The stone of the corridor felt cool against the small of her back, a sharp contrast to the heat of the afternoon sun hitting the higher windows. Draconia walked with a calculated grace, her silk robes sweeping the floor in a rhythmic, expensive sound. She knew exactly how she moved, every tilt of her head and every deliberate step designed to draw the eye. It was a way of existing that had served her well since she was old enough to realise that people watched her.
A few paces ahead, Harry kept his pace steady, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible. He was a boy who had spent much of his life fighting for things, whereas she had been born with them. She watched the back of his head, the messy dark hair that never seemed to obey a comb, and felt a strange, prickling sensation in her chest. It was not quite jealousy, but it was a restless sort of agitation.
She reached into the pocket of her robes and felt the familiar, smooth wood of her wand. It was a tool of power, a piece of highly refined magic, but to her, it was also a prop. She pulled it out with a slow, elegant motion, holding it between her index and middle fingers. She began to spin it, the wand rotating in a perfect, hypnotic circle. It was a small, repetitive movement, a fidget that looked entirely unconscious to anyone not looking for it.
"You're walking too fast," Harry said, not turning around. He had stopped walking, standing near a stone alcove where the light was dim.
"I'm walking at a perfectly reasonable speed," Draconia replied, her voice smooth and unapologetic. "Perhaps you are simply lagging behind."
He turned to face her then, a lopsant grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were bright, catching the light of the torches that lined the walls. He looked at her, really looked at her, and she felt the familiar rush of being seen. She did not look away; instead, she kept the wand spinning, the wood whistling a tiny, nearly silent note in the air.
"You've been doing that for three corridors," Harry noted, his gaze fixed on the moving wand. "The spinning."
Draconia lifted her chin, her smirk widening just enough to show a hint of teeth. She did not stop the motion. The wand continued its dizzying, elegant rotation between her fingers, a silver streak of light in the dimming afternoon. "Is it so hard to believe a girl might have a habit?"
"It's not a habit if it's always the same rhythm," he said, stepping closer to her. He was close enough now that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "It's a performance."
"Everything is a performance, Harry," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "You of all people should know that. The world expects a certain thing from you, so you give it to them."
"And what is it you want people to see?" he asked. He was standing still now, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
Draconia felt a flicker of something sharp in her gut. She was used to being the center of attention because of her name, her status, or her striking looks. But the way he was looking at her was different; he wasn't looking at the girl with the perfect robes or the perfect reputation. He was looking at the girl who was playing a game.
"They see what they are allowed to see," she said, her tone light even as her pulse quickened. She tilted her head, the movement making the wand spin a little faster, a little more fluidly. "I don't owe anyone the full truth."
"You're a terrible liar," Harry said, a low chuckle escaping him. "You're too good at being obvious."
"Obvious?" She laughed, a short, melodic sound that echoed against the stone walls. She stopped the spinning of the wand, letting it rest in the palm of her hand, but she did not put it away. "That is a very brave thing to say to me."
"It's the truth," he said, his expression turning more serious. "You use it like a shield. Or a distraction."
Draconia reached out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his robe as she stepped toward him, closing the distance. The air in the corridor felt strangely still, as if the stone itself were holding its breath. She watched his eyes follow her hand, his gaze never leaving the wand or her face.
"Maybe I just like the way it looks," she whispered, a playful glint in her eyes. "The way the light catches the wood."
"You're doing it again," he said, his voice a mere murmur. He didn't move back, even as she entered his personal space. "The way you're holding it. The way you're looking at me."
"Am I?" she asked, her voice a lilt of feigned innocence. She began to spin the wand once more, the movement sharp and precise. "Am I being too much?"
"You're being perfectly intentional," he corrected. He stepped even closer, until the toes of his boots almost touched the hem of her robes. The scent of him, something like rain and old parchment, drifted toward her. "You don't just do things by accident, Draconia. Not one of them."
She felt a sudden, fierce urge to laugh, or perhaps to bite her lip. He had seen through the veneer, stripped back the polished surface of her composure to see the mechanics of her charm. It was a dangerous thing, to be seen so clearly, but it was also exhilarating. She liked the way he looked at her when he was winning.
"You think you've figured me out, do you?" She raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning, sharper than before. "How very arrogant of you."
"It's not arrogance if you're right," he said. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers, but he did not touch the wand. He stayed just out of reach, a tether of tension between them. "You're playing a game."
"Is it a game if everyone else is playing it too?" she asked. She watched his eyes, searching for the moment he would break, the moment he would look away. He didn't.
"You're the only one who knows the rules," Harry said. He looked up at her, his gaze steady and unyielding. "And you're the only one who's actually enjoying it."
Draconia felt a rush of heat climb her neck. She had spent her entire life being handed the world, but there was a thrill in this, in the struggle to keep him looking. She wanted him to see the game, and she wanted to see the moment he decided to play back. She gave the wand one final, vigorous turn, the wood a blur of motion between her fingers.
"You think you've caught the rhythm," she said, her voice a soft, dangerous silk. "But you've barely started to listen."
He leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he watched the wand's movement. The distance between them vanished, leaving only the heat of their bodies and the heavy stillness of the corridor.
"You're doing that on purpose," he said.
"Obviously," she said, and something starts.