Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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
- 14
- 15
- 16
Chapter 15 - Flutterbyes of Suspicion
The heavy oak door to Harry’s study sealed with a soft, definitive click. The air, usually thick with the scent of sandalwood and quiet power, now crackled with a new, focused energy. The five women stood or sat in a loose semicircle before his desk, their postures no longer the languid poses of devotion, but the alert stances of warriors preparing for a campaign.
Harry stood before the cold fireplace, the threatening parchment held loosely in one hand. His green eyes, usually burning with possessive fire, were now cold, analytical emeralds. He was no longer their god in his temple; he was a general in his war room.
“They’ve given us a timeline,” he began, his voice flat, devoid of its usual hypnotic warmth. “Forty-eight hours to capitulate or face ruin. They believe this is a weakness. They are mistaken. This is a gift. It reveals their hand.”
Hermione stepped forward, her brow furrowed in concentration. “The demand for a private demonstration is their true objective. The audit threat is merely the lever. They don’t want to destroy your work; they want to possess it. To own you.”
“Obviously,” Pansy drawled from her perch on the edge of an armchair, examining her perfectly manicured nails. The gesture was casual, but her eyes were sharp, calculating. “It’s a pure-blood play. Probably the Parkinson family’s doing, a distant cousin with a grudge and a lack of subtlety. They’ve always been so… acquisitive.”
Daphne, standing with her usual elegant poise by the window, shook her head slightly. “The script is too crude for a Parkinson. This reeks of new money. A parvenu with more galleons than grace, trying to buy their way into the old circles with a scandal.”
“Perhaps it’s a collective,” Luna mused, her dreamy gaze fixed on a point somewhere near the ceiling. “A little group of wrackspurts, all buzzing with the same nasty idea. They’ve built a hive mind out of envy.”
Ginny cracked her knuckles, a sharp, impatient sound. “I don’t care if it’s a bloody hive mind or a lone nutter. They made a threat. We find them. We end them.” Her fiery hair seemed to glow in the dim light, a beacon of barely-contained aggression.
Harry’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “All valid theories. But theories are useless without intelligence.” He turned his gaze to Hermione. “The message mentions clinic files. My practice’s records. Who has access?”
Hermione’s mind, honed for this very purpose, clicked into gear. “The administrative oversight log is maintained by the Department of Magical Health. Level Five. It’s a public record, but highly tedious. Few bother to look. An audit request would generate a formal filing… which would be sent to a routing office on Level Four for processing before being officially served.”
Pansy’s eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. “The routing office is a mess. Piles of paperwork. A single, misplaced file could go unnoticed for weeks.”
“Precisely,” Harry said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “We need to see that filing. We need to know who initiated this, and what, exactly, they think they know.”
A slow smile spread across Ginny’s face. “A break-in. I like it.”
“It’s not a break-in,” Daphne corrected smoothly, a sly look in her eyes. “It’s an unscheduled, after-hours retrieval of publicly available information. A matter of bureaucratic efficiency.”
“We’ll need a distraction,” Hermione said, her brain already mapping the Ministry’s floor plan. “Something on the opposite side of Level Four to draw any night watchmen. Something flashy, but not dangerous.”
All eyes turned to Ginny. A feral grin spread across her face. “I think I can manage a faulty weather-wizard experiment. A localized indoor blizzard in the office of Muggle Artefact Misuse should do it. Very flashy. Very distracting.”
“Perfect,” Harry said. “Pansy, Daphne—you’re with Ginny. Create the diversion. Be ghosts.”
Pansy gave a sharp, acknowledging nod. Daphne merely inclined her head, a queen accepting a mission.
“Luna,” Harry continued, his tone softening slightly. “I need your eyes. You see the threads others miss. You’ll stand watch. If you see a wrackspurt of trouble coming, you signal.”
Luna smiled serenely. “I’ll listen for the flutterbyes of suspicion. They make a very distinct sound.”
“And us?” Hermione asked, her heart beginning to beat a swift, excited rhythm against her ribs.
Harry’s gaze settled on her, the cold strategist’s mask melting for a fraction of a second, revealing the possessive Master beneath. “You’re with me. We’re going file-hunting.”
The plan was set. It was audacious, risky, and utterly thrilling. The subtle hum of arousal that always lived within them now fused with adrenaline, creating a potent, focused cocktail of intent. This wasn't for pleasure; it was for him. And that made it the most potent aphrodisiac of all.
The darkened atrium of the Ministry was a cavernous expanse of shadows and echoing silence. They moved in pairs, apparating to separate, pre-arranged points. Ginny, Pansy, and Daphne melted into one corridor, their steps silent on the polished floor. Luna drifted toward a large potted fern, seeming to disappear into its foliage.
Harry’s hand closed around Hermione’s. His grip was firm, grounding. “Ready?” he murmured, his breath a warm ghost against her ear.
She nodded, her throat too tight for words. With a soft twist, the world compressed and they reappeared in the dim, narrow aisle of the Level Four routing office. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and the faint, ozonic tang of magic.
Rows of towering, precariously stacked shelves stretched into the darkness. “The ‘P’ section,” Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible. “Pending actions.”
