Chapter 37: Aftermath
The five Snatchers stumbled through the dark streets of Hogsmeade, their heads still fuzzy from the combination of firewhisky and whatever the hell had happened at the pub. The cold air bit at their faces, but none of them seemed to notice, too focused on trying to piece together fragments of memory that didn't quite fit together anymore.
The village looked different somehow, as if they were seeing it through a distorted lens. Buildings they should have recognized seemed foreign and threatening. Streets they'd walked dozens of times felt like alien territory. Even the smell of the place – wood smoke and snow and the faint aroma of butterbeer from the various pubs – seemed wrong, ominous rather than familiar.
Harry had selectively manipulated their memories, ensuring they remembered what he wanted them to know and keeping the rest of the knowledge far away from their grasp.
"Where we supposed to meet them again?" the wiry one asked, scratching his patchy beard with dirty fingernails. His name was Scabior – a very distant relative of the more regarded Gornuk Scabior who served the Death Eaters directly – though none of his companions remembered that anymore. In fact, he couldn't quite remember it himself, the name floating just beyond his grasp like a word on the tip of his tongue.
"Some inn," the stocky witch replied, wiping her nose with her sleeve. Her family name had been Snyde, and she'd been a competent enough witch before Harry's modifications to her memory. Now she felt constantly confused, as if she were trying to remember a dream that kept slipping away. "The Hog's Head, innit?"
"Nah, that don't sound right," the crooked-nose man said, stumbling over a loose cobblestone and nearly falling face-first into the snow. He'd been called Grimshaw, after his father who'd died in Azkaban years ago, but that identity was gone now, lost in the maze of Harry's mental manipulation. "Was it the Three Broomsticks?"
"We just came from there, you daft git," the greasy-haired witch snapped, though she wasn't entirely sure that was true. Everything about the evening felt hazy and disconnected, like trying to remember something that had happened to someone else. Her name was Malrow, and she'd once been proud of her pureblood heritage, but now she couldn't quite remember why that had seemed important.
"Did we?" Scabior looked confused, his scarred face scrunching up as he tried to focus. "I don't remember..."
The fifth member of their group, a small, rat-like man with nervous eyes, hadn't spoken much all evening. His name was Albert Nott – distant cousin to the Theodore Nott who went to school with Potter – but he felt like that name belonged to someone else now. All he knew for certain was that he was supposed to follow the others and do what they said, though he couldn't remember why.
They wandered in circles for nearly an hour, their modified memories making it impossible to recall their original meeting point or recognize familiar landmarks. The village that should have been as familiar as their own homes now felt like enemy territory. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat, every sound suggested approaching danger. Their paranoia fed on itself, growing stronger with each passing minute.
"This is all wrong," Snyde muttered, her hand moving instinctively to her wand. "Someone's watching us. I can feel it."
"Course they're watching," Malrow replied, her eyes darting nervously from building to building. "We're in enemy territory now. Should've never come to this bloody fucken' village."
"Enemy territory?" Scabior looked puzzled. "But we've been here loads of times..."
"Have we?" Grimshaw challenged. "I don't remember being here before. Don't remember any of this."
The confusion was maddening, like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. They'd approach a building that seemed familiar, only to have the recognition slip away like water through their fingers. They'd start down a street they thought they knew, only to find themselves completely lost.
Harry's memory modifications were surgical in their precision. He'd left their basic personalities intact, along with their magical abilities and their general sense of purpose. But he'd severed the connections that would have allowed them to function effectively as a team. They couldn't remember their handlers, couldn't recognize their allies, and couldn't even trust their own recollections of recent events.
Finally, they spotted a figure in dark robes standing near the edge of the village, just beyond the glow of the streetlamps. The man was tall and thin, with sharp features and cold eyes that reflected the moonlight. His posture screamed that he was someone accustomed to command, and there was something about the way he carried himself that hinted at the authority and power he wielded.
He looked like someone who might give them orders. Someone who belonged to their world of destruction and violence.
"Oi!" Scabior called out, staggering toward the figure with a raised arm. "You our contact?"
The man turned, his expression puzzled beneath the hood of his dark cloak. Amycus Carrow, one of the Death Eaters they were supposed to meet, had been waiting, but the moment the snatchers got closer, they felt a sudden spark shoot through them.
Harry's memory modifications prevented them from recognizing him. Instead, their twisted perceptions painted him as a threat, an enemy agent trying to infiltrate their operation.
"Contact? I don't know what you're talking about," Carrow said sarcastically with a sneer. He'd been waiting for over an hour for these idiots to show up, and his patience was wearing thin.
What was intended as a sarcastic remark backfired spectacularly. Harry's magic was at work brilliantly, turning allies into foes. This man fit the description of an enemy agent – dark robes, pale skin, cruel eyes, and the way he carried himself screamed he thought himself superior. The fact that he was denying any knowledge of their mission only confirmed their suspicions, even though unintended.
They surrounded him slowly, their hands moving to their wands discreetly. Despite their confusion, they were still dangerous wizards with years of experience in violence and intimidation.
"Don't play dumb with us," Snyde snarled, her wand halfway out of its holster. "We know who you are. Ministry spy, aren't you? Or maybe Auror."
"I think you've made a mistake," Carrow said, taking a step back as he recognized the signs of impending violence. His own hand moved toward his wand, but he was reluctant to attack what he believed were his own allies. "I've been waiting for—"
"Mistake?" Grimshaw laughed harshly, the sound echoing off the nearby buildings. "The only mistake here is you thinking you can dick us about. We know who you are."
Carrow's eyes widened as he realized these weren't just confused allies, but genuinely hostile enemies. Alas, the recognition came too late. Scabior was faster than he looked, his bludgeoning spell catching Carrow in the chest before the Death Eater could fully draw his wand. Carrow collided violently with the side of a building and crumpled to the ground in a heap, his eyes rolling back in their sockets and his wand clattering across the cobblestones.
"Right then," Scabior said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Let's get some answers out of this bastard."
What followed was a mess of confused interrogation and increasingly violent questioning. The Snatchers were convinced Carrow was an enemy agent, and their modified memories made them interpret his confusion and denials as attempts to deceive them. They took turns jolting him awake and demanding information he couldn't provide, their frustration growing with each unsuccessful attempt to break him.
"Where's the list of targets?" Malrow screamed, her wand pointed at his bloodied face. Carrow had been unconscious for nearly ten minutes, and when they'd revived him, he'd been groggy and incoherent.
"I don't know what list!" Carrow gasped, blood trickling from his nose where Grimshaw had hit him with a particularly vicious stunner. His vision was blurry, and he couldn't understand why his own allies were attacking him.
"Liar!"
She hit him with a nasty hex that left angry red welts across his cheek, the magic sizzling as it burned into his skin. "We know you've got the names. The Ministry contacts, the safe houses, all of it!"
