The biting, damp autumn cold unique to the season enveloped the temporary open-air grandstands converted from the Quidditch pitch.
The wooden stands were erected a full dozen yards high, the overlapping tiers of planks groaning under the soaking dampness of the ground.
Wind blew in fiercely from the direction of the Black Lake through the gaps in the stands, ripping at the dark green banners hanging in the Slytherin section.
Jerry sat in the first row of the highest aristocratic VIP box.
He was draped in a collarless black woolen overcoat, legs crossed, his right boot resting against the crossbar of the wooden railing.
In his leather-gloved left palm lay a purplish-brown little creature, roughly the length of a forearm.
The little creature looked like a miniature version of an adult Hungarian Horntail, covered from head to toe in coin-sized purplish-black diamond scales. A slender tail coiled tightly around Jerry's wrist, its tip tipped with a small triangular barb. From its narrow nostrils, rhythmic puffs of sparks with purple smoke puffed out, charring a small patch of leather on Jerry's glove.
Draco sat to Jerry's left, wearing a double-breasted coat with a cashmere collar, hands shoved into his pockets, shrinking his neck into his collar.
"Where did that thing come from?"
Draco extended two fingers, tentatively reaching under the little purplish-brown dragon's chin.
Snap!
The little dragon snapped its head around, spitting a tiny wisp of purple flame; two rows of needle-fine teeth snapped in the air, nearly tearing away a clump of fleece from Draco's glove.
Draco snatched his hand back as if scalded, slapping his pants leg hard twice.
"Its temper is even worse than those white peacocks my father keeps in the basement. This definitely isn't a protected creature on the Ministry's control registry. If dragon smugglers on the Old Europe black market dared to peddle a venomous hybrid like this, they'd have been locked in Azkaban by Aurors long ago."
Jerry used his left thumb to press against the softer scale atop the little dragon's crown.
Pressed comfortably, the little dragon let out a contented snort; its spread wing membranes slowly folded up, plastering tightly against its spine. Its two little claws rested against the edge of Jerry's palm, puffing out a scorched breath smelling of roasted meat.
"A mutated breed that fell through the frontline rift," Jerry said casually, pulling a piece of dried black dragon jerky from his overcoat pocket with his right hand and stuffing it into the little dragon's mouth. "The meat is tough, loaded with deadly venom, and its bones are more resilient than tempered steel. The Cultivators of the Heavenly Secrets Pavilion call this thing a Purple-Blood Drake. When raised to adulthood, it can be used to tear through the Shield Charms of low-tier wizards."
The little dragon crunched noisily on the jerky, purple saliva dripping from the corner of its mouth onto Jerry's glove with a faint hiss, corroding several tiny pinholes into the leather.
Draco leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees, turning to stare fixedly at the little dragon.
"You actually brought this thing out to the public observation stands."
"McGonagall has no time to mind this right now." Jerry tugged the little dragon up his wrist, letting it nestle entirely into his coat sleeve. "She's currently busy backstage arranging tea for that bunch of old bureaucrats from the Department of International Magical Cooperation. As for Dumbledore... the old man is keeping his eyes glued to the main entrance."
Looking in the direction Jerry pointed, a violent gale suddenly kicked up in the sky near the entrance of the Quidditch pitch.
A powder-blue carriage, colossal as a mobile palace, pulled by a dozen silver-white winged horses as tall as elephants, plummeted down with a boom from the overcast sky. The carriage's massive wheels slammed into the muddy ground, churning up huge waves of mud and water, skidding dozens of yards before grinding steadily to a halt.
A low murmur of astonished gasps arose beneath the Slytherin stands.
Draco curled his lip, reaching into his pocket to pull out a silver-trimmed tin of thin cigars, offering one to Jerry before clamping one in his own teeth.
"Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons." Draco struck a flint to light the cigar, exhaling a puff of minty white smoke. "My father mentioned her in a letter last week. This half-giant headmistress spent an entire month bickering with the Ministry at the frontline logistics department just to secure more tournament slots for her students. The pureblood families of France sent over twelve candidates this time, all of them prestigious nobles with landed titles."
Jerry took the cigar, leaving it unlit, merely twirling it in his hand.
Catching the minty scent on the cigar, the little purple dragon flicked its wet purple tongue out and licked the tip, shredding the whole cigar to bits.
"French purebloods." Jerry tossed the shredded cigar to the little dragon. "The day Malfoy Manor was bombed, those old French families didn't even send a single letter of condolence, did they?"
