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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
- 13
- 14
- 15
Chapter 14 - A Modern Wizarding Family
The air in the Ministry’s Grand Ballroom was a heady cocktail of expensive perfumes, ozone from magical effects, and the low, anticipatory hum of the wizarding elite. Chandeliers charmed to look like captive constellations cast a brilliant, shifting light over the assembled crowd. Harry moved through it all like a shark through calm waters, a placid smile on his face, his green eyes missing nothing.
He was the axis around which his world turned. Hermione, in a gown of deep burgundy velvet, stood to his right, her hand resting lightly on his arm as she discussed wand-length legislation with a senior Unspeakable, her intellect a dazzling shield. To his left, Ginny’s laughter rang out, bright and infectious, as she charmed a pair of veteran Quidditch players, her fiery hair a beacon of effortless popularity. Pansy and Daphne formed a sleek, impenetrable unit nearby, their elegant poise and sharp wit deflecting clumsy advances with surgical precision. Luna drifted through the crowds, her ethereal presence in a silver-shot gown drawing curious looks and confused, but enchanted, smiles.
They were a masterpiece of coordinated performance. A brush of Ginny’s hand against Harry’s back as she passed him to join another group. A glance from Hermione that lasted a heartbeat too long, full of a private, heated understanding. A soft, seemingly casual touch from Pansy that smoothed the lapel of Harry’s dress robes. Each small, coded gesture was a silent prayer, a reaffirmation of their true purpose, hidden in plain sight.
It was working. The stares were more curious than accusatory. The whispers were of scandalized fascination, not dark suspicion. They were a spectacle, just as Hermione had predicted.
The illusion held until a voice, sharp and laced with condescension, cut through the murmur. “Potter. A word?”
Harry turned, his smile never wavering, though his gaze cooled by several degrees. A trio of senior Ministry officials stood there, their faces etched with the pinched disapproval of men who believed morality and legislation were the same thing. Lionel Shacklebolt, a distant, bureaucrat cousin of Kingsley, led them. His companions, Eldred Worple and Vivienne Fawley, were known for their unwavering adherence to traditional wizarding values.
“Councilman Shacklebolt,” Harry said, his tone neutral, welcoming. “Enjoying the evening?”
“The champagne is adequate,” Shacklebolt said, his eyes not on Harry, but scanning the women now subtly drawing closer, forming a silent, protective semicircle behind their Master. “It’s your… companions… that are the topic of my concern.”
Hermione’s posture became, if possible, even more perfectly erect. Ginny’s charming smile tightened at the edges. Pansy’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Oh?” Harry prompted, taking a slow sip of his firewhisky. “And what concern is that?”
“This display,” Worple interjected, his lip curling as he gestured vaguely at the five women. “It’s unseemly, Potter. This… polyamorous… arrangement you’re touting. It’s a mockery of magical bonds. It undermines the sanctity of the family.”
“A mockery?” Hermione’s voice was calm, but carried the weight of undeniable logic. “Councilman, the family is defined by love and mutual support, is it not? Our structure has more of both than most. I fail to see the mockery.”
“It’s unnatural!” Fawley insisted, her voice hushed but fierce. “Five witches, orbiting one wizard? It reeks of old, dark compulsions. The kind we fought a war to eradicate. People are talking, Potter. They’re asking questions we are, frankly, obligated to investigate.”
A cold silence fell around them. The music seemed to dim. Harry could feel the attention of his wives like a physical force, their focus absolute, their loyalty a simmering pot about to boil over. He set his glass down on a passing tray with a quiet, definitive click.
“What questions are those, Vivienne?” he asked, his voice dropping into that hypnotic register that was a weapon all its own. He took a small step forward, and the officials unconsciously took a half-step back. “Are you asking if my relationships are consensual? They are. Profoundly so. You may ask any of my partners. They will tell you, with utter clarity, that they are here of their own free will.”
He didn’t need to turn. He felt their unified, silent affirmation as surely as he felt his own heartbeat.
