Chapter 169: Chapter 169: How to Cast Transfiguration Spells on Big Breasts!
The magical clouds on the ceiling of the Great Hall presented a dull, leaden gray. Occasionally, tiny, heatless silver sparks pierced through the cloud layer and fell, quietly annihilating in the air before even reaching the long tables.
It was the oppressive feeling unique to the eve of a great upheaval, like the stagnant afternoon before a torrential downpour; even breathing carried a gelatinous resistance.
The end-of-year feast, which should have been filled with cheers and swaying golden goblets, was currently so quiet that only the occasional clink of knives and forks touching silver plates could be heard.
Above the long tables, the four massive House banners fluttered slowly in the magical breeze.
Gryffindor’s fiery red banner embroidered with a golden lion was the most eye-catching. In the giant hourglass directly behind it, the rubies were practically overflowing the glass edge.
A gap of exactly three hundred points pressed down deathly hard on Slytherin’s silver-green hourglass like an impassable chasm.
However, the atmosphere at the Gryffindor long table was bizarre to the extreme.
Seamus and Dean, who usually loved to shout the loudest, were currently keeping their heads down, mechanically shoving cold mashed potatoes into their mouths.
Neville’s fingers wrung his napkin nervously; he didn’t even have the courage to look up at the staff table once.
The twin brothers were no longer whispering to each other either; George’s hand even shook so much while cutting a lamb chop that he almost stabbed his fork into his neighbor’s sleeve.
They had won—in name, at least.
Harry Potter sat right in the center. That scar appeared an angry purplish-red in the flickering candlelight.
He wasn’t eating, just staring dead at his golden plate as if it contained not steak, but a bottomless quagmire.
Over at the Slytherin long table, the atmosphere had completely sunk into another kind of anxious freezing point.
Draco Malfoy’s fingertips drummed frantically on the marble-textured tabletop. His tie was pulled loose and crooked, his shirt collar slightly open, revealing a section of neck line taut from extreme anxiety.
"Damn it... damn it..."
He cursed in a low voice, his tone raspy from prolonged tension.
His eyes constantly roamed over that empty seat at the end of the long table.
That was Jerry’s seat.
Since Friday afternoon, that figure symbolizing the pinnacle of power for the new generation of Slytherins had vanished.
No reason, no explanation—even he, as his best friend, hadn’t received a single word of information.
"Draco, stop tapping." Pansy Parkinson reminded him in a small voice, a fine sheen of cold sweat breaking out on the tip of her nose. "Dumbledore is already walking toward the center of the podium. If Jerry doesn’t come back soon, we are truly going to be the laughingstock of those stupid lions."
"What do you know? Parkinson!"
Malfoy whipped his head around, his gray eyes bloodshot, looking exceptionally ferocious on that pale, gaunt face. "If those Gryffindor things, relying on ’pity’ to get points, end up winning, Slytherin’s face will be completely shattered! We have to wait for him to come back... only Jerry knows how to handle this kind of situation!"
His voice was trembling.
Malfoy looked at his own hands, his knuckles turning pale, bluish-white from overexertion.
Since entering here, he had grown accustomed to hiding in Jerry’s shadow.
In the eyes of the Slytherins, Jerry wasn’t a first-year; he was a hidden spike driven into the heart of Hogwarts, the true backbone of Slytherin.
Now that this backbone was gone, the entire long table felt as if it were going to collapse.
"Look at that hourglass."
Blaise Zabini lowered his voice, his tone full of sarcasm. "Three hundred and twelve points. Unless Dumbledore suddenly goes mad and awards Slytherin four hundred points, the headline of tomorrow’s Daily Prophet will be—’Gryffindor’s So-Called Justice Wins the Final Dignity’."
"To hell with dignity!" Malfoy gritted his teeth.
He was praying and roaring in his heart: Come back! Wherever you are, hurry up and come back!
A sudden, extremely intense fluctuation of air exploded violently at the Great Hall’s doors.
It wasn’t an ordinary wind.
It was a gale carrying a certain dampness, a muddiness, even a trace of an unspeakable, rotting fragrance.
It was the breath of a late autumn night mixed with a large amount of expensive tuberose perfume, and a certain musky, spine-chilling scent unique to cold-blooded animals.
The previously stagnant air was instantly churned to pieces.
The young wizards sitting near the doors only felt a chill on their necks, as if some massive, invisible dark shadow had just skimmed over the tops of their heads.
Malfoy sat up violently straight. His keen perception caught that familiar presence that could instantly make his scalp tingle.
Immediately following, with a heavy thud caused by gravity descending rapidly, a travel-worn figure sat down steadily in that empty seat.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Draco."
That voice rang out next to Malfoy’s ear; though not loud, it carried an almost savage, unquestionable magnetism.
Jerry sat there.
He wasn’t wearing his school robes right now, only a set of dark ink-colored casual clothes custom-made by the Rozier family. This fabric reflected an extremely high-class, dark-gold luster in the magical lighting.
His usually meticulously groomed hair was slightly messy right now, one strand even clinging wetly to his temple due to moisture.
"J-Jerry?!"
Malfoy froze for three full seconds before letting out a high-pitched exclamation born of ecstasy, as if he had just been yanked out of an ice cellar.
He whipped his head around, staring dead at Jerry’s still-calm face—which even showed a trace of bizarre flush due to some recent "satiation."
