The rain from the previous night had left the pitch heavy and sodden, a sludge of mud and damp grass that clung to the soles of her boots. Draconia stood by the edge of the pitch, watching the Slytherin team run through their drills. The air felt cool and damp against her skin, a stark contrast to the humid heat of the shed the night before. Everything felt different now that the truth was out in the open, yet the routine of the practice session demanded her focus. She watched the players move with a precision that was almost mechanical, a frantic sort of grace that kept them moving through the grey morning.
Greta was a blur of motion near the center of the pitch. The Beater moved with a jagged, aggressive energy that Draconia always admired, even if she rarely admitted it. Greta did not fly with the elegance of a Seeker; she flew like a storm hitting a coastline, all impact and momentum. A Bludger whistled through the air, and Greta swung her bat with a violent, practiced snap that sent the heavy iron ball hurtling toward a Hufflepuff player. The sound of the hit was a sharp crack that echoed across the empty stands.
Draconia stepped onto the grass, her eyes following the trajectory of the ball. She felt a strange sense of vertigo watching the game from the ground, a feeling of being untethered from the speed of the flight. Most of the team was focused on the drill, but her gaze kept drifting toward the boy in the red-and-gold jersey. Harry was moving through the air with a renewed sharpness, his broom carving through the damp air with a strength that felt almost predatory. He was faster than he had been a week ago, a fact that Draconia found both impressive and deeply irritating.
Greta caught Draconia's eye as the Beater descended toward the ground to retrieve a stray ball. The girl landed with a heavy thud, her boots splashing into a shallow puddle. A grin spread across Greta's face, one that was far too wide and far too bright for a morning this grey. She wiped a smear of mud from her cheek, her movements quick and unrefined. Draconia walked toward her, the mud soaking into the leather of her boots as she crossed the uneven ground.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Greta said, her voice raspy from shouting commands. She didn't wait for an answer, instead turning to watch the next volley of Bludgers. "Or maybe you've just realized how much of a mess you've made of your hair."
Draconia reached her, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She wanted to mention the way the light caught the dampness of the pitch, but she caught herself before she could become too poetic. "It's just the damp, Greta. It makes everything feel heavy."
"The game is heavy today," Greta remarked, pointing a bat toward the center of the pitch. "The boys are playing like they're stuck in treacle. They need a reason to move faster."
A sudden, sharp crack sounded from the air above them. A Bludger had been struck with too much force, sent veering wildly off its intended path. It was a rogue shot, a chaotic element that had no business being in the middle of a controlled drill. Draconia looked up just as a boy from the Gryffindor reserves zoomed into the line of fire, unaware of the projectile hurtling toward his head. He was too slow to react, his eyes fixed on a teammate rather than the impending impact.
Greta saw it first. Her eyes widened, and she lunged forward, her body twisting in the air to intercept the path of the ball. She swung her bat with a desperation that was visceral, her muscles straining under the tension. The heavy iron ball struck the wood of her bat with a deafening bang, but the force was too great. The Bludger glanced off the edge of the bat, spinning wildly toward the boy.
The impact was sickening. The Bludger caught the boy square in the face, a blunt, heavy thud that sent him spiraling toward the grass. Draconia watched as he tumbled through the air, his broom wobbling before he hit the ground with a limp, unceremonious thud. The world seemed to stop for a second, the only sound being the distant whistle of the wind and the frantic beating of her own heart.
"He's down!" someone shouted from the stands, but the silence that followed was heavier than the noise.
Greta landed a few feet away, her chest heaving as she stared at the fallen boy. Her expression was a mixture of horror and a strange, fierce protectiveness. She didn't look like a girl who had just botched a play; she looked like a warrior who had failed a charge. She scrambled toward the boy, her hands trembling as she reached for his shoulder.
Draconia moved forward as well, her legs feeling heavy as she navigated the mud. She reached the edge of the fray just as the healers began to descend. The boy was clutching his face, a dark bruise already blooming across the bridge of his nose. Blood leaked from a shallow cut, staining his cheek a vivid, visceral red. It was a messy, ugly sight that left a bitter taste in her mouth.
"Is he alright?" Greta asked, her voice unusually quiet. She looked up at Draconia, and for the first time, the Beater looked vulnerable. The bravado was gone, replaced by a raw, jagged edge of guilt.
"He'll be fine," Draconia said, though she wasn't entirely sure. "It was just a clumsy hit. He wasn't looking."
"He wasn't looking because he was distracted," Greta muttered, her eyes dropping to the grass. "The whole pitch was distracted."
Draconia watched as the boy was helped to his feet, his nose crooked and bleeding. It was a reminder of how fragile the grace of the game could be, how easily a single moment of miscalculation could turn a flight into a fall. She thought of the way she had felt in the shed, the way the storm had swallowed her voice and her secrets. Everything was fragile if you looked at it too closely.
"You did your best, Greta," Draconia said, reaching out to squeeze the girl's shoulder. It was a rare moment of physical affection, one that felt entirely earned in the wake of the chaos.
Greta wiped her hands on her trousers, the dark fabric staining with the wet earth. She looked at the boy one last time, her jaw tightening with a sudden, fierce resolve. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a hardness that Draconia knew well. It was the same hardness she used to shield herself from the world, the same hardness she used to hide her hunger for the boy in the air.
"He was a fool," Greta said, her voice regaining its strength. She turned her gaze back to the pitch, her eyes finding the center of the action where the game was resuming. The tension in her shoulders broke, and she straightened her spine as if she had never been shaken at all.
Draconia watched her, admiring the way the girl could pivot from a moment of wreckage to a moment of absolute certainty. She realized then that Greta was the only person who truly understood the cost of being seen. They were both survivors of their own temperaments, carving out a space in a world that demanded perfection.
"Next time, watch the sky," Greta said, a smirk returning to her lips as she gripped her bat once more.
Draconia smiled, a small, private thing that no one else would see. "Next time, try not to break anyone's face."
Greta laughed, a sharp, barking sound that cut through the damp air. She stepped back into the fray, her eyes scanning the horizon for the next Bludger. As she moved, she looked at Draconia with a knowing, piercing look that stripped away the pretense of