Chapter Six

Ron's fingers dug into his thigh as the last thread of his restraint snapped. The watch burned against his skin, its golden surface warm with promise. In the split second between Hermione tucking her hair behind her ear and turning back to the counter, his hand darted to his pocket. The familiar grooves of the watch's engravings pressed into his palm as he twisted the crown with practiced precision.

Time froze.

The laughter died mid-breath. Harry's hand, raised in animated gesture, hung motionless in the air. James' quill hovered above his parchment, ink suspended in a glossy black droplet. And Hermione—Hermione was perfectly, beautifully still, her lips parted around an unfinished word, her chest no longer rising with breath.

Ron stood slowly, the scrape of his chair the only sound in the silent kitchen. His pulse roared in his ears as he circled the table, his gaze raking over Hermione’s frozen form. The sunlight still caught in her curls, but they no longer moved with her breath. The flush of warmth in her cheeks was fixed, preserved like a painting.

He reached out, fingertips trembling as they grazed the curve of her jaw. Her skin was warm, real—but unmoving. A shudder ran through him.

"You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this," he murmured, though she couldn’t hear him.

His lips crashed against hers with a hunger that had festered for years, his hands cradling her frozen face as if she might dissolve beneath his touch. The stillness of her mouth against his **** movements sent a dark thrill through him—she couldn’t pull away, couldn’t protest, couldn’t even blink as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before pushing past. The taste of her was intoxicating, the faint sweetness of tea and something uniquely Hermione flooding his senses. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, exposing the **** line of her throat as he devoured her with a possessiveness that bordered on ****.

Across the table, Harry remained frozen mid-laugh, his eyes crinkled in amusement, utterly unaware of his best friend’s betrayal. Jaimes’s outstretched hand hovered inches from his fallen quill, his childish grin preserved in time. The irony wasn’t lost on Ron—here he was, claiming what should have been his in front of the very people who’d stolen her from him. A twisted satisfaction curled in his chest as his free hand slid down Hermione’s side, memorizing the curve of her waist through the thin fabric of her blouse.

He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along her jaw, teeth scraping the delicate skin beneath her ear.

His lips left a searing trail down the delicate column of her throat, each kiss more **** than the last. The faint scent of her perfume - something floral with a hint of vanilla - filled his nostrils as he nuzzled against the hollow of her collarbone. His fingers fumbled with the top button of her blouse, the tiny pearl slipping free with a quiet pop that echoed in the frozen silence.

The second button gave way more easily, revealing a tantalizing inch of creamy skin above the lace trim of her bra. Ron's breath came in ragged gasps as he worked the third button loose, his knuckles brushing against the swell of her breasts. The contact sent electric jolts through him, his cock straining painfully against his trousers.

When the fourth button surrendered, the fabric fell open to reveal the delicate lace cups barely containing Hermione's full breasts. A thin sheen of sweat glistened in the hollow between them, catching the frozen sunlight like morning dew. Ron moaned against her skin as he dragged his tongue along the scalloped edge of the lace, tasting salt and the faintest trace of her lavender soap.

His trembling fingers hooked under the left cup, peeling it down to expose a stiffening pink nipple. The sight of it - so ****, so perfect in its stillness - made his vision swim with desire.

Ron's tongue had just flicked across Hermione's exposed nipple when movement in his peripheral vision made him freeze. His secret daughter—his and Hermione's—sat motionless at the table, her small fingers curled around a half-eaten biscuit. Her wide, unblinking eyes stared straight ahead, frozen like everything else—but seeing her there, so close, sent a jolt of panic through him.

Not here. Not where she could—

His breath hitched. The weight of his own depravity crashed over him, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Instead, it sharpened his hunger, made it more ****. He couldn’t take her here, not in front of her. But that didn’t mean he would stop.

His grip tightened around Hermione’s waist, lifting her effortlessly in the frozen moment. Her body was warm, pliant in his arms, her head lolling back as he cradled her against his chest. The scent of her hair—honey and parchment—filled his nostrils as he carried her through the Potter home, past the motionless figures of Harry’s Auror commendations on the walls, past the family photographs frozen mid-laugh.

The bedroom door creaked open under his shoulder. The room smelled like them—like Harry’s cologne and Hermione’s vanilla lotion, like the lingering musk of their shared intimacy. The bed was neatly made, but the indentations in the pillows betrayed where they slept, where they tangled together at night. A flare of jealousy burned through him, sharp as Fiendfyre.

Ron laid Hermione down on the mattress with a reverence that bordered on worship, her curls fanning out across Harry’s pillow.

His hands shook as they traced the slope of her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt. The soft cotton bunched in his grip as he pushed it up her thighs, revealing the delicate lace of her knickers—white, pristine, like something innocent despite the dampness he knew he’d find beneath. His throat tightened.

He shouldn’t.

But he would.

The mattress dipped under his knee as he climbed over her, his shadow swallowing her still form. Even frozen, she was radiant—her lips slightly parted, her chest rising in the illusion of breath. He dragged his thumb along the seam of her knickers, feeling the heat through the fabric. His cock throbbed, straining against his trousers, and he ground against her thigh just to relieve the pressure.

A sound escaped him—something between a groan and a curse—as he hooked his fingers into the lace and peeled it down. The sight of her, bare and ****, sent a vicious thrill through him. His palm slid up the inside of her thigh, rough with calluses from Quidditch, and she was so soft, so warm, even in this stolen moment.

He didn’t hesitate.

Two fingers pressed into her, and the slick heat of her made his vision blur. She was tight, clenching around nothing, and his breath came in ragged bursts as he worked his fingers deeper. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

His fingers curled inside her, slow and deliberate, dragging against her inner walls with a possessive rhythm. The slick sound of it—so obscene in the silence of frozen time—made his pulse hammer in his throat. She was so warm, so impossibly alive despite the stillness, and when he crooked his fingers just right, her body clenched around him in an involuntary spasm. A shudder wracked through him at the sensation, his cock twitching painfully against the confines of his trousers.

Ron exhaled raggedly, his breath hot against her neck as he bent lower, lips grazing the frantic pulse point beneath her jaw. His free hand slid up her torso, thumb brushing the stiff peak of her nipple in teasing circles. He wanted to see her squirm, wanted to hear her gasp—but the watch kept her locked in perfect stillness, her pleasure his alone to witness.

A low groan tore from his throat as he added a third finger, stretching her wider, feeling her body resist for only a fraction of a second before yielding to him. His hips jerked forward, grinding against the mattress, the friction maddening. He could feel the damp spot where his precum had soaked through his trousers, his need for a live wire under his skin.

"Fuck," he hissed, dragging his mouth down her collarbone, teeth scraping over flushed skin.

Ron’s fingers worked deeper inside her, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he watched her face—still frozen, so beautifully unaware. The sight of her parted lips, the flutter of her lashes caught mid-blink, sent a fresh wave of heat through him. His free hand fumbled with his belt buckle, fingers clumsy with need, the leather slipping through his grasp twice before he finally managed to wrench it open. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the silent room, loud in his ears.

He cursed under his breath as he shoved his trousers down his hips, his cock springing free, already leaking. The cool air against his heated skin made him shudder, but he barely had the patience to kick his clothes off completely before his hands were back on her, peeling away the last barriers between them. Her skirt was bunched around her waist, her knickers barely clinging to one ankle—he yanked them free with a sharp tug, letting the lace fall discarded onto Harry’s side of the bed.

Ron’s throat tightened as he took her in—every curve, every freckle, every place he had touched before but never like this, never with Harry’s scent still clinging to the sheets beneath them. His palm smoothed up her thigh, possessive, reverent, before gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.