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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Draco entered the Great Hall with the rest of his gang, slightly pleased with himself, slightly...not. 

The Great Hall was louder than usual — laughter echoing off the vaulted ceiling, goblets clinking, owls swooping overhead with last-minute post. Strong smells met his nose in an almost displeasing way, already feeling nauseous, making it worse. 

Draco sat among the Slytherins, back straight. He reached for his fork. Maybe eating will take his mind off of it. But he didn’t have much of an appetite lately. 

He was vaguely aware of Pansy talking beside him to a pair of Slytherin girls about whether she should get bangs or grow out her hair, but his thoughts were louder than her words. He could hardly concentrate on anything nowadays, especially if it were pointless conversations that were no use to him. 

His eyes kept darting to the Gryffindor table. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. All he saw was a gap where Potter should’ve been, proving he hadn’t imagined what happened on the train, that the weight of his heel striking Potter’s face was true. 

But then he saw him. 

Potter. 

He burst through the door with a girl with long blonde hair (he then recognised her to be Luna Lovegood from Ravenclaw), while Professor Snape followed closely behind, a smug look plastered on his face. 

Draco’s whole body went cold at the sight of Potter. 

He gripped his fork tighter, jaw locked. His pulse pounded in his throat. 

How? He was sure he’d left him on that floor — frozen, hidden, helpless. No one should’ve found him in time. It must’ve been that insufferable and oddly delirious girl who entered with Potter who had found him.

Pansy’s voice finally cut through, interrupting his thoughts of confusion. “Draco? Is everything alright? You look like you’ve just gotten petrified.” 

He blinked, forcing his expression back into something neutral, even bored. “Just tired, that’s all,” he said shortly, not looking up from his plate, beginning to pick at his food in hopes of looking normal. 

Blaise looked up at Draco. “You sure? Because the second Potter walked in —” 

Draco cut him off. “Just drop it, Zabini. I’ll tell you once we head back to the dormitories, alright? Just not here...” He glanced around to see if anyone was listening, but naturally, the center of attention was the disheveled Golden Boy crossing the hall like he owned it to his little pack of Gryffindorks. 

Typical. 

Draco began to hover his fork with his wand— lazily, as if out of boredom — though really, he was just trying to keep his hands busy, to keep from thinking about what had happened on the train. About what he’d been told to do. 

The feast blurred together after that — the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of plates. He could feel Pansy watching him from across the table, but he didn’t meet her eyes. 

At last, the noise began to fade as Dumbledore rose from his seat, spreading his arms wide in that maddeningly serene way of his. The Great Hall fell silent almost instantly. 

“Welcome, all, to another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore began, his voice ringing clearly, even at the far ends of the room. “Before we begin our term, I have a few announcements to make.”

Draco rolled his eyes slightly. Of course you do. 

“As some of you may have already heard,” Dumbledore continued, “Professor Slughorn has graciously accepted my invitation to return to the school, and will be taking up the role of Potions Master once more.” 

Polite applause scattered through the Hall. Draco caught Blaise’s knowing smirk out of the corner of his eye — no doubt recalling the Slug Club meeting. 

“And,” Dumbledore went on, “I am pleased to inform you that Professor Snape will be taking the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts.” 

This time, the reaction was more divided. A few claps, some surprised murmurs. Across the room, he even thought he heard Potter say “No!”. Draco snorted at that. 

Draco sat up a little straighter, something like satisfaction curling faintly in his chest. Finally. About time the Headmaster saw what his Slytherin Head professor was capable of. 

But the feeling was fleeting.

 Dumbledore’s voice lowered slightly — not in volume, but in tone. “I must also, however, remind you all that these are dark times we find ourselves in. I’m sure many of you are aware that Lord Voldemort has returned to power.” 

The name hung in the air like a curse. A ripple of gasps and whispers spread across the room. 

Draco continued to hover his fork in the air, putting all of his focus on it like his life depended on it, acting as if he didn’t hear anything at all. He didn’t want anyone getting any ideas. His chest did tighten at the name, though he didn’t want to admit it. 

He says it so easily, Draco thought, jaw clenching. Like it’s nothing. Probably because he thinks he’s untouchable. We’ll see about that... 

