The French Ministry of Magic, housed in the resplendent Palais des Lumières, was the epitome of elegance as Harry stepped out of the grand golden fireplace in its arrival hall. As he brushed the soot from the hem of his dark robes, his sharp green eyes swept across the room, taking in the grandeur of the space with a quiet appreciation.
Despite the hustle of witches and wizards bustling through the hall, his arrival expectedly did not go unnoticed. Heads turned at once, and it did not take long for hushed whispers to follow, getting louder with every second that passed. After all, his fame was not limited to the borders of the British Isles.
He graced a few people around him with polite smiles, stifling chuckles when he saw the starstruck expressions on their faces and began walking toward the exit when the call of his name halted his steps.
"'Arry!"
Harry turned, his face breaking into a soft smile as a familiar face approached. Someone who once used to barely reach his chest but now stood almost equal, at least on those high heels.
She moved with effortless grace, her silver-blonde hair catching the light as it cascaded over her shoulders. Time had transformed her from the bright-eyed girl who once hero-worshipped him into a confident woman, poised and self-assured.
"Gabrielle," he greeted warmly, extending a hand. However, she ignored the gesture with a light laugh, stepping forward to press a kiss to each cheek in the typical French manner. Her perfume, delicate and floral, brushed against his senses, and Harry took her in.
"It is so good to see you again," she said, her blue eyes sparkling with a mix of warmth and curiosity. "Still as punctual as ever, I see. And still drawing every eye in the room," she teased, glancing over his shoulder at the gathering gawkers.
Harry chuckled, a low, rich sound that made her smile widen. "I think that's more your doing than mine."
She rolled her eyes, letting out a small, tinkling laugh. "Ah, always modest. Come, let's get you away from the crowds. We have much to discuss, and I'll show you to your accommodations. Also, as you must've heard, there have been some changes around."
"Indeed I have," Harry nodded. "Not that the place needed any changes, mind you."
"Yeah, well, the taxpayers' money has to go somewhere," she muttered so that only he could hear, and Harry could not stop himself from chuckling. It was typical.
Smiling, she gestured for him to follow, her long robes sweeping the polished floor as she led him deeper into the Ministry.
Harry had expected subtle changes but even he was surprised to see how much the layout had been transformed. The hallways of the Palais des Lumières were woven with ancient enchantments, and those had been preserved. Moving murals depicted France's most significant moments in magical history. Gabrielle pointed out landmarks as they walked, her tone perfectly familiar with no trace of professionalism to it. If her superiors could hear her talk to a foreign dignitary right now... Harry thought with a chuckle.
"And over there is the Hall of Magical Concords," she said, nodding toward a grand archway. "That's where you stuck-up idiots will bash heads next week. I mean, the preliminary discussions of the ICW will take place there."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll pretend I didn't hear that, as always," Harry remarked with an eye roll, making her snort. She quickly covered it up and moved on.
"Good, and just beyond it is the Archives des Mystères Partagés—our version of the Department of Mysteries, but only the theoretical division. They decided to bring them up so that they could coordinate with the aurors better. Can be accessed only by those with clearance."
"Very different from the British ministry," Harry commented. His gaze lingered on a shimmering fountain they passed. Its enchanted waters twisted into intricate shapes, symbolizing unity.
"We French do enjoy our embellishments," Gabrielle admitted with a small smile. "Though, if I'm honest, I find your Ministry's directness refreshing. Less... pomp, more substance."
Harry arched a brow. "A diplomatic way of saying we lack flair?"
"Not at all," she replied, her voice carrying a light, teasing edge. "I meant it as a compliment. Not everything needs to be dressed in gold to shine."
Their conversation flowed easily, and it didn't feel like they were meeting after almost a year. Gabrielle had always been a cheerful person, and her warmth and confidence put Harry at ease in a way very few could. She was very much like Susan in that regard, and the similarity made him feel comfortable with her.
