"Incendium Missilia."
Sitting in the common room, Hermione looked down at her palm in disbelief. Hovering just an inch above her skin was a fireball, flickering and jumping like a living creature.
It was more stable and condensed than any attempt she had made that morning. The heat radiating from it caused the surrounding air to shimmer and warp with a slight distortion.
Just a few hours ago, she had struggled to even complete the incantation. Each cast required her total concentration, and she would have to hurl it away like an unstable cannonball. But now, she could hold this blazing sphere in a calm, rotating hover, as if it were an extension of her own arm.
It felt like a miracle.
And the only reason for this change was the unassuming silver bracelet on her wrist.
Jerry Rosier had given it to her. According to him, it was an alchemical artifact engraved with runes designed to maintain a constant, steady flow of magical output. Theoretically, as long as she possessed enough mental focus, she could stably cast any spell she desired, drastically lowering the threshold for complex magic.
Just as Hermione was sinking into this unprecedented pleasure of controlling power, a sharp, piercing pain suddenly shot from the depths of her mind, as if a needle had been driven into her skull.
Her vision blurred for a split second. The fireball hovering in her palm vanished instantly, like a candle snuffed out by the wind. Following immediately was a familiar sense of crushing exhaustion, as if her spirit had been completely drained.
Hermione instinctively touched her nostrils—thankfully, there was no blood.
Panting softly, she pulled back the sleeve of her robe to reveal the minimalist silver bangle. The surface was as smooth as a mirror, but when magic flowed through it, complex and ancient runes—ones she had never seen before—seemed to surface from within the metal.
The power it granted was real, but the cost was staggering. Hermione could feel that this drain bypassed her normal mana reserves, drawing directly from the very core of her mental essence.
"This is... truly amazing."
Hermione had only been in the wizarding world for two days. Although she had taught herself basic meditation through sheer willpower before school started, she was still like a child standing at the door of a grand library, seeing only a tiny corner of a vast world. Everything she knew came from books, but this bracelet—this tangible, functional piece of alchemical engineering—was far beyond the scope of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
It was a key, opening a door to a deeper, more mysterious realm of magic. While it thrilled her, it also intensified her curiosity about Jerry, the so-called "orphan of a Dark Wizard." The books described Death Eaters as bloodthirsty monsters, but Jerry... aside from being a bit abrasive with his words, seemed more like a profound, unfathomable riddle holding countless secrets.
At that moment, Ron Weasley, having finished dinner, walked into the Gryffindor common room. Seeing Hermione alone by the fire studying something, he rushed over.
"Hermione! I'm telling you, you can't fall for that damn Death Eater's tricks!" Ron flopped into the armchair next to her, his voice low but filled with indignation. "Those Dark Wizards love using little favors to deceive people. You—"
Before he could finish, Hermione slowly stood up. She tucked the bracelet back into her sleeve and looked at Ron with a strange, unreadable expression.
"Ron, I don't understand," she said calmly, though her voice betrayed a hint of confusion. "Why are you so hostile toward Jerry Rosier?"
"Because he's a Death Eater!" Ron nearly shouted, then realized where he was and lowered his voice, though his tone remained adamant. "His family, the Rosiers, were famous Death Eaters!"
Hermione furrowed her brow. "According to the records I found in the library, the Rosier family fell shortly after he was born. His parents were sentenced to death by the Wizengamot when he was only three months old for their activities. He was just an infant, Ron. What kind of evil could a three-month-old baby possibly do?"
"So what?" Ron's face flushed red, his neck stiffening in protest. "He has filthy blood in his veins! The offspring of a snake is always a snake! My dad says those pure-blood families are rotten to the core, especially people like—"
"'Filthy blood'?" Hermione caught the phrase instantly. Her voice sharpened, her questioning tone turning piercing. "What kind of logic is that? How is that any different from pure-bloods calling Muggle-borns 'Mudbloods'? Shouldn't we judge a person by what they do, rather than which family they were born into?"
Ron was momentarily speechless, stammering, "That... that's different! He's the descendant of criminals!"
