Chapter 154: Chapter 154: I’ve Seen This Plot in Some Famous Movies! (Power stone)

The notary wizard’s voice echoed under the dome for three full seconds before it finally dissipated.

Madam Padma’s fingers released their grip on the bidding manual.

Her fingertips left five shallow indentations on her knees, and the fabric of her deep purple sari had been crushed into a small area of irreversible wrinkles.

But none of that mattered now... three hundred and seventy thousand gold Galleons. The bid was settled.

Her name was written into the heavy bidding register by the notary with contract ink, the goblin seal burning a golden halo onto the parchment.

Her movement as she stood up was very slow.

Her knees gave a tiny clack after being frozen in a seated position for so long.

Her ankles turned slightly in her high-heeled sandals to restore circulation.

The hem of her sari slid off the chair and fell back to her ankles, the silk clinging to the silhouette of her calves as she stepped, then bouncing away.

Gazes from all directions projected toward her.

Lucius Malfoy’s gray eyes swept over the silver head of his snake-head cane, lingering on Padma’s profile for less than half a second before shifting away.

Old Nott flipped a page of his dossier, his gaunt finger pausing on the paper for a beat, without looking up.

Madam Padma acted as if these gazes didn’t exist.

Her spine was as straight as a rod, her chin tilted slightly upward.

She took three steps toward the bidding podium, stopped before the notary, and accepted the sealed certificate.

She rolled it up and tucked it into a hidden pocket in her sari belt.

The entire sequence was fluid and composed, as if the three hundred and seventy thousand Galleons in her pocket were her own money.

The reporters in the audience area were already scribbling furiously.

Quick-Quotes Quills leaped across parchment, ink splattering in tiny dots, and the flashes of several magical cameras went off in a rhythmic pop-pop-pop toward Madam Padma.

"The Patil family takes the World Cup supplier bid!"

"Three hundred and seventy thousand! Today’s highest closing price!"

The buzzing in the audience area expanded like a pot of porridge brought to a sudden boil by a fierce fire.

Cassiopeia sat with her legs crossed, the tip of her high heel swaying gently in the air.

Her snake eyes were half-squinted, her vertical pupils fixed on the back of Madam Padma’s departing figure, the arc of her mouth curving almost imperceptibly.

Her snake tongue flicked from between her teeth, quivering in the air as she tasted a subtle scent...

It wasn’t the fragrance of sandalwood and jasmine Madam Padma wore, but something more hidden, buried beneath the dignified facade.

Sweat.

It was very faint, mostly suppressed by the perfume, but a snake’s olfactory organs would not be deceived.

The back of Madam Padma’s neck, her armpits, and her palms were all secreting sweat profusely.

That sweat wasn’t from heat, but a physiological stress response when extreme tension is suddenly released.

The swaying of Cassiopeia’s shoe tip stopped.

Her gaze moved away from Padma’s back, casually sweeping over the corner of the last row in the audience area...

There, a small figure in school robes leaned against the wall, pinching half a bottle of pumpkin juice he’d swiped from somewhere.

Jerry.

His eyes were also fixed on the direction of Madam Padma’s departure, his mouth hanging with a very shallow arc that could barely be called a smile.

The rim of the bottle was pressed against his lower lip, but he didn’t drink.

The orange liquid swayed slightly in the bottle, reflecting the flickering light of the wall lamps.

Draco stood beside him, a small section of his platinum hair peeking out from under his hat, his gray eyes flashing in the shadows.

"Three hundred and seventy thousand," Draco’s voice was very low, his lips barely moving. "Two thousand higher than you estimated."

Jerry moved the bottle away from his mouth, the rim leaving an orange wet mark on his lip.

"She raised it on purpose."

Draco’s eyebrows knit together under the brim of his hat.

"During the final round of bidding, the Flints had already given up. Only she and the Greengrasses were left.

Greengrass stopped at three hundred and fifty thousand. She could have closed the deal at three hundred and fifty-one thousand. But she added twenty thousand more."

Jerry’s thumb rubbed the glass of the bottle, his nail scratching the surface with a tiny skritch.

"The extra twenty thousand was a payment for everyone present to see.

Taking the bid at three hundred and fifty-one thousand makes it look like a struggle, like she got lucky.

Taking it at three hundred and seventy thousand makes her look wealthy and determined."

He took a swig of the juice, his Adam’s apple rolling.

"This woman is using my money to build her own persona."

Draco’s mouth twitched.

Madam Padma had already walked out of the bidding area, heading toward the main entrance of the hall.

Her steps were still composed, the hem of her sari swaying gently around her ankles. Clack, clack, clack went her sandals on the stone, steady and elegant.

But as she passed the last row of the audience area, her pace faltered for a beat.

An extremely short beat, too short for anyone around to notice.

Her dark brown eyes swept over the small figure leaning against the wall from the corner of her eye... green school robes, a pair of eyes watching her over a half-full bottle of juice.

The eye contact lasted no more than 0.3 seconds.

Madam Padma’s pace returned to its original rhythm, clack, clack, clack, as she walked toward the door without looking back.

But in those 0.3 seconds, Jerry had seen her eyes.

In those dark brown depths, dignity and composure still held the surface, but in the deepest part of her pupils... in the folds of the iris where light and shadow met... something incredibly complex flashed.

