The Ministry of Magic was a labyrinth of polished stone and heavy, suffocating tradition. Draconia walked through the corridors with her spine straight, her robes sweeping against the floor in a way that felt far too loud in the silence of the morning. Everything in London felt too large, too permanent, and too indifferent to the mess of the paddock. The Hippogriff was a creature of instinct, but the Ministry was a creature of bureaucracy, and the latter was much harder to wound. She kept her chin level, remembering the way her father stood when he entered a room, as if the very air owed him a debt.
"You look pale," Harry said, stepping beside her as they approached the heavy doors of the hearing chamber.
"I am perfectly fine, Harry," she replied, though her hands felt cold inside her sleeves.
"You don't have to look so terrified," he added, his voice low so the passing officials wouldn't hear.
"I am not terrified; I am merely composed," she said, which was a lie.
A tall, thin wizard with a clipboard nodded to them, gesturing toward the seating area. The room was carved from dark wood and heavy stone, a place where decisions were made that changed the lives of people who thought they were in control. Draconia saw the way the light hit the high ceiling, making the chamber feel cavernous and lonely. It was a room designed to make an individual feel small, and she felt the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders.
"The Wizengamot is seated," a voice announced, echoing against the high walls.
She saw the bench of officials, their robes a dull, authoritative crimson, and then she saw him. Lucius sat in the gallery, his silver cane resting against his knee, his eyes scanning the room with a terrifying sort of patience. He did not look like a man whose daughter was currently on trial for a lapse in judgement or a failure of discipline; he looked like a man who was simply waiting for the correct time to collect a debt. He was perfectly poised, a statue of Malfoy excellence, and his presence felt like a physical pressure in the room.
"The matter of the Hippogriff and the resulting injury," the Head Wizard began, his voice droning on.
Draconia watched the proceedings with a detached sortness, trying to pretend she was not the one at the centre of the storm. The argument was about the bird, about whether its nature was too volatile for a school environment, and whether the school had failed in its duty of care. It was a political game of semantics, a way to decide if a creature's instinct was a danger or a divine eccentricity. She felt the eyes of the room on her, or rather, on the situation she had represented.
"The creature acted with instinct, not malice," a voice argued from the floor.
"Instinct can be a weapon if it is not contained," a different voice countered.
Draconia wanted to speak, to say that the bird had simply been a bird, but the words stayed locked behind her teeth. She had spent her whole life learning when to speak and when to hold her tongue, and she knew that in a room like this, silence was often the safest currency. To speak was to risk a mistake, and a mistake in this room was a permanent stain. She watched Harry, who looked ready to argue, and she saw the tension in his jaw.
"The Malfoy name is one of tradition and order," a voice called out, and Draconia knew it was her father.
"Does a Malfoy's presence imply a lack of discipline in the surroundings?" Lucius asked, his voice smooth and cutting.
"It implies a standard," Lucius continued, his tone shifting into something more authoritative.
"The standard is the point of the discussion," the Head Wizard said, looking toward the gallery.
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp pang of something like shame, though she could not tell if it was for herself or for the way the room functioned. She was a spectator in her own life, watching the men in high places decide the fate of a creature that had simply existed. She looked down at her hands, which were perfectly still, and wondered if she was being as perfect as she was supposed to be. She realized that she had not spoken a single word since they had entered the building.
"The bird is not a person, but it is a creature of status," a member of the board noted.
"Status is earned through control," Lucius added, his eyes finding hers for a split second.
"The verdict shall be delivered after the final deliberation," the Head Wizard announced, striking his gavel.
The sound of the gavel was like a hammer against her ribs, a sharp, wooden crack that echoed in the hollow of her chest. She felt the scrutiny of the room intensify, a thousand invisible threads pulling at her skin. She wanted to hide behind the heavy drapery of the podium, but she forced herself to remain upright, a perfect Malfoy daughter. The silence that followed the gavel was the loudest thing she had ever heard, a vacuum of sound that seemed to suck the breath from her lungs.
"The hearing is adjourned for ten minutes," a voice called out.
People began to stand, the rustle of robes sounding like the wings of a great, dark bird. Draconia stayed seated, watching the way the officials whispered among themselves, their faces unreadable. She felt a hand on her shoulder and realized it was Harry, his grip warm and slightly too firm.
"You're being too quiet," he whispered to her.
"I am being observant," she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.
"You can speak, you know," he said, a small, tired smile touching his lips.
"Not now, Harry," she said, and she realized she was actually being quite rude.
She watched her father stand up, his cane clicking against the stone floor as he moved toward the exit. He did not look at her as he passed, but he moved with the grace of a man who had already won the battle. He moved through the crowd like a predator through tall grass, making a path without ever having to ask for one. She saw the way the other parents bowed slightly as he went by, a silent acknowledgement of his power.
The deliberation felt like an eternity of waiting in a cold, damp cellar. Draconia watched the officials huddle together, their voices a low, indistinct hum that made her head ache. She saw the way the light in the room seemed to dim as the minutes stretched on, the shadows growing long and heavy. Every time she thought the decision was coming, the Head Wizard would pause or consult a scroll, prolonging the tension.
"The decision is reached," the Head Wizard finally declared, standing tall.
"The Hippogriff shall remain, but under strict supervision," he announced.
A collective sigh seemed to ripple through the room, a release of pressure that left the air feeling thin. Draconia felt a strange sense of hollowness, a lurch in her stomach that she could not quite name. It was not quite relief, and it was not quite disappointment; it was simply a sense of finality. The bird would live, but it would be a bird that was watched, a creature that had been tamed by a verdict.
"The matter is closed," the Head Wizard said, and the gavel struck once more.
As the crowd began to disperse, Draconia looked up to see her father standing at the edge of the gallery. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on her face with a singular, piercing focus. He did not smile, and he did not frown; he simply waited for her to react to the news. He was waiting to see if the victory of his influence was visible in her eyes.
Lucius won, and looks at her to see if she is proud.