Draco Malfoy was trying to eat his toast without looking at anyone. The Great Hall was louder than usual this morning, a buzzing undercurrent of nervous laughter and too-quick conversations. He kept his eyes fixed on the plate, fingers tight around the knife as he scraped butter across burnt edges. The knife trembled. He pretended not to notice.

At the High Table, Dumbledore stood up. The hall didn’t go quiet immediately—someone at the Ravenclaw table dropped a goblet, and the clatter echoed before silence finally settled. Draco didn’t lift his head. He already knew what was coming. They all did. June sixth. Execution day.

Daphne Greengrass was sitting two seats down from him. She had her hair braided neatly, coiled at the nape of her neck like she’d taken extra time this morning. No loose strands. No imperfections. Next to her, Pansy was gripping her fork so hard her knuckles had gone bone-white.

"Another year," Dumbledore said, voice light, as if commenting on the weather. "Another culling."

A choked sound came from the Hufflepuff table—a first-year, probably. Draco still didn’t look. He counted the scratches on the table in front of him instead. Three deep grooves near the edge, probably from someone’s nails last year. Or the year before. It got harder to remember.

"The following students will report to the center of the Hall," Dumbledore continued, unfolding a parchment with deliberate slowness. "Daphne Greengrass. Draco Malfoy."

Draco Malfoy avoids eye contact in the unusually tense Great Hall as Dumbledore prepares to announce the annual culling victims. The hall falls silent despite initial nervous chatter, and Draco focuses on mundane details—Daphne’s perfect braid, the scratches on the table—to avoid acknowledging the inevitable. Dumbledore’s casual tone contrasts with the gravity of the situation as he names Daphne and Draco among those to be executed.

Someone let out a sharp exhale. Draco finally glanced up—Pansy was staring at him, mouth slightly open. He shrugged. What was there to say?

Dumbledore kept reading. "Susan Bones. Mark Smith."

A gasp from Hufflepuff this time, followed by a clatter as Susan’s knife hit her plate. She didn’t move. Mark, beside her, had gone very still, like he was trying not to breathe.

"Luna Lovegood. Terry Boot."

Luna didn’t react. She just kept stirring her tea, humming something under her breath. Terry’s hands flattened against the table, palms pressing down like he was trying to steady himself.

"And finally," Dumbledore said, almost gently, "Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter."

Silence. Then a scrape of benches as Ginny stood up abruptly. Harry reached for her wrist—too late. She was already stepping over the bench, face blank. Harry followed, slower. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Draco exhaled. His toast was untouched now, butter half-melted and glistening. He pushed the plate away. Time to get up. Time to move.

Daphne was already standing. She smoothed her skirt once, adjusted her tie, then walked toward the center of the Hall without hesitation. Draco forced himself to follow.

The other chosen ones were gathering too—Susan walking stiffly, Mark trailing behind her like he wasn’t sure where to put his feet. Luna drifted over as if sleepwalking. Terry kept swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing. Ginny stood straight-backed, chin up. Harry’s shoulders were tense, but he didn’t speak.

No one spoke.

The rest of the students were watching. Some looked sick. Some looked excited. Most just looked resigned.

Draco reached the center. He stopped beside Daphne. Her hands were clasped in front of her, perfectly still.

"Now," Dumbledore said, "you will disrobe."

That was always the first part.

Daphne’s fingers moved first, unhooking the clasp at her collar with practiced precision. The sound of fabric rustling filled the cavernous Hall as robes began to slide from shoulders. Draco didn’t look at her—didn’t look at any of them—but he could hear the steady rhythm of her breathing, the faint click of her necklace hitting the stone floor. His own hands felt numb as he fumbled with his tie. The silk slithered loose, pooling at his feet like a dead thing.

Across from them, Ginny was pulling her sweater over her head in one sharp motion, mussing her hair. Harry’s hands paused at his belt buckle, knuckles white, before he forced himself to unfasten it. Susan Bones had started crying silently, tears streaking down her face as she unbuttoned her blouse with trembling fingers. Mark kept his eyes shut tight while he stripped, as if that could make it less real. Luna, already barefoot, was humming louder now, fingers tracing the hem of her skirt before letting it drop. Terry Boot was the last to start, but the first to finish, standing rigid with his arms at his sides like a soldier awaiting orders.

