Swadhisthana

VI. Swadhisthana

'Odours have a power of persuasion stronger than that of words, appearances, emotions, or will. The persuasive power of an odour cannot be fended off, it enters into us like breath into our lungs, it fills us up, imbues us totally. There is no remedy for it.'

... Patrick Süskind

~~~

From Hermione Granger's perfume notebooks:

'Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the essence of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.'

This is the primeval magic that covered the early human's scent trails and protected her from predators. Or in the case of the predator, this is the sweet smell of magic that lured unsuspecting human prey into his trap.

~~~

10 May 2009

Sunday after May Fair.

I'm sitting at my desk in the attic of Spinner's End, sorting papers, souvenirs, and memories.

Severus is already back at work in the perfume lab. Raising my head, I look out the window to the other side of the road.

Muggles see the crumbling brick walls of a run-down factory there, complete with crooked chimney, closed and fallen to ruins decades ago. They keep complaining that the city council should finally get their arses in gear to do 'something' about this disgraceful blot on their cityscape. Visiting witches and wizards wander around Hagrid-sized walls of red stone set with white mortar, pass a solid wooden delivery gate and entrance door – both painted red to match the walls – and wonder what exactly lies beyond. The sign next to the door is exquisitely crafted: solid, cast brass with an oil-rubbed bronze finish and raised and polished bronze letters. 'Spinner's Scents', it reads, and the doorbell forms a stylised spinning wheel.

Richly rewarded after almost laying down his life for wizardkind, Severus bought the factory that ruined his father's health and most of his childhood in 1999. The chimney and most of the ruins were torn down, the grounds decontaminated and Muggle-proofed. All that remains now is the beautifully restored main factory building surrounded by storage sheds, knot gardens, and illusions of decay for Muggle passersby.

Looking down again, I notice that I've been shuffling and reshuffling a few wizarding photographs from the May Fair.

Beth, the Perfume Mistress of the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, is waving at me enthusiastically. Her husband stands behind her, interspersing his smile with saucy winks.

They've offered to take me back if things don't work out here.

A job, another shot at Mastery, or just a place to stay. Much like a family that would welcome you back, no matter what. And they were like a family for me when I tried to find my way back to the wizarding world after Muggle college. When I had to admit not even pretending to be Muggle would bring back the feelings for me that my parents lost when only their factual but not their emotional memories could be restored. When old friendships didn't stay the distance, and remembrances of the home of my teenage years bred nightmares instead of fond nostalgia.

It's good to know that I have somewhere to go if ... that there are other options if ... that ...

But ...

... looking around my attic room with its subtle and well-crafted niches of wizard space that form a little used kitchenette (most of the time Severus and I cook and dine in the spell-enlarged kitchen downstairs) and a small bathroom ... gazing at the wide window sills of the dormer window where Luna's invisible lotus flower is supposed to get enough sunshine and moonlight to thrive, the shelves lining the walls, packed with folders of carefully Bubble-charmed scent samples, lined with tiny phials of perfume samples, stacked with my books ... thinking of the way my books feel at home up here – and of the library downstairs, where I feel at home, with Severus ensconced in his favourite chair and scowling at me over a tattered paperback as if daring me to comment upon his reading preferences (classic whodunits, usually) ...

... my throat constricts, my chest grows tight. Too tight to breathe properly.

Oh, here's a picture Draco took.

Severus and I, on the terrace after the guild banquet, the first evening of the fair. For once, Severus is not scowling. Instead, he almost smiles. Not quite, just almost. Such a wistful expression.

Heat rises to my face, suffuses my cheeks.

When I was a student, his grudging approval, often expressed not in praise but simply in the absence of castigation and chastisement, meant more to me than the enthusiastic and garrulous praise of other professors. Just to meet his high standards – barely – was more of a challenge than to excel in other classes. I admit: the opportunity to prove the boys wrong in their assessment of his character provided additional allure. And after being told how 'stupid' I was over and over again, it may have been less than modest but certainly satisfying to be right about some things. It was even worth being labelled 'know-it-all' by my so-called best friends. (Yes, yes, of course that was just for 'fun'. Only they never used the term with a delicately raised eyebrow and a slight wink, the way Severus did even then – paying me the compliment he could not offer in any other form.)

