DILECTIO
Author's Note: Dilectio is another word for 'love' in Latin. At least that's what my Latin dictionary tells me…
Ron Weasley was desperate. He had been trying to get Hermione to notice him in the way he noticed her for years. If it had worked, well then he hadn't noticed.
So Ron Weasley did something very stupid, as all desperate people tend to do.
He decided to make a love potion.
"Okay, let's see," Ron whispered, huddled away in the back of the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library, hurriedly scribbling out the directions and ingredients for the Dilectio potion. It was not quite as strong or effective as Amortentia, but it was simpler to make.
Stir three times, and let simmer. Please note that the potion has its limits, and will not work if the person which you are giving it to has abnormally feelings of hatred towards you, or if –
Ron looked up from his writing. Were those footsteps he heard?
Not wanting to be caught, Ron hastily shoved his parchment and quill into his book-bag, and made a swift exit from the library, heading toward Gryffindor tower.
As quietly as he could, Ron crept into the dormitory that he shared with his fellow Gryffindor boys, and opened Harry's trunk. It creaked as the lid opened, and he looked around nervously, but it seemed no one had heard.
Ron reached into the depths of the trunk and pulled out Harry's invisibility cloak. He wrapped it around himself and left, headed in the direction of the dungeons.
Once in Snape's private store cupboard, Ron started gathering the supplies he needed to make the potion. It took him all of ten minutes to find what he needed. After finally grabbing the last ingredient, he was ready.
A week ago, when the plan had first begun to form in his mind, he had hidden a spare cauldron in one of the stalls of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, so he headed to the second floor.
He had been working on his potion for twenty minutes when he was interrupted by none other than Moaning Myrtle herself.
"Hello," she said, "are you here to visit me? I haven't had a visitor in so long. Where's Harry? Why isn't he with you?" she blushed, hints of silver tingeing her cheeks.
"Sod off, Myrtle," Ron said, stirring his potion for the third time.
"Oh, right," she sniffed, "I'd forgotten. You're the rude one who always laughs at me!" She howled and plunged back into her toilet.
Rolling his eyes, Ron scooped up the potion in a small glass vial and put a cork on top. It was ready.
