Hermione exhaled sharply, releasing a stream of cigarette smoke out of her half-open bedroom window. She sat curled up on the windowsill in her blanket, watching the sunset. Romilda had gone off with Cormac. The trees and mountain peaks silhouetted against the orange-pink sky looked like cutouts from black paper.
After dinner, all Hermione wanted was to be alone.
Her mind kept circling back to Malfoy. All day long. Even during a particularly boring History of Magic lecture, she found herself wondering how the Slytherin would corrupt ordinary spells—turning Tarantallegra into something darker, twisting Wingardium Leviosa into… something else. That last thought made her shiver right there in the classroom.
Thank Merlin for the drafty castle. It gave her a perfect excuse for the chills.
Hermione sighed and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. She shouldn't be thinking like this—it was Malfoy. Cruel, cold, sharp-tongued Malfoy. Even if he could mimic normal human behavior for selfish reasons, fantasizing about him was ridiculous. There had to be better options.
So, tonight's plan was simple: make a list of eligible wizards who were neither ex-Death Eaters nor total idiots experimenting with dangerous spells.
That's how she ended up creating ORGAN—the Optimal Registry of Gallant, Adequate, and Noble Wizards. Candidates were ranked by attractiveness, emotional stability, and moral decency.
She even brainstormed ways to get their attention. Thankfully, she couldn't just magically appear in someone's bed wearing pink panties.
Now, though, the depressingly short list was in her hands:
Seamus Finnigan, Hufflepuffs Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley, plus that ridiculously clever seventh-year Ravenclaw.
After some hesitation, she added Blaise Zabini.
Theo Nott? Out of the question. Smug bastard. Plus there was that minor issue of "I hexed your father during the war."
Hermione rolled up the parchment with a sigh. She wasn't in the mood for strategies.
Instead, the sharp sting of cigarette smoke and the unresolved tension in her body dragged her back to memories she tried not to revisit—the patched-up, battered but still livable tent, filled with the stuffy scent of old furniture and secrets.
[Autumn. The Forest of Dean.]
She and Harry sat on the cramped sofa in the tiny tent's entryway, hungry and terrified. Death Eaters were everywhere. Ron had left.
But that night, Harry didn't pull her out of bed with pleas or logic. He used cigarettes.
They'd found the stash thanks to Fred and George, who'd used the tent for smuggling all sorts of contraband after the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione once opened a book titled "Limping Through Life: My Forty Years with Bursitis" and discovered a hidden compartment inside—stuffed with Firewhisky.
Harry had immediately gone rummaging through the rest of the tent. More bottles, more secrets. He found the cigarettes hidden in tins labeled "Bursitis Ointment—Pack of 24". In the bathroom, a giant box supposedly for joint plasters was filled with erotic magazines. Then he pulled open a drawer of enormous socks and found several pieces of lacy lingerie at the bottom.
Hermione rolled her eyes. Joint pain wasn't funny. But instead of her usual 8 p.m. crying session over Ron, she caught the smell of smoke.
"HARRY!" she shrieked, jumping up. "HARRY JAMES POTTER!"
She burst into the front room to find Harry sprawled on the couch, cigarette dangling from his lips, smirking.
On the coffee table: bottles, cigarette packs, and lace underwear in every color imaginable.
"Harry!" she gasped. "Stop it! You're going to get lung cancer!"
Harry smiled wryly. "That'd be lucky for me."
That shut her up.
She sat beside him, watching him take another drag.
"How do you even know how to smoke?" she demanded.
"Stole from Uncle Vernon," he said with a shrug.
"That's disgusting."
He smirked again. "Drink?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "The fate of the wizarding world depends—"
"Oh, please," Harry groaned, popping open a bottle. "The wizarding world can survive one bloody night without us, okay?"
Cigarette in one hand, Firewhisky in the other, Harry held both up like a toast. Hermione gave a reluctant smile.
"Fine."
She didn't want to go back to her bunk and cry again anyway.
So they drank, smoked, and played I Spy—but with a twist: only two guesses per object, and if you got it wrong, you had to drink.
Hermione's eyes were watering from the smoke, and to her frustration, she was absolutely rubbish at the game.
"It's strategy," Harry patiently explained, refilling her glass. His cheeks were flushed; his glasses kept sliding down his nose. "You're too logical. Of course it's not the armrest napkin. That's too obvious. Drink."
"But it's w-white and starts with S!" she slurred indignantly.
"So does the sauce boat in the cupboard," Harry countered.
Hermione scowled at the object. "That's a m-milk jug…"
When she looked back at Harry, he was grinning—but then the smile faded, replaced by his usual worried frown.
Hermione lifted her hand, smoothing out the tight lines on his face with her fingertips, trailing along his forehead and the corners of his lips.
Harry tilted his head, lips brushing her palm. The heat shot down her arm like a jolt of electricity.
She dropped her hand, suddenly almost sober.
"Harry, don't."
But Harry hurled his glass across the room. It smashed against the tiny fireplace, whisky splashing everywhere.
His head sank into his hands.
"Sorry."
"It's the Horcrux," she whispered.
"No, Hermione," came his muffled reply. "It's not the Horcrux."
"It won't help," she whispered, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"Maybe it will."
Harry lifted his head, his green eyes glassy and bright. The stubble on his chin made him look older, rougher—like someone else entirely.
Hermione's glass slipped from her fingers, unnoticed.
Her whole body buzzed with a need for something. Anything. Anything to break the endless cycle of hiding and waiting. She'd read every book in the tent. Every book in her bag. She could recite The Tales of Beedle the Bard in her sleep. Hell, she'd even read the entire preface to the bursitis book. Something had to happen. Something.
"It's not you," she whispered. "It's the Horcrux."
Harry yanked it off and threw it across the room. The locket clattered against the cupboard.
His gaze didn't waver.
"No, Hermione," he said quietly. "It's not the Horcrux."
But he didn't move closer—just sat there, staring at her. Harry wasn't the kind of person who initiated touch. When Hermione or Mrs. Weasley hugged him, he always stiffened up. He wouldn't reach for her now.
Her cheeks burned. She was in a short red pajama set; Harry wore only a T-shirt and boxers. She hadn't really noticed that before. She hadn't realized how much stronger his wiry body had become, or how much deeper his voice had grown in the last year. And judging by his expression, neither had he.
"You'd never leave me, would you, Hermione?" he asked softly.
"No," she whispered. "Never."
Harry glanced at the fireplace, at the shattered glass, at the spilled Firewhisky.
"I shouldn't even be alive," he whispered. "I've cheated death too many times."
"Don't say that," she pleaded. "Please don't."
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, looking back at her. The lightning scar on his forehead throbbed.
Hermione's mind went blank.
"No words? Wow, I'm shocked," Harry teased softly. "Well, I've got words. Three of them."
He reached up, took off his glasses, and set them down.
"I need you."
He didn't kiss her—not at first. He just stared, his eyes full of that same desperate look he used when he couldn't finish an essay on time. He needed her.
Hermione leaned in and kissed him, just lightly at first—but something snapped.
It wasn't soft, or sweet, or sad. Harry surged forward, pressing her back into the sofa cushions, his hands sliding up her ribs. He kissed her hard, like a stranger, like someone dark and desperate. And Hermione's fingers tangled in his hair—not to smooth it, but to mess it up even more. She wanted to ruin things. Break things. Smoke that cigarette, drink that whisky, run her hand down his skinny body and feel him gasp into her mouth when she touched him.
So she did.
Harry groaned, burying his face in her hair, and his hands tugged at her pajama shorts. His fingers fumbled until she guided them, trembling.
No one had ever touched her before—not like this. It felt like electricity.
"Do you want me?" he whispered.
"I—I…" she stammered.
"Please. Please want me," he breathed.
"Yes," she whispered—and felt him hesitate.
"You know the spell?" His voice cracked.
"Yes." Of course she did. Madam Pomfrey had made sure every witch over fourteen learned the contraception spell. Hermione had even written a paper recommending that boys get the same lessons—and that they establish a full magical sex education curriculum based on Muggle models. She'd sent copies to Pomfrey, McGonagall, and Dumbledore. No response, of course. Adults hated being lectured.
She whispered the spell, felt the soft warmth of magic settle over her—
—and then Harry kissed her again, urgent, clumsy. She had to guide him, steady him, until he thrust forward and pain shot through her.
Hermione gasped.
"I'm sorry—sorry—"
"Don't stop," she breathed.
They'd gone too far to stop now.
Harry moved again, making her moan, whispering sharp, hissing sounds into her ear—not words, but something darker.
Pleasure hit her in waves. Forbidden, dangerous pleasure. And then Harry cried out, his body shuddering, and it was over.
They lay there, tangled together, the old sofa beneath them a mess. Harry was crying now—for lots of reasons, probably—but for the first time in a week, Hermione didn't want to cry.
Her path was clear.
Harry was the last hope of the wizarding world.
And she would help him—whether Ron ever came back or not.
[Autumn. Hogwarts.]
A cold gust of wind rattled Hermione's bedroom window, snapping her out of the memory.
She never let herself think about that night in the tent. Or the nights that came after—with more Firewhisky, more cigarettes, more sex.
Being Hermione, she had read all the twins' magazines. Surprisingly educational. Although she could've done without the moving witches shouting advice and asking invasive questions. She even wore some of the lingerie—starting with a white set with pink ribbons.
But those nights with Harry in her Hogwarts bed felt mechanical. Like going through the motions. That first night had been different—dark, urgent, reckless.
That version of Harry—the one whispering Parseltongue, desperate, hungry—that Harry disappeared quickly, replaced again by guilt and insecurity. Her best friend came back, and Hermione feared she was doing more harm than good. By the time they reached Godric's Hollow, the sex had stopped. Silently, mutually.
Harry found new strength. New determination. Not even the Horcrux around his neck could shake him anymore. Hermione packed the twins' stash into her beaded bag, sealed the Firewhisky back into the books, and closed the chapter with relief.
She tried not to think about it again.
But Ron knew.
He knew something had happened, even though Harry tried to lie. Everything exploded one day in the field behind the Burrow, a week after the Battle of Hogwarts. Ron accused them both. Harry broke down. Hermione threw Ron's cowardice back in his face.
By the end of that day:
Hermione and Ron? Over.
Harry and Ginny? Over.
Harry and Ron? Not speaking.
Ginny? Locked in her room with Mad-Eye Moody's trunk.
So Hermione spent the rest of the summer alone at her parents' house. Harry hid at Grimmauld Place. A month later, he joined the Auror training program.
Ron pretended Harry didn't exist.
Enough.
Hermione jumped down from the windowsill. Navel-gazing wasn't productive. No one ever saved the world by sitting around being miserable.
She had ORGAN, and starting tomorrow, she would meet new wizards.
And she still had to figure out whatever the hell Malfoy's Vanishing spell had really done—because she was pretty sure it wasn't gone.
Hermione shut her window tight and sat at her desk, smoothing out fresh parchment.
"Vanishing Containers: A Thorough Investigation," she wrote.
For a long while, the only sounds in the room were the scratch of her quill, the crackle of the fire, and her cat's soft snoring.