You glance at the clock and nearly curse aloud. Two in the morning. The castle is silent except for the faintest groan of ancient pipes and the distant, muffled snoring of Sir Cadogan’s portrait somewhere down the corridor. Your desk is littered with scrap parchment, three half-drained bottles of Butterbeer, and a battered copy of Advanced Defensive Hexes, which is currently serving as a coaster for your quill.
You rub your temples. This is not how you imagined your last summer at Hogwarts. You were supposed to be relaxing. Instead, you’re cramming for a make-up session of Magical Law—Professor McGonagall’s idea of mercy after the whole “Codex of Corruption” incident, which left you with two weeks of breakfast detentions and a formal warning from the Board of Governors. It could’ve been worse. At least you weren’t in Azkaban. Still, if you fail the test tomorrow, you’ll never hear the end of it from Hermione, even if she is currently sunning herself in Mallorca.
You reach for your quill, determined to finish the practice essay before sunrise. That’s when you hear the giggle. Not just any giggle, either—a high, silvery peal that’s unmistakably Luna’s, followed by a lower, more mischievous snort that could only be Ginny Weasley.
You freeze, mid-sentence, heart suddenly thumping. You definitely locked the door. You even checked it twice, because the last thing you needed was Seamus stumbling in and seeing you in your saggy pajamas, hair sticking up like a cursed hedgehog. You spin in your chair and find Ginny and Luna perched on your four-poster bed, legs swinging, eyes bright with mischief.
“How did you—?” you blurt, but Luna just smiles serenely.
“The password’s remarkably easy to guess when you know your friends so well,” she says. “Also, the Fat Lady is partial to Turkish Delight.”
Ginny grins, brandishing a small, lopsided cake. There are exactly nineteen candles jammed into the top, all of them blazing enthusiastically. “Happy Birthday, Harry,” she says.
You stare at the cake. You honestly forgot it was your birthday. After the last few weeks, you’re lucky you remember your own name. “Er… thanks,” you say, feeling a hot flush creep up your neck. “That’s really nice of you both, but I’ve got to finish this essay or I’m dead. McGonagall’s got a Niffler nose for half-arsed work.”
“Which is exactly why we’re here,” Ginny says, plopping the cake on your desk and elbowing aside your notes. “You haven’t celebrated properly in years. Consider this an intervention.”
You try to muster a protest. “That’s really sweet, but I’ve got to—”
Ginny cuts you off with a pointed look and a dangerous little smile. “We know you’ve got to study, Harry,” she says, scooting closer on the bed. Luna hums softly, swinging her legs and watching you with wide, dreamy eyes.
You turn back to your desk, determined to ignore them, but your hand is shaking a little as you write. Luna’s voice floats behind you, melodic and persuasive. “We brought presents. Proper ones. You deserve them, Harry.”
You freeze, quill hovering.
The silence that follows is thick as honey. You look over your shoulder, and Ginny’s leaning back on her palms, hair spilling over her shoulder, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. The neckline has collapsed to reveal a swath of freckles and the soft curve of her breasts, which you try not to stare at, and fail spectacularly. You’ve seen Ginny naked before, more than once, but you’re on very strict probation from anything sexual. And that feeling of the forbidden is only making you more aroused.
You open your mouth to say something—God knows what—but the words catch in your throat. Ginny’s face flickers, just for an instant, with something you can’t name. Luna tilts her head, ethereal as ever, and stands up. She glides over, slipping off her tie and dropping it to the floor. She delicately touches your shoulder.
“It’s all right to want things, Harry,” she says, voice low and soft as a secret. Her fingers are cool but not cold. “You can have both, you know. Magic and pleasure.”
She smiles, and the world narrows to her eyes, pale and clear as summer sky.
”So… do you want to unwrap your present, or should I?”
You swallow. “Luna, I—”
Before you can finish, she begins to unbutton her shirt. As she lets it fall away, you see she’s naked underneath, her small breasts tipped with rose-petal pink, her skin almost luminescent in the candlelight.
