A Life at Hogwarts Ch.14 [Harry Potter] (Patreon)

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A Life at Hogwarts

Chapter 14

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Roland stood at the front of the History of Magic classroom the next morning, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the usual drifting hearts from Valentine’s still bumping lazily against the enchanted ceiling. A few stubborn pink ones kept floating down low enough to brush the tops of students’ heads, popping softly and leaving little trails of glitter that stuck to robes and hair. The lesson itself had been lighter than usual—more stories about messy old romances and their political fallout than straight dates and treaties—but the air in the room felt thicker than normal. Students were still riding the high from yesterday’s holiday chaos, whispering about who got what card, who got rejected, and who was suddenly acting weird around their crushes.

He let the chatter run for a minute, watching the energy in the room, then tapped his wand once against the edge of his desk. The sharp sound cut through everything. Heads turned.

“Before we wrap up,” Roland said, his voice carrying easily to the back rows without needing to raise it, “I’ve got an announcement. After going through the work from my teaching assistants and the top students this term, I’ve picked one to serve as my personal apprentice for the rest of the year.” He paused, letting the words settle. “This means extra research duties, late-night sessions in my office sorting through primary sources, and direct one-on-one guidance on advanced historical analysis. It’s demanding. But it comes with real benefits—access to restricted materials, extra credit that actually means something, and my personal recommendation for anything after Hogwarts.”

Every head in the room turned. The floating hearts seemed to slow down, like even they were listening.

“Hermione Granger.”

A visible ripple went through the class. Gasps, murmurs, a few scattered claps from the Gryffindor side. Hermione’s face lit up instantly with open, unfiltered pride. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink as she sat up straighter in her seat, bushy hair shifting with the movement. Under the desk, her thighs pressed together tightly, a sudden secret throb of heat pulsing between her legs at the very public declaration. She could feel eyes on her from every direction, but the only ones that mattered were Roland’s. When their gazes met for that brief moment across the room, another warm rush hit low in her belly, making her shift in her seat again. The memory of last night—his hands, his voice, the way he’d used her—flashed hot behind her eyes.

Daphne Greengrass’s perfect mask cracked for just a split second. Her grey eyes narrowed sharply, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. Jealousy burned hot and ugly behind the polite, composed smile she forced back into place almost immediately. Her fingers tightened around her quill until the wood creaked, but she didn’t say a word. She just stared straight ahead, jaw set.

“Miss Granger, come up here for a moment,” Roland said, calm and professional.

Hermione stood, smoothing her skirt with slightly shaky hands, and walked to the front of the class. She tried to keep her steps steady, but she could feel the weight of every stare on her back—Harry’s worried frown, Ron’s confused blink, Draco’s sneer, and Daphne’s burning gaze most of all. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stopped beside Roland’s desk.

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sleek silver choker. It looked elegant at first glance, almost like an academic badge on a thin, delicate chain. Subtle Greengrass family runes were etched faintly into the metal, catching the light in a way that made them seem to shift when you looked too long. Roland stepped close, his fingers careful but sure as he fastened it around her neck. The cool metal settled warmly against her skin the moment it clicked shut. For a few seconds it gave off a faint, soft glow that pulsed gently against her throat before fading back to silver.

“This marks your new role,” he said quietly, loud enough for her and the front rows to hear clearly. His fingers brushed the side of her neck one last time, a small, private touch that sent another shiver down her spine. “It glows when you’re on duty. Wear it at all times. Mandatory sessions start tonight.”

Hermione touched the choker lightly with her fingertips, feeling the warmth linger against her pulse. “Thank you, Professor,” she said, voice steady even though her thighs were still pressed tight together under her skirt. The public claim of her time, the visible mark on her neck, the promise of more late nights—it all hit her at once. She felt exposed and chosen at the same time, and the heat between her legs only grew.

The second Roland dismissed the class, the whispers exploded like someone had lit a firework in the middle of the room.

“Granger’s the professor’s pet now?”

“Did you see that fancy thing around her neck? Looks expensive as hell.”

“Bet she’s been sucking up for extra credit all term. Literally.”

“Greengrass looks like she wants to hex someone.”

Harry and Ron were at her side almost immediately as students spilled out into the corridor, the usual post-class chatter mixing with the fresh buzz about the announcement. Harry’s face was tight with worry, his green eyes flicking repeatedly to the silver choker around Hermione’s neck. The faint runes caught the torchlight every time she moved, giving off that subtle, almost magical sheen.

“Hermione… what the hell is that thing?” he asked, voice low but urgent, stepping close so the passing students wouldn’t overhear everything. “And since when are you his apprentice? You didn’t say anything about extra sessions or any of this. You’ve been disappearing after classes for weeks now.”

