Summary:What happens when tensions rise between a budding paramour, and a close friend who owes Harry much? Does Harry truly understand where his power comes from?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Purple hair writhed like living serpents as Tonks thrashed in her sleep, her body betraying her control—breasts swelling painfully against her nightshirt, nipples hardening to aching points. In her dream, cobblestones tore at her bare feet as she fled, spells shattering stone inches from her skull, the knight's armor clanking with each thundering step behind her. The alley walls grew around her, widening into a large courtroom with a throne atop a dais. Her very bones seemed to liquefy as her body transformed—ears elongating to delicate elf-like points, hair bleaching to platinum, breasts contracting so rapidly she gasped at the sensation.
The dream fractured—her hair receded sharply to her scalp, breasts expanding until they strained against invisible bonds, wrists raw from struggling against their restraints as a faceless man devoured her, his rugged beard rubbing against her thigh as his tongue penetrated so deeply, so thoroughly she screamed.
Tonks jolted awake with a violent spasm, sheets soaked through, thighs slick with evidence of her release. Her fingers trembled as they slid between her folds, bringing the wetness to her mouth. The taste hit her like lightning—unnaturally sweet, yet still intoxicating.
Before she could process it, pain exploded behind her eyes like a Cruciatus curse, driving white-hot nails through her temples. She bit through her lip to keep from screaming, blood mixing with the lingering sweetness.
"Four fucking days," she snarled through clenched teeth, tasting copper. "What the fuck is happening?"
§ § §
Gillyweed, Harry discovered, was surprisingly straightforward to obtain when one had the influence of a Lord and the foresight to order it on the very first day of Christmas break. A small, nondescript package arrived mere days after he and Fleur had scouted the bathroom, delivered by a tawny owl with a stern expression. Lily had sent it promptly, as he had instructed. Harry had been careful not to acquire it too soon, wary of any accusations of cheating that might arise.
He knew that magic would be essential, but his underwater practice had been woefully inadequate. So, with a deep breath, he decided to visit the Room of Requirement. Stepping inside, he found himself standing before a vast swimming pool, its depths easily fifty feet and stretching the entire length of the chamber. The water was a shimmering expanse of blue, inviting and slightly intimidating. Daphne, noticing his frequent disappearances after their morning runs and sparring sessions, had queried him, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. Relenting, he had revealed the room to her, and her face had lit up with awe as she stepped inside. "This is incredible," she had murmured, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "We'll swim laps and spar underwater," she declared, her eyes shining with determination. "You need to be ready, Harry."
He knew he couldn't refuse.
Daphne took it upon herself to procure a set of swimming armour for their evening sessions—form-fitting swimsuits that retained warmth and allowed flexibility for both swimming and spell-casting. Harry had felt a fleeting sense of disappointment at not seeing the eldest Greengrass in a bikini, but he swiftly pushed the thought aside, reminding himself of her engagement and their friendship.
Eventually, Harry shared the room with Neville and Hermione. Neville's gratitude was profuse, his eyes wide with excitement as he agreed on a schedule with Hermione for using the room. When Fleur noticed Harry's perpetually damp hair, he found himself revealing the room to her as well. They settled on a timetable that accommodated both their needs, and Fleur admitted that two of her friends could assist her.
However, this did not prevent the occasional overlaps in their schedules. More than once, Harry found Fleur already in the pool when he arrived, her bikini top conspicuously absent. The room echoed with the sound of their laughter and the soft murmurs of their conversations as they tread water, facing each other. Their intimacy never escalated beyond heated make-out sessions and the press of their bodies against each other, Fleur's bikini top often discarded and floating somewhere far out of reach. Sometimes, it was nowhere to be seen at all.
Fleur never voiced it aloud, but the young Delacour had grown addicted to the sensation of her magic intertwining with Harry's, their powers pulsing in sync as his lips teased her exposed skin, drawing out her pleasure in waves of pure, electric bliss.
And she loved touching herself to the memory of it.
§ § §
Daphne's jaw clenched when Fleur showed up for their morning session. Harry watched as Fleur perched at the pool's edge, wringing her silver-blonde hair with deliberate slowness, water droplets cascading down her naked back. When she finally stood, she barely covered her breasts with one arm while reaching for her shirt, her eyes locked on Harry's the entire time.
