Lost!
"Stupid Andrew!
I bet all my pocket money for next month on that damn Andrew, and he got swept in the first round by a third-year Ravenclaw!"
A senior boy clawed at his hair in frustration, crumpling a piece of parchment—a betting slip issued by Malfoy's pool—into a ball and throwing it viciously into the fireplace.
His wail immediately struck a chord with the others.
"That's nothing! I lost all the Galleons I saved for half an year to buy a birthday present for my sister in Hogsmeade!"
Another skinny boy spoke with a pale face, his voice trembling with tears. "I thought our house's player would at least make it to the quarterfinals..."
At the Gryffindor long table, dejected students gathered in twos and threes.
Unlike the pure-blood families in Slytherin who spent money like water, Gryffindor had always been a gathering place for mixed-blood wizards and those of humbler means.
Their families might not lack courage and integrity, but in terms of wealth, they were mostly stretched thin. For them, a few Gold Galleons might be the price of an entire ancient manuscript or the total budget for a trip to Hogsmeade.
However, the odds offered by Draco Malfoy this year were simply too tempting.
Those seemingly impossible high odds lured these "little lions," who weren't rich to begin with, to throw the few Sickles and Knuts in their pockets into this gamble, dreaming of winning big with a small stake.
The result was a total loss.
Now, the qualifying rounds of the championship had just ended, and they hadn't even touched the threshold of the semi-finals, yet the majority of the Gryffindor common room was already filled with people sighing over lost money.
Some were worrying about not being able to afford new quills, while others were calculating how to skimp on food and expenses to survive the next month.
This gamble initiated by Slytherin had dealt a resounding slap to the proud Gryffindors economically before a winner was even decided on the chessboard.
In a relatively quiet corner of the common room, the atmosphere was equally heavy.
Ron Weasley was staring gloomily at the motionless chess pieces on the board, as if trying to bore two holes through them with his gaze.
His already meager pocket money had vanished into nothingness the moment the results of the qualifying round were announced.
"I can't believe it... Andrew... that fifth-year guy, actually lost to a third-year!"
Ron slammed his fist onto the armrest beside him, lowering his voice, but the anger in his tone didn't diminish in the slightest: "I watched his matches last year; his opening was as solid as a rock!
How could... how could he be eliminated just like that!"
Harry and Hermione sat opposite him.
Harry didn't know how to comfort him and could only look at his friend silently.
Hermione, on the other hand, was holding a thick copy of Advanced Potion Making, her brow furrowed, clearly very disapproving of this gambling behavior.
Ron didn't expect them to understand his feelings.
As a member of the Weasley family, every Knut in his pocket was hard-earned.
Ron considered himself an expert in Wizard's Chess and knew the strength of each player like the back of his hand; he thought his investment this time was a sure win.
But despite all his calculations, Ron hadn't calculated that Andrew would perform so atrociously.
Not to mention Ron's twin brothers, Fred and George.
Those two were even crazier than Ron. It was said they had bet all the startup capital for the new Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products they were developing this term; their faces were probably green by now.
The thought of money gave Ron's anger a clear outlet.
"It's all those Slytherin bastards!"
Ron cursed through gritted teeth, his ears turning red with rage. "Especially Malfoy!
He created this damn betting pool!
They expected this long ago, didn't they?
They just want to see us Gryffindors make a joke of ourselves, to squeeze the last copper coin out of our pockets!
A bunch of despicable, shameless, cunning slimy snakes!"
"Oh, give it a rest, Ron."
Hermione finally looked up from her thick book, a look of disapproval on her face. "Is it necessary to be so hysterical over a bet?
In the end, it's only a matter of two or three Silver Sickles."
Her words carried a tone of rationality and condescension, which made Ron's face turn even redder.
Harry quickly tried to smooth things over. He patted Ron's shoulder and whispered, "Hermione's right, Ron, don't take it too hard.
If you're short on money, I can lend you some first. You know, it's nothing to me."
His friend's kindness slightly calmed the anger in Ron's heart.
He knew, of course, that Harry didn't care about such small change, but what he couldn't swallow was his pride.
However, looking at Hermione's "I told you so" expression and Harry's sincere eyes, he finally swallowed the further complaints rising to his lips.
He just grunted sullenly, accepting their comfort.
"Let's go, let's get breakfast!"
Hermione closed her book and stood up first. "I don't want to be late because of your stupid gambling."
The three of them passed through the portrait hole of the Fat Lady together, heading towards the Great Hall.
Ron still had a long face, clearly still troubled by his empty pockets.
Today's schedule included a new class: Defense Against the Dark Arts (Note: Context implies Potions or DADA, usually Snape teaches Potions in Year 1, but the text later implies DADA content or a generic 'Charms/Spells' lesson context given the Boggart mention later, but here it says "Charms/Spells Class" in Chinese text, yet Snape teaches it. In fanfics, roles swap. Sticking to text: "Magic Spells/Charms Class").
