Chapter Twenty

The clap of flesh snapped through the hotel room. Harry watched, entranced, as Apolline's ass jiggled, a red hand print on creamy pale skin. The perfect amount of wobble, her round, wide, peachy ass his playtoy.

Apolline giggled and kicked her legs, smiling up at him, her hair splayed on his chest. On his other side, Cissy squirmed as he squeezed his other hand on her equally curvy ass.

Harry laid on his hotel bed and thanked Tom once again. What would his life have turned out like if Tom's mind hadn't merged with his? He doubted very much that he'd be lying in an expensive hotel room on the Schwerin lakeside, both hands groping the bountiful ass cheeks of two gorgeous full-figured women who loved him unconditionally.

He smiled up at the ceiling.

"Look at that smug smile." Narcissa teased.

"He hasn't even got, ah—" Apolline's lips pursed. "What is that silly slang you use?"

"Got laid." Narcissa finished. She rolled her eyes. "Two desperate—"

"Sluts." Apolline interrupted.

"—Ladies," continued the Malfoy mother. "Who, admittedly, aren't acting very lady like."

Indeed they weren't, Harry thought. Bare-chested, their hard nipples swayed against his torso, raised for his viewing enjoyment. Two sets of wondrous milky plump busts, soft against his skin. Their hands were trailing across his body; dancing down his stomach, a single finger following the vein up his shaft, gently kneading his ballsack.

Their hands looked so small against his erect shaft, even next to his testicles, which on this day seemed larger than even their bunched-up fists.

Harry exhaled a long breath, willing himself to have restraint. He'd told them — told himself that he wasn't going to have them both, have the sweet heaven of that threesome fantasy, until he had the time to enjoy it properly.

And, as the clock ticked, he reminded himself he had to be in Hogwarts for breakfast in less than an hour. Apolline's naughty hand turned from a caress into a definite stroke.

"Girls." He warned.

They broke out into giggles.

"My love, it's dangerous to hold it all in. Let me show you how I love you, how ardently I desire you morning and night. I'll give my all to relieve you of your seed before breakfast." Narcissa teased.

Apolline snorted. "Or, 'Arry, instead of the dull proper English lady, use your toy Veela, dirty and quick and 'ard." Apolline stretched languidly. "I can smell my quim, I drip for you."

Harry pinched her bottom. "We both know it wouldn't end up as a quickie, not with you two." His fingers burrowed down — both of his girls were hot and soaking, their musky scent filling the room. He shook his head.

"We're going to do this properly. Be good girls for me, okay?" He ordered.

"Okay, Harry." They chorused. They shared a hard look with each other.

"Une pipe, 'Arry? Just fuck my throat, let my mouth milk you. Nothing compares to a Veela on her knees." Apolline suggested, licking her lips.

Cissy glared at her competitor, but her hard glare turned to soft eyes, for him. "One for the road, my love? Remember how you trained me to be your perfect trophy wife?" Cissy fluttered her eyelashes. She threw a victorious glance at Apolline. "I'd measure my progress pleasuring Harry by the lipstick marks getting lower on his cock. Isn't it better coming from a lover that you trained?" She pulled back and a drop of saliva dripped from her lips and ran down his erect shaft.

"He didn't need to train me, a Veela knows the sexual arts innately—"

"Oh, I bet you do, you whore—"


Cissy squirmed under his arm and kissed his face, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment. From the other side, Apolline began nuzzling his neck.

"Sorry, my love. It's just I love you, so much." Cissy exclaimed.

"I love you more." Apolline declared.

"You're just magicked to feel that way." Harry rolled his eyes. And then he winced, the words having spilled unintentionally.

His girls shared a look between them — this time without anger but worry.

Narcissa sat up, her arm coming up to cover her breasts, her hair beautifully wild. Despite himself, Harry couldn't help but smile. His proper Pureblood princess - even after all they'd done, she still fell back to demureness.

"My love…" She blinked, the words not coming from a mouth that opened and closed a few times. "Is that really how you feel — I mean, Harry. How can you say that? You've shown me a life of happiness I could never imagine. A love I couldn't dream of. A purpose—" She fell silent, struck.

Apolline clutched his hand and held it to her heart. "'Arry, you can feel our bond, non? A mighty oak tree. An ocean. It is powerful. Transcendantale. It is love. Magic could not create what we have."

