The soaring golden light in the center of the arena gradually dissipated.
The Triwizard Cup was slammed heavily onto the black stone surface by Draco Malfoy, letting out a dull metallic clank.
The screams and applause of tens of thousands of wizards across the stadium surged upward along the stone steps of the stands like a raging tidal wave, rattling the windproof canvas of the high VIP boxes.
Standing on the stone platform, the dark-silver tactical leather suit on Draco was covered in torn gashes, the hem still dripping with foul, dark purple demon blood. The hand gripping the handle of his wand still twitched violently, his five fingers clutching the release mechanism in a death grip, his knuckles flushed blood-red from sustained exertion.
He didn't even listen to the fanfare blaring openly from the judges' dais, nor did he look at Dumbledore's white beard that hung nearly to his chest. Yanking the cup forcefully from the stone platform and holding it in his embrace, the propulsion micro-arrays on his boot soles kicked up a fine spray in the air as he streaked directly through the corridor beneath the aristocratic stands, shoving open the heavy wooden door of the Slytherin VIP box.
Click-clack!
He slammed the wooden door shut with his back, cutting off the majority of the deafening cheers outside.
The box was permeated with the strong scent of mint tobacco and the pungent aroma of dragon-blood spirits.
Jerry leaned back on the front-row divan, pinching a heavy golden goblet in his right hand, his left resting casually on his knee. At his feet, the Purple-Blood Drake lay curled in a ball, its small head tucked beneath its tail, occasionally puffing a wisp of pale purple sparks from its nostrils in time with the rhythmic tapping of Jerry's boot.
Seeing Draco barge through the door like a wounded beast, Jerry didn't even bend his waist, merely sliding the unsealed bottle of liquor on the table toward the other side.
Thud.
Draco's legs gave way, his entire body collapsing heavily into the spacious leather armchair opposite Jerry.
His originally pale face was flushed with an intensely abnormal, scalding crimson, panting in ragged gasps, his chest heaving violently. He still clutched the cup he had risked his life to claim in his arms, his fingernails gouging several white scratches into the gilded engravings along the rim.
"I... I really fucking pulled that damn cup down?!"
Draco's voice was as hoarse as if rolled over coarse sandpaper. Raising his left hand, he gave his thigh a vicious pinch; the sharp sting made him suck in a breath of cold air, after which he slumped back against the chair as if drained of all strength, letting out a near-hysterical chuckle.
Jerry sat up straight.
Setting his goblet onto the table, he strode over to stand in front of Draco.
Wasting no words, Jerry grabbed the stiff leather of Draco's coat lapels, exerting force in his arms, hauling the boy—who was half a head taller than him—halfway up out of the armchair!
Bang!
Jerry clenched his right fist and drove a heavy punch straight into Draco's solid chest!
Bone colliding with flesh produced a dull thud, jarring Draco's body violently, coughing up a small trace of dried bloody froth.
"Congratulations, Malfoy."
Jerry spoke, without a shred of perfunctoriness in his tone, a cold smirk curling sharply at the corners of his lips.
"From this day forth, whenever pureblood brats across Europe see you, they'll have to tuck their necks into their collars. With your own two hands, you've dug the Malfoy name out from beneath your father's coin pouch."
Draco froze.
Struck in the chest by that punch, instead of anger, his tightly strung face relaxed instantly.
He reached out abruptly, five fingers clamping tightly around Jerry's elbow, the force strong enough to nearly tear through Jerry's shirt sleeve. Draco stepped forward half a pace, their bodies slamming together before the narrow table!
"Jerry... I really fucking... became a hero?!!"
Draco spat out the white froth from his mouth roughly, his right hand slapping Jerry's back hard in rapid succession.
"You have no idea back in the water... no, when my blade pierced that Shadow Wolf's belly deep in the ruins, that Potter kid's face turned as green as a Mandrake! He thought he was the savior! He thought having the old man propping him up from the stands meant he could claim all the glory in school!"
Draco shouted loudly, clutching Jerry's shoulders, his arms shaking wildly with manic excitement.
