A Life at Hogwarts Ch.5 [Harry Potter] (Patreon)

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A Life at Hogwarts

Chapter 5

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The final week of the autumn term was a study in controlled chaos. The castle air, usually thick with the scent of old stone and magic, was now laced with the sharp, clean smell of pine from the enchanted decorations and the pervasive aroma of students' frantic last-minute studying. For Roland, it was the most interesting time of the year. It was when the masks slipped, when the carefully constructed facades of his students cracked under the pressure of impending exams and the promise of freedom. He watched them all, a silent observer cataloging their tells.

The Weasley brothers were a boisterous beacon of excitement, their conversations at the Gryffindor table dominated by their upcoming trip to Romania. Charlie, they proclaimed loudly for anyone who would listen, was dealing with a new batch of Welsh Greens and had invited them all for a firsthand lesson in dragonology. Roland caught the awestruck look on Harry Potter’s face as he listened, a mixture of envy and genuine happiness for his friends. It was the look of a boy who had found his first real friends, a chaotic, loving, red-headed tribe that had taken him in without question.

But Roland also saw the shadow behind Harry’s eyes. The conversation with Dumbledore had clearly done its work; the boy no longer sought out deserted corridors with a lost, longing expression. But the mirror had left its mark. There was a new, quiet melancholy to him, a thoughtful sadness that hadn't been there before. He was learning, far too young, that even the deepest joys in life were often accompanied by an equal measure of sorrow. He would be going on holiday with his mother, Lily, but Roland knew it was a different kind of trip. It wasn't an escape; it was a retreat, a chance to fortify the real against the allure of the imagined.

And then there was Hermione.

She was a study in contrasts. To the outside world, she was the model student, even more focused than usual. Her hand was the first to shoot up in every class, her essays were flawless, and she spent her evenings in the library, a fortress of books around her. She told anyone who asked that she was staying behind for the break to pursue an independent study project with Professor Greengrass, a statement that was met with a mixture of admiration and bewilderment. "My parents are completely supportive," she explained to a curious Lavender Brown, her voice perfectly level and reasonable. "They think it's a wonderful opportunity. We can always have our family vacation in the summer. This is too important to pass up."

It was a masterful performance, the kind of seamless, logical justification that was uniquely Hermione. But Roland saw the truth. He saw the way her eyes would find his across the Great Hall, a silent, fervent communication that bypassed all words. He saw the slight tremor in her hand as she took notes in his class, not from fear, but from a barely suppressed anticipation. She wasn't staying at Hogwarts for an "independent study project." She was staying for him.

Their final "grading session" of the term was on the last Friday before the break. The classroom was quiet, the candles on his desk casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The rest of the castle was buzzing with the energy of students packing and saying their goodbyes, but in here, there was only the sound of the crackling fire and the soft scratch of his quill.

Hermione sat opposite him, a stack of finished exams between them. She was more subdued than usual, her focus entirely on the work, but Roland could feel the energy thrumming off her, a high-frequency hum of nervous energy and raw want.

"You've done exceptional work this term, Hermione," he said, setting down his quill and leaning back in his chair. "These essays are beyond N.E.W.T. level. Your analysis of the political ramifications of the International Statute of Secrecy was particularly insightful."

A faint blush colored her cheeks, but it was a blush of pleasure, not embarrassment. "Thank you, Professor. I had a good source material."

He smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. "Indeed." He let the silence hang for a moment, letting the weight of his unspoken meaning settle between them. "So, the Weasleys are off to see dragons. Harry is going to the south of France with his mother. And you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, "are going to stay here in this cold, empty castle with dusty old books."

"I'm staying to continue my studies," she replied, her voice a little too quick, a little too firm. "With you."

"Ah, yes. Your studies," he said, his tone one of mock solemnity. "And what, precisely, does this holiday curriculum entail? I find I've misplaced my lesson plan."

Hermione’s blush deepened, but she held his gaze, a flicker of her old defiance warring with her new, submissive nature. "I… I thought we could continue with the practical applications of… magical theory."

Roland chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Practical applications. An excellent euphemism." He stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against it in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. "Let's be clear, Hermione. You are not here to study. You are here because you cannot bear the thought of leaving. You are here because the thought of two weeks without this," he gestured vaguely between them, "is unbearable to you. Am I wrong?"

