TheBlackEarl
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Last Heir of Death Ch. 7
🕑 Added 2025-07-10 15:55:00 +0000 UTCA/N: All characters involved in this work are above the age of consent.
Saturday afternoon arrived crisp and clear, and the weather was perfect for flying.
Harry made his way to the Quidditch pitch with genuine excitement thrumming through his veins. It had been too long since he'd been on a broom, especially for a proper game of Quidditch, and he was very much looking forward to letting loose.
Charlus was already there with five other students, school brooms laid out on the grass. Harry greeted them and picked up the nearest one, running his fingers along the worn handle. It was an old Cleansweep model, probably ten years old and showing its age.
"Not exactly top of the line," Charlus said, noticing Harry's examination. "But they fly well enough for a scrimmage. You ready?"
Harry mounted the broom and kicked off. The acceleration was sluggish compared to his Firebolt, the response time noticeably delayed. It felt like flying through thick honey after years of lightning-quick maneuvers. Still, being airborne again sent pure joy through his system.
"Blimey," Harfang called from across the pitch. "Look at him go!"
Harry had unconsciously begun executing the kind of complex aerial patterns that came naturally after years of high-level Quidditch. He pulled up sharply, realizing he was showing off more than intended.
"Where'd you learn to fly like that?" Augusta asked as he descended to join the group.
"Had a good teacher," Harry said, keeping it vague. "Shall we start?"
They divided into teams of three. Harry found himself opposite Charlus, who grinned competitively. "Hope you're ready to eat my dust, Peverell."
"We'll see about that," Harry shot back, warming to the familiar trash talk.
The game began with Harfang releasing the Snitch. Harry watched it dart away, golden wings catching the afternoon sunlight. He held back initially, letting Charlus make the first moves while he adjusted to the slower broom.
Twenty minutes in, both Seekers were still hunting. The other players had settled into a rhythm, passing the Quaffle and dodging the single Bludger they'd managed to charm into moderate aggression. Harry spotted the Snitch hovering near the goalposts just as Charlus saw it too.
They dove simultaneously, neck and neck as they raced toward their target. Harry's superior reflexes gave him the edge, but Charlus's broom was slightly newer, marginally faster. The gap between them remained constant until the final moment when Harry stretched out his arm, fingertips brushing the struggling golden ball.
"Got it!" he called, pulling up triumphantly.
"Bloody hell," Charlus panted, coming alongside him. "That was incredible flying. You sure you haven't played professionally?"
"Just recreationally," Harry replied smoothly. "Good game."
They landed to applause from the other players. Even Augusta looked impressed, which seemed to be a rare occurrence.
"We need to get you trying out for the house team," Harfang declared. "Ravenclaw's Seeker graduated last year. Position's wide open."
Harry felt a flutter of interest before common sense reasserted itself. Drawing that kind of attention wasn't part of their plan. "Maybe," he said noncommittally. "I'll think about it."
As they walked back to the castle, Charlus fell into step beside him. "You know, flying with you reminds me of flying with my father. He had that same natural instinct, that ability to read the air currents."
"Your father played Quidditch?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about this glimpse into Potter family history.
"Captain at Hogwarts, then went semi-professional for a few years before joining the Auror Corps," Charlus said proudly. "He always said the skills transferred well—reading situations quickly, thinking three moves ahead."
Harry nodded, filing away this information about his great-grandfather. Every detail helped build the family picture he'd never had growing up.
-Break-
By eight o'clock, Harry and Nymeria were making their way to Slughorn's quarters. Harry had chosen simple black dress robes, while Nymeria wore deep blue silk that complemented her dark hair perfectly.
"Remember," she murmured as they approached the door, "we're talented but not extraordinary. Ambitious but not threatening."
"Right," Harry agreed, straightening his shoulders. "Let's make some connections."
Slughorn's quarters were larger and more lavishly decorated than Harry remembered from his own time. Thick Persian rugs covered the floors, and the walls displayed an impressive collection of photographs showing Slughorn with various celebrities and dignitaries. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, casting a warm glow over the assembled students.
