Chapter 177: Chapter 177: Professor, I’ll Never Dare Miss Homework Again!
A rich aroma, a mixture of roasted fragrance and a unique metallic sweetness, drifted over from the corner of the office.
It was a whole dragon, brought over from the kitchens of Blackwood Castle through the Floo Network by a house-elf in less than forty seconds after Jerry clapped his hands twice... mounted on a goblin-silver roasting rack.
Calling it a "whole dragon" might induce some unrealistic imaginations.
The size of this dragon was roughly comparable to an adult turkey; either it had been processed with a proportional Shrinking Charm, or it was simply a hatchling less than a month old.
Under the high-temperature roasting, its scales had turned a charred brown. The edges curled up slightly, revealing the layer of skin beneath, rendered golden and crispy from the penetration of heat.
The roasting rack was placed on the right side of Professor McGonagall’s desk.
Jerry had already put his trousers back on... although that giant object still strained an unlookable outline at his crotch... and was currently sitting carelessly in the chair beside Professor McGonagall, a set of standard Hogwarts silver cutlery laid out in front of him.
He picked up his knife and fork, tentatively making a cut at the root of the roasted dragon’s leg.
Screech!
A tooth-aching friction sound rang out as the blade scraped across the charred, crispy layer of scales. That layer of scales was much harder than imagined; the silver dining knife left a white mark on it but failed to cut through.
Jerry frowned, changed the angle, inserted the tip of the knife into the gap between two scales, and then pried forcefully.
Crack!
The scale popped off.
Revealed beneath was a section of dragon meat presenting an amber hue due to long, slow roasting. The color was somewhere between the deep red of steak and the pale white of chicken breast. The texture was extremely fine, the muscle fibers presenting a silk-like luster under the light. The most tempting part was those hair-thin lines of golden fat distributed among the muscle fibers... that was the magical fat unique to dragons, which had melted into a liquid state under the high temperature and was slowly seeping out along the grain of the meat.
Sizzle...
The instant Jerry put the first piece of dragon meat into his mouth, the elastic feedback produced when his teeth severed the firm muscle fibers made his chewing motion pause for a moment.
It was completely different from beef.
The fibers of beef are coarse, each one clearly perceptible by the teeth.
But the fibers of dragon meat were extremely fine. The first sensation upon biting down was "tough"... a toughness full of vitality, somewhere between elasticity and hardness.
But the instant the teeth truly severed those fibers, the juices locked inside the fibers would violently burst open like a bitten grape.
"...Delicious."
Jerry chewed twice, issuing an extremely plain evaluation.
That juice carried a strong, savory umami akin to game meat, but buried at the base was an extremely subtle sweetness with a metallic feel... like the essence extracted after boiling top-grade beef marrow with some unknown spices for three days and three nights.
"Don’t tear it with your hands."
Professor McGonagall’s voice came from the side.
She had stood up from her chair at some unknown point and walked to the roasting rack.
Those hands of hers, which gripped a wand and a quill year-round, were currently extremely skillfully wielding a larger carving knife cast from elven silver and a two-pronged fork.
Crack... rrip...
Professor McGonagall’s knife skills were extremely precise. First, she cut open the connection between skin and meat along the joint line of the dragon leg, and then, following the direction of the bone, separated the entire dragon leg from the torso.
That clean, unhesitating motion brought to mind the decisiveness she displayed when transfiguring a teapot into a tortoise in Transfiguration class.
She neatly stacked the carved dragon leg meat onto the silver platter in front of Jerry, then used the small fork to pick up a piece of the tenderest inner thigh meat, almost transparent, and placed it on the edge of Jerry’s plate.
"Eat this piece first, the meat at the center of the leg is the most tender."
Jerry forked that piece of inner thigh meat and stuffed it into his mouth.
This piece was completely different from the one just now. Because it was protected by the outer layer of muscle, the dragon meat at the center of the leg hadn’t come into direct contact with the high temperature. Therefore, it retained a texture that was almost raw, soft to the point of nearly melting in the mouth. That mouthfeel brought to mind top-grade tuna belly... slippery, rich, carrying a fatty sensation that felt like it would melt one’s tongue, yet possessing a thick, meaty aroma belonging to a land creature that fish lacked.
Jerry stuffed three pieces into his mouth in a row, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel.
"Eat slower." Professor McGonagall carved another piece and placed it on his plate.
At the same time, she looked up, her gaze crossing over the still-steaming remains of the dragon on the roasting rack, looking at Hera standing on the other side of the room.
"Madam Hera."
Professor McGonagall’s tone switched in an instant from "the amiable professor carving meat for her student" to "the diplomat at the negotiating table." The smoothness of that transition made the several Goddesses present freeze slightly.
