Draconia reached into the velvet-lined box on her bedside table and gripped the small, heavy thing. The silver and green enamel of the Inquisitorial badge felt cold against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still pulsing in her cheeks from the encounter on the staircase. She had spent the last hour trying to scrub the image of Harry Potter leaning against the stone wall from her mind. He had looked so small against the vastness of the corridor, yet the way she had lied for him had made her feel larger than she actually was. The lie had been seamless, a perfect, polished stone she had dropped into the water to hide the truth.
The badge was a weight in her hand. It was a tool she had used to tip the scales, a way to exert a Malfoy's influence to buy a moment of peace for a man who had explicitly told her he wanted none. She remembered the way his eyes had searched hers, looking for the trick, only to find a wall of practiced indifference. Now, as she pressed the pin into the fabric of her robes, she felt the sting of the cost. Every time she used the name to shield him, she felt a piece of her own composure fraying at the edges.
The walk to the castle felt longer than usual. Her boots made a rhythmic, hollow sound against the stone floors, a sound that seemed to echo her own internal unease. She passed several groups of students in the hallway, but no one looked at her. They either looked through her or looked away, as if the badge on her chest was a shield that kept the world at a distance. She was a creature of authority now, a part of the structure that Umbridge was building, and the structure was growing taller and more jagged by the day.
She reached the door to the Headmistress’s office, her hand hovering over the handle for a moment. The metal was cool, and she drew a breath to steady her lungs. Her hands were not shaking yet, but she could feel the tremor starting in her fingertips. It was a quiet, insidious vibration. She knocked, the sound sharp and decisive in the empty corridor.
"Come in, Draconia," Umbridge’s voice called out, high and sickly sweet, like rotting fruit.
The room was a sea of pink and gold, a suffocating collection of lace and porcelain that made Draconia want to turn and run. Umbridge sat behind her desk, her quill scratching rhythmically against a piece of parchment. The woman looked up, her small, dark eyes twinkling with a predatory sort of warmth. She looked as though she were pleased to see her.
"You've been very diligent, dear," Umbridge said, setting the quill down and smoothing her pink cardigan. "The reports you've been submitting are quite illuminating. It is so rare to find a student with such a keen sense of order."
"Thank you, Professor," Draconia replied, keeping her spine straight. "I only wish to do what is expected of me."
Umbridge leaned back, her smile widening just enough to show the teeth. "And the boy? The one on the staircase? The Potter boy? There was a bit of a commotion. A few students whispered that you were seen defending him quite... fervently."
Draconia felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her skin cold. "I was merely correcting a misconception, Professor. He was standing in a restricted area, and the Inquisitors were deciding on a penalty. I provided the context of his intention. It was a matter of accuracy, nothing more."
"Is that so?" Umbridge tilted her head. The silence in the room was not empty; it was a presence that pressed against Draconia's eardrums. "It sounded rather more like a defense. A very spirited one."
"My intentions are always aligned with the rules," Draconia said, her voice steady despite the sudden lurch in her stomach. "A Malfoy does not defend what is wrong. We simply define what is right."
Umbridge let out a little hum of approval, a sound that made Draconia’s skin crawl. "Quite right. You have a very clear mind, Draconia. It is a shame that so much of your energy is spent on trivialities. But we must keep a close eye on the transgressions of the Gryffindors. They are so prone to chaos."
"They are indeed," Draconia murmured, her gaze fixed on a porcelain teapot on the desk.
"You will continue to observe them closely," Umbridge commanded, her tone shifting from sweet to authoritative in a heartbeat. "Your status is a gift, but it is also a responsibility. Do not let the sentimentality of a moment cloud your judgment."
"I understand, Professor," Draconia said. She felt the weight of the badge again, a physical pressure against her chest.
"Good. Now, you may go. There is much to be done before the evening meal."
Draconia turned to leave, her movements precise and graceful, though she felt as though she were walking on thin ice. As she reached the door, she felt the sting of the conversation. It had been a two-minute exchange, a brief, superficial encounter, yet it had left her feeling exposed. She had played the part of the perfect student, but the effort of maintaining the mask had drained her.
She stepped back out into the corridor, the transition from the warm, pink-hued office to the cool, stone hallway feeling like a plunge into cold water. Her hands were shaking now, a visible, frantic tremor that she tried to hide by clutching her books closer to her chest. The adrenaline of the lie was fading, leaving only the hollow ache of the aftermath. She had gained a moment of standing, a moment of perceived power, but she had lost the clarity of her own truth.
The corridor was nearly empty, the torches flickering low in their brackets. The stone walls felt closer than they had before, as if the castle itself were constricting around her. She walked toward the Great Hall, her footsteps heavy and uneven. She felt the exhaustion of the term settling into her bones, a heavy, grey weight that no amount of rest could lift.
She thought of the way she had spoken the lie, the way her voice had not cracked once. She was a master of the mask, a virtuoso of the lie, and it was a lonely achievement. She had used her name to build a wall around a boy who had told her he wanted nothing from her, and in doing so, she had made herself a part of the very thing she should have despised.
As she passed a large, arched window, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. She looked the same, her hair perfectly in place, her robes uncreased, but there was a tiredness in her eyes that she could not hide. She looked like someone who was winning a game that no one else was playing.
She reached the corner where the corridor branched toward the stairs, the place where she had seen him standing just hours before. The memory of his gaze, sharp and knowing, flared in her mind. She wondered if he had seen the lie, or if he had seen the girl behind it.
Draconia slowed her pace, the vibration in her hands becoming a rhythmic thrumming. She stopped for a moment, letting the stillness of the hallway settle around her. There was no one there to witness her loss of composure, no one to see the way her shoulders slumped or the way her breath hitched in her throat.
She reached up and touched the badge, the metal still cold, still unyielding. It was a badge of honor, or so the school believed. To her, it felt like a brand.
She took a long, shaky breath and began to walk again, her eyes fixed on the floor ahead of her.
She says thank you to nobody in the corridor.