"Stop!"
Hermione's voice exploded from the side of the wall, as crisp as a glass marble hitting a stone floor.
Her palm struck the edge of the wall with a smack, her fingertips still stained with half-dried ink, leaving a blurred fingerprint on the stone surface.
Her school robes were open, the collar skewed toward her collarbone, and her brown curls spilled from the edge of her mask, clinging to her sweat-dampened neck.
A few strands of hair were stuck near the corner of her mouth, trembling slightly with every warm breath she exhaled.
Her skirt flared as she turned.
Underneath that skirt!
Bound to the inside of her school skirt, from the waistband down to the knees, were over a dozen knotted latex condoms.
The tip of every condom bulged with a mass of milky-white, viscous fluid.
They were of varying sizes—some only as large as a thumb pad, others swollen to the size of a quail egg.
She had tied them to the seams of the skirt's lining with fine magical silk threads, hanging row upon row like a heavy, semi-transparent harvest of fruit.
As she moved, those bulging little spheres swayed with her steps, colliding with one another to produce a very faint, wet patter.
The latex material rubbed against the skin of her inner thighs, leaving streaks of wetness mixed with lubricant and residual bodily fluids.
Hermione's fingers pressed down on her skirt, steadying the swaying spheres.
Her brown eyes swept past Jerry from behind her mask...
His thin frame leaned against the wall, his ribcage clearly visible under the light, his collarbones recessed like two shallow trenches.
His abdomen was flat, almost concave, and his waistline was so narrow she could nearly circle most of it with one hand.
His skin shimmered with a thin film of sweat; from his neck to his chest to his abdomen, a flush and droplets of sweat intertwined like a watercolor painting.
The meat-pillar hung between his legs, having receded from a full erection to a semi-soft state.
The residual fluid on the shaft was slowly air-drying, and the rubber edge of the latex condom had left a shallow indentation at the root of the shaft, the skin there slightly reddened from the pressure.
His breathing was heavier than usual. Not by much, just a little... but Hermione noticed.
She noticed the faint bruise-like tint beneath his eyes; she noticed that the slight tremor in his fingers was a fraction of a millimeter wider than it had been an hour ago.
She noticed that his knees were no longer locked perfectly straight as he stood, but were slightly bent at an almost imperceptible angle.
He was still a growing boy.
Hermione pursed her lips.
"That's enough for today."
A wave of disappointed murmurs rose from the group of girls.
Several girls who hadn't had their turn stood on tiptoe to peer over, their faces written with unwillingness.
Hannah Abbott was squeezing through the edge of the crowd, her blonde hair draped over her shoulders, her silver butterfly mask slightly askew.
She held a new tray... upon it sat a glass of mead and a plate of Chocolate Frogs, an obvious excuse to "replenish Jerry's energy."
Her footsteps stopped three paces away from Jerry.
Hermione's gaze swept over.
Her brown eyes narrowed behind her mask, her mouth remaining still, but the meaning of that look was crystal clear... enough.
Hannah's toes curled into the carpet; a flash of resentment crossed her eyes behind the silver butterfly mask. Her lips parted, then closed again.
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the tray for a beat, her nails pinching a shallow, curved indentation into the tin rim.
Then the corners of her mouth curved up.
Not in disappointment, but in another way... the way one smiles when doing business.
Hannah set the tray on a nearby low table and turned to face the group of buzzing girls.
She fished a wand from a hidden pocket in her slip dress and waved it into the air...
A semi-transparent curtain with a faint pink glow unfurled from the tip of the wand, suspended in mid-air like a massive, glowing billboard.
Lines of text and patterns appeared on the curtain.
At the very top was a title in ornate script... "Eden · Member Exclusive"...
The font was a Gothic style adorned with entwining vines, and the end of every letter was wrapped in a blooming rosebud, the petals slowly opening and closing via magic.
Below the title were three side-by-side boxes labeled "Bronze," "Silver," and "Gold."
Hannah's finger tapped the "Bronze" box.
"Basic Membership, fifteen gold Galleons per quarter."
Her voice emerged from behind the silver butterfly mask, crisp and fluent, carrying a well-trained sales pitch... a world away from the greedy little cat who had been sharing salad at Jerry's crotch moments ago.
"Basic Membership benefits include... priority notification of club activities, general admission to parties, and... this!"
Her fingers pulled a small velvet bag from her hidden pocket, loosened the drawstring, and poured the contents into her palm.
Three small toys rolled into her hand.
The first was a finger-length, pale pink silicone rod, its surface covered in tiny raised granules, with a rounded spherical head and a butterfly-shaped base.
