The heavy oak door of the chateau closed behind Antonin Dolohov with a soft thud. He barely had time to remove his formal robes before she appeared.
"Monsieur Dolohov," the veela caretaker purred, her voice dripping with desire. "You look... tense. Perhaps I could help you relax?"
Arielle was her name, if he recalled correctly. She stood in the doorway wearing little more than a silk robe that left nothing to the imagination. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her blue eyes held that familiar veela allure that had ensnared countless wizards.
Dolohov felt the familiar tug of her magic, the way his pulse quickened despite himself. But beneath the surface attraction lay only cold disdain. Veela were predictable creatures, all beauty and no substance. Their magic was powerful but ultimately shallow. They were useful for only one purpose, and that was to satiate one's lust.
"I'm sure you could," he said, allowing his eyes to roam over her form. "But I have matters to attend to first."
She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the expensive perfume on her skin. "Surely they can wait? You work so hard, Monsieur. You deserve to enjoy yourself."
Her hand reached out to touch his chest, but he caught her wrist before she could make contact. Not roughly, but firmly enough to make his point.
"Wait for me in the master bedroom," he said, his voice carrying just enough promise to keep her interested. "I won't be long."
Arielle's eyes brightened with triumph. She clearly believed she had won some sort of victory. "Of course, Monsieur. I will be... waiting."
She turned and sauntered away, her hips swaying exaggeratedly. The silk robe did little to hide the curves beneath, and Dolohov found himself watching despite his better judgment. When she disappeared around the corner, he caught himself staring and shook his head in disgust.
Predictable. Just like all the rest.
He strode to the fireplace in the study, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the ornate silver bowl on the mantle. The green flames roared to life as he threw the powder into the grate.
"Malfoy Manor," he said clearly, sticking his head into the flames.
The sensation of spinning through the Floo network was brief, and then he found himself looking into the opulent study of Lucius Malfoy. The young heir sat behind his massive desk, a glass of expensive firewhisky in his hand and a petulant expression on his face.
"Dolohov," Lucius said, not bothering to look up from whatever document he was reading. "About time. I've been waiting for your report."
"The ceremony went as expected," Dolohov replied, keeping his voice neutral. "I've made contact with the target."
That was enough, and Lucius looked up, his gray eyes sharp with interest. "And? What did you think of our dear Lord Peverell?"
Dolohov considered his words carefully. "He's younger than I expected. Confident, perhaps overconfident. But there's something about him..."
"What sort of something?" Lucius leaned forward, his voice taking on that eager quality that always made Dolohov's teeth itch.
"He recognized me," Dolohov said bluntly. "Not my name, but me. The moment our eyes met, I could see it. He knows who I am."
Lucius frowned, his perfect features twisting with confusion. "That's impossible. You've never met him before. The Peverell line has been absent for generations."
"I'm telling you what I observed," Dolohov said, allowing a hint of irritation to creep into his voice. "The boy looked at me like he knew exactly what I was capable of. He tried to hide it, he tried very well, but there was no way he could fully hide the hatred there. Personal hatred."
"You're being paranoid," Lucius waved his hand dismissively. "So what if he's heard stories? Half the wizarding world has heard whispers about your... talents. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you kill him."
The vindictive gleam in Lucius's eyes was unmistakable. This wasn't just about politics or family honor. This was personal for him too, though Dolohov couldn't fully fathom why. There was only one connection he had observed between Peverell and Malfoy, and that was the presence of Narcissa Black. But she was there as his healer. It wasn't as if there was anything else going on between her and Peverell.
Or was there?
"You're fixated on this," Dolohov observed. "This goes beyond whatever your father wants."
Lucius's jaw tightened. "That bastard threw our hospitality in our faces, humiliated me in front of everyone at the Ministry. Made me look like a fool. Then he had the audacity to act all close and friendly with Narcissa right under my nose."
There it was. Dolohov had suspected as much. Young Malfoy's pride had been wounded, and now he wanted blood in return.
"You're letting emotion cloud your judgment," Dolohov said. "That's dangerous."
"Don't lecture me about judgment," Lucius snapped, his voice rising. "I'm paying you to do a job, not to lecture me. Are you getting cold feet, right after meeting him?"
Dolohov studied the young man's face, noting the flush of anger and the way his hands clenched around his glass. Lucius Malfoy might be in his twenties, but deep down, he was still little more than a boy, for all his wealth and influence. A spoiled, vindictive boy who had never learned to control his temper.