Yet there was a depth to her now, a maturity that hadn't been there before. Last year, she had joined the French ministry, and from the way she held herself like a proud woman, Harry could easily discern how she had climbed through the ranks in her department over the past year.
It wasn't long before they reached a set of grand double doors, intricately carved with scenes of magical camaraderie. It depicted the emblems of all the ICW nations, with the British coat taking the place of prominence in the middle.
Gabrielle paused, turning to him. "This is where you'll be staying, that is, if you even choose to stay here. Merlin knows where you disappear off to when you're here for these meetings."
Harry gave her a mysterious smile. "Don't ask and I won't tell no lies," he smirked.
"I know better than to ask questions of the great British Head of the DMLE," she retorted exaggeratedly. "Still, have a look at the new one, okay? And then if you stay here or not… well, that's gonna be up to you, as always."
"Aren't you hyping it up a bit much?" Harry asked, amused.
"Well, it's one of the newest ICW's official suites for foreign dignitaries. I believe there can only be the best for Britain's representative, right?" She asked with a wink, making him chuckle.
She pushed the doors open, revealing a luxurious suite bathed in soft, golden light. The living area was furnished with plush armchairs and a gleaming fireplace, while floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of Paris. The Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, its golden reflection dancing on the Seine below.
Harry stepped inside, his expression firmly in check. "This is... impressive."
"It should be," Gabrielle said, smiling as she leaned casually against the doorframe, her eyes trained on his figure near the window. "The French Ministry spares no expense when it comes to hosting. Still, I can see you're going to go off somewhere on your own this time as well. Well, at least I tried," she shrugged, sighing.
Harry turned to face her, a small smile playing on his lips. "You've changed, Gabrielle."
Her brows lifted in mock surprise. "Is that your way of saying I've finally grown up?" She asked with a slight edge to her voice and Harry stifled a chuckle. He knew her late maturity due to her heritage was a sore point, as it usually was with every veela.
"Not really in the sense you're thinking, but partly, yes," he admitted, his tone warm. He held his hand up when she opened her mouth, undoubtedly to retort indignantly. "Hear me out first. You're not the girl who used to shy away from me during the Triwizard Tournament or even Fleur's wedding, that's for sure."
"Took you this long to discover, huh?" She snarked, although the edge in her voice was noticeably missing.
Harry smirked as he deliberately looked her up and down, and from the way her fingers twitched against her formal robes, he could say she noticed the motion. Well, her hero worship was gone, but it seemed something else had replaced it. Harry filed that information away for now.
"Believe me, I discovered it last year when we met again, I'll have you know," he said insinuatingly, although he kept his tone as neutral as he could. "But it's more about how you carry yourself now. Why, I can see you taking up the role of a diplomat if you're interested in it."
"Ha, those oldies would piss their pants the day I become a diplomat," she let out a small laugh. "I don't think it's my strong suit either."
"Could've fooled me for a second there," Harry commented. "You held yourself like a proper one out there."
She laughed softly as she approached, the door closing automatically behind her. Joining him by the window, she cast her gaze outside. Harry took a moment to admire just how beautiful she looked with the golden light from the Eiffel Tower in the distance shining on her ethereal face.
When she spoke, her voice was light, but the subtle shift in her tone as she progressed was unmistakable. "A little bit is fine, but any more than that and I'd find myself with a headache. Too much hassle for me," she smiled. "And speaking of changes, don't think I've missed how you've changed either." Her gaze shifted from the tower to him, and Harry turned to her with a raised eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
Gabrielle let out a small scoff. "Come on, 'Arry. Only the Channel separates our countries. Don't think news doesn't travel quickly. You're no longer the boy who stayed behind in that lake to make sure your competitor's hostage was safe. Or the man who fought to save others without caring for himself for even a second. You were all that and more, once upon a time. But that time is in the distant past now."
Harry did not respond. His eyes had hardened slightly as he continued to gaze at her, and the warmth had disappeared from Gabrielle's voice as well. There was a disgusted curl to her lips now as she gazed at him.
