The silver pin sat on the mahogany desk like a tiny, glittering predator. Draconia watched the way the light caught the edges of the emerald enamel, making the green look almost liquid. It was a beautiful thing, a piece of jewellery that signalled her status as an Inquisitor, yet it felt heavy in her hand. She had used the badge once to secure a seat in the library when the common room was too loud, and she had used it again to bypass a queue in the Great Hall. The power of the badge was not in the magic of the metal itself, but in the way people flinched when she tapped the silver surface of her chest.
Pansy sat across from her in the courtyard, picking at a plate of dried fruit. The girl looked up, her eyes catching the glint of the badge on Draconia’s robes.
"It makes you look formidable," Pansy said, nodding toward the pin. "Though you do look a bit like you are trying too hard."
Draconia smoothed the front of her robes, her fingers lingering on the metal. "It is not trying, Pansy enough. It is simply a matter of efficiency."
"Efficiency is a boring word for vanity," Pansy replied with a smirk. "You used it to get that first edition of the charms text, didn't you? I saw the prefect practically trip over himself to hand it to you."
"He was merely being observant," Draconia said, though she knew the truth of it.
The badge was a machine that processed the obedience of others, and she found she could turn the dial whenever she pleased. She enjoyed the way the older students stepped aside when she approached the staircases. It was a sharp, jagged sort of pleasure to see a boy who had been a second too slow in his greeting suddenly stammer and straighten his spine. She used it to get an extra serving of custard at dinner, a small, petty victory that felt sweeter than any grand display of authority.
The second time she used the machine in a single afternoon was in the corridor leading to the library. A group of younger boys were loitering near the entrance, blocking the way with their loud, boisterous laughter. Draconia did not ask them to move; she simply stepped forward and let the light hit the green and silver pin. The laughter died instantly. The boys scrambled to the side, eyes wide and intimidated by the authority she wore like a shield.
"Is it always that easy?" a voice asked from behind her.
She turned to find Harry standing by a stone pillar, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked unimpressed, his gaze fixed on the badge with a sort of tired scrutiny.
"It is easy because it is correct," Draconia said, tilting her chin up.
"It is easy because you are using a shortcut," Harry countered, stepping closer. "You are using a piece of metal to do the work your personality should be doing."
"My personality is doing quite well, thank you," she snapped, her blood warming at the slight. "Perhaps if you had a badge, you would find the world more agreeable."
"The world is not meant to be agreeable," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "It is meant to be lived in."
She watched him walk away, the movement of his shoulders fluid and defiant. He did not care about the hierarchy she was currently reinforcing. He lived in a world of dirt and sweat and raw emotion, while she was busy polishing a facade. The badge felt colder against her skin now, a hard, unyielding weight that seemed to separate her from the very air.
Later that evening, the sensation of the metal became a physical ache. She was sitting in the library, the lamp casting a pool of light over her parchment, when she realised she was gripping her quill too tightly. The badge was there, pinned to her chest, a silent witness to her solitude. She had used it to command a seat, to command respect, to command a moment of silence, yet she felt increasingly hollow.
The machine was working perfectly. It provided the status she required, the recognition she felt she deserved, and the distance she needed to stay safe. She could manipulate the social landscape of the castle with a single flash of silver, but the cost of the manipulation was beginning to manifest in a strange, hollow sensation in her stomach.
She watched a group of Gryffindors laughing by the fire at the far end of the room. They were loud and messy and entirely unpolished. They did not have the poise of an Inquisitor, but they had a warmth that she felt she was losing every time she used the badge to bypass a human connection. She used it to win an argument with a prefect, a small moment of triumph that left her feeling strangely lonely once the adrenaline faded.
"You're staring," a voice whispered.
It was Greta, who had sat down beside her without asking permission.
"Am I?" Draconia asked, blinking rapidly.
"You are staring at them like they have a secret you weren't invited to," Greta said, her eyes dancing with a hint of mischief. "Is the badge making you lonely, Draconia?"
"The badge makes me important," Draconia replied, her voice steady despite the sudden prickle of heat in her cheeks.
"Importance is not the same as connection," Greta said, turning back to her own book.
Draconia looked down at the silver and green pin. It was a tool, a machine designed to produce a specific result: the illusion of absolute control. She had used it to climb a social ladder that she had built herself, and for a moment, the view from the top had been intoxicating. She had enjoyed the feeling of being untouchable, the way the world bent to her will because of a small piece of metal.
She thought of the way Harry had looked at the badge, with that mixture of pity and defiance. He saw the machine for what it was, a way to avoid the messy reality of being a person. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, to tell him that the badge made her feel powerful, but the words caught in her throat. The pleasure of the control was a sharp, bright thing, but it was also a thin one.
She had enjoyed it, then she didn'
"You're doing it again," Greta said, not looking up from her page.
"Doing what?" Draconia asked, her voice a little too high.
"Looking like you want to take it off and throw it into the lake," Greta replied.
Draconia reached up and touched the cool, hard surface of the pin. It was a perfect, polished thing, and it had served its purpose with ruthless efficiency. She had used it to carve a place for herself in a world that was changing too fast, and for a while, the victory had felt sweet. But as the lamp flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the library floor, the sweetness turned to ash.
She enjoyed it, then she didn't.