Chapter 25
The month passed in a blur of training, dueling, and relentless self-improvement for Harry and Daphne. Their journey through the ranks of the Hogwarts Dueling Club was nothing short of meteoric, and their private training with Professor McGonagall, Moody, and Tonks only accelerated their growth.
Each session day, after classes, they would step into the dueling chamber, where the Dueling Club held its structured tournaments. The competition was fierce, especially among the older students whom they now faced, but Harry and Daphne were nothing short of relentless. Their approach to combat was methodical yet adaptable—Harry, as usual, wielded an unpredictable style that blended offense and defense seamlessly, while Daphne was ruthless in efficiency, her spellwork precise and devastating.
After the previous session, even the early matches had become more challenging, but they were adept at dispatching their opponents with controlled bursts of power. However, as they fought more and more, and kept climbing the ranks, they realized the Flitwick was indeed correct.
They met only older students who were much stronger duelists than those they had faced so far—students who had passed their OWLs and were now in their NEWTs, who had been at this for years. Their grind was proven in their abilities that they demonstrated in the duels, and they faced multiple challengers who could cast non-verbal spells effortlessly, use transfiguration offensively, had a massive knowledge of curses, hexes, and jinxes, and could chain complex spell combinations with nary a thought.
For Harry and Daphne, these duels became lessons in patience and endurance.
One of the most grueling fights for them both came against none other than Cassius Warrington, the Slytherin member of the Hierarchy who was known for his brutal, aggressive style. His curses came fast and unrelenting, his shield charms barely flickering before another offensive spell erupted from his wand. However, Daphne was quick to adapt, incorporating more movement into her dueling, dodging spells rather than relying on counter-charms. Meanwhile, Harry took a different approach against him, using deceptive tactics to bait Warrington into overextending before taking him down with a silent, near-invisible Disarming Charm.
As the weeks progressed, their names became even more feared in the club. However, what also followed was a massive throng of fan-following. Duelists were understandably scared of facing them, but there was also respect in their eyes for their abilities and proficiency with the wand. There were jealous people as well, but those numbered few, while most of them appreciated and even cheered for them in their duels.
After continuous grinding, they had almost reached their target, standing only one step away from earning the ranks of Duke and Duchess of the Dueling Club, and thus, becoming the fastest pair to achieve those ranks. Once they did, it would officially establish them as the most exceptional duelists Hogwarts had to offer, even though almost everyone agreed that they already were the most exceptional. Furthermore, it would give them the pass to enter the qualification process to represent their school on the circuit.
Their goal for the summer was within reach. One more session was all it would take.
However, dueling wasn't their only focus. Three times a week, McGonagall guided them through Animagus training. What started as visualization exercises and meditation to control their animalistic instincts during transformation soon turned into grueling tests of will. Their bodies resisted the changes at first, their magic pushing back against the unnatural shift. Hours of deep concentration left them drained, but they pressed forward. McGonagall's sharp eye and unwavering discipline ensured they never faltered, never lost control of their magic during the process, and slowly, focus started to transition into instinct.
By the end of the month, they had made remarkable progress. While full instinctual transformation was still out of reach, they had managed controlled shifts with only seconds of delays. Both Daphne and Harry had momentarily felt the altered vision and heightened senses of their transformations while in their human forms. McGonagall was impressed, although she did not voice it outright.
The most grueling aspect of their training was the combat sessions with Moody and Tonks in the Room of Requirement. Unlike structured duels, these sessions were unpredictable, violent, and designed to break them down. Moody's philosophy was simple: learn to fight like you mean to kill. Tonks, being a student just like them, was getting more and more impressed by their agility and creative spellwork. She had seen evidence of it during their first session, but the ones that followed solidified the belief in her mind that there was something special about the couple that set them apart from not only their peers but also their seniors.
Moody had shown them what he'd meant with his little no-wand remark. The entire session, and a few more that had followed that, had been filled with nothing but Moody commanding the room to blast them with curses and jinxes which they had to either dodge, evade, or shield against using various objects scattered throughout the room. It had been the most grueling experience of their lives, and it was even more challenging for Tonks who was not as quick or sure footed as them. She did manage to evade the spells by morphing her body proportions but all it did was make Moody double down on her, taking away whatever advantage her metamorph abilities granted her. In the end, she was merely another witch, albeit with a distorted measure of balance.
Once Moody had had enough fun at their expense, they were made to fight against each other—quick duels where they pushed the limits of their non-verbal magic, throwing silent hexes and countering them on instinct. However, the real test came when they fought against their instructor, one-on-one.
At first, they were utterly outmatched. Moody's spells hit with the force of a storm, his wand a whirlwind of movement. The room's abilities allowed him to slip through their attacks with unnatural ease. The first few sessions ended quickly, with Daphne, Harry, and Tonks stunned on the floor before they could cast more than a handful of spells.
Slowly, they adapted. Each failure became a lesson. They learned to read Moody's minuscule tells, the barely perceptible shifts in his stance that preceded his attacks. They honed their reflexes, countering his agility with layered defenses and unexpected spell trajectories. By the end of the month, they were no longer simply reacting—they were actively pressing forward, trying to dictate the pace of battle. It was a work in progress, but the progress was swift indeed. Even Moody was impressed, and that was an incredible feat indeed.
XXXXX
The Room of Requirement had shifted once again, expanding into a vast dueling arena. The walls stretched high, their stone surfaces lined with torches that flickered and cast dancing shadows across the polished marble floor. A faint hum of magic vibrated in the air, as though the room itself was alive, watching and waiting for the spectacle ahead, but they knew it was ready to test them.
Harry and Daphne stood side by side, their wands held at the ready. Across from them, Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks took their positions, each prepared for battle. Moody, ever the battle-hardened veteran, surveyed them with his mismatched eyes—one dark and piercing, the other spinning in its socket, absorbing every detail. His face was as rugged as ever, the deep scars carved into his skin.
Tonks, in contrast, looked almost playful despite her combat stance. Today, her hair was a striking shade of electric purple, as though reflecting the energy she carried within her. She gave them both a cheeky grin before twirling her wand between her fingers.
Moody's voice came low and gravelly. "Let's see if you've actually learned something."
Harry met his gaze, unflinching. Daphne gave a small nod, her confidence unwavering.
Tonks rolled her shoulders. "No pulling punches this time. And don't think we'll be giving you a break either."
Without further warning, Moody moved, his wand flicking almost imperceptibly. A jet of violet energy surged toward Harry, fast and vicious as it tore through the air. He knew dodging was not an option because of the complication created by the Room of Requirement which could very well redirect the spell at his back, and thus, he reacted instinctively, his wand whipping through the air as he cast a firm Protego. The shimmering barrier caught the spell, but the force of the impact sent a vibration up his arm. His eyes widened. Moody was certainly not playing around.
