A side hall not far from the "Blind Box Wall" had been temporarily converted into a semi-open lounge area.

Several deep-red velvet sofas formed a loose semi-circle. On the low table in the center sat various bottles—Firewhisky, elven mead, and a few bottles of hot Butterbeer kept warm by spells, with rings of creamy white foam clinging to the rims.

In the corner of the table lay several plates of mostly untouched pumpkin pasties and Chocolate Frogs, their tin foil wrappers reflecting stray glints of light from the alchemical wall lamps.

Aurora sat cross-legged on the armrest of the leftmost sofa, her braid hanging from her shoulder onto her thigh. Her pale purple tulle gown was bunched above her knees, revealing her calves and ankles.

Her purple butterfly mask was pushed up to her forehead, revealing the face of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl—a face that looked entirely out of place among everyone else on the sofas.

The curse had frozen her features. Her skin was flawless, her jawline soft, and her cheekbones still held that characteristic layer of baby fat.

Yet, the way Aurora held her glass, the angle of her raised pinky finger, and her habit of looking at people through half-squinted eyes—all of it was the sediment of a hundred years, twisted together with a teenage face to produce a bizarre sense of dissonance.

Aurora pinched a glass of mead, the rim against her lower lip, the amber liquid swaying slightly. Her gaze crossed the rim to land on Professor McGonagall on the opposite sofa, lingering for two seconds before her mouth quirked.

"Minerva."

"The corner of your mouth!"

Aurora’s pinky finger lifted from the rim, gesturing toward McGonagall’s face.

"The mask doesn’t hide it."

Professor McGonagall sat on the opposite sofa, the black cat mask still on, covering her eyes and nose, but the lower half of her face was completely exposed to the light.

At the corner of her mouth—specifically, a small patch of skin extending from the left corner down to her chin—remained a half-dried, shimmering, viscous trace. The residue appeared semi-transparent and milky white under the warm alchemical light, the edges already beginning to form a thin film, while the thickest part in the middle still held a moist luster.

Professor McGonagall’s tongue-tip emerged from her teeth. Very slowly. The flat of her tongue touched the left corner of her mouth, starting from the chin and licking upward along that viscous trail. Her tongue ground over the half-dried film, re-moistening it before curling it into her mouth. Her Adam’s apple rolled as she swallowed the residual fluid. Then her tongue emerged again, tracing a small circle at the corner of her mouth, licking every last trace clean.

"Satisfied?"

McGonagall’s voice came from behind the cat mask, hoarse and deep, the end of her words carrying a laziness soaked in alcohol and potions.

Behind Aurora’s butterfly mask, those girlish eyes narrowed, her pupils reflecting the final retraction of McGonagall’s tongue.

"What did it taste like?"

"Why don’t you go taste it yourself?"

"I’m asking you." Aurora took a swig of mead, a drop overflowing the rim to run down her chin and into the hollow of her collarbone, staining a dark spot on her tulle gown. "Is it salty today, or musky?"

McGonagall’s mouth curved slightly.

"Neither."

She lifted her right leg, crossing it over her left. Her thigh, wrapped in garter stockings, slid against the velvet of the sofa, the lace edge peeking from the slit of her dress. The lingering heat of the shower in the locker room remained on her skin, a faint layer of steam rising from her bare shoulders and arms like a thin veil in the alchemical light.

"It’s a bit sweet."

Cassiopeia leaned back at the far right of the semi-circle. Her dark green bodysuit wrapped her long frame seamlessly. Her vertical pupils half-squinted behind her snake mask, her tongue popping from her teeth to quiver once in the air.

She held no glass; her ten fingers were interlaced on her knees, her nails painted deep green, gleaming like snake scales.

"Can you two change the subject?"

Her snake tongue retracted, her tone lazy.

"It hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already this eager."

Narcissa sat beside Cassiopeia, the hem of her silver-white backless gown spread across the sofa like a pool of melted moonlight.

Her platinum hair cascaded from her left shoulder, the ends sliding over her bare back with every rise and fall of her breath. The silver trim of her peacock mask reflected tiny glints of light. Her gray eyes stared at an unopened bottle of elven mead on the table.

She reached out, her thumb pressing the cork until it came out with a pop. The sweet scent of mead surged out, mixing with the faint steam rising from McGonagall’s skin.

"What’s the rush?"

Narcissa brought the bottle to her lips and took a swig, a wisp of amber liquid leaking from her mouth to slide down her chin and into the hollow of her collarbone. "The good show is yet to come."

The door to the side hall was pushed open.

A mass of fiery red hair squeezed through the crack first.

Vera entered sideways, her red hair draped over her shoulders and back like a piece of ignited silk.

She wore a burgundy tube-top dress today, the hem reaching mid-thigh. The top edge of the dress squeezed her breasts at their highest point, pushing those full orbs into a deep cleavage, the flesh overflowing the edges and trembling slightly with her steps.

She wore a fire-red fox mask, the ears standing up sharply to merge with her hair.

Following her was Amelia.

