Moving Forward: Chapter 38

Note: All characters involved in this fic are above the age of consent.

The Burrow was quiet, save for the usual creaks of old wood settling in the night. Fred Weasley sprawled across his bed, one leg dangling off the edge, staring at the ceiling where a few faded glow-in-the-dark stars still clung from their childhood. George sat cross-legged on his own bed, flipping through a stack of parchment—order forms, cost estimates, and a crumpled note from Harry about his offer. The clock downstairs chimed midnight, but sleep wasn’t even a flicker on their radar.

“A thousand Galleons,” Fred said, breaking the silence for what felt like the hundredth time that week. “Reckon we’d be mad to turn it down.”

George glanced up, tossing the parchment aside. “Mad, maybe. But it’s still a chunk of our shop. Harry’s a mate, though—can’t see him meddling too much.”

“True,” Fred agreed, propping himself up on his elbows. “He’s got bigger fish to fry these days. Bloke’s been on a hunt lately. Brutal, but effective.”

George grinned, leaning back against the headboard. “Yeah, Dumbledore’s lot might clutch their wands over it, but I say good on him. Someone’s got to hit back.”

They’d been over this a hundred times in the past few weeks. The joke shop was their dream, their ticket out of the humdrum, but dreams didn’t come cheap. The winnings from that dodgy bet with Bagman at the Quidditch World Cup would’ve been a decent start—except Bagman had paid them in leprechaun gold, and they’d been too naive to check it before it vanished. Then there was the Triwizard Tournament, a thousand Galleons ripe for the taking—except it’d picked Harry instead. Typical.

“Pulling pranks on Malfoy’s been a laugh,” George said, smirking at the memory of Draco Malfoy waltzing in with neon green hair that wouldn’t wash out. “And the pay’s not bad. But it’s pocket change compared to what we need.”

Fred nodded, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. “Harry’s got the cash, though. With that kind of money, we could open a proper shop in Diagon Alley. Shelves stocked, fireworks popping off every hour, the works.”

Fred opened his mouth to say more when a faint thud echoed from downstairs. He froze, locking eyes with George. Another sound followed—a soft scrape, like a chair being nudged across the kitchen floor.

“Reckon that’s Gin raiding the biscuit tin again?” George whispered, already sliding off the bed.

Fred smirked, grabbing his wand. “If it is, she’s gotten stealthier. Let’s check it out.”

They crept out of their room, barefoot and silent, years of sneaking around giving them an edge. The stairs groaned under their weight, but they knew which ones to skip. Down in the kitchen, the back door stood ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling across the tiles. And there was Ginny—red hair messy, a rucksack slung over one shoulder, fumbling with the latch like she was two seconds from bolting.

“Oi, Gin!” Fred called, loud enough to make her jump. She spun around, her eyes wide, caught red-handed.

“Bloody hell, keep your voice down!” she hissed, clutching the rucksack tighter. “You’ll wake Mum!”

George stepped forward, his wand glowing faintly as he lit the room. “Too late for that if you keep banging around. Where you off to at this hour?”

Ginny’s jaw tightened, and she shifted her weight, looking twitchier than a cornered Kneazle. Her face was pale, dark circles under her eyes, and her hands wouldn’t stop moving—fidgeting with the strap, tugging at her sleeve. She’d been off for days, snapping at everyone, pacing the house like she couldn’t stand still. Now, seeing her geared up to run, it clicked. She wasn’t just restless—she was desperate.

“Don’t play dumb,” she said, her voice low and sharp. “I’m going to Harry. He needs help, and I’m done sitting here.”

Fred let out a low whistle, leaning against the counter. “Bold move, little sis. What’s the plan—sneak out, join his crew, and hex Death Eaters till breakfast?”

“Something like that,” she muttered, edging toward the door. “Now get out of my way.”

George blocked her path, his arms crossed. “Hang on. Let’s talk this out. You’re not exactly in top sneaking form tonight—reckon Mum’d hear you before you hit the garden.”

Ginny glared, but she didn’t push past him. Her shoulders were tense, her breathing quick, like she was coiled up and ready to snap. Fred frowned, taking her in. She’d always been fierce, but this was different. She looked wired, almost frantic, like she hadn’t slept in days and was running on pure adrenaline.