Draco ground his teeth hard against the cigar, slamming his knuckles heavily onto the wooden railing of the stands.
"Condolences my ass! Those old Gallic foxes shift with the wind faster than anyone! I heard that the very next day after old Greengrass cut off the three procurement lines in Old Europe, the heads of Beauxbatons secretly approached the Department of War Mobilization, trying to sell their family herb stocks in Old Europe to the Ministry at exorbitant prices. If old Nott hadn't led men to customs to forcibly seize that shipment, the Ministry would be using their herbs to drive down the prices of our Sacred Twenty-Eight right now."
Just then, a massive water spout suddenly burst across the surface of the Black Lake.
A pitch-black ghost ship, looking as though it had just been salvaged from a seabed graveyard, slowly rose from the bottom of the lake, spraying blinding sheets of water. Tattered black sails hung from the colossal masts, thick iron chains clattering loudly against the hull, churning the foul-smelling lake water all the way until it docked heavily against the shore pier.
A troop of Durmstrang students dressed in heavy beast-pelt coats, led by a tall, gaunt old wizard with a goatee, marched down the gangplank in a disciplined column.
"Karkaroff." Draco puffed out a smoke ring, his gaze chilling. "A spineless coward among Death Eaters. Back during the Wizengamot trials, to save his own neck, he spilled everything he knew and didn't know. And now he's actually become the Headmaster of Durmstrang."
Jerry stroked the spine of the little dragon inside his coat sleeve.
"The spineless they are, the easier they are to command. Dumbledore needs an easily controlled headmaster like him to cooperate with this tournament."
Draco looked down at the circular arena erected temporarily in the center of the pitch.
Four colossal heavy-wood stone pillars stood around the arena, entwined with anti-magic runes. Dead center among the pillars, that human-tall Goblet of Fire, radiating eerie blue flames, stood quietly upon the stone platform, its blue-white tongues of fire rolling fiercely in the biting autumn wind.
"My father sent me another urgent owl last night." Draco pulled a neatly folded piece of parchment from his inner jacket pocket and handed it to Jerry. "The letter says the Department of Magical Law Enforcement forced through an internal decree this morning. The allocation quotas for three mobile Auror strike brigades on the front line are directly tied to the observation assessments of this Triwizard Tournament."
Jerry took the parchment; without unfolding it, he simply weighed it in his palm.
"What did Mr. Lucius say?"
"My father's meaning is crystal clear." Draco leaned close to Jerry, keeping his voice so low only the two of them could hear. "Our Twenty-Eight families will not field a single person for this godforsaken tournament. Whoever wants to go can go. If those hot-headed Gryffindor fools want to act as meat shields on the front lines, we're even willing to donate a few crates of Shield Charm plates to them. However—"
Draco pointed toward the VIP boxes at the highest tier of the stands below.
"If the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore want to use this tournament to reach into Hogwarts' selection list and forcibly dragoon the new generation of pureblood families to the front lines... my father said the private soldiers under old Nott are ready to provide backup in Hogsmeade at a moment's notice."
Jerry smiled, tucking the parchment back into his pocket.
Inside his coat sleeve, the little purple dragon seemed to sense Jerry's mood; poking its small head out from the cuff, its golden compound eyes swept over Draco before it began playfully gnawing at Jerry's coat lining.
"Your father moved fast," Jerry said casually. "Is the manor's drawing room repaired?"
"Repaired my ass." Draco let out a scoff, adjusting his tie. "The old man deliberately left that giant hole in the ceiling wide open. When the Ministry's emergency inspectors went over this morning, the old man was sitting on that pile of broken bricks wearing his cloak, drinking tea. The inspectors didn't even dare enter the main doors; they snapped two photos from afar and ran."
The clicking of high heels against wooden steps echoed from the stairs behind the stands.
The conversation halted abruptly.
Pansy Parkinson, wearing a crimson cloak, her form-fitting skirt swaying with her strides, walked up the steps carrying two steaming cups of hot cocoa. Behind her, Crabbe and Goyle clumsily lugged several large bags of roasted nuts, their bulging bulk stretching their school uniforms taut.
Pansy walked forward, naturally taking the empty seat to Jerry's right, handing him a cup of hot cocoa.
"It's freezing outside; the Great Hall waiters set up a hundred heating braziers and it's completely useless."
Pansy complained, leaning her leg against Jerry's thigh, her slender body slouching as she reached for the bag of nuts beside Jerry's hand.
The little purple dragon abruptly darted out from under Jerry's glove, unfurling two wing membranes tipped with purple venomous barbs, letting out a low hiss at Pansy's fingers!
