Chapter Four

The Gryffindor common room was bathed in the dim glow of the setting sun, the fire crackling softly in the corner. Ron's hands were relentless, roaming over Hermione's body with a possessive fervor that bordered on desperation. He couldn't get enough of her, each touch igniting a fire that only she could quench. The room around them faded into obscurity as he pulled her closer, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was both savage and tender. The world outside didn't matter—not Harry, not the war, not the guilt that gnawed at his conscience. All that mattered was this, the feel of her beneath him, the sound of her breathless gasps, the warmth of her body as it yielded to his every demand.

Hours blurred into each other as Ron's obsession consumed him. They moved from the couch to the floor, the rug, the chairs—every surface in the common room became a testament to his unrelenting desire. He took her against the window, the glass cool against her back as he thrust into her with a ferocity that left them both breathless. He took her on the table, her legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into her with a rhythm that was both punishing and exhilarating.

He led her to the Great Hall, the long tables and benches a silent witness to their forbidden passion. The emptiness of the hall only fueled his fervor, and he took her on the table where they had once shared so many meals with Harry. His hands roamed her body with a possessive intensity, his lips claiming hers as if to erase the memory of her being anyone else's. The cool wood beneath them did little to temper the heat of their encounter, and as he emptied himself into her, he felt a twisted sense of triumph, as though he had claimed a part of her that was meant for Harry.

The classrooms were next, each one a new stage for their illicit trysts. In Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom, he pressed her against the desk, the surface cluttered with quills and parchment. The familiar scent of old books and magic filled the air as he thrust into her, his hands gripping her hips with a **** that left bruises.

His final stop being the boys dorm room, the soft glow of the sun still beaming from the frozen time as he pounded into her with reckless abandon for what had to be the ninth time that day, the mattress straining under his movement.

Ron’s hips snapped forward with a rough, unrelenting rhythm, the bedframe creaking beneath them in protest. Sweat beaded along his brow, his muscles burning with exertion, but he couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. Hermione’s body arched beneath him, frozen in time, her lips slightly parted as if caught mid-moan. The sight alone sent another jolt of heat straight to his already throbbing cock.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, leaving angry red marks in their wake. He didn’t care. He wanted her to bear the proof of him, even if she’d never know. The thought twisted something dark and possessive in his gut. His breath came in ragged gasps as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the curve of her neck, teeth scraping over her pulse point.

Mine.

The word echoed in his mind, a ****, possessive chant. His thrusts grew erratic, his cock twitching inside her as another wave of pleasure coiled low in his stomach. He could feel the slick heat of her around him, tight and perfect, and his vision blurred at the edges.

A groan tore from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as another orgasm ripped through him.

Ron’s body shuddered as he spilled inside her, his grip tightening on her hips as if he could press himself even deeper. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his forehead pressed against her shoulder as he rode out the last waves of his climax. Even now, drained and exhausted, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away—couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her warmth. His cock twitched weakly inside her, still buried to the hilt, as if his body refused to acknowledge that it was spent.

A thin, sticky trickle of his release seeped out around where they were joined, but Ron only groaned and pushed deeper, forcing what little remained into her with one last, possessive thrust. His fingers flexed against her skin, leaving crescent-shaped indents as he fought to catch his breath.

Ron's body, spent and trembling, finally gave in to the exhaustion that had been clawing at him. He collapsed beside Hermione, his chest heaving as the last remnants of his strength deserted him. Ron's eyelids grew heavy, and despite the turmoil in his mind, he succumbed to sleep, his hand still resting possessively on Hermione's thigh.

Hours passed, though time itself remained frozen. When Ron stirred, the first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar stillness of the room. The clock on the mantle was stuck at half past three, and the usual crackle of the fire was absent. He turned his head to see Hermione lying beside him, her body still and unresponsive. His seed glistened on her skin, a stark reminder of what he had done. It dripped slowly from her, pooling on the floor beside the bed. Ron's breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, a mix of guilt and twisted pride swirling in his chest. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, and for a moment, he almost expected her to wake, to react.

Ron’s chest rose and fell as he lay there, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like an anvil. The room was eerily silent, the only sound the faint hum of frozen time. He glanced over at Hermione, her body glistening with sweat and his seed, and a wave of nausea mixed with something darker churned in his stomach. He couldn’t let anyone find her like this—couldn’t let Harry see her this way. With a groan, he pushed himself up, his muscles aching in protest. He stumbled out of the bed, his bare feet making soft slapping sounds against the floor as he made his way to the bathroom.

The water was cold, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a washcloth and some towels, his hands shaking as he wet the cloth. Returning to the bedroom, he knelt beside Hermione, his eyes avoiding hers. He wiped her down methodically, starting from her face, then her neck, and working his way lower. The cloth rasped against her skin, cleaning away the evidence of his lust. He paused when he reached her thighs, his fingers trembling as he gently wiped away the remnants of his possession. Despite himself, he felt a pang of twisted pride seeing the marks he’d left on her. He cleaned her thoroughly, making sure no trace of him remained.

Ron’s wand trembled in his hand as he muttered a hasty "Episkey" to erase the marks he’d left on Hermione’s skin. The red indentations from his fingers faded away, leaving her pale complexion flawless once more. He felt a pang of disappointment, a twisted part of him wishing he could have left some trace of himself on her, a permanent reminder of his claim. But he couldn’t risk it—couldn’t let anyone, especially Harry, suspect what he’d done. With a flick of his wand, he smoothed her disheveled hair, restoring it to its usual pristine state. Her clothes, scattered across the floor, were quickly summoned back to her body. He dressed her meticulously, his hands lingering on her as he fastened each button, his touch now tender but laced with regret.

Ron carefully lifted Hermione into his arms, her body limp and unresponsive. He carried her downstairs, each step echoing in the silence of the frozen castle. The Gryffindor common room was just as still, the fire paused mid-crackle, the usual warmth replaced by an eerie chill. He placed her back on the couch, arranging her limbs to mimic the casual pose she had been in before. Her hands rested in her lap, her head tilted slightly to one side, as if she were merely resting. Ron stepped back, his eyes scanning her from head to toe, ensuring no trace of what had transpired remained. Her clothes were pristine, her hair perfectly in place, and her expression serene. He let out a shaky breath, relief mingling with the weight of his guilt.

Ron slumped back into his chair, the ancient springs groaning under his weight. His unfinished Transfiguration essay lay exactly as he'd left it - ink smudged across half-formed sentences, a snapped quill resting against the inkpot. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the parchment, the edges curling from hours of neglect. The golden watch felt unnaturally heavy in his pocket, its weight pressing against his thigh like an accusation.

Across the low table, Harry's frozen face remained locked in concentration, his brow furrowed over a half-solved Arithmancy chart. Ron swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as he glanced between Harry and Hermione. She sat perfectly still on the couch, her reconstructed posture so flawless it made his stomach twist. The scent of her shampoo still clung to his fingers, though he'd scrubbed them raw with soap.

With a shaky exhale, Ron fished the watch from his pocket. The gold casing felt warm against his palm, the intricate engravings pressing into his skin. His thumb hovered over the button, the tiny mechanism clicking faintly as he depressed it halfway. Some irrational part of him wanted to freeze time again - to undo his cleanup, to see Hermione's bare shoulder peeking from her rebuttoned blouse one more time. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Ron’s thumb twitched, pressing the watch’s button fully with a decisive click.

Time snapped back into motion around him—the fire roared to life, sending flickering shadows across the walls, Harry’s quill scratched against parchment, and the low murmur of distant conversations in the common room filled the air once more. Ron exhaled sharply, his pulse hammering as he watched Hermione blink, her lashes fluttering as if waking from a daze.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, their eyes met.

Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly, and she shifted in her seat, her fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt. A soft, barely audible gasp escaped her lips as she winced, her thighs pressing together subtly. Ron’s stomach twisted with a sickening mix of guilt and dark satisfaction. He knew exactly why she was uncomfortable—he had taken her body apart in frozen moments, leaving her sore and tender in ways she couldn’t understand.

Harry, oblivious, rubbed his temple and groaned. “Merlin, my brain’s about to melt. Who decided Arithmancy was a good idea?”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply—probably with some sharp retort about proper study habits—but then she stiffened again, her breath hitching. Ron saw her fingers dig into the couch cushion, her knuckles whitening.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers still clutching the couch cushion. "I... I need to go to the bathroom," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. Harry looked up from his Arithmancy chart, concern etched on his face. "Are you okay, Hermione? You look a bit pale."

She nodded hastily, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine, just... need a moment." With that, she stood, her movements stiff, and made her way towards the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories. Ron watched her leave, his gut twisting with a mix of guilt and something darker, more possessive. He knew why she was uncomfortable, why she winced with each step. The memory of her beneath him, frozen and unresponsive, flashed in his mind, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

Ron remained seated, his eyes fixed on the spot where Hermione had disappeared. The weight of the watch in his pocket seemed to pulse with power, tempting him. He could do it again, he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. He could freeze time, take her again, do whatever he wanted. The thrill of it was intoxicating, a dangerous allure that he couldn't ignore.

Ron’s grip on the watch tightened as the weight of its power settled over him like a shroud. He could do anything, be with anyone, and no one would ever know. The Gryffindor common room, once a place of camaraderie and shared victories, now felt like a playground for his darkest desires. The fire crackled, oblivious to the storm brewing in his mind. Harry, still engrossed in his Arithmancy charts, was a constant reminder of what Ron could never have—Hermione’s love, freely given. But with the watch, none of that mattered. He could take what he wanted, when he wanted, and leave no trace behind. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a twisted mix of fear and exhilaration.

Twenty minutes had passed since Hermione had excused herself, her legs trembling as she made her way to the girls' bathroom. The warm glow of the common room fire faded behind her, replaced by the cold, stark light of the bathroom. She locked the door behind her, her fingers fumbling with the latch as if it were a complicated puzzle. Leaning against the sink, she let out a shaky breath, her mind racing with questions she couldn't answer.

Her body ached in places she hadn't realized could hurt. A dull throbbing between her legs made her wince with each movement. She had been with Harry many times before, and it had never felt like this. This was different—a sharp, lingering pain that made her feel violated. But how? She hadn't fallen, and no one had been with her since Harry last night.

Hermione stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her hands trembling as she pulled down her trousers and underwear. She gasped at the sight of herself, her mind racing with confusion and fear. Her vagina was sore, and she could see faint red marks on her inner thighs. She had no memory of how this happened, but the pain was undeniable. She quickly scanned her body, checking for any other signs of injury, but there was nothing else. She didn't want to go to Madam Pomfrey; the embarrassment and questions would be too much.

Hermione's hands trembled as she muttered the words of a more intricate diagnostic charm, one she had learned from an advanced potions textbook. The charm was meant to reveal any hidden magical or physical conditions affecting her body. She had hoped it would confirm her suspicions about her recent discomfort, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock that followed. The soft blue glow of the charm enveloped her, and when it faded, a small, shimmering orb appeared before her. It pulsed once, twice, and then a single word materialized in elegant silver script: Pregnant.

Hermione's breath hitched as the glowing word Pregnant hovered in the air. Her reflection in the mirror paled, lips parting in silent shock before the scream tore from her throat.

"What the fuck—I'm pregnant?!"

Author Notes:
So originally this was where the story was suppose to end, I wrote a sequel but then I realised just how short both this and the sequel were, therefor I made the decision to combine the two stories into one, a quick spoiler there will be a time jump starting next chapter.