The moment he saw Jerry, Malfoy’s mental world, which had begun to collapse from despair, seemed to be instantly propped up by a thick steel pillar.
He had found his backbone.
No, Slytherin had found its god.
"Where did you go?"
Malfoy didn’t even care about etiquette, grabbing Jerry’s steady, large hand. In his excitement, his long nails nearly dug into Jerry’s firm palm. "Gryffindor... those bastards are already preparing the fireworks in advance!"
"Stay calm, Draco."
Jerry spoke coolly, his deep voice—catalyzed jointly by puberty and a certain magical feedback—vibrating by Malfoy’s ear.
At the staff table, Dumbledore had already raised his withered, age-spotted hands, signaling for the entire hall to quiet down.
"Now, we are going to announce the final points for this school year."
The Headmaster’s wise yet weary voice circled above the Great Hall. His gaze, at this very moment, pierced through layers of fog, reaching straight to the end of the Slytherin long table, locking onto Jerry’s eyes that were as pitch-black as the night.
Malfoy felt the pressure of the Headmaster’s gaze. A layer of cold sweat suddenly broke out on his back, but this time, he didn’t lower his head. Instead, he straightened his spine, even pressing his shoulder tightly against Jerry’s broad side.
"Jerry..." Malfoy murmured in a low voice, his Adam’s apple rolling violently once.
"Watch, Draco."
"The real House Cup is not in the hourglasses."
"It is under our feet."
As Jerry’s words fell, the leaden-gray ceiling of the Great Hall seemed to sense some higher-level resonance. Those dark clouds stopped rolling and began to slowly condense, forming a concentrated haze with an inky sense of vitality that was enough to cover the entire Slytherin long table.
Jerry sat beside Malfoy, his gaze level, looking past those silver utensils that were still trembling slightly.
He turned his head slightly, accurately catching that brown figure sitting opposite him at the Gryffindor long table.
Hermione Granger.
She was sitting between Neville and Harry. That girl who used to be ridiculed as a "bookworm" or a "Mudblood" was currently exuding an indescribable aura.
Her sitting posture was upright, her chin slightly tucked. Her usually bushy hair was tied up with a dark green hairband—that wasn’t Gryffindor’s gold and red, but a deeper, highly aggressive base color.
Jerry’s gaze locked with hers.
In that instant, it was as if an invisible magical link crossed in mid-air.
She looked at Jerry’s pitch-black eyes, her lips pursed slightly. With an extremely small yet unusually firm movement, she gave a light nod.
It was a signal.
And also an oath.
The corner of Jerry’s mouth hooked into a faint arc; it was a navigator’s recognition of his most prized "creation." Following that, his gaze began to patrol every corner of the Great Hall.
Hannah began to respond as well.
In that seemingly unintentional movement, her fingertips quickly formed a peculiar gesture.
That was the confirmation rune used only by the core management personnel of "Eden."
She caught Jerry’s gaze, flashing a dreamy smile, her right index finger gently raised to her lips.
Over at Hufflepuff, a few older witches were gathered together talking, but their peripheral vision had never left the direction where Jerry was located.
One bold girl with dark brown skin even playfully winked her right eye at Jerry the moment their eyes met.
They were all members of the "Club."
That organization—which originally was merely born in some taboo corner sealed by a spell, developing with that witch’s magical website named "Eden" as its soil—had, when no one noticed, gradually grown into a towering tree in that moist, desire-filled darkness, capable of strangling any authority.
Once, it was just to satisfy the young wizards’ craving for pleasure in the dead of night.
Those magical images transmitted through special mirrors, carrying sticky auras and explicit moans, became their lifesaver under the high-pressure school life.
But Jerry knew very well that that would always only be the most basic adhesive.
As time passed, this adhesive was cleverly replaced by Jerry with information, power, and a certain shared interest that transcended house boundaries.
What the witches communicated in the sub-forums of "Eden" wasn’t just how to use magical props to clean bodily fluids or how to keep their breasts sensitive. They communicated the professors’ preferences, communicated family secrets, and achieved their own political goals through communication.
According to Jerry’s directives, they continuously spread information within their respective houses.
Information about "fairness."
Information about "charity."
Jerry looked at the ruby hourglass over at Gryffindor.
The points in there were ironically numerous; every gemstone was like a coin given by Dumbledore to those lions, tinged with pity.
"Draco, you don’t need to rush."
Jerry spoke slowly in that deep voice that sounded somewhat like friction on a cello string.
Hearing Jerry’s voice, Malfoy’s wildly beating heart miraculously steadied. He found that as long as Jerry was by his side, that pressure from Gryffindor’s points—which originally made him feel humiliated—became as laughable as children playing with building blocks.
"But... that’s three hundred points..." Malfoy muttered softly; he still didn’t quite understand.
"Just watch."
Jerry pointed to Harry Potter.
That was what surprised Jerry the most tonight.
Originally, in his original script, Gryffindor would be ecstatic over this massive "grant." Then he would have the lurkers of "Eden" completely ruin Gryffindor’s reputation through rumors afterward, thereby manifesting Slytherin’s so-called "true honor."
But he had underestimated Harry.
Harry Potter currently sat at the head of the table. Under that protective umbrella originally cast by Dumbledore, he looked exceptionally uncomfortable.