"Eek!"
Pansy's hand jerked in fright, nearly spilling her hot cocoa all over her red cloak. She staggered half a step back, clutching her heaving chest, staring wide-eyed at the exotic beast on Jerry's hand.
"What... what kind of monster is this?! Since when were things like this allowed to be kept in the Slytherin dungeons?!"
Draco burst into boisterous laughter nearby, laughing so hard the ash from his cigar dropped onto his trousers.
"Pansy, if you'd reached half an inch further just now, that finger of yours painted with French polish would already be digesting in this little fellow's belly."
"Draco! Shut up!" Pansy stamped hard on Draco's foot, her heel producing a sharp clack on the wooden stands. She turned her head, speaking to Jerry in a tone laced with grievance and coquetry, "Jerry, look at him!"
Jerry pressed down on the little dragon's head over his thigh, pushing it back into his coat sleeve.
"Sit down; ignore him."
Pansy huffed, sitting back down beside Jerry—this time not daring to lean too close, though her eyes remained glued to Jerry's cuff, muttering under her breath: "Even Slytherin pets are this terrifying now... I bet the Gryffindors next door are glaring daggers over here."
Looking over following Pansy's gaze, quite a few people on the Gryffindor stands were indeed peering this way.
Ron Weasley stood at the very front of the Gryffindor stands, both hands gripping the wooden railing, eyes wide, hurriedly muttering something to Seamus Finnigan beside him. When his gaze landed on Jerry, his freckled face twitched visibly several times, before he spat fiercely and turned away.
Harry Potter sat two rows behind Ron.
Wearing a red-and-gold Gryffindor athletic jacket, he held a piece of chamois leather meant for polishing brooms, though he wasn't polishing anything. His eyes looked across the raucous pitch, staring fixedly at the Goblet of Fire burning with blue-white flames in the center of the arena.
There was no expression on his thin face; even the cheers of his companions seemed blocked from his ears.
Draco followed Jerry's gaze and noticed Harry as well.
"That Potter kid is acting off this morning." Draco pointed his cigar toward Harry. "During breakfast in the Great Hall, he didn't even touch a slice of bread, just sat there blankly. That idiot Ron danced and talked beside him for ages, and he didn't react once."
Jerry cradled his hot cocoa, taking a sip, steam rising before his face.
"He went there last night."
"What?" Draco froze. "Went where?"
"The entrance hall." Jerry set the cup on the floorboards by his feet, resting his hands casually on the railing. "The Age Line Dumbledore drew—he stepped across it last night."
Draco nearly dropped his cigar. He whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto Jerry's face, his lips twitching twice.
"He's only fourteen! How could he cross Dumbledore's Age Line?! Fred and George are still growing white beards in the hospital wing!"
"The Age Line was drawn by Dumbledore." Jerry's tone was as calm as discussing the morning weather. "As long as the one who drew the line wanted him inside, even if he were only four years old, that golden line wouldn't react in the slightest."
Draco opened his mouth, his expression shifting rapidly from shock to profound gloom. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, which scattered quickly in the cold air.
"That old bastard... he is blatantly violating the international charter of the Triwizard Tournament! If Beauxbatons and Durmstrang find out, they'll tear into him on the spot!"
"They won't find out." Jerry patted Draco's shoulder. "When the Goblet of Fire spits out the names, everyone will assume it was the work of a Confundus Charm. A fourteen-year-old boy, having his name submitted into the Goblet by a 'wicked Dark Wizard,' forced to shoulder the heavy burden of saving the world... what a flawless plot."
The corner of Draco's mouth pulled tight.
"Sounds like a story cooked up by a third-rate Daily Prophet columnist."
"Yet the public loves it," Jerry said. "And the wizards on the front lines love it too. Rather than a shrewd, calculating Slytherin arms dealer, they need a fourteen-year-old savior haloed in light, willing to stand up for justice."
A high-pitched fanfare of horns suddenly sounded below the stands!
Four heralds in deep red dress robes stepped into the center of the pitch in two columns from the champions' tunnel.
The four long tables of the Great Hall had been moved to the perimeter of the pitch; hundreds of students took their seats by their respective house tables, cheers and applause sweeping over the Quidditch pitch like a tidal wave.
Albus Dumbledore, clad in deep purple robes adorned with golden stars, accompanied by Professor McGonagall, Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime, walked slowly up to the highest tier of the arena.
The old wizard raised both hands, pressing his palms downward.