Amelia was sturdier than Vera, with broader shoulders and a wider waistline, but the curves of her breasts and buttocks were just as full.

She wore a deep gray low-cut dress, the neckline opening below her breastbone to reveal most of her chest and the cleavage squeezed out by the fabric. Her dark brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and she wore a silver-gray hawk mask, the beak covering her nose, leaving only her lips and chin exposed.

"We’re late."

Vera plopped down on the sofa next to Aurora, her red hair billowing up to sweep across Aurora’s arm, leaving a faint itch.

She reached for the table, grabbed a bottle of Firewhisky, twisted the cap, and took a huge swig.

The amber spirit slid down her throat, her face flushing slightly behind the fox mask.

"Ran into a bunch of brats on the way. Chirping and blocking the corridor."

Amelia sat next to Vera, crossing her legs, her dress sliding back to reveal a sturdy thigh and knee.

She picked up a glass of Butterbeer and took a sip, leaving a ring of white foam on her upper lip.

Just as she was about to drink more, she was stopped. She could only shrug helplessly; after all, she was pregnant!

"What are they playing over there?"

Amelia gestured with her chin toward the open side of the hall. From this angle, they could see the wall Hermione had magically modified, with bare buttocks and breasts poking through the black holes.

Aurora spun her mead glass in her fingers.

"A guessing game. Blindfolded, touch only."

Vera’s Firewhisky bottle stopped at her lips, her eyes behind the fox mask glancing toward the wall.

"Just that brat?"

"Just that brat."

Vera’s mouth quirked beneath the mask, and she took another swig.

A suppressed commotion drifted from the distance—not a sound, but a subtle vibration in the air. From the side hall, they could see the girls gathered on the other side of the wall peering toward the holes. Several had their hands over their mouths, shoulders shaking silently from laughter or some other emotion.

The buttocks at Position Three—the largest pair, bearing stretch marks—were trembling violently.

The two plump cheeks were like two mounds of stirred jelly, the parts overflowing the edges of the hole wobbling incessantly. Something was repeatedly entering and exiting deep within the cleft, bringing out fine, wet water sounds. The distance deadened most of it, but a rhythmic squish-squish could still be caught.

McGonagall lowered her leg from the sofa, the lace of her garter stocking flashing through the slit of her dress.

Her gray eyes stared at the trembling buttocks through the cat mask for three seconds.

"He’s reached Number Three."

Aurora’s mead glass was against her lower lip, the amber liquid reflecting a blurred image of the wall.

"Who was Number Three again?"

Cassiopeia’s snake tongue flicked, her vertical pupils opening slightly.

"Liliana."

Vera’s bottle paused. Her eyes scanned the wall. The buttocks at Position Three were still spasming, but from this angle, a small section of the waistline above the hole was visible. The curve of the lower back was deep, the waist incredibly thin, forming an exaggerated, almost comic-book-like contrast with the disproportionately voluptuous buttocks below.

"The one with the—" Vera gestured in the air, drawing two large circles over her chest. "That one?"

"That’s the one."

Aurora spun her glass, a knowing smile on her face that didn’t match her age. "The sister of that genius strategist Alicia. Face like a doll, but that body...!"

She released her glass and gestured with her chin toward the shaking flesh in the distance.

"See for yourselves."

In the distance, the buttocks at Position Three thrust backward abruptly, the two cheeks spreading wide. From the side hall, they could see something entering and exiting the oil-slicked skin deep in the cleft—not a meat-pillar, but fingers. Two of them, submerged from root to tip, then withdrawn to pull a glistening thread of transparent fluid that flashed in the light before snapping onto the velvet platform.

Then the two fingers plunged back in.

The buttocks at Position Three convulsed. The cheeks tightened and loosened like they were hit by an electric current, the frequency accelerating.

The flesh overflowing the hole deformed constantly under the repeated contractions, like two mounds of kneaded dough.

Squelch—squelch—squelch—

The wet water sounds drifted over, muffled by distance yet remaining distinct and sticky.

Narcissa’s gray eyes narrowed behind her peacock mask. A lock of platinum hair slid from her shoulder to brush across her bare back, pausing at the silver chain at her waist before sliding down to the velvet of the sofa.

"Liliana—the Hufflepuff girl?"

"Mmh."

Cassiopeia’s fingers interlaced on her knees, her green nails gleaming. "A first-year witch with the breasts of a thirty-year-old."

Vera let out a snort of laughter, Firewhisky stinging her nose and splashing inside the fox mask.

She wiped the edge of the mask with her hand, her red hair whipping behind her.

"Babyface with giant tits? That setting is just too..."

"Fact."

Aurora interrupted, her voice crisp but carrying a seasoned certainty. "I’ve seen her bathe. Those things hang off her; they wobble like pudding when she walks. She complains about the weight herself, says her shoulders ache."

Professor McGonagall’s finger paused on her lace. Her eyes swept over the wall and then moved away, landing on the corner on the other side of the lounge.

A single sofa sat there, several paces away from the semi-circle, like a deliberately isolated island.

A woman sat on it—wrapped in black leather from neck to ankle. The openings at her chest and hips were mostly covered by a dark shawl, and a full black mask revealed only her lips and chin.

Hera.

Hera, disguised as Professor Hess.

She sat in silence, legs crossed, fingers tapping the armrest rhythmically—clack, clack, clack—a slow, steady beat like a countdown.

Her lips were pressed thin, her jawline tight, radiating a cold alienation completely different from the half-drunk women around her.

McGonagall’s eyes lingered on the black silhouette for two seconds.

Aurora noticed where McGonagall was looking.

She released her glass and reached out. Amelia was leaning back, her dress propped into a soft curve by her bulging abdomen.

Aurora’s palm covered that curve, her five fingers spreading to feel the warm, slightly swollen skin beneath the fabric.

Amelia looked down at Aurora’s hand on her belly, her eyes flashing behind the hawk mask, but she didn’t pull away.

Aurora’s palm traced slow circles on Amelia’s abdomen, her fingertips rolling over the taut skin to feel the outline of the expanding womb.

A gentle smile—different from her usual mature act—appeared on her girlish face. She paused her finger above Amelia’s navel and pressed lightly.

Then she tilted her head, catching McGonagall’s eye. The look lasted less than half a second, but the message was clear: Relax, it’s fine.

McGonagall’s shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly, and she looked away from the black figure in the corner.

Aurora’s hand remained on Amelia’s belly, her body heat seeping through the dress to leave a warm touch on the skin.

Her thumb rubbed back and forth on the side of Amelia’s abdomen, rolling over a very shallow, newly forming stretch mark—a tiny silver river shimmering beneath the fabric.

"I heard you applied to go to the front."

Aurora’s voice was clear and casual, as if discussing the weather.

But her gaze wasn’t on Amelia, or McGonagall—it went over the rim of her glass to land on Cassiopeia’s profile.

Cassiopeia’s fingers paused on her knee.

Her snake tongue flicked, tasting the deeper meaning beneath Aurora’s casual tone. Then the tongue retracted, and her vertical pupils opened a fraction.

"You’re well-informed."

"If you don’t stay informed in this circle, you won’t survive until tomorrow." Aurora traced one last circle on Amelia’s belly before pulling her hand back to grip her glass. "That lot from Olympus—Ares’s vanguard has pushed to the Sky City, and Hephaestus’s forges are running day and night."

She brought the glass to her lips and took a sip, the amber liquid lingering on her tongue before she swallowed.

"The front is short on men. The regular Wizarding Corps can’t hold. The Ministry has started drafting combatants from the various families."

Vera spun her bottle. Her eyes moved from Aurora to Cassiopeia and back.

"The Blacks are sending someone?"

Cassiopeia didn’t answer immediately.

Her pupils were fixed on the wall—the buttocks at Position Three had stopped shaking, the cheeks hanging limply at the edge of the hole. A small stream of transparent fluid was sliding down the inner thigh, drawing a glistening trail.

Jerry had moved to Position Four. A pair of deep-brown buttocks were just being covered by his palms, his fingertips probing the edges of the cleft.

"The Blacks aren’t ’sending’ someone."

Cassiopeia’s voice came from behind the snake mask, as flat as a windless pond.

"I’m going myself."

A beat of silence hit the sofas.

McGonagall’s fingers tightened on her lace. Her eyes fixed on Cassiopeia’s profile.

Narcissa’s hair slid over her bare back, the ends brushing the silver chain at her waist with a tiny metallic tink.

Her gray eyes narrowed.

"Does Fudge know?"

"He approved it."

Cassiopeia released her knee and reached for the table, grabbing an unopened bottle of mead. Her thumb popped the cork—thwip.

The sweet scent surged out. She brought the bottle to her mouth and took a swig, her Adam’s apple rolling.

"The front needs someone who can talk to the gods face-to-face. Not to fight—to negotiate. That lunatic Ares only respects strength. You send a Ministry bureaucrat over there, and he won’t even look at them."

She rested the bottle on her knee, the glass leaving a cold circle on her bodysuit.

Aurora’s mead glass stopped. The gentle smile on her face receded, replaced by a deeper, more complex expression. She tapped the side of her glass, her nail making a sharp clink.

"The front is dangerous."

"I know."

"Ares slaughtered an entire wizarding recon team last week. Thirty-seven men, no survivors."

"I know."

Cassiopeia turned her vertical pupils toward Aurora. The eyes behind the snake mask held a cold, reptilian glint in the alchemical light.

"That’s why I need to go."

In the distance, the buttocks at Position Four began to shake. The deep-brown pair—either Madam Padma or one of the twins—tensed abruptly as Jerry’s fingers probed inside. The cheeks clamped onto his hand, and a muffled, watery sound drifted over, deadened by the Silence Charm.

In the corner, the frequency of Hera’s finger-tapping on the armrest accelerated.

Tap, tap-tap, tap—

The rhythm broke.

Only for a beat, then it returned to its slow, even pace.

But McGonagall noticed.

Her eyes swept over the black silhouette in the corner, pausing for half a second on Hera’s fingers. The knuckles were white, as if they had been gripped too tight and just released.

Aurora noticed too. Her hand went back to Amelia’s belly, her palm covering the bulge, her fingers gently stroking the fabric.

It looked like she was comforting Amelia, but her gaze went over Amelia’s shoulder to meet McGonagall’s gray eyes in the air.

Half a second.

The gazes parted.

Vera set her Firewhisky on the table, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. Strands fell across the top of her dress, brushing the overflowing mounds of her breasts. She leaned her elbow on the armrest, her eyes scanning between Cassiopeia and the wall.

"So this party...!"

Her voice dropped an octave.

"Is it a send-off?"

Cassiopeia’s snake tongue flicked one last time, tasting the air—the sweetness of mead, the bite of Firewhisky, the rose of the oil, the salt of sweat, and the more hidden, wet scent of female bodies drifting from the wall.

The tongue retracted.

"In a way."

In the distance, the watching girls let out a suppressed gasp—Jerry seemed to have guessed someone correctly. Hermione’s voice drifted over, high-pitched and excited, though the specific words were swallowed by the noise.

The buttocks at Position Four were still shaking, the dark skin glistening with oil. The frequency of the two fingers entering and exiting deep within the cleft grew faster, the water sounds becoming denser—squish-squish-squish—like a wet, accelerating piece of music.

Amelia’s hand covered Aurora’s on her belly, her fingers interlocking with Aurora’s, palm to back, pressing the hand into her bulging stomach. Her eyes were low, watching the two sets of hands on her. Her lips moved, but she made no sound.

McGonagall pulled a flat, frozen tin box from behind a cushion. Her thumb flipped the lid—click—revealing six scoops of ice cream. Three vanilla, two strawberry, one pistachio. A fine frost covered the surface, and cold air spilled out to form wisps of white mist in the warm light.

"Hidden them all day."

McGonagall set the tin on the table, the bottom clinking against a Firewhisky bottle.

She picked up a small wooden spoon, scooped some vanilla into her mouth, and ground it against her palate. A trace of milky liquid overflowed her lip to run down her chin; she curled it back in with her tongue.

Vera reached for a strawberry scoop, pinching it directly with her fingers. Pink melt-water squeezed through her gaps to run down her wrist and onto her dress, drawing a thin line across her breast.

Narcissa took a wooden spoon, methodically digging into the pistachio. Her eyes were half-lowered behind the mask. As she brought the spoon to her lips, her silver-white gloss smeared into the pale green ice cream, creating a strange pearlescent sheen on her lower lip.

Aurora didn’t take a spoon.

She dipped her index finger into the tin, poking the surface of a strawberry scoop. Her finger sank in half an inch, pink ice cream squeezing through her nail to coat the first joint of her finger.

She pulled it out, a soft, melting glob of pink ice cream perched on her fingertip. She held it before her eyes for a second.

Then she turned to Amelia.

"Don’t move."

Behind the hawk mask, Amelia’s eyes blinked.

Aurora’s left hand remained interlocked with Amelia’s, resting on the bulging belly. Her right hand—the finger coated in strawberry ice cream—reached for Amelia’s chest.

The neckline of the gray dress was open below the breastbone, the inner curves of both breasts visible. The skin held a warm pink glow in the light. Aurora’s finger landed on the upper edge of Amelia’s right breast—two inches above the dress line, on the slope where the collarbone met the mound. The skin was taut, the outline of the pectoral muscle beneath clearly defined.

The glob of pink ice cream was pressed against her skin.

Amelia’s body gave a slight shudder.

There was a temperature difference of nearly thirty degrees between the ice cream and her skin.

The moment they touched, that glob of pink sludge began to melt rapidly under the heat of her body.

The edges turned into a pink liquid, trickling down the curve of her breasts.

Aurora’s index finger did not pull away; the pad of her finger pressed against the melting ice cream.

She drew a circle on the upper curve of Amelia’s breasts—

Starting from the outer edge of the right breast, tracing along the neckline, crossing over the top of the cleavage, all the way to the outer edge of the left breast.

The pink liquid was ground thin under her fingertip, smeared across the bare skin of Amelia’s chest like a melting pink necklace.

The fluid seeped down the curve of the mounds.

Part of it crawled into the neckline of the dress, soaking the edges of the fabric and leaving several dark stains on the deep gray material.

Another part flowed down the midline of the cleavage, gathering in the narrow trench formed by the two pressed orbs, making an extremely faint gulping sound.

Amelia’s breathing grew heavy for a beat.

Her chest rose and fell with that breath, the two breasts swaying slightly beneath the fabric of the dress.

This movement squeezed a small stream of the accumulated pink liquid out of the cleavage.

It flowed down the curve of her abdomen, passing over the slightly bulging pregnant belly covered by the dress.

It was finally stopped by the folds of the fabric at her navel, soaking into a wet patch the size of a copper coin.

Aurora withdrew her index finger from Amelia’s chest, a pink film still remaining on her fingertip.

She shoved the finger into her own mouth, her tongue curling around the tip to lick the residual ice cream clean.

As the fingertip was pulled from her lips, it made a soft pop sound.

Then her hand reached back into the tin box.

This time she scooped a large glob—bringing her index and middle fingers together to scrape a whole chunk from the vanilla scoop.

The milky-white ice cream was piled on the pads of her two fingers, cold air spilling through the gaps.

She looked down at her own chest.

The neckline of her pale purple tulle gown was very low, opening almost to the end of her breastbone.

Most of the curves of her breasts were exposed to the outside.

The shape of her breasts was a tight, perky hemispherical form that hadn’t yet fully matured.

The orbs were faintly visible beneath the tulle, their color a pale, delicate pink.

Aurora pressed that glob of vanilla ice cream right into the center of her left breast.

"Hiss!"

Her teeth bit into her lower lip, a slight frown of ice-induced stimulation appearing on her face.

The temperature of the ice cream seeped through the tulle into her skin.

The nipple instantly stood erect under the cold stimulus, propping the tulle into a tiny, sharp cone.

The milky-white liquid overflowed from between her fingers, flowing down the curve of the breast.

It soaked the tulle fabric, turning the originally semi-transparent material completely transparent.

The color, the shape, and even the areola were all clearly exposed beneath the drenched gauze.

Her fingers kneaded her own breast twice, grinding the ice cream until it covered the entire surface of the left orb.

The milky-white liquid mixed with the tulle, clinging to her skin like a wet, semi-transparent glaze.

"There."

Aurora jumped down from the sofa armrest, her bare feet stepping onto the carpet, her toes curling into the soft pile.

A large patch of her left chest was soaked.

The milky-white ice cream liquid seeped from beneath the tulle, flowing down the curve of her belly.

It was caught by the dress’s waistband at her waistline, soaking into a horizontal wet mark.

Aurora walked toward the wall in the distance, her bare feet making silent strides across the carpet.

Her braid swung back and forth behind her.

Behind the fox mask, Vera’s eyes followed Aurora’s girlish silhouette for two seconds.

The soaked tulle clung to her back, making the outline of her spine clearly visible.

A small puddle of melted ice cream had gathered in the dip of her lower back, swaying slightly with her steps.

"She certainly is in a hurry."

Professor McGonagall pulled the wooden spoon from her mouth, her tongue licking the residual vanilla from the surface.

"How does that saying go?"

"A woman at thirty is a wolf, at forty a tiger, at fifty she can suck up the earth sitting down..."

Narcissa’s gray eyes flashed behind her peacock mask, her silver-painted lips curving into an ambiguous arc.

In the distance, Aurora had already reached the wall.

Hermione stood at the side of the wall, clutching her notebook.

Seeing Aurora approach, her brown eyes flashed behind the mask, and she gestured with her chin toward an empty black hole.

Aurora stopped in front of the hole.

Her fingers reached for the waistband of her tulle gown, her thumb hooking the buckle with a gentle twist—click—and it popped open.

The dress, lost of its restraint, slid from her body.

The tulle peeled away like a layer of purple mist, piling around her ankles.

Her left breast was covered in melted vanilla ice cream.

The milky liquid had flowed down the curve of the mound to her abdomen, gathering in a small pool at her navel.

Then it continued downward, over the flat skin of her lower belly, to the sparse, pale downy hair above her pubic bone.

It glued several fine strands of hair to her skin.

Aurora turned around, back to the hole, bracing her hands against the wall.

She arched her back, offering her buttocks toward the hole.

Aurora’s buttocks were small—two firm, rounded cheeks without any excess fat.

The cleft was shallow, and the skin was as smooth as a peeled egg.

That small puddle of melted ice cream still sat in the dip of her lower back.

As she bent over, it spilled over the edge, flowing down the start of the cleft.

It passed her tailbone and crawled into the gap between her cheeks.

When the icy liquid touched the even more sensitive skin deep in the cleft, Aurora’s buttocks gave a slight twitch.

The cheeks instinctively clamped shut, squeezing the ice cream liquid out.

With a squelch, the pinkish-white fluid dripped from the bottom of the cleft onto the carpet, spreading a tiny wet spot.

Hermione watched this from the side, her eyes flashing, her quill rapidly recording a line in her notebook.

On the other side of the wall, Jerry’s fingers had just moved away from the buttocks at Position Four.

The blindfold was still over his eyes, the black silk blocking all light, leaving only a warm darkness.

His fingers were covered in transparent, sticky liquid from tips to roots, glistening in the dim light.

He rubbed his fingers against his own thigh twice, the pad of his finger making a light squish against his skin.

The meat-pillar was currently fully erect, propped high from the pubic bone.

The veins on the shaft stood out like a dense network of blue-purple rivers.

The tip was swollen into a deep red, the slit of the urethral opening stretched a crack by internal pressure.

Pre-cum overflowed at a slow, continuous rate, flowing down the curve of the head.

