A/N: Thank you as always for your reviews! If you're interested, there is now a pinned post on my Tumblr ( 16-pennies) listing all the chapter titles and their meanings. It will update every week before the chapter is posted.

Hermione went to her dorm in a state of near delirium. When she found herself literally floating through the portrait hole, she wondered if she had actually flown up all those stairs in an extreme case of unconscious magic.

Interesting.

Everyone else in her dormitory (save a very put out Crookshanks waiting on her bed) seemed asleep, which Hermione was absently grateful for. Would Parvati have seen it in her eyes? Was it written across her face in bright letters, like Marietta's hex?

Scrawled across her cheeks from ear to ear: I KISSED DRACO MALFOY!

Again.

By choice, this time.

And I liked it.

Oh, God — I really really really liked it —

A yelp escaped her and she clapped a hand over her mouth, breath held, waiting for one of her dormmates to wake up.

Nothing. She carefully guarded her thoughts, forcing herself to silently recite the Principles of Transfiguration until she had changed into pyjamas.

Then she dove into her bed, shut the curtains, and stared dumbly into the darkness.

I kissed him.

He kissed me.

"Can I kiss you?"

His voice echoed infinitely through her head

He wanted me. Again.

Her thoughts spun so wildly she couldn't make sense of them. Flashes of memory — his eyes in the darkness — his breath on her cheek — the heavy warmth of his hand on her waist —

Unbearable. All of it. It lingered on her skin so intensely it could almost be real, yet still just out of her reach. She felt icy and on fire all at once.

And yet it was also the simplest thing in the world. There had been no fireworks or sparks or whatever else people always said would happen. Just lips touching, and all the heat and dry skin and awkward bumping that entailed.

She curled up in a ball and tried to make her heart slow down. She had to sleep. There were classes tomorrow, after all, and she would have to pretend nothing had changed. She'd have to sit with Ron and Harry in the Great Hall and make sure she didn't act any different and —

And then, in the evening, she'd have to go back down to the dungeons and face Draco again.

Her insides were still shuddering when she woke, like her organs had been nudged out of place and couldn't quite settle back where they were meant to go. She dressed with careful precision for the sake of having something to do with her hands, and spent a good fifteen minutes wrestling her hair into a plait down her back. It was difficult work, since she couldn't bear to look at her own reflection. She was worried she might start blushing — or giggling — if she made eye contact with herself.

"Out late, Hermione?"

"Oh — yeah, sorry, Parvati. I'll do some research on the charm, though. Maybe we can try again at the weekend?"

"Yeah, no worries! If Padma's free, we could do it together in the library… I'll go speak with her now, actually." And Parvati flittered off down to the common room, presumably to the Great Hall to find her sister.

With a swallow, Hermione followed.

The hand in her pocket wouldn't stop fisting the fabric of her robes whilst her other hand clenched around the strap of her bag. By the time she'd made it to the Great Hall, she had jumped in fright at the sight of three blonde portraits and one unfortunately pale second-year; she walked into breakfast with dread and excitement jumbled up so badly she couldn't tell which was which.

But if he was there at all, she didn't see him: Once again, she sat with her back to the Slytherin table and didn't once turn around.

Charms was a different story. He sat several rows behind her and thus, as she'd made a point to arrive before most of the Slytherins, she hadn't seen him. But Merlin, wasn't that worse? He could be looking at her. Watching her every movement. Running his eyes over her hair, her shoulders, her back — could he see her biting her lip as she copied down incantations? She felt her cheeks warm and tried not to move in case it attracted his attention, because maybe he was doing the opposite — maybe he was avoiding her at all costs, just like she was him — maybe he didn't want to think about her at all because he'd changed his mind and was disgusted by what happened —

Everything went by at a slow, torturous pace, and yet it raced onwards, dragging her to their inevitable meeting with a kind of ferocity that left her nauseous. Before she knew it, lunch was upon them, and her skittishness had escalated to such degree that Harry and Ron had noticed.

