Winky was not having a good evening.
Since coming to Hogwarts, she had struggled to find purpose. The other elves worked with cheerful efficiency; Winky worked with the grim determination of someone trying very hard not to think about butterbeer. Tonight, she'd been assigned to collect "disposables" from around the castle—empty ink bottles, broken quills, failed student projects that needed proper disposal.
She appeared directly in Hermione's path with a soft pop.
"Oh!" Hermione stumbled. "Winky, you startled me."
"Winky is sorry, Miss," the elf said, her ears drooping. "Winky is collecting waste materials. Is Miss having anything for Winky to take?"
Hermione's hand went to her bag, to the bottles of failed potion. She should say no. She should dispose of them herself. But the bottles were heavy, she was tired, and technically giving them to the house-elves was proper disposal...
"Actually," she said slowly, "I have some failed potion here. It's completely inert—" (she assumed) "—just needs to be gotten rid of. Can you handle that?"
Winky's eyes went wide with purpose. "Winky can handle! Winky is being very good at handling disposables!"
"It's not dangerous," Hermione added, because she was responsible, "but it shouldn't be consumed. Just... pour it out somewhere? Down a drain?"
"Winky understands, Miss. Winky will take care of it."
Hermione handed over the bottles with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Winky. I appreciate it."
She continued to Gryffindor Tower, feeling lighter.
Winky looked at the bottles in her arms. They were very pretty. The liquid inside shimmered like liquid gems.
Pour it out, the bushy-haired Miss had said. Down a drain.
But that seemed wasteful. Winky examined the bottles more closely. They didn't smell dangerous. They smelled rather nice, actually. Like roses and something else, something warm and tingly that made her ears twitch.
Surely something this pretty shouldn't be wasted?
Winky's ears perked up. She had an idea.
The evening pumpkin juice was always a bit bland this time of year—the elves had discussed it just yesterday. A little enhancement couldn't hurt, could it? The Miss had said it was a failed potion, not a dangerous potion. Failed just meant it didn't do what it was supposed to do. That didn't mean it did anything at all.
And the colour! The students would love it!
Winky popped to the kitchens with newfound enthusiasm.
Dinner at Hogwarts was typically a chaotic affair, and tonight was no exception.
The Great Hall buzzed with conversation as students filed in, exhausted from classes and ravenous for food. The four house tables filled quickly, and within minutes, the sound of chatter and clattering cutlery echoed off the enchanted ceiling.
Hermione took her usual seat beside Harry and Ron, reaching automatically for the pumpkin juice.
"Rough day?" Harry asked, noting the shadows under her eyes.
"Just a late night," Hermione said. "Personal project. Didn't go as planned."
"What kind of project?" Ron asked through a mouthful of shepherd's pie.
"Nothing important." She poured herself a goblet of juice and frowned. "Is the pumpkin juice a different colour tonight?"
Ron glanced at his own goblet. The liquid was its usual orange, nothing remarkable. "Looks normal to me."
"Hm. Must be the lighting." Hermione took a long drink, enjoying the cool sweetness. There was an unusual aftertaste—floral, almost pleasant—but the house-elves were always experimenting with recipes.
Across the Hall, similar scenes played out at each table.
At the Ravenclaw table, Luna Lovegood sipped her juice with dreamy contentment, remarking to no one in particular that it tasted like "pixie whispers." Her seatmates ignored her, as usual.
At the Slytherin table, Pansy Parkinson wrinkled her nose at her goblet. "This tastes odd," she announced.
"Then don't drink it," Draco said without looking up.
"I didn't say it was bad." She took another sip. "It's actually rather nice. Sweet."
At the Gryffindor table, Lavender Brown giggled at something Parvati said and drained her goblet in three gulps, immediately pouring another.
At the staff table, Professor McGonagall permitted herself a small indulgence—a second goblet of juice. It had been a long week, and the unusual floral note was quite refreshing. She made a mental note to compliment the house-elves.
None of them noticed the faint magenta tinge that appeared when the torchlight hit the liquid at certain angles.
None of them noticed Winky watching from the kitchen doorway, practically vibrating with pride at her contribution.
And none of them—not even Hermione, who really should have known better—felt the subtle warmth that began to spread through their bodies as the corrupted Essence of Empowerment went to work.
The effects started small.
Hermione first noticed something was off during her evening studying session. She'd settled into her favourite armchair by the common room fire, Defence Against the Dark Arts text open on her lap, when she became aware of an unusual... sensitivity.
Her robes felt different against her skin. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but present in a way clothing didn't usually register. Every shift in position created friction that sent strange little sparks up her spine.
I'm overtired, she told herself firmly. That's all.
She forced her attention back to the text. The words swam before her eyes. Her body felt warm—too warm, even by the fire. She tugged at her collar.
"You alright, Hermione?" Harry asked from the nearby sofa. "You look flushed."
"Fine," she said quickly. "Just warm. I think I'll head to bed early."
She gathered her things and fled upstairs before he could ask follow-up questions.
The girls' dormitory was empty—Lavender and Parvati were still downstairs, and her other roommates were who-knows-where. Hermione sat on the edge of her bed and pressed her palms against her cheeks.
She was burning up.
Not with fever—this was different. This was heat centred low in her belly, spreading outward in waves, making her skin tingle and her breath come short. She felt restless, her body demanding something she couldn't identify.
"Get a grip, Granger," she muttered.
She changed into her nightclothes—a sensible cotton set—and the brush of fabric against her thighs made her gasp aloud.
What is wrong with me?
She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up firmly, and willed herself to sleep.
Sleep did not come.
The heat was getting worse. And now there was pressure, too—a strange, building pressure centred at her core that was becoming impossible to ignore.
Hermione pressed her thighs together. The pressure intensified. She shifted. It intensified more.
And then—impossibly, inexplicably—she felt something move.
Her eyes flew open.
Her hand moved beneath the covers, trembling, certain she was imagining things, certain that stress and exhaustion had finally broken her brain—
Her fingers found something that absolutely, categorically, should not exist.
Hermione Granger did not scream. She was too well-bred for screaming. What she did was make a sound rather like a teakettle reaching boil, clap both hands over her mouth, and stare at the canopy of her bed with eyes the size of dinner plates.
This is not happening.
Her hand crept back down. The impossible something was still there. Warm. Sensitive. Growing.
This is NOT HAPPENING.
She flung off the covers and looked.
The scream she'd been holding in escaped as a strangled wheeze.
At that same moment, in different corners of the castle, similar discoveries were being made.
Luna Lovegood examined her new addition with academic curiosity, tilting her head this way and that. "Hello," she said pleasantly. "I shall call you Gerald."
Pansy Parkinson's shriek echoed through the Slytherin girls' dormitory, followed by the sound of something expensive shattering.
Lavender Brown fainted dead away, collapsing onto her bed with all the drama her unconscious body could muster.
And in the staff quarters, Professor McGonagall—who had handled werewolves, Death Eaters, and decades of teenage nonsense—stood before her mirror and said, very quietly, "I need a drink."
Far below, in the kitchens, Winky hummed happily as she scrubbed pots.
The students loved the juice. She'd watched them drink goblet after goblet. The pretty magenta potion had been a wonderful addition.
The bushy-haired Miss would be so pleased.