A Curious Thought

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Harry Potter. This is an amateur, non-profit work.
Pairing: Fred/Hermione
Scents: Cinnamon, alyssum, clean sheets

"It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realise just how much you love them." - Agatha Christie

Now, no matter what Hermione may tell you, the whole ordeal was mostly her fault.

Just before it happened, I was toiling away on my latest brilliant invention. It tasted a bit like earwax with a delicate undertone of boiled arse, so I decided to add some cinnamon to make it more palatable. When George did the same to our Nosebleed Nougat prototype, it worked just fine (and it managed to overpower the sickly, muddy taste the nougat had prior to the inclusion of the cinnamon). Right as I dropped a handful of the powdery spice into the fizzing, orange potion and watched it morph into something resembling bogeys, Hermione came storming in, glaring at me and almost sparking with anger.

"Fred Weasley!" she shouted. "You—"

I never got to hear the rest of whatever she was about to say, because her sudden appearance startled me into knocking over my cauldron. I watched, torn between horror and amusement, as its contents flew across the table and landed on her face with a loud splat.

See what I mean about it being her fault? Honestly, who marches into someone's potions workroom and starts yelling? That is just asking for trouble.

Wiping the gunk from her eyes, she opened her mouth to speak. All that came out was an angry puff of air as she exhaled. Prior to the addition of the cinnamon, the potion had given the recipient the ability to mimic anyone's voice — very useful for following older siblings around and repeating everything they say (I know this from experience; I tried it out on Bill).

I tried to hold it in. I really did. Seeing her flail her arms and grow increasingly agitated as her screams remained silent and slime oozed down her face was too much for me. I couldn't help but double over with laughter.

Big mistake.

Before I had time to even think about making a retreat, Hermione stalked around the table, scooped up some of the warm, gooey muck, and smeared it all over my face. A few of her fingers slipped into my mouth, coating my tongue with globs of the stuff.

It tasted like leather and dandelions. That was a slight improvement, at least.

With a huff, Hermione started rifling through my notes. When she saw the ingredients for the potion, she picked up the spice jar and waved it at me. I had no bloody clue what she was trying to say, so she yanked an old potions textbook from my shelf and opened to the page on armadillo bile.

Armadillo bile will create an effect similar to Silencio when combined with certain spices (cinnamon, cardamom, or nutmeg). To counteract this effect, drink an infusion of 2 scruples of fluxweed (picked at the full moon) in 5 drachms of water.

Oh. Bugger.

I looked up from the book a few seconds later to see Hermione holding a very empty fluxweed jar and glowering at me. Double bugger.

Grabbing her hand, I led her out of the workroom and to the front of the shop, where George was adding up the day's profits. My twin and I have always had a knack for silent communication, so I was confident he would know what I meant when I shook the empty jar and then pointed to him.

I failed to take his penchant for teasing into account. Amateur mistake, really. I know I would have done the same thing in his shoes.

"Ooh, charades!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands and grinning at us. "Okay, let's see. Duck. Wombat. Filch. Xylophone. Jarlsberg cheese. Celestina Warbeck. Am I getting warm?...Well, that's not very helpful, Fred. How am I supposed to guess what it is if all you do is make obscene gestures?"

Hermione didn't waste any time with poor attempts at sign language. She nicked a Self-Inking Quill from one of our displays, rolled up the sleeve of George's magenta robes, and wrote on his arm in small, impeccably neat letters, "Go buy another jar of fluxweed." After a momentary pause, she added, "Please. And thank you."

"Oh!" George said with a smirk. "Is that what you wanted, Fred? Why didn't you just say so?"

When he was gone, Hermione pointed at the remnants of the potion that still clung to her face and made a motion like she was washing it off. I didn't want her to start writing on me, so I took her upstairs.

That was the beginning of the end, I suppose. If we would have stayed put and waited for George to return, it's quite likely that we would have just taken the fluxweed infusion, she would have finished scolding me, and then we would have gone about our merry little lives as normal.

But that wouldn't be nearly as much fun, would it?

Once we reached the flat, I led Hermione to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap. We crowded in front of it, jostling each other with our elbows as we cupped the lukewarm water in our hands and splashed it onto our faces. As I moved to scrub the last little bit of potion from my cheek, I slipped — almost completely on accident, I swear — and spilled a handful of water over the top of her head. Scowling, she hurled some water onto the front of my shirt in retaliation.

Before I tell you this next part, I want to make something perfectly clear: I never harboured secret feelings for Hermione. The possibility of her and I together in ways that involve sweaty nakedness never really occurred to me.

Okay, so maybe I had an impure thought or five when we clashed and had wonderfully explosive arguments during my seventh year (until she ruined it by threatening to tell my mum on me), but I didn't fancy her. That stuff was just your garden variety teenage male fantasies.

Right, so. Water fight. Well, I had to splash her back, didn't I? Things escalated from there, culminating in a wild frenzy of flying droplets of water that left us both drenched and shivering. At some point, she got her hands on a cup, which gave her a bit of an unfair advantage. I didn't mind, though. I was having fun. I think she was, too, though she probably wouldn't have admitted it at the time.

When Hermione lunged forward to dump a tenth cup of water on me, I jumped back, losing my footing in the process. My feet slid over the wet ceramic tiles, searching for traction I knew I wouldn't find. I grabbed the nearest thing that looked like it might be sturdy enough to help me steady myself: Hermione.

It didn't work. I toppled backward, yanking her with me when I refused to relinquish my grip on her forearms. My head made a sickening thud as it collided with the hard floor, leaving me mouthing a stream of silent curses and seeing spots. Hermione landed with her hip digging into my stomach and her hair spilling across my face in a thick, overwhelming curtain of messy curls. Taking in a shallow breath, I froze as I encountered a familiar mixture of scents.

George and I tried out a lot of love potions when we were developing our Wonder Witch line. Amortentia was one of them. I remember staring at a cauldron full of a pretty potion, inhaling deep lungfuls of the spirals of steam. I couldn't get enough of the intoxicating blend of aromas. Spicy cinnamon. Crisp, clean sheets drying in the sun. A sweet smelling little white flower that my mum has planted in the Burrow's garden every spring for as long as I can remember (I think it's called alyssum, but don't tell anyone I actually knew that; I have a reputation to uphold).

Maybe it was because I was dazed from whacking my head against the tiles, but as we lay sprawled on the floor together, I realised that Hermione smelled like all of those things. Obviously, the cinnamon was my fault; it came from my spice-infused invention being splattered all over her face. But the other two scents — those were all Hermione.

So, I did the most logical thing, given the circumstances: I kissed her.

I have an inquisitive nature. I wanted to find out if there was some deeper reason that Hermione naturally smelled like two out of three of the scents that I found most attractive, or if it was just a coincidence.

At first, the results of my mad little experiment were inconclusive. Her lips felt soft and pleasant against my own, but they were also frozen in an expression of shock. In my experience, kisses are usually more enjoyable when both parties are involved in the act. Just as I was about to call the whole thing a bust and give up, Hermione's mouth moved in a hesitant, shy way, kissing me back.

As far as first kisses go, it wasn't brilliant. Our noses bumped together, my head throbbed with a dull, pounding ache, and lying on the kitchen floor with a girl balanced on top of me wasn't nearly as sexy as I would have expected. George and I aren't the best housekeepers. I couldn't remember the last time we bothered to clean that floor. But then she shifted against me, emitted a voiceless sigh, parted her lips, and stroked her tongue against my own.

Hello. Thoughts of a naked and sweaty nature: achieved.

I don't know how long we lay there, snogging on my grimy kitchen floor, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before George returned. The sneaky bastard crept up on us, stealthier than a Disillusionment Charm. We didn't notice his presence until he put his face millimetres from ours and asked what we were doing in a booming voice that brimmed with amusement and false innocence.

Never before had a girl leapt away from me so quickly. By the time I gathered my wits and opened my eyes, Hermione was already standing up, blushing madly and snapping her fingers in a frustrated demand for the jar of fluxweed that was clutched in George's fist.

"Here you are, Hermione," George said, grinning and placing the jar in her open palm. "I'm going to go back to counting our galleons. Do try to keep your hands to yourselves, kids."

With a wink and a waggle of his eyebrows, George bounded out of the flat, leaving us alone once more. I stood up, watching Hermione as she fished two mismatched goblets out of our cupboard and set to work making the infusion. She measured out the appropriate amount of water and fluxweed with painstaking precision, pursing her lips and and narrowing her eyes in concentration. As the prickly red leaves soaked in the water, the liquid gradually took on the deep, rich burgundy colour of pomegranate juice. Placing one of the goblets in my hand, Hermione held her breath and downed the contents of her own with one big, shuddering gulp.

I followed suit, lifting my goblet to her in a silent toast before bringing it to my lips. The infusion looked smooth and delicious in the goblet, but upon taking a swig I found that it was chunky. As it sloshed over my tongue, it filled my mouth with a cloying, overwhelming aniseed taste. It might have been nice if I was someone who enjoyed aniseed, but I am firmly in the, "It tastes of pure, undiluted evil" camp. Try licking a Dark Wizard sometime. I bet they taste like aniseed.

"Fred?" Hermione said, smiling at the sound of her own voice.

"Yeah?" I replied.

"Why did you kiss me?" she whispered, looking as befuddled as Gregory Goyle upon being asked to spell "onomatopoeia."

"Don't know," I lied. "I reckon I just thought I might like to try it." Pausing, I shot her a knowing smirk. "Why did you kiss me back?"

"I don't know." The pretty blush on her face deepened as she brushed an imaginary bit of lint from her still-wet shirt sleeve. "Do you think you might like to try it again? Just to make sure it wasn't a fluke, of course."

I did.

"By the way," she murmured against my lips as I lowered them to meet hers. "Don't think for one second that I forgot why I came here in the first place. You are going to remove that charm from Crookshanks, Fred. Pink is definitely not his colour."

The End