I know, I know...I have about 5 or 6 unfinished fics...but a twist on the Plighted-Pair Charm grabbed me. (It will lack Ginny or Luna)

This fic is more vignette-y in nature.

Oh, and I totally blame that Charm. Honest. *hides*

(A.N nothing SSHG happens till Hermione is 18)

Moaning Myrtle's Lavatory 1992

Hermione stared again at the potion. Ut Animam Meam. An innocuous-seeming little thing. A little commentary, doodle-like drawing and just three lines printed in a neat, plain hand in the flyleaf of one of the most notorious potions books ever written. Phineas Bourne's Moste Potente Potions.

That made her pause. It did. Her mouth was dry as she sat before the simmering pot in Moaning Myrtle's dreary lavatory.

Hermione was all too aware that she should be focusing on the Polyjuice Potion for Harry. That was her goal. It was. But, well, she had a whole twenty minutes before the first part of the brewing was complete…and it was such a little potion…

The tiny quarter-cauldron —a gift to herself for her birthday, but never used— was right there in her potion kit. And if she just so happened to have a single elder flower and five elderberries stashed in it, well that was simply good luck, wasn't it?

Hermione rubbed a hand over her tired face and huffed out a breath. Her pulse thudded. It was such a teeny weeny, little potion, a sprinkle of Latin and —at most— three turns of her wand. Nothing more. And with it she could know. Absolutely.

Where was the harm…?

She cast a tempus spell. Twelve minutes left.

Oh, this would put her one up on Susan Bones, wouldn't it?

And it wasn't as if Hermione wasn't already breaking fifty school rules brewing such an advanced potion in Myrtle's toilet with ingredients stolen from the dreaded Professor Snape's private store…

She let out a long sigh. For once, just once, she wanted to be like any other witch whose heart had caught on a wizard. To use magic simply to see if he could ever…like her. One day. When she was grown.

But with this potion, it was more than that. This little spell would reveal if the man fixed in her heart was worthy of her and she of him…

Warmth bloomed in her chest at the thought.

Gilderoy Lockhart really was so very brilliant. Brave. And handsome. But mostly brilliant and powerful. The two things she admired and wanted for herself. Together, they could…

Hermione blinked. The little quarter-cauldron –no bigger than her hand— sat on the tiled floor. When had she pulled it free? Her wand drew the flower and berries into the air, leaving them to float, whilst, with a swift aguamenti, she filled the cauldron. Another spell warmed it to the temperature of flesh.

The creamy pink flower floated down to the tepid water. The dark berries followed to form a pentacle. She drew her wand around the cauldron rim, the scrape of vine wood over copper driving through her senses, as she murmured the incantation, "ut animam meam".

The liquid in the pot swirled tight under the flower and berries, coils of sweet-scented mist rising, thickening with the second drawing of her wand—

A flash of white-hot fire scorched against her wrists and Hermione cried out, the pain pricking tears, but still, she tended her cauldron and closed the spell with one final chase of her wand.

The mist faded down and peering blearily into the pot she found it empty, the copper shining as if it had never been used.

Fearfully, her heart in her throat, she turned her wrists…and found two golden circles.

She frowned and wiped her knuckles across her wet eyes. Ut Animam Meam –my soul to see— was, obviously now, a translation from a much older spell. From the markings on her wrist in perfect cuneiform, she'd guess Babylonian, if not older. Truly ancient magic.

She traced a thumb-tip over one of the circles and it warmed and hummed at her touch…but nothing else. Had it had no other effect than giving her two stylish tattoos?

Hermione waved her wand and murmured the translation spell she'd wrested from Madam Pince.

Little black letters floated free, twisting and turning to form words in the air before her.

Make my soul, the one to see.

'Make' and 'See'. Her belly turned over. The enchantment must've done something? But she felt no different—

"Hermione?"

Harry's overly loud whisper echoed around the cold tile walls. Hurriedly, Hermione pulled her cuffs over her new tattoos and pushed her clean cauldron back into her kit. She'd research later. She was very good at research. It was fine. It was all fine—

"Are you in here?"

She cast a tempus. Bugger, it was time to add the leeches.

Blame the Latin on Google ;-)

Also, let me know what you think! :)