A/N: Original Story posted on AO3 by andafaith

It starts with a crown, found tucked away with a matching set of jewels in the dusty attic of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

When Harry first opens the strange wooden box and sees it, his mind races – horcrux-diadem-Fiendfyre-ohshit – and he touches history. His fingers trace over silver feathers and wands and settings shaped like a raven's claws, clutching blood red stones that glitter even in the dimmest of light.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Noble.

He thinks of Teddy, of Andromeda – but the pieces don't quite fit together.

Then, he thinks of white-blonde hair, gleaming like a halo around a pale face in the firelight, an elegant voice against his ear, whispering to him, and then announcing, 'He is dead!'

o~*~o

It starts with a 'thank you' over an extravagant tea service, the box pushed gently toward the curious form of Narcissa Malfoy. She looks like she's dressed up for an event, with her lacy fingerless gloves and painted red lips, and large blue gems that drape over her high-necked robes.

Her posture is rigid and her movements are precise as she places her teacup onto her saucer and opens the box, her expression demure even in surprise.

"I'm uncertain whether to be pleased or suspicious," she says cautiously, glancing over at him. "Is this merely a 'thank you' gesture?"

Underneath her piercing regard, it's hard not to be a little intimidated, and Harry takes a sip of his tea before answering, "That's part of it. With everyone else, it would just end up in another attic or cellar, I think, but you… Well, I reckoned you'd value it more."

"You're not incorrect with your assumption." Narcissa reverently lifts the heavily ornamented necklace out of the box. "Andie would have had these destroyed. She's never been one for family pride. As for what Draco would do – or Edward, Teddy, as young as he is – that remains to be seen."

Setting the jewels back down, she pauses, scrutinizing him in a deliberate way that makes his clothes feel stifling and yet shiver-inducingly cold all at once. An edge of tension shifts its way into the atmosphere between them and Harry takes another sip of tea, swallowing thickly.

"Are there… other 'parts' involving my acceptance of this gesture?" Narcissa asks. "Anything you wish for in return?"

She appears as though she would be unaffected by anything he could possibly throw at her, but Harry shakes his head. "No, nothing. It's yours. You can do whatever you want with them."

"How gracious of you."

Her stolid gaze drifts over him again, and it's like an exposing breeze. "Lesser, or perhaps greater, men – and women, such as myself – would have taken advantage."

Harry blinks, confused at first, but then–

…Oh.

His stomach flips, fluttering furiously, when he realises what she means, by the way her eyes linger on certain parts of his anatomy. "I wouldn't…"

"Of course," Narcissa lightly intones, seizing the crown from the centre of the box and holding it up. "In that case… if you would do me the honour, Mr Potter."

"The honour?" he asks, his brows raising. His brain is still frozen on the last thing she'd said, and he barely notices her presenting him the crown until it's clasped in his hands.

"Yes, place it upon my head. It's tradition," she says, unfazed, standing from the table with poise and gesturing for him to follow her to the mirror over the fireplace. "Usually, this task goes to an elder family member, but I believe we can make an exception in these circumstances."

Having a mind of their own, his feet carry him across the room behind her, where his eyes are drawn to the numerous crystal buttons trailing down her backside – from her neck to her knees – sparkling as she walks, lace fabric clinging to her every move.

Her every curve.

As they stand in front of the mantle, he's suddenly very aware that the warmth flowing through him isn't originating from the fireplace alone.

"If you would, Mr Potter," she prompts, a gentle command.

He's half a head taller than her and remains just close enough to perform the task – not an inch closer – perching the crown atop her perfectly coiffed hair.

He watches her through the mirror and, the moment the crown touches her head, he sees her demeanour slip for one moment, in an inaudible gasp that swells her chest and the slightest smile on her lips – in pleasure that seeps, slow, into the lines of her face.

It's as if all of the air leaves the room.

He's had hands and lips and mouths wrapped around him that have never sparked his desire as much as seeing a glimpse of her like this, and he feels pieces shifting, clicking against one another.

Her clear blue eyes catch his gaze in the mirror.

And those pieces begin to converge.

o~*~o

It starts with his hands encased in a pair of burgundy lace gloves he'd stumbled upon in his attic. They're not at all like hers – full fingered and a different pattern; different colour – but the softness of the lace feels the same against his skin as when he'd politely taken her hand in greeting.

He feels a bit mental having them on, tracing along his skin like it's her – through the smattering of hair over his chest, trailing down the expanse of his lightly-muscled stomach, stopping just above the waistband of his boxers.

He really shouldn't.

He should be thinking of fiery red hair, or ample breasts framed by dirty blonde strands, or dark skin and a wicked smirking mouth, or literally anybody besides a married witch more than twice his age, with a demeanour as calculative as Fiendfyre is warm.

He's definitely going to hell for this – for thinking and… wanting. Yet, how could he not? The way she'd kept looking at him while they finished their tea, occasionally sliding her gaze downward, not remotely subtle…

He couldn't have imagined that.

His eyes are closed and she's a darkened corner of his mind:

…'Lesser, or perhaps greater, men – and women, such as myself – would have taken advantage.'…

He pictures her gracefully slipping from her chair to her knees in front of him, her fingers brushing over him as she undoes the buckle of his belt and unbuttons his trousers. Pulls everything down with that slight smile on her plush red lips.

In his bedroom, Harry's fingers push away his boxers just enough, catching the elastic under the swell of his balls.

She's turning around now, asking if he would do her the honour, but she's not talking about jewelry anymore. And there's so much pale skin uncovered as she arches and writhes under his hands, but her gloves are still on when she turns around and takes hold of him.

He grasps and tugs and his breath quivers.

Behind his eyes, maybe she's on top of him – maybe he's on top of her. Maybe he's still sitting in that chair and it's just her hands, just like this.

He skims his thumb over the head of his cock, the smooth glide of lace made silkier by the dampness there.

And, God, her lips… Maybe she moans around him – or maybe she hums – when she takes him into her mouth. Not all the way. Just a few inches while she strokes him. Uses her tongue. Smudged red lips stretched wide, meeting the lace, head bobbing up and down, a glint of a smile in her eyes when she looks up at him and sucks.

Yes.

He knows he should be silent. He hasn't put up any charms and a thin wall separates his room from Ron and Hermione's. But he moans, thrusting into his lace-covered hand, pretending it's her hands and her mouth.

Then she's increasing her speed; she moves her other hand to his balls.