Hermione’s cheeks were still warm from the public attention, the flush refusing to fade. She reached up instinctively and adjusted the choker with her fingertips, feeling the warm metal press against her skin. A small, private smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “It’s just an academic marker, Harry. For extra research. Professor Greengrass is a brilliant historian. I’m learning more than I ever have before. It’s a real opportunity—access to sources I couldn’t get otherwise, proper guidance on advanced topics. You know how much I’ve wanted something like this.”

Ron scratched the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably as he glanced between her and the choker. His ears were already turning pink. “Yeah, but… late nights? In his office? You sure you’re alright with all that? It sounds a bit… intense. And that thing around your neck—looks fancy. Not exactly standard school gear.”

“Perfectly fine,” Hermione said, a little too brightly, her voice carrying that familiar know-it-all confidence even as another secret throb of heat pulsed low in her belly. The choker felt warm against her pulse, almost like a reminder of Roland’s fingers fastening it, the way his touch had lingered. She pressed her thighs together under her skirt for a second, trying to ignore the lingering soreness from the night before. “Really, both of you. This is good for me. I need to get to the library before the good tables are taken. I’ll see you later.”

She slipped away before they could press her any further, robes swishing around her legs as she moved down the corridor. The silver choker caught the light with every step, drawing more glances and whispers that followed her like a shadow.

McGonagall was passing by near the entrance to the Transfiguration corridor when she spotted it. The older witch stopped mid-stride, her square spectacles glinting as she took in the elegant silver band around Hermione’s neck. One sharp eyebrow rose high, and her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. For a long moment she simply stood there, her expression a careful mask of concern layered over something much deeper—something conflicted, almost haunted. Her fingers tightened around the stack of parchment she was carrying until the edges crinkled.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said finally, her Scottish accent clipped and precise, but with an undercurrent of something softer. She stepped closer, lowering her voice so the passing students couldn’t easily eavesdrop. “A word, if you please.”

Hermione paused, turning to face her properly. The choker felt suddenly heavier under the older witch’s gaze. “Yes, Professor?”

McGonagall’s eyes flicked to the runes on the metal again, then back up to Hermione’s face. She drew in a slow breath, as if steadying herself. “That… accessory. It is not standard Hogwarts issue. I trust Professor Greengrass explained its purpose fully?” Her tone was measured, but there was a flicker in her eyes—memories surfacing whether she wanted them to or not. She remembered her own office, years ago, the way Roland had looked at her with that same calm confidence. The Rejuvenesco spell making her body feel young and alive again, the desk beneath her, the way he had bent her over it without asking twice. The sting of his hand on her skin. The overwhelming fullness. The shame and thrill of walking out afterward, marked and leaking, forced to teach her next class like nothing had happened.

Hermione nodded, keeping her voice steady even as a fresh wave of warmth spread through her at the memory of Roland’s fingers on her neck. “Yes, Professor. It’s for my new apprentice role. It glows when I’m on duty. Extra research, late sessions… it’s an honor.”

McGonagall’s jaw tightened. She glanced around to make sure no one was lingering too close, then leaned in slightly. “An honor,” she repeated, almost to herself. Her voice dropped lower. “Miss Granger, you are a brilliant young witch. Exceptionally so. But you must be careful. Professor Greengrass… he has a way about him. Charismatic. Persuasive. I have known him longer than you might realize.”

She paused, a flicker of old heat and regret crossing her face. In her mind she was back in that office again, younger and far less composed, robes hiked up, his cock driving into her from behind while she bit down on her own fist to stay quiet. The way he had made her recite rules and responsibilities even as he fucked her senseless. The way she had cum so hard she saw stars, then had to walk out marked and dripping, teaching fifth-years with his cum still inside her. The conflicting rush of shame and craving that followed her for days afterward.

“I will not pry into private matters,” McGonagall continued, her tone firmer now, though her eyes betrayed the internal storm. “But I expect you to maintain the highest standards of conduct. If anything feels… inappropriate, you come to me immediately. Do you understand?”

Hermione met her gaze, cheeks still faintly pink. “I understand, Professor. Everything is professional. I’m just… learning a lot.” She touched the choker again, the warmth spreading through her like a secret promise.

McGonagall studied her for another long second, lips pressed thin. She wanted to say more—to warn her properly, to share the complicated tangle of feelings she still carried from her own encounters—but the words stuck. Instead she gave a small, tight nod. “Very well. Carry on, Miss Granger. And remember what I said.”

She turned and continued down the corridor, her back ramrod straight, but her mind was far away, replaying memories she had tried for years to bury. The conflicting pull of duty and desire left a sour taste in her mouth.