“Look,” Fred said, dropping the teasing tone. “We get it. Harry’s out there doing what needs doing. We’re not blind—those dark lot deserve what’s coming. But running off like this? That’s not the answer.”

“Why not?” she shot back, her voice rising before she caught herself and lowered it. “I should be with him, Fred. Dumbledore’s turned on him, the Order’s useless, and I’m stuck here pretending it’s fine. I can fight. I can help him.”

George nodded slowly, scratching his neck. “No one’s saying you can’t. But think about what this’d do to us. To Mum. She’s already losing her mind over Harry—reckons he’s gone full dark wizard, dragging everyone down with him.”

Fred snorted, but it wasn’t funny. “Yeah, last night she was ranting about how he’s ‘corrupting her babies’ and ‘leading a death squad.’ If you take off to join him, she’ll have a breakdown. Proper howling-in-the-kitchen, locking-us-all-in-the-shed breakdown.”

Ginny’s hands balled into fists, and she looked away, her jaw working. “She doesn’t get it. None of them do. Harry’s not the bad guy—he’s fighting back. Dad’s staying out of it all, our entire country and the people are in danger, and I’m supposed to do what? Just be a good little girl, stay at home, go to Hogwarts when it’s time and write essays?”

The twins went quiet for a second. She wasn’t wrong—things were grim. Harry’s split with Dumbledore had torn everything apart. The Order wanted peace talks and second chances; Harry wanted blood, and honestly, Fred and George couldn’t blame him. But Ginny bolting in the middle of the night wasn’t going to fix it.

“Gin,” George said, his voice softer now, “we’re not picking sides here. Harry’s our mate. His offer’s got us thinking about jumping in too, in our own way. But running off like this—it’d rip the family apart. Mum’s barely holding it together as it is.”

“She’d get over it,” Ginny muttered, but she didn’t sound sure. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to them, and Fred could see the fight draining out of her, just a little.

“Would she?” Fred pressed, stepping closer. “You’re her little girl. She’s already lost Percy. If you disappear, she’ll think she’s lost you too. And us—she’d blame us for not stopping you. We’d be stuck here with her sobbing and hexing everything in sight.”

Ginny huffed, dropping the rucksack to the floor with a thud. “So what? I’m just supposed to sit here and do nothing? Harry needs me.”

“Needs you alive,” George pointed out. “Not caught by Death Eaters halfway to wherever he’s holed up. You don’t even know where he is, do you?”

Ginny didn’t answer, but her eyes widened. Now that she thought about it, she really couldn’t recall where he was.

Realization dawned on her in an instant. Harry was under the Fidelius, and she didn’t know the secret.

Frustrated, she just kicked at the bag, her agitation spiking again. Fred watched her—hair tangled, hands shaking, that wild look in her eyes. She was a mess, and not just from lack of sleep. It was like she was burning up from the inside, ready to claw her way out of her own skin to get to Harry.

“Blimey, Gin,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “You look like you’re high on Amortentia and we’re keeping you from your true love. Should we owl Harry a lock of your hair, let him know you’re pining?”

Ginny’s head snapped up, and she shoved him hard in the chest. “Shut up, you prat! This isn’t funny!”

Fred stumbled back, laughing despite the sting. “Ow! Alright, touchy subject. Merlin, you’re wound tight.”

George grinned, stepping between them. “Easy, you two. No need to start a brawl in the kitchen. Mum’d hear that for sure.”

Ginny glared at them both, but the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her. She sank onto a chair, rubbing her face with her hands. “You’re idiots. Both of you.”

“Guilty,” Fred said, still chuckling as he rubbed his chest. “But we’re your idiots. And we’re not wrong—you running off isn’t the play here.”

She didn’t argue, just stared at the floor, her restlessness simmering down to something quieter. The twins swapped a look. They’d talked her off the ledge, at least for tonight. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t try again, though.

“Tell you what,” George said, nudging her rucksack with his foot. “Stash this for now. We’ll figure something out—maybe even talk to Harry ourselves. That Galleon deal might get us all in the game, yeah?”

Ginny looked up, skeptical but not fighting it. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as a Blast-Ended Skrewt,” Fred said with a wink. “Now get back to bed before Mum catches us all and we’re scrubbing pots till dawn.”

She rolled her eyes but grabbed the bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “Fine. But this isn’t over.”