She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to his polished shoes. "No," she whispered, the word a surrender. "You're not wrong."

"Good," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Honesty is the foundation of any meaningful education." He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, a feather-light touch that made her shiver. "So, let's discuss our plans. What do you want to do with our two weeks of uninterrupted time?"

Her mind, that brilliant, resourceful mind that could recite complex potions recipes from memory, went completely blank. All she could think about was the feel of his touch, the scent of his skin, the memory of him filling her so completely that she felt whole. "I…" she started, her voice trembling. "I want to learn. Everything. Anything you want to teach me."

"Everything is a very big subject," Roland mused, his thumb stroking her cheek. "We'll need to be more specific. We could, for example, spend the first week on the theory and application of the Unforgivable Curses. It's a fascinating area of magical ethics. Or," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "we could spend that time exploring the precise correlation between the intensity of a physical stimulus and the potency of a magical response. For example, how the pleasure-pain threshold can be manipulated to enhance one's focus for non-verbal casting."

Hermione’s breath hitched, a wave of heat washing over her. The image his words conjured was so vivid, so intoxicating, that it made her dizzy. "The… the second one," she breathed, her eyes wide and dark with desire.

"An excellent choice," he purred. "And for the second week? I think a more… domestic setting is in order. A change of scenery to facilitate a different kind of practical application. We could take our studies to your home. I imagine your parents would be delighted to meet the professor who has captured their daughter's academic passion so completely."

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. The idea of him in her world, in her home, was both terrifying and intoxicating. "My… my home?"

"Yes," Roland said, his eyes glinting with a dark, predatory light. "It would be a valuable lesson in adapting one's techniques to a new environment. And," he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "it would be a shame for you to be entirely without family over the holidays. I'm sure your mother would be fascinated to learn what a brilliant, attentive daughter she has raised. We could make it a joint tutorial. A mother-daughter lesson in… service."

The word hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. It was a suggestion wrapped in a compliment, a proposal so obscene it was rendered elegant by his calm, professorial tone. Hermione's mind reeled, a vision of her mother, of them both, kneeling before him, flashing through her with the force of a lightning strike. It was wrong, it was depraved, it was the most terrifyingly erotic thing she had ever heard.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a single syllable of total, unconditional surrender. "Please."

"Very well," he said, straightening up and walking back to his chair. He was a professor again, setting the terms of the course. "Consider it arranged. We will begin on Monday morning. I expect you in my office at nine o'clock sharp. And Hermione," he added, his eyes locking with hers across the desk. "Don't bother wearing any knickers. They'll only get in the way."

A jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shot through her, so powerful it was almost painful. She could only nod, her throat too tight to form a word. She gathered her things, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated, and fled the room, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

She didn't remember the walk back to Gryffindor Tower. The journey was a blur of stone corridors and flickering torchlight, her feet moving on instinct while her mind replayed his final command on a loop. The words echoed in her head, a dark, seductive promise that made her cunt throb with a desperate, insistent ache. She barely registered the Fat Lady's password, stumbling through the portrait hole and into the blessedly empty common room. She climbed the stairs to her dormitory, her legs trembling, each step a monumental effort.

The moment the door to her room clicked shut behind her, she was on her bed. She didn't bother to undress, to get under the covers. She simply fell back onto the quilts, her hand already diving beneath the waistband of her skirt, past the damp fabric of her knickers, and into the slick, swollen heat of her folds. She was soaking wet, her body having prepared itself for him long before her mind had caught up. She began to touch herself, her fingers frantic, clumsy, mimicking the rough, possessive way she imagined he would. It wasn't gentle; it was a furious, desperate masturbation, a frantic attempt to quench the fire he had lit inside her.

She came quickly, a sharp, unsatisfying orgasm that offered no relief. It was like throwing a cup of water on a raging inferno. The ache was still there, a deep, hollow emptiness that pulsed with a need so profound it was terrifying. She wanted more. She wanted the feeling of being filled, stretched, claimed by his monstrous cock. Her own fingers felt pathetic, inadequate. They were a poor substitute for the thick, unyielding invasion she craved. She tried again, her movements growing more desperate, rubbing her clit in harsh, rapid circles, trying to force another, more powerful release. She came again, a second, weaker tremor that did nothing to sate the hunger gnawing at her insides. She was a shipwreck of sensation, lost in a sea of unfulfilled desire, and she knew, with a sickening, exhilarating certainty, that only he could save her.

