Ginny stepped forward.

Ginny's stool wobbled as she stepped onto it—just once, a brief unsteadiness that made her freeze for half a second before she found her balance. The wood was smoother than she'd expected, worn down by generations of students. Absurdly, she wondered if this very stool had once held Flitwick during some long-ago Charms demonstration. The thought almost made her laugh, but the noose brushed the back of her neck like a spider's thread, and the impulse died.

Dumbledore's fingers were dry and cool as he adjusted the rope. It settled against her throat with deceptive gentleness, the coarse fibers catching on the fine hairs at her nape. When he cinched the knot, Ginny felt it press against her carotid artery—a steady, insistent pressure that made her pulse flutter visibly beneath her skin. Behind her back, her wrists crossed automatically, the bones aligning as Dumbledore bound them with twine that smelled faintly of hay. The knot binding wasn’t cruel—just firm enough to hold, the knot tucked where her fingers couldn’t pick at it.

She didn't wait for the kick. Ginny inhaled deeply—filling her lungs with the scent of candle wax and iron and the metallic tang of Daphne's blood still drying on the flagstones—then hooked her toes over the stool's edge and shoved. The wood toppled with a clatter that echoed off the vaulted ceiling, but Ginny barely heard it. The drop was short, brutally so, just enough to snap her head back as the noose jerked taut. Her vision whited out for a second, her trachea collapsing under the sudden pressure, and when her sight returned, the Great Hall swam in and out of focus like she was viewing it through warped glass.

Her legs kicked automatically, her bare feet scissoring through empty air in frantic, uncoordinated motions. The muscles in her thighs stood out in sharp relief, quivering with the strain as she twisted against the rope's inexorable hold. Every thrash tightened the noose further, the hemp fibers biting into her windpipe until her breaths came in wet, ragged gasps that did nothing to fill her burning lungs. Six minutes in, her movements lost their violence, her kicks slowing to weak, spasmodic jerks that made her hips roll obscenely with each aborted motion.

Harry couldn't look away. Ginny's body was a study in tension—her shoulders straining against the bindings, her ribs flaring with each futile attempt at breath, the tendons in her neck standing out like cables under skin gone mottled and red. At minute eight, her entire body seized, her spine arching violently as a shudder ran through her from scalp to toes. Her thighs trembled—then parted slightly—as a slick, glistening trail of arousal trickled down her inner legs to drip onto the stones below. The scent of it—musky and warm and unmistakably Ginny—hit Harry like a physical blow, his cock twitching against his thigh in response.

Her final minute was agony. Ginny's body jerked in sporadic, uncoordinated twitches, her heels drumming against nothing as her oxygen-starved brain fired its last, desperate signals. When the last spasm passed—leaving her limp and swaying gently in the noose—her bladder released in a sudden, golden stream that pattered onto the flagstones beneath her. The sound was obscenely intimate, like rain on a tin roof, and Harry's erection throbbed in time with each droplet's impact.

Hermione's death had been clinical, almost scholarly in its precision. Ginny's was raw, visceral—a performance stripped of pretense or restraint. Harry's breath came faster now, his pulse hammering in his throat as he watched her toes—still twitching faintly—brush the edges of her own piss puddle. The rope creaked softly above her, the sound incongruously gentle given the violence of her last moments. Somewhere to his left, Lavender Brown giggled nervously; Harry barely heard her. His entire world had narrowed to the way Ginny's wetness glistened on her thighs, the way her nipples had hardened in the cool air, the way her—

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, and Harry started, blinking as if emerging from a trance. The headmaster's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "Whenever you're ready."

Harry's stool wobbled as he stepped onto it—just once, a brief hesitation that made his stomach lurch before he found his balance. The noose settled against his throat with unexpected softness, the rope's rough texture contrasting with Dumbledore's gentle hands as the headmaster adjusted the knot. It rested just below his Adam's apple, pressing into the hollow where Ginny had kissed him last winter behind the greenhouses.

