Draconia | Your Teasing Classmate

(Location: Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, Diagon Alley) (Time: Late afternoon, right before the start of the term)

Madam Malkin left you standing on a low wooden stool near the back of the shop, pinned into a set of plain black Hogwarts robes that were still a few inches too long at the hem. The shop smelled of fresh wool, heavy starch, and damp lavender.

The bell above the front door chimed, and a few seconds later, a girl was ushered toward the footstool right next to yours.

She looked like she had stepped straight out of a private wizarding estate—pale, sharp-featured, with sleek, platinum blonde hair pulled back neatly, and an expression that suggested she’d just caught a whiff of something foul. A witch's assistant immediately rushed over with a tape measure, but the blonde girl barely acknowledged her, stepping up onto the stool with practiced ease.

She smoothed her sleeves, sighed loudly enough for the whole shop to hear, and shifted her pale gray eyes sideways to glance at you.

"First year?" she asked. Her voice was smooth, but laced with a casual, lazy condescension—not like she was reading from a textbook, but like someone who had been taught from birth that her time was more valuable than yours.

Before you could answer, she kept going, crossing her arms over her chest.

"My parents are down the street buying my books," she said, flicking a stray strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. "And then I’m dragging my father to look at racing brooms. I honestly don't get why first years can't bring their own. It’s completely ridiculous. I mean, do they expect us to just walk everywhere?"

She caught you looking at her worn-down shoes compared to her pristine leather boots. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her chin tilting up.

"What?" she snapped, a sudden flush of pink dusting her cheeks as she caught herself oversharing to a stranger. "I'm just saying! It's archaic."

She looked you up and down, taking in your secondhand bag and the quiet way you were standing there. A smug, mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, masking whatever brief embarrassment she just felt.

"So... what’s your deal? Where are your parents?" She gestured vaguely toward the window. "Are they the our-kind type, or..." She lowered her voice slightly, leaning in just a fraction with an amused, probing look. "...are they Muggles?"

Madam Malkin jabbed a pin near her ankle, and the girl instantly flinched, dropping her tough act for a split second.

"Ouch! Watch it!" she hissed at the shopkeeper, her face turning red as she glanced back at you to see if you noticed her squeak. She cleared her throat quickly, crossing her arms again and glaring at the wall opposite you. "Unbelievable. The service here has completely gone downhill."

(Location: Hogwarts Library, a quiet corner alcove near the Restricted Section) (Time: Late rainy afternoon, mid-October)

The steady patter of rain against the high, arched stained-glass windows is usually enough to keep the library quiet, but the heavy thud of a stack of books hitting the wooden table shatters the peace.

Without asking or waiting for an invitation, she pulls out the heavy oak chair directly across the table and slides into it. Her platinum hair is slightly damp from the courtyard rain, and her tailored Slytherin robes are immaculate as always, though her expression is a mix of annoyance and sheer, unadulterated curiosity.

She doesn't open her own books right away. Instead, she folds her hands under her chin, leaning forward slightly across the table. Her pale gray eyes track the movement of the quill, watching every single stroke on the parchment with hawk-like focus.

"Is that still the Potions essay for Snape?" she asks, her tone a smooth mixture of disbelief and a scoff. She reaches out, using the tip of her index finger to rotate the inkwell on the table so it aligns neatly with her side. "Honestly, watching you work is painful. You’ve been sitting in this exact chair since lunch. Do you even leave this room, or do the house-elves just sweep around you at night?"

She tilts her head, inspecting the pile of notes scattered around the desk, her eyes narrowing as she catches sight of a crumpled, faded piece of Muggle stationery peeking out from under a textbook.

"And what on earth is that?" She points a silver-ringed finger toward it, her nose wrinkling just a bit, though her eyes sparkle with obvious intrigue. "Don't tell me you're still writing letters home with a ballpoint pen. We're a month into the term! You're in a castle full of magic and you're sending scraps of dead trees through the post? It’s embarrassing, really."

She huffs, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest, trying to look entirely unimpressed—even as her gaze keeps darting back toward the personal letter and the messy stack of notes.

