Chapter Eighteen

Harry’s stomach lurched. His fingers clawed at the arms of the chair, nails biting into the wood. "No," he rasped. "You’re lying. Hermione would never—"

"Would never what?" The entity tilted its head, feigning innocence. "Take Ron’s cock like a starving woman? Beg for it? Scream his name?" It stepped closer, running a cold finger down Harry’s damp cheek. "Oh, honey. She has. Thousands of times. Time bends to my will here. I kept you unconscious for years before allowing you to wake up in that chair".

Harry’s breath came in shallow gasps. His eyes darted to the bed, where Ron’s massive frame still loomed over Hermione, his broad hands roaming possessively over her sweat-slicked skin. Her thighs were parted, his thick cock still glistening between them, her body limp and sated beneath him.

Thousands of times.

The words echoed in Harry’s skull, each syllable a hammer driving deeper. His chest ached as if something inside had been ripped out.

The entity leaned down, its breath ghosting over his ear. "You were always the spare, Harry. The one who barely got the girl. And now? She’s his. Properly his." It chuckled, low and vicious. "She’s taken every inch of him, again and again. And you? You were just… asleep."

Harry’s vision swam as his gaze locked onto the slick mess between Hermione’s thighs—Ron’s spend glistening against her flushed skin, dripping lazily onto the rumpled sheets. His stomach twisted as Ron’s massive hand slid possessively up Hermione’s inner thigh, fingers brushing through the evidence of their coupling with a satisfied hum.

Hermione moaned softly against Ron’s mouth as they kissed, slow and deep, her fingers tangled in his auburn hair. Her other hand drifted down, stroking Ron’s still-hard length with practiced ease, coaxing him back to full arousal despite how recently he’d emptied himself inside her. Ron groaned, his hips jerking into her grip, his cock twitching eagerly in her palm—thick, veined, and obscenely large compared to Harry’s own modest length.

A strangled noise escaped Harry’s throat. His chest ached like a gaping wound, his heartbeat erratic and painful. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even as every fiber of his being screamed at him to look away, to escape, to die rather than witness this.

"Kill me," he rasped, his voice barely audible.

The entity turned back to him, tilting Hermione’s head in that eerie, too-fluid motion. Her dark eyes gleamed with amusement as she raised a perfect eyebrow. "I’m sorry?"

Harry’s breath hitched. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. "Just kill me!" he snarled, his voice cracking. "I don’t know what you have against me, but either let me go or kill me. Please."

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as the entity’s face twisted into something almost petulant—an expression so unlike Hermione’s that it sent a fresh wave of revulsion through him.

“I can’t,” she snapped, her voice laced with irritation. The black pools of her eyes flickered, as if something beneath the surface strained against her control.

“What?” Harry choked out, his fingers tightening on the chair arms. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

The entity exhaled sharply through Hermione’s nose, crossing her arms under her breasts—fuller now, Harry noted with a pang, from years of nursing their children. The thought made his stomach clench.

“Your wife,” the entity hissed, “made me swear. A binding agreement. No harm to come to you”

Harry’s mind reeled. Hermione did this? His Hermione—his brilliant, stubborn, fiercely protective Hermione—had somehow trapped this thing in a vow?

“When?” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “How?”

The entity’s lip curled. “When she realized what this place was. When she understood I was the one pulling the strings.” She gestured lazily toward the bed, where Ron’s massive hands were now kneading Hermione’s hips, lifting her effortlessly onto his lap. Harry’s stomach twisted as Ron’s thick cock slid back into her with a wet, obscene sound. Hermione gasped, her back arching, her fingers digging into Ron’s shoulders.

The entity smirked. “She fought so hard for you. Bargained like a true Gryffindor.” A pause. “Pathetic, really.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, his throat burning with unshed tears. “Tell me what she gave you in return,” he demanded, his voice ragged.

The entity tilted Hermione’s head, black eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “You think you matter enough to know?” She laughed, a sound like shattering glass. “You’re not part of this story, Harry. You never were. Just an extra—dragged along because she couldn’t bear to leave you behind.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He tried to lunge forward, to grab her, to do something—but his body refused to obey. His muscles locked in place, his limbs heavy as lead. The chair beneath him might as well have been fused to his skin.

On the bed, Hermione let out a breathy moan as Ron’s massive hands gripped her waist, lifting her effortlessly before slamming her back down onto his cock. The obscene slap of skin against skin filled the room, rhythmic and relentless. Ron’s face was flushed, his blue eyes dark with lust as he muttered filthy praise against Hermione’s neck.

“That’s it, love… take all of me…”

Harry’s vision blurred. His chest ached like an open wound. He couldn’t look away—couldn’t even blink.

The entity leaned in close, Hermione’s lips brushing his ear. “You see now, don’t you?” she whispered. “She chose this. She wanted this. Big, strong Ron—the man who could actually fill her properly.”

Harry’s breath hitched. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair, nails biting into the wood.

“No,” he choked out.

The entity’s grin widened. “Oh, yes.” She stepped back, gesturing lazily toward the bed. “So why don’t you sit there like a good little cuckold… and enjoy the show?”

A fresh wave of helpless rage surged through Harry, but his body remained frozen. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t even close his eyes.

So he did the only thing left to him.

He retreated inward.

His mind folded in on itself, pulling away from the horror in front of him. The sounds of Hermione’s pleasure, Ron’s grunts, the wet slap of their bodies—they grew distant, muffled, as if underwater.

The entity watched Harry's vacant expression with growing irritation, her borrowed face twisting into a scowl. She snapped her fingers in front of his eyes—once, twice—but his pupils remained unfocused, his breathing slow and steady despite the horrors surrounding him.

"Well, that's not fun," she muttered, the playful lilt in her voice now sharp with annoyance. Without warning, she backhanded him across the face, the crack of flesh against flesh echoing through the crimson-draped bedroom. Harry's head jerked to the side, but his expression didn’t change. No flinch. No gasp. Nothing.

The entity clicked her tongue. "Oh, come on," she cooed, dragging a fingernail—long and unnaturally sharp—down the length of Harry’s forearm. A thin red line bloomed in its wake, beads of blood welling up, but still, he didn’t react. His fingers remained limp against the chair, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the room.

She leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear. "Still nothing?" she whispered, then suddenly clamped her hand over his mouth and nose, cutting off his air. His chest hitched—just once—before settling back into that same, maddening rhythm. After a few seconds, she released him with a frustrated growl.

"Ugh. Taking away my fun, Harry," she sighed, stepping back and crossing her arms like a disappointed parent. "You’re boring me. And honestly?" She flicked a glance toward the bed, where Hermione was rocking slowly against Ron, her head thrown back in pleasure. "You’re killing the mood."

Ron’s large hands splayed possessively over Hermione’s hips, guiding her movements, his own breath coming in rough, uneven bursts. "Fuck, Hermione," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "You feel so fucking good."

The entity rolled her black, depthless eyes. "You don’t like this story, Harry?" she mused, tapping a finger against her chin. "Fine. I'll send you straight to the epilogue."

With a snap of her fingers, Harry vanished from the chair, the space where he’d been sitting now empty. The entity exhaled dramatically, then turned her full attention back to the bed, her lips curving into a wicked smile.

"Now, my little puppets," she purred, twirling a lock of Hermione’s hair between her fingers. "No more distractions. Continue your play for me."