Chapter 45

Main Content

Archive of Our Own betaArchive of Our Own Log In Site NavigationFandoms Browse Search About Search Works

Work Search: tip: lex m/m (mature OR explicit)

Actions

Entire Work ← Previous Chapter Next Chapter → Chapter Index Comments Share Download

Work Header

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories:

F/FF/MMulti

Fandom:

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Relationships:

Hermione Granger/Harry PotterFleur Delacour/Harry PotterNarcissa Black Malfoy/Harry PotterDaphne Greengrass/Harry Potter

Characters:

Harry PotterHermione GrangerNarcissa Black MalfoyFleur DelacourDaphne Greengrass

Additional Tags:

HaremsDubious Consent

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2022-07-15Updated:2023-12-29Words:474,188Chapters:67/?Comments:1,033Kudos:3,533Bookmarks:897Hits:558,057

Two Minds, One Wand

RobWilsonWriting

Chapter 45

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Harry limped into the Leaky Cauldron room, bloodied and scowling. To her credit, she'd prepared. Daphne stood in intricate emerald lingerie, the lace stunning against her pale skin. High black stockings attached to a embroidered suspender belt, accented with baby pink ribbons and adjustable straps. Embroidered hearts in light tulle netting, from her panties to her bra.

Behind her, Tracey, roped to a wooden chair and gagged, her eyes wide with fear, skin coated in a sweaty sheen.

Harry didn't think it would come to this, didn't think it would happen like this, but now he was here.

And someone had to pay.

###

Five hours earlier

It couldn't be delayed anymore. The Ministry could not limp on without a Minister. Before the Christmas break, it was election day.

Dumbledore had cancelled all the classes. Purebloods needed to be with their Houses, on the final day of endorsements, deal-making and negotiations.

It was an important day for Harry, too. He had to ensure the Ministry did not fall like it threatened to, because a country without even a semblance of democracy was one that Voldemort would quickly take over.

That was why he was overlooking Diagon Alley as the election day pomp began in earnest. On the second floor of Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions, her sister had set up a tearoom which was popular with the pureblood nobles who weren't keen to mix with the Leaky Cauldron lot.

The tearoom was intimate, small chairs at small circular tables, but that intimacy was lost in the busy room. Harry had to shake Lord Diggory's hand before he could sit down. ("Thank you for defending the honor of my son." Amos said, the glasses on his nose wobbling. "Disgraceful articles.")

Harry felt mildly guilty. He performed a few more social necessities before he took his place at the table, one of the few by the window, with Narcissa.

She fingered her choker and pushed closer the plates on the table — the tearoom served silly dainty things, oranges peeled into equal-shaped slices, sandwiches dissected into cubes, cucumber wedges. "All go smoothly?"

He leaned forward. "Lord Selywn is a bit of a lad, isn't he? He told me he hoped I'd enjoyed breaking you in."

Narcissa reddened. "He's always been that way. I felt his eyes on my bottom as soon as I entered."

"You are wearing that tight little dress."

"You told me to!"

"Quite right." He said with some satisfaction.

She blew him a kiss. "Settle down, you. This is going to be long."

Harry sighed, looking out the window at the crowds below. "So it is."

The election candidates had been decided late, because there weren't many who wanted the poisoned chalice. Dumbledore had nominated and endorsed Kingsley Shacklebolt, a tall black Auror that Harry met only to shake his hand.

The man was one of Dumbledore's, presumably, part of his mysterious group of allies. Kingsley had a good reputation and a deep, reassuring voice, but he had his work cut out for him.

He was running against his boss, head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, a man with shoulder-length tawny hair, an old lion of a man with wrinkles and gray in his hair.

The competing candidates stood in the loud baying throngs of Diagon Alley, making their final speeches in front of their cheering supporters. Shacklebolt was looking deliberately modest with a small wooden podium, while Scrimgeour stood behind a gargoyle monstrosity.

Their supporters flew flags and held signs, while the youngest shot confetti from their wands or lit fireworks bought from the Weasleys.

Harry read the signs as he sipped on his peppermint tea.

RUFUS THE RELIABLE. SCRIMGEOUR FOR SAFETY. BRITAIN NEEDS ITS LION.

Harry grimaced — Shacklebolt was looking unlikely to win. The optics weren't good — his own boss was running against him and Scrimgeour was known in the public eye as a tough Auror.

"You think I should have endorsed Kingsley like Dumbledore asked?" He asked idly.

"You know you couldn't." Cissy said softly, feet slipping out of her heels and rubbing against his own. "Dumbledore made that impossible for you, even if you did want to put a target on Shacklebolt's head."

Harry sighed again. That was true enough — when Dumbledore put Kingsley forward, it meant Harry couldn't endorse him without looking like Dumbledore's protege pawn. That wouldn't do, not when the pureblood conservatives were already concerned about having lost their bastion Malfoy family to the 'light'.

Harry had to hold the middle line, so instead of being down there, on stage with Shacklebolt like Dumbledore was, he was up here, sipping tea.

Scrimgeour's voice was raspy but loud. "…strong and stable leadership. That is what my Aurors have known me for, and that is what I'll bring. In these dangerous times, we need strong enforcement, a stable economy, more freedom to fight back against the threat of the Dark Lord. And most of all, strong and stable leadership from those you elect. Ladies and gentlemen, our democracy is under grave threat. Let us work together to save it!" He banged the podium, his face momentarily lit up by the launch of fireworks and smoke.

"How many times did he say strong and stable?" Harry snorted. Far below, he could see Rita Skeeter just off-stage, her green Quick-Quotes Quill working furiously on her parchment, while she sucked on the tip of another. The devil worked hard, but Rita Skeeter worked harder.

"He's more a politician than Shacklebolt is, that's for sure." Narcissa observed. "At least the turn out is good."

Harry agreed. The Alley was full of people. He was glad to see it — Harry had said in his interviews with Skeeter that Voldemort had attempted to make the public fear and doubt the virtues of democracy, by killing Amelia. By turning up in numbers, the British public had rejected those fears.

He scanned the crowds. Such a show of unity wouldn't go down well with Voldemort, and he couldn't imagine the Dark Lord would be content with either of the candidates with Auror backgrounds.

"He could be here." Harry muttered.

All Voldemort needed to do was create some chaos — all it took was fear and doubt to make people join him.

"There's so much security." Narcissa argued.

There was a lot — Aurors gated off both sides of the Alley. They'd fenced off the side streets completely with heavy duty barriers. The Alley was teeming with their signature brown trench coats.

Many were even dotted around in the the crowds, Vanishing away the flares and shoving away the more belligerent activists.

