The Slytherin common room felt far too small for the tension Draconia carried in her shoulders. She sat in a high-backed velvet chair, her legs crossed tightly at the ankles, and stared into the green embers of the fireplace. Every time the heavy stone door creaked open to admit a student from the corridor, she felt a prickle of irritation beneath her skin. The week had been a long, exhausting blur of forced indifference and suppressed memories of the broom shed. The smell of wet earth and damp wool still seemed to cling to her skin, no matter how many times she scrubbed herself in the prefects' washroom.
Pansy sat on the sofa opposite her, peeling an orange with slow, deliberate movements. The scent of the citrus drifted through the air, sharp and bright against the heavy, musty smell of the dungeons. Draconia watched a bead of juice drip from the peel and felt a sudden, irrational urge to reach out and grab it. She was being difficult, and she knew it. She had snapped at Greta for suggesting she take a break from training, and she had ignored three different invitations to sit at the main table during lunch.
"You are being exceptionally prickly today, Draconia," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.
"I am not being prickly," Draconia replied, her tone clipped and flat.
"You are. It is almost impressive how much you are radiating annoyance," Pansy noted, popping a slice of orange into her mouth.
Draconia looked away, tracing the silver embroidery on her sleeve. The memory of Harry's hands on her waist, pulling her against the rough fabric of his robes in the rain, flashed behind her eyes. She could still feel the way his breath had hit her lips before they collided. She refused to think about the way he looked when he was breathless, or the way he had groaned her name when she finally let him move inside her. The shed had been a mess of heat and friction, and now the quiet of the common room felt like a punishment.
"Perhaps the match against Gryffindor has left you in a foul mood," Pansy suggested, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"The match was a matter of luck, not mood," Draconia said, standing up to smooth her skirt. "Potter was simply in the right place at the right time."
"He is always in the right place at the right time, isn't he?" Pansy asked, her voice lacing with a sudden, sharp edge of observation.
Draconia felt the heat rise in her neck, a flush that had nothing to do with the fire. She sat back down, refusing to give Pansy the satisfaction of a visible reaction. The common room was crowded tonight, with several students hovering near the hearth and others huddled over parchment in the corner. The sound of scraping quills and muffled laughter felt loud in her ears. She wanted to be alone, but there was nowhere to go where she wouldn't be seen.
"You have been acting as if the world owes you a debt, and you are waiting to collect," Pansy continued, her voice rising just enough to be heard by the group of sixth-years nearby. "It is quite a lot of arithmetic to do, really. The way you stare at the door every time the wind hits the window, the way you lose your temper when someone mentions the Seeker. It adds up."
"It does not add up to anything," Draconia snapped, her fingers gripping the arms of her chair.
Pansy de leaned forward, her eyes bright with a predatory sort of amusement. "It does. You are behaving like a girl who has had a very specific, very heated encounter and is now trying to pretend she is made of ice."
"I am not a subject of study, Pansy," Draconia said, her voice tight.
"You are a very loud subject of study," Pansy replied, turning her gaze toward the center of the room. "The way you have been snapping at everyone is practically a scream. If you were any more defensive, you would be a fortress."
Draconia felt the weight of several gazes turning toward her. She could feel the eyes of the younger years and the older years alike, all of them watching her composed, frozen mask. She thought of the way Harry had looked in the dim light of the shed, his eyes dark and hungry, his skin slick with sweat and rain. She thought of the way she had felt when she finally let him in, the sensation of his cock filling her, the way her body had arched to meet him. The heat of it was still there, a dull ache in her lower abdomen that she could not shake.
"You are making a scene," Dra easily lied, her voice steady even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
"A scene? You haven't even moved from that chair," Pansy laughed, though her eyes remained serious. "But the energy you are throwing off is massive. It is as if you are trying to punch a hole in the air with your mood."
"Perhaps I am just tired of the constant chatter," Draconia said, her eyes flashing.
"Is it the chatter, or is it the fact that you cannot stop thinking about a certain Seeker?" Pansy asked, her voice projecting toward the table of fifth-years.
The question was a direct hit, and Draconia felt the blood rush to her face. She could feel the tension in her jaw as she forced herself to remain still. She did not want to be the girl who lost her composure over a boy who played Quidditch with too much enthusiasm and a crooked grin. She wanted to be the Chaser who was untouchable, the one who had already won the season in her mind.
"Potter is a teammate, nothing more," Draconia said, her voice ringing out with a clarity that was far too loud for the quieted room.
"He is a teammate you spent twenty minutes in a shed with," Pansy countered, her voice dropping into a lower, more pointed register. "And you are behaving as though he has stolen something from you, even though he hasn't even spoken to you in three days."
"He has not stolen anything," Draconia said, her voice rising a pitch as she felt the eyes of the fifth-year table shift toward her. "He is merely a Seeker who happens to be in the way of my goals."
"You are denying it, but your eyes are telling a completely different story," Pansy said, turning back to her orange with a satisfied smirk.
Draconia felt the prickle of embarrassment, a sharp, stinging sensation that made her want to flee the room and run until she hit the Black Lake. She could feel the warmth of her blush spreading across her cheeks, a heat that felt heavy and undeniable. She looked up, catching the gaze of a fifth-year boy who was staring at her with wide, confused eyes, and she felt the urge to hex him into silence.
"I am not denying anything because there is nothing to deny," Draconia said, her voice reaching a volume that was almost a shout, a voice that reaches the fifth-year table.