Hello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of Hermione Granger and the Potion of Perilous Pleasure
If you want to Read 9 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWriter40' on Websearch
The following 9 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31, and Chapter 32 are already available for Patrons.
The abandoned classroom was silent save for the scratching of Hermione's quill against parchment. She sat alone, surrounded by open books and scattered notes. She hadn't slept properly since Luna's attack—every time she closed her eyes, she saw Luna's pale form in the hospital bed, that angry red line across her throat.
Hermione's hand trembled slightly as she made another notation. The quill's scratch-scratch-scratch matched the rhythm of her pulse—steady, determined. She'd spent three nights researching spells that could extract confessions, that could cause pain without leaving evidence. Spells that weren't quite Unforgivable, but skirted the edges of legality.
Her cock stirred beneath her skirt at the thought of using them on Goyle. The connection between her rage and arousal troubled her, but she couldn't deny it existed. Since her transformation, strong emotions frequently triggered physical responses. Especially anger. Especially thoughts of retribution.
The classroom door creaked open. Harry and Ginny slipped inside, their faces grim in the wandlight.
"Did you finish the map of the Quidditch pitch?" Hermione asked without looking up.
"Yes," Harry replied, unfolding a parchment on the desk. "I've marked all the exits. Ginny knows the Slytherin team's patterns—where they go after practice, who leaves with whom."
Ginny nodded, red hair gleaming in the moonlight. "Goyle always waits for Malfoy after practice, then they walk back together. But tomorrow's different. Malfoy has detention with Snape immediately after."
"So Goyle will be alone," Hermione concluded, satisfaction colo*ring her voice.
"Exactly." Ginny's eyes glinted with the same cold determination Hermione felt. "He'll take the shortcut behind the equipment shed. It's isolated, dark..."
"Perfect for an ambush," Harry finished, though his expression showed less enthusiasm than the girls'. "Hermione, we need to talk about what happens after we catch him."
She finally looked up from her notes, carefully arranging her features into a mask of innocence. "We make him confess, then turn him in to McGonagall with the evidence."
"And how exactly do we 'make him confess'?" Harry pressed, his green eyes searching her face. "Because some of the books you've been reading..." He gestured to the ancient tome beside her, its leather binding cracked with age.
Hermione closed the book with casualness. "Just research, Harry. Knowledge is power."
"Some knowledge comes with a price," he countered quietly.
Ginny shifted impatiently. "We're wasting time. The plan is simple: we ambush Goyle, take him somewhere private, and scare a confession out of him. He's a coward beneath all that bulk."
"And if he refuses to talk?" Harry challenged.
"Then we get creative," Ginny replied, her hand resting on her wand.
Hermione felt a surge of gratitude toward the younger girl. Ginny understood what Harry couldn't—or wouldn't. Sometimes justice required stepping outside the bounds of rules.
"We won't cross certain lines," Hermione assured Harry, meeting his gaze steadily. "No Unforgivables. Nothing that causes permanent damage."
The lie tasted strange on her tongue.
Harry didn't look convinced. "Promise me, Hermione. Promise you won't do anything you can't come back from."
"I promise," she said, maintaining eye contact. Another lie. She would do whatever was necessary to avenge Luna. To ensure nothing like this happened again.
"Good," Harry nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Now, let's go over the timing again..."
As they reviewed the plan, Hermione felt a curious detachment, as though she were watching herself from a distance. The Hermione Granger of last year—rule-abiding, morally rigid—would have been horrified by what they were planning. But that Hermione hadn't watched Luna bleed. That Hermione hadn't yet understood the cost of playing by rules when others didn't.
An hour later, after Harry and Ginny had left to get some rest before tomorrow's ambush, Hermione remained in the classroom alone. She stood in the center of the room, wand extended, practicing the movements of the spells she'd researched.
A slashing motion for pain. A twisting flick for coercion. A sharp jab for fear.
"For Luna," she whispered to the empty room, her wand cutting through the air in the precise movement of a slicing hex. "All of this is for Luna."
