This is a tiny ficlet written for the birthday of my good friend SS (aka pucknc and avidbeader). If you're familiar with BPAL (Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab) you might recognize this scent. - Annearchy
Delirium
The idea had been bothering him for days.
It was driving him a bit mad, actually.
He hated not being able to figure it out. It was very odd, he thought, to smell things that weren't there, things he couldn't find anywhere in the flat.
When he'd asked Hermione about the smells the other day, she put her hand on his forehead and asked if he was ill.
"We haven't any apples in the flat, Harry," said Hermione, her voice kind and soothing. "I didn't buy apples last weekend. I haven't bought lemons in ages either. And roses? Honestly, unless someone has sent invisible flowers, we don't have any roses either."
Leaning toward him, she patted his hand. "Try not to think about it, Harry."
Two days later, he was still thinking about it. In fact, it was almost all he could think about.
"It's the weirdest thing," he said to Ron that morning as they sat in the kitchen in tee shirts and pyjama bottoms, eating breakfast. "I keep smelling things that aren't here. You think maybe I'm delirious?"
"Dunno," said Ron, chomping on fried tomatoes and toast. "Prolly not. Might be delusional though. Maybe you should talk to one of those Muggle head doctors, you know, a sprinkler."
"You mean a shrink?" asked Harry, appalled. "That's a psychiatrist, and I do I not /I need a psychiatrist."
"Not about this, anyway," smirked Ron.
Harry glared.
A moment later his look softened as Hermione entered the kitchen. She was wearing a flowery dressing gown in some kind of shiny material on top of pale yellow pyjama bottoms. Her hair was pulled into a bushy ponytail; a few stray strands curled around her neck.
"Good morning," said Hermione, offering Harry a tiny smile. As she approached the table and set her mug down next to him, Harry suddenly noticed the scent of apples, lemons and roses.
It was Hermione.
Hermione was the source of his delirium.
Whatever she was wearing – it must be some kind of perfume – was what had been driving him crazy. Whoever invented this scent was a potions master of the highest order. He (or she, Harry had to admit) had done something he would have thought impossible: it made him feel giddy around Hermione.
"Hey mate, you okay?"
Ron was looking from Harry to Hermione and back again with a sly expression.
"Yeah, I'm fine," said Harry slowly as another realisation came to him. "Ron, I need to talk to Hermione for a moment."
"Okay," said Ron. "I'll be in the shower."
"Take your time," said Harry, glaring at him to leave.
As Ron disappeared into the hallway, Harry leaned toward Hermione and, in a fit of insanity, sniffed her neck, causing Hermione to gasp.
"It's you, isn't it?" asked Harry.
"What do you mean?" A coy smile played on her lips.
"That impossible scent. What I've been smelling for the last few days. It's something you're wearing, isn't it? Nothing else makes sense. It's your perfume. Am I right?"
"It I is /I an amazing scent, isn't it?" she replied, her eyes dancing with enthusiasm. "Apples, lemons and roses, all in one scent. Quite contradictory and yet they work together wonderfully. The three scents together make you feel—"
"A bit delirious," said Harry, finishing her sentence. "Like you want to do things you'd never thought of before…" He leaned a bit closer, his lips hovering close to hers. "…like kissing your best friend…if she'd let you."
"Yes, a bit like that," she said softly as her lips met his. The kiss was soft and gentle and left him wanting more. He had kissed his best friend and not only lived (she hadn't hexed him to bits) but wanted to do it again.
He was, he realised, deliriously happy.
333