"Ah, my dear boy! My dear girl!" Slughorn bustled over as they entered, his velvet smoking jacket straining slightly across his substantial middle. "Welcome, welcome! Come, let me introduce you to some fascinating people."
He led them first to a group near the fireplace. "This is Pollux Black—I believe you've met—and his charming siblings, Dorea and Arcturus. And this distinguished young lady is Cassiopeia Black."
Harry felt Nymeria tense slightly beside him. Cassiopeia was older than the other Blacks, probably seventh year, with the same aristocratic features but a harder edge to her gray eyes. She studied Nymeria with undisguised calculation.
"So you're the mysterious Black cousin," Cassiopeia said, her tone cool but not unfriendly. "We've heard the story, of course. Romanian branch, I believe?"
"Among others," Nymeria replied smoothly. "My family moved around quite a bit over the generations."
"How convenient," Cassiopeia murmured, though she smiled as she said it. "Well, blood is blood. Welcome back to the fold, cousin."
Pollux stepped forward, offering Harry a glass of firewhiskey. "Peverell, good to see you again. How are you finding Hogwarts so far?"
"Fascinating," Harry replied honestly. "The depth of magical knowledge here is remarkable. I'm particularly interested in the historical aspects—ancient magic, forgotten spells, that sort of thing."
Arcturus's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ancient magic? That's an unusual interest for someone your age."
"I've always been drawn to understanding the foundations," Harry said, letting enthusiasm creep into his voice. "Modern magic is impressive, but the truly powerful spells... those were created by wizards who understood magic at a deeper level. The Peverell family has always been fascinated by that connection."
"The Peverells," Dorea mused. "I remember reading something about them in a book in the Black library. Connections to some legendary artifacts. It was surprising to see children’s tales being included in serious context."
Harry's pulse quickened, but he kept his expression merely interested. "Family legends, mostly. Though I've always wondered if there was more truth to them than people assume."
Before anyone could pursue that line of questioning further, Slughorn reappeared at Harry's elbow. "Come, come! There are others you must meet."
He guided them across the room to where several older students stood engaged in animated conversation. "Helena Burke you know, of course, and Robert Fawley. But let me introduce you to Tom Riddle—our Head Boy and one of the most promising students Hogwarts has seen in decades."
Harry's blood turned to ice. There, looking exactly as he had in the memory of asking Slughorn about Horcruxes, stood Tom Marvolo Riddle. Dark hair slicked back, pale aristocratic features, and those cold dark eyes that would one day burn red. He was handsome in a sharp, dangerous way, and his smile was perfectly calibrated charm.
‘What the fuck!?’ His voice screamed over the connection he shared with Nym who was also doing her best to keep her shock in check.
"Mr. Peverell, Miss Black," Tom said, extending his hand. "I've heard fascinating things about you both. Transfer students are rare enough, but adults joining us for N.E.W.T. level work? Quite remarkable."
Harry forced himself to shake the offered hand, fighting every instinct that screamed danger. Tom's grip was firm, his skin surprisingly warm for someone who would become a monster.
"Unusual circumstances," Harry managed. "But we're grateful for the opportunity."
"Indeed," Tom's gaze lingered on Harry's face with uncomfortable intensity. "Peverell. An ancient name with quite a remarkable history. I don't suppose you've researched your family's connection to certain... legendary objects?"
The question was casual, but Harry caught the sharp interest beneath Tom's polite tone. This was dangerous territory.
"Family stories, mostly," Harry replied, echoing his earlier response to Dorea. "Though I find genealogy fascinating. The way magical bloodlines weave through history, creating unexpected connections."
"How true," Tom agreed, his smile widening slightly. "I've done quite a bit of genealogical research myself. It's amazing what one can discover about the past... and how it can inform the future."
"Mr. Riddle is our star pupil," Slughorn interjected proudly, oblivious to the undercurrents in the conversation. "Brilliant in every subject, natural leader, and such charm! Mark my words, he'll be Minister of Magic someday."
"High praise," Nymeria said, speaking for the first time since the introduction. Her voice was perfectly neutral, but Harry caught the tension in her posture.
