A thin layer of frost covered the stone steps leading to the main hall.
When Jerry's shoe soles stepped on it, it made a fine crunching sound, like crushing a layer of frosting.
Eerie green ghost-fire burned in the sconces on the walls.
The flames didn't flicker or sway; they hovered lifelessly in mid-air, illuminating the entire corridor to look like the passageway of a tomb.
He was here for an appointment.
Voldemort's appointment.
When Jerry opened the letter, his fingertip was singed.
That insignificant prick of pain confirmed the letter's authenticity to him.
The doors to the meeting hall were two ten-foot-tall black oak doors.
Coiled snake patterns were carved into the panels; the snakes' eyes were two emeralds embedded in the wood, glowing faintly in the reflection of the ghost-fire.
Jerry reached out and pushed the door.
The hinges let out a deep groan, like some large animal rolling over in its sleep.
"Really knows how to put on an act!"
The long table in the meeting hall was still that same long table.
The walnut surface was polished so brightly it could reflect the massive wrought-iron chandelier on the ceiling.
Twelve high-backed chairs were arranged neatly on both sides of the long table.
Different family crests were carved into the backs of the chairs—the Malfoy peacock, the Lestrange raven, the Nott scorpion.
Someone was sitting in the seat of honor.
Jerry's footsteps stopped.
That person was not Voldemort.
The first thing that caught his eye was a pair of legs.
Those legs were crossed, resting on the walnut desktop.
The heels of the shoes were four-inch-high stilettos; the pitch-black patent leather reflected a cold luster in the ghost-fire.
The curve of the vamp tightly hugged the contour of the instep.
At the ankle, a section of skin wrapped in black silk stockings was exposed.
The weave of the stockings was incredibly dense; the naked eye could barely discern the mesh. Only under shifting angles of light could one catch that elusive matte texture.
The stockings extended all the way up from the ankle, wrapping around well-proportioned calves, stretching taut over the curve of the kneecaps, and vanishing into the slit of a dark green evening gown.
That slit tore all the way from the hem to the middle of the thigh, revealing a section of the upper thigh where the stocking pressed a shallow indentation into the flesh.
The fabric of the evening gown was top-grade Elven silk—the kind of material that could only be bought in the most expensive tailor shops in Knockturn Alley.
It felt smoother than water, and its color was darker than the scales of a venomous snake.
The tailoring of the robe was extremely form-fitting.
Every inch of the curves from the waistline to the hip bones was outlined with meticulous detail.
The waist was cinched extremely narrow, making the curve of the hips appear even fuller.
The neckline was a deep V-cut, plunging right down to the sternum.
Two full, soft orbs wrapped in Elven silk swelled out from both sides of the neckline.
The deep cleavage between them cast a heavy shadow in the green light of the ghost-fire.
One hand rested on the armrest of the chair.
The fingers were long and fair, the nails painted with dark purple polish.
Fine silver glitter was embedded in the surface of the polish, flashing as she unconsciously tapped her fingers against the armrest.
Cassiopeia.
Isabella's mother.
Her face was hidden in the shadow cast by the high-backed chair; only her chin and lips were exposed to the light.
Her lips were painted with dark purple lipstick of the same shade as her nails.
The shape of her lips was full and sharp, the corners curving slightly upward, hooking into a half-smile.
"My, my."
Her voice drifted out from the shadows, low and lazy, like the purr of a cat stretching after just waking up.
"If it isn't my good son-in-law, Mr. Rozier?"
Jerry stood in the doorway without moving.
His gaze swept from the tips of Cassiopeia's high heels resting on the desktop to her face hidden in the shadows, and then from her face to the massive oil painting hanging above the back of the seat of honor.
The oil painting was originally supposed to be a portrait of Salazar Slytherin, but now the frame was completely empty.
Only a pitch-black background color remained, as if something had been thoroughly erased from the canvas by someone.
"Where is Voldemort?"
Cassiopeia tapped her fingers twice on the armrest—tap, tap—the rhythm very slow, very leisurely.
"Dead, of course."
The tone with which she said those two words was like saying, "The weather is nice today."
"Thoroughly and completely dead.
Not even a single Horcrux left.
Clean and clear, as if a person named Tom Riddle never existed in this world."
Her body leaned out of the shadows, and the green light of the ghost-fire finally illuminated her face.
The thirty-something-year-old face was exceptionally well-maintained.
Her skin was as fair and fine as if coated with porcelain glaze.
There was a small beauty mark on her cheekbone.
The contours of her brows and eyes were sixty or seventy percent similar to Isabella's, but possessed an extra layer of sharpness honed by the years.
A dangerous light burned in her gray-blue eyes.
That light was not madness, but an ambitious confidence born of precise calculation.
She pulled back the legs resting on the desktop.
The heels of her stilettos clacked on the flagstone floor as she stood up.
The fabric of the evening gown flowed along the curves of her body as she stood.
The Elven silk slid over her waistline, slid over her hip bones, slid over her thighs.
The slit of the skirt broke open as she stepped, exposing her entire right leg wrapped in black silk stockings.
Her pace was very slow, every step planted firmly.
The sound of her high heels striking the flagstones echoed in the empty meeting hall—clack, clack, clack—like the drumbeat of some ancient ritual.
She walked around the long table, heading toward Jerry.
The scent of her perfume arrived a step before she did.
It was a mixture of tuberose and ambergris—rich but not pungent, like an invisible hand gently throttling the air's throat.
She stopped in front of Jerry, looking down at him.
The teenage boy's height only reached her chest.
Her height advantage, wearing four-inch heels, was further amplified.
Jerry's line of sight was exactly level with the neckline of her evening gown—level with that deep cleavage squeezed out by the two full, soft orbs.
Cassiopeia bent over.