Harry sat up in bed, hesitant. "But, girls, without that ritual, our bond—"

"It's not true, it's not!" Narcissa burst into tears. Her hand slapped against his chest and immediately her other hand began rubbing away the pain. "How can you say that? I love you, I love you, I love you." She curled against him, gripping his fingers with both her hands, so tightly it crushed his fingers and broke his heart.

"She's right." Apolline insisted, eyes glistening, a tear spilling. "Our love is true and right and beautiful. I won't hear of this, 'Arry, please don't speak these silly words, I just can't—"

"Okay, okay," He gathered his women in his arms, holding them tight as they cried. "I'm sorry, girls. You're right. Come on, give me a kiss. I'm sorry."

With a kiss and a soft words, a squeeze and a pinch, tears turned to smiles. Cissy and Apolline covered him in kisses, swallowing the lumps in their throat, their touches desperate.

But as they nibbled on his collarbone, as he wrapped arms around their waists and pulled them closer, Harry could only stare up at the ceiling, smiling grimly to himself.

Whatever they said, he knew the truth. He'd made them like this. And even if he loved them back, even if he treated them with kindness, even if he made their lives better, he'd made them behold to him.

Not fearful, but not free. Not Death Eaters, but branded all the same.

He told himself he was doing it for the greater good. For the power that surged in him as their bond deepened, that came with each new conquest. The knowledge that came from their memories of magic abstract and new. The support he needed to fight this war.

He told himself he was doing it to fight back against Voldemort, the man in his head, the man more frightening than anyone else knew. More intelligent, more experienced, more dangerous.

He bit his lip as he ran his hands down the backs of his girls, soothing their pain. Maybe he could turn off their bond, somehow, disable it if not remove it. Maybe he could show them a life without the servitude he'd forced upon them.

Because deep down, he knew the truth he couldn't speak, the truth that rang true to both Harry and Tom, the truth that sat behind every lie he told himself about his reasons for all his sins.

That, in his core, he was still the little boy in the cupboard, desperate for family and friends, for a human touch, for a smile.

Desperate for love.


Hogwarts. Winter was coming. The air turned frigid, each breath turning to mist. The lawns of the courtyards became crunchy under the foot, the grass growing frosted tips, like the boy bands in the magazines. The students avoided the cloisters if they could, taking the longer routes to stay inside the warmth of Hogwarts, with the torches and magically warm stone.

Harry trailed his finger along the stone walls as he walked leisurely, Marauder's Map in hand. He could feel the magic in the walls — feel Hogwarts herself. How he loved her.

A few students were heading to breakfast already, the buzz of excited chatter and gossip, shoulders nestled together. The upper year girls were refusing to abandon their short skirts — the only concession they'd made to winter was above the knee socks in their House colors, or even stockings. That and the annual presence of oversized House scarves — Harry saw one petite Hufflepuff girl who was wearing a scarf bigger than her.

Soon, snow would arrive and with it, snowball fights, enchanted snowmen, hot cocoa stands set up by enterprising students, and all manner of charmed trinkets meant to keep you warm. The upper years made a brisk market selling heated globes, lanterns, vials, coats, everything.

Harry smiled. He loved winter. He couldn't wait for the first lower year who'd rage at their purchased heating trinket failing because of a poorly applied charm — and the ensuing duel when he tried to get his money back. Every year, without fail.

Eyes followed Harry, as they always had. Once, they'd bothered him. More than once, he ignored them, pretending they didn't exist. Now, he met each gaze with an easy smile.

Outside these walls, there were wizards and witches more deadly than he, more wise, more cunning. Women he couldn't seduce, men he couldn't best, traps he couldn't escape. Outside these walls, Voldemort waited.

But inside Hogwarts?

Nothing could touch him.

It's good to be king.

In the cloisters of the Quad, the D.A. members were up and about, practicing the spells he'd taught them, reminding him that he needed to set up another session. Terry Boot nodded to him. Padma Patil just blushed as she passed by, her friends breaking into giggles once they thought he was out of earshot. Marietta grimaced, pulling Cho Chang past him before she could say a word.

That was okay — Harry had somebody waiting in his bed. Or her bed, rather.

Harry swished his wand to summon his Firebolt. Showing off to the crowd, he stepped onto the open glassless window ledge of the cloisters and let his Firebolt zip him up and away.

Up into the clouds, enjoying the oooh of the crowds.

What was power if he couldn't show it off a little?

It made him feel better. Less guilty.

And whenever he was down, there was always one person he'd go to. His best friend.

The cold made him shiver. But soon he was in the warmth of Gryffindor Tower. He pulled himself behind the four-poster curtains of Hermione's bed and looked down at her fondly.

Still sleeping, curled up cutely. Dressed head to toe in her thickest Gryffindor pajamas, even though the bed was warmed with charms — no doubt to try and put him off. Harry grinned. He wasn't. It just made his Hermione look even cuter.

Her thick bushy hair grew wild at night, a lion's mane that contrasted against a face that grew even cuter and more innocent at rest. Hairs split and loose, tickling at her nose, a growing frown. The sun was streaming through the red curtains and casting her bed in a red glow, like a seedy Amsterdam street.

He was surprised she was still asleep — but she'd adopted his and Ron's bad habits over the years, never wanting to eat breakfast alone when she turned up early.

Harry tucked himself into bed, underneath the thick blanket, entwining himself around her warmth. She let out a warm sigh and immediately cuddled around him, backing her pert bottom against him.

He set an alarm for fifteen minutes and let himself snooze against her, feeling his own eyes become heavy. His lovers were enchanting, but he'd not slept much the previous night, mind buzzing with thoughts of Helena, of worries over Voldemort, over marriage, the constant guilt playing at his mind.

His wand buzzed to wake him. But when Harry blinked away the bleariness, it was to find a weight on his chest. Straddling him, Hermione. She was trembling, her eyes wet. But to his shock, she was aiming her wand at him, an orange glow at the end of it, a spell on her lips.

And in her other hand, held away from him, his own wand.

Harry let his lips stretch into a smile, his voice gentle. "Hermione, what are you doing?"

She didn't say a word, her lips shuddering, her shoulders shaking. But the wand was still only centimeters from his nose.

But she didn't say a word.

"Hermione." He said softly, his smile disappearing. "It's me."

"Is-is it?" She sniveled. She wiped her nose with an angry arm swipe. "Because I don't know any more, Harry—"

"What are you talking—"

"I'm talking about my Harry, who wouldn't come into my bed like he owned me. I'm talking about my Harry, who wouldn't be out all night fucking random girls!" She screamed. Her words hung in the air like floating curses.

"Hermione, put the wand down—"

But she held it up, even though her hands were shaking.

"Are you going to kill me, Hermione?"

"H-he wouldn't do this." She sniffed, tears running from her eyes. "Not to me."

"Hermione, it's me. It's Harry. I'm just taking care of you. A Muggleborn in this world, I'm worried about you."

She snorted a bitter laugh. "You're worried about your dick." She wiped at her nose, her eyes red and puffy. Her wand jabbed at his face, its tip changing colors, orange to red to…green. "Who is she? Who are they, huh? What happened to you? Who are you now?"

"Hermione." He moved his hands up to shift her wand and as she stiffened, her wand vibrating as it threatened to unleash a spell, his hands instead went up above his head. "It's me. I love you. It's Harry. Don't do anything stupid, now."

"Stupid? Me? Not old Hermione Granger, head in her books, with no friends, no boyfriend, no future because she's a Mudblood!" She spat rage.

"Hermione, what are you—"

"Even my Harry, my sweet, caring Harry, even he's abandoned me to become this cad, this charlatan, this—" She cried, her eyes wild, wand pressed against his forehead.

"Hermione." He said firmly. "Put the wand down. I'm here because I love you. You have a future with me. Hermione. Hermione."

She stared down at him, chin set firm and angry. And then as he said her name over and over, her chin softened, her eyes wide and doeful. And once her anger dropped, so too did her wand hand.

He saw it in her eyes. She could never hurt him.

Harry snapped the wand from her grasp, his fear turning to anger and adrenaline. "Are you fucking crazy? What are you doing?" He rolled her around, snatching his own wand from her and landing his own weight on her back.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" She whimpered.

"It's fucking me! Harry! Damn, I'm here for a cuddle because I had a bad night and you try to fucking kill me!" He shouted, his knees pressing into her back. He grabbed her hands and criss-crossed them behind her back, holding them firmly.

She cried into her pillow. "I'm scared, I don't know who—"

"I've got Voldemort trying to kill me, I have Death Eaters, I've got a million worries, and now I can't even relax with you?" He barked, one hand holding both her pinned wrists, the other in her bushy hair to keep her face in her pillow, because he couldn't stand to even look at her.

"I'm sorry!" She bawled, squirming under him.

Her ass brushed against his erect cock and they both stilled. Harry blinked. He was hard, the adrenaline making him rigid.

She squirmed again. Deliberately?

"Are you—are you fucking wet?" Harry laughed in disbelief.

"No, no, no—" Hermione writhed, trying to escape his firm grasp. But she had no chance, not with his weight on her, not as he held her hands behind her.

"Are you lying to me?" His nostrils flared. He took his hand from her hair and jerked down her pajama bottoms to her knees, ignoring her cries. Her little perky apple-shaped bottom, fair in color.

To his surprise, she was wearing simple tight panties, white like daisies, clinging underneath her bouncy buttocks. And an unmistakable outline of her mound, her pussy lips framed.


He yanked her panties down to her knees.

She sobbed.

And between those thighs that were closed like a vice, trying to hide from him, her pussy.

Weeping freely.

He roughly jammed his fingers through her wet flower, coating his hand in her fluids, just so she could no longer deny it. She just cried, face buried in the pillow, wriggling against his grasp but only making her arousal worse.

"You-you like this, don't you?" Harry laughed. "Being held down, being dominated?"

"No, no, I don't, Harry, please—"

He pulled her legs apart to get a better view of her arousal, her panties stretched between her thighs. She couldn't hide from him.

"You want me to tell you what to do? You want House Potter to take, to make you yours? You want to be a Muggleborn 'researcher' for me, huh? You want the collar, the badge, the robes?"

"I don't, I don't!" Hermione cried.

But she only got wetter. "You want everyone to see that you're Potter-owned." He drew his hand back and with all his force, slapped her jiggling buttocks. A red handprint. She keened forward like a whale harpooned, her squeal orgasmic.

Harry's mind clouded over. Anger, adrenaline, arousal and disbelief. "You put a wand to the face of the one person who loves you? I can't fucking believe you. What were you going to do? The Killing Curse? A stun? Ginny's stupid Bat-bogey, thing? Tell me!"

"I don't know, I don't know!" She begged.

He spanked her again, enjoying her squeaks. She soaked the bed. And after each spank, he felt her pussy, wetter than he could ever believe, and wiped her own arousal on her asscheeks. Red hand prints mixed with her own glistening arousal.

She begged his forgiveness as he spanked her again and again, trying to wriggle away from his stinging hand. But she couldn't escape, not with his weight on her, not with her panties around her thighs, her hands held behind her back.

All her wriggling did was to bounce her beautifully round bottom for Harry's pleasure, and made it so that his hard smacks occasionally did not smack her red asscheeks but closer to her sopping pussy mound.

Hermione gasped with each smack, her tears spilling as her bottom became apple-red. But she arched her back into his hand, more and more as his spanks counted up over ten, over twenty.

And at thirty, she let out a keeling wail. Her toes stiffened as she came, harder than she ever had before, squirting her cum onto Harry's foraging fingers. Her cream coated his hand, dewy and glistening in the morning sun that shone through the red curtains.

Her legs shook and gave up, falling forward onto the bed, her pillow wet with her dribble.

Hermione whimpered as Harry let her hands go and fell forward onto her, his monstrous cock against her dewy flower, rubbing against it, threatening to take her.

She had no fight. But Harry simply soothed her, holding her tight, whispering into her ear.

"My love, are you okay?"

She nodded into the pillow, for she had no words. She couldn't face him, not humiliated as she was, her ass red, her sheets wet.

"I'm sorry to spank you, but you can't point your wand at me, Hermione. I'm still me, I'm still Harry. Your Harry. But I have to be stronger to survive what's coming, so I have to be someone else other than Harry too. Do you understand?"

She nodded again.

"Do you love me?"

Another nod.

"Good. I love you too." Harry kissed her cheek. "I'm going to take really good care of you, I promise. And I might take some liberties, too, because you're the only person I can be free with. You're the only person I can…unleash myself with. I can be not-Harry, if that makes sense. I can be teenage Harry, exploring my sexuality. I can be a bit…domineering, maybe, help myself and help you explore parts of yourself too. And I can be all that because you're my best friend and I trust you and I love you. I really need you in my life. Do you…do you think you can be that person for me?"

She turned her head to meet his as he craned over her. "Yes." She said wetly, smiling through puffy eyes and running tears. "I…I love you too."

