There is something different about Professor Snape's demeanour that morning as the groups of students file into the classroom for Potions class. He stares without a word as they find their seats, chatter slowly dying down into silence, and almost reluctantly does he shut the door behind them and begin writing the plan for today's lesson on the blackboard.
Draco Malfoy doesn't think he's ever seen Snape this exasperated, yet so… quiet. Of course, he's rarely ever in a good mood – if at all – but this feels different. Even when Longbottom manages to knock a phial on his desk over, it warrants no reaction. His annoyance almost seems like it's directed elsewhere today. Everyone else must notice his odd behaviour as well, because several concerned glances are exchanged across the room and a few dare whisper amongst themselves.
This goes on for a while longer before anyone dares say anything.
Granger, obviously.
"Erm… Professor?" When she's not interrupted, she continues. "I thought we were going to continue with the Strengthening Solution today?"
It's only then Professor Snape stops writing and slowly turns to face them all.
"Originally we were to brew the Strengthening Solution today so you could get started on your essays." There is a subtle twitch of his brow, and he sounds less pleased than normal. "However, the Headmaster has made some… rearrangements, and the lesson will be moved to next week. Expect an extra lesson towards the end of the year."
With that, he returned to his desk, and had he been anyone else, had he surely rolled his eyes and sighed at the protests from some of the students. Weasley was one of them, turning towards the rest of the Gryffindor Trio to complain. Something about being overworked, by the sound of it. As if that weasel had worked a day in his life in this class, or any of them for that matter.
Draco ignored their prattling to look at the board, curious as to what that old man wanted them to do instead, what could be so important.
Amortentia.
"The love potion?" Granger piped up as the room had quieted down again. "But, sir, isn't this material for next year? Why are we learning this now?"
Somehow, Professor Snape looked even more exasperated than he had before. "The Headmaster deemed it appropriate to learn about the potion now as," he paused with what sounded like a sigh, "Valentine's Day is approaching, and certain individuals seem to find it amusing to slip love potions into their fellow students' pumpkin juice at breakfast. He thinks an earlier lesson is in order."
A couple Gryffindors turn to look at a girl with curly hair sitting in the back. She glances wide-eyed around, and Draco hears her voice shake with emotion as she begins muttering to the girl she's sitting with.
"Can anyone tell me what this potion does?" the professor asks, because he has to ask, rather than because he wants an answer. A sniffle is heard from the back of the classroom. He promptly continues as a hand shoots into the air. "Anyone other than Miss Granger."
A couple moments of silence follows, and he scans the room, presumably for anyone off their guard. However, there doesn't seem to be anyone.
"Mr Malfoy."
Everyone's attention is on him in an instant, and he straightens in his seat.
"It's the most powerful love potion in existence," he begins, pausing only briefly to recall the words he's certain he has read somewhere before. "It causes a dangerously obsessive infatuation from the drinker, and when brewed correctly, should have a spiralling steam and smell like what attracts you the most."
"Correct. Ten points to Slytherin." Professor Snape gestures at the board. "You'll work in pairs. The recipe is on the board."
The professor then – uncharacteristically – stays seated nearly the entire time they work on their potions. He merely sits and watches as they get their ingredients and cauldrons ready and begin brewing, chopping and stirring. It's only when Potter and Weasley's potion-in-progress nearly boils over, and the girl with the curly hair's ingredients keep escaping the chopping board, that he rises from his seat behind his desk.
Draco quite likes Potions class – and Pansy isn't half bad when she's not busy talking to Blaise or Theo – so it's not too much of a challenge, and they're among the first ones to finish.
The room slowly fills with chatter as more and more finish, and as he looks around, Draco realises not everyone's potion brewing has gone as smooth as theirs. Quite the opposite, in fact.
"Is it supposed to look like that?" a Gryffindor he doesn't quite recall the name of, says, peeking into the cauldron on his desk. His partner pours some into a phial, and the liquid is dark and murky. They both lean in to smell, and simultaneously gag at the stench.
"Did you stir before adding the pearl dust, or after?"
"Before?"
The other Gryffindor groans, placing the phial down and pushing it as far away as he could, "I told you to stir after."
"You said before."
