What if Ginny is the only girl at Hogwarts?

CH.16 - Hufflepuff's turn

The journey to the Hufflepuff common room felt different. There was no riddle to solve, just a specific rhythm tapped on a stack of barrels near the kitchens. The air was warmer here, smelling faintly of baking bread and fresh earth. When the barrel entrance swung open, the atmosphere that greeted them was the polar opposite of Ravenclaw’s cool intellect.

The Hufflepuff common room was a low-ceilinged, cozy space that felt like a well-loved burrow. It was all yellow hangings, polished copper, and overstuffed armchairs. Boys were engaged in friendly games of Exploding Snap or helping each other with herbology diagrams. They looked up as the five Gryffindors entered, their expressions not suspicious, but openly curious and friendly.

A broad-shouldered Hufflepuff prefect, his face kind but concerned, stepped forward. “Harry? Everyone alright? Do you need something?”

Harry, now a seasoned diplomat of depravity, repeated his proposition. “We’ve got something to show you. All of you. Something… special. About Ginny Weasley.”

The Hufflepuffs listened, their friendly faces slowly shifting through confusion to dawning, incredulous understanding. Where the Ravenclaws had seen a fascinating experiment, the Hufflepuffs’ reactions were more visceral, more emotional. There were blushes, awkward coughs, and nervous glances between them. This was a violation of their core principles of loyalty and fair play.

But the temptation was too powerful. The chance to see the fiery, unattainable Ginny Weasley in such a private, vulnerable, and shockingly lewd state was an offer that bypassed their morals and spoke directly to their primal instincts.

After a hushed, intense discussion in the corner, the prefect turned back, his face flushed with a mixture of shame and excitement. “We… we’ll watch. But this stays in this room. Understood? We’re not… we’re not like this.”

Harry merely nodded and cast the charm. The cozy wall behind the fireplace shimmered, and the now-familiar scene materialized: the steam, the tub, and Ginny, her towel dropping to the floor.

The Hufflepuff reaction was a symphony of gasps and choked, suppressed noises. They weren’t analysts or rowdy sports fans; they were like wide-eyed boys who had stumbled upon a forbidden treasure. They watched, utterly transfixed, their hands clenched into fists on their knees.

Their insults, when they came, were different yet again. They were less about intellectual dissection and less about boisterous cheering. They were laced with a strange, guilty fervor, as if by insulting her, they could distance themselves from their own participation in the betrayal.

“Merlin’s beard… look at her…”
“I can’t believe she’s… she’s actually doing that.”
“What a dirty, dirty girl…”
“She’s… she’s so beautiful. Why is she being such a slag?”
“She’s asking for it, isn’t she? She’s just asking for everyone to see.”

They watched, their friendly demeanors replaced by a hungry, guilty intensity, as Ginny performed her ritual. When she drank from the tub, a collective, shuddering groan went through the room. When she spread herself open underwater, several boys looked away for a second, their faces burning, before forcing themselves to look back, unable to resist.

Their commentary was a mix of awe and derogatory shame, a cognitive dissonance that was intensely arousing to the five Gryffindor orchestrators. They were corrupting the "nice" house, showing them that even their hardwired decency could be overridden by base desire.

When Ginny climaxed, her moan echoing in the quiet, earth-toned room, the Hufflepuffs didn’t cheer or applaud. They sat in a stunned, heavy silence, broken only by ragged breathing. The prefect finally stood up, not looking at the Gryffindors. “You should go now,” he said quietly, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn’t name.

As the door to the barrel entrance closed behind them, the five boys stood in the dim corridor. The deed was done. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff. Three-quarters of the male population of Hogwarts had now borne witness to Ginny’s ultimate secret.

She walked the halls completely unaware that she was a campus-wide spectacle. To some boys, she was still the sharp, fiery, Quidditch-playing Weasley girl. But to a growing, secret majority, she was something else entirely: a communal fantasy made flesh, a depraved goddess who bathed in their shared lust, and the star of a nightly show that bound them all together in a web of thrilling, shameful, intoxicating secrecy. The scale of their conspiracy was now enormous, and the power they felt was utterly addictive.