It passed the coronal ridge and the shaft, gathering into a pool in the sparse hair at the base before dripping to the floor—plop.

Hermione’s voice came from the side.

"Number Five is ready."

Jerry raised his hand, reaching out in the direction Hermione indicated.

His fingertips touched a pair of buttocks.

They were very small.

The cheeks were as firm as two freshly ripened peaches. When he pressed down, the muscle beneath had almost no fat, full of pure elasticity.

His thumb slid down the edge of the cleft—and then his fingertip touched something wet, cold, and smelling of milky sweetness.

Ice cream.

The melted ice cream liquid sat at the start of the cleft, warmed to a lukewarm state by body heat.

The viscous liquid coated his fingertip, mixing with the essential oil on the skin to produce a strange, slippery sensation.

Jerry’s finger paused for a beat.

His thumb ground into that pool of ice cream, sensing the texture of the skin beneath.

It was delicate and smooth, without any rough graininess or stretch marks.

The elasticity was superb; the indentation from his press sprang back the instant he moved his finger.

Young.

Extremely young.

The touch was very close to Number One, but...!

His fingers probed deeper, sliding through the depths of the cleft until they touched softer, hotter skin.

The labia were tightly closed, the gap incredibly narrow. He could barely feel any opening at all.

This was the tightness of a body that had not yet been fully developed.

But the residual ice cream in the cleft made his finger slip.

The pad of his middle finger slid from the surface of the outer labia into the gap, touching the edge of the inner labia.

The buttocks at Position Five tensed abruptly.

The cheeks clamped shut like they were hit by an electric current, trapping Jerry’s finger in the middle.

The pressure from the flesh squeezed his fingertip half an inch deeper.

The first knuckle of his middle finger submerged into that tight gap, touching wet, hot, soft mucous membrane.

The membrane spasmed slightly under his touch, the internal muscles contracting to wrap around his finger.

Jerry’s mouth curved into a smile beneath the blindfold.

Hermione’s voice drifted from the side of the wall, carrying the tone of a formal broadcast.

"Number Three—Liliana Macmillan. A correct guess."

The watching girls let out suppressed gasps, several covering their mouths as their shoulders shook.

Hermione’s quill made a rapid checkmark in her notebook. She flipped to the next page and looked at Jerry.

"According to the rules, the reward for a correct guess is—you can use your mouth."

The smile on Jerry’s face widened.

Hermione placed her hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward half a step.

His face was now close to the row of holes.

But Hermione did not lead him to Position Three—Liliana had already withdrawn.

Instead, she led him to Position Five.

Aurora’s buttocks were still stuck in the hole.

The firm cheeks overflowed the edge of the hole slightly, the skin glowing softly in the colored lights.

The melted ice cream liquid remained at the top of the cleft, mixed with the rose oil.

It flowed down the cleft, gathering in a small drop at the lowest point of the cheeks, hanging there precariously.

Jerry’s knees bent. He crouched until his face was level with the buttocks in the hole.

He was still blindfolded, seeing nothing, but his nose was less than two inches from the flesh.

The scent of rose oil, the milky sweetness of the ice cream, and a more hidden, warm breath from deep within the cleft.

The three scents mixed and filled his nostrils.

His tongue-tip emerged from his lips.

The flat of his tongue touched the outer edge of the right cheek.

Starting from the line where the buttock met the thigh, he licked upward along the curve of the flesh.

His tongue rolled over the film of mixed oil and ice cream; the milky sweetness and rose flavor dissolved on his tongue.

Beneath was the taste of the skin itself—a faint saltiness with a hint of the slight acidity belonging to a girl’s body warmed by heat.

Aurora’s buttocks tensed the moment his tongue touched them, the cheeks clamping for a beat before relaxing again.

Jerry’s tongue did not stop.

He licked from the outer edge to the rim of the cleft, his tongue grinding over the start of the shallow trench.

He curled the accumulated ice cream liquid into his mouth.

The melted vanilla turned into a cool sweetness on his tongue, mixing with his saliva and sliding down his throat.

His tongue turned to the cleft itself.

Tilted sideways, he licked downward from the top of the narrow trench.

The cheeks were pushed apart slightly by the pressure of his tongue.

The softer, hotter skin deep in the cleft was exposed to his tongue.

His tongue ground over the small depression below the tailbone, licking the remaining ice cream clean before continuing down—

His tongue touched a ring of folds.

The folds were tightly contracted, the texture beneath his tongue like a miniature, layered flower bud.

His tongue circled the edge of the ring, grinding over every tiny fold.

He felt the muscles instinctively contract and relax against his tongue.

Aurora’s buttocks thrust forward abruptly—but the edge of the hole caught her waist.

She couldn’t pull far, and her buttocks bounced back into position.

Jerry’s tongue moved away from the ring and continued down.

The flat of his tongue passed over the short, exceptionally delicate perineum before touching the edge of the labia.

The labia were tightly shut, the gap narrow, but the pressure of a tongue is softer and more precise than a finger.