He immediately countered, twisting on his heel and firing a silent stunner to test the waters. The spell shot towards him with a much faster pace than what Harry had been capable of casting before, but Moody deflected it with ease, his wand barely moving. He followed up with a trio of curses—Confringo, Expulso, and Diffindo. The spells flew in quick succession, forcing Harry into evasive maneuvers. He pivoted, narrowly avoiding the first, then deflected the second with a hurried Protego. The third spell sliced through his shield, carving a thin line through the fabric of his sleeve.
Meanwhile, Tonks was already in motion, her body a blur of movement. She dived low, sending a precise Disarming Charm at Daphne. The blonde dodged swiftly, his sharp reflexes kicking in. In the same breath, she vanished as she cast a disillusionment charm, blending seamlessly with the air. Tonks' eyes darted around, searching for her.
From nowhere, a silent Blasting Curse erupted toward her. She barely managed to dodge, rolling across the floor just as the spell exploded behind her, sending shards of marble flying. A sharp crack echoed as Daphne reappeared, her wand moving rapidly to keep the pressure on. A wordless Impedimenta streaked towards the metamorph, but Tonks, quick as ever, flicked her wand and absorbed the spell's force with an elegant counter-charm.
The waters were being tested, and none of the casters had brought any heavy hitters out yet. However, it seemed the Room of Requirement had gotten bored already and it decided to interfere.
The torches lining the walls suddenly flared bright, and the ground beneath them trembled. From nowhere, metallic chains shot up from the floor, snaking toward the duelists. Daphne leapt backward as one nearly wrapped around her ankle. Harry dodged a second set, using a Banishing Charm to send them recoiling. Moody, unbothered, merely raised his wand, muttered, "Finite," and the nearest chains vanished into thin air.
Tonks grinned despite herself. "Alright, that's new."
There was no time for commentary. Harry retaliated against Moody with a spell he had been working on after reading the basics in both his parents' journal and a text on Advanced Transfiguration—a silent barrage of conjured iron shards, each no longer than a dagger. They materialized mid-air, gleaming dangerously as they shot toward him. Moody grunted, raising a shimmering blue shield just in time to block them. But Harry had anticipated this; his follow-up was already on its way. With a flick of his wrist, he transformed the very ground beneath Moody into thick, swirling sand.
Moody's footing gave way slightly, forcing him to compensate. It was a split-second disadvantage, but Harry seized it. His next spell, an overpowered Blasting Curse, struck directly at Moody's shield. The force of it sent him skidding back, his boots scraping against the marble floor. For the first time, there was a hint of approval in his expression.
Daphne and Tonks were locked in an intense exchange of spells. The younger witch was pushing hard, forcing the metamorph on the defensive. A well-aimed Expelliarmus shot toward her, but she twisted her body unnaturally mid-air, utilizing her metamorphic abilities to their fullest as Daphne looked on in surprise. Tonks landed in a crouch and retaliated with a conjured wave of water, sending it crashing toward Daphne.
Before the blonde could react, the Room of Requirement added another complication—this time, the air turned dense, charged with static. A sudden windstorm ripped through the arena, threatening to throw everyone off balance. The gusts howled, forcing Daphne to brace himself as she tried to vanish the water before it reached her. She managed it in time, but the distraction gave Tonks an opening.
She aimed, flicking her wand in a precise motion, and a bolt of blue light shot toward Daphne—a simple Petrificus Totalus. She barely had time to deflect it, sending the spell crashing into a nearby wall, where it exploded into harmless sparks.
Moody, now free from the shifting sands, stepped up his assault. His wand was a blur, and suddenly the air was filled with more dangerous spells than before. Purple, orange, and green streaks of light shot toward Harry in a relentless barrage. He was forced to dodge and counter simultaneously. A silent Severing charm narrowly missed his cheek, while a Reductor curse shattered the floor where he had just stood.
Harry had no intention of letting Moody dictate the fight. He retaliated with a powerful non-verbal Incarcerous, conjuring thick metal chains that began lashing out at Moody. The grizzled auror blasted them apart effortlessly. Not deterred, he followed up with a rapid succession of hexes—Stunning, Blasting, and a tricky illusion charm that momentarily created three copies of himself.
Moody's magical eye whirred as he easily identified the real one. "Good trick," he admitted gruffly before sending a silent spell his way.
Harry felt something tighten around his throat. A choking hex. His vision blurred momentarily, and he staggered. But he was prepared for this too. He wrenched his wand in an arc, sending a burst of counter-magic toward himself, breaking the spell just before it could fully take hold. With a gasp, he regained his breath.
Meanwhile, Daphne had maneuvered Tonks into a vulnerable position. The trainee auror was fast, but she was relentless. With a sharp movement, she feinted left before flicking her wand in a smooth, precise arc. A non-verbal Expelliarmus shot from her wand with deadly accuracy. This time, Tonks couldn't avoid it. Her wand flew from her grip, spinning through the air before clattering to the floor.
There was a pause as the room settled.
Moody and Harry stood apart, both breathing hard. Daphne exhaled slowly, lowering her wand. Tonks, still sitting on the ground, let out an exasperated laugh before rubbing her shoulder.
Moody gave them both a long, scrutinizing look. Then, with a grunt, he said, "Not bad. You're getting there." His voice, while still gruff, carried a rare note of approval.
Tonks smirked. "Alright, alright, you win this round." She retrieved her wand, shaking her head. "But next time, I'm getting you back for that, Daphne."
Daphne grinned, wiping sweat from her brow. "Looking forward to it."
Harry flexed her fingers, rolling his shoulders as he met Moody's gaze. "Next time, we'll be even better."
Moody's expression was unreadable, but the glint in his magical eye suggested he believed him. "See that you are," he said gruffly. "Because I won't be holding back."
With a groan, Tonks threw her head back and went to staring at the ceiling as Moody walked over, slowly approaching Harry and Daphne who both stared at the man with utmost seriousness, unflinching under his intense and scrutinizing gaze. Finally, Moody sighed and shook his head.
"I should've believed Albus," he muttered, fishing out two wands from the pocked of his coat and holding them out.
As one, Daphne and Harry threw away the two little pieces of stick that they had been holding and reached out to accept their respective wands back.
"The next step is to move on from the instinctive need for a magical focus," Moody remarked, walking over to his chair, and the couple followed him over. "Your wandless magic is beyond any I've ever seen for people your age, and you will only grow. But the notion, the feeling of wanting a magical focus to hold on to while you cast spells is one you should get rid of as soon as you can."
"It will limit us," Harry remarked, earning a nod from Moody.
"Your mind limits you more than your lack of abilities, Potter. Always remember that. If you believe in something, there is nothing stopping you from getting it done. You two can leave now."
Harry nodded, followed by Daphne, and together, the couple walked over to the showers to get ready for the day. All the while, Moody's keen eyes followed their retreating selves until they vanished behind the doors.