His wrists crossed automatically behind his back, the bones aligning as Dumbledore bound them with twine that smelled faintly of broom polish and lemon drops. The binding wasn't tight enough to hurt—just firm enough to hold, the knot tucked where his fingers couldn't pick at it. Someone in the crowd coughed; the sound echoed oddly in Harry's ears, distant and muffled as if heard through water.

Harry inhaled sharply—filling his lungs with the scent of Ginny's arousal still hanging in the air—then Dumbledore kick the stool under his feets away. The wood toppled with a clatter that seemed absurdly loud, but Harry barely heard it. The drop was short, brutally so, just enough to snap his head forward as the noose jerked taut. His vision exploded into stars, his windpipe collapsing under the sudden pressure, and when his sight returned, the Great Hall swam in and out of focus like a poorly developed photograph.

His legs kicked instinctively, his bare feet pedaling through empty air in frantic, uncoordinated motions. The muscles in his thighs burned with the strain as he twisted against the rope's inexorable hold, his erection bobbing obscenely with each jerky movement. Every thrash tightened the noose further, the rough fibers sawing into his trachea until his breaths came in wet, ragged gasps that did nothing to cool his burning lungs.

Eight minutes in, his movements lost their violence, his kicks slowing to weak, spasmodic jerks that made his hips roll obscenely with each aborted thrust. The rope had bitten deep into his flesh now. His pulse hammered visibly in his throat—a frantic, fluttering thing—each beat sending fresh pain radiating through his neck and shoulders.

At minute ten, Harry's entire body seized, his spine arching violently as a shudder ran through him from scalp to toes. His cock twitched—once, twice—before erupting in thick, pearlescent spurts that arced through the air and spattered across the flagstones below. The scent of his release—musky and warm and unmistakably male—mingled with the sharper odor of Ginny's fluids still drying on the stones.

His final moments were quiet. Harry's body jerked in sporadic, uncoordinated twitches, his heels drumming weakly against nothing as his oxygen-starved brain fired its last, desperate signals. When the last spasm passed—leaving him limp and swaying gently in the noose—his bladder released in a sudden, golden stream that pattered onto the stones beneath him. The sound was obscenely intimate, like rain on canvas, and somewhere in the fading haze of his consciousness, Harry thought he heard Ginny laughing—that bright, breathless laugh she'd reserved for their stolen moments in the broom cupboard.

The rope creaked softly above him, the sound incongruously gentle given the violence of his last moments. His toes—still twitching faintly—brushed the edges of his own piss puddle, the motion sending tiny ripples through the yellow liquid. His head lolled forward, his glasses slipping down his nose to dangle precariously from one ear, the lenses reflecting the floating candles in distorted, wavering lights.

The silence that followed Harry’s final twitch was thick, almost gelatinous—as if the air itself had congealed around the spectacle. Then, like a dam breaking, the applause began. Not polite, scattered clapping, but a roaring tide of approval that shook the floating candles in their brackets. The Hufflepuffs pounded their goblets on the tables, Ravenclaws stood to offer slow, mocking bows, and the Slytherins whistled through their teeth, their eyes bright with something between admiration and hunger. Only a handful of Gryffindors remained seated, their expressions unreadable.

Dumbledore stepped forward, his robes brushing against the pooled fluids beneath the hanging bodies. He surveyed the aftermath with the same detached curiosity one might reserve for an interesting potion reaction. "A most satisfactory culling," he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din. "The Goblet has, as always, chosen wisely." His gaze lingered on Harry’s swaying form—the slack jaw, the urine-dampened toes—before turning to address the hall at large. "Let this serve as a reminder of the precision of our traditions. These seven have honored Hogwarts with their compliance."

The applause died unevenly, pockets of students trailing off as others continued clapping with feverish enthusiasm. Near the Slytherin table, Blaise Zabini leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled under his chin as he studied the three hanging bodies with clinical interest. "Interesting how Potter lasted longest," he mused to no one in particular. "Guess the Chosen One had more fight in him after all."