Hermione's POV (Part 3)

Hermione opened her mouth to protest—to beg, to scream—but the demon’s black eyes flashed crimson. A wave of unnatural heaviness crashed over her, her limbs turning to lead. The room blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in like ink spilled across parchment.

Her knees buckled.

She barely felt the plush embrace of the sofa as she collapsed into it, her body going limp.

Hermione’s vision swam as consciousness returned in sluggish waves. A deep, throbbing pressure pulsed between her legs—an insistent fullness that made her breath hitch. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with unnatural drowsiness, and the first thing she saw was the pale expanse of Ron’s chest beneath her trembling fingers.

Her hips moved of their own accord, rocking in slow, sinuous undulations that dragged her body up and down along the thick, searing length buried inside her. A moan—soft, involuntary—escaped her lips as her inner walls clenched around him, the sensation both foreign and terrifyingly familiar.

“R-Ron?” she whispered, her voice trembling, her fingers flexing against his chest as if unsure whether to push away or pull him closer.

His name tasted strange on her tongue, too intimate, too raw. His hands—broad, calloused from years gripping his Quidditch Broom—rested lightly on her hips, guiding but not forcing. His blue eyes, darkened with lust but laced with something else—confusion? Guilt?—locked onto hers.

Hermione’s thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm as pleasure overtook her. The fullness inside her was overwhelming—thick, relentless, and impossibly deep—and her body moved without her consent, riding Ron’s cock in slow, sinful undulations. A moan slipped past her lips, breathy and desperate, as her hips rolled forward, grinding down against him, seeking more friction, more heat.

Her vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting in and out of focus. She could hear voices—hers and Ron’s—but the words melted together into meaningless noise. The demon’s presence curled around her mind like smoke, tendrils of dark magic stroking the edges of her consciousness, smothering resistance.

“That’s it, pet,” the demon’s voice whispered inside her skull, smooth as silk. “Just let go. Doesn’t it feel good?”

Hermione whimpered, her thighs trembling as she sank down again, taking Ron deeper. A fresh wave of pleasure shuddered through her, hot and liquid, and she arched her back, fingers digging into Ron’s chest. Her nipples ached, stiff and sensitive beneath her blouse, rubbing against him with every movement.

Above her, the demon—wearing her face—leaned over the bed, running fingers through Ron’s hair. Hermione caught flashes of the conversation, disjointed and distant.

The warmth spread through Hermione like liquid fire, melting away the last brittle threads of resistance. Her body moved with a will of its own, hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles as Ron’s thick cock stretched her impossibly full. A moan—soft and breathless—escaped her lips as she ground down against him, her inner walls fluttering around his girth.

She could feel him now, properly feel him—every throbbing inch of him—as he thrust up into her, matching her rhythm with slow, deep strokes. His hands tightened on her hips, calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh there, and the possessive grip sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.

This isn’t real, a tiny, distant part of her mind whispered. This is the demon’s doing.

But she didn’t care.

Not when pleasure coiled tight in her belly, hot and insistent. Not when Ron’s breath hitched beneath her, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. Not when his cock twitched inside her, filling her so completely that she could barely think past the sensation.

Her hands slid up his chest, fingers tangling in the coarse red hair there before gripping his shoulders for balance. His skin was hot beneath her palms, slick with sweat, and she could feel the powerful muscles of his arms flexing as he guided her movements.

"Fuck, Hermione," Ron groaned, his voice rough with lust. His hips jerked upward, driving himself even deeper, and she gasped as the thick head of his cock brushed against a spot inside her that made her vision blur.

The demon’s laughter echoed in her mind, dark and delighted. "See? You were always meant for this."

Hermione whimpered, her body clenching around Ron as another wave of pleasure crashed over her. She was close—so close—her thighs trembling, her breaths coming in short, desperate pants.

Ron’s grip on her hips tightened, his thrusts growing more urgent, more erratic. His blue eyes burned into hers, pupils blown wide with need. "I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long," he admitted in a ragged whisper.

The words sent a fresh wave of heat through her, and she arched her back, pressing her breasts against his chest as she rode him harder, faster.

Then, without warning, the pleasure crested, white-hot and all-consuming. She cried out as she came, her body shuddering around him, her nails biting into his skin. Ron followed moments later, his hips snapping up one last time as he spilled inside her with a deep, guttural groan.