Their lips met in a kiss. Harry thought he'd feel better. But he only felt guiltier — if he was willing to do this to his best friend, to manipulate and dominate her, was there any line he wouldn't cross her? Would he just end up as a Voldemort with a sex addiction?

Only it wasn't sex, not really. It was power. The power to have Hermione never leave him, never judge him, never disapprove. The power to have her love him.

She wiggled her ass and he almost recoiled. Not now.

Not like this.

"Let's get you some breakfast, beautiful." He told her.

Her orgasm had taken all the fight out of her. She was obedient to the extreme, a shell-shocked brain-fucked pleasure toy. She slipped her legs into the red panties he chose for her. She trembled as he zipped up the black skirt he'd shortened. Her toes curled as he slid on some black stockings, ringed at the top with Gryffindor red.

She didn't complain when he palmed her bare breasts, petite but perky, full in his hands, nipples stiff between his fingers. Nor when he clasped up a lacy bra to match her panties. A white blouse buttoned to the top and a winter woolly jumper.

"Don't want you catching a cold." He told her. And when he put her in front of him on his broomstick, held his arms around her, she just lay her head back and closed her eyes.


All his.

If he took her.

That was the problem. The mind in his head, not-Tom and not-Harry, because they were too closely merged to differentiate now.

He thought everything was his to take. Every girl happier if she loved and was loved. Every bank account was his because he'd need the war funds. Every stranger and friend just a stepping stone to the power he needed to fight back against Voldemort.

He could justify anything.

And if he could justify fucking with the girl that had always been his moral compass, he could justify everything.

When they landed at Hogwart's large entrance doors, ready for breakfast finally, Hermione shivered from the biting wind.

Harry shivered too.


From his throne, Voldemort examined Bellatrix. She knelt on the cold stone floor, but she was shaking. Bellatrix was no longer beautiful. She'd once been vivacious, glamorous, the belle of the Blacks. Azkaban had not been kind.

Not to her beauty, and not, Voldemort expected, to her mind. She'd never been the most mentally stable regardless - not with what her husband and company had done to her mind. And what he himself had done, he allowed himself.

No regrets. The most dangerous dogs were the rabid ones.

She was chanting something under her breath, teeth stained black — no doubt with something the Azkaban prisoner used to stay sane under the Dementors' cold power. A type of warming snuff. He wondered how she'd gotten it.

He stood up, admiring his Death Eaters. His most loyal. Those that had gone to Azkaban.

Dolohov. The Lestranges. Travers. Mulciber.

It had been alarmingly easy. Too easy, he'd thought for a moment, suspecting a trap.

But no, the Ministry was simply too incompetent, Fudge too easily controlled.

The Dementors ran free with a short conversation, and with them, breaking out his most loyal had been…uncontested.

It almost made him angry. He wanted a chance to test his power. More, he wanted a chance to display it. A chance to show his might after the Greengrass raid.

The Greengrass attack had been a failure, one he'd have to correct in time. The fodder he'd taken had been weaker than he'd anticipated. No matter — the attack, he'd decided, had still been the right decision. Their apothecaries had been pricing out some of the ingredients he needed to regain his power. Worse, they simply didn't have some of the things he needed.

He thought their whole range of businesses would be better run under the control of his Lucius' light touch. It was unfortunate he'd likely pushed them towards Dumbledore's eager clutches.

It was a problem he could rectify easily once Lucius returned from Switzerland.

If he returned, Voldemort amended, grimacing as the thought occurred. He was taking a long time with no contact. The job wasn't an easy one — negotiating with the troll enclave in Switzerland and the Lethifolds that hid in the forests of La Gomera. And while Switzerland's high mountains had a fog of troll magic that often interfered with communication, it was troubling that Lucius hadn't responded at all to the Dark Mark.

Perhaps he was being paranoid.

But he needed a victory, needed to advance his plans before Bones got the Ministry up to shape. And if Lucius wasn't showing…Voldemort trailed his gaze across his line up of kneeling escapees.

Somebody else would be keen to show their skills had not faded in the harsh cells of Azkaban.


Ron frowned at him around a mouthful of toast. "Where have you been?"

"Eh, around." Harry waved his hand dismissively as he sat down, grabbing a glass of pumpkin juice. Hermione winced as she gingerly sat down beside him.

"What's wrong with you?" Ron demanded.

"I think I pulled a muscle." Hermione deflected.

