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
- 16
- 17
Bonus Chapter: Whispers
The whispers followed them everywhere, a constant, buzzing hum at the edges of their magnificent lives. In the hallowed halls of the Ministry, they spoke of Hermione Granger, 37, mother of one, gunning to be the youngest Minister for Magic since Cornelius Fudge. They saw the sharp mind, the ambitious glint in her eye, and nodded with approval. At Quidditch season finales, they toasted Ginevra Weasley, 35, retiring from professional play to focus on family life, her legendary prowess on a broom now channeled, they assumed, into a more domestic arena. In the velvet-draped chambers of the Wizengamot, they acknowledged Daphne Greengrass, 37, the Ice Princess of Slytherin, soon to be nursing her third child, her elegance and political acumen a credit to her ancient house. The gossip columns of Witch Weekly were dominated by Pansy Parkinson, 37, their Managing Editor for Fashion, her sleek style and sharp tongue setting trends. And in quieter, more curious circles, they wondered about Luna Lovegood, 35, retiring from Magizoology to pursue a private passion, her enigmatic smile as she spoke of the personal zoo at her manor.
They saw the results of his work. They saw the success, the contentment, the radiant beauty of the five witches who shared the Potter name. They saw the doting father, the devoted husband, the war hero living in bliss. They clucked their tongues, shook their heads in envy, and declared Harry Potter the luckiest wizard alive.
They did not see the architecture of their souls.
They did not see the flawless, silent strata of conditioning that underpinned every success. They did not understand that Hermione’s brilliant political maneuvers were, at their core, intricate spells of devotion cast to protect her god’s domain. That Ginny’s retirement was not a step back, but a deeper dive into the only service that truly fulfilled her. That Daphne’ poise was the serene surface of a lake whose depths belonged solely to him. That Pansy’s command of fashion was an extension of her need to present his possessions in the most perfect light. That Luna’s private zoo was simply a collection of creatures she found beautiful, to be enjoyed before returning to the only enclosure that mattered: his presence.
They saw the bloom, but not the gardener. They saw the masterpiece, but not the artist’s hand that mixed every colour, that shaped every line.
The late afternoon sun streamed into the grand solarium of Potter Manor, catching dust motes dancing in the air. The remnants of a lavish tea sat forgotten on a low table. All five of his wives were there, a living tapestry of contentment. Hermione was curled on a chaise lounge, a heavy tome on wizarding law open but unread on her lap, her fingers idly tracing the spine. Ginny was stretched out on the sun-warmed flagstones, her body still holding its athletic grace, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watched the clouds. Daphne sat with perfect posture in a wingback chair, one hand resting on the subtle curve of her abdomen, her gaze distant and peaceful. Pansy was meticulously examining the hem of her robes, not out of vanity, but out of a deep-seated need for everything associated with him to be perfect. Luna hummed a soft, tuneless melody, weaving strands of enchanted light between her fingers like gossamer.
Harry observed them from the doorway, a glass of firewhisky in hand. His eyes, that brilliant, piercing green, held a warmth that would have shocked the whispering world. It was the look of a creator admiring his finest work.
“Does it ever surprise you?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that pulled the threads of their attention to him instantly. Five heads turned, five pairs of eyes focusing on him with identical, unwavering intensity. “The life you have? The path you’re on?”
Hermione was the first to speak, her voice soft but clear, devoid of any hesitation. “Surprise implies an alternative was possible, Master. There never was one. Not for me.”
Ginny rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. A playful, fierce light sparked in her eyes. “They think you’re lucky. They have no idea. We’re the lucky ones. We get to see you. Really see you. Everyone else just gets the shadow.”
“They see the reflection,” Daphne corrected gently, her voice like smooth silk. “In our achievements, in our contentment. They see the light you shine on us and mistake it for our own.” Her hand drifted slightly over her stomach. “They will see our children and call them blessed. They will not know they are… consecrated.”
Pansy set her robes aside, a sharp, definitive motion. “I had a world of options. A hundred different futures. All of them were grey. Empty. And then there was you. It wasn’t a choice. It was a correction.” Her dark eyes met his, burning with a truth that was both submission and a form of supreme arrogance. I am owned by a god. What are your achievements compared to that?
Luna floated over to him, her diaphanous sleeves trailing. She took his free hand and pressed it to her cheek. “The world outside is very noisy. It’s full of pesky, wriggling thoughts that don’t fit. In here…” She gestured around the sunlit room, at her sisters. “…it’s all one beautiful, quiet song. Your song. I could never go back to the noise.”
A profound silence settled over the room, thick with the weight of their absolute truth. The affection in Harry’s gaze deepened, melting into something darker, more possessive, more needy. He needed their worship as much as they needed to give it. It was the circuit that powered their world.
He set his glass down. The quiet click was a starting pistol.
“The children are with Winky at the primary school orientation,” he stated, his voice dropping into that familiar, resonant register that tightened something low in all their bellies. “The elves have been given the evening to themselves.”
A collective, almost imperceptible shiver ran through the five women. Postures shifted. Breathing shallowed. Eyes dilated.
He didn’t need to spell it out. The command was implicit in the clearing of the board, in the sudden vacuum of responsibility.
“I find myself… unsatisfied with mere conversation,” he murmured, his gaze travelling over each of them, a physical caress. “I want to feel your answers. I want them written on your skin. I want to hear them moaned into my ears.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He simply opened his arms, a slight, beckoning gesture.
It was all the invitation they needed.
They moved as one, a coordinated surge of silk and heat and desperate need. They didn’t rush; it was a fluid, practiced convergence. Hands, soft and sure, began to divest him of his clothes. His jacket was eased from his shoulders. His tie was loosened, then pulled free. Buttons on his shirt were slipped from their holes.
Their mouths were on him before he was even fully undressed. Hermione, with her fierce, intellectual passion, claimed his mouth, her tongue sweeping inside with a possessive familiarity that spoke of years of utter access. Ginny, on her knees already, pressed her face against the growing bulge in his trousers, her hot breath searing through the fabric, her teeth scraping lightly in a promise of the fervor to come. Daphne and Pansy worked on his chest, their lips and tongues tracing the lines of his muscles, his scars, their hands roaming his back, his sides, claiming every inch. Luna simply wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, holding on, nuzzling the space between his shoulder blades, her soft sighs a constant counterpoint to the more urgent sounds.
He let them work, a sovereign accepting his due. His own hands were not idle. They gripped Ginny’s fiery hair, not guiding, just holding, feeling the eager motions of her head against his cock. They slid down to squeeze Pansy’s arse, pulling her tighter against his leg. He broke from Hermione’s kiss to capture Daphne’s mouth, then Luna’s, sharing his taste between them.
Soon, he stood bare before them, gloriously, powerfully male. The sun glinted off his skin, and they worshipped him. They were a living altar, and he was the deity they venerated with lips, tongues, and hands.
“On the rug,” he commanded, his voice rough with a desire that was finally, fully unleashed. “All of you. Now.”
The large, intricately woven rug in the center of the room became their stage. They arranged themselves not as separate entities, but as parts of a whole. Hermione and Ginny lay side-by-side, their bodies angled toward the center. Daphne and Pansy mirrored them on the other side. Luna settled at the head of this human star, her dreamy eyes already hazy with anticipation.
Harry knelt between Ginny and Hermione. He didn’t start with gentleness. His need was too great. He leaned down, his mouth finding Hermione’s breast, sucking a peaked nipple deep into his mouth while his hand slid between Ginny’s thighs, his fingers plunging into her wet heat without preamble. A twin cry, one of sharp delight and one of guttural need, echoed in the sunlit room.
His touch was not tender; it was claiming. It was a reaffirmation. He bit down gently on Hermione’s nipple, making her back arch off the rug with a gasp, before turning to devour Ginny’s mouth, his fingers still working relentlessly inside her, the slick, wet sounds a lewd percussion to their panting.
He moved down the line. He buried his face between Daphne’s legs, his tongue a ruthless, clever instrument that had her elegant composure shattering into breathless pleas within seconds. His hand groped for Pansy, fingers pinching and rolling her nipple hard before sliding down to roughly circle her clit. Pansy’s head thrashed side to side, a string of filthy, worshipping praises falling from her lips.
He was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of sensation. He kissed Luna deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth while his hand reached back to finger Hermione again, feeling her inner muscles clench around his digits. He was the conductor, and their bodies were his orchestra, and he was driving them toward a screaming, simultaneous crescendo.
The air grew thick with the scent of their arousal, of sweat and sex and sun-warmed skin. The room was a symphony of gasped prayers and slick friction. He was a god tending his most cherished gardens, and they were blooming for him, over and over, their climaxes rippling through them like seismic events triggered by his mere touch.
He pulled back, kneeling upright amidst the panting, writhing beautiful chaos of his wives. They were all on the brink, their eyes glazed, their bodies shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat, utterly spent and yet desperate for more. For the final communion.
He fisted his own cock, hard and leaking, stroking himself slowly as he looked down at them, at his perfect, brilliant, utterly enslaved wives.
“Look at me,” he growled, the command vibrating with power.
Five pairs of glazed, adoring eyes snapped to his. They watched his hand moving on his length, their own breathing synchronized to the rhythm, their bodies still trembling from his attentions.
This, their rapt expressions screamed, this is the pinnacle. This is the source.
With a final, guttural groan that was part triumph, part prayer, he spent himself. His release painted across their skin—stripes of pearlescent white across Hermione’s stomach and breasts, across Ginny’s thigh and face, spattering Daphne’s neck and Pansy’s parted lips. Luna caught the last few pulses on her tongue, her eyes wide with bliss as she swallowed.
They surged forward then, not to clean themselves, but to worship the evidence of his pleasure. Tongues darted out to taste him on their own skin, on each other’s skin. They kissed his spend into their flesh, anointing themselves with it, their movements a languid, sated, and deeply erotic ballet of devotion.
Harry watched them, his chest heaving, a satisfied, possessive smile gracing his lips. His gaze swept over the glorious, messy, perfect scene.
Hermione looked up at him, her face smudged with him, her expression one of such profound peace and completion it stole his breath. “Master…” she whispered, the word a complete sentence, a complete theology.
He reached down, his thumb smearing the proof of his ownership across her cheek. “Do you regret it?” he asked, his voice soft, though he knew the answer. He needed to hear it. He needed to hear the symphony.
Hermione’s answer was immediate, her voice clear and sure, echoed by the fervent, whispered “Never” from Ginny, the serene “How could we?” from Daphne, the sharp “Don’t be absurd” from Pansy, and the dreamy “It’s the only thing that’s ever been real” from Luna.
Harry’s smile widened. He leaned back, spreading his arms. “Then come here. All of you. The night is still young.”
- 16
- 17
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives