A/N: All characters involved in explicit situations in this work of fiction are above the ages of consent.
The following weeks fell into a comfortable rhythm. Mornings were dedicated to intensive Occlumency training with both Nicolas and Perenelle taking turns as instructors. They taught techniques for constructing mental defenses, organizing memories, and maintaining clarity under stress.
Harry found himself particularly focused during these sessions, knowing the importance of strong mental shields given what resided in his mind. He didn’t mention the Horcrux to anyone during practice, but he was acutely aware of it.
Afternoons were spent on other aspects of advanced magic. Nicolas taught them about magical theory that wouldn’t be covered at Hogwarts for years, if ever. He explained the fundamental nature of magic itself: how it flowed through the world, how wizards channeled and shaped it, why some spells worked and others failed.
“Magic is not merely something you do,” Nicolas explained one afternoon as they sat in his workroom, surrounded by alchemical equipment and diagrams. “It is something you are. The magic inside you is connected to the magic of the world around you. Understanding that connection is key to advancing beyond simple spell-casting.”
He demonstrated wandless magic, not the basic levitation charms they’d practiced at Hogwarts, but complex transfigurations and conjurations performed with nothing but focused will and understanding of magical principles.
“The wand is a tool, a focusing device,” Perenelle added, performing her own wandless magic. “But it’s not necessary if you truly understand what you’re doing and why. The magic responds to your will shaped by your knowledge.”
They practiced diligently, making progress that surprised even their ancient instructors. By the end of the second week, both Harry and Daphne could perform basic wandless magic reliably: summoning objects, lighting fires, simple transfigurations and charms.
“Remarkable,” Nicolas said, watching Daphne wandlessly transfigure a stone into a bird that promptly flew away. “Most students take years to achieve what you’ve done in two weeks.”
“We’re motivated,” Harry replied, successfully conjuring water into a glass without his wand.
“And capable,” Daphne added.
“Indeed you are.” Nicolas’s expression grew thoughtful. “Which brings me to something we need to discuss.”
It was evening on their sixteenth day at the estate. They were in Nicolas’s study, the windows open to the garden where fireflies danced in the twilight. Perenelle sat beside her husband, both looking unusually serious.
“We need to discuss the matter that brought you to us initially,” Nicolas said quietly. “The Horcrux.”
Harry felt his stomach tighten. They’d been expecting this conversation, but that didn’t make it any easier. When his scar had flared painfully back in December, Dumbledore had brought them here immediately. The Flamels had examined him thoroughly, confirmed the presence of the soul fragment, and promised to research solutions.
“Have you found anything?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “Any way to remove it without... without killing me?”
Daphne reached for his hand, gripping it tightly. They’d discussed this between themselves countless times since that initial discovery, always coming back to the same terrifying questions with no answers.
“We’ve explored several theoretical approaches,” Perenelle said carefully. “As we told you when you first came to us, Horcruxes are incredibly dark magic, and removing one from a living host presents unique challenges.”
“The primary issue remains what we identified initially,” Nicolas continued. “The soul fragment has anchored itself to your life force. It’s sustained by your magic, your vitality. Most methods for destroying Horcruxes would also destroy the host.”
“Most methods,” Daphne seized on the word. “But not all?”
“There are theories,” Nicolas said slowly. “Ancient texts that mention similar situations, though never quite identical. Possibilities that might work if properly adapted.”
“But nothing certain,” Harry concluded, his heart sinking.
“Nothing certain yet,” Nicolas agreed. “Which is why we’ve been continuing our research these past months. We’ve made some progress in understanding how the fragment sustains itself, but translating that understanding into a viable extraction method...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
They sat in heavy silence. Outside, the fireflies continued their dance, oblivious to the seriousness of the conversation happening inside the house.
“Is there anything we can do?” Daphne asked. “Anything that might help?”
“The Occlumency training we’ve been doing,” Nicolas said. “That’s crucial. Not just for your protection against Legilimency, but also relevant to the Horcrux situation.”
“How so?” Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew part of the answer.
“The soul fragment is separate from you, but it exists within your mind nonetheless. Strong Occlumency won’t remove it, but it can help you maintain clear boundaries between your thoughts and any potential influence from the fragment.”
“You think it could influence me?” Harry felt a chill run down his spine. This was a fear he’d harbored since learning about the Horcrux but hadn’t wanted to voice.
