The sphere of dead silence constructed of black particles expanded and contracted madly in mid-air, ultimately and forcefully suppressing the vast majority of the twelve explosive crystals' destructive energy within a cramped space of three square feet.
Yet the first wave of scattered toxic fire and shrapnel still swept violently through the side corridor of the hall like an iron comb.
The three heavy, carved wooden pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling on the right snapped upon impact; tons of stone beams and roof tiles collapsed with a deafening roar, crushing the row of leather couches against the wall to smithereens. Several members of minor families who couldn't dodge in time were buried beneath the masonry, their muffled groans instantly swallowed by the immense crash of the collapse.
Thick, dark red blood quickly seeped from the crevices between the floor tiles, snaking along the grooves of the rubble.
A severed left arm lay amidst the pile of shattered crystal, the gemstone ring on its glove still glimmering faintly.
The screams, coughing, and heavy thuds of structural collapse inside the hall blurred into a chaotic din.
Black smoke billowed toward the sky through the gaping breach, and night rain poured down through the opening, landing on scorched wood splinters and pools of blood, hissing with foul-smelling white steam.
Old man Greengrass lay sprawled beside the collapsed fireplace, his right leg twisted at an impossibly bizarre angle. Without even batting an eyelid, he reached out, grabbed a fallen hardwood table leg nearby, clamped it between his teeth, pressed both hands against his right knee, and twisted and pushed with all his might.
Crack!
The crisp sound of bone snapping back into place cracked across the floor tiles. A layer of cold sweat broke out across the old man's forehead; he spat out the piece of wood from his mouth, followed by a mouthful of bloody saliva.
Ignoring the excruciating pain from his broken leg, he pushed himself up from the stones with one hand and snatched the old wand handed over by a nearby waiter.
"Old Nott! Are you dead or not?!"
Two meters away in the ruins, old man Nott shoved aside a corpse pinning him down and staggered to his feet. His exquisite satin robe was burned full of gaping holes, half his face blackened with soot, marked with two bloody gashes sliced open by shattered glass.
He reached up, wiped the bloody water from the corner of his eye, pressed his two chicken-claw-like fingers firmly against the seam of his broken walking stick, and yanked hard, drawing out a six-inch-long pitch-black stiletto.
"When I took three Killing Curses in Grindelwald's army of Acolytes, the whelps who opened fire today hadn't even crawled out of their mothers' wombs!"
Old Nott kicked away the wreckage of a metal golem before him, his withered frame straightening; a heavy, chilling aura of intimidation instantly radiated from his body.
"Forty years. We haven't killed anyone in so long that even those filthy scum on the front lines who eat offal and resell arms think pureblood families only know how to balance ledgers."
Mrs. Bulstrode stepped out from behind a snapped stone pillar. She ripped away the torn hem of her skirt, revealing the tall leather boots she wore underneath. She fished a small silver vial from her robes, unscrewed the stopper, and poured all the liquid over the wound on her left arm; the wound instantly hissed with a sizzling, corrosive burn. Without even blinking, she slammed the empty vial heavily onto the ground.
Glass shards flew in all directions.
"Call our people. Summon every single private soldier our families have."
The lady pressed her hand against the family crest on the wall, the fresh blood flowing from her palm seeping into the stone cracks.
"The underground vaults that haven't been opened in thirty years—smash every single lock today. Bring out all the heavy ordinance shipped back from Germany back then; not a single crate stays behind."
Lucius Malfoy stood quietly in the center of the hall.
Several streaks of blood stained his white dress shirt; his right hand gripped that snake-head cane, the tip resting directly against the throat of the black-clad corpse on the floor. He lowered his head slightly, his fingers gently stroking the snake head, the expression on his face as cold as ice.
Draco supported Pansy as they walked over; Pansy had lost one of her shoes long ago, her bare foot stepping through the bloodstains on the floor tiles, trembling all over, yet biting her lip to keep from crying out again.
Looking at his father's back, Draco called out in a low voice.
"Dad..."
Lucius did not turn around.
"Draco."
"Yes."
"Go fetch the parchment from the entrance hall." Lucius's tone was as flat as could be, devoid of any fluctuation. "Write a letter to all twenty-eight patriarchs. Write only one sentence: Malfoy Manor's drawing room was bombed."
