Go intersex. Follow Susan. But you're in trouble.

You rise to your feet and stand next to Susan in the doorway. As your spent erection ebbs, you feel the change come. Your body shudders, rearranging the forms, shapes, and characteristics marking your gender. You grip the doorway to steady yourself. Your low-toned moan rises as the change makes its way through your body. When the shudders and sweats subside, you find yourself slimmer, looser-limbed, less, well determinate. Inspecting yourself with one hand, you touch small, soft breasts with plump nipples, a short, soft member with a small ball sac and a split root with moist folds opening into your body. In-between. Your hair seems to be sticking up a bit. It's short, but that doesn't keep it from being unruly, especially after a change.

Susan Quaffle looks out at the little hallway, the dormitory room doors decorated with something characteristic to the residents. She sighs. "Bother," she says again. "I hope the door wards held," she mutters, then louder, "Throw a robe on, Poesy." She pauses and blinks at you. "Oh. You changed."

"I did. It happens when I sleep, or, well, after sex," you say.

You hesitate over the House Beavertail robes, then chose the "masculine" one. It hangs a bit loose on your shoulders but falls to a reasonable length. Susan steps back and throws her own robe on. She has an incredible bed-head, her dishwater-blonde waves twisting in every direction, including out and up.

Susan squints at the other dormitory rooms on the hallway next to yours (theoretically shared with the absent Trevor Harlequin). A sound comes around the corner, a quick series of high, rising sighs followed by a climactic moan.

You look to Susan. "Did we do this?" you ask.

"Maybe," she says. "Come on." Susan looks a little rattled, her jaw tight, her lips pressed together.

You turn the corner into a larger connecting hallway to see a Beavertail student. She's standing amidst a scattered pile of flying brooms, straddling one of them with the bristles on the floor behind her and the handle braced up against the wall. Her robe is hiked up over her belt, exposing her nudity from hips to toes, and the broom handle is slick with her juices. Her dark, curly hair is moist with perspiration and her face shines with dew. Her shoulders shake as her breaths come fast and loud, hissing through her nostrils. The broom vibrates under her, she moans and starts rocking her hips on it again.

Susan swallows and clears her throat. Raising her wand, she incants, "SOMNUS". The broom-riding student's knees fold and she slips backward down the broom to crumple to the floor, asleep. "Help me lay her out, Poesy," Susan says. You and Susan tug the broom-rider's robe down below her knees and arrange her on her side, head pillowed atop broom bristles.

Further down the hall, a young man sits with his back to the wall. At his side is a spilled basket of bathing needs. His Beavertail House robe is hiked up like the broom-rider, and the front of his robe is wet and slick from multiple emissions. He pulls gently at his male member with one hand as it firms up, then starts earnestly stroking again.

"Blake?" Susan says. "Blake?"

But the young man's eyes gaze upward toward the ceiling, or to some vision only he can see. He strokes faster on his member. His voice catches, his member jerks and swells, and he spurts a line of seed onto his robe.

"Blake?" Susan says.

But there's no reply, just a gentle squeezing and tumbling of his softening member. It twitches and starts filling again.

Susan sighs. "Bother," she says. SOMNUS," she casts again. You help Susan lay the young man down, pull down his robe, and pillow his head on a towel.

You frown. "How far...?"

"Come on, Poesy," Susan directs. She rolls her shoulders uneasily, the new Prefect's pin gleaming on one shoulder of her robe.

You walk to the end of the hall where it opens onto a small common room for this part of the dormitories. There's a cheery fire in the hearth, and the sound of multiple voices in quick, rhythmic moans.

"Oh, Sandevin," Susan says. "I didn't think you even liked men that way. Did we catch you, too?"

You step up beside Susan. You're sure that a Prefect is not supposed to be running his shaft up the bum of a House Steward in the common room. Even if the Prefect is a fine-looking fellow with a sparse blond beard, doing his best for the stout, muscular steward by reaching round and stroking his thick, broad-headed willie. The steward, for his part, is rocking his hips, thrusting back at the Prefect.

Nor is this pair the only ones engaged in intent, urgent sexual connection. Two young women lie in the hearthrug, spilled mugs of tea beside them, grinding against each other with scissored legs. Fauna Aspen, a forest-girl you'd seen during your induction, is bent over the arm of a long sofa, her short-horned head nodding up and down, her brown and white scut of a tail lifted high as she receives the member of another first-year from behind. You see more bodies writhing on the floor, together or alone. The smell of sex is heavy in the warm air of the common room.

You see a little golden-glowing mote dancing before your eyes. Susan says "Oh!"

The glowing mote pulsates brightly and a tiny, high voice pronounces a magical word. Those in the common room cry out all together, their hips thrusting in climactic spasms. After the cries and moans subside, there's a long, collective sigh. The tiny glowing thing pulsates again and intones another word. The people in the common room go loose-limbed, sliding to the floor, their breaths coming slow and heavy. There are a couple of snores.

The glowing mote dances before you and Susan Quaffle. "You two have been rather naughty," you hear in a high, whining voice. "Follow me to Miss Hemstitch's office."

⚁⚃ - 1 = 5, Miss.

When you have to GET OUT OF TROUBLE, on a miss: You're taken to be in the wrong. Gain a CONSEQUENCE or go to Detention and next round roll +DILIGENCE to GET OUT OF DETENTION.