Learning History

It had been four days since Hermione last pooped. She was worried because she usually went promptly every morning, and though she sometimes recently had experimented with holding it longer than usual for the pleasure of the eventual release, this was not such a case. She’d even resorted the old neglected toilet in an attempt to relieve herself, but she’d pushed to no avail.

It was breakfast time, and Hermione and Ginny sat together in the Great Hall as Ginny ate unconcernedly a heaping plateful of eggs, toast, and bacon. All Hermione could manage was to nibble on a piece of toast—her stomach hurt.

Ginny nudged her. “All right?” she asked.

“Stomachache,” Hermione said, then whispered so that Harry and Ron, across the table from them, wouldn’t hear, “I haven’t shit in four days!”

“I wondered about that,” said Ginny, and Hermione smiled, recalling—as she was sure Ginny was too—the past several days they’d spent together, never once using the toilet between them.

“I bet you did,” Hermione said, then winced as a pain shot through her stomach.

“You poor thing,” Ginny said, then paused, seeming to think about something. “The best option, of course, would be to go to Madam Pomfrey, she’d sort you out, no problem, but…”

“But?” Hermione prompted.

Ginny grinned. “But…I could also whip you up my mum’s home remedy, and you could try that first. It’s never failed yet.”

“What does it do?” Hermione asked.

“Makes you shit your brains out, basically,” Ginny said, then added, “you won’t have much control over it—it could hit anytime—but I don’t think you have much of a problem with having a little accident, do you?”

“That sounds perfect,” Hermione said, feeling a rush of heat in her pants.

“Good,” said Ginny, “I’ll give it to you at lunch.” Then she took Hermione’s hand and squeezed.

Hermione knew this signal. She whipped her head around quickly to see if anyone was looking, then let her gaze settle on Ginny’s bum, where it had slid back on the bench seat so that it was nearly hanging off. Her robes tucked underneath her, it gave Hermione an excellent view of the perfect peachy roundness—and then, as she watched, of a lump emerging in the center of the peach, growing larger before settling, fist-sized. Hermione sniffed: nothing. She must be using an odor-erasing charm. Ginny had just pooped herself in the Great Hall, and no one was any the wiser.

Hermione squeezed Ginny’s hand back and subtly leaned forward, grinding her clit on the hard wood beneath her as the only form of release available to her at that moment. Ginny laughed quietly, then scooted forward, without vanishing her poop, so that Hermione knew it must be mashing itself in all her nooks and crannies. Safely back under the cover of the large table, Hermione put her hand on Ginny’s crotch, and soon, as she knew she would, she felt it flood with heat, as Ginny let out her morning piss as well. She lightly rubbed as Ginny peed herself, not enough to let Ginny get off, but enough so that she could see she was biting her tongue, blushing slightly.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ron asked Ginny, looking across at them.

Hermione kept her hand on Ginny, and felt the pee continue to flow, as Ginny answered, “Nothing, I just got a little overheated. Sometimes I think they do the fires too high in the winter.”

“You’re mad,” Ron said, and turned back to his plate of sausages.

At lunchtime, Hermione found Ginny at the Gryffindor table and nearly ran over in desperation. Her stomach had been cramping all morning, and she felt a heaviness low in her belly that she wanted gone.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” Ginny said, and handed her a small vial of light pink potion.

Hermione unstoppered it and drank it at once.

“You must really be uncomfortable,” said Ginny sympathetically, stowing away the empty vial. “Now, remember, you won’t have much control over when it hits—it won’t be right away, but it could be anytime this afternoon.”

“That’s fine,” said Hermione, “it’s only Charms this afternoon, I can peacefully shit myself and not worry about missing too much.”

“You’re going to go to class, then?” Ginny said. “It might be—er—noticeable.”

“I’ve already got my clothes charmed so that they don’t show any messes,” said Hermione, “whatever comes out, comes out.”

A half hour later, Hermione was sitting with Harry and Ron at their usual table in Charms. They were doing Aguamenti that day, but Hermione had, as usual, read ahead in the book, and so she found it quite easy. She filled the glass in front of her with water and slowly sipped it as she watched Harry and Ron practice, while also keeping a close eye on her stomach’s sensations.

“Oh, well done, Miss Granger,” Professor Flitwick said, appearing in front of their table. He appraised Harry and Ron’s glasses—Harry’s glass had condensation on the outside, but no water in, and Ron’s seemed to be growing grass—and then added, “why don’t you show the boys your wand movement and intonation? The subtle syllabic emphasis is always of the utmost importance, I find.”

Hermione heard Ron groan quietly, and she smiled to herself. “Of course, Professor,” she said, and raised her wand.

All at once, she felt her stomach contract, exactly as if she was pushing to poop—except she wasn’t doing anything. It contracted of its own accord, leaving her winded, and with a huge pressure building inside. “Ah—aguamenti!” she choked out. Instead of the gentle stream of water that ought to have spurted from her wand, a heavy jet flew out, soaking Harry, who was next to her.

“Sorry!” she squeaked, as the pressure intensified, and she felt her hole open and the poop begin to poke out into her panties.

“One can always do with a bit more practice,” said Flitwick, shaking his head. “You’re nearly there, Miss Granger. Keep at it.”

Hermione nodded, but could do no more than that, because by now a thick, hot coil of poop was unfurling itself from her asshole and filling her panties. She’d expected, from Ginny’s description, something more like diarrhea, what with it being so hard to control—but this was as if all the shit she had stored up for four days was firmly pushing its way out of her.

Professor Flitwick left their table to chide Parvati and Lavender for their unsubtle gossiping and neglect of their charms, which was a relief—but Hermione still had Harry and Ron watching her, slightly surprised.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mess up a charm like that,” Ron said, “what’s up with you?”

“Stomachache,” Hermione gasped out, as poop continued to press out of her, now growing so bulky beneath her skirt that she worried that even with her spell it would make a noticeable bulge on the outside of her robes.

“Right,” said Ron, clearly not wanting to investigate further. He turned back to his glass and prodded at the grass inside of it.

Harry, meanwhile, continued to watch Hermione. He hadn’t yet dried the water off his robes.

“Aren’t—aren’t you going—to dry that?” Hermione panted out, trying her best to sound normal. She needed him to look away so she could poop in peace. It was mushing its way up her whole bum now, its warmth extremely pleasurable, especially combined with the feeling of release.

“In a minute,” Harry said, “but first—it’s really quite convenient. I was about to ask to use the loo, but now I don’t have to bother.”

To Hermione’s great surprise, she watched as a dark stain appeared between the legs of Harry’s trousers. He grinned at her in obvious pleasure as the stain spread across the front of the trousers and down his left leg. Finally a puddle appeared on the ground under his shoes, light yellow, and growing.

Hermione bit back a groan. “What--?” she choked out.

“That’s better,” Harry said, and Hermione was afforded one last look at the pee puddle beneath him before he waved his wand, and it all vanished, his clothes once again dry and clean. “I think you’re up to something similar, if I’m not much mistaken,” he added.

Hermione felt herself turn bright red. “What do you mean?” she said. She couldn’t stop the poop that was still coming out of her, and in her shock, a great pile of it pushed out all at once, making her have to hold back a moan.

“I do notice things, sometimes,” Harry said in an undertone, “and I think you and Ginny have been getting up to all sorts. Don’t worry, I don’t think Ron’s noticed a thing. Nor has anyone else that I know of. It’s just that, well, I’m often nearby…and I got curious.”

“Oh my goodness,” Hermione managed.

“So, if I’m not wrong, I think there’s a pile of shit in your pants,” Harry whispered.

Hermione fell back into her chair that she’d vacated ever since Flitwick had asked her to perform the spell. This caused the poop to spread further up her ass and into the creases of her pussy. It was all she could do, embarrassed as she was at Harry catching her, not to writhe in it, letting it cover her clit and dripping vagina. It seemed, at last, to have stopped coming out. Which was something.

“Alright,” she said, “let’s say that’s true. So what now?”

Harry was looking down at her eagerly, as though he suspected what had just happened when she sat. “Now—well, I dunno,” he said, “I haven’t got a problem with it, if that’s what you mean.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” she said.

“And, er. I hope this isn’t presumptuous to say,” Harry continued, “but I liked it. I do like it.”