Chapter Five (Main)

The voice was velvet-soft, a woman’s murmur, as serene as a lullaby. Hermione’s knees buckled. She barely had time to register the cool wood of the table grazing her cheek as she slumped forward, consciousness unraveling like a spool of silk.

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."

Author's notes:
To all those reading on Chyoa then check out the branching path for some exclusive content, if you're reading this on A03 then don't worry it's just a few extra scenes and a bit of dialogue here and there.