“Is that Armotentia I detect?”

Rabastan did not look up from his work, and Rodolphus basked on the peculiar scent wafting from the brewing potion. It was fire, and oranges, and the smell of a strong sleeping draught; in between it all, the hint of a perfume he himself was familiar with was tangled with the other scents, nearly inexistent.

But it was there. Impossible.

Absolutely horrifying.

Warm and tingly, too.

He coughed and Rabastan smiled one his nearly extinct genuine smiles. “Finding out that you care for the girl you are to marry can’t possibly be that terrible, Brother.”