Anahata

---

oooOooo

IV. Anahata

'The way you can love a person for one quality despite myriad faults, you can sometimes love a perfume for one particular moment or effect, even if the rest is trash. Yet in the thousands of perfumes that exist, some express their ideas seamlessly and eloquently from top to bottom and give a beautiful view from any angle. A rare subset of them always seem to have something new and interesting to say, even if you encounter them daily. Those are the greats. By these criteria, one can certainly admire a perfume without necessarily loving it. Love, of course, is personal (but best when deserved).'

– Tania Sanchez

'Does koala bear poop smell like cough drops?'

– Tom Robbins

~~~

From Hermione Granger's perfume notebooks:

Nicolas Flamel founded the guild of alchemists in 1382, after he had successfully Transmutated stone into silver. Alchemy itself is of course a much older art. But the powerful guild of the wizarding world is the brainchild of Albus Dumbledore's best buddy (apart from Gellert Grindelwald, that is). (Honi soit qui mal y pense.)

Hector Dagworth-Granger, a distant relative of mine five times removed to the left, made the whole rather medieval set-up more palatable for the modern wizarding minds of the nineteenth century by renaming the guild 'Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers'.

But that didn't change what they are.

Namely, one of the most exclusive elites of the wizarding world.

And 'the forty-two'– the global community of Perfume Masters – have always been one of the most influential factions within the guild. After the Stone Makers, that is, who possess veto-powers concerning all guild decisions, ever since Nicolas Flamel successfully created the Philosopher's Stone and brewed the Elixir of Life.

But in recent history there have been only three Stone Makers. Two of them, Nicolas Flamel and Albus Dumbledore, are dead. And the third, who made a Stone but failed at creating the Elixir of Life, has refused title and honour and is not named in any scholarly journal.

Thus, the forty-two Perfume Masters and Perfume Mistresses are now, hands down, the most important faction among the eighty-nine guild members.

And the most powerful among them is none other than Severus Snape.

~~~

1 May 2009

The May Fair, the perfume trade fair of the wizarding world, is as much a veiled space of desire as any oriental bazaar – every word, every gesture, every wand twist redolent with magic, mystery, and marketeering. It is our modern Avalon; and like any respectable enchanted isle, it is only open to the public – perfume makers, perfume sellers, perfume buyers, the rich, the idle, and the curious – for seven days a year.

On the first of May, the Portkeys activate and take you to Lake Island, in the heart of the Lake District, with its landscaped gardens, its manor house, gazebos, pavilions, orangeries, and hothouses. If you're lucky, that is. If not, you'll get wet, and the garden goblins will have to tow you ashore, dripping and cursing and grumbling.

As happened to Cornelius Fudge and his portly wife.

Ooops.

Severus' eyes glitter. He is trying to suppress a smirk. Fudge has a place of honour on the long list of people Severus doesn't like.

I curl my lips into my mouth, failing at the attempt to school my face to impassivity. I look up at Severus. Journeywomen – even heroines of the war – don't gloat over the misfortune of members of the Wizengamot and former Ministers of Magic. But they may smile at their Masters.

Our fingers are still linked over a small stone. Severus meets my gaze and his eyes crinkle at the corners and the tight line of his mouth softens. He is smiling at me. My fingertips tingle. When he folds my hand over the used Portkey, my heart speeds up.

Then he turns and walks across the sandy beach to the boathouse, where the reception of the May Fair is located, to handle the formalities of our arrival.

The underside of the stone reveals smooth ridges, tinged blue. It is not just a stone, but a fossil. An ammonite. As I follow Severus to Rose Manor House, I think of soft creatures sheltered in luminescent shells. And of life. Of the ossifying effects of fate, how they have turned a man into stone, a living fossil from a harsh past.

