A/N: Written for the Amortentia Competition on the HPFC forum. My prompts were Soap, Rain, and Chamomile.
The great hall is silent when you're sorted, the kind of eerie quiet James told you happened when he got sorted too. James got Gryffindor and he promises you will too, the kind of promise that only people who've never been double crossed can make.
The hat is not as large as you are small, but size is never a guarantee of power and you know before the hat even says a word that you've lost a battle you didn't know you were fighting.
("Slytherin!" the hat calls and your world turns black but you keep your balance. You will not fall.)
The prefect who takes you to the dungeons is sharp and cold and leaves you with questions burning on the tip of your tongue. You turn to the person nearest to you.
A second year by the looks of it: Grey eyes, perfectly combed blond hair and a crisp, clean, scent of soap that makes you want to breathe in. You feel dirty here, because you're a Slytherin and yet you're not; you're just a girl head over heels in her ambitions and the smell, just for a minute, makes you feel safe, clean and it gives you just enough confidence to speak.
You straighten your back in an attempt to make up for your messy hair and-
"I'm Lilly," You say because Potters don't belong in dungeons. "I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me…"
His name is Scorpius Malfoy and he's scared of his housemates and the dark and you. His ice demeanor is solid but your parents can do unforgivable curses and your aunt kept a woman in a jar.
You've learned from the best.
You're all flames and fire and you burn him when he gets to close but you've begun to think he likes the flames because he keeps coming back for more.
It's not easy in Slytherin and you get bruises and hex scars and a tongue sharp enough to slice your enemies with because you have a reputation now, of course you do, because you're a Slytherin Potter and so what if you've lost your family and your innocence because you have him:
Scorpius Malfoy. Your best friend. Your soul mate. The boy who brings you your homework to the hospital wing and brews pepper-up potion in the dungeon's shadows for your plots.
By the time you're in fourth year, your relationship is a potion brought to a slow boil. He drags you to dance with him in the rain and you're both all wet, shoes drenched and hair dripping, but it smells like rain and rebirth and you can't help but smile.
He's the only person surprised when you grab the back of his head and snog him speechless.
He asks you to marry him the moment you get off the train at platform 9 and 3/4, kneeling down on the stone floor with a ring box cradled in his hands.
You hear the booing behind you because neither of you are popular the dark Potter and the death eaters son but he smells like the chamomile tea you had in Madame Puddifoot's on your first date (stuttering and awkward even though you've been everything for each other for years) and when you say yes, his face illuminates and-
there's nothing to say but yes.
(When you both are finally done beaming too much to breathe, you lean in, the way you've done for years. He smells like soap and rain and tea and love, and it feels like you're finally home.)