When Luna in her unfathomable wisdom started dropping not so subtle hints that it was time for me to make a decision about what to do with the rest of my life (she put an Ariranha-Sim-ou-Não – a giant 'yes-or-no-otter' – in my bed) in spring 2007, I read in the Aulde Alchemist's Annual that Severus Snape had claimed the rank of a Perfume Master in the guild. For the first time in years, magical ambition stirred without question or hesitation.

Now I'm here, living in Spinner's End, working for Spinner's Scents, working with Severus, and the past seventeen months have been more demanding, more challenging, and more satisfying than I dreamed life could be in a very long time.

Yet I'm about to fail. My Master. And myself.

I don't know what's worse.

But apparently for all my talent – how I've come to hate that word! – I lack the depth of desire it takes to achieve Mastery. Talent is not enough. Ambition is not enough. Not even an obsession of more than twenty years seems to suffice.

Curling my fingers into fists, the nails bite into the softer flesh of my palms. But even the resulting sting of pain cannot suppress the hot shudder of shame rushing across my back as I recall my explanation of the goal of my spiritual journey toward Mastery, and Severus' answer:

'Love.'

'In that case, you have chosen the wrong Master.'

How could I put it like that? It sounds so ... so ... starry-eyed ... sentimental ... simplistic. Naïve. Trite. Not at all like me. Not like the answer of an adept with years of experience in magical philosophy and theory. And besides, it's not love I'm looking for! My grail is the magical connection between olfaction and emotion. That's what I should have said, and not just because it sounds more professional. The situation that spawned my obsession originally is mere circumstance, and Merlin knows I've had enough therapy to cope with the trauma of effectively losing my parents' love.

'In that case, you have chosen the wrong Master.'

I release a shivery breath. I'm lucky he left it at that brittle reply and didn't flay me alive with that sharp tongue of his! He may have mellowed since the war, but that doesn't mean he suffers fools gladly even now.

But I have not chosen the wrong Master, I think stubbornly. He's the only Master I ever wanted. And besides, even if love was truly goal and agent of the spiritual and magical transformation I am striving for – who could be a better Master to teach me than Severus? There's a bloody film about his love for Lily and subsequent, darkly heroic deeds thanks to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Entertainment, damn it!

In the photograph, Severus keeps smiling. And I –

Blindly I grasp for the next item I've poured on my desk with the other odds and ends of the perfume fair.

A small phial. The 'special' sample Lucius Malfoy gave to me on the second evening of the fair. Still safely sealed and untouched.

A sign? Telling me that I should be working, not moping?

It is a strategy that has always served me well in the past. I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Turn around that photograph and pull over my journeywoman's diary – 'Hermione Granger's Perfume Notebooks'. Yes, in my idiocy and arrogance I chose plural for the title. So sure was I that this would be just the next step on my way, Vol. I of many notebooks to follow.

I clench my teeth, open the book, and my eyes.

It's not too late.

