Chapter 5: The Setup
The rose petal burned a hole in his pocket for the rest of the day. It felt heavier than it should, a dense, velvet accusation against his thigh. He attended the Liaison meeting. Fleur, cool and impeccably professional in a different set of robes, presented a report on enhanced security for international Floo networks. She never looked at him directly. Harry stared at the grain of the conference table, the memory of her against the glass haunting every blink.
When five o’clock chimed from the Ministry’s enchanted ceiling, he stood, gathered his things, and made for the lifts. Routine was a lifeline. Home. Ginny. Dinner. Normality.
He stepped into the lift alone, pressing the button for the Atrium. The golden gates began to close. As they shut, he caught a glimpse of silver-blonde hair turning a corner, gone.
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the petal. It was warm.
The lift jerked to a halt between floors. The lights flickered, died, then glowed a deep, menacing purple. Before he could draw his wand, the Portkey activation seized him—a savage hook behind his navel.
He was yanked forward, spinning through a vortex of distorted color and sound. The world compressed, stretched, and tore.
He landed on his knees, the impact jarring his teeth. The polished marble of the Ministry was gone, replaced by the soft, deep pile of an unfamiliar rug. The sterile air had transformed into something thick and warm, scented with lavender, beeswax, and the unmistakable, intoxicating trace of Fleur.
He was in a bedroom. Her bedroom.
Sunlight, golden and late afternoon, streamed through tall windows draped in velvet the color of bruised twilight. It caught on the motes of dust dancing in the air, on the gilded frames of antique mirrors that covered one wall, reflecting the room into infinite, shimmering recursion. In every mirror, he saw himself: disheveled, bewildered, on his knees.
And in every mirror, he saw her.
She lay sprawled in the center of a vast bed draped in emerald silk. She was naked, her skin glowing in the honeyed light. One arm was flung above her head, the other hand between her legs. Her fingers moved with a slow, indolent rhythm over her glistening sex, parting folds already slick and swollen. Her silver-blonde hair fanned out across the pillows like a spill of moonlight.
She watched him in the mirrors, her striking blue eyes holding his reflected gaze. A lazy, predatory smile touched her lips.
“You are punctual,” she purred, her voice a low thrum that vibrated in the warm air.
Harry scrambled to his feet, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. “What the fuck, Fleur? A Portkey? You could get sacked for that! I could get sacked!”
“But you are not going to report me, are you?” she said, her fingers never stopping their gentle, circular caress. “You kept the petal. You wanted to come.”
“I didn’t—” The protest died in his throat. He had kept it. He hadn’t thrown it away.
Her smile widened. She hooked a leg over the side of the bed, opening herself further to the mirror’s view—to his view. The pink, intimate flesh was gleaming wet. “You look thirsty, Harry.” She brought her fingers to her mouth, slowly sucked them clean, her eyes locked on his. A shiver ran through her. “They say,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, “that a Veela’s nectar is the most addictive substance on earth. Even a quarter-Veela’s. It gets in your blood. You will crave it. You will dream of the taste.”
He was paralyzed, caught between outrage and a hunger so deep it felt like a sickness. The room, her scent, her unabashed display—it was a cocktail designed to obliterate willpower. His cock, traitorous and eager, hardened painfully against his flies.
“This is insane,” he breathed, but it was a weak incantation against the pull of her.
“Come here,” she commanded, her tone shifting from purr to demand.
His feet moved of their own accord. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. Up close, the scent of her arousal was dizzying, musky and sweet. She reached out and undid his belt with quick, efficient tugs. His trousers and boxers pooled at his ankles. She didn’t touch him, just lay back, her hand returning to her sex, spreading herself open for him.
“You first,” she whispered. “Taste what you have been thinking about.”
He knelt on the bed. The silk was cool under his knees. He leaned over her, the head of his cock brushing against her inner thigh, leaving a damp streak. He lowered his head, his breath ghosting over her damp curls.
“Go on,” she urged, her fingers threading into his hair, not guiding, just possessing.
He let his tongue swipe a slow, flat stroke through her folds.
