The Slytherin table felt longer than usual on Friday morning. Draconia sat between the heavy presence of Crabbe and Goyle, her breakfast untouched on the silver plate before her. The breakfast was cold, the eggs solid and the sausages grey, but she did not care for the food. She watched the way the light hit the silverware, noticing how the boys moved in a rhythmic, unhuraged way around her. They were not subtle, but they were constant. Crabbe was currently tearing into a piece of toast, his jaw working with a slow, heavy precision that made the sound of chewing audible even over the chatter of the Great Hall. Goyle sat on her other side, his broad shoulders forming a wall that blocked her from the view of the rest of the table.
"You are not eating," Goyle said. His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the bench. He did not look at her, but his eyes were fixed on the empty goblet in front of him. He was a large man, or would be one, with a thickness to his neck that made his robes look tight. He was not a man of many words, nor was he a man of delicate movements. He simply existed in the space she occupied, a warm, solid weight that reminded her of the physical reality of her surroundings.
"I am not hungry," Draconia replied. She kept her spine straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The silk of her robes felt smooth against her skin, a stark contrast to the rougher textures of the boys' wool and heavy cotton. She could feel the heat coming off Goyle, a literal warmth that served as a barrier between her and the scrutiny of the hall. She knew the eyes were on them, especially after the way she had sat in the stands during the Quidditch practice. The school was not blind, and the rumours were not kind.
Crabbe shifted his weight, his elbow brushing against her arm as he reached for the pumpkin juice. The contact was brief and heavy, but it was there. He was an anchor, a piece of the landscape that she had grown used to over the years. They were not elegant, and they were certainly not clever in the way the professors expected, but they were loyal. They followed her through the corridors with the same-handed devotion of a shadow. They did not ask why she sat in the stands, and they did not ask why she spent so much time in the Room of Requirement.
"Pansy is looking," Goyle remarked. He finally turned his head to look at her. His face was a blank expanse of skin, devoid of the sharp angles that characterized the more aristocratic Slytherins. He had a softness to his jawline that suggested a lack of tension. He looked at her with a bluntness that was almost uncomfortable. Most people in this castle used a thousand words to say nothing, but Goyle was a man who meant exactly what he said, even when he said very little.
"Let her look," Draconia said. She felt the tension in her neck, a tightness that had been there since Tuesday. She did not want to acknowledge the whispers that were swirling around the house. She could hear the low hum of voices from the Gryffindor table, and she knew they were talking about the girl who sat in the stands with the muscle of Slytherin. It was a dangerous position to hold, to be the centre of a storm without having the power to stop it.
"She is talking to Blaise," Crabbe added. He spoke while he was swallowing a large bite of bread. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. He did not seem to care about the social hierarchies that governed their house, nor did he seem to care about the gossip. He only seemed to care about the fact that she was sitting there, silent and still. He was a creature of habit, and his habit was to be near her.
"Is it a bad thing?" Draconia asked. She was not really asking the boys, but the air in the hall felt thinner than it had a moment ago. She felt as though she were being watched by a thousand eyes, all of them judging the way she sat between two boys who were widely considered to be nothing more than blunt instruments. The distinction between being a leader and being a curiosity was a thin one, and she felt herself slipping into the latter.
Goyle leaned forward, his chest pressing against the edge of the table. The movement was sudden and heavy. He did not look at the other students, nor did he glance at the High Table where the professors sat. He kept his gaze fixed on her, his eyes searching her face for a sign of something. He was looking for a crack in her composure, a moment where the mask of the Slytherin princess might slip.
"You are being quiet," Goyle said. The observation was plain and lacked any of the grace she usually expected from her peers. He was not trying to be clever; he was simply stating a fact. He was a man of certainties, and the certainty of her silence was bothering him. She could see the way his brow furrowed, a small movement that felt monumental in the stillness of their corner.
"I am always quiet when the world is loud," Draconia answered. She finally reached for a piece of fruit, a pear that was crisp and cold. She took a small bite, the juice tart on her tongue. The sweetness was a distraction from the heaviness of the conversation. She wondered if they knew that she was tired of the theatre of it all, the constant need to maintain a certain distance while also being surrounded by people.
"It is not just the silence," Goyle said. He sounded more certain now, his voice dropping an octave. He was not a man who understood the subtleties of social standing, but he understood the weight of a name. He understood the way the atmosphere changed when people spoke of the Dark Lord or the traditions of their blood. He was a man of the earth, and the earth was where the roots of their history lay.
"Are you a blood traitor now?" Goyle asked. The question was a blunt instrument, thrown into the middle of the breakfast-time chatter without any warning. It was a question that should have been asked in private, or perhaps not at all. It was a question that carried the weight of a thousand years of expectation and a thousand years of failure. He did not look away, and he did not soften the blow of the words.
The table went momentarily quiet in her immediate vicinity. Crabbe stopped chewing, his eyes darting to Goyle with a look of mild confusion, as if he were wondering why the question had been asked at that specific moment. The question was a jagged thing, a piece of sharp glass left in the middle of a smooth silk sheet. It was a question that demanded an answer, a lashing out of a truth that had been simmering beneath the surface of their daily interactions.
Draconia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she did not let it show in her expression. She looked at Goyle, really looked at him, and saw the bluntness of his accusation. He was not being cruel; he was being honest in the only way he knew how. He was asking her to define herself, to place herself in a box that she had spent years trying to escape. She felt the weight of the question, the way it sat in her stomach like a stone.
She looked at the empty space where her words should have been. She could have defended her lineage, she could have explained her loyalties, or she could have made a joke to deflect the tension. She could have told him that she was more complicated than a simple label. But the words would not come, and she realised that the silence was not a shield, but a confession. She says nothing, which is the most honest she has ever been in public.