"Lost! Everything is lost!"
"Stupid Andrew! I bet my entire next month's allowance on that goddamn idiot, and he gets swept in the first round by a Ravenclaw third-year!"
A senior Gryffindor boy clutched his hair in agony. He crumpled a piece of parchment—a betting slip from Draco Malfoy's bookie operation—into a ball and hurled it savagely into the common room fireplace.
His lament immediately triggered a chorus of despair.
"That's nothing! I spent six months saving Galleons to buy my sister a birthday present at Hogsmeade, and it's all gone!" another scrawny boy wailed, his voice cracking. "I thought our house players could at least make the quarter-finals..."
The Gryffindor table was a landscape of dejection. Unlike the opulent wealth of the Slytherin purebloods, Gryffindor was home to many half-bloods and students from modest backgrounds. For them, a few Gold Galleons represented the price of a rare manuscript or an entire weekend's budget.
However, the odds Draco Malfoy had offered this year were too seductive. Those "impossible" high payouts had lured the impulsive "lions" into wagering their last Sickles and Knuts, dreaming of a windfall.
The result was a total wipeout.
The tournament qualifiers had barely concluded, and the Gryffindor common room was already drowning in sighs of financial ruin. While some worried about buying new quills, others were calculating how to survive on bread and water for the rest of the month. Before the chessboards had even decided a champion, the Slytherin-run gambling ring had already delivered a stinging slap to Gryffindor's pride.
In a relatively quiet corner of the Great Hall, the atmosphere was equally tense.
Ron Weasley stared sullenly at his plate, as if trying to bore holes through his sausages with his eyes. His meager savings had vanished the moment the results were posted.
"I can't believe it... Andrew... a fifth-year, losing to a third-year!" Ron hammered his fist against the table, his voice a low, furious hiss. "I watched his matches last year. His openings were solid as a rock! How could he get knocked out like that?"
Harry and Hermione sat opposite him. Harry remained silent, unsure of how to comfort his friend, while Hermione clutched a heavy copy of Advanced Potion-Making, her brow furrowed in disapproval of the gambling.
Ron didn't expect them to understand. As a Weasley, every Knut mattered. He considered himself a wizard chess aficionado, believing his "investment" was a sure thing. He hadn't accounted for Andrew's spectacular collapse.
"It's those Slytherin bastards!" Ron spat, his ears turning a vivid shade of red. "Especially Malfoy! He set the whole thing up. They knew, didn't they? They just wanted to see us look like fools and squeeze every last copper out of us. Slimy, cheating snakes!"
"Oh, honestly, Ron," Hermione finally looked up, her expression maternal and condescending. "Is it really necessary to be this hysterical? It was only a few Sickles."
Ron's face flushed deeper. Harry tried to play peacemaker, patting Ron on the shoulder. "Hermione's right, Ron. Don't sweat it. If you're short, I can lend you some. You know it's no big deal for me."
The offer soothed Ron's temper slightly, but the bruise to his pride remained. He grunted a half-hearted thanks, accepting the comfort.
"Come on, eat breakfast," Hermione said, snapping her book shut. "I don't want to be late for class because of your foolish bets."
Today's schedule included Charms, and their new professor was a man named Severus Snape. Harry didn't recognize the name, but the surname sent a phantom chill down his spine. Ever since the opening feast, he had a terrible intuition about the man—the sallow skin, the greasy black hair, and those cold, penetrating eyes.
As they entered the Great Hall, the gloom from the common room followed them. But while Gryffindor suffered, other tables flourished.
At the Ravenclaw table, there was a buzz of intellectual excitement. A crowd of students surrounded a diminutive third-year boy, dissecting his victory.
"That move! When everyone thought you'd lose your Rook, you sacrificed it for the Bishop! Genius!" a prefect cheered. "Andrew never saw it coming!"
The victor blushed, but his eyes shone with the sharp confidence of a strategist. His win hadn't just brought Ravenclaw honor; it had lined the pockets of everyone who had bet on his intellect.
At the Slytherin table, the mood was more predatory. Draco Malfoy sat like a king, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. They weren't discussing chess tactics; they were mocking Gryffindor's poverty.
