Jerry practically fled from Eleanora Shaffiq's office. When he was finally set down and had scrambled to rearrange his trousers, Eleanora simply stood aside, eyeing him like a rare alchemical ingredient, muttering notes to herself. Her gaze was no different from how she looked at a simmering cauldron—a pure, dehumanizing research frenzy that made Jerry feel like a frog pinned to an examination table, awaiting dissection.
Even more chilling was the realization from their brief, zero-distance contact. When Eleanora held him, the feel of her arms wasn't the softness of a normal woman; it was a metallic, reinforced tenacity. Through the thin fabric of her robes, he felt a rhythmic, unnatural texture beneath her skin—as if permanent strengthening runes had been etched into her very flesh. It was common for powerful wizards to modify their bodies for strength or longevity—reinforcing bones, replacing organs, or fusing flesh with magical creature tissue. Clearly, the Potions Mistress had undergone deep modification.
"What a terrifying witch," Jerry thought, finally pulling open the heavy oak door and stumbling out. Just as he reached the hallway, her flat, emotionless voice trailed after him like a shadow.
"Mr. Rozier. When the preliminary materials for the potion are ready, I will notify you."
Once in the corridor, the cool stone walls felt like reality returning. He leaned against them, steadying his breath. Suddenly, a cold, mechanical voice rang in his ears.
[System Notification: Daily Mission Complete] [Mission Name: The War Witch's Old Debt] [Mission Settlement: You successfully confirmed the debt with Eleanora Shaffiq and secured a commitment far exceeding requirements (Drafts worth 30,000+ Galleons confirmed valid).] [Mission Reward: Passive Skill [Potions: Intermediate Affinity], Family Prestige +50. Distributed.]
In the next heartbeat, Jerry's mind felt as though an entire library was being force-fed into it. A massive flood of information—complex recipes, obscure ingredient processing, deep alchemical principles, and experimental data known only to masters—surged through his brain. He could suddenly "see" the magical aura of Belladonna under moonlight, "smell" the specific fragrance of Mermaid Tears mixed with Phoenix Feathers, and "feel" the thermal conductivity of a dragon-blood tempered cauldron.
The theories that were once gibberish now became as natural as breathing. In seconds, his understanding of Potions underwent a brutal, evolutionary leap.
"So that's why..." Jerry gasped, clutching the wall as the new knowledge reordered itself. Everything about Eleanora's bizarre behavior clicked into place. Why did she need his urine? In many ancient, forbidden branches of alchemy, the vigorous fluids of a potent wizard were the essential "base" for high-level Fertility Potions. It wasn't just a biological catalyst; it was a vessel for magical bloodlines and talent.
Eleanora didn't want a normal potion. She wanted a child. A child who inherited her vast knowledge and Jerry's innate, monstrous talent for Potions. From the moment she pushed him in class, she wasn't testing a student; she was screening "material" to optimize her offspring.
"If you wanted a kid, you could have just said so!" Jerry rolled his eyes, patting the drafts in his pocket. He checked the hallway clock—just past 2:00 PM. He'd missed lunch. Since he had no classes and his dinner with Fiona was hours away, he remembered the gambling pool.
"Drake said... Professor McGonagall is the top seed." He recalled Drake Malfoy boasting in the common room about the Wizard's Chess Tournament. Minerva McGonagall was not just a Transfiguration authority; she was a perennial favorite in chess. A perfect source of intelligence.
Jerry made his way to the first floor of the main castle. Professor McGonagall's office was at the end of a bright corridor—a world away from the dark Potions dungeons. The air smelled of parchment and dry books. He straightened his robes and knocked thrice.
"Come in."
Jerry entered to find McGonagall seated behind her mahogany desk, peering through square spectacles as she corrected a thick stack of homework. Her office was as orderly as her personality. Today, she wasn't in her high-collared emerald robes. Since it was an off-afternoon, she wore a simple, elegant black wool dress that traced her dignified figure. The neckline was modest but revealed a hint of porcelain skin, exuding a mature, intellectual charm.
Under the desk, her legs were crossed. From beneath the black hem, her calves were visible, encased in sheer black silk stockings that clung to her shapely lines down to her ankles, disappearing into classic black stiletto pumps. Even sitting, she radiated authority and feminine grace.
"Mr. Rozier!" her voice was steady, but curious. "If I recall, you have no Transfiguration this afternoon. Are you in some sort of trouble?"
Jerry offered a polite smile. "Good afternoon, Professor. You look lovely today—even more charming than in the classroom."
The innocent, frank compliment caused her stern expression to soften slightly. She gave a non-committal hum of acknowledgment. Jerry walked toward the desk. The height difference was glaring. Even seated, McGonagall's head was two or three levels above Jerry's. He had to look up at her, his eye level barely reaching the desk surface.
