gasped and sat up in bed. The top sheet and blanket fell
away, exposing her upper body. Her skin was flushed and
shining with sweat and her hair was tousled and damp. She
panted through flaring nostrils and her pert breasts heaved, her
erect nipples poking against the damp cotton of her
tank-top. Eyes wide, Hermione stared across the darkened
dorm room. The first rays of the dawn were shining through
the window and the nightlight lantern was still glowing,
providing enough light for her to see Ginny sitting up in her
own bed. She was also flushed, shining, and panting, and
her Holyhead Harpy pajama top was visibly sweat-stained.
"I... I believe there's something wrong with the stove,"
Hermione said quietly.
Ginny blinked and pulled her, long, straight, damp hair from her
face. "The stove? Oh, yes, the stove. That
must be it."
Neither Gryffindor was going to suggest that their damp,
flushed, and overheated conditions were more probably attributed
to a night of vivid (and erotic) dreams.
"Did you cast a Replenio spell on the fuel bin?" Ginny
"This time of year?" Hermione stretched, climbed from
between the rumpled, damp covers, and stretched again. "Of
course not." Free of the stifling bedclothes, she was now
chilled and her arms covered in goosebumps. She shivered
and managed a weak smile. "Shower?"
Ginny leaped from her bed and pulled on her green, Holyhead
Harpy robe. "Try and stop me."
& the Wrappity Wrope
Against the Dark Arts (7)
Hermione raised her hand and
was called on by Cassie. "Please, Professor, can you tell
us something about magical defense using wand-less magic?"
Today Cassie was wearing a gold and bronze dress under her
academic robe and was as beautiful and glamorous as ever.
She paused to flip a lock of her short, lustrous brown hair from
her smiling, gorgeous face before replying.
This solicited quiet sighs from several of her male students and
slightly annoyed frowns from a few of the females. It was
impossible to dislike Cassie Nightingale, but did she have to
look that beautiful all the time? How could a
witch of seventeen or eighteen possibly compete?
"The topic at hand is the use of physical objects as protective
talismans, Miss Granger," Cassie said. "I'm more than
willing to discuss wand-free conjuring at a future date, but not
"Yes, Professor," Hermione sighed.
Cassie's smile broadened. "Your curiosity is
understandable and commendable. With Headmistress'
permission, I will prepare a lecture on the topic for a future
faculty and student symposium."
"That would be wonderful, Professor," Hermione gushed, then
noticed Ginny's expression.
"Suck up," Ginny mouthed silently, covering the admonition with
her hand and a cough.
Hermione was deciding whether to be abashed or offended, then
received a surreptitious and encouraging wink from Cassie and
felt instantly better.
"Protective talismans fall into three categories: warning,
passive, and active," Cassie lectured. "Warning talismans
are of limited value. It is much better to rely on
vigilance, especially in dangerous settings, rather than hope to
be alerted of an unexpected magical attack milliseconds before
it happens." She strolled to the back of the class, every
step followed by the adoring and/or attentive eyes of her
students. "Passive and active talismans are much more
useful, or can be." She focused on a Hufflepuff student in
the middle of the class. "Mr. Strandhart, can you tell us
the difference between passive and active protective talismans?"
In the opinion of most of his female classmates Corbin
Strandhart was a somewhat beak-nosed, geeky lad, but it was
recognized that he would probably grow into the patrician good
looks of his older male relatives. "Passive talismans are
shields, Professor, while active talismans can be used to parry
or even attack."
"Excellent," Cassie beamed.
Corbin blushed and smiled at the gorgeous, exotic
American. This caused several of his female classmates to
exchange looks of disgust and roll their eyes.
"In a very real sense," Cassie continued, "each and every one of
you possess a powerful active talisman."
"Our wands," Ginny said quietly.
"Exactly, Miss Weasley," Cassie nodded.
The class concluded with a discussion of the magic armor worn by
Aurors in ages past, a practice which actually continued into
modern times. The leather boots, bracers, collars, and
long coats worn by many of the Ministry's Aurors were not
totally affectations. To varying degrees and with
questionable efficacy, standard Auror garb was imbued with
protective spells. As homework, Cassie assigned a scroll
on the topic of the pros and cons of passive and active
talismans in combat situations.
As Hermione, Ginny, and Luna were leaving the class, Ginny
smiled. "I've got it! I'll make Harry a talisman
"That will be pretty," Luna intoned.
"I'll make it manly," Ginny huffed, "not pretty."
