Early the following morning, damp and chilly white fog billowed up from the surface of the Black Lake, pressing heavily against the soaring spires of Hogwarts Castle.
The Great Hall was as raucous as a boiling iron pot.
Before the sausages and toast on the breakfast tables were even fully laid out, the arched high windows at the top of the hall were slammed open by a furious beating of wings. Hundreds of messenger owls swooped down like clusters of grey-black clouds, heavily slamming the freshly printed copies of the Daily Prophet onto the long tables, knocking over several silver jam jars and milk jugs.
Jerry sat near the inner side of the Slytherin long table, a half-filled cup of steaming black tea resting beside his hand.
Draco strode in from the door sporting two dark circles under his eyes, his suit jacket casually draped over his arm, his tie skewed around his neck. He pulled out the wooden chair opposite Jerry and sat down, grabbing the topmost copy of the newspaper and snapping it open with a crisp rustle.
The massive, gold-stamped front-page headline hit his eyes immediately: TERRORIST ZEALOTS BLOOD-SOAK MALFOY MANOR! ANCIENT PUREBLOOD FAMILIES SUFFER INDISCRIMINATE MASSACRE!
The main image of the entire paper was a massive moving photograph: Malfoy Manor's mostly collapsed, luxurious atrium billowing thick smoke amidst flames, the floor tiles littered everywhere with snapped beams and dark red bloodstains, old Greengrass carried onto a stretcher by attendants with crude wooden splints strapped to his leg and an ashen face, beside several minimalist silhouettes covered in white sheets.
"My father sought out the senior editors of six newspapers overnight."
Draco raised his hand, rapping his knuckles heavily twice against the gory photograph in the paper.
"Three full pages, entirely composed of firsthand testimonies recited by old Nott and Mrs. Bulstrode. It's written clearly in black and white—the attackers wore Auror uniforms and wielded standard-issue Ministry munitions, attempting to wipe out all twenty-eight pureblood patriarchs at the banquet in one fell swoop to seize wartime coordination rights over their family vaults."
Jerry stirred his black tea slowly twice with a small silver spoon.
"The effect is quite good."
"More than just good." Draco leaned forward, propping both elbows on the dining table, keeping his voice exceedingly low. "At six o'clock this morning, before the Wizengamot's emergency mediation session even convened, old Greengrass had someone forcibly sever the three covert procurement lines established by the Ministry's Logistics Department in Old Europe. Right now, those old bureaucrats from the Frontline Quartermaster Department are swarming outside their offices cursing up a storm."
A sudden, intense gasp erupted from the neighboring Gryffindor table.
Hermione Granger stood up holding an identical copy of the newspaper, the hem of her school uniform skirt swaying with the motion. With one hand bracing against the dining table and the other clutching the paper, she marched swiftly through the gap between the long tables, her long legs striding urgently yet steadily.
She stopped beside the Slytherin table, slapping a hand down onto the newspaper before Draco.
"Malfoy! What on earth is going on? The Daily Prophet says frontline extremist Aurors attacked the pureblood banquet—how is that possible? The Order of the Phoenix would never authorize such an operation!"
Draco raised an eyebrow, leaning back diagonally against his chair, spreading his hands.
"Miss Know-It-All Granger, those corpses lying in the photo weren't conjured with Transfiguration. If you don't believe it, you can go to the back garden right now and look; the official boots of those two senior Mobilization Department observers who suffered an 'uncontrolled explosion' are still hanging from the trees."
"You—"
Hermione's chest heaved furiously with anger, her full breasts straining tightly beneath her white shirt. She turned her head, those eyes usually filled with rationality and rigor glaring fixedly at Jerry.
She took a step forward, her slender frame bending down, resting both hands on the back of Jerry's chair, leaning in close behind his ear.
"What exactly did you do last night? Do you have any idea how long I waited for you in the underground workshop?"
Her voice was hushed very low, the warm breath she exhaled laced with herbal notes and a sweet bodily fragrance, puffing directly against the shell of Jerry's ear.
"Don't play dumb with me. The production lines were running full tilt, thirty entire vats of potions were filled, and you ran off to demolish Malfoy's house instead. Tonight... you'd better keep tonight's gathering in mind. Everyone will be there; if you dare stand us up, I will tear all your illicit ledgers to shreds on the spot."
Jerry reached out a hand, smoothly giving her fingers resting on the chair back a firm squeeze.
"How would I dare tear Boss Granger's ledgers."
Hermione scoffed, swatted his hand away, straightened her tie, and walked back to the Gryffindor table with her head held high.
Just then, a crisp metallic tapping sound suddenly echoed from the main podium at the front of the Great Hall.
Albus Dumbledore stood behind the massive golden podium, his deep purple robes adorned with stars swaying gently with the morning draft. Both hands rested flat on the podium, his withered fingers stroking slowly across the wood grain. Beside him, Professor McGonagall stood ramrod straight in an immaculate, tall black velvet robe, her mature, voluptuous figure completely wrapped within the garment, her expression cold and severe, showing no trace of the wanton madness and dripping moisture from last night in the Slytherin dungeon.
The commotion in the Great Hall subsided rapidly.
"Quiet, children."
Dumbledore raised a hand, pressing his palm downward. His voice was calm yet carried tremendous penetrating power, instantly echoing among the rafters of the vast hall.
"In light of the severe situation currently on the front lines, as well as the latest resolutions from the Ministry of Magic and the Department of International Magical Cooperation, I must announce an exceedingly important decision to you all."
Dumbledore paused, his gaze sweeping over the hundreds of students below.
"The Hogwarts Quidditch Cup, originally scheduled to take place this season, has been fully suspended due to wartime airspace controls."
Disappointed sighs instantly rang out from both the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables. Many Quidditch players slapped their forks onto their plates in frustration.
"However—"
Dumbledore raised his volume, his withered fingers pressing firmly against the podium.
"Through a unanimous agreement reached between the Ministry of Magic, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and the Durmstrang Institute, we shall, in this academic year, restart a grand tradition that has been dormant for centuries—the Triwizard Tournament!"
Boom!
It was as if a heavy bomb had been dropped into the Great Hall; the entire room erupted into total pandemonium!
"The Triwizard Tournament?! At a time like this?!"
"People are dying every day on the front lines, and the Ministry actually wants to stage a student tournament?!"
Several students from the Nott family stood straight up, slamming their hands on the table.
Draco sat opposite Jerry, his teacup suspended in mid-air, his brows knitted tightly. He glanced toward the podium and spat out a bitter curse.
"Those old bastards... this is completely on purpose."
"How so?" Jerry raised his cup and took a sip.
"Quidditch being suspended for airspace control is nothing more than an excuse." Draco sneered, grabbing a piece of toast and spreading butter over it with force. "The Triwizard Tournament requires gathering the elite combat talent of three schools, and invites officials from International Magical Cooperation to be stationed on-site throughout. They want to use students as shields to forcefully erect a 'neutral safe zone' inside Hogwarts!"
"A safe zone?"
"Exactly." Draco shoved the toast into his mouth, chewing with a loud crunch. "The front lines are an utter disaster, and the Wizengamot is bickering over wartime appropriations every day. Bringing over pureblood elites from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang under the banner of 'Youth Magical Athletics' allows the Ministry to smoothly funnel massive funds into the 'International Cooperation Security Budget'. The secret letter my father just sent said the old guard wants to use this tournament to push the wartime conscription age even lower."
Jerry looked up toward the podium.
Professor McGonagall happened to turn her head; her sharp eyes swept over the Slytherin table, pausing for half a second when they landed on Jerry. She bit her lower lip almost imperceptibly, pressed a hand against her towering, firm chest, and then averted her gaze.
Dumbledore continued speaking from the podium, his voice suppressing the surrounding discussions.
"The Goblet of Fire for the Triwizard Tournament shall arrive at Hogwarts on Friday evening. At that time, the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will also arrive at the castle via special Floo channels. Due to safety concerns, only wizards who have reached the age of seventeen will be permitted to submit their names for selection."
A chorus of dissatisfied wails from younger students instantly arose from below the podium.
Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, quill in hand, rapidly scribbling something onto parchment. She occasionally glanced up at Jerry, her long legs crossing restlessly beneath the table, her eyes gleaming with a poised, ready-to-unleash light.
After breakfast concluded, students flooded out of the Great Hall in groups, discussing the sudden revival of the Triwizard Tournament and the tragedy at Malfoy Manor everywhere.
Jerry walked slowly along the subterranean corridor, preparing to return to the Slytherin dormitories.
In the shadows at the corner of the corridor, a tall, slender figure suddenly darted out, clasping his wrist and pulling him into an adjacent abandoned potion storage room.
The familiar fragrance of sunken wood rushed to his face.
Professor McGonagall smoothly locked the wooden door, leaning back against the door panel with her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark green velvet robes were tailored tightly, accentuating her slender waist, and her long legs clad in black pantyhose were faintly visible beneath the hem of her skirt.
"Did you hear?" McGonagall got straight to the point, her voice low and laced with gravity.
"About the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Dumbledore reached a compromise with the old guard." McGonagall stepped forward, pressing both hands onto Jerry's shoulders as she bent down. "The front lines are desperately short on manpower, but the pureblood families are holding onto the supply chains in a death grip. The actual tasks of the Triwizard Tournament have already been secretly altered."
Jerry raised an eyebrow. "Altered into what?"
"The third task is set directly in the live-combat ruins near the inter-realm rift." McGonagall's face drew extremely close, her lips nearly brushing the tip of Jerry's nose. "They want to use these three slots to select candidates who will directly enter the frontline special assault squads. This is an encirclement targeting you, Jerry. Margaret and the Order of the Phoenix want to use the tournament rules to forcibly bind you to the arena, making you publicly shoulder the hardest bone on the front line."
"Isn't that perfect."
Jerry reached out and circled her firm waist, pulling her forcefully into his embrace.
"Better than them pulling petty schemes in the shadows."
"You still have the mood to smile!"
McGonagall swatted his chest coquettishly, her palm smoothly slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, kneading several times across his firm lower abdomen with practiced ease. She tilted her head up slightly, a hint of suppressed desire and concern gleaming in her eyes.
"Whatever this 'Eden' Hermione set up tonight is... you'd better restrain yourself. I don't want to see you unable to even hold your wand steady when you take the field tomorrow."
"The Professor isn't coming tonight?" Jerry let out a wicked grin, grabbing a firm handful of her perky buttocks.
McGonagall scoffed, her long legs clamping firmly against Jerry's thighs for a brief second before reaching out to pull the storage room door open.
"I have to inspect the courtyard security! I'll come settle scores with you all later!"
With that, she straightened her high collar and walked out of the storage room with steady strides.
As Jerry emerged from the subterranean corridor and passed the club activity room, Hermione was already waiting there. She wore a form-fitting grey wool sweater that perfectly traced the voluptuous, towering curves of her upper body, her small hands tucked into her skirt pockets, standing with her long legs pressed together.
Seeing Jerry walk over, Hermione took a step forward, blocking the center of the corridor.
"Are you ready, Mr. Jerry?"
Hermione held her head slightly high, her brown curls cascading over her shoulders, her eyes carrying a complex look of mingled pride and wantonness.
"'The Forbidden Eden' has been fully prepared. Eight o'clock tonight, the ancient greenhouse on the third basement level. No wands allowed, and no school uniforms allowed."
She drew close to Jerry, flicking her finger against his belt buckle with a light clink.
"Tonight... we're going to trample war and rules completely beneath our feet."
The stone gargoyle at the entrance to the spiral staircase at the top of the Headmaster's tower rumbled aside, revealing the narrow spiral stairs within.
Harry Potter tugged down the hem of his red-and-gold Gryffindor sweater and stepped onto the first automatically revolving stone step.
When he pushed open the heavy double oak doors, the temperature inside the room was noticeably higher than in the corridor.
Two resinous logs of pine burned in the hearth, crackling with pale purple sparks. Behind the desk, Albus Dumbledore was not sitting in his high-backed chair as usual. The old wizard had shed his elaborate robes adorned with silver stars, wearing only a dark grey, coarse knit vest, the sleeves of his slender arms rolled above his elbows, revealing wrinkled and age-spotted yet still sturdy forearms.
He was bent over, holding a pair of long-handled brass tweezers, focusing with immense concentration on a silver instrument puffing fine steam on a small side table.
The tip of the brass tweezers held a rice-grain-sized gear, emitting a soft click with his movements.
"Close the door behind you, Harry."
Dumbledore did not look back, his tweezers steadily inserting the gear into a slot on the side of the instrument.
"The humidity outside is too heavy, and this instrument for measuring the spiritual energy fluctuations of the Boundary River dreads moisture above all else. If the brass axles inside rust, I shall have to spend three full afternoons rubbing them down inch by inch with rust remover."
Harry pushed the oak door shut behind him, the latch falling with a muffled thud. He took two paces forward, his footsteps rustling softly against the plush patterned carpet.
He tossed the newspaper in his hand—twisted like a pretzel—onto the round table ahead.
The newspaper hit several thick, leather-bound tomes, sprawling mostly open.
"Professor, everyone in the Great Hall is talking."
Harry kept both hands jammed into his trouser pockets, leaning forward with his shoulders tightly strung. "Was the Malfoy family truly attacked by Aurors last night? And halting Quidditch just like that—why replace it with this Triwizard Tournament?"
Dumbledore finally set down the brass tweezers.
He straightened up, placed both hands on the small of his back, and stretched backward with force, a soft pop coming from his joints. He walked behind the immense lacquered desk, pulled out his chair, sat down, and pointed to the single armchair opposite him.
"Sit, Harry. Before we discuss how the world is falling into chaos, we had best give our legs a rest. When old bones stand for too long, the knees always feel as though needles are piercing them."
Harry did not sit down immediately. He ran his fingers through his messy hair in place, before finally stepping over a scattered roll of parchment on the floor, pulling out the chair, and slumping heavily into it.
The wooden chair scraped harshly across the stone floor tiles.
Dumbledore pinched a bright yellow Lemon Drop from a corked glass jar at the corner of his desk, popped it into his mouth, his cheek bulging into a small mound. He pushed the candy to the left with his tongue, then reached over and took the newspaper Harry had tossed, smoothing it flat on the desk with both hands, his palms repeatedly pressing out the creases.
"Wonderfully written, isn't it?" Dumbledore looked at the gilded lettering on the front page, an exceedingly faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Rita Skeeter's craft grows ever more refined. With just three adjectives, she painted old Nott as a tragic hero who bled his very last drop to protect his ancestral domain."
Dumbledore folded the newspaper neatly and set it aside.
He interlaced the fingers of both hands, resting them flat on the desk, twirling his thumbs in circles.
"Harry, what kind of person do you believe Jerry Rosier to be?"
Harry was taken aback, rubbing his hands against the seams of his trousers.
"He... he's very strong. Potions, Transfiguration, even Defense Against the Dark Arts—he's a step ahead of everyone. And he doesn't care about rules at all. Hermione manages those factories for him in the basement every day, and a third of the hemostatic potions on the front lines are shipped through him. Everyone thinks he's the leader right now."
"A leader."
Dumbledore repeated the word. He crunched the Lemon Drop in his mouth with a crisp snap, then swallowed it down.
"A 'leader' built upon selling Shield Charm plates, hawking high-frequency magic disrupters on the black market, and cutting private deals with the Malfoys and the old pureblood families."
Dumbledore stood up. He walked around the desk with his hands behind his back, pacing slowly across the carpet. The hem of his robes dragged across the rug, making a soft rustling sound.
"The masses are blind, Harry. When fire falls from the heavens and the casualty rosters from the front lines grow thicker by the day, people will not scrutinize what dirty money the person saving them holds in their hands. As long as they see someone who can smother the bombs and continuously supply hemostatic gel, they will hoist that person onto a throne."
He paused beside Harry's chair, turning sideways, resting one hand on the backrest.
The old wizard's scent of herbs mixed with pine smoke wafted forward.
"Yet Rosier walks a dead-end road. He has chained himself to the chain of self-interest of Malfoy and the pureblood families. Today in the Great Hall he forced Margaret to cough up fifty thousand Galleons; tomorrow he will have to hand over the equipment allocation rights of three frontline battalions to repay old Greengrass's favor. He is no savior, Harry; he is merely a shrewd merchant shoved into an armory by war."
