Sovereign of Wrath and Sin - Chapter 9

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

Chapter 9 – A Barmaid’s Soft Warmth

~ Harry Potter/Sebastian Gray ~

The silence inside the Beauxbatons carriage was a deception. To the general population of the wizarding world, it was the peaceful quiet of deep slumber, broken only by the rhythmic, soft breathing of the students tucked away in their beds. The air was perfumed with the heavy, calming scent of lavender and enchanted chamomile, spells woven into the very timber of the carriage to ensure the delicate French guests rested without disturbance.

But for Sebastian Gray—the man who had once been Harry Potter—the silence was a cage.

He sat on the edge of his bunk in the small, partitioned section he had been allocated as Fleur’s personal guard, and a student of this school. The room was dark, illuminated only by the sliver of moonlight cutting through the velvet curtains, painting a pale stripe across the floorboards. He was shirtless, his skin glistening with a sheen of cold sweat, his chest rising and falling in a jagged rhythm that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with a magical and biological pressure that was threatening to crack his ribs from the inside out.

It had been days. Days of constant, low-level exposure to the passive radiation of Veela allure.

Fleur did do it on purpose but at least she was not doing it maliciously. But she was a high-powered magical creature coming into her prime, and her aura was a constant, thrumming frequency that plucked at the basest instincts of every male in a fifty-mile radius. For Sebastian, who spent every waking moment beside her, protecting her, her fascination with him had resulted in constant exposure to her blasts of allure, along with her mission to seduce him, it was worse than fighting wizard to the death. 

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tight enough to hurt, trying to ground himself.

It wasn’t just Fleur. It was everything. The castle. The memories. The ghosts of a life he had discarded. And, more than he cared to admit, it was the incident in the corridor two days ago.

The memory assaulted him, unbidden and vivid. He closed his eyes, but the image only sharpened. He saw the stone floor of the dungeons. He felt the weight of them. Daphne Greengrass, the Ice Queen, flushed and panting, her composure shattered. And Vera Black.

Vera.

A low growl vibrated in Sebastian’s throat. He could still feel the phantom sensation of her—that incredible, soft weight pressing down on his lap. The way her generous, heavy curves had moulded against his erection, the heat of her core radiating through the fabric of her robes and his trousers. She had ground down on him, purely by accident, but the friction had sent a jolt of electricity straight to his brain that hadn’t dissipated since.

He was a man in his prime, magically powerful and physically conditioned, and he was currently operating on a level of sexual frustration that was bordering on dangerous. His magic was restless, coiling under his skin like a trapped snake, reacting to his agitation. The air in his small room felt static-charged, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end. And for a man in his profession, this was a death sentence. 

"I need to get out," he whispered to the darkness. "I need a drink. Or a fight. Or something."

He stood up, his movements fluid and silent, a predator stalking the confines of his own den. He dressed quickly, pulling on a black fitted shirt that clung to the defined muscles of his chest and shoulders, followed by trousers and dragon-hide boots that allowed for silent movement. He strapped his wand holster to his forearm, the leather warm against his skin, and threw a heavy, dark coat over his shoulders.

Before he could leave, however, there was the matter of duty.

He moved silently into the compartment of the carriage suite where Fleur slept. She was a vision of ethereal beauty, her silver-blonde hair lay strewn out across the silk pillows, one arm thrown carelessly over her head. Even in sleep, the allure pulsed from her, a soft, siren song that made Sebastian’s jaw clench.

He ignored the pull, focusing instead on his task. He might be playing the part of a student, but he was a professional.

He raised his wand, executing a series of complex, non-verbal movements. He wasn't using standard wizarding-level protective enchantments; those were child's play for assassins to get through. He integrated a web of mercenary-grade wards, spells his mentor had learned in the darker corners of Eastern Europe.

Protego Horribilis.

Cave Inimicum.

He layered them with a sensory charm of his own invention. He drew invisible runes in the air around her bed, anchoring them to the floorboards.

