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SD: CH45 - Curiosity Killed The Cat
🕑 Added 2023-03-26 21:31:03 +0000 UTCPenelope knew she was smarter than most.
Academically, that is. One of the ‘freaks’ out there that somehow turned out to be an excellent runesmith and arithmancer, in addition to being a fair hand at Charms. It allowed her to notjust fine tune her charmswork, but also alter the spells to suit her purposes, thanks to her unique magical disposition. In a fair world, she’d probably have been a spellcrafter working for the Department of Mysteries. She had often daydreamed of working with abstruse magic, and dare she hoped, proprietary Family Magic stored in the grimoires of those Ancient and Noble Houses. Compared to that, working for Harry Potter was far more mundane, the applications grounded in reality than in the esoteric.
Still, where it lacked the mystery, it more than made up with its need for flexibility, especially because it was allowing her to experiment her own theory she had submitted in hopes for an Enchanting Mastery. Just like Harry Potter (Sir) had said, her research could revolutionize the enchanting industry by decades.
With her skills, she could progress at almost superhuman speeds, her ability to tweak spell lattices allowing her to do whatever needed to be done ten times quicker than normal. It did not however, mean that she got paid ten times as much. Basic market economics said that if her employer wished for her to work that hard, he should have paid her that much. Ideally, she should’ve just finished her work within the first four hours of the day, and then returned to her room to lounge around in the extremely comfy bed, or maybe peruse through Witch Weekly or get some window-shopping done.
Instead she was on her desk, despite it being late into the evening.
Why? The answer was simple.
Two. Hundred. Galleons. Per month. Plus accommodation and other expenses.
She knew that a DOM job would’ve paid her along similar lines — maybe a bit more after finishing her apprenticeship, but hey, it wasn’t like she was getting the apprenticeship anytime soon. Instead she had Harry Potter enter her life like God’s gift to unfortunate mudbloods and offer her something beyond all expectations. And so she worked to surpass all expectations. Just so that he’d look at her and smile—
Maul her arse —
—and say that she made him proud.
Penelope blinked. She had not just thought that. Despite her growing infatuation with her employer, and the increasingly erotic nature of her dreams, Harry Potter had maintained a professional distance between them. Hell, even when she had stood before him in drenched panties, he had pulled her skirt and tied it back up—
— While touching her juices crawling down her leg.
Penelope flushed, and resisted the urge to bang her head on her table. How was she supposed to ever look at him with a straight face again?
She glanced at the clock to her right.
“Bugger! It’s already eight?”
She was supposed to submit a new proposal first thing the next morning. If he approved of it, then she’d be authorized to draw the necessary gold out of Gringotts and use it for the development process. However before that could be done, she needed to run the proposal by Miss Jones first. Yes, it was Miss Jones and not Hestia, because only people that she worked for, or her colleagues got to call her that. Penelope wanted to mention that Hermione Granger fell in neither category but she knew better than to mention that.
It was Miss Jones’s job to cut expenses as much as possible out of the proposals submitted to Harry’s desk, because in her own words, Harry would waste away his fortune in a week otherwise. Penelope had no reason to poke into Miss Jones’s business and wisely stayed silent.
But where could she find her? Penelope was still somewhat of a stranger in this mansion. In her defense, it was larger and more circuitous from the inside than the outside — an exemplary application of spatial charms. She had limited herself to her room (which looked less like a bedroom and more like a waste paper basket) and Jones’s office, except that first visit to Harry Potter’s office.
And now she’d be there tomorrow as well.
Maybe this time, he’ll spank me?
She held her head in dismay. What the hell was wrong with her? It wasn’t like she hadn’t had a crush before. Yes, she was still a virgin, not for a lack of interest on her part, but because Percy Weasley was just that much of a prude. For someone whose track record was seven seconds and done, he was an overly snobbish bastard.
Pushing herself off her chair, Penelope straightened her dress, grabbed the folder, and walked out of her room.
The mansion was a far cry from the traditional pureblood manor. There were no portraits, paintings, or tasteful carpets decorating the walls and floors. No suits of armor on the hallways, or expensive rugs and sculptures decorating the hallways. Instead the house boasted a minimalist design, bringing out the spaciousness of the edifice, the brightly coloured walls offering a stark contrast to the dark shades on the floor and the furniture, adding to the aesthetic feel. Adding in spatial charms, the house felt at least ten times larger on the inside than the outside.
It wasn’t traditional and wasn’t muggle. It was… futuristic. A single look at the building design was enough to prove that Harry Potter was a visionary.
She stepped out of the corridor leading to her room and descended down the stairs to the ground floor. She had seen Miss Jones sit and chat with Hermione Granger here in the living room after dinner. Between Miss Jones and Granger, Penelope had the feeling that she had stepped into overly-claimed territory. Plus, she was almost certain that Granger did not like her very much.
But she didn’t mind. The feeling was mutual. Here she was, working her arse off from morning to evening to earn her keep, and that was after she had been through hell and back. Granger? She was the lucky bitch that happened to be friends with Harry Potter.
Penelope had heard rumors about how Granger was opening her legs for Harry Potter, but she was less inclined to believe them. And even if she did, so what? Muggleborns had a hard life as it was, but a muggleborn werewolf? Had she been anyone else, Hermione Granger would have to whore herself in Knockturn Alley to make ends meet.
Instead she was living here, in this heavenly mansion, thanks to Harry’s magnanimity. The least she could do was open her legs to prove to be a decent fuck.
Penelope scowled. It was just so unfair.
She crossed the guestrooms, and found Miss Jones walking downstairs. Penelope extended her hand to call her out, but right then, Harry Potter stepped into her field of vision from a different corridor and snaked his arm around Miss Jones’s waist. Her words dying in her throat, Penelope stared, her eyes glued at him as his hands reached all the way to the woman’s neck, and pulled her close and kissed her, while his other hand snaked down to her waist, beneath her skirt, and massaged her arse.
Penelope shivered. Her core was already so wet, so ready that she felt juices drip down her panties.
Then Harry Potter grabbed Miss Jones by her hair, and pulled her back, the woman hissing in pain and pleasure, as he attacked her neck, sucking it and moving downwards. Without any preamble, he pushed her against the wall behind her, and attacked her like a ravenous animal, his hand digging into her skirt and cupping her sex. Given the way the woman was moaning and kept pushing herself upward, he was fingering deep and hard into her folds.
It took everything for Penelope not to orgasm right then and there. Just what was it that Harry Potter did to her? Her own attraction notwithstanding, she was orgasming just from seeing him finger another. What would it be like when he did the same to her? Would she even survive?
In one swift motion, Harry Potter slipped Miss Jones’s skirt down, and the woman allowed him, stepping out of it. The shirt shared its fate, leaving the woman in her bra and panties. Penelope scowled at her round arse, which was definitely better than hers, but she liked to think she had her beat in the breast category.
“Be a good girl. Hold still,” he said, and pulled out something from his pocket, something that looked like black leather and attached to chains. And then he reached up and secured it around her neck. A collar!
She didn’t protest.
Then he grabbed her wrists, and cuffed them, and bound her hands to the hook in front of the collar. Hestia Jones just stood in front of him, completely unmoving, allowing him to do as he wished. And then, as if he had not destroyed Penelope’s notions of submission, he attached a leash to it.
“Come, Hestia.”
It was a command, like how you’d call a dog.
Hestia didn’t defy him. He yanked the chain and they started walking. Downstairs. Penelope knew where that led to — the dungeons. She was barred from going there. Hestia had told her right off the bat the first day. She was to do her job, and keep to her room, and should Harry Potter insist, join them for meals. Given that he mostly stayed out, chances of that happening had been zero so far.
Okay. That’s it. Walk away. You’re not supposed to enter the dungeons. Whatever Harry Potter and Jones get on to in their own time is private. Just turn around and walk away and everything would be fine. Turn around, return to your room and forget about this. That’s exactly what you should do right now.
The folder slowly slid down her hand, slipping over her dress and softly hit the floor.
“Obscurata!” She murmured, casting the disillusionment charm with her wand, and silenced her feet. And then she walked down the dark, winding staircase with sconces on the wall that led to the dungeons. If Penelope had been excited before, the sexual undercurrent was shocking her now like electricity. She had come down expecting something like the Hogwarts dungeons— dark and dreary with winding, serpentine tunnels. Instead she found herself in an open, spacious foyer down the stairs, with a humongous candle-lit chandelier hanging above, and large, arched doorways with oak-doors marking the periphery of the circular hall.
She followed as Harry Potter dragged Hestia Jones past one door, into a long hallway. It was dimmer than the rest of the house with a dark, purple carpet, making her wonder exactly how large Excelsior was on the inside. The corridor was mysterious with a sense of dark seductiveness. One of the doors was unlocked, and Penelope, unable to help herself, sneaked a peek inside.
She instantly wished she hadn’t.
Hermione Granger, chained with her hands above her head, being — Penelope wasn’t sure what was the right word to use — ravished, assaulted, violated by Ginny Weasley of all people, who was currently sitting on her knees, her tongue digging into the girl’s wet folds. The maniacal expression on Granger’s face as Weasley dug deeper and deeper with her tongue looked less pleased and more hungry. The animalistic kind, with her eyes glowing silver of all things, and her body arched backwards in pleasure.
Her insides spun.
What— what is this place?
A daunting dread began to fill inside her, chilling her bones. Her pussy clenched. Mind-bending terror or mind-melting desire. What was she feeling?
Only one way to find out.
…
…
…
They were standing in front of a swing suspended from the ceiling by heavy duty metal hooks. Penelope watched as Harry Potter undid the chain that tied both of Hestia’s hands together, and lifted her like she barely weighed more than a child, and raised her arms upwards, the leathery cuffs attaching to the metal hooks like a jack fitting into a socket — sticking enchantments at play. Once her hands were secured, he spread her legs wide and strapped them with the hooks below. Hestia Jones hung there, opened up before him, nothing hidden from his view. Penelope expected to see shock, horror, fear, or at the very least, anxiety in her eyes. Instead her face was flushed, and drunk with pleasure and a carnal hunger, welcoming everything he was doing to her.
Penelope watched as Harry unbuttoned his shirt with a surgical precision and dropped it on the floor. She couldn’t help but lick her lips at his chiseled chest, and hungrily waited for him to undo his belt and his pants. Instead, he reached for Hestia’s bra and, summoning a pair of scissors of all things, began cutting it, the shiny, cold metal furrowing through her cleavage. The way Hestia shivered, those blades were colder than ice. The bra, now in two pieces, slid off her breasts, as Harry Potter leaned over and rolled each nipple between his fingers, pinching them hard as Hestia gasped.
“Do you like that, my slave?” he asked.
“Yes,” Penelope exhaled hard at his words, her pussy heating below. Her own nipples were erect and ready for his attention. “Yes. Yes, sir.”
Hestia just groaned.
“Good girl,” he said, and lifted his hand off her nipples, and — Penelope couldn’t believe her eyes— wandlessly summoned a crop and lashed it against the nipple.
Penelope audibly winced, but it was lost in Hestia’s scream. Harry Potter grabbed Hestia by the throat, suffocating her, and then brought the crop to the other nipple.
“This is what you get by being with me, Hestia,” he said. “I will use you as I please, I give you pain when it pleases me, and pleasure only when I think you deserve it. Do you think you deserve it now, slave?”
His wrist flicked again, bringing the crop to the first nipple. Hestia whimpered, tears burning her eyes.
“I— I don’t know Har—”
“SIR!”
Down came another lash.
“Ssss— SIR!” Hestia yelped, pulling against the cuffs, writhing and unable to help herself. Penelope was conflicted between doing something, keeping herself quiet and suppressing the urge to finger herself, all the while waiting for the next blow to all, wondering what it would feel like, and fearing it all the same.
“Your days working for the Order are over!” He said. “From now on, you only work for me.”
The crop whipped down, this time upon the insides of her left thigh. Hestia threw her head back and screamed, spit and drool all over her mouth and face.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes— yes, sir!”
Tears were trailing down her eyes, but in Penelope’s eyes, Hestia Jones never looked more alive. Her body was on fire from the sheer eroticism of the moment. She couldn’t wait until she was there in Jones' place, her body heating more and more from just imagining what else Harry Potter could do to her.
“You have failed me, Hestia. And you know how.”
Down came the crop. Right thigh this time.
Hestia yelped in affirmation.
“And despite knowing it, you’ve done nothing to change it.”
Again. This time on her right breast. Just beneath the nipple. His hands moved down and he pushed three fingers inside her folds, digging it all the way. Penelope watched, wide-eyed as he brought his fingers out, rich and drenched with Hestia’s cum, and then dragged it all the way upwards, through her cleavage, all the way into her mouth. As Hestia locked her lips around his fingers, sucking her own juices, he brought the crop right above her pussy.
Hestia yelled, spasming, throwing her hands and legs out, the pain jolting through her.
Penelope bit her lip, barely managing to stay quiet. She wasn’t sure if the silencing charm was still holding, and she wasn’t skilled enough to cast it non-verbally. Seeing Hestia like that sent jolts of awareness through her, fear and desire indistinguishable. All she felt was the intensity, and her body reacted.
Harry Potter grabbed Hestia by her neck, and lifted her head, looking into her orbs. “Do what I’ve asked of you, Hestia, or you will be punished. Do you know how?”
Jones looked at the crop with fear in her eyes.
Harry Potter smiled. And it was a dark thing.
“No Hestia. Not the crop. If you fail, then I won’t touch you. Ever.”
Hestia whimpered.
“Is that clear?”
Hestia exhaled. “Yes, sir.”
Penelope didn’t wait any longer. She was seconds away from orgasming, and she needed to get away. There was no saying what would happen if she lost control there. She had to leave. She had to leave. With one lasting glance at Hestia’s form, Penelope turned around and slipped away.
…
…
…
An hour later, Penelope Clearwater lay in her bed, her sheets drenched with her juices, with two fingers of her left hand digging into her folds, as she closed her eyes and pretended it belonged to a certain green-eyed employer of hers. Her right hand was already moist with her juices, and mauling her breasts, rubbing her own cum all over her chest.
The doorbell rang.
Penelope jumped up with a yelp, wondering who it was that had come to her room this late. Quickly casting a Scourgify, she summoned a robe and wore it over her, and approached the door to open it.
Hermione Granger stood on the other side. Wearing sleepwear. Holding a folder in her hand.
Penelope opened her mouth, and then closed it. She tried again, but to the same result.
“I found it on the floor in the living room downstairs,” said Hermione Granger. Penelope tried hard not to remember the previous sight, how she had found Granger, and with whom. Thanks to magic, there was no way to say if she had bathed, had changed and dried her hair.
She looked at the folder in her hand.
Granger thrust it at her.
Penelope grabbed it. “Erm, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Granger. “I should tell you that Harry doesn’t appreciate sloppiness. How you became a head girl with that attitude, I’ll never understand.”
That rankled. Who did this girl think she was?
“You’ll understand,” she replied, if a bit stiffly, “you haven’t even passed your OWLs after all. You've got a long way to go.”
Granger’s lips twisted slightly. Penelope told herself that being scathing to her employer’s best friend wouldn’t score her any points. It didn’t make her feel any better but it got her anger under control. She had borne the scathing remarks from Malfoy and his ilk, but she had never reacted. She had suffered through numerous rejections and had still not reacted. Just what was it about Hermione Granger that got under her skin so much?
She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know.
“Thank you,” she said, with a practiced smile that she used back when she was waitressing. “And it was clumsy of me. I’ll try to be better next time.”
A strange gleam flashed in Granger’s eyes, reminding her of the silver she had seen before. Granger had always been a high-strung snobbish little know-it-all, but now, there was a certain ferality in her. The werewolf curse perhaps?
“If that is all?” She asked. When Granger just shook her head, Penelope grabbed the door to close it, when the werewolf held the door open with a palm.
“A word to the wise, Clearwater,” said Granger.
“...Yes?”
“Next time you decide to peek into a room that isn’t your own, you’d better be prepared to take part in whatever is happening inside.”
Penelope froze, her face turning an intense shade of red.
Granger let the door close, her eyes glowing silver at the last moment. “Good night.”