Her bending motion was very slow, as if deliberately displaying something.
The V-shaped cut of the neckline opened further under her bending posture.
The two orbs, barely contained by the Elven silk, sagged forward under the pull of gravity.
The depth of her cleavage suddenly doubled.
On the fair skin of the inner side of her breast, an area that had never been touched by sunlight, one could see a small mole symmetrical in position to the one on her face.
Her finger, painted with dark purple polish, reached out.
The fingertip tapped Jerry's chin and gently lifted it upward, forcing his gaze from her neckline to her face.
The gray-blue eyes were inches away.
The eerie green light points of the ghost-fire reflected in her pupils, like two gems soaking in venom.
Her breath sprayed onto Jerry's forehead—warm, carrying a trace of the sweet scent of a peppermint drop.
"What's the matter?
Meeting your future mother-in-law, and you can't even say hello?"
Her fingertip slid from Jerry's chin to his cheek, her pad grinding over his cheekbone.
The dark purple nail left a shallow white scratch on his skin.
The gesture was overly intimate; it didn't look like a mother-in-law to a son-in-law, but more like a cat teasing a mouse pinned under its paw.
"How did Voldemort die?"
"Can't you call me 'Mother' first before we talk business?"
Cassiopeia straightened up.
Her high heels turned a half-circle on the floor.
The slit of her skirt whipped open with her turning motion, completely exposing her entire right leg wrapped in silk stockings from the root of her thigh to her ankle for an instant, before it was mostly covered again by the Elven silk hem.
She walked back to the side of the long table, but didn't sit back in the seat of honor.
Instead, she half-sat on the edge of the table, her buttocks pressing against the walnut desktop.
One leg dangled toward the floor, while the other was crossed over her knee.
The toe of her stiletto pointed in Jerry's direction, swaying gently.
Jerry pulled out the chair next to the seat of honor and sat down.
His two legs dangled in front of the seat, his toes still a short distance from the floor.
He rubbed his temples.
The exhaustion of not sleeping for three days surged up like a tide, making his temples start to throb wildly again.
"That old man Dumbledore seems to have less pressure on him lately."
Cassiopeia's stiletto stopped swaying, the toe freezing in mid-air for a second.
"He even sent a reconnaissance squad from the Order of the Phoenix right to my doorstep.
Five people, three men and two women, all veterans.
Aurora helped me clean them up last night; they ruined all my wool carpets."
"That's quite normal."
Cassiopeia's voice carried a careless laziness, as if discussing what to have for breakfast today.
Her fingers pinched the goblet on the desktop.
The rim touched her dark purple lips.
She took a small sip, her Adam's apple rolling; the swallowing motion was elegant and slow.
"The Death Eaters have entered a state of total dormancy. I've sealed off the news of Tom's death very well; no wind of it has leaked outside.
But those people in the Order of the Phoenix aren't stupid. They noticed that the Death Eaters suddenly went quiet—no attacks, no assassinations, no movement whatsoever.
To them, an enemy suddenly disappearing is more terrifying than an enemy appearing."
She set the goblet back on the desktop.
Her fingertip traced a circle around the rim, picking up a bit of residual wine on her pad.
She put her finger into her mouth, her tongue-tip curling over the pad to lick the wine clean; the action was as natural as doing the most ordinary thing.
"Doesn't the Order of the Phoenix now have the energy to aim their spearhead at you?
Those things you've been doing lately—Dumbledore isn't blind; he can see you're weaving a web."
Jerry rolled his eyes.
The gesture was exceptionally vivid on his face—his eyeballs rolling up to reveal a section of white beneath, his brows scrunched together, the corners of his mouth pulled down.
His entire face had the words "Are you kidding me" written all over it.
"So I'm just a meat shield for you Death Eaters?"
"Who told you to be so high-profile lately?"
The corners of Cassiopeia's mouth curved up.
That arc carried a lazy and dangerous implication unique to felines.
She uncrossed her leg.
Her two legs pressed together, her silk-stocking-wrapped knees pointing in Jerry's direction.
Then, her right foot lifted from the floor.
The toe of her stiletto crossed the distance between them and landed, unhurriedly, on Jerry's chair.
To be precise, it landed between Jerry's legs.
The toe tapped the edge of the seat, then slid forward a bit.
It slid over the hem of his school robe, slid over the fabric of his inner thighs, and finally stopped at the position of his crotch.
The four-inch stiletto heel hovered at the edge of the seat.
The pitch-black vamp pressed against that bulging area, gently, without any force, giving it a rub.
Jerry's body went stiff for an instant.
Cassiopeia's sole felt the contour of that bulge through the vamp.
Her eyebrow twitched, and a flash of amusement crossed her gray-blue eyes.
"My, my."
Cassiopeia's toe rubbed again, this time using a bit of force.
The patent leather of the vamp pressed down on the bulge; she could feel the thing beneath the fabric expanding at a speed that defied common sense for his age.
"Little boy, something seems a bit off with you here?"
Cassiopeia's sole began to slowly move back and forth.
The patent leather of the vamp rubbed against the fabric of the school robe.
The thing beneath the fabric grew harder and harder, hotter and hotter.
The heat transmitted to the sole of her foot through several layers of cloth, so hot that Cassiopeia's toes curled inside her silk stocking.
When the vamp slid from the base to the tip, Cassiopeia's sole traveled a very long distance—so long that she had to straighten her leg further to reach the end.
Cassiopeia's toe ground over the massive contour of the tip.
She could feel the shape of the tip pressing against her sole through the fabric, like a scalding egg.
Her sole increased its force.
The entire vamp pressed down on that meat-pillar, grinding back and forth from the base to the tip.
The fabric of the school robe was stretched taut, clearly revealing the outline of the thing beneath—the thick, sturdy shaft, the coiled veins, the massive tip—all outlined by the thin material.
