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Hermione arrived at Greenhouse Four precisely eleven minutes early, a carefully calculated buffer that allowed her to secure an optimal workstation. The familiar earthy dampness greeted her, comfortingly predictable despite Professor Sprout's absence. She arranged her dragonhide gloves, silver pruning shears, and three different quills (standard, dictation, and waterproof) in perfect parallel alignment on the moss-stained table.
"Preparing for battle, Granger?" Neville asked, sliding into the spot beside her, sounding more confident that he used to sound. His summer transformation continued to disconcert her—the nervous boy who'd once trembled at Snape's approach now carried himself with the quiet assurance of someone who'd faced actual Death Eaters and survived.
"Hardly. Just basic organizational efficiency," she replied, adjusting her waterproof quill exactly three centimeters to the right. "Though given our track record with new professors, perhaps battle preparation isn't entirely unwarranted."
The greenhouse filled quickly, murmured speculation about Professor Garlick circulating like Devil's Snare tendrils. Hermione caught fragments—"gorgeous," "can't believe how young," and more crudely, "bet those aren't herbology skills that got her hired." She rolled her eyes.
"Good morning, sixth years!"
The voice came from behind them, startlingly close. Hermione turned to find Professor Garlick emerging from a hidden corner where she'd apparently been tending to a shivering silver-leafed plant. The greenhouse fell instantly silent.
Up close, the woman's presence was even more commanding than it had been at the feast. Her auburn hair was gathered in a practical yet somehow elegant twist, secured with what appeared to be a slender branch of living willow. Her teaching robes had been exchanged for a more practical ensemble: high-waisted brown trousers and a forest-green blouse with sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. A smudge of dirt accentuated rather than diminished her high cheekbones.
"I'm Professor Garlick, though I imagine you've deduced as much already," she said, moving to the center of the room with fluid grace. "Before we begin, I should clarify that while Professor Sprout's retirement was well-earned, it was also somewhat... abrupt."
Something in her tone suggested there was more to the story. Was it Health issues? Ministry interference? War-related concerns?
"Consequently," Garlick continued, "I'll be asking for your patience as I adjust her curriculum to accommodate my own particular areas of expertise." Her smile brightened, transforming her face from merely attractive to genuinely captivating. "Which, you'll be pleased to know, include several areas the Ministry considers too 'experimental' for standard education."
That caught Hermione's attention. The Ministry's educational restrictions had always struck her as woefully arbitrary, often rooted more in tradition than actual safety concerns.
"Today, we're examining Synesthetic Snapdragons," Garlick announced, gesturing toward covered pots lining the central table. "Recently developed through selective breeding with Chinese Whispering Wisteria. Can anyone tell me their primary application?"
Hermione's hand rose automatically, muscle memory overriding conscious thought. Garlick nodded toward her, eyes warming with apparent recognition.
"Miss...?"
"Granger, Professor. Hermione Granger."
"Ah, Miss Granger. Professor McGonagall mentioned you. Please, enlighten us."
Hermione straightened, slipping comfortably into academic recitation mode. "Synesthetic Snapdragons were first cultivated in 1979 by Estonian herbologist Marya Kuusk. Their primary application is in mind-healing potions, particularly those addressing traumatic memory processing. When properly prepared, they allow the drinker to experience memories through alternative sensory pathways, converting potentially traumatic visual memories into taste or scent impressions, thereby reducing psychological distress."
Garlick blinked, then broke into a delighted laugh that sent an unexpected flare of warmth through Hermione's chest.
"Five points to Gryffindor for what sounds suspiciously like a verbatim quotation from Kuusk's original research paper. Have you actually read 'Sensory Transference in Magical Botanicals'?"
"The translation," Hermione admitted. "My Estonian is still rather elementary."
Several classmates snickered. Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks—not from embarrassment but from the genuine interest in Garlick's expression. Most professors had long since grown accustomed to her encyclopedic knowledge; few still showed active curiosity.
