Beyond the rules - Vedros
Chapter 35: Bar Trouble
As he approached the pub, Harry flicked his wand, muttering a low incantation under his breath. A shimmer of magic rippled over him, his features shifting. His jawline sharpened, his nose took on a slight hook, and his hair lightened to a nondescript brown. Only his eyes stayed the same, that striking emerald green cutting through the glamour like a beacon. He gave his reflection a quick check in a small window nearby, satisfied that no one would clock him as Harry Potter tonight. With a nod, he tucked his wand away.
The pub's sign creaked faintly as he approached, the warm glow from the windows spilling out onto the cobblestones. He pushed the door open, the bell above jingling softly, and stepped inside. The place was dead—empty tables stretched out under the low beams, the fire in the hearth crackling quietly. Only Madam Rosmerta stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with a rag, her face etched into one of concern. She looked up at the sound, and her face lit up with that familiar, flirtatious smile as her eyes raked over him.
"Well, hello there," she said, her voice warm and teasing, dripping with a honeyed edge that made it clear she was already sizing him up. She set the glass down with an audible clink, leaning forward just enough to give him a tantalizing view of her curves, her low-cut blouse straining against her chest in a way that was impossible to ignore. Her blonde hair was swept back, a few strands falling loose to frame her face, and her lips curved wider as she took him in, her gaze lingering a little too long. "Don't think I've seen you round here before, stranger."
Harry let his eyes wander, trailing over her figure—those wide, flaring hips hugged tightly by her skirt, and the way her blouse clung to every dip and swell of her curves. He couldn't help the slight quirk of his lips as he sauntered over, hands shoved casually in his pockets.
"Evening," he said, keeping his tone light but letting a hint of a drawl slip in, just enough to match her vibe. "Quiet night, eh?"
'Ooh, look at her,' Maria's voice purred in his head, gleeful and practically vibrating with excitement. 'She's literally begging for it, Harry. Go on, charm her knickers off—I want a front-row seat to this show.'
Harry expertly ignored her, sliding into a seat at the bar with an easy confidence. Rosmerta's smile stretched wider, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she sashayed closer, resting her elbows on the counter so her cleavage was right in his line of sight.
"Quiet's one way to put it," she said, her voice dropping low and sultry. "Just me and the fire tonight—till you walked in and lit the place up, that is. What can I do for you, handsome?"
"Pint of bitter and some fish and chips, cheers," he said, meeting her gaze head-on, letting his eyes flick down to her lips for a split second before locking back on hers. "Been a long day—could use something warm to take the edge off."
"Coming right up," she replied, her tone dipping into something almost suggestive as she straightened, giving him another eyeful of her curves before turning to fetch his order. Her perky rear swayed with every step, and Harry watched, leaning back in his chair, letting the tension from earlier melt away as she worked.
Maria piped up again, relentless. 'You're wasting time, you prat. She's flirting her arse off—give her a wink, get her over here. Bet she'd climb over that bar and into your lap if you played it right.'
'Shut it, will you?' he thought, keeping his focus on Rosmerta as she returned with his pint. She set it down with a little flourish, her fingers brushing his hand—soft and intentional, lingering just long enough to send a spark up his arm.
"There you go, love," she said, her voice a warm caress as she stayed close, her hip cocked against the bar. "Food'll be out in a tick. So, stranger, what brings you to Hogsmeade? Not often I see a new face—especially one as striking as yours."
Harry took a slow sip of his pint, letting the bitter taste roll over his tongue, and raised a brow, leaning forward just a touch. "Striking, eh? You must see a fair few faces in here—reckon you'd remember them all, or am I just special?"
She laughed, a rich, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine, and leaned in closer, her hair brushing the counter as she propped her chin on her hand. "Oh, I've got a good memory for the ones worth remembering. And you, love, I'd not forget in a hurry. Those eyes of yours—they're something else. Like they're daring me to figure you out."
"Cheers," he said, smirking as he set the pint down, letting his fingers linger on the glass. "Maybe I'll stick around, give you something proper to remember me by. Wouldn't want to disappoint a woman with such a sharp eye."
Her eyes sparkled, and she shifted, resting a hand on her hip in a way that pulled her blouse tighter across her chest. Her tits strained against the fabric, her cleavage even more pronounced, and a part of him urged him to take the invitation.
"I'd like that," she replied, smirking as she caught his appreciative gaze. "Could use some decent company round here. Gets lonely, you know, just me and the regulars—none of them half as interesting as you."
"Lonely's no good," he replied, his tone teasing as he let his gaze dip again, slow and filled with appreciation, before flicking back up to her face. "Reckon I could keep you entertained for a bit—maybe more than a bit, if you're lucky."
"Promises, promises," she shot back, her grin widening as she mirrored his leaning stance, closing the gap between them until he could smell the faint lavender on her skin. "Big talk for a bloke who's just walked in. You'll have to prove you're worth my time, handsome."
"Oh, I'm worth it," he said, his voice dropping low, a playful edge to it as he held her stare. "Bet I could keep you smiling all night—maybe even blushing, if I'm on form."
She bit her lip, just for a second, and the air between them crackled with raw, sexual tension. "Blushing, eh? That's a tall order—I don't fluster easy. But I'll give you a shot. You've got a cheeky spark about you—I like that."
"Cheeky's my middle name," he quipped, taking another sip of his pint and letting his eyes linger on her lips again. "Well, that and trouble. Reckon you can handle a bit of both?"
"Handle it?" she said, arching a brow as she leaned in even closer, her voice a husky whisper. "Love, I could run circles round you and still have energy to spare. Question is, can you keep up with me?"
He chuckled, low and warm, setting his pint down and resting his arm on the bar, close enough that their fingers nearly brushed. "I'm a quick learner. Give me a chance, and I'll have you eating out of my hand by closing time."
"Eating out of your hand?" She laughed again, tossing her head back so her hair caught the firelight, and then fixed him with a look that was pure challenge. "Bold one, aren't you? I'd rather see you try to keep me on my toes—takes more than a pretty face and a smooth line to impress me."
"Pretty face, eh?" he said, grinning as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "And here I thought it was my charm you were after. Guess I'll have to up my game—maybe throw in a wink or two, see if that does the trick."
She smirked, reaching out to tap his hand lightly with her fingers, her touch warm and teasing. "A wink might get you halfway, but you'll need more than that to win me over. I've had blokes try all sorts in here—takes a special kind to stick in my mind."
"Lucky for you, I'm one of a kind," he shot back, catching her hand before she could pull it away and giving it a quick, playful squeeze. "Stick around me long enough, and you'll be dreaming about those winks."
She didn't pull her hand back right away, letting it linger in his grip as her eyes danced with amusement. "Dreaming, huh? You're cocky—I like that too. Maybe I'll keep you around just to see how far that confidence takes you."