"Yeah, 'not before I tell you to'."
Further back, he can hear Potter and Weasley bickering over a cauldron he's quite sure is smoking.
He hears Pansy snicker beside him, and when he looks over at her, they exchange amused grins. Was Professor Snape not within earshot, he would have commented on their lack of basic communication skills and intelligence.
Gryffindors.
"Pass me a phial, would you," he says instead, and in it he carefully, with utmost precision, pours some of the pearlescent liquid. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Granger staring through her frizzy fringe with something he can only describe as bitterness. Is that envy, he's sensing?
"Malfoy, Parkinson." Professor Snape is standing now, though he stays by his desk as he speaks. "It seems you're the only ones who were successful in your brewing." At that Pansy gently nudges him, and does not miss the opportunity to send the rest of the students a snarky smile.
"Twenty points to Slytherin."
The Gryffindors in the room sound anything but pleased, and the ginger weasel scoffs and mutters something to Potter, who does nothing but stare. Speechless, are we? Draco gives him a little wave.
"Pass the phial around and write down what you smell. Leave the parchment at my desk. Once you're all done, you're dismissed."
The classroom immediately fills with noise as people await their turn, disposing of their leftover ingredients, pulling quills and parchment out of their bags, and talking. He lets Pansy take the potion first, watches her bring the phial to her nose and sees the gears turning in her head. As she writes, he leans over to see.
Pansy flowers.
Warm summer days.
Earthy.
"Here," she says and hands him the potion to gather her things.
Draco takes the phial from her to bring it closer. He inhales, slowly, and his gaze flits about as he focuses on the scents filling his senses.
He smells paper. It reminds him of evenings spent studying in the common room with his friends, of flipping through textbooks on potions and spells and stories for essays and homework, and it reminds him of just how quiet and peaceful the library can get.
He smells his mother's perfume. There are notes of floral and of spice, yet it has a faint sweetness to it. It reminds him of her gentle embrace, of her warm hand stroking his hair, and of her safe presence.
Lastly, he smells a warm, cosy fire. It has a faint wooden scent to it, and it feels comforting and calming. He pictures coming back inside after having been out in the cold, perhaps after early morning Quidditch practice, and he pictures sitting down by a fireplace and letting the flames warm him up and melt all the stress and tension in his muscles away. The sensation it gives wraps around him like a blanket on a chilly evening, soft against his cold skin, and he finds his eyes slipping shut.
It feels familiar, somehow, though he can't quite place it. But, it's…
It's nice.
He's snapped out of it by Pansy and Blaise's muffled voices. Opening his eyes, he sees them staring. A couple other Slytherin students further back seem to have noticed as well, eyeing him curiously.
He ignores them, passing the phial over to Blaise to search for a quill.
"Are you alright?" Pansy asks, handing him her own quill, and she almost looks concerned. Had he really been acting that odd? He must have only been out of it for a couple moments at most, he thinks at least. "What did you smell?"
"I'm fine, and just," he pauses, and the warmth from the fire lingers in his chest still, "my mother."
They seem to accept that answer, and they leave it at that. Blaise averts his attention to the potion, and Pansy simply smiles and nudges him playfully. "Aw," she coos, "how sweet."
Paper.
My M Perfume.
Warmth.
Draco leaves the piece of parchment on Professor Snape's desk once he's done, face down, before returning to his desk to wait for the others.
And, he doesn't mean to eavesdrop. He really doesn't. It just so happens that Weasel's voice is annoying and loud, and really hard to tune out when he wants to. It's like a Mandrake screaming, honestly, and it's quite unfortunate he can't grab this one by the hair and shove it into a pot of dirt. Without getting into trouble, that is.
"What'd you smell, Hermione?" he asks, his words bouncing off the stone walls of the classroom and hitting his eardrums in the most unpleasant way.
"Erm…" Granger fumbles with her quill and avoids direct eye contact. She haphazardly folds her piece of parchment, not only once, but twice. One either has to be a Weasley, or a complete idiot, to not notice her flustered demeanour and the hesitation in her tone. Though, Draco supposes one can't be one without the other.
"Freshly cut grass, new parchment, and…" She folds the piece of parchment once more. "That's all."
