"My head... it's splitting!"
Harry Potter let out a muffled cry of agony, his knees buckling as he nearly collapsed to the stone floor. He clutched his forehead, feeling as though a white-hot branding iron was being pressed into his lightning-bolt scar. A sharp, searing pain stabbed deep into his brain, blurring his consciousness.
The world began to spin. The corridor walls and the ceiling twisted into a grotesque, nauseating vortex.
"Harry!"
Ron and Hermione lunged forward, catching his swaying body from both sides.
"Is it your scar again?" Hermione's voice was thick with panic. Seeing Harry's face turn as white as a sheet and the scar pulsing a violent, angry red, she made an instant decision. "No, we have to get to Professor Dumbledore. Now!"
"Right, only he'll know what to do!" Ron grunted, heaving most of Harry's weight onto his shoulder.
The three didn't hesitate. With Hermione leading the way and Ron half-dragging an incoherent Harry, they raced toward the Headmaster's office.
They reached the massive stone gargoyle guarding the entrance in record time.
"Lemon Drop!" Hermione shouted the password she knew.
The gargoyle remained motionless, its cold stone eyes staring back with indifference.
"Cockroach Clusters?" she tried again, her voice cracking.
Still nothing.
"Damn it! He must have changed the password, or he's not even in there!" Hermione stomped her foot, her eyes brimming with anxiety. Harry's body was getting heavier, and his low, rhythmic moans of pain made her heart race with fear.
"What do we do now?" Ron asked, his voice shaking as he felt Harry begin to twitch.
Hermione took a sharp breath, forcing her brain to work. "Professor McGonagall! She's our Head of House and the Deputy Headmistress. She'll have a way to contact Dumbledore, or at least she'll know how to help Harry. Quick, her office!"
The trio pivoted and sprinted down the hallway leading to McGonagall's quarters.
Jerry trailed behind them like a wisp of smoke, silent and invisible. He didn't have a clear fix on the Philosopher's Stone; the artifact seemed to be shielded by a powerful magical barrier. If he had known the exact location, he would have simply broken through the obstacles himself. He wouldn't have bothered using Harry Potter as a living dowsing rod.
Suddenly, Jerry's silhouette stiffened. He stopped dead in his tracks and pressed himself against the cold stone wall like a gecko. The faint shimmer of his magical accessories dimmed as he melded perfectly into the shadows.
A moment later, the air at the corner of the corridor rippled. Another figure, also cloaked in a concealment spell, emerged.
This newcomer's magic was mediocre at best. His outline flickered and wavered in the torchlight like a reflection in a disturbed pond. Through the distorted veil, Jerry could make out a lean, gaunt face with a prominent hooked nose.
Jerry recognized him: Professor Babbling, the Ancient Runes instructor. Jerry had never taken his class and knew little about the man.
Babbling's pace was frantic yet cautious. He stopped exactly where Jerry had stood a second before, his sharp eyes scanning the area. He had sensed the incredibly faint magical residue Jerry left behind when retracting his mana.
Babbling frowned but saw nothing. The wall appeared empty. To him, the primary goal—the Gryffindor trio—was far more important than a minor magical echo. He quickly resumed his pursuit, disappearing around the corner.
Jerry "oozed" out of the shadows, his expression turning playful. Who is this guy? A hidden guard sent by Dumbledore? A Ministry spy? Or a sleeper agent for the Death Eaters?
Ultimately, it didn't matter to Jerry. The mystery only made the game more interesting. He abandoned his direct focus on Harry and followed the wavering figure of the professor instead, acting as the predator behind the predator.
BANG!
Hermione burst into Professor McGonagall's office. "Professor!"
Professor McGonagall looked up from her grading, a sharp reprimand on the tip of her tongue. But when she saw Ron and Hermione hauling a convulsing Harry, her expression froze. The lightning scar was pulsing like a red, necrotic heart, emitting visible ripples of magical energy with every beat.
"Something is terribly wrong," McGonagall said, standing up instantly, her wand already in hand.
But before she could cast a diagnostic spell, her hawk-like eyes flickered past the students to the "empty" doorway.
"Who's there?" she barked.
Under the weight of her gaze, the amateurish concealment spell broke. Babbling's lean frame materialized. He looked shocked for a fraction of a second, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, murderous intent.
No words were exchanged.
"Fulmen Acutus!" Babbling's wand erupted with a bolt of red light, aiming straight for McGonagall's chest.
"Protego!" McGonagall's reflexes were peerless. A transparent shield manifested, effortlessly deflecting the curse into a nearby bookshelf, sending parchment flying.
The office turned into a battlefield. The two veteran mages traded spells with blinding speed, the cramped room filled with the thunder of explosions and the blinding flashes of combat.
Then, something far more terrifying stopped the fight.
"AAAGH!" Harry Potter let out a blood-curdling scream. The scar didn't just glow—it seemed to tear open. A deep, abyssal soul-vortex erupted from his forehead, radiating a sickening, thick negative energy.
The vortex acted like a black hole, swallowing light, sound, and air. Then, a massive spatial shockwave exploded from the center of Harry's head.
Everyone in the room—Harry, Ron, Hermione, McGonagall, and Babbling—began to distort and turn translucent. With a sharp pop, they vanished into thin air like popped soap bubbles.
Jerry emerged from the shadows of the corridor, staring at the empty, wrecked office. For the first time, his brow furrowed. That spatial ripple contained an ancient, chaotic coordinate—one that didn't belong to the surface world.
A forced teleportation?
Jerry didn't hesitate. He focused his mental strength, pinpointing the fading spatial trail. A second later, his form blurred, disappearing into a ripple of unseen energy.
The sensation of spatial travel passed in a flash. Jerry felt the floor vanish beneath him. He was in mid-air, falling fast.
He didn't panic. His hands moved in a blur, weaving mana into a cushion of air beneath his feet. His descent slowed until he drifted downward like a feather.
He scanned his surroundings. It was a gargantuan underground cavern. The ceiling was so high it was invisible, resembling an inverted night sky. There was no sun, yet it wasn't dark. Thousands of bioluminescent plants and creatures bathed the cave in a dreamlike, eerie glow.
Giant mushrooms, the size of carriages, emitted a soft blue light. Glowing vines draped from the rock walls, speckled with white flowers that twinkled like stars. In the distant shadows, massive silhouettes moved with silent, heavy strides, their glowing eyes watching from the dark.
Thump.
Jerry landed softly on a bed of damp moss. He closed his eyes, sending his mental energy out like a radar. He sensed the massive, ancient foundations of Hogwarts Castle far above him.
I'm directly under the school, he realized. A place not marked on any map.
He quickly locked onto the magical signatures: McGonagall's sharp mana, Babbling's cold, jagged energy, Harry's weak and pained aura... and something else. The long-hidden, pulsing resonance of the Philosopher's Stone.
They were all heading in the same direction.
As Jerry moved through the "Forest of Blue Mushrooms," he felt like he was walking through a fever dream. The mushrooms towered over him, their caps casting a surreal cyan light over the elastic moss underfoot.
He soon heard hushed, agitated voices. Jerry vanished behind the thick stalk of a mushroom, watching.
Five wizards in black robes and bone-white masks—Death Eaters—were standing in a clearing. They looked disheveled, clearly victims of the same erratic teleportation spell.
"Where the hell are we?" a tall Death Eater hissed.
"Shut up! Find Quirrell. He has the 'Key'," the leader commanded, his voice raspy. "And that brat, Potter. The Dark Lord's orders are to—"
He stopped. Years of combat instinct made him whip his head toward Jerry's hiding spot. "Who's there?"
His wand snapped toward the shadows. Jerry didn't bother hiding anymore.
"Avada Kedavra!" the leader roared. A bolt of sickly green light tore through the blue air.
It hit nothing but an afterimage.
Jerry appeared on the squad's flank. He didn't even draw his wand. He simply raised his hand.
"Sever."
The word was a cold whisper. Five invisible, razor-sharp blades of mana materialized and swept through the air.
The two leading Death Eaters didn't even have time to scream. Their bodies were sliced perfectly in half at the waist. Their upper torsos slumped forward while their legs remained standing for a heartbeat before collapsing in a spray of hot blood and entrails. The glowing moss was instantly stained a dark, steaming crimson.
The remaining three were paralyzed with terror. They turned to counter-attack, but Jerry was faster.
His fingers flicked. The moss beneath them, soaked in their comrades' blood, suddenly petrified into steel and shot upward. Dozens of jagged spikes impaled two more Death Eaters through the chest and jaw, hoisting them into the air where they hung, twitching in their death throes.
Only the leader remained. Overcome by fear, he tried to Disapparate.
"Bind."
The air turned into thick amber. The Death Eater was frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. Jerry walked up to him, ignoring the terrified eyes behind the mask, and reached out to grab the bone-white porcelain.
"Memory Extraction—"
Before Jerry could pierce the man's mind, a bolt of violent, ruinous magic blasted toward him from behind. It was a dark purple curse that hissed and corroded the air, turning the glowing moss black and withered.
Jerry moved as if he had eyes in the back of his head. He crushed the Death Eater's skull with a single squeeze of his hand and rolled to the side. The curse hit a giant mushroom, rotting a hole through the stalk and causing the massive cap to crash down with a dull thud.
Jerry stood up and turned.
A female figure stood nearby, clad in the same black robes and bone mask. Despite the disguise, her curvaceous, lithe body and the way she held her wand made her gender obvious.
"You killed my... pets?" her voice drifted from behind the mask, dripping with a sick, twisted sense of playfulness. "I suppose I'll have to find a... new one!"
Her wand became a blur.
"Crucio!" "Confringo!"
The two curses zipped toward Jerry from different angles, sealing his escape. Jerry didn't budge. He raised his left hand, and a high-density mana shield shimmering with runes appeared, absorbing the Cruciatus Curse. With his right hand, he slammed a palm against the ground, raising a thick stone wall that pulverized the Blasting Curse into dust.
"You have talent, little mouse," the woman giggled, her attacks becoming more manic.
She unleashed a barrage of dark magic: cutting curses, acid streams, and bone-shattering hexes. The mushroom forest around them was shredded into glowing blue pulp as Jerry danced through the storm of spells.
His rings began to glow. One shot out an ethereal chain, hooking onto a stone spire to swing him through the air; another created a slick patch of ice, allowing him to slide at impossible angles to dodge an explosion.
"Is all you can do hide?" the woman shrieked.
The ground shook as dozens of thick, thorn-covered black vines erupted from the earth like giant serpents, coiling toward Jerry to crush him.
Finally, Jerry stopped moving. He raised both hands, fingers interlaced, and pulled them apart.
A two-meter-long Greatsword of Pure Light materialized in his grip. It radiated a holy, scorching heat that turned the cavern as bright as day.
"Cleave."
Jerry swung the blade into the approaching flood of vines. A massive, crescent-shaped wave of white energy erupted. Everything in its path—the vines, the mushrooms, the solid rock—was sliced clean through. A massive trench was carved into the cavern floor.
The female Death Eater scrambled backward, barely avoiding the wake of the strike. She stared at the canyon Jerry had just carved into the earth, her breathing heavy behind the mask.
"That weapon... it's magnificent..." her voice trembled with a mix of madness and greed. "Soon, it will be mine!"
She raised her wand, and the massive stalactites on the ceiling began to crack and fall like a rain of stone death.
Jerry didn't retreat. He stepped forward into the rain of boulders, his light-sword carving intricate arcs in the air. He didn't bash the rocks; he sliced them at their weakest points, turning them into harmless rubble that flowed around him.
The woman charged. They entered a frantic close-quarters struggle—the clashing of sword against wand, the boom of point-blank hexes. Their figures blurred in the blue light, black and white shadows colliding in a violent dance.
After a heavy clash, the woman jumped back, chanting a long, jagged incantation. A terrifying amount of mana began to pool around her.
Now.
Jerry exploited the split-second window of her casting. He lunged forward, not in a straight line, but dropping low like a prowling ghost, circling behind her.
Her spell was interrupted. Panic flared as she tried to turn, but Jerry was faster. His arms, seemingly lean, possessed the crushing strength of a titan.
He locked one arm around her throat from behind, while his other hand reached down, grabbed the hem of her robes, and yanked them upward with brutal force.
The black fabric was pulled over her head, exposing her ample, firm buttocks tightly encased in black leather pants.
The woman shrieked in rage and fear, her body thrashing, her elbows smashing back to break his grip. But Jerry was like an iron shackle. He drove a knee into the small of her back, pinning her upper body down against the thick stalk of a fallen mushroom.
"You filthy brat! What are you doing?!" she screamed, her voice trembling as her body was forced into a humiliating, vulnerable arch.
Jerry didn't answer. He pressed his weight onto her back. The ruby ring on his finger flashed.
A cone-shaped object, carved from solid crystal and capped with a matching ruby, appeared in his hand. He took a moment to admire the way her voluptuous curves writhed beneath him, then aimed the cold, sharp crystal tip at the deepest, most private crevice of her leather-clad form.
"No... NO!"
The woman realized his intent. Her struggle became frantic, her hips bucking wildly to get away.
Jerry ignored her. He maintained his mountain-like pressure, holding her mature body immobile. He used one knee to ruthlessly pry her legs apart, then slammed the crystal tip into the center of her tight cleft.
RIP!
The sound of tearing leather was sharp. The tough material stood no chance against Jerry's focused strength. The icy crystal point, carrying the jagged remnants of the leather, drove deep and unhindered into the entrance of her most secret, untouched sanctum.
"AAAAAH!"
The Death Eater let out a choked scream, her back arching like a cat's. A foreign sensation—a mix of icy pain and a sickening, electric throb—shot through her body from the place she never thought would be violated. She could feel the hard crystal stretching her open, inch by agonizing inch, as she was forcibly filled.
Jerry gave her no time to acclimate.
He increased the pressure, twisting his wrist as the crystal plug advanced with relentless force. The soft flesh of her entrance was ruthlessly ground open, yielding with a faint, wet pop as the front half of the crystal disappeared inside her.
"Mmh... no... get it out... please, take it out..."
She began to plead incoherently, her voice breaking into jagged fragments of shame and violated sensation. Her hips bucked and writhed frantically, trying to buck the cursed object out, but Jerry's crushing weight made her struggles futile. Instead, her movements only served to grind the crystal deeper, making its presence even more overwhelming.
Jerry looked down at the heavy, quivering buttocks shaking beneath his hands, his face a mask of cold indifference. He placed his other hand over the first, gripping the ruby-encrusted base of the plug with both palms. Then, putting his entire body weight into the movement, he lunged downward.
Squish.
With a wet, sliding sound, the entire length of the crystal plug was driven home, buried to the hilt inside her. The sheer girth of the toy stretched her narrow sphincter to its absolute limit; from the outside, the skin was visibly taut, tracing the outline of the gem deep within her. The sensation of extreme fullness caused her to gasp, her eyes rolling back into her head as her body went rigid, momentarily forgetting how to struggle.
At that moment, Jerry pressed his thumb against the blood-red gem at the base.
Zzzzzzt!
An indescribable, violent surge of stimulation exploded like a volcano in the deepest, most sensitive reaches of her body.
"AAAAAAH! UNGH... AHH!"
She let out a scream that was barely human—a discordant harmony of agony and pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Her body lost all voluntary control, thrashing and twitching as if she were being electrocuted. Her legs flew wide, her hips heaving upward in a violent arch before slamming back down against the mushroom stalk.
Gushes of transparent nectar erupted from her untouched pussy, drenching the blue mushroom in a rhythmic, splashing patter. Jerry watched the mature body break beneath his tools, her throat emitting meaningless rattles, her crotch a muddy mess of fluids.
After a moment, a sense of boredom flickered across his face. He spat a mouthful of saliva to the side, a look of disdain far beyond his years appearing on his features.
Jerry climbed off the vibrating body. Standing tall, he gave the woman—who was still twitching in the throes of a neurological climax—a sharp kick with the toe of his boot. She rolled over limply, revealing a face distorted by sensory overload, smeared with saliva and tears. She was completely blacked out.
Mediocre looks.
Jerry lost interest immediately, not even bothering to retrieve the plug still vibrating inside her. Treating her like a piece of discarded trash, he grabbed her by one leg and dragged her warm, limp body across the moss, tossing her into a dense thicket of fluorescent fungi.
Almost the instant he finished, a pillar of magical energy several times more massive than before erupted from the cavern's depths. The entire underground space groaned and shook under the pressure. Jerry spun around, his eyes locking onto the source. He ignored the dying Death Eater and sprinted toward the epicenter of the mana surge, his body a blur of shadow.
As he cleared the last of the giant mushrooms, the view opened up into a gargantuan vaulted chamber. A chaotic, three-dimensional war was in full swing.
At the center was a clash of titans. A troll, three stories high and swollen by a Massive Growth Charm, swung a hammer carved from a solid slab of granite. Its hide was a dull grey, covered in dragon-like scales that turned incoming hexes into harmless sparks. It was a beast of near-total magical immunity.
Tangled with it was a massive Three-Headed Dog. One head tore at the troll's limbs, another let out deafening, morale-breaking roars, while the third spat streams of corrosive acid that sizzled against the troll's scales in clouds of white smoke.
Around these giants, the wizards fought. A dozen obsidian-carved, man-sized Knight statues from the Wizard's Chess set moved with mechanical precision, forming a line of steel. They swung stone greatswords and battle-axes, efficiently intercepting Death Eaters. Ron Weasley stood behind this stone vanguard, his face slick with sweat and terror, but standing as straight as a general, barking orders: "Left flank! Knights to the left, plug that gap! Don't let them through!"
Professor McGonagall was the eye of the storm. Her wand was a blur of steady, lethal motion. Every flick of her wrist brought a new transfiguration to life. The glowing mushrooms became hounds with razor teeth; falling stalactites transformed into diving gargoyles. She held off over half the Death Eater force alone, occasionally conjuring stone spears to trip the troll and buy the three-headed dog an opening.
At the rear of the Death Eater line stood the turban-clad Professor Quirrell, his wand raised high. A tether of invisible energy connected his wand to the back of the troll's skull. He was the puppet master.
The entire battle revolved around a small, unremarkable cellar door behind McGonagall. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger stood by the door, pale and trembling. Hermione clutched her wand, ready to act, but the scale of the carnage was far beyond a first-year's capability. Harry was doubled over, clutching his forehead. His lightning scar was burning with a blinding red radiance, seemingly in a painful, evil resonance with Quirrell.
Jerry slipped into the shadow of a massive stalagmite at the battlefield's edge, perfectly masking his presence. He didn't jump in immediately. His heightened perception spread out like an invisible spiderweb. He "saw" the hidden threats: at least seven assassin-wizards were coiled in the shadows like vipers. They were experts in concealment, but to Jerry, the cold stench of their Dark Magic was as bright as a flare in the night.
These were the real killers. They were waiting for McGonagall's mana to flag, for the moment her guard dropped, to deliver a fatal strike from the dark.
Among them, Jerry spotted a "familiar" face. Despite a Disillusionment Charm, he recognized the polite Professor of Ancient Runes—Professor Babbling. But the mana now radiating from Babbling was cold and vicious, bearing the unmistakable mark of Voldemort's inner circle. He was an elite assassin-spy.
The stage was set for a slaughter.
Suddenly, the Three-Headed Dog let out a piteous howl. In a moment of distraction, the troll pinned it to the ground with raw, brute strength. The monster's rock-like palm gripped the center head and gave it a violent, twisting wrench.
CRUNCH.
With the sound of tearing meat and snapping bone, the dog's central head was ripped clean off, dragging a length of bloody spinal cord with it. Blood geysered from the neck, painting the floor crimson.
"Fluffy!" McGonagall cried out in horror.
Her focus wavered. She lashed out, summoning stone spikes to impale the troll's side to save the dying beast. This was the opening the Death Eaters had been waiting for. The frontline casters doubled their output, and a rain of curses shattered the chess-knight line.
But as the Death Eaters prepared to swarm, the cellar door was kicked open from the inside. A dark, grim figure shot out like a bolt of black lightning.
Snape.
He didn't waste a breath. His wand moved like a phantom, unleashing a fan of silent, lethal curses. The first wave of Death Eaters dropped like dolls with their strings cut, dead before they hit the ground.
Snape's intervention was cold and efficient, but as he moved to press the advantage, the true trap sprung. Seven lethal spells from the hidden assassins converged on him at once. One of them, a high-penetration curse from above, came from Professor Babbling.
Snape felt the danger and layered his defenses, but the onslaught was too dense. In a series of violent explosions, his shields were shredded. Curses slammed into his body. He spat blood, collapsing to one knee, grievously wounded.
"Always so meddlesome, Severus," a raspy, dual-toned voice echoed.
Quirrell slowly unwound the purple turban, revealing the back of his head. There, a noseless, red-eyed, snake-like face stared out.
Voldemort.
As Harry screamed in agony, the snake-face opened its eyes and locked onto the shocked McGonagall.
"Farewell, Minerva," Voldemort hissed. Quirrell's wand tip erupted with a thick, sickly green light.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The bolt of absolute death shrieked through the air, aimed straight for McGonagall's heart.
At the moment the green light was about to snuff out her life, Jerry finally moved. He didn't reveal himself; he simply raised a hand. A power from an ancient, forgotten magical system gathered in his palm. The light in the cavern seemed to be sucked into his hand, plunging the area into a terrifying, pitch-black void.
"Void of the Departed."
Jerry spoke the forbidden incantation in a voice devoid of emotion. A silent, pitch-black ripple expanded from him like a stone dropped in a pond. Voldemort's Killing Curse hit the ripple and vanished like a drop of water in ink.
The massive troll, caught in the wave, froze. Its grey skin lost its luster, its life force sucked out instantly. It turned into a perfect stone statue before crumbling into fine grey ash in a sudden breeze. The Death Eaters and the hidden assassins—including Professor Babbling—were caught as well. Their flesh withered like mummies aged a thousand years, their bones turning to black powder. The spell killed everyone Jerry defined as an "enemy" without distinction.
Only Voldemort reacted. Sensing the soul-shredding power, he abandoned his attack on McGonagall and shrieked, "Secto!" He fired a burst of raw energy to cut a hole in the death-field, barely carving out a small pocket of safety for his tattered soul.
When the light returned, the battlefield was empty. Only Voldemort (as Quirrell) remained, facing the mysterious hooded figure walking out of the shadows.
Voldemort's red eyes narrowed. He had been focused on the terrifying spell, but as the figure approached, a familiar, ancient bloodline resonance touched his tattered senses.
Rosier!
It was the blood of the Rosier family, but purer—older—as if it came directly from the source of the clan.
Voldemort looked at the wounded Snape, the frantic McGonagall throwing the unconscious students into the cellar, and the hooded Jerry. He let out a chilling rasp.
"A scavenger of the Rosier line... a traitor for love... and Dumbledore's favorite pet... today, you all die."
The attack was relentless. Voldemort didn't care about Quirrell's life. Snape fired a silent hex that blew apart Quirrell's left shoulder, but Voldemort didn't flinch. He used the momentum to aim at the most vulnerable target: McGonagall.
"Crucio!"
The red light missed as McGonagall rolled behind a rock. Snape and McGonagall retaliated—Snape with jagged dark hexes and McGonagall with a pride of stone panthers.
Jerry's attack was different. He used no wand. He hammered Quirrell's mind with raw telepathic force while firing soul-piercing bolts of dark energy from his other hand.
The battle was a whirlwind of fire and stone. Voldemort laughed, using Quirrell's body like an unbreakable machine. He ignored pain, ignored wounds. He took a dark arrow from Jerry through his gut just to find an opening.
