Madam Pomfrey had been the Hogwarts matron for over thirty years.
She had treated cursed wounds, magical maladies, Quidditch catastrophes, and that memorable incident in 1987 when a seventh-year had accidentally transfigured his entire lower body into a giant squid tentacle. She had seen things that would make St. Mungo's healers weep into their tea.
None of it had prepared her for this Monday.
It started at 6:47 AM, when Hermione Granger—twenty-two years old, top of her class, the most sensible witch Pomfrey had ever treated—burst into the Hospital Wing wearing a bathrobe and an expression of absolute terror.
"I need help," Hermione had gasped. "Something's happened. Something's grown."
Before Pomfrey could respond, the doors banged open again.
Lavender Brown stumbled in, mascara streaked down her face, clutching her nightgown around herself like a shield. "MADAM POMFREY, I'M DYING. I HAVE TO BE DYING. THERE'S NO OTHER EXPLANATION."
Then came Pansy Parkinson, pale as milk, her usual sneer replaced by naked horror. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. The way she walked—legs slightly apart, wincing with each step—said everything.
Luna Lovegood drifted in last, still in her pyjamas decorated with dancing Nargles. "Good morning," she said pleasantly. "I seem to have sprouted a penis. I've named him Gerald. Is there tea?"
Pomfrey had sat down heavily.
"All of you?" she'd asked, her voice faint.
The four witches had nodded in miserable unison.
And then Professor McGonagall had arrived.
That had been two hours ago.
Now, the Hospital Wing was in full crisis mode. Pomfrey had drawn the curtains around five beds arranged in a semicircle—privacy wards humming at maximum strength—and was attempting to conduct the most surreal medical examination of her career.
"I need to see them," she said, her voice carrying the forced calm of a woman holding herself together through sheer Scottish stubbornness. "All of them. I can't diagnose the extent of... the situation... without a proper examination."
"Absolutely not," Pansy snapped from her bed. "I refuse to—to display myself like some common—"
"Miss Parkinson." McGonagall's voice could have frozen the Black Lake. "I assure you, none of us wishes to be here. However, Madam Pomfrey requires—"
"You're one to talk! You're a professor! How are you even—why would you drink—"
"I had two goblets of pumpkin juice," McGonagall said, her brogue thickening dangerously. "At dinner. Like a civilised person. I was not expecting to wake up with a—a—" She couldn't finish the sentence.
"Gerald is quite friendly," Luna offered. "He twitches when I think about Thestrals."
Everyone stared at her.
"Please stop naming it," Hermione whispered, her face buried in her hands. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, knees pressed together, consumed by a guilt so profound she could barely breathe.
This is my fault. This is my fault. This is MY FAULT.
The failed potion. Winky. The pumpkin juice.
She'd put it together within the first hour. The timing, the victims, the distinctive floral aftertaste she'd noticed at dinner. She hadn't told anyone yet—couldn't bring herself to speak the words—but the knowledge was eating her alive.
"Ladies." Pomfrey's tone brooked no argument. "I understand this is distressing. But I need to assess the... the appendages... to determine if this is a curse, a transfiguration, a potion effect, or something else entirely. Different causes require different treatments. Now, on the count of three, I need you all to lower your undergarments so I can conduct a visual examination."
Horrified silence.
"You want us to—all at once?" Lavender's voice hit a register that probably shattered glass in Hogsmeade.
"It will be faster this way. Like removing a plaster. On three. One."
"This is barbaric," Pansy hissed.
"Two."
"I really must protest—" McGonagall started.
"THREE."
Hermione had never felt more exposed in her life.
She stood beside her bed, pyjama bottoms pooled around her ankles, staring fixedly at the ceiling while Madam Pomfrey walked the line of them like a general inspecting troops.
She refused to look down. She'd already seen quite enough this morning, thank you. The thing between her legs was impossible—anatomically, magically, logically impossible—and yet there it was, warm and heavy and horrifyingly present.
From her peripheral vision, she could see the others in similar states of undress and despair.
Luna stood with apparent unconcern, head tilted as she examined her own addition with scientific interest. Hers seemed... proportional, Hermione supposed. Reasonable. If such a thing could ever be called reasonable.
Pansy had one arm thrown over her eyes, her free hand clenched in a white-knuckled fist at her side. Her situation appeared similar to Luna's—average, if Hermione was any judge, which she absolutely was not and never wanted to be.
Lavender was openly crying, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "It's so ugly," she wailed. "Why couldn't it at least be pretty?"
"Miss Brown, there is no such thing as a pretty—" Pomfrey started, then seemed to think better of finishing that sentence.
McGonagall stood ramrod straight, chin lifted, dignity wrapped around her like armour despite her current state of exposure. The Transfiguration professor was treating this the way she treated everything: as a problem to be solved through sheer force of will. Her... situation... was perhaps slightly more substantial than the younger witches', though Hermione was absolutely not comparing. She was NOT.
"Fascinating," Pomfrey murmured, making notes on a clipboard. "They're all fully formed. Functional, by the look of them. This isn't a partial transfiguration—whatever caused this created complete anatomical structures."
"Can you fix it?" Hermione asked, her voice cracking.
"I need to determine the cause first. This level of biological alteration..." Pomfrey shook her head. "This is beyond anything I've seen. I'll need to consult references, possibly contact St. Mungo's—"
"NO." Five voices in unison.
"No St. Mungo's," Pansy said viciously. "Do you have any idea what would happen if this got out? My reputation—"
"Your reputation?" Lavender rounded on her. "What about my reputation? What about Won-Won? We were going to get married! How am I supposed to explain—" She gestured wildly at herself. "—THIS?"
"Perhaps Won-Won would enjoy it," Luna suggested dreamily. "Some people do, you know. I read about it in a book."
"WHAT BOOK?"
"It was in the Restricted Section. There were illustrations."
Hermione wanted to sink through the floor. "Can we please just—cover up now? Please?"
"Yes, yes, you may dress." Pomfrey waved a hand distractedly, still scribbling notes. "I'll need to take measurements later, but for now—"
The sound of the Hospital Wing doors opening echoed through the ward.
Everyone froze.
"Madam Pomfrey?" Harry Potter's voice called out. "Are you in here? Ron got hit with a Stinging Hex at practice, and his face looks like a—"
Hermione had never moved so fast in her life.
She yanked her pyjama bottoms up with a speed that would have impressed a professional Quidditch player. Around her, the others did the same—Pansy diving for her skirt, Lavender wrestling with her nightgown, Luna calmly pulling up her Nargle-print pants, McGonagall somehow managing to make the frantic adjustment look dignified.
Harry's footsteps approached the curtained area.
"Hello? I saw the curtains, is someone—"
He pulled the fabric aside just as five witches finished adjusting their clothing.
Hermione spun to face him, face flaming, one hand pressed against her lower stomach as if she could hide the impossible bulge through sheer willpower. The others were in similar states—flushed, wild-eyed, suspiciously breathless.
Harry blinked at them.
"Oh," he said. "Uh. Hi, Hermione. Professor McGonagall. Everyone. Is... is something wrong?"
The silence stretched like taffy.
"Women's troubles," McGonagall said crisply.
Harry went scarlet. "Right! Right, of course, sorry, I didn't mean to—I'll just—Ron's face—I'll wait outside—"
He practically fled.
The curtain swung shut behind him.
Nobody breathed for a long moment.
"That," Pansy said slowly, "was too close."
"Agreed," McGonagall said, and it was perhaps the first time in history that those two had agreed on anything.
Hermione's heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. In her... other places too, actually, which was a deeply concerning development she was choosing not to examine.
"He almost saw," Lavender whispered. "He almost saw."
"But he didn't." Luna smiled serenely. "Gerald was very well-behaved. He didn't even twitch."
"Please stop calling it Gerald."
From beyond the curtain, they could hear Harry's muffled voice explaining Ron's Quidditch injury to Madam Pomfrey. Normal problems. Sensible problems. Problems that did not involve spontaneous genital generation.
Hermione sat down heavily on her bed, reality crashing over her in waves.
She had done this. Her potion. Her mistake. Her decision to hand those bottles to Winky instead of disposing of them properly.
She had given five women penises—including a professor—and she had no idea how to undo it.
"I need to tell you all something," she heard herself say.
Four pairs of eyes turned to her.
Her mouth opened.
Her courage failed.
"...I need to use the loo," she finished weakly.
She fled behind a privacy screen before anyone could respond, leaning against the wall and trying very hard not to hyperventilate.
I'll tell them, she promised herself. Soon. Just... not yet. Not until I figure out how to fix it.
She looked down at the bulge in her pyjamas.
It looked back.
(It didn't, obviously. It didn't have eyes. But it certainly felt like it did.)
"This is fine," Hermione whispered to herself. "Everything is fine. I am a brilliant witch, and I will solve this problem, and no one will ever know it was my fault."
From beyond the privacy screen, she heard Lavender burst into fresh tears.
Everything was not fine.