He has not spoken to me about the goal of my journey since January, but I feel that he is watching me – full of expectation ... and disappointment.

~~~

After we have settled in our adjacent rooms at the far end of the Dawn Wing, we tour the grounds.

The Great Hall and the Entrance Hall are filled with the stalls of perfume makers.

Pride of place claim the stands of 'Lushious' and 'Narcisscents' Unlimited – the companies that have made Lucius Malfoy rich again within just twelve years after the war, his trial, and the immense fines imposed on him. With 'Lushious' catering to a wizard's every fragrant need, and 'Narcisscents' targeting female customers, Lucius is the first magical perfume maker to veer away from the traditionally unisex scents of the wizarding world. With his stalls strategically situated just opposite the main entrance and between the high glass doors leading to the lake terraces, no one can get past him. And who'd want to? Golden-haired and charming, the widower is once more one of the richest and most influential wizards in Britain, and he wears the world-weariness of a dark hero of the war and the melancholy of bereavement like an attractive cologne. As we pass him by, he sighs a kiss at barely decent distance over my hand.

'My dearest Hermione,' he murmurs, 'every time we meet, you are more lovely. What must I do to free you from the clasp of the old bat of the dungeons?'

Severus and Lucius are not only fierce competitors in business, but good friends. Consequently, I have come to know Lucius Malfoy quite well during the last year. He is not as vile as he seemed to me as a child, but far from harmless – and an outrageous flirt, especially since Narcissa died nine months ago. His repeated attempts to lure me into his lair – business or bed or both – are not made entirely in jest.

Now he takes my hand with a sly smile. 'You simply must dine with me tomorrow evening. The local merpeople have arranged a floating dinner on the lake.' Affecting an expression of regret, he turns to Severus. 'I am so sorry that your seasickness will prevent you from attending. I am certain it will be quite an event.'

Seasickness? My arse. But Severus gives an infinitesimal nod. We know that Lucius is up to something – has been up to something for a while. Draco has tipped us off. But not even he knows what his father is planning. A new perfume? A completely new product line? Rolling the Muggle market? (Our tax consultant is certain that Lucius is involved in various lucrative ventures in the Muggle cosmetics business.) Or is it something even more sinister? We have no idea; not even the rumour of a rumour has reached us up until now. But since Lucius is the most important competitor of 'Spinner's Scents', we must keep our eyes on him. May Fair provides the perfect opportunity. My heartbeat quickens. While I have come to like Lucius as an adult, the memory of his library lingers indelibly in my mind.

'I'm delighted that you thought of me, Lucius,' I reply politely. 'How very gracious of you.'

'Anything to spend a night with you.' Lucius is still holding my hand, and now he lets his gaze drift over me in suggestive appreciation.

Severus scowls and elegantly frees my hand by taking hold of it himself. 'An evening, Lucius. You may spend dinner with her,' he drawls. 'The rest of the time, she's mine.'

Lucius smirks and bows.

As we sweep past him, I don't know what causes my heart to beat more fiercely – Lucius' or Severus' touch.

Without a word, Severus leads me out of the house. He knows without asking that I need some fresh air now – I will have to come back later to make my way through the Great Hall to the booth of the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, to greet my former mistress and master.

~~~

In the conservatories, greenhouses, and orangeries, the purveyors of magical and mundane raw ingredients offer their wares, arranged according to the olfactive group their products belong to: Floral, Oriental, Woody, Fresh, and Fougère.

In the Floral Greenhouse we watch live flying roses float in serene clouds of scent. Only when I raise my right hand to my lips to smother a giggle at an especially acrobatic bud, do I realise that Severus is still holding my hand – or I am holding his. Heat floods me as I let go, face, back, belly. 'I – I'm sorry,' I stutter. 'I don't know what came over me to –'

'Never mind,' Severus reassures me wryly. 'Lucius has that effect on people, I'm aware of that.'

Moving on, we browse the stalls in the Floral Conservatory. More roses: fresh, as potpourris, essential oil, absolute, or attar of roses. Jasmine. Sweet Osmanthus. Plumeria, mimosa, tuberose, narcissus, scented geranium, cassie, ambrette. Delicate lemon and orange blossoms, as well as ylang-ylang. Clove and vanilla. Also the florals that cannot be extracted with Muggle means, but must be harvested with magic: freesia, gardenia, heliotrope, honeysuckle, lilac, lily, lily of the valley, orchid, tulip, and violet.

Bubble Charms are ubiquitous: no one wants the delicate aromas of expensive fragrances mixing randomly and impinging on each other.

In the Oriental Orangery, we meet Luna, who has come from Brazil to show off a few of the orchid cats she's breeding. One of the cats is about to bloom. Exotic violet blossoms are unfurling from her fur. Already, her scent is amazing. I watch Severus, and maybe I am imagining things, but he does seem a little bit impressed.

'Madam Scamander,' Severus says solemnly.

Luna beams at him. 'Master Snape.'

'Any luck discovering the Crumple-Horned Snorkack?' he asks her, not unkindly.

Luna smiles, unfazed. 'One day, I will find it. I am sure of it.'

'Of course you are,' someone says, and a tall, plump witch in bright green robes steps next to Luna. On her head perches a multicoloured iguana.

'This is Lenara,' Luna introduces her friend. 'She breeds rainbow iguanas. Want to smell?'

Already she has reached for the animal on her friend's head. Obediently, I bend my head down to the lizard. The miniature dragon stretches its blue paws towards me lazily. A scent of mango and guava drifts up to me. 'Hmm... nice,' I declare appreciatively, though I am not sure what purpose a rainbow iguana may have in magical perfume making.

Lenara explains the riddle in a straightforward manner: 'Their shit is one of the best fixatives for magical scents we've ever worked with. I know – sounds gross. But it works.'

I look up in time to see Severus' eyebrows nearly make contact with his hairline. Somehow I don't think we'll be using rainbow iguana fixative any time soon.

'Before I forget!' exclaims Luna. 'I have a gift for the two of you.'

She disappears in a storeroom. When she returns, she carries a large, round glass bowl filled with soil and water. It looks a bit like a big goldfish bowl.

'That's a ... very nice bowl, Luna,' I manage.

'That's not a bowl, silly,' Luna replies. 'It's Nelumbo Nucifera Occaecata – invisible lotus flower. And of course you can't see it yet. Only Masters can.'

She smiles at Severus.

But Severus frowns.

~~~

From the outbuildings of the manor house, we walk into the gardens.

May Fair is the embodiment of English spring, three months wrapped magically into one short week. March's snowdrops have not yet wilted on Lake Island. Crocus and catkins still flower, while already camellias cover the walls and a rainbow of tulips colours the lawn. But magnolias also bloom. Rhododendron blossoms explode in colours, while sweet wisteria drips over wooden pavilions – and in the orchards, cherry, apple, and plum trees are wearing bridal gowns.

The sheds, as well as the assorted gazebos, pagodas, and other follies of the gardens, have been claimed by merchants of all imaginable (and some unimaginable) scented products or craftswizards of various and sundry perfume making accoutrements.

'Rowena's Singing Crystals' proclaims a blue-white sign in beautiful calligraphy in front of a delicate white gazebo, surrounded by a sea of bluebells.

'What next,' Severus mutters, 'dancing pebbles? And what has that claptrap to do with perfumery?'

Dryly, I reply, 'They don't just sing; they smell, too.'

'For some reason I was afraid you'd say that ... hrmpf ...' Nonetheless he scrutinises the displayed crystals and gems carefully and even picks up a piece of tiger's eye to smell it. He closes his eyes to concentrate wholly on his nose. Then he opens his mouth, just a little bit, and inhales, smells again, all senses alert. When he puts the stone down again, he doesn't comment – for my Master, that is praise enough. And for Mistress Rowena, apparently, too. The witch beams a brilliant smile at his back.

In a moss-grown grotto next to a burbling stream and a peat-black pond adorned with golden-green uncurling fern, Lady Vonda offers a selection of darker scented draughts and perfumed potions. There's something hypnotic about the slender witch whose age I cannot begin to guess (forty? sixty? younger or older?). Scents linger in the air around her that I cannot fathom, and I have to shake my head to remember that I didn't actually want to buy something.

I have almost unstoppered a flacon, when Severus's long fingers curl around my hand and hinder me.

'Stop,' he whispers. 'She sells "Intrigue". You have no need of this.'

I jump back as if burnt, and Severus gently deposits the sample on its black velvet cushion again.

'Intrigue' is a borderline Dark Draught, engaging all the user's – or victim's – senses, heightening emotions, intellect, sensations ... It is an old pure-blood potion, used by daughters desperate to marry, and highly addictive.

Again, heat rushes to my face. I should have sensed 'Allure' in the air, from the witch's incense burner. I'm not an apprentice anymore, to fall for cheap attempts to ensnare my senses. Embarrassed, I rush past Severus.

