The stone wall of the dungeon corridor felt damp against Draconia’s shoulder as she leaned into it. The Slytherin common room was a sanctuary for some and a fortress for others, but tonight it felt like a cage. She could hear the distant, muffled sounds of the stone walls breathing, the slow drip of water somewhere in the depths of the castle. Her fingers traced the jagged edge of a loose stone, her skin pale against the dark, heavy fabric of her robes. The green lamps of the common room flicks flickered in her mind, though she was still in the hallway.
A heavy footfall echoed down the corridor, rhythmic and deliberate. Draconia pulled herself upright, smoothing the front of her silk robes. The sound was too heavy to be a girl moving through the shadows. It was a man’s gait, or at least a boy who had filled out into a man. She felt the familiar pull of the wards, the invisible lines of protection that guarded the entrance to her house. The wards were supposed to be impenetrable to anyone without the proper intent, yet the footsteps were growing louder.
Harry appeared from around the corner, his silhouette cutting through the dim light of the torches. He looked out of place in the shadows of the dungeons, his hair messy and his eyes tired. He stopped a few feet from the stone entrance, looking at the blank wall that served as the doorway to the Slytherin common room. He did not look like a man who had lost his way. He looked like a man who had been summoned.
"You are late," Draconia said, her voice steady despite the way her pulse hammered in her throat.
Harry stepped closer, the light from a nearby sconce catching the gold of his glasses. "The corridors are different at this hour. Everything feels longer."
"The corridors are the same as they were at noon," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "You simply walked slower."
He reached out, his hand hovering near the stone surface of the entrance. "The wards are strong tonight. I can feel them. They feel like a physical barrier, almost like a wall of ice."
Draconia watched him, noting the way his fingers twitched. "They are meant to be a barrier. They keep the wrong people out. They keep the chaos at bay."
"And am I the wrong person?" Harry asked, his gaze lifting to meet hers.
"You are the wrong person for almost everything in this castle," she said, a small, sharp smile touching her lips. "But you are the person who is standing in front of my door."
He did not move to speak the password. He simply stood there, waiting for her to bridge the gap. The silence of the corridor was not empty; it was a presence that sat between them, heavy and expectant. Draconia knew that if she let him in, she was not just letting in a boy. She was letting in a scandal. She was letting in a breach of every unspoken rule the sixth-years and seventh-years lived by.
"The password is 'Pureblood Pride'," she said, the words tasting like copper on her tongue.
Harry did not recite it immediately. He looked at the stone wall, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is a bold one. It feels like a challenge."
"It is a statement," Draconia corrected him. "It is the only way to ensure the house remembers who it belongs to."
"Does it matter what the password is if the person is already inside?" Harry asked. He took another step, narrowing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"The password is the key to the wards," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "Without it, the stone remains stone. You could stand here for an hour and the door would never move for you."
"Then tell me the real one," he murmured. "The one you use when you want to be sure the door actually opens."
Draconia felt a thrill of apprehension. She was the one who guarded the entrance, the one who held the keys to the inner sanctum. To give him the access was to give him a piece of her authority. She looked at his face, searching for any sign of hesitation in his eyes, but he looked resolute. He was waiting for her to decide the fate of the evening.
"The wards will recognize you as an intruder," she warned, her eyes fixed on his. "They will sense the Gryffindor in you. They will try to push you back, to repel you from the green."
"Let them try," Harry said. He reached out and touched the stone, his palm flat against the cold surface. "I am not leaving until you let me in."
"It is not that simple," she said, her fingers tightening on her elbows. "If the wards sense a conflict, the door might not open at all. It might seal shut for the night."
"Then you must command them," Harry said. He leaned in closer, his voice a low vibration that she felt in her chest. "Tell them to let me pass. Tell them that I am expected."
Draconia took a breath, the air in the corridor feeling suddenly scarce. She was the one who controlled the flow of the house, the one who decided who was worthy of the Slytherin name. To allow him in was to invite the eyes of every girl and boy in the common room to fall upon them. It was a public declaration of a private connection.
"Are you certain?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I am certain," he answered.
She looked up at the portrait above the entrance, the painted figure of a stern-looking witch who had watched her grow up. The portrait blinked, her eyes narrowing as she observed the boy standing before the stone. The painting shifted in her frame, her expression one of profound skepticism.
The portrait looked down at Draconia, her painted lips curling into a thin line of doubt. "Are you sure, girl?" the portrait asked, her voice echoing slightly in the stone hall.
Draconia did not flinch, though her heart was racing. "I am sure."
The portrait sighed, a sound like rustling parchment, and looked at Harry with a judgmental squint. "Are you quite sure, then?" the portrait asked her twice.