"I forgot you had the room, 'Arry," she purred, the lie transparent between them.
The moment the door closed behind Fleur, Daphne's wand slashed through the air. Her hexes cracked against the water's surface with such fury that jagged ice crystals erupted around her, spreading in violent, razor-sharp patterns. Harry flinched as one shard whistled past his ear.
"Daphne—"
"Don't," she hissed, diving beneath the surface.
I thought she liked Fleur, Harry thought, bewildered by the rage radiating from her.
Harry's body was already well-trained from his time with the Redwood, but that was mostly focusing on channeling primal magic using the body as a vessel; combat entailed brute strength and using senses for hunting. But it seems that Daphne's time before Harry met her in the mountain allowed her to really stretch her duelling skills—that and having a private duelling tutor during the summers before she went away.
And Harry was impressed.
His time with Sirius had been to refine his ability to call forth his power, but his time with Daphne was quickly becoming a valued part of his training.
Mostly the realisation that when casting spells underwater, the initial 'spark' for the spell needs to be double the the amount as a normal evocation spell, and for obvious reasons, needs to be cast non-verbally.
So Daphne and Harry trained on simple paralysis spells, shield charms, the expelliarmus and lumos.
Turns out, lumos was both the easier spell to cast, but was the hardest to maintain once it had been cast as it requires a constant feed of power, whereas the other spells simply require a one time blast of power.
By the first week of February, Harry received a series of letters, each bearing distinct handwriting that made his pulse quicken for different reasons. The first, on cream-coloured parchment edged with silver filigree, carried Narcissa's unmistakable perfume—jasmine with undertones of vanilla. Her elegant script invited him for what she called a 'cordial tea,' though they both knew those afternoons in Malfoy Manor involved her platinum hair splayed across silk sheets, her aristocratic composure shattering into desperate moans. Harry's fingers lingered on the parchment, remembering how her ice-queen demeanour had melted at the New Year's ball, leaving her trembling and begging.
The second letter arrived on Ministry-grade paper, Tonks' hurried handwriting slanting across the page. She described vivid dreams that left her sheets damp with sweat, and headaches that pulsed so intense sometimes—she wondered if this was related to the binding. Enclosed was a photograph that made his breath catch—Tonks transformed into his "sister," wearing only a thin nightgown, her metamorphmagus abilities capturing every detail perfectly.
The third bore his mother's familiar script. Lily wrote that she and Sirius would be visiting the Redwoods. he wanted to meet the mother of her future grandchild, she felt it wrong that she did not know the woman that had taken Harry as her mate and now bore his child. Just as she did. She wanted to start forging a bond.
At breakfast, Neville's curious glance toward the letters made Harry stuff them hastily into his robes. "Just Quidditch strategies," he muttered, aware of Hermione's narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Across the Great Hall, Daphne's pale gaze caught his, a subtle nod indicating it was time for training. Harry excused himself, the bench scraping against stone as he rose.
The corridor outside felt suddenly colder, and it was seeping into his skin. Footsteps echoed behind him—expecting Daphne's light tread, Harry turned, a smile forming. Instead, a flash of purple light struck his chest like arctic water flooding his veins. His limbs went numb, vision tunneling to pinpricks as his cheek cracked against the flagstone floor.
§ § §
The water lapped lightly at Daphne's feet, small fern-like ice patterns crystallising around her knees as she waited for Harry to join her. The enchanted ceiling above reflected a perfect azure sky, casting rippling blue light across the marble pool edge where she sat.
"I swear he left ahead of me," she thought, absently tracing one finger through the water, watching the tiny whirlpool form and dissipate.
She had hoped that her friendship with Harry had earned enough trust that she could finally ask him that favor, the one that had been on the tip of her tongue for months. The weight of the request had grown heavier with each passing day, like a stone polished smooth by worry. She had decided this morning that perhaps it was time, to take advantage of this private moment they get in the mornings to ask him.
