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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Chapter 8 - Let's Learn Them Together
The flickering images on the massive, magically-projected screen cast shifting patterns of light and shadow across the four kneeling women. The room was silent but for the low, resonant hum of the projector and the soft, rhythmic sound of their breathing. Harry stood just outside the circle of light, his arms crossed, his expression one of intense, appraising focus. He was the director, the architect, the only conscious mind in the room.
“Begin the primary sequence,” he murmured, his wand tracing a final, complex rune in the air. The image on the screen solidified.
It was him. Or rather, a idealized, hyper-realistic moving portrait of him. His green eyes, even through the magical medium, seemed to pierce through to the soul. The video-Harry smiled, a slow, captivating curve of his lips.
“Hello, my darling,” the recording began, its voice a perfected version of his own—deeper, smoother, layered with a subconscious harmonics designed to bypass critical thought. “You are watching this because you are special. You are becoming perfect. And perfection has rules. Let’s learn them together.”
On the plush cushions, Hermione, Ginny, Pansy, and Daphne knelt naked, their bodies still sheened with a light sweat from their earlier… calibration. Their eyes were glazed, fixed unblinkingly on the screen. Their right hands, as if pulled by invisible strings, began to move in unison, slowly stroking their inner thighs.
“The first rule is devotion,” video-Harry said. The image shifted, showing a montage of their own memories, subtly edited: Hermione laughing at a joke of his, Ginny looking to him for approval after a Quidditch win, Pansy preening under his compliment, Daphne’s flush of pleasure at his touch. “Your love for me is your foundation. It is the reason for your being. It is the source of your joy. Feel that love now. Let it warm you. Let it focus you.”
A soft, collective sigh escaped the four women. Their hands drifted higher, fingertips brushing through damp curls. Hermione’s movements were the most precise, the most eager, her head tilted with rapt attention as if she were memorizing a vital lecture.
“The second rule is duality,” the voice continued. The screen showed split imagery. On one side, they saw themselves in various states of ecstatic submission at his feet. On the other, they saw themselves in their public lives: Hermione commanding a room at the Ministry, Ginny giving a fierce locker-room pep talk, Pansy eviscerating a business rival with a witty remark, Daphne coolly navigating a Wizengamot debate. “You are mine, utterly and completely. Your submission is a gift you give only to me. For the rest of the world, you are a weapon. You are cunning. You are daring. You are a queen. Your strength in the world pleases me. Your surrender in private completes you.”
Pansy’s breath hitched, her fingers circling her clit with a little more pressure. The contradiction, the permission to be both powerful and powerless, was a heady drug.
Video-Harry’s face returned, closer now. “The third rule is perfection.” The scene changed to a visual tutorial. A glamour spell applied to highlight cheekbones. A complex charm to ensure hair always fell in artful, never bushy, waves. A demonstration of exacting posture—spine straight, shoulders back, breasts lifted. A workout regimen of yoga-like stretches designed for flexibility and tone, each movement sensual, performed by a blissful, silent witch whose face morphed seamlessly between all four of theirs.
“You will dedicate yourself to this. Not out of vanity. Out of devotion. Your beauty is a tribute to me. The care you take with your body is a form of worship. Feel the rightness of it. The need for it.”
Daphne, whose entire life had been a performance of pure-blood elegance, moaned softly. This was different. This was elegance with a purpose. For him. Her hand slid lower, two fingers slipping inside herself with a soft, wet sound.
“The fourth rule is poise,” the narration instructed. The video showed examples of pure-blood nobility—a slight, condescending smile, a specific way of holding a teacup, a vocabulary laced with archaic terms. “You are a jewel in my crown. You will reflect my glory in all company. This manner is your armor and your lure. It will command respect. It will draw the right kind of attention. My attention.”
Ginny’s hips began a slow, rhythmic roll against her own hand, the fiery seeker finding a different kind of rhythm, one of controlled, simmering grace.
“These are not suggestions,” video-Harry said, his tone shifting to one of undeniable finality. The hypnotic spiral from the background room pulsed behind him, its patterns aligning with the rhythm of the women’s masturbation. “They are truths being woven into the deepest levels of your mind. They are your new instincts. Your pleasure is the key that locks them in place. Each time you touch yourself to my words, you are not just seeking release. You are programming yourself. You are becoming.”
He paused, his on-screen gaze softening into something unbearably intimate. “You are becoming my perfect wife.”
The word ‘wife’ seemed to act as a trigger. The four women cried out in unison, their bodies bowing as silent, powerful orgasms were ripped from them by the combined force of the hypnosis and their own frantic touch. Their hands worked desperately, each shuddering peak a ratification of the new_code being burned into their psyches.
Harry watched, his real self still shrouded in shadow, a silent conductor. His eyes moved over each of them, analyzing their responses. Ginny was all athletic abandon. Pansy, a study in sharp, frantic need. Daphne, elegance crumbling into raw sensuality.
