Hermione's POV

Author's Notes:
So if you're reading this then I hope you enjoy the exclusive content of this story, much of it will be the same as the main section but with a few bells and whistles more to the actual text.

Some time later Hermione was roused from her slumber and found herself in a beautiful library with tomes filling hundreds of spaces in the many shelves, usually her first instinct with books would be to indulge herself but she found even if she wanted to she couldn’t has her body was frozen in place on the admittedly comfy leather sofa.

Then she felt it—the presence.

A whisper of movement to her left.

"Hello there, little mortal."

The voice was honeyed, amused, dripping with something between amusement and hunger. Hermione’s breath hitched as she turned her head—or tried to. Her neck barely obeyed, her muscles sluggish, her vision swimming at the edges.

The entity standing beside the sofa was wrong.

Bleached white, like bone left too long in the sun. Tall—taller than Ron, even—with a figure that was undeniably, grotesquely feminine: wide hips, a narrow waist, and breasts so full they strained against the eerie, seamless fabric of her gown. Curved horns, white as polished ivory, spiraled from her temples, and behind her, vast wings—like a bat’s, but feathered at the edges—stretched and flexed with slow, deliberate grace.

Hermione’s pulse hammered in her throat.

The creature tilted her head, her lips—too red, too full—curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They were solid black. No whites, no irises. Just endless, swallowing darkness.

"Afraid?" she murmured, trailing a clawed finger along the armrest. The sound of her nail scraping the velvet sent a shudder through Hermione’s body. "You shouldn't be, at least not yet but where are my manners, I'd bet you have a thousand questions do you not" it joked.

The demon’s black eyes gleamed with something akin to amusement as Hermione’s breath hitched. The weight pressing her into the velvet sofa lessened just enough for her lips to part.

"Who are you?" Her voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

The creature’s grin widened, revealing teeth too sharp, too perfect. "Mm. A demon, little witch. Though my true name would split your tongue in two if you tried to speak it." She leaned in, the scent of burnt sugar and something metallic clinging to her. "Perhaps a different question?"

Hermione’s mind raced, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "Did you bring me here?"

The demon’s laughter was a low, velvety purr. "Clever girl." She straightened, her wings flexing with a whisper of feathers against leather. "Yes. Though not just you. All three of you."

"Why?"

For the first time, the demon hesitated. A flicker of something unreadable passed over her bone-white features before she sighed, long and theatrical. "I suppose I can indulge that one." She tilted her head, horns catching the firelight. "Your redheaded friend is the reason you’re all trapped here."

Hermione’s stomach twisted. "Ron?"

The demon’s clawed fingers traced slow circles on the armrest, the velvet whispering beneath her touch. "Not your Ron specifically," she murmured, her black eyes glinting with ancient amusement. "But his blood. His ancestor—Septimus Weasley—summoned me. Made a deal." Her lips curled, revealing those needle-sharp teeth. "And then he trapped me here. Cheating bastard."

Hermione’s breath came shallow, her body still half-pinned to the sofa. The demon’s voice was like smoke—smooth, curling, laced with something bitter beneath the sweetness. "One hundred and forty-eight years," the creature continued, her wings rustling with the sound of dry parchment. "Bound to this wretched manor, this cage, because a Weasley couldn’t honor a bargain."

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the library’s depths. Hermione’s pulse spiked. Harry. Ron. Were they here too? Had the demon dragged them into this nightmare with her?

The demon noticed her flickering gaze and chuckled. "Oh, they’re close. Your brave husband and your... old flame." Her tongue dragged over the last words, savoring them. "But don’t worry. We’ll get to them."

Hermione swallowed. "What do you want?"

The demon leaned in, her breasts straining against the tight fabric of her gown, the scent of burnt sugar turning cloying. "Balance," she whispered. Her claw grazed Hermione’s collarbone, not quite breaking skin. "But debts accrue interest, little witch. And after a century and a half?" She smiled. "I’ll take more than what was owed."

Hermione's throat constricted as the demon's claw lingered against her collarbone. The air smelled of burning parchment and something cloyingly sweet—like rotting fruit left too long in the sun.