"You know, I always wondered just what happened between you and them," she continued. "You three were inseparable, and I remember during Fleur's wedding how Molly was telling Maman that she hoped the war got over soon because she wanted you to be part of her family for real. Yeah, things seemed pretty serious back then. And what? About a year later? Maybe even before I guess? You weren't even on talking terms with them."
She turned away from him and Harry watched her gently stroke the soft curtains by the window.
"I asked Fleur a few times, but she never told me. Always believed I was too young to know about these things, even though I was an employee at the Ministry by then," she snorted. "Typical Fleur. Always treating me like a child. Well, this time, when she came over for Papa's Remembrance Day, I finally got her to tell me what happened."
Harry sighed. This was a topic he had never discussed with her but she had only gone ahead and found out on her own. He could not blame Fleur for talking about it either. After all, he knew how much she hated all three of them for what they had done.
"We've both grown, Harry," Gabrielle said softly, catching his attention once again. "And we've both changed. I truly grew up, and your situation forced you to change into who you are today. And I'd say it's a change for the better."
There was an extended moment of terse silence as they kept gazing out the window, Gabrielle's hand gently stroking the soft fabric of the curtain. Finally, Harry released a sigh and reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it supportively.
"Your father was a good man," he whispered. "I would've liked to know him better, but from what little time we spent, I could see how much he loved you three. You and Fleur were his pride and joy."
She gazed up at him and nodded, her composure steady but her eyes betraying a flicker of emotion. "Merci," she whispered.
"I know about Fleur and you as well now. How's Apolline doing?"
"Maman 'as been doing well—stronger than I imagined she would be. It's been almost three years now, and you know what they say… Time heals all wounds. Fleur's been a tremendous help, of course, though she's in England now."
"She's found home there at Hogwarts," Harry said. "I met her not too long ago when I went there. She's doing well. Both her and Lavender…" He trailed off, not knowing whether Fleur had told them about her new relationship.
"I never imagined that'd happen, you know? Makes you think how grief can sometimes bring even the unlikeliest of people together. I'm just happy she's found such a close friend nearby," she whispered, and that answered everything. Fleur had not told her folks about her relationship. Harry silently chided himself for slipping up so carelessly like that.
"Gabrielle," Harry sighed. "If there's anything you or your family need..."
"We'll be fine," she said, her smile returning, though softer now as she gazed up at him. She reached up and gently stroked his cheek, smiling when he leaned into her warm touch. "But I appreciate the offer. Truly."
For a moment, silence settled between them, not awkward in the slightest but filled with emotion nonetheless. Mere seconds later, Gabrielle straightened, her usual lightness returning as she stepped away from him, patting her robes and hair gently.
"Now, enough of the heavy stuff. You'll have to come to the Delacour home while you're here. Maman would love to see you, and I won't let you escape without a proper French dinner."
Harry's smile widened, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "I'd like that. It's been far too long."
"Good," she said, her tone decisive. "I'll make the arrangements. But for now, settle in, and if you need anything—anything at all—let me know."
"Thank you, Gabrielle. I will," he smiled.
As she turned to leave, Harry called after her. "Gabrielle?"
She paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder. "Yes?"
"It's good to see you again," he said, his voice soft but sincere.
Her lips curved into a gentle smile, her blue eyes meeting his. "Likewise, 'Arry. And welcome to France."
With a parting smile, she slipped out of the room, leaving Harry to the quiet splendor of his suite and the lingering thought of how much had changed within him regarding how he treated people—and how much had oddly remained the same. He was an asshole, and he both knew and accepted that fact. But there were people he genuinely cared about as well, who he wanted nothing but happiness for.
It made him smile slightly to realize that no matter what circumstances had forced him to become, or what he had made himself become, traces of the old Harry Potter remained within him.
