Prologue:
I remembered when it started. I had been the brightest witch in Gryffindor, which is similar to saying the soberest when the cops raided the kegger, not the praise it sounds. I had worked out how to turn Harry Potter, the git who lived, glasses into a quantum entangled pair with her own sunglasses, which I had spent the last three weeks turning into a portkey. If everyone knew You Know Who was going to kidnap Harry in the maze, then sending someone with an active brain not actually located in his wand seemed like the prudent thing to do. So, ignoring every male objection, I did it. When Voldemort used the Tri Wizard Cup to summon Harry to be used to bring him back from the dead, and then duel him into tiny bleeding pieces before his Death Eaters to prove his wand was bigger, I would be able to port-key to Harry and save his testosterone poisoned life.
Then it went sideways. Voldemort and Harry shared brother wands, which is just as creepy as it sounds, so as they had a long distance wank off with them joining their wands with the single greatest arc of incel energy known to wizardkind, I cast expelliurmis to break the deadlock of the wands locked in the most desperate defense of male virginity ever seen. The backlash from the Git Who Lived and the Snake Who Won't Fuggin Die struck me right in the lady bits. My toes curled, my insides tried to invert themselves and the greatest recorded burst of dopamine and serotonin just about broke my brain and soaked my panties and leggings in a most embarrassing fashion. It was mind shattering, and yet still it fell to me to do the thinking and portkey Harry and myself away from Voldemort the Snake Who Really Needed a Date.
It became a problem when we spent the next few years on the run, and at war. I mean, I wrote it off to "you may die tomorrow" and "ecstatic to have survived", but in all honesty I began to notice I had a problem. I had to relive my tensions, sort of a lot. It started easily enough with my fingers, then my wand. When the war was over and I got back to the muggle world and I discovered hand held shower heads my life got extremely better, but my problem was only growing worse.
Unlike Harry or Ron, I returned to Hogwarts for my Masters. I had aced my OWLS (Ordinary Wizarding Levels) and NEWTs(Nasty Exhaustive Wizard Tests) but I came back for my f*ck (Frankjly Unnatural Chaos Knowledge) required to work with the Unspeakables on the bleeding edge of magical research. I was eighteen, and back at school with primarily those Slytherin girls who had bullied me my entire time in Gryffindor, then hid out at Hogwarts after the war to avoid trial for sucking Death Eater wand all war, and those Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who had enjoyed sitting on the fence and watching the world burn. Before, I had Harry and Ron to draw the attention and play bodyguard, but now it was just me. Before I had been calm controlled and the only one of us whose brain wasn't poking out of our robes looking for a chance to go off.
Now I had a.....problem.
I went to Madam Pomfrey for a physical and talk about my......problem. When I described my symptoms, the puffy and sensitive nipples, the blushing, the super sensitive cl*t, the erogenous forming from neck to kneecap, well that is a lie, the feet are getting there too, and Madame Pomfrey asked me how often I masturbat*d, I just thought it was a medical question. I hadn't realized I had been drooling and licking my lips as I realized her breasts were in my face. I hadn't realized it wasn't normal to go without panties under my school uniform or being an eighteen year old and choosing to wear the same skirt I wore when I got here at age 12.
When Madame Pomfrey whispered to me to "Show her how I masturbat*" I had my skirt up and my fingers working my little cl*t like I was trying to steal Professor Flittwick's name.
Madame Pomfrey smiled and popped a heavy breast out of her blouse and I struck faster than a basilisk, fastening my mouth to her nipple and sucking on her as I felt her strong old fingers take over on my cl*t, and felt my own reach under her heavy Mediwitch skirts to seek out her own. She worked me through three more org*sms before she was through, then had me lick both of our fingers clean. I admit I felt equal parts ashamed and better from the treatment. We really had the best mediwitches here at Hogwarts.
I turned to her and begged her to know what was wrong with me. Was I sick? Madame Pomfrey's words did not settle my mind much.
"Your problem isn't a sickness, it isn't a weakness. It isn't a potion or a spell, but something much more powerful, ancient and terrible magic from the Founders. Something that had been hidden by Slytherin before he fled, and something that Professor McGonagall has been studying since the Chamber of Secrets was revealed by you at the beginning of the war. You should take this note, and go see her in her office." Madame Pomfrey said, then grabbed me by the hair and french kissed me into breathlessness. As I tried to put my mind back together, Madame Pomfrey gave me a hard smack on my ass that made me blush and giggle as I headed off to Professor Minerva McGonnagle's office. I never giggle. What was wrong with me?
