Pansy sat on the edge of a velvet armchair in the Slytherin common room, watching the green light of the lamps dance across the surface of her tea. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering shapes against the stone walls. Greta sat opposite her, leaning forward with a look of forced neutrality that failed to hide the sharp edge of her concern. They had spent the last hour discussing the way the school looked at Draconia, as if she were a problem to be solved or a tragedy to be pitied.
"They think you are losing your grip," Greta said, her voice low so the older students at the nearby tables would not hear. "They think you have become soft because of him."
Draconia pulled her shoulders back, feeling the stiffness of her silk robes against her skin. She did not want to admit how much the rumors stung, especially the ones that suggested she was being led by her heart. "Harry Potter is not a leash, Greta. He is a distraction at most."
"A distraction that spends half his time in the dungeons," Pansy interrupted, her eyes darting to the entrance of the common room. "The older boys are talking. They say he comes here to see you when the lights are low. They say he is making a fool of himself by entering Slytherin territory."
Draconia watched a stray spark fly up the chimney. She knew the lie was necessary, a shield to keep the more predatory elements of their house from sensing a weakness. If the school thought she was being manipulated by Harry, they would treat her with a condescending sort of grace. If they thought she was in control, they would treat her with suspicion.
"Let them talk," Draconia said, taking a sip of the tea. "Harry comes here because he is bored of the Gryffindor tower. It is not a grand romance; it is a convenience."
Pansy nodded, though her expression remained tight. "I told my grandmother about the way you look at him. She said that a Malfoy never looks at a boy like he is a prize to be won. She said you look at him like he is a debt you are trying to pay off."
"Your grandmother is a wise woman, Pansy, but she spends too much time reading the tea leaves," Draconia replied. She felt the lie settling in her throat, heavy and smooth. She had to maintain the facade of the transaction, the idea that there was a beginning, a middle, and an end to this entanglement with Harry.
"She also told me that people talk when they see a girl standing in a corner with her fist in a man's collar," Pansy said, her voice dropping an octave. "She knows about the corridor. She knows about the red sparks."
Draconia felt a sudden heat in her cheeks, though she kept her face a mask of boredom. The memory of the red magic and the way Harry had looked at her in the aftermath of her outburst was still too vivid. She had constructed a version of herself that was untouchable, and she was working hard to keep the cracks from showing.
"The red magic was an accident of temperament," Draconia explained, watching Greta pick at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Harry was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He is a clumsy boy who does not know how to stand still."
"Is that why you let him into the common room?" Greta asked, her eyes finally lifting to meet Draconia's. "To watch him be clumsy?"
"He is not clumsy," Draconia said, the words escaping before she could weigh them. "He is deliberate. There is a difference."
The silence that followed was not comfortable. It was the kind of silence that came when a secret was being held too tightly in a small room. Pansy was a master of the social lie; she had spent years perfecting the art of the deflection. She was currently using her grandmother’s supposed wisdom to protect Draconia, weaving a story that minimized the intensity of her connection to Harry.
"I told her you were just using him to settle a score," Pans much whispered, her eyes bright with the thrill of the deception. "I told her he was a tool for your amusement. It sounded more dignified than the truth."
"The truth is a heavy thing to carry around," Draconia said, leaning back into the velvet. "It is easier to pretend it is all a game of chance."
"But it isn't a game, is it?" Pansy asked, her gaze searching Draconia's face. "You are not playing. You are calculating."
"Everything is a calculation," Draconia replied, her voice steady. "Every move in this castle is a move toward a goal. Harry is just a variable that refuses to stay in the margin."
They sat in a quiet rhythm for a few minutes, the sound of the fire the only constant. Draconia wondered if they could see the way her hands trembled slightly as she set her cup down. She had to be careful. If the lie she told to protect Pansy was too transparent, it would crumble. She had spent her entire life learning how to lie with a straight face, but Harry had a way of making her feel as though her skin was made of glass.
"My grandmother says the most dangerous lies are the ones told to protect someone's pride," Pansy said, her voice returning to a casual tone. "She says that when a girl protects a secret, she is usually hiding a wound."
"I am not wounded, Pansy. I am merely occupied," Draconia countered. She felt the urge to stand up and walk away, to find a place where the air was not so full of unspoken things.
"You are doing a good job of it," Greta added, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "The way you talk about him, it makes it sound as if he is nothing more than a chore. A task to be finished."
"Because that is what it is," Draconia said, though the conviction in her voice wavered. "It is a task. It is a debt. It is a thing that must be settled so that the books can be closed."
Pansy watched her closely, her eyes narrowing. The girl knew the shape of the lie, even if she did not know the heart of it. Pansy was a shield, a woman who knew how to wrap a secret in a layer of nonsense to keep it safe from the light. She was currently shielding Draconia from the judgment of the house, but the shield was starting to feel thin.
"Just be careful," Pansy warned, her voice turning serious once more. "If the school thinks you are using him, they will eventually realize that you are actually the one being used. And a Malfoy being used is a very public kind of failure."
"I am not being used," Draconia insisted, her heart racing. "I am the one setting the terms."
"We will see," Pansy said, her eyes drifting toward the door where the shadows of the passing students flickered. "The truth has a way of arriving when you are least prepared to receive it."
Draconia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the dampness of the dungeons. She looked at her friends, seeing the way they held their breath as if waiting for a storm to break. The lie was working, for now, but the structure of it felt fragile. She knew the exchange was coming, the moment where the pretend and the real would collide.
"The thing about a debt," Draconia said, her voice barely a whisper, "is that it is always collected."
Pansy leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the center of the table. "It is a dangerous thing to pretend you have the upper hand when the person you are dealing with is already in your head."
The tension in the room was a physical weight, a pressure that seemed to push against the very stone walls. Drac