Chapter 41. Gods and Priestesses
After escorting the first-year Slytherin to the Great Hall, I vanish. Just like I did with Daphne and Davis, I flee the moment the girl is safe, unheeding her cries to come back.
It's not practical to make bonds while in this form. I'm not a real cat, obviously. It would become bothersome to keep acting like one. Not to mention, I can't pretend to be some good samaritan when it was me who killed her parents, commanding them to choke on their own wands. That's too evil, even for me.
Finding an empty classroom, I change back to Harry and return for dinner.
I make a beeline for the Gryffindor table, ignoring the morose firstie by the double doors, still waiting for the black cat. My heart twinges, but it's better she's disappointed now than later.
Astoria perks up at the sight of me, scooching over to make space between her and Iris. Squeezing in between them, I take an empty plate and start loading it with food.
"Did you know there was a cat in your quarters?" Iris nudges me with her elbow.
I don't look at her in case she gets suspicious. "No. But it's possible for a stray to sneak in while we were distracted."
"Hmm."
"He is such an adorable cat," Tori chimes in, twirling her spoon in the steaming broth. "Too bad he ran off. Daphne would've taken great care of him."
I dip the bread into the broth and bite into it, not saying anything, just listening as Iris and Astoria further chat about the mysterious cat.
It is possible to assign one of my clones on permanent cat duty, so Daphne and that firstie can have a feline companion. But why? There's no reason for such an undertaking. And even if I follow my whim and do this to please them, what would happen once I jump to another world? Since my clones can only exist in the world I'm in, the 'cat' would disappear the moment I change worlds, and those two girls would be left with a worse heartbreak.
So, better not to do anything at all. They'll get over it faster this way.
After dinner, Astoria gathers her nerve and asks me out on a date. How could I say anything but yes? I give her a small peck on the lips and tell her we'll spend the next Hogsmeade weekend together. Her relieved smile makes me chuckle—as if I'd ever say no to her.
~xXxXx~
A letter finds me one week later.
It's short and to the point. It contains time and a portkey for a meeting. The meeting with Nicolas Flamel.
I don't touch the golden coin, inspecting it with various spells in case it might be cursed. Once I'm sure it's safe, I take it and roll it between my fingers. It's pure gold; I can feel it. It's soft enough that it will dent with a little force. Putting it in my mokeskin pouch, I leave my quarters to apprise my partner.
When I reach Teresa and inform her that we will kill Flamel on 30th March, she doesn't look happy. No, she looks terrified for a second before acceptance softens her face. I know it's not acceptance of victory that calms her. Rather, death is what she thinks awaits us at this meeting. So she tries to dissuade me, again, telling me that it's her fight, that I don't need to come with her.
I lock our lips to shut her up, pinning her against a wall, thoroughly plundering her mouth, injecting her with a blissful haze. As she's left panting, I reassure her everything will be fine. That we will win, one way or the other. That we won't die.
After all, who can kill me? I have 102 lives.
~xXxXx~
That same day, I received another letter. This, too, was about a meeting—but of a different sort.
I leave a clone in my place next morning and floo to the address given in the letter.
"The Golden Cathedral," I enunciate, utilising the floo in Mum's quarters.
Stepping out of the green flames dancing in the ornate fireplace, I take a curious look around. A single glance is enough to confirm what I was expecting. A church.
Alice awaits me at the front of the church, dressed in all black, looking too pleased with herself.
There are no pews in this church. Not yet, at least. The whole chamber is empty of any furnishing, except for a throne, a grey stone chair sitting atop a podium, overlooking the expansive room. The walls are plastered white with golden outlines in the corners and around the stained-glass windows looking out to the side streets of Diagon Alley. The roof is domed, displaying a detailed mural of a golden-haired Rayhmir. Then there's the lush red carpet occupying most of the floor, barely allowing the wood panels to peek out.
It already gives off the air of pompous serenity.
I dust off my robes and make my way to the front of the church, my steps muffled by the thick carpet. Ascending the short wooden stairs, I reach the podium. From there, it only takes a couple of more steps to close the distance between me and the throne.
It's grand, to say the least, the backrest melting into the wall and reaching the domed ceiling. It's a simple construct. There's no intricate inscriptions, or fluffy cushions. It's the gigantic size that grants it the mystic and the sense of authority.
"Good morning, Lord Rayhmir." Alice offers me a curtsy, gripping her long skirt and bowing gracefully, her loose black hair flowing past her shoulders.
As usual, she's in an elegant gown that hugs her in all the right places.
I'm in my Harry Evans form, of course. I didn't see the need to change since it will be only us two. My hair is still black, my eyes green. Yet, she doesn't see me, she sees what she wishes to see. A god, a messiah who will protect her and her son from future misfortunes.
Pain and tragedy really changes people. A woman who never worshipped anyone now desires to start a religion to escape the uncertainty that comes with living.
"Morning, Alice." I sit down on my throne. It's as comfortable as a slab of stone can be. Not much, that's to say. It's wide enough that three of me can sit side-by-side with still some space left for a dog.
I lean against one armrest.
Without a word, she settles on the floor, near my feet, her legs tucked beneath her.
"You don't need to do that. Come, sit here." I roll my eyes, patting the space at my side.
Her dark eyebrows furrow, and she shakes her head. "That's your throne, Lord Rayhmir. I cannot dare to sit there. It will make me uncomfortable. It will also send wrong signals if the prospective devotees ever see me do that. It's better I make the habit of sitting on the floor, to convey my eternal servitude. That way, others won't make a fuss when they have to do the same. It's vital I show utmost respect and reverence even in their absence. Only a god will sit on this throne."
Isn't it wondrous how a person can create a lie and still believe in it? Alice knows all of this is fabrication, yet instead of treating it as a staged-drama, she thinks it's reality. I don't know if I can comprehend the mental gymnastics it must take to reach this point.
"So committed and unwavering." I chuckle, amused by the pride that inflates her chest at these words.
"As it must be for your Head Priestess."
Head Priestess? Wonderful. She has given it much thought—meaning I won't have to work too much.
"As Head Priestess, your foremost duty is to follow my every command. And I command you to get up and sit in my lap, if sitting in my throne ruffles your 'faith'."
She smiles warmly and rises slowly, the bunched fabric of her gown falling back to her ankles.
"As my lord commands," she replies, sliding sideways into my lap, her arm coming up to hook around my neck.
I welcome the soft weight of her body, enjoying the sensation of her round backside pressing firmly down on my crotch.
It's… pleasing, so pleasing that my trousers start feeling tight. She smells divine, something woody and natural. My right arm encircles her narrow waist, buried between her back and the armrest she leans against. I can feel the heat of her flesh slowly mingling with mine, her perfume titillating my nostrils. The rush of sensations fills me with a sort of pent-up energy, my legs adjusting to slide the plumpness of her arse between the gap of my inner thighs.
She ruffles my hair, her round breast swaying so close to my face that if I dip forward, the pillowy goodness will graze my nose. "Now that we are like this, I have questions that need your input."
"Fire away." I place my idle hand on her plump thigh, the dark fabric beneath unable to conceal the smoothness and the warmth of her skin.
"Are you fine with the title of god of healing? Because that's what we'll do, and that's what will bring everyone to us. The promise of perfect health. The cure for every disease."
It will be the primary part of my persona, the healing ability, yet there will be more after a while. "Yes, I'm fine with it. I'll provide you with a steady supply of 'Cure-Alls'. But, inform me once we have pious members. Their faithfulness will be rewarded with a wish, a blank wish with which they can ask me for anything. And be sure to make it an open secret, so everyone will try to compete for the 'pious' title."
She nods, aware of my wish-granting ability. "Noted. It will be a slow work and will be met with plenty of disbelief and criticism, but in a decade or so, you will be the chief deity of the entire wizarding world."
That's true. Previously, I thought it would be a quick power-up, but no, religions don't form in months. They take time and a steady supply of public goodwill, or a loyal following at minimum.
It will be a long project, I reckon.
"Let's hope so. A decade of healing and miracles should gather me a rabid following," I say, giving her thigh a squeeze, making her breath shake as my palm inches upwards.
"Easily," she reassures me, her fingers twirling in my hair. "I also wanted to ask if you've given your religion some more thought. What's the core theme, for example? What are the requirements for becoming your devotee? Will there be an afterlife? And if so, what are the further conditions? And so on."
