A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 5 - P2
The journey to the small, sun-drenched cottage in the south of France was a world away from the chill and grandeur of Hogwarts. For Harry, it was a return to a sanctuary he hadn't known he needed. The moment he stepped through the Floo network and into the warm, herb-scented air of his mother's home, the heavy weight of the term seemed to lift from his shoulders. This was real. This was solid. This was his mother, her arms wrapping around him in a hug that smelled of lavender, old books, and a love so pure it made his heart ache.
They spent the first evening simply being. They ate a simple meal of fresh bread, cheese, and grapes on the stone patio, the sound of crickets chirping in the twilight. Lily didn't press him for stories, content to simply look at him, to see the growth in his face, the new confidence in his posture. But the next morning, over steaming mugs of hot chocolate, she turned to him, her expression soft and inviting.
"Alright," she said, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "Tell me everything. Not the edited versions you put in your letters. I want to hear it all. From the beginning."
And so, Harry began. He recounted the Sorting Ceremony, the nervous flutter in his stomach as the tattered old hat was placed on his head, its voice whispering in his mind. He described the immense relief and pride when it had yelled "Gryffindor," and the instant, easy camaraderie he felt with Ron Weasley, a boy so different from himself yet who felt like an instant brother. He told her about Hermione, of course. He described her brilliance, her fierce loyalty, and the way she had become the indispensable third part of their trio, the brain to their brawn and heart.
He found himself glossing over the more dangerous parts, the adventures that were less about fun and more about near-death experiences. He mentioned the troll in the dungeons, but framed it as a silly story about the school's security being lax rather than the terror of the creature itself. He talked about their midnight wanderings, but made them sound like harmless explorations, not the reckless investigations into a forbidden third-floor corridor that they truly were.
He spoke of Quidditch with a passion that made his eyes light up. He described the feeling of soaring on a broomstick, the wind whipping past his face, the world shrinking to the tiny, golden snitch. He told her about catching it in his first match, the exhilarating, stomach-dropping dive, the roar of the crowd, and the bone-jarring collision with the ground that had left him with a collection of colorful bruises and a newfound fame.
"Madam Pomfrey fixed me up in no time," he assured her, seeing the worried crease form between her brows. "It was nothing."
"It never sounds like nothing when you're the one telling the story," Lily murmured, her hand reaching across the table to cover his.
His expression grew more serious then. "There is one thing, though," he said, his voice lowering. "I don't trust Professor Snape. The Potions Master. He… he seems to hate me. For no reason. And I think he was trying to jinx me during that Quidditch match. Hermione saw him muttering, she thinks he was cursing my broom."
Lily's face softened, a flicker of a complex, old emotion in her green eyes, so like his own. "Harry," she said gently, "Severus… he isn't evil. He's complicated, and he carries a great deal of pain. But he is not the man you think he is. There are reasons for his bitterness, reasons that have nothing to do with you."
"I know you were friends with him," Harry said, a little defensively. "But he's horrible to everyone, not just me."
"I know," she sighed. "We don't have to agree on it. Let's just… let's leave Severus aside for now. Tell me about your classes. Are you enjoying them? Is the food as terrible as they say?"
Harry was happy to move on. "The food's brilliant! Well, most of it. But the classes… some are amazing, some are awful. They say History of Magic used to be the worst. Professor Binns is a ghost, you see, and he just drones on and on in this monotone voice. He literally puts everyone to sleep. But this year, we have a new professor."
He leaned forward, his enthusiasm genuine. "He's brilliant. His name is Professor Roland Greengrass. He actually makes history interesting. He doesn't just make us memorize dates, he makes us debate things, like why the goblins rebelled, or if the Statute of Secrecy is even fair. It's… it's like he's teaching us how to think, not just what to think."
The name hit Lily like a physical blow. It was as if a sealed, forgotten memory had been violently burst open in her mind. One moment, she was a mother listening to her son over a cup of hot chocolate; the next, she was an eighteen-year-old girl, her world a chaotic mess of war and fear and a love that was as suffocating as it was comforting.
