Master of Death, Lover Witches

"The view's just great isn't it?"

Fleur quirked a blond eyebrow at him. The VIP box was at the highest point in the stadium, looking down on every row of seats filled to bursting with color and noise from wizards of every continent. Veela danced far below, Leprechauns had taken to the skies raining down false gold, and the night sky seemed alight with stars. Noise swelled as it seemed like everyone, from everywhere, was cheering for one thing or another.

"It is," Fleur said, and Harry realized he'd forgotten how thick her accent used to be. "However, it seems you are only looking at me."

"Strange," said Harry. "I'm certain I've got at least a little bit of the field in my peripherals. Bulgaria's winning, aren't they?"

"The players have not taken the field."

"So I was close." Harry shrugged. "I'm Harry, by the way."

"I can see that," said Fleur, eyes picking out the scar peeking into view beneath his bangs.

"This damn thing!" Harry groaned. "It ruins my mystique."

"I would say you still have plenty," said Fleur. "You are not what I expected, Harry potter."

"What, is it the tattoo?" he asked.

He raised his wand hand, wiggling the fingers. As he did the sleeve slipped down slightly, revealing a view of an elaborate web of ink— thin lashing lines that seemed to swell and shift, all moving in tandem around a bold black skull.

"It is magic?" Fleur asked, eyeing the marks with undisguised curiosity. "But, non, Harry Potter. It is not some mark that fascinates me. It is you."

Ludo Bagman had sufficiently recovered from the Veela to put his wand to his throat and roar the names of emerging players to the crowd. He wasn't alone. All across the box men seemed to come back to life, and the older wizard sitting on the opposite side of Fleur, the one who entered with her, visibly shook himself.

He had been the least affected by the allure besides Harry, sitting still in his seat and not posturing or looking dully off into space. But it became clear now that doing so had taken all of his willpower. With that need reduced, he finally took notice of Harry's new choice of seat.

"My uncle," Fleur introduced mildly and, perhaps, reluctantly. "Daddy has entrusted him to look after me."

"How do you do?" asked Fleur's uncle in uncomfortable English. "I am Jean Delacour. And you?"

"I'm the Boy-who-lived," said Harry.

"My english… it is not great," said Fleur's uncle. "But, do all boys in this box not live?"

Harry wiped a tear from his eye.

"That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard you magnificent frog-eating bastard."

Fleur's uncle still looked confused, but he turned back to the other officials around him, attempting to ignore Harry completely. Which suited Harry perfectly fine, considering his niece was more appealing in every way.

"Is there something you hope for from me?" Fleur asked.

"Company watching a wonderful game?"

In truth, he hadn't approached her with a plan. He'd been surprised, seeing a familiar face at a time he didn't expect, and jumped at the chance for a reunion.

Plus it seemed like a decent opportunity to make fun of the French. Which, as an Englishman, he was honor-bound to take.

Fleur sniffed. "I do not think much of Quidditch."

"You are at the Quidditch World Cup."

"I am here for the spectacle," she said firmly. "Quidditch is boring and stupid, invented by men with wives too boring to sleep with. But I am a great fan of celebrations."

"In moderation," her uncle muttered at her.

She shot him an annoyed glare.

"Yes, of course."

She turned to Harry, smirking to show what she really thought of moderation.

"Celebrations are fantastic," she said fervently. "People are always at their happiest. And celebrations come in so many forms! As many people as a hundred-thousand… or as few as two."

Her absurdly beautiful face was beaming. The men around them began to shift in their seats, sweat breaking out across their necks, and… did it seem like Fleur was leaning forward?

"He fell off his broom last year!" someone screamed beside them.

Fleur's eye twitched. The atmosphere burst, wizards the box over relaxing once more. Standing beside Harry, jabbing a finger toward his face, was none other than Harry's playground nemesis.

