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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Chapter 9 - A Posh Ministry Bloke
The low thrum of the pub seemed to amplify, pressing in on Hermione from all sides. The ghost of Harry’s touch was a brand between her legs, a warm, slick pulse that made the sturdy booth feel like a rocking ship. She took another small sip of champagne, the bubbles doing nothing to settle the riotous, sated warmth spreading through her.
“I’ll just be a moment,” she said, her voice remarkably steady. She slid from the booth, her legs feeling wonderfully, treacherously weak. “Freshen up.”
Ron gave a dismissive wave, already launching into another story for Harry and Ginny. Hermione walked toward the back hallway, each step a conscious effort to appear normal, to not let her knees buckle. In the dim, quiet sanctuary of the ladies’ loo, she leaned against the cool porcelain sink, breathing deeply. Her reflection showed flushed cheeks and eyes that glittered with a secret, shocking knowledge. She smoothed her hair, straightened her skirt, and willed her heartbeat to slow. He is everything, the thought surfaced, clean and pure. And I am his.
When she returned to the booth, the dynamic had shifted. Ginny had abandoned her seat beside Ron and was now nestled in the spot Hermione had vacated, her body angled conspiratorially toward Harry. She was laughing at something he’d said, a hand resting lightly on his forearm.
Hermione paused. The unoccupied space was now beside Ron. The message was clear, a quiet reordering of their hierarchy. She slid in beside him, the move feeling like a demotion that only she and Harry would understand.
“There you are!” Ron said, thankfully oblivious. He squinted at her, a faint frown of concentration on his face. “You know, ‘Mione, you look… different. Really good. Have you been working out? And your hair. It’s all… smooth. Not so…” He made a vague, explosive motion with his hands.
Hermione’s focus was split. Half on Ron’s kind, clueless face, half on the scene across the table. Ginny’s hand was no longer on Harry’s arm. It was under the table, and from the slight, deliberate shift of Harry’s posture, Hermione knew exactly where it had gone.
“Just taking better care of myself, Ron,” she said, the answer automatic, a script written by a mind far clearer than her own. Her true attention was fixed on Ginny, who was leaning close to Harry, her lips almost touching his ear.
Harry’s expression was one of polite attention, turned toward Ginny as if she were sharing a fascinating bit of Quidditch gossip. But his gaze, for a fleeting second, flicked to Hermione. It held a glint of dark amusement. Watch this.
Ginny’s whisper was a low, desperate hum, meant only for him. “Master… please. She got hers. I saw it. I felt jealous of it. My turn. Just a little. I’ve been so good.”
Ron, thankfully, was on a roll. “—and Mum says if I’m going to be a partner at the joke shop, I can’t wear robes with permanent mustard stains, but I told her, it’s part of the brand! People expect a certain… aesthetic of chaos from a Weasley.” He took a triumphant gulp of butterbeer. “Don’t you think, Hermione? Hermione?”
She jerked her attention back to him. “What? Oh. Yes. The aesthetic. Very… chaotic.”
Under the table, she saw the subtle movement. Ginny’s hand, guiding Harry’s. Placing it decisively on her own thigh, high up on the sunflower-print cotton of her dress. An open invitation. A plea.
Harry’s hand rested there for a moment, a familiar, possessive weight. Then his fingers began to move, a slow, idle stroke along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Ginny’s breath caught. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, blissful smile gracing her lips before she forced them open, looking back at Ron as if she were hanging on his every word about mustard-based marketing.
Ron, meanwhile, was still studying Hermione. “It’s not just the hair. You’re wearing… makeup? You never wear makeup. Blimey, are you seeing someone? Is that it? Some posh Ministry bloke from the Wizengamot?” He seemed genuinely pleased by the idea, a brotherly pride in his tone.
The question was a splash of cold water on the simmering tension. It was too close to the truth, yet astronomically far from it. A posh Ministry bloke. The simplicity of it was almost laughable.
“No, no one,” she said, perhaps a touch too quickly. Her eyes darted to Harry. He was watching her now, his fingers stilling on Ginny’s thigh. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him crackled with a new, sharper intensity.
Ginny, sensing the shift, grew bolder. Impatient. Her hand, still under the table, moved from guiding his to something more direct. Her fingers found the hard line of his erection straining against his trousers and cupped him through the fabric. A bold, claiming gesture. A silent, desperate mine.
Harry’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His green eyes held Hermione’s for a heartbeat longer, a silent communiqué passing between them—a mix of warning, promise, and sheer, wicked possession.
Then he broke the gaze and turned smoothly to Ron, extracting himself from Ginny’s grasp with a practiced ease she couldn’t resist.