~~~

For a while, I walk ahead, not looking left or right, the soft breeze cooling my face. What's wrong with me today? I shouldn't let the likes of Lucius fluster me like that, or strange witches inveigle me so easily. Normally, I'm not like that. What is it that's distracting and unsettling me today?

Then we reach the next stall.

Risa's 'Magical Dolls' smell, too, of course. The vivacious Portuguese witch is a wicked flirt, and I am not surprised to find Draco hanging around at her stall. Her full figure, sparkling dark eyes, and rolling laughter combine the qualities he loves best in women. Also, her stall on Island's End – a little tongue of land dipping into the lake underneath a fragrant cedar – is about as far away from his father's massive stand in the Great Hall of Rose Manor House as possible, considering the limited geography of Lake Island.

Severus nods politely to Draco. He may not approve entirely of his former student's lifestyle, but very much of the man Draco has become. I'm treated to an embrace and kisses on both cheeks. Only when I buy Risa's most expensive yellow dragon doll (which smells of different yellow fruit each day of the week) as a gift for Lily-Luna, does she stops scowling. As Severus and I move on, I glimpse from the corner of my eye how Draco pulls out his sketchpad. No doubt he will manage to talk her into posing for him before lunch.

When we reach the outbuildings again, Severus excuses himself – the guild has invited its Masters to a business lunch.

'I trust,' he says and slants his right eyebrow dubiously, 'you will manage to stay ... safe ... and to keep yourself amused while I am busy?'

I manage not to wilt completely under his scrutiny. Somehow.

And turn to the sheds. I actually need some perfume making supplies for my private experiments. Also, there's the perfume phial I must gift Severus with, should I ever gain my Mastery ... which at the moment looks frankly more unlikely than ever.

Still, I enter the shed where the glassmakers and potters offer their finest vials and bottles. Aimlessly I prowl the aisles, my thoughts elsewhere, until suddenly, I'm staring at an impossible perfume bottle. It's a perfect circle, with redware ornaments that remind me of Etruscan vases I've seen in the British Museum. An Ouroborus coils around the hole in the middle of the bottle. On the outside, subtly obscene figures are entwined with each other all around the circle of the bottle. A man, a woman; a sphinx, a phoenix.

As surely as I know my name, I know this is my gift.

Should I ever earn my Mastery, this is the vessel that will contain my first master-level perfume and which will be my farewell gift to my Master. To Severus.

When I look at it, my heart starts pounding.

'It's an extraordinary flask,' someone says. 'Even if I do say so myself.'

I look up, startled. The potter is smiling at me from behind her stall. She's a rotund witch, but shapely. Draco would like her, I think sourly. He always tells me to eat more. And she has the kind of presence Minerva has, the kind I still can only dream of.

'I'm Jinifer Arbor – but you can call me Nip.' She smiles, and I notice there are golden flecks in her grey-blue eyes. 'So you're interested in that bottle there, yes?'

'Yes,' I manage. 'It's amazing. I've been looking for a Mastery gift phial for over a year now, and nothing has ever looked remotely right. But this –' I shake my head in surprise. '– this is it. No doubt about that.'