“The Ministry,” Dumbledore pressed on, “continues their efforts to resist him — and yet, as we all know, fear is a treacherous ally. It blinds, it divides, and it can turn even the strongest among us into something unrecognizable. Something dangerous, even. We must be careful and very aware of this.” 

Draco’s gaze flickered briefly toward the Gryffindor table. Potter sat there, staring at Dumbledore with that irritating look of grim determination, like he was the only one who truly understood.

Draco looked away, swallowing hard. 

“Therefore,” Dumbledore said, his voice softening but no less firm, “I ask that we remember who we are — and what we stand for. Unity, courage, and truth. These are our greatest defences against the darkness that grows beyond these walls.” 

Draco shifted in his seat, the words prickling beneath his skin like static. Unity. Courage. Truth. Easy words for someone who had never been told to kill. 

The applause began politely, almost uncertainly, and then faded quickly. 

Draco barely moved. He only stared down at his uneaten plate, the food making him more sick than he already felt. 

The fork twitched once, then stilled completely, falling to the table with a clatter.

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Draco pushed open the Slytherin common room door a few minutes later than everyone else, letting it close softly behind him. He had wandered about for a bit in need of some fresh air before entering the dark and very much enclosed dungeon. The warm green glow from the lake filtered across the low tables and leather chairs, and a few students were scattered around, quietly chatting or nursing a late drink. 

He dropped into an armchair with a long, slow exhale. 

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He began rubbing his temples, trying not to rack his brain too much. He felt like his head was going to explode. 

Pansy and Blaise, already seated near the fire, exchanged a glance before Blaise raised an eyebrow. 

“Don’t understand what?” Blaise asked, voice smooth, teasing. 

“Potter,” Draco said sharply, without looking up. “I saw him. On the train. And what happened on there - he just shouldn't be here right now. And he was. He is. As if nothing happened. How? How is he even—” 

He broke off, exhaling a long breath and pressing his hands over his face in frustration. 

Pansy’s expression softened. She reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Draco,” she said gently, though there was a hint of wry affection in her tone, “perhaps if you told us what actually happened on the train, we might be able to make sense of it, love.” 

Blaise nodded, adding, “Otherwise, it’s rather like we’re meant to decipher riddles without a key—and you know how I loathe unnecessary effort.” 

Draco looked up at them, defeated. 

“You know what— it’s not that important, actually. I’ve better things to focus on than some insolent, bedheaded idiot who hasn’t the faintest clue what he’s doing half the time—unlike me.” His tone was sharp, strained, the words coming out a little too fast. 

He pushed himself up from the couch, straightening his tie. 

“I think I’ll be off to bed. See you in the morning,” he said curtly, before disappearing up the stairs without another glance. 

Pansy and Blaise sat in silence for a moment, the echo of his footsteps fading. 

Pansy exhaled, scrunching her nose in that way she always did when something truly bothered her once he was out of earshot. “I’m going to be honest, Blaise—I’m worried about him. And not the usual ‘Potter this, Potter that’ kind of concern. I mean, properly worried. He’s been off since the summer, and he never wants to talk to us anymore. He wouldn’t even tell us what happened just now—which was about Potter—and we both know that can’t be good.” 

Blaise leaned back, regarding the space where Draco originally sat with a thoughtful frown. “No, it can’t,” he murmured. “He’s unraveling, though he’d rather hex himself than admit it.” His gaze shifted back to Pansy, his tone calm but measured. 

“Whatever happened on that train, it’s still got its claws in him. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. Discreetly.” 

Pansy nodded, lips pressing together. “He won’t make it easy.” 

A faint smirk ghosted across Blaise’s face. “Since when has Draco Malfoy ever made anything easy?” 

Pansy snorted, smirking back, but only for a second before the silence settled between the two of them again. 

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Draco shut the door to his dormitory and leaned back against it, the click of the latch sounding far too loud in the stillness.

The greenish glow from the lake filtered through the windows, soft and shifting, painting the room in shades of cold silver and dark water. 

His trunk sat unpacked at the foot of the bed, looking neglected. Draco removed and tossed his robe onto the top of his trunk, not really paying any mind to whether or not it was wrinkled or neatly placed. He didn’t feel like unpacking or organizing at the moment. He had other things on his mind.