He strokes faster, cupping and pulling gently at his balls, massaging between his fingers and palm. They're already tightening. Pre-come seeps from him freely. He's twitching. He's going to come before he intends to – before he can imagine what she'd look like, all spread out and flushed, shaking – as desperate as him.

…'If you would, Mr Potter.'…

Hell, he would.

He can imagine filling her up – what would she sound like when he does? Light and airy – deep and throaty? Maybe she'd growl, or whimper.

Maybe her face would twist in pleasure just before he pushes her over the edge–

"Fuck," Harry breathes, biting his lips, a groan rumbling through his chest as he comes – long and hard – onto the lace.

His strokes slow against his restless hips, his release collecting between his fingers. There's a glob of it in the palm of his other hand, soaking into the glove, and he collapses back on his bed, his length softening against his stomach.

Hours later, when an eagle owl taps on his window, he doesn't hesitate.

o~*~o

It starts with a dinner invitation, desire dressed up in formality – a pretence that leisurely gives way to beseeching hands and dark red lipstick smudged across her jaw. It matches her jewels, her birthright, which she'd said she wears all the time now.

He knows how wrong this is and how wrong it should feel, but it's perfectly right all at once.

They're alone in the parlour, drinks long forgotten on the side table, and Harry's leg presses between her thighs, straddling her and skimming his mouth over her skin. She has the most sumptuous lips he's ever kissed. His hand cups her cheek, thumb smearing her lipstick, as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. Around the crown, her hair is a mess of curls from his greedy hands and he rubs the crotch of his trousers against her hip.

Her breaths come out in small exhalations and her tongue swirls along his thumb – then his fingers – sucking them into her mouth when he places them there. It's hard not to shiver, imagining her mouth elsewhere – everywhere – going through the same motions. One-handed, he unbuckles and unbuttons his trousers and pushes up her dress, his teeth making a mark at her neck that a part of him wants her to wear as often as her jewels.

Everything's too fast, too quick – yet, hardly fast enough.

Taking his fingers from her lips, he moves to her cunt, spreading streaks of lipstick over her neatly groomed mound and through her folds – slippery and damp – rubbing long, slow strokes from her entrance to her clit. A small noise catches in her throat, and the way her nails dig into his back makes him dizzy, skin blazing – throbbing – with need.

He's barely able to think or see anything beyond her.

Burying his fingers inside her, he shifts his cock out of his trousers and strokes in time with every warm, tight press of his digits, panting roughly against her, his need too urgent to wait. There's always later; this won't be – can't be – a one-off. His palm thuds, heavy and wet, against her clit while he curls and rubs and watches her face.

She's tarnished, though scarcely as obscene and wild as he wants her to be – always graceful, polished with her passion.

She parts her lips in quiet, breathy moans, and she orgasms languorously – regally – her covered breasts heaving and tempting him to rip through the fabric. Imagining torn lace hanging from her naked frame, pearlescent come draped over her pale skin, sends him spilling through the folds of her cunt, where he massages it in with a husky groan.

Even covered in streaks of lipstick, marked and mussed, Narcissa stays persistently composed – held within; not at all like he'd imagined, but, somehow, even more tempting in reality – and Harry kisses her jaggedly before moving to his knees to tongue along her sensitive quim, yearning to make her crumble underneath him.

Yearning to make her dissolve.

He craves nothing but more, and this is not enough.

o~*~o

It starts with an impulse, a pause, a single shared look – glimpses more suited for the bedroom than a Ministry gala.

It's been less than a week, but he feels like a starving man the moment her eyes meet his across the sea of partygoers. She's dressed in silver fabric that pools along her like liquid, her jewels glimmering proudly under the festive fairy lights. And the way she commands the attention of the room makes it hard to steal her away until he finally sees her retreat toward the cloakroom.

In less than a minute, he extracts himself from Ron and Hermione's side and has her pressed against a rack of cloaks, his lips seeking hers – breathtaking, mouthwatering – as his fingers bunch up her gown.

A silk-covered hand splays over his chest and she pushes him back a quarter of a step, staring up at him with an arched brow. Her lips twitch and the lines deepen at the corners of her eyes as she appraises him.

"Highly inappropriate of you, Mr Potter," she says in a tone that means to chastise but it comes out as somewhat impish in her breathlessness.

Slipping his hands down her hips, over soft fabric that feels like a whisper of water against his skin, Harry quietly responds, "Oh, I think we're well past propriety at this point, Mrs Malfoy."

"…I'm aware. However, you could – at least – try to have some decorum, given that anyone could walk in on us. Not to mention that my husband is in the next room and my menses has just started, quite profusely, which is the reason why I came here in the first place."

"No worries." He smiles playfully as he steps closer. "I warded the door on my way in – though it would be more exciting if I'd left it, wouldn't it?"

He hears her exhale softly, wordlessly telling him 'yes'.

"As for the rest…" he murmurs, his lips tracing along the shell of her ear, making her tremble in that modest way of hers, breaking her down piece by piece. "Doesn't bother me. I'm an Auror – takes a lot more than Lucius Malfoy and blood to scare me off." His eyes avert to a familiar cloak behind her, a deviant thrill twisting at his core. "In fact–"

Extracting himself from her, Harry grabs at the cloak – expensive wool adorned with swirling snakes for clasps – and lays it upon the wide leather dressing bench that sits in the centre of the room.

When he looks back at Narcissa, she's glancing from him to the cloak.

"You're a dirty boy…" she admonishes, and he smiles a cheeky smile, pulling her toward him by her wrists. His hands travel down her back to her arse, pressing her closer, letting her feel what she does to him and she leans into him, reservations fading.

Slowly hiking her dress up to her stomach, he kisses her – claiming her lips with his demanding teeth and tongue – and arranges her along the bench, hardly breaking the kiss as he drapes himself over her. Tugging at the neckline of her gown, he stretches it to sit under her breasts, pushing them up, and he pulls away from her to enjoy his handiwork.

She looks every bit the pillaged queen, staring up at him with her sharp, imposing eyes. He could do so many things with her like this, and a thought flickers through him – he's not as frenzied as last time, he can be patient – as he shucks off his suit jacket, loosening his tie.

Kneeling at her side on the bench, he pivots, throwing a leg over her to perch at her ribs and straddle her backwards, trapping her there.

Her fingers clutch at his shirt. "What are you doing?"