And the one teaching this first lesson was a professor named Severus Snape.
Harry didn't have much of an impression of the name, but he felt an inexplicable chill from the surname.
For some reason, ever since seeing that professor at the opening feast, Harry had an unspeakable, bad premonition about him.
That man's gloomy eyes, greasy black hair, and the kind of scrutiny that seemed to pierce through one's heart when he looked at people made Harry feel uncomfortable all over.
He had a gut feeling that Professor Snape's class would definitely not be as simple as it looked.
When Harry, Ron, and Hermione stepped into the Great Hall, the gloom hanging over the Gryffindor common room seemed to follow them, hovering over the Gryffindor long table.
Where there are losers, there are naturally winners.
In stark contrast to the gloom and doom on the Gryffindor side, the other two corners of the Great Hall presented a completely different scene.
The Ravenclaw long table was filled with a rational, excited buzz.
A group of students surrounded a third-year boy who looked a bit childish, all talking at once, reviewing the brilliant closing match of the qualifying round this morning.
"...That was it!
When everyone thought your rook would be taken by his queen, you actually chose to sacrifice the rook to save the bishop! That move was simply a stroke of genius!"
A senior prefect gestured excitedly with a sausage on his dinner plate. "Andrew, that idiot, was completely led by the nose by you!"
The victorious third-year boy still had a shy blush on his face, but his eyes shone with wisdom and confidence.
It was he who, in this morning's match, used near-textbook tactics to lure the enemy deep, and finally, with an exquisite endgame, turned the tables on the experienced Gryffindor fifth-year player, Andrew.
This victory not only won honor for Ravenclaw but also filled the pockets of those classmates who believed in him and bet on him with clinking Galleons.
Their joy was a celebration based on the victory of wisdom and strategy.
The atmosphere at the Slytherin long table, however, was more direct and naked.
Draco Malfoy was leaning back on the bench like a king, surrounded by Crabbe, Goyle, and a group of other Slytherin students.
They weren't discussing the subtleties of the chess game but were unreservedly mocking Gryffindor's stupidity and poverty.
"I said long ago, those brainless lions only know how to play chess with brute force!"
Malfoy spoke in an exaggerated, drawling tone, drawing a burst of snickers from those around him. "Look at them now; I bet they'll have to write home for money just to buy a new roll of parchment this month, right?"
Malfoy's gaze swept seemingly casually over the Gryffindor long table. That undisguised contempt made Ron, who had just sat down, look even worse.
He grabbed a piece of bread and took a vicious bite, as if it weren't bread, but Malfoy's head.
Just as Malfoy was smugly enjoying the fruits of his victory, a yawning figure walked leisurely into the Great Hall.
It was Jerry.
He seemed to have just woken up, carrying a trace of languor, walking straight toward the Slytherin long table.
Malfoy's eyes lit up as soon as he saw him. He immediately patted the empty seat beside him intimately, lowering his voice as if presenting a treasure, and said excitedly: "Jerry, you just got up, so you definitely don't know!
Just now, in the final chess game of the qualifiers, after hours of play, that idiot Andrew really lost..."
His voice grew smaller and smaller, finally disappearing completely in his throat.
Because a tall figure was walking straight toward them from the Gryffindor long table.
It was a girl, wearing the badge of a Gryffindor seventh-year Prefect on her chest.
She had sharp, short black hair and a handsome face, but her eyes held an innate arrogance and coldness belonging to pure-blood aristocracy. More importantly, her eyes were grey.
Beneath her school skirt, grey knee-high socks wrapped around her straight, slender legs, each step steady and powerful.
She completely ignored the stunned gazes of Malfoy and the other Slytherin students, walking straight to the table and stopping in front of Jerry.
This girl.
Cressida Vance, stared down at Jerry, who had just sat down, with a condescending, scrutinizing gaze. Her cold voice carried undisguised hostility as she questioned him directly:
"Was it you who ate with Fiona at the Three Broomsticks yesterday and took her back to the dormitory when she was drunk?"
Cressida's icy questioning instantly silenced the area around the Slytherin long table.
The gloating expressions on the faces of Malfoy and the others didn't even have time to fade before they looked curiously at this sudden confrontation.
Before Jerry could answer, another female voice rang out from the side, carrying a sharpness no less than Cressida's.
The Slytherin Prefect, Isabella, who had just arrived, looked at Cressida standing by their table, her gaze holding a lazy scrutiny.
"If I remember correctly, Vice-Prefect Fiona is a student of our Slytherin House."
Isabella's voice was soft and clear, but like honey dipped in poison, sweet yet dangerous: "Miss Cressida, I am very curious. What qualification do you, a seventh-year Prefect of Gryffindor, have to question a student of our Slytherin House on our Slytherin turf?"
As soon as these words came out, the atmosphere immediately became even more tense with swords drawn.
