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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives	By : gee25 Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 369 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER. NOTE that this is MOSTLY AI GENERATED, with prompts from me.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Chapter 13 - Polished My Jewels Too Brightly
The scent of his office—sandalwood, old parchment, and the faint, intoxicating musk of their last session—wrapped around Hermione like a second skin. She knelt precisely where he’d left her, her posture a perfect, still line of devotion. The deep ache in her backside from his… review… was a pleasant, grounding throb, a constant reminder of his ownership.
Harry stood by the window, his silhouette dark against the afternoon light filtering through the leaded glass. His silence was a heavy, contemplative thing.
“They will talk, eventually,” he said, his voice quiet, cutting through the quiet hum of powerful wards. He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the world outside, a world that was beginning to feel increasingly separate from this room. “Ron’s oblivious. Always will be. But others… Theo Nott watches everything. And your promotion, Hermione. It puts you in more meetings. Under more scrutiny.”
A sliver of cold, unwelcome reality pierced the warm haze of her submission. She kept her eyes lowered, but her mind, the brilliant instrument he had honed to such perfection, began to whir. “You’re worried,” she stated softly.
He turned then, his green eyes capturing hers. The possessiveness in them was a physical force, but beneath it, she saw the sharp edge of a strategist’s concern. “This isn’t a game we can play in shadow forever. Ginny’s performance on the pitch is becoming… superlative. Pansy and Daphne are deflecting advances from men like Zabini with a unity that is conspicuous. Luna is suddenly the picture of pure-blood elegance.” A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “I’ve polished my jewels a little too brightly. They’re starting to catch the light.”
He walked toward her, stopping just before her knelt form. He didn’t touch her. The absence of his touch was its own kind of command. Think. For me.
Hermione’s breath settled into a slow, even rhythm. She could feel the pathways in her mind, the ones he had cleared and rewired, lighting up with cold, clear logic. The problem was laid out before her: a puzzle for his most devoted wife to solve.
“A secret is only powerful as long as it remains a secret,” she began, her voice gaining a familiar, analytical cadence, though it remained soft, reverent. “The moment it’s suspected, it becomes a vulnerability. A thing to be hunted.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Harry murmured, a flicker of pride in his gaze. His brilliant girl.
“So we don’t let it be suspected,” she said, a daring, brilliant idea beginning to crystallize. She lifted her eyes to meet his fully, a spark of her old self—the Muggle-born who outwitted a mountain troll—flaring to life within the absolute devotion he had cultivated. “We give them a story. A better one. One they’ll be too scandalized and intrigued by to look for a darker truth.”
His eyebrow quirked. Go on.
“Polyamory,” she said, the word crisp and modern in the ancient room. “A progressive, ethical non-monogamous relationship. The great Harry Potter, war hero, revolutionary Healer… and his consensual, committed relationship with five witches. We’re not your secret. We’re your public partners.”
Harry was utterly still, but she could see the calculations flying behind his eyes. “That’s…”
“Brilliant?” she offered, a slight, knowing smile touching her lips. “It explains everything. Our closeness. Our shared devotion to you. The way we might… support each other. It’s shocking, yes. Unconventional, certainly. But it’s not illegal. It’s not dark magic. It’s just… a lifestyle choice. A choice made by powerful, consenting adults.”
She shifted on her knees, the movement making her skirt brush against the tender skin beneath. “Think of it, Master. The press would have a field day, but what could they truly say? That the Savior has a large, happy family? That he loves openly and without traditional constraints? It reframes everything. Your ‘appointments’ become dates. Our synchronized movements become signs of a deep, intimate bond, not a shared trance.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across Harry’s face now, the worried tension melting from his shoulders. It was a terrifyingly beautiful sight. “They’d be so busy clutching their pearls over the sheer audacity of it, they’d never think to look for the wand in my hand.”
“Precisely,” Hermione breathed, warmth flooding her chest at his approval. “We control the narrative completely. We introduce them gradually. First, perhaps, you and I are seen as a couple. Then, it’s revealed that Ginny, your passionate, fiery former flame, is also part of our lives. Then the sophisticated pure-blooded grace of Daphne and Pansy, a testament to your unifying power after the war. And finally, Luna… our ethereal, beloved heart.”
She painted the picture for him, her words weaving a tapestry of plausible deniability so perfect it was itself a kind of magic. “We’ll be a spectacle, but a protected one. A fortress of our own making, built from their gossip and their assumptions.”