Draco cut a ridiculous figure at the moment. While his right arm pointed at Harry, his left was raised in a v-shape, flexing the thinnest of biceps with all his insignificant might. Harry remembered the boy being especially weak to Fleur. He just didn't recall it was this bad.

"It was super embarrassing!" said Draco. "Right in the middle of the game, he just slipped off and passed out! Fell all the way to the ground. The headmaster had to save him, else he would've died right there. Stupid student dies to a bit of rain— I can see the Prophet Headline now!"

Draco stood there panting as his rant finished up. He looked mightily proud. Unfortunately, the boy had forgotten that this wasn't school, and his laugh track of Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson was entirely missing. An awkward silence settled over their corner of the box as the French delegation stopped chatting to stare at him.

"Draco," Harry said gently, "you look like you dye your hair with men's semen, and you're just inbred enough for it to be your father's that you use. We're having a conversation here, so if you could run along, maybe take a seat in the third row forward, that would be lovely."

Draco twitched, but he refused to go down so easily.

"There's only two rows of seats, Potter. Or are you too dim to count that high?"

"I was telling you to jump off and kill yourself. But I'll take it if you just scurry anywhere but here."

"I… You… You'll pay for this, Potter!"

He sprinted across the box back to his daddy's side, stopping only once on the way to check his reflection in a pane of glass, staring at his hair in a whole new light.

"Much better," Harry said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oui," said Fleur. She tapped her fingers against the back of Harry's hand on the armrest separating them. "But I can think of a way I would like you much better, you know."

"You can?" Harry said. "Oh, this I've got to hear—"

Fleur leaned close, her fingers sinking between Harry's and wrapping into them. Soft lips brushed his ear as sticky breath led a goosebump jailbreak across the side of his neck.

"Inside me," breathed Fleur.

"...Pardon?"

O-O-O

"Remember, Fleur. You are to stay close to me at all times."

Fleur nodded and wished her uncle would finish speaking already. They had been standing outside the viewer's box for at least five minutes as he extolled all the ways she must listen to and obey him. The man was an incredible drag. She might've been able to take him the slightest bit seriously if he had any real resistance to allure. But where her father was immune to she and her mother's abilities, his brother was only a bit better than average at maintaining his composure.

"I will do as you say Uncle," she said robotically. "So may we enter?"

The draft on the staircase was the worst , after all.

Her uncle hesitated. It seemed for a moment like he would refuse again, but then his ears twitched and his head perked up.

"Yes!" he said. "Right now!"

He pulled Fleur by the hand.

Her first glimpse of the viewing area was disappointing. Two rows of fat old wizards stunned stupid by a veela performance an entire stadium beneath them. So that was what her uncle had been waiting for. How do you keep a quarter-veela from being noticed? Enter when dozens of pureblooded ones were sluttily shaking their hips. Fleur snorted.

It was not until they sat down that things first became strange.

There, on an uncomfortable wooden seat with cold wind blowing her calves and weak wizards struck stupid surrounding her, something damp leaked between her legs.

Her whole body twitched. Arousal roared to life, and for the strangest few seconds, she could not for the life of her understand why.

But part of her went on clamoring: one fourth, to be precise. The veela in her sensed something.

Something strong. Something close .

Veela were different from humans. They were creatures of magic, and although capable of mating with wizards, they didn't wield their power through wands. It was a part of them, a sixth sense as natural as sight or smell.

At least, that was how Fleur's dear grandmother explained it. She herself was three-quarters wizard. She always believed her grandmother, but to Fleur, such a sense was nothing but a story, something that might've been hers had she been born with more veela blood in her veins.

To awaken the sense that had been dormant within her would take something unbelievably potent. Something more powerful than anyone realized was in this box with them. And it reeked of… Death?

The moment she put a word to it, her crotch exploded with a second wave of want.

Death was not to be feared, her grandmother always said. Death was the end of life, just as sex was the start of it. They were sides of the same coin, and without either one the world would quickly turn into an awful place to be.

