Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5, Epilog are already on Pa tr eon
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Pat re on. c om(slash)belleveela(delete spaces)
When it came to Harry himself, he never really thought he would go through all of this – wishes, changes, darkness. But fate had other plans when he laid eyes on the most enchanting woman he had ever seen in person at the grocery store – Fleur Weasley.
Fleur was tall, incredibly athletic, and slightly older than Harry, approaching her thirties. Her face had a deliberately polished look, much like women working in aesthetic-related fields. Her silhouette resembled that of a dancer, slender, narrow, and graceful, but Harry knew she was a professional cheerleader in a Quidditch team. Her hair cascaded in long, shimmering platinum waves, and her posture was impeccable, the result of years of slow, painstaking training to sculpt her muscles to perfection for public display. Her waist was the smallest Harry had ever seen on a woman in real life, maybe even in pictures. Swhe was dressed in tight black yoga pants adorned with shiny silver stripes, a tied white shirt emphasizing her incredible abs and beautiful bust, and a short leather jacket that spectacularly accentuated her curves. In high, delicate heels, she literally stood head and shoulders above other women in the store, and her beauty and wealth made her a metaphorical giant.
Harry had just arrived at the store after meeting a strange, masked stranger. Thoughts of an empty fridge at home prompted him to fill his stomach before making any serious decisions about altering reality with the Death Stone. Did Harry contemplate Fleur Weasley as he headed back home? After all, the stranger had promised him that all his wishes, no matter how likely or unlikely, were his to enjoy.
Yes, Harry did indeed think about the woman who had been the object of his obsession and infatuation throughout his adult life. He had meticulously organized a catalog of thousands of her photos and could sketch her strikingly beautiful face from memory, although he would never capture her true magnificence.
But in reality, being with her because of wishes somehow felt cheap, his adult brain told him. When fantasy becomes reality, it often turns into a nightmare. How many women fantasize about being with horrible, toxic, domineering men? They would rather have a heart attack than fulfill those fantasies – that's why they remain fantasies.
Harry began to consider that perhaps it would be better if he wished for a reasonable stock portfolio or a well-paying career built on mastery of skills, that sort of thing. Of course, this very adult, rational decision-making process fell apart at the sight of the first beautiful woman he saw, the object of years of obsessive desire.
Can he be blamed for it? How often can one encounter a truly beautiful woman? Not just an attractive woman – no offense to them, there are plenty of those. But this woman – she wasn't just attractive; she was beautiful. There's a difference; that's why sculptors spend years trying to capture aesthetic perfection and end up with something abstract rather than exact. True beauty is ethereal, fleeting. It's difficult, if not impossible, to quantify. But you can see it in the way a truly wonderful woman turns her head, adjusts her blouse, or reaches for a box of pasta...
Harry realized he was staring at Fleur, just as he had been doing for years in her photos. She put down the box of pasta and grabbed another. After a moment, she noticed him gazing, and her reaction was nonchalant; she was used to it, he was sure.
Perhaps it was precisely this lack of a reaction that filled Harry with the greatest desire to act. She wasn't repulsed, frightened, or intrigued. He was nothing to her, less than a threat, even a curiosity. She didn't respect the desire that dwelled within him, the longing that had filled him for years at the sight of her incredible figure. "I wish she would flirt with me," Harry said softly, clutching the small, black stone tightly in his hand. It was the size and shape of four quarters stacked on top of each other, smooth and strangely cold – until suddenly it wasn't. It became hot in his hand, almost scalding, like a shower that was pleasantly almost too warm.
But nothing happened. She continued on, her magnificent form swaying from side to side.
Every wish has its price, and you have to specify it. That's what the stranger had told Harry. Your soul, your life, or the soul or life of others. It worked in pieces, she explained. The bigger the wish, the bigger the piece.
And, well, here was the peculiar part.
With the stone in hand, Harry Potter could somehow sense the size of the piece it would take. It wasn't large – a fraction of a fraction of a fraction. Arousing a woman enough to make her flirt didn't seem like too great a challenge for a stone that could change reality.
Harry had no intention of sacrificing any part of his soul, and certainly didn't want to take others' lives. So, only one choice remained. And it seemed to be just a few weeks.
"My life," Harry said. "I'll pay the price..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. He felt something leave him, a distant emptiness that vanished into the shadows on the wings of the breeze, something only he could feel.
It was a mistake, Harry immediately realized. It was foolish, inappropriate. What was he thinking? Just so a pretty woman would notice him.
Then Fleur stopped, turned, and smiled at him.
It was the sexiest smile he had ever seen. Aware, inviting, and filled with desire. Totally worth it.
They introduced themselves and engaged in a short conversation. Harry was wrong all along. From a distance, she wasn't beautiful; she was flawless. Up close, she was even hotter than he had imagined after years of staring at her high-resolution photos. And now she was smiling at him, touching his hand and arm, playing with her hair.
