Yours in Mayhem |Dramione

35 yours in disintegration|| pt. 1

Amortentia-- pearly hue sheen, will probably get you laid, effects may last more than 24 hours, matures over time, created by Laverne de Montomercy (fugly hog) in the 1800's.

It's whatever. This is fucking boring.

"....It's the most powerful potion in the world."

Because love is the strongest emotion that anyone could ever feel.

Draco should know, he turned back time for a certain girl. Not that that gives any sort of advantage, he remembers close to nothing from his past life now. He listened intently to the undulations of said girl's high pitched but confident voice as he pretended to not care by making the letters on his journal dance.

The sweet scent-- undeniably of said girl-- is filling the room, making him want to scream his lungs out in frustration or just lunge at her. It's fucking insane how he knows that it's her. Who else smells like warm tea, cat fur, crisp parchment and sunshine? He wants to just dig his nails on the wooden desk and just leave dents as another bout of the wonderful, wretched scent flooded his nostrils and clogged his brain from processing any rational thought.

"Fucking Gryffindor bitch," Nott mumbled under his breath, "Always the fucking know-it-all, always making everyone look stupid. Why don't you take her throne away, blondie? About bloody time too."

"Oh, just shut up, why don't you?" Draco growled. He has no time for Theodore Nott's nonsense so early in the morning. He's still in a pissy mood, Slughorn didn't invite him in his little club and guess who's there? Said girl and Blaise Zabini. Blaise Zabini who'd take anyone if he knew that someone else cared for that person, imagine what he'd do if he had any inkling of how deep Draco feels for said girl.

But Nott, being the massive wanker that he is, just wouldn't stop, "Surly, surly, surly- wurly, could it be? He's got the hots for curly?"

Zabini who was sitting beside Draco, let out an obvious chuckle, shaking his perfectly proportional head (fucking blessed git) in amusement.

Draco gritted his teeth. He's always so close to losing it nowadays. He feels like a ticking timebomb. Always fucking ticking. "You sound like Peeves, you son of a bitch."

"And a house-elf-fucking-asshole. If you're going that way might as well add my father, mate," Nott winked.

More chuckles from Zabini.

"And you're the son of a whore," he spat Zabini's way.

"Yes, a high class one, might I add, who also happens to be a genius and a lucrative businesswoman. Guess who wouldn't have to repeat the same shoes each day this school year?" He replied coolly, "Well, I do. Italian manufactured leather, water proof and jinx proof if you must know. I'd throw it away as soon the day's done because I know how to abandon things when they don't merit me anymore unlike certain people."

Zabini and Draco stared at each other meaningfully, Zabini cool and collected, Draco leering and simmering-- his anger just waiting to explode. Nott watched them and yawned but said nothing.

"What can you smell, Miss Granger?" Their professor asked, eyes filled with curiosity. Everyone mirrored said curiosity. All their attention turned back to Slughorn.

Draco felt like biting his fingernails but tried his hardest not to do so. What would she say? Instead he looked down on the words written in ink and tried every spell he could at them so much so that ink has started to spill from the edges of the page. But he pretended not to notice even though it started to drip on his shoes.

But his peripheral vision deceived him, he can still see her form standing over the pot of pearly hued substance. He looked up and watched her took a whiff of it. She has her hair up, showing her long neck... gods the things he could think of doing to her neck. Her skin was almost bronze in the sunlight, small tufts of chocolate colored curls escaping the messy bun that could fall at any moment if he pull at it-- gods just imagine his fair skin fiddling with her dark hair. He used to hate it when her hair is up but from this angle, it's so unusually appealing. The way the small trail of hairs run down her neck, getting sparser and sparser until they mix with the rest of the cream colored skin only to disappear where her robes start to cover it.