Draco’s robes puddled around his ankles. The air was cool against his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. He focused on the sensation, grounding himself in the physical—the uneven stone beneath his toes, the faint draft from the enchanted ceiling. Anything but the weight of hundreds of eyes on his exposed body. Daphne, now nude beside him, didn’t shiver. She might as well have been carved from marble.

"Good," Dumbledore murmured. His gaze swept over them without pity, without hunger. Just assessment. "The rest of you—to the grounds."

Benches scraped as students rose, the noise too loud in the stillness. Some lingered, staring at the chosen seven with wide eyes. Pansy was frozen at the Slytherin table until Theo nudged her elbow, urging her up. She mouthed something at Draco—he didn’t catch it. Didn’t try to. The Weasley twins were conspicuously absent. Probably locked in their dorm, charmed silencing spells cranked to maximum. Smart.

One by one, the crowd filtered out. McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a thin line as she ushered the stragglers along. Snape lingered near the doors, black robes swirling as he turned to watch the procession. His expression was unreadable.

Soon, only the seven remained. And the silence.

Terry cleared his throat. "Do we—" He stopped, swallowed. "Do we walk out like this?"

No one answered. Ginny strode forward first, bare feet slapping against stone, head high. Harry followed, then Luna, drifting after them like a ghost. Susan hesitated until Mark took her elbow, guiding her forward. Terry fell into step behind them. Daphne glanced at Draco—just once—before moving. He forced his legs to work, to follow.

The corridors were empty. Their footsteps echoed. Draco kept his eyes on the back of Daphne’s neck, on the fine hairs at her nape, the elegant curve of her spine. The castle had never felt so vast, so hollow. The portraits avoided looking at them as they passed, frames conspicuously empty or figures turned away. Even the staircases seemed to still, granting them unobstructed passage.

When they reached the towering oak doors leading to the grounds, Ginny didn’t pause. She shoved them open with both hands, letting in a gust of wind that made Draco’s skin prickle. Sunlight hit them like a spotlight.

Outside, the crowd had already formed a semicircle around the execution site. The students stood shoulder to shoulder, expressions ranging from morbid fascination to outright horror. At the center, the instruments waited—gleaming glass tanks for drowning, wooden pillars with coiled wire, the chopping block dark with old stains, the gallows casting long shadows across the grass.

Snape stood beside the first tank, sleeves rolled to his elbows, waiting.

Dumbledore raised his hands. "Let us begin."

Draco's bare feet scraped against the grass as he approached the first glass tank. The structure loomed taller than he'd imagined—thick panes reinforced with silver runes that pulsed faintly under the morning light. He hesitated, just for a second, before climbing the short ladder bolted to the side. The metal rungs were cold under his palms. At the top, he paused, staring down into the empty basin. His reflection stared back, fractured by the imperfections in the glass.

"Draco," Snape said, not unkindly. A command.

Draco stepped in. The tank was just wide enough to stretch his arms, if he wanted to. He didn't. He stood very still as thick leather straps snaked around his ankles, securing him to the iron grate below. The bindings tightened with a click that echoed through the silent grounds. He could feel Daphne watching him from where she stood beside the second tank, her breathing steady. She didn't look afraid. He tried to borrow some of that stillness, letting it settle between his ribs.

The water came fast—a gush from hidden pipes near the base of the tank, swirling around his toes, then his knees. Cold. Draco gasped as it hit his thighs, the shock of it making his muscles lock. The crowd murmured. He could see them now through the glass, distorted faces pressed forward. Pansy was gripping Millicent's arm so hard her fingers were bloodless. The water climbed higher. His stomach clenched when it reached his waist, then his chest. His body tried to arch away from the rising tide instinctively, but the ankle restraints held firm.

When the water touched his chin, Draco tipped his head back, gulping one last breath before the surface closed over him. The world muted instantly. His hair floated around his face like pale seaweed. Bubbles escaped his nose as he exhaled, drifting upward in a slow spiral. He kept his eyes open. The sunlight filtering through the water made everything waver—Snape's silhouette, the crowd's eager faces, the distant shape of the castle towers.

