Chapter 35

Harry stroked Hermione's hair from her forehead.

"Oh, fuck." He growled, bending her legs even further over, her ankles either side of her head, feet pointing to the heavens.

"So deep." Hermione bit her lip, sweat pouring from her forehead. But she was smiling that beautiful smile, the one she'd worn ever since they'd declared their love. Some of Harry's other women let themselves be fucked mindless, almost catatonic with lust, but Hermione always watched everything, eyes trawling over him, like she wanted to capture it all in her memory, her famous memory that had won all of the Student of the Year awards that stacked her windowsill.

He plugged her to her depths, using his own legs to trap hers, using all of his weight to press her into the bed, made her helpless, as if she'd want to leave him.

"Inside, Harry." This time, she swept his hair from his forehead, her smile soft until it was shuddering, as he bounced his cock out and in. It felt like he'd never been deeper, like he was fucking her soul, her heart, her body and her mind, not just the soaking cunt that squirted around his ballsack, that quivered endlessly, that tightened as she came.

He did as she asked — because he could never deny her. "Hermione!" He rubbed faces with her, groaning as he filled her. It felt like his cock was growing as he unloaded, but she was tight, too tight, milking him, but his focus was on her face. He couldn't forget the face of his love — her gasping orgasm, her wide eyes, her lips parted with his thumb and swollen from the blowjob she'd given him, her sweaty locks stuck to her face, cheeks red.

And finally, the moment he'd worked for, for a long hour, the moment she came completely undone. Eyes rolling back in her head, the desperate nails digging into his back, legs trembling uselessly under his weight. The keening cry, that full body shiver, the spray of juice all over his balls and thighs.

When he'd finished filling her, he watched her come back to life.

Blink back into being. He loved her as his Hermione, the brightest mind he'd ever known. But he loved her too when he took it away, reduced her to a shell of lust, a cavewoman desperate to be bred.

It took her a few minutes for her to reanimate, minutes he spent wiping tears from her eyes, until shaky breaths became giddy laughs.

"Harrrrry." She bemoaned, trying to fight him off of her body, pushing at his chest. It was futile.

"I'm sorry." He peppered her with kisses even as she tried to turn her head. "I can't get enough of you."

"You're a beast." She giggled. "Are you sure this birth control charm will hold up?"

"Mmm, sort of thinking I don't care." Harry ground his cock in a circle, imagining that he was stirring the gallons of cum he'd filled her womb with.

"Harry!" Hermione lay her head on the pillow, taking deep breaths. "How am I supposed to go to lessons after that?"

He looked down at her body — her blouse was ripped open, sweaty and stained underneath her, skirt around her waist, stockings torn and laddered. Her tie was intact though, rising and falling between heaving breasts. "I should probably stop watching you get dressed." He admitted.

She cradled his head, fingers sliding through the black hair curled against his nape. "The most powerful man in Britain has a schoolgirl fetish and we've let him loose in Hogwarts. What have we done?" Hermione teased.

"I think I have a Hermione fetish."

She glowed. "I love you. My heart hurts just thinking about you." Hermione traced his cheek, but her eyes were lost in another world. "I had this little reading nook in my bedroom, by the window. And whenever Mum and Dad were arguing, it wouldn't matter, because I was lost in this world of books. Love stories. The Brontë sisters, Austen, even Tolstoy."

"Yeah?" Harry collapsed onto her, darting his tongue along the sweat of her neck, because he could, because he'd have all of her or nothing at all. He ignored the slight moan as he deepened inside her seeping pussy, ignored the squelches as his cum tried to escape around the thick seal his cock created. "I read a little Austen, once. Emma, was it?"

Had he read it as Tom or Harry, a book in Harry's school or Tom's orphanage? He couldn't remember.

"Ugh." Hermione frowned. "My least favorite."

"But she falls in love with her best friend, her childhood friend."

"But it took her so long to realize he was made for her." Hermione tutted. "I knew. I always knew."

His cheek against hers. "You'll have to forgive Emma and me too. Sometimes it takes us a little while."

"Nothing to forgive." He felt her smile as he lost himself in the comforting warmth of her ticklish hair. Sight covered in black and red, skin against skin, body against body, he wondered if he'd ever been happier. "I never thought I'd find a love like the classics."

"Is it how you imagined?"

She giggled. "No! Much better but not at all similar."

"No? Am I not a knight in shining armor?"

She swatted at his shoulder. "The heroines in classic literature do not get folded in two and filled up by gallons of seed, Harry."

"Probably for the best. They'd break their corsets. Did, uh, Elizabeth Bennet not squirt all over her bed and beg for Mister Darcy to come inside her?"