Harry looked up at him.
"Then what about me? I attend classes here every day, practicing basic defensive charms, watching people die in the papers every day! Professor Dumbledore, why did you summon me here? What do you want me to do?"
Dumbledore did not answer immediately.
He reached for the slender wand of elder wood on the desk, tapping it lightly in the air.
From a massive brass stand in the corner, the dormant Pensieve floated gently into the air, landing securely on the round table between them. The silvery-white memory substance swirled like liquid within the basin, glowing with a faint pale blue halo.
Dumbledore touched the tip of his wand to his temple, drawing out a slender silver thread and tossing it into the Pensieve.
The liquid within the basin churned violently in an instant.
The imagery revealed the horrors of the front line: castle ruins incinerated by Dark Magic flames, corpses of Aurors strewn haphazardly in the mud, and that massive, continuously tearing purple rift of the Boundary River hanging in the sky.
Countless flying swords of Cultivators darted through the clouds like swarming locusts, while the wizarding defense lines on the ground collapsed backward step by step.
"Look upon this." Dumbledore stood by the Pensieve, resting both hands on the edge of the brass frame. "The front lines do not need a second Jerry Rosier. We do not need more arms dealers skilled in backroom dealings, nor do we need more pureblood alliances bound by fear and profit."
Dumbledore's tone dropped heavily, that overwhelming presence usually hidden beneath his gentle exterior instantly flooding the entire Headmaster's office.
"The wizarding world needs a god."
Shaken by the word, Harry leaned back, pressing firmly against the chair.
"A god?"
"Yes. We must forge a god."
Dumbledore turned beside the Pensieve, gripping the top of the armchair, looking down at Harry from above.
"When people are in despair, what they need is not rational analysis, nor complex political checks and balances. They need an unblemished symbol—someone untainted by worldly profit, uncorrupted by private pureblood collusion, standing at the absolute vanguard purely on courage and sacrifice. A sun that allows them to see hope in the darkest night."
The old wizard's fingers gripped the top of the wooden chair tightly, his knuckles turning slightly pale.
"Harry, Rosier brought the pureblood families together; he made himself the blade. And you must become the light above the one who wields the blade."
Harry shot up from his chair.
His movement was so abrupt that his knee slammed into the edge of the round table, jolting the brass Pensieve several inches sideways, splashing a few silver droplets onto the carpet.
"What?"
Dumbledore looked at the boy before him without a trace of anger.
He stepped forward, reaching out with an old yet remarkably large hand, pressing heavily onto Harry's shoulder. The searing warmth and weighty force from that palm felt as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over Harry's blazing anger.
"The scar is not your weakness, Harry. It is the most powerful charm in this world—the mark of love and sacrifice."
Dumbledore pressed his shoulder, easing him back down into the chair inch by inch.
"Rosier has gold, ruthless methods, and those shady branches of Dark Magic. But he has no faith. Everything he does pushes this world into deeper fractures of self-interest. The pureblood families might gather around him today for profit, but tomorrow they would sell him to the Heavenly Secrets Pavilion for an even greater fortune."
The old wizard drew a heavy roll of pure white parchment from his robes and set it down firmly before Harry.
The seal of the parchment bore the golden stamps of the Ministry of Magic, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang.
"The Triwizard Tournament was not organized for peace," Dumbledore said, looking down at him. "It is a colossal stage. A stage upon which all of Europe—and indeed, all who watch from both sides of the inter-realm battlefield—will be gazing."
Harry stared at the parchment, his lips trembling slightly.
"You want me to compete? But Professor Dumbledore, the age restriction is seventeen! I'm only fourteen!"
"The age limit is merely a rule written for ordinary mortals." Dumbledore gave a soft laugh, his tone carrying a rare note of cunning and ruthlessness. "The Goblet of Fire is an exceedingly ancient and powerful alchemical artifact; it recognizes only contracts, not age. As long as someone submits your name, and uses a potent Confundus Charm to deceive the Goblet into believing a fourth school exists..."
Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his body stiffening.
"You... you're going to put my name in yourself?"
"No, not I." Dumbledore withdrew his hand, tucking both into the wide sleeves of his robes. "Someone else will do this on our behalf. The Order of the Phoenix needs a major victory on the front lines, the Ministry needs to divert public attention from the tragedy at Malfoy Manor, and the pureblood families... the purebloods need to see you being pressured on this stage, thereby lowering their guard against me."
Dumbledore turned and walked over to the tall stained-glass window.
Outside, the dense fog over the Black Lake was slowly lifting, revealing the sodden lawns and towering castle walls below.
"Harry, I have taken part in designing the three tasks of the Triwizard Tournament. The third task lies within the ancient battlefield ruins near the inter-realm rift. There, you shall claim the victory that belongs to you. Not through backroom deals, nor through black-market weaponry, but through an open, righteous triumph witnessed by wizards across the entire world."
Harry looked down at his own two hands.
"What if I lose? What if I'm torn to shreds by those dragons in the first task?"
"You will not lose."
Dumbledore did not look back; his voice drifted from the window, as cold as a boulder wrenched from the earth.
"The Order of the Phoenix has spared no effort in forging this stage for you. Moody will clear away all extra-curricular interference in secret, McGonagall will teach you top-tier rapid tactical Transfiguration, and I... I shall be waiting for you at the finish line."
The old wizard turned, his silver-white beard catching the reddish glow of the hearth fire.
Harry leaned against the back of his chair, feeling entirely drained of strength.
Looking at this Headmaster who usually seemed benevolent and wise, for the first time he perceived an almost cruel, colossal will within those tranquil eyes.
On Dumbledore's chessboard, there were no students, no young boys—only chips, tactics, and the totems that had to be forged for the "Greater Good."
"Does Jerry know about this?" Harry asked suddenly.
"Whether he knows or not does not alter the greater board." Dumbledore walked back to the desk, picked up the jar of Lemon Drops, and popped another into his mouth. "Rosier is too clever. Clever people always like to calculate every variable into their formulas. But he forgets that human emotion and fervor never abide by formulas."
The old wizard patted Harry's shoulder.
"Return now, Harry. Get a good night's sleep. On Friday evening, when the Goblet of Fire spits out your name, remember to act suitably surprised."
Harry stood up.
He did not look at the newspaper on the desk again, nor at the Pensieve still swirling. Lowering his head, he stepped over the scattered parchment and debris, pulled open the heavy oak door, and walked out slowly.
As he descended down the spiral staircase, Harry heard the click of the door latch locking above.
Dead silence returned to the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore stood alone by the round table, tweezers in hand, holding the steaming silver instrument steady once more.
He inserted the tiny brass gear into the central array core bit by bit, his movements as precise as a clock that had run for centuries.
"Forging a god..."
The old wizard murmured to himself, placing a single drop of clear water atop the gear.
Steam billowed out, blurring the expression on his face.
The third-level basement corridor of the castle was far more humid and warm than elsewhere.
Piles of unremoved greenhouse loam sat in the corners; the scent of ripe orchids mixed with an earthy tang poured steadily through the seams of the heavy ironwood doors at the very end.
The sleeves of Jerry's black shirt were rolled above his elbows, his belt buckle loosened by a notch, his footsteps showing no urgency as he walked along the damp flagstone path.
Before he even reached the door, the Devil's Snare vine hanging to the left of the entrance suddenly twitched twice.
A petite figure hopped out from behind the vines, spreading both little hands to block the center of the corridor.
"Halt! Mr. Jerry!"
Liliana wore a yellow Hufflepuff knit cardigan, two yellow-and-black yarn cords dangling from the collar.
Compared to last month, she had visibly grown half a head taller; her calves exposed beneath her school skirt had lengthened into plump, shapely lines, though her face still held youthful, rounded contours. Most strikingly, the two heavy mounds of soft flesh on her chest stretched the loose yellow cardigan taut, the wooden buttons along the front placket straining outward, ready to burst at any moment.
Jerry stopped, shoving both hands into his trouser pockets, looking down at her.
"A Hufflepuff first-year running security for Gryffindor?"
"Hermione said Hufflepuffs are the most trustworthy and dependable." Liliana puffed out her chest, those two massive orbs swaying violently with her movement, nearly popping off the topmost button on her placket.
Pressing both hands against her bulging chest, she raised her chin: "No wands allowed inside 'Eden' tonight, no Dark Magic artifacts, and absolutely no dirty pent-up heat. I am the first checkpoint; a safety inspection must be conducted first."
"How do you inspect?"
"The Hufflepuff way."
Liliana reached up and unfastened the top three wooden buttons of her cardigan.
Free from the constraint of the knit cardigan, those two colossal, snow-white mounds sprang outward from her camisole. She wore no standard brassiere, only a thin cotton undershirt cupping them, which was now bared entirely to the air, heaving rapidly with her breath. She turned, pulled over a low stone stool meant for flowerpots, parted her thighs, knelt directly on the stool, and cupped those enormous breasts with both small hands, squeezing them forcefully together.
"Hermione instructed that Mr. Jerry carries the heaviest pent-up heat; most of it must be discharged outside the door before entry is permitted."
Jerry reached for his belt buckle and shoved forward, the sound of his zipper sliding down echoing clearly through the damp corridor. That massive, swollen, scalding shaft sprang out, dangling heavily in the air, thick veins coiling like roots along the shaft, the fist-sized coronal head slapping right in front of Liliana's face.
Liliana gaped, tilting her neck back slightly, kneading her own pair of snow-white breasts vigorously with her hands.
"Merlin's beard... every time I look at it, it feels like it's grown thicker. This isn't any botanical root; this is more absurd than a Biting Cabbage cultivated for fifty years in the greenhouse."
"Cut the chatter." Jerry placed a hand directly among the strands of her pigtails behind her head. "Aren't you going to inspect it?"
Liliana shuffled her knees forward, pressing herself flush against the roots of Jerry's thighs. Bringing her hands together, she squeezed her outrageously voluptuous breasts tightly inward, forcefully forging a bottomless snow-white cleavage. She then looked up, sandwiching Jerry's thick, rigid, scalding shaft entirely between that valley of flesh.
The scalding, yielding flesh instantly enveloped the stiff pillar.
"Ha... so hot..." Liliana whimpered, her face flushing crimson. She began to bob her upper body up and down, driving those massive breasts to rub back and forth along the shaft in rapid friction.
Squelch! Squelch! Squelch!
The wet sounds of skin smacking against flesh echoed across the corridor. Because Jerry's member was simply too thick and long, even with her squeezing her chest with all her might, the massive purplish-red head still protruded high above her cleavage; with every slide up and down, it repeatedly slapped against her round chin and lips.
"Didn't Herbology class in Hufflepuff teach you how to tend to large roots?" Jerry pressed down on her head, his waist beginning to thrust forward in short strokes.
"They did!" Liliana's mouth fell slightly open from the slaps of the coronal head, saliva trailing from the corner of her mouth onto her chest. "Professor said... the thicker the root, the more it needs the moistest soil to envelop it... and plenty of water!"
With that, she ducked her head, flicking her tongue across the seam of her breasts to slather generous saliva over the junction. She then squeezed the mounds inward from the sides with all her strength, warping the full orbs to clamp Jerry's shaft even tighter.
The pace of friction accelerated sharply.
White foam churned up by the squeezed flesh erupted wildly between them, mingling with her saliva, streaming all the way down the roots of Jerry's thighs. Liliana's body trembled violently with the friction, swaying like a young sapling in a storm, erratic moans tumbling endlessly from her lips.
"Clamping so tight... Mr. Jerry... you're going to rub my skin raw..."
"It won't rub raw!" Jerry slapped a heavy palm against her petite back. "Harder!"
Jolted forward by the slap, Liliana pressed her entire face flush against Jerry's rock-hard lower abdomen. She gripped her own breasts tightly, wringing them together with all her might, bobbing up and down madly as her massive cleavage ground squeakingly against his shaft.
After continuous friction lasting the time of an incense stick, the coronal head gleamed fiery red, clear pre-cum leaking from the slit to coat her chest.
