The Grand Hall was cavernous, echoing, the walls seeming to stretch upwards forever. Hermione stood at its heart, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her robes, the silence around her loud and expectant. A little ways back, a throng of students huddled together, their faces a sea of eager anticipation.
They wore Gryffindor scarves and badges emblazoned with Hermione's name, their cheers and whispered encouragements a distant hum, like the beating of a hundred nervous hearts. She could feel the weight of their hope pressing upon her, and beneath it, a flicker of doubt gnawed at her confidence. Who would dare challenge her this year?
The smell of wax and parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint chill that seemed to seep from the stone floor. She glanced at the great oak doors across the hall, her gaze sharp and unblinking. Any moment now, they would swing open, and she would know. Her mind spun with possibilities, each more aggravating than the last.
The hinges creaked, and the doors parted with a slow, heavy groan. She stiffened, her breath catching, as a mass of students poured through, the clamor of their arrival a stark contrast to the tense quiet that had preceded it.
They huddled together, a chattering crowd from all the other houses. She searched their ranks, scanning for some clue, some sign of who had dared to oppose her. Was it Cho Chang again? Her thoughts tumbled over one another in anxious succession. Maybe that insufferable upstart from Slytherin, Daphne—
She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that left her momentarily drained of all others.
There she was, emerging from the throng with infuriating calm. A perfectly grey version of the Gryffindor uniform clung to her slim figure, transforming the vibrant colors into a mockery.
Wednesday Addams.
She moved forward, wand in hand, her face an inscrutable mask, devoid of even the slightest flicker of emotion. Hermione's heart pounded, a dull roar in her ears. How could she?
The betrayal was a bitter taste on her tongue, more galling than any potion gone wrong. She had taken the exchange student from Nevermore under her wing, taught her with infinite patience over the last few months, only for this? Hot, raw fury burned behind her eyes, and she blinked hard, trying to quell it. This only further fueled her other suspicions - that Wednesday was competing also for Harry’s affections.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, a storm of anger brewing within them. Wednesday paused a few paces away, just outside the dueling arena, and allowed herself the slightest hint of a smirk. She lifted her wand, readying it for the duel, her movements deliberate, almost lazy. The others crowded close, the room a tense, loaded silence.
“Traitor,” Hermione hissed under her breath, her voice a taut line of disbelief and rage. She felt the heat of a hundred stares, the anticipation of the crowd a living, breathing thing around her. Her hand tightened around her wand, and she steadied her stance.
"You little traitor,” she said with a clear, cutting voice. “Take this... Stupify!" A green light shot from her wand, streaking across the space between them.
Wednesday barely flinched, knocking the spell away with a flick of her own wand, sending it spiraling into the wall, harmless.
"That's the best you can do? How pathetic." She quipped, her voice smooth and even. "Ignie sphera!"
Hermione barely had time to step back, shocked at Wednesday's choice of a fireball spell. It was both incredibly advanced and incredibly dangerous. Quickly, she whispered the words of the fire charm to protect her body from the flames, as the fire engulfed her.
As the inferno dissipated, the fire charm had indeed protected her and her clothing, but the force of the blast had blown apart her uniform, fully exposing her breasts for everyone to see.
Too livid to even care, Hermione blurted out, "How dare you, you double-crossing cunt. Exvestio!" And then very quietly, she whispered a spell she’d learned from Harry from the Codex of Corruption, "Facialus."
The top of Wednesday's uniform disappeared, and a throbbing cock appeared near her face. She regarded it coolly as it began to ejaculate thick whitish cum onto her face and breasts, pumping cumshot after cumshot until she was dripping with semen.
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"Wednesday!" she screamed, the word a frantic plea.
"Just enjoy it!" Wednesday's voice was distant, echoing, as she dropped through the loosened tangle of vines.
The tentacle released another slimy torrent, the sheer volume of it staggering. She gasped, the taste acrid and salty on her lips. The vines fucked her harder, the pleasure cresting into something monstrous, overwhelming. Her vision blurred, and she felt herself slipping, the world narrowing to the slick, writhing mass of tentacles and the all-consuming, pulsing waves of sensation.