For a long moment, there was only silence—heavy and thick—broken only by their ragged breathing.

The hours blurred together in a haze of sweat and shadows, the manor's timeless loop stretching each moment into an eternity. Hermione's body, no longer her own, moved in rhythm with Ron's, their entwined forms a testament to the demon's twisted will. The entity's presence lingered, a constant whisper in her mind, pulling the strings of her puppeteered existence. Each thrust, each moan, each shuddering climax was orchestrated, a symphony of debasement conducted by the unseen force that had claimed her.

Ron's hands roamed her body, his touch a mix of urgency and reverence, yet Hermione felt it all through a veil of detachment. The demon's influence ebbed and flowed, allowing glimpses of her own consciousness to surface before drowning them in waves of pleasure. She was aware, yet not, a prisoner in her own flesh as the entity reveled in her degradation. The room around them grew darker, the air thick with the scent of sex and something far more sinister, a reminder that this was no ordinary tryst.

As the final climax approached, Hermione's breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling with exhaustion. Ron's grip tightened, his movements becoming more frantic, driven by a hunger that wasn't entirely his own. The demon's laughter echoed in her mind, a cold, mirthless sound that chilled even as the heat of their bodies mingled. And when it was over, when Ron collapsed beside her, spent and silent, Hermione lay still, her mind racing with the horror of what had transpired.

The weight of her actions pressed down on her, a crushing burden that threatened to consume her. The demon's presence lingered, a shadow in her thoughts, as she realized the true extent of her enslavement. She was a pawn, a tool used to satiate the entity's desires, and the manor's endless loop offered no escape. The darkness closed in around her, a living, breathing entity that whispered a single, terrifying truth: she was trapped, and there was no hope of redemption.

"Now, now, there is no need for such sadness after such a wonderful display," the entity mocked, its voice dripping with amusement as it hovered above the bed, its shadow stretching across the rumpled sheets. Its form flickered like smoke against the carved wooden bed frame, its glowing eyes fixed on Hermione’s trembling body.

Hermione felt the weight of her guilt—thick and suffocating—begin to ebb away, not by her own will, but by the demon’s cruel magic. It slithered into her mind, dulling the sharp edges of her shame, forcing her racing thoughts to slow. She clenched her fists in the sheets, her nails digging into the fabric, but the despair that had threatened to swallow her only moments ago now felt distant, muted.

Next to her, Ron let out a deep, contented snore, his massive chest rising and falling steadily. His freckled skin glistened with sweat, his red hair plastered to his forehead, utterly spent. His arm was still draped possessively over her waist, his fingers twitching slightly in sleep. The sight of him—so peaceful, so unaware—made her throat tighten.

Hermione turned her head toward the entity, her brown eyes narrowing. "Why this?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from hours of cries she hadn’t fully meant to make.

The demon tilted its head, its grin widening. "Why what, pet?" it purred, feigning innocence even as its voice dripped with mockery.

Annoyance flared in Hermione’s chest, hot and sudden, but before it could take root, the demon’s influence pressed down on her again, smoothing out the irritation like a hand stroking a startled animal. Her breathing steadied despite herself.

"This," she bit out, gesturing weakly to herself, to Ron, to the mess of tangled limbs and damp sheets. "Sex. Is this all you wanted?"

The demon let out a rich, throaty laugh that echoed unnaturally in the dim room. It leaned closer, its form shifting like liquid shadow, and Hermione felt the air grow colder where its presence lingered. "Oh, my sweet little witch," it crooned, "I am a lust demon first and foremost. I love it. I crave it."

Its voice dropped to a whisper, sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. "The heat of bodies, the desperation, the way pleasure can break even the strongest wills..." It sighed, as if savoring the memory. "And you, Hermione Potter—so stubborn, so righteous—watching you unravel was delicious."

Hermione swallowed hard, her skin prickling with revulsion—and yet, beneath it, something else flickered.

The demon’s grin widened, its glowing eyes tracing the flush creeping up Hermione’s neck. “Oh, but we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve betrayed your precious husband,” it murmured, its voice like silk over steel.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“Viktor Krum,” the demon crooned, dragging a shadowy finger down her bare arm. “Big, strong Viktor. Your first. Do you remember how he ruined you for other men? How he stretched you open with that thick Bulgarian cock, how often you use that memory when your husband is making love to you?”

