Jerry practically fled from Eleanora's office.
When he was finally released and scrambled to tidy his trousers, Eleanora merely stood aside.
She scrutinized him with the gaze one might reserve for a rare potion ingredient, mumbling notes to herself.
To her, the look in her eyes was no different from observing a cauldron of nearly finished brew.
That pure, research-driven obsession, which completely objectified Jerry, made him feel like a frog pinned to a lab table.
He felt as though he could be dissected at any moment.
What made his skin crawl even more were the anomalies he noticed during that near-zero-distance contact.
When Eleanora held him, the sensation of her arms around his back wasn't the softness a normal woman should have.
Instead, it possessed a metallic, resilient quality.
Through her thin robes, he could feel a rhythmic, unnatural texture beneath her skin.
It felt as though she had been inscribed with permanent reinforcement runes.
It was common for wizards to undergo sorcerous modifications in pursuit of greater power or longevity.
Some reinforced their bones with magic, some replaced failing organs.
Some even merged their flesh with the tissues of magical creatures.
Clearly, Professor Eleanora, the Potions Master, had performed some form of deep modification on herself.
Her seemingly slender body likely harbored strength and endurance far beyond that of an ordinary person.
Truly a terrifying witch, Jerry defined her in his mind.
He fumbled to pull open the heavy oak door and practically scrambled out.
He didn't want to stay for a single second more.
Just as Jerry's figure was about to vanish through the doorway, Eleanora's flat, emotionless voice trailed after him like a shadow.
"Mr. Rosier."
Jerry's footsteps paused instinctively.
"Once I have prepared the prerequisite materials for the potion, I will notify you."
Stepping into the corridor, Jerry felt as though he had returned to the real world.
He leaned against the cold wall, calming his somewhat erratic breathing.
While he tried to purge that bizarre experience from his mind, a cold, emotionless voice rang in his ear.
[System Notification]: Daily Quest Completed.
[Quest Name]: The War Witch's Old Debt.
[Quest Settlement]: You have successfully confirmed the debt with Eleanora Shafiq and obtained a repayment commitment far exceeding the quest requirements (A draft worth 30,000+ Galleons has been verified as valid).
Quest objective surpassed.
[Quest Reward]: Passive Skill [Intermediate Potion Affinity], Family Prestige +50, issued.
[Failure Penalty]: Averted.
The next second, Jerry felt as if an entire library had been forcibly shoved into his head.
A massive, unimaginable flood of information rushed in.
It contained countless complex potion formulas, bizarre material processing techniques, and profound alchemical principles.
Experimental experience that only a veteran Potions Master could possess poured into his brain like a bursting dam.
Jerry seemed to see the magical aura of Belladonna under specific moonlight.
He smelled the unique fragrance of Mermaid tears mixed with Phoenix tail feathers.
He felt the subtle differences in mana conduction of a cauldron quenched in dragon blood.
Theories that were once obtuse and difficult in textbooks now became as natural as breathing.
Within a few seconds, Jerry's understanding of Potions had completed a savage, leap-frogging evolution.
The impact of this forced infusion left him dizzy.
He leaned against the wall, panting heavily before he could steady himself.
As the headache faded, the look in Jerry's eyes had changed completely.
"So that's how it is..."
The massive amount of information in his mind reorganized and condensed into a clear answer.
In that instant, all of Eleanora Shafiq's eccentric behaviors finally had a rational explanation.
Why did she need his urine?
Because in many ancient and forbidden branches of alchemy, the vital fluids of a wizard are the indispensable core base for top-tier "Fertility Potions."
It wasn't just a biological catalyst; it was a carrier of magical bloodline and talent.
Eleanora didn't want to make an ordinary potion at all.
Eleanora wanted a child.
A child who would inherit her own vast knowledge of Potions.
And simultaneously inherit Jerry's seemingly innate, monstrous talent for the craft.
From the moment she subjected him to that extreme pressure test in class, she wasn't testing a student.
Eleanora was screening and evaluating a rare "material" to optimize her offspring.
She was targeting the potion-making talent potentially hidden in Jerry's bloodline.
"If you wanted a kid, why didn't you just say so!"
