While in their fifth year at Hogwarts, the air in the castle hummed with the mounting pressure of impending OWL examinations. The Gryffindor common room, usually a haven of laughter and Quidditch talk, now felt stifled under the weight of neglected textbooks and half-hearted revision schedules. Professor McGonagall, ever the stern enforcer of academic rigor, summoned Hermione Granger to her office one crisp afternoon. The Transfiguration teacher's quarters were impeccably organized, shelves lined with precise notes and a faint scent of ink lingering in the air.
"Hermione," McGonagall began, her voice sharp as a wand flick, peering over her spectacles at the bushy-haired witch who stood ramrod straight. "You are the epitome of diligence in our house. Your grades are exemplary, your work ethic unmatched. Gryffindor House's future rests on the shoulders of its fifth-year boys—Potter, Weasley, Longbottom, Thomas, and Finnigan. They are squandering their potential, lounging about like house-elves on holiday. I need you to motivate them to study. Use whatever methods you deem necessary, but get results. The OWLs are no jest."
Hermione nodded vigorously, her cheeks flushing with the honor of the task. "Of course, Professor. I'll do my best." As she left the office, a knot of determination twisted in her stomach. She was the model student, after all—top of her class, always buried in books. Surely, she could inspire them.
That evening, Hermione gathered the boys in the common room after dinner. The fire crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows on the worn armchairs where Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus sprawled like discarded robes. Harry fiddled with his glasses, Ron munched on a pilfered pumpkin pasty, Neville stared at his Herbology notes as if they might bite, Dean sketched idly, and Seamus cracked jokes about exploding cauldrons.
"Listen up," Hermione said, clapping her hands for attention. She paced before them, a stack of revision timetables in hand. "The OWLs are weeks away. If you don't buckle down, you'll regret it for life. I've made schedules—personalized for each of you. Harry, focus on Defense Against the Dark Arts; Ron, Potions needs work—"
Ron groaned, slumping deeper into his seat. "Blimey, Hermione, give it a rest. We've got time."
"Yeah," Seamus chimed in, grinning. "Why slave over books when we can play Exploding Snap?"
Neville mumbled something about fumbling his wand, while Dean nodded along, and even Harry, usually more disciplined, shot her an apologetic look but didn't protest.
Hermione's frustration boiled over the next few days. She tutored them individually—drilling Harry on charms until her voice grew hoarse, quizzing Ron on transfiguration facts he promptly forgot, coaxing Neville through basic spells with endless patience. But they were lazy, distracted by pranks, girls, and the thrill of forbidden forest wanderings. Study sessions devolved into banter, her lectures met with yawns and excuses.
In a last-ditch effort one rainy afternoon in the library, surrounded by towering stacks of musty tomes, Hermione slammed her book shut. The boys looked up, startled, from their half-hearted scribbles. Her heart pounded, a wild idea forming born of desperation and a flicker of something deeper—perhaps the way their eyes lingered on her curves when they thought she wasn't looking, or the forbidden thrill of her own unspoken desires.
"Alright," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "If words won't work, maybe this will. Whoever gets at least three Outstandings on their OWLs... I'll... I'll let you fuck me. Any way you want." The words hung in the air like a Stunning Spell. Ron's jaw dropped, Harry's eyes widened behind his glasses, Neville blushed crimson, Dean's pencil snapped in his hand, and Seamus let out a low whistle.
"You serious, 'Mione?" Ron stammered, a grin splitting his face.
She nodded, cheeks burning. "Deadly serious. But only if you earn it. Now study."
The transformation was immediate. The boys dove into their books with a fervor Hermione had never seen. Harry pored over Defense texts late into the night, Ron actually brewed a passable potion without exploding it, Neville coaxed plants to perfection, Dean aced his Art and History revisions, and Seamus mastered charms that once eluded him. OWLs came and went in a blur of quills and ink-stained fingers, and soon summer stretched between fifth and sixth year.