Carrow tried to explain who he was, tried to make them understand that they were on the same side, but his words only seemed to enrage them further. In their twisted minds, his protests were proof of his guilt. The more he denied being a Ministry agent, the more convinced they became that he was lying.
The interrogation might have continued indefinitely, but they were interrupted by the arrival of three more figures in dark robes. Alecto Carrow, Amycus's sister, along with two junior members of their little Death Eater cell had been sent to investigate why the meeting point had been abandoned.
Alecto's eyes narrowed at the sight that greeted her, but the moment her eyes fell on her bloodied and battered brother, her eyes widened.
"Amycus!?" Alecto called out with a gasp, her voice filled with concern. She looked around at the men and women around her brother and snarled, "What the fuck is going on here?"
The Snatchers turned at the sound, and their modified memories kicked in again with devastating effect. These newcomers looked like enemies – dark robes, threatening postures, and wands already half-drawn. The fact that they wore the same uniform as their usual handlers meant nothing to their scrambled minds. Harry's modifications had severed those recognition patterns, leaving only paranoia and aggression.
"More of them!" Snyde shrieked, her voice cracking with panic. "They found us! It's a trap!"
"Kill them all!" Scabior shouted, raising his wand with nothing but murderous intent.
It wasn't a long battle that followed the shout, but it was violent all the same. Death Eaters and Snatchers were known for their violence and cruelty, and they did not give a fuck about their surroundings or collateral damage.
The quiet street on the outskirts of the village lit up with flashes of colored light as spells flew in all directions. The Death Eaters were caught completely off guard by the unprovoked attack, but they regained their bearings and fought back with lethal force born of years of training and battlefield experience.
Curses flew in all directions, lighting up the night with flashes of green and red and sickly yellow. The sounds echoing were dark and foreboding – the crack of splintering stone as missed curses hit buildings, the hiss and whine of dark magic cutting through the air, and the screams and shouts of allies turned enemies locked in mortal combat.
As cruel and vindictive as the Snatchers were, they soon found they were outmatched by actual Death Eaters. Even then, they managed to give back as fiercely as they could.
Grimshaw was the first to fall, taking a Killing Curse to the chest that dropped him like a stone. His body hit the cobblestones with a wet thud, steam rising from his corpse in the cold air. Malrow managed to get off a Blasting Curse that took out one of the junior Death Eaters that had arrived with Alecto Carrow, the explosion tearing through his torso and painting the nearby wall with blood and bone fragments.
Her celebration was short-lived, however, as she caught a Bone-Breaking Curse in return, the spell hitting her legs and shattering both femurs simultaneously. She collapsed screaming, her voice echoing off the buildings as she writhed in agony on the frozen ground.
Scabior and Snyde fought back-to-back, their desperation making them dangerous despite their confusion. They managed to kill the other Death Eater with a combination of curses, Scabior's Cutting Curse opening his throat while Snyde's Blasting Hex finished the job.
That left only Alecto Carrow, but the woman was too skilled, too experienced for their panicked attacks.
She picked them off methodically, using the buildings for cover while she wore them down with precisely aimed hexes. Scabior took a Piercing Curse through the shoulder that spun him around and sent him stumbling into Snyde. She tried to shield him, but Alecto's follow-up curse caught them both, a vicious bit of dark magic that boiled their blood in their veins.
The mousy one – Nott – had tried to stay out of the main fight, but there was nowhere to run. When Alecto finally turned her attention to him, he was huddled behind an overturned cart, shaking with terror and confusion. His modified memories told him he was surrounded by enemies, but he couldn't remember why he was fighting or what he was supposed to accomplish.
"Please," he whimpered as Alecto approached, her wand steady in her hand. "I don't understand what's happening. I don't remember..."
"You hurt my brother," Alecto said coldly, looking down at Amycus's still form. The Death Eater was breathing but unconscious, his face a mask of blood and bruises. "You tortured him. You were going to kill him."
"I don't remember," Nott repeated, his voice breaking. "I can't remember anything. What did you do to us?"
Alecto stared at him for a moment, something flickering in her eyes that might have been suspicion. There was something wrong here, something that didn't add up. Snatchers didn't attack Death Eaters, no matter what the reason might be, and they certainly didn't torture their handlers for whatever reason there was.
A part of her wondered if there was truly something nefarious behind the scenes, perhaps the involvement of a third party who had manipulated these events for personal gain.
However, every rational thought evaporated from her mind the moment she looked at her brother's battered form. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him, and at the bodies of her dead comrades, or what remained of them after the brutal attack. Whatever rationality she might have felt died a quick death.
"I don't care what happened to you," she hissed, raising her wand. "You made your choice when you decided to betray us."
The Killing Curse ended the conversation with finality, Nott dropping with a thud, his lifeless eyes staring up at her.
Alecto stood among the bodies for a moment, breathing heavily, before she cast her gaze around at the carnage. Five Snatchers dead, two of her fellow Death Eaters dead, and her brother badly injured. The street looked like a battlefield, covered in blood and debris and the lingering traces of dark magic.
This was going to be a nightmare to explain to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord didn't tolerate failure or incompetence, and losing an entire cell of operatives to what appeared to be friendly fire would be seen as both. She needed to get Amycus to a Healer and figure out some way to spin this disaster into something less catastrophic.
With a sigh, she levitated her brother's unconscious form, holding him to herself, and disapparated, the crack of her departure echoing into the silent night.
Let the Ministry deal with the rest of the mess. With any luck, they'd assume it was just a case of criminals turning on each other.
XXXXX
The next morning brought a flurry of activity to Hogsmeade that hadn't been seen since the last major Death Eater raid during the war. Ministry officials swarmed the village like ants, questioning witnesses, examining the scene of the battle, and trying to piece together what had happened during the night. The official story that was beginning to emerge was that a group of rogue Snatchers had attacked Death Eaters, with the reasons of the conflict unknown, which had resulted in multiple casualties on both sides.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, senior auror in the Ministry and a key member of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, stood in the middle of the carnage, shaking his head at the waste of it all. The street looked like a war zone, with scorch marks on the buildings, blood staining the cobblestones, and the lingering smell of dark magic hanging in the cold morning air. Five Snatchers and two Death Eaters were dead, and no one knew what triggered the assault.
"Any witnesses?" Kingsley asked one of his subordinates, a young witch named Hestia Jones who'd only been with the Auror Office for six months. She looked pale and shaken by the level of violence they were investigating.
"A few people heard the fighting, but no one saw how it started," she replied, consulting her notes with shaking hands. "The inn across the street reported hearing shouting and accusations, but they couldn't make out specific words. By the time anyone looked outside, curses were already flying."
