Live Now, Die Later - Chapter 36 (A Harry Potter Fanfiction) (Patreon)

Chapter 36: The Weight of the Ministry

Harry left the Nest before the second pot of tea had finished steeping.

The Prophet still lay open on the table, the photograph of Voldemort on his knees catching the morning light that filtered through the enchanted windows. Hermione had already started three lists. Daphne had pulled the Lestrange vault schematics again. Bellatrix had traced the edge of the closed walnut-wand case with one nail and said nothing that needed saying. The plan for the bank was forming. It was not yet ready to move. What it needed first was a door that would open when the Court arrived, not a door that would have to be broken in front of the entire banking floor of Gringotts.

Harry took that door alone.

He walked the Ministry atrium in plain robes that did not try to hide the cut of his shoulders or the silver line of the old scar. The buzz cut and the earrings had become familiar enough that most of the witches and wizards who stopped mid-step did so for the photograph they had seen at breakfast rather than for the face itself. He did not slow for them. The lift took him to the second level without announcement. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement still smelled of old parchment, cold stone, and the particular sharpness of people who believed procedure was a kind of armor.

Amelia Bones’s outer office was empty. The junior clerk who should have been at the desk had stepped out for tea. Harry opened the inner door without knocking.

She stood with her back to him, bent slightly over a stack of files on the wide oak desk. The dark blue robes of the DMLE head were cut close enough that the line of her hips and the heavy, rounded weight of her arse were unmistakable even through the fabric. The robes stopped at mid-calf. When she shifted her weight the fabric pulled tight across the full curve of both cheeks and the deep cleft between them. Amelia Bones had always been known for that arse—strict, competent, and built like a woman who had spent decades walking corridors of power without ever once apologizing for the way she filled a room. The grey that had begun to thread her brown hair only made the rest of her look more deliberate. Full breasts strained the high collar. The waist was still firm. The hips flared into an ass that junior aurors had learned, the hard way, not to stare at if they wanted to keep their posts.

She turned at the sound of the door. Blue eyes that had signed death warrants without blinking met his. For a moment the only sound was the soft click of the door latching behind him.

“Lord Potter,” she said. Her voice was the same one she used in Wizengamot chambers—cool, measured, and already deciding where the line would be drawn. “The atrium is not a public gallery. State your business or leave.”

Harry closed the distance until the edge of the desk was between them. He set both hands on the polished wood and leaned in just enough that she had to look up.

“I need access to Gringotts,” he said. “Specifically the Lestrange vaults. I have the wand that opens the inner seal. What I do not have is the Ministry clearance that keeps the goblins from calling every auror on the floor the moment a Potter walks in with a Lestrange artifact and a sealed case. You can give me that clearance before noon. Or you can explain to the Wizengamot tomorrow why the man who put the Dark Lord on his knees in Diagon Alley had to break a bank instead of walking through the front door.”

Amelia’s mouth tightened. She straightened. The movement made the robes shift across her chest and pull harder across her arse. She was not a small woman—full through the chest and hips, the kind of build that filled a uniform without apology. She had never needed to trade on any of it. Power had always been enough.

“You are not larger than the program, Potter,” she said. “You are not larger than the Ministry. The Dark Lord on his knees in a newspaper does not rewrite the statutes that govern vault access. You will submit a formal request. It will be reviewed. If the review finds—”

Harry moved.

He stepped around the desk before the sentence finished. One hand caught the edge of the high collar and pulled it open with a single, deliberate tug. The top two buttons of the uniform blouse underneath gave. The heavy swell of her breasts rose into the sudden gap, pale and full, the dark nipples already tight against the thin fabric. Amelia’s wand was in her hand in the same breath. Harry caught the wrist before the tip could clear the holster, turned it, and set the wand on the desk with the tip pointed at the wall. Emerald magic rolled off him in a slow, warm wave that made the papers on the desk flutter and the wards on the office door seal themselves with a soft click.

“I am larger than the program today,” he said. His voice was low. “And you are going to give me the clearance because you are going to understand, before I leave this office, exactly how much larger.”

Amelia’s breath had shortened. The flush that rose under her skin was not only anger. Harry could smell it—the sharp, clean scent of a woman who had spent years keeping every reaction behind the same blue eyes, and the sudden, involuntary heat that had begun between her thighs the moment the magic touched her. She tried to step back. The desk stopped her. Harry’s free hand settled on her hip, thumb pressing into the soft place just above the bone, and turned her until her back was to the desk and her arse was pressed against the edge of the wood. The full, heavy cheeks flattened slightly against the oak. Even through the robes the weight of them was unmistakable.

“Sit,” he said.