He traced a line from top to bottom along the midline, the flat of his tongue grinding over the closed slit.

He propped the lips open just a crack.

A small stream of warm liquid seeped out and landed on his tongue.

It wasn’t ice cream. It wasn’t essential oil.

It was a transparent, thick liquid secreted from within her body, carrying a slight musky-sweetness.

Jerry curled the fluid into his mouth, grinding it against his tongue to taste it.

Then his tongue probed back into the slit, deeper this time—pushing past the outer labia to touch the inner edges.

The moment his tongue pressed against them, Aurora’s entire lower half convulsed.

The cheeks clamped shut fiercely, trapping Jerry’s face in the middle.

His nose was crushed into the cleft, the tip pressed against the tailbone depression.

His lips and tongue were squeezed by the flesh, plastered against the wet, hot, secreting tissue.

He did not pull away.

More and more fluid surged from the depths of the cleft, running down Jerry’s chin.

It dripped to the floor—plop, plop, plop—intermingling with the sound of the dripping faucet in the distance.

On the other side of the wall.

Hermione stood among the watching girls, her notebook already turned to the third page, her quill writing furiously.

Her brown eyes scanned the holes in the wall—Position Five was shaking violently.

The firm cheeks were contracting and expanding rapidly at the edge of the hole.

Glistening liquid was being squeezed from the cleft, flowing down her inner thighs.

Liliana stood in the front row, her face flushed dark red.

She had put her deep red slip dress back on, but the hem was rumpled, and the fabric bore several wet spots of oil.

Her chest was heaving with her rapid breathing—those giant breasts, so out of proportion with her doll-like face, swayed beneath the fabric.

Every breath made the mounds overflow from the neckline before retreating.

Cho Chang leaned against a nearby pillar, her black hair draped over her shoulders.

From behind her blue phoenix mask, she watched the shaking buttocks at Position Five.

She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, the strap of her dress slipping down her left shoulder to expose a patch of skin.

"Is he using his mouth?"

Cho’s voice was soft, carrying curiosity and something more hidden beneath it.

"A reward for the correct guess," Hermione replied without looking up, making a mark in her book.

Liliana’s face grew even redder. She released her skirt and raised her hands to cover her face.

But through the gaps in her fingers, her eyes remained fixed on Position Five.

Hermione closed the book and shoved it into her pocket, her eyes scanning the crowd.

"Alright, before the reward phase ends—who wants to make it harder for him?"

Cho stopped twirling her hair.

"What do you mean?"

A sly smile curled Hermione’s lips.

"Right now, he’s relying solely on his mouth to identify Number Five.

If someone reaches through the top row of holes and uses their breasts to rub against his face—his sense of touch and smell will be interfered with."

Behind the phoenix mask, Cho’s pupils dilated.

Liliana lowered her hands, her round eyes flashing in the light.

"Me! I can do it!"

Her voice was as faint as a mosquito’s hum, but Hermione heard her.

"Liliana and Cho, together," Hermione gestured to the top row of holes. "Reach through and use your breasts to rub his face. Distract him."

Liliana’s face looked ready to bleed, but she already started moving toward the wall.

Cho straightened up from the pillar, her black hair whipping behind her as she turned.

On the other side of the wall.

Jerry’s tongue was still buried in the depths of Aurora’s cleft, his tongue-tip flicking rhythmically against the small node of flesh.

His chin was covered in the fluids overflowing from the gap, which ran down his jaw into the hollow of his collarbone.

Then, both sides of his face were suddenly pressed by something soft and warm.

On the left—a massive, heavy, soft object pressed against his cheek.

The volume of the thing was staggering, covering him from his cheekbone to his jaw.

The skin was slippery and hot, coated in oil, the touch like a water balloon that had been heated and filled to bursting.

The mound of soft flesh ground slowly against his cheek—up and down, then down and up.

Every grind made his cheek sink nearly an inch into the mass.

A breast.

A very large breast. The layer of fat beneath the skin was thick and soft, without any muscular resistance, drooping against his face by its own weight alone.

Liliana.

Those E-cup breasts, so out of proportion with her face, were now squeezing through the top hole.

The left orb pressed entirely against Jerry’s left cheek, overflowing from the edge of the hole and deforming like a giant piece of melting marshmallow.

On the right—another soft object pressed against his right cheek.

This one was significantly smaller, the shape more rounded and firm, the elasticity superior.

The tissue beneath the skin sprang back instantly when pressed.

The touch was different—a smaller circumference but higher firmness, like a small rubber bead.

As it ground against his cheek, it brought a sharper, more piercing sensation.

Cho Chang.

Essential oil was squeezed out of the contact points of the three bodies, making continuous squish-squish sounds.

The sound of breasts grinding cheeks, the sound of the tongue stirring the membrane, the sound of liquid dripping to the floor from the cleft and the cleavage.

The three water sounds intertwined, echoing in the narrow space.

Jerry’s tongue-rhythm was disrupted by the pressure from both sides.

Every time Liliana’s massive breast ground against his left cheek, it forced his head slightly to the right.

His tongue would slide half an inch off Aurora’s node.

Every time Cho’s breast pushed from the right, it would shove his head back to the left.

His tongue would re-attach to the node, but the angle and force had changed.

He struggled to maintain the stimulation for Aurora amidst this swaying rhythm.

His tongue was plastered against the wet membrane, his tip rapidly finding the node after each shove.

But each path back was different; sometimes his tip would grind over the folds of the inner labia first.

Sometimes it would slide past the entrance to that narrow gap, drawing out a small spurt of warm liquid.

Liliana’s breast ground against his left cheek with increasing amplitude.

The massive orb was like a runaway pendulum, grinding from his cheekbone to his jaw and back.

In the process, it repeatedly scraped over his ear.

Every pass made that hard node of a nipple snap against his earlobe with a soft pop.

The breast drew circles on his cheekbone, every loop grinding against his nose.

The rose scent of the oil mixed with a certain floral scent remaining on Cho’s skin, filling his nasal cavity.

It covered the scent emitted by Aurora’s body.

His sense of smell was interfered with.

His sense of touch was interfered with.

Jerry’s face was sandwiched between two sets of breasts.

On the left was Liliana’s heavy, melting mounds of cream; on the right were Cho’s tight, rounded, elastic orbs.

Two completely different sensations surged into his senses simultaneously.

They mixed with the touch of Aurora’s wet membrane beneath his tongue, forming a chaotic, indistinguishable sensory flood.

Jerry’s tongue paused for a beat on Aurora’s node.

Then he accelerated.

The flat of his tongue ground over the top of the node, while the sides of his tongue flicked at its base.

At the same time, he exerted force from the root of his tongue, pushing the entire muscle half an inch forward.

His tip slid off the node and into the entrance of the gap, probing even deeper.

Aurora’s entire lower half convulsed.

The cheeks clamped and released, clamped and released, the frequency as fast as a seizure.

The volume of fluid surging from the cleft increased abruptly.

Warm, viscous liquid flowed back over the flat of Jerry’s tongue and into his mouth.

His Adam’s apple rolled as he swallowed the fluid.

In the lounge area.

Professor McGonagall’s hand moved away from her lace stocking and reached into the gap between the sofa cushion and armrest.

She pulled out a manila envelope.

The seal of the envelope was closed with red wax, bearing a stamp Jerry couldn’t see—but the women present all recognized the shape.

The Ministry of Magic.

Professor McGonagall placed the envelope on the low table, tapping the wax seal twice—tack, tack.

"The latest report from the front. Arrived this afternoon."

The atmosphere on the sofas shifted.

Vera’s Firewhisky bottle rested on her knee, her eyes behind the fox mask flashing over the envelope. The lazy smile vanished.

Narcissa stopped twirling her hair, her gray eyes narrowing behind the peacock mask.

Amelia placed her hand over her bulging belly, her eyes behind the hawk mask turning grim.

Cassiopeia’s snake tongue flicked, tasting the scents remaining on the envelope—ink, parchment, wax, and a faint, lingering scent of gunpowder sealed within.

Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack—

A rapid series of low-heeled boot strikes came from the entrance of the lounge.

Rita Skeeter squeezed through the door, her platinum curls whipping and brushing the doorframe as she made a sharp stop.

Her scarlet lips held the green quill, the ink half-dry.

The eyes behind her glasses lit up the moment they saw the envelope—like a vulture smelling carrion.

She took three rapid steps across the carpet and pounced onto the sofa where McGonagall sat—or rather, onto McGonagall herself.

Her upper body lay across McGonagall’s thighs, her chest pressing against McGonagall’s right leg wrapped in stockings.

Her scarlet nails reached for the envelope.

"Is this—from the front?"

Rita’s voice was muffled around the quill, but trembling with excitement.

McGonagall’s mouth curved slightly.

She raised her right hand, her fingers pinching her wand, and gave a light tap toward Rita’s tailbone.

"Cauda Vulpina."

A glob of orange-red light erupted from the tip of the wand, like a drop of ignited ink, landing on Rita’s tailbone.

The light seeped into her skin, gathering at the base of her spine for a second—

Then, a fluffy, orange-red fox tail burst out from beneath her skirt.

The fur was plush and soft, the base about two inches thick.

It extended from her spine, passing through a gap in the fabric (which had magically split to accommodate it).

The tail arched up behind her buttocks, the tip curling slightly into a furry question mark.

Rita’s body went stiff for an instant.

The fox tail wagged twice behind her, the fur at the tip brushing the hem of her skirt.

It left an itchy, tingling sensation on the skin of her back thighs.

"Minerva!"

Rita’s voice squeezed through her lips, the quill nearly falling out. She bit down on the shaft, protesting muffledly.

"What... what is this!"

"To match your mask," Professor McGonagall’s gray eyes crinkled behind her cat mask. She tucked her wand back into her sleeve.

"A fox mask with a fox tail. It’s only logical."

Every time the tail wagged, a wave of numbness spread to the back of Rita’s head.