Then, suddenly, the snare's grip slackened, and she was falling again, the pit yawning wide to swallow her. The relief was dizzying, a rush of air and freedom. She hit the ground with a jarring thud, the impact knocking her breathless once more.
She lay there, stunned, the cool stone beneath her a stark contrast to the fevered heat of her skin. The world spun, and she struggled to make sense of it, her body trembling, her mind a chaotic jumble of shock and lingering, unwanted pleasure.
Wednesday was already standing, the egg still miraculously clutched in her arms. Her expression was calm, almost serene, as if the ordeal had barely touched her.
Hermione staggered to her feet, wrapping her arms around her nakedness, her cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation. "You pushed me into the pit!" she accused, her voice shaky, raw.
Wednesday looked at her coolly, “I saved you. And got you a good tentacle fuck as a bonus. Like I said, you can thank me later.”
Hermione lunged, her fury propelling her towards Wednesday. She was ready to tackle her, to wrestle the egg from her smug, insufferable grip, when the thick wooden door flew open with a thunderous crash.
Headmistress McGonagall strode in, her robes billowing, her expression a mixture of anger and urgency. She took in the scene with a sweeping glance, her lips pressing into a stern, disapproving line.
"Miss Granger! Miss Addams!" Her voice was sharp, demanding their immediate attention. "Must I always find you in such a state of undress? Vestio Reddo!"
A flick of her wand, and their clothes snapped back onto their bodies, the sudden modesty almost more shocking than the nudity had been.
"This is becoming habit-forming," she quipped, her tone dry and unimpressed.
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, to explain, but McGonagall silenced her with a raised hand. "There has been sabotage," she said, her voice low and severe. "Someone has tampered with the challenge. No ordinary Devil’s Snare would behave in such a manner."
Hermione's eyes shot to Wednesday, a glare of accusation burning in them. But McGonagall shook her head, dismissing the suspicion without a word.
The Headmistress stepped forward, raising Wednesday's hand in the air, the golden egg gleaming in the dim light. "Miss Addams," she declared, "winner of the first challenge."
Hermione’s heart sank, the sting of defeat and betrayal a sharp, bitter ache. The Headmistress turned her shrewd gaze on Hermione, lines of worry creasing her brow. "Be careful," she cautioned, her voice softening with concern. "This is more dangerous than it seems. Do not let your guard down. Especially with the very… unusual challenge, yet to come…"
And with that cryptic remark, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving the door open for a small crowd of students to enter to congratulate the girls on surviving the first challenge.
* * *
SECOND CHALLENGE
Out beneath the wet, endless sigh of the Forbidden Forest, Thing scuttled over lichen and pine needles, his knuckles powder-white with excitement. Wednesday drifted behind him, the only sound her boots grinding frost into the roots, her hair a black flag in the shifting moonlight. They moved without lantern or wand-light, relying on the hand’s preternatural senses and Wednesday’s own peculiar intuition, which was as reliable as any divination, so long as one preferred to know the absolute worst.
Thing darted up the trunk of a toppled cedar and vanished, reappearing seconds later at her feet, fingers splayed in frantic semaphore. He pointed, insistent, and Wednesday followed his gesture to a hollow in the gloom.
Wednesday peered, her hair a black shroud, and saw it: a Lucifern, lesser kin of the Hungarian Horntail, but far more lethal in its own quiet, methodical way. The dragon was not much larger than a Shetland pony, its body plated in ridged, pewter-grey scales that drank the light. It grazed the undergrowth with a delicate, almost herbivorous patience, but every movement was a study in potential violence. Its head, narrow and wedge-shaped, was crowned with a lattice of black horns, and its eyes burned with a blank, mineral intelligence.
She knew about the Lucifern, of course; she had read every bestiary worth reading. The flesh was immune to all known magical attacks, and the scales, prized by mad alchemists and certain Gothic couturiers, could withstand a direct hit from a blasting curse. But it was the breath, a vaporous translucent mist, that was most dangerous: it did not burn, but instead liquefies anything it touches.