-Break-
The mist from the alley clung to the man's coat as he approached the unmarked door nestled beneath a crooked archway. The only indication of its significance was the small brass plaque engraved with delicate runes that shimmered faintly when touched by light.
The words The Veil Exchange illuminated as the man neared, and the moment he knocked, the door emitted a soft hum and unlatched itself. It swung inward with a faint whisper, revealing a quiet, yet richly decorated expanse that seemed far removed from the neighborhood the building was situated in.
The lobby was opulent yet ominous at the same time, as though every detail was designed to both entice and unsettle in equal measure. Walls of dark, polished wood gleamed faintly under the warm glow of floating sconces, their light dancing across velvet drapes in deep emerald and burnished gold. Above, a chandelier hovered mid-air, its crystals suspended as though by invisible strings, shifting gently like a constellation. The faint scent of sandalwood and parchment hung in the air, mixing with the quiet murmur of conversation.
The patrons were as varied as the space itself. Cloaked figures occupied shadowy corners, while others in finely tailored robes sipped from goblets etched with historical inscriptions. A figure clad in dragonhide leaned against the far wall, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, watching the room as if every soul present were a potential threat. Heads turned briefly when the man entered, their scrutiny palpable.
He walked with calculated ease, his fitted charcoal coat brushing against his legs. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face, adding an extra layer of mystery. He could feel their eyes on him, weighing, assessing, but no one dared approach.
He reached the reception desk, a counter of black marble veined with silver, and the woman standing behind it looked up, her violet eyes gleaming with recognition.
"Well," she said, her voice rich and smooth, "if it isn't Blackthorn."
The man tilted his head in acknowledgment, allowing a faint smile to play on his lips.
"You remember me," he said, his modified tone light, almost playful. "I'm flattered."
The woman's lips quirked into a knowing smile. Her dark hair, loose and glossy, framed a face that seemed both ageless and full of secrets.
She leaned her elbows on the counter, her posture casual but her eyes piercing, as the plunging neckline of her black dress fell forward, exposing more of her than was deemed proper. However, this was the only man who she would ever let see her like this.
A knowing, excited flutter erupted within her when she saw his eyes dip to her pronounced cleavage, memories of their time together resurfacing within her mind. It had been a year since they'd last been together, but it still felt like yesterday.
"Flattered? Hardly. I never forget a face, especially one that's so... distinctive." She let the word hang in the air like a challenge. "But don't worry, your secret's safe here."
"Is it?" The man murmured, resting his gloved hand on the edge of the counter. His voice was lower now, quieter, the faintest edge of tension creeping into his tone.
She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "You wouldn't have come back if you thought otherwise. Now, what can I do for you tonight, Mr. Blackthorn?"
"A room," the man said simply. "Somewhere quiet. Out of the way. You know the one."
Her fingers trailed over the surface of the desk as if considering. Then, without looking, she reached into a drawer and pulled out an ornate key, its surface etched with raven feathers.
"The Raven Suite," she said, placing it before him. Her hand lingered on the key for a moment. "Private, secure... and it has an excellent view of the main street outside. I think you'll find it suits your needs."
"You don't need to give me the whole sales pitch," the man muttered as he reached for the key. However, before he could take it, her hand lifted, and her violet eyes fixed on his face with an almost disarming intensity.
"Long time," she said softly, her tone dropping to something more intimate. "Since the last time, I mean."
The man paused, his fingers hovering over the key. "It has been," he admitted. "Things got... complicated."
"They always do," she said with a soft laugh, her gaze never leaving his. "But I'd wager you came out of it stronger. You always were good at surviving the impossible."
The man finally picked up the key, his gloved fingers curling around the cool metal. "It's a talent," he said dryly. "And you were always good at making things happen when it mattered."
Her smile widened, and there was a tinge of wistfulness to it now. "We all have our skills, don't we? Some of us just prefer to stay in the shadows." She straightened, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her dark robes. "Though you've never been one for shadows, have you?"
