Jerry's voice wasn't loud—it was almost nonchalant—but the mockery in his tone was like a poisoned needle, piercing precisely into the Patil twins' fragile self-esteem.
"Two flat runways, perfect for landing planes..."
To any girl around puberty, such a comment was the most vicious personal attack imaginable.
The air seemed to freeze for a second.
The next moment, two perfectly synchronized, ear-piercing shrieks erupted.
"Aaaaaah!"
The sound was no longer the voice of moral superiority; it was pure, unadulterated humiliation. The twins reacted like two cats whose tails had been stomped on. Their faces flushed a deep, bruised purple, and their features twisted in fury.
"You... you bastard!" one yelled, her finger trembling as she pointed at Jerry.
"Vulgar! Disgusting Slytherin!" the other screamed, her eyes welling with tears of shame.
They tried to find more vicious words to retaliate, but Jerry's vivid metaphor had utterly shattered their logic, leaving them capable of nothing but screeching and repetitive insults.
Just as their cursing reached a crescendo, the platform on the Cyclops's shoulder jolted violently and began to ascend at an incredible speed. The underwater scenery blurred and warped. The magical barrier became opaque, shimmering with layers of ripples that turned the world outside into a psychedelic haze.
The students gasped as the sudden shift in gravity sent them colliding. Liliana, losing her balance once more, instinctively lunged toward Jerry. The momentum of her heavy, soft chest carried an irresistible force, knocking Jerry back a step and pinning her lush body tightly against his once again.
This little girl has a real talent for 'ball-handling' at such a young age, Jerry thought as her softness pressed into his ribs.
Outside, the light turned eerie and variegated—colors between void and substance that the human eye could barely process. Through the shifting barrier, the world looked like stretching liquid. Occasional bursts of energy hissed against the shield like electric currents, accompanied by violent turbulence.
"Where... where are we?" a freshman asked, voice trembling.
No one answered. Jerry could feel it: the Cyclops was carrying them through the cracks between worlds, performing a "spatial jump" far beyond common understanding. In this trans-dimensional journey, every inch of existence became unstable; only pure magic kept them on course.
The jump lasted for an indeterminate time—perhaps a moment, perhaps an eternity. When the colors finally faded and the world stabilized, a new reality presented itself without warning.
The magical barrier dissolved like melting glass, and an indescribable stench of rot, dust, and dried blood rushed into everyone's lungs. It was the smell of death.
Many freshmen began to gag and heave immediately. Liliana buried her face deeper into Jerry's chest, her small body trembling as she curled into him.
Before them lay no magical wonderland, but a desolate, grey forest of steel. The sky was leaden, the sun hidden behind thick, eternal clouds. Skyscrapers were riddled with cracks, their shattered windows looking like empty eye sockets. Burnt-out car wrecks littered the streets, and overgrown vines choked the lamp posts, adding a sinister green to the city of the dead.
But what truly chilled their blood were the... things in the streets.
Creatures that were once human. They were tattered, their skin an unnatural bluish-grey, limbs twisted at grotesque angles. They wandered aimlessly, their movements stiff and dragging, throats emitting a mindless, grating rattle.
One "man" was missing his lower jaw, a blackened tongue lolling out. Another had a gaping hole in his abdomen, dragging greyish-black intestines across the pavement as he moved.
"Zombies!"
The word flashed through the minds of every student. Most had seen movies like Dawn of the Dead, so they were hauntingly familiar with these creatures. A primal fear of the undead plunged the platform into a deathly silence before erupting into chaos and screams.
"What are those... what are those things!" one of the Patil twins wailed, her voice breaking. "We have to leave! Get us out of here!"
Panic spread like a plague. But the Cyclops ignored the chaos, marching into the heart of the dead city. With every step, it crushed several zombies into a blur of gore, while thousands more were drawn to the sound, hobbling toward them from every alleyway.