"I can kill him," Dolohov said finally. "But it won't be easy. He's not some soft society brat. There's steel beneath that polished exterior."
"I don't care if he's Merlin himself," Lucius snarled. "I want him dead. Make it look like an accident if you can, but if not..." He shrugged. "The tournament is dangerous. People die. It happens."
"The tournament hasn't even begun yet," Dolohov pointed out. "There will be other opportunities. Better ones."
"I want it done soon," Lucius said, leaning back in his chair. "Father is already upset with me for what that bastard did, and I'm tired of hearing about the great Lord Peverell from the filth around here. End him."
Dolohov felt that familiar flicker of exasperation. Working with the Malfoys had always been like this—all demands and no understanding of the complexities involved. They thought money could solve everything, that hired wands were just extensions of their will.
"The veela at the chateau," he said, changing the subject. "She's becoming a distraction."
Lucius's expression shifted, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "A veela? Must be quite beautiful? The French sure know how to cater to their guests. I would've arranged something for you, but it seems they beat me to it. Still, consider her a bonus for your services. Though I suppose you could always have her removed if she's truly bothering you."
The casual way he spoke about the veela's life made Dolohov's stomach turn slightly. Not from moral outrage - he'd killed enough people himself - but from the sheer waste of it. Lucius would discard anyone who inconvenienced him without a second thought.
"I'll handle it," Dolohov said.
"See that you do. And Dolohov?" Lucius's voice took on a warning tone. "Don't disappoint me. I have invested considerable resources in this endeavor. I expect results."
"You'll have them," Dolohov replied, though inside he was already questioning the wisdom of taking this contract. The Malfoys were useful allies, but now, they were also unpredictable and dangerous to work with.
"Good. Now, tell me more about this tournament. What are the other champions like?"
Dolohov described the other participants, noting their strengths and weaknesses. Lucius listened with half an ear, clearly more interested in hearing about Peverell's potential vulnerabilities than anyone else.
"What about the French girl?" Lucius asked. "Deschanel, wasn't it? Father mentioned her during the breakfast today. Didn't really speak highly of the family itself, but they're rich and influential."
"She's observant," Dolohov said. "She noticed the tension between Peverell and myself. That could be problematic."
"Then remove her too if necessary," Lucius said with a careless wave. "One less witness."
Dolohov resisted the urge to sigh. Killing the daughter of the Deschanels, especially in France, was tantamount to suicide. There was no way he could get away with it easily.
The conversation continued for another few minutes, with Lucius making increasingly unreasonable demands and Dolohov growing more irritated by the second. Finally, he'd had enough.
"I need to go," he said abruptly. "There are preparations to make."
"Of course," Lucius said, already turning back to his documents. "Do try not to take too long. I'd hate to think I chose poorly."
The flames died as Dolohov pulled his head back, leaving him alone in the study once again. He stood there for a moment, staring at the cold fireplace and thinking about the conversation.
Working with the Malfoys had always been a devil's bargain. They paid well, but they expected miracles in return. And young Lucius was proving to be even more demanding than his father.
But a contract was a contract. And Harry Peverell would die, regardless of whatever secrets the young lord might be hiding.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway reminded him that Arielle was still waiting. He glanced toward the door, then back at the fireplace. Perhaps a distraction wouldn't be the worst thing right now.
After all, his task would begin tomorrow, and he knew it would be challenging. Tonight, he could at least afford to indulge himself.
He headed toward the master bedroom, his mind already shifting from business to pleasure. The veela might be predictable, but she was also skilled at what she did. And right now, that was exactly what he needed.
-Break-
The front door opened with a soft click. Harry walked in first, pulling off his dark robes. Amelia followed behind him, looking tired but pleased. Narcissa came last, her usual composure intact though her gray eyes sparkled with amusement when they fell on the woman welcoming them.
Clarisse waited in the foyer beside a marble table with fresh lilies. She wore a deep-red evening dress that fit her well, her silver-blonde hair loose over her shoulders. The flashy outfit from her training session with Harry was gone. This look was simpler but somehow more striking.
Her eyes found Harry's, and something passed between them—a sense of recognition of what had happened in the training room. She blushed but didn't look away. A small smile played on her lips as she held his gaze.
"Welcome back, Monsieur Peverell," she said. "I trust the opening ceremony was pleasant."
"Long speeches and fake smiles," Amelia said, stretching her arms above her head as they walked in. "The usual political theater. But seeing those faces when Harry's name was announced made it worth it."
"Indeed," Narcissa added. "Especially a certain Mademoiselle Deschanel. I thought she might crack her perfect mask."
Clarisse's smile flickered at her friend's name before she smoothed it over. "Apolline has always enjoyed a challenge. I'm sure she was intrigued."
"Oh, she was more than intrigued," Harry chuckled, handing his robe to Narcissa who held her hand out. "We had some nice talks."
Clarisse's eyes showed curiosity, but she kept her questions to herself. "Dinner is ready when you are," she said, gesturing toward the dining hall. "I selected the wine."
They had dinner in the dining room. The fireplace crackled and enchanted candles provided soft light. The conversation flowed easily—Narcissa made sharp observations about the political players, Amelia offered witty comments, and Harry added dry commentary about the ceremony's theatrics.
Throughout it all, Clarisse played the perfect hostess, keeping their glasses full and the conversation moving. Harry felt her attention constantly returning to him. Every time their eyes met, there was a spark, a silent conversation beneath the spoken ones, and he knew what was going through her little mind.
"You know, Harry," Amelia said, swirling wine in her glass, "you have a talent for getting under people's skin. I saw the Bulgarian champion glaring at you. Multiple times."
"Dolohov," Harry said, his expression souring slightly. "Doesn't seem like a pleasant fellow."
"Well," Amelia said, placing her napkin on the table, "as much as I'd love to stay and discuss every pained expression we witnessed tonight, Narcissa and I have our own debriefing to attend to." She winked at Harry. "I'm sure you and Clarisse can entertain yourselves."
Narcissa rose gracefully, her eyes twinkling. "Do try not to break her, Harry," she said, loud enough for Clarisse to hear. "She seems to be of finer make than your usual conquests."
Clarisse blushed and shot Narcissa a look that was half-indignant, half-flattered. Harry chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I'll be on my best behavior."
"We highly doubt that," the two women said together before leaving, their laughter echoing down the hall.
The dining room door clicked shut. Harry and Clarisse were finally left alone in a silence that was both comfortable and full of anticipation. The air between them felt thick with the memory of their last encounter and the prospect of a new one.
Clarisse stepped forward and began gathering plates. "They are lively," she commented, her voice slightly strained.
"They enjoy their fun," Harry replied, watching her. He rose from his chair slowly. "And they're right. We should find a way to entertain ourselves."
Her hand stilled for a moment, and Harry's smirk widened when he saw her lips curve upwards.
He waited until she had stacked the last plate, and followed her toward the kitchen, just as he had that morning.
The kitchen was softly lit. Their footsteps echoed off the stone floor. Clarisse set the plates by the sink, the clatter of porcelain echoing sharply in the quietness. She turned on the tap, and the sound of water rushed to fill the silence between them. Her back was to him, and he could see the tension in her shoulders.
She was waiting for his move.
He stepped up behind her, crowding her space until his chest was close to her back. He reached around her, his hands landing on the granite slab on either side of her, caging her in between his body and the counter.
She didn't jump this time. Instead, she let out a soft breath and leaned back slightly, her warmth pressing against his chest.
"This feels familiar," he murmured near her ear.
"Does it?" she whispered back, her voice low. "I thought things might have changed."
"Oh, they have," Harry said, his voice dropping to a rumble that he knew resonated with her veela core. He felt a shiver run through her, and his lips quirked. "This morning, you were a strategist who'd been outplayed. Tonight..." He let one hand slide from the counter to her hip. "Tonight, you're an ally who knows exactly what she wants."
Her breathing ragged, Clarisse turned her head, her cheek brushing against his. Her blue eyes were dark and she was shaking slightly. "And do you know what I want, Monsieur Peverell?"
"Call me Harry," he said quietly.
She turned in his arms to face him, boldly wrapping her own around his neck. Tilting her face upwards, she gazed deeply into his eyes. "What do you want me to want, Harry?"
"I have a few ideas," he chuckled. He dipped his head, his nose tracing the line of her neck, inhaling her scent—lilies and something uniquely veela. Clarisse breathed in sharply, her hold around his neck tightening as she tilted her head to give him more access. To her disappointment, he pulled back. "But let's talk first. Tell me about your friend Apolline."
Clarisse stiffened. "What about her?"
"I met her tonight," he said, his hand on her hip making slow circles over the silky fabric of her dress. "She's clever. Ambitious. Beautiful." He paused. "And she tried to use her allure on me at least four times in ten minutes."