"Well, I'm impressed," Garlick said, moving closer to Hermione's table. "Though I should clarify that Kuusk's original application has been superseded by more recent developments. Today, we'll be exploring their use in enhanced communication potions."
She uncovered the nearest pot, revealing what appeared to be ordinary snapdragons until they swiveled their flower-heads toward her like attentive students. "These beauties allow the drinker to convey emotions with unprecedented precision—particularly useful for those whose words fail them."
As she spoke, Garlick ran her fingers gently along one flower's stem. The plant actually shuddered in response, its petals flushing a deeper purple. Hermione watched those fingers—long, graceful, dirt beneath the nails but somehow all the more appealing for it—and experienced a sudden, intrusive thought of them trailing along her own skin with similar delicacy.
Shit. Not appropriate. Not now.
"Now," Garlick continued, mercifully oblivious to Hermione's momentary lapse, "harvesting requires absolute precision. The moment of cutting affects the sensory connection." She demonstrated, moving between workstations, leaning over tables to point out specific features.
Hermione found her attention repeatedly drawn to the professor's physicality—the casual way she touched plants, students' shoulders, workstation edges. Her hands never stopped moving, emphasizing points with expressive gestures that occasionally sent her blouse gaping forward when she bent over a particularly interesting specimen.
During one such demonstration at Neville's table, Hermione caught an unintentional glimpse of full breasts constrained by practical cotton, a hint of freckles disappearing beneath fabric.
"Fascinating technique, isn't it?" Neville whispered, mistaking the direction of her focus.
"Absolutely," Hermione replied automatically, forcing her gaze up to the actual plant being discussed. "Very... innovative."
Garlick straightened and turned suddenly, catching Hermione's eye with disconcerting directness. "Perhaps Miss Granger would like to demonstrate the proper harvesting technique for us? Since your theoretical knowledge is so comprehensive."
Every head turned toward her. Hermione rose, approaching the central table that absolutely did not match her internal state. Garlick handed her a pair of silver shears.
"Remember," Garlick instructed, standing closer, "the cut must be made precisely as the flower turns toward sound. Too early, and the sensory properties are dormant; too late, and they've already dispersed."
Hermione positioned the shears, hyperaware of the professor just behind her right shoulder. The proximity was... distracting.
"Ready?" Garlick asked softly, then clapped her hands sharply.
The snapdragon swiveled toward the sound, mouth opening as if in surprise. Hermione moved to cut—but her timing was fractionally off, her focus shattered by the press of soft curves against her back as Garlick leaned forward to observe.
The flower let out an audible hiss and spat a stream of purple liquid directly into Hermione's face.
"Oh dear," Garlick said, though Hermione could have sworn she detected amusement beneath the concern. "A common first-time error. The defensive mechanism is harmless but rather... expressive."
Laughter rippled through the greenhouse as Hermione stood dripping with purple sap that smelled distinctly of embarrassment—her own embarrassment, specifically, as though the plant had somehow distilled the emotion into liquid form.
"Here," Garlick said, producing a handkerchief and gently dabbing at Hermione's cheek. The touch gentle and kind, and absolutely should not have sent a pulse of heat straight between her legs. But it did.
Hermione's cock twitched treacherously against her uniform trousers. Thank Merlin for the concealment charm she'd perfected years ago, though even magic had its limitations under certain... conditions.
"I apologize, Professor," she managed, stepping back slightly. "I miscalculated the timing."
"No need for apologies. Practical herbology often humbles even the most knowledgeable students." Garlick smiled warmly. "Though I admit I'm surprised, given your reputation. Perhaps theory and practice don't always align perfectly?"
Was that a challenge? Hermione straightened, refusing to be diminished by one failure. "I assure you, Professor, my practical skills are typically as precise as my theoretical knowledge."
"Excellent." Garlick's eyes sparkled. "Then I look forward to seeing you demonstrate them properly. Would you stay after class? I'd like to discuss some advanced independent study options that might interest someone with your... enthusiasm."
The combination of words—"stay after class" and "enthusiasm"—triggered an entirely inappropriate cascade of images in Hermione's mind. Professor Garlick leaning against her desk, slowly unbuttoning that practical blouse, suggesting a very different kind of independent study...
