With a soft creak of the hinges, the heavy oak door swung inward. However, the person appearing in the doorway was not Professor McGonagall as Jerry had expected, but Rita Skeeter.
The star reporter for the Daily Prophet was wearing a tight, bright green professional suit today, which clung to her petite yet curvaceous body, accentuating every line. Her meticulously styled blonde curls bounced slightly with her movements, and her face wore a cat-and-mouse smile—a mixture of surprise and intense interest.
"Well, if it isn't our dear Mr. Rosier?"
Rita's voice carried a unique, exaggerated sweetness. As soon as she spoke, she stepped forward and casually pulled the office door shut behind her with a dull thud. She didn't give Jerry a second to react.
While Jerry was still wondering why she was coming out of McGonagall's office, Rita had already reached him. She extended an arm with a forceful grace that defied her small stature, pinning him against the wall. She "kabedon-ed" him, trapping him in the narrow space between her body and the cold stone.
A thick, aggressive perfume instantly enveloped him.
"I believe... I still owe you a wager," Rita whispered, leaning in. Her sharp eyes, framed by her quick-quotes spectacles, stared unblinkingly at Jerry's lips, her gaze overflowing with amusement.
Without giving him a chance to speak, Rita tilted her head and pressed her lips, coated in bright red lipstick, firmly against his.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was a bite of conquest, mockery, and intense curiosity. Her lips were soft yet domineering; her tongue skillfully and unapologetically forced its way past Jerry's teeth, invading his mouth. It was the taste of a mature woman—a intoxicating, decadent blend of tobacco, sweet liqueur, and lipstick, carrying a hint of bitter sweetness.
With one hand still bracing the wall to maintain her dominance, Rita's other hand wandered restlessly to Jerry's waist. Her fingers traced slow, rhythmic circles against his side, as if she were savoring a long-anticipated, delicious dessert.
Jerry felt as though his lungs were being squeezed by an invisible hand; oxygen was being drained rapidly. Rita's kiss was masterful and predatory. Her tongue, like a nimble and tireless snake, swept through every corner of his mouth, tangling with his own and sucking greedily. She tasted the faint bitterness of the morning coffee lingering at the back of his throat, then washed it away with her own saliva, coating his senses in the flavor of sweet wine and her perfume.
Jerry endured the sudden, plundering kiss passively, his hands hanging limp at his sides. Due to their height difference, he had to tilt his head back slightly, a posture that made him feel even more vulnerable and allowed Rita's invasion to be deeper and more thorough.
The hand at his waist grew bolder. Her fingers tightened through his robes, her thumb pressing into the soft flesh of his hip, as if confirming the quality of a prized possession.
The feeling of suffocation intensified. His chest felt tight, and black spots began to dance before his eyes. Just as he thought he might pass out from a lack of oxygen, the pressure finally eased.
Rita pulled her lips away. A glistening silver thread of saliva connected their mouths for a moment before snapping. Jerry immediately gasped, drawing in the cold air of the corridor, his cheeks flushed with a dark red from the lack of air and the sheer intensity of the encounter.
However, before Jerry could fully recover, Rita leaned back in. Her warm tongue swept across his lips from corner to corner in a lingering lick. The wet, slightly rough sensation made Jerry's body stiffen again. Like a cat that had just finished its prey, she carefully cleaned up the traces she had left behind.
Satisfied, Rita stepped back half a pace, her sharp eyes admiring the disheveled, dazed state she had reduced Jerry to.
"Mr. Rosier!" Rita's voice was husky with satisfaction. "Drinking bitter coffee in the morning is a bad habit, you know."
"Perhaps you can try again tomorrow, Miss Skeeter," Professor McGonagall's voice rang out clearly, each word sharp as a shard of ice. "Perhaps by then, you'll be able to taste the hot cocoa instead."
The triumphant expression on Rita's face froze instantly. Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, her hair practically stood on end. She turned with a blurred speed, clutching her crocodile-skin handbag, desperate to make a run for it.
However, she had underestimated the casting speed of Hogwarts' Transfiguration professor.
"Tail of a Rabbit!"
McGonagall didn't even need the full incantation. A bolt of green light shot out from the sliver of the half-open door, accurately striking Rita's wiggling backside beneath her tight skirt.