'Intruder alert, silent trigger,' he thought, pushing his intent into the magic. 'If anyone crosses this threshold who isn’t me or Madame Maxime, I want to know before they even take a second breath.'

A faint, golden shimmer briefly encased the walls of her room before fading into nothingness. The measures were in place. The alarm was keyed directly to the ring on his right hand; it would burn hot if the ward was breached.

Satisfied, Sebastian turned and exited the carriage, stepping out into the biting chill of the Scottish night.

The cold air hit him like a physical blow, a welcoming shock to his system. The grounds of Hogwarts were silent, the great stone castle looming against the starry sky like a slumbering beast. The Black Lake was a sheet of dark marble, reflecting the moon.

He didn't head toward the castle. He needed to be away from the teenagers for a bit, away from the whispered gossip and the heavy weight of expectation. He turned his gaze toward the distant, twinkling lights of Hogsmeade village.

He began to walk, his pace eating up the distance. He didn't use the main path; he cut through the rougher terrain, moving with the easy grace of a man used to traversing difficult ground. As he walked, he tried to organize his thoughts, but they kept circling back to the physical ache in his groin.

The Champions Selection was in two weeks. The Tournament was about to begin in earnest. The stakes were going to skyrocket, and he needed a clear head. Currently, his head was filled with images of grey eyes, blonde hair, and soft, yielding flesh.

"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, kicking a stone off the path. "You're a hardened mercenary, not a hormone-addled teenager."

By the time the thatched roofs of Hogsmeade came into view, the wind had picked up, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and old magic. The village was mostly quiet, the shops shuttered for the night. Honeydukes was dark, Zonko’s was silent. Only a few windows glowed with warmth.

Sebastian headed straight for the most welcoming of them all: The Three Broomsticks.

He pushed the heavy oak door open, a blast of warmth and the rich smell of butterbeer, roasted nuts, and Firewhisky washing over him. The pub was dimly lit, the lanterns turned low, casting long, dancing shadows against the rough-hewn timber walls.

It was late, and the usual crowd of rowdy students had long since returned to the castle. The patrons that remained were a scattering of locals including older wizards huddled in corners over pints of ale, a hag smoking a pipe near the hearth, and a couple of goblins discussing exchange rates in hushed, guttural tones.

Sebastian moved to the bar, his boots making a heavy, deliberate sound on the floorboards. He took a seat on one of the high stools, shedding his coat and letting it hang off the back of the chair. He leaned his elbows on the polished mahogany of the counter, his emerald eyes scanning the room before settling on the figure behind the bar.

Madam Rosmerta.

She was a masterpiece of mature, feminine form.

She was wiping down a glass with a rag, her movements practiced and efficient, but there was a languid sensuality to the way she moved. She had a mane of long, wavy blonde hair that cascaded down her back, catching the light like the glow of a firefly. Her face was flushed slightly from the heat of the pub, her green eyes sparkling with a mix of weariness and mischief.

But it was her form that arrested Sebastian’s attention and held it hostage.

She was the definition of an hourglass figure, a shape that nature had carved with generous, loving hands. She was a woman, grown and ripe. Her bodice, a tight-fitting garment of dark velvet, was doing a heroic but losing battle to contain her chest. Her breasts were massive, straining against the fabric, creating a deep, inviting valley of cleavage that seemed to mock the concept of modesty.

Below the bodice, her waist nipped in sharply before flaring out into hips that were wide, soft, and maddeningly inviting. Even the loose, wide clothes she wore couldn't hide the incredible thickness of her lower body. She was MILF-y perfection, a woman who looked like she could handle a man, not just tolerate one.

As Sebastian watched, she turned to place a glass on the shelf, the fabric of her skirt tightening across her rear. It was a magnificent sight—round, heavy, and firm.

Sebastian felt his mouth go dry, the ache in his groin intensifying into a sharp, demanding throb. This was what he needed. Not a schoolgirl with wide eyes and hesitation. He needed a woman.

