A biting, steep mountain wind howled fiercely across the center of the Quidditch pitch.
The original turf had been completely leveled, replaced instead by a colossal ruined arena piled high with dozens of steep, towering black boulders.
Massive, thick iron chains threaded through the gaps between the black stones, interlinking tightly around heavy wooden stakes on all sides, the iron links clanging with heavy, dull rattles.
From the black stone cavern at the deepest recess of the arena, massive plumes of scalding black smoke carrying sulfur and a scorched stench billowed out from time to time.
The highest aristocratic VIP grandstand was enclosed into a semi-private box by several heavy sheets of windproof canvas.
Jerry leaned back against the plush armchair in the dead center of the box, the black overcoat draped over his shoulders falling casually open.
Flanking both sides of his legs, several women of varying figures sat gathered around him.
Freshly showered, Fiona had tied her damp, short black hair loosely behind her head with a handkerchief; she wore an oversized, dark wizard's robe, the buttons of her inner shirt fastened only to the second-to-last, exposing a large swath of damp, snow-white skin that heaved at her neckline with every breath. Her long, straight thighs were crossed over each other, her right hand casually resting upon Jerry's knee, her fingertips idly tapping against his trouser leg.
Hermione sat to Jerry's left, wearing her red-and-gold Gryffindor house jacket, clutching a heavy copy of Habits of European Dragons and Defensive Tactics in her hands, her long legs pressed tightly together.
Although she tried her best to maintain the solemn expression of a star pupil, her slightly flushed cheeks and somewhat ragged breathing betrayed her inner turmoil.
Pansy Parkinson leaned over the wooden railing at the front of the stands, clutching a dainty handkerchief in both hands, her gaze glued to the massive dragon tail faintly visible behind the black rocks of the arena below.
"Four adult dragons freshly shipped back from the front lines."
Fiona pinched a slice of dried beef from a platter of cooked meat and spirits nearby, chewing unhurriedly as she stuffed it into her mouth, then grabbed an adjacent bottle of dragon-blood liquor and took a massive swig with a heavy gulp.
"A Swedish Short-Snout, a Common Welsh Green, a Chinese Fireball, and on the innermost side, that foul-tempered Hungarian Horntail. When the Auror squads captured these beasts on the front lines, they lost two full strike teams of heavy hitters. The Ministry really dared to drag any lethal monster into the school just for a good spectacle."
Jerry reached beneath the table and fished out a pitch-black wooden box, slapping it onto the center of the coffee table.
The wooden box popped open, revealing dozens of detailed parchment contracts stacked neatly inside, beside a pile of gleaming gold coins.
"How the war is fought on the front lines is the Aurors' business. But as for this tournament before us, we can't just watch it for free."
Jerry pressed both hands against the edge of the coffee table, surveying the women around him, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Five people, four dragons. First task is retrieving the golden egg, ranked by total time elapsed. Let's open a betting pool."
Hearing this, Fiona slapped her thigh with a loud thwack. She propped her tall leather boots against the crossbar, boldly pulled a heavy pouch of gold coins from the inner pocket of her coat, and slammed it down onto the coffee table; the pouch burst open, spilling dozens of Galleons across the parchment.
"I put my money on that Draco kid!" Fiona grabbed a firm handful of Jerry's lower abdomen, her breath heavy with the rich scent of liquor. "To keep him from dying on the front lines, the Malfoys definitely loaded every single life-saving asset from their underground vaults into his pockets. When it comes to hidden trump cards and survival tactics, tying all those upperclassmen down there together wouldn't match that kid's cunning."
Hermione knitted her brows, adjusting the reading glasses on the bridge of her nose, her fingertips tracing across the parchment on the table.
"From theoretical models and magic reserves, Cedric Diggory and Viktor Krum possess the highest probability of victory. Cedric's Transfiguration is top-tier even among seventh-years, and Krum has extensive field experience." Hermione analyzed as she spoke, drawing a dozen or so Galleons from her cloth bag and pushing them into the center of the table. "I bet Cedric finishes in the shortest time. As for Harry... he hasn't even memorized the illustrated handbook on dragon habits."
