Hermione’s crisp voice was like a sharp knife, instantly slicing through the thick, ambiguous air beneath the dining table.
"Mom!"
Mrs. Granger’s body gave a violent jolt, as if struck by an electric current.
The color drained from her face in a flash, only to be replaced by a more morbid, feverish flush.
Mrs. Granger’s palm was still forced tightly against that massive object, which remained shockingly hard and scalding even through the fabric.
She could even feel it give an excited throb in her palm as Hermione appeared.
Cold sweat instantly drenched Mrs. Granger’s back.
Jerry, however, acted as if he were completely oblivious to the undercurrents swirling beneath the table.
He looked up, a brilliant and proper smile on his face, and waved at Hermione who had just reached the table, his posture so natural it was as if he were part of her family.
"Hermione, you’re back.
I was just chatting with Mrs. Granger; she truly is an elegant and learned lady."
His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, just enough for those around to hear, yet filled with intimacy.
As for the two wary boys behind Hermione, he ignored them completely, as if they were invisible.
"Mom, you... how did you end up here?"
Hermione’s face was written with confusion and a trace of subtle embarrassnt.
Hermione walked over quickly, her gaze darting back and forth between her mother and Jerry.
"I... I..."
Mrs. Granger felt like her heart was about to jump out of her throat.
Mrs. Granger wanted to stand up, but her palm felt as if it were glued down; she could only squeeze out a smile that looked worse than crying, her lips trembling so much she couldn’t form a single word.
"Mrs. Granger was just feeling a bit bored, so I invited her to sit with ."
Jerry considerately took over the conversation.
At the sa ti, his at root beneath the table began to grind against her hand with a highly suggestive, slow rhythm, stroke by stroke.
This subtle movent caused Mrs. Granger’s body to shudder once more.
Mrs. Granger could clearly feel the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist being rubbed by the rough fabric of his trousers, and the force drove her palm to perform a forced, slow up-and-down stroking motion on that rigid object.
Mrs. Granger’s breathing beca rapid and shallow.
Squelch... squelch...
A faint, wet sound drifted from beneath the table.
It was the sweat secreted from Mrs. Granger’s palm mixing with the excited leakage from the tip of the massive mber, making a noise as it rubbed through the layer of fabric.
Hermione didn’t notice her mother’s strangeness; she wasn’t overly surprised to see the two sitting together, as they had t at the station before.
However, when Hermione’s gaze fell on her mother’s other hand resting on the table, a spark of doubt imdiately flashed in her clever eyes.
"Mom, that ring on your hand..." Hermione knitted her signature brow and leaned closer, "Jerry... why can I feel the elental fluctuations around it being so violent?"
Hermione’s perception of magic was far more acute than that of her peers.
She could clearly "see" waves of invisible power radiating from that gemstone ring, pouring into her mother’s body.
This question acted like a lifesaver, allowing the nearly-drowning Mrs. Granger to find an instant chance to escape.
Suddenly, she felt the pressure on her palm loosen.
As if receiving a pardon, Mrs. Granger violently jerked her hand back, hiding it tightly beneath the table, her other hand still trembling uncontrollably.
Her palm was a ss of hot, sticky moisture.
Upon careful sensation, it felt as though the ghost of that shocking size and the pulsating touch still lingered in her hand.
Along with a faint, aggressive scent belonging to a young man.
She kept her head lowered, not daring to look at anyone, her heart thumping as if it would burst from her chest.
"Oh, this!"
There was not a single flaw on Jerry’s face; his composed smile made it seem as if everything beneath the table had just been Mrs. Granger’s own hallucination.
Jerry reached out naturally, even with a hint of intimacy, and grasped Mrs. Granger’s hand—the one wearing the ring.
The mont he caught it, Mrs. Granger flinched slightly as if electrocuted.
Jerry’s palm was warm and dry, forming a sharp contrast with her own palm that was still slick with sweaty moisture.
This single touch placed Mrs. Granger’s hand, which she had just managed to pull back, into Jerry’s control once more.
She could even feel Jerry’s thumb tracing slow, light circles over the tender skin on the back of her hand.
"Hermione, your mother said she was quite envious of us for possessing magic!"
Jerry raised their joined hands as if displaying a treasure, explaining to the curious Hermione, "So I lent this ring to her.
The gemstone set in it is enchanted with an ancient sorcery called ’Elental Resonance’."
He paused, looking into Hermione’s eyes which were thirsting for knowledge, and continued: "This sorcery itself isn’t offensive, but it has a very interesting use—it can greatly increase the wearer’s elental affinity, visualizing the free magical elents in the air.
Simply put, it allows an ordinary person like Madam to temporarily ’see’ the existence of magical elents."
Hermione’s attention was imdiately drawn away by this novel magic, temporarily ignoring her mother’s unnatural, even overly flushed complexion.
anwhile, Mrs. Granger was plunged into an even more complex emotional state.
Her hand was held by this boy, and the soothing caresses, instead of calming her, only made her feel more flustered and confused.
The outline and texture of that thing beneath the table were still stubbornly branded into Mrs. Granger’s palm.
