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When Draco’s gaze rooted upon unmistakable earthen features, on greens and rich browns and cream skin, he sicked up a little in his mouth.
He followed the careening lines of the now healed scar, of the splatter of lightning. Each jagged raised white bit of skin to where it struck true at the arch of a dark defined brow.
He wanted to follow it with a finger. He’s always wanted to follow it with a finger.
With the taste of firewhiskey spitting at the back of his tongue, Draco seemed to regress into a dingy dungeon room. He felt the stiff collar of his shirt and the press of the tight knot of his emerald and silver tie at his throat. However, what was so gutting, was the smell his brain conjured.
The Amortentia.
Over the smell of his mother’s iris and amber parfum, the manor’s library, and his father’s aftershave that held notes of a dark sea and cedar, was that unmistakable scent of a storm.
Of ozone.
Rain, wet electricity, heavy air.
It was, rather, the unmistakable scent of Potter’s unbridled and breathtaking magic.
When he peered over his glass at the shocked eyes that seemed to be eating him utterly alive, he couldn’t help himself.
He never could.
The soft words, glowing in subtle humor and content, that were said in reply to his humiliating defensive outburst sealed the unspoken deal.
You’re pissed, Malfoy. Have gone and drunk yourself around the twist.
An unbidden and drunken laugh bubbled and popped. He hid his flushed cheeks and smile in his cup, mumbling a quiet bashful I suppose.
So, he returned. Night after night, perched on this worn-in barstool, falling deeper and deeper into eyes of dark green and rich earth with abandon not caring for any damned implication.