Nip smiles. 'Then you're almost done with your journey. May the Goddess smile upon you.'

~~~

Mistress Nip has promised to see to it that the flask is safely delivered to my room in the attic of Spinner's End. Dazed, I wander away.

A card-carrying introvert, I find even Muggle trade fairs overwhelming. Wizarding affairs tend to be ten times worse. And after the way our talk in January went, I have not expected to receive any indication that I might yet successfully finish my journey and earn my mastery. At least not any time soon.

But now ...

If finding my Mastery phial is not a sign, I don't know what is.

I may not be comfortable with the more mystical or divinatory aspects of my chosen profession and craft, but I cannot deny they are there. Divination is not like Muggle astrology. You can't just shrug it all off and proclaim it doesn't exist. Prophecies are as real as the law of gravity and a worse pain in the arse than any apple.

Just as I did smell something special in Slughorn's Amortentia, whether I like it or not.

I should be thrilled at the discovery of my Mastery bottle.

At the impression of progress attending the fair gives me this year.

Last year was my first time at the fair, and my memories of that week still consist of a jumbled heap of smells and sounds and tastes. Not much of a well-organized mind inside my skull yet, it seems.

This year, I feel as if I'm almost Severus' colleague ... or at least he makes me feel that way. In spite of January and my persisting cluelessness. How I long for the easy know-it-all days of Hogwarts! When all questions had an answer, and all answers were predictable.

Though not even that is true, of course.

Not all questions were asked in class. Nor did books provide all solutions.

I shudder as nostalgia and remembered dread and agony mingle in my memories.

Merlin, why so morose, Hermione?

'Here,' a friendly voice interrupts my musings, 'smell! I think you will love this tea. It is an herbal infusion against heartache. Lavender from the Abbeye de Senanque, chamomile from Ostia, peppermint from Tintern Abbey, lemon grass from Shangri-la, orange blossoms and rose petals from Capri.'

Startled, I look up and into the kindly face of a slender, middle-aged witch with dark hair and soft eyes who stands in front of her stall, a long table filled with mixtures of healing teas and infusions. 'I am Rikki,' she says. 'A healer from Jerusalem. That tonic is not precisely magical,' she continues while she fills a triangular paper bag with fragrant tea. 'But it is laced with love and steeped in sympathy. I pray it will succour thee.'

When I try to pay her, she refuses and just touches my forehead in a quick gesture of blessing.

Turning back to Rose Manor House, I am close to tears.

I don't know if it's the shock of a random stranger being nice to me, or the sudden, crazy inkling – albeit based on empty clay – that I may gain my Mastery after all. And leave the life I have come to ... what? love? cherish? in the last fourteen months.

But there's no rest for the wicked; already it's time to get ready for the traditional May Fair banquet and reception.

~~~

A robe at the May Fair banquet is not just a robe.

It is a statement.

A fashion statement, of course, but more importantly, a political statement. Of affluence as well as influence.

Transfigured robes may be flashy and more impressive than custom-tailored gowns, but even Transfigurations done by a Master and with excellent fabric inevitably end up looking ... Transfigured.

Colour-coordination is a nightmare, of course.

Masters flaunting their red; adepts proudly displaying their white; initiates sombre in black. Moreover, many Masters – and a number of Mistresses – have their own coat of arms. So naturally, they and their family are decked out in their own colours. National colours play their part, as well. Then there are the colours of the Forty-Two and the other factions of the guild – depending on your standing, you'll want to show that you belong ... that you're not alone in this sweetly-scented cesspool of magic and intrigue. And beneath this kaleidoscope of colourful affiliations, school colours. Not just the four Houses of Hogwarts; also the black and white of Durmstrang, the pink and white of Beauxbatons, the blue and gold of Salem, the red and white of the Japanese Institute of Sorcery, to name but a few.

And that's not counting the multi-hued fopperies and vanities of special guests and invited dignitaries. Let's put it this way: Augusta Longbottom's choice of dress and hat is actually rather restrained – very nearly boring.

Severus' colour preferences make more sense now than ever before.

Draco has chosen my dress and my accessories. I may not like primping and dressing up any more than I did at sixteen, but I've learned a thing or two over the years. Including whose advice to follow.

The gown looks very much like a long Muggle formal dress, though it's actually custom-tailored magical wear. Ron's wife sewed it for me; Susan is one of the best dressmakers in Diagon Alley nowadays. The fabric is soft, the top is snug, hugging my rather generous curves. Alas, I'm not the thin teenager I was, and the genes of Granny Granger appear to be rather dominant – though thankfully I'm taller, and thus not quite as dumpy as I could be. The neckline is not quite revealing, but certainly not concealing. But my shoulders are demurely covered, and the sleeves are long, flaring wide around the wrists. The dress's colour is warm bronze, bringing out the highlights in my hair and the copper flecks in my eyes.

The robes I wear over it are sleeveless and wide. Even Severus should be satisfied with how they billow. The colour is called 'golden fern', though golden is not quite right. It's a muted, gentle olive green with a touch of bronze, as if every fold of the fabric is traced by rays of sunshine.

Only light make-up that picks up the colours I wear. Less is more. I learned that the hard way.

No perfume.

That is the rule.

Not one drop, mundane or magical.

(I believe they tried it once, at some point in the fifteenth century. Half of the attendants suffocated. Many of the survivors never really recovered.)

Of course the guests circumvent and subvert the rule; that's part of the game and half the fun.