Rita's escape stuttered as she let out a short shriek. At the seat of her bright green suit, the fabric suddenly tore open, and a fluffy, tan-colored fox tail with a white tip "poofed" out, swaying restlessly from the momentum.
Rita's face turned the color of raw liver. She didn't look back but doubled her pace, fleeing in a panic. Her shrill voice echoed down the empty corridor: "Minerva, you just wait!"
Silence returned to the hallway, save for the lingering scent of Rita's pungent perfume and the fading echo of her indignant cry.
Jerry watched the direction she disappeared in and swallowed hard. He certainly didn't want to be the next one growing a tail. Quietly, he turned around and began to tiptoe away in the opposite direction.
However, before he could take two steps, he felt a sharp, piercing gaze lock onto his back. It wasn't hot, but it possessed a weight that made his muscles seize up. Jerry's footsteps stopped. A thought—discretion is the better part of valor—flashed through his mind.
He turned around inch by inch, forcing what he hoped was a submissive and innocent smile onto his face.
"Uh... Professor, what... what are you doing? I was just passing by," Jerry said, scratching the back of his head and looking vaguely at the ceiling. "Ah, I just remembered, I have a class soon. I should get going. Goodbye, Professor."
With that, he prepared to bolt again.
"Mr. Rosier."
McGonagall's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a strange stability that acted like a freezing charm on Jerry's feet. He saw the corner of McGonagall's mouth twitch upward into an almost invisible, shallow curve. It wasn't a warm smile; it was the look of someone who had seen through every little trick.
"If I recall correctly, your schedule for today is quite empty."
Jerry's smile stiffened. All his excuses and slick talk felt hollow before the Deputy Headmistress, who knew every secret of Hogwarts. He opened his mouth to struggle further, but McGonagall had already stepped aside, leaving enough space for one person to enter the office.
She didn't say "Come in," but her gaze and posture made the command unmistakable.
Jerry steeled himself and walked into the familiar office. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the oak door behind him swung shut and locked with a definitive click.
The light inside seemed to dim. The flames in the fireplace flickered, casting long, thin shadows of the former headmasters' portraits across the walls. McGonagall turned and looked down at him. The stern, rigid lines of her face had softened, and a blatant, expectant smile now sat on her lips.
"Mr. Rosier!" McGonagall's voice was lower and softer than usual. "Would you like something to drink?"
Jerry kept his fawning smile firmly in place. "Professor, if it's no trouble, a cup of black tea would be fine."
"Of course." McGonagall shrugged noncommittally. "Sit down. I'll pour the tea."
With a flick of her hand, a teacup on the table tilted itself to receive the steaming, dark red liquid pouring from a silver teapot.
Then, McGonagall began to walk toward her desk, her high heels clicking rhythmically on the floor. It was only now that Jerry truly saw what she was wearing. She wasn't in her signature high-collared, stifling robes. Instead, she wore a long, form-fitting dress made of emerald green velvet.
The dress had a high slit up the side. With every step she took, the slit opened and closed, revealing glimpses of her long legs encased in stockings. Those stockings were the most captivating part. They weren't ordinary black nylons; near the top of her thighs, intricate and ornate golden runes were embroidered like crawling vines. These golden patterns looked like exquisite shackles binding her shapely thighs, reflecting the flickering, amorous light of the fireplace with every movement of her muscles.
McGonagall stopped by the tea table. The tea for Jerry sat there, next to an open silver sugar bowl and a small pair of silver tongs. Then, keeping her legs straight, she deliberately leaned over.
This movement caused the already tight velvet dress to stretch to its limit across her curves. The fabric pulled taut, outlining the full, firm shape of her buttocks without reservation, even creating a deep crease between the two rounded mounds. The high slit was forced wide open by the bend.
Jerry's eyes widened involuntarily. Through the gap, he saw it clearly. Above the golden runes on the black stockings, in the depths of her pale, warm inner thighs, there was no underwear to be found. There was only a patch of neatly trimmed black hair covering an exceptionally plump slit. The fold was slightly parted by her posture, revealing the wet, glistening pink flesh within.
