In the corner of the shadows, the magically imprisoned mountain troll let out a heavy, irritable grunt.
Heavy iron chains tightened with every futile struggle, creating the "clink-clank" of grinding metal. A thick stench—a mixture of filth, sweat, and primal beast—filled the narrow stone chamber, enough to suffocate anyone of sound mind.
Quirrell, however, just stood there silently, his face devoid of expression.
He was deaf to the nauseating smell and blind to the troll's occasional outbursts that shook the very walls. His eyes rested vacantly on the troll's massive, stupid frame, but his focus seemed to be somewhere much deeper, much further away.
In his ears, various voices intertwined and echoed like countless tiny vipers hissing as they bored into his brain.
"...Useless... even a brainless beast like this took you so long to smuggle in... Quirrell, your incompetence truly leaves me breathless..."
It was a raspy, cold voice, filled with deep-seated hatred, echoing directly within the depths of his soul.
"Add another Silencing Charm, you fool! Do you want Filch's damned cat to smell its way here?" another sharp and impatient command snapped, full of condescending contempt.
"Look at it... what a stupid creation... big and useless... Dumbledore loves using these low-class things to guard his secrets... he's old... his taste has become as degenerate as these animals..."
This was a mocking sneer filled with endless malice.
The voices swirled continuously in Quirrell's mind, gnawing at his will, demanding he execute various trivial yet precise instructions while mercilessly ridiculing his every sluggish movement. Any wizard subjected to such mental torture for long would have crumbled into madness.
But on Quirrell's face, there was only a constant smile.
That smile was frozen stiffly at the corners of his lips, as if carved there with a knife, devoid of any genuine emotion. There was no mirth in his eyes, only a dead silence and hollow obedience.
Finally, glancing one last time at the imprisoned behemoth, that fixed smile slowly faded from Quirrell's face, like the tide receding to leave behind a beach of emptiness and desolation.
Quirrell's muscles seemed to remember how to tense, how to twitch. His shoulders slumped slightly, and the void in his eyes was replaced with a perfectly calibrated mix of cowardice and panic.
He raised a hand and adjusted the large, oddly-scented turban on his head. This movement was like a switch, toggling the hidden, cold executioner back into the stuttering, cowardly Defense Against the Dark Arts professor the world knew.
Quirrell turned and gently pulled the door of the maintenance cubicle shut. There was no sound of a lock; he merely tapped the crack of the door silently with his wand. A nearly invisible ripple of magic flashed, sealing the troll, its sounds, and its stench firmly within that cramped space.
Only then did Quirrell walk out of the room with his neurotic, slightly hobbling gait.
As he stepped into the corridor, illuminated by the bright magical torches, he looked exactly like the man the students knew. High-year students passing by merely cast him glances of bored contempt.
Who could have guessed?
Who could have imagined that this professor, who blushed just reading aloud in class, had just been in the same room as an adult mountain troll capable of tearing ten strong men to shreds?
And who could have imagined that the place he hid this fierce monster was the girls' lavatory on the second floor, used by the lower-year students?
Normally, this place was ignored by everyone except for chirping little witches. It was too ordinary, too routine, too... clean. It was precisely such a place that made for the perfect hiding spot for filth. That foul, massive beast, a symbol of pure violence and destruction, was now locked in a place smelling of soap and echoing with girls' whispers, waiting for the moment it would be put to use.
Crossing the castle corridors, Quirrell's cloak of cowardice isolated him from his surroundings. A cold wind blew, kicking up dead leaves. He tightened his turban, hunched his back, and walked toward the Forbidden Forest.
At the edge of the woods, in a clearing surrounded by ancient yew trees, several figures were already waiting in the moonlight.
They were not human.
They were tall and slender, wearing armor woven from living vines and leaves, their skin a pale green like forest moss. Their ears were long and pointed, and their eyes glowed with a faint light like fireflies in the dark.
The lead elf held a longbow made of white wood, its surface flowing with silver runes. His face was expressionless, possessing the calm characteristic of an ancient race—a mixture of pride and anxiety.
Forest Elves!
Quirrell stopped. The raspy voice in his head spoke again, dripping with unshielded disdain.
"...Pathetic creatures... willing to bow to a weaker existence just for a bloodline descendant... Quirrell, don't waste time. Get the knowledge we need."
"The... the th-th-things... I've brought them."
Quirrell spoke, his voice returning to its familiar stutter, though it was but a deliberate mask.
The lead elf stepped forward, his voice cold and direct like a forest breeze. "What we need are clues to find the Princess, not your empty promises."
"Of... of c-c-course... the Great Master... never breaks his word."
