The fireplace roared to life with emerald flames, and Harry barely had time to set down his glass before a blur of red hair came tumbling out of the hearth and crashed directly into his chest.
"Dad!"
Lily Luna's arms wrapped around his neck before he could steady himself, her body pressing flush against his as she clung to him with the enthusiasm of a girl who had been away far too long. Harry caught her instinctively, one hand at the small of her back, the other bracing against the mantle to keep them both upright, and for a moment everything was exactly as it should be: his daughter, home at last, safe in his arms.
Then she pulled back just enough to beam up at him, and every coherent thought in Harry's head evaporated.
Merlin's fucking beard.
The top she was wearing could barely be called a top at all. It was some flimsy white thing, cropped so high that it ended just beneath her breasts, leaving a vast expanse of toned, sun-kissed stomach on display. The neckline, if one could even call it that, scooped so low that Harry found himself staring straight down into a canyon of creamy cleavage, her breasts pushed together and straining against the thin fabric like they were trying to escape. They were big, far bigger than he remembered, and so impossibly perky that they defied every law of gravity he had ever learned in his years as an Auror.
"Did you miss me?" Lily asked, still clinging to him, and Harry had to forcibly drag his eyes up to her face. Her bright green eyes, mirrors of his own, sparkled with genuine happiness as she looked up at him, completely oblivious to the fact that her father had just been hypnotised by her tits.
"Of course I missed you, sweetheart," Harry managed, his voice coming out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. "The house has been too quiet without you."
Lily giggled and finally released him, stepping back and doing a little twirl that made Harry's heart stop dead in his chest. Because the shorts she was wearing, the shorts that were apparently acceptable clothing these days, were the shortest shorts Harry had ever laid his eyes on. They were denim, if you could call a strip of fabric that narrow denim, and they rode so high on her hips that the doughy undersides of her arsecheeks were hanging out, two perfect crescents of pale flesh that jiggled as she spun. When she completed her turn and faced him again, the waistband sat so low and the cut so tight that the denim hugged every contour of her hips, leaving Harry with the distinct and unwelcome certainty that there was nothing underneath.
"So?" Lily asked, hands on her hips, chest pushed out like she was presenting herself for inspection. "How do I look? Victoire helped me pick this outfit. She said it was very 'in' this summer."
You look like you should be on the cover of a magazine that gets owled to men in brown paper wrapping, Harry thought, but what he said was, "You look... lovely, sweetheart. Very grown up."
Lily's smile shifted, her eyes holding his a beat longer than they should have, and she bit her bottom lip in a way that made his cock twitch traitorously in his trousers. "I'm glad you think so, Daddy."
Before Harry could process the way she had said that, the fireplace roared again, and Victoire Weasley stepped out of the flames with considerably more grace than her predecessor.
"Uncle Harry!"
Victoire crossed the distance between them in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body against his in a hug that lingered just a beat too long to be entirely innocent. She kissed his left cheek, then his right, her lips soft and warm against his skin, and when she pulled back, she kept her hands on his shoulders, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.
"It's so good to see you," she said, her voice low and sweet, and Harry found himself staring into a pair of brilliant green eyes that should not have been there. They were his eyes, looking back at him from Fleur's face, and his cock stirred at the sight of them before the guilt could catch up.
A dormant Weasley trait, Fleur always said whenever someone mentioned the resemblance, blushing prettily and waving the question away. The genes, they are unpredictable, non?
Harry had never pressed the issue. Some truths were better left buried, especially when they looked this good.
Because Victoire looked incredible. She was wearing a dress that was really more of a suggestion, a thin white sundress that clung to every curve like it had been painted on. Her silvery-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose waves, and she had grown into her mother's beauty with a vengeance, the same high cheekbones, the same pouty lips, and curves that would have made Fleur jealous at that age. Her breasts were large and obviously braless beneath the flimsy fabric, her nipples straining against the thin cotton, and when she shifted her weight from one hip to the other, the hem of her dress rode up to reveal a dangerous amount of thigh.
The pose brought back memories Harry had spent years trying to suppress. Shell Cottage, the war, Bill off on Order business and Fleur lonely and frightened and grateful for his protection. She had come to his room in a nightgown even thinner than this, silver hair spilling over bare shoulders, and what had started as comfort had quickly become something far less innocent. He could still remember the way she had moaned his name, the way her pussy had gripped him so tight as he drove into her, again and again, until she was trembling and begging and promising to be his good little veela.
