okay i cant contain this idea any longer so ill drop something lil to satiate my raw and primal need to read about it:
The dungeon was freezing as always, but the cauldron between them was radiating a thick, suffocating heat.
It made Harry's jet black hair stick to his forehead.
"Stir it clockwise, Potter," Draco snapped, not looking up from his silver knife.
The way he said his name carried a little bit of its usual venom, but it wasn't anything Harry wasn't used to.
"If you ruin this batch, Slughorn will make us start over, and I have absolutely no desire to spend another evening breathing your air." Draco was slicing sopophorous beans with a precision that bordered on psychotic.
Harry didn't answer. He wasn't going to givw him the satisfaction. Instead, he was staring into the pearlescent sheen of their Amortentia. It was swirling in perfect, mesmerizing spirals, the steam rising in lazy corkscrews.
The instructions said it was supposed to smell like what attracted you.
Harry never understood how that worked. He thought none of the students actually knew the reason behind it. Well, none, except for Hermione. Probably.
"Well?" Draco asked, his voice dropping its sharp edge for a fraction of a second, replaced by a strange curiosity. He leaned slightly over the table, wiping his hands on his robes. "What do you smell, then? Let’s hear what the Chosen One’s deepest desires are. Dusty broomsticks, maybe? Or the crushing weight of your own ego? Rather possible, don't you agree?" The venom was starting to pool around his mouth.
Harry blinked, trying to clear his head. The vapor was thick, settling over his senses.
"No," Harry said, his voice a little rougher than intended. He leaned in an inch closer to the potion. "It’s... crisp. Like the air right before a storm." He didn't know why he was taking Draco's question seriously, while the only thing the boy expected out of the conversation was obviously a fight.
He didn't see Draco's hand pause on the edge of the table.
"And something... something sharp," Harry continued, looking up from the cauldron, his green eyes locking onto Draco’s grey ones. "Like... green apples. And peppermint." He had to swallow. "Like a ridiculous, expensive ink."
Draco froze. The smirk died instantly on his face. His pale skin went entirely flush, a bright, sudden pink spreading across his cheekbones and hitting the tips of his ears. He looked at the cauldron, then at Harry, then back at the cauldron as if it had just grown teeth.
He cleared his throat, not looking at Harry. "You're an idiot, Potter," Draco muttered, his voice suddenly very quiet. He stepped back from the table, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk.
"Why?" Harry asked, genuine confusion blooming in his chest. "What do you smell?"
Draco looked away, staring intensely at a jar across the room. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.
"Nothing," Draco lied smoothly, though the slight tremor in his hand gave him away. He hoped that Harry hadn't seen anything. "It smells like nothing."
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