When Draco finally enters the Slytherin common room that evening, he wants nothing more than to lie down somewhere. His wrists hurt when he moves them in certain directions, and the place his back meets his neck still aches from hunching over for so long. It's all Potter's fault, really. Couldn't keep his hands to himself, even with Professor Snape in the room, could he?

He sits down beside Pansy on the sofa near the fireplace, and all but sinks into the cushions with a sigh. She looks up from the book in her lap briefly – Charms, by the looks of it – before shutting it and setting it aside.

"How'd it go?"

"I never want to look at a cauldron ever again, I don't think."

She snorts at that – at least someone's amused – and reaches over the armrest of the sofa for a thin piece of firewood. Draco watches her toss it into the fire, and hears it crackle and burn in response.

It's warm, cosy even, but it's not the same. It's not quite what he had smelled – what he had felt – from the potion they had brewed earlier that day. It lacks a certain something, something he can't quite place a finger on, something Potter hadn't.

"Are you sure we brewed it correctly?"

"What?" Pansy says, and her brows furrow. "The Amortentia potion, you mean? What about it?"

Draco doesn't respond right away, his gaze flitting around the room, and he's not quite sure how much he should reveal. The Slytherin common room is quiet this time of day, some having already gone to get ready for bed, and the only ones left besides the two of them are either busy studying or talking. No one around seems to be remotely interested in their conversation, so he turns to face Pansy again.

"Because, I could smell something else," he admits, not any louder than he has to, "in the potion."

"Okay," Pansy says, clearly waiting for him to elaborate.

"Someone else."

She blinks, and stares at him for a moment, and then her lips curl up into the biggest grin he thinks he has ever seen on her face before. Scooting closer and glancing around at the others in the room, she leans in to whisper; "Someone you fancy?"

Salazar Slytherin himself, no. Absolutely not. Clearly this girl is not listening properly, because the potion the two of them had "succeeded in brewing" had obviously not been as successful as they had thought if it had smelled of Harry Potter.

"No," he hisses in reply, "which is why I'm asking if we did it right."

"Professor Snape said so, didn't he?"

He had, yes, but to be fair, he hadn't as much as looked at it since they were done brewing it anyway.

"We must have done something wrong."

Pansy shrugs her shoulders, not anywhere near as concerned as he is about this apparently. "We followed the recipe properly," she says, pulling her Charms book back into her lap and searching for the page she had left off at. "I didn't smell anything odd in it."

Here it goes.

"Potter."

She pauses, promptly shuts the book again and turns to face him. "Sorry?"

"I–" He lowers his voice as the pair of first years studying at a table look up from their books. Upon meeting their eyes, they look away almost immediately. "I smelled him in the Amortentia potion."

"Harry Potter?" Her face scrunches up in a grimace, and she looks at him as if he has grown an extra head. By the looks of it, it's not as pretty as the one he already has. "Why?"

"Because we brewed the potion wrong."

"But we didn't brew it wrong."

"Then why do I–" His voice echoes off the stone walls of the Slytherin common room, and everyone in it is looking at him now, staring at him with confusion and surprise in their eyes. He hadn't meant to raise his voice that much. With everyone now looking, and likely listening, he leans in closer, voice much more quiet. "Then why do I smell Potter in the potion, if we were successful in making it?"

"I– I don't– How should I–" She pauses, takes a deep, long breath which she holds for a few moments before exhaling. Then, she looks at him.

"Alright, let's say we did do it correctly, just like Professor Snape said," she begins, and stops him when he opens his mouth to speak, "that means it should smell like what attracts you the most, right? Like, I smelled pansy flowers which are my favourite flowers, and warm summer days when the sun's out and there's no school until summer's over, and– You know this." He nods wordlessly. "Right, so, that means?"

She raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"I–" He struggles to say the words, doesn't want to believe them actually, despite how… logical they may seem. "I'm attracted to– to Harry Potter."

"Seems like it."

Draco's gaze wanders back to the fireplace, not quite sure what else to say to that. It's absurd, really. Attracted to Harry Potter, of all the people at this school – in this world even. There must be a mistake, and if he didn't have as much trust as he does in his own knowledge of Potions, he would be certain it's not true.

"You doing alright?" Pansy eventually asks, places a gentle hand on his knee when he doesn't react right away. "If it's of any help, he's not that bad looking."

It isn't, he thinks to himself as he watches the flames, it really isn't.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he says, and stands on unsteady feet. He feels weird, if not a little out of it, as if his mind isn't all there. His bed feels tempting, sleep even more so. "I need to lie down."

Then, he says goodnight to her – he thinks – and it's all a blur from then on out. He ends up in his bed eventually, in the boys' dormitory, dressed in a new set of pyjamas, and there is a minty taste in his mouth. He shuts his eyes, twists and turns to find a comfortable position, and tries his best to calm down his thoughts. He can deal with those tomorrow, after a good night's rest. It's future-Draco's problem now.

Much too soon, however, there are footsteps passing by his bed. Then, a voice, and it's quiet, but not quiet enough.

"Is the Quidditch practice still happening tomorrow?"

Theo.

There is rustling of bedsheets, and Draco doesn't need to hear him speak to know it's Blaise. He had been sitting in his bed when Draco had come in, he faintly recalls anyway. "Yeah, why?"

"Nothing, I just need to buy some more polish, that's all," Theo replies, and he can hear a bed creak as he presumably gets in it. "I'm running out."

Their conversation continues for a little while longer, but Draco isn't listening anymore. He stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide open, and not feeling quite as tired as he had been before.

Broomstick polish.

Throwing the covers off himself and pushing the curtains of his bed aside, he all but rolls out of it to locate his things. Blaise and Theo pause mid-conversation to watch him as he begins searching through the bag containing all his Quidditch equipment, and they're clearly too surprised to say anything.

Tucked away beneath the gear he usually wears, he finds the container of his broomstick polish. He opens it to find it half-empty, though he knows there is another one at the bottom somewhere, and the scent is familiar. It brings memories of Quidditch practices at sunset, matches on weekends, and countless victories. He has used the same one since his first year, he thinks, courtesy of his father. How much it costs exactly, he doesn't really know, though he highly doubts the Weasleys could get their hands on it.

He brings the polish up to his nose.

It can't be this one, can it?

"Draco?" he hears from one of the other beds, and he looks over to see Blaise looking at him. He looks a little concerned, and that seems to have been happening a bit more often today, hasn't it? "You alright?"

"Yes, I just–" He looks back down at the container of broomstick polish, and quickly closes it and shoves it back into his bag. "I was just checking how much I had left. Goodnight."

Both Blaise and Theo eye him curiously as he gets back in bed, until once again the curtains separate them, though neither of them say anything else.

It can't be his, Draco tells himself as he gets back under the covers, it would simply be wishful– no, absurd to even suggest. Firstly, Draco Malfoy finding Potter attractive is one – quite frankly unbelievable – thing. His hair is always all unruly and unkempt, and his shirt is never tucked, and he can't tie his tie properly to save his life. Not to mention, he rejected his friendship back in their first year for a bloody Weasley.

Draco scoffs and rolls onto his side. A Weasley, over him. What could he possibly offer him that he can't?

And then, secondly, the odds of Harry Potter finding him attractive, as well? As far as he's concerned, the Boy Who Lived has held nothing but resentment for him since they met.

Still, he supposes he could test the theory, couldn't he? Put it all to rest, go about his life, and will his supposed attraction away for good.

That will surely work.