Harry's POV (Part 2)

Harry’s head throbbed as he slowly came to, the first thing he noticed was the unexpected comfort of the lounge chair he was sitting in. It was plush, almost too soft, and it cradled his body in a way that felt both soothing and suffocating. His vision was blurry at first, but as it cleared, he was met with a sight that made his blood run cold. The mirror in front of him reflected an image that he couldn’t look away from—Hermione, his wife, was on top of Ron, her movements frantic and her expressions twisted in a way he had never seen before. The sounds from earlier still echoed in his ears, a cacophony of moans and grunts that seemed to fill the entire room.

He tried to move, to turn away, but his body felt heavy, as if an invisible force was holding him in place. Panic set in as he realized he was completely naked, his clothes gone without any recollection of how they had been removed. His eyes darted down to his lap, and he felt a surge of humiliation and fear as he saw his erect penis, small and insignificant compared to what he was seeing in the mirror. The room seemed to spin around him, the mirrors on every wall reflecting the same horrifying scene from every angle, making it impossible to escape the sight of Hermione and Ron.

“They do paint a lovely portrait, don’t they?” The voice was soft, almost melodic, but it sent chills down Harry’s spine. He turned his head, and there she was—Hermione, or at least, a version of her. She was still naked, her body glowing faintly in the dim light, and her smile was wide and crazed, with a glint in her black, empty eyes that made her almost unrecognizable. “You’ve always had such a knack for finding yourself in the most… interesting situations, Harry,” she continued, her voice dripping with an unsettling sweetness.

Harry's lips parted, but no sound emerged—his throat clenched tight as if stuffed with cotton. The Not-Hermione beside him tilted her head, black eyes glazing with pleasure as she watched the mirror. Her fingers trailed up her own body, cupping full breasts that spilled between her fingers, thumbs brushing over peaked nipples. "Look at her," she sighed, voice syrupy with admiration. "Motherhood sculpted her so perfectly... those heavy tits, those lush hips..." A wet pop echoed as Ron's thick cock slid free for a moment before Hermione—the real Hermione—ground back down, taking every monstrous inch with a wanton moan.

The chair's velvet embrace turned cloying as Harry strained against unseen bonds. Spit pooled under his tongue, useless. Not-Hermione's nails dug into her own flesh, leaving red crescents as the mirror-Hermione arched, back bowing like a drawn arrow. "And Ronald," the entity purred, "so strong from all those years catching quaffles... Imagine those Quidditch-callused hands gripping your wife's waist..." Her own hands mimed the motion, squeezing imaginary curves as Ron's actual fingers left bruises on pale hips.

A drop of sweat slid down Harry's temple. The air reeked of sex and something metallic—like a butcher's block after a fresh kill. Not-Hermione's breathing hitched as mirror-Ron flipped their positions, pinning Hermione facedown with one hand while the other fisted in her hair. "You never filled her like this, did you?" she murmured, pressing her cheek against Harry's as he trembled. "Four inches can't stretch a woman who's pushed out two babies..." Her laughter was the sound of glass breaking.

Mirror-Hermione's screams climbed higher, nails scrabbling at the floor as Ron pistoned into her, the slap of flesh drowning out Harry's silent gagging. Not-Hermione's thighs slickened, her free hand sliding between them with obscene squelches. "She's close—can you see it? That flutter in her belly?"

"Oh my, let me help you with that," she cooed, her black eyes glinting as they flicked down to Harry’s exposed flesh. Before he could react—not that his paralyzed body would have allowed it—she sank to her knees between his thighs, her fingers wrapping around his stiff, shamefully small cock. A whimper caught in his throat as her thumb swiped over the leaking tip, smearing precum in slow, deliberate circles.

"Look at them, Harry," she murmured, nodding toward the mirrors where Hermione’s back arched violently, her full breasts bouncing as Ron hammered into her from behind. "She’s taking him so well, isn’t she? Every inch, every thrust—she’s made for this." Her hand began to pump him in time with Ron’s brutal rhythm, the slick sounds of her palm against his skin mingling with Hermione’s broken moans.

Harry’s stomach twisted. He could feel it—the obscene stretch of Ron’s monstrous cock splitting Hermione open, the way her body convulsed around him, the sticky slap of skin on skin echoing through the chamber. His own pathetic length twitched in the Not-Hermione’s grip, betraying him.

"They’ve been at it for hours," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "Ronald’s about to fill her up again. Watch—watch—"

In the mirror, Ron’s massive hands clamped down on Hermione’s hips, his muscles straining as he buried himself to the hilt. A guttural groan tore from his throat, and Harry saw it—the thick pulse of his release, the way Hermione’s body milked him greedily, her own climax wracking her frame as she screamed.

The Not-Hermione’s strokes turned punishing, her free hand cupping his balls, squeezing just shy of pain. "She loves it," she hissed. "Loves feeling him flood her, loves knowing she’s full of him—"

Harry’s jaw clenched so hard it felt like his teeth might shatter. His body betrayed him, the pleasure mingling with disgust as he fought the inevitable. The Not-Hermione’s smile widened, her black eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. She leaned closer, her breath cold against his ear. "You can’t hold on much longer, can you, Harry? You’re so weak, so pathetic compared to Ronald."

Suddenly, the mirrors around them flickered, the images distorting before snapping back into focus. But something was different. The scene now reflected Ron’s point of view, as if Harry were seeing it through his friend’s eyes. Hermione’s lush form filled the frame, her hips rolling back to meet each brutal thrust. Her breasts jiggled obscenely, her face twisted in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Ron’s massive hands gripped her hips like a vice, his thick fingers leaving deep bruises in her pale flesh. The sound of their bodies slamming together echoed through the chamber, a wet, rhythmic slap that made Harry’s stomach churn.

The Not-Hermione’s laughter echoed through the room, a chilling, melodic sound that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. "Look at her," she whispered, her voice dripping with malice.

Harry’s body jerked as the orgasm ripped through him, his cock pulsing violently in the Not-Hermione’s grip. Thick ropes of cum splattered across his stomach, some landing on her fingers as she milked every last drop from him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming with humiliation as the echoes of Hermione’s moans still filled the chamber.

The Not-Hermione giggled, lifting her glistening hand to her lips. Her black eyes gleamed as she dragged her tongue along her fingers, savoring the taste of him with a slow, deliberate flick. “Mmm,” she hummed, tilting her head. “Not much to you, is there? But then again…” Her gaze flicked toward the mirror, where Ron’s massive form still dominated Hermione’s writhing body. “...you never stood a chance, did you?”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He wanted to scream, to lunge at her, but his limbs remained leaden, trapped in whatever invisible force held him. The sight of his wife—her breasts bouncing, her face contorted in ecstasy as Ron pounded into her—was burned into his mind. His own release had been involuntary, a sickening betrayal of his body, and now he lay there, sticky and spent, while the Not-Hermione smirked down at him.

She leaned in, her breath cold against his ear. “That was fun, wasn’t it?” Her voice was a singsong whisper, dripping with mockery. “Now, behave yourself.” Her fingers trailed down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his sensitive skin. “I’ll be back soon.”

And just like that, she was gone.

The room plunged into absolute darkness, the mirrors vanishing as if they had never existed. The sounds—Hermione’s cries, Ron’s grunts, the wet slap of flesh—cut off abruptly, leaving only silence.