Her pale fingers picked up the silver tongs, reaching into the bowl to grab a cube of sugar. The silver clinked against the porcelain—a sharp, tiny sound that shattered the silence of the room. She never looked back. It was as if she were completely unaware of the view she was providing. In a slightly husky voice, she asked softly:
"How many sugars?"
Professor McGonagall remained in that bent-over position, as if waiting for an answer—or perhaps savoring the focused, burning gaze directed at her from behind. The fire in the hearth crackled, making the shadows dance. In that moment of shifting light, Jerry's pupils contracted.
He saw it. In the depths of her crotch, framed by the black silk and golden runes, at the edge of that wet, slightly parted flesh, something seemed to reflect a tiny glint of light. It vanished in an instant, like an illusion.
Jerry's throat felt dry. He licked his lips. "One... is enough."
"Mm." McGonagall's voice was steady, as if this were a perfectly normal teacher-student interaction. "Too much sugar is indeed bad for the teeth."
With that, she finally stood up slowly. She elegantly dropped the sugar cube into the tea with a "ding." Then, she picked up the porcelain cup, walked over, and placed it firmly on the desk opposite the chair where Jerry was sitting.
Once finished, she didn't sit in the main chair. Instead, she pulled out the chair directly across from Jerry and sat down.
Her posture was nothing like that of a disciplined professor. She leaned her weight fully against the backrest and then, with a lazy and provocative grace, kicked her legs up. As she lifted her feet, she skillfully kicked off her high heels, which landed silently on the thick carpet.
Then, her stocking-clad feet were crossed and rested directly on the polished redwood desk. This action caused the dress slit to fall open once more, completely exposing her mature, shapely legs to Jerry. For a fleeting second, Jerry thought he saw wisps of white steam rising from her toes, but he realized it was just the vapor from the hot tea rising between them.
"Mr. Rosier, I wonder if you are aware? The Wizard's Chess tournament has been suspended due to... certain reasons you are familiar with. It won't resume until the investigation is complete, which might take two or three months."
McGonagall dipped a finger into her warm tea, hooking out the half-dissolved sugar cube. She put the tea-soaked cube into her mouth, but she didn't bite it immediately. Instead, she rolled it slowly with her tongue, licking it and letting the sweetness and tea aroma dissolve against her taste buds.
Meanwhile, her feet on the desk weren't idle. The toes of her top foot flexed nimbly, like little snakes, scratching and stroking the arch of her bottom foot through the thin silk. She seemed immersed in this self-indulgent movement, looking at the ceiling with glazed eyes as she spoke casually.
Jerry's gaze never left those black-clad feet performing so boldly on the desk. He forced himself to remain calm. "I've heard rumors."
As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bulging pouch, "thudding" it down onto the desk and sliding it toward her beautiful feet.
"Professor, this is the dividend from this round. I've organized it specifically for you. Would you like to count it?"
McGonagall's eyes lit up the moment she saw the pouch. It was a look of genuine, possessive greed, far more real than her previous provocations. She stopped licking the sugar and finally lowered her legs from the desk.
She extended a long index finger, hooking the drawstring of the pouch and pulling it toward her. Then, she leaned her upper body forward on the desk—a movement that caused her neckline to sag, revealing more of her pale cleavage—and poured the contents out.
A stack of shimmering gold vouchers spilled across the wood. Each one bore the unique, anti-counterfeit magical glow of Gringotts.
Jerry breathed a silent sigh of relief. The appearance of money had successfully diverted the Deputy Headmistress's attention. However, before he could fully relax, he felt an undeniable sensation on his shin.
Jerry looked down and saw two black silk "snakes"—McGonagall's feet—had somehow snaked under the table. One foot was pressed firmly against his calf, while the toes of the other were climbing slowly and deliberately up his shin, moving like independent living things.
McGonagall seemed entirely focused on the glowing vouchers. She used a finger to spread them out on the redwood surface. She picked up the top one, squinting at the amount and the Gringotts seal, the expectant smile on her face becoming prominent.
Yet, beneath the table where Jerry couldn't see, her feet were conducting a silent invasion. The foot climbing his shin had found its target. Her flexible toes, acting like fingers, expertly located the button on Jerry's trousers. Using her big toe and second toe in tandem, she undid the metal button in just a few movements.