Harry felt it like a punch to the gut the moment he caught up with Hermione again. The glowing choker looked far too familiar under the corridor torches. Another vision slammed into him right there in the hallway—unbidden and vicious. Lily years ago in that train compartment, wearing something similar around her neck, smiling up at Roland with that same flushed, satisfied look on her face, lips swollen, eyes bright with want. His scar burned sharply, a hot spike of pain that made him wince.

He grabbed Hermione’s arm as soon as they were clear of the main crowd, pulling her into a slightly quieter alcove. “Hermione, what the hell is that?” he hissed, voice low but urgent, his grip firm but not painful. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Late nights, this new ‘apprentice’ thing, that thing around your neck—it’s not normal. Talk to us.”

Hermione pulled her arm back gently but firmly, her cheeks still warm. She adjusted the choker with a small, almost absent touch, unable to hide the faint glow in her eyes or the way her thighs shifted. “It’s just an academic badge, Harry. For extra research. Professor Greengrass is a brilliant historian. I’m learning a lot. This is good for me—really good.”

Ron looked between them, confusion clear on his freckled face. He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Yeah, but you’ve been… different lately. Quieter sometimes, then all glowing and distracted. You sure everything’s alright? If he’s making you do extra stuff that feels off—”

“Perfectly fine,” Hermione said, a little too quickly, her voice bright but edged with impatience. She glanced down the corridor, eager to move on. “I really do need to get to the library. I’ll catch up with you both later, alright?”

She walked off without waiting for more questions, the silver choker catching the light with every step. Harry stared after her, stomach twisting into knots. The vision of his mum lingered, mixing with the sight of Hermione’s satisfied little smile. Something was wrong. He just knew it.

Draco didn’t waste any time. He and his usual group—Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him like a pair of trolls—cornered Harry and Ron near the stairs a few minutes later. Pansy Parkinson lingered nearby with a couple of other Slytherin girls, smirking like she was watching a show.

“Looks like the Mudblood’s found a new way to climb the ladder,” Draco drawled loudly, his voice carrying easily to nearby students who slowed down to listen. A nasty grin split his pale face. “Professor’s special little pet now, is she? That shiny choker around her neck—bet it comes with some very hands-on lessons after dark. Greengrass always did have interesting tastes.”

Crabbe and Goyle snickered loudly, meaty shoulders shaking. Pansy let out a high, mocking laugh.

Harry stepped forward immediately, wand already half out of his pocket, jaw clenched tight. “Shut your mouth, Malfoy. You don’t know anything about it.”

Ron was right beside him in an instant, ears burning red with anger. “Jealous she’s actually good at something besides riding your family’s money and sucking up to your dad? Granger earns her spot. Unlike some people.”

Draco’s sneer deepened, his grey eyes glittering with malice. He took a step closer, voice dropping into that signature venomous drawl. “Careful, Weasley. Wouldn’t want your poor excuse for a family to lose even more points because Potter’s little Mudblood friend is spreading her legs for extra credit. Though I suppose that’s how she got so good at opening her mouth—always talking back in class, now opening wide for the professor.”

Harry’s hex flew first—a sharp Stinging Jinx that shot toward Draco with a loud bang. Draco blocked it with a quick shield, but the force made him stumble back a step. Sparks flew as Ron followed up with a Bat-Bogey Hex that nearly caught Crabbe. Insults flew thick and fast.

“Take that back, you slimy git!” Ron shouted, face flushed.

“Blood traitor trash like you wouldn’t understand real ambition,” Draco shot back, firing a Jelly-Legs Jinx that Harry barely dodged.

The confrontation turned messy in seconds—spells cracking through the air, students scattering or stopping to watch, shouts and insults echoing off the stone walls. Goyle swung a meaty fist that Ron ducked under, while Pansy hurled insults from the sidelines. Harry managed to land a solid hit on Draco’s shoulder that made him hiss in pain, but the Slytherin recovered quickly, sending a Leg-Locker Curse that Harry shielded at the last moment.

A passing prefect—Ernie Macmillan from Hufflepuff—finally pushed through the growing crowd and broke it up with a loud “Enough!” and a few well-placed silencing charms that cut the shouting off mid-insult. “Twenty points from Gryffindor for brawling in the corridors! And twenty from Slytherin for provoking it! All of you—move along before I fetch a professor!”

Draco straightened his robes with an exaggerated glare, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. He shot one last venomous look at Harry and Ron. “This isn’t over, Potter.” But there was a grim satisfaction in Harry’s chest as he watched Draco’s annoyed scowl and the way he rubbed his stung shoulder while stalking off with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him like oversized shadows.

The rest of the day dragged for Daphne. She sat through her remaining classes with perfect posture, back straight, grey eyes focused forward, but her mind was burning somewhere else entirely. The silver choker around Granger’s neck still felt like a personal slap every time she pictured it. A week. A whole week of aching denial after losing on Valentine’s— no touching, no relief, just the constant reminder of Roland’s words and the way her body had throbbed uselessly every night. She had followed the punishment to the letter, clenching her thighs together in bed, biting her lip until it hurt, but never letting herself cum. Now that week was finally over, and the hunger had only grown sharper.

By the time the final bell rang, Daphne was already moving through the corridors with purpose, her robes swishing around her toned legs. Her heart beat hard and steady against her ribs. She didn’t knock when she reached Roland’s office. She pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind her with a decisive click.

Roland looked up from his desk, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise at the bold entrance. “Miss Greengrass. Bold entrance.”

Daphne locked the door with a quick wave of her wand, the soft snick of the lock sounding final in the quiet room. Her grey eyes were bright, almost feverish, with a mix of frustration, lingering jealousy, and raw hunger. “You gave her the position. In front of the entire class. That choker shining on her neck like some kind of trophy.” Her voice stayed controlled, but the edge was sharp enough to cut. “I lost on Valentine’s. I took my punishment like a good girl—no cumming for the whole week, just like you ordered. I ached every single night thinking about you. And now you reward her?”

She took a slow step closer, the fabric of her robes whispering against her skin. “I’m family, Roland. I trained all holiday. I bled for this. I pushed myself until my throat was sore and my jaw hurt just so I could take you better than anyone. Let me earn it back. Right now. Please.”

Roland leaned back in his chair, studying her with that calm, assessing gaze that always made her stomach tighten. He took his time, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her shift her weight. “You think you deserve it after losing?”

“Yes,” Daphne answered immediately, her voice dropping lower, almost pleading but still carrying that Greengrass pride. “I served my punishment. I didn’t touch myself once. I woke up wet and throbbing every morning and still held back because you told me to. Granger might have the shiny title today, but I’m the one who understands what this really means. I’m blood. Let me show you I’m better. Punish me more if you have to, but then use me. Use me however you want.”

A slow, satisfied smile crossed Roland’s face. He could see the way her thighs pressed together under her robes, the faint flush creeping up her neck. “On your knees then. Strip the robes off first.”

Daphne didn’t hesitate for even a second. Her fingers went to the fastenings of her outer robes, working them open with quick, practiced movements. The heavy fabric slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, revealing the dark green lace set underneath. The elegant bra cupped her full, firm tits perfectly, the delicate material doing little to hide how stiff her pale pink nipples already were. The matching panties hugged the curve of her hips and the rounded swell of her ass, the thin silk already showing a small damp spot at the front from how worked up she was.

She sank gracefully to her knees on the thick rug in front of his desk, back straight, thighs pressed tightly together, looking up at him with that intoxicating mix of pure-blood pride and raw, desperate need. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder in a silky curtain, and she made no move to fix it. The dark green lace bra pushed her full tits up into a perfect swell, her stiff pink nipples already poking against the delicate fabric. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on her collarbones.

“I’ve waited a whole week for this,” she whispered, voice husky and thick with want. Her grey eyes stayed locked on his cock as it thickened in front of her face. “A whole week of being empty and aching. I woke up every morning with my cunt throbbing and my knickers soaked. I didn’t touch myself once. I just laid there clenching and dripping like you ordered. I’m so fucking wet right now just from walking here thinking about you using me again.”

Roland stood slowly, his eyes roaming over every inch of her—the way her full tits rose and fell with each quick, shallow breath, the subtle tremble running through her toned thighs, the dark wet patch spreading across the front of her green lace panties. He freed his thick cock from his trousers, the heavy shaft already hardening rapidly at the sight of her kneeling there so eager and obedient. Veins stood out along its length, the fat head flushed dark and already leaking a thick bead of precum that dripped slowly toward the floor.

“Open,” he said, voice low and commanding.

Daphne leaned in immediately, pressing soft, wet kisses along the underside of his thick shaft. Her lips parted as she licked a long, slow stripe from the heavy balls up to the leaking tip, tasting the salty bead of precum on her tongue. She moaned softly at the flavor, then wrapped her warm, wet mouth around the fat head and sucked gently, cheeks hollowing. Her tongue swirled in slow circles around the sensitive ridge, lapping up every drop of precum as it leaked steadily into her mouth.

She took him deeper with each bob of her head, lips stretching obscenely wide around his girth. Saliva quickly built up, making everything slick and messy. Wet, slurping sounds filled the quiet office as she worked him with practiced skill—years of secret training showing in how easily she relaxed her throat and took him deeper. Her nose brushed against his stomach on the downstroke when she finally swallowed him all the way down, throat convulsing tightly around the thick length.

“Good girl,” Roland murmured, his fingers threading into her silky blonde hair. He held her there for a moment, enjoying the wet heat of her throat squeezing him. “But you still lost yesterday. Hands behind your back.”