Quirrell pulled a black crystal from his robes. He held it up, and a flowing image appeared within: a silver-haired elf girl, imprisoned in a gorgeously decorated room without windows, looking haggard.
Seeing the girl, the elves' breathing quickened. Especially seeing her hair—which should have been gold—now turned silver.
A flash of pain crossed the lead elf's eyes, but he quickly suppressed his emotions. "Elania..." he whispered the name. "Where is this?"
"This is... the in-in-information... you need to pay the p-p-price for," Quirrell said. "The Master's patience... is limited."
The elf fell silent for a moment before finally taking an ancient scroll made of supple bark from a pouch at his waist and handing it over.
"Contained within is the method to activate the 'Earth Core Hearth' alchemy array deep beneath Hogwarts, and the locations of all the anchor nodes. With this, you can activate the array."
Quirrell took the scroll, feeling the ancient magic radiating from it. This was their true goal.
The Philosopher's Stone created by Nicolas Flamel was a top-tier alchemical artifact, but it wasn't a plug-and-play tool. It was more like a key or a power core. To truly unleash its power, it had to be placed into a matching, massive alchemical array capable of guiding and transforming its vast energy. And that array had been buried deep beneath the castle's foundations by the four founders a thousand years ago.
This was why, after successfully stealing the Stone from the Aurors, they had gone through the trouble of orchestrating this series of events to send the hot potato back under Dumbledore's nose. Because only here, at Hogwarts, could the Stone truly... be used.
"Excellent..." the voice in Quirrell's head said with satisfaction. "Now, give them the 'Prophecy'."
This command caused a micro-pause in Quirrell's movements. That wasn't just a simple clue; it was a carefully woven web of half-truths and lies.
"The Master's g-g-generosity... exceeds your imagination..."
As Quirrell stuttered, he pulled another item from an inner pocket. It was a flat piece of obsidian, its edges polished smooth. When Quirrell injected a sliver of magic, the surface lit up, and lines of ancient Runes flowed like living things, forming a short poem.
The elf leader's gaze was instantly drawn to it. As an ancient race, they were far more sensitive to the tracks of prophecy and destiny than humans.
Quirrell handed the stone over. The elf took it carefully.
"Silver tear of the ancient woods," "Bound in shadow, misread by the world." "In the place where black feathers fall but never fly," "Under a sky cold and unchanging." "When the young serpent sheds its mundane scales," "When the fledgling hand grasps the needle of fate." "Seek the soul kissed by the demon!" "He is the only key to open the cage, and the one who brings the prologue of destruction."
The poem wasn't long, but the information it contained plunged the elves into a dead silence. Their gazes fell on Quirrell simultaneously, hoping for an explanation.
However, Quirrell merely put on his trademark cowardly, innocent expression and shook his head.
"The Master's... Master's revelation... ends here. The rest... you m-m-must find yourselves... As for the t-t-truth of this prophecy... I believe you can tell for yourselves."
With that, he didn't linger. Clutching the bark scroll, he vanished into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest as if fleeing. Left in the clearing were the forest elves, their faces grim as they held the obsidian prophecy.
"Mrs. Malfoy, you really aren't being obedient at all!"
Jerry's suction grew more intense, his tongue like a nimble snake teasing the nipple that stood tall beneath the soaked fabric. Jerry even lightly ground his teeth against it, bringing waves of pleasure that bordered on pain.
Simultaneously, Jerry's fingers deep inside Narcissa's panties changed their rhythm. He was no longer just rubbing the sensitive clitoris; he hooked his middle finger and pushed deeper.
The warm, tight canal, aroused by its owner's passion, secreted a large amount of fluid, becoming incredibly slick. Jerry's knuckles scraped against the soft internal walls with a firm pressure, each movement accompanied by a clear, squelching sound that echoed between them.
Squelch... squelch...
Narcissa's breathing became ragged and scattered. She tried to resist, but her body was as soft as mud. Her hand, the one not holding the wand, pushed feebly against Jerry's shoulder, but it looked more like a beckoning caress. The cold light at the tip of her wand wavered because of her trembling arm, no longer posing any effective threat.
"Tell me, Madam!"
Jerry lifted his head slightly, his wet lips leaving her chest, leaving behind a dark water stain.
"That package... it's Nicolas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone, isn't it? Who gave you the mission to bring it into Hogwarts? What is the purpose?"
Jerry's voice was light but carried an undeniable command. Meanwhile, his finger found that hidden protrusion inside her and pressed down hard.
"Ah... ahh..." Narcissa could no longer suppress the moans in her throat.
Pleasure, like a bursting dam, crushed the last of her reason. Her legs felt weak, nearly unable to support her; she could only lean against the hard door behind her and the small body in front of her for support.