"You know," she told them, bristling as she aggressively helped a sandwich onto her plate, "if you paid attention to how close exams are, you'd be stressed, too."

She didn't make eye contact as she quickly ate through the meagre portion she'd served herself. While her friends didn't challenge her defence, they didn't seem totally satisfied, either.

That won't do! What if they think something's amiss and try to investigate — oh God, can the Map tell if people are kissing? Would they be able to see —

"Honestly, Harry. Why can't you always schedule practice then? Slughorn can't argue, seeing as you're captain —"

"Yeah, I know, but —"

"It was brilliant, not having to go. Don't tell me you enjoy having to compliment his bleeding table setting every course."

Ron snorted.

"I promise I hate it just as much as you do, Ginny, but Dumbledore said" — Hermione's ears pricked up — "it would be… helpful if I go to these things. Sort of."

Hermione blinked. "He said that, Harry?"

"Well, kind of — you know how he's like…" Harry looked helplessly to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, who stared back. No, we don't know how he's like.

"Why does Dumbledore think going to Slughorn's little soirées would help?" wondered Ron.

"I dunno — he wasn't very clear, but — I — I think he wants me to get closer to Slughorn, somehow…?"

Hermione's brain, which had been whirling madly all morning, paused. This was interesting. This was just the sort of thing they'd been waiting for.

Harry, however, seemed rather oblivious to the details, and so it was with great care she probed, "What exactly does Dumbledore believe can be gained from Professor Slughorn? Or, at least, a closer relationship with him?" After all, aside from his odd predilection for treating his pupils like Chocolate Frog Cards, he seemed like any other teacher. Any other wizard.

"Maybe," suggested Ron conspiratorially, "there's some sort of potion — something that will help take down You-Know-Who — and if you cosy up enough to Slughorn for him to tell you about it, or give it to you, or something…"

Harry gave a weak smile. "Yeah, maybe. Whatever it is, though, I'm s'posed to try and go to as many of these dinners as I can, I reckon."

"So, no evening Quidditch practice?" asked Ginny miserably.

"Nah, sorry."

"Oh, cheer up," Ron grinned. "While Harry's charming a secret recipe out of ol' Sluggers, you can slip some poison in McLaggen's soup!"

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice while, beside him, Ginny grinned darkly. Hermione nonverbally did away with the mess Harry had made on the table, lost in a complicated web of thoughts which suddenly seemed to connect themselves, albeit hazily.

"I don't know… I don't think it's a potion… maybe…"

She stopped, frowning. Harry, who had recovered from his spluttering, looked at her with interest. "'Maybe…?'"

"Well, I'm not a hundred percent sure, obviously, but… Well, think about it: What makes Professor Slughorn unique is that he's been here for so long. He would've had Voldemort" — she glanced around at their oblivious tablemates — "as a student."

"But so did loads of other teachers," countered Ron.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "I mean, Dumbledore was Riddle's professor, too. Transfiguration, right? If I'm meant to know something about his time at Hogwarts, Dumbledore would've been able to tell me."

"Except Dumbledore wouldn't have known Tom, not really." Hermione shook her head, now quite confident in her hypothesis. "Not like Professor Slughorn would have. He was Head of Slytherin back then, after all, and it sounds like Tom Riddle never really got on with Professor Dumbledore. Or any other teacher, really, not that I've heard of… Here, think of it this way: If in fifty years' time someone wanted to know what Harry Potter was like at school, do you think they'd be better off talking to Professor McGonagall or Professor Snape?"

Harry made a sour face at that, and Hermione allowed herself a little smile of smug victory.

"Alright, I get it. But how am I supposed to find out whatever it is I need to know if I don't even know what I'm looking for?"

Ron shrugged while Ginny looked troubled. "Get him talking, maybe?"

Harry looked to Hermione, who could only offer a shrug of her own. "You'll have to be careful in how you approach it. I doubt Professor Slughorn will be very keen."

