The Great Hall felt too large and too bright for a morning when everything felt broken. Draconia sat at the Slytherin table, her spine a rigid line of defiance against the mahogany wood. A jagged, angry red line ran from the collar of her silk blouse up towards her jaw, a visible testament to the spell that had caught her side. Her robes were clean now, but the skin beneath was tender and bruised where the magic had struck. She kept her chin high, refusing to let the movement of her throat betray the ache.
"You look like you've been trampled by a Hippogriff," Pansy said, her voice carrying a sharp edge of concern that felt far too much like pity.
"It was a clumsy hex, nothing more," Draconia replied, her voice loud enough to carry to the neighbouring Gryffindor table. She took a measured sip of her tea, though the liquid felt heavy in her stomach.
"It wasn't a clumsy hex, it was a nasty one," a voice interrupted from behind her.
Harry stood there, his expression tight and unreadable, his eyes fixed entirely on the red mark crawling up her neck. He did not sit, but he did not leave either; he simply hovered in the periphery of her vision like a persistent, nagging thought. The Great Hall was filling with the noise of the morning, the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of students, but his presence felt deaf rane.
"It was a mistake, Potter," Draconia said, turning her head just enough to make the movement a performance of nonchalance. "Do not hover like a lost house-elf."
"It wasn't a mistake if you stepped in front of it," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave. "You knew exactly what it was meant for."
"The accuracy of your observation is staggering," Draconia snapped, her eyes flashing. "I saw a target, and I stepped into the path. It is a matter of reflex, not a matter of devotion. Do not make it something so grotesque."
"It wasn't a grotesque thing to do," Harry said, stepping closer to the table.
A few students turned to look, the silence around them expanding as the Gryffindors and Slytherins paused their breakfasts to watch the exchange. Draconia felt the heat of the stares, but she leaned into the scrutiny. She could feel the way the wound in her side throbbed with every breath, a dull, rhythmic reminder of the cost she had paid.
"It was a foolish thing to do," Draconia corrected him, her voice rising in volume. "I am a Slytherin, not a martyr. I saw a spell, and I intercepted it. There is no grander meaning to be found in a moment of sheer, unthinking instinct."
"You're bleeding through the edge of your collar," Harry said, pointing a finger toward the crimson stain that had reappeared near her collarbone.
"It is a scratch!" she shouted, the volume of her voice cutting through the morning chatter like a blade. "It is a trivial, insignificant scratch that has been blown entirely out of proportion by your obsessive eyes."
"It's not trivial to anyone watching," Harry said, his voice steady despite the volume she had just used to drown him out. "Everyone is watching you, Draconia. They see you standing here, acting as if you haven't been half-killed by a curse."
"Then let them watch!" she declared, slamming her spoon against the edge of her plate with a sharp, ringing sound. "Let them watch the great Draconia pretending to be wounded while you stand there acting as if you have a claim to my very breath. You have no right to even name the sensation of my pain."
"I'm not claiming anything," Harry said, his jaw tightening as he looked down at her. "I'm just pointing out that you're acting like it didn't happen."
"It didn't happen the way you want it to have happened," she said, her eyes narrowing. "It was a moment of chaos, a moment of bad timing, and nothing more. There was no plan, there was no intention to be a shield. I simply moved."
"You always move when it matters," Harry muttered, though he kept his eyes on her face.
"That is a lie and you know it," Draconia said, her voice vibrating with a sudden, sharp intensity. "I move when it is convenient. I move when it serves me. To suggest that I moved for you is to suggest that I am predictable, and there is nothing more insulting than being called predictable."
"You're being loud because you're defensive," he said, a small, tired smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"I am being loud because the truth is often quiet and boring, and I refuse to be boring!" she countered. She could feel the eyes of the entire hall on her, the weight of their judgment and their curiosity. "I am perfectly fine. The wound is healing. The pain is a nuisance, not a tragedy. If you want to coddle me, find someone else to do it, because I do not require your protection or your pained expressions."
"Nobody is coddling you," Harry said, though his eyes betrayed him as they lingered on the way her hand gripped the edge of the table.
"Then stop looking at me as if I am a glass vase about to shatter," she commanded, her voice ringing out once more. "I am made of iron and old grudges, Potter. I do not break."
"You're breaking right now," he said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that felt louder than her shouting.
"I am not!" she insisted, the word cracking slightly at the end, though she caught it with a sharp inhale. "I am perfectly, utterly whole. This is a bruise, a scrape, a momentary lapse in my composure. It is not a symbol. It is not a statement of how much I care about your survival. It is just a mark on my skin."
"It's a mark on your skin that you're trying to hide with your pride," Harry said.
"My pride is the only thing that is not wounded!" Draconia snapped, her eyes flashing with a desperate, bright fire.
She watched him, waiting for the retort, waiting for him to back down or to argue the finer points of her supposed clumsiness. She wanted to see him defeated by her volume, to see him silenced by her refusal to be soft. She stood there in the center of the Great Hall, a wounded girl pretending to be a warrior, throwing her denial around like a weapon. She spoke with a ferocity that left no room for doubt, her voice a shield against the vulnerability of her side.
Harry did not move to defend himself against her accusations. He did not argue with the logic of her claims or the sharpness of her tone. He simply stood there, absorbing the heat of her anger and the volume of her denial. He let her scream her innocence to the rafters, let her claim the moment was nothing more than a reflex, and let her pretend the pain was a triviality. He let her win the argument of words, and then he looked at her and it is worse than arguing.