Hermione seemed skeptical. "A bracelet?"
"Woven from wrope vines," Ginny explained, "and imbued with the
Incarcerous spell. He'd have to renew the spell now
and then, but don't you see? It would be like an Incarcerous
"Especially if he wears it on his wand hand," Luna agreed.
"I can help you focus the spell as you weave the actual
bracelet, if you like. I once did something similar to
decorate a parasol handle, only with lambswool thread and a
snapdragon vine. Unfortunately, the snapdragons proved to
Ginny gazed at Luna for a beat. As was often the case with
Luna Lovegood, Ginny wasn't sure how she should respond.
She decided to go with wounded pride. "I want to do this
myself," she huffed, then noticed Hermione's warning stare and
heaved a sigh. "But help would be nice. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Luna responded. "I hope there's pudding
Hermione and Ginny exchanged a smile. The evening meal was
some hours away.
"I have quidditch drills to supervise," Ginny explained as she
hurried away towards Gryffindor Tower to change. As the
Gryffindor team captain, it was Ginny's responsibility to teach
the fundamentals to the junior players.
"I'm going to start on my homework," Hermione said, and headed
for the library.
"I'm going for a walk down to the boathouse," Luna said, walking
at Hermione's side. The corridor that led to the lake side
of the castle wouldn't branch off for several yards. "I
like to clear my head before reading," Luna explained.
"The words seem to slide in easier if there's no clutter behind
& the Wrappity Wrope
The next night
passed with more vivid dreams in Gryffindor Tower.
Hermione's dream had a Charlotte Brontë theme, or perhaps Daphne
du Maurier. The Prince Regent (the future George IV) was
in Buckingham Palace, Louis XVIII was on the throne of France,
and Miss Hermione Granger was somewhere in Cornwall being chased
across the moors wearing a series of high-waisted, Empire-style
gowns that were ripped from her shuddering body on a
depressingly regular basis. This exposed the underlying
chemises, but then they too were ripped from her shivering,
And who was doing all this chasing and bodice-ripping?
Draco Malfoy, of course, resplendent in riding boots, skintight
pants, poofy shirt, an elegantly tied cravat, and a tailcoat
with a ridiculously high collar. He also wore gloves and
was carrying a riding crop, and there were the usual yapping,
howling dogs and a whinnying horse. Draco's handsome,
haughty, aristocratic face dripped scorn and his long,
pale-blond hair fluttering in the breeze as he laughed his evil,
maniacal laugh. Draco was having a very good time.
Hermione ran, Draco pursued, Draco caught her, and she was
stripped, bound, and gagged—with Hermione's sad little hands
beating against Draco's chest like a pair of frightened doves
and struggling for all she was worth. "Let me go!
You blackguard! Bounder! Scoundrel! Have you
no pity? Mrrrf!" Then, Hermione was either thrown
across Draco's saddle or dragged stumbling on her bare feet on
the end of a rope behind his horse, and was taken back to Malfoy
Manor. Alternatively, a carriage ride was involved, which
let Draco get in a little pregame caressing and kissing.
Once they arrived at the mansion, Draco would Have His Way
with her. Not to put too fine a turn on things, he diddled
Hermione silly... repeatedly. Then, somehow (and it was
never really clear exactly how) Hermione discovered and donned
another chemise and gown, escaped the mansion, and found herself
running back across the moors.
Hermione ran, Draco pursued, Draco caught her, Hermione was
stripped, bound and gagged—lather, rinse, repeat. It was
dreadful! Absolutely dreadful! And the sex was not
at all satisfying.
And then, things changed.
Just as Draco was about to catch Hermione for the umpteenth
time, dashing Lord Ronald Weasley appeared! As a Captain
in the Royal Dragoons, he was resplendent in his crimson tunic
(with gold trim), white sash, and gold and black helmet with a
long, fluttering horsetail crest. With him was his good
friend Sir Harry Potter, Agent Extraordinaire of the Home
Office. Sir Harry was dressed much like Draco.
Lord Ronald was armed with saber and carbine and Sir Harry with
a brace of pistols, but the weapons remained in their sheath,
saddle-holster, and tucked in Harry's cummerbund,
respectively. The Captain and Agent thundered up and
leaped from their steeds, just as Draco was getting serious
about ripping Hermione's bodice, again, and gave the degenerate
cad the thrashing he so richly deserved. They then
escorted Hermione to the nearby Jamaica Inn. Somehow (and
once again it was never clear exactly how) Hermione's gown and
chemise would get ripped, gently this time, and she'd find
herself making love to Lord Ronald. And sex with Lord
Ronald was satisfying. Lather, rinse, repeat.
