Chapter Thirteen

Hermione shuddered above him, her brow furrowing as if fighting through a fog. "Ron...?" she murmured again, her voice thick with confusion. But before she could pull away, her pupils dilated, her body going still for just a second—then, with a soft exhale, her confusion melted into something else. Pleasure. Want.

Her hips rolled against him, slow and deliberate, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

Ron groaned, his grip tightening on her waist as she took him deeper, her inner walls fluttering around his length.

Harry awoke with a groan of pain, his back feeling the hard floor beneath him, the room dark with little light but just enough for him to notice his wand by his foot, as he cast the lumos charm he was thankful that this time it worked.

Harry’s breath came in shallow gasps as the Lumos charm flickered at the tip of his wand, casting eerie shadows along the impossibly long corridor. The walls stretched forward, a tunnel of blackened stone and damp air, lined with rows of candles—each unlit, their wax frozen in thick, uneven drips as if time itself had slowed their melting. His pulse hammered in his throat as he took a hesitant step forward, his bare feet pressing against the cold, uneven floor.

This wasn’t right.

The manor had shifted again.

Swallowing hard, Harry raised his wand, focusing on the nearest candle. “Incendio.”

The flame sparked to life—but not just on the one wick.

A ripple of fire surged down the corridor, igniting candle after candle in a wave of golden light, each flame bursting alight with an audible whoosh of heat. The sudden brilliance forced Harry to squint, his free hand lifting instinctively to shield his eyes. As the light settled, his stomach twisted.

The corridor stretched forward, the twin rows of fire converging into a single pinprick in the distance—so far that the walls seemed to bend inward, the perspective warped beyond natural limits. The air smelled of burning tallow and something else, something old and cloying, like damp parchment left to molder in a tomb.

Harry’s breath hitched as the whispers sharpened into unmistakable moans—low, breathless, trembling with pleasure. His stomach dropped. He knew that voice. Knew the way it gasped his name in the dark, the way it broke in ecstasy after years of marriage. Hermione.

The corridor had vanished. He stood in a vast, circular chamber, walls and ceiling and—Merlin help him—even the floor sheened with mirrors, reflecting his pale face back at him a thousand times. His pulse thundered in his ears. He spun, searching for the exit, but where the stone archway should have been, another mirror loomed, seamless and cold. His fingers scraped against its surface—no handle, no crack, just his own wide-eyed panic staring back.

The moans grew louder.

Harry’s wand trembled in his grip. The sound wrapped around him, sticky and intimate, Hermione’s voice climbing higher, punctuated by rough, masculine grunts. His throat tightened. He knew that rhythm. Knew what it meant.

“No—” The word tore from him, raw.

Harry’s knuckles whitened around his wand as Hermione’s breathy moans coiled around him, the sound dripping with pleasure, with abandon. His stomach lurched. The mirrors multiplied her voice, layered it, until the chamber vibrated with her cries. Then—

“Ron—oh, Ron, yes—!”

The name punched through him like a curse. His legs nearly gave out.

A flicker of movement in the mirrors. Harry’s head snapped toward it.

Reflected in the glass, Hermione lay sprawled across a four-poster bed that hadn’t been there a second ago. Her curls fanned out against silk sheets, her skin flushed, her breasts—her breasts—bared and heaving as Ron’s massive frame loomed over her. Ron’s hands, broad and calloused from years gripping broom handles, slid possessively up her thighs, pushing her Ministry skirt higher.

Harry’s breath came in ragged bursts. He slammed his fists against the nearest mirror. “HERMIONE!”

She didn’t hear him.

Ron’s mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing her whimpers. Harry watched, sickened, as his wife’s fingers tangled in Ron’s fiery hair, pulling him closer. A groan rumbled from Ron’s chest, deep and satisfied, as he ground against her.

Harry’s scream tore from his throat, raw and ragged, as he pounded his fists against the unyielding mirror. "HERMIONE! STOP!" His voice cracked with desperation, but the figures in the reflection didn't so much as flinch. The glass remained cold and smooth beneath his hammering fists, not even shuddering under the force of his blows. His wand, clutched uselessly in his trembling fingers, might as well have been a twig for all the good it did him.

The sounds were unbearable.

Hermione’s breathy moans, high and keening, filled the chamber, bouncing off the mirrors until they wrapped around Harry like a suffocating blanket. Ron’s deep, guttural groans punctuated each thrust, his massive hands gripping Hermione’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. Harry could see the flex of Ron’s powerful back, the thick muscles of his shoulders straining as he drove into her—into his wife—with relentless, brutal force.

"God—Ron—yes, fuck—!" Hermione’s back arched, her fingers raking down Ron’s chest as he pinned her beneath him. The bed—where had the bed come from?—creaked under their combined weight, the sound mingling with the slick, obscene slap of skin on skin. Harry’s stomach churned.

He threw himself at the mirror again, shoulder-first this time, but it didn’t so much as shudder. His reflection stared back at him, eyes wild, face twisted in horror, while behind the glass, Ron’s enormous cock—Merlin, it was obscene, thick and veined and so much bigger than his own—plunged in and out of Hermione’s glistening cunt.

Harry gagged.

Hermione’s legs wrapped around Ron’s waist, her heels digging into the small of his back as she pulled him deeper. "Harder—please—!" she sobbed, her head thrashing against the pillows.

"Hello, Harry."

The voice slithered through the air behind him—soft, familiar, and yet wrong. So wrong. Harry’s entire body locked up. His fists, still pressed against the unbreakable mirror, twitched. The moans from the reflection didn’t stop. Hermione’s breathy cries, Ron’s growls, the wet slap of their bodies—it all continued, unrelenting, while that voice dripped into his ears like poison.

Slowly, Harry turned.

She stood there.

Hermione.

But not his Hermione.

She was naked, her skin glowing faintly in the dim light of the chamber, every curve on full display—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Her long, wavy brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that was both achingly familiar and utterly alien. Because her eyes—those warm brown eyes he had loved for half his life—were gone. In their place were pits of pure black, endless voids that swallowed the light.

And she was smiling.

Not the soft, affectionate smile she reserved just for him. Not the exasperated smirk she wore when he did something reckless. No. This was something else entirely—a slow, cruel curl of her lips, a predator’s grin.

"Wh—" Harry’s voice cracked. His wand hand trembled. "Hermione?"

Behind her, in the mirror, the other Hermione—the one still writhing beneath Ron—let out a broken scream of pleasure.

The Hermione in front of him tilted her head, her black eyes glinting. "Oh, Harry," she murmured, taking a step forward. Her bare feet made no sound against the floor. "Did you really think you could keep me?"

Harry’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. His pulse hammered in his throat. "What the fuck is happening?"

Another step.

His back hit the mirror.

The darkness closed in around him as she moved, her lips crashing into his with a ferocity that left no room for breath. Her kiss was suffocating, a relentless pressure that drained the air from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. Harry tried to push her away, but his arms felt heavy, unresponsive, as if rooted to the spot. Her tongue invaded his mouth, cold and invasive, drawing something out of him—something vital. The room spun, the sounds of the other Hermione and Ron fading into a distant echo, muffled and indistinct. His vision blurred, the edges of the world crumbling into blackness. He felt himself sinking, falling into a void where there was no up or down, no sense of self. The last thing he heard was Hermione’s voice, low and husky, whispering something he couldn’t quite make out before the darkness swallowed him whole.

Author's Notes:
So firstly I'm sorry about not updating in the last few weeks, as mentioned on A03 my PC finally died off and I've been stuck waiting for the new one to arrive, thankfully the old hard drive was fine so i was able to transfer my old files over including my stories.