The practice room felt smaller than it actually was because the air was still and the magic felt concentrated. Draconia stepped through the heavy oak doors, her boots making no sound on the stone floor as she entered the chamber. She had intended to find a quiet place to review her charms, but the rhythmic, sharp snap of a wand casting a charm caught her attention. It was a lonely sound, repetitive and lacking the fluid grace of a master. She moved closer to the centre of the room, where the practice dummies stood in a semi-circle. Harry was there, his back to her, his shoulders hunched as he cast a series of minor stinging hexes at a wooden target.
His movements were too stiff, far too frantic to be effective. He was overcompensating with his wrist, snapping the wand forward as if he were trying to strike a physical blow rather than direct a flow of magic. Every time the wand tip flicked, the sound was a jagged, ugly thing. Draconia leaned against a stone pillar, watching him with a tilted head. She watched the way his fingers bunched around the wood of his wand, a tight, desperate grip that looked uncomfortable to behold. It was a clumsy display of effort, a frantic attempt to prove a point to the empty air.
"You are wasting enough energy to power a small village, Potter," she said, her voice cutting through the silence of the room.
Harry jumped, his wand slipping slightly in his hand as he spun around to face her. He looked startled, his hair a mess of dark tangles and his breathing shallow from the exertion. He did not look pleased to see her, but he did not look embarrassed either. He simply straightened his posture, though the tension in his frame remained evident.
"I didn't hear you come in," he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"That is because you were too busy being loud," Draconia replied, stepping out from behind the pillar. "It is a practice room, not a battleground. You are casting as if you are trying to kill the dummy, rather than command the spell."
Harry let out a short, huffing laugh that lacked any real mirth. "It is a drill. The point is to get the movement down until it is instinctive."
"Your movement is currently a catastrophe," she countered, walking toward him. "You are fighting the wand instead of guiding it. You hold it like a club, not a tool of precision."
He looked down at his wand, his thumb tracing the grain of the wood. He seemed to be weighing her words, deciding whether to defend his technique or simply endure her scrutiny. He was a man who lived in a state of perpetual motion, always trying to prove he belonged in the light, and her stillness always seemed to grate on his nerves.
"It is a decent grip," he insisted, though he sounded less certain than before.
"It is a desperate grip," she corrected him. "You are squeezing the life out of the magic before it even leaves the tip. If you keep this up, you will have a cramp in your hand before you even reach the final exam."
Harry stepped closer to her, his eyes narrowing. "And since when did you become an expert on the nuances of my wand-work? You have been watching me from the shadows for the last three minutes."
"It is hard to miss a man performing a frantic dance with a piece of wood," she said, her tone smooth and unimpressed. "You look like you are trying to exorcise a ghost rather than casting a simple charm."
"I am working on the tension," he argued, his voice rising a fraction. "Flitwick says the tension is vital for the redirection of the force."
"Flitwick is right, but you are applying the tension to your knuckles instead of the spell," she said. She stopped a foot away from him, close enough to see the way his pupils reacted to her proximity. "You are too tight. You are all nerves and no control."
Harry looked at his wand, then back at her, his expression unreadable. "Maybe you should show me then. If it is so easy for a perfectionist like you."
"It is not about ease, it is about intention," she said, her eyes fixed on his hand. "You are treating the wand like an extension of a fist. It should be an extension of your thought."
"My thoughts are quite clear," he muttered, though he didn't move to continue his drill.
"Your thoughts are currently a messy tangle of frustration," she said. She saw the way his fingers twitched, the way his hand hung slightly limp at his side as he tried to relax the muscle. "You are holding the wand too far back. Your grip is too high on the shaft."
"It is the standard way," he said, his voice dropping an in a low register.
"It is the amateur way," she said. She did not wait for him to invite her. She reached out, her hand moving through the air to catch his wrist. Her skin was cool against his, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. She guided his hand upward, her fingers wrapping around the length of the wood. She moved his thumb, adjusting the placement of his fingers until the grip was higher, more elegant.
"There," she whispered, her eyes meeting his. "Feel the difference. Do not crush it. Just hold it."
The silence in the room became sudden and heavy. She held his hand, her fingers a steady weight against his knuckles, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant drip of a water feature in the corridor. He did not pull away, and she did not let go. The air in the practice room felt different now, no longer empty, but filled with the sudden, sharp awareness of his breathing.
"Is that better?" he asked, his voice much lower than it had been.
"It is a start," she said, her gaze dropping to where her fingers curled around the wand and his hand.
"You're very bossy when you're correcting someone," he said, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Someone has to be," she replied. "You are far too stubborn to do it yourself."
"Maybe," he admitted, his eyes searching hers. "But at least the grip is better."
"It is a better grip," she agreed, her thumb brushing the grain of the wand just above his fingers. "But your hand is still shaking."
"It's the adrenaline," he said, though he didn't move to break the contact. "From the casting."
"It is not the adrenaline, Potter," she said, her voice a low, steady vibration. "It is you."
He looked down at their joined hands, at the way her fingers looked against the dark wood of his wand. The distance between them felt smaller than it had a moment ago, the space occupied by the scent of old stone and the warmth of his skin. She could feel the pulse in his wrist, a frantic, rhythmic beat that betrayed his calm exterior.
She adjusted his hand one more time, her touch deliberate and slow, ensuring the grip was perfect. She corrected his grip without asking, and neither of them moves for four seconds.