Parchment, she thought, and took a deeper sniff. The smell evolved into paper, of Muggle bookshops in London, curling up in the summer with a cheap paperback, carefully opening so as not to crack the spine; a world away from Hogwarts.
There was something else, and so she inhaled once more. Freshly cut grass, yes, but more than that, for her family garden was a quiet haven. A quintessential English garden in Spring, jewelled in morning dew, fresh; and heady in late summer, the apple tree heavy with the fat promise of baking, of pies, of mulled cider in the autumn…
And then, something cool and crisp, that prickled at her nose, like the first frost in winter, like ink, and tea, and - she breathed in, more deeply still -
Then she looked up suddenly. Her eyes were drawn across the classroom; she could not control them. Across the spiralling vapour of a dozen cauldrons, she met Riddle's arch gaze.
And although she knew it, down to her bones, that he was merely evaluating the quality of her potion, competitive, even though he would swear that competition was beneath him, Granger, instead of sneering at him, her face, uncharacteristically, flushed a deep and mortifying crimson.
He raised a brow, very, very slowly, and then he smiled a very sharp smile.
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