"Far as you want it to," he said, releasing her hand with a slow slide of his fingers, letting the contact linger. "I've got all night to show you I'm not just talk."
"Better not be," she replied, straightening up but keeping her eyes locked on his, her tone dripping with flirtation. "I'd hate to waste a quiet night on a bloke who can't deliver. So, what's your next move, charmer?"
He tilted his head, pretending to think it over, before he flashed her a grin. "Reckon I'll start with the fish and chips—gotta keep my strength up if I'm gonna keep you on your toes. After that? Maybe I'll steal you away from that bar for a proper chat—see if I can make you laugh as hard as you're making me smile."
She laughed again, that rich sound filling the empty pub, and turned to grab his food from the kitchen hatch. "Steal me away? You've got ambition—I'll give you that. Let's see how you do with the food first, then we'll talk about the rest."
She slid the plate of steaming fish and chips in front of him, leaning in close as she did, her breath brushing his ear for a split second. "Dig in, love. Tell me what you think—I don't skimp on the portions, and I don't skimp on anything else either."
He picked up a chip, popping it in his mouth, and nodded, letting his eyes flick up to hers. "Spot on. You've got a knack for this—and not just the cooking, I reckon."
"Years of practice," she said, watching him eat with a pleased, almost predatory look. "So, you never answered proper—what's a bloke like you doing in a quiet place like this? Looking for trouble, or just a pretty face to flirt with?"
"Just passing through," he said between bites, keeping it vague but letting his tone stay playful. "Needed a break, somewhere out of the way. Found the pretty face by accident—best bit of luck I've had all week."
"Flatterer," she teased, propping a hand on her hip again, her skirt shifting just enough to draw his eye. "You're good at this, I'll give you that. Keep it up, and I might just let you stay past closing."
"Past closing?" he said, raising a brow as he leaned forward, his voice a low rumble. "Careful what you offer—I might take you up on it and then some."
She smirked, leaning in to match him, her lips inches from his. "Oh, I'm counting on it, handsome. Night's young—let's see how much trouble we can stir up."
"Deal," he said, grinning as he popped another chip in his mouth. It had not been in his plans, but he'd be lying if he said he'd never had hots for this buxom bombshell of a barmaid. The air between them was buzzing with heat and promise.
That was, until the door banged open, shattering the quiet.
A group of five wizards and witches stumbled in, clad in ragged black cloaks, their voices loud and slurred. The stench of cheap firewhisky hit the room before they did, and Harry gave them a quick glance—rough-looking, unshaven, wands dangling carelessly from their hands.
Snatchers, by the look of them, though not the sharpest ones.
Rosmerta's face soured instantly, her flirtatious glow dimming as she muttered under her breath.
"Bloody hell, why do they have to keep coming here? Piss off, the lot of you."
Harry raised a brow, keeping his tone low. "Trouble?"
She sighed, crossing her arms as she glared at the group. "You could say that. With You-Know-Who back, his little minions have been stirring trouble up the countryside. Snatchers, mostly—petty thugs who think they're big shots. Don't usually come this close to Hogwarts, but these idiots don't care. Been a nuisance round the village the last few nights."
"What've they been up to?" he asked, taking another bite of his fish, though his eyes flicked back to the group as they sprawled across a table in the corner.
"Nothing too serious—yet," she said, her voice tight. "Petty stuff, mostly. Harassing folk, nicking drinks they don't pay for, demanding 'protection money' from the shops. Last night, they tipped over old Aberforth's bins, laughed like it was the funniest thing. Night before, they cornered poor ol' Puddifoot little ways from her tea shop on High Street, made her hand over a few Galleons to leave her alone. Not terror, just… annoying. Still, it's got people jumpy."
Harry frowned, chewing slowly. "Sounds like a right pain. They ever push it further?"
"Not so far," she admitted, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. "But I don't like the look of them. They're drunk tonight—might get bold. I just want them gone."
He nodded, glancing at the group again. They were getting louder, banging fists on the table, and one of them—a wiry bloke with a patchy beard—shouted across the room. "Oi, Rosmerta! Get your arse over here—bring us some grub and ale, now!"
Her jaw tightened, and she shot Harry a look that said 'stay put' before raising her voice. "Hold your horses, I'm coming!"
"Move it, you lazy cow!" another one barked—a stocky man with a crooked nose—laughing as his mates joined in. "What's a bloke got to do to get served round here? Flash you a smile? Or would you rather have a flash of another kind?"
Harry shifted in his seat, his hand twitching toward his wand. The way they were talking to her—crude and vile—set his teeth on edge. He started to push up, but Rosmerta's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with surprising strength.
"Don't," she whispered, her voice urgent. "'S'not worth it. They'll make it worse for me if you start something."
"They're being pricks," he said, keeping his voice low but firm. "You don't have to put up with that."
"I know," she said, her grip tightening. "But you'll leave after your meal, and I'm stuck here. They'll take it out on me if you stir them up. Please—just let it be."
He didn't like it—not one bit. His gut twisted at the thought of sitting there while they treated her like dirt, but her eyes were pleading, and he could see the fear behind them. Reluctantly, he sank back into his seat, his jaw clenched. "Fine. But I don't like it."
"Neither do I," she muttered, letting go of his hand and grabbing a tray. "Stay put, alright? I'll handle them."
She moved off, piling the tray with tankards and a plate of bread and cheese—nothing fancy, just enough to shut them up. Harry watched, his food forgotten, as she carried it over to their table. The group hooted as she approached, the wiry bloke leaning back with a leer.
"About bloody time, love," he slurred, snatching a tankard off the tray so fast it sloshed over the edge, soaking his sleeve. He didn't seem to notice, just guzzled it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thought we'd have to come drag you over here ourselves, you slow slag."
"Keep your hands to yourself," she snapped, setting the tray down with a thud that rattled the tankards. But the stocky witch with greasy hair and a gap-toothed grin reached out anyway, grabbing at Rosmerta's skirt with a drunken giggle.
"Come on, Rosie, give us a twirl," she cackled, tugging hard enough to make Rosmerta stumble forward, nearly dropping the tray entirely. "Show us what you're hiding under there! Bet it's nothing worth seeing, eh? All dried up and saggy!"
"Get off!" Rosmerta yanked back, her voice sharp as she regained her footing, but the wiry bloke joined in, his hand darting out to pinch her hip. She swatted at him, her face flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment, and the others roared with laughter, slamming their fists on the table like it was the best show they'd seen all week.
"Feisty tonight, eh?" he sneered, grabbing her wrist as she tried to pull away. His grip was tight, his dirty nails digging into her skin, and he yanked her closer, his sour breath hitting her face. "Maybe we'll stick around, keep you company. Bet you're lonely, running this dump all by yourself. What's a washed-up barmaid like you got to do all night, huh?"
