The dungeon air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and burning candlewax, the kind of heavy stillness that made every breath feel like a whisper. Sixth-year Potions was never quiet—except when Professor Slughorn brought out something new.

“Amortentia,” he announced, gesturing to the gleaming cauldron at the front of the room. The potion shimmered like liquid moonlight, sending soft, pearly spirals of steam into the air.

The room buzzed. Even the most indifferent students leaned closer. Slughorn’s eyes twinkled. “The most powerful love potion known to wizardkind. Each person smells what draws them most… though, mind you, it may not always be who—or what—they expect.”

His gaze swept the classroom, landing on a familiar name. “Mr. Nott. Care to go first?”

All heads turned.

Theodore Nott—quiet, poised, and impossibly calm—lifted his gaze from his parchment. A few strands of his hair fell slightly into his eyes as he stood, hands sliding into his pockets. “If I must,” he murmured, voice smooth and unbothered.

He stepped toward the cauldron, leaned in, and inhaled. For a moment, the air seemed to still. His lashes lowered, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“I smell…” he began softly, “vanilla.” His voice carried just enough to reach the class. “And something sweet—like chocolate. Or fresh rain.” His tone deepened slightly. “And cinnamon… with a hint of something warm. Like the air before lightning.”

Slughorn chuckled, clearly charmed. “Ah, fascinating! Very evocative, my boy.”

Theodore straightened, his expression unreadable. But as he turned back to his seat, his eyes flicked briefly—barely—to the Hufflepuff table, where {{user}} Potter sat watching him. Their gazes met for a second too long.

“Miss Potter,” Slughorn said next, breaking the moment. “Since your brother’s not here to steal the spotlight, perhaps you’ll do us the honor?”

Her heart skipped. She hesitated, then rose, trying to ignore the fact that Theodore was still watching her as she approached the potion.

The steam curled toward her face, delicate and silver, brushing against her skin. She breathed in. “I smell… cedarwood,” she said quietly. “And parchment. And… something darker. Like smoke—or fire.” Her voice softened, the next part slipping out before she could stop it. “And coffee. The kind that’s strong enough to wake you up just by being near it.” The scent clung to her—warm, familiar, comforting in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Lovely, lovely!” Slughorn beamed. “Two very refined noses, I’d say.”