To his left, Ron Weasley was staring like a madman at that hourglass. A red light named "greed" flashed in his eyes; even his breathing had become rapid due to this windfall.
That was the typical face of a "charity" recipient.
But Harry suddenly stood up.
His movement wasn’t violent, but it carried a weight enough to quiet down the entire Great Hall.
Harry pushed away the hand Ron tried to grab his sleeve with. That sliver of weakness originally generated by Ron’s words earlier was completely snuffed out by him at this moment.
Meeting Headmaster Dumbledore’s gaze, he straightened that spine which was actually still somewhat thin.
"Headmaster."
Harry’s voice echoed in the silent Great Hall. "For these extra points, we are very grateful. But..."
He glanced at Hermione.
Hermione gave him a slight nod.
In that instant, Harry seemed to receive some kind of larger support from the grass-roots level.
He knew that it wasn’t just Hermione; many students were looking at him right now. What they cared about was no longer that illusory championship honor, but the most primal pride of a house as lions.
"We do not need these reward points." Harry said, emphasizing every syllable.
A violent intake of breath swept through the Great Hall.
Ron’s jaw dropped open in shock, nearly hitting the cold steak on his plate. His face turned purplish-red, his hands gripping the tablecloth deathly tight in anger.
"Gryffindor will win points through genuine effort, not through compensation at a time like this." Having finished speaking, Harry sat back down.
This time, all the young Gryffindor wizards, including the usually most mischievous twins, puffed out their chests in perfect unison.
Sitting by the Slytherin long table, a trace of genuine approval swept through the depths of Jerry’s eyes.
He thought highly of Harry.
This kind of pride—being able to hold the last line of defense in one’s heart when faced with massive temptation—was the true Gryffindor.
This was what Professor McGonagall had taught them—not that blind bravery, but the most basic backbone of being a wizard.
This temperament was indeed far superior to that Ron, who only thought about picking up cheap advantages all day and whose vision stopped at a plate of chicken legs.
Jerry turned his head, looking toward the staff table.
Although Professor McGonagall no longer served as the Head of Gryffindor, she was currently sitting to Dumbledore’s side and rear.
Professor McGonagall’s lips were pressed tightly together, those deep wrinkles looking exceptionally hard under the magical candlelight.
But when she looked at Harry, looked at those calm and upright Gryffindor students, Jerry distinctly saw a nearly crystalline pride flashing in the eyes of that usually strict and rigid female professor.
Professor McGonagall’s chest heaved slightly; that was a grand victory concerning education and dignity.
And beside Professor McGonagall, Dumbledore’s hand stopped somewhat stiffly in mid-air.
This old wizard, who claimed to grasp the fate of the magical world, found for the first time that his meticulously planned "compensation plan" had unexpectedly been torn to pieces by the very hands of those children he believed had not yet grown up.
This was the seed sown by "Eden."
It not only taught these children how to explore taboos, but also taught them how to find themselves amidst the chaos.
And that failure named Ron appeared so small and insignificant among that pride of upright lions.
"Alright, Draco." Jerry turned slightly, his elbow propped on the tabletop; this was an extremely relaxed and confident posture. He looked at Harry and, across the sightlines of hundreds of people, silently mouthed to that boy with green eyes:
"Nicely done."
Immediately following, beneath the long tables of Slytherin and Gryffindor, countless pairs of feet wrapped in different colored silk stockings gently tapped the marble floor once, guided by some common rhythm.
That was the beat of "Eden."
And also the harbinger of a change in order.
Even though Harry Potter’s voice had echoed within the Great Hall, carrying that desperate, leonine pride.
But Dumbledore, standing in the center of the staff table, slightly narrowed those azure eyes hidden behind half-moon spectacles. His withered fingers paused in the air for half a second, and then waved with an unshakable posture.
"Harry, that was earned through your own efforts." Dumbledore’s voice was as calm as stagnant water, without inflection, yet carrying an unquestionable magic. "Therefore, the points stand."
In that instant, the ruby hourglass originally representing Gryffindor seemed to be injected with new life, jumping wildly within that transparent glass tube.
The radiant flow of red completely overpowered Slytherin’s silver-green color.
The originally eerily quiet long table erupted with a starkly different atmosphere at that moment.
Jerry sat beside Malfoy, giving a slight shrug. The mouthed praise he had originally hung on his lips for Harry transformed at this moment into a flat, amused smile.
"Doesn’t matter." Jerry spoke amidst that low magical resonance, saying to Draco beside him who was already holding his breath in tension, "The ending was already predetermined. They won a trophy, but will lose the entire future."
And sitting far away, Ron Weasley, the moment he heard Dumbledore uphold the original ruling, seemed as if he had been injected with some kind of stimulant.
That freckle-covered face of his, originally flushed red from anger, was now twisted into an extremely ugly shape by extreme ecstasy.
In those light blue eyes of his flashed an almost manic thrill. There was no honor of a victor in that look, only the gloating of a petty person thinking "I’ve finally turned the tables."
He looked toward the direction of the Slytherin long table, his gaze locking dead onto the face of Jerry in that empty seat—the person who, in his eyes, symbolized the source of all suffering.
Ron’s voice was like a signal, shattering the barrier of those Gryffindor boys who had originally been maintaining a veneer of civility.
Over the originally quiet long table, a sound named "rejoicing" and "snickering" began to spread like a toxin.