“We don’t know for certain,” Perenelle admitted. “There’s simply not enough information about living Horcruxes. But better to be prepared for that possibility than to be caught unaware.”
“That’s why you pushed the Occlumency so hard from day one,” Daphne realized. “Not just for our general development, but specifically for Harry’s protection.”
“Partly, yes,” Nicolas confirmed. “Though everything I said about Occlumency being fundamental to advanced magic remains true. This was simply an additional motivation for ensuring you mastered it as quickly as possible.”
Harry processed everything that was being said, trying to organize his thoughts the way he’d been taught over the past two weeks. Fear wanted to overwhelm him, but he pushed it aside, locked it away in its proper mental room. Panic wouldn’t help. Clear thinking would.
“So where do we stand?” he asked. “What are our actual options right now?”
“Continue researching,” Nicolas said. “Both Perenelle and I will keep looking into the ancient texts, exploring any possibilities that might lead to a solution. Albus is doing the same from his end. Meanwhile, you focus on your training, your tournaments, and your life. Don’t let this thing define your existence.”
“And the Occlumency practice?” Daphne asked. “Anything particular regarding that?”
“Nothing special, but you should continue it as priority,” Perenelle emphasized. “Daily if possible. The stronger your mental defenses, the safer you are from multiple threats, the Horcrux included.”
“We’ll help however we can,” Nicolas added. “You’re not alone in this. If there’s a solution to be found, we’ll find it. That much I can promise you.”
Harry wanted to believe that. He wanted to trust that these brilliant minds would find an answer. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew more than they were sharing, that there was some piece of information they were deliberately withholding.
Daphne clearly sensed the same thing. After they’d left the study and were walking through the gardens in the cool night air, she voiced what they were both thinking.
“They’re hiding something.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I caught that too.”
“The question is what and why.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “They’re clearly trying to help, so it’s not malicious. But they know something they’re not telling us.”
“Maybe they’re not confident enough to share,” Harry suggested. “Nicolas said they’ve made progress understanding how the fragment sustains itself. Maybe they have theories about extraction but nothing concrete enough to mention yet.”
“Maybe,” Daphne murmured but she didn’t sound convinced. “But it felt like more than that. Like they actively didn’t want to discuss something specific. Did you notice how they carefully avoided talking about anything beyond your Horcrux? Like there might be others but they steered away from that topic?”
Harry had noticed. “You think Voldemort made more than just the accidental one in me?”
“It would make sense, wouldn’t it? If he was willing to tear his soul once deliberately, why stop there? Especially if he was trying to make himself immortal.”
“That’s a horrifying thought.”
“It is,” Daphne agreed grimly. “And maybe that’s why they’re not telling us. Too many unknowns, too much speculation. They want to focus on what they can actually help with.”
They walked in silence for a while, the gravel path crunching under their feet. The gardens were beautiful at night, illuminated by softly glowing magical lanterns that cast gentle light without harsh shadows.
“Are you scared?” Daphne asked quietly.
“Terrified,” Harry admitted. “There’s a piece of Voldemort’s soul in my head. That’s nightmare fuel right there. But I’m also weirdly calm about it? Like, yes it’s horrifying, but panicking won’t fix anything. So I’ll focus on what I can control: getting stronger, learning everything I can, and staying vigilant.”
“That’s very mature of you.”
“Or very compartmentalized. Hard to tell the difference with the Occlumency sometimes.” Harry smiled wryly. “Thank Merlin for the Occlumency training though, right? At least now I can put the terror in a mental box and only open it when necessary.”
Daphne laughed despite the gravity of the situation. “That’s definitely not the traditional use of Occlumency, but I’ll allow it.”
They found a bench near a fountain, the sound of running water peaceful in the darkness. As they settled, Daphne leaned against Harry, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said softly. “Whatever’s going on, whatever the Flamels aren’t telling us, whatever it takes to get that thing out of you. We’ll figure it out together.”
“Together,” Harry echoed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Always.”
Above them, stars moved in the summer sky, ancient and indifferent to the problems of the mere mortals below. But Harry found comfort in Daphne’s presence, in the knowledge that whatever came next, he wouldn’t face it alone.
XXXXX
The remaining days at the Flamel estate passed quickly. They continued their Occlumency practice with renewed focus, both understanding its importance on multiple levels now. Nicolas and Perenelle taught them more about wandless magic, about understanding magical theory at fundamental levels, and about seeing the world through the lens of someone who’d spent centuries studying its mysteries.
On their final evening, the four of them shared dinner in the garden under strings of fairy lights that Perenelle had conjured. The meal was excellent, the conversation warm and ranging, touching on everything except the darker topics that had occupied their mid-visit discussion.
“You’ve both made remarkable progress,” Nicolas said as dessert was served. “I’m genuinely impressed with how much you’ve absorbed in such a short time.”
“We had excellent teachers,” Harry replied.
“And we’re incredibly grateful for the opportunity,” Daphne added. “This has been transformative. The things we’ve learned here will serve us for years.”
“Just remember,” Perenelle said, her expression serious despite the festive atmosphere. “Magic is a tool. How you use it, what you use it for—that’s what matters. Power without purpose is meaningless. Power without ethics is dangerous.”
“We understand,” Harry assured her.
“I believe you do.” Perenelle smiled. “Which is why we were happy to teach you. You both have good hearts alongside your considerable talents. That combination is rare and precious.”
“The Championships begin in two days,” Nicolas observed. “Are you prepared?”
“As prepared as we can be,” Daphne replied. “We’ve trained hard all year. Now we just need to trust in that training and do our best.”
“You’ll do more than your best, I suspect.” Nicolas raised his glass. “To Harry and Daphne. May they bring honor to Britain and themselves in the coming competition.”
They toasted, and the evening drifted into comfortable conversation and eventually fond farewells. The Flamels promised to continue their research into the Horcrux problem and made both Harry and Daphne promise to write regularly regardless of how busy they became.
“Our door is always open to you,” Perenelle said as she hugged them both goodbye. “Should you need advice, assistance, or simply a place to think clearly away from everyday pressures. Remember that.”
“We will,” Harry promised. “And thank you for everything. Not just the teaching, but for looking into... the other matter.”
“We won’t stop searching,” Nicolas assured him. “There is a solution. There always is. We simply need to find it.”
The next morning, they departed via portkey, the Flamel estate disappearing in a swirl of color.
The portkey deposited them in a marble-floored arrival chamber deep within the French Ministry of Magic.
Harry steadied himself immediately while Daphne landed gracefully beside him. The room was circular and elegant, with high arched windows that let in streams of late morning sunlight. Several other portkey arrival points ringed the space, though theirs was the only one active at the moment.
“Ah, there you are!” Professor Flitwick’s cheerful voice carried across the chamber. The diminutive Charms professor hurried toward them, his robes billowing slightly despite his short stature. “Right on time, right on time. Excellent.”
“Professor,” Harry greeted warmly, extending his hand. The professor shook it enthusiastically before doing the same with Daphne.
“I trust your time with the Flamels was productive?” Flitwick asked as he led them toward the chamber’s main exit. His eyes twinkled with genuine interest. “They’re remarkable individuals. I had the privilege of meeting Nicolas Flamel briefly when I was younger. Changed my entire approach to magic, that experience did.”
“It was incredible,” Daphne said. “We learned more in three weeks than we could have in a year at Hogwarts. No offense intended, Professor.”
Flitwick let out a high squeak of laughter. “None taken, Miss Greengrass. Nicolas Flamel has forgotten more about magic than most of us will ever know, and he’s had centuries to perfect his teaching methods. Though I like to think we do reasonably well at Hogwarts with our comparatively limited time.”
They passed through ornate double doors into a bustling corridor. French Ministry workers hurried past them in various directions, their robes noticeably more fashionable than their British counterparts. Harry caught snippets of rapid French conversation, most of which he couldn’t follow despite having picked up a few phrases during their stay with the Flamels.
“The tournament accommodations are in the Latin Quarter,” Flitwick explained as he navigated them through the Ministry’s labyrinthine passages. “The French have arranged for all competing delegations to stay in the same building. Promotes camaraderie, they say, though I suspect it also makes security considerably easier to manage.”
“Have many teams arrived yet?” Harry asked.
“Most of them, actually. You two were among the last, what with your extended training. Germany arrived yesterday, Spain two days ago, and the Italian contingent has been here nearly a week. Apparently they wanted extra time to acclimate.” Flitwick’s tone suggested he found this slightly amusing. “The Swedes are already making quite an impression. Very serious bunch, those Scandinavians. All business.”