"I... I don't know..." Narcissa's voice was broken and raspy, thick with panting and sobs. "I really... don't know..."
"You don't know?"
Jerry let out a soft chuckle. His free hand moved to her belly, tracing light circles over her robes. His movements were gentle, almost comforting, but his words were like ice picks. "If you don't cooperate, I can't guarantee that Mr. Lucius Malfoy won't suddenly receive... a memory crystal of how his wife was toyed with by a first-year student in a Hogwarts dormitory!"
The threat in those words was far more vicious than any curse.
Narcissa's body stiffened for a moment, then went limp again. She completely gave up her resistance.
"I'll tell you... I'll tell you..." Narcissa closed her eyes, appearing resigned. "I was only responsible for... bringing it in... and placing it... placing it in a hidden compartment in the third-floor restricted corridor... Just like... like last time on the train, when I hypnotized that three-headed dog... We... each of us... is executing a... different... unique mission..."
Narcissa's narration was intermittent, broken up by the movements of Jerry's fingers. The wet sounds grew louder, nearly drowning out her words.
"Like... like pieces of a... separated puzzle..." Narcissa tilted her head back, her slender neck forming a fragile, beautiful curve. "No one... no one knows... what the complete... plan is..."
"Good."
Jerry seemed satisfied with the answer. In his vision, a mist of pale pink intertwined with grey was rising from Narcissa. It was the manifestation of the afterglow of desire and fear. While the flow of the mist was turbulent, it was steady, lacking the violent fluctuations that represented a lie.
This proved she was telling the truth.
But cooperation didn't mean forgiveness. Especially since Narcissa had sat there so aggressively questioning him not long ago.
Jerry slowly withdrew his hand and stepped back. Once that small but powerful body left her, Narcissa was like a ribbon with its support removed. Her legs could no longer bear her weight, and with the "swish" of silk against wood, she slid helplessly to the floor against the smooth door.
Narcissa panted heavily, her body still twitching from the peak of the internal stimulation. Between her legs was a mess; bodily fluids mixed with sweat had completely soaked the lining of her expensive robes.
Jerry didn't look at her again. Instead, he turned to the bedside table and opened the drawer.
He took out two items.
The first was an exquisitely made leather mask, from the center of which extended a plastic rod of considerable size.
The second was a plug, much larger than the previous one, carved from an unknown purple crystal with an even more exaggerated shape.
When Narcissa recovered slightly from the afterglow of pleasure and saw the two things in Jerry's hands, a cold chill shot from her tailbone straight to her skull. She understood that this was far from over.
Her instincts took over. Pressing her hands against the cold floor, she struggled to stand, wanting to flee this room and this demonic boy.
However, she was too slow.
Jerry heard the movement behind him. He turned and saw the mature, curvaceous body trying to escape, a cat-and-mouse smile appearing on his face.
Jerry stepped forward, and just as Narcissa managed to stand by leaning against the wall, he reached out from behind and hugged her tightly. His height reached just to her lower back, a position that allowed him to easily regain control of her.
Narcissa's body froze at the sudden embrace, followed by a new round of futile struggling.
Jerry ignored her resistance. As if finding the most comfortable pillow, he buried his head deeply into the crack of her buttocks, covered by her silk robes.
Through the expensive, smooth fabric, Jerry could clearly feel the softness and incredible elasticity of the two mounds beneath him. After indulging for a moment in the fragrance of her humiliation, Jerry slowly looked up.
He didn't release his hold on her waist; instead, he tightened it, pressing her plump rear more firmly against his belly. His other hand moved up unceremoniously, flipping up the back of her silk robe.
The robe was crudely lifted and draped over her back, revealing the stunning sight beneath. The expensive lace panties were soaked from the previous encounter, clinging tightly to her rounded cheeks. Her long, fair legs were tense with nervousness, the muscle lines beautiful and smooth. Narcissa's exquisite high heels were now the most unstable support, making her teeter.
"No... please..." Narcissa's voice carried a sob; she felt the ominous intention behind her. "I'm pregnant... please... don't..."
Narcissa began to writhe more violently, trying to break free. But to Jerry, her struggles looked more like an aphrodisiac dance.
Unmoved, Jerry grabbed the edge of the soaked lace panties and ripped downward with force.
Rrrrrip!
The fragile fabric tore easily, crudely ripped away by Jerry and tossed onto the floor.
Now, Narcissa's entire lower body was exposed to the cold air and the burning gaze behind her. She could feel that gaze greedily roaming over her bare buttocks, her long legs, and the muddy area between her thighs. Intense shame made her face flush deep red. She instinctively tried to press her legs together, but the movement failed because of Jerry's grip.
"Stand still," Jerry's voice sounded behind her, cold and devoid of emotion.
With one hand holding her waist, he used the other to grab her ankle—shod in a high heel—and forced her legs apart, fixing her in a posture more convenient for his entry.
Narcissa was forced to bend over, her hands braced against the cold wall, her buttocks held high. This position made her high heels even harder to balance on. Her ankles began to tremble uncontrollably; she was shaking in humiliation.
Jerry looked with satisfaction at the lewd scene before him. He unzipped his pants, holding his savage rod, rubbing the tip back and forth between the two plump mounds, though he didn't enter immediately.
"Look!" Jerry whispered in her ear as he circled the large head against the tight, still-contracting entrance. "...It says it's warm and tight inside."
"No... I beg you..." Narcissa's voice was broken. "Really... you can't... it will... it will hurt the baby..."
"Don't worry," Jerry chuckled. "I'll be very gentle."
Despite his words, his actions were the opposite. Jerry guided the hot rod, aiming it at the entrance that was tightly shut due to fear and resistance, and lunged forward.
Plop!
Due to extreme tension, Narcissa's canal had constricted to the limit, as if desperately resisting the invasion. The large head was tightly squeezed and pressured, barely able to advance an inch.
"See how tightly you're squeezing it?"
Jerry's voice held a hint of malicious teasing. As he spoke, he began to grind and thrust inward with force.
"Mmm... ahhh..." Narcissa let out a pained moan, her body trembling violently. This feeling of being forcibly stretched was more terrifying and humiliating than pure pleasure. Her nails scraped against the wall, making a piercing sound.
"Hmph!" Jerry suddenly stopped, letting out an impatient sound. He seemed to have tired of the game of resistance, or perhaps he truly considered the fetus in Narcissa's womb.
Slowly, he withdrew the massive rod from her tight body.
Squelch!
With a wet sound, the large head finally pulled out. Narcissa felt as if all her strength had been drained instantly. She stumbled forward, nearly falling. But Jerry's arms remained like iron clamps around her waist, keeping her in that humiliating posture.
"Since the front is so unwelcoming," Jerry's voice rose behind her, carrying a playful coldness, "then let's change the location."
He released one hand and picked up the mask with the plastic rod and the oversized purple plug.
"Turn around," he commanded.
Narcissa didn't dare disobey. She turned around like a puppet, facing the boy who was not much older than her son. Her face was still streaked with tears, her eyes full of fear and pleading.
Jerry ignored her expression. He crudely strapped the leather mask onto her face. The cold leather against her warm skin made Narcissa shudder involuntarily. Jerry pulled the straps at the back of her head tight. The mask fit snugly over her mouth and nose, and that large plastic rod stuck out hard in front of her face like an eternal, mocking phallus.
"Open your mouth," Jerry said.
Narcissa instinctively clamped her lips shut. Jerry let out a cold snort, reached out with two fingers, and crudely pinched her jaw, forcing her mouth open. Then, he shoved the cold, hard plastic rod directly into her mouth.
"Mmph... mmph..." Narcissa let out muffled whines of protest. Having her throat blocked by a foreign object made her feel waves of nausea and suffocation. But Jerry's hand didn't loosen at all; he even held the base of the plastic rod and stirred it in her mouth a few times until she choked back tears, only then letting go.
The cold, hard plastic rod crudely occupied Narcissa's warm mouth. Her mouth was forced open to its limit, the corners of her lips aching from the stretch. That sizable plastic gag almost filled her entire mouth, pinning her tongue down firmly. Her cheeks were puffed out high, forming a humiliating and strange shape, as if she were a hamster forced to swallow food that didn't belong to it.
Deep in her throat, the tip of the plastic was pressing against her sensitive glottis. Every slight swallow triggered a violent urge to vomit. But the urge was firmly suppressed because she didn't even have room to gag. A sense of suffocation washed over her like a tide. Her lungs craved air, but her mouth and nose were blocked; she could only breathe in thin, meager slivers of oxygen through the gaps at the edges of the mask.
Physiological tears welled uncontrollably from her beautiful eyes, sliding down her cheeks. Everything before her became blurry, leaving only the boy's vague silhouette.
Narcissa's body trembled violently due to the extreme humiliation and physiological discomfort. Those legs in high heels could no longer maintain stability; her knees buckled, and she nearly knelt on the floor.
Simultaneously, a hot stream erupted from between her thighs, unable to be suppressed any longer.
Splash...
A clear, warm liquid flowed continuously down the inside of her fair thighs. It wasn't the love juice of arousal, but urine, as her body completely lost control under extreme terror and stimulation. It soaked the bare roots of her thighs, flowed past her knees, and then down her ankles, gathering in a shameful little puddle next to her exquisite high heels.
Having done this, Jerry's gaze fell on the forbidden territory behind her.
"Stick your ass up higher," Jerry commanded.
Narcissa's body was shaking violently, but she did as she was told. She braced her hands against the wall and raised her buttocks high. The deep crevice and the entrance—slightly open and showing pink folds because it had been stretched by a plug before—were now exposed nakedly to Jerry's eyes.
Jerry picked up the larger plug, smeared some of the fluids from her thighs onto it as lubricant, and then aimed it at the place that had never been truly violated. He didn't insert it immediately, but first used the rounded head to grind against the area around the opening, feeling the muscles there contract in tension.
Then, he straightened the plug and lunged with his hips.
Schlick!
The tip, which was more than a size larger than the previous plug, easily pushed aside the ring of soft folds and vanished halfway inside. Because of the previous stretching, this entry was much smoother than expected.
"Ngh!" Narcissa let out a muffled grunt. The sensation of her flower being forcibly propped open by a foreign object created a strong feeling of pressure and bloating in her lower abdomen. Her body arched forward, trying to alleviate the discomfort.
Jerry didn't give her any breathing room. He gripped the base of the plug and began to push the massive object inch by inch into her body with slow, firm force. He could clearly feel how the internal walls were being stretched and extended by the thick intruder. With every push, a faint squelch could be heard. Narcissa's body shook like a leaf in the autumn wind. The whimpers from her mouth were broken by the plastic rod.
Finally, the massive plug was completely buried in Narcissa's body, leaving only a flat base pressed tightly between her buttocks. Her entrance was stretched to its limit, appearing full and vivid; one could even see the inner flesh turned pale from the tension.
"See, isn't this much more obedient?" Jerry slapped her plump buttock, making a crisp sound, his tone full of praise as if for a perfect piece of art.
"Mmph..."
Narcissa had originally thought that her compliance and cooperation would bring this terrible ordeal to an end. She even had a sliver of hope in her heart—perhaps the boy just wanted to see her humiliated, and as long as his perverted desires were met, she could trade it for temporary peace.
However, she was wrong. After admiring his "work," Jerry didn't stop.
"No... no..."
Desperate, muffled whimpers came from Narcissa's throat. She understood his intention. Intense fear overwhelmed everything. She could no longer maintain that humiliating posture and began to struggle frantically. Her body writhed wildly, trying to break free from his grip. Her feet kicked aimlessly at the floor, her high heels making harsh scraping sounds on the boards.
"Unappreciative!" Jerry's voice went cold.
Just as Narcissa thought she was about to break free, a strange grey glow suddenly flashed in his deep eyes. It was a cold, deathly light like stone.
The Eye of Medusa.
In an instant, an irresistible force shot up from Narcissa's spine and spread through her entire body. She felt her whole body go stiff; her muscles felt as if they were filled with lead, and every joint lost control. She was no longer the master of her own body. The strength she used to struggle was instantly locked away by invisible shackles and vanished.
She lost all support and slid down, finally falling sideways onto the cold floor with a thud.
Her consciousness was still clear. She could feel the cold floor against her cheek, smell the scent of her own urine in the air, and even feel the hardness of the plastic gag in her mouth. But her body wouldn't listen to her at all. She could only maintain an extremely strange posture—her upper body lying powerless on the ground, face pressed to the floor, while her lower body, due to the stiffening of the muscles, remained arched high.
The fall also caused the massive plug that had just been inserted to be squeezed out quite a bit by the sudden contraction of her glutes. The purple crystal was half-exposed, forming a stark contrast with her snow-white skin.
Jerry looked down at Narcissa's completely defenseless form, a satisfied smile on his face. This time, without the muscle's autonomous resistance, the process was much smoother.
Squelch!
The massive head easily parted the soft lips, and with a wet sound, pushed into the tight canal. Although he still couldn't sink it in completely, this time he successfully entered more than halfway.
A strange sensation came from Jerry's tip. He could clearly feel his rod pressed tightly against the massive plug through a thin layer of the internal wall. It was a feeling of being sandwiched from both sides—full, solid, and doubly tight.
"Ngh..." Jerry let out a comfortable hum.
His entire upper body was almost draped over Narcissa's wide, soft back. Jerry's physique was that of a boy, after all, while Narcissa, as a mature and well-kept noblewoman, had a body that was plump and full of flesh. Currently, with Narcissa prone on the floor with her buttocks held high, that full, rounded rear and wide, soft back were like a most luxurious and decadent bed of flesh.
Jerry's arms wrapped under Narcissa's armpits, hugging her soft chest, pressing his body tightly against this "flesh bed." His cheek was buried in her hair, which smelled of expensive perfume and sweat. With every breath, he inhaled this mature female scent, tinged with the aroma of humiliation. Beneath him, the massive rod was enveloped by that blissful double-tightness, bringing waves of pleasure that almost made Jerry moan out loud.
Squelch... slap... squelch...
Jerry's movements were filled with malice and playfulness.
"Mmph... ngh... mmph..."
Although Narcissa's body couldn't move, her internal reactions couldn't lie. Under such repeated, tormenting, and precise stimulation of her most sensitive areas, pleasure was uncontrollably building deep within her petrified body. Her skin took on a beautiful pink hue, and her stiff body began to tremble uncontrollably at a very fine frequency.
Finally, under this extreme stimulation, a violent spasm erupted within Narcissa's body.
"Ngh...!"
Even with the plastic gag in her mouth, a suppressed, distorted whimper escaped the depths of Narcissa's throat. Waves of scalding warmth erupted uncontrollably; it was the most primal female ejaculation. The burning love juice instantly flooded the canal, making the rod even slicker.
Feeling this sudden, tight strangulation and the warm flood, Jerry finally reached his limit. He no longer withdrew but used all his strength to lunge into the deepest part in one go.
"Ahhh!"
Jerry let out a satisfied low growl. Within that blissful, melting opening, he jetted his long-accumulated fluids into her. The two mixed and merged in that tiny space. The small space seemed instantly filled to capacity, and unable to hold the extra liquid, after a fine spasm, it "glugged" and spewed the mixture back out.
Jerry enjoyed the afterglow as he withdrew his still-pulsing rod from her slick body. As he pulled out, with a soft plop, the white, thick liquid could no longer be contained. Following his withdrawal, it jetted and flowed out from the stretched opening, leaving conspicuous and shameful traces between her arched buttocks.
Jerry stood over her. The tall Narcissa was now just a lump of flesh that couldn't move beneath him. She lay prone on the floor, her head and face low, but her buttocks still held high due to the petrification of her body. The purple plug was half-exposed, looking particularly striking in her stretched opening.
Jerry used the tip of his shoe to gently nudge the edge of Narcissa's robe, which was soaked in urine and sexual fluids. He whispered, "According to scientific investigations, Madam!"
Jerry's tone was bone-chillingly calm and mocking, unbefitting his age. "Even if you're already pregnant, if there are outside genes..."
Jerry paused, enjoying the way Narcissa's pupils contracted with extreme fear, even if she couldn't move; the despair in the depths of her eyes was laid bare.
"...Then!" Jerry spat out the next words one by one, each word like a snake boring into Narcissa's heart. "Those genes are very likely to mix with the fetus's DNA. Meaning, in the future, it might grow up to look... very much like me."
Professor McGonagall, in the form of a tabby cat, crouched elegantly in a dark corner at the end of the third-floor corridor. This was one of the few places in the castle where she could find a moment of peace. The sensation of the cold stone tiles came through her paw pads, and the air was filled with the scent of ancient dust and the faint smell of oil paint from the distant magical portraits.
As a cat, she could clearly hear the tiny sounds of house-elves busy in the kitchen several floors below, and smell the faint, musty scent of cleaning agent left by Filch's recent mopping. This was indeed an excellent spot for a cat to hide and nap.
But right now, there was no sleepiness in her silver-green cat eyes, only deep alertness and scrutiny. Her ears twitched slightly, catching the nearly inaudible, low breathing coming from behind the locked door at the end of the corridor. It was like thunder rolling in the clouds—the breathing of a giant creature. The air also carried a thick stench of saliva and beastly musk—the scent of Fluffy, the three-headed dog.
Albus's "security measures."
McGonagall snorted inwardly with disdain. Placing such a dangerous creature in a school full of children, locked behind a door that could be opened with a simple Alohomora, was absurd. She could feel trouble gathering over the castle like storm clouds. And she, as the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, had a responsibility to see which way the wind was blowing before the storm hit.
Suddenly, her ears swiveled toward the other end of the corridor. An extremely light footstep, nearly blending into the environment, approached. The owner of those footsteps was clearly familiar with the castle and was trying their best to hide their movements.
It wasn't a ghost; ghosts didn't have footsteps. It wasn't Peeves; he was always noisy. And it wasn't Filch; his shoes always made a dragging, scraping sound.
McGonagall lowered her body, the tip of her tail twitching nervously, as her feline form almost merged with the shadows. Her pupils narrowed into slits in the dark, locking onto the figure slowly approaching through the gloom.
