This story is a revamped version of my short story of the same title.

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"Oh, oui! Please, please, please!"

The moaning woke Fleur up, as it tended to do every Friday night ever since her new roommate from hell moved in.

"You're so good," the woman of the week screamed from the other side of the thin wall that separated their bedrooms. "How are you this good?"

They all wondered some variation of that. How can you do this? How does it feel like this? How will I ever be able to do this with anyone else?

Apparently, Harry Potter was talented. Not that Fleur wanted to know.

She turned on her side, pressing her face into the silk of her pillow, willing the sounds to disappear. She did not want to know how talented he was. He was Gabrielle's best friend, an insufferable distraction who had moved in without much choice on her part.

Harry had lost his apartment after an unfortunate altercation with a French Ministry official—a consequence of being too reckless with his studies in mind magic. Fleur's previous roommate had just moved in with her boyfriend, leaving her with an empty room. And then, just as if fate had planned it to torment her, Gabrielle had begged her to take Harry in, claiming that her darling, helpless friend needed somewhere to stay while he continued his specialized training.

Of course, it had been close to a month, and Harry had looked into zero other options.

Fleur was certain Gabrielle should have been concerned that her dear, innocent friend was living with a Delacour woman, but no. No concern. Just endless pleading, pouting, promises that it was only temporary, that if she truly loved her as a sister, she would let Harry stay.

And Fleur, despite her better judgment, had agreed.

The fact that Harry Potter was unfairly, agonizingly attractive was a whole other problem. One she had no intention of addressing.

There could be no romance between them.

One: He annoyed her with his constant, loud, insufferable one-night stands, robbing her of precious sleep.
Two: They lived together. That made it impossible.
Three: The way he wielded mind magic, how his presence seeped into every room, every whisper, every syllable, was too dangerous.

Yet, how could she not think about him in that way when she heard the moans from their shared bedroom wall? Or when she woke up, restless and needy, only to find him in the kitchen the next morning, eating his cereal with that lazy, confident smirk, his lips wrapping around the spoon in a way that made her thighs clench in frustration?

"Fuck me harder with your magical cock!"

His magical—Fleur rolled her eyes, even though they were closed.

There was no way she was going to sleep through this. First off, the woman had atrocious dirty talk. Secondly, she was too damn loud.

Fleur knocked sharply against their shared wall—their universal signal for 'keep it down'.

Typically, he was at least courteous enough to quiet down his temporary partner.

Tonight, however, he did not hush her.

Instead, after her knock, a hand slapped against the other side of the wall, sending a vibration through the wood.

Fleur frowned. Knocked again. Twice.

Two loud slaps against the wall was all she received in reply.

He liked this one's obnoxious sounds?

He liked being told he had a 'magical cock'?

Well, too bad. This was her apartment as much as it was his. More so, in fact. He was here as a favor.

She knocked three more times, the irritation boiling in her veins. If he didn't quiet down, she would march in there and confront him.

And that was when she heard it.

"Is that good, bébé?"

His voice cut through the wall, through her nightgown, through her skin and bones, and lodged itself deep inside her mind.

"Feel how deep I am inside you. Feel me go deeper than anyone else ever has."

A shiver wracked her body, heat pooling low in her belly, her fingers twitching against the blankets.

That voice.

It was unlike anything she had ever heard before. Deep. Dangerous. Sinful. Every syllable wrapped itself around her like silk, creeping down her spine, tangling around her limbs, wrapping inside her lungs and belly and thighs.

No wonder women moaned like that.

No wonder they asked him how he did it.

His voice was—different.

It wasn't just the low timbre, the resonance, the way it dragged over every nerve in her body. It was the way it coiled inside her mind.

Mind Magic.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Fleur felt it now—a soft, insistent pressure against her consciousness, like the teasing brush of fingertips against the edges of her thoughts.

He was playing with her.

Her heart pounded as she threw the blankets off herself, stood up, and grabbed her robe, wrapping it tightly around her silk nightgown.

She needed to shut this down.

Her knuckles rapped against his bedroom door.

For the first time that night, the noises from inside paused.

A second later, the door swung open, and there stood Harry Potter—completely naked, save for the pillow he held lazily against his groin.

Fleur's breath hitched.