Isabella emphasized the words "our Slytherin" particularly heavily, clearly drawing a line.
This was purely and unreservedly an internal House affair, and she was warning Cressida that she had crossed the line.
Cressida's face darkened, her gaze staring at Isabella becoming sharper.
Jerry, sandwiched in the middle, seemed to have found his backbone. He leaned back into his seat comfortably, took a sip of the pumpkin juice in front of him, and the corner of his mouth hooked into an arc of watching a good show.
Cressida didn't even bother to spare a glance for Isabella.
In Hogwarts, Slytherin House might be the gathering place of pure-bloods, but between pure-bloods, there also existed invisible classes.
The Vance Family, as one of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" pure-blood families, held a status far beyond what all pure-blood families could compare to.
In terms of blood purity and the antiquity of the family, Cressida Vance's background was even nobler than most of the Slytherins present.
This innate confidence gave Cressida enough capital to ignore Isabella's posturing.
Cressida's grey eyes remained locked dead on Jerry. It seemed that in her eyes, Isabella's provocation was nothing more than the buzzing of an annoying fly.
Immediately after, Cressida's voice became colder than before, carrying an undeniable oppression as she repeated her question—or rather, her interrogation.
"I'll ask one more time. Last night, was it you who sent Fiona back to the dormitory?"
Jerry deliberately picked up a sandwich spread with jam, took an unhurried bite, and chewed slowly.
His gaze didn't even lift an inch, as if he turned a deaf ear to Cressida's interrogation, treating her as if she didn't exist.
This thoroughly enraged Cressida. Her face was dyed an iron-green hue by suppressed anger.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cressida caught the smug, even slightly contemptuous smile on Isabella's face, and all her reason collapsed with a bang in this moment.
"You!" Cressida was about to explode, but Isabella was faster than her and made the first move.
She suddenly raised her hand, accurately grabbing Cressida's shoulder, and shoved hard.
Cressida staggered from the push, nearly crashing into the chairs of the table behind her.
"Bitch!" Cressida steadied herself and exploded completely. Her eyes turned scarlet, disregarding any aristocratic demeanor, and vicious curses poured out: "Isabella, you bitch with dirty blood in your veins!
What right do you have to touch me!
Didn't your parents teach you any manners?!"
Isabella turned pale with anger at these words. Her smile froze completely, and a gloomy fury surged in the depths of her eyes.
"Dirty blood?
You mean, harsh-faced pockmark!
Are you worthy of dictating things here?" Isabella completely tore off her usual mask of arrogant elegance, retorting with sarcasm, her voice shrill as breaking glass. "Are all you Gryffindor mad dogs this arrogant?"
Her gaze stabbed viciously at Cressida, her tone laced with mockery. "Or perhaps, you finally couldn't hold back and wanted to publicize your filthy fetishes? Running here to throw a tantrum, where is your breeding?!"
"You're the bitch!
A slut filled with lewd thoughts!" Cressida shook with rage, suddenly raising her volume and screaming hoarsely: "Dueling ground! Come to the dueling ground after class, we'll settle all accounts, you idiot!"
"Ha, idiot?" Isabella sneered, tossing her head haughtily, provocation overflowing in her expression. "With just you?
What do you think you are?
Just a useless waste spoiled by your family!
After class it is. I'd like to see what tricks you, a plucked phoenix, can pull!"
The two hurled insults at each other like two enraged lionesses vowing to tear each other to shreds.
Two biting cold winds converged in the center of the Great Hall, stirring up not just the sharpness of words, but years of accumulated House grievances.
The cursing match between Cressida and Isabella was like detonating a hair-trigger powder keg, instantly igniting the flames of war on the Gryffindor and Slytherin long tables.
"Who are you calling a waste?!"
"You Slytherins rely on two-faced tricks!
What's so great about that!"
"At least we're better than you lions who have nothing but recklessness!"
Shouts and curses rose from both tables. Students stood up one after another, looking at each other, which soon turned into mutual glaring and disputes.
The Gryffindor lions were already holding back anger from losing money; seeing their Prefect bullied by a Slytherin, how could they endure it?
The courage flowing in their blood and their nature to protect their companions were triggered. One by one, they stood up, shooting angry glares at the opposing Slytherins.
The Slytherins were unwilling to be outdone.
The concept of pure-blood supremacy made them scoff at Gryffindor's mediocrity. Moreover, in the face of provocation, how could there be any reason to retreat?
The atmosphere became incredibly tense, as if hexes would fly across the Great Hall in the next second.
The senior students had solemn faces, wands gripped tight in their hands, while the lower-year little wizards hid curiously and somewhat fearfully behind their seniors, peeking out at the poised confrontation.
Between the two long tables, the brief peace was completely broken, replaced by hostility and sparks enough to tear the air apart.
Just as the atmosphere in the hall was on the verge of exploding, and a few stray sparks were already emitting from the tips of individual students' wands, a crisp and stern shout poured down like a basin of ice water in winter.