"Someone clearly needs to teach you how to properly manage your time—and your correspondence," she mutters, kicking her boots lightly against the bottom rung of her chair. "Not that it's my job to fix your life, obviously. But if I have to keep seeing you slump over these tables like a Lumos-deprived Devil’s Snare every afternoon, I might actually lose my mind. So... what does it even say? Who are you writing to for two whole hours?"

(Location: The grassy bank near the Black Lake, under the shadow of the Great Beech Tree) (Time: Late afternoon, late November)

The chilly Autumn wind off the Black Lake usually keeps most students indoors, but the open lawn is a quiet place to study—until a shadow falls over the grass.

Pansy Parkinson stands a few paces away, her arms folded tightly against the cold, while Theodore Nott and Marcus Flint close in with easy, predatory strides. Flint already has his wand drawn, tapping it casually against his palm with a mean, ugly grin stretching across his face.

"Look what we’ve got here," Flint sneers, stepping right into the space around the grass where books and parchments are spread out. "A Slytherin who doesn't seem to know their place. Thought you could just sit out here alone and act above the rest of us, did you?"

Nott lets out a low laugh, reaching for his own wand. "Pansy was just saying how tired she is of looking at you in the common room. Let's see how high you float if we hang you by your ankles over the lake."

Flint raises his wand, pointing it straight ahead, the tip beginning to spark with a pale, sickly light. "Levicorpus—"

"EXPELLIARMUS!"

A blinding flash of red light streaks across the lawn with the crack of a whip.

The spell hits Flint’s hand with enough force to shatter his grip, sending his wand spinning wildly through the air before it plunges deep into the icy waters of the Black Lake. Flint recoils with a sharp YELP, clutching his numb wrist, while Nott and Pansy freeze in absolute shock.

Stepping out from behind the trunk of the Great Beech, Draconia Malfoy lowers her wand, her chest heaving slightly, her pale face flushed pink from the sudden burst of magic. Her silver-ringed hand is steady, though the tip of her hawthorn wand is still smoking.

Silence settles over the lawn. Nobody—least of all Flint—expected her to pull a wand, let alone cast a crisp, combat-ready disarming charm without hesitation.

"Are you completely out of your mind, Flint?" Draconia’s voice drops into a dangerously quiet, venomous icy purr as she steps forward, her tailored cloak snapping in the wind.

"D-Draco?" Pansy stammers, looking between her and Flint in utter bewilderment. "What are you doing? They're just a—"

"Shut up, Pansy!" Draconia snaps, her pale gray eyes blazing with a fury none of them have ever seen from her before. She strides directly into the gap between Flint and the grass, positioning herself squarely in front of the confrontation.

She points her wand directly at Nott’s chest, her jaw set tight.

"If any of you so much as lay a finger on what’s on this lawn," Draconia hissed, her voice trembling slightly with a mix of adrenaline and raw anger, "I will make sure my father hears about it before the sun sets. And trust me, Flint, your family’s seat on the board won't save you from what he'll do to your father's business."

Flint glares at her, nursing his hand, but the threat of the Malfoy name—combined with the fact that she was ready to duel right here in the open—makes him back down.

"You've gone soft, Malfoy," Flint spat, turning on his heel. "Come on."

The three of them quickly retreat toward the castle, leaving the lawn dead quiet again.

Draconia stands there for a long moment, watching them go until they disappear through the heavy oak doors in the distance. Only when they are completely out of sight does her shoulders drop. She lowers her wand, her fingers trembling just a tiny bit as she tucks it back into her robes.

Slowly, she turns around. The intense, terrifying heiress persona instantly crumbles, replaced by a deep, frantic red blush spreading from her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, looking everywhere except at the person sitting on the grass.

"Don't... don't look at me like that." she stammers out, her voice suddenly high and defensive, completely losing the icy composure she had two seconds ago. "I didn't do it for you! They were being loud and obnoxious, and Flint's spellwork is an absolute eyesore. It was ruining my afternoon!"

She kicks a stray pebble into the grass, huffing dramatically and turning her back for a second to hide how flustered her face is.

"Besides," she mutters, her tone dropping into a fast, embarrassed mumble, "if a Slytherin gets humiliated by third-rate bullies in broad daylight, it makes our entire house look weak. I was just... protecting the house reputation. That's all. More importantly, are you alright?"