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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
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter 3 - A New Treatment Modality
The fire had burned low, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse in time with the gentle aftershocks still coursing through Hermione’s body. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, a cozy, satisfied smile on her face. The lingering echo of that final, surprising climax was a warm secret tucked deep inside her.
“Another cup?” Harry asked, gesturing to the teapot hovering near the hearth. His voice was calm, professional, yet his green eyes held a depth she couldn’t quite decipher.
“No, I’m perfect,” she sighed, stretching like a cat. “Truly, Harry, I don’t know how you did it. My mind hasn’t been this quiet… ever. It’s like you found the off-switch for my brain.”
A slow, enigmatic smile touched his lips. “It’s not an off-switch. It’s a recalibration. I’m simply teaching your mind to prioritize sensation over thought. To accept a different kind of logic.” He set his own cup down, the click of porcelain on wood unusually sharp in the quiet room. “The headaches were just a symptom, Hermione. A sign of a mind struggling against its own nature.”
She tilted her head, the blissful fog beginning to part for a sliver of curiosity. “My nature?”
“You spent your life building cages of knowledge, of rules, of shoulds and should nots. You locked the wild, hungry part of yourself away because you thought it was a distraction. A weakness.” He leaned forward, the firelight carving the planes of his face into something ancient and severe. “I’m not curing your headaches. I’m setting that part of you free. And teaching it to serve a higher purpose.”
A faint, familiar thrum started low in her abdomen, a response to the intensity in his gaze that had nothing to do with the recent vibrator. “A higher purpose?” she echoed, her voice softer now.
“Obedience,” he stated, the word a solid, undeniable thing. “Structure. The absolute peace that comes from surrendering your will to someone who knows how to use it. Who deserves it.”
He stood and began to pace slowly before the fire, a predator surveying its domain. “This practice… it wasn’t my first choice for a reason. The world expected an Auror. A hero with a badge. But I found a different kind of power. A purer one.” He stopped and looked directly at her, and the air seemed to leave the room. “This isn’t just a therapy practice, Hermione. It’s a foundation. You’re not just my first client. You’re my prototype.”
The word landed like a physical blow. Prototype. The cozy warmth vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy clarity. The blissful emptiness in her mind suddenly felt… manufactured. The incredible orgasms, a programmed reward. The vanishing pain, a conditioned response.
“A… foundation for what?” The question was a whisper, dragged from a place of dawning horror.
“For a network,” he said, his voice dropping to that intimate, resonant pitch that she now recognized as his most potent tool. It slid over her skin, trying to sink back into her muscles, to lure her back into that pliant state. “Women of influence, of intellect, of power. Women like you, secretly struggling under the weight of their own brilliant minds. I will find them. I will offer them peace. And I will bind them to me, their wills harmonized, their loyalty absolute. A silent, perfect empire built not on fear, but on the exquisite pleasure of surrender.”
He knelt before her, his presence overwhelming. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. “You felt it, Hermione. The relief. The rightness of it. You’ve already taken the first steps. The conditioning is in place. The pathways are laid. Your body already knows the truth, even if your mind is trying to rebel.”
Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. This was madness. It was a perversion of everything she was. And yet… a traitorous pulse beat a steady rhythm between her legs, a warm, aching echo of the pleasure he’d given her. The threat of that searing internal pain flickered at the edge of her memory, a potent deterrent.
“You want me to help you… enslave our friends?” The word tasted like ash.
“I want you to help me liberate them,” he corrected, his voice a velvet seduction. “And I want you by my side as my first. My favorite. The one who helped me build it.” His hand came up, and he finally touched her, his fingertips brushing a stray curl from her forehead. The contact was electric, and she flinched. “The choice is yours, Hermione. You can walk out that door. You can return to the archives, to the headaches, to the lonely, exhausting struggle of being the brightest witch of her age. Your mind will eventually fray the conditioning. It will be a… painful process. Agonizing, even.”
His thumb stroked her temple, a mockery of comfort. “Or,” he murmured, his face so close she could feel his breath, “you can choose the peace I’ve given you. You can choose to fall back into that beautiful emptiness right now. You can kneel at my feet, open your pretty mouth, and show me you understand the privilege of service. You can accept your place in my new world.”