"They're something, aren't they?" Tonks asked softly, gazing into the distance.
"They've got to be, or there's no future for them," Moody grunted. "When this began, I didn't expect you to fall behind those two, Nymphadora."
Tonks bristled, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Moody was right and that she had indeed fallen behind them in only a month of rigorous training. She stifled her irritation though, knowing that no matter how much she asked him to, Moody would keep calling her by her name.
"Trust me, I've been doing the best I can," she replied.
"I would've bashed your head in if you weren't," Moody said bluntly, making Tonks chuckle. The man ignored her amusement, his eyes trained on the floor.
The future was going to be very interesting indeed.
XXXXX
The village of Borskóv lay hidden in the dense Carpathian woods, a modest settlement of wizarding folk who had long sought refuge from the conflicts of the wider magical world. Isolated, quiet, and self-sustaining, the people of Borskóv had been living in peace for decades, never having to worry about intrusions or invasions. Generations had lived in peace, their society unmarred with hardships that ran amok in their neighboring countries.
Thus, it had come as a huge surprise to the village folk when they began receiving news about increasing attacks in their vicinity over the past month. Tales came trickling in from travelers and residents alike, of a force so lethal and unforgiving that none were safe from its brutalities.
It was a relatively hotter night. Winter was giving way to spring and people had started to spend more time outdoors. Thus, no one expected the chilling wind that suddenly swept through the village, rattling wooden shutters and setting the torches lining the cobbled streets flickering. It seemed the air had shifted, earlier smelling of dry earth and pine, but now, it was something else—something musky, rancid, and animalistic. A sound followed, distant but unmistakable: howls, deep and guttural, echoing through the forest.
In the center of the village, Elder Pyotr Markov stood on his porch, a long pipe clenched between his teeth. He was an old man, his beard thick and white, and his face lined with years of hard living. When the first scream tore through the night, he knew at once that something terrible had come. He dropped his pipe and reached for his wand, but before he could even call out a warning, the horror descended upon them.
The most vicious werewolf in Europe, Fenrir Greyback, was the one who led the charge. He was a towering figure even in human form, his ragged clothes hanging off his broad frame, his yellowed teeth bared in a wolfish snarl. The transformation was already beginning—the moonlight catching the coarse hair sprouting along his arms, his fingers elongating into wicked claws. He didn't even bother with spells. He never did. He was a creature of teeth and talons, relishing in blood and terror.
The first to die was a young mother carrying a child. She had barely stepped toward the entrance of her cottage when Greyback lunged, his claws raking across her throat, cutting off her terrified scream. Blood sprayed across the wooden beams of her home as she collapsed, choking on her own life. The child, no older than two, screamed as Greyback seized him, his fangs sinking into the soft flesh of the boy's skull. A sickening crunch followed. The screaming stopped. Just like that.
The other werewolves flooded in behind him, their forms shifting, and their hunger insatiable. Doors were kicked in. Windows shattered. The people of Borskóv had lived in peace for so long that they had either forgotten or never known what true fear was. Now, they knew. Now, they remembered.
Anton Belinski, a retired Auror, had barely enough time to grab his wand before one of the beasts crashed through his door. The creature was mid-transformation, its snout elongating, and its eyes burning yellow. Anton shouted a hasty Confringo but him aim was off. The explosion sent wooden splinters flying, and the werewolf barely staggered. It lunged at him, jaws snapping. Anton ducked, firing another curse, but a second beast tackled him from behind. Clawed hands tore at his flesh, and then the teeth found his neck. His gurgled screams faded as blood pooled beneath him.
Across the village, wizards and witches fought back, but their spells did little to stop the relentless pack. Stunners were shrugged off. Binding spells snapped as the beasts tore through them with brute strength. One woman managed to incinerate a werewolf with a powerful Incendio, but she didn't see the one leaping from the shadows. It took her down, teeth sinking into her skull, crushing it like an eggshell.
Greyback had given his beasts a simple command. Feast. And feast they did. The behemoth of a werewolf moved through the carnage like a specter of death. He was fully transformed now, his hulking, fur-covered body dripping with blood. He enjoyed this. The taste, the sound, the sheer chaos. This was what he lived for. He caught sight of a young boy, no older than ten, clutching a wand too large for his trembling hands. The boy aimed a weak stunning spell at him, the red bolt of light flickering feebly. No doubt he had learned it on his own. Bright child.
Greyback laughed, and it was a guttural, horrible sound, before he pounced. He bit down on the boy's shoulder, savoring the screams before tossing him aside, letting him crawl, knowing the infection was already coursing through his veins. A new wolf for the pack.
A group of villagers had formed a defensive line near the village square, barricading themselves behind upturned carts and conjured barriers. The acrid scent of burning wood filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Pyotr was among them, his gnarled hands steady despite the chaos unfolding around him.
"Hold the line!" he bellowed, his voice raw from shouting. He tightened his grip on his wand, watching the dark shapes prowling at the edge of the torchlight. For a moment, they dared to hope. The barricades were holding, the protective enchantments shimmering faintly. Perhaps—just perhaps—they could outlast the night.
Alas, all the hopes were dashed when Greyback charged.
He hit the barrier with the full force of his monstrous frame, and it felt as if a massive hammer of muscle and matted fur and struck it. To the shock of the villagers, the enchantments shattered like thin glass, their remnants flickering and dying in the cold night air. The wooden carts cracked apart under the impact, tumbling inward as if crushed by an invisible hand.
Seizing the chance, the werewolves poured in relentlessly.
Screams erupted as claws met flesh, as spells flew wildly into the night, illuminating the square with flashes of red and blue. Pyotr barely had time to react before a younger villager beside him was pulled from cover, his scream cut short as fangs tore into his throat. The elder swung his wand in a wide arc, sending a bolt of blue fire into the pack. Five of the beasts howled as they were engulfed, their furs blackening, and their bodies convulsing violently before they crumpled to the ground.
This offense seemed to give the terrified villagers some hope, but it was all dashed in an instant as Greyback pounced upon him.
The werewolf moved with terrifying speed, defying all the odds. A massive and bulky creature such as him couldn't possibly be so swift, and yet here he was. Pyotr the Elder raised his wand just in time, conjuring a hasty shield that barely absorbed the blow as Greyback's claws swiped toward his face. The force of the impact sent Pyotr stumbling back, his breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. He stumbled and desperately regained his footing just as Greyback lunged again, his jaws snapping inches from his throat.
Pyotr thrust his wand forward. "Confringo!"
The explosion sent Greyback skidding back, his fur singed, but he did not fall. Instead, he straightened, his yellowed fangs bared in something between a grin and a snarl. The werewolf's breath came in ragged pants, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained hunger.
"Not bad for an old man," Greyback growled, his voice guttural, truly inhuman. "But it won't save you."
The werewolf sprang again, and this time, Pyotr wasn't fast enough. Clawed hands struck him, raking across his shoulder, tearing through cloth and skin alike. White-hot pain shot through him, and he barely kept hold of his wand. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his free hand forward, sending a burst of raw magical force into Greyback's chest. The werewolf staggered but did not fall.
Pyotr tried to step back, to give himself space, but Greyback pressed forward relentlessly. Another swipe of claws, another wound—this time across his ribs. His legs nearly buckled. Bleeding and in unimaginable pain, he raised his wand again, but Greyback's hand closed around his wrist in an iron grip, crushing the fragile bones beneath his fingers. Pyotr gasped in pain, his wand tumbling from his grasp.
Greyback's breath was hot against his face, thick with the stench of blood and raw meat. "You fought well, for an old man," he admitted, his voice a low growl. "But you're still just meat."
Pyotr struggled, but it was useless. Greyback's strength was monstrous, beyond human. The werewolf lifted him effortlessly, his claws digging deep into his flesh. Pyotr tried to summon his magic, but without his wand, the spells fizzled uselessly at his fingertips. He was helpless.
Then the teeth came down.
Pain exploded through his skull as Greyback's jaws clamped onto his face. The world blurred, filled with agony so intense that it drowned out all thought. He felt the pressure, the unbearable force crushing inwards, bone splintering, flesh tearing, all belonging to him.
And then there was nothing.
The last thing Pyotr saw before darkness claimed him was the cold, indifferent moon, shining down upon the massacre.
A woman's shrill scream echoed into the bloody night as she witnessed the death of the elder, and that was it. The defense crumbled like a house of cards.
The werewolves tore through the last of the resistance with ease, cutting down the wizards as though they were nothing more than cattle. Bodies lay scattered across the square, some still twitching, their robes stained crimson. Those who had survived—those bitten but not yet dead—lay writhing in agony, the lycanthropy curse taking hold of them. They knew their transformation was inevitable. Their screams filled the night, joining the howls of their soon-to-be brethren.
Greyback stood in the center of the village, his muzzle slick with blood, his breath ragged but satisfied. He wiped his claws against the tattered remains of Pyotr's robes, a token gesture, before lifting his head to the sky. Around him, his pack howled in triumph, their voices merging into one terrible, victorious cry.
XXXXX
Greyback had a method, one he had perfected over the years. The massacre was only the beginning. Most of the villagers had been slaughtered, their torn bodies left as nothing more than a feast for his pack. But not all had met their end. The ones with strength, the ones who had fought until the last moment, were spared—for now. They were not survivors. Oh no. They were recruits.
Forcing newbies into the pack was never easy. They resisted, clinging to their humanity, cursing him for the horror he had brought upon them. They were angry, desperate, even willing to die rather than become like him. Greyback understood. He had seen it countless times before. It was all part of the process.
The hunt, the bloodshed, the screams—those were only the prologue. The real work came afterward, in the breaking, the reshaping. He did not want mindless followers, not at first. He wanted them to fight. He wanted to see the fire in their eyes as they swore they would never serve him, never become like him. That fire made the breaking all the sweeter.
Pain was his tool, but so was time. He did not rush. Starvation, exhaustion, isolation—these worked just as well as the lash. He stripped away their names, their memories, their pasts, until there was nothing left but the hunger and the rage. Then he gave them a choice: continue suffering or embrace the change. It was never a real choice. Eventually, they all broke. They all gave in.
And when they did, it was not just acceptance—it was devotion. By the time he was finished, they wanted nothing but to serve him, to hunt for him, to kill for him. The ones who had once resisted the hardest became the most loyal. They would throw themselves into battle without hesitation, tear apart their own former kin, and beg for his approval.
This was the part Greyback loved the most. The kill was simple, a moment of pleasure. But breaking someone, turning them into something new, something monstrous—that was true power. It was an art. And he was a master.
Greyback sat atop a mound of bodies, their broken forms stacked into a grotesque throne. His pack moved below him, going about their usual tasks—dragging away corpses, tending to the new recruits, preparing them for what was to come. They knew their roles. They would soften the captives, break them down just enough before he took over. His methods required patience, and his pack understood that well.
But for now, he watched, silent and still. His thoughts were elsewhere.
A few weeks had passed since the news had reached him. It had come only hours after a strange moment he still could not explain. That morning, he had woken up with something wet sliding down his face. A tear. His own.
It made no sense. At first, he had thought it was some lingering dream, something his mind had conjured up in the dead of night. But the feeling had remained, unsettling and foreign. Greyback did not cry. He did not grieve.
But shortly, the message arrived.
His brother was dead.
He didn't know how. He didn't know who had done it. All he knew was where it had happened: Wizarding Britain. Specifically, at that school—the one ruled by the old fool, Dumbledore.
That was enough.
Greyback clenched his jaw, his claws digging into the flesh beneath him. The bodies shifted slightly under his weight, but he remained still, staring at nothing in particular. He was not one for mourning, but anger—anger, he understood. And right now, it burned deep, a slow, smoldering thing that would not die until he had his vengeance.
For now, his work here was unfinished. These lands would fall to him first. He would turn villages into breeding grounds for his kind, carve his mark into every stretch of land he touched. But once that was done, once his crusade here ended, he would go west. He would find out what had happened.
Whoever had taken his brother's life would suffer. They would beg for death by the time he was finished with them.
Chapter 26: At The Top
The Dueling Chamber of Hogwarts buzzed with energy. Spells whizzed through the air across multiple platforms where students tested their skills against one another. The spectator stands lining the walls were packed with students from all houses, their excited chatter creating a constant background noise that occasionally erupted into cheers when a particularly impressive bit of magic was performed.
Harry and Daphne stood by the edge of the chamber near the tunnel to the dressing room, their eyes following the ongoing duels. Harry's hand was loosely intertwined with Daphne's, his thumb absently tracing circles on her skin.
"Look at Carmichael's footwork," Daphne said, nodding toward a platform where a fourth-year Hufflepuff was managing to avoid most of his opponent's spells through quick, precise movements. "He's gotten better since we last saw him duel."
Harry nodded. "Still telegraphs his offensive moves though. See how he shifts his weight before casting?"
Daphne's lips quirked into a smile. "We've become quite critical, haven't we?"
"Professional hazard," Harry replied with a grin, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "One more session, and we'll have those titles."
Their conversation was interrupted as two figures approached them. Harry recognized them immediately—Adrian Thornfield and Cassandra Blackwood, both fifth-year Ravenclaws among those who currently held the ranks of Duke and Duchess in the Dueling Club. Adrian was tall with broad shoulders and a serious expression that rarely broke, while Cassandra was lithe with sharp features and calculating eyes.
"Potter, Greengrass," Adrian greeted with a nod. "Quite the show you've been putting on these past weeks."
