The dungeon air was cold and smelled of damp stone and old herbs. Draconia sat on the edge of a hard wooden chair, her fingers twisting the fabric of her robes. Across from her, Snape sat behind his desk, a stack of parchment laid out like a jury. Harry Potter stood near the hearth, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking like a man waiting for a sentence. The silence in the office was not empty; it was a heavy, tangible thing that pressed against her chest.
"You are certain of the timeline?" Snape asked, his voice low and level. He looked at the formal complaint she had filed, the ink already dry on the official parchment.
"I am certain," Draconia said, her voice steadier than she felt. "He was near the greenhouses when the scent first became unbearable, and he was near my dormitory when the symptoms became physical. It was not a coincidence."
Snape picked up a small, crystal vial from the corner of his desk. Inside, a liquid that looked like liquid moonlight swirled with a strange, silver light. He held it up between two fingers, the light catching the glass.
"This is the counteragent," Snape said, tilting the bottle so the silver liquid moved. "A pure distillation of moonstone essence and neutralized peppermint. It is designed to strip the essence of Amortentia from the senses. If there was a dose of a love potion, this is the cure."
Harry Potter shifted his weight, the leather of his boots creaking against the stone floor. "Do you actually think it's working, Professor?" Harry asked, his voice sounding tired.
Draconia watched the silver liquid spin. She wanted to tell him that the vial in her pocket, the one she had kept for herself, felt like a heavy, warm weight against her thigh. She wanted to tell him that the silver in the bottle looked like nothing compared to the way his eyes looked when he caught her staring. Instead, she kept her face blank.
"The dose was not just a mistake; it was an act of calculated manipulation," Draconia repeated, repeating her own words from the previous session. She felt the urge to defend her honor, to prove she was not a victim of her own heart, but a victim of a crime.
Snape set the vial down on the desk with a sharp click. "If the potion was administered in the concentration you suggest, the silver cure should have neutralized the physiological response within the hour. You have been under this supposed influence for three weeks."
"It is not a matter of time," Draconia said, her throat tightening. "It is a matter of potency."
Harry Potter stepped forward, his shadow falling over the desk. "But if the cure is supposed to work, why is she still reacting?" Harry asked, looking directly at Draconia. "If you're still feeling it, doesn't that mean the dose wasn't enough to be a permanent change?"
"Or that the dose was too much," Draconia countered, her voice rising. "It is not a weakness of my character, Harry. It is a reaction to a chemical imbalance. The silver in that bottle is supposed to fix it, but the feeling remains. It is not just a scent; it is a constant, pulsing ache."
Snape looked at her with an expression that was neither pity nor disdain, but a sort of clinical exhaustion. He reached for the vial again, his long fingers wrapping around the glass.
"The essence of the silver cure is absolute," Snape said, his eyes fixed on her. "It does not leave room for remnants. If the silver is present in the bloodstream, the Amortentia is gone. It is a binary state. You are either under the influence, or you are not."
"Then the cure is a failure," Draconia said, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Because I am standing here, and the silver has not touched the way my blood hums when he enters a room. The silver has not touched the way my skin feels too tight for my body."
Harry moved closer to her, his presence a warmth that the cold dungeon could not dampen. He did not reach out to touch her, but the proximity was enough to make her dizzy. "Is it because the dose was a mistake?" Harry asked, his voice dropping an octave. "Or is the cure just not strong enough to fight what was given?"
"It is not a matter of strength," Draconia snapped, her eyes flashing. "It is a matter of truth. You can give me all the silver you want, Professor, but the silver does not change the fact that the potion was there. It does not change the fact that he is the one who held the vial."
Snape sighed, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He looked at the small bottle, the silver liquid shimmering under the candlelight. It looked beautiful, but to her, it looked like a lie. It looked like a way to pretend that her feelings were a sickness that could be drained away with a few drops of moonlight.
"The counteragent is perfect," Snape said, his voice flat. "It is a precise, magical solution. It does not err. If the sensation persists, it is because the essence of the drug has bonded to your consciousness in a way that a standard dose should not allow."
"Then the standard dose was not standard," Draconia said. She felt a sudden, sharp spike of frustration. "The silver is a lie. It is a temporary fix for a permanent problem."
Harry looked at the bottle, then back at her. "She is saying the cure doesn't work, Professor," Harry said, his voice gaining a defensive edge. "Because she is still feeling it. She is still feeling everything."
"The feeling is the point," Draconia said, her voice cracking. "The silver is supposed to bring me back to myself, but I feel more like myself than ever before. The silver is supposed to be the end, but it feels like a beginning."
Snape leaned back in his chair, his eyes dark and unreadable. He watched her struggle with the words, watched the way her hands trembled against the fabric of her robes. He looked at the vial, then at the formal complaint, and finally at the boy who stood by the hearth.
"The procedure is finished," Snape said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "We have administered the silver. We have observed the lack of change. The evidence is conclusive."
"Conclusive of what?" Drac로니아 asked, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "That the cure is useless?"
"It is conclusive that the potion is not a temporary state," Snape replied. He looked at her with a gaze that was as sharp as a scalpel, slicing through her pretenses.
"The appointment was a waste of time," Draconia said, her voice trembling as she stood up from the chair.
Snape looked at her, his expression unchanged, as if he were merely observing a reaction in a cauldron. "It was," he agreed, flatly.