Weasley, of course, doesn't notice anything amiss about her behaviour. Draco refrains from rolling his eyes. Since the incident at breakfast a few weeks ago – the reason they're all here brewing love potions to begin with – even he should have noticed the insufferable pining at this point.
What an absolute moron.
"What about you, Harry?" she asks, diverting the conversation elsewhere, and Draco can't deny that his interest has been piqued.
What could Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived himself, be most attracted to, then? Perhaps he wants to know, perhaps not. It could be anything embarrassing or revealing after all. Perhaps the perfume of one of his little girlfriends no one knows of, or even something relating to his parents. His dead parents. Now that would be depressing, wouldn't it?
Who knows what he might find out about him which he could use against him, and Draco Malfoy is not one to throw away an opportunity like this. So, yes, yes he does want to know.
"Treacle tart, and a woody scent, like a broomstick handle," he says, and Draco nearly rolls his eyes. Treacle tarts and broomstick handles? He had expected something a little more interesting.
"And broomstick polish," he pauses with a furrow of his brows, "I think."
"You think?" Weasley says, watching Granger so intensely as she goes to drop off her parchment at Professor Snape's desk that Draco's surprised he had heard him speaking, let alone registered his words.
"It doesn't really smell like the one I usually use." Weasley only hums in response, and now he's certainly not listening. "I don't think it's my own…"
This could be interesting.
Wordlessly does he stand, drawing the attention of most of the room as his chair scrapes against the floor. Pansy pauses in the middle of whatever story she had been telling the rest of the group of Slytherins now, and they watch him cross the room to stop by the Golden Trio themselves.
It is only then Weasley notices him. "What do you want, Malfoy?" he snarls, spitting his name out as if it were a pain to say.
Draco ignores him for Potter.
"So," he says with an amused smile, "I couldn't help but overhear, you've got yourself a new girlfriend. A Quidditch player no less."
He hears Pansy, Blaise and the others laughing amongst themselves on the opposite side of the room, and Professor Snape is not looking in their direction when he checks.
"How romantic," he coos, tone dripping sarcasm, and he gives Potter his sweetest smile, "if she's a Gryffindor, you can lose the season together. Isn't that nice?"
When he glances over his shoulder, all his friends are listening in, looking quite amused. Pansy dramatically blows them all a kiss.
"Sod off, Malfoy."
"Now, now. I was merely being nice, Potter." He ignores the trio's sour stares to rest his palms on Potter's desk and lean further into his personal space. Weasley looks about ready to pounce, though with Snape still in the room, Draco knows even he won't be as stupid. "All I was saying is, hopefully this one won't leave you as well. That does seem to be a bit of a pattern in your life."
Potter stands up so fast he nearly knocks into him, and Draco takes the smallest of steps behind him. However, he is quick to steady himself, hiding his surprise.
"What did you say?" Granger, ever the diplomat, moves to grab him and hold him back, but Potter shrugs her off. He steps closer, and Draco is not one to back down from a fight, so he remains exactly where he is. "Do you want to run that by me again?"
"It's just an observation." He hears scraping of chairs from somewhere behind him, knows exactly who it is, and he gestures for Blaise to sit without looking. "People you care about always seem to… die, don't they?"
Potter has never looked more upset than this, Draco doesn't think, and he can't help but smile in amusement. At that, the Chosen One steps even closer, and like this, the tips of their shoes nearly touch.
"Shut. Up."
The grin on Draco's face merely grows. Is this the Gryffindor chivalry and bravery he's heard so much about, yet rarely ever seen any of?
"Oh, did your mother tell you–"
A hand grabs him by the collar, yanking him even closer. Behind him, he hears the sound of chairs scraping roughly against the floor and the angry protests of his friends. Anyone who hadn't been looking at them before, are certainly looking now.
Potter is speaking, he thinks, but his words are muffled and far away, like he's been submerged in water. There's a hand gripping his arm, pulling him back and away from Potter. They block his view of him, and he thinks it might be Professor Snape finally intervening.
Draco Malfoy is too focused on the familiar wooden scent in the air around them and the warmth of a fire lingering in his chest somewhere, and–
No. No.
It can't be.