The door from the changing room opened with a soft click—when they trained, they also requested the main door to the Room of Requirement to open into a split changing room that then gave access to the different training areas they needed. Daphne felt her heart drop when she saw Fleur step into the space, her flowing platinum hair cascading over one shoulder like liquid moonlight, her arms behind her back, slender fingers fiddling with the delicate strings of her sapphire-blue bikini.
"Harry could you—" but she paused when she saw that it was just Daphne sitting at the pool's edge. "Oh, it is you. You are alone?" Her French accent lilted the question upward, innocent yet somehow knowing.
"Harry hasn't arrived yet, so you can stop pretending to be useless when he's around," Daphne shot, her voice as sharp as the ice crystals forming around her.
Fleur shrugged, and expertly tied the string to her bikini with a practiced flick of her wrists and stood, one manicured hand perched on the curve of her hip as she took in Daphne's appearance, eyes traveling from the Slytherin's damp white hair to her armoured swimsuit. Which although was figure hugging, was not flattering.
Fleur's lips curled into a sly, knowing smile as she leaned forward, her bikini-clad body glistening with droplets of water that clung to her sun-kissed skin like tiny diamonds. Her full, ripe breasts strained against the flimsy fabric of her swimsuit, the outline of her nipples hardening slightly under Daphne's frosty gaze. Fleur's voice was honeyed, dripping with insinuation as she purred, "You do not like me?"
Daphne's scoff was sharp, her icy-blue eyes narrowing as they swept over Fleur's curvaceous form. The French witch was a vision of temptation, her hips swaying hypnotically as she moved, her long, toned legs parting slightly as she settled herself gracefully on the edge of the pool. Daphne's fingers twitched involuntarily, frost spiraling from her fingertips as she clenched her jaw. "Do you blame me?" she shot back, her voice laced with guarded disdain.
Fleur's laugh was low and melodic, the sound reverberating through the air like a caress. She dipped a single, delicate toe into the water, withdrawing it quickly as ice crystals formed around her skin. "I do not blame you, non," she murmured, her lilting accent wrapping around each word like silk. "But perhaps you misunderstand."
Daphne's frosty glare intensified, her chest rising and falling with barely contained frustration. "I doubt that," she said coldly, her breath misting in the chilled air around her.
Fleur tilted her head, her golden hair cascading over one shoulder as her piercing eyes studied Daphne with a newfound spark of interest. "You think I am here for Harry? That I use my allure to trap him?"
"Aren't you?" Daphne countered, her voice sharp as a blade. Her icy gaze lingered on Fleur's full lips, the memory of her flirtatious touches during Harry's training sessions burning like acid in her mind. "I've seen how you look at him. How you touch him."
Fleur's lips parted in a sly smile, her teeth gleaming like pearls. "The tournament demands allies," she said smoothly, her voice carrying a hint of steel. "And Harry is... resistant to my natural gifts. It is... refreshing." She shifted closer, her bare thigh brushing against Daphne's, the heat of her skin a stark contrast to the icy chill radiating from the other witch. "But perhaps," Fleur continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you care for him more than you admit."
Daphne's jaw tightened, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of anger and something she refused to name. "He saved my life," she said stiffly, her fingers curling into fists as frost patterns spread across the ground. "I owe him."
"Ah, yes," Fleur murmured, her gaze sweeping over Daphne's lithe frame with a predator's appreciation. Her eyes lingered on the swell of Daphne's breasts beneath her fitted top, the curve of her hips, the smooth expanse of her legs. "He is quite the hero, isn't he?" Fleur's tongue darted out to wet her lips, her voice dropping to a husky purr. "And you are quite beautiful, ma chérie. So why are you jealous?"
Daphne's breath hitched, her pulse quickening despite the icy air around her. Fleur's proximity was intoxicating, her scent of saltwater and jasmine enveloping her like a forbidden embrace. "Jealous?" Daphne spat, though her voice lacked conviction.
Fleur's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ah," she said softly, her fingers trailing idly along the edge of the pool. "You are betrothed, non? To the Malfoy boy?"
Daphne froze, her heart pounding in her chest. The mention of her engagement to Draco was like a dagger to her pride, a reminder of the gilded cage she was forced to endure. Fleur leaned in closer, her breath warm against Daphne's ear as she whispered, "Such a waste... for a beauty like you."
