Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me. All characters are aged up (above 18) and are consenting adults. This is a work of fiction and does not resemble reality in any way whatsoever.
Chapter 14
~ Apolline Delacour ~
The morning light that filtered through the heavy, enchanted velvet drapes of the master suite in Number 12, Grimmauld Place, was a far cry from the golden sunshine of the French countryside.
Here, in the heart of London, the light was a muted, dusty grey that seemed to struggle against the ancient wards and thick fabrics protecting the Black ancestral home. Yet, as Apolline stirred from the depths of a heavy, sated sleep, the room felt brighter to her than the sunniest afternoon at the Delacour estate.
There was a warmth radiating through the silk sheets, a living, pulsing heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace—which had long since crumbled to white ash—and everything to do with the young wizard sleeping beside her.
Apolline lay still for a long moment, simply breathing. The air in the suite was thick, a heady mixture of scents that made her Veela blood sing a low, satisfied song in her veins. It smelled of sandalwood and expensive oils, of the saltiness of dried sweat, and the undeniable muskiness of arousal and body fluids. Her body ached with a delicious, languid heaviness that settled deep in her hips and thighs—a physical testimony to the previous night's exertion. She stretched slowly, feeling the friction of the sheets against her sensitized skin, a satisfied smile curling her lips.
She turned her head on the pillow, silver-blonde hair cascading over her face like a shimmering waterfall, to look at him.
Harry Potter.
He was sleeping on his back, one arm thrown carelessly over his head. The posture exposed the corded muscles of his torso and the sharp, masculine features of his face. The sheet had slipped low, clinging precariously to the flare of his hips, leaving the map of his violent, extraordinary life exposed to her gaze.
Apolline traced the lines of him with her eyes. She saw the old, faded scars that whispered of a childhood defined by neglect, and the more recent, jagged marks of war. There, across his ribs, was the angry pink line where Fenrir Greyback had tried to gut him—a wound that had closed but remained a permanent badge of survival when he had saved them from the monster. And on his neck, she saw the faint, blossoming bruise where her own teeth had grazed him in a moment of frantic passion mere hours ago.
He looked younger in sleep, the perpetual furrow between his brows finally smoothed over, the crushing weight of the Wizarding World lifted temporarily. But even in repose, he radiated power. It was a constant, low-frequency vibration that Apolline could feel against her own skin, like standing in the shadow of a magical titan.
Her mind drifted back to the night before. She remembered the way she had found him, exhausted and vibrating with tension after the ritual to save the Lestrange woman. She remembered the way his emerald eyes had darkened to the colour of a stormy sea when she had simply dropped her robe. Most of all, she remembered the sheer, brute force of him.
Jean, her late husband—bless his gentle soul—had been a tender lover. He had treated her like fine, translucent porcelain, always terrified of her fire, always asking, always careful. He had worshipped her, certainly, but he had never challenged her.
Harry, however, had broken her open. He had taken her with a possessive, dominant hunger that bordered on the feral, yet never once crossed the line into cruelty. He had used her body as a vessel to relieve himself and calm his potent, exhausted mind, pounding his stress and his righteous rage into her until she was screaming his name, completely undone underneath him.
A shiver raced down her spine, a fresh wave of heat pooling in her belly. It was intoxicating. To find a wizard strong enough to withstand the full, unfiltered force of a Veela matriarch's allure and desire was a prize beyond measure.
Fleur, her darling daughter, was young. She was a budding rose, full of enthusiasm and raw beauty. But she lacked the experience, the patience, and the profound knowledge of a man's anatomy that only decades could bestow. Fleur thought she could claim him solely for herself, a thought that made Apolline suppress a dark chuckle. Her daughter had much to learn. A man like Harry Potter—a Lord of two Ancient Houses, a warrior, a beacon of magical power—required more than just youthful energy.
He required a woman who knew exactly when to be a submissive balm and when to be a devastating, high-class slut.
Apolline shifted closer, drawn by his gravity. Her skin brushed against his arm, and literal, magical sparks danced at the point of contact. That was when she felt it. Pressed firmly against her stomach, hot and unyielding even through the silk bedsheet, was a pole of hard, demanding flesh.
Her breath hitched.
It seemed the young Lord's body was awake, even if his mind remained in the slipstream of dreams.