"Professor Slughorn is too kind," Tom replied demurely. "Though I do believe that those with talent have a responsibility to use it for the greater good. Don't you agree, Mr. Peverell?"
"Absolutely," Harry replied carefully. "Though defining 'greater good' can be... complex."
Tom's eyes lit with something that might have been approval. "Precisely. Such a simple phrase that encompasses such vast philosophical territory. Perhaps we could continue this discussion sometime? I'd be fascinated to hear your perspective on magical governance, given your international background."
"I'd enjoy that," Harry lied smoothly.
Slughorn beamed, clearly delighted by the interaction. "Wonderful! Nothing I like better than seeing young minds engage with complex ideas." He glanced around the room. "Ah, I should check on my other guests. Do mingle, all of you!"
As Slughorn moved away, Tom turned back to Harry with renewed focus. "Tell me, have you given thought to your career plans after Hogwarts? With your background and apparent talents, the Ministry would certainly be interested."
"I'm keeping my options open," Harry replied. "Though I confess, I'm more interested in research than politics."
"Research into what, specifically?"
Harry felt like he was walking a tightrope. Too much interest would arouse suspicion, too little would seem suspicious in its own right. "The theoretical foundations of magic. Why certain spells work, how the first wizards developed their techniques. The intersection of magic and mortality, you might say."
Tom's pupils dilated slightly, the only sign of his intense interest. "Mortality. Yes, that is the ultimate question, isn't it? The limits of human magical capability."
"Or the possibilities for transcending those limits," Harry said quietly, knowing he was playing with fire but needing to establish credibility.
For a moment, Tom was perfectly still, studying Harry with the intensity of a predator that had spotted potentially dangerous prey. Then his charming smile returned, broader than before.
"You are a fascinating individual, Mr. Peverell. I look forward to getting to know you better."
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Charlus Potter, firewhiskey in hand and cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room.
"Harry! There you are." He nodded politely to Tom. "Riddle."
"Potter," Tom replied, his tone cooling slightly. "Enjoying the party?"
"Always do at Professor Slughorn's gatherings. Great chance to meet interesting people." Charlus turned to Harry. "By now, most have heard the impression you made on the Quidditch pitch today. News travels fast in a castle this size."
"It was just a friendly game, Charlus," Harry deflected, though he was grateful for the interruption.
"Don't be modest," Charlus grinned. "Harfang's been telling everyone who'll listen about your flying. Reckons you could give the professionals a run for their money."
Tom's expression sharpened with interest. "Athletic as well as academic? How well-rounded."
"I enjoy flying," Harry said simply.
"As do I," Tom replied. "Though I find team sports rather... limiting. Individual pursuits tend to offer more opportunities for excellence."
The philosophical difference was subtle but clear. Charlus frowned slightly, obviously picking up on the implied criticism.
"There's value in working with others," Charlus said mildly. "Achieving something as a group that none of you could manage alone."
"Perhaps," Tom conceded with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Though history suggests that the greatest achievements come from exceptional individuals who transcend the limitations of their peers."
Harry sensed this was a familiar argument between them, rooted in deeper philosophical differences that would eventually define their opposition.
He was saved from having to respond by the arrival of Dorea.
"Interesting conversations?" Dorea asked, and Harry didn’t fail to notice how she seemed to stand a bit closer to Charlus. It seemed something was already brewing there.
"Always, with such company," Tom replied smoothly. "Miss Black, I was just discussing the nature of achievement. What's your perspective on individual excellence versus collective effort?"
Dorea considered the question seriously. "I think they serve different purposes. Individual excellence drives innovation and pushes boundaries. Collective effort builds foundations and creates stability. Both have their place."
"A diplomatic answer," Tom observed. "Though I suspect you lean toward the collective side, given your family’s rather remarkable history."
"Perhaps," Nymeria conceded. "Though I've learned the value of reliable allies myself."
Her proximity to Charlus was barely hidden, and Tom caught the gesture as well, his gaze flickering between them with renewed interest.