Hermione flushed. "Harry, you're ever so crude." She tilted his chin up to kiss him. "Can I fill in my questionnaire now?"

"I know you're desperate to."

She grinned, reaching under her pillow to retrieve parchment and a pillow. "Happiness can be quantified, targeted and worked towards, like everything else in life." She booped his nose with her quill. "And I take your happiness very seriously. Okay, number one. The oral sex."

"Ten outta ten."

She frowned at him. "Take it seriously, Harry. Consistently high numbers can lead to a non-standard deviation in the mean data. Noisy or quiet?"

"Noisy."

"Fast or slow?"

"Slow, when you're waking me up, but when we're late for breakfast, fast."

She scribbled away. "I used my hands on your base—"

"I liked that."

"The twist of my palm?"

"Yep."

"Do you prefer it when I beg for you to cover my face or when I tell you how much I love you?"

"Both?"

"Hmm. And if we hadn't transitioned to full intercourse—"

"You're so good at dirty talk." He teased.

"—would you rather have ejaculated on my face, down my throat or on my breasts?"

"I like all three, but usually I'm too horny to pull out of your throat—"

"I'll mix it up." Hermione decided, making a note. "Now, this was a new position for us. I'll make a new column. Do you have a name for it?"

"Hard-fucking Hermione into a quivering mess, pressing her so hard into the bed that we left an imprint on the mattress?"

Hermione pouted, red-faced. "I'll call it the press. Did you prefer it to missionary or rear-oriented entry—"

"I think the rest of the world calls it doggy-style—"

"That's rather derogatory." She groused. "Misogynist, even."

Harry snorted. "I liked having you helpless, beating your hands on my chest, while I had my way with you." He smirked at her full face blush.

"Harry enjoyed the agency of his position." Hermione avoided his eyes as she made a note. "And would you—"

"Oh, we'll do it again for sure."

She coughed. "Quite."

Harry peered over at her notes. "You haven't put anything in that column I made you enter."

Hermione's rating — it was filled with tens.

"Oh, my opinion isn't really rele—"

"Hermione."

"Ten." Hermione's hand trembled as she wrote. "Definitely a ten."

He kissed her. She was too cute. "Now who's making non-standard deviations?"

She arched her back up as he kissed his way down to her breasts. "I can't help it." She admitted. "I love my horny deviant."

###

Ron smiled broadly as the loud cheers resounded in the Great Hall. Dumbledore waited for the buzz to die before he spoke again, his twinkling eyes locked on Ron. "And finally, for great courage, for reminding us all that friendship is a power all its own, and — I'm reliably informed — singing the Hogwarts school song to distract a group of Death Eaters, to Mr Ronald Weasley, I award Gryffindor house fifty points."

Lavender grabbed his shoulder and shook it, while the boys pounded the table. The other houses roared too, because having one thought lost now safely returned was a boost they all needed. Ron grinned, both hands raised to receive the palm-pounding hi-fives from all around the breakfast table.

"Go big brother!" Ginny beamed.

"No howlers from Mum this time, huh?" Angelina teased, kissing him on the cheek.

Hermione clapped as hard as anyone, her smile warm.

Down the table, Seamus, Neville and Dean banged serving spoons together, grinning and red-faced, the Gryffindor boys and Ernie having already received their points.

Ron shot a glance at the giant hourglasses that recorded the House points, watching the red rubies fall into the lower bulb, ensuring they were well ahead of the other houses. And all without Harry, whose achievements had long been excluded from the point system — apparently singlehandedly dueling the Dark Lord and saving half the students meant things became unfair to the other Houses.

Deep down, Ron knew it was silly. Knew the points didn't matter now, in this new world, when some students were taken out of the castle by frightened parents, while other students were grieved over rather than worried about, lives cut short by the Death Eaters.

But the cheers felt good, the attention of his peers — it felt like they could all pretend they were just students once more, that Ron could care only about the next Quidditch game, about losing his virginity, about how to copy Hermione's homework without her getting angry. Keeping his chess win streak.

Dumbledore peered over his glasses at each table. "You may think things have changed forever. That Hogwarts is different now. But this castle has not changed. We each, whether red, blue, yellow or green, stand more united than ever." The old man looked tired for a moment, but he swished his wand and great sparks flew, of all the House colors.

They swam into the center, almost reaching the bewitched ceiling, and entwined with one another, until they formed the Hogwarts shield. "I need you to lean on another." Dumbledore said plainly. "I need you to show the qualities of the Houses not your own. Hufflepuff to be brave and bold. Ravenclaw to be cunning and ambitious. Gryffindor to hone their wit and sharpen their minds…and Slytherin, to be loyal and just."

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. The Great Hall was silent too, looking at each other uncomfortably, for they'd never seen the Headmaster like this. The Headmaster sighed. "I will never stop standing against the forces of evil. I will never stop defending you from the Dark Lord. I have faults, many, but I believe in you, the future, to make our world a better place. I know there are those that stand with me."

Dumbledore looked at Harry, his face inscrutable. "Harry Potter has shown his bravery already. But he knows what I know. That we two are not enough. So I stand in front of you, not defeated but humbled, not enraged but determined, not scared but sure of heart. Listen to your Professors, do your homework, study your books, research in the Library."

Ron gripped the table so his hand wouldn't shake. Was the Headmaster calling them to war?

The man calmly adjusted his half-moon glasses. "The war will come for us again, run or hide. I will stand in front of it, for I choose to protect this castle and those that study inside it. I am grateful to know that Harry Potter will stand at my side."

He looked around at them all, his eyes lingering on the Slytherin table. "But you all must decide, without pressure or panic, where you will stand. I have seen war before. It is not a curtain of panic that sweeps over you. It is a knife that cuts down and divides us in two, so that friends become enemies, our most loved ones separated, not by distance but by fear and circumstance." Dumbledore's eyes ran down the table of Professors.

"So, Hogwarts, tables four, where will you stand?"

Silence. A long silence.

Fred and George would have broken it, Ron knew. Ron looked to Harry, but his smile was easy, comfortable, his hand at Hermione's back. He gave Ron a little nod, the confidence he needed.

Ron knew where he'd be, Dumbledore or not. He stood with Harry.

Ron stood suddenly, the only one. "I stand with Hogwarts."

For an awful moment, nobody joined him. And then, Neville, pudgy cheeks colored red. "I stand with Hogwarts."

Ernie. "I stand with Hogwarts."

Harry brought Hermione to her feet gently — she was still injured. She'd come into the Great Hall walking gingerly, leaning on Harry, hiding her red face as the hall erupted in applause.

"I stand with Hogwarts." She said firmly.

And then more, Susan, Hannah, Seamus, Chang…until they all stood, clapping and roaring. Even the Slytherins, clapping uncomfortably. Draco and his minions had sour faces, but they weren't foolish enough to stay seated.

Dumbledore smiled at the sight. He clapped his hands and the hall trembled with a thunderous boom.

The adrenaline of the sentiment lay in the hall uncomfortably.

"Does-does this mean we have no classes today?" Dean asked, to laughter.

"Unfortunately not, Mr Thomas," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Thank you all. I am glad that Hogwarts has produced another brave generation. Off to classes you go, now. I believe Professor McGonagall has homework she's expecting from you, Mr Thomas."

The hall tittered as he groaned. "I can't believe I was just called out by the Headmaster himself." Dean grinned round at the table as they all clambered out from their benches.

Ron swallowed his emotions as he watched Harry gently assist Hermione — possessive hand at her back, her lower back, her robes the same acromantula silk that Harry wore.

"You were so brave, Ron." Lavender batted her eyelashes. "I can't believe you went to rescue Hermione, that's so sweet."

He cleared his throat. "Y-yeah. I mean, it's mostly Harry, really. We just went to watch his back."

"Not true." Harry lied. "I couldn't have done it without Ron."

"I'm glad you did, Ron." Lavender said firmly, looking at the hourglasses. "We've got a big lead in the House Cup, too." She turned to Harry. "Doesn't it annoy you that you didn't get any points, Harry?"

Harry smiled gently. "No, it's okay. I already got my reward."

Hermione blushed, but she squeezed his hand and let Harry navigate her through the parting crowds and out of the Great Hall.

"So, you think they're fucking?" Lavender said conversationally.

Ron choked.

###

Harry whistled to himself as he strolled down Diagon Alley. The Dark Lord's panic had set in but not, it seemed, enough to extinguish the retail habits of the British public.

Still, though the throngs hadn't diminished, the Alley had. Ministry posters covered the windows, moving photos of Death Eaters sneering from each of the wanted posters — Bellatrix's smirk, Rookwood's glare. Newly erected shabby stalls sold Foe-Glasses and protective amulets.

Nobody had ever gone broke selling fear, Harry mused. And that was nowhere truer than the office he entered, the Daily Prophet's office, a tall stone building, original brick peeking out through the crumbling paint. The office had no sign — they didn't want to be found, evidently.

