Chapter 3: Chapter 3
"Hermione," Harry looked at her sumptuous form sprawled across the desk after their most recent round of intimacy. "We have a problem."
Harry had enhanced himself with magic, and had left her early clinging to the edges of consciousness, yet his tone cause Hermione to summon her failing faculties and focus on his voice.
"Others have begun to take notice of your absence and have begun to say things. It is possible that someone may come along and try to fix you."
Hermione looked at him confused. "Master, am I broken?"
"No, my dear. But others think that you have stopped being you and say that dark magic has taken away your senses."
"Stopped being me?" She giggled softly. "Thats silly. Who else would I be?"
"I agree, my poppet. But if we don't do something, they may take you away from me. So starting tomorrow, you will return to class.
Before Hermione could utter a protest, Harry held up a hand.
"Worry not, my dear. There is nothing wrong with a clever maid, so long as that cleverness is directed towards pleasing her master. And with that in mind, I am certain your clever mind could be put to work finding many new ways to make magic fun. I am certaib that there are many unique ways that magic could make your work even more...pleasurable. For both of us. So this will be the focus of your studies, when you are required to be away from me."
Walking around her still exhausted form, he slapped her prominent ass cheek.
"And when your classes are ended, and the nosy professors and prefects have learned to mind their own business, you will return to me and show me how well you have done at following my orders. You really are quite the clever girl, and I suspect you will be able to the most interesting uses of magic for enhancing our time together."
Hermione's lips curled up gradually, her mind already trying to race with possibilities, but her mind and body finally give out, and she drifts into oblivion, completely unresponsive as she lies splayed across the old wooden desk.
Their final year of school was turning out to be better than Jarry could have imagined. He had turned 18 just before the school year began, and Hermione had always been a few months older than him. He had always assumed that she might be a lesbian, or just not interested in him for whatever reason, so this development with the mirror had been quite...satisfying.
Days later, Hermione returned from her classes, flushed and slightly breathless, her new uniform skirts riding up just enough to tease.
Harry sat sprawled across his four-poster bed, one knee bent, foot resting against his thigh as he read a spellbook with deliberate slowness. He didn’t look up immediately—he wanted to savor the anticipation in the air, the way Hermione’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.
She had been practising.
She had been practising.
The silence stretched, thick with her nervous energy, until Harry finally lowered his book and looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Show me what that clever little brain has been working on.” His voice was a low command, devoid of the warmth he used in private.
Hermione’s breath hitched. She set her bag down with deliberate care, her movements still carrying that unsettling, graceful poise the mirror had etched into her. “I wanted to make something special, Master. For your pleasure.” Her fingers went to the buttons of her school blouse, trembling slightly as she began to undo them. “I remembered everything you said about using my studies… for us.”
The fabric parted, revealing the black lace of her corset beneath, straining against her fuller curves. She stepped out of her skirt, letting it pool around her ankles, and stood before him in just the corset, stockings, and heels. Then, from the discarded bag, she retrieved a small, wrapped parcel. Her eyes held a frantic, eager light as she unwrapped it.
Hermione, determined to start big, pulls out a headband with cow ears and horns.
They were made of soft black leather, the horns curling up and back in a polished, obsidian sweep. She placed it carefully upon her head, the ears flopping slightly, her expression one of absolute solemn concentration. Stripping, she points to her own chest and casts a new spell.
She whispered the incantation, a guttural string of syllables that didn’t sound like any language taught at Hogwarts, her wand tracing a complex pattern over her own chest. The magic wasn’t a flash of light, but a deep, visceral warmth that visibly radiated from her skin. Her already enhanced bosom grows further, beginning to gently leak milk.
A soft, aching groan escaped her lips as her breasts swelled, the flesh becoming impossibly full and heavy, stretching the lace of the corset until it bit deep into her skin. The pale skin darkened at the nipples, which tightened and beadled, and then a single, pearly droplet of milk welled from each tip, tracing a glistening path down the pronounced curve. She looked down at herself, then up at Harry, her eyes glazed with a mixture of pride and desperate need.
"Please Master, milk me."
Harry’s book slipped from his fingers, thudding to the floor. He stared, his mouth gone dry, the scar on his forehead a pale line against his suddenly flushed skin. He had expected some new lingerie, perhaps a charm to enhance sensitivity, but this… this was a fundamental transformation. The last vestiges of the witch he’d known were drowned in this fertile, animalistic presentation. A dark, possessive thrill shot through him, straight to his groin.
“Fucking hell, Hermione,” he breathed, swinging his legs off the bed. He approached her slowly, as one would a strange, beautiful creature. The scent of her—sweet milk, sweat, and perfume—filled the space between them.
He reached out, not for her breast, but to run a thumb along the line of her jaw, down the column of her throat. “You did this for me? All by yourself?”
“Yes, Master,” she whimpered, pushing her chest forward insistently. The droplets of milk were a steady seep now, dampening the black lace. “The library… the Restricted Section… I found things. I wanted to be useful. I wanted to be your perfect thing.” Her intelligence was gone, but a terrifying, focused creativity had taken its place, channeled entirely into this singular purpose.
“You are.” His voice hardened with raw appetite. He hooked a finger into the top of her corset and pulled, the fabric giving way with a series of sharp pops until her heavy, leaking tits spilled free. They were enormous, veined, and tipped with wide, dark areolas. Milk beaded continuously from the hardened nipples. “Now get on the bed. On your hands and knees.”
She scrambled onto the sheets, assuming the position with obedient haste, her back arched, presenting herself. The cow ears on the headband bobbed absurdly. Harry stripped off his own clothes, his cock already rigid and aching. He didn’t touch her at first, just knelt behind her, watching the milk drip onto his green silk sheets.
“You’re dripping all over my bed, you filthy cow,” he said, his tone conversational, cruel.
“I’m sorry, Master,” she moaned, pushing her hips back towards him. “Please, I need it. I need you to use me. It aches.”
He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and then gripped her hips. There was no further preamble, no gentle testing. He drove his cock into her cunt in one brutal, deep thrust, hilting himself completely in her soaked, tight heat.
Hermione screamed, a raw, gratifying sound that was part pain, part overwhelming relief. Her whole body jerked, and a twin stream of milk shot from her nipples, arcing onto the crumpled bedding below. “Oh god, yes! Fuck! It’s so full, you’re so deep!”
“Shut up and take it,” Harry grunted, beginning a relentless, pounding rhythm. Each forward slam of his hips mashed her swollen breasts against the bed, forcing more milk out in gushes. The room filled with the sounds of it: the wet, slapping noise of their union, the choked, eager cries from Hermione, the creak of the bed, and the soft, persistent patter of milk on silk.
He leaned over her, one hand fisting in her hair, the other reaching around to claw at her engorged tit. He squeezed hard, and a jet of warm milk spurted over his fingers. “Look at you. You’re not a witch anymore. You’re just a set of holes to fuck and a pair of tits to milk.”
“Yes! Yes, Master, that’s all I am!” she babbled, her words breaking apart with each piston-like thrust. “Breed me, milk me, use your cow!”
The vulgarity, the complete abdication of her self, drove Harry over the edge. His pace became frantic, animalistic. He released her hair, gripped both her hips with bruising force, and slammed into her with a final, devastating series of strokes, roaring as his orgasm ripped through him, pumping his seed deep into her clutching cunt.
He collapsed forward onto her sweaty back, spent. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the steady drip… drip… drip from her nipples. He finally pulled out, watching his own release mix with her fluids on her thighs.
Rolling her onto her back, he looked at her dazed, blissful face, the cow ears askew. Her magnificent, ruined breasts rose and fell rapidly. He lowered his mouth to one nipple, not kissing, but sucking roughly, pulling a long, sweet stream of milk into his mouth. She whimpered, her hands coming up to cradle his head, holding him there.
“Good girl,” he muttered against her skin, the taste of her strange and primal. “You studied well.” The problem of curious classmates and professors seemed very far away, a distant annoyance against the overwhelming reality of what she had become, and what he now owned. The danger of discovery was still there, a thread of tension thrumming beneath the satisfaction, but for now, it only sharpened the dark pleasure. He had made this, and he would protect his creation.