He was beautifully, devastatingly bare, standing there with the confidence of a man who had nothing to hide. The pillow, though large, did nothing to obscure the thick outline of his erection, the broad shaft straining against the fabric in a way that made her stomach clench with heat.

Fleur's gaze rose from his toned thighs to his muscular chest, to his game-changing eyes, so green and piercing that getting lost in them was easy, and asking for directions was against the rules.

"Um," she said, staring at him, or more specifically, the blue square pillow interrupting her view of his erection.

"Yes, Fleur?" His voice wove through the air, smooth and rich, laced with something she didn't trust, as if it could slip into the cracks of her mind and settle there before she even realized.

"Um."

He leaned against the doorway, stepping closer to her. His dark hair was a tangled mess, falling down almost in front of his eyes. Some witch's nails must have mussed it up. Fleur flinched at her inner thought. She had never cared about the women Harry brought home before—never allowed herself to care.

His free hand, the one not holding the pillow, moved up to scratch the top of his chiseled chest, just above his tight tan nipple, drawing her eyes to it. Why did she want to flick her tongue against it?

"Was I being too loud again?" he asked.

"I—I knocked." For some reason, around Harry, she developed a stutter.

"You did? I must not have heard you."

Be strong. Stop looking into his eyes. Not that Legilimency worked that way, but considering it was part of his studies, she did not trust herself to gaze into those green irises and keep her own mind clear.

"I—I think you did hear me." She forced her stare downward at the pillow he held, focusing on the striped pattern instead of the heat pressing against the fabric. "You slapped the wall."

"Me? I slapped the wall?"

"Yes." It could have been the woman, but she knew better. Her knocking had been loud and clear, and he had never pretended not to hear it before.

"I think you were trying to get a rise out of me," she accused, daring a glance at his eyes just long enough to see them narrow before she dropped her gaze back to the pillow blocking his cock.

"Why would I want to get a rise out of you?" he asked in a low tone, giving nothing away.

"I—I don't know."

"Why aren't you looking me in the eye?"

Because you might try to slip inside my mind? Because I don't trust what I might do if you do? Because I don't trust myself around you at all?

She swallowed. "I—I don't know."

He shifted closer, the scent of him—spiced, rich, intoxicating—filling her nose like Amortentia.

"Are you afraid I'll influence you?"

"Of course not," she defended, yet still refused to meet his heady gaze. "Legilimency doesn't work like that."

"If it doesn't, why don't you look into my eyes?"

Her cheeks burned.

"Perhaps the pillow is distracting you?" he suggested and dropped the plush blue square.

Fleur sucked in a sharp breath as his erection sprang free.

Merlin.

He was huge. Thick and long, eliminating her previous notion that a man could be one or the other. The broad head was flushed, the shaft lined with veins that made her fingers twitch at her sides. No wonder the woman inside had called it magical. She might go as far as to say *magically delicious*.

His cock twitched at her breathy intake, and she was tempted to take another just to see what it would do.

She had not had sex in so long. She had not had good sex in even longer. She clenched her thighs together and tried to stop staring, but her eyes kept settling back on him, her mind spinning with fantasies she could live off of for years to come.

"Or maybe this is more distracting?" he rasped, his right hand sinking down.

For a second, she thought he might stroke himself in front of her.

Her eyes grew wide, and a whimper slipped from her throat before his hand dropped at the last second, leaving her on edge, her breath coming too fast.

A look back up at his face showed him grinning.

He is making fun of her.

She shook herself, pushed back her shoulders, and raised her chin to meet his eyes. "What is distracting is all the sound you're making, interrupting my beauty sleep."

"You mean sleep could make you even more beautiful? Impossible."

He always did this. Flirted with her to get his way. Well, it would not work. Not this time, anyway.

"We had an agreement when you moved in. Loud—" her throat bobbed, "sounds after midnight are against the rules. As is inappropriate behavior."

"Inappropriate behavior?" he asked.

"Flirting with me so I'll let you break the rules," she said. "That fish doesn't fly here."

He chuckled. "Did you mean to say fry? Because I feel like flying fish is not the saying you were searching for."

Could he be a little less confident?

"You need to be quieter on nights like tonight and not flash me," she instructed. "I'll tell Gabrielle."

"You're the one staring at my cock like you want to lick it."