They carry perfumed handkerchiefs, wear scented gloves or fragrant jewellery. The polish they use on their shoes, purses, belts, and even wands is redolent with a thousand aromas.

But they keep it toned down enough to pass the tamed Nifflers at the entrance to the banquet hall without getting bit.

(Nifflers find their shiny treasures with a magical sense of smell, and they don't just smell precious metals but everything. While they don't make good pets, they can be trained. For example, to go for scents, rather than gold. Thanks to those cute little beasts and their long snouts, it's possible to breathe at the May Fair banquet without immediately succumbing to anaphylactic shock due to the high concentration of mundane and magical perfume in the air.)

I wear skeleton leaf jewellery, delicate, iridescent vine leaves in gold and copper, earrings and a necklace. They are scented with a Charmed Muggle BPAL scent, Umbra [1]: 'The deepest, darkest point in a shadow; the area contained within the shadow of an eclipse. East African black patchouli, cedarwood, vetiver, and a dribble of cinnamon.'

It is a dark scent, and a deep scent. A male scent. And it speaks to me on levels I cannot fathom or express with words.

~~~

Severus is scentless tonight, but stunning all the same.

His austere black suit looks almost like those he used to put on under his robes at Hogwarts. Only this one has an even higher collar to hide his scars. However, he doesn't boycott the elegance of the occasion completely. Silver threads are spun into the inner side of his robes. When the robes billow, a subtle glint of silver draws the eye. The only colour he wears is his Master's ruby, pinned to a silver cravat.

When he passes the Niffler at the entrance to the banquet hall, the beast raises up on its hindquarters and wrinkles its long snout. Quizzically, fascinated – as if it can't believe that Severus, of all guests, comes in the 'nude', odouriferously speaking, that is. Or maybe Severus' natural scent is just that amazing for the small magical creature.

The Banquet Hall is on the left side of the Entrance Hall, opposite of the Great Hall.

Arcades of rose marble surround a banquet area dotted with a dozen tables, seating a dozen guests each. Behind the columns to the right, French windows open to the lakeside terraces. Dusk flushes the surface of the lake. Above darkening indigo, amethysts sparkle in the water, the light of many torches lining the shores. And the reflections of four chandeliers with no less than eighty-nine candles apiece glitter in the glass doors like diamonds. The three archways on the other side of the hall lead to the ballroom. At the moment, gently unobtrusive chamber music twirls its way around the pillars to the intricately carved rosewood ceiling.

Lost in my appreciation for the architecture of Rose Manor House, I barely notice how Severus leads me toward the bar in the far corner of the lakeside arcades.

When he closes my fingers around a chilled glass of champagne, I startle and come back to myself. Dazed, I stare at him. Although this is my second time attending May Fair, I still feel as if I've woken in a magical dream.

I almost expect a snide remark, but Severus only raises his glass to me with a quirk of his right eyebrow and a hint of a smile. The chilled champagne sends a shiver down my spine and makes my stomach quiver.

Severus smirks.

'Hello there,' murmurs a husky female voice behind me. I jump and spill champagne over my breasts.

'I am Mystery de Medici,' a witch in the ruby robes of a Perfume Mistress introduces herself. But her dark eyes are focused on Severus; she's all but ignoring me. 'But my friends call me Misty.' She drawls the nickname so that it sounds like 'Miss Tee'.

I glare at her, irrational anger coiling up inside of me, strangling my throat and wit. Like a sulking child I scowl at her long legs, her grace, her sultry costume, and most of all at how Severus quirks his eyebrows in appreciation. Not much. Just a hint of a curl. But I know him too well. He likes what he sees. And I, I don't like that at all.

Then she suddenly bends close to my cleavage and sniffs. I recoil, and she asks, dainty and disdainful, 'Severus, you allow your journeywoman to wear one of those half-Muggle scents? Tonight, of all nights?'

He doesn't look at her. He looks at me, and his gaze could freeze a volcano.

'I allow my journeywoman to honour the Master and Mistress of her apprenticeship,' he says softly. I know he's daring her to argue. Not even Draco dared to contradict that tone when I was a child!

'But they are catering to Muggles, Severus!' she whines and tugs off long black silk gloves in a cloud of Jarvey musk.

And somehow I know she's saying that only for me to hear. For some reason I'm important enough for her to try and hurt me. Because my parents are Muggles? Because I fought in the war, because I belonged to the Golden Trio, because I am who I am? Or what I am?