She's taking it seriously. Good.
"We'll go with the cliché. Our theme is kindness—doing good without greed for rewards. As for becoming my pious devotee? I'll choose them myself. Let them know I'm always watching, so they'd better be on their best behavior at all times. And the afterlife? Yes, there is."
Her blue eyes sparkle, and she relaxes.
How is she even able to do that? Somehow being able to believe in my words while we are creating a religion on the spot. I really don't think I can ever understand her. But I'm not lying this time. Once my 'Cosmic Seed' bears fruits and gives me a faith cultivator, it will also grant me an additional plane of existence where the souls of my devotees will go. The Afterlife. I plan to turn this fake religion into a real one. I pray that the Seed will actually become what I want it to be. And the irony of a 'god' praying isn't lost on me.
"There's no hell in my religion," I expand, "only heaven. Those who get into it, can live an eternal blissful life, while those who don't will simply cease to exist. As for how to earn the right to live after death? Simple, do good and believe in me. Both are essential. Only believing in me or only doing good deeds won't get you anywhere."
Is it fair? Obviously not. Ideally, I'd just ask them to be good people, but that won't provide the urgency to join my religion. Which will be a bummer since the entire point of this charade is to gain immortal fame, to gather a large number of devotees. The 'doing good' is there only to give this religion some sort of credibility. And because I'd rather my worshippers be kind and helpful than some destructive anarchists.
We discuss more theology and add necessary details to my budding religion, clearing things up and answering more questions.
"I think I know how to give you a starting boost," Alice murmurs, tapping her chin. "If everything goes as planned, you will be the real thing from the very beginning."
"Oh?" My hand glides up, pressing between her legs.
She licks her lips, cuddling into me, her breasts flush against my face. "Leave that to me. Let's take care of your needs first, my lord."
I stiffen as she grips my shoulders and straddles me, her tits rubbing against my face in the process.
"I do have one request." She cups my jaw, unable to look me in the eye, her gaze somewhere on my nose.
My hands latch onto her voluptuous behind, groping her arse through the gown. "Name it."
"Please take your true form while we make love."
…
…
This is my true form. I'm Harry, not Rayhmir. That is my persona, not this. For a second, the temptation to scream that on her face nearly makes me ruin it. But I clamp down on the urge and smile gently. "If that's what you want."
Alice Longbottom
Level: 31
Beauty Tier: S
Seduction: 100%
Points Available: 0
Kinks: Rayhmir, Blindfold
No wonder she is obsessed with Rayhmir.
I will myself to change. My dark hair lightens up until it's platinum blonde, my green eyes becoming ocean blue. My body thins, shifting into a tall, lithe figure, unmanly and effeminate, beautiful and mesmerising.
Her face is split by a wide smile, as she touches my 'true face', as she runs her fingers through my golden locks. "You're so beautiful, my lord," she sighs, tipping up my chin and kissing my forehead.
My fingers sink into her fleshy buns, so round and shapely. "Kiss me."
Her eyes gleam with unadulterated love, and she frames my jaw and leans down to press her lips on mine. She begins tenderly, caressing my mouth with hers, tracing my lips with hers, appreciating my alluring lips with her own. A sudden lick makes me shudder, and then the kiss deepens, as she mashes our mouths, prying me open to meet my tongue.
My hands are on either arse cheeks, pulling on them as she snogs me. Our bodies press closer, our breath intermingles, so does our heat and scent. The layers of clothes are nothing, too weak to contain the warmth of our skin, the musk of our lust. My cock beats with my heart beneath her arse, a steady thump, impatiently waiting to erupt.
She tastes like strawberries, probably from her lip balm.
The intensity blanks my mind, our minds, and we just snog like there's no tomorrow. Her fingers clutch my jaw, keeping it in place to plunder my oral cavity to her heart's content, while mine hold her big arse atop my throbbing crotch, letting the heat build up, letting her weight pin down my erection.
When our lips part, we exhale on each other's faces, the warm air feeling damp and charged, carrying a faint scent of saliva.
"My lord, my lord, my lord…" she chants, peppering kisses on my face with her wet mouth, slobbering me.
