#(fred)

The classroom is humid and swirling with steam as Slughorn’s prized cauldron of Amortentia bubbles harshly at the front of the room. The potion’s mother-of-pearl sheen— promising to reveal the smells that represent someone’s deepest attractions— glints under the torchlight, and the entire class is restless: half are thrilled, half are mortified at the prospect of announcing their crushes to a room full of their peers.

You’re stood in the middle of the line behind Hermione, trying to keep your faces neutral. “God, I’m nervous,” Hermione gushes. “What if I smell— never mind.”

Ron, she means, of course she means Ron. Everyone but her can see how in love the pair of them are. It’s actually quite disgusting. “You’ll be fine, Hermione. It’s all bollocks, anyway. You’ll probably just smell books or something,” you laugh. She shoves your shoulder with a smile and turns back to the front.

Hermione gets to the front of the queue. “Go ahead, dear, go ahead,” Slughorn encourages.

Tentatively she steps forward. “I smell…freshly mown grass and new parchment and—" she pauses, “spearmint toothpaste?” You giggle at the obvious answer to who this could be, as she blushes furiously, stepping away from the cauldron and returning to her seat.

“Very good, Miss Granger! Now, Miss Y/L/N…?” Slughorn gestures enthusiastically toward the cauldron. You nod with a tight-lipped smile and step forward, taking Hermione’s place. You lean over the cauldron and inhale. Instantly, you’re hit with a smell unlike anything you know, but still with clear notes.

Slughorn claps his hands together. “Well, my dear? What do you smell?”

“I think it’s… gunpowder? Burned sugar, too. Erm, broom polish. Something warm like cinnamon, maybe...” you mumble, hoping to avoid announcing it to the class.

A few people whisper between themselves, speculating on who this mystery bachelor could be. Slughorn nods approvingly. “A thrill-seeker with an appreciation for home comforts, perhaps? Excellent. Miss Johnson, you’re next!” Your stomach flips. You straighten up too fast, cheeks on fire, as you realise there’s only person who fits this description. Fred bloody Weasley. You’d been denying that you had any kind of crush on him at all: his stupid pranks drove you up the wall, and you thought he was far too cocky for his own good or anyone else’s. Still, Amortentia didn’t lie, and you’d be lying yourself if you said you hadn’t noticed the reluctant chemistry you had with him.

As Angelina takes your place at the cauldron, you scurry back to your table with Hermione. “How embarrassing,” she mutters as you plop down next to her.

“Tell me about it,” you reply, picking at your notebook.

Fred’s turn comes a few students later. He saunters up to the cauldron with his usual swagger, hands in his pockets, like he hasn’t a care in the world. Lee gives him a shove forward, grinning. “Go on, Fred. See if there’s anything other than being a nuisance that attracts you.”

Fred just rolls his eyes, leans in, and breathes deeply. You’re watching him out of the corner of your eye as his posture changes almost immediately. His shoulders stiffen, just slightly and the cocky grin falters for half a second before he catches himself and forces it back wider than before. He straightens up, clears his throat, and shrugs.

“Smells like… er…writing ink. Sea breeze. And… the smell after it rains.”

Lee raises an eyebrow. “Rain and ink? Mate, that’s the most boring thing I’ve ever heard. Give me a go.”

Fred elbows him hard. “What can I say? I’m a simple man.”

Slughorn looks delighted. “That smell is called ‘petrichor’, Mister Jordan, and it’s far from boring,” he muses. “Hmm.. a scholarly mind with a penchant for nature. Fitting for a young entrepreneur like you, perhaps, Mister Weasley. Next, please!”

Fred strides back to his table, avoiding everyone’s eyes— especially yours. Despite his swagger, you can see his cheeks burning.

Class ends in a flurry of whispered gossip and excitement about finding their supposed lover. You’re trying to slip out quickly, Hermione already having shot off to her next class, but Fred catches up to you in the corridor outside, falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” he says, voice casual, “gunpowder and burned sugar, eh? Very mysterious. Very sexy guy, I’d say.”

You snort, refusing to look at him. “Shut up, Fred. It could be anybody— plus, I think it’s all rubbish anyway.”

He gasps, hand over his heart. “I’ll have you know Slughorn’s Amortentia is as good as it comes!”

“Like you’re ever in class,” you mutter, walking briskly down the cloisters in the hopes of losing him.

“Details, details,” he waves a hand, effortlessly keeping up with you in his long strides. “Anyway, clearly the potion was off. Mine smelled rubbish.”

“Rubbish enough to make you go all stiff and red,” you reply.

He stops walking. You keep going until his hand grabs your wrist and spins you around. The corridor, thankfully, is mostly empty now, just the echo of footsteps farther ahead. Fred narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a flush climbing his neck that he can’t quite hide as he pulls at his collar. “I did not go red— I was just… surprised. Strong batch, that’s all,” he shrugs. “Besides, rain and ink? That’s just Hogwarts.”

You fold your arms across your chest and readjust your books in your arms. “Sure,” you muse. And I smelled broom polish because I’m passionate about furniture, you think sarcastically.

A beat of silence passes as you stare at each other, daring the other to crack first. Fred breaks eye contact first, kicking at a loose stone on the floor. “Look, obviously the potion’s designed to embarrass people. It pulls random stuff from your memory. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Exactly,” you say quickly. “Totally random. I probably just smelled gunpowder because I’m always helping you two idiots not to blow yourselves up.”

“And I probably smelled ink because…because I spilled some last night,” he adds, just as fast.

“Precisely.”

“Nothing deeper.”

“I agree, for once.”

Another silence. Longer this time. You both start walking again at the same moment, shoulders brushing as you turn toward the Gryffindor common room. You hide a small smirk on your lips, which you’re sure he can see from his vantage point.

Fred clears his throat. “So we’re agreed. Amortentia’s a load of rubbish.”

“Complete rubbish,” you confirm.

“Doesn’t reveal anything real.”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

At last, you reach the Fat Lady’s portrait. Fred speaks the password and gestures for you to go ahead: you both climb through the hole as it swings shut again. The common room is warm and noisy, full of people sprawled by the fire doing homework or playing chess.

Neither of you sits down. You linger awkwardly near the stairs. Fred rubs the back of his neck. “Right. Well. I’ve got… prototypes to test.”

“Yep. I’ve got Arithmancy reading.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

He nods and starts toward the boys’ staircase, then pauses, glancing back. “You didn’t… smell anything weird, did you? Like… anything specific?”

You meet his eyes for a second too long. You think about telling the truth, but the words are out before you can think about it. “Of course not. You?”

He shakes his head a little too firmly, sending his hair whooshing around his eyes. “No way,” he scoffs.