They reached a large fireplace marked with official-looking plaques in French. Flitwick produced a small pouch of Floo powder and gestured for them to go first. “After you. Just say ‘Résidence des Champions’ clearly.”
Daphne went first, her pronunciation perfect despite never having used French Floo addresses before. Harry followed, stumbling only slightly over the accent, and emerged into an elegant lobby that looked more like a high-end hotel than magical housing. Flitwick appeared moments later, brushing ash from his robes.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” the professor said, noting their expressions. “The French do love their creature comforts. Now, your suite is on the fourth floor. I’m on the third, so if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to knock.”
A witch at the reception desk provided them with keys, speaking rapid French that Flitwick translated with ease. They took a brass-gated lift upward, the mechanism rising smoothly through the building. Through the gates Harry could see each floor they passed, glimpsing other competitors moving about.
“I should mention,” Flitwick said as they ascended, “that while I’m here primarily as your advisor and chaperone, I won’t be interfering with your preparations or strategies. This is your tournament. I’m here to provide guidance if asked, to help with logistics, and to ensure nothing untoward happens. But the actual competing? That’s entirely in your hands.”
“We appreciate that, Professor,” Harry said. “Still, we’d definitely welcome any advice you’re willing to share.”
“Oh, I have plenty of that.” Flitwick’s expression grew thoughtful as the lift settled at the fourth floor. “I competed in these championships for seven years running during my youth. Won three times, placed in the top two three times total. They were some of the most formative experiences of my life.”
He led them down a richly carpeted hallway to a door marked with the British flag. With a tap of his wand, the door swung open to reveal a spacious suite. The main room featured comfortable seating, a dining area, and large windows overlooking Parisian rooftops. Two bedrooms branched off from the main space, each prearranged with quality furniture and attached bathrooms.
“The French have outdone themselves,” Daphne observed, moving to inspect one of the bedrooms. “This is nicer than some pure-blood manor guest quarters I’ve stayed in.”
“They take these championships very seriously on the Continent,” Flitwick said. “More so than Britain, I’m afraid to say. We tend to view them as academic exercises, opportunities for talented students to test themselves. But here? They’re celebrations of magical excellence, sources of national pride. The winners of the singles divisions especially receive quite significant recognition.”
Harry set his trunk down and moved to the window. From this height he could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, along with other Parisian landmarks both magical and mundane. The city sprawled in all directions, vibrant and alive even from this faraway vantage point.
“You mentioned competing for seven years,” Daphne said, rejoining them in the main room. “What made you stop?”
“I took a position at Hogwarts.” Flitwick settled into one of the armchairs with a small sigh. “I could have continued competing while teaching, technically, but I felt it was time to move on. I’d proven what I needed to prove, both to myself and to others. And I found that I enjoyed teaching more than I’d expected to.”
He paused, his expression growing distant with memory. “The circuit can be intoxicating, you know. The competition, the recognition, the constant drive to improve and defeat the next opponent. I’ve seen many talented witches and wizards lose themselves in it, competing year after year past the point where it was healthy or productive. They became so focused on winning that they forgot why they started competing in the first place.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Harry said, though he couldn’t quite imagine becoming obsessed with tournament dueling. He had too many other concerns demanding his attention.
“See that you do.” Flitwick’s tone was gentle but serious. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be competitive. Competition drives excellence, pushes us to heights we might not otherwise reach. But remember that these championships, impressive as they are, are ultimately just one part of your magical education. They’re not the sum total of your worth as wizards.”
Daphne sat on the sofa, crossing her legs elegantly. “Did you ever compete in the tag-team division?”
“Once, in my final year. My partner and I placed second, losing to a French pair in the finals who had been competing together since childhood. The synchronization required for tag-team dueling is extraordinary. You’re competing as individuals, but you must think as a unit. Every decision affects your partner. Every risk you take is a risk you’re taking with someone else’s performance as well.”
“We’ve been practicing together for months,” Harry said. “Working on combination spells, coordinated strategies, that sort of thing.”
“Good, good. That will serve you well.” Flitwick nodded approvingly. “But remember that practice and actual tournament conditions are quite different. The pressure changes things. The knowledge that you’re representing Britain, that people are watching, that one mistake could cost not just your own advancement but your partner’s as well. It affects people in unexpected ways.”
“How do we handle that?” Daphne asked.
