human again / hp.

Chapter 117

The morning sunlight slanted through the high windows of the dungeon, casting long golden beams across the stone walls and onto the iron cauldrons set neatly atop each workstation. Dust floated in the shafts of light, caught like memories.

I sat at the table with Draco, Theodore, Pansy, and Blaise. The five of us all remained in N.E.W.T.-level Potions. Crabbe and Goyle had clearly flunked their O.W.L.s. I wasn't surprised. A part of me was relieved they weren't here, grunting and bickering at either side of Draco. The space between us was already tight enough.

I rested my elbows on the wooden table, fingers tracing the edge of my bracelet absently. Despite the coolness of the dungeons, I felt warm under my robes, like something inside me wouldn't sit still. It was only the second day back, and the ache behind my ribs hadn't lessened, a raw, unspoken weight. The Dark Mark on my arm was still tender beneath my sleeve, though no one knew. No one could know.

I tried to focus. Today we had Potions with Slughorn the new professor. I'd heard rumors already: eccentric, vain, and obsessed with talented students and famous ancestors like trophies. My father had once been taught by him. So had Bellatrix, I think.

Harry sat only a few tables away, his back turned, talking quietly with Ron and Hermione and the Hufflepuff boy, Ernie Macmillan. I tried not to stare. Last night's conversation still lingered in my mind, like smoke from a candle I hadn't snuffed properly. And the chocolate bar he'd handed me. I hadn't eaten it. It sat untouched in my trunk, still in its gold wrapper, a silent question.

"Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making..." Slughorn's booming voice swept over us like a gust of wind.

Draco shifted beside me with an exhale of boredom. I took out my kit, lined everything up just so. I had practiced over the summer, though never completely successfully. My hands weren't shaking, but I felt them, not the tremor, but the potential for one.

Slughorn moved toward Harry's table, jovial and booming. I only half-listened until he returned with two battered old textbooks for Harry and Ron.

Then it began — the show. Slughorn paraded three cauldrons of finished potions in front of the class like crown jewels: Veritaserum, Polyjuice Potion, and Amortentia. Hermione answered each question perfectly, as expected, her hand snapping into the air before anyone else could blink. I admired her sharpness, her certainty. I missed talking to her.

When Amortentia was revealed, I stilled.

The moment Slughorn described its spiraling steam, its shifting scent, I caught it. I don't know what I expected — maybe nothing. Maybe dust and parchment, something cold and sharp like home. But instead, something warmer wrapped around me: the woody smell of a broomstick handle, a trace of old parchment, and  oh  the scent of chocolate.

Chocolate

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to sting. I didn't dare look across the room. I knew exactly where Harry sat, even without seeing him. My mind, betrayer that it was, conjured him in the Common Room last night — his voice low and quiet, that faint smile when he handed me the bar, that unguarded kindness.

Does he smell me in it?

The thought darted in like a snake and coiled itself tight. I hated it. I hated that I cared. I hated that somewhere beneath the layers of duty and legacy and the mark on my arm, I wanted to know.

Slughorn continued, now unveiling the final potion: Felix Felicis.

A bottle no bigger than my thumb shimmered with golden liquid, drops leaping like goldfish inside. The entire room held its breath. Even Draco, who'd looked half-asleep five minutes ago, sat up sharply. We locked eyes. He knew as good as I did that we needend that potion for our mission.

Slughorn explained the rules. One hour. Brew the Draught of Living Death. Winner takes the prize.

The tension was instant. Like a match struck to kindling.

I flipped open my book, page ten. Familiar. The ingredients and instructions danced before my eyes, but I already knew most by heart. The valerian root, the asphodel, the stirring technique. I'd practiced it. I could do this.

I let my breath out slowly and began.

Steam rose from a dozen cauldrons at once, filling the dungeon with thick, metallic heat. Slughorn's steps creaked as he walked around, murmuring encouragements.

I focused, hands moving steadily, measuring the powdered root of asphodel. Pansy was already behind, muttering and swearing under her breath as she spilled half her sopophorous bean juice. Theo looked steady, Blaise meticulous, Draco too fast — always too eager.

Halfway through, I glanced up. I couldn't help it.

Harry bent low over his book. He looked completely absorbed. There was a strange calm about him, like he was following instructions no one else could see. His motions were quick but clean, not rushed, not flustered.

I narrowed my eyes. Something was off. Harry wasn't even good at Potions. Not really.

And yet, the smell coming from his cauldron was unmistakable rich and intoxicating, like sleep and shadows.

I glanced back at mine. My draught was turning the correct pale lilac shade, the vapors slow and even. I'd done well. I knew I had.

But his... his was perfect.

How?

I didn't have time to wonder further. I adjusted the flame, stirred counterclockwise, let my final petal fall in at the exact right moment. The potion turned the precise color it should. I smiled — a flicker of pride catching me off guard.

Slughorn made the rounds again, examining the results. He stopped at mine.

"Oh, now this is excellent work, Miss Malfoy. Beautifully done, yes — look at that clarity." He peered into it. "Very fine, very fine indeed. Ten points to Gryffindor."

I allowed myself a nod. But I didn't look pleased. I couldn't. Not when Harry was next.

When Slughorn reached him, the man clapped his hands.

"Well, now! Look at this!" He beamed. "Absolutely textbook. No — better than textbook! You see the color, the scent? Perfect. Perfect."

"Looks like we have a winner," he declared, raising the little bottle of Felix Felicis with a flourish. "Mr. Potter — the day is yours."

The room buzzed with sound again. Draco made a sound like something had soured in his throat. Pansy huffed audibly.

I didn't speak.

I didn't even blink.

I just stared at Harry, who had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. He turned to say something to Hermione — maybe trying to deflect the attention — but I could feel the undercurrent of curiosity building inside me.

How did he do it?

There was something I didn't know. Some trick. And yet... I couldn't bring myself to be angry.

I was only confused.

Maybe even impressed.

As I packed up my things at the end of the lesson, I kept my head down. Draco stormed out first, Pansy trailing. Theo and Blaise exchanged glances but said nothing.

Harry lingered a moment, then slipped the tiny bottle of Felix into his pocket.

Our eyes met as he passed. Brief. Curious. Quiet.

I almost said something.

But the words caught.

Because I remembered the task. I remembered the meeting. The Dark Lord's instructions still echoed like cold steel in my head.

And yet, here I was, wondering what he smelled in Amortentia.

And wondering if it was me.