Hi guys!

So, I wrote chapter 2, 3 and 4 in one day, and then I just had to go to bed because it was half past 2, haha. I thought I could wrap it up in one chapter, but I actually want to take some good amount of time to write the climax of the story, so I'm going to do that over the course of the weekend. Writing keeps my quarantine fun :) Next chapter will be last, though!

A big thank you to everyone who has left a review and who has followed or favorited this story. It means the world to me!

Love, Flora.

The events that occurred that autumn Monday morning passed as quickly as they happened. After Hermione had gone to class, she retrieved Harry from the shack, confirming what he had dearly hoped for: as soon as Harry had broke the scent with the antidote, his admirers had lost their obsession over him and had gone back to their normal selves. They had, however, forgotten anything that had taken place those few hours. Snape had been extremely distraught about his classroom being in such a state, Ron had no idea as to why he had covered Harry's bed in rose petals and fine silk and Draco Malfoy didn't understand why he felt like he had been trampled by a stampede. The collective memory loss resulted in the entire fifth and fourth years students to be immensely confused, alongside Snape and Umbridge, but Harry and Hermione had both decided to play along and act like they had no clue either. It was easier this way, more convenient. And before they knew it, life slipped back into its normal ways, but not before Harry had demanded Colin to give up all the photo's he had taken with his camera's that faithful day.

Their first trip to Hogsmeade took place and Hermione came up with the idea of starting a Defence Against the Dark Arts-group. Not long after, they decided to establish Dumbledore's Army. Harry reveled in his job as a teacher. He loved coaching his peers, seeing their confidence grow with every passing lesson. Months flew by - a lot happened, obviously, most noticeably Harry's first kiss with Cho, the attack on Mister Weasley, his lifelong ban on playing Quidditch for latching out at Malfoy and the interview he gave to Rita Skeeter. That last day in Hogsmeade had sealed the deal on Cho and Harry's relationship, as he realized that there was simply nothing much to talk about with Cho. When she accused him of wanting to get rid of her and meet Hermione, he couldn't help but think that maybe she was right. He had felt awful in that cozy tearoom, trying to clutch her hand, trying to achieve something called a "successful date", and when Hermione told him that he should have called her ugly to make Cho feel better, he had been astounded.

'But I don't think you're ugly!'

Hermione had looked at him with that face again: a sweet, concerned smile, sympathetic eyes, crinkled nose and slightly warped eyebrows. He had seen that smile a couple of times this year, always when he had been talking about Cho. It was a sweetness, mixed with a kind of pain that he couldn't quite place.

He thought about how it would have never been awkward with Hermione, if he had gone with her instead of Cho. That with her, he would have a million things to talk about, and he certainly wouldn't have to worry about her dramatically stomping off. And it wasn't like they were so much alike that conversation came easily. They could discuss objects they were both interested in, of course, but he could listen to her rambling on about house-elves, and she could listen to him enthuse about Quidditch, and they would still be able to have a good time. And then he thought that the talking with Hermione might not even be the best part of their friendship. Harry valued their quiet time just as much, or maybe even more - when they sat side-by-side, making homework, listening to the rain outside. He loved the fact that their quiet time, the moment he and Cho had avoided at all cost, was actually very pleasant for Harry. He loved being quiet with Hermione, listening to her quill that scratched on the parchment and the crackling of the fireplace, in the background the sound of her needles knitting yet another hat, Crookshanks purring on the nearby coach. He wished he could fill his days with those sweet, calming hours, but unfortunately, those moments had been extremely scarce.
Harry's fifth year had been trying so far to say the least. Hermione had been there for him, every step of the way. When Umbridge had infuriated him with her comments in class, Hermione thought of starting the DA as means to make him feel more in control and for them to learn something useful. When he hadn't been able to talk to his friends because he was afraid that he had hurt Mister Weasley, being possessed as Voldemort's snake, Hermione had broken off her Christmas-break to coach him out of his room. When he had been feeling hopeless about no one believing him about Voldemort's return, Hermione had arranged for the interview with Rita. She knew what he needed, stuck with him, even when he lashed out to her because of angry outbursts that didn't feel like his own. She had been so patient, so loving, so kind, so Hermione.

And then there was that smell. The moment the vial had touched his skin, he had also smelt something - something strangely familiar and pleasant. He had no idea what the scent had been, as he had smelled it for the last time in the Shrieking Shack, but he knew the smell was something he had experienced before. If he only could remember when.