“Trust.” Flitwick’s answer was immediate and firm. “Trust in your partner, trust in your training, and trust in yourselves. When the pressure mounts and everything seems to be falling apart, that trust is what will keep you functional. I’ve seen partnerships with superior technical skills fall apart because they didn’t truly trust each other. And I’ve seen partnerships with less raw talent succeed through sheer faith in one another.”
Harry met Daphne’s eyes across the room and saw understanding there. Trust wasn’t something they lacked.
“The opening ceremonies are tomorrow morning,” Flitwick continued, shifting to more practical matters. “Full formal robes, British colors. The actual first rounds begin in the afternoon. You’ll both be competing in your respective singles divisions that day, Harry in the men’s bracket and Daphne in the women’s. The tag-team competition starts on day two.”
“How many competitors in each division?” Harry asked.
“Sixty-four in both singles brackets, following standard tournament structure. That means six rounds to reach the finals, assuming you keep winning. The tag-team division has thirty-two pairs. The whole tournament runs for two weeks, with the finals for all three divisions happening on the last day.”
“Two weeks of constant dueling,” Daphne murmured. “That’s going to be exhausting.”
“Hence why physical conditioning matters as much as magical skill,” Flitwick agreed. “Stamina, focus, mental fortitude. These things separate the champions from the merely talented. You can know every spell in existence and still lose if you can’t maintain concentration through six consecutive duels.”
Harry thought about the training they’d done at Hogwarts on their own, with Tonks and Moody, and with the Flamels. The physical workouts, the endurance drills, the sessions where they’d pushed themselves to the brink of magical exhaustion and then kept going. It had seemed excessive at times, but now he understood the purpose behind it.
“One more thing,” Flitwick said, standing and moving toward the door. “And this is perhaps the most important advice I can give you. Don’t try to be someone you’re not in that arena. I’ve seen too many duelists attempt to emulate famous champions, adopting styles that don’t suit their natural abilities. Your strength is in being yourselves. Use what you’re good at. Play to your advantages. The judges and the audience will respect authentic skill far more than borrowed technique, no matter how flashy the latter might be.”
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. “I’ll let you get settled. Come find me this evening and we’ll go over the bracket assignments once they’re posted. Until then, rest, explore the building if you like, but don’t overdo it. Tomorrow begins two of the most demanding weeks of your magical careers so far. Conserve your energy.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Daphne said. “For everything. Your experience and guidance mean a lot.”
Flitwick smiled warmly. “It’s my pleasure. I see a lot of potential in both of you, not just as duelists but as people. Whatever happens in this tournament, I’m proud to be here as your advisor.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him. Harry and Daphne remained still for a moment. Tomorrow it would all begin. All the preparation, all the training, all the hours of practice would be put to the test.
“Well,” Harry said finally, breaking the silence. “We’ve certainly gotten ourselves into something significant here.”
“We have.” Daphne stood and crossed to where he remained by the window. She slipped her hand into his. “But we’re ready. Or as ready as we’re going to be.”
“The Flamels taught us well. And Moody before that. Not to mention all the private practice.”
“And we have each other.”
“Always,” Harry confirmed, squeezing her hand gently.
They spent the rest of the day settling in, unpacking their trunks and familiarizing themselves with the suite.
As the sun began to set over Paris, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, they found themselves standing at the window together. The city lights were beginning to flicker on, creating a tapestry of illumination across the sprawling metropolis.
“It’s beautiful,” Daphne murmured, leaning back against Harry’s chest as his arms wrapped around her waist.
“It is,” he agreed, though he was looking at her reflection in the glass rather than the view.
She turned in his arms, her expression soft in the fading light. “We haven’t had much time alone lately. Not as much as I’d like.”
“Same,” Harry smiled softly. “Between the training and the preparations...”
“And tomorrow everything starts.” Daphne reached up, her fingers tracing along his jaw. “Two weeks of constant competition and pressure.”
“Which means today is ours.” Harry leaned down, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened.
When they finally broke apart, Daphne took his hand and led him toward their bedroom without a word.
Her back met the wall before Harry even shut the door behind them. He pressed against her, his mouth finding hers again, hungrier now. She tasted heavenly as she always did, her tongue sliding against his slowly, making his pulse hammer in his ears.
His hands were already under her blouse, his palms skating up the warm, bare skin of her back until his fingers found the clasp of her bra. One twist and it gave way.