The whole street was layered with anti-Apparition wards and Portkey wards. Harry was under no doubt that the Floo fireplaces in the Alley were being restricted too. Everyone in the Alley today had either come through the Leaky Cauldron or through the paid Floo in Gringotts.

But Harry still felt uneasy. There was so much chaos in the crowd and people were packed in tightly, figures hazy under the smoke from the fireworks. An Auror summoned away a man's flare just as he lit it, the green trail of flame streaming across the Alley.

Harry's stomach clenched as he saw a dark-robed figure lift his wand to the sky, screaming. But all that left his wand was rainbow-colored confetti.

He exhaled a long breath and checked the satchel on his shoulder for the fifth time that day. It held his Invisibility Cloak and some Pepper-Up potions, just in case things kicked off.

"Hey," Narcissa reached over to take his hand, her smile sympathetic. "We're okay. Dumbledore's down there with five dozen Aurors. The Dark Lord is a bully at his core — he'll only strike the easy targets."

He squeezed her hand. "You're right." He looked back down at the Alley, at the brown trenchcoats. "That is a lot of Aurors."

"See?" Narcissa's foot roamed up his leg, her long legs clad in shiny stockings, with bows on her garters. "Why don't you let me relax you?"

Harry wasn't listening. "I…I don't know if we've ever had that many Aurors, have we?" He frowned. "I know Amelia was saying she'd up the budget, but she didn't get the chance, and they'd still need training…"

He focused on the brown trenchcoats in the crowds, yelling instructions and dispersing the confetti and smoke. There was nothing amiss.

The crowds were a mass of color. Wizards and witches wore bright on the best of days, but on election day, it was chaotic — faces painted yellow for the lion Scrimgeour, signs shimmering with magical red paint, confetti streaming from the sky.

Harry stared closer with his Seeker eyes. Nobody was falling in the crowd, faces exuberant. But for a second, there were little glows. Green flashes, like discolored camera flashes.

Harry frowned, his skin growing cold. Nobody was falling, because the crowds were too packed together. Nobody screamed, because nobody noticed.

The green flashes spread.

He climbed to his feet, chair scratching on the floor.

"Harry?" Narcissa exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

He pointed a finger, the hair on the back of his neck rising, but he couldn't vocalize it. A spiderweb of green flashes, tinges of color on the smoke and confetti, a silent stroke of a brush amid the laughter and the chanting.

Harry could do nothing — but maybe Dumbledore could. With a mutter, his Patronus stag launched out of the window and careered down to the stage, bucking and snorting.

Far below, Dumbledore's eyes lost their twinkle at the sight of Harry's Patronus. With a raise of the Headmaster's wand, there was a spark of thunder.

In the crowd, the trenchcoats slipped off, pooled on the ground. Another wand raised to the heavens, but instead of confetti, rose a smoke of skull and serpent. A loud piercing scream — the crowd realized something was wrong.

And as they split to the sides, Harry could finally see. Everyone could see the bodies that now had the space to fall. The bodies hit the floor in unison, a synchronized thump, like a spell had cut through a puppeteer's strings.

The Death Eaters were in the crowd, being carried away by the screaming throngs, but they weren't robed or masked. The real Aurors leapt forward from the sides, pushing through the panic, but there was nothing to fight against. The enemy wore no mask, mixing in with civilians, hidden in plain sight.

"Fuck." Harry growled. With a wave of his wand, the windows of the tearoom blew away, the cold winter chill bursting through, a sharp wakeup to the watching nobles. "I'm going in. Get the girls here, I need the power."

"Wait, Harry—" That was all Narcissa got out before he launched himself out of the window. A Feather-Light Charm was all he needed to stop himself crunching to the stones below, but once down there, he was lost.

Screams and tears, people tripping on the fallen bodies, the public trying to push through the Aurors that fenced them in. But the Aurors didn't want to free the Death Eaters hiding within, so their line held strong.

Up on stage, Shacklebolt and Scrimgeour were yelling down instruction, while Dumbledore silently studied the Alley.

Harry snarled, adrenaline flooding his body, his magic vibrating through his arm. But he had no one to unleash it on. His satchel held his Invisibility Cloak, but the enemy were cloaked in plain clothes.

He scanned the crowd desperately — even for these tactics, this cowardly hit-and-hide, there would be a senior Death Eater here, someone recognizable.

There.

Carrow. Amycus Carrow, his doughy pig-like face immediately recognizable, his tiny eyes amused in a crowd of fear. A squat figure, he was hiding between larger foes.

But as Harry saw him, he saw Harry. A frisson of fear showed on his face.

That's right, fucker. Nowhere to run.

But run Carrow did, blasting through an Auror with a slash of his wand. Carrow exploded through the window of Flourish and Blotts with a strange spell — it looked like he'd activated some self-inscribed runes on his body, for he moved with unnatural haste.

The shop window burst into a cloud of paper and pulp, a literary explosion to cover the Death Eater's tracks. Harry followed — he was going to give the man much more than a paper cut.

He swung his wand in a horizontal curve, air-blasting away Aurors and civilians alike. He didn't have time for crowds. Carrow was getting away.

Into the shop, feet sliding on paper, he caught the man's feet going up the stairwell.

"Nowhere to run." Harry sang. He knew the second floor of the bookshop well — Hermione had dragged him round it more than once.

But as he took the first step onto the wooden stairs, his stomach curdled. Blood rushed to his face, his vision swimming. Harry blinked once and then again. Realized he was pressed against the gleaming varnish of the beech wood steps.

What was happening to him?

Pain lanced through from fingers to toes, his stomach constricting like he was being strangled by a boa constrictor. Time moved in strange motions, his call for help extended, so a single shout become a sixty second syllable.

"W-what's happening?" He breathed, sweaty.

He coughed and then stared at his hands, horrified, for they shone with blood splatter, the scarlet red dripping into a pattern of a lightning bolt. The blood pattern on his hands changed again, from a lightning bolt to a hand with the middle finger extended.

With great effort, he looked up at the stairs above, but his neck wouldn't comply.

A clomp of boots on the wooden steps.

One step.

Five.

The blurry sight of a boot. Gleaming red dragonhide boots, the height of luxury.

Harry groaned. Dragon boots for the little dragon.

Draco Malfoy crouched in front of him, his wand circling to direct the blood on Harry's hands. The hand that give him the finger changed to a smiley face.

"Look, Potter." Draco smirked. "You've got a Rorschach's blot in Flourish and Blotts. Tell me what you see? Your demise?"

Harry could taste the blood pouring from his nose. Bitter.

"H-how?" He muttered. In his head, he couldn't find the girls, couldn't find their bonds. The pain clouded all.

"Did you enjoy the Christmas market, 'Arry?" He mocked. "You have to be careful of those food stalls — I think they don't cook their meat properly."