The faint echo of laughter drifted up from the Slytherin common room below — muffled by stone, yet sharp enough to sting. He couldn’t tell whether it was Blaise’s or Pansy’s. Probably both. They’d gone back to their games and gossip easily enough, hadn’t they? As though he weren’t still choking on the weight of it all. They hadn’t a clue what Draco was going through. But he was fine, everything was as it was supposed to be. There was a reason he had to do this. Besides, it doesn’t matter. No one wants to hear anyone talk about how sorry they feel about themselves.

The world respects power, not pity.

He exhaled and pushed off the door. The dungeon air was cool and damp, and the pale green glow of the lake shimmered through the tall, arched windows, as if reflecting how he felt. It painted his bed curtains in ghostly hues, silver and shadow, and made everything look faintly unreal.

Draco sat down on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching restlessly. He hated that — the nervousness, the movement he couldn’t seem to stop. He wasn’t supposed to fidget. Malfoys didn’t fidget.

His gaze drifted toward the floorboards, but all he could see — all he could think about — was Potter.

Potter on the train.
Potter in the Great Hall.
Potter laughing with his friends, looking as if nothing bad could ever happen to him.
Potter’s eyes — green, unnervingly bright, locked on him across the room.

Draco’s stomach gave a faint, uneasy twist. He’d thought he’d buried that feeling — the one that had clawed up in the dark on the train. Fear. Guilt. Something else. Something far more dangerous than either.

He ran a hand down his face, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes until he saw stars.

Why couldn’t Potter just stay gone? Or even at least out of his way?

It wasn’t as though Draco wanted him dead — not exactly. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. 

Just… not this. Not this constant pressure in his chest, this sharp, sour ache that came every time he saw Potter walking around like he hadn’t just crawled back from the edge. He couldn’t risk anyone finding out that he didn’t already know what he had to do. Especially not Potter.

He told himself it was anger. That it was justified. Potter was reckless. Arrogant. Honestly, he was just a complete idiot. Always had been. He thought himself untouchable — above all of them.

And yet…

Draco’s throat tightened. He could still see it, if he closed his eyes — Potter pinned beneath him on the train, lanterns flickering, that startled flash of fear. It should’ve felt triumphant. It had, for a heartbeat. 

Then it had felt horrible.

He hadn’t told anyone that part. Not Blaise, not Pansy. Not even himself, at that. He didn’t want to admit it. He was a Malfoy for Merlin’s sake.

“Idiot,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure who he meant — Potter, or himself.

He stood, pacing the room. His reflection in the mirror caught his attention, and he turned toward it, scowling. He didn’t like what he saw. His face looked thinner, sharper somehow — eyes dark, jaw clenched tight. He looked like his father when he was thinking. That thought alone made his skin crawl.

He straightened, forcing his shoulders back. He couldn’t afford to look weak. Even alone, it didn’t matter. Weakness was weakness. He couldn’t risk it. Not with everything that was at hand. 

That was the other thing. The task.

His pulse quickened just thinking of it. The mark still ached sometimes — faint, ghostlike, but there. Especially since it was fairly recent compared to all the other Death Eaters. I mean, he was the youngest Death Eater after all. He hadn’t realised until recently that fear could hum like that, quiet and constant, right beneath your skin.

The plan he’d been given — his so-called “mission” — hung over him like a curse. It technically was a curse if you think about it. 

But maybe… maybe it could serve him, too. 

Maybe it could fix this gnawing imbalance, this humiliation that came with seeing Potter’s name whispered and cheered while his own family’s name was spat like poison.

Maybe this was his chance to prove he was more than his father’s shadow.

He turned away from the mirror and sat back on his bed, gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Yes. That was the point. That had always been the point. To remind them — to remind himself — that he wasn’t some coward hiding behind Potter’s victories.

And yet, beneath that thought, something quieter stirred. Something he didn’t want to look at too closely — a strange, flickering unease that felt almost like regret.

Because for all the hatred he told himself he felt, for all the justifications and venom, there was still that image: Potter’s face in the wandlight, wide-eyed and alive.

And somewhere deep down, Draco wasn’t sure whether he wanted to destroy him — or understand him.

He couldn’t keep wrapping all his thoughts around him, though. He needed to keep focused. Nothing good ever would come out of focusing on Potter anyway.

He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling until the glow from the lake blurred at the edges of his vision. His heartbeat slowed, steady but heavy.

Tomorrow, he would begin. He needed to start as soon as he could. He had to make sure he had as enough time as possible to perform his task. He needed to talk to someone, though, to help him.

He’ll do it…eventually. He did need a bit longer to fully execute his plan.

This is fine. He’s got this. Forget Potter. Forget his problems. Forget everything that made him feel. Tomorrow wasn’t for feeling—it was for doing.

Outside, the water shifted, shadows rippling across the walls like something restless, something waiting.

So was he.

Waiting for morning.
Waiting for a chance.
Waiting for it all to make sense again.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the train incident, and all Harry could think about was why Malfoy had done it. And whether or not he really was a Death Eater or not.

Classes had begun, homework had already started to pile up, and everything should’ve felt normal again. Yet every time he caught a glimpse of Draco across the corridor or at meals, something in his stomach twisted. 

He had to prove he was right. 

Over the past few days, he’s been making visits to Dumbledore’s office to gather memories and information on Voldemort. He was trying very hard to concentrate on the memories and what they meant, but all he could think about was Draco Malfoy.

Today, though, he was determined to think about anything else.

He didn’t want to become obsessed. Because everything was happening rather quickly than he had expected, and for some reason, Malfoy had a way of creeping into Harry’s thoughts and affecting whatever he was trying to do.

“Right, settle down, everyone!” Slughorn’s voice boomed cheerfully through the dungeon. The room smelled sharply of damp stone and herbs, the faint hiss of cauldrons already bubbling. “Pairs today, my dears—Amortentia! One of the more complex potions you’ll ever attempt, and I expect your full attention!”

Ron groaned beside him. “Brilliant. Love potion. Just what I wanted first thing in the morning.”

Hermione shot him a glare, but brought her attention up to the front of the class again.

Ron looked back at Harry with a raised eyebrow. “What’s her deal?” he murmured, glancing at Hermione again.

Harry shrugged but said nothing. His mind wandered toward the cabinet of ingredients where Slughorn was now rummaging for powdered moonstone and rose thorns.

It was odd being back in the dungeon with Slughorn instead of Snape—lighter somehow, but no less nerve-wracking. Harry knows he’s not the best at potions, but at least Snape wasn’t here looking down his nose at his every move, making it more difficult than it already was.

The shelves gleamed, newly polished; the jars glowed faintly in the candlelight. Across the room, Harry could see Draco bent over his own cauldron, inspecting it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. His sleeves rolled to the elbows, movements careful and precise. He looked… calmer than usual. Cold, but in control.

Harry forced himself to look away.

He hadn’t meant to glance in the first place. He had to focus. He couldn’t keep letting himself get distracted. Especially by Malfoy.

A soft thud broke his thoughts. Hermione had just dropped a tattered-looking textbook onto his desk.

“Here,” she said. “There weren’t enough new copies, so Slughorn told me to grab an old one from the cupboard.”

Harry blinked down at it. The book’s spine was cracked, the corners frayed. Faded letters saying 'Advanced Potion-Making' were titled in front.

When he opened it, the pages smelled faintly of ink and something older—dust and smoke, maybe. But there was handwriting in the margins. Notes. Tiny corrections. Someone had rewritten entire instructions in cramped, precise script.

He frowned. Property of the Half-Blood Prince, the inside cover read.

Weird. Who could that be?

Still, he copied one of the amended steps without thinking—stir counterclockwise once, not twice. The potion turned a soft, pearly sheen almost instantly, while Hermione’s across the table stubbornly stayed cloudy.

“Harry,” she hissed, glaring. “How did you—”

He shrugged. “Just followed the book.”

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By the time Slughorn ambled by, the room was thick with steam. He paused beside Harry’s cauldron and beamed. 

“Excellent, my boy! Spot-on consistency. Have a whiff, everyone—subtle but strong, eh?”

Harry leaned closer. The scent hit him immediately—warm, strange, and disorienting. It wasn’t a sweet smell like he expected.

It smelled like…
rain on stone,
fresh ink on parchment,
something dark and clean, like smoke caught on wool. Like cedarwood or pine. 

It smelt oddly… masculine. Harry shook the thought away.

He couldn’t place it. But it made his chest feel oddly tight.

Slughorn chuckled, rubbing his hands together as the class leaned in, curiosity piqued. 

“Ah, yes! Amortentia — the most dangerous potion in this room, and not because it burns through cauldrons. No, no! It’s because it reveals desire.”

A few people snickered. Lavender and Parvati leaned close, whispering excitedly.

Slughorn gestured grandly toward the cauldron nearest him. “Miss Granger! You’ve got quite the nose for theory — care to tell us what you smell?”

Hermione straightened, pink creeping up her neck. “Er—freshly mown grass,” she began, her voice measured, “new parchment… and—” She hesitated. “Spearmint toothpaste.”

Ron nearly dropped his ladle, pretending to cough into his sleeve.

The class laughed; even Slughorn’s mustache twitched with amusement. “Charming! Always fascinating, isn’t it? Everyone smells something different—what appeals to them most. A reflection of one’s deepest affections.”

Harry smiled, but didn’t laugh along with the others. His mind was still fixed on the scent lingering in his head. It had hit him like a memory he didn’t recognize, something buried just under thought.

Slughorn clapped his hands, making Harry jump a little, snapping out of his train of thought.. 

“Well then! Bottle a sample for grading, everyone, and don’t spill—it’s expensive to make and, er, quite embarrassing if you take too much in.”

The class shifted into motion. Harry corked his vial quickly, trying to ignore how his pulse was still racing for no sensible reason.

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Harry lagged behind after class, the corridors near the dungeons unusually quiet. The scent of the potion still clung to him — faint but persistent, curling at the edge of his senses like smoke that wouldn’t fade.

He told himself it was nothing. Just the potion. Just lingering steam. But the further he walked, the heavier it seemed to settle, like the air itself remembered.

He turned a corner—and nearly collided with Draco.

“Watch it, Potter,” Draco muttered, not even meeting his eye as he stepped aside. His voice was low, smooth as glass, and gone before Harry could reply.

Harry looked back, taking a quick look at him before he turned the corner again.

His tie was slightly loosened, a few strands of pale hair clinging to his forehead from the humidity.

As Draco had passed him, his scent overtook him.

Harry froze.

It was there—that same smell. Clean and sharp, like rain on stone and ink on parchment.

Harry could hardly breathe.

The scent still hung in the air, making his head spin.

Harry swallowed hard.

No. That couldn’t be right. Absolutely not.

He wouldn't believe it, not for one second.

But the realization lodged deep, impossible to shake — the potion had smelled like Draco fucking Malfoy.

Harry turned on his heels and stormed to his dormitory, head spinning. 

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He slammed the dormitory door behind him, the sound echoing through the room. He tried to gather his thoughts, but failed miserably.

For a second, he just stood there—hands still gripping the handle, chest heaving.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

Draco Malfoy. Of all people.

The thought was laughable. Disgusting, even. Except his stomach wouldn’t stop twisting, and he couldn’t get that damn smell out of his head.

Rain and parchment and smoke.

Malfoy.

Harry threw his bag onto the nearest bed—missed—and it hit the floor with a dull thud. He ran both hands through his hair, pacing.

It didn’t mean anything. The potion wasn’t some prophecy—it was just ingredients and fumes.

 He’d probably just made some weird association in his head. It was just a coincidence.

That had to be it.

Right?

Except he hadn’t thought about Malfoy at all during class. Not once.

Well. Not until Slughorn had started the demonstration, and Malfoy had been sitting a few tables away, arms crossed, with that perpetual scowl on his face. The way he’d sneered when Slughorn called Hermione “brilliant,” like he couldn’t stand to see anyone else praised.

Harry scowled at himself in the mirror over the dresser. “You’re losing it,” he muttered.

Maybe the fumes had messed with him—poisoned him a bit or something. That sounded believable enough. Amortentia was known to mess with the senses, right?
He could ask Hermione.

No, he couldn’t. She’d definitely ask what he’d smelled, and he was not about to tell her that. She would figure out who it was eventually, even if he didn’t say who it smelled like directly.

He dropped onto his bed and buried his face in his hands. His palms still smelled faintly of potion smoke and cauldron steam. Somehow, it felt like him.

He groaned, rolling onto his back, staring at the canopy above him.

Merlin’s beard, what was wrong with him?

It wasn’t like he liked Malfoy. He hated him. He should hate him. Malfoy was cruel, entitled, and—

Harry blinked. The image of him in Potions earlier flashed again: his hair slicked back but a few strands loose near his temple, his uniform immaculate, his voice low when he’d murmured something to Zabini.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

He hated him. He definitely hated him. He was most likely a Death Eater for Merlin’s sake.

So why did it feel like his heart hadn’t stopped racing since the corridor?

Maybe it was just because he had just run up here, and the stress of everything was just overwhelming. It had nothing to do with Malfoy. 

Maybe it’s because he’s been so focused on figuring out whether or not he’s a Death Eater just messed with his head, and that’s why it resulted in the smell of Amortentia ending up smelling like him.

Harry should probably make a trip to the library.

Or maybe even Dumbledore, perhaps? He would understand, right? He should probably just let it go, though. He and Dumbledore have other things to do and have enough on their plate already.

Harry sighed, sitting up, contemplating what to do next. He began tapping his foot, thinking hard.

He then decided what he should do. Even though he told himself he wouldn’t, he decided he would rather share it with the two people he trusted most, rather than keep it to himself. He might actually go insane if he kept it to himself. It’s never gone well whenever he’s done that.

But it hasn’t necessarily been all grand when he told someone, either. 

He pushed himself off the bed and headed for the common room.

Ron and Hermione were sitting by the fire, books open between them. Hermione looked far too content for someone doing homework; Ron looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” Hermione said, sounding a bit annoyed, glancing up. “How are your notes from Potions? I thought it went rather well, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quickly, sliding into the chair across from them. “Yeah, great. Brilliant.”

He must’ve sounded strange, because Ron gave him a skeptical look.

“You look sick, mate,” Ron said, a look of concern falling onto his face. “This doesn’t have to do with Dumbledore and the memories he’s given you? What have you found out?”

Harry blinked. “What? Oh, No. No, nothing about that, yet.”

He hesitated. “Actually—uh, weird question—but when Slughorn showed us that potion today, you know, the one that smells different to everyone…”

“Amortentia,” Hermione supplied, instantly. “It’s fascinating, really. It reveals the scents most attractive to you—emotionally or subconsciously. It’s not just physical attraction, either. It can—”

Harry cut in before she could start a lecture. “Right, yeah, that one.”

He tried to sound casual, as if he were just making conversation. “What did it smell like to you?”

Hermione blinked at him. “Oh. Well… fresh parchment, new-cut grass, and—um—spearmint toothpaste,” she said, her cheeks coloring slightly.

Harry tried not to grin. “Right. Yeah. Like you said in class.”

Ron leaned back, smirking, Hermione’s statement going right over his head. “What about you, mate? What’d you smell? Chudley Cannons locker room?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Funny. Sounds more like something you would. In that case, what did it smell like to you?”

“The Great Hall,” Ron said immediately. “ You know, food. Sausages. Maybe treacle tart? Dunno. It's all sort of mixed.”

Harry nodded. “Ah, well, that figures.”

Hermione studied him, probably waiting for him to say something more. “Why do you ask?” She said finally.

Harry hesitated. He could lie. He should lie. But the question burned at the back of his throat, relentless. Besides, hiding things from Hermione proved to be impossible.

He shrugged, keeping his voice light. “Just… mine smelled weird, that’s all. Like something I can’t quite place. So I don’t even really know myself,”

“Maybe it’s connected to a memory of some sort,” Hermione offered. “It can be quite abstract. After all, you have been visiting Dumbledore and learning about that as well. Maybe it could even be from someone else's memory, but that’s rare and unlikely. Sometimes, you don’t recognize the scent until much later, if it’s your own, especially.”

Harry froze for half a second too long.

Until much later.

Right. Too late already, then.

“Yeah,” he said finally, forcing a faint smile. “Probably nothing. Just curious.”

Hermione eyed him skeptically. “Why do you ask? You don’t normally ask questions like that without any reason. I know you, Harry,”

Harry hesitated, unsure what he should say.

“It’s really nothing, ‘Mione,” he mumbled, sinking into the couch some more.“I just thought it was… odd, that’s all. It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” Hermione asked, sitting up, papers rustling.

Harry looked away for a second. “Well…maybe something more…” he trailed off, unsure if he should be honest. He was going to say something more feminine or sweet, but he didn’t want to give away that it wasn’t a girl he was smelling. “I’m not sure, to be fair. Just not…whatever it was.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly — that look that meant she knew he wasn’t telling the full truth, but hadn’t decided whether to confront him about it yet.

“Hm, alright,” she said slowly. “Well, just so you know, Amortentia can be quite revealing, actually. It’s not always about who you fancy or love — sometimes it’s tied to people you feel strongly about, like being infatuated with them. Even—”

“Even people you can’t stand,” Ron interrupted with a grin. “So maybe yours smelled like Snape’s office, eh, Harry?”

Harry let out a laugh that he couldn’t hold back. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Ron snorted, clearly pleased with himself, and went back to his parchment. Hermione, though, kept studying him.

She looked intent, like she was turning something over in her mind.

Harry could practically feel her trying to read him, trying to pick him apart almost and it made his skin prickle. He dropped his eyes to the fire, pretending to be absorbed in the way the flames bent and danced in the grate.

Somehow, it made it worse.

The longer he stared, the more the image shifted in his mind — pale light, sharp features, grey eyes that looked through him rather than at him.

He dragged in a breath, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Merlin, what was wrong with him?

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it again, defeated. Harry doesn’t know if he felt better or worse.

The moment passed when Hermione finally sighed and went back to her book.

Harry slumped in the chair, grateful for the reprieve, but his chest still felt too tight.

He didn’t know how long they sat there after that — maybe an hour, maybe more. The fire crackled lower. Ron closed his eyes, eventually beginning to snore softly, and Hermione’s quill scratched steadily across parchment.

Meanwhile, Harry just sat there, his thoughts looping endlessly, replaying that single second in the corridor.

It hadn’t been his imagination. He’d known the scent as soon as it hit him.

But how was that even possible? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t like Malfoy. He never had. Malfoy had made his life hell since the first year. The git didn’t even deserve a second thought, let alone being the exact scent in a bloody love potion. He needed to go to bed and just forget about this whole day.

Harry stood abruptly, too quickly, and the chair legs scraped against the floor. Hermione jumped.
“Harry!” she said, startled. “What on earth—?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I think I’ll be off to bed. See you in the morning,”

Before she could question him further, he was already halfway up the boys’ staircase.

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He entered, once again, the empty dormitory. The room was quiet like before, bathed in dim torchlight.

He sat down on his bed and stared at nothing. The smell still clung faintly to his robes—he was sure of it. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was like the scent had sunk into his skin, mocking him, engraved into his mind,

Draco bloody Malfoy.

Harry groaned and flopped backward onto his pillow, glaring up at the canopy.

It wasn’t even that the smell itself was bad. It wasn’t. That was the problem. It had been… good. Familiar. Intoxicating. 

Harry shook the startling thought away. No, I refuse to think that Malfoy smells intoxicating, Merlin, no.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

Harry rolled over, burying his face in the pillow as if that could block the thoughts out.

Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe Amortentia didn’t always mean attraction—it could mean… anything. Hatred. Rivalry.

They’d been tied to each other for years, hadn’t they? Opposites across a chessboard. That’s all it was.

Nothing romantic. And he wasn’t obsessed with Malfoy. He was just making a few observations about him that he found to be suspicious. Malfoy’s behavior hasn’t been normal, and he was the only one that was taking it seriously. That must have messed with his head somehow, affecting the result of the Amortentia.

Maybe some sleep would help… 

He didn’t fall asleep for hours. Every time his eyes closed, he saw the flash of silver hair, the faint smirk, the way Malfoy’s would smirk to his friends whenever they cracked a joke, even if it was on someone’s behalf (which it normally was), they way he acted like he didn’t give a rat’s arse about how he treated others, or school, but somehow still got immaculate grades.

He couldn’t stop thinking about him. About Malfoy. This had to stop. 

Maybe he should take a break from figuring out whether he really is what he suspects him to be. If it’s taking a toll on him like this, it’s probably for the best.

But what if he takes a break only to find out that he’s been right all along and did nothing about it?

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

Harry tossed and turned all night.