The Scent of Magic

by satismagic

Hermione Granger and Severus Snape enjoy a cordial working relationship as journeywoman and Master. When a secret obsession interferes with her goal of reaching mastery and Lucius Malfoy takes an interest, her relationship with Severus is put to the test.

5. Manipura

V. Manipura

'Can anyone remember love? It's like trying to summon up the smell of roses in a cellar. You might see a rose, but never the perfume.'

– Arthur Miller

oooOooo

From Hermione Granger's perfume notebooks:

'How to make a woman beautiful forever: Take a young raven from the nest; feed it on hard eggs for forty days, kill it, and then distil it with myrtle leaves, talc, and almond oil.'

Master Alexys knew what he was talking about, if his portrait in the Paris guild house is anything to go by. Unfortunately, while the recipe for his beautifying perfume has been preserved in the weighty tome 'Les Secrets de Maistre Alexys' from 1555, the incantations were not included and the portrait doesn't know them. Thus, unto this day, all mortal beauty remains ephemeral.

However, Master Alexys illustrates nicely how much perfumes, like potions, rely on murky ingredients. And I am not talking about ordinary carcinogenic compounds or the odd ounce of rats' spleens. Not even about the magical equivalents of civet or ambergris, Jarvey musk and phoenix ashes, or tocalonite and wandtree absolute.

What I mean are the ingredients harvested from the human body. 'Blood, sweat, and tears' is a mnemonic trick the masters of my apprenticeship taught me. Forget about hymens or the blood of defloration as a potions ingredient; the mucus of a virgin's orgasm is a hundred times more potent when distilled into a lust perfume. 'Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken' is a classic [1], of course. But how about an extraction from the caul of a Sunday's child for a whiff of luck stronger than Felix Felicis?

And why are tears such a common ingredient of magical perfume?

Widow's tears in the wizarding version of Chanel No. 5, changeling's tears for carnival scent as effective and a lot more palatable than Polyjuice, Lamia's tears in lust perfumes – and the darkest of them all, Dementor's tears.

Why has no one ever tried to distil laughter, I wonder, or to create the extraction of a smile?

oooOooo

2 May 2009

'Don't you dare move now, Granger,' Draco orders.

'But I'm allowed to keep breathing, am I?' I mutter. However, I do endeavour not to twitch a muscle. I'm lying naked in the noon sunshine on the gnarled root of a Whispering Willow. Transfigured into the shape of a chaise longue, it dips into the lake in a secluded cove. 'I still can't believe that I let you talk me into posing for you here … like this.'

Draco smirks, sketching furiously.

The willow lowers her branches, a caress of catkins. The sky smiles, powder blue and pretty. And the sun warms my naked skin so much more delightfully on this enchanted island than anywhere else in England at this time of the year. It feels wrong, how much I enjoy this forbidden pleasure.

'Are you sure that your Do-Not-Notice-Me Charms will hold?' I whine, rather pro forma.

Draco shrugs. He wouldn't care if Rita Skeeter found us and put us on the front cover of the Prophet tomorrow. Actually, he'd relish that attention.

I must have started. Draco shakes his head. 'No, Granger. No one is able to see us. Unless you specifically want them to be able to see you.'

My heartbeat quickens, and my nipples harden.

Draco's smirk deepens.

Bloody hell.

Do I want someone to see me like this?

Naturally, I think of Severus first. A shiver runs down my spine, and a delicious ache thrums through my body. My breasts are heavy with awareness, my skin suddenly sensitive to the slightest breeze. Involuntarily, my right hand slips between my legs.

Merlin.

Of course there's a part of me that wants him to see me like that. I'm just a woman, after all! Severus will turn fifty next year. Entering that golden decade of wizarding lives, he's easily the sexiest man I know – my relationship with Draco notwithstanding.

But I respect him! There is a reason he still wears only black after all these years, and it's not just to snub the snobs at the perfume fair.

'So who should see you like that?' Draco inquires, cocking an eyebrow suggestively. 'Severus or Lucius?'

I shoot up from my seat, flail –

fall –

Cold!

Water!

Not a thought, my body screams at me: 'Cold! Water! Death! Bloody fucking hell!'

And my magic kicks in.

