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Pat re on. c om(slash)belleveela(delete spaces)

Beautiful women. Three of them. They all knelt before Harry, chanting his name with adoration. With adoration.

They desired him. Good God, everyone desired him. His body, tall and covered in thick muscles, was electrifying. It wasn't just desire, of course, because he intended to fuck each of these beauties until they were filled with his unprotected seed. But it was more than that—it was power. Magic. Pride. Fulfillment. He deserved it. He deserved their adoration. After all, he was Victor.

Their beautiful bodies are adorned with tiny lace lingerie. Supple, hot breasts exposed solely for his pleasure. No one else. No one else deserved it—it was only for him. Their eyes danced with desire as they watched him slowly remove his pants.

At the moment of great unveiling, when they saw his cock, each of them gasped in awe. Of course, they had seen it before. But it still amazed them. The size. The thickness. The way it quickly hardened.

And they thought about it all—they knew it was all absolute truth—because he made them think so. All three of these perfectly magnificent creatures were absolutely and completely under Harry's control. He reshaped their thoughts, reformed their minds, and transformed every atom until they became living, breathing totems of his conscious devotion. Their pussies would drip only for him until the end of their days.

His cock stood proudly, veins pulsating. Precum glistened on its tip. Each slave before him moaned, licking their lips, hoping to be the honored vessel that would taste his cum first that day. Harry was born to be a showman. He knew it since he arrived at Hogwarts.

He intended to give those girls a show they would never forget.

THIRTY-SIX HOURS before that messy, depraved scene, Harry arrived at his small workshop early Monday morning. It was chilly outside, so he put on a light jacket over his sweater, hoping it would be enough to keep him warm throughout the day. A cold front was expected in the afternoon, but he had forgotten about it until he stepped outside his sheltered home.

He focused on the prevailing cold to divert his thoughts from the mess in his professional life. On Saturday, he had a performance that determined his entire future.

One great success. That's all he needed. Just one good one, and he could pay off his debt in good faith.

Debts. Paying off debts.

God, it was depressing. His life goal—the only thing that would alleviate all the stress he now felt—was to start repaying his debts. Not to pay them off completely. Not to become rich, have a nice house—no, none of those things. Just one grand show to pay off a massive debt.

His workshop was a small place situated on the outskirts of the industrial district, deep behind Back Alley. He didn't know about this place throughout his time at Hogwarts, kept in ignorance of the magical world's truth by Hogwarts teachers. It wasn't an ideal location for an illusionist's workshop, as the accessibility made it a long journey. And longer journeys meant more time away from rehearsals and his increasingly unsympathetic assistants, Tracey and Daphne.

But the rent was cheap. The rent was affordable. Or it would be if Harry had anything resembling earnings from mind magic and illusionist work.

Around the workshop, there were factories and distribution warehouses. Walking to his workshop, he had to pass many wizards levitating large goods. The workshop was squat and gray, with a few murky windows covering its entire surface. No spell Molly learned from household manuals could clean it completely or make the windows as transparent as if a curse hung over the place or the entire street, requiring Gringotts or a new government in which Hermione had gained a strong voice to break it.

In the middle, there was a small office where nothing had ever been done, no matter how much Tracey and Daphne were urged to work on inventory and show schedules. Behind the first office, there were two doors. One led to his own office, where he lamented over his lamentable finances. The other led to the workshop, where he and his assistants rehearsed performances before an audience composed of broken furniture that Harry couldn't take with him.

Surprisingly, Daphne and Tracey were sitting in the office, waiting for him. They were usually late.

Tracey was a stunning woman. Her thick dark hair was tied in a loose ponytail cascading down one side of her face. Her hair was dense, soft, and shiny, meant for grabbing during desperate attempts to save lives in the deepest, hottest, and most brutal pits imaginable. Her face, full of cheekbones and bright blue eyes, emanated a distant disdain in a way only the most beautiful women can. Her body was toned, honed by hours of dueling and Quidditch (to which she, of course, forced Daphne—she was terrified of being alone), and her breasts had been "enhanced" a few years earlier when she thought it would help her career at the old ministry.

