Part 2

Preface

The little mouse crept lazily trough the tunnel towards a familiar hole in the wall. The creature felt somewhat heavier than usual these days. Maybe, just maybe, it overindulged itself with cheese and cream. Nah, not really, if only just a bit...it was Christmas time after all. Aha, the room, almost there.

Alas, the grey, plump rodent was stopped by the loud moans and creaking of the old bed.

Oh no, not again, thought the mouse.

It had been a lovely, lovely three weeks. Everything was calm and quiet. And now...this again, damn.

Oh, no.

The grey pest sat on its little feet in doubt. Its black, beady eyes were focused on the two silhouettes moving in the depth of the room. It watched and listened carefully. This time the scene and the sounds were quite different, quite different indeed.

At the first sight, everything seemed to be the same as it was on that infamous night back in November (the little mouse shuddered remembering...no cream, no cheese, horrendous). Two young and sweaty bodies tumbled in a tangled mass in the bed, filling the room with bed creaking, moaning, whispering.

And yet, after a careful and thorough analysis, the change was identified.

Two silhouettes were sliding against each other with obvious purpose. The male body was hovering over the smaller female one with confidence, methodically driving in and out of her with undeniable assuredness. The rapturous female's moans were getting louder and louder. Huskily spoken in the dark, encouragements of, "That's right, witch, sing for me. Give me more, girl," were increasing the volume of the young witch's moans and cries even more.

All of a sudden the sound of a single, ear-splitting spank and then, the man's triumphant growl, "Oh, yes! Come; come for me, my fire-haired witch!" cut the air in the room. It had startled the mouse quite a bit, but still not enough for it to flee (cream and cheese, remember).

The next instant, the female in bed emitted a long, loud and positively feral howl, which was accompanied by a long stream of profanities and a satisfied grunt from her young lover.

That was it...the pinnacle...after that, only laboured breathing reverberated throughout the room. Little mouse was impressed.

Not bad, Potter, not bad.

The impressed creature sighed somewhat wistfully and continued on its way. The lovers were done for another hour or so; the mouse was certain of it. The little grey rodent had lived in the Burrow for many years now and knew the humans quite well.

Weak, pitiful creatures, indeed...

London, December

Later that night, lying in his bed at Grimmauld Place, Harry thought how drastically everything had recently changed in his life. All it took was a little fluke, a small grin of fate, three weeks in Paris and Margot.

"Oh, Margot," Harry groaned. The name alone caused him to go all hot and rigid. Memories flooded Harry's mind.

Margot's Pincushion Wizard's Clothing Atelier

He followed her almost instantly that day, not minding in the slightest his wet shoes, socks and feet. This huskily talking witch enthralled him; he was desperate. And she knew, she knew...wicked, wicked woman. She didn't even close her door.

When Harry found himself in her small boudoir-workshop, full of mannequins, Singers, pincushions with pins sticking from them, ribbons, and a bed in the corner, she was already waiting for him. The same lenient smile was playing on her crimson lips. A long, slim cigarette was firmly planted in the corner of her mouth.

"Welcome, darling," she breathed, releasing the little puff of blue-grey smoke, which immediately enveloped Harry in its intoxicating haze. "You are all wet, boy. Take these rags off; you won't be needing them anymore."

And Harry did. He took everything off, accepted the dry towel and let her measure him for the robes, trousers, and shirts. Just like that...naked with the towel around his hips.

It was magic; she bewitched him.

He recalled his awkwardness, his reaction to her hands probing him. How hard the sight of her alluring cleavage when she was crouching in front of him, measuring his inseam, had made him. How sensually her bosoms rubbed against his thighs when she measured his waist. By the end of the measuring session, Harry was almost entirely gone, balancing on the brink of a climax.

She noticed of course. Maybe those were her intentions from the beginning.

All in all, it didn't matter, because a minute later Harry ended up in Margot's bed, making passionate love to her for a long, long seven and a half minutes...

Oh, no. He had dropped a clanger, again.

With dreadful apprehension, humiliated and ashamed of himself, he lay in Margot's bed, waiting for the verdict. He knew that in a second she would kick him out of her bed and Paris would be closed for him, just as London was.

Well, that never happened. Never.

His French siren took another cigarette, lit it up, puffed a little blue, intoxicating cloud into his face and said (her husky, mellow voice making Harry all hot and hard once again),"You are a fine wizard, Harry, believe me, I know." With these words her hand made its way to Harry's private bits, which were already quite hard again.

"Lovemaking is a skill, darling. You have to learn it; you are not supposed to be born with it." The witch's masterful and playful hand, her azure calm eyes and throaty, smoky voice thoroughly and utterly dazed the poor young wizard.

"Relax, boy, I will teach you. All you need is a bit of practice." After that, everything was submerged in a pleasurable haze.

