The wind whipped through the corridors, carrying the scent of damp stone and the approaching spring. Draconia leaned against the stone wall, her fingers tracing the carved edge of a banister as she waited for the crowd to thin. Most of the students had already retreated to the warmth of the Great Hall, leaving the stairwells relatively quiet. She enjoyed the stillness of the school when the voices of the younger years had faded. It allowed her to exist without the constant pressure of being watched.
A muffled voice drifted from a nearby alcove, drawing her attention away from her thoughts. Harry was there, standing near a heavy oak door, but he was not alone. Oliver Wood stood before him, his posture stiff and his eyes bright with an intensity that Draconia recognised well. They were talking in low tones, though the acoustics of the stone corridor carried their conversation upward toward her. Wood was gesturing with his hands, his movements sharp and decisive.
"It is not just about the talent, Harry," Wood said, his voice rising with a sudden burst of excitement. "It is the way you see the pitch. You see the gaps before they even open. That is a rare thing. A professional league needs more than just speed; they need that instinct."
Draconia held her breath, her back pressing harder against the cold masonry. She knew Wood was a man who lived for the game, and she knew he had been looking for something specific. She watched the way Harry’s shoulders relaxed, a small, cautious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The conversation shifted, turning more formal, more serious.
"The offer is solid," Wood continued, his tone dropping into a register of profound respect. "It is a formal scout’s proposal. They want you for the mid-season roster. It is a leap, of course, but you are ready. You have been ready for a long time."
Draconia felt a strange, sharp prickle in her chest. She had spent the last year watching him fly, watching the way he mastered the air, and watching the way his name became a constant rhythm in her own mind. She had spent weeks constructing a response to this news in her head. She had imagined the way she would walk up to him in the courtyard, the way she would tilt her chin up to show she was not intimidated by his success. She had planned the exact cadence of her voice, the way she would offer a clever, cutting remark that would ultimately reveal her admiration without quite admitting it.
She had built a cathedral of a reaction in her mind. It was a complex structure of feigned indifference, followed by a sophisticated compliment, topped with a joke about his ego. She wanted to be the one who understood his greatness without being swallowed by it. She wanted to be the one who stood by him as he climbed, all while maintaining the Slytherin poise that defined her life.
"A professional league," Harry repeated, his voice sounding smaller than she expected. "That is... that is a lot to take in, Oliver. I haven't even finished my term yet."
"The world does not wait for terms to finish," Wood replied firmly. "They want you now. They want the Seeker who plays like he has something to lose."
Draconia gripped the banister, her knuckles turning white. The plan she had spent so much time refining began to crumble. The complexity of her intended reaction felt suddenly heavy and unnecessary. Why was she trying to build a monument to his achievement when the achievement itself was so simple? The irritation she felt was not directed at him, but at herself, at the way her own heart had suddenly made her planneded elegantities feel like a lie.
She stepped out from her hiding place, the sound of her boots on the stone making the two men turn. She did not rush; she moved with the deliberate grace of someone who had all the time in the world, even though she knew she was encroating on a private moment. Her face was a mask of perfect, practiced neutrality.
"It seems the gossip in the corridors is true, then," Draconia said, her voice smooth and clear. "A professional scout, no less. You should be careful, Harry, or you might actually become too famous to remember us commoners."
Harry looked at her, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. He looked at her with a warmth that made her stomach turn, a look of genuine connection that she knew she was about to puncture. She saw the way his expression softened, the way he prepared to share his excitement with her, and she felt the weight of her several-page plan vanishing into the ether.
She looked at him, seeing the bright, hungry look in his eyes that mirrored her own love for the game. She saw the boy who had become the centre of her world, and she realised that the grand, elaborate speech she had prepared was a hollow thing. It was a way to protect herself, a way to keep the distance between them intact.
"It is a brilliant offer," she said, her voice steady and bright. "Truly, it is the perfect progression for you. You have always been meant for much more than just school matches."
She watched the light in his eyes, the way he seemed to want to tell her how much this meant to him, how much he wanted her to be proud of him. She could see the words forming on his lips, the vulnerability of a man who has finally been seen. She could have stayed in the shadows. She could have let the moment be a beautiful, soaring thing.
Instead, she gave him the version of herself that she knew was safe. She gave him the version that did not require her to be vulnerable, the version that kept her reputation as a formidable, untouchable woman intact. She stepped closer, her eyes shining with a light that was entirely convincing, and she told him exactly what he expected to hear.
"Congratulations, Harry," she said, and she said it with a smile that reached her eyes and a warmth that felt entirely real. "You really have done it."
She looked him straight in the face, her expression radiant and perfect. She congratulated him perfectly and meant none of it.