Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger lay sprawled on the cool tile of her kitchen floor, flushed and panting. Her curls were wild, a few strands sticking to the sweat at her temple. A thin sheen of perspiration clung to her skin, and Draco Malfoy was nestled between her thighs, resting his cheek lazily on her stomach. His fingers still traced idle patterns on her skin, a slow aftershock of the storm they’d just ridden through.

“Dinner’s ruined,” she murmured, voice husky, amused.

“Worth it,” Draco drawled without moving, his breath warm against her skin. “I’ll incinerate every meal we ever plan if it means I get to fuck you instead.”

She snorted and smacked the side of his head half-heartedly. “You promised me aubergine parmigiana, Malfoy. That’s emotional manipulation.”

“I promised you something hot, wet, and delicious. Technically, I delivered.”

“Merlin, you’re vile.”

“And yet you screamed my name twice on a linoleum floor.”

A giddy laugh bubbled up in her throat. She wasn’t used to feeling like this—uncomplicated, messy, absurdly happy. For years, Hermione had been all structure and grief, stoicism and long-suffering pain. Ron had left with a promise to return but no real intention of doing so anytime soon. She’d waited. She’d hoped. She’d slowly broken.

And then… Draco. Unexpected. Complicated. Healing.

Their partnership at the Auror Department had started icy, suspicious. But months of working cases, late-night debriefs, snarky debates, and subtle glances had led them to a friendship—real, intimate, and undeniable. And one day, she stopped pretending she didn’t want more.

“Takeout?” Draco finally asked, lifting his head.

“Yes, but this time no distractions while I order.”

Draco chuckled and stood up, pulling on his trousers with a practiced grace. Tattoos danced along the ridges of his pale torso—dark runes, thorns, a serpentine dragon that coiled around his ribs. Hermione watched him shamelessly as she grabbed his shirt off the counter and threw it over her own nakedness.

As Draco stayed in kitchen to salvage what he could from the charred remains of dinner, she cleaned herself up, tied her hair back, and placed the takeout order. Indian, again. Comfort food !

Fifteen minutes later, a knock echoed through the flat.

“That was quick,” Draco called from the kitchen.

“I’ll get it,” Hermione replied, amused.

She opened the door with a soft smile that vanished instantly.

“Hey, ‘Mione.”

Ron.

She stared, frozen. He looked older, hair longer, tired. His smile was lopsided, like it always had been, but he was wearing it like a weapon now. Like he knew she’d be thrilled to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

“I’m back,” he said simply. “For good. Thought it was time, you know? We’ve waited long enough.”

We?

Ron pushed past her before she could respond, eyes sweeping the room like it belonged to him. He dumped his bag by the couch. “Still smells like your shampoo in here. Merlin, I missed that.”

Hermione blinked, rooted to the spot.

“Anyway, figured I’d crash here for a while,” Ron continued, unbothered. “You know, till I sort things. We can talk, take our time. I know I was gone longer than I said, but…” He gave her a crooked grin, completely unbothered. “You still love me, right?”

Her stomach turned.

Behind her, in the kitchen, Draco had gone perfectly still. Hermione could feel the tension like a thundercloud brewing.

Ron coulnd’t see him. Not yet.

“Wait a minute…” He looked around again. His gaze landed on two wine glasses on the coffee table. A man’s coat slung over a chair. A wand that wasn’t hers. Draco’s boots by the door.

His brows furrowed. “You’ve got someone staying over?”

Hermione crossed her arms, her voice calm. “Yes.”

Ron tilted his head, smiling too broadly now. “Just a… friend, right?”

A beat passed.

“Something like that.”

He scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. I’m back now. We’ll sort it all out.”

From the kitchen, Draco’s voice floated in, dry and cold. “Dinner’s still burned, Granger. Should I pour the wine or save it for after he leaves?”

Ron froze.

Hermione didn’t move. Her heart thundered.

Draco didn’t step into view. Not yet.

Ron looked back at her slowly. Confusion. A hint of suspicion. But still sure of himself. Still arrogant. Still thinking he was the only man who ever stood a chance.

He gave her a cocky little smirk. “No rush. I’ve got time.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened.

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley leaned back on Hermione’s sofa like he owned it. He slung his arm over the backrest, grinning to himself as she disappeared into the kitchen. He still hadn’t seen the man behind the voice — but honestly, how serious could it be? Probably just a friend with benefits. A rebound. Temporary.

It was fine. She’d come to her senses.

She always did.

Five Years Earlier
Barcelona

The club pulsed with deep bass and sweat. Lights strobed across the ceiling like spells cast in rhythm. Ron stood at the bar, drink in hand, a brunette draped over his arm and another laughing at something he hadn’t said.

They called him El Salvador Rojo here — the Red Savior. It had started as a joke, some tabloid twist on the fact he’d helped defeat Voldemort. But it stuck. And Ron basked in it.

“Another Firewhisky, señor?” the bartender asked.

“Keep ‘em coming, mate,” Ron replied, tossing a Galleon on the counter like it was nothing. He turned back to the girls. “You know, I’m famous where I come from.”

The brunette leaned in. “Oh, we know.”

Later that night, tangled in foreign sheets with two warm bodies pressed against him, Ron thought: This is what I fought for. This is freedom.

Rome
He’d forgotten Hermione’s birthday. Again.

He vaguely remembered the owl she’d sent a month earlier — something long and emotional about missing him, about needing answers. He hadn’t read the whole thing. He’d been in bed with a model at the time — legs for days, tits exactly the size he liked.

Hermione’s were small. She never wore anything that showed cleavage. So dull. So… prude.

“I’ll go back,” he told himself. “Eventually.”

Hermione was practical. Pretty enough. Good with kids, probably. She was the kind of girl you settled down with after you were done living.

Two Years Later
Bangkok

He was famous here too. For a while. Stories about the war spread like fire if you told them loud enough in the right bars. Ron made sure everyone knew he’d killed Death Eaters (not exactly true) and that he’d been this close to taking down Voldemort himself (also not true). Harry hated when he exaggerated, but Harry wasn’t here.

Besides, the girls loved it.

Well… they had. At first.

Then the whispers started: he was lazy in bed. Selfish. Always wanted praise. Never gave anything back. One girl had actually laughed when he’d asked if she’d finished.

Four Months Ago
Dublin

His last big payout from Gringotts came and went. Rent was due. His best robes were fraying. His wand hand shook slightly — too much drinking, too little dueling.

No more free drinks. No more eager smiles.

Even the owls stopped coming. He hadn’t heard from Ginny in over a year. Harry had stopped replying after Ron asked to crash at Grimmauld Place again.

He'd caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at a pub and barely recognized the man staring back — unshaven, bloated, eyes bloodshot. And then, one night, it hit him:

Hermione.

Hermione would take care of him. She always had. She was loyal. Solid. Sweet. God, she’d be so happy to see him. Probably still wore that awful cardigan he always teased her about. Maybe she'd even cry when she saw him. Maybe she'd throw herself into his arms.

He smirked at the thought.

And sexually? Well, she’d been a bit… boring, back then. But with everything he had learned? She’d be grateful. Eager. And if she wasn’t, well — he could mold her. He knew what he liked now. He could show her. Maybe convince her to fix a few things. A couple of enhancement charms, or better yet — a Medi-witch. New tits, maybe. Bigger. Firmer.

Perfect.

Present Day

Ron looked around her flat again, eyes narrowing slightly. The books were still there, but everything felt different. Warmer. More confident. There was a softness in the decor — and strength too. It didn’t look like a place someone lived alone.

His gaze drifted again to the wine glasses. Only had lipstick on the rim. 

Who the hell was that voice in the kitchen?

“Do you need help with the food, ‘Mione?” Ron called out, forcing a chuckle.

“N-no!" she replied shortly, the sound muffled.

He leaned back and smirked to himself.

She’s just shocked. She didn’t expect me this soon. But give her a night to sleep on it. We’ll be shagging by morning.

Chapter Text

She left Ron in the living room, sprawled across her couch like he belonged there. Hermione didn’t want to hear what he was saying. She didn't know what to do. Ron still was her friend, of course! But she didn't want him here! Not now!

So she left Ron in her living room under the pretense to prepare him something to eat.

The moment she stepped back into the kitchen and closed the door behind her, Draco was on her.

He stalked toward her like a storm — silent, dangerous, and utterly inevitable.

Hermione barely had time to draw a breath before he had her pinned.

His body pressed against hers, all lean, hard muscle and inked skin. Her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and then his mouth was on hers—rough, claiming, demanding. He kissed like he owned her soul.

And in this moment, maybe he did.

She whimpered against his mouth, her knees already buckling as his thigh slotted between hers. Draco growled low in his throat and slid one hand down her front, under the borrowed shirt she was still wearing — his shirt.

“You were going to serve him dinner looking like this?” he whispered darkly against her jaw. “Wearing my clothes, my cum still dripping down your thighs?”

She gasped as his fingers found the heat between her legs. “Draco—uhhhh”

Two fingers pushed inside her — deep and fast.

Hermione nearly cried out.

Draco slammed his other hand over her mouth.

"Shh," he hissed, lips brushing her ear. “You want him to hear you, little witch? Want him to know how wet you get for me? How tightly you grip my fingers like you were made to be ruined?”

Her eyes fluttered shut, breath catching.

“That’s right,” he purred. “Be quiet for me. You're doing so well for me. My perfect girl.”

He fucked her with his fingers like he was marking territory. Sharp, confident thrusts. Crooking just right. Possessive. His. She squirmed beneath him, shaking, desperate, her back scraping softly against the wall.

“You belong to me,” he growled, hand tightening just slightly over her mouth. “He thinks he can walk back in here and pick up where he left off? He’ll learn soon enough. You’re mine now. Every sound, every breath, every inch.”

She moaned against his palm, muffled and desperate.

“I’m going to fuck you so deep tonight,” he whispered filth into her ear, voice low and reverent. “You’ll still feel me tomorrow at work. My cock’s going to stretch you open and make you forget that idiot’s name.”

Her orgasm crept up like fire lapping at her spine. Unstoppable.

Draco felt it the moment she broke. Her body seized around his fingers, thighs trembling.

And then—

“Do you need help with the food, ‘Mione?” Ron’s voice rang out from the living room.

Hermione’s eyes flew open.

She whimpered again, helpless and full.

Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper behind his hand as she forced out a muffled, breathless, “N-no!”

Draco leaned in, kissed her temple, and whispered, "That's it. My good girl."

Hermione sagged against the wall, flushed and trembling, still trying to steady her breathing. Draco slowly withdrew his fingers, watching her with careful eyes. He cupped her face with his clean hand, brushing his thumb gently over her cheek.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “I lost it for a second. I just... I can't stand the thought of him being near you. Of him thinking he has any right to you now.”

She smiled faintly, still dazed but utterly calm in the sanctuary of his touch. “I know,” she whispered. “But I’m not going to let him come between us. You don’t have to be sorry for wanting me, Draco. I like how much you want me.”

Draco let out a slow breath, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll get rid of him. Say the word. I don’t care if it causes a scene.”

Hermione shook her head, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist. “No. I’ll do it. He’s been my friend since we were eleven, Draco. I don’t want him to find out about us like this. Not while he's sitting on my couch, thinking he still has a chance.”

He leaned down, kissed her softly this time — no heat, just a promise. “Alright. But I’m not hiding forever. I won’t let him play house with you under my roof.”

She smiled against his lips. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

A few minutes later, composed and dressed, Hermione stepped back into the living room. Ron was still sprawled on the couch, sipping from a glass of wine he’d helped himself to.

“Ron,” she said gently, “I think you should go visit your parents. You haven’t seen them in years, and I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”

Ron looked surprised, but he forced a smile. “Yeah... yeah, that’s probably a good idea. But I’ll be back, ‘Mione. I just want to give you space to process this. I know it’s a lot, me showing up like this.”

Hermione smiled tightly, nodding. “Right.”

He stood, pulling her into an awkward, one-armed hug. “We’ll figure it out, yeah? You and me. Like always.”

She said nothing, only stepped back to hold the door open.

Ron left with a confident smirk.

Chapter Text

It was just past noon in the Auror Department, and Hermione was hunched over her desk, completely absorbed in her report. Sunlight streamed through the tall enchanted windows, warming the parchment scattered across her workspace. The office smelled faintly of ink, spell-burnt leather, and the lemon oil Draco insisted on using to polish the shelves.

Hermione sat with her back straight, quill dancing steadily across the report in front of her. Her fingers flew over the parchment with practiced precision, cataloging arrest records and dark artifact evaluations from last week’s raid. Her hair was pinned up in a lazy twist, curls escaping in places, her wand tucked behind her ear.

She didn’t notice the time. Not really.

Draco had stepped out twenty minutes ago to get lunch — something elegant, no doubt. He'd insisted lately on keeping her well-fed. She pretended to protest, but she adored how he hovered. How he noticed. For so long, no one had.

The door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t look up.

“Back already?” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “What is it this time? Mushroom tarts with Gruyère or—wait—don’t tell me. Duck confit from that little place near Knockturn you pretend not to like?”

No answer.

Her quill paused.

She turned.

Ron Weasley stood in the doorway, looking slightly sheepish and completely out of place.

Hermione blinked. Her smile vanished like a popped bubble.

“Ron,” she said carefully, setting her quill down. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped into the office, gaze drifting around. His eyes snagged on the second desk, the neat stack of parchments there, the high-end fountain quill, the Slytherin-green glass paperweight.

“I was just visiting Harry,” he said casually, hands in his pockets.

She stared at him. His eyes flicked around the room, catching on the second desk opposite hers — neat, efficient, clearly used. There were signs of another person everywhere: a leather-bound notebook, a wand case carved from black walnut, a minimalist mug with a faint crest embossed on the side.

“This is your office?” he asked.

“Mine and my partner’s,” Hermione said, keeping her voice even.

“Right. Harry mentioned you were in the field now.” He rocked on his heels. “I thought you’d be in Research forever.”

Hermione gave a tight smile. “Turns out I’m good at both.”

Ron nodded, then looked at her like he wanted to say something clever, something that would make her laugh, maybe. But instead—

“I was wondering,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you’d maybe like to get dinner. Sometime.”

Hermione blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” he said, trying for casual. “You know. Just us. Talk things through. Reconnect a bit.”

She hesitated. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said gently.

Ron frowned. “Why not?”

“Because things aren’t like they were,” she said, standing. “We’re not who we were five years ago.”

His expression wavered — frustration, confusion, something like disbelief rippling through his features.

He recovered quickly.

“Well,” he said with forced ease, “maybe we just need a bit of time. You and me — we were always good once we actually sat down and talked.”

She stepped toward the door, holding it open.

“Ron, thank you for stopping by. But I’ve got reports due and my partner will be back any minute.”

“Right,” he said again, lips pressing into a line. “I’ll owl you.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

He stepped past her, and as he did, he glanced again at the second desk — the elegance of it, the precision.

Chapter Text

The scent of roasted lamb, lemon, and fresh oregano filled the office, curling around parchment stacks and dull Ministry-issued furniture like a charm. Draco set down the small paper containers with the kind of precise care only he could manage — grilled halloumi, stuffed vine leaves, buttery spanakopita, and a still-steaming parcel of chargrilled lamb.

“Greek today,” he said as he passed Hermione a wooden fork and unwrapped the pastry with a flick of his wrist. “From that little place near the Floo terminal. The one with the rude owner and the perfect olives.”

Hermione gave him a grateful smile, accepting the box and sitting down at her desk. “You spoil me.”

“I enable your survival,” he said smoothly. “And I happen to like seeing you fed, happy, and not fainting into stacks of cursed object reports.”

He sat across from her, long legs casually stretched beneath the desk, his own lunch untouched as he watched her eat. She took a bite of the spanakopita and let the flaky pastry and sharp feta melt on her tongue before speaking.

“Ron was here.”

Draco stilled.

Hermione glanced up. “He came by about twenty minutes before you got back.”

“What did he want?”

“To talk,” she said. “He asked me to dinner.”

Draco’s jaw flexed.

“Just to talk,” she added gently. “He said he wanted to reconnect.”

A beat of silence passed.

Draco leaned back in his chair, finally picking up his fork. “Did you agree?”

“No.”

He let out a quiet breath. “Good.”

They ate for a while in silence — not uncomfortable, but heavy with thought. Draco's eyes stayed on her more than his food, though his expression had softened back into something thoughtful, measured.

“He’s going to keep pushing,” he said finally. “He’s not used to being told no. Especially by you.”

Hermione sighed. “I know. He’s convinced I’ve just been... waiting. That I’m still his to come back to.”

“He’s deluded,” Draco muttered, stabbing a piece of lamb. “But not stupid. Eventually, he’ll realise what’s going on. I’d rather it come from you than him catching us half-naked on your sofa.”

She smiled despite herself. “That does sound like a disaster.”

Draco tilted his head. “You should owl him. Set a time to talk — somewhere public. Neutral. Let him hear it properly. From you.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

“I could come with you,” Draco offered, his voice quieter now. “But… maybe it’s better if Potter goes instead. At least at first. Familiar face. Buffer. He’s less likely to cause a scene if Harry’s there.”

She raised a brow. “You’re okay with that?”

Draco leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “No. I want to be there. I want him to see you with me and finally understand that he’s already lost. But I also want to do this right. For you.”

Hermione reached across the desk, laying her hand over his. “Thank you.”

He squeezed her fingers, then smirked slightly. “Besides, if he doesn’t take it well, you’ll need someone with a calming presence. And that’s definitely not me.”

“I’ll owl Harry,” she said. “And Ron. Set something up.”

Draco finally took a bite of his lunch, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re brave, Granger. Braver than him. Braver than most.”

She looked at him, quiet warmth in her eyes. “I don’t feel very brave. Just… tired of pretending. Tired of hiding.”

He gave her a small, real smile. “Then let’s stop hiding.”

Chapter Text

Ron stepped out of the Ministry and into the humid midday haze, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw tight with frustration.

That hadn’t gone how he expected.

He trudged through Diagon Alley, barely registering the chatter, the movement, the shops. His mind looped over Hermione’s face when she’d turned him down. That polite tone. That distant look.

Like he was a stranger.

She was hesitating. Dragging her feet. Why?

He scoffed aloud as he passed Flourish and Blotts. What was the holdup?

He’d given her space — five years of it, in fact. Time to stew, to work, to read her bloody books, to miss him. Time to realize that no one else would ever love her the way he did. Not really.

They’d always had their fights. She’d always been too serious, too uptight. But she’d adored him. And he had adored… parts of her. The loyalty. The way she clung to him like he was something special. The way she used to look at him like he was more than just Ron Weasley.

But now?

He was back, finally ready to give her what she wanted. And she was acting like it was too late.

It made no bloody sense.

He was still Ron. Still part of the Golden Trio. Still the bloke who’d helped destroy Voldemort, who’d risked his life a dozen times. The world hadn’t forgotten him — not really. And neither had she. She was just… confused. Or being difficult.

He needed to clear his head.

The sign for the Leaky Cauldron swung gently overhead, and Ron ducked inside without thinking, the stale scent of butterbeer, spilled ale, and old stone washing over him like a memory.

The pub was half full, buzzing with quiet conversation and clinking glasses. He spotted a seat at the bar and slid onto the stool with a grunt.

“Firewhisky,” he said to the barmaid. “Double.”

She raised a brow but poured without comment.

Ron downed it in one gulp.

It burned. Good.

“Another.”

It didn’t take long for one drink to turn into five. Then seven. Then ten. The pub blurred at the edges, voices rising and fading around him like tide against a pier. Ron felt pleasantly detached. Loose.

Invincible.

He leaned against the counter, swaying slightly, eyes following the barmaid’s every movement.

She was young. Pretty. Not Hermione-pretty — softer, more giggly, more obvious. She smiled politely every time she passed him. Encouraging.

Ron leaned forward, his voice loud and slurred.

“You’re wasted behind this bar, love,” he drawled. “Bet you’ve got loads of admirers.”

The barmaid stiffened slightly but gave a vague smile, clearly used to this sort of thing. “Just doing my job, sir.”

Ron chuckled. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’ve got a flat nearby. Nice one. Big bed. You wouldn’t believe the things I—”

Her expression hardened. She stepped back. “I’m working.”

He reached out, fumbling for her wrist, missing slightly and bumping her hip instead.

“Oi—Ron!”

A deep voice barked his name from behind. Ron turned, squinting.

Dean Thomas stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression unimpressed.

“You’re drunk.”

Ron snorted. “I’m thinking.”

“Looks more like groping.”

Dean looked to the barmaid, who nodded, arms crossed tightly.

Ron waved him off. “Relax, mate. I’m just having a bit of fun.”

“Well, your fun’s pissing off half the pub.”

Ron scowled, but Dean didn’t back down. A few other patrons were watching now, and the bartender had stopped pouring.

“I think it’s time you went home,” Dean said firmly.

Ron slid off the stool, wavering, trying to summon a shred of dignity.

“She was flirting,” he muttered.

“She was working.”

Dean moved to steady him, but Ron pushed his hand away.

“I’m Ron Weasley, you tosser,” he slurred. “Golden bloody Trio. Maybe she should be a bit more grateful.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head.

“You’ve changed, man.”

“No,” Ron muttered as he stumbled toward the door. “It’s everyone else that’s changed.”

Chapter Text

They left the Ministry right on time, side by side as they always did. Hermione was quiet on the way to the Floo Network station, her hand brushing against Draco’s every few steps, until finally he just took it in his own.

He said nothing about her silence. He knew her well enough to recognize the thoughts in her head — Ron, the visit, the tension still hanging around the edges of her mood. But he also knew not to push. Not tonight.

Because Monday evenings were not for Ron.

They were for them.

Not the office versions of themselves. Not the war survivors, or the reluctant public figures. Just Hermione and Draco, behind closed doors, where the rest of the world faded to dust and routine gave way to something far deeper, far more consuming.

They flooed directly into their flat — warm lights already glowing, wards snapping back into place behind them. A quiet calm settled over Hermione’s shoulders. Home. Safe. The air even smelled like lavender and dark spice — the mix of her bath oils and him.

They shared a light snack — bread, olives, a bit of wine. Draco leaned against the counter, eyes on her mouth as she chewed, a small smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Write the owl tomorrow,” he said, breaking the silence.

Hermione glanced at him.

“It can wait,” he added. “Tonight is ours.”

She nodded once. “Ours.”

Chapter Text

Hermione disappeared into the bathroom for a quick rinse, while Draco prepared the bedroom. The soft clink of metal, the rustle of silk, the adjustment of candlelight. 

When she reappeared, wrapped in only a towel, her hair dried and falling soft around her shoulders, Draco was already waiting.

“Bed,” he said quietly, eyes following her.

Her pulse fluttered, but she obeyed without hesitation, climbing onto the sheets as the towel slipped away. She lay back, heart thudding, breath already catching as he moved to her side.

Gently, he took her wrists and bound them together with a length of smooth, dark fabric — not rough rope, but something soft and familiar. With a few practiced motions, he fastened her hands to the headboard, then reached for one of his silk ties and wrapped it around her eyes.

Hermione exhaled slowly. Darkness and anticipation rushed in.

Draco took his sweet time.

His hands moved over her skin with reverence and possession, every touch a promise. He brushed his mouth over the curve of her shoulder, the inside of her arm, the hollow of her throat — never quite where she wanted him. He whispered things too quiet to understand but heavy with meaning. Praise. Desire. Control.

She gasped when his fingers traced over her hips, when his lips found the tips of her breasts and teased until she arched off the bed. She was trembling by the time he settled between her legs — not to take, but to wait.

There was a soft metallic sound — and then he fastened the spreader bar between her ankles. Open. Exposed. Completely his.

And then, just as she teetered on the edge of need, he leaned over and kissed her temple.

“You look perfect like this,” he murmured, voice low. “Wet. Waiting. Mine.”

Then.....ooh so slowly....he inserted a magical vibrator into her glistening wetness.

Once inside, the vibrator magically expanded until she felt delicously full and a low, torturous vibration started.

Her breath hitched.

“I’m going to take a bath,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “Be a good girl for me. Stay like this. Stay ready.”

She whimpered needily in response! But he only smiled.

He stood, crossed the room, and paused at the doorway to the ensuite. His gaze dragged over her — flushed, bound, blindfolded, needy.

“Don’t come until I’m back.”

Then he was gone, the sound of running water humming in the background.

And Hermione was left there — surrounded by the velvety darkness from her blindfold, tension, and trust. Waiting. Wanting. His.

Chapter Text

Steam curled lazily from beneath the bathroom door. Hermione couldn’t hear anything beyond that faint hum, no footsteps, no water sloshing — just the sound of her own breath and the slow, pulsing throb of need.

She squirmed against the sheets, trying to ease the pressure between her thighs. Her wrists, still tied above her head, flexed with every movement, and the spreader bar kept her legs wide apart, offering no comfort — only a reminder of her helplessness. Of his control.

A soft, broken moan escaped her lips.

She didn’t know that Draco was watching.

He’d only taken a quick rinse, letting the water hit his skin just long enough to cool the fire building inside him. He didn’t want to calm it completely — just enough to maintain control.

Now, silently barefoot, he leaned against the doorway and watched.

Hermione.

Laid out like a vision, bathed in candlelight, her curls spread wild across the pillow, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. The silk tie still covering her eyes gave her an air of innocence… but her parted lips and the wanton way she moved told another story entirely.

She was gorgeous like this.

Undone. Hungry. Completely his.

He stepped into the room quietly, moving to his favorite leather chair across from the bed — a spot he’d chosen long ago for nights like this. The angle gave him a perfect view of every twitch, every little tremor that ran through her body as she writhed and strained.

Her hips rolled in search of friction. The toy inside her pulsed with magic, keeping her on the precipice but never letting her fall. Her whimpers had a desperation to them now, a pleading edge she didn’t voice but which he knew by heart.

Draco sat back, one leg crossed, chin resting on his hand, utterly transfixed.

He could watch her like this for hours.

She was perfect. So responsive, so open, so shamelessly sensual — but only for him. No one else had ever seen her like this. No one else ever would.

His. Only his.

His good girl. His clever, maddening, brilliant, beautiful witch.

And his dirty girl. The one who begged with her body. The one who trusted him enough to let go.

Hermione gasped suddenly, her back arching off the bed, her whole body trembling as she chased the high she could almost — almost — reach.

And just as she was about to fall over that edge, Draco raised his wand silently.

With a flick, the bindings vanished. The spreader bar released. The toy disappeared.

Hermione let out a startled sound, confused and aching. Her legs trembled. Her hands fell to the sheets. The blindfold stayed on.

Then she heard his voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“Crawl.”

Her breath caught.

That voice — it melted every last piece of her resistance.

Slowly, shakily, she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. Still blindfolded, still breathless, she obeyed.

Because it was him.

And tonight was theirs.

Chapter Text

The familiar creak of the front door echoed through the Burrow just past midnight. It was followed by a loud, graceless stumble and the unmistakable sound of Ron Weasley’s voice slurring through the entry hall.

“I’m Ron bloody Weasley, Mum! Hero of the war! I saved the wizarding world with Harry and Hermione!” he shouted, half-triumphant, half-defeated.

Molly appeared in the hallway in her night robe, wand in hand, just in case it wasn’t one of her children coming home late. But the moment she saw him — red-faced, weaving on his feet, smelling like ale and rejection — her heart sank.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley,” she said sternly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m famous,” he replied, grinning like it was a joke. “Girls used to queue up for a chance to touch me.”

Arthur emerged from the sitting room, already dressed for bed, his expression one of practiced patience. He glanced at his wife. Molly only shook her head.

Ron dropped onto the old armchair like a stone and gestured vaguely with one hand, nearly knocking over a lamp.

“No one at the Leaky wanted to hear about the battle,” he whined. “I told them about the time I took a Killing Curse for Harry — did I? No. I almost did, though. Could’ve. That counts!”

“Ron,” Molly said gently, walking over to him. “Darling, maybe you should—”

“And Hermione,” he went on, louder now. “Little prissy bookworm Hermione should be bloody honoured I still want her. After all the witches I could’ve had. I was giving her time to grow up, that’s all. Five years! That’s patient, innit?”

Arthur folded his arms, brow furrowed. “Ron, you left without a word. You can’t expect—”

“She’s lucky!” Ron bellowed, cutting him off. “Do you know how many women would die to be with me? Or at least shag me once?”

Molly flinched but said nothing. Her son’s words weren’t just crude — they were heartbreaking.

“I just need to remind her who I am,” Ron muttered, leaning forward like he was trying to convince himself. “Once she sees me again properly… maybe I’ll take her out. Show her a good time. She used to be grateful when I looked at her. She—”

His foot caught the edge of the rug as he stood too quickly.

There was a loud thud as Ron smacked directly into the wooden frame of the doorway. He groaned and slumped to the floor, blinking up at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

Molly rushed forward with a gasp, her hands on his shoulders. “Ron! Oh, for Merlin’s sake—Arthur, help me lift him!”

Arthur, quiet and steady, helped guide their drunken son to the small spare bedroom off the kitchen. Ron was still muttering nonsense, but it was getting slower, his eyelids heavier.

“…Hermione’ll come round… she always does…”

Molly smoothed his hair back and tucked the blanket around his shoulders, her face lined with worry. She loved her son deeply — but this version of him made her ache.

When they stepped out into the hallway, Arthur let out a slow breath.

“He’s going to find out soon,” he said.

Molly nodded. “He needs to. But it should come from her. She’s the only one he might actually hear it from.”

Arthur put an arm around her shoulder, and together they went back upstairs, leaving their son to sleep off his delusions — for one more night.

Chapter Text

Golden morning light filtered through the flat’s tall windows, illuminating the organized chaos of Hermione’s writing desk. She sat quietly, a cup of tea cooling beside her, quill poised above fresh parchment.

She had written and rewritten the first few lines of the letter in her head all morning, yet now that it was time, the weight of it settled heavily on her shoulders.

But this one wasn’t difficult to write.

It was going to Harry — and Harry already knew.

He had known about her and Draco for over a year now. He had accepted it quicker than even she had expected, with a soft smile, a quiet "I always just want you to be happy, Hermione," and a surprising jab of protectiveness aimed at Draco — "He’d better treat you right, or he answers to me."

And Draco had.

He cherished her. Saw her. Loved her in ways Hermione had never thought she’d experience.

Harry had seen that too.

So this letter — it wasn’t about disclosure. It was about support.

Dear Harry,

I need your help. Tomorrow, I’ve decided to finally talk to Ron.

I want to be clear and honest with him — to end things properly, and tell him the truth. But I also know him. And I know how he can be when things don’t go his way.

Will you come with me?

I’ve asked him to meet us at the café on the corner of Wand & Elm at noon. It’s neutral, public, and hopefully calm. With you there, I think he’ll actually listen. And I just… I’d feel better with you by my side.

Thank you — for always standing by me. For seeing Draco the way I do. For knowing I deserve this kind of love.

With all my love,
Hermione

She signed it, sealed it with wax, and gave it to the owl with a soft stroke of its feathers. The bird took off silently into the blue sky.

The second letter sat in front of her like a stone.

Writing to Ron wasn’t just about logistics. It was a confrontation with the past — and with the girl she had been five years ago. The one who had waited. Hoped. Hurt.

The girl Ron had left behind without a second thought.

Ron,

I hope you are settling in well at the Burrow. Your parents are surely so very happy to finally have you back.

I know my behavior the other day may have confused you. I want to explain everything — but not at the office, and not at my flat. Those are parts of my life that I’ve built with care, and I need to protect them.

I’ve asked Harry to join us — not as a shield, but as a friend to us both. I hope you’ll meet me tomorrow at noon at the Corner Wand Café in Diagon Alley.

There are things you need to hear, and I want to say them face to face.

Hermione

She didn’t need to reread it. She sealed the parchment, summoned another owl, and watched it vanish into the sky.

Hermione stood by the window for a while after, arms wrapped around herself.

When Ron had arrived at her door a few days ago, part of her had frozen. The shock, the intrusion, the audacity — all of it had stirred up old wounds she thought had long since healed. But his presence had reminded her just how deeply he had hurt her, and how long she’d had to fight her way back to herself.

She hadn't told him then because she couldn’t — not in that moment, not in her own home, not in her place of work, and not with old trauma clawing at the edges of her composure.

But now… now she was ready.

Tomorrow would be hard.

But it would also be freeing.

Chapter Text

The mid-morning sun streamed through the crooked window of the small room Ron had claimed at the Burrow — the same one he’d once shared with Harry during summers long gone.

The crumpled blanket hung half off the bed, his boots were lying at odd angles on the floor, and the scent of last night’s hangover cure — courtesy of Molly — still lingered in the air.

Ron sat slouched in the old chair by the desk, a mug of lukewarm tea in his hand, blinking blearily at the owl pecking insistently at the windowpane.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, dragging himself upright.

He opened the window, and the owl fluttered in, graceful and impersonal. A rented post owl. Official. Polite. Distant.

The parchment bore Hermione’s familiar neat script. He didn’t even wait to sit down — just cracked the seal and devoured the words with hungry eyes.

As he read, his lips twitched into a grin.

Finally.

Progress. She was ready to talk. She wanted to see him. It was only a matter of time, really. He could be charming. Apologize for the way he left. Maybe exaggerate how often he’d thought of her. How no one else had ever truly compared.

But then—he frowned.

Harry would be there?

Why? This was something between him and Hermione. A conversation between two people who had once been in love. Who might be again.

He scoffed, tossing the letter on the bed and running a hand through his mess of red hair.

She must be nervous. That had to be it. Still clinging to her rules, her little systems, always needing control and structure. That was Hermione all over.

And maybe that guy from the kitchen — the one he hadn’t seen, but who had left traces — maybe that was just some random shag. A moment of weakness. Even prudes needed release sometimes, right? Maybe she'd let someone scratch an itch.

He and Hermione had history. A shared past. She used to dote on him, hang on his words, even when he didn’t have much to say. He had always assumed she’d be there, one day, when he was ready.

He stood and paced a bit, more energy filling his limbs.

Tomorrow — it would all start to come together. He’d show her how much he had grown. How much he had to offer. He could still be the hero in her story.

Besides, that mystery bloke in her kitchen?

Whoever he was, he had nothing on Ronald Bilius Weasley — war hero, household name, part of the bloody Golden Trio.

Hermione would see that.

He just had to remind her.

Chapter Text

Part I: Late Again

Ron Weasley stumbled down the Burrow's narrow staircase, socks mismatched, shirt half-buttoned and wrinkled, and a hangover-induced scowl plastered across his face. He'd meant to wake early, maybe charm his hair into some semblance of neatness, even shave. But the firewhisky still sang in his veins. At least he had managed to find his wand. How in Merlin's name did it get into the loo?

He glanced at the clock—already late. No time to find a shop for flowers or sweets or even that bottle of champagne he'd considered. Something celebratory.

Instead, he darted into the backyard, yanked up a handful of blooms from Molly's garden—some daisies, a couple of bedraggled roses, and an unfortunate sprig of gnomeweed—and tied them together with a spare shoelace.

This was fine. She wouldn't mind. It was the thought that counted, after all.

"Hermione," he muttered to himself, straightening his shirt, "wait till you see me. It'll all come back. It always does."

He Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Part II: Parting and Presence

Draco helped Hermione into her coat, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary as he adjusted the collar. She was stiff, distracted.

"You don't have to do this alone," he murmured.

"I'm not alone," she said softly, "Harry will be there."

Draco gave her a curt nod, his jaw tight. He was in full uniform—the sleek, dark robes of the Auror elite, complete with the raised hood that shielded his identity. He had a raid scheduled in Knockturn Alley this afternoon.

As they reached the cobblestone street, Harry was already waiting outside the small tucked-away cafe. He gave Hermione a warm smile and offered Draco a respectful nod. The dynamic between them was tentative but real—the byproduct of earned trust and mutual respect.

Draco turned to Hermione and cupped her face in his gloved hand. "You’re stronger than you think," he whispered. Then he kissed her.

Not a peck. Not a brush of lips. But a deep, claiming kiss that made Hermione melt into him despite the bustling street, the nearby cafe, the eyes that might be watching.

"You’re mine," he whispered against her lips.

Hermione clutched the front of his cloak, eyes fluttering shut. "And you're mine."

He turned without another word and disappeared into the crowd, the hood hiding his face as his long stride took him toward the Ministry.

Part III: Through the Fog

Ron rounded the corner, the haphazard bouquet crumpled in his hand. His smile—nervous but hopeful—froze on his face.

There she was. Hermione. In front of the cafe.

Kissing some bloke.

Some tall, broad-shouldered, uniformed bloke.

Ron skidded to a halt, his heart crashing against his ribs. What the bloody hell was going on? She brought someone else to their reunion?

His eyes narrowed. The guy was in an Auror uniform—and hooded. Mysterious. And Harry was just standing there. Watching. Smiling even!

What kind of twisted joke was this?

The tall figure finally peeled away from Hermione and stalked off, disappearing into the crowd like some anonymous hero in a bad romance novel.

Ron stormed forward, fists clenched and temper flaring.

"Hermione!"

His voice sliced through the midday bustle.

Hermione turned, startled.

And Ron glared, the mangled bouquet now clenched like a weapon. "You better explain yourself. NOW."

Chapter Text

Just moments ago, Draco had kissed her goodbye—fiercely, tenderly, like he had poured every ounce of feeling he carried for her into that single act. It had left her breathless, grounded.

And now, that warmth was replaced by the cold reality of her past.

Ron Weasley was storming toward her, his face flushed, his jaw tight, his hair almost indistinguishable from the red fury in his expression. He was shouting—demanding an explanation, as though he still had a right to her.

How dare he?

Five years ago, he had vanished from her life without a proper goodbye. Promises made in vague letters and fading hope had been all he left her with. He had chosen adventure, freedom, and the spotlight. And now he came back—expecting her to still be his?

And yet... this was still Ron. The boy she had shared that tentative kiss with during the darkest moments of the Battle of Hogwarts down in the Chamber of Secrets. The friend who had once known her heart, even if he had forgotten how to care for it.

So Hermione did what she had learned to do over the years: she steadied her breath, reined in her rising anger, and schooled her features.

She was here to speak her truth.

To explain the years of silence, of heartbreak. How his leaving had left a wound so deep she had doubted whether she would ever trust again. How it had taken time—so much time—to heal.

But she had healed.

And more than that, she had grown.

Now, she was in a loving, steady relationship. One built on trust, on mutual respect, and something deeper than anything she had known before. A relationship with Draco Malfoy. The man who had stood by her, challenged her, and adored her for exactly who she was.

They had been together for over a year and a half now. Living together for the past twelve months in the quiet comfort of a shared life.

Hermione wanted Ron to understand: he no longer had any claim over her. Not after the choices he had made. He had forfeited her loyalty as anything more than a part of her past.

Still, she valued their history. Their friendship. She didn’t want to erase it—only reshape it into something healthier. Something real.

She didn’t hate Ron. But she no longer belonged to him—and never would again.

What she wanted now was honesty. Closure. And the possibility of rebuilding a friendship between two people who had lived, loved, and changed.

Five years had passed. It was time they finally saw each other clearly.

Chapter Text

The little café off the main street of Diagon Alley was cozy, full of warm amber light and the comforting scent of coffee and sugar. The windows fogged slightly from the inside warmth meeting the early afternoon chill. Three familiar figures sat at a corner table — the original trio, once inseparable, now on uncertain ground.

The tension was palpable, even as the server placed their coffee and a plate of warm pastries on the table. Harry offered a gentle smile as he reached for a cinnamon twist. “Sugar helps calm the nerves,” he said lightly, trying to diffuse the tight air around them.

Hermione sat upright, her hands wrapped tightly around her mug. She drew in a breath, steadying herself.

“I’m really glad you’re back in London, Ron,” she began, voice soft but firm. “I missed you. I missed our friendship.”

Ron leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, his brow already furrowing.

“If you missed me so much,” he cut in, “why did I see you kissing some bloke in the middle of the street? Didn’t you think about how that would make me feel? About what we were supposed to have?”

Harry winced, sipping his coffee a little louder than necessary.

Hermione’s spine stiffened, but she didn’t rise to meet Ron’s challenge. “Ron,” she said calmly, “please let me finish. I promise you’ll understand… even if it’s hard to hear.”

Ron scowled, his knee bouncing under the table, but he gave a small, jerky nod. “Fine. Go on then.”

Hermione took a long sip of coffee, then set the cup down with deliberate care.

“When you left, five years ago, I was heartbroken. Not just because we were… together, but because you were my friend. My best friend. And you didn’t even really say goodbye — just a few vague promises in the beginning, then silence. I didn’t know if you were ever coming back.”

Ron looked away, jaw clenched, but didn’t interrupt.

“I gave everything to that relationship. I waited. I hoped. But eventually… I had to stop. I had to choose myself. To heal. It took a long time before I could even imagine trusting someone again.” She paused, swallowing. “But I did. Slowly. Carefully.”

Harry gave her a small nod of encouragement, his hand resting supportively on the table near hers.

“And now I’m in a stable, loving relationship,” Hermione continued. “I’ve been with someone for the past year and a half. We live together. He’s kind, and patient. He supports me, challenges me, and… he adores me.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s it, then? You’ve moved on.”

Hermione’s voice didn’t waver. “Yes, Ron. I have. I’m happy. Truly. And I hope — I really hope — that one day we can rebuild our friendship. But I need you to understand that what we had, while it was real, is in the past.”

Ron was visibly agitated now, his leg bouncing faster, his hands curling into fists. “So who is he then?” he asked, half-sneering. “That guy in the hood? ”

Hermione met his gaze steadily, her voice soft but firm.

“His name is Draco Malfoy. And I love him very much.”

The café seemed to go quiet in that moment, the clink of spoons and the chatter of other patrons fading as Ron absorbed the name.

Chapter Text

Ron blinked. All colour faded from his face.

The words Hermione had just spoken echoed in his head like a misfired spell. Draco Malfoy. She had said it so clearly, so calmly, like it wasn’t the most absurd thing in the world.

“Wait,” Ron said slowly, raising a hand like he could physically stop time. “Did you just say… Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, calm and composed, but there was something fierce beneath her steadiness. Strength. Certainty.

Ron let out a bark of laughter, incredulous. “Right. Good one. Bloody hell, for a second I thought you were serious.”

But neither Hermione nor Harry smiled.

Ron’s grin faded. “You’re not serious,” he said again, but it was more of a plea than a question now. “Hermione, Malfoy? The same git who used to call you a mudblood, despised you for even existing—who made our lives hell? You’re with him?”

Hermione’s lips tightened. “Yes,” she said evenly. “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t reduce him to who he was when we were sixteen. People change, Ron.”

Ron sat back in his chair, stunned into silence. He didn’t know whether to laugh or shout. It felt like the ground beneath him had shifted.

“But…” he stammered. “He’s Malfoy. He’s still rich, still arrogant, still… Malfoy.”

Hermione's expression sharpened. “You don’t know him, Ron. You never tried to.”

Ron opened his mouth but closed it again, struggling. He looked to Harry for support, but his friend only gave him a steady, warning look. That stung.

“He can have anyone,” Ron muttered bitterly. “He’s loaded. And you—you’re with him?  And he's with you? What, did he charm you with his fancy flat and expensive wine? Merlin, Hermione…is it about the money?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Stop it. Right now.”

The warning in her voice was unmistakable.

“I’m not with Draco because of money or comfort or status,” she said. “I’m with him because he listens. Because he respects me. Because I feel safe with him in a way I never have before.”

Ron shifted in his seat, jaw tight. He was certain Hermione was just a distraction for Malfoy, his little mudblood plaything. Soon enough the ferret would tire of her. With Malfoy's kind of money he could do so much better than Hermione, hell, that tosser could even land a supermodel or a rich heiress. After all there was nothing special about Hermione, no tits or arse to speak of.

Hermione was meant to be his. He had always assumed she would wait for him, happily accept him back, no questions asked. She was his contingency plan........and for that he was even willing to overlook her obvious shortcomings in terms of looks.....well, for now that is. Once they had settled into their relationship Hermione would need a few enhancements. Bigger tits, a nice round arse...maybe she could straighten her hair?

Ron smiled to himself.....he could wait a little longer. He could play the long game. How long could Hermione's relationship with Malfoy go on? A few weeks.....tops!

For now he would just play nice. Become her "friend" again. Remind her how good they were together.

So he kept qiet, let Hermione talk. Pretended to be reluctantly understandig, to want to rebuild their friendship.

When the trio left the cafe 20 minutes later, Hermione was relieved, hoping for a fresh start with Ron as her friend.

Ron was already beginning to form a plan on how to make Hermione his again.

Chapter Text

Part 1: Home 

Hermione’s flat was warm with evening light as she returned from the farmers’ market, arms wrapped around a bag of fresh produce. She hummed softly with contentment—zucchini blossoms, ripe tomatoes, fresh basil. 

She set a pot of water to boil and began preparing a simple pasta with garden pesto, tossing in cherry tomatoes and sprinkling with shaved Parmesan. The kitchen filled with comforting aromas of garlic and basil, and Hermione allowed herself a small, deep breath of peace.

The front door clicked open.

