The corridor outside the Ministry of Magic felt longer than the walk through London had been. Draconia kept her spine straight, her chin lifted as if she were walking through the halls of the Manor, though her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every person she passed was a potential witness to a crack in her composure. The air felt thin and cold, stripped of the warmth she had found in the small, dark antechamber only a short while ago. She had been careful to keep her expression neutral, a mask of polite indifference, yet the memory of his mouth on her wrist still burned.
A group of witches in heavy, velvet robes hurried past her, their voices a low drone of gossip. Draconia stepped to the side to grant them passage, refusing to look at them. She knew they were likely discussing the very thing that brought them here. The Hippogriff affair had become a point of contention, a matter of precedent and political weight. It was no longer just about a wounded boy and a frightened creature; it was about the authority of the Ministry to intervene in the affairs of magical creatures and the ancient families who held them.
"You look as though you are expecting a trial," Harry said, stepping up beside her. He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced in the artificial light of the Ministry. He did not look like a boy who had won a reprieve; he looked like a man who had survived a siege.
"I am merely maintaining my dignity," Draconia replied, her voice steady and cool. "It is a requirement of my station, is it not?"
Harry let out a short, huffing laugh that lacked any real mirth. "The Ministry doesn't care about dignity. They care about optics."
"And the bird?" she asked, changing the subject to avoid the weight of his gaze. "Does the bird have a chance?"
"The bird is the point," Harry said. "If the bird is deemed a danger, the appeal is a formality. If the bird is deemed a victim of circumstance, the whole thing shifts."
They reached the heavy, gilded doors of the hearing chamber. Draconia felt the urge to reach out and touch the wood, to ensure it was real and not a dream. She wanted to go back to the antechamber, to the quiet space where she could pretend she had not said those desperate, uncharacteristic words. She wanted to go back to a time before the politics of the bird had become a shadow over her life.
"Draconia," Harry said, his voice softening slightly. "You don't have to pretend to be bored. Not with me."
"I am not bored," she lied, her eyes fixed on the ornate carvings of the door. "I am merely waiting."
The doors opened, and they were ushered into a room filled with high-backed chairs and a long, mahogany table. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of old parchment and expensive ink. A panel of wizards sat behind the table, their faces etched with the gravity of their task. Draconia took her seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She could see her father in the gallery above, a silhouette of impeccable tailoring and controlled power. He was not looking at her, but she could feel the precision of his presence.
The proceedings were long and tedious. Lawyers argued the nuances of the Decree for the Protection of Magical Creatures, citing precedents that seemed designed to confuse rather than clarify. Draconia watched the way the light caught the silver fastenings on the sleeves of the speakers. She focused on the minute details to keep her mind from wandering to the way her pulse felt in her throat. The argument was not about the creature's temperament; it was about the boy's responsibility and the legality of the strike.
"The creature acted in self-defence," a wizard from the panel declared, his voice echoing in the vaulted room. "The boy failed to observe the proper protocol of a bow. Therefore, the beast's reaction is a natural consequence of a lack of respect."
The decision was delivered with a clinical finality. The Hippogriff would not be culled, nor would it be moved to a zoo. It would remain in its habitat, but its status would be changed to a 'protected specimen under supervision.' It was a compromise, a political middle ground that satisfied no one but ended the debate. It was a victory for the boy, and a victory for the status quo.
"It is finished," Harry murmured, leaning closer to her. "It's a win. A weird, complicated win."
"It is an outcome," Draconia said, her voice a model of composure. "The Ministry has chosen the path of least resistance."
They exited the chamber into a wider, busier hallway. The tension of the room seemed to dissipate as they moved through the crowd of onlookers and journalists. Draconia felt a strange sense of vertigo, as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet. The reprieve was a relief, but it was a hollow one. She knew the political reality of the situation; the bird had been saved, but the social structure that had allowed the incident to happen remained entirely unchanged.
"You're doing it again," Harry said, nodding toward her.
"Doing what?" she asked, blinking.
"Looking like you're hiding something. You're too perfect. It's a tell."
Draconia felt a flicker of irritation. "There is nothing to hide. The matter is concluded, and the decision is lopsided as usual. There is no need for theatrics."
"You're a terrible liar, Draconia," he teased, though there was a hint of exhaustion in his eyes.
They walked toward the lifts, the crowd thinning as the announcement of the verdict spread through the Ministry. Draconia felt the weight of her name, the weight of her father’s eyes, and the weight of the words she had almost said in the antechamber. She realized then that the entire appeal had been a performance, a grand display of legalities that masked a much simpler truth: the world was messy, and the Ministry hated a mess.
"Are you happy?" Harry asked as they stood before the golden doors of the lift.
"Happy is a strong word," she said, her voice soft. "I am satisfied with the stability of the result."
She watched him as he waited for the lift to arrive. He was the center of the storm, and yet he seemed so remarkably still. She wondered if he felt the same precariousness she did, the feeling that one wrong step could tumble everything into chaos.
"You're holding your breath," Harry observed, a small smile tuging at his lips. "You can let it out now. The bird is safe."
Draconia took a long, slow breath, feeling the air fill her lungs. She had to keep the mask in place. If she showed even a hint of the lightness she felt, she would be vulnerable. She had to remain the daughter of Lucius Malfoy, the girl who was unshakeable and poised.
"I was merely waiting for the lift," she said, her voice a calm, steadying force.
The lift doors opened, and they stepped into the small, enclosed space. As the lift began its ascent, she felt a sudden, sharp surge of joy, a lightness in her chest that she fought to suppress. She was relieved and hides it, because relief is a tell.