(A/N: Sad little blurb, based off of a Fragrance request by iowa-tarheel. My angst lover seeped through, I couldn't stop it LOLZ.)
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It hurt to keep wearing it, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to take off the damned cloak.
Huddled underneath it, hidden from the rest of the world by the charms that rendered it invisible, Hermione clutched her knees to her chest and allowed herself to breathe in the smells, the scents, and to remember.
A whiff of something dry and grassy- the Quidditch pitch, hay and marking chalk in her hair from where they'd hidden under the stands from Marcus Flint. Broom polish, from the kit she'd given him for christmas. Treacle tart, his addiction, and she'd rub it off his lip and roll her eyes and say he needed sweet rehab. His shampoo.
She breathed deeper, drawing more air for her silent sobs, and there was the one she'd came for, the slightly dark and tingling scent of male and magical power that had clung to his skin, stayed on her clothes after his reluctant hugs.
She closed her eyes as more tears spilled coldly down her cheeks, and tried to wrap herself more tightly in his smell, tried to pretend that the weight of the cloak on her head was his lips in her hair and that his essence was warm and real, more than a stale echo of scent. The knives in her heart twisted deeper, and yet she couldn't stop breathing, stop smelling him, stop thinking.