"Guh." Harry moaned intelligently.

Malfoy gripped his chin tightly, forcing him to stare into his eyes. "Bratwurst, Harry. That was what it took. The mighty Lord Potter, undone by the German sausage." He patted his hair. "My grandfather always said, you can never trust the Germans."

Harry's fingers dug into the wood, nails scraping splinters. He didn't understand.

Draco sighed with contentment. "It is so glorious to find a good partner. I've never thought much of Ancient Runes, because I thought to myself, Draco, what can you do with a rune that you can't do with a potion?"

The Malfoy boy sat on the steps above. He jerked his foot out, his boot smashing into Harry's nose with a sickening crack. "But Tracey, she's a Runes girl all the way. My potions and her runes?" Draco whistled. "Who needs to win a duel?"

Harry moaned, trying to force his muscles to contract, to do anything. He could only dribble red foam from his lips. His mind raced, trying to find a way out. Tracey would have inscribed a time delay rune, with the ability to activate with a synchronized nearby rune, which meant that either she was near or Draco was holding the other rune.

But what potion would Malfoy have used? Something deadly.

"Aww." Draco patted his cheek. "I can see the cogs turning. Merry Christmas, Harry. Who'd have thought? A Christmas market — the only food the elves don't check, the only time you let your guard down. The Draught of Living Death, but if you make it a little wrong, it makes you sleep forever."

"H-how?" Harry murmured listlessly.

"I just told you how, moron." Draco scowled.

Harry groaned raspily. "H-how," The Malfoy boy leaned closer to hear his pained whispers. "How does a moron like you know about the Rorschach blot?" He bit out.

Draco chuckled. "Oh, Harry. You play the game well, pretending to be one of us, but deep down, you still think purebloods are all fools." They both stilled as they heard a loud explosion outside. "Uh, oh, Potter. There's a fairytale fight but there's no hero. Tut-tut."

Harry arched his body and flopped again, writhing like a worm. His heart was pounding so fast he thought it might explode.

"You took it all from me, Harry." Draco said quietly, his thumb digging into Harry's gurning mouth, nails digging into the inside of his cheek. "I'm going to return the favor. Granger will need a new House. Don't worry, I'll let her earn redemption."

Harry fumed at the arrogant smirk on his face, but he could only gurgle, a fish on the hook as Draco wrenched his head left and right.

"I'll restore the name of Malfoy, Lord of my manor, once I'm rid of my whore mother." The blonde boy promised. "At the Dark Lord's side, just like my father, I'll take every girl you ever glanced at. That French whore, your Huffleslut, your mudblood."

Draco shivered, eyes closed to savor his triumph.

"Sleep well, Harry Potter." He murmured. "Thank you for making me grow up."

He reached into Harry's satchel and withdrew his Invisibility Cloak. Draco admired it for a second and then draped it over Harry's form. "They'll never find you in time. Tick-tock." He whispered.

And then he was gone.

Harry was alone. He moaned, but though he could hear the world outside, the sounds of fighting and screaming, he could not muscle up the energy to do anything but whimper.

His nerves burned, like his insides swam with acid. He retreated inside his head, but he couldn't bring up his magic, his bonds. All he could feel was the presence he tried to bury away, his split apart self, the Harry who walked the streets over a decade ago,

Not like this. Not like this, the death he feared most. Alone, a failure, his only company the steady patter of dripping blood onto the wooden steps.

An ignominious death.

###

Daphne had a busy day. Father would be holed up at Gringotts, trying to make both candidates bend over backwards to receive the support of the Greengrass estate. The social network would be at the tearoom in the Alley, but the money-minded needed to be at Gringotts, because the goblins needed to be watched.

The goblins couldn't vote but that didn't mean they had no say. Gringotts would issue a state of the economy in the morning of the election day, an official pronouncement of who would be a better steward of the country's finances.

The British public didn't trust the goblins, but they trusted the goblins to grow their own coffers. And, as the old saying went, what's good for the goblin is good for the gentry.

Mother was taking her, Astoria and Tracey to the tearoom, meanwhile.

"It's not about being there." Mother had said in response to her protests. "It's about what happens if you're not there. If Scrimgeour wins, we need to congratulate him early, make it look like we've supported him all along."

Daphne reluctantly conceded, especially when Mother brought out a new bag for her to wear, a handbag of silver and blue.

"Is this?" Daphne stuttered. "But they haven't made these for years—"

"Vintage Swedish Short-Snout, before they banned it." Mother confirmed, kissing her cheek. "A little gift."

"I didn't get a gift." Astoria scowled, crossing her arms.

"It was time." Mother told them fondly. "I've been saving this for a long, long time."

"Thank you, Mother." Daphne said, thrilled, posing with it in front of the mirror.

"It suits you." Tracey said, although she was barely looking. Daphne frowned — it wasn't often that Tracey was jealous, but it was an expensive bag, she supposed.

"Let's go already." Astoria tapped her heels. "I want to go shopping for something you can buy your favorite daughter, Mother."

Mother snorted. "The Alley will be too full for any shopping, sweetest."

That turned out to be true — the tearoom was a welcome respite from the growing crowds, who were gathering in numbers despite the cold. Soon, Daphne was sipping on a steaming cup of Earl Grey, elbowing Tori every time they spotted a badly dressed noble.

"Lots of Uncles with their nieces, today." Mother said snidely.

"Or Aunties with their nephews." Daphne interjected as Harry Potter made a scene as he entered with Narcissa Malfoy.

"Daphne!" Mother chided. "Behave."

Daphne colored, watching Harry with a red face. Just seeing him was a reminder of how he tormented her — she couldn't get a moment's privacy without fearing he'd pop up out of his Invisibility Cloak. She felt like she was going mad, unable to think of little else than his huge cock and his unassailable dominance. The emerald plug in her behind, the constant reminder that even though she was unwed and pure, she was still carrying a sign of his conquest.

She squirmed her thighs as he came over, kissing each of their hands.

"It's so good to see you, Harry." Mother sighed happily. "Isn't it, Daphne?"

"Uh, yes, Mother."

To her side, Tracey had her fists clenched on her lap. Daphne hoped the girl hadn't rekindled her fury at Harry — there was no fighting Potter. Daphne had learned that the hard way.

"Enjoy the day, ladies." Harry smiled and departed.

"He's very handsome, isn't he?" Mother watched him leave closely.

Tori and Daphne broke into giggles.

"What?" Mother defended. "I'm just saying."

Minutes later, nobody was laughing. Daphne felt fear constrict her throat when the screams began. The cold chill of the outside air streaming through the windows Harry swept away, a chill that reached her heart when he jumped into the fray.