Amidst the sea of screams, Liliana clung to Jerry's waist, her fingers white as she gripped his shirt. Jerry reached out and patted her back, his palm feeling the warmth and the fullness of her chest through the thin fabric.
"Don't be afraid, Liliana." His voice was calm and surprisingly gentle, cutting through the noise. "These aren't the 'zombies' you see in movies."
Liliana looked up, her ruby eyes misty with confusion.
"These are creations of necrotic rot, reanimation, and instant-death plagues," Jerry explained coolly. He scanned the disgusting undead below with a detached, clinical gaze. "They are low-level undead known as 'Carrion Walkers.' They are mass-produced weapons of war used by wizards to deplete enemy forces during planar invasions."
Jerry's words acted like a stone dropped into boiling water. The chaos paused. Students and exchange elves alike stared at him in shock. Liliana's fear was slowly replaced by curiosity.
At the front of the platform, Filius Flitwick turned around, his sharp eyes twinkling with approval.
"Mr. Rosier is absolutely correct!" Flitwick announced in his squeaky voice. "Fear is useless in the face of the unknown. Knowledge and composure are a wizard's greatest weapons!" He nodded with satisfaction and flicked his wand. "Ten points to Slytherin!"
The "Ten points to Slytherin" announcement acted like a grounding spell. The terrified crowd began to calm. They looked at the young boy who remained unbothered by the horror, and their panic subsided. Liliana stood up straight, though she stayed glued to Jerry's side, her gaze shifting from fear to hero-worship.
Not everyone was impressed. Ron Weasley turned red. "Tch... acting like he knows everything," he muttered to Harry. "He's just from a Dark family. Who cares about that?"
Harry Potter remained silent, his green eyes fixed on Jerry with a complex expression. He knew the Rosiers were supporters of Voldemort. This boy was a living reminder of his parents' death. Yet, Jerry's competence made Harry's internal sense of "justice" waver.
On the other side, Hermione Granger's eyes lit up. She didn't care about Ron's grumbling or Harry's drama. She was purely, instinctively impressed—and a little competitive—regarding Jerry's knowledge. She pulled out a quill and scribbled: Necrotic rot, reanimation, Carrion Walkers, Planar warfare.
The Cyclops reached the center of the grey city, where a brilliant light pierced the gloom. A towering magic spire of silver-white material stood there, flowing with liquid starlight runes. A massive, pale-gold dome protected a few square kilometers. Inside the dome was an orderly sanctuary with buildings like the Gringotts Bank.
The giant passed through the shimmering barrier. The stench and the moans were cut off instantly, replaced by fresh air and a soothing hum of power. The students disembarked as Albus Dumbledore stepped forward.
"Children, welcome to your first lesson at Hogwarts," he said, his voice warm but heavy. "The world you see before you once had a brilliant civilization. But they failed. And we, wizards, are natural victors."
"Our world has limited resources, while our power grows. To explore, to find new homes, and to bring weak, dying worlds under our order is not just our right—it is our responsibility. Remember: Magic is Power. We conquer so that we may endure. You are here to learn how to use your power to expand our civilization."
The speech shattered their fairy-tale view of magic. Hogwarts wasn't just a school; it was a military academy for conquerors. Seeing their shock and budding excitement, Dumbledore smiled.
"Now," he pointed to the zombies outside the dome, "theory is over. Let us begin the practice. As you can see, in any dying world, there are 'residuals' to clear. They have no thoughts, no pain—they are perfect targets."
Professor Flitwick stepped up. "Today, we learn 'Incendium Missilia'—or more commonly, Fireball Volley!"
He raised his wand. "Incendium Missilia!" A fist-sized fireball shot out, blowing a zombie's head into charcoal. "The secret is the 'volley'!" His wrist flickered. "Incendium Missilia! Incendium Missilia!" A barrage of fireballs swept through the horde like a machine gun, filling the air with the stench of burnt protein.
"Now," Dumbledore encouraged, "take your wands. Target: anything living outside the barrier. Class ends when this block is purified."