Rosmerta turned back around and caught him staring. Most men would have looked away, embarrassed to be caught ogling. Sebastian didn't flinch. He held her gaze, his eyes traveling slowly up her body, appreciating every curve, before locking onto her eyes. He offered a slow, appreciative smirk.

Rosmerta blinked, surprised by the boldness. She was used to Hogwarts students blushing and stammering, or old drunks leering. This was different. This gaze was heavy, assessing, and incredibly confident.

She sashayed over to him, her hips swaying with a hypnotic rhythm. She placed her hands on the bar, leaning forward slightly, which only served to push her breasts further up and together.

"Well now," she purred, her voice a husky contralto that vibrated in Sebastian’s chest. "I don't believe I've seen your face in here before, handsome. And I never forget a face that looks like yours."

Sebastian leaned back, relaxing into the confident persona that had become his staple when charming women. "I've been around, Rosmerta. Just usually moving too fast to be seen."

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smile touching her lips. "You know my name, but I don't know yours. That hardly seems fair."

"Sebastian Gray," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "And fairness is overrated. I'd rather have..." he paused, his eyes flicking to the bottles behind her, then back to her lips, "...the best you have."

"The best, is it?" She chuckled, a warm, throaty sound. "That'll cost you, Sebastian. I don't pour the good stuff for just anyone."

"I'm not just anyone," Sebastian replied, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a stack of galleon and placed it on the counter, sliding it forward with two fingers. "And I'm willing to pay for quality. Ogden's Old Firewhisky. The reserve cask. No ice."

Rosmerta’s eyes widened slightly at the coin, and then at the specific order. "A man of taste," she noted, impressed. She turned to fetch the bottle, and Sebastian took the opportunity to admire the view again. The way her hair swayed against her lower back, the way her hips moved... it was mesmerizing.

She returned with a crystal glass and a dusty bottle, pouring a generous measure of the amber liquid. She slid it toward him, her fingers brushing against his for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Her skin was warm, calloused from work but soft.

"There you are," she said, leaning her elbows on the bar again, watching him. "So, Sebastian. What brings a man like you to Hogsmeade on a Tuesday night? You don't look like a teacher, and you're certainly not like the usual group of students."

Sebastian took a sip of the whisky. It burned pleasantly on the way down, lighting a fire in his belly that matched the one in his loins. "I'm here with the Beauxbatons School of Magic. And let's just say the castle can be... suffocating. Too many children. Too much noise. I needed somewhere with a better atmosphere." He looked her up and down again, his gaze explicit. "And better scenery."

Rosmerta laughed, tossing her hair back. "Flattery will get you everywhere, darling. Or nowhere, depending on how much of that whisky you drink."

"I don't get drunk," Sebastian said, his eyes darkening. "I get focused."

The air between them shifted. The playful banter took on a heavier, more charged edge. Rosmerta felt a flush rise up her neck. She had been running this pub for years, dealing with all sorts of men, but there was something about this one—the scars she could see peeking out from his sleeves, the stillness of his posture, the dangerous glint in his green eyes, all of it made her knees feel weak.

"Is that so?" she murmured, biting her lower lip. "And what are you focused on right now?"

"You," Sebastian said simply.

Rosmerta’s breath hitched.

Around them, the pub was emptying out. The hag had left, muttering about the cold. The goblins had finished their business and departed. The few remaining locals downed their dregs and stumbled out into the night.

Within ten minutes, they were alone.

Rosmerta moved to the door, flipping the sign to 'Closed' and locking the heavy bolts with a wave of her wand. She turned back to the room, the silence of the empty pub amplifying the tension.

Sebastian hadn't moved. He was still sitting at the bar, nursing his drink, watching her. He looked like a king on a throne, waiting for his tribute.

Rosmerta walked slowly back toward the bar. The logical part of her brain told her she should clean up and go to bed. But her body... her body was humming. It had been so long since she had been looked at like that. Not as a mother figure, not as a server, but as a sexual object of desire by someone who wasn't a student, old and grey, or homeless.

"We're closed, Sebastian," she said softly, though she made no move to take his glass.

"I know," Sebastian replied. He stood up then.