Kingsley knelt beside one of the Snatcher corpses, examining the wounds carefully. After decades of working with crime scenes as an Auror, he had developed a practiced eye for deduction, and this translated into identifying which spells were used to inflict damage without the need of a magical scan.
The man had taken a Killing Curse at close range, the magic leaving distinctive burn marks around the entry wound. "This one died clean. Professional work."
"Death Eaters don't usually have trouble with Snatchers," Hestia observed, her voice tight with confusion. "They're supposed to be on the same side. What could have set this off?"
"Who knows?" Kingsley stood up, brushing the soil off his knees and trying to piece together a timeline. "These days, half the Dark Lord's followers are barely controlled psychopaths. Probably just a matter of time before they started turning on each other."
He didn't notice the small, satisfied smile that crossed his face as he said it. Kingsley had fought in the war roughly two decades ago, and had been involved with the new conflict since the beginning. This felt like a victory, however, small, and although he knew Dumbledore would not approve of it, he found no fault in taking whatever victories he could find. Rationally speaking, he wasn't about to look too closely at a gift like this. Dead Death Eaters and dead Snatchers meant fewer threats to innocent people, regardless of how they'd ended up that way.
"Sir?" Hestia was pointing at something near the edge of the battle site. "There's something odd about the positioning here."
Kingsley followed her gaze and frowned. There was a patch of blood against the broken wall of a wooden building, and several footsteps were arranged in a rough semicircle near it. Five, matching the Snatchers that had been killed.
"It looks as if the Snatchers had surrounded someone before the fighting started," she muttered.
"Looks like they cursed someone," Kingsley said, crouching down to examine the disturbed ground. "The person hit this wall. The Snatchers then stood here in front of this person, and from the looks of it, they maybe tortured them before the Death Eaters arrived."
"But who? We've accounted for all the casualties."
"Someone who survived the torture and this much blood loss," Kingsley straightened up, his expression grim. "This person's backup must've arrived and then all hell broke loose."
It was a plausible explanation, and it fit with the evidence they'd collected. What it didn't explain was why the Snatchers and the Death Eaters had attacked each other. One could expect stupidity from Snatchers who were considered nothing more than thugs, but it was surprising how experienced dark wizards like Death Eaters had reciprocated in kind. Perhaps they had no choice. After all, wars were chaotic things, and stranger mistakes had been made.
"Clean this up," Kingsley ordered, gesturing to the crime scene. "And put the word out – any Snatchers causing trouble in Hogsmeade will be dealt with harshly. I want this village protected."
"Yes, sir." Hestia began directing the other Aurors in the collection of evidence, grateful to have something concrete to focus on. The scene was disturbing enough without trying to understand the psychology behind it.
As the Aurors went about their work, a few of the local residents gathered to watch from a safe distance. They stood in small clusters, whispering among themselves and pointing at the bloodstains on the cobblestones. Most looked disturbed by the violence, but there was an undercurrent of satisfaction as well. Snatchers were universally hated in communities like this, and seeing them dead was cause for quiet celebration.
Rosmerta stood among them, her arms crossed, watching the body bags being loaded onto Ministry stretchers. She'd opened the Three Broomsticks early to serve tea and breakfast to the investigators, and she could see several Aurors through her front windows, warming themselves by her fire while they wrote their reports.
"Terrible business," Aberforth Dumbledore said to her, his gruff voice carrying easily over the morning air. The proprietor of the Hog's Head looked even more disheveled than usual, his long beard tangled and his robes stained with what might have been goat hair. "Right in our own village."
"Terrible," Rosmerta agreed, though her tone screamed flat-out that she wasn't particularly upset by the outcome. She'd woken that morning feeling more satisfied than she had in months, and the sight of dead Snatchers only added to her good mood. "But at least those bastards won't be bothering anyone anymore."
"True enough," Aberforth replied, his blue eyes sharp despite his unkempt appearance. "Still, makes you wonder what set them off. Snatchers and Death Eaters usually work together, don't they?"
Rosmerta shrugged, looking casual and utterly disinterested. "Maybe they finally realized they were working for monsters. Took them long enough."
"Or maybe someone helped them realize it," Aberforth said quietly, his voice barely audible over the bustle of the investigation. When Rosmerta looked at him sharply, he was watching the Aurors with apparent fascination, but she caught the knowing look in his eyes.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing," he said, but his tone suggested otherwise. "Just that memory magic can be tricky. Push in the wrong place, and people start forgetting important things. Like who their friends are."
Rosmerta felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. "That's a dangerous thing to suggest, Aberforth."
"Is it?" He turned to look at her directly, and she was struck by how much he looked like his more famous brother in that moment. "Seems to me like justice, one way or another. Those Snatchers were planning to hurt people last night. Now they can't hurt anyone ever again."
Before Rosmerta could respond, he shuffled away, disappearing back into the crowd of onlookers. She watched him go, wondering how much he'd seen or guessed about the previous evening's events. Aberforth Dumbledore had a reputation for knowing more than he let on, and his comment about memory magic had been far too specific to be coincidental.
As the Ministry officials finished their work and the crowd began to disperse, Rosmerta caught sight of a familiar figure watching from the shadows near the post office. Harry stood there for just a moment, long enough to catch her eye and nod once before melting back into the alley between buildings.
She smiled to herself, remembering the night before and the feel of his hands on her skin. Whatever Harry had done to those Snatchers, it had worked perfectly. They'd destroyed themselves and taken a few Death Eaters with them, and no one was the wiser except possibly Aberforth, who seemed inclined to keep his suspicions to himself.
"Scary man indeed," she murmured to herself, then turned and walked back to her pub.
The investigation would continue for several more hours, but the basic facts were clear enough. A group of Snatchers had attacked Death Eaters, resulting in casualties on both sides. It was the kind of internal violence that everyone hoped would become increasingly common as Voldemort's followers continued growing more desperate and paranoid.
Rosmerta unlocked the door to the Three Broomsticks and went inside, humming to herself as she prepared for another day of serving customers and listening to gossip. She looked around the pub that felt different now. Her eyes fell on the table those Snatchers had claimed for themselves, before they shifted to where Harry had humiliated them.
Life was definitely getting more interesting.
As she lit the fires and began setting up for the day's business, she found herself thinking about Harry once again and when she might see him next. The war would continue, people would die, and difficult choices would have to be made.
But if Harry happened to stop by for a drink in the coming days or sometime thereafter, well, she'd be ready for him.
The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the bloodstained cobblestones where five Snatchers had met their end. By afternoon, the Ministry had the scene cleaned up and the official reports filed. By evening, it had become just another story of violence in a war that had already claimed too many lives.
XXXXX
"And that's basically it," Harry grunted, his fists tightening as he tried to calm his ragged breaths. He felt like he'd just run a 100m sprint in record time.
"You know, you can be rather creative when you put your mind to it," Amelia, or her lookalike rather, purred, planting another wet kiss on the underside of his cock, her tongue trailing his length.
