Inside Professor McGonagall's office, the fire in the hearth burned quietly, casting a warm golden glow over the silver frames holding photographs of distinguished past graduates.
The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, furniture polish, and the faint aroma of Earl Grey tea.
However, at this moment, that sense of order was shattered by a lazy and dangerous atmosphere.
Minerva McGonagall was lying across the ink-colored velvet sofa in a corner of the office, in a posture entirely unbecoming of her status.
She wasn't wearing her iconic pointed hat; her curls were draped casually over the armrest, with a few strands even brushing against the cold stone floor.
Her usually meticulous black wizard robes were unfastened—three buttons undone at the collar—revealing a stretch of neck as delicate as warm jade under the firelight and the faint outline of her collarbones.
The hem of her robe was hiked up high due to her reclining position, revealing her thighs nearly to the root. Her long, shapely legs, encased in thin black silk stockings, were crossed defenselessly in the open air.
One pointed high heel had fallen onto the carpet, while the other hung loosely from her tensed toes, swaying gently with her unconscious movements.
Minerva seemed to have just finished a mountain of soul-crushing paperwork regarding the "Frontline Exams," leaving her in a state of utter exhaustion. She tilted her head, her usually hawk-like eyes now half-lidded and hazy as if intoxicated, watching the boy sitting on her desk.
"What do you want with so many giant corpses... exactly, Mr. Rosier?" Her voice carried a raspy, magnetic quality, every word slow and weary, sounding like a complaint yet dripping with curiosity. "The transport and storage of such things leave a trail at the Ministry... What are you plotting?"
Jerry didn't answer immediately.
He remained seated steadily on the pristine desk made of precious ebony, one hand casually flipping through a heavy volume of Principles and Taboos of Advanced Transfiguration, its cover branded with Elder Futhark runes.
The dim candlelight cast flickering shadows over his still-boyish yet sharply defined face, making his dark eyes appear even deeper.
Jerry heard McGonagall's question, but his gaze remained fixed on a complex incantation regarding the "cross-form restructuring of living matter," as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
Then, he closed the book silently.
Thud.
Jerry slid down from the high desk, his leather boots making no sound on the thick carpet.
He didn't head for the door or the fireplace. Instead, with a steady stride that belied his age, he walked step by step toward the sofa where his Transfiguration professor lay.
McGonagall watched the student approaching her through half-closed eyes.
She didn't move; her fatigue made even lifting a finger seem like an ordeal.
She simply felt Jerry's shadow grow longer and larger under the firelight, like an elegant and dangerous young beast stepping out of the darkness, slowly enveloping her entirely.
Jerry reached the side of the sofa, standing right by McGonagall's head.
He looked down at her condescendingly. He saw her red lips parted slightly in relaxation, her full breasts rising and falling with her breath beneath the black robes, and her long legs, their perfect curves outlined by the black silk, exuding the charm of a mature woman.
Then, under McGonagall's gaze—which was beginning to turn confused and wary—Jerry did something that made her brain instantly stall.
He didn't speak, nor did he lean down. He simply reached out with his pale, well-defined hands and unbuckled the belt of his trousers.
The metal buckle made a crisp click.
Next came the harsh zip of his fly being pulled all the way down without hesitation.
As the fabric fell away, a monstrous object that completely transcended her understanding of a boy his age tore free from its constraints, pulsating with life.
Under the dim firelight, it appeared in a tensed, fleshy red, its veins bulging with blood.
The massive, mushroom-like glans was hideously engorged, and from the small opening at the tip, a crystal-clear drop of thick, musky pre-cum had already begun to seep.
Due to Jerry's young and excessively vigorous vitality, the entire massive spear throbbed rhythmically in the air.
"You..."
Minerva rolled her eyes.
She didn't even sit up, remaining lazily sprawled on the sofa. She flicked her slender index finger casually toward the office door.
Click.
The heavy thud of a deadbolt locking echoed from the distance.
With that motion, an invisible silencing ward rippled across the four walls of the office, cutting off all sound and prying eyes.
She had locked the room down.
Only then did Professor McGonagall seem to find the strength to shift her body slightly on the sofa.
She didn't try to get up; she just tilted her head back, creating an agonizingly small, almost negligible distance between her cheek and the scalding spear.
This posture caused her voluptuous, rounded thighs in the black stockings to pull even tighter, making the view beneath her skirt even more provocative.
Minerva had moved into a "safer" position, but her gaze became more dangerous and challenging.
She looked at the massive head, which seemed "displeased" by the loss of her cheek's warmth, and parted her red lips. She made no sound, but instead blew a warm breath, scented with Earl Grey tea, directly onto the small opening at the tip.
The puff of air brushed the glans precisely, causing the bead of moisture to wobble and Jerry's body to give an involuntary, slight shudder.
