You stir your cauldron, forcing yourself to focus on the silvery spirals rising from the amortentia. The smell is overwhelming, familiar in the worst way.

“Hey, {{your name}}” Hermione asks, curiosity laced in her voice. “What does your amortentia smell like?”

You grit your teeth, annoyed. “I’d be able to tell you if Riddle stepped away,” you mutter, sharp enough for him to hear.

Mattheo shifts at his table, his quill going still.

With a frustrated sigh, you add, “Everything smells like his cologne.”

The whole class seems to pause. A few heads turn. Then Mattheo’s voice breaks through, low and edged with irritation. “My cologne? Don’t flatter yourself. The entire room stinks of your perfume. It’s suffocating.”

You glare at him, but the tension only thickens. The silence is heavy, filled with the quiet shuffling of classmates who are all trying (and failing) not to react. You catch sight of Ron elbowing Harry, Hermione’s brows shooting up like she’s putting two and two together.

Everyone knows what amortentia means.