Then came the zipper. Her heel pressed against his lower abdomen while her toes hooked into the zipper pull. With a light tug of her ankle, the zipper slid down smoothly.
Jerry leaned back in his chair, his body reacting involuntarily. He could feel his trousers being slowly peeled open by a strength that rivaled human hands. McGonagall's footwork was so practiced it seemed rehearsed.
As Jerry's cock, already hard from the repeated stimulation, sprang free from the loosened confinement, the other foot—the one previously on his calf—instantly met it. One foot used its heel and ankle to push his trousers further aside, creating space, while the other began its work.
Meanwhile, McGonagall's voice came from across the table, steady and composed as if she were doing a routine audit.
"Five hundred... one thousand... this one is quite large, three thousand..."
Her fingers tapped the vouchers as she recited the numbers, but under the table, her feet accelerated. Her two soles clamped his throbbing shaft between them. The top sole pressed down and rubbed slowly against the head, while the bottom foot used its toes to lightly tease his balls.
Her movements weren't fast, but every stroke was calculated to squeeze him perfectly, giving him the sensation of being encased in something soft yet firm and elastic.
"Mm... the total is correct."
McGonagall finally finished counting the last voucher and stacked them neatly to the side. Then, she looked up, her sharp eyes meeting Jerry's again, her smile deepening.
"Mr. Rosier, it seems you have done very well."
As she praised him, her movements under the table suddenly turned frantic.
"Tell me, how should I reward you?"
"It was only what I was supposed to do," Jerry said, his voice dry. He tried to keep his tone flat.
McGonagall's smile didn't fade; it grew deeper at his attempt to stay composed. Her feet playfully withdrew from his body. Then, before Jerry's eyes, her tall and curvaceous frame began to shrink and shift in a way that defied physics. The emerald velvet and black silk melted away like fading paint, replaced by a coat of sleek, tabby fur.
In a matter of seconds, the stern Deputy Headmistress had transformed into a lithe tabby cat. Her emerald cat-eyes shimmered with a cunning, predatory light in the firelight. She padded across the desk, bypassing the tea and the money, leaped lightly to the carpet, and then ducked into the shadows beneath the desk, vanishing from Jerry's sight.
Before Jerry could process what she was doing, he heard the sound of bones stretching and the rustle of fabric from under the table. Then, something soft and warm pressed against his open crotch.
He looked down to see that McGonagall had reverted to human form. She was kneeling on the carpet between his legs in a posture that was utterly debasing for a woman of her standing. She looked up, her sharp eyes now staring at him from below, filled with mockery and unmasked lust.
Like a true cat, she extended her tongue. It wasn't a kiss; it was a pure, animalistic lick. Her warm, slightly rough tongue began at the base of his shaft and moved slowly and meticulously upward. Her hands gripped Jerry's thighs to hold him in place while her mouth and tongue focused on their task.
However, after a few licks, she stopped. Her brow furrowed, her nostrils flared, and a look of slight dissatisfaction crossed her face.
"A bit... musky," she whispered to herself. She let go of Jerry and crawled out from under the table, standing up. She picked up the cup of tea Jerry hadn't touched—the one with the single cube of sugar. It was still steaming.
"Perhaps it needs a little... seasoning."
She walked back to him with the cup. Sensing what was coming, Jerry tried to stand up to resist, but she was faster. She tilted the porcelain cup. A stream of hot, dark red liquid—smelling of tea and sugar—poured precisely over the base of Jerry's exposed cock. The warm liquid ran down the shaft, soaking his pubic hair and turning the skin a light red from the heat.
McGonagall looked at her handiwork with satisfaction, set the empty cup aside, and knelt down once more. She was no longer just tasting; she was grooming him like a feline cleaning its own fur. Her tongue, with its strange, rough texture, circled the tip in a spiraling motion against the grain. She licked forcefully, licking every drop of sweetness and tea into her mouth.
Then, she opened her mouth slightly and rubbed her lips and cheeks against the shaft, her throat emitting a low, satisfied purr like a cat. Her hands returned to his inner thighs, her fingers pressing and kneading the sensitive skin to prevent any retreat.
Just as Jerry felt he was being driven to the edge by this meticulous orality, she changed tactics again. She pulled her mouth away and looked up, her emerald eyes flashing with the intensity of a predator.
Remaining on her knees, she grabbed Jerry's ankles. With a brute force that contradicted her usual elegance, she yanked his legs up and outward, forcing him into a defenseless, splayed position against the chair. His entire lower body was laid bare.
McGonagall's gaze moved from his cock to the more hidden area behind it. When her warm breath hit the most private part of his backside, Jerry's body buckled.
He finally understood. This wasn't just random teasing or simple lust. This was revenge.
A clear image flashed in Jerry's mind of what had happened days ago in the giant bathtub of the Prefects' Bathroom. She had remembered everything.
What a vengeful woman!
"No... Professor..."
A plea escaped Jerry's throat, carrying a faint hint of a sob. Of course, he was faking it. But to make it more convincing, he began to struggle violently, arching his back and trying to snap his legs shut.
It was futile. McGonagall's hands were like iron clamps on his knees, keeping his thin legs pinned wide. Her body was wedged between his thighs, leaving him no room to move.
"Fair is fair, isn't it, Mr. Rosier?"
McGonagall's voice was low and gravelly. Because her cheek was pressed against his skin, her words were slightly muffled, but they reached his ears with perfect clarity.
"You should taste... the fruit you planted."
With those words, her powerful tongue licked directly onto his tightly puckered hole. She didn't enter immediately but used her tongue to trace circles around that sensitive point with punitive intent. Every lick was a precise replica of the act Jerry had inflicted on her.
Jerry's struggles grew weak. He could only lie there, hands gripping the armrests, his body trembling with a mixture of shame and intense pleasure. He could feel his last line of defense softening under her expert, relentless assault... until he was completely open.
Just as he thought the grinding of her tongue would drive him mad, she changed her strategy. Her tongue stopped circling and thrust forward, forcing its tip and part of the base into the opening. The sudden, overwhelming sensation of being filled, coupled with a tingling ache, made Jerry's waist buck uncontrollably. A stifled wail left his throat as his vision went white.
Simultaneously, her free hand found its mark. Her five fingers closed tightly around his shaft, encasing it from base to tip. Then, the double-ended torture began.
Her tongue deep inside him began to swirl chaotically, while the hand on his front began to pump with merciless speed. Her thumb pressed hard against the bulging vein on his cock, every stroke creating a searing friction. She gave him no room to breathe.
"Ngh... Pro... fessor..."
Jerry's voice was no longer coherent; he could only spit out broken syllables. His body was completely out of control under the pincer attack. He felt like a small boat in a storm, destined to be capsized and torn apart by the waves.
"Can't... take it already?"
McGonagall's voice came from between his legs, muffled by her mouth being occupied, yet carrying a cruel amusement. "I remember... that day... you were... much more... excessive than this..."
As she spoke, her tongue probed deeper at a more devious angle, as if trying to find the most vulnerable spot in his body to strike. At the same time, her hand speed increased until it was a blur.
Jerry's body tensed like a bowstring drawn to its breaking point. The devious, pitiless thrusting from behind and the blistering friction from the front met in his lower abdomen like two colliding tsunamis.
He could no longer hold it back. A wave of heat surged from the base of his spine to his brain. His hips thrust forward violently, and a long sound—somewhere between a cry and a scream—erupted from his throat.
At the moment of his release, McGonagall's actions shifted again. Her pumping hand stopped abruptly. She tilted her head, pulled her mouth back, and bared her teeth. Then, without hesitation, she bit down hard on Jerry's scrotum, which had shriveled from the extreme tension.
It wasn't a gentle nip; it was a bite of pure punishment. Her teeth sank deep into the hyper-sensitive skin. A sharp, clear pain instantly eclipsed all other sensations. And in that peak of pain, the flood Jerry had been holding back finally burst through the gates.
Thick, hot semen—carrying the musk of a young boy—shot out in uncontrolled pulses from his bright red tip, splashing across McGonagall's cheek, her chin, and the neckline of her emerald velvet dress.
Jerry's body twitched violently during the release, then he collapsed into the chair like a heap of mud, his stomach and legs still jerking sporadically.
McGonagall finally let go. She looked up, surveying her handiwork like a conqueror admiring her spoils. On Jerry's balls, there was a clear, slightly indented, and vivid semi-circular bite mark. The skin around it was red, but she hadn't broken the surface.
She extended her tongue and slowly, deliberately licked away the white fluid from the corner of her mouth. Then, looking at the completely drained Jerry with her emerald eyes, she let out a satisfied, triumphant smile.
"Little brat. Hmph!"
McGonagall stood up, her posture returning to its usual grace and composure, as if the woman who had just been kneeling on the floor acting like a beast was merely a phantom. She used magic to clean the stains from herself and even took the time to straighten her velvet dress before sitting back behind her desk and putting the vouchers into a drawer.
"Very well, Mr. Rosier." She locked the drawer, her voice regaining its unquestionable authority. "Our 'extra credit session' is over."
Just then, a cold, mechanical chime that only Jerry could hear rang in his mind.
[Mission: "Elf Pig-Butchering Scam" Completed.] [Family Prestige +250 points.] [Extra Reward: 'Hermes' Disguise' (Special Consumable): A cloak that perfectly replicates the user's appearance, voice, and basic magical signature for 24 hours. Can bypass most detection spells.] ["Eye of Slaanesh" unlocked new ability branch: 'Whisper Subversion'—Can perform continuous mental whispering on targets with weak will or dissatisfaction, subtly altering their stance to serve you.]
However, just as Jerry was admiring the rewards and thinking he could relax, a new mission prompt popped up with a chilling air.
[New Mission Triggered: Revenge of the Elves] [Background: You have pushed the Forest Elf race into the eye of a magical world scandal. But you underestimated the connection between these ancient tribes and the ancient magic and hatred hidden beneath their humble exterior. In places you don't know, a silent revenge has already begun.] [Mission Content: Stay hidden. Within seven days, find the "Elf leading this retaliation" and completely eliminate all threats to you.] [Hint: Watch your food, watch your bed, watch every seemingly submissive question around you... When a race learns to hate, their revenge will be more insidious and deadly than any curse.] [Reward/Penalty: Unknown.]
"I don't have that many Galleons!"
Isabella looked at her roommate, her face filled with distress. She spread her hands, her voice carrying a rare sense of embarrassment for a pure-blood aristocrat. "You know, my parents give me a fixed allowance—five hundred Galleons a month. Not a Sickle more. It's already the maximum they're willing to give."
She was telling the truth. An allowance of five hundred Galleons was considered incredibly wealthy among Hogwarts students. In a family like the Weasleys, where both parents worked at the Ministry, a single Silver Sickle was a luxury. But the number Cassandra needed was beyond Isabella's imagination. Even if she saved up for an entire semester, it would be a drop in the ocean.
The atmosphere in the room was heavy. Fiona, who had been listening, looked at Cassandra's pale, anxious face and finally stepped forward. She bit her lip and pulled a tightly tied pouch from her inner robe pocket, pouring out her savings. About a dozen Galleons, along with some Sickles and Knuts, clinked onto the table.
"This is what I've saved over six months!" Her voice was quiet and apologetic. "I... only have this much."
Looking at the pathetic pile of coins, Cassandra obviously hadn't expected her roommates to conjure a fortune out of thin air. She looked at them, her eyes reddening, a bitter smile of mixed gratitude and despair on her face. She shook her head and pushed Fiona's money back.
"Fiona, thank you, truly... but this... isn't enough." Cassandra's voice was hoarse. "I don't want your allowance. I know it's not fair..."
She took a deep breath, her gaze moving between Isabella and Fiona, finally revealing her true intent.
"Isabella..." She looked at the jewel of the pure-bloods. "Your father... he loves you so much. If you just ask him, he would surely..."
Then, she turned to Fiona, her eyes pleading. "And you, Fiona, your mother is such a famous Potions Master! Every bottle she makes is worth a fortune! And your father... I heard... if you are willing to help me... just speak to your families, say it's an emergency, a temporary loan... once I get through this, I swear I'll pay it back! Please!"
The distress on Isabella's face faded, replaced by a complex expression—part sympathy, part distance. She shook her head gently, her voice soft but firm. "Cassandra, I'm sorry, but I can't. Family rules are very strict. Every expense is recorded. I can't just get that kind of money from my father with a vague excuse like 'emergency'."