Jerry rolled his eyes with irritation after understanding the cause and effect.
He fumbled with the draft in his pocket.
He glanced at the old-fashioned pendulum clock on the wall; it was just past two in the afternoon.
He hadn't expected that brief encounter to make him miss lunch entirely.
Jerry had no classes this afternoon, and his dinner date with Fiona was still far off.
Suddenly, he remembered the betting pool.
"Malfoy said... Professor McGonagall is a top seed."
He recalled Malfoy's excited chatter in the common room about the Wizard Chess Championship.
According to Malfoy, Minerva McGonagall was not just an authority on Transfiguration, but a perennial favorite to win in Wizard Chess.
She was an excellent source of intelligence.
Decision made, Jerry headed toward the main castle towers.
Professor McGonagall's office was at the end of a bright corridor on the first floor.
It was a world away from the Potions dungeon he had just left.
The area was bright and clean, sunlight spilling through high arched windows.
The air carried the dry, pleasant scent of parchment and old books.
The office door was closed, sporting a polished brass nameplate engraved in elegant script: "Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Professor of Transfiguration."
Jerry tidied his robes and knocked thrice.
"Come in," a crisp female voice answered.
Jerry entered to see Professor McGonagall sitting behind her desk.
Wearing her square spectacles, she was meticulously grading a stack of student essays.
Her quill scratched across the parchment with a light, rhythmic sound.
The office was exactly like her—orderly and precise.
Books on the shelves were arranged alphabetically, and the inkwell and pen stand were placed with perfect accuracy.
Today, McGonagall wasn't wearing her signature high-collared emerald green robes.
Perhaps because she had no classes, her attire was more relaxed yet elegant.
She wore a simple black wool dress, its tailored fit outlining her graceful figure maintained through years of proper posture.
The neckline was just open enough to reveal a patch of fair skin, radiating a mature, intellectual charm.
Her legs were crossed slightly beneath the desk.
From under the dark hem of her skirt, a section of her calves was visible, wrapped in sheer black silk stockings.
The thin fabric clung tightly to her shapely legs, extending down to her ankles and into a pair of classic black stiletto heels.
Even while seated, the design of those heels added a sense of authority and feminine allure to her tall frame.
The quill traced a final, elegant period on the parchment before McGonagall looked up.
Her gaze projected from behind the square lenses, locking precisely onto the Slytherin first-year at the door.
A flash of surprise crossed her usually stern face for a fleeting moment.
Placing her quill on the stand, she leaned back slightly, letting the chair take her weight.
This movement made the posture of her crossed legs more prominent.
The light caught the smooth, nylon-wrapped lines of her calves perfectly.
"Mr. Rosier!"
Her voice was clear and steady, but her tone held a subtle note of inquiry.
"If I recall correctly, you have no Transfiguration lessons this afternoon. Have you run into some trouble?"
A polite smile appeared on Jerry's face.
"Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall."
He bowed slightly before looking up with the unshielded admiration of a youth.
"You look beautiful today, Professor. Even more charming than you are in the classroom."
This frank, somewhat innocent compliment caused McGonagall's stern expression to soften slightly.
She gave a non-committal hum, which acted as an acknowledgement of the praise.
Granted silent permission, Jerry walked across the sunlit space to the front of the desk.
He faced McGonagall across the wide mahogany surface.
The massive height difference between them was now fully apparent.
Jerry's body had not yet begun its growth spurt.
Even with McGonagall seated, her upright torso was still significantly taller than the standing Jerry.
Jerry had to tilt his head back to see her face fully; his line of sight was almost level with the desk at her chest.
Even seated, she was nearly two or three heads taller than him.
It made him look like a little dwarf who had wandered into an adult's world.
However, as McGonagall looked at the boy who had to look up at her, an involuntary image flashed through her mind.
The scene she had witnessed earlier that morning in the girls' washroom.
This seemingly harmless "dwarf" had been hidden in the shadows of the wall.
He had displayed a massive cock, of a size entirely inconsistent with his age.
Then, with an irresistible force, he had shoved it into the mouth of another student—Cassandra.