"I told you, those brainless lions only know how to charge blindly," Malfoy drawled, loud enough to be heard. "Look at them. I bet they'll have to beg their parents for parchment money by next week."
Ron bit into a piece of toast as if he were biting off Malfoy's head.
Just then, Jerry strolled into the Hall, yawning and looking effortlessly relaxed. Malfoy's eyes lit up, and he patted the seat beside him. "Jerry! You won't believe it. The last match of the qualifiers just ended, and that idiot Andrew—"
Malfoy's voice died in his throat.
A tall figure was marching toward them from the Gryffindor table. It was a girl with short, sharp black hair and a Seventh-Year Prefect badge. Her face was elegant but masked in pureblood arrogance, and her eyes were a piercing, stormy gray. Her long legs, clad in grey stockings, moved with purpose.
This was Cressida Vance. She ignored Malfoy entirely, stopping dead in front of Jerry. She looked down at him with a gaze of cold, lethal judgment.
"Was it you?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the noise. "Were you the one with Fiona at the Three Broomsticks yesterday? The one who took her back to her dorm while she was drunk?"
The surrounding tables went silent. Malfoy and the others watched the confrontation with burgeoning curiosity.
Before Jerry could answer, another voice sliced through the air—sharp, honeyed, and dangerous. Isabella, the Slytherin Prefect, stepped forward, her eyes lazily scanning Cressida.
"If I recall correctly, Vice-Prefect Fiona is a Slytherin student," Isabella said softly, her words laced with venom. "Miss Vance, I'm curious—what business does a Gryffindor Prefect have coming to our table to interrogate one of our students?"
The tension escalated instantly. Isabella emphasized "our" with a territorial bite. She was drawing a line in the sand.
Cressida's face darkened, but she didn't even spare Isabella a glance. In Hogwarts, bloodlines mattered, and the Vance family was one of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight." Her pedigree was older and purer than almost anyone at the table. To her, Isabella's interference was merely the buzzing of a fly.
Cressida kept her gray eyes locked on Jerry. "I'll ask one more time. Did you take Fiona back to her dorm last night?"
Jerry took a slow, deliberate bite of his jam-slathered toast. He didn't even look up. He treated her presence as if she were invisible, a ghost in the Hall.
This was the breaking point. Cressida's face turned a mottled, furious grey. Isabella's smirk in the periphery sent her over the edge.
"You!" Cressida began, but Isabella was faster. Isabella shoved her, hard.
Cressida stumbled back, nearly tripping over a chair.
"You bitch!" Cressida snarled, her aristocratic mask shattering. "Isabella, you foul-blooded whore! How dare you touch me? Didn't your parents teach you your place?"
Isabella's face drained of color, replaced by a cold, murderous rage. "Foul-blooded? You bitter, freckled hag! You think you can bark orders here?" Her voice became a shrill rasp. "Is this how Gryffindor dogs act? Or are you finally admitting to your pathetic little obsession? Where is your dignity, you dyke?"
"You're the whore! A slut looking for any warm body!" Cressida screamed, her voice reaching a frantic pitch. "The dueling arena! After class, Isabella! We settle this properly, you idiot!"
"An idiot? Me?" Isabella laughed, a high, mocking sound. "I'd love to see you try, you plucked phoenix. I'll show you exactly where you belong!"
The insult triggered a chain reaction. Gryffindors, already on edge from their gambling losses, rose to defend their Prefect. Slytherins stood in turn, wands twitching, sneers fixed. The Hall was a powder keg, seconds away from a riot of hexes and curses.
"SILENCE!"
Professor McGonagall appeared at the entrance like a thunderclap. Her lips were a thin, grim line. Under her piercing gaze, every student froze and slowly sank back into their seats. The silence that followed was heavy and absolute.
"Miss Isabella... Miss Vance... and you, Mr. Jerry," McGonagall said, her voice devoid of warmth. "Breakfast is over. My office. Now."
With Dumbledore frequently away at the borders dealing with Ministry-related "war efforts," McGonagall's word was law.
Inside her office, the heavy oak door shut with a final, ominous thud. Cressida and Isabella stood stiffly, while Jerry leaned back, looking entirely unbothered.
McGonagall tapped a pensieve-like stone on her desk. A holographic projection of the Hall flickered to life, showing everything: Cressida's aggression, Isabella's shove, and the vile insults exchanged between them.
"Miss Vance!" McGonagall barked. "As a Seventh-Year Prefect, explain why you found it appropriate to provoke such a disgraceful scene."
Cressida, the proud pureblood, was now a trembling mess. "I... Professor... it was..." She couldn't find the words.
McGonagall turned to Isabella. "And you, Miss Isabella. The footage shows you were the first to initiate physical contact. Do you believe shoving is a fitting way to maintain 'order'?"
Isabella tried to maintain her composure. "Professor, I admit I was impulsive. But Miss Vance was interrogating a junior student for no reason. I was defending my house's dignity."
"Defending dignity through a brawl?" McGonagall's voice was dangerously quiet. "Should I give you a medal for it, then?"
Isabella's face went white.
"I don't care about your private grievances," McGonagall declared. "Ten points from Gryffindor for inciting a public disturbance. And ten points from Slytherin for escalating it. Furthermore, both of you will serve detention tonight in the third-floor girls' lavatory. Moaning Myrtle is in need of company. You will scrub until I am satisfied."
The punishment was a calculated humiliation for two pureblood socialites.
Finally, McGonagall looked at Jerry. "And you, Mr. Rosier. As the catalyst for this, why did you not attempt to de-escalate? Miss Vance asked a simple question. Was it so hard to answer?"
Jerry looked offended. "Professor, I'm the victim here! I'm a first-year. Yes, I went to dinner with Fiona—she invited me! And yes, I took her back because she was drunk. Isabella can vouch for me."
He looked at Isabella, expecting solidarity. But Isabella hadn't forgotten how Jerry had ignored her days prior. She saw an opportunity for a petty revenge.
"Actually, Professor," Isabella said with a fake, apologetic tilt of her head, "I'm not sure. I went to bed quite early last night."
Jerry's jaw nearly hit the floor. Cressida, hearing this, gave a cold, triumphant smirk. To her, "taking her back to the dorm" meant something far more sinister. In her mind, she saw Jerry—this "Rosier brat"—taking advantage of a drunken Fiona. A surge of jealousy and possessive rage boiled in her blood.
Suddenly, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in Jerry's mind.
[Mission: Melting the Iron Lesbian] [Goal: Subdue Gryffindor Prefect—Cressida Vance.] [Requirement: Within 7 days, use any means necessary to 'convert' the target's sexual orientation.] [Reward: Rare Bloodline: 'Medusa's Gaze' (Active). Petrify targets upon eye contact. Strength scales with Mana.] [Penalty: Permanent 20% Mana Core damage and 50% reduction in future growth.] [Countdown: 167 hours, 59 minutes, 58 seconds...]
Jerry's expression froze. Subdue her? Change her orientation? He looked at the departing Cressida's back. So that's why she looks at me like she wants to castrate me. She's a lesbian. A very angry, very possessive lesbian.
Once the girls were gone, McGonagall leaned back. "Now that we are alone, Mr. Rosier, tell me the truth."
Jerry put on his most innocent face. "Professor, it's a misunderstanding. I think Miss Vance's reaction isn't just about House rivalry. I think... she's in love with Fiona. She wasn't questioning me as a Prefect; she was questioning me like a jealous lover."
McGonagall frowned. Her star pupil, a lesbian? She wanted to dismiss it, but the memory of Cressida's distorted, jealous face in the projection made the theory undeniable. She sighed, deciding not to pry further into student romances.
"Enough. To the matter at hand." McGonagall pulled a piece of parchment from her desk. "This is my predicted winner list for the tournament's final sixteen. Take it."
Jerry's eyes gleamed. As he reached for it, McGonagall flicked her wrist, snatching the paper away.
In one swift, athletic motion, McGonagall—still appearing dignified from the waist up—lifted her leg. Her foot, clad in a black suede high-heeled pump, pressed firmly into Jerry's crotch.