Daphne inclined her head slightly. "Thank you. You two haven't been doing so poorly yourselves."
Cassandra smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Careful compliments, Greengrass? That's not like you from what I've heard."
"I save my enthusiasm for special occasions," Daphne replied coolly.
Adrian crossed his arms, studying them both. "Word is you'll be challenging to join us today. Duke and Duchess, quite ambitious, if I may say so."
"That's the plan," Harry confirmed, straightening slightly.
"Four minutes and seventeen seconds," Cassandra said suddenly.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
"That's how long it took us to take down the last challengers," she explained, her voice carrying a hint of pride. "We've been keeping track of all your duels too. Impressive times."
Adrian nodded. "Which is why we have a proposition for you both."
Harry and Daphne exchanged glances before Daphne raised an eyebrow. "We're listening."
"Instead of the traditional format—you each facing one of us separately—we propose a tag-team duel," Adrian said. "You two against us."
Harry blinked in surprise. "That's... unusual."
"It's permitted in the club rules, though rarely done," Cassandra added. "It would be more... entertaining."
"And challenging," Adrian continued. "If you're going to become our equals, we'd rather make you work for it properly."
Harry looked at Daphne, a silent question in his eyes. She gave a small nod, and he turned back to the other pair.
"Alright," Harry said. "Tag-team it is."
A smile spread across Adrian's face—the first genuine one Harry had seen from him. "Excellent. I'll inform Flitwick. The main platform in thirty minutes."
As Adrian and Cassandra walked away, Daphne leaned closer to Harry. "They want to make a spectacle of this."
"Of course they do," Harry replied. "Everyone's taking us seriously. This is their last chance to cement their legacy before graduation."
"And our chance to start ours," Daphne said with determination in her eyes.
Harry grinned. "Let's give them something to remember, then."
XXXXX
Word spread quickly. By the time they entered the chamber half an hour later, the stands were completely full. Harry noticed several professors had arrived—McGonagall sat with her typical rigid posture, Flitwick appeared excited, Snape wore his usual scowl, and even Dumbledore had made an appearance, his eyes twinkling from beneath his half-moon spectacles.
"Quite the turnout," Harry murmured.
Daphne gave his hand a squeeze. "Nervous?"
"Just adequately concerned," he replied with a small smile.
They approached the main dueling platform, which had been expanded to twice its usual size to accommodate the tag-team format. Professor Flitwick stood at its center, practically bouncing with excitement.
"Mr. Potter, Miss Greengrass," he greeted cheerfully. "This is quite exciting! We haven't had a tag-team challenge for the Duke and Duchess titles in nearly a decade!"
"We aim to keep things interesting, Professor," Daphne replied.
Flitwick chuckled. "That you do, that you do. Now, the rules remain largely the same—no dark magic, no deliberately harmful spells, victory by disarmament or incapacitation. However, in this format, both members of a team must be defeated for the match to end."
Harry nodded. "Understood, Professor."
Adrian and Cassandra approached from the other side, both now dressed in their dueling wear. Harry and Daphne had opted for their usual attire.
"Challengers and current Duke and Duchess," Flitwick announced, his voice magically amplified to reach the entire chamber. "Take your positions!"
The four of them moved to opposite ends of the platform. Harry could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on them, but his focus remained sharp, his mind already running through strategies and counter-strategies.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Flitwick continued, "we gather today for an extraordinary event! Duke Thornfield and Duchess Blackwood have proposed a tag-team duel against their challengers, Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass!"
A buzz of excitement rippled through the crowd.
"The stakes? Should Potter and Greengrass emerge victorious, they will earn the ranks of Duke and Duchess of the Hogwarts Dueling Club—becoming the fastest pair in Hogwarts history to achieve such a feat!"
The applause was thunderous. Harry caught sight of Tonks in the crowd, her hair a vibrant pink as she cheered loudly. Beside her, Moody stood with his magical eye spinning wildly, no doubt assessing the coming duel from every angle.
"Duelists, bow!" Flitwick commanded.
The four students bent at the waist in formal salute.
"Wands at the ready!"
Harry felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as he raised his wand, positioning himself slightly ahead of Daphne as they'd practiced countless times in their fights with Tonks and Moody.
"Begin!"
Adrian moved first, his wand tracing a complex pattern in the air. The wooden planks beneath Harry and Daphne's feet suddenly began to ripple like water. Without exchanging a word, Harry countered with a silent Glacius Maxima while Daphne immediately went on the offensive.
A torrent of blue flames erupted from her wand, shaped like wolves that shot through the air toward Cassandra. The older girl responded with a sweeping motion that conjured a wall of wind, dispersing the flames into harmless wisps.
Adrian pressed forward, transfiguring the now-frozen floor into hundreds of razor-sharp glass shards that launched toward them. Harry barely had time to create a shield before they struck, the impact sending reverberations through his arm.
"Not bad," Daphne muttered, her eyes never leaving their opponents. "Chain formation?"
"On three," Harry confirmed quietly. "One, two—"
They moved in perfect synchronization. Daphne cast a powerful wide-area atmospheric charm that filled the platform with a thick mist while Harry transfigured the mist particles into tiny reflective fragments, creating a disorienting kaleidoscopic effect. Through this disorienting haze, they began their assault.
Harry's wand moved in precise arcs, sending concentrated blasts of magic through the mist. Daphne complemented his attacks with rapid-fire hexes, each spell following a carefully choreographed pattern they had perfected during their training.
On the other side, Adrian and Cassandra were forced to adapt quickly. Cassandra dispelled the reflective fragments with a wide-area Finite Incantatem while Adrian conjured a dome of energy around them.
"Impressive spell combination," came Professor McGonagall's voice from the stands. "They've been practicing extensively."
"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, his eyes following the duel with keen interest. "Most OWL students wouldn't even consider atmospheric manipulation in a duel, let alone first-years."
As the mist cleared, Adrian launched his counteroffensive. With a flourish of his wand, the air around Harry and Daphne suddenly became heavy and constricting. A gravitational hex, Harry realized, feeling his movements become sluggish.
Cassandra followed up immediately, transfiguring the shards on the floor into a dozen falcon-like constructs that dove toward them with talons extended.
"Opugno Maxima," Daphne muttered appreciatively, recognizing the spell instantly before casting a silent spell of her own.
The ground between them erupted as Daphne's magic took hold, conjuring a wall of interlocking stone shields that intercepted the falcons. Meanwhile, Harry fought through the gravitational hex, his counterspell dispelling Adrian's work.
The crowd roared their approval. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see students standing, their expressions rapt as they watched the exchange of advanced magic.
Harry had no time to bask in the praise. Adrian and Cassandra were moving again, this time in a pincer pattern that threatened to separate him from Daphne. He caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
What followed was a display of magical coordination that had even Snape raising an eyebrow in grudging respect.