Death was necessary. Death was beautiful. And by her magic, if it wasn't making Fleur unbearably horny. 

Just as she was pondering jamming a hand down her robes (witnesses be damned!) that boy appeared in front of her.

She was too stunned to speak at first. So she simply sat there looking at him, until his magic pulsed, making her loins pulse in turn, and the man beside her fled.

He asked to sit down. Externally, Fleur agreed. Internally, it was taking all she had to keep some semblance of composure.

He was even more intense up this close. His magic was all but overwhelming her, and he wasn't even trying. It made her squirm.

She chatted with him. He hadn't come to her with anything in mind… but she could fix that. Only, just as she made her move, a thin blond appeared from somewhere, mewling for attention.

His nasally voice made her want to scream. He whined something about a broom, and looked at her proudly as he finished, as if waiting for her to leap eagerly into his arms. She would have preferred to chop his manhood off and feed it to him.

But Harry Potter — for that was who the boy born from death was, the great British hero — sent the blond back where he crawled from with a verbal assault almost as vicious as the physical one Fleur imagined. At that point it sunk in completely

She didn't just want him.

She needed him.

"Much better. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oui. But I can think of a way I would like you much better, you know."

"You can? Oh, this I've got to hear—"

Fleur leaned close, sinking her fingers between Harry's and wrapping them into his. Her lips brushed his ear as her hot breath formed goosebumps along the side of his neck.

"Inside me," breathed Fleur.

"...Pardon?" he squeaked.

O-O-O

"Merlin!" Harry muttered, his eyelids fluttering.

He groaned as Fleur drove his cock repeatedly down her throat. She gripped his buttocks, a hand on each cheek, allowing her to pull her whole body forward in desperate repeated lunges.

She was laying stomach-down on a bed of blue sheets. Their clothes were strewn about the room, most piled by the door but other pieces hanging off the furniture. Harry's boxers had been tossed so far that they landed on top of a portrait frame, while Fleur's bra hung around the neck of a peacock statue.

Her private tent was incredible. It was half the size of a pureblood manor inside, decorated ostentatiously with candleholders and an operational chandelier. Her bedroom had a high ceiling and three dressers. Multiple peacock statues, each five feet in height, stood in the corners, including the one wearing her bra as a new necklace. The only thing putting Harry off was the portrait above the bed.

The woman inside it was very pretty, despite her graying brown hair and slight wrinkles. The problem was that she was mounted directly above the headboard, glaring daggers at him.

"I don't think your portrait likes me," he said.

Fleur looked up at him. Reluctantly, she drew her head back, allowing his cock to slide out of her throat.

"Ignore her," she said decisively. "She is a spy."

The portrait tutted angrily. Fleur's only response was to stick out her great pink tongue and run across Harry's length. Finally, offering one final lick that ran a circle the circumference of his glans, Fleur pulled back and explained.

"I dated the second son of the French minister this summer. He bragged so much about his prowess that I had high hopes for him, but he was a fool. He could not handle me for ten seconds! My father is still hoping I will go back to him. Our relationship was very good for the family's position, you see."

She pulled her knees up, rising to a kneeling position at the edge of the bed. Her hands slid around from behind Harry, one finding Harry's length to keep him content while her mouth was busy speaking.

"The portrait is of his great grandmother," she said. "She has been in the family for generations. Father put her above the bed with a powerful sticking charm because he was worried I would get my pussy wrecked by the first handsome wizard I came across."

She pronounced the word 'pussy' as if it were spelled 'poosay'. Harry found that hot, for some reason.

"Isn't that exactly what you're doing?" he asked.

She snorted.

"You are no mere wizard. I do not know what you are, Harry Potter, but I know it is something great. I am going to be yours, whether a stuffy old portrait watches or not."

She split her pouty lips and engulfed him once more. When she slid all the way to the base of his shaft, Harry could feel her stiff nipples pressing into his quads. He grabbed the back of her head, and when he did Fleur purred into him.

