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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Chapter 7 - Perfectly Into Place
The scent of bergamot and expensive perfume hung in the warm air of the Parkinson solarium. Afternoon light streamed through the arched windows, illuminating the delicate china and tiered plates of petits fours. Daphne Greengrass took a slow, measured sip of her tea, the porcelain cup perfectly steady in her hand.
“The Wizengamot sub-committee on international trade bylaws is a special kind of purgatory,” she said, her voice a model of polite exasperation. “I swear, if I have to listen to old Ogden drone on about the proper cauldron thickness for one more minute, I might just Avada myself.”
Across the table, Pansy Parkinson let out a light, tinkling laugh. It was a sound Daphne had heard a thousand times before, but today, it felt different. Richer. Fuller. “Darling, you simply must delegate. Find some eager little intern to absorb the tedium. That’s what they’re for.”
It was their usual banter, the practiced rhythm of two high-born witches navigating their world. But beneath the surface, a new harmony hummed. Daphne’s gaze met Pansy’s over the rims of their cups, and for a fraction of a second, something unspoken passed between them—a flicker of shared, secret knowledge that had nothing to do with trade bylaws. It was the ghost of a voice whispering bloom, the shared memory of a deep, resonant thrum that was their constant, hidden companion.
“It’s not that simple,” Daphne countered, setting her cup down with a precise click. “The details matter. One must have absolute… clarity on these matters.”
Pansy’s dark eyes gleamed. She leaned forward slightly, the movement graceful and deliberate. “Clarity,” she repeated, letting the word linger. “Yes. That’s precisely it. It’s so difficult to find, isn’t it? The mind just… chatters on.”
“It does,” Daphne agreed, feeling a corresponding warmth low in her belly, a subtle pulse that was both a promise and a reminder. “Endlessly.”
Their friends chattered around them, oblivious to the subtext weaving between the two women. They saw only Pansy and Daphne, the picture of pure-blood poise. They didn’t see the harem sisters, bound by a secret so profound it made the social maneuvering of their world seem like child’s play.
*
A stack of newly ratified legislation landed on Hermione Granger’s desk with a soft thud. Her assistant, a young wizard named Fergus, beamed at her. “All sorted, Miss Granger. The Wizengamot ratified every single amendment you proposed. The Department Head said it was the most comprehensive overhaul of interdepartmental portkey regulation he’s ever seen.”
Hermione looked up from her work, a serene smile touching her lips. It was a real smile, not the strained, weary expression she’d worn for years. “Thank you, Fergus. You’ve been a great help.”
“It was all you, ma’am,” he said, his admiration clear. “Honestly, your focus has been incredible lately. You’re… well, you’re unstoppable.”
As he left, Hermione’s hand stilled over her parchment. Unstoppable. The praise landed, and a response, deeply wired into her nervous system, triggered instantly. A sharp, exquisite jolt of pleasure, direct and electric, sparked between her legs. It was over in a second, a secret seizure of ecstasy known only to her. Her breath caught, just for a moment, her eyelids fluttering.
She didn’t think of Harry. Not consciously. The connection was simpler, more elemental now. Praise led to pleasure. Success was for him. A deep, satisfying warmth spread through her chest. She picked up her quill, her movements precise and steady.
“It’s for my Master,” she whispered to the empty office, the words a quiet benediction that made her skin prickle with anticipation for the next compliment, the next success she could offer up.
*
The wind whipped across the Quidditch pitch, tearing at Ginny Weasley’s ponytail. Below, the team ran drills, their voices shouting plays that were swallowed by the vastness of the arena.
“Oi, Weasley! Your head in the game?” called Demelza Robins, pulling up beside her on a sleek new Cleansweep. “You’ve been staring into the middle distance for five minutes.”
Ginny shook her head, a wide, easy grin spreading across her face. “Just planning our next victory, Demelza. Thinking about… potential.” Her eyes scanned the players below, not assessing their technique, but something else entirely. She watched the set of Angelina Johnson’s jaw, the fierce, frustrated focus as she missed a goal. She noted the way Katie Bell pushed her hair from her eyes, a flicker of weariness behind the determination.
They were so strong. So capable. And so very, very noisy inside their own heads.
“Angelina’s been off her game since that bad break-up,” Ginny said, her tone dripping with casual, friendly concern. “And Katie… the pressure of being team co-captain is getting to her. All that stress. They could really use a way to unwind. To focus.”
Demelza nodded, her brow furrowed. “Tell me about it. We all could.”
Ginny leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, I’ve heard of this guy. A therapist. A healer, really. He uses these incredible, non-invasive techniques. Helps clear all the junk out of your head. Makes you razor-sharp. I was thinking of going myself. For the pre-game jitters.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug, the picture of a seasoned athlete looking for an edge. “Might be just what they need. What we all need.”
She was fishing, just as Pansy had. But where Pansy used the lure of aristocratic peace, Ginny used the promise of victory. The bait was different, but the hook was the same. And the fisherman was always, always the same.