She did not. He lifted her anyway. The strength in his arms was casual. Amelia’s weight settled onto the desk with a soft thump of oak. Her robes rode up. The dark blue fabric bunched at her waist and left the full, pale curve of her thighs bare. The knickers underneath were practical, high-cut, and already darkened at the center. Harry hooked two fingers under the waistband and pulled them down in one slow motion. The fabric caught for a second on the wetness already gathering between her folds, then came free with a soft, wet sound. He set them on the desk beside her wand. The scent of her hit the air fully then—clean skin, the faint salt of arousal, the particular musk of a mature witch whose body had not been touched like this in longer than she would ever admit.

Amelia’s hands had braced on the wood. Her chest rose and fell too fast for the cool voice she still tried to use. One heavy breast had slipped free of the open blouse. The nipple was dark, tight, and already beading.

“This is not how clearance is granted,” she said. The words shook.

“It is today.”

Harry dropped to his knees between her spread thighs. He spread her with both thumbs. The lips were already slick, pinker than the rest of her, swollen and glistening. The clit peeked from under its hood, hard and sensitive. He leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue through her in one long, deliberate stroke from the tight ring of her arse up through the dripping folds to the hood of her clit. The taste was sharp and clean and already turning sweeter.

Amelia’s back arched hard. A sound left her that was not a word. Her hands flew to his hair—short, buzzed, nothing to grip—and then to his shoulders instead. Harry licked her again, slower, pressing the flat of his tongue against her clit and circling once before sucking it gently between his lips. Two thick fingers slid into her heat without warning. She was tight, wet, and already fluttering around them. He curled them against the front wall and kept his mouth on her clit, licking in steady, patient strokes while the fingers worked in slow, deep rhythm.

“Potter—” The name broke on a gasp. “You—cannot—”

He answered by sucking harder and adding a third finger. The stretch made her hips jerk. Clear fluid ran down his knuckles and onto the desk in a thin stream. Amelia’s thighs tried to close around his head. He pushed them wider with his shoulders and kept going. The taste of her filled his mouth. He ate her the way he had learned to take women apart: no rush, no mercy, tongue flat and firm against her clit, fingers curling and stroking until the only thing she could do was rock against his mouth and make broken, involuntary sounds that had nothing of the DMLE left in them. Wet, filthy sounds filled the office—licking, sucking, the soft squelch of his fingers moving inside her.

Her first orgasm hit her hard. The walls clamped around his fingers like a fist. A hot rush of slick poured over his hand and chin. Amelia’s head dropped back. A raw, shocked cry tore out of her throat before she could bite it off. Her heavy breasts shook. The free nipple tightened further. Harry did not stop. He licked her through it, gentler now, cleaning the mess while his fingers kept moving in slow, deep strokes that drew aftershocks out of her in small, helpless jerks. More slick ran down her thighs and onto the wood. When he finally pulled free, his mouth and chin were shining. Strings of her arousal connected his lips to her swollen folds.

He stood.

Amelia was still shaking. The high collar of her robes hung open. Both heavy breasts had spilled free now; the nipples were tight and dark and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Her thighs were spread wide on the desk, knickers gone, cunt flushed and dripping onto the wood in a slow, steady leak. She looked at him with eyes that had lost every trace of the cool assessment she had walked into the room with.

Harry opened his trousers.

The cock that rose between them was already fully hard. Thick as her wrist at the base, longer than her forearm, the shaft veined and heavy, the head flushed a deep, angry red and already leaking a steady bead of precome that rolled down the underside in a slow, glistening trail. The heavy balls beneath it hung full and tight, the size of ripe plums, drawing up slightly with every pulse. It was obscene. It was the same size that had ruined Pansy Parkinson in a classroom and left Maxine and Tiffany unconscious on a couch. Amelia’s eyes locked on it. Her mouth parted. A thin thread of slick ran from her cunt onto the desk as her body answered before her mind could. Her arse shifted on the wood, spreading her wider without conscious thought.

“You aren’t bigger than the program,” she had said.

Harry took the base in one hand and laid the full, heavy length of it across her lower belly. The head rested just below her navel. The weight of it pressed into her soft skin. Precome smeared a wet, shining line across the pale curve of her stomach. The heat of it soaked into her. Amelia’s breath left her in a shaky exhale. Her hands hovered, then settled on his hips as if she needed something solid. She stared at the thick shaft resting on her, the way it dwarfed the soft swell of her belly, the way the fat head twitched and leaked another bead that rolled down and pooled in her navel.

“Feel that,” Harry said. His voice was rough. “That is bigger than the program. That is bigger than the Ministry. And it is going inside you on this desk before I leave.”

He dragged the head down through the mess between her thighs, coating the fat crown in her slick until it shone. Then he notched it against her entrance. The stretch was immediate and brutal. Amelia’s nails dug into his hips. A broken sound left her throat as the head breached—slow, relentless, forcing her open around a girth she had never taken. Inch by slow inch he fed the thick shaft into her. Her walls gripped him desperately, fluttering and clenching around every ridge and vein. When he was halfway she was already shaking, mouth open, eyes glassy. When he bottomed out—hips flush to her arse, the bulge of him faintly visible low in her belly, balls pressed tight against her—she came again with a raw, shocked cry that echoed off the stone walls. Clear fluid squirted around his shaft and soaked the front of his robes.

Harry held still for three heartbeats and let her feel the full, throbbing weight of him buried to the root. The heat of her was intense. The grip was tight enough that every pulse of his cock made her walls flutter. Then he began to fuck her.

The desk creaked under them. Long, deep strokes that pulled almost all the way out—leaving only the fat head inside—before driving back in with a wet, heavy slap of skin on skin. Amelia’s heavy breasts bounced with every thrust, the free one swinging, nipple tight and dark, the soft flesh jiggling with the force of each impact. Her arse slapped against the edge of the desk and then against his hips when he drove in, the heavy cheeks rippling and flattening with every thrust. The sound was filthy. Wet. Relentless. The wet schlick of her cunt taking him filled the office, the thick shaft stretching her open again and again, her swollen lips gripping him tightly on every out-stroke before he slammed back in. Papers fluttered and stuck to the slick pooling on the wood. Precome and her juices mixed and ran down the crack of her arse. Harry braced one hand on the desk beside her head and used the other to pin her wrists above her, holding her open while he took her, the emerald magic coiling warm around her thighs and pressing lightly against her clit in time with his thrusts.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. Blue eyes glassy, mouth open, the strict lines of the DMLE head gone. He fucked her harder. The angle drove the head of his cock against the front wall on every stroke. Amelia’s legs wrapped around his waist without being told. Her heels dug into the small of his back. She came a third time—walls clamping hard, clear fluid squirting around his shaft in hot pulses and soaking the front of his robes and the papers beneath her. The sound she made was pure, broken pleasure. Harry fucked her through it without slowing, the wet slap of his hips against her arse growing louder as the thick shaft dragged against every sensitive ridge inside her.

He pulled out just long enough to turn her. Amelia went willingly, hands bracing on the desk, the full weight of her arse presented to him. The cheeks were pale, soft, heavy, and already marked with the faint red of the desk edge. They jiggled when she shifted. Harry spread them with both hands, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, dragged the head of his cock through the slick that had run down the crack, and drove back into her cunt from behind in one long, brutal thrust. The new angle let him go deeper. Amelia’s arms buckled. She dropped to her elbows, cheek pressed to the wood, arse high, taking every inch while he pounded into her. The heavy cheeks rippled with every impact. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Cum and slick ran down her thighs in thick streams.

“Clearance,” Harry said against her ear. His hips never stopped. One hand reached around and rubbed her clit in tight, mean circles. “For the Lestrange vaults. Today. Signed. Sealed. In my hand before I leave this office.”

“Yes—” The word broke on a moan. “Yes—Potter—fuck—yes—”

He fucked her harder. The desk rocked. Amelia’s heavy breasts mashed against the wood. Her arse slapped against his hips with every deep thrust. She came again, harder this time, whole body seizing, a gush of slick pouring down his balls and onto the floor in a hot puddle. Harry buried himself to the hilt and held there, grinding deep, letting her feel the thick pulse of him while she sobbed through the orgasm. Only when the worst of the shaking eased did he start moving again—slower now, deeper, hips rolling in long strokes that kept her full.

“Again,” he said. “Say it clearly.”

“Clearance—” Amelia gasped. “Lestrange vaults—today—signed—please—Harry—please—”

He rewarded her with three hard, grinding thrusts that made her come one more time, weaker but still violent, walls milking him desperately. Then he pulled free, turned her onto her back again, and drove back into her. The desk was a mess of papers, slick, and the heavy scent of sex. Amelia’s legs were hooked over his shoulders now, folded nearly in half, her arse lifted off the wood so he could watch the way her cunt stretched obscenely around the thick shaft on every stroke. The lips gripped him tightly. The head of his cock dragged against her cervix. She was beyond words. Only broken, continuous sounds left her mouth—moans, gasps, the wet slap of his hips meeting her arse.