“Never is with you,” George called as she trudged upstairs. The twins waited till her door clicked shut before heading back to their room. Maybe it was time to stop dithering and pick a side.

XXXXX

Ginny stomped up the stairs, each step accompanied by a muttered curse. Her fingers clenched the rucksack strap so tightly her knuckles were white. Blood hammered in her ears, drowning out the creaking floorboards beneath her feet. She should have known the twins would catch her—they had an uncanny knack for appearing at the worst possible moments.

She shoved her bedroom door open, ready to fling her rucksack into the corner and collapse onto her bed. Instead, she froze in the doorway.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the bed, dressed in her nightwear, a small bluebell flame dancing in a jar on the nightstand. She looked up from the book in her lap, her expression a mixture of concern and determination.

"Going somewhere?" Hermione asked quietly, closing her book.

Ginny shut the door behind her with a soft click, dropping her rucksack to the floor. "What are you doing awake?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Hermione said, nodding toward the bulging rucksack. "Though I think your packed bag answers my question."

"It's none of your business," Ginny snapped, kicking the bag under her bed. "Go back to sleep."

Hermione sighed, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear. "I heard you packing earlier. The Extendable Ear you thought you nicked last week? I found it under my pillow."

Ginny's face flushed hot with anger. "So you've been spying on me? That's rich, coming from someone who claims to care about right and wrong."

"I care about you not getting yourself killed," Hermione countered, her voice still measured but her eyes flashing. "Running off to find Harry in the middle of the night? With everything that’s going on? Do you even know where he is?"

"I would have figured it out," Ginny hissed, pacing the small space between their beds. "And don't pretend you care about Harry anymore. You abandoned him. We all know which side you're on."

Hermione stood up so quickly the book tumbled from her lap. "I did not turn my back on Harry!" she said, her voice rising before she caught herself and lowered it to an urgent whisper. "I love Harry. He's my best friend. But what he's doing now—"

"Is what needs to be done," Ginny cut in, her own whisper fierce. "Death Eaters aren't going to stop because we ask nicely. They're killing people, Hermione. Actual people. And Harry's the only one with the guts to fight back the way they deserve."

Hermione's face paled in the dim light. "There's a difference between fighting back and becoming what you're fighting against. Harry's crossing lines, Ginny. The curses he's using, the people he's hurting—some of them haven't even been proven guilty!"

"Oh, that's convenient," Ginny sneered. "Let's wait for proof while more families get murdered. Let's give everyone a fair trial while they tear our world apart!"

Hermione took a deep breath, visibly trying to keep her composure. "Listen to yourself. This isn't you talking—it's fear and anger. I understand, believe me. But quitting school, running off to join what's essentially becoming a vigilante squad? That's not the answer."

"Then what is?" Ginny demanded, her voice breaking. "Sit in class while everything falls apart? Write essays about goblin rebellions while people are dying?"

"Your father talked to me, you know," Hermione said softly, changing tactics. "Last week, when you were helping your mum with dinner. He's worried sick about you—about all of you. He told me how your mother cries herself to sleep at night, terrified that she'll wake up to another empty bed."

Ginny looked away, her jaw clenched. "My mother thinks Harry's turned into some kind of monster. She doesn't understand what's happening."

"She understands perfectly well," Hermione insisted. "She lived through the first war, Ginny. She knows what it does to people—how it changes them. She's seen good people cross lines they can never uncross, all in the name of doing what's necessary."

Ginny sank onto her bed, suddenly exhausted. "So I'm just supposed to do nothing? Let Harry fight this alone?"

"He's not alone," Hermione said, sitting back down on her own bed. "And he's not the only one fighting. But there are different ways to fight, Ginny. Abandoning your education isn't going to help anyone in the long run."

"That's easy for you to say," Ginny muttered. "Always the perfect student."

Hermione's eyes flashed with hurt. "You think this is easy for me? Do you have any idea how it feels to watch your best friend turn into someone you don’t even recognize anymore? To see the person you've loved and stood by for years start using spells that—" She broke off, shaking her head. "The Harry I know wouldn't kill someone if he could help it, even a Death Eater."

"The Harry you knew didn't get betrayed by someone he looked up to," Ginny shot back. "He didn't get hit by the killing curse for the second time and lived once again. He wasn't being hunted every minute of every day."

A heavy silence fell between them. The bluebell flame flickered, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, an owl hooted softly.

"I'm not saying Harry doesn't have reasons," Hermione finally said, her voice quieter now. "I'm saying that vengeance isn't justice, and crossing certain lines changes you in ways you can't undo. And I'm afraid by the time this war is over, there won't be enough of the Harry we love left to save."

Ginny stared at the ceiling, tears pricking at her eyes. "You don't know that. You don't know what he's going through."

"No," Hermione agreed. "I don't. But I know running off to join him now won't help either of you. If you really want to help Harry, be smart about it. Finish school. Learn everything you can. Be ready when the time comes—the right time."

Ginny didn't answer. Part of her knew Hermione made sense, but another part—the part that ached for Harry, that burned with the need to do something, anything—couldn't accept it.

"Your mother loves you," Hermione added softly. "Everything she does, every rule she enforces—it's because she's terrified of losing you. Can you blame her?"

"I'm not a child," Ginny said, the fight draining from her voice. "I can make my own choices."

"Yes, you can," Hermione agreed. "But choices have consequences, Ginny. Not just for you, but for everyone who cares about you."

They lapsed into silence again, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Neither willing to concede, both convinced they were right.

Finally, Ginny pulled back her covers and slid under them, still fully dressed. "I'm going to sleep," she announced flatly.

Hermione nodded, extinguishing the bluebell flame with a wave of her wand. "Goodnight," she said, her voice small in the darkness.

"Night," Ginny muttered, turning her back to Hermione.

She lay awake for a long time, eyes open in the darkness, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. Behind her, she could hear Hermione's breathing, too measured and even to be genuine sleep. They were both awake, both wrestling with the same war, but from opposite sides of an invisible line that seemed to grow wider by the day.

Outside, the night stretched on, and somewhere out there, Harry was fighting his own battles. Right or not, Hermione couldn't say anymore. But one thing was certain—the world was changing, and no amount of well-meaning lectures could hold back the tide. Sooner or later, everyone would have to choose a side.

Even if it tore them all apart.

XXXXX

Harry and Narcissa sat in the dim parlor of Grimmauld Place, the fire crackling low, casting a warm glow over the worn furniture.

Narcissa’s fingers toyed with the stem of her wine glass, her sharp blue eyes flicking to Harry, who sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, looking way too relaxed for what they were about to do.

“You sure about this, Harry?” Narcissa asked, her voice low, a little hesitant, like she was testing the waters again. She leaned forward, her blonde hair catching the firelight, and her lips twitched with a mix of nerves and excitement. “I mean, it’s pretty fucked up, right? What we’re planning?”

Harry snorted, his green eyes glinting with something dark and reckless. He took a swig of his beer, the bottle sweating in his hand, and shook his head. “Fucked up? Maybe. But if anyone in the whole damn world deserves to have their nose rubbed in it, it’s that piece of shit Lucius. He’s earned every second of this, Cissa. Every fucking second.”

She bit her lip, a slow smile spreading across her face, washing away the last of her doubts. “Yeah,” she said, her voice steadier now, a wicked edge creeping in. “He’s gonna lose his fucking mind when he sees us. I want him to choke on it.”

Harry grinned, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, the bottle dangling between his fingers. “Oh, he will. We’re gonna make sure of it. You and me, right in front of him, giving him the show of his miserable life. He’s gonna hate every second, and we’re gonna love it.”

Narcissa laughed and set her glass down with a clink. She slid closer to him on the couch, her hand landing on his thigh, fingers squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch. “You’re so fucking into this, aren’t you?” she teased, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You want him to see how much better you are, don’t you?”

“Damn right I do,” Harry said, his voice rough, his hand covering hers, pressing it harder against his leg. “He’s gonna watch you fall apart for me, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. You’re mine now, Cissa, and he’s gonna fucking know it.”

Her eyes darkened, her pupils blown wide, and she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Then let’s do it,” she murmured, her breath hot against his skin. “I’ve waited long enough. And Harry, please act like an asshole down there.”

“Only if you act like a bitch yourself,” he smirked, pulling back.

“Easy enough,” she smirked back, running a finger down his cheek. His tongue darted out just as she passed his mouth, and she giggled when he gave it a lick.

