The Great Hall was a sea of moving silk and watching eyes. Draconia stood near the edge of the central floor, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The dress felt restrictive, the fabric pulling across her hips as she watched the crowd drift through the charmed light. People moved in groups, laughing at jokes or whispering behind gloved hands. Every movement in the room seemed to point towards the centre, yet she felt entirely peripheral. The tension in her stomach was a hard, unyielding thing that had lived there since the moment she had told the lie to Pansy.
"You look like you are waiting for an execution," Pansy said, leaning in close.
"I am just observing," Draconia replied, forcing her voice to remain level.
"Observing what? The decor is perfectly adequate," Pansy said with a shrug of her shoulders.
"The decor is fine, Pansy. The people are what is interesting."
"If you mean the boys, they have been looking at you for twenty minutes," Pansy noted, her eyes darting toward the crowd.
"They are looking at the dress, not me," Draconia said, though the lie tasted bitter in her mouth.
The lie had been a sharp, necessary weapon, but it had left her hollow. She had told the room that he did not exist in the way they imagined, that he was nothing more than a shadow she had conjured to keep her company. She had stripped him of his name to keep him safe, and in doing so, she had made him a ghost. Now, the ghost was standing in the middle of the room, and he was no longer acting like a shadow.
He was standing near the podium, his eyes fixed on a point just above the crowd. He did not look at her, yet she felt the pull of him like a physical weight against her skin. He was not hiding anymore. He was not a secret tucked away in the trophy room or a whispered name in a dark corridor. He was a visible, breathing man, and the more he stood there, the more the lie she had told felt like a noose.
"Are you going to go to him?" Greta asked, appearing at her side with a tray of drinks.
"There is no reason to go to him," Draconia said, her voice a little too high.
"You are acting as if you have done something wrong," Greta remarked, watching her closely.
"I have done nothing. I am perfectly fine."
"You are a terrible liar, Draconia. You should just go tell him the truth."
"The truth is not a thing you just say, Greta. It is a thing you live with."
The crowd began to part as a group of older students moved through the hall, creating a gap in the arrangement of bodies. Through the opening, she saw him clearly. He was watching the room, but he was not looking at her. He was looking at everyone, yet he seemed to be looking at no one. The distance between them felt like a chasm, wider than the space between the tables.
The frustration boiled up in her, a sudden, sharp need to break the stillness. She did not want to be the girl who watched from the edges. She wanted to be the girl who was seen, even if being seen meant being judged. She took a single step forward, her heels clicking against the stone floor, but she stopped before the gap was closed. She could not do it. The weight of the room was too much.
She saw him turn his head. For a heartbeat, his gaze caught hers, a momentary collision of intent and hesitation. He saw the lie written in the tension of her jaw. He saw the way she held her breath. He saw that she was a coward.
"Then don't look," he said, and the words were clear enough for the entire room to hear. He did not wait for a response. He did not wait for her to find her voice. He simply turned and walked past her, his shoulder nearly brushing hers, and every person left in the Hall heard the room go wrong.
The heat of him hit her as he passed, a sudden, violent reminder of the way he had taken her in the dark. The memory of his skin against hers was a bruise on her mind. It had not been a graceful thing. It had been a desperate, hungry thing in the Prefects' bathroom, where the steam had coated everything in a thick, wet sheen.
He had pushed her back against the brass basin, his hands heavy on her thighs. His fingers had gripped the skin of her hips, digging in as he crowded her space. He had stripped her knickers down to her ankles, leaving her legs bare and trembling against the cold metal. He had not been gentle. He had reached down, his large hand cupping her cunt, his thumb rubbing circles against her clitoris while he watched her face.
"Tell me to stop," he had whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Tell me to stop, or say it properly."
"Please," she had gasped, the word catching in her throat because she was too proud to finish it. "Please, fuck me."
He had unfastened his trousers, his cock springing free, thick and turgid. He had not waited for her to adjust. He had gripped her hips and driven himself into her, his cock sliding deep into her wet, aching pussy. The sensation was a blunt, heavy fullness that made her back arch. He had fucked her with a rhythmic, punishing force, his pelvis slamming against her clitoris with every heavy thrust.
He had moved her to the edge of the marble, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist to hold him inside her. He was a force of nature, a hard, pulsing weight that filled her completely. He had pushed himself in deep, his cock stretching her, hitting the sensitive walls of her cunt until she was sobbing his name. He had reached down to grab her hair, pulling her head back so he could see the expression of pure, unadulterated want on her face.
"Fuck, you are so tight," he had groaned, the words a low growl. He had driven himself into her one last time, a long, deep stroke that felt like it would split her open. He had emptied himself inside her, his hot cum flooding her interior, a warm, pulsing sensation that made her muscles quiver and convulse. He had stayed inside her as he finished, his body shaking with the effort of his release.
The memory of that heat made the cold air of the Great Hall feel unbearable. The reality of his departure was a physical blow to her chest. He had left her standing in the middle of the floor, the center of a silence that was no longer a void, but a scream. She watched his back as he walked away, a silhouette of a man who had refused to be a secret any longer. The ballroom was still full of light, but the light felt hollowed out, as if he had taken the substance of the room with him.