Victoire had her mother's figure, her mother's face, and apparently her mother's complete lack of shame about displaying it all.
"You've grown," Harry said stupidly, and Victoire's lips curved into a knowing smile.
"Mmm, I have," she agreed, her gaze dropping pointedly to his chest before sliding back up to meet his eyes. "So have you, uncle Harry. All those Auror missions must be keeping you fit."
Before Harry could formulate a response that didn't involve grabbing her by the hips and bending her over the sofa, the fireplace flared one final time and Rose Weasley stepped through.
Rose was quieter than the other two, her cheeks already flushed pink as she emerged from the flames and dusted soot off her clothes. She was wearing a tight little tank top that stretched across her chest, the fabric working overtime to contain a pair of tits that had no right sitting on a waist that narrow, and a pair of shorts that, while not quite as obscene as Lily's, still left her legs almost entirely bare. Her hair was straight and brown, falling past her shoulders in a shiny curtain, and when she looked up at Harry with a shy smile, his breath caught in his throat.
Because there they were again. His eyes. Brilliant green and impossible to deny, staring back at him from Rose's face.
"Just a coincidence," Hermione had said, blushing so hard her entire face went red when he had first seen baby Rose in her arms. "Ron has green in his family somewhere, I'm sure of it. Ask Arthur, he'll know."
Arthur had mumbled something about a great-great-uncle and quickly changed the subject, and nobody had ever brought it up again.
Harry had never been brave enough to count backwards to the night Rose must have been conceived. But Harry remembered. He remembered the tent, the long weeks on the run, Ron gone and Hermione crying herself to sleep night after night. He remembered the way she had crawled into his sleeping bag one freezing night, seeking warmth, seeking comfort, and how one thing had led to another until he was buried inside her, her legs wrapped around his waist and her nails raking down his back. She had been so tight, so desperate, muffling her moans against his shoulder as he pumped into her again and again.
And now Rose was standing in front of him, looking up at him with those same impossible eyes, and all Harry could think about was what it would be like to have her bent over this very sofa, her fat arse rippling with every thrust as he drove into her. Would she make the same whorish moans as her mother?
"Hi, Uncle Harry," Rose said softly, stepping forward to give him a hug that was notably more restrained than Victoire's but somehow just as devastating. Her breasts pressed against his chest, soft and warm through the thin fabric of her top, and when she pulled back, her cheeks were even pinker than before. "Thank you for letting us stay."
"You're always welcome here, Rose," Harry said, proud of how steady his voice came out. "All of you."
Lily had moved to stand beside her cousins, and the three of them made a picture that should not have existed outside of a wizard's filthiest fantasies. Three young women in various states of undress, all sporting bodies that belonged in wet dreams, and all of them spending the summer under his roof.
Fuck, Harry thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Right!" she declared. "I'm absolutely dying in these clothes. Can we change into our bikinis and lie out by the pool? Victoire's been going on about her tan all week."
Harry's cock, which had been at a manageable semi-hardness, immediately surged to full attention at the word 'bikinis'.
"Bikinis," he repeated, like an idiot.
"Yes, Daddy," Lily said, grinning at him. "You know, swimwear? It's summer. We're going to the pool. Unless..." She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. "Unless you'd rather we went without?"
Harry's mind went completely blank at the casual suggestion that his daughter and nieces might strip naked and lounge by his pool. For a terrifying moment, he couldn't think of a single reason why that would be a bad idea.
"Bikinis are fine," he managed, his voice strangled.
Victoire laughed, a low, musical sound that did nothing to help his rapidly deteriorating self-control. "Don't worry, uncle Harry. We'll be perfectly decent." She said the word 'decent' like it was a joke, and the smile she gave him suggested she had no intention of being anything of the sort.
"Come on," Lily said, grabbing her cousins' hands. "Let's go unpack first. Our rooms are ready, right, Dad?"
"Of course," Harry said. "Same as always. Third floor, the suite at the end."
Harry watched them go, his eyes glued to the procession of perfect arses ascending the stairs. Lily's doughy cheeks bouncing with every step, barely contained by those obscene shorts. Victoire's sundress swishing around her thighs, the fabric so thin he could see the outline of her round buttocks beneath. And Rose, trailing slightly behind, her hips swaying in a way that made her fat arse jiggle enticingly, because she had clearly inherited her mother's posterior along with everything else.
The girls disappeared around the landing, their giggles drifting down through the ceiling like some kind of auditory torture, and Harry stood alone in the empty living room with a raging erection and the dawning realisation that he was completely and utterly fucked.