Penthuisiast
patreon
SD: CH113 - Fleur Delacour
🕑 Added 2024-06-07 16:01:17 +0000 UTCFleur Delacour hated her life.
No, it wasn’t just because she was having to sit amidst thousands of testosterone-charged, sweaty pigs called wizards, as they yelled and brayed and threw their hats and their coin down at the spectacle that was the ongoing Quidditch World Cup. It wasn’t because of her veela nature, that attracted the feelthy Eenglish pigs to her enchanting presence, not that she needed it, since her enchanting beauty was enough to draw too much attention regardless of whatever strata of society she was dealing with. It wasn’t because she had to sit in the Top Box with her father because of aforementioned reasons, or the fact that her father was the Minister for External Affairs, the British equivalent of Head of Department of Magical Cooperation, and as the eldest, she had to attend whatever parties he deemed important to attend, regardless of her wishes. That he was a strong wizard too well-versed in Occlumency to be distracted by a slight twist of her allure didn’t help, but again, that wasn’t it either. That the Quidditch World Cup was happening in Britain of all places, a pigsty that sweltered with the festering madness and bigotry about blood just because they had claim to King Arthur and Merlin’s creation — the Wizengamot could have been another genuine reason, but even that wasn’t it either.
No, the reason she hated her life was because she was forced to attend this game — Quidditch.
Seriously, all those players zooming around, risking their lives with those bludgers and the opposing team while they scored goals with the Quaffle, only to see the tables turn because one lucky putain to catch that golden ball and score a hundred and fifty points? It was just wrong! For a sport’s enthusiast like Fleur, it went against every single principle of game design. Just the Snitch’s presence was enough to overwhelm almost every single point spread. The worst part? All the adrenaline rush and the efforts of the chasers and the beaters constantly switching tactics, flying against the opposite team and the bludgers, taking hits just to snatch the Quaffle from the other side — all of that meant nothing in the face of two salauds that didn’t even interact and could change the entire game because one was luckier in spotting the snitch than the other. Like, what sort of imbecile invented the seeker position? Someone that didn’t want to play but wanted a part and an off switch to end the game when they got bored?
Yes, Fleur Delacour hated Seekers.
That every single salaud and salope in this madhouse was cheering Krum and Lynch didn’t make it any better.
The veela entered the stadium, dancing and singing and sashaying as if they were nothing but tools to push these sweaty pigs further into depravity. While Fleur herself was no stranger to depravity, for at times, the ability to switch off her mind and give in to her instincts was necessary, much like how she liked her marzipan five times a day to keep herself going. She had a bit of a sweet tooth. The collective libido ran rampant, and her father held her closer, and all five of their guards — all females, mercenaries hired from the best of the best for their protection, and Fleur prepared herself for being ogled from every direction, if not allure-influenced forwardness from her ‘admirers’.
The veela consorts began to dance, and years of practice kept her from showcasing outright disdain on her visage. Her mother Apolline, was a veela, just like her grandmother, and a card-carrying, proud member of the Coven, one of the largest associations of powerful creature-borns from all across the world. Apolline currently held the seat for the official representative of France, and her marriage to Sebastian Delacour, the Minister for External Affairs, only enhanced her credibility. Seeing those of her kin debase themselves as mere cheerleaders, utterly addled, and given in to their veela instincts to become things instead of the prideful, territorial race of hunters that they were, made Fleur want to froth in the mouth.
Fucking Bulgaria and their fucking Veela sex trade!
That her father held her arm in an iron grip, knowing her spirited opinions about the matter didn’t help either.
Really, nothing could be worse than this.
It should be noted that while Fleur Delacour, veela heiress of the House of Delacour and all-around stuck-up nosy bitch, according to her classmates, didn’t have much experience challenging the universe. Or else she’d have known that someone up there, or perhaps the forces of Destiny itself, would have taken note of that mighty claim.
The change occurred when she was unaware.
Something must have clicked in the veela below her, and she didn’t even realise it when she had actually begun to softly sway to an invisible wind that sang to her very soul. The veela were dancing below, a song of joining, of a bond both pure and deceitful, a longing to be fulfilled and a threat to be eliminated. A magic both subtle and esoteric began to saturate the entire stadium and Fleur felt every tissue in her body vibrate with this resonating power thrumming all around and within her.
This was no dance. This was no performance. This… was a response. A Call.
Her mother had told her all about Calls while growing up. Veela were creatures of emotion, beings that were able to twist on other’s emotions and used it to entice prey. Unlike their close relative the Empaths, veela could not directly consume emotion, but instead played with them. In a world of witches and wizards, a powerful veela could become a perfect puppeteer, twisting others to follow their will. A little nudge there, and entire kingdoms could be put to war. One of her ancestors, a Greek veela named Selena, had caused a massive war that had caused two powerful kingdoms to go to war with each other. She had used the carnage as an ingredient for a powerful Bacchic ritual to enhance the veela powers down her own bloodline. Scholars, both muggle and magical, would describe her as Helen, from a similar-sounding Greek word meaning ‘torch’.
And Calling was Veela's bread and butter when it came to their own kin. One could almost call it an invisible organ, a function that every veela was born with. A magical energy frequency that they, and other succubi operated on, and could use it to play a contest of wills to make the other submit before their might. Granted, Calling had gone out of fashion since long, given how direct it was. Instead, the veela race had adapted to tricks, deception and subtle influence to play a game of cloak and shadows and cat’s paws behind closed doors. They could still fight, and could be rather savage when they did so, but if one lured them into a position where the veela had to fight, then it already lost in the eyes of the rest of their kin.
So why were these Bulgarian bitches performing a Call? It couldn’t be that drinking Bulgarian rum had addled their brains to the extent that they were performing a massive call in unison when just flaring their allure would do. No, it was too precise, too connected, too synchronised with each other, much like how a plethora of instruments could be played together to produce a symphony in an orchestra. It was like every single veela on the field below had unequivocally forgotten their differences, forgotten their pride, given up their status as a predator and grouped together as pack animals in presence of a greater being.
But what could it be? What sort of being could have caused the entire horde of veela to group together and perform a Call, when just any random one among them could potentially reduce even the mightiest of men into bumbling fools?
“What… What is this?” asked her father.
Fleur marvelled at the strength of her father’s Occlumency to resist something of this degree, but even so, it was woefully clear that Sebastian couldn’t do anything more than that, especially if the tightness in his pants was any clue.
“Something wrong,” she whispered in rapid French, not that it was necessary. The entire stadium was caught up in a daze of swirling lust. “This is… the air is screaming. It’s filled with emotion. Veela magic. Do nothing, Papa.”
Her father narrowed his eyes, despite very much feeling the growing unease in his gut. “We’ve been over this. I’m not going to sit back just because it’s —”
“Papa!”
Sebastian fell silent.
Curious, cautious, Fleur Delacour expanded her senses, and the next second, she felt it. The dangerous stirring. Her senses, attuned to emotional tides and falls and their subtle impacts on the nature of magic went on edge. Whatever it was that was capable of instilling such a reaction in an entire horde of veela was no ordinary succubi. She delved a little deeper into the resonating Call, and the foreboding feeling magnified, and a shudder ran down her spine.
Could it be…
Tales that she had learnt on her grandmother’s knee now rose to mind, stories about succubi that held such prowess that they ruled over other succubi as would a king, a lion that stirred among jackals and hyenas, ruling the forest by its will. A creature that would lord over other succubi not only because it was powerful in its own right, but because its mere presence was enough to attract other succubi like moths to its raging flame.
A nightmare in flesh, a male demon so impossibly powerful, that its very origins seemed more fantastical than real.
Fleur had heard the stories of Asmodeus, one of the oldest known Incubus in existence, one that had copulated with the demoness Lilith to produce a race of sexual demons known as the Asmodai, a group that were the precursors of the modern-day sirens and veela. Granted, the tales made Asmodeus feel less magical and more demonic, or perhaps, a god of lust. He even had entire hordes of faithful followers, the Lilim, that conquered, killed, and debauched in his name.
Today’s incubi were less like their ancestors and more of Cambions, supernaturally attractive and charming, but that was all to them. Ancient Incubi were to Cambions what Cambions were to the socially inept. But if there was an incubus around that could make hundreds of veela join together and Call then…
Fleur couldn’t help herself. Giving in, she joined the Call —
—and instantly flinched and fell back, having been burned in a way she had never been before.
For it was wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong. Wrong, Wrong. Wrong.
That was the only way she could explain it. As though something that didn’t belong to this world was present. An aberration — an abnormality in the flow of the world and the universe as a whole. Something that could shake this world and rewrite it — change the flow of the very fundamental forces of nature and make it heed its commands and in a way that Fleur couldn’t even register much less understand.
And then she felt it.
Power.
Overwhelming power.
Fleur’s breath was cut short, her eyes widening at the impossible amount of raw magic that was exerting itself upon this stadium. The sheer potency of it was ludicrous, it was sexual magic that made her own allure feel like a simple pushing jinx compared to the full might of a Reducto Maxima. It was power she could expect from the likes of Gellert Grindelwald or Ekrizdis, power that could turn entire cities into barren wastelands if unleashed in one stroke.
And it was incubus magic.
She glanced at the veela below, her own occlumency barely keeping her from joining them in their Call — a hopeless effort to subdue this being from exerting his authority. One might as well attempt to stop a tide using an umbrella. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. All she could do was follow the flux of the Call that was being directed straight at her — no, not at her, at someone near her.
The Incubus.
The realisation that a being like that was sitting in the Top-Box, within a few feet of reach within her, one that could turn her into a willing bitch at his whim, churned her stomach. Sweat erupted out of her body pores, not in the sexy way she liked and prefered, but instead, she sweated profusely in a matter of seconds, unable to bear the might of his proverbial fire.
There was a freaking Incubus Lord in the stadium with no one knowing any better.
She stood up, and stared. At the Ministry box. Cornelius Fudge, the British Minister of Magic and an utterly insipid and toxic little pest, couldn’t be it. The Bulgarian… no, he was looking far too confused. The Italian was a woman, and the masculinity in the power couldn’t possibly come from a woman. The feels were too different. There were some more people hovering around, but none of them gave the feels of being anything more than stupid, bigoted douchebags that cared little except their miserable little lives. That left —
Just… who is that?
His hands were holding the railings, and his attire a merger of tradition and practicality. Given his presence in the top box, Fleur could guess he was someone worth political attention, and powerful ones at that, if he was standing next to three Ministers. Fleur idly remembered that her father was supposed to join them, but he had refused, citing Fleur’s safety, but promised a meeting in the Minister’s Box in due time. Fleur glanced at the young man, suitably tall with messy black hair and a face that was a mix of rugged handsomeness and cunning smoothness, standing in the place like he owned it. His sharp, alluring green eyes flickered across the entire stadium, seemingly evaluating something. Fleur followed his gaze and found him looking at several ladies, some which Fleur recognized, giving him lust-filled looks. She looked at the Italian Minister who had slowly approached him, her hands slowly reaching down to his pants and rubbing the outline of something that promised a night of intense passion even from what little Fleur could gauge.
But more than anything else, what really caught her attention was the blatant disinterest in those green eyes. This man, who couldn’t be older than twenty-two, looked utterly disinterested, with the air of a clerk stuck with office duty in the middle of a particularly sultry afternoon. This man had made her, Fleur Delacour, a moth to his flame, and he didn’t even know it. He was just standing there, amidst thousands of people, attracting an immense number of ladies that were inches from starting the world’s largest and most diverse orgy, with an entire horde of veela pathetically attempting to subdue his presence and make him play ball… didn’t care.
At all.
Just who IS that guy?
Fleur couldn’t help herself. She extended her own Allure and hit him with everything she had.
She might as well have thrown a punch in empty air and expect to hit someone miles away. He didn’t even so much as meet her gaze and instead…
Turned away.
And with that, the all-encompassing presence around him vanished, leaving Fleur Delacour gasping like a fish out of water. It was like the mythical being had vanished from the stadium entirely. Even the horde of veela beneath looked perplexed, with varying degrees of emotion flashing upon their faces. Even the people around were slowly turning normal, the daze of lust on the ladies’ faces dissipating with every passing second, replaced with abject confusion. The Italian Minister looked flustered, then embarrassed and slowly pulled away from the man’s crotch, hoping he hadn’t seen that little indecency. And just like that, the daze was over.
How? Fleur wanted to scream. He was still standing there, looking around. Merde, he was actually talking to Minister Fudge, while the Italian pushed herself into the safety of the shadows.
“Papa,” she said softly, inquisitively. “Who iz zat?”
She had made sure her French accent was in full force. There were certain appearances to keep after all.
“That,” said Sebastian Delacour, his eyes gazing all across the stadium, expecting an attack. “I believe, is Harry Potter.”
“Ze Boy-Who-Lived?” asked Fleur, her curiosity doubling by the second. By all rights, the boy should be approaching sixteen, and from the pictures she had seen about him in the International press when he resurfaced after twelve years of obscurity, she’d have pictured him to be a scrawny teen, with messy green eyes and boyish looks, probably marred by the bigotry that festered deep within Wizarding Britain. Instead he looked…. Manly.
How did that happen?
“Oui,” said her father. “I recognize him from some of the Ministry posters about Sirius Black and his infamous betrayal of the Potters. But he’s grown, hasn’t he? I reckon it’s got something to do with him playing the prodigal son card with his family fortune since the onset of the summer. I believe he’s onto something fierce with the Flamels, if my guess is right.”