The deafening roar subsided swiftly, the attention of thousands in the stadium converging entirely onto that colossal Goblet of Fire.
Draco leaned against the wooden railing, his tone laced with cold mockery.
"The play is starting, Jerry."
Jerry sat in his wooden chair without changing his posture. Inside his coat sleeve, the little purple dragon poked its head out again, its compound eyes reflecting the sudden violent surge of blue-white fire in the center of the pitch.
"Then let's see," Jerry said softly, "if the actors taking the stage this time can survive until the final curtain."
Inside the colossal wooden chalice in the center of the arena, the blue-white fire suddenly surged into a towering wave of flames, as if doused in thick tallow. The blinding firelight cast the grass of the entire Quidditch pitch crimson; the howling autumn wind seemed pressed flat by the heat, the air heavy with a scorched smell.
Albus Dumbledore stepped forward, his right hand gripping the slender Elder Wand, tapping the air twice to signal the excited students to quiet down.
Whoosh!
A plume of thick black sparks burst from the top of the flames, and a charred, curling piece of parchment rolled high into the air with the heat, tracing an arc before landing securely in Dumbledore's withered palm.
The old wizard raised his hand, flicked the ash from the edges of the parchment, and read the writing with a smile.
"The champion for Durmstrang—Viktor Krum!"
Deafening cheers instantly erupted from the stands. The burly Durmstrang students in bear-pelt coats slapped their thighs and the railings around them, shaking the stands. Hunching his broad shoulders, Krum stood up from the crew formation, tugged at the tight leather clasp at his collar, and strode up toward the platform.
Before the cheers could cool, the flames inside the Goblet of Fire leaped violently again, and a second piece of parchment spiraled out.
"The champion for Beauxbatons—Fleur Delacour!"
The French stands erupted into pandemonium. Several young witches in powder-blue silk skirts leaped up screaming, their petite frames trembling with excitement.
One plump-cheeked girl with short blonde hair hopped ecstatically, throwing her arms around her companion's neck, her long legs stamping happily on the wooden planks, making her silver-buckled leather shoes squeak.
Another tall, slender young witch wearing a deep blue scarf pulled a packet of floral powder from her pocket and tossed it into the sky, scattering it into vast shimmering clouds of water-blue flecks.
Fleur Delacour rose from among the joyful girls, smoothing her waterfall of shimmering silver hair.
Holding her delicate chin high, stepping with graceful strides and swaying her slender waist, she walked along the tunnel toward the arena amidst the roar of applause.
Immediately after, the third piece of parchment shot from the fire.
"The champion for Hogwarts—Cedric Diggory!"
The students at the Hufflepuff table rose in unison, banging their copper plates and wooden cups in a rhythmic din. Cedric high-fived the companions around him with a grin, clapped a few younger students on the shoulder, and bounded up the steps to the stage.
Dumbledore opened his hands with a smile, preparing to announce the conclusion of the selection, when the Goblet of Fire in the center of the arena suddenly let out a piercing wail!
The blue-white flames morphed into an eerie, deep purple in an instant! The flame whipped wildly against the rim of the wooden cup like a venomous snake with its tail stepped on; the immense heat forced the students in the front rows to raise their arms to shield their faces.
Snap!
Following the third parchment, a fourth plume of black smoke enveloped a blackened piece of parchment, violently ejecting from the deepest recess of the flames, striking Dumbledore heavily in the chest.
Dumbledore's smile vanished instantly, his withered fingers clamping around the parchment. He looked down, his thick white eyebrows involuntarily twitching upward, his voice booming across the entire stadium via a Sonorus Charm.
"Harry Potter."
The moment those words left his lips, the boiling stadium went as silent as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over it—so dead quiet one could hear the water lapping against the lake shore.
By the Gryffindor table, the chamois leather in Harry's hand dropped into the mud with a splat. He stood frozen in place, his hands clutching the seams of his trousers, unable to take a single step.
Beside him, the freckles on Ron Weasley's face twisted into knots of extreme fury and shock. He whipped around, glaring with deadly intensity at Harry, his fists hammering the table until the wood shook violently. Ron opened his mouth, his teeth grinding audibly, before shoving Harry hard in the back with enough force to nearly knock him flat to the ground.
"Go... go on up!" Ron's voice broke in a hoarse crack. "Didn't you say you didn't know?! Go up on stage and take your grand prize!"
Shoved forward, Harry stumbled two steps. Under the gaze of thousands of eyes, with his head hung low and his feet heavy as lead, he shuffled step by step toward the platform. Madame Maxime's colossal frame abruptly rose from the dais, knocking over the chair behind her; Karkaroff grabbed his goatee, the corners of his eyes twitching madly.
Yet the nightmare did not end there.
Not only did the Goblet of Fire suspended in the air not extinguish, but the deep purple fire within swelled to its absolute limit, several shocking fissures spider-webbing across the wooden chalice!
BOOM!
A muffled detonation exploded in the center of the arena; a fifth piece of parchment spun at violent, high frequency through the thick smoke, shooting straight into the air before floating gently down toward the highest tier of the Slytherin VIP box!
Before Dumbledore could even raise his wand, that piece of parchment had already slapped against the wooden railing in the very front row of the stands.
The writing upon it gleamed with a blinding, scarlet luster amidst the black smoke.
Dumbledore looked up, his gaze stabbing straight toward the highest tier, his voice carrying an unshakeable chill and gravity for the first time.
"The fifth champion—Draco Malfoy."
After a two-second pause, the entire stadium completely melted down!
"This is impossible!" Karkaroff roared, charging to the edge of the arena, his long, withered hands slamming heavily onto the heavy-wood stone pillar. "Four slots was already beyond absurd! And now a fifth has been spat out! Is Hogwarts treating this international tournament as your school's private playground?!"
Madame Maxime also took a step forward, her massive sole shattering the flagstone beneath. "Albus! You must provide us with a reasonable explanation! This completely violates the ancient charter of the Triwizard Tournament spanning centuries!"
Over at Gryffindor, Ron leaped onto the dining table, pointing at the Slytherin stands and shouting curses, while the black wizard Lee Jordan desperately tried to haul him down.
And in the front row of the aristocratic VIP box, Draco Malfoy stood completely frozen in place.
The half-unlit thin cigar in his hand dropped onto the floor tiles with a clatter, rolling down through the gaps in the planks. That face of his, which normally always wore an arrogant smirk, turned instantly chalk-white; his small hands gripped the wooden railing before him in a death grip, his knuckles popping from extreme force.
He turned his head, his neck stiff as a rusted axle, staring fixedly at Jerry sitting beside him.
Jerry sat in that wide wooden chair, his back still resting relaxed against the backrest. In his gloved left palm, that purplish-brown little drake unfurled its small wing membranes, flicking its tongue out to lick the sweat from between Jerry's fingers.
Jerry sensed Draco's gaze.
He didn't turn his head to meet Draco's eyes; he merely withdrew his right boot from the crossbar of the railing, planting his sole steadily onto the floor of the stands. Then, he raised his right hand, gently pressing down on the purplish-black hard scale atop the drake's crown, a nearly imperceptible curve hooking at the corner of his mouth as he gave a minute nod in Draco's direction.
Just that single, minute nod.
The stiff corners of Draco's eyes constricted sharply, and the fingers gripping the railing suddenly relaxed.
This wasn't some magical malfunction.
This was a grand game of chess Jerry Rosier had laid out for the old pureblood families! Since the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore wanted to use Harry Potter to forge a god and force conscription, Slytherin would shove Malfoy's name straight into the Goblet of Fire, turning this so-called "righteous stage" into a bloody colosseum of purebloods clashing against the Ministry before the eyes of tens of thousands!
The name spat out by the Goblet of Fire was the final contract; there had never been a precedent for alteration in a thousand years. Once the name was out, even Dumbledore could never revoke the eligibility before the witness of all Europe!
Draco took a deep breath of the biting cold air.
The chalky pallor on his face receded in an instant, replaced by a near-frenzied exhilaration and arrogance. He raised his right hand, unhurriedly dusting off non-existent ash from the collar of his cashmere coat, fastening the double-breasted buttons neatly.
"Since the name has been spat out."
Draco spoke in a low voice, not a shred of panic remaining in his tone. He stood up from his chair, smoothly patting down the pockets of his coat.
"Then this young master will go down and play with them."
He strode forward, walking down the towering wooden steps of the stands pace by pace.
The students on either side of the stands parted, opening a narrow passage. Several young witches from Beauxbatons leaned against the edge of the stands, whispering in French-accented murmurs.
One voluptuous girl with wavy hair even leaned in, her large eyes scanning Draco's exquisite cashmere coat and his taut, handsome face, a completely undisguised curiosity and fascination gleaming in her eyes.
Draco didn't even spare them a glance.
With his chin held high, both hands tucked into his coat pockets, stepping with steady cadence, he passed straight through the clamoring crowds of the stands, stepped over the perimeter barriers of the pitch, and planted his boots onto the mud of the central arena.
In the center of the pitch, five champions stood under the blue-purple embers of the Goblet of Fire.
Krum looked like a startled bear, arms crossed, coldly eyeing Draco as he approached; Fleur Delacour wrinkled her pretty brows, covering the tip of her nose with a handkerchief, taking half a step back; Cedric wore a look of total bewilderment; while Harry Potter was completely paralyzed at the edge of the arena, staring at Draco walking up, his eyes practically popping from their sockets.
Dumbledore stood at the highest point of the arena, the Elder Wand in his hand drooping beside the seam of his trousers; those eyes, which normally carried warmth and wisdom, were now as cold as the solid ice at the bottom of the Black Lake.
The old wizard stared fixedly at Draco stepping onto the arena, his fists clenching tight within the wide sleeves of his robes.
Draco stopped beside Harry, turned slightly, held his head high, and offered an elegant, slight bow to Dumbledore and the two visiting headmasters on the dais, the signature cold smirk of Slytherin playing across his lips.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, it appears my name is also compliant with the rules." Draco adjusted his cuffs. "So, where is my preparation room arranged?"
High up in the stands, Jerry watched this scene quietly.
He reached out and stroked the horn of the little drake in his coat sleeve; the drake opened its mouth and spat a small plume of purple flame, scorching a charred mark into the corner of the wooden railing.
A tall, slender figure bypassed the jostling crowds below, stepping across the creaking wooden steps, arriving soundlessly at the very top of the Slytherin stands.
The newcomer wore a slightly worn, dark grey anti-magic leather overcoat; several charred marks from lightning and fire scarred the hem, her collar open to reveal a taut dark silver chainmail vest underneath. A sharp, capable crop of short black hair framed her ears, accentuating her soft, intellectual face.
Fiona stopped beside Jerry, both hands tucked into the pockets of her leather overcoat, leaning back against the wooden support pillar behind her.
"The Department of War Operations just dismantled four emergency Floo routes. I had barely shoved the wounded into St. Mungo's when I heard you were laying traps for Dumbledore here."
Fiona spoke in an exceptionally gentle voice, carrying that soft rasp unique to someone who had endured consecutive days of slaughter. She lowered her head slightly, stepping half a pace forward with her long legs, scuffing her boots against the muddy steps to dislodge a few dried flakes of blood clinging to her trousers.
Jerry didn't look back, his right hand naturally reaching out to give her perky buttocks a heavy squeeze.
"The front lines gave you a holiday?"
"Holiday my ass." Fiona gave him a coquettish glare, letting Jerry knead her buttocks as he pleased.
She lifted her head, glancing at Draco confronting Karkaroff in the center of the pitch, a pleasing curve hooking at the corner of her lips.
"The Department of War Mobilization secured a special security deployment order for the Triwizard Tournament and sent three squads back for rotation. I had McGonagall approve a leave slip; the first thing I did was come see what trouble you little devil were stirring up again."
Fiona reached out and clasped Jerry's wrist, her slender fingers slipping between Jerry's, giving them a firm squeeze.
She leaned half a step closer, a wave of scalding heat mixing gunpowder, balsam fir, and a faint bodily fragrance puffing against Jerry's ear.
Jerry stood up, the hem of his overcoat swaying with the wind.
Reaching out, he encircled Fiona's slender yet firm waist; the two slipped along the narrow secret passage behind the VIP box, bypassing the rioting crowds below, heading straight toward the Slytherin subterranean changing rooms.
Passing through several dim and damp underground corridors, Fiona expertly pushed open the wooden door of a private female shower room hung with a brass padlock.
The room was permeated with a heavy scent of stone and moisture.
Fiona pulled the wooden door shut with a heavy slam, drawing the brass bolt behind the door to lock it securely.
Without even drawing her wand, she merely flicked two slender, full fingers against the seams of the door; several pale blue, sticky anti-peeping ward runes instantly rippled across the door panel.
"The field shower rooms on the front lines don't even have a curtain; we have to fight a bunch of uncouth Aurors for hot water every single day."
Fiona turned around, grabbed her heavy anti-magic leather coat with both hands, and slid it down.
The coat fell onto the damp floor tiles with a soft plop, revealing the blisteringly hot, voluptuous body wrapped in chainmail and a form-fitting shirt underneath. Fiona was extremely tall, nearly half a head taller than the frail, slight Jerry; her long legs clad in tight trousers were straight and shapely, her buttocks rounded and high, her massive, full breasts bulging against the chainmail, ready to burst.
A classic physical contrast of mature upperclassman and youthful underclassman—standing together, they created a powerful visual tension.
Fiona unbuckled the metal belt at her waist, pulling it off with a swift yank, tossing the belt along with the three potion pouches attached to it onto a nearby stone bench.
"What are you standing there for? Little devil, help your senior unbutton her clothes."
Fiona smiled gently, a lingering affection of long-awaited reunion in her eyes. She took a step forward, those towering, full breasts pressing directly against Jerry's chest, her long thighs wedging between Jerry's legs, backing Jerry all the way against the cold stone wall.
Jerry reached out, grabbed the quick-release loops on the side of her chainmail, and pulled forcefully outward.
Clatter!
The metal links broke apart, the chainmail sliding to the floor.
Fiona wore only a thin, soaked white shirt underneath; freed from the restraint of the chainmail, those colossal, snow-white breasts bounced outward, stretching the placket of the shirt taut, two pink, hard buds clearly visible through the thin cloth.
Jerry lowered his head, parting his lips to take that tender patch of skin on the side of her neck into his mouth, his hands vigorously kneading her plump buttocks.
"Mmh... gently..."
Fiona let out a moan, her tall, slender body trembling slightly. She pressed both large, pale hands against the back of Jerry's head, her fingers threading through his messy hair, her long thighs actively clamping upward, using her tall, heavy frame to press firmly against Jerry.
She threw her head back, parting her tender, wet lips, actively meeting Jerry's mouth.
Their wet, hot tongues instantly intertwined.
Fiona's kiss was exceptionally tender, yet laced with a fervor carried back from the front lines. Her tongue swept wantonly through Jerry's oral cavity, saliva spilling wildly from the corners of their mouths, dripping onto the collar of Jerry's shirt.
Reaching out, she twisted the brass faucet nearby.
Whoosh!
Massive torrents of scalding hot water poured down from the wide showerhead overhead, instantly soaking the two of them through.
As the hot water cascaded down, the wet shirt on Fiona turned completely transparent, clinging tightly to her enticing, undulating curves. As she engaged in a fierce, deep kiss with Jerry, she slid her small hand down his lower abdomen, grasping Jerry's massive member through his trousers, which was already hard as an iron rod.
The moment her palm touched that thick contour, Fiona's body shuddered violently.
"Merlin's beard..."
Fiona released his lips, panting heavily, a silver-white thread of saliva dangling from the corner of her mouth. Her normally intellectual, dignified face was currently flushed with crimson; she vigorously rubbed his crotch twice through the cloth.
"Those uncouth Aurors on the front lines brag about their capabilities every day, but compared to our Little Jerry's massive weapon, they're like caterpillars crashing against a battering ram... Every time I see it, all the suffering I endured on the battlefield becomes entirely worth it."
"Cut the flattery." Jerry unbuttoned his pants, pushing them down along his thighs to his knees.
The thick, scalding colossal object sprang out instantly, slapping heavily against Fiona's soaked lower abdomen, its bulging veins gleaming with an eye-catching purplish-red luster in the hot water.
Fiona glanced at that colossal giant, thicker than her wrist, and her thighs clamped tight involuntarily. Without hesitation, she slowly knelt down along the cold stone wall.
Her tall, slender frame squatted before Jerry, naturally resting her face against Jerry's pubic hair.
Slurp!
Fiona opened her mouth wide, taking that colossal, purplish-red coronal head directly into her mouth in one gulp!
An exceptionally loud wet sound exploded in the steam-filled shower room.
The corners of Fiona's mouth were pulled roughly to both sides, the interior of her oral cavity packed completely full. She tossed her sharp black hair back, pressing both small hands firmly against the base of Jerry's thighs, bobbing her head up and down at high frequency.
Squish! Squish! Squish!
Hot water flowed down her short hair into the seams of her lips, mixing with copious gushes of her saliva, churning up massive amounts of white foam along Jerry's thick, rigid shaft.
"Mmh... gulp... ha-ah..."
Fiona's throat convulsed frantically; every time Jerry's massive tip drove deep, it slammed directly into the depths of her tender throat. The intense suffocation and pleasure made wet tears leak continuously from the corners of her eyes. Yet not only did she not retreat, she pressed herself even closer, using those snow-white breasts swinging violently in the air to smack back and forth between Jerry's legs.
The intellect and gentleness of a mature woman were thoroughly obliterated in this moment.