She suddenly leans in, her face so close you can see each individual eyelash, and kisses you. Her lips taste faintly of honey and something wild, like blackberries stolen from the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Her tongue parts your mouth, slow and deliberate, and you feel your mind begin to fray at the edges, all thoughts of transfiguration and legal precedent dissolving in the heat.
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Ginny’s behind you now, her hands sliding under your shirt, up your chest and over your shoulders. She bites your ear, just enough to send a jolt straight to your cock, and whispers, “You can finish the essay later.”
You’re so hard it hurts, and you’re aware of the absurdity of it, the way your body betrays you even as your brain scrambles for reasons to resist. You’re not supposed to do this. You’re supposed to be responsible. But Ginny’s hands are insistent, and Luna’s lips are soft, and you are so fucking tired of being good.
You almost do it. You almost take them both on the floor, in the open, with the candles guttering and the portraits snoring, with the taste of Luna’s mouth still lingering and Ginny’s nails still raking your chest. But you don’t. Instead, you pull back, breathing hard, and for a moment there’s a darkness behind your eyes, a flicker of something feral and mean that wants to bend Ginny over the bed and choke her while you fuck her, to make Luna whimper and beg, to break all the rules at once and never look back.
You shake your head, blinking away the fantasy. “I can’t,” you say, voice rough. “If McGonagall catches me with you in here—if anyone does—I’m gone. I’m this close to getting expelled, and…” You look at the floor. “I just can’t, not tonight.”
There’s a silence. You risk a glance up and see Luna and Ginny looking at each other, some silent conversation passing between them. Then Ginny shrugs, as if to say, Worth a shot, and Luna drapes your tie around her neck, then sits cross-legged on your bed, absently tracing circles on her own thigh. “We understand,” she says, voice dreamy and gentle, but her eyes are sharp and knowing. “You should finish your essay then, Harry. We’ll just… be here.”
You’re not sure if it’s a threat or a promise.
You turn, hands still shaking, and try to focus on your parchment, but your mind is a riot of images. Ginny’s lips, the soft hollow of Luna’s collarbone, the flash of tongue and teeth and the promise of more. The quill stutters across the page, and you’re grateful for the scratch of nib on parchment, the anchor of something solid and real. You force yourself to write, to ignore the rustles and sighs behind you, the giggles and whispers, the way the air in the room is thick as treacle.
You’re halfway through a paragraph on the Ethics of Magical Coercion when you realize it’s gone silent. Too silent. You glance over your shoulder and your heart lurches: Ginny is naked now, sprawled on her back on your bed, legs apart and one hand lazily cupping her breast. She’s watching Luna, who is kneeling on all fours at the foot of the bed, her arse in the air, her hair cascading down in a silver waterfall. Ginny’s other hand is between her legs, two fingers buried and moving in slow, deliberate circles.
You forget to breathe.
Luna glances over her shoulder, catches your eye, and gives a tiny, secret smile. Then she lowers her head and begins to rock against her own hand, the motion hypnotic, her back arched almost theatrically.
You have no idea how long you just sit there, watching. The essay is forgotten. All you can do is stare, transfixed, as Ginny whimpers and shudders and Luna hums softly, the two of them locked in their own strange gravity.
You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet, your hand gripping the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles ache. The words come out of your mouth before you know you’re speaking: “Luna. Eat Ginny out.”
The room stills. Luna’s head lifts, hair rippling, eyes wide and clear for once. There’s a flicker of surprise, then something like delight. She slides across the comforter, her knees and palms silent against the sheets, and positions herself between Ginny’s legs. Ginny’s gaze, glassy and wild, flicks to you, then to Luna, then back, as if checking that this is real, that she is truly being offered up as a gift.
Luna’s tongue is gentle at first, fluttering along the crease of Ginny’s thigh, then up, until she’s lapping at Ginny’s clit with a focused, almost scholarly attention. Ginny arches, her hands fisting in the blankets, her breath coming in quick, ragged bursts. There’s something obscene about the angle—Ginny’s hips rolling, Luna’s pale hair tumbling over Ginny’s stomach, her mouth buried between Ginny’s thighs—and you feel the dark pulse in your chest again.