They moved like shadows themselves, Harry’s heightened senses and Hermione’s eidetic memory guiding them through the labyrinth. The only sound was the whisper of their robes and the frantic beating of her heart. Every distant creak of the building, every hum of a maintenance charm, sounded like a shouted alarm.
Then, a low rumble echoed from the far end of the level, followed by a faint, startled shout. A shimmering wave of cold air washed over them a moment later. Ginny’s blizzard.
“Now,” Harry said, his voice all business.
Hermione’s fingers flew over the files, her eyes scanning labels at a phenomenal speed. Potage… Potherby… Potter. Her hand stilled. There it was. A thick, new-looking folder labelled POTTER, H.J.P. - AUDIT REQUEST: MIND MAGICK THERAPY.
She pulled it free just as a voice rang out, too close. “Who’s there? I heard something!”
A lantern light bobbed at the end of their aisle. A night watchman.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He pushed Hermione firmly behind a stack of boxes, his body shielding hers. His wand was in his hand, but he didn’t raise it. He simply stood, waiting.
The watchman rounded the corner, his lantern held high. He was elderly, his face lined with boredom and surprise. He started, fumbling for his own wand. “You! What are you—?”
“Calmly, Albert,” Harry said, his voice a smooth, calming wave that seemed to push back the shadows. It wasn’t a magical command, not yet, but it was layered with every ounce of his natural and cultivated authority. “It’s Harry Potter. There’s been a misunderstanding. A prank gone wrong, it seems.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the now-fading sounds of Ginny’s distraction.
The old man’s eyes widened, first in recognition, then in confusion. The fight drained out of him. “M-Mister Potter? But the forms… after hours…”
“All in order,” Harry said, his tone implying that of course they were, how could they not be? He took a slow step forward, and the watchman unconsciously took a step back. “You should go and assist with that weather incident. I’ll see myself out.”
The compulsion was subtle, a gentle nudge of will wrapped in sheer presence. The watchman blinked, nodded slowly, and turned away, muttering about irresponsible pranksters as he shuffled off toward the cold air.
Harry turned back to Hermione, who was clutching the file to her chest like a lifeline. The danger, the proximity, the sheer authority he had just wielded—it left her breathless. A fresh, intense wave of heat flooded her system, so potent her knees felt weak.
He didn’t smile. He simply held out his hand. She placed the file in it, her fingers brushing his. The contact was electric.
Back in the study, the file lay open on his desk. The request was official, stamped and signed. The name of the requester made Pansy snort with derisive laughter.
“Eldred Worple,” she read aloud. “That pompous, failed poet? He couldn’t orchestrate a tea party, let alone a blackmail scheme. He’s a lackey. A front.”
“But a front for whom?” Daphne murmured, studying the elegant, precise handwriting of the supporting documentation. “This script is too calculated. This is someone who knows how the Ministry truly works. Someone with influence.”
Before they could theorize further, a silvery patronus—a sleek lynx—leapt through the wall, landing gracefully on the desk. It opened its mouth, and the composed, formal voice of a Ministry clerk filled the room.
“Notification of pending audit for one Harry James Potter, Mind Magick Therapy practice, pursuant to Code 7-31. Ministry auditors will arrive tomorrow at ten o’clock for a preliminary review of all patient files and practice methodologies. Please have all relevant documentation prepared.”
The lynx dissolved into shimmering mist.
The room fell utterly silent. The thrill of their successful mission evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard reality.
Harry slowly looked up from the file, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. The green was no longer cold, nor warm. It was simply… determined.
“It seems,” he said, his voice quiet and deadly calm, “our forty-eight hours just became twenty.”
*
The heavy oak door clicked shut, muffling the sound of the Ministry auditors’ retreating footsteps. The air in Harry’s study, so recently taut with the energy of a high-stakes interrogation, hung thick and silent. For a long moment, no one moved.
Then, a single, sharp crack of laughter broke the stillness. It was Pansy, her head thrown back, a genuine, triumphant sound that sliced through the tension. “They actually left. The pompous, narrow-minded little gits actually bought it.”
A collective exhale seemed to ripple through the room. Ginny slumped against the wall, a wide, exhilarated grin spreading across her face. Daphne allowed herself a slow, elegant lean against Harry’s desk, her composure the last and most formidable shield to be lowered. Hermione’s shoulders, which had been set in a perfect, rigid line of professional defense, finally relaxed. Luna simply smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as if she’d known the outcome all along.
Harry remained standing at the center of the room, the calm eye of their emotional storm. He didn’t smile, but a deep, profound satisfaction radiated from him, warmer than any grin. His green eyes swept over each of them, reflecting their relief, their pride, their devotion back at them.
“They didn’t buy anything,” he corrected, his voice a low, resonant hum that commanded their absolute attention. “They were presented with an irrefutable truth. They saw a successful, legitimate practice. They saw five brilliant, accomplished witches who are here by choice.” He paused, his gaze lingering on each of them, a silent communication passing between them. “They saw my truth. And they found it… impeccable.”