Daphne cast a duplication charm on herself, creating five identical copies that scattered across the platform. In the brief moment of confusion this caused, Harry transfigured the floor beneath Adrian and Cassandra into a quicksand-like substance while simultaneously erecting invisible barriers to limit their movement options.
Adrian reacted quickly, levitating himself and Cassandra above the transformed floor. But that was exactly what Harry had anticipated.
"Now!" he called to Daphne.
All six Daphnes raised their wands simultaneously, releasing a barrage of silent stunners. The real Daphne, however, had cast something else entirely—a modified atmospheric charm that created a vacuum pocket around their opponents, making shields difficult to maintain.
The audience gasped as Adrian's hastily erected shield flickered under the combined assault. Cassandra, however, was nothing if not resourceful. With a complex wand movement, she conjured a reflective dome that sent several of Daphne's stunners ricocheting back toward them.
Harry stood perfectly at ease, deflecting one spell and absorbing another with a remote shield charm over his wand. "They're not bad," he admitted, a hint of excitement in his voice.
"We're much better," Daphne replied confidently, dispelling her duplicates and rejoining Harry's side.
The duel intensified as Adrian launched his most impressive spell yet—a cascading wave of transfigured energy that resembled liquid lightning. It crackled across the platform, destroying Harry's barriers and forcing them into defensive positions.
Daphne gave her wand a sharp flick, reinforcing her shield just as the wave crashed against it.
Harry, meanwhile, had created a counter-transfiguration, his wand a blur as he converted the electrical energy into harmless light particles that shimmered around them.
"Remarkable," McGonagall breathed from the sidelines, a proud smile on her face. Beside her, Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling.
Cassandra pressed the advantage, her wand tracing intricate patterns in the air. The light particles Daphne had created suddenly coalesced into binding chains that threatened to wrap around her legs.
"Daph!" Harry called out, concern flashing in his eyes for a moment.
"I'm fine," she assured him, already working to counter the spell. "Focus on them!"
Harry needed no further prompting, knowing she had it under control. His next spell caused the air to visibly distort as he manipulated its density, creating zones of resistance that slowed Cassandra's movements. It was a subtle but effective technique, one that Moody had taught them during their private sessions.
Adrian, seeing his partner's predicament, switched tactics. Rather than continue the frontal assault, he began a series of rapid transfigurations aimed at changing the battlefield itself. Pillars erupted from the platform floor, walls materialized and vanished, and the very air became charged with potential energy.
Daphne, having taken care of the chains, rejoined the fight with renewed determination. She and Harry moved as one, their synchronized spellwork creating an almost symphonic display of magical prowess.
"They're trying to wear us down," Daphne observed quietly as they took momentary cover behind one of Adrian's conjured pillars.
Harry nodded. "Time for the Wind and Stone?"
Daphne smiled, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "I thought you'd never ask."
They emerged from cover with renewed determination. Harry immediately cast another powerful wide-area atmospheric charm, one that Moody had taught them specifically for combat situations. The air around them began to swirl, forming a controlled vortex that picked up speed with each passing second.
At the same time, Daphne executed her part of the combination. With precise wand movements, she transfigured debris from the battlefield into hundreds of stone shards, each no larger than a fingernail but sharp as a razor. These shards were caught in Harry's vortex, creating a whirling storm of cutting edges that advanced toward Adrian and Cassandra.
"Clever," Adrian acknowledged, his eyes widening slightly. "Very clever."
He and Cassandra raised their wands simultaneously, creating a dome shield reinforced with what appeared to be multiple layers of magical protection. The stone storm crashed against it, the impact creating a sound like thousands of raindrops hitting a roof all at once.
"Let's not overwhelm them," Daphne muttered under her breath, earning a small nod from him. "We are challenging ourselves, remember?"
"Their shield won't hold as it is," Harry said confidently, increasing the power of his vortex only marginally.
And he was right. As the assault continued, cracks began to appear in the dome's surface. Cassandra grimaced with the effort of maintaining the protection while Adrian tried desperately to create a counter-spell.
Just as their shield was about to collapse, Adrian made his move. With a powerful sweeping motion, he transformed the stone shards into butterflies that dispersed harmlessly around them. It was an impressive display of transfiguration under pressure, earning murmurs of appreciation from the crowd.
But Harry and Daphne had anticipated this. The moment the transformation occurred, Daphne cast a silent Immobulus that froze the butterflies in place, while Harry immediately transfigured them again—this time into golden chains that wrapped around their opponents' wrists.
Adrian and Cassandra struggled against the bonds, but before they could break free, Harry and Daphne were already executing their final move. Moving in perfect harmony, they cast simultaneous disarming charms, the red light of their spells merging into a single, powerful beam that struck both fifth-years square in the chest.
Adrian and Cassandra's wands flew from their hands, arcing through the air before landing neatly in Harry and Daphne's outstretched palms.
There was a moment of stunned silence before the chamber erupted in thunderous applause.
"Victory!" Flitwick announced, his voice barely audible over the cheering. "Victory to the challengers, Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass!"
Harry turned to Daphne, his face flushed with exertion but beaming with pride. "We did it," he said, pulling her into a firm embrace. Daphne hugged him back with equal enthusiasm.
"Was there ever any doubt?" she asked as she gazed up at him, though her own smile betrayed her elation.
As the chains dissipated, Adrian and Cassandra approached them, their expressions a mixture of disappointment and respect.
"Well fought," Adrian said, extending his hand. "I haven't seen spellwork like that from students your age... well, ever."
Harry shook his hand firmly. "It was a close match. Your transfiguration work is incredible."
"And your atmospheric manipulation is something to behold," Cassandra added, nodding to Daphne. "You two have definitely earned your ranks."
Daphne handed Cassandra's wand back to her. "Thank you. You've set a high standard to maintain."
Adrian chuckled. "Something tells me that won't be a problem for you two."
Professor Flitwick bustled over, practically vibrating with excitement. "Outstanding! Absolutely outstanding! In all my years of overseeing the Dueling Club, I don't think I've seen such an impressive display from duelists so young!"
"Indeed," came Dumbledore's voice as he approached, followed by Professors McGonagall and Snape. "You've all demonstrated exceptional skill today."
McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line, but Harry could see the pride in her eyes. "Mr. Potter, Miss Greengrass, your combination work was particularly noteworthy. I see the advanced studies have been put to good use."
"Thank you, Professor," Harry replied. "We had excellent teachers."
Even Snape seemed reluctantly impressed, though he made no direct comment on their performance.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore turned his attention to Adrian and Cassandra. "A valiant effort from both of you as well. Your NEWTs examiners will be pleased with your practical skills."
Adrian nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Headmaster."
Flitwick cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "And now, for the official ceremony!" He gestured for Harry and Daphne to step forward.
"By the authority vested in me as the faculty advisor of the Hogwarts Dueling Club," Flitwick began, his voice once again magically amplified, "and in recognition of your exceptional skill, dedication, and victory today, I hereby confer upon you both the ranks of Duke and Duchess of the Hogwarts Dueling Club!"
He produced two gleaming silver-blue pins, each bearing the insignia of the Dueling Club with a crown motif. "Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass, accept these symbols of your achievement."
He pinned them to their combat suits with a flourish of his wand, the badges catching the light as they settled against the fabric.
"Let it be known," Flitwick continued proudly, "that Mr. Potter and Miss Greengrass are now officially the fastest pair in Hogwarts history to achieve these ranks!"
The chamber erupted in thunderous applause. Students cheered, some even casting celebratory sparks from their wands that showered the room with multicolored light. They had gathered quite a fan following, alright.
"Excellent work, both of you," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes twinkling. "Most excellent indeed."
As the formal declaration concluded and the crowd began to disperse, Flitwick gestured for Harry and Daphne to join him in a quieter corner of the chamber.
"I must say," he began, his voice practically squeaking with excitement, "in all my years overseeing this club, I've never seen such a meteoric rise through the ranks. You two have accomplished something truly remarkable."
"Thank you, Professor," Harry replied, still riding the high of their victory.
Flitwick leaned in slightly. "Now, as Duke and Duchess, you are eligible to participate in the summer dueling circuit trials. The qualifiers will begin very soon. I wish you two all the best."
Harry felt a surge of excitement as he exchanged a grin with his girlfriend. "This is exactly what we've been working toward."
"We won't let you down, Professor," Daphne added with determination.
"I have no doubt of that," Flitwick assured them with a smile. "Now, I believe you have some admirers waiting to congratulate you."
As they turned, they saw Tonks pushing her way through the remaining crowd, her hair now a victorious gold.
"That was bloody brilliant!" she exclaimed when she reached them. "The way you two moved together—I've never seen anything like it! I mean I have, but that was next level!"
"High praise coming from you," Daphne replied with a smile.
"Well-deserved praise," came Moody's gruff voice as he joined them. His magical eye was fixed on them, while his normal one surveyed the crowd. "Still room for improvement, but you're getting there."
Coming from Moody, this was equivalent to effusive praise, and both Harry and Daphne nodded gratefully.
"We'll keep working," Harry promised, giving Daphne's hand a soft squeeze. "The qualifiers start soon."
"Dueling circuit, eh?" Moody's face split into what might have been a smile—though with all his scars, it was hard to tell. "Good. Nothing like real competition to sharpen your skills."
"See?" Tonks nudged Harry. "Told you he'd be excited. In his own terrifying way."
Daphne chuckled. "We'll need to step up our training even more."
"See that you do," Moody replied, though there was a hint of approval in his tone. "The real challenges are still ahead."
They took their leave, making their way to the dressing room to get changed into their regular clothes. They emerged a few minutes later, making their way toward the exit of the chamber.
As students continued to surround them with congratulations and questions about their techniques, Harry felt Daphne's hand slip into his. He squeezed it gently, feeling a sense of accomplishment wash over him.
They had done it. Duke and Duchess of the Hogwarts Dueling Club, the fastest pair in the school's history to achieve such ranks. Their summer plans were secure, their training had paid off, and they had proven themselves against some of the best the school had to offer.
But as Moody had said, the real challenges were still ahead. And they couldn't wait to face them.
XXXXX
Harry sat at the study table, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead from his bath. He wore a solid white t-shirt and black joggers, his posture relaxed but his fingers busy. The two silver-blue pins—his and Daphne's, marking them as Duke and Duchess of the Hogwarts Dueling Club—lay on the table in front of him. His thumb traced the crown motif on one, a soft smile tugging at his lips. His mind replayed the duel, the cheers, the moment Flitwick pinned the badges to their suits. It felt unreal, like a dream he hadn't quite woken up from.
The faint sound of water shutting off in the bathroom didn't pull him from his thoughts. He was too caught up, his smile growing as he imagined the summer dueling circuit, the challenges ahead, and the fact that he'd be tackling them with Daphne by his side. His fingers lingered on her pin, the metal cool under his touch.
Daphne stepped out of the bathroom, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, her eyes landing on Harry. He hadn't noticed her yet, and she took the moment to watch him. The way his shoulders were loose, the gentle curve of his smile, the absent way he caressed those pins—it warmed something deep in her chest. Her own lips curved into a soft smile, her heart giving a little thud. He looked so content, so Harry, and it hit her how much she loved seeing him like this.
She took her time, and after a little while, she cleared her throat lightly.
Harry's head jerked, his hand pausing mid-motion. "Oh, hey," he started, a chuckle escaping as he leaned back in his chair. "Caught me daydreaming. I was just thinking about today, how we—" His words died in his throat as he turned fully toward her, his eyes landing on what she was wearing.
His jaw went slack. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating as they took her in.
Daphne stood there, her smirk growing as she watched his reaction. She wore a black silk nightdress—barely qualifying as a dress, really. The fabric was thin, almost sheer in places, clinging to her curves like a second skin. The neckline plunged low, showing off the swell of her breasts, and the hem barely reached mid-thigh, leaving her long legs on full display. Thin straps rested delicately on her shoulders, and the way the silk caught the dim light of the room made her skin glow. Her blonde hair was loose, slightly damp, cascading over one shoulder, and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she noted the way Harry's gaze roamed.
"Fucking hell, Daph," Harry managed, his voice rougher than usual. He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking from her legs to the dip of her neckline, then back up to her face, like he couldn't decide where to settle. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening. "You… you look…"
"Like what?" she teased, tilting her head, her smirk widening. She loved this—the way he was unraveling just from looking at her. It sent a thrill through her, warming her skin.
"Like you're trying to kill me," he said, half-laughing, half-serious. His cheeks were flushed now, and he shifted in his chair, clearly trying to keep his composure. "That's… wow. I mean, bloody hell."
Daphne's laugh was low, almost a purr. She pushed off the doorframe and started sashaying toward him, her hips swaying with every slow, calculated step. The silk shifted against her body, drawing Harry's eyes like a magnet. He couldn't look away—didn't even want to. His heart was pounding, his joggers suddenly feeling tighter than they had a minute ago. Every step she took made his pulse race faster, his fingers itching to reach for her.
"You like it, then?" she asked, her voice playful but laced with something hotter, something heavier. She stopped just in front of him, close enough that he could smell the faint lavender of her shampoo. Her legs brushed against his knees, and she leaned forward slightly, giving him an even better view of her cleavage.
"Like it?" Harry echoed, his voice hoarse. He forced his eyes up to meet hers, but it was a struggle. "Daph, I'm about two seconds from losing my mind here."
