What are you?

Cinnamon

   If there was one thing Ron could have wished for in that moment, it was some peace and quiet. It had been a few days since the forest incident, and Ron hadn't spoken to Draco whatsoever. It's not that he didn't want to, of course, he just didn't have time. With Harry constantly making ridiculous gestures whenever Hermione was around and his endless stack of homework for classes, he had little time to breath, let alone talk. But, after the dream he had, accompanied by the fact that they spent the night in the dark forest, he felt it was probably for the best.

"Do you know what goes in next? I kind of tuned out," Harry asked, sitting beside him at their shared potions table. Ron shook his head, trying his damndest to pay attention to the set of directions he was given. He had no idea what he was making, or doing for that matter. So, he just threw random things in his cauldron that made somewhat of sense, hoping that the thing wouldn't explode.

"Mr. Weasley," Professor Slughorn said, his voice seeming like a mixture of frustration and gentleness. Ron looked up, ignoring the fact that the liquid in his cauldron was a sickly brown color. "Yes?" He asked, fearing of what he might say. "If you cannot focus and do your work properly next to Mr. Potter here then I think it is impertinent that we move your seat."

He said, his arms were crossed, foot tapping on the ground. "No he was just-"

"Quiet Mr. Potter, this is final," he looked around the room, eyes setting on Draco and Pansy. "Ms. Parkinson," he said, "come, sit with Mr. Potter here. Mr. Weasley, you take a seat with Mr. Malfoy." Ron was astonished, staring at Draco in pure awe.

How many times was he going to get paired with him? And, Ron swore that he saw a smile creeping onto Slughorn's face. As if what he was doing was that much of a punishment. "But-"

"No buts, go," he said, and, with that he stood up, feigning a reaction of annoyance. Pansy ran into his shoulder, purposefully knocking him sideways as she walked towards Harry.

He took a seat, the chair screeching, his breath in his throat, the bubbling of the shared cauldron loud in his ears. A few minutes past before he actually mucked up enough courage to say, "so, what are we making?" Draco looked at him, and the only thing he could see was that damned black suit from his dreams. "Amortentia," he said, stirring something in the pot. "Oh," Ron said, vaguely remembering the name.

"What happened in Dumbledore's office?" He asked, the silence bothering him considerably. Not hearing Draco talk was like not breathing. "Oh, the usual, bloody Potter shoving a fat lot of insults my way. He accused me of just about everything that he could have, especially in your regard."

"What?"

"I thought he would have told you. Ha, he thought I "bewitched" you or something, can you believe that?" Ron rolled his eyes, glancing at Harry's concerned face behind him.

"Yes actually, sounds like something he would say."

"Well I found it atrocious, to think I would actually hurt you, you! It's comical."

"Why is that?" Draco was rambling at that point, and he was sure that he had lost control of himself. "Because, I could never hurt you! Ha, I would sooner pitch myself off of the astronomy tower."

He said, just then noticing that Ron had somewhat of a cheeky smile growing on his face. He recouped himself quickly, remembering the ingredients that he still had to add. "I mean, I could if I wanted to, of course." Ron let out a whisper-chuckle, kicking Draco from under the table. Draco kicked him back, and fearing getting caught, he started back up with the potion.

___

"What do you smell?" He asked, adding the last few mixes and setting his hands on the table. For a moment, Ron thought he was going insane, because he was sure that the scent of Draco's expensive cologne and old parchment had grown tenfold. "Uh . . . I'm not sure," he said, intertwining his fingers together. "What about you?"

At that Draco gave a few whiffs, a smile spreading at his lips. He looked entirely too happy with whatever he was smelling. "Cinnamon," he said dreamily, staring at him with a look Ron couldn't place. He tipped his head to the side, a confused puppy, then focused on the fact that his palms were sweating profusely. "Are you sure you don't smell anything?"

Draco asked, ignoring the fact that Slughorn was walking towards them. "I . . . well-"

"How's it going here?" Slughorn asked, cutting Ron off.

"Just about as great as working with a Weasley can be Professor," he said disgustedly. For a second Ron was taken aback, but once he felt the foot next to him tapping at his ankle, he knew what was going on.

"Oh, yes, bloody ridiculous! Why would you sit me with a git like him?" He said, trying his hardest to hold back a laugh. Calling Draco a git anymore felt like saying he wasn't hungry, it just wasn't true. Ron nudged Draco under the table, realizing that they were on the precipice of a full-blown foot war.

"I would watch your tongue Mr. Weasley. Now, for that, why don't you tell the class what you smell?" Ron's foot dropped dead cold, his lungs suddenly collapsing on themselves. "I-um . . . must I Professor?"

"Oh absolutely, go on, stand up and tell the class," he made a peaceful stand-up gesture.

Ron climbed nervously to his feet, his chair making an awkward squeaking sound. "I smell parchment," he said suddenly, his words came out in a sort of blind stutter. It wasn't a lie after all. "Anything else?" Slughorn asked, all eyes were on Ron, all expectant.

"I . . . " He glanced down at Draco. "That's all," he said, sitting back down in his chair. His cheeks felt as if they were on fire. "Well done Mr. Weasley, now everyone I expect you to tell your partners just what it is that you smell." Just like that everyone began chatting, the room sounding like a whirlpool of voices.

Ron could hardly hear his fragmented words when he asked, "why do you smell cinnamon?" Draco stared at him, eyes noticeably searching his face.

"Why do you smell parchment?" He retaliated, continuing to stir the mixture for no apparent reason. Guess we'll never know , Ron thought to himself, wanting so badly to crawl inside Draco's head and know every thought that he had ever had.

___

"So how was working with the infamous 'Git?" Harry whisper-asked, any louder and he risked being walloped in the head by Snape. Ron thought for a moment, trying to find the right words to describe their encounter. "Oh, bloody terrible as always," he said, staring at the letter he was writing and the feathered quill in his hands. He hadn't written to Draco in a while (although they went to the same school) and he felt it was probably time to. Besides, they still had the rest of the project to work on, right?

His letter went a little something like:

Dear Draco,

I would write some well-constructed, amazing poem for you to begin with, but as you know I'm not very good at it, so I'd rather not waste your time. I'll be honest, I'm not entirely sure why I'm writing this letter, but I feel as if I must. We have to begin our presentation and essay, because if we don't, I genuinely fear for my DADA grade (if I go any lower I could fail). So, respond to this letter I guess, or not, if you don't want to. But I would prefer it if you did . . . please?

P.S. I really like your poetry.

                                                                                           With Love,

                                                                                                              Ron