"Then what about Neville? Neville Longbottom's parents were Aurors, heroes, yet he can't even cast a simple Levitation Charm. Meanwhile, Jerry, whose parents were criminals, mastered a perfect Fireball Volley on his first day." Hermione's speech grew faster, her logic so clear that Ron had no rebuttal. "So, does a person's birth really decide everything? Ron, your way of thinking is prejudice—it's baseless discrimination!"
The argument ended with Ron huffing in frustration. He muttered, "You're being completely unreasonable," and stormed upstairs.
Hermione stood alone, watching him go. She didn't like Ron's stubborn bias, but she had to admit that Jerry Rosier—the Slytherin boy who casually gave her such a powerful and dangerous magical artifact—was indeed shrouded in mystery.
Hermione Granger hated the unknown more than anything. The bracelet gave her power, but it also lit a fire in her to figure out who Jerry really was.
Suddenly, she remembered the thing that made her want to crawl into a hole and die—she had promised Jerry she would wash his "special" clothes!
As much as she dreaded fulfilling such a bizarre agreement, Hermione was never one to break her word. She hated owing favors, especially to someone as eccentric as Jerry. Since she had agreed, she would see it through.
She checked the clock. It was getting late; the freshmen should all be back in their dorms by now. Taking a deep breath to suppress a sudden, inexplicable surge of heat in her chest, she walked out of the Gryffindor common room.
She was going to fulfill her "promise."
The sound of the shower was like a signal of amnesty, finally allowing Isabella's frozen body to regain some feeling. She crawled out from under the bed with slow, awkward movements, her palms and knees feeling the chill of the stone floor. Yet, the cold couldn't dampen the internal heat burning within her.
Standing up, her gaze immediately landed on the mess on the floor. Her discarded panties lay to one side, right next to the puddle of thick, steaming white fluid.
The mess was prominent and vast, glistening in the dim light. The heavy, musky scent of a teenage boy, mixed with a faint, creamy aroma, hung stubbornly in the air. Her normally proud, cold face was now a deep shade of crimson. Shame, anger, and curiosity warred within her, making her breathing ragged.
She reached down, intending to grab her underwear and erase the evidence of her humiliation. But her fingers paused mid-air.
Driven by an impulse she couldn't explain, her eyes drifted away from the fabric and fixed on the pool of fluid. Reason screamed at her to run, but the necklace at her chest radiated a steady warmth, and a primal urge surged from deep within.
Finally, she made a decision she couldn't even justify to herself. Isabella didn't touch the panties. Instead, she knelt down and reached out with her index finger, quickly swiping through the thickest part of the warm, viscous liquid.
The sensation was hot, slimy, and filled with the texture of life. She shivered. Without even looking closely, she retracted her hand and squeezed her finger into a tight fist. With the grace of a nocturnal cat, she slipped out of the room, closing the door on the secrets within.
She practically fled from Jerry's room. The slick sensation in her palm felt like a branding iron. Crossing the dark corridor, she reached the green-lit Slytherin common room.
"Well, if it isn't our noble Prefect," a lazy, mocking voice came from the side. "Out so late? You look like you've been up to no good."
Isabella froze. It was Cassandra Warrington, one of her roommates—a tall, pure-blood witch who always left the top buttons of her uniform undone and exuded a predatory, mature charm.
"Cassandra," Isabella said, trying to keep her face a mask of cold indifference.
Cassandra crossed her arms, looking her up and down. Her eyes landed on Isabella's clenched fist. "What's that? Holding onto a treasure? You look nervous."
Cassandra stepped closer, bringing with her the smell of expensive perfume and light tobacco. Her nose twitched, and her eyebrows shot up. "Hmm? What's that smell? It's like... cream? Did you sneak off for some dessert?"
She leaned in, eyes flashing like a cat playing with a mouse, as if she really intended to sniff Isabella's hand. Isabella's mind went blank. She couldn't be caught. If Cassandra found out what she was holding, her dignity as a 7th-year Prefect would be destroyed.
In a moment of pure panic, an instinct took over. A split second before Cassandra's nose reached her, Isabella raised her clenched hand and shoved her finger—the one coated in Jerry's hot seed—straight into her own mouth.
The warm, thick, and slippery texture filled her mouth instantly. A powerful, indescribable flavor exploded on her tongue—a mix of faint saltiness and a unique, almond-like musk.
Isabella was stunned. What... what am I doing?
Cassandra froze for a second, then broke into a knowing, suggestive grin. "Wow. It must be really delicious if you couldn't even wait to get back to the room."
Isabella snapped back to reality. She could feel the thick liquid slowly melting as her tongue agitated it. The shame was so intense she wanted to die. With her finger still in her mouth, she squeezed out a muffled, garbled reply:
"...It's... it's just cream."
Cassandra narrowed her eyes, soaking in Isabella's guilty expression. She didn't believe the excuse for a second, but seeing the proud girl so flustered she was nearly in tears made it even more entertaining. A wicked smile played on Cassandra's lips as she spoke loud enough for nearby students to hear:
"Cream? Oh! I see. Practicing your baking for next month's Valentine's Ball? I never would have guessed that our high-and-mighty Prefect, the great Lady Isabella, actually has a crush on someone?"
The word "crush" hit Isabella like a sledgehammer. Her face went from ghost-white to a deeper scarlet. "I do not! You're talking nonsense!"
Desperate to defend herself but unable to speak clearly with her finger in her mouth, Isabella did the unthinkable. With a flick of her tongue and a hard swallow, she gulped down the glob of viscous, salty boy-juice mixed with her own saliva. Gulp.
She pulled her finger out and hissed, "Cassandra, stop it! There's no such thing!"
"Oh, look at you getting all shy," Cassandra laughed, winking at her. She turned and headed up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. "I have to share this news with the girls. We'll have to guess who was talented enough to capture our Prefect's heart."
"Wait!" Isabella chased after her in a rage.
But as she reached the stairs, the realization hit her—she had just swallowed it. A physical wave of nausea rolled up from her stomach, making her stumble. But the feeling only lasted a few seconds before vanishing.
It was replaced by a thought that made her skin crawl with its own strangeness. The faint taste of salt and almond musk lingered at the back of her throat. It wasn't disgusting. In fact... it was actually... kind of delicious.
She couldn't help but run her tongue along her palate and the inside of her cheeks, savoring the remnants. The flavor was a bit like yogurt—tangy and rich with a hint of fermentation, a touch of sea-salt, and that clean, grass-like fragrance unique to a young boy's body.
Gulp.
Hermione's heart pounded against her ribs as she walked through the quiet corridor. Finally, she stood before Jerry's door. Ron's warnings echoed in her head, making her hesitate. But remembering her promise, she took a deep breath and knocked.
Knock, knock.
No response. She knocked again. Still silence.
She frowned. Was he not in? How was she supposed to do his laundry if he wasn't there? Driven by a mix of confusion and duty, she turned the handle.
Click.
It was unlocked. The door swung inward slightly, revealing a brightly lit space. She pushed it open.
The room was not what she expected. There were no clothes thrown everywhere, no piles of snack wrappers. It was almost excessively tidy. Books were categorized on the desk, and the bed was made perfectly.
However, that tidiness was marred by something on the floor.
Hermione's eyes were drawn to a couple of pieces of discarded fabric. One was dark—obviously male underwear—but the other... Hermione leaned down and picked up the light-colored piece.
It was a pair of pure white, soft cotton panties. They were tiny and delicate—clearly meant for a girl.
Hermione's brow furrowed. Does Jerry Rosier wear these? She immediately dismissed the thought. That was absurd. Maybe it was a prank, and he'd stolen them from a girl? It wouldn't be out of character for a Slytherin.
Setting that strange discovery aside, she noticed a large stain on the floor next to where the underwear had been. It was a pool of cooling, semi-transparent viscous fluid, its edges turning a faint white under the magical lamps. It looked like someone had spilled milk or something similar and hadn't cleaned it up.
Hermione crouched down. Curiosity got the better of her. She leaned in and sniffed. A very faint scent hit her nostrils—a bit musky, but mostly smelling like a fermented dairy product. Like... sour cream.
