"Feels different this year," Ginny muttered, rubbing her thumb along the edge of the parchment strip. The Great Hall was quieter than usual—no clatter of cutlery, no chatter bouncing off the enchanted ceiling. Just the rustle of students scribbling their names and the occasional sharp intake of breath.

Harry glanced at her, then at his own blank strip. "Different how?"

Ginny shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe the way Filch keeps looking at the Goblet. Like he’s waiting for it to bite someone."

Across the room, Neville dropped his strip, fumbled to pick it up, and nearly knocked over a first-year in the process. A few stifled laughs rippled through the hall.

The Goblet flickered with an eerie blue flame as the last few students shuffled forward to deposit their strips. Harry watched as Ginny's fingers lingered over the edge before letting hers fall. Something about the way it vanished into the flames made his stomach tighten—no sound, no spark. Just gone.

"Ever wonder why it's always seven?" Ron muttered behind him, voice low enough that only Harry caught it.

Before Harry could answer, the Goblet erupted in a burst of emerald fire. Strips of parchment shot upward, spiraling like leaves caught in a whirlwind before arranging themselves in a neat line midair. The hall held its breath as Dumbledore stepped forward, his wand tracing the first name.

"Pansy Parkinson," he read, and the parchment flipped to reveal its other side. "Drowning." A murmur ran through the Slytherin table. Pansy's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile as she pushed back her chair.

Mark Thomson's name came next—beheading—and the Gryffindor table collectively stiffened. Mark, a burly sixth-year with a perpetual quill stain on his cheek, blinked rapidly before nodding once, as if confirming an unspoken dare to himself. The parchment fluttered to the floor, ignored.

Hermione's gasp was audible when her own name followed. "Short drop hanging," Dumbledore announced, and her fingers dug into the wooden bench. Ron's hand shot out to cover hers, but she jerked away, shaking her head like she could dislodge the words from the air. Harry caught the way her throat moved when she swallowed—sharp, deliberate—before she lifted her chin and smoothed her robes with trembling hands.

Daphne Greengrass was next—another beheading—and the Slytherins' murmurs grew louder. Daphne merely arched an eyebrow, as if this were a mildly inconvenient scheduling conflict. Ginny's name followed Hermione's method, and Harry felt her knee press against his under the table, steady as a heartbeat.

Terry Boot's drowning assignment barely registered before the final name burned itself into the silence.

The silence shattered when Dumbledore read the last name. "Harry Potter—short drop hanging."

The silence in the Great Hall became something alive—a held breath, a coiled spring. Then Dumbledore cleared his throat, and the tension snapped. "Selected students," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly to the rafters, "please make your way to the center. Strip completely."

Daphne's robes hit the floor before Dumbledore had finished speaking, pooling around her ankles like liquid silver. She stepped out of them with the casual grace of someone shedding a coat after light rain—no hesitation, no tremble in her fingers as she unhooked her bra and let it slide down her arms. The Slytherins whistled; Daphne merely smirked and stretched, arching her back until her breasts lifted, daring anyone to look away.

Terry fumbling with his tie before giving up and yanking it over his head in one sharp tug. His shirt buttons pinged against the stone floor. When he bent to untie his shoelaces, his knees cracked loud enough to draw nervous laughter from the Hufflepuff table. He flushed but kept going, stepping out of his trousers with a shrug that said *well, this is happening*.

Pansy took longer. Her fingers lingered at the clasp of her necklace—a delicate silver chain with an emerald pendant—before she tossed it to Millicent Bulstrode in the front row. "Keep it," she said, and Millicent caught it midair, grinning. Pansy's underwear was black lace, expensive-looking, and she peeled it off slowly, rolling the fabric down her thighs like she was savoring the last touch of luxury before the plunge.