You want to command them both. You want to watch them obey.
You strip off your shirt, barely noticing the buttons popping loose, then shove your pajamas and boxers down in one motion. Your cock is already painfully hard, curving up toward your stomach, and you catch Ginny’s eye just as she is about to come—her lips parted in a silent scream, her whole body shuddering. Luna keeps licking, slow and unhurried, drawing out every last tremor.
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“Stop,” you command.
There’s a silence, thick and charged. But the girls instantly obey.
Luna lifts her head, her lips slick and shining, and Ginny collapses back on the bed, aching to cum.
You walk over and lie back on the bed, the sheets cool beneath your skin, your cock standing up like a silent command. Ginny’s eyes are fixed on it, glazed with lust and something like challenge, a dare between you that only she can answer. She crawls up the bed, hair wild, face flushed, and swings a leg over you, planting her knees on either side of your thighs. For a moment she just hovers, the wet heat of her cunt barely brushing your tip, and you feel a shudder of anticipation so sharp it’s almost pain.
She sinks down in one slow, merciless motion, taking you inside her all at once. The sensation is blinding. You arch your hips, desperate for more, but Ginny presses her palms to your chest and pins you back to the mattress. She rocks her hips, grinding herself against your pelvis, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Every movement sends aftershocks through your body, pleasure so sharp it borders on agony.
You grip her thighs, digging your fingers into the soft flesh, urging her faster, but Ginny just laughs—a low, guttural sound—and slaps your hands away. “I’m in charge,” she pants, and fuck, you want to argue, but you can’t, not when she’s riding you like this, her body a wave that threatens to drown you.
Luna watches from the foot of the bed, her eyes wide and unblinking, hand moving slowly between her own legs. The air in the room is electric, thick with the smell of sweat and sex and birthday candles burning down to stubs.
Ginny leans forward, her hair falling around your face, her mouth finding yours in a brutal, hungry kiss. She grinds down, harder and harder, until you feel her start to shake, her whole body tensing around you. You know she’s close, so close, but then she stops, pulls off with a wet pop, and kneels back, breathless and grinning.
“Your turn, Luna,” she says, voice thick with triumph.
Luna doesn’t hesitate. She glides up the bed, her skin cool and shivery against yours, and straddles your hips, her cunt slick and dripping. She sinks onto your cock with a gasp, her eyes rolling back, and you’re struck by the contrast—where Ginny was fire, Luna is water, her movements slow and undulating, her body moving in waves that threaten to pull you under.
She rides you with a strange, ethereal grace, her hands tracing patterns on your chest, her hair floating around her face like a halo. She moans, soft and high, and you feel her clench around you, her orgasm building with every thrust. You reach up and tangle your fingers in her hair, pulling her down for a kiss, and she melts into you, her body trembling.
You’re close, so close, and Luna must feel it, because she smiles against your mouth and whispers, “Not yet,” before pulling off, leaving you aching and desperate.
Luna’s weight is gone but her scent lingers, cool and herbal, like crushed mint and summer fields. You reach for her, needing to feel her skin, and she lets you guide her down, her slender hips cradled between your hands. The sheets bunch under her knees as she settles over you, moon-pale and trembling. She’s so wet you slide in with dangerous ease, and the sudden, perfect pressure is more than you can bear.
You brace yourself above her, elbows locked, and watch her eyes flutter open. She stares up at you, unblinking, as if she’s waiting for a spell to be cast. Her lips are parted, her breath hot and sweet on your face. You fuck her slow, at first, savoring the way she tightens and releases, the way her hands clutch at your shoulders and her legs wrap around your waist. Every thrust is a question and an answer, a silent conversation you’ve never learned to speak until now.
Luna’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “Harder, Harry.”