She ran to the windows that weren't, staring down at him as he was enveloped in the crowds, her heart in her throat. "Harry!"

"Daphne!" Mother snapped. "Get away from there!"

But she had to watch as he disappeared under the cloud of smoke, his aura flaring up so hard that she shivered in memory.

It took Tracey pulling her arm roughly to drag her away. Away to the furthest wall, the nobles hiding from stray spell-fire, their wands at the ready.

"We'll be safe here." Lord Selywn said, dabbing at his plump face with a handkerchief. "We'll wait for the Aurors to clean up this disorder."

It's not disorder, you fool. Daphne wanted to bark. It was Death Eaters, come to wreak havoc. And as usual, Harry was there to stop it.

She bit her lip, remembering how he'd killed the Death Eater testing her family wards. Despite all of his faults, Harry was a wizard of old, a man that led.

"He'll be okay, Daph." Astoria said gently, a hand on her arm.

"Who cares how he is?" Tracey snapped. "If he wants to run in and get himself killed, that's his business."

"Don't say that!" Tori cried. "It's insensitive. She's right here."

"Daphne doesn't care about him."

"She does too!"

"Well, she won't, not for much longer." Tracey said darkly.

The tone of her voice rankled. Daphne turned to take her in. The hair standing on the back of her neck, the tapping of her foot, the twitch of her fidgeting fingers.

Daphne knew Tracey inside and out.

"Tracey," she said quietly, "what did you do?"

"Nothing!" The auburn-haired girl didn't meet her eyes.

Daphne burned, her magic heating her into anger. "Again?" She muttered. Tracey moved against Harry, and Daphne had to sacrifice herself to protect her friend. Last time, Harry had settled for fucking her throat and coating her face.

But this time, if Tracey had really upped the ante? Daphne would have to pull out all the stops to stop Harry from killing her.

"I'm so fucking tired." She growled, pulling out her wand.

Tracey held her hands out warily. "Daph, I didn't do anything—"

"I'm so tired of being the one who has to think about everything. To get our family protected, to get new wards, to make alliances, to protect your sorry skin." Daphne snapped. "You know all the things I have to do, to ensure you get to swan around Hogwarts? Did you think Harry wasn't angry when you set Malfoy and his goons on him?"

Tracey glared. "I'm doing this for us, haven't you forgotten—"

"For Merlin's sake, Tracey." Daphne's wand glowed. "There is no us! I'm the first daughter of Greengrass. In what world could we ever be us?!"

Tracey swallowed. "You promised—"

"Tell me what you did."

Her jaw clenched. "He had it coming—"

She shoved her wand against her friend's throat. "Tell me."

Tracey trembled. "Tori said that your parents made a betrothal agreement for you, one you didn't even know about. Potter was trying to trap you so I'm saving you, don't you see—"

Daphne turned to her mother, who only nodded mutely.

She took it all in slowly, the blood cold in her veins. Harry had chosen her and done it in the way he did everything — without asking her, taking and taking. But he'd been true to his word, wedding her, taking care of her family, like he always had. She felt a flush of arousal in her core, a lightness in her head.

She was angry at his presumption, ashamed of her arousal and submission to his demands, swooning at his control, at the truth behind his words. He was a pureblood wizard in every way, arrogant and dominant, but he'd chosen her, without even giving her a choice.

Not Bones. Not Chang. Her.

She could be everything from enraged to aroused, but this was her new reality. She was his. He'd forged a road which the Greengrasses could not turn back on, and neither could she.

And if she was his, then he was hers. And Tracey dared to threaten that.

"Where is he?" She said slowly, her wand jabbing into the girl's skin.

"You can't be serious," Tracey gasped. "You'll really let him—"

She slapped the girl, a loud clap ringing through the tearoom. Tracey held her hand against the red handprint that formed on her cheek, her eyes tearing up, her mouth agape in disbelief.

Daphne had no time for her. She had to find Harry before it was too late. If her future husband could jump into danger, then so could she.

She took off at a sprint, ignoring the shouts of her family behind her. The cold wind whipped through her expensive dress as she landed heavily on the stone streets, even with her Cushioning Charm, her bare leg showing as the wind swept through the long slit in her dress.

There was no care for propriety. Not now. On the elevated stage, the lion gargoyle of Scrimgeour's podium roared to life under Dumbledore's wand, as the Headmaster calmly fought back against a dozen Death Eaters in plain clothes.

Daphne's eyes sought Harry, but she couldn't see even a glimpse. Too many people in the crowd, pushing and screaming, a riot breaking out of the Auror-formed pens.

A stray red spell split the air, but it splashed harmlessly off her new dragonhide bag. Vintage was expensive for a reason.

She thought quickly. The tracking spell, Appare Vestigium, would show recent magical activity and magical footprints, but that would only show a zoo of stampeding wizards right now.

If only she had something of Harry's.

She took a single step — and that familiar twitch of nerves in her behind reminded her that she did. The last time he'd cloaked in her bedroom, he'd left a surprise for her.

A surprise that didn't reveal itself until Potions class, sitting on her chair while Snape spoke. The plug in her ass began to vibrate, a spark of electrifying pleasure that had her creaming on the seat. Daphne remembered the indignation — she'd had to use her own robes to wipe the seat clean at the end of class.

If Harry had inscribed a rune on her plug so he could control it, then he held the synchronizing rune. A thread of his magic, a signature.

Daphne grimaced. There was nothing for it — she shoved her wand up the slit in her dress, poked it under her panties, and muttered. "Appare Vestigium."

A cloud of gold dust shot from below her dress and swirled around in perfect circles. It dissipated into the cobbles, but not before it illuminated golden footprints.

"Yes!" She had to duck under a Blasting Curse and return one of her own, but eventually she pushed through into the debris of Flourish and Blotts.

The footsteps led to the stairs and ended there, but Daphne was acutely aware of Harry's Invisibility Cloak. It was the bane of her life.

She whipped it away.

"Harry!" She trembled. He looked deathly pale, his mouth smeared with foaming blood, his eyes bulging with madness. Blood trailed from his ears and nostrils.

For a long moment, she thought she was too late, his eyes unseeing. But his chest wracked, his body contorting.

"W-what can I do?" Daphne cried, her wand out as she tried to diagnose him. "What did they do?"

But his gaze was locked on her shoulder. "B-aah—" He mumbled.

"Bah? Bandage? You want a bandage!"

"Baaag." He choked out rasping breaths, fingers twitching.

"Bag?" Daphne grabbed her silver and blue bag. "I don't have anything, there's nothing in it…" She trailed off. Inside the bag, a potion vial of sparkling green. A Wiggenweld Potion.

"B-but how?" Daphne shook herself. It didn't matter. She grabbed the vial and emptied it down his throat.

Slowly, the color returned to his face.

While he recovered, she spoke. "I-I didn't know, I swear." She clutched his hands. "Tracey, she's crazy, I-I knew she was acting weird, but I only just found out about…about everything!"

Harry groaned, wobbling as she helped him to his feet.

"Are you-should I take you to St. Mungos?" Daphne asked.

He held his head. "The hospital is too full."

"What? H-how can you know?"

His wand shot into his hand and lit an unearthly green. His jaw set firmly. "I'm going to make sure of it."

"Harry, you can't—"

"Go and find Tracey." He ran his eyes over her dispassionately. "You'll need to put in some work if you still want her torso connected to her head, this time tomorrow."

"I-I know." She bit her lip. "She's, she's not usually. I mean, I'll sort it."

"Whatever." He brushed past her, cracking his neck.

Daphne glared after him.

"Aren't you going to say thanks, at least?" She'd just saved his life!

He turned. "You're right." His eyes drifted to her new old bag, her vintage dragonhide bag. "Tell your mother she did well. I was worried she'd forget."

Daphne frowned, not understanding. How had Mother provided the one potion that Harry needed? She knew her family had a reputation for being five steps ahead, but this was on another level.

Harry stalked away, giving her no explanations. His clothes dark with sweat and blood, his face coated in red, his hair matted. He limped with every step.

"Harry," She held her own clammy hands. "You can't fight like this."

He didn't look back as he limped towards the fight. "Who else will?"

###

Harry took the Alley in. The Death Eaters were playing smart — they were pinned in between the Aurors while they attacked Dumbledore on stage, except between the Aurors and them were the masses of panicked civilians.

The Aurors couldn't let them through without letting the Death Eaters blend back in with them, herded and pushed to freedom.

The Aurors couldn't even fight through the crowd — they were pushed back and elbowed as everyone sought to escape.

Dumbledore had smartly shifted the large wooden stage in front of the side street that led to Knockturn Alley, blocking the most likely Death Eater exit route.

On the stage, the main actors played their roles. Dumbledore and the few that were brave enough to stand by him, fighting Death Eaters back from both sides. But Shacklebolt was unconscious, holding his ribs, while Scrimgeour's lion mane was streaked with blood. The aged man caught a Cruciatus and a stunner at the same time, and he was out of the fight.

Dumbledore hadn't even broken a sweat yet.

Harry watched the old man work for a second as he drew a complex spell chain in the air. It was bad practice to join a duel while someone was casting something large — it was a good way to get caught in the effect.

The west side of the wooden stage bubbled under the white rug. Splinters shot through the event carpet, but where Harry would have made them into sharp stakes to impale their enemies' throats, Dumbledore's splinters formed like shackles around their ankles, and then solidified into heavy metal.

For good measure, Harry snapped his wand out to heat that metal up to boiling point, turning growls into screams.

He floated above the fray unsteadily and landed next to the bemused Headmaster. How did Voldemort make flying look so easy?

They only had one side of the stage to deal with now, but the Death Eaters were numerous, even if they were anonymous. These were the curse-fodder of Tom's army, probably recently recruited.

The stage was set, but the floodlights had failed; the sun could not shine through the rising smoke clouds. The air was thick on Harry's tongue — sulfuric from spells of fire, acidic from the Dark Arts, and strangely wet. His ears were ringing, a dull throb in his skull that boomed with every spell cast.

Thankfully, the broken nose Malfoy had given him ensured he could smell little — he knew what a battlefield smelled like. Wasted bodies emptied bodily waste.

"Minerva told me you'd developed a tardiness problem." Dumbledore squinted.

"Bad sausage." Harry grunted, conjuring a flock of birds to stop a barrage of Cruciatus curses from hitting them, but he quickly regretted it.

They both winced from the high-pitched shrieks of the birds.

"Food poisoning has been the bane of many a great wizard." The old man said sagely, finger in his ear as he drew runic patterns on Shacklebolt's wooden podium, wand painting a purple ink.

"Malfoy's got a new recipe book." Harry muttered. "And not the pretty Malfoy."

The Headmaster paused at that, the flimsy beech podium raised and hovering at the end of his wand. It glowed gold as enemy spells hit his inscribed runes.

Harry looked across curiously — those weren't shield runes, nor had he changed the surface material of the wood.

"Shields dissipate the energy." The Headmaster noted his gaze. "Instead, try using temporary stasis runes."

Harry frowned. "That much magic would upset the stasis, make it—"

Dumbledore cracked his wand and the podium whipped forward into the Death Eaters, before every spell contained within exploded. The Headmaster's disdain for violence did not, it appeared, extend to returning spells to their caster.

"Unstable, yes." The old man adjusted the sleeve of his colorful robes.

"I've still got lots to learn from you, huh?" He smiled thinly. "Wish I'd gotten here earlier to take notes." He wiped the blood from his face, idly charming the brown trench coats that had been tossed to the ground, the disguise abandoned.

"How did you figure out who the Death Eaters were? How did you identify them?" Harry asked, chaining animation charms on all the trench coats. He'd thought the Death Eaters had a new unbeatable tactic, hiding amongst civilians in plain clothes.

Dumbledore grimaced. "I taught these boys once. I remember every face, my boy, even those I failed. Especially those I failed."

Harry snapped his wand and brought his army of coats to life, a hovering team of ghostly leather.

Every duel made the memories flow, in a way they didn't in times of safety.

In Istanbul, when a Texas tourist haggled too long and then walked away, Tom had seen the bazaar merchant charm his Turkish rugs to life and try to strangle the American. Six feet, seven kilos, the rugs were no joke — even if the American was not so easy to roll up.

The brown trench coats weren't so threatening, but they wrapped around the Death Eater's faces, stuffing empty sleeves into gurgling throats, strangling where they could not suffocate.

"You could have tied their arms and legs." The Headmaster pointed out.

Harry sniffed. "Not in the mood for kindness. Bloody Draco."

Dumbledore cast him a glance. "Did you think young Master Malfoy would be pleased his mother had found love again?"

"You're the one always preaching about the power of love."

"A mother's love, Harry."

"Believe me, I know all about a mother's love."

The Headmaster frowned. "Immature and juvenile, my boy."

Harry snorted. "Not actually what I meant, but I stand by it."

The two got serious as the Death Eaters regrouped, the dark wizards acutely aware they needed a way to escape the Alley. They couldn't get through the citizens trying to escape the Auror pen, nor the Aurors beyond.

But Dumbledore and Harry blocked off the side entrance to Knockturn Alley, to the dubious shops which would undoubtedly contain Floo fires or pre-prepared Portkeys.

Injured and hurting, Harry focused on complementing Dumbledore's spells, even if the old man didn't approve.