Flash forward to the first day of sixth year, the Great Hall alive with the Start-of-Term Feast. Golden plates overflowed with roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, and treacle tart, the enchanted ceiling mirroring a starry night. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, chatting with Ginny, when the boys approached, OWL results clutched like trophies. The hall buzzed with chatter, but their corner fell silent as they slid the parchments toward her.
Harry first: "Three O's—Defense, Charms, Transfiguration."
Ron: "Potions, Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures. Exactly three."
Neville: "Herbology, that's one... wait, no—Herbology, Defense, and... oh, Charms too! Three."
Dean: "Art, History of Magic, and Transfiguration."
Seamus: "Charms, Defense, and... Potions! Barely scraped it, but three O's."
Hermione's eyes widened, scanning the letters. They'd done it—each precisely three, no more, no less, as if savoring the bargain.
"That means..." Ron started, his voice low and eager.
"Tonight," Harry added, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. "You promised."
"No shame in it," Seamus pressed, leaning close enough for her to catch his soapy scent mixed with excitement.
Hermione's face flamed, anger surging. "Absolutely not! That was a motivational ploy, not a binding contract. I was desperate—you were hopeless! Forget it." She shoved the letters back, heart racing with a mix of fury and an unwelcome heat pooling between her thighs.
But they persisted through the feast, whispering pleas between bites—Ron's earnest "Come on, you said it," Harry's soft "We worked so hard for you," Neville's shy "It'd mean everything," Dean's smooth "You inspired us, now let us show our gratitude," Seamus's teasing "Don't be a tease, Granger." Their words chipped at her resolve, stirring the lust she'd buried, the praise kink that made her pulse quicken at their admiration. By dessert, her refusals softened to murmurs, and finally, with a defeated nod, she agreed. "Fine. Tonight. But this stays between us."
The feast blurred into afters, and later, in the quiet of the girls' dorm, Harry slipped her his Invisibility Cloak. "For sneaking in," he murmured, his fingers brushing hers, sending sparks up her arm. She waited until the castle slept, then donned the cloak, its silvery fabric cool against her skin. Beneath, she'd chosen a slutty twist on her school uniform: a too-tight white blouse unbuttoned low to reveal the swell of her full breasts, the fabric straining over her hardened nipples; a pleated skirt hiked scandalously short, barely covering her thighs; knee-high socks and polished shoes. No underwear—her pussy already slick with anticipation, the air teasing her exposed folds as she moved.
Heart hammering, she crept through the common room, up the spiral stairs to the boys' dormitory. The door creaked softly as she slipped inside, letting the cloak fall in a whisper of silk. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the five beds where Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus waited, shirts discarded, trousers tented with evident arousal. Their eyes locked on her, hungry and reverent.
"Bloody hell, Hermione," Ron breathed, his freckled chest rising and falling. "You're such a good girl for coming here."
She stood shyly in the center, arms crossed over her chest, but the praise sent a shiver through her. "I... I kept my word," she whispered, voice husky.
Harry rose first, approaching with that boyish confidence, his lean, muscular frame honed from Quidditch—broad shoulders, defined abs glistening faintly with nervous sweat. He cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks. "You're brilliant, you know that? The smartest, sluttiest witch alive. We wouldn't have done it without you." His words ignited her praise kink, a warm flush spreading from her core.
Emboldened, she uncrossed her arms, letting them see how her blouse gaped, her heavy breasts heaving. Ron was next, towering and lanky but with surprising muscle from farm work, his ginger hair tousled. He pulled her into a kiss, rough and needy, his tongue invading her mouth as his large hands roamed her back, dipping to squeeze her ass. She moaned softly into him, a throaty "Mmmph~," her body arching.
The others closed in, a circle of heated male bodies. Neville, once awkward, had grown into his frame—soft but firm muscles from greenhouse labor, his kind eyes dark with lust. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling her scent—clean soap mixed with the budding musk of her arousal. "You're so perfect, Hermione. Such a good little slut for us," he murmured, his praise making her nipples pebble harder.
Dean, with his dark skin and athletic build from sketching on the pitch, unbuttoned her blouse slowly, exposing her pale, creamy breasts, full and bouncy, pink nipples erect. "God, these tits... you're our perfect fucktoy," he said, voice low and appreciative. Seamus, wiry and energetic, Irish lilt thick, knelt to hike her skirt, revealing her bare pussy, lips already swollen and glistening with wetness.
"Ahh, no knickers? Naughty little slut," Seamus grinned, but his tone was adoring. "Such a good girl for showing us."
They guided her to Harry's bed, the mattress dipping under their weight. Clothes shed in a frenzy—trousers kicked off, cocks springing free. Harry's was thick and veined, seven inches of rigid heat, circumcised head leaking pre-cum with a clean, boyish scent. Ron's massive, eight inches, uncut, foreskin pulled back to reveal a flushed tip, musky from the day's sweat. Neville's girthy, six and a half inches, balls heavy and drawn tight, a earthy aroma wafting. Dean's long, seven and a half, dark shaft curving slightly, smelling of spiced skin. Seamus's average but thick, six inches, veiny and throbbing, with a salty tang.
Hermione's mouth watered at the sight, her pussy clenching emptily. Harry claimed her lips again, kissing deep while Ron and Dean latched onto her breasts, sucking her nipples with wet slurps. "Nngh~," she gasped, throaty and slutty, the pull sending jolts to her clit. Neville and Seamus stroked her thighs, fingers tracing her slick folds.
"You're so wet already, love," Neville praised, dipping a finger into her dripping heat. Her pussy was molten, walls fluttering around him, juices coating his hand with a squelch.
They positioned her on all fours, skirt flipped up. Harry knelt before her face, cock bobbing. "Suck me, Hermione. Be our good little cocksucker." She obeyed eagerly, lips wrapping around his shaft, tongue swirling the salty pre-cum. He groaned, fingers tangling in her curls. "Fuck, your mouth... such a talented slut."
Behind, Ron gripped her hips, his massive cock nudging her entrance. The boys' bodies pressed close—sweat-slick skin sliding against her softness, the scent of their musk filling the room, mingled with her sweet, aroused pussy smell. Ron thrust in slowly, stretching her tight walls with burning fullness. "Aaaahn~!" she cried around Harry's dick, the sound muffled and desperate, vibrations making him buck.
Ron's cock filled her completely, the veined length dragging against her sensitive spots, her juices easing the way with obscene wetness. He pounded steadily, balls slapping her clit, each impact sending sparks through her. "Tight as a vice, 'Mione. You're our perfect little cumslut," he grunted, praise fueling her moans—"Mmmhhh~," slutty and breathy.
Neville slid beneath her, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard while his hands kneaded her soft breasts, feeling their weight and bounce. Dean and Seamus flanked, cocks in hand, stroking as they watched. "Look at her take it," Dean murmured. "Good girl, handling us so well."
Hermione's body ignited, pleasure coiling tight. Ron's thrusts grew erratic, his muscular thighs flexing against her ass, sweat dripping onto her back, warm and salty. She came first, pussy spasming around him, gushing wetness down her thighs. "Ohhh fuuuck~!" she wailed, throaty and broken, waves crashing as her vision blurred.
Ron followed, burying deep and flooding her with hot, thick ropes of cum, the sensation like liquid fire painting her insides. He pulled out with a pop, semen leaking from her stretched hole, mixing with her cream.
No respite—Dean took his place, his long cock sliding into the messy heat, the cum-lubed friction making her shudder. "So good, Hermione. Taking us like our perfect slut," he praised, angling to hit her g-spot. She bucked back, moaning "Yesss~," voice husky with need.
Harry face-fucked her gently, cock throbbing on her tongue, the musk of his groin filling her senses—earthy, arousing. Seamus moved to her side, guiding her hand to his dick, her fingers wrapping around the thick girth, pumping slickly.
Neville, eager now, positioned at her mouth when Harry stepped back, his girthy cock pushing past her lips. She sucked greedily, tasting his unique flavor, while Dean railed her pussy, the wet slaps echoing.
Her second orgasm built fast, Dean's curved shaft grinding her walls, his hands gripping her soft hips, feeling the give of her flesh. "Cum for me, good girl," he urged. She did, screaming around Neville's cock—"Hnnngh~!"—body convulsing, pussy milking him until he erupted, cum spurting into her depths, overflowing to drip down her legs.
They rotated seamlessly. Seamus claimed her ass next, lubing with spit and her own juices. He pressed in slowly, the tight ring yielding to his thickness, burning stretch turning to bliss. "Relax, love. You're our perfect anal slut," he cooed, praise making her clench in delight.
Harry took her pussy, double-penetrating her in a lewd sandwich. The fullness was overwhelming—cocks rubbing through thin walls, friction igniting every nerve. Ron knelt before her, feeding her his still-hard length, cum-smeared and musky. "Taste yourself on me, good girl," he said, and she did, slurping hungrily.
Dean and Neville lavished her tits, each sucking a nipple, hands squeezing the soft mounds, thumbs flicking the peaks. Her skin tingled, hypersensitive, the boys' muscular chests pressing against her sides, hard planes contrasting her curves.
Moans poured from her—"Aaaahn~ Mmmph~ Nnngh~"—throaty cries muffled by cock, slutty whimpers as pleasure mounted. The room reeked of sex: sweat-soaked sheets, her tangy pussy essence, the heavy musk of five aroused cocks, cum's salty tang.
She came again, holes fluttering wildly, soaking Harry's shaft while Seamus grunted, filling her ass with his load, hot jets pulsing deep. Harry followed, pumping her womb full, excess bubbling out around him.
Panting, they eased her onto her back for titjobs. Hermione pressed her breasts together, enveloping Ron's massive cock first. The soft, pillowy flesh hugged him, her tongue darting to lick the tip as he thrust. "Your tits are heaven, you perfect titfucking slut," he groaned, the praise sending fresh arousal dripping from her abused holes.
Neville went next, his girth sliding between the cum-slick valley, her nipples grazing his shaft. Dean followed, his dark length contrasting her pale skin, the visual making her squirm. Seamus and Harry took turns, each praising her—"So soft, good girl"—until they all came, ropes of thick semen splattering her chest, neck, chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat.
Not done, they flipped her for more. Neville in her pussy, gentle but deep, his soft muscles tensing as he praised, "You're our incredible cumdump, Hermione. Making us feel so good." She rode the waves, cumming with a shattered "Fuuuuck~!", her fourth orgasm ripping through, body arching.
Dean took her ass, long cock delving deep, while Seamus fucked her mouth, balls tapping her chin. Ron and Harry stroked her body, fingers circling her clit, pinching nipples. The overstimulation built to a frenzy, her senses drowning: the velvet heat of cocks in every hole, cum's sticky warmth leaking everywhere, sweat-slick skin sliding, moans blending into a symphony of lust—hers throaty and desperate, theirs guttural and adoring.
Neville flooded her pussy, thick spurts coating her cervix. Dean in her ass, pulsing hotly. Seamus down her throat, her swallowing greedily, the salty flood overwhelming.
Finally, they gathered around as she knelt, cocks in hand. Hermione stroked and sucked in rotation, her body a canvas of their pleasure—holes gaping and cum-drooling, breasts glazed, skin flushed and marked with handprints. Their final loads erupted in unison, painting her face, tits, and open mouth, the hot, viscous ropes claiming her completely.
Exhausted, she collapsed amid them, bodies entwining in a sweaty, satisfied heap. "You were all... outstanding," she whispered, voice raw, as their praises lulled her into sated sleep—"Our perfect little slut."