The corridor was too narrow for the way the tension was building. Draconia walked with her shoulders set high, her spine a rigid line of defiance that she maintained even as the ache in her muscles reminded her of the previous night. Her robes felt too tight across her chest, the silk rubbing against her sensitive skin in a way that made her want to scream. She could still feel the ghost of him in her, a lingering heat that refused to dissipate despite the brisk walk through the drafty stone passages. It was a distraction she did not want, especially not when the castle felt as though it were holding its breath.
Pansy walked beside her, her footsteps rhythmic and sharp against the stone. The Slytherin girl was unusually quiet, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she were counting the cracks in the masonry. Draconia watched her from the corner of her eye, noting the way Pansy’s jaw was clenched. It was not the silence of contentment; it was the silence of a fuse burning down. The air in the corridor felt stagnant, stripped of its usual movement as they approached the junction near the tapestry of the dancing trolls.
"You look tired, Draconia," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the stillness without any warmth.
"I am perfectly fine, Pansy. Do not begin with the observations," Draconia replied, her tone clipped and efficient.
"You look as though you have been through a war. Or a very long night."
"Does it matter what it was? We have more important things to attend to than my complexion."
"Everything matters if it is a weakness. People notice when you are not yourself."
"I am exactly as myself. I am simply tired of the chatter."
Pansy slowed her pace, her eyes darting toward the corner where the stone jutted out into a dark alcove. A girl stood there, partially obscured by the heavy fabric of a hanging tapestry, her silhouette sharp and jagged against the dim light. It was Greta, and she was not alone. A second girl, one who had always harboured a particular brand of quiet, simmering resentment toward the Slytherin elite, was leaning against the wall with her wand gripped tightly in her hand.
The girl was small, her face a mask of practiced indignation, but her eyes were bright with a frantic, desperate sort of hatred. Draconia saw the way the girl’s knuckles were white around the wood of her wand. The movement was subtle, a slight twitch of a wrist, but it was enough to tell Draconia that the air was about to shatter. The grudge was old, a thing of spilled ink and whispered insults in the common room, and it had finally reached its breaking point.
"She thinks she is untouchable," the girl whispered, her voice a low hiss that carried a jagged edge of malice.
"She thinks she can walk through the halls as if she owns the very stones," the second girl replied, her breath hitching in her throat.
Draconia stopped walking, her boots making a dull thud on the stone. She felt the sudden lurch of adrenaline in her stomach. She saw the way the girl in the alcove shifted her weight, preparing to lunge forward with the spell. The movement was a prelude to a strike, a violent burst of magic that was intended to catch someone off guard. Draconia watched the girl’s arm rise, the wand a slender, lethal tool in the dimness.
"Wait," Pansy murmured, though she did not move to stop the girl.
"She deserves it," the girl said, her voice rising in pitch as she prepared to cast.
Draconia saw the light begin to gather at the tip of the wand, a sickly, pulsing violet hue that promised a sharp, stinging sensation. The girl was aiming for the corner, aiming for the person she expected to turn it. The girl was aiming for the boy who always walked a few paces behind the crowd, the boy who never seemed to notice the daggers being sharpened in the dark.
The spell was meant for him and she is between it and him before she decides anything.
The hex tore through the air with a sibilant, whistling sound, a jagged streak of violet light that sliced through the stillness of the corridor. Draconia did not think about the speed of it or the way the magic felt heavy and sharp. She did not think about the danger or the way her heart hammered against her ribs. She only thought of the way he had looked at her in the room, the way his eyes had seen through every layer of her carefully constructed armour.
She stepped into the path of the spell, her body a shield of silk and bone. The magic struck her shoulder first, a searing, white-hot impact that knocked the breath from her lungs. It felt like a blunt instrument had been swung into her flesh, a heavy, vibrating blow that sent a shockwave through her entire frame. The pain was visceral, a sharp, biting heat that radiated from the point of impact down her arm.
"Draconia!" Pansy’s voice was a startled cry, a sharp break in the sudden chaos.
Draconia stumbled, her feet catching on the uneven stone, but she did not fall. The world tilted as she felt the sting of the hex sinking into her skin, the magic lashing at her like a whip. She could hear the girl's gasp of horror, the sound of a spell hitting its target when it was intended for someone else. The silence that followed was not heavy; it was broken by the sound of Draconia’s own ragged breathing as she gripped her shoulder, her fingers pressing into the fabric of her robes.
"It was meant for Harry," the girl whispered, her voice trembling with a sudden, sickening realization.
"You idiot," Pansy spat, stepping forward as the colour drained from the girl's face. "You nearly killed her."
Draconia felt the heat of the spell pulsing under her skin, a dull, throbbing ache that made her vision blur for a second. She forced herself to stand straight, refusing to let the pain dictate her posture. She could feel the blood rushing to the area, the sensation of her skin tightening and burning. It was a sharp, stinging reminder of her own recklessness, of the way she had moved without a single thought for her own safety.
"Is he alright?" Draconia asked, her voice remarkably steady despite the way her lungs felt squeezed by the impact.
"He didn't even see it," Pansy said, her eyes wide as she looked at the girl who had cast the hex. "He was just around the next turn."
"Of course he didn't see it," Draconia muttered, a small, bitter smile touching her lips. "He is rarely looking at the shadows."
The girl who had cast the spell looked as though she might be sick, her wand drooping in her hand as the violet light faded into the grey of the corridor. The grudge was no longer a sharp thing; it was a heavy, awkward weight that sat between them in the wake of the hit. Draconia felt the sting in her shoulder intensify, a sharp, bright needle of pain that reminded her that she was very much alive and very much wounded. She stood there, the centre of a sudden, frantic attention, feeling the bruise forming beneath her skin.