Simultaneously, McGonagall's hand—the one that had just cast the silent locking spell and was incredibly nimble—slipped silently from the edge of the sofa. It reached up and accurately cupped the two heavy, tensed orbs at the root of Jerry's thighs.
Minerva's palm was warm, her fingertips bearing the slight calluses from years of holding a wand.
She didn't squeeze hard. Instead, with the delicacy of someone handling two precious, fragile dragon eggs, she traced circles over the skin of his scrotum with her thumb.
"You haven't told me yet!"
Minerva's voice rang out again, now carrying a raspy playfulness. Every syllable sounded as though it were rolled in the honey of desire from the depths of her throat. "What do you need those giant corpses for... exactly? Mr. Rosier."
As she asked, she used her soft palm to feel the eggs she held in her hand grow tighter and hotter with every stroke of her fingers.
Jerry pushed further.
He thrust his hips forward, shoving the spear—now even larger from the teasing—fiercely against McGonagall's face.
This time, however, McGonagall didn't dodge.
Facing the hideous, massive head pressing against her lips, a sly light flashed in her eyes.
She parted her mouth slightly, revealing neat, white teeth.
Minerva didn't bite the soft tip. Instead, she used her sharp, cat-like canines to nip extremely gently at the coronal groove just below the head, which was swollen and ringed with tiny, sensitive ridges.
"Hiss!"
A faint current of electricity, mixing a sharp sting with ultimate pleasure, shot from the point where her teeth nipped him, rushing straight to Jerry's tailbone.
Jerry couldn't help but draw a sharp, suppressed breath, his body stiffening from the sudden, precise stimulation.
McGonagall seemed satisfied with his reaction.
She released her teeth and, over the spot where her bite had left shallow marks, she extended her warm, soft tongue.
That nimble tongue, carrying wet, hot saliva, began to lick upward from the "ridges," inch by inch.
Squelch... slurp...
The friction of her tongue against the shaft produced sticky, clear water sounds.
When the tip of her tongue finally traced a circle around the urethral opening, which was already secreting more fluid...
Jerry, who had been looking down at her, finally made a new move.
He no longer allowed himself to be lost in this unprecedented service from the mature witch—service that made his soul feel like it was leaving his body.
Jerry reached into the inner pocket of his robes.
A second later, amidst a soft ripple of magic as cold and clear as moonlight, he pulled something out.
It was a crystal golem, only the size of a palm.
It was nothing like the "mud toys" Draco was making.
The entire golem was carved from a single piece of flawless, top-tier conduit crystal known as a "Moonlight Tear."
It was shaped like a miniature woman with perfect golden proportions. Every inch of skin, every strand of hair was carved to be lifelike, down to the minute curves of the fingernails.
There was no magic core inside. Instead, it contained a dizzyingly complex system of micro-circuits filled with liquid "heavy water."
These circuits, like blue veins, flowed slowly within the crystal body, shimmering with a mysterious and powerful light of life.
"This is my final work, recently completed after exhausting most of my 'patron's' top-tier inventory," Jerry said.
His voice was low but clear. Even as his cock continued to drip fluid below, his mind seemed entirely focused on his masterpiece. "Its internal circulation system uses the purest 'heavy water.' It needs no core to function; theoretically, it can perform permanent magical conversion without loss. It has met the highest technical standards Su Chan could imagine. In fact, it exceeds them."
He paused, his gaze shifting from the golem back to McGonagall's emerald eyes, which were now misting over.
"Professor, this is just the beginning. I want to take you to see... my workshop. The real Rosier workshop."
However, McGonagall responded to his invitation with an ambiguous hum from her nose.
She rejected him.
The rejection was direct, rough, and full of the absolute dominance a mature woman holds over a self-righteous young lion.
The foot that still held a high heel hooked upward sharply, while her other calf wrapped around Jerry's ankle like a snake and yanked back with force!
Jerry was in a state of dual mental and physical arousal and was completely off-guard.
He felt a sudden leverage beneath him and lost his balance, falling backward onto the soft wool carpet with a muffled thud.
The precious crystal golem flew from his hand, only to be caught neatly by McGonagall with a silent Wingardium Leviosa and tossed carelessly onto the other end of the sofa.
Then, Professor McGonagall moved.
Her body, which had been as lazy and boneless as a cat, now exhibited shocking flexibility and strength.
She slid off the sofa, but instead of standing, she knelt, straddling Jerry's body. She pressed her knees, clad in black silk, firmly but not heavily against Jerry's chest.
"A workshop?"
She looked down at the boy she had easily pinned beneath her, her green eyes filled with a thick, tangible mix of jealousy and mockery.
