Greta was right, and that was the most infuriating part of the entire ordeal. Draconia sat at the long table in the Great Hall, staring at a plate of untouched kippers and toast. The breakfast was perfectly cooked, the silver service was polished to a high shine, and everything was exactly as it should be in her world. Usually, things were as she expected them to be. If she wanted a certain vintage of wine, it appeared. If she wanted a specific brand of parchment, it was delivered. She was used to the world bending itself into shapes that pleased her, but the silence from the boy across the castle was a shape she could not master.
She had been too sharp with him in the Room of Requirement. The memory of her own vulnerability made her stomach turn with a sudden, sharp revulsion. She had let the mask slip, let him see the frantic, unpolished edges of her, and then she had tried to bury it under a layer of frost. She had retreated into her usual armour of condescension and distance, assuming that if she acted like she did not care, he would eventually believe her. It was a predictable tactic, a common one, and she felt a bruised sortia of shame for using it.
By the time the afternoon lessons had concluded, she had decided on her move. She would not go to him, of course, because she was not a girl who went to people. She was a girl who was sought. She drafted the owl with a quill that felt heavy in her hand, her fingers trembling slightly despite her best efforts to remain composed. She did not write a letter of apology, because an apology was a surrender, and she was not ready to surrender. Instead, she wrote a demand disguised as a slight. She told him that his recent behaviour was distracting, that his lack of presence was an affront to her focus, and that he would find himself at the edge of the Black Lake at eight o'clock to answer for his insolence. It was a wretched, haughty message, but it was the only way she knew how to ask for his time without admitting she needed it.
The owl flew away, a small, white speck against the grey sky of the highlands. Draconia spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of heightened, jagged tension. She sat through Transfiguration, staring blankly at her textbook, her mind looping back to the way he had looked at her when she had lost control of her performance. She had been so beautifully composed for so long, and then, in one moment of raw, unscripted heat, she had been nothing but a girl who wanted to be touched.
The sun began to dip behind the mountains, casting long, bruised shadows across the grounds. Draconia dressed in her finest silk robes, a deep, emerald green that matched the Slytherin colours, and checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked impeccable. Her hair was sleek, her skin was pale and flawless, and her expression was one of bored, regal indifference. She walked toward the Black Lake, her footsteps silent on the grass, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She arrived at the designated spot by seven o'clock. She waited. She sat on a smooth stone near the water's edge, watching the giant squid break the surface of the lake in slow, rhythmic ripples. She told herself she was merely enjoying the scenery, that she had sent the owl to settle a matter of decorum, not to see his face. At seven-thirty, a cold wind began to whip around the cliffs, biting at her cheeks. She stayed. She told herself she was waiting for the sake of her own pride, that to leave now would be to admit that the wait mattered.
Eight o'clock passed. The moon rose, a silver sliquette in a darkening sky. The lake was still. The only sound was the lapping of the water against the shore and the distant, muffled calls of nocturnal creatures. He was not there. He had not come. The realization hit her with a physical weight, a dull ache in her chest that no amount of haughty thought could dispel. He had not just ignored the owl; he had ignored her. He had seen the demand for what it was, a jagged, poorly wrapped plea, and he had chosen to offer her nothing in return.
She stood up, her legs feeling stiff and heavy in the damp air. She did not run, and she did not cry, though the urge to throw her wand into the dark water and scream was nearly overwhelming. She walked back toward the castle, her movements stiff and controlled. The corridors of the dungeons felt longer than usual, the stone walls closing in on her as she moved through the dim light of the torches. The silence of the castle felt different tonight; it was not the peaceful silence of a sleeping school, but a hollow, echoing void.
She reached her dormitory and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the green glow of the lake shimmering through the glass panes. She felt strangely small. For the first time in her life, the things she could command—the servants, the professors, the very fabric of her social standing—felt useless. She had tried to bridge the gap with a command, a sharp, biting command, and he had answered it with a void.
The emptiness was a new sensation, a vast and terrifying expanse that she could not fill with a spell or a witty remark. She had spent her entire life being the centre of the room, the sun around which everyone else gravitated, but she had forgotten how to exist in the dark. She leaned back against her pillows, closing her eyes, trying to find the rhythm of her breath. The silence of the room was a heavy, suffocating thing. The empty corridor is the first thing in her life she cannot buy, charm or threaten.