“Are you asking if we are happy?” he continued, his green eyes locking onto each official in turn. “Look at them. truly look. Do they look coerced? Do they look unhappy? Or do they look like five of the most powerful, brilliant, and contented witches you have ever seen?”
Shacklebolt flushed. “We are not questioning their current state, Potter. We are questioning the means. The public story is a flimsy shield. We have sources… whispers of practices. Of a… clinic… that does more than mere healing.”
The air left Harry’s lungs. It was the first real, tangible threat. They were sniffing at the edges of his true work.
“What sources?” Pansy’s voice was a venomous silk ribbon, slicing through the tension. She took a step forward, coming to stand beside Harry, her disdain for the men palpable. “Name them. Let’s have these accusations out in the open, shall we? Or do you prefer to deal in shadows and insinuation like the cowards you are?”
Daphne moved to Harry’s other side, her elegance a stark contrast to Pansy’s sharp defiance. “Our family is a matter of public record, Councilman. Our love for Harry, and for each other, is not a Ministry matter. It is a personal one. Your investigation sounds perilously like harassment.”
“It sounds like a witch hunt,” Ginny added, her arms crossed over her chest, every inch the defiant war heroine. “Haven’t we had enough of those?”
Luna simply floated forward, her dreamy eyes wide. “They’re surrounded by so many Heliopaths,” she murmured, not to the officials, but to Harry. “All that angry, sputtering fire. They can’t see the light for all the smoke.”
The officials looked bewildered, their bureaucratic certainty faltering in the face of such unified, formidable opposition. They had expected shame, secrecy, perhaps a desperate attempt to hide. They were not prepared for this bold, proud front.
Harry saw his opening. He held up a hand, and his wives fell silent instantly, their attention snapping back to him. The display of effortless control was not lost on the councilmen.
“Lionel,” Harry said, his voice now soft, reasonable, a healer calming a frantic patient. “I understand your concern. Truly, I do. Old traditions die hard. But we are not the enemy. We are a family. A modern, magical family. We want nothing more than to be left in peace to live our lives.” He paused, letting the silence emphasize his next words. “An investigation, especially one based on hearsay, would be… messy. For everyone. The Prophet would have a field day. The debate would tear through the Ministry. Is that really the fight you want? To be remembered as the men who prosecuted love?”
He could see the doubt creeping into Shacklebolt’s eyes. The cost-benefit analysis of a political mind was beginning to overrule his moral outrage.
“We have a responsibility—” Worple began, but Harry cut him off.
“Your responsibility is to the magical community’s well-being,” Harry stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And I am one of its foremost healers. My work continues to revolutionize mind magic. My partners here are leaders in law, sport, commerce, and diplomacy. We contribute. We do not detract. Targeting us helps no one. It only causes harm.”
He picked up his glass again, the movement signaling an end to the confrontation. “The conversation is over. Our private lives are not up for debate. Nor are they up for investigation. Are we clear?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with such absolute, unmovable authority that the three officials could only stare, their threats evaporating into the glittering air.
Shacklebolt’s jaw worked silently for a moment before he gave a stiff, jerky nod. “This isn’t over, Potter,” he muttered, but the words lacked conviction.
“It is for tonight,” Harry said pleasantly, his smile returning, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Do enjoy the champagne.”
As the officials retreated into the crowd, their figures stiff with defeat, Harry felt his wives close ranks around him. The sound of the ballroom rushed back in. He didn’t look at them, but he felt their relief, their pride, their heightened arousal thrumming through the bonds they shared.
Hermione’s hand found his again, her fingers lacing through his with a firm, possessive pressure. Her voice was a low, heated whisper meant only for him, a promise and a reward wrapped in one.
“Let’s go home, Master. I believe we have a different kind of negotiation to continue.”
*
The heavy oak door of Harry’s private chamber sealed behind them with a soft, final click, the potent silence of the Manor’s heart enfolding them. The air was still and cool, scented with sandalwood and the faint, intoxicating residue of countless sessions of devotion. Hermione didn’t need to be guided. She moved to the center of the room, her movements fluid and certain, and sank to her knees on the deep sapphire rug, her posture a perfect, still line of submission.