“Speaking of work, Ron,” Harry said, his voice cutting through Ron’s chatter with effortless authority. “I just remembered. I have a late appointment. A urgent international floo call I can’t miss. Healer-patient confidentiality, you understand.”
The disappointment on Ginny’s face was a palpable thing, a sudden slump in her shoulders. Hermione felt a corresponding twist in her stomach—a loss, but also a thrilling sense of anticipation. They knew this code. An appointment. It was never an appointment.
“Oh! Right, of course,” Ron said, slightly deflated. “The mind-mending waits for no man, eh?”
“Something like that,” Harry said with a warm, entirely fake smile. He stood, dropping a few galleons on the table. “This round’s on me. Don’t let me interrupt the chaos.”
He gave a general nod to the table, but his final glance swept over both women, a command etched into his features. Follow.
And then he was gone, weaving through the crowd toward the exit, leaving a vacuum of tension in his wake.
Ron sighed, picking up his refreshed pint. “Well, that was a quick visit. He’s always been a bit mysterious, that one.” He nudged Hermione. “So? Spill. Who’s the secret bloke? Is it that Fergus chap from your office? He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.”
Hermione barely heard him. She was counting silently in her head. Five minutes. We wait five minutes. She exchanged a look with Ginny across the table. All rivalry was gone, burned away by a shared, singular purpose. Ginny’s eyes were no longer wistful; they were sharp, focused, alight with a hungry anticipation. They were both already gone, their bodies still seated in the noisy pub but their minds already halfway to his doorstep, already kneeling.
“No, Ron,” Hermione said, her voice distant, a faint, secret smile touching her lips as she calculated the fastest route to Apparate. “It’s no one you know.”
*
The polished oak door to Harry’s office clicked shut, sealing them in a world of hushed power and dark wood. The air, still carrying the faint, clean scent of his sandalwood cologne, seemed to thicken the moment the lock engaged. Hermione and Ginny stood before his desk, their postures already softening from the public personas they’d worn at the pub into the pliant readiness he demanded in private.
Harry didn’t sit. He circled them, a panther assessing his prize. His footsteps were silent on the deep Persian rug.
“You both performed admirably tonight,” he began, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the quiet room. “Maintaining composure. Following unspoken commands. It was a satisfying display.” He stopped behind Ginny, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. She leaned back into his touch with a soft sigh. “But I sensed a fracture. A tension between you. A competitive energy that is… inefficient.”
He moved to stand before them, his piercing green eyes capturing each of them in turn. “Your devotion is to me. Your pleasure is from me. It is not a scarce resource to be hoarded or fought over. You are not rivals. You are sisters. Instruments in the same exquisite orchestra. And I am the conductor.”
His gaze fixed on Hermione. “Kneel.”
She sank to her knees gracefully, the motion practiced and perfect.
“Ginny. Kneel beside your sister.”
Ginny followed, her movements slightly less polished but no less eager, her athletic frame settling close to Hermione’s.
Harry unbuckled his trousers, freeing his hardened length. “Your lesson for this evening is interdependence. Your pleasure is not solely yours to receive from me. It is yours to give to each other, on my command. Your bodies are tools for my entertainment and for each other’s edification.”
He looked down at them, his expression one of cool authority. “Hermione. You will use your mouth on Ginny. Show her the focus you show me. Ginny. You will accept her worship and return it in kind. Your hands are not to be idle. I want to see you both unravel each other.”
A flicker of something hot and sharp passed between the two women—surprise, hesitation, a spark of the very jealousy he’d just named. It was gone in an instant, smothered by a deeper, more compelling need to obey.
Hermione shifted first, turning to face Ginny. Her eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were soft with a different kind of focus. She leaned in, her lips finding Ginny’s. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but of exploration. A slow, deliberate melding of mouths. Ginny responded, her own lips parting, a quiet, shuddering breath escaping her as Hermione’s tongue gently traced her own.
Harry watched, his hand slowly stroking his own length, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction. “That’s it. Learn the taste of your sister. The feel of her.”
Hermione’s hands came up, cupping Ginny’s face, her thumbs stroking her cheeks as she deepened the kiss. Then she began to move downward. Her lips trailed a wet path along Ginny’s jaw, down the column of her throat, nuzzling into the hollow where her pulse hammered. Ginny’s head fell back, a low moan building in her chest as Hermione’s mouth found the swell of her breast through the sunflower-print cotton of her dress.
“The dress is in the way,” Harry commented, his voice a dark tease. “Remove it. All of it.”
Hands, now trembling with a new kind of urgency, fumbled with buttons and zippers. Ginny shrugged the dress from her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist. Hermione’s clever fingers made quick work of the clasp of her bra. Ginny’s breasts spilled free, firm and tipped with taut, rosy peaks. Hermione didn’t hesitate. She took one pebbled nipple into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it in a perfect imitation of the worship she gave him.