"Silence!"
Professor McGonagall had appeared at the entrance of the Great Hall at some point.
Her lips were pressed into a strict straight line, her sharp gaze sweeping over the two long tables. Wherever her gaze landed, all the standing students froze in place as if hit by a Petrification Charm, then sat back down as if electrocuted.
The originally noisy and chaotic Great Hall returned to a deathly silence within seconds, leaving only the slight sound of cutlery hitting plates.
Her gaze didn't linger on the students making minor trouble; instead, it landed precisely on the center of the conflict.
"Miss Isabella, Miss Vance... and you, Mr. Rosier." Professor McGonagall's voice held no emotion. "Breakfast ends here.
Please follow me to my office."
As the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, in the absence of Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall had full authority to handle all affairs within the school.
In fact, Headmaster Dumbledore was rarely at the school year-round.
He was not just a headmaster but also an important War Wizard relied upon by the Ministry of Magic, active on the border battlefields all year.
Therefore, Professor McGonagall's decisions were equivalent to the Headmaster's orders at Hogwarts, and no one dared to defy them.
Professor McGonagall's office was as neat and serious as ever.
The heavy oak door closed behind them with a dull thud, seeming to cut off everything from the outside world.
Cressida and Isabella stood straight, looking nervous, as if awaiting judgment.
However, Jerry, as a first-year freshman, was actually the most relaxed of the three.
Professor McGonagall ignored his casualness. She walked straight behind her desk and tapped it lightly with her wand. A milky-white Recording Stone floated up from the surface.
With a flash of light, a holographic projection of the scene in the Great Hall was projected above the stone.
The image was silent, but the visuals were impactful.
From Cressida walking arrogantly to the Slytherin table, to Isabella pushing her, to the unbearable exchange of insults, and finally the daggers-drawn confrontation between the two houses—everything was clearly recorded.
The projection finished, and the office fell into a suffocating silence.
Professor McGonagall's gaze, sharp as a knife, landed first on Cressida.
"Miss Vance!"
Her voice was calm and severe. "As a seventh-year Prefect of Gryffindor, are you willing to explain why you provoked such an undignified dispute in the Great Hall early in the morning?"
The arrogance derived from her bloodline that she had displayed before Isabella vanished instantly in front of Professor McGonagall.
Cressida was like a mouse meeting a cat, her whole body stiff.
Her face was pale, her head lowered, daring not to look directly into her Head of House's eyes.
"I... Professor... it was..."
She stammered for a long time, lips trembling, but couldn't form a complete sentence, her previous arrogance completely gone.
Seeing Cressida speechless, Professor McGonagall snorted coldly and turned her gaze to the other party involved.
"Miss Isabella."
Professor McGonagall's voice wasn't loud, but it made Isabella straighten up subconsciously.
"The recording shows very clearly that you struck first."
Professor McGonagall's gaze was as precise as a scalpel. "What makes you think that using physical pushing to solve problems is appropriate behavior for a Hogwarts Prefect?"
Unlike Cressida's panic, although the composure on Isabella's face faded a bit, she maintained a surface calm.
Isabella took a deep breath, seeming to quickly organize the wording most favorable to herself. The sharpness of her tongue earlier was restrained a lot, appearing somewhat cautious.
"Professor, I admit my behavior was impulsive."
Isabella lowered her head slightly, posing in admission of fault. "However, Miss Vance openly barged to our House table without any reason and spoke to a student of our House in that... interrogating tone.
I felt that, as a Slytherin Prefect, it was necessary for me to maintain the order and dignity of our House."
Isabella's words both admitted the mistake and cleverly pushed the responsibility onto Cressida, portraying her physical action as a necessary act to maintain House honor.
After listening, Professor McGonagall's face showed no emotion. Instead, the corner of her mouth hooked into a cold, joyless arc.
"Oh?
So, not only should I not punish you, but I should praise you, is that it?
Miss Isabella." Her voice was terrifyingly calm. "Praise you for using physical force to maintain Slytherin's so-called 'dignity'?"
Isabella's carefully maintained expression of calm finally shattered completely, her face turning deathly pale.
Professor McGonagall no longer looked at her, instead sweeping a glance over the head-hanging Cressida, and announced in a tone of unquestionable judgment: "I don't care what personal grudges exist between you, but Hogwarts rules are rules!
Starting a disturbance in the Great Hall, with Prefects leading it, doubles the offense!"
"Ten points from Gryffindor, for a Prefect provoking trouble in a public place!"
Cressida raised her head, disbelief written all over her face.
"Ten points from Slytherin as well, for a Prefect initiating physical contact and escalating the conflict!"
Isabella's body swayed slightly; clearly, this result was completely beyond her expectations.
"As for you two!" Professor McGonagall's gaze moved back and forth between them. "After dinner tonight, you will report to the girls' bathroom on the third floor for detention.
