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SD: CH112 - Setting The Pieces
🕑 Added 2024-05-16 10:04:12 +0000 UTCThe inside of the World Cup stadium was jam packed with people. Salesmen were apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes - green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria - which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.
"Been saving my pocket money all summer for this," Ron told me, as we strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Ron purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green rosette, he also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walked backward and forward over Ron's hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.
I idly wondered if Ron would feel the same after what would transpire in the year to come at Hogwarts.
After the slight altercation earlier, Hermione had chosen to depart for the Top-Box to sit with Penelope and Hestia, though the latter would be waiting for Tonks to join her there. The rest of the Weasleys would be joining there too, but there was nothing I could do about that.
"Wow, look at these!" said Ginny, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.
"Omnioculars," said the saleswizard eagerly. "You can replay the action, slow everything down, and they flash up a play-by- play breakdown if you need it. A real bargain I tell you, ten Galleons each."
"Wish I hadn't bought this now," said Ron, gesturing at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars.
“Three pairs, eight galleons a pair,” I said firmly.
“Nine, and we have a deal.”
“Good, then I’ll just buy one.”
The saleswizard glowered a little, before shaking his hand and grumbling something under his breath. Snatching three pairs, he thrust it at me. Grinning, I took it and gave him the coin.
“Uh, no, don’t bother,” said Ron, going red. He was always touchy about the fact I came from money. That I had actually taken control of the family fortune and was spending it for once for things I like was probably irritating him more than a little.
"You won't be getting anything for Christmas," I told him, grinning, thrusting the Omnioculars into his and Ginny's hands. Hermione and the others could just buy it themselves. I had left Hestia with enough galleons for that.
“But mate —”
"For about ten years, mind."
"Fair enough," said Ron, grinning.
We were joined by Mr. Weasley, Bill and Charlie, all of whom were all sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley was carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold. If everything went according to plan, I’d probably make a fuck ton of gold by the end of the day just from the betting alone. Either that, or have Ludo Bagman so deep in my debt that I’d be able to pull multiple favours from him, using his position as the organiser for the Triwizard tournament.
Either way, it was a win-win.
The entire place was literally swarming with people. A hundred thousand seats, according to Arthur, and all were booked weeks ago. A Ministry task force of five hundred had been working on this for over half a year. The entire area was layered with muggle repelling enchantments, as well as other protections. Like Amelia said, if the World Cup ended in a fiasco, it would destroy Britain's image before the ICW.
In short, the ideal stage for the resurrection of the Death Eaters.
"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. "Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go."
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. We clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right, and found ourselves in a massively floating mandala set at the highest point of the stadium, circumferencing the goal posts. As the Weasleys took their place on one side, I took the moment to spot Barty Crouch Sr. seated right in front of Hestia and Penelope, as well as the empty seat right next to him.
“Harry, m’boy!” A booming voice shouted through the crowd. I turned to see a large, green bowler hat that looked oddly familiar, and recognized Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. I schooled my expression, as the Minister came forward, and boisterously put his hand around my neck, as if I was his favourite nephew. “I’m glad I found you! Surely you’re in the Minister’s box?”
“Err, no, I’m actually with the Weasleys —” I began. “We have seats near the top level.”
“That won’t do, my boy. Sit with me!” Fudge looked passed me to Arthur. “The others want to meet the Boy-Who-Lived. You don’t mind if I take Harry with me, right Arthur? Excellent, com’n, Harry.”
Dismissing the flustered look on the man’s face, and the forming scowl on Ron’s face, I followed behind the Minister to the very top. It was a short flight of stairs, and I kept the smirk from forming on my face. After all, I knew exactly who I was going to meet up there.
“Harry Potter, meet the Irish Minister of Magic, Madame Derry Connelly, and the Bulgarian Minister, Radomir Apost-olov! Did I say that right?” At the hesitant smile from them both, he smiled apologetically, and went on. “Ministers, I wish to introduce to the Boy-Who-Lived, Lord Harry Potter.” He tilted his head in my direction. “He doesn’t understand English at all.”
I kissed the Irish Minister’s knuckles and saw the beginnings of my charm take effect, and shook the Bulgarian Minister’s hand. “At long last.”
“Indeed,” said the man in heavily accented English. “I have been looking forward to this.”