Stop it. For fuck's sake, stop it.
"Of course, Professor," she replied, voice impressively steady considering the chaos of her thoughts. "I'd be delighted."
Returning to her seat under the collective gaze of her classmates felt interminable. Neville shot her a sympathetic look, while Seamus and Dean exchanged smirks that Hermione pointedly ignored. She focused intently on cleaning purple sap from her fingers, silently reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood in reverse alphabetical order—anything to redirect her treacherous mind.
The remainder of the lesson passed in a blur of technical instruction. When the professor finally dismissed them with an assignment to research sensory-altering plants and their ethical applications, Hermione remained seated, methodically organizing her notes while the greenhouse emptied.
"Don't worry, she doesn't bite," Ron muttered as he passed. "Unless you ask nicely." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Grow up, Ronald," Hermione hissed, though the comment sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.
Finally, the greenhouse emptied except for Garlick, who was carefully misting a trembling fern in the corner. Hermione approached with academic materials clutched like a shield.
"Professor? You wanted to speak with me?"
Garlick turned, that same warm smile transforming her features. "Yes, Miss Granger. First, let me apologize if I embarrassed you earlier. Sometimes practical demonstrations go awry even for the most prepared."
"It's fine," Hermione said stiffly. "I should have anticipated the plant's defensive mechanism."
"You know, Professor McGonagall warned me about you."
"Warned you?" Alarm shot through her. What could McGonagall possibly have said?
"That you'd challenge my assumptions and probably know more theoretical herbology than practical application." Garlick's expression softened. "She meant it as a compliment, I assure you. She also mentioned your exceptional magical ability across all subjects."
Pride warmed Hermione's chest, momentarily overriding her discomfort. "Professor McGonagall has always been very supportive."
"She suggested you might benefit from more advanced study than the standard curriculum allows." Garlick pushed away from the workbench, moving to a cluttered desk where she began sorting through papers. "I have several independent research projects that could use an assistant with your particular... talents."
The slight pause before "talents" sent another inappropriate thrill through Hermione. Get a grip, she scolded herself. She's a professor offering academic opportunity, not propositioning you.
"What sort of research?" she asked, focusing rigorously on the academic content.
"Practical applications of sensory-altering plants in inter-species communication." Garlick looked up, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "I've been developing variants that might facilitate communication with magical beings whose language structures resist conventional translation charms."
Despite her discomfort, Hermione found herself intrigued. "Like merpeople or centaurs?"
"Precisely. Or even more complex cases like thestrals or certain sentient plant species." Garlick handed her a thin folder. "This outlines the basic parameters. Review it and let me know if you'd be interested in assisting."
Hermione accepted the folder. "Thank you. It sounds fascinating."
"Excellent." Garlick smiled again, then unexpectedly reached out to brush something from Hermione's shoulder. "You still have some sap here."
The casual touch sent another jolt through Hermione's body, and she stepped back quickly. "I should go. I have Arithmancy next."
"Of course." Garlick's expression was unreadable. "Review those materials, Miss Granger. I think you'll find the project aligns well with your... particular interests."
Walking away from the greenhouse, folder clutched tightly against her chest, Hermione tried to analyze her reactions with clinical detachment. Physical attraction to a professor was inappropriate but not unprecedented—plenty of students developed crushes on teachers. The problem was the intensity of her response.
First Narcissa Malfoy, now Professor Garlick. What is wrong with me?
She needed space to think, to regain control. And more urgently, she needed to address the persistent ache between her legs before it became impossible to concentrate on anything else.
The girl's bathroom would be empty this time of day. And after that humiliating class, she definitely deserved a long, private shower.
The girl's bathroom echoed with the sound of running water, steam billowing up to obscure the stained-glass mermaid who, thankfully, seemed to be absent from her window today. Hermione locked the door with both the conventional mechanism and a series of progressively more complex charms—standard privacy wards followed by three variations of Silencing Charms she'd modified herself. Excessive perhaps, but recent experiences had taught her that Hogwarts offered precious few truly private spaces.