The impact of that memory formed a jarring contrast with the respectful, innocent face before her now.
McGonagall silently cursed in her heart.
Truly a little Rosier bastard.
Despite her shock and irritation at his precocious behavior, she maintained her professional composure.
Her expression betrayed none of her thoughts.
She simply raised her hand, her wand sliding into her palm, and tapped an empty cup nearby.
"Engorgio."
The cup expanded before Jerry's eyes to a size suitable for a child of his age.
Immediately, fragrant coffee poured itself from the pot, landing steadily on the desk edge before Jerry.
"Thank you, Professor," Jerry thanked her with familiarity, but he didn't touch the coffee.
His goal was clear.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out two items, arranging them neatly on the smooth mahogany.
The first was Jerry's own Gringotts cashier's check.
The second was the stack of new, ink-scented drafts he had just received from Eleanora.
A thick pile, representing thirty-six thousand Gold Galleons.
"Professor!"
Jerry looked up at her with clear eyes, but his tone was like that of a negotiating merchant rather than a child.
"I hear you are a master of Wizard Chess. I'm sure you have your own unique insights into this tournament."
He paused, his small hand patting the drafts on the table.
"Therefore, I plan to organize a betting pool among the students. And this!"
He pointed to the two sums which, combined, could buy several shops in Diagon Alley.
"This is my capital!"
McGonagall's gaze moved from Jerry's overly serious face to the two stacks of paper representing staggering wealth.
She didn't speak immediately, only letting out a few light "tsk" sounds, part wonder and part disapproval.
Her sharp eyes narrowed behind her glasses, scrutinizing the complex anti-counterfeiting patterns on the checks and the Ministry seal on the drafts.
Jerry saw her expression and assumed she was questioning the source of the funds; he prepared to explain his family estates.
However, before he could speak, a sudden, precise, and intense pressure came from his crotch.
It happened without warning.
Jerry subconsciously looked down, but the thickness of the desk blocked his view completely.
Yet the sensation was undeniably real—something soft yet firm was treading on him.
Through the fabric of his trousers, the object stepped unquestioningly onto the massive cock hidden beneath.
It was Professor McGonagall's foot.
She had silently slipped off one of her high heels.
Her foot, wrapped in sheer black silk, was now pressing his vitals down with a force entirely disproportionate to the amount of money they were discussing.
The smooth texture of the stocking transmitted the contour of her sole and the applied pressure clearly to him.
McGonagall picked up the stack of new drafts, her fingertips grazing the paper embossed with the Gringotts crest.
The paper made a faint rustling sound.
Her face remained locked in a professional, stern expression, as if nothing were happening under the table.
She looked up from the drafts and stared directly at Jerry, her voice steady and authoritative, like a lecture.
"Mr. Rosier, I must warn you!" McGonagall's voice echoed in the quiet office.
"At Hogwarts, any form of gambling is strictly prohibited. Your proposal is a serious violation of school rules."
However, while she spoke these righteous words, the silk-clad foot under the table began a completely opposite, bolder movement.
The firm, elastic arch of her foot ground repeatedly over Jerry's cock, which had snapped into a hard erection from the sudden stimulation.
The delicate, smooth sensation of the silk transmitted through the trousers, bringing an indescribable, agonizingly clear numbness.
Jerry's breathing stopped instantly.
McGonagall continued her lecture, but her foot became even more agile.
Her ankle performed a clever downward twist.
Using her slender toes, she began to "play" with the giant member bound in his pants more delicately.
Her toes—especially the flexible big toe and second toe—acted like nimble fingers.
They accurately pinched the mid-section of Jerry's shaft.
The pinching through the fabric was perfectly measured in strength.
It was tight enough for Jerry to feel the constriction, yet not so hard as to cause pain.
Then, those "toes" began to slide slowly and powerfully along the contour of his member, from the base to the tip.
Every upward slide deliberately circled the full head, using the knuckle of the toe to press into the sensitive tip.
Every downward slide used the sole of her foot to flatten the entire shaft against his body, crushing it.
It was an unprecedented, utterly absurd experience.
This lustful professor was lecturing Jerry on school rules while giving him a depraved footjob under the table through his pants.