His lungs burned first. A deep, insistent ache that spread outward until his whole torso felt like it was splitting open. He jerked against the straps, legs kicking uselessly. The water muffled his thrashing, turned it into something graceful, almost dance-like. His fingers scrabbled at the smooth glass, leaving no marks. A thin stream of bubbles escaped his lips as his body betrayed him, trying to inhale where there was no air. The pain crested, then dulled. His movements slowed. Above the tank, someone was counting seconds under their breath.

Draco's vision darkened at the edges. The last thing he saw was Daphne, already climbing into her own tank, her head held high. Then nothing.

The pipes shut off with a hollow clank. The crowd exhaled as one when Snape nodded to Dumbledore. Four minutes, on the dot. Efficient.

Daphne's fingers traced the ladder rungs with deliberate precision, as if she were ascending to some grand ballroom rather than her own execution chamber. The glass tank shimmered under the morning sun. She didn't glance at the glass tank with the dead Draco. Didn't hesitate when her bare foot touched the grated floor.

The ankle restraints slithered up her calves like living things, cold against her skin. Daphne inhaled through her nose—once, sharp—as the leather cinched tight enough to bruise. She could feel the imprint of every stitch. Around her, the crowd leaned forward, whispering. A Hufflepuff girl was crying openly. Pansy stood rigid, lips moving silently, perhaps counting Daphne's breaths the way one might count the last strokes of a dying clock.

Water surged into the tank with a hiss. Daphne arched her spine instinctively when the first wave hit her shins, icy enough to steal her breath. The liquid climbed faster than she'd anticipated—already at her knees when she'd barely registered the chill. Her thighs tensed. The waterline reached her navel, then her ribs, each centimeter marked by the tightening of her abdomen, the way her nipples hardened against the cold. She didn't tremble. Even when the water lapped at her collarbones, her chin remained level, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the watching faces.

The final wave closed over her head.

Silence.

For three heartbeats, Daphne floated perfectly still, her hair fanning out like spun silver in the churning water. Then her body remembered it was drowning. Her back bowed violently, heels driving against the grate as her lungs screamed. Strands of hair caught in her open mouth—she spat them out in a burst of bubbles, her hands splaying against the glass.

Minute four: her movements turned jagged, less controlled. Her nails scraped the glass in frantic arcs, leaving no mark. A Ravenclaw boy mimed the motions back at her, laughing when his friends elbowed him.

Minute six: her thrashing slowed, turned almost languid. Her legs drifted like seaweed in a tidepool. Blood vessels burst in her eyes, tinting the whites pink.

Minute seven: one final convulsion—her spine snapped straight, toes pointed like a dancer's—before she went limp. A last silver trail of bubbles escaped her parted lips, rising in a slow spiral toward the surface.

The pipes cut off. The water stilled.

For a suspended moment, no one moved. Then the applause began—first scattered claps, then a roaring wave of it. Someone wolf-whistled. Pansy's hands hung frozen at her sides while the Slytherins around her cheered.

"Magnificent resistance," Dumbledore remarked to McGonagall, as if critiquing a particularly challenging chess match. "Nearly double the expected duration."

Snape was already motioning for the next two victims to approach. Behind him, the garroting pillars stood ready, their wires glinting. Susan Bones made a small, animal sound when Mark Smith took her elbow, guiding her forward.

Mark Smith's bare feet left damp prints on the grass as he approached the first wooden pillar. The grain was worn smooth from years of use, darkened in places where sweat or blood had soaked in. He didn't resist when Snape guided him backward, pressing his spine flush against the wood. The wire felt colder than he expected when it settled around his throat—thin enough that he couldn't see it, but he could feel its presence like a thread of ice against his pulse point. Behind him, his wrists were bound with rough hemp that scratched at his skin.

Susan was being secured to the adjacent pillar, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Mark tried to catch her eye—some silent reassurance—but she was staring straight ahead at nothing, her pupils blown wide. A bead of sweat rolled down between her breasts.

Mark's scream tore through the grounds—not from pain, but from the sheer, primal panic of understanding. The wire bit into his throat without warning, tightening in slow, mechanical increments. His legs spasmed first, heels digging into the soft earth as his body arched away from the pillar. The crowd gasped when his cock stiffened abruptly, standing at attention against his abdomen as if mocking his terror.