"Ridiculous," she muttered to herself, aggressively unbuttoning her uniform blouse. "Completely ridiculous behavior."
The purple sap had dried to an unpleasant stickiness on her cheek and neck, its residual scent a lingering reminder of her uncharacteristic failure. Hermione Granger did not fail at academic demonstrations. She certainly didn't become so distracted by a professor's proximity that she botched simple herbological techniques.
"Pathetic," she continued, her internal monologue spilling into verbalized self-criticism. "Acting like some hormone-addled fourth-year."
She stripped methodically, folding each garment despite her irritation. Organized exterior, chaotic interior—a contradiction she maintained with increasing effort these days. The concealment charm dissolved as she removed her trousers, revealing her half-hard cock. Even now, fuming with embarrassment and self-recrimination, her body betrayed her.
The shower spray hit with punishing force, exactly as she'd intended. Cold at first, shocking her system into momentary clarity. She scrubbed at the purple residue, watching it swirl away in pale lavender rivulets. Her mind, however, refused to stay properly focused on hygiene.
Professor Garlick's hands, dirt beneath the nails, gentle with the plants. Would they be equally gentle with human skin? Or would they display strength?
"Stop it," she commanded herself, turning the water temperature higher. The bathroom filled with more steam, creating a private cocoon of heat and moisture.
It didn't help. If anything, the sensory isolation intensified her mental images. Garlick bending over the worktable, that forest-green blouse falling open just enough to reveal the curve of full breasts. The slight brush of bodies as she'd stood behind Hermione, close enough that her breath had stirred the fine hairs on Hermione's neck.
Her cock hardened fully despite her attempts at mental discipline. Practical anatomy overriding intellectual control—a frustratingly common occurrence lately.
"Fine," she whispered to the empty bathroom. "Just... get it over with."
Her hand wrapped around her length, the contact sending immediate relief tinged with shame through her system. This was biology, nothing more. A physiological release valve for accumulated tension. Perfectly natural, if inconveniently timed.
She stroked slowly at first, trying to maintain the clinical framing. But her mind immediately supplied images she'd been fighting all morning: Garlick's fingers demonstrating the precise cutting technique, how they might feel wrapped around Hermione's cock instead of silver shears. Those full lips, always slightly curved as if on the verge of sharing a delightful secret, how they might look stretched around her girth.
"Fuck," she breathed, her grip tightening, pace increasing.
The fantasy expanded despite her weak protests. Garlick bent over the central workbench, trousers pulled down just far enough to expose smooth skin. Hermione behind her, one hand tangled in that auburn hair, the other caressing soft curves. Taking control. Showing the professor exactly how "precise" her practical skills could be.
Her cock throbbed in her hand, precome making each stroke slicker. The shower's heat flushed her skin, droplets trailing down her chest and back in rivulets that her sensitized nerves reinterpreted as ghostly touches.
In her mind, Garlick moaned encouragement, begged for more, those educated hands gripping the edge of the table as Hermione thrust into her. "Please, Miss Granger. Fuck ME."
The role reversal—professor pleading with student—sent a particularly intense pulse of pleasure through her. Hermione braced her free hand against the shower wall, water cascading over her shoulders as her strokes became faster, rougher.
The fantasy shifted. Now Garlick was facing her, perched on the workbench, blouse fully open to reveal those breasts she'd only glimpsed in teasing fragments. In her mind, they were perfect—full and freckled, nipples hard and begging for attention.
"Touch them," fantasy-Garlick commanded. "Show me how talented those fingers really are."
Hermione's breathing grew ragged, echoing strangely in the tiled bathroom. She was close now, pleasure building in her lower abdomen, cock impossibly hard in her pumping fist.
She imagined cupping those breasts, feeling their weight, thumbs circling taut nipples until Garlick gasped and arched. Imagined the professor wrapping her legs around Hermione's waist, pulling her closer, demanding more.
"Fuck me, Miss Granger."
"Oh god," Hermione gasped, the fantasy overwhelming her. Her orgasm hit, pulsing through her in waves as she came against the shower wall, hot spurts of release immediately washed away by the cascading water.
Reality crashed back as the pleasure subsided. Hermione leaned against the tiles, breathing heavily, mind slowly clearing of fantasy to reveal the uncomfortable truth of what she'd just done.
Masturbated to explicit images of a Hogwarts professor. A woman who had offered her academic mentorship less than an hour ago, whose trust she'd immediately betrayed with this... this objectification.
"What is wrong with me?" she whispered, letting the water rinse away the physical evidence while guilt settled heavily in her chest.
This wasn't like her occasional fantasies about Narcissa Malfoy, which at least had the twisted logic of forbidden attraction—enemy's mother, the ultimate inappropriate desire. That made a certain psychological sense, perverse as it was.
But Professor Garlick? A woman she'd just met, who'd shown her nothing but professional interest and academic respect?
"Get it together," she told herself firmly, shutting off the water with more force than necessary. "This stops now."
She dried methodically. The mirror reflected a Hermione who appeared perfectly normal—hair dampened to temporary manageability, skin flushed from hot water, eyes perhaps a bit too bright but nothing that would betray her inner turmoil.
No one would know. No one could know.
Except perhaps Luna, whose uncanny perception often bordered on mind-reading. The thought of Luna's knowing gaze made Hermione cringe as she re-dressed. At least their arrangement provided some outlet for her apparently boundless inappropriate desires. Better Luna, who understood and accepted the limitations of their connection, than these impossible fantasies about unavailable women.
Fully dressed again, Hermione gathered her things and dismantled her privacy wards. She had Arithmancy in twenty minutes, then Ancient Runes, then the DA planning meeting. A full schedule of actual responsibilities that required her complete attention.
This... fixation would pass. She simply needed to maintain stricter mental discipline.
As she left the bathroom, Hermione steadfastly ignored the small voice in her mind that whispered how similar resolutions had failed spectacularly where Narcissa Malfoy was concerned. Professor Garlick was different. This attraction was newer, weaker, easier to overcome.
Later
The abandoned Charms classroom on the fifth floor had been thoroughly sanitized of Flitwick's influence for their clandestine meeting. No cheerful cushions, no whimsical magical artifacts—just bare stone walls, functional furniture, and enough privacy wards to make the Minister of Magic himself need an appointment. Hermione had arrived twenty minutes early to layer the protective enchantments personally, each spell methodically checked and double-checked. One couldn't be too careful when organizing what was, technically speaking, an illegal defense organization during wartime.
"Bit excessive, isn't it?" Ron asked, watching her complete the final ward—a particularly nasty little hex she'd discovered in a dusty corner of the Restricted Section that would cause anyone attempting to eavesdrop to experience the auditory equivalent of drinking Polyjuice Potion. "Who's going to be lurking around an empty classroom at nine o'clock on a Tuesday?"
"Oh, I don't know," Hermione replied without looking up from her wand work, "perhaps the same people who infiltrated the Ministry of Magic and nearly killed us three months ago? The ones currently murdering Muggle-borns across Britain while the Daily Prophet reports 'unfortunate accidents'?"
Ron's ears reddened. "Fair point."
Harry arrived next, shadows beneath his eyes suggesting another night of disturbed sleep. Grief suited him poorly, though he wore it with the resigned familiarity of someone who'd had excessive practice. Sirius's death had carved new hollows into his face that summer sunshine hadn't filled.
"Did you bring the list?" he asked without preamble, dropping into a chair.
Hermione handed over a neatly organized parchment divided by house and year. "Alphabetical, with notes on previous performance and reliability ratings."
"You rated people's reliability?" Ron asked, peering over Harry's shoulder.
"Obviously," Hermione said. "After Marietta Edgecombe's little betrayal, I thought it prudent to quantify trustworthiness. The scale is one to ten, with additional notations for specific concerns."
"You gave me a seven?" Ron sounded indignant. "How am I only a seven?"
"You did abandon Harry during the Triwizard Tournament," she pointed out clinically. "And you have a tendency to blurt things out when emotional. Hence, seven."
"Who got tens, then?"
"No one," Hermione said. "Ten implies infallibility, which is statistically improbable in adolescents. Or humans generally."
Harry suppressed what might have been a smile—his first in days. "Neville got a nine."
"Neville faced Death Eaters with a broken nose and couldn't tell them anything because they'd rendered him incapable of speech," Hermione explained. "Empirical evidence of reliability under extreme duress."
"Fair enough," Harry murmured, scanning the list. "This is... comprehensive."
"I've highlighted the most promising candidates in green, questionable ones in yellow, and included a few controversial suggestions in red."
Harry's eyebrows rose as he reached the bottom of the parchment. "Controversial is right. Daphne Greengrass? Blaise Zabini? Theodore Nott? These are Slytherins, Hermione."
"I'm aware of their house affiliation," she replied evenly. "I'm also aware that not every Slytherin is a junior Death Eater, despite Ron's persistent belief to the contrary."
"They might as well be," Ron muttered. "Their parents—"
"Their parents are not them," Hermione interrupted. "Judging children exclusively by their parentage is precisely the kind of regressive thinking we're supposedly fighting against. Or have you adopted Voldemort's genealogical obsessions when I wasn't looking?"
Ron flinched at the name and the accusation. "That's not fair."
"Neither is condemning people based on the accident of their birth sorting," she countered.
The door opened before Ron could respond, admitting Ginny, Neville, and Luna in quick succession. Ginny moved with more confidence, no longer the same girl who almost fainted when Harry was nearby. Neville carried himself with newfound confidence. And Luna... Luna drifted in like moonlight given human form, seemingly unaffected by war or worry.
"Sorry we're late," Ginny said, though they weren't. "Filch was prowling near the stairs."
"We're discussing recruitment," Harry explained as they settled into chairs. "Specifically, Hermione's suggestion to include certain Slytherins."
"Absolutely not," Ginny said immediately, crossing her arms. "Have you forgotten what their parents did to us? What they did to you?"
"That's precisely my point," Hermione countered. "Their parents, not them."
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Ron insisted.
Hermione fixed him with a withering stare. "An intellectually lazy adage that conveniently ignores Sirius Black's entire existence. His family tree produced generations of pureblood supremacists, yet he rejected their ideology completely."
The mention of Sirius created a momentary silence, Harry's jaw tightening visibly.
"People aren't their parents," Neville said quietly, unexpectedly supporting Hermione. "Or their relatives."
"Besides," Hermione continued, "this isn't about ideological alignment. It's practical strategy. Slytherins have information we need—social connections to families with Death Eater ties, insight into pureblood politics, awareness of who might be considering taking the Mark."
"So we're using them as spies?" Ginny asked, looking marginally less hostile.
"Intelligence sources," Hermione corrected. "And offering protection in return. Not every Slytherin wants to join Voldemort's genocidal crusade, regardless of what their parents expect."
"How do we know which ones, though?" Harry asked, genuinely considering now. "How do we separate those who need protection from those who'd betray us?"
"Careful vetting," Hermione said. "One-on-one conversations, not group recruitment. And a new security system—something more foolproof than last year's contract."
"The wrackspurts gather differently around truth-tellers," Luna observed dreamily, speaking for the first time. "Their patterns are quite distinctive once you know what to look for."
Five pairs of eyes turned toward her with expressions ranging from confusion to dismissal. Hermione, however, had learned not to immediately discount Luna's peculiar observations. Behind the nonsensical terminology often lurked genuinely perceptive insights.
"You mean you can tell when someone's lying?" she asked carefully.
"Not exactly lying," Luna clarified, twirling a strand of dirty-blonde hair around her finger. "More like... when their intentions diverge from their words. The air around them vibrates differently."
"Body language and micro-expressions," Hermione translated mentally. Luna's "wrackspurts" might actually be her untrained observation of the subtle tells liars unconsciously displayed.