"Since Jerry has already demonstrated his sincerity and strength, I believe we can get down to business."
Hera stood beside that row of flowerpots. She had already simply tidied up her appearance... her long hair was tied back up, though she hadn’t bothered to pick up that golden crown that had rolled onto the floor. That patch of saliva-soaked stain at the collar of her robe had only been treated with a simple Drying Charm, still leaving an unevenly colored dark mark.
Her lips were slightly swollen.
That was the mark left behind after being stretched for too long by that giant object that exceeded physiological limits just now. It was slowly fading under the effect of divine self-healing, but remained clearly visible at this moment.
"Business?" Hera raised one eyebrow.
"Regarding the framework agreement for the world clusters of the Olympian Pantheon joining the joint jurisdictional system of the wizarding world."
As Professor McGonagall spoke, she sliced the dragon’s chest cavity open right down the middle. The sound of the blade scraping across the dragon bones went crunch-crunch, those tiny bone fragments bouncing on the silver platter.
"Article One: All deities of the Olympian Pantheon, including Major Gods, Minor Gods, Subordinate Gods, and all holders of dependent Divine Personas, must formally register with the Department of International Magical Cooperation of the wizarding world. The content of the registration includes, but is not limited to: Divine Persona level, source of faith, coordinates of the governed world, and..."
From inside the dragon’s chest cavity, she scooped out a dark red organ, the surface covered in a thin golden membrane, and placed it on a clean small saucer.
"An assessment of the upper limit of combat capabilities."
That dark red organ was the dragon liver.
Jerry’s attention was immediately drawn to it.
That piece of dragon liver was about the size of an adult man’s fist, flat in shape, the thin golden membrane on the surface shimmering with an elusive luster in the light.
Unlike the uniform grayish-pink of foie gras, the cross-section of the dragon liver presented an extremely complex texture... embedded within the dark red main body were countless fine golden threads; those fine threads were the terminal distribution of the dragon’s unique magical circulatory system within the liver.
Professor McGonagall sliced the dragon liver into thin pieces.
The thickness of each slice was only about half a centimeter; those fine golden threads on the cut surface turned into a miniature, precise pattern like a star map under the light.
Jerry picked up a slice with his fork and put it in his mouth.
"...!"
His eyes widened instantly.
That mouthfeel completely exceeded his expectations.
Foie gras was already the most delicate and rich ingredient he knew of... melting in the mouth, full of fatty aroma, with a long, lingering aftertaste. But the dragon liver added another dimension on top of foie gras.
The instant that cicada-wing-thin slice of dragon liver touched the surface of his tongue, it began to melt even before he chewed. That melting was not the physical process of foie gras where "fat turns into liquid upon heating," but a more subtle process, as if the ingredient itself were actively engaging in a certain dialogue with the taste buds.
First came a meaty aroma so rich it was almost domineering... that aroma was ten times richer than beef and three times richer than foie gras, yet lacked any gamey smell. In its place was a layered mellowness similar to aged red wine.
Then came the lingering magical resonance released after those fine golden threads melted... a warm current, like taking a sip of hot chocolate, spread from the root of his tongue to his throat, and then diffused all the way down his esophagus into his chest cavity.
Finally came the aftertaste.
After that slice of dragon liver completely melted away in his oral cavity, an extremely unique sweetness carrying a metallic luster remained on the tip of his tongue... like melting a small piece of gold and mixing it into honey.
Jerry stuffed four slices into his mouth in a row.
"Use the small fork," Professor McGonagall reminded him without looking up, simultaneously continuing her negotiations.
"Article Two: The Central Faith Pool of the Pantheon must complete dissolution procedures within ninety days after the agreement takes effect. All accumulated Power of Faith within the pool will be liquidated and returned according to the original contribution ratio of each deity."
Hera’s expression changed.
"Ninety days?" Her voice turned cold. "The Central Faith Pool has been operating for millions of years; the Power of Faith inside has already formed a self-circulating ecology. Forcing dissolution within ninety days will cause a faith backlash... At least a third of the weaker deities will have their Divine Personas shattered because they cannot withstand the sudden influx of faith backflow."
"Then we extend it to one hundred and eighty days. But the direction of dissolution is irreversible."
Professor McGonagall wiped the grease off the carving knife with a napkin, her movements as elegant as if wiping a wand.
"Article Three: All world clusters under the jurisdiction of the Olympian Pantheon, after joining the joint jurisdictional system, will be re-designated as ’Protectorates’ rather than ’Colonies.’ The original ecosystems, civilization development trajectories, and species diversity of each world must be preserved. The wizarding world will dispatch observers to be stationed there, but will not interfere in internal affairs."
