The Book of Lust
By kinkytours
Chapter One: The Whispering Pages
The war was over, but not every battle left scars on the skin.
Hermione Granger walked the dim aisles of the Hogwarts library with the sound of her own footsteps swallowed into the dusty velvet hush. She had returned for an eighth year not for N.E.W.T.s, not even for the vague hope of healing, but for the ache of knowing. The ache that clung to her like a second spine. She had seen death. She had survived it. But surviving didn't mean satisfaction.
There were still secrets buried under the stone bones of this castle. And some of them whispered to her. Tonight, she answered.
A flick of her wand and the lock on the Restricted Section's iron gate groaned open, parting like old lips too long sealed. The silence on the other side was deeper, thicker, as if reality hesitated here. The lamps flickered behind her, but she didn't relight them. She didn't need to. She knew what she was looking for. Or thought she did.
Her fingers trailed along cracked leather bindings and twisted titles: Malefica Cognita, Corpus Occultum, Lexicon Invertis… She paused. She'd read most of them in her third year when she'd time-turned herself into insomnia and discipline. But there was a new presence now something that had no dust on it, something wedged between Daughters of Lilith and Ouroboros: Flesh and Rebirth.
She drew it out.
The cover was slick. Not leather. Something smoother. It gleamed faintly in the dark like wet lips. No title. No spine text. Just a black cover etched with a shallow sigil, rounded curves, a thorned heart, and a mouth split wide.
Hermione frowned. This wasn't on the registry. She flipped it open.
The pages weren't paper. They were soft, pliable, almost fleshy beneath her fingertips, and warm. Not metaphorically warm. Warm. The scent that hit her wasn't dust or ink, but something richer—cloying—heady. Vanilla and sweat. Spilled perfume on silk bedsheets. Her pupils dilated.
She turned the first page.
The words were handwritten, not printed, in a curl of scarlet ink that glimmered like blood lacquer. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the foreign syllables, and her fingers trembled as she traced the script. Not fear. A shiver. Something darker, hungrier, curling deep in her abdomen like a cat stretching in sunlight.
She blinked. Her blouse felt tighter. She glanced down. Her breasts, her breasts were swelling against the buttons, already straining the fabric. Her tie slithered loose as her neckline swelled open, revealing flushed skin beneath.
"What"
The book pulsed.
She gasped, spine arching slightly as a warm ripple of pleasure crawled down her torso. Her knickers were wet. Drenched. She could feel it slick between her thighs, soaking into her stockings. Her pulse kicked.
She snapped the book closed.
The sensation didn't stop.
"Shit" she whispered, a word Hermione Granger had never used lightly.
But she didn't drop the book. She clutched it to her chest, fingers digging into the cover, nipples aching against her bra now two sizes too small. The book's sigil throbbed against her sternum, and she whimpered. It wasn't just lust it was need, distilled and poisoned with a thousand voices murmuring inside her skull. Slut. Doll. Pretty thing. Plaything.
The words didn't hurt. They made her throb.
Hermione staggered out of the Restricted Section, the book clutched to her chest, hair already wild and tumbling down from its usual bun. Her thighs rubbed with each step soaked and sticky and her breath came in short gasps.
Back in the abandoned Gryffindor dormitory, she dropped the book on her desk. It purred.
"What are you?" she hissed.
The cover flipped open on its own.
Her eyes flicked down to the new page. The handwriting was changing, becoming easier to read, English now, the letters curling like lashes.
"Chapter One: Unlearning Shame."
She swallowed. Her fingers reached out, almost against her will. As she touched the page, the text shimmered and vanished. And something poured into her. Not visually not a spell or image but something hot and deep, like her own fantasies folded inside out and whispered into her spine.
She saw herself bent over the library desk, skirt lifted, moaning like a whore while faceless hands spread her wide. She felt her own tongue wrapping around words like "fuck me harder" and "yes, yes" and "I'm just a stupid bimbo slut."
She came standing up. A sharp, violent orgasm that made her cry out and collapse to her knees, thighs shuddering, tears in her eyes.
Her body was changing. She could feel it. Not violently, not painfully, deliciously. Her waist pulling in, hips flaring, breasts swelling even more, her hair lengthening into golden-brown waves so thick it tangled when she tried to run her fingers through. Her lips puffed. Her skin glowed. Even her voice, when she whimpered, sounded sweeter, higher.
But her mind it cracked. Not broken. Not shattered. Remade.
Not all at once. No. The cleverness remained. But now it competed with whispers of makeup palettes and thong straps, lipstick shades and cock sizes. Every forbidden thing she'd ever judged now made her wet. She bit her lip and whimpered again, the taste of her own arousal rising in her throat.
And she smiled.
"Oh my God," she moaned, staring at the mirror as her new reflection formed. "I look like a total slut."
The book flipped a page.
"Chapter Two: The Dress Code."
She didn't even read the text this time. Her fingers slid between her legs, slicking her thighs again as the book's influence deepened. She saw herself not in robes but in sheer fabric, thigh-highs with garters, heels that clicked down Hogwarts corridors like stilettos in a porn shoot. She imagined sucking cock in empty classrooms, giggling while Ravenclaws begged to touch her, getting bent over Snape's old desk and moaning into the wood like a good little cumdump.
And the worst part?
She liked it.
The book didn't enslave her. It seduced her. Coaxed her. Made her part of the ritual by choice.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the old Hermione screamed. The war hero. The logical one. The girl who fought for house elves and corrected professors and saved her friends.
That Hermione was gagged now.
Because this Hermione, this one was soaked through and hungry and spread-legged on the bed, licking her own fingers clean and moaning at the thought of being passed around like a trophy at the next Quidditch match.
"Fuck," she gasped, grinding her ass into the sheets, "I'm so wet, I can't unghhh can't think"
The book pulsed again, and her thoughts melted.
She climaxed again, harder than before, hips jerking, mouth open in a silent scream.
Then: calm.
She lay on the bed, sweaty and shaking, heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. Her thighs were sticky. Her hair spread around her like a halo of sin. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, tits too big for her old bras, nipples dark and stiff from too much stimulation.
She giggled. Giggled.
"Oh, wow. I'm like… such a mess."
She rolled over, arching her back like a cat in heat, and purred at the book. "What's next,?"
It flipped to the next page. And the next.
She didn't even read them anymore.
She just obeyed.
And outside, in the darkness of the Forbidden Section, the space where the book had been something shifted. A glimmer of ink on an empty shelf. A faint giggle. Another title appearing.
Because the book had fed. It had rooted.
And Hermione Granger was only the first.