Author’s note – the
following short story was begun as a writing exercise, to see if I could
actually write a parody more or less in the style of J.K. Rowling. It is not a finished work; barely
begun, really. I am posting it
here to check people’s reactions to it, and to see whether there is any point
in continuing it.
J.K. Rowling’s characters
are used without permission, and this document is not being published with any
intent of remuneration. It is
simply a parody and a writing exercise covered under Fair Use, so I would just
as soon not be visited by any dementors lawyers.
Hermione Granger and the Chamber of Semen
Dobby
the house-elf looked down upon the sleeping form of the young woman. “Poor Miss,” he whispered tiredly to
himself, his lined features obvious in the glow of the single candle that lit
the sixth-year girls dormitory.
“Too young to carry such troubles upon herself,” he sighed, “much too
young.”
Hermione Granger slept on, a
pale figure bathed in the silver moonlight that emanated from the high,
mullioned window almost directly above her four-poster. Her slumber, Dobby could see, was
uneven, tortured. She jerked
underneath her covers and small sounds escaped her throat – sounds of fear and
terror. Dobby reached smoothly under
his maroon jumper, which fell to just below his knees, and closed his
eyes. He jerked his hand once,
lightly, and then withdrew it a scant moment later, the first two fingers
coated in a sticky, gleaming secretion.
He deftly smeared the elf precum across the upper lip of his
Mistress. Her nostrils
automatically flared, inhaling the fumes from the magical spunk, and her
breathing quickly commenced a regular, deep rhythm. A small smile gradually emerged; a Mona Lisa smile, Dobby
thought. He knew the portrait
well, it having been his unhappy task to clean its frame every day while
slaving away in the home of his former masters, the Malfoys.
“Poor Miss,” he said
again. “Not to worry. Dobby shall attend to you.” He crossed noiselessly to the side of
her bed and snapped his fingers.
The rumpled bedclothes vanished in a trice, leaving her slender,
alabaster body completely exposed in the silent dormitory. Hermione always slept in the nude, a
custom the Hogwarts house-elves found curious.
Dobby reached out a
long-fingered hand and stroked a full, heavy breast. A barely audible whimper escaped Hermione’s lips, and her elegant hand
slid smoothly downward, past her flat stomach, slowing as it approached her
neatly trimmed auburn bush, stopping only when it reached her moistening quim
and began softly stroking her nether lips. The house-elf slowly traced his finger up to the fat nipple
and, with his thumb and forefinger, gave it a gentle squeeze. Hermione moaned again and bit her lower
lip as the skin around her breasts erupted into gooseflesh.
He squeezed the engorged
nipple, again and again, timing each pulse to her rapidly increasing
heartbeat. Her moans became louder
and her breathing became huskier and took on a ragged quality as she rubbed her
silky thighs together and ground her slim buttocks into the yielding softness
of her mattress. From the depths
of her fever-induced state Hermione unconsciously spread her legs and plunged
two fingers into her now sopping snatch.
“Oh, God yes! Fuck me, Ronald! Fuck me!” she screamed out as she began
to frig herself, her voice echoing loudly off the stone walls of the sixth
year’s sleeping quarters. The
earsplitting din did not awaken her fellow Hogwarts students, Lavender Brown
and Parvati Patil, as they too were being ‘attended’ by two of Dobby’s
house-elf colleagues.
“FER FUCK’S SAKE, DOBBY!”
Jammy bellowed, his long fingers wedged into his ears against the racket, “Keep
that big-titted cow quiet, can’t you?”
Jammy, at 3 feet 4 inches, towered over the other house-elves, and Dobby
disliked him intensely. “Tell you
what, Dobbers,” he continued, “if you won’t stuff a sock down ‘er bleedin’
hole, I’m sure Hoppy here’s got something what can occupy ‘er mouth with.” He laughed raucously and inclined his
head toward a rather tiny elf whose facial features could not be seen for the
sole reason that his head was completely immersed in Parvati’s gaping
pussy. “I’d help you me’self,”
Jammy went on, perched precariously atop a stool at the head of Lavender’s bed,
his hands now firmly gripping her large mams to prevent an untimely fall, “but
my ‘witch tamer’ is occupado at the mo’.”
He nodded downward to indicate his own rather sizable elf sausage, which
was presently sliding easily in and out of the young girl’s vulnerable mouth.
“You’re one to talk, Jammy,”
Dobby replied, as Hermione began thrashing about on the bed, “Miss Lavender’s
shrieking broke two windows last Thursday, if you remember. And you also,” Dobby added brusquely, “might
want to slow your strokes down a bit or you’ll black Miss Lavender’s eyes
again.”