Harry crouched down in front of her, bringing them eye to eye. His fingers came up to trace her jaw, a reward that sent a shiver of pure bliss through her. “You never cease to amaze me,” he whispered, his voice thick with a dark, pleased awe. “You take my greatest vulnerability and you transform it into my greatest strength. My perfect, brilliant wife.”
He leaned forward, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was not of passion, but of profound, possessive gratitude. It was a seal on their new pact.
When he pulled back, his expression had shifted back to that of the conductor, the master planner. “We’ll need to prepare the others. They’ll need to understand their new roles. The performances they’ll have to give.”
“They’ll be perfect,” Hermione said with utter certainty. “They live to please you. This is just a new script. A new way to worship.”
“Then we begin tonight,” Harry said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He rose to his full height, looking down at her with that glittering, commanding gaze. “Summon them. Ginny, Pansy, Daphne, Luna. Tell them their Master has a new game. One we’ll be playing for everyone to see.”
*
The polished walnut of The Burrow’s kitchen table felt familiar under Ron’s palms, a stark contrast to the unfamiliar tension coiling in his gut. The scent of Molly’s treacle tart, usually so comforting, sat uneaten on his plate. Across from him, Harry and Hermione seemed like a perfectly normal couple, yet something felt… off. Their synchronicity was too perfect, their calm too absolute.
“So, the promotion,” Ron began, scrambling for neutral ground. “Head of Department. Blimey, Hermione. That’s… big.”
“It is,” Hermione agreed, her voice a serene melody. She didn’t preen or elaborate. She simply was. Her hand rested on the table, inches from Harry’s, not touching, but their proximity felt more intimate than any clasp.
“Yeah, huge,” Ron pressed, his eyes darting between them. “And you two seem… good. Really good.”
“We are,” Harry said, his voice a low, even hum. His green eyes held Ron’s, not with challenge, but with a quiet intensity that was somehow more disconcerting. “Everything is exactly as it should be.”
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Ron fidgeted, a flush creeping up his neck. He blurted it out. “It’s just… Ginny. She’s around a lot. And… others. Pansy Parkinson, for Merlin’s sake. I saw you all at the Leaky last week and it was… intense. It looked… more than friendly.”
Hermione’s smile was gentle, understanding. “We were wondering when you’d ask.”
Ron blinked. “You were?”
“Of course,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. The movement was minimal, but it drew all the light in the room toward him. “You’re family, Ron. Your concern is… noted. And appreciated.”
“But misplaced,” Hermione finished, her tone leaving no room for argument. She exchanged a glance with Harry, a look of such profound understanding it was like a private conversation happening in the space between their eyes. “Ron, what you’re sensing isn’t a secret. It’s just… a different way of living. A different way of loving.”
Ron’s brow furrowed deeply. “A different way? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Harry took over, his voice dropping into that hypnotic cadence that made even the creaks of the old house seem to quieten. “It means that the love I have for Hermione isn’t diminished by the care I have for Ginny. Or for Pansy, or Daphne, or Luna. It’s expanded. It’s grown to include them. All of them.”
The words hung in the air, nonsensical and staggering. Ron stared, his mouth slightly agape. “You… you what? All of them? You’re having me on.”
“It’s called polyamory, Ron,” Hermione explained, her voice patient, as if she were tutoring him for a particularly tricky exam. “Ethical, consensual non-monogamy. We’re all in a relationship together. A committed, public relationship.”
“Public?” Ron choked out, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled his hair. “You’re going to tell people you’re… you’re all… with Harry?”
“Why not?” Harry asked, his head tilting. “We’re all adults. We’re all consenting. There’s no shame in choosing a family structure that works for us. A structure built on honesty, not secrecy.”
Ron looked wildly at Hermione, seeking any sign of doubt, any flicker of the girl he’d known for over a decade. He found only placid certainty. “And you’re… okay with this? With sharing him?”
Hermione’s smile was beatific. “I’m not ‘sharing’ him, Ron. I’m celebrating the love he has to give. We all are. We’re sisters. It brings me more joy than I can possibly express to see him happy, to see them happy. Our unity is our strength.”
The words were so alien, so perfectly delivered, that they short-circuited Ron’s ability to argue. He just sat there, shaking his head slowly. “Mum will have a fit. The Daily Prophet…”
“Will write what they always write,” Harry stated, a flicker of his old defiance surfacing, now channeled into this new, terrifying confidence. “But they’ll be writing about my choices, my life. Not some dark secret they’ve dug up. We’re taking control of the narrative, Ron.”