"How fortunate for you both, finding such compatible perspectives," he said. "Shared goals make for powerful alliances."
"Indeed they do," Charlus agreed, meeting Tom's gaze steadily.
The moment stretched, loaded with unspoken implications, before Slughorn's booming voice interrupted.
"Attention, everyone! Attention! I have a special treat tonight." The portly professor stood near his desk, holding an ornate bottle. "This is a 1887 Ogden's Reserve Firewhisky, aged in acromantula silk-infused oak. Only twenty bottles were ever made, and this is one of the last three in existence!"
Appreciative murmurs rose from the assembled students. Slughorn poured small measures into crystal glasses, passing them around with ceremony.
"A toast," he declared, raising his own glass. "To excellence in all its forms, and to the bright futures I see before each of you!"
"To excellence," the room chorused, glasses raised.
Harry sipped the firewhisky, noting its smooth burn and complex flavor. Beside him, Tom savored his glass with obvious appreciation.
"Exceptional," Tom murmured. "Professor Slughorn certainly knows quality."
"He does indeed," Harry agreed, then seized the opening. "Speaking of quality, I've been meaning to ask—do you know anything about the Restricted Section? I'm interested in researching some advanced theoretical work, but I'm not sure of the proper procedures for access."
Tom's interest was immediate and intense. "What sort of theoretical work?"
"The development of fundamental magical principles. How the earliest wizards understood the relationship between will, word, and effect. The books available in the general collection are rather... elementary."
"Indeed they are," Tom agreed. "The Restricted Section contains far more sophisticated material. I could arrange access, if you're serious about your research."
Harry felt a chill of recognition. This was exactly how Tom had operated—offering help, building relationships, and positioning himself as indispensable. But Harry was looking to access those books for his own purposes.
"That's very generous," Harry said carefully. "I'd appreciate any guidance you could offer."
"Consider it done," Tom replied with that charming smile. "Perhaps we could study together sometime? I've been researching similar topics—the boundaries of magical possibility, the theoretical limits of human capability, and several others that I’m sure we could discuss in due time."
"That sounds fascinating," Harry said, knowing he was stepping deeper into dangerous waters but seeing no alternative. For the first time since arriving in this timeline, he had been completely blindsided.
Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of the Black cousins, led by Pollux. The dynamics shifted subtly as the two groups merged.
"Riddle," Pollux nodded with polite respect. "Good to see you."
"Black," Tom replied warmly. "I was just discussing research possibilities with Mr. Peverell here. Fascinating individual—he has some intriguing theories about ancient magic."
"The Peverell family has always been interested in magical history," Harry explained, noting how Tom filed away every detail. "Understanding how magic developed, what techniques have been lost over time."
"Lost techniques," Dorea repeated thoughtfully. "You mean spells that modern wizards can't perform?"
"More than that," Harry said, warming to a topic he actually found genuinely interesting. "The fundamental understanding of magic itself. Modern wizards learn spells by rote—incantation, wand movement, intent. But the founders of magic understood it as something deeper, more flexible. They could achieve effects without specific spells because they understood the underlying principles."
Tom was hanging on every word, his usual composure cracking slightly in the face of genuine fascination. "You're talking about wandless magic? Non-verbal casting?"
"Beyond even that," Harry continued. "Magic as a force that responds to pure will, shaped by understanding rather than constrained by formulaic approaches. The reason certain artifacts—like the Founders' personal items—display such remarkable properties is because they were created by wizards who understood magic at that level."
"Artifacts," Tom repeated, his voice carefully casual. "Such as?"
Harry felt the danger but pressed on, knowing he needed to establish his credibility. "Theoretical examples, mostly. Gryffindor's sword, for instance—it absorbs the powers of what it destroys, becomes stronger through conflict. That suggests its creator understood how magical energy could be redirected and contained."
"And the other Founders?" Cassiopeia asked, having approached during the conversation.
"Hufflepuff's cup supposedly never empties when filled with food or drink—manipulation of matter at the fundamental level. Ravenclaw's diadem enhances wisdom and memory—direct neural magical interface. And Slytherin's locket..." Harry paused dramatically, "supposedly protects the wearer from all kinds of venom and gives them the ability to speak limited Parseltongue."
Tom had gone very still, his dark eyes fixed on Harry with laser intensity. Several other students had gathered, drawn by the fascinating topic.
“Fascinating,” Arcturus whispered. “And then there are the artifacts from those children’s tales, connected to your family.”
Harry nodded, glancing at Tom out of the corner of his eye. “That make one the Master of Death.”
"Master of Death," Tom said quietly. "That would be the ultimate magical achievement."
"In theory," Harry agreed. "Though the moral implications would be staggering. What would someone become if they truly transcended mortality? Would they still be human?"
"Does it matter?" Tom asked, his voice pitched low enough that only those closest could hear. "If the alternative is the void, the absolute nothingness of death?"
Harry met his gaze directly. "I think it matters more than anything else. Power without wisdom, strength without humanity—those combinations have destroyed civilizations. The Tale of Three Brothers might be a tale, but one that holds the most wisdom."
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Tom's charming mask had slipped slightly, revealing something cold and hungry beneath, although only Harry and Nym could recognize it at this point. His mask reappeared instantly though and he smiled again, the moment passing.
"Fascinating philosophical questions," he said lightly. "Though perhaps too weighty for a party."
Slughorn chose that moment to reappear, clearly having overheard part of the conversation. "My word, what serious discussion! Though I suppose that's what happens when you gather the brightest minds of a generation."
"Mr. Peverell was sharing some interesting theories about ancient magical techniques," Pollux explained.
"Ah yes, the Peverell family," Slughorn beamed. "Such a distinguished lineage! Though I confess, I thought the line had died out centuries ago."
"Common misconception," Harry replied. "We've simply been... elsewhere."
"Well, we're delighted to have you back in Britain," Slughorn declared. "Now, who needs more firewhiskey? The night is still young!"
As the conversation broke up into smaller groups, Tom lingered near Harry. "That was an enlightening discussion," he said quietly. "I'd very much like to continue it privately sometime soon."
"I'd enjoy that," Harry replied, though the words felt like ash in his mouth.
"Excellent. I'll arrange that library access we discussed. Perhaps tomorrow evening? There are some books I think you'd find particularly... illuminating."
Before Harry could respond, Tom had melted back into the crowd with ease. Harry felt Nymeria's hand on his elbow.
"What the fuck is going on, Harry?" she asked telepathically.
"I’ve got no fucking clue," Harry replied. "We need to talk later."
The party continued for another hour, with various students rotating through conversations about classes, career prospects, and social connections. Harry found himself speaking with Helena Burke about Arithmancy applications while Nymeria charmed a group including Robert Fawley and several seventh-years.
As the evening wound down, students began departing in small groups, returning to their respective common rooms. The Black cousins approached Harry and Nymeria as they prepared to leave.
"Thank you for an interesting evening," Pollux said formally. "Your perspectives on magical theory were quite thought-provoking, Peverell."
"My pleasure," Harry replied. "I look forward to continuing such discussions."
"Perhaps at the next Hogsmeade visit," Dorea suggested. "We could continue getting to know each other better."
"I'd like that," Nymeria said, and Harry could hear the genuine warmth in her voice. Despite their complicated circumstances, she was forming real connections with these people.
As they walked back toward Ravenclaw Tower with Helena and Robert, Harry's mind raced with the implications of the evening.
For some fucked-up reason, Tom Riddle was older in this timeline. How did that happen!? Both Harry and Nym had expected him to be a young boy not even in his teens, but here he was, a year older than them. This development had thrown every little plan they had made out of the window.
Harry shook his head, refocusing. He'd established his credibility regarding ancient magic without revealing too much. And they'd strengthened their connections with the Black family and other influential students. That was worth something, at least.
Try as he might though, Harry could not prevent his thoughts from returning to Tom Riddle.
Tom's interest was far more intense than Harry had anticipated. The future Dark Lord was already showing signs of his obsession with death and power, and Harry had inadvertently fed that obsession with his comments about theoretical immortality. It had been a calculated move on his part, and the inspiration had come to him right when Arcturus had commented on the Hallows.