She exhaled into his mouth as the fabric loosened. Harry dragged the blouse over her head in a single impatient motion, letting it drop to the floor with her bra.
Moonlight from the half-open curtains painted silver across her breasts, her nipples already tight and begging. He dipped his head, closing his lips around one stiff peak, his tongue flicking until she arched with a broken gasp.
“Harry…” It was half plea, half warning.
He answered by grazing his teeth lightly, just enough to make her thighs clench, then soothing the sting with slow, wet circles of his tongue. His hands slid down to the button of her jeans. Two flicks and the denim parted. He peeled it down her hips along with the thin lace beneath, kneeling as he went. Daphne stepped out of the pooled fabric, and he stayed on his knees, looking up the length of her body, taking in her long legs, the soft curve of her stomach, and those lovely breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath.
She was exquisite, and she was his.
Harry pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below her bellybutton, breathing her in. Daphne’s fingers threaded into his hair, not guiding, just anchoring herself as he nudged her thighs wider. The first slow lick had her hips jerking, the second drew a low, throaty moan that he felt in his cock.
He took his time, savoring the slick heat of her pussy, tracing every fold until she was trembling. When he slid two fingers inside and curled them, she cried out, her thighs tightening around his arm.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “Inside. Now.”
He rose, shedding his own clothes with none of her grace. The buttons of his shirt scattered and he kicked his trousers aside. His cock sprang free, heavy and aching, the tip already wet. Daphne’s gaze dropped to it and her lips parted, hungry.
She reached for him, wrapping her cool fingers around the burning flesh and stroking once, then twice, her thumb sweeping over the head and smearing the pre-cum all over the crown. Harry hissed between his teeth.
He caught her wrist, guiding her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sank down, pulling him with her. They fell together in a tangle of limbs, their mouths fused together and her legs wrapped high around his waist. He could feel her, slick and open, sliding along the length of his cock but not letting him inside yet, just teasing, coating him in her wetness until he groaned against her neck.
“Stop tormenting me,” he growled.
Daphne let out a wicked laugh and angled her hips. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance. He shifted slightly and rocked forward, sinking in, inch by slow inch, making her gasp until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
They both stilled, shuddering at the perfection of it. She was tight, hot, and clenching around him like she never wanted to let go.
Then she rolled her hips, and restraint snapped.
Harry drew back and thrust hard, setting a rhythm that had the headboard tapping softly against the wall. Daphne met him stroke for stroke, her nails raking down his back, and her heels digging into the base of his spine to pull him deeper. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies, wet slap of skin, her breathy moans, and his ragged curses.
He shifted the angle and she cried out, her back arching off the mattress as he hit that spot inside her again and again.
“Touch yourself,” he rasped. “Want to feel you come around me.”
Her hand slipped between them, her fingers circling her clit in tight, frantic motions. The sight of it, her flushed face, those parted lips, and the way her inner muscles fluttered around his cock, nearly undid him. He slowed just enough to watch, grinding deep on every thrust, sweat beading at his temples.
“Harry, I’m—” The rest of whatever she was about to say fractured into a keening cry as she came, pulsing hard around him, her thighs shaking. He followed her over seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling deep inside her with a guttural groan, his hips jerking through the aftershocks until they were both spent.
They didn’t separate right away. He stayed inside her, softening slowly, pressing lazy kisses to her throat, her collarbone, the corner of her mouth. When he finally slipped free, a trickle of warmth followed, and Daphne hummed, utterly sated, tugging him down beside her.
They lay tangled together in the bed, the Paris skyline glittering through the window. Harry traced idle patterns on her shoulder while she rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“We should probably get dressed,” Daphne murmured eventually, though she made no move to do so. “Flitwick will be expecting us.”
“Probably,” Harry agreed, equally unmotivated to move. “Five more minutes.”
She laughed softly.
They stayed like that a while longer, comfortable in the silence and each other’s presence, before finally rising and making themselves presentable.
They found Flitwick as promised and reviewed the bracket assignments. Harry’s first opponent was a duelist from Belgium, moderately skilled according to the professor’s assessment. Daphne would face a witch from Portugal in her opening match. Nothing insurmountable, but nothing to be taken lightly either.
They retired early, sleep coming easily in each other’s embrace, knowing that tomorrow would demand everything they had to give and then some more.
To be continued…