The air between them crackled with tension, Fleur's scent and heat mingling with Daphne's icy aura. Fleur's hand brushed lightly against Daphne's thigh, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through the ice-witch's body. "Perhaps," Fleur murmured, her voice dripping with promise, "there are... other arrangements that could be made."
Daphne's lips parted, her breath shallow as she fought to maintain her composure. She knew that Fleur was just trying to get at her— wanting to throw her off so she would expose some kind of weakness. The French witch's gaze darkened with unspoken desire, her fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path up Daphne's leg. "Think about it," Fleur whispered, her voice a velvet caress. "Harry is... resourceful. And he has a fondness for those who are... loyal, non? Per'aps he is the kind of man who would protect the ones he cares for… as long as there is something in it for him too?"
The implication hung in the air like a storm cloud, Fleur's eyes locking with Daphne's as she withdrew her hand, her touch lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Daphne's mind raced, her body torn between the icy chill of her magic and the molten heat pooling low in her belly. Fleur stood gracefully, her hips swaying as she retreated to the water's edge, leaving Daphne frozen in place, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and forbidden temptation.
Fleur glanced over her shoulder, her smile wicked as she stepped into the pool, the water lapping at her slender ankles. "Perhaps," she said softly, her voice carrying across the distance, "you should join me. The water is... quite warm."
Daphne's fingers twitched, her frost patterns spreading outward as she fought to control the storm raging within her. Fleur's words lingered in the air, a tantalising proposition that threatened to unravel everything Daphne thought she knew.
And as Fleur disappeared beneath the shimmering surface, Daphne couldn't help but wonder if there was truly a way out of her gilded cage—and if there was a way to not destroy her relationship with her parents.
§ § §
She stared at her reflection, eyes fixed on her disheveled mouse-brown hair sticking out in seventeen different directions; she was accustomed to waking up looking a mess, but last night had been worse—sheets twisted into damp ropes around her ankles. Ever since she left Harry and Lily to return to work, her nights had been restless and torturous. Tossing and turning, always waking with sweat-slicked skin and a state of desperate arousal that left her pajamas clinging uncomfortably to her trembling body.
As she gazed into the steam-clouded mirror, she attempted to pull her hair back—it had grown wild in her sleep, tangled like devil's snare. But as her fingers brushed the strands, they shrank and curled into bubblegum-pink waves that cascaded down her shoulders like cotton candy. Her breasts felt heavier beneath her thin cotton camisole, their shape shifting to a perfect retroussé, nipples hardening into aching peaks that pressed visibly against the fabric, turning upward as if begging for attention. Her waist cinched inward as her figure slimmed, and she felt a warm, wet sensation blooming between her legs as her body readied itself for what it craved, her thighs trembling with anticipation.
Tonks had woken from her fitful sleep feeling tired and achy, muscles protesting with every movement, her magical abilities flickering like a dying candle in a drafty room. But there was no denying the insistent throbbing need between her thighs, pulsing in time with her racing heartbeat.
Her mouth was desert-dry, parched with a thirst that no amount of water could quench, her tongue like sandpaper against the roof of her mouth. She slid a trembling hand beneath the worn elastic waistband of her faded cotton pajamas, feeling the molten heat that pooled there, sticky nectar coating her inner thighs with glistening evidence of her desperate need. Her fingers glided through her swollen, velvet folds, her body feverishly ready, flesh hot and yielding like warm caramel beneath her touch.
She circled her throbbing clit with her middle finger, the pad of her fingertip dancing in tight, deliberate circles, letting out a soft, broken gasp that echoed off the bathroom walls as white-hot pleasure shot through her like summer lightning, her knees nearly buckling against the ice-cold hexagonal bathroom tiles. She imagined Harry's strong hands on her body, calloused from years of gripping broomsticks; his rough fingers taking control where hers now teased; his thick, veined cock driving into her where her fingers could never satisfy, stretching her deliciously; stroking all the way inside until his purple tip bottomed out against her cervix—a delicious pain with each thrust sending electric shocks through every nerve ending, her spine arching off the mattress as he claimed her completely.