He had his fair share of experience with women. Defeating Voldemort early had seen to that, before he settled down with Hermione. Harry wasn't even new to Veela. Gabrielle Delacour, Fleur's sister, had acted on her crush the moment she was of age, and even Harry hadn't had the heart to deny a begging veela.

But he had never been with Fleur before, and certainly there was something extra about her. She took him in her mouth like every inch she swallowed would add to her lifespan. Desperation, that was the word he was looking for. It was like she didn't just want him, she yearned for him.

And Harry was perfectly content to enjoy the ride.

Fleur's platinum blond hair swung as she bobbed along him. Both her hands sank to her pussy. She fingered herself relentlessly, digging at her folds as if trying to put out a fire.

She pushed herself all the way to Harry's base and wiggled her head, twisting her throat around him. He could feel her tongue dragging on his length. One moment she was bobbing her head rapidly, the next her movements were slow and sensual. The only thing she never did was stop.

She knew when Harry was close before he did. Fleur glued her face to his crotch. Her forehead pressed against his abbs, her cute nose mashed itself flat atop his pubes, and her cheeks rubbed against his upper thighs. Harry came deep in her throat.

Fleur stayed in place until she was certain she'd swallowed the last of it. The moment she pulled off of him, she was immediately attacking his tip, lapping at his slit as she tried to lick up and leftover drops. When there was nothing left to be had, she leaned back, sitting down hard on her lovely backside.

Her fingers were still digging through what Harry could see now was a very soaked pussy. She looked imploringly at him with half-shut eyes.

"More," she begged.

Harry could hardly say no to that.

He grabbed each of her ankles. Fleur squeaked as he lifted them up, rolling her onto her back. But Harry kept pushing. He crawled onto the bed with her, and soon her legs were extended straight up, pinned beside her head.

Harry stared into her eyes. His swollen cock rubbed against her moist snatch, and Fleur shuddered, cumming before he was even inside of her.

Harry mashed his hips down before she had a chance to recover. He filled her utterly, and without so much conveniently provided lubrication, he wasn't entirely sure he would've fit. Fleur howled as the bed underneath them rocked.

"Goodness!" exclaimed the portrait overhead. 

Harry growled as he plowed through Fleur's insides. Veela were sexual beings in ways only a lucky few men ever discovered the true extent of. They weren't just supernaturally beautiful, they were supernaturally tight, with staminas far beyond the norm. They could tire out quidditch stars without breaking as sweat, and make even the most experienced man seem like a virgin.

Fleur screamed as if she were being torn in two.

"Fuck me!" she begged. "Fill me with your incredible cock! Pump your cum into me! Just please— do not stop!"

Harry grunted. His hips sunk in an unending succession of heavy thrusts. He began to bite Fleur's body.

First it was her lower lip. He took it gently between his teeth, pulling it forward before letting it snap back into place. He nibbled her collarbone. He even bit one of the clean-shaven calves next to her head.

That last one made Fleur cum. It was so wet down there, soon he wouldn't be able to notice a difference.

Harry sat up abruptly, releasing her legs and making her gasp. While still thrusting into her, he grabbed her hip and rolled her onto her side. He dropped down behind her a moment later.

The top sheet was mixed up with their feet now. He held Fleur's top leg up by the thigh, cramming himself in her pussy from behind. Her lithe back was pressed to his muscular one. He slid a hand under her hips, reaching around and bouncing two fingers against her clit. Fleur screamed, hurling her head back.

"Why I never!" exclaimed her great great grandmother above them. "How were you raised? How are you not ashamed? How are you so… so manly?"

Fleur bent her head back as far as it would go. Her lips found Harry's upside down, her tongue sliding into his mouth. Harry kissed her back, and without breaking it, rolled them over again.

She was flat on her stomach now, like she had been at the start of her blowjob, with her face looking up and their lips locked together. Each of Harry's thrusts gave a hearty clap against her heart-shaped derrière. 