She hesitated, looking at the congealed mess. She extended her index finger and dabbed it into the thickest part. The texture was sticky, like half-dried glue. She brought her finger to her lips, and her tongue darted out cautiously to give it a lick.
It really did taste like sour cream.
Hermione's guard dropped. He just spilled some yogurt? What a slob.
Just then, the clear sound of running water came from the bathroom at the back of the room. She realized he must be in the shower.
"Jerry?" she called out softly. "Jerry Rosier, are you in there? I—"
The bathroom door was also slightly ajar. After getting no answer, she stood there for a moment before pushing the door open. A cloud of steam rolled out.
The bathroom was spacious, dominated by a large white tub. And there was Jerry Rosier, naked, lying back in the tub filled with clear water. His eyes were closed; he seemed to be sound asleep.
Hermione froze. Her eyes dropped uncontrollably below the water's surface. Because Jerry was lying on his back, his most private part was displayed without reservation beneath the water.
It was an organ Hermione had never imagined and certainly didn't possess. It wasn't limp despite his sleep; instead, it stood with a vibrant life of its own, pointing straight up toward the surface.
As Jerry breathed steadily, his lower abdomen rose and fell. The stiff meat followed the rhythm, its swollen glans breaking the surface of the water, creating tiny ripples, then sinking back down. Each time it emerged, the flushed head glistened with moisture under the lights, the deep slit clearly visible.
Hermione felt her breath hitch. Her cheeks burned, and a strange heat surged from deep within her body. Books had never described this—a powerful, impactful symbol of masculinity.
She knew she should leave. Do not look at what is forbidden. But her feet were nailed to the spot. Her curiosity—the primal explorer's instinct—clawed at her heart.
What would it feel like to touch? Is it as hard as it looks? Is it warm?
Once the thought appeared, it was impossible to suppress. Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. She looked around to ensure he was still asleep. Then, she slowly knelt down.
She reached out with the same hand that had just tasted the "sour cream." Trembling, she extended it toward the rod that was bobbing with his breath.
As her fingertips got closer, she could see the bulging blue veins across the shaft, like gnarled tree roots under smooth skin, filled with wild, bursting life. Finally, with a maiden's slight chill, her finger tentatively touched the swollen, rounded glans at the very top of the massive thing.
The sensation was vivid and bizarre.
First, the temperature. It was a scorching heat, much higher than the water, as if molten lava flowed inside it. Then, the texture—a firm yet elastic feel. The skin was impossibly smooth, like fine silk, yet it held the hardness of steel.
That tiny touch made her finger jerk back as if burned. But her curiosity overrode her instinct to flee. She became bolder.
Her palm slid down, passing the rounded head, and she carefully wrapped her entire hand around the thick shaft. Her hand wasn't small for a girl her age, but she could barely close her grip around it. The full, solid mass completely filled her palm, heavy and substantial. She could feel her soft skin pressed against every bulging vein and hard contour.
She could even feel a pulse deep within the hard flesh—a heavy, rhythmic throb that echoed her own heartbeat.
Hermione's face was now completely crimson. This thing... it's alive.
When her palm unconsciously slid up a fraction, the sleeping boy in the tub let out a blurred, satisfied mumble. "Mmm..."
Hermione's heart skipped a beat. She looked up and saw Jerry's brow furrow slightly, his lips moving as if he were about to wake. Even more terrifying was that the giant thing in her hand seemed to react, jumping powerfully upward and swelling even larger, becoming even harder and hotter.
He's waking up!
The realization snuffed out her curiosity like ice water, leaving only pure panic. She yanked her hand away, losing her balance and falling back onto the wet floor with a thud.
Ignoring the pain in her rear, she scrambled up and bolted out of the bathroom and out of his room. She didn't look back, terrified of what would happen if he opened his eyes.
She didn't stop until she was back in the Gryffindor common room, collapsing into her familiar armchair by the fire. Her heart was racing out of control.
She opened her right hand—the one that had just touched the forbidden thing. The searing, hard, and pulsing sensation seemed to linger in her palm. And her nose could still faintly smell that mix of steam and "sour cream."
"Such... a strange... feeling!"