Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

The low moaning sound of a boy in heat echoed throughout the moist halls of the basement. The yeasty smell of bread baking permeated the air as Terry Boot crept across the warm stone tiles toward the offending sound.

“Fuck!” The outcry of pain mixed with pleasure sent a twang to Terry’s groin. He hated his job, but someone had to do it. The students of Hogwarts were too precious to be contaminated by the scourge that was sweeping among them. They needed protection from this invisible ailment that had stricken so many of their own.

Terry had watched good wizards fall prey to the false promises of the lifestyles and perish soon after. He suspected even his own friends too were under its cursed influence. That’s why he had taken this task on for himself, so he could rid the world of this plague.

A thrashing movement near the tapestry of the Feast of Barnaby Plithy caught his eye. There they were. He moved stealthily so that he could see both partners and pulled out a stadium seat pillow. One of the rules of the game was that Terry had to be absolutely sure of the offense before he sprang, so he made himself comfortable and prepared to watch the show.

The two boys were entwined in a passionate embrace. Slowly, the smaller one licked down the larger one’s bare chest and viciously ripped open the crotch of his lover’s pants with his teeth, causing buttons to fly everywhere.

“Careful, these are Prada!” cried the taller one, who momentarily moved his head into a chink of light cast by one of the wall sconces. Stewart Ackerley! Terry knew Stewart, he often ran into him during his daily piss breaks between Charms and Transfiguration. The knowledge of what the youth did in his spare time made chills run down his spine. How close he had come to a homosexual encounter! How many times had they stood side by side at the urinals, arms touching, commenting on the weather or the morning’s breakfast? Terry silently swore never to be so foolhardy again.

He pulled out a dragonskin notebook and a quill and began to take notes. ‘Stewart Ackerley, grey pleated Prada pants, light blue v-neck tshirt, orange scarf,’ he scrawled before hastily looking up so as not to miss anything.

The smaller boy now had Stewart’s erect piss stick in his mouth and was violently deepthroating it for all he was worth. Terry felt bad for the boy and nearly offered him his stadium seat pillow before realizing he needed to maintain his stealth cover.

Stewart grabbed his partner in depravity by the collar of his shirt and thrust him onto all fours. Terry grabbed for his notebook and quickly wrote ‘Euan Abercrombie, button up Banana Republic green shirt (last fall), J. Crew skinny jeans,’ before whipping out his wizard camera and snapping a few pictures without the flash. They would look great in his special Homo Hunter Album.
He was startled out of his reverie by the sight of Stewart penetrating Euan’s asshole with a swift and unapologetic plunge.

“Definitely faggot sex,” Terry concluded to himself sadly. He watched for five more minutes just to make sure that the boys weren’t being forced before standing up. With his stadium seat pillow in one hand and his wand in the other, he strode forward.

“Excuse me, but I believe faggotry is unacceptable in this part of the country.”