You oblige gladly, hips snapping forward, the slap of your bodies loud in the hush of the dormitory. You feel her nails rake your back, sharp enough to raise welts, and the pain only sharpens your pleasure. She gasps, her head thrown back, hair fanned across the pillow like spilled milk.
You lose yourself in her, in the rhythm and the wet heat, the way her whole body trembles and bucks beneath you. You want to make her scream, to wring every drop of sound from her, to fill the silence of the castle with the proof of your need. You change the angle, digging your knees into the mattress, and Luna’s moans turn to cries, high and keening, echoing off the stone walls.
She comes with a shudder, her legs locking around you, her hands clutching fistfuls of your hair. You keep fucking her through it, helpless to stop, chasing your own release. She’s still spasming when you pull out, cock slick and aching, and roll her gently to the side.
Ginny is waiting, eyes blazing, sweat shining on her chest and stomach. She grabs your wrist and yanks you down, her mouth crashing against yours, teeth and tongue and fury. She spreads her legs, knees drawn up, and you line yourself up, pushing inside in one brutal stroke.
Ginny is tighter than you remember, her cunt gripping you like a fist, and she arches up to meet you, greedy for every inch. You fuck her hard, faster than you should, all restraint gone. She claws your back, bites your lip, dares you to hurt her. You oblige, pinning her wrists above her head and pounding into her until the bed creaks dangerously.
She grins up at you, wild and feral, and says, “Is that all you’ve got, Chosen One?”
You see red. You shift your grip from her wrists to her throat, thumb and fingers circling the slim column of her neck. You squeeze, just enough to make her eyes go wide, her breath come shallow. She bares her teeth in a snarl of pure pleasure, her cunt clenching tight.
You squeeze harder, not thinking, just feeling the way Ginny’s pulse pounds against your palm, the way her eyes flare with wild delight, her hips grinding up to meet every savage thrust. She’s moaning now, not words but a desperate, animal sound, her whole body straining for more, for all of it, for you. You fuck her like you want to kill her, like you want to erase the memory of every time you said no, every time you made yourself small and safe and dull. She’s so tight you almost can’t move, and you realize you love the feeling of her struggling for air, the power of your hand around her throat, the knowledge that you could choke the world away and she’d let you.
You want to see how far you can go. You want to see if she’ll tap out, if she’ll claw at your hand in panic, if she’ll come so hard she blacks out. You want to see if you can break her and then put her back together again.
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But then something in you snaps, a cold thread of fear winding up your spine. You let go, suddenly terrified by how much you want it. Ginny gasps, her face flushed almost purple, and you pull out, falling back onto the mattress, cock slick and throbbing, heart pounding in your ears.
Ginny coughs once, then sits up, rubbing her neck. Her eyes are bright and wet, her mouth twisted in a wicked, triumphant smile. She stares you down, daring you to look away.
“Glad you still have it in you, Harry,” she says, voice hoarse and proud.
You can’t speak. Your hands are shaking. Luna is curled up on the pillow beside you, watching with a calm, dreamy interest, as if nothing in the world is more natural than what just happened.
Ginny leans back, planting her palms on the mattress, and spreads her legs again, the red thatch of her cunt glistening in the candlelight. “Well?” she says, arching an eyebrow,her thighs is the most obscene invitation you’ve ever seen.
You don’t even remember moving, but suddenly you’re kneeling between her legs, hands on the insides of her knees, spreading her wider. Her cunt is still glistening, but it’s her arsehole that draws your gaze: a perfect, tight circle, twitching in anticipation, as if it knows exactly what’s coming.
You lean forward, spit pooling in your mouth, and you run your tongue up the seam of her cunt, over her clit, and then higher, dragging a slick stripe over her hole. Ginny shudders, her hands shooting to your hair, gripping so hard it hurts. You lick her again, slower this time, pressing the tip of your tongue against the tight ring, and she moans, low and desperate. You spit again, dribbling it onto your thumb, and rub it around and around her opening until it glistens, softening under your insistent circles.
