takearisk;

I have only recently discovered your writing and was wondering if you've done a scene where Harry tells Ginny he smells her in his Amortentia?

I just think you capture their personalities so perfectly that I think you'd do the scene justice.

Anon, you're my new favourite person - so I dropped everything and wrote this for you 😘

AO3 or read below:

The smell hit her like a punch to the gut. 

It had been lying dormant, in wait, hanging unseen in the air of the dungeon corridor, ready for Ginny to wander unwittingly into its trap. 

She wasn't even taking potions this year, but Luna was, and the first day of Ginny's sixth year at Hogwarts had been so lonely and unpleasant that she'd been unable to resist using the end of her free period to wander down here to meet one of the few friendly faces remaining to her in the castle when the school day officially ended. 

It wasn’t the homely, comforting aroma of her mother’s apple pie that had the heart-wrenching effect on her, nor was it the damp, earthy fragrance that brought to mind the orchard after summer rainfall. The scent that had Ginny leaning heavily against the cool stone wall was more subtle, a faint hint in the air of something woodsy, evergreen and clean, and so intrinsically Harry that she suspected it would’ve taken her breath away even if she’d been expecting it. 

The door to the potions classroom burst open, spilling a handful of her classmates into the dimly-lit corridor. Ginny forced herself to stand upright, before anyone could see a hint of her distress. 

Despite their shaking, her legs carried her forward. Some invisible force summoned her; she pushed against the crowd exiting Slughorn's classroom, slipping through the doorway; ignoring Luna's puzzled gaze as she followed the scent to a golden cauldron sitting atop the nearest desk. 

The surface of the potion within had an opalescent sheen, and the vapour rising from it was ascending towards the stone ceiling in distinctive spirals that would’ve allowed her to identify it even if the overpowering scent hadn’t already given away its identity.

“Amortentia,” Ginny read aloud, peering over the top of Ron’s borrowed copy of Advanced Potion Making from where she was sitting on the ground opposite Harry. “Sounds a lot more interesting than levitation charms.” 

Harry looked up. Distracted from his attempts at revision, his head fell back slightly against the beech tree he was leaning against. “Slughorn brewed it for our first lesson this year. I could smell it before I even walked into the classroom.” 

Ginny tossed the charms textbook she’d been pretending to read aside, giving him her full attention, which, really, he’d had from the moment he’d convinced her to leave the library in favour of the castle's sunlit grounds. “And what does Harry Potter smell when confronted with the world’s strongest love potion?” 

Harry’s cheeks flushed and Ginny’s grin widened. Making him blush was a new, and favourite, activity of hers. “I’ll tell you next year,” he said evasively. “When you can tell me what you smell too.” 

Fleetingly, she considered accepting his non-answer. It was, after all, a deeply personal question. But this was one of the few boundary-pushing questions that Ginny could ask, unlike the others that she unswervingly steered away from – what are you whispering with Ron and Hermione about? What are you doing when you’re summoned to Dumbledore’s office? Why do I feel like talking about anything further ahead than next Tuesday is tempting a fate that I’m not ready to face? – Amortentia, by contrast, seemed utterly tame. 

She rolled onto her stomach, her elbows sinking into the grass, supporting her upper body and holding it upright. Her smile, she knew, was full of challenge. “I bet I can guess.” 

Harry’s eyes wandered the length of her body, before returning to her face. He mirrored her smirk. “And if you can’t?” 

Laughter rose, light and breathy in her throat, but Ginny swallowed it down, schooling her face into a look of total seriousness. “A forfeit of your choosing… and if I win, a reward of mine.” 

Despite what half the school would probably say, Harry was absolutely terrible at hiding his smile. He shook his head. “Considering my choice of forfeit, and your choice of reward are definitely the same thing, there doesn’t seem to be much risk for you here?” 

“Or you,” Ginny countered, conveniently ignoring the risk of him having to reveal a deeply personal fact. 

The spark in Harry’s eyes told her he hadn’t forgotten the risk, though he didn’t say as much. “We should probably just skip to kissing then.”  

There was nothing she could do to contain her laughter in the face of such a brazen statement; it rang out clear and bright across the grounds. A few weeks ago, when she’d been starting to wonder if he was going to tiptoe around this growing attraction between them forever, the idea of him saying such a thing outright to her would’ve been unimaginable.

She tilted her head to the side, pretending to consider the suggestion. It did sound tempting, but Ginny knew that neither of them would really agree to it. Lines had been drawn. A challenge laid out. Satisfaction must be granted. 

She started with the obvious. “Treacle tart.” 

Harry’s smile fell, clearly concerned by the speed with which Ginny had delivered a correct guess. He recovered quickly, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Been watching my dessert habits closely, have you?” 

Ginny ignored this, finding nothing worthy of denial in the question. “Now it’s a matter of narrowing down what you like more… flying seems an obvious choice, but there’s your fondness for Hedwig to consider–” 

“Hedwig?” Harry burst out. He leaned forward, leaving the tree trunk behind as he looked at her disbelievingly. “I did not smell my owl in a love potion!” 

“Well, it sounds weird when you put it like that,” Ginny said, fighting the urge to laugh once more at the outraged expression on Harry’s face. “Stop looking at me like that!  She's an important presence in your life – I think she’s amortentia-worthy!” 

Harry’s expression remained unchanged. “...She’s an owl.” 