The Headmaster summoned a haul of Foe-Glasses from an abandoned stall of dodgy defense-goods and enchanted the mirrors to reflect the Death Eater's spells. After, Harry ripped the glass from the mirror and shot the shimmering daggers into Death Eater flesh.

Dumbledore lashed a whip around three Death Eaters and lassoed them like a cowboy did bandits. Harry Transfigured the rope into barbed wire.

As the Death Eaters spread out, casting from all angles, Harry and Dumbledore fought back to back, their magical power creating a visible ripple in the air like a heatwave on the horizon.

Harry shielded. Dumbledore attacked.

When Harry twisted the knife, Dumbledore protected, muttering disapproval all the while.

The old man showed why he was the only Tom ever feared, because he used magic like he'd been birthed in its grasp. Not one field, but all of them, for mastery at one thing meant mediocrity in all others.

He Transfigured the stage seating into strange wolves, their bodies wooden like the seats, legs of steel. His Charms defied convention — an Amplifying Charm to make their growls deafening, Levitation to make them fly at the Death Eaters — even a Unlocking Charm meant for doors, except the Headmaster used it on their jaws, unhinging their snapping mouths so far open that they could snap their jaws over a Death Eater's whole leg.

All the while, Dumbledore kept up a cold narration, always the teacher. "Seven wolves, of course. Professor Vector will tell you the power in numbers. The Arithmancy makes the wolves more stable — do you see how they resist Counter-Spells and Vanishing?"

"Uh-huh." Harry said, wide-eyed, trying to sharpen the wolf-fangs when the Headmaster looked away.

"A well rounded education is important." The old man said. "See the way that gentleman's veins color green? He's eaten some Wormwood leaves to null his nerves, so he'll feel less pain." Dumbledore elbowed him gently. "Your spell to sharpen the wolves' fangs will help, in this single instance."

"What spell?" Harry said guiltily.

The Death Eaters were getting desperate as the wolves set upon them, growling and snapping.

"What other applied effects can we see with the naked eye? Potions or Herbology?" Dumbledore asked.

"Professor," Harry pushed the Headmaster back to let a Killing Curse travel between them, sweat dripping from forehead to lip. "Is now really the time?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Every day brings lessons for the open mind — careful, that's a Parasite Gestating Curse." The Headmaster looked genuinely furious. He amplified his voice. "That breaks Article Nine of Long-Term Life-threatening Spells set by the International Confederation of Wizards! I wrote that Article myself!"

"I'm not sure they are students of international law, Professor." He muttered, letting the Headmaster push his shoulder down to avoid a sizzling yellow acid-arrow. "But to answer your question, they've got black tongues."

"Go on."

"Black tongues indicates Strengthening Solutions mixed with Hate Potions."

The Headmaster nodded. "Hate Potions were created to help heartbroken witches get over their wizards, but dark wizards use it to cast Unforgivables with more ease. Just another way that innocuous magic can be corrupted by the Dark Arts."

"And Strengthening Solutions means they're going to keep getting up unless we pack a bigger punch, Professor." Harry chided as the Headmaster inscribed some Incarcerous runes into the confetti-rockets that lined the stage. The confetti launched, but rather than scraps of red and blue paper, thick colorful ropes burst forth, snaking around the Death Eaters.

Harry shook his head. The old man could rule the planet if he wasn't such a soft heart.

The Headmaster hummed. "Taking a life must come as a last resort — oh, excellent!" He crowed with delight as a red eagle snapped at his head, before he blew it into golden dust. "Did you see that, my boy? A Cruciatus melded into a Conjured animal frame. That's very advanced magic, superbly done!"

Harry shook his head, bewildered. It was as people said — all powerful wizards were crazy in one way or another. "Yeah, it was great—"

"The eagle can be embedded with basic sentience, choosing the best time to attack! It can fly above and then direct itself." The Headmaster shook his head with admiration. "If only these talents could be shown the path to redemption."

Harry snapped out a overcharged Bone Breaker at the Death Eater in question — the man's shield cracked first, his skull second. "Maybe in the next life."

Dumbledore frowned as the Death Eater fell. "Can misguided young men be reformed? A boy needing mentorship, seeking agency and freedom, not so different from yourself."

Harry rolled his eyes. There was a part of him that said yes and another that said no — but he could no longer separate himself into Harry and Tom. And yet…did he not hope to reform the likes of Narcissa and Bellatrix? Did he not get angry at the letters in the Prophet, decrying him making Narcissa his Mistress?

"It requires time, love, understanding—" He swore as he shielded too late to stop a Entrail-Expeller, but Dumbledore held out his arm, baggy robe billowing, and somehow the purple spell disappeared into his sleeve.

Harry grimaced as he limped backward, batting away spells. "Can we talk about this—"

"These very men depend on your answer, my boy." Dumbledore pointed out, patting out a fire growing up his beard. "You missed that Incendio."

"You try shielding while taking an ethics class." Harry growled. He thought about the nets in society — the orphanages that failed Tom, the schools that failed him, looking away from the small boy with bruises and oversized clothes. "Reform requires a society that wants to understand deeper issues, and institutions given money and power."

"A prison that rehabilitates, rather than punishes, perhaps." Dumbledore said gently. "I wonder if a wealthy Noble and Ancient House could ever push and fund such a idea."

"Subtle, Professor." Harry carved a street lamp in two and Engorged the flames that fell. Human flesh smelled awful when it burned.

The old man wrinkled his nose. "It is not only the beautiful that deserve redemption, Harry."

"I knew I could get you to admit Narcissa's hot." He waved his wand to make the pool of flames burn blue, the stumbling silhouettes shrieking in agony. Dumbledore extinguished the fires in a cloud of smoke — the hissing steam melded into the shape of Hogwarts' spires. The Headmaster was showing off.

"A light heart wards off the effects of the darkest arts, my boy." The Headmaster told him sternly, bright eyes without their sparkle. He span his wand like a carnival ringmaster did their cane, golden sparks creating a ring of burning bronze. The ring swallowed incoming spells and regurgitated them fifty feet away.

Harry frowned — the Headmaster made him feel like a schoolboy. Even Tom didn't know that magic.

He sighed. "When we're capable of defending prisons from outbreaks, we can talk about rehabilitation."

Dumbledore's wand pulsated an astonishingly large torrent of water that knocked two Death Eaters to the ground, a swimming pool worth of water formed into a blade's width. "There is never a wrong time to do the right thing."

"Like telling a young boy of the prophecy that weighs on his shoulders?" Harry snarked as he electrocuted the pool of water. "Rictusempra." He added. The water twitched and jerked erratically, splashing the Death Eaters around the pool.

"Touché, my boy." Dumbledore muttered. "I didn't know a Tickling Charm could affect water." He admitted, observing with interest.

"It tickles bodies, so if you imagine that water as a body of water…" Harry explained.

"A placebo upon oneself." Dumbledore finished thoughtfully.

"Every day brings lessons for the open mind, right?" Harry said. The Death Eaters were fewer now, but they were healing and reviving each other. The Headmaster was right — they were dosed up on potions and consumed plants.

High voltage, missing limbs, impaled glass — it didn't stop them because they were driven to mindless rage, their bodies strengthened, their nerves dulled. This was what Tom did.

The strong were cultivated. The weak were dosed, drugged and unleashed. Disposable Death Eaters, because there was no shortage of young men and women who were angry at the world and their circumstances.

Harry and the Headmaster took in the rabid array of enemies.

"I had hoped for law enforcement to assist." Dumbledore admitted. "They are…" His sentence trailed off, thought unfinished. "I pray you never need to fight against former students, to see a child amazed by his first Wingardium Leviosa turn to rage and ignorance and fear. To see a boy's glee at his first broom flight and to know where that flight ends."

Harry was struck silence. He'd thought this moment would feel like triumph, this quiet acceptance of what they needed to do to end this. But he felt he finally understood the Headmaster, because what teacher could admit they'd failed their students? Or worse yet, know they did everything right and still lost?

"It's okay, Headmaster." Harry said quietly. "Let me do this."

"With mercy, Harry, please." His voice soft. "I shall protect you while you work."

Harry felt inside himself as he summoned the magic reserves. Narcissa had gotten the girls here, near enough that he could feel their worry. Near enough that he could pull their power into his.

He wasn't at Dumbledore's power yet, but there were a lot of ladies still to claim. A journey of a thousand hearts.

He was tired, injured, bleeding and aching. But he drained his girls, bolstering himself with magic so thick that every hair on his body stood up. Gooseflesh on his skin.

His wand vibrated.

Magic most potent.

It began with the water on the ground. Drops lifted slowly, like rain in reverse, the world turned upside down.

Shattered glass ascended from the cobbles, Foe-glass mirrors, street lamps, shop windows, a thousand shards reflecting Harry's shaking frame, his jaw clenched, arm strained.

Political posters swirled up, a hurricane in slow motion, an invisible broom that swept up the fallen flags, the placards and dropped possessions, clothes and wands, bags and bottles.

The weapons of their fight, splinters of podiums and seats, the rubble of the stage, the dismembered limbs of the Death Eaters.

All of it rose into the sky and melded together, a storm made solid, litter into lightning, debris into imminent destruction.

What comes up …

Harry brought down death. The Death Eaters were scythed apart, through, slices of a orange. Their enemies peeled away. It wasn't pretty, but it was quick.

Dumbledore did not turn away, until the silence replaced the screams. "You've become strong, my boy." He said quietly. "I hope that your judgment is always greater than your strength."

Harry viewed the bodies dispassionately. The cobbles made the current of blood split in differing paths as it streamed toward them. "I hope to always have the best of teachers, who try to see my best intentions." He murmured in reply.

"Never stray from the side of the good, my boy, I beg of you." The Headmaster's voice was strained as he watched the river of blood. "I could not bear seeing you on the other side, even if you walk a different path."

Harry did not look at him, because he didn't want to see him disappointed. He cleared the lump in his throat. "When it matters, I'll always be by your side, Professor, if not always on your side."

They both considered the Alley and the fallen civilians, their cheering faces frozen forever. "Can we even venture outside Hogwarts anymore?" Harry asked. "If they can attack with this much security."

Dumbledore sighed, removing his glasses to clean them with his robe. "Life must be lived, Harry. In hiding, in fear, the Dark Lord achieves a greater victory. We still protected the many, today. There can still be an election."

Harry looked at him doubtfully. "Tom didn't even need to show up to make people afraid. What's the election turnout going to be? Not even fifty percent? Think of the headlines."

"The victors write the story, don't they?" Dumbledore smiled wryly. "Why, I hear even Narcissa Malfoy is a heroine, nowadays."

Stepping off the stage into the carnage, Harry pursed his lips. "Rita might have trouble spinning this."

A familiar oily voice interrupted. "Not even a little." Rita emerged out of Eeylops Owl Emporium, clutching her crocodile skin handbag. "Death Eaters cut down in numbers, Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore team up to defend the good people of Britain and democracy itself."

"Rita, what a delight." Dumbledore said flatly. "Am I no longer to be cast as the, what was it, obsolete dingbat?"

Rita's beady eyes took in the destruction. "Not so obsolete after all, Dumbledore."

The Headmaster's smile was tired. "Your kindness has a price, Rita, one I've never been willing to pay."

Rita clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Thankfully, darling Harry has my goodwill all bought and paid for, for now. Besides, what stories would I get if everyone is locked up at home?"

"Your moral compass is as surprising as ever, Rita." Dumbledore's smile was tight, but his eyes had their twinkle once more.

"Perhaps a quote for the common man, Dumbledore? I'll describe your beard as magnificent." She fluttered thick eyelashes.

"Perhaps next time, Rita. Harry," Dumbledore paused, his gaze moving to Rita and her Quick-Quotes Quill that was already scratching away. "I'm glad you were here." He said finally.

Harry swallowed, hearing all the things left unspoken. "By your side, Professor."

The Headmaster moved to turn away, his wand twirling between his fingers.

"Wait, Dumbledore!" Rita said urgently, her voice serious. "Off the record, I swear. I have to know, of all the candidates. Why put Shackebolt forward? You have to know he'll lose."

Dumbledore looked at her, but his stare was distant. "We're at war, Rita, you might have noticed. Ministers don't last long in wartime."

"But—"

"Kingsley could never win this election." He admitted. "But now his name is known to all, he'll win the next. He's a good man and," He peered over his half-moon glasses at Harry. "Good men can change the world."

Rita whistled as he left towards the crowd of civilians and Aurors, ready to once more be the calming force against the fear. "Damn, he's good." She said admiringly. "The terrible, tawdry things I would do to get an interview with him." She sucked on the tip of her green quill. "Hint, hint, Harry." She smirked.

Harry grimaced. "Sorry, Rita."

She sighed. "I suppose Narcissa is already fulfilling your desire for tawdry encounters. Give me a few words for the headline?"

He shook his head. The day wasn't finished, and while the Death Eaters were dead, he still had payback to deliver. "I've got to do some terrible things myself, as it happens."

Rita licked her lips. "Hope they deserve it." She paused. "Who am I kidding?"

Harry clutched his wand tightly as he thought of Tracey, how close he'd come to death, the conversation he'd had decades ago just to save himself today. He thought of how he'd let her off when she first hired Malfoy and his goons to attack him. He thought of how gracious he'd been to teach her in the DA.