Jerry was gnawing on a dragon rib.
The meat on that rib was firmer than the leg meat, carrying a special bone aroma born of being close to the bone. When he used his incisors to tear the meat off the bone, it produced a crunch-crunch sound. The grease flowed down through the gaps in his fingers, dripping onto the edge of the silver platter.
In a pause in the negotiations, Professor McGonagall glanced at him, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and handed it over.
Jerry took it, wiped the corners of his mouth haphazardly a few times, and continued gnawing.
"Article Four... this article is the most critical."
Professor McGonagall put down the carving knife.
She took off her glasses, wiped the lenses with the cuff of her robe, and then put them back on. In her decades-long teaching career, this action usually meant, "What I am about to say next is extremely important."
"All faith-collection behaviors of deities must be brought under the regulatory scope of the International Magical Laws of the wizarding world. Specifically... forced proselytizing is prohibited, coercing faith through miracles is prohibited, instilling faith into underage intelligent beings is prohibited, and maintaining faith loyalty through any form of punishment or reward mechanism is prohibited."
Hera fell silent.
The essence of this article was fundamentally rewriting the relationship between deities and believers.
If faith could no longer be a forcibly collected "tax," but became a "donation" that needed to be obtained naturally through genuine charisma... then the vast majority of deities who relied on fear and miracles to maintain faith would go completely bankrupt within a single generation.
Those Goddesses in the flowerpots began to converse urgently in that ancient language. The new shoots of the Goddess with the vine hairstyle... the flowers that had withered earlier had already resprouted under the effect of divine self-healing... were swaying at an anxious frequency.
The amber eyes of the moss-armored Goddess stared dead at Professor McGonagall; the moss covering her continuously switched between emerald green and withered yellow due to emotional fluctuations.
"You are demanding we give up the foundation of our divine authority."
Hera’s voice was very low.
"We are demanding you return to beside that bonfire."
Professor McGonagall’s answer carried no emotional color.
"As you yourself just said... at the first gathering, there were no ranks, no taxes, no coercion. The deities sat around the fire, sharing what they had seen and heard. If that is what you truly miss, then this agreement is the path back to that bonfire."
Hera looked at Jerry.
Jerry was using his fork to pick the last piece of dragon liver from the saucer. The edges of that piece of dragon liver had cooled somewhat in the air, the golden membrane becoming even more distinct, like a miniature, edible piece of gold.
He stuffed the entire piece into his mouth.
Then, in a pause in his chewing, he slightly lifted his eyelids and gave Hera a look.
That look said nothing.
But said everything.
Hera closed her eyes.
Those Goddesses in the flowerpots also quieted down.
Only the faint squish sound Jerry made while chewing the dragon liver, the soft clatter of Professor McGonagall placing the carving knife back onto the silver tray, and the continuous, heartbeat-like low-frequency buzzing of those lockdown runes deep within the walls remained in the office.
Hera opened her eyes.
Within the golden irises, that fire... that initial, crude yet warm bonfire lit by a few pieces of wood... seemed to reignite in that instant.
"Let me see the full text of the agreement."
Professor McGonagall drew a roll of parchment from the inner pocket of her robe.
The length of that roll of parchment was a full two meters, densely packed with clauses written in golden ink.
Every clause had been polished with extremely rigorous legal phrasing; every word carried the precision and dryness unique to those old bureaucrats in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, enough to make one want to sleep just reading it.
Hera took the parchment.
She unrolled the first paragraph and began to read.
And beside her, Jerry had already launched an attack on the roasted dragon’s second leg. There were grease stains at the corners of his mouth, crispy scale fragments stuck to his fingers, and the silver platter was piled high with gnawed-clean bones.
Professor McGonagall handed over another handkerchief.
"Professor, is the meat on the dragon wings edible?"
"Yes. The meat at the base of the wing is similar to the drumette of a chicken wing, but firmer. Just tear it with your hands; no knife or fork is needed."
"Oh."
Jerry reached out and snapped off a dragon wing.
Crack!
The sound of the joint snapping rang out amidst the rustling sound of Hera flipping through the agreement clauses.
The meat at the base of the wing was indeed exactly as Professor McGonagall had said... firm, bouncy against the teeth, possessing a unique chewiness akin to air-dried beef produced by the long-term movement of the wing muscles, yet much juicier than air-dried meat.
The taste of that juice leaned towards salty-savory, carrying a faint electric-shock sensation brought by the magical elements accumulated in the flight muscles... like eating a piece of jerky that could deliver a mild electrical discharge.
Jerry gnawed the entire wing clean in one breath, tossing the bare skeleton onto the plate.