The second was a pair of small silver clamps, the insides lined with a layer of soft silicone padding, connected by a thin silver chain with a teardrop-shaped emerald pendant hanging in the middle.
The third was a pigeon-egg-sized, smooth silver sphere with a thin pull-ring attached to one end.
Hannah held the pink silicone rod up, her thumb pressing the butterfly wing on the base...
The rod began to vibrate, emitting a very faint buzzing, the spherical head at the tip twitching slightly against her fingertip.
"The starter model.
Comes with a cleaning charm and a storage pouch."
Several girls crowded closer, their eyes flashing with curiosity behind various masks.
A Ravenclaw girl in a blue butterfly mask reached out to touch the vibrating rod; her finger retracted the instant it made contact, her cheeks flushing beneath her mask.
Hannah's finger tapped the "Silver" box on the curtain.
"Advanced Membership, thirty Galleons per quarter. In addition to basic rights, Silver members get priority queuing at parties..."
Her gaze swept over the group of girls who hadn't had their turn and looked so resentful; the arc of her smile deepened.
"Priority queuing means that at the next party, you won't have to stand at the very back of the line waiting.
Silver members start in the second round, Bronze members in the third, and non-members..."
Her finger drew a circle in the air.
"...depends on luck."
The buzzing changed its tone. From disappointed murmurs to calculated whispers...
Several girls blinked rapidly behind their masks, their lips moving silently, clearly tallying their pocket money and Gringotts balances.
Hannah's finger tapped the "Gold" box.
Her movement paused for a beat.
"Gold Membership..."
Her voice dropped half an octave, shifting from a sales pitch to a more private whisper, like sharing a secret.
"One hundred and fifty Galleons per quarter."
The watching girls fell silent.
One hundred and fifty Galleons. For most Hogwarts students, this was a staggering sum... enough to buy a mid-quality racing broom or a year's worth of owl-ordered treats.
Hannah's finger tapped below the "Gold" box; the box expanded, revealing a line of text smaller than the rest, written in deep crimson ink...
"Forbidden Eden · Image Records · Participation Qualification"
"Gold Membership..." Hannah's tongue licked her lower lip, her eyes behind the mask curving into crescents, "In addition to all Silver benefits, you can also participate in the filming of the 'Forbidden Eden' image records."
A Gryffindor girl in a red half-mask raised her hand.
"What are image records?"
Hannah's fingers fished a palm-sized card with gold-plated edges from her pocket.
The surface of the card was black, with a golden apple printed in the center... the apple had a crack, and from that crack seeped a single drop of golden honey.
She flipped the card over; the back was covered in tiny text that required close inspection.
"After every party, we produce a limited, anonymized image record. The content includes—"
Her finger tapped three spots on the back of the card.
"...highlights of the party, close-up perspectives of special segments, and..."
The corner of her mouth curved into the deepest arc of the night.
"Exclusive to Gold members: customized content with a choice of angles."
The buzzing vanished completely.
In the lounge area, Aurora's bare feet rested on the sofa armrest, her toes curling boredly in the air.
Her girlish face tilted toward the group of girls surrounding Hannah in the distance, her eyes narrowing behind her purple butterfly mask.
"That girl!"
Her fingers pinched her mead glass, the rim against her lower lip as the amber liquid swayed.
"She certainly knows how to do business."
Professor McGonagall's gray eyes swept past the golden apple pattern on the black card in Hannah's hand; a very shallow smile touched her lips.
Rita Skeeter lay draped across the back of the sofa, that orange-red fox tail hanging limply by her buttock, the fur at the tip stuck into several strands by sweat.
Behind her glasses, her eyes were scanning back and forth between Hannah, the card, and the watching girls with professional speed.
Her Quick-Quotes Quill spun rapidly between her fingers, flicking a few drops of ink onto the velvet sofa, where they soaked in as dark little spots.
In the distance, Hannah's fingers flipped the black card; the golden apple pattern flashed in the light like a slowly rotating, gold-plated forbidden fruit.
"Are we really going through with this?"
Aurora's mead glass stopped at her lips.
The rim pressed against her lower lip, the amber liquid reflecting the hesitant gazes behind several masks...
Vera's fox mask was slightly askew, revealing half of her mouth pressed into a straight line.
Narcissa's gray eyes stared at her fixedly from behind the peacock mask, her fingers motionless around a strand of platinum hair.
Amelia's hand rested on her bulging belly, her pupils sinking behind the hawk mask, her lips parting and then closing again.
Cassiopeia's snake tongue did not pop out.
Her vertical pupils stared straight at Aurora's profile. The expression on the face behind the snake mask... if a reptilian face could be said to have an expression... was an extremely rare, frozen silence.
McGonagall's fingers rested on the lace edge of her garter stocking, her gray eyes sweeping over Aurora's girlish face, pausing for a beat at the corner of her eye.
Vera was the first to speak.
"Zeus."
A name.
When it was spat out from behind the fox mask, the pungent scent of Firewhisky spilled out with it, exploding into a small mist of alcoholic heat in the air.
Vera's fingers gripped the neck of the bottle, her knuckles white.
"You're going to kill Zeus."
It was not a question.
Aurora's mead glass moved away from her lower lip. Her thumb rubbed the side of the glass, her pad grinding over the condensed water droplets, smearing them into a wet trail.
On that girlish face, that lazy smile—so out of place with her age—vanished.
Like a layer of mist blown away by the wind, what was revealed beneath was a face with soft lines but absolutely no warmth.
The laziness in her eyes, sedimented by years of experience, was also retracted, replaced by something deeper and heavier, so heavy the color of her pupils seemed to darken a shade.
"That news..."
Her voice squeezed out from her girlish throat. The clear tone remained unchanged, but the usual drawl in her cadence was gone. Every word fell cleanly into the air without any trailing notes.
"...travels fast enough."
Narcissa's fingers released the platinum strand of hair; the lock she had been twining for ages slid from her fingertips to drape over her bare back, the tip brushing the silver chain at her waist with a tiny tink.
"Aurora." Narcissa's voice emerged from behind the peacock mask. Much of the shrewdness in her gray eyes had receded, replaced by something closer to... concern. "Zeus is not Ares. He is not Hephaestus. He is not Poseidon."
"I know."
"He is the High King.
The Lord of Olympus. The wielder of the Thunderbolt."
"I know."
"The last person who tried to assassinate him..."
"Doesn't matter!"
Silence hit the sofa for three seconds.
Rita's fox tail hung off the side of the sofa back, the strands of fur stuck together by sweat beginning to air-dry, causing a few fuzzy hairs to bristle.
Her Quick-Quotes Quill stopped spinning between her fingers. Her eyes were fixed on Aurora's face, her teeth biting the shaft of the green pen so hard she left two shallow teeth marks on the wood.
Amelia's hand tightened on her bulging belly, her five fingers sinking into the fabric of her dress. The taut skin beneath the material recessed slightly under her finger pressure.
"Must you take this path?"
The voice behind the hawk mask was very soft, almost drowned out by the chattering of the girls in the distance.
Aurora did not look at her.
The girl's gaze fell upon the three stacked parchments on the low table... the battle report, the supply list, the organizational chart.
A corner of the parchment had been soaked by a water mark from the mead, the ink blurring slightly on the damp fibers like a drop of ink falling into shallow water.
"Mmh."
A single syllable. It slid from the girl's throat, as light as a feather falling on cotton.
No explanation. No preamble. No high-flown declaration, and no tragic air of one facing death.
Just a "Mmh."
Cassiopeia's vertical pupils finally moved. Shifting away from Aurora's profile, they turned toward the open side of the hall...
In the distance, near that wall, the watching girls were crowding around Hannah, chattering about membership cards and small toys. Several already held that black card with the golden apple, turning it over and over in their hands.
The snake tongue popped from her teeth, quivered once in the air, and retracted.
She said nothing.
The sound of footsteps drifted over from the open side of the lounge.
It wasn't the clack-clack of low boots, nor the silent tread of bare feet on carpet... it was the sound of bare feet on stone, a light yet sticky patter. Every step carried a hint of wet suction between skin and flagstone.
Jerry walked over from the other side of the wall.
Hermione's hand rested on his left arm, her five fingers hooked into the inside of his elbow, half-supporting and half-guiding his steps.
His blindfold had been removed; the black silk fabric was crumpled into a ball in Hermione's other hand.
He was completely naked.
His skin was covered in a thin film of sweat, which glowed with a wet, youthful ivory luster under the lights from his neck to his chest to his abdomen.
The scent of sweat radiated from him... not the heavy, pheromone-laden odor of an adult male, but something lighter, cleaner, mixed with the rose scent of essential oil residue and the warmth of a young body.
The meat-pillar hung between his legs.
It had receded from a full erection to a semi-soft state, the shaft slightly reddened. The dark pink of the blood-engorgement had not yet fully subsided, and the surface still bore that shallow indentation left by the rubber edge of the latex condom. The indentation was a shade redder than the surrounding skin.
The fluids on the shaft had mostly air-dried, turning from a wet luster into a semi-transparent thin film that wrinkled slightly with the swaying of the shaft as he walked.
The head was half-exposed from the foreskin, its color having returned from the deep red after ejaculation to an engorged dark pink. The slit of the urethral opening was closed, with a trace of dried milky-white residue at the edges.