“Oi, thanks, Dobbers,” said
Jammy, reducing the speed of his face fucking to a more leisurely pace. “Yeah, these balls of mine can do a bit
‘o’ damage when they get goin’, eh?
But seriously, mate; can’t you quiet ‘er down a bit? Makes it hard for an elf to concentrate
with a witch screamin’ bloody murder like she does, an’ all.”
“Oh, very well, Jammy!”
Dobby said exasperatedly, and he gently inserted two of his fingers into
Hermione’s gasping mouth. She
reflexively seized upon them and began sucking them greedily.
For ten more minutes little
could be heard, save for Hermione’s muffled cries of ecstasy, Parvati’s heated
whispers of, “Oh yes, sir, for the love of God, give it to me now!” and the
occasional dull smack of Jammy’s balls making contact with Lavender’s eyelids.
The stillness was broken by
Parvati, who shot bolt upright as a thunderous orgasm shook her to her very
core; the scream it produced would have awakened half of Hogsmeade, were it not
for the elf magic that kept the dormitory soundproof while they performed their
nightly duties. The beautiful,
dark-skinned girl fell back upon her mattress, as sated as it is humanly
possible to be, and fell blissfully asleep.
A loud, shlorping sound
punctuated the dormitory as the tiny elf, Hoppy, withdrew his shiny, bald head
from the confines of Parvati’s cavernous cunny, staggered back a few shaky
steps, and dropped to his knees, gasping hoarsely. “Crikey!” the house-elf squeaked, trying to catch his
breath, “Firenze’s been at this one again. At this rate, even Hagrid’s giant tool won’t satisfy
‘er. Talk about a size queen.” He snapped his fingers and a fluffy
towel appeared in his hand, which he then used to wipe the sleeping beauty’s
juices from his head and neck.
From across the dormitory,
Dobby could be heard speaking softly while the young witch squealed and
moaned. “Not too soon, Miss
Hermione. You must not cum yet. You are almost there. Just a few more minutes and Dobby will
let you cum.”
“Talk about an anal fuckin’
elf,” Jammy laughed quietly, whispering to the unconscious cocksucker beneath
him. “Could be worse, I
suppose. He could be fucking her up
‘er arse! Get it? Har, har.” Jammy kept pumping away at the slumbering girl’s mouth. “Don’t you worry, luv. He said, lightly, giving her cheek a
friendly smack, “Jammy’ll have you trained up in no time, too. Oh, an’ I’ve got good news fer you,
luv. I’ve had it from Madame
Rosemerta’s elf, Blinky, that she’s taken a special interest in your future
career.” Jammy paused his
thrusting, the head of his thick cock at the very edge of her lips, to check
her reaction. Lavender instantly
became fidgety without the fat pacifier and began heatedly inching her body
further up the bed to try and get it back where it belonged.
Jammy laughed and roughly
shoved his tool balls deep into her face, eliciting another dull smack as they
again made contact with the young witch’s eyelids.
“Yeh,” Jammy grunted as he
bottomed out in her throat, “I’ve heard that, considering how few O.W.L.’s you
got, ol’ Rosey thinks you might be cut out to work for ‘er in The Three
Broomsticks. Officially you’ll be
waitin’ tables and tendin’ bar, but Blinky says you’ll mostly be dancin’ on
tables and tending cocks.” Jammy
laughed again, and quickened his thrusts; his rock-hard member gleamed wetly
whenever it regained the moonlight.
“Not much different than school, when you think about it, if half of
what I’ve heard about you and the Gobstones club is true. Oh, Blinky also let slip the pay’s not
so great, but it’ll be enough to keep yer in clothes, not that you’ll be
needin’ ‘em, eh?”
Jammy’s skin was now slick
with sweat as he thrust his cock, again and again, into the soon-to-be whore’s
receptive mouth. “I’ve done a good
job of you, luv, I’m proud ter say,” the elf grunted, his speech becoming
rougher with every thrust, “but there’s still a few…things ter sort out.” He was gasping now. “Should make yer tits a little bigger,
I should. An’ yer bum… a little
plumper…if yer gonna…do this fer a…livin’…not ter mention…FU-UCK!!
Jammy could no longer hold
on, and rammed the length of his cock into Lavender’s mouth again and again,
spewing his load into the witch’s waiting belly. Lavender moaned passionately around the invasive meat, and
her knuckles showed whitely as she grasped the sheets of her bed; her orgasm
ripping through her like a fire through a parched forest, Jammy having
‘trained’ her body to spontaneously climax in response to the taste of semen.
“There’s a little love
potion for ya, Miss Lavender,” Jammy grunted, “freshly brewed, har-har. Oops, almost forgot.” Jammy quickly withdrew his softening
member and leapt lightly onto the bed.
He crouched low and, taking careful aim, shot the remainder of his seed
onto the witch’s heaving chest.
“Oi!” grunted the Elf, for
Lavender’s full, sensuous lips had engulfed his sizable scrotum, and she began
sucking and tonguing his heavy balls, causing his eyes to involuntarily cross. Jammy’s cock immediately stiffened
again under the merciless onslaught of the unanticipated teabagging. “Bleedin’ hell!” he gasped, “you’ll
suck anything what gets too close, won’t you, you little slut?”
Jammy massaged his elf-cream
into Lavender’s chest while she continued to swirl the fleshy eggs around in
her talented mouth. Her moans of
pleasure reverberated around his captive balls, sending shivers up and down
Jammy’s spine. It took less than a
minute (or several sunlit days, to Jammy’s delirious sensibilities) before the
elf grunted loudly, and began shooting spurt after spurt of creamy goo into the
air, audibly splashing into the valley of the now noticeably swollen tits.
“Shite!” Jammy swore, under his breath. “She’ll end up looking like ‘Little
Miss Mudblood’ over there, if I’m not careful.” He quickly reached back and pinched Lavender’s nostrils
shut, causing her mouth to reflexively open, thereby allowing the beleaguered
elf to extricate his poor, besieged balls with a wet ‘plop’.
Jammy snapped his fingers,
and the unincorporated jizz on Lavender’s chest levitated into the air to hover
several feet above her supine form.
He snapped his fingers again, and the young girl’s body rose ever so
lightly, and gracefully rotated, coming to rest upon her newly enlarged
front. Jammy quickly scooted
around the sleeping girl, prodded her legs open, and knelt in the ‘V’ of her
creamy thighs. He scooped the cum
out of the air and then began working it vigorously into her firm buttocks. Her supple bottom emitted a faint glow
as the magical semen started doing its work, sculpting an ever more desirable
form.
“You’ll be Rosie’s top
earner, you will, you mark my words.”
Jammy said, still breathing a little heavily. “Even the female house-elves won’t suck on a pair of
balls. Goodness knows how I’ve
begged ‘em.”
Dobby, meanwhile, was
playing Hermione with all the skill of a virtuoso violinist. She was teetering on the very edge of a
earth-shaking orgasm, and Dobby was doing his level best to keep her there,
without going over, which was not easy as he really needed to have both hands
available to do a first-rate job of it.
“Crikey, Dobby,” Hoppy said,
jumping onto Hermione’s bed, his toweling off finished, “What are you doing to
this poor girl?”
“You know very well what I’m
doing,” Dobby said testily. “The
sponge is almost full. Another
minute or two should do it, I think.
And since you seem to have some free time, would you mind awfully
helping to keep her quiet? I
wouldn’t ask but Miss Hermione’s just about ready to pop, and I really don’t
need to hear any more of Jammy’s ranting.”
“I don’t think you need to
worry about Jammy,” he said, looking over the fatigued elf’s shoulder to see
their barrel-chested associate shaking his head and rubbing some of his semen
onto Lavender’s rather battered-looking eyelids. “He looks pretty relaxed now. Anyway, I’m not talking about the sponge, Dobby, and you
know it,” squeaked the little elf, sticking his entire fist into Hermione’s
recently vacated mouth. She gave
an “mmmph” of appreciation and earnestly began hoovering the intrusive
appendage. “Don’t you think her
teats are big enough, already? You
must have noticed that from the side she looks like a capital letter ‘P’.
“You’re one to talk,
Hoppy. If Miss Parvati’s bubbies
get any bigger she’ll have to cast a Permanent Hover charm on them just so she
can get out of bed. She looks to
be about one-third tit now.”
Hoppy looked over at the
large bosom rising and falling on the nearby four-poster, and smiled a little
crookedly, “It’s none of my doing,” he squeaked, “What can I say? It appears Miss Parvati is swallowing
when she should be spitting. And
you’re changing the subject, Dobby.
All the other house elves is saying you’re going too far, that you’re
turning her into a freak. And it’s
not just them, neither. I even
overheard Professor Trelawney saying, ‘Well, of course she could never be a good
Seer. Not only is she unable to
See into the future, she can’t even see her own feet.’”
“Yes, yes, I know all that,”
snorted Dobby, who began twiddling Hermione’s engorged clitoris with his thumb
and a somewhat pruney finger, “but Master Ronald Weasley, who is giving Dobby
his jumper, likes them big.”
“Yeah, yeah,” replied the
tiny elf, “I’ve heard all about your jumper. But her flagons,” he said, slapping one of the overlarge
funbags with a meaty thud, “are practically the size of her head now. Surely ‘Master Ronald Weasley’ will be
more than satisfied with these.”
Dobby shook his head,
causing his bat-like ears to flap.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hoppy. You have never seen Master Ronald
Weasley’s French postcards, have you?”
Dobby snapped his fingers and a number of photographs appeared in his
long-fingered hand. He gave them
to Hoppy and went back to his nipple squeezing.
Hoppy laid the photographs
onto the moaning girl’s bed and examined them, his already large eyes growing
even wider in their astonishment.
The witches pictured, he presumed they weren’t Squibs, danced, pranced
and otherwise cavorted through them all in various stages of undress, each of
them sporting the largest teats he could remember seeing. One of the witches, he was appalled to
see, had apparently been transfigured into a massive pair of breasts and
magicked onto a wall, where a number of other giant-jugged bawds, inexpertly
costumed and made up to look like Veela, stroked, sucked and fucked themselves
stupid with the erect, phallus-like nipples.
“But D-Dobby,” Hoppy was
barely able to keep the stammer from his voice, “these aren’t real women.
The teats in these photos are only temporary. Engorgement charms, potions, and the like, I’ll wager. And look at these incestuous triplets;
Polyjuice Potion, it just has to be.”
“Hoppy, …” Dobby started.
“Dobby, you can’t seriously
mean to take this young woman,” Hoppy gestured with his long nose at the
panting and thrashing set of limbs, tits, and bushy hair on the bed, “and make
her over into one of these…these scarlet women, can you? Dobby, you know the changes we make can
never be undone. Is this,” Hoppy
implored, indicating the photographs, “the sort of life you want for her?”
The pleading in Hoppy’s
high-pitched voice was unmistakable, as was the resoluteness in Dobby’s. “The management of Miss Hermione was
given to me, and I shall mould her to her best advantage. She and Ronald Weasley obviously love
each other and I must do all that I can to help.”
Hermione gave a frustrated
scream around Hoppy’s fist and began mashing her juggs together agitatedly.
“She’s ready!” Dobby
cried. He began gently twisting
her fat nipples and bent down to tongue her erect clitoris. He slowly encircled the bud with his
long tongue, only ever making incidental contact with it as he drove her on the
upward climb to the summit of her orgasm.
When it was only milliseconds away, Dobby squeezed and pulled both
nipples simultaneously and sucked the throbbing clit through the slight gap in
his teeth, sending the spasming witch over the top and into a dimension of
sexual gratification no Muggle woman is even aware exists.
As Hermione bucked and
flailed wildly, Dobby kept the large sponge pressed to the mouth of her
dripping snatch, absorbing every last possible drop of her essence until, at
last, her tremors subsided and she lay there like a rag doll. Dobby removed the thoroughly soaked
sponge from between her milky thighs and squeezed the witch’s juices into a
large glass phial that he produced from thin air with a snap of his fingers.
“Nectar of Adult Virgin,”
Dobby exclaimed, exhaustion lining his features. He held the phial up, catching the moonlight, so that it
sent shafts of dazzling colour about the room. He then placed the phial on the nearby night table, handling
it as though it was as precious as a bottle of one hundred year-old oak-matured
mead, which, to a house-elf, it was.
“‘Tis a pity that it is becoming ever so much more difficult to come
by.” The increasing lack of purity
in young witches was a common lament among the Hogwarts house-elves. Even Luna Lovegood, as sweetly innocent
as she was, was no longer pure; having received a poking from a middle-aged
wizard in the back room of Beaker’s Discount Apothecary. He’d claimed he had a ‘technique’ that
could cure cramps, swelling and painful menses. It turned out to be true; at least until Madam Pomfrey, the
school nurse, gave her
something to terminate the unplanned pregnancy. That potion, it transpired, was used more often than
Skele-Gro.
“Too true,” agreed Hoppy
sadly. “Miss Hermione’s the only
one above fourth year still intact now that Dean Thomas has popped little Ginny
Weasley’s cherry. What will we do,
Dobby? We was counting on them for
next year.
“I don’t know, Hoppy,” Dobby
replied tiredly, “who knows if there wlll even be a next year for any of us,
now that…You-Know-Who… is back.”
Hoppy shuddered. “Do you believe it, Dobby,” he
whispered, his eyes wide, “do you really believe they might close the school?”
Dobby was on the verge of
answering, when a strong hand gripped the back of his jumper and hoisted him
into the air. “I hate to break up
this little tea party, you two,” said Jammy, in a mock sweet tone, his bulbous
nose almost touching Dobby’s long, pencil-like one, “but there’s still work to
be done.” He turned his face
slowly to Hoppy, who was likewise dangling in midair, “Unless, of course, you’d
like You-Know-Who to be your new Master.
I hear Kreacher can put in a good word for you.”
Hoppy yipped and began
shaking violently as he put both his hands up to his mouth in order to stop
himself crying out. Jammy dropped
the two elves back onto Hermione’s rumpled bed and said in his gravelly voice,
“Let’s just get this done, eh?” He
turned and walked back in the direction of Lavender’s bed, the snap of his
fingers rang out loudly in the still air of the dormitory.
Hoppy gulped and slid off
the edge of the bed and walked shakily away without a word, or even a glance,
at Dobby. Dobby wanted to call out
to the younger elf, tried to think of something he could say that might help
assuage his fear, but in the end he could think of nothing. Such was the power of the Dark Lord, to
inspire fear even inside the grounds of Hogwarts Castle, the safest place there
was, while Albus Dumbledore was Headmaster.
Dobby shifted from his
kneeling position on the bed and regarded his Mistress. He snapped his fingers and Hermione
gracefully levitated off the bed.
Her large, firm breasts lolled only slightly off either side of her rib
cage. Dobby gently gripped the
large dug nearest him and flipped Hermione over. He was so distracted by the evening’s events that he failed
to notice the other tit as it rolled over and whapped him squarely on the back
of his head, sending him face first into the mattress.
That settles it, Dobby thought, as he cradled his smarting head in
his hands; they’re plenty big enough.
With a snap of his fingers
Dobby produced a wooden bucket, which he placed beneath the overlarge teats of
the hovering young woman and, after settling himself into a comfortable sitting
position on the bed, took a fat nipple in each hand and began to work.
Hermione was flying. It was the most wonderful feeling, she
thought lazily. She looked up to
see the sky was a dazzling, forget-me-not blue, and a late September sun hung
in the sky, warming her bare skin.
If this is a dream, she
thought, I don’t ever want it to end.
She could see long, silver
wings extending outward from both sides of her back. She could feel their quick and powerful beating where they
must join with her skin. The
feeling of no longer being anchored to the ground sent sexual heat lighting
through her loins, and she did a barrel roll, exulting in her newfound freedom. She loved the feeling of her large
breasts as they rolled across her chest, and delighted in how they swayed
heavily beneath her as she darted first left, and then right. Tiny droplets of her sweet nectar clung
to her neatly trimmed bush, glinting in the late afternoon sun, casting miniature
rainbows in the air.
This was flying as she had
never known it. Her wings
effortlessly obeyed her every thought as she turned, wove, and danced through
the air as though she was born to it.
It quickly dawned on her that this was how Harry must feel when astride
his Firebolt. Mere moments after
she completed the thought, however, she felt two large somethings whiz by her,
almost knocking her out of the sky.
“And Harry Potter’s seen the
Golden Bitch…” boomed Zacharias Smith’s magically magnified voice, echoing
loudly over the Quidditch pitch. “…followed by Summersby of Hufflepuff.”
Hermione looked off to her
left to see two robed figures turning their brooms in midair: one wearing the
scarlet and gold of Gryffindor, the other clad in the yellow and black of
Hufflepuff House. Hermione looked
down at her naked form and gasped; every inch of her skin was a beautiful,
bright gold, a gleaming target in the late summer sunshine. The next moment, both Seekers were
zooming in her direction, their arms outstretched, their fingers opened wide.
Without thinking, Hermione
instantly shot downward with the speed of a bullet. She thought the ponderous size and weight of her breasts
would be a handicap, but on the contrary, she found that they acted as twin rudders,
giving her stability and pinpoint maneuverability.
She pulled up smoothly from
her dive, her erect nipples mere inches above the green turf, and headed for
the opposite end of the pitch. She
chanced a look back to check on her pursuers and, unsurprisingly, she found
Harry Potter to be right on her tail, slowly gaining on her, scrabbling for one
of her long, shapely legs, with the Hufflepuff Seeker well behind. She put on a final burst of speed, her
big tits making a slipstream aft of her, the turbulence causing the Firebolt to
slow and judder. She laughed out
loud. She felt giddy. She was going to beat ‘the youngest
Seeker in a century’.
And she would have done –
had it not been for Draco Malfoy.
As she neared the end of the
pitch, she gradually rose, thinking to skim just above the cheering
spectators. Too late did she
realize that she was in unfriendly territory, seeing the green and silver robes
of the Slytherins, jeering and catcalling, and at their head, the unmistakable
white-blonde hair of Draco Malfoy, his wand out, pointed directly at her. She couldn’t hear the spell above the
noise of the crowd, but even from this distance she could read his thin lips –
“Engorgio!”
The charm hit her squarely
in the chest. She could feel her
already large boobs warming, and swelling to the size of Quaffles. Her speed plummeted and she dropped
like a stone, the ground coming up to meet her at an incredible rate.
Suddenly, two hands plunged
from out of nowhere, firmly grasping her by her elephantine juggs, arresting
her fall, then pulling her back up into the air, a golden, fat-titted trophy
for the entire school to see.
“And Harry Potter’s caught
the Bitch,” came Smith’s rather bored announcement. “Gryffindor wins 320-40.”
Harry zoomed upward, both hands
still gripping the massive melons, and put on another burst of speed, taking
them both out of bounds of the Quidditch pitch, and Hermione felt an incredible
surge of anger. How dare he
manhandle her like this! What was
he doing, flying away from the assembled school, she wondered, her mind racing,
as she was hauled upward and onward by her boobs.
They weren’t even flying in
the direction of the castle, but rather away from it, toward the Forbidden
Forest. Why on earth would he
be…? No! Was he thinking to get her alone, a great-jugged prize to be
plundered at his whim?
But maybe he isn’t
thinking, Hermione thought, through
her haze of fear and indignation, or maybe this isn’t Harry! Perhaps
some Slytherin, disguised with the help of Polyjuice Potion, and dressed in his
Quidditch robes, she reasoned
quickly. She certainly wouldn’t
put it past them, having helped Harry and Ron to do the exact same thing to the
Slytherins almost four years previously.
But no, she realized, almost
instinctively, it has to be
Harry. She had watched him fly
often enough, and knew his seat on a broomstick – she knew of very few wizards
who were skilled enough to maneuver a Firebolt at top speed with both hands
full of tit. What did that mean
then? Since it was definitely Harry who had her by the boobs, that
meant he must not be in his right mind…which could only mean… No, Hermione gasped inwardly, he’s been put under
the Imperius Curse!
Hermione began biting her
lower lip in fear and frustration, and the not inconsiderable pain of being
carried aloft by her tits. Harry’s
grip on her boobs was such that she was being carried aloft backwards and the
new immensity of her juggs was obscuring her vision to the rear, thus preventing
her from seeing if anyone might be following them.
If she had her wand she
could hex him in a heartbeat, but naked, gold, and unarmed she had few
options. She couldn’t even slap
his face, such were the size of her magically enhanced melons – it was doubtful
that she could even reach his elbows.
But she wasn’t helpless.
She was the cleverest witch of her age and she wasn’t going to let ‘The
Chosen One’, Imperiused or not, drag her off by her tits and do God-knows-what
to her in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, which now stretched out expansively,
far below them.
Gathering all her strength,
Hermione whipped both of her legs upward and drove the balls of her feet as
hard as she could into the underside of the Firebolt. The impact drove the broomstick upward, straight into
Harry’s crotch, causing him intense pain, even through the enchantment clouding
his mind. He let out an ‘oomph’,
reflexively dropping his prize and reached for his injured testicles.
Hermione gave a small yip as
gravity tugged strongly at her.
She whipped around in midair to see the immense greenness of the forest
coming up to meet her. She beat
her wings madly, trying to fly under her own power, but her Engorged breasts
were simply too heavy to allow her to remain aloft. The wind tore at her, wringing tears from her eyes as she
fell like a big-titted stone.
Exhaustion quickly set in, her wings stopped beating.
Hermione fell.
She didn’t register the
feeling of the Acromantula web until she had already torn through it. The impact of the sticky webbing,
though negligible, caused Hermione to spin around. She tore through more and more webbing, the silken threads
slowing her fall but binding her arms tightly to her sides. She continued inexorably downward,
spinning madly and gathering more of the sticky mesh about her, cocooning her
within, until, finally, she touched lightly upon the forest floor, completely
enmeshed within the silken wrapping.
This must be a dream, Hermione thought, it just has to
be. Her wings, her golden skin, her
miraculously surviving a fall from goodness knew how high: all of these things
certainly added up to a reality other than her normal, waking one. But the thought this might be nothing
more than a dream brought her no comfort.
In fact, it worried her all the more.
“Dream Crystals,” Professor Snape
had said, only earlier that day, the entire Defense Against the Dark Arts class
hanging on his every word, “are curious artifacts, and one of the darker forms
of magic a wizard may encounter in his or her life. You would do well to avoid making an enemy of the wizard who
possesses one.”
He went on, in his usual sneering
way, to explain the properties of the shimmering, apple-sized crystal sitting
in the palm of his hand: how it would transform the sleeper’s dream into a reality
every bit as substantial as their own waking life, the effects to the sleeper’s
body, whether pleasurable or painful, every bit as lasting.
“Does that mean if you get hurt in
your dream it would hurt your physical body, as well, Professor?” asked Seamus
Finnegan.
“It means precisely that,
Mr. Finnegan.”
“…and if, in your dream, you
sort of…snuffed it…” continued Ron, looking apprehensively at the object that
Snape was holding only inches from his tousled red hair.
“Then you would die, Mr.
Weasley,” he said, looking down at Ron, his black eyes glinting malevolently.
The rest of the hour was
spent studying the Dream Crystal and its properties: its ability to suppress
the mind’s ability to awaken or to direct the course of the dream, and its
propensity to turn even the most pleasant dreams into screaming, blood-chilling
nightmares.
Is that what this is, Hermione thought, a dream made real? Who
would do this to me, she wondered, who
would want to trap me in a dream, a nightmare, from which I can’t escape? There
were plenty of wizards, she knew, who disliked her simply by virtue of the fact
that she was Muggle-born, a Mudblood, but enough to steal a dark object, break into Gryffindor Tower, and
place it near her bed? Perhaps
Harry was right; perhaps Draco Malfoy was planning something. Someone had, after all, given Katie
Bell the cursed necklace that was responsible for her being in St. Mungo’s
Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and, at one and a half thousand
galleons, a dark object like that was well beyond the means of most Hogwart’s
students.
Well, if someone had placed
a Dream Crystal on her night table, then she needed to be every bit as careful
in this reality as she would in her waking one; one mistake…and she would be
every bit as dead. Her present
reality was that she was naked, tightly bound in webbing, and somewhere in the
middle of the Forbidden Forest, and she would have to do whatever she could to
stay alive until such time as someone discovered the crystal and removed it, or
she…
She could scarcely breathe,
so tight was her silken prison.
She tried to move about, roll, bend, anything, just to feel a little
less helpless. She couldn’t even
open her mouth to scream. She
could feel tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes, followed by a
rapidly rising sense of panic. She
knew this must be the Acromantula lair where Harry and Ron had met the monster,
Aragog, who, according to Hagrid, the Hogwart’s gamekeeper, was dying.
Wait a minute, Hermione
thought. Hagrid had said something
else, ‘…Aragog’s family…they’re gettin’ a bit funny now he’s ill…bit
restive…’ Was that why she was
still alive in this reality? Were
the rest of the giant spiders off somewhere else now that their patriarch was
dying? Or had they simply vacated
the area in response to Hermione’s crashing plunge into their hollow, to return
once they felt the danger had passed?
Enmeshed in webbing, in the middle
of the Forbidden Forest, Hermione had no way of knowing, she simply knew that
she must get out of here quickly or she would end up as something’s dinner. Her legs were bent at the knees and her heels were digging
painfully into the backs of her thighs.
She flexed her arms, her wrists, hips to no avail; she just could not
gain any purchase against the strong, yet flexible silk. Her breathing began to rise.
If only Mr. Weasley’s car
could find me, she found herself wishing, as the tears began forming
again. The flying Ford Anglia,
which was currently running wild about the forest, held no fear of the giant
spiders.
As a last ditch effort to
avoid the panic threatening to engulf her, Hermione strained her ears, hoping
against hope, that she might hear the grinding of gears or the bleat of a car
horn.
But she heard nothing,
wrapped up as she was – but she did feel something. Vibration,
coming from the floor of the forest, through her web cocoon, resonated through
her legs and buttocks, her back and the back of her head. She concentrated with all her might on
those vibrations, trying to decipher what they might be, if seconds might
possibly make a difference when it came to escape.
But it wasn’t car tyres she was
sensing, to her alarm, and her earlier feelings of panic retuned again,
coloured now with the certainty of doom; for what she felt was the thudding of
hooves: Centaur hooves.
Oh, no, she thought, her heart thumping loudly, threatening
to drown out the increasing rumble of those terrible hooves. Again she fought down her fear,
concentrating on the source of the hoof beats. They were definitely moving closer, and it felt as though
they might be slowing. There was
also more than one set of hooves, she thought, two of them, possibly more.
“Do you see it?”
Hermione gasped inwardly; she
could hear them! Despite her silken wrappings she could
hear one of the Centaurs talking, which could only mean that at least one of
them was very close. It was also
obvious that they were looking for something: they were looking for her.
A different voice, slightly
higher pitched, excited: “It must
have landed near here. Look at the
damage it did! Those webs didn’t
look like that yesterday!”
The first voice again: “Calm yourself, Oronor. We both saw it fall, whatever it
was. Judging by the quiet it is
either gone, or hiding, or… or about a foot in front of you.”
They know where I am, Hermione realized. She considered her options: play dead? They
were Centaurs, not bears. Should
she try acting haughty and superior?
No, Umbridge had tried that last year and ended up getting carried off
by a pack of them. It was never
known what happened to her during her brief time with them, before Professor
Dumbledore rescued her, but she had overheard Ron telling Harry, “I suspect
she’s got a size eleven arsehole now.”
Hermione
heard Oronor’s quick gasp and felt his hooves thud quickly backwards. She knew she must present quite a
sight, with her now shortened form and expanded bosom, she didn’t know what she
might look like to the young Centaur, but she was sure it wasn’t remotely
human.
The first voice spoke again, still more excited, “What is it,
Magorian?”
Magorian? Hermione eyes widened beneath the silken mask as she quickly pondered
what she should do. Should she cry
out? They had met twice before,
though never under the best of circumstances, and she was no longer a foal, as
they had previously referred to her.
She was now of age, in territory that the Centaurs considered inviolate
to humans, and completely incapable of defending herself. She doubted that she could make any
intelligible noise with her jaw practically wired shut, and she was afraid that
a grunt might just set them off.
If the younger one was anything like that psychotic Centaur, Bane, he’d
likely shoot first, a considerable worry, as she had also just heard the
unmistakable sound of the tautening of a bowstring.
“Let me leave it as an
exercise for the student.” Magorian said, in his usual mournful voice. “What do you think it is, Oronor?”
Hermione listened intently,
unable to think of any action that wouldn’t land her in even greater peril than
she was now, silently praying that Magorian would stay the younger centaur’s
hand.
“I don’t know.”
“Very good, Oronor, very
wise. Neither, I am sorry to say,
do I. What then, do you think we
should do?”
“We should look closer,” he
said, his voice resolute.
Hermione relaxed a bit upon hearing
the loosening of Oronor’s bowstring, hopeful that she wouldn’t at least be
killed outright, but that tension returned, redoubled as she felt the soft
‘clop’ of hooves drawing nearer, and heard the sound of a knife blade being
unsheathed, a hand upon her head.
“Well, what have you found,
Oronor?” the elder Centaur asked after a minute.
“A pair of tits, teacher,”
he said simply. “A pair of tits.”
She
could remember imagining, sometimes in daydreams, what it might be like to ride
on the back of a Centaur: the smell of grass, the wind in her hair, the
pleasant bounce of her perfect breasts as she was carried along by a muscular,
red-haired stallion. But the
reality was, or at least her dream reality was, far from such silly schoolgirl
flights of fancy. She was bouncing
along, all right, though, tied as she was to Oronor’s back, all she could see
was the direction from which they had come, as well as the occasional flick of
the young Centaur’s black tail as they galloped through the forest, Hermione’s
Engorged breasts banging against his flanks like saddlebags.
She
was trussed much as she had been when they had found her, only the webbing
covering her face and breasts having been deftly cut away, but Magorian,
deciding it was prudent, had, not ungently, stuffed an apple in her mouth,
gagging her so that she could not perform any incantations on the journey to
the Centaur’s clearing.
“You
are a mare now, and having been fully warned of the consequences of entering
our forest, must now submit to our judgment,” Magorian had said as he secured
her to Oronor’s back, the younger Centaur pointedly looking away, bristling,
hating being used as a common mule.
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