He moved then, walking slowly toward Hermione. He stopped before her, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone. The touch was a brand of possession, a reward. “Your documentation was flawless,” he murmured, his voice for her alone, yet it filled the quiet room. “Every permission form. Every consent waiver. Every progress note. You constructed an entire legal fortress in less than a day.”
A warm blush spread up her neck. “It was only what was required, Master.”
“It was a masterpiece,” he countered, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned his head, including them all in his praise. “And all of you. Your testimonies. Your composure. Your… unity. You were perfect.”
The word hung in the air, charged with meaning. Perfect. It was the highest compliment, the ultimate goal.
“I believe such a victory deserves a proper celebration,” Harry announced, his voice shifting, taking on a familiar, darker timbre that made the air itself seem to thicken. The relief in the room began to morph, coalescing into a sharp, shared anticipation. “A private celebration. To wash away the taste of their tedious questions.”
He walked to a carved mahogany cabinet and withdrew a small, polished box. It was unadorned, but it seemed to pull the light from the room into its deep, lacquered surface. He placed it on the desk with a soft, definitive thud.
“We haven’t played this game in some time,” he said, his fingers resting on the lid. “I think it’s time to remind ourselves of the… simpler pleasures. The ones that require no thought. Only feeling.”
Six pairs of eyes were fixed on the box. A collective, subtle shift in posture. Spines straightened not from tension, but from eager attention. Breaths shallowed.
Harry opened the box. Nestled inside on a bed of black velvet was a small, exquisitely carved wooden doll. It was a rough, androgynous figure, but its surface gleamed from countless hours of handling.
“Who shall go first?” he mused, his gaze traveling over his wives. It was a rhetorical question. They all knew. His eyes settled on Hermione. “My brilliant legal mind. You’ve borne the weight of this entire endeavor. You deserve to set that weight down first.”
Hermione took a half-step forward, her lips parting. No words came out, only a soft, eager sound of assent.
“Assume the position,” he commanded, his voice soft but absolute.
Without hesitation, Hermione moved to the center of the room and sank to her knees. Then, with a fluid grace that spoke of deep, ingrained training, she lay back, her body forming a straight, pliant line from head to toe. Her arms rested at her sides, palms up. Her eyes remained open, but their focus turned inward, her expression smoothing into one of serene readiness.
The doll mode. A state of pure receptivity. A silent, living canvas awaiting its artist’s touch.
Harry picked up the wooden doll. He held it gently, almost reverently. “You feel this, yes?” he asked Hermione, his voice a hypnotic murmur.
“Yes, Master,” she breathed, her voice distant, dreamy.
He began to move. He didn’t touch her. Instead, he traced the doll’s form through the air, a foot above her body. He started at her feet, a slow, sweeping motion up the invisible outline of her legs.
On the rug, Hermione’s breath caught. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her. Her toes curled, though he was not touching her. A faint flush bloomed on her skin.
“The connection is exquisite, isn’t it?” he mused, his eyes on the doll, his movements deliberate and slow. “The mind is such a powerful thing. It needs only the slightest suggestion. The lightest trigger.”
He brought the doll’s hand up, tracing the plane of her stomach. Hermione’s abdominal muscles tightened visibly. A low, needy whimper sounded in her throat. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
The other women watched, utterly rapt. Ginny’s fingers were curled into loose fists at her sides. Pansy’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. Daphne’s elegant posture was rigid with focused attention. Luna simply watched with a soft, knowing smile, as if observing a beautiful natural phenomenon.
Harry continued his silent puppetry, guiding the doll’s form over the swell of Hermione’s breasts. Her back arched off the floor, a silent gasp shaping her mouth. Her nipples tightened into hard peaks against the fabric of her blouse. The room was so quiet they could hear the soft rustle of her skirt as her legs shifted restlessly.
He was weaving a tapestry of sensation with empty air, and she was unraveling beneath its ghostly threads. Her body was responding to his will as directly as if his hands were on her, pleasure sparking along neural pathways he himself had wired.
After a long, breathless moment, he stilled the doll. Hermione’s body went lax, boneless, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow. A dazed, blissful smile touched her lips.
“Enough for now,” Harry said, his own voice a shade deeper. He placed the doll back in its box with utmost care. The sudden cessation of the game felt like a physical loss in the room. “A mere aperitif.”
He looked around at the others, his gaze heated. “This was just the beginning. This victory deserves a grander celebration. A proper festival.”
He turned to Pansy and Daphne, who stood a little straighter under his direct attention. “I want you to organize a trip. Somewhere private. Somewhere… decadent. Sun, sea, and absolute secrecy. A week. Just us. I want it to be a surprise for the others. I want you to plan everything.”
Pansy’s dark eyes lit up with a predatory gleam, the thrill of a challenge and the promise of reward. “Of course, Master. We’ll handle every detail. What’s the budget?”
A slow, devastating smile spread across Harry’s face. He reached into his robes, his movements unhurried. He pulled out a small, obsidian-black card, etched with glowing silver runes. It seemed to drink the light from the room.
He held it out to her.
“There isn’t one.”
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives