back to him, but she would not let him. "No, 'arry, you were not weak. Far from it, in fact. It takes much to submit willingly, and you... you were perfect."
But Fleur was wrong; his thoughts were anything but thoughts of weakness. Though that presented no issue for her.
"You used me," his accusation went. "You did that on purpose, all of it. The whole day. Didn't you?" His eyes radiated hate.
Hers, on the other hand, conveyed only affection. "Yes, all of it. All of it for you. And I would do it again and again."
It took effort not to shy away from those remorseless eyes of hers. "Why?"
"Because I want you," she stated bluntly. "We might not last past ze Tournament as lovers, we might fall out with each other over some meaningless matter in ze days and months ahead of us, but what we started, I intend to finish."
"And what if I don't let you? What then?"
With a quiet certainty in her voice, Fleur said, "You will. You will because you want me too, even if you'd like to deny it now. You want me," her face drew closer, and one of her legs was over him, bringing his body closer to hers, where she had his treacherous cock tell her what his mouth would eagerly deny, "so very, very bad, my dear 'arry. No shame in zat. No shame in anyzzing zat we do togezzer. No regrets, no looking back on what if's. Only you and me. Look me in ze eye, tell me it's a lie."
"It is," said Harry, quietly, the lie convincing no one, least of all himself.
She placed a finger beneath his chin and lifted his face back up, so that he could see into her eyes properly.
"It is," he repeated, somewhat stronger.
"Liar," she smiled, "a poor liar, at zat. Tell me you didn't enjoy my 'and on your cock."
He grit his teeth, eyes looking to focus at anything else but her eyes, which would not let him deny her.
"Tell me you didn't want my lèvres on you, nor my dents or my marquer."
Fire raged in emeralds, so close to pouring out.
"Tell me you didn't enjoy my tongue or my fingers."
"Shut up," the roar was building up.
"Tell me, 'arry. Tell me all zose lies zat fester wizzin."
"Shut up!" his last denial.
"Tell me you didn't want to be fucked by me," she spoke in a throaty tone, "zat you didn't enjoy being fed your own cum, zat you never moaned for me, tell me you won't beg me to do zat and more to you, zat you've never enjoyed any of it."
He had no more words to give, nothing but his hate, the likes of which found words to be inadequate.
So he kissed her; the surest way of shutting her up.
Of course she kissed him back, she'd deny him nothing, not even his hate, misguided as it was.
Fleur tried to be gentle, but he would have none of it. He ran roughshod with her, grabbing her by the arms and pinning them down, above her head, pushing them down into the pillows, while his mouth feverishly attacked hers, more teeth than tongue. Her lips quickly grew swollen, and all the more alluring to his all-consuming rage, but he would not desist. This was the path he chose. She thought she knew him so well, but she knew nothing of him, nothing of what laid within.
He was not gentle. He didn't care enough to be, didn't even care enough to notice that Fleur willingly parted her legs and wrapped them around him, even as his cock viciously stabbed at her cunt, not caring about her, whether she was wet or dry.
But she was so very, very wet in fact that he was enraged at her for it.
"Fuck you," he breathed out, hating that she enjoyed what he did to her.
Fleur did as she was wont to do: she smiled and said, "Yes, 'arry, fuck me."
She was the furnace and he the steel that refused to melt.
Later, he would think on the event, think their first time should have been gentler, suffused with love and care, but not now. Now, he just wanted to fuck her, to bruise her flesh, to bloody her lips, to make her quiver and be the one to beg for release.
So he pounded at her, slamming his hips over and over into the tight wetness, the constriction around his cock, the milking motions of her walls trying to pull him deeper in, where he belonged. Her words of encouragement and praise were lost on him, as he himself was lost to lust and anger and hatred and bitterness and that most wretched thing of all: love.
He was swiftly done with his first time, emptying his cream-ladden balls inside her squelching folds, with such a force he thought he would fall down and lose consciousness again, and he might have were it not for the rage, which had yet to run out. He never grew flaccid, somehow he remained firm and sharp of mind, his mouth moving from Fleur's and down onto her neck, even as his cock pushed through his own ejaculate, some of it dripping out, some of it pushed deeper in. If she left his mark on him, so he too would do the same to her. Let her suffer their gazes. Let her be the mark of their ridicule.
Savageness was his quality in the time he spent with her. Ferocious, feral, vicious. All apt enough to describe him.
And she thrived in it, took him in, accepted him, returned his affections with gentleness he never should have evoked. The more gentle she was, the more keen on receiving his brutality with open arms, the harder he fucked her. And he did fuck her, make no mistake. There was no love to be found in the physical things he'd done to her, though his mind would tell otherwise.
He ruined her, made her feel raw and abused and all she did was smile at him. He felt like crying, but instead pushed those ill-fitting emotions away and channeled all his frustration into his cock, into thrusting harder, faster at her, looking for angles to go deeper, to make her arse touch his balls as he hilted inside her, to stain the bed with her and his body's betrayal.
Harry hated himself as much as he loved Fleur in the moments of his second and third and fourth release, for Fleur had wrapped herself around him, arms on his back, legs around his waist, and would not let go of him, no matter what, as he kept emptying himself in her, already overflowing with cum, pussy. There was no denying it: he loved every moment of it. All of it.
She was a mess, to say the least.
And he was a beast.
Once the fog lifted from his mind, he saw, with frightening clarity, the consequences of his actions: the bruises on her breasts, the teeth-marks all over her neck, collarbone and shoulders, the imprints of his fingers on the wrists of her hands, and finally his yet-to-turn-flaccid cock, still halfway inside her, with her lips red and inflamed, with sticky seed covering the visible portions of their genitals, with the bed's sheets drenched in their fluids; his shame, his pride... his and hers all. She had reached her peak, though he didn't know if it happened more than once, the proof was all over his front, now drying and quite sticky.
A hand reached out to cup his face, to bring him back down, just in time as sleep overtook him from sheer exhaustion.
The last words he heard as he laid his head on her breasts, her breath tickling his ear, were these:
"I am yours and you are mine, 'arry Potter. Mine. Let none tear asunder what a Veela claims as hers."
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To revel with a Veela