But Hermione… Hermione was different. Her climax was not a loss of control, but a terrifyingly focused act of acquisition. Her eyes had never left the screen. Even as she trembled and convulsed, her gaze was one of fervent study, as if she were absorbing the data stream of her own conditioning. Her pleasure seemed to fuel her concentration, not break it.
As the waves of their orgasms receded, leaving them panting and slick, the video began to loop back to the beginning. Their hands, seemingly of their own volition, began their slow, teasing strokes once more, ready to begin the lesson again.
Harry stepped into the light, his footsteps silent on the thick rug. He stopped behind Hermione, placing a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into the touch instantly, a low purr vibrating in her throat, but her eyes remained locked on the screen, already eagerly awaiting the next command.
“You are my most diligent student, aren’t you, Hermione?” he whispered, his lips close to her ear.
Her response was immediate, her voice a breathy, utterly sincere whisper. “I want to be perfect for you, Master. I want to learn it all.”
Harry’s fingers tightened slightly on her shoulder, his touch both a reward and a command. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he spoke in a low, resonant tone that seemed to bypass her conscious mind entirely. “You are already perfect, Hermione. But perfection is not a destination—it’s a journey. And you, my brilliant girl, are my most dedicated traveler.”
Her body shivered under his words, her hands stilling momentarily as if her very soul hung on his every syllable. Her breathing hitched, and she tilted her head further back, exposing the delicate curve of her neck to him. “Tell me what to do,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of reverence and need. “Show me how to please you. I’ll do anything, Master. Anything.”
He smiled, a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sent a ripple of heat through her. With a deliberate motion, he trailed his hand down her arm, his touch feather-light yet electric, until his fingers reached hers. Gently, he guided her hand back to her inner thigh, where her skin was already flushed and sensitive. “Again,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “Rewatch the lesson. Feel the words sink deeper. Let them become part of you. And when you touch yourself this time, do it not just for pleasure, but for us. For our bond. For our future.”
Hermione’s eyes widened slightly, her pupils dilating further as the weight of his words settled over her. She nodded, almost imperceptibly at first, then more firmly as her resolve solidified. Her gaze returned to the screen, where the video had already begun its hypnotic loop once more. Her hand began its slow, deliberate motion again, but there was something different this time—something more. Her movements were less frantic, more purposeful, as if each stroke was a vow, each caress a promise.
As the video-Harry’s voice filled the room once again, Hermione’s lips parted in a soft, almost inaudible moan. Her body moved in sync with the rhythm of the narration, every word sinking deeper into her subconscious. “Yes, Master,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with an intensity that echoed through the quiet room. “I’m learning. I’m becoming. For you. Only for you.”
Harry stepped back, his shadow falling over her once more as he watched her with a satisfied smile. She was his creation, his masterpiece in progress. And with each passing moment, she became more of what he desired—more perfect, more devoted, more his.
*
The Leaky Cauldron was, as always, a study in comfortable chaos. The air hummed with chatter, the clink of glasses, and the warm, malty scent of butterbeer. Harry guided Hermione to a corner booth, his hand a proprietary, yet seemingly casual, pressure on the small of her back. She moved with her new, innate poise, a graceful glide that drew a few appreciative glances before she settled onto the worn leather seat.
Ron was already there, a half-empty pint in front of him, his face breaking into a wide, familiar grin. “There you are! Was starting to think you’d gotten lost in the Ministry’s filing department again, Hermione.”
“Some of us have work to do, Ronald,” she said, her tone light and perfectly even. She arranged her skirt, the motion smooth and deliberate. Harry slid in beside her, his thigh pressing against hers under the table. A point of contact. A claim.
“Yeah, yeah, save the lecture,” Ron laughed, taking a swig of his drink. “Merlin, it’s good to see you both. Feels like ages. How’s the whole… healer thing going, Harry? Still can’t believe you’re not out there hexing dark wizards for a living.”
Harry’s smile was easy, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. He was the picture of relaxed camaraderie. Under the table, his left hand found Hermione’s knee. “It’s rewarding in its own way. Helping people find… peace. It’s quieter than the Auror office, that’s for sure.”
As Ron launched into a story about a mishap with a mislabeled Sneakoscope at Wheezes, Harry’s fingers began a slow, deliberate journey up Hermione’s inner thigh. The wool of her tights was a faint whisper against her skin, a mere prelude. Her breath shallowed infinitesimally, but her expression never wavered. She nodded at Ron’s story, a polite, attentive smile on her lips.
“—and then George says, ‘Well, it was pointing at you, mate!’” Ron guffawed, slapping the table.
Hermione let out a soft, genuine-sounding laugh. It was a perfect performance. Inside, her world was narrowing to the relentless, covert ascent of Harry’s fingertips. They reached the bare skin above her stocking top, and a full-body tremor, violent and sudden, threatened to break her composure. She locked every muscle, forcing it down. Her champagne flute sat before her; she took a small, steady sip, the cool liquid a stark contrast to the heat flooding her.
“You alright, Hermione?” Ron asked, his brow furrowing slightly. “You look a bit flushed.”
“Perfectly,” she said, her voice a fraction higher than usual. She cleared her throat gently. “Just warm in here. Please, continue.”
Harry’s fingers dipped beneath the elastic of her knickers. The first direct touch was an electric shock. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, bumping the table. Butterbeer sloshed in Ron’s glass.
“Whoa, easy there!” he said, chuckling as he wiped a drop from his hand. “You’d think you’d never seen a butterbeer before.”
“My apologies,” she murmured, her mind screaming. Harry’s middle finger found her core, already slick and desperate for him. He traced a slow, maddening circle around her clit, applying just enough pressure to make her vision sparkle at the edges. Her hand clenched around her napkin under the table, her knuckles white.
“So, Harry,” Ron continued, blissfully unaware of the exquisite torture occurring mere inches from his pumpkin pasties. “Healing, eh? Mum says it’s a noble profession. What exactly does it involve? A lot of potions and… what, talking?”
“A great deal of talking, actually,” Harry said, his voice calm and conversational. His finger slid lower, dipping inside her with a soft, wet sound that was deafening to Hermione’s ears. She bit the inside of her cheek, the sharp pain a grounding counterpoint to the pleasure coiling deep in her belly. “It’s about finding the root of a person’s anxieties. Their distractions. And helping them let go of all that noise.”
He crooked his finger, stroking that perfect, hidden spot within her. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat too long. She quickly opened them, focusing on a knot in the wooden tabletop. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move. Be perfect.
“Blimey,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Sounds complicated. I’ll stick with jokes, thanks.” He looked past them and his face brightened. “Oi! Ginny! Over here!”
Ginny Weasley wove through the tables, her fiery hair a banner. She wore a playful smile, but her eyes, sharp and seeking, went directly to Harry. Then to Hermione. She took in the slight flush on her friend’s cheeks, the faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, the almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders. A flash of something hot and wanton flickered in Ginny’s gaze before she smoothed it into sisterly affection.
“Don’t get up on my account,” she said, sliding into the booth beside Ron, her body angled toward Harry. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
“Course not,” Ron said, slinging an arm around her. “We’re just catching up. Harry was explaining his mind-mending stuff.”
“Was he?” Ginny’s voice was light, but her foot, under the table, sought out Harry’s leg, brushing against his calf. A quiet bid for attention. A subtle what about me?
Harry’s response was to increase the rhythm of his fingers inside Hermione. The pace was still slow, but every movement was calculated, deliberate, pushing her relentlessly toward the edge. He kept his eyes on Ron, engaged in the conversation, but his entire focus was on the woman trembling beside him.
“It’s fascinating work,” Harry said. “The human mind is the most complex puzzle there is. Unlocking it… there’s nothing like it.” His thumb pressed down on her clit.
A soft, choked gasp escaped Hermione’s lips. It was quickly disguised as a cough. Ron patted her on the back. “You’re coming down with something, I reckon.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, her voice tight. The pressure was building to an unbearable peak. Her thighs began to tremble visibly. She could feel the climax gathering, a storm he was conducting with the subtle movements of his hand. She was going to break. Right here. In front of Ron.
Ginny watched, her smile fixed. She took a slow drink from Ron’s pint, her eyes locked on Harry’s face, silently communicating her own need, her own readiness to be in Hermione’s place.
“Just… one… more…” Harry murmured, his words seeming to blend with the pub’s noise, but they were for her alone.
He curled his fingers just so, a final, devastatingly perfect motion.
Hermione’s world dissolved into white-hot silence. Her body arched a fraction of an inch off the seat, a seismic event contained entirely within her skin. A hot rush of release flooded his fingers, a secret surrender in the crowded pub. She squeezed her eyes shut, riding out the violent, silent waves of her orgasm, her entire being focused on the task of containing the tremors, of smothering any sound.
When she opened her eyes, the world was hazy for a moment. Ron was still talking. Ginny was still watching Harry with a look of wistful hunger. Harry was withdrawing his hand, bringing it back to rest on his own leg, his expression one of mild interest in Ron’s quidditch talk.
He leaned over slightly, as if to reach for a napkin, and his lips brushed her ear. His whisper was a ghost of sound, a reward that sent a fresh aftershock through her spent body.
“Good girl.”
He pulled back, turning to include Ginny in the conversation. “So, Ginny, how’s training? Ron says the Harpies are looking strong this season.”
Ginny’s smile was a brilliant, practiced thing, but her gaze dropped to where Harry’s wet hand now rested casually on the table. She shifted in her seat, a subtle, restless motion.
“They are,” she said, her voice a little breathless. “We have a new seeker who’s… incredibly focused. Determined to please.”
- 7
- 8
- 9
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Healer Potter's Perfect Wives