“Delightful,” Wednesday whispered. She reached down, and Thing climbed her arm, settling at her shoulder. She pressed her face into his palm, exhaling a tiny sigh of affection. “You’ve earned your reward, mon petit diable.”
His fingers wiggled in riotous anticipation, practically vibrating with glee.
“Tonight, you may administer ten strokes to my ass. Hard ones,” she promised, deadpan.
Thing gave a little dance of joy.
But Wednesday peered through the chill, a sliver of doubt worming into certainty. “I hate to admit it,” Wednesday murmured, her voice an ember in the dark, “but that thing is… problematic. We’ll need Granger. Preferably with all her faculties intact.”
Thing gestured in rapid, exasperated sign: Why not just unleash the tentacle vines again?
Wednesday snorted. “Devil’s Snare prefers soft targets, dear. This would be like strangling a trebuchet with ribbon.” Her gaze lingered on the draken, calculating.
They ghosted back through the woods, Thing circling her like a fretful moon, until the castle’s silhouette loomed, all sharp angles and flickering shadows.
Wednesday’s thoughts ran hot as mercury: if this was the next challenge, the tournament committee had lost any pretense of mercy or fairness. She’d seen the scars on the trees, the casual devastation of a beast that regarded magic the way ordinary lizards regarded rain. It could reduce a wizard to jam in less time than it took McGonagall to conjure a disapproving frown.
* * *
From behind the tree, Hermione’s mouth twitched, lips thinning as she watched the Lucifern pace its shadowy circuit. She met Wednesday’s gaze for a fleeting, electric moment—there was recognition there, and no small measure of alarm.
She lowered her voice, afraid the dragon might overhear them. “That’s not a sanctioned breed. It’s not even in the Ministry’s latest compendium. Where did they get it?”
Thing mimed a shrug, then stabbed a finger at the forest path, eager for action. Wednesday let her hair veil her face, but Hermione saw the corner of her mouth tighten in reluctant agreement.
“A Lucifern?” Hermione muttered. “These challenges are supposed to be hard, not outright homicidal.”
Wednesday’s eyes glinted. “You’re not advocating we tattle, are you?”
“No, I—” Hermione huffed, her composure ruffled. “I just—” She caught herself. “We’re being tested. Not just for skill, but for… something else.”
Wednesday’s smile was thin as a blade. “For our capacity to be liquefied?”
Hermione’s brow wrinkled as she re-ran the list of spells in her prodigious memory. “Even a senior magus would have trouble subduing that thing. I—” She stopped herself again, then said, quietly, “I don’t know what to do.”
Wednesday’s voice was almost gentle, which in her was a form of insult. “Granger stumped. Here’s a first.”
Hermione’s lips twitched again, but she held Wednesday’s gaze, stubborn. “No. I do know what we must do. I need information. And I know where to get it.”
Thing gestured: To the library?
Hermione shook her head. “Better. To Hagrid. He knows these kind of beasts, and while he won’t want to break the rules, there are ways to get him to, well, spill...” She fixed Wednesday with a look.
Wednesday rolled her eyes. “Men. So predictable.”
* * *
Hagrid’s hut smelled of peat, tobacco, and the faint, lingering aroma of burnt pastry. The windows glowed with a buttery light, casting the two girls in soft relief as they perched in chairs much too large for them, knees drawn together and hands folded with the strained politeness of those about to ask for something illicit.
Hagrid poured cocoa into mugs large enough to drown a Niffler. He wore his usual expression, a mixture of beaming pride and constant, low-grade anxiety. “So, yeh made it past the first round, then?”
Wednesday nodded, eyes fixed on the fire. Hermione sipped at her mug and made a small noise of gratitude.
“Hagrid,” she began, “we need to ask you something. Hypothetically.”
Hagrid’s beard twitched. “Hypothetically, eh?”
Hermione leaned forward, all earnestness. “If someone wanted to subdue a Lucifern, what would be the optimal—”
Hagrid choked on his mug, spraying a constellation of cocoa over his beard. “Lucifern? Now where would you be hearing that?”