Jerry's fingers clenched the armrests of the chair, his knuckles turning white.
"Get to the point."
"Am I not getting to the point?"
Cassiopeia's toe hooked the hem of his school robe and flicked it up.
The fabric was lifted a section, revealing the trousers underneath.
The fabric of the trousers was much thinner than the school robe.
The outline of that thing became even clearer; she could even see the path of the thickest vein coiled on the shaft.
Cassiopeia's sole pressed against the fabric of the trousers.
The touch of the silk stocking and the friction of the trouser fabric produced an extremely faint rustle.
"There are a lot of lunatics among the Death Eaters."
Cassiopeia's tone suddenly became serious, but the movement of her foot didn't stop at all.
Her sole pushed up from the base of the shaft, stopping when it reached the tip.
Her toes clamped that massive head through the silk stocking and trouser fabric, gently kneading it.
"These people only have slaughter and destruction in their heads.
You can send them to fight a war, but send them to do business?
They'd ruin the entire organization within three days."
Cassiopeia's toes increased their force.
The tip was clamped and rubbed by her toes for a circle.
She could feel a bit of wetness seeping from the slit at the very end of the tip, soaking through the trouser fabric onto her silk stocking, leaving a small dark mark.
"After clearing out all these lunatics, only the backbone is left.
Lucius may be cowardly, but he has money and connections.
Old man Nott may be gloomy, but he knows how to deal with the Ministry of Magic.
And there are a few young ones, quick-witted, clean hands, who are useful."
Cassiopeia sighed.
That sigh exhaled from her nose, carrying a trace of genuine emotion.
"Sigh, only psychos would think about overthrowing this or that.
That man Tom, he was truly smart, but he used all his intelligence on the wrong path.
Tell me, what's the point of that?
Isn't it better used to make money?"
Cassiopeia's sole slid from the tip back to the shaft.
Her entire sole pressed against that scalding meat-pillar, stroking it up and down.
A wondrous friction was generated between the matte material of the silk stocking and the fabric of the trousers—not too large, not too small, just enough to make the thing underneath continuously expand under the stimulation.
Jerry could feel his trousers getting tighter and tighter; the fabric was stretched so much it was about to split, and the position of the tip had already reached the edge of his waistband.
Jerry narrowed his eyes.
"Then that healing potion you've been pushing lately..."
Cassiopeia's foot stopped for an instant.
Then she gave a soft chuckle.
That chuckle rolled from deep within her throat, low and short, like the purr of a cat having its chin scratched.
"That's right, it's made from basilisks."
Her foot started moving again.
This time it wasn't stroking up and down; instead, she used her toes to hook the edge of his waistband through the fabric and yanked it down a bit.
The waistband loosened.
The tip of that meat-pillar popped out a section from the waistband.
The purplish-red color of the tip looked exceptionally glaring under the dim ghost-fire light.
A layer of transparent pre-cum seeped from the coronal ridge, glistening with a watery sheen in the light.
"I only found out after slaughtering Tom that they were actually raising a large batch of basilisks."
Cassiopeia's toe touched the exposed tip.
The fabric of the silk stocking pressed directly against that scalding, wet skin.
The sensation transmitted from her toe to her sole, so hot that her calf muscles spasmed.
She didn't pull back; instead, she pushed her toe forward a bit, letting the tip embed entirely into the gap between her toes.
The fabric of the silk stocking was stretched semi-transparent; she could see the purplish-red skin and coiled veins underneath.
"These things can't be brought to the table. Basilisks, you know, definitely can't be sold openly.
But their medicinal value is extremely high. Basilisk venom glands, basilisk shed skin, basilisk heart blood—all of these are top-tier potion ingredients.
Especially the venom glands; the extracted essence can be used to make bloodline purification potions, which have miraculous effects on treating hereditary bloodline curses."
Cassiopeia's toes clamped the tip and rubbed a circle.
More pre-cum was squeezed out by her action.
The viscous liquid trickled down the coronal ridge, down the shaft, onto her silk stocking, soaking a large dark wet patch into the black fabric.
"I certainly won't let them go to waste.
The basilisks Tom spent decades raising are now all my cash cows."
Cassiopeia's sole slid down a bit.
Her sole pressed against the front of the shaft, grinding all the way from the tip to the base.
The length of that thing made her sole travel a very long distance—so long that her knee had to bend to reach the bottom.
The coiled veins on the shaft prodded the sole of her foot through the silk stocking material, one by one, like vines wrapping around a tree trunk.
Cassiopeia's sole stopped at the base.
Her toes hooked the position of the scrotum, gently rubbing it through the trouser fabric.
She could feel the two heavy things inside rolling under her toes, swollen like two fully ripe fruits.
Jerry's hands pressed against the armrests of the chair, his buttocks having just lifted half an inch off the seat.
"I'm not going to help you draw fire."
The hem of his school robe still hung on Cassiopeia's toes.
That meat-pillar popping out of his waistband swayed with the action of his standing up.
A drop of transparent pre-cum was flung from the tip, pulling a thin thread in mid-air before breaking and landing on the walnut desktop, soaking into a small water stain.
"At worst, I'll just run to America.
To Aurora's side!"
He didn't finish speaking.
A sole wearing a pitch-black stiletto violently kicked him in the chest.
The force wasn't considered great, but the angle was deadly tricky.
The sole of the shoe jammed right into the junction of his collarbone and sternum and pressed down.
Jerry was shoved entirely back into the chair, his back hitting the cushion of the high-backed chair.
The four legs of the chair scraped against the flagstone floor with a screech.
Cassiopeia's foot didn't pull back.
The sole of her shoe stepped on his chest.
The tip of the four-inch stiletto heel pressed against the hollow below his left collarbone.