Even in a semi-soft state, the proportional gap between that thing and his thin, teenage frame remained striking...
The length of the shaft reached down to the middle of his thighs, its thickness comparable to his own wrist. As he stepped, it swung left and right, slapping against the skin of his inner thighs with a very light, wet patter.
Hermione supported him to the edge of the lounge area, stopping at the outer perimeter of the semi-circular sofa group.
The hem of her school skirt swayed with the stop, and the bulging latex little spheres tied inside the skirt collided, producing a series of fine tap-tap-tap sounds...
Her inner thighs tightened for an instant, steadying the swaying spheres.
Jerry's green eyes swept over the faces behind the masks on the sofa.
Vera's fox mask, Narcissa's peacock mask, Amelia's hawk mask, Cassiopeia's snake mask, McGonagall's cat mask, and Rita's...
Rita wasn't wearing a mask. Her mask had been lost somewhere in the previous commotion, leaving only that orange-red fox tail hanging limply off the sofa back as proof she had participated in the game.
His gaze finally landed on Aurora's face.
The face of a girl.
The purple butterfly mask was pushed up on her forehead. That sunken, cold look in her eyes hadn't been completely retracted yet, like a pool of deep water that had just been stirred; the ripples on the surface had flattened, but the undercurrents below were still spinning.
The mead glass sat on her knee, the water mark it had soaked into the tulle gown having expanded by another circle.
Jerry's footsteps did not stop.
Hermione's hand released from his elbow. He stepped onto the carpet barefoot, his toes curling into the plush pile as he walked toward the sofa where Aurora sat.
As he walked, that semi-soft meat-pillar swayed between his legs, the shaft slapping against his inner thighs, thwack, thwack. Every step brought a wet, light sound.
Droplets of sweat slid from his temples, flowing down his jawline to the tip of his chin.
They hung there for a second before dripping onto his collarbone, gathering in the hollow into a small puddle before overflowing to run down the midline of his chest.
They passed his breastbone, the shallow grooves of his abs, his navel, and flowed all the way to the sparse downy hair above his pubic bone, gluing several fine hairs to his skin.
He stopped in front of Aurora.
His bare feet pressed into the carpet pile; his toes curled and then released. A drop of sweat fell from the tip of his chin, hitting the carpet and soaking in as a small dark spot.
Jerry looked down at his own crotch.
The semi-soft meat-pillar hung between his legs, the film of residual liquid on the shaft shimmering with a half-dry luster under the light. The pale red mark left by the condom at the base had not yet faded.
His fingers pinched the middle of the shaft and lifted it...
The shaft swayed heavily between his fingers, the tip drooping toward Aurora.
Then his fingers flipped the shaft over, bringing the underside to face up.
On the left side of the underside of the shaft, about two inches below the coronal ridge...
A row of shallow, semi-circular teeth marks was printed neatly on the skin, like a miniature tooth-stamp pressed into the meat-pillar.
The edges of the teeth marks were slightly reddened, and at the two deepest points... the position of the incisors... a tiny, hair-fine bead of blood had even seeped out, congealing into two pinhead-sized dark red dots beneath the half-dry film of liquid.
Jerry's green eyes lifted from the meat-pillar to land on Aurora's face.
The face of a girl.
The purple butterfly mask was pushed up on her forehead.
That sunken, cold look from before was still in her pupils, her lips pressed into a line.
Jerry flicked his wrist.
The semi-soft meat-pillar slapped against Aurora's left cheek.
Smack.
The side of the shaft rolled over her cheekbone, and the tip bounced off her cheek, swaying in the air.
The film of half-dry liquid on the shaft was instantly softened by her body heat upon contact, leaving a wet, semi-transparent streak on her cheekbone.
Aurora's head was knocked aside by an inch.
Every movement on the sofa stopped simultaneously.
Vera's Firewhisky bottle was suspended in mid-air; Narcissa's fingers, twining her hair, froze by her ear.
Amelia's hand on her belly tightened for a beat; Cassiopeia's snake tongue, half-popped out, solidified outside her teeth.
Professor McGonagall's gray eyes went wide behind her cat mask, and Rita's Quick-Quotes Quill slipped from her fingers, hitting the velvet sofa with a clack.
Jerry's fingers pinched the shaft, aligning the row of teeth marks on the underside with Aurora's line of sight.
"This."
His index finger tapped the row of semi-circular teeth marks, his fingertip brushing over those two tiny bleeding spots where the incisors had bit.
"Was this you?"
Aurora's head slowly turned back.
On the girl's cheek, the wet streak Jerry had slapped there extended from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth, shimmering wetly under the light.