Air hissed through his constricted windpipe in pathetic, wet bursts. His vision pulsed—dark at the edges, then blinding white—as his bladder twitched in protest. The orgasm hit him like a seizure, back bowing violently as ropes of semen arced onto his stomach. His toes curled. Someone in the audience laughed—a high, nervous giggle that dissolved into coughing when McGonagall shot them a look.

Minute three: Mark's kicks lost their rhythm, his thighs trembling with exhaustion. His cock wilted, dribbling the last of his release onto his thighs. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. His bladder let go abruptly, piss splattering down his legs to pool at the base of the pillar. The wire had sunk so deep into his neck that his head lolled forward at an unnatural angle, chin nearly touching his sternum.

"Five minutes," Snape announced to no one in particular, inspecting his pocket watch.

Susan's breath hitched when the wire brushed her throat—lighter than a lover's fingertip, yet colder than the Black Lake in December. The crowd's murmurs faded to white noise as the metal kissed her pulse. Her wrists strained against the ropes, raw from earlier struggles. Mark's corpse sagged beside her, head tilted at that awful angle, piss still dripping off his toes.

The wire tightened in increments, each twist stealing another fraction of air. Susan's heels skidded against the grass, carving furrows in the earth as her body fought to arch away. Her nipples pebbled instantly, tightening into hard peaks as adrenaline and hypoxia flooded her system. Someone in the front row whispered, "Look at her tits," and laughter fluttered through the audience like diseased butterflies.

Minute two: Susan's kicks grew frantic, thighs quivering with the effort. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, her tongue swelling against the unrelenting pressure. Her bladder gave way suddenly, a hot rush down her legs that drew cheers from the Slytherin section. The piss splattered over her feet.

Minute five: Her vision tunneled. Colors bled together—the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, Snape's black robes—all smearing into gray static. Her breasts heaved with aborted breaths, nipples still stiff despite her failing strength. The wire pressed against her neck harder.

Minute seven: Susan's body convulsed violently, her back bowing until the pillar groaned. A guttural sound tore from her ruined throat as her hips jerked forward—once, twice—before vaginal fluids gushed down her thighs in a transparent rush. The crowd roared. Pansy Parkinson clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Minute eight: Susan's legs spasmed a final time, toes curling inward like clenched fists. Then stillness. Her head lolled forward. Her eyes stayed open, pupils blown so wide the irises were mere hazel halos.

"Eight minutes," Snape announced, went to the blocks and call for Luna Lovegood and Terry Boot summoned forward.

Luna Lovegood's bare feet whispered against the grass as she drifted toward the chopping block, her gait so light she might have been floating. Beside her, Terry Boot moved like a man already dead—shoulders hunched, steps dragging through the dew-damp grass. The axe's blade caught the sunlight as they approached, throwing jagged reflections across Luna's pale thighs. She tilted her head, watching the play of light with detached curiosity, as if studying an interesting species of magical insect.

Terry knelt first, his knees cracking against the hard grass. Luna followed more gracefully, lowering herself with the fluid motion of someone settling into a warm bath. The block's surface was cool against her cheek, the grain rough where decades of blood had soaked in and been scrubbed away. She stretched her neck forward obligingly, her hair pooling around the stained wood like spilled cream.

Then—unexpectedly—her hand slid between her legs.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as Luna's fingers began moving in slow, deliberate circles. Her eyelids fluttered. Someone in the back row choked on their own spit. Luna's breath hitched—not from fear, but from the building pleasure humming beneath her skin. Her hips rolled minutely against nothing, the motion almost imperceptible.

Terry's execution came swift and clinical. The axe's descent was a silver blur—then the wet thunk of steel meeting wood. His head bounced once before settling face-up, eyes wide, mouth slack. Blood jetted from his neck in rhythmic pulses, splattering the grass in dark arcs. His body remained kneeling for three impossible seconds before toppling sideways, one arm outstretched as if reaching for his own severed head.

Luna didn't glance at the corpse beside her. Her fingers never slowed. If anything, her movements grew more urgent as Snape stepped over Terry's headless body, adjusting his grip on the axe handle. The blade glistened red when he raised it.