& the Wrappity Wrope
As for Ginny,
her dreams were also melodramatic and romantic, but with
a different theme.
Ginny awoke on a tropical beach, waves lapping against her legs,
the sun glaring in her eyes, and wearing nothing but a wet,
sandy, and ripped chemise and a corset. Her long red hair
and lightly freckled skin were also wet and sandy and she was
being eyed by a rather ominous looking crab. The creature
scuttled away when she showed signs of life. "You better
run, Crabcakes," she huffed. "I missed breakfast."
She stood, stretched, and turned to face the sea. Across a
turquoise lagoon breakers thundered against a jagged reef, and
impaled on that reef was the wreck of a sailing ship. It
was hulled in several places and its tattered sails flapped like
so many ragged banners. As she watched, the wreck broke
apart and slid into the sea.
It all came back—the storm, the crashing masts and rising water
in the lower decks, the looks of grim desperation on the faces
of the captain and crew, and finally, the order to abandon
ship. But launching a ship's boats in the middle of a
tempest is always an iffy proposition, and Ginny remembered
being swept into the roiling ocean by a rogue wave as she tried
to climb into a longboat. And then... nothing until she
awoke on the beach.
Ginny had been very lucky—or not.
She turned to face the interior of the island, and watched as a
dozen dark-skinned maidens stepped from the jungle. All
were about Ginny's age, wore nothing but grass skirts and
necklaces of sea shells, were armed with wicked looking spears,
and had long, straight, black hair. Oh by the way, they
all looked exactly like the Patil twins, every one! Padma
and Parvati Patil were fellow Gryffindors and generally didn't
run around Hogwarts more or less naked and brandishing
spears. But then, Ginny didn't make a habit of running the
halls in a ripped chemise, either.
"Hello," Ginny said with a friendly wave. "Nice day for
it, don't you think?"
The Patil tribe's response was more spear waving and a melodious
but angry yodel. Ginny turned and ran away down the
beach. The howling Patils pursued.
Spears were chucked in Ginny's direction as she ran. All
were near misses, thank goodness, but they made the Patil
natives' attitude quite clear. Up ahead a more-or-less
impenetrable jumble of jagged volcanic boulders loomed, but a
convenient trail off to one side led into the jungle.
Ginny made the turn onto the trail, dodging more spears as she
went, and disappeared into the green foliage.
Jungle birds cawed, monkeys hooted, and twisted roots and low
hanging branches did their best to trip her up. The Patils
were still in pursuit.
Suddenly—"Oh, bother!"—Ginny tripped on a vine stretched across
the trail at ankle height, fell forward into a hidden net woven
from more vines, it closed around her flailing body, and—Sproing—she
was hoisted into the air! The net full of Ginny bobbed for
several seconds... then came to rest.
Ginny managed to part her red hair, comb it from her face with
her fingers, and found herself surrounded by the glowering
Patils, who weren't above prodding her with the tips of their
spears. Ginny forced a smile. "Uh, hi. What's
for lunch? It isn't me, is it?"
Without a word, the Patils freed Ginny from the trap, lashed her
wrists and ankles together, slung her from a pair of spear
shafts, and trudged into the jungle.
Dangling and swaying, Ginny watched the jungle pass. Green
canopy overhead, twisted tree trunks and the occasional
flowering vine to either side, the scenery was lush, exotic, and
beautiful, but quickly became monotonous.
Suddenly, they left the forest, entered a large clearing, and
approached a village of thatched huts surrounded by a palisade
of sharpened logs. Ginny was carried through the gate,
lowered from the spears, her ankles freed, and her wrists retied
behind her back. The village was populated by more Patils,
all female, and all Padma and Parvati clones. None of them
seemed happy to see Ginny Weasley.
Directly ahead was the largest and most "magnificent" hut in the
village. A pair of curtains across the doorway parted and
another female figure emerged. She was not a
Patil, and was dressed in thigh-boots of black leather, a
loincloth of pastel-pink silk embroidered with golden thread, a
leather vest, and crossed bandoliers festooned with knives, a
brace of flintlock pistols, and tiny powder horns, each holding
a single charge of gunpowder. A sheathed scimitar was
slung across her back and her long, straight, blue-black hair
was pulled back in a ponytail, except for her bangs and a pair
of long, narrow braids that framed her smiling face, and she
"Cho?" Ginny muttered, blinking in surprise. It was Cho
Chang, Ginny's Ravenclaw classmate!
