To the editor: I have already checked the entire story with the Gemini and there is no problem with the content guidelines. All the characters in the plot are 18 years or older. Please don't misunderstand and cause trouble for me. Thank you…
Chapter 1: The Egg, The Redhead and The System
The concept of dignity was a fragile construct, much like a soap bubble or a bath towel tucked loosely around one's waist. I had been a man of science, a man of logic and admittedly, a man of very specific cultural tastes in my previous life.
I possessed an IQ that rivaled the greatest minds of the century, yet my death was not caused by a grand experiment or a noble sacrifice. It was caused by a gust of wind and a pigeon with poor digestive timing.
I remembered standing outside my apartment door, having stepped out to retrieve the newspaper. I was wearing nothing but a white towel. The wind had howled, slamming the door shut and locking me out.
As I stood there, frantically trying to cover myself as the towel began to slip resembling a scene from one of those ecchi anime series I secretly adored fate delivered the punchline. A pigeon flying overhead dropped an egg. It fell with the terminal velocity of a bullet, striking the exact center of my skull.
There was a crack, a flash of white light and then darkness.
(Is this hell?) I thought, my inner voice echoing in a void. (Or perhaps heaven? Do they have limited edition figurines in heaven?)
The darkness faded, replaced by the blurry vision of a ceiling that was distinctly orange. I blinked, feeling a strange weight to my limbs. My body felt longer, lankier and clumsier than I remembered. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and looked around the room. It was a chaotic mess of bright orange posters featuring moving figures on broomsticks.
(Moving pictures?) I observed, narrowing my eyes. (Wait. I know this room. This is the room of the sidekick. The comic relief. The eternal eater.)
I looked down at my hands. They were large, freckled and distinctly not mine. I rushed to a cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. A long nose, blue eyes and a shock of flaming red hair stared back at me.
(Ronald Bilius Weasley,) I concluded, my mind racing faster than a supercomputer. (I have transmigrated into the world of Harry Potter. Judging by the face, I am approximately eighteen years old. The war should be over, or at least, the worst has passed.)
"Ron! Get your lazy behind out of bed! It is your birthday, for heaven's sake!" a shrill voice screamed from the floor below.
(Molly Weasley,) I identified the source. (Loud. Caring. terrifying.)
I was about to respond when a strange, mechanical sound chimed in my ear. It was not a sound from the outside world; it vibrated directly against my eardrums.
"System initialization complete," a genderless voice spoke within my mind. "Binding with host Ronald Weasley. Soul compatibility: one hundred percent. Welcome, host, to the Flash Your Wife System."
I paused, sitting back down on the creaky bed. (Flash Your Wife System? That sounds... distinctly like something I would have programmed in a fever dream.)
"Please explain the parameters," I thought, testing if the system could hear my thoughts.
"Affirmative," the system replied in a casual, conversational tone. "The rules are simple. You have a target. That target is your future wife, Hermione Jean Granger.
Whenever Hermione encounters a wardrobe malfunction, an accidental exposure, or an embarrassing physical mishap involving another male, you will receive points and rewards. The more embarrassing the situation and the more flesh that is revealed or implied is the higher the reward. The goal is to maximize these incidents."
A slow, wicked grin spread across my freckled face. In my previous life, I was a voyeur who enjoyed seeing his partner in such situations, provided nothing actually happened. It was the thrill of the scenario, the aesthetic of the embarrassment.
(So, I am living in a world governed by the physics of High School DxD or To Love Ru,) I theorized. (And my power source is Hermione's misfortune. This is magnificent.)
"Ron! Harry and Hermione are here!" Molly shouted again.
"I am coming, Mum!" I shouted back, my voice cracking slightly.
I quickly dressed in the clothes laid out on the chair—a maroon sweater and loose trousers. I needed to test this system immediately. If today was my birthday, Hermione would be here. And if the laws of this new reality were consistent with the system's description, gravity and fabric tensile strength were about to become very unreliable variables.
I descended the winding, uneven staircase of the Burrow. The smell of bacon and burnt toast filled the air. In the kitchen, the table was piled high with food. Sitting at the table were two people who defined a generation of literature.
Harry Potter sat there, looking messy-haired and polite, adjusting his glasses. Beside him stood Hermione Granger. She was eighteen now and she had blossomed. She wore a simple Muggle blouse and a knee-length skirt, holding a large, precariously wrapped stack of books.
(Target acquired,) I thought, suppressing a chuckle.
"Happy Birthday, Ron!" Hermione beamed, stepping forward.
"Happy Birthday, mate," Harry said, standing up to greet me.
"Thank you," I said, trying to sound like the original Ron. "I am starving."
"I brought you some advanced reading on defensive charms," Hermione said enthusiastically, moving toward me. "I thought since you are eighteen now, you should take your studies more seriously."
As she walked, her foot caught on the slightly raised edge of the rug. In a normal world, she would have simply stumbled. But in this world, under the influence of my system, physics took a vacation.
"Ah!" Hermione gasped.
She pitched forward with impressive velocity. The stack of heavy books flew into the air, creating a distraction. Hermione's momentum carried her not toward me, but directly toward Harry, who had stepped in to help.
"I have got you!" Harry exclaimed, reaching out his hands instinctively.
However, instead of catching her by the shoulders, Harry's hands slipped on the fabric of her blouse. Hermione crashed into him and as she slid down, the buttons of her blouse, apparently unable to withstand the sudden strain of the impact, popped off one by one with audible pings.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Her blouse flared open completely.
Harry fell backward into the chair, with Hermione landing squarely on top of him, her chest pressing against his face. Her skirt had ridden up high on her thighs, revealing a pair of white unmentionables with a small bear print on them.
(...cough...)
The room went silent for exactly three seconds.
Hermione's face turned a shade of red that rivaled my hair. Harry was waving his arms frantically, trying to push her up without touching anything sensitive, but failing miserably as his hand accidentally brushed against her exposed thigh.
"I... I am so sorry!" Harry stammered, his glasses skewed.
"Oh my goodness!" Hermione shrieked, scrambling off him and clutching her open blouse together, covering the view that had been presented.
(Magnificent,) I thought, watching the scene with the detached appreciation of an art critic. (The classic 'Lucky Pervert' trope, executed with flawless precision.)
"System Alert," the voice in my head spoke up. "Incident recorded. Type: Accidental Paizuri position and partial upper body exposure with a side of skirt malfunction. Target involved: Harry Potter (The Chosen One). Rating: A-class. Reward: Photographic Memory Skill and ten attribute points."
"Are you alright?" I asked, feigning concern as I walked over, making sure to keep my expression purely brotherly. "That rug is a death trap."
"I... I am fine," Hermione squeaked, turning away to button her shirt with trembling fingers. "I just... I tripped."
"It happens to the best of us," Harry said, adjusting his robes, looking thoroughly traumatized but also strangely flushed.
I looked at Harry. The poor boy had no idea what he was getting into. The system had mentioned that it spreads. If Harry was going to be the victim of these incidents alongside Hermione, he would need a strong heart.
"Here," I said, picking up one of the books. "Let us sit down and eat before anyone else falls over."
As we sat down, I looked at the system panel in my mind. It was not a spreadsheet, but simply a text log scrolling in my peripheral vision.
Current Status:Name: Ron WeasleyIntelligence: High (Enhanced)System Points: 10Current Skill: Photographic MemoryNext Goal: Trigger an incident in a public setting.
(This is going to be a very interesting life,) I thought, taking a bite of a sausage. (I wonder what will happen when we go to Diagon Alley.)
The humiliation on Hermione's face was palpable and Harry was avoiding eye contact with her chest area at all costs. It was the perfect start to my new life. The intelligent man inside the fool's body was ready to play.