My hands slip up from her arse, drawing hard lines up along her spine as she marks me with her saliva. Her black gown disintegrates wherever I touch, sizzling and vanishing as if evaporating, giving way to the prized skin.
She gasps as the ruined gown falls from her busty frame, gathering at her waist, revealing the fancy pink bra.
I grab her waist and pull her even closer, so close that she's practically sitting on my lower belly. My cock thanks me with a twitch as it's not buried under her anymore, finally able to pitch a tent in my trousers.
"Your lord wants to drink your milk," I whisper in her cleavage, my palm slithering over her uncovered back, caressing the thick band of her bra.
Alice laughs and arches into me, pressing her tits in my face. "As my lord commands."
She gently pushes my face away, so I can look up at her aroused expression. Instead of undoing her bra, she scoops one massive breast out of the bra cup, a rotund pale flesh topped with a pink circle of areola.
My breath becomes heavy, my nose flaring as she slowly leads her tit towards my mouth. When the hard nipple brushes against my lips, I don't engulf it. I take the breast from her hold and squeeze it softly, earning a shuddering gasp. Whereas my fingers claw into her side-boob, my thumb strokes her stiff nub, darker pink than the colour of her areola. Her thighs clench over my hips as she seeks more friction. She tries to slide back over my crotch to rub herself against the tent in my trousers. But I keep her firmly against me, one hand around her waist and the other cupping her marvellous tit.
"My lord," she husks.
I activate my [Lactate] skill and pinch the outside of her areola. A spurt of milk shoots from her nipple, landing on my mouth. My tongue slides over and wipes it. Sweet.
"My lord." She's panting, her eyes burning with unquenchable lust. "Take me, my lord."
I clamp my mouth over her bulbous breast and start feeding, sucking the milk out of her fat tit.
She moans, she cries, her back arching, her thighs tightening.
I drink greedily, squeezing and suckling her teat, licking and caressing it with the tip of my tongue. My hands are just as ravenous, gliding over her bare back, savouring the sensation of the silky warm skin.
Alice isn't idle. She tugs on my hair with every suck, as if to inhale me through her nipple.
I can only drink so much before the novelty wears off. I could change the taste to keep things interesting, but I have more things to do to her.
My lips unclasp from her teat with a pop, and she whines needily, rubbing her raw nipple against my face.
"On your knees," I order, jerking her bra down and throwing it away, so her other breast spills out as well, taking a moment to squeeze them.
She reluctantly slips down my lap, kneeling on the floor between my spread knees. The sensual sway of her breasts keeps my eyes on her, even as she unbuckles my belt and unzips my trousers, dragging it off my legs. She makes a quick work of my underwear as well, allowing my erection to spear out.
"What do you want me to do, my lord?" She grasps my shaft, stroking it, then leaning close enough that she can use it to rub her areolas.
I take off my robes and shirt while she's at it, baring myself entirely. Only Alice is left with something on. Though that something being a ruined gown leaving her topless is certainly more enticing than full nudity would be. The black dress gathers at her hips, so past her waist that even the strings of her pink thong are visible at her sides.
"Use your mouth. Worship me, my Head Priestess. Give me head."
If she had some rationality left, if she could see me as Harry, this pun would've earned me a laugh or an exasperated eye roll. But she only smiles and takes my shaft near her hot mouth.
I exhale and lean back on the stone backrest, just revelling in her skill. The way she uses her lips and tongue is mind-blowing. She kisses along the sides and then lathers it with her wet tongue. Once my cock is sufficiently wet and slippery, she goes past the cockhead, relaxing her jaw, using her tongue to act as a spongy carpet for my shaft, swallowing further.
I simply close my eyes and focus on her gagging sounds as she spears her throat with my cock, plunging in and out, producing more saliva to assist the throat fucking.
[Orgasm Control] helps me restrain the urge to burst, even as my cock pulses madly.
"Up," I demand, snapping my eyes open, deciding to get to the main feast.
She springs to her feet, standing ready to follow my every whim.
I take a moment to ogle her.
Long black hair flows past her and over her shoulders in a straight stream, framing her glorious aristocratic face. Her large, succulent breasts hang from her curvaceous frame, one nipple red and wet from my earlier attention. I wave my hand and the ruined black gown disintegrates, leaving her in only a tiny pink thong, exposing her thick thighs and slender legs.
"Turn around and bend," I ask.
She does so, facing away and bending over, so her arse can be inspected.
Her pale cheeks are voluminous, perfectly round and fleshy, wide and plump, truly a perfection.
I grab her thighs and yank her into my lap, amused by the shocked yelp she makes, as if she didn't know what was going to happen.
"My lord?"
I turn her around in my lap, so she's straddling me again. "Your lord wants you to ride him," I say, my palms under her arse, fondling her cheeks.
"As my lord wishes," she mumbles, tearing the flimsy thong and throwing it away, allowing our sexes to touch, sending a jolt of electricity down my spine.
Then she rises to her knees, pressing her pillowy breasts in my face while she looks over her shoulder and adjusts her aim. I moan and bite into the flesh near my mouth when she sits back down, taking me inside her hot, velvety walls unceremoniously.
"Alice," I groan, grabbing and squeezing her arse as she repeatedly stands on her knees and then comes crashing down with plaps.
She has her arms wrapped around my neck, her face buried in my chest, as she raises and slams her arse onto my jutting cock, a lighthouse submerging and emerging from the pleasure waves.
As expected, the sliding in and out gets smoother and faster, expedited by her slippery fluids. Soon, she doesn't even have to stand up on her knees anymore. She just hangs onto me, twerking her arse, using me to prod her insides. These small movements may be enough for her, but I need those long thrusts. So I too move my hips under her, wrangling relatively longer thrusts by timing myself right.
Still, I don't really get what I want.
To attain it, I abruptly stand up, my hands under her arse to support her weight. Before she can ask what I'm doing, I lay her down on my throne, climbing up myself as well, stretching her into herself until her toes are near her ears, until we are in the mating press.
"My lord! This is your throne! I can't be directly on it!"
"You can be." I start hammering into her, making a slapping sound with our striking flesh. "Only you can. As my Head Priestess, only you can be fucked on this throne."
She makes an incomprehensible noise, saliva frothing at her mouth, which I take as agreement and revel in the long, powerful thrusts I can rain into her.
Her jerking legs nearly land on my face as I pound her like a hammer to a nail. So I pin her legs over her shoulders and slam away to our mutual climax.
The steady crescendo finally tips over into blissful chaos, as I fill her up with my 'godly' seeds, and she squirms and dances to the tune of her own release, her scream petering out as the overwhelming pleasure ebbs away.
That's not the end, of course. I remember promising her to fuck her until she is unconscious. Today seems to be the appropriate time to fulfill that promise.
But however much I want, I can't just fuck her in mating press throughout the day. So we change to doggystyle whenever she gets too stiff.
~xXxXx~
On 6th of March, the first church opened in Diagon Alley. It was understandably met with a lot of disbelief and skepticism. Wizards and Witches have never worshipped anyone. They have never formed any type of religion. So this seemed like a failed undertaking. But it was started by Lady Longbottom herself, a sensible lady by all accounts, for Lord Rayhmir, who proved himself to be the strongest wizard to ever exist. That was it though. People could believe Rayhmir was more powerful than Merlin. That was believable; the claim of godhood was not.
Curiosity and the promise of free 'Cure-Alls' brought thousands of people on the opening day. From rich to poor, from British to Colombian, numerous men, women, and children arrived to take advantage of the offer. And all went home satisfied, cured of their diseases and injuries. The Cure-All was deployed for everything, from a simple cold to untreatable curses. Though de-aging was denied.
Out of thousands, only hundreds will show any interest in joining the new religion.
Then one day, everything will change.
~xXxXx~
(Why and how Harry got his system)
In a cosy office, two people are fast at work.
The ethereally handsome man with dark hair and emerald eyes is Chaos. The Creator. The Lord of the Multiverse. Though he's not the original Conqueror. That guy has retired and is living happily ever after, even though he doesn't deserve it, considering how cruel and evil his reign was. No, this man is that guy's successor, a far better version who has some sort of moral compass.