They didn’t waste any more time. They were up and moving, Narcissa’s heels clicking as they descended the creaky stairs to the dungeons, Harry’s hand brushing her lower back as he walked behind her. She gave him a saucy smirk over her shoulder, putting an extra sway to her hips.

They stopped in front of a rusted grate, behind which Lucius Malfoy sat slumped, a grotesque husk of the man he’d once been. His pale eye snapped up, narrowing at the sight of them, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat.

“Well, look who’s awake,” Narcissa said, her voice dripping with venom, her hands on her hips as she stared him down. “Look at you, Lucius,” she purred, her tone dripping with venomous delight. “Pathetic. Broken. Nothing.” She leaned closer to the bars, her lips curling into a cruel smile. “I’m here to show you just how much I fucking despise you.”

Lucius’ mangled hands gripped the bars, his knuckles white, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat. His eye burned with impotent fury, darting between Narcissa and Harry, who stood close, his green eyes glinting with a mix of triumph and mockery.

“Pathetic,” Harry said, his voice low and taunting. “You’re nothing now, Malfoy. Just a sad, broken fuck who’s lost everything.”

His hand slid to Narcissa’s waist, pulling her flush against him, and she let out a low and wicked laugh, her gaze never leaving Lucius.

“Ready to watch, you miserable fuck?” Harry said, his voice rough, taunting. “Ready to watch what real desire looks like? Because we’re just getting started.”

Lucius slammed a fist against the bars, the sound ringing out, but Narcissa only laughed louder. She turned to Harry, her hands sliding up his chest, and her fingers curling into his shirt.

“Let’s give him something to scream about,” she said, her voice thick with anticipation.

Their lips crashed together, hungry and fierce, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate kiss. Harry groaned into her mouth, his hands roaming her back, gripping her hips, pulling her tighter. Narcissa’s fingers knotted in his hair, tugging hard, and she bit his lower lip, drawing a low growl from him. The wet sounds of their kiss filled the dungeon, amplified by the stone walls, a middle finger for the seething wreck of a man in the cell.

Lucius’ ragged breathing grew louder, his scarred face twisting with rage. He pounded the bars again, a strangled roar escaping his throat, but Harry and Narcissa didn’t even glance his way. They were lost in each other, their mouths moving frantically, their hands greedy. Narcissa’s nails raked down Harry’s neck, leaving faint red lines, and he hissed, breaking the kiss to nip at her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. She tilted her head back, moaning softly, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck, Harry,” she gasped, loud enough for Lucius to hear every syllable. “You’re so much better than he ever was.”

Harry grinned against her skin, his hands sliding under her blouse, fingers brushing the soft skin of her stomach.

He yanked the fabric up, tearing a button loose in his haste, and tossed it aside, leaving her in a black lace bra that barely contained her. Narcissa’s hands were just as eager, clawing at his shirt, ripping it open, buttons scattering across the floor. She ran her nails down his chest, leaving faint red lines over his scars, and Harry hissed, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples through the lace.

Lucius’ mind was a fucking inferno—Filthy traitor! Whore! I’ll tear you both apart!—but his tongueless screams were just noise, drowned out by Narcissa’s low moan as Harry unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the ground.

Her skin gleamed in the torchlight, and Harry’s eyes darkened as he took her in. Her breasts were perfect, pale and full, and Harry didn’t waste a second, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. She arched into his touch, a sharp moan spilling from her lips as his mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. Narcissa’s head fell back, her fingers digging into his shoulders, a sharp cry spilling from her lips.

“Harry, yes,” she gasped, her voice echoing, her eyes flicking to Lucius, whose scarred face was purple with rage, his only remaining eye bulging like it might pop out. “You see this, you fucking loser? This is what you’ll never have again.”

Harry grinned against her skin, switching to her other breast, his teeth grazing lightly, making her squirm.

“Think he’s enjoying the view?” he asked, his voice muffled, his hands sliding down her sides, fingers working the zipper of her skirt. The fabric hit the floor, leaving her in just a scrap of black lace panties, and Harry’s fingers hooked into the waistband, tugging them down inch by inch, dragging it out to make Lucius suffer.

Narcissa stepped out of them, kicking them toward the cell, where they landed just out of reach.