"Luna could help with the vetting," she suggested aloud. "Along with Veritaserum for final confirmation."
"Veritaserum is controlled," Harry pointed out. "Where would we get it?"
"Slughorn," Hermione said promptly. "He's desperate to collect talented students. You're his new favorite, Harry. A casual mention that you're interested in truth potions for 'academic purposes' would probably result in him handing over his personal supply."
Harry looked uncomfortable with the manipulation but nodded. "I could try."
"What about specific Slytherins?" Neville asked, returning to the original question. "Who do you think might genuinely want to join?"
"Daphne Greengrass is an obvious candidate," Hermione said. "She's never participated in Malfoy's bullying, maintains cordial relationships with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and her family has historically remained neutral during conflicts."
"Theodore Nott as well," Luna added unexpectedly. "He sees thestrals too. We've discussed them by the forest."
Ron looked skeptical. "His father's definitely a Death Eater. Was at the Ministry."
"Yes, and Theodore has avoided speaking to Draco since term began," Hermione countered. "Something's changed there."
"Blaise Zabini is a self-serving prick," Ginny contributed, "but his mother has systematically avoided aligning with any political faction despite multiple marriage connections to Death Eater families. He follows her lead."
Harry studied the list again, conflict evident in his expression. "I'm not saying yes," he finally said, "but I'm not saying no either. We approach them individually, carefully. At the first sign of betrayal—"
"We obliviate them and feed them to the giant squid?" Ron suggested.
"We take appropriate protective measures," Hermione corrected sternly. "We're not Death Eaters, Ronald."
"What about the others?" Harry asked, moving down the list. "The non-controversial ones."
They spent the next hour methodically evaluating each potential member, debating security measures, and planning approach strategies. Luna suggested enchanting galleons again but with additional protections.
"We could link them to emotional intent," she said vaguely. "So they burn cold if someone tries to use them with harmful purpose."
"That's actually brilliant," Hermione admitted, mind already cataloging the necessary charm work. "A variation on intent-based wards, applied to a portable object."
"I thought you might like it," Luna said with a serene smile that somehow conveyed deeper meaning. "You do appreciate objects that respond to intention and... handling."
Heat flooded Hermione's cheeks as her mind immediately translated the innocent comment into something far more suggestive. Luna's expression remained perfectly dreamy, but there was a knowing glint in those protuberant eyes.
"Yes, well," she managed, shuffling her notes unnecessarily, "the charm work will be complex but feasible."
As the meeting concluded, they had a finalized list of fifteen trusted former members to approach immediately, plus five potential Slytherins for cautious evaluation. Harry would handle the core Gryffindors, Neville the Hufflepuffs, Luna the Ravenclaws, and Hermione—after considerable debate—would make initial contact with the Slytherins.
"You're the most logical choice," Harry had decided. "You can frame it as inter-house academic cooperation if questioned."
"Also, you're terrifying when you want to be," Ron added, "so they'll think twice about crossing you."
As they gathered their things, Luna drifted to Hermione's side. "Your aura is particularly vibrant tonight," she observed. "Like someone shook a bottle of champagne. All those bubbles pressing against the glass, wanting release."
Hermione nearly dropped her carefully organized notes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Luna's eyes seemed to see straight through her concealment charms. "The Room of Requirement might help with that, you know. Later, when you're finished with your Arithmancy homework."
"I have patrol duties tonight," Hermione said weakly.
"After patrol, then," Luna replied easily. "The room will wait. It's very patient." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm not nearly as patient, though. I've been thinking about your cock all day."
Before she could formulate a response, Luna had drifted away, joining Ginny at the door with her usual serene expression, as if she hadn't just whispered filth in the middle of a war planning session.
Hermione gathered her remaining composure along with her books. First Professor Garlick, now Luna's deliberate provocation—her self-control was being systematically dismantled today. And she still had to approach Daphne Greengrass about joining their illegal defense organization without getting hexed or reported.
Merlin's saggy left testicle, what a day.
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