Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Harry Potter and the Dark Lady
Chapter 17
Sequel to Harry Potter and the Witches' Secret. Harry thought it was all over. His desire to settle in with his wives will not get fulfilled.
?Blocked
Harry Potter and the Dark Lady
Chapter 17
Royal Academy
Sports Ground
16 Oct 1996
17:00
The events were going great guns. Harry was walking around the Royal Academy grounds visiting the merchant stalls, which were doing a booming business. Narcissa had offered them all licenses to sell on the Royal Academy grounds and they had inundated her with owls. Now the stalls were in place, backed up to the top of the great bowl-shaped depression that was the sports complex. It was like Hogsmeade and Diagon, Knockturn, and Dragon alleys had been miniaturized and moved to the Royal Academy. Even Gringotts had a booth; why, Harry didn’t know, but there they were.
Narcissa was gleeful. The licenses were paid on a base-plus-share basis. The bigger stalls on either side of the twelve stair heads, one at each clock position, paid both more base and bigger shares. Surprisingly the Weasley twins had taken one of these on the right of the Ducal box and were doing a booming business, while Zonko’s stall on the other side of the stair head did a more modest trade. The smells, sights, and sounds coming from the Weasleys’ booth were, to her, bizarre and somewhat disgusting, but the children seemed to be overjoyed, including that yellow fifth year with all the feathers. Teenagers were crazy.
As Harry walked, his thoughts drifted. Monday morning at 3 a.m. Hong had appeared from Frieda’s nest. Her hair was a deep red, almost black like the base color of the Potter tartan, long and arrow-straight. Her intelligent eyes were shaped like almonds. She had high cheekbones, an elegant neck, and a very nice, well proportioned five-foot, four-inch frame. But her most attractive feature of all was a beautiful smile that was both serene and warm. Her skin was gorgeous and her face, while not classically pretty, was cute in a sweet way. She had walked straight to Nym’s feet and knelt; Nym had smiled, sat up, and pulled Hong in between her and Harry. Then she lay back and watched the very long, slow taking of Hong as a human. It was very exciting and the mates missed PT again in the ensuing melee. Harry’s smile broadened; melee was the only word, but oh my, what a melee it had been.
Irma the miniature cow, still not eaten by Frieda, had gotten away from Susan Monday night and the ensuing search had led to another melee. Just as Harry exploded in a nearly convulsing Susan, one of the mates had found Irma curled up in a drift of underthings, contentedly chewing her cud. Susan had been so pleased she went another round.
Tuesday morning at 05:00 Harry and Nym had been lying spooned, whispering together, when the twenty-year-old Alexandra Mason, one of the new slaves, had wriggled her derrière into Nym’s lap. Nym had smirked and partially changed to Harry and was softly stroking into Alexandra when Harry entered her. Harry, Nym, and Alexandra were exhausted by the resulting double coupling and spent the morning in bed. At noon as they awoke Nym had smirked and said that she would have to practice some more before she tried that again, and then waggled her eyebrows at Harry. Harry had groaned. Nym’s hormones were raging and she was nearly insatiable. Harry was afraid she might kill him, but he couldn’t think of a better way to go.
Something was going on in Frieda’s nest, but Harry couldn’t catch the mates doing anything, even faded. They always had a distraction planned for him in the maze. Of course Harry could have just gone and peeked in their heads, but they were being so careful about it all he didn’t want to run the risk of spoiling their surprise before they were ready to spring it on him.
Harry had finished going through his mother and father’s trunks and then spent some time with the Nightmares and Mermaids. Soon enough it was Wednesday and the Juniors were playing and competing.
Harry wandered back to the box and was dragged down by the Sisters Miller —Amber, thirteen; Jasmine, twelve; Danielle, nineteen; Haley, eighteen; Katherine, seventeen; Abigail, sixteen; Anna, fifteen; Olivia, fourteen; and Shelby, twelve—new slaves from the massacre at the start of term. They weren’t really sisters, more primary cousins, all of Clan Miller, but they had packed up and gone everywhere together. They were fully mated and integrated into Beatrice’s Company.
Harry sat smiling amongst them as he watched the Hufflepuff PeeWee Quidditch team battle the Ravenclaw PeeWees. They had made a new division in the Quidditch and other team sports when they discovered there was simply too much difference in the motor control skills of the fourth grade and first grade students.
Now there were the PeeWees, first through third grades; the Juniors, fourth and fifth grades; the Junior Varsity, sixth through eighth grades; the Varsity, ninth through twelfth grades; and then the Uni teams.
Quality of play stank, but the PeeWees were very exciting to watch on their training brooms with their lowered and enlarged goals, lightened Quaffles, cushioned Bludgers, and restricted Snitch. Watching the fourteen players racd along at no more than twenty miles per hour while their parent-volunteer coaches and referees attempted to herd them and coach them, at the same time stopping fights and drying tears, was always fun and the crowds were growing. The place to be in the Realm come Wednesday night was the weather-shielded stands of the Sports Complex of the Royal Academy. Whether you wanted to discuss business or just relax, this was the place to do it—a place to see and be seen.
Harry had devised a set of instructions on good sportsmanship, crafted as an oath for the crowd, after an ugly incident between a father coach and the father of a player. Also, nothing stronger than butterbeer was served. The oath was read to the crowd and athletes, who then repeated it. If they wouldn’t take the oath they were escorted off the grounds.