Draco had his own payback coming, but he'd wait for another day.

His magic sang.

"Yeah," He growled. "She deserves it."

###

Daphne didn't let him say a word. She took a deep, shuddering breath and spoke. "I'm glad you got my note. I…found and restrained her." She fidgeted. "I'll do whatever it takes. I just…I just can't let her die. Please don't kill her."

Harry was silent as the beautiful pale girl turned. She pressed herself against the wall.

Daphne peeled her green panties down slowly to reveal her wondrous ass, milky skin that he'd soon redden, the bubble butt of perfect proportions that he'd make her beg him to ruin. In her puckered asshole, the emerald gem plug gleamed, twitching.

She looked over at him through her long blonde tresses. From her wooden chair, Tracey shrieked into her gag.

Harry limped forward until he stood behind Daphne, so close he could feel her heat. He gathered up her hair and tugged it taut, making her gasp. "I agreed a betrothal with your parents, to protect your family and you, to align my House with yours."

Daphne looked back at him under long eyelashes. "I know."

"I enjoy our games, Daphne, but I can't let them continue."

"I understand."

"I've been kind, all things considered. Kinder than I could have been."

Daphne bit her lip. "You've been…more than I deserved. My family is alive, safe, protected."

Harry leaned forward to kiss the back of her neck gently. "Because you came for me today, because you risked yourself to save me, I won't kill your friend. But my blood was spilled and someone has to pay a price. Do you understand?"

He grabbed her ass, caressing her soft skin with his calloused hand. "Do you understand why I'm doing this? Why I won't be gentle?"

She shivered. "Because she's my best friend. Because I didn't control her like I said I would. Because I didn't see it coming when I should have. Because she hurt you."

"That's right." He patted her ass affectionately. "And because your humiliation is her punishment, I'm afraid. Because she loves you so much, doesn't she?"

Harry looked over at Tracey, at the tears running down her cheeks. "How will you deal with her?"

Daphne squirmed as he rubbed himself against her behind. "I-I'll take her to this place we have. W-when people don't pay, when they cheat us, my father has a place. Our potions, our ingredients…we test them. It will be painful."

Tracey sobbed. It seemed she'd heard of it.

"I'm listening."

"S-she'll be gone for weeks." Daphne's voice firmed up. "But Father says this place never fails to re-educate."

Harry squeezed her ample ass roughly, letting his thumb dig in to her pale cheeks. A whole handful of her meaty flesh. "Good."

Daphne's eyes held conviction, but they were fearful too. "What will you do to me?"

He didn't need to think. He wasn't going to bond her, not yet, because he already had her now. She couldn't escape. Bonding was an act of love, a commitment of hearts.

This wasn't about love. "I'm going to take your ass, Daphne. I'm not going near your pretty little pussy." His finger swiped up her cunt. She was wet.

He leaned over her, his voice cold. "Because you don't deserve it, because all this happened on your watch. I want you to be the first Pureblood princess in history to be sodomised before she lost her virginity. To be assfucked like a whore before she took her vows."

Daphne shivered, trembling as he disrobed, his cock pressed into her thick ass, rubbing up and down.

"I want you to go the rest of your life, the rest of our marriage, knowing that you willingly, eagerly, got fucked in the ass before you gave away your pussy, because you're my anal slut, aren't you, Daphne?" Harry said silkily, his cockhead resting on her plugged asshole.

He stroked her long hair, tugging her body into an arch as she pressed her hands against the wall, her long legs spread for him. "When your girlfriends giggle and ask you how your first time was, when they ask whether losing your virginity hurts, I want you to remember that your first time was not like theirs." Harry taunted. "Remember that I took you like a whore, that you spread your little asshole and took every inch of my cock."

Daphne shuddered, but she was soaking wet, coating his cock as he stroked it through her pussylips. "No…" She moaned.

"When our daughter comes to you for advice for her own wedding night, I want you to remember. You didn't wait for a wedding, because you're my dirty anal slut."

"I'm not." She whined, but she was panting.

Harry looked over to the bound and gagged Tracey, kicking and screaming to no use. "Watch her. Watch how she loves this. Watch how I make her beg." He paused. "You need a better view." With a wave of his wand, he had her pinned to the wall beside Daphne, pinned like a dartboard, so close that he could see the whites of her eyes, so close that Daphne's sweat would flick against her skin as she was fucked roughly.

"Just do it already!" Daphne cried out, shaking.

He laughed as he teasingly pulled out the plug from her ass, watching her hole pucker closed, winking at him. He rested his cock at her entrance.

Daphne Greengrass, at his mercy, in her finest lingerie, in her highest heels. She gasped as he pushed her forward roughly, so she lost her grip on the wall and ended with her cheek against the fading white paint.

Her manicured fingernails dug into her cheeks as she spread her ass open for him, because she knew how big he was.

"I need to hear the magic words, Daphne. You're grateful, aren't you?"

"I'm not going to thank you for this, you—oww!" His hand cracked against her ass, a handprint of brightest red.

"Try again?" He suggested.

Daphne glared at him, the mix of shame and anger. But there was pride too, a sick sort of pride, because he was who he needed to be, because she'd do the same with his power.

She was silent, though.

He smacked her ass hard and watched her flesh jiggle.

Still, she said nothing.

The next spank echoed through the room, her tears spilling from beautiful eyes. She was gorgeous when she cried.

He raised his hand.

"Wait, wait—" She begged.

"Tell me."

"Thank you." Daphne whispered.

"I'm sorry?"

"Thank you, husband." She said softly, squeezing her eyes shut, her fall complete. "Thank you for showing mercy to Tracey."

"And?"

"T-thank you for your strength."

"Almost there, sweetheart. I want you to ask me."

Daphne's eyes flicked open and she glared back at him through those ice cold blue eyes. But there was nothing cold about her, not from the heat of her spanked ass, not in the creaming of her cunt, not in the blush in her cheeks.

"Please don't make me." She begged.

"You're so close, princess."

She took a deep breath. Her tears dripped from her cheeks. "T-Trace, don't look. Please don't look."

But Tracey's eyes couldn't close. Harry had made sure of that.

"Ask me." He repeated.

Daphne trembled. "P-please…please will you take my b-bottom?" She bent lower, pulled her asscheeks even further apart.

Tracey's screeches were muffled through her gag, her head pinned such that she couldn't look away as Harry's hard cock nestled at her love's rosebud.

Harry smiled at his Slytherin princess. Daphne was glorious. He'd enjoy her. "Don't worry, I'll do this properly." He rubbed her sore red cheeks. "I know you've been waiting for this for a long time."