"I never dreamed in my wildest dreams... that I could climb right over his head! Before today, everyone in school treated me like a spoiled brat who only knew how to parade around on Lucius's Galleons! Even I thought the best I'd ever do in this life was hold up voting paddles for the family in the Wizengamot!"
Jerry pulled a thin cigar from his pocket, ignited it with a spark from his fingertip, and shoved it into Draco's mouth.
"You're no spoiled brat," Jerry patted his arm. "The blood you shed during training was far more than that Potter kid ever bled flying broomsticks on the grass."
Clamping the cigar in his teeth, Draco took a deep drag. Searing mint smoke flooded his lungs, bringing a prickle of moisture to the corners of his eyes. Grabbing the bottle from the table without bothering with a glass, he tilted his neck back, chugging half the bottle of liquor straight down his throat in heavy gulps!
Streams of red liquor cascaded down his chin, soaking through the cracked tactical leather at his collar.
Crash!
Draco slammed the empty bottle onto the table, shattering glass everywhere.
Reaching out with both hands, he hugged Jerry's shoulders tightly, trembling slightly from the sheer emotional surge. It was the tremble of having rolled across the line of life and death, conquering all doubt and humiliation, bursting into absolute confidence.
"Thank you, brother."
Draco murmured close to Jerry's ear, his voice low and intensely clear.
"If you hadn't dragged me into that dusty underground combat hall two weeks ago... if you hadn't beaten the hell out of me with force that could shatter bone... the one lying in the mud coughing blood today would definitely have been me, Draco Malfoy."
Jerry's lips twitched slightly. He patted the cold dark-silver chainmail on Draco's back.
"Why thank me? You drew the blade yourself, you dissected the beast yourself. I merely handed you a hammer to forge your soft fat into steel."
"It was still the hammer you handed me!"
Draco straightened up from Jerry's embrace. With hands on his hips, stepping in his leather boots, he paced madly across the carpet of the box three times.
He paused occasionally, bending over to stroke the Triwizard Cup on the table, the grin on his face impossible to suppress as his fingertips brushed the cool gilded engravings.
"The Triwizard Tournament... Hahaha! The Triwizard Tournament!"
Draco pointed at the cup on the table, mocking loudly.
"Those common bureaucrats always thought this was just child's play between wizarding schools! Thinking it was nothing more than picking a few bold students to perform on stage! What the fuck do they know!"
Draco spun around abruptly, bracing both hands on the edge of the table, leaning in close to Jerry.
"The name from the Goblet of Fire! Tomorrow morning it will be plastered across the front-page headline of the Daily Prophet! A full, entire page! That woman Rita Skeeter will describe me from head to toe as the youngest, top-tier defense user in all of Europe! Every pureblood family, Auror brigade, and even arms dealers on the Old Europe black market will be staring at my face!"
Draco clenched his fist, pumping it hard in the air.
"Potter wants to be a hero? Dumbledore wants to prop him up as a spiritual pillar? Not a chance in hell! Starting today, whenever youth across Europe speak of frontline achievements, the first thing they'll think of is Slytherin! Is Malfoy!"
Jerry sat back down on the divan, taking a sip from his goblet.
"I already had Rita modify her draft," Jerry said flatly. "The front-page headline is The Pureblood Blade Tempered in Battle: Draco Malfoy's Fatal Seventeen Minutes. It casually mentions that you used the frontline workshop's latest stamped light defenses in the task."
Hearing this, Draco froze for a moment, then pointed at Jerry and burst into uproarious laughter, laughing until tears streamed down, hopping around the box.
"You black-hearted merchant! Hahahaha! You actually crammed an advertisement into my championship report?! Are you planning to sell the seats at my future wedding banquet to frontline herb dealers next?!"
"Only an idiot refuses to make money," Jerry cast him a sideways glance. "Besides, without the workshop's high-frequency disrupter, how were you going to blow up Karkaroff's ghost ship underwater?"
At the mention of that sunken ghost ship, the triumph on Draco's face deepened.