The intense contrast caused Jerry's body to react more violently than if he were being touched directly.
Jerry felt a heat wave racing through his lower abdomen.
His member, under the repeated kneading, throbbed with a dull ache; pre-cum began to leak uncontrollably from the tip.
That foot seemed to know his body inside out. Every slide and every pinch landed precisely on his most sensitive spots.
McGonagall's movements grew bolder, her sliding speed increasing.
The faint sound of silk rubbing against trouser fabric sounded more erotic to Jerry than any words.
Soon, the small patch of fabric she was playing with was thoroughly soaked by his continuous secretion.
The cloth became wet and warm, clinging tightly to Jerry's cock and outlining its shocking shape even more clearly.
Upon feeling the dampness, McGonagall's foot didn't stop; it grew even more aggressive.
Her toes swirled over the soaked fabric. As if satisfied with her "masterpiece," she gave the high-propped tip a provocative poke with her big toe.
The silk-clad foot paused for a moment after sensing the increasingly obvious wetness.
McGonagall's gaze remained locked on Jerry's face; her stern features showed no flaw.
But the corner of her mouth hooked into a nearly imperceptible arc of mockery and dominance.
She pushed the drafts back toward Jerry and spoke:
"Mr. Rosier, regarding your attempt to openly flout school rules, do you have any explanation?"
The moment she finished speaking, Jerry's long-suppressed, massive cock seemed to understand the provocation.
It gave a violent, powerful jerk.
The full head scraped against the delicate skin of McGonagall's arch through the wet fabric.
The unexpected, rough, and scalding friction caused Professor McGonagall's dignified upper body to stiffen for a split second.
Jerry endured the waves of pleasure surging from his lower body, yet he forced a look of utter sincerity onto his face, looking up with a tone bordering on adoration: "Professor McGonagall, you are the professor I respect most in this world."
Before Jerry could even finish his compliment, the "counter-attack" beneath the table began.
Jerry actively thrust his hips, driving his rigid meat-root to tirelessly shove against the sole of the foot treading on him.
Every thrust caused his massive member to rub against her silk stockings, attempting to brand his own heat onto her arch.
"How can my little venture be considered gambling?
It's merely a... financial game that allows everyone to participate."
As Jerry spoke, feeling the shifting movements below, he lowered his voice as if sharing a monumental secret, "Besides, for all the profits earned, we split them sixty-forty.
You take sixty, I take forty. I'm just earning a bit of pocket money; the lion's share, of course, must be held by a visionary and capable leader like yourself."
These words seemed to provoke Professor McGonagall.
Beneath the table, she didn't withdraw her foot; instead, she slipped her other foot out of its matching black-silk high heel.
The second foot joined the fray.
Now, two elegant and powerful feet, wrapped in sheer black silk, launched a pincer attack on Jerry from all sides.
One sole pressed against the base of his meat-root, using toes to knead it meticulously, while the other foot pressed tightly against the side, wrapping its slender arch around the mid-section of the shaft.
The two feet worked together like a pair of nimble hands.
They slid up and down in alternating motions—one sliding up while the other slid down.
The incredibly smooth material of the silk glided over his trousers, which were already damp with his pre-cum, almost without resistance; every interlace brought a wave of scalp-numbing pleasure.
Under the joint assault of these feet, Jerry's meat-root was rubbed, stretched, and squeezed, every movement precisely stimulating his most sensitive nerves.
Jerry's "counter-attack" also grew increasingly intense.
He stopped passively enduring and began to twist his hips in a rhythmic, active motion.
His meat-root acted like an enraged giant python, lunging left and right in the gap between her two soles, using its hard head to repeatedly ram into her soft arches, the delicate gaps between her toes, and even forcefully squeezing into her sensitive foot-crevices.
Zzzt!
A faint sound of a metal zipper being undone rang out beneath the table.
Professor McGonagall had leaned her body forward slightly, allowing one hand to drop naturally. Under the cover of the tablecloth, she accurately found the button and zipper of Jerry's trousers.
Her fingers nimbly undid the restraints and pulled down the zipper.
In an instant, the massive object, long suppressed by the fabric and soaked in slime, sprang out with a thwack, hitting the back of her lowered hand with a heavy, scalding, and slippery impact.
Immediately following, those two silk-clad feet wrapped directly around him without any barrier.
The sensation of skin-on-skin contact was a thousand times more intense than the friction through fabric.
The cool, slick texture of the silk meeting the burning skin of Jerry's meat-root caused both of them to let out an almost inaudible gasp simultaneously.
The two soles acted like a pair of sentient water snakes; one was responsible for slowly sliding up from the base like a licking tongue, while the other used its toes to clamp the swollen, purple head, circling it delicately to coat the entire tip in Jerry's constantly leaking fluids.
The moment those black-silk-wrapped feet entwined with the scorching giant, a short rebuttal escaped Professor McGonagall's lips.
"Your proposal is quite tempting, Mr. Rosier!"
Her voice remained as steady as a lecture, but a faint raspiness betrayed that she was not as calm as she appeared, "But I must reiterate, this violates the very foundations of Hogwarts.
As Deputy Headmistress, it is impossible for me to..."
Her words were cut off by Jerry.
"Professor, it isn't gambling; it's an investment."
Jerry looked up, working hard to make his voice sound sincere and credible: "An investment in the recreational life of Hogwarts.
You see, instead of letting this money rot in Gringotts, it's better to let it flow among the students, creating joy... and creating profit."
Jerry's persuasion was logical and grounded, but the "battle" under the table was the true language of negotiation.
Professor McGonagall's two feet cooperated perfectly.
The right foot used its arch to press the base of his meat-root, the sole clinging tight to the shaft, while the toes acted like five flexible fingers, constantly scratching and teasing his two equally tensed balls.
The left foot focused on the tip, using the arch to repeatedly grind the purple-swollen head, now completely covered in slippery fluids. Occasionally, the pad of the big toe would accurately press into the tiny slit at the top, and every press caused Jerry's body to thrust uncontrollably.
Jerry's meat-root fought back fiercely under the strangulation of those silk feet. Every thrust of his hips was heavy and powerful, ramming the massive object deep into her soft arches, feeling the warm, elastic touch beneath the thin layer of silk.
Jerry's tip rubbed back and forth over the tender flesh of her arch, attempting to vent his desire entirely.
"You make it sound so easy!" McGonagall let out a soft huff. Her left foot suddenly changed tactics; instead of grinding, she used two toes to clamp the tip of his glans—as if holding a quill—and gave it a forceful twist.
"Ugh... ah..."
The intense stimulation nearly made Jerry cry out. A glob of thick fluid erupted from the tip, making her toes even more slippery.
The battle under the table reached a fever pitch instantly.
McGonagall's feet accelerated, like two black butterflies dancing over his massive member. Her soles alternated sliding from base to tip, each stroke bringing up a heart-pounding, wet sound of friction.
Jerry was unwilling to be outdone, his hips thrusting manically, trying to wedge himself deeper into the gap between her beautiful feet.
Finally, when Professor McGonagall used the heels of both feet to clamp his meat-root's most sensitive base and head—one in front, one behind—and squeezed them together with force, Jerry could take no more.
Jerry felt an irresistible torrent shoot straight out from his lower abdomen. His mouth fell open, yet he could produce no sound as his body arched violently forward.
Streams of thick, scalding body fluid shot out unreservedly beneath the office desk, spraying entirely over her interlaced calves and thighs wrapped in black silk.
The white fluid formed a jarring contrast with the black stockings, sliding slowly down the smooth fabric and leaving the area a muddy, chaotic mess.
However, even after Jerry had released, McGonagall's feet showed no intention of letting go.
Her toes continued to clamp his still-twitching, slightly softening meat-root, kneading it neither lightly nor heavily as if inspecting the quality of a trophy.
That continuous teasing was accompanied by a series of blush-inducing, subtle, and sticky sounds.
Squelch... squelch...
Every time her silk-wrapped toes tightened and relaxed, they would squeeze the fluids out, producing those suction-like water sounds.
Then, there was the clearer sound of rubbing.
Slick... slip... slick...
It was as if she were playing a musical instrument.
The silk arch pressed against the base and pushed slowly upward; the sound was a low "schluck," as if wading through mud.
When her toes glided over the sensitive head, the sound became sharper—a "pop"—like the sound of wet lips leaving skin after a kiss.
"Professor..."
Jerry's voice carried a hint of a plea. Under the stimulation of the relentless, wet rubbing sounds, the thing between his legs actually snapped into a full, hard erection once more, its size even larger than before, blue veins bulging and throbbing on the surface.
McGonagall looked down beneath the table, then lifted her head, her gaze landing on his flushed face.
A satisfied smile curled her lips. The feet under the table finally ceased their movement, slowly withdrawing from his once-again-proud member.
The moment they pulled away, it even made a clear pop, like a tight cork being pulled from a bottle.
"Professor... I... I lose..."
Jerry panted heavily, his body devoid of strength. He reached out, wanting to take back the drafts on the table to end this absurd negotiation.
Slap.
A well-maintained, fair hand slammed down heavily on the two stacks of drafts, blocking his move.
Professor McGonagall lifted her eyes, her gaze holding the composure of a victor and a trace of playfulness. She looked at Jerry and said word for word:
"You take four. I take six."
When Jerry emerged from Professor McGonagall's office, his legs were still a bit soft.
He leaned against the cool stone wall outside the door, taking several deep breaths to let the dizziness from the intense pleasure subside.
"Jerry! What are you doing hiding here? we've been looking for you for ages!"
It was Draco Malfoy.
He was walking over, looking high-spirited.
"I thought you'd been caught by some professor for detention!"
Malfoy sized him up, his gaze holding a scrutinizing look: "Hurry up! If you don't come now, you'll miss the show! Orion Black is absolutely demolishing that old hag Babbling!"
Jerry steadied himself, his face returning to its usual calm.
He certainly didn't want Malfoy to notice anything was amiss.
"Just handling a bit of business!" he said dismissively. "Let's go. I was just thinking of seeing how our 'top seed' is performing."
Urged by Malfoy, the three followed the crowd to a large assembly hall on the east side of the castle. The annual Hogwarts Wizard Chess Championship was being held here, and today featured the most anticipated match.
The hall was bustling with people, almost every seat filled.
In the central clearing, a massive chessboard paved with black and white marble dominated everyone's sight.
The pieces on the board were each half the height of a person, carved from obsidian and ivory. They stood silently on their respective squares, yet radiated a murderous aura as if ready for a bloody battle.
At either end of the board was a stone platform hovering in mid-air via Levitation Charms.
The two players sat upon them like generals commanding ten thousand troops.
The three of them soon found some seats in the Slytherin spectator section.
Jerry's gaze moved toward one of the platforms.
Sure enough, sitting there was Cassandra's boyfriend.
His opponent was a white-haired elder—Hogwarts' Professor of Ancient Runes, Bathsheda Babbling.
Currently, the match had reached a fever pitch.
Orion Black commanded his black knight to perform a vicious charge, smashing one of the professor's white rooks to pieces, stone splinters flying everywhere. A chorus of suppressed gasps and cheers immediately erupted from the stands.
Malfoy nudged Jerry with his elbow, saying smugly, "See that? I told you he'd win. Orion was our House Prefect before he graduated. He plays chess just like he lives—never leaves his opponent an ounce of face."
Jerry said nothing, just quietly watched the game.
On the board, facing Black's ferocious offensive, Professor Babbling appeared to be struggling.
The professor pondered for a long time before finally commanding her only remaining white bishop to slide diagonally, shielding her white king and forming a fragile barrier.
It was a solid defense, but it also meant losing the chance for a counter-attack.
The Ravenclaws in the stands breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the professor had stabilized her position.
However, Orion, hovering in mid-air, allowed a contemptuous smile to appear on his face.
Orion didn't even spare it a second glance as he pointed a finger toward the most noble piece in his camp—the black Queen.
"Queen to D5," Orion commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an unquestionable arrogance.
The hall went into an uproar.
The black Queen, carved from obsidian with a seductive posture, acted like a dancer receiving an order. She glided with elegant yet lethal steps to an unprotected square in the center of the board.
