Chapter Sixteen

Her mind was empty now, blissfully hollow, filled only with the slick, filthy sounds of their bodies moving together, the heat of Ron’s skin beneath her hands, the way his cock stretched her wider with every thrust. She was wet, dripping, her arousal coating his length as he fucked her with slow, deliberate strokes.

You were always meant for this.

The thought didn’t feel like hers.

It didn’t matter.

The darkness pressed in around Harry like a suffocating blanket, his ragged breaths the only sound in the void. Time had become meaningless—minutes, hours, he couldn’t tell. His skin still prickled with the ghost of the Not-Hermione’s touch, the memory of his own helpless release making his stomach twist. The images from the mirrors haunted him, seared into his mind: Hermione’s body arching beneath Ron, her moans raw and desperate, her fingers clawing at the sheets as Ron’s massive frame loomed over her, driving into her with brutal efficiency.

None of it was real, Harry told himself, grinding his teeth. The manor is fucking with me.

Then—light.

A slow, creeping glow filled the chamber, and the mirrors shimmered back into existence, their surfaces rippling like disturbed water. Harry’s pulse spiked. He strained against whatever force held him, his muscles burning with the effort, but it was useless. The mirrors flickered, their reflections shifting, blurring, before finally sharpening into focus.

At first, there was nothing. Just an empty, hazy glow.

The bedroom solidified around Harry—crimson and gold drapes cascading from a towering four-poster bed, its dark wood frame carved with intricate, looping designs that reminded him painfully of Gryffindor Tower. The bedding was plush, velvet-thick, untouched as if waiting for its first occupant. A faint scent of cedar and something floral—lavender, maybe—hung in the air, absurdly domestic against the horror of the last hour.

Harry’s breath hitched as he took in the room. The window, framed by heavy brocade curtains, reflected the night outside—no moon, just an endless stretch of starless black.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as the door creaked open. The sight before him made his stomach lurch—Hermione stepped into the bedroom, her hips swaying with an unfamiliar confidence, one hand wrapped possessively around Ron’s wrist as she pulled him inside. The corset she wore was tight, the red and blue silk straining against her full breasts, the swell of her cleavage pushed up obscenely high. Her lips were parted in a breathless smile, her cheeks flushed, her long brown hair spilling in loose waves over her shoulders.

Ron followed behind her, towering over her as always, his broad frame filling the doorway. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, the fabric stretched tight across his chest, his freckled skin flushed with exertion. His trousers clung to his thick thighs, and Harry could see—even through the fabric—the unmistakable bulge of his arousal, heavy and obscene.

Neither of them seemed to notice Harry.

Hermione giggled—a sound Harry hadn’t heard in years—as she turned and pressed both hands against Ron’s chest, pushing him back against the closed door. Ron’s hands immediately found her waist, his fingers digging into the corset’s laces, pulling her flush against him. The height difference was staggering; Hermione had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, her lips parted, her breath coming fast.

“You were insatiable tonight,” she murmured, dragging her nails down his chest.

Ron smirked, his blue eyes dark with hunger. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop begging for it.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. His fingers twitched at his sides, nails digging into his palms, but his body remained frozen, forced to watch as Hermione rose onto her toes and captured Ron’s mouth in a deep, filthy kiss. Ron groaned into it, his hands sliding down to grip her arse, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. Hermione’s legs wrapped around his waist, her skirt riding up, exposing the lace garters clinging to her thighs.

"Ah, good. I was in need of more entertainment," a voice purred from behind Harry. He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t even twitch a finger—his body remained locked in place, forced to watch as Hermione and Ron tangled together in front of him.

The other Hermione—the one with black eyes and that too-wide smile—stepped into his line of sight. She moved with unnatural grace, her hips swaying as she circled the bed where the real Hermione and Ron were lost in each other. Her fingers trailed along the bedpost, nails scraping the wood with a sound that made Harry’s skin crawl.

On the bed, Hermione’s hands were working at the remaining buttons of Ron’s shirt, her fingers trembling slightly—not from hesitation, but from eagerness. The fabric parted, revealing Ron’s broad chest, dusted with freckles, his muscles taut from years of Quidditch. He was massive compared to Harry in every way—his shoulders wider, his arms thicker, his stomach ridged with muscle where Harry’s was lean.

Ron groaned as Hermione’s nails dragged down his chest, leaving faint red marks in their wake. His hands moved to the laces of her corset, tugging impatiently at the silk ties until they loosened, the garment sagging open to reveal the soft swell of her breasts. Hermione arched into his touch, her breath hitching as Ron’s calloused fingers traced the curve of her waist, her hips, then lower—

Harry’s stomach twisted. He wanted to look away, to scream, to move, but the invisible force holding him didn’t relent.

The black-eyed Hermione leaned in close, her breath hot against Harry’s ear. "Look at them," she murmured, her voice dripping with amusement. "She’s wanted this for so long. All those years of pretending she was happy with you…"

On the bed, Ron’s mouth found Hermione’s neck, sucking dark marks into her skin as his hands slid beneath her skirt.

The black-eyed Hermione’s fingers traced Harry’s jawline as she watched Ron’s mouth close hungrily around Hermione’s left nipple, his large hands kneading her other breast with rough possessiveness. A whimper escaped Hermione’s lips—high and desperate—as Ron’s teeth grazed her sensitive flesh. The sound sent a jolt through Harry, his cock twitching despite himself.

The entity’s gaze flicked downward, her crimson lips curling when she noticed Harry’s half-hard length. "Oh, this won’t do at all," she murmured, clicking her tongue in mock disappointment. With a lazy flick of her wrist, Harry’s cock stiffened to full attention against his will, straining against his trousers. A choked sound escaped his throat—not pleasure, not pain, but raw humiliation.

The entity’s head tilted. "Oh? Did you want to say something?" she crooned, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Her fingers tapped against his temple. "Why didn’t you just ask?"

Suddenly, the invisible grip on Harry’s throat loosened. He gasped, his voice hoarse but finally his own. "Who the fuck are you?"

The entity laughed, a sound like shattering glass. "Tsk, tsk. Language, Harry," she chided, her fingers trailing down his chest. "I’m your wife, remember?"

"Bullshit," Harry snarled, his eyes flicking helplessly toward the bed where the real Hermione arched against Ron, her fingers tangled in his hair as he switched to her other breast, sucking hard enough to make her cry out.

The entity sighed, stepping closer until her breath ghosted over Harry’s lips. "You always were stubborn," she murmured.

On the bed, Hermione’s hips rolled against Ron’s thigh, her skirt rucked up around her waist, the lace of her knickers already damp. Ron growled something low and filthy against her skin, and Hermione’s answering moan was downright sinful.

Harry’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as he fought against the invisible bonds holding him in place. His eyes darted between the grotesque parody of Hermione standing before him and the real Hermione writhing beneath Ron’s massive frame on the bed. His voice, hoarse and desperate, tore from his throat.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled again, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides.

For the first time, the entity’s smirk faltered. Her black eyes flickered, the amusement draining from her expression like water through a sieve. A cold, calculated stillness settled over her features. Slowly, she raised a single finger and pressed it against Harry’s lips.

“Tut, tut,” she murmured, her voice laced with something dangerous. “You really should be careful how much you disrespect me.”

A sharp, suffocating pressure clamped down on Harry’s throat. His mouth snapped shut as if an invisible hand had seized his jaw, forcing his teeth together with a painful click. He couldn’t even gasp. The entity leaned in, her breath ghosting over his ear.

“All your lives,” she whispered, “are in the palm of my hand.”

Behind them, the sounds of Hermione’s pleasure grew louder.