***

Roland watched her go, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. The castle was emptying, the world preparing for its season of peace and family, but his own holiday was just beginning. He had his sweet, devoted niece to mold into the perfect weapon, and now, the brightest witch of her age, burning with a need only he could satisfy. He had two weeks to himself, two weeks to indulge, to train, and to possess. It was going to be a very productive holiday indeed.

***

The last of the students had finally departed, their chatter and excitement fading into the distant echoes of the castle's stone corridors. The Hogwarts Express had long since left the station, taking with it the noise and distraction of the term. Now, only a handful of staff and a select few students remained, and the castle settled into a deep, resonant silence. It was in this quiet that Roland Greengrass sat in his office, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across the walls, the only sound the gentle scratch of his quill on parchment.

The door opened without a sound, and Daphne entered. She moved with a liquid grace that was both innate and honed, a predator's silent prowl. She was dressed not in her school robes, but in a simple, elegant black dress that clung to her form, a garment chosen for his pleasure. She closed the door behind her, the click of the latch the only acknowledgment of her arrival. Roland did not look up from his work. He did not acknowledge her presence. He simply continued to write, his focus absolute.

This was their ritual. It was a test, and she had learned to pass it without thought. She crossed the room, her footsteps silent on the thick rug, and approached his desk. She did not speak. She did not hesitate. She simply sank to her knees in the space between his desk and his chair, a position of absolute submission that was now as natural to her as breathing. Her hands, pale and slender, moved to his trousers, her movements practiced and sure. She freed his cock, and it sprang into her hands, a heavy, pulsing column of flesh that was her god, her purpose, her entire world.

She began to worship it. Her lips, soft and yielding, pressed reverent kisses along the thick shaft, from the base to the flared, sensitive head. Her tongue darted out, tracing the throbbing veins, tasting the familiar, musky scent of him. This was her communion. She took him into her mouth, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth, and began to service him with a devotion that was all-consuming. She took as much of his monstrous cock into her throat as she could, fighting her gag reflex, her eyes watering as she pushed her limits, wanting to give him all of herself, to be nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. Her efforts were a frantic, desperate prayer, her head bobbing, her cheeks hollowing, her world shrinking to the feel of him filling her, claiming her.

Her devotion bore fruit. With a low, guttural groan, Roland's hips jerked, and his cock pulsed, flooding her mouth with his hot, thick seed. She swallowed instinctively, her throat working to milk every last drop, her body trembling with a secondary pleasure that came solely from his release.

But she wasn't done. Without a word of instruction, knowing his will as if it were her own, she pulled back, wiped a stray drop of cum from her lips with her thumb, and rose gracefully to her feet. She turned, bent over his desk, her hands flat on the polished wood, and presented herself to him. She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing her pale, perfect ass and her dripping, swollen cunt, an offering of utter and complete surrender.

Only then did Roland speak. He set his quill down, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He ran a single finger down her slick folds, collecting her wetness. "Your father," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "My brother. He's expecting you for the holiday trip to the Alps tomorrow. Are you looking forward to it?"

He thrust into her in a single, powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Daphne cried out, her fingers digging into the wood of the desk, the sudden, brutal intrusion sending a shockwave of pleasure and pain through her. "Yes," she gasped, her voice strained as he began to thrust, his strokes long, deep, and punishing. "I… I am looking forward to it."

"Good," Roland said, his pace quickening, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, rhythmic cadence. "It's important for a daughter to spend time with her father. To maintain appearances." His hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap on her ass, the sound echoing in the room. Daphne whimpered, the pain blossoming into a exquisite pleasure that made her cunt clench around him.

"Tell me what you'll do," he commanded, his voice a dark growl as he continued to fuck her, his thrusts becoming more furious, more demanding. He spanked her again, and again, his hand leaving a constellation of bright red marks on her pale skin, bruising her ass and thighs with the force of his possession.

"I'll… I'll be a good daughter," she managed to say, her body rocking with the force of his thrusts. "I'll… ski, and… and talk to him about… about school…" Her words dissolved into a series of high-pitched cries as the first orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shattering release that left her trembling and weak.

