Harry Potter One-Shots/Series - 2 (Patreon)

Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.

Harry Potter One-Shots/Series

Story – The Italian Stallion (Blaise/Harem)

Part 1 – Andromeda Tonks

The air in the Wizengamot chambers was thick, stale with the smell of old parchment, enchanted candles, and the stifling weight of bureaucratic denial. Blaise Zabini stood at the centre of the floor, the polished stone beneath his boots feeling like ice. He was eighteen, a man in the eyes of his culture, but a child in the eyes of British wizarding law.

Behind him, the seats were filled with the "great and noble" of their society. To his left, the Dark Faction—the Malfoys, the Notts, the Parkinsons—sat with their spines straight, their faces masks of pale, aristocratic indifference. But beneath the masks, Blaise could see the tremor. He knew. They knew.

Valentina Zabini was dead.

She hadn't died in a tragic accident, as the Daily Prophet hinted. She had been torn apart in her own villa during a raid that Cornelius Fudge insisted had been carried out by "disgruntled bandits." But Blaise had seen the masks. He had seen the green sparks of the Killing Curse and the jagged, cruel laughter of men who wore the Mark.

"Mr. Zabini," Dumbledore’s voice echoed through the chamber, calm and infuriatingly grandfatherly, his half-moon spectacles catching the dim light. "The Ministry requires a guardian for you until you graduate from Hogwarts. Your mother’s will was... complicated, given the circumstances of her passing. Do you have a preference? Perhaps a distant relative in Italy?"

Blaise didn't look at Dumbledore. His dark eyes, bottomless and burning with a cold, focused rage, were fixed on Lucius Malfoy. He didn't care about the laws. He didn't care about the gold in the Zabini vaults or the sprawling estates in Naples.

"I don't care," Blaise said, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. "Let the Ministry appoint a pig to watch me. My only concern is finding the men who broke into my home. And when I find them, I won't be looking for a guardian. I'll be looking for a shovel."

A murmur rippled through the stands.

"Mr. Zabini," Fudge sputtered, his bowler hat trembling in his hands. "We must have order. Your family is an ancient one. We cannot simply—"

"My family is dead," Blaise interrupted, finally turning his head. He shot a venomous, predatory glare toward the Dark Faction. Lucius Malfoy actually shifted in his seat, his hand tightening on his cane. "And those who did it think they are safe behind their masks and their lies. They think that because the Ministry is blind, I am too. They are mistaken."

The silence that followed was heavy. Dumbledore watched the boy closely. He saw the grief, yes, but he saw something more potent: vengeance. Blaise Zabini was a talented student, wealthy, and now, possessed of a singular, burning motive. If he were left close to the dark families, he would be swallowed by the very people who killed his mother. But if he were placed elsewhere…

"If I may," Dumbledore said, standing. "The boy needs more than a guardian. He needs a home. A place where the good values might temper his understandable anguish. I propose that the guardianship be granted to the Tonks family."

Blaise stiffened. The Tonks. Andromeda Tonks, born of the House of Black, and her Muggle-born husband. Blood traitors.

"They are experienced, kind, and have a daughter in the Auror corps," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling with a manipulative warmth. "I believe they are uniquely suited to provide the security and guidance Mr. Zabini requires."

Blaise didn't argue. He didn't have the energy. He just stood there, a lone spire of dark, vengeful intent, as the gavel fell.

Andromeda Tonks

Andromeda Tonks lived in a house filled with silence.

It wasn’t a peaceful silence; it was the kind of silence that felt like a physical weight, pressing against her chest as she moved through the rooms of their home in the outskirts of London.

Ted was gone. He was always gone lately. His law practice had ballooned as the Ministry scrambled to deal with the rising "unrest" that Fudge refused to call a war. When he was home, he was exhausted, his nose buried in briefs and affidavits, his touch as stale as months old bread—a dry kiss on the cheek before he fell into a deep, snoring sleep.

Nymphadora was gone too. Her daughter, so vibrant and loud, was barely a shadow in the house. Her Auror training was gruelling, and with the secret mobilization of the Order of the Phoenix, she was constantly on "special assignments."