Daphne obeyed instantly, locking her fingers together at the small of her back. The position pushed her chest out, making her full tits strain against the green lace. Roland started fucking her face in slow, deep thrusts, holding her head steady while he slid in and out of her throat. Thick strings of saliva spilled from the corners of her stretched lips, dripping down her chin and onto the tops of her tits. The wet, gagging sounds grew louder as he picked up the pace—gluck-gluck-gluck—her throat bulging visibly every time he pushed deep.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes from the effort, but she never pulled back. Her thighs rubbed together desperately, the wet patch on her panties growing darker and larger as fresh arousal leaked out of her. The scent of her soaked cunt mixed with the musky smell of his cock and her spit, filling the air between them.

He pulled out suddenly with a wet pop, leaving her gasping, thick strings of spit connecting her swollen, shiny lips to the glistening head of his cock. A long strand of saliva hung from her chin and dripped onto her heaving tits.

“Over the desk,” he ordered, voice rough.

Daphne stood on shaky legs, turned, and bent over the polished wood of his desk, ass pushed out toward him. The green lace panties clung to her skin, the damp fabric wedged between her ass cheeks. Roland yanked them down roughly to her thighs, exposing her smooth, firm ass and the glistening, swollen lips of her cunt. Her pussy was visibly dripping, strings of clear slick stretching between her folds.

His hand came down hard on her right cheek with a sharp crack. The firm flesh rippled and jiggled from the impact, quickly turning pink. Daphne gasped, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

“Recite it,” Roland said, spanking her again, harder this time. The sound echoed in the office. “Greengrass loyalty.”

Daphne’s voice came out shaky but determined, breath hitching every time his hand landed. “I am a Greengrass. My body belongs to you. My cunt, my ass, my mouth—everything is yours to use whenever you want.” Another heavy smack landed on her left cheek, making her moan and push her ass back toward him. “I will carry your heirs in secret. I will marry whoever you choose but I will always be yours. My loyalty is to you first. Always.”

Roland kept spanking her, alternating cheeks until both globes glowed a deep, hot pink. The flesh rippled and jiggled with every sharp smack. He slid two thick fingers into her soaked pussy without warning, pumping them slowly in and out while his thumb brushed lightly over her swollen clit. Wet squelching sounds filled the room as he fingered her.

“Please,” she breathed, pushing back against his hand, voice breaking with need. “I need you inside me. I’ve been empty for a week. Please fuck me.”

“Not yet.” He edged her relentlessly—fingers curling to rub that perfect spot inside her, thumb circling her clit with just enough pressure to bring her right to the edge before he pulled away completely. Daphne whimpered, thighs trembling hard, her red ass pushing back desperately. Fresh wetness dripped down her inner thighs. “You don’t cum until I say. You lost. You wait.”

He pinned her against the wall next, lifting one of her toned legs up and hooking it around his waist. Her back pressed against the cool stone, tits heaving. His thick cock rubbed along her slick folds, the fat head dragging over her clit before he thrust in deep in one smooth, powerful motion.

Daphne moaned loudly, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud as he filled her completely. Her tight pussy clenched hard around him, walls fluttering and gripping his thick length. Wet sounds filled the office with every hard thrust—skin slapping, her cunt squelching around him. Her full tits bounced heavily between them with each slam of his hips, the lace bra barely containing them.

“Fuck—Roland—harder,” she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. Her face was flushed deep red, mouth open, eyes half-lidded and glassy with pleasure. “Gods, you feel so fucking big. Stretch me open.”

He cupped one of her full tits roughly through the lace, mauling the soft flesh, fingers sinking deep. He pinched and tugged the stiff nipple until she cried out, back arching. “You feel that?” he growled against her ear, pounding into her harder, the wet slap of his hips against her ass growing louder. “This tight little cunt is dripping all over my cock. Granger might have the shiny title today, but you’re the one getting fucked raw right now. Your pussy is gripping me like it never wants to let go.”

Daphne’s face screwed up in pleasure, mouth open in a constant stream of moans. “Yes—gods, yes. I’m better. Fuck me like I’m yours. Use this Greengrass cunt however you want.”

He switched positions without warning, pulling out and bending her over the desk again. This time he drove into her from behind in one hard thrust, his hips slapping loudly against her red, marked ass. The firm cheeks rippled and jiggled with every deep impact. He reached around and rubbed her clit in fast, tight circles while he fucked her, bringing her right to the edge again before stopping completely.

“Recite more,” he ordered, spanking her sore ass hard.

“I will spread for you whenever you want,” she panted, voice hoarse. “I will take your cum deep and carry your children while smiling at my husband across the dinner table. I’ll be dripping your load into my knickers at family dinners and no one will know.”

