Draconia sat in the library, her fingers tracing the edge of a heavy parchment note. It was a lie, of course, but a necessary one if she wanted to secure the help she required without appearing to crave it. She had written the note herself, mimicking the precise, slightly archaic hand of Professor Slughorn. The note stated that a specific, complex brewing required a second pair of hands to monitor the temperature of the heat source while the primary brewer handled the infusions. It was a clever bit of deception, designed to present the task as a technical necessity rather than a personal request. She knew the boy would see through it, but the lie provided her with the necessary armour of plausible deniability.
The library was relatively quiet, the high ceilings swallowing the sound of turning pages. Draconia watched as a group of Ravenclaws moved past her table, their movements fluid and unobtrusive. She felt the tension in her shoulders, a sharp contrast to the supposed calm of her composure. The potion was a delicate thing, a four-hour process that demanded absolute precision from the first minute to the last. If she could not find an assistant, the entire undertaking would be a failure, and her reputation for perfection would suffer a dent she could ill afford.
"You look like you are plotting a murder, Harry," a voice said, cutting through her thoughts.
She looked up to find Pansy leaning against the end of her table, a smirk playing on her lips. Pansy was always too observant for her own good, a trait that Draconia both appreciated and loathed.
"It is not a murder, Pansy, it is a production," Draconia replied, sliding the note toward the center of the table. "Slughorn has assigned a singular task that requires a constant eye on the thermometer. It is a matter of sheer physics, really."
Pansy picked up the parchment, her eyes scanning the elegant script. "Slughorn is a man, not a fountain of precise requests. He would have asked a prefect if he actually wanted someone to help you. This is a very clumsy forgery."
Draconia stiffened, her spine straightening as she met Pansy's gaze. "It is not a forgery, it is a directive. The timing of the heat is paramount, and the instructions were quite specific about the need for an assistant to oversee the temperature fluctuations."
"You are a terrible liar when you are actually trying to be convincing," Pansy said, setting the note back down with a soft thud. "You want him to come. You want him to be there, standing in the steam, watching you work."
"I want the potion to be perfect," Draconia corrected, her voice cool and level. "If he comes, it is because the instructions demand it. If he does not, it is because he is incapable of following a simple directive."
Pansy laughed, a short, sharp sound that drew a few glances from the neighbouring tables. "He will come. He always comes when you pretend to need something. He is a glutton for your 'technical requirements'."
"Do not be absurd," Draconia said, though she felt a small, traitorous spark of warmth in her chest. "He is a man of many talents, but he is not a man who is easily fooled by a poorly disguised note."
"He is not fooled, Harry. He just likes the way you pretend," Pansy said, turning to leave. "I will see you at dinner. Try not to burn the dungeons down while you wait for your 'assistant'."
Draconia watched Pansy walk away, her heart performing a strange, rhythmic thump against her ribs. She knew she had been caught, but she could not bring herself to care. The deception was a game, a way to bridge the gap between her pride and her desire. She needed him there, not just for the potion, but for the way the room felt when he occupied the space beside her. The silence of the library felt suddenly oppressive, the air in her lungs heavy as she waited for the inevitable.
She spent the next hour pretending to read a text on advanced transfiguration, though the words refused to settle in her mind. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the dungeon, to the bubbling cauldron and the scent of damp earth and crushed herbs. She imagined the way the steam would rise around his face, obscuring his eyes for a moment before he looked up at her. She imagined the way his hands would move, steady and sure, as he adjusted the heat.
The clock on the library wall ticked forward, the sound rhythmic and relentless. Draconia felt the passage of time as a physical weight, a pressure that grew with every passing minute. She was a girl of precision, a girl who lived by the second and the minute, yet she felt entirely unmoored by the wait. The perfection she craved was a lonely thing, a standard she set for herself and the world, but in the quiet of the library, she felt the hollow ache of it.
She stood up, smoothing the front of her robes with a practiced, elegant motion. She would go to the dungeons now, and wait. If he did not arrive, she would simply begin the process alone, maintaining her dignity through a veneer of stoic independence. She walked through the corridors, the stone walls cool and unyielding beside her. The transition from the light of the library to the dim, subterranean atmosphere of the dungeons was a relief. The air was cooler here, the shadows long and stretching across the floor.
The door to the potions lab was ajar, a sliver of light spilling out into the hallway. Draconia paused, her hand hovering over the heavy iron handle. She could hear the faint, rhythmic bubbling of a cauldron, a sound that felt like a heartbeat in the stillness. She took a breath, steadying herself, and pushed the door open.
The room was mostly dark, the only light coming from the single, glowing cauldron in the centre of the workstation. The heat from the burner was already beginning to permeate the air, a dull warmth that promised the long hours ahead. She moved toward the table, her footsteps soft on the stone floor, her eyes fixed on the shimmering surface of the liquid.
"You are early," a voice said from the corner of the room.
Draconia turned to see him leaning against the stone workbench, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked as though he had been waiting for some time, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He was not looking at the cauldron, but at her, his gaze heavy and knowing.
"I am exactly on time," Draconia replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her stomach. "The instructions were quite clear about the preparation period."
"The instructions were a lie, Harry," he said, stepping forward into the light of the cauldron. He did not look surprised, nor did he look particularly impressed. He looked as though he had seen through her entire performance the moment he had read the parchment. "You could have just asked me to help you. You didn't need to pretend Slughorn had a sudden obsession with temperature monitoring."
"It was a professional requirement," she insisted, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "The precision of the heat is vital to the success of the brew. It is a matter of science, not sentiment."
"It is a matter of you wanting me here," he countered, his voice dropping a register. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of the cauldron as he leaned in to inspect the brew. "And you are a very poor liar when you are actually trying to be convincing."
"I am not lying," she said, stepping closer to him, until the heat of the cauldron was a wall between them. "The requirement is real. The need for an assistant is a factual necessity of the process."
"Is it?" He looked up at her, his eyes catching the light of the glowing liquid. "Is that why you sent the note? Because of the science?"
"Because the timing is perfect,"