The following morning was an agonizing awakening for the Amazon people. Bodies were piled in the plazas and alleys, intertwined in impossible ways; at that moment, rather than a civilization of warriors, they looked like a nudist colony sunken in stupor. Even those women of enviable physical build, hardened by years of training, struggled to stand. One by one, they began to drag themselves toward their homes, carrying partners, family, or friends so as not to leave them unconscious in the open air.
I had to carry Hannah back to the house myself. Her body was covered in fluids and she still shivered occasionally, albeit with a pleasant smile.
The previous night had been a debauchery of such proportions that the Amazon population would experience an astronomical growth spike in the coming months. But no one wanted to talk about it—not just because of the sheer number of births, but because of the complexity of tracing lineages in that chaos, not to mention that under the influence of blind passion, the boundaries of kinship had blurred dangerously.
As I predicted, so much happened that night that the spectacle of Hannah and me became just another detail in the landscape of excess. Even Niara tried to avoid us for most of the day, though it was inevitable; she tried to maintain her serious composure despite her constant blushing, stuttering, and her body trembling at the slightest contact.
But that wasn't the end of it.
I decided we would spend a few more days in the village. Or rather, I left Hannah there while I attended to certain matters with my clones until everything had to conclude, though during that time I returned with my real body every night to resume the perverse cycle. The uncontrolled festivity became a daily ritual.
For five consecutive nights, without warning, I released [Lust] and claimed Hannah wherever she was. It didn't matter what she was doing: whether she was eating, strolling through the gardens, helping in the hospital, or trying to sleep. Out of nowhere, I would shred her clothes and possess her before the eyes of anyone nearby.
The scene repeated constantly. Hannah moaned and cried with shame, fighting the humiliation until her strength surrendered to pleasure, letting her wildest side emerge. Around us, the sounds of passion erupted like a forest fire ignited by that "sudden violation." Even those who had sworn not to succumb again ended up surrendering to lust, unable to resist the pressure of my skill.
Each day, the village's resistance grew weaker. By the final day, there was no need to incite them; everyone knew what was going to happen. As night began to fall, many started the revelry on their own, accepting their new nature. It was a scorching week for the Amazon, one where morality was sacrificed on the altar of my whims.
The Amazon leaders reached a point of wondering whether to beg me to stop. My presence was altering the very fabric of their lives in an alarming way. Entire nights of frantic sex drained the citizens' strength, preventing them from fulfilling their duties at dawn; some parents, lost in the trance, were unable to care for their youngest children... who, at the height of the depravation, were nearly swallowed by that vortex of uncontrolled lust. Even some of those children seemed to have their sexual awakening due to my skill, one at far too young an age.
However, I did not allow the village to sink into sterile decadence. Using my power—still unsealed—I deployed an aura of vitality that enveloped the entire settlement, nourishing its people from the roots. With this, I ensured no one died of hunger or negligence; on the contrary, the entire village received an unexpected blessing. Their lives would be prolonged, old scars and congenital problems vanished, and their physical vigor was slightly elevated.
The leaders noticed the change immediately. They faced a heavy moral crossroads: should they allow their civilization to become a cult of lust with me as their "Perverse God"? They believed that was my ultimate goal, an eternal servitude born of pleasure. I could only laugh at such a supposition; although the idea was tempting, for me, this was just casual fun, a way to squeeze every drop of pleasure from Hannah before leaving. I had to reject it momentarily, though I suspect that given their gratitude over the Occamy matter, they would have sacrificed the purity of their entire lineage without hesitation.
In the end, the wild week concluded, but the footprints I left were indelible. In the future, tales of these days would transform into dark legends. New generations of Amazons would be told how their ancestors made a deal with the Blood Demon to save the jungle, and how, in exchange, the entire village was marked with the stigma of desire, forcing them to hold orgies in my honor.
Those dates were etched into the calendar as a fertility festival due to the explosion of life I had provoked. Small groups maintained the tradition of private orgies, and every ten years, the entire village surrendered to one on an anniversary of debauchery in memory of the man who both saved and corrupted them.
That was the chronicle of our final days in the jungle: a mix of happiness, peace, and licentiousness. But while we enjoyed that perverse calm, in other parts of the world the shadows were lengthening, and peace was a luxury few could afford.
...
At Hogwarts, the atmosphere was tense and oppressive. The Basilisk attacks kept everyone in a state of constant vigilance, but beyond the school-wide terror, some carried their own personal burdens.
Minerva McGonagall was in her office, rubbing her temples in a futile attempt to dissipate the fog clouding her mind. Since the events of Valentine's Day, her concentration slipped through her fingers. She told herself it was guilt, a stinging remorse for what happened, but her subconscious betrayed her: she couldn't tear the image of Tom from her head.
To remember that day was to dive into a chaos she didn't recognize as her own. In her moments of solitude, she was on the verge of exploding into screams of shame and contained fury. If it weren't for the weight of her responsibilities, she would have secluded herself for weeks, far from any gaze. The worst part wasn't the act itself, but the persistence of the memory: the most pleasant night of her life had become her greatest torment.
That physical poison—the drug she accidentally ingested because of her student—had transmuted into a mental poison. Awake, her classes lost the rigor and sharpness that characterized her; asleep, dreams haunted her, dragging her back into Tom's arms in a fiery dance of an uncertain future.
In a moment of desperation, she rescued an old photograph of her late husband from among her things. Contemplating it, she couldn't help but feel a lump in her throat. She felt like a traitor, a shadow of the woman she used to be. And yet, she was unable to blame the boy.
She was so overwhelmed that she didn't even carry out her plan to report that brothel to Dumbledore. Every time she tried to formulate the accusation, her mind drifted toward protective scenarios: she thought Tom would be left without a livelihood, that he would have nowhere to go... she imagined she could help him, find him a dignified job, be his mentor. Once the thread of those thoughts began, it had no end, leading her to visualize a future where her encounters with him were frequent and, although mostly platonic, were persistent and constant.
She even went as far as requesting calming draughts from Snape to get a glimpse of peace and be able to sleep. The concoction helped, giving her back an artificial serenity, but the thorn remained embedded. She was desensitized, but present. In the end, her only wish was to bury the memory, turn it into a dark and forgettable story that would never see the light of day.
But in the world of magic and destiny, the more you try to hide a secret, the more strength it gains to emerge to the surface.
The first thing was a visit from Pomona Sprout. She came as the good friend she is, just to see how she was doing, but the encounter was disastrous. Since it was Pomona who had handed her that "winning ticket," Minerva lived in constant fear that she would ask the wrong question. Although the Herbology professor didn't inquire about anything unusual, the situation forced Minerva into exhausting mental gymnastics to avoid revealing, through a gesture or a hesitation, the abyss into which she had fallen. Despite being a good friend who might understand her... she couldn't tell her.
Then there were the corridors. Valentine's Day always leaves a trail of residual romance; students, emboldened by the date, formed couples professing affection in every corner. In the past, Minerva would have watched this with a stern but warm smile, happy to see love bloom. Now, the sight was a trigger.
Seeing the older students, her mind wandered to Tom: he should be there, living out romances appropriate for his age. Seeing the younger ones, she felt a pang of sadness; she thought Tom should have known that pure and simple love, instead of being thrown into the depravity of that brothel so early.
Tom, Tom, and Tom... the name had become the metronome of her thoughts. It was an understandable obsession given the circumstances, something that—according to her—would dissipate with time. However, that confusion led her to neglect her most sacred duties as Deputy Headmistress, ignoring the shadows lurking within Hogwarts.
Even Albus Dumbledore noticed her spiritual absence and called her to his office. Minerva saw in that meeting the perfect opportunity for redemption: she could confess everything, free herself from the burden, and give the order to dismantle that perverse place. But at the last second, she hesitated.
The words stuck in her throat. She didn't know why, but she couldn't say it. She wasn't ready to reveal her own fall, to admit that the strictest woman at Hogwarts had been profaned... and that she had enjoyed it. Her plans to rescue the "victims" and help Tom resume a dignified life crumbled under the weight of her own shame. Could she really look him in the eye after a report? Could she survive if anyone knew she hadn't stopped craving that night? If she did it, could she really help him?
In the end, she merely said she was tired. Dumbledore, whose blue eyes usually saw everything, perceived the crack in her being but had the courtesy not to press.
Minerva left the Headmaster's office more fractured than she had entered, questioning every fiber of her being... until, the next day, fate threw an unexpected curveball in her own office.
"Malcolm?!" Minerva exclaimed, astonishment breaking her mask of coldness as she saw her brother sitting in her own chair, legs crossed over the desk.
"Mini!" Malcolm jumped to his feet, quickly lowering his feet and opening his arms with a radiant smile of welcome.