Yet at the sa ti, the wondrous magical world Jerry spoke of, and the multicolored motes of light she had seen with her own eyes—dancing like sprites—attracted her deeply like a massive magnet.
The feeling was like standing before a half-open door to a new world; inside was the miracle she had always dread of, but the gatekeeper was a dangerous boy who had just used the most direct thod to let her experience another kind of "miracle."
Mrs. Granger looked at her daughter’s eyes, which were sparkling from hearing new knowledge, and a strong, irrepressible craving surged from her heart.
It was a yearning for the unknown and a thirst for learning exactly like Hermione’s.
"Then..."
Mrs. Granger finally spoke, her voice very small, carrying a faint tremor and expectation she hadn’t noticed herself, "...can ordinary people... also beco wizards?"
This question was like a key, unlocking the deepest desire in Mrs. Granger’s heart.
Jerry looked at her eyes filled with hope and smiled.
That smile held both youthful innocence and a knowing look that saw through everything.
"Madam, this is a very... fundantal question."
His voice dropped very low, carrying an intimacy like sharing a secret, ensuring only the mother and daughter could hear. "The answer might be different from what you imagine."
He turned to look at Hermione, the top student who always sought standard answers, who was also watching him with curious eyes.
"The core difference between what we usually call ’wizards’ and ’ordinary people’ doesn’t lie in whether one can recite spells or understands Potions."
Jerry’s tone was like that of a professor lecturing, guiding them patiently. "The real difference is whether there is sothing called a ’Magic Core’ in your body from the mont of birth."
Jerry grasped Mrs. Granger’s hand and applied a slight force, guiding it toward his lower abdon, pressing it there through the thin layer of his school shirt.
"Right here!"
Jerry whispered. "Inside every wizard’s body, there is an organ similar to a second heart.
It can’t be seen or touched, but it is the source of all our power.
We learn to guide and release its strength.
And ordinary people... simply aren’t born with this organ."
His explanation was clear and cruel.
Mrs. Granger’s hand, pressed against his lower abdon, could feel the firm, warm muscles belonging to a youth beneath the skin.
Mrs. Granger seed to imagine that deep within her own palm, sothing invisible and powerful was slowly pulsating.
These words thoroughly shattered the unrealistic fantasy in her heart.
Mrs. Granger’s eyes dimd visibly, like a candle being blown out.
Even Hermione, hearing such a blunt explanation of the nature of bloodlines for the first ti, fell into a montary silence.
"So..." Mrs. Granger murmured to herself, her voice full of loss, "...so, there’s no way to change it, is there?"
"One cannot ’beco’ one," Jerry watched her dejected state, but his tone suddenly shifted, his lips curling into a mysterious arc, "But, one can ’feel’ it."
He didn’t release her hand; instead, he pushed his fingers firmly yet gently into the gaps between hers, interlocking their fingers.
"Even if a vessel cannot produce water on its own, if there is a tap constantly pouring water into it... isn’t it also full?"
Mrs. Granger’s body gave a slight shudder, and she instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but he held her even tighter.
"Just like this ring—it’s a tiny ’tap’ that allows you to briefly ’see’ magic."
Jerry’s voice was filled with a seductive quality. Beneath the table, his other hand quietly unfastened his trousers, allowing the massive object—already uncomfortably cramped—to spring out completely. Through the final layer of his underwear, he pressed it directly against Mrs. Granger’s smooth thigh.
The shocking size and heat, even through the skirt and underwear, made Mrs. Granger catch her breath instantly. She instinctively wanted to clamp her legs, yet she didn’t dare.
Jerry acted as if he noticed nothing, continuing his "lesson" for the mother and daughter.
"An ordinary person indeed cannot cast spells themselves because they lack a magic core.
However," Jerry’s tone shifted as he looked at Hermione, "there are always more solutions than problems, right?"
"For example, in so very ancient texts classified as Forbidden by the Ministry, there is a record of a ritual called ’Wizard Bloodline Transplantation’."
Hermione was imdiately attracted by this deep-sounding term: "Transplantation? What is that?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." Jerry looked at Hermione, but his words were for her mother. "Through a very... cruel ritual, wizard blood imbued with powerful magic is directly ’transplanted’ into an ordinary person’s body.
Allowing the blood of wizards to flow through a commoner’s veins."
As he spoke, he used the hand interlocked with Mrs. Granger’s to guide her hand, quietly moving it under the table and pressing it directly onto his fully erect mber, which remained terrifying in outline even through the thin fabric of his underwear.
"Of course, this thod is extrely dangerous, and the process is... quite long and... intense." His voice dropped very low, carrying a hint of raspiness. "Over thousands of pure-blood wizards were mysteriously murdered and forced into bloodline transplants; since then, the Ministry has forbidden this from occurring."
Mrs. Granger’s palm was forced against that thing.
She could clearly feel it swell another size larger beneath her palm as Jerry spoke, and the hot, damp fabric at the tip had already begun to seep with a bit of slippery fluid.
Gurgle... squelch...
A faint, wet sound rang out between their pressed palms and the massive object.
"The other thod is far more gentle." Jerry tily shifted the topic, as if rely engaged in an academic discussion. "It involves using magical artifacts like the ring on your hand.
They act as an external ’Magic Core,’ a ’port’ that can be plugged in or removed at any ti."
He held Mrs. Granger’s hand, driving her palm to slowly slide up and down against the rigid, massive object.
"It requires both parties to open the deepest mysteries of their bodies to each other unreservedly, performing the most primal ’intermingling’ and ’infusion.’ Until the ordinary person’s body is thoroughly soaked and transford by the wizard’s ’essence’..."
Mrs. Granger’s breathing was completely haywire now.
Her face was so red it was nearly burning. Her legs instinctively parted slightly, and a strange, numbing heat was spreading uncontrollably from deep within her lower abdon.
Hermione, however, was entirely imrsed in the excitent of new knowledge. She frowned, thinking seriously: "’Port’?
You an these magical artifacts act as a storage dium replacing a magic core to guide and release external magical elents?
But without a magic core as a power source, how do you drive them?"
"Excellent question, Hermione."
Jerry gave her a look of approval, and then his gaze settled back on her already entranced mother.
"Because the best ’power source’ is never a dead object, but a... living wizard."
"Exactly right, Hermione."
Jerry nodded in praise. He held Mrs. Granger’s hand and once again guided her palm to give a neither light nor heavy squeeze to the object that was rigid enough to nearly split his underwear.
Squish... A clearer wet sound rang out. Mrs. Granger’s body gave an uncontrollable shudder, feeling a wave of heat transmitted from her palm.
"Lacking a magic core is like an engine without a fuel tank."
Jerry’s gaze remained focused on Mrs. Granger’s eyes, as if enjoying her expression of sha and bewildernt. "Even if you can barely gather magical elents from the air through sheer willpower, there is simply no place to store them.
This stray energy dissipates very quickly."
As Jerry spoke, he used their joined hands to lead Mrs. Granger’s palm in circles around the base of his massive mber.
He could clearly feel the beautiful woman beside him breathing heavier and heavier, her legs spreading further apart.
"Therefore, one needs magical artifacts like this ring.
They are that external ’fuel tank’."
"But!" Hermione imdiately caught the key to the problem. "The fuel in the tank will always run out. How do you replenish the energy in these artifacts?
Are they one-ti use?"
"Of course not."
Jerry smiled, a trace of malicious playfulness in the expression. "This brings us back to what I said—the living ’power source’."
At the sa ti, beneath the table, Jerry’s hand holding Mrs. Granger’s suddenly accelerated the speed of the up-and-down stroking.
Squelch, squelch, squelch...
The sticky water sounds beca clear and rapid.
Mrs. Granger’s palm was forced to wrap around that thick, scalding rigid mass, engaging in a passive yet incredibly stimulating friction.
The tip of the giant object was already completely soaked with lewd fluids. Every slide brought up a slippery shimr, making a total ss of her palm.
Mrs. Granger bit her lower lip with all her might to prevent a shaful moan from escaping.
Jerry finally straightened up, facing Hermione again, his face returning to that serious look of academic discussion. "As long as there is a wizard willing to frequently ’replenish’ the user without asking for anything in return, then theoretically, this ’fuel tank’ can be kept full forever."
"However..."
Jerry’s tone shifted, carrying a hint of lant. "This ’replenishnt’ process requires the wizard to very selflessly offer up their most primal ’magic’.
It is an extrely energy-draining task, requiring long-term, continuous ’infusion’.
Furthermore, it requires a large number of auxiliary magical artifacts to store magic and provide elental affinity. These things... are all very expensive.
And because these auxiliary items are unique and used long-term, they are very easily damaged."
"So!"
Jerry concluded at last, his gaze once again locking onto the already flushed and misty-eyed Mrs. Granger. "To beco a powerful ’temporary wizard’, you not only need to frequently provide expensive ’vessels’, but more importantly, you need to find a powerful wizard willing to... continuously ’dedicate’ themselves to you."
The trail of his words was drawn out long and slow, every syllable acting like a feather, lightly yet clearly scraping against Mrs. Granger’s heart.
While Hermione was still looking down, contemplating the feasibility of this "magic replenishnt" thod, Jerry let out a light laugh and tossed out an even more impactful concept.
"Of course... there is a third way."
His voice wasn’t loud, but it made the mother and daughter look up simultaneously.
"This is an even more ancient and... thorough thod."
Jerry’s eyes beca deep, as if narrating a long-buried forbidden legend. "And that is to directly change to a... new body."
Beneath the table, he still held Mrs. Granger’s hand, driving her palm to perform slow and powerful strokes on the giant mber already soaked in fluids and incredibly slippery.
Mrs. Granger could even feel the tip of that thing.
It was thrusting powerfully against her palm, as if eager to break through its restraints.
"Change... bodies?"
Hermione’s voice was filled with disbelief.
"Yes."
Jerry nodded, his gaze never leaving Mrs. Granger’s face, which was written with tension and confusion. "The soul is the core of a life.
The body, in the end, is just a ’vessel’.
Since the natural ’vessel’ cannot store magic, why... not simply swap it for a different one?"
"Through an extrely complex soul-swapping magic, a person’s soul can be peeled away from its original body.
Then, it can be infused into another... brand new body that possesses a magic core."
"And!"
The corner of Jerry’s mouth hooked into a weird smile. "This new body doesn’t even have to be human.
It can be any creature... capable of housing a soul.
An eagle, a snake, or even a... magical plant possessing ancient wisdom."
These words had already exceeded Hermione’s scope of understanding, making her feel a bit uneasy.
As for Mrs. Granger, while her mind imagined those bizarre images, her body continued to experience waves of numbing shivers from Jerry’s increasingly bold movents under the table.
Her palm was nearly numb by now, performing the wriggling and friction on that giant object instinctively and chanically.
Just then, before Jerry finished speaking, his hand suddenly let go.
The hand that had been under his control, forced into shaful acts, suddenly gained its freedom.
Mrs. Granger froze completely.
Her palm remained in that half-clenched position, wrapped around the ghost of the giant object, hanging in mid-air. That thing, now without restraint, still pressed rigidly against her palm, a glistening, slippery drop of liquid hanging from the tip.
Ti seed to solidify at this mont.
Mrs. Granger stayed frozen for several full seconds before her brain began to function again.
As if burned by fire, she violently jerked her hand back, hiding it frantically beneath her skirt, her fingertips still twitching uncontrollably.
Just as Mrs. Granger was frantically hiding her hand stained with evidence of her sin, a loud and sowhat displeased female voice drifted over from nearby.
"Mr. Rosier, is it quite appropriate to promote such forbidden magic to Mrs. Granger and a first-year student in public?"
It was Mrs. Weasley, Molly Weasley.
The mother of Ron.
This Mrs. Weasley appeared to have no resemblance to her boisterous son, Ron.
She was tall and lean, her red hair grood ticulously.
Although her sowhat faded wizarding robes were clearly inexpensive, they looked exceptionally neat and upright on her, giving her entire being an unassailable, tough aura.
Beneath the hem of her robes, a section of her calves wrapped in black stockings was visible, the lines firm and graceful. She wore flesh-colored high heels, every step hitting the floor with a crisp and powerful sound.
"Mrs. Weasley, good day."
Jerry stood up, his face returning to that flawless, pure-blood aristocratic polite smile, as if the bad boy who had just been pressing his at root against soone’s mother’s palm under the table didn’t exist at all.
Jerry silently tidied his trousers, as if nothing had happened.
Molly Weasley didn’t look like a harried housewife; she looked more like a schoolteacher whose family had fallen on hard tis but still maintained her final dignity.
Ignoring Jerry’s greeting completely, Molly Weasley strode toward Mrs. Granger in her high heels, her tall fra creating a natural sense of oppression as she shielded her and Hermione behind her in a protective stance.
"Mrs. Granger, don’t listen to his nonsense!"
Molly’s tone wasn’t sharp like a typical woman’s; instead, it carried a cold, hard decisiveness that brooked no argunt. "Not a single soul from the Rosier family is any good!
Everything this brat is telling you right now is the most evil, filthiest Dark Magic!"
Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but its penetrating power caused people at several nearby tables to look over instinctively.
Mrs. Granger, caught off guard by this sudden turn of events, was at a loss, able only to nod her head feebly with a pale face.
Having his family’s scars exposed in public and being criticized so remorselessly, the smile on Jerry’s face didn’t change in the slightest.
"Mrs. Weasley!"
Jerry’s voice remained steady and polite, but it carried a cold, penetrating power. "I believe I was rely engaged in an academic discussion regarding ancient magical history. That... doesn’t seem to violate any school rules, does it?"
"Furthermore!"
Jerry’s gaze moved away from Molly’s face, which was tight with irritation, and swept over Ron and Harry behind her before settling back on her. "I also don’t recall when you beca a professor at Hogwarts, Mrs. Weasley, with the authority to interfere in academic exchanges between students?"
This sentence was like a silent slap to Molly Weasley’s face. Her expression changed instantly.
"You..." She hadn’t expected this boy to show not a shred of fear when faced with an adult’s accusation, but instead to have such sharp words, directly attacking the "overstepping" of her status.
"My mom isn’t being nosy!"
Before Molly could organize her words, Ron—his face beet-red—jumped out from behind her. "You wicked Slytherin, you must be thinking up so bad sche again!
My mom is protecting everyone from being polluted by you descendants of Death Eaters!"
"Ron!" Molly hissed to stop him, but a trace of approval showed on her face.
"Descendants of Death Eaters?"
Jerry laughed low, as if he had heard an interesting joke. "Weasley, are you referring to... an infant who couldn’t even walk steadily when the war ended?
Or are you saying that in your barren brain, which can only be filled by imagination, a person’s birth determines everything about them?"
His voice wasn’t loud, but every word cut to the bone.
"You dare insult !"
Ron’s face turned the color of pig liver with rage, and he moved to draw his wand.
"Enough."
Jerry’s smile vanished, his eyes becoming cold and sharp. "Mrs. Weasley, since you and your son are so confident in Gryffindor’s glory and justice, and so filled with prejudice toward us Slytherins...
Then, hollow accusations are aningless. Why don’t we make a bet?"