“You know English?” asked Cornelius, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Leetle,” Apostolov replief gruffly, amusement shining in his eyes. “I wrote to your secretary about ze auction of ze basilisk parts.”
“What basilisk parts?” asked Cornelius, perplexed.
“Salazar’s basilisk, Minister,” I said. “The one that I killed in the Chamber of Secrets. You’ll probably remember the petrifactions two years back…”
“Ah, yes, I remember,” said Cornelius. “But Dumbledore assured me that the perpetrator had been caught. Something about dark magic…. But I never heard anything about this… just how big was this basilisk?”
“About… seventy to eighty feet, I’d imagine. Why, just its head….”
It was probably not a surprise that Minister Fudge’s interest in the Quidditch World Cup instantly evaporated after that. As the basilisk carcass was officially mine under the Slaying and Ownership of Magical Creatures Act of 1781, the Ministry of Magic had very little to do with it. The only person who could probably say anything was Dumbledore, since the basilisk was technically part of Hogwarts’s heritage, but given that myself, and other students had faced peril at Hogwarts, my claim was uncontested. That I had already brokered an agreement with Dumbledore, thanks to Hestia only expedited the situation. But Cornelius Fudge did not become Cornelius Fudge by sitting on the fence when lucrative deals were being made.
“Harry, my boy, this is great news,” said the man boisterously. “But an international sale such as this requires supervision.’ He quickly excused both of us from the other two Ministers, claiming to look out for the young Lord and Britain’s Face, and put up a privacy ward to get to know the matter in full, as a deal began to formulate. In this, the Ministry of Magic of Wizarding Britain would provide me with an Order of Merlin, First Class for astonishing display of bravery and magic unforeseen (my use of the fabled blade of Gryffindor), my second one — the first being my Order of Merlin, First Class, for vanquishing the Dark Lord Voldemort.
What soon followed was a private gathering of relevant Ministry individuals — Barty Crouch Sr, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation; Amos Diggory, the head of the Department of Regulation of Magical Creatures; Amelia Bones, DMLE Director; Hestia Jones, my secretary and official representative; Cornelius Fudge and myself, discussing how to smoothen this sale that would promote better commerce between Britain and Bulgaria, as well as other nations that would be bidding for it, with a three percent cess tax deducted on the entire lot. Given that a public bidding of this sort would only heighten the prices, even that was worth upwards of two hundred thousand galleons, to which I readily agreed.
And when I profusely thanked Cornelius in front of everyone for being so helpful, and announced one percent of the sales to be donated in his election fund campaign, Fudge looked like Christmas had come early. Amelia on the other hand, had an unreadable poker face on. She knew all about the basilisk, and while this auction bidding and my prior correspondence with the Bulgarian Minister came swerving out of nowhere, she knew me enough to know when I was scheming something. She watched me like a hawk, taking careful note of the way I handed my mokeskin pouch to Hestia to hold, which she never quite returned afterwards and left. I was confident she would figure out a good third of the things I didn’t want anyone outside the loop to know before the end of the World Cup.
“Winky!” cried Crouch Sr, and an elf popped in right next to him. That nobody even raised an eyebrow at how the house elf could pop in despite the Ministry enchantments put all around the World Cup site, or that it appeared that quickly was only a sign just how overlooked elven magic was. I swear, I had never been more disappointed than upon finding out that while house elves could serve as world anchors, I couldn’t draw out any of their magical affinities like I did with witches.
My best bet was that it had something to do with their nature as symbiont beings themselves. A house elf by its very nature, needed to form a bond with a wizarding location filled with enough ambient magic to empower them, much like the way a wardstone drew power from the earth itself. If a wizarding location wasn’t available, it could still bond with an individual and draw upon their magic — something I had been utterly horrified to learn, especially with how I had gotten Dobby to bond with me. It had taken some tinkering and bargaining with Gringotts to add an extra wardstone to my apartment just to empower Dobby, so that I could instead bind the elf to my apartment.
And then I got to know the other fact about binding house elves.
Not only did House-elves require a wizarding location filled with ambient magic to draw upon, they consumed enough magic on a daily basis as the protective enchantments did to ward off threats. And given the kind of protections I had set up thanks to the goblins, let me tell you it’s a damn high amount.