But a small, honest part of her wondered if that was entirely true.
Dusk settled over Hogwarts the following day, painting the Quidditch pitch in shades of purple and gold. Hermione crouched behind the equipment shed, Disillusioned but still careful to remain in shadow. Twenty meters to her right, Harry waited beneath his Invisibility Cloak. Ginny had positioned herself near the path junction where Goyle would likely pass.
The sharp smell of frost hung in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the pitch and the metallic tang of anticipation in Hermione's mouth. In the distance, the Slytherin team's practice was winding down, green-robed figures landing one by one.
"Positions," Harry's voice murmured through the enchanted galleon in Hermione's pocket—a modification of their DA communication system. "They're finishing up."
Hermione's heart hammered against her ribs. Her palms were slick with sweat despite the cold, making her grip on her wand tenuous. She forced herself to take slow, measured breaths.
For Luna, she reminded herself. Remember Luna's pale face. The blood on her throat.
The Slytherin team streamed toward the changing rooms, their voices carrying on the evening air. Malfoy's distinctive drawl rose above the others, something about "detention with that greasy bat." Crabbe's grunting laugh followed.
Then, unexpectedly, Goyle separated from the group.
"He's not going to the changing rooms," Ginny's voice came through the galleon. "He's heading straight for the castle. Alone."
"Change of plans," Harry responded immediately. "Hermione, circle wide and cut him off at the stone bridge. Ginny, follow but keep your distance."
Hermione was already moving, her Disillusioned form gliding between shadows. The bridge Harry mentioned was a small stone archway over a decorative stream—isolated, rarely used except as a shortcut to the castle's side entrance.
Perfect.
She reached the bridge first, positioning herself behind a large oak tree. Through its bare branches, she could see Goyle's hulking form approaching, his face set in its perpetual scowl. Alone, without Malfoy's supervision, he looked less intimidating—just a thick-bodied boy with more muscle than sense.
The galleon in her pocket warmed. "Ready," Harry's voice whispered.
Goyle was less than ten meters away now, his heavy footsteps crunching on the frosted grass. Hermione raised her wand, her mouth dry with anticipation.
"Now," she breathed into the galleon.
Three spells hit Goyle simultaneously—Harry's Stunning Spell from behind, Ginny's Impediment Jinx from the left, and Hermione's Confundus Charm from the front. The combined force lifted the large Slytherin off his feet and slammed him onto the bridge with bone-jarring force. He didn't even have time to shout.
Hermione canceled her Disillusionment Charm as she stepped out from behind the tree. Harry appeared as he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, and Ginny emerged from the shadows of a nearby hedge.
"Incarcerous," Hermione said coldly, and ropes sprang from her wand to bind Goyle's unconscious form.
"Levicorpus," Harry added, raising Goyle's bound body into the air. "We need to move quickly. The dungeons, like we planned."
They moved swiftly through the deepening twilight, Harry manipulating Goyle's floating form beneath the Invisibility Cloak while Hermione and Ginny walked ahead, keeping watch. The castle's side entrance led directly to a rarely-used staircase that descended into the dungeons' older section—an area abandoned decades ago when newer classrooms were constructed.
The room they'd prepared was waiting—door reinforced with locking charms, walls and ceiling layered with silencing spells, a sturdy wooden chair positioned in the center beneath a hanging lantern that cast harsh shadows.
"Set him down," Hermione directed, gesturing to the chair.
Harry lowered Goyle's unconscious form into the seat while Ginny reinforced the binding spells and removed the invisibilty cloak they had used to make Goyle invisible while they were carrying him. Hermione circled the chair slowly, her eyes cold as she observed their captive. Goyle's head lolled forward onto his chest, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth.
This boy—this thug—had nearly killed Luna. Had left her bleeding in the snow, her throat slashed open. The memory made Hermione's blood boil.
"Hermione?" Harry's voice penetrated her thoughts. He was watching her with growing concern. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," she said curtly. "Let's wake him up and get this over with."