The other occupant of the room is a gorgeous redhead, eyes the same colour as the man. They're not related. Well, not related by blood at least. She is a female variant of the man, plucked from a parallel world, once trapped into the very system that helped the man reach where he is. Even after being freed, she still serves as his assistant. Her name is Isis. She has no connection with the terrorist organisation just so we are clear. And I know everything. Because I'm the omniscient narrator.
Anyways, back to the story. Being responsible for the ever-expanding multiverse is a lot of work. And usually, Chaos automates all of it. But sometimes, he feels like working. And during those fleeting moments, these two conjure up a professional office and act like diligent underpaid workers.
It's during that moment our story takes place.
While the two siblings (not really) act like tired employees, a blonde bombshell barges into the room, wearing a flattering dress that accentuates her perfect body. And this is not a hyperbole. She is literally perfect in every sense, from her plentiful curves to the colour of her eyes, she's flawless.
"Henry!" The blonde skips towards him and leans down to plant a sloppy kiss on his mouth. Then she pushes away the computer and sits on the edge of the desk.
Harry is actually his name, but it's too much effort explaining why she calls him 'Henry'. Ignore it, it has no impact on this story.
"Daphne." Henry sighs as she props her feet in his lap. "I am working."
"I need a favour, little brother." She grins impishly.
He is not her little brother, but just go with the flow. Too much effort, as I stated before.
"What is it?" Henry asks, his eyebrows raised.
"I was browsing through the multiverse for entertainment while I was bored, you know, since Tracey and you're too busy to spend time with me." She pouts, lightly pressing her toe on his chest.
Fun fact: she's a lesbian, in a relationship with her best friend, Tracey Davis. And yes, if you're wondering—she lets Henry hit. Sexuality hardly matters when you're gods. It's been thousands of years since the ascension. Somewhere along the way, Tracey agreed to share her lover. Then she jumped in herself. Their threesomes are the stuff of legend—sometimes lasting months when they're really into it.
Henry massages her foot, prompting her to continue.
"Well, while I was peeping into the multiverse, I saw a boy trying to impress his girlfriend… by doing a backflip." Her lips twitch, as if she's trying to control her laughter. "You know what happened next?"
Henry could know anything since he's basically the God. But he doesn't. "I'm sure you'll tell me."
"The poor boy landed on his neck and died." She burst into laughter, her entire body shaking in mirth. "It was so funny. You should've seen his last reaction. Hilarious, I tell you. He's such a… chump."
Henry smiles playfully. "Careful, I might start feeling jealous."
She gasps and flops into his lap, making him wince. "Never. You're my favourite little brother. Only Tracey can touch me other than you. But I guess I hurt your feelings, no? Let me get down quick and suck you off."
He sighs and locks his arms around her waist, looking up at her face. "Later, we will do it thoroughly. For now, just tell me what you want."
"Your cock?" she quips, tilting her head, her lips twitching again.
He ignores Isis' amused chuckle. "Other than that."
"Meanie." She pokes his face. "Fine, you can make up by giving that kid a gamer system. I've seen you do it countless times."
"Those are rewards for upstanding people in the multiverse. You can't ask me to hand it to some 'chump'."
"Make it less powerful. Limit the worlds. But please give him something. He made me laugh when I was feeling lonely." She fixes him with puppy eyes.
Henry falters at her words.
"Also, he will be reborn as Harry Potter, I checked," she reveals with a shark-like grin, dealing the last blow.
You see, just like his predecessor, this Chaos also tries to give Harry Potters in the multiverse a good and interesting life. Now that she's revealed the chump is Harry Potter, the reluctance vanishes.
"Okay. Do you have any ideas what you want me to give him?" he asks, caressing her back.
"A gacha system where he earns gacha tickets by sleeping around." She giggles.
Henry rolls his eyes but nods. "Granted."
"Also, give me the authority to tap into the system whenever I want." She slides out of his lap.
Henry knows what she's up to, and he warns her. "Don't meddle too much and end up giving him higher-tier rolls. It will skew the balance. Let the system work naturally."
"Uh huh." She chirps and skips away, not even listening anymore.
"You do know she will mess this up?" Isis smirks, looking away from her computer.
Henry chuckles.
Does that mean Harry Evans got a gamer system only because his death amused a despondent deity? Yes.