"Let go," she hissed, twisting her arm, but he just tightened his hold, his grin widening as his mates egged him on.
"Aw, don't be like that, Rosie," the stocky man with the crooked nose chimed in, leaning forward with a mocking pout. "We're your best customers! Where's that famous charm you're supposed to have? Or did it dry up with the rest of you? Maybe you need a real man to loosen you up!"
The witch cackled again, spilling her ale as she gestured wildly. "Yeah, loosen her up! She's so stiff she'd snap in half if she tried to have some fun. Look at her—thinks she's too good for us, but she's just a sad old cow pouring drinks for losers."
Rosmerta's face was a storm cloud now, her lips pressed into a thin line as she finally wrenched her wrist free, stumbling back a step. "I said get off, you filthy sods! Take your bloody drinks and shut up, or I'll—"
"Or you'll what?" the wiry bloke interrupted, standing up so fast his chair tipped over with a crash. He loomed over her, swaying slightly, his wand dangling loosely in his other hand. "What's a slag like you gonna do? Hex us? You're too slow and too stupid to pull that off. Go on, try it—give us a laugh!"
"Bet she couldn't even charm a flea off a dog," the stocky witch snorted, tossing a crust of bread at Rosmerta. It bounced off her shoulder, and the group howled, the sound grating and wild. "Look at her, all red in the face—poor thing's gonna cry!"
"I'm not crying," Rosmerta snapped, brushing the crumbs off with a furious swipe. "I'm just sick of you lot stinking up my pub. You want to eat? Then eat and get out. I've got better things to do than listen to your rubbish."
"Better things?" the crooked-nose man jeered, snatching a piece of cheese off the tray and shoving it into his mouth, crumbs spraying as he talked. "Like what? Polishing glasses nobody uses? Face it, Rosie, this place is dead, and you're the only sad sack dumb enough to stick around. We're doing you a favor, keeping you busy!"
"Yeah, you should thank us," the wiry bloke added, stepping closer again, his boots scuffing the floor. He reached out, this time grabbing a handful of her apron and tugging it hard enough to make her stagger. "Come on, say it—'Thank you, kind sirs, for gracing my shitty little pub.' Go on, Rosie, let's hear it!"
"Piss off," she spat, shoving his hand away, but he just laughed, louder and uglier, and flicked his wand lazily. A jet of sparks shot out, singeing the edge of her apron, and she yelped, jumping back as the smell of burnt fabric mixed with the firewhisky stench.
"Oops," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Clumsy me. Maybe if you weren't so slow, you'd dodge better. What's next, gonna trip over your own feet and bawl about it?"
The stocky witch leaned forward, her voice a mocking sing-song. "Poor widdle Rosie, all alone, can't even handle a few sparks! Maybe we should burn this dump down, do her a favor—put her out of her misery!"
"Or maybe we'll just take what we want," the crooked-nose man said, his tone darkening as he grabbed another tankard and chugged it, letting half of it dribble down his chin. He slammed it down, cracking the wood, and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "You're too stingy with the good stuff, Rosie. Where's the real firewhisky? Bet you're hiding it, you greedy cow. Maybe we'll tear this place apart 'til we find it!"
Harry's chair scraped back an inch, his fingers white-knuckled around his wand under the table. He'd been watching this go on too long, the insults and the grabbing and the sheer bloody nastiness of it all churning his stomach. Rosmerta was holding her own, but the way they were ganging up on her, pushing further with every slurred word—it was unbearable. His pulse thumped in his ears, and he was half a second from jumping up when the wiry bloke made it worse.
He lunged forward, snagging Rosmerta's arm again, and this time he didn't let go, dragging her toward him as she flailed. "Come here, you stuck-up bint—let's see if you're as useless as you look!" he snarled, his mates cheering him on like it was a Quidditch match. The stocky witch grabbed a handful of bread and mashed it into Rosmerta's hair, cackling as crumbs rained down.
"Looks better now!" she shrieked, and the crooked-nose man joined in, flicking his wand to send a stream of ale splashing across Rosmerta's front, soaking her blouse entirely. The group hooted at the sight of her blouse sticking to her chest, hiding little of what lay beneath.
"Much improved!" he roared, eyeing her lecherously as the whole group dissolved into hysterics, banging the table so hard it wobbled.
That was it. Harry was done. His chair flew back with a screech, hitting the wall as he shot to his feet, wand already out. He didn't even bother with words—just flicked it in their direction, a silent Immobulus ripping through the air like a whipcrack.
The spell hit them all mid-laugh, and the group froze, their bodies locking up like they'd been dunked in ice. Tankards clattered to the floor, ale splashing in arcs across the boards, bread and cheese tumbling into the mess. The wiry bloke's hand was still clamped around Rosmerta's arm, his face stuck in a leering grin, while the stocky witch's arm hovered mid-throw, a crust dangling from her fingers. The silence was sudden and total, broken only by Rosmerta's sharp gasp as she stumbled back, free at last.
She stared ahead, wide-eyed, her chest heaving as she took in the scene—the frozen Snatchers, their wild, panicked gazes darting helplessly, before finally locking on to something behind her. She turned slowly, her breath catching, and there he was.
Harry stood in the middle of the pub, his wand raised, and the air around him crackling with raw power. The dim light caught his face, and the glamour flickered, peeling away like smoke in a gust of wind. Those emerald eyes blazed through the disguise, fierce and unyielding, and Rosmerta gasped.
The whole room seemed to shrink under the weight of his presence, the shadows twisting as if the walls themselves were leaning in. Rosmerta's mouth fell open, shock and recognition slamming into her like a hex, and for a long, electric moment, she just stared, caught between awe and disbelief.
"Harry Potter?" she whispered, her eyes wide as she took in Harry standing there, his wand still raised. The pub felt smaller now, the tension thick enough to choke on, but Harry didn't flinch. He lowered his wand just a fraction, keeping it steady, and shot her a quick, lopsided grin—half apology, half reassurance.
"Yeah, reckon the cat's out of the bag," he said, his voice calm but carrying that playful edge she'd been flirting with earlier. "Sorry about the mess."
Rosmerta blinked, then let out a shaky laugh, brushing a hand through her crumb-strewn hair. "Mess? Merlin's beard, Harry, you just turned my night from rubbish to bloody legendary. What are you even doing here?"
"Long story," he replied, stepping closer, his eyes flicking to the Snatchers. "Let's just say I needed a pint and some peace. Didn't expect to play the savior, but here we are."
The Snatchers, still locked in place by the Immobulus, couldn't move, but their eyes darted wildly—some furious, some terrified—as they registered who he was. The wiry bloke's grin was stuck, but his gaze screamed panic. Harry ignored them for now, focusing on Rosmerta as she wiped ale off her soaked blouse, muttering curses under her breath.
"You alright?" he asked, his voice softer this time, and his brow creasing as he took in the state of her—hair a mess, apron singed, and blouse clinging to her in a way that was less flirty now and more humiliating thanks to those clowns.
She nodded, though her jaw was tight. "Didn't expect this, for sure. Should've kept my wand at ready so I could've hexed them myself before they got this far. Bloody pricks."
"Still time for that," Harry said, smirking as he twirled his wand between his fingers. "But I've got an idea—something a bit more fun. You in?"
Her eyes lit up, that mischievous spark from earlier flickering back to life. "Oh, I'm in, handsome. What've you got in mind?"
Harry grinned wider, then turned to the Snatchers, pacing a slow circle around their table. "See, you lot picked the wrong night to be arseholes. Normally, I'd just chuck you out and call it a day, but you've gone and pissed off the wrong barmaid—and me, while we're at it. So, let's make this interesting."
He flicked his wand again, and the Immobulus lifted—just enough for them to move their heads and talk, though their bodies stayed rooted. The wiry bloke sputtered immediately, his voice hoarse. "Potter! You—you can't do this! We're just having a laugh, mate, no harm done!"
"No harm?" Harry raised a brow, glancing at Rosmerta's ruined apron and the ale dripping off her. "Mate, you've got a funny definition of 'laugh.' Reckon it's time you lot learned some manners."
The stocky witch with the greasy hair tried to lunge forward, but her legs wouldn't budge. "You little shit! When we get free, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Harry cut her off, his tone sharp but still casual. "Trip over your own wand and cry about it? Nah, you're staying put. Here's the deal: you're gonna clean up this mess you made—every last drop—and then you're gonna apologise to Rosmerta. Properly."
The crooked-nose man barked a laugh, though it sounded forced. "Apologise? To her? You're off your rocker, Potter. We don't bow to some barmaid."
Harry tilted his head, his grin turning dangerous. "See, that's where you're wrong. You're not bowing—you're groveling. And if you don't, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve that'll make you wish you'd stayed home tonight."
He didn't wait for their response. With a quick jab of his wand, he cast a silent levitation charm and the spilled tankards, bread crusts, and cheese chunks floated up from the floor. The Snatchers flinched as the mess hovered in front of them, then—slowly—started circling their heads like a swarm of annoying flies.
"What's that smell!?" The crooked-nose man hissed.
"Rotten eggs, vomit, and some spoiled fish," Harry explained calmly. "All coming from the lovely food and drinks you chucked on this lovely lady over here. Nifty little transfiguration. You would've understood if you'd paid attention in class."
The wiry bloke swatted at a chunk of badly smelling cheese, only for it to dodge and smack him in the forehead.
"Oi! Stop that!" he yelped in disgust, flailing uselessly.
"Not 'til you say sorry," Harry said, leaning against the bar now, his arms crossed like he was watching a mildly entertaining show. "Go on, then. Clock's ticking."
Rosmerta stepped up beside him, her arms crossed too, though a grin was tugging at her lips. "Better listen to him, lads. He's got that look—I reckon he could keep this up all night."
The stocky witch glared daggers, but a soggy bread crust bonked her on the nose, and she growled in disgust. "Fine! Sorry, alright? Get this crap off me!"
"Nope," Harry said, shaking his head. "That's not proper. Try again—full sentence, with feeling. And it's 'Madam Rosmerta,' not 'some barmaid.'"
The crooked-nose man snarled, but a tankard tipped midair and dumped the last of its ale over his head, soaking his already grimy cloak. He sputtered as the smell of vomit overwhelmed him, shaking his head like a wet dog. "Alright, alright! I'm sorry, Madam Rosmerta, for being a prat! Happy now?"
"Getting there," Harry said, glancing at Rosmerta. "What d'you think? Good enough?"
She tapped her chin, pretending to mull it over. "Hmm, not quite. I think they need to clean up first—really earn it."
"Fair," Harry agreed, and with another flick of his wand, the floating mess shifted. The tankards plopped into the Snatchers' hands, and the bread and cheese started darting toward their mouths like overeager pets. "Right, you lot—start scrubbing. Floor's a state, and you're not leaving 'til it's spotless."
"You can't be serious!" the wiry bloke snapped, but a crust shoved itself against his lips, and he gagged, spitting it out. "Bloody hell—fine, we'll do it!"
Harry released the spell fully now, letting their bodies move, though he kept his wand trained on them. The Snatchers scrambled, grabbing the tankards and using their own cloaks to mop up the ale, grumbling the whole time. Rosmerta watched, her grin growing as they fumbled, slipping in the puddles they'd made.
"Look at 'em," she said, nudging Harry with her elbow. "Never thought I'd see the day—Snatchers on their knees in my pub, cleaning up after themselves. This is priceless."
"Should've brought a camera," Harry quipped, leaning closer so their shoulders brushed. "Could've framed it—'The Night Rosmerta Got Her Revenge.'"
She laughed, that rich, throaty sound he'd liked earlier, and bumped him back. "You're trouble, you are. Good trouble, mind—but trouble."
"Always," he said, winking at her before turning back to the Snatchers. "Oi, you missed a spot—over by the chair. Put some elbow grease into it."
The wiry bloke glared but kept scrubbing, muttering curses under his breath. It took a good ten minutes, but eventually, the floor was clean—well, cleaner than it'd been—and the Snatchers stood there, soggy and humiliated, their wands still dangling uselessly.
"Right," Harry said, straightening up. "One last go—apologies, all of you. Make it good, or I'll have the furniture start chasing you out."
The group groaned, but they complied. The wiry bloke went first, his voice grudging but clear. "Sorry, Madam Rosmerta, for being a right git and messing up your pub."
The stocky witch followed, her face red. "Sorry, Madam Rosmerta, for throwing stuff and being a cow."
The crooked-nose man mumbled, "Sorry, Madam Rosmerta, for the ale and the rude bits."
The other two—a lanky wizard and a squat witch—echoed similar apologies, their heads down. Harry nodded, satisfied, before he lowered his voice, stepping closer to them. "Good. Now, here's the kicker—I can't have you blabbing about this, so let's tidy up that memory of yours."
Before they could react, he raised his wand and aimed at them. A soft shimmer rippled through the air, hitting all five Snatchers. Their eyes glazed over for a second, then cleared, but their expressions turned blank, as if confused.
Harry kept his tone firm. "You lot got drunk, trashed the pub, and decided it's a rotten place to ever come back to. You don't remember me, and you're done bothering Hogsmeade. Now get out."
The Snatchers blinked, looking around like they'd just woken up. The wiry bloke scratched his head. "Uh… right. This place is rubbish. Let's go, lads."
"Yeah, stinks here," the stocky witch muttered, stumbling toward the door. The others followed, shoving through it in a daze, the bell jingling as it slammed shut. The pub went quiet again, just the fire crackling and the sign creaking outside.
Harry tucked his wand away, turning to Rosmerta with a sheepish grin. "Well, that was a bit more excitement than I planned."
She stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing, doubling over as she clutched the bar for support. "Merlin's pants, Harry, you're something else! Did you see their faces? They looked like they'd wet themselves!"
"Pretty sure one of them did," he said, chuckling as he slid back into his seat. "You sure you're alright? They got you good with that ale."
She waved a hand, still giggling as she grabbed a rag to dab at her blouse. "I'll live. Worth it to see you put them in their place. You've got a knack for this hero business, you know."
"Comes with the territory," he said, picking up his pint and taking a sip. "Though I'd rather just flirt with you all night than deal with idiots like that."
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned on the bar again, closer this time, her damp blouse still clinging in a way that made his pulse kick up now that the idiot business had been taken care of.
"Oh, you're not off the hook yet, handsome. You promised me a proper chat—and maybe a laugh or two. Night's not over."
"True," he said, setting his pint down and meeting her gaze, that flirty spark reigniting between them. "Reckon I owe you after that. How about I stick around, help you close up? Could use some decent company myself."
"Deal," she said, her voice dropping low and teasing again as she brushed her fingers over his hand, lingering just like before. "But you're buying the next round—hero or not, I'm not letting you off cheap."
He laughed, squeezing her hand back. "Wouldn't dream of it. Don't know about you, but I'm itching to see how much trouble we can stir up, the two of us."
She smirked, pulling back to grab a fresh pint for him, her hips swaying as she moved. "Oh, I've got a feeling it'll be plenty, love. Plenty indeed."
Chapter 36: The Barmaid
The pub's fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the empty tables as the Snatchers left in earnest. Harry leaned back in his chair, his pint half-empty, watching Rosmerta as she moved behind the bar. Her blouse, still damp from the ale, clung to her curves, outlining every generous swell of her bust and the dip of her waist. She caught his gaze and smirked, her hips swaying deliberately as she grabbed a fresh rag to wipe down the counter. The woman was a vixen, no question—every move screamed confidence, like she knew exactly how to keep a man's eyes glued to her.
"Enjoying the view, are you?" she teased, her voice low and sultry as she leaned forward, giving him an eyeful of her cleavage. The way her wet blouse strained against her chest made it clear she wasn't wearing much underneath, and Harry's throat tightened as he imagined what lay beneath the fabric.
"Hard not to," he shot back, his grin matching hers. "You're making it real easy to stare, Rosmerta."
She laughed, that rich, throaty sound that sent a jolt straight to his core. "Good. I'd hate to think I was losing my touch." She tossed the rag aside and sauntered closer, her fingers trailing along the edge of the bar until they brushed his hand. The touch was light but sensual, her nails grazing his skin just enough to send a spark up his arm. "So, hero, what's the plan now? You sticking around to help me close up, or you got somewhere better to be?"
Harry leaned forward, closing the gap between them until their faces were inches apart. Her alluring scent hit him, lavender mixed with a hint of ale and the faintest trace of burnt fabric from earlier. "Nowhere I'd rather be," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Reckon I owe you for the show earlier. Least I can do is keep you company."
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and she tilted her head, letting a loose strand of blonde hair fall across her cheek. "Company, eh? I was hoping for a bit more than that, love." She slid her hand over his, her fingers curling around his wrist, her touch warm and teasing. "You've got that look in your eyes again—like you're up to no good."
"Me?" He raised a brow, letting his thumb brush over her knuckles. "I'm a perfect gentleman. Unless you're asking for trouble, that is."
"Oh, I'm asking," she purred, leaning in so close her breath tickled his ear. "Question is, can you deliver, or is all that charm just for show?"
Harry chuckled, his free hand sliding to her waist, resting lightly on the curve of her hip. Her skirt hugged her tightly, and he could feel the heat of her sultry body through the fabric. "Keep talking like that, and you'll find out real quick."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her lips parted in a wicked grin. "Promises, promises. Come on, then—help me lock up, and we'll see how much trouble you're really worth."
She stepped away, her hips swaying as she moved to the door, flipping the sign to "Closed" and flicking her wand, locking the pub shut with a loud click. Harry watched, his pulse kicking up as she turned back to him, her silhouette framed by the firelight. She was all curves—busty, with hips that flared out in a way that made his hands itch to grab her. She sauntered back to the bar, grabbing a bottle of firewhisky from a shelf and two glasses.
"Fancy a nightcap?" she asked, pouring a generous measure into each glass. "On the house, for the hero of the hour."
Harry took the glass she offered, their fingers brushing again, and raised it in a mock toast. "To quiet nights and good company."
She clinked her glass against his, her eyes locked on his as she took a slow sip, her tongue darting out to lick a drop of whisky from her lips. "To trouble," she countered, her voice a husky whisper. "And whatever comes next."
They drank, the firewhisky burning a warm trail down Harry's throat. He set his glass down, stepping closer until he was right in front of her. "You're playing a dangerous game, Rosmerta."
"Who says I'm playing?" she shot back, setting her glass down and leaning against the bar counter, her cleavage practically spilling out of her blouse. She reached out, her fingers catching the front of his shirt and tugging him closer. "You've been eyeing me up all night, Harry. Don't think I haven't noticed."
"Guilty," he admitted, his hands finding her waist again, this time gripping a little firmer. "Hard to look anywhere else when you're putting on a show like that."
She laughed softly, her hands sliding up his chest, her nails scraping lightly through his shirt. "Good. I like a man who pays attention." She tugged him closer still, until their lips were a breath apart, her eyes half-lidded and gleaming with want. "So, what's it gonna be, handsome? You gonna keep teasing, or you gonna do something about it?"
Harry didn't need any more invitation. He closed the gap, kissing her hard, his lips crashing against hers with a hunger that had been building all night. She kissed back just as fiercely, her mouth hot and demanding, her tongue sliding against his as she pressed herself closer. Her curves molded against him, her full breasts squashing against his chest, and he groaned into her mouth, his hands tightening on her hips.
"Fuck, you're something else," he muttered against her lips, pulling back just enough to catch his breath. Her lipstick was smeared, her cheeks flushed, and she looked like she was ready to devour him whole.
"You've got no idea," she said, her voice low and sultry as she grabbed his hand and pulled him around the bar.
Harry followed, his eyes glued to the sway of her hips as she led him through a narrow doorway behind the bar. The back room was small, cluttered with crates and barrels, a single lantern casting a soft glow over the space. Rosmerta didn't waste time—she pushed him against a stack of crates, her hands already tugging at his shirt, pulling it free from his trousers.
"Eager, are we?" he teased, his hands sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through her blouse. The fabric was still damp, clinging to her skin, and he could feel the hard points of her nipples pressing against it.