All three weeks spent in Paris in Margot's boudoir consisted of constant lovemaking, with short breaks for sewing. Unfortunately, he truly needed a new wardrobe.

Surprisingly, the witch preferred to use her old Singer and her hands for sewing, not the wand.

Now, at night, lying in his bed in London, Harry remembered her fussing around him with pins and measuring tape, sewing, giving him her advices and precepts, always with her usual cigarette in the corner of her mouth.

How she would state huskily, "Stop quivering Harry. I am your pincushion, boy. Pierce me, don't hesitate, do it, do it boy."

And he had done it, again and again, until her azure eyes would lock on his green ones, until she would cry under him in ecstasy, until her limbs would tremble around him. Her hoarse moans would inevitably push him over the edge too, no matter how hard he tried to hold on.

Somewhere, by the end of the second week, Harry decided to marry Margot. She was clearly the right witch for him. They were happy; he satisfied (or at least he hoped so) her in bed. There was nothing to think about, they were soul mates...plain and simple.

The look on Margot's face when Harry proposed to her was priceless. She didn't want to laugh. However she couldn't quite hold her laughter inside. So, she was silent for a few minutes, and then she puffed her customary blue cloud in the air and said, "Sorry, darling, but I don't marry wizards. Yes, I sew clothes for them. Yes, occasionally I do them. However, darling, I don't marry them. You don't want to be married to me, darling. Good sex is not enough for marriage. There ought to be something more in it, Harry. You will find it, boy, don't worry."

Harry reluctantly agreed with her; and at the end she managed to convince him, returning to their established schedule of lovemaking and sewing.

Unfortunately, everything on this planet has to end. Three weeks had gone by; three sets of clothes were ready, and it was time to leave.

And Harry left.

He had been in London for almost a week now. Ginny accepted him back, first reluctantly, then, after the demonstration of Harry's newly acquired skills, with enthusiasm. The talks about marriage started again, now from Ginny's side. However, this time Harry wasn't sure, wasn't ready. In addition, he kept hearing Margot's words.

"There ought to be something more in it, Harry."

And that was precisely what he was thinking about when he had stumbled home from the Burrow this night, before Margot's images flooded his mind. However, when Margot's face and voice filled his head, there was no space left for the thoughts about Ginny or marriage anymore, and the last thing Harry remembered before he fell asleep was Margot's full, crimson lips enveloping him in their soft warmth.

London, December 25, Ministry's Yule Ball

Harry was rapidly making his way through the crowd. He was late and at this point sure that Ginny was already pissed. He was walking briskly through the hall when a haughty voice with a familiar drawl had caught him.

"Is it Margot's hand I see, Potter?" With these words, the small group of pure-blooded wizards with Malfoy in the middle turned to look at him with interest. Lucius Malfoy slowly stepped forward and carefully surveyed Harry's robes.

"Oh, yes. It is, hmm," and Lucius arched his eyebrows in astonishment.

Appearing from thin air, Blaise Zabini shot Harry a strange question.

"How many?"

Harry frowned, not quite understanding what Zabini was talking about. "How many what?"

"How many outfits?" Blaise rolled his eyes and muttered mockingly, "Genius."

Harry was caught by surprise and answered without a second thought. "Three."

The faces of all the wizards standing around Harry became slightly longer; the two Malfoys narrowed their eyes in disbelief, and Zabini uttered an approving whistle.

"That's a three-week affair. Not bad, Potter, not bad," muttered Draco.

"I have no idea what are you talking about." An annoyed and slightly bewildered Harry shook his head, and giving them all a curt nod, left.

After that, though, low murmurs followed Harry everywhere.

He spent a pleasant evening with Ginny; everything was satisfactory. However, Harry could not help but notice that not only many wizards were giving him strange, approving and even somewhat envious looks; moreover, a big part of wizarding's female population was affected as well. Never before had he received so many enticing, teasing and openly flirting smiles, giggles and winks in his entire life. Not even after he'd killed that worm-looking bastard.

Something had happened; that was apparent. Only Harry was not sure what that was.

But one thing he was confident in...that at this point in history, Harry Potter's life was not ruined anymore. Indeed, quite the opposite. His future looked brighter than ever. He was twenty-one years old and positively famous. He, Harry Potter, a war hero, the boy-who-lived and won, was in fact nothing less than a legendary lover, who just a few hours ago had been declared the best catch in London, or maybe, even (Merlin forgive me) in all bloody England.

Postscript

Somewhere at the end of January, Harry received a letter from the Gringotts asking him to confirm the charge to his account from a sewing facility named Margot's Pincushion Wizard's Clothing Atelier.

The amount of the charge equalled roughly three-quarters of Harry's annual salary. He confirmed of course. It was worth it, every fucking coin.

Even more, Harry was seriously considering getting himself a few new outfits for the spring-summer season. Why not?

This little one was created in honour of the great French writers (Flaubert, Maupassant and Balzac) and their fabulous courtesans.