Draco froze for a second.
"Just that one sentence?"
"Just that one sentence." Lucius turned around, stepping on the black-clad assailant's wound, emitting a faint squelch of compressed soft tissue. "Tell them: whoever fails to bring their family's private strike brigade to the gates of Malfoy Manor before eight o'clock tomorrow morning will have their name struck permanently from the Wizengamot's roster."
Draco's spine straightened instantly; he nodded heavily, turned, and pulled Pansy along as they sprinted toward the side hall.
The dozen or so old patriarchs gathered around the perimeter of the hall stood up at this moment.
Some had blood dripping from their foreheads, some had broken wrists wrapped in torn cloth, but the weakness, evasion, and petty calculations that had been in their eyes were completely gone. In their place was an exceptionally aggressive, icy aura of death.
Old man Greengrass leaned on that snapped piece of wood, stepping toward Jerry one pace at a time.
"Rosier."
"Speak."
"Those four crates of sacred spirits left behind by the Olympian pantheon—I'll have my people unseal them tonight the moment I get back." The old man grabbed Jerry's collar, pulling Jerry right in front of himself, the scent of blood in his mouth puffing directly onto Jerry's face. "I'm not soaking arrowheads with it anymore. I'll have every Dark Wizard in my family mix it into virulent poisons, and produce a thousand bottles of high-potency splash grenades before tomorrow morning."
The old man pointed at the pile of shattered golem wreckage on the ground, his knuckles turning white.
"Those madmen from the Order of the Phoenix on the front lines want a war; we'll give them a war. But how this war is fought won't be up to them to decide."
Old man Nott approached as well, pulling a jet-black iron token from his robes and tossing it into the bloody puddle at Jerry's feet.
"These are the three private transport lines of the Nott family in Old Europe. Starting tonight, all of them operate completely outside the supervision of the Ministry's Procurement Department. Whatever you need—people, potions, or illicit Dark Magic artifacts—take this token directly to the black market to mobilize them."
Nott wiped the blood from his face, exhaling a breath tainted with a metallic tang.
"Grindelwald taught us one thing forty years ago: when these mediocre fools think they can hijack you with rules and morality, you tear down their rules, and shatter their morality right along with their bones."
The surviving waiters in the hall began clearing away the corpses in silence.
House-elves popped out from the cracks in the floor with shrill cries, holding rags and wooden buckets, attempting to wipe the bloodstains off the walls, only to be kicked aside by Mrs. Bulstrode.
"Do not wipe it!"
The lady shouted sharply, her voice reverberating through the vast, ruined hall.
"Leave it! Leave all this blood right where it is! Let every Wizengamot member who walks through those doors tomorrow morning keep their heads down and look closely! Whose blood is this!"
Sitting within the barrier formed by the Blood Butterflies, holding that empty wine glass, Yin Luo watched the scene before her with keen interest.
She raised her hand and tore away a dusty corner of purple gauze from her sleeve; her fingertips traced a light circle in the air, and the hundreds of Blood Butterflies hovering around scattered with a whoosh, landing on the corpses of the fallen assassins. The blood-red serpentine pupils on the butterfly wings flashed, and the assassins' corpses shriveled at a rate visible to the naked eye, turning into piles of bleached bones.
"Tsk."
Yin Luo crossed her legs, a large section of her long, slender thigh exposed from the slit of her skirt, her high heel dangling from her toes, swaying gently.
"Getting interesting now. Just a moment ago, they were a bunch of fat pigs clutching gold bars waiting to die."
She turned her head, looking at Jerry leaning nearby.
"Little pervert, how do you plan to clean up this disaster?"
Jerry casually yanked a clean napkin from a collapsed dining table nearby, unhurriedly wiping away the traces of black particles lingering on his left hand.
"This isn't a disaster."
"Oh?"
"This is the finest invitation."
Jerry tossed the napkin onto the floor, letting the blood-water soak the white cloth. He stepped over the rubble, walked up to that cracked mirror against the wall, looked at his somewhat disheveled clothes in the reflection, reached up, pulled off his bowtie, and casually unbuttoned the top two buttons.
Narcissa walked out from the side door.
The cashmere robe she wore was somewhat damp, clinging to her tall, slender frame; her neatly pinned blonde hair had partially fallen loose, hanging beside her ears. Holding a thick roll of black parchment, she walked over to Lucius's side and handed it to him.
"The three field observers stationed here by the Department of War Mobilization have been locked in the basement. They attempted to send messages outside using two-way mirrors just moments ago."
Lucius didn't even look up.
"Kill them."
"I've already had the house-elves snap their wands and toss them down the incinerator chute." Narcissa's voice was as flat as could be. "Their bodies are hung outside the iron cages in the back garden, locked together with the white peacocks."
She turned toward Jerry; her cool gaze swept over Jerry's exposed collarbones, the corner of her mouth curling into an exceedingly faint arc.
"Mr. Rosier, although the dishes at the head table have gone cold, I have already had the house-elves bring up those few casks of 1684 vintage wine from the deepest recesses of the cellar."
Jerry took a glass of freshly poured, dark red liquid from her hand and threw his head back, draining it in a single gulp.
The scalding liquor exploded down his throat, carrying an intense wild flavor and the aroma of aged wooden casks.
"Tastes good."
"For the Grand Wizengamot Conclave on the fourteenth of next month, do you need me to prepare a brand new set of battle robes for you?" Narcissa stepped close to him, reaching up to adjust his shirt collar—her movements completely natural, as if tending to her own son's garments, yet her fingertips pressed firmly against his chest in secret.
"No need." Jerry took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'll go wearing this exact set, covered in dust and blood."
Standing in the center of the hall, Lucius slowly drew the sword concealed within his snake-head cane. It was an exceptionally narrow silver rapier, the blade etched with ancient curse-breaking runes. He raised his hand and drove the tip of the blade straight into the crack between the floor tiles, letting out a crisp ting.
"Full mobilization of all twenty-eight families."
Lucius's voice carried under the breached ceiling amidst the mingling sounds of wind and rain.
"Tell Dumbledore, tell the Ministry of Magic, tell those madmen on the front lines flying the banner of the Savior."
He slowly raised his head, his face revealing the oldest, bloodiest arrogance and cruelty belonging to the Malfoy family.
"The accounts of the pureblood families will be settled starting today."
All the old patriarchs in the hall drew their wands simultaneously; beams of dark red, deep green, and pitch-black magical light soared into the sky, tearing through the thick smoke and night rain above the hall, illuminating the night sky above the entire Malfoy Manor as bright as day!
On the outermost edge, old man Nott coughed twice, sheathed the black stiletto back into his walking stick, and turned to look at Draco, who was stumbling back.
"Draco! Go bring out that crate of virulent Dark Magic scrolls your father has hidden away!"
"Ah? Grandfather Nott, that crate of scrolls was just inspected by the Ministry last month; they said it's forbi—"
"Go get it!" Old man Greengrass slammed his cane down near Draco's feet. "There is no Ministry of Magic tonight! And there won't be one tomorrow either!"
Draco wiped the bloody sweat from his face, spat fiercely, turned around, and sprinted madly toward the underground vaults.
Leaning against a broken stone pillar, watching this bunch of pureblood aristocrats completely descending into madness and awakening their bloodlust, the corners of Jerry's mouth curled slightly upward.
Yin Luo walked over, her long, soft arm naturally draping over his shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear.
"Nice acting, little pervert. Now that you've let this pack of wolves completely loose, how do you plan to tighten the leashes around their necks?"
Jerry reached back, grabbed the soft flesh at her waist, and gave it a firm pinch.
"They don't need leashes."
Jerry turned his head, looking at the clouds above torn apart by the pillars of magical light.
"They only need prey."
The fingers of Yin Luo's hand resting on Jerry's shoulder tightened slightly, her long, purplish-brown nails scoring several white marks into the fabric of his shirt.
She tilted her head, pressing her lips close to the shell of Jerry's ear, her voice kept so low only the two of them could hear.
"The array runes that detonated on that golem's chest—you altered them using that black Qi in your left hand, didn't you?"
Jerry didn't turn his head, reaching up to catch her wrist dangling in front of his chest, giving her soft palm a squeeze.
"You noticed?"
"This Seat has watched assassinations in the Myriad Demons Palace for centuries; a trick this blatantly fake can only fool that bunch of terrified old fossils on the floor."
Yin Luo scoffed, a trace of languid mockery in the corner of her eye as the tip of her shoe lightly nudged a pebble in the rubble.
"The angle that golem dropped from the skylight conveniently bypassed all the defensive blind spots of the head table. If those assassins truly wanted to blow everyone in this room to pieces, the first thing they would have thrown is a Soul-Burning Talisman from the Jiuyou Abyss, not these alchemical fireworks that look grandiose but can't even blow down a stone pillar. And when you came down from upstairs, your pace was delayed by a full half-beat; you were waiting for the fire to burn at its brightest before coming down, weren't you?"
"If the fire is too small, the effect isn't enough." Jerry lowered her hand, his tone tranquil and unbothered. "Besides, being half a beat late was because Mrs. Malfoy was clinging too tightly upstairs just now."
Yin Luo's long leg stomped straight onto his calf, the heel grinding with a bit of spite.
"Little bastard, you'll die in a woman's bed sooner or later."
Jerry raised a shallow eyebrow; ignoring the slight sting on his calf, he stepped over to the assassin's corpse whose chest had been incinerated by black fire.
The sounds of wind and rain were still pouring into the hall; icy rainwater battered the bloodstains on the tiles, diluting the thick, dark red into a pale watery pink that spread along the fractured tile seams.
Holding that narrow rapier still dripping with blood, Lucius Malfoy slowly walked over.
He stopped before the corpse, his soles crunching against the scattered golem gears with a crisp sound. Lucius looked down at the corpse, looked up at the massive hole torn through the vaulted ceiling, and finally, those cold, hollow eyes landed on Jerry.
Only two paces separated the two of them, and neither spoke first.
On the other side of the hall, old Nott was still loudly bellowing at the waiters to bring the deployment orders for the private troops; old man Greengrass was crudely splinting his broken leg with wooden boards, surrounded by an uproar of clamor and curses.
Lucius suddenly raised his right hand, poking the scar on the corpse's face with the rapier in his hand.
"This person's face—I saw it in the logistics registry of the Department of War Mobilization last month." Lucius's voice was very soft, mostly drowned out by the noisy commotion around them. "He is the older brother of a squad leader under Margaret; six months ago, he was caught by Aurors on the black market for reselling dragon blood. By law, he should be serving ten years in Azkaban."
Jerry looked at him.
"Mr. Lucius has quite a good memory."
"The Malfoys have always had excellent memories." Lucius slowly slid the rapier back into the snake-head cane, the locking mechanism letting out a crisp click. "A smuggler who should be rotting in an Azkaban cell, holding golem fragments from the Heavenly Secrets Pavilion, carrying twelve black-market detonator crystals, plummeted straight through the ceiling of my manor with pinpoint accuracy."
He paused, raised a hand to adjust the collar of his somewhat wrinkled white shirt, and raised his chin slightly.
"This matter sounds remarkably like the Department of War Mobilization and extremists from the Order of the Phoenix teaming up to launch an extermination strike against our twenty-eight families."
Jerry smiled, the amusement not reaching his eyes.
"It certainly sounds very much like it."
"Not only does it sound like it, but this is the absolute truth." Lucius took a step forward, leaning down, that aristocratic, pale face practically pressing right in front of Jerry. "At eight o'clock tomorrow morning, the front page of the Daily Prophet will write it this way. The bills in the Wizengamot will write it this way. Even if Dumbledore himself stands in the center of the courtroom and says this wasn't done by the Order of the Phoenix, no one will believe him."
Jerry looked at him.
"Mr. Lucius sees things very clearly."
"I see things clearer than anyone." Lucius sneered, a flash of calculating, ruthless sharpness passing through his eyes. "Old bones like Greengrass, Nott, and myself have suffered far too long without a justification to push back against the frontline conscription orders. We cannot simply say 'we don't want to provide money and troops'; that would cause the moderates in the Wizengamot to tear us to shreds. But now..."
Lucius brushed the dust from his clothes, pointing at the blood and ruin littering the floor of the hall.
"Now, they were the ones who struck first. They wanted to blow up all the leaders of the pureblood families in the deep rear and loot our vaults. We are merely 'defending ourselves,' and 'purging internal traitors'."
At this point, Lucius reached out and patted Jerry's shoulder, his palm resting heavily against Jerry's thin clothing with profound force.