The next thing I know, I'm lying next to Draco on the shore, coughing and sputtering and cursing.

'Wow, Granger, that was impressive!' Draco has the nerve to giggle. 'I didn't know you had it in you!'

I'm not quite sure if he means my spontaneous self-elevation or the cursing. Normally, my language is pretty mild, compared to some of my contemporaries. Whatever. Uncontrolled magic takes a lot of out you. I am limp as an overcooked noodle – can barely move, much less use my magic, or come up with witty repartee.

'Fuck you, Malfoy,' I manage to croak.

'Happy to,' he whispers at my ear, his breath hot and arousing on my cold, wet skin. 'But I don't think it's me you really want to fuck.'

He rips a sheet off a sketchpad and Transfigures it into a huge, fluffy white towel to wrap me into. Holding me close, he settles down on the willow root with me. 'Silly hen,' he murmurs. 'If I'd wanted to paint a mermaid, I'd have invited one.'

I don't reply, just pout a 'mpf' into the towel and his chest.

'However,' he goes on, probably because I'm unable to do anything but listen to him right now, 'you must promise me to take care tonight. Lucius is up to something. I haven't seen him this cheerful since before mother fell ill.'

'I know, I know.' I draw away from Draco, so I can face him. 'But what can I do? He is a friend … and our most important competitor.' My date tonight does make me uncomfortable, but I'm trying not to show it. So I accuse my friend instead, attack seemingly the best defence: 'Admit it, you're just jealous.'

Draco glowers at me. 'You know as well as I do that the whole thing is fishy,' he says. 'Never mind Lucius' new-found love for Muggle-borns and all things Muggle since the war. That dinner invitation? It stinks.'

I relent with a sigh. 'I can always wear nose plugs, if that makes you happy – just to be on the safe side.'

'Just remember that your Master does not wear any scent at all when he comes to dinner to Malfoy Manor, never smokes there, and only ever drinks water.'

'Severus is paranoid –'

'And for good reason,' a familiar voice comments behind me, dry as any desert sand.

If Draco hadn't held on to me, I would have tumbled into the lake all over again.

'Shite,' Draco curses softly. 'Your magic must have unravelled my Charms, Hermione!'

'So it would seem,' smirks Severus.

I jump up, flustered, flushing, desperately clutching the slipping towel to my chest.

Severus stands next to the willow behind us. He ignores Draco and leisurely allows his gaze to trail the contours of my body, from the tip of my toes to the top of my towel. His eyes – darkly veiled at the best of times – appear as smooth and inscrutable as obsidian.

Feverish heat suffuses my body. My perplexed mind supplies all kinds of explanations, but I realise they would only suffice to make this scene seem even more sordid.

I feel Draco get up to stand behind me. His hand at my elbow does little to steady me.

Especially when he whispers, 'Did you know that you blush right down to your nipples?'

oooOooo

Thankfully, as Severus' journeywoman, I can dress conservatively for dinner with Lucius.

Conservative according to ancient wizarding etiquette, of course.

Long, black robes. I should actually dress in white. And not just because I'm now a journeywoman and an adept. Severus has explained it to me: mystically speaking, I have the right to dress in white since I survived the Final Battle. That day was a magical crucible for all who directly defied Voldemort. That's why they dressed Colin in white for his burial. And why Harry dresses in white for all official V-Day ceremonies. But I get away with wearing black because that's Severus' colour, and I belong to him … at least until he asks me to return the phial for my Mastery's perfume to him and orders me to break the one I acquired only yesterday to gift him with. And Severus gets away with wearing black because … well, because he's Severus. So: long underrobes with a tight corset-top and a high collar, covered by billowing outer robes. Thigh-high silk stockings in knee-high leather boots. Black silk gloves up to my elbows. If it were cold enough, which it unfortunately is not, an ankle-length black cloak.

… but no underwear.

I'm wrapped up as tightly as Severus ever was. Yet I still feel exposed.

If Ron were here, I'd stuff his shabby drawers down his throat, right along with the proverb of 'healthy breezes 'round your privates'.

I have a headache and still an hour to kill until Lucius will meet me and Severus at the entrance to the Dawn Wing. Lucius insists on playing his game strictly by the cards just to drive me crazy – and to remind Severus that he still has some strings left to pull. So he's going to be all prim and proper and ask my Master for permission to take me out tonight.