Harry's fingers brushed Ginny's shoulder as he untied the laces of her robe, the fabric sliding down her arms like water. She didn't flinch, didn't hurry—just tilted her head slightly, giving him room to work. Her hands found the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head in one smooth motion, her knuckles grazing his ribs. Around them, the hall thrummed with whispers and shifting feet, but the space between their bodies felt strangely quiet, like the eye of a storm.

Ginny hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and Harry mirrored the motion on her underwear, their movements syncing without discussion. The air prickled against newly exposed skin. Ginny's breath hitched—just once—when Harry's fingers skimmed the inside of her thigh as he pushed her briefs down, but her hands stayed steady as she peeled his boxers away. Their clothes pooled together at their feet, a tangled heap of cotton and wool.

Across the circle, Hermione was still wrestling with her bra clasp, her arms twisted awkwardly behind her back. Her cheeks burned pink under the weight of staring eyes, but her mouth was set in that familiar stubborn line—the one she wore when tackling a particularly nasty arithmancy equation. Mark, meanwhile, stood frozen beside her, his fingers clenched white-knuckled around the elastic of his boxers. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he finally, agonizingly slow, peeled the last scrap of fabric down his legs. It clung to his ankle for a breathless second before flopping to the flagstones.

Harry caught Ginny's eye. Something passed between them—not quite a smile, not quite a question—before she reached out and squeezed his hand, just once. Her palm was warm. Dry. Nothing like the trembling terror thrumming through his own veins.

Dumbledore's wand flicked upward in a lazy arc, like he was conducting an orchestra of invisible strings. The air shimmered, warping into shapes that solidified with wet, heavy sounds—two glass basins rising from the flagstones like bubbles breaching a lake's surface.

Next came the chopping blocks—They materialized with a sharp crack. The axe landed between them with a metallic thunk, its blade catching the candlelight in a way that made the steel look freshly licked by flame. The handle was dark walnut, worn smooth by generations of hands.

The nooses descended silently, ropes unspooling from the enchanted ceiling like vines seeking soil. Three stools popped into existence beneath them—ordinary wooden things, the kind Filch might stack in a broom closet. The contrast was almost laughable: brutal hemp fibers dangling above something so mundane. Ginny's fingers twitched against Harry's palm as the nooses swayed, their loops gaping like hungry mouths.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "We will begin with the drowning." His voice carried the same tone he used to announce pudding flavors at feasts. "Pansy, Terry—who among you wishes to go first?"

Terry stepped forward.

Terry's bare feet slapped against the glass as he climbed into the tank, his reflection warping beneath him like a funhouse mirror. The metal buckles clicked shut around his ankles with a sound that made Neville flinch three tables away. Terry tested them once—a sharp jerk upward that made the chains rattle—then exhaled through his nose when they held fast. "Comfy?" Pansy called from the sidelines, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Terry flipped her off just as the first trickle of water seeped in through hidden vents near the base.

The liquid climbed faster than Harry expected. Within seconds, it lapped at Terry's calves, then his knees, the surface trembling with each tiny adjustment of his stance. By the time it reached his hips, Terry's breathing had gone shallow and rapid, his ribs expanding like bellows under skin gone goosefleshed from the chill. Someone in the back row started a slow clap—one, two—and it spread through the hall like a contagion, the rhythm syncing with the water's relentless rise.

When it hit his collarbones, Terry tipped his head back instinctively, exposing the taut cords of his neck. His Adam's apple bobbed once, twice, before he screwed his eyes shut and held his breath. The water closed over his chin, his lips, the bridge of his nose—then finally, with a tiny glug, the top of his head vanished beneath the surface. Bubbles erupted from his nostrils in frantic bursts, then slowed, then stopped altogether. His fingers spasmed against the glass, leaving smears that fogged almost immediately.

The silence in the hall thickened. Even Pansy had stopped fidgeting, her gaze locked on Terry's floating form. His hair fanned out like seaweed, drifting in the current from some invisible filter. His eyelids fluttered once—a last, desperate signal—before going still. At the four-minute mark, his bladder let go, a golden stream spiraling through the water like ink dropped in a jar. It dissipated slowly, staining the liquid around his thighs a faint, sickly yellow.

Pansy sauntered forward, her hips swaying with deliberate languor, as if this were just another evening stroll through the Slytherin common room. The glass tank gleamed under the floating candlelight. She climed in without hesitation, the soles of her feet pressing flat against the cold bottom, toes curling slightly as the metal buckles snapped shut around her ankles.

She didn’t test them.

Instead, her hands drifted upward, fingers tracing the swell of her own breasts with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly how she liked to be touched. Her palms circled her nipples, slow and teasing, until they stiffened into peaks. A sigh slipped from her lips—half pleasure, half challenge—as her other hand slid down her stomach, past the dip of her navel, to where her thighs met. The first brush of her fingers against her clit made her breath hitch, just once, before she settled into a rhythm that was anything but subtle.

The water began to rise.

It lapped at her ankles first, cold enough to make her toes curl, but Pansy didn’t pause. Her fingers worked in tight, deliberate circles, her hips rocking forward into her own touch as if she were chasing something only she could see. By the time the water reached her knees, her breath had gone ragged, her cheeks flushed pink under the weight of hundreds of watching eyes. Someone—probably a Gryffindor—muttered something about "disgusting," but Pansy only arched an eyebrow and twisted her wrist just so, her lips parting around a sound that was swallowed by the growing murmur of the crowd.

The water climbed higher.

It swallowed her thighs, her hips, the curve of her waist, but Pansy’s hands never stilled. If anything, she moved faster now, her fingers gliding slick and sure between her legs, her free hand pinching and rolling a nipple between thumb and forefinger. Her head tipped back when the water reached her ribs, her throat working as she swallowed hard, but her eyelids fluttered shut—not in fear, but in concentration. Like she was committing every sensation to memory.

When it reached her collarbones, her rhythm stuttered for the first time. Her chest heaved, her lungs fighting for air that wouldn’t come, but her fingers kept moving, frantic now, her hips jerking in shallow, desperate thrusts. The water closed over her chin, her lips, the tip of her nose—and still, her hand stayed between her legs, working herself even as her body began to convulse bubbles start to erupted from her nostrils.

Her eyes flew open—wide, startled—as if she hadn’t expected the end to come so soon. At minute eight a final, violent shudder wracked her body, her back arching against the glass, her fingers digging into her own flesh hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. Then, all at once, she went still. Her hands drifted away from her body, limp and lifeless, her hair floating around her face like a dark halo. Her lips parted slightly, as if she’d been caught mid-sigh. Her bladder let go in a sudden, golden rush that clouded the water around her thighs.

The hall was silent.

Even the Slytherins, usually so quick with a jeer or a jab, stared at the tank with something like awe. Or maybe it was envy. Pansy had died exactly as she’d lived—unapologetic, defiant, entirely on her own terms.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and the spell broke. “We will proceed,” he said, turning toward Mark and Daphne, “with the beheading.”

"Who would you prefer to go first?" Dumbledore asked, his voice carrying that same mild curiosity he might use to inquire about tea preferences. The axe gleamed in his hand, its edge so sharp it seemed to split the very light around it.

Mark swallowed visibly, his throat working like he was trying to dislodge something stuck there. He turned to Daphne, who was already studying him with that cool, unreadable gaze of hers—the one that made you feel like you were a specimen under glass.

"After you," Mark said, attempting a gallant gesture with one hand that ended up looking more like an awkward half-wave.

Daphne tilted her head, a slow, considering motion. "How generous," she murmured, and for a moment, Mark looked relieved—until she added, "But no. I think I'd rather watch you first." Her fingers trailed absently along her own collarbone, dipping lower in a lazy arc that made several Ravenclaws shift in their seats.

Mark blinked. Then, with a shrug that seemed to say *well, fuck it*, he stepped forward. His bare feet made no sound against the flagstones as he approached the block—just the faint squeak of skin on polished wood as he knelt. He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose, and laid his head down with the careful precision of someone arranging themselves for a nap.

Dumbledore's shadow fell across him. The axe lifted, catching the candlelight in a fleeting silver streak—then fell with a wet *thunk*. Mark's head tumbled forward, rolling twice before coming to rest near the Hufflepuff table, his expression frozen in something that wasn't quite surprise. His body remained upright for a heartbeat, two, before toppling sideways, blood pulsing from his neck in rhythmic gouts that painted the flagstones in widening arcs.

Daphne was already moving before the last spurt had tapered off. Her stride was unhurried, almost leisurely, as if she were strolling through the gardens at Greengrass Manor rather than walking toward her own execution. Halfway there, her right hand drifted between her thighs, fingers slipping easily through the slickness there. A few Slytherins whistled; Daphne merely smirked and increased the pressure, her breath hitching audibly when she circled her clit with deliberate precision.

She didn't stop when she reached the block. Kneeling beside it, she guided her head into position with her free hand, her neck arching gracefully to accommodate the wood's curve. Her other hand never stilled, fingers working in tight, practiced motions that made her hips jerk involuntarily against nothing. "Whenever you're ready, Headmaster," she said, her voice remarkably steady despite the way her chest heaved with each rapid breath.

Dumbledore adjusted his grip on the axe handle. The blade hovered for a fraction of a second—long enough for Daphne to bite her lower lip and press two fingers deep inside herself—before it flashed downward. Her head joined Mark's near the Hufflepuff table, lips still parted around a sound that never made it past her throat.

What happened next drew gasps. Daphne's decapitated body stiffened, back bowing violently as blood fountained from her neck in a crimson spray. Her fingers—still buried knuckle-deep in her pussy—curled inward, her hips bucking wildly against her own hand. For ten agonizing seconds, her body convulsed, thighs trembling with the force of whatever final release had overtaken her nervous system. Then, with a suddenness that made several students jump, she collapsed sideways, her fingers still in her pussy. A last, feeble spurt of blood dribbled from her neck before the flow slowed to a trickle.

The silence in the hall was palpable.

"And now," Dumbledore announced, brushing a fleck of blood from his sleeve with the same absentmindedness one might dismiss a crumb, "the hanging." He turned to the remaining trio—Hermione, Ginny, Harry—with a polite nod. "Would you care to determine the order among yourselves?"

Hermione’s fingers trembled as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear—a nervous habit she’d never quite shaken. She turned to Harry and Ginny, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'd like to go first," she said, her voice steadier than her hands. There was no plea in it, just quiet resolve, as if she’d calculated the odds and decided this was the most logical order of operations.

Harry opened his mouth—to protest, to offer himself instead—but Ginny squeezed his wrist, a silent *let her*. He exhaled through his nose and nodded. Ginny mirrored the gesture, her freckles standing out starkly against her pale skin. "Alright," Harry said, and the word felt like gravel in his throat.

Hermione's bare feet left damp footprints on the flagstones as she approached the stool—little half-moon crescents that evaporated almost instantly in the charged air of the Great Hall. The stool wobbled slightly under her weight, its uneven legs betraying its age, but she adjusted her stance without fuss. Her chin lifted, exposing the delicate column of her throat, and Harry caught the faintest tremor in her bottom lip before she pressed them together.

Dumbledore stepped forward, the noose dangling from his fingers like a grotesque pendulum. The rope smelled of hemp and something darker, earthier—the scent of old barns and damp cellars. He looped it around her neck with the same care one might use to tie a school tie, the coarse fibers brushing the tender skin behind her ears. Hermione didn’t flinch. When he tightened the knot at her nape, her breath hitched, just once, before she exhaled through her nose and squared her shoulders.

