The Dursleys would've keeled over from heart attacks a dozen times if they could've seen the absolute chaos unfolding in their pristine, suffocatingly normal living room right now.
The décor, the furniture, the faint hum of the telly in the background— it was all a backdrop to something so wildly out of place it might as well have been a fever dream.
Tonks was still on her knees, right there in front of Harry, her head tilted back slightly as she caught her breath. Harry, meanwhile, sat frozen, chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon, staring down at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. She was a mess—an absolute, glorious mess. His cum streaked across her face, thick and white, glistening in the dim light as it trickled lazily down her cheek, over the bridge of her nose, and dripped in slow, teasing drops onto her chest. It slid down further, disappearing into the shadowy line of her cleavage like it had a mind of its own.
Her top—some flimsy thing that probably hadn't been designed for this level of chaos—was soaked, clinging to her skin like a second layer. Her breasts, full and straining against the fabric, looked like they were one deep breath away from busting out entirely. They heaved with every inhale, the damp material outlining every curve, every detail, leaving nothing to the imagination. Harry's brain short-circuited trying to process it all. This couldn't be real. No way.
"You made a right mess of me," Tonks said, her voice low and playful, not a hint of real complaint in it. She dragged a finger through the sticky mess on her cheek, scooping up a generous dollop of his cum, and brought it to her lips. Her tongue darted out, licking it clean with a slow, deliberate swipe, all while keeping her eyes locked on his. A wicked, lecherous smirk curled her utterly fuckable lips as she watched his mouth open just a little bit more. She was enjoying this way too much—his reaction was like a drug to her, and she was hooked.
"Merlin's bloody beard, Nym…" Harry managed to choke out, his voice rough and barely above a whisper. His legs felt like jelly, and his head was spinning. He'd never felt anything like this—never even dreamed of it. It was like every nerve in his body had lit up at once and then fried out, leaving him dazed and buzzing. "I think I've died. This is heaven, right? Or hell. I don't even care."
Tonks let out a throaty giggle, the sound echoing around the room as she reached out again, this time brushing her fingers lightly against his now-softening dick. She scooped up the last traces of his cum clinging there, her touch feather-light and teasing, and popped her fingers back into her mouth. She sucked them clean with an exaggerated little hum, like she was savoring the taste of some rare delicacy.
"Mmm. I take it you liked that, then?" she asked, her tone dripping with mock innocence as she sat back on her heels. Her arse hit the floor with a soft thud, and she stretched her legs out in front of her, gazing up at him with that same devilish smirk.
Harry couldn't tear his eyes away. They were glued to her chest—those massive, perfect tits practically begging to break free from her ruined top and her flimsy little bra. The damp fabric clung to her like it was painted on, the faint outline of her bra and her nipples just barely visible through the mess.
Slowly, reluctantly, he dragged his gaze up to her face. She was still scooping bits of his cum off her skin, licking her fingers clean with little flicks of her tongue, and Merlin help him, it was the hottest, dirtiest thing he'd ever seen. How could something so filthy be so bloody beautiful? He had no idea, and his brain wasn't exactly in a state to figure it out.
"Liked it?" he finally croaked, running a shaky hand through his already-messy hair. "Nym, I think you just rewired my entire bloody existence. I'm not even sure I'm still alive."
Her smirk widened, and she let out another laugh, this one softer but no less mischievous. "Oh, you're alive, alright. I can still hear that heart of yours pounding from here." She leaned forward just a bit, giving him an even better view of her chest as she propped herself up on her hands. "Your silence earlier was answer enough, though. You didn't need to say a word—I could see it all over your face. And… other places."
Harry groaned, half out of embarrassment, half out of lingering arousal. "You're evil, you know that? Pure evil."
"Evil?" she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense, which only drew his eyes right back to her breasts. "Me? I'm an angel, Harry. A very generous, very talented angel who just gave you the time of your life. You should be thanking me."
"Thanking you?" He snorted, finally regaining a bit of his usual sass as the shock started to wear off. "I'm pretty sure I should be sending you a bloody fruit basket or something. Maybe a medal. 'Nym: Destroyer of Minds and Tops Everywhere.'"
She threw her head back and laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. "Oh, I like that. 'Destroyer of Tops.' Might get it tattooed somewhere." She winked at him, then ran her hands down her front, smoothing the damp fabric over her curves with an exaggerated slowness that made his mouth go dry all over again. "Though I think this one's not gonna qualify, thanks to you."
"Me?" Harry shot back, crossing his arms and leaning against the back of the couch for support. His legs still weren't fully cooperating. "You're the one who—y'know—did all that. I was just… along for the ride."
"Along for the ride?" Tonks arched a brow, her lips twitching as she fought back another grin. "Harry, you were the bloody conductor of this train wreck. Don't act all innocent now—I saw the look in your eyes. You loved every second of it."
He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again, because—well, she wasn't wrong. "Fine," he muttered, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "Maybe I did. A little."
"A little?" She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she finally started cleaning herself up for real. She swiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the last of the mess across her cheek before wiping it on her already-ruined top. "You were practically drooling, Potter. Don't think I didn't notice where your eyes kept wandering."
Harry's face went red, but he didn't back down. "Can you blame me? Look at you! You're a bloody walking distraction. Those—" He gestured vaguely at her chest, then caught himself and coughed. "I mean, uh, it's hard not to look."
Tonks grinned, clearly delighted by his flustered state. "Oh, go on, say it. You were staring at my tits like they were the Holy Grail. It's fine—I'm flattered, really." She gave a little shimmy, making them bounce just enough to send his brain spiraling again, and laughed when his eyes widened. "See? Still got it."
"You're gonna kill me," he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm too young to die like this, Nym."
"Pfft, you'll survive," she teased, pushing herself up to her knees again. She wobbled slightly, her legs clearly still numb from being on the floor so long, and Harry reached out instinctively to steady her. His hands landed on her shoulders, and she smirked up at him, close enough now that he could feel the warmth radiating off her. "Careful, hero. Touching me might get you all worked up again."
"Too late for that," he muttered, his voice low as his thumbs brushed against her collarbone. Her skin was soft, still a little sticky, and he couldn't help but linger there for a second longer than necessary. "You're a menace."
"And you love it," she shot back, patting his chest with both hands before stepping back. She stretched her arms over her head, giving him yet another eyeful as her top rode up just enough to show a sliver of her stomach. "Right, I'm gonna go clean up properly. This—" She gestured at herself, from her smeared face to her soaked top—"is a bit much, even for me."
Harry nodded dumbly, still half-dazed as he watched her turn toward the hallway. "Yeah, uh, good idea. I'll… fix this." He waved a hand at the general state of the room, though he wasn't entirely sure where to start. The couch cushions were askew, there was a suspicious wet spot on the carpet, and he was pretty sure his dignity was still lying somewhere on the floor.
Tonks paused at the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder with a grin. "Don't take too long, yeah? We've still got half a movie to watch, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easy." She bounced on her toes for a second, just enough to make her chest jiggle again, and laughed at the strangled noise he made. "Oh, and Harry?"
"Yeah?" he croaked, already bracing himself for whatever she was about to say.
She winked. "Next time, try not to make such a mess. Or do—I kinda like it." With that, she sauntered off, knowing his eyes immediately followed her on the way out. Feeling mischievous, she put an extra sway to her perky rear, aware of his eyes following the alluring movement. It sent a tingle of pleasure through her.
Meanwhile, Harry just stood there, red-faced and grinning like an idiot, wondering how the hell he was supposed to survive her.
XXXXX
Closing the bathroom door behind her with a soft click, Tonks leaned heavily against the sink, her hands gripping the cool porcelain as she exhaled a long, shaky breath. Her hair, which had been a wild kaleidoscope of colors—vibrant pinks, electric blues, fiery reds—while she'd been licking Harry's cum off her face and neck, slowly settled back into its natural midnight black.
The shift happened almost unconsciously, her metamorphmagus abilities calming down now that the heat of the moment had passed. She stared at herself in the mirror, her reflection a little blurry around the edges from the steam still clinging to the glass, and tried to piece together what she must've looked like out there.
Her face streaked with thick, white trails of his release, some of it still dripping lazily down her cheek and pooling at the base of her throat before sliding further to her chest. Her top—Merlin, that poor, flimsy thing—was soaked through, sticking to her skin like it'd been glued there, the fabric clinging to every curve of her breasts and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
A slow, crooked grin crept onto her face as she took it all in. She looked wrecked. And she kind of loved it.
What had just happened out there in the Dursleys' stuffy living room wasn't just some impulsive, messy prelude to a hookup. It was more than that—bigger and deeper, like a spark that had ignited something she hadn't even known was waiting to catch fire.
She tilted her head, studying her reflection, and let her mind wander back to Harry's face—his ragged breathing, the way his green eyes had locked onto her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. It wasn't just lust she'd seen there, though Merlin knew there'd been plenty of that. There was something else, something raw and real that made her chest tighten in a way she wasn't used to.
Tonks had always been the odd one out, even among witches and wizards. Being a metamorphmagus wasn't exactly a common party trick—it made her stand out, sure, but not always in a good way. Growing up, she'd been a curiosity, a spectacle. People gawked at her shifting hair, her ability to tweak her nose or stretch her ears on a whim. Men, especially, had been drawn to it—they loved the idea of a woman who could morph into their wildest fantasies without breaking a sweat.
She'd had no shortage of suitors, idiots who'd leer and make suggestive comments about what she could do for them with a little magic. But that's all they'd ever been: idiots. Shallow, horny prats who saw her as a toy, not a person. So she'd brushed them off, rolled her eyes, and kept her distance. It'd been easier that way.
Harry, though—he was different. He didn't gape at her like she was some circus act. He didn't ask her to change her hair to green or make her eyes sparkle just for a laugh. When he looked at her, it wasn't about the tricks she could pull or the faces she could wear.
He saw her as just Tonks, or Nym, as he called her—the clumsy, sarcastic Auror with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. Not the metamorphmagus, not the Order member, not the quirky shield she threw up to keep people at arm's length. Just… her. And that hit her harder than she'd expected.
She shifted her weight, leaning closer to the mirror until her breath fogged the glass. There was something in the way Harry watched her—something unguarded. There was something raw and honest in his gaze. He didn't look at her like she was a novelty or a magical curiosity. He looked at her like she was real, substantial, and meaningful. A normal person. He saw her as a true friend, and it was refreshing in a way that made her heart race and her thoughts tumble.
It wasn't just physical, though she'd be lying if she said that wasn't part of it. She'd caught him staring plenty of times, his eyes lingering on her curves, her legs, the way her hips swayed when she walked. And yeah, she'd snuck her fair share of looks too. He might be younger than her, but he was of age now—fair game, as far as she was concerned. Those broad shoulders, that messy black hair, the way his voice had started to deepen into something that sent little shivers down her spine—he was growing into himself, and she'd be damned if she didn't notice.
But it wasn't just about that. It was Harry himself—everything he was, everything he'd been through. She'd heard the stories, pieced together the jagged edges of his life from Sirius, from Ron and Hermione and Ginny, from hushed conversations at Grimmauld Place over the past few weeks.
The Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, that bloody Basilisk, the Dementors that at one point seemed to haunt his very step, the Triwizard Tournament, and then Voldemort—always Voldemort—using him like a pawn in some twisted game.
The weight of it all should've crushed him, turned him bitter or broken. But it hadn't. He was still Harry—still capable of cracking a joke, of caring about people, of looking at her with that wide-eyed wonder even after everything he'd seen. That resilience, that stubborn spark of goodness—it drew her in like a moth to a flame.
This whole thing had started as a job. Guarding Harry, keeping him safe from whatever fresh hell the Death Eaters might throw his way—it was an Order assignment, plain and simple. She'd approached it with her usual mix of professionalism and dry humor, ready to play the part of the tough Auror babysitter.
But somewhere along the line, it'd shifted. Her instincts to protect him had tangled up with something more personal, something she couldn't quite name yet. She didn't just want to keep him alive—she wanted to help him live.
He'd been a weapon, a symbol, a scapegoat for so long that he'd barely had a chance to figure out who he was underneath it all. She knew what that felt like, being defined by what you could do instead of who you were. And she wanted to change that for him.
Tonks straightened up, running a hand through her dark hair as she let out a soft, thoughtful hum.
The physical pull between them was obvious—electric, even. She could still feel the heat of his gaze on her skin, the way his hands had trembled when they'd brushed her shoulders out there. He was growing into a man, his body lean and strong from years of dodging curses and Quidditch dives, his eyes carrying a depth that made her want to dive in and never come up for air. But it was more than that.
It was his heart—his stupid, stubborn, endlessly compassionate heart—that got to her. He'd been through hell, and he still cared. Still laughed. Still looked at her like she was something worth seeing.
She wanted him. Not just his body—though Merlin, she wouldn't say no to that—but all of him. His potential, his fire, his future. She'd always been a Hufflepuff at heart, loyal and fierce, but her mum had been a Slytherin, and that cunning streak ran deep.
Tonks knew how to spot an opportunity, and Harry was one she wasn't about to let slip through her fingers. She'd claim him—whatever that meant—before anyone else could.
With a quick twist, she splashed cold water on her face, washing away the last sticky traces of him. The chill snapped her out of her haze, cooling the flush that had crept up her neck as her thoughts spiraled. She'd been getting all hot and bothered just thinking about him, and she'd bet her last galleon he was out there in the same state.
Another charm dried her top—or what was left of it—leaving it slightly less wrecked but still clinging to her in a way she knew would drive him up the wall. Good. Let him squirm a little.
She grinned at her reflection, her dark purple eyes glinting with mischief. Harry liked her like this—plain old Nym, no fancy colors or tricks, just a sharp-tongued woman with midnight black hair and a wicked smile. And that's how she'd stay for him. No masks, no games—just her.
What was brewing between them wasn't simple. It wasn't just attraction or lust or even friendship. It was something bigger, something that felt like it could stretch beyond the physical, beyond magic itself. A connection—real and rare and a little terrifying. She could feel it in her bones, and it made her heart thud harder than any mission ever had.
Staring at herself, she felt a flicker of nerves creep in. For all her bravado, this was uncharted territory. What if she messed it up? What if she pushed too hard, or not enough, or—Merlin forbid—scared him off?
She shook her head, smacking her cheeks twice with both hands.
"Focus, Nym," she muttered under her breath. "You've got this. You're a bloody badass. He's not going anywhere."
She nodded at her reflection, her grin returning full force. She had it in the bag. Yeah. She totally did. With one last glance in the mirror, she turned and headed back out, ready to see just how far this night could take them.
XXXXX
The summer had been a slow, suffocating descent into hell.
Trapped at Privet Drive, Harry felt like a caged animal, cut off from everything that mattered—the wizarding world, his friends, and any shred of news about what was brewing out there.
It was just him, the four walls of his tiny bedroom, and the relentless churn of his own thoughts. No meaningful letters from Ron or Hermione, no updates from the Order that he'd come to know about, not even a whisper about Voldemort's next move. Nothing. The silence was deafening, a void that swallowed him whole and left him drowning in his own head.
The Dursleys didn't help—Vernon's sneers were sharper, Petunia's cold shoulders frostier, and Dudley's smug avoidance more pointed than ever. They treated him like a stain they couldn't scrub out, a constant reminder of the freakishness they despised.
Each day bled into the next, an endless loop of suburban monotony—mowing the lawn, washing dishes, staring at the ceiling—while the magic inside him simmered, stifled, with nowhere to go. He was a prisoner in a house that wasn't a home, haunted by memories he couldn't shake: the graveyard, the ghastly ritual, Voldemort's high, cold laugh as he rose from that cauldron, and the torture. Those images clung to him, replaying on a loop every time he closed his eyes, gnawing at his sanity.
And then Nym crashed into his life like a bloody firework.
She was everything Privet Drive wasn't—vibrant, chaotic, alive. Her arrival was like someone had ripped open the curtains and let sunlight flood into a room that'd been dark for months.
It wasn't just that she was a connection to the wizarding world, though that alone would've been enough to make him cling to her presence. It was more than that. She saw him—really saw him—in a way no one else had bothered to all summer. Not as the Boy Who Lived, not as some fragile kid to be sheltered, not as a weapon or a burden or a name at the top of a deranged mass murderer's hit list.
She looked at him like he was Harry—just Harry—a person with a pulse, with fears and wants and a voice that deserved to be heard. After weeks of being invisible, of fading into the background of the Dursleys' pristine little nightmare, that kind of recognition hit him like a shot of firewhisky straight to the chest.
Sure, the physical attraction was there—how could it not be? She was all sharp edges and soft curves, with that wild energy that made his stomach flip every time she smirked at him. Her striking beauty, her laugh, her confidence visible in the way she moved like she owned every room she walked into—it was impossible not to notice.
But that was just the surface. Underneath it, there was something deeper, something that hooked into him and wouldn't let go. Nym was a lifeline, a tether to the world he'd been cut off from, a reminder that he wasn't losing his mind, that the horrors he'd seen were real and not just nightmares twisting in his skull.
Where Dumbledore had left him in the dark, where Ron and Hermione's silence had stung like betrayal, Nym was an open door. She didn't coddle him or feed him vague platitudes. She talked to him like he could handle it, like he wasn't some kid who needed protecting from the truth.
That alone was intoxicating. He'd spent the summer stewing in fury—fury at Dumbledore for shutting him out, at the so-called Order for treating him like a liability, at his friends for abandoning him to this purgatory with no explanation. The lack of information had been a slow torture, each day piling on more frustration, more powerlessness.
He'd wanted to scream, to break something, to demand answers about Voldemort, about the war he knew was coming. But all he'd gotten was silence, and it'd festered inside him like a wound.
Nym changed that. She was his window to the world beyond these suffocating walls, a bridge between the isolation of Privet Drive and the chaos he knew was waiting for him.
There was something about her that felt… free. She moved like she didn't give a damn what anyone thought, all loose-limbed confidence and quick grins. Her metamorphmagus tricks weren't just cool—they were a middle finger to anyone who tried to pin her down. She could change her hair to purple, her nose to a pig's snout, her eyes to gold, and laugh while doing it.
It was more than magic—it was a kind of strength Harry envied, a refusal to be trapped by what the world threw at you. He'd been stuck in this house, in this life, defined by a scar and a target on his head he hadn't asked for, and here she was, remaking herself every day like it was nothing.
He craved that—craved the ability to shift, to adapt, to break free of the chains that his circumstances had wrapped around him. Nym embodied it, and being near her made him feel like maybe he could grab a piece of that freedom for himself.
What had just happened between them—Merlin, that messy, mind-blowing moment in the living room—wasn't just about the heat of it, though his pulse was still racing from the memory of her on her knees, her eyes locked on his.
It was bigger than that.
It was a collision of two people who got it—who knew what it was like to be different, to be underestimated, to feel alone even when surrounded by others. She understood isolation in a way he hadn't expected, and that connection crackled between them like static.
When she'd walked into his life, barging through the front door with her clumsy grace and her sharp tongue, something in him had shifted. The anger that'd been choking him all summer didn't vanish, but it cracked open, letting something else seep in—something alive, something hopeful.
He wasn't blind to the complications.
There was an age gap, yeah—six years, give or take—and he knew people would raise eyebrows, call it improper, maybe even reckless.
Part of him wondered if he was latching onto her because she was here, because she was the first person to treat him like he mattered in months. Was he using her as an escape?
Maybe.
Probably.
But it didn't feel cheap or shallow. It felt real—dangerous and messy and thrilling in a way that made his blood hum. After weeks of being ignored, of being handled like a child who couldn't handle the truth, Nym was a jolt to the system. She didn't talk down to him. She didn't hide things. She treated him like an equal, like a man, and fuck if that didn't light something up inside him.
That moment they'd shared—it was a lifeline, a gasp of air after being underwater too long.
For the first time in weeks, he felt something other than the slow burn of resentment. Desire, yeah—hot and sharp and indisputable—but also something softer, something that scared him a little. He liked her. Really liked her. Not just her body or her magic or the way she teased him until he couldn't think straight, but her—the way she saw him, the way she made him feel like he wasn't alone in this.
And now he knew she liked him back. That smirk, the way she'd looked at him while licking her fingers clean—it wasn't just a game. There was something there, something mutual, and it set his nerves on fire.
He wanted more. More of her, more of this, more of whatever they could carve out together. It was unexpected, yeah—he hadn't planned on falling into… whatever this was—but now that it'd happened, he couldn't unfeel it.
He was brought out of his thoughts when she stepped back into the living room. When he looked up and saw her, his breath hitched.
She'd scrubbed her face clean, the sticky evidence of their earlier chaos gone, and her top—still a little damp but less of a disaster—clung to her in a way that wasn't exactly subtle. Her midnight-black hair hung loose, framing her face, and her dark purple eyes glinted with that same mischief she'd left with. She paused in the doorway, one hand on her hip, taking in the sight of him.
His green eyes widened, darting from her face to her chest—lingering there a second too long—before snapping back up. He closed his eyes for a moment and he coughed, shifting like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.
"Merlin, Nym," he said, voice a little rough. "You look… uh, better. Cleaner, I mean."
She smirked, sauntering over with that easy, swaying stride that made his stomach flip.
"Cleaner, huh? High praise. You're really laying on the charm tonight."
She plopped down beside him on the couch, close enough that her knee brushed his thigh, and stretched her arms along the backrest. Her top shifted with the movement, pulling tight across her chest, and Harry's eyes flicked down again before he forced them back to her face.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm still recovering from—you know. Words aren't exactly my strong suit right now."
"Oh, I think you did just fine earlier. Didn't need words then, did you?" She nudged him with her elbow, grinning as he flushed slightly. "Relax, Harry. I'm not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely."
He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch, but there was a grin tugging at his lips. "You're impossible. You know that, right?"
"Yep," she said cheerfully, leaning in a little closer. "And you're stuck with me, so deal with it." Her tone was light, but her eyes held his for a beat longer, something softer flickering there before she pulled back. She kicked her legs up, resting her legs on the coffee table—probably a cardinal sin in Petunia's book—and grabbed the remote from the armrest. "Right, movie's still on the table. You ready to behave, or should I brace myself for round two?"
He knew it was risky, pushing boundaries he wasn't sure he should cross, but he didn't care.
The thrill of it, the way it made his heart pound and his head spin—he loved it. He liked her, he desired her, and damn it, he wanted her in every way he could have her.
Whether it led somewhere or crashed and burned, he was in—fully, recklessly, unapologetically in. For once, he wasn't going to let fear or rules or anyone else dictate what came next. This was his, and he was going to chase it.
To be continued…
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