What if Ginny is the only girl at Hogwarts?

The days that followed the first clandestine bath were a masterclass in deception for the Gryffindor boys. Around Ginny, their behavior was a perfectly rehearsed performance of normalcy. In the Great Hall, they joked with her about Quidditch and complained about Professor Snape. In the common room, they played chess and helped her with her Charms homework. They were the picture of friendly, brotherly camaraderie. Ginny, blissfully unaware of the hundred pairs of eyes that had seen her at her most vulnerable and depraved, smiled and laughed with them, her trust in them absolute.

The private sex sessions between her and the five boys, however, had been irrevocably transformed. For the boys, it was no longer just about the physical act. Now, as they took their turns with her—pressing her against the wall of the broom closet, bending her over a desk in the Room of Requirement, or having her on her knees in a deserted corridor—a new, vivid layer was added to their pleasure.

As Harry thrust into her from behind, his grip tight on her hips, he wasn’t just thinking about her tight warmth. He was replaying the image of her submerged in the tub of cum, her mouth open as she drank it down. The memory made his own climax more intense, his release inside her feeling like a personal contribution to a grand, collective project.

When Ron had her on her back, her legs hooked over his shoulders, he’d stare down at her face and see not just his sister, but the goddess who had willingly bathed in his—in their—essence. The possessive pride he felt was ferocious, making him rougher, more demanding, and ultimately more satisfied.

For Dean, Seamus, and Neville, it was the same. The secret knowledge that they were fucking the same girl who had masturbated for an entire house of boys, who had begged for their cum with her body, elevated every groan, every touch, every spasm of her orgasm into something legendary. The sex was wilder, more intense, and more deeply satisfying than it had ever been before, fueled by a shared, silent understanding of her true nature.

It was this addictive power that fueled their next decision. Huddled in their dormitory after lights out, the five of them spoke in hushed, excited tones.

“The bath… it was just the beginning,” Harry whispered, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “We have to share this. Properly.”

“Share?” Ron asked, a flicker of his old protectiveness surfacing before being quickly smothered by a darker curiosity. “With who?”

“Everyone,” Seamus said, his Irish lilt full of mischief. “Well, not Slytherin. Never them. But the others…”

“Ravenclaw,” Dean suggested. “They’re clever. They’d appreciate it. And they’ve always been decent to us.”

Neville, who had found a new confidence in this dark venture, nodded slowly. “It makes sense. A test. If it works with Ravenclaw… then we can think bigger.”

The plan was simple, yet audacious. They would extend their voyeuristic empire. They would invite a select group of Ravenclaw boys—the cool ones, the ones who could be trusted to keep a secret and appreciate the artistry of the corruption—to witness the next bath. They would be given a time and a location, perhaps an unused classroom with a similar projection charm, to watch the nightly spectacle.

The thought was intoxicating. It wasn’t just about sharing Ginny’s body anymore; it was about sharing the power they held over her. It was about expanding their secret society, making the legend of Ginny Weasley, the Gryffindor broodmare, a cross-house phenomenon. They would be curators of the most exclusive show at Hogwarts, and their influence would grow. The anticipation of seeing the clever, usually composed Ravenclaws reduced to the same state of raw, cheering arousal as they were was a thrill that promised to eclipse all others. The project was evolving, and its architects were eager to build.