The two of them stood in the middle of the dungeon, their breath catching in the humid air that rose from the cauldron. Draconia leaned back against the stone wall, watching the way the light from the flickering candles caught the sweat on Harry’s neck. He was still focused on the potion, his movements rhythmic and steady as he followed the complicated sequence of turns. The liquid in the pot was a pale, shimmering violet, and he was careful not to let the temperature drop too low. He looked far too serious for someone who was currently standing in a dark room at midnight with a girl who had just finished touching his hand.
"You are staring," Harry said, his voice a low murmur that cut through the sound of the bubbling liquid. He did not look up from the workstation, but his shoulders seemed to tense as he adjusted his grip on the stirring rod.
"I am observing the technique," Draconia replied, her tone smooth and entirely unconvincing. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the way her robes brushed against her skin. "It is a very specific way to stir, Potter. You are quite precise."
"It is a long potion," he said, finally turning his head to meet her gaze. "If the rhythm breaks, the consistency is ruined. You told me to keep stirring, after all."
"I did," she admitted, a small, sharp smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I wanted to see if you actually had the discipline to do it. You are very good at following instructions."
"Is that what we are calling it now?" Harry asked. He stepped a fraction closer to the bench, his eyes searching hers. "Instructions? It felt more like a challenge."
"Everything is a challenge with you," Draconia said. She walked toward the shelf of jars, pretending to inspect the labels of the dried valerian roots. "You take everything so seriously that it becomes a bit tedious."
"It is not tedious if the potion is perfect," he countered. He turned back to the cauldron, the steam rising to dampen his forehead. "If we miss a single movement, the whole process is wasted."
"The portrait is watching us," she said, nodding toward the corner of the room.
A large, ornate frame hung on the wall near the supply cupboard. Inside the frame, a man with a stiff, powdered wig and a deeply disapproving expression sat in a high-backed chair. He had been a professor of Potions a century ago, and his portrait was known for being particularly vocal about the conduct of students in the laboratory. The man’s eyes were currently fixed on them, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in a display of profound shock.
"He is not watching us," Harry said, though his voice went a little higher. "He is a painting. He is inanimate."
"He is a witness," Draconia corrected. "He looks like he is about to faint from the scandal of it all."
The portrait cleared its throat, a sound like dry parchment rubbing together. "It is a disgrace," the man barked, his voice echoing against the stone walls. "A complete and utter disgrace to the art of brewing!"
Harry jumped, nearly dropping the stirring rod into the violet liquid. "Did he just speak?"
"He is judging us, Harry," she said, enjoying the way his face flushed. "He thinks your technique is lacking, or perhaps he is simply offended by the volume of the steam."
"It is not the steam," the portrait snapped. The old professor leaned forward, his painted hands gripping the arms of his chair. "The etiquette of a laboratory requires decorum. One does not stand so close to a colleague while a cauldron is at a boiling point. It is improper! It is unseemly!"
"He is talking about us," Harry whispered, his eyes wide. He looked back at the cauldron, then at the portrait, then at Draconia. "Is he actually offended by how we are standing?"
"He is offended by the lack of decorum," she said. She moved closer to the workbench, her movements deliberate. "He thinks we are being too loud with our silences."
"We aren't even talking that loudly," Harry argued, though he seemed to be shrinking back into himself. He reached for a vial of moonstone essence, his fingers trembling slightly. "The potion needs to be handled with respect. It is a delicate thing."
"The potion is fine," the portrait interrupted, his voice rising in pitch. "But the behavior! The absolute lack of decority! To be caught in the middle of a midnight brew with such... such blatant disregard for the rules of the room!"
"He is quite a busybody, isn't he?" Harry asked, a lopsided grin beginning to form on his face. The tension in his shoulders started to melt, replaced by a sense of amused disbelief.
"He is a relic," Draconia said. She felt a surge of mischief rising in her. She had spent the last hour being controlled by the rhythm of the potion and the precision of his movements, and she was tired of being the one who watched. "He is a very old, very grumpy relic who thinks he can dictate the atmosphere of a room."
"He looks like he wants to throw a book at us," Harry laughed, a short, breathless sound. "Look at his face. He is practically vibrating with indignation."
"He thinks we are being scandalous," she said, her eyes flashing. "He thinks the way you are looking at me is a violation of the highest order."
"Is it?" Harry asked, his voice dropping an octave. He did not look away from her. The humor in his eyes was tempered by a sudden, sharp intensity. "Am I being scandalous, Draconia?"
"You are being quite predictable," she replied, though her heart gave a small, traitorous thud against her ribs. "You follow the rules until you don't. And then you're a complete mess."
"I am not a mess," he said, stepping around the side of the bench to stand more squarely in front of her. "I am just focused. There is a difference."
"The difference is a very fine line," she said. She watched the way the candlelight danced in his eyes, the way the shadows of the dungeon clung to the edges of his silhouette. The portrait let out a huff of pure, indignant-sounding breath.
"Decorums! Order! Respect!" the portrait shouted, his painted face turning a shade of deep crimson. "This is a place of science, not a place for... for whatever it is you two are doing!"
"He is making a scene," Harry said, his laughter bubbling up. "He is actually shouting at us in a deserted dungeon."
"He is a perfectionist," she said, her voice tight with the effort of not laughing herself. "He cannot stand a single thing being out of place."
"It is a bit ridiculous," Harry said, his shoulders shaking as he struggled to keep his composure. "He is a painting, and he is lecturing us on the sanctity of the brewing process."
"He is judging the very air we breathe," she said. She felt the warmth of the cauldron against her back, the steam dampening her skin. The sensation was distracting, making her feel heavy and strangely present in the moment.
"I think he is actually mad," Harry said, a genuine laugh finally breaking free. He leaned his weight against the workbench, his eyes bright and dancing with mirth. "He looks like he is about to burst a vein."
"He is a very dramatic man," Draconia said, her eyes narrowing as she watched the portrait's painted eyebrows descend toward his nose. "He cannot stand it when things are not quite perfect."
"It is a very funny way to behave in a laboratory," Harry said, shaking his head. He looked at her, his expression softening, the humor turning into something warmer and more dangerous. "He is a total kill