Draco entered, dropping his satchel and cloak, still in his dark Auror uniform.

“How did it go?” Hermione asked, smiling up from the stove.

Draco exhaled, lean muscles relaxing. “Successful raid in Knockturn Alley. Nothing major—two smugglers, several cursed items confiscated. Everyone’s safe. And we got them in cuffs.”

“Good job.” She ladled pasta into two bowls and set them on the table. He joined her, leaning in to kiss her temples before settling at the place she’d laid for him.

They ate slowly, filling the small space with light conversation.

“I love dinner at home,” Draco admitted, savoring the pesto. “Just you and me.”

She smiled. 

Finishing their plates, Draco watched her with something soft in his dark eyes.

“So?” he said. “How was Ron—this afternoon?”

Hermione took a breath, setting down her fork. “Well… not what I expected.” She told him, quietly but fully: the confrontation outside the café, Ron’s fury over seeing them together, Hermione’s explanation of her pain and healing, the reveal of her relationship to Draco, Ron’s initial denial and suspicion, and finally his tentative acceptance and willingness to rebuild friendship.

Draco nodded slowly, expression unreadable. “And?”

“He seemed... okay,” she said. “Relieved, even. He... said okay to friendship. Slowly.”

Hermione smiled, resting her head briefly on the table, content. “It feels like closure.”

“Good. ” He swept pots away while Hermione leaned back, breathing easy in the small, safe glow of their home.

But Draco remained suspicious : Ron Weasley seemed to have accepted things far too smoothly. He’d keep an eye on Ron.

But for now, he would enjoy his evening with Hermione.

Part 2: A Smile with Sharp Edges

The familiar creak of the Burrow’s kitchen floorboards greeted Ron as he stepped inside. The sun was dipping below the hills, casting a soft orange glow through the windows. The smell of stew filled the air, warm and nostalgic.

Molly turned from the stove, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ron! You’re home. How did it go?”

Arthur looked up from the newspaper, lowering his glasses. “Everything all right, son?”

Ron paused in the doorway for half a second, then forced a smile—easy, casual, charming in the way he knew his parents liked to see.

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, stepping forward and grabbing an apple from the bowl on the table. “Went fine, I guess.”

Molly’s brows lifted. “You’re not… angry?”

He gave a small, clipped laugh. “Nah. Why would I be?” He bit into the apple, waving a hand. “She’s seeing someone. Nothing shocking.”

Arthur looked at him curiously. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean—sure, it’s Malfoy.” Ron said the name like it tasted sour. “But hey… she says she’s happy. So who am I to argue, right?”

Molly’s expression was caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. “Well… that’s very mature of you, Ron.”

Ron smiled again, this time more genuinely. “I’m trying.”

They couldn’t see the tension behind his eyes. Couldn’t hear the grinding thoughts in his head. Because the truth was—he wasn’t fine. Not really. Malfoy? That pompous, arrogant, smug snake? And Hermione!? The nerve of her.....being with the ferret, when clearly she was meant to be with him.

But he wasn’t stupid.

Hermione had walls up now. She was cautious. She believed in this… relationship.

So Ron had to bide his time.

He would play the part of the supportive friend. Be there. Close again. Trusted. He had the advantage of history, of knowing who Hermione truly was. He’d win her back!

She’d see, eventually.

He just needed her to lower her guard. Let him back in.

One step at a time.

Molly beamed at him. “You’ve grown up, Ronnie. I’m proud of you.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, eyes kind.

Ron gave them both a warm, boyish smile—the perfect picture of the son they wanted to believe in.

But beneath that smile, plans were already forming.

Chapter Text

The next three weeks passed in a blur of carefully orchestrated normalcy.

Ron Weasley made a show of easing back into Hermione's life—gracefully, tactfully, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't stormed into her office or shouted at her in the street. As if he wasn’t seething beneath the surface.

He showed up at the Gryffindor pub night with all the charm of his schoolboy self—laughing at Neville’s jokes, ordering drinks for Hannah Abbott, nudging Harry with playful jabs about their Hogwarts days.

Then came the “coincidences.”

Ron bumping into Hermione at Flourish & Blotts just as she reached for a newly published Potions journal. He had, he said, been browsing for a birthday present for George—though the book section didn’t sell joke items. A week later, he intercepted her at the farmers market with a lopsided grin and a compliment about her sundress. Said he was “just there for plums.” Hermione, ever polite, smiled and accepted his presence. She missed having her old friend around—surely he was just trying to rebuild their friendship. Right?

But Draco wasn’t convinced. The random meetings were too well-timed and the attention too constant. Something felt off.

It all came to a head at a small dinner at Grimmauld Place.

Ginny and Harry had invited Hermione, Draco, and Ron for an intimate evening—just the five of them. It was the first time Ron and Draco would see each other properly since Hermione's revelation, and the tension was palpable.

Draco arrived dressed sharply, composed as ever. Hermione wore a soft blue dress and a steady expression. She wasn’t nervous, not exactly, but aware. Aware of how easily things could tip out of balance.

Ron was already there and Hermione and Draco entered the dining room. “Hermione. Malfoy.” He nodded curtly at Draco even offering him a handshake. Draco accepted it, squeezing just slightly harder than was polite.

Dinner was strained at first, but eventually conversation loosened. Ginny told stories from Quidditch matches, and Harry shiming in here and there with a few amusing remarks. Ron smiled, laughed in the right places, even asked Draco a few careful questions about his job as an Auror. For a moment, everything felt... normal.

But Draco caught the flashes of something behind Ron’s eyes. The way he watched Hermione when she wasn’t looking. The flickers of possessiveness. The slight clenches of his jaw when Draco reached for Hermione’s hand.

Ron never said a wrong word. Never made a scene. But Draco was sure.

Then, just as dessert was served, Ginny beamed at Harry and stood, taking his hand.

“We wanted to tell you all together,” she said, glowing. “We’re engaged.”

A wave of cheers, hugs, and laughter followed. Hermione squealed and threw her arms around Ginny. Draco offered Harry a rare, genuine smile and shook his hand with firm approval.

Ron clapped Harry on the back and managed a convincing grin. But inside, he wasn’t thinking about Harry and Ginny’s future.

He was still watching Hermione.

She turned to Draco and kissed his cheek, eyes sparkling with joy. And Ron’s stomach turned.

As the evening wrapped, Hermione hugged Ginny once more. “Let me throw the engagement party,” she said excitedly. “At our place. You two should just enjoy it—I’ll take care of everything.”

Draco’s eyes flicked toward Ron for a heartbeat before resting back on Hermione. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “We’d love to host.”

Ron just smiled.

Because this wasn’t over.

Chapter Text

Part I – Before the Guests Arrive

The flat was spotless, every detail precisely curated. Charms kept the air fresh with a hint of citrus and vanilla, candles were arranged in floating clusters to provide soft golden light, and the buffet table—though not yet fully loaded—gleamed with polished glassware and delicate finger foods Hermione had either hand-selected or, in some cases, prepared herself.

Hermione stood in the center of the room, a parchment checklist floating beside her, quill tapping impatiently in the air. Her curls were pulled into a soft updo, her wand tucked behind her ear for easy access, and her brows were pinched with concentration.

Draco watched her from the hallway, arms crossed, amusement and concern blending across his face.

She was in full hostess mode—efficient, commanding, and very stressed. He knew this version of her well. She’d worked herself into a state for Harry and Ginny, wanting to give them a perfect celebration, all while balancing Auror responsibilities, night patrols, and two overlapping investigations.

Draco stepped forward quietly, pulling her attention back to the present with a gentle hand on her back.

“It looks incredible, Granger,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Hermione exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. “There’s still so much to do. I want it to be perfect.”

Draco tilted his head, brushing a curl from her face. “It already is. And they’ll love it, because you put your heart into it. That’s what they’ll remember—not whether the tartlets are aligned symmetrically.”

Hermione huffed out a short laugh. “But they are aligned symmetrically.”

He chuckled. “Of course they are.”

She softened under his gaze. Draco could see how tired she was, even behind the gleam of pride and anticipation. She needed this night to go well—but she also needed him to catch her when she finally allowed herself to fall.

And she would.

They had already agreed, in whispered tones late at night, what would come after the last guest left. After the noise and the toasts and the polite smiles faded, after she had held everything together. She would let go. She wanted to. He would take control then, and she would rest in the power of surrender, where she felt safe—desired, seen.

He wouldn’t let her break.

They had discovered their shared kink for roleplay early on in their relationsship and had experimentend with different scenarios. They even had tried out Mudblood/Deatheater roleplay including degradation once. But it wasn't for them. For Draco Hermione's consent, her pleasure and safety were crucial and the key to his own pleasure.

Part II – Quiet Plans Beneath the Surface

As the hours passed and the sun dipped below the rooftops of Diagon Alley, the flat transformed from a quiet oasis into a warm, joyful gathering space. The first guests arrived just before sunset—Harry and Ginny, glowing and hand-in-hand, followed by a chorus of laughter, hugs, and clinking glasses.

Friends filtered in: Neville and Hannah, Luna in a dress adorned with miniature glowing charms, Angelina and George, Padma and Terry, even Theo Nott, who arrived fashionably late but with a thoughtful bottle of wine.

Draco played host easily, charming and calm in his black dress shirt, never far from Hermione’s side. He kept a quiet watch on her, reading every microexpression, every flicker of fatigue behind her smile.

And then came Ron.

He arrived alone. His hair was still slightly damp from a late shower, and he wore a crisp white shirt that Hermione recognized as one of his best. He carried a small gift for Harry and Ginny, and smiled wide as he stepped through the door.

“Smells brilliant in here,” he said cheerfully, scanning the room—lingering a little too long on Hermione.

Draco’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

The evening unfolded smoothly. There were speeches and laughter, heartfelt toasts and dancing in the softly lit living room. Ron mingled politely. He even complimented Draco—on the wine selection.

But beneath the pleasantries, Draco saw it. The way Ron’s eyes followed her. The way his compliments were too frequent, too loaded. And Hermione, for all her cleverness, was too busy playing hostess to notice the way Ron’s friendly front occasionally slipped into something tighter, needier.

Draco noted everything. Quietly. Methodically.

But he also knew tonight wasn’t about Ron. Tonight was about Hermione.......an Potter and his bride of course.

The room had thinned out. The music played softer now, and the last few guests were finishing their drinks, laughing in hushed voices. The warmth and hum of a successful evening hung in the air.

Ron stood by the drinks table, swirling the last sip of his butterbeer as he watched Hermione. She had kicked off her shoes and was talking to Ginny in the corner, still smiling, still radiant. Draco was nearby, his posture relaxed—but his eyes were on Ron.

Ron noticed.

He let out a cheerful breath and clapped Harry on the back. “Well, mate—hell of a party. And the flat looks great, Hermione really outdid herself.”

Hermione turned at the sound of his voice, smiling, clearly surprised. “Thanks, Ron. I’m glad you came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, grinning wide. “But I should let you two finally unwind. You’ve been playing host all night.”

Draco watched him from over the rim of his glass, saying nothing. But the stiffness in his jaw eased ever so slightly.

Ron made a show of grabbing his coat, waving his goodbyes to Ginny, to Neville, to Luna—then gave one last lingering glance toward Hermione.

Then he turned to leave.......

but just as he was out of sight from the remaining party guests...

he disillusioned himself.

A shimmer spread across his body like rippling water, rendering him invisible as he turned silently on the spot. Heart pounding—not with guilt, but something closer to satisfaction.

He’d always been good at sneaking around. Years of mischief with Fred and George had trained him well. And now? He needed answers.

The flat was sleek, modern but still warm, with Hermione’s precise order evident in every corner. His feet made no sound on the hardwood floor as he padded softly through the space.

The kitchen was to one side of the apartmen and efficient—pristine but also homely. The sitting area had books stacked neatly beside the armchairs, one worn leather-bound novel left open on a side table. Ron noted everything. There was a small office—likely Hermione’s—with reports, Ministry folders, and scribbled notes about dark artifacts tacked to a board.

He moved on, slowly and carefully, past the guest room, the guest bathroom and down the hallway until he reached the bedroom door.

He hesitated for just a second.

Then he slipped inside.

The bedroom was dimly lit by a low lamp. Clean, uncluttered, with a large bed draped in deep green and warm cream linens. Slytherin colors—he sneered at the thought. But Hermione’s scent was here too: vanilla and lavender, unmistakable and familiar.

His jaw clenched. How could she live like this—with him?

He moved slowly around the room, eyes scanning surfaces. Books stacked neatly on the nightstand, a drawer slightly ajar revealing a wand holster and what looked like—a tie?

He opened the wardrobe with a careful hand.

A mix of their clothes—his eyes caught on a soft knit jumper he recognized as Hermione’s favorite. One he remembered her wearing curled up beside him years ago. And now it hung next to sleek black dress shirts, perfectly pressed.

Malfoy’s.

The anger flared again, low and hot in his gut.

Then—footsteps. Low voices. Closer.

Ron, still disillusioned, backed away from the wardrobe and hid behind the now open bedroom door as Hermione entered the room.

Chapter Text

The last guests had only just left when Draco gently took Hermione’s hand and kissed it. His eyes, always sharp, softened when they landed on her.

“You did brilliantly tonight, love,” he murmured. “Now go to the bedroom, strip, kneel infront of our  bed. Wait for me. Do not touch yourself”

Hermione smiled, her eyes lighting with both affection and anticipation. She pressed a kiss to his jaw and slipped away to their bedroom, her heels quiet on the polished floor.

Draco stayed behind, beginning to tidy up—banishing empty glasses, folding napkins with silent spells. But all the while, he let his mind drift to Hermione waiting for him: the wait would only increase her lust, the anticipation.

Hermione slipped into their shared bedroom, their safe space, her refuge from the stress and noise of the outside world.

In here only her and Draco mattered.

She did as Draco had instructed. She slowly shimmies out of her dress, revealing a black lacy bra with matching lace knickers.

After neaty folding her dress she takes of her underwear, deciding to leave on her sheer lace stockings. They always drove Draco feral!

She assumend her position, kneeling naked infront of their bed. Her knees spread. Facing the open bedroom door.

Anticipation rippled through her. Drao would be able to see all of her once he entered the corridor to their bedroom.

But she knew him. He would make her wait in this position, at least for a few minutes, until his own need for her took over. It was sweetest kind of torture. She could not wait for their scene to begin. She needed this, needed him. Needed to hand over control to him.

Unbeknownst to her, Hermione was not alone in her bedroom.

Hidden behind the open bedroom door, a disillusioned Ronald Weasley was curiously watching her every move.

Chapter Text

From his hiding place behind the door, Ron had a perfect view of Hermione undressing and finally kneeling in front of the bed, facing the door, knees spread wide. Exposing her bare, already wet cunt to his view.

He had to admid, even though her physique left a lot to be desired.......she looked quite appealing like this.

Did she know he was here? Hidden? Silently watching? Had she sensed him near?

Was this little show for his benefit?

Had Malfoy finally kicked her to the curb? Or had she dumped that tosser?

Ron had to admit, the thought of Hermione, naked, exposed, on her knees, begging for his forgiveness was quite enticing.

After all she had made him wait for a while now......pursuing her silly, little "relationship" with Malfoy.

It was only right for her to beg a little.

Ron's eyes never left Hermione's exposed body. In the dimly lit room he could see that her cunt grew wetter with each passing minute, she was almost dripping.

She was obviously as aroused by this situation as he was.

Just as Ron was about to reveal himself to Hermione, to graciously accept her apologies, he heard strong footsteps approaching.

Malfoy stalked into the room, striding past Hermione towards the large window overlooking the nocturnal Diagon Alley, completely ignoring the naked woman kneeling on the floor.

In his disillusioned state Ron retreated a little further behind the door. Disappointed, that Hermione's display was infact not meant for him, but for Malfoy!

Chapter Text

After what felt like forever, Draco finally adressed her, still staring out the window into the night.

"Well done, pet" he praised "so obedient. Waiting so patiently for your master".

The velvetly barritone of his voice sending shivers through her core.

He turned, slowly, his dark gaze appraising her.

"Come to me" he ordered.

Hermione moved to stand but Draco's voice stopped her.

"Uh, uh pet" he tutted. Hermione looked at him, confused.

"Crawl". A simple comand that made Hermione weak in the knees.

And crawl to him, she did. Slowly. 

This part of their scene was for him. For him to exercise his dominance over hear. To feel in control. When control and dominance were what he had craved for large parts of his childhood and teenage years. When the course of his life, his actions and values had been decided upon by others for the biggest part of his life.

And Hermione happily surrendered her control to him. In her past she'd alway had to be the strong one, the decision maker, the planner, the person in charge. It was a nice change of pace for her to be told what to do. To be taken care of.

Chapter Text

Draco could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Weasley had been ogling Hermione all night. Draco was sure the git was planning something.

Even though Weasley had left over an hour ago, something still felt off.

Probably just the lingering effects of the weasels earlier prensence in the apartment.

But Ronald Weasley, he could take care of later, once the git really presented to be a problem.

Now he had to be in the moment with her. Had to take care of Hermione.

His beautiful, perfect, insanely sexy witch was crawling towards him.

And she was a sight for sore eyes! Her wild, unruly curls, her soft, tan skin! And ohhhh those stockings! She knew exactly what they did to him.

Chapter Text

Hermione now knelt at Draco’s feet. She looked serene there, confident and open, the quiet between them humming with anticipation.

Draco reached down and gently lifted her chin with a single finger, his cool grey eyes meeting hers. “Up,” he murmured. “Take my shirt off.”

She rose gracefully, her naked body moving close to his, her hands already reaching for the top button of his shirt. He was still fully dressed from the party—black dress shirt, sleeves rolled casually up to his forearms, his Dark Mark on display.

Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, gliding over the fine fabric as she undid the buttons one by one. With each undone button, more of his skin came into view—pale, smooth, and marked with intricate tattoos that curled over his chest and shoulders.

Hermione’s breath caught as the shirt fell open. She slid her hands over his torso, soft skin stretched over hard muscle. He was breathtaking like this.

He let her touch him, let her take her time. There was no rush here. Just the calm between two people who trusted each other fully.

When she finally eased the shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor, Draco caught her wrists gently and held her hands against his chest.

"Don't try to distract me" he drawled " I have plans for you tonight, pet".

Chapter Text

Ronald Weasley could not believe the scene that had unfolded before his eyes over the last few minutes.

Hermione. HIS Hermione. The future mother of HIS children..... had crawled across the bedroom floor and then sat at Malfoy's feet like an actual animal.

She then had proceeded to assist Malfoy in taking his shirt off. Honestly....how incompetent was that guy! Even toddlers could take off their own shirts. Merlin!

Malfoy had ordered Hermione on her knees again, had ordered her to open his belt and his zipper.

Malfoy had then proceeded to whip out his humongous, obscenely PIERCED cock and feed it to Hermione inch by inch.

How could that thing even be real!?! Malfoy's gargantuan cock was twice, maybe even triple the size of Ron's own cock in both length and girth.

And .....if he dared to say so himself......he was already HUNG!

There was no way Malfoy's cock was natural......must be some sort of dark magic.

Hermione was currently still on her knees for Malfoy, sucking on his cock.

Gagging that thing down like her life depended on it.

The sucking and gagging sounds Hermione made appealed to Ron very much. How could they not, after all he was only a man.

But Malfoy's groans and moans had him distraught to no end. Revolting!

And the sight of Malfoy's pale arse! Ron would have to wash his eyes out with bleach to get that image out of his head.

Ron silently crept out of the bedroom. With the couple distracted he had the perfect chance to snoop through the remaining rooms of the apartment.

Sneaking silently through the apartment he thought to himself:

If Hermione had been bouncing on Malfoy's horsecock for the past year and a half, surely her cunt would have become all loose and baggy by now.

That would make it quite easy for her to pop out his future children, Ron supposed.

But he did not want their sex to only be about procreation. His pleasure mattered too! And with Hermione sex would surely feel like throwing a salami into a wide hallway.

But he was a wizard.......and there was a magical solution for almost anything in life.

.

Chapter Text

As Ron qietly searched Hermiones homeoffice, it finally dawned on him.

HIS Hermione, the real Hermione would never be with Malfoy if she was in her right mind.

During their relationship Hermione had never even so much as attempted to suck him off.

And now he was supposed to believe, that she would willingly choke herself on Malfoy's colossal crotchsnake like a common whore?

Yeah.....no! He did not believe that for one minute.

He was not that stupid!

Evil forces were in play here.

Ron now was certain, that Malfoy had Hermione under the influence of a powerful curse (maybe a variation of Imperio?), or maybe he regularly dosed her with a strong love potion.

So he tirelessly kept searching the apartment, hoping to find clues of what Malfoy had done to Hermione to keep her under his influence and trap her in this abusive sham of a relationship.

Ron was quite proud of himself, being the only one to have seen through Malfoy's evil schemings.

Ron had been right all along.......of course he had!

Malfoy only kept Hermione around as his convenient, little Mudblood toy, that he could use however and whenever he pleased to get his rocks off. 

And Ron had to give it to Malfoy...... the concept was actually quite appealing. Had Malfoy chosen any other witch, Ron couldn' t have cared less.

But Hermione was meant to be his.

So he kept searching the office.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile in the bedroom:

"Uhhh" Malfoy groans deeply " You're too good at that, love! Are you trying to make me cum before I even had a chance to taste you?"

He slowly threads his right hand through her hair, relishing in the feel of her soft curls and gently guides her head back.

His cock leaves her mouth with a soft "pop".

She looks up at him with her big, innocent doe eyes. But her smirk tells him, that she knows exactly what she is doing. How much she is affecting him.

"Get up, pet" he orders " I'm not done with you".

He takes her small hand in his and gently guides her to the bed, instructing her to lay in the middle of it.

With an almost careless flick of his wrist, a rather impressive act of wandless magic, Hermione finds herself bound to their bed with soft silky ropes, spreadeagle, fully exposed to him. He had taken her sight again with a blindfold, leaving her to strain her ears to find out were he was moving through the room and what he had planned for her.

"Now we play" he announced darkly. 

Every shift in the air, every whisper of movement set her skin alight.

Draco stood at the foot of the bed, silently drinking her in.

When he finally, FINALLY touched her, there was no urgency in his touch, no rush. Instead, he moved with slow, deliberate purpose. He ghosted his fingertips along the insides of her arms, her ribs, the curve of her hip—never quite where she wanted him, but always close enough to leave her breath catching in her throat.

"You’re so beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice low and reverent.

Hermione's lips parted, but no words came—only a soft, helpless sound. She could feel her heartbeat in every inch of her body, could feel the longing coil tighter inside her. Draco’s breath teased the sensitive hollow of her throat, the top of her breast. A kiss followed, warm and light, barely there.

She arched up instinctively, aching for more, but Draco simply whispered, “Patience.”

He adored her like this—not just the physical beauty of her, though that never failed to leave him breathless, but the trust she gave him. The way she surrendered herself to him completely, confident in his love, his care, his intentions.

“Do you know how deeply I love you, Hermione Granger?” he asked, brushing a hand up her side. 

Her breath hitched again, this time not just from desire but from the swell of emotion his words brought. She nodded, blinking back tears behind the blindfold.

She was vulnerable, yes—but not powerless. Never powerless. She was free. Free in a way she had never known before. And in Draco’s hands, she felt more herself than she had ever dared to be.

Under his touch she felt truly alive.

He leaned close, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I’m not going to rush this,” he whispered, lips brushing her skin. “Not tonight.”

Just as Hermione thought she couldn’t take another second of Draco’s maddening teasing, she felt the warm press of his mouth lower on her body — no longer ghosting, no longer playing. His hot mouth found her clit, sucking. His tongue flicked over her clit with purpose, and the low moan that escaped her was entirely involuntary.

He moved with slow, reverent precision. She felt his strong hands on her trembling thighs, his thumb sweeping lazy, grounding circles against her skin. The blindfold made every sensation sharper, every touch more intense.

"You’re so responsive," Draco murmured against her skin, his voice like velvet and gravel. "So perfect. My clever, beautiful girl. My perfect witch."

Hermione arched into him, needing more, needing him, her breath coming in gasps now — not from just the desperation to finally come, but from being so cherished, seen. She couldn’t touch him, couldn’t see him, but she felt everything.

He slowly pushed two fingers inside her tight, wet channel. It was an easy fit. She was so wet for him, so ready, practically dripping with arousal. All their shared moments of the evening had left her primed for pleasure.

"Let go," he whispered, his voice hoarse, full of restrained want. "I’ve got you."

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about pleasure — it was about trust, about the sacred space they created together. Hermione felt herself tipping over the edge, not into chaos, but into something safe. Something real.

Hermione was still coming down from her orgasm as Draco slowly, so slowly thrust the thick head of his cock into her.

He only gave her the tip of his cock, when all she wanted was to feel all of him, the delicious stretch, when he filled her completely.

But obviously Draco was still set on taking his sweet time, tease her, torture her.

He started caressing her again, his hands exploring her body in soft, tender strokes.

He peppered soft kisses on the corners of her mouth, along her jawline and down her neck.

Oh the self restraint this man had!

Chapter Text

Draco had drawn them a bath. He had completey worn her out over the last few hours. Pleasuring her over and over again until he had her reduced to a boneless, whimpering, sweaty mess. Completely satisfied, uttler relaxed.

The water was just the right kind of warm — not scalding, but soothing, wrapping around Hermione like a gentle embrace. She sighed as Draco eased in behind her, his arms sliding around her waist, drawing her back against his chest. The lavender-scented steam curled around them, soft candlelight illuminating the room, making the moment feel outside of time.

Draco pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. “Alright, love?”

She smiled, utterly content. “More than alright.”

They sat in comfortable silence, skin to skin, heartbeats slowly syncing. It had been hours since the last guest had left their apartment — the engagement party had been a raging sucess, ending with laughter and warm embraces....

....and then, eventually, privacy. Only her and Draco had mattered in the last few hours.

Hermione had completely forgotten about the outside world.

And now, here, wrapped in warm water and Draco’s arms, it felt like nothing could touch them.

After a while, Draco shifted. “I’ll go get us something. Wine? That vintage you like… and maybe some cheese?”

Hermione leaned her head back onto his shoulder, nodding lazily. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Obviously.” He smirked, kissed her again, and carefully stood, drying his hands on a nearby towel before reaching for his robe.

But as he stepped toward the door, both of them froze.

Chapter Text

Ron was frustrated! What an utter waste of time this entire evening had been!

Nothing! There was absolutely nothing to find in this whole bloody apartment that gave him any clues on how Malfoy kept this firm control over Hermione.

Disappointed and restless, Ron turned and quietly made his way back through the apartment.
One last glance around the living room -still decorated from Harry and Ginny engagement party- then he slipped out through the front door as silently as he could.

What he didn’t see was the faint shimmer of golden light that rippled through the air the moment he stepped over the threshold.

He had triggered the ward.

Halfway down the corridor, Ron cancelled his disillusionment charm with a whisper and wiped a hand across his face. He needed air. Distance. He needed to think, strategize.
He would go to the nearest apparition point, disappear.

Chapter Text

The wards.

Hermione sat up straighter, water lapping gently around her.

“Did you feel that?” she whispered, her voice suddenly small.

Draco didn’t answer at first. His face had gone cold, alert. Every inch of him shifted from lover to Auror in a breath.

“The perimeter charm,” he said quietly. “It pulsed.”

She gripped the edge of the tub, her mind spinning.

“That only happens when someone leaves the apartment.” She turned to him, her skin prickling. “Draco… we’ve been alone. The guests left hours ago.”

He didn’t move. His wand was suddenly in his hand, summoned with the kind of silent, seamless magic that came from years of fieldwork. He pressed a hand to the bathroom doorframe, murmuring a quiet detection charm.

No response.

Hermione stepped out of the tub, dripping, wrapping herself in a towel, shivering for a reason that had nothing to do with cold.

“Do you think…” she swallowed. “Do you think someone was here? While we—?”

The silence between them answered for her.

Hermione and Draco slipped into Auror mode in seconds — no words needed, no wasted motion. They moved like they did in the field: precise, alert, deadly calm.

Hermione threw on her robe, wand already drawn, and strode toward her home office, heart thudding while Draco moved to search the apartment for any clues the intruder might have left behind.

Hermione: 

She pushed open the office door. Nothing appeared out of place —  no scattered parchment, no trace of magic foreign to her own.

She moved to her desk and checked each drawer, hands steady but pulse racing.

Thankfully, she kept no case files here. Everything sensitive was stored at the Ministry under layered, encrypted enchantments. 

A wave of relief hit her, followed immediately by dread.

Who had been in their flat?

Why?

And how?

Had someone snuck in during the party? she wondered. The celebration earlier that night had been intimate — mostly family of the happy bride-to-be, a few colleagues, some old Hogwarts friends. People she trusted.

Were she and Draco being targeted for a case they were working? Was this intrusion supposed to be some kind warning?

The feeling that someone had been here, unseen, lurking......it felt so extremely violating.

What had they seen?

Draco:

He moved through the rooms of their apartment,  scanning the space with quick, clinical precision.

In the guest room, he crossed to the window and pushed aside the curtain just in time to see a figure rounding the far corner of the street — moving fast, head low, cloak flapping.

Red hair.

Bright, unmistakable, even in the lamplight.

His breath caught. Weasley.

Draco’s jaw tightened as pieces clicked into place — the prickling unease he’d felt earlier in the evening, it had been Weasley!

The slimy weasel never left the party, did he?

Disbelief soured quickly into anger.

He had stayed. Had probably even watched.

He turned from the window, wand still in hand. There was no proof — not yet. But instinct, that hard-earned Auror’s edge, told him everything he needed to know.

Once he had proof, Draco vowed, he would tear Weasley to pieces, annihilate him, destroy his whole world!

Chapter Text

Just as Draco stepped into the living room, Hermione emerged from her office, robe wrapped tight, her face pale but composed.

“Nothing’s missing, no signs of a break-in spell. But I don’t understand…” she trailed off, brow furrowing. “Why target us? Is this retaliation for a case? A warning? Ohhhh—Merlin—were they here the whole time?”

Her voice was quieter when she added, “What if someone was watching us while we… while we were together—”

Draco stepped forward immediately, placing a hand on her arm. “Don’t go there, not yet. We don’t know what they saw. Or why they were here.”

But Hermione couldn’t stop the sickening thoughts that now swirled. Their home, once a sanctuary, now felt invaded, tainted. The vulnerability she had allowed herself with Draco — something so hard-earned and tender — had possibly been observed by someone who didn’t belong.

And she didn’t even know how.

“Could they have snuck in during the party?” she asked softly, sitting down on the couch in their living room. “Used the distraction? Stayed hidden all this time?”

Draco stood by the window, arms crossed, posture tense. The dim light caught the sharp cut of his jaw, the strain around his eyes. He was silent for a long moment, but Hermione could see the words gathering behind his clenched teeth.

Finally, he said quietly, “I saw him.”

She blinked. “What?”

“In the street. Just now,” Draco said, turning toward her. “When I checked the guest room window. He was moving fast, toward the apparition point. Cloak pulled tight. But the hair… it was unmistakable.”

“Who?” Hermione asked, even though her stomach already knew.

“Weasley.”

She stared at him.

Draco continued, voice low but sure. “I had a feeling all night. Couldn’t name it. Something was off — I thought maybe it was just… His presence. Lingering. Me being annoyed with him even being in our home” His mouth tightened. “But now I know better. He didn’t leave the party. He stayed.”

Hermione felt the air leave her lungs.

“No,” she said automatically. “Ron wouldn’t—”

Draco crossed the room and knelt before her, gently taking her hand. “Hermione,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t bring this to you if I weren’t almost certain. I don’t have proof. Not yet. But I need you to hear me — to trust me. Be on your guard around him.”

Hermione’s heart pounded. “But… he’s trying. He’s been trying to change. I’ve seen it. And we’re only just starting to rebuild our friendship. I thought—” Her voice broke off.

She wanted to believe Ron was better than this. That the boy she had grown up with, fought beside, wept for, could not have done something so deeply violating.

But then her thoughts drifted — unbidden — to all the little moments from the last few weeks.

The times she’d bumped into Ron in strange places. The times he just happened to be nearby. 

And above all, she trusted Draco.

She looked at him now . She knew Draco did not like Ron, but if he had wanted to accuse Ron out of spite, he could have done so long ago. But this… this was different.

“You think he stayed behind during the party,” she said slowly, more to herself than to him. “Snuck around. Hid. Waited.”

Draco nodded once. “I can’t say what he saw. Or what he wanted to see. But we’ll find out. Together.”

Hermione squeezed his hand, grounding herself in his calm strength.

It was a bitter thing — to let doubt creep in where trust once lived. But it would be more foolish to ignore the possibility.

“I don’t want to believe it,” she admitted. “But I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Draco pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “We’ll figure this out. I’ve already started tracking traces of residual magic.”

Hermione nodded, the weight of everything heavy on her shoulders — grief, disbelief, and beneath it all, the painful awareness that a line may have been crossed. One they couldn’t walk back from.

Chapter Text

The pop of Apparition was barely audible in the darkness beyond the crooked hedges of the Burrow’s back garden. Ron landed unevenly, the tips of his shoes sinking slightly into the damp earth. The night was cool, quiet, and for once, blessedly still.

He didn’t light his wand.

Slipping through the back door like a shadow, Ron moved on instinct, his weight falling on the steps he knew wouldn’t creak, ducking beneath the low beam in the hallway, and ignoring the familiar warmth of the kitchen hearth behind him.

He crept up the stairs, two at a time, wincing at the groan of the third step — bloody thing never could be silenced properly — until he reached the door to his old room. The brass doorknob turned with a soft click, and he slipped inside, shutting it behind him with the slowest of movements.

He let out a long breath.

No voices followed. No flicker of candlelight under the door. Good. No one had heard. He was not prepared for his mother's invasive questioning of:

"Where have you been, dear?"
"Why are you home so late?"

As far as his parents knew, he had left Harry and Ginnys engagement party long before them. He wanted it to stay that way.

He tossed his jacket to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair.

No privacy in this bloody house. Everyone always up in your business. It had been like that since he was a kid. Too many people, not enough space. Too many expectations. He was tired of explaining himself. Tired of being the one who should’ve done more, who should’ve known better.

Well, they wouldn’t have to worry about him being underfoot for long.

He looked around the room — the peeling Cannons poster, the fading photographs, the same stack of old schoolbooks under the bed — and grimaced. This wasn’t his life anymore.

He needed out.

He still had some Galleons stashed away from the last Gringotts withdrawal. Not a fortune, but enough. Enough to get a cheap place. Remote, without nosy neighbours.

And once he was out on his own again, then he could start putting things in motion. Get back the life he was meant to have. The one where he wasn’t the one left behind. 

He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, the plan forming in the back of his mind like smoke curling into shape.

He wasn’t done yet.

Far from it!

Chapter Text

The next Friday evening, Hermione was about to leave for Gryffindor pub night.

Draco stood in the doorway of their apartment, arms crossed, watching as Hermione adjusted the collar of her jacket.

“I still don’t like it,” he muttered.

Hermione looked up, amused but touched by the concern behind his words. “You don’t like that I’m going to see my friends?”

“I don’t like that he’ll be there.” His jaw clenched. “And that we haven’t ruled him out.”

Hermione sighed gently. “Ron’s been an idiot — selfish, arrogant. But that doesn’t mean he broke into our home.”

“We both know the intruder didn’t just stumble in.” Draco’s voice lowered, cold. “Whoever it was probably knew you. Knew us. And they stood in our bedroom, behind the door, waiting.”

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine, just as it had the moment the tracing spell they’d developed revealed the truth: someone had entered their bedroom. And they’d stayed there. Hidden. Watching.

And yet…

“I’ll be careful,” she said, stepping up to him. “I promise. I’ll stay alert. I have my wand, and if anything feels off—”

“I’ll be there in seconds,” he finished, gaze softening. He reached up and gently cupped her cheek. “You don’t owe him the benefit of the doubt, Hermione. You owe yourself the truth.”

She nodded. And then, because she knew he needed it — and because she did too — she kissed him softly.

“Gryffindor pub night,” she whispered. “That’s all it is.”

As she left, Draco stood in the shadows of their flat for a long time. He was worried, yes, but his brilliant witch could hold her own.

And Ronald Weasley certainly was no match for her.

The Leaky Cauldron was already buzzing by the time Hermione arrived.

Familiar laughter met her ears as she stepped through the floo and spotted the usual crowd. Harry and Ginny were nestled into a booth, Harry mid-story, Ginny practically glowing. Neville and Seamus waved her over. A few more Gryffindors from their year and beyond clustered nearby.

And yes — Ron was there too.

He was leaning back in the booth, half-laughing at something Seamus had said, looking… well, normal. Comfortable. Like the Ron she remembered before everything had gone sideways.

He caught her eye briefly, gave her a warm smile — a little tentative, but genuine.

She nodded politely in return.

“’Mione!” Ginny grinned, sliding over to make space. “Finally! You missed Harry bragging about his own party.”

“Hey!” Harry said with mock offense. “I was giving credit where it was due.”

“You were giving Hermione credit,” Ginny teased, turning to her. “And rightly so. The party was perfect. Thank you again.”

Everyone chimed in agreement, voices overlapping in praise and warmth. Hermione smiled, basking for a moment in the comfort of familiar friendships. It did feel good — this slice of normal.

Ron, she noticed, was animated. Relaxed. Even charming, cracking jokes and responding with a lightness she hadn’t seen in him since before the war.

But still… she didn’t let her guard down.

She watched him carefully throughout the evening. How he joked with Harry and teased his little sister. She was pleased as he announed that he was looking for his own place. Something small to get back on his feet.

Hermione excused herself to grab another round for the table, weaving through the crowd toward the bar.

Dean Thomas was already there, lifting a fresh pint and scanning the pub with quiet ease.

“Hey, stranger,” he greeted her warmly. “Didn’t get the chance to say hi earlier.”

Hermione smiled. “Glad you made it.”

Dean nodded toward the booth. “I was just watching everyone. It’s great crowd tonight, yeah? ”

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed softly.

Dean took a sip, then leaned a little closer, lowering his voice just enough. “I’m really glad Ron’s doing better. He looks more like himself again.”

Hermione turned to him, a little surprised.

“I saw him a few weeks back,” Dean continued. “Middle of the day. Sloshed. Harassing a waitress right here in the Leaky. I was this close to hexing him. I'm a little surprised they even let him back in” He shook his head. 

Hermione’s breath caught for just a second. She looked over her shoulder — Ron was laughing again, throwing a peanut at Seamus.

“He really seems okay now,” Dean added with a shrug. “Relaxed, more like himself.”

Hermione offered a faint smile. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Maybe.”

But something cold settled in her stomach — not fear, exactly, but awareness.

Because even charm could be a mask.

And she knew better than most how good people could be at hiding what they didn’t want the world to see.

Chapter Text

The Burrow was silent.

Ron lay flat on his back in his childhood bed, staring up at the low ceiling of his old room. The faint glow of the moon pooled through the slanted window, casting pale light across the faded Chudley Cannons posters and dusty bookshelves.

His hands rested behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, a smirk ghosting across his lips.

He was thinking about her.

Hermione.

The whole night at the Leaky played back in his mind on repeat—every smile, every laugh, every flick of her gaze.

She’d looked at him.

Cheeky little glances when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Quick flicks of her eyes, half-curious, half—what? Intrigued?

He couldn’t quite tell.

But they’d been there. He was sure of it.

She’d missed him. Of course she had. And now that she saw him—charming, sociable, relaxed, the old Ron again—she was remembering. Remembering who they’d been. What they could be.

He let out a quiet chuckle into the dark room.

“Still got it,” he muttered.

Though, to be fair, she hadn’t exactly come running into his arms....yet. No. She was still wrapped up in Malfoy’s world. Still tethered to that smug, cold, manipulative bastard. Bound by some dark magic, of course.

Ron wasn’t going to sit around waiting anymore. Waiting for Malfoy to tire of her. 

He’d waited long enough.

It was time to… nudge things along. The first part of his plan was already motion. Sneaking back into Hermione's inner circle, becoming her trusted friend again.  Show her what she was missing. Remind her how good they could be together.

The second part of his plan would come along nicely once he had found his own place. All he had to do was to find out which charm or potion Malfoy used to control Hermione..........and replicate it. How hard could that be?

Soon Hermione would finally be free of Malfoy. She would be safely back in Ron's arms, were she belonged.

And then could make her his wanton little slut. Malfoy had probably ridden her in nicely. From what Ron had witnessed last weekend in Hermione's bedroom, she had picked up quite a few new tricks.

With this bright future in mind, Ron grabbed his erect cock, jerking himself hard and fast.

To the thought of all the dirty depraved things he soon could to do to Hermione, Ron came harder than he ever had before.

Chapter Text

Part I – Four Weeks Later: Safety

The intruder had left no traces. It was as if he had never been there — except for the gut-deep certainty that someone had been. And the spell they had developed, now cast and recalibrated countless times, still whispered the same disturbing truth:

He had stood in their bedroom. Hidden. Watching.

And left without a trace.

Four weeks later, Draco and Hermione were no closer to an answer.

Frustration simmered under every conversation, every failed lead. Their apartment no longer felt like home — the walls seemed thinner, the wards weaker. And Hermione, once fiercely independent, now sometimes hesitated at the door, glancing back to double-check the locks even after they'd cast every ward they knew.

It was Draco who finally said the words aloud.

“We need to move.”

She had hesitated, heart aching. She loved their apartment. The way the light poured through the kitchen in the morning. The bookshelf Draco had insisted on organizing alphabetically by author, then again by spell complexity. The creaky floorboard she always tried to fix but never quite could.

But he was right.

The violation had changed everything.

So they moved — temporarily, at first — to Malfoy Manor.

It had been empty since the deaths of Draco’s parents, preserved and untouched. But it was protected. The wards were ancient, layered by generations of paranoid and powerful bloodlines. Draco had reinforced them all.

And for the first time in weeks, he slept deeply, knowing Hermione was safe inside walls that no one — not even the Ministry — could breach without triggering half a dozen blood wards.

Their lives adjusted slowly.

They worked by day — quietly continuing their investigation when they could — and spent evenings wrapped in something like peace. Hermione lit fires in the smaller drawing rooms to make the house feel warmer. Draco began sorting the manor’s abandoned libraries. It wasn’t ideal. But it was safe.

As for Ron… Hermione had barely seen him.

The “accidental” meetings — the strange, run-ins in Diagon Alley or near the Ministry lifts — had stopped completely. She saw him only at weekly Gryffindor pub nights, where he sat with the others, casual and relaxed, like nothing had ever happened.

He laughed easily. Joked with Dean and Seamus. Bought a round of drinks. He seemed fine.

Rumor had it he’d finally moved out of the Burrow. Found a small place of his own, though no one had been invited to see it yet. Hermione had asked Harry about it once, casually. Harry had just shrugged and said, “He says he’s not ready for visitors.”

Ron had even mentioned — briefly — that he was looking for a job.

Turning things around, he’d said with a wry grin.

And maybe he was.

But something still tugged at Hermione’s instincts. A quiet, prickling sensation beneath her skin whenever he was nearby. Something unspoken. Off.

She wanted to believe he was changing. But neither she nor Draco had ruled him out as the intruder.

There was no evidence linking him to the break-in.

But there was no proof clearing him either.

Part II – Elsewhere: The Quiet Place

Ron leaned back in the old armchair by the fireplace, the dim light of a single oil lamp casting long shadows along the cracked floorboards.

The house was small — barely even a cottage, really. One bedroom. One bathroom. A kitchen that could barely fit a table. But it was exactly what he needed.

Cheap. Remote. Forgotten.

The kind of place people didn’t ask questions about.

He’d found it three weeks ago and had moved in the same day. Dust had thickened in the corners. One of the windows was stuck shut. The floo was disconnected. Perfect.

Exactly what he needed.

There was… preparation to do.

His last few weeks had been productive. Quiet. Controlled.

It meant he hadn’t seen Hermione as much — no more sudden crossings of paths, no half-coincidental visits to her neighborhood. But that was fine. Necessary, even.

Because he wasn’t playing it clumsily anymore.

No more waiting for her to see what was right for her.

No — this would take careful, deliberate work. And when he'd finally succeed in his endeavour, Hermione would be his. 

And she’d forget everything else.

Forget Malfoy. Forget everyone but RON.

Chapter Text

Two more months had passed, and yet somehow, nothing had changed — and everything had.

Hermione stood at the window of the east drawing room in Malfoy Manor, a steaming cup of tea growing cold in her hands. Outside, the fog sat low across the grounds, curling like a second skin over the hedge maze. It had been a long day. A long week. A long two months.

She glanced down at the parchment, strewn across the coffee table. The case file she'd brought home still taunted her with its lack of answers.

Somewhere on the other side of the manor, Draco was buried in his own paperwork. Their lives, once vibrant with late-night cooking and stolen kisses in quiet corners, were now built of long shifts, whispered discussions over shared case files, and the kind of fatigue that settled deep in the bones.

They hadn’t looked at a single new apartment since moving into the manor.

And their investigation into the intruder? Frozen. Forgotten. Not because they no longer cared — but because this new case had swallowed everything.

