Hello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of Hermione Granger and the Potion of Perilous Pleasure
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The following 9 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 21 (Between Greenhouse Shadows and Hospital Light), Chapter 22 (The Price of Loyalty), Chapter 23 (Crossing The Red Line), Chapter 24 (The Price of Justice), Chapter 25 (Professors and Puppeteers), Chapter 26 (The Flesh Is Merciful), Chapter 27 (Hogsmeade, Honeydukes, and Heartache), Chapter 28 (Hopeless and Holy), and Chapter 29 (Lavender, Pleasure, and A Veela) are already available for Patrons.
Hermione woke with a start, momentarily confused by the sensation of genuine rest. For weeks, her sleep had been fitful at best. But this morning was different. Her limbs felt loose, her mind clear. The shower encounter with Ginny had released something in her—not just physically, but emotionally.
Taking control feels right, she thought, stretching languidly beneath her crimson duvet.
Golden morning light spilled through the dormitory's leaded windows, casting honeycomb patterns across the stone floor.
Hermione rolled onto her side, surprised to find Parvati's bed already empty. A glance at her enchanted alarm clock confirmed it was barely seven—unusually early for most Gryffindors on a Thursday. Even more surprising was the sight of Lavender Brown, fully awake and seated at the small vanity they all shared, applying mascara.
"Morning," Hermione offered, sitting up and running a hand through her wild curls. Her pajama top had twisted during the night, requiring a subtle adjustment to hide the morning erection that remained one of her transformation's more inconvenient aspects.
Lavender jumped slightly, mascara wand jerking dangerously close to her eye. "Merlin, Hermione! I thought you were still asleep."
"Clearly," Hermione replied, unable to suppress a smile. "What has you up with the roosters? I don't think I've ever seen you conscious before breakfast without someone dragging you out of bed."
Lavender's reflection blushed, visible even beneath the layer of blush she'd already applied. "I need extra time today. Everything has to be perfect."
Intrigued, Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed, grateful that her pajama bottoms were loose enough to disguise her condition. "Perfect for what, exactly?"
Lavender turned, mascara wand clutched like a tiny scepter, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. "I'm going to ask Ron to Hogsmeade this weekend." The statement emerged in a rush, as though she'd been holding it in for hours.
"Oh!" Hermione blinked, genuinely surprised. Not by Lavender's interest—she'd noticed the blonde watching Ron for weeks—but by her own reaction. Six months ago, she might have felt a proprietary twinge. Ron had been a possibility, a safe choice she'd kept in reserve. Now, the idea seemed almost comical. "That's... wonderful."
Lavender's eyebrows shot up. "Really? You think so?" She turned back to the mirror, applying another coat of mascara with renewed vigor. "I thought you might be weird about it, considering..."
"Considering what?" Hermione prompted, standing and stretching, carefully keeping her lower half angled away.
"Well, everyone thought you two might..." Lavender trailed off, gesturing vaguely with her wand. "You know."
Hermione laughed, the sound startling them both with its genuine amusement. "Ron and I would kill each other within a week." She shook her head, gathering her toiletry bag from her nightstand. "We're much better as friends."
And I'm much better with a nine-inch addition and girls who appreciate it, her mind supplied unbidden, sending a flush creeping up her neck.
Lavender visibly relaxed, her shoulders dropping an inch. "So you don't mind if I ask him out?"
"Not at all," Hermione assured her, surprised to find she meant it completely. "Though I'm curious why you're asking me for permission."
"Not permission," Lavender corrected, reaching for a tube of lip gloss. "Advice, actually." She hesitated, uncharacteristically vulnerable. "You know him better than anyone except Harry. What does Ron like? In girls, I mean."
The question caught Hermione off-guard. She'd never considered herself an expert in romance—quite the opposite. Yet somehow, in the past few weeks, she'd gained more practical experience than she'd ever imagined possible. Luna's gentle surrender, Ginny's fierce passion, Susan's enthusiastic exploration, even Professor Sinistra's sophisticated seduction—each had taught her something different about desire.
"Honestly?" Hermione replied, crossing to sit on Parvati's empty bed, facing Lavender directly. "I think you're overthinking this. Ron isn't complicated."
Lavender's face fell slightly. "So I should just be... basic?"