"I bet on Draco! Five hundred Galleons! Plus this gemstone ring of mine!"
Pansy rushed back eagerly from the railing, dumping two gemstone bracelets from her wrists and her entire coin purse onto the table. She sat pressed tightly against Jerry, a small hand smoothly resting against the root of Jerry's thigh, her delicate body trembling slightly with nervousness.
"Jerry... Draco won't really be in danger, will he? That Hungarian Horntail roared from the back earlier and blew down the wooden barricades with its breath!"
Jerry did not answer Pansy directly.
His left hand slipped inside Pansy's cloak, kneading the soft, tender flesh at her waist, while his right hand swiftly wrote down several lines on the ledger on the table.
"Krum at two to one, Cedric at three to one, Fleur at four to one, Harry at five to one, and Draco... at six to one."
Having finished writing, Jerry looked up at Isabella, who had remained quiet at the side.
Dressed in a high-slit purple gown, Isabella leaned against the cushions behind her, trimming her nails with a pair of delicate silver scissors. Hearing the odds Jerry quoted, she didn't even raise her eyelids, extending a shapely, long leg to rub against Jerry's ankle.
"I bet on Harry Potter." Isabella's voice was soft and gentle, laced with playful amusement. "Dumbledore went through all this trouble to push him onto the stage; those reinforced wards in the background are all oriented toward the Gryffindor section. The old man won't let him lose too embarrassingly. I'll wager a thousand Galleons that the Potter boy takes top two."
Fiona turned her head and whistled at Isabella: "As expected of an elite from the Department of International Magical Cooperation—opening with a thousand right away. If you lose later, you'll have to wash the Major Shareholder's feet in the shower tonight."
"If I lose, I'll take it." Isabella stowed her scissors, casting a sultry glance at Jerry.
The instant their bets were locked in, a resounding clang of a bronze gong erupted above the arena below!
The first champion, Cedric Diggory, had already stepped through the entrance gate.
Behind the anti-magic stone walls in the arena, a massive Swedish Short-Snout with pale blue-purple scales whipped its giant tail violently, lashing hard against the black boulders on the ground, sending shattered rock flying. The dragon opened its cavernous maw, blasting a scalding blue column of fire with searing heat straight toward Cedric!
Gasps from tens of thousands of spectators instantly erupted from the stands.
Cedric reacted with lightning speed; rolling sharply to the side, his wand flicked toward a massive boulder at his feet.
"Transfiguration... Boulder to Hound!"
The boulder weighing several hundred pounds warped and expanded in a flash of white light, transforming into a sleek, giant hound that charged barking toward the Swedish Short-Snout's hind leg. Distracted, the dragon whipped its massive head around to snap at the hound.
Seizing this razor-thin window of opportunity, Cedric ducked low, sprinting across the ground like an agile leopard; in just a few bounds, he reached the edge of the boulder-strewn dragon nest, scooped up the gleaming golden egg, and scrambled back into the safety tunnel.
"Fifteen minutes and thirty seconds!" Hermione announced, rapidly logging the time on a brass pocket watch. "A textbook Transfiguration response."
The second to enter, Fleur Delacour, adopted an entirely different strategy.
The French witch from Beauxbatons held her slender wand, stepping with graceful strides into the ruins. Facing the fire-breathing Common Welsh Green, she cast a powerful hypnotic musical charm. Mesmerizing golden motes drifted through the air, and the Welsh Green slowly collapsed to the ground amid deep, rumbling snores.
However, the moment Fleur reached for the golden egg, the dragon sneezed violently in its sleep, a blast of residual flame catching the hem of her skirt. Screaming, Fleur cast an Aguamenti charm to douse the fire; though she secured the golden egg, her time was dragged out to eighteen minutes and twenty seconds.
The third, Viktor Krum, was brutally direct.
