… and Professor McGonagall entered.
She looked marginally more composed than in the last meeting, though there was a telltale stiffness to her gait that suggested she was dealing with her own struggles.
"Good, you're all here." She conjured a chair and sat, smoothing her robes. "Status reports. How is everyone... managing?"
Lavender burst into fresh tears.
Pansy snarled something unprintable.
Luna smiled. "Gerald is thriving."
McGonagall's eye twitched. "Miss Lovegood, I must insist—"
"He said to tell you he hopes your companion is equally well-adjusted."
"I do not have a companion, I have an unwanted biological aberration—"
"That's a very negative way to think about it. Gerald says—"
"I DO NOT CARE WHAT GERALD SAYS."
Hermione rubbed her temples. "Can we please focus? Has Madam Pomfrey found anything?"
McGonagall's expression sobered. "She's identified the specific interaction that caused the transformation. Miss Granger, you misread 'Liverwort' as 'Lungwort.' The substitution, combined with the other ingredients, created what she's calling an 'Essence of Enhancement'—but instead of enhancing magical stamina, it enhanced... physical attributes."
"Enhanced them from nothing," Pansy muttered.
"Yes, well. The magic interpreted 'empowerment' in a rather literal, anatomical sense." McGonagall cleared her throat. "The good news is that Pomfrey believes a counter-potion is theoretically possible."
"And the bad news?"
"The primary ingredient required is extremely rare. Moonseed extract, harvested during a lunar eclipse. The next eclipse isn't for three months."
Three months.
Hermione felt her stomach drop.
"Three MONTHS?" Lavender shrieked. "I have to live like this for THREE MONTHS?"
"At minimum. The brewing process itself takes another month after that."
"FOUR MONTHS?"
"Miss Brown, please lower your voice—"
"I can't hide this from Won-Won for four months! I can't hide it for four DAYS! He's visiting this WEEKEND!"
"Then perhaps you should postpone his visit."
"I CAN'T! He already bought train tickets!"
The argument continued, growing more heated by the moment. Hermione tuned it out, her mind racing.
Four months. Four months of hiding this. Four months of cold showers and careful positioning and constant, grinding awareness of the thing between her legs.
Four months of seeing Harry every day and remembering her dream.
God.
"...don't see why we can't just tell people," Luna was saying when Hermione tuned back in. "Gerald thinks secrecy is unhealthy."
"Gerald doesn't have a reputation to protect," Pansy snapped.
"Gerald doesn't care about reputation. Gerald cares about authentic self-expression."
"Gerald is a PENIS, not a philosopher!"
"That's very close-minded of you. Gerald contains multitudes."
"I'm going to contain my foot up your—"
"Ladies." McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip. "This is not productive. We need to establish coping strategies, not devolve into petty squabbling."
"What strategies?" Hermione asked. "Luna's already shared hers." She tried very hard not to think about Flitwick's waistcoat. "But not all of us are comfortable with... that approach."
"Then find approaches you ARE comfortable with," McGonagall said. "The point is to maintain functionality. We cannot let this condition derail our lives. We are witches—intelligent, capable witches—and we will not be defeated by an unwanted appendage."
It was, Hermione had to admit, a rousing speech.
It was somewhat undermined by the bathroom door suddenly banging open.
"Hermione? Are you in here? Ron said he saw you heading this way, and I wanted to—"
Harry Potter stood in the doorway.
Time froze.
Five witches stared at him in horror.
Harry stared back, taking in the scene—Hermione, Lavender, Luna, Pansy, and Professor McGonagall, clustered in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, sitting on conjured furniture, clearly in the middle of some kind of secret meeting.
"Um," he said.
"Harry!" Hermione leapt to her feet. "What are you—why are you—this is the girls' bathroom!"
"I know, I'm sorry, I just—you've been avoiding me all day, and I was worried, and—" His eyes swept the group again. "What's going on? Why are you all here? With Pansy Parkinson?"
"It's a study group!" Lavender blurted.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
"A... study group," Harry repeated slowly.
"Yes! For—for—" Lavender's eyes darted frantically. "—for Muggle Studies! We're studying... Muggle... bathroom... architecture!"
"In an actual bathroom."
"Hands-on learning! Very progressive!"
Harry looked at McGonagall. "Professor?"
McGonagall drew herself up with magnificent dignity. "Mr. Potter, this is a private academic session. Your presence is neither required nor appropriate."
"But—"
"Additionally, I must deduct five points from Gryffindor for entering the girls' lavatory without permission."
"I was just—"
"Ten points if you don't leave immediately."
Harry held up his hands. "Fine, fine, I'm going." He backed toward the door, still looking confused. "But Hermione, can we talk later? Please? I feel like something's wrong and you're not telling me."
Hermione's heart clenched. "Later," she promised. "I'll explain... something. Later."
He nodded, still frowning, and left.
The door swung shut.
Five women exhaled simultaneously.
"Muggle bathroom architecture?" Pansy hissed at Lavender.
"It was the first thing I thought of!"
"It was the STUPIDEST thing you could have thought of!"
"I panicked!"
"Enough," McGonagall said wearily. "He's gone. Crisis averted."
But Hermione wasn't so sure.
Harry wasn't stupid. He knew something was wrong. And he was persistent—it was one of his best and worst qualities. Sooner or later, he was going to figure out that Hermione was hiding something.
And when he did...
She imagined his face when he learned the truth. The shock. The disgust. The inevitable awkwardness that would destroy their friendship forever.
I can't let that happen, she thought fiercely. I have to fix this before he finds out.
Four months suddenly seemed like both an eternity and not nearly enough time.
Later that night, Hermione lay in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep.
Her encounter with Harry in the bathroom kept replaying in her mind. The concern in his eyes. The hurt when she kept pushing him away.
He's my best friend, she thought miserably. He deserves to know.
But she couldn't tell him. She couldn't bear to see his reaction.
It's only four months, she reminded herself. Four months, and then the potion will be ready, and everything will go back to normal, and Harry never has to know.
Her hand crept toward her persistent arousal—because of course she was aroused again, she was always aroused now—then stopped.
No, she told herself firmly. Not tonight. Not thinking about him.
She rolled over, punched her pillow into shape, and forced her eyes closed.