The common room felt too bright for the sake of it. Sunlight spilled across the Slytherin table, highlighting every fleck of dust that danced in the air. Draconia sat with her spine pressed against the hard back of the chair, watching the way the light hit the silver-rimmed plates. Her skin felt tight and sensitive, a lingering remnant of the tunnel and the way his skin had felt against hers in the dark. Every time she moved, the fabric of her robes rubbed against her waist, reminding her of the friction and the way he had held her hips. The memory of his breath against her neck was a ghost that refused to leave her.
Greta sat beside her, peeling an orange with slow, deliberate movements. The scent of citrus was sharp and citrusy, cutting through the heavy smell of old parchment and stone. Draconia wondered if anyone could smell the scent of him on her, or if the scent of the damp earth from the tunnel had completely replaced it. She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but stopped when she saw her hand. There was a faint, yellowish bruise on her wrist where he had gripped her, a mark that looked far too much like a brand.
"You look tired, Draconia," Greta said, her voice low and careful.
"I slept enough," she replied, forcing a lightness into her tone that felt entirely fraudulent.
"Is it the N.E.W.T.s? You always get like this when the term starts to end."
Draconia watched a group of older boys laughing near the fireplace, their voices booming in the high-ceilinged room. She wondered if they knew about the way she had been pinned against the mossy bark of a tree, or the way she had felt the weight of him above her. She felt a sudden, irrational urge to hide under the table. The world felt too wide and too exposed, as if the very walls of the castle were transparent.
"It is not the exams," she said, her fingers tracing the edge of her napkin.
"You are acting strange. Even for you."
"I am perfectly normal, Greta. Do not make a thing of it."
"I am not making a thing of it. It is just that you have a smudge of dirt on your cheek."
Draconia reached up to rub the spot, but her hand faltered. She felt the heat rise in her neck, a flush that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room. The way he had looked at her in the forest, with that desperate, hungry intensity, stayed behind her eyelids every time she blinked. She had spent the last few days pretending that the tunnel had been a dream, a hallucination born of exhaustion and moonlight. But the bruises on her hips and the ache in her muscles were undeniably real.
A shadow fell over the table, long and sharp. Draconia looked up to see Professor Snape standing there, his black robes making him look like a tear in the fabric of the room. He did not sit, but stood with his hands folded behind his back, his dark eyes scanning the table. He looked at the empty plates and the half-finished tea-cups with a clinical sort of disdain. His gaze traveled up, moving from the table to her face, and he did not look away.
"A quiet morning, Miss Malfoy," Snape said, his voice a low drawl.
"It is a beautiful morning, Professor," she answered, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
"Is it? It seems to me the weather is quite indecisive."
He stepped closer, and Draconia felt a sudden, sharp tension in her chest. She wanted to look away, to study the grain of the wood or the movement of the students across the room, but his eyes held her. He moved a step nearer, and she saw the way his gaze dropped to her hands. She realized then that she was gripping the edge of the table so hard that her knuckles were white.
"You seem distracted," he noted, his eyes narrowing.
"I am merely thinking about the upcoming essays," she lied, the words feeling clumsy in her mouth.
"Thinking is a dangerous pastime if one is not careful with the subject matter."
He reached out, his long fingers hovering near the edge of the table as if he were about to inspect something. Draconia held her breath, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She felt as though he could see right through the silk of her blouse, past the way she had composed herself, and straight into the messy, unravelling core of her.
"Are you quite well?" he asked, though he did not sound concerned.
"I am fine. Truly."
"Your hair is a disaster, Miss Malfoy. It is as if you have been running through a thicket."
Draconia felt the heat climb higher up her cheeks. She reached up to smooth her hair, but the movement was clumsy. She could feel the tangles, the way it felt lumpy and unkempt from the way she had leaned her head back against the bark. She hoped he did not notice the way her breathing had hitched.
"It was a long walk to the grounds yesterday," she said, her voice sounding small even to her own ears.
"A walk? It looks more like a skirmish."
He leaned down, his face closer to hers now. He was not looking at her eyes anymore; he was looking at the side of her neck, where a stray strand of hair clung to a patch of skin that was still slightly red. Draconia felt a dizzying sense of vertigo. She felt as though the floor might tilt and slide her into the dark, back into the tunnel where everything was quiet and heavy.
"You have a smudge of mud on your wrist," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
Draconia looked down at her arm. She had tried to scrub the dirt away in the dormitory, but a stubborn streak of dark earth still clung to the pale skin of her inner wrist. It looked jarring against her skin, a mark of the earth and the roots. She felt exposed, as if the dirt was a confession of where she had been and what she had done.
"It is nothing," she whispered, trying to pull her sleeve down. "It is just a bit of dirt from the walk."
"It is more than a bit of dirt," he said, his gaze sweeping over her entire person.
He looked at the way her robes were slightly crumpled at the waist. He looked at the way her hair was matted at the nape of her neck. He looked at the way her eyes were wide and darting, unable to hold his steady, dark stare. He was reading her like a book, stripping away the layers of her composure until there was nothing left but the truth of her.
"You are trying very hard to appear unbothered," Snape said, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth. "It is a tedious performance."
"It is not a performance," she insisted, though the lie tasted like ash.
"It is. You are pretending that the last few days have not left their mark upon you."
He did not move, but the weight of his scrutiny felt like a physical pressure against her chest. She felt as though she were standing naked in the middle of the Great Hall, stripped of her poise and her name. The silence that followed was not empty; it was a heavy, judging thing that seemed to press the air out of her lungs.
"I do not know what you mean," she said, her voice finally breaking.
"You may tell yourself whatever you like, Miss Malfoy. Your face is a different document."