Jerry's silhouette emerged from the shadows of the stairs. His goal was clear—the Philosopher's Stone hidden by Narcissa. However, as he stepped onto the cold stones of the third floor, his pace faltered almost imperceptibly. A gaze, like a strand of spider silk, stuck to him from the darkness further down the corridor, filled with scrutiny and caution.
Jerry didn't immediately turn to find the source. For someone with sharp perception, the air in this area was filled with a familiar emotional fluctuation belonging to Professor McGonagall—a mixture of sternness, worry, and a hint of irritability. This emotion was like a thin mist covering the entire corridor.
He had been spotted.
Jerry knew it. He almost immediately guessed that the diligent Deputy Headmistress was likely lurking in a corner in her Animagus form.
Interesting.
A thought flashed through Jerry's mind. Instead of retreating, he decided to play along.
"Why has he stopped?"
Professor McGonagall was somewhat confused. She slowly walked toward the shadow, but the shadow suddenly moved. Moreover, the shadow was faster than she expected. Almost before she realized it, a force carrying a faint body heat grabbed her from behind.
McGonagall didn't have time to let out a warning hiss; she felt her body become light as she was easily picked up by a pair of strong arms. That feeling of being completely restrained and suspended caused a momentary panic in the Professor's cat-form.
"Got you, Professor."
A clear teenage boy's voice whispered in her ear, carrying a hint of mischievous laughter.
Next, McGonagall felt a series of light slaps on her rear. Those palms were warm and firm, hitting the tabby cat's rounded buttocks again and again, light yet filled with a teasing quality.
To a proud cat, such behavior was an insult. To a rigorous Professor of Transfiguration, it was a supreme humiliation. The burning sense of shame made her fur almost stand on end. As the warm palm fell once more, McGonagall could no longer maintain her feline form.
A brilliant silver light exploded in the dark corner. The cat's form rapidly stretched and expanded. The soft cat-buttocks turned into a firm, adult woman's rear in the final moment, and the hand landed squarely upon it.
Smack! A clear, loud sound.
The sudden transformation forced Jerry to step back and release his hold.
As the light faded, Minerva McGonagall appeared, her face pale then turning a furious red. Her usually stern and rigid face was now flushed like a cooked crab.
"Jerry!" she gritted out his name, her long index finger almost poking his nose. "You lawless little brat!"
Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving with anger. She glanced down at the place where the boy had slapped her; her eyes were practically spitting fire, yet her earlobes were uncontrollably turning red.
Jerry, somewhat disheveled from her sudden transformation, stood to the side with an innocent smile.
"Come with me!"
McGonagall didn't say more. She reached out and grabbed Jerry by the ear. The force wasn't enough to cause real pain, but it was absolute. Jerry's height barely reached her chest, so when his ear was grabbed, he was forced to bend over, following her footsteps toward a nearby abandoned storage cubicle in a humiliating posture.
Creeeeak. The wooden door was crudely pulled open. Inside were dusty old brooms, broken cauldrons, and discarded cleaning supplies; the air was thick with mustiness. The door slammed shut, and the narrow space fell into near-total darkness, with only a sliver of light from under the door outlining the clutter.
McGonagall leaned against the door, her chest heaving violently. Her stern face was now flushed with an unnatural crimson in the gloom.
"Mr. Rozier..." she began, her voice carrying a raspiness and instability she hadn't noticed. "You truly... have a lot of nerve."
Jerry was pushed back, hitting a pile of old sacks and stirring up a cloud of dust. Just as he was about to say something witty, McGonagall lunged forward like an enraged lioness.
She didn't use any magic. She simply grabbed the waistband of Jerry's pants.
Jerry didn't even have time to react before he heard a r-r-rip! His Hogwarts uniform trousers, along with his underwear, were crudely pulled down to his ankles. The cool air instantly wrapped around his lower body.
"Professor, what are you..."
McGonagall didn't answer. She pressed one hand on Jerry's shoulder, forcing him to bend over, then wrapped her other hand around his waist. She easily lifted him up, laying him face-down across her thighs. This posture put Jerry's face directly against McGonagall's belly, which was soft and elastic beneath her teacher's robes.
McGonagall sat firmly on a dusty wooden crate, her legs slightly apart. She wore thick robes, but Jerry could feel that beneath them, her thighs were encased in stockings—firm and smooth. His body was wedged right between her thighs.
And Jerry's massive rod, which was unbefitting of his age and already savagely erect from the excitement, poked right through the gap between McGonagall's legs. The burning head was rubbing against the sensitive inner flesh of her upper thighs through the thin layers of her stockings and underwear with every breath he took.