A soft, wry chuckle escaped Clarisse as she turned around once again, her hands going back to the dishes. As she finished washing the dishes, she dried her hands up and remarked, "That sounds like Apolline. She doesn't take well to being resisted."
"So I gathered. You were both in on this honey-trap scheme, weren't you? Alongside the other veela. Hosting the champions, using beautiful veela to soften them up before their duels. It's brilliant, honestly. Ruthless."
She didn't deny it. Instead, she leaned her head back against his shoulder, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "She has been underestimated her whole life because of her heritage. People see a beautiful veela, and they assume she charmed her way to success. She wanted to prove she could win on her terms, even if those terms weren't exactly fair. She thought if they were going to accuse her of using her veela wiles, she might as well."
"So she used yours instead," Harry finished.
Clarisse let out a soft sigh. "I volunteered. Apolline is my friend. And besides," she turned in his arms to face him, wrapping her own around his neck once again, "I have never done anything I did not wish to do. And the idea of bringing a few arrogant duelists to their knees was appealing."
"But it didn't quite work out that way with me, did it?" Harry's grin was pure mischief.
Her lips curved into a matching smile, full of prideful fire. "No. You were an unexpected variable." Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. "What did you think of her?"
"I think she's more dangerous than all the other champions combined," Harry admitted. "But not because of her magic. Because of her mind. And that makes her far more interesting." He watched her expression carefully. "She invited me to dinner."
Clarisse's eyebrows shot up. "Already? Mon Dieu, she doesn't waste time." A spark of something—jealousy?—flared in her eyes before she suppressed it. "And what did you say?"
"I said I was busy," Harry replied, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. "I prefer my dinner companions to be a little more genuine."
The admission took her by surprise, and it was a clear choice. He was choosing her right now instead of spending time with Apolline. Clarisse's breath hitched, and the look in her eyes softened, all pretense melting away to reveal something raw and real.
"Harry..." she breathed his name, the sound a mix of a plea and a promise.
"It seems a shame to waste this kitchen," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, then another to her cheek, teasing her. Clarisse's eyes snapped shut as she clutched his shoulders. "We never did finish washing those dishes this morning."
"To hell with the dishes," she whispered, her voice husky with desire.
Her hands, which had been resting on his shoulders, slid down his chest, her touch light but searing. Her fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt, and with newfound confidence, she pulled it free from his trousers, her palms pressing against the warm skin of his abdomen. He felt a jolt of pleasure at her boldness.
She was taking charge now, not out of a need to dominate, but as an active participant in their shared dance. She met his gaze, her eyes sparkling with challenge, and slowly, with all the grace of a predator, she began to sink to her knees before him. She didn't break eye contact, her lips parting in a slow smile as her intentions became clear.
She was halfway down when he caught her, his hands gentle but firm on her upper arms. "Hold on," he said softly.
Clarisse looked up, her expression confused and frustrated. "What is it? Am I not being obedient enough for you?" The pride was back, and there was a slight edge to her voice.
Harry let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Far from it." He drew her back to her feet, his hands sliding to frame her face. He looked into her wide, questioning eyes and saw the swirl of desire, pride, and a burgeoning affection that made his smile widen. "You misunderstood me this morning, Clarisse. I told you that you were where you wanted to be. And you were. But a man doesn't just take."
He leaned in and captured her lips in a soft, searing kiss. It wasn't a kiss of dominance or teasing, but one that signified an olive branch, that there would be no more games or illusions between them. That if she wanted this, then she would become his, just like every other woman in his life. When he pulled back, she was breathless, her eyes wide with understanding dawning on her.
"He also worships his women," Harry finished, his voice a low rumble of desire.
He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers, and tugged her gently out of the kitchen. She followed, dazed, as he led her into the living room, lit only by the warm glow of the fireplace. He guided her to the large couch that sat before it.
"Sit," he commanded softly.
She obeyed, sinking into the soft cushions, her dress pooling around her. She watched him, her heart hammering in her chest, as he knelt before her on the thick rug. He was on his knees. For her. The sheer shock of the gesture, the reversal of everything she had expected, sent a jolt of pure excitement through her.
"Harry, you don't have to—" she began, but he silenced her with a look.
"I know," he said simply. His gaze was intense, hot with a promise that made her toes curl. "But I want to." He reached out, his hands resting on her knees. The fabric of her dress was a thin barrier between his touch and her skin. "Tonight, you are not my caretaker here, Clarisse. You are not someone sent to sabotage me. You said you would gladly serve me, so I hope you know what that means."