I imagine Moaning Myrtle will be delighted to have new guests to keep her company.
You will clean until I am satisfied."
This punishment was more humiliating than simply deducting points. For two pure-blood aristocratic young ladies who thought highly of themselves to clean a bathroom was undoubtedly the greatest punishment for them.
After passing judgment on the two ladies, Professor McGonagall's gaze finally turned to Jerry, who seemed to have nothing to do with it.
"As for you, Mr. Rosier!"
Her voice was somewhat softer than before, but still carried unquestionable authority. "As the cause of this dispute, why did you not defuse the conflict immediately, instead allowing it to develop to such an extent?
Miss Cressida merely asked you a question; was answering it truly that difficult?"
Jerry was stunned, not expecting the fire to eventually burn him.
He felt inexplicably wronged; this morning was clearly a disaster he hadn't asked for, right?
He had been eating his breakfast peacefully when he was interrogated by that crazy Gryffindor woman Cressida for ages. He hadn't said a word from start to finish, so how had he become the one "escalating the conflict"?
Although he criticized her in his heart, Jerry also knew clearly that he couldn't embarrass Professor McGonagall in front of two other people.
He immediately put on an innocent and sincere smile, saying apologetically:
"Professor McGonagall, I really am wronged!"
He spread his hands, his tone full of grievance. "You saw it too; I'm just a newly enrolled first-year student.
Yesterday, I indeed went out for dinner with Senior Fiona, but it was she who invited me.
Moreover, after we finished eating, she had too much to drink, and I was the one who escorted her back to the dormitory.
Senior Isabella can testify to all of this for me."
As Jerry spoke, he cast a look seeking help toward Isabella beside him.
Jerry's gaze toward Isabella carried obvious pleading and a bit of taken-for-granted familiarity.
In his view, as fellow Slytherins, and since she had just stood up for him, reasonably and logically, Isabella should go with the flow and confirm it for him.
However, he clearly underestimated the pettiness of a woman who held grudges.
Isabella received Jerry's look, but the arc of her mouth carried an imperceptible sneer.
How could she forget how, just a few days ago, Jerry had ignored her as if no one was there, not even giving her a direct look?
That feeling of being slighted now fermented into a small malicious revenge in her heart.
Thus, under Professor McGonagall's scrutinizing gaze, Isabella tilted her head in feigned thought, her face wearing a perfect mix of innocence and slight apology, and said in an understated tone:
"Professor, I might not be too clear about that.
I went to bed rather early last night."
This sentence was like a basin of ice water poured over Jerry's head.
The accompanying smile on his face froze instantly as he looked at Isabella in disbelief.
And Cressida, upon hearing Isabella's statement clearing herself of involvement, revealed a sneer of "I knew it," her gaze toward Jerry filled with coldness.
Jerry's righteous defense became a complete joke in the face of Isabella's airy "I went to bed rather early."
For Cressida, this was no longer a simple matter of confirmation or falsification.
"Escorted her back to the dormitory"—these few words were like a red-hot iron branding her heart.
Cressida had a secret crush on Fiona. This affection was hidden beneath her cold and harsh exterior, unknown to anyone, yet growing wildly deep within her own heart.
In an instant, countless malicious, nauseating images flashed through her mind.
Fiona's cheeks flushed from drunkenness, her soft body powerless to resist, and Jerry... this bastard of the Rosier family, with his dirty hands, what filthy things would he do to her while she was unconscious?
A hatred mixed with jealousy, rage, and intense possessiveness flowed through Cressida's limbs like boiling mercury.
Her gaze toward Jerry was no longer simply cold, but a substantial killing intent wishing to grind his bones to dust.
Professor McGonagall keenly sensed the increasingly dangerous change in the atmosphere.
She gave a heavy cold snort, breaking this suffocating confrontation.
"Miss Isabella, Miss Vance, you two may leave now.
The punishment stands."
Professor McGonagall waved her hand as if shooing away flies. "Go to class immediately; I do not wish to see your shadows in the corridor again."
Isabella and Cressida felt as if granted amnesty, but before leaving, the last look Cressida cast at Jerry was filled with venom and warning.
Just as Cressida's venomous gaze disappeared behind the door, a cold, mechanical synthetic voice not belonging to this world rang out without warning deep in Jerry's mind.
[Mission Name: Melting Point of the Hard Butch]
[Mission Objective: Tame the Gryffindor Prefect — Cressida Vance.]
[Detailed Requirement: Within one week (seven days), use any necessary means to completely reverse the target character's sexual orientation.]
[Mission Reward:]
[Rare Bloodline: 'Medusa's Gaze' (Active). Can cast a Petrification Curse on targets with whom eye contact is made; effect strength increases with host's magic growth, initially causing target brief stiffness.]
[Mission Penalty:]
[Magic Backlash: After mission failure, the host's magic core will be permanently damaged by 20%, and future magic growth limit reduced by 50%.]
[Countdown Start: 167 hours 59 minutes 58 seconds...]
A stream of information exploded in Jerry's mind like thunder, freezing the expression on his face instantly.
Tame Cressida?
That woman who looked like she wanted to eat him alive?
And also... straighten her sexual orientation?
Jerry's gaze drifted subconsciously toward the door, as if he could still see Cressida's murderous back as she left.
Only then did Jerry realize with hindsight that the reason that woman looked at him so terrifyingly was actually this deeper cause.
This woman—was a lesbian!
And a bad lesbian at that!
When the office door closed again, Professor McGonagall's gaze refocused on Jerry.
"Now, there is no Slytherin Prefect in the office to back you up.
Mr. Rosier, I hope you can explain properly what exactly is going on."
Facing Professor McGonagall's sharp eyes that seemed capable of piercing through everything, Jerry suppressed the churning system prompts in his mind and quickly transformed the obtained intelligence into his own rhetoric.
The innocent expression on Jerry's face grew heavier, even carrying a perfect touch of confusion and helplessness.
"Professor, I really... I don't know what to say."
Jerry sighed, as if bearing a great grievance. "I feel completely like I've suffered an undeserved calamity.
I swear I only escorted the drunk Senior Fiona back to the entrance of the common room.
But I guess Senior Cressida... her intense reaction this morning might not just be because I'm a Slytherin."
Jerry carefully organized his wording, looking sincerely at Professor McGonagall: "I noticed that the way Senior Cressida looks at Senior Fiona is completely different from how she looks at others.
It's not ordinary classmate friendship, but more like a... very intense possessiveness that allows no one to approach.
The way she questioned me today wasn't like maintaining school rules, but more like... a partner interrogating a cheating spouse.
So I think, perhaps she holds an unusual affection for Senior Fiona."
Professor McGonagall's brow furrowed tightly immediately.
One of her most promising students, the Gryffindor seventh-year Prefect, Cressida Vance, was a homosexual?
This thought made her subconsciously want to refute it.
However, Professor McGonagall then recalled the moment in the office just now, when Cressida heard that Jerry had indeed escorted Fiona back to the dormitory, that face instantly became twisted, full of venom and jealousy—that was definitely not a normal reaction.
Professor McGonagall was silent for a moment, finally choosing to believe this deduction.
This could also explain Cressida's near-rigid strictness and distance from boys over the years.
But since it was a private emotional entanglement between students, it was inconvenient for Professor McGonagall to delve deeper.
"Alright, Mr. Rosier, this matter ends here."
Professor McGonagall waved her hand, deciding to end this unpleasant topic.
Professor McGonagall took out a pre-written piece of parchment from the desk drawer: "This is my prediction for the list of winners advancing from the Round of 16 to the Quarterfinals of the Wizard Chess Championship, including myself.
Take it; I think there shouldn't be too big a gap from the final result."
Jerry rejoiced in his heart, knowing this hurdle was passed.
A brilliant smile immediately piled up on Jerry's face. He leaned forward slightly, reaching out to take that crucial parchment.
Just as his fingertips were about to touch the parchment, Professor McGonagall flicked her wrist, and the paper retracted nimbly upward, avoiding his grasp.
Jerry was stunned, not having reacted yet.
In the next second, a foot wrapped in a black suede high heel, appearing exceptionally slender, lifted precisely and powerfully, stepping squarely on the vital part between Jerry's legs.
Affected by the height difference, when Professor McGonagall made this move, her upper body remained dignified and upright, only lowering her head slightly to look at Jerry with a condescending, scrutinizing gaze.
Jerry's height was still developing; he was half a body shorter than the tall Professor McGonagall who was also wearing high heels.
This posture forced Jerry to freeze in place, even leaning back slightly to relieve the pressure, appearing quite wretched.
The slender heel of the high shoe pressed clearly against his massive meat root, which remained spirited due to the morning's physiological reaction, through a layer of thin school trousers.
That hard outline and shocking size were unreservedly fed back to the sole of Professor McGonagall's foot, even through the fabric.
A strange, scalp-numbing sensation came, and Jerry's breathing stopped instantly.
The corner of Professor McGonagall's mouth hooked into a meaningful, almost peculiar smile, her eyes holding a trace of cat-and-mouse playfulness and scrutiny.
The force under her foot wasn't heavy, but it was enough to immobilize him.
Just stepping like this, the toe seemed to grind lightly, as if unconsciously.
"To help you settle this list, I haven't even had time to eat breakfast."
Professor McGonagall's voice lowered slightly, carrying a trace of imperceptible huskiness, every word sweeping lightly past Jerry's ear like a feather: "Although we are in a cooperative relationship, but... shouldn't you give me some compensation?"
McGonagall's gaze moved slowly downward, landing on Jerry's lips, as if seeing the breakfast he had abandoned on the long table after only a few bites due to the earlier dispute.
"And looking at you, it seems you haven't finished breakfast either; you must be very hungry."
As soon as the words fell, McGonagall withdrew the foot stepping on his vitals as if with a trace of reluctance.
Jerry breathed a sigh of relief immediately, his body going somewhat soft from the sudden release of pressure.
But Professor McGonagall didn't give him much time to react.
She twisted her waist elegantly, exerted force with her hips, and lightly hopped onto the sturdy office desk.
This action caused the black robe on McGonagall's body to slide naturally to both sides, revealing the dark grey suit skirt wrapping her tight body underneath.
McGonagall didn't close her legs; instead, as if to sit more comfortably, she slowly opened her two long legs clad in black silk stockings.
With the separation of her legs, the hem of the suit skirt under the wizard robe was pulled upward, and the scene on the inner thighs was exposed unreservedly to Jerry's eyes.
Black garter belts extended from under the skirt hem, tight against the plump skin of the thighs, connecting to the edge of the stockings.
And deeper, at the root of the two legs, a small triangular piece of fabric made of black lace was barely covering the most private area.
The edge of the lace revealed the color of the skin underneath, faintly showing the outline of a deep forest, emitting a dangerous aura unique to mature women that made one's heart race.
Jerry looked at this thrilling scene before him, his throat dry. He subconsciously took half a step back, his voice somewhat dry as he said: "Professor... I... I have class soon."
This pale and powerless excuse was met with a light laugh from Professor McGonagall.
"Is that so?"
She said leisurely, her voice carrying an unquestionable command. "Classes can be made up, but breakfast... cannot be skipped, especially for a growing child like you."
Before the words fell, McGonagall's parted, black-stockinged long legs moved without warning.
Like hunting pythons, they shot forward violently. The crook of the right knee hooked Jerry's neck precisely, while the left leg pressed tightly against his back from the outside, preventing him from retreating.
Jerry only felt a huge, irresistible force, and his whole person involuntarily lunged forward.
His cheek slammed heavily into a soft and warm area, his nose instantly occupied by the slightly rough texture of lace and a rich fragrance unique to a mature woman's body.
"Mmph!"
Jerry's exclamation was firmly pressed into that private triangular zone.
Professor McGonagall's legs closed from both sides like iron pincers. The firm and elastic muscles on the inner thighs clamped Jerry's head tightly, pressing his face deeper into her valley.
Jerry's hands instinctively propped on the desk, trying to struggle, but the strength of those legs was surprisingly great, rendering him immobile.
In his field of vision, only the black lace, darkened by his breath, and the looming full outline under the lace remained.
"Since your mouth likes to go out for big meals with pretty seniors so much!"
Professor McGonagall's voice came from above, carrying a trace of satisfaction and suppressed panting: "Then use it to do something more useful."
So she was jealous too.
This thought paused Jerry's struggle.
Jerry no longer exerted force backward in vain, but followed that pressure, burying his face deeper.
The tip of his tongue extended tentatively, drawing a circle gently on that full outline through the thin layer of lace fabric already dampened by his breath.
"Mmh..."
A more suppressed moan carrying a nasal tone came from above.
Professor McGonagall's body trembled almost imperceptibly, the strength of the legs clamping his head unconsciously increasing a bit.
Those feet wearing high heels tensed in the air, ankles drawing a graceful arc.
Encouraged, Jerry became bolder.
The tongue was no longer tentative, but began to lick actively and forcefully.
Jerry traced the veins of the lace pattern with the tip of his tongue, exploring from the edge all the way to the center, focusing on the most protruding, wettest core area under the fabric.
Friction through a layer of fabric carried a more taboo, maddening teasing than direct contact.
Professor McGonagall's breathing began to quicken. Her hands, originally supporting herself behind, had unconsciously gripped the edge of the desk tightly, knuckles turning slightly white from force.
Professor McGonagall's waist and abdomen began to thrust gently uncontrollably, each time actively sending that wet forbidden zone more forcefully toward Jerry's lips.
"Not enough... harder..."
Broken words squeezed out through clenched teeth, voice full of the huskiness of desire.
"Bite you to death!"
Muttering in his heart, Jerry opened his mouth, wrapping his lips around that area, taking it in along with the soaked lace, and began to nibble and grind with his teeth, seemingly detached yet intimate.
At the same time, Jerry's tongue swirled more wantonly on that small piece of fabric, sucking the nectar constantly seeping from within.
"Ah!"
An unsuppressable scream leaked from Professor McGonagall's throat.
McGonagall's thighs clamped violently, almost crushing Jerry's skull. Her waist thrust violently, hips twisting restlessly on the tabletop. The black wizard robe piled loosely at her waist with her movements, making the scenery of her lower body even more completely visible.
Seeing the boy beneath her working so hard, yet the friction through a layer of lace always falling a bit short, the fire burning in Professor McGonagall's body just couldn't reach the peak.
A dissatisfied groan emitted from her throat. The hand gripping the desk edge let go, sliding down and reaching between her legs.
Fingers nimbly hooked the edge of that piece of completely soaked black lace, pulling it aside forcefully.
"Oh..."
McGonagall's hand, originally supporting herself behind, slid down. Her fingertips paused briefly at the edge of the soaked lace before resolutely pulling it aside.
The last thin barrier disappeared, and the core of that forbidden garden was revealed unreservedly before his eyes. The tenderest bud hung with clear dew, fluttering slightly, emitting a more fragrant, dizzying scent.
"What a bad child... making your professor lose composure like this for you." McGonagall's voice carried a tremor she didn't even notice. "Now, use your mouth to prove your worth."
Jerry's tongue tip met it immediately.
No longer satisfied with wandering on the surface, he focused on sucking and kissing that most sensitive bud, carefully tasting the sweet nectar.
"Ah... yes... right there..." Professor McGonagall's body leaned back, supporting herself on the table with her elbows, her slender neck stretching into a graceful arc.
Her legs clamping his head tightened unconsciously, rubbing the soft flesh of her inner thighs against his cheeks, as if rewarding, yet also demanding more.
Professor McGonagall's other hand also inserted into Jerry's hair, pressing him deeper into herself.
"So skilled... did you use this move on Fiona too, hmm?"
While enjoying the ultimate pleasure, McGonagall stimulated him with humiliating words. "You shameless little rascal... only knowing how to use this mouth to please women..."
Words seemed to be the key, unlocking Jerry's deeper predatory nature. Jerry's exploration became bold and deep, no longer satisfied with scratching the surface, but tracing back to the source, wanting to explore the origin of that tide.
In the office, only subtle, sticky water sounds remained, intertwined with the increasingly short gasps of the aloof Professor McGonagall.
"Hah... no... stop... ah..." Professor McGonagall's body began to rhythm violently. While her mouth spoke words of resistance, her waist lifted higher, as if sacrificing her soul to him.
Those feet wearing high heels tensed in the air, drawing spasmodic arcs.
That trembling sensation of imminent climax exploded from the depths of McGonagall's body.
"Coming... coming... open your mouth, little rascal... catch it all..."
With a scream that could almost tear the soul apart, a long-accumulated warm current burst from the depths of her body. In that violent trembling, Professor McGonagall dedicated everything she had unreservedly to the boy beneath her.
A long time later!
Professor McGonagall's breathing finally steadied, but the flush brought by that pleasure had not yet completely faded from her high cheekbones.
She leaned half against the table, sizing up the boy in front of her and the clear marks belonging to her on his face with a gaze bordering on languid.
Slowly sitting up straight, Professor McGonagall extended a finger, her movements unhurried. Her fingertip gently stroked across Jerry's cheek, gathering that still-warm moisture back onto her finger.
Then, under Jerry's gaze, she leisurely sent that stained finger to her lips.
Lips slightly parted, she contained her fingertip, yet her gaze remained locked on his face, carrying a hint of playfulness.
Her tongue curled lightly, making a faint water sound, tasting all the flavor on it.
After tasting her own flavor, McGonagall withdrew her finger and muttered in a raspy tone carrying a warning:
"Try causing trouble for me again."
"Mr. Rosier!" McGonagall's address returned to its usual seriousness, as if reminding Jerry of the teacher-student relationship between them. "Also, go clean the girls' washroom after school!
Until I am satisfied!"
McGonagall's gaze was sharp as a knife, falling once again between Jerry's legs.
Because of the repeated stimulation just now, it had long since stood tall and proud again, propping up an extremely eye-catching tent in the school trousers.
"If I find you making random holes in the girls' washroom wall again next time..."
McGonagall's voice lowered again, filled with dangerous warning. "I will turn you into a statue and embed you completely into the wall for twenty-four hours!"
But her voice paused, a smile curling the corner of her mouth, gaze scanning back and forth between Jerry's face and that bulge below.
"Of course, this bad thing..."
Her chin jerked contemptuously toward Jerry's crotch. "Will stick out of the hole, as Hogwarts' warning to all unruly students."
As soon as the words fell, that black high heel, which had just tasted the fluids of lust, lifted mercilessly again, then with a punitive intent, stepped fiercely on that tortured meat root.
"Ugh!"
The force this time was much heavier than before.
Professor McGonagall stepped on Jerry, grinding her foot down hard, satisfyingly feeling the twitching sensation of that thing transmitted from the sole of her foot, before slowly retracting her foot.
Jumping down from the table, her movements returned to her usual briskness.
McGonagall tidied her slightly messy skirt hem and robe, her face returning to that stern, unsmiling expression, as if that erotic farce just now had never happened.
She tossed that piece of parchment casually onto the table in front of Jerry.
"Take your things and get out to class."