As she brought herself to a shuddering release, she spotted herself in the steam-clouded mirror, her form shifting kaleidoscopically—first to her heart-shaped face with mousy brown hair, then into Narcissa's aristocratic platinum elegance, to Lily's fiery copper waves, into the slender female echo of Harry's sister, then finally settling into this new form with bubble-gum pink curls and impossible curves that she had slipped into overnight.
Her violet eyes nearly crossed as her trembling thighs became unnaturally drenched, her silken inner walls clenching and unclenching desperately around nothing, aching to cling to something substantial that was not there; she needed him with every cell in her metamorphosing body.
"I need him," she thought, her inner voice ragged with desperation. "Or it may kill me."
§ § §
Cold bit into his cheek first. Stone. His arms ached next—pins and needles running fire under his skin. When he tried to move, something tugged tight across his chest and wrists.
He opened his eyes to a ceiling of mismatched star charts and dangling brass mobiles, planets wobbling drunkenly in slow orbits. A candle guttered on a crate. There was a smell of tea that had gone past gentle and straight into medicinal.
"Sorry about the hex," a dreamy voice said from somewhere behind him. "You're difficult to kidnap politely."
Harry tilted his head. Luna Lovegood sat cross-legged on a cushion that had definitely seen war, a cup cradled in both hands like it was a kitten. Her hair was a pale cloud; her gaze was bright and very, very focused for someone who always sounded like she was halfway to the moon.
"You kidnapped me," he said flatly. His voice came out rough. "Out of a school corridor."
"Yes." She considered him with mild interest. "You were walking too quickly for a conversation. Also, people are less honest when they think they can run away."
Harry tugged against the ropes. They didn't budge. Old practice instincts flared—test slack, catalogue knots, estimate wand reach. Wand: gone. Knots: neat, layered, not some amateur tangle. Slack: none.
"If you wanted a conversation," he said, "you could have asked for a conversation."
"I did." Luna sipped her tea. "In my head. You said you were very busy."
"I was not in your head."
"No. That was the problem."
He stared at her. She stared back, unblinking, as if this explained everything.
"How did.. how did you sneak up on me?" He asked.
She cocked her head and smiled, "what gives you strength... must not have seen me as a threat, perhaps?"
Harry exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. "Right. We're going to pretend this is normal for thirty seconds. What do you want?"
Luna set her tea down on a stack of astronomy journals, folded her hands, and smiled like a cat who had decided the canary should pitch a business plan. "To apply."
"For what?"
"For you," she said simply. "The future you. The one who wears too many rings and carries storms in his pockets. The head mage. Of a harem." She blinked. "There isn't a formal form. I checked."
Harry stared at her. "You kidnapped me to… submit an application."
"You walk very fast," she said again, as if that explained the rope, the mobiles, and the faintly alarming tea. "Also, once I say it to your face, the threads don't tangle as badly."
"Threads."
"The future," she said, tipping her head. "It snarls. You are a comb."
He tugged the bindings again out of habit. Still tight. "And the rope?"
Luna brightened. "Because you like it."
"I beg your fucking pardon?"
"In several visions, there are knots," she said, entirely tranquil. "And silk. And once, a very complicated charm with seven points. You were smiling. So I thought this would be… familiar."
Harry shut his eyes for a beat. Trying to reign in his frustration at this conversation—she's doing what she thought was a nice thing… just going about it the wrong way.
So, she can.. see the future, and in this future she has seen me, with my ladies being tied up. Right.
"I like being in control," he finally said, opening his eyes again. "Key phrase being I. Also, not with me on the receiving end in a dusty—where even are we?"
"A closet adjacent to Professor Sinistra's office," Luna said. "It hums at night."
"Of course it does." He craned his neck. "Who taught you the binding charm?"
"I watched the Grey Lady tie up Peeves," she said dreamily. "Then I practiced on gnomes. They were very bad at giving interviews."
He snorted despite himself. "Look, I appreciate—no, I don't. I understand you have… visions. But I'm not going to—" He flicked his eyes at the rope. "—do anything with you because you saw a picture in your head. That's not how this works."