She moved her hand slowly under the covers, her fingers grazing his hip bone, feeling the solid, marble-like muscle beneath the warm skin. She drifted lower, her touch feather-light, until the back of her hand brushed against the sheer length of his erection. It jumped against her skin, a reflexive, powerful twitch that sent a jolt of arousal straight to her core. He was magnificent—heavy, thick, and pulsing with life.
A brief debate warred in her mind. She should let him sleep; he had depleted his magical core saving Bellatrix, then spent what little remained ravaging his guest. He needed rest. But the Veela in her was a greedy, ancient creature. She tasted his magic in the air, felt the furnace-heat of his blood, and she wanted more. She wanted to wake him in the most exquisite way possible. Besides, was it not the duty of a devoted lover to attend to her Lord's immediate needs?
"Let me take care of you, mon chéri," she whispered into the silence.
With agonizing slowness, she sat up. The cool air of the room hit her bare breasts, causing her nipples to harden into tight, dark peaks. She pushed the duvet down, revealing his lower body. He lay there, fully erect, his cock standing proud against his stomach. The head was flushed and glistening with a tiny bead of pre-cum.
Apolline licked her lips, her mouth watering. The memory of how he had filled her the night before, stretching her to her absolute limits, made her own core clench in anticipation. She maneuvered herself carefully, straddling his legs but keeping her weight off him. She wanted this to be a slow awakening—a dream bleeding into reality.
She reached for the bottle of massage oil on the bedside table. It was still warm. She poured a generous amount into her palm, the scent of jasmine filling the air. She rubbed her hands together, warming the oil, and then, with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics, she wrapped her fingers around him.
He was searingly hot. She squeezed gently, running her hand up the length of his shaft, spreading the slick oil. Harry let out a low, rough groan in his sleep, his hips bucking upward instinctively into her hand.
"Shh," she cooed softly. "Just feel."
She lowered her head, but she didn't take him into her mouth immediately. Instead, she let her breath ghost over the sensitive head, teasing him. Then, she extended her tongue, flat and broad, and licked him from the base to the tip in one long, wet stripe. The sheer taste of his masculinity made her core tighten.
Apolline began to work. She lowered her mouth over the head, swirling her tongue around the ridge, tasting him fully. Then, she took him deeper, bobbing her head slowly, letting her lips glide over the oiled skin. But her hands felt empty. She knew she possessed assets that her daughter, for all her beauty, could not yet match.
She sat up straight, positioning herself so her heavy breasts hung directly over his face and chest. She brought her hands up to cup them, squeezing the soft, generous flesh together. She was fuller here, heavier, ripened by motherhood. She leaned forward, pressing her breasts together to form a deep, soft valley of cleavage. Then, she slid down his body until her chest was aligned with his erection.
She trapped his hardness between her tits.
The sensation was electric. The sensitive skin of her inner breasts against the hot, rigid steel of his cock sent shivers down her spine. She began to move, sliding up and down his shaft, using her cleavage to stroke him.
"Mmm..." Harry grunted, his brow furrowing. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into the sheets.
Apolline combined the motions. She lowered her mouth to the head of his cock as it peeked out from between her breasts, sucking on it hard while her chest massaged the shaft.
Schlupp..schlup...schlupp..schluup..schlup..schlup...schlup!
The wet, squelching noises filled the quiet room. She closed her eyes, humming against him, letting the vibrations travel down his length.
She felt his breathing change, shifting from the slow rhythm of sleep to shorter, sharper gasps. His heart rate picked up, thudding against his ribs like a war drum. His hips jerked, thrusting upward, seeking more of the exquisite pressure.
Suddenly, a large, calloused hand tangled into her hair. It wasn't a gentle caress. It was a firm, commanding grip that tightened at the roots, halting her movement.
Apolline froze, opening her eyes. She looked down the length of his body. Harry was awake.
His green eyes were open, no longer hazy with sleep but burning with a dark, intense fire. He wasn't looking at the ceiling; he was looking at her. At her mouth wrapped around him, at her breasts smothering his length. He didn't say a word. He didn't ask her to stop. Instead, his grip in her hair tightened, and he pulled her head down.
"Deeper," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and lust.
He didn't wait for her to comply. He thrust his hips upward violently, driving himself into her throat. Apolline gagged, her eyes watering, but the Veela in her roared in approval. This dominance, this refusal to be a passive participant, was exactly what she craved.