Fiona also shook her head, putting her coins back into the bag. "My mother's potions have fixed prices. And... my father wouldn't agree. He hates it when people use improper means for gain."
"But..." Cassandra tried to speak, but Isabella interrupted her.
"Cassandra, we are roommates and friends." Isabella stepped forward and gripped her shoulders, looking her in the eye. "I know why you need the money. It's for Orion, isn't it? For his bail?"
Cassandra flinched. She didn't speak, but her silence was a confession.
Isabella sighed, her tone turning to one of warning. "Stop doing stupid things for him. He really isn't worth it. Do you think I don't know? At school, he was always flirting with girls from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Now that he's at the Ministry, it's even worse. Last week, I heard he was seen in the Muggle world with a witch from the Court Scribe's office, eating and watching a movie, looking very intimate."
Cassandra's face turned visibly whiter. She backed away half a step, shaking her head as if the movement could disperse Isabella's words.
"No... that's impossible..." Cassandra's voice was a whisper, a weak breath of air like a feather in the wind. "You must have heard wrong... or seen someone else. Orion isn't that kind of person."
Her eyes were glazed, desperately searching Isabella's face for any sign of a joke, but she found none. There was only sympathy and earnestness.
"He's just friends with those girls..." Cassandra's voice wavered, trying to convince Isabella, but mostly trying to convince herself. "As for the Muggle world... that... that could be for Ministry work! Yes, it must be! You don't know, he's highly regarded there, often given... special tasks."
Looking at Cassandra's stubborn delusions, Isabella and Fiona exchanged a look of deep helplessness. They knew you couldn't wake someone immersed in a romantic fantasy; any warning would be seen as malicious interference.
Isabella let go of Cassandra's shoulders, and Fiona stepped back. The atmosphere in the dorm hit a freezing point. Just then, the door creaked open.
Katherine walked in, looking radiant. She held a dragon-hide handbag—clearly expensive and enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. Several rings with large gemstones glittered on her fingers. She immediately saw the three by the table, but she ignored the frozen tension. Her gaze skipped over the pale Cassandra and landed on Isabella and Fiona.
"Hey, darlings! Look what I brought you!" Katherine walked over with a light step and tossed the bag onto the table, unzipping it. She first pulled out a long box wrapped in dark blue velvet and handed it to Isabella.
"For you, Isabella. This year's limited edition 'Starlight' hair comb from the Paris Magical Fashion House. I had to wait in line all morning."
Isabella opened the box hesitantly. Inside lay an exquisite mithril comb, its teeth inlaid with tiny, star-like diamonds. It was beautiful enough to take one's breath away. It was exactly what she had been pining for after seeing it in Witch Fashion magazine last month. However, it was so expensive that even she couldn't afford it.
Then, Katherine pulled a cedarwood box and handed it to Fiona. "And for you, Fiona. I got this from a friend at the German Ministry—a set of the finest obsidian stirring rods. They say even the most unstable potions won't react with them."
Fiona opened the box, and a faint, magical scent of wood wafted out. Seven obsidian rods of various lengths were neatly arranged on silk. Each one was carved from a single piece of obsidian, shimmering with light.
"Katherine, this... this is too much. Thank you." Isabella's voice carried a hint of hesitant joy as she touched the cool mithril. Fiona also looked overwhelmed. "Thank you so much, Katherine!"
"Oh, don't mention it! We're best friends, aren't we?" Katherine laughed triumphantly, enjoying their reactions. Then, her gaze finally dropped to Cassandra, who had been ignored until now.
She pulled the third and final velvet box from the bag and casually pushed it across the table to Cassandra.
"And this is your gift, roommate," Katherine said, a playful smirk on her lips. "But whether you take it... that's up to you."
Without waiting for a reaction, she used her ringed hand to flip the lid open. The contents of the box made Isabella and Fiona's gratitude stop short.
It wasn't jewelry or an exquisite magical item. Resting in the black silk were two items: a finely crafted black leather collar embroidered with silver patterns and a shiny pink gemstone at the center. Next to the collar was a strange, plug-shaped object made of what looked like solid gold, with a matching pink gem at the base.