"No, no," Hermione rushed to clarify. "That came out wrong. What I meant is that Ron appreciates authenticity. He grew up with six siblings vying for attention—he can spot fakeness a mile away." She gestured to the array of cosmetics spread across the vanity. "You don't need all this, Lavender. You're already beautiful."
Lavender's eyes widened, genuine surprise flickering across her features. "That's... thank you, Hermione. That's really sweet."
Hermione shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "It's just the truth. All I'm saying is that Ron will like you for you—not for whatever image you think you need to project."
"Maybe," Lavender conceded, setting down her lip gloss. "But a little enhancement never hurts." She winked, some of her usual confidence returning. "Besides, I have plans for Ron Weasley that require looking my absolute best."
"Plans?" Hermione echoed, already suspecting where this was heading.
Lavender leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice despite them being alone in the dormitory. "I've had a crush on him since fourth year, Hermione. I'm not waiting another month to get him into bed."
"Oh Merlin," Hermione groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. "That's... information I didn't need this early in the morning."
"Oh please," Lavender scoffed, turning back to the mirror and fluffing her curls. "Like you haven't thought about it. Ron's filled out nicely with all that Quidditch training."
The suggestion that she'd been ogling Ron brought another laugh bubbling up from Hermione's chest. If only Lavender knew where her interests truly lay these days.
"Trust me," she said firmly, "Ron and I are strictly platonic. Always will be."
Lavender studied her reflection for a moment. "You know, you seem different lately."
"Different how?" Hermione asked carefully, instantly on guard.
"I don't know. More..." Lavender tilted her head, considering. "Relaxed, I guess? Less uptight about everything." She turned, giving Hermione an appraising look. "And you've been spending a lot of time with Luna Lovegood, of all people."
Hermione felt heat rising to her cheeks. "Luna's a good friend."
"Mm-hmm," Lavender hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Just friends. Right."
"We should get ready for breakfast," Hermione deflected, standing abruptly. "If you're planning to ask Ron out today, you'll want to catch him before he stuffs himself into a food coma."
Lavender's eyes widened in alarm. "You're right! I need at least ten more minutes on my hair." She turned back to the mirror, fingers working frantically through her blonde curls.
Hermione gathered her uniform and headed for the bathroom, pausing at the door. "Lavender?"
"Hmm?" the blonde replied distractedly, focused on a particularly stubborn curl.
"Just be yourself. Ron will be lucky to have you."
Lavender's reflection smiled, genuine warmth replacing her usual carefully constructed expression. "Thanks, Hermione. That means a lot coming from you."
In the privacy of the bathroom, Hermione leaned against the closed door, marveling at the exchange. Six weeks ago, she would have dismissed Lavender's romantic machinations as frivolous, perhaps even rolled her eyes at the other girl's preoccupation with appearance over substance. Now, she recognized the courage it took to pursue someone openly, to risk rejection in the pursuit of connection.
We're not so different after all, she thought, stepping into a shower stall—different from the one she'd shared with Ginny the previous night.
As the warm water cascaded over her, Hermione's mind drifted to Luna—to the ethereal way she'd looked bathed in starlight at the Astronomy Tower, her pale skin almost luminous, her eyes reflecting constellations as she'd whispered cosmic secrets against Hermione's skin. Perhaps she'd find time to see her today, between classes or during a study period.
The thought sent a pleasant shiver through her.
When Hermione emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in her uniform, Lavender was putting the finishing touches on her appearance.
"How do I look?" she asked, spinning to display the subtle modifications she'd made to her uniform—her skirt hitched an inch higher than regulation, her shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at cleavage.
"Ron won't know what hit him," Hermione assured her, gathering her books into her bag.
Lavender beamed, grabbing her own bag. "Let's do this, then. Operation Weasley begins now."
❾¾
❾¾
The Great Hall hummed with the familiar cacophony of breakfast. Morning sunlight streamed through the high windows.
Hermione slid onto the bench beside Ginny, who was already halfway through a stack of toast slathered with marmalade. Luna sat across from them, her Ravenclaw scarf draped oddly around her head like a turban, seemingly absorbed in the latest edition of The Quibbler—upside down, as usual.
"Morning," Hermione greeted them, reaching for the coffee pot. After years of insisting on tea, she'd recently developed a taste for coffee's bitter complexity.