"A bet?" Molly frowned, instinctively sensing sothing was wrong.
"Correct." Jerry’s gaze swept over everyone present, his voice not loud but enough for those around to hear clearly. "We’ll use the House Cup scores at the end of this sester—that is, before the Christmas holidays—as the standard."
"If Gryffindor’s house points are higher than our Slytherin points...
Then I, Jerry Rosier, will automatically withdraw from Hogwarts and never set foot in this school again."
This stake caused everyone to catch their breath.
Even Molly and Ron were stunned.
"And... and what if Slytherin’s score is higher?"
Hermione couldn’t help but ask in a small voice.
Jerry’s gaze turned toward Molly, the corner of his mouth hooking into a playful arc:
"If Slytherin’s score is higher, I don’t want any Gold Galleons.
I only want you, Mrs. Weasley...
to offer a public apology in front of the entire school, for the insolent accusations you made today against myself and the Rosier family."
He paused, delivering the final blow.
"And, unconditionally, grant three wishes."
"Mom, don’t agree to it!"
Ron shouted urgently from the side.
"Snape in Slytherin is definitely biased; their house points will definitely be higher than ours!"
However, being watched by so many people and provoked so openly by a junior, Molly Weasley’s pride made it impossible for her to back down.
She looked at Jerry’s confident posture and let out a cold snort: "Fine! I’ll take that bet!"
In her view, this was a ga she couldn’t possibly lose.
As long as Harry Potter was there, coupled with Dumbledore’s favoritism, how could Gryffindor lose?
The mont Molly agreed, a chanical, cold voice that only Jerry could hear rang out in his mind.
[Ding—Forced Mission Triggered—Fate’s Gamble Mission: ’The Lioness’s Pride’]
[Mission Objective: Make Slytherin House’s total points surpass Gryffindor House before the end of the term.]
[Mission Reward: 1. Rosier Family Prestige 500. 2. New Wizard Bloodline Reward—’Basilisk’s Venom Sac’.]
**[Bloodline Effect: All your internal organs will be replaced by those of a Basilisk (the King of Serpents).
You will gain absolute immunity to all known toxins, and your blood will beco the most potent venom in the world.
Simultaneously, your digestive system will be able to digest and absorb any magical substance, converting it into pure mana.]**
[Failure Penalty: Permanent stripping of the ’Eye of Slaanesh’ and ’Eye of dusa,’ and a permanent 50% atrophy of your magic core.]
As the words "I’ll take that bet" fell from Molly’s lips, the air seed to freeze for a split second.
Imdiately following, from the Slytherin long table, Draco Malfoy’s sharp and clear voice was the first to ring out.
He stood up, using an exaggerated, operatic tone, and chanted loudly:
"Ancient blood, never to be defiled."
Crabbe and Goyle beside him imdiately acted like two clumsy echoes, standing up as well and repeating in gruff voices: "Never to be defiled!"
Soon, more Slytherin students, especially those high-year mbers from pure-blood families, stood up one after another.
Their voices, starting from scattered echoes, quickly converged into a low, uniform chorus that resonated across the Great Hall:
"The silver and green mark, Salazar’s pride."
"Ignorant commoners, feeble Muggles."
"Slytherin alone, eternal grace!"
This was less of a song and more of a cold declaration filled with arrogance and exclusionary sentint.
Every word seed to have been practiced for a thousand years, brimming with ritualistic weight.
The entire Slytherin table demonstrated an astonishing sense of unity and cohesion at this mont.
In contrast, the Gryffindor side presented a completely different scene.
They had no unified slogan, nor any so-called war song.
They only had red-faced students standing up from their seats, glaring at the Slytherins with fury.
Ron’s knuckles cracked as he balled his fists. Fred and George wiped the usual playful grins from their faces. Harry looked with disgust at Malfoy’s smug, petty face.
Their anger was real and from the heart, but it was scattered and unorganized.
They were like a pride of lions that had been provoked, each fighting their own battle, unable to form a unified force beyond angry roars and baring their claws.
The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students caught in the middle looked at each other, the atmosphere becoming awkward to the extre.
Molly Weasley’s expression had turned hideously grim.
She hadn’t expected a private conflict between her and this boy to instantly evolve into a direct collision between two houses, and even between two conflicting ideologies of bloodline.
Looking at the boy opposite her who was still smiling, as if none of this concerned him, she felt a flicker of doubt in this "unloseable" bet for the first ti.
In this daggers-drawn mont, footsteps echoed from the entrance of the Great Hall.
The Slytherin singing cut off abruptly.
Severus Snape was seen leading a group of people, walking slowly into the hall.
Behind Snape were several ladies of noble bearing and cold expressions, including Draco Malfoy’s mother, Narcissa, and Isabella’s mother, Cassiopeia.
Following them were several other Slytherin parents, clearly from pure-blood backgrounds and possessing extraordinary temperants.
They appeared to have arrived long ago, waiting outside until they heard the uniform "hymn" inside the hall before choosing this mont to enter.
Snape’s gaze, like two poisoned, icy blades, swept across the room.
He rely raised a hand, and those Slytherin students still standing imdiately sat down in silence.