After such a gruelling day (it didn't improve after I ended up in the lake this morning), what I really want now is a whisky; Muggle single malt, or even better, a dram of Ogden's Finest. And a good book. And not having to talk to anyone or listen to anyone until tomorrow. Except maybe to Severus – if he feels like it, he can be the best company

Maybe Ginny is right after all, and Severus' crabbiness is beginning to infect me. Or maybe I always was as antisocial as he is, and they just never noticed until now. Or maybe that's just her excuse for not owling me anymore.

Whatever.

I decide to use my free time for good purpose and visit the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab stall.

The Mistress and Master of my apprenticeship have one of the best stalls in the Great Hall, between the main part of the hall and the arcade of columns circling the doors to the terrace. That way they can serve customers on both sides of their booth. They are both dressed very much like I am. Together, we look like runaways from a Muggle Goth concert. Hugging my former Mistress and Master, who are much more easygoing than their austere style of fashion might lead you to believe, I'm struck by how much I miss them. Them, and America. American witches and wizards move so casually between the magical and the Muggle spheres of their lives. Doing anything the Muggle way is not frowned upon there the way it is here. The laws regulating magic in the Muggle world are more relaxed, too.

Of course they expect me to scrutinise the perfumes they are showing off at the May Fair. Boldly, they have split the two long tables that make up their stall into Muggle and magical perfumes. No other perfume maker at May Fair is presenting non-magical scents this year. I have to suppress a grin. The guild may frown upon where I apprenticed, but I'm proud of my time at the Lab. And now I know that Severus Snape thinks highly of them as well.

Although I actually prefer their Muggle lines of perfume oils, I step to the magical side of their stall first. Differently coloured Bubble Charms are spelled to reveal the three main notes of each perfume – head note, heart note, and base note – to the tester, one after another, until the whole bouquet can be tasted.

'Nimue's Eggnog' is rich, compelling scent. Mooncalf milk, to bestow a scented, ethereal glow to the wearer, along with vanilla, nutmeg, rum, and something – some thing – that goes straight to my head.

'Whisky-fire!' I exclaim. 'I've never heard of it being used in perfume before!'

Beth nods with a smug smile. 'A new technique we've developed.'

Ideas rush through my mind. Does the technique work on ordinary fire, too? On fen fire? Sunlight? Moonlight?

I hope there will be time to discuss that new method before the fair is over. Turning to the next magical perfume under a purple-tinged Bubble Charm, I have to grin at its name before I delve into the bubble to smell it. 'Mugwump Specific', it's called. And it smells like that, too. Dumbledore would have loved it.

I surface from the Bubble Charm and cleanse my nose with a quick Charm of my own. 'I just love the names you come up with. No perfume maker in Britain is even half as witty as you are!'

'Oh, I think "Spinner's Scents" is doing quite well, too,' my former Mistress replies. But her wide smile tells me that she's pleased with the compliment.

'Fairy Farts' makes me chuckle aloud. Especially when a whiff tells me that the name must be taken quite literally. Like the Muggle indole – a chemical compound that occurs naturally in human faeces, but is also a constituent of many flower scents and provides a beautiful, flowery odour at very low concentrations – extraction of fairy excrement forms an excellent ingredient for magical perfumes. It has a delicate, magical scent of its own, but most of all it is one of the best magical fixatives, holding Charms perfectly, and for decades, not just for months.

'Unicornsilver' is made with Leprechaun's gold. It makes your skin sparkle in the sunlight and smell of immortal innocence. An elegantly composed scent, but not my kind of thing. I imagine, though, that the Lavenders of the world will fall for it by the dozens.

Turning to the perfume in pride of place on the narrow front table of the stall that is positioned between the long tables with the magical perfumes to the left and the Muggle ones to the right, I have to laugh again.

'May Thing?'

My former Mistress grins and shrugs. 'When we composed it, we kept calling it "that perfume for that May thing in England". Somehow that name stuck.'

Bending into the pale green Bubble Charm, I inhale the sweet, clear scent of spring.