"How could I be worthy of knowing the Rosier family's true secret workshop? I am but a poor Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts, about to be ridden over by her students. Shouldn't your real secrets be kept for your Katherine, your Hermione, and that oriental... Professor?"
As she spoke, McGonagall lifted her bare foot.
The shape of her foot was perfect—a beautiful, powerful arch and five rounded, neat toes painted with scarlet polish.
Now, that foot, encased in a layer of black silk as thin as a cicada's wing, stepped with unquestionable authority onto Jerry's massive cock, which was still standing tall with excitement.
The fine texture of the stocking rubbed directly against the bulging veins of his shaft.
"Hiss..."
Jerry drew a sharp breath.
The sensation of being crushed by something soft and firm at once was more stimulating than any spell.
McGonagall seemed to relish his reaction.
She arched her foot and used the softest part of her sole to clamp the scalding, hard object, sliding it up and down.
Squelch... squelch... sizzle...
The black silk was quickly soaked by the fluid secreted from the tip, becoming glistening and translucent.
Every slide produced a wet, sticky sound that made the heart race.
As the friction intensified, Jerry could see visible wisps of white steam rising from McGonagall's pale sole due to the heat and her rising body temperature.
"Does it feel good, Mr. Rosier?" McGonagall's voice carried a malicious smile as her foot moved faster and harder.
While her sole rubbed him frantically, she used her polished toes to provocatively scrape against the sensitive glans over and over.
Just a second before Jerry was about to lose control from the extreme stimulation, she stopped.
Minerva straightened her body. Her black wizard robes slid off completely due to her change in posture, revealing her black lace lingerie, which perfectly outlined her mature, voluptuous curves.
She knelt over Jerry and adjusted her position with a queenly air.
She spread her silk-clad thighs, aiming her mysterious valley—already soaking wet with desire—at Jerry's giant member, which her foot had teased into a deep red, its tip glistening with moisture.
The Cowgirl position!
McGonagall didn't rush to sit down. Instead, with a lazy grace, she reached up to brush her messy black hair behind her ear, her mocking, hungry green eyes locked onto Jerry.
"Since you won't take me to your 'secret workshop'... you can compensate me by using your body to fill my 'secret garden' instead."
As soon as she spoke, she hesitated no longer.
McGonagall lowered her hips, her movements slow and steady.
Squelch!
A wet, muffled sound rang out, like a ripe fruit being pierced.
The massive, hideous head, without any artificial lubricant, forced its way inch by inch into her tight, hot passage, aided only by her own natural juices.
"Ugh... ah..." Even McGonagall couldn't help but let out a suppressed moan at the sensation of being forcibly stretched, a mix of pain and the ultimate pleasure of being filled.
Jerry felt his lower half being swallowed bit by bit by a scalding, wet cave lined with countless tiny, grasping "suction cups."
The flesh within her passage seemed alive, wrapping around him and sucking at him in waves that nearly made him surrender instantly.
McGonagall's body trembled violently once she had fully accepted the shocking size of him. She paused for a few seconds, adjusting to the sensation of being completely stuffed.
As she began to lift herself to pull the spear out before plunging back down, she raised the foot she had used to tease him, now covered in slick fluid.
This time, her nimble, silk-wrapped toes were shoved directly and dominantly into Jerry's mouth, which had opened slightly from pleasure.
"Mmph!"
A taste of silk fibers, the scent of her foot's sweat, and his own fluids filled Jerry's mouth crudely.
McGonagall looked at his humiliated expression—unable to make a sound with his mouth stuffed, eyes wide as he stared at her—and a look of absolute, victorious satisfaction spread across her face.
She braced herself against Jerry's firm chest and began a literal, storm-like assault.
Squelch... squelch... slap... slap...
The only sound in the office was the primal, unreserved pounding of flesh against flesh.
Every time McGonagall's full, perky buttocks sat down heavily, she swallowed the massive weapon whole and without mercy, slamming it against the root of Jerry's thighs and splashing crystal-clear fluids.
Every time she rose, she pulled most of the shaft out, the stretched entrance rubbing against the massive glans with a wet, grinding sound.
She whispered intermittently through heavy pants:
"Tell me... Rosier... did this shameless little thing of yours... thrust into others like this... hmm?"
McGonagall muttered in a voice dripping with jealousy, all while twisting her voluptuous waist even more frantically.
Her body had already developed a taste for him. After the initial sting of being stretched, her passage was now greedily savoring the unprecedented feeling of extreme fullness.
A thought crossed her mind that made her even hotter.
Heavens... the size of this thing... is truly terrifying...
With every heavy plunge, McGonagall could clearly feel how the giant object—transformed by the Beast Transformation Potion—dominantly and irresistibly pierced through and flattened her softest, most sensitive internal tissues, striking the cervix that symbolized a woman's final defense over and over.
The sensation of that impact reaching into her soul made her tilt her head back and let out a string of broken, kitten-like moans.
"I fear... I fear that after this... I'll never be able to close this place again..."
A ridiculous worry flashed through her mind, as if she could foresee her body's shape being permanently altered by this weapon.
But the worry lasted less than half a second.
...But what does that matter?
A more debauched and abandoned thought, like a wildfire, instantly incinerated the last of her professional dignity.
If she could taste this, what did it matter if she was played to ruin?
At that thought, a look of desperate madness flashed in McGonagall's eyes, and her movements became even more vicious.
She no longer just moved up and down. Like a mother cat sharpening her claws on a tree trunk, she used her hips to drive her waist in circles over the massive pillar, grinding against it with all her might.
Squelch... squelch... grind... grind...
At the peak of that devastating grinding, McGonagall's movements suddenly shifted.
No longer satisfied with the pleasure of grinding in a circle, she leaned down slowly like an elegant but starved cat.
She braced her hands on the carpet on either side of Jerry. This motion caused her full, firm breasts—well-toned from years of spellcasting—to nearly brush Jerry's chin. Sweat slid down the deep cleavage of her chest, dripping onto Jerry's skin and leaving warm, wet marks.
As she lowered her upper body, her already perky buttocks were lifted upward at a shocking, near-folded angle.
In this posture, the giant weapon within her was driven to an unprecedented depth. The massive glans tirelessly struck the softest spot at the very end of her passage.
The fire from the office hearth cast her powerful, lewd posture clearly against the wall, creating a massive, swaying silhouette of beasts mating.
She remained in this position, her deepest parts completely open and hers for the taking, as she sat down heavily once more. Every inch of her passage felt as though it were trying to wring every ounce of strength from the meat-pillar. Her breathing became broken, but her voice regained a strange clarity, though beneath it was a desire too thick to dissolve.
"Actually..." McGonagall's lips, wet with saliva and sweat, pressed against Jerry's ear as she breathed her musky scent into him. "...you don't have to tell me everything. Jerry..."
Even as she spoke, the rise and fall of her hips never ceased. Every downward plunge was filled with decisive force, every rise lingering and desperate. The sticky squelch of water filled the enclosed office.
"No matter what... I will always be on your side..."
McGonagall's voice trembled from the impact of her body, but her words were firm. "I... I know too much. Sometimes... when I stand with Dumbledore and the others... those old foxes can see... something in my face. So, you don't have to... don't have to tell me so much..."
These words were both the protection of an elder for a junior and the absolute indulgence of a lover for her man.
McGonagall's body was demanding, sinking into the abyss, but her will was still building the strongest defense for the boy pinning her to the carpet.
Jerry's body gave the most honest and violent response to her words.
Stimulated by her absolute loyalty, the already inhumanly large meat-pillar within her underwent another transformation!
It was as if it had been injected with even more of the wild vitality from the Beast Transformation Potion. The entire shaft swelled another size, and its bulging, coiled veins throbbed more violently, stretching the tight walls of her passage until they nearly tore.
Worse still, beneath the hideous coronal groove, the tiny, keratinous barbs grown by the potion's effect now stood fully erect due to the expansion!
Because of the change in position and the swelling of Jerry's root, these barbs could no longer slide smoothly into McGonagall's body.
They caught right at the entrance, which was stretched to its limit and turning outward in its wet state!
A strange and cruel sight followed.
Every time McGonagall sat down, these barbs—unable to enter and now curved—used their sharp tips to perform a devastating scraping against the soft, sensitive flesh of her opening!
Every time she rose, the barbs scraped backward over the engorged, overburdened entrance!
"AH!"
A sensation beyond words—a mix of sharp, piercing pain and an electric pleasure so intense it threatened to make her faint—exploded from the most sensitive part of McGonagall's body, instantly sweeping through her entire being!
Minerva let out her first truly unsuppressable, shrill, and lewd scream since entering the office!
Her eyes instantly rolled back, and her body went completely limp as if every bone had been removed. Driven purely by instinct, she used her last bit of strength to "nail" her body deathly tight onto the giant object that was currently torturing her.
And Jerry, too, was pushed past the brink of reason by the extreme feedback—as if his own flesh were tearing her apart.
He unconsciously sucked the toe she had shoved into his mouth, making wet, slurping noises.
He could no longer endure it; the young, massive flood of life force he had been accumulating for so long finally broke the dam.
He thrust his hips upward violently!
"Ugh!"
A stream of scalding, viscous white liquid, hot enough to burn and carrying an intense musk, erupted like a volcanic blast from the tip of that massive head.
With unprecedented speed and power, it shot mercilessly into the depths of McGonagall's already spasming, warm passage!
A first wave, a second, a third...
The eruption seemed endless, each pulse filling McGonagall's narrow internal cavity to the brim before overflowing.