The Durmstrang star struck the Chinese Fireball right in the eyes with a Conjunctivitis Curse. The dragon thrashed madly in agonizing pain, its massive body battering the stone walls, crushing half of its real dragon eggs; Krum snatched the golden egg amidst flying rubble, clocking in at twelve minutes and forty seconds.
The atmosphere in the stadium reached a fever pitch with the conclusion of the first three champions.
Yet everyone knew the true highlight lay with the final two contenders whose names had been spat out extra by the Goblet of Fire.
"Next up... Harry Potter!"
As the herald's voice boomed via a Sonorus Charm, the cheering across the Quidditch pitch died down significantly, replaced by an intensely suffocating tension.
From the cavern, the largest dragon, covered in jet-black spikes—the Hungarian Horntail—was dragged out by heavy iron chains. Roaring violently, its massive wings unfurled to blot out half the arena, the dark red smoke from its maw blackening the barrier wards in front.
Harry emerged from the tunnel holding his wand.
His frail face was taut, sweat in his palms making his wand feel slippery. Standing beneath the towering black boulders, looking up at the nearly insurmountable raging titan before him, he bit his lower lip hard.
In the stands, Ron stood in the front row of Gryffindor, clutching the railing in a death grip, his lips trembling, his eyes torn between terror and resentment.
"Accio..."
The moment the roaring dragonflame closed within half a foot of his face, Harry threw himself into a roll backward, pointing his wand toward the castle towers, screaming at the top of his lungs!
"Accio Firebolt!"
A dazzling streak of gold-and-red light tore across the sky above the Black Lake!
The broomstick representing the pinnacle of craftsmanship in the wizarding world pierced the anti-magic barrier like a lightning bolt, halting steadily right beneath Harry's palm. Harry mounted the broom without hesitation, clamping the handle with his legs, shooting straight into the clouds like a soaring falcon!
Whoosh!
Turbulent gales exploded in mid-air.
Harry demonstrated flight talent far beyond his peers. Maneuvering the Firebolt, he darted at high speed between the dragon's breath and its massive barbed tail—diving, rolling, pulling up sharply—grazing the razor-sharp talons every single time. Dark red dragonflame carved scalding waves of heat behind him, scorching holes through the hem of his robes.
After three consecutive feints drew the Horntail's attention, Harry executed a dizzyingly difficult vertical dive from high altitude!
Plunging like an artillery shell, he skimmed past the dragon's nape straight into the nest, scooped up the heavy golden egg in his arms, and skidded dozens of yards across the ground before crashing heavily into the safety net outside the perimeter!
"Seven minutes and twenty seconds!" Hermione called out the time from her pocket watch. "He used flight technique to compensate for his lack of direct combat power!"
The Gryffindor section of the stands erupted into instant euphoria.
Sitting in his armchair, watching Harry carried off on a stretcher by medical Aurors below, Jerry's smile deepened.
"Dumbledore enchanted that broomstick with magic conduit channels," Jerry said calmly. "A normal Summoning Charm couldn't possibly pierce the triple anti-magic canopy deployed by frontline standards. To let him fly, the old man buried at least four tracking crystals into the foundation of the stands the night before yesterday."
Fiona pinched Jerry's inner thigh with a chuckle: "So what? Seven minutes and twenty seconds is quite a formidable score. Major Shareholder, you bet on Draco winning; if Draco doesn't take first, how do you plan to compensate my Galleons tonight?"
"He'll get it," Jerry clasped Fiona's soft, slender palm, tracing circles in her damp hand. "Because what Draco brought down there isn't a wizard's mindset."
Before his words had fully faded, the name of the final champion echoed across the stadium.
"The final champion... Draco Malfoy!"
Scattered yet piercingly sharp cheers erupted from the Slytherin stands.
Draco stepped out from the tunnel with measured strides.
He had stripped off his expensive cashmere coat, replacing it with a light combat suit fashioned from hardened black leather and dark-silver metal plating. He stood empty-handed in the center of the arena, not even drawing his wand at first.
Across from him in the ruins, the Hungarian Horntail—already sent into a frenzied fury by Harry—roared, its colossal wings whipping up wild storms of sand and dust, lunging straight at Draco with a wave of destructive force!
Facing a terrifying presence that would leave ordinary fourth- or fifth-years paralyzed on the ground, not a hint of panic appeared on Draco's face.
His lips wore that trademark Slytherin smirk of cold disdain.
Draco swiftly pulled three pitch-black pellets from the leather pouch at his waist; without casting any incantation, purely relying on arm strength, he hurled the pellets down onto the stone floor!
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Three blinding flashes of white light and thick clouds of pungent black mist detonated in the center of the arena!
Those were top-tier hallucinogenic alchemical miasma grenades from the black market!
The raging Horntail shuddered violently the moment it crashed into the black smoke; under the dual assault of blinding light and narcotic toxins, its massive dragon eyes overflowed with tears, and the breath it spat lost all direction, blasting harmlessly into the boulder mound beside it.
"Black-market alchemical grenades!" Fiona's eyes lit up, clapping in praise. "The kid is vicious! Refusing to clash head-on with a beast like a fool!"
Draco did not pause for a fraction of a second.
The instant the black mist erupted, a faint magical rune flared at the sole of his left boot—the high-frequency propulsion micro-array mass-produced by Hermione in the underground workshop!
Darting like a pitch-black phantom under the cover of smoke, Draco skated across the ground at blistering speed, arriving at the dragon's flank. His right hand violently drew the narrow rapier concealed within his snake-head cane; channeling magic into the blade, he drove it deep into the rough joint of the Horntail's hind leg!
Rippp!
Dragon blood spurted!
The dragon let out an agonizing roar, its massive bulk losing balance from the severe injury, crashing heavily to the left and exposing the nest entirely.
Using the momentum of the dragon's collapse, Draco executed an agile flip in mid-air, his boots landing steadily atop the dragon's neck scales; with a smooth reach, he effortlessly snatched the golden egg from the center of the nest!
The entire sequence was crisp and lethal, void of flashy spell duels, executed entirely through exorbitantly expensive black-market gear, cold tactical calculations, and brutal close-quarters combat!
From the moment he entered the arena to seizing the egg, the entire process took less than three minutes!
"Two minutes and fifty seconds!"
Hermione stared at the pocket watch, utterly dumbfounded, her lips parted and speechless for a long moment.
After three full seconds of dead silence across the Quidditch pitch, thunderous roars of triumph erupted from the Slytherin stands!
Standing on the thrashing dragon's neck, holding the golden egg in one hand and the bloodied rapier in the other, Draco slowly raised his head toward the VIP box, flashing an arrogant two-finger salute at his forehead toward Jerry.
In the box, Pansy shrieked in delight, wrapping her arms around Jerry's neck and planting a loud kiss on his cheek.
"We won! Draco took first place! Jerry, we won!"
Smiling, Jerry wrapped his arm around Pansy's slender waist, checking off the parchment contracts on the table with his right hand, sweeping several heavy bags of Galleons in front of himself.
Looking at the gold Jerry had won, Fiona wasn't angry in the slightest, chuckling softly instead. She leaned her entire body into Jerry's embrace, slipping a hand down his collar to rest against his firm chest.
"Major Shareholder, you took all the gold. How do you plan to settle tonight's tab with us?"
Jerry gripped Fiona's full, lush breasts with his hand, giving them a firm squeeze before the startled eyes of Hermione and Isabella.
"Settle? In the hot spring pool on the third basement level tonight, none of you are getting away."
The waves of celebration following the task still swirled above the Quidditch pitch as thousands of students crowded toward the exits.
Inside the narrow hidden door beside the Slytherin VIP box, damp cold wind swept in from the subterranean corridor, making the torches flicker.
Hermione had taken off her red-and-gold Gryffindor jacket and held it in her arms; beneath it, she wore a form-fitting white shirt with the top button undone, exposing her delicate collarbone. Following close behind Jerry, holding onto the hem of his black overcoat with both hands, her long legs rapidly descended the dark stone steps.
"That batch of dragon heartstrings and high-grade essence-binding grass freshly shipped from Old Europe by Frontline Procurement was all dumped into Auxiliary Warehouse Three on the third basement level."
Hermione lowered her voice, her lips brushing against Jerry's back, her petite frame instinctively leaning against him with each step.
"That fool Margaret has no idea how to store high-tier ingredients. If we don't transfer them into the workshop's climate-controlled crates tonight, the active magic in the heartstrings will bleed out completely by tomorrow morning. Then production of the high-frequency disrupters we prepared for the Auror brigades will grind to a halt."
Hands stuffed into his coat pockets, Jerry stepped steadily and lightly across the slick floor tiles.
"Margaret just transferred the fifty-thousand Galleon orphan fund this afternoon." Jerry glanced back at Hermione, reaching out to pinch her flushed cheek. "You certainly work fast—detonating two hundred ward stones without batting an eyelid."
Hermione scoffed and swatted his hand away, wrapping both hands around his arm instead, her full breasts pressing firmly against him through her thin shirt.
"Wasn't that to play along with your act! If the Four Symbols Demon Sealing Array had been too fake, Professor McGonagall and Vera would have seen right through it. Besides... with all the gold you just won in the stands, it's all being credited to the workshop's accounts tonight!"
The two passed through the dim, damp subterranean corridors one after the other.
This area lay near old herb storage chambers and abandoned alchemy workshops; aside from Filch occasionally sweeping by with his ragged broom, not a soul ever wandered here. The air carried a stale scent of wet loam and moldy wooden casks.
Right as they turned past a semicircular archway of rough stone ahead, Jerry abruptly halted in his tracks.
Reaching out, he seized Hermione's slender waist, his strong hand gripping her soft, rounded buttocks, pulling her sharply backward into a recessed blind spot along the stone wall.
"Mmh... Jerry?"
Hermione let out a muffled gasp at the sudden tug, her body crashing flush against Jerry's firm chest. Just as she was about to ask, Jerry covered her tender lips with his hand.
Jerry's thumb pressed firmly against her moist lips, while his other hand traced a delicate, translucent arc of magic in the air.
Hermione's self-developed Omni-Extension Invisibility Charm washed over them, completely concealing their figures, footsteps, and the warmth of their breathing in the shadows.
Thirty paces ahead, through the crack of the ajar heavy ironwood door of Auxiliary Warehouse Three, a faint, flickering yellow candlelight seeped out.
Accompanied by the swaying candlelight came wave after wave of heavily suppressed gasps and panting, laced with a distinct French accent.
Hermione blinked, her ears twitching, her stern expression instantly melting into one of bizarre curiosity. Slipping her face out from beneath Jerry's palm, she rested against his chest, peering through the gap in the stone wall.
Inside the warehouse, several giant aged casks sat haphazardly on the floor.
Atop a pile of bundled herb sacks near the inner wall stood two figures pressed tightly against each other.
Beauxbatons' premier champion, Fleur Delacour, who had just secured her golden egg in the arena, had pulled her gorgeous powder-blue silk robes halfway open, revealing the form-fitting pink-and-white lace lingerie underneath. Her cascading silver-blonde hair spilled messily across her shoulders, her long, fair arms clutching the neck of a male student before her in a vice grip.
Standing opposite her was the Ravenclaw Head Boy, Roger Davies.
Roger looked completely flustered, fumbling clumsily with the metal clasps at Fleur's waist, his fingers trembling like an out-of-control piano solo from intense nervousness, unable to undo the intricate French fastenings even after struggling for ages.
"Mon Dieu! Roger! Can you manage or not?!"
Fleur swatted Roger's shoulder in annoyance, her heavy French accent thick with impatience and frustration. She lifted a shapely, snow-white leg, resting it atop the adjacent cask, pressing herself even closer against him.
"Back in the arena, that Welsh Green nearly torched my skirt! I'm burning up all over right now! And you can't even open a single clasp?!"
"Fleur... wait... there are anti-magic runes on this clasp..."
Sweat poured down Roger's forehead; grabbing the edges of Fleur's lingerie, he yanked hard, but the uneven force ended up wedging the strap directly into the cleavage of her towering bosom.
Seeing this, Hermione, hidden behind the invisibility ward, couldn't help but stifle a giggle. She buried her face into Jerry's collar, her body shaking with suppressed laughter, her full breasts rubbing repeatedly against Jerry's chest.
"And here I thought this French star from Beauxbatons was so noble," Hermione whispered into Jerry's ear, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "She barely grabbed her golden egg on stage before sneaking off to a warehouse to fool around with a Ravenclaw wimp. Can't even undo a clasp—what an embarrassment to upperclassmen."
Jerry encircled Hermione's waist, kneading her firm, rounded buttocks with both hands, a teasing grin on his lips.
"What? Jealous that her legs are longer than yours?"
"Nonsense!" Hermione gave him an annoyed nibble on the ribs, then tightened her long legs against his thigh, rubbing her panties against him. "My legs are far springier than hers! Besides... her partner is like a spineless shrimp, nothing like you..."
As Hermione spoke, her hand wandered down Jerry's abs, deftly unbuckling his belt and slipping inside his trousers. Through his thin underwear, she grasped that thick, scalding pillar, already rock-hard.
The moment her palm registered that staggering size, Hermione's breathing hitched. Pressing her face against Jerry's neck, the tip of her tongue lightly flicked his Adam's apple.
"Jerry... let's spice things up for them."
"How do you want to play?" Jerry rested his hands on Hermione's head, threading his fingers through her brown curls.
Hermione grinned wickedly, her hands stroking the thick shaft within his trousers, while her left hand subtly flicked a whisper-fine Wind-Guiding Charm from her fingertip.
Soundlessly, the air currents deep within the warehouse shifted.
The oil lamp hanging on the stone wall swayed abruptly, and a hot drop of tallow fell with a splat onto Roger Davies's neck!
"Ouch!"
Roger yelped in pain, his hands slipping as he stumbled into the herb sacks on the side. His already loose school trousers fell to his knees with a slap, exposing his comical yellow-patterned boxers.
"Roger! You utter idiot!"
Fleur kicked the cask in exasperation, her full breasts heaving with rage. She reached down to grab Roger by the hair, trying to haul him up.
In that exact moment, Jerry made his move from the shadows.
Without even drawing his wand, channeling magic to his fingertip, an invisible micro-particle of black energy pierced through space and shot straight into the lace along Fleur's waistline.
Fleur's body shuddered violently!
An indescribable, intense tingling numbness and itching spread from her waist across her entire spine in an instant! Her proud, gorgeous face flushed crimson in a microsecond, her legs went completely limp, and an involuntary scream tore from her throat!
"Aaaah...! Roger! What kind of Dark Magic did you cast on my waist?! It's so numb! It itches so much!"
Like a fish out of water, Fleur writhed her voluptuous body madly atop the wooden casks. Grasping wildly, she tackled Roger to the floor, the two rolling across the dust-covered floor like tumbling gourds.
With his pants tangled around his ankles, Roger couldn't get up; Fleur straddled his belly with her long legs, clawing red marks all over his face.
"Fleur! I didn't! I didn't do anything!"
Watching this utterly absurd farce, Hermione in the alcove lost all composure.
Clutching Jerry's clothes, she buried herself in his chest, shaking uncontrollably with laughter. Her full, snow-white breasts mashed into Jerry's chest with her heaving giggles, her warm breath spraying against his skin.
"Hahaha... that's so wicked... Jerry, you're terrible!"
Laughing until tears formed in her eyes, Hermione sank to her knees.
In the narrow, damp alcove, Hermione knelt on the cold stone floor. Tearing the collar of her white shirt wider, she grabbed Jerry's waistband with both hands and yanked it down hard!
That massive, purplish-red, forearm-thick shaft sprang out, smacking heavily against Hermione's tender cheek.