Hera’s finger stopped at the seventh clause of the parchment.
The golden ink of that clause flickered slightly beneath her fingertip, as if urging her to turn to the next page. But she did not continue reading.
She slowly rolled up the parchment, lifted her head, and those golden-irised eyes stabbed straight toward Professor McGonagall.
"You prepared this contract long ago?"
It wasn’t a question.
It was a confirmation.
Professor McGonagall was using an exquisite bone knife to carve the last piece of tender meat clinging to the vertebrae on the roasted dragon’s tail, her movements as precise as if dismantling some delicate Transfiguration component.
She placed that piece of tailbone meat onto the plate in front of Jerry, and only then did she look up.
"Not too early."
Professor McGonagall took off her glasses and wiped them.
"We started drafting it from the day you entered Hogwarts under the identity of Professor Hess."
The corner of Hera’s eye twitched.
Professor McGonagall put her glasses back on, her gaze crossing over the remains of the roasted dragon, looking at those Goddesses standing in the flowerpots.
Those half-plant deities from different worlds were currently watching this negotiation with various postures... some anxious, some calm, some expressionless.
"They might not know what the wizarding world has hidden."
Professor McGonagall’s voice was neither hurried nor slow.
"But you know."
Her finger tapped lightly on the desktop.
"You’ve been here for almost half a year, Hera. How many times have you been to the Hogwarts library? The locks on the Restricted Section are useless to an existence of your level. You must have flipped through those sealed dossiers... about the war records from Merlin’s era, about how many dimensional fragments the wizarding world has annexed in the past, about what exactly those old monsters who have lived for hundreds of years are researching."
Hera did not answer.
But she did not deny it either.
Professor McGonagall continued, her tone as calm as if discussing the class schedule arrangements for the next term.
"More importantly, we are in an era of change right now."
Her finger tapped the desktop again, this time slightly heavier.
"Based on that information I told you... you should also know what Dumbledore is preparing to do."
Hera’s pupils contracted.
Dumbledore.
When that name was spoken from Professor McGonagall’s mouth, it carried an extremely special weight... not awe, not worship, but a certain certainty possessed only by long-term colleagues, built upon trust and understanding.
"Zeus is definitely going to die."
When Professor McGonagall spoke this sentence, her tone didn’t even fluctuate.
It was like saying "Tomorrow’s weather will be sunny."
"Those guys who slaughtered the City of the Sky... whether Apollo or Poseidon... they are also definitely going to die. This is not a wish, not a plan, but an already determined outcome. The means the wizarding world will use to ensure this outcome go far beyond Jerry’s twenty crystal golems. Of course, with Aurora as the current President of the MACUSA, her personal wishes are also something we must respect, because her control over the MACUSA is much stronger than the control Dumbledore and Fudge have over the European Ministries of Magic."
Jerry was using his fingers to stuff the last piece of tailbone meat from his plate into his mouth.
The mouthfeel of that piece of meat was more unique than any other part... because it clung tightly to the spine, the meat was mixed with a gelatinous component from the dragon’s bone marrow, carrying a faint bitter taste. This intertwined with the savory sweetness of the meat itself, forming a complex flavor profile similar to bitter chocolate paired with caramel.
He chewed twice, swallowed, then reached out for the cup of pumpkin juice Professor McGonagall had placed in the corner.
"But after they die, what then?"
Professor McGonagall’s gaze fell back on Hera.
"The wizarding world does not reject other living beings. Having stayed at Hogwarts for half a year, you should know this better than anyone. A half-giant serves as Gamekeeper, a werewolf taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, a goblin who tried to betray wizards works in every kitchen, centaurs have autonomy in the Forbidden Forest... The multi-species coexistence system of the wizarding world, though far from perfect, is inclusive in its underlying logic."
She paused.
"But inclusivity does not equate to weakness. Expanding outward will always be the main theme of wizards."
Hera placed the parchment on her lap.
She turned around, facing those Goddesses standing in the flowerpots.
That ancient language flowed once again in the sealed space.
Hera spoke a very long segment.
Her speaking speed was much faster than when she was conversing with Jerry just now, the intonation fluctuating more greatly. She would occasionally emphasize certain syllables with force, as if highlighting a key argument.
The Goddesses began to respond.
The Goddess with the vine hairstyle was the first to speak.
Her newly grown smoky-purple flower buds constantly opened and closed as she spoke; the colors of those petals changed from purple to deep blue, then from deep blue back to purple amidst her emotional fluctuations.
She spoke about ten syllables, then stopped, her roots writhing uneasily in the flowerpot.
The moss-armored Goddess followed closely behind.