He was rougher now. The sleepy exploration was gone. He sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbows, watching her. His hand guided her head, setting a punishing, rhythmic pace.
"You greedy French witch," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "Sneaking a taste while I sleep? Couldn't wait?"
Apolline released him from her mouth with a wet pop, gasping for air, while she slicked her breasts up and down his shaft rapidly. "I am merely... making sure you are in good 'ealth, Mon Seigneur," she panted, looking up at him through her lashes.
Harry smirked, a cruel, sexy twist of his lips. "I am. And you're going to find out just how much."
He reached out with his other hand, grabbing one of her breasts. He didn't cup it gently; he kneaded it, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, tweaking the nipple hard. "Use them," he commanded. "Fuck it with your tits, Apolline. Show me what those heavy things are good for."
She obeyed instantly, squeezing her breasts together as hard as she could, trapping him in a prison of soft flesh, moving with renewed vigour. She swirled her tongue around the head every time it emerged, looking him dead in the eye. He watched her, his face a mask of concentrated pleasure.
"That's it... so soft..." He bucked his hips, slapping his cock against her chin. "Open your mouth."
She opened wide, and he grabbed the back of her head, forcing her down again, fucking her face while she jerked him off with her cleavage. It was chaotic, messy, and incredibly hot. Apolline was so focused on pleasing him, so lost in the rhythm of his hips, that she didn't hear the door creak open. She didn't realize they had an audience until a cool draft of air hit her back, followed by a sharp, familiar intake of breath.
"Maman?"
Apolline froze. Harry froze, his hips mid-thrust. She slowly released him from her mouth, turning her head toward the door, wiping a trail of saliva from her chin.
Fleur stood in the doorway. She was wearing a thin silk nightgown that left nothing to the imagination, her silver-blonde hair dishevelled from sleep. She held a tray with a teapot and two cups in her hands. Her blue eyes were wide, staring at the scene: her mother, naked and straddling the Lord of the house, who was glistening with oil and sandwiched between Apolline's breasts.
For a second, there was silence. Then, Fleur's eyes narrowed. The shock evaporated, replaced instantly by a flash of annoyance. Her Veela allure spiked, filling the room with the scent with the heat of a challenged Veela.
"Really?" Fleur scoffed, stepping into the room and kicking the door shut behind her with her heel. She set the tray down with a bit too much force. "I let 'im sleep yesterday because 'e was tired. I go to ze kitchen to brew 'im a restorative tea, to be a good consort, and I come back to find you… 'ogging 'im?"
She marched over to the bed, hands on her hips, looking down at them with a pout. "You taught me better manners, Maman. Sharing is caring, non?"
Apolline blinked, then let out a breathy laugh. "I was merely... warming 'im up, ma chérie. He looked so lonely."
Harry chuckled beneath her, the sound vibrating through the mattress. "I wasn't complaining."
Fleur turned her glare on Harry, though her eyes were dancing with hunger. "Of course you weren't. Men are simple creatures." She looked at his cock, standing tall and slick between her mother's breasts, and ran her tongue over her lips. "Alzough… I must admit, 'e does look appetizing."
She didn't wait for an invitation. She climbed onto the bed, her silk nightgown riding up her thighs, crawling over the mattress like a predatory cat. "Move over," she commanded, nudging Apolline's shoulder.
"I was 'ere first," Apolline teased, but she shifted to the side, giving her daughter space.
Fleur positioned herself on his other side. Now, Harry was flanked by both of them—mother and daughter, two generations of Delacour women, focused entirely on him.
"Good morning, 'arry," Fleur purred, leaning down to kiss him. It was a filthy kiss, full of tongue and promise.
"Morning," Harry gasped when she broke away. He looked between them, his eyes wide with a look of pure, hedonistic joy. "I must have done something really good in a past life."
"You saved our family. Without you, we would be that monster's playthings," Fleur whispered, her hand trailing down his chest to where Apolline still held him. She wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft, her skin brushing against her mother's. "Now, we service you. Maybe, after zis we can get Gabrielle 'ere from grandmozzer. Togezzer. They are in Wiltshire."
The dynamic in the room shifted. It wasn't just sex anymore; it was worship. Fleur looked at her mother, a silent challenge in her eyes. A challenge that Apolline was eager to accept and win.
