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Master of Death, Lover of Witches: Chapter 38
🕑 Added 2025-10-09 06:10:41 +0000 UTCChapter 38
Merry Christmas
Azkaban. The nastiest crag to ever jut out of the North Sea— and that was a title that came with stiff competition.
No one liked it. The handful of human guards stationed on the island were good-for-nothings the Ministry didn’t give a rat’s ass about, including those being punished for a particularly big botch job in their normal work. The inmates were the nastiest, meanest, and most dangerous wizards in the entire country. The only things that could be said to be remotely happy on the island — an emotion that was the antithesis of their being — were the real guards.
Dark cloaked figures flew in a circle in the stormy night overhead. A single ship with a fading hull rode the swelling water beside its dock rickety, creaking from the force of the waves. The lonely path from that dock to the prison itself was being walked, slowly, by a boy with black hair and green eyes.
He looked up as lightning slashed the sky. Rain was pounding out of the clouds, but none of it touched him. There was a sphere around him where every rain droplet was diverted. Squinting, he picked out the shapes of Dementors flying above the prison.
“There you are, nasty fuckers,” Harry said.
He’d always hated them. Since coming back in time as the Master of Death, his feelings only got stronger. Being near them offended him on a deep level, like the idea of Slytherin winning the Quidditch Cup, or Draco Malfoy getting laid.
He squinted, magnifying his vision by enchanting his glasses.
Sure enough, he saw the grey skin and gnarled mouths Dementors were known for. The one he was looking at sensed his attention. Immediately, it flew further away. Harry smirked.
They weren’t entirely stupid. They knew to stay out of his way. That would make this trip more pleasant.
“Let’s get this over with then.”
He marched into the prison itself.
Usually, Dementors would float the halls, making the inmates scream and feeding on their pain like the sick fucks they were. Since the Dementors were running scared at the moment, the prisoners were more coherent than usual.
“Who tha’ fuck're you?” asked a yellow-teethed man, leaning between the bars of his cell.
“The Boy-Who-Lived and part-time incarnate of death. Would you happen to have seen a minister of magic around here?”
The prisoner laughed, amused by some part of Harry’s answer, and jerked his fist down the hall, pointing with his thumb.
“Thanks,” Harry said.
He casually conjured a luxurious bed inside of the man’s cell as thanks. Ignoring the clamor from other prisoners, most of them after a similar reward, Harry strolled in the direction indicated.
As he went, he took a letter from his pocket and gave it a second read. He was the one who wrote it, and he wanted to make sure it was all in order, since he would be sending it once he got back from this shitty rock.
The letter went like this.
Dear Sirius,
I’m scared. I think something big is coming soon. I’ve been having dreams about Voldemort, and they don’t seem like they’re just dreams. I think… that they’re real. He’s trying to come back to life through the Triwizard Tournament, I just don’t know how. I talked to Dumbledore. He told me not to worry. But I’d feel a lot better if you were nearby. There’s a cave near Hogsmeade, no one ever goes close to it. Do you think… you could stay there? I know it’s risky. But it would help me a lot! Please?
Hoping to see you,
Your Godson.
“Hm.” Harry stopped next to a different cell, this one inhabited by a woman half of whose teeth looked too long, and the other half too short. “Give this a read. What do you think of it?”
He turned the letter around in her face. She had the dazed look of long-term Dementor exposure, but her pupils moved down the page.
“You’re laying it on a bit thick,” she croaked.
“You think so? It’s perfect, then!” Harry said. “He’s always been weak to the sappy shit.”
Harry snapped his fingers, transforming the woman’s ripped prisoner robes into a comfy and elegant set of robes. She touched the sleeves of her new garb in amazement while Harry left her behind, pocketing the letter.
It nestled next to a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet. The headline of the paper had caused clamor across the nation, including sending Harry on this impromptu prison trip. THE MINISTER OF MAGIC: JAILED!
It didn’t take Harry long to arrive at the cell he was looking for. A man sat alone in it. Unlike the rest of the prisoners, he hadn’t pressed himself to the bars. He was sitting on the small cot provided to him, staring across the hallway. It was Cornelius Fudge… or something that looked like him.
Before Harry could address Death, a prisoner from the cell behind him cackled.
“Ickle Harry Potter, wandering somewhere so dangerous? Where did you come from, little golden boy? You should crawl back!”
Harry looked back and— sure enough! It was Bellatrix Lestrange’s cell.
“Bella! What a surprise,” Harry said. “Shut up for a second.”
He knocked her out with a spell.
Stupefy? Of course not. He made her head slam into the metal bars. She fell, her black curls spraying around her skull after the impact. An ugly purple welt formed above her right eye.
Death finally blinked, focusing on Harry. “I was looking at that.”
“You won’t have to anymore. I’m here to get you out,” Harry said. He clicked his tongue. “Never mind the fact that when I left you as Minister, you managed to get arrested in a week. Did you have to confess to every crime Fudge ever committed?”
“The reporter they sent was beautiful.”
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
“She sucked my dick extremely well.”
Harry growled. “I never should have introduced you to Fleur.”
“Fleur… The blond one…” Death smiled. “She was pleasant.”
Rolling his eyes, Harry gestured for Death to stand up. “Come on, I don’t need you to stay here playing Fudge anymore. The Ministry barely pays attention to Azkaban these days, there’s no reason to have you rot away here. Well, I guess you wouldn’t rot, but the point stays…”
Death didn’t rise.
“Do I have to?” it asked.
“Have to… what? Leave?”
“I don’t want to,” Death said. “I’m satisfied here.”
“In your cell?”
“Yes.”
“...You aren’t going to be having any sex locked in here. Isn’t that your new obsession?”
Death shrugged.
Harry waited the better part of a minute, got no further answer from his servant, and loudly groaned.
“You can’t stay here too long,” Harry said. “Azkaban won’t be around much longer.”
Death thought about that. “Can I stay until then?”
“Fine. Merlin knows why you’d want to. You’re a strange one in the head, you know.”
Death made an odd noise that was the verbal equivalent a shrug— a weird little semi-inhuman grunt.
Harry turned his back. He walked to the cell across from Death’s and looked down at the unconscious witch sprawled there.
“Merry Christmas,” Harry said.
A locket appeared in his hands. It was beautiful, obviously expensive, and adorned with a big green S.
Harry dropped it on Bellatrix’s chest. Like a silvery snake, the chain slithered along her body, looping over her head to hang on her neck. Harry shivered. “Creepy little shit,” he mumbled, recalling bad memories of the necklace trying to choke the life out of him on the Horcrux Hunt.
He gave Death one more long look saying, now or never. Death didn’t respond, so he left his servant, eager to get off this rock.
“Have fun,” he told Death on his way out, although he didn’t see how that would be possible.
“I will,” Death said with conviction. It walked to the door of its cell, touching the bars with one of its hands. As it had been doing before Harry arrived, Death went back to looking at Bellatrix Lestrange.
O-O-O
The storm over Azkaban didn’t extend far enough south to reach the Burrow. There, the sun was in the sky and the weather was something approaching hot.
The Burrow was always crowded, but this week was the first time Harry had seen it overflowing. Magical tents had been put up around the vegetable patch and on the edge of the woods, housing Charlie’s cohort of Italian lovers. Harry could see Charlie himself, mounted on a broom, zipping around throwing a quaffle with the twins and Ron. Hermione was in the shade of an elm tree, reading beside Padma. Parvati was clapping for Ron whenever he made a pass. It was a sweet effort on her part, even if it was drowned out by Italian expletives whenever Charlie made a mistake. Apparently, veela were competitive. No wonder they were Quidditch mascots so often.
There were enough people doing so many different things that no one had noticed Harry’s disappearance, nor his return. He slipped past the Quidditch match and ducked into the house.
Mr. Weasley was out supervising the construction of their new mansion beside Malfoy Manor, leaving Mrs. Weasley to handle the guests. But she had her hands full — literally — with yarn.
The living room had already been lost. The kitchen was the next victim. When Harry went past, Mrs. Weasley was at the table, knitting more furiously than Harry had ever seen someone work. She was growling, a bit like a dog with a bone. Around her were ten different mini sweaters. That was only what she’d done that day— the living room was stacked so high with finished jumpers and wool for the new ones that you could barely put a foot down.
“Grandbabies, grandbabies, grandbabies…” Molly muttered furiously. The bags beneath her eyes showed how little she’d slept the last few days.
Harry left her to do her work.
He was going upstairs to the room he shared with Ron, eager to take a nap. Mischief, when performed in sufficient quantity, was very tiring work.
On the stairs, he met Ginny.
“Hey, Harry.” Ginny tucked strands of red hair behind one of her ears. “How are you?”
“Good.” Harry couldn’t keep his fatigue out of his voice. “Was on my way for a nap, actually.”
Ginny’s cheeks developed a singing blush. She spread her lips as if to speak, shut them, opened them again, closed them, and only on the third attempt found her words. “I’ve heard my lap makes a great pillow.”