She stood there provocatively, completely exposed to the attack range of Professor Babbling's white rook.
It was an incomprehensible, near-suicidal move.
"Is he mad?" Malfoy couldn't help shouting. "He's going to throw away his Queen for nothing?"
Malfoy also frowned, clearly failing to see the depth of the move.
Professor Babbling was also clearly confused by the move, her aged face written with solemnity.
She adjusted her glasses and, after repeated confirmation, finally issued the attack order.
"Rook, take the Queen at D5."
The white rook piece gave a roar and charged forward, its heavy stone fist smashing down with force.
A split second before being hit, the black Queen actually gave a mocking smile toward the white King, and then, with a loud crash, she was smashed into a pile of shattered obsidian.
A chorus of disappointed sighs rose from the stands.
However, the smile on Orion Black's face grew even wider.
As if admiring a perfect play, he snapped his fingers.
"Bishop to H5."
With the sacrifice of the Queen, the previously blocked attack line was now wide open.
His black bishop, which had been lurking in the corner, glided like a poison arrow shot from the shadows to a fatal position.
Only then did everyone gasp.
Professor Babbling's face went deathly pale.
She suddenly realized that with the "sacrifice" of the black Queen, her white King was now locked in.
The black bishop and the black rook lurking on the other side formed an unbreakable crossfire network.
"Checkmate."
Orion Black lazily announced the final result.
The white King piece let out a wail, its scepter falling to the floor with a clank. It then dejectedly removed its crown and knelt on the board, signaling surrender.
After a few seconds of silence, the entire assembly hall erupted in thunderous cheers and applause.
Orion Black stood up, looking down as he enjoyed the worship of everyone, his face wearing that victory-exclusive, casual arrogance.
Amidst the cheers and applause, Malfoy was flushed with excitement, grabbing Jerry's arm: "See that? Absolutely beautiful! For victory, even the Queen can be sacrificed! That's a true Slytherin! I told you that old hag Babbling couldn't do it!"
The surrounding students were also discussing the shocking "Queen sacrifice" move. The entire hall was immersed in a feverish excitement.
Jerry didn't join their discussion; he merely watched the boiling scene, looking at the students whose emotions were high because of a chess match, his eyes flashing with a unique light.
Jerry waited until Malfoy's excitement had slightly passed before leaning in unhurriedly. In a voice only the two of them could hear, he whispered:
"Draco, want to make this match a bit more interesting?"
Malfoy froze for a second, turning to look at him: "What do you mean?"
"Look!"
Jerry's chin pointed toward the crowd. "Everyone is so excited, and everyone has a player they support. Don't you think this is a business opportunity in itself?"
Jerry looked at those light grey eyes which were starting to gleam, and tossed out his bait: "How about opening a betting pool?"
"A betting pool?"
The current Malfoy was clearly a bit unfamiliar with the term, but he heard the word "business" loud and clear.
"Correct!" Jerry explained patiently, his voice carrying a seductive magic. "We set odds for the upcoming matches and let students place bets.
They can bet on who wins, the duration of the match, who takes the opponent's Queen first... anything can be bet on."
Jerry paused, watching Malfoy's now fully captured attention, and upped the stakes: "And you, Draco Malfoy, the central figure of Slytherin.
If you promote this among the students, no one will disbelieve you.
You just need to let everyone know there's such a place where their supported players can become even more valuable."
"As for the benefit..." Jerry smiled, a smile that made Malfoy feel he was incredibly reliable. "We split all the money we make.
I'll be responsible for the bookkeeping and calculating the odds, and I'll provide the capital. You just need to use that tongue of yours.
What do you say?"
To dispel Malfoy's final doubt, he added: "The threshold is low; a single silver Sickle to start.
To everyone else, it's just a fun little game, but to us, it's a big business."
Malfoy's breathing grew a bit rapid.
No need to provide capital, just use his reputation in the House to easily get a large sum of money?
Was there anything better in the world?
With almost no hesitation, Malfoy grabbed Jerry's shoulder and whispered excitedly: "Deal! Tell me what to do!"