The change in perspective was jarring. Seated, he was imposing. Standing, he was overwhelming. He towered over the bar, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the hearth. He radiated a raw, masculine energy that seemed to suck the air out of the room.

He walked around the end of the bar. Rosmerta didn't back away. She stood her ground, her chin tilted up, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.

"You should go," she whispered, though her eyes were dilated, dark pools of desire.

"Do you want me to go?" Sebastian asked, stopping just inches from her. He could smell her now—vanilla, old wood, and the musk of a woman who was aroused.

Rosmerta looked at him, searching his face. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "No."

Sebastian didn't waste another second.

He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. Then he crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. He devoured her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of butterbeer and the spice of her own desire. Rosmerta groaned, a low, guttural sound, and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Her body slammed against his, her massive breasts crushing against his chest, her hips grinding into his.

Sebastian’s hands dropped to her waist, gripping her tightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He spun her around, pressing her back against the bar counter. He broke the kiss, staring down at her, his eyes blazing.

"You have no idea," she spoke, her voice sensuous, "How badly I've needed this."

“You and I both, darling,” Sebastian growled, a voracious look colouring his eyes.

"Show me," Rosmerta challenged, her voice breathless, her hands tangling in his dark hair. "Don't just talk, handsome. Show me."

Sebastian grinned, a feral, predatory expression. "Get on your knees."

Rosmerta’s eyes widened at the command, a thrill of submission shooting down her spine. She didn't hesitate. She sank down, her skirts pooling around her on the floorboards, until she was looking up at him.

Sebastian sat down on the bar stool, spreading his legs wide. He worked the fastenings of his dragon-hide trousers, shoving them down, revealing the source of his pent-up energy.

His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, pulsing with the blood that had been pooling there for days. It was fully erect, a large length of angry, throbbing flesh.

Rosmerta let out a soft gasp. "Merlin's beard..."

"Don't keep it waiting," Sebastian ordered, his hand coming down to grip the back of her head.

Rosmerta leaned forward, her tongue darting out to taste the pre-cum beading at the tip. It was salty and musky. She opened her mouth wide and took him in.

Sebastian hissed through his teeth as the wet warmth of her mouth enveloped him. She knew what she was doing. She wasn't tentative. She bobbed her head, taking him deep, her lips wrapping tight around the shaft while her tongue swirled around the sensitive ridge of the head.

He tangled his fingers in her blonde waves, establishing a rhythm. He bucked his hips upward, meeting her thrusts, fucking her face with a desperation he couldn't hide. The sight of her—Madam Rosmerta, the landlady of the Three Broomsticks, kneeling between his legs, sucking him like her life depended on it—was almost too much.

"Deeper," he groaned. "Take it all, Rosmerta."

She gagged slightly as he hit the back of her throat, but she didn't pull away. She hummed, the vibration sending shockwaves through his dick. Her hands came up to fondle his balls, kneading them gently.

Sebastian endured the pleasure for as long as he could, but the friction was driving him over the edge too fast. He needed more. He needed to feel her body.

"Up," he commanded, pulling her hair gently.

Rosmerta stood, breathless, her lips slick with his saliva. Her eyes were glazed, drunk on lust.

Sebastian stood as well. He grabbed the front of her bodice. "These need to be free."

With a sharp tug and a bit of wandless magic to help with the laces, he ripped the bodice open. Her breasts tumbled out, heavy and pale, the nipples hard and rosy in the cool air. They were magnificent, swaying with their own weight.

"Fuck," Sebastian swore reverently.

He didn't wait. He grabbed her by the hips and lifted her effortlessly, depositing her onto the bar counter. She gasped, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He stepped between them, pressing his groin against her wet heat, but he didn't enter her yet.

He buried his face in her cleavage, groaning as the soft, suffocating mass of her tits enveloped him. He motorboated her, shaking his head side to side, biting lightly at the sensitive skin. Rosmerta threw her head back, moaning loudly, her hands clutching his shoulders.