The conflict tore at her. Logic screamed run. But her body, so thoroughly and recently mastered, hummed with a different imperative. The memory of his commanding voice unraveling her, the seismic reward of orgasm granted, the terrifying threat of pain for defiance—it was a cage whose bars were made of her own rewired nerves.
Her breathing shallowed. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her waist. The firelight glowed on her bare skin.
Harry’s eyes darkened with triumph. He saw the war within her, and he saw which side was winning. He unbuckled his trousers, his erection springing free, already full and demanding. It was the ultimate symbol of his control, the source of both her punishment and her reward.
“Your mind is such a noisy place, isn’t it?” he whispered. “So many doubts. So many fears. Let me quiet it for you. All you have to do is choose to obey.”
Hermione’s gaze dropped from his intense green eyes to the hard, thick length presented to her. A fresh wave of wetness soaked her, a visceral, involuntary answer to his presence. The choice was an illusion, and they both knew it. Her body had already decided.
A single, hot tear traced a path down her cheek. She wiped it away with a trembling hand, her movements slow, deliberate.
She let out a shaky exhale, the fight draining from her shoulders.
Then, without another word, she slid off the chair and onto her knees on the Persian rug. The rough texture was a familiar, grounding sensation. She looked up at him, her expression a turbulent sea of surrendered defiance and desperate hunger.
She leaned forward, her lips parting.
But she paused a mere inch from him, her warm breath washing over his skin. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, laced with a final, shuddering thread of her old self.
“How many others?” Hermione’s voice was barely audible, trembling with a mix of fear, curiosity, and something else—something perilously close to resignation. Her lips hovered just inches from Harry’s throbbing length, her breath warm against his skin. She didn’t move closer, though her body ached with the memory of submission. Her mind, the very part of her he claimed to free, clawed desperately for clarity, for one last grasp at understanding the depth of his plans.
Harry tilted his head, his gaze unflinching, his expression a mask of calm authority. He knows, she realized. He knew every thought racing through her head, every pulse of terror and betrayal, every flicker of reluctant arousal. He leaned back slightly, as if to give her space to breathe, though his presence remained suffocating, inescapable.
“Does it matter?” he asked softly, his voice a velvet caress that threatened to unravel her resolve. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, catching the single tear that had escaped. “The number doesn’t define what we’re building here. It’s not about quantity. It’s about purity. About creating something… perfect.”
Hermione’s breath hitched. She wanted to pull away, to scream, to flee. But her body remained rooted to the spot, betraying her with its stillness. The rug beneath her knees was rough, grounding her in this surreal moment. Her hands trembled where they rested on her thighs, fingertips digging into her skin as if to anchor herself.
“You’re not the first,” he admitted finally, his tone almost apologetic, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his satisfaction. “But you are the most important. The others… they were trials. Steps toward perfecting the process. You are different. You always have been.” His hand moved to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’re my masterpiece, Hermione. The foundation of everything I’ve been working toward.”
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. The word masterpiece echoed in her mind, twisting something deep inside her. It flattered and horrified her in equal measure. A part of her—the part that had always sought validation, always craved acknowledgment—felt a traitorous thrill at being singled out. But another part, the part that still clung to its autonomy, recoiled in disgust.
“And what happens to them?” she whispered, her voice breaking. She thought of the women he might have already ensnared, their minds rewritten, their wills bent to his. “The trials? Are they just… pawns to you?”
Harry’s expression softened, though his grip on her chin didn’t falter. “They’re cherished,” he said, his tone almost tender. “They serve a purpose, yes, but they’re not discarded. They’re part of the design. Each one has her role, her place. And so will you.” His thumb brushed over her lower lip, a gesture that felt both intimate and possessive. “But your place… it’s different. It’s beside me. Leading them. Guiding them. You’re not just a subject, Hermione. You’re a collaborator.”
The word collaborator hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Hermione’s mind raced, trying to process it all, but the fog of conditioning—the pathways he spoke of—was already clouding her thoughts. Her pulse quickened, her body responding to his words, his touch, despite the turmoil in her mind.