The entire passage was flooded, leaving not a single gap.
The tide of climax drowned them both like a tsunami.
After an unknown amount of time, when the long eruption—powerful enough to shoot his very soul out—finally ended, Professor McGonagall had completely lost consciousness.
Her body continued to twitch and shudder from the afterglow of the pleasure.
Jerry slowly spat out the toe that was still stuffed in his mouth, dripping with his saliva.
Then, supporting McGonagall's soft yet heavy waist, he withdrew his meat-root—still massive, though no longer as iron-hard—from her stretched body.
Pop...
A faint sound, like pulling a cork from a bottle, rang out.
Then, a sight so staggering that it would leave anyone speechless occurred.
With the massive object fully withdrawn, McGonagall's entrance, stretched to its limit and unable to close on its own, acted like a dam with its sluice gates wide open.
The mixture Jerry had pumped into her, combined with her own juices, formed a thick, creamy white waterfall.
It poured out from the helpless opening and crashed down onto the soft carpet below with a heavy, splashing sound.
"Happy Christmas in advance!"
"Mr. Rosier!"
"Merry Christmas, you bad Professor!"
The day before Christmas, Hogsmeade Station was shrouded in a strange, divided atmosphere.
The air was bone-chilling, and fine snowflakes fell silently from the gloomy sky like the ashes of the dead.
Massive steam engines crouched on the tracks like steel beasts.
One locomotive was adorned with wreaths of holly and mistletoe, its windows glowing with warm yellow light, filled with students whose faces radiated excitement for reunions.
The other was pitch-black, its body bearing the mottled traces of corrosion from some unknown acid.
From the gaps between its carriages, there drifted not the scent of holiday treats, but a faint smell of disinfectant and engine oil.
The ones boarding this train were the elite of Hogwarts' highest years—or rather, the sacrifices about to be cast onto the bloody frontline.
Jerry stood in the shadow of an inconspicuous platform pillar where these two extreme atmospheres met.
He was squeezed tightly, without a single gap, between two very different but equally lethal female bodies.
The cold wind swirled the accumulated snow, making the lone wizards on the platform shiver, but the chill could not penetrate the scalding, private domain the three of them built with their bodies.
"Little lecherous master..."
Katherine was practically hanging off Jerry. She buried her face deep in the crook of his neck, greedily inhaling his unique, addictive scent.
Her thick winter robes, embroidered with the silver Slytherin crest, provided the perfect cover.
Beneath the robes, her hands—which should have been in her pockets for warmth—were moving boldly and tracelelessly under Jerry's wizarding robes.
Katherine's fingertips carried the winter chill, but the moment they touched Jerry's firm, warm abdominal muscles through his shirt, they heated up as if ignited.
Her slender fingers moved like a group of mischievous, suicidal little snakes, bypassing his belt and crossing every obstacle.
Finally, they accurately gripped the terrifying weapon that, even in its resting state, remained shockingly sized between her master's legs.
Jerry's body stiffened abruptly, and a suppressed grunt escaped his throat.
The giant object, sensing the familiar touch, began to wake up slowly.
Within Katherine's soft, skilled palm, it began to engorge, expand, and harden at an incredible speed.
"Naughty thing..." Katherine's cheeks flushed with a morbid red.
She could clearly feel how the object in her palm changed from a sleeping python into a red-hot branding iron capable of piercing anything.
She could even feel the skin of her fingertips being pressed by the bulging, coiled veins that throbbed with extreme excitement.
While whispering these bone-deep lewd words in a voice only Jerry could hear, she traced circles over the steel-hard shaft with her thumb.
She savored the terrifying pulse of life that felt as though it might burst her palm open.
On Jerry's other side stood the taller, cooler Ophelia.
She did not make any overt movements like Katherine.
She simply stood there quietly, sideways, holding her suitcase elegantly with one hand while the other hung naturally at her side.
She looked like nothing more than an ordinary senior seeing off a friend.
However, in the blind spot where their lower bodies were pressed together, her firm, elastic thigh—encased in thick flannel trousers—was pressing subtly against the side of Jerry's cock.
The massive meat-root, standing tall and creating an exaggerated tent in Jerry's trousers due to Katherine's teasing, was met with Ophelia's "soothing" pressure.
It was a different kind of touch, one filled with oppression and a desire for control.
If Katherine's teasing was the spark that lit the fuse, then Ophelia's pressure was the heavy, solid boulder atop the volcano about to erupt.
Ophelia used the softest, most sensitive flesh of her inner thigh to feel every tremor and pulse of the weapon.
She could feel the staggering heat radiating through the layers of fabric, nearly hot enough to burn her skin.
She felt the terrifying hardness that seemed capable of snapping her leg bone.