Of course they didn’t want Jerry to stay.
This guy who was only a first-year, yet could accurately capture the core of female senses in every spell demonstration.
This guy who, every time he appeared in the corridor, would cause the young Ravenclaw witches to stop and look, and even make the girls of their own house compete secretly.
Jerry’s existence was like a revealing mirror, reflecting them—these wizards who only knew how to be clumsy and whose heads were full of vulgar competitions—as looking like mud in a gutter.
"Finally leaving. This kind of monster shouldn’t have stayed here in the first place." A sixth-year senior chuckled hehe, his gaze sweeping over those witches in the hall who were showing concern on their faces due to Jerry’s imminent departure.
Snickering sounds.
Murmuring sounds.
That sound of rejoicing belonging to scum celebrating the "fall of a genius" wove into an ugly ensemble beneath the dome of the Great Hall.
"Draco, is your face cramping?"
Jerry felt the magical fluctuation of Malfoy beside him, who was about to completely explode. He reached out and pressed his hand against the back of his hand.
"Jerry... but that oath..."
Malfoy gritted his teeth, staring at Ron, who was jumping around like a monkey not far away. "Are we really going to let these idiots get their wish?"
Jerry didn’t speak; he just tilted his head up slightly.
He was counting those beats.
Beneath the long tables, those toes wearing pantyhose of various colors—white, black, coffee-colored, and even some with owl prints—were still rhythmically tapping the floor.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Just as Ron’s shrill laughter was about to reach its peak, just as the snickering of those boys began to turn into open mockery!
Clap—clap—clap—
Sparse applause came from afar, from the parents’ seating area which was far away from the students’ long tables and originally only served as decoration for those attending the ceremony.
Everyone turned their heads in unison.
Jerry turned his head as well. He looked toward the shadows of those gold and red curtains.
Those wizards originally sitting in the parents’ attending seats had mostly maintained a restrained silence. Even though recent editions of the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly had been reporting page after page of negative news—internal management chaos at Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore frequently using his privileges to interfere with house points, and even acting arbitrarily in major incidents—these parents, for the sake of their children’s futures, had mostly chosen to maintain a basic respect for the Headmaster on the surface.
But that cold, slow, and rhythmic applause was like a lit fuse, instantly detonating the long-accumulated dissatisfaction.
Right at this moment, in the shadows of that long table, a figure that everyone—especially Ron Weasley—had never expected slowly stood up.
"Molly..." Arthur Weasley beside her subconsciously reached out to grab his wife’s sleeve, but his hand involuntarily froze the moment it touched the extremely exquisite fabric of that deep red silk robe.
The current Molly Weasley made even Arthur, as her husband, feel an extreme sense of unfamiliarity and intimidation.
She was no longer wearing that old, floral long dress full of domestic smoke and fire, which looked slightly faded and baggy from repeated washing and starching. Today’s Molly had pinned up her signature red hair, a simply designed yet expensive platinum hairpin resting amidst her locks.
That custom-made long dress clung tightly to lines that had become increasingly full and curvaceous due to recent, frequent, high-intensity "body development."
Molly’s eyes were slightly narrowed. Her skin, which appeared increasingly moisturized, shimmered with an alluring faint glow in the candlelight.
Her gaze didn’t even linger for a moment on Arthur, who had slumped back onto the floor. Instead, it crossed the empty space, piercing coldly toward Ron, who was still standing on the bench brandishing his claws with a face full of a petty person’s gloating.
"Mum! Did you see? We won!" Ron hadn’t yet sensed the danger. He was even waving his arms at Molly, trying to get his mother to join in this mockery of Slytherin. "I’m going to watch that bastard Rozier roll out of the school gates..."
"Shut up, Ron."
Molly spoke.
Her voice was no longer hoarse, but carried an ice-cold clarity.
This sentence was like a resounding slap, landing precisely on Ron’s face, which was written all over with ecstasy.
Ron’s smile froze instantly. He stumbled, nearly falling off the bench, and rubbed his ears in disbelief.
"Mum? Are... are you telling me to shut up?"
Molly elegantly walked out from the parents’ seating area. Her long legs wrapped in fine black silk were faintly visible amid the friction of the silk skirt’s hem. Her high heels stepped out a rhythmic tick-tock sound on the marble floor, walking directly into the aisle in the center of the Great Hall.
"The so-called extra points Headmaster Dumbledore just mentioned..." Molly turned her head, looking toward the old man at the staff table who was frowning slightly, his hand frozen in mid-air. "I was once a proud Gryffindor, but I absolutely do not accept this reward that borders on charity."
She turned sideways, that slender waist drawing an extremely dangerous curve under the tight constriction of her tailored corset.
"Effort is certainly worthy of praise, but what I see is some kind of political transaction acting as a balancing act. This kind of scoring is the greatest insult to a golden lion holding its head high." Molly turned to look at Ron; that profound gaze made Ron feel an unprecedented pressure and a shudder born of "betrayal."
"Regarding the previous bet of ’leaving school upon losing’." Molly extended her hand, upon which was painted an extremely expensive nail polish of a shade exclusively supplied by the Rozier family. "As one of the owners of the bet, I declare—it is invalid."
An uproar swept through the entire hall.