"Yeah," Ron snorted, "if I was a teacher and one of my students turned out to be the most evil bastard we've ever known, I wouldn't want to talk about it, either."

Hermione rather agreed.

The afternoon passed in a similar nauseating pattern of lethargic monotony and agitated frenzy. Hermione was grateful when Professor McGonagall followed her lecture with a difficult workshop on transfiguring detailed paintwork on fine china; it demanded so much precision and focus that for a blissful thirty-five minutes, she didn't think about Draco Malfoy or Tom Riddle or anything except how many petals belonged on a violet.

But the lesson ended far too soon, and then History of Magic was done, too, and she found herself staring at her dinnerplate, queasy.

Had it really only been last night that he'd — that they'd —? She'd gone over it so many times that she couldn't remember which parts of it were real and which were hyperbolic delusions. He'd really asked her — and she'd said yes — and he'd looked at her like that — and then he'd — and then a ghost had come by, of all things…

She felt a perplexing combination of cold and warm as she remembered how he'd pulled her to his chest, ostensibly to hide her from passers-by. The thought of having been seen made her stomach try to crawl out her throat — but no, there'd been no-one around…

And if Nearly Headless Nick hadn't interrupted? What would have happened then? The way they'd parted had already been so unbearably awkward. How would it have gone if they'd had to break apart on their own…?

"Hey — Hermione!"

A moment passed before she realised it was Ron staring at her. "Oh, sorry — what?"

"You're brewing tonight, aren't you?"

She swallowed. "Yes." Maybe he won't turn up at all… Maybe we'll work in total silence and it will be completely awful… Maybe he'll pretend it never happened — or snog me in the ingredient cupboard —

"Don't you want to eat something then?"

"Hm?"

"Well, you're always hungry when you have to brew late at night, and you didn't eat much today…" He raised his eyebrows at her untouched plate.

"Oh." With a frown, she speared a Brussels sprout with her fork and stared at it, as though she'd intended to do that all along. "Just distracted, I suppose. Thanks, Ron."

"No worries. Though if you want to nick some sandwiches, you'd best do it now before Dean finishes the lot."

"Oi!"

Dean flicked a carrot at Ron, where it stuck surprisingly well to the sleeve of his robes. Perhaps it had been charmed for that purpose. Hermione watched their mischief with cool detachment, her stomach tying itself in increasingly complicated knots whilst the Slytherin table burned in her peripheral vision.

Had Draco gone to any meals today? Should she bring him something? Would it mean something if she did? Did he expect it?

Well, if he feels at all like I do, he won't want any food at all.

It was all too complicated, really. And besides, he could go one night without her smuggling him supper.

She forced it all from her mind and attacked her dinner with gusto.

After that, everything went very quiet. The panicked, wild thoughts in her head settled into a stony sort of silence, and all the buzzing energy in her blood condensed into something heavy. She bid farewell to the others when it came time to go, and distantly noticed that from the outside, she probably seemed perfectly normal. Something primal had taken over and was determined to see her through this unharmed.

She wondered why her brain seemed to find descending to the dungeons just as dangerous as approaching the most violent duel. That seemed like something she ought to be embarrassed of.

The dim corridors were scattered with a few subdued students, tired at the end of a long day; they paid Hermione no mind as she slipped through the shadows until she stood before the little laboratory.

What if he hadn't come? What if he never intended to? When she opened the door, would she find herself alone? What was she meant to do if he showed up late? What if —

The door swung inwards, having sensed her presence and eventual intention to enter. Pale irises met hers, equally stunned, and then her body made up its mind for her.

"Hi."

Draco watched her step into the room and hang her things on the hook. The sound of the door closing was soft yet ominous. "Hello," he said after a moment's hesitation.

"Shall we get started, then?" Oh my God! Why do I sound so — so chipper?

Her horror only grew as she noticed Draco had already begun the night's work; the jar of marinating eagle eyes sat on the benchtop, open. The look in his eyes suggested he hadn't expected her to show up at all.