Lucius’ eyes bulged, his mangled face contorting further, a guttural scream tearing from his throat. His hands clawed at the bars, nails scraping metal, but the wards held firm, trapping him in his helpless fury.

Narcissa’s laugh, high and mocking, cut through it as she grabbed Harry’s face and kissed him again, her tongue plunging into his mouth, her body pressing against his.

Harry’s hands were everywhere, sliding down her sides, gripping her ass, pulling her so close their hips ground together.

“Holy shit, you’re fucking gorgeous,” she said, her voice loud and taunting, her eyes flicking to Lucius for a split second, savoring his tortured expression. Harry smirked, catching her drift, and spun her around so her back was to the bars, her body on full display for the cell’s occupant.

“Think he’s enjoying the show?” Harry asked, his voice dripping with mockery as he kissed down her neck.

“I wanna see him fucking cry,” Narcissa said, her voice husky, her hands already undoing Harry’s belt. She shoved his jeans down, along with his boxers, and Harry kicked them aside, standing naked and hard. Narcissa’s eyes raked over him, a hungry smile spreading across her face. She wrapped her fingers around his cock, stroking slowly, her thumb brushing over the tip, spreading the bead of precum

Harry groaned, his head tipping back, hands gripping her hips to steady himself.

“Fuck, Cissa,” he muttered, his voice rough, “you’re gonna kill me.”

“Not yet,” she teased, dropping to her knees in front of him. She looked up, locking eyes with him, then flicked her gaze to Lucius, whose ragged breathing filled the dungeon. “Watch this, you piece of shit,” she said, her voice cold and sharp, before taking Harry into her mouth, her lips stretching around him, her tongue swirling along the underside.

Harry’s hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the blonde strands as she worked him, her tongue swirling, lips sliding along his length. He groaned, loud and unrestrained, his hips rocking slightly as she sucked him deeper, her throat tightening around him. The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth echoed off the walls, and Narcissa played it up, moaning around him, her hands gripping his thighs. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, but he forced them open, glancing at Lucius, whose face was a mask of pure, unfiltered rage. The man’s scarred fists pounded the bars, his mutilated body trembling with fury.

“Damn Cissa, you’re so fucking good at this,” Harry panted, his voice breaking as Narcissa took him deeper, her throat tightening around him. His hands tightened in her hair as she bobbed faster, her tongue flicking over the tip every time she pulled back. She hummed around him, the vibration making him curse, his hips jerking as she pushed him closer to the edge.

She pulled back with a wet pop, her lips glistening, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock, and she grinned up at him wickedly.

“Better than anything he could ever dream of,” she said, loud enough for Lucius to hear, her eyes flicking to him, whose mutilated face was wet with tears of rage.

She smirked before diving back in, her movements faster, more desperate, and her hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach.

Harry’s groans grew louder, his hands tightening in her hair, and he muttered a string of curses, his hips jerking as she pushed him closer to the edge.

Lucius’ mind was a cauldron of poison—Disgusting! Traitorous slut! I’ll fucking kill you!—but his tongueless screams were nothing but noise, drowned out by the sounds of Narcissa’s mouth, the wet slap of her hand, and Harry’s ragged moans. She pulled off with a wet pop, standing to kiss Harry again, her tongue plunging into his mouth, her hands roaming his body, and her nails scraping down his back.

Harry’s hands slid between her legs, fingers finding her slick and ready, and she gasped into his mouth, her hips bucking against his hand as he slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Harry said, his voice low and filthy, his fingers moving faster, curling inside her. Narcissa moaned, loud and shameless, her head falling back as she rode his hand, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“All for you,” she gasped, her voice trembling, her eyes flicking to Lucius, whose scarred face was purple with rage, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “Not for that fucking asshole in there.”

Harry grinned, pulling his fingers free and licking them clean, his eyes locked on hers. “Let’s make him really suffer, then,” he said, grabbing her hips and lifting her. Narcissa wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms looping around his neck, and he pressed her against the cold stone wall beside the cell, the bars just inches away. Lucius’ screams grew louder, more frantic, as Harry positioned himself, the tip of his cock brushing against her entrance, teasing her.