With a mischievous quirk of his lips that she'd only be able to see if she looked at the mirrored wall of the cloakroom, he responds, "It would be improper not to appreciate something when it's given to me so freely, don't you think?"

His hands stroke up to part her thighs, where he holds her open, leaning forward to exhale languid breaths of hot air over her naked cunt. Her legs quiver, attempting to close on him, but he maintains his grip, keeping her spread.

She wasn't exaggerating about the blood. It's all over the place, slick along the joints of her inner thighs and threatening to drip. In a way, it's kind of beautiful – the same glistening red as the gems in her jewelry.

"…There's not a thing about this that's proper."

"It's only a little blood, Narcissa," he reassures before swirling his tongue along her hipbone. "Besides, you're one to talk about 'proper'. Why don't you ever wear any knickers?"

It's more of a wonder than a question, and he traces his lips through the short, blonde curls covering her quim, kissing gently. He knows he should be more straightforward, considering that they're at a Ministry function, but he wants to savour this.

"Respectable witches wear charms," she replies, sounding vaguely scandalised. "It's not… You're not actually going to–?"

He hears her breath hitch as he silently answers her, rolling his tongue lazily through her folds and tasting the tang of coppery blood mixed with a hint of her arousal. He feels her fingers dig into his thighs, the sharpness of her nails hindered by her gloves and his trousers.

She's struggling to retain her composure already.

…But she's not pushing him away, and Harry sucks and licks and mouths at her – devouring – glancing out of the corner of his eye to watch her face in the mirror, a groan escaping him and disappearing into her cunt. Merlin, he loves how exposed she looks like this – held open, gasping, fighting the conflicting emotions that tug softly at her features.

Pleasure – astonishment – prudish mortification.

She would be even more stunning if she let go of her pride just this once.

Her hips jerk against his hold on her, but he can feel her starting to relax as she gets closer, her clit pulsing with every forceful nip of his lips. Hips canting with every swirl of his tongue. Tiny little moans escape her lips as she writhes beneath him, and he redoubles his efforts, using the flat of his tongue to deliver rough, even strokes.

She practically melts against him as she comes, sounds spilling from her lips that shoot straight through him – long and husky and low. He could just swallow her into him and keep her in his system for hours.

Absently wiping at his face with the back of his hand, Harry climbs off of her and kneels between her legs, his eyes sliding over her, aching want twisting at his veins. He's never known anyone who could look as dignified as she could post-orgasm, even with blood smeared between her thighs.

Trailing his hand from her hip to her knee, he pulls her leg around him, and she meets his gaze as he frees himself from his trousers, dragging the head of his cock through her sensitive flesh to slick up his length. He knows he'll need it.

"I'm not one of your virginal fancies, Harry," Narcissa goads, arching a brow and his blood rushes as he reads exactly what she wants.

She doesn't say, 'I want you, kiss me, touch me, be rougher,' – she drenches her meaning in manipulations like this.

He pins her down to the bench and presses one of her legs upward – trapping it against her shoulder with his weight – as he leans over her, pulling up her wrists and laying his forearm across both of her arms, restraining them securely above her head. She's ensnared at the perfect angle to just slip right in, but he refrains.

"Better?" he drawls with a smirk, his face hovering above hers, their exerted breath mingling softly.

As he teases her entrance with the tip of his prick, she shivers and utters a wry, "Perhaps."

If they were somewhere more private, he'd entice her even more, until she begged for him without reservation. He's tempted to tear apart the Ministry's Anti-Apparition wards to take her straight to his bed...

But the fantasy of that alone makes him impatiently hard, and he sinks himself into her, inhaling coarsely through his teeth. She's s almost uncomfortably tight, but she's so soft and wet and she's making the most delicious noises; he has to fight to get ahold of himself.

Setting his jaw and finding his voice, he growls, "How about now? Better?"

"Circe, yes," she gasps, and he uses her shoulder for leverage, changing the angle and burying himself to the root, rolling his hips.

It's one of the few disadvantages of being a bit oversized, having to wait to ravage without pain, like stealing innocence over and over again, waiting for the feast. Yet, it only builds the intensity, inducing a flood of anticipation that squeezes at his bones and pools in his veins.

She adjusts around him, yielding to him, and he thrusts – hard and brutal and steady – making her eyes roll back, drifting shut.

"Don't close your eyes," he whispers roughly. "Look at me."

He increases the pressure of his forearm holding her in place, quickening his hips. The bench underneath them jostles and creaks and her heel-clad foot bites into the back of his thigh, making him groan.

"I want you to feel this. Everything. I don't want you to think of anything else but me," he says through a rush of pleasured air, gritting his teeth and breathing raggedly around his words. "Feel me."

Dilated dizzy eyes stare up at him and she tightens around his cock as he pounds. Rougher. Deeper. Her breasts bounce, reeling with every thrust; her brow crumples, her lips part, her stammered breaths wash over his feverish skin. It's so close to everything he wants – vulnerable and, fuck, she's moaning, almost tipping over to setting it all free.

Just a little more…

"You're going to be stretched out for days," he pants, watching her fingers dig into the cloak beneath them, lustful exhilaration spiking his nerves as he spurs, "Someone might notice."

She clamps down on him, practically hanging from his hips for a second, prizing a nearly-pained grunt from him as he pushes through it, straining.

Bloody hell.

Then, with a growl, she lifts her head and crushes her lips against his in a messy open-mouthed kiss, teeth clashing, her reticence splintered enough to initiate – unhidden, laid bare – and it makes him burn. Hot, smoldering satisfaction and desperation mixing and clawing through his blood like fire, the taste of her thick between them.

He captures her mouth possessively, breathing her in – God, she engulfs when she's like this – reaching with his free hand to feel along her cunt as he plunges in and out at a perilous pace, moving his fingers in smooth circles over her clit. Every muscle in his body aches, his spine prickling in warning and balls tensing, waiting to pour, but he reins it in, focusing on her to distract him.

He knows it's a losing battle.

Pulling away from her lips, he speaks, his voice gritty and parched, "I'm going to come right here–" he dips his head to lick a wet trail between her breasts, "–and you're going keep it there for the rest of the night. Something to hold us over till later, when I can do this again – and again– and again–" he underlines his words with harsh thrusts, slick slaps of flesh adding to the bruises he can already feel forming on his hipbones, "–until you can't feel anything but my cock–"

Fuck, she's coming – pulsing – pressing her lips insistently against his, forcing him to swallow every sound – and the last bit of his control shatters. He barely makes it – barely wrenches himself away quick enough.

