The cold outside the Great Hall was a physical blow, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the Yule Ball. Draconia stepped onto the stone terrace, her breath blooming in a white cloud before her face. The transition from the music and the noise to the stillness of the lake edge felt like stepping into a different world. Her feet felt heavy in her dancing shoes as she moved away from the warmth of the entrance. She needed the air to settle the frantic, ruined feeling in her chest. The perfection of the evening had been dismantled by a single realization. He was there, a fixture of the room, yet he was not looking at her.
Greta appeared from the shadows of a stone pillar, her velvet dress shimmering under the moonlight. The girl moved with a quiet confidence that Draconia envied, her eyes fixed on the dark surface of the water. She did not look surprised to see her standing alone on the edge of the frost-covered grass. Greta walked until she stood beside her, the scent of pine and winter air clinging to her hair.
"The heat is too much in there," Greta said, her voice steady and low.
"It is a furnace," Draconia replied, pulling her shoulders tight against the chill.
"You look like you want to bolt," Greta observed, her gaze sweeping over Draconia’s face.
"I am merely catching my breath," Draconia lied, though her lungs felt tight for reasons that had nothing to do with the air.
They walked in silence toward the edge of the lake, the ground crunching under their feet with the sound of frozen grass. The lake was a dark, unmoving mirror, reflecting the pale stars and the distant, dim lights of the castle. Draconia felt the emptiness of the space around her. The ball was still happening, the music was still playing, but out here, the world felt stripped of its pretences. She felt the sting of the wind on her cheeks, a sharp reminder that she was actually present in her own body.
"You are being difficult," Greta said, breaking the quiet.
"I am being a Malfoy," Draconia countered, her chin lifting a fraction.
"There is a difference," Greta said, stopping near a cluster of half-frozen shrubs. "One is a standard. The other is a temperamental brat."
"Do not start, Greta," Draconia warned, though there was no real venom in her tone.
"You are hiding," Greta said, turning to face her fully.
"I am not hiding," Draconia insisted, her voice trembling slightly from the cold.
"You are a ghost in there," Greta said, her eyes narrowing in the moonlight. "You dance the perfect dance, but you are not really there."
Draconia looked down at her hands, which were pale and stiff in the night air. She thought of the trophy room, the way he had watched her hands, and the way he had stopped listening to her counting. The way he had looked at her when she was nothing but a collection of movements and a name. She felt the urge to cry, but the cold held the tears in place, freezing them before they could fall.
"Is it because of him?" Greta asked, her voice devoid of judgement.
"I do not know what you mean," Draconia said, the lie tasting like ash in her mouth.
"It is him," Greta said, stepping closer so that her warmth reached Draconia. "It is always him."
"He is not even looking," Draconia whispered, the confession escaping before she could catch it.
"He was not looking," Greta said, her tone softening as she reached out to touch Draconia's arm. "But you were looking at him."
"That is the problem," Draconia said, her eyes fixed on the dark water.
"You want to be seen," Greta said, her voice a gentle interrogation.
"I want to be seen by him," Draconia admitted, the words coming out in a jagged breath.
"And you are not?" Greta asked, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"He is a secret," Draconia said, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "And secrets are exhausting."
"Secrets are a choice," Greta said, her hand moving to rest on Draconia's forearm.
"It is not that simple," Draconia said, feeling the weight of the conversation.
"It is actually quite simple," Greta replied, her grip tightening slightly.
"He told me he would stop being a secret," Draconia said, the memory of the corridor vivid in her mind. "He gave me an option."
"And you gave him nothing," Greta said, her eyes searching Draconia's face.
"I could not find the words," Draconia said, the frustration boiling up in her chest.
"You are a coward, Draconia," Greta said, though the word felt more like an observation than an insult.
"I am being careful," Draconia snapped, her eyes flashing.
"You are being terrified," Greta corrected, her voice steady as she stepped into Draconia's personal space.
The silence that followed was not heavy, but it was sharp. The wind picked up, swirling a dusting of frost around their skirts. Draconia felt the vulnerability of the moment, the way the cold made her feel exposed and small. She was standing on the edge of a lake, in the middle of a ball, with her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She felt the need to be seen, to be known, and to be hidden all at once.
"Tell him," Greta said, her voice cutting through the wind.
"Tell him what?" Draconia asked, her breath hitching.
"Tell him the truth," Greta said, her expression turning serious.
"The truth is too much," Draconia said, looking away toward the dark trees.
"The truth is the only thing that matters," Greta said, her voice firm.
"He will not stay if it is public," Draconia whispered, the fear finally surfacing.
"Then let him go," Greta said, her eyes bright with a sudden, fierce intensity. "But do not do this to yourself."
"He is not the one making it hard," Draconia said, her voice cracking.
"You are," Greta said, her gaze unwavering. "You are the one holding the door shut."
"It is a heavy door," Draconia said, a single tear finally escaping to track a warm line down her cheek.
"Then push it," Greta commanded, stepping back to give her space. "Say it to him. Or stop. This is stupid."