The stone floor of the changing room felt cold against her skin, a stark contrast to the damp heat still clinging to her muscles. Draconia sat on the bench, pulling a dry robe over her shoulders to hide the faint, red marks left by the storm. Her skin was still sensitive from the friction of the pitch gate, and every movement felt heavy. The dampness of her hair made her head feel weighted, a dull ache starting behind her eyes. She watched the steam rise from the hot water buckets, the white vapour curling toward the ceiling.
"You look like you've been through a war, Draconia," Pansy said, leaning back as she brushed her hair.
"It was just a storm, Pansy," Draconia replied, her voice steady despite the way her heart hammered at the memory of the pitch.
"A storm that left you looking particularly dishevelled," Pansy countered, a smirk playing on her lips.
The door creaked open, and the Slytherin team began to filter in, smelling of wet earth and adrenaline. The heavy scent of damp wool and sweat filled the small, stone-walled space. Draconia kept her eyes on her boots, lacing them tight to avoid looking at anyone. She felt the shift in the room as the energy sharpened, the casual chatter of the players turning into the focused, jagged edge of a team after a hard-fought match.
Flint walked in last, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, looking every bit the exhausted captain. He didn't head for the showers immediately; instead, he stood in the centre of the room, his gaze sweeping over the group. He looked tired, his eyes dark with the fatigue of the season, but there was a sharpness in his expression that made Draconia straighten her spine. He was a man who knew how to read a room, and he knew exactly where the cracks were.
"Good game, everyone," Flint said, his voice low and resonant in the small space.
"We could have played harder," a Beater muttered from the corner, wiping mud from his forearm.
"We played to the conditions," Draconia said, her voice cutting through the murmurs.
Flint turned his attention toward her, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to her bench. The movement was deliberate, a slow, calculated approach that made the air feel suddenly narrow. He stood over her, his shadow stretching long across the damp stone. He didn't look like a man who was satisfied with a win; he looked like a man who had found something he could use.
"You were playing differently today, Draconia," Flint said, his tone deceptively casual.
"I don't see what the problem is, Flint," she answered, meeting his gaze with a practiced coolness.
"The problem isn't the play; it's the focus," he said, tilting his head. "You're chasing the Quaffle like you're trying to kill it, but your eyes are constantly drifting toward the Seeker's position."
The room went quiet, the sound of splashing water in the background feeling strangely loud. Draconia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a flush of irritation that she tried to mask as boredom. She could feel the eyes of the other players on her, the silent scrutiny of the team.
"Harry is in his position because that is where the Seeker stays," she said, her voice clipped.
"It's more than that," Flint said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You're distracted. You're playing as if you're waiting for something to happen, or as if you're reacting to a person rather than a game."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, standing up to face him, her hands gripping the edge of the wooden bench.
"Is it ridiculous?" Flint asked, his voice dropping an octave. "Because it looks to me like you're losing your edge because you're too busy watching a certain Seeker catch the Snitch."
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, the kind of silence that felt like a physical weight in the room. Draconia felt a sharp prickle of defensiveness, her jaw tightening. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him he was projecting his own obsessions onto her, but she kept her expression neutral. She knew how he worked; he used leverage to keep the team tight, and he had just found her weakest point.
"I'm playing my part, Flint," she said, her voice smooth and unwavering.
"Are you?" he asked, stepping even closer, his presence overwhelming the small space. "Because it looks like your heart isn't in the score, it's in the spectator stands."
Pansy let out a small, sharp breath, but the rest of the team remained still, watching the confrontation unfold. The tension was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Draconia could feel the sweat cooling on her skin, the chill of the room seeping back into her bones. She wondered if he could see the way her pulse was racing in the hollow of her throat.
"You're making a mountain out of a molehill," she said, a soft, melodic laugh escaping her lips. "It's just a game, isn't it?"
She turned away from him, pretending to be occupied with her discarded robes, her eyes fixed on a point on the floor. She felt the weight of his gaze on her back, heavy and unyielding. She had spent months perfecting the art of being untouchable, of keeping her emotions behind a wall of ice and sarcasm. To have him peel it back so easily, in front of the entire team, felt like a violation.
"It's not a molehill when it affects the formation," Flint said, his voice regaining its authoritative edge.
"It's a distraction, and you know it," she added, still not looking up.
"If it's a distraction, you'll fix it," he commanded, though there was a hint of a challenge in his tone.
"I've already fixed it," she said, finally looking up and forcing a bright, effortless smile.
She laughed it off, the sound ringing clear and hollow against the damp stone walls, and one person in the room doesn't.