Roland groaned and flipped her onto her back on the desk, spreading her legs wide. He pushed back inside her in one hard thrust, fucking her in long, powerful strokes. Her full tits swayed and jiggled wildly with every impact, the green lace bra pushed down now so they bounced freely. He leaned down and sucked one stiff nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing and biting gently while he pounded her.

Mid-thrust he taught her the new curse, whispering the incantation while buried balls-deep inside her. “Focus through the pleasure. Cast it now.”

Daphne moaned, body shaking hard, but she managed to raise one trembling hand and fire a weak, painful version of the curse toward the practice dummy in the corner. It hit with a sharp crack, splintering the wood. Roland rewarded her by grinding deep, hitting that perfect spot inside her over and over.

“That’s my girl,” he said, voice rough with approval. “Mind and body. Both mine.”

Daphne came hard a moment later—back arching sharply off the desk, pussy clenching and spasming around his thick cock in powerful, rhythmic pulses. Her face screwed up in ecstasy, mouth open in a silent cry, eyes rolling back as fresh wetness gushed around him, soaking his balls and dripping onto the desk. Her full tits heaved and shook with the force of it.

Roland didn’t stop. He fucked her straight through the orgasm, prolonging it until she was whimpering and shaking. Then he pulled out, flipped her again, and pushed her into a deep breeding position—legs folded back toward her shoulders, ass up high, cunt completely exposed and dripping. He slammed back inside, balls slapping wetly against her with every brutal thrust.

“Gonna fill this perfect cunt,” he grunted, pounding her deep and steady. “You’ll walk around with my cum leaking out down your thighs, thinking about the heirs you’ll carry for me. This Greengrass womb is mine.”

“Yes—cum inside me,” Daphne begged, voice breaking, face flushed and desperate. “Breed me. I want it so fucking bad. Fill me up.”

He pumped load after thick load deep into her, cock pulsing hard as he flooded her. Hot, heavy spurts of cum painted her insides, filling her until it started leaking out around his shaft in creamy white streaks. Daphne came again from the feeling, body shuddering violently, tits heaving, a broken moan tearing from her throat as her pussy milked him for every drop.

They stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing hard, bodies still joined. Roland’s chest pressed against Daphne’s back as they both came down, his cock twitching inside her with the last weak pulses. Thick ropes of his cum already started to leak out around his shaft, dripping slowly from her well-fucked, swollen pussy onto the polished wood of the desk. The wet, messy sound of it hitting the surface was obscene in the quiet office.

“You did well,” he said softly, stroking her sweat-damp blonde hair with surprising gentleness. His fingers combed through the strands, pushing them back from her flushed face. “Really well. You took everything I gave you like the good Greengrass girl you are. But Granger won. You’ll continue to ache for me again every single day until I say otherwise.”

Daphne nodded slowly, still flushed and trembling, her toned body slick with sweat. A mix of deep satisfaction and fresh, burning determination shone in her grey eyes as she looked back at him over her shoulder. “Yes… I understand,” she whispered, voice hoarse from moaning and gasping. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait. I’ll ache for you like I’m supposed to.”

That same night the castle felt heavier, the stone walls seeming to press in closer as the trio slipped out of Gryffindor Tower well after curfew. They moved under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry leading the way with his heart pounding hard against his ribs. Ron followed close behind, still grumbling quietly about the biting cold that seeped through the fabric. Hermione brought up the rear, moving a little slower than usual. Every careful step sent a deep, sore ache radiating through her body—her pussy and ass still tender and puffy from the thorough fucking the night before. The faint magical warmth of the silver choker around her neck made her skin tingle constantly, a constant reminder that kept her distracted and flushed.

“You sure you’re alright?” Ron whispered as they crept toward the third-floor corridor, his voice barely audible. “You’ve been walking a bit funny since dinner. Like you’re sore or something.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione said quickly, her cheeks warm under the cloak. She shifted her weight carefully, feeling another twinge between her legs—the pleasant, used ache of being stretched and filled so deeply. “Just… sore from extra studying. Keep moving. We can’t afford to get caught.”

Harry didn’t say anything out loud, but his grip on the cloak tightened until his knuckles hurt. The glowing choker had caught the light earlier in the common room and it looked far too familiar. Another unwanted vision slammed into him right there in the dark hallway—Lily years ago wearing something similar around her neck, smiling up at Roland with that same flushed, satisfied look on her face, lips swollen and eyes bright with raw want. His scar burned sharply, a hot spike that made him wince and stumble slightly under the cloak.

They reached the door with the three-headed dog faster than expected. Fluffy was snoring loudly, massive heads drooping, the enchanted harp from last time still playing its soft, soothing melody thanks to a quick charm Hermione had prepared earlier. They slipped past carefully, hearts racing, and descended into the first trap chamber.