Then, Snape’s obsidian eyes passed over the crowd, locking precisely onto the beet-red and furious Ron Weasley.
"It seems..."
Snape spoke, his signature slow, dragging drawl sounding like a serpent’s hiss.
"Mr. Weasley believes that I would use my position to help Slytherin cheat in the competition for the House Cup."
Ron’s face turned white in an instant.
He hadn’t expected the words he whispered to his mother in the heat of the mont to be heard so clearly by Snape.
Snape gave him no chance to explain, continuing in a flat, emotionless voice:
"In that case, to demonstrate absolute fairness.
From this mont until the end of the term, I, Severus Snape, will not award a single point to any house or any student at Hogwarts."
He turned to Molly Weasley, whose face was equally grim, pulling the corner of his mouth into a cruel arc.
"Of course, if even under these conditions Slytherin still erges victorious...
then I suspect Mr. Weasley will find it impossible to achieve a single passing grade in Potions or Defense Against the Dark Arts for the next seven years at Hogwarts."
Snape’s words were like a bucket of ice water dumped onto Molly’s burning rage. Instead of extinguishing it, it kicked up a scalding steam of humiliation and old grudges.
"Severus, you wouldn’t dare!"
Her voice was shrill, completely losing the well-bred, cold hardness she had maintained earlier.
The na was squeezed through her teeth, carrying a deep-seated, bone-deep resentnt ford during their student days.
During their ti at Hogwarts, that gloomy, isolated, and socially awkward Slytherin half-blood was the favorite target for their "righteous" group of Gryffindors to prank and bully.
Among them were her, her husband, and Jas Potter.
She never expected that the "Snivellus" they once hung from a tree and humiliated by stripping off his pants would now dare to threaten her with her son’s future in front of so many people!
One had to understand that tis were different. In the past, even with failing grades, one could still graduate. But since Hogwarts beca a quasi-military school, the Ordinary Wizarding Levels (O.W.L.s) beca the sole criteria for graduation.
If one failed the O.W.L.s, they couldn’t enter the Ministry or the frontline legions, which ant their future was effectively over.
Just as Molly was about to spit out even more biting words, a lazy and magnificent female voice rang out slowly, like a velvet-wrapped dagger thrust precisely between her and Snape.
"What is it, Mrs. Weasley? Can’t handle the stakes?"
The speaker was Cassiopeia.
Cassiopeia stood with her arms crossed, leaning elegantly beside Narcissa.
Using her grey eyes that seed to see through everything, she looked down contemptuously at Molly, her lips curling into an undisguised sneer.
"If you can’t play the ga, say so now.
We Slytherins never stoop to bullying the weak."
Cassiopeia’s voice was sweet, but her words were venomous:
"As long as you are willing to lower that ’noble’ Gryffindor head and say, ’I forfeit the bet.’
Then we will all be very ’magnanimous’ and act as if everything that just happened... never existed."
As she spoke, Cassiopeia elegantly brushed her hair back with her fingertips.
Her movents were slow, every detail dripping with the bone-deep arrogance carefully cultivated in pure-blood aristocrats.
Just then, Cassiopeia’s nose gave an almost invisible, light twitch.
A unique scent—a mix of a youth’s sweat and a more primal, faintly musky aroma—drifted subtly into her nostrils.
The scent was faint, almost buried by the sll of food and parchnt in the Great Hall, but to Cassiopeia, it was as clear as a lighthouse in the dark.
Her family carried an ancient sorcerous bloodline that made her five senses, especially her sense of sll, as sharp as a bloodhound’s.
Her eyes flicked imperceptibly toward the boy not far away who had triggered this commotion—Jerry Rosier.
It was him.
Cassiopeia recognized it instantly.
Wasn’t the scent on this boy exactly the sa as the one she caught behind that tapestry earlier?
Back then, she had used her ability to be the first to capture this aggressive aura of a young male behind the cloth.
So, the bold brat who dared to thoroughly "open up" the Gryffindor female Prefect and fill her with his own fluids in the middle of a corridor was the legendary orphan of the Rosier family.
Interesting.
Truly, fascinatingly interesting.
Cassiopeia looked at Molly Weasley’s flushed face and felt her own smile deepen.
The majority of her attention was now focused entirely on Jerry.
Cassiopeia’s nose twitched a few more tis, as if confirming her prey’s location.
Then, a faint shimr flashed deep within the pupils of her beautiful eyes.
The world before her changed instantly.
All vibrant colors faded away, replaced by a thermal world composed of various shades of red.
The surrounding students, parents, tables, and chairs all beca outlines radiating different temperatures.
And her gaze, precisely and without obstruction, pierced through Jerry’s well-fitted school trousers, locking directly onto his crotch.
There, a massive and clearly outlined deep-red heat source was radiating astonishingly high temperatures.
The shape and size of that at root were traced with absolute clarity in her thermal vision.
It was like a branding iron, lying in wait, emitting a heat that far surpassed any other part of his body.
The scorching heat of intense desire.
Who would have thought that the little guy from the Rosier family not only had balls of steel, but such impressive equipnt as well.
Cassiopeia silently retracted her ability, and the world returned to normal.
A contemptuous yet sweet smile remained on her face as she looked at Molly, acting as if nothing had happened.
Molly Weasley’s expression shifted several tis.
She knew they wanted to see her bow her head in wretched defeat.
If Molly backed down now, it wouldn’t just be her own sha, but the sha of all Gryffindor and the faction of wizards she represented.
Molly took a deep breath, suppressing the surge of old and new hatred, and instead allowed a cold, defiant sneer to appear.
"Then we shall see!"
Molly straightened her back, chin tilted up, eting Cassiopeia’s gaze with equal condescension.
"I am quite looking forward to seeing how many pathetic points Slytherin has left once you no longer have a biased Head of House to help you."
She didn’t even give Jerry a second glance, acting as if he were a completely insignificant player.
"We’re leaving!"
Molly finished speaking and ignored the Slytherins. She turned around, grabbing the still-anxious Mrs. Granger with one hand and signaling Hermione, Harry, and the still-fuming Ron with the other.
She marched toward the distant Gryffindor table in her worn high heels without looking back.
Cassiopeia pushed open the heavy wooden door to the seventh-year girls’ dormitory.
The hinges turned without a sound, a silence unique to the magically saturated Slytherin dungeons.
The spacious circular room, ant to house four, was currently empty.
Four four-poster beds with green silk curtains were neatly arranged in the corners. It seed Isabella and her three roommates were all away at class.
"Hmph."
Cassiopeia let out a soft hum.
She brushed her fingers over the seemingly ordinary erald serpent bracelet on her wrist, and an exquisite dragon-hide handbag enchanted with the Undetectable Extension Charm appeared in her hand.
Inside were the latest styles of autumn and winter robes and several sets of casual clothes she had prepared for her daughter, Isabella.
Cassiopeia didn’t bother trying to distinguish which bed belonged to her daughter. She simply closed her eyes, her straight nose twitching elegantly in the air.
Amidst the cool air of the dungeon—a mix of lake moisture and ancient stone—she precisely captured a familiar, unique scent belonging to Isabella.
It was an expensive potion-perfu with a base of Moonflower, mixed with the light scent of parchnt and ink.
"My little Isabella, you really are a busy one."
Cassiopeia opened her eyes and strode toward the bed and wardrobe where the scent was strongest, muttering in a doting yet complaining tone.
With a practiced wave of her wand, the bedding on the bed flew up and folded neatly on a nearby chair.
She pulled out brand-new erald silk sheets and pillowcases embroidered with silver vine patterns. They spread themselves onto the bed like living things, every wrinkle smoothing out.
Having done this, she turned and opened the massive ebony wardrobe.
Cassiopeia used spells to package and shrink the sumr robes that were clearly out of season, preparing to take them back, while hanging the well-tailored new clothes one by one.
Her movents were ticulous and filled with a certain ritualism, as if she were tending to a precious piece of art.
As far as her daughter was concerned, Cassiopeia found her flawless.
Isabella had inherited almost everything from her—the noble looks, the ambition and cunning expected of a Slytherin, and that sharp intuition for power rooted deep in her blood.
She was the perfect continuation of her own superior genes and bloodline.
As Cassiopeia hung the last silk shirt deep into her daughter’s wardrobe, her fingertips brushed against the smooth, cold fabric, and she smiled with satisfaction.
This was how a daughter of the Black family should be—refined, elegant, with every inch of skin worthy only of the best materials.
Just as she was about to close the wardrobe door, Cassiopeia froze.
Her nose twitched again, uncontrollably.
A familiar, aggressive, musky scent of a young male entered her nostrils once more.
This scent was much fainter than the one in the Great Hall, almost like a lingering mory.
But with her hound-like sense of sll, Cassiopeia captured its source with precision.
It wasn’t from the air, but... clinging to the clothing.
Her gaze shifted slowly toward the pile of dirty laundry Isabella had casually stuffed into the corner of the wardrobe.
Cassiopeia’s eyes turned playful instantly.
She elegantly extended two fingers and, as if picking up sothing unclean, precisely lifted a silver-and-green Slytherin school skirt belonging to her daughter.
Then, she brought the skirt to her nose.
Yes.
That was the scent.
The sll of that little guy from the Rosier family, full of desire and vitality, had deeply and thoroughly perated the fibers of this skirt.
This was more than just simple contact.
Cassiopeia tossed the school skirt aside. Her grey eyes, enhanced by her bloodline, precisely locked onto more targets in the dim depths of the wardrobe.
She picked up a crumpled pair of black stockings.
On the gossar fabric, besides her daughter’s usual perfu, was that sa scent of the Rosier brat that made her heart race.
There were even several patches on the thigh area of the stockings that had dried into translucent, stiff stains.
Cassiopeia brought the stockings closer. The sll was richer here, carrying the distinct, slightly fishy musk of male body fluid.
Next was a silk-lined robe that Isabella usually loved, crushed at the bottom. Cassiopeia didn’t even need to sll it to see the large, darkened patches of fluid saturation on the hem and inner lining.
An indescribable mix of emotions surged in Cassiopeia’s heart.
There was the slight motherly anger of seeing her perfect creation defiled.