Luna studied him. Not offended. Just… taking notes. "You're already collecting them," she said, "—and you will keep doing it," she finished mildly, "until you either name it or it eats you."
"Wonderful," he said. "Future indigestion. Noted."
Luna tipped her head. "An ice witch who pretends the water doesn't want her. A songbird who mastered the allure. A lioness who learned to burn. A queen with a crown she didn't ask for. A fox who changes her face. A wolf princess destined to birth an alpha. It's already a menagerie. I'd like to be the moon that sees in the dark."
"Poetic," Harry said. "Also not a job posting."
"It's more of a binding," Luna said cheerfully. "if you wanted paperwork we could discuss a contract."
"I'm not binding anything to anything." He jerked his chin at the rope. "Present evidence excluded."
"You will," she said, unbothered. "And you'll share power with them. Power that isn't yours to begin with."
Harry squinted. "That's a bold accusation to lob at a tied-up man. Not mine how? I've bled for every scrap."
Luna tipped her head, as if lining up constellations only she could see. "You've been very brave and very clever. But if you don't know where your deep well comes from yet, you're a bit ignorant, Harry."
He stared. "Enlighten me."
"The Redwood taught you to drink," she said mildly. "It didn't plant the river. You pull from an older thing. You borrow. You tithe. None of the words are comfortable."
"From where?" His voice went flinty. "And if you say 'the sky,' I'm chewing through the ropes."
"Don't chew," she said, "You'll regret it when you bite your tongue at the important bit."
"The important bit," he echoed. "Which is?"
"That you've been binding people," Luna said, as if remarking on the weather. "And threading power through them that isn't yours to give."
He blinked. trying to ignore how much about his private life this Luna seems to know.
"Those I have bound.. it is within the boundary of Merlin's Law."
"The permission, yes. But the bindings are not with pretty ribbons," she allowed. "With vows. With magic that answers you because something older likes the taste of you." She tapped her cup. "You share sips. You don't even know where the jug is."
It hadn't occurred to him that perhaps his power was… unnatural. The abilities he has gained… and seen awakening in Lily in moments of intimacy… perhaps it wasn't his, but from somewhere else…
"Try me." His voice cooled. "Where does it come from?"
"If you don't know yet," Luna said, head tilting, "you've been ignorant. Which is fine. Babies are ignorant too. You're very big for a baby, though."
"Flattering."
"The well you drink from sits under thresholds," she went on, unbothered. "Doorways. Places where the world thins. It's not yours. You borrow it. You feed it. If you spread it too thin, the threads snap. People break. You'll hate that."
He went very still. The mobiles thunked softly above them, "How thin is too thin?" he asked.
"When you start giving it to prove something rather than because it fits. Luna wrinkled her nose. "Also when you try to light a bonfire with the last match because someone pretty asked you to."
He huffed. "You'll have to be more specific. There are a lot of pretty someones lately."
"Yes," she said cheerfully. "And more coming. Soon you step through a door you won't return from."
"Not a metaphor?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Not the doorway my power comes?"
She shook her head, "An actual door, or at least that's how it looks," she said. "Stone mouth. Bad wind. It tastes like old coins and rain. You'll walk through. An older sister will go with you." Her eyes flicked, faraway. "Not the one bruised by expectations. The one sharpened by them."
He frowned. "An older sister? Daphne? Fleur?"
Luna frowns in return, "No… it is not them… they… wait." her eyes go glossy for but a moment. "She's taller," Luna added helpfully. "Also colder in the way knives are honest."
"Brilliant," he muttered. "Who else?"
"A princess," Luna said, rolling the word on her tongue like she was deciding if it needed sugar. "Wary, bright, good at pretending she isn't afraid. And a queen."
"Fantastic. Royalty. Do they at least come without crowns?"
"Their crowns are problems you'll like," Luna said. "The consequences of this meeting are… clouded in shadow."
"Shadow?" Harry asked, already freed one arm from the binding.
"What you do when you walk through this door… it is beyond a veil, that I cannot see."
"Is there a king I should worry about?" he asked dryly.
"For the queen?" Luna considered. "Yes. Don't get stabbed at dinner. You won't die, but it will ruin the soup."