The Devil’s Snare was easier this time—Hermione’s research had paid off with a stronger light spell that made the strangling vines recoil fast, shrinking back from the bright glow. They moved deeper into the chambers, breath held, until they heard voices ahead. Quirrell. The Defense professor was muttering frantically to himself, his turban askew and slipping slightly, wand out as he worked on one of the next obstacles. His voice sounded higher than normal, almost two-toned and eerie in the dim light.

“Master… the Stone… must reach it soon…” The words echoed strangely.

Harry’s scar burned hotter. They froze behind a large stone pillar, barely daring to breathe. Quirrell nearly spotted them when Hermione shifted her weight and let out a tiny, involuntary gasp—her sore pussy and ass protesting the movement with a sharp throb. Ron grabbed her arm quickly to steady her, his hand warm and reassuring under the cloak. They barely made it out, scrambling back through the chambers as Quirrell suddenly turned toward the noise, eyes wild. A narrow escape—sparks from a missed curse singed Ron’s sleeve, leaving a small smoking hole, but they made it to the main door and slammed it shut behind them with a heavy thud.

Back in the Gryffindor common room later, the fire burned low and the room was mostly empty. The trio sat huddled in a corner, still breathing hard from the adrenaline. Harry stared at Hermione, his eyes drawn again and again to the silver choker around her neck. It was glowing faintly again in the dim firelight.

“That thing on your neck,” he said quietly, voice tight with worry. “I saw something like it in… a dream. With my mum. What’s really going on with Greengrass? You’ve been different lately. Spending all this time with him. The late nights, the choker, the way you light up when he calls on you in class. Tell us the truth.”

Hermione touched the choker lightly with her fingertips, flustered but unable to hide the secret glow of satisfaction in her eyes. The warmth against her skin sent another little pulse of heat through her sore body. “It’s just an academic marker, Harry. I’m learning more than I ever have before. Professor Greengrass is brilliant. Drop it, please. This is important for my studies.”

Ron looked between them, his face worried and confused. “You do seem different lately, though. Happier some days, but also… distracted. And you’ve been walking funny. If he’s making you do anything weird or pushing you too hard—”

“He’s not,” Hermione cut in, a little too sharply, her voice defensive. She crossed her arms, wincing slightly at the movement that pulled on her tender muscles. “I’m fine. Really. Better than fine. Now can we focus on what matters? Quirrell is clearly after the Stone. We need to use my notes from earlier research to figure out the next trap properly.”

Harry didn’t believe her, but he let it go for now, his jaw tight with frustration. The fire in the common room had burned down to glowing embers, casting long shadows across the empty chairs. They talked in low voices about what they’d seen—Quirrell’s strange two-toned muttering, the frantic way he had been working on the obstacles with shaking hands. Hermione’s notes, spread out on the low table between them, gave them a new clue about the next chamber: a detailed breakdown of the flying key mechanism and possible counter-charms. It felt like a small but important win in the moment, even as Harry’s scar continued to throb faintly with every heartbeat.

High above in an empty classroom overlooking the area, Roland watched the whole thing unfold under a Disillusionment Charm. He felt the faint pull of dark magic near the third floor and quietly strengthened a protective ward with a subtle flick of his wand—enough to slow Quirrell down without stopping the trio entirely. Let them feel useful. The game stayed interesting that way.

***

Next Morning – Quidditch Field

Hermione woke early the next morning to the soft hoot of an owl at her dormitory window. The sky outside was still dark, the first hints of dawn just beginning to touch the horizon in faint streaks of pink and gold. She sat up carefully in bed, wincing at the deep, pleasant soreness between her legs and in her ass. Every small movement reminded her of how thoroughly Roland had used her the night before—how he had bent her over his desk, fucked her through multiple shattering orgasms, and filled her with load after thick load until it leaked down her thighs. Her pussy still felt puffy and tender, the faint ache making her thighs press together instinctively as a fresh wave of heat bloomed low in her belly. She reached for the letter tied to the owl’s leg with slightly shaky fingers.

The parchment was simple, the handwriting elegant and unmistakable. Quidditch pitch. Behind the stands. Early. Don’t be late. No signature, but she didn’t need one. A rush of heat flooded through her at the words, mixing with the lingering glow of triumph from the night before. She had won. In front of Daphne, no less. The memory of the Slytherin girl’s face—flushed with jealousy and defeat as she knelt there watching—sent a secret thrill straight to her core. The choker around her neck felt warmer than usual, like a tangible reminder of her victory and the favor she had earned.

