The carriage jolted as it moved through the damp air of the station, a rhythmic, lurching motion that made Draconia want to close her eyes. Outside the window, the world was a blur of grey sky and bruised purple clouds, a transition from the politics of the Ministry back to the reality of her life. The relief she had felt in the Ministry antechamber was still there, a quiet, humming thing in her chest, but she kept it tucked beneath a layer of practiced composure. Her spine was straight against the velvet seat, and her hands were folded neatly in her lap. She had won the reprieve for the bird, and she had won it through a series of calculated moves that left her feeling older than she felt.
Greta sat opposite her, watching the way the light caught the edge of Draconia's sleeve. The housemaid was a quiet girl, a fixture of the Malfoy household who moved like a shadow through the corridors of the Manor. She was a keeper of secrets, a witness to the way Narcissa brushed her hair and the way Lucius walked with a cane that struck the floor with a definitive, rhythmic thud. Greta did not look at Draconia as a person so much as she looked at her as a part of the furniture, a piece of the estate that was being moved from one place to another.
"It is a long way back to the Manor," Greta said, her voice small against the rattling of the wheels.
Draconia looked up, offering a thin, polite smile that did not reach her eyes. "It is always a long way when the weather is like this."
"Do you think the bird will be alright?" the girl asked, tilting her head.
"The bird is a matter of law and politics now," Draconia replied, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in her skirt. "It is no longer a matter of whether it is safe, but whether it is allowed to exist."
Greta nodded, her eyes dropping back to her lap. "My mother said that the Ministry is a loud place. It sounds like it is very loud."
"It is," Draconia said, and she meant it. "It is a place where people shout to be heard, but they rarely say anything worth hearing."
The carriage hit a rut, sending a shudder through the frame, and Draconia felt the familiar ache in her legs. She thought of the way her father would look at her when she arrived, searching for the tell of her relief. She had spent years learning how to hide the way she felt, how to keep her face a blank, polished surface that reflected nothing of the storm inside. The reprieve was a victory, but a victory did not mean the danger was gone; it only meant the weather had changed.
"You look tired, Miss," Greta observed, her voice devoid of judgment.
"I am merely thinking," Draconia said, deciding to be a little more honest than she usually allowed herself to be with the staff. "There is a lot to process after a day of standing in rooms with so many people."
"I suppose it is a lot of work, being a Malfoy," Greta said.
Draconia felt a sharp tug in her gut at the mention of the name. The name was a weight, a gilded cage that she wore with a certain grace. "It is a great deal of work to keep one's head above water when the tide is coming in."
They travelled in silence for a few miles, the carriage winding through the familiar, dark roads that led toward the outskirts of the estate. Draconia watched the trees pass, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers in the twilight. She felt the need to say something, to unburden herself of the weight of the day, even if the person listening was someone who would never speak of it. She needed to speak the truth out loud, to hear the shape of it in the air.
"I told him," she said, the words slipping out before she could weigh them. "I told him the truth."
Greta looked up, her brow furrowing slightly. "The truth about the bird?"
"No," Draconia said, her voice dropping a register. "The truth about everything."
She thought of the way she had felt in the Ministry, the desperate, clawing need to be seen and understood, and the way she had managed to keep her composure through it all. She had been a person of steel and silence, a daughter of the House of Malfoy, playing a part in a grand, political drama. But inside, she had been a girl who was terrified of the price of her father's approval.
"Is it a bad thing, to be relieved?" Greta asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"It is a dangerous thing," Draconia answered, her eyes fixed on the dark horizon. "Relief is a tell. It shows that you have a heart that can be moved. It shows that you are not a statue."
"I think my mother says that statues are very lonely," Greta said.
Dreronia let out a short, dry laugh that was almost a sob. "They are. They are very, very lonely."
The carriage began to climb the final stretch of the drive, the incline making the horses strain against the harness. The tension in the air was palpable, a sense of returning to a place where every move was watched and every word was weighed. Draconia felt the familiar constriction of the Manor's influence, the sense that she was returning to a house of silver and shadows.
"The truth is hard to carry," Greta said, her eyes meeting Draconia's for a brief, intense moment.
"It is the heaviest thing there is," Draconia agreed. "And yet, we must carry it, or we will be nothing at all."
She thought of the way she had spoken her father's name, the way she had used it as a shield and a weapon. She thought of the way she had finally found her own voice in the middle of a crowd, a voice that sounded like a stranger's. She was tired of the masks, tired of the way she had to calibrate her every breath to suit the expectations of a man who viewed her as a perfect, unblemable thing.
"You can tell me," Draconia said, her voice suddenly urgent, almost desperate. "You can tell anyone, but you can tell me. I need to know that someone knows."
The carriage slowed as they approached the gates of the estate, the ironwork glinting dimly in the moonlight. The world felt smaller here, the boundaries of the Malfoy name tightening around her like a collar. She felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to be known, to be stripped of the polished veneer and the perfect posture.
"You told the truth about the bird, and the bird is safe," Greta said, her voice steadying. "But you didn't tell the truth about the feeling, did you?"
Draconia looked at her, the girl who saw too much and said too little. "The feeling is the only thing that matters, and the only thing we are allowed to hide."
"I saw the way you looked at the Ministry officials," Greta said. "You looked like you were winning, but you also looked like you were falling."
"Am I that obvious?" Draconia asked, a sense of vulnerability breaking through her poise.
"Only to those who are taught to look for it," Greta replied.
The carriage rolled into the courtyard, the sound of the wheels on the gravel loud in the stillness of the night. Draconia felt the familiar chill of the evening air as the carriage door was opened, a signal that she was home, or perhaps, that she was back in her cage. She stepped down onto the ground, her feet finding the solid, unyielding earth.
"I won't tell anyone," Greta said, which is six words, and is the longest thing she has ever said.