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 years' 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.
To Be Continued…maybe
Comments, feedback, or pictures of really big boobies always appreciated.