Ginny glanced up, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Sleep well?" she asked, her tone laden with meaning that made Hermione's cheeks warm.
"Very," Hermione replied, matching Ginny's meaningful tone as she doctored her coffee with cream and sugar. "You?"
"Like a baby," Ginny smirked, biting into her toast with obvious satisfaction.
Luna lowered her magazine, fixing Hermione with her protuberant silver eyes. "Your aura is particularly vibrant this morning, Hermione. Almost pulsating with magenta streaks."
Hermione choked slightly on her first sip of coffee. "Is that... good?"
"Magenta signifies a release of emotional and physical tension," Luna explained serenely. "It's quite beautiful, actually."
Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice while Hermione busied herself buttering a scone, willing her blush to subside.
"Anyway," Hermione said pointedly, changing the subject, "how are your Defense Against the Dark Arts essays coming along? The one comparing nonverbal shields?"
"Finished mine yesterday," Ginny replied, reaching for another piece of toast. "Though I might have gotten a bit creative in the practical applications section."
"Define 'creative,'" Hermione said suspiciously.
Ginny grinned wickedly. "Let's just say Professor Snape may learn some innovative uses for Protego that aren't in any textbook."
Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "I've been exploring the connection between shield charms and directed emotional energy. The intent behind nonverbal casting fascinates me." She leaned forward, eyes suddenly intense. "Our emotions leave magical residue, you know. Like invisible fingerprints on our spells."
Hermione found herself nodding. Before her transformation, she might have dismissed Luna's theory as nonsense. Magic responded to emotion.
"Look," Ginny whispered suddenly, nudging Hermione's ribs with her elbow. "Operation Weasley is commencing."
Across the hall, Lavender approached Ron, though her hands fidgeted nervously with the hem of her cardigan. Ron sat between Seamus and Dean, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth with his usual lack of decorum.
"Ten Galleons says he chokes on his food," Ginny muttered.
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't help watching the scene unfold. Lavender said something they couldn't hear, and Ron looked up, fork suspended halfway to his mouth. A piece of egg dropped unnoticed onto his tie as his ears turned the telltale Weasley red.
"Classic Ron," Ginny snickered. "His ears always betray him."
Whatever Lavender said next made Ron break into a goofy grin. He nodded enthusiastically—too enthusiastically—knocking over his goblet of pumpkin juice. As he scrambled to mop up the spill with his napkin, Lavender giggled, reaching out to help.
"She really likes him," Luna observed, her gaze soft. "Her aura's all tickled with golden sparkles."
"They might actually suit each other," Hermione conceded, surprised by her genuine hope for their success. "Lavender's warmth might balance Ron's occasional moodiness."
"And her organizational skills will keep him from failing all his classes without you hovering over him," Ginny added with a smirk.
Hermione was about to respond when she spotted Harry entering the Great Hall, his hair even more disheveled than usual. He ran a hand through it nervously as he scanned the Gryffindor table, his eyes landing on their group. Something in his expression—a mixture of determination and anxiety—sent a premonitory shiver down Hermione's spine.
"Morning, everyone," Harry greeted, sliding onto the bench beside Luna. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Ginny. "Sleep alright?"
"Fine, thanks," Ginny replied, suddenly fascinated by a spot on the tablecloth.
An awkward silence descended, broken only when Luna offered Harry the Quibbler. "There's a fascinating article about Umgubular Slashkilters infiltrating the Ministry. Daddy says they're responsible for some of the nonsensical policies."
Harry blinked, momentarily distracted. "Er, thanks, Luna. I'll read it later."
Hermione bit back a smile, focusing on her coffee to hide her amusement. Harry's expression suggested he'd rather face another Hungarian Horntail than read Luna's father's latest conspiracy theory.
After another moment of strained silence, Harry cleared his throat. "Actually, Ginny, I was wondering if..." He paused, adjusting his glasses nervously. "That is, if you're not already going with someone... would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?"
The question hung in the air, laden with significance. Hermione felt her stomach drop unexpectedly, a hollow sensation spreading beneath her ribs. She kept her expression carefully neutral, even as her throat tightened with conflicting emotions.
Ginny's face lit up, her freckles standing out against her suddenly flushed cheeks. "I'd love to, Harry!"
