The silence in the Great Hall was not heavy; it was simply vast and hollow. Draconia sat on the edge of the Slytherin table, her legs crossed at the ankle, watching the way the torchlight flickered against the stone walls. Harry Potter stood a few feet away, his breathing still uneven from the exertion of the previous hour. He looked disheveled, his hair a mess of dark strands and his robes slightly askew, but his eyes were fixed on her with a singular, sharp intensity. The wand was still in her hand, a slender piece of wood that felt more substantial than it had a moment ago. He had lost the duel, and he had lost the argument, but he had not yet lost his temper.
"Give it back, Draconia," Harry said, his voice echoing slightly against the high ceiling. He took a step closer to the table, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. "You have had it long enough to prove your point. The game is over."
Draconia did not move her legs. She merely tilted her head, a slow, deliberate motion that made the silver rings on her fingers catch the light. "The game is never over until the winner decides it is," she replied. She turned the wand over in her palm, feeling the grain of the wood. "You are very insistent on the ownership of things, Potter. It is a very Gryffindor trait."
Harry stepped up to the level of the table, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "It is not about ownership. It is about the fact that you are keeping a piece of my magic. You have disarmed me eleven times, and every time you do, you act as though you have won a war."
"You did lose the duel," she pointed out, her voice cool and even. "You lost to a flick of my wrist and a bit of timing. It was not a matter of strength, but of precision."
"I know it was a matter of precision," Harry snapped, stepping even closer until he was standing at the base of the table. "But you are keeping the wand as if it were a trophy. If you want to keep playing this, if you want to keep teasing me with every spell, then name the price. What is it that you actually want from me?"
Draconia watched him. She saw the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his shoulders were tense under his robes. He was frustrated, but there was a hunger in his gaze that had nothing to do with the wand. The air was not heavy with tension; it was merely sharp with it. She felt the power of the wood in her hand, the way it hummed with his essence, and she knew she held the upper hand.
"A price?" she asked, a small, dangerous smile touching her lips. "You think everything can be settled with a simple transaction. You think you can just pay a debt and move on."
"I am not talking about gold," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave. He looked up at her, his gaze tracing the line of her jaw. "You do not want Galleons. You do not want house points. You want something else. You have always wanted something that is difficult to give."
"That is a very astute observation," Draconia said. She stood up, her movements fluid and slow as she stepped down from the table to stand on the same level as him. She was a head shorter than him, but she felt as though she were looking down on him. "You are quite right. I do not want your money, and I do not care for your accolades."
Harry did not flinch as she approached. He stood his ground, his eyes never leaving hers. "Then what? Tell me. What is the price for the wand? Tell me now so we can be done with this ridiculous charade."
"The price is not something you can pay in the middle of a crowded room," she said, her voice gaining a certain edge. She reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his robe, feeling the rough fabric. "It is not something you can pay while the ghosts are watching or while the portraits are gossiping in the corridors."
Harry took a breath, his chest expanding against the fabric of his shirt. "You are being difficult on purpose. You are making a spectacle of this."
"I am making a point," she corrected him. She stepped into his personal space, her scent of sandalwood and sharp citrus reaching him. "If you want the wand back, you must understand that the transaction is not public. It is not a matter of a simple hand-off."
"Everything with you is a negotiation," Harry muttered, though he did not pull away. He seemed mesmerkized by the way she stood so close to him, her eyes bright with a challenge. "You treat every interaction like a battle of wits."
"Because it is," Draconia said. She raised the wand, pointing the tip toward his chest, though she did not actually touch him. "It is a battle of will. You want your wand. You want to feel the magic in your fingers again. But you have to earn the right to hold it."
"How?" Harry asked, his voice a low rasp. "How do you earn it? Is there a task? A spell? A test of strength?"
"It is much simpler than a spell," she said. She leaned in, her lips inches from his ear, though she spoke with enough volume that her words would not be lost to the vastness of the hall. "It is a matter of surrender."
"I do not like surrendering," Harry said, his voice steady despite the way his heart was beginning to hammer against his ribs. He looked at her, searching her face for a sign of a joke, but he found only a fierce, bright determination. "I have spent my whole life fighting to keep what is mine."
"And yet, here you are, standing before me with empty hands," she teased. She moved the wand away from his chest, holding it loosely at her side. "You are a man who is used to winning, Potter. But you have met your match in the precision of a wrist flick."
"I will win it back," he promised, his eyes narrowing. "I will find a way to take it from you."
"You can try," she said, stepping back to create a small distance between them. "But you will not find it in a duel. You will not find it in a race or a classroom. The price is something he can only pay in private, and she says it in a voice that carries to the rafters."