It wasn’t gratitude.

It wasn’t submission. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

It was the look of a prey animal that has had its disguise seen through by the hunter, returning a gaze mixed with both vigilance and compromise.

The corner of Jerry’s mouth curved up.

The bottom of the bottle spun half a turn in his palm, the orange liquid drawing a tiny whirlpool.

When Rita Skeeter stood up from the bidding seats, her scarlet lips were gripping that bright green Quick-Quotes Quill, the ink on the tip mostly dry.

She hadn’t won a single bid... the Daily Prophet’s "Special Investment Department" had raised its paddle zero times today, sitting there as spectators from start to finish.

But her quill had filled exactly seven pages of parchment.

As she came down from her seat, she passed Cassiopeia’s chair, her low boots pausing on the stone with a clack.

"Interesting."

Rita’s voice squeezed through the gap of her lips around the quill, muffled but clear.

Cassiopeia’s snake eyes didn’t look at her, her vertical pupils still fixed on some uncertain focal point ahead.

"Since when did the Patils become this rich?"

Rita’s scarlet glasses flashed in the light. The eyes behind the lenses turned to Cassiopeia’s profile for a second, then turned away.

Her boots started moving again, clack, clack, clack, toward the side door.

She took the quill from her mouth and tucked it behind her ear, her platinum curls propped up by the shaft.

Cassiopeia sat in her chair, unmoving.

The tip of her high heel began to sway again. One, two, three times. The scales on the dark green leather shimmered in the light.

Her snake tongue popped from her teeth, quivered twice, and retracted.

The crowd in the bidding hall began to disperse. The buzzing lowered like a receding tide. The creak of chairs and the clack of footsteps filled the space under the dome.

Jerry drained the last drop of liquid from the bottle and stuffed the empty glass into the outer pocket of a nearby reporter’s bag...

The reporter was too busy rushing her draft to notice her bag had gained a piece of trash.

He wiped the orange juice from his mouth and headed for the side door.

Draco followed, pulling his hat lower.

The wall lamps in the corridor pulled their shadows long against the stone walls, swaying back and forth with their strides.

"What now?" Draco’s voice came muffled from under the hat.

Jerry didn’t stop, the hem of his robe swinging around his calves.

"We wait."

"Wait for what?"

Jerry turned a corner. Ahead was the stone staircase leading to the Alchemy Workshop.

His hand was in his pocket, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the stitching of the lining.

"Wait for her to find me."

The corner wall was made of rough stone bricks. The flame of the wall lamp leaped in its iron cage, cutting an orange beam of light diagonally across the floor.

Madam Padma was standing right at the edge of that beam.

Her deep purple sari shimmered with a dark silk luster under the lamp. Her hands were clasped in front of her stomach, fingers interlocking, knuckles slightly white.

Her back leaned against the wall, shoulder blades pressed into the gaps between bricks, appearing relaxed...

But her toes were pointed toward the corridor corner, her heels suspended an inch above the floor, as if ready to step forward at any moment.

She was waiting for someone.

And the direction she was waiting in was as precise as if she had calculated the path in advance.

Jerry’s pace faltered for half a beat at the corner.

His eyes met Madam Padma’s dark brown gaze.

There were fewer than five paces between them.

The light from the lamp hit her from the side, splitting her face into light and shadow... On the bright side, the bindi between her brows was as red as blood.

The dark side of her face was submerged in shadow, with only the junction of the white of her eye and her pupil reflecting a faint glint.

She didn’t speak.

Jerry didn’t speak either.

Footsteps approached from behind... two sets. One was the crisp, rhythmic strike of high heels on stone, clack-clack-clack-clack, even and composed.

The other was the duller thud of low boots, tap-tap-tap, with a stride a third shorter but a frequency nearly twice as fast.

Cassiopeia and Rita walked up from the other end of the corridor.

Jerry tilted his head, glancing at Draco.

Draco’s gray eyes rolled under his brim... from Madam Padma to Cassiopeia, then to Rita, before finally landing back on Jerry’s profile.

He pursed his lips, a lock of platinum hair leaking from the hat to sway by his cheek.

"Go on ahead," Jerry said, his tone as light as if commenting on the weather.

Draco didn’t ask questions.

He pulled his hat an inch lower, turned, and headed in the opposite direction. The sound of his shoes on the stone grew distant, turned a corner, and vanished.

Only four people remained in the corridor.

Cassiopeia stopped two paces behind Jerry, the hem of her robe drawing a small arc on the floor.

Her snake eyes were half-squinted. Her vertical pupils slid from Padma’s face to her clasped fingers and back. Her mouth was a void of expression.

Rita skirted around Cassiopeia’s right, her small frame squeezing into the gap between Jerry and the wall.

Her platinum curls brushed Jerry’s sleeve, the scent of hairspray diffusing into the air.

She took the green quill from behind her ear, twirled it, and her scarlet lips split into a grin.

"I held them down for you."

Rita’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word was as crisp as a fingernail tapping a glass.

"Now, how do you plan to repay me?"

Madam Padma’s eyelashes fluttered.

Her gaze moved from Jerry to Rita’s shrewd, grinning face, lingering for two seconds.

Then her pupils contracted slightly... not from the light, but because a thought had exploded in her brain.

She held them down.