"Fuck," Harry grunted, breaking the kiss. "Fuck."

He sat up on his knees, allowing Fleur's chin to sink back to the bed. He grabbed her arms, pulling them both back so that her torso elevated a few inches above the sheets. His hips had never stopped through any of the positions, but now they found a new gear.

Staccato claps filled the room so loudly that if he closed his eyes, Harry could've believed they were back in the stadium. You know, except for the gorgeous veela cumming her clit out on his cock.

By chance he looked up, and what he saw actually made him laugh. 

The portrait of Fleur's grandmother had been hung there to watch her having sex, and that was exactly what she had done. But maybe Monsieur Delacour underestimated his daughter's choice in partners.

"Remember how this portrait was going to report you to your dad?" asked Harry.

"Worth it!" shrieked Fleur beneath him.

"Well, the thing is, I don't think that's something you have to worry about anymore."

The portrait was exactly the kind classical old pureblood families adored. Fleur's great grandmother had been sitting on a wood stool against a background of blue curtains, wearing a lovely dress and holding her wand in clear view.

Now, the attractive older witch had hiked her dress all the way up. She was sitting with her legs sprawled wide open, biting her lip, and the wand she'd so proudly showed off was busy plunging in and out of her exposed pussy.

"No knickers," Harry noticed. "Are all portraits so kinky?"

His only answer was a scream from Fleur.

The French witch had cum again, and this was the most extreme one yet. Her whole body went incredibly tense, then sagged, as if the last of her energy had just squirted out through her womanhood.

It was entirely too much for Harry, who was impressed with himself for lasting as long as he had. Trusting the witch to be on the potion like most her age were, he allowed himself to let go.

It was technically the first time this body had ever had sex, and the eruption that spouted from his cock certainly proved that. He pumped wave after wave into Fleur, and even when he pulled out a full fifteen seconds later, dregs were still leaking from his tip. This time, Fleur was entirely too tired to whip around and clean him with her mouth.

A shout attracted Harry's attention. Looking up, he watched as the portrait's face twisted with pleasure. She jabbed her wand deeper, and a moment later, white paint splattered the front of the image from the inside.

Harry stared, dumbfounded. "You can do that?"

The portrait blushed and looked away.

"Can all of you do that?"

An image filled Harry's mind, quite against his will, of the paintings all around the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, grouped up in one frame for a recreational orgy.

Something tugged at his cock. He looked down and was delighted to find it wasn't the mental image making him twitch (that was one kink he did not need to awaken) but rather a set of fingers.

Fleur, still face down, had reached behind her and dragged her fingers across the length. Just as he was starting to soften, Harry found himself completely hard once more. The part-veela giggled without lifting her face.

"Right," Harry said. "Veela stamina. Silly of me to have forgotten."

The portrait looked on eagerly as he descended on the French witch again, pressing their bodies together.

O-O-O

Hours later, Harry felt like all the moisture had been spewed out of his body. Fleur was curled up with her head on his chest, a beaming smile on her face as she slept soundly. Both of them were caked in layers of old sweat. Above the bed, in her great great grandmother's frame, the stool had been overturned, and the occupant lay flat on her back, surrounded by splotches of fresh paint.

Laying drowsily on the bed with a dopey smile, Harry couldn't help but mumble, "Didn't I come here for some reason?"

He'd planned to do something when he chose to attend the world cup. Was it to sleep with a veela? He was certain that was more fun than anything else could've been, yet for some reason it didn't feel right.

Fleur mumbled something and snuggled closer. Harry closed his eyes. Whatever it was, he'd figure it out in the morning.

Somebody screamed outside the tent. In moments, a hundred more voices joined them.

Harry's eyes snapped open. 

"Right!" He said. "It was that …"

With a sinking feeling, he looked around himself. "I'm going to have to get up, aren't I?"

Fleur snuggled closer.