"Sectumsempra!" Voldemort roared, using Snape's own spell against his ally.
The invisible blade shattered Snape's weakened shield and carved a deep, horrific trench across his chest. Snape was thrown back against the wall, falling into unconsciousness.
The pressure shifted to McGonagall and Jerry. Voldemort rained curses down on the Professor until her magic stuttered. A blasting curse hit her leg with a sickening crack. She collapsed, unable to stand.
"Die!" Voldemort shrieked, aiming a finishing blow at her.
Jerry vanished and reappeared in front of her, using his own body as a shield.
Squelch!
It wasn't a killing curse, but a vicious, high-powered shredding hex. It hit Jerry's left side. His body from shoulder to hip was torn open—flesh, bone, and organs pulverized by the mana. His left side was nearly detached, hanging by a few threads of muscle and spine.
But Jerry didn't fall. He stepped forward into the blast, closing the distance until he was inches from Quirrell's face. He raised his intact right hand, a spinning singularity of pure void forming in his palm.
"Soul... Annihilation."
He slammed his palm into Quirrell's chest. At zero range, there was no dodging. The soul-shredding power, backed by the law of a guaranteed critical hit, exploded.
"NO!" Voldemort's spirit was forcibly ripped from Quirrell's body. The physical form of the professor turned to ash in an instant. A cloud of black smoke shrieked in agony before fleeing the cavern.
With Voldemort gone, Jerry's strength failed. He collapsed backward.
McGonagall crawled to him, sobbing, pulling his mangled body into her lap. She pulled back his hood, seeing his face white as paper, blood bubbling from his lips. Seeing him nearly torn in two, a scream of pure, unadulterated agony ripped from her throat—a sound that didn't belong to the stoic Minerva McGonagall.
"Cough... cough..."
Jerry hacked up a piece of lung. He raised his trembling right hand toward a glowing red stone sitting in the ashes of Quirrell's body.
"The Stone..."
McGonagall's crying stopped. A lifeline. The Philosopher's Stone. Nicholas Flamel's elixir of life. The most powerful life-force in the world.
She didn't hesitate. She scooped up Jerry and the stone, staggering into the cellar and down into the deepest ritual chamber. It was a circular room covered in dizzying alchemical runes. At the center was a stone altar.
She laid Jerry flat. She took her wand and placed it in a slot in the floor, then jammed the Philosopher's Stone into the heart of the array. Chanting in a voice thick with tears, she sliced her own palm, letting her blood complete the circuit.
HUMMM.
The chamber ignited with golden light. Thousands of motes of gold gathered on Jerry's body. The miracle began. The horrific, gaping wounds began to knit. Bone fused, organs regenerated, and new skin wove itself over the damage.
In the process, Jerry's blood-soaked, ruined robes were vaporized by the alchemical energy. Soon, a perfect, unblemished boy lay naked on the altar, his skin glowing with health.
Because the array only reconstructed living tissue, he remained entirely bare. Beneath his flat belly, his massive, thick cock—a symbol of his burgeoning vitality—swayed gently with the ebb and flow of the mana tides between his thighs.
As the light faded, Jerry's eyes fluttered open. They were clear, bright, and held a spark of mischievous victory.
"Professor..." he rasped.
McGonagall's fear turned into a roaring flame of relief, followed immediately by a fierce, protective maternal rage. The little brat... he had dared to throw his life away for her.
Her eyes drifted down his body, past his chest, past his navel, until they locked onto that heavy, warm meat.
She reached out and wrapped her fingers firmly around his thick shaft. The sheer size of it filled her hand completely.
"Ugh... Professor!"
McGonagall didn't let go. She squeezed her fingers shut, feeling the throb of his pulse against her palm. She gave the organ a sharp, punishing twist.
"Never... never again," she hissed, her voice shaking with unshed tears.
It was a hard, painful wrench, making Jerry's body arch off the altar, but he didn't cry out. He just let out a low, soft chuckle. In her rough grip and the heat of her palm, he felt the tidal wave of emotion she was trying to hide.
"Yes, Professor."
"Professor?"
"Mmm..."