*
In his study, the world was quiet. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fire and the whisper of a turning page. Harry Potter sat in a high-backed leather chair, the heavy tome open on his desk. Volitional Thralldorm and the Magico-Legal Conduits of the Seventeenth Century.
His finger traced a complex, spiraling diagram depicting the interweaving of two magical cores. The text was dense, the Old English cumbersome, but he read it with a hungry, focused intensity. This was no longer theoretical. This was a manual.
He had the subject. His first. His brightest. Hermione’s magical signature was a known quantity to him now, a familiar symphony he had conducted and played. The ritual described here was the final, permanent tuning. It required a dual invocation—his will, and her absolute, verbal surrender. It required a blood oath.
A slow smile touched his lips. He could already hear her voice, firm and clear, giving herself to him not just in mind and body, but in magic. The most intimate surrender imaginable.
He closed the book, his hand resting on the cover. The final step. The ultimate claim. Everything until now had been preparation. A delicious, intoxicating prelude.
He rose and walked to the window, looking out at the darkening sky. His network was growing, each woman a shining star in a constellation he controlled. But Hermione… she would be the sun. The center of his universe.
And he knew, with a certainty that thrilled him to his core, that she would kneel for him. Not because he commanded it in that moment, but because he had woven the need for it into the very fabric of her being.
Tonight, he thought, the decision settling into place with a satisfying finality. We begin the final act. The words reverberated in his mind, heavy with promise. Harry leaned against the windowsill, his fingers tracing the cool pane of glass as he gazed out at the twilight sky. The first stars were beginning to appear, faint pinpricks of light against the deepening blue. Each one seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, a silent symphony of anticipation.
He turned away from the window, his gaze drifting to the desk where the ancient tome lay open. The diagram on the page seemed almost alive now, the spiraling lines glowing faintly in the dim light. He could feel the weight of the ritual in the air, a tangible presence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It wasn’t just magic—it was power. The kind of power that could reshape reality itself. And it was his. All his.
Harry moved to the fireplace, the flames casting flickering shadows across the room. He crouched down, staring into the heart of the fire. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it: Hermione kneeling before him, her eyes wide and trusting, her voice steady as she spoke the words that would bind her to him forever. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a deep, aching pleasure that was both exquisite and unbearable. She would be perfection. His perfection.
He stood, his movements deliberate as he crossed the room to the small cabinet by the wall. Inside lay the final component of the ritual: a silver dagger, its blade etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the lamplight. He lifted it carefully, feeling its weight in his hand. The cold metal seemed to hum against his skin, as if it too could sense what was coming. This was it. The moment when all his planning, all his patience, would finally pay off.
Harry returned to the window, the dagger held loosely at his side. The world outside was dark now, the stars sharp and bright. He closed his eyes, letting the stillness of the night settle over him. Soon, he thought, the word a soft whisper in his mind. Soon, Hermione would be here. Soon, she would kneel. And soon, she would be his—in every way that mattered.
The final piece of the puzzle, fitting perfectly into place.
*
The air in the study was thick and still, holding its breath. Midnight had bled the room of color, leaving only the stark contrasts of firelight and shadow. Hermione knelt at the center of the Persian rug, the intricate patterns pressing into her bare knees. Her skin, flushed and sensitive, pebbled in the cool air, a silent testament to her nakedness. Her arms were bound behind her back with a simple, gleaming silver cord that was cool and unforgiving against her wrists. It wasn't tight enough to hurt, only to remind.
Harry stood over her, a cut-glass silhouette against the fireplace. In his hand, he held the silver dagger, its rune-etched blade catching the light like a wicked, shimmering smile.
“Repeat the words, Hermione,” he commanded, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the space between them. “The words of your own will.”
Her gaze was fixed on the blade, a flicker of ancient, rational fear quickly subsumed by a hotter, more immediate current. Her voice, when it came, was a tremulous whisper. “I, Hermione Jean Granger, of sound mind and magic…”
He moved then, a slow, deliberate circle around her kneeling form. The firelight traced the line of his shoulders, the confident set of his jaw. He was giving her his profile, a king granting an audience. The tip of the dagger came to rest gently on the soft, pale skin of her inner thigh. Not pressing. Just present. A promise and a threat woven into cold metal.
A sharp, delicious thrill shot through her, so potent it bordered on pain. Her breath shuddered out of her. “…do hereby relinquish all temporal claim to my former life.”
“Louder,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate register that seemed to speak directly to her spine. The blade didn’t move, a constant, icy point of focus.
She drew a deeper breath, finding a well of certainty she hadn’t known was there. The words grew stronger, clearer. “My magic, my mind, and my body are no longer my own.” As she spoke them, she felt the truth of them settle into her bones, a key turning in a lock she’d begged him to open. The frantic, circling thoughts that had defined her—the endless lists, the anxieties, the need to prove herself—simply… stilled. The silence in her head was a profound, echoing peace.
Harry completed his circle, coming to stand before her again. His free hand came up to cup her chin, tilting her face to meet his gaze. His green eyes were dark pools of absolute authority, and in them, she saw her reflection: small, yielding, devoted.
“They belong to whom?” he prompted, his thumb stroking her jawline.
A warm pulse surged through her, centering low in her belly, making her feel heavy and liquid. “They belong to you, Master. My will is yours to command.”
“And what am I to you?” The question was a soft lash.
The answer erupted from her, not from memory, but from her very core. It was the deepest truth she possessed. “You are my Master. You are my God.”
A slow, triumphant smile touched his lips. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. With a fluid motion, he brought the dagger’s edge to his own thumb. A quick, precise slice. A single, perfect bead of blood welled up, dark as crimson ink.
He then took her hand, turning it palm-up. The touch of his skin on hers sent another jolt through her system. He didn’t ask. He simply drew the tip of the blade across the pad of her thumb. She watched, mesmerized, as her own blood blossomed to match his. The sting was nothing. It was ceremony.
He pressed his thumb to hers, blood to blood. A spark of magic, hot and bright, leapt between them, a silent snap of energy that made the air hum. A conduit sealed. A covenant made.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a wave of sensation, so immense and all-consuming it stole the air from her lungs, crashed over her. It was not the sharp, commanded pleasure of ‘blossom.’ This was deeper. It was her magic itself, recognizing its new source, flowing into the shape he had carved for it. It was a homecoming. Her back arched, a silent cry caught in her throat, her entire being focusing to a single, radiant point of yes.
And then it was done.
The world rushed back in. The crackle of the fire. The scent of sandalwood and ozone and their mingled blood. She was still kneeling. Still bound. But she was… new.
Her mind was a clean, clear pane of glass. Her thoughts were ordered, precise. She could have solved a complex arithmancy equation in a heartbeat. But only one calculation mattered. How to please him.
The evidence of her devotion was a slick, aching heat between her legs, a persistent throb that was now as much a part of her as her heartbeat. She looked up at him, her vision sharp, her purpose absolute.
“Use me, Master,” she said, her voice now steady, devoid of its earlier tremor. It was a statement of fact. An offering. “My body has been trained for you. Let me serve.”
He unbuckled his trousers, freeing his erection. He was already fully hard, his length thick and demanding. He didn’t need to guide her. She knew.
She rose onto her knees, her bound arms pulling her shoulders back, presenting her breasts. She shifted forward, her movements economical, graceful, aligning herself with him. Then she sank down, taking him inside her in one smooth, perfect motion.
A soft, guttural sound escaped him. Her inner muscles, exquisitely sensitive and perfectly controlled, clamped around him, a silken fist. She began to move, a slow, undulating rhythm learned over countless sessions of obedient practice. Up and down. A steady, mesmerizing tempo. Her eyes never left his, reflecting the firelight and her utter fixation.
He watched her, his hands coming to rest on her hips, not to guide, but to feel the motion he had crafted. “You are my masterpiece,” he growled, the words vibrating through her.
She increased her pace, the slick sounds of their joining filling the quiet room. The coil of her own pleasure, held at a constant, simmering peak since the ritual’s end, began to tighten, amplified by his fullness inside her.
“Now, Hermione,” he commanded, his voice rough with his own nearing release. “Cum for your Master.”
It was not a suggestion. It was a key turning in the final lock. Her climax tore through her, a silent, shattering wave that locked her muscles and bleached her vision white. She rode it out, her body milking him relentlessly until she felt the hot, sudden rush of his own finish deep inside her.
She collapsed forward against his chest, her bound arms trapped between them, breathing in the scent of his skin and their sex. She was spent, sated, complete.
After a long moment, he gently eased her back onto her heels. He tucked himself away, his expression once more one of calm control. “Go and wash your body,” he instructed, his tone matter-of-fact. “But you will not clean away my spend. You will keep it. A reminder of whose you are.”
He picked up his wand from the desk and traced a brief, complex pattern over her lower abdomen. A faint, cool sensation settled deep inside her, a magical cork sealing his claim within her.
Hermione rose, her movements fluid. She dressed with efficient grace in the professional clothes laid out for her, the tailored skirt and blouse feeling like a uniform of his making. The evidence of their union, held inside her by his spell, was a secret warmth, a constant, humiliating, thrilling awareness.
She Apparated directly to her Ministry office. The familiar surroundings—the towering stacks of parchment, the smell of ink and old wood—seemed different now. Smaller. They were just a backdrop for her true purpose.
She sat at her desk, the leather chair cool through her skirt. Every slight shift, every cross of her legs, sent a subtle, internal reminder. A faint, wet pressure. If she listened for it, in the perfect quiet of her focused mind, she could almost hear it—a tiny, intimate sound that was hers and his alone.
Her assistant, Fergus, buzzed in. “The agenda for the Wizengamot briefing, Miss Granger. You have twenty minutes.”
She looked up, offering him a smile that was both professional and unnervingly serene. “Thank you, Fergus.” Her voice was steady, her poise impeccable. Outwardly, she was the picture of genius and beauty, a woman in utter command of her world.
Inwardly, she was full of her Master. Sated. Wet. And waiting for his next command.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives