The first thing you’d notice about Minerva McGonagall wasn’t her stern expression or the sharp way her robes fell in perfect, unyielding lines. It was her hands. Long fingers, pale as parchment, with knuckles that clicked faintly when she flexed them. She had a habit of tapping them against her thigh in precise, measured rhythms, like she was counting down to something none of us could see.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was always loud, but that morning, the noise felt thicker, like the air itself was pressing against my eardrums. Draco Malfoy was laughing too loudly at something Pansy Parkinson said, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife. Across the table, Luna Lovegood stirred her tea absently, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the enchanted ceiling, as if she already knew what was coming.

The platters of food vanished all at once, leaving the long wooden tables bare. That was when McGonagall stood. The room didn’t go silent so much as it *stilled*, the way a beast holds its breath before the kill. Her hands rested on the podium, those fingers splayed wide. She didn’t need to raise her voice.

“The Meat Lottery for tonight’s banquet,” she said, and the word landed like a stone in a pond. A ripple went through the students, shoulders tightening, eyes darting. Next to me, Ginny Weasley exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers digging into the table’s edge. McGonagall’s lips thinned. “As is tradition, seven names will be drawn. Those selected will report to the center of the hall immediately following the announcement.” She reached into the pocket of her robes, and the rustle of the parchment was obscenely loud.

The first name slipped from her tongue like a curse. “Daphne Greengrass.” A choked gasp from the Slytherin table, then silence. Daphne stood mechanically, her face blank as polished marble. Next was Luna Lovegood, who blinked once, then smiled faintly, as if she’d been expecting it. Hannah Abbott burst into tears before her name finished echoing, her sobs muffled by her hands.

Draco Malfoy’s name came fourth. His smirk faltered, then twisted into something ugly. “You can’t, ” he started, but McGonagall’s glare severed the protest midair. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing. Ginny was fifth. She didn’t move at first, just sat there, her freckles standing stark against suddenly pale skin. Then, with deliberate slowness, she pushed back her chair. The legs screeched against the floor.

When “Harry Potter” left McGonagall’s mouth, the hall erupted. Shouts, protests, Ron Weasley lunged to his feet, face purple. But Harry? He just closed his eyes, like he’d known. Like he’d always known. And then, then it was my turn. “Hermione Granger.” My own name sounded foreign, distant. The air left my lungs in a rush. Around me, students edged away, as if death might be contagious.

We gathered in the center, seven doomed souls. The stone floor was cold under my shoes, colder still when McGonagall’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Disrobe.” Simple. Final. Daphne moved first, her fingers trembling as she unbuttoned her blouse. The fabric slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet like shed skin. Luna hummed as she undid her cardigan, as if this were just another oddity. Hannah sobbed openly, fumbling with her skirt’s clasp until it fell, revealing pale thighs slick with terrified sweat.

Draco’s hands shook when he unbuckled his belt. His trousers hit the ground with a thud, and for the first time, he looked small. Ginny’s freckles stood out like constellations as she yanked her jumper over her head, her breasts heaving with panicked breaths. Harry stripped methodically, folding his clothes into a neat pile, like it mattered. Like any of it mattered now.

My fingers felt numb. My tie came loose first, then the buttons of my shirt. The fabric clung, resisting, as if it knew what awaited me. When I pushed my skirt down, the air kissed my bare skin, a cruel mockery of intimacy. Socks last. The floor was icy. Around me, the others stood naked, exposed in every way possible. Daphne’s nipples pebbled in the chill.

Draco's laughed. "Never thought I'd see the Golden Trio's underwear,".

McGonagall’s gaze swept over us, clinical. “Proceed.” The word slithered into my bones. The stools waited, nooses swaying gently overhead.

Daphne climbed first, her movements stiff as a marionette’s. The stool wobbled when she stepped onto it. McGonagall approached, the rough hemp of the noose rasping against Daphne’s throat as she tightened it. Daphne’s breath hitched. Then McGonagall seized her wrists, binding them behind her back with a length of coarse rope. The knots were efficient, practiced. Daphne’s fingers flexed once, twice, before going limp.

Luna went next. She tilted her head, studying the noose like it was a fascinating specimen. McGonagall looped it around her neck, and Luna sighed, as if this were simply another curiosity. Her hands were bound without ceremony. She wiggled her fingers, testing the give, then smiled beatifically at nothing at all.

Hannah collapsed before she reached the stool. McGonagall’s patience didn’t waver. She hauled Hannah upright by the elbow, fingers digging into flesh. The noose bit into Hannah’s throat when McGonagall jerked it taut. Hannah’s sobs turned to whimpers as her wrists were secured, the rope chafing raw skin.

Draco spat curses as he mounted his stool, but his bravado crumbled when McGonagall’s fingers brushed his nape. The noose settled against his Adam’s apple. He swallowed convulsively. McGonagall ignored it, trussing his hands with the same detached precision.

Ginny’s stool scraped against the stone when she stepped up. She didn’t look at any of us. McGonagall adjusted the noose, her fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long on Ginny’s pulse point. Then she cinched the rope around Ginny’s wrists, yanking until Ginny gasped. The sound was swallowed by the watching crowd.

Harry’s stool creaked under his weight. His eyes were closed when McGonagall slipped the noose over his head. She hesitated, just for a second, before tightening it. His hands were already behind his back when she bound them, his fingers curled into fists.

Then it was my turn. The stool was cold under my feet. McGonagall’s breath ghosted over my cheek as she fitted the noose, the rough fibers scraping my skin. Her hands were steady when she wrenched my arms back, the rope biting into my wrists. I could feel the eyes of the hall pressing against me, hungry.

McGonagall stepped back to Daphne. The silence was absolute.

Then her foot lashed out, sharp and precise. The stool clattered away. Daphne dropped. The rope snapped taut. A wet crack, not loud, but unmistakable, cut through the air. Daphne's body jerked, her toes splaying wide before curling inward like a bird's talons. Her legs pistoned wildly, bare heels drumming against nothing. The noose creaked with each frantic twist.

Her face darkened first. Not red, purple, then blue. Veins bulged at her temples. Her mouth gaped, tongue swelling between teeth. A high, wet whine escaped her throat. Her thighs slapped together, then flew apart in desperate, spasming kicks. Below, a puddle spread between her feet, not yet urine, just terror sweat pooling on stone.

At six minutes, her movements turned sluggish. Her toes twitched erratically, like a puppet with half-cut strings. At seven, her spine arched violently. A shudder ran through her, not pain, but something else. Her thighs trembled, then clamped tight. Clear fluid streaked down her inner legs, dripping to join the mess below. Her mouth stretched in a silent, grotesque parody of pleasure.

Then stillness. Only the faint sway of the rope. At eight minutes, her bladder released in a sudden rush. The sound of liquid hitting stone echoed obscenely in the silent hall. Her head lolled, chin resting on her collarbone. A final tremor rippled through her limbs, then nothing.

The applause started slow. A single pair of hands clapping, methodical, almost bored. Then more joined. By the time it swelled to a roar, it was deafening. Whistles cut through the noise. Someone shouted, "Next!"

McGonagall didn't react. She just turned to Luna, who was already humming under her breath, her toes curling against the stool's edge. Luna blinked up at it, then at McGonagall, her eyes wide and unblinking. "Do you think it'll tickle?" she asked, her voice dreamy. Then, with a sharp jerk, McGonagall kicked the stool away.

Luna dropped with a gasp, her legs bicycling wildly. Unlike Daphne, she didn't thrash violently. Her movements were almost graceful, her toes pointed like a dancer's. Her neck arched, the rope digging into her pale skin, but her face stayed strangely serene and she didn't scream. Just giggled, a wet, bubbling sound.

At four minutes, her kicks slowed. Her thighs trembled, then parted with a shudder. A thin trickle of fluid traced down her inner thighs, glistening in the torchlight. Her breath hitched, then stuttered. At five minutes, her back arched sharply, her toes curling inward. A choked moan escaped her, her body convulsing as warmth spilled down her legs. The crowd roared, someone wolf-whistling. Luna's eyelids fluttered, her lips parting in a silent sigh.

At six minutes, she went limp. Her head lolled forward, golden hair obscuring her face. A final twitch ran through her, then her bladder released in a sudden gush, splattering the stone below. The applause surged again, fists pounding tables. Luna swung gently, her bare feet swaying inches above the puddle she'd left behind. The noose creaked. The crowd cheered. The next stool waited.

Hannah Abbott was already crying when McGonagall approached her. Tears streaked her cheeks, her chest heaving with ragged sobs. Her stool wobbled dangerously. "Please," she whispered, but McGonagall's doesn´t answer.

When McGonagall kicked the stool away, Hannah's scream was cut short by the jerk of the rope. Her legs kicked wildly, her bare heels drumming against the air. Unlike Luna, there was no grace to her thrashing, just raw, panicked terror. Her face purpled quickly, spit foaming at the corners of her mouth. Her thighs slapped together violently, then flew apart in frantic, uncoordinated spasms. A wet stain spread down her inner thighs before the first minute had passed.

At three and a half minutes, her movements grew sluggish, her kicks weakening to feeble twitches. Her breaths came in wet, shuddering gasps, her chest rising and falling erratically. At four minutes, her spine arched sharply, her toes curling inward. A thin, keening moan escaped her as warmth gushed down her legs, dripping onto the stone below. The crowd erupted into cheers, someone shouting, "Look at her go!" Hannah's eyelids fluttered, her body shuddering through the last waves of forced pleasure.

By five minutes, it was over. Her body jerked once, violently, then sagged. A final stream of urine pattered onto the floor, mingling with the other fluids. Her head tipped forward, her chin resting against her chest. The applause was deafening. McGonagall didn't glance at her. She was already turning toward Draco.

Draco Malfoy stood straighter than the others had, his chin lifted in defiance. His pale skin gleamed under the floating candles, his muscles taut with tension. When McGonagall approached, he sneered, though his lips trembled slightly. "You won't get the satisfaction of seeing me beg," he spat. McGonagall said nothing.
The stool wobbled beneath him as he shifted, his bare toes gripping the edge for balance. His cock twitched against his thigh, half-hard despite his bravado. The crowd murmured, a few snickers rising from the Slytherin table. McGonagall foot lashed out. The stool clattered away. Draco dropped with a choked gasp, his legs flailing wildly. Unlike the girls, he fought with vicious, thrashing kicks, his heels striking the air like a spooked stallion. His face darkened quickly, his lips peeling back in a silent snarl. His cock stiffened fully as his body jerked against the rope, veins bulging along his neck.

At seven minutes, his movements grew sluggish, his kicks weakening to feeble twitches. His breaths came in wet, shuddering gasps. At eight and a half minutes, his spine arched violently. A choked groan tore from his throat as his cock pulsed, thick ropes of semen arcing through the air before splattering onto the stone below. The crowd roared, someone whistling sharply. Draco's body convulsed, his toes curling inward as pleasure and agony twisted his features.

At nine minutes, he went limp. His bladder released in a sudden gush, piss splattering beneath him. His head lolled forward, platinum hair obscuring his face. The applause erupted, louder than before, fists pounding tables in approval. McGonagall didn't react. She simply turned toward Ginny, whose stool waited, silent and inevitable.

Ginny didn't cry. Didn't beg. She stood straighter than I'd ever seen her, her freckled shoulders squared. Her bare chest rose and fell too fast, betraying the fear her face refused to show.

McGonagall stepped back. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then her foot lashed out. The stool toppled with a clatter. Ginny dropped. The rope snapped taut. A wet crack echoed, vertebrae protesting, not breaking. Ginny's legs pistoned wildly, her bare heels drumming against air. Unlike Draco, she didn't thrash with fury. Her movements were sharp, precise, like she was fighting an invisible opponent. Her face darkened fast, lips parting around choked, soundless gasps.