Roland showed no sign of stopping. He was a relentless force, a machine of pure, dominant lust. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his lips brushing against her ear. "And what will you be thinking about, my little slut?" he whispered, his voice a filthy, seductive poison. "Will you be thinking about your dear old dad? Or will you be thinking about this cock? About how it's filling you, stretching you, owning you? Will you be dreaming of me fucking you in the snow while your father sleeps down the hall?"

His words were a litany of depravity, a string of filthy truths that sent her spiraling into another orgasm, even more intense than the first. She was a mindless, convulsing thing, lost in a sea of pleasure, her body completely at his mercy. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside her and came, his hot seed flooding her cunt, a second, deeper branding of his ownership.

But he was not done with her. The brief, shimmering stillness after his orgasm was a fragile illusion, a momentary pause in the storm. He pulled out, leaving her a limp, quivering mess on his desk, her body slick with a sheen of sweat and his cum, a canvas of his recent pleasure. The sudden emptiness was a cold shock, a void that ached with a profound sense of loss.

Before she could even process the feeling, he moved. He grabbed her, his hands hooking under her arms, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing, a ragdoll in his grasp. He sat her down on the edge of the desk, facing him, her legs dangling limply.

He spread her legs wide, his hands on her inner thighs, his grip firm and proprietary. He looked down at her, at his cum leaking from her swollen, well-used cunt, a dark, possessive gleam in his eyes. And then he entered her again in one smooth, brutal motion.

Daphne cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that was half pain, half pure, unadulterated bliss. Her oversensitive cunt protested the sudden, violent intrusion, a jolt of too-much-too-soon that made her entire body tense. But even as her nerves screamed, her body welcomed him, her walls clamping around him, a primal, instinctive recognition of its master. He was home.

"Two weeks," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through her entire being. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as he began to fuck her with a renewed, furious energy, a pace that was designed to obliterate thought. "Two weeks without this. Without my cock. Do you think you'll survive? Do you think you'll be able to sleep without me inside you, reminding you who you belong to?"

His words were a physical assault, a barrage of filthy promises that made her head spin. He slapped her across the face, not hard enough to injure, but with enough force to stun, to assert his absolute dominance. The sharp sting was a shock, a jolt of pure, unadulterated submission that made her head swim and her vision blur for a second. He did it again, and again, each slap a brutal, loving punctuation mark to his filthy praise, a rhythm that matched the punishing tempo of his hips.

Her tits bounced with the force of his thrusts, and he mauled them, his hands rough and demanding. He squeezed the soft flesh, his fingers digging in, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises tomorrow. He pinched her nipples, twisting them just enough to send a sharp, exquisite arc of pain straight to her clit, a sensation that was so intense it was almost agony. She cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure that was driving her insane, blurring the lines between them until they were one and the same.

"You're going to miss this, aren't you?" he snarled, his voice thick with lust, his face a mask of raw, primal need. "You're going to be in that fancy chalet, with all that fresh air and family love, and all you'll be able to think about is this. My cock, fucking you, using you, filling you. You'll sit at the dinner table with my brother, your father, and you'll be dripping, remembering how I claimed you on this desk."

She came again, her body arching, a silent scream on her lips as another wave of ecstasy washed over her, a tidal wave of pleasure that was so intense it was almost violent. And then another. They were coming one after the other, a cascading series of orgasms that had no beginning and no end, a continuous state of blissful, mind-shattering release. She was lost, a shipwreck of sensation in a storm of his making, her body no longer her own, but a puppet dancing on the strings of his desire.

With a final, guttural roar, he pulled out of her, the sudden emptiness a brutal shock. He grabbed her by the hair, his fist tangling in the sweat-soaked strands, and forced her to her knees. She landed on the floor with a soft thud, her body too weak to support her. He shoved his cock, slick with her juices and his cum, into her mouth, and with a few brutal, deep thrusts, he dumped his load down her throat, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

"Swallow it," he commanded, his voice rough and ragged, a raw, primal order. "Every last drop."

She obeyed, her throat working, her body limp and boneless at his feet. She was jelly, completely and utterly spent, her mind a blank, her body a canvas of his pleasure. He was her god, her master, her entire world, and she had never been more complete.

***

The journey to the small, sun-drenched cottage in the south of France was a world away from the chill and grandeur of Hogwarts. For Harry, it was a return to a sanctuary he hadn't known he needed. The moment he stepped through the Floo network and into the warm, herb-scented air of his mother’s home, the heavy weight of the term seemed to lift from his shoulders. This was real. This was solid. This was his mother, her arms wrapping around him in a hug that smelled of lavender, old books, and a love so pure it made his heart ache.

They spent the first evening simply being. They ate a simple meal of fresh bread, cheese, and grapes on the stone patio, the sound of crickets chirping in the twilight. Lily didn’t press him for stories, content to simply look at him, to see the growth in his face, the new confidence in his posture. But the next morning, over steaming mugs of hot chocolate, she turned to him, her expression soft and inviting.

"Alright," she said, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "Tell me everything. Not the edited versions you put in your letters. I want to hear it all. From the beginning."

And so, Harry began. He recounted the Sorting Ceremony, the nervous flutter in his stomach as the tattered old hat was placed on his head, its voice whispering in his mind. He described the immense relief and pride when it had yelled "Gryffindor," and the instant, easy camaraderie he felt with Ron Weasley, a boy so different from himself yet who felt like an instant brother. He told her about Hermione, of course. He described her brilliance, her fierce loyalty, and the way she had become the indispensable third part of their trio, the brain to their brawn and heart.

He found himself glossing over the more dangerous parts, the adventures that were less about fun and more about near-death experiences. He mentioned the troll in the dungeons, but framed it as a silly story about the school's security being lax rather than the terror of the creature itself. He talked about their midnight wanderings, but made them sound like harmless explorations, not the reckless investigations into a forbidden third-floor corridor that they truly were.

He spoke of Quidditch with a passion that made his eyes light up. He described the feeling of soaring on a broomstick, the wind whipping past his face, the world shrinking to the tiny, golden snitch. He told her about catching it in his first match, the exhilarating, stomach-dropping dive, the roar of the crowd, and the bone-jarring collision with the ground that had left him with a collection of colorful bruises and a newfound fame.

"Madam Pomfrey fixed me up in no time," he assured her, seeing the worried crease form between her brows. "It was nothing."

"It never sounds like nothing when you're the one telling the story," Lily murmured, her hand reaching across the table to cover his.

His expression grew more serious then. "There is one thing, though," he said, his voice lowering. "I don't trust Professor Snape. The Potions Master. He… he seems to hate me. For no reason. And I think he was trying to jinx me during that Quidditch match. Hermione saw him muttering, she thinks he was cursing my broom."

Lily’s face softened, a flicker of a complex, old emotion in her green eyes, so like his own. "Harry," she said gently, "Severus… he isn't evil. He's complicated, and he carries a great deal of pain. But he is not the man you think he is. There are reasons for his bitterness, reasons that have nothing to do with you."

"I know you were friends with him," Harry said, a little defensively. "But he's horrible to everyone, not just me."

"I know," she sighed. "We don't have to agree on it. Let's just… let's leave Severus aside for now. Tell me about your classes. Are you enjoying them? Is the food as terrible as they say?"

Harry was happy to move on. "The food's brilliant! Well, most of it. But the classes… some are amazing, some are awful. They say History of Magic used to be the worst. Professor Binns is a ghost, you see, and he just drones on and on in this monotone voice. He literally puts everyone to sleep. But this year, we have a new professor."

He leaned forward, his enthusiasm genuine. "He's brilliant. His name is Professor Roland Greengrass. He actually makes history interesting. He doesn't just make us memorize dates, he makes us debate things, like why the goblins rebelled, or if the Statute of Secrecy is even fair. It's… it's like he's teaching us how to think, not just what to think."

The name hit Lily like a physical blow. It was as if a sealed, forgotten memory had been violently burst open in her mind. One moment, she was a mother listening to her son over a cup of hot chocolate; the next, she was an eighteen-year-old girl, her world a chaotic mess of war and fear and a love that was as suffocating as it was comforting.

Her face turned a shade of crimson that had nothing to do with the warmth of the fire. The memory was vivid, obscene, and utterly intoxicating. She was in the Prefects' bathroom, the air thick with steam and the scent of expensive soaps. She was positioned ass up and face down on the cold, tiled floor, her cheek pressed against the unforgiving stone. Roland's foot was on her face, the sole of his shoe pressing gently but firmly against her cheek, a symbol of absolute ownership that made her feel more cherished than any tender kiss ever had. He was behind her, drilling into her from behind with a relentless, powerful rhythm that was both punishing and ecstatic. James had been too much that day—too much noise, too much public bravado, too much of the immature, bullying boy she was beginning to fear she was trapped with. She had fled, seeking solace, and had found it in Roland's embrace, an embrace that had ended with her being utterly and completely debased on a bathroom floor. It had been the most freeing moment of her life.

Thankfully, Roland had acted as if nothing had ever happened between them. The next day, he was the same cool, sarcastic schoolmate of her and James, his demeanor a perfect mask of indifference. But Lily had never forgotten. And in the quiet, lonely moments of her widowhood, she had secretly yearned for that feeling again—the feeling of being so completely possessed, of being taken out of her own head and used for another's pleasure, of being absolved of all responsibility and choice.

"…and so, Malfoy looked like he was about to have a stroke," Harry was saying, oblivious to the storm raging in his mother's mind. "It was brilliant. Mum? Are you okay?"

Lily blinked, forcing a smile that felt brittle and fake. "Yes! Yes, of course, dear. I'm sorry, my mind wandered for a moment." She waved a dismissive hand, trying to force the image of Roland's foot on her face from her mind. "It's just… History of Magic. It really isn't the most exciting topic, is it? I'm sure it's fascinating, the way he teaches it, but my brain is still on holiday mode." She forced a light laugh. "So, what about your other professors? What about Professor Quirrell? The one who found the troll. He seems… nervous."

Harry, accepting her flimsy excuse, readily moved on. "Oh, Quirrell. He's a bit of a joke, really. He stutters all the time, and his turban always smells funny. He says it's to protect him from a vampire he met in the Black Forest, but no one really believes him. He's a decent teacher, I guess, but he's so scared of his own shadow, it's hard to take him seriously."

Lily nodded, making the appropriate listening noises, but she wasn't hearing a word he was saying. Her mind was a million miles away, back in a cold, tiled bathroom, back in the arms of a man who had seen the darkness in her and hadn't run, but had instead claimed it. She could feel the phantom pressure of his foot on her cheek, the ghost of his powerful thrusts. A familiar, forbidden heat began to pool low in her belly, a wetness forming between her legs that was both a betrayal and a desperate need. She stared at her son, at his bright, innocent face, and felt a wave of guilt so sharp it was painful. But beneath the guilt, another feeling was stirring, a long-dormant hunger that Roland Greengrass had just awakened from a decade-long slumber.

***

The old Ford Anglia was a symphony of strange noises, a cacophony of rattling windows, groaning engine, and the gentle whoosh of air displaced by the disillusionment charm that rendered them invisible to the Muggle world below. Inside, the Weasley family was a bubble of chaotic energy, a stark contrast to the serene, moonlit clouds they soared through. Arthur Weasley was at the wheel, his face a mask of intense concentration, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were the most exotic piece of Muggle technology he had ever encountered—which, in a way, it was. Molly sat beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression a mixture of maternal pride and perpetual anxiety about the safety of her children, whether they were on the ground or a thousand feet in the air.

Ron, sandwiched between his brothers in the back, was in his element. The trip to Romania to see Charlie was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him, and he was recounting his first term at Hogwarts with the breathless enthusiasm of a town crier.

"It was brilliant, the Sorting Hat!" he exclaimed, his voice loud enough to be heard over the engine. "It didn't even take a second for me. 'GRYFFINDOR!' it shouted. Just like that. Knew I was a Weasley right off." He puffed out his chest. "Harry was a bit of a worry for a moment. The Hat was taking ages. Thought it was going to put him in Slytherin, can you imagine? But it put him with us, of course. He's a proper Gryffindor, Harry is."

He launched into a detailed, and heavily embellished, account of his rivalry with Draco Malfoy. "…and then I told him, 'You'll pay for that!' and he just sneered and walked off. He's a right foul git, that one. Thinks he's so special just 'cause his dad's got loads of gold." He then moved on to the troll, his eyes wide with remembered terror and excitement. "But that's when Harry and me, we showed everyone what we're made of. We went to find Hermione, see, 'cause she'd been crying in the loos, and the troll was right there! Harry distracted it while I levitated its club and smashed it! Well, it sort of… fell on its own club. But it was our plan! Professor Greengrass even said it was a textbook example of tactical improvisation."