"What!" Ron broke down completely. "Mum! What are you saying! Jerry agreed to it personally! The whole school knows! As long as we win the House Cup, he rolls! Why are you helping him? Haven’t you always hated those Slytherin venomous snakes the most? Are you crazy?!"
Ron’s voice carried the crying tone of a broken defense.
He was clearly just one step away. He was clearly just about to completely kick his greatest rival—that Jerry Rozier who not only excelled in his studies but had strong connections—out of Hogwarts in front of all the teachers and students.
This was his only chance to prove to everyone that he, "Ron Weasley, is not just a loser"!
But his mother, the mother who in his heart only knew how to meddle in everything, cook, and knit sweaters, had unexpectedly turned against him at the most critical moment, personally tearing his beautiful dream to shreds.
"I am not crazy, Ron." Molly bent over. Her full orbs nearly burst the tight collar as she bent, and a mature, moist, cloyingly sweet body scent carrying the aura of a woman nourished by a man rushed straight into Ron’s nostrils. "I am doing this for the dignity of Gryffindor."
It wasn’t just Molly. Following her declaration, those other parents of Gryffindor origin in the parents’ seating area also began to echo her sentiments one after another.
"Mrs. Weasley is right! We do not accept charity!"
"We want fairness. Even if we lose in points, we cannot lose our pride!"
Although Dumbledore still held the highest authority at Hogwarts right now, this collective mutiny from his base caused those azure eyes hidden behind his glasses to lose their usual gentle luster in a rare moment.
And over at the Slytherin long table, Jerry slowly stood up.
He ignored the gaze Molly shot from afar, which carried a look of "submission and claiming credit," and instead calmly smoothed out the wrinkles on his school robes first. Every one of his movements was slow and methodical, appearing exceptionally abrupt and powerful in this hall filled with conflict.
Subsequently, Jerry impatiently stretched out his toe clad in a leather boot and forcefully kicked the calf of Malfoy beside him, who was still dazed and somewhat overwhelmed by Ron’s roaring.
"Ouch!" Malfoy jumped up violently, but under the hint of Jerry’s profound gaze that carried a certain "enjoying the show" vibe, he instantly grasped the essence.
Jerry began to lead the applause. Although the applause was isolated and cold, it quickly drove the rhythm of that group of "Eden" members.
"Stand up, Draco." Jerry ordered in a low voice, yet carrying an unquestionable sense of power.
Malfoy adjusted his silver-green tie, took a deep breath, and then, with an unprecedented, extremely magnanimous posture that even carried a trace of Slytherin-style elegance, raised the goblet filled with amber pumpkin juice on the table.
"Look at you proud lions."
Malfoy turned around and announced loudly to those Gryffindors who were currently still angry and bewildered. "I never thought of drawing in this way. Since Mrs. Weasley and the elders cherish this lion’s backbone so much..."
Malfoy paused, even maliciously winking at the trembling, furious Ron in the distance.
"Then as the representative of Slytherin, I have to say, I concede defeat wholeheartedly!"
Malfoy raised his goblet and shouted loudly, "Let us toast to the proud lions who refuse to eat the food of charity! Cheers!"
Whoosh!
This was simply a high-level public execution.
Seeing this "universally acknowledged arch-nemesis" of a Slytherin actually behave with such courtesy and restraint, the looks directed at Jerry and Malfoy not only lacked hostility but were filled with a certain peculiar emotion.
This was Jerry’s scheme.
Winning the House Cup?
That was just a trophy.
Staying at Hogwarts and making the majority of the students in the school believe that Slytherin was the faction that was truly magnanimous and possessed top-tier aesthetics.
Beneath those long tables, the toes clad in various pantyhose no longer tapped a heavy beat, but synchronously executed a relaxed and joyous curling motion.
In the air, that fragrance spread by Jerry, mixing power and desire, began to slowly ferment under the bright starlight.
Although the tightly closed doors of Hogwarts had not yet been pushed open by the Board of Governors, its backbone already belonged to that teenage boy who was smilingly setting down an empty goblet.
The brilliant lights of the Great Hall were shut out by the heavy marble doors. The tense sounds of the clash over honor and humiliation in the air gradually faded, replaced by the tranquility of the corridor leading to the washroom.
Molly Weasley walked very fast, her high heels tapping out crisp sounds on the flagstone floor that carried an irregular urgency.
The hem of her originally dignified and noble deep red formal robe flew up, exposing plump and firm calves wrapped in top-tier black silk stockings.
Only she herself knew that beneath this gorgeous skin, a cold rubbing sensation was transmitting increasingly clearly from her skin—that was the movement of the metal chain on the collar rubbing against her collarbone through the inner lining.
With a click, the door to a secluded witches’ washroom was locked from the inside.
Almost in the exact same second, Molly turned around. The majesty with which she had just reprimanded her son in the center of the Great Hall collapsed instantly.
She gasped heavily for breath, the full contours of her chest heaving violently. The lace at the edge of that deep V-neck was soaked with sweat, clinging tightly to the fair, deep cleavage.
A teenage boy’s hand, with distinct knuckles and exuding a steadiness far beyond his age, slowly rested on the door lock.
Jerry stood in front of her.
He wasn’t in a hurry to speak, merely casually unbuttoning the top two buttons of his school robe.
"Well done, bitch."
Jerry’s voice was deep, but it acted like a spell, directly shattering Molly’s last shred of reason.