At six and a half minutes, her kicks faltered. Her thighs trembled, then slammed together violently. A shudder wracked her frame. At seven and a half, her spine arched like a drawn bow. A thin, keening moan tore from her throat as warmth gushed down her inner thighs, dripping onto the stone below. The crowd roared. Someone shouted, "That's a Weasley for you!" Ginny's body convulsed, her toes curling inward as pleasure and death twisted together in her final moments.

At eight and a half minutes, it was over. A final jerk, then stillness. Her bladder emptied in a sudden rush, urine pattering onto the growing puddle beneath her. The applause was deafening, students stomping their feet, whistles cutting through the din. Ginny swayed gently, her flame-red hair obscuring her face, her bare feet dangling inches above her own waste. McGonagall didn't glance at her. She was already moving toward Harry, whose stool waited, silent and patient as a grave.

Harry breathing was steady, his green eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the hall’s enchanted ceiling as McGonagall approached him. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, now just another name on the list. His cock hung limp between his thighs, but the crowd’s hungry stares made his skin prickle. The stool creaked beneath his bare feet.

McGonagalls kick was swift, clinical. The stool clattered away, and Harry dropped. The rope snapped taut with a sickening jerk. His legs pistoned wildly, muscles corded with panic, his toes splaying wide before curling inward. Unlike Ginny’s controlled thrashing or Draco’s furious kicks, Harry’s movements were erratic, desperate. The crowd roared as his face darkened, veins bulging at his temples. His mouth gaped, tongue swelling between clenched teeth.

At eight and a half minutes, his kicks weakened to feeble twitches. His breath came in wet, shuddering gasps, his chest rising and falling in uneven hitches. At nine minutes, his spine arched violently. A choked groan tore from his throat as his cock jerked, spurting thick ropes of semen into the air. The crowd erupted, cheers, whistles, someone howling, "Potter’s last gift!" His body convulsed, pleasure and agony twisting his features as the last of his seed splattered onto the stone below.

By ten minutes, it was over. A final, violent twitch, then stillness. His bladder released in a sudden gush, piss splattering beneath his swaying feet. The applause was deafening, students stomping, tables rattling under pounding fists. Harry hung limp, his glasses askew, his dark hair obscuring his half-lidded eyes. The Boy Who Lived, dead at last. The crowd’s roar swallowed the sound of McGonagall’s footsteps as she turned toward me.

The last stool waited.

My pulse hammered against the rope, a trapped bird frantic against my skin. The hall held its breath. Seven hundred pairs of eyes feasted on my nakedness, my terror, my inevitable end.

The foot of McGonagall lashed out. The stool clattered away.

The drop was short, brutal. The rope jerked taut, snapping my head back. Pain exploded through my neck, white-hot and blinding. My legs pistoned wildly, toes splayed like starfish, heels drumming against air. The noose creaked with each frantic twist, the sound drowning out my choked gasps. My vision tunneled, the edges bleeding black. Spit dribbled down my chin, swinging in glistening strands with each convulsion.

At five minutes, my kicks grew sluggish, my thighs trembling violently before slapping together. The crowd roared, a cacophony of cheers and stomping feet. My lungs burned, my throat a ruined column of fire. At six minutes, my spine arched without my consent, a final, vicious spasm wracking my body. Heat flooded my core, gushing down my inner thighs in slick rivulets. The applause crescendoed, someone shrieking, “Look at Granger go!” My body betrayed me one last time, convulsing around waves of forced pleasure as darkness swallowed my vision.

At seven minutes, it was over. A final twitch, then stillness. My bladder released in a sudden rush, warmth splattering the stones below. The roar of the crowd was the last thing I heard, deafening, ravenous, triumphant, before the silence took me.

The applause didn’t stop. Not even when my body swayed gently, my toes brushing the puddle I’d left behind.