Scent-sual.

"Now then," Slug-face droned on, puffing up with so much self-importance Draco idly wondered if he might actually burst. They'd be picking walrus blubber off the dungeon walls for weeks. (And by "they", clearly he meant "anyone but him".)

"I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know..."

Draco tuned out again. He recognised two out of the three potions: Veritaserum and Polyjuice had long been friends to any wizard with at least a cursory interest in the Dark Arts, and the Malfoys' interest had long been far from cursory. Besides, it was in his best interests not to be listening: Granger's grating tones had started rabbiting on again, barging in with all the answers. Surprise, surprise. (An idiot savant's ability to memorise did NOT make her better at potions. It just appeared that way to lesser discerning souls.)

Determined to figure out the identity of the last potion on his own, Draco leaned towards the third cauldron. Even in the dim light of the dungeon classroom, he saw it had a pearlescent sheen and that its steam rose in oddly regular shapes. Frowning in thought, he breathed in… and was hit by a curious fragrance.

Fresh, crisp – almost smoky. It was a smell he instantly recognised: the smell of the air when you were hundreds of feet high as it whistled past your ears. It was a scent you could smell only when on a broomstick; it was the scent of freedom.

Even as he registered this, he was hit by a second layer to the smell: spicy and expensive, it made him think of being embraced. His mother's perfume.

It took him a few more seconds to realise there was another scent in there. It was the subtlest of the scents but, somehow, the most beguiling.

He thought, perhaps, it had taken the longest to distinguish because he had only ever smelled it in snatches. Which was also probably why he couldn't identify it. After a few more seconds of inhaling, however, he decided he couldn't give a Crup's bottom where it came from. For the first time in weeks – months – he felt… good. Knots in his shoulders were loosening, his fatigue was lifting and he thought, if he could only get a little closer, smell it a little more strongly, he might actually start to feel happy.

Slug-face's walrus-like trumpeting shook him out of his reverie. A love potion, dangerous? More dangerous than Veritaserum? Draco wanted to make a rude noise but contented himself with a contemptuous smirk. Knowledge was power; the ability to force the truth from someone would always be more dangerous than sentiment, and Draco had always been good at rooting out secrets even without a potion on his side.

Nevertheless, there was something rather pleasant about that fragrance… Unconsciously, Draco began to lean towards it.

The Mudblood's shrill excitement snapped him back to his surroundings. Merlin. Only Granger could get this excited about lessons.

"It's liquid luck. It makes you lucky!"

Draco snapped to attention, the Amortentia forgotten. Now that was a potion worth possessing. Luck was what had been sorely missing in his latest endeavours… Within seconds, the knots had tightened all over again and he was caught in a fever of activity as he raced to win the task and claim his prize.

Over the next few weeks, Draco had plenty on his mind but not so much that he failed to recognise that subtle third fragrance cropping up. He could go days without smelling it, then suddenly catch a tantalising whiff, gone before he could pin down its provenance.

He noticed a curious cartography to the aroma: there was no pattern that he could see, but it was definitely more concentrated in some areas of the grounds than others. If he didn't keep an eye on it, he was in danger of being led around by the nose trying to hunt it down (and what's with all the body metaphors, Draco?).

He couldn't smell it at all anywhere near the Quidditch pitch, and only sporadically in any of the sub-level rooms. It was particularly strong in the library, for some reason, so Draco's school work took a marked upswing as he found himself spending extra hours there. The fragrance made him feel... peaceful – safe – yet invigorated his senses at the same time, giving him an eagerness for his studies he hadn't felt in some years, once he realised no matter how many extra hours he put in, he'd never outdo the Mudblood.

One evening, after another fruitless session in the Room of Requirement, he decided to go back to the library, craving some of that peace; however fleeting. Taking one of the more reliable routes down from the sixth floor, he had made it down to the fifth level and was just drawing level with Boris the Bewildered when he noticed a faint light spilling out from a barely open door – someone had left the door to the prefects' bathroom ajar.

Uninterested, he continued to walk on. (Draco was no longer a prefect, but if he really wanted to use the bathroom he could just wangle the password out of Pansy with a few honeyed endearments.) As he passed the bathroom door, however, he caught a waft of familiar fragrance and stopped dead, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, before dashing towards the door.

It was The Smell! (Somewhere along the way it had earned capitals.) The Smell, and more than a puff or trace of it: a small but steady stream seemed to be issuing from the gap. Pulling the door open wide, he stepped inside.

The bathroom was much as he remembered it: on a par with the Master bathroom at home (but not as big! not as sumptuous!). The soft light that had been spilling out the cracked door came from a chandelier, and the myriad jewel-topped taps twinkled in the candlelight.

The room was still lightly steaming from its most recent occupant's bath. Floral and fresh, the fragrance lingered in the air; its eddies and swirls entwined and caressed him, wrapping their coils around his senses, coaxing them into delighted life.

He breathed in slowly, drawing as much of The Smell as he could deep into his lungs. A bone-deep sense of well-being radiated through him. He felt… content. Safe. Peaceful. But there was a promise to the fragrance – a tingling in his limbs that hinted at decidedly unpeaceful but highly pleasurable feelings.

Unconsciously, he sought more of the feeling, more of The Smell, following the fragrance to its source. He didn't need to cast a locator smell; his own body's reaction let him know when he was getting nearer. (Draco had never seen any Muggle cartoons, but if he had, the smell would have been wafting out waves of deliciousness, lifting him off the floor by his nose as he dreamily floated towards it.)

The fragrance was intensifying, bringing with it an accompanying intensification of feeling: he was approaching intoxication, he giddily realised.

And there was the source – such an innocuous object in its appearance. It was a pale green oblong container of some oddly shiny material he didn't recognise, its hinged lid open. It seemed to have flowers painted on it.

Unfamiliar with its design, he guessed it was some kind of Muggle equivalent of a potion. (Hundreds of years of Malfoy breeding told him to fling the unclean thing far away from him or, better yet, incinerate it; they were all shouted down by his nerve endings which were already simmering in anticipation.)

Reverently, he raised the container to his face, positioned his nose directly over the opening, and inhaled as deeply as he could.

The scent was so concentrated it hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. A shaft of molten heat went straight through the centre of his abdomen, sending spirals of coruscating energy out to his extremities. He had never felt so serene yet so stimulated all at the same time; he had never felt so electrically alive.

He had never felt so much.

Delighted, he inhaled again, and began slowly spinning in a circle, eyes closing, arms spread wide and a joyously contented smile tugging at his lips... then froze when the baffled voice of the She-Weasel addressed him from behind:

"Malfoy... WHAT are you doing with Hermione's shampoo?"

Fin