This sensation caused a faint, barely perceptible blush to crawl across her ice-cold, indifferent face.
Her breathing became slightly more hurried than usual.
Jerry was caught in the middle—half fire, half ice.
He could easily imagine that beneath those thick trousers, between Ophelia's long legs, it was likely already a soaking wet mess.
The faint, wet squelch of pressed flesh rubbing together seemed to ring directly in his ear through the fabric.
"Senior... little kitten..."
Beads of sweat formed on Jerry's forehead. He had to hunch his body slightly to hide the shocking state of his lower half.
"Be careful out there. Remember, your primary mission is not those damn tasks, but to... come back alive."
His voice was husky. One hand circled Katherine's soft waist, while the other—hidden in the shadows—rested on Ophelia's thigh.
He pressed back against her, feeling the heat and the tight muscle lines through the fabric.
"I know, little lecherous master..."
Katherine lifted her head, her purple eyes filled with moisture and reluctance. She stood on tiptoe and pressed a wet, cold kiss onto Jerry's cheek.
"I'll be back soon... when I do, you must... 'reward' me properly..."
"Woo!"
Just then, the pitch-black train, looking like a funeral procession, emitted a sharp, ear-piercing whistle that seemed to tear the sky.
The moment of departure had arrived.
The atmosphere on the platform grew even more oppressive as low sobs and tearful embraces broke out everywhere.
The flush on Katherine's face deepened instantly.
Like a dreamer startled by the whistle, she pulled her hand out of Jerry's trousers with lightning speed.
Her hand was stained with the crystal-clear, viscous fluid that had leaked from the tip due to extreme excitement.
Ophelia also jerked her leg away from the hard object. The sudden loss of the pressure made her body sway involuntarily.
"Hurry... get on the train!"
Katherine frantically tidied her messy robes, not daring to look Jerry in the eye.
Ophelia took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to calm down.
She wasn't as flustered as Katherine. As she turned, she used her cool eyes—filled with hidden meaning—to stare one last time at Jerry's still-erect crotch.
In a voice only the two of them could hear, she whispered:
"Control this thing, Junior. Don't be... too indulgent."
With that, she didn't linger. She picked up her suitcase and was the first to board the train to hell.
Katherine followed closely behind, looking back every few steps.
As if by arrangement, they entered adjacent but non-connecting carriages.
Jerry stood there, watching the heavy metal doors slam shut, cutting off their scent.
The moment the girls disappeared, his expression returned to its usual, icy calm.
He stood still, letting the cold platform wind blow against his hot cheeks and his un-diminished, young male desire.
He watched the black train rumble away, carrying his two pets who had learned how to be jealous, until it vanished into the white veil of snow.
Only then did Jerry exhale a long, white breath.
He turned and walked toward the other side of the platform.
There, the familiar red engine of the Hogwarts Express waited quietly.
Because Christmas was near, the Ministry had temporarily closed the Floo Network in the Hogwarts area to prevent accidents. All students had to take the train to return to England.
Jerry didn't mind.
Conveniently, he was going to Hermione's house for Christmas.
Taking this long train ride with his other "prey" would save a lot of trouble.
A familiar scent—a mix of old parchment and a girl's body fragrance—drilled precisely into his nostrils.
Jerry didn't even need to look. Guided by the scent that desire had made so clear, he accurately found the brown-haired figure at the end of the carriage.
She had occupied an empty compartment all by herself.
The sliding door was open. Hermione Granger sat upright by the window with a thick volume of Advanced Spell Analysis spread before her.
However, her eyes were not focused on the pages. She was staring dead at the compartment door.
In her brown eyes, there was a near-fanatical anxiety and anticipation, like a pet waiting for its master to return home.
The moment Jerry's tall figure appeared in the doorway, Hermione felt as if she'd been injected with a bolt of electricity. She snapped out of her seat.
"Jerry!" her voice pulsed with unsuppressable, desperate excitement.
Before Jerry could even step inside, she frantically and abruptly lifted her grey, knee-length school skirt right in front of him.
The movement was so violent it created a gust of wind, making the pages of her book rustle loudly.
Beneath the hem, her shapely legs, encased in brand-new white thigh-high stockings with lace trim, were exposed unreservedly to Jerry.
At the very top of those white stockings, in the most private domain of her thighs, a pair of brand-new, simple white cotton panties tightly wrapped her mysterious, slightly bulging girl-garden.
Hermione seemed proud of this "obedient" gesture. She tilted her flushed face up, looking at Jerry with eyes full of hope, waiting for her master's praise.
"I believe... I said something."
Jerry's voice wasn't loud, but it was like a Siberian chill, instantly freezing the heated atmosphere in the compartment.
"Before we reach your house, you are not permitted to wear any underwear."
The smile on Hermione's face froze instantly.