She stared up at him, her eyes searching his for some hint of doubt, some flicker of humanity that might offer her an escape. But there was only certainty. Only power. And as much as she wanted to fight it, she knew the truth: her body had already chosen. Her body had already surrendered.
With a shuddering breath, she closed the distance between them. Her lips parted, and she tasted the salt of his skin, the sharp tang of his dominance. Her tongue flickered tentatively against him, a silent signal of her capitulation.
Harry’s hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her curls with a possessiveness that sent a fresh wave of heat cascading through her. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval. “You understand now, don’t you? This is where you belong.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, she let herself fall into the abyss of obedience, letting his will consume her completely.
*
The scent of sandalwood and sex still clung to the air in Harry’s office, a heady perfume of power and submission. Hermione stood by the fireplace, her posture unnervingly still, her eyes fixed on the door. The bushy hair was tamed into a severe knot, and she wore a simple, dark robe that did nothing to hide the new, supple grace in her movements. She was a weapon, polished and waiting.
The door clicked open.
“Merlin’s beard, Hermione, this had better be good,” Ginny Weasley’s voice cut through the quiet, a familiar, vibrant energy bursting into the room. She was still in her Quidditch practice gear, her hair a fiery mess escaping its ponytail, a smear of dirt on one cheek. “I had to bribe Romilda Vane with my last bottle of Butterbeer to cover my shift. This ‘emergency’ better involve a cursed artifact or a–” She stopped, finally taking in the room, and Harry, who stood silently beside his desk. “Harry? What’s all this?”
“A new treatment modality,” Harry said, his voice a calm, smooth lake after the torrent of Ginny’s entrance. He didn’t move from his spot, his green eyes tracking her with a quiet intensity that made the playful smirk on her face falter. “Hermione’s been helping me test it. The results have been… transformative.”
Ginny’s eyes flicked between them, a wary curiosity replacing her impatience. “Transformative how? She does look… different. Rested. Did you finally find a potion stronger than Pepper-Up?”
“Something like that,” Hermione said, her voice softer, mellower than Ginny had ever heard it. She moved forward, taking Ginny’s arm with a gentle but firm pressure, guiding her toward the center of the room where a intricate, faintly glowing runic circle was inscribed on the floor. Ginny, bemused, allowed herself to be led.
“What’s this, then? A new ward scheme? Doesn’t look like any arithmancy I’ve seen.” Ginny peered down at the glowing lines.
“A focus array,” Harry explained. He picked up a small, crystal vial filled with a shimmering indigo liquid. “It amplifies intention. And this…” He swirled the vial. “…is a tincture designed to lower psychological barriers. To allow for a deeper, more direct form of therapy. Hermione found it immensely relieving for her stress.”
“Right, well, my stress is currently related to my Chaser missing every bloody goal shot today, but I’ll try anything once,” Ginny quipped, though her eyes were still narrowed in thought.
“Just stand in the center, Ginny,” Hermione urged, her tone leaving no room for argument. It was a tone Ginny had never heard from her friend—a seamless blend of command and serene certainty.
With a shrug, Ginny stepped into the circle. The moment her boots crossed the outermost rune, the glow intensified, pulsing once with a soft, deep thrum that vibrated through the soles of her feet. She jumped slightly. “Blimey. Okay, tingles. Is it supposed to tingle?”
“It’s working,” Harry said. He approached, uncorking the vial. “A sip. That’s all.”
Ginny took it, sniffing it suspiciously. It smelled of blueberries and mint. She shrugged and knocked it back. “Tastes like one of those awful wellness potions Mum–”
Her words cut off abruptly. Her eyes lost their sharp focus, going wide and slightly dazed. A slow, dreamy smile spread across her face. “Whoa. That’s… really nice.” She swayed on her feet, the runes beneath her flaring brighter, holding her steady. “Feels like… the best firewhisky warmths… everywhere.”
“The barriers are down,” Harry stated, his voice changing, dropping into that resonant, hypnotic register that promised both pleasure and pain. “The mind is open. Receptive.”