"This play wasn't acted out delicately enough, Mr. Rosier. The anti-counterfeiting runes on the golem weren't even scrubbed clean. But that doesn't matter. As long as the people on the other side of the table need this bone, even if it's fake, everyone will scramble to gnaw it down."
"It seems you've saved me a great deal of explaining." Jerry casually tossed a small metal button from his pocket into the bloody water on the floor.
"No explanation is necessary." Lucius turned around, presenting his back to him. "Malfoy Manor lost a skylight, three hardwood beams, and seventeen pureblood aristocrats shed blood tonight. This price, in exchange for absolute initiative on wartime legislation for the next three years, is an exceptional bargain."
Leaning on that freshly bound piece of wood, old Greengrass limped over.
Draped in an old cloak stripped from some waiter, he looked somewhat comical, yet that blood-streaked old face was filled with cruel exhilaration.
"Lucius, I've had our family owls send out all the registries." Greengrass spat out the wood splinters in his mouth, not even glancing at the corpse on the floor. "First thing tomorrow morning, the nine pureblood branches in Old Europe will cut off all medicinal ingredient supplies to the Ministry's Logistics Department. I had them seal all the warehouses tight, using the excuse of 'suspecting internal assassin moles within the Logistics Department'."
The old man glanced at Jerry, grinning to reveal a few gold teeth.
"Jerry, you did damn well tonight. If your hands hadn't been fast enough to suppress those twelve crystals, I'd probably be having tea with my grandfather right now."
Jerry raised an eyebrow.
"A trivial effort, Mr. Greengrass."
The old man didn't care in the slightest where this attack truly originated. To him, the deaths of a few distant relatives from branch families in exchange for unfreezing his four levels of Olympian vaults was a massively profitable transaction. In the eyes of these old foxes who had rolled in the political mud for decades, the objective truth was never worth a knut; only the 'political stance' brought by the facts had value.
Narcissa walked out from the porch corridor, carrying an exquisite, dark-lacquered wooden box in her hand.
Her bare feet stepped across the rubble-strewn floor tiles, the hem of her cashmere robe sweeping through the air as she walked into their midst.
"The Floo Network in the main house has been reconnected." Narcissa set the box on the corner of a broken table, popping open the clasp. "In my capacity as Inspection Consultant, I sent an urgent express letter to the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The content contained only one line: Malfoy Manor has suffered an indiscriminate terrorist attack by extreme wartime elements; all magical order within three miles is under lockdown effective immediately."
She lifted her head, those cool eyes lingering on Jerry's face for two seconds, carrying a profound meaning only the two of them understood.
"Coincidentally, the two senior observers left here by the Department of War Mobilization were incinerated into ash on the spot by 'out-of-control bomb aftershocks' while attempting to forcefully flee the main gates just moments ago. No remains left."
Beside them, old man Nott burst into hearty laughter, coughing and wheezing as he laughed.
"Good! Blown up well! Those two fat bastards have been buzzing in my ears for three months; finally, some peace and quiet today!"
Narcissa did not smile; she pulled several jars of cold compress paste radiating a strong herbal scent from the box, handing them to Greengrass and Nott.
"The two of you, go to the back hall to dress your wounds first. The first batch of Auror squads will arrive in half an hour. By then, you will need to look sufficiently tragic, yet sufficiently furious."
Old Greengrass took the salve, smeared a thick glob onto his broken knee, sucked in a sharp breath of cold air from the pain, and cursed under his breath as he followed Nott toward the back hall.
Only Jerry, Narcissa, Lucius, and Yin Luo sitting within her Blood Butterfly barrier remained in the hall.
Lucius looked at his wife, then at Jerry standing to the side.
"I am going to the back to handle the private troop mobilization." Lucius straightened the cuffs of his shirt, his tone returning to that customary Malfoy-esque aloofness. "The second-floor bedroom has been damaged; do you require me to have the house-elves prepare a new guest room, Mr. Rosier?"
Jerry looked at Lucius's impassive face.
"No need, Mr. Malfoy. The moonlight is quite fine tonight; I am accustomed to enjoying the breeze on the terrace."
"As you wish."
Lucius turned around, leaning on his cane, walking steadily toward the back hall, his back ramrod straight, as if that blown-out skylight didn't even exist.