It had started six weeks ago. One girl at first. Found near a coastal road, barefoot, confused, with a partially erased memory and no idea how she’d gotten there. Then another. And another.

Witches. Muggle women. All young. All alone when found. All having lost between two and six weeks of memory, even though none of them had been missing for more than 2 days. None of them had disappeared long enough to even have been reported missing.

And the worst part? They all bore very obvious signs of forced sexual intercourse. Rape!

These women all felt and saw that their bodies had been violated. But they didnt' know where, when and why they had been targeted.

It was haunting.

Hermione had been the first to suggest a connection to memory charms — improperly, sloppily cast ones. She recognized the signs. Disorientation. Headaches. 

She had obliviated her own parents to prtected them from the war. She had taken all the proper precautions, done all the reading, but still it had gone wrong. She had never been able to recover her parents memories. She understood what it meant to erase someone — and how fragile the edges of the mind could become, even with the gentlest touch.

These women hadn’t been protected.

They had been tampered with.

The Auror Office was working with the Unspeakables, trying to recover fragments. So far: nothing.

No locations. No suspects. No motive.

But Draco… Draco had a theory.

“It’s not about information,” he had said one night, voice low as they sat at the edge of their bed, shoulders touching. “It’s about control. Someone wants to break them. It almost seems to be a sport for him. ”

Also there was a clear sexual motive. And a complete disregard for women. The methodical erasure, the specific demographic — young women — it felt predatory.

The Ministry hadn’t used the word serial, not yet.

But everyone felt the pattern forming.

Still, life outside the case moved on. Hermione had made it to only three Gryffindor pub nights in the past two months. Each time, Ron was there. Smiling. Polite. Perfectly normal.

She kept her distance — more out of caution than fear — but she watched him. Waited for him to slip. He never did. Would he ever?

Meanwhile, the Manor had become… surprisingly bearable. Draco’s Slytherin friends visited now and then — Pansy, Theo, Blaise. They treated Hermione with real affection, and she, to her own quiet astonishment, enjoyed their company. She hadn’t expected to find a place among them, but it had come naturally, slowly. Another kind of healing.

Draco seemed calmer too — less haunted than he had been at the flat. The Manor gave him a strange peace, perhaps because it was his to protect on his own terms.

And yet, under all of it, something darker pressed in. The case. The helplessness. The sense that they were missing something.

Every day without a breakthrough felt heavier than the last.

Chapter Text

Ron thought back to what he had witnessed that night in Hermiones bedroom three months ago.

It had been a turning point for him.

A revelation of sorts.

The imagine of Hermione kneeling naked on the floor, her obvious arousal, her complete obedience and wanton eagerness, had become one of Ron's fondest memories.

And by now he had really gotten pretty good at repressing Malfoys presence in the whole scene.

To Ron, naked, willing, docile Hermione, was a glimpse into his very own, very near future.....

......if only he would be able to figure out how Malfoy did it!

How Malfoy trapped Hermione, influenced her to stay with him and cater to all his sexual wishes, however depraved they might be.

Over the past few weeks Ron had gotten really quite good at mind control and manipulation.

But for the life of him he had not been able to recreate that wanton eagerness, the obvious arousal Hermione had displayed when servicing Malfoy.

But he knew he had to keep trying.

Had to push trough!

For Hermione!

He would treat her so much better that Malfoy ever could.

After all Malfoy had been a Deatheater and Ron could not even begin to imagine all the depraved, disturbing shit Malfoy certainly did to Hermione behind closed doors.

But outside the bedroom, Hermione acted normal and seemed content enough. She did not seem to mind the control Malfoy exercised over her.

So were would be the harm in Ron doing the same exact thing to her in their future together?

Keep her under his control, always wanton and willing to cater to his every need. Eventually he'd have her pop out his children.

Hell, if all worked out like he planned he would not even have to try and convince her to get a few necessary enhancement on her body.

He would be able to simply customize her body to his liking.

But before that.....he still had a lot of work to do.

Chapter Text

By the end of November, darkness settled over the British Isles like a second skin — thick, early, and bone-deep. The sun barely lingered beyond late afternoon, and even daylight seemed cold and reluctant.

Hermione sat hunched over her desk in the Auror Department long after the candles had burned low. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, the scent of ink and old parchment seeping into her skin like smoke. She hadn’t eaten since midday. She hadn’t noticed.

They had only made little headway in their investigation over the last two weeks.

There was no pattern to the venues were the perpetrator picked up his victims— wizarding pubs, Muggle clubs, countryside events. Never the same place twice.

They had been scouring surveillance footage from muggle clubs, chasing magical traces, talking to witnesses in the the bars and pubs where the girls had last been seen before being taken. But the trail was always cold by the time the next victim was found.

Across the room, Draco stood by the window, arms crossed. His eyes were sharp. Tired. But determined.

Another name. Another file. Another girl.

They were up to nineteen confirmed victims now. The number was rising fast. Two, sometimes three per week. Always found in different regions — coastal cliffs, back roads, moorland clearings. Remote places. Cold, alone, and afraid.

And every single one of them had been violated in the same chilling way: raped, stripped of memory.Unable to recall where they’d been, or who they’d been with. Most couldn’t remember their own names at first. The trauma was etched into their magic, their expressions. The predator was growing more violent too. While the first victims had shown unmistakable signs of sexual abuse, the more recent victims had been beaten, severely choked and more violenty raped.

They were now officially hunting a serial rapist.

“He’s losing control,” Draco muttered, scanning the report from the most recent victim, his tone taut with anger. “Or getting bolder.”

“Both,” Hermione replied softly. She rubbed her temple. “The attacks are escalating. The memory gaps are widening.” 

“And he’s using Polyjuice,” Hermione added. “Every witness says something different. Brown hair, blonde hair, tall, shorter, different accents… . But always handsome, charming. The mannerisms match. The posture. The way he approaches them. It’s the same wizard.”

He was clever. Careful. And now clearly angry.

The increasing pace of his attacks told them everything they needed to know. This wasn’t just compulsion. It was frustration. With his patience clearly eroding his cruelty was only growing.

“He’s been experimenting,” Draco said after a pause. “Seeing what he can get away with.”

Hermione flinched. “And the victims are just what?… Test subjects?”

He nodded grimly. “Until one of them slips away. Until one of them remembers enough to name him.”

The press had been relentless.

The Daily Prophet ran a screaming headline three days ago: “Auror Office Failing Our Daughters”. They’d been named directly in the article — even though the piece included little more than speculation and panic.

And yet… they couldn’t argue. Because the questions were fair.

Who was doing this? Why? How many more would there be?

The Ministry had issued an official safety notice. Witches — especially young ones — were urged not to travel alone, not to accept drinks or invitations from strangers, not to dismiss the unease that sometimes came before danger.

And still, the attacks continued.

“I don’t care how careful he is,” Draco muttered, his voice low and cold. “No one like him stays lucky forever. He will slip up. One wrong step — and we’ll find him.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her eyes distant. 

Her thoughts drifted — briefly — to her parents. Their names. Their lives. Their memories still lost, never recovered. The weight of irreversible magic. The burden of what memory could steal.

She would not let someone else endure that kind of loss.

Not on her watch.

Chapter Text

The cottage was cold.

The kind of cold that clung to old walls and never quite let go.

The fire had long since burned down to glowing embers, but Ron hadn’t moved from the old armchair.

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the windowsill. He stared blankly at the wall across from him, where nothing hung — just chipped paint.

His body sank deeper into the chair, he closed his eyes—to picture it all clearly. The way things would be, should have been by now!

The life that was meant to be his.

He thought of her — always her.

He wasn’t alone tonight — he’d brought someone back. A woman from the pub. 

Over the past few weeks, there had been others. A parade of names he didn’t remember, faces that blurred together. 

None of them had fulfilled their purpose.

It was frustrating him to no end.

But maybe, he thought hopefully, maybe tonight would be different.

Maybe tonight would bring him the breakthrough he had been working for these past weeks, even months.

He opened his eyes and glanced toward door. There - naked and imperiused - knelt the woman from the pub.

With a rough voice Ron gave her one simple command:

"CRAWL"

Chapter Text

Ron coldy regarded the naked girl, kneeling at his feet, sucking his cock.

So far she had obeyed his every command. The imperius curse was working nicely.

But something was still missing.

Ron noticed the defiance in the girls eyes. 

She showed no obvious signs of arousal or sexual attraction to him.

Though he had been experimenting with various combinations of layered curses over the last weeks and months.

The imperius curse always worked best, bending the women to his will.

He had tried weaving in Aura enchantments to appear more appealing to his test subjects. Tampered with Affection hexes and Cheering charms to evoke positive emotions for him in the girls.

He had layered the charms in different variations. Rearranged them, cast them in countles different sequences.

Nothing really work, at least not for long.

Nothing he tried had even come close to the way Malfoy had turned Hermione into a wanton, enthusiastic whore in the bedroom and a doting girlfriend in public.

Ron's temper flared. White hot rage shot through him!

Pulling his cock out of the girls mouth, he slapped her across the face with the back of his hand.

So hard, that her lip split open, blood dripping down her chin, over her saggy tits, finally pooling on the floor.

In seconds he was on her, grabbing her by the throat, violently pulling her up.

He backed her against the wall, choking her.

" You failed me! " he accused. She'd failed him like all the others before her.

His free hand forcefully moved between her leg. Finding her cunt. Dry as fuck!!!

Well at least his cock was still properly lubricated for her sucking him off.

And she was still under his imperius curse, keeping eerily still, not fighting back. 

Good!

At least he could still use her to get his rocks off.

He ordered her to widen her stance. To spread her legs for him.

Without further preparation he worked his cock into her and forcefully took her up against the wall.

When he was done he decided that is was time  to finally tap into potions.

Micro-doses of Amortentia maybe mixed with a lust potion, would do wonders for his research.

But first he had to get rid of the girl.

So he wiped her memory clean........probably took a little more time from her than was necessary.

Well, better safe than sorry.

He scooped the motionless girl into his arms and apparated.

This time he'd leave her somewhere in the Scottish Highlands.

Tomorrow his work would start anew.

What did Hermione use to say during their school days, when brewing potions?

Trial and error.

Chapter Text

It was early December, and the cold in the Scottish Highlands had been brutal — the kind that crept beneath layers of clothing and settled deep in the bones. A thin layer of snow had already fallen the night before, a quiet frost veiling the heather and stone.

She had been found just after dawn.

Twenty-three. Alone. Naked. Curled in on herself beneath the broken wall of a crumbling sheepfold in the middle of the Scottish wilderness. Her fingers and lips were blue from the cold. If a pair of hikers hadn’t passed through that godforsaken clearing at just the right moment, the girl wouldn’t have survived.

She'd been lucky. So terribly lucky.

But one thought turned Hermione’s stomach.

Someone had put her there.

Someone who didn’t care whether she lived or died.

Her memories, like those of all the other victims, were wiped.

Her skin had been bruised and scraped, her lip split open. She had been brutally raped. Dried blood still clinging to the inside of her thighs.

But not only blood.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, recalling the conversation with the Healer on scene.

“It looks like the perpetrator didn’t cast a proper cleansing charm. There was biological evidence… bodily remnants,” the Healer had said carefully, grim-faced.

For a beat, Hermione had gone still. Then, heart pounding, she had asked the question no other Auror would’ve thought to ask:

“Can we analyze it… muggle-style?”

The Healer had blinked. “What do you mean?”

“DNA analysis,” Hermione said. “Genetic markers.”

It had taken convincing. Explanations.

Draco had backed her up without hesitation.

“If it gives us even a sliver of an edge,” he’d said “ we do it. Wizarding pride be damned.”

So now, the sample sat in a magically refrigerated containment unit, awaiting the first proper forensic test.

Still, she knew DNA evidence was only a tool — a match required a suspect. Without someone to test against, the sample meant nothing. They couldn’t comb through every wizard in Britain. It was too vague. Too broad.

But it was something.

And after months of nothing, after seeing young women left shattered, something was more than they’d dared hope for.

Chapter Text

It was mid-December, but the air inside the Auror Department felt even colder to her than the frost-laced streets outside.

Hermione sat at the same desk she’d occupied for months, staring at a map that hadn’t changed in two weeks. Twenty-three pins. Twenty-three locations. Twenty-three young women violated, discarded — and now, silence.

Absolute silence.

She hadn’t realised she was holding her breath until she let it out in a slow, tired exhale.

Across the room, a string of enchanted holly above the hallway shimmered gold and green. Someone — likely a cheerful intern or a too-eager department head — had decided the Aurors Office should look festive. 

Hermione hadn’t noticed it until today.

Now it mocked her.

Outside the frosted windows, the city was alive with Christmas cheer. Witches in brightly coloured cloaks rushed through Diagon Alley carrying bags of gifts, fairy lights shimmered above the cobbled streets, and shopfronts glowed with warm light. Even in the Ministry, people were preparing for the holidays — talking about days off, meals with family, fireside gatherings.

Hermione felt none of it.

There was no room in her heart this year for Christmas.

Not when the case had gone cold.

Two weeks had passed since the last victim had been found in the Highlands. Since they’d recovered the first usable trace of the perpetrator — a biological sample, carelessly left behind. It had been a mistake, a crack in the predator’s control.

They had hoped it was the start of his collapse.

Instead, it had been the end of everything.

No new victims. No sightings. No suspicious activity. Not even a whisper of movement.

They had the DNA. But with no suspects, it sat useless, locked away in magical containment. There was nothing to test it against. 

Draco stood by the door, leaning against the frame. His arms were crossed, brows furrowed in that particular way that meant he was deep in thought.

Hermione felt like she was unraveling at the edges. Quietly. Invisibly. 

“I thought… he’d keep slipping,” she said, not looking at Draco. “I thought once we had something, he’d get sloppy. Or angry. Or careless again.”

Draco didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he stepped forward, pulling the chair beside hers and sitting down. His hand came to rest lightly on her back — a silent anchor.

“Maybe he’s hiding,” he said quietly. 

“Or he’s finished,” she whispered. “What if twenty-three was enough for him? What if he got whatever he wanted?”

Draco didn’t answer that. Because there was nothing reassuring to say.

Around them, the soft hum of holiday chatter drifted from down the corridor. Someone laughed. Someone else called out that the Ministry tree was finally lit.

Hermione didn’t care.

She pressed her palms to her face. “I hate this. I hate pretending it’s normal. I hate watching everyone go home to their families. Buying gifts. Making plans. While we’re just… stuck.”

Draco nodded. “I know.”

He didn’t say me too. He didn’t need to.

Their world had shrunk to this room. This case. The twenty-three girls.

She missed the world outside — the version of it where Christmas meant warmth and celebration. But this year, all she saw were shadows.

“I’m not giving up,” she said softly, lifting her head. “Even if he’s gone quiet. Even if this trail fades. I won’t forget them.”

“I know you won’t,” Draco said, his voice steady. “And neither will I.”

They sat like that for a long moment — side by side in the quiet, surrounded by the ghosts of a case that had grown colder than winter.

Outside, the city glittered.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Nineteen- year-old Wynna Cobble stepped out of Honeydukes and into a crisp december evening in Diagon Alley.

The sky above was already dark, painted in deep shades of midnight blue and purple. It was only just past four, but in December, night came early. The alley was alive with light — golden lanterns, enchanted garlands, and glowing shop signs that flickered gently in the winter air. Fairy lights twinkled above the cobblestones, casting soft reflections on the windows and puddles left from an earlier drizzle.

Wynna’s breath curled visibly in front of her, little puffs of mist rising from her lips as she paused just outside the shop door. She clutched a Honeydukes bag close to her chest, as if holding it could protect her from the cold — or maybe from everything else.

She shifted awkwardly, shoulders hunched, her back slightly curved as though trying to make herself smaller. She did that a lot — shrinking herself, unconsciously folding inward, trying to disappear into coats and scarves and shadows. Tonight was no different.

Her red coat, though festive, was a little too tight across her middle. The buttons strained slightly when she walked, which only made her more aware of herself. Her fuzzy scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck.

She pulled her coat down and adjusted the sleeves, even though they weren’t riding up. Then she reached into the paper bag and fished out a sugar quill — raspberry-flavoured — and tucked it into the corner of her mouth.

It helped. A little.

Food always helped, even if it brought its own guilt later. But right now, the sugar on her tongue gave her something else to think about.

She turned slowly, unsure of where to go next. She and Lynn had planned to meet at the Leaky Cauldron tonight — nothing fancy, just two friends sharing mulled wine in a quiet corner booth like they’d done every December since their last year at Hogwarts. They’d never been the popular girls, but they had each other. Steady. Loyal. Comfortable.

But Lynn had owled her earlier this afternoon. Her grandmother had fallen — not terribly, but badly enough to be taken to St. Mungo’s. “Rain check?” the letter had said, with a heart drawn at the bottom.

Wynna had written back right away.

Of course. No worries. Hope she feels better soon.

She meant it. She really did. But now, standing alone in the middle of a festive, busy street, she felt the full weight of that cancelled plan settle in her chest.

Everyone around her seemed to belong to someone.

Couples strolled arm-in-arm, laughing gently. Friends spilled out of shops and into the streets with shopping bags and cocoa, their voices rising and falling in warm conversation. Even the shop displays seemed to be smiling — magical carolers in tiny enchanted dioramas waved and sang behind frosted glass.

She loved the holidays. Always had. But they were harder now. Quieter. Lonelier. Her parents had died when she was eight.

Wynna shifted her weight again, tugging her scarf higher.

She was used to being on the outside of things. Used to watching life rather than joining it. Even at Hogwarts, she’d been the quiet one in the corner of the common room, reading while others laughed. She had never been teased cruelly — not often, anyway — but neither had she been seen.

Not really.

She felt that same invisibility now, watching the lights twinkle across Diagon Alley. Her reflection in a nearby shop window made her cringe — coat too tight, scarf off-center, cheeks flushed from the cold and maybe embarrassment.

She looked away quickly.

You’re fine, she told herself. You got your sweets. Maybe you’ll still go to the Leaky and have a mulled wine by yourself. Why not? You don’t need anyone to come with you.

But the thought of walking in alone made her stomach twist.

She turned instead toward the edge of the alley, thinking maybe she’d just head home. Her flat wasn’t far. Small, quiet, tucked into a crooked row above a secondhand bookshop. There were biscuits there. And blankets. Maybe she’d listen to Celestina Warbeck on the wireless and try to pretend the ache wasn’t there.

As she moved forward, the fairy lights above flickered brighter for a moment. She paused.

That strange sensation again — like the air had shifted. Like someone had turned to look at her.

Wynna blinked, turning slightly. But no one was watching. Just crowds moving, people talking, the general rhythm of an early December evening in the wizarding world.

Still, something crawled beneath her skin. A prickle at the base of her neck. A twist in her gut.

She bit into a piece of peppermint bark to distract herself. Let the cold sting her fingers and the sugar settle her nerves.

And then she kept walking.

Chapter Text

The past few weeks had been quiet for Ron Weasley. Nothing much to do for him but wait.

Two weeks ago, another disappointing encounter had left him restless and bitter. The little whore had failed him, like all the others before her.

Another failed experiment.

That night, frustrated and burning with resentment, Ron had made a decision: if charms and curses weren't working out, it was finally time to tap into potions.

So the very next day, his appearance heavily altered by multiple glamours, he went to Knockturn Alley.

The potions shop was dark and grimy, nestled between crumbling stone walls. The clerk had looked at him strangely but hadn’t asked questions. Ron had ordered a mix of enhancement brews, mood-altering draughts, love and lust potions and several rare elixirs used for psychological persuasion. Nothing illegal, not technically. But potent enough to make someone... more pliant .......more responsive......more open.

He had been told it would take two weeks to brew them properly.

And now, FINALLY, the wait was over.

Cancelling his glamours, Ron walked back into Diagon Alley, his fingers tight around the magically sealed parcel in his pocket. The street around him was alive with holiday cheer — bursts of laughter, golden lights strung across windows, happy children running past.

He barely noticed any of it.

The lights felt too bright. The noise, too loud. Like the whole world had moved on without him, glowing and golden while he remained in a grey place full of waiting and wanting.

He paused, considering the Leaky Cauldron. A pint wouldn’t hurt. 

But that's when he saw her.

A young woman in a red coat and a fuzzy scarf. Standing just at the edge of the street, a bag of sweets clutched in hand.

Vulnerable

Insecure.

Someone who could be shaped.

Oh, this girl was JUST perfect!

Chapter Text

Wynna barely registered the sharp bump to her shoulder before she stumbled back a step, her boot catching awkwardly on the edge of the curb. Her Honeydukes bag slipped from her arms, scattering peppermint bark, snowflake toffees, and a half-eaten sugar quill across the cobblestones. The person who’d collided with her was already gone, swept back into the crowd.

“Oh....oh , no....” she started to stammer, cheeks already flushing, embarrassement rushed over her.

She'd fallen in the middle of Diagon Alley........her sweets scattered everywhere.

Pushing back tears, she quickly tried to gather her sweets before the foot traffic crushed them.

But then — someone crouched down beside her.

“Here,” said a voice, warm and calm. “Let me help you with that.”

She froze. Her eyes lifted slowly — and then widened.

Ron Weasley.

Wynna blinked like she couldn’t trust her own vision. But no — it was unmistakable. The hair, the freckles, the long, lean build. The easy grin. The Ron Weasley.

One-third of the Golden Trio.

War hero.

Best friend to Harry Potter.

And he was helping her — Wynna Cobble — pick up her sweets off the street.

“I—” she stammered, unable to finish even that one word. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it behind her eyes.

He handed her the crumpled bag, his touch brief but oddly careful. His expression was kind. Amused.

“Bit of a rough evening?” he said, still crouched next to her.

Wynna stared at him, completely unable to speak.

She wasn’t imagining this. He was talking to her. Her.

Boring, awkward, invisible her — the girl people passed by without noticing. The one who always sat at the edge of groups, who walked quietly through her life, who blended in so well even Hogwarts professors had sometimes forgotten to call her name during roll.

And now… Ron Weasley — actual Ron Weasley — was helping her pick up her peppermint bark like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I—yes—I mean, no. I’m okay,” she blurted, finally finding words. “Someone bumped me, I wasn’t looking, and—”

He cut her off gently with a wave of his hand. “Crowds are thick tonight. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He stood smoothly, offering his hand. She took it — because what else was she supposed to do? Say no?

Her face was burning. She was suddenly aware of her coat — how snug it was across the middle, how her scarf kept slipping to one side, how frizzy her hair must look in the damp December air.

“I just meant to get some sweets,” she mumbled, immediately regretting how stupid that sounded.

But Ron only smiled again. “Clearly, you’ve got good taste. Honeydukes has the best sugar quills.”

He noticed what I bought. She gripped the bag tighter, still stunned.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked again, his voice lowering slightly. His expression shifted — less playful, more concerned now. “Didn’t twist anything when you fell, did you?”

She shook her head fast. “No! No, just a little startled. That’s all.”

“Well,” he said, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, “can’t have that. Let me make it up to you.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came.

“A drink?” he offered. “A butterbeer, maybe? Or something more festive? Mulled wine?”

Wynna couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Was he… was he asking her out?

No, not possible. Just a friendly drink. To be polite. To make sure I’m okay. Not because… not because he actually sees me.

But the way he was looking at her… it made her stomach flutter.

She nodded too quickly. “Okay. Yes. That… that would be nice.”

“Brilliant,” Ron said with that same, easy confidence. He offered his arm.

Wynna hesitated only a second before taking it. His coat sleeve brushed her hand. She thought she might faint.

They began walking toward the Leaky Cauldron — him steady, calm, like this was just another night. And her?

Her head was spinning. Her hands were shaking.

Because Ron Weasley — famous, brave, Ron Weasley — had seen her.

Chapter Text

Part One: Wynna's Perspective

The Leaky Cauldron had never felt so magical.

Ron Weasley had chosen her. Out of everyone, her.

Wynna’s cheeks ached from smiling, and her head was light, swimming in the comfort of laughter and warm drink.

Three drinks in, and he was still there. Still smiling at her like she mattered.

She hadn’t meant to tell him about her family. That was never the plan. But the way he looked at her, the way his voice softened when he said her name—it made her feel safe. As if someone had finally lit a lantern in a room she hadn’t realized was dark.

So she told him. About her mum and dad. About the silence that followed. The ache of empty Christmases and the feeling of being invisible—even at Hogwarts. Maybe especially there.

And he listened. He didn’t rush her. He didn’t flinch or change the subject. He just… stayed.

The mead made her brave, and his eyes made her believe—maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something real. She laughed again, a little embarrassed, when her story stumbled to a stop. But he didn’t seem to mind.

When he said he had to leave, she nodded, understanding but disappointed. He had work in the morning. He was responsible. She liked that about him, too.

Part Two: Ron's Perspective

The Leaky Cauldron hummed with warm candlelight and soft laughter, the kind of December night that made even cold stone walls feel inviting. Ron leaned back in his chair, a half-empty pint of spiced mead in front of him, the third round already.

Wynna was laughing now—again. 

It was all so easy. A few jokes, a few pointed silences, a warm smile timed just right.

She trusted him. Already. 

She was talking now—slurred slightly but still clear. Something about her parents. Gone when she was eight. Muggleborn father, witch mother. Raised by grandparents until they, too, passed. No siblings. No family. Very few friends. Her voice wavered once, then steadied as she pushed on with a crooked smile.

And Ron nodded, murmured just the right responses—“That’s awful, Wynna,” and “You didn’t deserve that.” He even leaned closer, letting his brow knit just enough to seem genuinely moved.

This girl was even more perfect, than he'd initially thought! Her, he could keep longer than the others. No one ever noticed her. No family....only few friends. No one would miss her. She would help him find the solution to all his problems.

But Ron knew he had to act carefully and cautiously now.

He hadn't had the time to glamour himself or use polyjuice.

And now people had seen them together—too many people. He couldn’t afford whispers or complications.

So, he stood up with a rueful smile and stretched as if regretful to leave.
"Early start tomorrow,” he said. “But I’m glad we did this. Really.”

Her eyes lifted to him, wide and grateful and trusting. 

He placed a few Sickles on the table, told her to enjoy the rest of her night, and walked out before she could ask him to stay.

Outside, Ron disappeared into the shadows of the dark alleyway next to the pub.

And there he waited.

Chapter Text

Lynn Thorne hadn’t been able to sleep.

It had been three days since she’d last heard from Wynna — three long days filled with unanswered owls, missed doorstep visits, and the gnawing sense that something was wrong.

They were supposed to meet at the Leaky Cauldron on Saturday night, for a little pre-holiday catch-up. Mulled wine, gossip, the two of them pretending they weren’t awkward wallflowers who mostly kept to themselves.

But then her grandmother had taken that fall and Lynn had rushed to St. Mungo’s.

She’d owled Wynna to cancel — apologizing again and again — Wynna, of course, had been nothing but understanding.

To make it up to her, she’d shown up at Wynna’s tiny flat just above the old bookshop on Sunday morning, a paper bag of warm croissants in hand.

But Wynna wasn’t there.

And when the day wore on — and then turned into Monday — and still no word… Lynn’s worry hardened into dread.

She’d gone by Wynna’s workplace Monday afternoon. The shopkeeper said she hadn’t shown up for her shift. No call. No owl. Nothing.

And that’s when the bottom dropped out of Lynn’s stomach.

Because Wynna wasn’t the sort of person to disappear. She was quiet. Careful. A creature of habit. She didn’t ghost people. She didn’t just disappear!

And there was still that man out there. The one who had hurt so many young women and left them scattered and broken in the cold. A serial rapist the papers had called him. 

By Tuesday morning, Lynn couldn’t take it anymore.

She wrapped herself in her winter cloak, grabbed the unopened letters her owl had returned, and made her way to the Auror Department, nerves jangling like sleigh bells in a storm.

The receptionist didn’t need much convincing.

Within minutes, she was ushered down the stark hallway to a private interview room, where two Aurors were already waiting.

Hermione Granger sat with a notepad in hand, her expression sharp but open. Draco Malfoy stood nearby, arms folded, dressed in his dark uniform, watching carefully. Their presence — and the serious look in both of their eyes — told Lynn one thing immediately:

They already suspected why she was here.

“Lynn Thorne?” Granger said gently. “You're here to report a missing person? A certain....Wynna Cobble, did I get that right?”

Lynn nodded quickly. “Yes, Wynna....she’s missing. I—I don’t know what else to call it. She’s not at work, not at home, and she’s not answering owls. I went to her flat again last night. Lights out. No signs of her. She was supposed to meet me on Saturday night, but I had to cancel at the last minute…”

Hermione leaned in. “Where were you meant to meet?”

“The Leaky Cauldron. Around five-thirty.”

Malfoy’s voice was calm but firm. “Did she say she’d still go alone?”

“No,” Lynn said, faltering. “But… I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. Wynna—she’s… quiet. And lonely, sometimes. I think she was really looking forward to it. She might have gone anyway, just for the atmosphere. She always liked this time of year.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Has she ever disappeared like this before?”

“Never,” Lynn said quickly. “She’s dependable. A creature of habit”

Draco moved a step closer. “Can you describe her? Anything that might help?”

Lynn nodded. “She’s small. Shorter than me. Curvy. Reddish-blonde hair, shoulder-length. She wears it down mostly. She has this old red coat — it’s tight on her now but she still wears it. She says it's festive.”

Hermione scribbled notes quickly.

“She doesn’t have anyone else,” Lynn added softly.

Hermione looked up.

“No family,” Lynn clarified. “She lost her parents really young. No siblings. I mean… I’m it, really. Her only close friend.”

The room fell still.

Hermione’s pen slowed to a stop. Malfoy’s expression darkened — not from anger, but from something quieter. Concern. Dread, maybe.

“No one would’ve reported her missing if you hadn’t come,” Hermione said quietly.

Lynn swallowed. “I know.”

“She didn’t mention anything unusual lately? Anyone new in her life?” Draco asked. “Any changes in mood or behavior?”

“No. She seemed normal. A little down — the holidays are hard for her.”

“Would she trust strangers?” Draco asked next. “Would she talk to someone if they approached her?”

Lynn hesitated. “I mean… maybe? If they were friendly. She’s awkward, especially around men, but she’s polite. She wouldn’t want to be rude. If someone kind-looking started chatting her up…” Lynn swallowed. “I think she’d be flattered. Maybe even hopeful.”

Hermione and Draco exchanged a look.

“She’s sweet,” Lynn said softly. “Soft-spoken. Gentle. She doesn’t think much of herself, but she’s the kindest person I know.”

“And if someone made her feel special?” Draco pressed. “Someone charming.”

Lynn blinked. “She’d fall for it. Absolutely.”

There was a long silence in the room. The only sound was the scratch of Hermione’s quill against the parchment.

Then Hermione looked up, her tone professional but tinged with quiet steel. “You did the right thing coming to us, Lynn. We’re going to do everything we can to find Wynna.”

Lynn nodded, hands twisting in her lap.

But in her gut, she already knew.

Something terrible had happened.

And the Aurors knew it too.

Lynn nodded, fingers twisting in her lap. “You think it’s him, don’t you?”

Chapter Text

Lynn returned to the Auror Department just before lunch, a photograph clutched tightly in her gloved hands. The edges were slightly bent from where she’d held it all morning, unwilling to risk misplacing it.

The photo had been taken earlier that year.....in the summer, at a quidditch match in Wales.

Wynna stood in the frame with her arm looped through Lynn’s, a half-empty fizzy drink in her other hand. The background of the stadium was blurred, but the smile on her face was sharp and clear.

She looked joyful. Vibrant. Alive.

“She loved days like that,” Lynn added, her voice tightening. “No crowds, no pressure. Just… fun.”

Hermione nodded and made quick duplicates of the photo, one for each of them to use in the field. “Thank you, Lynn. We’ll start asking around this afternoon.”

It was early afternoon when Draco and Hermione set out to Diagon Alley, the photograph carefully copied and duplicated for questioning — not for publishing. That was a decision they had made together and quickly: No press. No alerts.

If the man they were chasing really had taken Wynna — and all signs pointed to that ugly truth — then he had likely done so because of her very invisibility.

No family. No known partner. Few friends. No one in her flat to notice she hadn’t come home.

Unlike the other victims, Wynna had no one.

Except Lynn.

And now them.

“I think he knew exactly what he was doing,” Draco said. “She’s been gone for longer than any of the other victims were. He didn’t just take a chance. He selected her.”

Hermione nodded grimly. “Because she wouldn’t be missed in time.”

It made her stomach twist. The cruelty of it — the deliberate calculation of it — rattled her. To think someone could look at a shy, sweet young woman and see not a person, but an opportunity.

And yet…

Maybe that was their edge now.

If he thought Wynna was overlooked, unimportant — if he didn’t realize someone had noticed she was missing — he might not be hiding yet. He might still be within reach.

“We’re using this,” Hermione said firmly, tapping the photo. “She’s the first one he didn’t expect someone to come looking for. That could make him sloppy.”

“We just need someone to remember seeing her,” Draco agreed.

They moved from shop to shop with practiced professionalism, flashing their badges and showing Wynna’s photo to shopkeepers and staff. They received the same response almost everywhere — polite concern, but no recognition.

Each shop was a dead end.

By the time the sun dipped low and Diagon Alley began to glow in deeper amber light, they reached their final stop: the Leaky Cauldron.

“We’re following up on a missing person,” Hermione said to the young woman behind the counter. “Wynna Cobble. She may have come here Saturday night.”

She handed over the photo.

The bartender studied it, frowning. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t working that night. But… Tom was.”

Hermione perked up. “Is he here?”

“Not yet. His shift starts in about an hour.”

Draco glanced at Hermione. “We can wait.”

“If anyone remembers her,” Hermione added, “it’ll be the man who’s worked here longer than most of us have been alive.”

They settled in at a back table, far from the fireplace, where they could quietly observe the room. Outside, the sky had turned navy. Snow hadn’t yet begun to fall, but the chill in the air promised it wouldn’t be long.

Hermione rested the photo on the table between them, her fingers idly smoothing its worn edges.

“She has to have come here,” she said softly.

Draco nodded. “We just need one person to remember. One piece that doesn’t fit.”

Chapter Text

The Leaky Cauldron had settled into the low, familiar hum of early evening. A handful of regulars were scattered around the tables, the fire crackled in the hearth, and the frosted windows glowed softly from the warm light inside. It was the kind of night that made Diagon Alley feel like the heart of the wizarding world — old and steady.

Hermione sat curled in the corner of the booth, a half-eaten bowl of root vegetable stew in front of her. Across the table , Draco was halfway through his shepherd’s pie, watching her with his usual quiet focus.

“This is the best I’ve eaten in weeks,” she murmured. “And I’m fairly certain it’s the only thing I’ve eaten today.”

Draco gave a dry, pointed look. “You say that like I haven’t been telling you to eat properly since last Monday.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was no real protest. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll eat extra tomorrow.”

Draco stabbed a piece of pie with his fork. “You mean at Grimmauld Place.”

Hermione groaned and let her head fall briefly into her hand. “Yes. That.”

Just that morning, Ginny had sent a cheerful little owl inviting them to a small pre-Christmas gathering the next evening. “Not a party,” she had written, in her flowing script, “just a cozy get-together — a few close friends, drinks, good food. We’d love to see you both.”

It was short notice, but not surprising. Ginny loved spontaneous things like that — and usually, Hermione did too.

But not this time.

Because, of course, Ron would be there.

“He’s been fine lately,” Hermione said quietly, mostly to her stew. “But still.......”

Draco leaned back, letting his fingers tap against the base of his glass. “Still you suspect him.....and so do I!”

Hermione didn’t argue. As far as anyone else could see, Ron Weasley had been nothing but calm, sociable, and put-together in the past months. No odd behavior. No dramatics. Just casual conversation at pub nights and the occasional polite exchange.

And yet…

Neither of them had forgotten.

Their own case — the break-in, the intruder, the violation of their most private space — had slipped onto the back burner ever since the serial rapist investigation took over.

But it still lived at the edge of their minds, simmering, waiting. They always came back to Ron. Not due to evidence — there was none, in fact — but because of instinct. A hunch. A shadow of unease.

“Once we close this case,” he said softly, “we revisit it.”

Hermione nodded. “I haven’t let it go.”

“You’re not meant to.”

There was a pause between them. A quiet understanding.

Just then the front door of the pub creaked open. They both turned slightly as an older man stepped inside, his robes dusted with frost. 

Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron walked in, his nephew hot on his heels.

FINALLY!

Chapter Text

The door creaked softly as Tom entered the Leaky Cauldron, stamping the frost off his boots and pulling the wool cap from his mostly bald head. Behind him, a much younger man stepped in awkwardly, hovering by the doorway with a gangly posture and uncertain eyes.

“Come on then, Jimmy,” Tom muttered, nudging the boy forward with a curt wave. 

Jimmy blinked and followed, his long limbs moving with a stiffness that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them. He boy was nineteen years old— tall and rail-thin, with a mop of mouse-brown hair and ears that stuck out just enough to give him a perpetually startled look. The family resemblance between Tom and his nephew was unmistakable.

Tom had taken the boy under his wing after he’d graduated from Hogwarts two years prior. The lad didn’t make friends easily. Always a little awkward, always on the outside of things.

Tom knew what it was to be overlooked, and the Leaky could use the help.

So he had promised this sister to look after the boy and get him out of his shell.

They were halfway toward the back when the current bartender — Megan, who’d just finished her shift — leaned in and caught Tom’s attention.

“Those two over there,” she said in a low voice, nodding toward the corner booth. “They’re Aurors. Came in asking about a missing girl. Showed a photo around.”

Tom followed her gaze and squinted.

Well, he’d be damned  — that was Hermione Granger herself, wasn’t it? 

Was that… the Malfoy boy?

Tom scratched his chin. That was unexpected. This had to be important.

He turned to Jimmy. “Go get them fresh drinks, will you? Something warm. Butterbeer, maybe. Show a bit of hospitality.”

Jimmy hesitated. “But I… what should I say?”

Tom gave him a mild look. “Say you’re bringing them drinks. That’s it. You’ll live.”

Jimmy flushed and nodded, scuttling off toward the tap.

Tom adjusted his apron and headed across the room, weaving through scattered chairs and murmured conversations. He approached the table with a genial smile, wiping his hands on a cloth tucked into his waistband.

“Evening,” he said, voice gravelly but kind. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Heard you wanted a word?”

Hermione looked up from the photograph she had been smoothing on the table, her expression polite but tired. “Tom. Thank you for speaking with us. We’re investigating a disappearance. A young witch — Wynna Cobble. She may have been here Saturday night.”

Draco gave a respectful nod but didn’t speak yet, letting Hermione lead.

Tom’s brow furrowed as he lowered himself into the empty seat across from them. “Name doesn’t ring a bell right off. But let’s take a look.”

Hermione slid the photo toward him.

He stared at it, brow furrowed.

“I’ve seen a lot of faces in this place,” he said slowly, “but hers…”

Just then Jimmy arrived with two steaming mugs of butterbeer. 

He cleared his throat and carefully set the drinks down on the table. “Here you go,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Then he saw the photograph.

His breath caught in his throat.

He knew that face — of course he knew it.

“That’s Wynna,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

Chapter Text

Tom turned sharply. “You say something, laddie?”

Jimmy flinched slightly, already regretting speaking. His cheeks went red, and his shoulders hunched as if trying to fold in on himself.

“Erm…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. Just — I, uh… I knew her. At Hogwarts. We were in the same year. I— I’d recognise her anywhere.”

Hermione sat up straighter. “You’re sure?”

Jimmy nodded, gaze dropping to the table, then flicking briefly back to the photo. “Yeah. That’s Wynna Cobble. She was in Ravenclaw. Kept to herself mostly. Kind, though. Real kind.”

Draco leaned in slightly, studying him. “When did you last see her?”

“Saturday night,” he said quietly. “She was here.”

Hermione straightened in her seat. Draco’s expression sharpened.

“You’re certain?” Hermione asked, her voice gentle but focused.

Jimmy nodded quickly, eyes flicking toward the far end of the room. “She sat back there. That booth — the one by the fireplace.”

Tom followed the direction of his nephew’s gesture, his own face tightening with concern.

“She was with a bloke,” Jimmy continued. “Tall. Red hair. Looked a lot like—like Ronald Weasley.”

Now it was Draco and Hermione exchanging a glance.

Jimmy hurried on, voice growing more hesitant. “They were drinking together, laughing. She looked… really happy.”

He swallowed, unsure of how much to say, unsure if he should be speaking at all. But the memory wouldn’t stop playing in his mind now, vivid and unshakable.

“She was glowing. I’ve never seen her like that. Laughing… smiling. She looked at him like he was the only person in the world.”

His face flushed. “I, uh… I might’ve been a bit jealous. She was just so radiant.”

There was a pause, a beat of awkward silence he filled with a nervous chuckle.

“And then after a few drinks he left...and I thought, maybe, I could say hello. She was alone then. I kept thinking… what if I said something? Asked if she remembered me. Maybe—maybe she’d look at me like that, you know?”

Jimmy’s voice trailed off into embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes back on the floor now. “But before I could even cross the room, she left.”

Hermione sat still, quietly absorbing his words. Draco’s expression had turned unreadable, sharp with unspoken thought.

“Are you sure it was Weasley? And they left seperately?” Draco asked finally.

Jimmy hesitated. “I… I mean, I didn’t hear his name. But it really looked like him. Same hair, same face. I remember seeing him in the Prophet loads of times. It looked like him.....and yeah. I remember he left about 10....maybe 15 minutes before she did. ”

Tom let out a slow breath beside them, clearly troubled. Hermione looked down at the photograph on the table, her thoughts running miles ahead.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” she said softly.

Jimmy glanced between them. “Is she… is something wrong? Is she okay?”

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance.

“We’re trying to find her,” Hermione said gently. “She went missing three days ago.

Chapter Text

Ronald Weasley was pretty damn proud of himself!

Considering what he'd had to work with, he really had outdone himself!

When he'd first seen the girl in Diagon Alley, she had seemed like an easy target.

Like all his test subject before her, she was alone, seemed lonely, a little lost.....your average little wallflower.

Nothing special.

An easy opportunity he simply couldn't pass up....despite not being disguise.

But it wasn't until later at the Leaky, where she'd chewed his ear of, blabbing her entire life story, that Ron realised the true extent of possibilities this girl was offering him.

She was well and truly alone in this world. No family. No partner. No friends.

NOBODY would ever miss her.

HER, he could keep for as long as he needed.

Until he'd finally succeed.

And while her family background - or rather her lack thereof- and her general insignificance in society made her the perfect subject for longterm testing, she wasn't excatly nice to look at. Even worse than the others before her.

Physically the girl was an unappealing blob of fat, really.

Well.....at least she had been!

On Saturday night she had left the pub soon after him.

 And lucky for Ron, she had chosen the exact dark alleyway he was hiding in for her way home.

Silly girl!

Before she could even comprehend what was happening to her, Ron had hit her with a "Petrificus Totalus".

He then apparated the paralysed but fully conscious girl back to his cottage.

There he'd immediately gotten to work.

He started with enhancing her body. Customizing it, so that her body would at least become a little more appealing to him.

Bigger, juicier lips.......deep red, of course!

Long, blonde hair......yeah, that looked alright!

And oh, those saggy udders of her's were simply appalling! Those simply wouldn't do!

Ron had already done a lot of research regarding magical breast enhancement. After all, his future wife was severely lacking in the tits department as well.

There was some talk of side effects.....overuse could result in ballooning.

But Ron did not see a problem there. He liked big, round tits. The bigger, the better, actually!

Over and over he used the "Pulchrapectus" charm on the girl.

Her tits grew bigger and rounder......Ron was really quite impressed with his own skill.

Okay maybe....they were a little loopsided. The right one slightly smaller then the left one.

But well.....it was his first try and everyone had to start somewhere, right?

Since the girl was still disgustingly fat -and to his knowledge there was no magical remedy for that (maybe he could put her on a diet or something)- Ron put her in an old nightgown.

Yes........that, he could work with. 

Ron went to bed on Saturday night, very satisfied with how his day had played out. After improving the girls body, he had fed her a strong sleeping draught and put her to laid her down on the couch. Tomorrow the real work would begin.

Chapter Text

Ron got up bright and early on Sunday.

He was excited to try out all the new potions and elixirs he had acquired the previous day.

The shop clerk had advised him to start small first, wait for the results and then maybe slightly adjust the dosage later.

But Ron had waited long enough! He was tired of it. And he was a firm believer that more was always better!

Also... the shopkeeper had not seen the hippo Ron was working with here..... surely a smale dose would not affect her at all.

So he set to work. Mixing together a variety lust potions, adding a few drops of a mood-brightening draught here, stirring in a couple drops of love potion there. Finally he added one of his hairs to the mix to bind to effects of the potion to himself. 

This magic cocktail would render him irresistable to whoever drank it. Ron was sure of it.

Ron quickly moved to wake up the girl from her magically induced sleep. 

As she woke up confusion flickered in her eyes, then recognition, fear.

Ron quickly cast an imperius curse on her and had her drain every last drop of the potions cocktail.

He took a few steps back, watching her with eager eyes, anxiously awaiting the magical concoction to take effect.

Chapter Text

Wynna’s memories of Saturday night blurred like smoke.

One moment, she’d been stepping away from the glow of the Leaky Cauldron, her heart still fluttering with excitement from an evening that had felt almost like a dream. Ron Weasley had spoken to her — not just spoken, but laughed with her, smiled at her like she mattered. It was the most magical moment she’d had in years.

And then… darkness.

She didn’t hear the approach — only felt the sudden, sharp pull of something cold and paralyzing ripple through her body. Her limbs refused to respond. She remained conscious, terrified, as the world spun away with the familiar lurch of Apparition.

She couldn’t scream.

She couldn’t move.

Wynna lay stiffly on the cold stone floor, every inch of her body unresponsive. Her lungs worked in short, panicked breaths, her eyes darting wildly around the dim, unfamiliar room. She could see the crumbling corners of the ceiling, the thin sliver of moonlight that filtered through old wooden boards. Nothing else. No windows. No warmth. No way out.

The spell had locked her in place — her body unmoving, but her mind wide awake and spiraling.

Then she saw him.

Ron Weasley. The man she had laughed with merely an hour ago. Trusted. His smile had made her feel like someone worth seeing. And now — now, that same man looked at her with a different expression entirely.

His face was calm. Focused. Detached.

What is happening?

Her mind screamed the question over and over as he approached. She wanted to shout, to plead, to ask why — but the paralysis held her mouth shut. She could only watch, helpless, as he knelt beside her and began methodically unfastening her coat.

Tears pooled in her eyes.

No. No no no please.

Each motion was precise. Clinical. As if she weren’t a person — just something to examine. He stripped away the layers of her clothing with silent indifference, and Wynna burned with a shame so deep she thought she might shatter from it. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

Then came the stare.

He stood over her, cold eyes raking over her exposed form. Not with hunger — but with judgment. Scrutinising every inch of her naked body with disgust. As if she had failed some impossible test. Her skin prickled under the weight of it.

Why? she cried silently. Why me?

She didn’t understand.

And in that terror-soaked silence, a darker thought clawed its way to the front of her mind — one she had been trying not to believe.

Is he the one? The man from the newspapers? The one they still haven’t caught?

Her fear twisted into horror. The cases she had only half-listened to in passing — victims left in cold fields, their memories torn apart — suddenly took on a terrible, immediate meaning.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to her.

Soon he pulled out his wand and started muttering unfamiliar charms.

She couldn’t stop it.

She couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg — she could only lie still, her body locked in place by magic, as Ron Weasley stood over her. The wand in his hand glowed faintly at the tip, the quiet incantations spilling from his mouth.

Wynna’s heart raced in her chest. Her mind spun, trying to make sense of what was happening — what he was doing to her.

And then she felt it.

A strange, unsettling warmth began to ripple across her body. It moved in waves, making her skin tingle and crawl. Something wasn’t right. Something was changing.

Her panic surged.

What is he doing? What spell is this?

She tried to move, tried to fight it, but her limbs refused to respond. She couldn’t even turn her head to see the full extent of what he was casting. But she could feel the weight of his gaze. Not kind. But curious. Cold. Calculating.

Then came a deeper, heavier sensation.

Her breath hitched. Her eyes darted wildly, desperate to anchor to something, anything familiar.

She wanted to disappear.

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes as her own body began to feel… foreign. The changes were subtle at first — a shift in balance. But then came a moment — sharp and unbearable — where she could see something different. Something wrong. Her eyes went wide. Lying on her back, paralysed,she could see how slowly her naked breasts entered her field of view, still growing until they looked like giant balloons.

She felt the unfamiliar weight of them, how they stretched her skin.

Shame — thick and suffocating — overwhelmed her.

This wasn’t a trick.

This wasn’t a nightmare.

He’s really doing this to me.

Humiliation coursed through her, hot and burning. She wanted to hide, to vanish, to curl in on herself and disappear from his gaze. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All she could do was lie there, a silent witness to whatever twisted purpose he had in mind.

And the worst part — the part that clawed at her chest like broken glass — was that it was him. Ron. The person she had trusted, laughed with, liked.

Now a stranger. A monster wearing a familiar face.

As he finished muttering the last of the incantations, he looked at her with unsettling satisfaction, like a craftsman pleased with his work.

As he roughly cupped her breasts and squeezed her nipples between his fingers, she turned her gaze away as far as she could, her heart beating so loudly it drowned out everything else.

Groaning he stepped away from her...moving towards another room.

He soon returned, holding a small vial filled with a murky liquid. He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just tipped the potion toward her lips.

Wynna tried to resist, to turn her head even a fraction, but her body refused her again. The liquid touched her lips, then her tongue. She clenched her teeth — instinctively — but he was patient. Quiet. Methodical.

Eventually, it slipped past her lips, and down her throat.

The taste was strange — bitter at first, then oddly sweet. It lingered unpleasantly, coating her mouth like syrup. A warmth crept through her body. Not comforting. Just… heavy.

Within seconds, the tension in her muscles faded. The weight in her chest gave way to a strange floatiness. Her panic began to dull, replaced with a deep, numbing fog and she drifted of to sleep.

Chapter Text

"Up!"

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, her head heavy, her body aching as though it had been run through a storm. For a moment, everything was a blur — the dim light from a narrow window, the scent of mildew, and the coarse fabric beneath her cheek.

She was lying on an old, sagging couch. She was cold. Her skin prickled. She was wearing something — a nightgown? But it wasn’t hers. It smelled musty, like it had been sitting in storage for years. The fabric clung uncomfortably to her skin, offering little warmth or dignity.

Then the world came into focus.

And she saw him.

Ron.

And it all came back to her!

Before she could move, before she scream at him, confront him, demand answers, he hit her with an Imperius Curse.

Wynna was shocked!

An Unforgivable curse!

Designed to make her obey!

Ron silently ordered her to open her mouth. To drink the strange smelling liquid from the bowl he handend her.

"Drain it" he said, "Drink.Every.Single. Drop."

She did not want to. Wanted nothing more than to throw the bowl at him. Wanted to defy him.

But he controlled her. She had no choice. 

As she downed the liquid in one single big gulp, she felt more alone, more helpless, than she ever had before.

He took a step back....watching her with curious eyes.

Wynna was terrified!

What was in that potion? What would happen to her? Whhhhha..............oooooo

Oooohhhhh! That felt nice!

The sensation came in waves.

At first, it was subtle. A hum beneath her skin, as though her blood had started to sing.

She felt save and warm, her heart was overflowing with love.

Then a quiet ache low in her belly that she'd never felt before.

Her breath grew shallow. Her skin prickled, hungry for touch though no one had ever touched her before. Every part of her felt alive in a way it never had.

She felt warm all over, kept brushing her hands over her arms and thighs.

Her nipples pebbled in anticipation. She grew wet between her thighs.

She looked at him and something in her reached toward him. Not just emotionally. But physically.

She wanted HIM.....touch HIM......feel HIM.......taste HIM.

She needed him to see how much she adored him.

She felt this ache to make him feel cared for, desired, cherished and worshipped in ways she didn’t even have words for.

She wanted to please him.

And so she begged him....voice hoarse from arousal:

"Please.....let me touch you!"

Chapter Text

"Please .....let me touch you!" the girl begged.

And oh, if that wasn't music to Ron's ears.

Finally....success!

"Come here, girl" he instructed "kneel, suck my cock!"

She followed his order eagerly, walked over to him.......knelt down at his feet.

"I've never done this before " she admits softly "What should I do? It want it to be good for you!"

Ron huffed...annoyed at the holdup. " Just take my cock in your mouth! Suck on it like a lollipop........you know how to suck a lollipop, don't you?"

Wynna was amazed, he knew her so well. She loved sucking lollipops. And if her sucking his hard erection like a lollipop would give him pleasure, she would gladly do it.

She revelled in the feel of his hard erection on her tongue, in her mouth. This was just so intimate.

As Ron began thrusting harder into her mouth, she grew a little bolder. She licked his cock and sucked on it hard.

She was rewarded with his groans of pleasure.

Beeing on her knees for him, serving him only made her own arousal grow.

The wetness between her thighs only increasing.

Ron thrust harder and harder into the girls mouth. Rammed his cock down her throat.

He so enjoyed the sounds of her choking on his cock, the wet suction noises and the little needy moans she made.

And how her new, big, juicy lips looked and felt wrapped around his cock! 

What an eager little whore she was.

But he did not want to cum down her throat.....not this time at least!

He pushed her off his cock and ordered her to sit on the edge of the table, to spread her leg. Show him her needy, dirty cunt. Show him her big tits.

Wynna was so flattered. We wanted her. He wanted to see her body. Derive his pleasure from her body.

As gracefully and seductively she climbed up the table bunched up the skirt of the nightgown to her waist and spread her legs for him.

Showed him just how wet and aroused she had gotten for him.

Slowly she let the straps of her nightgown slide from her shoulders and exposed he breast to his gaze.

Fuuuuck, those tits were just perfect. 

Big, round and firm.

Ron roughly twisted her right nipple between his fingers and roughly tugged on it.

Her back arched......a low moan espacing her mouth.

Such a wanton little whore.

And she was just so wet!

In one swift movement he slit his hard cock into her soaking cunt. Burrying himself to the hilt inside her.

Fuck, she was tight!

A quick, sharp jolt of pain shot through Wynna as he broke her hymen with his cock.

But she would gladly take that pain over and over again if that meant to see such pleasure, such pride on his face again.

After a few minutes of quick, hard thrusts, Ron was close.

He pulled out of the girl again, ordered her to her knees infront of him.

After jerking himself a few times, he painted the girl's face and tits with his cum.

As Ron was about the clean himself up, he noticed the blood on his cock.

The girl had been a virgin!

How lucky she was....to have someone so skilled and experienced as himself as her first lover!

Over the next few days Ron took full advantage of the little whore's wanton sexual advances.

He fucked her cunt and her arse. Played with her giant tits, slapping them, twisting pulling and biting her pert nipples.

And he took her mouth over and over again.

She was always so thankful for his attention, always starved for his touch, always wet and ready for him.

So docile and obedient.

To Ron's great joy, the potion's effects had still not worn off by Wednesday afternoon, three days after it had been taken.

Chapter Text

Part One: Draco and Hermione

The office was unusually quiet that Wednesday afternoon. A stack of half-written reports sat forgotten on Hermione's desk, a new energy charging the air. They had spent weeks chasing ghosts — faceless men and scattered clues. 

But last night, something had changed.

Jimmy’s quiet words at the Leaky still echoed in Hermione’s ears. Wynna. With Ron. Laughing. It was the first solid connection to any victim — and to someone they’d both long suspected for another crime. But suspicion wasn’t evidence, and drinking with someone at a pub was hardly a crime.

Still, it was more than they'd had in weeks. And they couldn’t ignore it.

“He's not a suspect yet,” Hermione said carefully, tapping her quill against her notes. “But if he is our man...”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Then we can’t tip him off.”

That evening, Grimmauld Place glowed with soft candlelight and holly-lined banisters. The atmosphere was cozy, festive — Ginny’s idea of a “not-a-party” pre-Christmas gathering. Warm music played. Glasses clinked. Laughter bounced between old friends. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Ron stood with a mug of spiced cider, loud and familiar, as if nothing in the world had changed.

Draco and Hermione played their roles well — chatting politely, smiling when appropriate, ignoring the strange tension that clung to Ron whenever he looked at Hermione for too long.

When the time came to leave, Draco turned to Ron, clapping a hand on his shoulder — just firm enough. He held it for a beat longer than necessary.

“Happy Christmas, Weasley,” he said smoothly.

Ron frowned slightly but muttered a reply, pulling Hermione into a stiff, awkward hug. She barely returned it.

They said their goodbyes and stepped into the cool December night.

As they walked toward the apparition point, Hermione felt Draco slip something soft into her palm. A single strand of red hair.

He didn’t look at her. Just grinned.

“DNA.”

Part Two: Ron

Ron stood in front of the cracked mirror in his flat, smoothing the sleeves of his best green jumper, getting ready for Ginny's party. He hadn't wanted to go at first.

The invitation had arrived just the day prior, on Tuesday morning.

The owl had annoyingly kept knocking on the window, demanding entrance, while Ron had been buried balls deep in Winnie's wet cunt.

But as Ron kept thinking about the party and the opportunities it would present, he decided to go.

Right before leaving for Grimauld Place, he had Willa suck him off again. Just to take the edge of.

And the girl was really getting good at it.

The potion's effect still hadn't worn of. The girl was still his eager little whore.

But just to be safe, he fed her a sleeping draught right before he left.

Ron had the perfect plan for tonight.

He just needed to get close to Hermione....just for a moment.

And he achieved his goal just as Hermione and Malfoy (that git) were leaving the party.

When hugging Hermione goodbye, he'd plucked one single strand of her hair from her dress.

That was all he needed. All he had come here for tonight.

His experiment could continue!

And it had just become a lot more enjoyable!

Chapter Text

Ron returned to his small, dimly lit cottage, closing the door behind him with a satisfied grunt. The party at Grimmauld Place had been a success for him.

But now he was exhausted and in desperate need of a good fuck!

Before waking up his little cockslut from her magically induced little nap, Ron moved to the kitchen.

Rummaging through the cabinets. Until he found it. His small supply of polyjuice potion.

Only three small vials left!

But tonight he only needed one!

He carefully opened a vial and dropped Hermione's hair into the thick potion.

Oh, tonight would be so much fun!

Chapter Text

After preparing the polyjuice Ron moved to wake up the girl.

The world returned slowly.

Wynna stirred, her mind fogged by shadows of dreams she couldn’t quite place. Her limbs felt heavy, her throat dry. A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted upright. The room was dim, unfamiliar — cold stone walls, the faint hum of a magical barrier in the air.

Her brows furrowed. Where…?

And then, like shards of broken glass sliding into place, it came back.

It all came rushing back to her!

The potion he had forced her to ingest!

How he had changed her body.

How he had taken her body, violated her, used her over and over again!

The obvious pleasure he had derived from using her!

And then......full of shame......she remembered how much she had liked it!

Craved HIS attention, HIS touch, HIS penis.......even the taste of HIM.

Oh Merlin! 

WHY?

Why had she behaved like this? Offered her most intimate parts up to him?

Oh! The things she had let him do to her! To her body!

The ways and places she had let him touch her in. Had begged him to touch her?! Take her! Use her!

For days!!!!

It was just so humiliating! So undignified!

So NOT how she had imagined her first sexual encounter to be!

It must have been the potion he had fed her! It had somehow influenced her! Turned her into some shameless, sexcrazed lunatic!

But now apparently the effects had worn off, she was herself again.

Well.....mostly. Her body seemed to be permanently altered.....felt foreign.

But at least she could think clearly again!

And there he stood in front of her...the man who had done all this to her!

Ronald Weasley!

She started to panic!

She wanted out! Wanted to go home! 

She scrambled into the corner of the room, trying to get as far away from his as possible!

She was crying, screaming for help!

Could she apparate away?

Where was her wand? Where.....where was it?! Had he taken it?

Why was nobody helping her?

Chapter Text

Oh fucking great!

Now the effects of the potions mixture had worn off!

And the stupid bint was now a blubbering, crying mess cowering in the corner of his living room.

She seemed scared.

And the way she looked at him.........like he was some kind of monster!

How could she act like that after the great time they had spend together this week?

It annoyed Ron to no end.

The first part of his evening had gone so great.

He had successfully plucked a hair from Hermione's dress at the Christmas party.

And now he was just so eager to try the polyjuice.

He was so close to finally fucking Hermione......well, or at least Willa (or whatever he name was) in Hermione's form.

And now......NOW !!!!! the stupid potion had to wear off and the stupid girl had to throw a tantrum!

Ron was pissed!

He muttered the incantation like some many times before.

He moved his wand with practiced ease.

"Obliviate"

Together with her memories, he erased the fear from her eyes.

Ron didn't know how much time he had erased from her memories......... and honestly he did not care!

All he wanted was for her to finally stop crying already!

And stop crying, she did!

The horror in her eyes was replaced by confusion.

Then...a flicker of recognition. 

That man in front of her........he looked exactly like Ronald Weasley.

No it couldn't be......could it?

Ronald Weasley! The famous war hero?

Here with her? Plain old Wynna!

But.......

...were was she? This place was strange...foreign.

Was he here to save her from this place?

He asked her to come to him.

Told her she would be safe with him.

Told her he would bring her home.

And when he handed her a bottle with a potion to make her feel better, she drank it.

Chapter Text

Ron watched in awe as right before is eyes the polyjuice took effect and the fat young woman before him turned into Hermione.

She still wore the old dirty nightgown.

But it was loose on her now slender frame.

And it were Hermione's big hazel eyes, that now looked at him in confusion.

He knew it would still take some time, testing and experimenting before he would have the real Hermione freed from Malfoy's grip and under his own control.

But now - FINALLY- he could at least fuck her!

Ron backed the polyjuiced girl up against the small table.

She seemed frightened now.....but it didn't bother him.

He forced her to turn around - her back now to him - and pushed her upper body down flush on the table.

He did not bother to cast an imperius on her.

He was too excited for this.

Too impatient.

Her struggling against him only heightend his arousal.

He needed this. NOW.

He pinned her against the table with his hips.

One hand bunching up the skirt of her nightgown. Two fingers of his other hand forcefully entering her cunt.

Fuck! She was dry!

Over the past few days Ron had grown so accustomed to the girls cunt always beeing wet and ready for him!

But this would have to do for now.

Tomorrow he would mix some of the love and lust potions again, and she would be his wanton little whore again.

But for now, he pulled his fingers out of her cunt, spit in his hand and rubbed the spit all over his hard cock.

With one violent thrust the entered her pussy.

To his surprise it was tight.....so tight.

He had expected Hermione's cunt to be saggy and worn-out by Malfoys gargantuan crotchsnake.........but it wasn't.

Hmmm.......or maybe polyjuice potion did not affect cunts?

Well, what did he care.......for now, ne needed to fuck.

He drove his hard cock into girl over and over again at a punishing pace with brutal violent force.

Under him she was a whimpering mess,struggling , crying, pleading with him, begging him to stop.

It only made him harder.

The feeling of finally beeing able to control Hermione's body, use it, fuck it, own it........it felt exhilerating to Ron.

After five long minutes he came inside her with a satisfied groan.

Tomorrow, he thought, the real fun would begin.

Chapter Text

At the apparition point, Hermione tucked the single red strand of Ron's hair safely into a vial

Hermione exhaled, both anxious and relieved. “We can finally compare it to the DNA sample from the last victim.”

“I don’t want to wait,” Draco said sharply. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

“Draco, it’s nearly 10 p.m. Muggle laboratories will be closed by now.”

“I know,” he said. 

His eyes were fierce. Not from anger — but from something deeper.

Hermione reached out and gently took his hand. “I know why this matters to you. You see them — these women. You understand what fear, what powerlessness feels like.”

Draco looked away. “I don’t pretend to know everything. But I do know what it’s like to be a prisoner in your own life.”

He rarely spoke of his past, of the nights in the manor when fear walked its halls in the shape of Voldemort himself. Of the impossible task forced on him, and the long shadow of his father's expectations. He hadn’t experienced what these victims had — but he knew what it was like to have no choices and to live by someone elses rules.

Hermione gave his hand a squeeze. “We're going to find Wynna! We are going to save her. And we are going to give all the other women the closure they deserve.”

Hermione adjusted her scarf and sighed. “DNA testing isn't instant. We have the sample and a suspect’s hair now, we need to bring them both to a lab equipped with the proper tools — centrifuges, polymerase chain reaction machines, electrophoresis systems. They isolate the DNA, amplify it, and then compare unique markers between the samples. It’s scientific, not magical — so it takes time. Best case? A day or two if they rush the results.”

Draco gave her a sideways glance. “And they’ll rush it! We'll make sure of it!”

She nodded, her eyes firm. 

Chapter Text

It was just after seven in the morning when Hermione and Draco stepped into the biting December air, the streets of Muggle London still quiet, the sky a dull steel-grey. Hermione pulled her coat tighter as they turned down a narrow lane tucked behind a tube station. Nestled between a solicitor’s office and a café that hadn’t yet opened was a small red-brick building — unremarkable to most, but unmistakable to Hermione: one of the few Muggle labs in London with the equipment needed for full-spectrum DNA analysis.

Draco glanced at the discreet brass plaque by the door. “Are you sure about this one?”

Hermione nodded. “I did my research. They're reputable. Quiet. And early risers.”

They stepped inside to the sterile scent of bleach and paperwork. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. A receptionist sat behind the counter, already sipping from a takeaway coffee, her auburn ponytail still damp from the shower. Her name tag read Maya.

“We need to submit two samples for DNA comparison,” Hermione said briskly, placing the carefully sealed, magically insulated envelope on the counter. “And we need the results rushed.”

Maya blinked. “You’re… not with the police?”

“No,” Hermione said, already reaching for her wand beneath her sleeve. With a subtle flick and a whispered Confido, a warm shimmer crossed the space between them.

Maya's eyes glazed briefly, then sharpened — as if she'd suddenly understood not only their urgency, but the full weight of what was at stake. She nodded slowly, fingers now reaching for the envelope as though on instinct.

“This normally takes five days,” she said, voice steadier now. “But we can prioritize it. Preliminary results — tomorrow, mid-afternoon. Final confirmation? By Monday.”

Draco exhaled. “Tomorrow is all we need.”

Maya gave a small nod. “You’ll get them by midday Friday.”

Hermione offered a quiet thank you, then added softly as they turned to leave, “You’re helping save lives.”

As they stepped back onto the chilly pavement, Draco muttered, “Now we wait, just one more day.”

“One more day,” Hermione echoed.

But they both knew it might be the longest day of their lives.

Chapter Text

Ron was up early on Thurday morning.

The events of the previous night still replaying in his mind.

It had been exhilarating finally being able to fuck Hermione's body!

Unfortunately the polyjuice had worn off way to fast for Ron's liking.

And now, instead of Hermiones slender frame, he was gazing at the blob of fat that was Wynnie....or was it Willa?

He had obliviated her again last night......he just couldn't stand the expression of disgust, defiance and hurt in her eyes.

The girl now sat in the corner of the kitchen, her eyes glazed and unfocused. Heavily under the influence of the imperius curse he had cast upon her a few minutes ago.

Ron was busy....mixing together a variety of different lust potions adding in a few drops of love potion and liquid devotion for good measure. 

He finished everything of with one strand of his hair.

Binding the effects of the potion to him.

“Drink it,” he ordered, voice hoarse, the words a low command.

The woman didn’t resist. She lifted the cup to her lips, eyes wide, as though she were floating just above her body, unable to take control of herself. With a tremble, she drank the potion.

Just two days ago, Ron had slipped into Knockturn Alley under a heavy cloak, his face hidden beneath a hood. in the back of a dark, shadowed shop he had stumbled upon the ancient, forbidden book that now lay opened on his kitchen table , its pages thick with dark incantations and forbidden knowledge. He didn’t care that the magic was dangerous or outlawed; all he cared about was the power it promised—to finally get what he craved........what he deserved.

The first few pages were filled with dense, cryptic language, but soon he found exactly what he was looking for:

Aeternum Desiderium.

A spell to bind someone’s desires to you, to make them want you—not just for a fleeting moment, but forever.

The words were simple enough! The description of the effects made Ron’s pulse race. It was exactly what he needed. He could make it right. He could make her love him again, in a way she could never escape.

In his mind, he imagined Hermione, her eyes wide with approval, standing beside him, marveling at the research he had done. S She would see how much effort he'd put into this. She wo uld be so proud of him. This is what he’d done for her, for them. This is how he could free her from Malfoy clutches and bind her to himself.

They would be together again, like they were always meant to be.

But  for now, he had to test.

Ron’s hand tightened around the wand as he muttered the incantation under his breath, the words heavy with an ancient, forbidden power. Aeternum Desiderium.

The words fell into the room like a dark echo. The air itself seemed to thrum, a palpable shift that made the girl shudder violently. Ron watched, satisfaction curling through his chest like an iron coil. He had done it.

Her eyes widened in response, her lips trembling, though no will of her own could stop the spell now. She sat frozen for a long moment, as though the very essence of the incantation was settling into her bones. And then, with the slightest tilt of her head, her expression shifted—her pupils dilated in the same haze of need and craving as before, but now there was a permanence to it. The effect of the lust potion had merged with the spell; it would never fade. She would always feel this desire, a hunger that could never be quenched, always seeking him out, forever pulling her towards him.

She would feel it—always—the aching, constant need for him. 

The desire, like a slow fire, would always smolder just beneath the surface, creeping into every thought, every moment of her life. But it was when he was near her, when their proximity shrank that the craving would become almost unbearable.

“You're mine now,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. His voice was thick with power, darker than before. "And soon Hermione will be too"

Chapter Text

Upon their return from the lab, a thick copy of The Daily Prophet lay folded on Hermiones desk.

She froze as she opened the paper.

ANOTHER YOUNG WITCH VANISHES WITHOUT A TRACE!

“Is the Auror Department Sleeping While Our Daughters Disappear?”

By Rita Skeeter, Investigative Journalist Extraordinaire

Diagon Alley, the heart of wizarding Britain, was meant to be a place of festive cheer this holiday season — but a DARK SHADOW has fallen over its cobbled streets once again.

Reliable sources (your ever-dedicated shopkeepers) have confirmed that two of the Ministry’s brightest — Aurors Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy — were seen furtively questioning locals, waving around the picture of a missing young woman, and asking pointed questions at the Leaky Cauldron, no less.

Who is this girl? Where is she?
Why hasn't the public been told?!

While witches across the country clutch their daughters closer and the Ministry mutters reassurances, I ask — what are Granger and Malfoy REALLY hiding?
Why hasn’t this young witch’s identity been released?
Is she the latest victim in the now infamous chain of disappearances?

Twenty-three witches have vanished and reappeared in deeply disturbing circumstances over the past several months. Now, number twenty-four may be out there — alone, terrified, possibly worse — while the Auror Department drags its feet!

Are they afraid? Or simply unprepared?
And can we really trust Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, with our daughters' lives?

As Yule approaches, one question lingers in every witch and wizard’s mind:

Who will be next?

 

 

“Skeeter. Merlin help us.” Draco cursed, reading the article over Hermione' shoulder. “This is exactly what we didn’t need. If our perpetrator sees this—”

“He’ll know,” Hermione cut in, slamming the paper down. “He’ll know we’re investigating Wynna. That we’re on to him. If we had any element of surprise left, this just destroyed it.”

Draco paced, running a hand through his hair. “We were careful. We didn’t alert the press, we didn’t release her name, her image—because we were protecting her. Because if he finds out we’re looking for her, she might not survive long enough to be found.”

Hermione’s voice trembled with fury. “And now half the country knows there’s a missing girl we’re quietly investigating. He’ll disappear. Or worse.”

“Skeeter just handed him a warning,” Draco said darkly. “Tied in a bow, front page, delivered with breakfast.”

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley sat at the small, creaky kitchen table in his sparsely furnished cottage, a mug of lukewarm tea in one hand and a half-burnt piece of toast in the other.

At his feet below the table cowered his little slut, warming his cock with her mouth. Sucking him, licking his tip, swallowing his cock down eagerly. Drool already ran down her chin, dripping onto her gigantic tits. Ron couldn't help but smile at the view and at the success of the Aeternum Desiderium charm. The way it had worked on her, binding her to him so completely, was everything he had hoped for—and more. Her obsession, her need to please him, was exactly what he had anticipated. He couldn't wait to perform the same spell on Hermione, to make her need him just as desperately, to keep her away from Malfoy’s influence. He would be the one to save her, the one to truly have her.

Morning sunlight filtered weakly through the grime on the windowpane, but it wasn’t the cold or the stale breakfast that made Ron’s hand pause mid-bite. It was the bold headline glaring up at him from the front page of the Daily Prophet, freshly delivered and still curled at the corners.

ANOTHER YOUNG WITCH VANISHES WITHOUT A TRACE!

He stared at the print for a moment, lips parted slightly, a flicker of confusion darting across his features. Then his eyes swept over the article, his frown deepening. Diagon Alley. A missing girl. Aurors Malfoy and Granger seen asking questions. No name was given. No picture, either.

Were Hermione and Malfoy getting too close? Could they be onto him? Was his careful planning about to unravel before he could make his move? The thought made his stomach churn. He had to stay ahead of them—watch every move, anticipate every risk.

Two weeks. Maybe three. That’s how long he had planned to keep his little whore around, watching, testing, confirming that everything was working exactly as planned. He had to make sure the spell didn’t fade. He needed to know—beyond a doubt—that the magic was stable. After all, this was the foundation for everything. Once he performed the charm on Hermione, it had to work perfectly.

But did he have that luxury of time? Of testing?

Or did he have to get rid of the girl sooner? Did he need to make his move on Hermione sooner?

Of course, it might all be coincidence. Maybe they weren’t investigating what he thought. The Prophet had no names, no details. Just the usual Skeeter-driven outrage. 

After all, they had no proof. Just questions.

And as far as he was concerned, questions meant he still had time.

Chapter Text

Ron stood at the window of his small kitchen, the Daily Prophet still lying open on the cluttered table behind him.

He had been thinking all morning.

He wasn’t in any danger. Not really.

He remembered leaving the pub alone, deliberately and visibly, just in case anyone was paying attention. Everything before and after that... was well concealed.

Let them investigate.

Let them ask questions.

They’d come up empty-handed. There was no evidence, no trail.

No witnesses to really tie him to this girl.

Or any of the whores before her.

“They’ve got nothing,” he muttered again, reassuring himself.

But the nagging thought remained. He couldn’t afford to draw suspicion. The best way to appear innocent? Act like he had nothing to hide.

With a sudden decision, he pulled on a clean jumper and started brushing dust off his coat. He needed to be seen out and about, just another bloke living his life. Maybe a pint at a pub, a few words with shopkeepers in Diagon Alley. Or better yet, stop by the Burrow, see his mum. Show his face. Look normal.

The more people who saw him being “himself,” the better. If anyone did start asking questions, there’d be no gaps in his story. No strange behaviour to point fingers at.

He ordered his obedient little slut to wait for him.

To kneel by the door until he returned......tits and cunt exposed, knees wide.

She needed to be wet and ready for him, when he returned.

And with that, Ron Weasley stepped out into the cold day — ready to be seen, ready to play the part.

Wynna stayed behind.

Kneeling on dirty floor in the cold, damp old cottage.

Exposed, wet and craving his return.

Chapter Text

The kitchen at the Burrow was as warm and bustling as ever, the air thick with the scent of rosemary-roasted potatoes and bubbling stew. Molly Weasley hummed as she moved between the stove and the table, a faint glow of happiness on her face. Her youngest son was home — and she was determined to feed him properly.

Ron sat at the old wooden table, arms folded, a polite smile on his face as he watched his mother fuss over the food. He had to admit: he'd missed this. Missed the smell, the clatter, even the slightly too-loud ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall. And, most of all, his mum's cooking.

"You should visit more often, dear," Molly said, placing a plate piled high with food in front of him. "We all miss you."

"Yeah, Mum. I’ve just been busy, you know… sorting stuff."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "And your new cottage — when are we going to see it? You’ve been there a few months already, and none of us has even been invited."

"It’s still a bit of a mess," Ron mumbled, poking at his potatoes. "Still unpacking. Not much to see yet."

"And your job hunt?"

He shrugged. “Exploring a few options.”

Molly opened her mouth to press him further, but Ron gave a wide yawn, his focus shifting to the food on his plate.

He was already annoyed with his mother's line of questioning, her nagging.

After devouring his food, he quickly got up to leave.

“Actually, I should get going — I told some mates I’d meet them in Diagon. Can’t be late.” he lied.

Molly patted his arm as he passed. “Don’t be a stranger, love.”

He gave a vague smile, grabbed his coat, and Disapparated.

Later that Afternoon, Diagon Alley

The snow had stopped, but the crisp chill clung to the cobbled streets. Diagon Alley was busy with afternoon shoppers, but today the usual festive energy was subdued — replaced with hushed murmurs and anxious glances. Ron noticed it immediately.

Clusters of witches and wizards stood gathered around the stands selling copies of The Daily Prophet. The headline — bold and accusatory — loomed large beneath Rita Skeeter’s name.

"Another Witch Missing — Ministry Silent!"

"Have you read this?" witch asked her friend. "They say she vanished without a trace. Just like the others. And the Aurors won’t even give us her name!”

“Terrible,” muttered the other. “And it’s always young women, isn’t it? I don’t let Ellie go out alone anymore.”

Weaving through a gossiping crowd of witches, Ron stifled a grin....if they only knew. 

They were all so panicked, so frightened.

But nobody suspected him, Ronald Weasley - war hero, upstanding citizen.

Still, the nervous energy around him made him stiffen. He needed to stay careful now. Keep his story straight. Stay calm. Be seen, be normal. That plan hadn’t changed.

A little later he made an appearance at the Leaky.

Seamus was there.....and Neville too.

They shared a few drinks and laughed at old stories.

Perfectly normal.

Chapter Text

The front page of the Daily Prophet still sat open on Hermione's desk,taunting them,  its ink practically shouting Rita Skeeter’s accusations and speculation. The public exposure could derail everything — alert the perpetrator, scare off witnesses, or worse, push him into doing something rash.

Draco and Hermione had spent the whole day reviewig the case files of all previous victims.  Maybe they had missed something? A small clue? 

But there was nothing!

And now the was nothing more Draco and Hermione could do but wait for the DNA results.

They’d already checked in with the muggle lab twice. Despite Draco’s polite insistence and Hermione’s subtle magical nudging, the answer had been firm: results by midday Friday. No sooner. It simply wasn't possible.

As the clock ticked past seven, Draco stood up. “I’ll go grab us something from the Leaky,” he said. “You stay here. Go through the files once more. Maybe we missed something in the memory tampering reports.”

Hermione nodded. Her shoulders ached from tension. “Get extra chips,” she called after him as he disappeared into the hallway.

As Draco entered the Leaky his eyes immediately fell on Weasley. The redheaded git was sitting in a booth at the far end of the pub, laughing with Finnagan and Longbottom.

Weasley seemed completely at ease. He did not seem concerned or worried at all.

As Draco waited for the food to be prepared, he kept observing Weasley. 

Since Jimmy's witness statement  Draco had been almost certain, that Weasley was their perpetrator.

He just needed the DNA results as a hard proof.

But now, as he saw him sitting there, completey carefree, at ease, Draco couldn't help but wonder if he had been wrong.

Had he let his personal dislike of Weasley cloud his professional judgement?

As their food was finally ready - Roast chicken and mushroom pie, charred greens on the side and a large order of chips- Draco turned to leave.

Chapter Text

Draco was just about to leave the Leaky, their dinner securely packed in a warm charm-enhanced bag, when he heard them laughing again.

He turned, his gaze drifting to Finnigan, Longbottom, and Weasley huddled around a table, half-empty pints in front of them. 

Draco prided himself on his excellent instincts. His intuition never led him astray.

And he had this hunch.

This lingering feeling that something was off about Weasley.

Had been since his return.

Draco pivoted smoothly and strolled toward them.

“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here, boys,” he said, one eyebrow raised, voice casual. “Everything alright?”

“Malfoy!” Finnigan grinned, raising his glass. “You’re not usually one to haunt the pubs this early.”

“Dinner run,” Draco lifted the bag in his hand. “Hermione’s been buried in files since noon. If I don’t bring something hot and covered in chips, it’ll be a full mutiny.”

“Hermione’s always been terrifying when she’s hungry, I know exactly how she gets.” Weasley snorts.

“Speaking of terrifying,” Draco added smoothly, turning to Neville, “what are you getting that new girlfriend of yours for Christmas? Or is that still top-secret classified?”

Neville flushed slightly. “That’s between me and the plants.”

Draco laughed — an easy, low sound. “Fair enough.”

Seamus leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You sticking around for a pint?”

“Tempting,” Draco admitted, glancing toward the door, “but no. Can’t keep Granger waiting. She’s got that late-night case review itch.”

“Poor sod,” Seamus said with mock sympathy. “See you soon, mate.”

Draco gave them a nod, already turning to leave. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. Try not to drink the place dry.”

With that, he made his way toward the door.

None of them had noticed that Draco had silently and wandlessly cast a discreet tracking spell on Weasley.

After all, nobody knew where the git lived.

And he still was a person of interest (if not a suspect) in their investigation, since he had been the last person seen with Wynna.

Draco figured there was no harm in tracking Weasley.

The spell's effect would only last for a few days.

And if the DNA results revealed that Weasley was indeed innocent, then fine.........

In that case Draco would just let the spell run it's term, and Weasley would be none the wiser that he had ever been tracked.

But for now, still waiting on the lab results, Draco preferred knowing exactly where Weasley was!

Chapter Text

Wynna had been kneeling by the door for hours now, knees wide, her breasts and intimate area exposed, her body growing colder with every passing minute.

It was a bitterly cold December evening, and the old cottage was drafty, the wind howling outside and slipping through the cracks in the walls. The fire in the hearth had long since died, and the chill had settled deep into the floors and walls of the cottage. She could feel the cold creeping into her skin, wrapping itself around her bones like an unyielding force.

But she didn’t move.

She couldn't. She wouldn’t. Every inch of her was focused on Ron’s return, every moment that passed only heightening her yearning for him. She had been waiting for so long, kneeling there with her body aching, her legs stiff and numb from the long hours of staying still. The discomfort was becoming unbearable, her toes and fingers losing feeling as the cold seeped deeper into her skin. Goosebumps covered her arms, her breath coming out in small puffs of mist as the temperature in the room dropped further.

Yet, despite it all, she stayed in her position. She didn’t mind the cold. She couldn’t bring herself to care about the shivers racking her body, the numbness that had settled into her legs. All that mattered was the thought of him—Ron. She had to remain like this, had to prove her dedication. She was waiting for him, and nothing else mattered.

Her knees ached, her feet were frozen, but the longing for his approval burned within her. She imagined how pleased he would be when he saw her waiting for him, just as he had instructed.

He will be proud of me. He’ll see how obedient i've been.

The thought of his approval kept her steady, her chest filling with a mixture of anticipation and need.

Ron will smile when he sees me, she thought, her mind racing. He will appreciate my obedience. He will be so proud of me for staying like this, even in the cold.

Maybe he would reward her.

Maybe he would kiss her, just a small gesture to show that he saw her, that her devotion had been noticed.

But the cold didn’t lessen. It remained a constant reminder of how long she had been kneeling, of how much longer she was willing to wait for him. The old cottage was harsh, the drafts making her skin prickle and her teeth chatter. She could feel the chill in her bones now, her body trembling involuntarily, but still, she held her ground.

Her nose had started to run, and she could feel the wetness slowly creeping down her face. She tried to suppress the urge to wipe it away, unwilling to move. 

Her chest ached from holding back the cough, the tickle in her throat growing worse with each minute that passed. Her body trembled—not just from the cold now, but from the strain of keeping herself in check.

She wouldn’t disappoint him. She couldn’t.

Wynna closed her eyes, focusing on the image of Ron returning, his face softening when he saw her.

She imagined the warmth of his touch, the feel of his body on her's, the sensation of him filling her, streching her, using her.

She felt herself grow wet at the thought, her nipples -already hard from the cold- started to prickle.

She was doing this for him. Everything—everything—was for him. 

And if it meant enduring the bitter cold, the discomfort, and the isolation, then that was what she would do.

She would stay in this position until he returned, her body cold and aching, but her heart steadfast, burning with her devotion to him.

He was worth it.......worth everything!

Chapter Text

Ron stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron, the cold December air immediately hitting his skin, biting through his coat. He’d been out at the pub longer than he’d intended, but the evening with Neville and Seamus had actually been really nice.

It would have been a great night, if Malfoy hadn't shown his stupid, ugly face!

The stupid ferret just had to stop by and flaunt his relationship with Hermione in front of him.

Ohhhhhhh, how terrifying she get's, when she's hungry!

Ron knew that! Ron knew everything there was to know about Hermione!

He knew her better than anyone!

Certainly better than Malfoy!

Who cared if Malfoy had brought her food? It was just food.

He imagined Malfoy buying her something she didn’t even enjoy, something she didn’t really want. He’d never know her like Ron did.

He was the one who really understood her, the one who’d been there through everything. Soon, Hermione would be with him—finally with him. Malfoy couldn’t keep her forever.

She would be his, and he would never let her go.

In his mind, he could see it so clearly: In public she'd be his devoted wife, the mother of his future children. He would breed her as soon as she was his, to not only bind her by the potion and the charm but by blood, by family bonds.

Behind closed doors she would be his wanton whore, always craving his touch, always hungry for his cock, always wet and ready for him, offering up all her holes for his use. Devoted only to his pleasure.

That’s how it should be. She would finally be free of Malfoy’s influence, and Ron would make sure that he would be the center of her life.

Dreaming about his bright future, Ron apparated home to his cottage.

The weather seemed particularly harsh this December. The wind seemed to be inescapable tonight, making him long for the comfort of the warmth of his home.

But as he entered the cottage, his frustration flared.

The warmth that was supposed to greet him was absent.

“Wynna,” Ron muttered, frustration lacing his voice as he turned to face her.

He took in her plump form kneeling by the door. Tits out, her hairy cunt exposed, ever the needy little whore.

She was trembling from the cold, snot ran out of her nose and down her face, had already dried in some places.

What a disgusting pig she was!

It was already hard to bear her appearance in her normal state, fat and flabby as she was!

And now she had to go and get sick!

Simply disgusting, repulsive!

She was supposed to cater to his every need, to care for him, anticipate his every whim!

And she hadn't even been able to keep his home warm and her body at least somewhat appealing to him.

How very disappointing.

What a letdown.

He stepped closer to her kneeling form. His disgust and disappointment obvoius on his face.

"You have failed me, whore" he announced, his voice grim.

Standing between her spread legs, glaring down at her, he slowly slid his booted foot up and down her exposed wet cunt.

The dirt under his boot soles mixing with her wet arousal.

"You are nothing but a dirty slut, you don't deserve my cock in your dirty cunt. YOU don't deserve my presence."

There and then, Ron decided that now was the time to get rid of the girl.

Soon, very soon he would be with Hermione.

With her he would have to tighten the reigns a little.

He would not have her slacking like this little whore.

One last time Ron nudged his boot into Wynna wet folds - hard.

With a cold voice he announced:

"I have no use for you anymore"

Chapter Text

Wynna’s eyes dropped to the floor. She knew she had disappointed him. She had failed him. She had failed at the simplest of tasks, something he would have expected from her without question. How could she have been so careless?

Her hands, still cold and stiff from kneeling for so long, trembled slightly.

She didn’t deserve him.

She didn’t deserve his attention or his touch.

She didn't deserve his warmth.

She had failed him completely.

Now there was no place left for her here.

She felt the weight of his rejection.

Despite everything, despite knowing how wrong she had been, she still craved his presence, his approval. She still wanted to be near him, wanted to earn his praise, his affection. The need for him was so deep, so ingrained, that it almost felt unbearable.

But he was right. She had failed him. And the knowledge of that made her stomach twist with shame.

Her voice was barely a whisper as she spoke, barely able to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “I’m sorry. I... I failed you.” Her throat tightened with emotion, the words feeling foreign on her lips. She had wanted so badly to make him proud, to fulfill every expectation he had for her. But in the end, she had disappointed him, and there was nothing she could do to undo that.

She swallowed hard, her chest aching as she tried to steady her breath. Even though the rejection cut deep, she knew she had to accept it. She had brought this on herself.

That night Ron obliviated her for the third time in their time together.

She would not remember him.

He had made sure of it. Had taken more memories from her, than from anyone before her.

Of course the effect of the potion and the charm would stay with her forever.

Leaving her with the constant underlying feeling of desire and lust for someone unknown.

But Ron was quite certain, that if he kept his distance from her, nobody would be able to trace the charm back to him.

In the middle of that cold Thursday night in December, Ronald Weasley apparated an unconcious Wynna Cobble into a small dark forest, close to a remote village in Wales.

There, he left in the snow.

Chapter Text

Wynna’s eyes fluttered open, her body stiff and trembling from the cold. She took a deep, shaky breath, but the air felt sharp in her lungs, like ice. She was lying in the snow, the ground beneath her unforgiving and hard. The world around her was dark, obscured by towering trees, and the only sound was the howl of the wind cutting through the forest. She didn’t know how she had gotten here. She didn’t know where here even was.

Her body felt strange—alien—as if she no longer belonged to herself. She could feel the weight of her limbs, heavy and uncooperative, her feet cold and bare, the thin fabric of her nightgown clinging to her chilled skin. But what unsettled her more than the biting cold was the disorienting sensation that something was missing.

Her memories—fragments of her memories—were slipping through her fingers like sand. The only thing she could remember, the only real memory she could hold onto, was her parents. She could recall their faces—warm smiles, the sound of her mother’s voice calling her name, the way her father had held her hand as they walked through their garden. The memories were vague, like a half-remembered dream, but they were there, and they were all she had left.