I still have my Mastery phial. And work to do.

~~~

First I run some standard tests on the phial, which prove the perfume to be borderline Dark, but not beyond the Ministry-approved standards. Nothing I didn't expect. To be honest, if any potion, perfume, or other magical object given to me by Lucius Malfoy had passed my scan and come out clean, I doubt I would have even contemplated trying it. As it is, I'm staring at the phial and wondering what the heck Lucius wants.

Me?

Could it be that simple?

Never.

And not just because I'd never believe that a wizard like Lucius would want a very nearly middle-aged (at least by Muggle standards) and fairly frumpy Hermione Granger like that. He has turned his affiliation with his old House into a life-long vocation. Unlike Goyle Junior, whom you could mistake for a Hufflepuff by now. But wouldn't Lucius be smart enough to know that I'd expect Slytherin wiles from him and put just enough magic into his perfume to fool me anyway? Ack! That way lies madness and a massive headache. It's past time to put this wartime paranoia behind me. I'm a licensed perfume maker with years of experience. I'm journeywoman to none other than Perfume Master Severus Snape. And Lucius may be a competitor to Spinner's Scents, but he's also Severus' friend. And he hasn't been my enemy for a long time.

All right.

I pull out the Ministry form for a standard analysis of magical perfumes, although I know it by heart. However, anal retentiveness paves the way to perfection.

Analysis of a perfume sample obtained from Lucius Malfoy, May 2 2009.

The first set of questions deals with preliminaries. I write down how, where, and when I acquired the perfume. Then I move on to its exterior presentation.

The phial is very simple. If challenged to label it, I would have said standard student issue, ca. 1975. Inside the flagon, the perfume is dark, almost black, with a pearlescent, almost metallic sheen and thickly viscous. Resinous. More like balm, less like liquid perfume. But it's not quite – not yet? – a solid perfume. Semi-solid, I write.

The analysis of the actual fragrance follows the magical classification system for perfumes that is based on the seven chakras. Though each chakra has its own mystical and magical meaning, in perfume lore the chakras mostly provide an organisational tool, like the Muggle periodic table.

Upon unstoppering the flask, I perform some basic spells to gather a few first impressions of the fragrance.

I begin with a spell that reveals what the Muggles call head, heart, and base note. I will still need to let them develop the natural way to perceive all nuances of the scents. But the spell is standardised; the interaction of the perfume with the chemistry of my body and my magic is not. Like every good perfume maker I'm interested in both: objective results as well as subjective reactions. I must be a scientist and an artist at the same time.

Ajna, the chakra of the brow or forehead, symbolises the Muggle head note, the first fleeting, intuitive perception of a scent. This head note almost makes me sneeze. Herbs, but in a condensed, concentrated form. Thick and pungent. Like cough drops or syrup.

Anahata, the heart chakra, unveils the Muggle heart note, which emerges when the short-lived scent of the head note dissipates and presents the complex balance of a perfume's heart. For a second, I think of parchment. But no – this is leather. Acerbic and mellow at the same time. Smoke and honey. An intoxicating, exhilarating masculine smell that makes me inhale deeply, again and again and again.

Until the base note, connected with the Muladhara, base or root chakra, slowly surfaces. An intense, unsettling scent. Rich. Deep. Red. Musk. Hair drenched in sweat ... from running. Or sex.

My heart is racing as I perform a quick Charm that reveals the presence of a substance whose effect on human beings is still disputed by Muggle science: pheromones. Tied to the sacral chakra, Svadhisthana, pheromones have been a traditional ingredient of all erotic magical perfumes since the days of Cleopatra. The spell only shows what I already know: this perfume is brimming with pheromones. Interestingly, the pheromonal balance of this perfume consists in equal parts of male and female components. Yin and yang, dark and light.

Curious from the start, I am fascinated by now – as Lucius knew I would be, damn that man. I love perfumes that unveil themselves slowly, gradually, that cannot be understood immediately. And this scent promises a bouquet of fragrant mysteries ... starting with the question of why the composition feels familiar although I am certain that I have never smelled it before.

However, to discover more, I have to actually apply the perfume.

Standard detection spells only reveal the Muggle scent notes, which answer the question of what you can smell when – and that within limits. Only the heat of naked skin allows precious perfumes to divulge those secrets.

Magical notes form the chord of how – and how much – enchanted scents affect a person. Manipura manipulates a person's appearance and its perception. Vishuddha affects the senses of those who wear and those who smell a perfume. Its power ranges from playful creativity and communication to guilt, wisdom, and immortality. But it is Sahasrara, which is supposed to grant control of the deepest mysteries by scent alone, locking in a person's consciousness or elevating it to the next level of mystical awareness ... And no perfume maker worth their salt will allow the mysteries of their magical fragrances to be exposed by minor spells.

And Bindu forms the pinnacle of the art of magical perfumery, the complete cadence of notes and effects. To understand powerful magical perfumes with body, mind, and soul is the treasure we are truly seeking, one of the Great Works of alchemy. That scent closest to skin and soul, the heart of sensuality ... and the true scent of magic.

~~~

I am most painfully aware that true understanding of a single powerful magical perfume can make the difference between gaining my Mastery and losing all hope of ever reaching that lofty status. Yet I am strangely reluctant to anoint all chakra points of my body with the mysterious, dark liquid from that quaint phial.

Shivering, I stare at the small flagon on my desk, lying so innocently on the Ministry of Magic's standardised form for perfume analysis. I cannot remember the last time I have encountered a perfume that strong – if I ever have. It must be ten minutes since I've cancelled my detection spells. But I'm still gasping for breath, and my pulse is still throbbing my ears.

A syrup of herbs. Leather and musk, pheromones and power.

Why does that mixture of scent and magic seem familiar to me? And why did bloody Lucius Malfoy give it to me?

I reach for the phial as if caught in a dream. Rationally, I know it cannot possibly affect my mind yet. So far, I've barely sniffed it! My perceptions and impressions are based on carefully controlled detection spells. It is impossible that it should affect me already. There is no perfume that can achieve that.

I shake myself. This is a test, no doubt about that. And maybe Severus is even in on it. I wouldn't put it past him.

A deep breath.

No prayer.

I pour a single drop of perfume on my left index finger. The liquid is so thick that it looks like a dark pearl on my pale skin.

For a second I hesitate. Then I part the curls on top of my head with my right hand, reach up, and clumsily smear the first drop on my scalp.

Before I lose my nerve, I follow up that first drop and swipe the second across my forehead.

The first drop seems to have no effect, and I exhale deeply in relief. I did not expect Lucius Malfoy to dabble in the deepest mysteries. On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past him.

The head note fits my detection spell. Only it's even spicier. And for some reason, I think it's delicious.

Vishuddha has a definite effect on me. As soon as the perfume touches my suprasternal notch, I'm aroused. As if somewhere deep inside me a switch has been flicked. Damn Lucius Malfoy. He has slipped me a lust perfume. I should have known. What would he regard as 'creative self-expression' besides nipples pressing painfully against the heavy fabric of robes and a hot, wet, and inappropriate rush of desire ...

For a few minutes I remain frozen, fighting for control. Waves of heat and magic sweep me along. And when I manage to ride the crest of their power, the thrill is like nothing I've known so far. But it's not enough.

And so I reach for the phial once more.

The heart chakra brings the scent of leather, enveloping me like the most intimate embrace.

Moving on to Manipura, I suddenly feel ... exposed and self-assured at the same time. As if I'm sitting naked in a sauna, and the world and all its doubts are drifting away in a haze of heat and sizzling steam.

Without hesitation I move on to Svadhisthana. My mistake. I cannot contain a gasp when the fragrant liquid touches the skin of my lower belly. Pheromones have no effect on human beings? I want one of those damn Muggle scientists to bloody try this perfume. I'm nearly squirming in my chair to rub my clit against the leather upholstery in order to alleviate the urge that has gripped me even stronger than before.

I don't know if it takes me another five minutes or an hour to thrust my hand inside my panties. But thankfully, Muladhara only floods me with the expected base note of musk.

Then I wait for the full impact of the perfume to hit me.

But it doesn't happen.

I can feel it – working its magic within me and without me. But it's waiting. Waiting.

Oh, bloody fucking hell!

It's one of those interactive perfumes that need to be smelled by another person to unleash their full power on both parties.

... I should have known.

For a while I sit – not still, but rocking slightly to accommodate the throbbing between my legs – and contemplate my options.

I could go to bed and wait for the effects to wear off. Boring, but safe. I could Floo away and visit Draco. Not boring, and still safe. But for some reason, I find this option unappealing. I could also Apparate to Malfoy Manor and confront Lucius. Not boring. And not at all safe. That I still consider that possibility beyond the pale reassures me.

... I could also visit Severus in the lab.

That my mind comes up with no reason why this is a bad, bad idea should worry me. I know that. But it doesn't. And not even that worries me.

I'm in trouble.

And I don't mind at all.

~~~

Walking across the road to the lab and inhaling air cooled by a blustery spring breeze calms me. In front of the red door, I halt and hesitate, my gaze focused on the bronze spinning wheel of doorknob and bell. The fateful symbolism is not lost on me.

But I rather doubt that even Lucius Malfoy would slip me a lust perfume strong enough to land himself in Azkaban – or worse. Even without Dementors, Azkaban is not exactly the kind of place you want to spend a decade or two if you can help it, especially if you're a slave to a life in luxury like Lucius. And while his grief for Narcissa is fierce and brutal, I don't think he's suicidal. Last but not least, while the sample is a strong erotic perfume, toeing the line of legality, it's not precisely Dark. To be honest, I haven't a damn clue what exactly I'm dealing with, which is all the more infuriating because I cannot shake that hint of familiarity the perfume exudes. I remember Lucius' smirking promise of how 'special' that sample would prove to be and scowl.

Still I dither and do not reach for the door. Fragrance analysis is an essential part of our work, of course. During the last seventeen months, surprising each other with sample testing – both with concoctions of our own and samples from competitors – has become almost a game for Severus and me. Submitting a sample that has me stymied for his scrutiny is also standard working procedure. But springing such a potent, reactive perfume on Severus without warning ... I waver. However, he's more than powerful enough to contain the effects of any perfume. He is a Master, after all. The air itself obeys his command. And recalling the day I acquired this perfume sample, I also remember the way Severus' gaze dipped down to my towel-wrapped bosom that morning at the May Fair and how his long, languorous look travelled over the curves of my body. With the strange and compelling scent I'm wearing right now, I have the singular opportunity of yanking his chain. Perhaps my one and only chance to truly challenge him. Thanks to Lucius Malfoy, of all people.

Now I am smirking, and the red door swings open at my unspoken command. The wards do not consider me an enemy or a source of danger. Relief floods me. Exhilaration replaces panic. A sense of adventure fills me and drives me onwards. Determined, I walk down the path through the knot gardens toward the main entrance of the lab.

I love the gardens that surround the lab and intersperse the sheds. The pollution of the city around us prevents their use for magical perfumery, but their plain Muggle odours, colours, and symmetry are pleasing for their own sake, especially now, at the height of spring. Approaching the lab, I find that I am still able to appreciate the large, round-topped windows and their Victorian cast-iron frames that run along the sides of the building in spite of the excitement rushing through my veins. Reassuring! And now I can barely wait to see Severus' reaction. I throw open the door with an exuberant gesture and enter the lab with a gust of wind propelling me forward and tugging on my curls.

Closing the door behind me, I lean against it for a moment to catch my breath and to find out what Severus is working on. I certainly don't want to disrupt or endanger delicate work. But it looks as if he's doing what I did when Lucius' perfume sample caught my attention – sorting the material he acquired at the May Fair. At least he's standing at his huge desk at the far end of the lab, with stacks of paper and sample phials piled up in front of him.

The noise of my impetuous entrance has alerted him, and now he's turning toward me. About to inquire what has precipitated this unruly behaviour, he must have caught a first hint of my mysterious scent. With an audible crack of teeth clicking together, he closes his mouth. I can almost see how his long nostrils flare. Staring at me, his already pale face turns ashen. For a moment he seems frozen in place, struck immobile by the merest whiff of perfume. For a moment panic grips me again – have I miscalculated the strength of the sample that badly? I take two, three faltering steps toward him, then hesitate, scared.

No – he is moving again. But now he jerks back his head, as if struck. With long strides he crosses the room toward me. As he comes closer, I can see that he is clenching his hands into fists so hard that his knuckles stand out bony and white. His lips are thin and tight with tension. I can see that he's gritting his teeth so hard that a muscle has started twitching at his jaw. My heart is pounding so hard now that I can feel it in my throat and in my ears. Merlin, Nimue, and sweet baby Jesus, whatever is this perfume doing to him? Then he's standing in front of me, and I can see that he's close, so close, to losing control.

He is staring at me as if he's never seen me before. Dazed, he is shaking his head. But now, with him within arm's reach, the effects of the perfume increase for me again. My breasts are tingling, and a diffuse ache pulses low in my body. The scent of herbal syrup, leather, and musk is almost palpable. The urge to rub myself against him, to wrap myself into this – into his – smell is almost irresistible. But his eyes, so beautiful and black, are wide and shocked, and his lips curl helplessly, as if he's torn between crying and screaming.

'You –' he whispers, instead. 'You – how – how – could you – you –'

He falters, and very slowly, as if it is happening against his will, he raises a shaking hand, uncurls his fist, and reaches for me. Capturing my wayward curls with his fingers, he inhales a shuddering breath, and I feel a hot flush of desire flowing through my whole body, leaving me weak-kneed and gasping – and bathed in a fragrance of herbs, young grass in spring, hay at the height of summer, distilled into a pungent potion in winter – followed by another scent, warmer, and more intimate, which only naked skin pressed against naked skin will reveal fully: the powdery odour of new parchment, the delicate flavour of exquisite vellum, and leather. The living, masculine scent of leather –

'What the fucking hell is that?!' I shout, jump back, stumble backward, and collide painfully with the closed door behind me. Trembling, I lean against it to stay on my feet, although my legs want to buckle.

I know those scents –

For a second, Severus stands like a statue, hand still raised, still reaching for me. Then he, too, starts shaking. Colour flushes his waxen face, burning in bright red spots of agitation high on his cheekbones.

'As if you don't know, traitress,' he snarls, advancing upon me.

'But I don't,' I protest. 'I have no idea what's going on –'

Except that I want you. Naked. Now. And –

'Lion-faced snake,' he hisses, and a fine drop of his spittle hits my neck. 'Just like her, just like her – I should never have trusted you!'

He's so close that I can smell his hair now, the strong, piercing scent of hair that tends to greasiness, with an undertone of spices from his shampoo soap, sweat from his excitement and arousal, and musk. And I can feel the effect of pheromones. His own, or the ones from the perfume – I cannot tell. But they keep me from moving as his hands close around my neck, his long fingers trembling over my pulse, as he gasps, but not for air –

The power of the perfume and the pain in his eyes combine and mesmerize me. I do not move, barely breathe. I feel light-headed and strangely disassociated from the scene that is playing out between us. With the sick clarity of a fever vision, I realise what I am smelling – and what he must be smelling to react the way he does.

'It's a perfume based on Amortentia, isn't it?' I ask. 'Lucius Malfoy gave it to me, the second evening of the May Fair, when I went out to dinner with him. He promised that it is special and that I ... that I would enjoy its ... effects.'

I raise my head to face him. I know my lips are quivering as if I'm a child trying hard, so hard not to cry. No vows will make him believe me now, no promises will ever convince him that I haven't betrayed him. But maybe Legilimency will unveil all that lies within my mind. Without a second thought, I meet his eyes and hope and pray that my mind will lie open before him, orderly kept, like my perfume notebooks.

I lose myself in his eyes – I've always loved dark eyes, and his are truly black and fathomless. Like a lake at midnight. Or the sky without moon or stars. Or like that perfume ...

Abruptly the tension drains from his body, and he slumps toward me or draws me into his embrace, buries his face in my curls, gasping, panting, inhaling my scent so fiercely that he is hyperventilating – his whole body is shaking with the effort. I try to hold him, and onto my sanity at the same time, when all my senses urge me to get as close to him as two human beings can be, and he clings to me as if he's drowning, drowning. But I must, I must know everything before I – before we –

Then his lips find mine, and all rational thoughts flee my mind. Scents and sensations mingle until I feel like I'm floating. Until nothing remains but a frenzy to get clothes off, to get my hands on skin, my hands on him –

Suddenly, Severus breaks the kiss with a muffled curse. A strange spell, accompanied by a jerky gesture, and all at once the dizziness recedes as I stare into the face of a Great Horned Owl, which looks surreally out of place connected to Severus' body, wearing his typical black frock coat.