She certainly did. She had seen him with Narcissa Black and Amelia Bones, and she knew the dynamic they shared. It was an invitation for her, to become one of his lovers. Not a servant. Not someone to pleasure him. But an equal. The thought sent a sense of thrill through her very being.
"Good," Harry smiled at her shaky nod. "Because here, right now, I'm going to pleasure you."
A sound that was half-gasp, half-moan tore from Clarisse's lips. This was a side of him she hadn't glimpsed before—a generosity as intoxicating as the raw power that thrummed beneath his skin.
His fingers found the hem of her dress, and he began to lift it with agonizing slowness. The fabric brushed gently against her skin, his knuckles grazing the soft flesh of her thighs with a touch so light it sent sparks skittering through her nerves. The cool air of the dimly lit room kissed her heated skin as he exposed her inch by inch, and she shivered—not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of his gaze and the anticipation coiling tight in her core.
Her dress bunched higher, revealing the delicate garters that clasped her silk stockings, their intricate lace a stark contrast against her flushed thighs. His hands paused, and she felt the heat of his breath catch as he took in the sight of her. The garters framed her legs like an offering, leading his eyes to the delicate lace of her knickers, sheer and barely concealing the damp heat beneath. His gaze darkened, his pupils dilating as he drank her in, and the intensity of his stare made her feel both vulnerable and worshipped.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire, the single word wrapping around her like a caress. It wasn't just a compliment; it was a claim, a declaration that sent a pulse of heat straight to her core.
He leaned forward, his hands sliding up to cup her thighs, fingers splaying possessively over her skin. His thumbs traced slow, sensual circles on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, so close to where she ached for his touch that her breath hitched.
Clarisse's fingers dug into the plush velvet of the couch cushions, her knuckles whitening as waves of pleasure began to build already, unbidden, under his touch. He pressed a kiss to the inside of one knee, his lips warm and soft, then lingered there, letting his breath tease her skin before moving to the other. Each kiss was like a spark, igniting a trail of fire that spread upward, pooling low in her belly.
"Relax," he whispered, his voice a soft command against her thigh. "Just feel."
The words washed over her, loosening the tension in her muscles even as they heightened her awareness of every sensation. He shifted, positioning himself between her legs, his broad shoulders nudging her thighs apart. The vulnerability of the position made her heart race, but there was no fear—only a desperate, aching need. His face was so close now, his breath hot and teasing as it ghosted over the lace of her panties. The thin fabric was already soaked, clinging to her, and the faintest brush of air against it made her gasp, her hips arching off the couch instinctively.
He chuckled wickedly, the sound making her shiver. "Eager, are we?" he teased, his voice dripping with amusement and promise. Before she could respond, his tongue darted out, tracing a single, long line over the lace, directly over her clit.
The sensation was electric, a sharp jolt of pleasure that ripped a cry from her throat. Her body jerked, her hands scrabbling at the cushions as her mind reeled. He didn't relent. His nose nudged against the fabric, inhaling her scent with a primal groan that made her cheeks burn. Then his tongue was back, swirling and teasing through the lace, tasting her indirectly but with such intensity that she was already trembling. The barrier of the fabric was maddening, amplifying every touch while denying her the full contact she craved. Her fingers twisted in the velvet, her back arching as she pressed herself closer, desperate for more, for everything.
He took his time, savoring her reactions, his tongue tracing the outline of her sex through the lace, dipping lower to press against her entrance before flicking back to her clit. Each movement was calculated to drive her to the edge without letting her fall. Her breaths came in shallow pants, her veela nature awakening fully, her magic shimmering in the air around them like a faint, silvery mist. It was a visible manifestation of her arousal, her loss of control, and it only seemed to spur him on.
With a final, teasing lick, he hooked his teeth gently into the edge of her panties. The sensation of his mouth so close, the slight tug of the fabric, made her whimper. Slowly, torturously, he dragged the lace down her thighs, baring her completely to his gaze.
The cool air hit her slick, overheated pussy, and she gasped, her body clenching with need. He paused, his eyes locked on her, and the raw hunger in his expression made her feel like a goddess and a sacrifice all at once.
"Perfect," he breathed, the word almost reverent, and then his mouth was on her.
There was no hesitation now, no teasing. His tongue found her slick folds, tasting her with a groan that vibrated against her sensitive flesh. He explored her with a lover's devotion and a predator's precision, learning every contour, every spot that made her gasp or moan. He traced the delicate lips of her sex with slow, languid strokes, then teased her swollen clit with maddening circles, varying the pressure until she was writhing beneath him. Occasionally, he dipped his tongue inside her with shallow thrusts that sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through her body, making her toes curl and her breath catch.