The swing was perfect—clean angle, full force. Luna's head separated from the rest of her body with a sound like a melon splitting. It landed with its cheek pressed to the grass, her expression eerily serene. But her body—oh, her body was magnificent.

It surged upward as if pulled by invisible strings, back arching violently while arterial blood fountained from the stump of her neck, painting the air in glittering crimson. Her fingers never left her clit—if anything, they worked faster, riding the last waves of sensation as her nervous system fired its final signals. The blood showered down like rain, pattering against her twitching thighs, her shuddering belly.

For seven glorious seconds, Luna's corpse danced. Then, as abruptly as it had risen, the body collapsed sideways. Her fingers stayed buried between her legs. The blood flow dwindled to a trickle, then stopped altogether.

The silence held for a breath. Then—applause. Tentative at first, then swelling into raucous cheers. A Ravenclaw girl vomited.

Ginny's toes curled against the wooden platform as she climbed the gallows steps, each footfall resonating hollowly through the structure. The rope hung limp above her, its fibers frayed from years of use but still strong enough to hold. She didn't look at Harry, though she could feel him mounting the steps beside her—his breathing ragged, uneven. The noose smelled of hemp and something darker, like old sweat pressed into the fibers.

Snape adjusted the rope around her neck with impersonal efficiency, his fingers brushing the hinge of her jaw as he tested the knot. Ginny swallowed reflexively, the rough texture catching against her throat. Behind her, her wrists were bound with coarse twine that bit into her skin. The crowd's murmurs crescendoed—someone wolf-whistled—as Snape moved to Harry, looping the second noose with the same detached precision and bound his wrists. Ginny's pulse hammered against the rope's embrace.

The lever groaned when Snape pulled it.

Ginny dropped.

The fall was shorter than she'd imagined, but the jolt as the rope snapped taut stole her breath instantly. Her neck didn't break. The crowd gasped in collective disappointment before erupting into cheers. Ginny's legs pistoned wildly, bare feet kicking at empty air as her body spasmed against the noose's grip. Above her, the gallows beam creaked under her convulsions.

Minute three: her kicks grew arrhythmic, her thighs trembling with exertion. Spit dribbled down her chin. Her nipples pebbled tight against the chill morning air, drawing another wave of laughter from the watching students.

Minute five: her vision tunneled. Colors bled together—Ron's horrified face in the front row, Hermione's hands clamped over her mouth—all dissolving into gray static. Ginny's bladder twitched, but held.

Minute eight: her back arched violently as the orgasm ripped through her — vaginal fluids flowed down her thighs in a transparent rush. The Slytherins roared approval.

Minute ten: her bladder released in a hot rush, piss splattering to the ground. Her legs jerked once more—a spastic, uncoordinated twitch—before falling still.

Harry watched Ginny's corpse sway through tear-blurred eyes, his own cock achingly hard beneath the rope's shadow. Snape didn't pause before yanking the second lever.

Harry's vision blurred at the edges as the lever clicked. The trapdoor vanished beneath him—one moment solid wood beneath his soles, the next empty air. His body jerked violently when the rope snapped taut, the hemp biting into his windpipe with brutal efficiency. His cock, already stiff from watching Ginny's final throes, bobbed obscenely with each convulsion. The crowd's roar swelled as his legs cycled through the air, heels drumming against nothing. Someone screamed, "Look at Potter's dick!" and laughter rippled through the stands like fire through dry grass.

Minute seven: his vision swam with black spots. Colors bled together—Ron's horrified face in the front row, Hermione's hands clamped over her mouth—all dissolving into gray static. His thighs burned. Precum beaded at his tip, glistening in the sunlight.

Minute nine: the orgasm hit like a bludger to the gut—his hips bucked wildly as ropes of semen arced onto his stomach, some splattering as far as his collarbone. The crowd screamed approval.

Minute twelve: his cock went limp. Piss streamed down his legs in a final, humiliating release. His toes uncurled. Silence.

Then—applause. Deafening, relentless. Dumbledore beamed as if he'd just witnessed a particularly riveting Quidditch match.

"Twelve minutes!" he announced, as if Harry had won something.