The Slytherin common room felt smaller than usual during the final weeks of the term. Draconia sat in a high-backed velvet chair, watching the green light from the lake filter through the windows. It was a sickly, rhythmic movement of light that did nothing to soothe the tension in her shoulders. Her skin felt tight, as if her very frame was struggling to contain the things she had done in the forest. She thought of the moss, the dampness of the branch, and the way the morning light had felt on her back. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the ghost of a touch that she could not name.
Greta sat across from her, sewing a small tear in the hem of a silk robe. The younger girl was quiet, but her eyes drifted to Draconia more often than was polite. Draconia knew the girl was watching her. She knew the way the others in the room glanced at her when she walked down the corridor, as if she were a person made of glass that might shatter if someone spoke too loudly. She felt the weight of it, the unspoken suspicion that she was hiding a secret that was too large for a single girl to carry.
"You look tired, Draconia," Greta said, her voice cutting through the quiet.
"It is just the season," Draconia replied, her fingers tracing the edge of a silver teaspoon.
"The season is nearly over," Greta noted, her needle moving in a steady, rhythmic motion. "You should be excited about the break."
"I have nothing to be excited about," Draconia said. She wanted to say more, to tell Greta that she was tired of the way the world felt lopsured, but she kept her lips pressed into a thin line.
A house-elf arrived with a tray of tea, and Draconia took the opportunity to stand. She needed to move, to escape the scrutiny of the common room. She walked toward the corner where a small, low table sat near the fireplace. The hearth was dim, only a few embers glowing in the dark grate, but she saw a thick, heavy envelope waiting there. It was addressed to her in a script that was far too precise, too sharp to be anyone else's. The parchment was expensive, the kind that felt like skin under the thumb, and the seal was a deep, bruised purple.
She sat down and pulled the letter from the envelope. As she read, the warmth of the tea she had just sipped seemed to turn to lead in her stomach. Lucius did not write about the weather or the trivialities of the term. He wrote with a cold, calculated foresight, as if he could see the disgrace coming before it had even happened. He spoke of the way the Malfoy name was being handled in the higher circles of the Ministry. He mentioned the rumours of instability, of the way the old families were reacting to the shifting politics of the war.
"Is it from your father?" Greta asked, having stood up to retrieve her own tea.
"It is," Draconia said, her eyes scanning the jagged, elegant lines of his handwriting.
"He sounds stern," Greta remarked, a hint of sympathy in her tone.
"He is always stern," Draconia replied, though she felt the sting of his words in her chest.
The letter spoke of the end of the term as a deadline. He told her that the reputation of their house depended on her ability to remain composed, to act with the dignity expected of a daughter of the Malfoy line. He warned her that any deviation from the path, any display of unseemliness or passion, would be seen as a mark of failure. He was telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she was already failing. The words felt like a physical weight, a heavy cloak she was being forced to wear in the middle of a summer heat.
"He is writing about the end of term," Draconia whispered to herself, though she said it aloud.
"He is?" Greta asked, stepping closer to the table.
"He is worried about the name," Draconia said, her voice flat.
"The Malfoy name is strong," Greta said, trying to be helpful. "It cannot be broken by one term."
"It is not the term he is worried about," Draconia said, looking at the way the ink seemed to shimmer under the dim light. "He is worried about the aftermath."
She could feel the pressure of his expectations in every syllable. He wanted her to be a statue, something carved from marble that did not move, did not breathe, and did not feel the urge to run into the woods to find a boy who made her heart ache. He wanted her to be a perfect, silent thing. The letter was a command to be numb, to stifle any part of herself that was not traditionally perfect. It was an instruction to be a ghost in her own life.
"You should probably go and read it in your dormitory," Greta suggested, her eyes scanning the room to see if anyone else was watching the exchange. "It looks important."
"It is just a lecture," Draconia said, her thumb brushing the edge of the heavy parchment. "A lecture on how to behave like a Malfoy."
"You always behave perfectly," Greta said, a small, knowing smile touching her lips.
"Not always," Draconia muttered, though she quickly smoothed her expression.
She felt a sudden, fierce urge to rip the parchment into pieces, to let the words scatter across the floor like ash. The letter was a cage, and the cage was being built by her own father. She thought of the forest, of the way the air felt when she was running through the trees, and how much more honest that felt than this expensive, heavy paper. The letter was a lie, a way to pretend that everything was under control when she knew that everything was falling apart.
She stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The sound seemed to echo too long in the quiet room. She tucked the letter into the pocket of her robes, feeling the sharp edge of the parchment against her hip. She felt a strange, hollow sensation in her chest, a mix of defiance and exhaustion. She wanted to be the girl he wanted, but she was already the girl who had stood in the dark and felt the world shift under her feet.
"Are you going to be alright?" Greta asked, her voice soft.
"I am fine," Draconia said, and she knew she was lying.
She walked toward the stairs, her footsteps heavy and deliberate. She did not look back to see if Greta was still watching her. She felt the need to be alone with the heat of the fire. She reached the hearth and held the letter over the glowing embers. She watched the way the light caught the edges of the paper, the way the ink began to warp and fade as the heat took hold. It was a slow, satisfying destruction. She watched the parchment curl and blacken, the expensive words of her father turning into nothing but smoke and soot. She didn't look at the faces of the other students as she stood there, and she burns the letter in the common room and Greta pretends not to see.