The Great Hall felt wider than usual this morning. Sunlight hit the long tables in long, pale strips, and the noise of the morning meal rose in a steady, rhythmic swell of clattering silver and murmuring voices. Draconia sat at the prefects' table, her spine perfectly straight, her robes crisp and unwrinkled. She kept her eyes on her plate, though the porridge was a tasteless, lukewarm mass. She was not actually hungry; she was merely waiting for the sensation of the stone wall to leave her spine. The memory of the corridor from the previous evening remained, a dull ache in her lower back and a lingering heat in her skin.
Harry sat a few seats down the table, his movements unhurried as he reached for a piece of toast. He did not look at her. He did not even glance in her direction, which was a distinct change from the way he had watched her in the corridor. Yesterday, his eyes had been heavy and dark with a focus that felt almost predatory. Now, he was simply a boy eating breakfast, his attention seemingly fixed on the conversation between Neville and Seamus. Draconia felt a prickle of irritation at his sudden lack of interest. She had spent the entire afternoon of the previous day projecting a very specific kind of energy, and his sudden indifference felt like a personal slight.
"You are staring," Pansy whispered, leaning closer to Draconia.
Draconia blinked, forcing herself to look down at her empty goblet. "I am not staring, Pansy. I am merely observing."
"You are staring at the back of his head," Pansy said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "It is quite transparent."
"It is not transparent if you do not mention it," Draconia replied smoothly. She took a small, delicate sip of pumpkin juice, feeling the cool liquid slide down her throat. She wanted to reach out and flick her wand at him, to see if a small charm could force him to look up and acknowledge her. Instead, she sat still, her hands folded in her lap, her fingers tracing the seam of her robes. She was a girl of control, and she would not let a moment of physical sensation dictate her social standing.
Greta sat on the opposite side of the table, her eyes moving between Draconia and Harry. Greta was observant in a way that most people were not, a trait that made her both a good friend and a dangerous one. She watched the way Draconia’s jaw tightened when Harry laughed at something a Gryffindor shouted. She saw the way Draconia’s knuckles whitened as she gripped her silver spoon. It was a subtle dance of avoidance and observation, a silent war being waged over the breakfast plates.
"He hasn't even looked your way once today," Greta remarked, her voice low so it wouldn't carry to the younger years.
"He has no reason to look my way," Draconia said, her voice clipped. "I am sitting here, eating. I am not performing."
"You are always performing," Greta countered.
"I am simply being," Draconia corrected, though she knew it was a lie. The truth was that she was waiting for the performance to begin again. She wanted the tension of the corridor to return, the way his hands felt against the small of her back, the way her voice had hitched when she tried to maintain her poise. She wanted the heat, but she wanted it on her own terms.
The morning progressed with a tedious slow pace. The chatter of the hall grew louder as the breakfast period neared its end, and the students began to stand, gathering their books and preparing for the first lecture of the day. Draconia felt a strange, hollow sensation in her chest. She was used to being the center of gravity, the one around whom the room turned, but today she felt like a ghost. She was watching a boy who had seen her at her most undone, and yet he acted as if the night had been nothing more than a smudge on the timeline of their lives.
"Are you coming to the library after Charms?" Greta asked, standing up and smoothing her skirts.
"Perhaps," Draconia said, not looking up from her plate. "If the work is interesting enough."
"It's always the same work," Greta said with a small shrug. "You'll be there. You always are."
Draconia watched as Harry stood up, his height imposing even from her seated position. He moved with a certain casual grace, his bag slung over one shoulder. He passed within a foot of her, and for a second, she thought he might actually glance down. She held her breath, her fingers twitching with the urge to reach for her wand, to do something, anything, to break his composure. But he did not look. He walked past her as if she were part of the architecture, a carved stone pillar or a decorative suit of armour.
The irritation in her grew, a sharp, stinging thing that sat behind her ribs. She hated that he could do this to her. She hated that he could possess her in a corridor and then treat her with such polite, devastating indifference in the light of day. It was a game of shadows and light, and she was starting to feel the darkness of the eclipse.
"You're doing it again," Greta said, her voice a soft, knowing chime.
"Doing what?" Draconia asked, her eyes narrowing.
"The denial," Greta said. "The way you pretend you aren't bothered. It's getting longer."
Draconia stood up, her movements sharp and decisive. She did not want to be caught in a moment of vulnerability, not here, not with the entire Great Hall watching the prefects' table. She smoothed her robes one last time, her expression a mask of perfect, aristocratic boredom. She would not be the one to break. She would be the one to hold the silence until it became unbearable for him.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," Draconia said, her voice loud enough to be heard by the surrounding students.
"You'll say it again in ten minutes," Greta said, a small, pitying smile on her face. "And you'll say it again in an hour. Greta timed them: her denials get longer every day."