Tom’s dream was immortality, but his inflated ego could not ignore the allure of not only protection from death, but becoming its Master.
Harry did not like the idea of hunting Horcruxes once again, especially with no way of knowing what or where they were.
He could only hope that with the illusion of Master of Death hanging over him, Tom would avoid going down the Horcrux rabbit hole and instead devote himself to finding the Hallows. At least that was a guaranteed way to prevent him from achieving his dream of immortality.
"Well, that was eventful," Robert commented as they reached the Ravenclaw Common Room. "Riddle seemed particularly interested in your family history, Peverell."
"He's clearly brilliant," Harry replied carefully. "Though there's something... intense about him."
"That's one word for it," Helena murmured. "He makes excellent marks and the professors love him, but there's always been something not quite right. Too perfect, you know?"
Harry knew exactly what she meant, but simply nodded. They said their goodnights and headed to their respective dormitories.
-Break-
Sunday morning found Harry waking to the sensation of warm skin pressed against his front and soft hair tickling his chin. Nymeria was curled against him, one arm draped across his chest, her breathing slow and even with sleep.
"Morning," she murmured without opening her eyes, her voice husky with sleep.
"Morning," Harry replied, enjoying the simple pleasure of her proximity. They'd made love again the night before, urgent and passionate after the tension of the party, needing the physical connection to ground themselves in the present moment.
Nymeria shifted, pressing closer, her lips finding the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder. "Sleep well?"
"Eventually," Harry said, his breath catching as she kissed his throat. "Once I stopped thinking about everything that happened last night."
"Mmm," she hummed against his skin. "Tom Riddle was very interested in you."
"Too interested," Harry agreed. "But it might work to our advantage. If I can gain his trust, learn what he's planning..."
"Dangerous game," Nymeria warned, her hand trailing down his chest. "He's not someone you can fool indefinitely."
"I know," Harry said, cupping her cheek and tilting her head upwards so they were face to face. "But we need to understand what he's doing, how he's developing his ideas about Horcruxes, how far he’s already gone."
Nymeria's eyes were serious now, though her fingers continued their lazy exploration of his skin. "Just promise me you won't take unnecessary risks. I can't lose you, Harry."
"You won't," he said firmly, kissing her forehead. "We're in this together."
She smiled, some of the tension leaving her features. "Good. Because I have plans for you that require your continued survival."
"Oh? What sort of plans?"
Her grin turned wicked. "The sort that are better demonstrated than described."
She rolled on top of him, her dark hair falling around them like a curtain. Her weight settled over Harry, her thighs straddling his hips, her hands bracing against his chest. Her dark hair spilled forward, brushing his skin, and her eyes locked onto his with a playful, hungry glint.
Harry’s pulse quickened, his hands finding her waist, fingers digging into the soft curve of her hips. She leaned down, her lips grazing his ear, her breath warm and teasing. “Ready for my plans?” she whispered, her voice low and dripping with promise.
Harry grinned, his hands sliding up her sides, feeling the smooth warmth of her skin under his palms. “Show me,” he said, his voice rough with anticipation.
She didn’t need more invitation. Her lips crashed against his, urgent and demanding, her tongue slipping into his mouth with a boldness that sent heat pooling low in his body. He kissed her back, matching her intensity, his hands roaming her back, pulling her closer until there was no space between them.
She broke the kiss, sitting up, her lovely tits rising and falling with quick breaths. Her fingers trailed down his chest, slow and teasing, her nails lightly scraping his skin, leaving a tingling trail in their wake.
She shifted her hips, grinding against naked womanhood against his erection, and a low groan escaped his throat.
“Nym,” he murmured, his voice thick, his hands gripping her thighs tighter.
“Patience,” she teased, her smile wicked as she leaned forward again, her lips brushing his jaw, then his neck, then lower. Her kisses were soft at first, featherlight, but they grew firmer, her teeth grazing his collarbone, sending sparks of pleasure through him.