As she looked at the little boy looking up at her, an image flashed in her mind—the scene from the girls' lavatory that morning. This "innocent" boy had been hidden in the shadows, revealing a massive, adult-sized cock and forcing it into Cassandra's mouth. The contrast between that memory and this sweet face was jarring.
"What a little Rozier brat," she thought privately. She flicked her wand, enlarging a cup for him. "Engorgio." Hot coffee poured itself.
"Thank you, Professor." Jerry didn't touch the coffee. He pulled out two things: his own Gringotts draft and the thick stack of 36,000 Galleons he'd just gotten from Eleanora.
"Professor," Jerry said, his tone shifting from a child to a calculating merchant. "I hear you're a master of Wizard's Chess. I'm starting a gambling pool for the tournament among the students. And this," he patted the mountain of gold, "is my capital."
McGonagall's gaze moved from his face to the staggering amount of money. She made a soft "tsk" sound, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses as she inspected the magical seals on the drafts. Jerry began to explain the source of the money, but he was cut short by a sudden, intense pressure between his legs.
He looked down, but the thick desk blocked his view. The sensation was undeniable: something soft yet firm was pressing through the fabric of his trousers, stepping directly onto his hidden, heavy meat.
It was McGonagall's foot. She had slipped off one of her heels, and her foot—sheathed in thin black silk—was pinning his cock down with shocking force. The smooth texture of the silk let him feel the exact contour of her sole.
McGonagall picked up the drafts, her fingers grazing the parchment with a soft rustle. Her face remained a mask of professional sternness. "Mr. Rozier, I must remind you that gambling is strictly forbidden at Hogwarts. This is a severe violation of school rules."
Even as she spoke those righteous words, her foot beneath the table began a daring, contradictory movement. Her firm, arched sole began to grind repeatedly against his cock, which had instantly surged into a rock-hard state from the stimulation. The delicate silk sliding against his trousers created an agonizingly clear, tingling friction.
Jerry's breath hitched. McGonagall continued her lecture, but her foot grew more agile. She turned her ankle, using her toes to "play" with the massive organ trapped in his pants. Her toes—especially the big toe and second toe—acted like nimble fingers, pinching the middle of his shaft. The pressure was perfect—firm enough to feel the restraint, but not painful. Then, she slid her toes slowly and forcefully from the base to the tip. Every upward stroke deliberately circled the swollen head, her toe joint pressing against the sensitive slit at the tip. Every downward stroke crushed the entire length under her sole.
It was an absurd, erotic experience. The "prim and proper" Professor was lecturing him on rules while giving him a filthy footjob under the table. The contrast sent a wave of heat through Jerry's gut; his cock throbbed, and a clear, slick pre-come began to soak the fabric.
McGonagall's foot seemed to know his body perfectly. Her movements grew bolder, the speed increasing. The faint sound of silk rubbing against trouser fabric was more erotic than any words. Soon, the small patch of fabric she was focused on was completely damp.
She paused, her gaze locked on Jerry's face. A hint of a smirk—part mockery, part dominance—curled her lips. She pushed the drafts back toward him. "Mr. Rozier, do you have any explanation for this blatant attempt to break the rules?"
As she spoke, Jerry's cock twitched violently under her foot. The swollen head grazed her sole through the wet fabric—a hot, rough friction that made her dignified posture stiffen for a split second.
"Professor McGonagall," Jerry panted, forcing a sincere smile. "You are my most respected teacher." He thrust his hips slightly, driving his hard meat back against her foot. "This isn't gambling. It's a... financial game. Everyone gets involved." He lowered his voice. "And the profits? We split them. Sixty-forty. You take sixty, I take forty. I just want some pocket money; the lion's share should go to a visionary leader like you."
This seemed to provoke her. Beneath the table, she didn't pull away; instead, she slipped off her other heel.
The second foot joined the battle. Now, two feet encased in gossamer-thin black silk were mounting a full-scale pincer attack. One foot pinned the base, her toes kneading the root, while the other wrapped her high arch around the mid-section. They worked in tandem, sliding up and down in opposite directions. The silk was so smooth against his wet trousers that every stroke brought a brain-melting wave of pleasure.
Jerry fought back. He began to thrust his hips in rhythm. His cock, like a trapped serpent, lunged between her soles, slamming his hard head into her soft arches and the gaps between her toes.
Click.
The sound of a metal zipper being undone echoed under the table. McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her hand dropping beneath the tablecloth. Her fingers deftly undid his button and pulled down the fly. Instantly, the massive, soaking-wet organ snapped out, hitting the back of her hand with a hot, wet thud.