He stared at the ceiling, counted three slow breaths, and came back to her. "And these hypothetical—?"
"Kings and queens," Luna said simply. "Of a place that doesn't have the words for you yet. But they will."
Harry gave a short, incredulous laugh. "Right. So I open a door, and I have to walk through it."
"It won't be your choice." Luna replies.
Harry's gaze lingered on the scuffed earth between them, the air thick with the scent of wild herbs and damp moss from the surrounding forest. A soft, deliberate pop shattered the silence—the sound of a button surrendering on Luna's blouse. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto her fingers as they danced along the fabric, parting it inch by inch to reveal the creamy swell of her breasts, pale skin glowing like moonlight on fresh snow.
"I believe if you share your magic with me," she murmured, her voice a husky whisper that sent a shiver racing down his spine, "you'll gain the gift of my sight. And mine will sharpen, like a blade honed on desire. A transaction, mutually beneficial." Her hands moved lower, unbuckling the belt of her skirt with a metallic clink, the leather sliding free like a promise of surrender. The skirt whispered down her thighs, pooling at her feet, exposing the delicate lace of her panties clinging to her hips, the faint outline of her arousal pressing against the thin fabric.
His breath caught, pulse thundering in his ears as heat flooded his cheeks. "N-no! Luna," he stammered, his other arm wrenching free from the loose bindings with a rough scrape against his skin. He thrust his hand out, palm up, fingers trembling as if to ward off the intoxicating sight. But his gaze betrayed him, tracing the curve of her petite frame, the way her nipples hardened under the cool breeze, peaking against the open blouse like ripe berries begging to be tasted.
She paused, her full lips curving into a pout, eyes shimmering with a mix of curiosity and hurt. Glancing down at her body, she trailed a finger along the edge of her bra, the touch light but deliberate, sending a faint tremor through her. "Am I not attractive to you? Does my body not stir that primal hunger in you?"
Harry hesitated, his mouth dry, the taste of forbidden longing bitter on his tongue. He drank her in—the Faerie Law had sculpted her into a vision of youthful allure, around eighteen, her figure slender yet lush, breasts full and round and heavy enough to strain against any restraint, heaving with each shallow breath. Her skin was porcelain smooth, unmarred, radiating an ethereal purity that clashed with the raw heat building in his core, making him ache to corrupt it, to mark it with his touch. The air between them hummed with unspoken electricity, her scent—a delicate mix of lavender and something muskier, feminine—wafting toward him, teasing his senses like an invitation to devour.
"You're beautiful, Luna," he admitted, voice rough with restraint, his cock twitching involuntarily against his trousers at the thought of pinning her down, of feeling her writhe beneath him in a tangle of dominance and submission. "Stunning, really. But I only bind when there's... a connection. Something deeper than this rush. We've only just met."
Luna's frown deepened, her fingers lingering at her waistband, toying with the lace as if edging herself toward release. "I was so looking forward to feeling your power spill into me," she said, her tone laced with sultry disappointment, eyes darkening with visions of him thrusting deep, filling her with raw, magical ecstasy. "That hot flood of your essence claiming every inch. Perhaps... in time? When you're ready to dominate, to punish this needy body for its impatience?"
Harry forced a smile, bending to snatch her discarded shirt from the ground, the fabric still warm from her skin, carrying the faint, intoxicating trace of her arousal. He handed it to her, their fingers brushing in a spark of heat that made his breath hitch. "We shall see."
Her lips curved into a mischievous grin, and she hopped lightly from her perch, the movement making her breasts bounce enticingly. Leaning in, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, her breath hot against his ear, lips lingering just long enough to whisper promises of future surrender. "I already can," she teased, her voice a velvet caress that left him throbbing with unspent desire.
With that, she turned and sauntered away, her hips swaying in a hypnotic rhythm, leaving Harry alone in the fading light. The forest sounds crept back in—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of night birds—but his mind swirled with the erotic haze of their encounter, the what-ifs of binding her in ropes of passion, of edging her to the brink until she begged for his commanding release. He shook his head, willing the ache in his body to subside, knowing this was only the beginning of their tangled dance.