Harry grunted when she plunged her mouth onto his rod once again, his grip tightening on the edge of the hot tub he had been lounging in.
It was quite early in the evening. Susan and Hannah had gone to visit the Greengrass family to, in Susan's words, familiarize themselves with their future family, leaving Harry on his own. Having nothing noteworthy to do, he had decided to take a long, hot soak in the tub he and the two badgers had first played in. It had only been a few minutes when he'd been treated to the alluring sight of a naked Amelia, or Nym, as he had gathered instantly, sauntering inside and promptly joining him.
Nym's friend, Hestia, had joined the aurors in the investigation of the attack that had taken place in Hogsmeade the previous night, and she had told Nym everything about it. Harry had taken an odd sort of thrill as he listened to Nym telling him in absolute detail what had transpired, and when he told her it had been him behind the Snatchers and the Death Eaters going for each other's throats, well… the result was apparent for him to see.
Nym was enthusiastic as usual, but there was something that overtook her whenever she assumed the form of her strict, yet hot boss. Harry believed it was Nym's fantasy of what her boss would be like, naked and pleasuring her man, that she always exhibited whenever she changed her looks. For Harry, it was both amusing and arousing, and he could not deny that as much as he loved the treat Nym gave him, he was itching to try the original. After all, no matter how good the flavor tasted, nothing beat the actual fruit.
Harry let out a small hiss when he felt Nym's nails scrape his balls, his eyes falling on her bobbing crimson head as she deepthroated him. He didn't know if he was imagining it, but her metamorph skills were getting more and more refined. The way her throat enveloped his length, the walls hugging his cock so intimately that it felt like he was being caressed every single time she plunged back onto it… nothing could beat the sensation.
'Perhaps a veela could.'
Harry closed his eyes, absently shaking his head at Maria's passing comment. She had been nudging him since the afternoon about it.
He had received another letter from Fleur, telling him that she was looking forward to catching up with him soon. The idea of going after her had already been there, but now that Fleur was almost here, Maria had taken to urge him on.
Harry silently acknowledged her just as Nym pulled off his cock, wiping the saliva off her lips. He watched as she turned around and grabbed the edge of the tub, looking at him over her shoulder with that saucy grin that looked so foreign on Amelia's face but no less enticing.
"Now, Mr. Potter, I need a big, hard cock in my pussy. The work of the department head is tiring and I need some real nice stress relief, you see. Think you can help me out?"
Harry's eyes darkened at Nym's words. His cock twitched, still slick from her mouth, and he stepped closer, the water sloshing around his thighs. "Department head, huh?" he said, voice low and rough. "Sounds like you need more than just stress relief, Madam Bones. You need to be fucked senseless."
Nym's grin widened, her eyes glinting with mischief as she arched her back, presenting her ass to him. Her skin shimmered in the dim light, the curve of her hips begging for his hands. "Big talk, Potter," she purred, her voice dripping with challenge.
He gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, and lined himself up with her entrance. She was already wet, her pussy glistening as he pressed the tip of his cock against her. He didn't ease in gently—he thrust hard, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful slam.
Nym gasped, her nails scratching at the tub's edge, and her body trembling as he filled her completely.
"Fuck," Harry groaned, his hands tightening on her hips. Her pussy clenched around him, hot and tight, pulling him deeper with every pulse. He pulled back slowly, watching his cock slide out, slick with her arousal, before slamming back in. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the bathroom, mingling with her filthy moans.
"Harder," she demanded, her voice that was so much like the woman who she resembled breaking as she pushed back against him. Her crimson hair spilled over her shoulders, swaying with each thrust.
Harry obliged, his hips snapping forward with raw force, each movement driving him deeper into her. Her pussy gripped him like a vice, the wet heat overwhelming his senses. He reached forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and tugged, forcing her head back as he pounded into her.
"You like that?" he growled, his voice thick with lust. "Like being fucked like this, Madam Bones?"
"Yes," the redhead hissed, her body rocking with his rhythm. "Morgana, yes, Harry. Don't stop."
Her words spurred him on, and he leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he fucked her harder, the angle letting him hit that spot inside her that made her cry out. Her moans grew louder, unrestrained, filling the room as her body shook beneath him.
Harry's hand slid from her hair to her throat, his fingers curling lightly around it, not choking but holding her in place as he drove into her. Her breathing hitched, her pussy clenching tighter around him, and he could feel her getting close. The way her walls fluttered, the way her moans turned into desperate gasps—it was driving him wild. He reached around with his other hand, finding her clit, and rubbed it in tight circles, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts.
"Harry!"
Her voice broke as her orgasm hit, her body convulsing under him. Her pussy clamped down on his cock, pulsing so hard it nearly sent him over the edge. He kept thrusting through it, riding out her climax, his fingers still working her clit as she trembled and gasped. Her legs shook, threatening to give out, but Harry held her up, his grip on her throat and hip firm and unyielding.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his own release building fast. He pulled out suddenly, making her whimper at the loss, and spun her around. Her eyes were hazy with pleasure, her lips parted as she panted. He pushed her back against the tub's edge, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder. Without warning, he thrust back into her, the new angle letting him go even deeper.
Her head fell back, a low moan escaping her as he fucked her with relentless intensity.
"Fuck, Harry, you're gonna make me come again," she gasped, her hands grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He could feel the sting, but it only fueled him, his hips moving faster and harder, drilling into her furiously. The water splashed around them, the tub creaking under their weight.
Those large breasts bounced with each thrust, her nipples hard and begging for attention. Harry leaned down, sucking one into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it as he pounded into her.
Her second orgasm hit without warning, her scream echoing off the tiles as her body arched against him. Her pussy squeezed him so tightly he couldn't hold back anymore. With a guttural groan, Harry buried himself deep inside her, his cock pulsing as he came, spilling into her with hot, heavy spurts.
His vision blurred, the pleasure overwhelming as he rode out his release, his thrusts slowing but still deep, drawing out every last sensation.
They stayed like that for a moment, panting, their bodies pressed together as the water lapped around them. Nym's leg slid down from his shoulder, and she slumped against him, her head resting on his chest. Harry's arms wrapped around her, his cock still inside her, softening but not pulling out yet.
"Merlin, Mr. Potter," Nym murmured, her Amelia-like voice hoarse but playful. "You really know how to relieve stress." She tilted her head up, her lips brushing against his jaw. "Think you can manage that again sometime soon?"
Harry chuckled, his hand sliding down to squeeze her ass. "Keep talking like that, and I'll have you bent over this tub again before you can blink."
Nym smirked, her fingers trailing down his chest. "Promises, promises."
She shifted, letting him slip out of her, and stood, water dripping down her body. Harry hungrily devoured the vision that she presented as she stepped out of the tub, grabbing a towel, and glanced back at him with that same saucy grin.
"You know, with your luck with the ladies, I bet you can have the bosslady bent over in front of you in no time," she smirked, and Harry merely shook his head as she sauntered out of the room, her hips swaying exaggeratedly.
'I agree,' the voice of Maria was accompanied with a giggle, making Harry roll his eyes.
That bitch was way too greedy.
'I heard that.'
As Maria's petulant side resurfaced, Harry allowed himself to sink into the hot tub once again.
Fleur's arrival was imminent, and he was certain things would continue to be interesting.
Chapter 38: Offense
The early morning mist clung to the cobblestones of the French Ministry's international transportation hub as the Delacour family made their way through the ancient corridors. Fleur walked between her parents, her silvery hair catching the magical torchlight that lined the walls. At her side, Gabrielle kept pace, her face and distinctive veela hair carefully concealed beneath an enchanted silk scarf that shimmered with protective charms.
"Je ne comprends toujours pas pourquoi tu dois partir maintenant, ma chérie," Apolline Delacour said, her voice thick with worry. "La guerre en Angleterre empire chaque jour. Les rapports que nous recevons..." (Tr. I still don't understand why you must go now, my dear. The war in England grows worse each day. The reports we receive...)
"Maman, nous en avons déjà parlé," Fleur replied gently, adjusting her traveling cloak. "C'est précisément pour cela que je dois y aller. Harry a besoin de tout le soutien qu'il peut obtenir en ce moment." (Tr. Mama, we've already discussed this. That is precisely why I must go. Harry needs all the support he can get right now.)
Monsieur Delacour, a short man with graying hair and kind eyes, placed a protective hand on his eldest daughter's shoulder. "Les contacts du Ministère nous disent que la situation devient de plus en plus dangereuse. Peut-être serait-il plus sage d'attendre jusqu'à ce que—" (Tr. The Ministry contacts tell us that the situation is becoming more and more dangerous. Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until—)
"Jusqu'à quand, Papa?" Fleur interrupted, her blue eyes flashing with determination. "Jusqu'à ce qu'Harry affronte Voldemort seul? Jusqu'à ce que plus d'innocents meurent pendant que nous restons en sécurité en France?" (Tr. Until when, Papa? Until Harry faces Voldemort alone? Until more innocent people die while we sit safely in France?)
The family paused at a junction where several Ministry officials were checking transportation schedules. The sound of their rapid French filled the air, but Fleur's attention remained focused on her family's concerns.
"Tu parles de ce Harry Potter comme si tu lui devais quelque chose," Apolline observed, though her tone was more curious than accusatory. (Tr. You speak of this Harry Potter as if you owe him something.)
"Je lui dois quelque chose," Fleur said firmly. "Il a sauvé Gabrielle et moi pendant le Tournois des Trois Sorciers. Dans le lac, il aurait pu laisser Gabrielle derrière lui et gagner facilement. Dans le labyrinthe, il m'a aidée quand j'ai été attaquée par Viktor sous l'Imperius. Il s'est mis en danger pour nous sans hésiter." (Tr. I do owe him something. He saved both Gabrielle and me during the Triwizard Tournament. In the lake, he could have left Gabrielle behind and won easily. In the maze, he helped me when I was attacked by Viktor under the Imperius Curse. He put himself at risk for us without hesitation.)
At the mention of Harry's name, Gabrielle's cheeks flushed pink beneath her scarf. She fidgeted with the silk edges, her voice barely above a whisper. "Vas-tu... vas-tu lui dire merci de ma part? Pour tout ce qu'il a fait?" (Tr. Will you... will you tell him thank you from me? For everything he's done?)
Fleur's expression softened as she looked at her younger sister. The girl had undergone her veela maturity just a little while ago, and the transition had been difficult. The uncontrolled allure made simple interactions challenging, forcing Gabrielle into isolation until she could master her new abilities.
"Bien sûr que je le ferai, petite sœur," Fleur said, pulling Gabrielle into a gentle embrace. "Il sera ravi de savoir que tu penses à lui." (Tr. Of course I will, little sister. He'll be pleased to know you're thinking of him.)
"Ce garçon a certainement fait une impression," Monsieur Delacour said with a slight smile. "Bien que je m'inquiète que ta gratitude puisse obscurcir ton jugement sur les dangers que tu vas affronter." (Tr. The boy certainly made an impression. Though I worry that your gratitude might be clouding your judgment about the dangers you'll face.)
"Mon jugement est parfaitement clair, Papa," Fleur replied, though she kept her arm around Gabrielle's shoulders. "Harry nous a sauvées quand il n'était pas obligé de le faire. Maintenant, il se bat dans une guerre qui pourrait affecter tout le monde sorcier. Si je peux l'aider, même d'une petite façon, alors je dois essayer." (Tr. My judgment is perfectly clear, Papa. Harry saved us when he didn't have to. Now he's fighting a war that could affect the entire wizarding world. If I can help him, even in a small way, then I must try.)
They reached the international transportation chamber, a circular room with several glowing portkey circles marked by ancient runes. Ministry officials in navy blue robes were checking documentation and conducting final security sweeps. The atmosphere was tense, filled with the nervous energy of travelers heading to uncertain destinations, especially Wizarding Britain.
"Circle Seven for London departures," called the British witch with a clipboard. "Final activation in ten minutes."
Apolline's grip on Fleur's arm tightened. "Promets-moi que tu seras prudente. Promets-moi que tu ne prendras pas de risques inutiles." (Tr. Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't take unnecessary risks.)
"Je te le promets, Maman," Fleur said, covering her mother's hand with her own. "Mais je promets aussi que je ne resterai pas là sans rien faire pendant que de bonnes personnes souffrent." (Tr. I promise you, Mama. But I also promise that I won't stand by and do nothing while good people suffer.)
Internally, Fleur's thoughts were a whirlwind of determination and gratitude. Harry had shown her what true courage looked like during the Tournament. While other champions had been focused solely on winning, he had demonstrated that some things were more important than personal glory. He had risked his own victory to save Gabrielle, a girl he barely knew, simply because it was the right thing to do.
Now, as dark forces gathered strength across Britain, she couldn't bear the thought of him facing those dangers alone. The reports from their Ministry contacts painted a grim picture—disappearances, attacks on Muggle-born wizards, and the rise of fear and suspicion throughout the British magical society. If ever there was a time when Harry needed friends and allies, it was now.
"Les attaques deviennent de plus en plus fréquentes," Monsieur Delacour said quietly, his voice grim. "Si même la moitié des histoires sont vraies..." (Tr. The attacks are becoming more and more frequent. If even half the stories are true...)