"It's so funny that we bumped into each other right here," she laughed, and her voice was lightly dusted with the beauty of her French homeland. "I can't believe we're almost neighbors!"
It was highly likely that people living nearby would shop at the same grocery store, but Harry didn't want to spoil her mood. Perhaps – just perhaps – he had decided to live in the area, hoping for a chance encounter where he would see her in person.
Maybe.
It might sound like he was some sort of crazy stalker, and maybe he was. But before gaining the ability to wish his way around the planet, he didn't plan to escalate matters beyond living near her (which sounded wrong when put that way).
A conversation with her would almost certainly shatter this fantasy. She was the wife of a Quidditch star (even if he was an adulterous jerk), and Harry was a pudgy rune researcher.
Why would he ever want to see such disdain on her face if he tried to talk to her? He had witnessed how she could mock other cheerleaders on her team or men at loud parties whom she found uninteresting. He would do anything to avoid her looking at him that way. It would be heart-wrenching, undoing years of study, attention, and affection.
Besides, they weren't neighbors. She lived in the most exclusive part of the magical neighborhood. Harry lived one street over, in a run-down apartment complex surrounded by people who lived in fear that the wealthy residents would decide they didn't want inexpensive housing nearby, leading to evictions and the demolition of the complex. It had happened before – poverty didn't pay off in this city.
Her wealth was evident – a diamond bracelet on her elegant, slender wrists, pearl earrings and rings adorning most of her fingers. She wore designer yoga leggings from some ultra-luxury boutique in New York, and her leather jacket seemed to cost more than six months' worth of Harry's income as a reasonably employed curse breaker.
"What do you do?" Harry asked, trying to sound suave. It seemed like a cool and appropriate thing to ask an attractive woman, right? What they do for a living? Harry wanted to know.
"Oh, I'm a cheerleader," she smiled, once again grabbing Harry Potter's biceps before giggling. "Well, a coach for athletes? I'm a coach for the Queens. Have you heard of them?" Harry struggled to hold back his laughter and settled for a barely controlled chuckle.
Damn, did Harry know the Queens? He had followed Fleur's entire career since she turned eighteen.
Hell, he probably would have known about them even if he weren't pathetically fixated on Fleur. The only thing the stupid magical society invested in was their Quidditch team, and they poured all their money into it, as evidenced by Fleur's outfit.
They named their cheerleader team the Queens, probably because someone thought it was super clever. Each of the Queens was insanely hot, and every few months, one of them would get into trouble for causing too many fights at the local nightclub. The latest troublemaker was their newest recruit, Fleur's younger sister, Gabrielle.
"Oh, wow," Harry said, unable to tear his gaze away from her undulating, perfect breasts encased in a tight bra. He tried to think of what a cool character in a movie might say. "I thought you had to be... you know, older to be a coach."
She smiled and playfully nudged his arm. "Flatterer." It was awkward, obvious flattery, but also quite sincere. If Harry didn't know better, he wouldn't guess that Fleur could be a maximum of twenty-nine years old. Maybe even twenty-five. Her skin was radiant, flawless, seemingly devoid of pores. Harry felt embarrassingly hard, his erection pressing against his jeans, attempting to join the conversation.
"Listen," Harry said, taking a risk. It was the bravest thing he had ever done, and he commuted to work every day in a forty-year-old car on a four-lane highway.
"You know, I'm the most attractive guy you've ever seen, right?"
She shivered slightly, and Harry stood at full attention. He couldn't believe he had made such a perfect creature moan in that way.
Her voice lost its flirtatious facade and became very low. Her eyes were lowered. "...yes. Yes."
"What do you want to do about it?"
She bit her lip, those plump, soft lips that Harry wanted to sink into. "So many things, Harry. But..."
"But what?" Harry asked, leaning in, wanting to hear her thoughts.
She lifted her left hand, showing several rings adorning her fingers. Her fingers were long, soft, and hypnotically delicate. One of them was her wedding ring, but Harry honestly couldn't tell. All of them were ice. He knew her husband was obscenely wealthy thanks to his Quidditch contract.
Harry hoped, perhaps foolishly, that his attractiveness would sway her loyalty to her marriage. Honestly, it was admirable that it hadn't happened yet, especially considering her cheating husband. Her unwavering principles in the face of magical debauchery made him desire her even more.
He longed for her principled lips wrapped around his cock, her unwavering loyalty to someone new. "Right," Harry said.
"Of course."
"But," she continued, catching her breath, "it means... I don't know how to put it." Her hands slid over his, intensifying the desire that engulfed him. She drew his hand to her body. "I really wouldn't want to worry about that right now."
"I wouldn't either," Harry said, and his words slipped out without much thought. Damn.
And there it was again in his mind – the sense of different prices, the amount each would take. It wasn't entirely visual; it was hard to explain. You know how when you pick up a can of soda once, you know how heavy it will be in your hand every time? It was like that.
"My life," Harry thought. "I'll pay..."
Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5, Epilog 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)