A/N: Bonjour! So THIS is what I meant to write when Attraction happened. I had this down from a few months ago and concreted it one morning while eating breakfast. No, but really. 'Stickability' is, of course, a big-shout out to Hustle, a show that I will miss dearly. On another note, watch out for excessive use of "she".

Disclaimer: Me no Jo Ro.

She decides, rather ruefully, that she shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't be going down to the kitchens with him on late night escapades, and she most definitely shouldn't be acting this way around him, because he's oh so clearly still smitten with her. Everyone always commends her on her kindness but she's putting him through the cruellest torture; she's aware of it, and yet, she can't stop.

She can't help it.

She loves the attention, she must admit. She loves passing him notes in class and how her fingers linger on his hand for just a moment too long. She loves the way his smile brightens when his eyes light on her. She loves the way he creeps up behind her at breakfast placing his hands over her eyes and asks, "Guess who!" She loves the teasing threats that he'll throw her in the lake the next time she calls him a prat undeservingly (prat). She loves the banter, the verbal sparring. She even loves the fights because she loves that he cares enough to show her his emotions. She loves to see him alive like that.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind tells her that she just loves him.

She tried to keep that thought locked away, but she's sure he's noticed - one hundred per cent sure - and he knows exactly what he's doing to her, too, the scoundrel. She's not the only one pretending.

He lets her tickle the pear because she says she's never been before (that's a lie, but she went with that Diggory git and doesn't want to think about him) and she's sitting there, slightly unnerved by the sets of bulging eyes staring up at her, but spreading the butter on her toast like a champion all the same. He's making a pot of coffee to take up to the Common Room and waits patiently for her to finish with the toast when he's done.

"Sorry," she says absently. "I always take forever marmalading."

He snorts and spills a little of the coffee with the abrupt movement. "Marmalading? That's not even a word."

"…yes, it is."

"Marmalading?"

She hums in agreement. "Yes. From the infinitive 'to marmalade'."

"From the - what? Evans, are you sure you weren't hit on the head by a bludger recently?"

She giggles. "No, of course not!" She elaborates. "Marmalading - verb - is the action of spreading marmalade. Look it up," she adds.

"Look it - Evans?"

She puts the knife she's holding down and the house-elves scurry to put the jar away for her. "In a dictionary, Potter. That's a big book with words in."

"I know what a dictionary is, thanks," he glares. "And it wouldn't contain the word marmalading."

"Would."

"Would not."

"Look, it would, okay?" She smiles sweetly. "You're going to lose this argument anyway, Potter."

"Oh?" He grins. "How so?"

"Because you're an only child."

He does a double take. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"People with siblings," she explains loftily, "have lots of stickability. It's like an innate…thingy."

He takes her arm and steers her towards the exit. "You know something, Evans? You're barmy. Completely bonkers. Because 'stickability' isn't a word either."

They thank the house-elves and leave. "Is to: your ability to stick at something, hence, stickability," she insists.

"That's complete rubbish."

She scoffs. "Just because you have no stickability."

He chuckles. "I beg to differ, actually. My stickability is the reason why my attempts at asking you out have been so successful."

A jittery feeling settles in her stomach but she keeps her voice light, teasing, questioning.

"Successful?"

"Mm."

She plays along, despite her nervous excitement. They've arrived at this topic, of course they have, and it's been a long time coming. Far too long, in her mind.

"May I ask, just to clarify, what the desired outcome of your attempts was?"

He pretends to think, grinning. He entwines his fingers in hers. "That you'd be my girlfriend…" He looks away coyly as he speaks.

Predictably, her cheeks flush at his touch. But she ignores the flutter in her chest and reclaims her hand, speaking steadily.

"And h-has such a situation arisen?" She asks.

His eyes twinkle. "No, not yet."

"Forgive me, then, but I'd say your choice of words is a little…premature."

He holds her gaze, amused. "Oh." She nods her confirmation.

There's a pause.

"Wait-" His eyes narrow in a dangerous manner that she's not sure she likes. "Premature? Not - not wrong?"

She curses her traitorous mouth internally and the heat returns to her cheeks.

"Um, what?" she says, feigning innocence.

He nods, infuriating her. She glares at him. This just makes him nod faster. "You want me, Evans. Ow! See, Lil, you just can't keep your hands off me!"

She huffs in exasperation, but doesn't deny it. In contrast to the tiniest of smiles that has risen to her lips as they walk along, he is wearing a gleeful grin that threatens to break his face.

About halfway along the corridor to the Gryffindor tower, he takes her hand again. This time, she lets him. They're five feet, four feet, from the Fat Lady when he asks.

Nonchalant: "So, Evans, go out with me?"

She looks up at him, biting her lip. The word tumbles out.

"Okay."

He leans down and plants a chaste kiss to her cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and whispering, "See? I told you I had stickability."

In reply, she tugs him down to her, laughing, and presses her lips to his.

Reviews are adding 'marmalading' and 'stickability' to dictionary.