As Draco stirs a final time, his final potion for his final NEWT, the scents came rushing up to him all at once.
Star Grass. Something his mum used to rub on her temples for migraines.
Mahogany. His trusty broom. If he closes his eyes, that smell could transport him to the sky.
And… something else woody. Not mahogany, but the woods. Earthy. Mixed with leather. And burning. A burning that fills him with fear and trust.
He stills.
Looks up.
Harry is looking back at him with the same expression of terrified desire, above his own cauldron of Amortentia.
my first attempt at a drabble, for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: Love Potion.