Dry mouth? Suddenly, she had the opposite problem. Her mouth watered, pooling heat between her legs at the mere *prospect* of sucking him.

She swallowed hard and glanced up again, daring to meet his eyes head-on.

His green eyes darkened, drinking her in.

"Mmm," he released a soft moan. "You want to lick me, don't you?" He stepped forward until his bare toes brushed against hers. "I bet you dream about it. Think about it when you touch yourself. It will be even better in real life. You've never tasted anything so good."

A deep pulse throbbed between her legs, and her knees weakened.

"Ar—Are you trying to influence me?" she asked.

He smirked.

"I'm just talking to you, Fleur. If you fall into a deep trance for me, so be it."

She covered her eyes with her hands, blocking his gaze.

He laughed, a rich, warm sound that made her stomach tighten.

"I'm just kidding. No, I'm not trying to manipulate you. If I was trying, you'd know it, because you'd already be on your knees, calling me master."

Why did that sound like a perfect Friday night?

She had never been kinky before. Other than the types of books she read.

"Legilimency doesn't work like that," she said quickly.

"Then why do you still have your hands over your eyes?"

His fingers wrapped around her wrists and pulled. Her hands dropped from her face, but he kept his hold on her, thumbs skimming against her pulse.

"I'll try to be quieter," he said, voice lower now, less teasing. "But you know how some witches get when they're lost in passion. Or maybe you don't know."

Her breath was shallow.

"Why don't you play some music or something? I could make you a relaxation charm to help you sleep," he suggested with a wicked smile. "I think you'd enjoy hearing my voice in bed."

"How do I know you wouldn't enchant me to sleep with you?"

His smile grew. "You don't."

Her lungs forgot how to function.

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to influence you, Fleur. You're not the type of witch I look for. You're too… proper."

His words stung more than they should have.

"Fuck," he muttered, and his thumb brushed against her cheek. "Are you crying?"
Harry's erection waned instantly when tears appeared in Fleur's eyes. Fuck. He was always messing up with this woman.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, swiping his thumb over her warm, smooth cheek. Her skin was like acromantula silk.

She sniffled, pulling her face away from his touch. "I can be sexy."

She was always sexy. Not touching her when she wandered into the living room in nothing but shorts and a tank top, or when she absentmindedly nibbled on a quill at the kitchen table while working on some Arithmancy puzzle, was almost impossible. Every moment they shared in the common area of their flat, he prayed to Merlin that she wouldn't notice his raging hard-on.

That was the problem.

He wasn't supposed to like her. He wasn't supposed to be this crazy attracted to her.

He was there to destroy her family.

The Delacours were responsible for the unraveling of his own. Fleur and Gabrielle's father was enemy number one. Aurelien Delacour had seduced Harry's mother, played with her heart, and then discarded her like she was nothing. He had no idea Harry planned to avenge her, and he intended to keep it that way.

Transferring to Beauxbatons' postgraduate magical studies, where Delacour's precious daughters studied, was the easy part. Befriending Gabrielle was his ticket into ruining the family. After a year of fake friendship, Gabrielle trusted him enough to land him the perfect position—living with and manipulating Fleur.

The plan was simple: ensnare Aurelien Delacour's prized, dutiful daughter and make her his own personal slut.

And then he met her.

She had opened the door to their flat with a small, shy smile, her golden hair shimmering as though woven from Veela fire. Her eyes were a periwinkle blue so unique, he imagined some divine being had used them as the framework for beauty itself.

Of course, she was gorgeous. His immediate attraction to her had infuriated him.

He had taken out his sexual frustration on meaningless one-night stands, making sure Fleur heard every moan and grunt, making sure she knew what he was doing in the next room. He wanted her on edge. He wanted her pissed. Because imagining hurting the girl who smiled at him in the morning while offering him fresh croissants was really fucking difficult.

He reminded himself that she was part of his revenge. Hurting her meant hurting her father. It was justice.

But then she smiled at him.

His flirtation with her had been as inconvenient as it was uncontrollable. Dropping the pillow to show her his cock had been a stupid, impulsive move. If he scared her away, she'd run to Gabrielle, and if Gabrielle lost trust in him, everything he had worked for would crumble.