"I'm a badass pirate," Cho said (unnecessarily, given her
costume), then gestured towards Ginny. "Gag the wench!"
"Must you?" Ginny sighed. "Mrrrpfh!" A pair of
Patils had stepped forward, stuffed a rag in her mouth, used a
second cloth to tie a tight cleave-gag through her mouth and
under her tousled red hair, then stepped back.
"Bring her to... The King!" Cho ordered, and Ginny was hustled
through the door and into the "palace."
Ginny's squinted as her eyes adjusted to the relative
darkness. She was hustled forward, thrown to the
ground—onto a large Persian carpet, actually—and found herself
facing a golden throne. Lounging on that throne
Harry was, in a word, piratical. Thigh boots with folded
tops, tight trousers, a poofy shirt of red silk, open to the
waist, a sash/cummerbund of black silk, sword, daggers, pistols,
etc., etc.—piratical. A tricorn hat with a long plume sat
atop one of the throne's back posts at a jaunty angle.
Harry had a tropical fruit of some sort impaled on a dagger and
was munching on its peach-pink, moist flesh. Juice dripped
from the corner of his mouth as he gazed at Ginny with an amused
smirk. He needed a shave... which was kinda sexy.
"Look what washed in on the tide," Cho sneered, standing to one
side with her hands on her hips.
"The Honorable Ginevra Weasley," Harry purred, "daughter of
Third Sea Lord Arthur Weasley. It would appear her
marriage to Viceroy Thomas has been called off."
"Or delayed until daddy pays a ransom," Cho chuckled.
"She's got to be worth at least a little gold."
The Dread Pirate Harry's eyes were still on Ginny. "Cho?"
he said quietly.
"Yes, Your Worship?" Cho purred.
"Go pillage something."
Cho rolled her eyes, then turned and stomped from the hut.
Ginny's heart was hammering in her chest and her bosom
heaving. She whimpered through her gag and batted her
Harry tossed the half-eaten fruit from his dagger, rose from the
throne, and sauntered towards his captive. "You're more
precious than gold," he said as he dragged Ginny to her bare
feet and pulled her into a close embrace. He ripped the
already ripped chemise from Ginny's shivering body, used the
dagger to slice through the laces of her corset, deftly sheathed
the dagger, then ripped the corset away, as well.
Snogging ensued, a lot of snogging, as well as other
amorous activities. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Lunch was roast grouper with a brown butter glaze and lemon and
papaya compote, paired with a nice Pinot gris.
& the Wrappity Wrope
arrived and Hermione and Ginny awoke. As had been the case
the morning before, they were flushed and sweaty; however, they
felt oddly refreshed. One would think two nights in a row
of erotic dreams would have been taxing, but no, they were ready
to face the day—after a quick shower, of course.
They rolled out of their respective beds, donned their robes and
slippers, and started for the washroom, but Hermione called
"Hey, look!" Hermione said with a broad smile. "They've
It was true. Three green tendrils, each with a pair of
tiny dark-green leaves, had emerged from the soil in Ginny's
Ginny hurried over and grinned. "All three seeds!"
"I guess they aren't difficult to germinate," Hermione said.
"Either that or I have a gift for Herbology," Ginny chuckled.
"Based on your O.W.L. score," Hermione drawled, "it's a hidden
gift." Oh, look!"
Ginny had been about to stick out her tongue at her teasing
friend, but her eyes widened.
The three spouts were about six inches in length, and as the
girls watched, they shuddered, leaned together, and intertwined,
forming a single tight strand.
"Like cord," Ginny sighed, "or baby rope."
"It's moving something like a tentaculas plant," Hermione
observed, then her smile faded. "Wait, did you sterilize
the pot and soil before leaving the greenhouse?"
"No, why should I?" Ginny responded.
"There's a theory that the tentaculus family of plants can move
because of a symbiotic fungus," Hermione explained. "It's
possible our wrope seedlings are infected with that fungus."
"They're not moving much," Ginny said defensively. "Look,
Hermione shrugged. It was true. Now that they were
tightly intertwined, the sprouting vines had stopped moving.
"Shower," Ginny announced, and headed for the washroom.
Hermione gazed at the twisted sprouts for a few more seconds,
When the girls returned to their dorm that night to get ready
for bed, the sprouts had grown to something like two feet in
length, had wrapped themselves once around the oak staff, and
were trying for twice.
& the Wrappity Wrope