She pressed down with neither too much nor too little force, just enough to make him feel the sharp sensation, but not enough to actually hurt.
She half-sat on the edge of the table.
One leg dangled toward the floor to support her body; the other leg was stretched straight, stepping on Jerry's chest.
The slit of the evening gown tore completely open in this posture.
Her entire right leg, from the root of her thigh to her ankle, was completely exposed in the green light of the ghost-fire.
The muscle lines wrapped in the black silk stocking were stretched taut and straight.
The tender flesh of her inner thigh bulged out slightly in a ring under the constriction of the silk stocking.
"Now, don't be in such a hurry."
Cassiopeia's voice was slow and unhurried, like coaxing a cat with its hackles raised.
The sole of the shoe ground into Jerry's chest, sliding down from his collarbone.
It slid past his pectoral muscles, slid past his ribs, slid past his abdomen, all the way down.
"I just don't believe you're willing to tuck your tail between your legs and slink away just like that."
The sole of the shoe slid to the position of his lower abdomen and stopped, the toe pointing down, resting exactly at the base of that meat-pillar.
That thing had slapped against Jerry's lower abdomen during the action of him being kicked back into the chair.
The shaft lay horizontally against the grain of his abdominal muscles, the tip almost reaching the position of his navel.
The pre-cum seeping from the coronal ridge had soaked a small wet mark into the skin of his abdomen.
Cassiopeia's toe ground upward from the base.
The patent leather vamp slowly advanced against the side of the shaft.
The coiled veins on the shaft were pressed over by the hard material of the vamp, rolling out from under the sole of the shoe one by one, like grinding over a row of raised knots on a rope.
"You've been operating in Hogwarts for so long—can you bear to part with it?"
The toe ground to the tip.
The hard patent leather vamp pressed on the groove of the coronal ridge.
More pre-cum was squeezed out; the viscous liquid seeped from the slit at the tip, trickling down the curve of the vamp.
It trickled into the gap between the toe of the shoe and the shaft, emitting an extremely faint squish.
"Dumbledore at most only dares to scare you right now.
If he truly wanted to make a move against you, the Order of the Phoenix wouldn't have sent a reconnaissance squad, but a combat squad.
A five-person reconnaissance squad means he's still probing, hasn't made up his mind yet."
Cassiopeia's foot flipped over, the sole facing up, the instep facing down.
Her silk-stocking-wrapped instep pressed against the front of the shaft.
The sensation at this angle was completely different from before.
The fabric of the silk stocking was much softer than patent leather.
The curve of her instep perfectly matched the curve of the shaft, covering it seamlessly from base to tip, like a warm hand gripping the entire meat-pillar.
Her instep began to slide back and forth.
A layer of pre-cum was trapped between the fabric of the silk stocking and the skin of the shaft.
As it rubbed, it emitted a sticky squish-squish water sound.
The water sound was magnified several times in the empty meeting hall, echoing between the stone walls.
"Furthermore!"
Cassiopeia's toes hooked the groove of the coronal ridge.
Her five toes clamped that massive head tightly through the silk stocking and kneaded it forcefully.
The tip was squeezed out of shape by her toes.
A small stream of pre-cum squirted from the slit at the tip, splashing onto her instep, soaking through the fabric of the silk stocking, and leaving a dark wet patch on the black weave.
"Everything is negotiable, after all."
Her toes released the tip, and her instep pressed back against the shaft.
This time she sped up; her instep rubbed back and forth on the shaft.
The pre-cum between the silk stocking and the skin grew more and more abundant, and the water sounds grew louder and louder—squish, squish, squish—the rhythm as fast as keeping a beat.
"As it happens, I'm preparing to blow up Azkaban recently."
Jerry's eyelid twitched.
Cassiopeia's foot didn't stop; her instep ground over the thickest vein on the shaft.
The vein throbbed beneath her instep, the frequency of the throbbing synchronized with Jerry's heartbeat.
"There's a batch of Death Eaters locked up in Azkaban, all old-timers from Tom's era.
Very powerful, and very crazy.
Bellatrix's die-hard loyalists, and a few maniacs even Tom found hard to control."
Cassiopeia's foot suddenly stopped.
Her toe pressed against the very end of the tip.
The position of the slit at the tip was perfectly aligned with the pad of her big toe.
She could feel the slit opening and closing, seeping liquid outward; the warm mucus soaked through the silk stocking and dampened her toe pad.
"I haven't found a suitable opportunity to clear them out until now.
Keeping them is a disaster, killing them is a pity—after all, they're good fighters."
Cassiopeia's toe traced a circle on the very end of the tip.
Her pad ground over the edge, churning the liquid into fine foam with her action.
The foam popped on the surface of the tip, emitting extremely faint pfft-pfft sounds.
"How about this—I'll throw this bunch of lunatics out and let them cause a ruckus.
The bigger the ruckus, the better; the crazier, the better.
The attention of the Order of the Phoenix will naturally be drawn over there. Dumbledore will be too busy cleaning up after this bunch; how could he have the time to keep an eye on you?"
Cassiopeia's body slid off the edge of the table, her high heels landing with a clack.
Her motion of standing up was very fluid.
The hem of her evening gown drooped down the instant she stood up, covering most of the skin on her leg, but the position of the slit still revealed a section of her thigh.
She took a step toward Jerry, standing between his spread legs and looking down at him.
That meat-pillar stood upright against Jerry's lower abdomen.
The shaft was wet, coated in pre-cum and tiny fibers rubbed off from the silk stocking.
The very tip was swollen purplish-red, and the slit at the end was still seeping liquid.
Cassiopeia lifted her right foot, and the sole of her stiletto stepped directly onto that meat-pillar.
Not rubbing, not grinding, but stepping.