It didn't help, but it certainly caught Harry's attention. She had an incredible pair of 36E breasts, enough to mesmerize most men. He desperately tried to fuck her before deciding to hire her and shamelessly flirted with her every day. In the past five or six months, he had stopped pursuing her, partially because the lack of good compensation quickly destroyed any goodwill Tracey once had for him.

Daphne was the opposite of Tracey. Friendly, down-to-earth. She looked like a surfer, with long dirty blond hair that shimmered as she moved early in the morning, but tangled into thick knots and braids resembling ropes as rehearsal hours dragged on. She had a gentle smile, and her body was incredibly slim, with a much more modest bust than Tracey's (34B). Both were good friends, though from time to time, Harry felt that Daphne would be interested if Tracey wanted something more. But Tracey was either too staunchly heterosexual or—as Harry suspected—too asexual to care about it.

It was strange. He had never met someone with such pure physical beauty and such little sensuality as Tracey. Sex was too frivolous and carefree for her. She had sharp edges and felt discomfort.

It was a true shame. He would fuck her in an instant, both of them, really—damn his wife. Harry would never admit it, but Tracey was primarily hired because of her resemblance to his wife, Padma, who, in turn, bore a striking resemblance to his younger sister, Rose. Nestled around Harry's heart were the coils of forbidden, fiery desire. Those thoughts belonged to him, and he would be lying if he said Rose's face didn't haunt him in his most private, orgasmic thoughts.

But those were his private orgasmic thoughts, and since no one had ever accused him of choosing his wife or assistant—after all, they were both wonderful—he thought he could get away with it.

Furthermore, he often thought—Rose had dark green eyes. Padma had lighter green eyes, and Tracey had blue. They were all very different from each other.

As soon as he placed his bag on the desk, Tracey sat in a small folding chair across from him, arms crossed. She briefly adjusted her skirt, paying little attention to Harry gazing at her tanned legs. Her sweater was unbuttoned out of necessity, revealing a significant portion of her ample cleavage. Behind her stood Daphne, dressed in tight leather pants and a hoodie that accentuated her slim figure. "Daphne and I have some concerns."

Uh oh. He knew what that meant. Namely, Tracey had some concerns.

He smiled. "I'm always open to constructive criticism."

"You see, that's the thing. There aren't too many reasons for criticism. That means something can be rebuilt. Salvaged. I don't think so. Our income—Daphne's and mine—has been declining over the past six months."

"Of course, of course." He took a sip from his water bottle. "This economy, you know. It doesn't favor anyone," he said.

"And your profits have remained steady." I glanced at the books.

He coughed, splashing water. For the first time since his arrival (somewhat embarrassed, considering a showman should be observant), he noticed that the doors to his office were ajar.

"I understand. Well, you must understand that my income is the company's income. What you receive is derived from a series of equations and..." He trailed off. She wasn't buying it.

The truth was, the only reason his income remained steady while theirs declined was that if he gave himself less money, there would be no way to cover the rent for the apartment with Padma and the workshop. He was a wizard, yes, but he couldn't just make money appear out of thin air. He didn't have a damn Philosopher's Stone. Instead, he relied on loans from goblins. And a few other less reputable sources.

Tracey and Daphne's salaries had become symbolic. Harry had earned precisely zero dollars in actual profit. At least both of them could sustain themselves on what he squeezed out of their "earnings" from the loans. If he had a choice—and he did—he would pay both girls the highest rate. He openly admitted they deserved the best compensation. So far, he was lucky to have kept them. Their patience and dedication to his craft deeply humiliated him.

At least that was the case. Until a few months ago. That's when Tracey started to become truly unpleasant.

"We have a proposition for you, Harry," Daphne said, smiling. "We truly believe it will be the best for everyone." "I'm listening," he replied.

Tracey squeezed her partner's arm. Daphne glanced at her with fleeting flashes of desire, reminding herself to regain control in a moment.

"Daphne became an expert in static illusions," Tracey said.

"I noticed. She's amazing. A great asset to our venture."

"And my magic and illusions are powerful enough to carry the show on my own."

The standard setup of their performances involved Daphne creating static table decorations, particularly useful for ministry balls. Tracey set the atmosphere, primarily improving the aesthetics and concealing war-related damages, and then Harry would come out at the end and dazzle everyone with his moving illusions, often incorporating pyrotechnic displays.

"Ladies," he shook his head. "If you think you can run this show on your own, don't hesitate to give it a try."

"That's exactly what we're proposing, Harry. We're done with you."

He coughed again. This bluff had worked in the past. But he suspected that's the problem with bluffs—they had a short shelf life.

"Regardless of the issues between us," he attempted again, "I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement. I know business is declining, but that was to be expected. If you stick with me for a few more performances, I know..."

Tracey suddenly slammed her fist into her palm. "We don't want to work for you anymore, understood?" "What?"

"We don't like it. We never did. We don't like the way you ogle our bodies. We don't like that you make us wear those ridiculous Muggle servant costumes. We don't like that your performances fail to capture attention. And honestly, Harry, we just don't care about you."

Harry had nothing to say in response, and even Tracey looked surprised by her own audacity. He gathered his courage.

"Nothing is keeping you here. And no one. You want to leave? You can leave."

She stood up and walked out, snapping her fingers for Daphne to follow her.

Daphne smiled apologetically. "She was a bit harsher than I would've liked, but we truly appreciate..." Tracey shouted from outside. "Daphne!"

Daphne's face twitched. "I'm coming!"

The hot, silly blonde got up and rushed to catch up with her worse half. Harry was left alone in the workshop, hands on his forehead, trying to figure out what to do next.

After some time of sitting in the silence of his workshop, Harry finally decided to go back home. Maybe Padma would have an idea of what to do. Maybe she would even volunteer to work for him again. God, that would be something. In his time, he had been a fan of many women, but on a good day (which was the majority of days for his wife), Padma outshone them all. Maybe except Rose.

It was a race he would pay to see.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he stepped outside, not bothering to close the door, only activating a simple protection charm, and made his way toward the Leaky Cauldron. The pedestrian traffic was relatively light as it was noon.

Despite all the evidence to the contrary—all the money he owed, all the women he desired—Harry considered himself a rather simple man with a simple dream.

To be a budding mind magician.

Pure and straightforward. That was it. To do it and make money from it.

But the crowds wanted something else. Something more. He compromised.

Using the magic he learned from his grandfather's journals, the magic of illusions, was nothing extraordinary. At the beginning of the last century, it was considered outdated, but illusionists were still in demand, and the more advanced ones were scarce. Especially since maintaining illusions required significant magical power. He planned to work this way for a year, taking on all the gigs. Entice them with the enticing curves and talents of his assistants, and then he could do what he did best.

Put on shows on a smaller scale. Evolve. Perform less frequently. Make people anticipate his performances.

All these compromises stemmed from running a program that apparently nobody wanted to watch, and none of them led to significant success. His patience had run out. Just like his wife.

When he was very young, on his birthday, his godmother took him to the circus, and he went to see a stage hypnotist. He observed how it worked. The amusingly balding man with a big belly and a fondness for red suits. His suit had ruffles in the front, like some pirates. He held a wand with a shiny tip and waved it from one end of the volunteer's face to the other. By the end of the show, everyone was hopping like bunnies, barking like dogs, and goofing around like chickens—all the favorites. Hopping on one leg, hopping on a skipping rope, drinking warm butter like water. The Muggle hypnotist did every bizarre thing that came to his mind.

Harry was immediately sold on it.

All that power—the ability to shape and change a person's perspective with a flick of a watch or a pendant—was greater magic than what his Sirius and godmother did every day.

Of course, later he found out it was pure charisma. There was no actual hypnosis happening on stage. Real hypnosis—the real power of it—was a form of mind magic, and although Muggles were getting close to its potential, they could never achieve what real mind magicians could. A few years before starting his career, Harry worked as a mind healer and helped many patients with various issues. Delving into the mind could help bring subconscious desires and fears to the surface, freeing them from their power. A mind magician could even sever someone's pain caused by a dark curse in a ravaged mental landscape.

But Harry's heart was in the shows.

He could pretend to survive tough moments—enough for the crowd to believe that at least Harry bought it.

Maybe that was his problem, he thought, pausing right at the entrance between the Leaky Cauldron and Knockturn Alley. Being too good at pretending to be happy. How long had it been since a good performance? Months? A year?

Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 are already on Pa tr eon

If you would like to read the next chapters faster, see exclusive content, or support my work, please visit

Pat re on. c om(slash)belleveela(delete spaces)