"Oh Harry," she moaned, her head thrown back and her silver hair spilling over the velvet couch like moonlight. Her voice was raw, pleading, as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable intensity. "Please…"
"Please what?" he murmured, his lips brushing her clit as he spoke, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of sensation through her. He nipped at her gently, just a graze of his teeth, and she screamed, the sound high and desperate, echoing in the quiet room.
Her veela magic was spiraling now, wild and untamed, intertwining with his own power in a way that felt as if she could reach out and feel it. The air crackled with a mix of desire and magic that made her skin tingle. She was close, so close, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her belly. Her hands found his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, tugging as she pushed herself against his mouth, chasing release.
And then, he changed everything.
He lifted his head for a moment, and her eyes snapped open, meeting his. His gaze burned with an otherworldly light, intense, pinning her in place. Her chest heaved, her body slick with sweat, and her thighs trembling as she hovered on the precipice of release. He smiled—a slow, predatory curve of his lips that promised devastation.
And then he began to speak.
The sound that spilled from his mouth was unlike anything she had ever heard. It was a series of soft, sibilant hisses, a serpentine melody that seemed to bypass her ears and resonate directly in her soul.
Parseltongue! The language was ancient, primal, and dripping with magic that felt alive, coiling around her like a lover's touch. Each hiss was a caress, a command, a spell that sank into her bones and set her nerves alight.
As he spoke, he lowered his mouth to her again, and the combination was cataclysmic.
His tongue resumed its worship, but now every touch was amplified by the magic of his words. Each hiss seemed to manipulate her senses, heightening every sensation until it was almost too much to bear. His tongue on her clit wasn't just a touch—it was an inferno, a lightning strike, a tidal wave. The Parseltongue wove through her veela magic, binding it, commanding it, making it sing in harmony with his power. She felt it in her core, in her blood, in the very air she breathed.
"Sssurrender to me… Let it consssume you…" The words weren't spoken, not truly, but they echoed in her mind, a hypnotic command that she was powerless to resist.
Her body arched, moans and cries escaping her as she clutched the couch desperately. His tongue swirled around her clit, relentless, and then he sucked gently, the pressure perfect and devastating. The Parseltongue continued, a relentless incantation that pushed her higher, deeper, into a realm of pleasure she hadn't known existed. Her eyes rolled back, her vision blurring as she lost herself completely.
"Harry!" she shrieked, her voice breaking, raw with desperation.
Her orgasm crashed over her like a storm, not just a physical release but a magical one, a cataclysm that tore through her with the force of a hurricane. Her body convulsed, helpless against the tidal wave of ecstasy that consumed her. Her magic erupted, shimmering in the air like a supernova, crackling with power as it mingled with his. Wave after wave of pleasure wracked her, each one more intense than the last, until she was sobbing his name, like a broken prayer of worship and surrender.
He didn't stop. Even as she shattered, his tongue kept at it, lapping at her softly, soothing the hypersensitive flesh while coaxing every last shudder from her trembling form. His hands held her thighs, keeping her from flying apart completely. The Parseltongue faded, but its echo lingered, like a phantom touch that made her skin hum.
When he finally pulled away, she collapsed against the cushions, boneless and spent. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her skin glistening with sweat, and her entire body tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure. She felt remade, as if he had unraveled her and woven her back together into something new, something that belonged to him utterly.
Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused, and found him still kneeling before her. His expression was one of intense satisfaction, but there was a tenderness there too, a softness that made her heart ache. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her sweat-slicked forehead, the gesture achingly gentle after the storm he'd unleashed.
Clarisse looked at him—this man who wielded magic beyond comprehension, who spoke the language of serpents, who had dominated her body and soul and then worshipped her with equal fervor. Her pride, her schemes, her loyalty to anyone else—they were ashes in the wake of what he now meant to her. All that remained was him, his power, his presence, and his endless green eyes that seemed to see straight through her.
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her flushed cheek. It wasn't sadness, but something deeper—adoration, surrender, and a soul-deep acceptance of what he was to her now.
"Mon Dieu," she whispered, her voice hoarse and trembling.
Her hand lifted, the trembling fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He was no longer just Harry Peverell, the British champion, the enigma she'd been tasked to unravel. He was her king, her lord, her everything. And as she gazed into his eyes, Clarisse knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that she would gladly remain on her knees for him for the rest of her life.
TBC.
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