The heavy wooden door of the changing room felt solid under Draconia’s hand, a barrier between the adrenaline of the pitch and the quiet of the dormitory corridor. She had already scrubbed the worst of the mud from her skin, but her muscles still throbbed with the rhythm of the win. The victory felt massive, a bright and jagged thing that she wanted to hold onto before the evening faded. Harry sat on the edge of the bench, his hair a mess of damp strands, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who had lost the match. He was still wearing his jersey, the fabric clinging to his chest, and his eyes followed her every movement as she moved toward the corner.
"You should probably get dressed properly," Draconia said, her voice cutting through the dampness of the room.
Harry grinned, leaning back on his elbows. "The game is over. There is no rush to be decent."
"There is always a rush to be decent," she retorted, pulling a clean pair of knickers from her bag.
The room was small and smelled of damp wood and old leather. Most of the team had already drifted away to the Great Hall or to their own dormitories, leaving them in a strange, suspended state of isolation. The silence was not empty; it was filled with the ghosts of their shouting and the echoes of the cheering crowd. She felt the dampness of her skin, the way her skin felt tacky from the sweat and the humidity of the changing room. She looked at Harry, noting the way his jaw worked as he watched her, and she felt a sudden, sharp sense of satisfaction.
"You were brilliant today," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Six to two," she reminded him, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Don't act like you were the one scoring."
"I was there, wasn't I?" Harry asked, his eyes bright with a sort of desperate mischief.
"You were a spectator with a broom," she said, tossing her damp socks toward the bin.
He laughed, a low sound that seemed to vibrate in the small space. He reached out to touch the hem of her robe as she pulled it on, his fingers grazing the fabric. She did not pull away, though she knew the timing was precarious. The match was won, the celebration was supposed to be over, and yet the air felt as though it were still vibrating with the energy of the pitch. She wanted to stay here, in this half-light, with the scent of damp earth and the warmth of him, but the world was not finished with her yet.
A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the door broke the tension. It was not a soft sound, but a forceful, insistent knocking that demanded attention. Draconia froze, her hands still clutching the edge of her robe. She listened to the sound of footsteps in the corridor, heavy and hurried, before the knocking came again. It was a sound of urgency, one that did not belong in the quiet aftermath of a victory.
"Who is that?" Harry asked, his voice a little higher than before.
"Probably someone who forgot something," Draconia said, though she felt a prickle of unease.
"It sounds like a raid," Harry joked, but he sat up straighter, his eyes fixed on the wood of the door.
She walked toward the entrance, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. The door was thick, but she could feel the vibration of the person on the other side. It was not a polite tap; it was the knock of someone who had a message that could not wait for the morning. She reached for the handle, her heart thumping a steady beat against her ribs. She was sure of herself, sure of her win, and yet the sudden interruption felt like a crack in a glass surface.
"Is that you, Greta?" she called out, her voice steady despite the sudden shift in the room's energy.
The knocking stopped for a second, then resumed with even more ferocity. Draconia opened the door just a crack, peering out into the dim corridor where the light was low and the shadows were long. Greta stood there, her hair slightly disheveled and her breathing shallow, looking as though she had run the length of the castle to reach this specific door. Her eyes were wide, and she did not look like a girl who had come to offer congratulations.
"Draconia," Greta said, her voice strained.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Draconia remarked, stepping back to allow her friend more space to enter.
Greta stepped into the room, the door swinging shut behind her with a decisive thud. She did not look at Harry, who was watching the exchange with an amused, curious expression. Greta walked straight to the center of the room, her gaze fixed on Draconia’s face. The joy of the win seemed to recede, replaced by a gravity that felt heavy and unyielding. The lightness of the afternoon was gone, replaced by a tension that felt like a warning.
"The timing is terrible, isn't it?" Harry asked, standing up to join them.
"It is always terrible when something important happens," Greta replied, her eyes never leaving Draconia.
"What is it?" Draconia asked, her voice dropping. "Is it the committee? Or the press?"
"It is not the press," Greta said, stepping closer until she was within arm's reach.
The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in as the three of them stood in the cramped space. Harry shifted his weight, his eyes darting between the two women. He could feel the change in the atmosphere, the way the fun of the afternoon had suddenly turned into something sharper and more clinical. Draconia felt a sense of dread, a coldness that had nothing to do with the damp air of the changing room. She knew Greta was not a girl to knock like that unless the world was tilting on its axis.
"Tell us," Draconia commanded, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Greta did not flinch. She stood tall, her hands clenched at her sides, her face a mask of grim certainty. She looked at Draconia, and for a moment, the victory of the six goals felt very far away, a distant memory of a different life. The silence that followed was not the happy silence of a win, but the heavy silence of a realization.
"Come," Greta said.
"That is it?" Harry asked, a confused laugh escaping him. "Just 'come'?"
"It is not just 'come'," Greta replied, her eyes hardening. "Move."