The entire surface area of the sole pressed against the front of the shaft, covering it all the way from the base to the middle.
The very tip poked out from the toe of the shoe, like a purplish-red mushroom sprouting from black soil.
Her body weight transmitted down through the sole of the shoe.
The meat-pillar was pinned between his lower abdomen and the sole.
The shape of the shaft flattened slightly under the pressure, the veins squeezed to bulge even more, looking as if they would burst from beneath the skin.
"But!"
Cassiopeia's sole ground against the shaft, pushing from the base toward the tip.
The skin of the shaft was dragged forward by the friction of the sole.
The tip was completely exposed from the folds of the foreskin, its purplish-red surface glistening with moisture in the green light of the ghost-fire.
"You have to pay a little price too."
Her sole ground back, pulling from the tip toward the base, covering a portion of the tip once more.
Then it was pushed away again, pulled back again, repeating several times.
The pre-cum on the shaft was churned into a lather by the sole of her shoe, the squish-squish water sounds echoing between the two of them.
"What price?"
Cassiopeia's sole stopped at the middle of the shaft.
The point of her heel rested just above his scrotum, tapping it gently twice.
She bent down, her gray-blue eyes leaning close to Jerry's face, so close he could clearly see his own reflection in her pupils—Jerry sitting in the Dark Lord's chair, trousers pulled down to the root of his thighs, a massive meat-pillar entirely unsuited to his age being stepped on by a foot wearing a stiletto heel.
"How about this!"
Her dark purple lips curved into an arc.
"First, get engaged to Isabella."
Jerry's brow furrowed.
Cassiopeia didn't give him a chance to speak.
Her body suddenly moved.
Her right foot lifted from the meat-pillar, the heel clicking against the flagstone floor with a clack.
Her left foot stepped over Jerry's right leg, and she straddled the armrests of the chair—no, not the armrests, but right over Jerry's thighs.
Her knees knelt on either side of the seat.
The skirt of her evening gown completely fanned out with her straddling motion.
The dark green Elven silk draped over Jerry's legs like a flowing, dark lake.
Her crotch was suspended directly above Jerry's face.
The skirt of the evening gown hung down from both sides, forming a semi-enclosed canopy.
Jerry's field of vision was filled with dark green silk and the inner sides of Cassiopeia's thighs.
The inner thighs, wrapped in silk stockings, were inches away.
He could see the weave of the stocking stretched thin at the root of her thighs, the skin beneath showing through, glowing white.
There was an opening at the crotch of the stockings, the edges trimmed with lace.
A layer of glistening mucus seeped from between the lips of her slit, the mucus shimmering with moisture in the green light of the ghost-fire.
Cassiopeia's fingers threaded into Jerry's hair.
Five fingers painted with dark purple nail polish gripped the hair at the back of his head and pressed forward.
Jerry's face was shoved between her legs.
His nose bumped into those two swollen, fleshy lips.
Hot, wet mucus instantly smeared across his face.
A musky-sweet scent drilled into his nostrils, so strong it felt like plunging his face into a jar of over-fermented honey.
"Be a good boy. Finish the job in your mouth first before we talk about anything else."
Cassiopeia's fingers massaged the back of his head, her nails scraping across his scalp, leaving a few shallow white scratches.
Her crotch thrust forward a bit, pressing her slit against Jerry's lips.
The two pairs of lips—the upper and the lower—met seamlessly together, like an upside-down, soaking wet kiss.
Jerry's lips were forced open.
His tongue-tip touched that swollen nub of flesh between the slit of her lips.
The nub bounded under the touch of his tongue-tip.
The muscles in Cassiopeia's thighs spasmed for a moment, and her inner thighs, wrapped in silk stockings, clamped tightly around Jerry's cheeks.
"Hiss!"
Cassiopeia sucked in a breath of cold air through her teeth, her fingers gripping even tighter in Jerry's hair.
Cassiopeia's other hand reached behind her, her fingers fumbling until they found that meat-pillar standing upright against Jerry's lower abdomen.
Her five fingers gripped the middle of the shaft.
Her palm recoiled slightly from the scalding temperature, but she didn't let go; instead, she gripped tighter.
Her finger pads dug into the skin of the shaft, feeling the veins beneath the skin throbbing in her palm.
"The engagement is non-negotiable."
Her fingers tightened around the shaft, stroking it from the middle to the tip in one motion.
A large glob of pre-cum was squeezed out by her action.
The viscous liquid surged from the slit at the tip, trickling down between her fingers, down to the base of the shaft, down onto the scrotum, and falling onto the seat with a drip-drop.
"Isabella is madly in love with you. If you don't marry her, she could cry the entire manor down."
Her finger traced a circle around the groove of the tip, her pad grinding over the edge of the slit.
The pre-cum was churned by her into a layer of viscous foam; the foam popped at her fingertips with soft pfft-pfft sounds.
"And—before the engagement, you must come live at my house for a week.
It's a family tradition!"
"One week, living at the manor.
With me, and Isabella, all living together."
Cassiopeia's crotch thrust forward a bit more, pressing entirely against Jerry's mouth.
The mucus seeping from her slit flowed into his oral cavity.
His tongue was forced to probe deeper into that hot, wet crevice.
His tongue-tip ground over the folds of the inner walls.
The folds contracted under the stimulation of his tongue-tip, like countless tiny mouths sucking on his tongue.
Squelch!
A loud water sound emerged from where they were pressed together.
It was the sound of air bubbles popping, squeezed out as Jerry's tongue churned inside her.
Cassiopeia's waist went soft.
Her upper body leaned forward.
The two full, soft orbs at the neckline of her evening gown sagged downward with the forward-leaning motion.
The depth of her cleavage doubled; he could see a layer of fine sweat beading on the skin on the inner sides of her breasts.