Harry walked past her. “Oh, yeah, it does.”
The dismissal made Ginny’s hands clench into cute little fists. A second later, her eyes widened, her blush doubling.
“How does he know?” she whispered to herself.
Harry reached the right room, went in, and dropped onto the guest bed he used. Rolling over, he tucked himself in and smiled, almost immediately heading for sleep.
It wasn’t that he had anything against Ginny. In fact, he just knew her too well. Ginny’s head was full of storybook romances. She got over that with time in their first life together. But at this age?
If Harry slept with her, she’d think it was forever. When it didn’t turn out that way, her heart would shatter. Harry couldn’t bring himself to do that to her. So he was refraining from doing her.
He finally got the nap that he wanted, drifting off to sleep.
Some time later, he was woken. It's been a great nap, especially the part where he pleasantly eased back into consciousness via a pleasant pressure on his lap.
Said pressure, when he opened his eyes, was revealed to be a bushy-haired blushing brunette, her arms crossed underneath her breasts, which were covered only by a thin sheet of wrapping paper.
Hermione tried to meet his eyes, fell a little bit short, and ended up staring at the corner of Harry’s mouth. A ring of red wrapping paper had been tightened over her bosom, crinkling where each nipple protruded. A similar job had been done over her crotch, like primitive paper-thin panties. Hermione’s flat stomach had nothing over it, as a single bow near the top of her head was the only other thing she was wearing. It was all scandalously sensual.
“I was talking to Amara before you got here,” Hermione said, and immediately this situation began to make a lot more sense. The most openly amorous of Charlie’s harem was, for lack of a politer term, one horny bitch. “She found out that I didn’t get you a Christmas present this year. I know it’s late but… I’ve got you something now.” Hermione put her small chest forward, almost into Harry’s face. “Would you like to o-open it?”
Harry (just about) had the presence of mind to look at the door, confirming it had been closed. Most likely locked, too. Harry bathed the room in a heavy silencing charm and grabbed Hermione’s hips like handlebars.
Hermione squealed when he sat up fast. His forehead brushed her nose, since she was elevated by her crotch on his lap. Harry’s sudden movement forced Hermione to finally make eye contact. He touched her chin, then trailed his fingers down her neck.
“I wonder what it could be?” Harry asked. “Can I shake it before I open it?”
He grabbed her breasts, crinkling the paper. Harry looked on with faux-focus as he groped her. As if he couldn’t tell what could be underneath. Hermione moaned, almost straight in his ear.
“It makes interesting sounds,” Harry said. “Let’s see. Maybe the bottom will give me a clue?”
Instead of using his hands, Harry bucked his hips upward. The bulge of his cock pushed on Hermione, who was forced to grab his shoulders to steady herself. Her entire body had been propelled upward. Hermione exclaimed her excitement loudly and wordlessly. Surprising even Harry, she took it a step further by grinding back.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you actually unwrapped it,” she said, her voice rueful and amused.
Harry snapped the wrapping paper on her breasts with one strong move. He crumpled it and threw it over his shoulder. Rolling them over, he put Hermione underneath him, trapping her against the guest bed. Harry tore the fake panties away even as he was biting her tits. It didn’t matter to him that they weren’t the biggest. There was plenty to sink his incisors into. Harry got the nub of her nipple between his teeth and tugged it.
“S-Slow down!” Hermione protested, giggling and moaning at the same time.
Harry’s mouth left her breasts. “Really?”
She opened her mouth, but couldn’t bring herself to say it again. Hermione looked away.
“Just don’t go too hard.”
Smiling, Harry fell on her breasts like they were his favorite snack.
His fingers were active at the same time. They got into Hermione’s pussy, two of them prodding her folds. Harry scraped his fingers over her insides until he felt them moisten, striving to get her wet enough for the main event.
Since neither of them were in the mood to explain a sudden rash of hickeys at the dinner table later, Harry focused his bites on places Hermione could cover up. Her chest was quickly getting splotchy— not just her knockers, but the upper portions closer to her shoulders.
His fingers were doing a lovely job of warming Hermione up. Hermione squeaked as her pussy lips tightened on Harry’s appendages. Harry smirked at her, taking a brief break from her breasts.
“I know they don’t compare to anything from your collection, but I hope my fingers can do a passable job.”
“I–I’ll live…” Hermione panted.
She squeezed her eyes shut a second later when Harry’s fingers drove her to the point of cumming. The squeal she let out made Harry glad he silenced the room beforehand.
He liked keeping her moans all to himself.