He hardly has to stroke and he's gone, thick ropes of desperately-aimed fluid landing on her gown, between her breasts, over her nipple, euphoria shooting through him with a strangled groan; draining him completely.

Harry catches himself on shaking limbs, heart skittering in his chest as he rolls to the side, his forehead resting against Narcissa's silk-covered shoulder. They lay there for a while – spent and thoughtless – catching their breath, his hand idly tracing a pattern along her.

Eventually, he sits up, his muscles protesting and his clothes clinging to him, soaked with sweat and… faint streaks of blood.

He'd nearly forgotten about the blood. It's everywhere, on his shirt, his cock, her dress, the back of his hand, his fingers – his chin…

Placing a chaste kiss at the corner of Narcissa's mouth, Harry stares down at her silent form in concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She blinks back up at him, her eyes shining with a trace of amusement. "No – quite the opposite," she says hoarsely, clearing her throat, resting up on her elbows and flexing her long, shapely legs. "But, if you're seeking validation… You don't disappoint."

Now it's his turn to be amused, even if his heart trills with gratification.

"'Don't disappoint'…?" he repeats, trailing into a huff of a laugh, a crooked grin curving his lips. "Can't just admit that I shagged your brains out?"

He says it jokingly, but a serious arched eyebrow is flung in his direction as she swings her legs over the side of the bench and stands, wobbling in her heels, holding up her rumpled gown, and – God – that's one of the most erotic things he's ever seen. Narcissa Malfoy teetering and bedraggled, all because of him; she makes for a stunning mess.

"It's possible that I may now have a better understanding of that phrase." She pins him with a significant look through the mirror, where she straightens her tangled jewels.

Blimey.

If he were still a teenager, he'd be fully ready for a second round at that. Thank Merlin he's not. They'd never make it back to the holiday festivities.

Busying his hands with grabbing his wand from his suit jacket, Harry runs a quick cleansing spell over himself and stuffs his far-too-interested, yet utterly spent, cock back into his trousers before moving up behind her at the mirror, retying his tie. She's spelling herself back in order, an ironing charm swirling around her and catching the edge of his clothes with its heat.

When she 'accio's her lipstick from her cloak hanging on the rack, he catches it without thinking – his seeker reflexes an ingrained muscle memory – but then he looks down at the small metal tube in his hand and glances at her freshly-cleaned mouth, his heart doing a somersault.

"Would you mind if I…?" he asks, gesturing to her lips and opening the tube with a brassy click. It holds a lighter colour than her standard red that he's become so fond of.

Narcissa's brows raise. "You want to apply it?"

With a shrugging tilt of his head, he admits, "I think I've a thing for your lips."

"I see." She tilts her head up, gazing at him expectantly and softening her mouth. "Go on, then."

The things he wants to do with that mouth…

Gently, he reaches out and cups her jaw, holding her still, unable to resist pressing a lingering kiss against her silky, unpainted lips. And, with a hand steadier than he feels, he carefully traces the tip of the lipstick over the shape of her cupid's bow, along the corners – smoothing away any mistakes with his thumb – dabbing at the plump centre of her lower lip. Her humid breath caresses his fingers, warm and sultry, and he exhales a shuddering breath of his own. He wants to kiss her again, but would probably smudge it.

It's over too soon.

With a satisfactory sideways glance at the mirror, Narcissa inspects his work while he recaps the lipstick. "You're rather good at that," she comments. "Give me your hand."

Cool fingers clasp his wrist and she takes his index finger into her mouth, leisurely moving down, not touching until her lips wrap softly around the base of it, near his knuckle. The wet, velvety insides of her lips drag up his skin, the tip of her tongue trailing along him, and she might as well've been doing the same thing to his cock from how it throbs to life in his trousers.

Forget not being a teenager anymore.

She pulls away and he's left with a small, mauve-coloured ring. "There. Now it won't get on my teeth," he hears her say lightly, a faint knowing smile adorning her lips as she fixes the stretched neck of her gown, where a remaining crinkled line of his dried spunk is covered up by silver fabric…

It isn't until he asks her for a dance later, after returning to the party, that he realizes that he'd neglected to clean the lipstick from his finger.

And they both fail to remember if either of them had cast a scourgify on the cloak, but that's left unmentioned.

o~*~o

It starts with stolen moments.

Behind a dressing curtain at Madame Malkin's, half-dressed in new clothing. In his coordinator's office, bent over the desk, during a lunch break he'd meant to have with Ginny and Luna. In the bathroom at Gringotts, after a case, her purse – heavy with gold – digging into his backside as she finds her release twice before him, pinned against the wall. It's frantic and hurried and needful and scarcely as satisfying as he wishes.

There's always the ache for more time – just more, like being sustained on the smallest morsels of decadence and mere scraps of her.

Next time, he vows to have all the time in the world.

o~*~o

It starts with forty-two crystal buttons clattering across the bedroom floor.

Narcissa's posture remains straight, shoulders erect, balancing her crown on her head. As usual, she wears nothing beneath her fancy robes – her boots and gloves discarded under the four-poster bed – and Harry traces a finger down the centre of her naked back through the gap he's created. Cock straining tight in his trousers, he presses his bulge against the exposed cleft of her arse, gripping her hips and hearing her inhale sharply.

With a pair of expensive tickets to the Symposium on Rare Magical Artifacts in Munich – given to Blaise Zabini, who'd casually slipped them to Malfoy and Malfoy Senior – Harry bought them the whole weekend.

And he plans to make it all about her.

Ghosting his lips against Narcissa's neck, just above the clasp of her necklace, he whispers, "Lift up your skirt and spread yourself with your fingers – all the way open," and places little kisses along her skin and below her ear, his glasses bumping against the luxuriant earring dangling there. "I want to see your cunt."

Her skin shivers against him and he watches her comply, heavy velvet bunching at her waist and making the back of her dress gape wider. It's nearly falling off her arms and down her front and he rests his chin over her shoulder, staring down.

"Let me see – show it to me," he says softly, using his hands to urge her to arch her hips, but stops when he's certain she understands what he wants and moves all on her own. Her posture is effectively spoiled from the action, her knees wide and bent and her body bowed backwards, and a thrill shoots up his spine as her cunt – flushed pink and spread out by her fingers – comes into view.

"Gorgeous."