Madam Padma’s fingers slowly unclasped in front of her stomach, the ten fingers separating one by one like a flower being filmed in slow-motion and played in reverse.

The Flints.

Three broom factories, an entire supply chain, annual revenue of over eight hundred thousand Galleons... They backed out at three hundred and twenty thousand in the final round.

The Greengrasses.

They monopolized the potion ingredient chain. The healing ointment market right now was a piece of fat dripping with oil... They didn’t follow at three hundred and fifty thousand.

Madam Padma had thought her own momentum had suppressed her opponents.

She had thought those pure-blood families backed out at the last second because they didn’t want to burn bridges with the Patils over a single supplier bid.

Stupid.

The corner of Padma’s mouth hitched—not a smile, but a self-mockery.

Those families didn’t "fear" to compete.

They couldn’t compete.

Rita Skeeter... No one in the wizarding world could say for sure how much dirt this woman had under her quill.

Did the Flint factory in Ireland employ underage goblins?

Was there smuggled, controlled Dragon blood in the Greengrass supply chain?

These things usually stay hidden under the surface, untouched, until Rita’s pen draws the first letter on parchment...

Madam Padma’s gaze shifted from Rita back to Jerry’s face.

The lamp light hit the boy—who only reached her chest—from the side, projecting his eyelashes onto his cheekbones like tiny fans.

His eyes were as calm as a windless pond. His mouth neither curled nor sagged. You couldn’t read a single emotion on his face.

He had arranged everything.

The check was given at the very last second... making her panic to the absolute limit, making her surrender everything she had in that washroom.

And the seemingly fierce bidding was a puppet show from the start... Rita had used her dirt to hold down the truly powerful competitors, making them back out voluntarily at the critical moment to leave the bid to the Patils.

The closing price of 370,000 Galleons could have been lower.

But Jerry didn’t care about spending an extra twenty thousand.

Because that money didn’t buy the bid’s premium—it bought the illusion of Madam Padma being "wealthy and powerful" in front of everyone.

An illusion funded by Jerry, assisted by Rita, and performed by Madam Padma herself.

And she herself hadn’t seen the full picture until this very moment.

Cassiopeia’s high heel tapped the stone with a clack.

Madam Padma turned her gaze to those half-squinted snake eyes.

Cassiopeia’s chin was slightly raised, her vertical pupils shrinking into thin slits in the lamp light.

Her snake tongue popped, quivered, and retracted.

"The bidding process was compliant."

Six words, her tone as flat as reading an official document.

"The Ministry will raise no inquiries."

Madam Padma’s Adam’s apple rolled.

The money was Jerry’s.

The field was cleared by Rita.

The escape route was cut off by Cassiopeia.

A boy and three women... they had eaten her clean from the inside out, top to bottom, from her business to her body.

The corridor was silent for a few seconds.

The sound of the dripping faucet from the washroom drifted over faintly, drip, drop, pulling a long echo through the stone hallway.

Jerry pulled his hand from his pocket.

There was no check between his fingers, no dossier, nothing.

His five fingers spread and closed in the light, like a silent gesture of invitation.

"The night after tomorrow."

His voice echoed, mostly absorbed by the stone walls, leaving only a residual ring sliding across the floor.

"The Alchemy Workshop. A private gathering."

His eyes slid from Padma to Rita, then to Cassiopeia.

Three faces, three expressions... Padma’s dignity hid the bitterness of resignation; Rita’s shrewdness hid the greed of waiting for a quote; Cassiopeia’s indifference hid the unique satiety of a snake.

"We will discuss the distribution of interests then."

He turned, the hem of his robe swaying around his calves as he walked deep into the corridor.

His footsteps sounded softly on the stones, one after another, growing distant.

the flame of the wall lamp jumped, pulling his short silhouette into a long shadow that covered half the hallway.

The three women stood there, watching the shadow disappear around the corner at the end of the hall.

Rita twirled her quill one last time, the tip clicking against her own palm with a tack.

Her scarlet lips pursed, the shrewd smile receding slightly to be replaced by a deeper, more complex arc.

Madam Padma’s fingers interlocked again in front of her stomach, knuckles white as she gripped them tight.

Her gaze remained on the empty corner, the lamp reflecting a tiny, flickering point of light in her pupils.

Cassiopeia’s snake tongue flicked one last time, tasting the complex, heavy air where the scents of three women mixed, before retracting as she turned to walk the other way.

Her dark green heels clicked on the stones, clack, clack, clack, rhythmic and even, the scales on the leather flashing in the light like a snake slithering through the dark.

The Alchemy Workshop!

The stone space, once filled with cauldrons and reagent racks, had been cleared.

The walls were covered in magical silk that changed color automatically, fading from deep purple to crimson, then to midnight blue. The light in the room shifted between bright and dim with the silk’s transformations.

A dozen alchemical lamps hung from the dome, but their shades had been replaced with translucent stained glass. When the light filtered through, it cast overlapping, flowing patches of color onto the floor.

A circular stage about three meters in diameter had been built in the center, covered in black velvet, with a ring of glowing runes embedded along its edge.

A silver steel pole rose from the center of the stage to the ceiling, polished to a mirror shine, reflecting distorted, flowing spots of light.

