Harry's hands were everywhere.
Hermione gasped as he pressed her against the library stacks, his mouth hot on her neck, his fingers tangled in her hair. Books tumbled to the floor around them—she'd normally care about that, but right now she couldn't think about anything except the heat of him, the weight of him, the way his body fit against hers.
"I've wanted this," Harry breathed against her skin. "For so long, Hermione."
"Yes," she heard herself say. "Yes, Harry, please—"
He reached between them, and she felt herself pressing forward, her new dick straining toward his touch, desperate, aching—
"Hermione," he murmured, wrapping his hand around her and stroking, once, twice—
"Harry—"
"Hermione."
"HERMIONE!"
She woke with a gasp.
The dormitory was dark. Lavender was snoring in the next bed. Everything was normal.
Except for the throbbing, insistent need between her legs.
Hermione lay perfectly still, staring at the canopy of her bed, breathing hard. Her heart was racing. Her skin was damp with sweat. And it—her unwanted addition—was harder than she'd ever felt it, tenting her sheets in a way that would be comical if it wasn't horrifying.
It was just a dream, she told herself firmly. A meaningless dream. Harry is my friend. I don't think of him that way.
Her cock twitched, calling her a liar.
"Shut up," she whispered to it.
It did not shut up. If anything, the ache intensified, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, demanding attention she refused to give it.
Hermione pressed her thighs together. Bad idea—the friction made her gasp, made her hips jerk involuntarily. She was so sensitive, so swollen, every nerve ending screaming for release.
Just ignore it. It will go away. Mind over matter.
Ten minutes passed.
It did not go away.
Twenty minutes.
She was going to lose her mind.
Thirty minutes, and Hermione Granger—top of her class, war heroine, the most rational witch of her generation—finally broke.
Just once, she told herself, her hand creeping beneath the sheets. Just to take the edge off. So I can think clearly. It's practically medicinal.
Her fingers wrapped around herself, and she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning aloud.
It felt good. Merlin help her, it felt incredible—hot and hard and so sensitive that even the lightest touch sent sparks shooting up her spine. She stroked experimentally, learning the shape of herself, the weight, the way pressure at the base made her toes curl.
This is wrong, some distant part of her brain insisted. This is shameful. You're touching your—your—
But her hand was already moving faster, chasing the pleasure that coiled in her belly, and unbidden, the dream came flooding back.
Harry's hands. Harry's mouth. Harry's voice saying her name—
She imagined him here, in her bed, his calloused Quidditch fingers replacing her own. Imagined the look on his face—wonder, desire, hunger—as he discovered what she'd become. Imagined him not recoiling in disgust but leaning closer, curious, eager—
"Let me," dream-Harry whispered. "Let me make you feel good."
Hermione's back arched off the mattress.
She came with a strangled whimper, her free hand clamped over her mouth, her entire body shuddering as pleasure crashed through her in waves. A wet liquid spilt over her fingers, onto her stomach, making a mess she'd have to clean up, but for one blissful moment, she didn't care about anything except the release, the relief, the sheer overwhelming sensation—
And then it was over.
Reality returned like a bucket of cold water.
Hermione lay in the darkness, breathing hard, her hand still wrapped around her softening cock, and felt shame crash over her like a tidal wave.
She had just masturbated.
Her penis.
While thinking about Harry.
"Oh God," she whispered to the ceiling. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."
She cast a frantic cleaning charm, then another for good measure, then lay rigid in her bed and stared at nothing, her face burning so hot she was surprised she didn't set the pillow on fire.
She had crossed a line. She had enjoyed it. And worst of all, some treacherous part of her was already wondering when she could do it again.
This is fine, she told herself hysterically. Lots of people have... have sexual feelings about their friends. It doesn't mean anything. It was just the potion. The potion is making me feel things. Harry is my friend, and I absolutely do not want to—to—
Her cock twitched hopefully.
"I hate you," Hermione told it.
It did not seem to care.
Breakfast was a trial.
Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, exhausted and mortified, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate while carefully not looking at Harry.
Who was sitting directly across from her.