Ginny giggled, a loose, airy sound. “Receptive. I like that word.”
“Kneel, Ginevra,” Harry commanded.
The giggle died in her throat. Her body responded before her mind could form a question. Her knees buckled, sinking her onto the soft rug within the circle with a soft thud. She looked up at him, her expression one of blurry confusion mixed with awe. “How’d you do that?”
“I didn’t. You did. You finally learned how to listen.” Harry circled her, a shark in dark waters. “You’ve spent your life fighting, Ginevra. Fighting your brothers, fighting for a spot on the team, fighting Dark wizards. So much struggle. So much noise. Doesn’t it feel good… to finally stop?”
A profound sigh shuddered through Ginny’s frame. “Yes,” she breathed. “So quiet.”
“This is peace,” he murmured, now behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tense muscles there. She moaned, her head lolling forward. “This is order. Your body is eager for it. It’s tired of the fight. It wants to feel… owned.”
He looked over Ginny’s head, his eyes locking with Hermione’s. “Now.”
Hermione moved with fluid purpose. She knelt before the entranced Ginny, her hands going to the clasps of the Quidditch leathers. She worked them open with efficient movements, peeling the protective gear away from Ginny’s torso. Ginny murmured a half-hearted protest that dissolved into another pleasured sigh as the cool air hit her skin, soon replaced by the warmth of Hermione’s hands.
“Your friend is going to help you feel it,” Harry whispered into Ginny’s ear, his breath stirring her hair. “The deep, welcoming warmth of submission. She’s going to show you how good it feels to be… tasted.”
Hermione’s lips found the junction of Ginny’s neck and shoulder. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but of purpose. A slow, open-mouthed press of flesh, her tongue sweeping a deliberate, wet stripe over Ginny’s pulse point.
Ginny jolted as if struck by a low-voltage jinx. A sharp gasp escaped her. “Hermione… what…?”
“She’s not herself right now,” Harry explained, his voice a hypnotic counterpoint to Hermione’s ministrations. “She’s better. She’s my instrument. And her touch… her tongue… they carry my will. They carry permission. They carry pleasure. Can you feel it?”
Hermione’s mouth moved lower, down the line of Ginny’s collarbone. Her hands pushed the leathers down further, revealing the simple cotton sports bra beneath. Ginny’s breathing was becoming ragged, her earlier daze now shot through with bolts of sharp, unexpected sensation.
“I feel… it’s so…” Ginny struggled for words, her hips giving a tiny, unconscious rock against nothing.
“It’s my voice on your skin,” Harry crooned. “Telling your body what it’s allowed to feel. Telling it to ache for more.”
As if on cue, Hermione’s mouth closed over one of Ginny’s breasts through the cotton. She suckled gently, the fabric growing damp, the nipple beneath hardening into a tight peak against her tongue. Ginny cried out, a short, sharp sound of shock that melted into a long, low moan. Her hands, which had been limp at her sides, came up to clutch at Hermione’s hair, not to push her away, but to hold her in place.
“Yes,” Harry encouraged, a dark thrill in his voice. “Hold her there. Make her show you. She exists to please. To demonstrate the depths of obedience.”
Hermione increased her pressure, her tongue circling, her teeth grazing lightly. She was a student demonstrating a master’s theorem, her every action a precise application of his will. One of her hands slid down Ginny’s trembling stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her practice shorts and knickers.
Ginny’s whole body tensed, a high, keening whine building in her throat. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her knuckles white where she gripped Hermione’s hair.
“She’s going to touch you now, Ginevra,” Harry’s voice was a low thrum of anticipation. “Right where you’re most sensitive. Right where the emptiness is begging to be filled. And you’re going to understand. This isn’t her. This is me. This is the peace I offer.”
Hermione’s fingers, slick with Ginny’s own sudden wetness, found the swollen, throbbing nub of her clit.
Ginny’s eyes flew open, wide and unseeing, as a sound ripped from her throat that was pure, undiluted sensation–a raw, guttural syllable of surrender.
Harry smiled, a predator’s grin of absolute victory. “Now… welcome her in.”
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives