#long time no drarry teehee

[anzukero]

the start of domestic bliss 🥂

[triggerlil]

Amortentia Drarry? Teehee

Thank you so much for this ask Alex!! I’ve been wanting to write an amortentia fic again for so long, and finally an excuse! Also posted on AO3 🥰

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He hadn’t really intended to brew Amortentia, it had just sort of… happened. In the same way that many good things seemed to happen to him, accidentally, slowly, and then suddenly, all at once.  

It had been a lazy Sunday afternoon, and he’d wanted to brew something for the fun of it. To feel the ingredients crumbling between his fingers, the acute smells of the herbs, the warmth of the fire and the steam curling around his hands.

He had pulled books off his office shelves, perusing his options, spoiled for choice, when a thick tomb had fallen open onto a list of love potions. Draco had leafed through it, and when he had seen Amortentia, was washed over with a curious wave of nostalgia. Arguably the easiest considering he had brewed it for NEWT level potions, but that didn’t stop him from getting out the peppermint flower heads and leaves, the powdered moonstone and the rose thorns, lining everything up in order of use. He had stirred calmly, bruising the flower heads with a mortar and pestle, sprinkling them into the lukewarm water, thrown in the peppermint leaves, the moonstone powder one tablespoon at a time. He had sprinkled in the rose thorns and then let it rest for an hour—taken the time to clean up after himself, read the post—and then put it in a dark place, covered it with a silk sheet, to let it sleep. Over the next seven days, he tended to it with an almost loving affection, uncovering it once a day to stir seven times anti-clockwise, only once being interrupted by Harry barreling into his office in need of antidotes, only once Harry sauntering in for a spot of tea, only once when Harry decided he needed Draco’s opinion immediately.

On the ninth day of brewing, after he had finally convinced Harry that the burn he had acquired showing his class feindfyre no longer needed his attention, he placed the cauldron over a low flame. He tenderly placed three Ashwinder eggs into the brew, one at a time, and then stirred aimlessly.

Soon the potion had turned a pearlescent white, and as steam rose from the cauldron, he waited—slowly, as if with tender trepidation, the potion unfurled beneath his nose—the base was sweet, an undertone of burned sugar, giving way to something citrusy, dashes of broom polish, a hint of lavender and parchment, and woven throughout, the everlasting scent of rain.  

He bottled the potion, corked it, stowing it in the glass cupboard where he kept all his brewed potions, jewels waiting to be cracked open, standing sentries in bedazzled uniform.

The reasoning behind the smells revealed themselves over the span of months, as languidly as the first time he had smelled them, curling around his palette to create a unified whole.

He rarely took his dinner in the Great Hall, opting to have a house-elf bring something to his rooms, but one night Harry all but insisted he come. They served treacle tart for dessert. The way the sweetness coated his taste buds, granules of brown sugar and golden honey melting lavishly on his tongue, struck a familiar chord. He lay in bed that night touching his lips absentmindedly, remembering the taste.

Draco would occasionally venture to Harry’s office in search of some text or another, or to simply make a snide remark, enjoy the way Harry lunged at his obvious bait. That day, he found him bent over a locket with his wand out, muttering spells under his breath. Draco swept into the room in his black robes, letting them billow out behind him as Severus had done.

“Help me out, Malfoy?” Harry had said with a lopsided grin, so Draco had taken the locket from Harry’s outstretched hand, pulled out his own Hawthorn wand, done his own spellwork.

He was about to leave without getting what he came for when Harry spoke up behind him, and Draco halted with his hand on the door frame; “you have very soft hands, I like the lemon.”

Draco’s knuckles turned white; without looking back, he swept out of the room.  

That night, in bed, he held up his hand in the darkness, examined the fine lines and light blue veins under pale skin. His jar of luxury citrus hand cream sat on his bedside table.

The broom polish was easy to understand, once he clued into the fact. The sky was dark, blotted with stars, and he relished the feeling of the wind in his hair, the way the broom fit perfectly in his hands, how everything looked so small beneath him. That night, he sat in front of the fireplace in his room, trimming the ends of his broom, polishing the handle, caring for it, until the fire burned low.

Later, Harry would invite him for a friendly game of Quidditch, and Draco would admire how well looked after Harry’s own firebolt was, how well matched they were on the pitch, how exhilarating it was to fly together, in search of that flicker of gold, the slightest wavering of air.

The lavender was the hardest to understand, so subtle and refined, calming and nurturing. It was walking through the gardens at Hogwarts, on his way to help Neville and Harry when, in a burst of memory he was transported back home—the lavender lining the manor garden, the way he and his mother would walk through it, sometimes talking, more often than not comfortably silent, and the white peacocks that would strut about, pearlescent plumage fanning behind them. It was comfort, it was home. That night he wrote a letter to his mother, dipped his quill in his favourite green ink, relished the scratch against the parchment, and realized what that meant, too.

Everything came together a week later, an overcast day turning into the quicksilver fall of rain at night. Draco stood at the edge of the forbidden forest, droplets starting to drip through his Impervious, stress causing fissure fine cracks in his spell work, the rain angling towards him, coming back home to settle cold on his skin.

Draco cursed under his breath and ran into the forest, wand out, silver eyes blazing. He found Harry in a clearing, robes drenched, firebolt laying in splinters by his broken leg. Draco landed on his knees next to him, had always been good at healing spells, better at them than most.

“You are so bloody stupid,” he bit out, fear and relief mingling in his chest as Harry worked out the kinks in his muscles, got to a shaky stand. Draco cast more, checked him over, made sure he was alright, before laying into him fully, brandishing his wand, cursing and yelling, because what if Draco hadn’t noticed he was missing in this weather, hadn’t thought to check, what if Harry had been hurt more, too much.

Harry came forward, black curls sticking to his forehead, glasses the only thing still repelling water, cupped Draco’s face, wrapped an arm around his waist.

The only difference between rain and crying was that one tasted of salt, both tasted like love and sadness. Draco couldn’t stop the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes, which Harry couldn’t see in the rain, but that he felt in the shaking of Draco in his arms. And when he pulled back, traced Draco’s jawbone, let his hand rest under Draco’s chin, lifting it, and kissed him chastely, he couldn’t taste it.

It was when they looked into each other’s eyes after that for a brief moment, glimmers in the dark, and then their lips were on each other’s again, harder and hungrier, grief-stricken at the potential loss, that Draco knew Harry tasted the tears. For he tasted them on his own tongue, flicked them into Harry��s mouth, the sadness and the longing, the realization of rain and wet and need.

Back in the castle, they snuck through the corridors like schoolchildren, found themselves in Harry’s bedroom, the fire already roaring in the hearth. That night, Draco lay curled in the curve of Harry’s side, Harry’s hand running lazily through his hair, and breathed in his unique scent—something that he couldn’t quite place, calming and that belonged to Harry alone, but also an undertone of sweet, a hint of citrus from Draco’s own kneading hands, floral, woodsy, and still clinging like the ghost of a memory, the everlasting scent of rain.

Send me a drarry prompt!