Molly slumped softly against the cold wall without any complaint, then dropped to both knees.
She skillfully reached out and lifted the hem of that expensive deep red silk skirt, bunching it all the way up to her waist, revealing a blood-boiling sight underneath.
She was wearing a pair of nearly transparent black lace crotchless panties, the narrow borders embedded in the fleshy slit of her thick, wet labia.
And in the center of her full, perky buttocks, that pink rosebud was being forced open deathly tight by a metal butt plug, from the tail end of which hung a massive emerald pendant.
With her trembling, the emerald pendant swayed slightly in the air.
Having been deliberately developed, Molly’s body currently exuded the aroma of a fruit so ripe it was almost overripe.
"Master... Master..."
She murmured in a low voice, her eyes full of fanatical craving.
Jerry reached out and grabbed that black leather collar on her slender neck, which was usually hidden inside her neckline. Locked to the middle of the collar was a thin dark-gold chain; the other end of the chain was clasped in his palm. Jerry gave a slight, forceful yank; the chain emitted a crisp clatter, and Molly crawled forward on the wet, slippery tile floor like a bitch receiving a command.
"Go to the stall and stick your ass up."
Jerry said as he undid his belt with one hand.
Molly crawled into the innermost stall.
She braced her hands on the edge of the toilet, her highly raised buttocks pushing backward desperately. That narrow slit tied to the emerald butt plug opened and closed violently before Jerry’s eyes.
The black silk stockings wrapped all the way to the root of her thighs; the stocking bands dug into the plump flesh of her thighs, digging out a ring of maddening deep marks.
[Omitted]
"Change position, sit on top."
Jerry stepped half a pace back, swung his thigh over, and sat on the toilet lid.
Molly swayed as she climbed up from the floor.
She was somewhat drained of strength from the impact just now, but when she saw that massive root trembling slightly in the air, still incomparably ferocious, that sense of loyalty made the springs within her surge like a tide again.
She turned her back to Jerry.
A pair of thighs clad in black silk stockings straddled Jerry’s waist. She braced against the wall, slowly lowering her center of gravity.
"Mmh... mmh-glug..."
Because this position combined them extremely tightly, Jerry could even faintly feel the shape of that thing bulging inside her through the warm skin of Molly’s abdomen.
Molly began to bounce violently in his embrace.
The chain on the collar coiled around Jerry’s arm due to the inertia of the movement.
Her fiery red long hair was soaked with sweat, clinging to that velvet robe drenched in bodily fluids.
With a ruthless, heavy upward thrust from Jerry, Molly contracted violently.
"Master... Master will stay at Hogwarts forever..."
Molly panted, reaching back to wrap her arms around Jerry’s neck.
Professor Minerva McGonagall was turning a silver bone china teaspoon in her hand.
Right now, she had shed the strict school robes that usually wrapped tightly up to her throat.
In her early thirties, she was at the dual peak of a witch’s physiology and magical power. The tailoring of that dark green velvet long dress was extremely bold, the neckline drooping to reveal a large expanse of chest skin that was as fine as cream and appeared exceptionally firm due to years of practicing Transfiguration.
She picked up her teacup. Her long legs, wearing dark gray semi-transparent silk stockings, were crossed, her toes swaying gently, driving the magical ornaments on the tips of her shoes to emit a burst of pleasant, faint jingling.
"Phew... still haven’t found her, Hermione?"
McGonagall’s voice had become softer than before, even carrying a trace of an elusive magnetism.
At this moment, between the massive bookshelves and the lab bench piled high with magical scrolls, Hermione Granger was in an extremely bizarre state.
She was wearing her Gryffindor short skirt, her two calves wearing pure white cotton silk stockings spread completely wide, kneeling on the red-lacquered wooden floor.
Most eye-catching of all, Hermione’s mouth was bulging high, like a squirrel storing food.
With every deep breath she took, one could hear the slurp, slurp sound of sucking coming from her throat.
That small ball shoved into her mouth was being constantly squeezed and chewed by her neat teeth.
That was the "reward" Jerry had given her.
Crunch... glug.
Hermione bit down hard on the ball, feeling the resistance brought by that glob of thick liquid deforming between her teeth.
That was a taste belonging to Jerry, the taste carrying a sense of domination that made her willingly betray her house’s honor in front of the whole school for it.
"Professor McGonagall... I... I really can’t feel her magical residue..."
Hermione spoke indistinctly; every time she spoke, the ring of glistening saliva bubbles chewed out in her mouth would hang at the corners of her lips.
She wiped away the saliva mixed with a rubbery smell that had flowed down to her chin, her fingers continuing to weave through the gaps in the bookshelves.
She was executing the task assigned by Professor McGonagall: finding Liliana.
"The most fundamental rule of Transfiguration is about the assimilation of ’texture,’ not a simple change of ’form’."
McGonagall put down her teacup, her thighs wrapped in gray silk naturally crossing over each other.
Amidst the friction sound of that silky fabric, she casually pointed to the half-plate of small cookies on the table.
"Liliana is right in this room. She didn’t use an Invisibility Charm, nor a Disillusionment Charm. She just... ’became’ a part of here. Hermione, if you can’t even perceive this, the ’snack’ Jerry gave you is too much of a waste."
Hermione’s pupils contracted sharply.