Annoyed at himself for wanting to kiss the lust-stricken expression from her face, he had insulted her instead. Told her she was too "proper" for his taste.

And he had made her cry.

Fuck.

Little purple rings clung to her eyes from lack of sleep, and yet she was still stunning. All he wanted was to pull her against him, kiss her tears away, kiss every inch of her until they lost themselves in each other. Because kissing Fleur—just kissing—could be the main event. She stood before him in a fuzzy pastel-pink robe, and still, he could hardly focus on anything but the aching need to press her against the wall and take her apart.

"You are sexy," he told her, voice low and firm. Telling her she wasn't his type because she was proper had been a blatant fucking lie. Her propriety was exactly what drew him in. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to hear dirty words spill from her perfect lips, wanted to strip her mind of everything except thoughts of him filling her, owning her.

He wanted to control her. Completely.

Not just to humiliate her father.

He wanted to see her lose herself at his command, to watch her surrender every ounce of control and give it to him willingly. She would be the perfect submissive. He could mold her into something exquisite, something utterly his.

But he had a plan.

And Aurelien Delacour deserved to be destroyed.

At seventeen, standing in front of his mother's casket, Harry had sworn to burn the Delacour family to the ground.

For now, they were just "roommates." Nothing more.

Yet.

Fleur rubbed a hand over her eyes. "You're just saying I'm sexy because you're afraid of tears."

"I'm really not," he assured her.

"Harry?" The woman waiting in his bed called out, her voice impatient. He barely remembered her name. He would have rather stayed here, talking to Fleur. Or watching paint dry with Fleur. Or doing anything other than what he should have been doing—tearing her world apart.

"I'll keep it quiet," he lied. "Get some sleep."

Fleur sighed. "Thanks." Her eyes flickered downward, landing on his still-hard cock, and his erection twitched. Ready for her.

"And um, next time," she added, cheeks flushed, "answer the door in clothes."

Harry dropped his hand over his cock, feigning modesty. "Sorry." He wasn't sorry. He would be jerking off for months to the way her lips parted, how her tongue darted out when she caught sight of him.

Not that it would matter. If everything went according to plan, within weeks, she would be on her knees, mouth open, waiting to please him.

Fuck, she'd look so fucking hot obeying him, sinking to the floor, taking his cock between her perfect lips—

"So, um, bye," Fleur muttered before retreating to her room. His eyes followed the sway of her hips, the cascade of silken blonde hair down her back, until her door slammed shut.

With a sharp exhale, he turned back to his bed.

Daphne sprawled across the mattress, blonde curls splayed over his pillow. He hadn't touched a brunette in weeks. Ever since meeting Fleur, he had gone for blondes.

This one had a mind magic kink, came pre-conditioned with trigger words. It was easy. Too easy. A game with no challenge. No thrill. No power.

She wasn't Fleur.

His cock ached with the thought.

The forbidden fruit.

Daphne sat up, licking her lips as she eyed his erection. Not for you.

Harry raised his wand, his grip firm as he focused his intent. "Legilimens."

Daphne's body relaxed instantly, her mind bending to his will, her breath deepening as he reached into her thoughts, shaping them, twisting them. She would obey.

"You want to suck me to sleep," he murmured, his voice sinking into her consciousness. "Silently. And when I come, you'll fall into a deep sleep and leave first thing in the morning."

Her lips parted slightly, accepting the command without hesitation.

Harry flicked his wand. "Finite Incantatem."

Her eyes blinked open, dazed but eager. "Please, may I suck you, master?"

He clenched his jaw. Wrong voice. Wrong woman.

Her mouth was warm as she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock, taking him in with practiced ease. One hand stroked the base while she bobbed up and down, sucking obediently.

Harry closed his eyes.

And imagined Fleur.

Her perfect lips wrapped around him, her periwinkle-blue eyes filled with lust, devotion, need. His hands fisted the sheets as, in his mind, she took him deeper, never breaking eye contact.

"Such a good girl," he whispered.

She swirled her tongue around him, sending pleasure shooting through his spine. His hips jerked off the mattress as he lost himself in the fantasy.

When he came, it was Fleur's name on his lips.

Thank you for reading! If you want to read chapters 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, right now and discover even more stories, join me on . Your support helps me bring you even more magical adventures!
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