Severus just stares at her. And I learn that even Mystery de Medici can flinch.

'Et tu, Velia?' he whispers.

She hides her reaction behind aggression: 'And you – Severus, completely in the nude tonight! I know you're a stickler for the rules, but to attend completely scentless ... Really. One would almost think that you have nothing to show off.'

'Or that I am so well equipped that I have no need to show off at all,' he drawls, seemingly bored. But he quirks an eyebrow, and she laughs delightedly.

Heat suffuses my face in an embarrassed rush and trickles in a cold sweat of jealousy down my back. Thankfully, at that moment I spy an acquaintance entering the hall with the Australian delegation.

'Excuse me, please. Mistress de Medici, Severus. I see an Australian friend of mine whom I haven't had the chance to talk to in years.' I make my escape without meeting their eyes. Mystery's deep-throated laugh trails after me until I'm far enough away to sink gratefully into the general melee of the reception.

'Hello, Lissa!' I exclaim, more cheerfully than I actually feel. 'How are you? It's been – what? Ten years? I can't believe it! What are you doing? How is life treating you?'

Lissa was a junior staff member of the Australian Department for Magical Law Enforcement when my parents decided they wanted to stay in Australia, but of course under their real names and with their real money. Lissa was my contact at the Ministry of Magic in Australia when the subsequent legal hassle had to be straightened out. I can't even count the number of Obliviates on my account. I think it's a safe bet that at least ten perfectly innocent Muggles will develop early onset Alzheimer's as payment for my parents' safety.

Everything in life comes at a price. And sometimes you're only billed decades after you ordered.

I try to listen to what the pretty young witch tells me about her job at the Ministry and her fiancé, and her plans. I try to ignore Severus and Mistress de Medici.

But I'm just no good at this game.

Once again I wonder if I truly belong here – not just as a journeywoman aspiring to Mastery, but as myself, as Hermione, the Muggle-born witch.

I join Severus at the dinner table just in time for the first course. But the deliciously fragrant meal passes me by almost without notice. I pick at my food, and after the desserts have disappeared, I do not wait for a coffee, an espresso, or a digestive, but slip out on the terrace, ignoring both Draco's disapproving shake of his head and Lucius' predatory smirk. I do not look at Severus or Mistress de Medici, who managed to snag the chair on Severus' other side.

Outside on the lakeside terraces, the temperature has been raised magically to twenty, twenty-five degrees Celsius. On the lake, water lilies are illuminated by magical light. At regular intervals a couple of George and Ron's FFS ('Fantastical Falling Stars') light up the sky.

I have no one to blame but me, I tell myself. I could have encouraged Ron all those years ago. It would not have been difficult to stay his girlfriend in spite of his betrayal during that infernal camping trip. It would have been so easy! The arms of the Weasley family were open, needy, even; their embrace generous, soft, suffocating, and so inviting. My career at the Ministry of Magic would have been only marginally more demanding.

So why didn't I stay?

Maybe just because there's something wrong with my nose. That is a possibility. Not very probable, but not completely implausible.

I wish Draco were here ... he has that special Slytherin knack of making sense of all the things I don't get. But he's still flirting with that doll maker, and I wouldn't be surprised if that flirt does not stay limited to the ballroom tonight.

Oh, damn it all to hell and back, I think. Why must this be one of those nights when I look back and all I see are the wrong decisions, the clumsy turns, and awkward stumblings I've taken in life?

Resolutely, I decide to enjoy the remainder of the evening. And I start that endeavour by spreading my robe over the balustrade of the terrace and pushing myself up to sit on it.

This is May Fair, after all. Our modern Avalon, as the Daily Prophet calls it so fancifully. One of the best parties of the whole wizarding world.

'I am sorry,' a soft voice murmurs suddenly behind me.

Only Severus' quick reflexes save me from taking an unplanned dip in the lake. I end up wrapped in his embrace, inhaling his warmth, the scent of his robe and his skin and his hair, and –

'So sorry,' he repeats, interrupting my muddled thoughts and shocking me all over again. 'I failed you –'

'No –' I interrupt him.