Low sofas and cushions surrounded the stage. Silver snake patterns were embroidered on the backrests of the crimson velvet sofas. Cushions were piled on the carpet—some round, some long, in fabrics ranging from silk to velvet, in shades of deep purple, burgundy, and emerald green, scattered artistically around the stage.

In the corner, several long tables were piled high with bottles... Firewhisky, Butterbeer, elf-made mead, and Muggle champagne from who knows where.

Beside the bottles were rows of small crystal vials, each containing liquids of different colors—some transparent pale gold, some milky white, some translucent pink. They were corked and bore hand-written labels... "Pleasure Potion · Improved Version," "Magical Essential Oil · Rose Scent," "Sensory Amplifier · Experimental Formula."

Hermione stood by a table, pinching a small notebook, recording something.

Today she wore a deep blue dress that only reached mid-thigh. The neckline was low, revealing a section of her collarbone and the curve of her chest.

Her brown curls were pinned into a loose bun, with stray strands escaping to stick to her neck and ears.

A silver half-mask covered her eyes and the bridge of her nose, leaving the lower half of her face completely exposed.

Her lips were coated in a thin layer of pink gloss, shimmering wetly under the colored lights.

"Hannah, bring three more bottles of the rose-scented oil."

Hermione said without looking up, her quill scritching across the paper.

Hannah Abbott walked over from the other side, carrying a wooden crate filled with those milky-white crystal vials.

She wore a pale pink slip dress today, shorter than Hermione’s, barely covering the lower edge of her buttocks.

Her blonde hair was draped over her shoulders, and she wore a white mask encrusted with diamond shards.

"More? We’ve already prepared twenty bottles."

Hannah set the crate down and placed three vials before Hermione.

"Not enough."

Hermione looked up, her brown eyes visible through the mask’s eye-holes. "At least thirty bottles."

She jabbed the quill back into the inkwell and turned toward the stage.

There were already people on the stage.

Four witches, their skin coated in that milky-white magical essential oil.

The oil shimmered with an oily luster under the lights, flowing with the twisting of their bodies—down from shoulders to chest, from chest to belly, from belly to thighs, leaving glistening trails on their skin.

They were in pairs, kneeling face-to-face on the velvet. Chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh.

The oil was squeezed out from the contact surfaces of their bodies, making fine squelch-squelch water sounds.

Their arms were around each other’s waists, palms pressed against each other’s buttocks, ten fingers sinking into soft flesh, kneading as they moved.

One pair had particularly large breasts. When the two sets of orbs were crushed together, the flesh overflowed from the sides, forming four plump, deformed hemispheres.

Their nipples were rock-hard, rubbing against each other through the lubrication of the oil. Every friction made the color of the tips darken a shade.

The other pair was more slender, with smaller breasts but extremely thin waists and perky butts. Their lower bodies were pressed tight, pubic bones grinding together. The soft parts at the root of their thighs squeezed together, oil oozing from the gap to run down their inner thighs, gathering in small puddles at their knees before dripping onto the black velvet.

"Slower rhythm."

Hermione stood at the edge of the stage, arms crossed, her eyes watching the four writhing bodies from behind the mask.

"That’s not how you grind a mirror. You look like you’re fighting."

The four witches slowed down. The movement shifted from frantic friction to a slow, rhythmic crushing.

The oil was spread repeatedly over their skin. The stage was thick with the scent of roses, mixed with sweat and the more hidden scent of female bodies.

The door opened.

Professor McGonagall was the first to enter.

She had abandoned her signature dark green robes for a black, skin-tight dress with a slit reaching her thigh root.

The material was so thin it was almost transparent, clinging to her body and outlining every curve from her chest to her waist to her hips in vivid detail.

The neckline was a deep V, reaching down to her breastbone, her breasts squeezed into a deep cleavage.

She wore a black cat-mask, the ear portions sticking up like sharp feline ears.

Her hair was in its usual rigorous bun, but set much lower than usual, exposing her long neck and the delicate skin at the nape.

She held a glass of Firewhisky, the amber liquid swaying slightly. The rim was against her lower lip, but she didn’t drink. She only used her tongue to lick the rim, curling a tiny drop of alcohol into her mouth.

"Professor!"

Hermione turned from the stage and waved.

"Perfect timing. I wanted you to try the new version of the Pleasure Potion."

McGonagall’s mouth curved, the arc appearing exceptionally ambiguous behind the cat mask.

She walked toward Hermione, her heels making no sound on the carpet, but her hips swayed left and right in the tight dress. The slit revealed her long thighs and the lace edge of her black silk garter stockings.

"A new formula?"

McGonagall stopped before Hermione, drained the Firewhisky in one gulp, and set the empty glass on a side table.

"The last one was potent enough."

"The last one was just the basic version."

Hermione picked up a small crystal vial of pale gold liquid, pulled the cork, and brought it to McGonagall’s lips. "This is Jerry’s improved version. The duration is longer, and..."

A sly arc curled her lips.

"The side effects are more interesting."

McGonagall didn’t hesitate. She parted her lips around the vial and tilted her head back, downing the liquid in one breath.

The pale gold potion slid down her throat. Her Adam’s apple rolled twice, and she pulled the empty vial from her mouth, her tongue licking her lip.

"Good flavor."

Her voice was an octave lower than usual, carrying a post-drink hoarseness.

"Sweeter than the last one."