In some horrible parody of that day so many weeks ago, after he'd kissed her the first time, they got to work in complicated silence. In practised coordination, Hermione held the silver sieve above the cauldron while Draco carefully tipped the contents of the jar, allowing the blood and plum solution to rush through the sieve and darken the potion considerably. The eagle eyes sat against the metal mesh, submerged just below the surface of the concoction while Hermione secured the edges of the sieve against the cauldron's rim. It would sit there like that until the eyes had yielded all their fluids and, until that happened, Hermione would dutifully stir.

This is awful.

What was he thinking? Was she doing this wrong, somehow? She'd always laughed at her peers who got caught in these sorts of romantic dilemmas but now —!

She'd prayed for instinct to guide her through this, and yet the only cue she'd got was to pretend it hadn't happened and avoid all contact. Dammit.

If Draco was waiting for her to do something, he wouldn't get it.

The stiff silence endured, briefly easing only to accelerate moments later when he drifted too close and her breath froze, wondering if now the thing — that inevitable something — was going to happen —

But it didn't. He just moved away again, and the brewing process continued in its tediousness until the potion stabilised in colour and all that remained in the sieve was a congealed mass Hermione tried not to look at.

Is that it? she wondered as she put away their tools like always. Does this mean he regrets it? Or maybe that's all he wanted; just the once, and now he's finished with me.

All things considered, she felt rather detached about the whole affair and, given nothing more had happened, now looked at it with clinical, almost academic curiosity. Until tomorrow, when I'll go absolutely mad about it. Naturally.

But for now, she was glad, really. Could you imagine how much more difficult — how complicated all this would get if it also involved some sort of… entanglement with Draco Malfoy, of all people? It was preposterous and intolerable and, frankly, Hermione hadn't the time for any of it.

Good he's got it out of his system, then.

She gently arranged the cleaned sieve on the shelf of tools and took a moment to straighten a neighbouring set of bronze scales. It was properly cold now, and she'd come to dread the chilly walk up to her tower. Best get on with it, though. The warm candlelight and quiet atmosphere of the lab had begun to make her sleepy.

She turned to go, but so did he, and she scolded herself for being so stupid.

She hadn't looked at him, not properly, and now that she had, she couldn't look away. He stood no more than three paces away, but he may as well have been glued to her front for all she could do to move. It was utterly hopeless, and from the look in his eyes, he knew it too.

The potion was on its special table in the corner, brewing contentedly, and if you asked her later Hermione could only say she was possessed by a greater force that pushed her forward to pull her cloak and bag from the hook (so sharply it fell with a clatter), stumble out into the corridor, and turn to face his eyes (so much closer now), because there was never anywhere else to look.

"Finite incantatem."

It was a wonder, she thought, they remembered the charm at all.

Then he kissed her again and she forgot about magic altogether.

It wasn't that different this time, not really. It's been three, now. But then it was, because now there was that liberating weight of mutuality. Even more than before, when he'd asked, and she'd said yes and then there'd been that awkward dance while they worked out who exactly wanted what and how.

His lips were warm and dry like before, but less curious and more desperate, and Hermione wasn't sure what to do about that except hold on. There was something frantic about the way she kissed back, and she watched, in awe of herself, as her hands came to his shoulders and clenched into fists, gripping his robes so he couldn't even contemplate moving away. The strength and surprise of it made him grunt, but he clutched her just as hard on her waist — her hips — her back — and she distantly remarked that the both of them gave as good as they got.

It was one of the most absurd things she'd ever experienced. And, as they clumsily came apart and her head came to hover somewhere by his neck, her temple bumping his jaw while her chin rested on his shoulder, she wondered if this was the heady delirium supposedly replicated by Amortentia.

Lavender… mint… monkshood… citrus…

She inhaled, her ribs brushing against Draco's warm and trembling body.

Copper… the sea…

The dusty aroma of the castle and the heavy, sour fumes of brewing still clinging to his robes.