She closed her eyes, gripping the snow beneath her, feeling the desperation rise inside her chest. I need them. She needed to find her parents, needed to be with them. Mummy will help me. Mummy and Daddy will know what’s happening to me. But where were they? Why couldn’t she remember anything after her eighth birthday? Why had everything gone blank?

Please, I just want to go home, she thought, but she couldn’t remember where home was anymore. The place she had once known was slipping away from her, the warmth of her family now a distant memory, unreachable.

But there was something else, too. Something that tugged at her from deep inside—a pull, a longing. She couldn’t explain it, but the feeling was there, a constant ache gnawing at her gut. The desire was overpowering, consuming, but there was no face, no name to attach to it. Just the need to serve, the need to please someone she couldn’t even remember. She felt it surge through her body, a craving that made her shiver uncontrollably.

But it didn’t make sense. She didn’t understand why she felt this way. She didn’t know why it felt so urgent, so impossible to ignore. All she wanted was to be with her parents, to be safe, but this craving—it felt so strong, so overwhelming, that it drowned out everything else.

Her heart ached. What was happening to her?

Wynna pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky, her body weak. The cold, the darkness, the isolation—all of it threatened to swallow her whole. But there was something ahead of her—something she could barely make out in the distance. The faint glow of lights. A village. Maybe there, she could find answers. Maybe there, someone could help her.

She started walking, her bare feet sinking into the snow with each step. Her legs trembled, but the thought of the lights ahead gave her some semblance of hope. I need to get there. I need to find someone.

The lights in the distance seemed to flicker like a mirage, always just out of reach.

The exhaustion was overwhelming. Her body was too weak to continue. Every step felt heavier than the last, and the cold was unbearable. Her mind was clouded by the ache in her chest, the craving she couldn’t understand, and the longing to see her parents again. She couldn’t do this anymore. The strength drained from her body, and her knees buckled beneath her.

The village lights blurred before her eyes as she collapsed into the snow, the weight of her confusion and physical exhaustion dragging her down into darkness.

Chapter Text

It was midday on Friday when Hermione and Draco sat in the sterile white lab, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead a constant reminder of the significance of the moment. The results from the DNA analysis had just been handed to them, the paper still warm from the machine that had processed the data. Hermione clutched it tightly in her hands, her knuckles white from the tension. Draco stood beside her, his eyes scanning the results, but the expression on his face told Hermione everything she needed to know. He was waiting for her to confirm it, to make sense of the damning information.

She could barely breathe as she read the words on the page. The hair Draco had plucked from Ron's sweater had been matched with the sperm sample they had collected from the last victim.

The DNA was confirmed: 99.9% match.

And the perpetrator— the serial rapist was Ronald Weasley.

The words felt like a slap in the face. Hermione's chest tightened, and she fought to keep herself from breaking down there, in front of the lab techs.

She had suspected it. She had feared it. She had almost—almost—prepared herself for this truth.

But the certainty of it, the cold, hard proof, shattered her.

Draco stood there, his face unreadable, but his eyes never left hers. His jaw tightened, and though his face remained stoic, Hermione could see the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself together just as she was. They left the lab fast, without another word.

"I—I didn't want it to be true," Hermione whispered as they came back to their office, her voice trembling. "He was my friend, Draco."

Draco’s hand brushed against hers, a silent gesture of support. He was there, right beside her, but the weight of the moment felt too much for Hermione to bear. How could Ron—her first love, her former best friend—be capable of such unspeakable actions? How could she have missed the signs? How had it come to this?

Draco stepped closer to her, his voice low and calm, but firm. "I know this is hard, Hermione."

Hermione shook her head, the tears she had held back since leaving the lab threatening to spill over. "But how didn’t I see it? He was my best friend, Draco. My first love. We spent so much of our childhood together… How could he be this person........has he always been like this? Did he only change in these past years? I didn’t even see it happening, didn’t notice the changes. Was I blind? Was I too caught up in my own life? Could I have stopped all of this, if I had only paid more attention?"

The breakdown came without warning. The tears flowed freely, hot and uncontrollable, and Hermione crumpled against Draco. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t hold it together any longer. Ron, the man she had fought in a war with,  who had taken her virginity, was the one behind these horrible crimes. The weight of that truth suffocated her.

Draco didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t need to. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, holding her as the sobs racked through her body. He stroked her hair gently, whispering soft, reassuring words.

"It's not your fault, Hermione. You couldn’t have known. None of us could have. He fooled everyone. But you—you are strong. You’re not alone in this. I’m here."

The sound of her sobs echoed in the small office, but slowly, as she cried out the grief, the anger, the confusion, she began to calm. Draco’s presence was a steadying force. His touch, his quiet words, reminded her that even in the worst of times, she wasn’t alone.

When her tears finally subsided, Hermione pulled away, wiping her eyes and trying to steady her breath. Draco’s hand lingered on her shoulder, grounding her.

“I know this is overwhelming,” he said, his voice low but clear, “but we can’t afford to fall apart just yet. There will be time for the tears, for the grief, for the healing. But right now, we need to focus. We need to save Wynna.”

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath, and for the first time since the revelation, she allowed herself to look at Draco. His expression was unwavering, his gaze sharp with focus and determination. He wasn’t letting her fall into despair. He was pulling her up, helping her to refocus on what was truly important.

“You’re right,” she whispered, her voice steadying. “We have to stop him. We have to save her. We have to end this now.”

Draco gave her a small, reassuring smile, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. “We will. I know how to find him, Hermione. I put a tracking spell on him last night, we'll get him today, we’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

Hermione took a deep breath, forcing herself to stand tall again. The weight of the past few minutes still hung heavily on her, but Draco was right. There would be time to deal with the aftermath later. For now, they had to stop Ron. For Wynna. For all the women he had hurt.

Together, they would end this nightmare.

Chapter Text

Earlier that morning, just before sunrise a young man, out walking his dog, stumbled upon the figure lying in the snow.

His dog barked frantically, tugging at the leash, pulling him toward the half-buried form. At first, he thought it might be an animal, but when he got closer, he saw the shape was human. A woman, unconscious and nearly frozen, lying in the snow. Her breath was shallow, a faint trace of life still lingering.

Panic set in as he quickly pulled out his phone, dialing for an ambulance. The woman was barely conscious, her skin cold to the touch. He could barely make out her features—her face was pale, her lips blue, and she was dressed in nothing but a thin, sleeveless nightgown, her bare feet exposed to the brutal cold.

By the time the paramedics arrived, her body temperature was dangerously low, and her pulse was weak, but she still clung to life. They wrapped her in heated blankets and administered fluids to rehydrate her.

At the hospital, police were called in to investigate. They searched missing persons reports, but nothing came up. The woman’s description didn’t match anyone on record.

6 hours later

Dr. Gregory stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed on the patient before him. The young woman was still unconscious, her body pale and bruised, a far cry from the person she must have once been. 

They had done everything they could to stabilize her, and now, after hours of careful monitoring, she was showing signs of life. Her pulse was steady, her breathing less shallow, but her condition remained critical.

Dr. Gregory turned to his colleague, Dr. Simmons “Her vitals are improving, but we still don’t know who she is.”

Dr. Simmons nodded, her expression grim. “She doesn’t match any missing persons report from the area, the police have run her description through the system multiple times. Nothing.”

The woman on the bed looked so young—she could be no older than her early twenties. Her lips and breasts were obscenely enlarged and did not match her body.

Her clothes, or what was left of them, were an old, worn nightgown, far too thin for the brutal cold she had been exposed to. There was a certain fragility to her, and the way her limbs trembled, even as she lay still, suggested something more than the physical trauma.

“Have you seen the bruises on her?” Dr. Simmons added, her voice quieter now as she inspected the patient’s neck and chest.

Dr. Gregory followed her gaze to the dark marks along the woman's throat. The bruising was unmistakable. It was clear someone had gripped her tightly, choked her.

The tenderness of her chest, the bruising there, the way her skin seemed too sensitive, made him uneasy.

Her body had obviously been violated.

But there were no signs of rape. She had recently had penetrative intercourse, but that had apparently been consensual.

And her breathing... it was shallow, but strained, as if there was something deeper in her that was struggling to surface.

Dr. Gregory sighed, his gaze lingering on the woman. What had happened to her? The unknowns were suffocating. Her body was fragile, but it was clear she was fighting to stay alive. And that look—the subtle tension in her features, even in unconsciousness—told him she was struggling with something far worse than just cold.

He only hoped that when she woke up, they would get some answers.

Chapter Text

Friday Afternoon

Draco’s POV:

His mind was consumed by the weight of their mission. They had the DNA results. Ron Weasley was the perpetrator, the one responsible for the string of crimes that had left the Wizarding world in chaos.

Draco’s instincts had been right, but it wasn’t enough. The moment the DNA results came in just 2 hours ago, Draco knew they had to act fast. They had to find Ron, had to capture him.

He had already acted on his suspicions the night before and cast a tracking charm on Weasley. He’d suspected him since Jimmys witness statement, and now the DNA results had confirmed it. Weasley was guilty.

But they still didn’t know exactly where he was.

The charm led Draco to a remote location, but there was still a lot of uncertainty. They knew the general area—Ottery St. Catchpole—but they couldn’t be sure if he was alone or what his surroundings were.

It wasn’t until Draco arrived at the location that he began to piece it all together. The clearing was quiet, and the lone cottage in the distance looked abandoned. But Draco wasn’t fooled. Weasley was here. Draco could feel his presence in the air like a thread pulling at his very soul.

He walked toward the cottage, checking his surroundings as he approached. There were rudimentary wards around the small house. Nothing too complex, but strong enough to alert Ron if someone were trying to sneak in. 

But what concerned Draco more than the wards were the feelings gnawing at his gut. He couldn’t see inside. He didn’t know if Ron was alone. Was there someone else with him? Wynna had to be there! He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

The wind picked up, and Draco took a deep breath. Apparating away to report back to Hermione.

Hermione’s POV:

Hermione’s heart raced as she gathered the team in the Auror’s office. The time for hesitation was over. They had confirmed Ron’s guilt. The confirmation had come through the DNA results, and Draco’s tracking charm had pinpointed Ron’s exact location. But what were they walking into?

She was already thinking ahead. The plan was set. There were no second chances now.

Draco returned from his scouting trip. He’d located the cottage. The wards were weak, and Hermione could dismantle them easily. That part would be done in minutes.

But the uncertainty still weighed on her mind. What if Ron had someone with him? What if they walked into an ambush? She glanced over at Draco, who was focused and determined. His expression betrayed nothing, but she knew that deep down, he was just as uneasy about this as she was.

“We’re going to need to be quick,” Hermione said, her voice steady. “Once we’re in, we’re not giving him the chance to escape. Draco, you’ve got the location, but we don’t know if he’s alone. We need to move carefully.”

Draco nodded.

Draco’s POV:

Draco, Hermione and their team, apparated a safe distance from the cottage. The wind howled around them as they made their way towards the cottage.

The team was ready, and Draco could feel the weight of the operation press down on his shoulders.

Hermione’s POV:

The tension was high as the team gathered at the edge of the woods, ready to make their move. Draco’s scouting had given them the upper hand, but the uncertainty of what they were walking into still hung over her.

“I’ll handle the wards,” Hermione said firmly. “But I need a little space. Everyone else, be ready to move in once I’ve taken them down.”

As she stepped forward, her hand flicked out, casting the incantations to dismantle the wards. The air around her hummed with magic as the layers of protection slowly disintegrated. She was careful, focused. Every move had to be precise, or they risked tipping Ron off to their presence.

Minutes felt like hours as the wards crumbled beneath her skilled hands. She was fueled by her drive to save Wynna and, admittedly, by the guilt she felt for not having seen the signs of Ron’s strange behavior sooner.

Finally, with a soft breath, she finished the last charm. The wards were down. She gave Draco a quick nod. “It’s done.”

Ron’s POV:

Inside the cottage, Ron was oblivious to the approaching Aurors. He stood over a table cluttered with various potions, his hands shaking with excitement. The mixture of love and lust potions in front of him, glowing eerily in the dim light. He could already picture it—Hermione, finally his, bound to him for eternity.

The old book lay open beside him on the table, its pages yellowed with age. Aeternum Desiderium. The charm that would make the effects of the potions permanent. The one spell that would guarantee that Hermione would never escape him.

He smiled to himself as he added the final ingredients. Soon, he would have everything he’d ever wanted. He would take her tonight after Gryffindor Pub Night, outside the Leaky Cauldron, where she’d be unsuspecting. He’d Confund her, take her to the cottage, and administer the potions, cast the charm.

She’ll finally be free of Malfoy, he thought, gleeful. I’ll treat her better than he ever could. She’ll see that. She’ll be so thankful to me.

Ron’s hands shook as he stirred the potions, excitement building in his chest. 

Once Hermione was finally his, he'd breed her immediately, pump her greedy, wet cunt full of his hot seed over and over again until she'd popped out a whole bunch of red-haired little babies.

He'd not only bind her by the charm, but by blood, by family.

She would never be able to leave him.

Draco’s POV:

The Auror team had set up anti-apparition wards around the cottage to ensure that Ron couldn’t escape. Draco stood back, watching the team get into position. The moment had come. They couldn’t waste any more time. It was now or never.

The team surrounded the cottage, their steps muffled by silencing charms. They were closing in. Draco gave Hermione a quick look, signaling that it was time.

Hermione’s POV:

Hermione took a deep breath as she stepped forward with Draco and the rest of the team. They were almost there. The moment felt surreal. They were so close. Ron wouldn’t get away.

The Aurors pushed open the door. At that same moment, Draco, Hermione, and two other Aurors apparated directly inside the cottage. The surprise was on their side. They had caught Ron completely off guard.

Ron’s POV:

Ron froze as the door crashed open. His heart leapt into his throat. How had they found him? 

“What is this?” he shouted, his panic rising. 

He reached for his wand, his hand trembling. He needed to protect himself. He needed to escape.

In the chaos, he quickly fired of to stunners. Two Aurors fell, their bodies stiff and unmoving, but Ron wasn’t able to make a clean getaway. His panic grew. He turned, attempting to Apparate away—but the magic was blocked.

“No!” Ron shouted again, trying a second time. Nothing. A third time. Damn it! The Aurors had set up anti-apparition wards. He couldn’t get away.

Just as he turned to face the Aurors in front of him, ready to fight, Draco and Hermione cast their spells in unison.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Ron’s wand flew from his hand, and before he could take another step, the binding spell hit him with full force, knocking him to the floor. He was completely restrained, unable to move or defend himself.

Hermione’s POV:

The Aurors moved Ron outside, his body still struggling against the magical restraints. The capture had been quick, but now there was something else that weighed heavily on her: Wynna.

“We need to find her,” Hermione said, her voice tight with urgency.

The kitchen was cluttered with vials and half-made potions, an old book lying on the table. There was a bed in the other room, a rickety old thing, but no signs of a struggle. No evidence that Wynna had been there at all.

“Where is she?” Hermione whispered to herself.

The cottage was empty. There was no sign of Wynna. No sign that she had ever been there.

Hermione’s POV:

She ran outside, her heart pounding in her chest. She couldn’t stop herself. She had to know.

She stopped in front of Ron, who was still struggling in the hands of two Aurors.

“Where is she, Ron?” Hermione demanded, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “What did you do to her?”

Ron’s eyes flickered with something Hermione couldn’t quite place. His voice was tinged with frustration. “Hermione... what do you want from me? What is all this? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hermione’s heart sank as his words hit her like a cold wave. What had Ron done to Wynna? Where was she?

Chapter Text

The cold stone walls of the Ministry’s holding cells were the last thing Ron had expected to be facing today, but in his mind, this was nothing more than a temporary setback. The Aurors had arrived, swept him off to the Ministry, and now here he was—sitting in a sterile interrogation room, his hands bound in front of him. He tried to relax, leaning back in the uncomfortable metal chair, but his chest still burned with the tension of the situation.

But there was no reason to panic. Ron had everything under control. They had nothing on him. He’d covered his tracks so well, and there was no way the Aurors had any real evidence. Not a chance. All this drama? Just a temporary blip in his grand plan. He would be out of here soon enough.

There was no way they could keep him here for long. A few minutes, an hour at most. He was Ronald Weasley, after all. Harry Potter’s best friend, war hero, the one who'd saved the day time and again. There was no possible way that these Aurors—Malfoy especially—could hold him here.

Malfoy. Ron’s lips curled into a sneer just thinking about it. That smug, blond, scowling prat. Always walking around like he was something special. Mr. Super-Auror. Mr. “I’m so important, look at me!” 

Malfoy must be behind this, Ron thought, his lips curling into a smirk. He’s always been jealous of me, hasn’t he? Thinks he’s so much better, while I’ve always been the one who should have had it all.

Ron couldn’t help but snort under his breath. Malfoy was just trying to assert his dominance, playing the big shot in front of Hermione.

The idea of seeing Malfoy’s face when they released him—when they realized they had nothing on him—brought a grin to Ron’s face. He could practically see it now. The look of surprise, the disappointment. It would be so sweet.

Malfoy’s going to look like a right fool when I walk out of here. He’s so sure of himself, so sure that he’s smarter than me. But he doesn’t know the first thing about how I’ve covered my tracks. No one does. Ron thought, leaning forward slightly. They can’t touch me. I’m untouchable. I’m too clever for them. 

There was no way they could find the evidence. He’d made sure of it. He'd obliviated every victim—Obliviated! Those little whores wouldn't remember a thing!

Ron’s smile grew. It felt good, knowing he had stayed two steps ahead of them the whole time. The idea of Hermione—maybe when she saw him walk out of here, she’d see how stupid Malfoy really was. She’d realize that it was Ron she was meant to be with.

She’ll see reason, eventually. She has to.

She'd have no other choice.

Ron’s fingers twitched at the thought of it. Malfoy was so convinced that Hermione was his, but Ron knew better. Hermione was meant to be his. He knew it deep down, the same way he knew that the sun would rise tomorrow. 

She’s not meant to be with someone like Malfoy, who only ever used her for his own agenda. She’s meant for someone who understands her, someone who has always been by her side.

The thought of Hermione in his arms, finally seeing that he was the only one who truly cared for her, made Ron’s chest tighten with anticipation.

Once I’m out, I’ll take her, give her the potions. The charm will make her see what she’s been missing. She won’t resist. She can’t. Then she can show me just how thankful she is on her hands and knees.

But first, he had to get out of here. And he would. He was certain of it!

Chapter Text

The dim light of the late afternoon filtered through the windows of Ron Weasley’s small, cluttered cottage. The air was thick with dust and stale smells, but the Aurors who had arrived were hardly concerned with the state of the place. They were focused on something far more pressing—evidence. They needed to find answers, and they needed to find them now.

The first Auror entered the living room, wand drawn, scanning the area for any magical traces. The room was sparse—an old couch sat along one wall, a fireplace in the corner.Nothing seemed amiss at first glance.

One of the other Aurors moved toward the couch, her sharp eyes catching a dirty sock wedged between the cushions. She grimaced and nudged it aside with her foot, before moving further into the room. There was no sign of a struggle, no overturned furniture, nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary.

She bent down near the couch, running her fingers along the floorboards. The dust shifted slightly under her touch, revealing a faint trace of blood.

She froze, then pulled out her wand and cast a spell to reveal the magical properties of the stain. The faint bloodstains glowed dimly under the magic—dried blood, long since soaked into the wood.

“Over here,” she called to the others.

The rest of the team rushed over. They gathered around, each inspecting the bloodstain. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to unsettle them. It was a small patch, but there was no doubt—it was blood.

“This could be important,” one of the Aurors said, bending down to get a closer look. “We need to collect it, maybe we can analyze it back at the muggle lab?”

In the small bedroom, crumpled clothes were scattered across the bed, a few shirts tossed carelessly onto the floor. The room smelled of stale laundry and old fabric. It was clear Ron had been living a solitary, unkempt life. 

The kitchen was where things started to get interesting. The Aurors moved carefully, eyes narrowed as they surveyed the table. It was clear that Ron had been up to something sinister. The kitchen was disheveled, with vials of potions and droughts spread out across the table. Some were empty, others half-empty, a few still full. A bowl sat in the center, where it appeared Ron had been mixing something—a brew of some sort. The mixture in the bowl shimmered faintly, and the sight of it sent an unsettling chill through the Aurors.

One Auror leaned in closer, inspecting the table. “He was tampering with these potions when we captured him,” he muttered. The others nodded, remembering the chaotic scene of Ron’s arrest. Everything had been left exactly as it was during the capture—the vials still open, the half-used ingredients scattered, and the bowl still in the center of the table.

One vial, a dark amber liquid, had dropped during the commotion of Ron’s arrest and had shattered on the floor, its contents leaking onto the wooden surface. The Auror quickly conjured a small charm to clean up the remnants of the broken vial, but its contents left an unmistakable trace of something magical—dark, potent, and dangerous.

And then, just beyond the potions, lay the book. It was old, weathered, its cover cracked with age. The pages were yellowed, but the words were still readable. The book had been opened to a specific page, where the Aeternum Desiderium charm was written in bold letters. The effects of the charm were clearly outlined—the binding of love and lust potions, the ability to make their effects permanent, and the horrifying detail that the recipient would be bound to the caster, forever.

One of the Aurors, after quickly scanning the book, whispered, “This must be it. This is what he’s been planning to do.” The other Aurors murmured in agreement. The charm, combined with the potions on the table, gave them an unsettling insight into Ron’s plans.

This was no longer about just raping women; this was dark, twisted magic meant to utterly and completely control others, to bind them for eternity.

But none of the previous victims had show any signs of this charm or the potions.

Was this a new development?

Had Weasley been testing on Wynna Cobble?

Where was she now?

And who had Weasley planned to administer this new batch of the potion to?

After the sweep was completed, the Aurors prepared to report their preliminary findings to Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger at the Ministry.

Chapter Text

The Aurors' office was heavy with tension as Draco and Hermione stood at the front of the room, listening intently to the team that had just returned from Ron’s cottage. The air felt thick, the weight of the investigation bearing down on them.

Hermione, arms crossed tightly over her chest, stared at the evidence in front of her. Her mind was struggling to piece everything together. The vials of potions, the Aeternum Desiderium charm, and the blood they had found in the living room. She was horrified by the sheer audacity of Ron’s actions, but more than anything, she felt a sickening fear rising within her. She had known Ron for so long—how could he have spiraled so far into darkness? How could she have been so blind to the signs?

Her eyes swept over the book again, the words “Aeternum Desiderium” burning into her mind. This wasn’t just about manipulating someone’s feelings with a potion. This was about control, about binding someone to you forever.

None of the previous victims had shown any signs of this particular charm nor the effects of these potions.

But Wynna was still missing!

The thought of it made her stomach twist.

Had Ron already used the charm on Wynna?

Where was Wynna?

Why had they not found her at the cottage?

Please let her be alive!

Draco was standing slightly behind Hermione, his expression unreadable, though there was something intense about the way he was looking at the evidence. His thoughts were running on a different track entirely.

Draco’s jaw tightened as he stepped closer to the table, his eyes scanning the vials and the open book. His mind was already working through the implications of the charm—the ability to bind someone to the caster forever. The thought was almost too horrific to consider.

As the other Aurors continued discussing the evidence, Draco’s thoughts wandered back to something more personal, drifted to the time when an intruder had broken into their flat—a suspicion that had been gnawing at him for months. He was still certain the Weasley had been the intruder.

Something about the way Weasley had acted during these past months had felt wrong, off. The jealousy in his eyes had been unmistakable, and Draco knew that it wasn’t just about Hermione being with him.

Weasley had wanted her for himself.

And now, with everything that had been discovered today in Weasley’s cottage—the potions, the charm—it all started to make sense. Weasley hadn’t just been targeting random women. He had been testing on them! Draco couldn’t shake the thought, the terrifying suspicion that had been building ever since they had first learned of Weasley’s connection to the missing women.

Had Weasley been planning to use the potions and the charm on Hermione?

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley had been sitting in the interrogation room for what felt like hours. The cold, sterile walls around him were starting to feel suffocating, but he remained unfazed.

There was no way they could pin anything on him. They wouldn’t have the evidence, he thought smugly.  I’ll be walking out of here soon enough.

He leaned back in his chair, hands still bound but his body relaxed, as if he were waiting for them to come to their senses. In his mind, the Aurors were scrambling, desperately trying to find a way to connect him to the disappearances. They couldn’t, of course. They didn’t have the evidence. Nothing could touch him.

Malfoy and his stupid little crew. They’ll have to let me go soon enough, he thought, savoring the moment. It’ll be sweet, seeing that idiotic ferret-face of Malfoy’s when he realizes I’m walking out of here. He won’t know what to do with himself.

But just as he was basking in his imagined victory, the door to the interrogation room opened, and Malfoy and Hermione entered.

Ron’s eyes locked onto them immediately.

Draco’s entrance was calm, his demeanor cool and collected. His gaze flickered briefly to Hermione, who looked tense, but determined. She stayed silent, just a step behind Draco. Ron couldn’t help but sneer at them both.

“Well, well,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his voice dripping with mockery. “Took you long enough.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. Instead, he moved to the table, his sharp eyes taking in Ron’s smug expression.

“You’ve been waiting a long time, Mr. Weasley,” Draco said, his voice calm but firm, addressing Ron with a calculated distance. “I’m sure that’s frustrating for you, but you’re here for a reason.”

Ron’s eyes gleamed with arrogance, his lips curling into a smile. “Of course, Malfoy,” he said smoothly. “I’m sure you have some nonsense you’re dying to spill, but we both know you’ve got nothing on me. Not a thing. Tell me, Malfoy, what do you think you’ve got on me? What exactly am I being accused of?”

Draco kept his face carefully neutral, though the flicker of anger in his eyes was impossible to miss. He had to remain professional. For now.

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he stayed calm. “You’re suspected of kidnapping and raping twenty-three young women, Mr. Weasley. Twenty-three. A twenty-fourth woman is currently missing.” Draco let the words sink in, his gaze unwavering. “That woman is Wynna Cobble. She was last seen drinking with you at the Leaky Cauldron the Saturday prior. We have a witness who saw you both together. And now, she’s gone.”

Ron’s face briefly flickered with something — but he quickly regained his composure, forcing a laugh.

“Oh, please. A witness? A few people saw us having a drink at the Leaky? Is that what you’re going to use to accuse me of something?” He scoffed.

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t about having a drink, Ronald! This is about the fact that she’s missing. And you’re the last person seen with her.”

Ron waved a dismissive hand, as if Hermione’s words meant nothing. “You’re just blowing this out of proportion. She was a fan, for Merlin’s sake—a fan of the great war hero Ronald Weasley. She practically begged me to have a drink with her. And, yeah, she was eager. Would've been an easy lay, if I’m being honest.” Ron’s grin grew wider, but there was no humor in it—just cold, bitter arrogance. “But, honestly, she wasn’t my type. She was too fat and plain. You think I’d ever be interested in someone like that?”

The words hit Draco like a slap. His anger, which had been simmering beneath the surface, suddenly boiled over. He stepped forward, his voice colder than ever. “Weasley, you are a vile piece of work.”

But Ron didn’t seem fazed. Instead, he continued, the smugness only growing.

“Look, I’m not denying I had a drink with the girl. But that’s all that happened. She probably just went off and spread her flabby legs for some other bloke. It happens all the time. You think you can pin this on me, but there’s no reason to. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Ron’s tone was growing more defensive, but he still wasn’t concerned. He felt invincible. 

Ron smirked, looking at Hermione. “Come on, 'Mione. I didn’t do anything to her. She was just some silly girl who was infatuated with me. That’s it. You’re seriously going to believe I’ve done something to her? You know me!”

“'Mione, please,” he said, his voice suddenly softer, trying to appeal to her again. “We’ve been through so much together. Don’t let them do this to me.”

Chapter Text

Draco stood, leaning slightly over the table. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes—cold, piercing—never left Ron. Hermione stood beside him, her face firm, but there was a deep sadness in her gaze. This was no longer about a twisted betrayal; this was about a man who had been consumed by something far darker than any of them had anticipated.

“Mr. Weasley,” Draco began, his voice measured and calm, “we’ve gathered all the evidence we need. You’re not leaving here today. We’re going to be very clear with you.”

Ron sat up a little straighter at the word evidence, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Evidence? What kind of evidence are you talking about?”

Hermione exchanged a brief glance with Draco before speaking again. “We have DNA evidence, Ron. We sent a sperm sample collected from the 23rd victim to a Muggle lab for testing. The results came back with a 99.9% match to your hair.”

Ron blinked at her, his expression blank. “DNA? What the hell is that? What do you mean by DNA? Some kind of trickery? Some new spell you’ve come up with?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his voice calm. “DNA is a Muggle method of identification. It’s a form of testing that identifies individuals by their genetic material. In this case, we compared a sample from the victim to your hair, and the match was undeniable. 99.9%. That’s a near certainty, Mr. Weasley. You’ve been involved with these women, and now it’s clear you’re responsible.”

Ron’s face went pale, his mind racing to catch up with what Draco had said. “What? This is some kind of joke, isn’t it? You think you can use some ridiculous Muggle method to pin something on me? You can’t... You can’t possibly be serious. I don’t even know what this... this DNA thing is!” He was almost shouting now, panic creeping into his voice. “You can’t just take some hair and magically link me to this! This isn’t real!”

Hermione stood firm, her voice unwavering. “It’s not magic, Ron. It’s science. Muggle science. It’s as precise as any spell we use, and it doesn’t lie. And it matched you. Your DNA, Ron. Your genetic material. It’s irrefutable. We found traces of your involvement with the other victims as well.”

Ron recoiled at the idea, his face turning even paler. “This can’t be true. This is all lies. This—this has to be some mistake. Some weird Muggle nonsense.”

Ron’s mind was spinning, but he refused to let himself break down. He couldn’t let them see how terrified he was. 

Draco stepped forward, his tone colder now. “The book you were using had the Aeternum Desiderium charm in it, Weasley. A spell that binds someone to you—permanently. We found the potions in your cottage, mixed and ready to be used. You’ve been mixing the potions for a very specific purpose.”

Ron’s face paled further. “That book... it was just... it was nothing. I found it in a dusty old store. It didn’t mean anything.”

Hermione’s voice was tight with frustration. “It meant everything. You were planning to control people. The vials, the mixtures, the charm. It’s all clear now. Ronald......did you plan to use it on Wynna? Or have you already done it?”

Ron’s hands shook slightly, but his voice was laced with defiance as he muttered, “You’re wrong. It wasn’t like that. You’re twisting everything.”

Draco’s voice grew colder, his gaze unwavering. “You can try to deny it all you want, but you’ve been caught. Wynna Cobble is missing. And the truth is, you’re the one responsible for all of this. We have the proof. We have the DNA. We have a witness. And we will make sure you answer for your crimes! Where is the girl, Weasley? ”

“No... no, this isn’t how it was supposed to be...” Ron mumbled, his voice cracking. His eyes darted around, as if looking for some way out, some escape from the truth they had laid bare before him.

Draco stepped closer, his expression hard as granite. “You’re a monster, Weasley. You’ve hurt people. You’ve violated them. And now, you’re going to face the consequences.”

Ron's hands were trembling. He was desperate, his mind spinning with confusion and panic. He turned to Hermione, pleading with her. “Hermione... please, you have to see this. It was for you. All of this... all of it... for you.” His voice cracked as his eyes searched hers. “You were meant to be with me. I did all of this for you. You don’t understand. I couldn’t let him have you. I couldn’t. You were meant to be mine. I’ve always loved you.”

Hermione recoiled, her expression one of horror.

Chapter Text

At the same time in a  Hospital Room – Across the Country

The soft beeping of a machine was the only sound in the quiet room. A pale light filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting soft shadows across the sterile hospital bed. The young woman stirred, her eyelids fluttering open, but the weight of confusion hung thick in the air. Her body felt strange—foreign—like it wasn’t quite her own. The sheets beneath her were too warm, the air around her too cold.

She blinked, trying to focus, but the sensation of being out of place only deepened. Where am I? Her mind struggled to form coherent thoughts. She couldn’t remember how she had gotten here, what had happened to her. Her body felt strange, out of sync, like something was missing. Not something, she realized—someone.

The thought of the person was like a faint whisper in her mind, distant and fleeting, yet pulling at her heart. She had to be with them.

But she couldn’t remember who they were.

The yearning inside her was overwhelming. She loved him. She needed him. The aching longing for him was unbearable, yet the identity of the person remained lost in the fog of her mind. Who was he?

The door creaked open, and a nurse hurried in, her eyes wide with concern as she noticed the young woman’s movement.

“Oh sweetheart, you’ve woken up,” the nurse said gently, a soft smile on her face as she approached the bedside. “Good. You were in bad shape when you arrived here this morning. How are you feeling?”

The woman blinked, confusion clouding her thoughts as she tried to understand the nurse’s words. She felt a flutter of panic rising in her chest. “I don’t... I don’t know where I am... How did I get here?”

The nurse looked at her with kind eyes, though there was an edge of concern in her expression. “You’re in a hospital, sweetheart. You’ve been unconscious for some time. But you’re safe now.”

The young woman’s heart pounded. She couldn’t place her surroundings, couldn’t remember how she had arrived. Where are my parents? Or someone. My grandmother? Anyone. Why was she alone?

Her chest tightened as the panic surged. “Where... where is everyone? My parents—where are they? Why am I here alone?” She could feel the sense of loss growing, the desperate emptiness inside her widening as she searched for answers. “I don’t remember anything.”

The nurse, noticing the growing distress, moved closer, gently placing a hand on her arm in an attempt to calm her. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. You were in bad shape when you were brought in. You don’t need to worry. We’re taking care of you now.”

But the young woman could hardly breathe, the fear and confusion rising with each second. Why couldn’t she remember anything? Why was she alone? Where was he? 

“I... I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know where I am. Please, please tell me.” Her voice cracked with the panic. Her hands gripped the sheets tightly as tears welled in her eyes. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

The nurse’s face softened with compassion. “It’s okay. It’s normal to be confused. You’ve had a rough time, but we’ll help you. You’re going to be okay.”

The nurse pressed a button on the side of the bed. “I’m going to get the doctor. Just a moment, sweetheart.”

The door opened, and two doctors entered, their footsteps soft but purposeful. They were both middle-aged, their faces gentle but serious. They moved to the side of her bed, and the young woman looked up at them, her mind racing. They were asking her questions now—about how she felt, what she remembered. She couldn’t focus. Nothing felt right.

The doctors exchanged a look before one of them spoke again, his voice steady but filled with concern. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling? Do you remember anything? Any details? Do you know where you are?”

Her mind spun. She couldn’t remember anything. Her chest tightened as she fought to bring some clarity to her thoughts. 

“I... I don’t know,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I... don’t know where I am. I don’t know what happened. ” Her voice cracked. 

The doctor nodded gently. “That’s alright. It can take time for your memory to come back. You’ve been through a lot.”

But the emptiness inside her remained. She looked around the room, the absence of anything familiar stifling her.

The doctor asked a simple question, one that felt more like a formality than anything else. “Can you tell us your name?”

She hesitated, her mind struggling to form the word. She knew it—she had to know it—but everything felt so far away. Like the piece of herself that should have been clear was just out of reach.

Finally, she took a deep breath, her voice soft, trembling. “My name is...”

She paused for a moment, almost as if waiting for the name to come to her.

“My name is...” She closed her eyes, trying to feel it.

And then, it came to her, like a light flickering back on. She could feel it, like a memory returning from the depths.

“My name is Wynna...” she whispered, almost as if to herself. “Wynna Cobble.”

The doctors exchanged a quick glance, and one of them scribbled something down on a clipboard. They seemed relieved that she had recalled her name, but the young woman’s mind was still consumed with the emptiness inside her. She felt like a part of her was still missing, something important that she couldn’t reach, couldn’t hold onto.

Chapter Text

The small office buzzed with quiet activity as the police officers ran through their routine. The phone rang occasionally, a faint murmur of voices drifting from the hallway, but nothing had prepared them for what came next. A report had just come in from the local hospital—the young woman, found in a critical state this morning, had just regained consciousness. The doctors had found out her name: Wynna Cobble, a missing young woman who had been reported just a few days earlier.

However, something didn’t sit right.

One of the officers, flipping through the file, glanced over the description of the young woman in the missing persons report and the photo attached to it. It showed Wynna Cobble, smiling with a friend ealier this year. “She’s supposed to have shoulder-length, slightly curly, dirty blonde hair. A bit of a brown undertone, kind of wavy. And yet...”

The officer trailed off as he squinted at the details of the photo and the report they’d received from the hospital. “That doesn’t match. This girl in the hospital has straight, bright blonde hair. Falls all the way down her back. And it’s not just the hair.”

Another officer stepped up to take a look. “What do you mean, off?”

“Well, some features match,” he murmured. “Eye color, the shape of her face.........but then there's the lips. Those lips.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “They’re... way too big.”

Another officer leaned over, taking a closer look at the photos. “Her body’s the same. Same curves, same shape. But those breasts—they’re... huge now. She doesn’t even look human anymore. She looks like a living sex doll.”

The first officer stared at the report again, his brows furrowing. “But she was missing for only a week. How could someone go from looking like that just last week to this now? What’s happened to her in the meantime? If someone had operated on her, shouldn't there be scars? Shouldn't she still be healing?”

The doctors who had examined the woman had discovered signs of violence on her body, but nothing indicated any operating, there were no scars, no swelling.

One of the officers let out a slow breath. “There are obvious marks of violence. The doctors found heavy bruising on her breasts. Like someone squeezes them multiple time with force. The doctors also noted marks around her neck, signs of choking. It looks like she was manhandled. It might have been part of some kind of sexual act, though?........... There are clear signs of sexual intercourse, but no signs of rape, no bleeding. ”

The second officer looked up, brows furrowed in disbelief. “No bleeding? So, was the sex consensual then? Or... was she sedated and lubricated? Could she have been unconscious while this was happening?”

They sat in silence, the weight of the situation hanging heavily in the air. If this young woman had been prepared for trafficking, or used for exploitation in some horrific manner, the questions were endless.

The officer with the clipboard sighed. “We need to contact the precinct that originally filed the missing persons report. This doesn’t make sense.”

Chapter Text

The Interrogation Room – Ministry of Magic

The atmosphere in the interrogation room was tense.

Ron’s voice was hoarse as he leaned forward, trying once again to plead his case. “You don’t understand,” he said, his eyes flickering to Hermione, his expression desperate. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you, Hermione. For us. I—I did it for us!”

Hermione froze, the horror sinking deep into her chest as she heard his words. A sick, twisting feeling coiled in her stomach.

Just then door swung open, and Auror McAllister stepped into the room. He looked agitated, his expression grim. He quickly made eye contact with Draco and Hermione before glancing briefly at Ron.

“We need to pull you out of here,” McAllister said in a low voice, urgency thick in his tone. “There’s new information.”

Draco, immediately sensing the gravity of the situation, turned to Ron and raised a hand, his voice firm. “Mr. Weasley, you’re being sent to a holding cell. We’ll resume your interrogation later.”

Ron’s protest died on his lips as two guards entered the room to escort him out. 

Draco ignored him, focusing entirely on McAllister. Hermione shot Ron one last, disbelieving glance before following Draco and McAllister into the hallway.

“What’s happened?” Draco demanded, his voice tense. 

McAllister led them swiftly down the hallway, his face grim. “The Muggles in Wales—they found Wynna Cobble. This morning. She’s in a hospital now, but she was found unconscious, nearly dead. We don’t know the full details yet, but she regained consciousness about an hour ago. The Muggle police reached out to us,due to the missing persons report you fed into their database. They believe they are just communicating with another precinct.”

Hermione’s heart skipped at the news. “Wynna’s alive?” she said, almost disbelieving.

“Alive, yes,” McAllister cut in. “But in critical condition. They don’t have any answers about what’s happened to her.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. Wynna Cobble was alive, but the uncertainty of what had happened to her still loomed large. “We need to get to her. We need her statement and we need to make sure she’s safe.”

Draco nodded firmly, his expression hardening. “We’re going. Now.”

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of medical equipment. Wynna Cobble lay in the bed, her once-bright eyes now clouded with confusion, her blonde hair disheveled and matted against her pale skin. She had been unconscious for several hours, and though her physical condition was improving, her mind was still fragmented, the pieces of her life lost in the fog of memory.

As Draco and Hermione entered the room, the soft light from the window caught Wynna’s eyes. She blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused at first. She turned her head slightly, her movements sluggish, before she finally focused on the two figures standing at the foot of her bed.

Hermione exchanged a brief glance with Draco before stepping forward, her voice calm and reassuring. "Wynna, you’re in a hospital. You’ve been missing for a few days, and we’ve been looking for you. We’re from the Ministry of Magic, Aurors Department."

Draco nodded, his tone steady. "We’ve been investigating your disappearance. A friend of yours, Lynn, reported you missing a few days ago. We’ve been trying to find you."

Wynna’s face creased with confusion as she turned toward them, her brow furrowed. 

“I don’t remember,” Wynna whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t remember my friends. Lynn—who is she? I don’t even know anyone by that name.”

Wynna paused for a moment, her face slowly losing its color as panic began to set in. “And… my parents? Where are my parents? Please, tell me they’re here too.”

Draco exchanged a worried look with Hermione. Wynna’s parents had been gone for years, but neither Draco nor Hermione were prepared to break that news to her yet. It would only add to the trauma she was already enduring. How much of her memory had Wynna lost, that she did not even remember her parents death?

Hermione crouched down next to the bed, trying to keep her voice gentle but firm. "Wynna, you were taken. We believe that someone has erased your memories. You’re not at fault for any of this. We’re here to help you, but we need to understand what happened to you. What is the last thing you can remember?"

Wynna's voice, barely audible, broke the silence. “I don’t remember anything after I was eight… How could that be? I should remember my life. I should remember Hogwarts. I should remember my friends. Why can’t I remember?”

Wynna’s breath caught in her throat as she fought back tears, her face twisting with the confusion and heartbreak of it all. “I feel… like I’m missing so much,” she whispered. “I’m a grown woman, but all I have are the memories of being a child. I don’t know who I am now.”

Draco exchanged a brief, solemn look with Hermione. Eight years old—that was the last age Wynna remembered. Eleven years of her life had been stolen, and the realization of how much had been erased was still sinking in. Ronald Weasley had done this to her. Had carelessly erased most of this young womans life from her memory.

“I feel...” Wynna continued, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right words. “I don’t know how to explain it. But there’s this… feeling. Like something is missing....more than just my memories. I don’t know who it is, but I constantly feel this… longing. It’s like I need someone, but I don’t know who it is.”

Hermione’s face paled, her eyes darting to Draco’s. She didn’t need to say a word; she could see her own shock mirrored in his expression. The charm had already been cast. Ron had already bound Wynna to him. The fact that she felt this craving, this overwhelming longing for an unknown person, confirmed their worst fear.

Wynna looked at Draco, her eyes filled with tears, a deep sadness and confusion in her expression. “I just don’t know who I’m missing. But I feel it, all the time. It’s like there’s someone I’m meant to be with, someone I should remember, but I can’t. Why can’t I remember?”

“I don’t know what happened to me. ” Wynna’s voice cracked with emotion. "Who did this to me?"

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat but remained composed. Ron Weasley was responsible, but they couldn’t tell her that yet—not until she had a chance to heal, to understand the truth on her own time.

“We’ll find out who did this to you,” Draco said quietly. “We promise.”

Hermione’s voice faltered slightly, but she pressed on. “We’ll find out what happened to you, Wynna. But for now, we need to focus on your healing. We can’t leave you in this muggle hospital. You need more care than this hospital can provide.”

Draco nodded, his jaw tightening. “We’ll arrange for you to be transferred to St. Mungo’s. They can help you there. It’s the best place for magical care. We’ll make sure they take good care of you.”

Wynna’s eyes flickered with something like relief, though it was mixed with the weight of everything she had lost. “St. Mungo’s? Will they… help me remember?”

Hermione offered her a comforting smile. “They’ll help you heal, Wynna. They’ll help you process everything, and we’ll work with them to get you back to who you were. One step at a time.”

Chapter Text

The air in the hospital corridor was thick with an unsettling stillness as Draco and Hermione stood outside Wynna's room, struggling to process everything they had just heard.....and seen. 

Her unnaturally large breasts, exaggerated lips, and long, straight blonde hair—these changes were not just physical alterations. They were a reflection of the kind of control Ron had exerted over her. This was more than just a crime of manipulation—it was a crime of ownership, an attempt to shape her into something that would serve his twisted desires. s.

Hermione’s throat tightened as she glanced over at Draco, his face pale and tight with anger. “He altered her body. He made her into something—something she was never meant to be. She was just a girl.”

Draco’s voice was cold and filled with disgust. “He molded her to his liking. His preferences. Her entire existence was altered to serve him. To satisfy him.” His fists clenched at his sides, his anger barely contained. “And for what? So he could control her. Use her. He turned her into a toy, something to bend to his every whim. And she had no say in it. None of this was her choice.”

Hermione struggled to keep the tears at bay. Wynna Cobble had been so young, so innocent. The changes weren’t just physical—they were emotional and psychological too. She had been shaped into someone Ron Weasley could control, someone who was entirely at his mercy.