Professor McGonnagle was standing in a long green dress of crushed velvet with black dragonhide boots that matched the band on her wide brimmed witch's hat. She stood tall and imposing before her desk, tapping her wand in her hand like it was a weapon. She looked stern and commanding, and suddenly I felt myself grow weak at the knees, the feelings making my body tingle in a way I couldn't understand. I had dueled two death eaters at a time, and killed both, why were my knees shaking and my womanhood quivering like I had stolen one of Pavarti's boddice-ripper romance novels after lights out?
"You have something for me, Miss Grainger?" She asked sternly, and blushing I held out the parchment Poppy Pomfrey gave me.
McGonagall smiled and leaned back on the desk, spreading her legs wide, and beginning to pull up her long heavy skirts an inch at a time, something I found suddenly hypnotizing to look at.
"I see it is as I expected. You suffered spell bukkake, which is like spell backlash, but happens when a virginal woman stands between two incells having a wank off causing them to discharge their pent up frustrations and need all over, into and through you. Since He Who Must Not Get Laid and the Git Who Lived to Wank had well polished brother wands, and shared the one soul between them, that energy impregnated you. A bit of He Who Must Not Get Laid and the Boy Who Lived to Wank lodged deep inside you, bound to your soul and you became the repository for all the sexual desire they denied and could not express. In short Hermione;"
"You are a whor*-crux"
I tried to object.
I am a proud independent feminist. I don't even like girls! Or boys for that matter. I am a serious scholar and career woman. I opened my mouth to object, I really did. Then McGonagall's skirt cleared her dark bush then I was on my knees, hands on her thighs burrowing into her love tunnel like Hufflepuff's badger after a fluffy bunny. I felt her mature hands close on my wavy hair and tighten in iron claws as she rode my face.
"Eat me, Miss Granger. Eat me like my very own Gryffin-whor*. You cannot fight the whor* Crux, your body, your magic, your mind, all are bound to it. You are Slytherin's own slu*t, the c*nt lapping Queen among witches now MAKE YOUR HOUSE MOTHER CUM!"
The iron control of McGonagall shattered as my tongue led me up to her cl*t and my lips claimed it with a bruising kiss that turned into a suck and tease with my tongue. I thought I was going to lose my hair as she came, but the fire was only beginning to burn in me. I worked my fingers into her tight and long neglected puss*, my instincts guiding me in ways like my magic did, riding the currents of power, the flow of the world guiding me, my will reshaping her flesh to my will. I ate her through another org*sm, then flipped her and rimmed her ancient ass until she was begging for release.
When I felt my last finger and thumb slide into her matronly puss* I let her howl like a cat as I formed a fist inside the Headmistress. The spray of her cum as she lost conciousness awoke something in me, a sexual predator I had never dreamed lived within me. If this is what I was, if this is what they had made me, then I would embrace it.
I licked my fingers clean. Her puss* tasted like bread pudding with a hint of single malt scotch. I had a feeling I would be back for more.
So here I am, Hermione Granger, war heroine, muggle born feminist witch, magical genius, back at Hogwarts to get my f*cks so I can become an Unspeakable, and I have been cursed into a whor*-Crux. I have a sex drive and attraction like a flock of Veela at a stagette and because of He Who Must Not Get Laid soul fragment. I am a Parletongue. I don't just speak snake, I have a full serpent tongue and venom glands in my teeth. Not cook Death Eater "die screaming while I monologue" venom either. This isn't even love potion number 9 (which I have a ring to test for since Fred and George spiked my pumpkin juice and motorboated me together until Filch caught us after the better part of half an hour), but love potion 69, so potent I could make Snape lick it off Sirius doggy dong if I swung that way. Luckily, I am not pursuing abuse of magical creatures for my f*ckS, so that at least won't be an issue.
I am so over all this teenage drama, all the house rivalry. I don't even want to date! I am a career driven witch. It is not my fault the Heir Of Slytherin sank his soul into my cl*tor*s and turned me into a whor*-Crux, and the Boy Who Lived only to Wank wasn't man enough to take care of the issue himself. Now I am back at Hogwarts, and all I want is to get my f*cks in peace, if those Slytherin girls would just leave me alone.
Is that too much to ask?