No wonder witches and wizards didn’t go about binding elves to their homes or themselves to do their bidding. Those little buggers would drain us of our magic, our lifes and most importantly, our finances.
I swear nobody ever tells you the full story.
It explained why even 12, Grimmauld Place, despite being the seat of the Black’s power, only had a single dotty elf serving everyone in the house, until he died.
But I digress.
I saw Crouch ordering Winky to get him his work tools from his office, his constipated expression as much a constant feature on his face as his Hitler-moustache. The elf looked utterly conflicted and even pleaded the man in its own way, but Crouch wouldn’t listen to it. I innocently asked Fudge if forging a document like this could be properly done in the midst of all this chaos, and Fudge instantly agreed, not wanting to sour the deal in any way. So Percy was pulled away from his family, and Crouch explained how he needed to go with his damn elf to his office, file the proper documents and get them back with the elf.
I swear Percy looked like he was conflicted between bending backwards to obey his boss, and keeping himself from strangling me for sending him away during the World Cup finals.
And then the duo popped away, while Crouch Sr and Amos Diggory busied themselves with discussing the matter with the Bulgarian Minister who wanted a Clause for the Right to First Refusal inserted in this agreement.
A small smile formed on my face.
And on that cue, the finals began.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message featuring an advertisement of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, with an ad from the Firebolt Company, the broom of choice for the year’s Quidditch World Cup.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
A glaring silence filled me, as I froze. That the people in the stands were roaring in approval didn’t even register. That the Aurors and other security personnel had to actively stop people from jumping off the railings in a pitiful attempt to try and impress the supernaturally beautiful horde of women that glided across the grounds, that didn’t matter as well. Instead, my brain and heart froze, the cumulative effects of the succubuses, their aura, resonating within mine, like the silken brush of cobwebs against my own will. This was no attempt at enthrallment, no passive allure affecting me. Instead, it was the incubus within me, rejoicing at being so close to its natural mates. If anything, I should’ve been laughing and dancing in harmony.
I should have, if I were an incubus.
But I wasn’t.
I was an Incubus Lord.
A King, or one with the natural inclination to exert authority over others. To rule over their emotions, their hearts and minds. Other people were prey, but succubi? They were subjects.
The Incubus Lord within me geared up, wanting to dominate them.
Make them all mine.
Succubus that were predators in their own right, even if the wizarding population had forced them to live within constraints. Not unlike a tiger kept within a metal cage. The cage might make it safer for people to approach it, but it didn’t stop it from attempting to tear a person’s face off if they got too close.
And just as it was with tigers, they fought and bled and used every trick in the book to prevent an alpha from subduing them and leading the pack.
And currently, standing amidst hundreds and thousands of witches and wizards, was one such Alpha.
Me.
And the veela noticed it.
They paused, mid-glide, and stared up, every single one of them, their skin glowing moon-bright, their white-gold hair fanning behind them without wind, and the audience fell silent. The World Cup didn’t matter, that the Quidditch teams were supposed to fly out didn’t matter, that a hundred thousand people were awaiting didn’t matter, just a warm, stupefied silence blanketed everything, as the unearthly, alluring creatures looked up at the Top Box.
Right at me.
And then I felt it.
The lazy sensuous hunger. The aura. The veela were communing with me in a language that was purely our own. A language that needed no words, merely a sensation that pervaded past the limits of human speech, of expression, even emotions. Such things belonged to prey, and for us, it was little more than food. We could wear their human skin and look like them, but make no mistake, the creature within us was no more similar to a witch or wizard than a thestral was to a mundane horse.
The veela had started to dance, and everyone else had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that they kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen. A similar impending sense of doom rushed within me, fighting against my own instincts to leap down, to join them in blissful harmony, to dance and exude my own allure. This… this dance was as much an invitation to Join, as much as a way to neuter the threat they recognized in me. For if I acted, if I jumped off, if I joined them, I would be bending before their will, losing my status as their Alpha. It would subdue my newly found powers, and my Lecherous Shrine, which I had come oh so close to activating, would be sealed away until I had a way to unleash it right back.
And if I didn’t, if I stayed my hand with an ironclad grip upon myself, if I proved my superiority, then the veela would have no option but to bow before my superiority, to acknowledge me as above them all, and thus revealing my nature before the whole world.
