The corridor was too narrow for the argument, yet they stood there regardless. Draconia watched the way Harry moved his hands, as if he were trying to physically push the words back into his mouth. He looked tired, his hair a chaotic mess that suggested he had been running his fingers through it for hours. He was not a child, and he did not act like one, but the way he stood there, cornered by the stone walls, made him seem smaller than he was.
"It was a single bottle, Draconia," Harry said. His voice was rougher than it had been a term ago.
"A single bottle of essence of wormwood, which you spilled in the middle of the entrance hall," she replied. Her voice was steady, her posture perfect. "It is not the volume of the spill that matters, but the sheer lack of care."
"I tripped," he said. He looked up at her, his eyes searching hers for a flicker of something that wasn't irritation. "The floor was uneven."
"The floor is always uneven in this castle, but you are supposed to know where to step." Draconia crossed her arms. She felt the stiffness of her robes against her skin. The corridor felt cramped because she was standing too close to him, or perhaps because she was waiting for him to actually apologise.
"It is a mess of a situation," a new voice joined them. Filch approached, his footsteps heavy on the stone. He looked exhausted, his face a map of grievances. "The stairs are stained, the scent is stuck in the masonry, and the students are complaining about the smell of dried worms."
"It was an accident," Harry insisted, though he looked as if he might concede the point if she pressed him hard enough.
"Accidents are the refuge of the careless," Draconia said. She did not look at Filch yet. She kept her gaze on Harry, watching the way his jaw tightened.
"He needs to serve his time, Draconia," Filch said, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. "But my detention room is full. The last group of sixth years has left a mess of ink and quill shavings that will take a week to clear. There is no room for him in the standard quarters."
Harry looked at the floor. "I can sit in the corner. I won't make a sound."
"You will always make a sound if you are a nuisance," Filch grumbled. He turned to her, his eyes desperate. "The boy is a constant problem, but he is a quiet problem once he is punished. He just needs a place to sit and write his lines."
"He can go to the Great Hall for an hour," Harry suggested, his eyes flicking to her.
"The Great Hall is for eating and sitting, not for penance," Draconia said. She felt a strange sense of anticipation. She had heard about the way he broke rules, the way he moved through the castle as if he owned the very air he breathed.
"He needs a supervisor," Filch said. He stepped closer to her, his breath smelling of stale tea. "Someone who can keep an eye on him. Someone who won't let him get away with his clever-boy charms."
"He has already used his charms on me," Harry muttered.
"Do not be tiresome, Harry," she said. "The charm only works if the person is willing to be charmed."
"He is a handful," Filch said. He looked at her with a heavy, expectant expression. "The boy is a lot of work, but he is predictable once you settle him into a routine. He just needs a room with a desk and a lamp."
"He needs a discipline," Draconia corrected him. She watched the way a stray lock of hair fell over Harry's eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he kept his mouth shut, a rare feat for him.
"I can take him," she said. The words felt easy in her mouth.
"Are you sure?" Filch asked. "The bookkeeping for his offences is already a mountain. If you take him, you take the whole mess. The reports, the ink, the constant monitoring."
"I am sure," she said. She stepped forward, moving into his personal space to reclaim the authority of the moment.
"He is a lot of trouble," Harry added, his voice a low challenge.
"He is exactly the kind of trouble that requires a specific kind of attention," she replied. She looked him dead in the eye, watching the way his pupils dilated slightly.
"He will be in your jurisdiction now," Filch said. He sounded relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Every time he breaks a rule, every time he spills a potion or forgets a deadline, it is your problem to solve."
"It is not a problem if it is managed correctly," Draconia said. She felt a sense of control spreading through her. She liked the idea of him being in her space, under her rules, away from the general population of the castle.
"You'll have to keep the logs," Filch reminded her. "And the ink. He is a messy writer when he is angry."
"I can manage a desk and a bottle of ink," she said. "It is a small price to pay for a quiet corridor."
"He isn't always quiet," Harry warned. "Sometimes he is quite loud when he is being stubborn."
"I do not find much of anything in him to be stubborn," she lied. She knew exactly how stubborn he could be, and she found the idea of breaking that stubbornness deeply appealing.
"He is a handful," Filch repeated, as if trying to convince himself. "A very large, very difficult handful."
"I will take the duty," she said. She reached out and took the clipboard from Filch’s hand. She did not wait for him to finish his warning. She took the duty off Filch like a woman signing for a delivery.