The reality was brutal. As the smell of burning flesh wafted in, the psychological walls of many students crumbled.
"Urgh!" A gagging sound acted as a trigger. Soon, vomit was everywhere. Liliana turned pale, rushed to the side, and threw up her breakfast. The Patil twins were a mess of tears and bile. Even the quiet Hannah Abbott was retching.
Most of the boys were pale and trembling. However, there were exceptions. Hermione was ghost-white and trembling, but she forced herself to watch the fireballs, her eyes stubborn.
And then there was Jerry.
He had planned to fake it. To fit in, he should have pretended to gag. But just as he was about to bend over, he felt a gaze. Dumbledore. The old man's eyes seemed to pierce his very soul.
Jerry stiffened and abandoned the act. He stood tall, his face an unnerving mask of calm amidst the vomit and tears. He looked back at Dumbledore with bottomless black eyes.
"Ten points to Slytherin," Dumbledore whispered with a faint, unreadable smile, then walked toward the spire.
The professors began to organize their houses. Professor Snape stopped in front of Jerry. His dark eyes searched Jerry's face.
"You are the Rosier child?" Snape's voice was a low rasp.
Jerry nodded, then hesitated. "Yes, Uncle Severus."
Snape's eyes narrowed. He didn't deny the title. "In school, you will call me Professor... Begin your practice." He turned to the other Slytherins, his voice rising like a frozen blade. "Listen up! Every Slytherin must eliminate at least twenty Carrion Walkers! Anyone who fails stays here until the job is done!"
Twenty! Most of them couldn't even cast a spark. But Jerry had already moved.
He raised his yew wand. "Incendium Missilia!"
A fist-sized, dense fireball erupted. It didn't explode on impact; it acted like an armor-piercing shell, punching through the eye socket of the first zombie, the forehead of the second, and the chest of the third before finally detonating inside a fourth, blowing its torso into a cloud of ash.
It was clean, lethal, and elegant.
On the other side, Hermione Granger (or rather, another girl with bushy hair) managed a shaky fireball that blew up a nearby zombie. She was pale but determined. Jerry glanced at her and smirked, then went back to his work. By noon, he had cleared far more than twenty.
Lunch appeared—roast chicken, steak, pumpkin pasties, and butterbeer—right next to the mounds of charred, smoking corpses. The contrast was too much for most.
On the spire's balcony, Professor McGonagall stood by Dumbledore. "Albus, isn't this too cruel? They are only eleven."
"The world has changed, Minerva," Dumbledore replied. "Since Tom... Hogwarts has weakened. New threats are coming. Fudge wants reform, and Hogwarts must lead. We must see who is weak and who is worth the investment." He looked at Jerry, who was calmly eating a pumpkin pasty. "That boy, Jerry... you arranged his entry?"
McGonagall's expression softened. "You know my relationship with Lily (Jerry's mother). I couldn't save her then. I have to look out for her son... Is there a problem?"
"He is gifted," Dumbledore said. "I fear he might become another Tom."
"Impossible! He won't follow Tom's path!"
During lunch, Hermione walked up to Jerry, her face pale but her eyes burning with a scholar's hunger. "Jerry... how do you do it? Your casting interval is so short. Your output is perfectly stable. How do you train?"
Before he could answer, Ron Weasley grabbed her arm. "Hermione, leave him alone! He's a Slytherin! His family are Death Eaters! Who knows what dark magic he's using!"
Hermione snapped, "Shut up, Ron! This is knowledge! Even Flitwick praised him!" She stepped closer to Jerry. "Tell me. How?"
[Ding! Daily Mission Triggered: The Scholar's Lust for Knowledge.] [Content: Train Hermione Granger. Make her understand that knowledge comes at a 'price.']
Jerry wiped his mouth. "You want to know? Fine. But knowledge isn't free, Miss Granger."
"What do you want? Galleons?"
"I don't need money." Jerry leaned in, whispering in a seductive, low tone only she could hear. "In my family, house-elves do everything. I never learned to do laundry. When we get back to school, will you do mine for me?"
Hermione blinked. It seemed weird, but not impossible.
"...Especially... my undergarments," Jerry added with a playful, wicked drawl. "They need to be washed by hand. Very carefully. Very gently."
"Are you insane, Hermione!" Ron exploded. "He's asking you to wash his... his underwear! He's treating you like a house-elf!"
Jerry ignored Ron, watching the blush spread from Hermione's cheeks to her neck. He was a hunter watching his prey. Hermione's heart raced. It was an insult. But... the power he showed was a field she didn't understand. The fruit of knowledge was too tempting.
"Ron, shut up," Hermione finally gasped. She looked Jerry in the eye, her voice trembling but clear. "Fine... I'll do it. But you have to teach me to cast like you."
"Deal."
Later that evening, in the Slytherin dorms, Isabella Travers, the 7th-year Prefect, snuck into the corridor toward Jerry's room. She wasn't there to see him—she was there to retrieve something. That little brat had been so rough the night before that she had forgotten her panties in his bathroom! She couldn't let a first-year pervert keep them as a trophy.
She was also deeply curious about him. His wandless magic was better than hers.
She slipped into his dark room and felt her way to the wardrobe. She found a small wooden box. Inside were her cotton panties—and a pair of cute cat-paw lace panties. She cursed under her breath.
Suddenly, footsteps.
She panicked. The freshmen were back! She couldn't hide in the wardrobe or bathroom. She scrambled under the large bed just as the door opened.
Jerry walked in. Isabella held her breath as his shoes stopped by the bed. Then, the sound of clothes falling. Jerry was stripping.
She knew she should look away, but curiosity (and the necklace he gave her) kept her eyes glued to the gap. She saw his firm thighs and tight glutes. He was young, but his muscles were toned and athletic.
When Jerry turned toward the bathroom, Isabella's heart nearly stopped. A massive, thick, reddish-pink object swung before her eyes. The thick root hung there like a sleeping snake, the head slightly tilted up, revealing a tender ring. It was huge. She could see the throbbing veins and the deep slit at the top of the glans.
The scent of male musk and clean sweat hit her nose, making her dizzy. A wave of heat flooded her lower abdomen, soaking her own underwear instantly.
Jerry stopped. The massive, heavy meat-club dangled right in front of her face. It was so close. She could see the dark, curly hair at the base, the blue veins, and the moist glans. A drop of sweat rolled down his belly, onto the shaft, and dripped onto the floor inches from her nose.
Isabella's reason crumbled. She watched as Jerry bent down and picked up the cotton fabric she had left behind—her panties.
He didn't go to the bathroom. He pressed them to his nose and took a deep, greedy breath of her scent.
"Mmm..." He let out a low, satisfied groan.
Then, his other hand gripped the massive meat. In seconds, it went from soft to iron-hard, throbbing and pulsing as he began to stroke it vigorously.
Hah... hah...
The sound of his heavy breathing and the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin filled her ears. She watched the giant thing jumping in his hand, the slit at the tip leaking clear pre-cum that made the head glisten.
Finally, Jerry's pace turned frantic. His body arched. "Nngh!"
His throat let out a low, animalistic roar. The slit at the tip of the iron-hard rod burst open, and a thick, creamy white jet of semen erupted like a high-pressure hose. The first blast soaked the panties in his hand, but it didn't stop. Huge amounts of fluid poured out, overflowing the fabric and splashing onto the floor in a viscous, steaming puddle. It was a massive volume of seed, forming a milky "lake" on the cold stone.
When he finally finished, Jerry tossed the soaked panties into the puddle of cum and walked into the bathroom. The sound of the shower started.
Under the bed, Isabella lay limp, her own crotch a soaking mess. She stared at the steaming white pool of man-seed.
"How... how can there be so much!" she whimpered. "And why... why does it smell like... cream..."