Her voice was deep like the surging of underground magma; the moss covering her produced a rhythmic heaving with every syllable she spat out. She spoke for a longer time, pausing twice in the middle, as if repeatedly weighing her words.
The lignified Goddess spoke only three syllables.
Short, heavy.
Like three hammers hitting the ground.
The other Goddesses also expressed their opinions respectively.
Some voices were soft as streams, some shrill as bird calls, some were not even voices but magical pulses acting directly on the nerves... every mode of expression carried the unique imprint of its respective world.
The discussion lasted for about three minutes.
Three minutes.
For a discussion that would decide the fate of an entire Pantheon, this time was so short it was almost child’s play.
But when Hera turned back around, her expression stated that everything had already been decided.
"Everything will proceed based on killing Zeus first."
Hera’s voice deepened, sounding like she was reading a final death sentence.
"Including Apollo, Athena, and Poseidon. As long as the true bodies of these four are confirmed destroyed, the power structure of the Pantheon will enter a vacuum period within twenty-four hours."
She cast a glance toward the Goddesses sitting in their flowerpots.
"During that vacuum, they and I will jointly take over control of the Pantheon’s Central Faith Pool, freezing all faith distribution channels to prevent other Major Gods from using the Power of Faith for emergency armament."
"And then?" Professor McGonagall asked.
"Then we will open all dimensional passages from the Pantheon to the wizarding world."
In Hera’s golden irises, the reflection of the roasted dragon—now gnawed down to a skeleton—shimmered.
"The wizarding armies can drive straight in."
Professor McGonagall nodded, spreading the parchment filled with clauses back across the desk, using a cup and a plate to weight down the four corners.
"Then this agreement..."
"I need time to digest it. But the direction is correct."
Hera exhaled a long, deep breath.
Jerry used the last handkerchief to wipe the grease from his hands, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it onto the silver platter.
He stood up.
The chair made a scraping sound of wood against stone as it slid back.
He walked toward Hera.
The steps were few, but under the collective gaze of the Goddesses in the pots, that boy... with grease still on the corners of his mouth, his shirt collar askew from the previous struggle, and that unignorable, massive bulge at his crotch still clearly visible... his approach carried a sense of oppression that completely contradicted his appearance, triggering an instinctive, divine alertness in all the deities present.
He stopped in front of Hera.
He looked up at her from below.
"I’ve always wanted to know one thing."
Jerry’s voice was very soft.
"Who is your other ally?"
Hera arched an eyebrow.
"I mean at the Major God level," Jerry added. "Your hidden lines and small circles within the Pantheon are enough with the strength of these ladies. But to truly stabilize the situation after Zeus dies, you need at least one entity of Major God rank on your side. Who is it?"
Hera looked down at the boy standing before her.
She smiled.
That smile was different from all the others—not a politician’s mask, not a Queen’s arrogance, and not a woman’s tease.
It was the smile of someone who had been poked in their proudest spot and couldn’t resist showing off.
She bent down.
Then, she performed a move that no one expected... she grabbed the hem of her peacock-blue robe with both hands, yanked it upward, and directly shrouded Jerry’s entire head beneath her skirt.
Jerry’s vision was instantly plunged into a semi-transparent darkness wrapped in peacock-blue silk.
The inner fabric of the robe was far softer than the outer, carrying a faint scent of celestial spices—something between fresh grass and soil after rain.
Even closer was the temperature of Hera’s thighs. That heat, belonging to a deity and slightly higher than human body temperature, hemmed in Jerry’s cheeks from both sides.
The skin on her inner thighs was smoother than anything real, possessing a touch reminiscent of warm satin.
Hera’s voice drifted in from outside the skirt, sounding somewhat muffled by the fabric and her own body.
But it was clear enough.
A volume intended only for two pairs of ears.
"Hades, King of the Underworld."
Those three words fell into the dark space between them, wrapped in the robe.
Jerry remained silent under the skirt for two seconds.
Then, he let out an extremely inappropriate, muffled chuckle.
The laugh echoed from beneath Hera’s skirt, causing her body to stiffen slightly.
"So..." Jerry’s voice came from the depths of her dress, carrying that punchable, mischievous tone unique to a teenager, "Your husband’s brother? Wait, no, you were all siblings to begin with. Zeus is your husband and your brother, Hades is your husband’s brother and your own brother... this family tree is a goddamn mess."
Hera’s skirt suddenly tightened, her two thighs clamping Jerry’s head from both sides.
"What are you thinking?"
Hera’s voice turned cold.
"I have absolutely no interest of that kind in Hades."
Her tone was rapid and sharp, almost like a reflex.
