He was wearing a slightly too-tight t-shirt.
With a bedhead that should have looked ridiculous, but instead looked unfairly attractive.
"You okay, Hermione?" he asked, and she nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. "You look tired."
"Fine!" Her voice came out as a squeak. "Didn't sleep well. Bad dreams. Very bad. Nightmares, really. About—about Voldemort! Yes. Voldemort nightmares. Very scary. Not sexy at all."
Harry blinked. "I... didn't say anything about—"
"MORE TOAST?" Hermione grabbed the toast rack and shoved it toward him. "You should eat. Keep your strength up. For classes. Which we have. Soon. I should go."
She fled the Great Hall, leaving Harry staring after her in bewilderment.
Ron, mouth full of bacon, shrugged. "Women," he said philosophically.
The support group meeting that evening was held, as agreed, in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
Hermione arrived first, still jittery from her morning encounter with Harry. Every time she'd seen him throughout the day, her brain had helpfully supplied images from her dream (and from what came after), and her body had responded with enthusiasm she desperately tried to hide.
She'd taken to carrying a large textbook everywhere. Just in case.
Luna arrived next, drifting in with her usual dreamy smile.
"Good evening, Hermione. You look tense. Gerald says you should try deep breathing exercises."
"Gerald should mind his own business."
"He can't. He's very empathetic. He picks up on everyone's emotional state." Luna settled onto a conjured cushion, crossing her legs comfortably. "He was very active this morning. The sunrise was particularly beautiful, and he tends to respond to aesthetic stimulation."
Hermione did not want to know what that meant. "Luna—"
"So I had to take care of him before breakfast. Three times, actually. He's quite demanding. But I've established a routine now—morning, midday, and evening. It keeps him manageable during classes."
"Luna, please—"
"The evening session is the longest. I've found that visualisation helps. I imagine a field of Blibbering Humdingers frolicking in moonlight, and Gerald responds very positively—"
"I DON'T NEED TO KNOW THIS."
Luna looked mildly surprised. "But we're a support group. Aren't we supposed to share coping strategies?"
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Luna had a point. A horrifying, mortifying point, but a point nonetheless.
"...Three times?" she found herself asking, against her better judgment.
"At minimum. Sometimes more, if I see something particularly stimulating. Professor Flitwick wore a very flattering waistcoat yesterday, and Gerald became quite insistent during Charms."
"Professor Flitwick?"
"He has lovely eyes. Gerald appreciates lovely eyes."
Hermione's brain short-circuited.
Fortunately, she was saved from further revelation by the arrival of Lavender, who burst through the door in tears.
"I can't do this!" Lavender wailed, throwing herself onto a conjured chair. "I CAN'T!"
"What happened?" Hermione asked, grateful for the distraction.
"Won-Won told me he wants to visit this weekend! He says he misses me and wants to spend time together, and I can't—I can't let him see—" She gestured frantically at her lap. "He'll be disgusted! He'll leave me! My life is OVER!"
"Perhaps he'd be intrigued," Luna suggested. "Some people find variety exciting."
"LUNA!"
"I'm just saying. Gerald thinks you're being pessimistic."
"I don't CARE what Gerald thinks!"
The bathroom door opened again, and Pansy Parkinson stalked in.
She looked wrecked.
Her usually immaculate hair was dishevelled. Her makeup was smudged. Her robes were askew. And she was walking with a distinct waddle that suggested severe discomfort.
"Don't," she snarled, before anyone could speak. "Don't say a word."
Hermione raised her hands in surrender.
Pansy collapsed into a chair, her legs splayed in a way that was deeply unladylike but clearly necessary. "I am going to murder Draco Malfoy."
"What did he do?" Lavender asked, momentarily distracted from her own crisis.
"He wore a sweater."
Silence.
"...A sweater?" Hermione ventured.
"A tight sweater. Cashmere. Dark green. It—" Pansy's voice cracked. "—it clung to him. I could see his shoulders. His chest. The way his arms moved when he reached for his coffee—"
She broke off, pressing her hands over her face.
"And?" Lavender prompted.
"And I've been hard for SIX HOURS."
More silence.
"I've tried everything," Pansy continued, her voice muffled by her hands. "Cold thoughts. Arithmancy equations. Imagining Professor Binns in a bathing suit. Nothing works. Every time I start to calm down, I remember the way the fabric stretched across his back, and it just—" She made a helpless gesture.
"Have you tried... releasing the tension?" Luna asked delicately.
Pansy's head snapped up. "I am NOT going to—to handle myself—like some common—"
"It does help," Luna said serenely. "Gerald and I have an excellent understanding."
"I don't WANT an understanding with my—my—"
"Penis," Hermione supplied tiredly. "It's called a penis, Pansy. We all have them now. Saying the word won't make it more real."
Pansy glared at her. "This is your fault."
"Yes, you've mentioned."
"I'm going to keep mentioning it until you fix it."
"I'm trying to fix it. I've been researching—"
"Research faster."
The bathroom door opened again…