Then, a wave of boundless panic and the realization that she had "misunderstood" and angered her master flooded over her.
Hermione's lips began to tremble, her face turned deathly pale, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I... I thought... you meant... only after we got to the house..." Hermione stammered, trying to explain.
But seeing the growing coldness in Jerry's eyes, she knew any explanation was useless and hollow.
In the next second, driven by survival instinct and the absolute obedience carved into her marrow, Hermione did something shocking for someone on the Hogwarts Express.
She didn't even consider the carriage door, which was wide open and where anyone could pass by at any moment!
Her small hands, trembling with fear, reached for her waist with lightning speed. She gripped the edge of the white panties—the evidence of her "crime"—and yanked them down without hesitation!
Rip!
The cotton panties slid down the smooth skin of her thighs, past her knees and calves, finally piling up around her ankles in her black leather shoes.
With the underwear gone, between those dazzling white lace stockings, her unadorned, slightly fuzzy, and most private garden was exposed unreservedly under the bright lights of the doorway.
Due to tension and shame, the two tender lips were tightly closed, but the narrow slit between them was already secreting crystal-clear, suspicious moisture from her previous excitement and current fear.
Fortunately, since most students were still on the platform saying goodbye to their families, the corridor leading to the back of the carriage was deserted.
Hermione remained in that shameful position—skirt hiked up, panties at her ankles—like a slave who had stripped herself bare to await her master's punishment.
She stood motionless, letting the cold draft from the corridor blow against her bare, most vulnerable spot.
She looked up at Jerry, her eyes brimming with tears, filled with humble begging and regret.
Jerry didn't enter the compartment immediately. He reached out and, with the back of his index finger, traced contemptuously across her bare, slightly contracting slit.
"Mmh..."
Hermione's body shuddered as if struck by lightning, and an unsuppressable, seductive moan escaped her throat.
"Remember, Hermione."
Jerry used his cold fingertip, now stained with her fluid, to lift her chin, which was written with humiliation and submission.
In a voice of near-cruel, calm authority, he said, "Every word I say is a command. And my commands have no 'I thought,' only 'execution.' Do you understand?"
"...I understand... Jerry..."
Hermione's voice was thick with sobs. The tears finally broke, sliding down her pale cheeks.
Jerry nodded with satisfaction.
He withdrew his hand and, in front of her, slowly licked the finger stained with her juices before stepping into the compartment.
Bang.
He closed the door behind him and locked it.
Outside was the noise of departure, but in this isolated, narrow space, a long "journey" between master and pet had just begun.
Meanwhile, in a meticulously decorated two-story house in the London suburbs, a similarly private but very different kind of "preparation" was underway.
This was the Granger household.
Outside, the neighborhood was filled with the peaceful, serene atmosphere of Christmas Eve.
Neighbors had hung lights, and inflatable Santas and reindeer sat cutely on the lawns.
Inside, the scent of roast turkey and rosemary wafted from the oven. Real oak logs crackled in the living room fireplace, and a massive Christmas tree was covered in ornaments and photos of Hermione growing up.
Everything seemed perfect and warm—the ideal image of a happy family's Christmas.
Except for the master bedroom on the second floor.
Mrs. Janet Granger had just finished a long, hot bath with lavender oils.
She didn't put on her usual comfortable wool robe. Instead, she let the tiny droplets of water dry naturally on her skin and stood naked before a massive full-length mirror.
The mirror reflected a well-maintained, still-charming body of a mature woman.
Though she had long been a mother, her skin was still firm, her stomach flat, and her waist slender. Her breasts, though slightly sagged by age, appeared fuller and meatier because of it, rising and falling with her breath. The two dark red peaks at the tips were strikingly visible in the bright light.
Mrs. Granger's legs were long and straight, and her buttocks possessed the round, perky peach shape that only consistent Pilates could provide.
This body was usually wrapped in elegant uniforms or modest house clothes, like a carefully hidden rose that never showed itself.
But today, this rose had decided to bloom fully, wantonly, and unreservedly for someone.
Mrs. Granger gazed at her own face in the mirror, flushed from the heat and excitement.
It was an intellectual and beautiful face, but now, her usually gentle and wise brown eyes burned with a fire she had never felt before—a fire called "Desire" and "Ambition."
"Janet, you're insane," she whispered to her reflection, but her lips curled into a self-deprecating yet expectant smile. "To think you would... have such filthy thoughts about a..."
But at the thought of Jerry—that mysterious boy with wisdom and power far beyond his years—and the thought that he would step into this house and her life in just a few hours, her body began to heat up uncontrollably.
"No, he isn't just a boy," Mrs. Granger argued with herself once more. "He is... he is a gift. He is the god come to liberate me... my only hope of turning from an ignorant Muggle into a witch... Why is Hermione a witch while I am just a Muggle? It's not fair! It's absolutely not fair."
Mrs. Granger hesitated no longer.
She turned and picked up an item from the bed.
It was the "special Christmas outfit customized specifically to welcome Jerry."
It was a deep red, slip-style long dress made of the highest-quality velvet.
The cut was incredibly bold. The deep-V neckline reached nearly to her navel, barely covering the edges of her full breasts.
The fabric clung tightly to her waist and hips, outlining her mature S-curve to perfection.
The hem was shockingly short, reaching only to mid-thigh, and featured a dangerously high slit on the side. If Mrs. Granger moved even slightly, the root of her entire thigh would be exposed.
When she put on the dress and stood before the mirror again, the woman in the reflection had changed completely.
Mrs. Granger was no longer the gentle wife, the loving mother, or the respected doctor.
She had become the ultimate offering for a Demon King, her eyes hazy, her lips parted, her entire being radiating a signal of "come and possess me."
Mrs. Granger slowly turned her body, admiring her own soul-searing, lewd appearance.
The velvet fabric rubbed against her bare inner thighs. The subtle, itchy sensation made her lower abdomen tighten. A warm, wet current began to flow slowly, uncontrollably, from her bare, most private slit.
Mrs. Granger smiled with satisfaction.
But she knew this wasn't enough.
There was one last, most critical preparation.
She wrapped a common housecoat over the dress.
Barefoot, she stepped onto the soft carpet and left the bedroom, heading down to the living room.
Her husband, Hermione's father, Mr. Granger—a gentle and somewhat dull "good man"—was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, focused on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.
"Dear, look what I've brought you," Janet said in a voice she didn't recognize, one that sounded as though it were dripping with honey.
In her hand, she held an exquisite crystal goblet containing half a glass of rich, ruby-colored Bordeaux.
It was her husband's favorite.
"Oh, Janet, you're so thoughtful," Mr. Granger said, looking up.
When he saw his wife's makeup and appearance—so different from usual, even bordering on seductive—a flash of surprise crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a husband's love and admiration.
"Oh, Janet, you look... absolutely beautiful today."
He adjusted his glasses and praised her sincerely. "Is this for our little Hermione and her distinguished school friend?"
"Of course, dear," Mrs. Granger's smile grew sweeter, though her heart hammered at her husband's innocent remark.
She didn't hand the glass over directly. Instead, she turned toward the oak sideboard in the dining area.
Every movement she made was deliberately slowed, filled with a sense of ritual.
She poured the rest of the opened bottle of Bordeaux with an elegant and skilled hand into a classic crystal decanter with a graceful neck.
The deep red wine curved beautifully in the light, striking the crystal walls with a pleasant sound, allowing the aroma to fill the room.
"Fine wine needs time to breathe, doesn't it?" Mrs. Granger said as she set the empty bottle down. She then picked up the decanter full of red liquid and walked toward the kitchen.
"Oh, can I have my pour now?" Mr. Granger asked, rubbing his hands together. He could already smell the familiar, inviting fruity scent.
Janet didn't look back, responding in a tone that was flirtatious and scolding, sickeningly sweet: "No! You mustn't be greedy, dear."
Mrs. Granger's heart was racing so fast it felt like it would leap out of her throat.
"We have a 'distinguished guest' arriving today."
She emphasized the word "distinguished," her words thick with double meaning. "We must wait for the guest to arrive and enjoy it together at dinner. That is the proper way to host, isn't it?"
The words were grand and beyond reproach.
Mr. Granger could only laugh helplessly and return his attention to his newspaper.
Meanwhile, Janet, holding the decanter that carried all her mad plans, walked step by step to the kitchen door.
On the path from the living room to the kitchen stood a tall Boston fern used as a Christmas decoration.
In the fleeting moment her body was hidden by the dense green fronds, her heart rate reached its peak.
Mrs. Granger could clearly hear the buzzing of blood in her ears.
Her other hand—the one she had kept hidden behind her back, already soaked with sweat—slipped quickly and silently into the tiny, nearly invisible pocket on the side of her velvet housecoat.
Inside the pocket was a small piece of wax paper containing the finely ground powder of two potent sleeping pills, which she had prepared earlier with a marble mortar and pestle.
Mrs. Granger's fingers gave a nimble flick, and the wax paper opened silently.
Without even looking down, the moment she stepped over the kitchen threshold, she poured the entire package of snow-white powder seamlessly into the wide mouth of the decanter.
She was so nervous she felt she could hear the "shhh" of the powder hitting the wine, though it was a sound that barely existed.
Only after doing this did Mrs. Granger exhale a long, deep breath, like a drowning person finally reaching the air.
She felt the layer of cold sweat soaking the back of her housecoat.