Harry Potter One-Shots/Series - 1 (Patreon)

Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.

Harry Potter One-Shots/Series

Story – Weasley is our King (Ron/Lavender)

Chapter 1

~ Ron Weasley ~

The silence of the sixth-floor corridor was heavy, a suffocating blanket of stone and shadow that seemed to press against Ron Weasley’s chest. It was late, far past the hour when students should be wandering the labyrinthine guts of Hogwarts, but sleep was a distant country Ron couldn’t find a map for.

He leaned against a cold tapestry, the rough wool scratching his neck, and stared out a narrow window at the dark grounds below. Down there, somewhere near the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid’s hut was a tiny beacon of warmth. Up here, Ron felt cold.

It wasn’t the temperature. It was the crushing weight of irrelevance.

Sixth year. The year everything was supposed to change, and yet, for Ron, it felt like the year the world decided to leave him behind. He looked at his hands, pale and freckled in the moonlight. Hands that were good for... what? Holding a broom, sometimes, if his nerves didn’t shatter like spun sugar. Holding a wand that always felt a second too slow compared to the others.

He thought of Harry. Harry, the Chosen One. The title used to be a burden Harry hated, but lately, there was a steel to his best mate. Harry was training. He was disappearing for hours, coming back with sweat-matted hair and a look of grim determination. He was learning to fight a war that was rapidly approaching the castle gates. Harry had a destiny.

He thought of Hermione. Brilliant, terrifying Hermione. She was devouring the library shelf by shelf, her magic becoming sharper, more precise. She could brew potions that would baffle seventh years; she could cast non-verbal spells with a flick of her wrist. She was a titan of intellect, forging herself into a weapon of knowledge.

Even Neville. The boy who used to lose his toad three times a week was now different. There was a hardness in his eyes, a quiet confidence growing as he delved into the politics of the Wizarding World, rallying the D.A., standing tall against Death Eaters. Neville had found his spine.

And Ron?

Ron was just... Ron. The sixth Weasley. The one with the hand-me-down robes and the second-hand wand. The comic relief. The sidekick. He wasn’t the hero, he wasn’t the brains, and he wasn’t the heart. He was the spare part.

"I need... I need something," he whispered to the empty corridor. His voice cracked, pathetic in the silence. "I can't just be this anymore."

He pushed himself off the wall, his footsteps echoing softly as he began to walk. He didn't have a destination; he just needed to move, to outrun the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Malfoy, telling him he was worthless.

His feet took him downwards. Down the moving staircases, past the sleeping portraits who grumbled at his intrusion, down into the belly of the castle. The air grew cooler, damp with the smell of subterranean lakes and ancient mould. The Dungeons.

He shouldn’t be here. Filch would skin him alive. Snape would do worse—he’d expel him, or perhaps use him as ingredients for a particularly nasty boil-curing potion. But the adrenaline of being somewhere forbidden was the only thing making him feel alive.

He turned a corner and froze.

Ahead, a strip of light cut across the dark flagstones. It was coming from a heavy oak door that stood slightly ajar. Snape’s office.

Ron pressed himself into the shadows, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Snape never left his office open.

He waited, counting the seconds. One minute. Two. Silence. No sweeping black robes, no sneering voice. He remembered hearing McGonagall’s voice earlier in the Great Hall, something about a dual in the courtyard between a group of seventh-year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Snape must have been summoned urgently, leaving in such a haste he’d forgotten the locking charm.

It was madness. It was suicide.

It was an opportunity.

Ron crept forward, his breath held tight in his lungs. He reached the sliver of light and peered inside. The office was empty. The jars of floating, pickled horrors lined the walls, their dead eyes watching him. The fireplace was cold.

He slipped inside.

"Just a look," he told himself. "Just to see if there's... something."

He moved to the desk. It was cluttered with parchment, marked essays (mostly failing grades, he noted with a grimace), and several open texts. But his eyes were drawn to a small, leather-bound notebook lying open near an inkwell. Snape’s handwriting was spiky and cramped.