"This matter!"
Cassiopeia's voice began to tremble.
Her tongue-tip licked her upper lip in the pauses between her words.
The dark purple lipstick had been licked half off, revealing the natural pink of her lips underneath.
"Accepts no rebuttal."
Jerry's teeth bit down.
Not a light bite, not a probing bite, but a real, anger-laced bite, grinding with his canines.
The tips of his teeth sank into those two swollen, fleshy lips.
The tender flesh was squeezed and deformed between his teeth.
Cassiopeia's thighs clamped violently around his head, the muscles of her silk-stocking-wrapped inner thighs pulling taut into two rock-hard curved surfaces, squeezing his auricles until they ached.
"Hiss—you little bastard!"
Cassiopeia's fingers gripped tighter in the hair at the back of his head, her nails scraping his scalp, leaving five reddened scratch marks.
Her waist recoiled backward, but Jerry's teeth clamped down without letting go.
The tender flesh was pulled and dragged forward.
The mucus seeping from the slit of her lips mixed with an extremely faint metallic tang of blood, the rusty, salty bitterness melting on the tip of Jerry's tongue.
"Let go!"
Cassiopeia's other hand—the one that had been stroking the meat-pillar behind her—suddenly squeezed its five fingers tight.
The meat-pillar in her palm was squeezed out of shape by her grip.
The thickest vein on the shaft throbbed against the webbing between her thumb and forefinger.
The color of the tip changed from deep purple to a dark red that was almost black.
The slit at the tip was blocked by the pad of her thumb; the pre-cum surged out but found no exit, bulging into a small transparent blister at the edge of the slit.
Jerry's waist jolted.
The force of his contracting abdominal muscles caused his upper body to arch forward.
But Cassiopeia's thighs clamped around his head, refusing to let him move.
His teeth sank a bit deeper with this movement.
A shallow row of teeth marks was bitten into the tender flesh; a few beads of blood seeped from the edges of the teeth marks.
The beads of blood mixed with the mucus, turning into a thin pink color.
"It hurts—it really hurts—are you going to let go or not?!"
Cassiopeia's voice shrilled, carrying a trace of genuine pain.
But her fingers, far from releasing the meat-pillar, began a retaliatory action—her thumb moved away from the slit at the tip, and her five fingers clamped around the groove of the tip, yanking down fiercely.
The foreskin was pulled to its absolute limit, the entire tip exposed.
The purplish-black surface was stretched taut and shiny, the capillaries on it clearly visible like a dense red spiderweb.
Then she pushed upward.
The foreskin bunched up at the position of the groove, forming a ring of folds.
Pre-cum was trapped in the folds and squeezed out by her fingers with a squish.
The viscous liquid overflowed from between her fingers, trickling down the shaft, onto the scrotum, and onto the seat.
Pulling down again.
Pushing up again.
The speed grew faster and faster, the force stronger and stronger.
The pre-cum between her palm and the shaft was churned into white foam.
The foam popped between her fingers with rapid pfft-pfft-pfft sounds, mixing with the squish-squish water sounds, echoing in the empty meeting hall.
Jerry's teeth finally let go.
Not because Cassiopeia's hand hurt him, but because her hand made it impossible for him to focus on continuing to bite.
Pleasure shot up from his lower abdomen like a red-hot iron chain searing all the way from his tailbone to the back of his head.
His jaw unclenched involuntarily, and the tender flesh slid out from between his teeth.
It bore two clear rows of teeth marks, with beads of blood seeping from the center of the marks.
"Hmph."
Cassiopeia looked down at those two rows of teeth marks between her legs.
A flash of anger crossed her gray-blue eyes, but it was mostly an excitement sparked by her competitive desire to win.
"Little thing actually dares to bite me?"
Her crotch pressed down again.
This time, she didn't press it against Jerry's mouth; she sat directly on his face.
Her entire weight transmitted down through her hip bones.
Jerry's nose bridge was pressed down by her pubic bone, his breathing largely blocked.
He could only suck in a bit of air mixed with a musky-sweet metallic tang through the gaps at the corners of his mouth.
Those two fleshy lips bearing bite marks pressed against his lips and chin; the seeping beads of blood mixed with mucus smeared across half his face.
"The engagement!"
Cassiopeia's fingers accelerated their speed on the shaft.
It took her palm less than half a second to stroke from the base to the tip.
The tip was ground in a circle within her palm.
A large glob of pre-cum was squeezed out, spraying from the slit at the tip with a squirt and splashing onto her wrist.
"The fifteenth of next month. I've already prepared all the invitations."
Cassiopeia's crotch ground back and forth across Jerry's face.
That nub of flesh his tongue-tip had touched earlier ground over the tip of his nose, ground over his upper lip, ground over his lower lip.
With every pass, Cassiopeia's thighs spasmed.
The muscles of her silk-stocking-wrapped inner thighs pulled taut and relaxed, pulled taut and relaxed with the spasms.
"Move in a week early—during this week, you must cultivate feelings with Isabella."
"Of course!"
Cassiopeia's fingers returned to the shaft from the scrotum, restarting the stroking.
This time she changed her technique.
Instead of gripping it with her whole hand and stroking up and down, she formed a ring with her thumb and forefinger, circling the position of the groove, grinding back and forth over that most sensitive ridge.
Pre-cum continuously seeped from the slit at the tip, churned by her finger-ring into a viscous film.
The film stretched between her finger pads and the tip; every grind emitted sticky smack-smack sounds.
"During this week, the room you'll be staying in is right next to mine."
The amplitude of Cassiopeia's grinding crotch grew larger and larger.
Her fleshy lips left a wet trail across Jerry's face, dragging all the way from his chin to the tip of his nose.