A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. She did remember—the heat of the Durmstrang ship, the way Viktor had pinned her against the wall, how she’d gasped when he’d first pushed inside her—

“And then there’s Harry,” the demon continued, laughing softly. “Sweet, noble Harry. Your husband.” It spat the word like a curse. “Did you cry the first time you saw his pathetic little prick? Did you lie to him when he asked if he satisfied you?”

Hermione’s nails dug deeper into the sheets. She had. Every time.

The demon leaned in, its breath cold against her ear. “But Ron… oh, Ron.” Its fingers trailed lower, ghosting over her hip. “You never forgot his cock, did you? Even when you were on your back for Harry, even when he put those precious children in you, you were thinking of this—”

Its hand slid between her legs, and Hermione jerked, a strangled moan tearing from her throat.

“So wet,” the demon purred. “Still dripping from him. You crave it. You always have.”

Ron stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her waist, his calloused fingers brushing her stomach. The demon’s laughter curled through her mind.

“Poor, loyal Hermione,” it whispered. “Such a good wife. Such a good mother. And yet here you are, shuddering on your best friend’s cock like a common whore.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, her breath hitching as the demon’s words slithered into her mind, venomous and precise. She wanted to deny it, to scream that she loved Harry—that she had always loved Harry—but the truth sat heavy in her gut, undeniable.

"I do love him," she forced out, her voice cracking. "I love my husband."

The demon’s laughter was a slow, cruel ripple in the air. Its shadowy fingers traced the curve of her cheek, the touch icy against her flushed skin. "Yes... yes, you do," it mused, tilting its head in mock admiration. "Didn’t stop you from thinking of Ron whilst you were making love to your husband, though."

A whimper escaped her lips before she could stifle it. The shame was immediate, scalding. She had thought of Ron—more than once. Late nights tangled in the sheets with Harry, his thin body pressed against hers, his small cock struggling to fill her the way she needed. She’d bitten her lip, closed her eyes, and imagined thicker fingers, broader shoulders, a real man’s weight pinning her down—

The demon’s grin widened, its glowing eyes reflecting her own face back at her, twisted in pleasure and self-loathing. "You poor thing," it cooed. "Fifteen years of marriage. Two beautiful children. And still, you lie there, thighs sticky with another man’s seed, knowing you’d do it again."

Ron stirred beside her, his massive arm tightening around her waist, his breath hot against her neck. Hermione trembled, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, her skin hypersensitive where his calloused fingers brushed her hip. She could feel him—all of him—even now, the sheer size of him leaving her stretched and aching in ways Harry never could.

The demon leaned in, its lips grazing her ear. "Tell me, Hermione," it murmured, "when was the last time Harry made you come like that?"

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

A slow, knowing smirk curled the demon’s mouth. "That’s what I thought."

Hermione’s breath hitched as the demon’s fingers lingered against her flushed skin, its touch like ice against the heat of her shame. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t give it the satisfaction.

The demon tilted its head, studying her with a predator’s patience. The glow of its eyes dimmed slightly as it took in the exhaustion etched into Hermione’s face—the trembling of her lower lip, the way her fingers clutched the sheets like they were the only thing tethering her to reality. For a moment, something almost resembling pity flickered in its gaze.

Boredom, it decided. That was all.

With a lazy flick of its wrist, the demon dragged a clawed fingertip down Hermione’s sternum, and she shuddered as a strange, heavy numbness seeped into her bones. The crushing weight of guilt, the acid burn of betrayal—it all dulled, just slightly, as if the demon had siphoned away the sharpest edges of her despair.

“There,” it murmured, voice dripping with false sweetness. “Wouldn’t want my favorite toy breaking so soon.”

Hermione’s eyelids fluttered, her body sagging against the mattress as the unnatural lethargy spread through her limbs. She tried to fight it, tried to lift her head, but her muscles refused to obey.

The demon smirked, watching as her lashes finally lowered, her breathing evening out into forced slumber. Ron, still sprawled beside her, groaned in his sleep, his arm tightening around her waist possessively. The demon’s lip curled in amusement.

Pathetic creatures.

With a final, lingering glance at Hermione’s slackened face—so vulnerable now, so human—it exhaled, the sound like wind through dead leaves. The shadows in the room deepened, swirling around its form as it stepped back.

“Oh well,” it mused, voice already fading into the darkness. “I wonder what I’ll have them do tomorrow.”

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.