He chattered on about their adventures, their secret explorations of the castle, and the thrill of breaking rules. "And then there's Quidditch! You should see Harry fly, Mum, Dad. He's a natural. A born Seeker. Caught the Snitch in his first match, even though he nearly fell off his broom. Snape was trying to jinx him, I reckon, but Harry's too good for him. I'm going to try out for Beater next year. Fred and George are going to help me train."

He paused for breath, and his expression soured. "Speaking of Snape, I hate him. He's awful to Harry, always taking points from Gryffindor for no reason and favoring the Slytherins. He's definitely plotting something, I'm sure of it."

"Now, Ron, I'm sure Professor Snape is just… very strict," Molly began, her standard defense of any authority figure.

"He's a git, Mum," Ron insisted. "But not all the teachers are bad. I mean, we've got the new History of Magic professor, Roland. He's brilliant. Nothing like Binns. He actually makes you want to stay awake."

The name "Roland" hit Arthur like a physical jolt. His hands, which had been steady on the wheel, clenched the leather so tightly his knuckles turned white. The Anglia gave a sudden, violent lurch, the nose dipping alarmingly towards the dark, sleeping countryside below.

"Arthur!" Molly shrieked, grabbing the dashboard.

"Sorry! Sorry, just a bit of an updraft!" Arthur stammered, wrestling with the steering wheel, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced the car back into a level flight path, his mind reeling, the present dissolving into a memory that was as vivid as it was shameful.

He wasn't in a flying car anymore. He was in the corner of their small, cramped bedroom at the Burrow, the one they had before Bill was born. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle. He was naked, his small, thin dick hard in his hand, stroking it slowly, almost reverently. He wasn't touching himself for his own pleasure, but because the sight before him demanded it.

Molly was on the bed, on her hands and knees, her belly heavy and swollen with their first child. She was naked, her pale skin glowing in the candlelight. And she wasn't alone. Behind her, Roland Greengrass was pistoning into her with a powerful, relentless rhythm. His hands had a firm grip on Molly's arms, pulling them back, arching her spine, forcing her to take every inch of his magnificent cock. Arthur could see the slick sheen of sweat on Molly's back, could hear the soft, desperate sounds she was making, a mixture of pain and pleasure that was so alien to the woman he knew.

"Look at your husband, Molly," Roland's voice was a low, dark growl, a sound of pure command that made Arthur's own cock twitch in his hand. "Look at him watching you. Watch him stroking his pathetic little cock while I fuck you like you need to be fucked."

Molly turned her head, her face a mask of ecstasy, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She looked at Arthur, but she didn't see him. She saw only what Roland wanted her to see. "He's… he's watching," she whimpered, her voice breaking as Roland drove into her particularly hard. "Oh, gods, Roland… he's so small…"

"I know," Roland grunted, his pace quickening. "That's why you're here. That's why you come to me. You need a real man to fill this tight little cunt, don't you? You need to be fucked by a man who knows what to do with it."

"Yes," she cried out, her body convulsing as an orgasm ripped through her. "Yes! I need it! I need you!"

Arthur could only watch, his own strokes becoming more frantic, a pathetic counterpoint to the powerful, masculine rhythm of the man fucking his wife. He saw Roland's body tense, heard him groan as he buried himself deep inside Molly and came, pumping her full of his seed. The sight was enough to push Arthur over the edge, and he spilled himself into his own hand, a weak, shameful release that was nothing compared to the torrent he had just watched Roland give his wife.

"Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?" Molly's voice, sharp with worry, pulled him back to the present. The car was level again, but his hands were still shaking.

"Fine! I'm fine, Molly, just… just a bit of turbulence," he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Roland, you say? Replaced old Binns? Well, I never. I thought they'd never get rid of him. Good for the school, good for the students."

He risked a glance at Molly. Her face was pale, her hands twisting in her lap. She wouldn't meet his eyes. She knew. Of course, she knew. The memory was in his eyes, and it was in hers, too.

They spent the rest of the ride in a state of heightened, nervous energy. They nodded along as Ron continued to blabber on, his voice a steady, meaningless drone in the background. He talked about Professor Flitwick and his Charms class, about Professor Sprout and the greenhouses, about Hagrid and his Blast-Ended Skrewts. But Arthur and Molly weren't really listening. They were on autopilot, their minds a thousand miles and a decade away.