"Ngh..." McGonagall's body stiffened slightly as a strange heat rose from the friction. But she quickly transformed that sensation into even greater anger.
"I'm going to make sure you remember this today!" McGonagall said sternly, raising her hand high.
Smack!
The crisp, loud sound echoed in the narrow cubicle. A merciless slap landed squarely on Jerry's bare buttocks. A faint red mark appeared on the fair skin.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
McGonagall seemed to vent all her shame and anger into these sounds. One after another, she slapped him with full force. Jerry's rear turned from pink to a vivid red and even swelled slightly.
With every hard slap, her thigh muscles instinctively contracted, squeezing the massive thing that was rubbing restlessly between her legs more tightly. The rod seemed to grow even harder in this intersection of pain and pleasure; its head even leaked a few glints of clear fluid, soaking a small patch of her dark stockings.
McGonagall was completely immersed in this strange venting of anger and pleasure. But just as she raised her hand for another punishment, Jerry, lying across her lap, made a move.
He braced one elbow against her thigh to steady himself, then used his free hand to reach up with a speed and precision uncharacteristic of his age. His target was McGonagall's full chest, which was heaving under her dark green robes.
"Ngh!"
McGonagall's movements stopped dead. She felt her right breast being firmly cupped by a warm palm through the layers of robes and underwear. The hand wasn't large, but it was enough to completely hold her mature, plump mound. The sudden assault left her mind blank. Her raised hand froze in mid-air.
Jerry didn't give her time to react. His fingers began to squeeze, kneading the soft, elastic breast without mercy. He even used his thumb to accurately find the nipple that was already hard from the stimulation, pressing and circling it with firm pressure.
"Ah..." A gasp of a moan escaped McGonagall's lips.
The sound was like a switch. Her body shook violently from the unprecedented stimulation at her chest. She felt all her strength drain away; her legs clamped together instinctively, squeezing the burning, hard rod between them even tighter.
Squelch...
"You... let go... you little brat..." McGonagall's voice was trembling so much it lacked any authority, sounding more like a lover's whisper. She tried to push his hand away, but her body was too soft to muster any strength.
Jerry didn't let go; he doubled down. He thrust his hips slightly, finding the squeeze comfortable, while his hand worked harder. It was as if he had found a fun toy, kneading the incredible softness in various ways. The hand making trouble on her chest seemed to have magic; every squeeze and press sent waves of unfamiliar, terrifying pleasure deep into her body. Her resistance was weak—more of a caress than a push.
Jerry felt the incredible softness and elasticity in his palm and the tightening grip of her stocking-clad legs. He knew the time had come. He was no longer satisfied with just groping through the fabric.
Pushing off her thigh with his elbow, he surged upward. This move turned him around, changing him from lying across her to sitting astride her lap, face-to-face.
This change in position caused the massive rod she was squeezing to slide deeper into the crevice of her thighs, its burning head pressing directly against her most hidden, moist, and mysterious territory, separated only by thin layers of fabric.
McGonagall let out a short gasp at the sudden move. She instinctively tried to back away, but her back was already pressed against the cold door. She could only watch as the boy's face, filled with a predatory aggression, grew larger in the darkness.
"No... Jerry... we can't..." she whispered, shaking her head futilely.
Jerry ignored her. His hand, which had just been kneading her breast, flashed up to cup the back of her neck, holding her head still. His other hand braced against the door beside her, forming an inescapable cage.
Then, under McGonagall's shocked, ashamed, and watery gaze, he lowered his head and accurately captured her trembling lips.
This wasn't a gentle kiss. It was predatory and possessive. Jerry's lips crushed against hers with undeniable force. His tongue, like a nimble and cunning snake, easily pried open her teeth and surged inside, conquering her warm, moist mouth.
"Mmph... ngh..."
McGonagall's brain went completely blank. Soon, the only sounds in the narrow, dark cubicle were their ragged breathing and the wet, squelching sounds of their tongues entwined. Jerry hung almost his entire weight on her. His weight was nothing to her, but being completely dominated and controlled by a boy so much younger brought a dizzying sense of humiliation and excitement.
She could clearly feel his young, powerful heart beating thump-thump-thump against her chest. And her lower body was undergoing a sweet torture.
As the deep kiss continued, the hard rod between her legs grew even more restless. Jerry seemed to be unconsciously thrusting his hips in rhythm with the kiss. Every slight lunge caused the burning, hard flesh to grind heavily against the most tender part of her inner thighs through her stockings.
Squelch... squelch...
The wet sounds didn't just come from their mouths; they came from deep between her legs. McGonagall could feel waves of uncontrollable warmth surging from within, soaking her underwear even further.
"You little brat..."