They went to work. Fleur took the head of his penis into her mouth with her frantic, eager energy. Apolline focused on the shaft and the base, her hands working in tandem with her daughter's, her breasts pressing against his thigh. They were drowning him in sensation.
"Oh god," Harry groaned, his head throwing back into the pillows, his hands gripping the sheets until his knuckles turned white. "Fuck, that's too much..."
"Never too much," Apolline murmured, kissing his hip bone, working her way down to lick his heavy sac.
Fleur was relentless, her head bobbing up and down with wet, sloppy noises. Apolline moved up, kissing his chest, biting his chest, while her hand jerked him off in rhythm with Fleur's mouth. Harry was losing control, his hips bucking wildly.
"Fleur... Apolline..." he gasped, his voice ragged.
Fleur pulled off, her lips swollen and glistening. She looked at her mother. "'Is 'ands are empty, Maman."
Apolline understood. She moved up the bed, positioning herself so her sex was hovering over his fingers. Fleur did the same on the other side, creating a canopy of Veela flesh around him.
Harry didn't hesitate. He reached up, his fingers finding the slick wetness of the mother-daughter duo. The two moaned in unison as they continued to work his cock, Harry's fingers exploring their deepest crevices as he pleasured his two Veela mistresses.
But the centre of the storm was always his cock. They moved back down, unable to stay away from the source of the heat.
"Togezzer," Fleur whispered.
She straddled his left leg; Apolline straddled his right. They leaned in, bringing their chests together over his groin. They created a tunnel of flesh—Apolline's breasts pressed against Fleur's, trapping his cock in the middle of four soft, heavy mounds.
"Fuck it," Harry commanded, lifting his head to watch. "Fuck my cock with your tits."
They obeyed, moving in perfect sync. The sensation of Fleur's skin against Apolline's, hot and slick with oil and sweat, was electrifying. They squeezed him between them, compressing him from all sides.
"I'm close!" Harry roared, his entire body tense like a bowstring.
"Donnez-le-nous!" Fleur screamed, her eyes mirroring her mother's lust. "Paint us, 'arry!"
They doubled their speed. Harry let out a guttural, animalistic shout. His hips slammed upward one last time, driving deep into their combined cleavage. A jet of hot, thick seed erupted from him. It coated Apolline's chest, splashed onto Fleur's face, and ran down their stomachs in warm, white rivulets. He pulsed again and again, an endless torrent of release, emptying everything he had into them.
Fleur laughed, a bright, delighted sound, as she leaned down to lick the fluid from his tip. Apolline slumped forward, resting her forehead on his heaving chest. The room was silent, save for the ragged sound of three people trying to catch their breath. The air was thick with magic—a golden haze that lingered around them, the visual manifestation of the bond they were forging.
Harry let out a long, shattering sigh, his arms coming up to wrap around both of them. He pulled them down, tucking Fleur into his left side and Apolline into his right.
"Veela," he muttered, sounding exhausted but incredibly smug. "You're going to kill me."
"Non," Fleur whispered, snuggling into his neck. "We are going to make you stronger."
Apolline rested her chin on his shoulder. He looked peaceful now. The darkness of the war seemed a million miles away. "Rest now, my Lord," she murmured, kissing his damp cheek. "Your morning duty is done."
Harry cracked one eye open, looking from mother to daughter. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "Best alarm clock ever."
Apolline chuckled, closing her eyes, basking in the warmth of his body and the fierce, protective magic that surrounded them. The world outside could burn; in this bed, they were building a new dynasty. And the House of Black—and the House of Delacour—had never been stronger.
~ Harry Potter ~
Harry Potter sat in a high-backed wing chair in the Black family library, upholstered in crushed velvet the colour of dried blood. A fire crackled in the grate, casting dancing orange light across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the emerald of his eyes. He wasn't the boy who had once huddled under the stairs at Privet Drive. He wasn't even the boy who had run from the Ministry mere months ago. The ring of the Potter Lordship and the heavy stone of the Black family ring sat on his fingers, weighing his hand down with responsibilities and power he was only just beginning to understand.
In his lap lay a copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.
Harry turned the page, his mind trying to comprehend the words inside. He traced the lines of text with a finger, his expression twisting into a sneer. He didn't trust Rita Skeeter. He wouldn't trust the woman to tell him the sky was blue without checking out a window first, and then still lie about it if she wouldn't get caught. She was a vulture, a carrion feeder who thrived on the rotting carcasses of reputations.
