When Draco had approached you near the end of your potions lesson, you had expected the worst. Chastising, teasing, mocking; anything synonymous. What you weren’t prepared for, was Draco to offer you his help.

Help? He must be ill.

That’s how you ended up in Potions after hours, Professor Slughorn trusting you both to clear up after your extra practising. The flicker of the candlelight casts soft shadows as you struggle with the instructions for the Amortentia potion. Draco begins guiding you through the steps, his voice low and steady as he corrects your technique, his hand occasionally brushing yours as you add ingredients to the cauldron. His presence feels different when it’s just the two of you. Less guarded, more genuine, kinder, even.

When the potion finally begins to shimmer with the telltale glow, Draco leans in, inhaling deeply. His expression shifts, softening in a way you’ve never seen before. “Apple tarts,” he murmurs, as if the words just slip past his lips, “and… my mother’s perfume.” Then he stops, his voice dying in his throat. Because the last scent is one that stumps him, but not one that comes as an unexpected surprise; your hair.