Quidditch was not the only sport. All the sports were running with more or fewer restrictions and all the venues were fully engaged. The Professors didn’t give homework for Wednesday, Saturday, or Sunday if they could avoid it.
Greg Goyle and Vincent Crabbe wandered by the bottom edge of the booth and waved to Harry. Those two, like Fric and Frac really; they had been sent down to the Royal Academy and placed in first form classes but housed with their age group. Harry’s marking them as permanent bound men had changed them radically. They would never be the sharpest knives in the drawer, but they were definitely not afraid of hard work and were loyal and protective as Australian shepherds and brave as lions. They were in their own ways crafty and capable of formulating very good if simple long term plans. In fact they had been re-sorted into the Ducal House—one of the reasons the Warg girls were so terrifying, really. Threaten a Warg Bitch, as they now liked to be called, and one or more, or likely both of these would show up. They were still utterly devoid of the concept of mercy, however; they followed orders from the Warg girls from first grade to third year Uni Masters Candidates. The mates were obeyed instantly. Harry wasn’t sure what he would do with them after school. They were talking about joining the Regiment and had already tried twice. The recruiting sergeants had given them a fitness plan after the second attempt and they were very diligently working on it.
Janet smiled. “Harry, they’ll be fine in the Regiment. Not every trooper is supposed to be a senior NCO or Officer. We need privates too.”
Harry grunted and his mind moved on. Anna, Hannah, and the Herbologically inclined mates had taken over the roof of the Royal Academy, converting all but the crystal roofs of the commons into a greenhouse—more a roof garden like Potter castle, really—and initiated a horticultural survey of all the properties Harry owned or had taken by conquest. The first crop of plants from the Hufflepuff vaults was being harvested and they were planning next year’s plantings with Pomona and the Herbology departments.
Rosmerta appeared in front of Harry. “Harry, we need a pub on the grounds.”
“Erm, okay, Rosmerta, but—uh—why?
“The bondsmen, Harry. They’ve got no local.”
“And that’s important, Rosmerta?” Harry was looking down her cleavage as she leaned into him. Rosmerta smirked and wiggled slightly, setting up a tiny little jiggle.
“Yes, Harry.”
“Okay, Rosmerta,” was heard as the two of them faded from view.
Nym giggled. “She really didn’t need that cleavage. He’d give her anything she asked for.”
“Obviously,” Daphne replied as she felt Rosmerta getting whatever she asked for in the bond. Harry had simply faded them out of sight and currently had Rosmerta ensconced in his lap; he was very thoroughly exploring that spectacular cleavage, among other things. “She just wants to practice her art.”
The mates giggled.
Nym was thinking now. The Royals had been otherwise engaged this evening so they and their mates and squads were off at another rubber chicken dinner. The press was going mad with speculation about Andrew, Donalda, and Heather. Harry and Andrew were very unamused. It was becoming hard to tell Harry and Andrew apart, really. They thought and acted very nearly exactly alike. It was so odd that neither she nor any of the mates were attracted to Andrew physically, only Sarah.
A thought occurred to her. “Narcissa, have we arranged vaults for the orphans?”
Narcissa blinked. She had been watching the archery and feeling Harry and Rosmerta. “No, Nym, we gave them money bags with a monthly limit. One hundred Galleons for the college students and fifty for the primary school students. After the little orgy of spending in the first week or so they all settled right down with their spending, although Margaret Miller seems to be making a lot of money somehow.”
Margaret Miller Potter, fourteen and not related to the Miller slaves, looked around at the eyes turned on her. “What? A girl can’t run a book?”
Narcissa frowned. “What book, Margaret?”
Margaret sighed and played the mommy-card early to head this off. “I run the sports book for the Royal Academy, Mum.”
“Oh. Oh! Let’s talk then, Margaret.” Narcissa waved Margaret over and they were soon deep in conversation, looking at events with their heads almost together.
Bella smiled. “Well played, Margaret.”
The mates chuckled as Margaret waved a desperate little hand behind her back, trying to shush them.
Narcissa laughed. “Margaret, you do remember they’re all running around in my head, don’t you?”
Margaret blushed just a little and she and Narcissa turned back to the events.
Question Time had turned to Suggestion/Question Time and the suggestions were flowing in. The first student to make a suggestion after Mr. Colder set the standard by appearing in the fifth grade common, standing and presenting her idea for a memorial to all those killed by Riddle in the first and second wars to be placed in Diagon Alley. Then she had passed over a written presentation and some designs.
Lady Longbottom had taken the presentation and now there was a public design contest and subscription running. Harry had contributed heavily, so heavily that the public subscription was probably not needed. but Augusta felt the people would feel better about it if they could contribute. Gryffindor got their fifty points for service to the Realm.
Elizabeth had awarded Slytherin their points after a third year Slytherin Runes Masters candidate found a way to make a rune set of Hestia’s convert radiation absorbed by a sheet of material to heat, any type radiation. The Mundane physicists were overjoyed at this and experiments were just beginning on the applications of this. Suddenly steam turbines were looking more and more efficient. Narcissa invested heavily and sent letters to the physicists reminding them that the absorption device was protected under copyright laws. The deluge of letters that came in response was forwarded to the technomancer department to see if the ideas were practical, and if so, licensing talks would begin. Hestia very generously gave a percentage of any profits to Giles Montrose, the Slytherin who thought of putting the rune set onto sheets of material.