That cold look in her pupils—the one about Zeus and assassination—shattered.
Like a sheet of thin ice struck by a marble, cracks spread from the center in all directions, revealing a completely different emotion beneath.
Her mouth gave a tiny twitch.
"You..."
Jerry's wrist flicked again.
Smack.
The meat-pillar slapped against her right cheek. This time the force was slightly greater; the tip bounced from her cheekbone to her temple, leaving a small pool of wetness at her hairline, gluing several sweat-dampened stray hairs into the streak.
"I'm asking you!
These teeth marks."
Jerry's tone was flat, as if he were simply asking whether she was the one who had drunk today's pumpkin juice in the dining hall.
On Aurora's girlish face, that layer of thin ice shattered completely.
She burst out laughing.
It wasn't the misplaced, lazy laughter of an adult woman from before, but something closer to… a nasal snort of genuine amusement.
Vera's Firewhisky bottle dropped back to her knee, and the corner of her mouth quirked behind her fox mask.
"Does he often use that thing to slap people's faces?"
"Often." Narcissa's gray eyes curved into crescents behind her peacock mask, the tips of her platinum hair slipping from her frozen fingers.
Cassiopeia's snake tongue finally finished the flick that had been interrupted earlier, quivering twice in the air. Her vertical pupils moved from the meat-pillar at Jerry's crotch to the two wet marks on Aurora's cheeks, her lips tugging into an extremely shallow arc behind the serpent mask.
"The brat has some nerve."
Aurora's laughter spilled from her nose, intermittent, her shoulders shaking slightly with her mirth.
Her fingers released the mead glass on her knee, lifting to rub the wet mark on her left cheek with the back of her index finger... a semi-transparent, sticky film stuck to her skin. She held her finger up to her eyes for a second before wiping it on the hem of her tulle gown.
"I bit it."
Her voice was clear and bright, and that habitual lazy drawl had returned to her tone.
"What about it? Does it hurt?"
Jerry pinched the shaft, bringing the row of teeth marks an inch closer; the two bleeding points at the incisor position were shoved almost directly against the tip of Aurora's nose.
"Look at this, it's actually bleeding."
"Serves you right." Aurora's index finger poked the very top of his tip, pressing her fingertip against the slit, pushing it two inches away from her nose. "Who told you to thrust so deep?"
Professor McGonagall's fingers released the lace of her garter stocking, her gray eyes crinkling behind her cat mask... that look wasn't quite a laugh, but closer to a sense of helpless relaxation mixed with warmth.
The heavy, stagnant air on the sofa—of Zeus and assassinations and frontlines—was dispelled by a meat-pillar slapping a face.
Rita climbed up from the back of the sofa, bending to pick up her fallen quill and popping it back into her mouth. Her eyes darted back and forth between Jerry and Aurora behind her lenses, and her fox tail began to wag again... not the limp, weak sway from before, but an excited, rhythmic lashing full of gossipy energy.
Amelia's hand released her bulging belly, the deep-seated worry in her eyes behind the hawk mask fading slightly, the corners of her mouth curving up. Her fingers reached for the low table, picking up that long-cold glass of Butterbeer and taking a sip, a ring of white foam remaining on her upper lip.
Aurora's index finger still rested against Jerry's tip, her fingertip pressing against the urethral opening, sensing the semi-dried film of liquid on the curve of the glans becoming sticky again under her body heat. On her girlish face, the smile hadn't fully faded, a curved arc hanging at the corner of her mouth. The sunken coldness in her eyes had been mostly washed away by mirth, leaving only a final trace in the depths of her pupils... like the last undercurrent at the bottom of deep water that sunlight couldn't reach.
Her index finger gave one last press on the tip, sliding off the slit and pulling a fine, semi-transparent thread of mucus about an inch long between her fingertip and his head. It snapped, falling onto her knee and soaking a pinhead-sized wet spot into the fabric of her tulle gown.
Vera took a swig of Firewhisky; as the bottle moved away from her mouth, she bared a wide, alcohol-tinged grin.
"Alright, alright, stop poking her face with that thing... Hermione, put a robe on the brat, it looks cold just watching him."
Hermione rounded Jerry from behind, a black school robe appearing in her hands. She unfurled it and draped it over Jerry's shoulders from the back. The fabric rested on his bare shoulders and back, the front left open to cover his upper body, but his lower half remained exposed... that meat-pillar hung out from beneath the hem, swaying between his legs and slapping his inner thigh with a thwack.
Hermione's fingers gathered the collar of the robe, her brown eyes scanning Jerry's profile from behind her mask... the faint cyan tint under his eyes was slightly deeper than before, and though he wore a smile, the muscles of his jaw were taut—a signal of accumulating fatigue.
Her fingers gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze, kneading the muscles on both sides of his spine for two seconds.
Jerry's shoulders relaxed a bit.
Jerry didn't let Hermione lead him away.
His toes ground into the plush carpet, and his center of gravity shifted half a step forward. The front of the school robe opened wider with this movement, revealing the entire naked midline from his chest to his lower abdomen... the shadows of his ribs, the sweat droplets gathered in the shallow grooves of his abs, and the sweat-dampened downy hair above his pubic bone.
His hand reached for the low table.
Next to Vera's half-drunk bottle of Firewhisky sat a glass of untouched Butterbeer, the sides frosted with droplets like cold sweat, the milky-white foam piled into a small snow-hill at the rim. Jerry's fingers pinched the handle, dragging the beer mug toward him.
Then he lifted that semi-soft meat-pillar, tip facing down, and rested the base of the shaft against the rim of the mug.
His crotch thrust forward an inch.
The meat-pillar slid into the beer mug.
The shaft submerged into the layer of milky foam, and the tip sank below the surface of the amber liquid. The level of the Butterbeer rose nearly half an inch under the displacement of the meat-pillar, a ring of foam overflowing the rim and trickling down the side to soak into a small puddle on the table.
The semi-dry film of liquid remaining on the shaft dissolved rapidly in the beer, peeling away from the skin and turning into several milky-white wisps that diffused slowly through the amber liquid, like a drop of milk falling into clear water.
Several condensed droplets on the glass wall were shaken loose by the ripples caused by the immersion, rolling down the glass curve to merge into the spilled foam on the table.
Jerry's fingers released the shaft, letting it soak naturally in the beer mug. The temperature of the meat-pillar was over ten degrees higher than the beer; at the moment of contact, several tiny bubbles rose around the tip—glug, glug—peeling off the surface of the shaft and floating to the surface to burst silently in the foam.
He picked up the beer mug... the meat-pillar was lifted along with the glass, the tip soaking in the liquid at the bottom, the shaft protruding from the rim and resting against the edge like an absurdly thick, flesh-colored stirring rod growing out of the Butterbeer.
He held the mug out to Aurora.
"Drink."
On Aurora's girlish face, the smile from being slapped by the meat-pillar still hung at the corner of her mouth. Her gaze moved from the meat-pillar soaking in the mug to Jerry's face, then back to the glass.
Several milky-white wisps dissolved from the meat-pillar drifted on the surface of the amber beer, swirling slowly at the bottom of the foam layer like a miniature abstract painting made of milk in tea.
"...Are you serious?"
Jerry's green eyes stared at her, unblinking.
Aurora's tongue-tip emerged from her teeth, licking her lower lip. Then her fingers took the mug handle, receiving the beer from Jerry's hand.
The glass tilted.
The amber liquid surged along the glass wall toward the rim, the foam layer pushed to one side by the angle, piling against the edge like a milky-white dam. The liquid crested over that dam and flowed into Aurora's mouth... her lips pressed against the rim, her lower lip brushing the curved glass. The amber beer and those milky wisps surged into her oral cavity, spreading across the flat of her tongue.
The sweet greasiness of the Butterbeer, the toasted aroma of malt, and a very faint, musky-salty taste from the dissolved residue on the meat-pillar... three flavors churned together at the root of her tongue.
She took a gulp. Her Adam's apple rolled as the liquid slid down her esophagus.
The liquid level in the glass dropped a section, more of the shaft emerging from the liquid while the tip remained soaking in the leftover beer at the bottom. The skin on the surface was slightly wrinkled from the soak, like fingers that had been in a bathtub too long.
Aurora set the mug down. The bottom clinked against the low table with a thump. Her lips were coated with a ring of milky foam, mixed with a very fine, unevenly colored milky trace dissolved from the meat-pillar, forming a blurred "milk mustache" on her upper lip.
Jerry's fingers fished the meat-pillar out of the mug. Droplets of beer and foam residue clung to the shaft, dripping down into the air. He brought the tip to Aurora's lips... not a slap this time, but a gentle offer. The curve of the glans rubbed against her lower lip, grinding the mixture of foam and beer on her mouth.
Aurora's tongue-tip emerged.
The flat of her tongue plastered against the bottom of his tip, licking upward from the coronal ridge to curl the remaining beer foam into her mouth. Her tongue-tip paused for a beat as it ground over the urethral slit, rubbing back and forth twice to soften the dried milky-white traces at the edges, swallowing them mixed with her saliva.