Moving his hand, he traces two fingers through her stretched folds, dipping them inside her and coming away with sticky wetness that he doubts would ever fail to make his cock twitch. She's soaked in it. He dips his fingers inside her again, teasing her, twisting them, and pumping gently.

His other hand strokes underneath the fabric of her robe, around her side and up to cup at her bare breasts while he presses his lips against her ear. "Do you want this?"

She's breathing faint shuddering breaths through her nose, but her voice is clear – seemingly unaffected – as she speaks, "You wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Good." A smile curls the corners of his lips. "But, do you think this is enough?" Pausing, he slips his fingers out of her and plunges back in with a single digit, swirling it to let her hear just how much he affects her.

"How about one little finger," he murmurs. "Is that enough for you?"

Her cunt clamps down on it, lightly squeezing, and a curse catches on the tip of his tongue. He should've known. One finger likely could be enough, but that's not what her body's telling him – even as restrained as it is, with nary a layer peeled back.

She's always hiding.

And he has to get under her skin, inside her, and give her no choice but to come completely undone every single time. But he thinks he might've figured out why.

"It won't be enough, will it? Not for what you really want." Harry presses her back against him, twisting his hips against her. "Does it make you feel better about being with me if you stay as proper as you can?" he asks, slipping his middle finger back inside her and curling it with his index to lightly rub up against that spot of ridged tissue where he knows she loves to be touched.

Narcissa's legs start to quake.

Skimming his lips against her jaw, he continues, "Makes it seem almost like I'm coercing you if stay still while I fuck you, doesn't it?" His thumb moves up to circle her clit while he pumps his fingers hard and fast against the upper wall of her cunt, feeling her involuntarily clench on him, increasing friction.

She's getting close, starting to swell against his hand.

"After all," – he kneads at her breast, lightly pinching and tugging her nipple, speaking against the corner of her painted mouth, which traps every one of her potential moans, – "your husband and your ancestors can't blame you if you just lie back and look like you're trying to think of England. And, even if you come, it can be justified–"

He tugs his hand away from her cunt just as she perches on the edge of orgasm, eliciting a gasping, desperate whimper that alights his nerves. It's exactly the kind of thing he's looking for, and he watches her trembling fingers keep her cunt held open for him; they're obviously itching to touch – to finish herself off – but she refrains.

Too proper.

"It's not as if you ache for me to do this to you, right?" Harry whispers, delivering a light set of smacks to her clit until she soon reaches that edge again.

Narcissa's entire body shudders against him, hips bucking at air and gasping breaths seething through her parted lips.

Sliding just his middle finger inside her, feeling her drip over his knuckles, he says, "You don't really want to come, do you?"

A low noise rises from her and she hisses, "I do. Now, keep going."

"Hm…" He teases her with soft brushes of his palm. "Is that all you want?"

"No," she breathes, and he barely has to move his hand at all – she's clenching and rubbing against him, fucking herself down on his finger. Her crown wobbles precariously with the movement.

Taking it all away once more, the despondent moan that escapes her makes him feel like static's sliding across his skin, raising pleasured gooseflesh. He extracts his hand from her breast and wraps his fingers around her wrists to keep her from touching like he can see she so urgently wants to.

Manipulating her arms and slipping her robes off to pool at her feet, Harry presses himself fully against her backside and cups her quim, kneading gently.

"Tell me what you want, Narcissa," he urges, soft and sensual, grinding himself along her arse to relieve a small amount of his own building ache.

"You know what I want," she says in an unsteady voice. Her arms reach back at him and her hands tug at his belt, plastering him tight against her naked form.

"Maybe. Say it."

"I… want to have you inside me."

Sliding his fingers through her slit and being deliberately obtuse, he asks, "Like this?"

She bucks against him. "No – your–" she stumbles, releasing a prim huff of air, "I want your cock inside of me."

He feels like he'll burst through the zip of his trousers at any second, but he sucks in a breath, steadying himself. His fingers continue their descent, around her entrance and slipping lower to rub at her puckered hole.

"I could slide my cock inside you here," he proposes, his slick fingers pressing as if to delve, but it's just a tantalisation between his circling strokes. Using his other hand, he grips her chin and swipes his thumb across her lips. "Or there. Think it could fit all the way? Maybe I'll do both: Use your mouth first to get me nice and wet, and then your arse…"

"Circe," she exhales, her cunt clenching under his hand.

She wilts back against him and Harry nearly freezes in shock, his heart pounding and blood surging, making his head spin.

He'd mostly said that to get her to admit where she wanted him, how she wanted him – to claw at her guarded walls and tear her propriety to pieces – he'd never expected her to be arousedby…

Fucking hell.

Conjuring as much lube as he can without using his wand, he soaks his fingers and presses one barely inside that tight ring of muscle. "You want this?"

At her silent answering nod, he lets his finger sink in, agonizingly slow and stroking lightly. He can't help groaning at the feel of her contracting and expanding around him. Gradually, he adds another finger to stretch. The way her body opens up like this is almost the polar opposite to the rest of her; she's still withholding most of the noises that keep building inside her, keeping them down.

Turning her head toward him with a grip at her jaw, he kisses her, seizing her lips – scraping his teeth and parting with his tongue. Ravishing her.

"Where first, Narcissa," he whispers, lips a hairsbreadth away from hers, prodding his fingers deeper. "Where do you want my cock?"

Her words are surprisingly even as she replies, her voice darkening, "I want it in my mouth."

God, her mouth… but this is about what she wants.

Kissing her briefly, he grins against her, pulling back to gaze at her expression – at the wanting, needy gleam in her eyes, the lipstick spattered around her lips, and the flush crawling up her skin, her decorum slowly fracturing under his hands.

"What if I want it here first," he challenges, scissoring his fingers in her arse. "Or here?" His thumb slips easily inside her cunt and he rubs at his fingers through the bit of flesh separating them.

"Mouth first, Potter," she gasps, certain.

Harry tilts his head, watching her eyes widen a scant of a fraction as he lazily removes his fingers from her. "Why?"

There's a hesitant pause before Narcissa whispers, "I want to."

But then it's as if something snaps – like seams splitting, falling apart – and her hands move to his belt buckle between them, at the small of her back.

"Or shall I be more uncouth," she says breathlessly, and – without looking or turning around in his arms – she rids him of the belt in three harsh tugs, the leather digging into his hips as it's wrenched through his beltloops.