The genuine delight in Ginny's voice twisted something in Hermione's chest—not just jealousy, though that was certainly present, but something more complex. Seeing Harry's answering smile—shy but radiant with happiness—only complicated the sensation further.
I should be happy for them, Hermione thought, and part of her genuinely was. These were her closest friends, both deserving of joy. Yet another part—the part connected to her new anatomy, to the memories of Ginny's body pressed against hers in the shower—rebelled against the idea of sharing the redhead's affections.
Luna's hand found Hermione's beneath the table, her slender fingers offering a gentle, understanding squeeze. When Hermione glanced up, Luna's silver eyes held no judgment, only quiet acceptance.
"Conflicting feelings aren't contradictions," Luna murmured, her voice pitched for Hermione's ears alone. "They're just different truths existing simultaneously."
The simple wisdom in Luna's words loosened the knot in Hermione's chest. She squeezed Luna's hand gratefully before releasing it, turning back to her breakfast with renewed composure.
As Harry and Ginny slipped into animated conversation about Hogsmeade plans, Luna leaned across the table. "We have Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins first period," she said.
Hermione immediately understood the implication. "Keep an eye on Malfoy," she whispered. "But be careful, Luna. Don't do anything that might draw his attention."
Luna's smile was serene but knowing. "Draco Malfoy only sees what he expects to see. People like me are practically invisible to people like him."
Before Hermione could respond, the warning bell rang, signaling fifteen minutes until the first class. Students began rising from their seats, gathering books and bags amid a fresh surge of chatter.
Harry looked up, seeming to remember Hermione's presence. "Walk to Transfiguration together?" he offered, his expression open and familiar—a reminder of their friendship's foundation.
"Of course," Hermione agreed, gathering her things. To Ginny, she added, "See you at lunch?"
Ginny nodded, her eyes darting between Hermione and Harry with a flicker of something—awareness, perhaps—before she headed off to Charms with the fifth-years.
They rounded the corner toward the Transfiguration classroom, and Harry launched into a concerned analysis of Ron's chances with Lavender, completely unaware of the complexities swirling within the girl walking beside him.
Later
The afternoon sun filtered through the foggy glass panels of Greenhouse Five, creating dappled patterns across the worn wooden workbenches. Unlike the other greenhouses, which housed relatively tame specimens, this one contained Professor Garlick's more exotic collection—plants from magical communities across the globe, many requiring specialized care and handling.
Professor Mirabel Garlick, the young Herbology specialist, stood on the other side of the class. Her vibrant copper hair was twisted into a practical bun, with several tendrils escaping to frame her heart-shaped face. Her teaching robes—a deep emerald that complemented her eyes—were open at the front, revealing a fitted blouse that accentuated her curves.
Hermione tried not to stare as she settled at her workstation, unpacking her dragonhide gloves and silver pruning shears. The humid air inside the greenhouse clung to her skin, causing her white uniform shirt to stick uncomfortably to her back. The rich scent of loamy soil mingled with the exotic perfume of a dozen unfamiliar flowering plants.
"Good afternoon," Professor Garlick called, her voice warm as always. "Today we will begin the trimming and processing of her prized Tanzanian Embrace Vines."
She gestured toward a row of large terracotta pots, each containing what appeared to be ordinary ivy with heart-shaped leaves in varying shades of pink and red. As they watched, one vine slowly unfurled toward a patch of sunlight, its movement distinctly sensual.
"Don't be fooled by their innocent appearance," Garlick continued, moving between the benches with a natural grace that drew Hermione's eyes to the sway of her hips. "Embrace Vines are semi-sentient and, as their name suggests, have a tendency to... embrace anything that comes too close."
Seamus Finnigan snickered, nudging Dean Thomas with his elbow. Professor Garlick shot him a knowing look that was more amused than reproving.
"Yes, Mr. Finnigan, the innuendo is not lost on me. The vines' affectionate nature is precisely what makes them valuable in certain medicinal potions, particularly those dealing with emotional ailments." She lifted a small crystal vial filled with shimmering pink liquid. "Their essence, when properly harvested, is a key ingredient in calming draughts and love potions alike."
Green vial, pink vial... everyone's carrying mysterious liquids these days, Hermione thought idly, her mind flashing briefly to Draco and his suspicious container.
