Julian Malfoy's Magical Wand - 1 (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. All characters are aged up (above 18) and are consenting adults. This is a work of fiction and does not resemble reality in any way whatsoever.

Someone reported this again so had to reupload. At this rate, I will simply stop writing smut guys, just stop this is getting really annoying.

Chapter 1

~ Victoire Weasley ~

The rain battered against the high, arched windows of the Astronomy Tower’s lower storage annex, a rhythmic tapping that isolated the world outside from the heated, desperation within it. It was a forgotten room, layered in the dust of decades, smelling of parchment, old stone, and the tang of neglected enchantments. But tonight, that scent was overpowered by something far more primal: the heavy musk of arousal, the sharp salt of sweat, and the intoxicating, iron-rich aura of Malfoy magic.Victoire Weasley, the only daughter of Bill and Fleur, a girl who had grown up surrounded by the rough-and-tumble warmth of the Weasley bunch, found herself craving the exact opposite. She didn’t want warmth. She didn’t want safety. She wanted the ice. She wanted the sharpness of a diamond that could cut.

She wanted Julian Malfoy.At twenty-one, in her final N.E.W.T. year, Victoire was a vision of radiant, rebellious beauty. Her silver-blonde hair, a gift from her Veela heritage, was currently plastered to her forehead, damp with sweat and spit. Her robes were thrown carelessly over a dusty lectern, her shirt torn open, her skirt hiked up around her waist.She was pinned against a heavy stone desk, her back arching off the cold surface as Julian drove into her.Julian. The name alone carried a weight in the corridors of Hogwarts that no other name could match. He was the scion of two ancient, noble houses—the Greengrass sharpness and the Malfoy pride. He was taller than his father, broader in the shoulder, moving with a predatory grace that made the other boys in their year look like stumbling children. He possessed a face carved from marble, eyes the colour of a stormy sea, and a mouth that curled perpetually into a sneer of boredom—until he looked at her.But it was the physical reality of him that had enslaved her. The rumours whispered in the girls' dormitories, the giggled secrets behind cupped hands in the library—they were all true, yet they were all understatements. Julian Malfoy possessed a cock like no other, a monstrous, heavy endowment that defied logic. A literal third leg and Victoire... she had become hopelessly addicted. "Gods," she gasped, her head thrown back, exposing the long, pale column of her throat. "Julian… harder."He obliged, not with the frantic energy of a boy, but with the terrifying, controlled power of a man who knew he owned the room and everything in it. His hands, large and elegant with long fingers, gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into her soft flesh, bruising it just enough to leave a mark she would cherish later.He withdrew almost completely, the friction maddening, stretching her widely, before slamming back in with a guttural thrust that knocked the breath from her lungs.Thwack.The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed off the stone walls, louder than the thunder outside."You take it so well, Weasley," Julian murmured, his voice so low that it vibrated through her chest. He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. "So greedy. Like you were made for this. Made to be split open by me."Victoire whimpered, her legs locking tighter around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. The sensation was overwhelming. He was so incredibly thick that she felt full to the point of bursting, every inch of her interior moulded around his cock. He was not just making love to her, with every stroke, he was claiming her, rewriting her mind, scrubbing away the Weasley wholesome humility and replacing it with thirst for him and his.She loved it. She loved the pain of the stretch, the fullness that made her toes curl, the sheer, undeniable weight of him inside her."I am…" she panted, her hands scrabbling for grip on the stone desk, knocking over a rusted astrolabe. "I am yours… fuck… Julian!"He didn’t speed up. He kept the pace agonizingly slow and deep, grinding his pelvis against hers at the apex of each thrust, hitting that sweet, deep spot inside her—her cervix being kissed with each thrust—with a precision that made her vision blur. He was a master of his own magic and his desires, and right now, his desire was to reduce her to a quivering mess.He pulled back again, looking down at her. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the grey iris. There was no love there in the traditional sense, but there was possession. Absolute, unwavering possession."Look at you," he sneered softly, a smile playing on his lips that was both cruel and appreciative. "A Weasley, begging for a Malfoy. Your father would vomit if he could see his little girl now."The mention of her father sent a jolt through her—not of shame, but of something darker. Rebellion. Spite. And a twisted idea that had been germinating in her mind for weeks."My father…" she managed to choke out as he thrust again, hard, making her gasp. "He… he doesn't know… anything about… what women need."Julian raised an eyebrow, his rhythm never faltering. "Is that so? And I suppose you're the expert on what women need?""I know what I need," she moaned, her nails raking down his forearms, leaving red trails on the pale skin. "I need this. I need you to break me.""I am breaking you, Victoire," he replied, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "I can feel you twitching around me. I can feel you falling apart."He adjusted his angle, lifting her hips higher, driving deeper than she thought possible. It felt as though he were touching her soul, rearranging her insides with the blunt force of his cock. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on agony, a white-hot blinding light behind her eyelids."Julian," she gasped, the words tumbling out of her in a rush. "My mother…"He paused for a microsecond, the rhythm hitching. "Your mother?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement. "A bit distracted, aren't we? Or are you trying to tell me something?"Victoire looked up at him, her blue eyes hazy with lust but burning with a sudden, sharp clarity. She reached up, cupping his face, her thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw."She’s so lonely, Julian," she whispered, the confession spilling out into the charged air between them. "My father… Bill… he’s always away. Egypt. Romania. Chasing curses, chasing glory. He leaves her alone at Shell Cottage for months."Julian resumed his movement, slow and grinding, watching her face closely. "And?""She’s starving," Victoire hissed, arching her back as he hit her deep again. "She’s starving for a real man. She’s wilting, Julian. A flower without sun. She needs… this."She tightened her internal muscles around him, squeezing him with a desperate strength. Julian groaned, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second as the sensation nearly sent him over the edge."You’re talking about Fleur Delacour," Julian said, his voice rougher now. "The Triwizard Champion.""I’m talking about my mother," Victoire corrected, her voice breathless. "She’s still beautiful. More beautiful than me, some say. But she’s sad. She needs to be reminded she’s a woman. She needs a cock like yours."Julian stopped moving. He held himself deep inside her, filling her completely, like a massive, anchoring weight dropped into the depths of her ocean. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the rain and her ragged whimpering. He stared at her, searching for the lie, searching for the trick. But there was only raw, unfiltered desire in her eyes—a desire not just for her own pleasure, but for a twisted, shared experience.His eyes darkened, the grey turning to slate. His grip on her hips tightened until his knuckles turned white, his fingers digging in painfully. The image she had planted—the legendary Fleur Delacour, lonely and desperate—ignited a dark fire in his gut."You want me to ruin your mother, Victoire?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous."I want you to show her what a real man can do," she whimpered, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure and the thrill of the taboo she was brokering. "Make her your plaything. Break her like you break me. She won’t resist. She can’t. Not with you."Julian smirked, a slow, predatory expression that chilled the air. He withdrew slowly, the friction intense, before slamming back into her one final time, hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt."If that is what you want," he whispered against her lips, "then who am I to deny a lady her wish?"He began to move again, faster now, abandoning the slow torture for a brutal, rhythmic pounding that drove Victoire into a state of mindless bliss. She screamed his name, her mind fracturing into white light, her only coherent thought the anticipation of seeing him take what was hers, and what was her mother's.

~ Fleur Delacour ~The Cornish coast was a painting of greys and blues, the sky bleeding into the turbulent expanse of the water. Shell Cottage stood as a solitary structure against the wind, a place of breathtaking beauty and crushing isolation.Fleur Delacour-Weasley stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, critically assessing her reflection. At forty-three, time had been kind—more than kind, actually. Her Veela blood was a preservative against the mundane ravages of age. Her skin was still as smooth and pale as alabaster, her hair a cascading river of liquid silver. Her figure had ripened, the girlish slenderness of her youth evolving into the lush, dangerous curves of a woman grown. Her breasts were full and heavy, her waist nipped in, her hips flaring wide in a way that had made heads turn in Diagon Alley just last week.But there was a weariness in her deep blue eyes that no glamour charm could hide.Bill was gone. Again. Egypt, this time. Something about a newly discovered tomb in the Valley of the Kings that required his specific expertise in ward-breaking. He had kissed her cheek, packed his bag, and left a week ago. The letters were sporadic, filled with dust and excitement about hieroglyphs, devoid of the passion she craved.She touched her neck, her fingers trailing down to the hollow of her throat. She felt… unused. Like a fine sword left in a scabbard to rust. Her body was a temple, but it was an empty one. The loneliness was a physical ache, a coldness that seeped into her bones despite the roaring fire within her.A crack of apparition outside the wards snapped her from her reverie.Fleur smoothed the fabric of her dress—a deep navy silk that clung to her curves like a second skin—and composed herself. She took a deep breath, summoning the mask of the perfect hostess, the composed mother. Victoire was visiting from Hogwarts for the weekend, and she was bringing a guest.She descended the stairs, the sound of her heels clicking on the hardwood, just as the front door opened. The wind gusted in, bringing the scent of the sea and rain, and then, two figures stepped into the light of the hallway."Maman!" Victoire cried out, shaking off her damp cloak. She looked vibrant, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous energy that Fleur hadn't seen in years."Victoire, chérie," Fleur smiled, stepping forward to embrace her daughter. The girl felt electric, buzzing with life."And this," Victoire said, stepping aside with a flourish, "is Julian Malfoy."Fleur’s gaze shifted, and her breath hitched in her throat.She had expected a boy. A student. Perhaps awkward, perhaps arrogant, but a child nonetheless.Julian Malfoy was no child.He stood in the entryway, brushing raindrops from the shoulder of his tailored black coat. He was tall, looming over Victoire, with a build that spoke of Quidditch and disciplined strength. His hair was the signature Malfoy platinum, but cut shorter, sharper than his father’s had been. But it was his magical aura that struck Fleur with the force of a physical blow.Her Veela senses, usually dormant, flared to life. She could smell the magic on him—it was rich, dark, and incredibly potent. It wafted off him in intoxicating waves, a musk of old power and supreme confidence. It was the scent of a predator.He looked up, his grey eyes locking onto hers. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no shyness. He looked at her not as a friend’s mother, but as a woman. His eyes swept down her body, taking in the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts beneath the silk, and then returned to her face with a knowing, heavy lidded look."Mrs. Weasley," he said, stepping forward and extending a hand. His voice was smooth, cultured, wrapped in velvet. "It is an honour. Victoire has told me so much about you."Fleur took his hand. His grip was firm, his skin warm. A shock of static electricity zap passed between them, and she felt a sudden, distinct dampness between her thighs. She fought to keep her composure, her heart hammering against her ribs.“Monsieur Malfoy,” she replied, her French accent thickening slightly as it always did when she was flustered. “Welcome to Shell Cottage. Please, come in. Let me take your coat.”

As he turned to allow her to help him with the coat, she found herself staring at the breadth of his back, the way the muscles shifted under his shirt. He was elegant, yes, but there was a brutality underneath the elegance. A wolf in a bespoke suit."Dinner is almost ready," Fleur said, her voice sounding breathless to her own ears. “I ’ope you like seafood.”

"I have a voracious appetite," Julian said, turning back to face her. His eyes held a glint of amusement, as if he knew exactly what effect he was having on her. "For the right things."The dinner was an exercise in torture.Fleur had prepared a Bouillabaisse, a nod to her heritage, accompanied by a crisp white wine. The dining room was lit by floating candles, casting dancing shadows against the walls. Outside, the ocean roared, but inside, the tension was a quiet, suffocating thing.Julian sat across from Victoire, with Fleur at the head of the table. He ate with impeccable manners, dissecting his prawns with surgical precision. He engaged Fleur in conversation, effortlessly switching from discussing the intricacies of international magical law to the subtle art of enchanting. Things that interested Fleur Delacour.He was brilliant. Far more intelligent than the Weasley men, who often preferred Quidditch scores to intellectual debate. He challenged Fleur, listened to her opinions with intensity, and made her feel, for the first time in years, intellectually stimulated.But it was the physical dynamic that was slowly driving her mad.Victoire was behaving… strangely. Or perhaps, shamelessly was the better word.As Fleur poured more wine into Julian’s glass, she noticed Victoire’s foot. She had slipped off her shoe and was sliding her toes up the inside of Julian’s calf, under the table. Julian didn’t even blink, continuing his sentence about the Goblin rebellions without a hitch, though his hand dipped below the table briefly, likely to grip Victoire’s ankle."The history books are written by the victors, of course," Julian was saying, his eyes fixed on Fleur’s lips. "But true power… true power doesn't need a history book. It simply is.""Do you seek power, Julian?" Fleur asked, taking a sip of wine to cool the heat rising in her chest."I seek excellence," he corrected softly. "And I seek possession of what is rare and beautiful."Victoire let out a small, breathless giggle. She shifted in her chair, turning slightly so that her profile was to Fleur, but her body was angled toward Julian."Julian is very possessive, Maman," Victoire said, her voice dripping with suggestion. She picked up a strawberry from the fruit platter and bit into it, juice staining her lip. "He takes what he wants."Fleur watched, mesmerized and appalled, as Victoire leaned forward. "Tell her, Julian. Tell her what you do to things you want."Julian’s gaze didn’t waver from Fleur. "I cherish them," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I explore every inch of them. I make sure they know who they belong to."Fleur felt a flush spread from her chest up to her neck. The air in the room was thick with pheromones. She could smell Victoire’s arousal—sharp and sweet—and Julian’s darker, muskier scent. It made her head swim.Then, Victoire did the unthinkable.While Fleur was clearing the appetizer plates, she returned to the dining room to find Victoire standing by Julian’s chair. She wasn’t just standing; she was grinding her ass against his arm, her hip pressing into his shoulder. She looked at her mother, her eyes glazed, lips parted."Victoire," Fleur scolded weakly, setting the main course down. “Be’ave yourself."

"Why?" Victoire challenged, her voice husky. She turned and straddled Julian’s leg right there at the table, her skirt riding up high on her thighs. "Julian doesn't mind. Do you, Julian?"Julian looked up at Fleur, a challenge in his eyes. He placed a large hand on Victoire’s hip, his fingers splaying wide, kneading the flesh. "She is spirited," he said smoothly. "I find it… invigorating."Fleur stood frozen, the wine bottle in her hand. She should stop this. She should demand propriety. She was Fleur Delacour, a woman of dignity. But her Veela blood was singing, screaming at her to join them, or at least to watch.She saw the outline of Julian’s erection through his trousers—a massive, thick ridge that Victoire was currently rubbing herself against. The sheer size of the bulge was intimidating, promising a fullness that Fleur hadn't felt in… perhaps ever."Sit down, Maman," Victoire purred, leaning back against Julian’s chest, her head resting on his shoulder. "We're Veela. We're all adults here."Fleur sat. Her legs were trembling. Her panties were soaked, the silk uncomfortable against her sensitive flesh. She watched as Julian whispered something in Victoire’s ear that made the girl shudder and grind harder against him."You have a lovely home, Fleur," Julian said, using her first name for the first time. The sound of it on his tongue was like a caress. "But it feels… empty. Cold.""My 'usband travels," Fleur said defensively, though her voice lacked conviction."A man who leaves a woman like you alone in a house like this," Julian said, his eyes darkening, "is a fool. If you were mine, I would never leave these walls."Victoire moaned as Julian’s hand slid higher up her thigh, disappearing beneath her skirt. "He has a big appetite, Maman," Victoire gasped, looking at Fleur with heavy eyes. "He’s never satisfied. Are you, Julian?""Rarely," he murmured. His hand moved under the skirt, and Victoire bit her lip to stifle a scream.Fleur watched, unable to look away. She saw the movement of his wrist, the way Victoire’s hips bucked involuntarily. She imagined those long fingers touching her, exploring her. She rubbed her thighs together under the table, a desperate attempt to friction away the ache."Victoire says you are lonely," Julian said, his gaze piercing Fleur’s soul. He didn’t stop touching the daughter, but his attention was entirely on the mother. "I am… accustomed to solitude," Fleur lied."Liar," Victoire hissed, her head thrown back. "She wants it, Julian. Look at her. She wants it just as much as I do.""Victoire!" Fleur exclaimed, the vulgarity shocking her, though the truth of it burned.Julian withdrew his hand from Victoire’s skirt, wiping a slick sheen of moisture onto a napkin with deliberate slowness. Victoire whimpered at the loss of contact, sliding off his leg and falling back into her chair, panting."We should respect your mother's hospitality, Victoire," Julian said, though his tone was anything but respectful. It was the tone of a man delaying gratification. 

The rest of the evening was a blur of sexual tension and desire. They moved to the sitting room. Julian drank Firewhisky, his presence filling the room. Victoire lay nuzzling his lap, stretched across the sofa with Julian's hand on her hips. Fleur sat in her armchair, a book open on her lap that she didn’t read, her entire body attuned to the man across from her.Every time their eyes met, she felt stripped bare. He knew. He knew she was wet. He knew she was lonely. He knew she was jealous of her own daughter.When Sunday came, and they prepared to leave for the apparition point, the air at Shell Cottage felt heavy.Fleur walked them to the edge of the wards. The rain had returned, a light drizzle that misted her hair."Thank you for the weekend, Mrs. Weasley," Julian said. He stood close to her, closer than necessary. The heat radiating from him was palpable."You are welcome," Fleur whispered.Victoire kissed her mother on the cheek. "We'll be back next weekend, Maman," she whispered, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "Make sure you're ready."Julian took Fleur’s hand again. This time, he didn’t just shake it. He raised it to his lips, kissing the knuckles, his eyes holding hers. Then, he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of her palm. His tongue darted out for a split second, tasting her skin.Fleur gasped, her knees nearly buckling."Until next week, Fleur," he murmured.With a crack, they were gone.Fleur stood alone on the cliffside, the wind whipping her dress around her legs. She looked at her palm, still tingling from his touch. She pressed it against her cheek, inhaling the scent he had left behind along with an imprint of his magic.She turned back to the empty, cold cottage. Next weekend.Seven days.She walked back inside, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm. She went straight to her bedroom, to the drawer where she kept a stash of self-inking quills and parchment. She needed to write to Bill. But as she sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection—at the flush in her cheeks, the hunger in her eyes—she realized she had nothing to say to her husband.Instead, she looked at the calendar.Seven days.She moved her hand down her body, over the curve of her breast, down to the ache between her legs. She closed her eyes and pictured grey eyes, platinum hair, and the promise of a weight that could finally fill the void."Julian," she whispered into the silence of the room.And for the first time in years, the silence didn't feel lonely.

It felt like anticipation.

Author’s Note

A new smut story, limited chapters but it will deliver you all with a good time. Warning from the get go, this will be smut centric and not as driven by the plot as my other stories. Find Victoire's image up there.

Drop reviews and thoughts in the comments.

 Enjoy.