He catches it before she can let it drop to the floor, his brows raising and stomach jittering as she writhes back against him, fingers clutching the waistband of his trousers. "Shall I tell you how much I want it?" A swivel of her hips provides just enough stimulation to make him twitch. "How worthy it is? Is that what you want?"

A short breath passes through his lips, and he stills her by splaying a hand over her stomach, trapping the belt between them, and tugging her head back by her hair. Regaining control.

"This isn't about what I want," Harry counters, realising what she's doing: goading him for roughness – hiding in different types of words and actions – intentionally enticing him to act on it.

But he can meet her halfway.

"If it was," he continues, "you'd have no use for your hands anymore–"

He moves his fingers from her hair to take hold of her wrists, pinning them in front of her with every intention of giving her a demonstration. Looking for signs of protest, and seeing her give in to him – a licentious gleam softening her lidded eyes – he wraps his belt around her forearms to bind them there. The leather rests above the set of opulent bracelets at her wrists, which dangle their blood red gems over the backs of her hands. The belt buckle slides securely into place as he speaks, "–and you'd already be on your knees…"

Spinning her around to face him, he urges her to kneel with a gentle press at her shoulders.

As with anything, Narcissa sinks to the floor gracefully – all sinuous curves and breasts, and spacious hips, a wet dream at his feet – bare and exposed. Her jewelry sparkles against her porcelain skin.

Harry steps forward, tracing his fingers over her crown and down through her hair, insinuating his bulging crotch into her eyeline. "There wouldn't be any fabric in the way and I'd be able to slide my cock into your mouth right now… But – like I said – this isn't about what I want," he tells her, feeling himself twitch from simply being this close to her mouth. "If you want it, you'll have to take it for yourself."

Arching an eyebrow, she glances up at him with a glimmer of challenge, and – after a fleeting moment of hesitance – moves forward to tug at the fastening of his trousers with her teeth. The metal button pops through the hole and she quickly captures the zipper, lips skidding along the parting of his trousers, smearing lipstick across her nose.

Merlin, she knows what she's doing…

The relief of pressure has him suppressing a sigh and he sheds his shirt, schooling his surprise as her mouth grasps the waistband of his boxers, yanking, budging his trousers down his hips in the process.

His cock springs free, grazing her cheek, elastic pushed below his balls with a whisper of her lips against him and then they're tracing up the underside of his cock with supple, wet pressure. His eyes threaten to drift shut at the texture of it, every bit as soft as he'd imagined.

She stops at the head of his cock – leaving it rest against her lower lip – looking up at him and mouthing lewd kisses that feel like satin over his glans, hot puffs of her breath sinking into his skin, her tongue swirling and flicking out to tease his slit. It tingles through him and he resists the urge to move, even though he wants to – wants to tilt her head back and push, but he lets her take the lead, his hands fisting in her hair.

There's messy trail dripping down his shaft, which she follows with tight lips stretched around him and he watches, exhaling, mesmerized by his cock slowly disappearing into the heat of her mouth. The flat of her velvety tongue undulates against the underside of his length the entire time and he feels her throat pulse around the tip, her gag reflex triggering and making her back away a little – just enough for her to duck down, widening her kneeling stance, and arch her neck to slide him deeper.

Fuck.

Her throat convulses around him with a strangled noise and she pulls off him for breath, her bound hands coming up to stroke at his base, massaging his balls. Strings of saliva hang from her lips and his cock – and that shouldn't look so bloody appealing, yet it is with those lips; he grows impossibly harder at the sight, an inebriating whirl building in his blood.

It's the last thing he'd expected from her. Fastidious propriety, yes, but this… She's shamelessly spread out, sitting on her heels, thighs straddling his toes, and it's sloppy and filthy and her mouth widens as he's swallowed with renewed vigour, her lips and fingers moving up and down his length, shifting lower; inch by inch; a low thrum sending weak vibrations through him.

Hell, she's doing something with her tongue that can't possibly be legal and he groans under his breath, his hips moving of their own accord, falling into her rhythm. He's so close to buried when she comes up for air, running her lips over the spit-slick head of his cock, hollowing her cheeks and sucking at him in a way that has his nerves shaking. Then, with a gasping breath and no warning, she takes all of him in one stuttering swoop of her head, her nose pressing against his unruly thatch of hair as he feels her choke around his cock, weakening his knees.

"God, that's good…" he breathes, trailing into a low groan, slurring, "Tug at my balls," and she does and–

As she moves back, languidly bobbing and sucking as deep as she can comfortably keep him – fully enveloping him every few breaths – he starts to lose the plot. His world narrows to her and her lips and tongue and delicate fingers on his sac and the silken warmth of her mouth; her hair tickles his stomach, her crown digs and scrapes against his knuckles, and her sinful, watery gaze stares up at him like she's stealing secrets.

She very well may be.

She could steal his soul and he'd cease to notice through the haze of pleasure throbbing through his veins.

If he comes like this, he knows he's in danger of falling.

Every inch of him screams yes, feeling her hand move up around his base, her tongue dragging and curling along him, drawing him in with smooth suction, nudging against the back of her throat – sliding further.

It takes every ounce of his willpower to pull away from her, grabbing hold of himself. The air feels cold, clinging to the thick layer of moisture on his cock, helping remove the sting of being almost painfully aroused.

Harry's heartbeat thuds against his ribs and he watches Narcissa's swollen, reddened lips form into a smirk, her chin glistening with pre-come and saliva.

"Was there something else you wanted, Mr Potter?" she asks suggestively, her voice hushed and full of gravel.

With a throaty laugh, he lifts her to her feet, running his hands all over her bare skin, covering her mouth with his, tasting himself. Even her breath carries a hint of him, like she's utterly his, from tip to toe, and nothing could please him more than that errant thought.

"You're going to be the death of me," Harry mutters against her lips.

He pushes her backwards toward the bed, shoving her to sprawl, and she's the most magnificent disaster laid out before him. Crystal blue eyes trap him, nebulous and waiting, her hair a halo of tangled curls, crown plummeting to the sheets – fading lipstick stains strewn across her skin.

He wants to inhale her and drown in her, and he slinks alongside her, seizing his belt binding her arms. His other hand gropes at her breasts – he follows it with his lips, kissing her; sucking, nipping – feeling her arch against him as he pins her wrists above her head.

Plucking his wand from his sagging back pocket – casting a cleansing charm at his hands, vanishing his remaining clothes – he traces the tip through the cleft of her arse, whispering preparation spells. Her low, lilting moans caress him, as soft as her lips, and his touch wanders slowly down her stomach, through the curls covering her quim, fingers gliding through slick folds.