"Please," she begged, her hips bucking against him. "Sebastian, please, I'm soaking... I need you inside me."

He pulled back, looking at her breasts. He grabbed them, pushing them together around his rigid cock. The sensation of the soft, yielding flesh sandwiching his hard shaft was exquisite. He began to thrust between them, fucking her tits, watching as the head of his cock popped out from the top of her cleavage with every stroke.

"Look at that," he growled, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look down. "Look at how perfect your tits are for this."

"Yes," she whimpered, watching him use her body. "Gods, yes..."

But tit-fucking was only a prelude. The scent of her arousal—a rich, intoxicating smell of female desire—was driving him insane.

He pulled away, leaving her breasts glistening with oil and sweat. He grabbed her arm and dragged her off the counter. She stumbled, laughing breathlessly, as he marched her over to one of the sturdy oak tables in the centre of the room.

"Bend over," he barked.

Rosmerta leaned over the table, planting her elbows on the wood. She arched her back, sticking her ass out. Sebastian grabbed the hem of her skirt and hiked it up, revealing her white cotton underwear. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tore them down, ripping the delicate fabric.

Her ass was revealed—pale, wide, and fleshy. He slapped it, the sound cracking through the empty pub like a gunshot. Rosmerta cried out, half in pain, half in pleasure. Her flesh rippled from the impact.

"You like that?" he growled, slapping the other cheek.

"Yes! Harder!" she screamed.

Sebastian didn't need to be told twice. He positioned himself behind her, spitting into his hand and rubbing it over his cock. He lined himself up with her entrance. She was wet, soaking wet, her juices coating her thighs.

He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging in like claws, and thrust forward.

He buried himself to the hilt in one stroke.

Rosmerta screamed, her head falling forward onto the table. "OH GODS! You're so big! You're filling me up!"

Sebastian gritted his teeth, the tightness of her pussy clamping down on him like a vice. It was heaven. It was the release he had been craving for days. He began to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, his pelvis crashing against her heavy rump with a wet thwack.

He fucked her with a rhythmic, brutal intensity. The table legs scraped against the floorboards with the force of his thrusts. Rosmerta was loud, her moans turning into screams of pleasure, her nails scratching at the wood of the table.

"That's it," Sebastian hissed in her ear, leaning down to bite her neck. "Take it. Take every inch."

He changed the angle, lifting her leg and hooking it over the side of the table, driving deeper, hitting a spot that made her toes curl.

"I'm going to cum!" she wailed. "Sebastian! I'm going to—!"

"Not yet," he growled.

He pulled out abruptly. Rosmerta whined at the loss of emptiness.

"Move," he ordered.

He dragged her upright, her clothes in disarray, her tits bouncing, her hair wild. He backed her up until her back hit the heavy wooden doors of the pub. He lifted her leg again, hooking it around his waist, and hammered into her standing up. The door rattled in its frame with every thrust.

"Open to anyone who walks by," he whispered against her lips. "Imagine if someone tried to come in right now. They'd hear you screaming."

The thought of being caught, of the taboo, sent Rosmerta over the edge. She clamped down on him, her inner muscles spasming.

But Sebastian wasn't done. He wanted to mark her. He wanted to claim every part of this pub.

He carried her—actually lifted her up, his cock still buried deep inside her—and walked her over to the large bay window that looked out onto the street.

"Put your hands on the glass," he ordered.

She pressed her palms against the cold windowpane. He turned her so she was facing the glass, her breasts mashed against the surface.

"Look out there," he said, thrusting into her from behind again. "Anyone walking past... anyone looking for a late-night drink... they'd see Madam Rosmerta getting absolutely destroyed against her own window."

The cool glass against her nipples combined with the heat of Sebastian behind her was sensory overload. She could see the empty street, the dark shop fronts. The exhibitionist thrill tore through her.

"Yes... oh god, yes... show them!" she babbled incoherently.

Sebastian felt his own control snapping. The pent-up energy, the magic, the lust, it all coalesced into a single desire for need. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming a blur of motion. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back so she was looking up at the ceiling, her throat bared.