Hermione placed the empty vial back on the table, her brown eyes staring at Professor McGonagall’s face from behind her mask, waiting for the effects to kick in.

Three seconds.

Professor McGonagall’s pupils dilated significantly.

Five seconds.

Her breathing grew ragged, her chest heaving violently beneath the fabric of her tight dress, her deep cleavage opening and closing with each breath.

Ten seconds.

She raised her hand and pressed it against her chest, her five fingers kneading her own breasts through the thin fabric.

Her lips parted slightly, and an extremely faint moan, squeezed from the depths of her throat, spilled out.

"Mmmh!"

The arc of Hermione’s mouth deepened.

"It seems the effect is quite good."

Professor McGonagall’s hand slid down from her chest, past her abdomen, to the slit of her skirt. Her fingers reached into the opening, touching the skin of her thigh wrapped in garter stockings.

Her fingers paused for a second on the lace edge of the stocking, then continued upward, touching the small patch of bare skin between the garter and her panties.

Her fingers did not stop; they moved higher, pressing against her mons pubis over the fabric of her underwear.

"Hermione!"

Her voice had completely changed, shifting from her usual serious, authoritative professorial tone into a soft, nasal whisper.

"Where is Jerry?"

Hermione pointed toward a side door deep in the room.

"The locker room. He’s changing."

Professor McGonagall pressed once against her panties, then withdrew her hand and headed for the side door. Her pace was much faster than before, her high heels clicking rapidly on the carpet, the slit of her skirt flying open with her hurried steps, revealing the skin of her inner thigh indented by the garter straps.

She pushed the side door open and stepped inside; the door slammed shut behind her.

Hermione watched the closed door, her brown eyes flashing behind her mask.

"The onset is faster than I anticipated."

She turned back to the long table, picked up her notebook, and wrote a line under the "Improved Pleasure Potion" column... "Onset time: Ten seconds. Duration: To be observed. Side effects: Hyper-sexuality, decreased rationality."

The door to the room opened once more.

This time, more people entered.

Narcissa Malfoy led the way, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders like a silver waterfall.

Narcissa wore a silver-white backless gown today; the back was open from her shoulder blades all the way down to her lower back, completely exposed except for a thin silver chain around her waist.

The front of the dress was conservative, the neckline reaching her collarbones, but the fabric was transparently thin; her full breasts were faintly visible beneath the dress, their nipples clearly outlined.

Following her was Cassiopeia, who had traded her dark green robes for a deep green skin-tight bodysuit. The fabric clung to her body, outlining her long, flexible frame like a snake.

The neckline of the bodysuit opened below her breastbone, revealing a patch of dark brown skin and the curve of her collarbones.

Her snake-eyes were half-squinted behind an emerald-green serpent mask, the vertical pupils shrinking into thin slits under the colored lights.

Aurora followed behind Cassiopeia, her long hair braided and draped over one shoulder.

She wore a pale purple tulle gown; the fabric was as thin as mist, and the silhouette of her body was clearly visible beneath the gauze.

She wore a purple butterfly mask, the wings encrusted with tiny crystals that shimmered in the light.

Before Aurora could clearly see the situation inside, voices urged her from behind.

"Move faster!"

"It’s freezing out there!"

"That’s because you wore so little..."

"You have the nerve to say that to me?"

The locker room was filled with the damp scent of soap and steam.

Jerry stood in the stone shower stall, hot water pouring from the brass showerhead above, washing over his thin body.

The water flowed down his black hair, over his forehead, eyes, and nose, gathering into a stream at his chin before dripping onto his chest.

His skin was flushed red from the hot water; from his neck to his chest to his abdomen, patches of red spread across his pale skin.

Droplets rolled over the outline of his ribs, slid down his waistline, over his pubic bone, and onto the member that was currently in a flaccid state.

The thing hung between his legs, the head completely covered by the foreskin, with only a small tip peeking out.

Even in its flaccid state, its size was completely disproportionate to Jerry’s frame... the shaft reached almost down to his knees, its thickness nearly the same as his wrist.

Jerry reached out and turned off the shower; the water stopped with a whoosh.

He wiped the water from his face and pushed his wet hair back from his forehead.

The door to the locker room was pushed open at that moment.

No knock, no warning.

The door slammed against the wall with a creak, the hinges letting out a sharp protest.

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway.

Her black dress was gone; she wore only a set of black garter stockings and suspenders, along with the black cat mask.

Her brown vertical pupils were half-squinted behind the mask, dilated to an unnatural degree, almost swallowing her irises.

Her breathing was heavy and ragged, her chest heaving violently, making her breasts bounce with every breath.

Professor McGonagall’s lips were swollen, her lip gloss mostly smeared away, and a thread of glistening moisture—saliva or some other fluid—hung from the corner of her mouth.

Jerry looked at her, his pink eyes narrowing slightly.

"Professor, are you here to help me get dressed?"

Professor McGonagall did not answer.

She stepped forward, her high heels clicking and splashing on the damp stone floor of the locker room.

She walked behind Jerry, reaching her arms under his armpits to wrap around his chest.

Her breasts pressed against Jerry’s back, the soft orbs squeezed out of shape, her nipples poking into the depressions between his shoulder blades.

McGonagall rested her chin on Jerry’s head, her gray eyes looking down at his heat-flushed body.