"Hades is the only Major God who has held reservations about Zeus’s rule since the Pantheon was founded. His Underworld is self-contained; he never participates in the distribution of the Central Faith Pool and never attends council meetings. Zeus tolerates him because the Underworld’s source of faith—the fear of death—is the most stable and irreplaceable of all types."
She loosened the grip of her thighs, giving Jerry more breathing room under her skirt.
"He promised that once Zeus’s true body is destroyed, he will use the power of the Underworld to seal all resurrection channels in the Pantheon. He will ensure that once Zeus is dead, he stays dead, and won’t crawl back out from some corner of the Styx."
Beneath the skirt, Jerry reached out a hand to push aside the silk fabric blocking his view, looking up through the gap of Hera’s thighs.
He saw Hera’s chin.
From that angle, Hera looked exceptionally condescending due to the extreme upward perspective. The gaze from her golden irises projecting downward carried a spine-chilling coldness.
"A pure political alliance," Hera’s voice fell from above. "What Hades wants is simple... after Zeus is gone, the Underworld becomes completely independent. It won’t participate in any new power structures, won’t join the wizarding world’s jurisdiction, and will maintain perpetual neutrality."
"You promised him?"
"I’m asking you on his behalf."
Hera’s finger reached inside the skirt and lightly flicked Jerry’s forehead.
"This condition—can you and that professor of yours accept it?"
Jerry crawled out from under Hera’s skirt.
His hair was a bit messy from the friction inside the fabric, and faint red marks lingered on his cheeks where her thighs had squeezed him.
He turned his head to look at Professor McGonagall.
McGonagall was currently using a fork to neatly align the dragon bones in the silver platter.
She didn’t look up, merely saying with casual indifference:
"A permanently neutral Underworld is better than a hostile one. Just add a clause to the appendix of the agreement."
Jerry nodded and looked back at Hera.
"Deal."
Hera lowered her eyelids, an extremely complex, fleeting emotion flashing deep within her golden irises.
Then she bent over and picked up the golden crown inlaid with peacock feathers from the floor.
她将它重新戴在了头上.
The moment the crown was back in place, the awe-inspiring, inviolable aura of the Queen of the Gods returned to envelope her.
But her lips were still swollen.
The dark water stain on her collar was still there.
Under the witness of the Goddesses in the pots, those marks were like a signature carved onto a Queen by a human boy.
As the Goddesses left, the flowerpots automatically shrank into thumb-sized miniature plants. The vine-haired Goddess, the last to leave, coiled them up with her roots and took them away.
A dozen cracks pried open by roots remained on the stone floor, along with a few puddles of resin that hadn’t yet dried.
The strange scent in the air—a mix of divine aura and plant hormones—was dissipating, replaced by the lingering aroma of roasted dragon meat and cooling grease.
The door closed again after Hera left.
The lockdown runes continued to pulse slowly deep within the walls, a purple glow seeping from the cracks like the office’s own heartbeat.
Jerry sat back down.
He stared at the dragon skeleton on the table, gnawed down to just the spine and half a skull, and suddenly spoke.
"Professor, when exactly was this agreement created?"
McGonagall didn’t answer immediately.
She stood by the roasting rack, still holding the elven-silver carving knife.
This time she didn’t carve for Jerry... she carved a piece for herself.
It was a thin strip of tenderloin from above the dragon’s spine, pressed tightly against the inner side of the scales.
Due to its unique position, this meat had been protected by the heavy scales throughout the roasting process and received almost no direct heat. It presented an extremely rare, near-raw pink, its surface glistening with natural oils secreted by the dragon’s subcutaneous glands.
McGonagall picked up the tenderloin with the tip of her knife and put it in her mouth.
She chewed a few times.
Then she turned, bent over, braced one hand on the armrest of Jerry’s chair, and kissed him directly.
The kiss was without warning.
McGonagall’s lips, carrying the unique warm oiliness of the dragon meat, pressed against Jerry’s. Her tongue pushed the partially chewed piece of tenderloin into Jerry’s mouth.
"Mmh..."
Jerry let out a muffled grunt.
The tenderloin, chewed by McGonagall, slid onto Jerry’s tongue, carrying her body heat and a faint aftertaste of black tea unique to a mature woman.
The meat had already been ground by her teeth, making the texture creamier. The juices locked deep in the fibers were fully released by the crushing, mixing with McGonagall’s saliva to form a complex flavor of savory sweetness.
McGonagall released his lips.
She wiped the residual grease from the corner of her mouth with her thumb, standing back up straight with total naturalness—as if she had just done something routine.
"Three hours ago."
Her voice was as calm as ever.
"Amelia wrote it."
Jerry chewed the meat twice and swallowed, licking the taste from his lips.
"Three hours? Hera and her group have only been at Hogwarts for less than two."