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Kunming, China
Xi Shi’s Hold
17 Oct 1996
01:00
Xi Shi’s eyes snapped open as she groaned out, “Haaarrrryyy!” This was intolerable. Since she had healed after the Dragon attack, every time her mate fucked one of the sluts she came, screaming. Every agent she sent failed to return and the government was being completely Chinese and taking the long view. She needed relief now! Not in a thousand years, which was apparently how long the Government was prepared to wait the Duke out.
“He poses no threat to either the nation or the party.” Stupid politicians. The first time they crossed him would be their last. She would make sure of that.
Hmm...what if she killed another thousand or so of them? Bah! It wouldn’t matter; there were millions of them and somewhere there was always some little party Apparatchik willing to step in to the position above them. Imperius would work but only for a while, and you couldn’t put a billion people at a time under the curse. The government was laid out so that everything took at least two levels of approval and Deng was no slouch at protecting himself. Neither were the other senior party members. Fucking Mao and his cultural revolution had caused this; driving Mao’s self-declared dog Lǐ Shūméng into suicide for it had been small recompense. Slipping that long-acting poison to Mao had been a great achievement, and its mimicking the symptoms of a Mundane disease had been interesting but still small recompense. By then he had been out-maneuvered by Deng and was on his way out. The damage had also been done; Deng was so paranoid he was impossible to get to. She couldn’t even get to his five children or any of the grandchildren.
Wait a minute—a threat to the nation or party...hmmm. He had apparently taken over that Chita hovel. Why she didn’t know, but his bitches were there often, according to the few remaining werewolves. So if she attacked there—took one of them and withdrew back to China—he would be enraged and follow her. After what he’d done to the Dragons there was no way he could not revert to that magnificent Emperor Dragon if she was having a mate tortured. Now, what forces could she send? And when? She needed him in England. That Emperor would eliminate anything she could send. A demand from the ICW for him to appear—yes, he liked to act like he was a Light wizard. He would answer their call; this could work.
Where was the slave? “You, wench—wake up and come here. Massage your Mistress.”
Na Wen had been awake since hearing the groan from her mistress. She had been suppressing her own. Gods, why did Mistress have to call her now? Though she was soaked, plus Mistress was fully awake now and bound to see her stone that the little greenish Huli jing (fox spirit) had put on her. Wait—if he was really a Huli jing then the stone should be invisible to Mistress.
“WENCH!”
“Mistress?”
“Massage, wench.”
“Yes, Mistress.” It had been a Huli jing. The Mistress had looked right her and apparently not seen the stone. Na Wen smiled a little secret smile after Xi Shi rolled over onto her stomach and began her massage.
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Vilnius, Lithuania
Aušros Vartai Street
16 Oct 1996
19:40
August IV gave an exasperated sigh. “Tamara Laura Czartoryska-Borbón, Princess and my probable successor, is mucking out stalls while I deal with this? You are a severe disapointment to me, Adam Karol Czartoryski. First you run off whoring over the planet and then you can’t raise the Princess.”
Adam winced. “Majesty, she is actually going to Emerson College in Boston now.”
“Must I pick another successor, Prince? Lady Anna Radziwiłł, the Baroness Staszów, has remained in Poland working for her people. If I die before your daughter shapes into something resembling Her Serene Majesty the Queen of Poland, Lady Anna will be named my heir, or the Countess Elonka Dunin. Prince Tõnu Trubetsky is completely unsuitable and will be sworn or eliminated by this new Tsarina since he has remained in Russia. This young Duke of Magic is upon us, Adam. He has a reputation for lighting people who displease him on fire. I assume Tamara’s magic never presented?”
Adam swallowed, fuming that he was not even in consideration. “Squib like me. I can’t believe you’d hold that against her!”
August replied hotly, “Neither I nor this young Duke who is swearing and educating every Squib he can get hold of, Adam. What I hold against you is her dropping out of school and thrashing about making a spectacle of herself.”
Just as hotly Adam replied, “She is very dyslexic....”
“So? So are many many nobles, Adam. On top of that is the magic cropping up. This is your fault, Adam, not the girl’s. You held yourself away from us and used your title to fuck whichever model or actress took your fancy. You should have been raising or seeing to the raising of the Princess. And now you’re barely not a pauper and she’s living on her wits and body. How long can that last? Squibs live very long lives, but her looks and eighteen-year-old body will not hold forever.”
“Majesty, I will watch over the girl.”
“You had better, Adam.”
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Chita, Russia
Siberian Military District HQ
(Construction site)
17 Oct 1996
03:10
Marshal Sergei Plotempkin stepped off the Mi 8MT that had picked him up in Irkutsk and looked around with tears streaming down his face as the helicopter whined to silence. The town was gone—350,000 people at least, wiped out.
They had had contact with the 4th Guards Tank Army, though, and that was why he was here. The Tank Army had suddenly started calling itself the Tsarina Anastasia’s Guards Tank Army and refusing orders. He was here to find out why.
Ah, here came an escort. “Senior Praporshchik, what has happened here?” And why was this Senior Praporshchik not saluting? Ah, combat service stripes—Holy Mary, ten of them. This Senior Praporshchik had been there for the whole thing. Well, probably having a flashback to Afghanistan because of the destruction here. Doesn’t want to salute in case of snipers.
Pitior smiled. He had seen the Marshal look at him when he did not salute and then watched as he looked at the combat service stripes and came to his conclusion. “Marshal Plotempkin, welcome to Her Majesty the Empress of all the Russias, the Tsarina Anastasia Romanov’s Capitol, Chita. I am Duke Romanovskya; I will be briefing you and then we will decide what to do with you.”
Pitior laughed as the Marshal’s eyes glazed over and his jaw dropped. He took the Marshal’s elbow and steered him to the entrance to the bunker.
It would turn out to be a long night as the Marshal first heard the story. The attack by unknown forces, then by Dragons. The enormous black Dragon showing up and killing the red ones and then rampaging around destroying the town. The meeting with the Tsarina Anastasia and her pet, the same giant black Dragon, the next day. The swearing of the officers and men of the Tsarina’s new Tank Army and the townspeople, and then the clearing and reconstruction by the witches, wizards, Goblins, and elves.
Pitior had paused at that point and let the Marshal have a shot or two of some very, very good vodka, almost completely tasteless, that the elves were making. Then he told the Marshal about the Grand Duke and the—errh—lady red Dragon.
A couple of shots later he finished with a briefing of what they had been doing and offered a tour while they were waiting on the Tsarina to come decide what to do with the Marshal.
The Marshal went all the way back to the beginning and began asking questions. Pitior had a feeling about the Marshal, so he sat patiently answering. It was a good thing the vodka was so good, as the hangover from the two bottles they drank before dawn would have killed them otherwise.
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Cathedral Church of St George
Phanar, Constantinople (Istanbul)
16 Oct 1996
20:10
Bartholomew put the letter down and thought a moment. The Roman Catholic Patriarch had sent him a long letter, but the gist of it could be distilled to the first paragraphs.
Bartholomew I, His All Holiness, Bartholomew, Archbishop of Constantinople, New Rome and Ecumenical Patriarch, Cathedral Church of St George, Phanar, Constantinople.
We have found the Realm of Magic’s chosen. The Duke of Magic and Champion of the Magical Realm is the Scottish Duke Harry Potter.
The Duke is currently sixteen years old and has already overcome a Dark Lord. He has through circumstance formed a harem that numbers in the hundreds and has executed at least a thousand of his enemies. He has also begun forming military units and has bound at least 1100 men to his service in punishment for their crimes.
I have had two conversations with the Duke and while he is not a believer, he holds no ill will toward the Church. I believe him to be a good man.
No matter what I believe or you may come to believe, he is the Realm’s chosen and enjoys its active support and favor.
This was followed by a chronology of the young Duke’s life and actions to this point and then a very pointed suggestion.
“I would not presume to advise you, but I would suggest that you make arrangements to meet the Duke.”
And signed with the full title:
His Holiness Pope John Paul II, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God.
Bartholomew heaved a sigh. First he had had to bless the multiple unions of this young Duke, at least temporarily. Had God allowed the Realm to raise a Chosen—the first in thousands of years? If so, what was he to do about it? The Mullahs were starting to sniff around. A turn back to the Middle Ages could go horribly wrong. Well, for everyone except the Duke and his vassals.
Bartholomew smiled to think six months ago he had been very worried about the return of the miniskirt.
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Royal Academy
Sports Ground
16 Oct 1996
20:26
Harry sat amongst the sisters Miller with a goofy grin after Rosmerta finished with him and they faded back to visibility, watching Hermione talk to her mother. He was remembering the birthday party on Thursday the nineteenth of September and Hermione hitting her first maturity.
The Clan had decided to have a birthday party every Thursday evening for those born in the preceding week. With 652 mates, 103 orphan wards, and over a hundred pairs of twins, not to mention the mate-bound children and bondsmen, separate parties just wouldn’t work. Harry could only be in two or three places at once, after all.
The party, as always, had been very fun; and then as Harry lay in bed, Hermione had given him a present. Where had she learned to strip like that? And then with Harry buried in her and attempting to make her lose her mind from the orgasm, her maturity had hit and taken them all. Harry had frozen fully sheathed in her with his mouth locked on her left nipple and come until he thought he would turn inside out. It was glorious, and Harry and Hermione were exhausted and now somehow even more tightly tied together.
One result had been apparent the next morning when Hermione woke up with pink hair. She still had very little control, but there was no question she had gained some Metamorphmagus abilities.
Rosmerta looked at Harry and smiled as she pushed up her Occlumency barriers. Morgana, it was good being with him. Especially since he seemed completely unable to come until the female he was with had gotten hers. And yes, he would have given her a pub or ten thousand pubs without any wiles being applied, but it was so much fun being able to apply them and get satisfaction. She blushed slightly; she had never been averse to giving someone a view of her cleavage before she bonded, but now she got offended by men looking at her too hard.
The games and events were winding up; time to get to the Dragon’s Den. Hmm, who were the distracters tonight? Oh—Sarah, Samantha, and Ashley Crawfield. Rosmerta smiled to herself; Pansy was practicing tonight, and that girl was unbelievably hot. Of course Hong wanted in; hmmm, an all-redhead show? Ginny, Susan, Hong—now who else?
Chapter 17
Royal Academy
Sports Ground
16 Oct 1996
17:00
The events were going great guns. Harry was walking around the Royal Academy grounds visiting the merchant stalls, which were doing a booming business. Narcissa had offered them all licenses to sell on the Royal Academy grounds and they had inundated her with owls. Now the stalls were in place, backed up to the top of the great bowl-shaped depression that was the sports complex. It was like Hogsmeade and Diagon, Knockturn, and Dragon alleys had been miniaturized and moved to the Royal Academy. Even Gringotts had a booth; why, Harry didn’t know, but there they were.
Narcissa was gleeful. The licenses were paid on a base-plus-share basis. The bigger stalls on either side of the twelve stair heads, one at each clock position, paid both more base and bigger shares. Surprisingly the Weasley twins had taken one of these on the right of the Ducal box and were doing a booming business, while Zonko’s stall on the other side of the stair head did a more modest trade. The smells, sights, and sounds coming from the Weasleys’ booth were, to her, bizarre and somewhat disgusting, but the children seemed to be overjoyed, including that yellow fifth year with all the feathers. Teenagers were crazy.
As Harry walked, his thoughts drifted. Monday morning at 3 a.m. Hong had appeared from Frieda’s nest. Her hair was a deep red, almost black like the base color of the Potter tartan, long and arrow-straight. Her intelligent eyes were shaped like almonds. She had high cheekbones, an elegant neck, and a very nice, well proportioned five-foot, four-inch frame. But her most attractive feature of all was a beautiful smile that was both serene and warm. Her skin was gorgeous and her face, while not classically pretty, was cute in a sweet way. She had walked straight to Nym’s feet and knelt; Nym had smiled, sat up, and pulled Hong in between her and Harry. Then she lay back and watched the very long, slow taking of Hong as a human. It was very exciting and the mates missed PT again in the ensuing melee. Harry’s smile broadened; melee was the only word, but oh my, what a melee it had been.
Irma the miniature cow, still not eaten by Frieda, had gotten away from Susan Monday night and the ensuing search had led to another melee. Just as Harry exploded in a nearly convulsing Susan, one of the mates had found Irma curled up in a drift of underthings, contentedly chewing her cud. Susan had been so pleased she went another round.
Tuesday morning at 05:00 Harry and Nym had been lying spooned, whispering together, when the twenty-year-old Alexandra Mason, one of the new slaves, had wriggled her derrière into Nym’s lap. Nym had smirked and partially changed to Harry and was softly stroking into Alexandra when Harry entered her. Harry, Nym, and Alexandra were exhausted by the resulting double coupling and spent the morning in bed. At noon as they awoke Nym had smirked and said that she would have to practice some more before she tried that again, and then waggled her eyebrows at Harry. Harry had groaned. Nym’s hormones were raging and she was nearly insatiable. Harry was afraid she might kill him, but he couldn’t think of a better way to go.
Something was going on in Frieda’s nest, but Harry couldn’t catch the mates doing anything, even faded. They always had a distraction planned for him in the maze. Of course Harry could have just gone and peeked in their heads, but they were being so careful about it all he didn’t want to run the risk of spoiling their surprise before they were ready to spring it on him.
Harry had finished going through his mother and father’s trunks and then spent some time with the Nightmares and Mermaids. Soon enough it was Wednesday and the Juniors were playing and competing.
Harry wandered back to the box and was dragged down by the Sisters Miller —Amber, thirteen; Jasmine, twelve; Danielle, nineteen; Haley, eighteen; Katherine, seventeen; Abigail, sixteen; Anna, fifteen; Olivia, fourteen; and Shelby, twelve—new slaves from the massacre at the start of term. They weren’t really sisters, more primary cousins, all of Clan Miller, but they had packed up and gone everywhere together. They were fully mated and integrated into Beatrice’s Company.
Harry sat smiling amongst them as he watched the Hufflepuff PeeWee Quidditch team battle the Ravenclaw PeeWees. They had made a new division in the Quidditch and other team sports when they discovered there was simply too much difference in the motor control skills of the fourth grade and first grade students.
Now there were the PeeWees, first through third grades; the Juniors, fourth and fifth grades; the Junior Varsity, sixth through eighth grades; the Varsity, ninth through twelfth grades; and then the Uni teams.
Quality of play stank, but the PeeWees were very exciting to watch on their training brooms with their lowered and enlarged goals, lightened Quaffles, cushioned Bludgers, and restricted Snitch. Watching the fourteen players racd along at no more than twenty miles per hour while their parent-volunteer coaches and referees attempted to herd them and coach them, at the same time stopping fights and drying tears, was always fun and the crowds were growing. The place to be in the Realm come Wednesday night was the weather-shielded stands of the Sports Complex of the Royal Academy. Whether you wanted to discuss business or just relax, this was the place to do it—a place to see and be seen.
Harry had devised a set of instructions on good sportsmanship, crafted as an oath for the crowd, after an ugly incident between a father coach and the father of a player. Also, nothing stronger than butterbeer was served. The oath was read to the crowd and athletes, who then repeated it. If they wouldn’t take the oath they were escorted off the grounds.
Quidditch was not the only sport. All the sports were running with more or fewer restrictions and all the venues were fully engaged. The Professors didn’t give homework for Wednesday, Saturday, or Sunday if they could avoid it.
Greg Goyle and Vincent Crabbe wandered by the bottom edge of the booth and waved to Harry. Those two, like Fric and Frac really; they had been sent down to the Royal Academy and placed in first form classes but housed with their age group. Harry’s marking them as permanent bound men had changed them radically. They would never be the sharpest knives in the drawer, but they were definitely not afraid of hard work and were loyal and protective as Australian shepherds and brave as lions. They were in their own ways crafty and capable of formulating very good if simple long term plans. In fact they had been re-sorted into the Ducal House—one of the reasons the Warg girls were so terrifying, really. Threaten a Warg Bitch, as they now liked to be called, and one or more, or likely both of these would show up. They were still utterly devoid of the concept of mercy, however; they followed orders from the Warg girls from first grade to third year Uni Masters Candidates. The mates were obeyed instantly. Harry wasn’t sure what he would do with them after school. They were talking about joining the Regiment and had already tried twice. The recruiting sergeants had given them a fitness plan after the second attempt and they were very diligently working on it.
Janet smiled. “Harry, they’ll be fine in the Regiment. Not every trooper is supposed to be a senior NCO or Officer. We need privates too.”
Harry grunted and his mind moved on. Anna, Hannah, and the Herbologically inclined mates had taken over the roof of the Royal Academy, converting all but the crystal roofs of the commons into a greenhouse—more a roof garden like Potter castle, really—and initiated a horticultural survey of all the properties Harry owned or had taken by conquest. The first crop of plants from the Hufflepuff vaults was being harvested and they were planning next year’s plantings with Pomona and the Herbology departments.
Rosmerta appeared in front of Harry. “Harry, we need a pub on the grounds.”
“Erm, okay, Rosmerta, but—uh—why?
“The bondsmen, Harry. They’ve got no local.”
“And that’s important, Rosmerta?” Harry was looking down her cleavage as she leaned into him. Rosmerta smirked and wiggled slightly, setting up a tiny little jiggle.
“Yes, Harry.”
“Okay, Rosmerta,” was heard as the two of them faded from view.
Nym giggled. “She really didn’t need that cleavage. He’d give her anything she asked for.”
“Obviously,” Daphne replied as she felt Rosmerta getting whatever she asked for in the bond. Harry had simply faded them out of sight and currently had Rosmerta ensconced in his lap; he was very thoroughly exploring that spectacular cleavage, among other things. “She just wants to practice her art.”
The mates giggled.
Nym was thinking now. The Royals had been otherwise engaged this evening so they and their mates and squads were off at another rubber chicken dinner. The press was going mad with speculation about Andrew, Donalda, and Heather. Harry and Andrew were very unamused. It was becoming hard to tell Harry and Andrew apart, really. They thought and acted very nearly exactly alike. It was so odd that neither she nor any of the mates were attracted to Andrew physically, only Sarah.
A thought occurred to her. “Narcissa, have we arranged vaults for the orphans?”
Narcissa blinked. She had been watching the archery and feeling Harry and Rosmerta. “No, Nym, we gave them money bags with a monthly limit. One hundred Galleons for the college students and fifty for the primary school students. After the little orgy of spending in the first week or so they all settled right down with their spending, although Margaret Miller seems to be making a lot of money somehow.”
Margaret Miller Potter, fourteen and not related to the Miller slaves, looked around at the eyes turned on her. “What? A girl can’t run a book?”
Narcissa frowned. “What book, Margaret?”
Margaret sighed and played the mommy-card early to head this off. “I run the sports book for the Royal Academy, Mum.”
“Oh. Oh! Let’s talk then, Margaret.” Narcissa waved Margaret over and they were soon deep in conversation, looking at events with their heads almost together.
Bella smiled. “Well played, Margaret.”
The mates chuckled as Margaret waved a desperate little hand behind her back, trying to shush them.
Narcissa laughed. “Margaret, you do remember they’re all running around in my head, don’t you?”
Margaret blushed just a little and she and Narcissa turned back to the events.
Question Time had turned to Suggestion/Question Time and the suggestions were flowing in. The first student to make a suggestion after Mr. Colder set the standard by appearing in the fifth grade common, standing and presenting her idea for a memorial to all those killed by Riddle in the first and second wars to be placed in Diagon Alley. Then she had passed over a written presentation and some designs.
Lady Longbottom had taken the presentation and now there was a public design contest and subscription running. Harry had contributed heavily, so heavily that the public subscription was probably not needed. but Augusta felt the people would feel better about it if they could contribute. Gryffindor got their fifty points for service to the Realm.
Elizabeth had awarded Slytherin their points after a third year Slytherin Runes Masters candidate found a way to make a rune set of Hestia’s convert radiation absorbed by a sheet of material to heat, any type radiation. The Mundane physicists were overjoyed at this and experiments were just beginning on the applications of this. Suddenly steam turbines were looking more and more efficient. Narcissa invested heavily and sent letters to the physicists reminding them that the absorption device was protected under copyright laws. The deluge of letters that came in response was forwarded to the technomancer department to see if the ideas were practical, and if so, licensing talks would begin. Hestia very generously gave a percentage of any profits to Giles Montrose, the Slytherin who thought of putting the rune set onto sheets of material.
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Kunming, China
Xi Shi’s Hold
17 Oct 1996
01:00
Xi Shi’s eyes snapped open as she groaned out, “Haaarrrryyy!” This was intolerable. Since she had healed after the Dragon attack, every time her mate fucked one of the sluts she came, screaming. Every agent she sent failed to return and the government was being completely Chinese and taking the long view. She needed relief now! Not in a thousand years, which was apparently how long the Government was prepared to wait the Duke out.
“He poses no threat to either the nation or the party.” Stupid politicians. The first time they crossed him would be their last. She would make sure of that.
Hmm...what if she killed another thousand or so of them? Bah! It wouldn’t matter; there were millions of them and somewhere there was always some little party Apparatchik willing to step in to the position above them. Imperius would work but only for a while, and you couldn’t put a billion people at a time under the curse. The government was laid out so that everything took at least two levels of approval and Deng was no slouch at protecting himself. Neither were the other senior party members. Fucking Mao and his cultural revolution had caused this; driving Mao’s self-declared dog Lǐ Shūméng into suicide for it had been small recompense. Slipping that long-acting poison to Mao had been a great achievement, and its mimicking the symptoms of a Mundane disease had been interesting but still small recompense. By then he had been out-maneuvered by Deng and was on his way out. The damage had also been done; Deng was so paranoid he was impossible to get to. She couldn’t even get to his five children or any of the grandchildren.
Wait a minute—a threat to the nation or party...hmmm. He had apparently taken over that Chita hovel. Why she didn’t know, but his bitches were there often, according to the few remaining werewolves. So if she attacked there—took one of them and withdrew back to China—he would be enraged and follow her. After what he’d done to the Dragons there was no way he could not revert to that magnificent Emperor Dragon if she was having a mate tortured. Now, what forces could she send? And when? She needed him in England. That Emperor would eliminate anything she could send. A demand from the ICW for him to appear—yes, he liked to act like he was a Light wizard. He would answer their call; this could work.
Where was the slave? “You, wench—wake up and come here. Massage your Mistress.”
Na Wen had been awake since hearing the groan from her mistress. She had been suppressing her own. Gods, why did Mistress have to call her now? Though she was soaked, plus Mistress was fully awake now and bound to see her stone that the little greenish Huli jing (fox spirit) had put on her. Wait—if he was really a Huli jing then the stone should be invisible to Mistress.
“WENCH!”
“Mistress?”
“Massage, wench.”
“Yes, Mistress.” It had been a Huli jing. The Mistress had looked right her and apparently not seen the stone. Na Wen smiled a little secret smile after Xi Shi rolled over onto her stomach and began her massage.
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Vilnius, Lithuania
Aušros Vartai Street
16 Oct 1996
19:40
August IV gave an exasperated sigh. “Tamara Laura Czartoryska-Borbón, Princess and my probable successor, is mucking out stalls while I deal with this? You are a severe disapointment to me, Adam Karol Czartoryski. First you run off whoring over the planet and then you can’t raise the Princess.”
Adam winced. “Majesty, she is actually going to Emerson College in Boston now.”
“Must I pick another successor, Prince? Lady Anna Radziwiłł, the Baroness Staszów, has remained in Poland working for her people. If I die before your daughter shapes into something resembling Her Serene Majesty the Queen of Poland, Lady Anna will be named my heir, or the Countess Elonka Dunin. Prince Tõnu Trubetsky is completely unsuitable and will be sworn or eliminated by this new Tsarina since he has remained in Russia. This young Duke of Magic is upon us, Adam. He has a reputation for lighting people who displease him on fire. I assume Tamara’s magic never presented?”
Adam swallowed, fuming that he was not even in consideration. “Squib like me. I can’t believe you’d hold that against her!”
August replied hotly, “Neither I nor this young Duke who is swearing and educating every Squib he can get hold of, Adam. What I hold against you is her dropping out of school and thrashing about making a spectacle of herself.”
Just as hotly Adam replied, “She is very dyslexic....”
“So? So are many many nobles, Adam. On top of that is the magic cropping up. This is your fault, Adam, not the girl’s. You held yourself away from us and used your title to fuck whichever model or actress took your fancy. You should have been raising or seeing to the raising of the Princess. And now you’re barely not a pauper and she’s living on her wits and body. How long can that last? Squibs live very long lives, but her looks and eighteen-year-old body will not hold forever.”
“Majesty, I will watch over the girl.”
“You had better, Adam.”
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Chita, Russia
Siberian Military District HQ
(Construction site)
17 Oct 1996
03:10
Marshal Sergei Plotempkin stepped off the Mi 8MT that had picked him up in Irkutsk and looked around with tears streaming down his face as the helicopter whined to silence. The town was gone—350,000 people at least, wiped out.
They had had contact with the 4th Guards Tank Army, though, and that was why he was here. The Tank Army had suddenly started calling itself the Tsarina Anastasia’s Guards Tank Army and refusing orders. He was here to find out why.
Ah, here came an escort. “Senior Praporshchik, what has happened here?” And why was this Senior Praporshchik not saluting? Ah, combat service stripes—Holy Mary, ten of them. This Senior Praporshchik had been there for the whole thing. Well, probably having a flashback to Afghanistan because of the destruction here. Doesn’t want to salute in case of snipers.
Pitior smiled. He had seen the Marshal look at him when he did not salute and then watched as he looked at the combat service stripes and came to his conclusion. “Marshal Plotempkin, welcome to Her Majesty the Empress of all the Russias, the Tsarina Anastasia Romanov’s Capitol, Chita. I am Duke Romanovskya; I will be briefing you and then we will decide what to do with you.”
Pitior laughed as the Marshal’s eyes glazed over and his jaw dropped. He took the Marshal’s elbow and steered him to the entrance to the bunker.
It would turn out to be a long night as the Marshal first heard the story. The attack by unknown forces, then by Dragons. The enormous black Dragon showing up and killing the red ones and then rampaging around destroying the town. The meeting with the Tsarina Anastasia and her pet, the same giant black Dragon, the next day. The swearing of the officers and men of the Tsarina’s new Tank Army and the townspeople, and then the clearing and reconstruction by the witches, wizards, Goblins, and elves.
Pitior had paused at that point and let the Marshal have a shot or two of some very, very good vodka, almost completely tasteless, that the elves were making. Then he told the Marshal about the Grand Duke and the—errh—lady red Dragon.
A couple of shots later he finished with a briefing of what they had been doing and offered a tour while they were waiting on the Tsarina to come decide what to do with the Marshal.
The Marshal went all the way back to the beginning and began asking questions. Pitior had a feeling about the Marshal, so he sat patiently answering. It was a good thing the vodka was so good, as the hangover from the two bottles they drank before dawn would have killed them otherwise.
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Cathedral Church of St George
Phanar, Constantinople (Istanbul)
16 Oct 1996
20:10
Bartholomew put the letter down and thought a moment. The Roman Catholic Patriarch had sent him a long letter, but the gist of it could be distilled to the first paragraphs.
Bartholomew I, His All Holiness, Bartholomew, Archbishop of Constantinople, New Rome and Ecumenical Patriarch, Cathedral Church of St George, Phanar, Constantinople.
We have found the Realm of Magic’s chosen. The Duke of Magic and Champion of the Magical Realm is the Scottish Duke Harry Potter.
The Duke is currently sixteen years old and has already overcome a Dark Lord. He has through circumstance formed a harem that numbers in the hundreds and has executed at least a thousand of his enemies. He has also begun forming military units and has bound at least 1100 men to his service in punishment for their crimes.
I have had two conversations with the Duke and while he is not a believer, he holds no ill will toward the Church. I believe him to be a good man.
No matter what I believe or you may come to believe, he is the Realm’s chosen and enjoys its active support and favor.
This was followed by a chronology of the young Duke’s life and actions to this point and then a very pointed suggestion.
“I would not presume to advise you, but I would suggest that you make arrangements to meet the Duke.”
And signed with the full title:
His Holiness Pope John Paul II, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God.
Bartholomew heaved a sigh. First he had had to bless the multiple unions of this young Duke, at least temporarily. Had God allowed the Realm to raise a Chosen—the first in thousands of years? If so, what was he to do about it? The Mullahs were starting to sniff around. A turn back to the Middle Ages could go horribly wrong. Well, for everyone except the Duke and his vassals.
Bartholomew smiled to think six months ago he had been very worried about the return of the miniskirt.
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Royal Academy
Sports Ground
16 Oct 1996
20:26
Harry sat amongst the sisters Miller with a goofy grin after Rosmerta finished with him and they faded back to visibility, watching Hermione talk to her mother. He was remembering the birthday party on Thursday the nineteenth of September and Hermione hitting her first maturity.
The Clan had decided to have a birthday party every Thursday evening for those born in the preceding week. With 652 mates, 103 orphan wards, and over a hundred pairs of twins, not to mention the mate-bound children and bondsmen, separate parties just wouldn’t work. Harry could only be in two or three places at once, after all.
The party, as always, had been very fun; and then as Harry lay in bed, Hermione had given him a present. Where had she learned to strip like that? And then with Harry buried in her and attempting to make her lose her mind from the orgasm, her maturity had hit and taken them all. Harry had frozen fully sheathed in her with his mouth locked on her left nipple and come until he thought he would turn inside out. It was glorious, and Harry and Hermione were exhausted and now somehow even more tightly tied together.
One result had been apparent the next morning when Hermione woke up with pink hair. She still had very little control, but there was no question she had gained some Metamorphmagus abilities.
Rosmerta looked at Harry and smiled as she pushed up her Occlumency barriers. Morgana, it was good being with him. Especially since he seemed completely unable to come until the female he was with had gotten hers. And yes, he would have given her a pub or ten thousand pubs without any wiles being applied, but it was so much fun being able to apply them and get satisfaction. She blushed slightly; she had never been averse to giving someone a view of her cleavage before she bonded, but now she got offended by men looking at her too hard.
The games and events were winding up; time to get to the Dragon’s Den. Hmm, who were the distracters tonight? Oh—Sarah, Samantha, and Ashley Crawfield. Rosmerta smiled to herself; Pansy was practicing tonight, and that girl was unbelievably hot. Of course Hong wanted in; hmmm, an all-redhead show? Ginny, Susan, Hong—now who else?
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