The Slytherin changing room felt smaller than usual because of the tension. Draconia sat on a wooden bench, pulling a thick woollen sock over her foot, while the damp scent of grass and sweat filled the space. Greta sat beside her, buffing a Beater's bat with a piece of enchanted cloth that moved of its own accord. Greta did not talk much, but her presence was a heavy, solid thing that Draconia had come to rely on during the more frantic minutes of a match. The girl was a force of nature, a tall woman with broad shoulders and eyes that saw everything but said nothing.
"You were too close to the Bludger in the second quarter," Greta said, not looking up from her bat. Her voice was low and had a rough edge to it.
Draconia pulled her robes over her shoulders, smoothing the fabric against her hips. "I had it under control, Greta. I was just testing the trajectory."
"You were being reckless," Greta countered, finally meeting her gaze. "If that Bludger had caught you instead of the ball, you would have been in the hospital wing for a week."
"I am not a fragile thing," Draconia said, her voice sharpening. She hated being coddled, even by someone as formidable as Greta.
Greta merely shrugged, a single, heavy movement of her shoulders. "Even a diamond cracks if you hit it with a sledgehammer."
A boy from the lower years, a lanky Gryffindor who had been hovering near the doorway of the pitch, stepped into the corridor just as the Slytherin team began to move toward the exit. He was a clumsy person, the kind of person who existed to be an obstacle. He bumped into Draconia as she walked past, his shoulder catching her arm and sending her stumbling a fraction of an inch. It was a small, insignificant collision, the kind that happens a dozen times in a crowded hallway.
"Watch it," the boy muttered, though he did not look particularly apologetic. He looked up at Draconia with a squint, his expression one of mild, unearned arrogance. "You're in the way, Malfoy."
Draconia felt the familiar prickle of irritation rising in her throat. She opened her mouth to deliver a retort that would strip his dignity bare, but Greta was already moving. It was not a fast movement, but it was a decisive one. Greta stepped into the boy's path, her arm extending in a blur of motion. There was a sharp, sickening sound of cartilage snapping. The boy’s head snapped back, and he recoiled, clutching his face as blood began to seep from his nose.
"Greta!" Draconia gasped, the word catching in her throat.
The boy was on his knees in the stone corridor, gasping for air as he tried to stem the flow of blood with his hands. The red stain spread quickly against his pale skin. Greta did not look at him with any sort of pity or even malice; she simply looked down at him as if he were a fallen piece of equipment. She turned her gaze back to Draconia, her expression entirely unchanged.
"He was in the way," Greta said simply.
Dricaonias watched the boy scramble away, his footsteps heavy and uneven on the stone. She felt a strange mixture of shock and a dark, shameful sort of satisfaction. She had been the target of his clumsy disrespect, and Greta had simply erased the problem. It was a brutal way to handle a minor slight, but it was effective.
"You didn't have to do that," Draconia said, though she was already walking toward the common room, her pace steady.
"He needed to learn," Greta replied, falling into step beside her. "People tend to bump into things they should respect."
They walked in silence through the winding corridors, the stone walls cool and damp against their passing. Draconia found herself watching the way Greta moved. There was no hesitation in her stride, no lightness to her step. She walked like someone who owned the ground she stood upon. It was a quality Draconia admired, even if she would never admit it aloud.
"Was it really about the collision?" Draconia asked, breaking the silence as they reached the entrance to the dungeons.
"It was about the attitude," Greta said. "The collision was just the excuse."
"You're very protective," Draconia noted, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
"It isn't protection if it's unasked for," Greta countered. "It's just a reaction."
They entered the Slytherin common room, which was quieter than the pitch had been. The green light from the Black Lake filtered through the windows, casting long, undulating shapes across the floor. Draconia sat in a velvet armchair, watching the fire crackle in the hearth. She felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest, a realization of how much she relied on these unspoken loyalties. She could buy a person's service, and she could certainly hex a person into submission, but she could not force someone to stand in the gap for her.
"Do you think he'll be alright?" Draconia asked, thinking of the boy and his broken nose.
Greta leaned against the mantle, her silhouette dark against the green-tinted light. "He'll be fine. His nose will set, and he'll forget why he was being a fool."
"Most people wouldn't forget," Draconia said.
"Most people aren't as lucky as him," Greta replied.
Draconia watched the fire, her mind drifting to Harry and the way he looked at her when they were on the pitch. Everything in her life was a calculation, a move in a game of chess that she was constantly winning. But Greta was different. Greta did not play the game; she was the board itself. She was the solid foundation that did not require a reason to exist.
"You're thinking too much," Greta said, her voice cutting through the silence.
"I am always thinking," Draconia replied, her eyes fixed on the flames.
"That's your problem. You think you can control the outcome of every interaction," Greta said. She moved toward the door, her departure as abrupt as her arrival. "But some things just happen."
Draconia watched her go, the girl's retreating form a shadow against the emerald light. She realized then that she could spend all her gold on the finest silk or all her magic on the most complex charms, and it would never buy the kind of loyalty Greta gave. It was a silent, violent, and beautiful thing. She realized that even in the middle of a storm or a heated match, she was never truly alone because of the people who stood by her without a word.
She sat there for a long time, the warmth of the fire barely touching her skin. The realization settled in her bones, heavy and certain. She could win the cup, she could beat Harry, and she could dominate the pitch, but the quiet strength of a friend was a different kind of victory. She understood now that friendship is the thing she cannot buy, insult, or hex.