Ginny nodded eagerly, her wand already raised. "Rennervate."
Goyle's eyelids fluttered, then snapped open. Confusion gave way to fear as he registered his situation—bound to a chair, surrounded by three Gryffindors, in a room he didn't recognize. He struggled against the ropes, his bulky frame straining uselessly.
"What the fuck is this?" he growled, though his voice cracked slightly. "You're all dead when I get out of here!"
"Brave words from someone who attacks from behind," Hermione replied, stepping directly into his line of sight. "Not so easy when your victim can see you coming, is it?"
Recognition dawned in Goyle's small eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, Granger."
"Luna Lovegood," Harry said, moving to stand beside Hermione. "The cutting curse. We know it was you, Goyle."
A flicker of something—fear? guilt?—crossed Goyle's face before his features hardened into defiance. "Prove it."
"We already have," Hermione said, her voice dangerously soft. She began to circle the chair again, forcing Goyle to crane his neck awkwardly to keep her in view. "Harry detected your magical signature at the scene. We have a witness who heard you bragging about it."
"And we found this," Harry added, holding up a green-tinged vial. It was empty, but similar enough to the potion Hermione had been researching that Goyle wouldn't know the difference. "Recognize it? It was in your dormitory."
It was a bluff—they hadn't been anywhere near the Slytherin dormitories—but Goyle's eyes widened fractionally. He recovered quickly, sneering up at them.
"So what's your plan? Turn me in? Go ahead. My father's friends with the Minister. Nothing will stick."
"We're not here to turn you in," Ginny said, stepping forward. Her normally warm brown eyes were cold. "Not yet, anyway."
"We want to know why," Hermione continued, completing another circle around the chair. "Why Luna? Why a cutting curse to the throat? Why try to kill her?"
"I told you, I don't know what you're—"
"LIAR!" Hermione's shout echoed off the stone walls, startling even Harry and Ginny. She thrust her face close to Goyle's, her wand pressed against his cheek. "We know you did it. We know Malfoy ordered you to. Stop wasting our time."
Goyle's eyes darted between the three of them, assessing. Whatever he saw in their faces—particularly Hermione's—must have been convincing, because his demeanor shifted subtly.
"You won't do anything to me," he said, but with less conviction. "You're Gryffindors. Potter's little gang of heroes. You don't have the stomach for real punishment."
"Try me," Hermione whispered, letting her wand dig deeper into his flesh.
For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Then Goyle laughed—a harsh, ugly sound that made Hermione's skin crawl.
"This is pathetic," he spat. "You dragged me down here, tied me up, and now what? You're going to lecture me? Take points? Tell a professor? You're fucking joke."
"Shut up," Ginny snapped, but Goyle was gaining confidence.
"Or what? What are you going to do to me that won't get you expelled?" His gaze fixed on Hermione. "Going to cry about it, Mudblood? Like your loony friend probably did when I sliced her throat open?"
Something snapped inside Hermione. Before she could think, before Harry could intervene, her wand was pointed at Goyle's chest and the word tore from her throat:
"CRUCIO!"
Red light erupted from her wand, striking Goyle squarely in the chest. His body tensed, a strangled cry escaping his lips as the curse took effect. But something was wrong—the spell wasn't working properly. Instead of the screaming agony that the Cruciatus Curse should inflict, Goyle merely writhed uncomfortably, his face contorted in pain but not the unbearable torture the Unforgivable was known for.
After a few seconds, the spell dissipated entirely. Hermione stood frozen, her wand still extended, shock on her face. She'd cast an Unforgivable—and failed.
Goyle's pained expression gave way to a twisted grin. "That the best you got, Granger? Barely felt it." He spat at her feet. "You need to mean it for an Unforgivable to work. Need to really want to cause pain."
"Hermione!" Harry grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "What are you doing? That's—"
"I know what it is," she hissed, yanking her arm free. "And I don't care."