"Today's task," Professor Garlick continued, setting down the vial and picking up a pair of silver shears similar to Hermione's, "is to trim the newest growth, which contains the highest concentration of magical properties. You'll work in pairs—one person to distract the vine, one to trim. The trimmings will go immediately into the preservation solution at your stations."
She demonstrated the proper technique, her deft fingers stroking the main stem of a vine. The plant visibly shivered, its leaves rustling despite the still air. As the vine leaned into her touch, she quickly snipped three tender shoots from a different branch.
"See how the vine focuses on pleasurable sensation?" she explained, her eyes briefly meeting Hermione's in a way that sent an unexpected flutter through her abdomen. "It's remarkably similar to certain human responses."
Heat rose in Hermione's cheeks, but she didn't look away. The past weeks had taught her that embracing such reactions, rather than suppressing them, often led to the most rewarding experiences.
"Ms. Granger," Professor Garlick said suddenly, "would you be so kind as to assist me in demonstrating the proper partner technique? I understand from Professor McGonagall that your precision with delicate magical processes is exemplary."
Several students turned to look at Hermione, who gathered her composure and approached the professor's demonstration table. Up close, she caught the subtle scent of Professor Garlick's perfume—something earthy with hints of jasmine—mingling with the greenhouse's more potent aromas.
"The key," Garlick explained to the class as Hermione took position beside her, "is synchronized movement between partners. Ms. Granger will distract our vine friend here, while I harvest the new growth."
She handed Hermione a small vial of iridescent oil. "Apply this to your gloves. The vine finds it irresistible."
Their fingers brushed during the exchange, a fleeting contact that nonetheless sent a spark of awareness up Hermione's arm. Professor Garlick's eyes flicked to Hermione's, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her full lips.
Is she doing this deliberately? Hermione wondered, suddenly very conscious of how close they stood, the professor's sleeve occasionally brushing against her arm as they prepared.
Following instructions, Hermione dabbed the fragrant oil onto her dragonhide gloves. The scent was oddly familiar—reminiscent of something she couldn't quite place.
"Now," Professor Garlick instructed, her voice lowering slightly, "stroke the main stem gently but firmly. The vine responds best to consistent, rhythmic touch."
The phrasing was so suggestive that Hermione might have laughed in another context. Instead, she found herself following the instructions with focused intention, running her gloved fingers along the thick central stem of the Embrace Vine. The plant responded immediately, its smaller vines uncurling and reaching toward her hand with unmistakable eagerness.
"Excellent," Garlick murmured, her breath warm against Hermione's ear as she leaned in. "You have a natural touch, Ms. Granger."
As Hermione continued her methodical stroking, the professor moved to the opposite side of the plant. With swift, precise movements, she began trimming the newly sprouted tendrils, collecting them in a small silver dish.
"Note how Ms. Granger maintains steady contact," she instructed the class. "This keeps the primary consciousness of the plant focused on pleasure rather than defense."
The vine had completely wrapped itself around Hermione's wrist now, not painfully but with a definite pressure that felt almost like a caress. The sensation was strangely intimate, and she found herself responding to it, adjusting her touch to elicit more movement from the plant.
"Very good," Professor Garlick approved, her eyes meeting Hermione's over the top of the plant with an intensity that had nothing to do with academic assessment. "You seem to have a gift for making living things respond to your touch."
The comment hung in the air between them; the rest of the class, focused on taking notes, seemed to miss it entirely. Hermione felt her cock stir beneath her skirt, a now-familiar pressure that both thrilled and alarmed her. The greenhouse suddenly felt ten degrees warmer.
"I believe that's sufficient demonstration," Professor Garlick announced, breaking the moment as she returned to her teacher's persona. "Everyone pair up and begin work on your assigned specimens. Remember—gentle distraction, swift harvesting, immediate preservation."
As the class scattered to their workbenches, she added, "Ms. Granger, would you continue assisting me? This particular specimen is rather more mature than the others and requires experienced handling."
Neville Longbottom threw Hermione a sympathetic look as he paired with Dean Thomas. Little did he know that being singled out was, for once, exactly what Hermione wanted.
For the next thirty minutes, they worked in tandem—Hermione distracting the increasingly affectionate vine while Professor Garlick harvested its most valuable growth. Occasionally, the professor's hand would brush against Hermione's, or she would lean close to murmur an instruction, her breath warm against Hermione's neck.
Each contact sent tiny currents of electricity through Hermione's body. She found herself hyper-aware of Professor Garlick's proximity—the subtle shifts of her posture, the way she tucked escaped tendrils of copper hair behind her ear, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows as she worked.
This is completely inappropriate, a small voice in Hermione's mind protested. She's a teacher. There are boundaries.
Yet another part of her—countered with memories of Professor Sinistra's office.
"You seem distracted, Ms. Granger," Professor Garlick observed quietly, her words for Hermione alone. "The vine is sensing your inattention."
Hermione blinked, realizing that the plant had indeed become restless, its tendrils seeking more engaged contact. "Sorry, Professor," she mumbled, redoubling her efforts. "I was just... thinking."
"About?" Garlick prompted, a knowing glint in her eyes as she continued her precise trimming.
"The properties of Embrace Vines," Hermione lied smoothly. "I'm wondering if they're related to Venomous Tentacula, given their semi-sentient nature."
"An interesting hypothesis," the professor replied, her lips quirking into a half-smile that suggested she wasn't fooled. "Perhaps we could discuss it further after class? I have some research texts that might interest you."
The invitation was delivered casually, but something in Garlick's tone—made Hermione's pulse quicken.
Before she could formulate a response, the Embrace Vine suddenly wrapped several tendrils firmly around her forearm, pulling her hand closer to its central stem. The movement was so unexpected that Hermione gasped, drawing the attention of nearby students.
"Easy now," Professor Garlick soothed, addressing both Hermione and the plant as she gently unwound the tendrils. "It seems this one has grown rather attached to you." Her fingers lingered on Hermione's wrist after freeing it, the touch brief but deliberate. "Some magical plants are excellent judges of character."
The remainder of the class passed in a blur of charged glances and carefully orchestrated near-touches as they completed work on the specimen. By the time Professor Garlick announced the end of the lesson, Hermione's skin felt hypersensitive.
"Bottle your preserved clippings and label them clearly," the professor instructed the class. "Next week, we'll be extracting the essence for use in your advanced potions work with Professor Slughorn."
As students gathered their belongings and filed out of the greenhouse, Hermione took her time cleaning her workstation, hyperconscious of Professor Garlick moving about the room, checking the preservation jars and adjusting the environmental charms that maintained the greenhouse's tropical atmosphere.
When the last student closed the door behind them, the sudden absence of background noise made the space feel smaller, more intimate.
"You have a remarkable sensitivity to magical plants, Ms. Granger," Professor Garlick observed, approaching Hermione's workbench with unhurried steps. "Most students treat them as mere ingredients rather than living entities with their own form of consciousness."
"I've always found the relationship between magic and living things fascinating," Hermione replied, her academic interest genuine despite the undercurrent of tension between them. "Especially the way magical properties interact with intention and emotion."
Professor Garlick nodded, perching on the edge of the workbench. This close, Hermione could see flecks of amber in her green eyes.
"Intention and emotion," the professor repeated thoughtfully. "The twin pillars of the most powerful magic." She tilted her head, studying Hermione with interest. "You've been exploring that connection yourself recently, I understand."
The observation sent a jolt of alarm through Hermione. "I'm not sure what you mean, Professor."
Garlick's smile was knowing, almost predatory. "Aurora Sinistra and I have been friends since our own school days, Ms. Granger. We share... certain interests. And certain confidences."
Sinistra told her about me, Hermione realized, heat flooding her face. About my transformation. About what happened in her office.
"Professor Sinistra shouldn't have—" she began, unsure whether she felt more embarrassed or betrayed.
"Aurora was quite discreet," Garlick interrupted, raising a placating hand. "She merely mentioned that you had undergone an interesting magical transformation—one that has apparently had quite the impact on your... educational experiences." Her gaze dropped briefly to Hermione's midsection before returning to her face. "Nine inches, she mentioned? Quite impressive for a spontaneous transformation."
"I don't think this is an appropriate conversation, Professor," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Perhaps not," Garlick conceded, though she made no move to create distance between them. "But then, appropriate boundaries seem to be something of a fluid concept for you lately, aren't they, Ms. Granger?"
The accusation sparked unexpected defiance in Hermione. "I'm not the one initiating inappropriate conversations with students, Professor."