She ruthlessly chewed and crushed that liquid ball in her mouth again. That bitter liquid carrying the residual warmth of magic completely soaked her taste buds, heightening her senses to the absolute limit.
Liliana’s exaggerated figure... that pair of majestic breasts enough to prop open this kind of corset robe, which produced violent breast waves even when she just walked... how could it possibly be hidden?
Hermione’s gaze scanned the room.
Was it the silver paperweight on the bookcase?
Or that ceramic doll continuously blowing bubbles on the mantelpiece?
Right at this moment, when Hermione’s fingers swept past that row of heavy Encyclopedias of Magical Potions, she suddenly felt an extremely peculiar sensation.
On the side of that hard, crocodile-skin-bound spine, there was a heat that didn’t belong to paper or leather. That heat was soft, carrying a slippery feel unique to female skin, even faintly emitting a cloyingly sweet smell of body sweat generated from being stuffed in a narrow crevice for a long time.
"Here!"
Hermione exclaimed, her right hand violently grabbing the side edge of that book.
However, the instant her palm touched the "spine," that entire row of books actually squirmed violently like some startled mollusk.
"Mmh... mmh-ah..."
A fragmented, delicate cry, carrying a tremor clearly triggered by being grabbed at a sensitive spot, suddenly exploded from that stack of books.
Right under Hermione’s watchful eyes, those heavy brick-like books began to liquefy like melting wax drops.
In that dazzling magical glow, a head of brilliant blonde hair tumbled down first, immediately followed by a small round face as exquisite as white porcelain, currently flushed completely red from restricted breathing.
Liliana’s astonishing, gravity-defying giant orbs were the first to "bounce" out from the magical illusion.
It was truly "bouncing" out.
Because she had just transfigured herself into a part of the entire row of bookshelves, in order to maintain pressure equilibrium, she had subjected all the fat and muscle in her body to extreme compression.
Now, the instant she reverted to her original form, that pair of massive breasts, which were already constrained to the limit by the dark green tight lace shirt of Slytherin, were like beasts regaining their freedom. Accompanied by a boing, boing tremor, they directly popped off two of the shirt’s original buttons.
The popped buttons hit Hermione in the face, carrying the rich scent of daisies on Liliana’s body.
"Too hard... Hermione... hah-ah..."
Liliana collapsed in front of the bookshelf, that sweat-soaked inner lining tightly outlining her disproportionate curves.
A ring of red marks, looking like the texture of paper pages left over from the transfiguration just now, still clung to her thighs. Those toes wrapped in flesh-colored lace silk stockings were still violently curling due to the crushing sensation from earlier.
"Liliana! You... you were in this book just now?!"
Hermione simply couldn’t believe her eyes. "This level of volume conversion... how did your bones and... and your there reconstruct?!"
McGonagall stood up, her high heels stepping as she walked over to the limp Liliana.
Her long gray-silk legs stopped at the edge of Liliana’s frantically heaving chest due to her panting.
McGonagall bent down, her fingers lifting Liliana’s small, still-flushed face, while her other hand extremely naturally squeezed that breast which appeared exceptionally soft due to the aftershocks of the transfiguration.
That pair of orbs in her palm were like two lumps of over-fermented dough; every breath made the orbs spill out from between her fingers.
"Very good, Liliana. How long did you maintain it just now?"
"S-seventeen minutes, Professor." Liliana answered, panting. Physiological tears born of extreme compression still remained in her azure eyes.
McGonagall nodded in satisfaction, released her hand, and turned to walk back to her desk.
Her long legs, wrapped in dark gray semi-transparent silk stockings, tapped out rhythmic footsteps on the red-lacquered wooden floor.
"Take out your notebooks."
Trembling, Liliana pulled out a palm-sized small notebook from the chest of her dark green lace shirt, which was practically bursting open.
That notebook had been hidden by her in her bottomless cleavage; when taken out now, it still carried the heat of her body temperature and a cloyingly sweet body scent.
Hermione, on the other hand, quickly drew out a thick parchment notebook from the pocket expanded with an Undetectable Extension Charm beneath her Gryffindor short skirt.
She still held that nearly burst condom ball she had been chewing on in her mouth, her cheeks bulging, but her gaze was exceptionally focused.
"The essence of Transfiguration is not ’changing,’ but ’persuading’."
McGonagall spoke, her voice echoing in this room filled with the aroma of potions and the scent of female bodily fluids.
She raised her wand and gave a gentle wave; a semi-transparent human anatomical diagram formed of magic appeared in the air.
"Look here, this is the standard skeletal structure of a human wizard. 206 bones, 639 muscles, about 5 liters of blood." The tip of McGonagall’s wand tapped the chest cavity of that phantom image. "And what Liliana did just now was compress this entire structure to... about one-eighth of its original volume."
Hermione sucked in a breath of cold air, almost swallowing the condom ball in her mouth. She quickly used her tongue to push it back to the side of her molars, then rapidly noted down in her notebook: One-eighth volume compression—how do the bones not shatter?
"Good question, Miss Granger." McGonagall turned around, a scholar’s excitement flashing in her gray eyes. "The answer is—the bones do indeed shatter."
Liliana trembled slightly on the floor, the toes wrapped in her flesh-colored lace silk stockings curling even tighter.
"However," McGonagall continued, "under the effect of Transfiguration, this ’shattering’ is controllable and reversible. You must understand a core concept—the ’memory’ of matter."