We stare at each other, and for a moment I can't shake the impression that we both feel adrift and out of our depth tonight.

'You have nothing to fear from Velia Blanco,' he assures me.

'Velia Blanco?' My frown is audible.

'Mystery de Medici. At least that is what she should call herself, if she had one honest bone in her body. Or Velia le Florentin.'

'What?' Now Severus has my full attention. I must admit that the idea of speaking to a descendant of the powerful Tuscan family did intimidate me. Now I want to know who I actually talked to.

'She is a direct descendant of Renato Blanco, or René le Florentin, as he was called in France. Catherine de Medici's perfumer and poison brewer. The connection with the Medici clan is of a much later date. At Blanco's time, the family de Medici were still Muggles, one and all. And Velia's ancestor was more than happy to ... how did she put it ... cater to Muggles. He killed one of his queen's rivals with magically scented gloves.'

'Merlin!' I manage, remembering Mystery's black gloves.

Severus smirks. 'Quite.'

... Severus has such a wicked sense of humour, that's what I –

– my nose, cold from the evening breeze, suddenly twitches –

Achoo!

'Sorry!' I pull my handkerchief from my sleeve.

When I turn to him again, he interrupts my train of thought ruthlessly before I get one word out by pushing himself up on the balustrade behind me. I can feel the heat of his body even through his suit and robe. Suddenly, I shiver.

'They could have put up better Warming Charms,' Severus mutters crossly. 'Lean back.'

'What?'

'You're cold. I won't have you sneezing and sniffling all over expensive ingredients next week just because of this silly reception. Therefore you will now lean against me so my Warming Charms will keep you from catching a cold.'

I'm too shocked to protest, and obeying Severus when he uses that tone has been too deeply ingrained in my mind from too young an age. So I simply let myself sink back, and he catches me, wrapping me in his embrace.

After five minutes have passed, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around my present situation, and failing.

I stop trying. Instead, I look up at Severus. He is looking down at me with a strangely wistful, bittersweet expression in his face.

'You were her lover, right?'

'Gryffindor tactfulness at its best,' Severus remarks dryly, but only tightens his hold on me. 'I was; but only for a short time, when I was younger than you are now and more foolish than you ever were.'

I lie in his arms and look out on the lake. Somehow it's good to know that there was someone besides Lily Potter. Even if it must be beautiful, powerful Mystery de Medici. Behind us, the music and the lights from ballroom and banquet hall twirl and swirl. The moonlight caresses both of us, foolish or not. Suddenly I wish I had another glass of champagne and that Severus would dance with me. It must be the moon that makes me so foolish. Or perhaps Severus' Warming Charms.

Thinking back, I'm not sure how many chances I got to do really stupid things. Of course I can't shake the impression that I made good use of the opportunities I got. On the other hand ... without knowing more than I did then, I'd most likely do everything all over again.

My nostrils flare. There's something about Severus – even scentless – something –

Well, that's why he is a Perfume Master, and I am not.

Probably he has enchanted the breeze from his billowing robes to carry a scent. Maybe even coded for a special recipient. I wrinkle my nose. Not Mystery, or Velia, or whatever her name is, though. Not after what he told me. He's had enough of power play for two lifetimes. And a wizard lives a very long time.

I shake my head and relax. Silently, we sit and look out on the lake. I bet he's thinking of water lilies. Of what might have been, had life been kinder ...

And I?

I have no idea what I'm thinking of.

---

[1] 'Umbra' is a scent from the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, from the line 'Bewitching Brews'

Author's Notes: This chapter contains cameos of fandom friends as a little thank-you for their support and friendship over the years. Strictly in order of appearance I give you:

Aranel Took as Lenara, the breeder of rainbow iguanas, Bluestocking79 as Rowena, seller of magical crystals, Annie Talbot as Lady Vonda, selling "Intrigue" and other dark scented draughts, Zauza as the magical dollmaker Risa, Juniperus as Jinifer "Nip" Arbor, the potter who sold Hermione the mastery phial for Severus, Machshefa as Rikki, the healer from Jerusalem, Mischievous_T as none other than the mysterious Mystery de Medici aka Velia Blanco, and Paisley Snail as Lissa, the junior staff member of the Australian Department for Magical Law Enforcement.

A thundering round of applause for my daring friends who visited the May Fair at my invitation, please!

oooOooo

---