The Great Hall was too bright for a Tuesday morning. Draconia sat at the Slytherin table, her spine a rigid line of composure that defied the fatigue in her bones. The Prefects' bathroom had left her skin feeling sensitive and her spirit feeling frayed. She had spent the last hour meticulously re-pinning her hair into its usual tight bun, ensuring not a single strand strayed from its place. Her armour was back in position, the platinum hair smoothed and secured until her scalp felt taut.
"You look tired, Draconia," Pansy said, leaning in close to her.
Draconia took a slow sip of her tea, keeping her movements elegant and controlled. She did not want to admit that the water in the Prefects' bathroom had felt different against her skin when her hair was down. She did not want to admit that the sight of Harry Potter watching her vulnerability had made her want to scream. To the rest of the table, she was the same impeccable, untouchable version of herself.
"It was a long night in the library," Draconia replied, her voice smooth and devoid of any tremor.
Pansy did not look convinced, but she moved on to a comment about the upcoming N.E.W.T.s. The conversation around the table drifted through the usual gossip about house points and the changing weather in the Highlands. Draconia kept her eyes on her plate, pushing a small piece of toast around with her knife. She was thinking about the way the steam had felt on her shoulders and how the silence had felt when she stopped performing.
"Did you see him yesterday?" Pansy asked, her eyes darting toward the Gryffindor table.
Draconia knew exactly who was being discussed, though Pansy did not name him. Harry Potter was sitting a few feet away, and she could feel the phantom sensation of his gaze on the side of her face. She had spent the last few days perfecting the art of the joke, using the metaphor of the wand to keep him at a distance, but the joke had become a shield that was beginning to crack.
"See who?" Draconia asked, her tone perfectly neutral.
"Potter," Pansy said, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned over her goblet. "He was looking at you in the corridor like he wanted to eat you alive."
The table went momentarily quiet as several other Slytherins turned to listen. Draconia felt a sudden prickle of heat at the base of her neck, but she refused to blush. She kept her gaze steady, looking directly at Pansy with a look of mild, bored amusement.
"He is always looking at something," Draconia said.
Pansy grinned, a sharp, predatory expression that usually meant she was about to be difficult. "It is more than that, isn't it? You two have been playing this game for weeks. The jokes about the length of things and the grip and the way he holds his wand. It is very clever, but the girls are starting to talk."
Draconia felt the weight of the gaze from the Gryffindor table. She did not turn her head to confirm it, but she knew he was there. She knew he was listening to the cadence of her voice, waiting for a slip or a sign of the girl who had let her hair down in the steam.
"It is just a joke, Pansy. Do not be so dramatic," Draconia said.
"Is it?" Pansy pressed, her eyes narrowing. "Because it looks like more than a joke to me. It looks like a distraction. Tell me, Draconia, is there actually something happening between you two, or are you just bored?"
The question was a direct hit, thrown with the precision of a Bludger. It was not a whispered aside, but a loud, clear inquiry that forced the surrounding students to hold their breath. Draconia felt the air in her lungs turn to ice. She could feel the eyes of the entire Slytherin house on her, and she knew the Gryffindors were likely staring too.
"Is it true?" Pansy asked, her voice ringing out. "Are you actually seeing him?"
Draconia reached for her teapot, her fingers steady despite the sudden racing of her heart. She poured a second cup of tea, the liquid dark and steaming. She took a moment to let the silence stretch, refusing to be the first one to break the tension. She needed to think, to construct a wall of words that would stand firm against the scrutiny.
"Seeing him?" Draconia repeated, a small, condescending smile touching her lips.
"Yes, seeing him," Pansy insisted, her eyebrows raised high. "The way you talk about his technique and his wand, it sounds quite intimate. People are wondering if you have actually done anything or if you are just teasing him for sport."
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp urge to tell the truth, to tell them that the joke had died on the desk in the empty classroom. She wanted to tell them that she was tired of being the witch holding the wand and that she wanted to be the girl with the hair down. But she could not do that. To tell the truth was to admit she had been moved, and Draconia did not move for anyone.
"He is a very good subject for a joke, Pansy," Draconia said, her voice loud enough to carry across the table.
"That is not an answer," Pansy countered, her eyes dancing with a cruel sort of delight.
"The answer is that Harry Potter is quite predictable," Draconia said, setting her cup down with a definitive clink. "He reacts exactly how one expects a boy of his temperament to react. If you find his performance interesting, that is your business, but do not mistake my amusement for an invitation."
She saw the way Pansy’s expression faltered slightly, the satisfaction of a hunter who had missed a clean kill. Draconia felt a sense of triumph, but it was a hollow one. She had won the moment, but she had also built a cage of lies around herself.
"You are being very defensive," Pansy remarked, turning back to her breakfast. "Which usually means there is a grain of truth in the gossip."
Draconia watched her, realizing that she had gone too far. She had delivered a response that was too polished, too sharp. She had used her wit as a blade, but the blade had left a mark. She looked toward the Gryffindor table and saw the back of his head, his shoulders set in a way that suggested he had heard every word.
"I am not defensive," Draconia said, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I am simply exhausted by the lack of originality in this school. If you want to talk about his wand, go ahead, but do not pretend it is a revelation."
She forced herself to eat, the food tasting like ash in her mouth. She had laid the groundwork for a grand illusion of indifference, but the effort of maintaining it felt monumental. She had crafted a persona of a woman who was entirely in control of her lust and her intellect, but the lie was becoming a heavy thing to carry.
"You are lying," Pansy whispered, almost to herself.
Draconia did not look up. She did not defend herself. She simply continued to sit there, the perfect, untouchable blonde, as the conversation moved on to the texture of the sausages. She knew that she had just constructed a narrative that would require immense strength to sustain. She had answered with a deflection so grand and so seamless that no one would dare question her again, but the cost was already beginning to show in the tension of her jaw.
Draconia answers with a lie so large it takes her four chapters to pay for it.