She waved her wand, and that human anatomical diagram began to compress slowly. The bones seemed to be kneaded by an invisible giant hand, beginning to bend, fold, and finally shatter into countless tiny fragments. But these fragments didn’t scatter; instead, they gathered tightly together, forming an even tighter structure.
"Every bone, every muscle fiber, possesses its original ’form memory.’ What Transfiguration does is retain this memory while changing their current state. This way, when you undo the transfiguration, they can automatically return to their original positions."
Hermione wrote frantically, her quill dancing on the parchment, making a scratch-scratch sound.
"But... but Professor," Hermione asked indistinctly, that condom ball in her mouth already chewed to the point of almost leaking, "This degree of compression... what about the sensation of pain? And the internal organs... won’t the internal organs be crushed?"
The corner of McGonagall’s mouth hooked into a meaningful smile.
She walked to Liliana’s side, reached out, and patted her chest, which was still heaving violently.
"This is exactly where the essence of ’Transfiguration’ lies." McGonagall’s voice became even lower. "Traditional Transfiguration teachings will tell you to try your best to avoid excessive form changes on living organisms, because that will bring unbearable pain. But..."
She paused, her finger gently twirling Liliana’s nipple, and the latter immediately let out a suppressed moan.
"What if we reverse it and utilize this pain? If we transform pain into pleasure, transform fear into excitement, then the wizard’s consciousness will actively cooperate with the transfiguration process, rather than resisting it."
Hermione’s pen stopped. She looked up, an almost fanatical light flashing in her eyes.
"So... so when Liliana was transfiguring, what she felt wasn’t pain, but..."
"Pleasure." McGonagall said the word directly. "Ultimate, mind-losing pleasure. When her bones are crushed, when her internal organs are squeezed, when every inch of her skin is stretched to the limit, the signal her brain receives is not ’pain,’ but ’orgasm’."
Liliana’s face was already so red it looked like it was going to bleed.
She kept her head down, her long blonde hair obscuring her expression, but from her violently trembling shoulders, it could be seen that every word McGonagall said accurately pierced her memory.
"Then... then what are the specific casting steps?"
Hermione asked, her voice becoming even hoarser due to that large gulp of bodily fluid she had swallowed earlier.
McGonagall put down her teacup and picked up her wand again.
"First, you need an ’anchor’." She pointed at Liliana. "What is Liliana’s anchor?"
"It’s... scent." Liliana answered in a small voice, her fingers tightly clutching that small notebook. "Before I transfigure, I will first... first lick it with my tongue, and then remember that feeling in my mind."
"Very good." McGonagall nodded. "An anchor can be anything—smell, touch, sound, or even a specific memory. Its function is to give you a life preserver to grab onto when your consciousness is about to be overwhelmed by pain."
Hermione noted it down rapidly.
"The second step is ’separating consciousness’." McGonagall continued. "You have to learn to divide your consciousness into two parts—one part is responsible for maintaining the operation of the Transfiguration spell, and the other part is responsible for enjoying the pleasure. This requires a massive amount of practice, and..."
She looked at Hermione, a hint of amusement in her eyes.
"The third step is ’progressive compression’."
McGonagall waved her wand, and that human anatomical diagram appeared again; this time it began to shrink slowly, bit by bit. "Do not attempt to complete the entire transfiguration all at once. Start from the least important parts—like fingers and toes, then the limbs, and finally the torso and head."
Liliana nodded. She flipped open her own small notebook; it was densely packed with various data and charts.
"Finally, and most importantly." McGonagall’s voice turned serious. "You must always remember that Transfiguration is not magic, but a ’contract.’ You are signing a contract with your body, promising it pleasure, and only then will it cooperate with you to complete the transfiguration. If you violate this contract, if you feel fear or resistance during the transfiguration process, then your body will immediately suffer a backlash, and the consequences..."
She glanced at Liliana.
"Liliana, tell Miss Granger what happens if the transfiguration fails."
Liliana spoke, trembling: "You will... you will permanently lose control of that part of the body. I read in a book that someone failed while attempting to compress their left hand, and now that hand... that hand is like a puddle of mud, unable to ever revert to its original shape."
Hermione sucked in a breath of cold air.
"Therefore, Miss Granger."
McGonagall walked up to Hermione and bent down. That pair of full breasts wrapped in the dark green velvet long dress nearly pressed against Hermione’s face. "Are you sure you want to learn this?"
Hermione looked up, not a single trace of hesitation in her eyes.
"I am sure, Professor."
McGonagall straightened up, the corners of her mouth hooking into a satisfied smile.
"Very good.
Then, starting tomorrow, every night at nine o’clock, come to my office. I will instruct you personally."
She turned and walked to the window, pushing it open. The night breeze blew in, carrying a cold, clear aura.
"Now, both of you go back and rest.
Remember, Transfiguration cannot be learned in a single day. You need time, you need patience, and even more importantly, you need..."
She looked back at the two girls, a dangerous light flashing in her eyes.
"You need enough ’experience’."
Hermione and Liliana exchanged a glance, then stood up simultaneously, tidying up their respective clothes and notebooks.
The door closed behind them. McGonagall sat back down at her desk and poured herself a fresh cup of black tea.
"Jerry, I’ve grown impatient waiting!"