Ron leaned over, squinting at the page.

Experimental Variant 7-B. Stability achieved. The underlying matrix of Felix Felicis has been altered. Where the original manipulates probability to favour the drinker, this variant fundamentally restructures the drinker's potential to meet the probability.

Ron frowned, his lips moving as he read. "Restructures potential..."

He read on.

It does not merely provide luck; it forces the body and mind to optimize. It burns away the inefficiencies. It creates the vessel required for success. Caution: The somatic reconfiguration is agonizing. Survival rate of test subjects (rats): 60%.

Underneath the notes, scrawled in bold ink, was a single word:

LUCK.

And next to the notebook, sitting in a small wooden rack, was a crystal vial. It wasn't the molten gold of standard Felix Felicis. This liquid was iridescent, shifting from gold to a deep, violent crimson, swirling with a pearlescent smoke. It looked beautiful. It looked dangerous.

Ron’s hand hovered over it.

It creates the vessel required for success.

He thought of Hermione’s disappointed face when he failed a Transfiguration again. He thought of Harry saving his life, over and over. He thought of the way girls looked through him, eyes landing on Harry or Cormac McLaggen.

"I'm tired of being the sidekick," Ron muttered.

His fingers closed around the cold crystal. He shoved the vial into his pocket, his heart thumping so hard he thought it might burst. He turned and fled, slipping out of the office and back into the shadows of the dungeon, running until his lungs burned and his legs shook.

He didn’t stop until he reached the seventh floor. He paced three times in front of the blank stretch of wall.

‘I need a place to hide. I need a place to change. I need a place to be safe.’

The door to the Room of Requirement materialized, ancient and inviting. Ron slipped inside. The room had provided a soft armchair, a roaring fire, and a heavy lock on the door.

He sat down, pulling the vial from his pocket. The liquid swirled angrily, as if it knew it had been stolen.

"Fifty-fifty chance it kills me," Ron whispered, remembering the rats.

He looked into the fire. If he didn't drink it, he’d wake up tomorrow as Ron Weasley. Just Ron. Average, invisible, insecure Ron.

If he drank it...

"Cheers," he said to the empty room.

He uncorked the vial and downed it in one gulp.

It didn’t taste like luck. It tasted like swallowing a bolt of lightning wrapped in barbed wire.

The glass vial slipped from his numb fingers and shattered on the floor. Ron gasped, clutching his throat as the fire spread. It wasn't just in his stomach; it was seeping inside his blood, his marrow, his very DNA.

He fell from the chair, writhed on the rug. His bones felt like they were liquefying and reforming. His muscles spasmed, tearing and knitting back together in seconds, denser, harder. His skull felt like it was splitting open to make room for something new.

He tried to scream, but his vocal cords were seizing, thickening, deepening. The pain was a white-hot supernova, blinding and absolute. It felt like he was being unmade and forged anew on an anvil of pure magic.

‘Reconfigure,’ the notebook had said.

‘Pain,’ Ron’s mind screamed.

And then, the darkness took him.


~ Two Months Later - Hermione Granger ~

The Great Hall was a cacophony of clattering silverware, owl screeches, and the dull roar of hundreds of conversations. Morning sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, which today reflected a crisp, cloudless cobalt sky. The smell of greasy bacon, heavy sausages, and buttery toast filled the air—a scent that usually brought Hermione Granger a sense of grounding comfort.

Today, however, Hermione was finding it difficult to focus on her copy of Advanced Rune Translation.

She sat at the Gryffindor table, a piece of toast hovering halfway to her mouth, her eyes narrowed slightly as she observed the scene unfolding down the bench. It was a phenomenon she had categorized in her mind as 'The Shift,' though she refused to say it out loud.

Across from her, Ginny Weasley was rolling her eyes so hard Hermione feared they might get stuck.

"It’s pathetic, honestly," Ginny muttered, stabbing a sausage with unnecessary violence. "Look at them. Romilda Vane has unbuttoned another button. If she goes any lower, she’ll need a sticking charm to avoid a public indecency violation."

Hermione followed Ginny’s gaze. Further down the table, a cluster of fourth and fifth-year girls were giggling and preening, checking their reflections in the backs of spoons. They were applying lip gloss with the precision of potion masters. And it wasn't just Gryffindors. At the Hufflepuff table, Susan Bones was staring openly. Even a few Ravenclaws had abandoned their books to watch the entrance doors.

"They're acting like hormonal cats in heat," Hermione sighed, finally taking a bite of her toast. She tried to sound dismissive, superior. She tried to convince herself she wasn't checking the smoothness of her own hair.

Across the table, Parvati Patil was checking her reflection in the back of a spoon, frantically smoothing her eyebrows. Beside her, Lavender Brown had applied a shade of lipstick that was technically against dress code, a deep, sultry berry colour, and had unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

"It’s the pheromones or something," Ginny grumbled. "Or maybe it’s just that he’s huge now. I don't know. It’s weird seeing your brother turn into... that."

"He’s just been working out, Ginny," Hermione said, flipping a page of her book without reading a single word. "And studying. Puberty hits everyone differently."

"Puberty?" Ginny snorted. "Hermione, he grew four inches in a week. He went from lanky to... a distinctive wall of muscle. And since when does Ron Weasley get up at 6:00 AM to go for runs around the Black Lake?"

Hermione didn't answer. She knew exactly when. It had started two months ago. Ron had disappeared for a night—Harry had been frantic, the Marauder's Map useless—and when he’d reappeared the next morning in the hospital wing, claiming a bad reaction to a Weasley Wizard Wheezes product, he had been... different.

Taller. Broader. His jawline, once soft, was now cut from granite. His eyes, usually a pale blue, seemed to burn with an intense, electric sapphire hue. But the physical changes were just the surface.

The doors to the Great Hall swung open.

The chatter in the hall didn't stop, but the pitch changed. It became breathy, excited.

Harry Potter walked in first, looking tired and windblown, his hair a disaster as usual. But behind him walked Ron.

Hermione felt the familiar, treacherous flutter in her stomach. She squashed it down with the ruthlessness she had mastered since the day it all started.

Ron Weasley was, objectively speaking, magnificent.

He stood at six-foot-five now, towering over Harry but almost a foot. The standard Hogwarts robes had been tailored—or perhaps magically altered—to fit a frame that belonged on a Greek statue rather than a student. His shoulders were impossibly broad, tapering down to a waist that moved with a lion’s grace. His red hair was slightly longer, a fiery mane that framed a face of rugged, masculine beauty.

He wasn't slouching. Old Ron slouched. This Ron moved with a confidence, a fluid stride that ate up the distance to the table. He was laughing at something Harry said, a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

"Morning, ladies," Ron said as he slid onto the bench next to Harry, directly across from Hermione.

The scent hit her first. No longer did he smell of old broomstick polish and dust. He smelled of rain, cedarwood, and something spicy and hot, like a heavy dusting of cinnamon.

"Ronald," Hermione said, her voice tight. She kept her eyes on her book. "You're late. We have Potions in twenty minutes."

"Plenty of time," Ron said easily. He reached for a platter of eggs. His forearm muscles flexed as he served himself, the sleeves of his robes rolled up to the elbows. "Slughorn loves me. He won't mind if I stroll in with a bit of toast."

"Even McGonagall is charmed," Harry corrected, grinning as he poured pumpkin juice. "Which is still weird, by the way. Since when were you a Transfiguration prodigy?"

Ron shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. He bit into an apple with a crisp crunch. "Just clicked, mate. It’s all about intuition. You stop fighting the objects and let them tell you what they want to be."

Hermione felt a vein throb in her temple. "Transfiguration is delicate magic, Ronald. If you are not careful, you will hurt yourself. Or worse, someone else."

Ron looked at her then. Those electric blue eyes locked onto hers, and for a second, the sounds of the Great Hall faded. There was an intensity in his gaze that made her breath hitch. It was amused, knowing, and undeniably hot.