Harry’s hands moved to her hair, threading through the dark strands, tugging gently. She hummed in approval, her mouth working its way down his chest, her tongue flicking against his skin, tasting him.
She paused at his abdomen, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, her eyes flicking up to meet his. The look she gave him—smoldering, confident, and a little mischievous—made his heart pound harder. She slid lower, her hands deftly pushing the sheets aside, and her fingers wrapped around his cock with a firm, warm grip. Harry sucked in a breath, his head tipping back, as she gave it a gentle stroke.
“Nym,” he said again, his voice strained now, almost a plea. She didn’t answer with words. Instead, her lips followed her hands, soft and warm, moving with a slow, sensual rhythm that made his hips buck involuntarily. He groaned, louder this time, his fingers tightening in her hair. She took her time, exploring him, her tongue teasing as it covered every bit of his manhood.
He couldn’t take it anymore. With a low growl, he sat up, pulling her back up to him, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her hard. She laughed softly against his lips, the sound vibrating through him, and straddled him again, her thighs pressing against his hips.
“Eager, are we?” she murmured, her hands sliding up his arms, pinning them briefly above his head before releasing them to roam her body.
“Very,” Harry said, his voice rough, his hands finding her hips again, guiding her. She moved with him, reaching behind her to grab his manhood and align him with her wet entrance. Harry let out a groan as he felt her warmth enveloping him as she sank down slowly.
She paused, her eyes fluttering shut, her lips parting as she adjusted to the feel of his manhood inside her once again. Harry watched her, captivated by the way her face softened, the way her breath hitched, and the way her body trembled just slightly.
In no time, she began to move, her hips rolling in a steady, sensual rhythm. Harry matched her pace, his hands gripping her waist, and his eyes never leaving her face. Her dark hair swayed with each movement, framing her flushed cheeks, and her parted lips looked utterly kissable.
“Harry,” she breathed, her voice a mix of need and desire. She moved faster, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, and her body tightening around him as she bounced wildly on top of him. His eyes remained transfixed on those gravity-defying tits as they slapped and jiggled enticingly and he reached up, mauling them eagerly.
He could feel the tension building in her, in himself, a coil winding tighter with every thrust, every roll of her hips. His hands slid up her back, pulling her down to kiss her, their mouths clashing in a messy, desperate kiss.
She broke away soon after, her head tipping back, a low moan escaping her lips. The sound pushed Harry closer to the edge, his own breaths ragged now and his control slipping. He thrust up to meet her, harder, faster, their rhythm growing frantic. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her body arching, her breaths turning to soft cries.
“Harry,” she said again, her voice breaking, and that was enough to send him over.
The release hit him like a wave, intense and all-consuming, his vision blurring as he groaned her name. She followed moments later, her body shuddering as she let out a sharp and unrestrained cry of pleasure. They clung to each other, riding out the aftershocks of their orgasms, their breaths mingling and their bodies slick with sweat.
Nymeria collapsed against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hair tickling his cheek as Harry held her tightly to himself, both panting.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the world reduced to the sound of their slowing breaths and the warmth of their skin. Harry’s hand traced lazy circles on her back, his mind blissfully blank, every worry from the night before forgotten. Nymeria lifted her head, her eyes soft now, the wicked grin replaced by something tender. She kissed him gently, her lips lingering on his.
“Worth waking up for?” she asked, her voice husky again, but lighter now.
Harry chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Definitely.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, savoring the moment. But the world wouldn’t stay at bay forever. The weight of their responsibilities, the danger of their plans, and unexpected developments lingered just beyond the edges of this moment.
Tom Riddle was here, older and as dangerous, if not more, and Harry knew he would need all his cunning and guile to tackle this version of him.
They had been taken by surprise, yes. But there was no time to dwell on what was beyond their control. All they could do was play the cards they were dealt. They had no other choice.
TBC.
Comments
TheWateringWizard
Ohhh I was expecting an older Voldy! And he’s bloody intense and already pretty fucked up apparently… it’s going to be a tough act for Harry
Harbinger34
I haven’t seen many good Harry/ Dora stories this is fantastic