The pink liquid, a mixture of mucus and beads of blood, smeared across his entire face.
Cassiopeia's breathing grew more and more rapid.
The two soft orbs wrapped in Elven silk on her chest heaved with her rapid breaths.
The V-shaped cut at her neckline opened and closed with the heaving.
He could see the upper halves of the orbs rolling against the edges of the silk, like two sweet dumplings ready to spill out of a bowl at any moment.
Jerry's abdominal muscles began to contract involuntarily.
The frequency of the contractions grew faster and faster.
The shaft throbbed within Cassiopeia's finger-ring, the amplitude of the throbbing growing larger and larger.
The color of the tip had darkened to the point of being nearly black.
The slit at the tip opened wider and wider, the pre-cum changing from seeping to flowing.
The viscous liquid trickled down the shaft, trickled over her fingers, trickled over her wrist, and pooled onto the seat into a small puddle.
Cassiopeia felt the change in the thing in her palm—the shaft suddenly expanded a size larger.
The frequency of the throbbing veins abruptly accelerated.
The tip violently swelled within her finger-ring, stretching her thumb and forefinger apart a bit.
Her crotch tensed at the same time.
The muscles of her inner thighs spasmed, clamping tightly around Jerry's head.
The inner walls of her passage began to contract involuntarily.
The force of the contractions squeezed more mucus out from the slit of her lips; the mucus surged onto Jerry's lips and trickled down his chin.
"It's coming!"
Cassiopeia's voice turned into a breathy whisper.
The breathy sound squeezed through her teeth, intermittent.
Her fingers released the shaft, fumbling behind her to grab the goblet from the desktop—the one she had drunk from earlier, the rim still bearing her dark purple lip print.
Cassiopeia aimed the mouth of the goblet directly in front of the tip.
The rim perfectly wedged just below the groove.
The icy touch of the glass pressed against the scalding tip, the temperature difference making the shaft jump again.
The inner walls of her passage violently contracted, and a stream of warm liquid gushed from the slit of her lips.
It poured over Jerry's lips, poured over his chin, poured over his neck.
The volume of liquid was astonishingly large, like knocking over a cup filled with warm water. With a splash, Jerry's entire face was drenched.
Almost at the exact same moment, Jerry's abdominal muscles violently contracted into an iron plate.
The shaft throbbed three times inside the mouth of the goblet.
The slit at the tip gaped to its maximum.
Thick white liquid slammed against the inner wall of the goblet with a smack, like a dollop of thick cream being hurled against glass.
The second stream surged out right behind it, fiercer than the first, spraying directly to the bottom of the goblet.
The white liquid spread into a layer at the bottom.
The third stream, the fourth stream, the fifth stream—
The goblet trembled slightly in Cassiopeia's hand.
The walls of the glass were coated with thick white liquid; the liquid slid slowly down the glass walls, gathering at the bottom, which was already more than half full.
Cassiopeia's body was still spasming, the muscles of her inner thighs twitching in waves.
But her hand was very steady; not a single drop spilled from the goblet.
She lifted her crotch from Jerry's face.
The two fleshy lips at the opening in the crotch of her silk stockings pulled several strings of mucus the instant they separated.
The strings broke in mid-air, landing on Jerry's completely drenched face.
She looked down at the goblet in her hand.
The liquid in the glass was milky-white, as thick as melted candle wax.
The surface bubbled with fine foam, the bubbles emitting a strong musky-salty scent when they popped.
The liquid clinging to the walls of the glass slid down slowly, converging into a small whirlpool at the bottom.
Cassiopeia brought the goblet to her lips.
Her dark purple lips pressed against the rim—pressing against the exact position of that previous lip print, the new lip print overlapping the old one.
Cassiopeia tilted her head back, the bottom of the glass tipping up.
The milky-white liquid slid down from the bottom of the glass, slid over the glass walls, slid over the rim, and flowed into her open mouth.
The first mouthful.
The thick liquid coated the flat of her tongue, the musky-salty taste instantly filling her entire oral cavity.
She didn't swallow it immediately; instead, she closed her mouth.
Her cheeks bulged twice, her tongue churning inside her mouth, pushing the liquid from left to right, then from right to left, as if tasting a mouthful of vintage red wine.
"Mmh!"
Cassiopeia's Adam's apple rolled, and she swallowed the first mouthful down.
The second mouthful.
This time Cassiopeia took a much larger gulp.
The liquid at the bottom of the glass surged into her mouth. The volume was too large, and a bit overflowed from the corner of her mouth.
The milky-white liquid trickled down her chin, trickled past her neck, trickled into the hollow of her collarbones, trickled into the V-shaped cut at the neckline of her evening gown, and vanished into that deep cleavage.
Cassiopeia's teeth bumped into a few thicker, semi-coagulated lumps in the liquid.
Those were the most concentrated parts of the bodily fluid, the texture like softened cheese.
Cassiopeia's teeth bit down with a squish.
The lumps were crushed between her teeth, ground into a finer paste, and swallowed down together with her saliva.
"Tastes good."
Cassiopeia moved the goblet away from her lips.
The glass was already more than half empty, leaving only a thin layer of residual liquid at the bottom.
Her lips were coated with a thin milky-white film.
Her tongue-tip emerged, licking a circle from left to right, curling all the residual liquid on her lips into her mouth.
"Thicker than last time."
She set the goblet back on the desktop with a clink.
The sound of glass colliding with walnut echoed in the empty meeting hall for two seconds.
"So—the matter of the engagement is settled, then?"
Her fingers tapped twice on the desktop.
The nails colliding with the wood emitted a clack-clack sound.
Her dark purple nail polish was coated with a layer of dried white liquid, reflecting a bizarre luster in the green light of the ghost-fire.
The outer wall of Azkaban split its first crack at 3:17 in the morning.
