The drawing of the lightning bolt sat between them on the floor of the Room of Requirement, a small, jagged piece of history that felt far too heavy for the parchment it was etched upon. Harry stared at the lines, tracing the uneven edges of the bolt, and felt a strange sensation in his chest, a tightening that had nothing to do with the dusty air of the room. Draconia was watching him, her face a pale, unreadable mask in the dim light of the enchanted lamps. She did not move to take the drawing back, nor did she offer an explanation for why she had kept a scrap of paper from her first year.
"It is a pathetic thing, isn't it?" Draconia asked, her voice cutting through the stillness.
Harry looked up from the parchment to her eyes, seeing the way the light caught the silver in her gaze. "It is not pathetic. It is just... honest."
"Honesty is a luxury most people in this castle cannot afford," she said, leaning back on her hands. Her robes were dark, the silk catching the light as she shifted her weight. "Most people prefer the lie. It is much more comfortable to pretend we are not what we are."
Harry watched her, noting the way she held herself, even when she was sitting on the floor of a dusty room. There was a tension in her shoulders, a jagged edge to her poise that made him feel like he was standing too close to a blade. He wondered if she ever truly relaxed, or if she lived her entire life in a state of braced readiness.
"Why did you keep it?" he asked, his voice dropping a register. "If it is so much of a luxury, why keep the evidence?"
Draconia let out a short, dry laugh that held no warmth. "Because some things are harder to throw away than others, Potter. Even when they are useless."
"It wasn't useless," Harry countered, his thumb brushing the edge of the drawing once more. "It was a way to remember."
"Remember what? The person you were before you knew how much the world would try to break you?" She stood up in one fluid motion, her movements precise and sharp. She did not reach for her wand on the floor, but rather pulled it from the sleeve of her robes, her fingers curling around the dark wood.
Harry stood as well, his height nearly matching hers, though he felt smaller under the weight of her scrutiny. The room felt narrower now, the stacks of furniture and crates closing in around them as she stepped closer. He could see the slight tremor in her hand, a minute detail that betrayed the stillness of her expression.
"You think you know me," Draconia said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. "You think because you have seen a drawing, you have seen the truth of me."
"I don't think I know everything," Harry said, stepping into her space. He wanted to bridge the gap, to see if she would flinch or if she would lean in. "But I know you've been hiding things. More than just a drawing."
She did not flinch. Instead, she stepped toward him, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She pressed the tip of her wand against the center of his chest, right against the fabric of his shirt. The wood was cool even through the layers of his clothing, a hard, unyielding point of contact.
"You are so incredibly arrogant," she whispered, her eyes fixed on his. "You walk into rooms as if you own the air itself."
"Maybe I do," he teased, though his heart was thumping a frantic rhythm against the very wand she was using to pin him. "Or maybe you just want me to."
Dreronia’s lips pulled into a thin, sharp smile. She did not move the wand; she pressed it harder, forcing him to take a half-step back until his heels hit the edge of a low table. She followed him, her body a close, intimidating presence in his personal space. The scent of her was sharp and clean, like rain on stone, and it made his head swim.
"You want to be a hero, Potter. You want to understand the why of everything," she said, her voice a low vibration that he felt in his own chest. "But some things are not meant to be understood. They are just meant to be endured."
"Is that what this is?" Harry asked, his voice a breathy rasp. "Enduring you?"
"It is a trial," she replied. She moved her hand up, her fingers sliding from the wand to the side of his neck, her touch a searing contrast to the cool wood still pressed against his sternum. "And you are failing most of the tests."
"Tell me the right answer then," he challenged, his breath hitching as her thumb grazed the line of his jaw.
Draconia leaned in closer, her hair brushing against his forehead. She was so close now that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, a detail that felt too intimate for a moment of such high tension. She looked as though she wanted to strike him and kiss him with equal ferocity.
"The right answer is to shut up and listen," she murmured, her eyes dropping to his mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to his gaze.
"I'm listening," Harry said, his pulse racing. He felt the heat of her body, the way she seemed to radiate a fierce, controlled energy. "I've been listening for a long time."
"Then listen to this," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was almost a caress.
She moved her head, her mouth hovering just an inch from the line of his jaw. He felt the warmth of her breath, a stark contrast to the cold, hard pressure of the wand still anchored against his chest. The tension in the room was no longer about the drawing or the secrets of the past; it was about the sharp, jagged edge of the present.
"You think you can handle the truth of me?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous lilt.
"Try me," he breathed, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting to reach for her, to pull her closer or push her away, he wasn't sure which.
She leaned in, the tip of her wand digging into the skin just above his heart, a silent threat that felt as sweet as a promise. Her lips brushed the sensitive skin of his jawline, a ghost of a touch that made his entire body ache with a sudden, sharp longing.
"Don't worry, Potter. This won't hurt. Much." — said with her wand on his sternum and her mouth on his jaw.