But more than that, there was a thrill of excitent and curiosity at peeking into a secret that even Cassiopeia hadn’t noticed herself.
Cassiopeia instinctively closed her eyes.
She took a deep breath.
The scent of her daughter’s fragrance mixed with the boy’s potent body fluids was like the strongest Amortentia, filling her lungs and rushing straight to her brain.
When Cassiopeia opened her eyes again, her pupils had constricted slightly, becoming like those of a snake.
She stuck out her tongue. The tip, which should have been pink and soft, had beco long and thin, splitting into a clear, flickering fork at the end.
Hiss!
Cassiopeia flickered her long snake-tongue, her tip sweeping rapidly across the stained stockings, as if tasting the residual magical particles in the air.
This was an ancient divination/retrospection spell passed down through her family bloodline, allowing one to look back at recent events by contacting the residual mana and scents on objects.
With every flicker of her tongue, blurry yet incredibly real images began to surface in her mind.
Cassiopeia "saw" it.
Her daughter, the noble Isabella she was so proud of, was being... and the perpetrator was none other than Jerry Rosier.
The image was unstable, like looking through frosted glass, but certain details were terrifyingly clear.
Cassiopeia saw Jerry’s youthful, handso face wearing a wicked grin.
She saw her daughter’s eyes—usually so arrogant—clouded with a misty veil of desire.
Then, Cassiopeia’s "vision" slid uncontrollably downward.
She saw the... "thing."
The massive mber that had made her heart skip a beat just by seeing its thermal outline in the Great Hall.
Now, it existed in her "sight" with a shocking, physical presence.
Veins coiled around it, the head massive and a deep, engorged red.
The size was entirely beyond what a boy should possess.
The image flickered. Cassiopeia could "see" how this giant was rcilessly skewering her daughter’s young, tight mouth over and over again.
Every stroke carried a clear, blush-inducing sound of wetness.
Cassiopeia could even "hear" her daughter’s irrepressible, sweet moans leaking from her throat, and the boy’s low, powerful pants.
Cassiopeia’s breathing beca ragged.
The stockings in her hand felt as if they had turned scalding because of the images in her mind.
Jerry’s scent lingered at her nose, so potent it was as if that massive mber were right in front of her, or even...
Cassiopeia felt as if that massive, scorching tip were gently brushing against her own lips.
The fullness and elastic touch were so real that Cassiopeia instinctively opened her mouth, her flickering snake-tongue trembling uncontrollably.
I can’t...
A strange, surging desire shot up from deep within Cassiopeia’s lower abdon, instantly sweeping through her entire body.
Cassiopeia’s body began to go soft.
She couldn’t help herself. She leaned her back against the cold wardrobe door and slid slowly to sit on the floor.
One hand remained tightly clutching the stockings, greedily inhaling the scent.
The other hand, however, slid uncontrollably into the hem of her own wizarding robes, reaching directly under her skirt.
Cassiopeia’s fingers easily pushed aside the thin layer of lace panties, touching a patch of heat that was already soaking wet and muddy.
"Mmh..."
Cassiopeia let out an irrepressible moan from her throat, heavy with nasal breath.
Too wet... Just "seeing" those images and slling that scent had turned her body into this.
Cassiopeia’s fingers began to circle gently around the entrance of that slippery garden.
Every touch brought a wave of pleasure that made her whole body tingle. Her movents were light yet urgent, carrying a craving to be filled. In her mind, the image of that giant mber remained, inescapable.
"Rosier..." she murmured the na muddledly in a voice only she could hear, "Old Rosier... wasn’t that guy... supposed to be pathetic and small..."
Her mories returned to her student days.
Rumors back then always said Old Rosier’s size was entirely inconsistent with the noble status of the family—it was, in fact, quite ager.
Were those just rumors? Or was Jerry not Old Rosier’s child at all?
Was that how he beca the sole survivor while the rest of his family was executed?
No, that couldn’t be right...
"But why... is his son... like... like this..."
The massive contrast and mystery, instead of calming Cassiopeia, acted like a catalyst, making her feel an even more intense, near-morbid excitent.
"Ah..."
Cassiopeia’s fingers were no longer satisfied with lingering outside. She shoved them forcefully into her own hot, tight passage.
Squish...
A clear wet sound rang out in the quiet dormitory. Cassiopeia’s canal, due to excessive excitent, secreted a massive amount of love juices, allowing her fingers to move in and out effortlessly, even carrying a slippery suction.
Cassiopeia huddled before the wardrobe, her body twitching slightly with pleasure.
She pressed the stockings even tighter against her face, inhaling deep gulps of the scent mixed with desire and conquest, as if she could siphon the boy’s strength this way.
Cassiopeia’s other hand began to pump rapidly within herself.
The water sounds beca more frequent and louder, like raindrops hitting a lake.
She imagined that what was moving inside her right now wasn’t her own fingers, but that... that massive thing belonging to Jerry Rosier, so out of proportion with his age.
"Little bastard... actually... actually doing such things... to Isabella..."
Cassiopeia continued to mumble intermittently. Her tone sounded like a condemnation, but in the depths of her misty, watery grey eyes, there was only pure, ever-climbing desire.
He must be... properly punished!
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