That was their only security, but Harry used his Invisibility Cloak regardless — he couldn't be bothered to play games with the receptionist. Up the stairs, reading the plaques on every office until he found the biggest. Rita Skeeter's.

Peter Greengrass had finally given him the green light to announce Lucius' death. Cho had said Rita would publish a dubious story in exchange for a real gold one, but he was going to give her something true instead — he wanted the whole country to know what happened to loyal Death Eaters.

It was time. Daphne's father had been working tirelessly to take over the Malfoy operations, fixing patchy relations with disgruntled suppliers and clients.

They'd lost some of both, of course, those that would deal with Lucius or nobody, but the Malfoy income was mainly intact.

Peter was worth his money in gold — a smooth operator who didn't mind getting his hands a little dirty. It made him feel a lot better about using one of his two House marriages.

Soon, he hoped, Daphne would make him feel way better about it, in her own special way.

He walked through Rita's door to see her standing at a large panoramic window, watching the Diagon Alley madness below her.

On her cluttered desk, a Quick-Quotes Quill worked away, slave to her narrating voice.

"…let's try this again." Rita hummed. "The nation's hero Harry has, we exclusively reveal, heroically rescued his steady girlfriend, the stunningly pretty Hermione Granger, from the clutches of the dastardly Death Eaters."

He put his Cloak away.

"I thought you called her plain, last time." Harry said, amused.

Rita jumped a foot. "H-Harry?! What a delight." She simpered, her elaborate curls bouncing with her. She readjusted her jeweled spectacles nervously. "I was just writing the truth, I-I don't think you or Miss Granger would have any trouble—"

"Relax, Rita." Harry slid into a chair by her desk. "I'm here to give you a story, something better than Hermione's safe return."

"A story?" She beamed. Her crimson nails tapped on the desk as she slid into her chair. "Why didn't you say so? And an interview, perhaps? Are you single?"

"Steady your horses, Rita." He gave her a tight smile. "This doesn't come from me, but you can ask around, mail his family, speak to his acquaintances. Lucius Malfoy is dead."

Her eyes went wide, greedy. She grabbed the green quill and sucked on it happily. Quill to parchment, Harry craned forward to watch the words it wrote:

Tearful but heroic Harry almost wells up as he reveals that Britain has lost the head of one of our most respected families, Lucius Malfoy.

Harry snorted. "Not quite right. How about…Heroic Harry slays corrupt and evil Lucius Malfoy, the Dark Lord's right hand man for decades."

Rita paused to study him, clawed fingers tapping on the desk, her penciled eyebrows rising. "Listen, Harry, I know which side my bread gets buttered on, if you get me." She gave him an oily smile. "But are you sure that's the story you want to go with?"

"I thought you of all people would want the biggest splash."

"Not when the splashback tarnishes the image of my biggest seller."

"You think I'd look bad?"

She chewed on her quill. "The people like you defending kids, like seeing you fight the Dark Lord. But seeing you kill the man who runs half the economy, who stood behind Fudge in every fundraiser, who owns half of this Alley?"

"Even if he's a Death Eater."

"Even if he's a Death Eater." Rita confirmed. "Trust me, darling, we want to keep you a hero. We love to make a hero a villain, but nobody wants a hero with just slightly dirty feet, y'know? I don't know a lot but I know hearts and minds, sweetheart. And, since he didn't die in public while twirling a villainous mustache, suddenly people will start asking if you were absolutely sure he was an evil Death Eater…"

Harry paused. Maybe she was right, much as he hated to let Lucius die a good man. The man had been an evil fuck, responsible for much of Voldemort's rise. But…if he wanted Cissy to be able to step out in public, if he wanted to bring her to events as his official Mistress, then it was better if she wasn't affiliated with a Death Eater.

The families of the Dark would hate it too, he imagined, if one of their biggest faces was revealed to be a mad supremacist.

Harry sighed. "How about…Lucius Malfoy, respected businessman, sadly slain by the Dark Lord. Lord Potter pays respects to family of House Malfoy and swears revenge for tragic loss. Add in the article that I expressed condolences to Lucius' poor widow and promised her House Potter's full support."

Rita rubbed her hands together, fingers arched away so as not to damage her long nails. "Oh, Harry," She smirked. "You and I, we're going to do beautiful things together."

###

Lord Voldemort read the pages of the Prophet with disgust, his smile sour as he read through the article on Lucius' death. Wormtail scrubbed some blood from the stones of his throne room while he read, and outside the door, he could hear that the manor was alive once more with the sound of training, wizards and witches sharpening their magic. He'd waited a very long time to hear that noise.

The sharp edges of the newspaper cut his finger suddenly, and he sucked the blood between his thin lips, enjoying the taste. Not as sweet as the blood of a foe, but it had a pleasant copper tang, all the same.

Once, he'd felt a thrill from the Prophet's power — the first time he rose, the first time he cast the Dark Mark, he'd framed the copy of the Prophet's paper the next morning. The moving picture of the Dark Mark shining through the dark clouds, underneath a headline that read: A DARK LORD RISES?

Once he'd learned to pull its strings, the Prophet mattered less and less, like a magic act revealed. There was no surprise. No victory to be had.

Until this. Obviously, the editor was not receiving his payments now Lucius was dead.

He sucked his finger until there was no more blood. The Prophet wouldn't hurt him for much longer. The truth was something the victor wrote, and victory was not achieved in ink, but in blood.

Blood that would coat the streets, streaming down Diagon Alley like a flooded river. Soon Harry Potter would be in the news again, hero no longer.

Underneath the main article, there was another, a triumphant piece on the mudblood's rescue. A picture of Harry and his mudblood whore and there was no mistaking the smug satisfaction in the boy's face. That he thought he'd won was almost amusing.

He'd given Harry his kindness, allowed him to choose between two falls of grace, and he'd chosen the greater fall…

How glorious it would be.

"Wormtail…" He said softly, watching the haggard man flinch at the sound of his name. Such weakness — a rat in every sense of the word.

"My Lord?" Wormtail's squeaky voice.

"Have you begun brewing the potion?"

"Y-Yes, my Lord. We were successful in attaining the hairs, as you planned — they did not notice me nor the ward you hid, most clever, my Lord, I never cease to be amazed by your—"

"Enough, Wormtail."

"S-sorry, My Lord. It is almost done. I have added the hairs of Potter and his sycophants, the mudblood too."

"Excellent." The Dark Lord said silkily, rubbing his wand. It hungered for blood. "We shall suffer the mindless worship of these fools for only a little longer, Wormtail. Allow them to bow down to their false idols for a few more days before we destroy their fantasies."

Wormtail said nothing, and then spoke quickly, like he was forcing up the courage. "My-my Lord, shouldn't Severus brew this potion? H-he is a Potions Master, after all."

Lord Voldemort stared at him until the weak man bowed his head. "I trust your skill, Wormtail. You may leave."

"T-thank you, my Lord." Wormtail scurried away, but he'd left the thought of Severus in the throne room, something he couldn't help but ruminate on.

Severus' loyalty wasn't something he questioned, generally. The man gave him news of Hogwarts, of Dumbledore. He'd helped Cartwright get a meeting with Dumbledore, which meant the man had managed to install the artifact that had so delayed the Hogwarts stuff from reaching Hogsmeade, even if Snape hadn't known of the attack itself.

Lord Voldemort never told him of what he didn't need to know — and Snape never visited Hogsmeade.

But Harry Potter had used a spell. Sectumsempra. A spell of Snape's own devising. A beautiful curse, dark and delightful, one that didn't just lacerate but hemorrhaged. It was a spell that Voldemort had admired since he'd seen the young man display it, the day he'd recruited him.

It was a spell that Snape wouldn't teach to any.

So how did Harry Potter know it?

The boy was powerful, knowledgeable, experienced. Lord Voldemort had been careless, not expecting such an opponent, an opponent who fought with understanding years beyond his age. There was something strange afoot — he had too much technique and might, regardless of the bonding ritual he'd chosen.

As he kept doing, Lord Voldemort checked his mind, his Occlumency — it held strong still. The old magic that the boy's mother had used could protect the boy, but it shouldn't have made him strong. Was Harry Potter's power something of Dumbledore's doing? Training? A ritual to impart knowledge? Or even of Snape's? The Potions professor had enduring affection for Lily Potter and was an admirable duelist of his own — could he have devised a potion to gift spells and techniques to the boy?

Or perhaps, as he'd often thought, was the secret to Potter's power revealed in the full prophecy, the part Severus didn't hear?

Questions, too many.

Soon the answers wouldn't matter. Harry Potter would fall — and best of all? He'd fall at the hands of those that so adored him. If they spoke of him again, they'd speak only of how he betrayed the faith they'd placed in him.

Lord Voldemort looked once more at the Daily Prophet. He almost couldn't wait to see the headline that day. Perhaps he'd even frame it.

###

Harry walked through the halls of Hogwarts, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The Room of Requirement offered targets for him to practice the spells he'd cast with a different hand, but it didn't give the same threat. Tom had cast these spells on wizards and witches fighting for their lives. Harry had to do with mannequins or foes the Room animated into being, given simple minds.

It wasn't the same but it helped him still. Tom's spells and memories seeped into his mind every day, so many that he had to practice daily, learning the wand movements over again, practicing the technique until the results of his spells were just as fearsome as they were in his memories.

Sometimes, he scared himself. But he had to practice — there'd be more fighting, soon. The election was coming along with Christmas — and Harry knew that Tom would be putting a bow on a big box of nightmares.

When he was done practicing, at least he had his pick of places to rest and get even more sweaty. He'd indulged himself in Hermione as much as he was able, but she'd begged off that night — apparently, there was only so much pounding her pussy could take.

While Harry was deciding between coating Hannah's tits or destroying Daphne's proud visage, he almost walked straight into Draco Malfoy.

The boy held his wand, but he was no threat. He glared through teary eyes, face pallid, eyes puffy.

Draco had been waiting for him.

"W-what did you do to my father, Potter?" The boy growled.

Harry considered him. He considered telling him the truth. That he'd cast an Egyptian blood-boiling curse so the evil fuck had died slowly, all while his wife rocked on Harry's cock, bouncing and grinding until Harry filled her with his cum. That Lucius had dribbled blood from his lips while Narcissa cleaned Harry's cock eagerly. That Narcissa had separated her husband's head from his body on learning of the daughter he'd stolen away, and now that same daughter cleaned Narcissa's cum from his cock lovingly.

But there was no need for it. Draco was not a threat, just a boy without his father. There was no victory to be had.

For a moment, Harry was disappointed. Malfoy's demise was like a magic act revealed. There was no surprise. No victory to be had.

He shook himself. "I'm sorry, Draco. I know what it's like to lose someone."

The blonde-haired boy shook, murder in his eyes. "You know nothing!"

Harry rested on Hogwart's wall. "I hope you see that this path, the path your father chose. It only leads to death."

"D-did you kill him?" Draco couldn't even meet his eyes.

"No." Harry said truthfully. Narcissa had ended him before Harry's curse could. "I swear it. Perhaps he angered the Dark Lord. But I also swear that if you take his mark, I will kill you."

Draco sniffled, wiping his nose angrily. "You know nothing of the path, Potter. The choices in front of us, the pressure, the politics. Only a pureblood could understand."

"I know more than you think." Harry sighed. Who could understand more than he? He saw how Tom recruited, how he dangled promises of returning the future to a beautiful past, a past of pureblood power and freedom, without laws, judgment or Muggleborns. He saw how once Tom got in his hooks in one member of a family, he used the threat of their life to entangle all the others.

Draco no longer had the pressure of Lucius, true. But as long as Draco stood to inherit the Malfoy money, the Dark Lord would never let him go. And Harry would never let him inherit.

The boy thought he had two choices, but both led nowhere. Harry would let him live, as long as he forsook the Dark Lord.

"I know the hardship of that choice," Harry continued. "And I know that it isn't a choice you make once. It's a choice you make everyday. Remember, though, that you aren't choosing for yourself. You're choosing for your mother too."

"This has nothing to do with my mother." Draco spat.

"Doesn't it? Voldie's war funds are a little low because Narcissa chooses not to give the Malfoy vaults to him. Haven't you noticed? The Prophet's not so friendly. Maybe Voldie has sent you a letter already? All that money, that estate, those deals made in blackmail and blood — the only way he gets it back is if she dies."

Harry crossed his arms casually. "Is that what you want?"

"I…don't you speak of my mother, Potter."

Harry shrugged. "As you wish. Just make sure you choose the right path, Draco. She's a very beautiful woman — I'd like to make sure she stays that way."

###

Daphne sighed as her head sank back into the pillow. Tracey's auburn hair tickled across her midriff as her friend kissed up her stomach, peeling Daphne's blouse up.

"Tracey…" Daphne bit her lip.

"What?" Tracey looked up at her wide innocent eyes. "You don't like this anymore? It's been ages. Don't you love me?"

"Of course, it's just…I mean." Daphne huffed. What could she say? Tracey's touch did feel good…just not as good as Harry's. Not as good as the shame that boiled her brain, even as her arousal pooled her panties.

"It feels like you like it." Tracey teased, tracing over Daphne's hard nipples. Her other hand dipped under the waistband of Daphne's skirt.

"No panties, Daphne?" Tracey tutted. "I knew you've been waiting for me."

"It's not like that, wait—" Daphne took a sharp breath as Tracey captured her nipple between her lips and simultaneously inserted a finger into her wet folds.

"So wet." Tracey gasped. "You're soaked. I don't remember you being like this before."

"Tracey, wait, let me tell you—" Daphne bit her lip as her friend inserted another finger.

Tracey tossed back her deep reddish-brown hair. "I should have known you were just playing hard to get all this time." She pulled her fingers out and licked them. "Mmm, I just have to get a taste from the source."

"No, wait, Trace!"

But the girl had already yanked her panties down, her eyes widening in shock.

"What the fuck is that?"

Daphne clamped her thighs together, wriggling away from her friend. "It's nothing, it's just for me—"

Tracey grabbed her wrist, scowling. "It's him, isn't it?"

She could say nothing in response, feeling her face burn red, wishing she could disappear. All her humiliation laid bare — the emerald-jeweled buttplug peeking out from her asshole.

Daphne stared at her side table, unable to meet her friend's eyes.

Tracey laughed bitterly. "Why, Daph? Why do you let him do this to you?"

This time, the shame brought indignation. Righteous anger. "I have to. I'm making a choice to save my family. You've seen his power, you can't deny it anymore."

Tracey scoffed. The bed shifted as she left it, her fists clenched in anger. "Yeah, you have to let him shove a plug up your asshole, it's either that or Voldemort." She spat sarcastically. "And I thought I was the problem, that's why you weren't sleeping with me. But no, it's because you were hiding the fact you've branded yourself as his whore. No wonder he's strutting around like the prize peacock."

Daphne scowled, as best as she could with her panties around her knees, hiding her core with her hand. "I'm not his whore, I'm just playing the game. Harry Potter has his vices. I have my sister to worry about, the Death Eater children are eying me up, my Mother is scared—"

Tracey ran a hand through her own. "Are you serious? Who even are you anymore? Harry Potter is just another dick who wants your ass, whatever it takes, and then he'll throw you away. They used to call you the Ice Queen for not caring about stupid boys. Where is that girl? Where is the girl that made me read books about the patriarchy? Where is the girl that said we'd resist arranged marriages together, that swore we'd be old spinsters with cats, that we'd kill any man that tried to separate us? Huh?"

Tracey scoffed again, glancing at the gleaming gem in her behind. "I'm embarrassed for you."

Daphne snatched the sheets to cover herself, her vision tunneling in rage. "She grew up, Tracey! We're not kids playing around anymore. And unlike you, I have a family to worry about—"

"Oh, fuck you." Tracey snapped. "Just fuck you, okay?" She turned on her heel and stormed out of the bed curtains. Daphne heard the bedroom door slam — it shook the room itself.

Daphne tried to cycle her heavy breaths. She angrily wiped away two tears, blinking rapidly. What did Tracey know? She didn't have Astoria to worry about. She didn't have the irremovable image of Death Eaters holding her family hostage? She didn't have Death Eaters testing their home's wards.

Harry demanded a heavy price, yes, but he offered salvation and safety. He'd saved her sister. He'd saved her parents.

"How would she deal with him?" She muttered angrily.

Tracey didn't have Harry's constant pressure, his massive angry cock demanding relief…Daphne paused. Tracey didn't have Harry, that was the core of it. Lord Potter sought the most beautiful girl in Hogwarts.

Yes, Daphne thought, pursing her lips. Tracey was probably jealous. Daphne had besmirched herself, yes, traded away some of her dignity.

But Lord Potter didn't even notice Tracey.

Besides, she reasoned, she hadn't given away her whole self, her virginity. That was why that infuriating plug was shoved into her bottom — because she'd given him that, to avoid giving all of herself. Tracey couldn't possibly understand.

With, she thought, a great deal of magnanimity, she allowed herself to admit that she could have been stronger with Harry. Allowed him fewer liberties, hidden her desperate desire to protect her family. She'd be stronger, she resolved, more resistant to his potent magic and that delicious cocktail of shame, humiliation and arousal.

Daphne bit her lip. Her panties were down around her legs. The smell of her wet pussy was strong in the air. She lay on her back.

It was a position she'd become very familiar with in the last few weeks. The sheer pleasure of the sensations back there, the pressure it added toward her vagina, the way she could contract and clench to feel a sudden burst of pleasure, a bolt that she swore went straight to her core. The jolt whenever she walked, the deep fullness when she sat down, the wriggle of the toy when she squirmed her thighs.

The shameful joy at having a secret. She, the Ice Queen, she who received jealous gazes from the girls, respectful looks from the boys turning into leers as soon as she passed. It was an incredible turn-on that if her short skirt flipped up, caught by a charm or a breeze of wind, or if she fell forward, her slutty shame would be revealed.

Instantly — because she couldn't wear panties, not only because they were immediately soaked, but because their tight fabric hugged the plug and only made the sensations worse.

The emerald shade of the plug would mean that they'd all know she was Harry's, just like Tracey had, for it was the same shade as his eyes. She imagined herself fallen on Hogwart's stairwell, deceived by a classic Hogwarts disappearing-step. She'd be stuck, skirt flipped over her famed ass, the ass she was so secretly proud of, the 'ass she shouldn't be able to have with her frame', so said the jealous girls who pondered its authenticity.

All the boys and girls would point at her plugged asshole and her treacherous glistening pussy, and know what Tracey now knew, that she was not a frigid Ice Queen but Harry's Slytherin ass slut. Her family's reputation would never recover. Astoria wouldn't talk to her. Mother would cry. Father would disown her.

Daphne shivered. She needed to be stronger with Harry, more of her old frigid self. But, she reasoned as she reached between splayed thighs, she first needed to build up a resistance to the pleasure. She'd debase herself here so she could be stronger out there.

She used one foot to nudge her panties off her ankles, the tinge of guilt exciting her.

She started the familiar rhythm. One hand with two knuckles deep in her hot wet pussy, rubbing out the wet squelches that so delighted her, the ones that made her cast a Silencing Charm between her thighs every time she left the bedroom. And the other hand under her legs, under her ass, gripping her jewel. Working it in and out, the sensation that had warped her mind — the sensation of feeling the plug with her pussy's questing fingers, through the thin skin separating them, and, with each push and pull of her plug, feeling her pussy tighten around her fingers, a thousand nerves lighting up.

It was a double-edged sword, a feedback loop that Daphne knew would bring a mind-melting orgasm. One that Tracey couldn't replicate.

She closed her eyes and instead of the plug in her ass, she imagined the long deep hot rod of Harry, impaling her while she frigged herself. She squirmed on the bed, mind lost in a dozen scenarios.

"That's it," He'd say. "Rub my cock through the wet walls of your cunt while I fuck your tight little ass."

Daphne worked her fingers faster, her hand coated in her juices as she writhed on the sheets.

"My anal Princess," He'd laugh as he filled her ass completely, bottoming out in her tiny little hole. "What would your mother say?"

Daphne gasped in her empty bedroom, her slick squishing rhythm gaining pace. And to herself, she spoke an answer out loud to the fantasy in her mind. "She'd say that she's so ashamed of her anal princess, that she's such a slut. It's true," She whimpered. "I love it back there. I love it, I love it, I loooooove it." She chanted, crying out as she came.

The bed shook. She felt her thighs and legs covered with her sprayed juices, and in her fantasy, Daphne was covered with Harry's seed as he filled her ass and pulled out of her ruined hole to coat her groin and thighs, just like he had on their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express.

Daphne cycled heavy breaths, enjoying the comedown. She exhaled away a sweaty lock from her face. She let out a sharp laugh at her own antics, wriggling into the warmth of her sheets. Her fingers slowed and then stopped.

She shuddered at the wet pop as she extricated her fingers. Without opening her eyes, she sucked them clean, because Harry made her, in her fantasy. They even tasted like his cum.

Finally, she sighed in lazy pleasure. That was glorious — now it was time to be the Daphne she should be, rather than the Daphne she was.

She opened her eyes.

And shrieked.

"That was the hottest thing I've ever seen." Harry Potter was in her bedroom — naked. Invisibility Cloak half-covering his bag, his huge cock in hand — and having expelled an enormous cum load across her sheets and thighs, a thick glaze that coated her skin and hands. The load she'd thought fantasy was real.

Daphne searched for words and found none, her mouth stuttering uselessly.

"I haven't taken myself in hand for a long time," Harry smirked, wiping his hand and cock clean with her panties. "But wow, that blew my mind. I didn't know you loved it in the ass so much."

"Get out." She said quietly, because she couldn't summon any anger, not when she was so exposed, so covered.

"I'm gone." Harry smiled, swiping up his cloak to make half of himself invisible. "Or am I?"

He disappeared. The door opened. His disembodied voice spoke.

"Maybe next time you're enjoying yourself, I'll be there. Tracey was right. I'm another dick who wants your ass, whatever it takes. But I'm never throwing you away, Daphne."

The door closed. Daphne shivered. Was he gone? She cast a few spells. Nothing.

She groaned in dismay, smacking her mattress with both hands.

She looked down at her cum-covered body, taking in a deep breath of his magic, the scent and feeling of pure power. Her hands were coated in his cum. Her thighs were covered in a complete white glaze, not an inch of skin visible.

"Fuck me." She muttered.

"Well, if you insist…" His voice replied.

She screamed.