"I've learned to adapt," the man replied evenly.
Her eyes flicked over his face, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Still, it's good to see you, even if it's like this. Tales of your progress over the past year have reached across the Channel. Good to see you're purging them so effectively now. But the recent developments…"
"Better discussed in private," the man interrupted.
"Certainly," she nodded, inclining her head. "Your items have already been deposited in your suite."
"Aren't you as sharp as ever?" He smiled.
"I have paid a long, hard price for it," she said with a shrug, though he detected the undercurrent of rage in her voice. "It's a dangerous world. And places like this? They don't run on charm alone."
A flicker of movement from the far side of the room caught her attention. A hooded figure had turned their chair slightly, their posture tense as they watched the exchange. The woman's gaze hardened slightly, and she leaned closer, her voice dropping.
"You've drawn some eyes tonight," she said. "More than usual."
"I noticed," the man murmured. "It comes with the territory. Especially now since they're getting active once again…"
She nodded. "They won't dare take the first step, even if they suspect anything. Still… If you need anything... anything at all…"
He pocketed the key and met her gaze, a flicker of gratitude passing between them. "Always a pleasure."
"Likewise," she said, her tone shifting back to its earlier smoothness. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Blackthorn."
As he ascended, he could still feel the stares boring into his back from below. The Veil Exchange was a haven for those who trafficked in secrets, but even here, trust was scarce, and strangers were a curiosity—and a threat.
At the top of the stairs, he glanced over his shoulder. The woman at the desk was already speaking with another guest, her demeanor as poised and enigmatic as ever. But for just a second, she glanced up, her violet eyes meeting his, and the faintest nod passed between them.
It was enough. For now.
-Break-
The familiar suite greeted him as he walked in. The walls were deep ebony, paneled with a sheen that reflected the flickering flames of a fireplace already roaring to life. The furniture was a mix of sleek modernity and classic wizarding opulence: a low-backed, leather couch, a glass-topped table etched with protective runes, and a bar counter stocked with rare liquors from every corner of the magical world.
He closed the door behind him, feeling the locking, silencing, and privacy wards take hold, and the room warmed up immediately, the chill from outside dissipating.
With a casual wave of his hand, he vanished his hat and coat, the gloves, boots, and socks following suit, and leisurely divested himself of his shirt and trousers, leaving only his boxers in place. The firelight danced across his bare skin, the warmth of the room wrapping around him like a physical embrace as he padded over to the side of the room where a small desk sat against the wall, its surface laden with neatly stacked parchment, photographs, and small glass vials containing swirling memories. As he got closer, a faint trace of sandalwood lingered, and his lips curled into a faint smile.
She was not here yet, but she'd made sure to send an essence of her. It would do until she arrived.
-Break-
He emerged from the pensieve roughly an hour later, wandlessly canceling the alert ward he had placed behind. As he walked over to the couch, the topmost parchment caught his eye. It was a dossier marked with the Veil Exchange's sigil—a raven clutching a scroll. He reached out and picked it up.
The photograph attached on the front page was of a balding man with beady eyes and a hooked nose. His thin lips twitched into a nervous smile before he looked away, fidgeting.
Sneering, he raked his eyes over the details.
Name: Malcolm Budd.
Status: Alive.
Alibi: Low-level potioneer under the alias "Gareth Peakes."
Notes: Suspected of assisting Voldemort in creating non-lethal poisons for interrogation. Witnesses claim he's been seen consorting with others who share Death Eater ideology. Possible link to the resurgence of pro-Voldemort factions in Eastern Europe.
He studied the accompanying notes. Budd was operating under plain sight in various wizarding settlements across Wizarding France, Belgium, Netherlands, and Denmark. An unremarkable potion-maker who would normally go unnoticed, but someone had put the pieces together.
He mulled over it for a moment. The man had been given the freedom to move about in Western countries, which meant it must have been out of the ordinary for him to be connected to someone from Eastern Europe.