Later that evening, the scene in Harry’s study was a study in controlled anticipation. The five women knelt in a semi-circle before his desk, their postures a mirror of effortless grace. Hermione, Ginny, Pansy, Daphne, Luna. They were a collection of his finest artwork, waiting for his brushstroke.
“You know why you’re here,” Harry began, his gaze sweeping over them. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The silence was his instrument. “The conversation with Ron was the first step. The narrative is set.”
He paced slowly before them. “The world will now be watching. They will scrutinize your every glance, your every touch. They will look for cracks. For jealousy. For coercion.”
A collective, almost imperceptible straightening of spines. The challenge had been issued.
“Your performance must be flawless. You are not slaves hiding in the dark. You are my partners, standing proudly in the light. You are progressive. You are enlightened. You are happy.” He stopped behind Hermione, placing a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into the touch like a flower to the sun. “You are united in your devotion to this family. To me.”
He moved to Ginny, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “You will be passionate.” To Pansy, a smirk playing on his lips. “You will be defiantly loyal.” To Daphne, a nod of acknowledgement. “You will be elegantly supportive.” Finally, he cupped Luna’s cheek, and her dreamy eyes focused with startling intensity. “And you will be our blissful heart.”
“Your arousal,” he continued, his voice lowering to that intimate, possessive register that made their skin prickle, “your need, your pleasure… these are now part of the performance. A secret language we will speak in front of them all. A glance held a moment too long. A flush that isn’t from the firewhisky. A gentle, guiding touch that lingers just so. You will show them a fraction of what you feel, and they will think they understand. They will think it’s all about free love and rebellion. They will have no idea that every flicker of heat, every shared smile, is a silent prayer to me.”
He returned to the front of his desk, his green eyes blazing. “This is your most important training. Your greatest act of service. Can you give them the show of a lifetime?”
The response was not in words. It was in the synchronized incline of their heads. In the dilation of their pupils. In the subtle, collective shift as they drew a breath, their bodies already thrumming with the promise of this new, public worship.
The dinner party was a masterclass in staged intimacy. Harry’s dining room glittered with charmed crystal and low, seductive lighting. The air was rich with the aroma of exquisite food and expensive wine.
Ron arrived with a visibly flustered George in tow. Their eyes widened as they took in the scene. Hermione, in a sleek emerald gown, was laughing at something Pansy murmured in her ear, Pansy’s hand resting possessively on the small of Hermione’s back. Daphne and Ginny were by the fireplace, their heads close together as they examined a rare magical artifact, their postures relaxed and familiar. Luna drifted through the room, offering canapés with a ethereal smile, her movements a serene ballet.
It was perfect. It was seamless. It was utterly unbelievable to anyone who didn’t know the truth.
George leaned toward Ron, his voice a low whisper. “Blimey. They’re really going for it, aren’t they? It’s like watching a weird, beautiful play.”
Ron just shook his head, his earlier disbelief morphing into a dazed confusion. “I don’t get it.”
As the night wore on, the performance deepened. Harry moved among his partners with a casual, proprietary ease. He’d brush a strand of hair from Daphne’s face, his thumb grazing her cheekbone. She’d gaze up at him, a delicate blush coloring her skin, a look of such fond admiration that it seemed entirely genuine. He’d whisper something to Ginny that made her throw her head back and laugh, the sound rich and unforced, her hand coming to rest on his arm.
The touches were fleeting. The looks were brief. But they were constant, a low, simmering current of connection that ran beneath the polite conversation and clinking glasses.
During dessert, Harry stood, tapping his spoon gently against his flute. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, his voice warm and commanding. His arm slid naturally around Hermione’s waist, drawing her to his side. She leaned into him, her expression one of proud devotion. “As you can see, my life has… expanded. Grown in ways I never could have predicted.” His gaze swept over Ginny, Pansy, Daphne, and Luna, including them all in his smile. “I am the luckiest wizard alive to be loved so completely, and so uniquely, by these five extraordinary witches. We’ve chosen to no longer hide the truth of our family. We’re choosing to celebrate it. With all of you.”
He raised his glass. “To love. In all its forms.”
As the guests murmured the toast, their faces a mixture of shock, curiosity, and bemused acceptance, Harry’s eyes met Ron’s over the rim of his glass. The look wasn’t triumphant. It was calm. Assured. It was the look of a man who had already won a game Ron didn’t even know they were playing.
Later, as the guests began to depart in a buzz of whispered speculation, Harry drew his circle of wives closer. The public mask of gentle affection shifted, just for them. His voice was a low, intimate thrum that promised a different kind of night entirely.
- 12
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- 14
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives