The wind caught the edge of her robes as Draconia banked left, a sharp, controlled movement that sent her soaring through the cool spring air. The Quidditch pitch stretched out beneath her, a vast expanse of green that looked lonely under the bruised light of the late afternoon. She felt the familiar vibration of the broom handle against her palms, a steady, rhythmic pulse that signaled she was in total control of the flight. Most people flew to escape the world, but Draconia flew to command it. Every tilt of her wrists and every kick of her thighs was a deliberate statement of existence.
Low clouds drifted over the castle towers in the distance, grey and unyielding against the pale sky. The pitch was quiet, devoid of the shouting players and the heavy, frantic energy of a match. It was just her, the wind, and the hollow ache of a session that had lasted too long. She dived, the sensation of speed pulling at her skin, her stomach rising into her chest as she plummeted toward the grass. She pulled up at the last second, the broom snapping her back into a level flight that left her breathless and grinning.
Being a Chaser meant more than just hitting a Quaffle through a hoop. It required a certain kind of ruthlessness, a willingness to bruise an opponent's ego as often as their ribs. Draconia loved the way the wind felt when she pushed herself to the absolute limit of the broom’s capability. She saw the empty stands, the wooden benches looking like rows of teeth in the dimming light. The stadium was a graveyard of cheers, a silent witness to the hours she spent perfecting her craft while everyone else was likely warming by a hearth.
A stray gust buffeted her side, forcing a sharp correction that made her muscles ache. She leaned into the pressure, refusing to let the wind dictate her path. Her training had taught her that the air was something to be wrestled, not merely endured. She traced a wide, sweeping arc over the centre of the pitch, her eyes fixed on the distant goalposts. The solitude of the moment felt heavy, though not in a way that made her lonely. It was the solitude of a predator in a clearing, waiting for the hunt to begin.
"You could at least try to look impressive," she muttered to the empty air. She performed a complex corkscrew, the world spinning in a blur of green and grey. The movement was flawless, a testament to the thousands of hours she had logged on this very pitch. She knew the exact weight of her broom, the way the wood responded to her slightest twitch. She was a part of the machine, a single, driving force in a world of physics and gravity.
The light was fading faster than she anticipated, turning the grass a deep, mossy emerald. Draconia felt the chill of the evening creeping through her robes, a reminder that the term was moving toward its end. She circled the pitch one more time, her movements becoming more aggressive as the adrenaline began to ebb. She wanted to feel the burn in her thighs, the sharp sting of the wind against her cheeks. She wanted to feel as though she could outfly the very concept of exhaustion.
A sudden thought flicked through her mind, one that had been simmering since the morning lecture. It was a jagged, unrefined thought, one that she would never dare utter in a crowded common room or a crowded hall. It was a thought born of frustration and the strange, lopsided tension that had been building between her and a certain Seeker for weeks. She brought the broom to a hover, hovering just a few feet above the grass. The silence of the stadium felt expectant, as if the empty seats were actually listening.
She looked up at the high, empty spectator stands, her eyes narrowing. The darkness was beginning to settle into the corners of the pitch, making the shadows of the goalposts stretch long and thin. Draconia felt a surge of defiant energy, a need to voice the filthiest, most arrogant thing she could think of. She wanted to throw it into the void, to see if the universe had any answer for her.
"I could take you anywhere," she said, her voice projecting into the vast, empty space. "I could take you right here, on the grass, and make you forget your own name."
The words were sharp and unapologetic, a jagged edge of a sentence that felt like a dare. She grinned, a wide, predatory expression that showed her teeth. She waited for the echo, for the wind to carry the taunt away into the darkening sky. She expected nothing to happen, for the silence to remain unbroken and the stadium to remain empty.
"Yes, you do," a voice answered from the stands.
Draconia froze, her heart jumping against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked up, her eyes searching the dim shadows of the spectator benches. A figure was sitting there, partially obscured by the gloom, looking far too comfortable for someone sitting in a near-empty stadium. The voice had been low, certain, and entirely unimpressed by her display of bravado.
"You're supposed to be in the dormitories," she called out, trying to reclaim her composure. Her voice sounded thinner than she wanted it to.
"I could say the same to you," the figure replied, a hint of a laugh trailing the words.
Draconia gripped the broom handle, her knuckles turning white. The person was a silhouette against the darkening sky, a presence that had breached her carefully constructed solitude. She felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks, part embarrassment and part irritation. She had just delivered a monologue of pure, unadulterated filth to a person who was actually there to witness it.
"Did you hear me?" she asked, her voice hardening. "I wasn't talking to you."
"It was a very convincing performance," the man said, leaning forward slightly. The light caught the edge of his messy hair, though his face remained mostly in shadow. "But you weren't wrong."
Draconia felt the tension in her shoulders, a mix of defiance and a sudden, unexpected awareness. She didn't descend to the ground immediately; instead, she stayed aloft, her broom hovering a few feet above the grass. The empty pitch was no longer empty, and the silence was no longer hers to command. She looked at the figure in the stands, a slow, lopsided grin returning to her face. She wasn't going to let him see her flustered, even if her pulse was racing.
"You're eavesdropping," she accused, her eyes bright with a sudden, sharp wit.
"It's hard not to when you're shouting your business to the clouds," he replied.
She laughed, a short, sharp sound that broke the stillness of the evening. The moment was no longer a solo session; it had become a confrontation. She felt the weight of the moment shift, the atmosphere thickening with a sense of shared, unspoken things. She didn' তাকিয়ে at him, her eyes narrowing as she decided exactly how to respond to his intrusion.
"Well," she said, her voice dropping an octave as she began to descend towards the ground. "If you're going to listen, you might as well get a better view."