"Lapse on their part, our gain," he muttered snidely. These lots were not revolutionaries, as they liked to claim. They were thugs. Opportunists who clung to whatever scraps of power they could find.
He put the dossier away, and the next one that he picked up turned out to be far more troubling. The picture was of a witch with sharp cheekbones and thin lips, her blonde hair tied back severely, and there was a confident smirk on her face as she stared at him.
"Hmm. A pretty face, but she's a resourceful one," he muttered, taking in the details, and his eyes paused momentarily on one particular piece of information.
Name: Vinda Rosier
Status: Alive. Fugitive.
Alibi: Private dueling instructor for noble families in Wizarding France under the pseudonym "Daphne Greengrass".
Notes: Once a close associate of Bellatrix Lestrange during their Hogwarts days. Known for ruthless spellwork and an affinity for the Cruciatus Curse. Responsible for the murders of Cyrus and Ingrid Greengrass. Had allegedly been kept overseas by Voldemort to coordinate expansion plans once Britain had been conquered. The most likely mastermind behind rising dissent in Eastern Europe and may be coordinating international safe houses for wanted Death Eaters.
Now, he had to give it to the woman. She did look remarkably young, and she had taken advantage of a poor family's situation quite brilliantly—one that she must have caused with pride.
He had never heard of her before, and it was perhaps a testament to both her importance and her abilities that he had not. It was a slight misstep on his part as well, considering he was the Head of the British DMLE and as such, should have rigorously gone through all the known criminals that were on the run.
Shrugging, he put the dossier back on the table. It was not that big of a headache anyway, and if things got bad, then he could take care of them with ease, just as he had done the previous time.
As he kept flipping through the files, the soft click of the hidden door sliding open interrupted his focus.
"Finally free, are you?" He called out, not looking up from the dossier.
The scent of sandalwood reached him first, followed by the faint whisper of fabric brushing against bare skin. She crossed the room with the quiet grace of a panther, her sheer black nightgown clinging to her in ways that demanded undivided attention but earned none from him—not yet.
"Am I?" she replied lightly, her voice smooth and faintly amused. She stopped at the bar, running her fingers along the glassware. "Here I thought you'd be as excited as I am. Lost interest in me now that you've got my sister?"
Harry glanced up briefly at that, making sure his gaze told her what he didn't feel words were needed for. His eyes took in her dark hair that fell loosely down her back, and how the firelight framed her sharp, striking features. The nightgown, sheer as it was, revealed enough to stir most men into distraction. He kept his eyes on her for a few more seconds, taking her in fully, before he returned his gaze to the dossier without missing a beat.
"You've been busy," he said, lifting another parchment and scanning it.
"Always am." She began assembling ingredients for drinks, her movements fluid and practiced. "You have questions, I assume?"
Harry picked up a parchment and gazed at it. "Your old friend—Rosier. You believe she's building safehouses and is the mastermind of this new uprising."
"I don't just think that. I know that."
"Yeah, well… Any chance she's tied to the French Ministry, given she's giving exclusive services to the nobles under the name of a family she destroyed?"
"Interested in the Greengrasses, are we?" She asked with amusement shining in her voice. "Merlin, men and their lust."
Harry released a soft sigh. "We can discuss that later. Right now, the fake Greengrass, if you please."
"She's smarter than that," the woman replied, pouring a dark amber liquid into a glass. "But her connections? Not so much. One of her runners was intercepted near Lyon two months ago. Didn't say much before he... expired, but enough to point fingers."
"What about Budd and Travers?"
"Lump the rest in with those two and you won't lose anything," she said, dismissively waving her hand as she added a twist of lemon peel to his drink. "They'll all give themselves away eventually. Cowards always do. All you need to take care of is to not operate on foreign soil like you do across the Channel. The French have their pride as well, you see. They won't like a foreigner coming over and cleaning their mess."
"Should've done a better job then," Harry shook his head.