"Sucking pretty hard, aren't you, Senior Fiona." Jerry pressed both hands onto the back of her head, his waist beginning to thrust deeply forward in short strokes.
"Mmh... isn't it... isn't it all because this monster of yours fed me full..."
Fiona let out an incoherent moan in the muffled gaps, then slid her mouth down even more vigorously, burying her entire face into the depths of Jerry's lower abdomen.
After a full incense stick's time of frenzied deep-throating, Jerry patted her shoulder.
Fiona obediently pulled her mouth off, a crisp popping sound echoing through the sound of rushing water. She stood up along the wall, panting heavily, white foam hanging from the corners of her mouth, reaching down to tear away the soaked shirt that had long since been shredded to ribbons and toss it aside.
She turned around, bracing both hands against the cold stone countertop in the center of the shower room, spreading her long thighs to their absolute limit.
Viewed from behind, Fiona's tall, slender back was brimming with tension, her plump, perky buttocks glistening with alluring wetness under the cascade of hot water; the most intimate crevice was long since drenched in a flood of slick nectar.
Fiona twisted her head around, her wet short hair plastered to her cheeks, her eyes blazing with scorching desire.
"Come on, little devil... use that big thing of yours... smash all the pent-up heat I've accumulated on the front lines for three months out of me!"
Jerry stepped forward, pressing against her tall, mature frame from behind in a classic position of a small horse pulling a big cart.
He raised one hand to grip Fiona's slender waist, holding his scalding, thick shaft with the other, aligning the purplish-red head with that flooded crevice, and then violently thrust his hips forward!
Squelch——!
An extraordinarily loud sound of flesh penetration detonated in the shower room!
"Ya——ah-ah-ah——!"
Fiona arched her neck, letting out an exceedingly high-pitched, sharp cry! Her hands clutched the edge of the stone countertop in a death grip, her toes pointing straight, her entire body convulsing violently from the extreme fullness and tearing pleasure!
Jerry's member was simply too thick and long; this unreserved, brutal deep thrust rammed straight into the walls of her deepest cervix!
"Too... too deep! Jerry! You're going to break me... ha-ah!"
Fiona let out a trembling whimper of surrender, yet her high buttocks instinctively thrust backward, clamping tightly around Jerry's shaft.
Jerry had no intention of showing tender mercy. Pinning Fiona's waist, his hips operated like a mechanical press running on full throttle, slamming forward at high speed!
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
The heavy thuds of flesh slamming against flesh instantly drowned out the sound of the water overhead!
Hot water continuously washed over the point of their connection, splashing massive amounts of white foam and droplets wildly in all directions. Fiona's tall, voluptuous body rocked violently back and forth on the stone countertop with Jerry's thrusts, those snow-white breasts swinging wildly like mad things, tracing enticing arcs in the air.
"Ha-ah... so hard... hitting so heavy..."
Fiona collapsed prone across the stone countertop, her short hair whipping madly with the impacts. Her originally intellectual, gentle voice was completely reduced to erratic, wanton moans.
"Jerry... deeper... smash my insides to pieces... ah!"
Jerry clutched those massive, full breasts with both hands, squeezing them out of shape, his thrusts growing faster and faster; every withdrawal dragged out strings of fluid, every deep plunge burying the thick meat pillar all the way to the hilt!
Wet sounds, smacking impacts, and wanton cries intertwined into a raging storm.
After switching through four high-difficulty positions, Jerry lifted Fiona completely up, letting her long legs wrap around his waist, her back pressed against the brass faucet, launching his final furious charge!
"Coming... it's coming... give it to Senior... give it all to Senior..."
Fiona dug her fingers into Jerry's shoulders, her long legs locking tight around his lower back, letting out a nearly suffocating, frenzied cry!
Boom!
Massive surges of scalding, thick white cream erupted wildly in Fiona's absolute depths!
Fiona's body stiffened abruptly, her mouth opening to its limit, bursting into a violent orgasmic convulsion that lasted half a minute in Jerry's arms!
Copious amounts of white cream overflowed from the tight seam of their connection, mixing with the water stream and flowing down Fiona's long thighs onto the floor tiles.
A long while later, Jerry slowly withdrew his shaft from the depths.
Fiona slid down the wall to the floor, slumping in the warm water, panting heavily. A satisfied, exhausted smile hung on her intellectual, pretty face as she reached out and lightly slapped Jerry's thigh.
"You little devil... today... you nearly took half my life..."
In the steam-filled shower room, the two leaned together, letting the scalding hot water wash over their bodies intertwined with exhaustion and desire.