"C'est une raison de plus pour que j'y sois," Fleur said. "Les étudiants auront besoin de protection. Ceux qui résistent auront besoin de chaque sorcière et sorcier capable qu'ils peuvent obtenir." (Tr. All the more reason for me to be there. Students will need protection. Those who resist will need every capable witch and wizard they can get.)
"Tu n'es même pas officiellement impliquée dans la résistance," Apolline pointed out. (Tr. You're not even officially involved in the resistance.)
"Pas encore," Fleur agreed. "Mais je le serai." (Tr. Not yet. But I will be.)
A Ministry official approached their group, consulting his clipboard. "Mademoiselle Delacour? Circle Seven is ready for departure."
The family exchanged glances, knowing that this was goodbye for now, one that was more serious and filled with risk than any other.
Gabrielle stepped forward first, her voice still muffled by the enchanted scarf.
"J'aimerais pouvoir venir avec toi," she said. "Pour aider à me battre, pour être utile d'une manière ou d'une autre." (Tr. I wish I could come with you. To help fight, to be useful somehow.)
"Tu n'es pas encore prête, ma petite," Fleur said gently but firmly. "Ton entraînement avec Grand-mère n'est pas terminé. Et quelqu'un doit rester ici pour s'occuper de Maman et Papa." (Tr. You're not ready yet, my little one. Your training with Grandmother isn't complete. And someone needs to stay here to take care of Mama and Papa.)
"Nous pouvons prendre soin de nous-mêmes," Apolline protested with mock indignation, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears. (Tr. We can take care of ourselves.)
"Bien sûr que vous le pouvez," Fleur said with a smile. "Mais Gabrielle a besoin de se sentir nécessaire en ce moment." (Tr. Of course you can. But Gabrielle needs to feel needed right now.)
The younger girl nodded, understanding the unspoken message. Her recent maturity had left her feeling isolated and out of control. Having a purpose, even guardian duty over their parents, would help her maintain focus during her continued training.
"Circle Seven, final call," the Ministry official announced.
Apolline pulled Fleur into a fierce embrace, whispering rapid French endearments and warnings. Monsieur Delacour followed, his hug accompanied by gruff advice about staying alert and trusting her instincts. Finally, Gabrielle hugged her sister tightly, the silk scarf slipping slightly to reveal a flash of silver hair.
"Dis à Harry..." Gabrielle began, then paused, her cheeks reddening again. "Dis-lui que nous croyons en lui. Que tout le monde n'a pas oublié ce qu'il a fait pour les gens." (Tr. Tell Harry... Tell him that we believe in him. That not everyone has forgotten what he's done for people.)
"Je le ferai," Fleur promised, her own eyes misting slightly. "Et j'écrirai aussi souvent que je pourrai." (Tr. I will. And I'll write as often as I can.)
She gathered her bags and followed the Ministry official toward Circle Seven, where an old boot sat innocuously on a glowing runic platform. Several other travelers were already gathered around it, their faces showing varying degrees of apprehension about their destination.
"One minute to departure," the official called out.
Fleur looked back at her family one last time. They stood together at the viewing area, Gabrielle between her parents, all three watching her with expressions of love, worry, and pride. She raised her hand in farewell, then placed it on the portkey along with the other travelers.
The familiar sensation of being hooked behind the navel and yanked forward filled her senses. The last thing she saw was her family's faces, etched with concern but also with understanding. They knew, as she did, that some causes were worth the risk.
As the portkey activated and the French Ministry faded from view, Fleur's thoughts turned to the challenges ahead. She would find Harry, offer her help, and stand beside him against the growing darkness. It was the least she could do for someone who had shown her what real heroism looked like.
XXXXX
The Three Broomsticks was dark and quiet, the last patrons having left hours ago. Harry pushed through the basement door he'd been keyed into silently, making his way through the empty pub where chairs were stacked on tables and the air still held the lingering scent of butterbeer and firewhisky. He could hear movement from upstairs—the soft clink of bottles being put away and the scrape of furniture being moved.
He climbed the narrow staircase, his stride casual and confident. When he reached Rosmerta's private quarters, he found her in the main room, dressed in a simple blouse and skirt as she organized receipts at her small writing desk. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and she looked up with surprise when she heard his footsteps.
"Harry," she said, her eyes lighting up with pleased surprise. "I wasn't expecting you tonight."
"Thought I'd drop by after closing," Harry said, his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the doorframe with a small grin on his face. "Hope you don't mind the intrusion."
Rosmerta set down her quill and turned to face him fully, her gaze sultry as it traveled over his form. "Mind? Hardly. Though you could have knocked, you know."
"Where's the fun in that?" Harry asked with a slight smirk, pushing off from the doorframe to move closer.
"Mmm, getting bolder, are we?" she said, standing and moving to meet him halfway. "I like that in a man."
"Do you now?" Harry asked, his hands finding her waist as she stepped close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral with hints of cinnamon.
"Very much," she murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "There's something to be said for a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it."
"And what makes you think I want something?" Harry asked, though his hands were already sliding up her sides, touching her intimately.
Rosmerta let out a tinkling laugh, her palms resting on his chest as she caressed him. "The way you're looking at me, for starters. Like you're thinking about all the wicked things you'd like to do."
"Maybe I am," Harry said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.
"Only maybe?" she teased, pressing closer so that their bodies were almost touching.
"Definitely," Harry corrected, one hand moving to cup her face while the other remained at her waist.
"Good," she breathed, her lips brushing against his ear. "Because I've been thinking about wicked things too."
Their mouths met, hungry and demanding, and Rosmerta's fingers dug into Harry's chest, her nails scraping through the fabric of his shirt as she pressed herself flush against him. His hands were demanding, one gripping her jaw to angle her mouth just right, the other sliding down to clutch her arse, pulling her hips tight against his. She gasped into his mouth, feeling his hard length straining through his trousers, and a wicked grin curved her lips.
"Eager, aren't you?" she purred, breaking the kiss to nip at his jaw, her teeth grazing the stubble there. Her hands were already at work, yanking his shirt from his trousers, fingers fumbling with buttons in her haste to feel his skin.
"Like you're not?" Harry growled, his voice rough with want. He shoved her back against the edge of her desk, the wood creaking under her weight. Papers scattered, a quill clattering to the floor, but neither cared. His hands found the hem of her blouse, roughly tugging it up and over her head, revealing the swell of her large breasts, barely contained by a lacy black bra. His eyes darkened with hunger and lust as he took her in.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he muttered, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over the lace where her nipples peaked, hard and straining. Rosmerta arched into his touch, a low moan spilling from her lips as he squeezed, not gentle, but with a possessive edge that sent heat pooling between her thighs.
"Harder," she demanded, her voice a sultry challenge. She reached behind herself, unhooking her bra with a quick flick, letting it fall away. Her breasts spilled free, full and flushed, and Harry didn't hesitate. He lowered his head, mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard enough to make her gasp, her hands flying to his hair, tugging sharply. His tongue flicked and teased, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and she writhed against the desk, her hips bucking toward him.