He drank greedily, the warm, rich liquid flooding his mouth. It was sweeter than he expected, with a thick, creamy texture that coated his throat. A surging warmth spread through his gut almost immediately, a vibrant, tingling energy that radiated downward, making his spent cock twitch and thicken again against her thigh.
“Christ,” he muttered, pulling back, his breath coming faster. His fatigue was gone, replaced by a jittery, insatiable vigor. He looked from her blissful, empty expression to her leaking breasts, understanding dawning. “What the hell did you put in this?”
“Just me, Master,” she slurred, her eyes half-lidded. “All for you.”
The renewed, urgent ache in his groin was answer enough. He flipped her onto her back again, her body pliant and heavy. He didn’t kiss her. He mounted her, guiding his already rigid length back into her swollen, slippery entrance. She gasped, her back arching off the bed.
He fucked her. There was no other word for it. The motion was mechanical, relentless, driven by the strange alchemy of her milk pumping through his veins. His hips pistoned, the slick, squelching sounds obscene in the quiet room. Her tits jounced violently with each impact, spraying stray droplets of milk across both their stomachs.
“You’re my fucking invention,” he grunted, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. “A project. A perfect, useful project.”
“Yours,” she whimpered, her nails scratching feebly at his shoulders. Her capacity for speech was dissolving under the sustained assault. “All yours.”
He came again sooner than should have been possible, a hot, rushing release that made his vision spark. He groaned, slumping against her, but the driving energy didn’t abate. It buzzed under his skin, demanding. He pulled out, rolled her onto her stomach, and without a word, entered her from behind once more.
This time was harder, faster. He used her body like a toy, his hands leaving red marks on her hips. The bedframe knocked a steady rhythm against the stone wall. Hermione’s cries had devolved into choked, animalistic sounds, her face mashed into the milk-dampened silk. He took a fistful of her low bun, yanking her head back to watch his length disappear into her again and again.
“Is this what you learned in the library?” he spat, his voice ragged. “How to be a better cocksleeve?”
She tried to nod, her glazed eyes seeing nothing. He released her hair and her face fell back into the wet patch with a soft thud.
He lost count. The cycle was brutal and simple: fuck, spill, recover almost instantly, fuck again. Her milk was a potent fuel, burning away his limits. The bed became a swamp of their mingled fluids—sweat, her milk, his cum, her arousal—soaking through the sheets to the mattress below. The air grew thick and salty with the smell of sex and something uniquely, primaly her.
Her body finally gave out long before his borrowed stamina did. A final, shuddering climax ripped through him as he felt her go utterly limp beneath him, consciousness fleeing. He stayed buried in her for a long moment, panting, before withdrawing.
He stood on unsteady legs, looking down at the wreckage. Hermione lay unconscious in the center of the sodden bed, a canvas of brutalized pleasure. Milk still slowly seeped from her nipples. He pulled the ruined blankets over her, a perfunctory gesture.
Stumbling to the leather armchair by the cold fireplace, he collapsed into it. The cool material felt alien against his overheated skin. He stared at the shrouded form on the bed, his mind finally clearing, the frantic energy receding to leave a hollow, buzzing quiet.
His bed was a complete mess of various fluids. Hermione was once again left unconscious as Harry leaned back in his leather chair, wondering what else could be in store. He had never expected this sort of activity in his final year of school. He had worried that, even now that they were 18, he would remain a virgin forever, so the mirror had been a welcome surprise.
Now, it was more than surprise. It was dominion. And her “studies” had just proven terrifyingly fruitful. A slow, possessive smile touched his lips. If she could engineer this… what else might she learn to do? The possibilities unspooled in his mind, dark and tempting. The danger of exposure was still a wire stretched tight across his throat, but the potential rewards glittered, endlessly obscene.
He would need to be more careful. She would need to be more convincing in class. But the core truth remained, solid and undeniable in the silent room.
He had made this. He would protect his creation. And he would explore every single depraved thing it could do.