"You're one to talk," she shot back, yanking his shirt open so buttons popped off, scattering across the floor. Her hands roamed his chest, nails scraping over his skin, and she leaned in, kissing him again, all teeth and tongue, her body pressing flush against his. "Been wanting to get my hands on you since you walked in."
Harry groaned, his hands dropping to her arse, squeezing the full, rounded curves through her tight skirt. "Feeling's mutual," he said, nipping at her lower lip. "You've been driving me mental all night."
She smirked, her hands sliding down to his belt, fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. "Good. Let's see how much crazier I can make you."
She sank to her knees, her eyes locked on his as she tugged his trousers down, freeing his hardening cock. Harry sucked in a breath, his hands bracing against the crates as she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slowly. Her touch was firm, confident, and she licked her lips, her gaze never leaving his.
"Fuck, Rosmerta," he groaned, his hips twitching as she leaned in, her breath hot against his skin. She didn't tease long—just gave him a wicked grin before taking him into her mouth, her lips sliding over him in a slow, sensual suck.
Harry's head tipped back, a low moan escaping as she worked him, her tongue swirling around the tip before she took him deeper, her hand stroking what her mouth couldn't reach. She was good—too good, her lips and tongue moving with a skill that had his knees weak. Her free hand gripped his thigh, nails digging in just enough to sting, and he tangled his fingers in her hair, guiding her rhythm.
"Merlin, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, his voice rough as she hummed around him, the vibration sending a jolt through his entire body.
She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing his tip as she grinned up at him. "Not yet, love. I've got plans for you." She stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and grabbed his shirt again, pulling him toward a low table in the corner. "Your turn."
Harry didn't need telling twice. He spun her around, pressing her against the table, his hands already working the buttons of her blouse. The damp fabric peeled away, revealing a lacy black bra that barely contained her full, heavy breasts. He groaned at the sight, his hands cupping her mounds, thumbs brushing over her nipples through the lace. They hardened even more, and she arched into his touch, her breath hitching.
"Like what you see?" she teased, her hands sliding up his arms as he unhooked her bra, tossing it aside. Her breasts spilled free, round and perfect, and Harry didn't waste time—he leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as his hand kneaded the other.
Rosmerta moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she pressed herself closer. "Fuck, Harry, that's good," she gasped, her voice breaking as he grazed his teeth over her sensitive skin. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, his tongue flicking over her nipple until she was squirming against him.
He pulled back, grinning as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her skirt. "This needs to go," he said, tugging it down her hips. The fabric slid over her curves, revealing lacy knickers that matched her bra. He knelt, kissing his way down her stomach, his hands gripping her thighs as he peeled the knickers off, leaving her bare.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, taking in the sight of her—curvy, flushed, and completely unashamed as she stood there, one hand on her hip, the other reaching for him.
"Enjoying yourself down there?" she asked, her voice dripping with that vixen confidence as she spread her thighs slightly, giving him a better view.
"More than you know," he said, leaning in to kiss the inside of her thigh, his lips brushing higher until he reached her core. She was already wet, and he groaned as he tasted her, his tongue sliding over her clit in a slow, carnal stroke.
Rosmerta's head fell back, a loud moan spilling from her lips as she gripped the edge of the table. "Fuck, yes," she gasped, her hips rocking against his mouth as he licked and sucked, his hands holding her thighs apart. She was responsive, every flick of his tongue drawing a new sound—moans, gasps, and the occasional curse as she tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him on.
He didn't let up, working her until her legs were trembling, her breaths coming in short, desperate pants. "Harry—fuck, don't stop," she pleaded, her voice raw as she ground against his face. He sucked harder, sliding a finger inside her, then another, curling them just right until she cried out, her body shaking as she came hard, her walls clenching around his fingers.
He stood, wiping his mouth as she caught her breath, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glassy with pleasure. "You're too fucking good at that," she said, pulling him in for a messy, desperate kiss. Her hands were everywhere—on his chest, his arse, his cock—stroking him back to full hardness as she pressed herself against him.
"Your turn to pick," she whispered against his lips, her hand squeezing him just enough to make him groan. "How do you want me, hero?"
Harry's eyes darkened, and he spun her around, bending her over the table. "Like this," he said, his voice rough as he pressed himself against her, his cock sliding against her slick entrance. Her arse was perfect—round and full, begging to be grabbed—and he did, his hands kneading her flesh as she arched back into him.
"Fuck, yes," she moaned, bracing her hands on the table, her hips wiggling against him. "Come on, Harry—give it to me."
He didn't make her wait. He lined himself up and thrust in, slow at first, savoring the way she stretched around him, hot and tight. She gasped, her fingers gripping the table harder as he filled her, inch by inch, until he was buried deep. "Fuck, you feel good," he groaned, his hands tightening on her hips as he started to move, slow and deep, letting her adjust.
"Harder," she demanded, pushing back against him, her voice thick with need. "I can take it—give me everything."
Harry obliged, picking up the pace, his thrusts hard and steady as he drove into her. The table creaked under them, her breasts bouncing with each movement, and she moaned loudly, her head tipping back as she met his rhythm. "Yes—fuck, just like that," she gasped, her voice breaking as he hit just the right spot.
He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, one hand sliding around to cup her breast, pinching her nipple as he pounded into her. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, and he could feel her tightening around him, her body trembling as she neared another climax.
"Rosmerta," he groaned, his lips brushing her ear as he thrust harder, his other hand sliding between her legs to rub her clit. "Come for me."
She did, her body shaking as she cried out, her walls clenching around him so tightly it pushed him over the edge. He thrust deep one last time, groaning as he came, his hands gripping her hips as they rode out the waves together.
They stayed like that for a moment, catching their breath, her body still pressed against the table, his hands resting on her curves. She turned her head, grinning at him over her shoulder. "Well, damn, hero. You weren't kidding about trouble."
He laughed, pulling out gently and helping her stand, his hands lingering on her waist. "Told you I'd keep you smiling."
She turned, kissing him softly, her lips warm and lazy now. "You did more than that. Might have to keep you around for more quiet nights."
"Count on it," he said, winking as he grabbed her blouse, handing it back to her. "But next time, you're buying the firewhisky."
Rosmerta's lips curled into a wicked grin as she pulled him in for the kiss, her tongue teasing Harry's with a boldness that set his pulse racing. She pressed her curves against him, her bare breasts squashing against his chest, still flushed from their earlier round. "Oh, we're not done, love," she purred, her voice thick with promise as she nipped his lower lip. Her hands slid down his back, nails scraping just enough to make him hiss, and she grabbed his arse, pulling him closer. "Upstairs. My bed's comfier than this table."