“How could he do this?” Hermione whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “She was just a girl. Merely of age.” The tears threatened to fall, but she forced them back. “She didn’t deserve any of this. She should have been able to grow up and have a life. She should have had choices.”

Draco exhaled sharply, staring at the door as though the answers might be waiting on the other side. 

Hermione felt sick to her stomach. 

“That charm,” she said, her voice shaking with the weight of the revelation. “It made everything permanent. He wanted to bind her to him, make her forever his.  To control her body, her mind, everything.”

Draco nodded grimly, his face tight with fury. “It is about possession, ownership. He didn’t care who she was, or what she wanted. All he cared about was making her into the perfect tool for his own satisfaction.”

Hermione’s hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, her heart breaking for the young woman who had been violated in such a cruel way. “Wynna was so innocent. She didn’t deserve any of this. She was just a girl, Draco. She didn’t deserve to have her body and mind twisted like this. And Ron......how could he?”

Draco’s expression darkened, his eyes flashing with a cold fury. “He knew what he was doing. Every step, every spell deliberate—he did it on purpose. He didn’t care what it did to her. He only cared about himself.”

Hermione swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. The anger that had built up inside her since their discovery was now a seething tide, threatening to consume her. 

Chapter Text

The weight of the day hung heavy in the air as Draco and Hermione sat in their office 20 minutes later. The shock of what Ron had done to Wynna still lingered, but there was also an urgent need to understand the why—the deeper, darker reasoning behind his actions.

Hermione sat at her desk, staring blankly at the paperwork she had barely been able to focus on. Wynna’s face, her body altered and violated in ways they couldn’t fully comprehend, haunted her thoughts. She couldn’t shake the image of the girl in the hospital bed, so lost and broken, knowing that all of this had been orchestrated by someone she had once called a friend.

Draco, however, sat across from her, his arms crossed, his mind clearly elsewhere. He had been silent since they'd returned to the office, his usual composure weighed down by the revelations of the day. But now, he couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“Wynna wasn’t the target,” Draco said, his voice low and filled with a quiet realization that hit Hermione like a ton of bricks.

Hermione looked up, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Draco sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, the frustration and anger at the situation clear in his eyes. “I think he used her...used her and all the other as test subjects. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He probably chose her because she was innocent and lonely, an easy target. She was just someone to experiment on, to test whether the potions and that charm would work. It’s sick, but it’s true.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, the realization dawning on her like a cold wave. “You think... you think Wynna was just a... a trial run?..............For what?”

Draco nodded grimly, his eyes fixed on the floor as though the thought was too painful to face. “That’s exactly what I think. He had no real interest in her beyond using her body and mind to see if he could bind someone to him permanently. She wasn’t the end goal. She was just... a means to an end.”

Hermione felt the room close in on her. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to click together, but the truth was more chilling than she had ever expected. Wynna Cobble, the innocent girl they had spent days searching for, had been nothing more than a tool for Ron’s twisted experiment.

“Draco continued, his voice hardening. “You are his real target, Hermione. You’ve always been the one he wanted.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the weight of his words settled over her. Her gaze shot to Draco, her shock mirrored in his intense eyes.

“What... what are you saying?” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “Ron? He wanted me?”

Draco exhaled sharply, as though the words had been a long time coming. “It makes sense now, doesn’t it? After what he said in the interrogation room—‘everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you, Hermione’. That wasn’t just him rambling, Hermione. That was his truth. Wynna was just a trial to see if he could use the potions and the charm to bind someone. He needed to test it first, so he used her. But you—you’re the one he really wanted.”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face as everything fell into place. The moments in the interrogation room replayed in her mind—the words Ron had said, the insistent way he had claimed that everything he’d done was for her.

She couldn’t believe it. “But... but why? Why me? He knows that I'm with you. That we're happy. ”

Draco leaned forward, his face hard. “That’s exactly why, Hermione. He does not want you to be with me.”

Hermione’s mind was spinning. They had long suspected there was something off about Ron, still suspected him to have been the intruder into their home, with the DNA test they had irrefutable proof, that Ron was the serial rapist. But this? This was far beyond anything she could have imagined. Had been so determined to possess her, to make her his, that he had broken another person to test his ability to control someone else?

She sat rigid at her desk for the next few minutes, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes glassy and distant.

It was Draco who finally broke the silence.

“Let’s leave it for tonight,” he said quietly. “The interrogation can wait until morning. You need sleep. We both do.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked up to his. For a second, she looked like she might protest. But she didn’t.

She just nodded. Slowly. Mechanically.

“Alright,” she said. Her voice cracked.

Chapter Text

They left him here.

They actually left him here.

Overnight.

In a holding cell.

Him.

Ron Weasley, war hero. Member of the Golden Trio. Savior of the bloody wizarding world, if you listened to half the press.

And now? He was locked up like some criminal.

He paced the cold floor, boots scuffing against stone, fists clenched at his sides. The magical barrier shimmered faintly across the doorway. His wand had been confiscated the moment they dragged him out of his cottage that afternoon. A violation, that’s what it was.

He hadn’t even gotten a chance to explain.

Not really.

Malfoy had twisted it all — made it sound dark, perverse. Made Hermione look at him like he was some kind of monster.

But he wasn’t.

Everything he’d done — every charm, every test, every touch to these other women — it had all been for Hermione. If only she'd see it.

He hadn't harmed the girls....not really. So what he had handled them a little roughly (women liked that....didn't they? He had seen how horny Hermione as Malfoy had fed her his gigantic Deatheater cock), had applied one or the other charm.

But they were all alive and well. No harm done!

Those girls could not even remember their time together...so where was the problem?

It wasn't like he'd killed anyone.

Ron stopped pacing and sat heavily on the bench along the wall. He ran a hand through his hair.

They’d come to their senses soon enough. Hermione would cool off. She always did. She was rational like that. She just needed time. She always forgave him eventually. She loved him.

She was his.

That thought settled his nerves. Somewhat.

But still—he couldn’t stay here all night. That was absurd. He needed to get out. Lie low. Get a spare wand somewhere.

He stood again and stretched, casually rolling his shoulders. The auror recruit stationed outside his cell was a young woman. Looked new. Probably not much older than twenty. Long dark hair tucked into a braid. Slim, nervous posture.

Perfect.

He yawned as he approached the shimmering magical barrier.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low and sheepish. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

She glanced over, startled. “Oh—no, it’s alright.”

“You’re the night rotation?” he asked. “Rough gig.”

She gave a small smile, hesitant. “Yeah. Not many of us on shift.”

Ron nodded sympathetically, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m Ron, by the way.” He offered a boyish grin, the same one that had made so many people forgive so many things. “Weasley.”

Recognition lit in her face. “Oh… Right. Of course. I didn’t—well, I didn’t want to assume.”

He chuckled softly. “Most don’t. Bit of a fall from grace, being in here.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What… what did they bring you in for?”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, lowering his eyes. “Bit of a misunderstanding. I’d had a few drinks… got mouthy in front of the wrong crowd. You know how it is.”

“Oh,” she said, a little too quickly. “Yeah, that happens. My cousin got fined last year for hexing a lamppost when he was drunk.”

“That sort of thing,” Ron said, smiling gently. “Malfoy saw an opening and made a fuss about it. You know how he is. Still trying to prove he’s not the villain.”

That made her laugh — nervously, but real. She was relaxing.

“I’ve got court in the morning,” he lied, keeping his tone light. “Would’ve just been a night to sleep it off, but now I’ve got a record until they sort it out.”

He leaned just slightly closer to the barrier, lowering his voice. “Look—I know this is a bit forward. But I could really use a few hours of air. Just… not to sleep in this place. Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it?”

She hesitated.

“I’m not going to disappear,” he said, hands raised in mock surrender. “You have my name, my file, my bloody family tree. I’ll be back by sunrise. You’d be doing me a huge favour.”

The silence stretched.

Her fingers toyed with the corner of her manual. She looked him over, uncertain.

He softened his expression. “I’ve fought for this place.  I’d never betray that. I just need… a night. That’s all.”

More silence.

And then—

Her wand twitched.

The shimmer of the barrier rippled and broke.

Ron stepped forward with deliberate calm, slipping through like a man walking out of a dream. He didn’t rush. That would scare her.

Instead, he smiled.

“You’re doing good work,” he said, almost sincerely. “Thanks.”

She gave a shaky nod, glancing down the hallway.

Ron didn’t wait for her to answer.

Chapter Text

Ministry of Magic – Saturday Morning

Their footsteps echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway. They had arrived early to continue Ron Weasley’s interrogation, eager to move forward with the investigation after the shocking discovery of Wynna's condition. But as they walked toward the holding cells, the sight before them made their blood run cold.

The cell was empty.

“What the hell?” Draco hissed, storming toward the door of the empty cell, his mind racing. “How—how is he gone?”

Hermione followed him, her face pale with disbelief. “He should be here. The guard was on duty all night. We confiscated his wand. There’s no way he should have escaped.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at his sides. His anger was palpable, and it was growing with every passing second. “How did he do it?” he spat, barely able to contain his rage. “This is unbelievable.”

Draco’s frustration was boiling over now. He slammed his fist against the wall, startling Hermione. “How did he get out? This is ridiculous! We finally capture have him, and now he’s gone. How can this happen?”

Hermione’s face tightened. “We need to find out how this happened. We need to know where he is.”

As they turned toward the exit, they were informed that the Auror recruit on guard duty the previous night had already finished her shift an hour and a half ago and was now at home. Draco’s temper flared as he realized they’d have to wait for her to return to the office for questioning. He wasn’t about to let this slip.

“This is a disaster,” Draco muttered, his voice filled with barely-contained fury. “We’ve been chasing him for months, and now he’s just—gone. This is incompetence.”

Hermione could see Draco’s anger building. They both knew the gravity of the situation. Ron’s escape wasn’t just a personal failure—it was a massive breach of security.

Draco stalked toward their office, barking over shis shoulder. “I’ll give her fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and then I want answers. I don’t care how long she’s been off shift. We’re getting to the bottom of this.”

Auror's Office – Fifteen Minutes Later

The minutes dragged on as Draco and Hermione waited. The air in their office seemed thick with tension. Draco’s temper was barely held in check, and every second that passed only fueled his frustration further. How had this happened? How had Ron Weasley—the very person they had spent weeks trying to catch—slipped through their fingers so easily?

Finally, the young Auror recruit entered the office. She looked visibly shaken, her face pale as she stepped in, still in her uniform. She seemed confused by the gravity of the situation. She had no idea what was coming.

Draco turned toward her, his eyes blazing with fury. “Where is he?” he demanded, his voice low and dripping with rage. “You were on guard duty last night. How did Ron Weasley escape?”

She looked at him, her face flushing red with shame. “I.........I let him out.... I didn’t think it was a big deal,” she stammered. “He was in for a drunken misdemeanour. He told me he just needed to get out for a bit, and he promised to come back in the morning. He promised!”

Draco’s fists clenched at his sides. “Are you kidding me? How could you just believe him?

The young recruit flinched at the sharpness in his voice, but Draco wasn’t done. “How could you be so stupid? How could you be so gullible? Ron Weasley—the serial rapist we’ve been after for months is finally in custody, and you let him walk out of here? Are you so naive? Or just plain dumb?”

The recruit’s face twisted with guilt, and she seemed to shrink under his glare. “I—he’s a hero, I thought I could trust him. I didn’t think it would be a problem. Serial rapist? I didn't know....I didn’t think... He promised he'd be back!”

“You didn’t think, that’s the problem!” Draco barked. “You just let him talk his way out, and now look where we are. You’ve failed in your duty, and you’ve cost us everything. Do you realize that?”

Hermione stepped forward, trying to calm the situation. Her voice was steady, though it was clear she was upset too. “You’ve made a grave mistake. But right now, we need to find him. Do you have any idea where he went?”

The recruit shook her head,. “I don't know...he seemed so calm, so trustworthy. He said he would come back. Why would I doubt him? He helped Harry Potter. I thought he’s a hero.”

Draco snapped, his voice rising again. “He’s not a hero. He’s a monster. He manipulated you, and you fell for it. And now he’s gone, and we don’t know where he is!”

The recruit looked like she might collapse under the weight of what she had done, her face pale as she trembled. “I’m sorry... I... I didn’t know. I didn’t know he could be...””

Hermione, though calm, couldn’t hide her disappointment. “We can’t afford mistakes like this. You’ve endangered everyone.”

The young recruit was shaking, visibly distraught. Her eyes welled up with tears, her body trembling with guilt. “I didn’t mean to. I thought he would come back. I—I trusted him.”

Draco’s voice was cold and cutting as he made his decision. “You’re fired.”

Her eyes went wide with shock, and she gasped. “What? No… please! I didn’t mean to—”

“You’ve failed in your duty. You let him escape, and now we have no idea where he is. You’re done.”

Ministry of Magic – Draco’s Office

Once the young recruit had been dismissed, Draco immediately moved toward the desk, his frustration boiling over. “I can’t believe this. How did we let this happen? We had him in our custody. And now—nothing.”

Hermione stepped up behind him, her expression serious. “We need to find him. He’s out there now, and we need to track him down. We have no idea where he is.”

Draco’s eyes flickered with determination. He slammed his hand on the desk, the he thought of the tracking charm he had placed on Weasly just two days prior. But as he tapped into it, his frustration grew even more. The charm wasn’t responding.

“What the hell?” Draco hissed, tapping his wand against the desk. “It’s not working. The charm—it’s broken.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? The tracking charm? It can’t be. The effects shouldn’t have worn off yet.”

Draco’s jaw clenched in frustration. “There are only two possibilities. Either he’s in a heavily warded environment, somewhere that blocks the charm’s magic, or he’s obtained something—a dark artifact—that’s interfering with the spell.”

“Either way, we’re blind.” Hermione said, her voice grim. “We can’t track him anymore.”

Draco’s fists clenched, and he slammed his hand on the desk again, his voice thick with rage. “This is unacceptable.”

Hermione stepped closer, her eyes sharp with resolve. “We’ll find him again.”

Draco nodded stiffly, his voice low and seething with anger. “We will. But it’s not going to be easy. And I’m not letting him slip through again. Not this time.”

Chapter Text

Night had bled into Saturday morning, gray and bone-cold, the streets of London slick with muddy snow veiled in mist. Ron Weasley hadn’t stopped walking since he slipped out of the Ministry hours ago — wandless, restless, and increasingly angry.

He pulled his coat tighter around him and tried to ignore the gnawing ache in his stomach. His breath steamed out in ragged clouds. The silence of the hour pressed in on him.

He needed to find somewhere to lay low. Somewhere to think.

His first thought had been Grimmauld Place. Harry and Ginny. Harry would probably offer him a nice firewhiskey......they'd drink and laugh together like old times.

Then he'd considered The Burrow. Mum would welcome him without hesitation. He could already smell the roast in the oven, feel the scratchy wool of the blanket she’d wrap around him. His room would still be there. Safe. Untouched. Familiar.

But…

Would the Aurors come looking for him there?

He clenched his jaw at the thought.

They’d expect him to go home.

He needed somewhere else. Somewhere forgotten.

Then a memory stirred.

An old Order safehouse — not far from the Ministry, just above an abandoned Muggle bookstore in Clerkenwell. No one had used it in years. Not since the war.

Perfect.
Close enough to Knockturn Alley — he’d be able to slip in, get a wand, stock up on his potions again.

And then he’d do what he was meant to do.

He would free Hermione — from all of it.
From Malfoy's influence over her. From her fate as Malfoy's dirty mudblood whore. From her own confused mind.

He'd make her his.....eternally, irrefutably his.

Malfoy wouldn’t know what hit him.

The first rays of dawn crept across the cracked pavement as Ron turned onto the alleyway that led to the building. His limbs ached with exhaustion, and the cold had crept under his skin. But his heart thumped with grim purpose.

The bookstore was just as he remembered: shuttered, boarded, long abandoned. The side entrance was hidden behind a rusted drainpipe and a bricked-over alcove. No one ever looked here.

He stepped toward the door and muttered the old password under his breath:

"Mundungus always leaves his socks on the stove."

There was a pause.

Then a pulse of blue light flickered across the frame — faint but unmistakable. The heavy wards scanned him. Recognised him. Accepted him.

The lock clicked open.

Ron blinked. He hadn’t truly expected it to work. After all these years.

But the door opened for him.

And that… felt good.

He stepped inside.

The interior was stale and silent. Dust floated in the beams of early light, and every surface was covered in years of grime. Furniture sagged under its own weight. But it was shelter. It was safe. It was hidden.

He closed the door behind him and let out a breath.

Here, he would rest. Regroup. Rebuild.

And then…

He would finish what he started.

Soon Hermione would be by his side.

Or rather on her knees for him, worshipping him, sucking his cock, begging for his cum.

She'd obviously need to atone for treating him like a criminal, when all he'd done was for her own good!

Chapter Text

The Auror Office had come alive early, murmurs of disbelief and rising anxiety thick in the air.

Draco Malfoy stood near the window of their private strategy room, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Hermione sat at the long desk, scanning the final draft of the public safety announcement they’d prepared for immediate release.

“There is irrefutable evidence of Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley’s involvement in the abduction, sexual assault, and manipulation of at least twenty-four victims. This includes the most recent case of Wynna Cobble, whose identity and condition were confirmed Friday evening. Yesterday, he was captured and interrogated at the Ministry of Magic. Due to a critical breach in security, Weasley has since escaped custody. He is considered dangerous, magically unpredictable, and mentally unstable. Any sightings should be reported immediately to the Auror Office. Citizens are urged not to approach or engage.”

Hermione placed the parchment down slowly. “This goes out at noon. It’ll shake the entire wizarding world.”

Draco doesn’t respond right away. His gaze distant.

“They need to be shaken.”

“Ginny… Harry… they need to hear it from us. Molly and Arthur too, they deserve a warning.” Hermione said. “Grimmauld Place first, and then the Burrow. They shouldn't be reading about this in a paper. Or hearing it through gossip.

Draco nodded.

“They might not believe us” he warned.

Hermione’s hands tightened into fists. “Then we show them what we have. The DNA results. The book. All of it.”

Draco gave a tight nod.

“And if he’s hiding in either of their homes,” he added, “we’ll find him. And we’ll bring him in properly.”

Before they gathered their things to leave, Draco paused, his expression distant.

Hermione watched as he shut his eyes, fingers flexing faintly at his sides. She knew what he was doing — trying again. Reaching for the charm. Searching for any flicker of connection.

A long silence.

Then, he opened his eyes and shook his head once. “Still blocked”

Hermione frowned, arms crossed. “So the question is — why?”

Draco nodded. “There are only two possibilities.”

“If he's just hiding in a warded location…” Hermione began.

“Then we have a chance,” Draco said, his voice calm but edged. “Wards only work over a specific area. They block detection while someone stays inside them — but the moment he steps outside, we'll be able to track him again.”

“He has no wand. He’ll need supplies, food,” Hermione added. “At some point, he'll have to risk going out.”

They both knew it was the best-case scenario.

But then came the other possibility.

Draco’s tone darkened. “If he’s somehow found a dark artifact — one that actively suppresses magical surveillance…”

Hermione finished it: “Then we’re blind. The charm could be fully blocked no matter where he is. Even if he's moving. He could travel freely. Hide anywhere. We’d have no way of knowing.”

Draco nodded grimly. “And that’s what worries me.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked toward the door. “Still. We can’t assume the worst — not yet. Until we know otherwise, we treat this like he's hiding behind wards. Which means…”

“We check the charm every few hours,” Draco said. “Day and night. No gaps.”

“And in the meantime,” Hermione said quietly, “we warn his family. Let them hear the truth from us — not from the front page.”

Draco nodded once. “Let’s go.”

Because if Ron Weasley stepped into the open again — even for a moment — they would be waiting.

And this time, there would be no escape.

Chapter Text

The front steps of 12 Grimmauld Place creaked under the weight of heavy boots as Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy arrived at the door, coats damp with the chill of early Saturday morning. Hermione raised her hand and knocked, three sharp raps echoing through the ancient townhouse.

A few moments later, the door opened.

Harry Potter, bleary-eyed but smiling, appeared in the doorway first, a half-buttoned shirt hanging loose over his joggers.
“Well, this is unexpected,” he said. “You’re both looking serious. Please tell me there isn’t another dark wizard you need me to take down. Because after Voldy, I’m officially retired from the dark-wizard-extermination business.”

Hermione gave him a tight smile, but didn’t laugh. Draco stood at her side, his posture straight, his face unreadable.

Ginny’s voice came from behind Harry, curious and warm. “Is everything okay?”

Draco spoke first. “We’re here on official Auror business. May we come in?”

Harry frowned and stepped aside immediately. “Of course.”

As soon as they were inside and the door closed behind them, Hermione turned to him. “Harry, I know this is going to sound strange, but we need to ask — is Ron here? Have you seen him since yesterday?”

Ginny blinked. “Ron? No, of course not. Why?”

Hermione exhaled. “It’s standard procedure. Before we explain… we need to do a quick sweep of the house. Just to be sure.”

Harry didn’t argue. His eyes had narrowed, but he nodded. “Go ahead.”

Draco and Hermione moved efficiently through the home. They didn’t explain further, just activated non-invasive detection spells, checking wards and scanning rooms. It didn’t take long. The place was quiet. Normal.

Ron wasn’t there.

They reconvened in the sitting room a few minutes later. Harry and Ginny sat close together on the couch, no longer smiling. A mug of untouched tea steamed on the coffee table. Ginny looked pale beneath her freckles.

Hermione remained standing. Draco stood beside her, arms folded.

“It’s Ron,” Hermione began quietly. “He escaped from Ministry custody early this morning.”

Ginny blinked. “What—what do you mean, custody? Why was Ron in custody in the first place?”

Harry leaned forward. “You’re saying you arrested him?”

Hermione’s voice didn’t waver. “Yes. Yesterday. We’ve been investigating a series of crimes for the past several months—”

“The rapes?” Ginny interrupted.

Hermione nodded. “We have overwhelming evidence that Ron is the perpetrator. Magical and muggle-based forensics. He is the one behind all twenty-four cases.”

For a long, suspended moment, no one spoke.

Then Harry stood up slowly. “That’s not funny, Hermione.”

“I’m not joking,” she said.

Draco passed a slim folder to Harry. “You deserve to know before the Prophet publishes it this afternoon. It’s all in here — a witness saw him with the most recent victim. His DNA was matched to a sample taken from the previous vistim. We found love and lust potions and a banned spell in his cottage. It was all laid out when we apprehended him.”

Harry opened the folder. Each page he turned drained a little more color from his face.

“This isn’t possible,” Ginny said softly. “You’re wrong. You have to be wrong.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I wish we were.”

“We interviewed him yesterday,” Draco said flatly. “There was no remorse. He didn't really admit to anything. He was smug. Taunting. And then, last night… a rookie recruit let him go. Thought he was in on a drunk and disorderly. He walked out of his cell.”

Harry’s hands were trembling now. “This can’t be him.”

Draco met his eyes. “It is. I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

Ginny’s expression hardened, tears welling in her eyes.

“We believe ......” Draco added silently. “......We believe he has been testing on all the previous victims. Testing how to control people. We found evidence that the charm Aeternum Desiderium was about to be cast. It’s designed to bind someone permanently through the effects of combined love and lust potions. We believe that Hermione might be his real target.”

Hermione added, her voice brittle, “We believe he tested the full process on Wynna Cobble first.”

Ginny stood abruptly. “And he was going to do that to you?”

Draco nodded "That is what we believe".

Ginny turned away, trembling with fury. “What the hell happened to my brother?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione whispered. “But he’s not the person you knew........we knew.”

Harry sat back down, head in his hands. “How could we have missed this? I saw him not even two weeks ago. He was… normal. A bit off, sure, but nothing like—this.”

Draco didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.

Hermione finally exhaled and sat beside Harry. “We’ll be monitoring a tracking charm Draco placed on him. It’s blocked right now — either he’s hiding behind heavy wards, or he’s found something darker. But if he resurfaces, we’ll hopefully be able to locate him.”

“And if he comes here,” Ginny said coldly, “I’ll hex him through the bloody floorboards.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He was still staring at the folder, as if trying to make the evidence inside it disappear.

Chapter Text

The morning wind whistled through the trees as Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy approached The Burrow. The golden light from the kitchen windows glowed against the frost-touched ground, but it did nothing to warm the dread weighing down their steps.

Hermione knocked.

A moment later, the door creaked open.

Molly Weasley, in her apron, blinking in surprise. “Hermione, dear! And—oh—Mr. Malfoy?” Her voice held polite confusion. “This is unexpected.”

Behind her, Arthur Weasley appeared, brushing flour from his hands. “What brings you two out here so early?”

Draco stepped forward. “We’re sorry for dropping in like this. But we’re here on official business. From the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Molly blinked. “Official—?”

“May we come in?” Hermione asked gently.

Arthur stepped aside. “Of course.”

Once inside, Hermione turned to them. “Before we say anything, we need to do a quick magical sweep of the house. I know it sounds strange, but it’s necessary.”

Molly and Arthur exchanged a puzzled look.

“Alright,” Arthur said slowly. “If it’s truly necessary.”

“It is,” Draco said.

Draco and Hermione moved through the home quickly, casting discreet magical detection charms — subtle pulses of energy flickering like shadows over walls, floorboards, hearthstones. The house was clear. Ron was not here.

Back in the kitchen, Molly was waiting at the table, clearly puzzled but trying to remain warm. “Now, what’s all this about?”

Hermione sat slowly. “It’s about Ron.”

Arthur, who had been preparing tea, froze mid-pour. “What about him?”

Draco spoke carefully. “He escaped from Ministry custody early this morning.”

Molly frowned. “Custody? What in Merlin’s name for?”

Hermione took a slow breath. “Molly. Arthur. There’s no gentle way to say this, but please — we need you to listen. We’re telling you this privately because we care about your family. Later today, the Prophet will release an official notice. We thought you deserved the truth from us.”

Molly’s hands clenched around the towel in her lap. “Just say it, Hermione.”

Hermione’s voice cracked slightly. “Ron is the primary suspect in the string of attacks on young witches that the Auror department has been investigating for the past months. We arrested him yesterday.”

The room fell into silence.

Arthur sat down slowly, his face going pale. Molly just stared.

“No,” she whispered. “No, that’s not… that can’t be right. There must be some mistake.”

Hermione gently shook her head. “I wish there was. But the evidence is overwhelming.”

Molly looked to Draco, her voice barely a breath. “Tell me what you found.”

Draco nodded. “We’ll go step by step. First, a witness named Jimmy Fenwick identified Ron as being seen with the most recent victim, Wynna Cobble, at the Leaky Cauldron the night she disappeared. They were drinking together, alone.”

“Then,” Hermione continued, “we obtained DNA samples— it’s a muggle technique that identifies someone with near certainty through biological traces. A sperm sample collected from the last known victim matched a hair we collected from Ron. A 99.9% certainty.”

Molly was shaking her head slowly, muttering, “No, no, no…”

“There’s more,” Draco said softly. “When we tracked him yesterday, we found him in a remote cottage. There we found an open book detailing a forbidden charm meant to magically bind someone to the effects of love and lust potions. The same potions were being mixed on the table. ”

Hermione added, “The setup was deliberate. This wasn’t theoretical. He was ready to use it. And we believe… I’m sorry, Molly… that I was his intended target.”

Arthur let out a hollow breath. “Good god.”

Molly stared at them, stunned. Her lips trembled, her eyes unfocused.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Hermione whispered. “He’s your son. But you need to understand what we found. The pattern matches across cases. ”

“No!” Molly’s voice cracked as she slammed her hand against the table. “You must be wrong! This is Ronald. He wouldn’t — he couldn’t! Not my little boy!......Hermione! He could never hurt you!”

Hermione flinched, but didn’t look away.

Molly stood, backing away from the table, her voice breaking. “He’s funny. He’s loud, yes, stubborn, but not a monster! You’ve made a mistake—he must have been framed—there must be something else—”

Arthur slowly stood and approached her. “Molly.”

She turned to him, almost begging. “Tell them, Arthur. Tell them they’re wrong. Tell them Ron isn’t capable of this.”

Arthur reached for her hands. “I… I don’t want to believe it either. But… do you remember that night a few months ago? When he came home after first learning about Hermione and Draco? The way he spoke about her. It was—” He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t right. I thought he’d calm down, grow out of it. But now…”

Molly stared at him, stricken. Her knees gave way. Hermione rushed forward, catching her just before she hit the floor, guiding her gently to the rug.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered, tears in her eyes. “I never wanted this to be true.”

Molly didn’t speak. She just buried her face in her hands, shaking.

Arthur knelt beside her, wrapping his arms around his wife.

Draco stood quietly at the edge of the room, his expression composed, but the grief in his eyes unmistakable.

After a long silence, Arthur looked up. “What now?”

“We keep searching,” Draco said. “He’s hiding somewhere.”

Hermione nodded. “We wanted you to know first. The Prophet article will break later today. We’ll protect your family from the public eye as much as we can.”

Molly’s voice finally returned, soft and broken. “Find him before someone else gets hurt.”

Draco and Hermione bowed their heads.

“We will,” Hermione promised.

Chapter Text

It was still Saturday morning — the sky grey and hung low over London — as Ron Weasley moved like a ghost through the narrow side streets leading into Knockturn Alley.

He’d only arrived at the Order’s old safehouse a few hours ago. The house had let him in — recognized him. The wards had flared dimly when he passed through the threshold. He’d eaten a few stale crackers he found in a cupboard, then collapsed on the lumpy sofa and closed his eyes.

But sleep hadn’t lasted.

By nine, restless and hungry in more ways than one, he was on the move again.

No cloak of invisibility, no grand escape — just the hood of an old travel cloak pulled low over his face, and a careful path carved through the alleys and backstreets he knew too well.

First stop: a slant-roofed shop tucked between two larger buildings. There was no name on the door, just a dirty pane of glass and a bell that didn’t ring. Inside, boxes of mismatched secondhand wands leaned against cracked shelves. 

Ron stepped up to the counter. “I need a wand.”

The shopkeeper, a middle-aged wizard with burn scars down one arm, barely looked up. “Right or left-handed?”

“Right.”

The man rummaged through a crate and pulled out three options. “None of ‘em are proper fits. Just pick one that doesn’t fight you.”

Ron picked one — twelve inches, hawthorn, cracked near the base. It buzzed weakly in his hand. Sluggish, but obedient.

It would do.

He handed over most of the remaining galleons in his pocket.

From there, he made his way to a place deeper in — a narrow corridor behind a crumbling warehouse, leading to a potion shop with no signage at all. A rusted door. A counter with stained glass vials. 

A hooded woman sat behind the counter. She didn’t ask questions.

“I need three things,” Ron said, voice hushed. “Love potion. Lust draught. And a dose of Polyjuice.”

The woman snorted. “Morning errands, eh?”

He didn’t reply.

After a moment, she placed three vials on the counter — one pale pink, one shimmering gold, and a third cloudy and greenish-grey. “Polyjuice is watered down. One dose. You’ve got a hair?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

He counted out the last few coins. It was just enough. 

As he gathered the vials, she gave him a slow, greasy smile — the kind that made his skin crawl. “Hope your girl appreciates the trouble, love.”

Ron said nothing.

He pulled the hood tighter around his face and slipped back into the alley.

The sun hadn’t even broken through the cloud cover yet. London was still yawning into life.

By the time Draco and Hermione were sitting down with Arthur and Molly, Ron was already back at the safehouse — with a wand, potions, and a plan.

And this time, he wouldn’t fail.

Chapter Text

The clouds hang heavy as Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy stand outside the Burrow.

The visit had left Hermione’s heart aching. Seeing Molly weep like that — watching the Weasley matriarch crumble under the weight of truth — had rattled her more than she cared to admit. But there was no time for reflection now. They had work to do.

“I’ll head to St. Mungo’s,” Hermione said, hugging her coat tighter around herself. “Wynna’s being transferred there at noon. I want to be there when she arrives.”

Draco nodded. “And I’ll go back to the office. We’ve got to get ahead of him. If Weasley comes out of hiding again, we have to know.”

They didn’t need to say more and apparated away.

Hermione at St. Mungo’s

Hermione arrived at St. Mungo’s shortly before noon, just in time to watch the transfer mediwizards gently levitate Wynna through the main doors on a cushioned stretcher. Her eyes were open, glassy and unfocused, but she looked physically stable — a small relief in the chaos of everything else.

Hermione greeted the attending healer with calm determination.

“I’d like to sit with her when you’ve settled her in,” she said. “I also have some questions about her condition... and what might be possible.”

Within the hour, Wynna was tucked into a private room on the fourth floor, her chart already being reviewed by two senior healers and a nurse. Hermione sat outside, waiting, until one of them emerged to speak with her.

“I want to know if we can reverse the changes that were forced on her body,” she asked gently but firmly. “The transformations... are not natural.”

The healer nodded solemnly. “It’s difficult work. We’ll need time, but yes — they can be undone. She can be restored.”

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat.

“And her memories?” she asked.

The healer’s expression grew more cautious. “That’s less certain. What’s been done to her mind is... extensive. We’ll run diagnostic spells, possibly work with Mind Healers, but from a first scan - there’s substantial magical trauma.”

“So...?”

“We won’t give up on her. But we have to be realistic. Recovery may not be possible.”

Hermione nodded, trying not to let the weight of it crush her.

“And... the charm?” she asked at last. “The one that’s binding her emotionally? Have you seen anything like it before?”

The healer paused, then shook her head. “It’s ancient. We found it referenced once — in restricted archives. But we’ve never treated someone it’s been cast on. It may take time to understand how deeply the magic has settled... and whether it can be reversed.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself.

“Please do everything you can. She’s already lost so much.”

Draco at the Auror Office

Back at the Ministry, Draco Malfoy was already halfway through barking orders before he’d even taken off his coat.

“I want every potion shop in Knockturn, Diagon, Carkitt Market, and even Sidwell Square on our radar,” he snapped to the room full of Aurors. “We start with the ones most likely to deal in grey-market brews. If it smells off, we dig.”

Two teams were dispatched immediately — one to observe, the other to question. Shopkeepers might not talk freely, but under quiet pressure, they sometimes slipped.

He turned to his desk, where a file was already building — locations across Britain known to be heavily warded: old vaults, ancestral manors, political retreats. Draco was working through the list himself.

He’d already ruled out nearly half the list of heavily warded places.

“Cross off anything with a Malfoy or Black crest,” he said curtly to the Auror at his side. “If Weasley had tried stepping foot on one of my properties, the wards would’ve rejected him outright. And I would’ve been notified immediately.”

It was true. As current head of both the Malfoy and Black family lines, Draco had inherited control over their labyrinthine legacy of magical protections. Every manor, every retreat, every remote outpost had wards so old and so complex, even Ministry curse-breakers would hesitate to tamper with them. And none of them would have let Ronald Weasley pass through unnoticed.

That narrowed things down considerably.

Draco leaned over the list again, brow furrowed.

“He must’ve found somewhere else,” he murmured. “Something old… abandoned, but still protected. Maybe even something from the war. A leftover safehouse. Something the Order used?”

It was possible. And if that was the case, the tracking charm wouldn’t reach him — not unless he stepped outside the protective envelope, even briefly.

Draco slammed the drawer shut on his desk and looked up at the two Aurors waiting at attention.

“We expand the list. Focus on disused locations. Anything tied to the Order of the Phoenix, the first or second war. I want eyes on these locations. He’ll have to show his face eventually.”

His voice dropped lower, colder.

“And when he resurfaces… I want him surrounded before he knows what hit him.”

Chapter Text

That afternoon, the winter light slanted low through the windows of the Auror Office as Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy waited in their private briefing room. A tea tray sat untouched between them. Neither had taken a sip.

They didn’t have long to wait.

There was a knock at the door, and then Lynn Thorne stepped into the room — her face pale, anxious, but hopeful.

She looked at Hermione first. “You said you found her? You really found Wynna?”

Hermione gave a small, warm smile. “Yes. She’s alive.”

Lynn let out a sound — half gasp, half sob — and collapsed into the nearest chair, her eyes already misting over.

“She’s in St. Mungo’s,” Hermione continued gently. “She was found by Muggles early yesterday morning and transferred to the hospital today. She’s safe now, Lynn.”

“She’s alive,” Lynn repeated in disbelief, pressing a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t think— I was starting to think we’d never—”

Draco’s voice cut through gently but firmly. “Before you go to see her, there’s a few things you need to know.”

Lynn looked between them, her expression tightening with worry. “What… what do you mean?”

Hermione hesitated for a heartbeat, then sat forward. “Wynna’s in rough shape. She suffered… significant trauma while she was missing. There are visible changes to her body — magical changes.”

Lynn’s eyes widened.

“She doesn’t look like herself right now,” Hermione added carefully. “And mentally… she’s experiencing what the Healers are calling partial magical amnesia. She doesn’t remember anything past her early childhood. Not Hogwarts. Not friends. Not you.”

There was a long pause. Lynn looked stunned — gutted, really.

“She doesn’t remember me?” she whispered.

Draco spoke next. “It’s likely the result of repeated magical tampering. A memory-erasure of this scale isn’t something you recover from easily, if ever.”

Lynn was silent for a long moment, absorbing the weight of the truth.

Then she looked up — determined, though her voice trembled.

“Then she needs someone by her side more than ever. If she doesn’t remember me, then I’ll just have to remind her who I am.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She reached out and squeezed Lynn’s hand.

“She’ll be lucky to have you there.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Lynn said softly. “That she’s alive. That I still get the chance to sit beside her.”

Draco gave a short nod. “We’ll arrange for a visitor’s pass and notify the staff at St. Mungo’s that you’re coming. Just… be prepared. She’s confused. Scared. And she’s still healing.”

Lynn stood slowly, her fingers twisting in the hem of her coat. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll sit with her every day, if that’s what she needs. I just want her to know she’s not alone.”

Chapter Text

The first light of Monday morning spilled across the grounds of Malfoy Manor, casting long shadows through the tall windows of the front hall. Draco stood by the door, already dressed in his Auror robes, reviewing the list of properties they'd planned to search that day. He heard Hermione’s steps approaching and looked up as she entered, shrugging on her cloak, her face already focused—tight with the weight of the day ahead.

Without a word, Draco stepped toward her, the parchment slipping from his hand onto a nearby table. His expression softened for just a moment as he reached out, wrapping his arms around Hermione and pulling her close.

She let herself melt into his embrace, her hands curling into the fabric at his back. For a heartbeat, they stayed like that, letting the silence speak. And then Draco leaned down and kissed her—slow and deep, searing and grounding. It was a kiss that said everything he hadn’t spoken: that he saw her pain, felt her guilt, and carried the weight of it with her.

His hand slid up to cup the back of her head, holding her tightly as though he could keep the world at bay for just a little longer. She clung to him, drawing strength from his warmth, from his steadiness.

When they finally broke apart, Draco rested his forehead against hers. His voice was low and filled with steel.

“We’re going to find him, Hermione. I swear it.”

She nodded, her voice tight. “I know.”

With a final squeeze of her hand, they stepped out into the crisp morning air—two Aurors, ready to take on whatever came next.

They had decided to start the morning together, methodically inspecting several more properties from the narrowed-down list of potential hiding places. With over two hundred still to go, it was a tedious process—but each sweep brought them closer to the truth.

By mid-morning, they had cleared three more properties with no signs of magical activity or human presence. No trace of Weasley.

Hermione glanced at her watch as they disapparated from the last site. “I need to get to St. Mungo’s soon. Lynn’s meeting me there.”

Draco nodded. “You go. I’ll handle the rest of the fieldwork this afternoon.”

While Hermione would accompany Lynn to visit Wynna—now stable enough for company and cleared by the Healers—Draco had other plans. He intended to personally visit a handful of Knockturn Alley’s more obscure and disreputable potion shops. They were the sort of places that didn’t ask questions, and certainly didn’t care what their customers did with the supplies they bought.

The surveillance teams hadn’t spotted anything suspicious over the weekend. But Draco wasn’t willing to leave things to chance.

“Weasley could have slipped in for supplies while we weren’t actively checking the tracking charm,” he muttered. 

So he’d go in person. Question the shopkeepers. Make it clear that anyone aiding a known fugitive would face consequences. 

Chapter Text

Hermione walked beside Lynn Thorne, both women carrying the weight of what was to come. Lynn had brought a small satchel clutched close to her chest, filled with photos and mementos—fragments of the life Wynna no longer remembered. Hermione had warned her carefully. Wynna looked different. The effects of Ron’s transfigurations had yet to be reversed. Her body still bore the unnatural marks of manipulation, and her mind was fogged.

“The healers are starting reversal treatments tomorrow,” Hermione said softly, glancing at Lynn. “They had to wait for her to recover from the severe cold first.”

Lynn nodded tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

When they entered the room, Wynna looked up from the bed, her pale face framed by mussed hair. She still looked lost.

Lynn froze. For a heartbeat, Hermione thought she might bolt from the room altogether.

But then Lynn exhaled, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward.

“Hi,” she said gently. “I’m Lynn. I—I'm your friend. We went to Hogwarts together.”

Wynna blinked. “I… I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Lynn replied quickly, reaching into her bag and pulling out the first photo—a picture of two laughing girls in Hogwarts uniforms, mid-snowball fight. “Maybe this will help.”

Hermione stayed in the corner, letting them talk. Lynn’s voice was steady, full of love. Wynna listened, curious and cautious, drawn to the warmth Lynn radiated. Though her memories remained hidden, she smiled once—small, tentative.

It was a beginning. And Hermione held on to that hope like a lifeline.

Draco had already interrogated ten potion shopkeepers across the darker corners of London. Knockturn Alley. Spinner’s End. A few hovels not even on official maps. Most had given him nothing but grunts, sneers, or the occasional lie poorly spun.

But the eleventh shop was different. The crone who ran it narrowed her eyes the moment he stepped in.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” she croaked.

“Then don’t give me any,” Draco snapped.

He leaned in across the counter, his voice cool and sharp. “You’re aware Ronald Weasley is wanted for multiple crimes. Aiding him would mean prison—or worse.”

The old witch sniffed but looked nervous now.

“Saturday morning,” she finally muttered. “Some young man came in. Hooded. Cloak hiding most of him.”

“What did he buy?” Draco asked.

She cackled. “Love potions. Lust potions. One dose of Polyjuice. I thought had a hot date plannend! ”

Draco’s jaw tightened. It was him. It had to be.

He stepped out of the shop, jaw clenched. So Ron had managed to creep out of hiding early Saturday morning—right under their noses, while neither he nor Hermione had been checking the tracking charm.

The bastard was stocked now. Armed with potions. A wand, most likely.

But at least they had something. A lead. Draco pulled out his notebook and scribbled the shop’s details. He would have Aurors watching it in shifts from now on. Just in case Weasley came back here.

They were closing in. Slowly—but they were getting there.

Chapter Text

The days following Ron Weasley’s escape dragged by.

Every morning that week, Draco and Hermione left the manor before the sun rose, coordinating with their hand-selected Auror team to search through the long list of potential hiding places. Properties layered with ancient wards, crumbling cottages, buildings that hadn’t seen life since the end of the war. Still, nothing.

Ron was nowhere to be found.

They were quite sure of a few things by now: he had restocked. The shopkeeper Draco had pressured into talking had given them enough to know that Ron had managed to buy love and lust potions and a dose of Polyjuice. They suspected he had likely acquired a wand as well. The moment he had slipped out on Saturday morning while they were distracted with the Weasleys and the Potters, Ron had moved to secure everything he needed.

On Thursday evening, the manor was quiet. Another long day had left them both tired and sore, but neither could sleep. Not with Ron still out there. Not with the clock ticking.

Hermione was in her dressing gown, sitting curled on the edge of the sofa in their study, reviewing a file of case notes for the third time. She didn’t look up when Draco entered, but she sensed the shift in the air when he closed the door behind him.

He walked up to her slowly, then crouched before her.

"I have a plan," he said.

Hermione raised her eyes to his. Tired, yes—but sharp as ever.

Draco explained quietly, carefully. Every detail.  What he would need.

Hermione listened. And when he was done, she was silent for a moment. Then she stood, pacing slowly.

"Draco, this is risky. There are too many variables, and you’d be—”she finally muttered, voice thick with hesitation.

“I know,” he cut in gently. “But if it works… it’s the best shot we have at catching him.”

Her arms folded tightly across her chest. She hated it. Hated the idea of any plan that involved bait, risk, or deception. Especially with everything Ron had already done.

But she also knew Draco. Knew how calculated he was. Knew that this wasn’t recklessness. It was strategy. And for all her instincts screaming at her to say no, to shut it down—Hermione Granger had never been one to turn away from the best option, simply because it made her uncomfortable.

She exhaled slowly. Then nodded.

“Fine,” she said. “But no improvising. No last-minute changes. And no lone-wolf heroics.”

A small smile curved Draco’s mouth. “Agreed.”

She shook her head. “You’ll need Polyjuice. And one of my hairs,”

He nodded.

Hermione reached up, tugged one dark strand of her hair loose, and held it out to him between two fingers. “I’m not happy about this,” she murmured, “but I want him caught.”

Draco took the hair gently from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. “So do I.”

They stood there for a long moment, eyes locked. And when he stepped forward and kissed her—slow, deliberate, deep.

Chapter Text

Friday.

Finally.

Ron had been counting down the hours all week—through cold nights and restless pacing, through the boredom of isolation, the thought of soon being reunited with HIS Hermione kept him warm.

The safehouse creaked around him, half-forgotten by time and left to dust and shadows. It was freezing, and the bare floorboards did little to keep the cold from seeping into his bones. But Ron hardly noticed anymore. Not when he was so close.

And now finally everything was ready, he was ready!

The Friday before Christmas. Perfect.

He knew Hermione would be at the Leaky tonight. It was tradition—Gryffindor Pub Night, the last one before everyone disappeared for the holidays. She wouldn’t miss it. 

She would be there, laughing, catching up with old friends, maybe sipping mulled wine or whatever poncey drink she liked these days. 

And when she left—probably just before midnight, responsible as ever—he’d be waiting.

His plan was foolproof. All he needed was the Polyjuice. The small dose would transform him into someone vulnerable. A frail old woman, who had fallen on the cobblestone streets. Hermione couldn’t walk past someone like that.

She would stop. She would offer help.

And that was all he needed. One moment. One opening.

Her approaching him!

Then he’d take her. Just like he should’ve all along. She was meant to be with him. Not that arrogant, smug bastard Malfoy. Him.

Ron would be so good to her. Cherish her like Malfoy never could. Protect her from the world, keep her only to himself. He would be her first priority. Consume her fully. Fuck her, breed her, own her!

Smiling fondly at the tought, Ron ran his fingers over the vials in his coat pocket. Love and Lust potion, already mixed with one of his hairs to bind and enhance the potions effects. The Polyjuice to disguise himself. Everything was prepared. He wouldn't make any mistakes tonight.

It was almost poetic, really. A Christmas miracle.

He imagined her eyes, wide and stunned as he revealed himself. The trembling realization on her face when she understood that he had come for her. That he had planned all of this. All for her.

And eventually—she would thank him.

She would understand.

He chuckled to himself, pulling the threadbare cloak tighter around his shoulders as he prepared to leave the safehouse. The streets were already buzzing with holiday traffic, carolers echoing faintly in the distance. No one would notice one more figure slinking through London’s shadows.

Ron licked his lips, excitement buzzing in his fingertips.

Tonight, everything would finally fall into place.

And Hermione Granger would finally be his.

Chapter Text

Polyjuice had always tasted foul to him—bitter, sludgy, unpalatable.

But not tonight.

When Draco downed the warm, viscous draught to become Hermione Granger, it wasn’t disgusting. Not even close. It was… exquisite.

The potion tasted of everything she was to him—bright and sharp, warm and grounding. It carried the scent of old parchment, the bite of clever wit, and a hint of something like cinnamon and clove—familiar, comforting, intoxicating. Her.

It startled him, how much he liked it.

He let it settle in his body, let the magic twist his bones, shift his muscles, reshape his frame. And when it was done, Hermione stared back at him in the mirror—her curls, her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows.

At 7:30 on the dot, Draco had entered the Leaky Cauldron under her guise.

And now he had been her for the last several hours, surrounded by the loud, drunken ghosts of his school days.

Gryffindors.

He sipped on butterbeer, keeping his expression soft and engaged, nodding at all the right times, asking carefully worded questions when required. Merlin, even laughing at their jokes.

But inside, he was gritting his teeth.

Draco liked some of these people—in small doses. But sitting in the middle of them, being one of them… that was a special kind of torture. It was like being back in the Great Hall at Hogwarts after losing a Quidditch match, only worse, because now he couldn’t insult anyone to make himself feel better.

Seamus Finnigan guzzled down half his pint before stuffing a mouthful of fish and chips in after it. Draco watched, revolted. How did Hermione tolerate this week after week?

He reminded himself of the goal.

He reminded himself of Ron Weasley.

By midnight, the crowd was thinning. One by one, old schoolmates said their goodbyes, hugged “Hermione,” and made their way home. Finally, Draco stood, offered a smile, and slipped outside.

This was the moment they had been waiting for.

Outside, hidden under Disillusionment Charms, the real Hermione and a handful of Aurors were watching, waiting. They all knew the plan. The prediction. Ron would strike once he thought she was alone.

Draco walked purposefully down the alley beside the pub, his wand concealed in Hermione’s coat pocket. He could feel the cold settling into his bones, breath fogging the air. 

And then—he saw her.

A hunched figure just ahead stumbled and fell with a thud to the cobblestones. A cane clattered across the stones. The old woman groaned.

“Oh dearie, help me… I think I’ve twisted something…”

Draco halted mid-step.

The voice was perfect. The appearance convincing.

But something was wrong.

The movement—too rehearsed. Too careful. The way the woman’s hand trembled, too intentional. The voice, while pitched high and brittle, had a stiffness to it, an edge. The syllables clipped. Masculine.

Not in sound—but in cadence.

Draco’s instincts prickled like frost beneath his skin.

It’s him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

He just stepped forward, slow and steady, every inch the compassionate,  bleeding-heart woman Ron wanted him to be, expected Hermione to be.

The trap was set. The bait was walking right into the jaws.

Draco’s hand slipped casually into the coat pocket, fingers brushing the wand. Eyes calm. Smile gentle.

Let’s end this.

Chapter Text

The cold cobblestones bit into his knees as he let out a dramatic groan, collapsing with theatrical flair. The old woman’s voice rasped from his throat like gravel wrapped in lace, “Oh dearie, help me... I think I’ve twisted something...”

It was perfect. He was perfect.

Ron Weasley, master of control. He had waited a whole week, hidden, preparing. Tonight was the night.

Footsteps echoed closer. He didn’t dare look up too quickly, didn’t break the illusion. But he could feel her presence approaching. He could smell her.

She knelt beside him.

Ron’s wrinkled old hand darted forward, seizing her wrist.

Got her.

His heart surged.

But just then—something was wrong.

His skin tingled. His bones ached. No... no no no—

A ripple of pain surged through him as his body shifted, shrank, and reformed. His disguise collapsed around him like wet parchment.

The Polyjuice. Too thin. Too diluted. Stupid mistake.

But it didn’t matter. He had her wrist. She was here. It was done.

“Gotcha now,” he breathed, grinning. “Finally... mine.”

Then movement. Everywhere. Shadows morphing into people. Five—no, six—Aurors closing in, wands raised.

What?!

Ron shoved Hermione behind him, pressing her hard into the wall with his back, his wand hand fumbling in his coat. “STAY BACK!” he barked, throwing the first blasting hex.

He had to hold them off—just long enough to Disapparate with her. Just long enough to be done with this whole game.

And then—

A voice from the alley entrance. Calm. Familiar.

“Ronald!”

He turned, heart skipping a beat.

Hermione Granger stood there, wand drawn, eyes fierce.

“What the—?” Ron gasped. He turned to glance behind him—

—but something behind him shifted.

The figure pinned between him and the wall was no longer Hermione.

A wand pressed against his neck.

A voice, smug and drawling as ever, murmured behind his ear:

“Drop the wand, Weasley.”

His stomach twisted.

He spun, confusion turning to horror.

Draco Malfoy stood there in Hermione’s ruined clothes, seams bursting against his broad frame, hair disheveled, sleeves a laughable mess. And that infuriating smirk.

Hermione stepped forward, voice cutting clean and final:

“It’s over, Ron.”

He turned to her. “No, no... this isn’t—this isn’t how it was supposed to go!”

He looked between them wildly.

“You were supposed to be mine! You were meant for me!”

Hermione didn’t flinch.

“I was never yours.”

For a heartbeat, everything froze—Ron staring at Hermione, face twisted with desperation and rage.

And then—

He snapped.

With a furious grunt, Ron twisted violently, throwing his shoulder into Draco and shoving him backward. The surprise made Draco stumble a step—but only a step.

“NO!” Ron bellowed, surging forward. His eyes locked on Hermione like she was the only thing left in the world.

His wand still clutched in his hand, he reached out—fingers grasping, yearning, manic.

If he could just touch her—if he could just grab her—he could apparate them away to safety.

Take her. Hide her. Make her see reason.

She was meant for him.

Hermione stumbled back, wand raised, but caught off guard by the sheer speed of his advance.

His fingertips brushed her sleeve—almost—

And then—

A hand. Iron-strong, fast as a viper, clamped around Ron’s neck.

Draco.

“You’re done,” he snarled.

In one brutal motion, Draco hauled Ron back, spun him around—and slammed his fist straight into Ron’s face.

The sound was sickeningly satisfying: bone on bone.

Blood sprayed from Ron's nose.

He dropped to his knees, dazed, blinking furiously, still trying to raise his wand.

But Draco didn’t give him the chance.

With wand already in hand, he barked, “Expelliarmus!”

Ron’s wand flew from his grasp, clattering down the cobblestones.

Seconds later, three Aurors surged forward, tackling Ron to the ground, pinning him.

He was still struggling, still muttering incoherent nonsense through a bloodied mouth.

“Let me—just let me explain! I—she—she’s mine!”

Chapter Text

They had him.

Caught red-handed, wand in hand, in the middle of a failed abduction—this time, there would be no escape.

Ron Weasley was back in custody, only this time, the Ministry was taking no chances. He was bound by multiple restraining spells as he sat slumped in the interrogation chair. His nose was crooked from Draco’s punch, his lip still swollen, and his wrists glowed faintly where magical restraints dug into his skin.

And unlike the week prior, Draco didn’t trust anyone to guard him but himself. He had made it clear: if necessary, he would personally monitor Weasley all weekend. And no one questioned him.

The moment felt surreal. Just a week ago, they had been in the same situation—Ron waiting for them in the same interrogation room—but everything was different now.

Wynna Cobble had been found.

And Ron had been caught in the act, trying to abduct Hermione.

This time, the goal of the interrogation wasn’t simply gathering proof.

It was understanding him. Figuring out the twisted thinking behind his actions. The why.

Because monsters didn’t just appear overnight—they were made.

Hermione stood outside the door, steeling herself. She had insisted she go in alone. Not because she wanted to—but because Ron might actually talk to her. Open up. Reveal details.

But she would not be alone, not truly.

Draco was already in the room. Disillusioned, silent, invisible—but very much there. His presence would be her anchor. A quiet source of strength.

But Draco wasn’t just there for her. He had a purpose.

He would be using Legilimency. Quietly, methodically, he would comb through Ron’s mind while the man spoke—watching for truths, unspoken motives, everything Ron wasn't telling them.

Hermione inhaled deeply and pushed open the door.

The room was cold and quiet. Ron sat hunched over, still wearing remnants of the tattered cloak from his escape. He looked up as she entered, his eyes wide, wet, hopeful.

"'Moine," he breathed, voice low and raspy. “You came.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just walked to the chair opposite him and sat down, calm, controlled.

No greetings. No warmth.

Just her gaze—level and unreadable.

Ron fidgeted slightly against the restraints. His expression shifted—hope melting into unease under her silent stare.

Hermione blinked slowly. “You tried to kidnap me tonight.”

Ron's smile faltered, but only a little. “I wasn’t going to hurt you. You don’t understand—none of this—none of this was supposed to happen like this. I did all of this for us.......for you! To save you! You need to listen, I can explain everything.”

She leaned forward just slightly. “So talk to me, Ron. I’m listening now.”

Behind her, Draco said nothing.

But his wand was already raised.

And his mind was reaching out, pushing through Ron’s nonexistent defenses —searching, sifting, reading.

Chapter Text

White walls. Cold floor. 

And her. Sitting across from him like she didn’t even know him. Like he was some stranger.

But he wasn’t a stranger.

He was Ronald Weasley — her Ron. Her oldest friend. Her former lover. The one who loved her, even when she didn’t see it.

And she looked at him now like he was filth.

Her voice was calm. Detached. Trained Auror tone. She was playing her role well. Malfoy must’ve drilled it into her.

She asked him again: “Why, Ron? Why did you do all of this?”

He smiled, trying to soften her “Hermione... I did it for you, you have to see that!”

Her face didn’t change. No flicker of understanding. No flash of gratitude. Just that cool, clinical stare.

The first memory slammed into Draco like a crashing wave.

Ron — not as himself, but wearing the face of a stranger. Handsome, young, charming smile. Polyjuice. The bar was loud, the music thudding, and she was sitting alone. A young woman, barely more than a girl. Eyes cast down, stirring a drink with the straw, clearly waiting for someone — or perhaps hoping someone might come speak to her.

Ron slid into the seat beside her, voice soft, concerned, friendly.

Draco watched in sick horror as the conversation unfolded. Jokes. Compliments. False kindness. And then, her smile. Small. Trusting. She got up to leave — and Ron followed. Not immediately. Just enough distance to go unnoticed. To strike when she was alone.

“Ok, maybe you don’t see it yet, but you will,” Ron said, leaning forward as far as the restraints would allow. “You’re not thinking clearly. I know HE’s twisted things in your head. Made you think you're happy, made you think you're in love with HIM. But I know you, Hermione. I know the real you. Let me help you...let me set you free from him.”

She stayed silent, just raised one brow......as if she thought he was crazy!

His temper flared, but he held himself back. He had to stay composed. She’d always hated it when he got angry. “Come on 'Moine,” he said softly, almost as if talking to a child. “Look at me! You know me! Better than anyone! Please believe me when I say I only acted in your best interest!”

There it was — her mouth tightened. The smallest twitch. 

The memory shifted.

The bedroom in the cottage. Isolated. Cold.

The girl from the bar now sat frozen on the edge of a bed, blank-eyed.

Ron stood before her, wand in hand. “Imperio.”

Her body responded like a marionette. Draco’s gut turned as the command to suck Ron's cock was given — and obeyed.

The imperio didn’t last. She faltered. Resisted. Her eyes widened. Fear.

That’s when Ron panicked. He Obliviated her in a rush. Her memories of the night — erased in seconds.

"Ronald! You kidnapped 24 innocent young women! You violated their bodies, raped them, took away their memories. You left all those women heavily traumatised. And now you have the audacity to sit here, smile into my face and tell me that all of this was for ME?"

“Don't you see......it wasn’t about them. It was never about them. I was trying to get it right. For you, for us. So that, when the time came... when I could finally free you from his clutches... I’d know how to make it work......for us. You’d see what we could be. What we are meant to be.”

Her voice was cold now. “So everything you did — to them — was just practice? For me?”

The scene fractured. The same pattern repeated.

Different girl, always innocent, always alone. Different location. Same act.

More Polyjuice.

More manipulation. Ron experimenting with the imperius curse, layering it with other charms to charm to control the feelings and minds of his victims.

Ron raping his victims in countless depraved ways, using their bodies, groping them, hitting them, choking them.

At some point the charms always falter. There is always defiance in the victim's eyes.

Ron is never able to inspire the lust and arousal in his victims he is aiming for.

He grows more and more restless, frustrated.

He let's out his frustration on his victims.

There is more Obliviation. Messy and careless.

Every memory more unhinged than the last.

He hesitated.

“Well... I mean, not practice, exactly. I mean...yeah, well kinda —!”

She stood slowly. Her chair scraped back.

And then — Wynna.

Ron watched her from across Diagon Alley.

She was clumsy, alone, an easy target.

Ron approached her with the ease of a practiced predator. He bought her a drink. Made her laugh.

And then, he left.

Only to reappear later, in the dark alley outside the Leaky Cauldron.

Then — he struck.

Administered the Potion.

Changed Wynna's body.

Bigger lips.

Bigger breasts.

Long blonde hair.

Ron using her body, enjoying Wynna's eager participation.

The memory warped, Ron leaving Wynna alone in the cottage.

Ron plucking at hair from Hermione's dress when hugging her goodbye.

Ron's frustration as he returns home and finds that the effects of the potion had worn off.

The decision to try again with the potion the next day.

But the intense need to fuck NOW:

Dropping Hermione's hair into a vial of polyjuice.

Forcing the polyjuice on Wynna.

Wynna turning into Hermione.

Every feature. Every curve. Even her voice.

Draco stood frozen, revolted beyond measure as he saw Ron violenty pressing Wynna in Hermione's body down on the table.

Forcing his cock inside her.

Forcefully taking her.

Her bleeding.

Ron's satisfaction at the unexpected tightness of "Hermione's" cunt.

Panic sparked in Ron's chest as Hermione turned to leave the room.

He couldn’t let her go. She wasn’t listening. He needed to make her listen. She didn’t understand. He had to make her see!

She had to understand, that Malfoy was influencing her! She had to understand how badly Malfoy was treating her, how he was using her, keeping her!

Ron had to make her see reason.

Snap out of it! He had break the curse Malfoy had put on Hermione, that kept her under his influcence.

Hermione needed to understand that Ron could treat her so much better.

He knew that Hermione was not in her right mind.

She would never lower herself to fucking a Death Eater.

The next day, Ron administers the potion again.

This time he also casts the charm on Wynna, turning the effects of the potion mixture permanent.

Ron is satisfied with the results.

Wynna is so needy for him.

Always so wet.

Always so ready for him.

Such an eager little whore.

Draco snaps out of the memory.

Still nothing on Weasley's motivation for his horrible actions.

He needed to dive deeper. Go farther back.

“I saw it, Hermione!” he barked, eyes wild. “ I saw it all — I know you’re not in your right mind.”

She froze.

“And what exactly did you see, Ronald?”

Chapter Text

Draco went deeper.

Much deeper into Ronald Weasley's twisted mind.

The memory hit with startling clarity.

Hermione — barely twenty — sitting in a sunny window at the Burrow, a cup of tea in her hands, tears running down her cheeks.

Ron had just broken up with her and walked away.

The next memories blurred in quick succession — Ron travelling, celebrated as a war hero. Signing autographs. Pretty girls throwing themselves at him.

He let them.

Models. Groupies. Club girls. Stunning witches. Curvaceous Muggles who liked him for the money he threw around so freely. Artificial faces, enhanced bodies, vacant smiles. Always the same type — big-breasted, plump-lipped, giggling and obedient.

He bought drinks. Rented penthouses. Burned through Galleons as if they'd never run out.

But they did.

Then cheap apartments. A thinning wallet. 

And then he remembered.

It started as a passing thought. Hermione. Steady. Reliable. Predictable.

He imagined turning up at her door. Her stunned smile. The inevitable tears of joy. The way she’d throw herself into his arms.

Of course she would. He was Ronald Weasley, after all.

She would still waiting.

She would happily open her arms and her legs for him again.

He could mold her into his ideal woman. She already had the intellect, the drive, the job, the money to provide him with a steady, comfortable life.

Once their relationship became steady, she would to work on her body. A few enhancements here and there.

Firm, big tits, a tight ass, juicy lips.

Maybe she could go blonde.

Yeah.......that sounded amazing.

The next memory came.

Hermione, sitting before him in the cafe, calm but resolute. “His name is Draco Malfoy. And I love him very much.”

Malfoy?

Disbelief. Humiliation. Then the festering seed of rage.

No. That couldn’t be real. 

Malfoy must’ve tricked her. Bought her. Cursed her. 

A plan forming to win Hermione back.

To make her HIS again.

The memory fractured again — and Draco saw it.

The moment.

The breaking point.

A bedroom. Familiar — THEIR bedroom. After the engagement party.

Hermione kneeling naked and exposed before their bed.

Ron was there, disillusioned behind the door. Breathing shallowly. Watching her.

Believing her erotic display of obedience was for his benefit.

Draco saw himself enter the room through Ron's eyes— saw how Hermione crawled to him, naked. How she helped him out of his shirt. How she got on her knees for him and satisfied him with her mouth.

Draco felt how in that moment Ron’s world shattered and something in him clicked.

Rage and entitlement twisted together in his gut.

That was the moment he decided she wasn’t with Malfoy of her own free will.

That she was being controlled.

That she would never willingly debase herself like that.

Ron needed to save her from her fate as a Death Eaters whore.

He needed to make her his.

She was meant to be his, meant for him.

He would treat her so much better than Malfoy.

He felt entitled to Hermione.

And he decided the easiest way to rip Hermione from Malfoy's clutches was to bind her, completely to himself.

In this way he would be able to kill to birds with one stone.

First he could get one over on the ferret, by taking his plaything away.

And secondly he could reap the benefits of Hermione being a well-trained seasoned whore, while still treating her with much more dignity than Malfoy ever could.

Though he had his reservations about how pleasurable sex with Hermione could even be, after Malfoy had worn out her cunt with his humongous cock.

Chapter Text

“I saw everything,” he blurted. “That night after Harry and Ginny’s engagement party. ”

Her heart thudded. “What did you see?”

He continued, frantic, wild-eyed. “I saw you in your bedroom.........First I thought that maybe, you were all this for me. That you knew I was there, that is was some kind of apology for pursuing that ridiculous charade of a relationship with Malfoy. First stripping out of that dress, then kneeling infront of the bed. Exposing your cunt so provocatively. Showing me exactly how wet you were for me...... ”

Hermione’s face remained still, but her throat tightened.

Ron was now completely engrossed in his monologue now. Blurting out everything he had observed that night. Confidend, that he was finally getting thorugh to Hermione, that he was finally making her see. 

"When Malfoy entered I was so disappointed. You were doing this for him. Merlin 'Moine! He had you kneeling naked on the floor for 15 minutes. And then he made you crawl....CRAWL....like an actual animal! And then you even had to help him undress like a bloody servant?" Ron scoffed. " But I knew for sure something was really wrong, when Malfoy whipped out that humongous cock of his and shoved it down your throat. And you gagged that thing down, choking yourself on it. Making all those wet, gurgling, moaning sounds, like it was the best experience. I mean, come on! Malfoy's cock is inhumanely huge and on top of that these obscene piercings! There is absolutely no way you could actually like sucking that thing. That has to hurt!" 

Hermione’s skin crawled. Still, she said nothing. She needed to hear this. All of it. Not only for her case, to understand the reasoning, the motivation behind Ron's horrific actions. But also for her personal closure. They had know about the intruder in their home for months now, and they had already heavily suspected Ron. But this......hearing it from his mouth was necessary for her to be able to close this chapter of her life. 

“That's when I knew it, that's when it finally clicked.” His voice was rising now, unhinged. " You weren't in your right mind, throwing yourself at him. Letting him—touch you like that. Letting him degrade you. Debasing yourself to a Death Eaters whore. ”

“That’s not you, Hermione!” he shouted, straining against the cuffs. “You’re not like that. You’re smart. You’re good. You used to be mine. You are meant to be mine. And then suddenly you’re shacked up with him? With Malfoy. It didn’t make sense. Unless—unless—he did something to you.”

He leaned forward, eyes alight with his own twisted certainty.

“I had suspected it before but I knew it then for certain. You weren’t in your right mind. I could see it. It wasn’t you making those choices.......it was HIM. He has been using you from the beginning, as his little plaything, his sex doll. Stretching out your cunt with is unnatural horsecock, wearing it out, spoiling it, while you were always meant for me!”

Hermione’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“That’s why I had to act,” he pressed on, voice feverish. “That’s why I had to free you. From him. From his manipulation. That’s why I researched the potions. The binding spell.”

He looked at her as if expecting gratitude. As if he had just confessed to some noble deed.

“You weren’t seeing clearly. So I had to make you see. Make you mine again. Like it’s supposed to be.”

Hermione finally found her voice, low and sharp. “You wanted to enslave me.”

“No!” he snapped. “No! It wasn’t like that. I'm not like him. It was love. It was always love. I would have treated you right. So much better than Malfoy ever could. You just needed a little help, that’s all.”

She stared at him, eyes cold. “You erased women’s memories. You violated them. You twisted magic to force them into your fantasies. You planned to do the same thing to me. That’s not love, Ronald. That’s obsession. That’s abuse.”

Ron flinched like she’d struck him. But still — he didn’t stop.

“You were supposed to be mine,” he whispered, almost broken. “We were meant to be. And he took you from me.”

Hermione stood still, her voice steady as steel. “No one took me. I chose Draco. And I’d choose him again. A thousand times.”

At that moment Draco finally cancels his disillusionment, takes Hermione into his arms and guides her out of the room.

Chapter Text

The door to the interrogation room clicked shut behind them, Draco led Hermione into the hallway, his hand firm yet gentle on her lower back. He didn’t speak right away — he needed to catch his breath, process the surge of emotion churning in his chest. Hermione, pale and visibly shaken, walked beside him, tense but composed.

Only when they reached their shared office did he finally speak.

“I saw everything,” Draco said grimly, conjuring a Pensieve vial and carefully pulling strands of silvery memory from his temple. “Every attack. Every woman. The cottage. The Potions. The curse. Obliviation. All of it.”

He dropped the memories into the vial, corking it tightly. “His obsession with you, Hermione... It’s sicker than I thought. He watched us. That night at the engagement party — that’s when it broke. That’s when he snapped.”

Hermione closed her eyes briefly, swallowing hard. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “He’s delusional. Twisted. And dangerous.”

They filed the memory vial under strict evidence containment and logged it under high-level restricted access. 

“We have more than enough,” he said, voice low and determined. “We're filing for an emergency decree with the Minister. High-security containment in Azkaban until trial. He won’t get out again.”

Hermione only nodded, grateful that Draco still had the strength to keep pushing when hers was wearing thin.

By 3:30 a.m., the decree had been signed and sealed by the Minister himself. The combination of Ron’s brutal crimes, the recorded memories, and his prior escape left little room for debate. It was unprecedented — but necessary.

Draco didn’t rest.

He personally escorted Ron — still restrained, silenced, and furious — straight from the interrogation room to Azkaban. A team of elite Aurors accompanied them, wands at the ready. The journey was cold and miserable, but Ron’s fate was now locked in iron and stone.

No more cells with naive recruits.
No more mistakes.
No more escapes.

Back at the Ministry, Hermione sat alone at her desk, eyes burning as she reviewed and edited the official statement for the press. 

*“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirms that Ronald Bilius Weasley, previously known for his role in the Second Wizarding War, has been apprehended and charged with multiple counts of rape, magical assault, memory tampering, and the use of Unforgivable Curses.

Mr. Weasley was the subject of an extensive investigation into a string of disappearances and attacks on young witches, and was apprehended during another attempted abduction.

Due to the gravity of his crimes and the previous breach of Ministry holding protocols, Mr. Weasley has been transferred to Azkaban Prison under maximum security until his trial."*

The clock read 5:15 a.m. when Draco finally returned, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. His eyes found hers immediately — and softened.

“Let’s go home,” he said gently.

She stood, grabbed her coat, and allowed him to guide her through the empty, echoing corridors of the Ministry. Outside, the first threads of pale dawn streaked across the sky, painting the buildings in weary gold.

By the time they reached the manor and stepped into their bedroom, neither had the energy for words.

Draco pulled Hermione into his arms, burying his face in her hair. She melted into him, warm and trembling, and he held her as if he’d never let her go again.

They fell into bed — fully clothed, emotionally drained, physically spent — and wrapped around each other like lifelines.

Sleep claimed them swiftly, with the sunrise peeking just beyond the window.

Chapter Text

The soft afternoon light filtered through the curtains.

Draco stirred first, blinking slowly, trying to reorient himself, but the warmth pressed against him — Hermione curled into his chest, her breathing soft and even — grounded him in reality.

They’d caught Ron.
He was in Azkaban.
Hermione was safe.

Draco shifted slightly, careful not to wake her just yet. He pressed his nose gently into her curls, breathing her in. The familiar scent of her hair settled the restlessness inside him like a balm.

She stirred, just barely.

“Mmm... Draco?” her voice rasped sleepily.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her hair. “Sleep a little longer.”

But she didn’t. Slowly, she blinked awake, eyes meeting his in the soft light.

For several long moments, they said nothing — just laid there, wrapped in each others arms, recovering from days of tension and exhaustion. Neither needed to speak. The silence was enough.

Eventually, Hermione gave a small sigh and sat up, stretching. “I need a shower.”

Draco watched her disappear into the bathroom. He got up, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and padded to the kitchen. It was after midday already and their bodies needed the fuel.

By the time Hermione returned, fresh-faced and clad in one of his shirts, he had breakfast-for-lunch ready on the table: eggs, toast, and a strong pot of tea.

They ate quietly, exchanging small smiles and the occasional soft brush of a hand or knee under the table. Afterwards, Draco took his turn in the shower, scrubbing away the lingering weight of the night before.

When he stepped out, hair damp, rolling the sleeves of his fresh shirt, he found Hermione in the sitting room, staring out of the window.

“We should get back to the Ministry,” Draco said. “There's follow-up work. Evidence chain, trial prep, press briefings, and I want to check on Wynna—”

“I need you,” Hermione said, cutting him off.

Her voice was quiet. But firm.

Draco’s brow softened, his voice gentling. “Of course. We don’t have to go back today. We can stay here. Rest. Be together.”

But Hermione shook her head, stepping closer.

“No,” she said. “I don’t mean rest.”

Her hands found the hem of his shirt. She looked up into his eyes, her expression unreadable for a second — until he saw it: the need to reconnect. To feel alive. Safe. Loved. Herself.

“Make my mind stop racing” she demanded.

And then she kissed him.

And that was all he needed to understand.

Chapter Text

“Remind me of you safeword, Granger?”

Her lips parted. “Hippogriff.”

Something shifted in the room — in him.

His body relaxed, but his presence became sharp, commanding. Her Dom.

“Strip,” he said, his voice calm, clinical, absolute. “And place your upper body on the table. Now.”

The command was a balm.

Finally, she thought. Finally, I can stop thinking.

She unbuttoned the shirt slowly, eyes cast downward. She folded it precisely and placed it on the chair. The cool air made her nipples pebble instantly. 

The air was thick with anticipation. She stepped forward and bent over the glass table, laying her breasts flat on the cold surface.

A gasp tore from her lips.

The table was freezing. The shock of it bolted straight to her core. Her nipples pressed hard against the glass, sensitive and aching. Her thighs trembled from the sudden contact. Her arms stretched out, palms flat against the smooth surface, cheek turned to the side so she could breathe.

She was completely exposed.

Her feet shifted instinctively — and then stopped. A tug pulled her ankles wide to the legs of the table. Draco had bound her — silently, efficiently — with the gentlest flick of magic.

She was restrained. Her legs spread, her breasts crushed deliciously against the glass. She couldn’t move an inch.

And gods, she didn’t want to.

She couldn’t see him. She could only feel him — a presence behind her. The subtle shift of his footsteps on the rug. The weight of his gaze on her bare skin.

Then — a touch.

Barely there. Fingertips ghosting the curve of her spine. Up. Down. No pressure. No intention. Just heat.

Her breath caught.

Another stroke. Then another. He never lingered. 

He traced lazy patterns down her back, to the dimples of her spine, to the curve of her arse — then vanished again.

She arched involuntarily, craving more.

But Draco never rewarded impatience.

She whimpered softly. “Sir…”

Silence.

Then — a soft brush through her curls. He threaded his fingers through her hair, careful not to pull. Just playing with her. Reassuring. Cruel.

She relaxed into it.

“You’re holding so much tension in your shoulders,” he murmured, his first words since she took her place. “Release it.”

She let out a long, shaking breath. Her shoulders dropped another inch.

“Good girl,” he said, and the praise burned hotter than any touch.

His hands disappeared. She waited, trembling, breath fogging up the table.

Then — warm fingertips between her thighs.

He didn’t thrust. He didn’t spread. He just dragged a slow stroke through her slick folds — enough to make her jolt.

“Soaking already,” he said, voice like velvet.

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“But not dripping.” Another pass, this time brushing her clit with maddening softness. “Not yet.”

She moaned, forehead pressing into the glass. “Please…”

“Oh, pet,” he purred, “you know I won’t fuck you unless you're desperate.”

“I am desperate—”

“Are you?” His tone was teasing now.

A pause.

“I need you, Sir. Please. I need you inside me.”

Another light touch. Not enough.

“You’ll get me. But first…” A second finger joined the first, swirling around her entrance, dipping in just slightly “…I want to see how desperate you can get.”

Then it began.

The slow torture of his fingers — stroking, ghosting, slipping inside, pulling out. Just one finger. Then two. Just enough to promise. Never enough to satisfy.

He circled her clit in tight spirals — then stopped. Waited. Made her ache.

“You’re such a good girl for me,” he said, voice low. “So responsive. So wet. So obedient.”

She squirmed.

“You take everything I give you,” he whispered. “So perfectly. But I want you shaking. I want you dripping down your thighs.”

She was.

She could feel it now — slick heat pooling beneath her, thighs trembling, her breath sobbing against the glass.

Still, he denied her. Every time she rose to the edge he stopped.

Then started again.

Touch. Praise. Withdrawal.

Her whole body was strung tight with need. Her skin was flushed. Her nipples ached against the unforgiving surface of the glass.

And still… she loved it.

The restraint. The denial. 

She was his. Completely.

“Sir, please,” she whimpered. “I’m—I need—please…”

He stroked a finger inside her slowly. Dragged it out.

“Still not quite dripping.”

“I can’t take it,” she choked.

“You can,” he said firmly. “You will. You’ll take everything I give you.”

Her orgasm coiled tight in her core — hot, trembling, waiting.

And then—

Everything vanished.

The bindings. The pressure.

Her breath caught — and in the next instant, strong arms were scooping her up, lifting her away from the glass.

She was weightless, dazed, slick and wanting.

Then her thighs were straddling his lap on the nearby couch.

Draco sat beneath her on the couch, thighs wide, his body solid and calm.

His trousers were open. His cock — thick, flushed, pierced, glistening with precum — stood heavy between them, already aching for her. And gods, it was so big.

He was still fully clothed, every button in place, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. Only his cock was bare — and that made it worse. Better. Like he owned her pleasure, controlled exactly how much of him she got.

Her legs trembled as she settled over him, back against his chest, thighs wide open and straddling his hips. The air felt charged, electric.

His arms circled her body, holding her upright with effortless strength.

Then his hands found her breasts, and he worshipped them — rolling her nipples between his fingers, tugging, pinching gently, then harder, pulling moans from her mouth with just his touch.

“You’ve been so patient,” he murmured against her neck. “So good, pet.”

Her whole body clenched at the word. Pet. His pet.

With shaking fingers, she reached down between their bodies, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock. His breath caught.

She guided him to her entrance — her slick heat desperate to swallow him.

“So big,” she whispered.

“You know you can take it,” he said. “You will.”

The head pressed against her, wide and hard, forcing her to slow down.

“Just the tip first,” he instructed, voice commanding. “Nice and slow. Count my piercings.”

Her breath hitched. “Y-yes, Sir.”

She began to lower herself, gasping as the thick head of his cock began to push past her entrance.

“...One…”

The first barbell of his Jacob’s Ladder slid inside. Cold metal. Wet heat. Delicious friction.

“Two…”

The stretch. She couldn’t believe how full she already felt.

“Three…”

She moaned, head falling back to rest on his shoulder.

He kissed her neck, softly, then nipped. “Keep going, pet.”

“Four…”

His hands stayed on her breasts, gently tugging, toying with her while she fought to take more of him.

“Five… six…”

Her thighs burned from the strain. Her walls fluttered around him, already dangerously close to that edge again.

“Seven…”

Draco reached between them, brushing her clit just once, making her cry out.

“Eight…”

Fully seated. Buried to the hilt.

She was trembling — overwhelmed, overstretched, every nerve alight.

“Perfect girl,” he breathed into her skin. “Taking all of me. You feel so fucking good.”

“Sir…” she whimpered, overwhelmed with sensation. “I—”

“Ride me,” he commanded. “Take from me what you need.”

She began to move — slow, grinding circles, then shallow bounces. Her muscles trembled from the effort, the drag of his piercing sending white-hot pulses through her every time she rose and sank.

His hands never stopped — playing with her nipples, his breath against her neck, small praises murmured into her ear.

“You’re doing so well.”

“So fucking tight.”

“My beautiful little pet.”

She rode him harder. Faster.

The build was sharp now — no longer drawn out. Her body wanted it. Demanded it.

“Please—please—” she gasped. “I’m—close—”

Draco growled low, tugged her nipple hard, and pressed two fingers to her clit — firm and precise.

Her orgasm exploded like a firework behind her eyes.

She screamed his name, body convulsing, clenching around him as the climax wracked her entire body. Her head dropped back to his shoulder, boneless, every muscle trembling with release.

But Draco wasn’t finished.

He moved.

In a blur, she was lifted off his cock, turned in the air, and pinned against closest the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

His lips crushed hers — all-consuming, claiming.

One arm held her up. The other angled her head perfectly for his mouth.

And then — he was inside her again. Deep. Fast.

“Draco—!”

He slammed into her, hard and deep, driving his cock in with a rhythm that was claiming. Her back pressed against the wall, the pressure perfect, the stretch still so goddamn good it hurt.

He kissed her — teeth, tongue, growl — tilting her head just how he wanted, owning her mouth while his body owned the rest of her.

“Mine,” he growled.

“Yours,” she gasped. “Always—”

His hips slammed into her. Her inner muscles still fluttering from the first orgasm — and now building again.

He dropped his hand, rubbed her clit, grinding into her with brutal precision.

She shattered again.

The second orgasm hit harder — faster — like a punch of light and sound in her brain.

She screamed.

And this time — he came with her.

Hot, pulsing spurts of his cum spilled into her, filling her up as he groaned low. His hips slowed. His grip tightened. His whole body trembled with release.

He held her against the wall, forehead pressed to hers, both of them breathless and shaking.

Hermione closed her eyes, chest heaving, still clinging to him.

There was only the sound of their panting,and the soft murmur of Draco’s voice as he held her close.

“Good girl,” he whispered again, voice reverent now. “So good. My perfect girl.”

Chapter Text

Her legs were still trembling around his waist when Draco pulled back enough to look at her. His grey eyes weren’t stormy anymore — they were soft. Warm.

“You,” he murmured, voice still rough from climax, “are fucking amazing.”

Hermione let out a weak laugh, her arms sliding gently around his neck, pulling him closer. She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth.

“You’re one to talk,” she whispered. “You’re incredible.”

His lips twitched. The faintest hint of a smile.

“And now,” she added, laughter bubbling in her chest, “we both desperately need another shower.”

Without another word, Draco tightened his grip on her to carry her to the bathroom. She sighed into him, head resting against his chest, letting herself be carried through the quiet halls of the Manor.

But he didn’t set her down in the shower.

He carried her into the bathroom and, with a flick of his wand, set the clawfoot tub running. Steam filled the room, curling upward in elegant tendrils, and the water frothed as oils and salts swirled in. Lavender. Chamomile. Soothing.

Hermione hummed softly. 

Draco lowered her carefully to her feet while he undressed. 

They slipped into the tub together, Hermione first, then Draco settling in behind her, his long legs bracketing her thighs. The water was blissfully warm, the perfect temperature.

She leaned back against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close.

For a long moment, they simply breathed.

Then Draco’s hands moved. Strong, steady palms massaging her shoulders, kneading tension from the knots. His lips pressed against her damp curls, her temple, her neck. Small kisses, featherlight.

Hermione melted.

His hands drifted lower, tracing the soft curve of her breasts, circling her nipples lazily, teasing. 

His fingers brushed the inside of her thigh, featherlight, barely skimming her clit. She let out a soft sigh and sank deeper against him.

“I've got you,” he murmured against her skin. His breath was warm, his voice low and reverent. 

A kiss to her shoulder.

“You’re perfect.”

A kiss to her neck.

“My perfect girl.”

For the first time since the case, since Wynna, since Ron, her mind was quiet.

No racing thoughts. No images clawing at the edges of her memory. Only his hands, his mouth, his voice.

“I love you,” she whispered, resting her head on his strong shoulder, her curls damp against his skin.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her into him. “And I love you,” he said, no hesitation. 

She smiled, eyes fluttering closed.

The water was warm, his touch was steady, and his voice was the anchor that kept her safe.

She trusted him completely.

And in the circle of his arms, in the soft steam of their bath, Hermione finally felt peace.

Chapter Text

The water was still warm, and so was Draco, his arm loosely draped around Hermione’s waist as they leaned together in the oversized bathtub. 

For a little while, Hermione could let herself breathe.

Draco pressed a kiss to her damp temple, content to simply hold her, neither of them needing to speak. The last twenty-four hours had been unrelenting. And now that it was over — at least for now — they’d earned this stillness.

As Draco leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes, Hermione’s thoughts began to stir again. 

She gently stirred in Draco’s arms. “I need to go,” she said quietly.

He opened one eye, brow lifting. “Now?”

Hermione nodded, brushing her damp hair behind her ear. “I need to see Wynna.”

Draco sighed, running a hand down her back. “You can rest a little longer if you need to, Hermione. No one would fault you for that.”

Hermione leaned into him for a moment. “I know.... and I really needed this afternoon for me...for us. But I can’t sit still any longer.”

He didn’t argue. He knew better than anyone that trying to keep Hermione from helping others was like trying to stop the tide.

“I’ll come with you—”

“No,” she said gently, sitting up. “I just want to check on Wynna for a moment, see if she has improved.....and tell her in person that we caught Ron. You go to the office, write the report, do some trial prep. I'll meet you there after. And then we can go have some dinner?”

Draco studied her face for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Ok."

By the time they’d dried off and gotten dressed again, the sun was already dipping into the late afternoon sky. Draco handed Hermione her coat at the door, then pulled her in for one last kiss.

Then they both apparated away.

Outside the hospital room, Hermione nearly collided with a tall, awkward young man who was pacing in front of the door.

“Jimmy?” she asked, recognizing the nervous energy before the face.

The young man turned, startled, and then smiled sheepishly. “Auror Granger,” he greeted her with a quick nod.

Hermione gave him a warm smile. “Are you here to visit Wynna?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly conflicted. “I’ve been... standing here for nearly twenty minutes. I don’t know if I should go in. I keep thinking — maybe if I’d said something that night at the Leaky, maybe if I’d stopped her, or walked her out… she wouldn’t have been taken.”

His words poured out in a breathless, guilty ramble.

Hermione’s expression softened. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Jimmy, you couldn’t have known what was going to happen. You were an important witness in our investigtion— your statement helped us find the man responsible. You did help.”

He looked unconvinced. “Still... I don’t even know if she’d even want to see me. ”

“I'm sure she would love to see you” Hermione said gently. “She’s lost a lot of memories. Most things after her childhood are blank. But that’s exactly why she needs kind, supportive people around her.”

He hesitated again.

“I’ll go in with you,” Hermione offered.

Jimmy nodded, grateful.

Inside the room, Lynn Thorne sat by Wynna’s bedside, flipping through an old photo album. Hermione had noticed how diligently Lynn had visited every day, trying to help ground her friend with shared memories.

Wynna looked up as they entered.

“Hi,” Hermione greeted softly, then turned to the young woman. “Wynna, I brought someone with me. This is Jimmy — he was the last person to see you the night you went missing."

Wynna offered a polite but distant smile, folding her hands in her lap.

Lynn brightened as she looked over. “Jimmy! You sat behind us in Herbology, remember? And we did that awful plant-sorting project together in fifth year. You almost dropped the Fanged Geranium.”

Jimmy chuckled nervously. “That sounds like me.”

Wynna tilted her head, watching them both. “I’m sorry... I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Jimmy said quickly. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

Hermione watched the exchange, her heart warmed by the gentle energy in the room.

Wynna looked healthier today — the color was back in her cheeks. The healers had, thankfully, been able to reverse the unnatural transfigurations Ron had inflicted on her body. Her features were soft and natural again — her own. The long, artificial hair was gone, replaced with her natural waves. She looked younger like this, lighter, and even more innocent.

When the moment was right, Hermione stepped closer. “How are you feeling today? Any memories returning?”

Wynna shook her head slowly. “Not really. Lynn is telling me so many stories, but it’s like hearing about someone else’s life.”

Her voice trembled on the last few words. Lynn reached over and gently took her hand.

Hermione smiled reassuringly. “I'm sorry to hear that Wynna. But you don’t need to rush. We’re here for you — however long it takes.”

“Wynna,” she said gently, “I wanted to let you know — we’ve caught him. The man who did this to you. He’s in custody now and will face justice. I promise you that.”

Wynna’s eyes met hers, a flicker of something — maybe relief. She gave a small nod, her voice just above a whisper.

“Thank you.”

Hermione offered a soft smile.

The conversation drifted after that — school stories from Lynn, awkward attempts by Jimmy to recall classroom antics. Wynna mostly listened, her expressions flickering between polite interest and distant curiosity.

Hermione quietly stepped back and let her friends stay with her. And as she stood by the door for a moment, watching them, she knew: Wynna had a long path ahead of her, but she wouldn’t have to walk it alone.

Hermione stepped out into the corridor, the door clicking gently shut behind her. She was already halfway down the hall when she heard footsteps and a voice behind her.

“Auror Granger!”

Hermione turned as Lynn hurried up, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry,” Lynn said quickly. “I just… I’ve been thinking about the others. The other women he hurt.”

Hermione’s expression shifted, turning solemn. “Yes?”

“I’ve been wondering,” Lynn continued, “if it might help them to meet. You know — talk to each other. They’ve been through something no one else can really understand. Maybe if they had a space where they could share that, safely… it could help them heal. Help Wynna process everything?”

Hermione blinked, impressed. That same idea had been at the back of her mind for a few days now, but hearing Lynn voice it with such care and purpose made it feel tangible.

“I actually love that idea,” Hermione said. “I’ll reach out to the others. See if they’d be open to it. It would be entirely voluntary, of course — but I think it could make a real difference.”

Lynn looked relieved, a quiet sense of purpose softening her features.

“Thank you,” Hermione added, “for being here for Wynna. She may not remember you… but having someone who loves her by her side matters more than you know.”

“I'll always be there for her. She is my best friend,” Lynn said simply.

Hermione gave her a grateful smile, then turned to leave, her heart heavy but hopeful. 

Chapter Text

Draco looked up as she entered their shared office. His eyes softened when they met hers.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey,” she replied, closing the door behind her.

He stood from his desk, several scrolls of parchment now neatly stacked. “I’ve just finished the final reports and filed them for evidence submission. The Minister and I spoke briefly as well.”

“And?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “The Wizengamot will review the case early next week. Most likely set the trial date then — but with the holidays so close, it’ll probably be after the New Year.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

“He’ll stay in Azkaban until then. Monitored family visits once a week, if they choose to come. And of course he’s entitled to legal representation — either private counsel, if he can afford it, or a ministry-assigned advocate.”

He picked up a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet, where Hermione’s public statement had been printed in full. “Your note went out in every major paper. So far, the response from the public has been overwhelmingly supportive. Grateful that it’s finally over. Though… of course, the shock that he was behind it is still rippling through the community.”

Hermione’s eyes swept over the article’s headline again.

“Any further press requests?” she asked.

Draco nodded. “A few. We’ve politely declined for now. Once the Wizengamot sets the trial date, more information can be released. But we’re protecting the victims. The only name the press has is Wynna’s — and that’s only because Skeeter leaked her identity during the missing persons search. We’re not adding to that.”

Hermione looked grateful. “Good. That’s how it should be.”

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small envelope. “At the hospital, I spoke to Lynn. She brought up the idea of starting a support group. A safe space where the victims could talk, process what happened, maybe help each other heal.”

Draco raised his brows. “It's a solid idea.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “I told her I’d reach out to the others. See if they’d be open to it.”

There was a short pause. The weight of the past week pressed between them — the arrest, the interrogation, the memories they had uncovered.

Draco cleared his throat. “And on a much less horrifying note… I made a dinner reservation for us.”

Hermione blinked at him.

“Muggle London,” he said, lips twitching. “Quiet. Cozy. No curious reporters. No headlines. No escaped criminals.”

Hermione laughed.

“That sounds like heaven.”

They left the Ministry as the sun was beginning to set. The streets of Muggle London were decked in Christmas lights, the glow reflecting softly on the wet cobblestones. The restaurant Draco had chosen was tucked away down a side street in Soho, warmly lit, with small tables and candlelight. It was quiet. Nobody looked twice at them.

They ate slowly, savoring every bite of the comforting food and each other’s company. 

Chapter Text

Hermione had visited the Weasleys on Sunday, needing to see them in person after the arrest.

They had been warned of course when Draco and Hermione had come searching for Ron the week prior.

Still, seeing the truth laid bare — the official charges, the consequences — hit different.

Molly cried silently through much of the conversation, while Arthur held her hand in a death grip, his face ashen. They were devastated and exhausted.

Ginny and Harry were present too. Grim-faced. Quiet. And absolutely resolute.

“I don’t want to see him,” Ginny said coldly. “Not ever. I don’t care what anyone says — he’s not my brother anymore.”

Harry only nodded.

Molly and Arthur were torn. They hadn't yet decided if they would visit Ron in Azkaban. They hated what he had done. They knew he deserved prison. But he was still their son.

On Monday morning, just two days before Christmas Eve, Hermione took a deep breath and sat down to write a series of letters.

She contacted each of the women who had suffered from Ron’s attacks. She told them that the man who had hurt them was finally in custody. That he would face justice.

Then, with care and respect, she shared Lynn Thorne’s idea — the possibility of a private support group, a safe space where survivors could meet and talk, begin to heal together.

Some of the women responded quickly and gratefully, agreeing to take part. Others needed more time. A few didn’t answer yet at all.

Hermione understood. And she passed the responses on to Lynn with a promise:
“In the new year, I’ll help organise the first meeting — with whoever’s ready.”

On Tuesday, despite the proximity to the holidays, the Wizengamot convened. It was a short session, but a critical one.

After reviewing the compiled case files — bottled memories, reports from St. Mungo’s and the Auror Office — they set the preliminary trial date for January 15th.

By Christmas Eve, they learned that Ron had been granted a ministry-appointed defence barrister, since he could not afford private counsel.

To Hermione’s dismay, that lawyer was Cormac McLaggen.

“Of all people,” she muttered to Draco.

“I know,” he sighed. “Unfortunately he’s one of the Ministry’s best trial lawyers.”

Cormac had always been a pompous, chauvinistic thorn in Hermione’s side — loud, arrogant, and far too fond of dismissing women’s voices. 

Hermione hated that someone like him would be the voice for someone like Ron, but the Ministry had made its choice. A

They spent Christmas Day at Pansy’s townhouse, where a few close friends — mostly Slytherins — gathered for a quiet, elegant dinner. Pansy had insisted on hosting after Draco flatly refused to have another event in his and Hermione's home.

“No parties,” he said. “Not after last time.”

For New Year’s, they vanished.

A remote villa on the coast — hidden, secure, intimate. No one knew where they’d gone.

They spent the week in utter privacy.

No auror cases. No paperwork. No reporters. Just long days, the sea, late mornings curled together in bed, and unspoken understandings.

Hermione had needed her mind to stop racing. Draco had understood without her needing to explain.

They found one another again. They let themselves rest. And they let themselves play.

Chapter Text

The ocean roared like it wanted to swallow the cliffside whole. Wind howled through the open archways of the villa, whipping gauzy white curtains into frantic movement. Moonlight spilled across marble floors, catching the glint of her sweat-slicked skin as she ran.

Her breath tore ragged through her lungs. Every step stung. Her feet were bare, her legs weak. The slip she wore clung to her thighs, a torn scrap of silk that offered no warmth, no protection—certainly no modesty. She didn’t know how long she’d been running. 

She hadn’t seen his face.

But she knew the way he moved. Slow. Controlled. Hunting her like she was his prey. He was like a storm wrapped in black robes, heavy boots echoing like war drums across the cold stone floors.

He was behind her.

Always behind her.

Hermione turned a sharp corner, skidding on the marble. A hallway stretched out ahead—columns, candlelight, shadows. She darted into a room, slammed the door, and locked it with shaking fingers.

Her chest heaved. Sweat rolled between her breasts. Her thighs trembled.

She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready—

BANG.

The door shuddered.

She bit back a cry, stepping back.

BANG.

She screamed this time.

A third strike—and the lock gave way. The door crashed open, splinters flying.

He filled the doorway like a nightmare. Tall. Robed. Masked. His wand pointed directly at her.

“Run, mudblood” he ordered.

His voice was distorted. Cold. Unfamiliar.

Her body obeyed before her mind could. She turned and bolted through the French doors to the outer terrace, the sharp stone scraping her soles. Her legs ached. She stumbled, caught herself.

She didn’t look back.

Down stone steps. Around the pool. Through another arch. Back inside. The villa was a labyrinth. Endless corridors, shadows, open spaces too large to feel real.

And he was always there.

Hunting.

She ducked into a library. Rows of high shelves, the scent of old parchment. She tried to quiet her breathing. She could hear his footsteps now. Slow. Confident.

Closer.

Her heart pounded. Her whole body thrummed with terror, anticipation.

She tried to move.

Too late.

A hand closed around her arm and yanked her backward into him. Her scream was cut off by a gloved hand over her mouth. He spun her and shoved her against the bookshelf.

“Got you, Mudblood,” he growled.

She kicked. Struggled. Her hands fought him, nails scratching. She bit his glove. He caught her wrists, pinned them above her head, slammed them into the wood.

“Still so mouthy.”

He pressed his body to hers. She could feel him—hard, massive, restrained only by the leather belt he wore. His mask was inches from her face.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat.

He chuckled. It was dark and low and cruel.

“Run for me again!”

He let her go.

And she ran.

Deeper into the villa this time.

She raced down the narrow servants' stairwell, her fingers scraping the stone. Down, down, through cold corridors and arched hallways. The light dimmed. The air turned damp. She reached a heavy wooden door and pushed it open into darkness.

The dungeons.

The air was cool, damp with salt and stone. Her breath echoed off the walls. Torches flickered along the passageways, casting long shadows.

She darted down a narrow corridor. Her lungs burned. Her body ached. Every step felt like fire.

A whisper of sound behind her—then silence.

She turned a corner—

He was already there.

Standing in the shadows. Waiting.

He hadn’t made a sound. He just appeared, like a nightmare conjured from the dark.

She screamed and turned the other way.

She ducked into a narrow alcove, heart in her throat. Footsteps… then nothing.

Then a whisper:

“I can hear you breathe.”

Her breath caught.

“I always find what’s mine.”

Shame tangled with the thrill, clawing up her spine. Her thighs were slick, traitorous.

I shouldn’t want this.

But she did. She burned for it.

Bootsteps again. Closer. Louder. She turned another corner and stumbled into a dead end.

Stone wall.

No door. No window.

Trapped.

She spun, breathless.

He stood at the mouth of the corridor, silhouetted in torchlight.

Unmoving. Watching.

She backed away until her spine hit the stone.

He stalked toward her.

“Think you could hide from me down here?”

She didn’t answer. She lunged left, tried to dart past him.

He caught her by the waist and slammed her back against the wall. Her cry echoed off the stone.

He pinned her there with his body, pressing every inch of himself to her. One hand wrapped around her throat, firm but not choking. The other lifted her leg and hooked it around his hip.

“You’ve been a very bad girl.”

She thrashed beneath him. Clawed at him. Bit at the air near his neck.

He growled. Grabbed her wrists. Forced them high over her head.

He kissed her throat through the mask.

He murmured. “I’m going to ruin you now.”

He let go long enough to undo his belt. His robes parted.

She gasped.

He was huge. Thick. And pierced. Eight silver barbells glinted along the underside of his cock, metal flashing in the torchlight.

She shook her head. “You’re insane.”

“You’re dripping.”

“Please,” she whispered.

He paused at her entrance, unmoving.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” she gasped. “Please use me.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours. Use me. Ruin me.”

He gripped her thighs and lifted her against the wall. Her legs locked around him. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance.

“You don’t get to hide anymore,” he growled.

And then he drove into her.

Hard.

She screamed. Loud. The sound bounced off the stone.

Her nails dug into his shoulders. The piercings dragged along her inner walls, overwhelming every nerve ending. She had no space. No air. No thought.

Just him.

“You feel me?” he rasped.

“Every part,” she gasped.

He slammed into her again. And again. And again.

She was sobbing. Begging. Shaking.

Her head fell back, hitting the wall.

He fucked her like she was nothing. Like she was everything. His mask never moved. His voice never softened.

“Come on my cock,” he snarled.

“I can’t—”

He reached between them and rubbed her clit, fast and brutal.

“Come. Now.”

Her body obeyed. Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave. She shook so hard she thought she might pass out.

She collapsed against him, boneless.

The world was spinning.

Her body was still trembling from the orgasm he’d ripped from her—from the brutal stretch, the overwhelming drag of every piercing, the sound of his growl as he filled her. Her legs barely held her. Sweat rolled between her shoulder blades.

She felt him slowly slip out of her, the metal barbells catching against her sensitive walls in a way that made her shudder and whimper. Empty. Used. Burning.

She didn’t know what came next.

He didn’t speak.

He just turned her around with strong, gloved hands and guided her forward. Deeper into the dungeon. The air grew colder, damper. Her feet stumbled over uneven stone. He supported her only enough to keep her from falling—nothing more.

Then she saw it.

A pillory.

Old wood. Iron locks. Darkened from age, and use. Fixed to the stone floor like a relic of something medieval.

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head.

He said nothing.

She tried to back away—his grip tightened.

“No,” she said again, panic rising.

Still, he didn’t speak.

Just pushed her forward, bent her, and closed the pillory around her neck and wrists.

Clack.

The lock slid into place.

Hermione gasped. She was trapped. Bent at the waist, her arms locked in place, her back arched, her breasts fully exposed through the torn silk, hanging freely. Her arse was bare to the cold air. Her hair fell in front of her eyes. She couldn’t see him.

She heard the sound of his boots pacing around her.

Then, fingers. Cold leather, sliding over her spine.

He didn’t speak. Not once.

He dragged his fingers across the curve of her arse. Down between her thighs. Touched her where she was still wet, still raw.

She moaned, humiliated by how ready she still was.

Then he leaned in. She felt his breath near her ear.

“I’m not done ruining you yet.”

She heard his robes rustle. 

Then—pressure.

His cock, heavy and hot, pressing against her entrance again from behind. She wasn’t ready. She was still too sensitive.

“Wait—”

He didn’t.

He pushed in.

Every inch. Every piercing. Slowly. Deeply.

She screamed, her voice echoing in the stone chamber.

“Please—it’s too much—”

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back to meet him. Her knees buckled. She was drooling. Gasping. Her cunt clenched, fluttering around him with each agonizing drag.

Then she felt his hands move.

Up.

Over her ribs.

To her breasts.

“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head. “No, I can’t—”

He cupped both. Squeezed. His thumbs rolled over her nipples, pinching, teasing. They were swollen, overly sensitive. Exposed. Her back arched despite herself.

She moaned, high and broken.

“You want to come again,” he said.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He thrust again. Harder. His cock slid deeper, filling her completely. She was sobbing now. Desperate. Her hips rocked back against him, instinctive and shameless.

He leaned forward over her back, and his teeth grazed her shoulder through the mask.

“Say it.”

“I want to come,” she choked.

“You want to come on my cock, locked up like a little slut.”

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Yes, please—please—”

His hands tormented her breasts while he fucked her harder. The pillory creaked with every thrust. She was gone. Nothing but sensation and pressure and blinding heat.

“Now,” he growled.

He pinched both nipples hard.

She shattered. Her scream was primal, animal. Her orgasm tore through her, shaking every limb. She gushed around him, body convulsing.

He followed with a groan, thrusting deep as he spilled inside her.

She sobbed with the force of it, overwhelmed, ruined.

And he stayed inside her.

Leaning forward.

Breathing hard.

Silent.

Chapter Text

The pillory creaked one final time before the lock vanished with a quiet click.

Strong arms caught her instantly.

She barely registered the movement before the world twisted around her, air rushing against her skin, the cold stone of the dungeon vanishing. His arms held her tightly, one hand curled protectively around her head, cradling her to his chest.

And then they were gone.

Warmth.

She felt it before she saw it—the slow, embracing heat of firelight flickering across a tiled wall, the scent of cedar and lavender curling around her senses. She opened her eyes slowly.

A bathroom. Spacious. Elegant. A roaring fire crackled in a hearth beside an enormous sunken tub, already steaming.

He still held her.

Her body trembled, overstimulated and limp in his arms.

Then he moved.

With an impressive display of wordless and wandless magic his mask dissolved. The robes disappeared into smoke and shadow.

He was himself again.

Draco.

The man who looked at her now wasn’t the silent predator from the dungeon. He wasn’t the menace she’d fled through candlelit corridors or the voice that had growled filth into her ear.

This was Draco. Her partner. Her anchor. Her protector.

He looked down at her like she was breakable. Sacred.

"You did so well," he whispered, brushing her curls back with reverence. "So fucking well, Hermione."

Her lip trembled.

He stepped into the water with her still in his arms, lowering them both slowly until the warmth enveloped them. She straddled his lap, her arms winding around his shoulders. Her head rested against his neck.

She breathed in his scent—salt and fire.

His hands moved over her slowly. Gently. Worshipful.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her hair. "You took me so well. Every inch. Every piercing. Gods, Hermione, I’ve never seen anything more perfect."

She let out a shaky breath. The water lapped against her back, soothing her sore muscles. His fingers rubbed circles into her hips, her thighs, her lower back.

"I hope the dungeons weren’t too cold," he said, voice quiet. "I heated them hours before we started."

Her chest ached at the tenderness in his voice.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.

They weren’t stormy now. No mask. No cruelty. Just Draco. Just love.

"I needed it," she said softly.

He nodded, brushing her cheek with his knuckles.

"I know. I needed it too."

She looked down at her hands on his chest, then back up into his eyes. Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

"Do you think it's wrong... after what happened? That I wanted this so badly? That I enjoyed it?"

His expression shifted instantly—concern, devotion, protectiveness blazing behind his eyes.

"No. Merlin, Hermione, no."

His hands cupped her face, his thumbs gentle beneath her eyes.

"We needed this. Both of us. After months of chasing that bastard.......what he did to those women has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with how we enjoy each other!"

She opened her eyes. His voice had dropped to a growl.

"And you are not weak because you needed this. This doesn’t undo the work you did to catch him. This doesn’t make you less of an Auror."

She nodded, slowly. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away.

"Being in control all the time... it gets exhausting. At work, I have to keep everything together. Lead raids. File reports. Watch over junior officers."

Her voice dropped.

"And I was so scared. That he would get me, eventually."

Draco pulled her tighter.

"But in here," she said, "when you chase me... when you take everything from me, and I can't stop you... it makes me feel like I can breathe again. Like I can let go."

His eyes softened. He stroked her back slowly, the other hand caressing her thigh beneath the water.

They stayed quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled beside them. The scent of the enchanted bath salts soothed her mind.

Hermione curled closer, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

"This isn't just a game for me," she whispered.

"I know."

She traced his jaw with her fingers. He leaned into her touch.

"Tell me again," she whispered.

"That you're beautiful?"

She nodded.

He smiled.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. When you're strong enough to submit. When you're strong enough to take what you need. Always."

She kissed him then. Soft. Slow. 

Her lips moved down his jaw, trailing to his throat, while her hips shifted forward in the water. He groaned quietly, hands steady on her waist.

She reached down between them, guiding him inside her slowly. She was still tender from before.But she welcome the stretch of his thick pierced cock inside her. It didn’t burn. It filled. Anchored.

She gasped softly, and he exhaled against her cheek.

Her body rocked forward, hips moving in gentle waves, water sloshing softly around them. She rode him without rush.  Just slow, languid motion.

His hands moved up to cup her breasts, thumbing her nipples gently. She whimpered at the contact, leaning into his touch.

"You’re incredible," he breathed. "So strong. So soft. So mine."

Her head rested on his shoulder, her movements steady. They fit like this. They always had.

He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.

"You’re safe," he whispered. "You’re loved."

Her breath hitched as pleasure began to rise again, slow and steady, like the tide.

"Draco..."

"I've got you."

They moved together, skin to skin, breath to breath. Until her muscles tightened and she shattered in his arms with a soft cry, clutching his shoulders.

He followed her seconds later, groaning into her neck, holding her tightly, grounding them both.

When it was over, she didn’t move. Neither did he.

They stayed there in the water, wrapped around each other. Breathing. Healing.

And then, faintly—just outside the enchanted glass windows—bright color bloomed across the night sky. A distant pop, then a scatter of red and gold sparks.

Hermione lifted her head, blinking sleepily.

"Fireworks," she murmured.

Draco turned slightly, just enough to catch the reflection of another burst—silver and green this time.

Another explosion of light lit the room with soft color.

He looked at her—really looked at her. Damp curls, flushed cheeks, swollen lips.

He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone.

"Happy New Year, Hermione."

She smiled. Just before he kissed her—deep and warm and endless.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered into the bedroom slowly, filtered through thick winter clouds and the salt-smeared glass of the massive ocean-facing window. Hermione blinked, her body still heavy with sleep, her limbs tangled in soft, rumpled sheets and the warmth of the man curled behind her.

Draco.

His arm draped lazily across her waist, his breath warm against the back of her neck. She could hear the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing, the kind of breathing that only came with peace. Real peace. Something they both hadn’t felt in weeks. Months.

She closed her eyes again for a moment, just feeling.

The fire across the room was still crackling, bathing the stone walls in a soft orange glow. The wind howled outside the villa, but in here, everything was warm.

Hermione shifted slowly under the covers, careful not to disturb him. She stretched lazily, grinning when he instinctively curled closer.

His voice was thick with sleep when he murmured, "Good morning."

She smiled. "Good morning."

A kiss was pressed to her shoulder. Then another. Lazy. Lingering.

They stayed in bed like that for a while. Neither of them speaking. Just soft touches, skin to skin, hearts beating slowly. 

Draco finally rose with a quiet groan and a kiss to her temple.

"Stay i bed. I’ll bring breakfast."

She nodded sleepily, already sinking deeper into the pillows.

He returned fifteen minutes later with a large wooden tray.

Fresh croissants. Sliced fruits. Soft cheeses. Steaming coffee. Fresh-pressed orange juice. Everything arranged meticulously, because of course Draco Malfoy made even breakfast an art.

He was naked.

Utterly unashamed.

And Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Muscles moved smoothly under his pale, toned skin. Tattoos inked along his ribs and forearms peeked through as he set the tray down on the bed and crawled back in beside her.

She kissed his shoulder as he handed her a coffee. "You spoil me."

"You're easy to spoil."

They ate slowly, fingers brushing as they reached for berries or cheese, sharing bites without thinking. The sheets were tangled around their hips, but neither made any effort to cover up. There was no shame here. They were completely at ease with each other.

When the tray was empty and set aside, Draco pulled her into his lap, arms circling her waist.

"We’re not leaving this bed today," he said against her skin. 

She smiled. "Good."

They made love slowly that morning, under the covers, with the fire crackling beside them and the world outside fading into nothing.

Draco's hands were gentle, reverent. His lips brushed every inch of her body, whispering praise. She moved over him with equal tenderness, guiding him inside her with a soft sigh.

There was no rush.

No urgency.

Later, they lay wrapped in each other, reading in silence. Draco had brought up a few old novels from the library downstairs. She was rereading Wuthering Heights, and he was flipping through a battered copy of Les Misérables, occasionally glancing over at her to admire the way she chewed her bottom lip as she read.

Time passed slowly.

She dozed on his chest. He disappeared for a short while, returning with more food—warm tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

She watched him move around the room when he brought up the food, admired the way his back flexed, the tattoos along his spine, the way his blond hair fell messily over his forehead.

He was beautiful.

Sometime in the afternoon, he moved between her thighs, peppering soft kisses across her stomach, her hips, until she was writhing under his mouth.

He devoured her slowly. Skillfully. One hand bracing her thigh, the other laced through her fingers. 

Later, she returned the favor. She took her time, teasing his pierced cock with her lips and tongue, dragging soft moans from his chest. She loved the way he trembled for her, how his control slipped when she sucked him deep and slow.

By early evening, the sky outside had turned to steel. The clouds were heavy. The sea churned below them in shades of grey and blue, wild and cold and endless.

Hermione sat in the window nook, knees tucked to her chest, watching a storm roll in. Waves crashed violently into the cliffs below.

Draco walked up behind her.

"You’ve been staring out there for ages," he murmured.

"It reminds me of your eyes," she whispered.

He kissed her shoulder, then her neck. "You’re so poetic."

She smirked. 

He turned her slowly, guiding her to her feet. The tall window stretched from floor to ceiling, the sea thrashing beyond the thick glass. He pressed her gently against the glass, and she shivered as the cool surface met her bare skin.

Her nipples pebbled instantly, brushing the cold window, and she gasped at the sensation—the shock of temperature, the stark exposure, and the undeniable throb between her legs. 

Draco moved behind her, hands running down her sides, over the swell of her hips, claiming every inch.

"Are you still sore from last night?" he asked softly, his lips brushing her ear.

"Only a little," she whispered. "But I need you. Hard."

He groaned, the sound low and rough. "You’re insatiable."

"Only for you."

Without another word, he nudged her legs apart with his knee. One hand gripped her hip while the other slid between her thighs, stroking her slowly. She was already wet, and he groaned.

"So ready for me."

He guided the head of his cock to her entrance, dragging it through her slick folds. Teasing her.

She whimpered, pushing back against him. "Draco, please."

He didn’t make her beg further.

With one hard thrust, he buried himself inside her.

She cried out, her hands slapping against the cold window as she arched. Her walls stretched to accommodate him, still so tender from the night before. The familiar pressure of his Jacob’s ladder piercing dragging along her inner walls with devastating friction.

He set a fast, brutal rhythm. Each stroke sent her breasts bouncing against the glass, her nipples scraping against the chill, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core.

Draco’s hand snaked around her waist, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles in time with his thrusts.

"That’s it," he growled. "Take me. Just like that."

She moaned helplessly, her body shaking. The combination of his cock driving into her, his piercings dragging across her most sensitive places, and his fingers teasing her mercilessly—it was too much. Too perfect.

His other hand moved up to cup her breast, squeezing it, pinching her nipple gently.

"You’re fucking gorgeous," he said, voice hoarse. "Pressed up against the glass, moaning my name. Gods, Hermione."

Her breath came in fast gasps. The window fogged beneath her face. Her hands scrabbled for purchase.

"Draco, I’m—"

"Come for me."

She shattered around him with a cry, her orgasm ripping through her like lightning. Her body pulsed around his cock, milking him.

He cursed under his breath and followed her over the edge, thrusting deep one last time as he spilled inside her, his cock twitching, his hands holding her tight.

They stayed like that for a moment, her cheek pressed to the glass, his chest against her back, both of them panting, trembling.

Outside, the sea raged. Inside, they were a storm of their own.

That night, they curled under the blankets again, limbs tangled. The fire burned low. Their bodies ached in the best ways.

Neither spoke of the upcoming trial.

Or the return to London.

Or what the next two weeks would demand.

Chapter Text

Hermione closed the last file on her desk and exhaled slowly. The prep work for the trial was done. 

Across the room, Draco stood silently, watching her. She met his eyes, and he came to her without a word.

Their hands found each other instinctively. Hermione leaned into him, her forehead resting lightly against his chest. His arms wrapped around her.

“All done?” he asked, his voice quiet.

She nodded. “Yes. We’re as ready as we can be.”

The trial was set to begin at 9:00 a.m. sharp tomorrow.

Ron Weasley would face the Wizengamot.

Ron was scheduled to speak tomorrow, on the first day of the trial, and be cross-examined in the weeks to follow. The trial was set to run three weeks — enough time to present every memory, every statement, every piece of evidence.

The trial would be held behind closed doors. The memories Draco had extracted from Ron were graphic and deeply personal — showing the acts committed, the way Ron had hunted, manipulated and violated his victims. To protect their privacy, the Wizengamot had restricted public access. Only members of the court and a few key officials would be present.

The victims and their immediate families had been invited to attend if they wished. So had the Weasley family, though Hermione didn’t know whether they would show.

Some of the victims had confirmed they would be there. A few had prepared statements to describe the damage they had to live with: the fear, the confusion, the lost memories.

Harry and Ginny would come to show support for the victims. The Weasleys were undecided. 

Cormac McLaggen would be Ron’s ministry appointed lawyer.

He was known for being arrogant and holding deeply misogynistic views — the kind of man who thought women exaggerated harm, that men were “tempted,” that "boys will be boys" still counted as a defence.

But he was also a skilled defence barrister. Quick on his feet and ruthless.
Hermione hated that he would be speaking on Ron’s behalf. But he was the Ministry’s assigned lawyer.

These last two weeks had been relentless. When Hermione wasn’t preparing with Draco and the prosecution, she had been working with Lynn to arrange the first meeting of the victim support group. They’d gathered in a quiet room at St. Mungo’s, where Wynna could attend too.

Some women had spoken. Some had cried. Some, like Wynna, had simply listened. But there had been a strange kind of strength in the room. A shared understanding. Hermione felt deeply for these women. They deserved justice, they deserved closure.

And they would get it.

Tomorrow Ronald Weasley would face the Wizengamot. And he would be punished for his crimes.

Chapter Text

The atrium of the Ministry of Magic was packed.

Witches and wizards crowded the marble floor, voices hushed but excited. Reporters clutched notebooks and Quick-Quotes Quills, their eyes scanning the lifts and the fireplaces for new arrivals. Photographers loitered with enchanted cameras, hoping to catch a glimpse — of the victims, the Aurors, or of Ronald Weasley himself.

But none of them would make it beyond the security measures.

The courtroom was closed.

Behind enchanted barriers, guarded corridors, and layers of silencing spells, the trial of Ronald Bilius Weasley was about to begin.

Inside the chamber, the atmosphere was no less tense.

Hermione sat at the prosecution’s side of the courtroom, back straight, lips pressed in a firm line. Beside her, Draco stood tall, silent, his eyes scanning the assembled court.

The gallery held the victims and their families — the ones who had chosen to attend. Some sat with their hands tightly clasped others with expressions carved from stone.

Harry and Ginny were there, seated in the back row. Ginny’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest. She hadn’t spoken since entering the courtroom. Harry watched Hermione with quiet support.

The Weasley family had not appeared.

A low murmur stirred when the courtroom doors opened again.

Flanked by four Aurors, Ronald Weasley was brought in.

Heavy iron chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, the clinking loud against the stone floor. He looked thinner than he had before Christmas, his red hair slightly overgrown and unkempt, jaw set.

Hermione didn’t look at him.

Draco did.

His eyes followed Ron the whole way to the defendant’s chair, his expression unreadable, his posture still and composed — but his grip on the railing in front of him was tight.

Ron was chained to the chair.

The Aurors remained.

Cormac McLaggen sat beside him, flipping through parchment with dramatic flair, already looking pleased to be at the center of such a high-profile case.

Then silence fell.

The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot rose.

The charges were read aloud — the litany of crimes echoing through the chamber.

Then came the invitation for opening statements.

Small in stature, sharp in gaze, and armed with a tongue that had reduced far more seasoned criminals to silence, Edda Marchbanks, Senior Prosecutor for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stepped forward.

She adjusted her deep plum robes with precise fingers, then raised her chin and looked the assembled Wizengamot straight in the eye. Her voice, though not loud, cut cleanly through the tension in the room — crisp, unyielding, and unmistakably clear.

“Chief Warlock. Honoured members of the Wizengamot.

I stand before you today to present the case of Ronald Bilius Weasley — former war hero, celebrated son of one of our most respected families, and now, as the evidence will show, the perpetrator of a calculated, prolonged, and brutal string of magical crimes.

Over the course of the past months, twenty-four young witches have come forward. Twenty-four women who suffered not only physical and magical violations, but whose memories and autonomy were stripped from them.

The defendant did not merely violate these victims — he preyed upon them.

He selected them with intention. He approached them under false identities. He used Polyjuice Potion to disguise himself, to avoid capture. He exploited the Imperius Curse, an Unforgivable, to bend their will. He obliviated memories — sometimes hours, sometimes years— leaving his victims disoriented, frightened, and deeply scarred.

But he did not stop there. He used experimental mind-altering potions, and one particularly ancient, forbidden enchantment designed to forcibly bind a person’s affections.

The evidence will show that this was no momentary lapse of judgement. No emotional breakdown.

This was planned, deliberate, and evolved over time.

Over the course of this trial, you will hear from witnesses — some of them victims, some of them experts. You will see memories extracted directly from the defendant’s own mind. You will see intent. You will see conscious choices. You will see a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and did it anyway.

Ronald Weasley violated not just the laws of magic, but the very trust of our society. 

And now it is this court’s task to deliver what justice demands.

I ask the members of this Wizengamot to keep their minds open, their judgement clear, and their conscience sharp. Because by the end of this trial, the question will not be whether Ronald Weasley is guilty.

The question will be: how great must the punishment be to match the scale of the harm he has done?”

 

Marchbanks gave a short, precise nod to the Chief Warlock, then returned to her seat.

Cormac rose with deliberate ease, his confidence measured, as if he were speaking to a room full of old schoolmates rather than the highest court of magical law. He straightened his robes, nodded respectfully to the Chief Warlock, and let his voice carry smoothly through the courtroom.

“Chief Warlock. Esteemed members of the Wizengamot.

Before we leap to vilify a war hero, I ask that we take a moment to remember who Ronald Weasley truly is — and how he got here.

After the war — after standing on the front lines of the greatest battle our world has seen in a century — Mr. Weasley did not ask for praise. He did not seek fame. He did what many young wizards do: he left. He travelled. He tried to build a life for himself.

He spent five years abroad. Meeting people. Seeing the world. Searching — yes, searching — for meaning, for some way to fit back into a life no longer defined by war.

And when he returned, he expected — perhaps naïvely — to find a familiar constant.

Hermione Granger.

The girl he had loved since their school days. A woman who had once stood by him through battles. He came home to find that she had not only moved on, but had become romantically entangled with Draco Malfoy — a man with a... complicated history.

Now, I am not here to cast aspersions on Mr. Malfoy. But I am here to acknowledge that such a development was, understandably, deeply troubling to Mr. Weasley.

The man was heartbroken. Disoriented. And yes, concerned. He believed, perhaps wrongly — or perhaps not — that Miss Granger was not acting of her own free will. That she was not herself. That something was... off.

And so began what I believe you’ll see, through the course of this trial, was a misguided but sincere attempt to bring her back. To bring her back to herself.

Now, you will hear accusations. Frightening ones. Words like ‘Unforgivable’ and ‘Forbidden’ will be used.

But we must also consider this: every woman Mr. Weasley was involved with accompanied him willingly.

They met in bars, in clubs, at events. They spoke. They laughed. They left together. 

Yes, you will hear of certain... activities. Some potions, some charms. Perhaps even a bit of rough play — which, I might add, is not unheard of in certain adult dynamics.

But we must ask — and we will ask — whether those encounters were truly coercive, or whether, in retrospect, some of these women have shifted their stories to match the narrative presented by the prosecution.

These are not battle-hardened duelists. These are, in most cases, fragile, suggestible young women.

It is convenient, is it not, to lay every blank space in memory at the feet of the man already accused?

This trial must seek truth, not vengeance. Context, not hysteria.

Mr. Weasley did not act out of malice, but out of love, confusion, and perhaps desperation.

And I intend to show, over the coming days, that this case is not the tale of a monster.

But of a man — flawed, yes — who has been misunderstood, misrepresented, and, perhaps, unfairly condemned before his story has even been heard.”

 

Cormac let the silence sit for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the assembled members of the court, then slowly, confidently, returned to his seat — as if certain he had just turned the tide.

As McLaggen spun his narrative — painting Ron as a romantic hero led astray, a man wronged and misunderstood — Ron sat straighter in his seat. The chains binding him to the chair clinked quietly as he shifted, his head lifting just slightly. He looked pleased.

Smug, even.

There was a glint in his eyes, something dark and self-congratulatory. He nodded faintly, as if agreeing with each point McLaggen made — especially the parts about Hermione. His gaze drifted across the courtroom to where she sat beside Malfoy, and for a moment, his expression softened.

Hermione didn’t move. Her spine was straight, her hands folded in her lap, but her knuckles had gone white. Her jaw was clenched. She had somewhat expected that McLaggen would use her relationship to Draco as justification for Rons actions. But the blatant disregard for the victims, the insinuation that they had been willing... it hit her in a way that made her stomach turn.

Next to her, Draco sat perfectly still. His features were unreadable to anyone else, but Hermione had learned to see the signs: the slight twitch of his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t leave McLaggen for a second. He was furious.

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped forward when called, offering a measured nod to the Chief Warlock before speaking clearly and steadily.

“As Senior Auror and lead investigator on this case, I will provide an overview of the investigation that led to the arrest and formal charges against Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

She stood with her hands loosely clasped, her voice even.

“The investigation began following a series of reports from young witches who had experienced unexplained memory loss and physical symptoms consistent with magical interference. Each victim reported waking in unfamiliar places—often outdoors or in areas far from their last known location. They retained no memory of the events between the time they were last seen and when they regained consciousness.”

She paused briefly before continuing.

“Medical examinations revealed residual effects of spellwork—specifically memory charms and faint traces of the Imperius Curse. In addition, physical examinations showed signs consistent with non-consensual physical contact. The victims exhibited physical and magical trauma. Healers at St Mungo’s confirmed that these findings were not self-inflicted, accidental, or consensual in nature.”

Hermione glanced up at the Wizengamot.

“The Auror Office quickly classified these incidents as linked. The working theory was that these witches had been deliberately targeted, abducted, subjected to mind-control spells, and repeatedly violated.”

Her tone remained composed, though a flicker of pain moved behind her eyes.

“As of today, we have identified and confirmed 24 victims. The pattern was clear: all were approached while alone in public spaces, and all were later found with altered memories, and evidence of physical and sexual abuse. In the later cases, the memory modifications became increasingly imprecise. Some victims lost months, one even lost years of memory. Others reported severe emotional and cognitive side effects.”

Hermione turned a page in her file.

“The twenty-third case provided the breakthrough. A sample—semen—was left behind on the victim. With the use of DNA analysis, a muggle forensic method, we were able to create a DNA-profile of the perpetrator. Although this method is uncommon in our legal system, it is reliable and recognized by St Mungo’s healers.”

She continued steadily.

“Shortly after the disappearance of the twenty-fourth victim, Wynna Cobble, Ronald Weasley was identified as a suspect. He had been seen with the victim shortly before her disappearance by a credible eyewitness. As a person of interest in this investigation, Mr. Weasley was put under discreet surveillance. We acquired a DNA sample from Mr. Weasley, and testing confirmed a match with the sample taken from the previous victim.”

Hermione nodded slightly.

“Mr. Weasley was tracked to a remote, abandoned cottage, where he was found in possession of a variety of potions—specifically those known to interfere with emotion and free will. He also possessed polyjuice potion and an old spellbook detailing a forbidden charm to permanently bind someone emotionally.”

“We believe he was preparing for another abduction.”

Hermione’s voice lowered slightly.

“Mr. Weasley was taken into custody but later escaped, exploiting the inexperience of a trainee Auror. A full investigation into this breach has been conducted separately.”

She paused, then looked directly at the bench again.

“One week later, Mr. Weasley was apprehended again. During a covert operation, he attempted to abduct an individual he believed to be me. That individual was in fact Senior Auror Draco Malfoy under polyjuice disguise, working as part of a coordinated sting. Mr. Weasley used deception, a disguise of his own, and attempted to restrain his target with force. He was disarmed and taken into custody.”

Hermione took a breath.

“Following his arrest, we performed a lawful legilimency-based extraction of his memories. The contents of those memories confirmed his pattern of behavior. He repeatedly used polyjuice potion to disguise himself, engaged in the use of the Imperius Curse, administered illegal potions without consent, and violated his victims—both physically and magically—over a span of months.”

She finished:

“The evidence that will be presented to this court includes forensic material, victim testimony, witness statements and the suspect’s own unaltered memories.”

Hermione nodded respectfully to the bench.

“We ask the court to consider this case with the seriousness it demands. The victims deserve justice.”

Prosecutor Edda Marchbanks rose from her seat, stepped into the center of the courtroom and faced Hermione Granger. 

“Auror Granger,” she began, “thank you for your statement. I would like to ask a few follow-up questions.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course.”

Edda’s voice was steady, measured. “You testified that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement classified these crimes as serial after recognizing a pattern among victims. Can you specify how early in the investigation this conclusion was reached?”

“After the seventh case,” Hermione replied. “There were consistent similarities in memory loss and physical abuse. We suspected one individual was responsible for all incidents from that point forward.”

“And all victims displayed signs of magical interference?”

“Yes. Every single one. Memory modification was present in all cases, as well as subtle signs of compulsion—primarily residual traces of the Imperius Curse.”

Eleanor nodded. “Thank you. You also mentioned that victims experienced physical trauma?”

“Yes,” Hermione said without hesitation. “Medical examinations performed by certified healers revealed physical evidence of assault. Injuries consistent with resistance, restraint, and non-consensual intercourse. In all cases, consent was determined to be magically coerced or entirely absent due to the imperius curse or the use of love and lust potions.”

Eleanor’s voice sharpened slightly. “To clarify: these women were not capable of consent at the time?”

“No, they were not.”

“And Ronald Weasley—did you find any indication in your investigation that he was unaware of this lack of consent?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “The level of planning and magical interference—acquiring polyjuice and mind-altering potions, using the Imperius Curse—indicates full awareness. These actions were not spontaneous. They were intentional. Repeated. Controlled.”

Edda allowed a brief pause, letting the courtroom absorb the weight of Hermione’s words.

“You also testified that a sample of Mr. Weasley’s DNA was matched to the twenty-third victim. How was this confirmed?”

“We acquired a hair sample from Mr. Weasley. The forensic team in an independent muggle lab compared the DNA against the semen sample recovered from the victim. The match was definitive. There was no ambiguity.”

Eleanor took a step forward.

“Did Mr. Weasley offer any explanation at that time?”

“No,” Hermione answered. “He was taken into custody shortly after the match was confirmed, but did not cooperate during the interrogation.”

“You said he escaped custody?”

“Yes. During overnight detention at the Department, he manipulated a young trainee Auror and walked out undetected. That Auror has since been let go. It was a severe breach, and we have taken steps to prevent anything similar in the future.”

Eleanor Vance nodded. “And the second apprehension?”

Hermione straightened. “We anticipated he would attempt another abduction—specifically of me. We devised a sting operation. Auror Malfoy took polyjuice potion and appeared in public in my form, while I coordinated surveillance with other field Aurors. Mr. Weasley approached, disguised, and attempted to abduct Malfoy, believing he had overpowered me.”

The prosecutor turned slightly toward the Wizengamot.

“Final question for now, Ms. Granger. You believe you were his primary target?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. Based on his memories and his fixation on me—it is clear he intended to abduct and bind me to him using the same methods he used on his last victim, Wynna Cobble.”

Eleanor turned back to the bench.

“No further questions at this time.”

She returned to her seat, hands folded, her expression unreadable.

The atmosphere in the chamber shifted as Cormac McLaggen rose from his seat.

He adjusted his cuffs slowly, as though the courtroom were his stage.

“Auror Granger,” he began, striding a few paces forward, “thank you for your testimony.” His tone was overly polite.

Hermione remained expressionless. “You're welcome.”

Cormac adopted a thoughtful look. “Let’s discuss the tracking spell. You stated earlier that your department placed a tracking charm on Mr. Weasley prior to receiving the DNA results. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed. “He was a person of interest at that time, based on the testimony of a witness who placed him with the final victim shortly before her abduction.”

“Ah yes,” Cormac nodded. “And who, may I ask, performed that tracking charm?”

“Auror Malfoy,” Hermione replied without hesitation.

Cormac raised a brow, pausing just long enough for the courtroom to absorb the name.

“I see. And do you, personally, consider this tracking spell a violation of Mr. Weasley’s privacy?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. The charm was temporary. It was designed to fade within a matter of days. We did not access it until we had compelling forensic evidence linking Mr. Weasley to the case.”

Cormac smiled faintly, the kind of smile that never reached the eyes. “How convenient. A privacy-invading spell placed on a man who—at that point—had not yet been a suspect, but merely a person of interest.”

Hermione’s tone remained calm. “The spell did not violate any ministry protocol. We followed proper procedure. Had the forensic results not matched, the charm would have worn off naturally without ever being accessed.”

Cormac nodded, feigning contemplation. Then he looked up sharply.

“Would you say Auror Malfoy had a personal bias against Ronald Weasley?”

Hermione didn’t flinch. “You’d have to ask him.”

“Do you believe he had a personal interest in steering this investigation a certain way, given that Ronald Weasley is your former partner?”

Hermione met his gaze squarely. “Auror Malfoy is a professional. He does not allow personal feelings to influence his work.”

Cormac raised his voice slightly, as if addressing the court more than Hermione. “But there were personal feelings involved, were there not? If I understand correctly—” He made a grand gesture with one hand. “—you and Auror Malfoy are romantically involved. At present.”

A pause fell in the courtroom. Hermione responded coolly.

“Yes. But again, that’s irrelevant. The investigation followed protocol. The evidence speaks for itself.”

Cormac stepped closer, pushing the moment. “But wouldn’t you agree that personal relationships, especially ones rooted in romantic entanglement, may color judgment—consciously or unconsciously?”

Hermione remained still. “If you're concerned about Auror Malfoy’s objectivity, I suggest you address him directly when he’s called to testify. My role in the investigation and the evidence I have presented remain unaffected.”

Cormac’s smile thinned. “Very well.” He turned, walking slowly, then spun back to face her.

“One final question, Ms. Granger.” His voice dripped with mock concern. “Given the rather unusual nature of this case—dark potions, manipulation, the suggestion of charms cast without consent—would you yourself be willing to undergo a diagnostic examination? To ensure that you are not currently under the influence of a dark spell or potion, one that might impair your perception of Mr. Malfoy or this case?”

Gasps echoed softly in the room.

Before Hermione could respond, the Chief Warlock cleared his throat with sharp authority.

“That is enough, Mr. McLaggen. Auror Granger is not under investigation. We will not entertain baseless speculation or personal innuendo under the guise of legal questioning. Stay focused on your client’s defense.”

Cormac held up both hands in faux surrender. “Of course, Chief Warlock. No further questions.”

He returned to his bench, still smirking.

Hermione stepped down from the witness stand, her face composed, but her shoulders tight with the tension.