When I open my mouth, an astonished 'Who-hooo!' escapes. My shaking fingers find feathers and a pronounced beak. 'What the fuck?!' emerges as mellifluent hooting.

'I'm sorry,' Severus apologises, his voice sounding deeper and silkier than ever through his impressive black beak. 'That's the first thing I came up with – Great Horned Owls have a really, really bad sense of smell.'

'Ah-hooo,' I hoot and glare at him, never mind that I know as well as he does that Bubble Head doesn't work for Amortentia (or any other potion or perfume containing Ashwinder eggs). Now that I can think straight again, I remember that there was something I wanted to know before we – if we –

Severus ducks his head. The way he ruffles his feathers and blinks his owlish eyes, I gather he's ashamed.

'Who-hooot?' What?

He looks up. His pupils are huge and black in the golden orbs of the owl's face.

He clears his throat in a series of short, hooting noises. But when he speaks, he sounds like Severus again. 'I brewed this perfume,' he says. 'In spring 1977. I wanted to force Lily to realise that I, and not James, am –' He turns away, walks with uncertain steps to the nearest worktable. 'That I was her true love, as she was mine. Above everything else, I wanted to win her back.' He leans heavily on the table. Then turns around with slumping shoulders, as if weighed down by a world of guilt all over again. 'It wasn't as strong then, Hermione! You have to believe me! I would never have done that to her, not even to impress Lucius or the –' He closes his golden owl's eyes in agony.

'Whoo-hooo-ho-ho!' I reply, irritation warring with compassion within me. Why does he get to talk like a human, and I get to hoot? Clicking my beak, I wish I could tell him what I think. I may never gain my Mastery now, but I do know a thing or two about Amortentia in spite of his refusal to teach me how to brew it. Like the fact that the potency of Amortentia increases with age. If this perfume works even just sort of like Amortentia, it was nowhere near strong enough to serve as the equivalent of a Muggle date-rape drug in 1977. However, after letting it age and gain power for thirty-two years, it's a miracle that we're still able to have a somewhat reasonable conversation right now, owl heads or no.

... but if he brewed it for Lily, why did he never use it? And how did Lucius Malfoy get his hands on the perfume?

Either Severus has read my mind again, or those questions are so logical that he knows I would have asked them next. 'Lucius and Narcissa tested the perfume for me.' He hoots a sigh. 'It worked; it revealed them to be what another extremely Dark spell had already proven beyond any doubt: that they were "soul mates" in the sense of magical theory, uniquely compatible in their essential magical make-up. And that, even more than Lucius' money or political influence, was what made them, both of them, so invaluable for the Dark Lord – and why he chose Draco to –' He shakes his head, unable to continue.

Well, that answers some very old questions. But what about Lily?

But suddenly, before he can say another word, I know the answer to my question. Because there is only one explanation for how he reacted to whatever it is he smelled when I entered the lab. And because I feel – have felt, almost thirteen years ago – the same.

'–te Incantatem,' I hoot-cry. 'When you tried your Amortentia perfume all those years ago, it wasn't Lily you smelled!'

I gasp as the potent perfume ensnares my senses all over again. His scents, the way they have matured and changed over the years, envelop me. An eerie feeling of vertigo grips me as the full impact of what this – of what I smell, and of what he smells – hits me.

'It was me,' I whisper. 'You smelled me. All those years ago – before I was even born! – you smelled me.'

His proximity appears to increase the potency of the perfume, and I know I have to act quickly now, or I'll get really, really bad ideas concerning that magnificent black beak and those fluffy feathers ...

But he just stands there, stiffly, shocked, and blinks at me with his beautiful golden owl's eyes, expecting revulsion and recrimination, or at the very least, that I turn around and walk away without looking back.

'Come,' I order. 'If you want me, come with me. Come with me. Now.'

When I extend my hand to him, he takes it, and I lead him outside, lead the strange owl-man at my side through the fragrant maze of the knot gardens, out the red door, across the street, and inside Spinner's End. The drumbeats of my heart reverberate in my steps. Scents and sensations swirl around me and I feel as if I can fly, fly without wings.

At long last.

oooOooo