A/N: A quick one that also wrote itself in less than an hour. Enjoy!

4. Round the Fire in February

"Oi, Harry," Ron said one evening over the fire. It was winter, freezing cold, and pitch black. Hermione was just getting over a particularly nasty cold; Ron and Harry had demanded to split the watches overnight so she could sleep uninterrupted.

She, of course, had vehemently declined.

It was for this reason both Harry and Ron sat around the fire—both refused to wake her up, and had silently agreed to pair up for what would be her third of the night on watch.

"Mm?" said Harry, looking up from where The Tales of Beedle the Bard was illuminated by his wand in his lap.

"What d'you reckon that last thing Hermione smelled in Amortentia was?"

Harry snorted loudly. "From our first Potions lesson? Last year?"

"What?" Ron asked defensively.

"Oh, excuse me," said Harry sarcastically, "you're absolutely right, that's a totally normal thing to be thinking about in the middle of the night in February in the freezing cold, a year after it happened, while we're fighting for our lives and—"

"Alright, alright, blimey," said Ron, raising his hands in defense. "Merlin, sorry for asking."

"What on earth are you thinking of that for?"

"I dunno." Ron shrugged and raised a long arm over his shoulder, scratching the back of his neck. "Was just thinking of last year, I guess, and how badly I buggered it up, and I thought of that moment."

"Got to be books or quills or something mad, doesn't it?"

"Well, she did say new parchment. And freshly mown grass, but then she stopped, almost like she was… I dunno, embarrassed—"

"You're telling me you actually remember this?"

"Hey! I do listen, you know—"

"You listen when Hermione talks about what she smells in love potion, do you?"

"Oh, sod off."

"No, no, wait," Harry said, raising his palms in surrender. "Okay, I'm done being a git—"

"You're sure about that—"

"Listen," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders, "it'd have to be a person, right? That's why she wouldn't've said it, why she would've been embarrassed."

Ron was silent for a few long moments, seeming to absorb this monumental suggestion.

"Right," he said slowly, nodding as he did. He swallowed thickly and rubbed his neck again. "Alright. Yeah. Makes sense. Who d'you reckon it was, then?"

"Well," Harry said pensively, furrowing his eyebrows. "It couldn't be a family member—that wouldn't be embarrassing, would it? No, it'd have to've been someone that everyone in class would've known."

Ron nodded emphatically.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?"

Ron didn't move a muscle. "Yeah?" he asked weakly. "You think so?"

"Of course," Harry said. "Cormac McLaggen."

Ron's face dropped and then assumed a brilliant shade of purple Harry had previously thought to be impossible. An instant later, a snowball was rocketing toward Harry's face and he ducked just in time to watch it soar over where his head had been.

Harry couldn't stifle his laughter. "What the bleeding hell was that for?"

"For being a tosser."

"Oi!" yelled Harry, brushing himself off from where he'd dived into the mud with a grin. "C'mon, Ron, you're being daft. If you haven't figured out she's mad about you—"

"Oh, please," Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah. All the girls love the poor, lanky ginger—doesn't even have two Knuts to rub together between his freakishly long fingers—plus, I mean—hey—what makes you even think I'd—"

"Aside from the fact that I've been blissfully caught in the middle for the better part of a decade, mate, have you forgotten I was there for the Horcrux?"

Ron was silent after that. Harry was not sure if this was stubbornness or something else entirely.

"Fine," Harry said, closing Beedle and scooting a bit closer to Ron. "Humor me. What do you smell in Amortentia?"

Ron's face flushed brilliantly in the light thrown by the fire. His eyes lit up in a way Harry rarely was on the receiving end of.

"Mum's chocolate scones," Ron blurted immediately. "Quaffles." He stared down at his hands and started wringing them together. "Reckon that's it."

"For the love of God, Ron—"

"Fine!" Ron said, sitting as straight up as possible. "Fine, alright! It's her—I dunno, I guess her perfume—it smells kind of like vanilla, kind of like cinnamon, and like—like, I dunno, fresh air—"

"Perfume?" Harry said incredulously. "Hermione doesn't wear perfume."

"Of course she does, no human just smells like that—"

"She doesn't wear perfume. Ginny told me last year. Only ever rarely wears the one you got her, and that's just for special occasions, like the wedding. I guess she told Ginny she feels too 'gaudy' when she wears it."

"What the sodding hell does—"

"How should I know? All I'm saying is Hermione doesn't wear perfume. At least not one that smells like freedom and biscuits or whatever you're on about—"

"Alright, easy—"

"—that one you got her smells like Dudley's grandmother; God, what an atrocious smell—"

"Give it a rest, will you?"

"Sure. Absolutely. Straight away. After you accept that you smell Hermione in Amortentia."

A long pause stretched out before them. Harry peered at Ron, who had craned his head up to look at the sky. When he didn't get a response after several minutes, Harry opened his book again and muttered, "Lumos."

He'd only made it about halfway down the page when Ron cleared his throat from across the fire.

"Harry?"

"Yeah, Ron."

"What do… what do you smell in Amortentia?"

Silence. A beat.

"Er…" Not your little sister. Absolutely not your little sister. Definitely, certainly not your—

"Fucking hell, forget it, I don't want to know."