The Hufflepuff table left them with a bruised sort of exhaustion. Harry watched the way she rubbed her wrists where the skin was flushed from the friction of the wood. Everything about the last hour had been loud and bright and frantic, a sharp contrast to the heavy stillness that had reclaimed the Great Hall. The candles had begun to flicker lower in their sockets, casting long, distorted shapes across the stone floor. Draconia felt the ache in his hips from the way she had sat on him, a dull throb that reminded him of the heat they had shared. He watched her pull her robes straight, her movements precise and efficient.
"The score is not quite finished," she said, her voice a low rasp. "We have one more stop to make before the sun actually decides to rise."
"You are obsessed with these milestones," Harry replied, standing up and brushing the crumbs from his trousers. "It is as if you are tallying the cost of every room we ruin."
"It is not the ruin that matters, but the record," she said. She stood up and smoothed the front of her skirt, her eyes tracking the movement of a single candle flame. "The Hufflepuff table was for the heat. This next part is for the exit."
The Great Hall felt vast and cavernous as they moved toward the massive doors. They walked in a tight formation, their footsteps dampened by the heavy rugs that lined the periphery of the room. Harry kept his eyes on the back of her head, watching the way her hair caught the dying light of the floating enchantments. They reached the doors, and he held his breath as he pushed them open. The heavy oak groaned, a sound that felt deaf a mile wide in the silence of the castle. They stepped out into the corridor, the stone floor cold beneath their boots.
"The porters will be moving through the entrance hall soon," Harry whispered, his voice barely a breath. "If we do not move now, we will be caught before we even reach the staircases."
"They are not looking for us," she said, though her jaw tightened. "They are looking for shadows, and we are far too solid for that."
The corridor was a narrow, winding throat of stone. They moved with a practiced, synchronized stealth that only comes from hours of shared secrecy. Every time a floorboard creaked or a stone shifted, they froze, standing perfectly still like statues in the dark. Harry watched her profile in the gloom, noting the way her breathing stayed shallow and controlled. She led the way, her hand occasionally brushing his arm to signal a turn or a change in pace. It was a silent language of touch, a way to navigate the labyrinth without the need for clumsy words.
"The Grand Staircase is already shifting," she murmured as they reached the landing. "If we miss the landing, we will be walking in circles for an hour."
"I hate the moving staircases," Harry said, stepping carefully around a protruding ledge. "They feel like the castle is trying to trip us."
"It is not trying to trip us, it is just restless," she replied. She paused, her hand outstretched to catch his. "Wait. Listen."
The sound of a heavy, rhythmic thud echoed from somewhere below them. It was the sound of the porters’ heavy boots, a slow and deliberate gait that signaled the start of the morning shift. They pressed themselves against the cold stone wall, tucking themselves into a shallow alcove. Harry could smell the scent of her skin, a mix of woodsmoke and something sharp and clean. He watched the way her chest rose and fell in the dark, her eyes fixed on the corner of the hallway. They remained motionless as the sound of the footsteps passed, the vibrations traveling through the soles of his shoes and up into his bones.
"We are too close to the stairs," she whispered, her eyes bright with a sudden, frantic energy. "If the stairs move while we are standing on the edge, we will lose the timing."
"You are always calculating the risks," Harry said, his voice a low murmur in her ear. "Do you ever just walk without a plan?"
"A plan is the difference between a secret and a scandal," she said. She stepped forward, pulling him toward the first flight of stairs. "Keep your feet light. If we are heavy-handed, the enchantments will alert the stones."
The staircases were in a state of transition, the stone steps grinding and sliding as they rearranged themselves to accommodate the new day. They had to move quickly, stepping onto the moving platforms before they drifted too far from the main landings. Harry felt the lurch in his stomach as a staircase tilted beneath them, the stone groaning in protest. He reached out to steady her, his hands gripping her waist to keep her from stumbling. She leaned into him, her weight a solid, grounding thing in the shifting darkness.
"The second staircase is moving toward the west wing," she said, her voice tight with focus. "We have to be quiet. Both of us. At the same time."
"It is a simple enough task," Harry said, though his heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "We just have to be silent at the exact same moment."
"It is never that simple," she countered. She took a step, her foot landing with a soft, muffled thud on the stone. "The silence has to be a singular thing. If one of us breaks it, the whole moment is ruined."
They reached the landing of the second floor, where the air felt thinner and the descent was steeper. Harry watched her as she navigated the turn, her eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. The porters were closer now, the sound of their heavy-set footsteps echoing through the hollow spaces of the corridor. It was a game of inches and seconds, a delicate dance of timing. They moved as one, a single organism of breath and motion, lurching forward just as the sound of the porter's footsteps receded into the distance.
"The stairs are nearly settled," she said, her voice a mere vibration. "Just one more flight and we are through the doors."
"You seem to know exactly where the gaps are," Harry noted, watching her eyes.
"I know where the gaps are because I have spent my whole life looking for them," she said, her gaze turning momentarily sharp and distant.
They reached the final stretch of the corridor, the one that led to the heavy, arched doorway of the entrance hall. The light of the approaching dawn was a grey smudge in the distance, a sign that the night was finally losing its grip. They moved with a frantic, quiet urgency, their shadows stretching long and thin against the walls. Harry felt a sense of triumph as the doorway came into view, a destination that felt as much a victory as any spoken word. They stepped through the threshold, the transition from the narrow corridor to the wide, open space of the entrance feeling like a sudden burst of air.
"We are almost there," she said, her voice losing its edge of tension. "Just a few more steps."
"You are not going to stay, are you?" Harry asked, his voice catching in his throat. "You are going to leave as soon as we hit the ground."
She looked at him, her expression unreadable in the dim, grey light of the early morning. She didn't answer him immediately, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw before she looked away. The doors were right there, the exit that would lead them back to their separate, structured lives. He saw the way she lingered, a hesitation that was entirely uncharacteristic of her usual precision. She was not moving toward the exit with the same speed as before.
"I am staying," she said, her voice firm and final. "You get him out and stays, because the chair is hers."