Stall. Think.

Her mind raced even as her body remained pinned to the velvet. "What did Septimus summon you for?" she asked, forcing her voice steady despite the tremor beneath her ribs.

The demon's grin faltered for half a second, her black eyes narrowing. Then she laughed—a sound like nails dragging over glass wrapped in silk. "Oh, little witch. Terms of agreements and debts cannot be discussed with another." Her claw traced idle circles on Hermione's skin, not quite breaking it. "Though I will state... it was an agreement for one of his loved ones."

A cold pit settled in Hermione's stomach. Loved ones. The Weasleys had always been a large family—generations of red-haired, warm-hearted wizards who would do anything for each other. What had Septimus bargained for? A cure? A life?

"And how did you get free?" Hermione pressed, her fingers twitching against the sofa's armrest. "If Septimus trapped you—"

The demon's wings flexed, casting jagged shadows across the library's endless shelves. Her smile turned vicious. "Ah. That's the delicious part." She leaned in, her breasts pressing against the tight fabric of her gown, the scent of her breath thick with the metallic tang of old blood. "The ritual Septimus used to cage me had a limit. It would only last for the next twenty male Weasleys after him."

Hermione's pulse stuttered.

"Ronald," the demon purred, "is the twentieth."

The realization hit like a curse to the chest. Ron. This was about Ron. The demon had been waiting—counting—tracking every redheaded son, brother, uncle, until the magic binding her had finally frayed.

"And now?" Hermione whispered.

The demon's claw dug in just enough to make her gasp. "Now, I collect."

Hermione’s breath hitched as the demon’s claw pressed deeper, a bead of blood welling where the sharp tip indented her skin. “Please,” she gasped, her voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t kill him. Ron—he’s my best friend. He didn’t even know about this debt. You can’t punish him for something his ancestor did.”

The demon’s laughter slithered through the library, rich and mocking, the sound curling around the spines of ancient books like a living thing. “Oh, Mortal,” she crooned, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the air near Hermione’s cheek. “You misunderstand. This isn’t punishment. It’s fulfillment.” Her wings stretched wider, the membranes translucent in the dim light, veins pulsing black beneath the surface. “And as for your pleading—” She leaned in, her full lips brushing Hermione’s ear. “—I let you all scurry around this house like trapped mice because it was fun. Watching the three of you scramble, watching poor, hungry Ronald eye the food he knew better than to touch.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. The demon had been toying with them from the start. Every locked door, every false clue—it had all been part of the game.

But then—

A thought struck her like a spark in the dark.

The demon thrived on deals. That was her nature. And if she was bound by the rules of bargains, then maybe—

“Take me instead,” Hermione blurted.

The demon stilled. Slowly, she pulled back, her crimson eyes narrowing with amused curiosity. “Oh?”

Hermione swallowed, her throat dry. “You want payment. Fine. But it doesn’t have to be Ron.” She forced herself to hold the demon’s gaze, even as her pulse hammered wildly. “You could take something else. Something of mine.”

The demon’s claw trailed down Hermione’s collarbone, tracing the neckline of her blouse. “And what,” she murmured, “could you possibly offer me that would equal the weight of a blood debt a century in the making?”

Hermione’s mind raced. Her life? No—she couldn’t give that up, not with her children waiting for her at home. Her memories? Too risky. But then—

The demon’s laughter cut through her thoughts, sharp and slicing, like a dagger through silk. “Oh, little witch,” she purred, her voice dripping with amusement. “You think you can offer me something in exchange for the debt? How quaint. How utterly… human.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as the demon leaned in closer, her breath cold against Hermione’s ear. “I don’t want something from you, Mortal. I want you. All of you. Every breath, every heartbeat, every flicker of thought. You see, I’ve lost so much time—148 years, trapped in this wretched place. And now, I’ll take it all back. From you.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror. “But I—I can’t live for 148 years. I’m human. Even as a witch I’ll die long before that.”

The demon’s laughter echoed through the library, a sound that sent shivers down Hermione’s spine. “Oh, darling,” she said, her voice laced with condescension. “You think time works here as it does outside these walls? You think the passing of years applies to you now? I am the one who controls time here. And in this place, time is meaningless.”

She stepped back, her wings unfolding slightly, casting long, ominous shadows on the walls. “You see, this manor exists outside of your precious mortal constraints. The fog outside? It’s not just to keep you trapped. It’s a barrier, a veil that separates this place from the world you know. And here, I am the one who decides how time flows. How it stretches. How it stops.”

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest as the demon’s words sank in. She was trapped in a place where time had no meaning, where the demon could stretch her life out for eternity. And there was no escape.

The realization struck Hermione like a curse to the chest. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts as she stared at the demon’s smug grin. “The clocks,” she whispered. “That’s why they were stuck at 3:37. It’s not just the manor—it’s time itself here. You’ve trapped us in a loop.”

The demon’s lips curled in delight, her crimson eyes gleaming with predatory amusement. “Clever little mortal,” she purred, stepping closer, the hem of her shadowy gown whispering against the floor. “Yes, every moment in this house resets. The summoning, the betrayal, the agony—all of it happend between 3:23 and 3:38.” Her clawed fingers twitched as if plucking invisible strings.

Hermione’s mind raced. If time reset, then Harry and Ron—where were they now? Had they been dragged back to the kitchen, unaware? Or were they still somewhere in the manor, reliving their own horrors? She strained against the unseen force pinning her, but her limbs refused to obey.

The demon sighed, a sound like wind through dead leaves. “Poor Ronald,” she mused, circling Hermione like a vulture. “All that muscle, all that potential, wasted on guilt. He could’ve had you, you know. If he hadn’t been so weak.” Her gaze dropped to Hermione’s heaving chest, then lower, lingering. “But then, Harry did get what Ron always wanted. Though,” she added with a smirk, “I imagine he doesn’t quite… fill the role, does he?”

Hermione’s face burned. “Don’t.”

The demon laughed, sharp and cruel. “Oh, does it sting? Knowing your husband’s pathetic little penis could never satisfy you the way Ronald’s monster cock would have?” She leaned in, her breath icy against Hermione’s ear. “I’ve watched your dreams, Mortal.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the demon’s words slithered into her mind like poison. The humiliation burned through her, but fury flared hotter. “Stop it!” she snapped, her voice cracking with defiance. “You don’t get to—to violate my thoughts like that!”

The demon’s amusement vanished in an instant. Her crimson eyes darkened, the air around her thickening with palpable menace. A sharp, unnatural silence fell over the library, the very dust in the air freezing mid-drift. Slowly, deliberately, the entity tilted her head.

“Watch your tone, Mortal,” she hissed, each syllable laced with venom. The shadows along the walls pulsed like a living thing, writhing in response to her anger. “We’ve made no agreement yet. I could snap my fingers and reduce all three of you to screaming meat sacks before your next heartbeat.” A clawed finger twitched, and Hermione’s ribs ached with a sudden, crushing pressure—just enough to remind her how fragile she was.

Hermione gasped, her lungs fighting for air, but she refused to look away. Somewhere beyond the library’s towering shelves, a distant thud echoed—footsteps? Harry? Ron? She couldn’t tell. The demon followed her gaze and smirked.

“Ah. Hoping for rescue?” She flicked her wrist, and the unseen force holding Hermione dissolved. She crumpled forward, catching herself on her hands and knees, the hardwood biting into her palms. “Go on,” the demon taunted. “Call for them. Let’s see who comes running.”

Hermione hesitated. A trap. It had to be. But if Harry and Ron were caught in the same time loop, unaware, then—

Nothing.

The demon’s laughter cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and mocking. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a force, slithering into Hermione’s ears and coiling around her spine, making her shudder.

"Oh, you sweet, desperate thing," the demon purred, her crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Did you really think that was them? That help was coming?" She flicked her fingers, and the distant thudding noise repeated—this time, unmistakably from the opposite direction. A trick. A taunt.

Author's Notes:
From here on out this branch will focus entirely on Hermione's POV until the story reaches her conclusion.