"I'm filling you," he groaned, his voice guttural. "I'm going to fill you up right now."

"Do it!" she screamed. "Give it to me! Fill me up!"

With a final, earth-shattering thrust, Sebastian bottomed out inside her, grinding his hips against hers. He roared as his release hit him, pumping jet after jet of hot, thick semen deep into her womb.

Rosmerta convulsed around him, her orgasm hitting at the exact same moment. Her legs gave out, and only Sebastian’s strong grip on her waist kept her from sliding to the floor. They stayed there for a long time, Sebastian panting against her neck, his seed pulsing into her, twitching with the aftershocks.

The window pane was fogged with their breath.

Slowly, the world began to come back into focus. The silence of the pub returned, heavier now, filled with the scent of sex and musk.

Sebastian slowly withdrew, a trail of fluids leaking from her stretched entrance. Rosmerta slid down to the floor, her legs trembling too much to hold her weight. She sat with her back against the wall beneath the window, her chest heaving, her dress torn and open, looking thoroughly, wonderfully ravaged.

Sebastian adjusted his trousers, fastening them with clumsy fingers. He looked down at her. She looked like a wreck, and she was the most beautiful thing he had seen all week.

He reached down and offered her a hand. She took it, and he pulled her effortlessly to her feet, though she swayed and had to lean against him for support. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his hand stroking her hair.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice returning to a normal register, though still husky.

Rosmerta let out a breathless laugh, resting her cheek against his chest. "I think... I think you broke me, Sebastian. In the best possible way."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. He used a bit of wandless magic to repair her knickers and the laces of her bodice, though he left them loose.

"I needed that," he admitted, looking down at her. "More than you know."

Rosmerta looked up at him, her green eyes soft and sated. She reached up and touched his face. "You're not just a traveller passing through, are you?"

"No," Sebastian said. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I'm here for a while. For the Tournament."

He pulled back slightly, his expression serious. He brushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

"And for the time that I am here," he said, his voice low and possessive, "you're mine. I'll take care of you. Whatever you need—protection, company, or... this." He gestured as he cupped her filled cunt, making her let out another throaty moan. "You come to me."

It was a bold claim. Possessive. Arrogant.

And Rosmerta loved it. She had been taking care of herself, and everyone else in this village, for decades. To have a man—a strong, powerful, capable man—look her in the eye and tell her he would take care of her... it was a heady drug.

She smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him softly on the lips.

"It's a deal," she whispered. "But you'd better have the stamina for it. Because now that I've had a taste... I'm going to want a lot more."

Sebastian grinned, the darkness in his eyes replaced by a warm, wicked humour. "I'm just getting started, Rosy."

He grabbed his coat from the bar stool and threw it over his shoulders.

"Lock up tight," he said, walking toward the door. "I'll see you soon."

"Very soon, I hope," she called after him.

As Sebastian stepped back out into the cold night air, the wind didn't feel biting anymore. The pressure in his chest was gone. His head was clear. The magic under his skin had settled into a contented hum.

He looked back at the Three Broomsticks one last time, seeing the light in the window extinguish as Rosmerta went up to her room.

He turned and began the walk back to the carriage, a predator satisfied, ready for whatever the Triwizard Tournament, Draco Malfoy, or the world decided to throw at him next. But in the back of his mind, amidst the satisfaction, the image of Fleur Delacour, Vera Black and Daphne Greengrass on their knees flickered once more.

One appetite had been sated. But Sebastian Gray was a man of many hungers, and his stay in Hogwarts was just beginning.

Author’s Notes

Leave your thoughts down below. From the results of the poll, I can see that 5-6 women would be enough. Put your thoughts down for who should the final 3 spots go to. (Rosmerta was just stress relief, not a true harem member/wife). Your choices can vary from students to milfs and if I like the suggestion, it will find its way into the story. It can be anyone from Bellatrix Lestrange to Lily Potter. Let me know if I should hold a poll or not.

Until then, peace.

Madam Rosmerta