"You should care," Goyle taunted, seemingly emboldened by her failed attempt. "Because I'm going to tell everyone that Hermione Granger used the Cruciatus Curse. The golden girl of Gryffindor, casting Unforgivables. Imagine the headlines. Imagine Dumbledore's face when he snaps your wand."
Hermione turned back to him slowly, a dangerous calm settling over her. "You won't be telling anyone anything unless you tell us the truth first. Why did you attack Luna?"
Goyle shrugged as much as his bindings allowed. "Loony was following Draco. Sticking her nose where it didn't belong. He told me to scare her off permanently, teach her a lesson."
"So you tried to kill her?" Ginny demanded, her knuckles white around her wand.
"Wasn't trying to kill her," Goyle replied with chilling casualness. "Just wanted to make sure she got the message. Though I wouldn't have minded if she died. One less blood traitor to worry about."
Hermione's vision tunneled, narrowing until all she could see was Goyle's sneering face.
"You wanted her to die," she repeated, her voice eerily calm.
"Yeah, I guess I did," Goyle admitted, leaning forward against his restraints. "Should've seen her face when the curse hit her. Eyes got all big and surprised. Blood everywhere. It was beautiful, really."
"You sick bastard," Harry breathed, genuine horror in his voice.
Goyle ignored him, his gaze fixed on Hermione, sensing her as the most volatile threat. "Know what I really wanted to do?" he continued, his voice dropping to a lascivious growl. "I wanted to have some fun with Loony first. She's weird, but she's got a nice little body under those robes. Told Draco we should take her somewhere private, have a go before we finished her off."
Hermione felt something break loose inside her, a dam of rage she'd been containing since Luna's attack.
"Malfoy said no," Goyle continued, oblivious to the danger. "Said we didn't have time, needed to leave before anyone saw us. But if I'd had my way? I'd have shown that crazy bitch what she's good for before slitting her—"
"SECTUMSEMPRA!" Hermione screamed, the spell erupting from her wand before she consciously decided to cast it.
A flash of blinding light, and then red—so much red. The curse slashed across Goyle's throat, opening it in a grotesque mirror of Luna's wound. But where Luna's had been a controlled, precise cut, this was a ragged tear that sprayed arterial blood across the room in a crimson arc.
Goyle's words died in a wet gurgle. His eyes bulged with shock, mouth working soundlessly as blood cascaded down his chest, soaking into his robes. The ropes binding him were now slick with it, dark and gleaming in the harsh lantern light.
"Oh my god!" Ginny's scream seemed to come from far away. "Hermione, what have you done?"
Harry lunged forward, pressing his hands against Goyle's throat, trying desperately to stem the bleeding. "Vulnera Sanentur!" he chanted, but the spell wasn't designed for wounds this severe, cast with such hatred. Blood continued to pump between his fingers, slowing but not stopping.
"Help me!" Harry shouted, his hands and forearms now coated in Goyle's blood. "Hermione! Ginny! Do something!"
But Hermione stood frozen, her wand still extended, watching with detached fascination as Goyle's struggles weakened. His eyes locked with hers, confusion and terror giving way to a glassy emptiness as his life drained away.
Ginny had backed against the wall, her hands covering her mouth, unable to move or help. Harry continued his desperate attempts at healing, but it was clear from his increasingly frantic movements that it was hopeless.
Goyle's head slumped forward. A final, wet rattle emerged from his ruined throat. Then silence.
Gregory Goyle was dead.
The realization hit Hermione like a physical blow. She had killed someone. Cast a spell with the intent to hurt—perhaps not to kill, but the distinction seemed meaningless now. Blood dripped from her wand onto the stone floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound unnaturally loud in the silent room.
"Hermione." Harry's voice was steady despite the horror of the situation. His hands and robes were soaked with blood, his face splashed with it. "Hermione, look at me."
She turned to him, expecting disgust, condemnation. Instead, she saw grim determination.
"You and Ginny need to go," he said firmly. "Now. Back to the tower. Clean up, act normal." He drew his wand. "I'll handle this."
"Harry, I—" she began, her voice a hoarse whisper.
"No time," he cut her off. "GO. Both of you. I know spells that will remove all traces of us being here. But you need to leave."
Ginny seemed to shake herself from her stupor. She crossed the room and took Hermione's arm, tugging her toward the door.
"Come on," she whispered urgently. "Harry's right. We need to go."
As Ginny pulled her from the room, Hermione cast one last glance at Goyle's slumped form, at the pool of blood spreading across the floor, at Harry standing amid the carnage with a terrible resolve on his face. Then the door closed behind them, and they were moving through the dark corridors, Ginny leading a near-catatonic Hermione back to Gryffindor Tower.
They didn't speak during the journey. What was there to say? Words seemed inadequate, meaningless in the face of what had just happened. Instead, they moved like ghosts through the castle, encountering no one, the silence between them as heavy as an elephant.
In the dormitory bathroom, Ginny wordlessly helped Hermione remove her blood-spattered clothing, bundling it into a bag to be disposed of later. She guided Hermione into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. Hermione stood beneath the scalding spray, watching as pink water swirled down the drain. There hadn't been much blood on her—most of it had sprayed onto Harry and the walls—but she scrubbed at her skin until it was raw, as though she could wash away the memory.
The gravity of what she'd done hovered at the edges of her consciousness, but she couldn't bring herself to fully confront it. Not yet.
When she finally emerged from the shower, Ginny handed her clean pajamas without meeting her eyes. The redhead's face was pale, freckles standing out starkly against her skin.
"What happens now?" Hermione asked, her voice barely audible.
Ginny shook her head slightly. "We wait for Harry. We trust him." She hesitated, then added, "And we never speak of this. To anyone. Ever."
Hermione nodded mechanically. She should feel something—guilt, remorse, horror at taking a life. Instead, there was only numbness, as though her emotions had been scoured away like the blood on her skin.
She thought of Luna, lying pale and still in the hospital wing. She thought of Goyle's boast about wanting to rape her before killing her. She searched her heart for regret and found none.
What did that make her?
Tomorrow
The Great Hall the next morning was a sea of confused faces and hushed whispers. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table between Harry and Ginny, pushing porridge around her bowl without eating. None of them had slept much. Harry had returned to the common room well after midnight, his face grim but composed. He'd simply nodded to indicate the job was done, then disappeared up the boys' staircase without another word.
Now they sat together, a united front of feigned normalcy while uncertainty swirled around them. The Slytherin table was in visible disarray, students huddled in tight groups, many faces concerned or puzzled. Draco Malfoy's seat was conspicuously empty, as was Crabbe's.
Dumbledore rose from his seat at the head table, and a hush fell over the hall. The headmaster's face was grave, the usual twinkle in his blue eyes dimmed.
"Students of Hogwarts," he began, his voice carrying clearly despite its softness. "It is with concern that I must inform you that Gregory Goyle of Slytherin House has not been seen since yesterday evening. His bed was not slept in, and none of his housemates have had contact with him."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Hermione glanced quickly at Harry, a silent question in her eyes: What did you do with the body? Harry gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and subtle tilt toward the door—Later.
"While there may be an innocent explanation for Mr. Goyle's absence," Dumbledore continued, "given recent events at Hogwarts, we are taking this matter very seriously. The staff are conducting a thorough search of the grounds, and Mr. Goyle's parents have been notified."
Hermione noticed Professor Snape's dark eyes scanning the Gryffindor table with particular intensity. She forced herself to maintain a neutral expression, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Until we ascertain Mr. Goyle's whereabouts and the circumstances of his disappearance, I ask that all students remain vigilant and travel in groups," Dumbledore said. "Prefects will enforce curfew strictly, and any information regarding Mr. Goyle should be brought immediately to your Head of House."
As Dumbledore sat down, the hall erupted in speculative conversation. Hermione couldn't bring herself to participate, though Harry and Ginny made a show of looking appropriately concerned.
"Probably just ran away," Ron muttered, leaning across the table. "Thick as he is, even Goyle might've realized he'd be a suspect in Luna's attack."
Neither Harry nor Hermione answered, but Ginny managed a convincing shrug. "Could be. Or maybe he's hiding somewhere in the castle."
"Bet Malfoy knows where he is," Ron continued, glancing toward the empty seat. "Those two are never apart. Strange that both Malfoy and Crabbe are missing breakfast too."
Hermione followed his gaze to the gap where Draco usually sat. She wondered what the blond Slytherin was thinking right now. Did he suspect what had happened? Was he afraid he might be next?
He should be, a cold voice whispered in her mind. He gave the order. He's just as guilty.
The thought should have disturbed her. Instead, she found herself considering possibilities, calculating risks. The part of her that had cast that fatal curse wasn't gone—it had merely settled deeper inside her, waiting.
"Hermione?" Ron's voice cut through her thoughts. "You alright? You look a bit peaky."
"I'm fine," she replied automatically. "Just... worried, I suppose. First Luna nearly died, now Goyle missing. It makes everything more real, doesn't it?"
Ron nodded solemnly. "Yeah. I mean, I hate the git, but disappearing without a trace? That's not right."
Harry placed a hand on Hermione's shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture contained volumes—support, understanding, complicity. It steadied her.
"I think I'll go to the hospital wing," she said quietly. "To check on Luna."
Neither Harry nor Ginny tried to dissuade her. They understood her need to see Luna, to remind herself why she'd done what she'd done.
The hospital wing was quiet when Hermione entered, the morning sunlight streaming through tall windows onto empty beds. Only one was occupied—Luna's, at the far end, partially concealed by a privacy screen.
Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office as Hermione approached. "Miss Granger," she acknowledged with a nod. "I suppose you've heard about Mr. Goyle's disappearance?"
"Yes," Hermione replied, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "I came to see Luna. Has there been any change?"
The matron's expression softened slightly. "Some improvement, yes. She's still unconscious, but her vital signs are stronger. The healing potions are working." She hesitated, then added more gently, "You may sit with her for a while, if you wish."
"Thank you," Hermione said, genuinely grateful.
Pomfrey retreated to her office, leaving Hermione alone with Luna. The Ravenclaw looked marginally better than the day before—her skin less deathly pale, her breathing deeper and more regular. The bandage on her neck had been changed, no red seeping through the white gauze now.
Hermione sat beside the bed, taking Luna's limp hand in hers. It felt warmer than yesterday, the fingers more pliant. She traced small circles on Luna's palm with her thumb, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the hospital blanket.
"It's done, Luna," she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet room. "He can never hurt you again. Never hurt anyone again."
She should feel guilty. Remorseful. Horrified by her actions. The absence of those feelings should frighten her. Instead, she felt only a calm certainty that she'd done what was necessary—what was right, in a world where justice often failed.
Luna's fingers twitched slightly in her grasp. Hermione's breath caught.
"Luna? Can you hear me?"
Another small movement—not quite a squeeze, but definitely intentional. Luna's eyelids fluttered, though they didn't open.
"I'm here," Hermione murmured, leaning closer. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe now."
As she sat beside Luna's bed, the weight of what she'd done settled fully upon her. She had taken a life. Crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. Changed herself in ways that could never be undone.
Yet looking at Luna's face, remembering Goyle's vile words, the blood on the snow—Hermione couldn't find it in herself to regret her actions.
Luna's fingers twitched again in her grasp, a faint pressure that felt like absolution.
"Rest," Hermione whispered, brushing a strand of silvery hair from Luna's forehead. "When you wake up, everything will be different."
Including me, she added silently.
She remained at Luna's bedside as morning stretched into afternoon, her thoughts circling back to the dungeon classroom, to the spray of blood, to the moment a life ended by her hand. Each time, instead of horror, she felt a cold, settled certainty.
Some prices were worth paying. Some lines worth crossing.
For Luna. For justice. For the person she was becoming.
If you want to Read 9 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWriter40' on Websearch