Her smirk softened into something more wicked, her eyes glinting. "Good," she said, reaching out to trace a finger along his jaw. Her touch was light, but it sent a jolt through him, his skin tingling where she grazed. "Because we did it, Harry. We're Duke and Duchess. Fastest in Hogwarts history. Don't you think that deserves a celebration?"
Harry's breath hitched. Her finger slid down to his chin, tilting his face up slightly, and he was hyper-aware of how close she was, how little that silk was hiding. "Yeah," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "Yeah, we should celebrate."
His hands moved before he could think, settling on her hips, the silk smooth and cool under his palms. He pulled her closer, just enough that she stood between his knees. The feel of her body under his hands, the way the fabric slid against her skin—it was driving him wild. He looked up at her, his green eyes dark with want. "You're making it really hard to think straight."
Daphne's smile was pure sin. She leaned in, her lips hovering just above his. "Who said anything about thinking?" she whispered, and closed the distance between them.
Their lips crashed together, hungry and desperate. Harry groaned into the kiss, his hands tightening on her hips as he pulled her flush against him. Daphne's fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly, and the sensation sent a shiver down his spine. The kiss deepened, all heat and need, their tongues tangling as they pressed closer. Harry's hands roamed, sliding up her sides, feeling the silk shift under his touch, then back down to her hips, gripping harder.
Daphne broke the kiss just long enough to climb onto his lap, straddling him in the chair. The movement made the nightdress ride up, exposing more of her thighs, and Harry's eyes darkened further. "Fuck, Daph," he muttered, his hands finding her thighs now, squeezing the bare skin. "You're gonna be the death of me."
She laughed softly, her lips brushing his ear. "Don't worry, I plan to keep you around my entire life." She nipped at his earlobe, and he groaned again, his hands sliding up to her waist, then higher, brushing the undersides of her breasts through the silk.
The fabric was so thin he could feel everything—her curves, her warmth, the way her body responded to his touch. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs grazing over her nipples, and Daphne gasped, arching into his hands. "Harry," she breathed, her voice hitching, and the sound of his name like that sent a surge of heat through him.
"You're so fucking gorgeous," he said, his voice rough with desire. He kissed her again, harder this time, one hand staying on her breast, teasing her through the silk, while the other slid down to her ass, gripping firmly. The nightdress had ridden up enough that his fingers brushed bare skin, and he growled low in his throat, the feel of her supple curves driving him insane.
Daphne's hands weren't idle. She tugged at his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one swift motion, tossing it somewhere behind her. Her fingers traced his chest, nails scraping lightly, and Harry's breath caught. She leaned in, kissing along his jaw, then down his neck, her lips hot against his skin. "You're not so bad yourself," she murmured, her hands sliding lower, teasing the waistband of his joggers.
Harry's control was slipping fast. He grabbed the hem of her nightdress, pulling it up and off her in one fluid motion. It fluttered to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a pair of black lace panties. His breath stopped entirely for a moment, his eyes raking over her—her full breasts, the curve of her hips, the way her skin flushed under his gaze. "Fuck, Daph," he said, almost reverent. "You're perfect."
Her smirk was back, but her cheeks were pink, her eyes heavy with want. "Flatterer," she teased, but her voice was shaky, betraying how much his words—and his hands—were affecting her. She leaned in, kissing him deeply, her bare chest pressing against his, and the feel of her skin on his was electric.
Harry's hands were everywhere now—her breasts, her ass, her thighs. He squeezed her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips rocking against him. The friction through his joggers was maddening, and he could feel how much she wanted him, the heat of her pressing against his growing hardness. "Fuck, I want you so bad," he said against her lips, his voice raw.
"Then have me," she whispered, her hands slipping into his joggers, brushing against his manhood. Harry hissed, his hips bucking up at the contact. She grinned, clearly enjoying the effect she had on him, and tugged his joggers down, freeing him. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly, and Harry's head fell back, a low groan escaping his lips.
"Daph, you're killing me," he managed, his hands gripping her hips to steady himself. She just smirked, leaning in to kiss him again, her hand moving with an intentional slowness, teasing him until he was practically shaking.
"I wouldn't even dream of it, my love," she said, her voice husky. She slid off his lap, sinking to her knees in front of him, and Harry's eyes widened, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. "I want to taste you."
Before he could respond, her lips were on him, warm and wet, and Harry cursed under his breath, his hands gripping the chair hard. The sight of her—blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, those blue eyes looking up at him as she took him in her mouth—was almost too much. She moved with confidence, her tongue swirling, her hand stroking what her mouth didn't cover, and Harry was lost, every sensation overwhelming.
"Daph—fuck," he gasped, his hips twitching despite his efforts to stay still. She hummed around him, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through him, and he had to grip the chair to keep from losing it completely. "You're so good at this."
She pulled back just enough to grin up at him, her lips glistening. "Good to know," she said, and immediately went back to work, her pace increasing slightly, driving him closer to the edge.
Harry couldn't take it anymore. He tugged her up gently, pulling her back into his lap. "My turn," he said, his voice rough, and before she could protest, he kissed her hard, tasting himself on her lips. His hands slid down her body, hooking into her panties and tugging them off. She was bare now, completely open to him, and the sight made his mouth go dry.
He lifted her slightly, setting her on the edge of the table, and spread her thighs. Daphne's breath hitched, her hands bracing on his shoulders as he kissed down her neck, her chest, pausing to suck on her nipples until she was whimpering. Then he moved lower, trailing kisses down her stomach, until he was kneeling between her legs.
"Harry," she said, her voice trembling with anticipation, and the sound of his name like that made his cock throb. He didn't make her wait. His lips found her, tasting her, and Daphne moaned loudly, her hips bucking. He held her thighs, keeping her steady as he explored her with his tongue, finding every spot that made her gasp and writhe.
"Fuck, Harry," she panted, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He licked and sucked, teasing her clit until her moans turned desperate, her thighs trembling under his hands. She was so wet, so responsive, and the way she said his name—over and over, like a plea—pushed him to keep going, to make her feel as good as she'd made him.
When she came, it was with a loud cry, her body shaking, her grip on his hair tight. Harry didn't stop until she was panting, her body limp against the table. He stood, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself, and she moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer.
"You're incredible," she said breathlessly, her eyes dazed but burning with want. "But I need you. Now."
Harry didn't need to be told twice. He scooped her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed. The feel of her wet pussy pressed against his cock, feeling her heat so closely, was almost too much. He laid her down gently, climbing over her, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, the air heavy with love and desire.
"I love you," he said, his voice soft but intense, his hands framing her face. "So much."
Daphne's smile was radiant, her hands sliding up his chest. "I love you too," she said, pulling him down for a kiss that was slower, deeper, and full of everything they felt. "Now show me."
He grinned against her lips, his eyes locked on hers.
"Gladly."