Luna watches, still kneeling at the foot of the bed, fingers lazily stroking herself. She makes a humming sound, approving and strange, like she’s cataloguing the way Ginny’s arse slowly opens under your touch, the way Ginny’s breath goes ragged and her hips buck up, greedy for more.
You line up the head of your cock, thick and slick with Luna’s wetness, and nudge it against Ginny’s asshole. Her eyes snap open, and for a second there’s fear, or maybe just anticipation, and then she nods, biting her lip. “Do it,” she whispers. “I want it, Harry. Please.”
You press forward, slow at first, but Ginny’s body resists, clinging to the very tip of you. You spit in your hand, stroke yourself, and try again. This time you breach her, feel the ring of muscle stretch and then give, and the sensation is so new and so intense you almost come immediately. Ginny gasps, her back arching, her nails digging into your arms. You push in another inch, and another, until you’re buried halfway, her arsehole stretched wide around you, impossibly tight and hot.
She’s whimpering now, but it’s not pain, not really—it’s the sound of surrender. You grip her hips, thumbs digging into the sharp points of her pelvis, and drive the rest of your cock into her in one slow, brutal thrust. The world goes white at the edges. Ginny screams into the pillow, but she’s grinding back against you, hungry for every inch. You start to fuck her, short, savage strokes, and every movement pulls a raw, helpless sound from Ginny’s throat.
It’s different from her cunt—tighter, rougher, a grip so intense you can barely move. You slam your hips forward, burying yourself balls-deep in Ginny’s arse, and her whole body jerks up the bed. She’s gasping, the shock of it etched on her face—eyes huge, mouth open in a silent, perfect “O”—but she doesn’t tell you to stop. She doesn’t even try to wriggle away. Instead, she claws at your forearms, her nails leaving bright red trails, and draws her knees up higher, exposing herself in a way that’s so raw, so vulnerable, you feel like you might tear apart just looking at her.
You fuck her hard, with no mercy and no patience, the way you’ve always wanted but never dared. Every thrust forces a choked, stuttering whimper from Ginny’s throat, her voice breaking in time with the slap of your hips against her arse. The tightness is unreal, a fist gripping you, and you fuck into it, desperate and wild. Ginny’s face is a mess of tears and drool and sweat, and she’s staring up at you like she wants to devour you whole.
Luna drifts closer, her pale hand stroking your back, her lips pressed to your shoulder as she watches the way Ginny’s body yields under you. “So beautiful,” Luna murmurs, as if you’ve conjured some impossible magic, and her hand slides down between your legs, cupping your balls, squeezing in rhythm with your thrusts.
You’re almost gone, the edge right there, and you want to make it last, but Ginny’s so tight and so hot and you’ve never fucked anything that felt like this, raw and forbidden, the kind of thing you’re not supposed to want. You piston into her, faster now, the bed slamming against the wall, and Ginny’s head thrashes from side to side. She’s mumbling something, words lost in the mess of her breath, and you realize she’s begging—“please, Harry, please, fuck, don’t stop, I need it, I need it—”
You feel yourself about to lose it, and you pull out at the last second, your cock slipping free of her arse with a wet, obscene pop. Ginny collapses back, legs splayed, arsehole gaping and red, and you barely get a hand around your cock before you’re coming, hard, ropes of cum splattering Ginny’s stomach, her tits, even her chin. The sight of it—your own cum pooling on her flushed skin—makes you shudder so violently you almost collapse.
Before you can even catch your breath, Ginny twists, grabs your cock with both hands, and licks the fat head — still slick with her ass — like she’s starving for it. She gives it a wet, greedy suck, smearing your cum and her own taste all over her lips and tongue, then looks up at you, eyes dazed and happy.
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Somewhere in the haze, you realize the spells from the Codex must still be working, not only on you but also on the girls. You wonder, dimly, if Luna and Ginny are under your control, or if this is just who they are now. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.
Ginny leans back on her elbows, cum dripping down her chest, and smears it over her breasts with both hands, slow and sensual. “Happy Birthday, Harry,” she says, her voice wrecked but triumphant.
Luna crawls up beside her, trailing her tongue up Ginny’s shoulder, licking a bead of cum from her collarbone. “We should do this every year,” she murmurs, and Ginny laughs, the sound raw and perfect.
You collapse on the bed, utterly spent, and stare at the ceiling, listening to the girls giggle and whisper beside you.
Fuck Professor McGonagall and her stupid tests. It’s your birthday.
* * *
You wake up in a tangle of sheets, mouth dry as sand, head throbbing with a hangover as dense as a Dementor’s fog. It’s the flutter of parchment that stirs you fully—your essay, still unfinished, scattered across the desk, ink smeared into constellations of guilt.
Merlin’s beard. Your test is in fifteen minutes.
You’ve never moved so fast in your life. You throw on yesterday’s robes, stumble over Luna’s knickers, and nearly brain yourself on the bedpost before hurtling out the portrait hole, trailing parchment and panic in your wake. The halls are empty, quiet in a way that feels ominous, as if the castle itself is judging you.
You skid into the Transfiguration classroom, bracing for McGonagall’s glare, for the icy precision of her disappointment. Instead, you find Ron and George lounging in the front row, feet up on the desk, grinning like they’ve just set fire to the Quidditch pitch and gotten away with it.
“’Bout time, mate,” Ron says, peeling an orange with wandless finesse. “We were starting to think you’d carked it.”
You stare, wild-eyed, waiting for Professor McGonagall to materialize in a cloud of tartan and fury. Instead, George leans in, waggling his eyebrows. “She’s gone ‘til tomorrow, mate. Some kind of emergency with the Board that we may or may not have arranged. You’re off the hook!”
You want to believe them, but paranoia is a hard habit to break. “What if she checks the sign-in sheet? Or the essay dropbox? Or—”
Ron tosses you a chocolate frog, which you catch more out of reflex than hunger. “Relax, Harry. It’s your birthday. You think we’d let you get poodle-ified over a stupid test?”
You’re not sure you believe them, but your hands are still shaking and the sugar helps. “What’s the catch?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.
George grins wider. “We couldn’t very well let the Chosen One celebrate alone, could we? Especially not after last night’s… exploits.” He winks, and you flush with the memory of Ginny’s laugh, Luna’s tongue, the fever of bodies in the dark.
“You’re up for round two,” Ron says, and before you can protest, they’ve each grabbed an arm and are steering you toward the old potion lab, the one Slughorn abandoned after the incident with the self-replicating firewhisky.
The air inside is thick with anticipation, and something else—fear? Excitement? You can’t tell. What you can tell is that there are people waiting: three girls, sprawled on their backs on the long wooden prep table. You blink, not trusting your own eyes.
Ginny, Luna, and—Cho?
Cho’s here, hair loose, eyes bright and a little glassy. She lifts her head and gives you a slow once-over, as if you’re an answer to a riddle she hasn’t quite solved.
Ginny sits up, and you see the bruises blooming on her throat.
You try to say something, anything to break the spell—tell them you’re not ready, that you’re still shaking off the hangover and the weirdness of last night, that you can’t just repeat it, not with everyone watching. But before the words are even out, the three girls raise their legs in perfect synchrony, white cotton flashing up their thighs, the three of them framed against the battered surface of the table like a fever dream you once had at age fourteen and never quite forgot.
You’re speechless. Ginny’s panties are stretched thin and slightly askew, a dark, wet patch already visible. Luna’s are plain, but her hips move in little, teasing circles, and she’s looking at you with calm mischief, as if daring you to do something reckless. Cho’s are cut high and frilled, the kind of thing you’d expect her to wear under her uniform, and her face is bright with anticipation, cheeks flushed to the tips of her ears.
It’s too much. Your cock stiffens instantly—painfully—pressing against your trousers with the same dumb, helpless insistence as last night. But this time there’s no privacy, no slow seduction, just the three girls and Ron and George and a table that smells of old parchment and possibility.
You should say something—something clever, or at least something to buy time. But you don’t. Instead, a shadowy tendril inside you flexes, the same dark desire from last night, and you find yourself speaking with a calm, terrible authority: “Ginny. Cho. Kiss.”
You don’t say please. You don’t ask twice.
For a split second, both girls freeze—Ginny’s jaw tense, Cho’s eyes narrowing with a pang of pride or protest. The moment hangs between them, brittle as spun glass. You see all the old resentment there, the cold rivalry, but also the glint of something new—curiosity, or maybe hunger.
But Ginny leans across the table first, her hands splayed for balance, and Cho meets her halfway. Their mouths crash together, hard at first, then softer, as if they’re learning how to share the space between their bodies. You watch Ginny’s tongue flick out, watch Cho’s lips part, and your vision goes a little blurry at the edges.
Ron and George both let out a low, reverent “fuck,” but you barely register them. You can only watch as Ginny and Cho kiss and lick each other’s tongues with a fierceness. Then as suddenly as they started, they stop, and look back at you, waiting for your next move.
You see that Ron and George have already shucked their pants in a single, practiced motion, cocks jutting out and proud. George’s is longer, Ron’s is thicker, and for a wild moment you wonder if this is what friendship means now—lining up together and sharing everything, even this.
“Mate, I know the codex is evil and all,” Ron says, his voice panting with excitement, “but bloody hell, the side effects are—” he gestures at the girls, words failing him.
You’re not even sure who moves first, whether it’s you or them, but suddenly you’re yanking your trousers down, almost tearing the zip in your haste. Your cock bounces free, red and angry and already leaking. The girls part their legs, Ginny scooting back to the edge of the table, Luna pulling Cho’s knickers to the side in a sly, practiced gesture.
You grip Ginny by the thighs, her skin hot under your palms, and guide yourself into her in one smooth, desperate motion. She’s wetter than yesterday, if that’s even possible, and the sensation nearly makes your knees give out. Her ankles lock behind your back, pulling you deeper, and she moans, loud and raw.
You glance sideways, and see George plunging into Luna with a kind of reverence, his hands splayed wide on her hips, steadying her as he thrusts in deep, measured strokes. Luna’s eyes roll back, her mouth open in a silent gasp, but she meets every movement, arching her back and whispering encouragements in a dreamy, sing-song voice.
Ron is fucking Cho, who seems to have abandoned all reserve, wrapping her legs around his waist and digging her nails into his shoulders with each ragged, pleading thrust. Ron’s face is slack with pleasure, and for a moment you’re not sure if he’s even breathing. Cho’s hair fans out across the table, and she’s clutching at Ron’s arse with both hands, urging him faster.
You try to pace yourself, but it’s impossible. Ginny is so tight, so greedy, your control dissolves almost instantly. You slam into her, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls, and she gasps your name over and over, each time louder and less coherent. Your vision tunnels, the whole world reduced to the furious clench of Ginny’s cunt and the animal sounds of the others beside you.
You’re dimly aware of George muttering something, maybe a spell, and suddenly everything feels even more intense—your cock is thicker, longer, impossibly hard, and you realize he’s cast engorgio on all of you. Ginny squeals in delight as you bottom out, her body stretching to accommodate you, and her face is glazed with shock and pleasure.
You’re all fucking now, the three of you in perfect, obscene rhythm, the girls writhing and bucking, the table rocking beneath you. George grins over Luna’s shoulder, sweat dripping down his temples, and you realize you’re all going to finish at the same time, like it’s been choreographed by fate or the codex itself.
Ginny arches up, her whole body locking in a rictus of pleasure, and you feel her convulse around you, milking your cock with desperate, clutching spasms. Luna cries out, her voice high and clear, and George grunts, slamming into her with final, brutal strokes. Ron’s face is contorted in shock, and Cho is screaming his name, her cunt clenching so tight you can see his cock pulse inside her.
