Chapter Ten (Main)

A whisper of movement, a flicker of unnatural light—and then it was gone.

The only sound left was the slow, rhythmic breathing of two people who should never have been in this bed together.

And the distant, mocking chime of a clock stuck at 3:37.

Ron's eyelids fluttered open, the pounding in his skull threatening to split his forehead. The air smelled faintly of cedar and candle wax, the scent thick and cloying against his dry throat. His fingers twitched against silk sheets—real silk, the kind that whispered against his calloused Quidditch hands as he flexed them.

The bed beneath him was massive, its carved wooden frame looming like the ribs of some great beast. Crimson velvet curtains pooled around the posts, their gold tassels swaying slightly in a nonexistent breeze. Gryffindor colors. His stomach twisted.

Then he saw her.

Hermione lay beside him, her chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. The dim candlelight gilded the curve of her cheek, the swell of her lips slightly parted in sleep. Her hair fanned across the pillow, thick and wild even after all these years. The neckline of her blouse had slipped just enough to reveal the top of one full breast, the shadow between them deep and tempting.

Ron's mouth went dry.

A floorboard creaked.

"She is quite the beauty, is she not?"

The voice slithered from the shadows near the wardrobe, smooth as poisoned honey. Ron jerked upright, his muscles screaming in protest. His wand—where the hell was his wand?

Another Hermione emerged from the shadows, her presence as unsettling as the first. Her smile was a thin, mirthless line, and with a slight wave of her hand, Ron felt his body lock in place, unable to move or escape. He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat as he fell back onto the bed, laid out like an offering.

"Who are you?" he managed to stammer, his eyes darting between the two Hermiones. The one who had just appeared chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough, Ronald," she said, her voice dripping with malice. "But first, I think it's time I woke up our sleeping beauty." She glanced towards the sleeping Hermione, who began to stir, her expression softening as she saw Ron. "Hello, handsome," she murmured, her voice laced with a warmth that hadn't been directed at him in years.

Ron's body reacted instinctively, his cock twitching at the familiar endearment, despite the horror of the situation. The duplicate Hermione's smile widened, clearly enjoying his reaction. "Yes, Ronald," she purred, "you've missed this, haven't you?"

Ron’s breath hitched as the real Hermione—warm, alive, her brown eyes heavy-lidded with something dangerously close to desire—pressed her lips to his. The kiss was slow at first, a gentle exploration, her mouth soft and yielding. But then her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and the heat between them flared.

She tasted like mint tea and honey, just as he remembered. His body reacted instantly, his cock swelling painfully against the confines of his trousers, thick and throbbing. A low groan rumbled in his chest as her tongue slid against his, teasing, coaxing. His hands itched to touch her, to grip the lush curve of her hips, but the paralysis held him immobile.

The other Hermione—the one with the black, endless eyes—leaned against the bedpost, watching with a smirk. Her fingers trailed lazily over her own collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of her blouse. "Mmm, he always did want you like this," she murmured, her voice thick with amusement. "Pathetic, really. Pining after his best mate’s wife."

The real Hermione broke the kiss with a gasp, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen.

Ron’s protest died in his throat as the black-eyed Hermione’s irises flashed crimson—a blink of hellish light—and suddenly, his clothes were gone. The cool air hit his bare skin, his muscles tensing as the paralysis held him sprawled across the bed. Beside him, the real Hermione gasped as her own clothes vanished, her lush body laid bare—the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the soft thatch of curls between her thighs. Ron’s cock twitched violently at the sight, thick and heavy against his stomach, veins pulsing under flushed skin.

“Wha—Hermione, stop—” His voice cracked as her fingers trailed down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his ribs. She didn’t answer, her eyes glazed, lips parted as if in a trance. Her touch dipped lower, fingertips brushing the coarse hair at the base of his cock before wrapping around his shaft. A ragged groan tore from Ron’s throat as she squeezed, her grip firm, her thumb swiping over the leaking tip.

“Harry—fuck—where’s Harry?” he choked out, hips jerking involuntarily. The black-eyed Hermione laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Does it matter?” she purred, circling the bed like a predator. “Look at her. She wants you.”

And Merlin help him, she did. The real Hermione’s breath hitched as she stroked him, her touch slow, teasing, her thumb pressing into the slit, smearing pre-cum down his length. Ron’s thighs trembled, his mind screaming at him to push her away even as his body arched into her touch. Then—Christ—she leaned down, her hair brushing his thighs, and licked a hot stripe up his shaft.

Ron’s vision whited out for a second. “Hermione—”

She didn’t stop. Her lips parted, warm and wet, and took him into her mouth. The heat was unbearable, her tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as she sank down, taking him deeper. Ron’s back bowed off the bed, a strangled curse tearing from his lips. She moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight to his balls, and he could feel her throat fluttering as she worked him, her fingers kneading his thighs.

The black-eyed Hermione watched, her own fingers trailing between her legs, her breath coming faster. “She’s good at this, isn’t she?” she murmured. “All those years with Harry… practicing.”

Ron’s stomach twisted at the thought—Harry, his best friend, his brother in everything but blood—but the guilt was swallowed by the slick heat of Hermione’s mouth.

"What's going on? Why are you doing this?" Ron pleaded, his voice strained between arousal and terror. The black-eyed Hermione—no, the thing wearing her face—laughed, the sound like nails dragging over glass.

"Because I want to," it purred, leaning in so close he could feel its breath, cold and unnatural, against his lips. "And because you owe me." Its smile twisted into something vicious, a snarl flashing behind the illusion of Hermione’s perfect teeth.

Ron’s stomach dropped. "Owe you? I’ve—I’ve never even met you before!" His voice cracked as the real Hermione—still trapped in whatever trance held her—swirled her tongue around the head of his cock, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through him.

The creature tilted its head, considering him with those endless black eyes. Then it sighed, as if indulging a child. "Well… I suppose you didn’t do anything. Your ancestor, on the other hand…" It trailed off, fingers tracing idle patterns over the real Hermione’s bare shoulder, making her shiver.

Ron’s mind raced. "My—what? Who?"

A flicker of something ancient and cruel passed over the false Hermione’s face. "Septimus Weasley," it hissed, the name dripping with venom. "He promised me a debt. A life for a life. And he ran."

Ron’s mind reeled. Septimus Weasley? The name was familiar only from the tapestry at The Burrow—some long-dead ancestor whose portrait had sneered at him as a child. He barely had time to process it before the false Hermione rolled her eyes, her black, depthless gaze flickering with impatience.

"Really?" she drawled, her fingers still idly tracing the real Hermione’s frozen shoulder. "You want the history lesson now, with your cock buried in your best friend’s wife’s mouth?" Her lips curled into a smirk as Ron’s face burned.

"I—just—fuck—tell me what the hell is going on!" Ron gasped, his hips twitching involuntarily against Hermione’s stilled lips. The heat of her mouth around him was maddening, her breath shallow against his skin. The paralysis still gripped him, leaving him helpless, but the sensation—Christ—it was impossible to ignore.

The creature sighed dramatically, flicking a strand of Hermione’s hair over her shoulder. "Fine," it said, voice dripping with condescension. "Septimus Weasley made a bargain with me—a life debt. He promised me a sacrifice. A pure sacrifice." Its fingers trailed down Hermione’s spine, making her shiver despite the time-freeze. "And then he cheated me."

Ron’s stomach twisted. "What does that have to do with me?"

The false Hermione leaned in, her breath unnaturally cold against his ear. "Blood pays for blood, Ronald," she whispered. "And since he’s long dead... you will do."