Behind her back, her wrists crossed neatly, the bones pressing together as Dumbledore secured them with a length of twine. The binding wasn’t cruel—just firm enough to hold, the knot tucked where her fingers couldn’t pick at it. Someone in the crowd coughed; the sound echoed like a gunshot in the hushed hall.

Ginny watched Hermione’s toes curl against the stool’s edge—pale and perfect, the nails unpainted. A far cry from Pansy’s lacquered elegance or Daphne’s deliberate provocations. This was just Hermione: unadorned, unwavering, and utterly herself even now. The stool creaked as she shifted her weight, and for a wild second, Ginny thought she might say something—a last spell, a quotation, some final scrap of book-smart wisdom. But Hermione only swallowed, the noose bobbing with the motion, and waited.

The stool toppled with a clatter that seemed absurdly loud in the hushed hall. Hermione dropped—just a few centimeters, barely enough to make the rope creak—but the sudden jerk of her body was immediate. Her toes pointed, then flexed, her calves tensing into rigid cords as the noose bit into the soft skin of her throat. For a heartbeat, she hung there, perfectly still, her face frozen in something like surprise. Then her legs kicked out wildly, her hips bucking in frantic, uncoordinated spasms as her lungs fought for air that wouldn’t come.

Her movements were chaotic at first—desperate, flailing things that sent her twisting sideways before the rope’s tension snapped her back into alignment. Her knees knocked together, her thighs rubbing slickly as her body convulsed against the inevitable. The noose tightened with every jerk, the hemp fibers digging deeper into her flesh until a thin trickle of blood welled up beneath the rope. Five minutes in, her kicks lost their vigor, her legs trembling now instead of thrashing, her toes curling inward like a child’s fingers grasping at nothing.

At minute seven, her entire body seized—back arching violently, shoulders straining against the bindings at her wrists—as a shudder ran through her from scalp to soles. Her thighs glistened suddenly, the unmistakable sheen of arousal streaking down her inner legs in thin, transparent rivulets. A collective murmur rippled through the hall; someone near the back row muttered something about "filthy Mudblood," but it was half-hearted, drowned out by the rasp of Hermione’s choked breaths and the creak of the rope above her.

Thirty seconds later, her body went limp. Her head lolled forward, her curls obscuring her face as her urine pattered onto the flagstones below, the sound almost musical against the silence. The puddle spread slowly, reflecting the floating candles in distorted, wavering lights.

Harry’s cock twitched against his thigh, stiffening fully as Hermione’s legs gave one final, feeble twitch. He didn’t mean to look—didn’t want to—but his gaze snagged on the way her nipples had hardened in the cool air, the way her ribs flared with each aborted breath. Ginny’s fingers brushed his wrist, her touch featherlight. "You seem to be getting quite aroused by Hermione’s wriggling," she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear. There was no judgment in it, just quiet observation.

Harry swallowed. "Yeah, I know." His throat felt raw. "I can’t help it. I’m sorry."

Ginny’s thumb traced the inside of his palm, her skin warm against his. "You don’t need to be sorry," she said. Her breath hitched—just slightly—as Hermione’s body swayed gently in the noose, her toes brushing the edge of her own piss puddle. "I feel the same way. My pussy is soaking wet."

Harry exhaled through his nose, his pulse hammering in his throat. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

Ginny’s fingers tightened around his. "Do you want to go next," she murmured, "or should I?"

Harry’s gaze flicked to the remaining stools, then back to Ginny’s face. Freckles. Always freckles. "I’m fine with either," he said. "You decide."

Ginny’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close. "Good," she said. "Then I’ll be next. And you can enjoy my hanging too."

"All right," Harry said.

They didn’t look away from Hermione. Not once. Her toes brushed the edge of her own piss puddle, the motion sending tiny ripples through the yellow liquid. The rope creaked softly above her, a sound like an old tree bending in the wind.

Ginny stepped forward.