You try to hold back, to make it last, but the sensation is too much. You pull out at the last second and shoot a massive load across Ginny’s belly, thick ropes splattering up to her breasts and chin and into her gasping mouth. The effect of the engorgio spell seems to have also effected the size of the cumshots. Ron is next, pulling out and painting Cho’s chest and face and hair with hot, pearled streaks. George is last, and he comes with a groan, his cum firing over Luna’s body and face and pooling on her spasming pussy.
The girls lie back, panting, sweat-slicked and shining, the smell of sex sharp and sweet in the air. Luna scoops a glob of cum from her stomach with two fingers and sucks it clean, then offers the next to Ginny, who licks it up with a grin. Cho sits up, breasts streaked with white, and wipes a line of it from her nipple with studied precision.
Luna sighs contentedly. “That was fun, boys. Shall we try the backdoor next? Or maybe… make Ginny airtight?”
Ginny groans, rolling her eyes. “Luna, they’re my brothers!”
Luna shrugs, all innocence. “Oh, I’m sure they won’t mind.”
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You want to laugh, but you’re too spent to move, your legs trembling and your cock still twitching with the aftershocks. You watch as Luna turns and bends over the table, presenting her arse, pale and perfect, and looks back at George with a sly smile. He doesn’t hesitate, slicking his cock with two fingers and lining up at her hole, spitting once for luck.
Ron and Cho are already at it again, Ron pushing her down onto her hands and knees, fucking her with wild, uneven thrusts. Ginny, ever the hellion, wipes the cum from her stomach and spreads it over her clit, moaning as she rubs herself to another quick orgasm.
You’re not sure how much time passes, only that the room is a blur of bodies and sweat and the relentless, addictive rhythm of sex. You’re hard again before you know it, and Ginny pulls you back inside her, both of you howling with the raw friction. This time you don’t even try to last, and the second you feel her clench, you slam into her, filling her with cum, the feeling so good you almost black out.
You collapse onto the table, the three of you spent and tangled together, the girls curled up against your sides, the boys already passing out candy and laughing like idiots.
Afterwards, you sit on the floor, back to the wall, and watch as the girls clean up, giggling and trading stories, so at ease with their own nakedness it makes your chest ache. You look at Ron and George, both of them grinning and lazy, and you realize you’re all in this together now, bound by something deeper than any spell.
But the memory of the codex lingers, dark and heavy at the edge of your thoughts. You remember the way it felt—like a voice in your blood, urging you on, making you want things you’ve never thought possible before. You wonder if this is what evil really is: not darkness, but hunger without limits. Not violence, but desire with no retraints.
You don’t know how to fight it, or if you even want to.
You close your eyes and let the voices wash over you, the taste of Ginny’s mouth still lingering, the ache in your thighs a perfect reminder. You wonder what will happen tomorrow, or the day after, or when Hermione comes back and finds out what you’ve become.
But for now, you just breathe, and hope you can hold onto this—this wild, reckless happiness—just a little longer.
—
Three days pass. The world doesn’t end. McGonagall returns, finds your essay on her desk, written in a feverish hand and stained with what might be cake or might be something else. She gives you a sharp, suspicious look and says nothing. You pass the test, barely, and spend the afternoon in the library, pretending to study but really just staring out the window and replaying every second of the last seventy-two hours.
Ginny and Luna act as if nothing happened, though sometimes you catch them watching you in class, their gazes heavy and secret. Ron and George are the same as ever, though now they share a new kind of joke, a wordless understanding that flickers between them whenever you’re all together.
You wonder if anyone will ever talk about it, or if it will become one more strange, impossible secret locked away in Hogwarts, waiting for someone else to stumble over it.
You’re almost used to the feeling of being haunted. Maybe you even like it.
That night, you’re drifting off to sleep when you hear the giggle again—a high, silvery note that echoes through the empty common room. You get up, barely bothering to dress, and follow the sound. You find Ginny and Luna waiting on your bed, legs crossed, eyes bright, the air thick with possibility.
You don’t hesitate this time.
You climb between them, and let the magic take you.
THE END
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