The Smell of Secrets

Draco Malfoy's POV

I've had enough.

I'm done.

This bloody cabinet—no matter how many sleepless nights I give it, how many spells I cast—it never works. I've been at it for weeks, tearing myself apart over every hinge, every shadowy mechanism, every inch of cursed wood. Nothing gives. Nothing clicks. Like I'm missing something vital, something impossible.

My chest tightens again. Not from the magic. From me. Panic. Again.

I haven't slept properly in days. My mind doesn't shut up long enough to let me rest, and when it finally does, the nightmares take over. Same ones, over and over—my mother screaming, the Dark Mark burning, Olivia walking away from me when she finds out what I've become.

Because no one understands. No one sees. Not even her.

I haven't seen her in too long. Haven't touched her in too long. Maybe I should tell her. Maybe she'd listen.

Really, Malfoy? You think she'd help you bring Death Eaters into the school?

I shake the thought out of my head like it's poison. Which it is. All of this is poison. Festering under my skin.

I need a release.

My eyes scan the classroom.

There.

Her.

Olivia sits at the front, frowning at the board like it personally offended her. She's chewing her bottom lip, which—brilliant—only makes it worse for me. She tucks a strand of that wild blonde hair behind her ear, then pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Why does she wear those blasted things? Doesn't she know what it does to me?

She scribbles something down, still biting her lip. Completely unaware of how sinful she looks. And of course, she gets up—walks to McGonagall's desk, hips swaying like temptation itself.

I clench my jaw. Bastards behind her are staring. Of course they are. How could they not? Her skirt hikes up just enough when she leans forward, showing off those legs that have haunted my bloody dreams.

I hate it.

I love it.

Merlin, I need her.

The bell rings. Finally. I snap my book shut and shove it into my bag. We've got Potions next—but that can wait. She tells her friends she'll catch up. Good.

Good girl.

I wait just outside the classroom. My heart's beating like I just flew a match. The second she steps out, I grab her hand.

"Draco!" she gasps, eyes wide. "What have I told you about startling me?"

I don't answer. I'm already pulling her down the corridor, away from the dungeons.

"Potions class is that way," she says with a huff, trying to dig her heels in. "We're going late," I tell her, voice low, focused.

We pass an empty classroom, and I pull her in without a word, shutting the door behind us. Locking it.

"Draco, what—"

I don't let her finish.

I press my lips to hers.

Strawberries. Always strawberries, even though she eats more chocolate than anyone I know. I don't get it. I don't care.

She freezes for a second, just a heartbeat—and then she kisses me back. Harder than I expect. Fierce. Like she's been waiting for this just as long as I have.

Her hands are in my hair before I can breathe again. My grip tightens around her waist. I push her against the wall gently, hungrily, like I need her to stay still so I don't fall apart.

Because I will.

I already am.

And she's the only thing holding me together.

Olivia Montgomery's POV

"Ahh, Miss Montgomery and Mr. Malfoy," Slughorn announces the moment we step into the classroom—dead last. Of course.

"I've already formed groups, and since you two are late, you'll be working together. Take a seat near Miss Parkinson and Mr. Zabini," he says with his usual booming warmth, and I can already feel the burn of Ron's stare on my back as Draco and I make our way to the desk.

I catch Ron's expression. He's furious. His eyes flicker between Draco and me, full of suspicion. Not that I blame him. We barely made ourselves look presentable in time. My hair's a bit too neat, and Draco's tie is loose in a very telling way.

Merlin help me.

"Today, we'll be brewing Amortentia," Slughorn declares, waving his wand to reveal a bubbling cauldron at the front of the class. "But first, to demonstrate its characteristics, we'll go around and share what we smell."

Draco opens the cauldron in front of us, and the warm, swirling steam rises in front of my face. Sweet, warm, almost intoxicating.

"Weasley, you first," Slughorn says, and Ron hesitates before stepping forward.

He takes a small sniff. "Erm... books. Parchment. And... intelligence?" he mutters, clearly confused. Hermione grins. "Harry, my boy, go on!" Slughorn gestures, and Harry leans forward.

He sniffs. "Er... treacle tart... a broomstick handle... and something flowery," he says, and he smiles, just a little.

Ginny.

We go around the room. Some students are brave, some are vague, some are clearly blushing. Blaise finishes, and now it's Pansy's turn. "Go on, Miss Parkinson," Slughorn says. She leans forward, inhales, and immediately her eyes dart to me.

Right.

"Er... chocolate, a piano, strawberries... and... a library," she says, cheeks tinged pink.

I frown. That's not what Draco smells like.

"Miss Montgomery," Slughorn says, and suddenly, all eyes are on me. Ron's practically leaning in. I hesitate before I lean toward the cauldron. The moment the scent hits me, my heart stumbles in my chest.

Galleons.

Peppermint.

Green apples.

Silk bedsheets.

Oh no.

My eyes shift toward Draco. He's already smirking, like he knows. Of course he knows. Bastard.

I can't tell the truth. I won't tell the truth. "Er... flowers. Mountains. And... the last smell is unplaceable," I say, forcing a casual shrug. Draco's smirk fades slightly, and he looks at me with confusion. "And finally, Mr. Malfoy," Slughorn says.

Draco leans in, inhales once—and blinks.

His eyes move to Pansy. He frowns.

Then he looks at me.

"I don't smell anything," he says flatly.

My stomach sinks. Did he smell Pansy?

Slughorn nods and claps his hands. "That's it! Now get to brewing."

We brew in silence, and I hate how good we are at this. The scent wafts up again—him—and it drives me crazy. We're the first ones to finish. Of course.

I take the cauldron to Slughorn, who nods in approval. "You're both free to go." I pack up quickly. Draco's already disappeared. I glance toward the trio and mouth, see you in the common room. They nod.