It is a magical perfume, but only just – magic was used to harvest the essence of lily of the valley that makes up the heart of this perfume, and to capture a head note of spring sunlight sparkling on a little stream. The base note is a deeper, warmer, woodsy aroma. A forest at the end of a warm day in May, everything green and growing, full of life and hope.

'May Thing' is the perfect name for the perfume. It is the best of May combined in one tiny phial.

It reminds me of this morning, of the sense of wild abandonment when I posed on the willow root, of Draco's fluffy white towel, of dark eyes fixed on me, and heat flushing my body in the golden light of a morning scented with spring.

I come up again. With a deep sigh, I have to blink several times to clear my mind. That's when I realise that there's a magical ingredient in the scent after all.

'Wish upon a star,' I whisper. I look at Beth. 'Really? Essence of the light of shooting stars?'

She just smiles.

Shaking my head, I comment, 'Now I'm glad that Spinner's Scents doesn't have a stall this year. There's no way we could beat your offerings this year.'

'Not that I want to complain about the absence of a serious competitor, but why is that?' asks the owner of BPAL.

'During the last year we have been working on healing scents mostly, a project with St Mungo's. And we've been involved in a project of the Department of Mysteries. In between, we've created only a few ordinary perfumes, and those were all special orders for weddings or birthdays and the like. So this year we simply don't have enough to offer to justify the fees.'

'Oh, you have to tell me more about that!' Beth's eyes sparkle with excitement. 'How about a dinner date later this week? A girls' night out, so we can catch up on everything properly?'

'Gladly,' I reply.

Research into the powers of magical scents has made great progress in recent years. Our great breakthrough may be lurking just around the corner, and I long to talk to someone about that who cares as much as I do – and Beth, who supports a number of Muggle and wizarding charities, definitely does.

Soon it may be possible to restore not just factual memories but the emotions connected with events. Neville is hoping that maybe one of the new combinations of scented, charmed potions and memory restoration charms can be used to heal his parents at long last. For my parents and me, it's too late. Everything they ever felt for me when I was a baby and a child is lost forever. But it's still one reason why I care so much. I turn away, suddenly discomfited – I hate coming across all emotional instead of behaving like the professional I should be.

I move to the 'black' section of the stall. BPAL is not only famous for cavorting with Muggles in the wizarding world, but for its twilight scents.

'Manticore's Sting?' I raise my eyebrows.

Another shrug. 'Just Billywig stings, for a bit of a bite.'

I grimace. I don't like pain in my perfume. 'Well, I guess using real Manticore venom is out; that would hurt only once, even in a perfume.'

Beth's answer is a throaty, rolling chuckly, and I realise that I miss her, her and BPAL, my second home away from home. At the Muggle university I never felt that I belonged.

I refrain from smelling 'Naga's Blood', in spite of the challenging grin from the owner of the Lab. I dislike the genre horror in all forms; I've had too much experience with the real thing in my life. Warily, I approach the far end of the stall. A sombre, black Bubble Charm protects the other highlight of BPAL's presentation for this year's May Fair.

'Darkest Kiss', the silver plaque announces, and a shiver runs down my back.

Taking a deep breath, I dip into the Bubble Charm.

It is a scent of winter and sadness, so much is clear at the first sniff. A cold, acrid head note whispers of stale incense, doused candles, and forgotten prayers. Then I choke back tears at one of the most desolate scents I have ever tasted. The heart of this perfume is deeply narcotic. Funeral flowers. The ashes after a wizarding burial. The darkest night of the soul. When I have to gasp for breath, blinking back tears, the base note fills my mouth with the bittersweet flavour of old grief, of remembered laughter, and reminiscences of a bright and shining spirit lost to the black kiss of death.

I am shaking when I emerge from the Bubble Charm. And I have no idea what the key ingredient of this perfume is.

I exhale heavily. Inhale. The clean, neutral air of the Great Hall.

Smelling perfume, Severus has taught me, is a meditation on the fluid state of the soul and its journey through time and space and beyond.

That is also the secret to discovering the ingredients of a perfume. Sinking back into the impressions that scent has left me with, grief and death are foremost in my mind. But just the absence of life would have caused the perfume to be just that: lifeless, flat, stale. This is something different. The presence, the absence, and the loss of a soul.

Impossible.

Illegal, is my second thought. Followed by: Probably not, because it shouldn't even be possible, so there's most likely no law extant that covers use of this substance.

