Author's Notes ;; Jazzi again. I have reason to believe that Ashleigh has fallen victim to an evil government plot and been removed from the face of the planet. She hasn't been on AIM in nearly three days, and before that she was being slow (gasp!) about writing the second chapter. I believe my beloved has been replaced by an android.

No worries, though. I wrote this chapter. There's not a lot to say about it, other than if you're used to my writing, my chapters are usually longer. I just tried to leave off at a good point for Ash to jump in.

Disclaimer ;; Jazzi does not own Harry Potter. She is, however, in the process of overthrowing the government in order to rescue her favorite angstbunny, and if an opportunity to snitch the identities of J. K. Rowling and/or Warner Bros. comes up, I'm not about to turn it down.

There was a reason I wore my obnoxiously unruly copper mane in a strict, tidy bun, I reminded myself with a growl. And it wasn't just because the wiry curls sprang out at every angle, resembling a disgruntled circus clown more than an upright seventeen-year-old. And it wasn't just because a strand here and there fell limp and hung stubbornly into my left eye.

No, mostly it was because of the way James Potter—Head Boy to my Head Girl, bane to my existence, thorn to my side, Goliath to my David, Beast to my Beauty, Romeo to my Juliet—gawked at it, open-mouthed, and couldn't come up with anything nasty to say.

It was more distracting than being half blind. I lifted my emerald eyes from the violet liquid peacefully simmering in my cauldron to throw a glare at the bespectacled boy behind me. He didn't flinch.

"Potter," I hissed between my teeth. "Potter, cut it the fuck out."

The shaggy-haired boy sitting next to the Bane of my Existence whispered something in his ear and grinned at me. "Whatsamatter, Evans?" he drawled. "Jealous?"

"Of what?" I snapped, but the color drained instantly from my cheeks. Only then did I notice that Potter's glassy eyes were not directed at me, but at my fair-haired Potions partner. "You're annoying Alice," I remedied, and spun back to my cauldron as shame and broken hubris flooded my cheeks. I felt no relief.

"Psst," the shaggy-haired boy hissed at my back, his voice sultry, masculine, and entirely fake. "Oi, Evans."

I clinched my jaw. "What, Black?" I snarled in an attempt to fight the tears welling in my eyes. My tear ducts were inexplicably wired to my temper, and my uncontrollable, fly-off-the-handle red-head emotions were not always subject to my willpower. But I would not cry. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

But I was spared both an argument and the remains of my dignity. Professor Slughorn (God bless him!) pushed his armchair away from his desk with a loud screech. I squared my shoulders with respect for my savior.

He cleared his throat with evident glee. Everyone fell silent, with the exception of Sirius Black, who was still laughing at his own private joke. "I have given you two class periods, more than enough time to brew a proper Amorentia. Now, let's have you all lean over your cauldrons and tell the class what you smell."

I shuffled, reluctant, just close enough to my cauldron to be able to determine the scent. Unlike the rest of the class, I wasn't particularly fond of the scent of my love potion—as if I needed further proof that there was something wrong with me.

"Miss Evans," I jumped. "As the very essence of Slytherin house—"

"May I have been hanged had the Sorting Hat agreed with you—"

"—This should be interesting. Have at it. What does the serpent love best?"

I bit back a groan. "Well," hesitantly, "there's cedar . . . and alcohol—like strong butterbeer—and grass . . . dirt . . . sweat . . . dust . . . and shampoo."

I wrinkled my nose at the smell. Had I been standing any closer, I would have gagged. My cheeks were pale underneath my freckles, though, and I couldn't understand the knowing glances shot between my fellow Gryffindors in the dungeon. It bothered me.

I didn't heat Alice's list, and the only word of Black's that I picked up on was "panties." Had it not been for the wicked grin, the grin that was reserved for when he was about to do something really stupid, I might have missed Potter's, too.

Instead, I winced, and I knew I wouldn't like what he said when he stepped forward and breathed deep from his cauldron. I just didn't expect it to be, "Alice Prewett."

My best friend.

And, though my eyes were blinded by angry tears, something was suddenly painfully clear: cedar, alcohol, grass, dirt, sweat, dust, shampoo—my Amorentia was an imperfect replication of Potter's pillowcase.

And it wasn't just the smell that made me nauseous.