The stone floor of the corridor felt cold beneath her boots, but the air was vibrating with a violent, jagged energy. Draconia stood her ground as the boy stumbled backward, his eyes wide and glassed with shock. The spell she had cast was not a subtle one; it was a jagged, crimson thing that hissed as it tore through the air. A streak of red light still clung to the walls, a bruised smear of magic that refused to fade into the grey of the castle. She watched the way the light pulsed against the masonry, a rhythmic, angry throb that matched the heat in her own chest.
Harry Potter stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable and calm. He did not look like a man who had just witnessed a public hexing; he looked like a man watching a storm break over a distant field. He was leaning against the wall, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, observing the wreckage of the spell. The red magic crackled with a low, visceral sound, like the snapping of dry wood in a furnace. It was a violent, ugly color, the shade of a fresh wound, and it felt entirely too loud for a quiet afternoon in the castle.
"That was unnecessary," Harry Potter said, his voice flat and steady.
Draconia did not look at him immediately. She focused on the way the red light licked at the edges of the stone, a bright, angry glow that refused to die. "Unnecessary is a word for people who have the luxury of being polite," she replied, her voice tight. She felt the sting of the magic in her fingertips, a lingering ache that reminded her of the effort it had taken to bend the spell to her will. The hex had hit the boy squarely in the chest, and now he was slumped against a suit of armour, gasbing for air.
"It was a loud way to make a point," Harry Potter remarked, stepping closer to the light. He did not look afraid of the magic, nor did he look impressed by it. He simply looked at the red smear on the wall as if it were a stain on a rug.
Draconia turned her gaze to him, her chin lifted high. "The point was made. He was talking, and now he is silent." She watched the way his messy hair caught the light, a dark silhouette against the flickering red glow of her spell. He was too quiet, and his silence felt like a judgement. It made her want to cast something else, something larger and more destructive, just to see if he would finally react.
"He's not talking because he's struggling to breathe, Draconia," Harry Potter said, using her name with a casualness that felt like a provocation.
"He will breathe when he has learned his place," she snapped. She stepped toward the boy on the floor, her robes sweeping the stone as she moved. The boy was a Hufflepuff, a boy who had spent the last ten minutes making a joke at her expense, and the weight of the insult had been a physical pressure behind her ribs. She had not meant to make it so loud, but the magic had answered the heat in her blood.
Harry Potter moved to stand beside her, his presence a solid, grounding weight in the narrow space. He did not reach out to help the boy, but he did not move away from the red light either. He watched the way the crimson energy pulsed against the wall, a jagged, broken thing. "It's a beautiful hex, in a terrifying sort of way," Harry Potter observed, his eyes fixed on the pulsing light.
"It is not meant to be beautiful," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "It is meant to be felt."
The boy on the floor let out a low, wet groan, and the sound made her stomach turn. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of something that was not quite regret, but a strange, bitter agitation. The red light was still there, a bright, bleeding scar on the corridor, and it felt like a testament to her lack of control. She hated that it had been so loud. She hated that the magic had been so visceral and obvious.
"You should probably check if he's actually dying," Harry Potter suggested, though there was no real urgency in his tone. He was watching her now, his gaze focused on the tension in her jaw.
"He is not dying," Draconia said, though she felt a flicker of uncertainty. "He is simply humbled." She reached out, her hand hovering near the red light, feeling the heat radiating from the spell. It was a warm, angry heat, the kind that stayed in the bones long after a fire went out.
"You always do this," Harry Potter said, his voice a low murmur that barely carried over the crackle of the magic. "You turn a small insult into a grand spectacle."
"It was not an insult; it was a transgression," she corrected him, her eyes flashing. "There is a difference between being insulted and being wronged."
"The difference is usually the amount of magic used," Harry Potter said, a small, lopsive smile touching his lips. It was a fleeting thing, gone before she could truly name it, but it left a sense of frustration in its wake.
Draconia looked away from him, her eyes returning to the boy who was finally beginning to sit up. The red magic was still there, a bright, angry streak of crimson that looked like a tear in the fabric of the room. The silence that followed the outburst was not a peaceful one; it was a heavy, expectant thing that seemed to press against her skin. She felt the eyes of the corridor on her, though no one else was in sight.
"You're a terrifying witch when you're angry," Harry Potter said, his tone shifting to something more observant, more clinical.
"I am not angry," she lied, even as her pulse throbbed in her throat. "I am merely decisive."
"Decisiveness usually doesn't leave scorch marks on the masonry," Harry Potter noted. He stepped around the slumped figure of the boy, walking toward the end of the hall. He stopped and turned back to look at the scene one last time.
Draconia watched him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to say something sharp, something that would drive him back into his own shadow, but the words felt heavy in her mouth. The red light was still pulsing, a rhythmic, dying heartbeat of magic against the stone. She realised then that the boy had not even called for a prefect, and no one had come to see the carnage.
She looked at the way the light hit the stone, and then she looked at the boy's face and the fact that nobody reported it, which was worse.