Ron snorted. "Doing what? Grabbing a book from the top shelf. Nevermind—" The ginger boy pointed an accusatory sausage at him, fork swinging wildly. "What do you mean, around? I haven't seen you all weekend!"

"Sorry." Harry dipped his head. "I've been…not sleeping."

Ron's eyes went wide and he leaned forward, dropping his voice. "Visions?"

"Visions." Harry confirmed. "Nightmares. Something. I…" He looked down at his plate of fried eggs. "I woke up one morning and I didn't feel…myself. If you get me. I was scared I would, you know, hurt you."

The boy grimaced and then laughed. "Don't be silly, Harry. You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" Harry took a long glass of orange juice. "I don't know what I'm capable of, Ron. I'm scared, sometimes." He said truthfully. The first truth he'd said in a long time, it felt like. And certainly the first to Ron.

Ron frowned as he speared a piece of bacon. "You should talk to Dumbledore. He'll know what to do."

"I have. I mean, I am. Don't worry. But in the meantime, I'm sleeping elsewhere."

The young Weasley boy hummed thoughtfully. "Well, it's nice having the shower free. You used to be so long in the shower."

"I've heard." Ginny said next to him. Then she squeaked, her face reddening. "That's not what I meant! I mean, I just meant—oh, I've got Potions!" She darted away from the table.

Ron just stared at her, and then back at Harry. "Mental, that one."

"Women, am I right?"

"You said it."

Hermione hit him on the arm out of reflex. Ron guffawed. Harry enjoyed the moment of being with his friends. Carefree, a young boy once more, just a normal Hogwarts day with his best friends.

But when he looked around the Great Hall, he couldn't pretend things were the same.

Katie Bell blushed as she met his gaze. Daphne dipped her head, studying her plate intently. Hannah straightened her back and stuck out her chest. Susan scowled, almost as if she knew he was imagining her in the bathtub in her home, busty tits floating above the waterline.

And Hermione's hand dropped to his leg.

If he took them all, could he forget his guilt as they buried him in lust, love and affection? He wanted them all in a custom bath tub in his own manor, wanted to drown himself in their naked flesh so he didn't have to think about the war, the war outside these walls and the war in his head.

If only he had someone to guide him, someone that wasn't helplessly in love with him or already in play to his machinations…maybe the universe could give him a sign. To stop it all and trust in the powers of Dumbledore and company, or to carry on gaining power, one fuck at a time.

Dumbledore stood up and tapped a fork to his glass. The Hall fell silent.

"Good morning, one and all. And aren't all mornings good? It's always the afternoons I've never trusted." The Headmaster pronounced cheerfully.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Right, yes, of course. Just a short announcement to welcome a new student!" The Hall split into a buzz of chatter. "Yes, yes, settle down. I know it's unusual to welcome a new student so late in the term, but as the unfortunate circumstances outside of these walls carry on, we may have to welcome new students from across Europe. Hogwarts, as you all know, is safe to all and will always welcome those who need safety." Dumbledore's eyes settled on Harry, and for a moment he could feel his piercing gaze, his disapproval.

And then it was gone, and Harry felt like he imagined it.

"Which is why I hope you will provide a give a big welcome to a new student who has already been sorted in my office into Gryffindor! Please welcome Dora Tomkins!"

A girl strode in nervously. She bumbled her heels together and almost tripped as she made her way to the Gryffindor table. A shy hand up to acknowledge the light applause.

The boys were staring at her long legs. But Harry was staring at her hair — long and glossy, her hair was from a magazine, and shaded like Play-Doh, roots a bright mauve, streaks a teal blue and the rest a peachy-pink.

The girl settled in next on Harry's other side and cheerfully began reaching to fill her plate. "Wotcher, everyone. What class have we got first?"

As the Great Hall began its chatter anew, after Dora had batted away the who, what, where questions, she leaned towards Harry. "Wotcher, big guy. Thanks for recommending me to the boss. If what she says about Hogwarts is true, this could be a big gig for me. What do you think? Gonna be trouble this year?"

Was this the sign he was waiting for?

"Oh," Harry sipped his pumpkin juice, struggling to keep a straight face as he imagined the metamorph Auror and all the fun they could have. "I've got a feeling that you and I are gonna be in hot water really soon."

Harry vs his moral compass. No bets on who will win. Next up, Harry has to help Daphne with some potential danger. Will this be the time where she finally surrenders to his advances?

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