"Why are you complaining?" She asked, amused. "It's all under control. Let the brats run around for a bit. They'll play, they'll fall, they'll get hurt. And then you can easily put them to sleep like a good master does."
Harry snorted softly but didn't respond.
"Now, Vinda though… She's a slippery one. Lucius used to be so jealous of her, if you can believe that. You'll need to try a bit if you want to get to her, legally, I should add. Otherwise you can go right now and squash her like a bug. She can't stand against you," she said, levitating two glasses off the bar. They floated toward him, settling neatly on the table in front of the couch.
She picked up one of the glasses, took a sip, and slid onto his lap with the ease of someone who'd had enough practice.
"Comfortable?" He asked dryly, taking his glass and resting his free hand on her inner thigh.
"Very," she said, smiling lazily as she leaned back against his chest. "You should be too. Britain overworks you. Ungrateful idiots… Don't even know how to treat their national hero."
"I think they've learned their lessons by now," he chuckled as he downed his drink, letting its warmth spread through his chest before setting it back on the table. He reached for the dossiers again, but she stopped him with a hand on his wrist.
"Not now," she murmured. "You'll drive yourself mad with work."
Harry gazed up at her, his green eyes piercing as they met her dark violet ones. She slowly began to lower herself, shifting in his lap until she was properly straddling him. His hands automatically came around to cup a cheek each and he gave them a firm squeeze.
"Mmm…" she moaned, her lips hovering right above his. Their hot breaths mixed, their eyes closed, as she pressed her hot body against him. "Imagine telling our younger selves that we'd be like this in a few years."
Harry chuckled. "That idiot version of me would've called his older self a dark wizard for even thinking about this."
"Hmm," she moaned as she felt him start to move her against himself. His manhood, hidden under the thin fabric of his boxers, was already hard and pushing hotly against her needy quim. "Fuck, it's been over a year since I've had this. You can enjoy whoever you want in Britain, but have you ever thought how tough it is for me to manage without you?"
"Why? The stimulation's not enough?"
"There's no substitute to the real thing, Master," she whispered.
Smirking, Harry pulled back slightly, his piercing green eyes fixed on her. They were dark with a hunger that wasn't entirely carnal. Her eyes were clouded with lust of a different kind but were still filled with the same devotion—she had truly come a long way.
"That's the punishment we agreed on, remember?" He asked, his voice low and deliberately gruff. "You might've not wanted to do it really, but you did do it."
The slight heat in his tone only seemed to ignite something wilder in her, and her lips parted, her breath hitching. Harry could feel the heat oozing off her in waves, and he smirked.
"But master… I wasn't…" She began, her voice almost pleading, though her excitement was unmistakable.
"Shh…" Harry shushed her, caressing her rear gently. "I know. I know."
He pulled her closer, their bodies flush against each other, and his voice dropped to a whisper as his hand tightened on her. "And I've been thinking about it. My revenge," he paused, his lips grazing her ear, "which seems rather foolish in hindsight now, is fulfilled, which means your punishment's over now. You do know what that means, don't you?"
Her eyes wide, she asked, "You mean…?"
"I do," Harry smirked. "When I leave here, you're coming with me. To live with us. At our new home. With your sister." He leaned in further, their breaths mixing hotly once again. His voice was laced with finality as he whispered, "Because that's where you belong, Bella."
The heavy silence stretched for a long time before her lips curled, the previous lust returning with vengeance. Harry's hold on her rear tightened, and so did hers around his neck as she gazed at him with eyes that glinted with wild, unrestrained passion.
"You're the best master anyone could ever ask for," she growled, her voice thick with lust and gratitude.
Without another word, she surged forward, claiming his mouth in a fierce, almost feral kiss, her body pressing against his as though she couldn't bear to be apart. Harry met her with equal fervor, his fingers digging into her skin as their world collapsed into the heat of the moment.
His younger self would've indeed told him to fuck off, but his younger self didn't know the things he did.
TBC.
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