The silence in the classroom was not empty. It was a physical thing, a layer of dust and tension that sat between the two of them as they sat at their respective desks. Draconia kept her eyes fixed on the heavy parchment of her Arithmancy notes, though the ink seemed to blur into meaningless scratches. Harry sat three rows down and to the left, his posture stiff and unnaturally upright. They were pretending to study, a desperate pantomime of diligence that felt fragile in the wake of the heat they had shared by the blackboard. The sunlight was too bright, casting long, sharp shadows across the floor, yet they remained frozen.
Movement from the corridor broke the stillness of the room. A rhythmic thud of leather soles against stone echoed through the heavy oak doors, growing louder with every passing second. Draconia did not look up, but she felt the hair on her arms stand up. Harry had stopped his pen mid-stroke, his hand hovering over the page as he listened. The footsteps were heavy and deliberate, a slow procession that belonged to someone who owned the very air they breathed. A sense of unease settled in her stomach, a sharp, cold reminder that they were supposed to be invisible.
"Do you hear that?" Harry whispered, his voice barely a breath of sound.
Draconia kept her gaze lowered, tracing the edge of a margin with a fingernail. "It is just a professor, Harry. Do not be so provincial."
"It sounds like he is walking right to the door," he murmured.
"He is likely just passing to the staff room," she replied, though her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She could hear the footsteps now, a steady, unhurried cadence that suggested no hurry to reach the classroom. The sound was too close to be passing by; it was the sound of someone approaching a destination. A shadow flickered in the gap beneath the door, a dark sliver of movement that sliced through the light. Draconia felt a sudden, irrational urge to smooth her hair, to adjust her robes and hide the flush that she knew was blooming across her skin. She sat with her spine straight, trying to look like a girl lost in the complexities of numbers.
"Maybe he is heading for the library," Harry suggested, though he sounded unconvinced.
"He is not heading for the library," Draconia said, her voice a little too sharp. "Just keep your head down and look busy."
The footsteps paused. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than the noise, a vacuum that sucked the breath from her lungs. She stared at her book, seeing only the ghost of the numbers, her mind racing through the ways they might be caught. If they were found in this state, the scandal would not just be hers; it would be a stain on the very name she used as a shield. She felt the heat of his gaze on her back, a weight that she knew was purely imaginary, yet it felt as real as the wood of the chair.
A soft knock sounded against the wood of the door, not a command, but a tentative, polite entrance. The door creaked on its hinges, a slow, groaning protest that seemed to echo in the hollow of her throat. Draconia did not turn around, keeping her eyes glued to a diagram of a pentagon. She watched the corner of her vision as a figure entered the room, the shadow of a tall, spindly man stretching across the floor towards her desk.
"The light is quite beautiful in here today," the teacher said, his voice a pleasant, cultured baritone.
Harry moved his pen, the scratch of the nib against the parchment sounding like a landslide in the quiet room. Draconia felt the sweat prickle at the nape of her neck, a dampness that felt shameful. She forced herself to turn a page, the sound of the parchment crisp and loud in the stillness. The teacher walked a slow circuit of the room, his footsteps circling the perimeter like a predator in a cage. He was moving toward the desks where they sat, the distance between them shrinking with every measured step.
"Are you finding the Arithmancy difficult, Mr. Potter?" the teacher asked, his voice closer now.
"No, Professor," Harry replied, his voice steady but perhaps a fraction too fast. "It is quite clear."
"Good, good. It is a rigorous term," the man said.
Draconia gripped her quill, her knuckles turning white. She could feel the warmth of the room, the way the sun had heated the stones and the wood, and she wondered if it was visible on her skin. She felt exposed, as if the very air was transparent and revealing her secret. She wanted to stand, to run, to hide in the shadows of the alcoves, but she forced herself to remain seated. To move would be to admit she was not actually studying.
The teacher moved past the row of empty desks, his shadow passing over her feet. He was standing just a few feet away from her, his presence a looming weight in the room. The scent of old parchment and dried ink seemed to intensify as he approached the center of the classroom. Drocina held her breath, her lungs burning with the effort of staying still. She dared a glance at the side of his robe, a flash of dark fabric that signaled his proximity.
"You are very focused, Miss Draconia," the teacher observed.
She looked up then, forcing a polite, vacant expression onto her face. She met his eyes with a practiced ease, the way she had been taught to handle authority. "The logic is quite captivating, Professor," she said, her voice smooth and cool.
The teacher nodded, his eyes scanning the room with a curious glint. He did not seem suspicious, yet there was a stillness to him that felt intentional. He moved toward the front of the room, toward the desk she had occupied only an hour before. He reached out a hand, a long, pale hand that moved with a strange, deliberate grace. He touched the surface of the wood, his fingers lingering on the grain.
"It is a fine desk," the teacher remarked, his voice dropping a register.
Harry looked up then, his eyes darting toward the man, a brief moment of shared tension. Draconia felt a jolt of panic as she realized how much of the afternoon’s heat still lingered in the air. The room was still, the sun still bright, but the atmosphere had shifted from a private sanctuary to a place of scrutiny. The teacher leaned in closer to the desk, his gaze fixed on the dark wood that had been the centre of her world only moments ago.
"It is unusually warm," the teacher said, and the professor asked why the desk is warm.