The hall grew quiet, leaving only the faint patter-patter of night rain dripping into the piles of rubble.
Narcissa walked over to Jerry's side, reaching out and gently resting her palm against his waist. The red marks kneaded onto his skin upstairs faintly showed beneath the cashmere robe, her breath carrying an imperceptible heat.
"He knows," Narcissa murmured softly.
"Of course he knows." Jerry didn't pull away from her hand, reaching back to clasp her slender wrist. "As long as the outcome is what he desires, he would even actively lock the doors upstairs for you."
A very faint curve hooked at the corner of Narcissa's lips.
"That is the Malfoy family."
Yin Luo couldn't sit there any longer. She dismissed the Blood Butterflies hovering in mid-air, stood up from the wooden chair with her long dress fluttering, and walked over in her high heels to stand before the two of them.
The purple-haired Elder reached out, yanking Jerry away from Narcissa's side, hooking her long arm around him to pull the frail Jerry flush against her full, tall bosom.
"Alright now, Mrs. Malfoy." Yin Luo looked down at Narcissa from her high vantage point, her blood-red pupils brimming with domineering possessiveness. "After tossing and turning for half the night, this boy belongs to this Seat. If you keep him with you any longer, he won't even be able to straighten his waist at the Wizengamot conclave tomorrow morning."
Narcissa didn't take offense, merely elegantly tucking her wet blonde hair behind her ears and taking half a step back.
"Since Elder Blood Butterfly has spoken, I shall not see you off." Narcissa bowed with a smile. "The soundproofing ward by the hot springs on the back mountain has just been repaired; I hope the two of you have an enjoyable evening."
With that, Narcissa turned and walked toward the spare rooms on the other side of the second floor, the sound of her high heels fading into the distance across the floor tiles.
Yin Luo looked down at Jerry in her embrace, pinching the flesh of his cheek with two fingers and giving it a firm tug.
"Little pervert, you laid out quite the scheme; you pass tonight. However..." She leaned close to his ear, the tip of her tongue lightly flicking against his earlobe. "This Seat's fire is burning very high right now; get to the hot springs and cool it down for me properly."
Held in her embrace, inhaling that mature bodily fragrance laced with dried perilla and old medicine cauldrons, Jerry tilted his head.
"The Elder commands; how could I dare disobey."
The night rain continued to drizzle; the dark red pillars of magical power above Malfoy Manor still stood tall, illuminating most of the sky in blood-red. And amidst this deliberately orchestrated ruin and bloodshed, a tempest set to thoroughly tear apart the structure of the wizarding world was quietly sweeping outward, fueled by this crude yet lethal performance.
Yin Luo held Jerry by the waist, her figure transforming into a streak of ghostly purple light, bursting through the night rain via the damaged skylight, shooting straight toward the steaming mist of the hot springs on the back mountain.
"Don't look at this Seat with that starved expression," Yin Luo's voice drifted through the night wind. "Once we get into the water, let's see if you can still smile."
The night rain on the back mountain had yet to cease; the humid, hot steam evaporating from the herbal hot springs still lingered in the air.
Within the secret chamber at the deepest part of the Slytherin dungeon dormitory, the windproof hearth on the stone wall spat dark red tongues of flame.
When Jerry pushed open the heavy lacquered wood door, before the latch on the outside could even fully slide into place, a tall, slender figure had already darted out from the shadows on his flank. Carrying an intense, familiar fragrance of sunken wood, that figure crashed straight into his embrace, forcefully pinning his entire body against the back of the door panel.
The wooden door slammed against the stone wall with a loud thud.
Minerva McGonagall gripped Jerry's shoulders tightly with both hands, exerting force in her arms, practically trying to embed his frail frame into her own bosom.
"You finally remembered to come back."
McGonagall's voice was hoarse and low, carrying an intensely restrained severity, yet the breath she exhaled was scalding hot. Looking down at Jerry from her high vantage point, her exquisite brows slightly knitted together, her slender fingers moved from Jerry's shoulders all the way up, clutching the hair at the back of his head in a death grip.
Back against the door panel, Jerry's hands naturally slid up her firm, narrow waistline, his palms resting against the flesh of her hips, giving them a squeeze.
