The Gryffindor common room was a crowded, boisterous mess of scarlet and gold. Draconia sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, her fingers tracing the rim of a porcelain teacup. She watched the way the firelight caught the steam rising from the pot, watching it swirl before disappearing into the rafters. The noise of the room was a physical thing, a heavy layer of laughter and shouting that seemed to press against her skin. Harry was near the fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece while Ron Weasley gestured wildly with a half-eaten biscuit. Harry looked relaxed, his shoulders loose under his jumper, oblivious to the storm she was brewing in her mind.
Everything felt too bright and too loud. The sensation in her chest was a constant, rhythmic thrumming that she could not explain away with logic or biology. She knew the science of the senses, and she knew that the human body was a predictable machine, yet her machine was malfunctioning. She had spent the morning trying to find a rational reason for the way her blood seemed to accelerate when Harry entered a room. She had looked for a fever, or perhaps a reaction to a poorly brewed tea, but there was no physical cause that could account for the sheer, irrational pull of him.
"Are you actually listening to him, Draconia?" Greta asked, nudming her shoulder with a grin.
"I am listening, but the volume is unnecessary," Draconia replied, though she knew she was being difficult.
"You are always difficult when you are thinking too hard," Greta said, turning back to the group.
The common room was filled with people, some reading by the fire and others playing chess near the low tables. It was a comfortable, domestic scene that felt entirely at odds with the frantic, jagged edges of her internal state. She needed to say it, or she needed to pretend she had a reason for saying it. If she simply admitted that she was in love with Harry, she would be admitting defeat to her own heart. If she could frame it as a crime, a theft, or a biological intrusion, she could keep her dignity intact.
"Listen, everyone, if you would," Draconia said, her voice cutting through the chatter. She did not shout, but she spoke with a sharp, decisive clarity that made the nearby Gryffindors turn their heads.
Harry looked up at the sound of her voice, a small, curious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked so much like a man already, the softness of his face replaced by a defined jaw and eyes that held a certain weary intelligence. The sight of him made her stomach flip in a way that felt entirely unearned. She hated it. She hated how much power he had over her internal equilibrium without even trying.
"There is a problem," Draconia announced, standing up from her chair. She smoothed the front of her robes, feeling the slight tremble in her hands.
"A problem? Did you run out of ink for your charms essay?" Seamus Finnigan joked, leaning back in his seat.
"It is not a matter of ink," Draconia said, her eyes fixed on Harry.
Harry tilted his head, his green eyes bright in the firelight. "What is it then? Did you lose a book?"
"It is much more serious than a lost book, Potter," she said, her voice hardening. "In fact, it is a matter of medical necessity."
A few people laughed, but the laughter was light, not unkind. Draconia ignored them, focusing on the way Harry’s expression shifted from amusement to a slight, puzzled frown. She could feel the heat rising in her neck, a flush that had nothing to do with the warmth of the fire. She needed to make this a public declaration, a grand gesture that would serve as her shield.
"There is only one explanation for how I am feeling," Draconia said, her voice ringing out to the corners of the room. "And the most important thing is that it is not voluntary. It is not something I have chosen or allowed to happen."
The room went quiet as the gravity of her tone settled. Even the students who had been deep in conversation looked up, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Draconia felt the weight of their stares, but she did not look away. She kept her eyes locked on Harry, who was now standing straight, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.
"Are you ill?" Harry asked, stepping away from the mantelpiece toward her. "Do you need to go to the hospital wing?"
"I am not ill, though it feels like a malady," she said, her voice steadying as she committed to the lie. "It is an external influence. A forced reaction."
"A forced reaction to what?" Ron asked, looking between them with a confused expression.
"To a substance," Draconia said, making sure to emphasize the word. "A substance that has been introduced into my system without my consent. It is a violation of my autonomy."
She watched the way Harry’s eyes widened. He looked startled, his mouth slightly open as he tried to process her accusation. He looked like a man who had just been told he was a thief, or a culprit in a crime he hadn't even realized was being committed. This was the bluff, the grand, sweeping lie that would protect her from the vulnerability of the truth. If she was being drugged, she wasn't falling in love; she was being a victim of a very specific, very potent, magical influence.
"Are you saying someone... did something to you?" Harry asked, his voice low and uncharacteriously serious.
"I am saying that my reactions are no longer my own," Draconia replied, her gaze never wavering. "I am experiencing a series of physiological responses that are entirely involuntary and entirely unearned."
The silence that followed was long and heavy. The Gryffindors were watching her with wide eyes, the humor of the moment evaporating into a sense of genuine, dramatic tension. She could see the confusion in Harry’s eyes, a look of profound, bewildered guilt. He looked as though he wanted to defend himself but couldn't figure out what the charge was.
"Is this about the potion we were studying?" someone called out from the back of the room.
"It is about the truth," Draconia said, her jaw tightening. "I am declaring that my feelings are a result of an external stimulus. It is the only logical explanation for the chaos in my head."
She saw the way Harry’s gaze dropped to her lips for a split second before jumping back to her eyes. It was a tell, a flicker of something that she caught and held onto like a weapon. She was enjoying the sensation of the tension, the way she could control the room by simply refusing to be certain. She let a small, triumphant smirk touch her lips, a momentary lapse in her dramatic distress.
"It sounds incredibly serious," Pansy Parkinson said, leaning forward from a nearby table.
Pansy looked genuinely worried, her eyes darting between Draconia and Harry as if she were expecting a magical explosion to occur at any moment. She took the accusation with a gravity that was almost too sincere, her face clouding with a look of profound concern for Draconia’s health. She was looking at Harry as if he were a suspect in a high-profile investigation, her eyes narrowing with a suspicion that was entirely misplaced.
Pansy took it seriously before Draconia had finished enjoying the joke.