The Slytherin common room felt smaller than usual because of the heat. Firewhisky sat in heavy crystal glasses on every available surface, and the scent of woodsmoke and expensive spirits drifted through the room. Music played from a charmed gramophone in the corner, the volume high enough to drown out the sound of the lake slapping against the windows. Draconia sat in a high-backed velvet chair, watching the way the light caught the amber liquid in the glasses. The celebration for the Quidditch Cup was in full swing, but she felt strangely detached from the chaos.
Pansy moved through the crowd with a certain practiced grace, greeting people with a sharp tilt of her head. Most of the squad was already half-drunk, leaning against the stone walls or slumped in the sofas. Greta sat near the hearth, her eyes bright with a frantic sort of energy as she talked to a group of younger students. Draconia watched the way the fire flared in the grate, the orange light dancing across the green-tinted walls. It was a loud, messy affair, but the noise felt distant to her.
"You look like you are a thousand miles away," Pansy said, appearing at her side. She handed Draconia a fresh glass of firewhisky, the liquid warm and stinging.
Draconia took a sip, feeling the burn slide down her throat. "I am just tired. The match took more out of me than the flight did."
Pansy laughed, a short, clipped sound that lacked its usual edge. "You won the cup, Draconia. You are allowed to be exhausted. Most people would be halfway to a blackout by now."
"Most people are not me," Draconia replied, setting her glass down on a small side table. She looked around the room, noting the way the shadows moved as people danced or swayed to the music.
"Is that why you are sitting here alone? Because you are different?" Pansy sat in the chair opposite her, her posture rigid despite the relaxed atmosphere of the room.
Draconia watched a stray spark fly up the chimney. "I am not alone. Everyone is right here. They are just very loud."
"We have been doing this for years," Pansy said, her voice dropping a register. "The banter, the way we pretend we do not notice when someone is actually struggling. It is a tradition."
Draconia felt a flicker of annoyance, though she kept her face neutral. "I am not struggling. I am winning. There is a difference."
"There is a difference between winning and being happy," Pansy countered. She leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Draconia. "You win everything. You win the matches, you win the arguments, and you win the silence. But you never actually let anyone in to see the mess."
"The mess is not part of the aesthetic," Draconia said. She thought about the letter from her father, the one sitting in her trunk upstairs, the one that spoke of marriage contracts and dates.
Pansy watched her for a long moment, the volume of the room rising as a group of boys shouted a cheer near the door. The music swelled, a brassy, rhythmic tune that filled the gaps in the conversation. Draconia felt the weight of the room, the way the heat from the fire made her skin feel tacky under her silk robes.
"You are doing it again," Pansy whispered.
"Doing what?"
"Being untouchable. You act like a trophy yourself, Draconia. Shiny and perfect and kept behind glass."
Draconia turned her gaze back to the fire. "It is easier to be a trophy than to be a person. People expect things from a trophy. They do not expect a trophy to have an opinion on its own existence."
"That is a very bleak thing to say at a party," Pansy remarked, though there was no mockery in her tone.
"It is the truth. Everyone is celebrating the cup, but the cup is just metal and enchanted wood. It does not feel the win. It just sits there."
Pansy reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of Draconia's glass. "Maybe that is why you keep everyone at arm's length. If you do not feel the win, then the win cannot take anything away from you."
"You are being uncharacteristically philosophical tonight," Draconia said, trying to lighten the mood. "Did you have too much firewhisky already?"
"I am being serious," Pansy insisted. She looked away, her gaze drifting toward the corner of the room where Greta was laughing. "I have spent four years watching you win, and four years watching you hide."
Draconia felt a sudden urge to stand up and leave the room, to find a quiet corridor where the air was not so heavy with the scent of smoke and spirits. But she stayed seated, her grip tightening on the arms of her chair.
"What is there to hide?" Draconia asked. "My life is very transparent. I play Quidditch, I study, and I exist in a very predictable way."
"It is not about what you do," Pansy said. "It is about what you do not say. You have a way of staying perfectly in control of every sentence, even when you are losing your mind."
The conversation drifted for a while, moving through the trivialities of the term and the upcoming exams. Draconia answered with the usual brevity, keeping her responses short and controlled. She did not want to talk about the contract, or the way her heart had hammered when she saw Harry in the stands, or the way the empty stadium had felt so much more real than this crowded room.
Pansy eventually fell silent, her eyes tracing the movement of the shadows on the ceiling. The music changed to a slower, more melodic tempo, and the energy in the room shifted from frantic to heavy.
"I used to think you were just arrogant," Pansy said suddenly, her voice barely audible above the music. "I thought the distance was just you being a typical Slytherin. A bit of a prat, really."
"You were not wrong about that," Draconia said.
"But then it hit me," Pansy continued. "The way you look when you think no one is watching. It is not arrogance. It is a shield."
Draconia felt a strange sensation in her chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with the firewhisky. She wanted to defend herself, to say that she was perfectly fine, but the words felt stuck in her throat.
"I am not a mystery to be solved, Pansy," Draconia said, her voice steady.
"No," Pansy replied, looking her directly in the eye. "You are just a person who is very good at being a statue."
The silence between them stretched, a long beat of time that felt more significant than the loud music surrounding them. Draconia searched for a retort, a sharp observation to break the tension, but she found nothing.
Pansy took a slow breath and reached for her glass, draining the last of her drink. She looked down at the empty crystal, her expression softening in a way Draconia had rarely seen.
"I am sorry," Pansy said, her voice low and sincere. "I am sorry for the way I have treated you. For the way we have all treated you. We treat you like a part of the scenery instead of a person."
Draconia stared at her, stunned by the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The bluntness of the apology felt like a physical weight in the room. Pansy apologises, properly, and Draconia doesn't know what to do with it.