Petrichor, and a Helpful Guide to Occlumency

Chapter One

word count: 10, 419

A/N: I usually post my fics on tumblr, so if it wasn't already clear, I have no idea what I'm doing on wattpad lmao.

In the first chapter, and probably the next one too, there's a lot of Golden Trio content, because, well, it's kind of unavoidable. I do, however, plan to incorporate other characters much more as the fic goes on, and focus less on the Gryffindor crowd.

Additionally, this fic is enemies-with-benefits. As a lover of slow burn, it physically pained me to write a kiss in the first 10,000 words, but the trope wants what it wants. Please bare with me tho, I promise the romance burn is excruciatingly restrained.

Finally, any feedback, positive or otherwise is always appreciated. And if you're here from tiktok, I love u xx

NOVEMBER

You weren't quite sure when it had begun. Not the affair itself; you remembered every detail of that with staggering clarity—a kind of photographic recollection that would put even Hermione to shame. But the thoughts. The looks and the wanting, when had that started? You couldn't be quite sure.

You would, perhaps, have been able to recall the exact date if you were very hard pressed. But in truth, you preferred not to press yourself very hard on these types of things. You preferred not to poke and prod at your psyche, to try and unearth, from beneath layers of useless knowledge about turning tortoises into teacups and how to properly oil your wand, why and when you had started thinking about him.

Whatever the reason for the mental block, it didn't really matter. All else seemed to fade, like his soft, pallid hair, in comparison to the thoughts themselves. The stupid poncy smirk—you thought about that the most. And the hands, which were always cold, and quite aristocratic in their elegance, with delicate veins and plausible silver rings. Yes, you thought about them, too.

When you had things such as these to dwell on, it was easy to push others from your mind. Why they'd come to you in the first place, for one. Whether you ought to, morally speaking, be thinking them at all, for another. And, of course, the one you tried not to think about the most. What those who sat nearest you, faces ranging orange to vermillion in the hazy, fire-lit glow of the Gryffindor common room, would say if they knew.

You sometimes worried (it was hard not to) whether they did. Surely they had their suspicions that something was going on. As much as you tried to give nothing away, there was no denying you'd... changed, somewhat, in the last month or so.

Your thoughts were persistently occupied with topics decidedly un-Gryffindorian. You'd stopped giving much of a toss about Quidditch, forgetting to put your name in for the house wide tip entirely (you didn't really mind, regardless. It'd been boring the last few seasons—Puddlemere thrashed all else to a pulp continually and ruthlessly). You'd become increasingly inattentive in class, and were, as a result, indifferent to Mcgonagall's suggestion that a select few students (yourself plus, of course, Hermione, the Chosen One and his red-haired sidekick—there were others too, that you weren't bothered to recall) begin attempting their Animagus form. You hadn't been to see Hagrid in weeks...

"Alright?" said Dean. You lifted your head from your knees to give a slight nod.

"Having trouble with the whole Animagus thing?" Hermione sat near the fire, legs crossed on a tasseled pillow. Ron sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders. The pillow's gold printed case was almost the same shade as his hair. More orangey, though. More like that nauseating carrot colour of the Chudley Cannons banner he'd insisted on tacking to the notice board. You almost laughed to yourself.