'Dementor's tears?' I whisper my question.

My former Mistress nods.

'But – how?' I stammer. 'How's that possible? And – and which Dementor would –?'

Cry. And not only cry but allow anyone to collect its tears. No ordinary perfume maker would be able to perform such a feat. I realise that I am gaping.

A smirk, a twist of her wand, and the Mistress of the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab reveals the true colour of her robes: a deep golden hue, the third step towards Mastery according to the old rites. Of course, the coniunctio in the guise of the Sacred Marriage, would pose no problem for her, with her husband so deeply devoted to her.

'There is one Dementor who would cry for lost souls,' she says in a low voice. [2]

I shake my head, bewildered. So far, I thought that was a fairy tale. Apparently not.

I offer my congratulations but cannot suppress a moment of jealousy, chokingly bitter like Bunidmun secretion. They are just one step away from rubedo, while for me Mastery seems more unattainable than ever before. And not just because I lack the partner for the easiest form of the coniunctio.

Unsettled, I make my way to the other side of the stall and browse the comparatively harmless Muggle perfume oils presented there, from 'Ars Amatoria' to 'Bewitching Brews'. When I look up from Defututa [3] (Good Gods, what a night that was, the bed was so soft, and how we clung, burning together – in olive blossom, honey, smoky vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine, sandalwood, and champaca flower), I notice two familiar figures at the far end of the Great Hall, standing in the sheltered corner next to the right wing of the huge doors. Frowning, I step back to hide behind a column and watch Lucius Malfoy, engaged in an animated discussion with none other than Mystery de Medici.

'What's Himself up to, chatting up that scarlot?'

I snort at the derisive designation that was invented one drunken girls' night a few years ago, when I shared the anecdote of Ron and the 'scarlet woman'.

'No idea,' I reply. 'But if I hadn't already believed that Lucius is up to something, seeing him that cosy with her would have convinced me.'

I keep staring at the pair. She is as dark as he is light in colouring, and together they make a striking couple. Beautiful, powerful, and plotting. And very definitely up to something.

oooOooo

The water of the lake, at the moment still rose-tinted by the last rays of the setting sun, glitters with magical candles at the shore and below the surface. The air is soft with water and Charmed warm, like a summer night, for the Perfume Dinner [4] of the May Fair.

Gondolas with elaborately decorated dinner tables are floating on the lake. In the distance, a classical orchestra is playing … so softly that you could almost mistake the sound for the natural sounds of the night, the lilting waters of the lake, the whistling of the wind in the willows, the chorus of crickets. But I recognise the melody. It's Debussy's Claire de Lune. Not the tune your average crickets chirp.

Right now we're at this awkward stage where I can't quite hide that I'd like to be anywhere else but here, and if here, then with anyone else but Lucius. I'd love being here with Draco – then I could pretend it was a romantic dinner. Or with Severus … because then, well, then I wouldn't have to pretend anything, and we'd just enjoy the evening.

I press my knees tightly together. The air drifting up from the surface of the lake is cool in spite of the temperature Charms, and I definitely don't like a healthy breeze 'round my privates.

'A woman's perfume tells more about her than her handwriting,' Lucius announces, resplendent in night blue robes trimmed with silver. Taking my hand, he delicately sniffs my wrist. 'Christian Dior,' he attributes the quote and actually manages to surprise me.

'And your scent tonight, my dear, is extraordinary. Many of the best perfume makers of the wizarding world eschew wearing perfume tonight, of all nights, so as not to interfere with the delicate aromas and extraordinary flavours served for this occasion. But you …' He laughs, a low, delighted laugh that sounds almost natural. Maybe it even is. Not even Lucius Malfoy can plan and prepare every breath he takes and every sound he utters with cunning and artifice. Then he claps his gloved hands, and I roll my eyes.

'Water,' he announces, as if there is an audience to listen to his verdict about my fragrance. 'A head note of dew, a heart note of rain, a base note of lake. And … a hint of rainbow. Magnificent. However did you accomplish that, Hermione?'