He brushes along her, inside her, and her hips tilt upwards – clenching around his digits – silently begging him. He tries not to think about his cock, levelling his focus, and lavishing her breasts with his mouth.

His drenched fingers slip from her and he moves his hand back, laying an experimental slap over her cunt, eliciting a breathless moan.

Glancing up at her curiously, he repeats, doling out a series of smacks with his just fingers, from her entrance to her clit – exploring – groping and kneading and delving inside to rub up against that spot in between the brusque, upward taps she seems to enjoy the most. She jerks and squirms against him, following his hand, her hips arching off the bed as she keens louder than he's ever heard her before.

"You like that?" Harry questions, lifting his head to watch her face – her lips are parted, brows creased in rapture – as his hand cups and massages her quim.

Smack.

Narcissa's answer comes out in a gush of air, "Yes."

Grinning against her breasts, he slides his fingers into her cunt, curving them, rubbing circles until she's shaking – legs fluttering restlessly – and then taking them away. Changing it up before she can get used to any one sensation.

Smack.

"Want more?" Kissing up her chest, he switches to kneading – groping at her mound – his fingers stroking through the lips of her cunt, her engorged clit held snug between them.

Helplessly whimpering, bucking against his hand, she breathes, "Please," and his nerves sing at the sound. He slaps her clit again, making her writhe.

God, he loves how she likes it rough.

His head swims with gratification and he can't possibly tear his eyes off her for a second. Captivated by her balancing on edge – a bewitching picture of frenetic need – he presses his lips below her ear.

"Tell me what else you want."

What sound like cut-off curse words flow under her trembling moans. "Don't stop – please –"

"'Please', what?" he asks softly, shifting over her and kneeling between her legs, moving his free hand off her bound wrists above her head. "Keep your hands there."

His fingers dip down, massaging at the taut rosebud of her arse, and slipping in easily with all of the conjured lube, pumping gently. Stretching her. She's strained around him, constricting even further from how close she is, and he takes his other hand and slides his middle fingers inside her cunt, tormenting that spot with rough strokes.

The tightness that envelops his digits makes his cock jump, aching to be inside her, and he watches a flush build over Narcissa's skin, all the way down her chest, muscles tensing, gripping at the sheets, and moaning wildly.

"Tell me what you want or I'll stop," Harry warns, his voice beginning to shake. She's so lost in pleasure he's able to slip a fourth finger into her arse for a proper stretch.

He already knows he's not going to stop; he's more likely to do the opposite.

Stooping down, he lowers his face to her – not touching, not yet – merely pursing his lips and blowing streams of cool air over her clit, sending her hips into a fit of struggle, clamping madly around his fingers – her legs crowding his torso.

"Tell me," he persists, grazing his mouth along her, followed by a gust of his breath – a teasing lick.

Her body's a roiling sea of sand beneath him – a snowstorm – glittering as she crumbles, like sparks flying.

"Oh Circe," Narcissa cries, trembling, gasping and babbling, "–fuck me – make me come – I don't care where you stick your cock, just–" she lets out a low whine as he rests the flat of his tongue over her twitching clit, holding it there, "–let me come – please… let me–"

A small amount of pressure with his tongue, hooking his fingers against that spot inside her, and she's bursting, thighs quivering, pulsing. Unable to resist it, Harry quickly pulls back, tosses her legs over his shoulders, and sinks deep, needing to feel the tight heat of her cunt surrounding him – milking him – feeling her release drip over him.

It's heaven – excruciating ecstasy that scorches in his blood.

His arm wraps around her thighs, holding them to his chest, and his fingers strum along her clit, prolonging her orgasm.

"That's it," he growls, thrusting – pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in – his balls slapping against her arse, "come around my cock."

Staring up at him with helpless lust flaring in her eyes, she squirms, overstimulated, scrabbling for the headboard with her bound hands, grasping at the scrolled wooden slats. Her back arches, lengthening the contours of her luscious form, tempting him with miles of skin, smattered with tiny, shimmering beads of sweat that he itches to chase with his tongue.

Already, he can feel another orgasm building in her, encasing him, making him throb and groan and lose a bit of his sanity as he pounds his way through it, his thumb swirling over her clit.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Harry breathes, drinking in the sight of her, meeting her gaze, fraught with ravishment. "By the end of the night, I want to fill you completely – every last one of your holes – leave you stretched and aching for me. Only me."

Knuckles white around the headboard, Narcissa nearly arches off the bed as she comes – pinned by his cock – and it's a downpour of pleasure, submerging him, his breath catching in his throat as it coils around him, through him – pleading him to shatter and spill. He grapples with his control, his heartbeat clawing up his chest, shuddering with the effort to hold it all back.

He needs this to last. Doesn't want to stop, even to recover, until he's had every inch of her.

Pulling away from her, he squeezes harshly at his balls to stave off the desperation of his arousal, wincing, spreading her legs. He slips his length through the cleft of her arse, and pauses, the head of his cock rubbing, slippery and tempting, against her hole.

Trying to read her expression, he asks, "Still want this?"

"I want you."

She says it like a revelation and it plucks at his nerves, as strong and as heated as a lust spell.

In one swift motion, he clutches at her hips and rolls, perching her on top of his lap, eliciting a startled noise. Spreading her out to straddle and ducking into the circle of her bound arms, he kisses her lips, running his hands over her. He's felt spider's silk less smooth than her skin.

"Have me," Harry whispers against the corner of her mouth, lining up his cock between her cheeks, absently stroking. "Like this. I want to feel you – all of you."

Narcissa's breath ghosts over him and he could've sworn she'd let out a muffled curse, but it might've been a moan.

Placing his lips below her jaw, he whispers, "You're the most exquisite, perfect, thing I've ever touched," as he kisses along her neck, over the trail of fading lipstick, tracing his tongue over her dainty collarbone.

"Even as I am?" she asks, breathless. "Letting you–" she arches her neck with a sigh as his lips touch what must be a sensitive spot at the base of her throat, "…Wanting this?"

Harry smiles against her skin. "More than ever," he softly replies. "I didn't even think that was possible."

He's never seen her eyes so wide, so expressive – pupils open and blown and filled with raw need – as she stares down at him, exhaling tremulously.

Bloody irresistible.

There's not a smidge of hesitance left.