Harry didn't argue. He scooped her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her through the back room's door and up a narrow staircase. Her weight felt good in his arms, her hips grinding against him with every step, her laughter low and sultry. "Eager, aren't you?" she teased, her fingers tangling in his hair as she kissed his neck, leaving a trail of heat.
They burst into her bedroom—a cozy space with a four-poster bed draped in crimson. Harry tossed her onto the mattress, grinning as she bounced, her large tits jiggling wildly, nipples hard and begging for attention. "Fuck, you're a sight," he growled, his cock already stirring as he pounced, pinning her beneath him. Her legs spread instantly, inviting him in, and she arched up, her breasts pressing against his chest.
"Show me what you've got, hero," she taunted, her hands wrapping around his cock, getting him hard again. Harry groaned, kissing her hard as he lined himself up, thrusting into her wet heat in one smooth motion. She moaned loudly, her nails digging into his shoulders as he set a relentless pace, the bed creaking under them. Her tits bounced with every thrust, and he couldn't resist—he leaned down, sucking one nipple into his mouth, his hand kneading the other.
"Yes—fuck, Harry!" she gasped, her hips meeting his, her body trembling as he planted his knees on the bed and drove deeper, hitting that sweet spot that made her cry out. Her curves jiggled under him, her thighs gripping his waist, urging him on. "Harder, love—make me scream."
He obliged, pounding into her, and the room filled with the sounds of their bodies slapping together and her moans echoing off the walls. Her hands roamed his back, pulling him closer, her breath hot against his ear. "Don't stop," she panted, her voice breaking as she neared the edge again.
Harry felt her tighten around him, her body shuddering as she came, her cries loud and unrestrained. He wasn't far behind, but as he thrust deeper, chasing his own release, Rosmerta's grin told him this was far from over. "You're staying all night, handsome," she whispered, her legs locking around him, pulling him back in for more.
XXXXX
The fire in Rosmerta's bedroom had burned down to glowing embers, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the smell of sex and arousal as Harry lay stretched out on his back, one arm behind his head, the other draped around Rosmerta, gently stroking her bare ass as she curled against his side. Her blonde hair spilled across his chest, and she traced lazy circles on his skin with her fingertip.
"Bloody hell," she murmured, her voice still breathless, the words barely above a whisper. "I've never been fucked like this. Five orgasms!? That's a fucking record."
Harry chuckled as his fingers tangled in her hair. It was softer than he'd expected. "You sure know how to stroke a bloke's pride."
"Ain't a lie coming from this wench's mouth," she said with a pat on his chest, lifting her head to look at him. Her blue eyes were bright in the firelight, pupils still dilated, and there was a satisfied smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Besides, I've been watching you since you first came to my pub. Always wondered what you'd be like when you grew up proper."
Harry raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. "Watching me? Should I be flattered or concerned?"
She laughed. "Flattered, definitely. You were always different from the other students. More serious, more... intense. Even when you were young, you had this way of carrying yourself that made people take notice." Her finger traced along his collarbone. "Plus, you had excellent taste in pubs."
"And?"
She grinned, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, her lips warm against his skin. "Better than I imagined. Much better. Though I have to say, you're also more dangerous than I expected."
"Dangerous how?"
"The way you handled those Snatchers earlier," she said, her voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "Most wizards would have either run or started throwing curses immediately. You played with them instead. Made them think they had the upper hand before turning it all around." She paused, studying his face. "That takes a special kind of mind."
Harry's expression shifted slightly, something calculating flickering behind his eyes. "Sometimes the best victories are the ones where your enemies defeat themselves."
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the crackling embers and the distant creak of the pub settling. The wind had picked up outside, whistling through the attics and making the old building groan softly. Rosmerta's finger continued its gentle exploration of his chest, tracing the dips and swells of his muscles with equal fascination.
"You've been through quite a lot, haven't you?" she said quietly, her finger pausing over a particularly nasty scar that was on his forearm, right near his elbow.
"Snake," Harry said simply. "A big, fucking snake. Long story."
"I'd like to hear it sometime."
"Maybe," he said, though his tone suggested it wasn't likely. Some stories were too dark to share in moments like this.
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney, and Rosmerta shifted closer to him, enjoying the warmth of his body against hers. She'd had her share of lovers over the years – running a pub in a village like Hogsmeade meant meeting all sorts of interesting people – but there was something different about Harry Potter. Something that made her want to memorize every detail of this moment.
"Can I ask you something?" she said eventually, her voice turning thoughtful.
"Shoot."
"Those Snatchers tonight..." She propped herself up on her elbow, meeting his eyes. The firelight played across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her cheekbones and the curve of her lips. "What exactly did you do to them? I mean, besides the obvious humiliation."
Harry's expression shifted slightly, a shadow crossing his features. For a moment, he looked older than his years, worn down by experiences that most people couldn't imagine. "Obliviated them. Made sure they wouldn't remember me being there."
"Just that?"
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on something beyond the ceiling, as if he were weighing how much to tell her. The silence stretched between them, filled with the sound of wind and settling wood and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the village. Finally, a slow smirk spread across his lips, transforming his face into something that was both boyishly charming and slightly unsettling.
"Well, not quite just that."
Rosmerta raised an eyebrow, intrigued. She'd seen that look before, usually on the faces of customers who were about to tell her a story that would either amuse or horrify her. "Oh? What else did you do, you sneaky sod?"
"Let's just say punishment doesn't always need to be physical," he said, his voice taking on a darker edge that made a shiver run down her spine. "Sometimes the best revenge is letting people destroy themselves."
"Harry Potter," she said, her voice mixing admiration with mild concern. "What did you do?"
His smirk widened, and for a moment, she caught a glimpse of the man who would one day terrorize Death Eaters across Britain. "I may have... adjusted their memories a bit. Made them forget not just me, but a few other important details. Like how to tell friend from foe. How to recognize their own handlers. Little things that might cause some confusion down the line."
Rosmerta stared at him for a long moment, processing the implications. She was no expert, but she knew memory magic was notoriously difficult and dangerous, even for trained Healers and Aurors. The fact that Harry could perform such precise modifications while making them seem natural was both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Not that she cared about any of it though, as a few seconds later, she burst out laughing.
"You devious bastard. That's brilliant."
"Thought you might appreciate it," he said, pulling her closer, enjoying the warmth of her skin against his. "They wanted to play rough. I just gave them a different kind of game."
She kissed him again, longer this time, her lips warm and demanding against his. When they broke apart, she was breathing harder. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"You're safe," he murmured against her mouth, his breath warm on her lips. "I like you too much to mess with your head."
"Good," she said, settling back against his chest, her head finding the perfect spot in the hollow of his shoulder. "Because I intend to keep you around for a while."
Harry was about to respond when a distant crash echoed from somewhere in the village, the sound sharp and violent in the quiet night. Then another. And another. Glass breaking, wood splintering, and the unmistakable sound of magical combat beginning to unfold.