"Morgana, Harry," she hissed, her fingers tightening in his hair as he switched to her other breast, lavishing it with the same rough attention. His hands weren't idle, one kneading the breast he wasn't sucking, the other sliding down to grip her thigh, hiking her skirt up to her hips. Her knickers were damp, clinging to her, and when his fingers brushed over the fabric, she shuddered, a needy whimper escaping her.
"Already soaked," he teased, his voice muffled against her skin. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his fingers hooking into her knickers and yanking them down her thighs. She kicked them off, spreading her legs as she perched on the edge of the desk, brazen and unashamed.
"Stop talking and do something about it," she shot back, her hands reaching for his belt, tugging it open with a clink of metal. She shoved his trousers and boxers down in one go, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the tip glistening with his precum. Her eyes gleamed with want as she wrapped her fingers around his girth, stroking firmly, her thumb circling the head. Harry groaned, his hips jerking into her hand, and she smirked as she slid down to her knees, leaning forward to flick her tongue over the tip, tasting him.
"Fuck, Rosie," he growled, his hands fisting in her hair as she took him into her mouth, her lips stretching around him. She didn't tease, didn't ease him into it—she sucked him deep, her tongue swirling along the underside, her head bobbing with a rhythm that was almost brutal. His grip tightened, guiding her pace, and she hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. She pulled back just enough to drag her teeth lightly along his length, then plunged down again, taking him to the back of her throat.
"Fuck, you're one filthy slut," he rasped, his voice strained as he fought not to thrust too hard. But she wanted it, her hands gripping his hips, urging him to move. He obliged, fucking her mouth with shallow thrusts, each one drawing a muffled moan from her. Saliva glistened on her lips, her eyes watering slightly, but she didn't pull away, didn't falter, her hunger matching his.
Finally, he tugged her off with a low growl, his cock slick and throbbing. "Enough," he said, his voice rough as he pulled her up, spinning her around to face the desk. She braced her hands on the edge, bending forward, her arse pushed out invitingly. Harry didn't waste time, his hands gripping her hips as he lined himself up, the tip of his cock brushing against her slick folds.
"Do it," she demanded, glancing back at him, her eyes blazing with need. "Fuck me, Harry."
He didn't need to be told twice. With one hard thrust, he buried himself inside her, filling her completely. She cried out, her nails digging into the wood of the desk, her body arching as he stretched her. He didn't pause, didn't give her time to adjust, just pulled back and slammed into her again, setting a relentless pace. The desk rocked beneath them, creaking with each thrust, and Rosmerta pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with equal fervor.
"Harder," she gasped, her voice breaking as he obliged, his hips snapping against her with a force that made her tits bounce, her body jolting forward. His hands roamed, one sliding up to maul her breast and pinch her nipple, rolling it between his fingers, the other gripping her hip so tightly it would leave marks. She didn't care—she wanted it, wanted the roughness, the raw sensation of their need.
"Like that?" he growled, leaning forward to bite at her shoulder, his teeth leaving a faint mark. She moaned, loud and unrestrained, her walls clenching around him as he drove deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision blur.
"Yes—fuck, yes," she panted, one hand reaching back to clutch at his neck, urging him on. He shifted, angling his thrusts to hit that spot again and again, relentless, until she was trembling, her moans turning to desperate cries. His hand slid from her breast to her clit, fingers circling roughly, and she shattered, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. She let out a loud cry as she clenched around him, her body shaking, and he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release.
"Rosie," he growled, his voice rough as he slammed into her one last time, spilling inside her with a shudder. They stayed like that for a moment, panting, bodies pressed together, slick with sweat. Slowly, he pulled out, and she turned to face him, her legs shaky but her eyes still burning with that same hunger.
"Merlin's beard," she murmured, a lazy grin spreading across her face as she leaned back against the desk, her chest heaving. "You're something else, Potter."
He smirked, his gaze still raking over her. "You're not so bad yourself."
She laughed, low and sultry, reaching out to tug him close by his cock slick with their combined juices. He hissed as he hovered over her, his elbows on either side of her as she gave him a heated look.
"Give me a minute, and I'll show you just how bad I can be."
Two more rounds of raw, unrestrained fucking followed, once again on the desk with Rosmerta on her back, her legs hooked around his waist as he had his way with her and then in her bed with her riding him like a wanton whore, fucking him wildly.
When they finally collapsed together, breathing heavily, Harry felt the familiar sense of satisfaction that came from taking what he wanted without apology. His plans, the war, his enemies… all seemed distant here in Rosmerta's arms, replaced by the simple pleasure of their sweaty skin pressed flush, her curves fitting against his body perfectly.
They lay tangled in her silk sheets, their bodies cooling in the aftermath of their orgasms. Rosmerta traced lazy patterns on Harry's chest while he played with strands of her hair and caressed her sweat-slicked back. The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting the room in a warm, intimate glow.
"You seem different tonight," Rosmerta observed, her voice husky from their fucking. "More... assertive than usual."
"Maybe I just wanted to take what I want," Harry said, his own voice rough with satisfaction.
"I like this side of you," she said, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. "It suits you. Speaking of which, I've been hearing some interesting things lately."
Harry's hand continued its lazy movements in her hair. "Oh? What kind of things?"
"Well," Rosmerta said, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him properly, "you remember when those Snatchers caused trouble, I hope?"
"Hard to forget," Harry said with a chuckle, his voice totally uncaring. "Although I like to remember it as the night we fucked first. Why? What happened?"
Rosmerta chuckled, swatting his chest playfully.
"The aurors finally finished investigating the scene," she continued, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Caused quite a stir, from what I overheard."
Harry shifted slightly, giving her his attention. "What did they find?"
"All the Snatchers were dead, obviously," Rosmerta said, her tone matter-of-fact. "But there was a lot of blood at the scene too. More than could be accounted for by just their deaths."
"Any idea whose blood it was?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. A Death Eater, most likely.
Rosmerta nodded, her expression growing more serious. "According to the aurors I overheard talking in the pub, it belonged to Amycus Carrow."
That got Harry's full attention. He sat up slightly, his mind immediately working through the implications. "Carrow was there?"
"Apparently so," Rosmerta confirmed. "The aurors were discussing it quite animatedly. Seems they think the Snatchers and Carrow got into some sort of... disagreement."
"Five against one," Harry said with cold satisfaction. "Good riddance to the lot of them."
Rosmerta chuckled, the sound vibrating against his chest where she'd laid her head. "That's exactly what I thought. Though apparently it wasn't quite five against one."
"What do you mean?"
"Two more Death Eater bodies were found," she explained, her fingers resuming their lazy tracing patterns on his skin. "The aurors think reinforcements arrived to help Carrow, and that was it for the Snatchers."
Harry processed this information with detached interest. "So Carrow was tortured by his own allies, then someone came to help him, and then they killed all the Snatchers while two of these Death Eaters also died."
"That's what it sounds like," Rosmerta agreed. "Though from the footprint analysis, at least one more Death Eater escaped with Carrow. Female, based on the boot prints."
"His sister," Harry said matter-of-factly. "Alecto. The Carrows rarely operate separately."
Rosmerta made a disgusted sound. "Nasty pieces of work, those two. I've heard some revolting stories about them over the years."
"Such as?" Harry asked, though his tone suggested mild curiosity rather than any real interest.
"Well, there are rumors about their... relationship," Rosmerta said delicately. "Twins, but perhaps not in the way siblings ought to be, if you catch my meaning."
Harry shrugged. "Doesn't surprise me. Death Eaters aren't exactly known for their moral standards. Inbreeding is the norm for them."
"That's not even the worst of it," Rosmerta continued. "During the first war, they had a reputation for torturing entire families. Not just for information, mind you, but for sport. They'd keep people alive for days, taking turns with different curses."
"Charming," Harry said with complete indifference. The fact that Amycus had escaped was mildly irritating, but nothing more than that. The mind magic he'd used on the Snatchers had been intended to send a message, but if only expendable thugs had died while the real threats got away...
"You know," Harry said slowly, "maybe I should take care of some loose ends."
Rosmerta looked up at him with interest. "What kind of loose ends?"
"Well, I'd intended for what happened that night to have a more... far-reaching impact," Harry explained, his tone casual despite the dark implications of his words. "But if only a couple of expendable thugs died while the real threats got away, perhaps I should go out and have some fun."
The change in Rosmerta was immediate and electric. Her eyes darkened with arousal, and she shifted to straddle him, her bare skin warm against his. "Fuck, Harry," she breathed, her voice thick with desire. "Do you have any idea how hot you sound when you talk like that?"
Harry smirked up at her, his hands settling on her hips. "Like what?"
"So casual about it all," she said, leaning down to brush her lips against his ear. "So dismissive when it comes to Death Eaters. Like they're just... nuisances to be removed."
"Aren't they?" Harry asked, his own voice dropping to a husky whisper.
Rosmerta pulled back to look at him, her eyes bright with fascination and desire. "Most people would be horrified by what you're suggesting. The idea of hunting down dangerous wizards for sport..."
"Most people haven't seen what I've seen," Harry replied, his hands sliding up her sides. "Haven't lost what I've lost. Sometimes the only way to deal with monsters is to become something they're afraid of."
"And you're not afraid of what that might make you?" she asked, though her body was already responding to his touch.
"I'm more afraid of what happens if I don't," Harry said honestly. "How many more people die while I try to maintain some moral high ground? How many more families get tortured by the likes of the Carrows while I worry about my soul?"
Rosmerta's breath hitched as his hands found sensitive spots along her ribs. "So you'd just... hunt them down? Track them to wherever they're hiding?"
"Why not?" Harry said, his smile taking on a predatory edge. "I've got the skills. I've got the motivation. And clearly, they're not going to stop on their own."
"The whole wizarding world would be talking about it," Rosmerta said, her voice breathless now as she began moving against him. "The Boy Who Lived, turned hunter."
"Let them talk," Harry said, his own breathing growing heavier. "At least they'd be talking about dead Death Eaters instead of dead innocents. And it's the Chosen One now."
The conversation dissolved into gasps and moans as they smashed their lips together again, their fucking more urgent this time, fueled by the dangerous edge of their discussion. Rosmerta seemed intoxicated by this darker side of Harry, one who had the willingness to do whatever was necessary, and with such casual indifference.
As Harry spilled inside her for the fourth time that evening, they lay entwined once again, the fire having died to mere glowing coals. Rosmerta traced circles on Harry's chest with her fingertip.
"You're really going to do it, aren't you?" she asked quietly. "Go after them, I mean."
"Definitely," Harry replied. "Think I'll make a statement about it. Can't just let them go without making them feel terrified of what's come for them."
"I might be able to help with some of that," Rosmerta said thoughtfully. "You'd be surprised what people let slip when they've had a few drinks. And I've got contacts throughout the area who owe me favors."
Harry turned to look at her with interest. "You'd want to help?"
"Harry," she said seriously, "I've lived through one war already. I've seen what happens when people like the Carrows are allowed to run free. If you're willing to do something about it... well, I'd rather support someone taking action than sit back and hope someone else solves the problem."
"It could be dangerous for you," Harry warned. "If anyone found out you were helping me..."
"I'm already sleeping with Harry Potter," Rosmerta pointed out with a wry smile. "I think I passed 'dangerous' several encounters ago."
Harry chuckled, pulling her closer. "Fair point."
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the windows and reminding them both that winter was approaching. With it would come longer nights, more opportunities for Death Eater activities, and more chances for the kind of violence that had become commonplace in their world.
"When would you start?" Rosmerta asked eventually.
"Soon," Harry replied. "I'll need to do some reconnaissance first, figure out where they might be holed up. The Carrows have family properties scattered throughout Britain, and there are plenty of safe houses the Death Eaters have been using."
"And once you find them?"
Harry's smile was cold in the dim light. "Then we'll see how they like being on the receiving end for a change."
Rosmerta shivered, though whether from cold or excitement, Harry couldn't tell. She pressed closer to him, her warmth a comfort against the chill that seemed to be seeping through the windows.
"You've changed," she observed. "Since that first time you came here, I mean. You're more... focused. More decisive. And more manly than I could've ever imagined."
"Grew up," Harry said simply. "And the world isn't for the weak or the indecisive. It breaks you, or it teaches you what you're really capable of."
"And which category do you fall into?"
Harry considered the question seriously. "I'm not broken," he said finally. "But I'm definitely not the same person I was even a year ago. That person might have hesitated, might have worried more about doing the 'right' thing according to someone else's definition."
"And now?"
"Now I know that sometimes the right thing is the hard thing," Harry said. "Sometimes being a hero means getting your hands dirty so other people don't have to."
Rosmerta nodded against his chest. "I think I understand. And for what it's worth, I think you're still a hero. Just a different kind than people expect."
"Maybe," Harry said. "Or maybe I'm just someone who's tired of watching good people die while bad people run free."
The wind outside grew stronger, and somewhere in the distance, they could hear the sound of the pub's sign creaking on its chains.
As sleep began to claim them both, Rosmerta's breathing evening out against his chest, Harry's mind was already working on plans. The Carrows would pay for their crimes, and through them, he would send a message to every Death Eater still drawing breath.
The Boy Who Lived was gone, replaced by the Chosen One who was not interested in playing defense. It was time to let the dark side know that someone was out to hunt them down, and there was no escape anymore.