"A professor lying in wait in a student's room in the dead of night—aren't you afraid of getting caught red-handed by Filch on his night rounds?"
"Cut the crap with me!"
McGonagall scolded him coquettishly, bringing her hand down in a heavy slap against his shoulder. The force wasn't small, shaking dust loose from Jerry's collar. She took a deep breath, leaned forward as if possessed, and clamped her mouth right onto Jerry's lips.
Her kiss was exceptionally domineering—the outright plunder of a frontline commander. Her wet, soft tongue forcefully pried open Jerry's teeth, frantically sweeping and spiraling inside, completely siphoning away the lingering, cool liquor breath from Jerry's mouth. Her full bosom pressed and ground against Jerry with her heavy breathing, the searing body temperature unique to a mature woman transmitting endlessly through the thin fabric of their clothes.
A long time passed before McGonagall pantingly released his lips, a silver-white thread of saliva snapping between their lips.
"The sound of the explosion at Malfoy Manor—I could hear it clearly across half of Hogsmeade!" McGonagall's legs felt somewhat weak; her body was plastered entirely against Jerry, her hands sliding all the way down his chest, directly unfastening Jerry's belt. "The fifty-thousand-Galleon orphan fund barely landed in your pocket before you ran off to the purebloods' nest to flip the table. Do you have any idea how sweaty my palms were while mobilizing backup forces for you in the rear?"
"The explosion wasn't my doing." Jerry smiled, raising a hand and delivering a sharp slap to her perky buttocks.
A crisp smack echoed in the quiet room.
"Stop playing dumb!"
Slapped by him, McGonagall's delicate body shuddered slightly; she let out a soft huff, but the movements of her hands didn't pause for a second. She deftly unbuckled Jerry's belt, her slender fingers tearing open the pants button, shoving his underwear along with his pants down to the roots of his thighs in one swift motion.
That massive object, already standing proudly erect, instantly sprang out, pressing solidly against McGonagall's lower abdomen.
McGonagall bit her lower lip, wrapping both little hands around it, her palms stroking back and forth along the thick, hard veins.
She took a deep breath; her legs went soft, and she knelt straight down onto the rug at Jerry's feet.
Lacking any of the airs of a frontline commander from her normal days, her dark green robes draped across the floor tiles, exposing a large swath of snow-white, plump, long thighs.
McGonagall wrapped both hands around Jerry's inner thighs, opened her mouth, leaned forward, and took that massive, scalding coronal head directly into her mouth.
Slurp!
An exceptionally loud, wet sound exploded in the empty room.
Jerry's member was simply too thick. Even with McGonagall opening her mouth wide, the corners of her mouth stretched taut, she could only barely swallow the head. The thick, hard flesh forcefully widened her oral cavity, pushing her cheeks out into exaggerated bulges.
Like a parched traveler finally encountering sweet rain, the tip of McGonagall's tongue frantically circled and sucked at the scalding slit. She contracted her throat, attempting to swallow this monster even deeper. But every time the coronal head crashed into the depths of her throat, it induced a violent physiological gag reflex.
"Mmh... gulp... ha-ah..."
McGonagall let out incoherent whimpers in the gaps of swallowing and spitting. Her saliva surged endlessly from beneath her tongue, enveloping the thick, hard shaft. Because her mouth was stuffed too full to swallow, massive amounts of liquid, mixed with the sweet scent of Jerry's pre-cum, slid wildly down her chin, dripping onto her exposed chest.
Jerry looked down, watching the normally dignified and rigorous Professor McGonagall currently kneeling between his legs like a ravenous woman, both hands clutching his buttocks in a death grip, frantically bobbing her head up and down.
He reached out, resting his hand on McGonagall's half-unpinned brown hair, threading his fingers through the strands, pushing forcefully forward.
"Professor McGonagall, weren't you quite majestic commanding on the front lines? Why can't you even swallow a single stick clean right now?"
Pushed by him, the whites of McGonagall's eyes showed slightly; her throat constricted again, lodging the coronal head dead tight at the entrance of her esophagus. The intense suffocation made her feet kick wildly against the floor, but not only did she not retreat, she hugged him even tighter, her little mouth acting like a water pump supercharged with magic, pumping frantically back and forth along the shaft.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Harsh wet sounds rose and fell within the room.
McGonagall panted coquettishly in the gap of pulling her head back, saliva drawing silver threads down her chin. She wiped the corner of her mouth, a flash of unyielding feistiness in her eyes.
"Think I can't eat it clean with my mouth, do you?"
She suddenly released her mouth, grabbed the collar of her dark green robes with both hands, and yanked forcefully to both sides!
The sound of buttons popping off rang out; the robes fell completely open, revealing the astonishing scenery beneath, entirely devoid of any obstruction. The voluptuous figure of a mature woman in her thirties gleamed enticingly in the hearth firelight; those two heavy, snow-white mounds of soft flesh shook violently with the motion.
McGonagall cupped her massive, full breasts from below with both hands, squeezing them forcefully toward the center, clamping Jerry's thick, rigid meat pillar completely between her cleavage!
"Watch how I deal with you today, you little pervert!"
McGonagall arched her back, using those exceptionally soft yet incredibly firm breasts to squeeze the rough shaft tightly. Her two hands kneaded her own flesh from the outside, driving that snow-white cleavage to rub up and down at high frequency.
The wet sounds generated by the meat pillar rubbing against her full breasts, mixed with her ragged panting, filled the entire small room.
The coronal head popped out from above her cleavage; with every rise and fall of her movements, it slammed heavily against her slender, snow-white chin.
Watching this stunning sight before him, a scalding thermal current surged from deep within Jerry's frail body.
He reached out both hands, covering McGonagall's hands that were cupping her chest, pressing down forcefully, while his waist began to thrust forward rhythmically.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
McGonagall's delicate body trembled violently; her long legs rubbed restlessly against the floor, her lower abdomen twitching frequently. She threw her head back, letting Jerry do as he pleased against her chest, irrepressible moans escaping her lips.
"Ha-ah... yes... just like that... thrust hard..."
McGonagall's eyes were glazed; her hands clutched Jerry's thighs in a death grip, completely drowning in the pleasure of being roughly toyed with.
Jerry's waist sank abruptly, pulling the meat pillar completely out of her cleavage; he then pressed the back of her head, shoving the thick object deep into her mouth once more!
McGonagall opened her mouth wide, her esophagus forcefully pushed open, her eyes rolling up to look at him.
Massive spurts of scalding, thick liquid instantly erupted from deep within the slit, blasting directly against McGonagall's throat!
"Mmh! Gulp... gulp..."
McGonagall's eyes widened, her pupils constricting. Forced to open her throat, she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of this searing nectar rich with magical power. With every massive gulp, her delicate body convulsed violently; massive amounts of liquid that couldn't be swallowed in one go overflowed from the corners of her mouth, hanging from her snow-white chin, dripping onto the heaving mounds of her chest.
A long while later, the eruption finally subsided.
Jerry slowly pulled the meat pillar out.
A loud popping sound echoed in the room.
McGonagall lay limply across Jerry's legs, panting heavily, her chin and chest covered in a mixture of white foam and clear liquid. She stuck out her tongue, carefully licking the remaining few drops of liquid from the corners of her mouth, her eyes brimming with the vacancy and satisfaction of being filled.
She rested for quite a while before supporting herself on Jerry's knees to stand up.
McGonagall casually pulled her robes over her chest to cover herself, took out a handkerchief to wipe her mouth, looked at Jerry, and a meaningful, wicked smile curled at the corner of her lips.
"Ate my fill... however, boy, I didn't come here tonight just to wet your whistle."
Jerry fastened his belt, raising an eyebrow. "What, does Commander McGonagall have official business to delegate?"
"Official business?" McGonagall scoffed, reaching out and pinching his waist. "The commotion Hermione has been making in the basement these past few days is no small thing. She secretly allied with Catherine, along with several girls from other houses, and is currently organizing a massive spectacle."
Jerry's eyes flickered slightly. "What spectacle?"
"'The Forbidden Eden'."
McGonagall leaned close to his ear, her mature breath puffing out warm air, carrying a hint of teasing and anticipation.
"Hermione cleared out the ancient greenhouse at the deepest part of the basement, using Transfiguration and alchemical arrays to decorate it into a pure primeval jungle. I heard... they plan to invite every single woman closely connected to you over tomorrow night. Even I received a specially made petal invitation."