If I told him that I asked the Mistress of my apprenticeship for an emergency Charm to impress him, he'd probably be less than impressed. So I shrug and attempt an enigmatic smile. Too bad I can't return the favour. But that's just not the done thing. I bet, though, that he's not in the nude tonight, either. However, I cannot catch even a whiff of whatever perfume or eau de toilette he's used. Lucius one, Hermione nil. And Lucius smirks.

Thankfully, the first scent is served, and I'm off the hook for the moment.

A delicate glass dome the size of a Bordeaux glass covers a delicate glass dish. For other diners, the dome is empty but for the scent trapped within glass and Charm. For Lucius, that was obviously not enough. A tiny golden trinket, the kind you wear on a charms bracelet, lies on my plate. A miniature rose. When I lift the dome, that is the scent that envelops me. Finest attar of roses. A rose garden at the height of summer, at that magical hour before noon when the fragrance of roses is at their fullest, warm, yet fresh, and utterly tantalising.

I am not surprised when I find Lucius tempting me with an aperitif of rose champagne as I look up.

I admit it, I am tempted. It's bound to be vintage champagne. But I remember Severus' warning, and as I slide my hand around the glass, I substitute champagne with water. Now that's what I call advanced transubstantiation.

'I'm glad you approve of my err… personal touch, Lucius,' I say and take a sip of rose-perfumed water. Urgh. Champagne would have tasted better.

He just sighs.

Apparently my wordless and wandless Transfiguration is up to scratch, but my sleight of hand skills not so much.

I can see that he is really disappointed; since Narcissa's death, his perfect mask has developed fine cracks he cannot seem to cover anymore. I hate that I'm feeling guilty. Maybe we are sort of friendly competitors now, but it was his house I was tortured in eleven years ago. But that feels petty, too. Not even Lucius was happy about Voldemort's arrangements at that point.

I'm relieved when the next scent arrives. This time, a tiny golden bee. The fragrance she symbolises is honey – lavender honey, to be exact.

And that's also the aroma of the first course. Lavender and honey … along with roasted rounds of goat cheese nestling into beds of spring salad, drizzled with honey-vinaigrette and sprinkled with lavender blossoms.

Apparently Lucius has given up on making me drink … While he gets a goblet of white wine, a glass of water with a piece of lemon appears in front of me. I relax a little.

'How sad that a woman as young as you are is so distrustful,' Lucius remarks.

I just shrug. 'Surviving a war will do that to you.'

I'm struck by how weary both of us sound. It's been eleven years, and I realise just how true my words are. It's been eleven years, and we are still just survivors.

But the goat cheese is delicious.

When we are done, the plates vanish. I'm wondering how the house-elves manage to keep track of all those gondolas without dumping anything into the lake. Then I ruthlessly banish all thoughts of house-elves. I do not want to remember the days of easy friendship and straightforward enmity that bolstered my failed campaign of elfish welfare. Or the not at all easy day when Dobby died for us. (Yes, in spite of everything, both friends and foes were still easy in the heyday of SPEW, easy to have and to hold, and most of all, to distinguish from each other.)

The next trinket is a tiny coconut. Unsurprisingly, the fragrance under the small glass dome is coconut … and effervescent ginger, tickling nose and tongue, inviting a giggle and a sneeze.

The food to go with the scent is baguette soaked in a sauce of ginger and coconut milk, roasted and adorned with pâté de foie gras. Lucius sticks with his white wine. I cling to my glass of water.

The conversation is no longer forced. We're locked in silence.

The next perfume served is a floral scent again. Another miniature blossom. White-golden jasmine, this time. I inhale deeply.

'Narcissa loved jasmine,' Lucius comments, and I can see how tears blur his clear grey eyes.

I try to remember her, but it's been too long. When I returned from the States to work for Severus, Narcissa was already ill, and I never met her again. So all I have to draw upon is the vague memory of a haughty woman looking down her nose at a bushy-haired, rebellious little girl.

'A passionate scent,' I say at last. 'I'm sure it suited her.'

Lucius laughs. Genuine laughter, a laughter that makes him throw back his head, loosens the black velvet ribbon that fastens his queue and leaves him breathing hard.

'No,' he says when he has calmed down. 'It didn't suit her at all. She was much too aloof and too elegant for such a lush, hot-blooded scent. But she loved it all the same. And I, I loved her for that.'

'I'm sorry,' I whisper. And I am.

