Heir of Sallow

If you ever feel like you're nothing, you're fucking perfect to me

"Amortentia. Hopefully, you all have yours brewed correctly by this time." Sharpe sighed from his desk. He obviously hated this portion of the curriculum, and judging by the annoying giggles and sighs around the room, Charlie understood why.

"Love is stupid," she muttered mostly to herself. Hector Weasley, who sat with her at her station, barely glanced over at her when she said it. Ever since the duel at the beginning of the year, they'd had a stiff relationship in the potions class. Sharpe had placed them together to "keep an eye on them." She'd wondered vaguely why, after seven years, the professor would still need to keep an eye on Weasley, but she never voiced her question out loud. She didn't care.

Both of their cauldrons were sitting and ready for the professor's grade, and when he limped over, he nodded slowly, his expression carefully blank. Why did men do this? Hide their initial reactions?

"Sallow, care to tell us what you smell?"

Why me?

She sighed and leaned over the cauldron, inhaling. She'd been careful not to smell it the entire time, just to avoid exactly who she thought of when she smelled it.

"Like Christmas." She mumbled.

"Specifics, Sallow." Sharpe sighed as if he'd been ready for a sarcastic or cheeky remark. She glared up at him.

"Pine, and the wind that blows when it's snowing, a little bit of cinnamon, and paint."

Fucking Theo. And yet, she felt nothing for him. Except that wasn't exactly true anymore. She trusted him. With her life, and unless it was family, it was rare to have that upmost level of trust for her with someone. She trusted Fennic, but not with her life. In fact, in a duel, she was more looking out for him a few nights ago when he'd stumbled upon her and Hawke dueling. She'd felt the need to protect him. Hawke could defend himself and protect her, all the while knowing she could handle herself as well. That level of trust and respect was rare to say the least.

"That's what I smell too," she heard a girl whisper from the back of the room, snapping her back to the present. She quickly leaned back in her seat, not wanting to smell him anymore, and not liking the hot feeling of... annoyance? At the girl's words.

"Weasley?"

Silence. She turned to look at him, but he was glaring at his cauldron, his face as red as his hair.

"Apples," he finally muttered.

"I need more than that, in order to tell if you brewed it correctly," Sharpe sighed. It was a lie. The professor could easily smell it and grade it himself, but he was making everyone say their scents. As if trying to embarrass everyone. Or else prepare them to notice the signs if they were to be given the potion. Possibly both

"Apples, like on an orchard. Fresh baked bread... "

She heard Levi bark out a laugh from across the room and listened to him quickly try to silence it behind a cough.

"And a bit of vanilla," Weasley finished in a quiet mutter.

"Good, you both pass." He moved onto the next table. Everyone had their own scents, a few girls listed Theo's scent, and she was sure someone had listed Fennic's as well.

Near the end, Charlie heard a girl ask what Sharpe would smell if he smelled it.

Class was dismissed early then, Sharpe obviously having been asked this question before and was very tired of it. In fact, Charlie could have swore she heard him claim this was his last year of teaching.

As she left the classroom, Weasley shoved past her, his shoulder knocking against hers. She glared after him.

"The fuck is his problem?" She muttered to herself.