“Will we not meet ‘im, Papa?”
Sebastian Delacour gave his daughter’s earnestness a curious look. Unsurprising, really. Fleur had never been one to fawn over the entire Boy-Who-Lived or give in to the hero worship that other girls around her age ever had. Her father had brought her up to be pragmatic, perceptive and deceptive, and Fleur had been an ideal student.
“We will,” he said slowly, his eyes reading her. “I’m supposed to meet the British Minister anyway. I was hoping to keep the nasty at bay until the first break.”
He glanced at the oval stadium beneath as the Bulgarian and Irish players flew out into the open, attracting the mad cheer from the audience. Then he looked at the expression on his daughter’s face.
“On second thought, now’s as good a time as any.”
“Ah, and here he is,” exclaimed Minister Fudge with a boisterous laugh that had too many teeth in it to be genuine. “Sebastian, let me present to you Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and Lord Potter. Harry m’boy, this is Sebastian Delacour. Sebastian here is the French Minister for External Affairs, and the ICW Representative for France. He and dear Barty butt heads way too often.”
Personally, Fleur wondered how anyone with that moustache and constipated expression on his old, bald face could contribute anything to International Magical Cooperation, but what did she know? She noted the way ‘Barty’ looked at a seemingly empty pair of seats in the Top Box, only to look away when he noted her interest.
At closer look, Fleur noted that he looked way older than sixteen. It wasn’t just a sudden growth spurt, a teen in a man’s body. If anything, he looked utterly confident in his skin, and stood there, strutting like he owned the place.
“You missed the big surprise, Sebastian,” Fudge went on. “Me and Harry just finalised the bidding process for his sale of basilisk parts with the Bulgarian and Italian Ministers. A thousand year old basilisk carcass that belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself! And our hero Harry Potter killed it with the sword of Godric Gryffindor no less! It’s a tale for the generations!”
He looked so excited that Fleur wondered if a tug at his emotions would drop the man dead from a heart attack.
“A thousand-year-old, you say?” asked her father, eyeing Harry Potter speculatively. “And you killed it?”
“With Godric’s blade no less,” cooed Fudge. “Why, from what Harry tells me, Nicholas Flamel himself has registered as a private buyer. Luckily Harry here came to me for help, or else it would be an absolute mess.”
Translation — the British Ministry was milking Potter’s victory as much as possible.
“That’s very interesting,” said Sebastian. “I hope France will not be kept out of this deal. Oh, and my apologies, this is my eldest, Fleur. She’s in her final year at Beauxbatons.”
“Harry Potter,” he said, offering his hand to her. “Pleased to meet you.”
Fleur offered hers in return. “De même.”
Their fingers met, skin meeting skin, their eyes locked with each other. Fleur tilted her head just a little to show her long, lush, silvery hair, and flawless, crystal, clear tanned skin. Her rich, abundant thighs spelt of unknown pleasures and delights. A deep breath ensured his attention would be caught on her full, rich, succulent, round breasts that did not sag in any feasible way. Added to that was a mischievous glint in her bright, blue eyes, her shoulders relaxed to reveal her confident, albeit lithe frame.
Even without the allure, she looked like a recruiting poster for wet dreams. And she knew perfectly the kind of attention she could receive when she used her skills that way.
Her mother had trained her in the arts of seduction since she was six after all.
She expected him to react, expected him to try to impress her like everyone else, or, knowing his roots, at least recognize the veela in her. Instead, the sheer dismissive glint in his eyes indicated that he was talking to worms and birdfeed — a lesser wretched existence not even worthy of his time and effort.
That sort of confidence could only arise from a being that was so far from a succubus that it was downright hilarious.
In hindsight, it explained what she did next, even if it was stupid of her to do so. Suicidal in fact, but Fleur had always loved adventure sports. It was why she was so much into professional broom racing and curse breaking, two professions with the greatest degree of risk and the greatest chance of expanding her talents. Taking a high and dangerous risk, she unleashed the full power of her Allure at his face, pinpointing it straight at his heart.
His gaze locked on her. There was something in his eyes, something raw and dangerous. And then, he smiled.
And then her allure vanished.
A soundless scream escaped her as she wrenched her hand back. Before this, when she had joined the Call, he had been like a massive bonfire, warm, bright, mesmerising, and filled with power, so much power. But up close, the sensation was absolutely reversed. She expected to be inundated, overwhelmed even. Instead, his power emptied her in a way that made her feel hacked apart, chewed, eaten and spit out. As a veela, a creature that was always attuned to the ebb and flow of emotion all around her, sensing nothing for even a few seconds made her feel like someone was trying to kill her via asphyxiation. There was no connection with the world around her, or Potter for that matter, no sense of feeling her senses, of establishing her own hold upon the world and becoming something in it. Instead, all she found was a numbing, empty void that sucked her into it and made her feel less just by the barest contact.
