Monday arrived with a sharp, biting cold that clung to the stone walls of the castle. Draconia sat at the Slytherin table during breakfast, watching the way the light hit the silver platters. She did not look at the entrance, but she felt the shift in the room when he walked in. Harry did not look like a man who belonged in the dungeons, yet he moved with a strange, unearned confidence. He took his seat near the edge of the room, far from the centre of the table, but Draconia had already cleared a space. She did not invite him, but she did not move her book or her plate to close the gap. It was a small thing, a simple act of leaving a vacancy, but the sixth-years watched him with narrow eyes.
The tension in the common room was a living thing during the first few days of the week. Draconia made sure her presence was a constant, silent endorsement. On Tuesday, she walked through the corridors with her head held high, passing him as they both headed toward the library. She did not stop to talk, but she dropped a small, enchanted quill onto his desk in the library. It was a trivial gesture, one that could be dismissed as an accident, yet it forced the eyes of everyone in the room to follow the movement of her hand. The quill hummed with a soft, green light before it went still. She felt the weight of the stares from the girls sitting nearby, but she kept her gaze fixed on her parchment.
"You're being very loud without saying a word," Greta said on Wednesday afternoon. They were sitting in a corner of the common room, far from the main fire. Greta was tracing the pattern on her sleeve, her eyes darting toward the entrance where Harry was currently speaking to a younger student. "Everyone is talking about it, you know. They think you're making a move."
Draconia took a slow sip of her tea, the warmth of the liquid settling in her throat. "I am not making a move, Greta. I am simply occupying space."
"It looks a lot like a claim," Greta whispered, leaning in closer. "The way you move your chair closer to his when he sits down. The way you leave that empty seat next to you even when the room is crowded."
"It is just a chair," Draconia replied, though she knew it was a lie. Every time she shifted her position to make room for him, she was carving out a territory. She was telling the room that he was under her protection, or perhaps that she was under his. The distinction was blurry and dangerous.
By Wednesday evening, the campaign had moved from the library to the common room. Dracोंia sat by the fire, her robes spread around her in a wide, dark pool. She had brought a second cup of tea, a porcelain mug that was still steaming, and she placed it on the low table beside the empty cushion. She did not look up when he approached the hearth. She did not look up when he sat down, his presence a warm, solid weight in her periphery. She simply continued to read her book, her thumb tracing the edge of the page.
"You're going to get a reputation for being a provider," Harry said, his voice low and slightly amused. He reached for the tea, his fingers brushing against the handle.
"I am merely being hospitable," Draconia said, not lifting her eyes from the text. "It would be rude to let a guest sit in the cold."
"A guest? In the Slytherin common room?" He laughed, a short, dry sound that caught the attention of a group of fourth-years nearby. "I think the term is intruder."
"The distinction is academic," she murmured.
She felt the eyes of the sixth-years' table on them. They were sitting just a few feet away, their whispers rising and falling like the tide. She could sense the judgement in the air, the way they catalogued every movement of her hand and every tilt of his head. She did not give them the satisfaction of a reaction. She stayed perfectly still, a statue of composure in the green light of the lamps. She was teaching them how to look at him through her eyes.
On Thursday, the campaign reached its first peak. Draconia had spent the morning selecting a specific green ribbon, a silk thing that caught the light of the torches. She tied it into her hair with a deliberate, slow motion that drew every eye in the room. She sat at the table where the older students gathered, and she made sure there was a deliberate gap between her and the person she usually sat next to. She was creating a vacuum, a space that only he could fill.
The room felt different than it had on Monday. The air was no longer just observant; it was expectant. The students at the table were no longer just watching her; they were watching the space she had created. They were waiting to see if he would take it.
"Is she actually doing it?" a girl whispered near the cauldron-shaped bowl in the corner.
"She is," another replied, her voice tight with a mix of confusion and fascination. "She's practically laying out a red carpet for him."
Draconia watched a boy from the fifth-year group approach the table to ask her a question about a charm. As he spoke, she waited for the exact moment to move her bag, clearing the way for a chair. It was a calculated, silent movement. She was no longer just a girl sitting in a room; she is a girl marking a boundary.
The sixth-years were the most dangerous, of course. They understood the politics of a claim better than anyone else. They knew that a woman’s silence could be as loud as a shout. She saw Pansy watching her, the girl's eyes sharp and calculating as she took in the way Draconia refused to acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation.
By the time the sun began to dip below the lake, the atmosphere had shifted entirely. The resistance was melting. The silent, rigid walls she had built around him were being dismantled by the sheer persistence of her small, quiet actions. She had not shouted his name, but she had made his presence a part of the room's rhythm.
The transition was visible in the way the students moved around him. They no longer stepped around him as if he were a ghost or a trespasser. They moved as if he were a fixture of the room, a part of the furniture that Draconia had sanctioned.
It was a slow, methodical takeover of the social hierarchy. By the time the evening meal was nearly over, the verdict was in. The silence was no longer one of shock, but of acceptance. By Thursday, three of them are speaking to him.