Oh, gods… Ginny’s thought was a silent scream of shock and pleasure. Her hands flew to Hermione’s bushy hair, not to push her away, but to hold her there, her fingers tangling in the curls. Her hips gave an involuntary jerk.
“Your turn, Ginny,” Harry murmured, his rhythm on his own cock matching the pace Hermione set on Ginny’s breast. “Don’t just receive. Give. Your sister is naked for you. Appreciate her.”
Ginny’s eyes, glazed with sensation, focused on Hermione. With a newfound determination, her hands went to the hem of Hermione’s skirt, pushing it up over her hips. She revealed the sensible tights beneath, and the damp patch darkening the crotch of her knickers. Ginny hooked her fingers into the waistbands of both and pulled them down in one firm motion.
Hermione gasped against Ginny’s breast as the cool air hit her own heated skin. She was exposed now, utterly. Ginny’s hands, calloused from Quidditch, explored the soft curves of Hermione’s arse, kneading the flesh before sliding around to her front. One hand splayed across her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver there, while the other dipped lower.
The first touch of Ginny’s fingers against her slick folds made Hermione cry out, breaking her attention on Ginny’s breast. Her eyes flew open, wide and startled, meeting Ginny’s. For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other, two powerful witches brought to this raw, intimate precipice by the will of one man.
Then Ginny smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips that was so unlike her usual grin. It was a smile of shared conspiracy, of sisterhood. She leaned forward and captured Hermione’s mouth in another deep kiss as her fingers found Hermione’s clit.
The effect was electric. Hermione’s body bowed, a shattered moan lost in Ginny’s mouth. Her own hands, which had been gripping Ginny’s shoulders, scrambled for purchase. She was being kissed thoroughly while Ginny’s fingers played her with a Seeker’s precision—quick, circling strokes that had her trembling on the edge in seconds.
“Look at you,” Harry’s voice cut through their haze, thick with arousal. “Two halves of a whole, finally connecting. Your pleasure pleases me. Your unity completes my design. There is no room for jealousy here. Only shared devotion.”
His words wove through them, a magical command as potent as any spell. The last vestiges of competitive tension evaporated, burned away by the shocking, overwhelming reality of each other’s touch. Hermione’s hips began to move against Ginny’s hand, a frantic, pleading rhythm. Needing more. Needing everything.
“Now, Hermione,” Harry commanded. “Return the favor. Make your sister feel what you are feeling.”
Hermione’s hands slid down Ginny’s body, pushing the discarded dress the rest of the way down until Ginny was as naked as she was. Her touch was less hesitant now, driven by a mirrored need and the imperative in his voice. She palmed Ginny’s breasts, her thumbs brushing over the nipples still wet from her mouth, before one hand continued its journey downward. She found Ginny’s center, soaked and throbbing, and plunged two fingers inside her with a sure, deep stroke.
Ginny’s head snapped back, a ragged cry tearing from her throat. Her own fingers on Hermione never stopped their relentless motion, and now they were a feedback loop of sensation—each stroke Ginny gave, Hermione answered with a thrust of her own, each thrust making Hermione’s touch on Ginny more frantic.
They were a perfect, writhing circuit of pleasure, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths coming in sharp, synchronised pants. Their eyes were locked, and in them was no rivalry, only a dazed, awestruck wonder at the intensity of the connection he had forged between them.
Harry watched, his own arousal a tight, burning coil in his gut. This was better than he had imagined. The psychology of it was perfect—breaking down the individual to build a stronger, collective whole, entirely dependent on him. He was the sun, and they were twin planets locked in a blissful orbit around him.
“Cum for me,” he growled, the command meant for both of them. “Cum for your Master, together. Show me your sisterhood.”
It was the final key. Their bodies convulsed in unison, a silent, shattering climax that locked them together. Hermione’s cry was a high, desperate gasp; Ginny’s was a guttural, choked sob. They clung to each other as the waves crashed over them, shaking, trembling, utterly spent.
When they finally stilled, panting and glistening in the firelight, Harry stepped closer. He looked down at his two perfect, entwined slaves, his expression one of profound satisfaction.
Hermione, her voice hazy with aftershocks and a new, dawning clarity, looked up at him. “Master… it’s so… quiet now. The noise is gone.” She nuzzled her cheek against Ginny’s shoulder, a gesture of pure, uncomplicated affection. “One way to make it even quieter… to make us even more perfect for you… would be for Ginny to be bound to you, as I am. For her magic to be yours. For her to perform the ritual in The Seningham Codex.”
- 8
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- 10
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Healer Potter's Perfect Wives