He vaulted over the wooden chair in between, sitting directly beside Jerry, wrapping an arm around Jerry's shoulder.
"That old bastard Karkaroff's face... did you see it on the dais earlier? When that old wretch fell off his chair, he looked like a slab of rancid pork just fished from the water! He tried to ambush me with asphyxiation toxin, only to get his centuries-old wreck blown to pieces! The Department of War Operations will be auditing his illicit contraband tomorrow!"
At this point, Draco's expression restrained slightly. He drew close to Jerry's ear, dropping his voice.
"Though Jerry... that look Potter gave me at the very end—it wasn't right."
Jerry raised an eyebrow: "How wasn't it right?"
"It wasn't the frustration of losing a match." Draco recalled the scene deep in the ruins, gripping his thigh. "When he was groping for his wand in the mud, the veins on his neck were completely bulging. The way he looked at me was like looking at a dead man. That god-forging mission the old man gave him has probably pushed him to a dead end."
"Pushed to a dead end is best."
Jerry swirled the red wine in his glass, his tone as calm as discussing tomorrow's weather.
"A calm savior rarely makes mistakes. But a desperate savior, anxious to prove himself, will surrender all of Dumbledore's hidden trump cards on the front line."
Hearing this, Draco took a deep look at Jerry.
He found the Slytherin boy before him increasingly terrifying. Whether it was the Ministry's coercion, the pureblood families' maneuvering, or Dumbledore's meticulously laid god-forging scheme, in this person's eyes, they were merely pawns on a board to be captured at will.
Yet precisely because of this, the relief and zeal in Draco's heart burned even fiercer.
Because this person was the brother he, Draco Malfoy, had chosen to stand beside.
The door to the box was pushed open once more.
Hermione walked in wearing her form-fitting deep-blue gown, holding a freshly printed dispatch. Behind her, Fiona exhaled a smoke ring from her cigar, stepping over the threshold with her long legs, hands in her coat pockets, a teasing smirk on her lips.
"Champion." Fiona walked up to Draco, twisting a lock of his wet, pale-blonde hair between two fingers. "Outside just now, Karkaroff submitted a written protest to International Cooperation, claiming you detonated illegal alchemical devices underwater."
Draco didn't even bat an eyelid, curling his lip against the divan.
"Let that old fossil sue me in the Wizengamot. My father is counting Galleons with Old Nott in the next box right now; let's see who gives a damn."
Hermione walked over to Jerry's side.
Her long legs pressed close beneath her skirt, placing the dispatch on the table before Jerry.
"Rita's special edition has already been sent to the presses. The first batch of fifty thousand copies will be dispatched via owl across all of Europe in half an hour."
Hermione turned her head, looking at Draco slumping nearby and grinning like a fool, a rare faint smile gracing her pretty face.
"Malfoy, congratulations. Every girl in the castle is talking about the way you drew your sword underwater."
Draco immediately sat up a bit straighter. Stroking the stubble on his chin, adjusting his collar, his trademark arrogance and self-satisfaction returned to his face.
"Those girls have good taste."
Draco rose boldly, picked up the golden goblet from the table, and refilled it to the brim with liquor. He raised his cup toward Jerry, casting a glance at Hermione and Fiona.
"All expenses tonight are on Malfoy Manor's tab! The wine pool on the third basement level—I'm covering the whole damn thing!"
Jerry raised his goblet, clinking it heavily against his.
A crisp metallic ring echoed in the quiet box.
"Cheers, Champion."
"Cheers, Major Shareholder!"
The hospital wing was thick with the heavy scent of Dittany and the pungent stench of Skele-Gro.
The cheering outside the window had long since receded, leaving only dull rain clattering against the narrow high stone windows.
Harry Potter sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his right leg propped horizontally across a wooden stool, wrapped tightly in layer upon layer of bloody bandages. Stripped of his shredded red combat robes, his bare torso was draped with a rough woolen blanket over his shoulders.
His head was hung low, his thumbs digging into his palms so hard his nails pierced the flesh, squeezing out salty beads of blood, yet he seemed completely oblivious.
By his feet, the blackwood wand lay solitary in the cracks of the dark floor tiles.
On the final platform of the Triwizard Tournament, Draco Malfoy had branded himself deep into the recesses of Harry's mind like a searing iron.
There had been no complex spell duels, no elegant dueling postures.
The opponent had merely skated at blistering speed on propulsion micro-arrays, relying on a narrow rapier to shatter his defenses in under a second, swatting him down into the mud like trash.
Smack!
Harry violently swung his right hand, slamming a heavy palm onto the bedside table!
The half-empty bottle of Skele-Gro resting on the cabinet leaped into the air, crashing onto the floor tiles with a loud shatter. Scalding liquid splashed everywhere, soaking through his socks along the hem of his trousers.
"The Savior..."
Harry wrung a self-deprecating curse from deep within his throat.
He lifted his head, clutching his hair with both hands, the tearing pain in his scalp sending violent tremors down his entire spine.
"What Chosen One... what hope of defeating the Dark Lord..."
Harry muttered to himself, his voice as raspy as grinding iron shavings.
"I couldn't even block a single sword strike in the mud! He didn't even use a spell! I just lay on the ground like an idiot with a broken leg, watching him take the cup!"
"Tens of thousands in the stands were staring at me... Ron was watching me... Headmaster Dumbledore was watching me..."
Scalding heat pricked the corners of Harry's eyes; he bit his lower lip so hard it split bleeding.
For the first time, he felt an almost destructive doubt about his very existence.
If the prophecy was true, if he truly was destined to save the wizarding world, why was he defeated so thoroughly, so powerlessly, when facing a peer who had merely trained for two weeks?
How pale, how laughable were those praises of "love" and "courage" before the sonic crack of Draco's sword piercing the air!
"Shattering potion bottles will not help the bones in your right leg regrow, Harry."
A calm, steady voice carrying a distinct warmth drifted in from the corridor outside the ward.
Dumbledore, clad in his deep-blue robes adorned with silvery-yellow crescent moons, stepped leisurely over the threshold.
He brought no entourage, nor did he hold his iconic Elder Wand. The old wizard tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robes, walking with light steps into the center of the ward.
Bending down, his withered yet slender, strong fingers reached out, picking up the blackwood wand Harry had discarded.
Dumbledore wiped the Skele-Gro residue from the wand tip with his sleeve, walked to the bedside, pulled up a wooden chair, and sat directly before Harry.
He offered the wand to Harry's palm.
Harry did not take it.
He turned his face away, clutching the blanket over his knees with both hands, his tone saturated with irrepressible resentment and despondency.
"Take it away, Headmaster."
Harry spoke hoarsely.
"Holding this thing won't help me win matches. Draco was right: a savior propped up by you in the stands, hyped by the Daily Prophet... in the real mud, isn't worth a knut."
Dumbledore looked at the wounded, despairing fourteen-year-old boy before him.
The old wizard did not immediately scold him, nor did he offer lengthy platitudes.
Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a flat brass tin, popped the lid, pinched a powdered Lemon Drop, and popped it into his mouth.
Crunch, crunch.
Dumbledore chewed the candy, his cheek bulging slightly, making distinct crunching sounds.
"Do you know what the expenses of Malfoy Manor are, Harry?"
Dumbledore spoke suddenly, uttering something completely irrelevant to the tournament.
Harry froze, turning to look at him in bewilderment.
Dumbledore brushed the powdered sugar from his beard, gesturing in the air with a finger.
"Lucius Malfoy threw ten thousand Galleons at Old European customs to secure that underwater locator and tactical leather suit for Draco. And that Rosier boy..."
Dumbledore paused, his gaze darkening slightly, a faint mockery playing on his lips.
"Rosier fractured Draco's ribs twice in the third-basement combat hall, peeling two layers of skin from his palms. Draco could draw that blade because he truly rolled through corpses for fifteen days."
Dumbledore leaned forward, resting both hands on his knees, his aged yet crystal-clear eyes staring straight at Harry.
"Do you believe you lost to Draco Malfoy the person, or to that tactical and bloody crucible?"
"Is there a difference?!"
Harry whipped his head around, roaring aloud!
His chest heaved violently, clutching the edge of the stool, his emotions spiraling out of control.
"The outcome is that I lost! I fell in the mud! Draco took the cup before all of Europe! While I couldn't even hold my wand tight!"
Harry pointed at his chest, hot tears leaking from his eyes, his voice shaking with pain.
"You told me I was the Chosen One! You made me submit my name! You made me stand before tens of thousands carrying the title of Savior! Yet I can't even beat a student my age! If the Dark Lord stood before me now, what could I do except stretch out my neck like an idiot?!"
The ward fell into dead silence once more.
Only the spilled Skele-Gro on the floor continued evaporating with acrid fumes.
Dumbledore was not angry.
He listened quietly to Harry's hysteria; only when Harry's shouts had faded completely between the stone walls, leaving only ragged panting, did the old wizard slowly rise.
Dumbledore stepped forward, standing directly between Harry's legs.
He reached out with both hands, pinning Harry's shoulders firmly from left and right!
Those hands appeared withered, yet the force they exerted was astonishingly heavy! An unshakable, mountain-like warmth instantly surged through Harry's flesh straight into his core!
"Listen to me, Harry Potter."
Dumbledore's voice was very low, but every word struck like a hammer into the depths of Harry's soul.
"Prophecy never guarantees you remain standing in every brawl in the mud."
Dumbledore pressed his shoulders, forcing Harry's trembling frame back against the headboard.
"Prophecy guarantees only one thing—that when you must face the nemesis who murdered your parents, you possess a strength of soul he lacks, one that can never be destroyed!"
Dumbledore jabbed his right index finger hard against Harry's bloodstained left chest!
"Draco took the cup, Rosier took the renown, and the pureblood families secured the arms and gold they dreamed of. But this was merely a show, Harry! A pre-war spectacle staged for the civilian bureaucrats and pureblood aristocrats of Europe!"
Dumbledore's gaze grew exceptionally sharp, like an unsheathed blade.
"The real war is not at the bottom of the Black Lake, nor in the combat ruins of the Quidditch pitch. The real war begins the day the inter-realm rift spreads."
"If you believe your existence is a mistake simply because an iron blade disarmed your wand in the arena..."
Dumbledore released his grip, looking down at him, his tone weighted with unprecedented severity.
"Then you may strip off these robes right now, walk out of Hogwarts, and return to your aunt's house! I will personally announce to the Daily Prophet that the Savior is nothing more than a little boy who cannot endure a single setback!"
Harry shuddered violently!
Dumbledore's harsh reprimand struck like lightning, shattering all the confusion and resentment in his heart.
He looked up, staring fixedly at the old Headmaster.
"I... I never said I was giving up." Harry gritted his teeth, blood from his lip seeping between his teeth. "I just... I just don't know what to do."
Dumbledore's stern face softened slowly.
The old wizard exhaled a long breath, patting the top of Harry's head like a gentle elder soothing a wounded cub.
"If you don't know what to do, then learn."
Dumbledore picked up the blackwood wand from the floor again, stuffing it firmly into Harry's small hand, curling his fingers around Harry's hot fist.
"Starting tomorrow, I shall personally instruct you in tactical Transfiguration, teaching you how to find lethal openings within the narrowest retreats. Professor McGonagall will take you to mock training grounds retired from the front lines to adapt to the flying swords and energy blasts of those Cultivators."
Dumbledore smiled gently at Harry.
"Draco bled for fifteen days in the third basement level. And you, Harry... you must prepare to bleed far more in the months ahead."
Harry looked at the cold yet heavy blackwood wand in his hand, feeling the warmth pressed into his palm by Dumbledore.
He took a deep breath; in those once-despairing eyes, the stripped-away ruthlessness and resolve slowly coalesced anew.
"I understand, Headmaster."
