The corridor felt wider than usual, stretching out into a long, stone-walled expanse that seemed to swallow the sound of her footsteps. Draconia kept her chin high, her spine a straight line of practiced grace as she walked toward the common room. The lecture in the classroom had been brutal, a sharp, jagged thing that left her feeling stripped and raw. She had spent the last few days being particularly cruel to him, throwing every barbed comment and icy stare she possessed at his back. It was easier to be hateful than to admit how much the honesty of that last encounter had bruised her.
Harry was waiting near the corner, his silhouette dark against the dim light of the torches. He did not look like a man who had been successfully pushed away by a woman's sudden frostiness. He looked like a man who was waiting for the thaw. He leaned against the masonry, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her approach with an expression that was far too calm. Draconia felt the urge to speed up, to pass him before he could catch her eye, but her feet remained heavy.
"You are walking like you are still angry," Harry said, his voice echoing softly against the stone.
"I am not angry, Potter; I am simply tired of your constant presence," she replied, her tone clipping the edges of her words.
He did not move, nor did he look offended by the sharp edge of her voice. He watched her with those observant eyes that had seen too much of her unravoured self. The silence was not uncomfortable, but it felt expectant, as if the corridor itself was waiting for her to drop the facade. She pulled her shoulders back, tightening the invisible armour of her composure. She had spent the last week making sure he knew exactly how much she resented the way he had seen her without her hair down.
"You have been very busy being a nuisance," Harry noted, stepping into her path so she had to halt.
"A nuisance? You are the one who keeps appearing where you are not wanted," she countered.
"I think you enjoy the chase more than the capture," he said, a small, knowing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Draconia felt the heat rise in her neck, a flicker of the vulnerability she had tried so hard to bury. She reached into the pocket of her robes to find her wand, a reflex to find something to hold, something to ground her. She pulled it out, the dark wood smooth and familiar in her hand. It was a beautiful thing, a weapon of precision, and she held it with the practiced ease of a woman who knew exactly what she was capable of. She felt the weight of it, a solid, dependable length of wood that she had used to tease him, to measure him, and to mock him.
"You think you have me figured out," she said, her voice dropping an octave.
"I think you use it as a shield," Harry said, nodding toward the wand in her hand. "You use the wit and the jokes to keep the actual feeling at a distance."
"The joke is a very effective tool, Potter. It keeps people from getting too close to the point," she said, her grip tightening on the wood.
He took a step closer, entering her personal space with a confidence that made her breath hitch. She wanted to lash out, to say something biting about his lack of subtlety, but the words died in her throat. He was looking at her with a stillness that felt more intimate than any of the frantic, sweating moments they had shared in the practice room or on the desk. He was looking at the woman who had stood before him with her hair undone, the one who had been honest and frightened.
"It is not just about the tool, is it?" Harry asked softly.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, though she knew the answer.
"You have spent months telling me how much the size of the wand matters, how the grip determines the magic, and how the technique is everything," he said, his gaze dropping to her hand. "But you always end the joke with the same thing."
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp tension in her chest. She had spent so much time playing the part of the clever, teasing enchantress, running circles around him with her innuendo. She had made the joke her entire identity, a way to control the narrative of their attraction. She had used the wand as a symbol of her own power, a way to dictate the terms of their engagement. Now, standing in the dim light of the corridor, the joke felt small and hollow.
"The joke is the point," she insisted, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "It is a classic for a reason."
"Is it?" he asked, stepping even closer until the toes of his boots brushed hers. "Or is it just a way to keep from being the one who is actually seen?"
She wanted to lie, to weave a web of sarcasm so dense he could never find the truth, but the words would not come. She was tired of the performance. The way he looked at her was too steady, too unapologetic. He was not looking at the witch holding the wand; he was looking at the girl who had been too real for her own good. She felt a sudden, desperate need to reclaim the jest, to use the wit to drive him back and restore the distance.
"You are far too serious, Harry," she said, a ghost of a smirk appearing on her lips. "It is a matter of technique. It is a matter of the wand and the witch."
"You always say that," he murmured, his eyes locked on hers.
"Because it is a truth," she said, lifting the wand slightly as if to present it to him, a final, defiant gesture of her supposed dominance. "The wand is nothing without the hand that holds it."
He did not flinch at the movement. Instead, he reached out, his fingers moving with a slow, deliberate grace that made her heart hammer against her ribs. He did not grab her hand or her wrist. He moved with a singular focus, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached for the wood. He took the wand off her, holds it, and says the line back at her with a straight face, and she laughs, and she almost never laughs.