The sun sat high above the Black Lake, baking the stone of the castle walls and the flat surfaces of the quidditch pitch. Draconia felt the heat through the heavy fabric of her robes, a warmth that was almost stifling. Grass grew thick and green along the banks, providing a soft, uneven carpet for the students who had scattered themselves across the grounds. She sat with her legs tucked partially beneath her, watching the light dance on the water’s surface. The crowd of students was loud, a caccaophony of shouting and laughter that seemed to vibrate through the very ground. Most of the Slytherins had gathered in a tight, cohesive group near the edge of the water, but Draconia stayed slightly apart from the main cluster.
Pansy sat to her right, leaning forward to whisper something about a boy in Gryffindor. Draconia barely heard the words, as her eyes were fixed on a figure standing near the water's edge. Harry Potter was there, looking somewhat solitary despite the chaos of the afternoon. He was standing near a cluster of rocks, his shoulders tight under his robes. He looked exhausted, a look that seemed to have settled into his very bones lately. The sun caught the messy-ness of his hair, making the dark strands glint with a dull, chestnut light. Draconia felt the weight of the new badge pinned to her chest, the silver and green metal a cold, hard point of pressure against her skin.
"Look at him," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the warmth of the afternoon. "He looks like he hasn't slept in a week."
Draconia followed Pansy's gaze, her expression carefully neutral. She wanted to look bored, not observant. A Malfoy was never observant of such trivialities. She watched as Harry reached down to touch a piece of driftwood, his fingers trailing through the damp sand. He looked remarkably out of place in the brightness of the day. The sun was too bright for him, she thought, or perhaps he was simply too heavy for the light to reach.
"He looks ridiculous," Draconia said, her voice pitched to carry just enough to be heard by those nearby. She forced a smile, the kind of sharp, elegant curve that reached her lips but never quite hit her eyes. "As if he's carrying the weight of the world on his back just for the sake of the drama."
A few of the other Slytherins laughed, and Draconia felt a surge of satisfaction at the sound. It was easy to be cruel when the sun was this high and the air was this warm. The heat made everything feel slightly sluggish, making the sharp edges of her wit feel even more pointed. She leaned back on her elbows, her elbows digging into the soft, damp grass. The sensation was grounding, a stark contrast to the floaty, unsettled feeling in her stomach.
"He's probably just brooding," Pansy added, tossing her hair back. "It's his favourite pastime, isn't it?"
"It is a talent, certainly," Draconia replied. She watched Harry turn his head toward the lake, his profile sharp against the bright sky. He didn't look up at the crowd, nor did he acknowledge the groups of students lounging a few yards away. He seemed to exist in a different atmosphere entirely, one that was cooler and much more somber than the one they inhabited.
The laughter of a group of Gryffindors drifted over from the far side of the bank, loud and unrefined. Draconia felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to see him react. She wanted him to snap at her, to throw a scathing remark back that would prove he was still present in the world of the living. She wanted to see the fire that people usually spoke of, the spark that made him a hero. Instead, he was just a boy in the sun, looking incredibly tired.
"Do you think he knows everyone is staring?" Pansy asked, though she didn't wait for an answer.
"Why would he care?" Draconia asked. "He's far too busy being important to notice the rest of us."
She said the line with a lightness that felt practiced. It was a practiced lightness, one she had perfected over years of social maneuvering. She saw a few people turn to look at her, their expressions a mix of amusement and curiosity. She didn't shrink under their gaze; she held it, her chin tilted just high enough to signal her indifference.
"He's actually quite pathetic when he isn't fighting a dragon or a dark lord," Draconia continued, her voice dropping a semi-tone as if she were sharing a confidential truth. "He looks like he's forgotten how to even stand up straight."
She laughed then, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the low hum of the crowd. It was a perfect laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated mockery. She felt the eyes of her peers on her, and she felt the heat of the sun on the back of her neck. She felt powerful in that moment, the badge acting as a silent endorsement of her status. She had used her name to secure a position of influence, and she was using that influence to belittle a boy who had done nothing to deserve it.
Harry finally looked up. His eyes scanned the crowd, moving past the groups of laughing students and the clusters of studying witches. His gaze drifted toward the Slytherin contingent, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes met hers. Draconia did not look away. She kept her smile fixed, her eyes wide and bright with the lie of her amusement. She waited for the flash of anger, the indignant recoil, or even a look of wounded pride. She waited for him to defend himself, to prove her wrong, to be the Harry Potter the world expected him to be.
But the moment passed without the expected friction. He didn't scowl, and he didn't glare. He simply looked through her, as if she were nothing more than a trick of the light or a particularly unremarkable stone. He didn't argue back and that's the first wound of the book.