Hermione had faced many challenges in her academic career.
She had battled a mountain troll at eleven. She'd brewed Polyjuice Potion at twelve (and turned herself into a cat, but that was beside the point). She'd used a Time-Turner to attend every class Hogwarts offered at thirteen. She'd helped fight Death Eaters at fifteen, survived a war, and returned to complete her education like the responsible adult she was.
None of it compared to the challenge of attending Transfiguration class with a penis.
The morning had started badly and gotten progressively worse.
First, there was the matter of getting dressed. Hermione's usual routine—knickers, skirt, blouse, robes—had hit an immediate snag at step one. Knickers were not designed for this. She'd spent twenty minutes in the bathroom attempting various configurations before finally settling on a pair of boyshorts she'd bought as sleepwear, worn backwards, with her new addition tucked firmly to the left.
It was not comfortable.
It was deeply uncomfortable.
Every step sent friction through her that made her want to either scream or... do something else entirely—something she refused to think about.
Second, there was breakfast. She'd arrived at the Great Hall to find Lavender already there, sitting ramrod straight with her legs crossed so tightly she might have been attempting to fuse them together. Their eyes had met across the Gryffindor table in a moment of shared horror.
Neither of them touched the pumpkin juice.
Third, there was Ron.
"You look peaky," he'd announced through a mouthful of eggs, his face still slightly swollen from yesterday's Stinging Hex. "You coming down with something?"
"I'm fine," Hermione had said, her voice approximately two octaves higher than normal.
"You're sitting weird."
"I'm sitting normally."
"You're not, though. You're all—" He'd gestured vaguely. "—clenched."
"Ronald, I am not clenched. I am simply maintaining proper posture."
Harry had looked up from his toast with concern. "Hermione, if something's wrong, you can tell us."
For one wild moment, she'd considered it. Just... saying it. Harry, Ron, I accidentally created a potion that gave me a penis. And also Lavender. And Luna. And Pansy Parkinson. And Professor McGonagall. Please help.
"Cramps," she'd blurted instead. "Terrible cramps. Woman troubles. Very painful. Please don't ask follow-up questions."
Both boys had gone satisfyingly pale and changed the subject immediately.
Now, two hours later, Hermione sat in the Transfiguration classroom and prayed for death.
The desks at Hogwarts were not designed for someone with an unexpected addition to their anatomy. The wooden seat pressed against her in ways that were actively hostile, and no amount of shifting could find a position that didn't create... awareness.
She was acutely, horrifyingly aware of it. Every second of every minute.
Worse, she wasn't alone in her suffering.
Lavender sat three rows back, her face frozen in a rictus of discomfort that she was clearly trying to pass off as a smile. Every few minutes, she'd shift in her seat, wince, and go very still.
Luna was at the back of the room, seemingly unbothered, doodling what appeared to be anatomical sketches in the margins of her notes. Hermione didn't want to know.
And at the front of the classroom, behind the large oak desk, Professor McGonagall was teaching.
Or trying to.
"Today," McGonagall said, her voice carrying its usual crisp authority, "we will be continuing our study of human transfiguration. Specifically, the theoretical framework for—Miss Brown, do stop fidgeting."
Lavender froze mid-squirm. "Sorry, Professor."
"As I was saying. The theoretical framework for anatomical alteration." A muscle in McGonagall's jaw twitched. "The magical principles that govern changes to the human body."
Hermione wondered if she was imagining the slight strain in the Professor's voice. The way she stood particularly straight behind her desk. The fact that she hadn't walked among the students once—something she usually did while lecturing.
She's hiding, Hermione realised. She's using the desk as a shield.
"Now, who can tell me the three primary laws governing biological transfiguration?"
Hermione's hand shot up automatically. Academic instinct overrode genital distress.
"Miss Granger."
"The Law of Equivalent Exchange, which states that transfigured biological material must maintain equal mass. The Law of Anatomical Integrity, which requires that transformed organs remain functional within their new context. And the Law of Magical Persistence, which governs how long biological changes can be maintained."
"Correct. Ten points to Gryffindor."
McGonagall turned to write on the board, and as she moved, her robes shifted.
Hermione saw it.
Just for a moment—a slight disruption in the fall of fabric, a bulge where there shouldn't be one, visible for barely a second before McGonagall adjusted her stance.
Their eyes met.
McGonagall's expression flickered—a microsecond of shared understanding, of mutual horror—before her professional mask slammed back into place.
"The Law of Magical Persistence," she continued, chalk scratching against the board, "is particularly relevant to our studies because—Mr. Finnigan, what are you doing?"
Seamus Finnigan had leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of toned stomach. He'd been playing Quidditch more seriously this year, and it showed. Muscles shifted beneath his skin as he yawned.
"Just stretching, Professor. Long night."
"This is not a relaxation chamber. Sit properly."
But Hermione had seen something else.
When Seamus stretched, when that strip of skin appeared, McGonagall's hand had tightened on her chalk. Her robes had shifted again. The bulge had grown more pronounced.
Oh God, Hermione thought. Oh God, she's—it's reacting to—
...
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