Draconia sat in the Slytherin common room, watching the green light of the lake flicker against the stone walls. Every minute felt like a heavy weight against her lungs. She had decided not to go to the dungeons, not because she was busy, but because she was angry. The terms she had read aloud in the previous week still burned in her mind. She had crossed them off one by one, stripping herself of every defence until she was nothing but a girl waiting for a boy to notice her.
The common room was mostly quiet, save for the occasional murmur of a housemate or the soft clink of a goblet. She stared at her hands, which were perfectly still in her lap. If she went to the dungeons, she was admitting that the rules worked. If she went, she was admitting that she needed him to keep the silence. By staying here, she could pretend that the empty space in the dungeon was a choice rather than a void.
"You look like you are waiting for a storm to break," Greta said, sitting on the edge of the velvet sofa across from her.
Draconia did not look up, keeping her eyes fixed on a small bubble rising in the water outside the window. "I am simply enjoying the stillness. It is rare to have a perfectly quiet evening."
"It is not quiet. You are making a tremendous amount of noise just by sitting there," Greta replied. Her voice was soft, but the observation cut through the pretence. "You missed the lesson. He is there, isn't he?"
"He is always there. It is his job to be there," Draconia said, her jaw tightening as she spoke.
"It is not a job if you do not show up. It is a ritual," Greta countered. She leaned forward, her eyes searching Draconia's face for a crack in the mask. "You are punishing him by being absent, but you are mostly punishing yourself. The bench is empty because you left it empty."
Draconia felt a flash of heat in her chest, but she forced her expression to remain cool. She stood up, smoothing the front of her silk robes, ensuring every fold was perfect. "I did not skip the lesson to punish anyone. I simply had a more pressing engagement in the library. It was a matter of precedence."
"A matter of precedence," Greta repeated, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "That is a very clever way to say you were too proud to go to him."
Draconia walked away without another word, her heels clicking rhythmly against the stone floor. She spent the next hour pretending to read a book on advanced charms, though she did not process a single word of the text. The silence of the common room felt lonely, a stark contrast to the heavy, visceral silence of the dungeons. She missed the way the air felt when he was near. She missed the way the shadows seemed to retreat when he moved.
The anger in her was a sharp, jagged thing. She was furious that he was so predictable, and she was furious that she was so predictable. She had spent the term building walls of logic and rules, only to find that the more she built, the more she wanted to tear them down. By skipping the lesson, she was trying to reclaim her power, but the power felt hollow. It felt like a cold stone in her stomach.
As the night progressed, the fire in the hearth began to die down, leaving the room in a dim, emerald-tinted gloom. Draconia realised she could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the empty wooden bench in her private study. She saw the way the light would hit the surface of the wood, and she saw the absence of him. The emptiness was a physical ache, a lopsidedness in her world.
She went to her dormitory, but the bed felt too large and the silk sheets too smooth. She tossed and turned, her mind looping through the argument she had never actually had with him. She wanted to scream that the rules were a lie, that the terms were a shield, and that the silence was a scream. Instead, she lay in the dark, staring at the canopy of her bed, feeling the frustration grow into a dull, pulsing throb.
The next evening arrived with a biting chill that seemed to seep into her very bones. The autumn air was crisp, and the corridors of the castle felt longer than usual. Draconia stood in the entrance to the dungeons, her fingers tracing the edge of her heavy travelling cloak. She had spent the entire day crafting a lie. It had to be perfect, a story so plausible that even his observant gaze would not find the flaw.
She needed a reason for her absence, a reason that sounded like a girl of status and intellect, not a girl who was desperate for a man's attention. She could not simply say she had been lonely. She had to speak of rare ingredients or a complicated draught that required a different temperature. She practiced the words in her head as she walked down the stone stairs, the rhythm of her footsteps echoing the frantic beat of her heart.
The dungeon was exactly as she had left it, the air damp and cool. The single lamp was lit, casting a long, golden glow across the room. The cauldron stood in its usual place, its dark surface reflecting the light of the single flame beneath it. The bench was there, waiting, an altar to the routine they had built.
He was already there. He was sitting on the edge of the bench, his back straight, his hands resting on his knees. He did not look up as she entered, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders. He was waiting. He was always waiting for her to arrive and start the dance.
Draconia took a breath, steadying her lungs before she stepped into the light. She smoothed her hair, adjusted her sleeves, and stepped forward with a practiced, effortless grace. She had a new excuse prepared, a beautifully constructed-lie that would explain her absence without ever admitting the truth of her longing.
She turned up the next night with a new excuse already prepared, and he's there.