Looking up, her tear-glistening, flushed face was breathtaking in the dim light. Gazing upon the giant before her, the tip of her tongue expertly swept across the slit at the coronal head, licking up a drop of clear pre-cum into her mouth.
"Major Shareholder... watch the show... while you feast on my mouth."
Hermione purred, opening her dainty lips wide, swallowing the thick coronal head whole into her oral cavity!
Slurp!
A penetrating, wet sound exploded within the invisibility ward!
The corners of Hermione's mouth were stretched to their absolute limits, her cheeks hollowing out. Gripping the base of Jerry's thick shaft with both hands, tossing her voluminous curls back, she began bobbing her head up and down at high frequency.
Squish! Squish! Squish!
Copious saliva poured from Hermione's chin, dripping onto the front of her tight shirt, soaking the fabric translucent to reveal her fair skin and hardened nipples beneath.
Across the invisible barrier, Roger was being battered on the floor by Fleur in the warehouse ahead.
While behind the barrier, Hermione knelt on the cold stone, using her proud lips as Gryffindor's top student to provide Jerry with the most debased deep-throat service.
The intense contrast and forbidden thrill of voyeurism pushed Jerry's magic and primal desire to their absolute peak in an instant.
Resting his left hand on the wall, Jerry flicked two fingers of his right hand toward the stack of casks once more.
Wandless Casting... Myriad Spirits Subtle Pull!
Crash!
A heavy alchemical cask at the top slid down without warning, slamming squarely onto Roger's rear with a loud yelp, allowing Roger to scramble out from beneath Fleur's thighs and sprint for the door in his underwear!
"Roger! Stop right there! You useless coward!"
Sprawled in disarray across the herb sacks, her full breasts nearly bursting free from her lace bra, Fleur rubbed her aching waist while screeching after the fleeing Roger, her voice choked with humiliation and rage.
Watching Roger's bare-bottomed, panicked escape, Hermione nearly choked to death on the massive member in her mouth.
"Mmh... cough! Gulp..."
Her eyes rolled back from the combination of intense deep-throating and laughter as Jerry shoved downward roughly, driving the massive shaft clean through her pharynx and burying it deep into her esophagus!
A suffocating tightness made her shudder, clawing at Jerry's thighs, as rivers of saliva poured around her lips, drenching his pubic hair and shaft.
Yet Hermione did not release him.
On the contrary, sensing the surge of explosive pleasure within Jerry, she clamped her knees around his legs and began working her throat frantically around his swollen coronal head.
Squish! Squish! Squish!
The wet squelching echoed frantically within the cramped alcove.
Jerry gripped the back of Hermione's head with both hands, his hips thrusting forward in deep, rhythmic pulses; every withdrawal dragged out copious white froth, and every plunge stretched Hermione's lips to the brink of tearing.
Ahead in the warehouse, the dazzling French prodigy who had just won her golden egg was kicking casks like a shrew.
While here on the cold floor, the prim and proper Gryffindor know-it-all knelt like a wanton beast, using her throat to receive Jerry's release.
The psychological and physical tension stretched to the absolute maximum.
"Hermione... take it all."
Jerry rasped, thrusting his hips forcefully forward!
Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!
When Jerry pulled his shaft from her mouth, a loud pop echoed in the air.
Hermione slumped onto the floor, bracing her hands against the tiles, panting in deep, ragged breaths, thick white cream coating her chin and lips. She wiped her chin, licking the residue from her fingers clean, then looked up at Jerry, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of satisfaction and possessive lust.
"Major Shareholder... satisfied now... aren't you?"
In the warehouse, Fleur finally straightened her clothes and stormed out in her high heels, slamming the door behind her.
Jerry pulled Hermione up, helping her smooth her disheveled white shirt, and gave her soft buttocks a solid slap.
"Pick up the materials from the floor; let's head to the hot spring pool."
Hermione gave a flirtatious huff, rubbing her long legs against Jerry's, scooped up the magitech crates from the floor, and followed close behind him.