Harry gripped the wand, bracing his right leg against the wooden stool, straightening his torso.
"Next time... I won't let him disarm my wand again."
Seeing the boy's restored fighting spirit, Dumbledore nodded with satisfaction. The old wizard turned toward the ward door, the hem of his robes sweeping over the slick floor tiles.
At the door, Dumbledore paused, glanced back at Harry, and winked.
"By the way, Harry. Skele-Gro is two Galleons a bottle; that half-bottle you shattered earlier... I shall have Madam Pomfrey deduct it directly from Gryffindor's end-of-year house points fund."
Harry froze, the corner of his mouth twitching, finally letting out a faint, wry chuckle.
The heavy wooden door clicked shut.
Quiet returned to the ward, yet the cloud of despair hanging over Harry had been torn open by this candid confrontation and encouragement.
Gripping his wand, Harry leaned back against the headboard, swallowing down the bitter dregs of potion left in his cup.
The night was long, but the fires of war and growth had only just begun.
Inside the private bedroom at the deepest end of the second floor of Malfoy Manor, a sweet fragrance blending balsam fir and white sandalwood floated through the air.
Revelry from the great hall downstairs drifted up faintly through the thick stone floorboards. Lucius was seated around a round table with Old Nott, Greengrass, and several other patriarchs, downing cup after cup of Olympian sacred spirits, their boisterous laughter echoing toward the sky.
The heavy bedroom door clicked shut behind them with a muffled lock.
Narcissa Malfoy leaned against the door panel, pulling the two pearl hairpins from her pinned golden hair. That cascade of lush, silver-blonde hair spilled across her shoulders, radiating the mature, intoxicating aura of an aristocratic lady.
She wore a form-fitting, deep-blue satin gown with a plunging neckline, exposing a generous expanse of snow-white cleavage and collarbone. With her heaving breath, those heavy breasts bulged prominently beneath the satin.
Hands in his coat pockets, stepping across the soft woolen carpet, Jerry walked straight to the mahogany vanity in the center of the room. He idly picked up a crystal perfume vial from the table, rolling it between his fingers.
"Lucius is still downstairs counting Galleons with those old fossils," Jerry turned around, leaning back against the vanity, a teasing smirk on his lips. "Pulling me up to the second floor alone—aren't you afraid Old Nott will wander up drunk and stumble upon us?"
Narcissa stepped forward on her long legs in black high heels, gliding across the carpet.
Shedding the haughty airs of Mrs. Malfoy, her normally aloof face was filled with undisguised emotional ripples. Stopping before Jerry, she extended her impeccably maintained, soft hands, grabbing Jerry's coat lapels.
"And so what if he stumbles upon us?"
Narcissa's voice carried a soft rasp and tremble; tilting her head up, she pressed her tall, voluptuous frame flush against the frail boy half a head shorter than her.
"When Draco stomped Potter into the mud on the platform today... Lucius was laughing, and Old Nott was cheering. But only I know who forged my son from an arrogant waste into the lethal blade all of Europe is talking about today."
Narcissa tightened her fingers, crumpling Jerry's collar.
"Jerry... thank you."
This expression of gratitude was heavy and genuine, devoid of hollow pleasantries.
Jerry caught both hands resting on his collar, lightly tapping her soft knuckles, the amusement in his eyes deepening.
"Verbal thanks doesn't sound like Mrs. Malfoy's style."
Narcissa let out a soft laugh.
Parting her delicate lips to reveal neat white teeth, without a shred of hesitation, she followed Jerry's pull, her knees buckling, dropping straight to her knees onto the carpet!
Flump.
The expensive deep-blue satin skirt pooled across the carpet like a blooming ocean blossom.
Looking up, Narcissa reached her pale hands to Jerry's waist, deftly unbuckling his black leather belt.
"Tonight... whatever you want, I will give."
Whispering softly, Narcissa pulled Jerry's trousers and underwear down to mid-thigh.
In the next second, a heavy, purplish-red, swollen, outrageously thick giant sprang out!
The massive coronal head, still glistening with traces of clear fluid and radiating raw masculine heat, pressed right against Narcissa's gorgeous lips.
Even though this was far from her first encounter with this monstrous shaft, Narcissa's body still shuddered violently.
Jerry's slight build contrasted with the terrifying monster between his legs created an intense, visceral tension. This dynamic of a small horse pulling a heavy cart stirred a searing void deep within the aristocratic lady's lower abdomen.
Narcissa ran a slender index finger along the thick shaft, feeling the bulging veins and searing heat.
"I truly don't know how that small body of yours... grew such a lethal weapon..."
Narcissa purred coquettishly, parting her moist lips and extending her nimble tongue to greedily lick a full circle around the massive coronal head.
She swept generous amounts of pre-cum into her mouth.
Slurp... slurp...
Distinct, wet sucking sounds erupted in the quiet bedroom.
Opening her mouth to its limit, bracing both hands against Jerry's thighs, Narcissa stuffed the thick giant deeper and deeper into her throat!
Because of its immense girth, the shaft stretched her cheeks taut, bulging visibly through her fair skin. Her brows furrowed and her throat heaved violently, tears of pressure welling in her eyes, yet she clutched Jerry's thighs tightly, burying her lips flush against his pubic bone!
Gulp! Gulp!
Heavy, wet sounds echoed between them.
Looking down at the noblewoman kneeling at his feet desperately sucking his member, Jerry reached out, grabbed a handful of her thick silver-blonde hair, and began thrusting his hips rhythmically forward!
"Easy with the teeth, Mrs. Malfoy," Jerry teased. "If you break the skin, I won't have the energy to balance the workshop's inventory handover tomorrow morning."
Choked by his thrusts, Narcissa could only emit muffled whimpers, her long thighs clamping tightly beneath her gown, her nether regions flooding with intense heat and moisture.
After a hundred continuous deep-throat strokes, Jerry patted her cheek, pulling his glistening shaft from her mouth.
Pop!
A glistening thread of saliva snapped between Narcissa's lips.
Panting heavily, Narcissa wiped the froth from the corner of her mouth, her cheeks flushed scarlet.
Jerry gave her no time to rest. Gripping her slender shoulders, he hauled the voluptuous noblewoman up from the floor and pushed her roughly onto the mahogany vanity behind her!
Crystal bottles and ivory combs clattered across the table and scattered over the floor.
Narcissa laid her upper body across the mirror, gripping the edges of the frame. In the polished reflection, her panting, arched-back posture was laid bare in all its wanton glory.
Standing behind her, Jerry seized the hem of her deep-blue satin gown and flipped it upward!
Riiip!
The skirts were bunched at her waist, exposing her black lace panties patterned in dark gold, along with her rounded, luscious buttocks.
Jerry clamped both hands onto her lush cheeks, spreading them wide!
The soaked lace panties were pulled down to her thighs, revealing the deep-pink, dripping crevice gushing transparent nectar down her inner thighs!
"Not... not in front of the mirror..."
Watching her own wanton reflection in the glass, Narcissa whimpered in feeble plea.
Jerry paid no heed to her pleas.
He gripped her slender waist with one hand.
Squelch!
A heavy thud.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
With every impact, Jerry's firm pelvis slammed hard against Narcissa's buttocks, eliciting wet, intoxicating claps of flesh on flesh!
The neckline of Narcissa's blue gown had come completely undone; her heavy breasts swayed wildly in the mirror's reflection with each violent plunge.
"Little pervert... slower... Lucius is right downstairs..."
Narcissa twisted her head back to look at the sweating boy behind her, her eyes brimming with wet ecstasy and surrender.
"He's drinking his spirits downstairs, while you take my iron rod upstairs," Jerry chuckled roguishly. "Isn't this Mrs. Malfoy's favorite fair trade?"
...
From the divan to the windowsill, and finally to the edge of the white stone private bath.
Scalding steam and wet squelching echoed through the room for more than two hours.
When everything finally subsided, Narcissa curled up beside the steaming bath.
"Thank you, Jerry!"