Then, the silk feet wrapped directly around the bare skin. The sensation was a thousand times more intense. The cool, slippery silk against the burning heat of his cock made them both let out a faint, synchronized gasp.
"Your proposal is tempting, Mr. Rozier!" Her voice remained steady, but a slight rasp betrayed her. "But I must reiterate, this strikes at the foundation of Hogwarts. As Deputy Headmistress, I cannot—"
"It's an investment, Professor," Jerry interrupted, his head back. "An investment in student life. Better the money flows here than rots in Gringotts."
The "negotiation" reached a fever pitch. McGonagall's right foot pinned the base, her toes scratching at his heavy, tensed balls. Her left foot focused on the tip, her sole grinding against the purple, engorged head, her big toe pressing repeatedly into the opening.
Jerry's cock lunged between her feet, burying itself in her soft soles, feeling the warm, elastic flesh beneath the thin silk.
"You make it sound so simple!" McGonagall huffed. Her left foot suddenly shifted—instead of grinding, she pinched the very tip with two toes, twisting it like a quill pen.
"Ungh..." The stimulation was too much. A thick spray of fluid erupted from the tip, making her toes even slicker.
The battle became a blur. McGonagall's feet sped up like black butterflies, sliding and squeezing with a wet, squelching sound. Jerry's hips bucked wildly. Finally, she clamped her heels together—one at the base, one at the head—and squeezed with all her might.
Jerry couldn't take it. A tidal wave of heat surged from his gut. He arched his back, mouth open in a silent cry. Wave after wave of thick, hot cum erupted, spraying across her silk-clad calves and thighs. The white fluid stood out starkly against the black silk, sliding down the smooth fabric in a messy, muddy slurry.
Even after he finished, she didn't let go. Her toes continued to knead his twitching, softening cock, checking it like a trophy. The wet, squelching sounds filled the quiet room.
Gulp... squelch...
"Professor..." Jerry pleaded. Under the relentless, wet friction, his cock began to stir and harden once more, growing even larger than before, veins throbbing.
McGonagall looked down, then back at his flushed face. A satisfied smile played on her lips. She finally withdrew her feet. The separation made a clear pop sound, like a cork leaving a bottle.
"Professor... I... I lose..." Jerry panted, reaching for his drafts to end the madness.
Whap.
A pale, well-manicured hand slapped down on the money. McGonagall looked at him with the poise of a victor.
"Sixty-forty," she said.
Jerry's legs were still shaking when he left the office. He leaned against the stone wall, breathing deeply.
"Jerry! Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere!" It was Drake Malfoy, looking energized. "I thought a teacher had caught you! Hurry, Orion Black is absolutely crushing old Babbling!"
Jerry composed himself. "Just a bit of business. Let's go see how our 'top seed' is doing."
In the Great Hall's assembly area, the annual Wizard's Chess Tournament was in full swing. The center was dominated by a massive marble board with obsidian and ivory pieces the size of men.
Orion Black sat on a floating stone platform, commanding his army. His opponent was the elderly Bathsheda Babbling. Orion commanded his knight to smash a white rook to pieces, drawing cheers from the Slytherins.
"See?" Drake nudged Jerry. "Orion was a prefect. He never shows mercy."
The game reached a stalemate. Babbling moved her bishop to protect her King—a solid but passive move. Orion smirked. He didn't even hesitate.
"Queen to D5," he commanded.
The crowd gasped. The obsidian Queen slid into an unprotected square, completely exposed to Babbling's rook. It was suicide.
"Is he mad?" Drake shouted.
Professor Babbling hesitated, then commanded her rook to strike. The black Queen was smashed into obsidian shards. But Orion's smile only grew. He snapped his fingers.
"Bishop to H5."
With the Queen gone, the line of attack was wide open. His hidden bishop slid into a lethal position. The King was trapped.
"Checkmate," Orion announced. The white King dropped his scepter and knelt.
The hall erupted. Drake was red-faced with excitement. "Beautiful! Sacrificing the Queen for the win! That's a real Slytherin!"
Jerry watched the cheering crowd, a different light in his eyes. He waited for Drake to calm down, then leaned in. "Drake, want to make this even more interesting?"
"What do you mean?"
"Look at them. Everyone has a favorite. Don't you see the gold in this?" Jerry dangled the bait. "Let's open a book. A gambling pool."
"A pool?"
"We set the odds. They bet on winners, match length, who loses their Queen first... anything." Jerry leaned in. "You're the face of Slytherin. You promote it. No one will doubt you. I'll handle the books, the math, and provide the capital. We split the profit."
Drake's breath quickened. No capital, just using his fame for a mountain of gold? "I'm in! Tell me what to do!"