George says that she'll feel compelled

George says that she'll feel compelled. The urge will be so strong that to resist it would be as difficult for her as casting an Unforgiveable. She's done that before so she's not completely worried by what she's heard. Not to mention that she's read countless Dark Arts books and has yet to succumb to the pull of their power.

George says that this is different. This compulsion has nothing to do with her head and all to do with her hormones. And possibly, if she's really susceptible, her heart.

(He says that she's as innocent as a newborn baby. She doesn't like to disabuse him. Fred's death has made him somehow vulnerable and, although she thought he knew (he must have known) about her hormone driven tangles with Ron for those few months after the battle (not to mention her other, unnamed lovers), she thinks George sees her as a sister to fill that vacant sibling slot. She doesn't want to shatter his illusions. Ten years on, there are enough broken pieces in his life.)

He may be right, though, about her heart.

Still, this is an experiment. George says he believes in love and he believes in giving lovers a helping hand as long as there is a budding reciprocal attraction. He's only developed it – so he's told Hermione – in this pure form so that he can reduce its strength as each customer requires. Apparently, she can be depended on to resist its undiluted power.

There's a large and lucrative market in speeding things along these days; as if the Wizarding World were making up for lost time now that the Apocalypse has been averted. Personally, she relishes the time to plan and live at leisure. Her first eighteen years seemed to pass faster than the Hogwarts Express. These last few, she's had more time to savour.

The lid of the jar has been sealed with some sort of wax and she eyes it suspiciously as it is handed to her.

"It won't bite, Hermione. The seal is keyed to me. No one can open it unless it is given from me to them directly."

Still dubious – this is George Weasley, after all – Hermione gently pushes at the lid of the jar with her thumb. There is a satisfying pop as the seal breaks and the lid comes off.

"Now tip the ball into your hand and then cup it with the other. Feel the texture against your skin. As soon as it feels warm, bring your hands to your nose and tell me what you can smell."

She does as instructed, marvelling at the vibrant… thing – there's no other word to describe it – quivering in her palm. It has a strange sort of energy and she feels the urge to contain it lest it escape. It looks smooth and blemish free, yet as it sits in the cup of her hand, she notices small marks and gouges gradually appear, and its warm brown colour starts to deepen to a midnight black. It feels…hot.

Quickly, she cups her hands around the ball, her eyes widening as the heat generating in her palm becomes almost painful. She looks quickly at George, too alarmed to hide her consternation.

He seems surprised. "Hot?"

She nods.

"Too hot?"

A shake of her head, because it's not. The heat lets her know it's there, but it doesn't make her want to let go.

"What does it mean?"

George grimaces. "According to my calculations, everyone should experience it uniquely. My best guess is that any extreme reaction shows the degree of attraction." He shrugs. "If it hurts, then you can put it down."

Hermione shakes her head again. "It's fine. I like it."

He gestures to her to take the next step.

She's more tentative now. No one with a modicum of sense puts a Weasley product – let alone a prototype – near their face without some forethought. Still, she promised to help him with this and she's fairly certain she's more valuable to him with all her senses and limbs intact. She's his Quality Control - once more saving the world from a Fate Worse Than Death. She smiles at that thought until a twitch in her palm brings her mind back onto the job.

Carefully, she brings her cupped hands to her nose and sniffs.

Bergamot and orange. An olive oil base note. She knows the scent intimately, has tried to recreate it a dozen times with only partial success. Has had to acknowledge that what's lacking is essentially Severus; the subtle flavour of his skin. Or so she imagines.

She inhales at length, her eyes fluttering shut, thus missing George's lips twist in a quick grin.

The ball rolls and skitters in her hands and she can feel its previously smooth exterior become prickly and difficult to hold. Gently, she brings her hands a little closer and breathes softly through the slight gap between her thumbs. It quiets, rolling a few more times before settling in a strangely quiescent calm. As if it's where it wants to be.

Hermione feels quietly triumphant. It's taken a while but she knows how to do this.

Her reverie is interrupted by her friend's voice, startlingly loud in the peace of the room.

"What do you smell, Hermione?" George's quill is at the ready. He's never more serious than when he's inventing.

She sighs and grins. "Nothing definite. Sandalwood possibly? And the smell of my own hands. I think you need to work on it, George, sorry." The lie is faultlessly delivered.

Reluctantly, she drops the ball – restored to its previous smooth, deep, honey brown as soon as it leaves her hands – into the jar and passes it to its maker.

Still smiling, she watches him carefully put it back on the shelf before opening the door and seeing herself out.

To wait.

With a little patience.

It's not compulsion if it's what she wants.

"It's something that Fred and I started working on when we were at Hogwarts."

There's something of an apology in the tone that reinforces Severus' opinion of George as still part boy, though obviously a man. He has never underestimated the sheer potential of the Weasley twins, even as he guarded his storeroom and equipment from them during their schooldays' reign of terror. He always took great pleasure in the fact that their other teachers never learned that lesson.

