The parchment felt heavy in Draconia’s hands, a thick sheet of vellum that bore the unmistakable, sharp script of Severus Snape. It was a brewing order for a Draught of Perpetual Motion, a potion so temperamental that it required a constant, unbroken attention for a span of exactly four hours. Most students would have found the prospect daunting, but Draconia knew the rhythm of the liquid better than she knew her own pulse. A Malfoy girl could do this with her eyes shut, or so her mother always said during their long afternoons in the drawing room. The precision of the task suited her because she liked the control of it.
Snape had been quite clear in his instructions when he handed the list to her in the dungeons. The potion required a meticulous sequence of additions, each one timed to the minute, and the heat had to remain at a constant, low simmer to prevent the entire cauldron from turning to sludge. If she missed a single clockwise stir or allowed the temperature to fluctuate by even a fraction, the entire four hours would be a waste of expensive ingredients. She traced the ink of the list, noting the precise increments of time. It was a long, grueling stretch of discipline, a test of endurance more than a test of skill.
"It is not as if you are incapable, Draconia," Pansy said, leaning against the edge of the stone workbench. Pansy watched her with an expression that was halfway between admiration and boredom. "The order is standard for someone of your standing. You could probably brew this in your sleep."
Draconia tucked the parchment into the pocket of her robes, her fingers brushing the silk of her inner lining. "It is not about capability, Pansy. It is about the timing. One slip, one second of distraction, and the entire batch is ruined. It requires a steady hand and a mind that does not wander."
"You always were far too serious about your perfection," Pansy remarked, reaching out to tap a finger against a glass vial. "Most people would just wing it and hope for the best. But you, you have to have it exactly so."
"There is a difference between a hobby and a craft," Draconia replied, moving toward the cupboard where the ingredients were kept. She felt the cool air of the dungeon against her skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the fireplace nearby. "A Malfoy does not 'hope' for the best. A Malfoy ensures the result is inevitable."
Pansy gave a small, knowing smirk as she watched Draconia organize the jars. "You are a very intense woman. It is quite exhausting to be around you when you are in this sort of mood."
"Then you should have stayed in the common room," Draconia said, though there was no real heat in her voice. She enjoyed the solitude of the lab, the way the stone walls seemed to hold the silence of the dungeon. "I need to begin the preparation now if I am to be ready for the first infusion."
"Are you sure you don't want a single person to watch you?" Pansy asked, her eyes dancing with a bit of mischief. "It seems a bit lonely to spend four hours staring at a cauldron."
"I do not need a spectator," Dr lackonia answered, her voice crisp. "I need a specialist. The potion demands a specific kind of focus that most people simply do not possess."
She moved to the cabinet to retrieve the silver stirring rod, her movements graceful and practiced. She knew every ingredient by its weight and its scent, and she knew the exact moment each one would hit the liquid. The draught was a delicate thing, a liquid gold that demanded respect. She could see the way the light caught the edges of the glass vials, the way the liquid shimmered in the darkness of the room. It was beautiful, in its own structured, predictable way.
"You are being very vague about what you actually need," Pansy noted, stepping closer to the large, black cauldron that sat in the centre of the workspace. "Are you looking for a scribe, or a brewer?"
"I am looking for an assistant," Draconia said, her gaze fixed on the empty cauldron. "Someone who can manage the heat while I tend to the finer infusions. Someone who can follow a command without questioning the logic behind it."
"Most of the prefects are quite busy with the end of term, you know," Pansy said, her voice dropping a notch. "They have all sorts of errands and meetings and things to attend to. It is a very frantic time for everyone."
Draconia felt a flicker of irritation at the implication. She had planned this for weeks, and the precision of the four-hour window was non-negotiable. She could not afford a single mistake, and she certainly could not afford a mediocre assistant who would ruin the timing. She needed someone who understood the gravity of the task, someone who would not falte when the pressure mounted.
"The prefects are always busy with something trivial," Draconia said, her jaw tightening slightly as she began to clear a space on the table. "I am not looking for someone to hold my hand. I am looking for someone to execute the instructions with absolute accuracy."
Pansy sighed, a long, dramatic sound that echoed in the stone room. "You make it sound like a military operation. It is just a potion, Draconia. A very difficult, very long potion, but a potion nonetheless."
"It is a four-hour commitment," Draconia corrected, her eyes narrowing. "A four-hour commitment that allows no room for error. If the person helping me loses track of the time, the whole thing is lost."
She began to lay out the jars of moonleaf and crushed beetle shells, her hands steady as she worked. The precision of her actions was her pride, a way of showing that she was in total command of her environment. She liked the way the ingredients sat in their neat, orderly rows, ready to be sacrificed to the heat of the flame. She was already calculating the increments of time in her head, building the structure of the next four hours.
"You should have asked someone earlier, then," Pansy suggested, looking toward the door as if she could see the empty corridor beyond. "If the timing is so crucial, you should have secured your help a week ago."
"I decided to wait until the final moment," Draconia said, her voice as cool as the stone floor. "I wanted to see who was actually available and capable of the discipline required."
"And how is that going for you?" Pansy asked, a playful glйдёт in her tone.
"It is a disaster," Draconia admitted, her fingers tracing the rim of a crystal bowl. "The timing is perfect, but the help is non-existent. It seems as though every Slytherin prefect is suddenly busy."