He would kid himself not to admit to have gone through the events in his mind, over and over. Him and Hermione had made very brief remarks about it, now and then, when they had been alone, or when they had tried to mess with Ron, who had some sense that they did know what had transpired the hour and a half that he and so many others had been out of it. Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts had been trying before - now Harry had to stop himself from imagining his worst teachers with that gloomy look in their eyes, whispering and singing his name over and over. The other day he caught Umbridge say the phrase "Oh my!" in a very innocent context, but it had made him choke on his own spit, and he had almost gotten detention for not keeping quiet. One other day, he woke up only to find Snape's sonnet stuck in his head, and though he refrained from singing the words, he couldn't help but to hum it the entire day, scowling to himself when he noticed himself doing it. Neville and Seamus had asked aloud why that song seemed so familiar and Hermione had nudged him quietly, smiling knowingly at him. He really liked how close she sat to him, and tried to linger on her touch.

Since the attack on Mister Weasley, Harry had been summoned to Snape's office once a week, to receive lessons in Occlumency. They hadn't felt that helpful, to be honest, and it made Harry very annoyed to miss out on down time with his friends in order for Snape to invade his mind. He hated reliving his older memories - especially the ones where his nephew had bullied him, and Snape unfortunately didn't have the class not to snidely remark on them.

'The Dark Lord can use these memories,' he said mockingly. 'He can sense your hurt and use it against you.'

Harry had flinched at the memory of Dudley getting yet another bike for his birthday, while he had gotten nothing. In his head, the memory of a cheering Dudley, who raced past Harry over and over and over again, replayed in his mind as he bit his tongue.

'You need to learn to control it.'

'If you only told me how,' Harry shouting angrily, but Snape didn't bat an eyelid.

'Concentrate, Potter, focus. Empty your mind.'

Harry tried, but he kept hearing Dudley's cheers, and Snape entered yet again, way before he had been able to summon the white sheet to concentrate on.

Memory after memory engulfed his mind. He saw himself facing the troll in his first year, then getting thrown into his cupboard for spilling some tea on the carpet at age 7. Suddenly the memory changed into a lustful mob of students, chasing after him, and that ridiculous sonnet swam through his head, Snape's voice clear as glass.

'Potter, what was that?! For Merlin's sake I hope that was not some kind of sick dream of yours-...'

'I can assure you it wasn't, professor,' Harry growled, rubbing his eyes.

'Then what was it?'

Harry tried to come up with some excuse, but Snape's pressing glare made him see no other way.

'It's what happened at the beginning of term. That hour and a half that no one can remember.'

Snape looked petrified. Then, suddenly stern, he demanded to know what had happened. So Harry told him about the vial, about the sudden change, about the poem. His teacher grimaced through all of it, but did not interrupt him, when Harry went on and talked about his escape via the steep stair case, Malfoy's determination to kiss him, and then the mob cornering him. He remembered with a frown how Umbridge had wrestled through the crowd to get to him, and as she had pressed herself up against him - he distinctly remembered her fat belly and suffocating breasts trying to squeeze the life out of him - he had managed to distract her for a moment to jump on his moving broom.

'How did you make us snap out of it?' Snape wanted to know. 'I thought that vial might be the cause for the damage to my office, but the antidote sits in a locked pantry in my personal chambers. What did you do?'

'I didn't do anything, actually.' Harry said. 'It was Hermione. Somehow, the potion didn't affect her, and she was the one who brew an antidote for me.'

This made Snape's eyebrows rise and he sneered.

'Naturally,' he said, in his low voice. 'I always guessed it would be the Know-It-All.'

Harry looked at him, dumbfounded.

'You always guessed Hermione would be what?'

Snape snorted and put his wand away.

'I think this was enough for today, Potter. I will see you next Monday.'

'Hermione is what, Professor?'

'I'm sure someone as clever as The Chosen One can figure that out,' Snape retorted. 'You can go now.'

'You made that perfume, didn't you? It was your brew that fell on my head. Hermione didn't react to it, what does that mean?'

'Oh, I'm sure she did react to it,' Snape replied, with a seldom heard glee in his voice. 'No one is immune to Odoratus Amabitur. Some people are just used to the effects it creates. It's useless to cast Avada Kedavra on a dead body, wouldn't you say?'

Obviously enjoying the evermore confused look on Harry's face, he felt the potion's master push him out of the classroom. His head was filled with more questions about the concoction, about what he had said, but Snape had dropped the subject on Hermione as Harry was forced to the door.

'Now, before you go, let me make this perfectly clear, Potter. If I ever hear you recite that poem again in my presence, I will make you scrub cauldrons until you're sixty. Understood?'

'Yes, Professor, but why-...'

The oaken door slammed in Harry's face. He stood there for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then it dawned on him.