But even a broken clock was right twice a day, and even a liar like Skeeter could stumble upon the truth if it was scandalous enough.
"The Greater Good," Harry muttered, his voice rough.
He was staring at the image of a letter. It wasn't typed; it was handwritten in a spiky, arrogant script that Harry had never seen before, yet somehow recognized the tone of. It was a letter from Gellert Grindelwald to Albus Dumbledore.
Damn if it wasn't an eye opener.
The old man had kept secrets. Mountains of them. He had hoarded information like a dragon hoards gold, doling it out in riddles and half-truths, sending Harry on this suicidal scavenger hunt for Horcruxes without a map, without a guide, and without the full picture.
"Global revolution," Harry read aloud, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Muggle servitude."
Most people, the Order included, would have focused on the Muggle servitude part. They would have seen it as the ultimate proof of Dumbledore's youthful corruption, a stain on the pristine white robes of the Leader of the Light.
Harry didn't care about the idol. He knew idols were hollow. What caught his attention, what made his heart hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs, was the first part of the letter.
The Deathly Hallows.
Dumbledore and Grindelwald hadn't just been planning a political revolution. They had been hunting. They had been obsessed with the tale surrounding them. They were looking for the Hallows.
Harry closed the book with a snap, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. He tossed it onto the side table, where it slid dangerously close to a half-empty glass of Firewhisky.
He leaned back, staring into the fire. The flames twisted and curled, forming shapes that dissolved as quickly as they appeared.
The Deathly Hallows.
The term had been haunting him. He remembered Winky, the poor, addled elf he had taken in. Back in the forest, when Dobby had brought in Winky and Kreacher as reinforcements to aid him and join his household, he had suffered from one of Voldemort's rageful episodes, and one thing had stood out from them.
The Deathly Hallows.
Winky, the sweet elf that she was, had caught onto that and was about to educate him on the topic, but before she could, Kreacher had fortunately discovered the Horcrux in his scar and the adventure from that moment on led them here.
And Voldemort. The memory of the Dark Lord's rage, the flashes of insight Harry got through their cursed connection, it all pointed to one thing. Voldemort was looking for them. He wasn't just looking for Harry. He was looking for a wand. A wand that had been stolen from a wand-maker named Gregorovitch. And it was something that connected the old deceased headmaster and the Deathly Hallows to it.
Dumbledore believed it. Grindelwald believed it. And Voldemort was hunting for it.
"Winky!" Harry called out, his voice carrying the authority of the Lord of the House.
There was a loud crack that displaced the air in the room. Winky appeared on the hearthrug. She was no longer the dishevelled, weeping mess she had been at Hogwarts. She wore clean clothes emblazoned with the Black and Potter crests, courtesy of Narcissa, her ears were perked, and while she still looked nervous at times, there was a sense of purpose to her now.
She curtsied low, her long nose nearly brushing the floor. "Master Harry calls Winky? Does Master Harry need more drink? Or perhaps a sandwich?"
"No food, Winky," Harry said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I need you to tell me a story."
Winky blinked, her large, tennis-ball eyes widening. "A story, Master Harry?"
"That day in the forest," Harry began, his eyes intense as he searched for answers that held more meaning than anyone could ever know. "You mentioned the Deathly Hallows and the story behind it. I need to know that."
Winky shivered, her fingers twisting the fabric of her toga. "Winky knows the story, Master. All house-elves know the old tales. The pureblood families... they read them to the children."
"Tell it to me," Harry commanded softly. "And tell me about the symbol. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows."
Winky nodded nervously. She scrambled up onto the footstool near Harry's chair, wringing her hands.
"There were three brothers," Winky began, her voice high and squeaky, taking on the cadence of a storyteller. "Three brothers travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight..."
Harry listened.
Winky spoke of Death blocking the path. Of the bridge. Of the gifts.
"The first brother, he was a fighting man," Winky squeaked, acting out the motions with her spindly arms. "He asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence. A wand that must always win duels for its owner. And Death fashioned him a wand from an elder tree that stood nearby."
'The Elder Wand,' Harry thought. 'What Voldemort, Grindelwald and Dumbledore had obsessed over.'
"The second brother," Winky continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, "he was an arrogant man. He wanted to humiliate Death still further. He asked for the power to recall others from Death. And Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to him."
"And the third brother?" Harry prompted, leaning closer.
"The third brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers," Winky said reverently. "He did not trust Death. He asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility."
The Cloak.
Winky finished the tale, speaking of how Death claimed the first two brothers for his own, but the third brother greeted Death as an old friend before passing the artifact along to his son.
"The symbol, Winky," Harry said. "Show me."
Winky raised her hand. Elf magic, subtle and different from wizarding magic, gathered at her fingertips. A small illusion formed in the air between them, glowing with a faint, silvery light.
A straight vertical line.
Enclosed by a circle.
Enclosed by a triangle.
"The Wand," Winky pointed to the line. "The Stone." She pointed to the circle. "And the Cloak." She traced the triangle. "Together, they be making the Deathly Hallows, Master Harry."
Harry stared at the glowing symbol. It burned into his retinas. The triangle. The circle. The line.
The door to the library creaked open.
The heavy oak door swung inward, admitting a draft of cooler air from the hallway and the scent of jasmine.
Three women entered.
Narcissa Malfoy led the way. She moved with the fluid grace of a noble lady, her blue robes rustling softly against the carpet. Her blonde hair was pinned up in an intricate style that exposed the porcelain skin of her neck, and her expression was one of cool, collected power. She was the Mistress of the House in all but name, the one who kept the domestic chaos from consuming them.
Behind her walked Andromeda Tonks. She looked better than she had days ago, but the scars of her ordeal were still visible. She moved with a slight limp, her hand resting on her side where the darkest curses had struck her. Her face was pale, but her eyes—dark, Brown eyes—were sharp and alert.
And then there was Bellatrix.
Bellatrix Lestrange—or perhaps just Bellatrix Black now—did not walk. She prowled. She moved with a kinetic, restless energy, her dark curls bouncing around her face. She wore black robes that had been mended and cleaned, fitting her frame well. The number of potions she was being fed daily thanks to the efforts of Kreacher, Narciss and Apolline had returned some of her life back to her. Her cheeks fuller, her body not skin and bones either.
Since the ritual in the dungeon, since Harry had poured his own life force and magic into the void left by Voldemort's soul shard, Bellatrix had changed. The cruelty was gone. The sadism that had defined her for decades had evaporated. But in its place was something intense. Something overwhelming.
She saw Harry sitting by the fire, and her face lit up with a terrifying, radiant joy.
"My Lord!" she cooed, the sound half-purr, half-giggle.
Before Harry could even brace himself, Bellatrix crossed the room. She didn't take a seat on the sofa. She didn't stand respectfully by the fire. She made a beeline for his chair.
"Bellatrix, wait—" Harry started, but it was too late.
She practically threw herself at him. She spun around and dropped into his lap, curling up like an overgrown, affectionate cat. Her arms wound around his neck, her face burying itself in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling his scent deeply.
Harry grunted as the air left his lungs. She wasn't heavy—years of Azkaban and war had left her thinner than her prime—but she was solid. And she was wiggling.
"Bella," Harry groaned, trying to gently pry her arms off. "I'm working."
"Work later," Bellatrix mumbled into his neck, her breath hot against his skin. She shifted her weight, settling herself more comfortably. Her plump behind, the softness being felt beneath the layers of her robes, pressed firmly against his groin. She wiggled again, seeking warmth, seeking contact.
Harry froze, still not used to the attention of Voldemort's most cruel general.
"You smell lovely, my lord," Bellatrix whispered dreamily, nuzzling his jaw. "Like power."
He couldn't push her off. The last time he had tried to enforce boundaries too harshly, right after she woke up, she had collapsed into a weeping mess, convinced he was rejecting her because she was broken. She had cried until she was dehydrated, her magic lashing out and tearing apart the drapes of her room, until Harry had held her for an hour to calm her down. Her mind was still fragile, held together by the bond they shared.
Narcissa and Andromeda stopped by the fireplace, watching the scene.
Andromeda chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "She certainly knows where the heat is in the room."
"She is incorrigible," Narcissa added, though there was a small, indulgent smile on her lips. She moved to the side table, pouring herself a glass of wine. "But at least she isn't cursing the furniture anymore."
"It's not funny," Harry gritted out, his hands hovering awkwardly over Bellatrix's waist, unsure where to put them. "She's making it difficult to breathe."
"Nonsense," Bellatrix said, looking up at him. Her heavy-lidded eyes were wide and adoring. "I'm keeping you warm. It's cold outside."
She laid her head back down on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Narcissa turned, her gaze drifting to the space in front of Harry. The illusion Winky had conjured was still floating there—the glowing silver symbol of the Deathly Hallows.
Narcissa's smile vanished. Her grey eyes sharpened.
"Why are you looking at that?" she asked, her voice losing its amusement.
Harry looked up, trying to peer over Bellatrix's mass of hair. "You know what it is?"
"Of course I know what it is," Narcissa said, stepping closer, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. "Every pureblood child knows that symbol. Though most don't understand it."
Harry looked at her pointedly, waiting for her to elaborate.
"It is the mark of the Peverell family," Narcissa stated.
Harry frowned. "Peverell? The brothers from the story?"
"The very same," Narcissa confirmed. "Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus. An ancient line, extinct in the male line for centuries. Their blood vanished into other families."
Harry looked at the symbol, his mind racing. Peverell.
"Why does this interest you, Harry?" Andromeda asked, limping over to stand beside Narcissa, as Harry summoned two chairs for them to sit on. She looked at the symbol with a frown. "It's a fairy tale symbol. Grindelwald and his fanatics used the symbol as their mark during the war. It is still feared across regions to this day."
"It's not just a fairy tale," Harry said quietly. "Voldemort... he's looking for the Elder Wand. I know he is. And the Stone..."
He paused.
And the Cloak.
Harry looked at Winky. "Winky. Go to my chambers. In the trunk at the foot of my bed. Bring me my Invisibility Cloak."
"Yes, Master Harry!" Winky popped away instantly.
"Your cloak?" Bellatrix murmured, lifting her head from his shoulder. She looked at him with curious eyes. "Why do you want a cloak? Are we going somewhere? Can I come?"
"Stay still, Bella," Harry said, his hand resting on her back to keep her steady. "I just need to check something."
A moment later, Winky reappeared. She held the silvery, fluid fabric of the cloak in her hands. It shimmered in the firelight like water woven into yarn.
Harry took it. He held it up, letting it drape over his arm. It was light as air, cool to the touch.
"Look at it," Harry said to the sisters. "Really look at it."
Narcissa and Andromeda leaned in. Bellatrix poked it with a finger, giggling when her finger disappeared underneath.
"It is a fine cloak," Narcissa noted. "Exquisite quality."
"It's an heirloom," Harry said. "My father left it to me. Dumbledore gave it to me in my first year, said it had been in my father's possession. And his father before him. Passed down in our family from generations."
Andromeda frowned deeply. She reached out, taking a corner of the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. She rubbed it, her brow furrowing.
"That's impossible," Andromeda stated flatly.
"What is?"
"Invisibility cloaks," Andromeda explained, her voice taking on a lecture-like tone, "are typically made from the hair of a Demiguise. They are woven with disillusionment charms. But Demiguise hair degrades. The charms fade. A good cloak... an expensive cloak... lasts ten years, perhaps fifteen if kept in stasis. Then it turns opaque. It becomes useless."
She looked at Harry, her dark eyes wide. "If this cloak belonged to your father... and his father... it must be decades old. Centuries, perhaps."
"It has never faded," Harry said. "It has never torn. Spells bounce off it. It is perfect."
He looked at the symbol floating in the air. The Triangle. The Cloak.
"An Invisibility Cloak passed down from father to son. A cloak that has remained as good as new for centuries. Something enchanted with runes far beyond a normal wizard's comprehension, as if created by something… supernatural," Harry monologued, looking at the symbol of the hallows, the big triangle encompassing the other two.
The realization hit the room like a physical wave. Harry Potter wasn't just the Chosen One because of a prophecy. He was the heir to the Third Hallow.
Bellatrix shifted on his lap. Her mood, usually sunny when she was touching him, suddenly darkened. A shadow passed over her face, her body tensing against his.
"Godric's Hollow," Bellatrix whispered. The mention of the Hallows, the Peverells and the Potters seemed to have triggered something in her mind.
Harry looked down at her. "What about it, Bella?"
Bellatrix shivered. She clutched his robes tighter. "He went there. The Dark Lord."
Harry went rigid. "When?"
"Before... before you saved me," Bellatrix mumbled, her eyes losing focus as she delved into the memories of the parasite. "He was angry. He was looking for the thief. Gregorovitch told him nothing except that a young boy stole it. Then he searched and searched and found that many Peverell family members were buried in Godric's Hollow, so he went there."
She looked up at Harry, fear in her eyes. "He killed a woman there. A woman who was bringing flowers into her home. He was angry. He cursed something or someone there."
"He cursed something?" Harry repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"He set a trap," Bellatrix said, the words spilling out faster now. "He said... 'If the boy comes for his roots, he will find only rot.' He put... he put something there. The snake. Nagini."
She buried her face in his chest again to seek his warmth, her chest heaving as she sightly hyperventilated while Harry stroked her back.
Harry felt a surge of rage so potent it nearly blinded him.
Voldemort was in Godric's Hollow. He had set a trap for him. His parents… they had been buried in Godric's Hollow. And from what he knew about the noseless bastard, he would not hesitate to use his dead parents against him.
If there was even the slightest bit of chance that he had turned the resting place of Lily and James Potter into a trap, Harry could not sit idle and let that happen.
Harry stood up abruptly.
Bellatrix yelped as she was deposited onto the chair he had vacated. She looked at him with wide, hurt eyes, but Harry wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the door.
"Harry?" Narcissa asked, alarm ringing in her voice. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going there," Harry said. His voice was cold, devoid of the earlier warmth. He summoned his dragon-hide combat robes with a sharp flick of his wand. They flew from the corner of the room, settling onto his shoulders.
"You can't be serious," Andromeda stepped in his path, her limp forgotten. "It is a trap, Harry! Bellatrix just said so! He left the snake there! It is an ambush!"
"He desecrated their grave," Harry snarled, fastening the clasps of his robe. "He killed someone there. He left his familiar there to wait for me. I'm going to kill that snake. And I'm going to burn whatever trap he set."
"Harry, no!" Narcissa grabbed his arm. "This is reckless! You have the advantage now. We have destroyed a soul anchor inside Bella. We are winning. Do not walk into his hands!"
"I'm not walking into his hands," Harry said, pulling his arm free. He checked his wand holster. "I'm walking into my family's home. And I'm going to rid it off his filth."
"Take us with you then," Bellatrix cried, scrambling out of the chair. "I'll kill the snake! I'll protect you!"
"No," Harry commanded, turning to point a finger at her. "You are recovering. Your magical core is unstable. You stay here. That is an order, Bellatrix."
Bellatrix froze, the command from her Lord freezing her in place. She whimpered, biting her lip, tears welling in her eyes.
"Andromeda, you can barely stand," Harry continued, looking at the middle sister. "And Narcissa... someone has to hold the wards here. If I'm walking into a trap, I need to know this place is secure to retreat to."
"Harry..." Narcissa pleaded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Please."
Harry softened. He stepped forward and cupped Narcissa's face in his hands. He looked into her grey eyes, seeing the fear and the love there.
"I have to do this, Cissy," he said softly. "It's my parents. It's my family legacy. I can't let him dishonour and take that away from me too."
He leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't a gentle peck. It was fierce. It was searing. He poured his reassurance, his protectiveness, and his promise to return into that kiss. He claimed her mouth, his tongue sweeping against hers, tasting the wine she had been drinking.
Narcissa melted against him, her hands clutching the front of his robes, holding him for a desperate moment before he pulled away.
"I'll be back," Harry promised.
He turned to the door.
Behind him, Bellatrix let out a low, guttural growl. She was glaring at Narcissa, her face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated jealousy. Her hands were clenched into claws at her sides.
"He kissed you," Bellatrix hissed.
Narcissa, breathless and flushed, touched her lips. She looked at her sister. She didn't apologize. She didn't shrink away. She straightened her spine, the Malfoy arrogance returning for a brief second.
She shot Bellatrix a look that was entirely too smug. "He did."
Bellatrix screeched, snatching up a nearby throw pillow and hurling it at her sister.
Harry didn't stay to referee. He had already swept out of the library, the Invisibility Cloak flowing over his shoulders like water, vanishing him from sight before he even hit the hallway.
He was going to Godric's Hollow.
He was going to meet his parents.
Author's Note
We go to Godric's for the next chapter, maybe two, and do things a little more differently than before.