Jerry gasped, his body jolting. Because he was a developing boy and she was a tall woman in heels, the angle was perfect. The slender heel pressed directly against his morning wood, which was still straining against his trousers. The hard, thick shape of his erection was unmistakable through the fabric, pulsing against the sole of her shoe.
McGonagall smirked, a predatory, cat-and-mouse glint in her eyes. She ground her heel down slightly, pinning him in place.
"I skipped breakfast to finalize this list for you," she whispered, her voice a low, husky rasp. "We are partners, but... don't you think I deserve a little compensation?"
Her gaze dropped to his lips. "And you haven't finished your breakfast either. You must be hungry. A growing boy needs his nutrients."
She withdrew her foot, and Jerry nearly slumped. But before he could breathe, McGonagall spun and hopped onto the edge of her heavy desk. Her robes fell open, revealing her grey skirt hitched up high.
She spread her legs wide, resting her heels on the edge of the desk. The view was staggering. Black silk stockings were held up by taut garters that bit into the flesh of her inner thighs. At the apex, a tiny scrap of black lace struggled to contain her. Through the lace, Jerry could see the dark shadow of her bush and the glistening pink of her folds.
"Professor... I have class," Jerry stammered, his throat dry.
"Classes can be made up," she purred. "But a missed meal is a tragedy."
Suddenly, her legs snapped forward like a trap. Her right leg hooked around his neck, and her left pressed into his back, pulling him violently forward. Jerry's face slammed into the heat of her crotch. His nose was buried in the damp lace, the scent of a mature, aroused woman flooding his senses.
"Since your mouth likes to go out for 'big meals' with pretty students," McGonagall panted, her voice thick with desire, "let's put it to better use."
Jerry stopped struggling. He realized she was jealous. He leaned in, his tongue darting out to trace a circle over the wet lace covering her clitoris.
"Mmm..." McGonagall let out a muffled moan. Her thighs tightened like a vise around his head, grinding his face deeper into her valley.
Jerry grew bolder. He used his tongue to follow the patterns of the lace, sucking at the center where the fabric was soaked through with her nectar.
"Ah!" McGonagall arched her back, her fingers digging into the desk. She began to thrust her hips rhythmically against his mouth, demanding more.
Jerry opened his mouth wide, taking the lace and the swelling bud beneath it between his teeth, nibbling and sucking with primal hunger.
"More... harder..." she hissed.
Her hand reached down, hooking into the lace and pulling it aside. The barrier was gone. Her dripping core was fully exposed, the sensitive pearl quivering and weeping. Jerry lunged forward, his tongue lashing against her, drinking her in.
The office was filled with the rhythmic, wet sounds of his licking and her short, sharp gasps.
"You little brat... making your professor lose her mind..." she gasped, her legs shaking. "Is this what you did to Fiona? You shameless boy..."
As the climax approached, McGonagall's body stiffened. "It's... it's coming... Open wide... take it all!" With a soul-shattering cry, she shuddered violently, a hot torrent of her essence flooding into his mouth as she collapsed into a heap of pleasure.
Minutes later, McGonagall sat up, her face still flushed. She looked at Jerry—and the wet marks on his face—with a lazy, satisfied grin. She reached out, wiped a stray drop of her own fluid from his cheek with her finger, and then slowly licked it off.
"Don't cause me any more trouble, Mr. Rosier," she said, her voice regaining its sharp, professional edge. "And remember, detention in the girls' lavatory tonight. I want it spotless."
She looked down at the massive tent in his trousers, still standing tall despite the session.
"And if I ever catch you peeping through holes in the walls again..." she warned, her eyes flickering with a dangerous spark, "I'll Transfigure you into a statue and mount you on that wall for twenty-four hours. With this," she gestured to his crotch, "sticking out of the hole as a warning to every other unruly student."
She lifted her heel one last time, grinding it brutally against his engorged cock.
"Nnggh!"
She smiled at his grunt of pain, hopped off the desk, and smoothed her robes. In an instant, she was the stern Deputy Headmistress again. She tossed the parchment at him.
"Take your list and get to class. Now."