Jerry's fingers threaded into her braid, his fingertips hooking the root of the hair. He didn't exert force, just rested his hand there.
"The things you want."
His voice squeezed from his teenage throat, the high-pitched tone not yet changed, carrying a childishness completely out of tune with his naked body.
"Next week, all of them will be finished."
Aurora's tongue retracted from the tip, her girlish face lifting slightly, the edge of the butterfly mask casting a small shadow on her forehead.
Jerry's green eyes stared into her pupils.
"But you have to promise me... you have to come back alive."
The sofa area fell silent again.
Unlike the heavy silence regarding Zeus and assassinations from before, there was something lighter and more brittle in this silence, like a bowstring stretched to its limit—one more ounce of force and it would snap, but for now, it vibrated with a hum that could only be heard up close.
Aurora blinked.
Then she blinked again.
The girl's eyelashes cast two fan-shaped shadows in the light, sweeping over her cheekbones and those two nearly dried wet marks where the meat-pillar had slapped her.
She didn't speak.
Her hand reached out to the side.
Hermione was standing slightly to the left behind Jerry, the hem of her school skirt still swaying from her recent movement. The tied, bulging latex spheres inside the skirt collided with a soft patter.
Aurora's fingers dove beneath Hermione's skirt.
Hermione's body went rigid for a beat.
"Wait..."
Aurora's fingers had already found their mark.
Her fingertips touched a bulging, warm, latex-textured sphere, roughly the size of a quail egg, tied to the seam of the skirt lining and hanging heavily. Her thumb and index finger pinched the magical silk thread holding the sphere, and with a snap of her nail, she tore it off.
The sphere landed in her palm.
The semi-transparent latex material was stretched taut by the milky-white liquid inside, wobbling slightly in her hand like a small water balloon filled with milk. The temperature of the liquid had dropped from body heat to room temperature, but a lingering warmth from Hermione's inner thigh still remained on the latex.
Hermione's hand reached over, five fingers spread wide, grabbing for the sphere in Aurora's palm...
"That's mine...!"
Aurora retracted her hand, dodging Hermione's fingers.
She brought the sphere to her lips, her front teeth biting the tip of the latex material.
Skritch.
Her teeth ground against the latex surface, the thin material denting under the pressure of her incisors but not breaking. She intensified the force, her teeth clamping down on the indentation...
Rip... pop.
The latex broke.
The milky-white liquid surged from the hole, pouring into her mouth. The thick, musky-salty liquid flooded the flat of her tongue, mixing with her saliva to churn into a sticky mixture of milky and semi-transparent colors.
Her teeth bit the torn latex and shoved it into her mouth along with the residual liquid, her jaws beginning to chew.
Chew, chew, chew...
The latex material was ground between her teeth, turning from a single piece into several fragments, the edges curling and being crushed repeatedly against her molars along with the milky fluid. With every chew, a small stream of liquid was squeezed from the latex scraps, a trace overflowing through the gaps of her teeth to run down the corner of her mouth for half an inch before being curled back in by her tongue.
Vera's bottle of Firewhisky stopped in her hand.
Her eyes behind the fox mask stared at Aurora's chewing for three full seconds.
Then her hand reached for Hermione's skirt.
"I want one too."
Hermione's face fell.
"Madam Delacour...!"
Vera's fingers had already dove beneath the skirt, her fingertips fumbling for two seconds along the row of bulging spheres on Hermione's inner thigh before pinching the largest one... roughly the size of a pigeon egg. The latex was stretched nearly transparent by the liquid inside, the milky contents clearly visible. Her nail snapped the thread, tearing the sphere from the lining.
Snap.
The sound of the thread breaking made Hermione's shoulders twitch.
Vera shoved the sphere into her mouth, her front teeth biting the latex tip. With a crunch, she bit it open, and the milky liquid surged into her mouth. Two drops overflowed from her lips, trickling down her chin to drip onto the neckline of her tube-top dress, drawing two thin white lines over the curves of her breasts.
Chomp, chomp, chomp...
Her chewing was far coarser than Aurora's, her jaws opening and closing wide as she ground the latex fragments. Even more liquid overflowed from her mouth, white traces running from her chin all the way to her neck.
Narcissa's gray eyes narrowed behind her peacock mask.
Her fingers... those fingers maintained as flawlessly as porcelain... reached for Hermione's skirt. The movement was as elegant as taking a scone at a tea party. Her fingertips dove under the skirt, flicking lightly across the row of spheres before selecting one of moderate size. Her nail snapped the thread, and she removed the sphere.
"Forgive my rudeness."
Hermione's mouth fell open, her brown eyes rounding behind her mask, but the words "Forgive my rudeness" were stuck in her throat... the woman before her was the Lady of the Malfoy house, the elite of the pure-blood aristocracy. What could she, a Muggle-born Gryffindor, possibly say?