Not from the main gate, not from the side wing, but from the foundation twelve meters below sea level.
The entire prison was built on the granite of an isolated island in the middle of the North Sea.
Embedded at the bottom of the granite was a defensive layer poured from giant bone dust by the original builders four hundred years ago, theoretically capable of resisting any known Blasting Curse.
But Cassiopeia didn't use a Blasting Curse.
She used basilisk heart blood.
The heart blood of a basilisk produced a violent corrosive reaction the instant it came into contact with giant bone dust.
The calcium structure of the bone dust rapidly disintegrated under the blood's erosion, turning into a grayish-white powder.
The powder was washed away by the seawater, and the defensive layer was like a tower of blocks having its bottom pieces pulled out, collapsing from the inside.
When the sound of the first explosion echoed, the Auror on duty stationed on the top floor of Azkaban thought it was the sound of waves crashing against the cliff face.
The second explosion made him stand up from his chair.
The third explosion flipped him and his chair to the ground.
Stone blocks from the ceiling rained down like hail, smashing against his Shield Charm.
The blue light film of the Shield Charm shattered into a sky full of fireflies under the impact of the stones.
The entire prison snapped in two during the fourth explosion.
The crack tore upward all the way from the foundation.
It tore past the high-security cells on the third basement level, tore past the interrogation rooms on the second basement level, tore past the Dementor nests on the first basement level, tore past the Auror station on the ground floor, all the way to the top of the tower.
The width of the crack rapidly expanded from a finger's width initially to an arm's width, then to a person's width.
Seawater poured in through the crack, pouring into the corridors, pouring into the cells, pouring into every corner.
The Dementors were the first to flee.
Those black, rotting things, like rags blown apart by the wind, surged out from the crack.
They surged toward the night sky, obscuring half of the waning moon.
They didn't care if the prison was collapsing; they didn't care if the prisoners were escaping.
They only cared about one thing—leaving.
The scent emitted by basilisk heart blood was lethal to Dementors.
That scent would cause their bodies to begin dissolving from the edges, like ice cubes thrown into boiling water.
The prisoners were the second batch to emerge.
The iron doors of the high-security cells deformed under the impact of the seawater.
The locks detached from the doorframes; the iron doors were pushed open by the water pressure, slamming against the corridor walls with muffled crashes.
Silhouettes wearing gray prison uniforms surged out of the cells.
Some were screaming, some were laughing wildly, some couldn't make a sound at all, merely opening their mouths, the reflection of the seawater mirrored in their eyes, like a horde of dead people crawling out of graves.
Lestrange's cell was at the very depths of the third basement level.
She was the last one out.
Not because she ran slowly, but because she stood in her cell for a full thirty seconds.
Standing in waist-deep seawater, her head tilted back, mouth wide open, emitting a string of sharp, manic laughter like shattering glass.
The laughter echoed in the seawater-flooded corridor, mixing with the screams of the other prisoners, turning into a symphony of hell.
Then she ran.
Stepping barefoot through the seawater, her gray prison uniform soaked through, clinging to her emaciated, skin-and-bones body.
Her hair was a tangled mess, like a disturbed nest of black snakes.
Her eyes glowed in the darkness; that light was not the light of reason, but pure madness, untainted by any thought.
She was followed by over a dozen people, all Death Eaters locked in the high-security cells.
Dolohov's younger brother, and a few assassins whose names weren't even on record.
Cassiopeia stood on a small boat three nautical miles away from Azkaban.
A telescope pressed to her right eye, her left eye squinted, her dark purple lips curving into a satisfied arc.
The night breeze blew her hair up.
Her dark green evening gown had been swapped for a black cloak, the hood of the cloak draped over her shoulders, revealing her fair neck and collarbones.
Her high heels had been swapped for a pair of flat dragon-hide ankle boots, but she hadn't changed her silk stockings.
The black silk stockings extended upward from the tops of the boots, disappearing into the hem of the cloak.
She lowered the telescope and turned around.
At the other end of the small boat, an owl crouched on the gunwale, a letter pinned beneath its claws.
Cassiopeia walked over, pulled the letter from beneath the owl's claws, opened it, glanced at it, and the arc of her mouth deepened.
The manor was located in a hilly region in southern England, surrounded by an ancient yew forest.
The main building of the manor was a three-story Tudor-style mansion.
The red brick walls were covered in creeping ivy, the ivy leaves shimmering with a dark green luster in the early autumn sunlight.
Jerry stood in front of the manor's iron gates, carrying a worn leather suitcase in his hand.
The suitcase wasn't large, only two-thirds the size of an ordinary trunk.
The leather on the surface of the trunk was heavily worn, the wood frame beneath exposed at the corners.
The suitcase contained a week's worth of clothes, a few books, a set of portable alchemical tools, and three bottles of synthesized potions.
The iron gates were wide open.
Two stone-carved snakes perched on the gate pillars.
The snakes' eyes were made of emeralds, exactly the same as the snake eyes on the door panels of the Malfoy Manor meeting hall.
When Jerry walked between the two stone snakes, the heads of the stone snakes turned slightly, the emerald eyes following his silhouette for a few degrees.
From the iron gates to the main entrance of the main house lay a gravel path.
Neatly trimmed boxwood hedges were planted on both sides of the path.
The tops of the hedges were trimmed into the shape of snakes, one after another, winding toward the distance.
Someone was standing on the steps of the main entrance.
Isabella.
She wore a light blue dress, the hem reaching her knees.
White knee-high socks showed below the hem, and on her feet was a pair of black Mary Jane shoes.
Her hair was tied into two braids, the braids hanging down her chest, the ends of the braids tied with bows of light blue satin ribbon.
"Yo!"
"If it isn't my junior!"
"You certainly kept me waiting!"