The weight of the morning felt heavy on her skin, a reminder of the bed she had left behind in the Gryffindor dormitories. Draconia walked through the corridors with her head held high, though her bones felt hollow and her thoughts were a tangled mess of silk sheets and Harry’s scent. The school was no longer a place of quiet study; it had become a courtroom. The accusation she had filed against Harry Potter was a living thing, a beast that had grown much larger than a single girl’s confusion. She saw the way the professors watched Harry as he walked to his lessons, their eyes sharp and judging.
The whispers in the Great Hall were the worst part of the morning. People did not even bother to lower their voices when he passed the table, as if his presence was a provocation. Harry looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped under the invisible pressure of the scrutiny. He did not look like a boy who had spent a night in a messy, brown-toned dormitory with a girl; he looked like a boy who was waiting for a sentence to be passed. Draconia watched him from across the hall, feeling the sting of the silence she had created.
Professor McGonagall sat at the high table, her expression unreadable but her gaze frequently drifting toward Harry. It was not just the professors who were watching. The portraits in the corridors were the most egregious, their painted eyes following Harry with a mixture of pity and suspicion. A lanky portrait of a medieval knight actually turned its head away when Harry walked past, as if the boy were a contagion. Even the statues in the entrance hall seemed to lean in, their stone faces etched with a grim sort of curiosity.
The investigation had moved into a formal phase, and the evidence was being gathered with a terrifying, methodical speed. Draconia had heard that the portraits were being interviewed, as if a painted knight could testify to whether or not Harry had slipped a vial of pink liquid into her drink. The school was convinced of his guilt, or at least convinced of his intent. Half of the staff, she knew, believed that Harry was a master of manipulation, a boy who used auras of charm to mask a calculated crime.
"He looks like he hasn't slept in a week," Pansy remarked, leaning toward Draconia as they moved toward their next lecture.
"He hasn't," Draconia replied, her voice flatter than she felt.
Pansy nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd. "The Slytherin common room is talking about it, you know. They say it is a classic Potter move. To make a girl fall in love so he can control her. It is very clever, really."
Draconia did not answer her, because to agree with Pansy was to admit she had succeeded in her bluff. She had wanted to blame him, to make his culpability the center of her own internal chaos, but the reality was much more devastating. The investigation was not just about a potion; it was about the fact that the entire world was looking at him and seeing a criminal. She felt a sudden, sharp urge to go to him, to tell him that she was the one who was supposed to be the one on trial.
The questioning was relentless. She saw Harry being called into various offices, his silhouette often visible through the frosted glass of the doors. He would sit there, hands folded, looking small and tired. The portraits were the most vocal, their voices carrying through the halls like a jury that had already reached a verdict. A group of Hufflepuffs stood in a tight circle near the staircase, whispering about the morality of his actions, their faces pinched with disapproval.
"It is a disgrace, really," a voice drifted from a nearby doorway. "To use a charm like that on a girl of her standing."
Draconia knew they were talking about her, or perhaps the situation in general, but she knew they meant him. The accusation was a heavy cloak that Harry wore every hour of the day. She watched him enter a classroom, and she saw the way the students parted for him, not with respect, but with a wary sort of distance. He was a pariah who had not quite been exiled yet.
The afternoon was a blur of lectures that felt hollow and unimportant. Every time she saw him, her heart performed a traitorous leap, a rhythmic thudding that reminded her of the way his skin had felt against hers. The memory of his hands, of the way he had looked at her in the dim light of his room, made the formal investigation feel like a farce. The school wanted a villain, and she had given them a perfect one.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the tension in the castle had reached a breaking point. The whispers had turned into certainties. People were no longer asking if he had done it; they were discussing how he had done it. The portraits were the most aggressive, their voices booming through the corridors as they discussed the 'theft' of a girl's agency. It was a strange, heavy atmosphere, one that made the very stones of the castle feel judgmental.
Draconia found him in a quiet corner of the courtyard, far from the main paths. He was sitting on a stone bench, staring at nothing. He looked older than eighteen, or perhaps just more tired. The light was fading, and the shadows were stretching across the grass, making him look even more isolated. She approached him slowly, her footsteps heavy on the gravel.
"They are all looking at you," she said, her voice breaking the quiet.
Harry turned his head, his green eyes catching the last of the light. He did not look surprised to see her. He did not look angry, which was the most frustrating part of his entire demeanor. He simply looked resigned.
"They are all looking at me," Harry said, his voice low and steady. "They think I am a thief, Draconia. They think I stole something from you that you didn't want to give."
"The portraits are the worst," she admitted, sitting on the edge of the bench but not quite touching him. "They won't stop talking. Even the statues seem to be judging your character."
Harry gave a short, dry laugh that contained no mirth. "It is a lot of work, being a villain. I didn't realize there was so much evidence to be gathered. I suppose the portraits saw me standing over you with a vial."
"You didn't have to do anything to me," she whispered, the truth of it catching in her throat. "I am the one who told them. I am the one who started the whole thing."
"You did," Harry said. He stood up, and for a moment, he looked like he might walk away, but he stayed. "And now the whole school is looking for a reason to hate me. Half the staff is convinced you are a victim of a very clever spell."
"It is a very good lie, isn't it?" Draconia asked, looking up at him. "To pretend it was all a potion. To pretend it was all a crime."
"It is a good lie," Harry said. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her hand for a fleeting second before he pulled back. He looked at her with a kindness that felt more painful than any anger could have been. "But you can't hide the truth in a formal report, can you? They can't investigate a feeling."
"They are trying anyway," she said, her voice trembling. "They are trying to find the moment where you cheated."
"I didn't cheat," Harry said, his gaze unwavering. "I just loved you. And apparently, that is a crime worth a full investigation."
"They blame you so much," she said, her eyes stinging. "I see it in the way the professors look at you. They think you are a cheat. They think you are a predator."
Harry stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking until she could feel the heat of him. He did not look like