“Fine,” Ginny sighed, shaking her head. “But I think Hedwig would be deeply offended by your reaction.” 

Harry released a snort of laughter, returning his back to the tree. “Well, it’s a good job she’s not as nosy as you, so she’ll never have to know.” 

“Flying then,” Ginny pondered loudly, her fingers twisting in the grass as she let Harry’s comment pass without argument. When it came to her interest in him, ‘nosy’ didn’t quite cover it. 

She fell silent for a moment, considering the many possible scents associated with flying. Her mind immediately went to the rich, leathery fragrance of a quaffle, but she dismissed this at once. She was a chaser, not Harry. Snitches, delicate and metallic, didn’t really smell of anything in her opinion. Being in the air had a unique smell, fresh and clear, but that wasn’t right either. 

Flying, she knew, started before you got in the air. Flying was the sense of anticipation, flying was the rush of pushing off from the ground, flying was endless possibilities. 

“Your broom,” Ginny said definitively after another moment of deliberation. Broomsticks were freedom. 

Harry nodded, confirming her guess correct. Their eyes met, and she knew, without either of them speaking, that her reasoning was sound too.

“Two out of three…” Ginny mused, waiting for Harry to correct her if her calculations were wrong. He didn’t. 

This time the silence that fell between them was charged with suspense, though Ginny suspected this might just be in her head. A flutter of butterflies had broken loose in her stomach. 

She didn't need to be in the presence of a cauldron of amortentia to know that she would smell him. The way he looked at her, it didn't feel completely out of the realm of possibility that Harry would smell Ginny too, but they'd only been together for a matter of weeks, and she'd wanted him for years, and if she guessed herself, and he told her she was wrong, she wasn't sure she'd be able to take the blow. 

“Not Hedwig…” she smirked with an air of confidence she definitely didn't feel, buying time, and coaxing a smile onto Harry's face that went some way to soothing Ginny's nerves. 

“Definitely not,” Harry agreed. 

“More food?” Ginny hedged, watching his face carefully for a reaction. “Or something like that? You do have a liking for butterbeer.”

Harry shook his head. His lips pressed together but Ginny could still see a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You're doing this on purpose.” 

Her heart was beating frantically in her chest. “Doing what?” 

Harry cocked an eyebrow at her. “If you make me admit it, you don't win.”  

Her butterflies were flying wildly now, swooping and diving within her. For once, Ginny found she didn't care very much about winning at all. “I want you to say it.” 

“Fine,” Harry sighed. His hand found hers on the ground, fingers entwining together in the long blades of grass. Much to Ginny's delight, his blush made a return. “You… your hair, if you want me to be specific.” 

“My hair?” She asked, somewhat breathlessly. Her free hand reached out and pulled a strand of her hair to her nose. “It just smells like hair.” 

Harry's cheeks turned from a faint rosy pink, to flushed crimson. “It smells like flowers.”

“Flowers,” Ginny whispered, elevating the word to the height of the world's greatest compliment in her mind. She was certain her smile looked completely ridiculous, but she was incapable of caring. She pulled herself upright, careful that their hands remained clasped together. She shuffled forwards on the grass until her face was inches from Harry's. “Really? My hair?” 

“Yes,” Harry laughed; there was a hint of nervousness beneath the usually carefree sound. “Can you stop looking so pleased with yourself?” 

Ginny's smile remained in place as she shook her head. “No, I don't think I can.” 

“This can't be news to you,” he protested, apparently gathering some confidence from how clearly delighted Ginny was about this revelation. “Have I not made my feelings clear?” 

She supposed he had, in a very Harry-ish way. Kissing her in the centre of the full common room had been a fairly loud declaration, even if no words had been exchanged at that particular moment, and he'd been very attentive from that moment onwards, but this was different. Amortentia was magic; pure, and ancient, and undeniable. 

“I’m ready for my forfeit now,” Ginny announced, not waiting for any further instructions before leaning forwards, her lips finding his, eager to make her own feelings clear in what time they had left before lunch ended–

“Miss Weasley!” Professor Slughorn's voice pulled Ginny abruptly back to the present. 

She was standing beside the golden cauldron; her knuckles had turned a ghostly white from the strength with which she gripped the edge of the desk. She was breathing deeply, taking in great lungfuls of the heady scent emanating from the potion. 

Slughorn was frowning at her, his face a mask of concern and pity. Ginny wasn't sure which sentiment she hated more. 

“Sorry,” she said, using all her force of will to take a definitive step away from the desk. “I was just looking for Luna.” 

“I'm here,” Luna said from the doorway. Her eyes were wide, piercing. “Did you want to go to dinner?” 

Ginny nodded, now that she'd come to her senses she was desperate to remove herself from the dungeons and the heavy miasma that surrounded her. 

Slughorn cleared his throat uncomfortably before she'd taken even a step towards Luna. “Are you sure you're alright, Miss Weasley? I wouldn't want you to go up to dinner if you're not feeling yourself… there's a lot of observant eyes in the great hall these days.” 

“I'm fine,” she lied, ignoring her thundering heart, and schooling her face into a mask of perfect neutrality she was already fed up with wearing after only one day of term. 

“Very well,” Slughorn nodded, though he still looked reluctant to let her go. His eyes travelled between Ginny and Luna. “The weather's still quite fine for this time of year,” he said, his tone observational. “I always find a walk around the grounds to be a pleasant prelude to one's dinner… There's nothing quite like fresh air to clear the mind.”