"What the hell?" Rosmerta sat up quickly, her hair falling around her shoulders as she strained to listen. The sounds were coming from the direction of the main street, near where the Snatchers had been loitering earlier.
Harry's smirk returned, wider and more satisfied than before. He looked like a cat who had just watched a particularly interesting mouse walk into a trap. "Sounds like the entertainment's just getting started."
"Entertainment?" Rosmerta stared at him, realization dawning in her eyes. "You knew this would happen."
"I had a pretty good idea," Harry admitted, making no effort to hide his satisfaction. "Memory magic is tricky. Push too hard in one direction, and other things start to come loose. Make someone forget how to recognize their allies, and suddenly everyone starts looking like an enemy."
More crashes echoed from outside, followed by the distinctive whine of curses being cast and the sound of someone screaming in pain. Rosmerta moved to the window, pressing her face against the cold glass to peer out into the darkness. She could see flashes of colored light lighting up the night sky, and the shadows of figures moving quickly through the streets.
"How many will die because of what you did?" she asked, though her tone was more curious than accusatory.
Harry joined her at the window, slipping his arms around her waist from behind. His body was warm against her back, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle beats of his heart, and his magnificent cock that found its place in the crack of her ass. Grinning, she wiggled back against him, making him smirk.
"Does it matter? They were going to hurt people either way. At least this way, they're mostly hurting each other."
She leaned back against him, watching the distant battle unfold. "You're a complicated man, Harry Potter."
"What's going on has made me complicated," he said simply. "I used to think everything was black and white. Good versus evil, right versus wrong. Then I realized that sometimes you have to choose between different kinds of wrong, and hope you can live with the consequences."
A particularly bright flash lit up the sky, followed by an explosion that rattled the windows. Rosmerta could hear shouting now, voices raised in anger and pain and confusion. It sounded like chaos, which was probably exactly what Harry had intended.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked. "The things you've done? The things you're going to do?"
Harry was quiet for a long moment, his arms tightening around her waist. "I regret that they were necessary," he said finally. "But I don't regret doing them. If I hadn't, a lot more innocent people would be dead. I don't claim to be a good person, and I'm not going to stop anytime soon."
They stood like that for several minutes, watching the distant battle rage through the village. The sounds of combat echoed off the buildings, creating a strange symphony of violence that seemed oddly fitting for the times they lived in. Eventually, the flashes of light began to fade, and the shouting grew more sporadic.
"Looks like it's winding down," Rosmerta observed, taking a sip from the glass of firewhisky she'd retrieved from the nightstand.
"Probably," Harry agreed, his tone casual despite the chaos outside. "These things tend to sort themselves out pretty quickly once they get going."
"You're remarkably calm about this," she said, studying his reflection in the window glass. His face was relaxed, almost peaceful, as if watching people kill each other in the streets was just another evening's entertainment. "Most people would be worried about what's happening out there."
Harry shrugged, the movement causing his arms to shift around her waist. "I've learned that sometimes the best thing to do is let people create their own problems. Saves me the trouble of having to solve them later."
Rosmerta was quiet for a moment, then she shook her head with a mixture of admiration and unease. The man holding her was capable of incredible tenderness and devastating cruelty, sometimes within the same hour. It should have frightened her more than it did. "You're a scary man, Harry Potter. Remind me to stay on your good side."
"I thought we'd established that already," he said, leaning down to kiss her neck, his lips warm against her skin. The gesture was gentle, almost loving, a stark contrast to the violence playing out in the streets below. "Besides, you're safe. I only get creative with people who deserve it."
"And you think those Snatchers deserved... whatever's happening out there?"
Harry's expression hardened slightly, visible in the window's reflection. "They were perfectly happy to terrorize innocent people. To grab you, insult you, threaten you. They made their choice when they decided that power gave them the right to hurt whoever they wanted." He paused, his voice taking on a colder edge. "If they can't tell friend from foe anymore, well... that's their problem."
The sound of Apparition echoed from outside, the distinctive crack-pop that meant someone was arriving or leaving via magical transport. Then another, and another. Voices followed, shouting orders and demanding answers. Ministry officials, by the sound of it, probably Aurors responding to reports of Dark Arts activity in the village.
Harry finished the last of his firewhisky and leaned back, moving away from the window with nonchalance. "I should probably go," he said, pulling on his shirt and searching for his jacket. "Don't want to complicate things for you."
Rosmerta turned away from the window, watching him dress with obvious appreciation. "Will I see you again?"
"Count on it," he said, pulling her close for one last kiss. His hands were gentle on her face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as he looked into her eyes. "I've got a feeling this war's going to keep me busy, but I'll make sure to have time for you."
She walked him to the back door, her bare feet silent on the cold wooden floor. The back stairs led down to a small courtyard that connected to several other buildings, providing a discrete way to come and go without being seen from the main street. Harry paused at the top of the stairs, pulling on his jacket and checking that his wand was secure in its holster.
"Thanks for tonight," he said, looking back at her with genuine warmth in his eyes. "All of it."
"Thank you," she replied, pulling her robe tighter around herself against the cold air that drifted up from outside. "For getting rid of those bastards. And for... everything else."
Harry grinned, that boyish charm breaking through the darkness that had been lurking in his eyes all evening. For a moment, he looked like the teenager she remembered from the year before, before the Dark Lord's return had marked him so deeply. "My pleasure. Both parts."
He started down the stairs, then paused and looked back up at her. "Rosmerta? Be careful for the next few days. Word of what happened tonight is going to spread, and there might be people asking questions. If anyone gives you trouble..."
"I'll send word," she finished, understanding the unspoken offer. "But I can take care of myself, Harry Potter. I've been running this pub for longer than you've been legal to drink."
He laughed, the sound echoing softly in the courtyard. "Fair enough. Just... be careful."
She watched from the doorway as his form disappeared into the shadows between the buildings, moving with the level of stealth that made her feel as if he had spent years avoiding detection. The sounds of the Ministry investigation continued in the distance, but she felt oddly at peace despite the chaos.
Whatever Harry had done to those Snatchers, they'd had it coming. And if it meant fewer scumbags terrorizing her village, she was all for it. The previous war had taught everyone to make difficult choices, and she'd learned to judge people by their results rather than their methods.
She closed the door against the cold and went back to her bedroom, gathering up the empty bottles and straightening the rumpled sheets. The fire had burned down to nothing but glowing coals, but the room still held the warmth of what had transpired there. She could still smell his cologne on the pillows, feel the ghost of his touch on her skin, and the pleasant throbbing between her legs.
As she smiled, she could hear the investigation continuing outside, voices calling out orders and the Aurors taking charge. But that was someone else's problem now. Rosmerta had other things to think about, like when she might see Harry Potter again, and what he'd have in store for her when she did.