The soup arrives. Pumpkin, melon, and jasmine; it smells and tastes of summer, with a hint of golden autumn. I drink the soup gratefully. Warm and smooth, it soothes my nerves. But Lucius barely tastes it.

'Have you ever loved like that, Hermione?'

I squirm under his scrutiny. In the light of all those candles and the full moon, his eyes don't look just grey anymore, but instead like shining, piercing silver.

Luckily, at that moment the plates disappear again and the next fragrance arrives, saving me from having to reply just yet.

I frown at the bauble under the glass. In the flickering light of the candles, accompanied by the slight movement of the gondola, I have to look twice to realise what it is. It is a cocoa pod, cut in half to show off the cocoa beans ensconced in their shell. At least I think that's what it is.

When I lift the dome, I'm proven right. The rich aroma of chocolate envelops me. Calms me.

I look up and meet Lucius' gaze without flinching. 'I thought I did, once, a long time ago. But I was just a girl then. And I was wrong.'

The appearance of a slice of lamb roast served in a rich chocolate sauce accompanied by tart, fresh fennel spares me from the opportunity to elaborate and denies Lucius the chance to ask nosy questions.

For this course, Lucius switches from white wine to red. He lifts his glass in a toast. 'Can there be too many perfumes, too many open rosebuds, too many nightingales singing,' he declaims. 'Too many green leaves, too many dawns in life? Can you love each other too much? Can you please each other too much?'

'Victor Hugo,' I provide the author. My mother likes his works, and that's how I recognise the quote.

'Not everyone can love like that,' I add. Once again I wonder what exactly I smelled in Slughorn's Amortentia. Did the potion really scent so different from Ron? Did it really mean that at that time I had at some point of my life smell the person who could have been my true love? If my nose had been better? At least I know that I never wanted the kind of life Ron has now. Or the kind of man he has become. The chocolate sauce is too rich all of a sudden, the taste of lamb too strong in my mouth. 'And I think we both know very well that you can love someone too much.'

I shouldn't sound so bitter talking about the saintly love of my Master. I avert my eyes, ashamed of myself, and look out across the lake. It has grown dark. The merpeople's candles and the reflection of the stars are dancing in dark waters. The orchestra is still playing, but I no longer recognise the tune.

Lucius shakes his head. 'But Severus did not love Lily like that. He was infatuated with her. He idolised her. He did not love her the way I love Narcissa.'

I remain unconvinced, but silent – anything I could say would be incredibly awkward and possibly insult Lucius, Severus, or both.

Lucius takes another swallow of red wine, swirls it in his mouth, before gazing meditatively into the glowing depths of liquid ruby. 'No, he didn't love Lily like I love Narcissa. Cissa is my twin flame. Lily was his obsession, the demon of his guilt, the angel of his atonement. That has little to do with love, and everything with mistakes he has no one to blame for but himself. Well, and me – but enough of that. Let us enjoy the evening. The food, the perfume.'

Of course he stops speaking exactly when it gets interesting. He sighs and examines the wine as if it's a crystal ball. Though it's not the future he's interested in tonight, but the past. While I busy myself with the lamb roast on my plate, I keep watching Lucius closely. He may act the maudlin, sentimental widower tonight – that may even be how he really feels these days – but that doesn't mean he has no other agenda. I catch a sly glint in the corner of his eye and have to hide a frown in my water glass. No doubt, Lucius is up to something. And it's not appointing me his personal agony aunt.

The rest of the lamb disappears, leaving behind a whiff of chocolate. The enchanted gondola turns around. The zenith of the evening has passed, and we're on our way back to the jetty.

The last course arrives. First, the fragrance. An orange blossom, scent of southern springs. I toy with the delicate pendant. 'They are accessories for your line of natural scents at Narcisscents, aren't they?'

Lucius beams and nods. The conversation turns light, like the Panna Cotta scented with orange blossom essence that is served as dessert.

We talk shop, about Lushious, Narcisscents, Spinner's Scents, BPAL, the guild. New techniques Lucius has had his perfume makers experiment with, new applications of magical scents that Severus and I have been concerned with. With these topics, I know exactly how much I may say, and what I have to keep mum about. Of course Lucius tries to draw me out, but we both realise he won't manage. It's a game we both excel at.