Damned if I acted. Damned if I didn’t.
And the people around it were not immune to its effects either.
The Irish Minister, something Connelly was already shifting in her seat. The woman, still appearing in her forties, stood up and approached the railing where I stood, and the next moment, her hands crawled towards my pants and softly but intently massaged my cock and balls from outside my pants. Her eyes were semi-glazed, and I could see several other women gazing at me with a similar dazed look — Narcissa Malfoy, sitting right next to her husband just two rows away, was looking at me most intently, as were a dozen other women, their eyes glued at me like I was a piece of exquisitely cooked steak.
Amelia and Susan were no different than the rest. Though, it was probably a testament to Amelia’s Occlumency that she was still able to shield herself from acting out. It wouldn’t end well for anyone if it did.
Not that it made any difference.
For all across the Top Box, people were standing up. From the corner of my right eye, I watched Mrs. Weasley watching me, lust vivid in her eyes. Ginny, and Penelope, even Tonks were already standing up. Hermione, surprisingly enough, was still sitting, trying to hold the other two back. Several pureblood ladies and girls were staring at me, some of them even pointing at me with their fingers while others were content to undress me with their eyes, their tongues licking their lips, their bosoms rising and falling with each exciting breath, and only the knowledge of their own reputations being at stake keeping them from rushing at me and jumping my bones.
And Hestia was nowhere to be seen.
The veela danced faster and faster, and wild, half-formed thoughts started chasing through my dazed mind. Maybe this feeling of harmony, this invitation to join, to give in to this hunger and embrace it all, it wasn’t theirs. Maybe it was mine. In the space of five seconds, my attention to detail fractured, and I wanted them all. All these ladies, I wanted them in the most primal sense, in every way I could conceive. Whatever gentle and chivalrous tendencies my soul harboured suddenly evaporated. Images swarmed over me—images of unleashing the fires burning in me upon willing flesh. Conscience withered a heartbeat later.
Something hungry, confident, and unrepentant took its place.
I realised, on some distant level, that something was wrong, but there was no tangible, tactile sense of truth to the thought. Instincts ruled me, and only the most feral, vicious drives remained.
I liked it.
A lot.
And —
“Switch Paths.”
Switching Paths…
Activating Path NECROMANCER
Registering Affinities…
Binding
Welcome, Necromancer!
There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary to fully explain what happened next. The Incubus Lord within me snarled and spat its disappointment somewhere in my chest, and receded, flowing back out of my thoughts, leaving me horribly fragile than ever. The raw power, the innate charisma, the physical strength, the ability to turn every emotion around me tangible and play with them, the feeling that I myself was the only being alive while everyone else were mere puppets… all of that vanished, leaving behind an emptiness, a cold wave of hunger so dark and deep that it would have swallowed something… like, maybe the entire world. An utter stillness spread out of my body, not peace, for that would be something tranquil, soothing, accepting. This stillness was a horrible, hungry emptiness, something that drew its power from being not.
And the world around him unfroze back into activity.
The ladies, the girls, everyone was looking away from me, at the massive arena beneath us all. The veela’s song and dance abruptly ended, their sudden confusion palpable, and they deserted the field, just in time for Ludo Bagman to roar into the microphone.
"And now, kindly put your wands in the air. . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!"
A great green-and-gold comet zoomed into the stadium in a radial arc, splitting into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arched suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it, but I knew what it was.
Leprechaun gold.
Bagman continued to announce the teams as they flew in, and took their positions. First came the Bulgarians, and then the Irish — and I felt the Irish Minister slowly step away from me, careful not to meet my eyes or even look in my general direction. I met Narcissa’s eye in the crowd to my left, before turning to meet Hestia — who had appeared again, and was sitting next to Tonks and Penelope, eagerly cheering for the Irish.
She glanced at me.
Our eyes met.
Hestia nodded.
I smiled. Phase two was over. Time for Phase Three.
Comments
SvWJan
Is it possible to offer all chapters as downloads
Alatoic
So Harry will have some fun with Veelas I suppose and once the tournament began, oh boy, a tiger having a lioness as a pet and probably her family and access to others veelas. Wonder what phase three will be?
jp9901
Man, Harry was about to start the Wizarding World's Biggest Orgy!