Rather than taking offense, Garlick laughed. "Touché, Ms. Granger. Direct and fearless—Aurora mentioned those qualities as well." She leaned slightly closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "She also mentioned your remarkable... stamina."
The implication sent a fresh surge of blood to Hermione's groin, making her shift uncomfortably where she stood.
"What exactly are you suggesting, Professor?" she asked, her own voice lower now, meeting the challenge in Garlick's eyes.
The professor smiled, a slow curve of full lips that held no pretense of academic interest. "I'm suggesting, Ms. Granger, that your unique transformation presents educational opportunities that extend beyond standard curriculum." She gestured around the empty greenhouse. "This space is private. Secluded. And I find myself intensely curious about your... recent development."
Her directness was both shocking and exhilarating. Hermione had grown accustomed to the dance of suggestion and implication with her peers, but Professor Garlick's adult frankness eliminated any possibility of misunderstanding.
"This would be crossing a significant line," Hermione said, even as her body hummed with anticipation. Her academic brain cataloged potential consequences—expulsion, scandal, damaged academic reputation—while another part, the increasingly dominant part, calculated a different set of outcomes entirely.
"Lines, boundaries, rules," Garlick mused, sliding from the workbench to stand directly before Hermione, close enough that the fabric of their robes brushed together. "Important in their place. But magic—true magic—often happens in the spaces between established categories. In the forbidden zones where convention fears to tread."
She reached up, brushing a stray curl from Hermione's face with deliberate gentleness. "You've already stepped beyond conventional boundaries, Ms. Granger. The moment your body transformed, you entered uncharted territory." Her fingers trailed down Hermione's cheek to her jaw, then lower to the pulse point at her throat. "The question is whether you have the courage to explore it fully."
The challenge in her words struck a chord deep within Hermione. Courage had never been her defining trait—that was Harry's domain. Her strength had always been knowledge, preparation, caution. Yet these past weeks had awakened something else in her—a boldness, a willingness to leap without knowing precisely where she would land.
"I'm not lacking in courage, Professor," she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart beneath Garlick's fingertips. "But I am concerned about consequences—for both of us."
Garlick's smile widened appreciatively. "Always thinking, always analyzing. It's what makes you exceptional, Ms. Granger." Her hand moved from Hermione's throat to the top button of her uniform shirt, hovering there without touching. "But sometimes, the most valuable learning happens when we set aside analysis and simply... experience."
This is madness, Hermione thought. Another professor. Another line crossed.
Yet even as her mind formulated the objection, her body leaned imperceptibly closer.
"Someone could come in," she murmured, her last token resistance.
With a fluid motion, Professor Garlick drew her wand from her sleeve, flicking it toward the greenhouse door without looking away from Hermione's face. "Colloportus Maxima," she intoned, followed by, "Muffliato."
The heavy click of the magical lock and the sudden subtle buzzing that indicated the privacy charm settled around them like a blanket, insulating their moment from the outside world.
"No one will interrupt us," Garlick assured her, returning her wand to her sleeve. "This is entirely between you and me, Ms. Granger." Her fingers finally made contact with Hermione's top button, slipping it free with practiced ease. "Or should I call you Hermione, under the circumstances?"
The use of her first name, so rarely spoken by professors, created a sudden intimacy that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. "Yes," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Hermione would be appropriate, Professor."
"Then you must call me Mirabel," the professor countered, moving to the second button. "At least when we're alone."
As the second button gave way, revealing the modest cotton of Hermione's regulation white bra, Mirabel's eyes darkened with obvious appreciation. "Now," she murmured, "why don't you show me this magnificent addition Aurora couldn't stop talking about?"
Her directness sent a jolt of electricity straight to Hermione's core. This was happening—right here, right now, in the golden afternoon light of Greenhouse Five, surrounded by exotic plants whose sweet perfume hung heavy in the air.
"Are you sure?" Hermione asked, her last moment of hesitation.
Mirabel's response was to sink gracefully to her knees on the stone floor, her emerald robes pooling around her like liquid. Looking up through copper lashes, she smiled—no longer a professor but simply a woman with unmistakable hunger in her eyes.
"I've never been more certain of anything, Hermione," she said, her hands moving to Hermione's skirt. "Now, let me see what has Aurora so enchanted."
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