"Amelia’s information network is faster than you think."
McGonagall picked up the carving knife again, scraping the last edible cartilage from the dragon’s frame.
She tossed the cartilage into her mouth and chewed.
"That woman, pregnant and sitting at a Ministry desk, wrote a diplomatic treaty capable of changing the fate of two world clusters in two hours. Fudge marrying her was the most correct thing he’s done in his life."
Jerry leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head.
"If this agreement eventually stands..."
"Amelia will use the prestige of this agreement to run directly for Minister for Magic of Europe."
The tone McGonagall used was like saying "Tomorrow’s Transfiguration class is moved to the afternoon."
Jerry tilted his head.
McGonagall shot him a glance.
Behind her lenses, there was something extremely subtle, somewhere between helplessness and indulgence.
McGonagall didn’t follow up.
She simply cleaned the silver plates and utensils with a silent Scourgify, then walked to the window, watching the lockdown runes give a few final pulses before slowly fading out.
Sunlight cut through the gaps in the leaded window panes, casting a neat row of rectangular light patches on the stone floor.
The laughter of lower-year students on the lawn drifted in through the glass, becoming a blurred, warm background noise.
McGonagall stood by the window, back to Jerry, hands folded in front of her.
Her dark green professor’s robes outlined a sharp silhouette in the backlight... her waist was cinched tight, and the curve of her buttocks presented a full, tight, mature arc under the fabric. A woman in her thirties, her body was at its absolute peak, every line radiating a perfectly balanced voluptuousness polished by time.
"By the way."
Her voice suddenly rang out, using the exact intonation Jerry knew too well—the one she used to call on students in class.
"You haven’t handed in a single piece of Transfiguration homework this entire term. When do you plan on submitting it?"
Jerry shrank into his chair, pulling an ingratiating smile, "Heh... Professor, well, things have been quite busy lately..."
He hadn’t finished his sentence.
McGonagall had already turned around.
Her movement was incredibly fast... faster than casting a spell... her right hand reached out accurately, and two fingers pinched Jerry’s left earlobe like iron pliers.
"Ow, ow, ow, ow...!"
Jerry’s voice instantly jumped in pitch.
McGonagall’s finger strength was extraordinary. Those seemingly slender fingers twisted Jerry’s earlobe nearly ninety degrees, her nails digging into the soft skin, bringing a sharp, stinging pain.
"Five essays, three practical reports, and the records for the mid-term live transfiguration experiments."
McGonagall listed them off while hoisting Jerry out of his chair by his ear.
"Do you think that because you’re busy fooling around with the Black girl and performing ’oral identity checks’ for the ’Great Queen of the Gods,’ you don’t have to do your schoolwork?"
Jerry stumbled two steps from the force, half-bent, his head forced to tilt toward McGonagall’s twisting hand.
The posture made him look exceptionally pathetic... a teenager who was just negotiating with the Queen of Olympus and holding god-killing chips was now being dragged by the ear by his Transfiguration professor like a schoolboy caught playing hooky.
"Professor... it really hurts... I’ll write it when I get back..."
"Too late."
McGonagall released his ear.
But before Jerry could rub the bright red earlobe, a palm pressed down on his shoulder.
Downward.
the force wasn’t massive, but it was absolutely firm.
Jerry’s knees buckled under the downward pressure, and his knees hit the cold stone floor with a thud.
He knelt directly beneath the window.
Sunlight poured from the glass above, gilding his messy black hair—tousled from the friction under Hera’s skirt—with a warm gold rim.
McGonagall stood before him.
Looking up at her from this angle, her figure seemed exceptionally tall in the backlight. The hem of her dark green robes reached her ankles, her black buckled leather shoes stood on the stone, and the silhouette of her legs was faintly visible in the shadows inside the robes.
She looked down at the kneeling Jerry.
The gaze behind her lenses was calm and sharp, her lips slightly pursed, her chin tilted up—the exact same look she gave a student who got a question wrong.
"Since you don’t want to write the essays, you’ll make up the credits in another way."
Her hands grabbed the hem of her robes.
The fabric was pulled upward.
Layer by layer.
First, her ankles were revealed... clear joints, pale skin, with a few faint red pressure marks from wearing leather shoes all day.
Then her calves... tightly wrapped in dark gray wool stockings, the fabric clinging to the lines of her muscles, secured below the knee by a narrow black elastic band.
Then her knees and thighs.
When the robes were hiked to mid-thigh, the cuffs of the dark gray stockings were exposed. Above them was a stretch of uncovered, inner-thigh skin so pale it was almost transparent.
That skin, having been covered by robes and stockings for so long, had never touched the sun, presenting a milk-white color with tiny, delicate blue vascular patterns.
McGonagall continued to pull the robes higher.
Her thighs were sharply defined in the backlight... not the thin, fleshless lines of a young girl, but the full, powerful, yet soft arcs of a mature woman in her thirties, composed of firm muscle and just the right amount of fat.
The softest part of her inner thighs shimmered under the light with a layer of extremely fine, peach-fuzz-like hair.
The robes were finally pulled to her waist.
A piece of white cotton fabric fit tightly against McGonagall’s intimate contours. Because the fabric was highly absorbent, a small, slightly darker water stain had already faintly soaked through the dead center.
The stain was irregular, spreading outward, indicating the fluid inside had penetrated more than one layer of fabric.
McGonagall anchored the robes at her waist with one hand, freeing the other.
That hand pressed against the back of Jerry’s head.
Her fingertips threaded into his messy black hair.
Then... she pushed forward.
Jerry’s face was pushed directly between McGonagall’s legs by that undeniable force.
"Mmh..."
His nose first bumped against the slightly damp white cotton.
The touch was soft and warm, carrying a scent steamed off by her body heat—a mix of black tea, parchment, dragon grease, and the unique, slightly tart aroma of a mature woman’s private parts.
McGonagall’s legs clamped Jerry’s head from both sides.
The pale, peach-fuzz skin of her inner thighs pressed against his cheeks.
The temperature and touch made Jerry’s facial muscles contract involuntarily.
"Use your mouth."
McGonagall’s voice drifted down from above, her tone identical to when she said, "Turn to page three hundred and seventy-two."
Jerry tilted his head against the warm, cotton-covered soft zone, catching the edge of her white panties with his teeth.
He yanked them to the side.
Rrip...
The sound wasn’t the fabric tearing... the cotton was just pulled to one side, exposing the skin beneath. But the sound of teeth rubbing against fabric was exceptionally jarring in the quiet office.
The moment she lost the cotton cover, a small stream of transparent liquid—warm and viscous from long accumulation—overflowed from the tender pink flesh finally exposed to the air.
Squelch.
A subtle, bubbly water sound.
The fluids slid down the crevice formed by two soft lips on McGonagall’s inner thigh, leaving a glistening wet trail on Jerry’s lips.
The hand McGonagall had on the back of Jerry’s head added a bit more pressure.
"Don’t dawdle."
Jerry opened his mouth.
Slurp...
The sound of surface tension breaking as his tongue swiped across the crevice.
McGonagall’s body gave an extremely minute, nearly imperceptible shudder... starting from the muscles of her inner thighs and traveling up through her abdomen to the fingertips pressing on Jerry’s head.
But her face showed nothing.
The gaze behind her lenses remained calm.
"From bottom to top. Even pressure. Don’t just focus on one spot."
She was even giving instructions.
Like she was correcting a student performing poorly in a practical lesson.
Slurp... squish...
Jerry was squeezed almost breathless by the sudden tightening of her legs. His face was buried deep into McGonagall’s crotch, his nose pressed against the soft fat pad above her sensitive nub of flesh, while his lips and tongue were forced deeper into the already muddy slit.
Squish... sizzle... glug...
"Mmh... mmh-nn..."
McGonagall’s body leaned back slightly.
Her back hit the window frame, the glass giving a soft rattle.
Outside, one of the students chasing each other on the lawn seemed to hear something and looked up toward the window.
But he saw nothing.
From the outside, one could only see McGonagall’s upper body standing by the window... her expression as stern as ever, her hands seemingly folded in front of her. It looked like an ordinary afternoon, with a professor gazing out at the campus.
No one knew what was happening below the window frame.
McGonagall looked down, glancing from above at the giant object nearly bursting his pants.
The look behind her lenses flickered.
"It seems the development of certain things doesn’t require my concern."
Her fingers tightened in Jerry’s hair, pressing his face harder into her depths.
The sunlight was still warm.
The students’ laughter still drifted in the wind.
And on this side of the window, McGonagall leaned against the frame, her legs trembling slightly. Her dark green robes formed a crooked tent over a boy’s head, and echoing within that tent were accelerating, wet sounds that would make anyone blush.
"Nn... continue... right there... a bit faster..."
McGonagall’s voice finally took on irrepressible threads of hoarseness.
That hoarseness was nothing like the fatigue from lecturing too long.
It was a highly recognizable trill produced when vocal cords tighten involuntarily as pleasure hits the breaking point.
Her knees bent a little.
That micro-crouch shifted her weight more onto Jerry’s face, making that slit—already churned into a mess by his tongue—adhere even more completely to his lips.
Squish... slurp...
The water sounds grew even louder as the pressure increased.