The taste exploded on his senses—complex, rich, tangy-sweet, utterly foreign. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. A low groan escaped him, born of pure, visceral shock. She was right. It was addictive. He did it again, longer this time, seeking the source, lapping at her, drinking her in. Her hips rolled against his mouth, a silent encouragement. Her taste flooded him, the intimate, primal flavor of her fueling a reckless hunger.
He fucked her with his tongue, delving deep, licking and sucking until her breathing grew ragged and her thighs tightened around his head. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting. She was making soft, choked sounds, her composure shattering.
“Enough,” she gasped, yanking his head back. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. “Now. I want you inside me. I want to feel you lose control.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He surged up, aligned himself, and drove into her in one continuous, deep thrust. She was so wet, so impossibly hot and tight. She cried out, her back arching off the silk.
He set a brutal pace from the start, each thrust a frenzied claiming. This wasn’t like the office. There were no witnesses, no risk of discovery beyond the mirrored walls that reflected their union back at them a hundredfold. He could see it all—the sweat-slicked length of his back, the bunching of her thighs around his hips, the desperate, rhythmic joining. The sight was almost as potent as the feel.
“Fuck, yes,” she hissed, her nails carving down his back. “Just like that. Forget her. This is real. This is me.”
He was beyond words, lost in sensation. The slap of skin on skin, her guttural cries, the clutching heat of her around him—it consumed him. He braced one hand by her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. He pounded into her, chasing the ghost of her taste on his tongue, the promise of oblivion.
“Look,” she commanded, turning her head towards the wall of mirrors. “Look at yourself. See what you are. See what you need.”
His eyes met his own reflection—wild-eyed, face contorted with pleasure, driving into the beautiful, wanton creature beneath him. The image shattered his last pretense. He was this. He was here. He was hers.
“Come for me, Harry,” she whispered, her voice a raw scrape against his ear. “Fill me up. Mark me. Let me feel it.”
Her words tipped him over the edge. His climax tore through him with violent, wrenching force. He shouted, a wordless, ragged sound, as he emptied himself deep inside her, his body shuddering with the release. As he pulsed, she clenched around him, her own orgasm rippling through her in waves, milking him dry until he was spent, collapsing onto her, gasping.
For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant cry of a bird outside. The sun had moved, painting the room in deeper shades of orange and shadow.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The stickiness between them. The weight of his body on hers. The profound wrongness of it all. And yet, a terrible, settled certainty.
He pulled out. The loss of connection felt physical.
She didn’t move, just watched him from beneath heavy lids. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The taste of her was still on his lips.
“Ginny will know,” he said, the words hollow.
Fleur shifted onto her side, propping her head on her hand. She traced a fingertip through the mess on her inner thigh, then brought it to her mouth. “Perhaps.”
He turned to look at her. “What do you want from me?”
“Everything,” she said simply. Then she smiled, a trace of sadness in it. “But we will start with tonight. You will stay. You will have dinner with me. You will fuck me again, in my bath. And in the morning, you will go back to your life.” She leaned closer, her scent enveloping him anew. “But you will have this taste in your mouth. And you will come back for it. You will find a way.”
He knew she was right. The addiction was already in his veins. He looked at the mirrors, at the countless reflected images of their joined bodies, now separate. One of the images, he noticed, was different. In one mirror, high on the wall, a single, stark reflection showed not the room, but a view of his own living room. Ginny was there, laughing, tossing a snitch in the air, waiting for him.
He blinked, and it was just a mirror again.
“How did you—”
“Veela magic is old magic,” Fleur said softly, standing and stretching like a satisfied cat. She walked, naked and unselfconscious, to a wardrobe. “It does not always follow the rules you know.” She pulled out a robe, deep blue and embroidered with silver. “The bath is through there. Clean yourself. I will have food sent up.”
He sat, hollowed out and full of her, as she left the room. On the nightstand, beside a crystal lamp, the rose petal lay. It had transported him here. Now it was just a petal again. He picked it up. It crumbled to dust in his fingers, leaving a tiny, shimmering silver stain on his skin that refused to be wiped away.