The silence following Snape’s departure felt permanent, a solid thing that anchored the two of them to the stone floor of the dungeon. Draconia stood with her shoulders squared, her face a mask of perfect, blank composure while her pulse throbbed in her throat. Harry did not move either, though his eyes were wide and slightly glazed from the sheer absurdity of the last few minutes. They had successfully convinced the professor that the ruined potion was a mutual failure, a technical error of timing rather than a lapse in concentration. It was a lie that had tasted like copper in her mouth, but she had delivered it with such flat, unshakeable precision that even Snape had been momentarily robbed of a retort.
"He is gone," Harry said, his voice a little too loud in the quiet of the room. He cleared his throat and tried to look at the cauldron, but his eyes kept darting back to her. "He really just... left."
"He did," Draconia said, watching the way Harry’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for a clean cloth. "He looked as though he was waiting for us to spontaneously combust or confess to a crime, but he chose to say nothing instead."
"It was a very long eleven seconds," Harry muttered, finally wiping a stray droplet of condensation from the edge of the workbench. "I thought he might actually deduct points for the way you were looking at me."
"He was waiting to see if we would break," she said, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "He didn't realize that we were already broken."
The tension of the confrontation had evaporated, leaving behind a strange, humming exhaustion. The dungeon was cool, the damp stone walls holding the memory of the steam that had filled the room only an hour before. They were alone again, back in the sanctuary of the shadows and the jars, but the air felt different now that the secret was out in the open. The ruined potion sat in the cauldron, a murky, stagnant liquid that served as a silent monument to their distraction.
A sudden, sharp sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor outside, the rhythmic tap of leather against stone. Both of them froze, the old reflex of panic returning with a vengeance. They had forgotten that the door to the dungeon did not lock, and the heavy, deliberate pace suggested someone was approaching with purpose. Harry reached for a jar of moonstone, his movements frantic and uncoordinated, while Draconia smoothed her skirt with a desperate, sweeping motion of her hands.
The door creaked open, and Greta stepped into the room. She was wearing her robes slightly askew, her hair a mess of dark curls, looking as though she had been running through the castle with a specific destination in mind. She did not look surprised to find them standing over a ruined potion in the dim light of the late afternoon. Instead, she looked entirely focused on the task at hand.
"I found it," Greta announced, stepping toward the workbench with a triumphant grin. "The apothecary had the last of the dried valerian, but the stairs were a nightmare."
"Greta," Harry breathed, a look of pure relief washing over his face. "You’re a lifesaver."
"Is it finished?" she asked, glancing at the cauldron. She didn't wait for an answer before setting a small, brown paper parcel down on the wood near the edge of the bench. "I figured you would need this to fix whatever mess you two have made of the infusion."
Draconia felt a flush creep up her neck. The timing was almost too perfect; Greta had walked in exactly as the tension had reached its highest point, breaking the spell of their shared silence. "The potion is... it is a work in progress," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "We had a slight deviation in the temperature."
Greta leaned against the bench, her eyes darting between Draconia and Harry. She was perceptive, far too perceptive for her own good, but she possessed a grace that was almost unnerving. She didn't ask why their hair was mussed or why the air in the room felt so charged with unspoken things. She simply stood there, a calm presence in the middle of their chaos.
"You look like you've been through a war," Greta said, her voice amused but not unkind. She reached out and adjusted a jar of dragon scales that was sitting lopsely on the shelf. "Or a very intense lecture. Either way, the valerian is here."
Harry laughed, a short, jagged sound of genuine relief. "A war seems more accurate. Thank you, Greta. Truly."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I'm not sure how much of a fix is actually possible once the steam has already settled."
They spent the next few minutes in a strange, comfortable rhythm, the awkwardness of the Snape encounter fading into the background as they worked to incorporate the new ingredient. Greta stayed with them, helping to sort the various vials and herbs, her presence acting as a buffer between them. She was the bridge back to reality, the person who could speak of dried plants and apothecary orders while they were still reeling from the heat of one another.
As the light began to fade, casting longer shadows across the stone floor, the work began to wind down. The cauldron was being cleaned, the residue of the failed potion scraped away with a silver spatula. The frantic energy of the afternoon had settled into a quiet, domestic stillness. Draconia sent Harry to fetch a fresh jar of distilled water, and for a moment, the two of them were separated by the width of the room.
"Are you actually going to finish this one?" Greta asked, looking at the empty cauldron. She was tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her movements elegant and deliberate.
"We are trying," Draconia said, her voice regaining its usual strength. "It is a difficult one to master."
"It looks like a lot of work," Greta said, moving toward the door. She had the look of someone who had already completed her errand and was ready to move on to her next task. She paused at the threshold, turning back to look at the two of them.
Harry was standing by the sink, his back to her, while Draconia was busy organizing the jars on the shelf. The room felt small again, the intimacy of the space returning as the audience of one departed.
"You both look exhausted," Greta said, a playful tilt to her voice. "And slightly disheveled. It's a good look on you, but maybe not the most subtle."
Draconia felt the heat rise in her cheeks again, but she did not look down. She watched Greta, noting the way the light caught the curve of her cheek. The girl was a master of the quiet exit, of knowing exactly when to arrive and exactly when to leave a room to its secrets.
"We'll be fine," Harry said, turning around with a crooked, tired smile.
Greta nodded, her expression softening into something knowing and entirely unjudgemental. She stepped back into the corridor, her hand resting on the heavy wooden doorframe. She didn't wait for a goodbye or a thank you. She simply looked at the two of them, her eyes bright with a silent understanding of the tension that still lingered in the room.
"Use a charm," she said.
And then she was gone.