"If you say so, Hermione," he drawled. "But the scoreboard says otherwise."

Hermione flushed. It was true. For the first time in six years, her position at the top of the class was under siege. Not by Harry. By Ron. He was currently third in their year, trailing only her and Daphne Greengrass, who had seemingly taken Ron’s sudden academic rise as a personal challenge too.

"Don't get cocky," Hermione snapped, finally looking up. "One good semester doesn't erase five years of copying my homework."

Ron leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The movement brought his face closer to hers. She could see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the only remnant of the boy he used to be.

"I'm not copying anymore, Hermione," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm improvising. Improving. Evolving." He winked. "You should try it. Might help you relax."

A girl further down the table—Parvati Patil—actually dropped her goblet. Pumpkin juice splashed everywhere.

"Smooth," Ginny muttered, though she looked less annoyed and more resigned.

"Quidditch match this Saturday," Harry interjected, saving Hermione from having to come up with a retort that wouldn't sound like a strangled squeak. "Slytherin. You ready, Ron?"

"I'm always ready," Ron said. He wasn't boasting. He was stating a fact. Since taking over the Keeper spot, not a single Quaffle had passed his hoops. He played with a terrifying efficiency, blocking shots before the Chasers had even fully committed to throwing them. It was as if he knew where the ball was going before they did.

"Good," Harry said. "Because Malfoy's been looking smug. I think he's got something planned."

"Let him plan," Ron said, skewering a sausage.

"Luck isn't on his side," he chuckled, leaning back and stretching his arm along the bench behind Harry. The movement caused his shirt to pull tight across his chest, the fabric straining against pectorals that were frankly obscene for a teenager.

Lavender, sitting two seats down, looked like she was about to hyperventilate. She leaned forward, her chest pressing against the table. "Ron, are you still doing the extra Keeper training tonight? The team looks amazing with you in the hoops. We haven't let in a goal in three matches."

Ron turned his charm on Lavender. "Always grinding, Lav. Can't let the fans down. But I might have some free time later. Around eight?"

Lavender bit her lip, her eyes wide. "I... I can be free at eight."

"Excellent," Ron said, his voice dropping an octave, intimate despite the crowded room. "I'll find you."

Hermione felt a surge of nausea that was distinctly green-tinted. She slammed her book shut, the noise piercing whatever conversation was going between Ron and that... that... that bimbo. "I'm going to class," she announced, standing up abruptly. "Some of us actually have to study to maintain our grades."

"See you there," Ron called after her.

As she stormed out of the Great Hall, head held high, Hermione Granger tried very hard not to think about the way Ron’s eyes had dropped to her lips when she spoke. And she tried even harder to ignore the treacherous heat pooling in her belly.

He was infuriating. He was arrogant. He was a complete and utter... Chad.

And she wanted him so badly it was making her dizzy.

~ Hermione Granger ~

The day passed in a blur of academic frustration for Hermione.

In Transfiguration, they were practicing human transfiguration specifically, altering facial features. McGonagall was prowling the rows, her lips thinned in concentration.

"Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said, stopping at Ron’s desk. "You have successfully changed your eyebrows to... well, I suppose that is the colour of a Norwegian Ridgeback's scales."

"Thought it added some flair, Professor," Ron said, conjuring a mirror to admire the shimmering green brows.

"Focus on the structure, not the fashion, Mr. Weasley," she chided, but Hermione saw the hint of a smile on the strict professor's face. Everyone, it seemed, was charmed by the new Ron.

Hermione, meanwhile, had accidentally given herself a beak because she was too busy watching Ron’s hands. His fingers were long, moving with a fluid grace as he tapped his wand. He looked bored. Not the confused boredom of the past, but the boredom of someone waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

By the time evening rolled around, Hermione was exhausted. Being a Prefect, combined with the mental gymnastics of denying her attraction to one of her best friends, was taking its toll.

"Patrol duty," she muttered to herself, checking her watch. It was 8:00 PM. "Fifth floor corridor."

She adjusted her badge, smoothed her skirt, and stepped out of the Gryffindor common room. The castle was quiet at night, the torches flickering in their brackets, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.

She walked the familiar route, her mind wandering. She thought about the way Ron had looked at dinner. He had been sitting with Lavender Brown. Lavender had been laughing, touching his arm, leaning into him. The old Ron would have turned beet red and stammered. This Ron had simply smiled, leaning back, looking like a king holding court.

It made Hermione’s blood boil. Lavender was vapid, silly, and... undeniably curvy.

"Focus, Granger," she whispered. "Deduct points. Keep order."

She turned a corner near the History of Magic classroom and stopped.

Ahead, in the dim light of the corridor, she saw two figures. One was tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakable. The other was shorter, with honey-blonde hair that caught the torchlight.

Ron and Lavender.

They were walking close together. Too close. Lavender’s hand was tucked into the back pocket of Ron’s trousers. Ron’s arm was draped over her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

Hermione’s breath hitched. She should call out. She should tell them to get back to the common room. It was past curfew.

But the words died in her throat.

She watched as Ron guided Lavender toward an unused classroom—the old Charms practice room that Flitwick had abandoned years ago because of a permanent draft. Ron pushed the door open with his foot, and they slipped inside.

The door clicked shut.

Hermione stood frozen in the hallway. Her heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. ‘Walk away,’ her mind screamed. ‘Walk away, go to bed, forget you saw this.’

Her feet didn't move.

A dark, twisting curiosity bloomed in her chest. It was the same thirst for knowledge that drove her to the Restricted Section, but this was different. This was primal. Visceral.

She took a step forward. Then another.

She reached the door. It was locked, obviously. She could hear the faint murmur of voices inside, silenced by a Muffliato charm. Ron was thorough.

Hermione bit her lip. She looked left, then right. The corridor was empty.

She moved to the adjacent classroom. It was empty, dusty, filled with broken desks. She slipped inside and closed the door softly.

The two rooms shared a stone wall.

Hermione drew her wand. Her hand was trembling. This was a violation. This was wrong. This was voyeurism.

"Just to see if they're... safe," she lied to herself. "To make sure he's not... taking advantage."

She pointed her wand at the stone wall separating the rooms. It was a complex piece of transfiguration, turning opaque stone into transparent glass, but only from one side. Like a Muggle interrogation mirror.

"Diaphanous," she whispered, barely exhaling the incantation.

Hermione gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth.

The classroom had been cleared in the centre. Desks were shoved against the walls, creating a makeshift arena of intimacy. Floating balls of soft, golden light hovered near the ceiling, casting the room in a warm, honeyed glow.

Ron was sitting on the edge of the teacher’s desk, his long legs spread wide, his feet planted firmly on the floor. He had discarded his outer robes and his tie. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing the hard, defined lines of his pectorals and the dusting of copper hair that trailed down his torso. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were thick with muscle and veined with power.

Lavender Brown was on her knees between his legs.

She was still in her school uniform, but her skirt was hiked up around her hips, and her shirt was dishevelled. She looked small compared to him, fragile almost. Her hands were resting on his thighs, her fingers digging into the muscle. She looked up at him with an expression of total, abject worship.

"You look beautiful down there, Lav," Ron said, his voice smooth like velvet over gravel. He reached out, his large hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lips.

Lavender leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. "I'll do anything you want, Ron. Anything."

"I know you will," Ron murmured. He tangled his fingers in her hair, gripping it firmly. "Because you know who you belong to now, don't you?"

"Yes," she breathed, a whimper escaping her throat. "I'm yours. Only yours."

Hermione felt her knees weaken. The dynamic was palpable, a heavy, erotic tension that saturated the air. Ron wasn't just receiving affection; he was consuming it. He sat there like a king accepting tribute.

"Show me then," Ron commanded.

Lavender didn't hesitate. She moved forward, her hands fumbling with the belt of his trousers. Her movements were frantic, desperate. She undid the buckle, the zipper hissing as she lowered it.

Hermione couldn't look away. She was paralyzed, her breath trapped in her lungs. She watched as Lavender freed him.

Ron was... impressive. Even flaccid, he was heavy, thick. As Lavender took him in her hands, he began to harden instantly, growing to a size that made Hermione’s eyes widen. The potion hadn't just affected his height.

Lavender let out a soft sound of appreciation, leaning forward to kiss the tip. Ron hissed, his head tipping back, his eyes closing. His hands tightened in her hair.

"Good girl," he growled. "Take it."

Lavender opened her mouth and took him in.

Hermione felt a jolt of electricity shoot straight to her groin. The sight was raw, primal. Ron watched Lavender work, his expression one of intense focus and pleasure. He wasn't passive; his hips bucked slightly, meeting her rhythm, guiding her head with the hand in her hair.

"Deeper," he instructed.

Lavender gagged slightly but pushed herself, taking more of him, her eyes watering but never leaving his face. She wanted to please him so badly it was palpable even through the wall.

Ron’s hand left her hair and moved to her throat, gripping it hard enough to leave the marks of his thick fingers. "That's it. Just like that."

Hermione felt flush, sweat pricking at her hairline. She was intruding on something incredibly private, yet she felt like she was learning more about Ron in these few minutes than she had in six years. This wasn't the boy who stumbled over his words. This was a man who knew what he wanted and took it.

Hermione’s hand drifted down her own body. She couldn't help it. The sight was too raw, too provoking. Her fingers found the hem of her skirt, slipping underneath. She touched herself through the silk of her panties, gasping at the sensitivity.

After several minutes, Ron pulled her off him gently but firmly. Lavender made a noise of protest, her lips slick and swollen.

"Not like that," Ron said, standing up. He towered over her. "Get on the desk."

Lavender scrambled up onto the sturdy wooden desk, lying back. She pulled her knees up, spreading her legs wide for him. She wasn't wearing panties.

Ron stepped between her legs. He loomed over her, placing his hands on the desk on either side of her head, boxing her in. The size difference was staggering. His broad shoulders blocked out the light, casting her in his shadow.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark with lust. "You're so wet, Lav. Did you get like this just thinking about me?"

"Yes," she moaned, her hips writhing. "All day. In Charms, in History... I couldn't stop thinking about you filling me."

Ron smirked, that arrogant, confident smirk. "Well, your luck’s in."

He didn't fumble. He didn't ask if she was ready—he knew she was. He lined himself up and pushed inside her in one long, slow stroke.

Lavender screamed, a sound of pleasure and shock, her back arching off the desk. "Oh god! Ron!"

"Too big?" he teased, though he didn't stop. He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in, his hips meeting hers with a wet slap of flesh.

"No! No, it's perfect! It's perfect!" she cried out, her nails scratching at the wood of the desk.

Hermione bit her knuckle to keep from making a sound. The visual was overwhelming. Ron was relentless. His pace was steady, powerful. Every thrust shook Lavender’s body. He was in complete control, his face a mask of concentration and dominance.

"Look at me," Ron ordered.

Lavender opened her eyes, locking onto his.

"Say my name," he growled, increasing the pace.

"Ron! Ron, please! Oh, Merlin!"

"That's right," he grunted, the strain finally showing in his voice. "Who’s the best?"

"You are! You're the King! Ron Weasley is my King!" Lavender shrieked, delirious with pleasure.

Hermione let out a small sob, her fingers slipping inside her panties, finding her clit. She began to rub, matching the rhythm of Ron’s thrusts.

It was almost comical, yet the sheer intensity of the act stripped away any humour.

Ron leaned down, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss, stifling her screams as he drove into her harder, faster. The desk groaned under their combined weight and force.

Hermione watched the muscles in Ron’s back ripple and flex. He was a machine. A force of nature. He wasn't just fucking her; he was owning the moment, owning the room, owning her.

Suddenly, Ron pulled back, breaking the kiss. He moved away, his cock unsheathing itself from Lavender's cunt, earning a whine of disappointment from the girl. That was until, he hauled her up and placed her against the wall.

"Please," Lavender begged. "Please, Ron."

He turned her around, pressing her palms against the wall. Against the glass.

Hermione was face-to-face with Lavender, staring into her glazed, lust-filled eyes.

Ron stepped up behind her. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

"Spread them," he commanded.

Lavender obeyed, widening her stance.

Ron guided himself to her entrance. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.

Lavender screamed, a sharp cry of pleasure and shock that was muffled by the spell but still audible. Her head knocked back against the glass with a thud.

Hermione let out a small sob, her fingers slipping inside her panties, finding her clit. She began to rub, matching the rhythm of Ron’s thrusts.

He was relentless. He wasn't gentle. He was pounding into Lavender with a primal intensity, his hips slamming against her buttocks with a wet, slapping sound. His face was a mask of concentration and pleasure, sweat glistening on his forehead.

Ron gritted out. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes! Yes! Harder!" Lavender cried, her fingernails scratching against the invisible barrier.

Hermione imagined it was her. She imagined those big hands gripping her hips. She imagined that massive weight filling her, stretching her, owning her. She imagined Ron’s hot breath in her ear, his deep voice commanding her.

‘It should be me,’ she thought, the jealousy mixing with the lust into a potent, intoxicating cocktail. ‘I’m the one who knows him. I’m the one who's been with him for years. It should be me against that wall.’

Ron increased the pace. He was a machine, his stamina unnatural. The muscles in his back rippled and flexed with every thrust. He grabbed Lavender’s hair, pulling her head back so he could bite her shoulder.

Hermione was close. So close. Her rubbing became frantic. She stared at Ron’s face, at the sheer masculine power radiating off him.

"Ron!" Lavender shrieked. "I'm coming! I'm coming!"

"Come for me," Ron growled.

"Do it," Lavender begged, fighting hard to stay upright, the force of his thrusts bending her in half. "Fill me up. Please, Ron."

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and hammered into her with a final, frantic series of thrusts. His body went rigid, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck straining. He held himself there, deep inside her, shaking with the force of his release.

Hermione came at the exact same moment.

She clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle her scream, her legs giving out. She slid down the wall, her body wracked with spasms of pleasure, tears pricking her eyes.

For a long moment, the only sound was their harsh breathing.

Hermione slowly reached for her wand. The wall turned opaque again, the grey stone hiding the scene.

She sat there in the dark room, trembling. Her heart was racing so fast she thought it might explode. Her own body was aching, a dull throb of desire that was confusing and terrifying.

She had always thought she was the superior one. The smart one. The one who would have to guide Ron through life. But seeing him in there... seeing that raw, unadulterated power and confidence...

It shifted everything.

She heard movement inside the room. Ron’s voice, low and gentle now. "You alright?"

"Never better," Lavender’s soft reply.

Hermione got up and decided to walk away, her steps hurried. She needed to get back to the common room. She needed a cold shower. And she needed to figure out what the hell she was going to do about the fact that Ron Weasley—the boy she had spent years bickering with—had just become the most dangerous, desirable thing in her world.

As she rounded the corner, she nearly ran into a suit of armour. She steadied herself, taking a deep breath.

She was going to figure out exactly what Ron had done to himself. And then... she was going to make sure that the next time he needed an empty classroom, he wouldn't be taking Lavender Brown.

Back in the classroom, Ron buttoned his shirt, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He felt the residual buzz of the potion in his blood—that golden, singing feeling that told him everything was exactly as it should be.

He looked at the door. He hadn't heard anyone, but a prickle on the back of his neck told him someone had been there.

He chuckled.

‘Let them watch,’ he thought. ‘Let them all watch.’

The King had arrived.

Author’s Notes

Beginning of my one-shot series set in the HP universe. Whatever character pairing or plot finds its place out of the dark crevices of my mind, will end up in this series.

For patrons, the photo of Lavender Brown is attached.

See you soon with the next one.