I step out into the corridor, and the moment I do, a hand grabs me and pulls me into another empty classroom. "Draco!" I whisper-yell, heart racing. "What is wrong with you?"

He shuts the door behind us, then turns to face me, eyes dark and unreadable.

"What did you smell?" he asks. I cross my arms. "I told you what I smelled." He steps closer, eyes locked on mine. "Oh yeah?" He presses his lips to my neck, and I instantly melt.

"You—and I—both know—that—you're a—terrible—liar," he murmurs between kisses, each one landing softer, lower, making my knees wobble.

"Now, what did you smell?" he whispers again.

I cave.

"Galleons," I whisper, and he kisses my jaw.

"Mhm."

"Silk bedsheets," I say as he kisses just below my ear.

"Mmm."

"Peppermint," I breathe, my voice hitching.

"Yes."

"And... g-green apples," I finish, and his lips crash into mine.

He pulls back slightly, grinning that smug, infuriating grin of his. "Draco Malfoy. Aka me." And just like that, he walks out of the classroom, leaving me flustered, breathless, and burning.

I groan softly, trying to fix my hair, my shirt—my sanity—and slip back into the hallway. But he's gone.

Of course he is.

I'm halfway to the common room when I hear Hermione shout, "Liv!" I turn around and wait for them to catch up. "You haven't reached the common room yet?" Ron asks as we walk together. Hermione peers at me. "And what happened to you? You look all... flustered."

"Nothing," I lie smoothly. "Just feeling under the weather, I guess."

Ron still looks skeptical, but Hermione nods.

If only they knew.

It's the day of the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, and I'm buzzing with excitement. I can't wait to see Ron play—he's been so nervous all week—and of course... Draco. I'm excited to see him too, though I don't say that out loud.

I sit with Hermione, Harry, and Ginny in the Great Hall, watching students bustle about in their house colours. Ron walks in, face flushed from some Slytherin jeering—not Draco, though. He's not even sitting with them.

I spot him at the end of the table, dressed in a sharp black suit, not a Quidditch robe.

Wait. Is he... not playing?

"You know," Hermione says, flipping the page of the Daily Prophet, "Slughorn's throwing a Christmas do, and we're supposed to bring someone." Ron slides into the seat beside her, still sulking.

"I guess you'll take McLaggen then," he mutters bitterly, and I freeze at the name. Just hearing it tenses every part of me.

Hermione's voice is calm when she replies, "No. I was thinking of asking you." Ron blinks. "Really?"

Before she can answer, Lavender swoops in like a pink tornado. "Good luck today, Ron. I know you'll be brilliant." She beams at him like he's already won the match. Padma smirks knowingly.

Ron just nods absently. Hermione pretends she doesn't even hear her.

"After today, McLaggen can have my spot. I'm quitting," Ron declares, trying—and failing—to sound confident. Hermione and I snap our heads toward him. "What?" we both say in unison. Harry, as ever, slides over a goblet of pumpkin juice like it's a peace offering. "Juice?"

Luna plops down beside Ron, her huge lion head wobbling. She's cheering for Gryffindor today. Brave girl.

"Hey, Luna," I say with a smile, nibbling at a bit of egg. "Hello, everyone," she greets in that dreamy voice of hers, before turning to Ron. "You look dreadful." Ron gives her a strained smile, and I can't help laughing.

But then... I see him.

Draco.

He looks... worse than dreadful. His plate is untouched, his eyes are darting around like he's expecting something to explode. His jaw clenches with every sudden sound, every scrape of a bench or clang of cutlery. He looks like he's spiraling.

I watch him closely. He finally glances up—and our eyes meet. I offer him the smallest smile I can manage. Just enough to say, I see you.

And to my surprise... he calms. Slightly. Barely. But his lips twitch into the faintest ghost of a smile.

"Let's go, Harry. We have a match to win," Ron says, standing up. Everyone gets up to follow, but I hang back. "You go on," I tell them. "I'll catch up in a bit."

Once they're gone, I cross the Hall to the Slytherin table, which is mostly empty now. Most students have already left for the match.

"Olive!" Blaise greets from behind me. "Hey, Blaise," I say with a distracted smile, eyes still on Draco. "So, will you be cheering for me too?" he teases.

I nod absently. He follows my gaze, then gives me a small, knowing grin. "Alright, I'll leave you to it," he says and slips away.

I stop in front of Draco. He still doesn't notice me—his mind clearly somewhere else. I snap my fingers in front of his face and he finally looks up.

"Olivia," he breathes, like he forgot my name until just now. "Can we talk?" I ask gently and nod toward the door. He follows without question. We walk down the empty corridor until I stop. "You're not playing today?"

He looks down at his suit, then back at me. "I, erm... quit Quidditch." I blink. "What?" He flinches a little, like I just hit him. "Sorry," I murmur quickly, trying to soften my tone. "But... why?"

He doesn't answer at first. Then he places a hand on my waist and says quietly, "Didn't have the strength."

My heart aches.

"The Draco Malfoy... quit his favourite game because he didn't have the stren—" I start to tease, hoping to lighten the mood, but he cuts me off with his lips.

His kiss is hungry, desperate, like he needs it to stay grounded. I lose myself in it for a few minutes, clutching his shirt, melting into him.

Eventually, I pull away, breathless. "I have to go. The match..." He nods, but when I ask, "You coming?" he just shakes his head. Before I can ask why, he turns and walks in the opposite direction.

I stand there for a moment, watching him disappear down the corridor.

Something is wrong. Deeply wrong. If he keeps going like this... he's going to break. Or get sick. Or both.

He's slipping, and I can't just let him.

Maybe... maybe it's time to show him I know. Not all of it. Just a little.

Just enough to make him talk.