The Great Hall was a cavern of noise and clattering silver, but Draconia sat in a pocket of absolute stillness. She kept her back straight, her chin level, and her eyes fixed on the empty space just above the golden plates. Every movement she made was measured and deliberate. She did not lurch when a student bumped her chair, nor did she flinch when a heavy platter of roast beef landed on the table with a dull thud. Her movements were a series of small, controlled gestures that suggested a woman who had mastered the art of being present without being seen.
Pansy sat across from her, picking at a bowl of fruit with a bored expression. The sunlight from the high windows hit the surface of Draconia's pumpkin juice, casting a small, bright circle on the linen cloth. Draconia watched the light, refusing to let her gaze wander toward the Gryffindor table. She knew he was there. She did not need to look up to know where Harry Potter sat, nor did she need to hear his voice to feel the shape of his presence in the room.
"You are being very quiet today," Pansy remarked, her voice slicing through the general din of the morning meal.
"One does not need to be loud to be heard," Draconia replied, her tone as smooth as polished marble.
"You're being strange," Pansy said, leaning forward to inspect the perfect smoothness of Draconia's robes. "It's like you've gone frozen. Did something happen in the east wing?"
"The weather is simply quite brisk this morning," Draconia said, offering a smile that did not reach her eyes.
"It is nearly spring, Draconia. It is not brisk."
"Perhaps the temperature is subjective," Draconia said, her voice light and airy.
She took a small, precise bite of toast, chewing it thoroughly before swallowing. She was performing the role of the perfect student, the perfect heiress, and the perfect stranger. The transaction from the previous night felt like a secret-kept-in-a-bottle, a heavy thing she had tucked away in the corner of her mind. She had told him there were no feelings, a lie she had breathed into his skin, and now she was determined to live by that lie with rigorous, clinical precision.
The breakfast continued with the usual rhythm of the house. Draconia kept her eyes on her plate, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was a statue of a girl, carved from ice and etiquette. Every time she felt the urge to look toward the Gryffindor table, she tightened her grip on her silver spoon. She would not give him the satisfaction of a glance. She would be so polite, so exquisitely distant, that he would realize he had gained nothing from their collision.
"Draconia, are you even listening?" Pansy asked, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
"Of course, Pansy. You were discussing the upcoming charms exam," Draconia said, her voice perfectly melodic.
"No, I wasn't. I was talking about the way the Slytherin prefects look like they've seen a ghost."
"They do look quite pale today," Draconia agreed, tilting her head just a fraction of an inch.
A sudden burst of laughter erupted from a nearby table, and Draconia felt a sharp, familiar pull in her chest. She forced herself to remain unmoved. She was not a girl who lost control; she was a girl who practiced her bows and her duels and her silence. She was a girl who could be a favour and a transaction and a shadow all at once.
"You're acting like you're made of glass," Pansy muttered, shaking her head. "It's unnerving. Just say something normal."
"I am being perfectly normal," Draconia said, her smile widening just enough to be convincing.
"You're being terrifying," Pansy corrected.
Draconia stood up, her movements fluid and graceful. She smoothed the front of her robes, ensuring there was not a single crease to be found. She felt the weight of her own composure, a heavy cloak of etiquette that shielded her from the heat of the previous night. She walked toward the doors of the Great Hall, her stride even and rhythmic. She did not look back, even when she felt the sensation of eyes following her.
The corridors were cooler than the Hall, the stone walls damp and unyielding. Draconia walked with her head high, her fingers brushing the wall as she navigated the turns. She was a master of the social grace, the kind of girl who knew exactly how much to bow and how much to tilt her head. She was a girl of protocol.
"Draconia!"
The voice was familiar, slightly rough, and it hit her like a physical weight. She stopped, but she did not turn around immediately. She allowed herself a moment to compose her expression, to ensure her face was a mask of pleasant, distant warmth. When she finally turned, Harry was standing a few feet away. He looked dishevelled, his hair a mess and his tie slightly crooked. He looked like a man who had been woken by a storm, whereas she looked like a woman who had been born in a ballroom.
"Good morning, Potter," she said, her voice a perfect chime of politeness.
"You're... you're being very formal," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked uncomfortable, his eyes searching hers for a crack in the veneer.
"Is there a reason to be anything else?" Draconia asked, her tone light and inquisitive. "We are in a place of learning, after all."
"You're acting like we've never even spoken," he said, stepping closer to her.
"We have spoken many times," Draconia said, her smile remaining fixed and bright. "Our conversations are quite standard, are they not?"
"Standard? Draconia, you're acting like you're a stranger to me."
"Being a stranger is a very efficient way to live," she said, her voice dropping a fraction in pitch. "It prevents so many complications."
"Is that what you want? To avoid complications?"
"Complications are for people who lack discipline," Draconia replied, her eyes bright and clear.
She watched him flinch. It was a small movement, a tightening of his jaw, but she saw it. She had spent her life learning how to read the subtle shifts in a room, and she knew exactly how much her politeness was hurting him. It was a weapon, honed and sharp, and she was using it to carve a distance between them that felt wider than the Black Lake.
"You don't have to do that," he said, his voice low and strained.
"Do what, exactly?" she asked, her expression one of pure, guileless innocence.
"The... the way you're looking at me. Like I'm just some classmate you' never met. It's too much."
"I find that being polite is never a mistake," Draconia said, her voice a silken thread.
"It's not polite, Draconia. It's freezing."
"Then perhaps you should find somewhere warmer," she suggested, her smile never wavering.
"You're doing it on purpose," he said, his eyes darkening with a frustration that she could almost taste.
"Doing what on purpose?" she asked, her head tilting in a way that was both elegant and infuriating.
"Everything. The way you're standing. The way you're talking. You're doing it harder than usual."
"You don't have to do that," he said, and she did it harder.