Narcissa brought the sphere to her lips, her silver lipstick smearing onto the latex surface, leaving a faint lip print. Her incisors bit gently and precisely into the thinnest part of the material... with a snip, a small hole opened. The liquid seeped slowly from the opening, and she pressed her lips to it, sipping it in small mouthfuls as if tasting a fine brandy.
"Mmm... the flavor is actually lighter than I imagined."
Cassiopeia's snake tongue flicked.
Her vertical pupils moved from Narcissa's elegant sipping to Hermione's skirt... the row of spheres on the inside of the skirt was now missing three after the plunder, and the remaining ten or so collided with one another as Hermione shifted, making a patter-patter sound.
The tongue retracted behind her teeth.
Her fingers reached out.
Hermione took a step back.
"Madam Black... please... those are my..."
Cassiopeia's vertical pupils fixed on Hermione's face, her expression behind the snake mask unchanging. Her fingers didn't stop, diving beneath the skirt. Her deep green nail polish brushed across the skin of Hermione's inner thigh as she scanned the row of spheres... then she pinched two at once.
Snap, snap.
Two threads broke simultaneously.
Hermione's face scrunched up into a ball.
Cassiopeia shoved one sphere into her mouth and held the other between her fingers, gesturing with her chin toward the black silhouette in the corner... Hera. Hera, disguised as Professor Hess, still sat silently on that isolated sofa, her fingers resting on the armrest, her tapping frequency having returned to its previous slow, even rhythm.
Cassiopeia tossed the second sphere toward Hera.
The sphere traced an arc through the air, the latex material flashing once in the light, before landing on Hera's lap. It bounced once and rolled to the root of her thighs, getting stuck in the gap between her crossed legs.
Hera's finger-tapping on the armrest paused for a beat.
The lips revealed beneath the full black mask pursed.
She didn't pick up the sphere, nor did she push it away. It simply sat there, wedged in the cleft of her thighs, the milky contents wobbling slightly beneath the semi-transparent latex.
Professor McGonagall's fingers released the lace of her stocking and reached for Hermione's skirt...
Hermione's eyes turned red.
"Professor... you too...?!"
McGonagall's gray eyes crinkled behind the cat mask. She removed a sphere from under the skirt with a crisp, efficient movement, like pulling a failing exam paper from a stack.
Crunch.
Her incisors bit through the latex, and the liquid surged into her mouth. She chewed twice and swallowed, her expression as if she had just eaten a piece of gingerbread.
Rita's fox tail sprang up from the sofa back, the tip pointing toward Hermione's skirt, her eyes gleaming behind her lenses...
"I also..."
Hermione's hands clamped deathly tight onto her own skirt, her ten fingers gripping the fabric until her knuckles turned white.
Her brown eyes scanned the circle of witches on the sofa who were all "crunching and munching"... Aurora with a milky trace at the corner of her mouth, Vera with white lines dripping from her chin, Narcissa sipping elegantly, Cassiopeia's tongue flickering out to curl up an overflowed drop, McGonagall chewing expressionlessly as if grading homework...
None of these people were anyone she could afford to cross.
Hermione's lips wobbled, the tip of her nose turning red, and a thin layer of water gathered in her brown eyes.
She had worked so hard... to steal them one by one... from Jerry's body...
Rita's hand had already dove beneath her skirt.
Snap.
One more.
Hermione's shoulders slumped, and she looked like a little hen that had been plucked clean. She wore a bitter expression on her small face, her lips pressed into a line of aggrieved misery.
Aurora swallowed the last fragment of latex in her mouth, her tongue swirling around her lips to curl the residual milky traces inside. On her girlish face, the sunken coldness had vanished completely, replaced by a softer relaxation soaked in Butterbeer and the musky-salty taste of the latex spheres, carrying a hint of sated satiety.
Her gaze fell back on Jerry's face.
Those green eyes were still staring at her, never having moved.
There was no smile on the boy's face; his mouth was flat, his jawline taut, and the faint cyan tint beneath his eyes looked like two thin bruises in the light. The school robe draped over his shoulders, the front open, his bare chest rising and falling slightly with his breath, the shadows of his ribs deepening with every inhale and softening with every exhale.
The meat-pillar hung beneath the hem of the robe, beer droplets clinging to the shaft, slowly air-drying.
Aurora's lips moved.
"No problem."
The girl's voice was clear and bright, and that lazy drawl had returned, but the trail of her words was shorter than usual, like a silk thread that had been snipped at the end.
"I promise... to try my best to come back alive."