“Do it,” Narcissa whispered, her voice trembling with need, her nails digging into his back. “I’ve waited long enough! Fuck me, Harry! Right in front of him!”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He thrust into her, hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt, and Narcissa cried out, her head slamming back against the wall, her body arching into him. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the dungeon, raw and unrestrained, and Harry set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against hers, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her. Narcissa’s moans were loud and fully exaggerated, each one a dagger aimed at Lucius’ heart. She clung to Harry, her legs tightening around him, her nails leaving red trails down his back.

“Oh, yes,” she gasped, her voice breaking as Harry fucked her harder, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her in place. “You’re so fucking good, Harry. So much better than him.”

Her hips rocked to meet every thrust, her body trembling as he fucked her senseless.

Harry growled, his lips crashing against hers, their kiss sloppy and desperate as he pounded into her. “You feel fucking incredible,” he said against her mouth, his voice rough, his hands sliding up to grip her ass, pulling her closer. “Let him see how much you fucking love this.”

Narcissa let out a wild and breathless laugh, her eyes flicking to Lucius, whose scarred hands were clawing at the bars, his mutilated face a mask of agony and rage. “Look at him,” she panted, her voice dripping with mockery. “He’s fucking dying in there, and I fucking love it.”

Lucius’ mind was a screaming void stuck in the same place—I’ll kill you! I’ll rip you apart! You’re nothing without me!—but his tongueless roars were pathetic, drowned out by the wet slap of Harry’s hips against Narcissa’s, her sharp cries, and his low groans.

Harry shifted, hooking one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her wider, and Narcissa screamed, her body shaking as he hit deeper, his cock dragging against her g-spot with every thrust.

“Fuck, right there,” she gasped, her voice raw, her hips rocking against him wildly, meeting every thrust. “Don’t stop, Harry, don’t fucking stop.”

“Not stopping,” Harry grunted, his pace relentless, his hands bruising her hips as he drove into her. The dungeon was an obscene symphony of their pleasure, the wet slap of skin, their ragged moans, Narcissa’s sharp cries as she climbed higher. Lucius’ muffled screams were background noise, a pathetic counterpoint to their ecstasy.

Narcissa’s hands slid down Harry’s chest, nails scraping over his nipples, and he hissed, his thrusts growing erratic, his control slipping as she clenched around him, her body tightening like a vice.

“You’re gonna make me come,” she panted, her voice trembling, her body tightening around him as she climbed higher, her clit grinding against his pelvis with every thrust. “Fuck, Harry, make me come in front of him.”

Harry’s hand slid between them, fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast and rough, and Narcissa’s moans turned to screams, her body shaking as she neared the edge. “Come for me, Cissa,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, his cock slamming into her, his fingers relentless. “Show him what he’ll never fucking have.”

That was all it took. Narcissa’s orgasm hit like a tidal wave, her body convulsing, her scream echoing off the stone walls as she came, hard and unrelenting, her walls pulsing around him, and her nails drawing blood from Harry’s shoulders. Harry groaned, his own release crashing through him, his thrusts stuttering as he spilled inside her, his cock twitching with every pulse, his hands gripping her tight, holding her through the aftershocks.

They stayed like that for a moment, panting, sweat-slick and trembling, their bodies pressed together, and the dungeon silent except for Lucius’ ragged, broken sobs. Narcissa’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked at the cell, where Lucius sat slumped, his scarred face wet with tears of rage, his hands limp against the bars and his eye full of defeat.

“Fucking pathetic,” she said, her voice soft but venomous, as she slid down from Harry’s arms, her legs shaky but her smile triumphant. Harry pulled her close, kissing her deeply, their tongues tangling, and their bodies still buzzing with the high of their release.

“Think he learned his lesson?” Harry asked, his voice rough, a smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced at the broken man in the cell.

Narcissa let out a cold and cruel laugh, her hand sliding down Harry’s chest, her fingers brushing his cock slick with their combined juices. “Not yet,” she said, her eyes glinting with malice. “But we’ve got all the time in the world to keep teaching him.”

They dressed slowly, their hands lingering on each other, their laughter echoing in the dungeon as Lucius’ tortured sobs faded into the dark. The torches flickered, casting long shadows, and the wards hummed, sealing the cell tight.

Lucius’ mind churned with impotent rage, but his body was spent, broken, a prisoner to his own helplessness. Harry and Narcissa left the dungeon hand in hand, their steps light, their voices low and intimate, leaving the wreck of a man behind to rot in his misery.

To be continued…