The last fragrance appears on the table. This time, the bauble is a tiny fig. The aroma I release from its glass prison is fig and cinnamon, fruity, spicy, sweet. Like the kiss goodnight of a long-time lover.

The scent belongs to an after dinner cocktail, rum and soda with fig, cinnamon, vanilla and sugarcane syrup. Within view of the landing, I throw all caution to the winds and raise my glass to Lucius. The evening is almost over. And while I still have no clue what Lucius was up to with this dinner invitation, I have survived it none the worse for wear.

'Cheers,' I say. 'Thank you for a lovely evening, Lucius.'

'It was a pleasure, my dearest Hermione, a perfect pleasure,' he very nearly purrs. For once I see Draco in him, or perhaps him in Draco? Whatever. I smile at him. Maybe it wasn't some dastardly scheme à la Malfoy after all that prompted Lucius to invite me to dinner tonight, but just a desire for female company a little easier on one's nerves than Mystery de Medici, for example.

I enjoy the sweet rush of sugar and alcohol that the cocktail provides. Now, at last, I can relax a little and enjoy the lake and the night and the moonlight. We sip our cocktails in silence. When the glasses are empty, we reach the shore.

Lucius, ever the gallant gentlewizard, climbs up on the landing first, then extends his hand to help me step ashore. Although the boat is neatly moored, it's a bit of a scramble. And of course at exactly that moment, a breeze swirls around the jetty and lifts the hems of my robes, Marilyn Monroe style. I don't think it can have exposed more than my knee-high boots. Of course Lucius smirks as if he got to see much more. I just roll my eyes. It's good to be back on solid ground.

When I turn around to walk down the jetty toward the shore, Lucius raises his cane a little to indicate that I should wait a moment. With the other hand he reaches inside his night blue robes and produces a simple perfume phial that contains a dark, pearlescent liquid.

'Allow me to present to you the traditional farewell gift of the May Fair Perfume Dinner,' he says and offers the phial to me. 'A special sample from Lushious & Narcisscents.'

My curtsy may be awkward, but it's honest. Lucius' special samples are worth more than whole lots of expensive perfumes by other producers. Maybe I'll be able to discover something about those techniques he's been raving about when I analyse the scent. I don't ask what scent it is – it's part of the game to find out on my own. And he'll have done his best to make that task as difficult as possible for me.

'I look forward to hearing about your reaction to that fragrance.' Not even a smirk. He's damn sure I won't be able to unravel the riddle of the fragrance, then.

'I am sure that I will be thrilled,' I reply. Cocky Slytherin bastard.

'Oh, I am certain you will be.' Now he smirks. 'It's special.'

Only when we have reached the entrance of the Dawn Wing of Rose Manor House and Lucius bows over my hand, ghosting a kiss a few inches above my glove, do I finally catch a hint of the scent Lucius is wearing tonight. He has used the perfume so sparingly that it was unnoticeable outside even to my experienced nose. I am wondering now how much of the melancholy mood that weighed down our conversation tonight was due to the presence of that unconsciously perceived fragrance.

Lucius is wearing BPAL's Darkest Kiss. The scent of grief and lost souls. He's wearing it for Narcissa, who loved jasmine though it was not even 'her' scent. And who died of the after-effects of an old curse nine months ago.

oooOooo

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[1] Source: Chapter Thirty-Two, 'Flesh, Blood, and Bone', in 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire' by Joanne K. Rowling.

[2] The Dementor who would cry is an allusion to the story 'Pumblechook' by wartcap.

[3] 'Defututa' is a scent from the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, from the line 'Ars Amatoria'. All other BPAL scents in this chapter are completely fictitious and owe their existence to the imagination of [name] and the author of this story.

[4] The Perfume Dinner is based on a 'Menu of Scents' created by perfumer Jean-Michel Duriez in 2004.

oooOooo

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Author's Notes: Comments and questions are always welcome (IF you provide a means for me to reply to you, that is). I love to hear about your reactions to the chapter – what made you smile, what made you frown, what's your favourite line? And if you have nothing to say about my story, maybe leave a comment for another author elsewhere? Comments are the only remuneration fanfic writers receive, and all of us cherish them. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy my story.