Harry felt the edge hit him. The heavy balls drew up tight against her arse. He drove in to the root one last time and came—thick, heavy ropes flooding her in pulse after pulse, the volume obscene even for him. It overflowed immediately, creamy white leaking out around his shaft in thick streams and running down the crack of her arse onto the desk. Amelia came with him, walls clamping and fluttering wildly, a raw cry tearing from her throat as her body milked every drop, her arse clenching and rippling against him. He stayed buried deep, breathing hard, emerald magic still rolling off him in slow waves that made the sealed door hum and the air itself feel thick. More cum pulsed into her. It filled her until it had nowhere to go and poured out around him, soaking the papers and the wood beneath her.

When he finally pulled free, cum poured from her in thick, creamy streams. It ran down her thighs and pooled on the wood beneath her arse in a slow, glistening puddle. Amelia lay there shaking, robes open, blouse ruined, the strict mask of the DMLE head completely gone. Her cunt was flushed, swollen, gaping slightly around nothing, the lips puffy and red, still leaking the heavy load he had pumped into her. Her arse rested on the edge of the desk, cheeks marked with red from the wood and his grip, thighs glistening with mixed fluids. She could still feel the stretch, the deep ache of having taken something that size, the way her body had clenched and milked him through every pulse. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with each shaky breath, nipples still tight, the scent of sex thick in the air around them.

Harry tucked himself away. He was still half-hard. The outline of him strained against the robes. He reached for the nearest clean sheet of parchment, summoned a quill with a flick of magic, and set both in front of her.

“Sign,” he said. “Lestrange vault access for Lord Potter and designated agents of House Potter and House Black. Effective immediately. No further review.”

Amelia’s hand shook when she took the quill. She wrote. The signature was still hers—precise, the same one that had appeared on a hundred warrants—but the letters wavered at the edges. Harry sealed it with the Potter crest and a drop of his own magic. The parchment warmed, then cooled. It was done.

He helped her sit up. The motion made more cum leak from her. She did not try to close her legs. For a long moment she simply looked at him—blue eyes still glassy, cheeks flushed, her arse resting on the edge of the desk she had just been fucked on. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with each shaky breath. The scent of sex hung thick in the air.

“The goblins will honor it,” she said. Her voice was raw. “They will not like it. But they will honor a sealed clearance from this office.”

“Good.” Harry brushed a strand of grey-threaded hair from her face with surprising gentleness. “Eat something. Drink water. When the Prophet asks why the Lestrange vaults opened for a Potter, you will tell them the truth that serves you: the man who put the Dark Lord on his knees requested access, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement saw no reason to obstruct an investigation into assets that may still fund remaining Death Eaters. Nothing else.”

Amelia nodded once. The movement was small. She was still trembling. A fresh trickle of cum ran down the inside of her thigh and dripped onto the floor.

Harry picked up the sealed parchment, slid it inside his coat, and turned for the door. At the threshold he looked back. Amelia Bones—head of the DMLE, the woman who had told him he was not larger than the program—sat on her own desk with her thighs still spread, his cum leaking from her ruined cunt onto the wood, and the clearance he needed already in his hand.

“The program,” he said quietly, “just got smaller.”

He left.

The lift took him down. The atrium was busier now. Witches and wizards still stopped when they saw him. None of them saw the sealed parchment against his ribs or the faint, satisfied thrum of emerald magic under his skin. Outside, the sky over London was clear. The Nest waited. The walnut wand waited. Vault 713 waited.

Harry stepped into the street and Apparated.

He landed in the outer court of the Nest with the clearance still warm against his chest. Maxine was already there. Ginny and Hermione came through the inner door a heartbeat later. The rest of the Court felt the spike of his return through the web and began to move.

Harry set the parchment on the table beside the closed case that held the walnut wand.

“Clearance,” he said. “Lestrange vaults. Today. No further review.”

Hermione took it, read the signature, and looked up. Her eyes were sharp. She did not ask how he had gotten it. The bond carried enough.

“Then we move tonight,” she said. “Before he realizes the door is open and tries to close it from the other side.”

Harry nodded. Twelve living anchors. One sealed clearance. One walnut wand. And a vault in Gringotts that still held the last piece of Tom Riddle that could be touched by anything but a sword or a basilisk fang.

“Eat,” he said again. “Then we take the bank.”

Outside the wards, the ordinary morning continued. Inside the Nest, the compass rose flared once—bright, certain, and ready.

The cup was no longer theoretical.

It was a door that would open.

The clearance was real. The door was open. Vault 713 waited behind goblin stone and Lestrange blood and a walnut wand that now had a Ministry seal to keep the aurors from asking questions until after the cup was gone.

Harry looked at the closed case one more time, then at the Court gathering around the table. The public humiliation in Diagon had already begun to change the way Britain looked at him. Voldemort knew, by breakfast, that the man who had refused to kill him was coming for the last piece he still had left.

“Tonight,” Harry said. “We take the bank.”

The compass rose pulsed once beneath their feet, bright and certain.