Her right hand slid down from Jerry’s chest, over his abdomen, to his pubic bone; her five fingers spread open and cupped the flaccid meat-pillar.

"Professor!"

Jerry’s voice was cut off the moment she acted.

Her fingers tightened, her palm wrapping around the shaft as she began to stroke him up and down.

Her movements were slow and light, her fingertips rubbing over the skin of the shaft, feeling the texture of the cavernous tissue beneath.

The meat-pillar began to expand in her hand.

From flaccid to semi-hard, then to a full erection—the entire process took less than ten seconds.

McGonagall’s breathing became even more frantic.

She released the shaft, her hand sliding to Jerry’s shoulder to give him a gentle push.

Jerry was turned around to face her.

McGonagall’s knees bent, and she knelt down.

Water from the shower still lingered on the stone floor, wet and cold.

Her knees landed in the puddles, the fabric of her garter stockings instantly soaking through, clinging to her skin and leaving deep marks.

The fully erect meat-pillar was right before her eyes, less than three inches from her face.

A few un-wiped droplets still hung on the shaft, glistening in the dim light.

She opened her mouth.

The tip of her tongue emerged from her teeth and licked the side of the head.

The flat of her tongue rolled over the curve of the head, curling the water droplets into her mouth. Her tongue moved to the very tip, licking back and forth over the small slit.

The opening was pried apart slightly by her tongue, and a tiny drop of transparent fluid seeped out, landing on her tongue.

She retracted her tongue to taste the fluid, then opened her mouth wider, taking the entire head inside.

"Mmh!"

A muffled groan came from her throat; her lips clamped tightly around the coronal ridge, her tongue churning frantically inside her mouth, licking every inch of the head.

She placed her hands on Jerry’s buttocks, her ten fingers sinking into his thin cheeks, pulling his crotch toward her face.

The meat-pillar slid deeper into McGonagall’s mouth.

The head pushed past the root of her tongue and pressed against her throat.

Her throat instinctively contracted, trying to expel the foreign object, but McGonagall’s fingers exerted force on Jerry’s butt, forcing his crotch forward to keep the member deep inside.

"Ugh! Cough!"

Her tongue had nowhere to go but against the bottom of the shaft, feeling the bulging veins throbbing against her taste buds.

Her head began to move.

Backtracking until only the head was in her mouth, then swallowing forward again, taking him all the way to the root in one go.

Every time her throat was forced open, it made a gulp water sound—the sound of saliva and pre-cum mixing and being squeezed out.

"Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!"

Her chin was covered in saliva overflowing from her mouth, which dripped onto her chest, gathering in her cleavage before sliding down the curve of her breasts to the floor.

Jerry placed his hand on the top of her head, his fingers threading through her hair and grabbing her bun. His hips began to move, thrusting forward in sync with her swallowing rhythm.

Every time he thrust in, his pubic bone slammed against her nose with a dull thud.

Her nose turned red from the impact, and the hot air she exhaled grew more rapid.

"Mmph! Mmph! Mmph!"

Muffled groans poured from her throat, broken and fragmented by the meat-pillar blocking her windpipe.

Jerry’s fingers tightened in her hair, gripping her bun to pin her head against his crotch.

The meat-pillar was thrust deep into her throat, the head pinned at the entrance of her esophagus, unmoving.

Her throat spasmed violently, trying to vomit the object out, but Jerry’s grip was firm; her head couldn’t budge.

Her hands moved from Jerry’s butt to his thighs, her ten fingers clawing into his skin, leaving shallow red marks.

Her tears fell even faster now, and mucus began to flow from her nose, mixing with the saliva and coating her face.

Ten seconds.

Jerry released his grip.

McGonagall’s head snapped back as the meat-pillar was pulled from her throat, bringing out a large gout of thick, mixed saliva and pre-cum.

The fluids surged from her mouth, running down her chin and onto her chest, leaving glistening trails over her breasts.

"Hah! Hah! Hah!"

She gasped for air in large gulps, her mouth wide open, her tongue lolling over her lower lip as spit dripped from the tip.

Her face was flushed dark red, tears still hanging in her eyes, and the mucus from her nose reached her mouth, mixing with the saliva.

McGonagall wiped her face with her fingers, smeared the fluids messily, and then placed her hand on Jerry’s crotch, wanting to push him down to the floor.

The door opened again.

"Jerry, the party!"

Hermione’s voice cut off abruptly.

She stood at the door, her brown eyes looking from behind her silver mask at McGonagall kneeling on the floor, then at Jerry’s meat-pillar, which still hung with saliva and fluid, glistening in the dim light.

The corner of her mouth twitched.

"You two!"

"The potion," Jerry interrupted, his pink eyes looking calmly at Hermione. "Your improved pleasure potion is stronger than you said."

Hermione blinked twice, then a sly smile curled her lips.

"Then that’s perfect."

She entered the locker room, closing the door behind her and locking it with a click.

She walked over to the long table, picked up a towel, and tossed it to Jerry.

"Clean up. The party is starting."

Her gaze swept over McGonagall’s fluid-smeared face, her smile deepening.

"Professor Minerva, go clean yourself up first. There are a lot of people waiting outside."

Professor McGonagall stood up, the garter stockings on her knees soaked through, clinging to her skin and leaving deep indentations.

She wiped her face once more, smearing the fluids, then turned and headed for the sink in the corner of the room.

Jerry wiped the water from his body with the towel, then wiped the still-erect meat-pillar.

The friction of the fabric against the sensitive head made his breath hitch for a beat.

Hermione walked up to him, her brown eyes staring at his face from behind her mask.

"Do you know what game I’ve prepared?"

Jerry tossed the towel onto the table, his pink eyes meeting hers.

"Tell me."

An excited arc curled on Hermione’s lips.

"Have you ever seen a certain specific series of Muggle films?"

Jerry’s eyebrows shot up.

"What films?"

"The ones where an organization holds a competition, and the goal is to identify the participants by their breasts and buttocks. Of course, there’s plenty of physical contact involved..."

As she spoke, Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket and waved it at the locker room wall.

The wall rumbled and vibrated. Stone bricks rearranged themselves under the magic, and soon two rows of dark holes appeared—four on top, four on the bottom, eight in total. The holes were covered by various curtains, obscuring the view inside.

"The bottom row is for buttocks; the top row is for breasts."

Hermione tucked her wand away, her eyes flashing with excitement.

"The witches outside will stick the corresponding parts of their bodies through the holes from behind the wall. What you have to do is—"

She poked Jerry’s chest.

"—identify them through touch and taste."

Jerry stared at the eight holes, silent for two seconds.

"The rules?"

"Correct guesses get a reward; wrong ones get a punishment."

Hermione’s smile widened. "I’ll decide the content of the rewards and punishments."

She turned to the door, resting her hand on the handle as she looked back at Jerry.

"By the way, to ensure fairness, you’ll wear a blindfold that blocks all senses. No cheating with your eyes."

She pushed the door open and left; it slammed shut behind her.

Only Jerry and McGonagall, who was cleaning her face at the sink, remained in the locker room.

Jerry looked at the eight holes, his pink eyes narrowing.

Rustling sounds came from behind the wall—the sound of clothes rubbing and witches whispering in hushed tones.

Then, the curtains were pulled back from the inside.

Four pairs of buttocks squeezed through the bottom row of holes.

The pale white flesh glowed with a delicate luster under the dim light. Each pair was different in shape, size, and color. The buttocks on the far left were small, the two cheeks firm and rounded, the cleft shallow—like two freshly ripened peaches.

The second pair from the left was slightly larger, the flesh fuller and the cleft deeper; a small tuft of dark pubic hair was faintly visible in the gap between the cheeks.

The second pair from the right was the largest of the four, the flesh voluptuous and soft, drooping slightly under gravity. The cleft was very deep, and several fine stretch marks were visible at the junction of the cheeks.

The buttocks on the far right had skin darker than the other three, a healthy deep brown. The flesh was full and elastic, and the edges of the cleft bore very shallow, nearly invisible fine lines.

The curtains on the top row were also pulled back.

Four pairs of breasts squeezed out, deformed by the edges of the holes. The pair on the far left was small, probably a B-cup, the nipples a pale pink like cherries.

The second pair from the left was slightly larger, about a C-cup, perfectly rounded with deep pink nipples and tiny Montgomery glands visible around the areolae.

The second pair from the right was the largest, at least an E-cup, sagging slightly due to their weight. The nipples were dark brown, the areolae large and darker at the edges than the center.

The breasts on the far right matched the skin tone of the far-right buttocks—deep brown. The size was about a D-cup, the nipples dark brown with large, dark areolae.

The door opened again.

Hermione walked in, holding a black silk blindfold.

She walked to Jerry, tied the blindfold over his eyes, and knotted it at the back of his head.

"Now you can’t see a thing."

Her voice rang in Jerry’s ear with an excited tremor.

"The space behind the wall is completely soundproofed. No matter what you do, they won’t make a sound. You must rely solely on touch, smell, and taste."

She grabbed Jerry’s wrist and led him toward the wall.

"So, which one will you start with?"

Jerry’s eyes were covered, but a shallow smile touched his lips.

"Starting with Number One."

Hermione led him to the leftmost hole.

"Very well. If you can identify everyone, you’ll get a special reward. If you’re wrong, you’ll be punished..."

Her voice carried a mischievous tone.

"The eight people in here are... well, I won’t tell you. Guess for yourself."

She released Jerry’s meat-pillar and patted his shoulder.

"Begin."

Jerry raised his hands and touched the small pair of buttocks.

Jerry’s fingertips made contact with the surface of Buttock Number One.

The silk fabric of the blindfold pressed against his eye sockets, blocking all light and leaving only a warm darkness. With his vision gone, his sense of touch was magnified several times... the temperature, texture, and elasticity of the skin were projected into his consciousness like they were under a microscope.

These buttocks were small.

The two cheeks were firm and rounded. When he pressed his finger pads against them, there was almost no excess fat beneath the skin, only pure elasticity—like two peaches just picked from a branch.

Jerry’s thumb slid down the edge of the cleft, the pad of his finger grinding through the shallow trench. The skin was as delicate as fine silk, without any rough graininess.

Young.

Extremely young.

Jerry’s palm covered the right cheek, his five fingers spreading to feel the outline of the muscle beneath.

The lines of the gluteal muscles were tight and smooth, with no signs of sagging or stretch marks. His fingers probed an inch into the depths of the cleft, his fingertips touching a patch of softer, much hotter skin!

It wasn’t Aurora.

Jerry’s fingers paused for a beat.

He moved his hand away from Buttock Number One and stepped to the right.

Hermione’s voice came from the side, carrying a light, playful tone.

"What, giving up on Number One already?"

Jerry ignored her.

His palm covered Buttock Number Two.

This pair was a grade larger than the first, the flesh fuller. When he pressed down, the layer of fat was noticeably thicker; his fingers sank nearly half an inch deeper than with Number One.

The cleft was deeper. In the gap between the cheeks, his fingertips touched a small tuft of soft hair!

Jerry’s fingers paused on the hair for a second, the pads of his fingers rolling over it to feel the texture.

Thin, slightly curly, not very dense.

He probed deeper, his fingertips sliding through the deepest part of the cleft until they touched wet skin that was significantly hotter.

The labia were slightly closed, the skin at the edges soft and elastic. He could feel the engorged texture beneath the skin as his finger ground against it.

Jerry’s middle finger traced a light stroke along the slit.

His fingertip came away with a thin layer of moisture.

He moved his hand away from Buttock Number Two and wiped his fingertips on his school trousers.

On the other side of the wall.

Hannah stood among a group of witches, clutching her small notebook, her brown eyes staring at the holes in the wall from behind her mask.

From this side, the upper bodies of the four witches were visible... their faces, shoulders, arms, and their varying expressions.

Their lower bodies from the waist down were stuffed through the holes; their buttocks and legs were exposed on the other side, while only their upper halves were visible here.

The witch in position Number One was biting her lower lip, her cheeks flushed pink, her hands bracing against the wall with trembling fingers.

The witch in position Number Two took a deep breath and buried her face in her arms, her ears turning so red they looked ready to bleed.

Cho Chang leaned against a nearby pillar, her black hair draped over her shoulders. Her eyes watched the holes from behind her blue phoenix mask, a curious arc on her lips.

She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, the strap of her slip dress sliding down her left shoulder, revealing a patch of skin below her collarbone.

"Can that blindfold really block all senses?"

Cho’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear in this space.

Hannah glanced at her, her dark brown eyes flashing behind her red mask.

"Hermione said it was modified with a Cloaking Charm. Not only does it block vision, it even screens out magical perception."

"So he really can’t see or sense anything?"

"Nothing. He sees nothing, senses nothing."

Hannah’s fingers gripped the hem of her deep red slip dress, her knuckles turning white. "He has to rely on his hands..."

She paused for a beat, the flush on her cheeks reaching her ears.

"...On his sense of touch."

Madam Padma stood beside her twin daughters, wearing the same artificially darkened deep brown skin and the same red mask.

Her expression was much calmer than Parvati’s, but her fingers were constantly turning the ruby ring on her right ring finger... clockwise, half a turn; counter-clockwise, half a turn.

"What about smell?"

Hannah stopped twirling her hair, her eyes narrowing behind her mask. "Can’t he still smell? Everyone’s scent is different..."

"The oil."

Hannah’s voice came from the back of the crowd. She squeezed next to Cho, shaking a milky-white crystal vial.

"Everyone participating in the game is wearing the same magical essential oil—rose scented. Their natural body odors are completely covered; all he smells is roses."

Cho’s mouth curved up.

"You’ve thought of everything."

"Of course."

Hermione tucked the vial back into her pocket, her brown eyes scanning the holes in the wall. "Fairness is the foundation of the game."

A Slytherin witch wearing a silver butterfly mask squeezed through the crowd, holding a glass of mead. The liquid swayed in the glass, a few drops splashing onto the back of her hand.

Her blonde hair was draped over her bare shoulders; she wore only a tulle shawl, her body silhouette faintly visible beneath the mesh.

"I say, what if he guesses them all wrong?"

Her voice carried the lazy drawl characteristic of Slytherin. She bit the rim of the glass, the sweet scent of mead spilling from her lips.

"What was the punishment again?"

"For every wrong guess, he takes off an item of clothing."

Hermione’s mouth curled into a sly arc. "But he’s already wearing nothing, so..."

She tapped her notebook.

"For every wrong guess, he has to perform a designated action in front of everyone. The target he guessed wrong gets to decide the action."

The eyes behind the silver butterfly mask lit up.

"Interesting."

She took a swig of mead, the golden liquid overflowing the rim and running down her chin into the hollow of her collarbone, tracing a glistening wet line beneath her tulle shawl.

Another witch wearing a black half-mask approached, her brown hair tied in a high ponytail, revealing her long neck and the tiny mole behind her ear.

"But... can he really guess correctly? Just by touching?"

"You underestimate him."

Hannah’s eyes flashed. "Jerry’s hands... how should I put it..."

Her mouth curled into a meaningful arc.

"They have a very good memory."

A very faint muffled groan, mostly deadened by the Silencing Charm, drifted from the other side of the wall.

The mature woman in position Number Two jerked her head up, pulling her face from her arms. Her cheeks were flushed dark red, and her lips were bitten white.

Her body was trembling slightly, her hands bracing against the wall so hard her nails scratched several white marks onto the stone.

Cho Chang’s gaze fell on the witch’s face, her pupils dilating behind her mask.

"It seems he’s starting to get serious."