"I can't... my chest is so sore..." Liliana panted, releasing her grip; the reddened breasts bounced apart with a soft thud, covered in indentations pressed by the thick shaft. Wiping the saliva from her chin, she looked up at Jerry. "The mouth... the mouth must be inspected too..."
Before Jerry could speak, she eagerly parted her lips, leaned forward, and took that colossal coronal head into her mouth in one gulp.
Slurp!
An exceptionally loud sucking sound burst in the corridor.
Liliana's mouth was simply too small; the corners were stretched roughly to their limits, deep dimples sinking into both cheeks. The moment the head bypassed her teeth, it jammed directly against the back of her throat, the intense stimulation causing her to gag violently.
"Mmh... gulp... ha-ah..."
Tears rolled down the corners of her eyes, but she held Jerry's knees in a death grip, refusing to back off, forcefully pushing her head forward another half-inch instead.
Jerry grabbed the roots of her pigtails with both hands, threading his fingers through her hair to control the rhythm of her movement. He began to thrust forcefully forward, the thick, rigid shaft prying open her oral cavity and pharynx, burying deeper inch by inch.
Squish! Gulp! Squish!
The sealed suction within her mouth blended with the harsh spasms of her throat. Liliana's mouth acted like a narrow, wet juicer, her tongue frantically writhing against the underside of the shaft, trying to accommodate this massive thing that far exceeded her capacity. Saliva could not be swallowed in time; copious silver-white fluid streamed down her chin and neck onto her exposed breasts, making a total mess.
"Sucking pretty hard, aren't you, Liliana." Jerry looked down at her suffocation-flushed face, pulled back most of his length, and then thrust the entire shaft back in!
Squelch!
The head slammed into her throat once more.
Liliana clawed red streaks into his thighs with both hands, muffled whimpers trapped deep in her throat. Her body went weak at the knees from extreme pleasure and suffocation, supported almost entirely by Jerry's hands on her head.
"About... about to come..." Jerry's voice dropped low, his abdominal muscles tensing sharply.
Liliana understood. Instead of pulling her mouth off, she pushed her head forward with every ounce of strength she had, burying her face into Jerry's pubic hair, opening her throat as wide as possible.
"Give it... give it all to me..." she begged high and thin between muffled gasps.
Boom!
Scalding, thick white cream erupted instantly in the depths of her throat!
Massive surges of searing fluid shot like high-pressure jets directly down her esophagus. Liliana's neck constricted rapidly, her throat bobbing continuously.
Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!
Loud, rhythmic swallowing sounds rang out one after another in the silent corridor. The volume was simply too great; even with her swallowing in desperate gulps, a fraction overflowed from the corners of her lips, dripping down her chin.
Holding her head, Jerry pulsed over a dozen times before gradually subsiding.
Only after a long while did Jerry slowly withdraw his member from her mouth.
Pop!
An extraordinarily loud popping sound echoed in the corridor.
Liliana slumped limply against the stone stool, gasping heavily for air with foam at the corners of her mouth. Instead of wiping it away, she obediently opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, showing Jerry her completely empty, cleanly swallowed oral cavity.
Gulp.
Right before Jerry's eyes, she swallowed the last remaining trace of fluid from the base of her tongue, letting out a distinct swallowing sound.
"Inspection... inspection passed..." Liliana wiped her chin with a small hand, tidying the disheveled yellow cardigan, an intensely satisfied smirk gracing her face. "Mr. Jerry's fire... has been left entirely inside Liliana's belly."
She stood up from the stone stool; though her calves were still trembling slightly, her hands moved nimbly. Stepping up to the colossal ironwood doors, she grasped the thick brass vine mechanism beside the frame and yanked it down with force.
Clack! Clatter-clatter!
The grinding of heavy gears sounded behind the doors as the massive ironwood portal slowly parted, opening a wide gap.
A suffocatingly rich fragrance of tropical flora mixed with warm steam surged from the gap, accompanied by the faint, playful laughter of women splashing in water.
Liliana pushed the door fully open, stepping aside to make an exaggerated, comical bow of welcome.
"Welcome to 'The Forbidden Eden', Mr. Jerry. Everyone inside has been waiting impatiently."