Harry went up to his knees, separating his body from Hermione’s for a moment. He was still dressed — overdressed, frankly, given the situation — so he pulled his shirt off and began stripping out of his pants.
“It’s been a while since we spent time, just the two of us,” he said. “Last time was quite the party.”
“I enjoyed it,” Hermione admitted, blushing.
“So did I. Even Pansy got a turn.”
Hermione smiled at the memory. “I especially liked that part. She looked good underneath you.”
Harry had managed to get rid of his clothes by now. It was incredible how far Hermione had come, being able to hold such a dirty conversation without a single stutter.
He put his weight on top of her again, but this time pressed his shoulders into her calves. When Harry leaned forward, Hermione’s feet were pushed down toward her head. She gasped as she felt her body stretch— but not nearly as loud as she gasped when Harry said, “She didn’t look half as good beneath me as you do.”
Hermione clenched her jaw. She managed to get the last word, hastily adding, “And what are you going to do to me now that you have me here?”
The banter was cut short immediately after that when Harry completed his first thrust. His cock slid into Hermione, filling her, driving half-formed moans from her mouth. Hermione could only move her arms in the position Harry put her into. She used them to reach out for support, squeezing the bed’s comforter and bunching it up in her fists.
“Great gushing Merlin!” Hermione moaned, which was an expletive even Harry, in all his bedhopping, had never heard before.
“That’s a new one. Did you think of it on the spot?”
Hermione just moaned. Harry would have to ask her again later.
Bringing it up when she wasn’t cumming like a madwoman was sure to elicit a lovely blush.
When Harry thrust his hips down, his shoulders would rise slightly. This, in turn, allowed Hermione’s legs to rise, reducing the stretch he’d contorted her into. But when Harry pulled his hips back, his shoulders were lowered, stretching Hermione again. The harder he pushed her legs down, the more her pussy would contract. It was at its tightest when only his tip was inside her lips, but the squeeze was so fierce it nearly made Harry cum multiple times.
“You’re very tight,” Harry informed Hermione.
“Q-Quiet!” she gasped. “That’s embarrassing…”
“I mean your pussy. Your snatch. Your quim— it’s tighter than Hagrid’s grip on his mug when he’s six drinks deep.”
“You… never shut up!”
Hermione’s body picked that moment to cum. Harry reckoned she looked disappointed in herself, for doing it at a time when he was being especially dumb. There was the telltale feeling of her discharge bathing his member, then the further tightening of her fleshy walls, and through it all Harry kept fucking. Soon, Hermione was screaming.
Not words, just exclamations. Every thrust he performed drew another yowl from her diaphragm. At least, that’s where Harry guessed such gaspy cries would originate.
All he really knew was that her pussy was doing wonderful things.
“Hermione?” he said.
“Ye-ou-es?” She forced the word out, albeit with an extra syllable moaned in the middle.
Harry put his face down, pushing it low enough that he felt her calves against his ears. Harry’s face stopped a scant inch from Hermione’s own. His hips pulled up extra high because of the motion, but his penis was long enough that the tip stayed in Hermione, something that was mightily distracting for her while she found herself faced with his emerald eyes.
“I don’t care if it’s late,” Harry said. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. A second later, she squeezed them shut. She opened her mouth at the same time, beckoning Harry to kiss her. He did, inserting his tongue, while forcing his hips down at the same time. His abs coiled as he drove himself into Hermione’s messy, orgasming snatch.
Their kiss lasted as long as Harry did in bed. They were lip-locked until the exact moment he came, at which point he jolted up and pulled out, slapping his cock down on Hermione’s midriff. It glistened with a fresh coating acquired between her legs. Harry’s balls twitched and he grunted as he fired thick white strands across her tummy. The lips of Hermione’s pussy twitched in the absence of his cock, undergoing aftershocks. Harry was still hard and could have gone again, but he rolled off of Hermione to let her lie flat. His bookish lover wasn’t exactly a competing gymnast.
When Harry let her settle on her back, she pulled him down next to her, so that the both of them were laying there. Harry smiled and allowed his erection to start diminishing. This was nice too.
“Oh!” Harry said, after a handful of minutes had passed.
Hermione turned her head, jolting out of a blissful reverie. “What is it?”
“I got the invisibility cloak for Christmas. That was probably my best present… just because it came on time.”
Hermione punched his chest (somewhat) softly. “Prat.”
Her lips were twitching, though. Harry wrapped her in a hug from behind, and this time he didn’t ruin the mood.
Hermione couldn’t have been happier.