The air in the dorm seemed to solidify. Katherine didn't bother to explain. She didn't even look at Cassandra's face, which had lost all color. She linked arms with the stunned Isabella and Fiona.
"Let's go, darlings. I heard the Three Broomsticks has a new batch of Firewhisky. Let's go taste it."
With that, Katherine half-pulled the two out of the dorm, the door slamming "bang" behind them. In the large room, only Cassandra remained, alone with the open, humiliating gift box on the table.
Jerry stepped out of McGonagall's office. The corridor air was cold and fresh, slightly calming his overheated body. However, the cold mission prompt in his head was like a piece of frozen iron, pulling his attention away from the lingering sensations.
[Revenge of the Elves]. Those words gave Jerry an ominous feeling. As he walked back toward the dorms, he quickly replayed the destruction of the elf sanctuary in his mind. From the planning to the entry to the final cleanup, every step had been double-checked for perfection. Every witness had been eliminated, and all magical traces should have been wiped. He was certain there were no flaws.
So... why this mission?
Jerry stopped, leaning against the cold wall. He suddenly remembered a detail from the sanctuary. Amidst the ruins, he had touched a branch containing massive life force. At the time, he thought it was just energy, nothing else. Could he have left some trace that regular magic couldn't erase? Or... was the problem with that Elf Princess? Although he had confirmed she carried no tracking or curse magic, the elves always had ancient, unknown secrets.
Just then, the sound of flapping wings interrupted his thoughts. A pitch-black owl circled down and landed on the windowsill. Jerry reached out, and the owl dropped a parchment envelope into his hand before flying off. His name was written in emerald ink in a graceful, ornate script he recognized.
Jerry opened the letter and was stunned. The sender was Narcissa Malfoy. The letter was brief. She said she would be visiting Hogwarts next week to see her son Draco, and incidentally... to fulfill the promise she made on the Hogwarts Express: to meet Jerry in person once a month.
Jerry's mind immediately flashed back to that train carriage—how that noble pure-blood matron had been pinned to her seat, letting out suppressed, sobbing moans. He remembered the end of that wild journey, and the anal plug he had shoved into her...
As for the elf revenge... it didn't seem entirely like a bad thing. If you don't pull out the roots, the weeds will grow back. Since he didn't finish the job last time, he'd just do it again.
Just as he pushed open his dorm door, intending to head to the common room library to research ancient elf magic, there was a frantic knock.
"Thud, thud-thud." The knocking was light, almost hesitant. Jerry frowned and opened the door.
Standing outside was Pansy Parkinson. Her face was pale, and her eyes, usually filled with arrogance and spite, now held a mixture of awe and fear. Seeing Jerry, she shrunk back half a step, as if a monster were standing in the doorway.
"Ro... Rosier..." Pansy's voice was dry. She swallowed hard before whispering, "Outside... by the common room entrance... two people are looking for you."
"Who?" Jerry asked, his tone flat but his eyes sharp.
Pansy's gaze darted around, unable to meet his eyes. "It's... it's the Gryffindor, Parvati Patil, and Padma Patil. The... those twins."
Hearing those names, a playful glint appeared in Jerry's eyes. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his robe pocket and grabbed a handful of Galleons. The gold coins clinked together in his palm. Then, he reached out and stuffed the pile—at least twenty or thirty coins—into Pansy's cold hand.
While Pansy was stunned by the sudden bounty, Jerry's other hand shot out like lightning. It clamped firmly over her chest through her robes.
"Ah..." Pansy let out a suppressed gasp.
Jerry's grip was anything but gentle. His fingers squeezed hard, molding the soft, developing mound of her breast in his palm. He could feel the soft tissue compressing under his strength. Then, his thumb and index finger found her nipple, already hard from tension and stimulation, and he gave it a sharp, punitive tug outward.
The sharp sting mixed with a jolt of acid-pleasure made Pansy stagger forward, nearly falling into his arms. Her face lost all its color, and the greed that had sparked for the Galleons was instantly replaced by a deeper fear.
Jerry let go, a cryptic smile on his face. He leaned into her ear and whispered in a voice only they could hear:
"Thank you, Pansy."