"Gently does it." George uses both hands to reach and then cradle a smallish bottle against his chest.

Severus can't see clearly, but he's damned if he's going to peer over Weasley's shoulder. They've been colleagues for two years, but he, at least, still observes the formalities expected of their previous relationship. Weasley isn't as conventional, much to Severus' private pleasure and outward disdain. There's the occasional slap on the back and the more than occasional teasing laugh. But whatever appearance he gives to the contrary, Severus respects Weasley's genius for invention, not to mention his focus and drive. And he's pleased to hear him laugh again. These have been the best two years of Severus' life.

George holds the bottle against the window. "In its natural state, it's colourless and entirely harmless. It can't be mistaken for water, because once you tip the bottle, it appears almost solid. Almost like an extension of the glass." He glances up at Severus quickly, then continues, "Once you know what the potion is for, though, it takes on a form unique to your eyes and you should easily be able to identify the person you're attracted to. It's not a love potion, Severus," George has caught the roll of the eyes before he's even had a chance to perform it, "we'd done with those by the end of our fifth year. Nothing but trouble – the wrong kind of trouble, if you get my drift – for us at least." He shudders at a memory that Severus doesn't even want to begin to guess at, then coughs and throws a wry grin at him. "There's nothing compelling about this, you know. It's just a reassurance, really, a way of consolidating a feeling. No one wants to be made a fool of by love." He pauses and looks up.

Severus doesn't rise to it. He never does. If you don't rise, you can't fall. At least not in front of a former pupil, and a Weasley to boot.

"Well, anyway," George blithely continues, "this potion doesn't have to be ingested or applied in order to be effective. You just need to be in the room when the lid is removed and your lungs do the rest of the work." He frowns. "Of course, I'll probably have to work on that particular aspect."

And before Severus can stop him, George has the placed the bottle on the windowsill and removed the lid. "Let me know what you can see."

Severus takes a breath before he knows it and stifles a groan at the realisation. He can no longer stop himself from looking at the potion than he can from filling his lungs again. He closes his eyes briefly, then gives up and stares.

Nothing. Its very translucence mocks him.

He doesn't ask whether Weasley is affected.

He waits another breath and then, quite suddenly, is rewarded by the sight of a swirling, bubbling, tempestuous, chocolate coloured liquid battling against its confines. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was alive.

He steps closer. He can hear Weasley say his name as if at a distance, but he doesn't respond. All he wants is here in this room at this very moment.

Affirmation.

They are her eyes he sees. The seething mass is her hair as she whips round to face him, challenging him to better her argument. (How he loves her temper – invariably laced with humour these last few years – when it's directed at him.) If he were to dip his finger into that molten richness and then bring it to his mouth, he is certain it would taste of her.

He can't look away, but he does.

"It's clear, Weasley. Nothing more to say." Severus shrugs into his Muggle coat, an idiosyncrasy that keeps people on their toes. "Back to the drawing board you go. Again."

It's almost a sneer, but not quite.

Hermione's waiting in their laboratory when he walks through the open door.

"As careless with our secrets as usual, Hermione." Severus shuts the door and wards it.

She lets him provoke her. It's shamefully easy and a guilty pleasure.

She storms up to him, stops inches from his considerable nose (those with an eye for grace have been known to call Hermione statuesque), then suddenly leans closer, tongue flickering against her upper lip. She inhales quite noticeably and places her hand on his arm.

"Severus?"

He's radiating… something, she's not sure what, but she's closer than she's ever been, so she brings both hands up to his face, just to keep him there.

There's a second's doubt, then his hands are in her hair and he's looking so intensely in her eyes that she knows he sees her.

She can't stop herself from kissing him and he doesn't even try.

George Weasley smiles the smile of a contented man as he potters about his workroom. He has Fred's voice in head most of the time, so he's rarely lonely and he finds that he sees things more clearly than he ever did when Fred was there to distract him. When you don't have to worry about a pie in the face, you can use your eyes to really look around you. No one expects you to notice things, but you do.

And one ear is no handicap when you're a Weasley twin.

George knows he's not easy to work for. His mind veers off in too many directions and he's never been one to respect office hours if he's had an idea that needs exploration now. Then there's the ever-present threat of an explosion or two, maybe worse.

George is certain of one thing, though, in the ordered chaos of his life. He is certain that the two people who have worked and supported him tirelessly, if not uncomplainingly (vitriolically in one case), deserve more than a generous pay rise. They deserve a little love in their lives. They deserve each other. Give them that and he can hang on to his Galleons. He huffs a laugh.

Satisfied that the lab is pristine and ready for the next day, George Weasley takes a ball in a jar with a broken seal, and a smallish bottle filled with a clear liquid of uncertain viscosity and locks them in a cupboard at the very back of his storeroom.

Then he throws away the key.

After all, he knows what's magic and what's not.