Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and you're lucky for that, because this is one big bag of Christmas happiness and no one has died except the reptile. Hooray. Nothing in this is supported by canon, least of all the twisting of Amortentia to suit my own needs.

Rating: M, though only to be careful.

A/N: JKR once said that Severus Snape smells like 'bitterness and old shoes'. I'm out to prove her wrong. Thank you to the lovely gorgeous lady who has taken up the mantel of being my Hermione for this particular story, HatakeHinata, as I could not have pinned down all of these delicious scents without her help. Ultimately this is her Christmas gift for being so kind and supportive when I began to dip my toes into this world. This story is complete in seven short parts. Will be wrapped up before Christmas Eve. It is very much an AU.

The absolutely fabulous Banglabou set everything aside to beta this for me. She turned it into something that even Snape's red quill would accept! Any mistakes are from my own tinkering.

Delicate

Chapter One

It's not that we're scared

It's just that it's delicate.

Damien Rice

Sunday

I have done a terrible thing.

Oh all right, it wasn't that bad.

But in the overall scheme of things, it is a dreadful mistake; I should have known better… I should know better. It is a Pandora's box of temptation.

But I…

The temptation was far too great.

The ingredients were there, just waiting to be chopped, diced, sliced, grated and powdered. I had a free afternoon – when am I ever not free on the weekends these days? – and I did it.

The inspiration for my interest came on Friday. It was so sudden, like one of those Japanese trains on the news the other night. Though, like the train, it's probably been heading towards me for a while and I, as per usual, have been oblivious.

I was standing at the cauldron, examining the sea-green coloured liquid as I stirred. I have not yet gotten over the habit of counting under my breath; at least, that is how I defend myself to the man that shares the laboratory. Truthfully, it makes brewing a musical experience. Like a song, I count and stir, slice and pour. This is the beauty of potions – the process of making them, of creating, of crafting. It is a subtle beauty; just a light caress to the soul but it is a balm all the same.

There is one other man who feels this way and he works at the station beside mine. He is an intriguing man – slightly hunched and terribly underfed (by his own choosing these days), long black hair that stays lank from the steam, rather like mine except my mane frizzes instead. His nose is an exaggerated gift; hooked and long, it can detect an ingredient that I have gone to large lengths to hide.

Nothing escapes him.

He is a sensual man; would anyone ever believe it? Possibly not, given his teeth have yet to be fixed, he is paler than any man I have ever seen and he has a penchant for awkwardness. But he is – in a beautiful, understated way.

His coat, for example. He clothes himself in the finest wool, the black so deep that it is no longer a colour – no, it exists as a darkness all on its own. Fascinating to the eye, and pleasing to touch. It is rare that I do touch it, but just on the odd occasion… his sleeve brushes against my bare arm, or the matching straight cut trousers graze my calf when I dare to wear Muggle skirts instead of the 'proper attire' of robes.

This man knows all about what it is to indulge the flesh.

And his hands! His hands! Even as I write this in this diary that I shall die before revealing to my subject of study, I can look up and imagine his hands. So perfect, with fingers so long and delicate. And here is the deepest secret (the root of the root, bud of the bud and all that): he knows it.

I have caught him many times massaging a salve of his own making into his hands. Morning and night, twice a day without fail. He sighs with the pleasure of it, for I tried it once – it warms and sinks into the skin, soothing a hard day's work and returning the calloused digits back to appendages of silk. I do not use his salve. He already thinks me rough around the edges, almost bordering on uncouth. I like that.

And then there are his boots. Dragon hide boots are almost run of the mill these days; it seems to be a fashion where young men and 'alternative' witches don them and strut down the street. I bet he's their influence, too – the dark wizard who is so often splashed across gossip columns because he gave the middle finger to Rita Skeeter once again. We have one such moving picture framed in the lab; to say it satisfies me is to make a gross understatement.

But the dragon hide boots of Severus Snape are different to the boots on the street. They are not black – oh no, not entirely. They shine, and when the sun happens to catch the scales just so, there are glints of red and gold that make them look alive. As if he walks in time with the great beast's wings.

All of this – this overwhelming evidence – is not what made me spend my weekend brewing Amortentia, a controlled substance because of the danger and soul-consuming obsession it can cause.

It wasn't his fine clothing or his hands, nor was it his boots.

No; none of that.

God help me.

It was his smell.

As I write, I close my eyes and conjure the scene where I stood so innocently, brewing so carefully, so surely.

He did not surprise me when he stood and looked at the concoction from over my shoulder. I have learnt the faint sounds that his boots make when he walks across the lab to my station – so subtle and quiet, but I know them all the same.

"A fine attempt," he drawled quietly. He was so close that his breath ghosted over the back of my neck.

None of this is different, mind you. It only came a few moments later…

"You know, I'm shocked that you still have such a frightful reputation," I replied, grinning down at the cauldron. "I should send an anonymous tip to Skeeter – tell her all about how you encourage and assist your co-worker to be the best that she could possibly be."

"She'd keel over."

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said, and turned my head.

There.

That.

It was innocent – truly, we have been shooting words back and forth for a year now in the private lab that makes up the second floor of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Not that we work for the twins – no, not officially. The research company we work for is a top of the line consultancy firm. It just happens to be run by two identical red haired men who think philanthropic work should be kept secret and not advertised in their store below.

When I turned my head, I saw his lips out of the corner of my eye. Those thin, sometimes chapped lips that form words that even I have to look up in the dictionary at times.

I have seen those lips before.

It wasn't that.

It was his scent.

There was something new about him; something tantalising. I caught a brief teasing note of it when I breathed in, and I just could not put my finger on it, but it was…

"Oh," I sighed, feeling my eyelids flutter unnaturally. I felt faint. "What is that?"

What is it? I struggled to pin it down. Something dark, something fresh… but I've been out of the scent game for years. His new cologne, I guessed. It was delicious. I wanted to lick his skin, to taste what was driving me mad.

"What is what?" he asked silkily, taking one tiny step back. I swivelled around to face him fully, letting my eyes run up and down his figure.

"There's something…"

And then I stopped.

My mouth closed with an audible click, and his dangerous black eyes gleamed before he cocked one eyebrow – an expression as enticing as sex itself – before moving away again.

"I don't know what you're going on about, Granger. Are you quite all right?"

Oh. Right.

We're playing it like that, are we?

I swallowed and nodded, and when he smirked and moved away, back to his station on the other side of the room, the scent left as quickly as it appeared.

I was hooked.

X

Now, I bottle the potion. I have only made a little bit… just a small amount, really. If anyone knew, I think I'd get off with a fine instead of a temporary revoke of my brewing license. Turns out the new Ministry doesn't like love potions. Fair enough.

My heart is thudding, and for a moment I think I can hear waves crashing onto the beach. But I am in my tiny little flat on the top floor of an old building in Diagon Alley, and there are no oceans out of my window. It is the blood, I realise suddenly; blood is roaring in my ears because of what I am about to do.

This is wrong.

This is terribly wrong.

If anyone were to find out…

But I can't not.

I do it quickly, like an addict hoping to hide their deepest, sinful desires.

I rip the cap away from the vial. I'm going to be very, very good – I won't drink it; oh no. I'm not stupid. All I want to do is smell it.

I breathe in the scent.

I breathe it in again.

And again.

I set the vial down.

"What is that?"