Wednesday didn’t blink. “It’s the next challenge. Thing sniffed it out. He’s very sensitive to the scent of high-concentration toxins and ancient, angry reptiles.” She tickled her familiar absently under the wrist; the hand preened.
“Oi, but yeh can’t—” Hagrid’s protest trailed off into a helpless, sheepish groan. He set the kettle down with more force than necessary, rattling the mugs. “No, no, no. I can’t—I’m under strictest instructions.” His hands, each the size of a dinner plate, wrung themselves until the knuckles split white. “Was a right fuss, getting her here. Owe a lot of folk a lot of favors. If word got round I’d… well, I’d be sacked. More’n sacked. I’d lose my creatures. All of them.”
Hermione’s voice pitched softer, almost a plea. “But Hagrid, you know what’s at stake. If we face that thing cold, one of us—if not both of us—are likely to end up a smear on the floor. Or a puddle.”
Hagrid’s gaze darted to the fire, then to the window, as if he half-expected Dumbledore’s beard to materialize and censure him through the glass. He drank deep from his mug, then sloshed more cocoa, as if the answer might float to the top.
“Look, even if I wanted to help—an’ I’m not sayin’ I do—I can’t. Swore the old, old oath. Not allowed to talk about the next challenge. Not a word, not a clue, not a hint.”
Wednesday emitted a rattling little sigh, the kind that usually preceded either destruction or diplomacy. She stood, crossed the small room, and stopped directly in front of Hagrid. Without ceremony, she reached out and cupped his bulging groin through the rough tweed of his trousers.
The effect was immediate: Hagrid yelped, nearly upending the cocoa, and went crimson above the beard. “Miss Addams!” he sputtered, “that’s—y’can’t—”
“Either you’re smuggling a baby Burmese python,” Wednesday intoned, deadpan, “or there’s an arrangement we could... work out.” She squeezed, just perceptibly.
Hagrid’s face went the color of raw steak. “No, no, that’s not—I mean—oh, heavens—I don’t—”
Hermione stood as well, eyes wide but calculating. She moved closer, her hand resting lightly on Hagrid’s trembling forearm. “Please, Hagrid,” she purred, her voice dipped in honey. She undid the top button of her blouse with deliberate slowness. “We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You know we’d never tell.”
Hagrid’s jaw worked soundlessly. For a moment, he looked ready to bolt, or perhaps burst into tears. “Please don’t make me—” he managed, voice strangled.
Hermione didn’t bother responding. She undid the remaining buttons on her blouse, one by one, her gaze unwaveringly fixed on Hagrid’s face. The shirt parted, and she shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. Her pale breasts were flushed, and her nipples instantly puckered in the cool air. Hagrid’s eyes nearly bulged from his head. His huge hands gripped the table as if it might drift away.
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Wednesday, unhurried, let her own shirt slide off her shoulders, revealing an expanse of moon-pale skin. Her breasts were smaller than Hermione’s, the areolae dark as bruises, her posture unembarrassed, almost clinical. She rolled her eyes at the theatrics of it, but made no move to cover up.
Hermione shot her a look, a sly, sidelong glance. “Just a reminder, Wednesday: he’s half-giant. And trust me, it’s massive. The last time, I could barely walk for a week.”
"Noted," Wednesday replied. Then deadpanned, "I hadn't planned on being choked unconscious this afternoon. Bonus."
Hagrid shuddered, the battered chair beneath him squealing in sympathetic agony. His hands fluttered, unsure where to go. “Miss Granger—I mean, both of you—I don’t—this isn’t—”
Hermione stepped in, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his vast body. She pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh. Just relax, Hagrid.” She gripped his heavy wrist and guided his hand to her breast. It engulfed her, rough and callused, and she gasped a little despite herself.
Wednesday stood, walked forward, and began to unbuckle Hagrid’s belt with the same unsentimental efficiency she’d shown before. With a tug of the pants, his massive cock sprung forth, throbbing and twitching in anticipation of the two girls.
Hermione bit her lip. "Good lord, Hagrid," she said, almost reverently. "It really is enormous." She smiled, but there was steel in her eyes. "Come on, Wednesday. Let’s have a lick."
They both knelt, the floor cold beneath their knees, and leaned in together. Hermione wrapped both hands around the shaft, barely able to span it, and lapped at the tip with her tongue. Wednesday, not to be outdone, took the other side, her tongue flicking with clinical precision at the sensitive underside.
Hagrid convulsed, his whole body rigid, as though he'd been struck by lightning. "Oh—oh, girls," he managed, his voice trembling.
Hermione worked the head with long, confident licks, alternating with Wednesday's quick, analytic flicks. They found a rhythm, each time their tongues met sending a jolt up the shaft. Hagrid's knees buckled and the entire hut seemed to tremble around them.
The two girls, faces nearly touching, licked and worked at the heavy, veined shaft in synchrony, their tongues gliding over each other with each pass. Hermione's hair brushed over Wednesday's pale cheek—Wednesday didn't flinch, nor did she flinch when Hermione let out a tiny, involuntary moan, the sound electrifying in the cramped hut.
Hagrid all but whimpered. His knuckles blanched as he gripped the table. "Oh, oh, blimey…" He was already leaking, thick and musky, dribbling down the shaft as Wednesday lapped it up as if it were a rare potion. Her tongue was methodical, almost clinical at first, but Hermione's relentless, hungry pace infected her, drew her in, until the two were licking and kissing up the length, their lips sliding together at the tip, the taste of Hagrid mingling with the taste of each other.
Hermione reached over, cupped Wednesday's jaw, and pulled her into a fierce kiss, the two of them sharing Hagrid's precum, their tongues twisting and dancing, moans rising in unison. Hagrid's eyes rolled back—he came with a thunderous, helpless roar, the spray spurting across their faces, into their open mouths, onto their tongues as they kissed and swallowed and giggled, the taste of it sticky and wild.
Wednesday, cum streaking her lips and chin, fixed Hermione with a sardonic glare. "That was disappointingly, but not surprisingly, quick."
Hermione wiped her mouth, then grinned, undaunted. "Don't be daft. He can go at least two more times." She looked up at Hagrid, whose cock was somehow still half-hard, already twitching with renewed interest. "Isn't that right?"
Hagrid nodded, mute, unable to look away from the two naked, cum-streaked witches kneeling at his feet.
“Ok Hagrid, time to choke us with this beast of a cock," Hermione said.
Wednesday deadpanned, "Sounds absolutely torturous… Count me in."
Hermione positioned herself under the massive cock, wrapping both hands around it and guiding the head to her lips. She took it deep, impossibly deep, until her nose pressed into Hagrid's wiry hair, her throat bulging with the effort. She gagged, just a little, then pressed further. Wednesday held her by the back of her head, keeping her from pulling away.
Hermione, face flushed and eyes watering, bobbed on the shaft, taking it in and out with desperate, obscene slurps, each time burying her face to the root. Finally, Hermione pulled off, gasping, her lips swollen and red. "Go on," she said to Wednesday, "see if you can do better."
Wednesday eyed the cock, then kneeled down, pursed her lips, and began to feed herself onto it, inch by inch. Her technique was slow, relentless; she swallowed the whole beast inside her and then began to slide back and forth.
The first time the massive head of Hagrid’s cock reached the back of Wednesday’s mouth, she didn’t flinch, but her eyes narrowed fractionally with the effort. She pressed her lips to the ridge of the crown and, with slow inevitability, forced herself further, letting her throat expand and adjust. Hermione, kneeling beside her, watched with both admiration and a flash of competitive resolve.
“Show-off,” Hermione whispered, but there was love in it.
Wednesday pulled back, the shaft glistening, a ring of her spit shining around the tip. She paused, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of precum at the slit—bitter, earthy, not entirely unpleasant. Then, with a glance at Hermione, she dove down again, and this time she didn’t stop until her face was pressed against Hagrid’s enormous belly, her nose buried in the dense tangle of wiry hair, her eyes black and wild and utterly unashamed.
Hagrid groaned—an animal sound, barely human. His hands hovered, as if he didn’t dare touch her, but Wednesday merely gripped his thighs and held herself impaled, letting the monstrous cock throb in her throat. Her lips had turned an uncanny shade of blue and her cheeks hollowed with effort, but she didn’t panic or flail; she simply waited, counting out the seconds, staring up at Hagrid with challenging, unblinking eyes.
Hermione, now burning with envy, bent down and began licking the shaft just below Wednesday’s lips, trailing her tongue along the thick veins, swirling it in the slick mix of spit and precum. She moaned as she tasted both, then leaned in further, kissing Wednesday’s cheek as if in encouragement.
Finally Wednesday surfaced, the cock sliding from her mouth with a pop and a long, obscene string of saliva. She wiped her lips calmly, then said, “Your turn, Granger. Show me you can do it without fainting.”
Hermione snorted, seized the base, and planted the head between her lips. She went for speed over style, bobbing up and down in frantic, messy bursts, her hair wild, her cheeks red, her own spit streaming down her chin and pooling at her collarbones. But she was determined, and after a few false starts, she managed to choke down all twelve inches, her throat convulsing around it. Hagrid’s entire body tensed, his knuckles whitening on the arms of the chair.
Wednesday watched, then reached around and grabbed Hermione’s hair, pulling her head down even harder. Hermione gagged, spluttered, but steadied herself with a hand on Hagrid’s thigh, locking eyes with Wednesday all the while. The message was clear: I can take anything you throw at me.
They alternated, passing the cock between their mouths, sometimes both licking the head at once, tongues entwined around the thick, glistening crown. Each time Hagrid shuddered, his cock pulsed, the pre building into a creamy froth that covered their lips, dripped down their chins. Hermione caught some with her finger and offered it to Wednesday, who sucked it clean without breaking eye contact.
Then Wednesday’s mouth enveloped the head of Hagrid’s cock, her lips tight and unswerving, her gaze never leaving his face. Hagrid’s whole body shook, and suddenly, with a helpless, wounded-bear groan, he climaxed—not in a burst, but in a thick, ropy flood that filled Wednesday’s mouth and overflowed, dripping down her chin and his cock. Wednesday swallowed, eyes half-lidded in something like satisfaction, and then, when he spasmed again, she released him and let Hermione claim the next surge for herself.
Hermione opened wide, her cheeks hollowing as she drew the cum into her mouth. She made a show of swallowing, licking her lips clean, and then pressed her cum-slicked mouth to Wednesday’s for a brief, savage kiss. The two of them knelt there, panting, as the last of Hagrid’s orgasm dripped down the shaft and pooled on the floor beneath.
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Hagrid slumped in his chair, his face the color of an overripe strawberry, his beard trembling with aftershocks. “Oh, oh, mercy,” he wheezed. “Oh blimey, that’s… oh, girls…”
Hermione smiled up at him, the picture of innocence except for the streaks of cum drying on her face and neck. “Hagrid. Now focus. Tell us about the Lucifern. What’s its weakness?”
He blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. “It’s…well, I call ‘im Jax. Raised the beast meself since he was a hatchling. He’s clever, mean, and hungry, sure, but…” Hagrid trailed off, face going blotchy.
“But?” Wednesday prompted, her patience scything the word in two.
Hagrid looked at the floor, then at the girls. “He’s always…in heat. Never seen a dragon like it. He’ll drop everything if there’s even a whiff of female in the air. You want to distract him, you need to…well, you need to get him riled up, if you catch my meaning.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, then cleared in a slow dawn of horror and comprehension. “You mean he can be…seduced?”
Hagrid nodded, shamefaced. “First time I figured it out, I thought I was dead for sure. But he’s a right one for a pretty face, old Jax. Only thing in the world he wants more than to burn you up is to…well, to have a go.”
Wednesday rolled her eyes. “Men. So predictable.”
Hermione pressed her lips together. “And if we…get him all the way there? He’ll be docile?”
Hagrid shrugged.
“Thank you, Hagrid,” Hermione purred. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and winked. “And don’t worry. We’ll never tell a soul.”
“Good,” Hagrid groaned, still dazed, “cause if McGonagall found out, she’d have me drawn and quartered."
TO BE CONTINUED...
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