Gasping, frightened and hostile, Fleur met his eyes, and found a dark amusement in them. There was a familiarity as well, one that she couldn’t place. Every bit of her Occlumency was strained to keep her from clenching her teeth, and transforming into her predatory self to attack this… this….
She didn’t know what he was, but he was dark and greasy and utterly, utterly wrong. A natural enemy of her race, no, not an enemy. A predator of her race. One that held no importance to any emotion, and instead wanted to twist the world in its own perverse image. Did Minister Fudge and Wizarding Britain know what sort of abomination their National Hero was?
“Ah, Lucius, here you are,” said Minister Fudge boisterously. Fleur turned around to see a trio walk into the Minister’s box. She noted the way the blonde boy kept ogling her like a piece of steak, while the elder man, a black-clad figure of elegance with hawk-like eyes that practically stalked the place. His eyes lingered on Potter for a fraction of a second, and Fleur noted a glint of raw hatred in them, before it was quickly masked in a well-crafted shell of indifference. But most important was the woman next to him, a black-haired aristocratic beauty that could have given Fleur a run for her money had she been a little younger. Fleur noted the way her eyes were focussed on Harry Potter, evaluating him, yet there was a strange familiarity in her expression, like she and Potter went long back. Finally, Fleur noted the way Potter avoided looking at Narcissa, and instead focussed his gaze at Lucius, as if willing him to do something.
A little further behind them, stood another family of four — a man with a gorgeous wife and two daughters. All three women looked like they had diluted succubus blood in them, and with the way two of the three women were gazing at Potter, she couldn’t help but wonder if they had been overly affected by the Call earlier.
“Harry Potter,” said Lucius Malfoy silkily, his silver cane tapping on the floor just inches from Potter’s feet. “My, have you grown. I can hardly see the kid I saw a few years ago.”
Potter offered his hand and the elder Malfoy shook it. “Don’t worry. I’ve still retained my other proclivities, as you might remember. For one, I own Dobby now.”
The man’s eyes turned to slits. “I wish you best of luck then, Mister Potter. This year promises to be quite… interesting.”
Both of them were clenching each other’s hands tightly.
“I look forward to it.”
“Harry Potter,” said the woman, stepping forward. “It’s good to see you again, Cousin.”
Fleur narrowed her eyes.
“Cousin Narcissa,” said Potter, offering his hand, only to receive hers in return. Fleur took note of the way he kissed her knuckles with a knowing expression, and the woman — Narcissa — left something in his hands. Fleur couldn’t exactly make out what it was, and could only guess it had a Notice-Me-Not ward placed on it, though anyone that could install a ward on something that tiny with such precision was indeed a Charms Master.
“And Draco,” Potter went on. “How are you enjoying the World Cup? Rooting for Krum, I believe?”
The blonde boy’s response was an irritated jerk.
“You should really come visit Malfoy Manor sometime,” said Narcissa. “After Sirius’s death, there are but only a few Blacks left. Despite our differences, a debt is owed to you. I look forward to meeting and getting to know a fellow Black. It’s a trifle early, but perhaps I could invite you to our Christmas Ball? I can safely say that it promises to be extravagant.”
Potter laughed. “Ah, I don’t doubt that. I’ll consider that.”
Despite the hostility she naturally felt against Potter, Fleur couldn’t help but note the existing power play going on between Potter and House Malfoy. The animosity between the elder Malfoy and Potter was clear with anyone with the eyes to see, and while the younger Malfoy was barely a nuisance at best, or a pawn at worst, the Lady Malfoy was trying to play something fierce with Potter.
Fleur noted the way Narcissa whispered something in her husband’s ear, and with a half-hearted apology, she walked out to the inner corridors of the stadium. The father and son Malfoy took their seats, followed by the other family, as the Quidditch match began in earnest.
"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"
Fleur noted the Hawkshead attacking formation employed by the Irish Chasers, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. Unable to get past Quigley, the Beater for Bulgaria, they shifted to the Porkspoff Ploy, as Troy made as though to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to Moran. The other Bulgarian Beater, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Moran's path; Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it.
"TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!"
She turned around to glance at Potter again, only to find a glaring emptiness in his wake.
Harry Potter had vanished.
Comments
bilgs
Is there a set time frame for the next chapter or is it just a case of wait and see?
Romavictrix
More
Sweet Potato
Nice
Pride
More
