The stone corridors of the castle felt too narrow after the vastness of the forest. Draconia sat in the Slytherin common room, watching the green-tinted light hit the surface of the lake through the windows. Everything felt smaller than it had a week ago. The news of the arrests had moved through the school like a slow, heavy tide, dragging the weight of the Ministry into the domestic quiet of their lives. People were talking about the disappearing, the shouting, and the sudden, sharp absences in the hallways.
"They are saying it was a coordinated strike," Pansy said, leaning forward to tap a rhythm against the mahogany table. "My father says the Ministry is trying to pretend it was a minor skirmish, but the sheer number of Aurors arriving at the gates tells a different story."
"It does not matter what they say," Draconia replied, her voice flatter than she intended. "The Ministry is always trying to tell a story that makes them look capable."
Greta sat on the sofa behind her, her presence a constant, quiet-eyed weight. The girl did not gossip like the others, but she watched the way Draconia gripped her teacup. The porcelain felt fragile in her hands. Draconia kept her fingers stiff, making sure no one noticed the way her pulse jumped when the name of the forest was mentioned.
"They are looking for more than just the missing," Pansy added, her eyes narrowing as she studied Draconia’s face. "They are looking for reasons to blame the older students. The chaos in the woods is being pinned on everyone who was out of their beds."
"We were all out of our beds," Draconia said, staring into the amber liquid of her tea. "It is a common occurrence in this castle."
"You were not in your bed, were you?" Pansy asked, a small, sharp smile playing on her lips.
Draconia felt the heat rise in her neck, but she did not look up. She thought of the mossy branch and the way the light had looked at dawn. The memory was a bruise that refused to fade. She thought of the way he had looked at her, and the way the silence of the woods had felt too large before she had ruined it with her confession.
"I was walking," Draconia said, her voice steady. "The air was cool. It was a long walk."
"It was a very long walk," Pansy much more pointedly.
The conversation shifted when a group of older boys entered the room, their voices loud and discordant. They were talking about the arrests in the village, about the Ministry officials who had been seen near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The atmosphere in the Slytherin dormitory had become a strange mixture of fear and exhilaration. There was a sense that the world was breaking, but for Draconia, the breakage had already happened.
"The arrests are continuing," a prefect announced as he passed their table. "Three more from the outskirts of the village were taken this morning."
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp pang of vertigo. She wondered if he was safe, or if the Ministry's reach had extended to the places they had hidden. She wondered if anyone would ever find the pieces of the night she had left behind. She wondered if the truth of what happened on that mossy branch would ever be a part of the official record, or if it would remain a ghost in the trees.
"You are very quiet today," Greta said, her voice low as she leaned toward Draconia’s ear.
"I am just tired," Draconia replied, lacing her fingers together to hide the slight tremor in her hands. "The term is almost over."
"It is more than that," Greta whispered. "You look as though you are waiting for a blow to fall."
"Let it fall, then," Draconia said, more loudly than she meant to.
The common room fell into a brief, awkward lull. Pansy looked at her with a curious, calculating expression, but she did not press the issue. The social hierarchy of Slytherin demanded a certain level of grace, and Draconia was maintaining hers by refusing to be the subject of the conversation.
The following days were a blur of whispers and formal announcements. The Ministry was everywhere, a grey, bureaucratic shadow that hovered over the castle. There were reports of magic being confiscated, of people being questioned in dark rooms, and of the strange, inexplicable disappearances that had left the school in a state of high tension. Draconia moved through the corridors like a ghost, her eyes always searching the crowd for a specific gait, a specific mess of hair, a specific pair of eyes.
She saw him once, in the courtyard. He was walking with a group of people, his head down, his shoulders set in a way that suggested he was trying to be invisible. He did not look at her. He did not even glance in her direction. The sight of him, so solid and yet so fleeting, made her chest ache with a dull, rhythmic throb.
"He looks different," Pansy remarked one afternoon as they sat in the library. "He looks as though he has seen the end of the world and decided it was not worth a fuss."
"He is just a boy," Draconia said, turning a page of her book with unnecessary force. "He has always been a dramatics-heavy person."
"Perhaps," Pansy said, her eyes dancing with a hint of mischief. "But even the most dramatic people have their limits."
The arrests continued. The names of the accused were whispered in the halls like a curse. Some were students, others were staff, and the tension in the castle became a physical thing, a cord stretched tight between the students and the approaching end of the term. Draconia watched the way the professors moved, their faces grim and their movements hurried. She saw the way the light changed in the library, the way the shadows grew longer as the days bled into one another.
She felt a strange sense of isolation. She was surrounded by people, yet she felt as though she were standing on a separate island, carved out by the secrets she held. No one knew what she had done. No one knew that she had stood on his side of the door, or that she had felt the warmth of his skin in the dark, or that she had whispered words of affection that she would never admit to anyone else.
"The Ministry is arriving for the final inspections tomorrow," Greta said, as they sat in the common room one evening. "They say they want to ensure no-one has been hiding anything in the forbidden areas."
"They will find nothing," Draconia said, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"They might find something," Greta replied, her voice neutral.
Draconia looked at her friend and saw the knowing glint in her eyes. Greta knew more than she said, but she was a vault of loyalty. She would not betray the secret of the tree, or the tree’s branches, or the girl who had sat there.
The tension reached a peak during the final week. The rumors were no longer just about the arrests; they were about the shifts in power, the changing of the guard, and the way the very air of the castle seemed to be vibrating with unspoken truths. Draconia felt as though she were holding her breath, waiting for the final collision.
"It is all going to be over soon," Pansy said, her voice sounding exhausted. "The term ends, the station is reached, and we can all forget this madness."
"We never forget," Draconia said, more to herself than to Pansy. "We just learn to live with the way it feels."
She sat there, watching the green light of the lake, wondering if the truth was a burden or a gift. She thought of the way the forest had felt, and the way he had looked at her. She was fine with that for exactly four days.