HARRY

By the time Harry arrived at dinner, the Hall had nearly emptied out. Of the Gryffindors, only Hermione remained, sitting at the end of the table, idly stirring a bowl of cold stew.

“Waiting for someone?” he asked, sitting down across from her and helping himself to the leftovers.

“Well, I suppose you could say that,” she said. Though her tone was friendly, he detected a frosty edge to it. 

“Oh,” he said, correctly interpreting her. “You haven’t had another row with Ron, have you?”

“Nothing new, I assure you.”

“You’re alright, then?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m just tuckered out. I’m so tired of fighting. Or not fighting because he won’t fight. He gets mad and disappears and only comes back when it suits him to do so, and I hate that. And I hate how I feel and I hate what I do and say. And I’m hopeless.”

“Do you really love him, Hermione? Or are you just trying to make it work because you’re too stubborn to give up?” Harry asked pointedly. He had to ask – had to know.  

“Of course I love him. He’s Ron. He’s our best friend.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry countered. “He’s your best friend – mine too! – but is there anything more to it? Are you trying to create something that’s not there?”

“No,” she said sharply, but the look in her eyes spoke desperately, yes.

“Hermione—”

“Don’t. Don’t ask.” She leapt to her feet and hastily gathered up her books and quills.

“Tell me you’re in love with him, then. Tell me that you’re happy – as happy as the times allow.”

“I—can’t,” she blurted out, before turning on her heel and fleeing the Great Hall.

* * * * *

HERMIONE

Hermione Granger thrust open the window in girl’s dormitory and braced herself against the sill. The blustery winds, heralding the coming of an autumn gale, soothed her. The wind hadn’t succeeded in draining the color from her flushed cheeks. Had she really, honestly, said that?

I am not trying to create something that’s not there, she told herself firmly, but she knew she’d failed – she’d failed with Ron and there was no use persisting. She had to come clean with Harry and she had to come clean with him tonight.

To say it was a daunting prospect would be a gross understatement.  

She sighed as she tugged off her black school robe and replaced her school jumper with a simple blouse and skirt. She resettled her wild curls on her shoulders and helped herself to Lavender’s make-up supply, powdering her face to mask the blushing embarrassment on her face. She was about to leave to track down Harry when her eyes fell upon the tiny bottle of perfume tucked inside a little cranny in the stone. She vaguely remembered it as something she’d worn from time to time back in her sixth year. It was potent stuff, if she remembered correctly, but a single dab of perfume couldn’t hurt.

She smiled and breathed in deeply, and absentmindedly upended the bottle over her head.

She set off to find Ronald Weasley immediately.

* * * * *

*SNIP!*
Can't give it all away, can I?

* * * * *

Mercifully, Lavender and Parvati were already fast asleep when Hermione slipped into their shared bedroom, for the last thing she needed at the moment was their incessant chattering.

They’ll be gossiping about me tomorrow, she thought grimly as she changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. She squinted her eyes closed to blot out the pain, but the look Harry had given her seemed to have burned itself onto the inside of her eyelids. In her mind’s eye, he looked so torn. If she had to put words to the expression on his face, they would Why, Hermione? How could you?

How could she indeed.

She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows, thinking hard. Why had she gone to see Ron, anyway? Why had she bothered to redouble her efforts with him? Hadn’t she been determined to find Harry and explain?

Her gaze wandered idly across the room, taking in the moving photograph Colin had bequeathed to her and her black school robe, lying discarded on the floor, until a glint of glass caught her eye. There, lit by a shaft of moonlight, sat the perfume bottle. Intrigued, she rose from bed and went to fetch it.

As she frowned down at the now-empty bottle lying in the palm of her hand, her own words seemed to echo in her mind, “And that perfume’s really unusual, Ron.”

Unusual. Yes. That was the word.

She unscrewed the lid and ran her finger along the inside. The residue left behind smelled faintly of freshly mown grass, musty parchment—she closed her eyes, breathing in the scent.

“I should go find him,” she said aloud, “to apologize for breaking the kiss. Yes.”

In her haste, she set the bottle aside and made for the exit, but her hand hesitated on the door knob.

Why, though?

Just apologize, hissed the nettling voice. Oh for his sweet forgiveness’ sake, apologize!

I’d rather not, really, she countered rationally, backing away from the door and sitting down on the edge of the bed. Let him stew for awhile. That’ll teach him…

She lay back on the bed and stared blankly at the Gryffindor-red canopy while her muscles itched and tensed. Get up, they ordered. Go to him.

She resisted, lying as perfectly still as though she had been Petrified once more, fighting the gnawing desire to go back to the bottle of perfume – if not to go find Ronald Weasley himself.

Just a whiff, the voice said cunningly. It won’t hurt a thing…

The next moment, she was off the bed and on her knees beside the trunk, drawing out the little bottle once more. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the cap. She accidentally dashed the bottle against the rim of the trunk and it shattered in her closed fist.

The pain served to awaken her to the truth of her situation as nothing else had. Blinking back tears of pain and fury, she wiped her bloody palm across the breadth of her nightgown, brilliant crimson on purest white.

And she knew.

Hermione was still sorting through a mountain of Christmas presents when Ginny moseyed back into the mildewy bedroom they shared at Grimmauld Place. The copy of New Theory of Numerology that Harry had given her sat in a place of prominence on her bedstand and she kept stealing furtive glances at if as she unwrapped her other (less satisfactory) gifts.

“Good haul this year?” Ginny asked.

“Merry Christmas, Ginny,” Hermione rejoined with a smile on her face.

“How’re the presents?” Ginny repeated, settling herself on the foot of Hermione’s bed and helping herself to an open box of Sugar Mice.

“Excellent; they’re all really excellent, but, come to think of it, I do have to ask you something – what’s the meaning of this?” She held out the bottle of perfume Ron had given her. “Perfume?”

“Oh, Hermione, don’t play naïve. Ron likes you.”

“But—” she stopped, staggered. She’d suspected something of the sort since the Yule Ball the previous year and had been trying her best to dissuade him without actually broaching the subject, but to hear Ginny say it so matter-of-factly momentarily threw her. “But – yes, but – why perfume?”

“Well, I suggested he buy it for you, if you must know. Go ahead, try it on,” Ginny urged.

“I’d – er – rather not. Not today. Who knows, maybe I’ll save it for a special occasion.”

“It is Christmas, Hermione. If Christmas isn’t a special occasion, I’d like to know what is!”

“It’s just – it’d be awkward, wouldn’t it? If I were to wear the perfume today, I mean.”

Ginny smiled knowingly. “Awkward, well, yes, I suppose it’d be a little awkward, but Ron would be thrilled to no end—”

“No,” she said firmly, choking out a laugh.

But another memory entered her mind, unbidden:

“Amortentia doesn’t really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession.

No, it wasn’t possible. 

“It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room – oh yes – when you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love—”

No one would believe her. She had no proof – no proof but glass shards and bleeding hands.

*SNIP!*

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I do really want opinions on this, the concept mostly. Just to clear things up, Ron's not the one who turned the perfume into a Love Potion.