Thighs shifting, she settles onto the head of his prick and he can feel every ridge and fold of her arsehole as she sinks down, enveloping him in pure heat. She's barely primed enough and he remains still, letting her adjust, moving at a tender, halting pace.

It's an irresistible ecstasy that sweeps gradually through his nerves – the way she moulds around his cock, making him groan, watching vulnerability tumble through her features. Her arse is a tight ring of satiating pressure, surrounding him in slick warmth, soft thighs, and trembling skin. He brings his hand to her clit to coax her to relax as he slowly bottoms out.

"Alright?" he asks, tense and strained, his toes curling and muscles longing to thrust, but he doesn't want to hurt her.

"Mm," she hums, swaying against him as he holds her close, faintly rocking his hips. His fingers press inside her cunt – he can feel the bulk of them against his length inside her arse, dulled through her flesh – and he curls them, growling when she clamps down on both his hand and his cock, letting out a light, wispy moan.

Then, she moves – grasping at him – the belt binding her wrists skating along the back of his neck as she undulates her hips, and the sudden drag of her inner walls along him sends a rush of heat straight up his spine.

"Fuck," he gasps, threading his fingers through her mess of hair with his free hand for something to cling to. Her earrings jingle with every rough bounce of her body.

He brushes his thumb along her clit and she arches and clenches and, hell, it nearly pushes him over.

Tugging her head back, he nips at her ear, tracing his tongue along the shell. "You should see yourself. You were made for taking my cock, weren't you?" he whispers gruffly, lips skimming against her, knowing that filthy words rarely fail to get her closer. He can feel her, tightening – hear her getting close in the little noises she makes – and he shoves past own need, gripping her hip and bucking up into her to keep the pace she'd set.

"Yes – more–" Narcissa moans, rushed and stammered, over the wet smacks of her flesh meeting his, "– ah – keep talking."

Her plea courses through him, tingling in his aching muscles like an adrenaline rush and pooling at the base of his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing it back, a stifled groan reverberating within his chest.

Nipping jaggedly at her shoulder, Harry speaks through uneven breaths, "Drives me fucking mad when you're like this – makes me so close you wouldn't believe." He punctuates that sentence with a press of his fingers against that magical button inside her cunt, making her judder around him in a way that has him gritting his teeth.

"I could just spill myself all over you right now. Fill you full of it and have you walk around with it dripping down your thighs – or, maybe, coating your mouth – your perfect fucking tits." Burying his face between her heaving breasts and trying not to picture in his head what he's saying – it would be too much – he pants, "You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

Her choked back curse that turns into a strident whimper is all he needs for confirmation: Yes, yes she would.

"But, I think I'll let you choose this time. Let's see how creative you can get–" He breaks off, trying in vain to find his breath, his lower lip catching between his teeth at the sight of her through his foggy glasses, so flushed, her face the absolute image of delectation. "Tell me where you want me to come."

Her nails pierce at his scalp, shaking feverishly as her unfocused gaze fixes on him. She's probably too close to coming to form actual words and he's tempted to remove his hand from her cunt to pry an answer from her before his cock makes the choice for them – it might anyway– until she huffs out, "You could – give me a necklace–" winded moans spill past her lips, a euphoriant crease deepening between her brows, "–to match my own… Circe, Harry–"

The idea causes flickers of pleasure to prick at his skin as Narcissa violently clamps down on his cock – tight enough that if she weren't bearing all of her weight on top of him, she'd probably force him out of her – and it's just the touch of pain he needs to keep from bursting too soon; he's barely able to stay sane from the thought of...

Around him, her limbs stiffen and then go limp, and she feels boneless as he rolls her onto her back, extracting himself, moving up to straddle her waist.

"Put your hands around my cock," he mutters urgently, gripping his shaft and the belt at her wrists, not even half paying attention to his words as much as the delirious yearning rising in his core. "Stroke me. Keep your chin up."

His cock's so slick with lube, it's a smooth glide between her fingers and palms as he traces his hands through her tangled, sweat-strewn curls – pushing her hair out of the way – thrusting evenly, aimed at her throat. She's a stunning, regal wreck, taken apart and wrung out and devoured – consumed.

Shag-drunk eyes shine up at him and her swollen, parted lips utter, "Please," and it's the tone of her voice that does it more than anything.

It embraces him – makes him lose all focus – makes his skin feel too small to contain his bones and his nerves and the fire in his blood. He tips from his thin balance with a strangled shout, hips jerking, cock jolting within her hands, and come splashing across the long line of her neck in waves. It feels as if it's being physically dragged from him, threatening to take the rest of himself with it.

Harry falls next to her, landing on his side as the room fades back into focus, listening to the sound of her soft exhalations melding with his own. His leg rests across her waist, slippery with sweat, and muscles that he didn't know existed are sore – he can't help luxuriating in it a little, even though there's something hard digging into his shoulder.

Propping his head up and grabbing for whatever it is poking at him, he stares along her with a fond smile, his hand clutching her crown, setting it aside. She's sprawled rather obscenely – legs at all angles – the ends of her tousled hair sticking to her skin and his come splattered across her neck; a splotch of it drips slowly over the red gemstones in her necklace. She looks as if she could be asleep or, at least, as if she could sleep at any moment, but then her eyes blink open, meeting his gaze.

Despite her unguarded expression, it's difficult to tell what she's thinking.

"Here… give me your wrists," he says, shifting his leg off of her and sitting up, reaching for her bindings with pruned fingers, shaky from overuse and still vaguely slick with her juices. The leather unwraps easily and he massages her skin, over the narrow red marks across her arms from the edges of his belt rubbing against it. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," Narcissa replies with a quirk of her lips that warms his insides. "Though I do find that I always require a bath after you're through with me. Funny, that."

A breathy laugh passes through Harry's nose and his hands absentmindedly trace her skin, sticky with drying sweat, as he leans forward and kisses her softly. "You should hold off," he says, pulling away. "I'm not quite through with you yet."

"Is that so?" She shivers under his touch, stretching lightly as if to test her limbs. "In that case, I'll need a few minutes and a glass of wine first, but you could tell me what you have in mind. For a former Gryffindor, you're… spectacularly devious."

His crooked smile widens and her crown – laying beside them – catches his eye, glinting up at him from the sheets as his thoughts race to an idea that makes his stomach flip. Grasping at it, he hums thoughtfully, throwing her a wicked glance.

"I think we should start with this…"