Her face turned a shade of crimson that had nothing to do with the warmth of the fire. The memory was vivid, obscene, and utterly intoxicating. She was in the Prefects' bathroom, the air thick with steam and the scent of expensive soaps. She was positioned ass up and face down on the cold, tiled floor, her cheek pressed against the unforgiving stone. Roland's foot was on her face, the sole of his shoe pressing gently but firmly against her cheek, a symbol of absolute ownership that made her feel more cherished than any tender kiss ever had. He was behind her, drilling into her from behind with a relentless, powerful rhythm that was both punishing and ecstatic. James had been too much that day—too much noise, too much public bravado, too much of the immature, bullying boy she was beginning to fear she was trapped with. She had fled, seeking solace, and had found it in Roland's embrace, an embrace that had ended with her being utterly and completely debased on a bathroom floor. It had been the most freeing moment of her life.
Thankfully, Roland had acted as if nothing had ever happened between them. The next day, he was the same cool, sarcastic schoolmate of her and James, his demeanor a perfect mask of indifference. But Lily had never forgotten. And in the quiet, lonely moments of her widowhood, she had secretly yearned for that feeling again—the feeling of being so completely possessed, of being taken out of her own head and used for another's pleasure, of being absolved of all responsibility and choice.
"…and so, Malfoy looked like he was about to have a stroke," Harry was saying, oblivious to the storm raging in his mother's mind. "It was brilliant. Mum? Are you okay?"
Lily blinked, forcing a smile that felt brittle and fake. "Yes! Yes, of course, dear. I'm sorry, my mind wandered for a moment." She waved a dismissive hand, trying to force the image of Roland's foot on her face from her mind. "It's just… History of Magic. It really isn't the most exciting topic, is it? I'm sure it's fascinating, the way he teaches it, but my brain is still on holiday mode." She forced a light laugh. "So, what about your other professors? What about Professor Quirrell? The one who found the troll. He seems… nervous."
Harry, accepting her flimsy excuse, readily moved on. "Oh, Quirrell. He's a bit of a joke, really. He stutters all the time, and his turban always smells funny. He says it's to protect him from a vampire he met in the Black Forest, but no one really believes him. He's a decent teacher, I guess, but he's so scared of his own shadow, it's hard to take him seriously."
Lily nodded, making the appropriate listening noises, but she wasn't hearing a word he was saying. Her mind was a million miles away, back in a cold, tiled bathroom, back in the arms of a man who had seen the darkness in her and hadn't run, but had instead claimed it. She could feel the phantom pressure of his foot on her cheek, the ghost of his powerful thrusts. A familiar, forbidden heat began to pool low in her belly, a wetness forming between her legs that was both a betrayal and a desperate need. She stared at her son, at his bright, innocent face, and felt a wave of guilt so sharp it was painful. But beneath the guilt, another feeling was stirring, a long-dormant hunger that Roland Greengrass had just awakened from a decade-long slumber.
***
The old Ford Anglia was a symphony of strange noises, a cacophony of rattling windows, groaning engine, and the gentle whoosh of air displaced by the disillusionment charm that rendered them invisible to the Muggle world below. Inside, the Weasley family was a bubble of chaotic energy, a stark contrast to the serene, moonlit clouds they soared through. Arthur Weasley was at the wheel, his face a mask of intense concentration, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were the most exotic piece of Muggle technology he had ever encountered—which, in a way, it was. Molly sat beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression a mixture of maternal pride and perpetual anxiety about the safety of her children, whether they were on the ground or a thousand feet in the air.
Ron, sandwiched between his brothers in the back, was in his element. The trip to Romania to see Charlie was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him, and he was recounting his first term at Hogwarts with the breathless enthusiasm of a town crier.
"It was brilliant, the Sorting Hat!" he exclaimed, his voice loud enough to be heard over the engine. "It didn't even take a second for me. 'GRYFFINDOR!' it shouted. Just like that. Knew I was a Weasley right off." He puffed out his chest. "Harry was a bit of a worry for a moment. The Hat was taking ages. Thought it was going to put him in Slytherin, can you imagine? But it put him with us, of course. He's a proper Gryffindor, Harry is."
He launched into a detailed, and heavily embellished, account of his rivalry with Draco Malfoy. "…and then I told him, 'You'll pay for that!' and he just sneered and walked off. He's a right foul git, that one. Thinks he's so special just 'cause his dad's got loads of gold." He then moved on to the troll, his eyes wide with remembered terror and excitement. "But that's when Harry and me, we showed everyone what we're made of. We went to find Hermione, see, 'cause she'd been crying in the loos, and the troll was right there! Harry distracted it while I levitated its club and smashed it! Well, it sort of… fell on its own club. But it was our plan! Professor Greengrass even said it was a textbook example of tactical improvisation."
He chattered on about their adventures, their secret explorations of the castle, and the thrill of breaking rules. "And then there's Quidditch! You should see Harry fly, Mum, Dad. He's a natural. A born Seeker. Caught the Snitch in his first match, even though he nearly fell off his broom. Snape was trying to jinx him, I reckon, but Harry's too good for him. I'm going to try out for Beater next year. Fred and George are going to help me train."
He paused for breath, and his expression soured. "Speaking of Snape, I hate him. He's awful to Harry, always taking points from Gryffindor for no reason and favoring the Slytherins. He's definitely plotting something, I'm sure of it."
"Now, Ron, I'm sure Professor Snape is just… very strict," Molly began, her standard defense of any authority figure.
"He's a git, Mum," Ron insisted. "But not all the teachers are bad. I mean, we've got the new History of Magic professor, Roland. He's brilliant. Nothing like Binns. He actually makes you want to stay awake."
The name "Roland" hit Arthur like a physical jolt. His hands, which had been steady on the wheel, clenched the leather so tightly his knuckles turned white. The Anglia gave a sudden, violent lurch, the nose dipping alarmingly towards the dark, sleeping countryside below.
"Arthur!" Molly shrieked, grabbing the dashboard.
"Sorry! Sorry, just a bit of an updraft!" Arthur stammered, wrestling with the steering wheel, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced the car back into a level flight path, his mind reeling, the present dissolving into a memory that was as vivid as it was shameful.
He wasn't in a flying car anymore. He was in the corner of their small, cramped bedroom at the Burrow, the one they had before Bill was born. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle. He was naked, his small, thin dick hard in his hand, stroking it slowly, almost reverently. He wasn't touching himself for his own pleasure, but because the sight before him demanded it.
Molly was on the bed, on her hands and knees, her belly heavy and swollen with their first child. She was naked, her pale skin glowing in the candlelight. And she wasn't alone. Behind her, Roland Greengrass was pistoning into her with a powerful, relentless rhythm. His hands had a firm grip on Molly's arms, pulling them back, arching her spine, forcing her to take every inch of his magnificent cock. Arthur could see the slick sheen of sweat on Molly's back, could hear the soft, desperate sounds she was making, a mixture of pain and pleasure that was so alien to the woman he knew.
"Look at your husband, Molly," Roland's voice was a low, dark growl, a sound of pure command that made Arthur's own cock twitch in his hand. "Look at him watching you. Watch him stroking his pathetic little cock while I fuck you like you need to be fucked."
Molly turned her head, her face a mask of ecstasy, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She looked at Arthur, but she didn't see him. She saw only what Roland wanted her to see. "He's… he's watching," she whimpered, her voice breaking as Roland drove into her particularly hard. "Oh, gods, Roland… he's so small…"
"I know," Roland grunted, his pace quickening. "That's why you're here. That's why you come to me. You need a real man to fill this tight little cunt, don't you? You need to be fucked by a man who knows what to do with it."
"Yes," she cried out, her body convulsing as an orgasm ripped through her. "Yes! I need it! I need you!"
Arthur could only watch, his own strokes becoming more frantic, a pathetic counterpoint to the powerful, masculine rhythm of the man fucking his wife. He saw Roland's body tense, heard him groan as he buried himself deep inside Molly and came, pumping her full of his seed. The sight was enough to push Arthur over the edge, and he spilled himself into his own hand, a weak, shameful release that was nothing compared to the torrent he had just watched Roland give his wife.
"Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?" Molly's voice, sharp with worry, pulled him back to the present. The car was level again, but his hands were still shaking.
"Fine! I'm fine, Molly, just… just a bit of turbulence," he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Roland, you say? Replaced old Binns? Well, I never. I thought they'd never get rid of him. Good for the school, good for the students."
He risked a glance at Molly. Her face was pale, her hands twisting in her lap. She wouldn't meet his eyes. She knew. Of course, she knew. The memory was in his eyes, and it was in hers, too.
They spent the rest of the ride in a state of heightened, nervous energy. They nodded along as Ron continued to blabber on, his voice a steady, meaningless drone in the background. He talked about Professor Flitwick and his Charms class, about Professor Sprout and the greenhouses, about Hagrid and his Blast-Ended Skrewts. But Arthur and Molly weren't really listening. They were on autopilot, their minds a thousand miles and a decade away.
For the Full 6608 word Version Please check my p.a.t.r.e.o.n: pat.....reon.c.o.m/cw/aFireFist just remove the multiple periods in this link. Thank you for the Support!