And then, there was Blaise.

He had arrived in early June, his trunks carried by a Ministry official who looked terrified to be in his presence. Blaise had walked into her home with the grace of a panther and the coldness of a glacier. He had looked at her—really looked at her—with eyes that seemed to strip away the "Auntie" persona she had adopted.

"Mrs. Tonks," he’d said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that felt entirely too mature for a boy not yet seventeen.

"Blaise. Welcome," she’d replied, trying to maintain her Black dignity while feeling a strange, fluttery heat in her stomach.

The first few weeks had been a study in distance. Blaise kept to himself in the guest wing. He spent hours in the back garden, which Ted had enchanted for privacy. From her kitchen window, Andromeda would watch him.

He didn't just practice magic; he practiced fighting in a war. She watched him cast spells with a silent, brutal efficiency that made her blood run cold. But more than that, she watched him exercise.

The summer was brutal, the heatwave turning the air into a shimmering haze. Blaise would strip off his shirt, his dark, bronzed skin glistening with sweat. He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. His muscles were lean and corded, the definition of his abs and the broad swell of his chest speaking to a physical discipline that surpassed any of his peers. He would run, he would do hundreds of push-ups, his breath coming in rhythmic, powerful grunts.

Andromeda would stand by the sink, a half-peeled potato in her hand, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was a woman in her prime, but she felt like a ghost. Seeing him—so young, so alive, so masculine—made her realize how long it had been since she had been looked at as a woman.

One afternoon, she had accidentally walked out to the garden to offer him lemonade. He was mid-set; his body suspended in a difficult yoga-like pose that showcased every ripple of his back.

"Oh! I... I'm sorry, Blaise," she’d stammered, her face flushing a deep crimson.

He’d dropped down, landing lightly on his feet. He didn’t reach for a shirt. He just stood there, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down the valley of his pectorals, disappearing into the waistband of his low-slung trousers.

"No need to apologize, Andromeda," he said. He didn't call her Mrs. Tonks. He used her name, his voice lingering on the syllables. "It's a hot day."

He took the glass from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. The contact was electric. His skin was scorching. He drank the lemonade in long, greedy gulps, his throat working, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the glass.

"Thank you," he whispered, handing the glass back. He stepped closer, just an inch, but it was enough for her to smell him—salt, musk, and the faint, expensive scent of Italian sandalwood. "You look lovely in this light."

Andromeda had fled back into the house, her heart racing so hard she thought she might faint. She was forty, for Merlin's sake. He was a boy.

But as the days turned into weeks, the "boy" began to change the rules.

It started with a touch in the kitchen.

Andromeda was preparing dinner—Ted was late, again—and she was wearing a thin, emerald-green silk robe over her nightdress. It was late July, and the house was stifling.

She was reaching for a spice jar on the high shelf when she felt a presence behind her. She didn't have to turn to know it was him. The air seemed to vibrate when he was near.

"Allow me," Blaise murmured.

He didn't just reach over her. He pressed his chest against her back, his long arm stretching up. His body was a wall of heat. As he reached, his other hand settled firmly on her hip, pulling her back against him to stabilize himself.

The contact was bold. His palm was large, his fingers splaying over the curve of her hip, squeezing just slightly.

"Here," he said, handing her the jar. But he didn't move away. He stayed there, his breath hot against the nape of her neck.

"Blaise," she breathed, her voice trembling. "That's... you're very close."

"In Italy," he whispered, his lips almost grazing her earlobe, "we do not have these cold, English boundaries. We are a physical people. We show our appreciation for those who care for us through touch. Is it a problem?"

He pulled back, but his hand lingered, sliding slowly down the silk of her robe, tracing the curve of her bottom before finally dropping away.

"I... no. I suppose not," she lied, her legs feeling like jelly.

From then on, the "Italian culture" excuse became his shield.

When they sat at the dinner table, his foot would find hers under the wood, his toes stroking her calf. When they passed in the narrow hallway, he wouldn't just step aside; he would brush his entire body against hers, his hand inevitably finding her waist, her shoulder, or the small of her back.

He began to take liberties that should have been scandalous. He would walk into the living room while she was reading and sit right next to her—so close their thighs were pressed together from hip to knee.

"Blaise, really," she’d say, though her protest was weak.

"Shh," he’d murmur, leaning his head back on the sofa. "I’m tired, Andromeda. My mother used to let me rest my head on her lap. I miss the comfort of a woman."

He didn't put his head on her lap, though. He put his arm around her shoulders, his fingers toying with the stray curls of her dark hair. And then, his hand would wander. It would drop down, his thumb stroking the side of her breast through her dress.

Andromeda should have pushed him away. She should have written to Dumbledore. She should have told Ted.

But Ted didn't look at her. Ted didn't touch her. And when Blaise touched her, she felt a roar of life in her veins that she thought had died years ago. She felt her nipples harden under his touch; she felt the dampness between her thighs. She felt desired.

The groping became more intense. One evening, as they watched a Muggle television program—a novelty Blaise found amusing—he reached out and slid his hand into the slit of her skirt.

"Blaise!" she gasped, her eyes wide.

"It is a gesture of trust," he said, his expression perfectly calm, though his eyes were dark with predatory intent. His hand moved higher, his palm cupping her lace-covered mound. He didn't move his fingers; he just held her there, the heat of his hand seeping through the fabric. "Do you not trust me, Andromeda?"

"I... yes, but—"

"Then let me show you how much I appreciate your hospitality."

He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Andromeda let out a shaky moan, her head falling back against the cushions. She didn't stop him. She couldn't. The thrill of the taboo, the sheer, raw power of his youth, and the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth conquering—was a drug.

They started cuddling on the sofa every night. To any outsider, it might have looked like a caring woman and her ward. But the way Blaise’s hand stayed tucked under her breast, his thumb constantly circling her nipple, or the way he would pull her hand to his lap so she could feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock through his trousers... it was anything but familial.

Andromeda was drowning, and she didn't want to be saved.

***

The heatwave finally broke in a spectacular thunderstorm.

Thunder shook the ground the house stood on, and lightning turned the sky into a strobe light of violet and white. Ted had left early that morning for a three-day conference in Edinburgh. Nymphadora was on a stakeout in Hogsmeade.

The house was empty. Just the two of them.

Andromeda stood in front of her vanity mirror, her heart thundering louder than the storm outside. She had reached her limit. The two months of constant, low-level torture—the touches that never went far enough, the glances that promised everything—had brought her to a fever pitch.

She felt like a Victorian corset being pulled too tight. She needed to snap.

She reached into the back of her wardrobe, pulling out a box she hadn't opened in years. Inside was a set of black lace lingerie. It was French, expensive, and utterly scandalous. When she had bought it, she’d hoped to surprise Ted. He hadn't even noticed.

She stripped off her sensible cotton nightgown and pulled the lace onto her body. It was tight—her figure had filled out in the years since she’d bought it, her breasts more voluptuous, her hips wider. The lace strained against her skin, the underwire of the bra pushing her breasts up until they were heaving over the cups, the nipples barely covered by the sheer embroidery. The thong was a mere wisp of fabric, disappearing into the cleft of her ass, leaving her pale, soft thighs completely exposed.

She looked at herself. She looked like a Black. She looked like a woman who was ready to be taken.

She threw a sheer, black silk robe over her shoulders, but she didn't tie it. She wanted him to see. She needed him to see.

She walked down the hallway toward the guest room. Each step felt like a betrayal and a liberation. She reached his door and didn't knock. She pushed it open.

Blaise was sitting on the edge of his bed. He was wearing only a pair of black silk boxers. He looked like a statue carved from obsidian. He didn't look surprised to see her. He looked like he’d been waiting.

"Andromeda," he said, his voice a low growl.

"I can't take it anymore, Blaise," she said, her voice cracking. She stepped into the room, the robe fluttering open to reveal the straining lace and the pale expanse of her skin. "I can't take the touching, the games, the 'culture.' I am a grown woman, and you are... you are driving me insane."

Blaise stood up. He was taller than her, broader, and in the dim light of the storm, he looked absolutely lethal. He walked toward her, his eyes fixed on her heaving chest.

"Is that right?" he asked, stopping just inches away. He reached out, his fingers hooking into the front of her robe and sliding it off her shoulders. It hit the floor with a soft hiss.

His eyes raked over her. "You look like a goddess. A hungry, neglected goddess."

"Blaise, please," she whispered, her hands shaking at her sides. "I'm your guardian. I'm supposed to—"

"You're supposed to be mine," he interrupted. He stepped into her space, his heat overwhelming. He grabbed her waist with both hands, his fingers meeting at the small of her back, and yanked her hard against him.

The impact made her gasp. She could feel him—thick, rigid, and massive—pressing against her belly.

"I have spent two months watching you," Blaise hissed, his face inches from hers. "Watching you watch me. I saw you at the window. I felt you trembling every time I touched you. You didn't stay silent because of 'culture,' Andromeda. You stayed silent because you wanted me to do exactly what I’m about to do."

He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was an assault. He tasted of mint and something dark and masculine. He used his tongue to force her lips apart, demanding entry, claiming her mouth as his territory. Andromeda moaned into him, her hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders, her nails digging into his muscles.

She was lost. She was submitting. And it felt like home.

Blaise broke the kiss, but only to trail his lips down her throat. He bit at the sensitive cord of her neck, making her cry out, his hands sliding down to her ass. He grabbed her cheeks, lifting her off her feet.

Andromeda instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back. He carried her the two steps to the bed and threw her back onto the silk sheets.

Before she could even catch her breath, he was on top of her. He loomed over her, his knees pinning her thighs apart.

"You want to know about my culture, Andromeda?" he asked, his voice dark and jagged. He reached up and gripped both of her wrists, pinning them above her head with a single, massive hand. "In my family, we don't ask. We take. We dominate. And right now, you are going to be a very good girl for your ward."

He looked down at her breasts, the lace barely containing them. With his free hand, he reached out and flicked his thumb over her nipple. It was rock hard, visible through the black embroidery.

"Look at you," he mocked softly. "So desperate for a real man's touch. Does Ted even know how to make you blush like this?"

"Don't... don't talk about him," she gasped, her back arching as he squeezed her breast hard.

"I won't. He doesn't exist right now. Only I exist."

Blaise leaned down and took her nipple through the lace, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. Andromeda screamed, a raw, primal sound that was lost in a crack of thunder outside. He sucked hard, the wet fabric providing a delicious friction. He moved from one to the other, marking her, claiming her, while his hand moved down.

He ripped the thin lace of her thong aside with a single, violent tug.

He didn't go for her clit. He shoved two fingers deep inside her.

Andromeda bucked against him, her eyes rolling back. She was so wet, so ready, that his fingers slid in with a sickeningly sweet squelch.

"You're fucking soaking," Blaise growled, his eyes burning into hers. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? While you were making tea? While you were folding my shirts?"

"Yes," she whimpered, no longer able to lie. "Yes, Blaise. Please. I need it."

"Not yet."

He pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his tongue. He dove between her legs, his face buried in her heat. Andromeda lost all sense of time and space. The sensation of his rough tongue flicking against her clit while his fingers worked her opening was too much. She thrashed on the bed, her hips jerking uncontrollably.

"Blaise! Oh, Merlin, Blaise!"

He showed no mercy. He ate her with a hunger that was terrifying, his hands holding her thighs wide, forcing her to bear everything to him. When she finally shattered, her body convulsing in a violent orgasm, he didn't stop. He kept licking, kept sucking, until she was sobbing from the overstimulation.

Finally, he pulled back. He stripped off his boxers, and for the first time, Andromeda saw him in his full, terrifying glory.

He was huge. Dark, thick, and pulsing, his cock was a weapon. It looked far too big for her, but she didn't care. She wanted to be stretched. She wanted to be filled.

"Get on your hands and knees," he commanded.

Andromeda didn't hesitate. She rolled over, her ass hiked up in the air, her face pressed into the pillows. She felt his hands on her hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples of her lower back.

"You belong to me now, Andromeda," he whispered, his voice right at her ear. "Not the Ministry. Not the Order. Not your husband. Me."

He positioned himself at her entrance. He didn't ease in. He lunged.

The first thrust was a total invasion. He buried himself in her to the hilt, his thick girth stretching her to the point of pain, but the pleasure was so much greater. Andromeda let out a choked scream, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

"Oh god... you're so big... Blaise..."

"Shut up and take it," he growled.

He began to fuck her with a brutal, relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a hammer blow, his hips slamming against her ass with a loud, wet thwack. He was dominating her, his hands moving to her hair, winding the dark curls around his fist and pulling her head back so he could see her face as he claimed her.

"Look at me!" he barked.

She turned her head, her eyes glazed and blown wide.

"Whose are you?" he demanded, thrusting deeper, hitting her cervix with a force that made her vision go white.

"Yours!" she cried out. "I'm yours, Blaise! Please, harder!"

He obliged. The pace became frantic. He was a machine, his dark skin glistening with sweat, his muscles bunching and rippling with every movement. Andromeda was a mess of tangled lace and raw sensation. She felt every inch of him, the way he filled her, the way he possessed her.

The storm outside raged, but it was nothing compared to the sound of flesh slapping against flesh inside the house.

Blaise felt the pressure building, the white-hot heat in his loins reaching the breaking point. He reached around, his hand finding her clit again, rubbing it vigorously as he delivered the final, crushing thrusts.

"I'm going to fill you," he hissed, his voice sounding more like a predator than a boy. "I'm going to leave my mark in you, and you're going to think of me every time you look at your husband."

"Yes! Give it to me, Blaise! Fill me!"

With a final, guttural roar, Blaise slammed into her one last time and stayed there. He bucked against her as he poured himself into her, a hot, thick flood that seemed to go on forever. Andromeda screamed as her second orgasm ripped through her, her internal muscles clamping down on him, pulling every last drop out of him.

They collapsed together, a heap of sweat-slicked limbs and heavy breathing.

The silence returned to the house, but it was different now. It wasn't the silence of neglect. It was the silence of a secret.

Blaise stayed inside her for a long time, his weight a comfort. He leaned down, kissing the back of her neck—a soft, almost tender gesture that contrasted with the violence of the last hour.

"My culture," he whispered, "has many traditions, Andromeda. I think tomorrow, we should explore the one where you spend the entire day in my bed."

Andromeda closed her eyes, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. For the first time in years, the House of Black felt alive.

"I think I’d like that, Blaise," she murmured. "I think I’d like that very much."

***

The morning sun crept through the curtains of the guest room, casting long, golden fingers across the tangled sheets. Andromeda stirred, her body aching in ways she hadn't felt in decades. Every muscle felt used, heavy, and deliciously sore.

She opened her eyes to find Blaise watching her. He was propped up on one elbow, his dark face unreadable, his eyes tracing the marks he had left on her skin—the faint bruises on her hips, the hickeys on her neck and collarbone.

He looked older this morning. The "ward" was gone. In his place was the Heir of Zabini, a man who had taken what he wanted and found it to his liking.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

"Morning," she whispered, feeling a sudden, strange shyness. She started to pull the covers up to hide her nakedness, but he grabbed her hand, pinning it to the mattress.

"Don't," he said. "I want to see you. I want to see what I did."

He reached out and ran a finger over the curve of her breast, the nipple still sensitive and swollen.

"Are you going to tell Ted?" he asked, his voice casual, as if asking about the weather.

Andromeda looked away. The thought of Ted felt like something from a distant, boring dream. "I... I don't know."

"You won't," Blaise said with a terrifying certainty. He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers. "Because if you tell him, it ends. And you don't want it to end, do you?"

He moved his hand down, his fingers finding the slickness between her legs—the evidence of his seed and her desire. He slid a finger inside her, making her gasp.

"You're already getting wet for me again," he chuckled. "You're a greedy thing, Andromeda. A beautiful, high-born, greedy thing."

He rolled on top of her, his heavy weight pinning her down. He didn't need words. He didn't need excuses about culture anymore. The mask was off.

"Again," he commanded.

And Andromeda, the former pride of the House of Black, the wife of a respected lawyer, and the mother of an Auror, simply opened her legs and pulled him down into her.

The summer was far from over. And for Blaise Zabini, the path to his revenge was looking much, much sweeter than he had ever imagined.

He would destroy the men who killed his mother. But first, he would enjoy the spoils of the world they had left him. And as he buried himself in Andromeda once more, hearing her cry out his name in a voice raw with worship, he knew that he had already won his first major conquest.

The silence of the Tonks house was gone forever, replaced by the rhythmic, carnal sounds of a boy becoming a man, and a woman finally, truly, waking up.

***


Over the next few days, a new rhythm established itself. It was a dance of shadows and skin.

When Ted called through the Floo, Andromeda stood by the fireplace, her voice steady and her expression serene, while Blaise stood just out of sight, his hand up her skirt, his fingers rhythmically stroking her clitoris. She would discuss the mundane details of the law conference, her eyes glazing over as she struggled to keep her breathing even.

"Yes, dear... that sounds lovely... take your time coming home," she would say, her voice hitching as Blaise’s thumb found the perfect spot.

When she finally ended the call, she would turn into his arms, her dignity crumbling as she begged him to finish what he started.

They used every room in the house. The kitchen table, where he bent her over the scrubbed wood while the kettle whistled; the library, where he sat in Ted’s favorite armchair and made her ride him while he read through the Zabini family ledgers; the bathroom, where the steam obscured their reflections as he held her against the tiles.

Blaise was a demanding lover. He was inventive, tireless, and obsessed with her pleasure as much as his own. He liked to watch her. He liked to make her do things she had never dreamed of.

"Tell me you love it," he would hiss, his hands gripping her hair.

"I love it," she would moan, her face flushed with shame and ecstasy. "I love it, Blaise. Please, more. Give me more."

He was training her, she realized. Not just as a lover, but as an ally. He shared his thoughts with her—his plans for the families who had betrayed his mother. He spoke of the Malfoys with a chilling detachment.

"Lucius thinks he is the king of the board," Blaise said one evening, his head resting on her naked lap as they sat in the garden under the concealment charms. "But he is just a pawn. A frightened, aging pawn. When I return to Hogwarts, I will dismantle his son’s influence. I will take everything from them, piece by piece."

Andromeda stroked his brow, her heart swelling with a dark, protective pride. She knew the Malfoys. She knew the master they served. Her former family had done the same. And she knew that Blaise was something different.

He wasn't a servant of the Dark Lord. He was his own master.

"I will help you," she whispered. "I know the secrets of certain old families. I know the old blood ties."

Blaise sat up, his eyes flashing. He reached out and cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip.

"You would betray your sister's husband for me?"

"I would betray the world for this," she said, gesturing to the two of them.

Blaise smiled, a rare, genuine expression that didn't reach his eyes but warmed his face. He leaned in, kissing her deeply, a kiss that tasted of a dark, forbidden future.

"Then we are more than guardian and ward," he said. "We are partners."

He pulled her down onto the grass, the cool blades tickling her skin as he moved between her legs once more.

"And partners," he whispered, his cock sliding into her with a familiar, grounding heat, "should always be in sync."

As August drew to a close, the air began to turn crisp. The departure for Hogwarts loomed like a shadow over their bubble of lust and conspiracy.

Ted was due back permanently in two days. Nymphadora had sent word she would be home for a final dinner before the school term started.

The reality of their situation was crashing back in, but neither of them wanted to acknowledge it.

On their final night alone, Andromeda went to him. Not with lace or games, but with a quiet, desperate intensity. They didn't speak. They simply moved together, their bodies entwined in a slow, mournful fuck that felt like a goodbye and a promise.

When it was over, Blaise held her in the dark and declared.

"I’ll be back. For you. And when I am back, you will help me bring more Zabini's into the world."