The roar of the party was a dull, rhythmic throb behind the heavy stone walls of the corridor. Draconia stood in the small, shadowed alcove where the noise of the celebration felt distant enough to be tolerable. It was a strange sensation to feel the vibration of a hundred cheering voices through the soles of her boots while the actual air in the hallway remained still. She had just come from the heat of the crowd, where she had stood as a trophy to be admired, and now the silence of the corridor felt like a weight. Greta was waiting there, leaning against a tapestry that depicted a silver serpent, her arms crossed over her chest.
"You looked like you were about to pass out," Greta said, her voice cutting through the quiet.
Draconia smoothed the front of her robes, trying to find her composure. "I was merely being polite. It is exhausting, standing there and pretending that the cheers are for me and not just for the spectacle of the win."
"Nobody believes your polite face, Draconia. You look like you want to hex the next person who touches the cup," Greta remarked. She stepped forward, her eyes searching Draconia’s face with a scrutiny that felt far too intimate for a public corridor. "You can stop it here. It is just us."
"Just us, then," Draconia agreed, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to give way. She wondered if Greta could see the faint smudge of dried sweat near her hairline, or the way her hands were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of the presentation. The victory felt hollower than she had anticipated, a bright, golden thing that lacked any real substance once it was actually in her hands.
Greta did not move to comfort her or offer a celebratory toast. Instead, she looked tired, a deep-seated exhaustion that went beyond the physical toll of a long Quidditch season. "Do you ever get tired of being the centre of it? Not just the winning, but the being watched? The way everyone waits to see if you’ll slip or if you’ll actually live up to the name?"
"It is a requirement of the position," Draconia answered, her voice clipped. "I did not choose to be the one everyone looks at, but I will not be the one to look away first."
"That is the problem," Greta said, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "You never look away. You just stare straight ahead and let the world happen to you."
A long silence followed, one that was not awkward but felt heavy with the things they had not said over the last six years of friendship. Draconia watched a small moth flutter near a torch bracket, its wings a frantic blur in the dim light. Greta had been her constant, the person who stood beside her in the common room when the pressure of her father's expectations became a physical weight. But Greta was also the person who knew exactly how much effort it took to maintain the mask.
"It has cost me more than you think," Greta said suddenly. Her voice was low, stripped of its usual playful lilt. "People think it is easy being the friend of the girl who wins the cup. They think you just glide through everything because you are born to it. But being the person who watches you win is its own kind of work."
Draconia turned her head to look at her friend, noting the sharp line of Greta's jaw. "What do you mean? You have always been there. You have never complained about the attention."
"I haven't complained because complaining is for people who expect a reward," Greta said, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere past Draconia’s shoulder. "The last six years have cost me my sense of being an individual. When you are the sun, everyone else is just a planet orbiting you. I have spent so much time making sure your light doesn't blind me that I forgot how to stand in my own."
"Greta," Draconia started, reaching out a hand, but she stopped herself. She was not good at the physical language of comfort; she was better at the intellectual one. "You are part of the orbit. You are not just a satellite."
"Don't patronise me with a metaphor," Greta replied, though there was no heat in the rebuke. "It is a lonely thing, being the one who knows the truth behind the victory. Everyone sees the cup, Draconia. They don't see the way you look when the lights go down and you're actually alone with your thoughts. They don't see the cost of keeping up the standard."
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest. She thought of the letter from her father, the one about the contract and the dates and the expectations of heirs. She thought of the way she had felt in the changing room, the way the heat of her body had felt so much more real than the gold of the trophy. She realized that Greta was the only person who had ever looked at her and seen the person beneath the winner.
"What do you want from me, then?" Draconia asked, her voice barely a whisper. "If the cost is too high, tell me. Tell me to leave the orbit."
"I don't want you to leave," Greta said, finally stepping closer until they were standing in the narrow space of the corridor. "I just want something. Something you have never actually given to anyone else."
Draconia felt a flicker of apprehension. She was used to being asked for advice, for help, or for a moment of her time. She was not used to being asked for herself. She watched Greta’s expression, which was uncharacter l, a plea wrapped in a demand. The air was not thick with emotion, but the clarity of the moment was startling.
"I am not a person who gives much," Draconia admitted, her fingers curling into the fabric of her robes. "I give what is expected, and I keep the rest for myself. It is safer that way."
"It is also incredibly lonely," Greta countered. She reached out and took Draconia’s hand, her grip firm and grounding. "The thing is, Draconia, you spend your whole life being the person everyone expects you to be. You are the winner, the daughter, the heir. But you never let anyone see the person who is actually struggling to hold it all together."
"I don't know how to be that person," Draconia said, and for the first time in years, she was not lying.
"You don't have to be her to the whole school," Greta said, her eyes softening. "You just have to be her with me. But there is a specific thing. A thing you've never actually asked of anyone, because you're too proud to admit you need it."
Draconia looked at her friend, the girl who had seen her at her highest and her most exhausted. She realized that the request was not for a favor or a secret, but for a vulnerability that she had spent her entire life guarding.
The one thing is a request Drac</strong>a</strong> has never made to anybody.