Draconia sat in the library, her quill hovering above a fresh sheet of parchment. The silence of the room was not a heavy thing, but rather a standard expectation of a Tuesday afternoon. She focused on the ink, watching the way the black liquid pooled at the tip of her nib. Her fingers ached slightly from the previous night in the practice room, a dull throb deep in her pelvis that she refused to acknowledge. She had spent the morning perfecting her composure, ensuring her bun was pinned tight and her robes were crisp, hiding the evidence of how much she had lost control.
A list was a sensible way to organize her thoughts, she decided. She began to write, her handwriting elegant and precise. She was making a comparison of magical technique, a formal exercise for her own mental clarity. She had been thinking about the way his magic felt against hers, specifically the way his casting was often too blunt and unrefined compared to her own sharp, controlled movements. It was easier to pretend she was analysing his spellwork than to admit she was still thinking about the way he had moved inside her.
"You are staring at that parchment as if you intend to set it on fire," a voice said.
Draconia did not jump, though the suddenness of his presence made her heart beat a fraction faster. She looked up to see Harry leaning against the edge of the table. He looked tired, his hair a messy tangle that defied the neatness of his school robes. He looked like a man who had spent too much time thinking about things that were not entirely academic.
"It is called concentration, Potter," she said, her voice smooth and practiced. "You should try it sometime."
"Is that what you call it? You look like you are composing a manifesto," he replied. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down without waiting for an invitation.
"It is a technical comparison," she explained, pulling her parchment closer to her chest. "I find that documenting the discrepancies in our approaches helps to clarify the objective reality of our skill levels."
"The objective reality is that you are being incredibly pretentious," Harry said, though there was a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you actually writing about?"
"My technique versus yours," she said, her eyes meeting his. "It is a standard comparative study. There is nothing more to it."
He leaned forward, his eyes tracking the movement of her quill. "You seem very invested in this study. Is it a way to keep track of how much better you are than me?"
"You are not wrong to assume that," she answered, her tone light. "Your casting is often quite clumsy. It lacks the precision that a truly disciplined witch possesses."
"Clumsy is a strong word," he said. "I would say 'instinctive'. You are all angles and precision, but sometimes you forget to actually feel the magic. You are too busy controlling it."
"Control is the point of control," she countered. "Without control, magic is just a chaotic mess of energy. You rely too much on instinct and not enough on the nuance of the wrist."
"Maybe," he conceded, his gaze dropping to her hands. "But sometimes the chaos is what makes it work."
She felt a flicker of heat in her stomach at his words. He was being infuriatingly observant. She turned back to her parchment, pretending to be deeply engrossed in her notes. She did not want him to see the way her hand trembled slightly as she wrote the word 'wrist'.
"I am nearly finished with the section on somatic movements," she lied, her voice steady.
"Is that what the section is called?" he asked, a hint of a challenge in his voice. "Somatic movements?"
"It is a technical term," she said, refusing to look at him. "It refers to the physical gestures used to channel magic. Your wand movements are far too large. You move your arm like you are swinging a sword, rather than directing a current."
"It works, doesn't it?" he asked. "I hit the targets every time."
"You hit the targets by brute force," she corrected. "It is not the same as precision."
She began to write again, her mind racing. She was trying to keep the list professional, but the more she thought about his magic, the more she thought about his hands. She thought about the way his fingers felt when they gripped the edge of her desk, and the way they had felt when they were pressed against her skin in the practice room. She was supposed to be writing about spellwork, but her thoughts were drifting into the sensory details of his touch.
She wrote a header for 'Spells', then 'Movement', and then a third header for 'Tactile Engagement'. She did not know why she had added the third one, but she felt compelled to do so. She began to detail the way his magic felt when it was entwined with hers, trying to translate the sensation into words that sounded like a scholarly critique.
"You are very quiet now," Harry observed. "Did you run out of things to say about my terrible wand work?"
"I am simply refining the prose," she said, her eyes fixed on the page. "The transition from theory to application requires careful thought."
"You are a terrible liar, Draconia," he said, his voice dropping a notch. "You are writing about something else entirely."
"Do not be absurd," she replied, though she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. "This is a purely academic exercise. It is a list of observations regarding the technical execution of charm-based magic."
"Is it?" he asked. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from hers on the table. "Because you look like you are trying to hide a secret."
"The only secret here is your lack of subtlety," she said, her voice a little too sharp. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a very important conclusion to reach."
She kept her eyes on the paper, forcing herself to write. She wrote about the way his magic felt heavy and warm, and how it seemed to wrap around her own in a way that was difficult to quantify. She tried to find the right words for the sensation of his strength, the way it felt both overwhelming and strangely grounding. She was supposed to be a scientist of sorts, a judge of skill, but she felt more like a student of his every movement.
The ink was nearly dry on the section about his casting style. She moved to the next part of the list, her heart thudding in her ears. She wanted to finish it and hide it away, but she also wanted him to see it, to see the way she was actually perceiving him. She felt a sudden, sharp need to be honest, even if she was not ready to be vulnerable.
"I am almost done," she said, her voice a bit breathless.
"What is the final section?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "You have been working on it for ten minutes."
She looked up at him, her expression a mask of cool indifference. "It is a minor section. It is simply a breakdown of the physical elements of the interaction."
She turned the parchment slightly so he could see the last few lines. She had been trying to be clever, trying to use the language of magic to describe the way he had touched her, but the truth had bled through the technicalities. She had intended to keep the categories balanced, but the weight of her own longing had tilted the scales.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice turning low and intense. He leaned in, his hand moving to the edge of the parchment.
"It is a technical observation," she said, though she felt as though she were telling a lie even as she spoke.
He read the words, his eyes scanning the elegant script. He looked at the first two columns, which were indeed about spellwork and movement, but then his gaze drifted to the final section she had just completed.
"You'