The Hogwarts Express moved through a landscape of white and grey, the steam from the engine blurring the edges of the frosted fields. Draconia sat in the compartment with her legs crossed, her silk robes pulled tight against her knees. The movement of the train was a rhythmic, dull vibration that travelled through the velvet upholstery and into her bones. She watched the frost crystallize on the glass, tracing the jagged lines of the ice. The warmth of the compartment felt artificial, a fragile barrier against the biting chill of the December air outside.
Narcissa sat across from her, perfectly poised with a cup of tea held in a delicate grip. The porcelain was white and translucent, much like the skin of her mother’s hands. Draconia felt the stillness of the woman, a calm that seemed to exist independently of the world. She wondered if her mother could sense the exhaustion beneath her skin, the way the term had worn her down to a fine, brittle thing. The memories of the Astronomy Tower and the way the cold had bitten at her skin felt distant, yet the sensation of the wind was still present in her mind.
"You have been quiet since we left the station," Narcissa said, her voice smooth and undisturbed by the clatter of the tracks.
"It was a long term," Draconia replied, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve. "The castle feels different when the students leave."
"Everything feels different when the heat is removed," Narcissa noted, her eyes following the movement of the train. "Do you find yourself looking forward to the break, or are you already dreading the return?"
Draconia considered this carefully, her fingers tracing the edge of her bag. "I find that the return is the only thing that keeps the term moving. Without the end, the middle would stretch on forever."
"That is a very pragmatic way to view time," Narcissa said, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "You have learned much this year. More than just charms and potions, it seems."
"I have learned how to keep my composure," Draconia said, her voice steady. "And how to ignore the things that do not matter."
"Is that what you call him? Something that does not matter?"
The question was a sharp, elegant thing, delivered with enough subtlety to pass as a casual observation. Draconia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, though she kept her expression neutral. She thought of the way his hand had felt on her elbow in the Great Hall, and the way the air had felt in the third-floor classroom when she had finally stopped pretending to be unbothered. She thought of the way he had looked at her, not as a Malfoy, but as a person.
"Potter is a distraction," Draconia said, choosing her words with the precision of a duellist. "He is a constant noise in a room that prefers silence. He is a variable that refuses to settle into a predictable pattern."
"A variable," Narcissa repeated, her eyes bright. "That is a very polite way of describing a boy who seems determined to unsettle the entire social order of the school."
"He is merely... loud," Draconia said, her voice dropping a fraction. "In his presence, the rules feel less permanent. It is an annoyance, really."
Narcissa set her teacup down on the small table, the china clicking softly against the wood. "An annoyance can be quite potent if one allows it to become a preoccupation. You have always been very good at maintaining your distance, Draconia. But distance can also be a way of hiding."
"I am not hiding," Draconia insisted, though the lie felt thin in her throat. "I am simply observing. There is a difference between being a participant and being a witness."
"You were a very active witness this term," Narcissa said, her tone shifting into something more maternal, more perceptive. "The way the other girls look at you has changed. They no longer look at you with simple awe; they look at you with a sort of wary curiosity."
"Pansy tries to keep up with the rumours, but she is rarely the source of them," Draconia said, diverting the subject. "The school is full of people who love to talk about things they do not truly understand."
"And do you understand them?"
"I understand that he is a boy who does not know his place," Draconia said, the words coming out faster than she intended. "He walks as if the floor belongs to him, and he speaks as if the silence is his to break. It is quite exhausting to be around someone so... unrefined."
"Unrefined," Narcissa echoed, a glint of amusement in her gaze. "A heavy word for a boy who has로 nothing to lose."
"He has everything to lose, if he is not careful," Draconia said, her voice turning cold. "He plays with things that are far more delicate than he realizes."
The train jolted, a sudden lurch that sent a shudder through the compartment. Draconia gripped the edge of her seat, her knuckles turning white. She felt the urge to tell her mother everything, to scream about the way the tension had built in the corridors and the way the scent of the stone walls had felt in the dark. She wanted to say that she had not been unbothered for months, and that the word 'adequate' had been a lie she told herself to survive the year.
"You can tell me, you know," Narcissa said, her voice softening. "The train is a private space. We are not in the middle of a gala or a formal dinner."
"There is nothing to tell," Draconia said, smoothing her robes with trembling hands. "I have learned my lessons, I have kept my status, and I have survived the term. That is all."
"You mentioned him as if he were a storm cloud," Narcissa observed. "A storm that passes through, but leaves the air changed once it is gone."
"The air is not changed," Draconia said, her voice a whisper. "It is just... different. But the storm always passes."
"Do you truly believe that?"
Draconia looked out the window at the passing ghosts of the landscape. She thought of the way he had looked at her in the hallway, and how she had felt the world tilt on its axis. She thought of the way she had said *no feelings* to the empty air, a desperate attempt to reclaim her own heart.
"I believe that we must pretend the storm has passed so that we can continue to live our lives," Draconia said. "If we acknowledge the rain, we admit that we are wet."
Narcissa reached out, her hand hovering near Draconia's wrist before settling back into her lap. The movement was elegant and controlled, a way of offering comfort without breaking the decorum of the moment. The silence that followed was not heavy, but it was present, a tangible thing that sat between them as the train rumbled onward toward the Manor.
"You have grown quite adept at the art of the deflection," Narcissa said, her eyes searching her daughter's face. "You are very much like your father when he wishes to avoid a topic."
"I am simply being practical," Drac much replied, a small, tired smile finally reaching her lips. "The year is over. The boy is at the other end of the country, and the school is empty. There is no reason to dwell on what is behind us."
"Perhaps," Narcissa said, her gaze turning back to the window, watching the snow swirl in the wake of the train. "But sometimes the things we leave behind are the only things worth carrying."
Draconia watched her mother, noting the way the light caught the silver of her hair. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of longing for the clarity of the beginning of the term, before the complexity had grown too heavy to manage.
"We