She dressed quickly but quietly, slipping into her uniform with extra care. The silver choker sat warm against her throat, a constant reminder of her new status. As she moved through the silent castle, her mind raced with thoughts of everything that had happened lately. The late nights in Roland’s office, the way he had claimed her over his desk while her friends thought she was just studying late. The competition with Daphne, the raw satisfaction of making the other girl cum first while Roland watched and stroked her hair afterward. The public announcement in class, the choker fastened around her neck for everyone to see. She had earned the favor—a visible win that made her feel powerful and chosen. Even the risky adventure with Harry and Ron last night hadn’t dulled the glow. Her body was sore in the best way, a secret badge of how thoroughly she had been used and how much she had loved every second of it. The ache between her legs only made her wetter as she walked, a constant reminder that she belonged to him in ways her friends could never understand.

The Quidditch pitch was empty and cold when she arrived, frost still clinging stubbornly to the grass and the wooden stands. Her breath fogged in the early morning air, cheeks pink from the brisk walk. The choker felt warm against her skin, almost pulsing with anticipation. She spotted Roland waiting near the stands, his robes pulled tight against the wind, looking as composed and commanding as ever.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, voice soft but eager as she approached. Her steps were still a little careful, the soreness making her thighs rub together with every movement and sending fresh little sparks of pleasure-pain through her.

Roland’s eyes darkened with approval as he took her in. He pulled her close the moment they were hidden behind the stands, but first he tilted her chin up with two fingers, a small lecture already forming on his lips.

“You know, Hermione,” he said, voice low and smooth, a hint of amusement threading through it, “you’ve never struck me as much of a Quidditch fan. All those matches you sit through with Harry and Ron—you’re usually buried in a book, barely glancing up unless someone falls off a broom. I’ve always enjoyed watching it, though. The speed, the strategy, the raw competition. There’s something exciting about it. And today, I thought I’d immerse you in an environment that might… excite you a bit more while we’re here on the pitch.”

Before she could fully process his words, Roland flicked his wand in a complex pattern. The air around them shimmered and shifted with a low, resonant hum of magic. Suddenly the empty pitch transformed completely. The stands filled with a roaring, sold-out crowd—thousands of witches and wizards cheering wildly, banners waving in house colors of red and green, scarves fluttering in the wind. The illusion was flawless and immersive: the thunder of thousands of feet stomping in unison, the deafening roar of voices chanting team names, the sharp crack of brooms cutting through the air as illusory players zoomed overhead in a full-on Quidditch match. A golden snitch darted through the chaos high above, chased by tiny figures in vibrant robes.

An enthusiastic announcer’s voice boomed across the pitch, magically amplified and full of energy. “Welcome, witches and wizards, to this thrilling exhibition match! Standard Quidditch rules apply—three Chasers per team scoring through the hoops for ten points each, two Beaters knocking Bludgers around to protect or disrupt, the Keeper guarding the goals, and of course the Seeker hunting that elusive Golden Snitch for one hundred and fifty points and the win! But today we’ve added a brand new, very special feature for your entertainment—the Golden Shower bonus! Catch a glimpse of our special participants performing their signature moves out on the pitch and your team could earn massive extra points!”

Hermione’s eyes widened in pure wonder, her mouth parting in a soft, breathless gasp. She looked around at the massive illusory crowd, the players streaking across the sky, the sheer scale of it all. The magic was flawless—the cold wind still bit at her cheeks, but now it carried the distant scent of butterbeer, roasted chestnuts, and excited sweat from the stands. Her heart raced wildly, not just from the spectacular illusion but from the sheer power and creativity of it. And underneath that wonder, a deep, throbbing horniness settled low in her belly. Roland had done this for her—for them. The idea of being right in the middle of this roaring, public spectacle while he fucked her senseless made her sore cunt clench hard with fresh need. Her puffy, tender pussy throbbed hotter, the ache mixing with arousal until she was dripping again, soaking into her knickers.

“This is… gods, Roland, it feels so real,” she breathed, voice shaky with excitement and lust. “The crowd, the match… I can hear them cheering. The players, the snitch—everything. What are you planning to do to me in the middle of all this? I’m already so wet just thinking about it.”

On the pitch, the illusion showed two special figures prominently: one team featured Roland himself with Hermione in his arms, flying in formation, while the opposing side had an alternate version of Roland holding a flushed, determined-looking Daphne. The announcer’s voice boomed again with extra enthusiasm. “And look at these bonus participants! Our Golden Shower feature is in full effect—if either pair performs their signature move out on the field for the crowd to see, their team earns massive bonus points! Keep your eyes on the action, folks—this match is about to get unforgettable!”

Roland’s hands finally pulled her flush against him, kissing her hard. His fingers roamed down her back and cupped her ass, squeezing the firm flesh through her robes with possessive strength as the illusory crowd roared louder around them and a sharp whistle blew to signal the start of play.