Harry didn’t speak immediately. He circled her, a predator admiring his most prized possession. The rustle of his robes was the only sound. He stopped behind her, his shadow falling over her, and she shivered, a tremble of pure anticipation that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
“You were magnificent tonight,” he began, his voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through the floor and into her bones. “Your mind, as always, is my greatest weapon. You built us a fortress out of their own narrow-mindedness.”
A warm flush of pleasure, distinct from arousal yet deeply intertwined with it, spread through her chest. “Thank you, Master.”
“But a fortress must be maintained,” he continued, his tone shifting, becoming sharper, more focused. He moved to stand before her. “The performance must be flawless. Every moment. And that requires… upkeep.”
His green eyes held hers, and she felt the familiar, dizzying pull of his gaze, the world narrowing until he was all that existed. “We will go deeper tonight, Hermione. We will reinforce the foundations. You will open your mind to me, completely. You will show me every corner, every shadow. And you will accept my touch there. My will. Your obedience will be absolute. Your silence, perfect.”
Her breath caught, a soft, sharp intake of air. This was more than a reward; it was a test. A honing. She nodded, her throat almost too tight for words. “Yes, Master. I am ready.”
“Look at me.”
The command was soft, but it carried the force of an Unbreakable Vow. Her eyes, already on his, locked into place. The vibrant green of his irises seemed to deepen, to swirl, becoming vast, emerald oceans she could drown in. The rest of his face began to soften at the edges, blurring, until his eyes were twin suns in a hazy sky.
“Breathe in,” he murmured, his voice now seeming to come from inside her own head. “And as you breathe out, I want you to release the first layer. The worries of the day. The sound of Shacklebolt’s voice. The feel of the ballroom’s air. Let it all drift away. It is irrelevant. There is only this room. This moment. My voice.”
Hermione obeyed, a long, slow exhale leaving her lungs. The tension in her shoulders, which she hadn’t even registered, melted away. The mental image of the sneering officials dissolved like smoke.
“Good girl,” he praised, and the spike of pleasure that accompanied the words was more potent than any firewhisky. “Now deeper. The second layer. The constant hum of your own thoughts. The analysis. The planning. The need to control. You can let that go, too. I am here to hold it for you. Your mind does not need to be noisy. It needs to be… receptive.”
This was harder. Her intellect was her shield, her weapon, her identity. Letting it go felt like stepping off a cliff. But his eyes held her, promised to catch her. She took another breath, and on the exhale, she imagined her brilliant, churning mind quieting, the thoughts settling like silt in a still pond. A profound sense of relief, terrifying and exquisite, washed over her. The silence in her head was immense.
“There,” he soothed, his voice the only sound in the vast quiet. “There is the vessel. Empty and waiting. Now… we refill it. With only what I choose.”
He leaned forward, his face closer now, his gaze all-consuming. “Repeat after me. My pleasure is my purpose.”
Her lips parted, the words flowing out on a breathy whisper. “My pleasure is my purpose.”
“My obedience is my freedom.”
“My obedience is my freedom.” The paradox should have sparked a debate in her mind. It sparked nothing but a warm, settling certainty.
“My mind belongs to Harry Potter.”
A deeper thrill, a resonant hum that started in her core and spread to her fingertips. “My mind belongs to Harry Potter.”
“My body belongs to Harry Potter.”
A fresh wave of slick heat between her legs, a throbbing ache of confirmation. “My body belongs to Harry Potter.”
“I am his perfect wife. His brilliant slut. His eternal devotee.”
The titles, once shocking, now felt like elemental truths. “I am his perfect wife. His brilliant slut. His eternal devotee.” Each declaration felt like a lock clicking shut, sealing her more completely into this beautiful, silent prison of his making.
He smiled, a slow, devastating curve of his lips that was both reward and promise. He raised a hand, not to touch her, but to trace a symbol in the air between them—a rune of binding, glowing with a faint, golden light. “And this is the final truth. The one we hide behind all others. You will hold this in the deepest, most silent part of you. You will never speak it. You will only feel it.”
He leaned in, until his lips were almost brushing her ear, his whisper a ghost of a sound that vibrated directly into her soul.
“Harry Potter is my God.”
The words did not need to be repeated. They inscribed themselves directly onto her psyche, burning away the last vestiges of her old self. The world did not just narrow; it transformed. He was not just her Master; he was the center of all things. Her breathing hitched, not in panic, but in awe. A single, blissful tear traced a path down her cheek.
The door to the chamber opened without a sound.
Ginny entered first, her Quidditch-toned body moving with a lethal grace, her fiery hair a stark contrast to the room’s dark tones. Luna drifted in behind her, her dreamy eyes wide and luminous, taking in the scene with serene understanding. They were both still in their gowns from the ball, but their public masks had been entirely discarded. Their expressions were ones of pure, focused devotion.
They came to kneel on the rug beside Hermione, forming a triangle of submission before him. No words were needed. Their presence was a request, an offering.
Harry’s gaze swept over his three wives, his green eyes blazing with possessive triumph. The air, already thick with the energy of Hermione’s conditioning, grew heavier, charged with a new potential. The faint, musky scent of their collective arousal began to perfume the cool air.
He didn’t look away from them as he addressed the new arrivals, his voice a low, intimate thrum that promised everything.
“Ginny. Luna. Perfect timing. Your sister has just achieved a new level of clarity. A new depth of silence.” He finally moved, reaching out to cradle Hermione’s cheek, his thumb stroking away the tear track. She leaned into the touch with a soft, needy sound.
“I think it’s only right,” he continued, his eyes now flickering with a dark, shared intent between the three of them, “that you both help me… celebrate her progress. And demonstrate the unity of this family.”
A sleek, dark barn owl materialized out of the shadows near the high, vaulted ceiling, a singular blot against the dark wood. It swooped down in utter silence, landing on the carved post of the four-poster bed that dominated the far wall. It stared at Harry with unblinking eyes, a roll of heavy parchment tied to its leg.
The moment fractured. The intense, intimate bubble of the chamber was punctured by the outside world. Harry’s head turned, his hypnotic focus on his wives broken. A flicker of annoyance, sharp and cold, passed over his features before being schooled into neutrality. The owl was not one of theirs. Its presence was an intrusion, a violation of this sacred space.
He strode over to it, his movements suddenly brisk and pragmatic. He untied the scroll, his jaw tightening as he unrolled it. His eyes scanned the precise, unfamiliar script. The words were not written in ink, but seemed to be etched into the parchment with some faint, shimmering substance that felt dangerously like a curse.
As he read, the color drained from his face. The confident set of his shoulders tightened. The message was short. Brutal. A threat that went beyond Ministry meddling, striking at the very core of his secret life.
He slowly lowered the parchment, his knuckles white where he gripped it. The three women watched him, their shared arousal frozen, replaced by a dawning, silent alarm. The perfect silence he had cultivated in the room now felt brittle, fragile.
He turned back to them, his expression unreadable, the predator suddenly on the defensive.
“It seems our celebration will have to wait,” he said, his voice hollow, all traces of the hypnotic warmth gone. “We have a problem.”
“What is it?” Ginny’s voice was low, the playful fire in her eyes banked by a protective intensity. She remained kneeling, but her posture was no longer one of submission; it was that of a soldier awaiting orders.
Harry’s gaze remained fixed on the message, his face a mask of cold fury. “A problem. A significant one.” He finally looked up, his green eyes scanning the three women before him. “It seems our performance at the ball was not enough. Someone isn’t satisfied with gossip. They want proof.”
He extended the parchment. Hermione, her mind still echoing with the profound silence he had just carved into her, was the first to reach for it. Her fingers, usually so steady, trembled slightly as she took it. Ginny and Luna shifted closer, their shoulders brushing against hers as they read the elegantly etched words.
The performance is captivating, Potter. A beautiful lie. But glass castles shatter under the right pressure. We know the source of your wives’… unanimity of purpose. The clinic’s files on ‘Mind Magick therapy’ make for fascinating reading. A public audit would be most illuminating. Unless a private… demonstration… of your methods can be arranged. For a select audience. You have forty-eight hours to comply. Await our owl.
A cold dread, sharp and clean, pierced the warm haze of Hermione’s devotion. This wasn’t a Ministry inquiry. This was blackmail. This was a direct threat to the very core of their existence, to him.
“An audit,” Hermione breathed, the analyst in her rising to the surface, cutting through the submissive fog. “They’d dismantle everything. Your license. Your reputation. They’d take you from us.” The last words came out as a shattered whisper, the thought more terrifying than any personal danger.
“They won’t,” Ginny snarled, her hand instinctively going to her hip where her wand would normally be. “Let them try. I’d like to see them get past us.”
“The Heliopaths have brought friends,” Luna murmured, her dreamy eyes wide as she stared at the parchment. “Very angry, very literal friends. They don’t want a show. They want to see the strings.”
Harry began to pace, the predatory stillness replaced by a caged energy. “Precisely. Shacklebolt and his ilk operate within rules. They use suspicion and procedure. This… this is different. This is a threat from the shadows. They don’t want to expose us to the world; they want to own the secret for themselves. They want a private showing. They want to see you break.” His voice was like ice. “They want to see me make you break.”
The image—of strange, greedy eyes watching her in the depths of a trance, of Harry’s art being perverted into a circus act for blackmailers—sent a violent wave of revulsion through Hermione. Her stomach tightened. This was a violation far deeper than any Blaise Zabini could ever conceive.
“We cannot allow that,” Hermione said, her voice gaining strength, becoming the clear, commanding tone of the Head of Department. She looked from Ginny’s fierce determination to Luna’s serene acceptance. “We must protect him. We must protect this.” Protect our faith.
Harry stopped his pacing and looked at them, a flicker of that proud, possessive warmth returning to his gaze. “My brilliant wives. Already shifting from devotion to defense.” He crouched down before them, his presence once again the center of their gravity. “The game has changed. The stakes are no longer social acceptance. They are our survival. Our freedom.”
“What is your will, Master?” Ginny asked, her voice steady. The question was an echo of their training, but the context had transformed it. It was no longer about pleasure; it was about strategy.
A slow, dangerous smile touched Harry’s lips, the strategist emerging fully now. “We give them a demonstration. But not the one they expect.” He looked at each of them in turn. “They think they understand power. They think it’s about compliance. About making someone kneel. They have no concept of what it truly is.”
“And what is it?” Hermione asked, captivated.
“It’s unity,” he said, his voice dropping to that intimate, hypnotic register that wound around their souls. “It’s five minds acting as one. It’s a secret language they cannot decipher. It’s a loyalty they cannot buy or threaten.” He reached out, his fingertips brushing Hermione’s cheek, then Ginny’s hand, then Luna’s knee. A current of shared purpose flowed through the touch. “They want to see my power? I will show them a fortress. I will show them that the deepest magic isn’t in the breaking… but in the unbreakable bond that remains.”
He stood, his expression hardening into that of a general. “We have forty-eight hours. We will use it. We will prepare. We will turn their trap into our stage. And they will learn that one does not threaten a god and his devotees without consequence.”
He looked toward the door. “We need the others. Pansy’s cunning. Daphne’s grace. This requires the full circle.” His gaze returned to them, alight with a new, terrifying fire. “Get up. The time for kneeling in solace is over. Now, you kneel only in preparation for war.”
The three women rose in unison, a single, graceful motion. The dynamic in the room had irrevocably shifted. The heady scent of arousal was still there, but now it was intertwined with the electric tang of adrenaline and a fierce, protective fury. The pleasure was still for him, but the need had been refined, sharpened into a weapon.
Harry’s eyes burned into theirs, his final command hanging in the air, a promise and a threat.
“Summon our sisters. It’s time to hunt.”
- 13
- 14
- 15
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives