Beyond The Rules: Chapter 35

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.”

To be continued…