A slow warmth engulfed Harry as he drifted between sleep and wakefulness, the sensation pulling him from unconsciousness like a tide coaxing a ship to shore. Pleasure coursed through his nerves, spreading in tingling waves, urging him toward full awareness. A low, pleased sigh escaped his lips as his emerald eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim, green-tinged glow of the Slytherin dormitory.
The sight that greeted him was as intoxicating as the feeling itself.
Petunia was sprawled across his bed, her delicate hands gripping his thighs as she worked him with unrelenting fervor. Her blonde hair spilled over his skin like silk, contrasting against the deep emerald-green sheets. Her lips, flushed and glistening, moved with practiced precision, her tongue teasing every sensitive spot, coaxing shivers from his body.
"Morning already?" Harry murmured, voice thick with amusement and lingering sleep.
Petunia moaned in response, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through him. He ran his fingers through her golden locks, grasping gently but firmly, pushing her deeper. She obeyed without hesitation, eyes shining with devotion, her every motion a testament to her complete surrender to him.
"Good girl," he whispered, watching with a smirk as she eagerly swallowed every drop he had to offer.
She pulled back, panting slightly, wiping her lips with the back of her hand before gazing up at him with a satisfied smile.
"Did I please you, Master?" she asked, her voice laced with desire and reverence.
Harry chuckled, tilting her chin upward with a single finger. "Always."
With a smirk, he pulled her onto the bed, claiming her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She melted into him, sighing into his mouth as he dominated her effortlessly. But as much as he enjoyed these mornings, the day awaited.
And Harry had much to do.
The towering shelves of the Hogwarts Library loomed around Harry like ancient sentinels, their endless rows of knowledge whispering secrets to those willing to seek them. He moved between the bookshelves with quiet precision, his fingers trailing along the spines of ancient tomes, searching.
Last night's conversation with Daphne still echoed in his mind. Family magic. Inheritance. Legacies stolen.
The thought alone made his jaw tighten.
He finally found what he was looking for—a thick, leather-bound volume titled Noble and Most Ancient Houses: A Guide to Bloodline Magic.
Settling into a secluded corner, he cracked open the tome, his eyes scanning the delicate script. His brows furrowed as he read.
The Potter Family Crest was a symbol of immense magical power, bound to the bloodline itself. A true heir could unlock it through a ritual—one that would awaken dormant magical potential, granting abilities lost over generations.
But what truly caught his attention was the section on inheritance laws.
A direct heir is entitled to all vaults, artifacts, and magical properties upon coming of age… unless willfully withheld.
Harry's fingers curled around the edge of the book. A slow, dark amusement flickered in his eyes.
Dumbledore.
That old manipulative bastard had been playing him like a pawn. Keeping him ignorant. Weak. Controllable.
But no more.
A smirk played on Harry's lips as he closed the book.
He would take back what was rightfully his.
The Great Hall buzzed with morning energy, the air thick with laughter and the clatter of dishes as students gathered around tables laden with steaming plates of food. Goblets clinked together, and the flutter of owls delivering post added to the lively atmosphere. But amidst the chaos, Harry Potter walked with a singular focus, his gaze set toward the Slytherin table.
"Feeling proud of yourself, Potter?" The voice cut through the noise like a knife, and Harry barely needed to turn around to identify its owner. Ron Weasley, arms crossed defiantly, stood with a group of Gryffindors, their expressions a mix of curiosity and disdain.
Harry sighed, choosing to ignore the confrontation and pressing on, but Ron was relentless. "You know, your whole family was Gryffindor. Generations of Potters—brave and respected. And then you—you show up and throw it all away. You betrayed them. Their legacy, their expectations—"
The words struck Harry like a physical blow. He halted mid-step, the Great Hall quieting as the tension thickened in the air. He turned slowly, emerald eyes locking onto Ron's heated expression. The redhead radiated indignation, flanked by his friends, all looking at Harry as though he were the very embodiment of betrayal.
"Betrayed them?" Harry echoed, his voice dangerously calm. "That's an interesting word to use, considering I never even knew them."
Ron scoffed, dismissing Harry's point with a wave of his hand. "You're their son. You should've known—"
"Should've known what?" Harry interrupted, stepping forward, his presence suffocating. "That I was meant to be a Gryffindor? That I should have conformed to some expectation no one ever gave me?"
Ron's ears turned red, frustration bubbling to the surface. "That's not the point—"
"That is exactly the point," Harry cut in, voice smooth yet edged like a blade. "You act like I had a choice. Like I wasn't thrown into this world blind, clueless about magic. I was sorted into Slytherin, and suddenly I'm a traitor? Based on what? Your narrow, childish view of House loyalty?"
Ron's face flushed with anger. "You should have been in Gryffindor! That's where you belong!"
Harry's lips curled into a slow, amused chuckle. "Belong?" he mused, tilting his head. "And what, exactly, makes you think I belong anywhere near you?"
The Gryffindors around Ron murmured, uncertainty creeping into their ranks. One brave soul piped up, "Maybe... because your parents would've wanted it."
The air around Harry turned cold, his expression darkening as all humor vanished. "You have no idea what my parents would have wanted," he said, a quiet venom lacing his words, causing Ron to hesitate for the first time.
"I know they wouldn't have wanted their son to turn his back on everything they stood for," Ron shot back, his fists clenched.
Harry exhaled sharply, something flickering in his eyes—an ember igniting into flame. "You think you know everything, don't you?"
Ron's temper flared, his voice rising. "Then prove it! A duel, you and me, tonight!"
Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Alright then," he said smoothly. "Let's settle this."
"A duel," Ron declared, puffing his chest with false bravado. "Tonight!"
There was not a brief hesitation, but Ron's pride pushed him forward. "Fine! And when I win, you apologize in front of everyone for being a cowardly snake!"
Harry smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "And when I win, Weasley? What do I get?"
Ron faltered for a moment, but his stubbornness wouldn't let him back down. "Name your price."
Harry's smirk deepened, a hint of challenge in his tone. "I'll think of something."
The Gryffindors murmured among themselves, their excitement palpable as they watched the confrontation unfold. Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass leaned forward with a teasing smile, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
"That was entertaining," she mused, taking a sip of her tea.
Hermione Granger, sitting nearby, shot Harry a pointed look. "You're really going through with this?"
Harry shrugged, nonchalant as he absently picked up a piece of toast. "Why not?"
"You could have ignored him," Hermione pointed out, exasperation creeping into her voice.
"I did," Harry replied, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Didn't work, did it?"
Daphne chuckled softly. "You do know Ron just won the Junior International Duel Championship, right? You shouldn't underestimate him."
Harry raised an eyebrow, momentarily intrigued. "Seriously?"
Daphne nodded, her tone shifting to one of seriousness. "He's good, Harry. You might want to prepare yourself for a real challenge."
Harry's expression didn't change at all. "I'll be ready."
Hermione sighed, glancing between the two of them . "Tonight will be interesting, that's for sure."
And as the morning wore on, the tension lingered, thick and palpable, as Harry prepared to face Ron in what promised to be more than just a duel—it would be a clash of ideals, of houses, and of identities. And Harry was more than ready.
To be continued…