Greta sat in the Slytherin common room, her fingers tracing the edge of a silver goblet as she watched the green embers of the fire die down. The warmth felt inadequate against the sharp, stinging resentment that lived in her chest. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at once. Her skin still felt the ghost of Filch’s footsteps in the corridor, and the memory of the way Harry had taken her in that silent, locked room made her want to scream and hide. She had expected a certain level of secrecy to accompany her shame, but the air in the dungeons felt crowded with things unsaid.
Pansy moved through the room with her usual sharp grace, her silk robes brushing against the velvet upholstery of the sofas. She looked far too composed for someone who had just survived a week of near-misses and broken charms. Harry was somewhere else, likely in the library or pretending to study, but his absence felt like a physical weight in the room. The way he had looked at her in the hallway, the way he had waited for her at the door—it all felt too visible.
"You've been staring at that goblet for ten minutes, Greta," Pansy said, dropping into the chair opposite her.
Greta blinked, forcing her gaze up from the silver. "I am merely contemplating how much the house-elves overcooked the pudding tonight."
"You are lying," Pansy stated, her voice flat and unapologetic. "You are brooding. It is a very Slytherin trait, but you are doing it with a particular sort of ferocity that suggests you want to set the tapestry on fire."
"I am not brooding," Greta replied, though the lie tasted like ash. "I am simply tired. The term has been long, and the corridors are more labyrinthine than usual."
Pansy tilted her head, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "The corridors are exactly as they have always been. It is your temperament that has shifted. You've been acting as if the entire castle is conspiring to watch you."
"Is it?" Greta asked, her voice a little too sharp. "Because it feels as though every time a door clicks shut, someone is counting the seconds of my absence."
"It is not a conspiracy, though it certainly looks like one," Pansy said. She reached for a plate of biscuits, her movements fluid and unbothered. "People notice when a person is distracted. You are not distracted, Greta. You are preoccupied. There is a difference."
Greta felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a flush of irritation that she could not quite suppress. She hated how easy it was for Pansy to read the tension in her shoulders. "It is not a matter of being preoccupied. It is a matter of things being... complicated."
"Complicated is a very vague word," Pansy noted, popping a biscuit into her mouth. "It is the word people use when they want to keep a secret without actually saying the secret. But you have never been particularly good at keeping secrets, even when you think you are being subtle."
"I am perfectly subtle," Greta snapped, her grip tightening on the silver. "If people are noticing things, it is because they are looking too closely. People should mind their own business in a castle this size."
Pansy laughed, a short, melodic sound that grated on Greta's nerves. "Oh, please. We are all adults here, but we are not blind. You think you are a master of the shadow, but you are practically glowing."
"Glowing with what?" Greta demanded, leaning forward. "Is it a disease? Is it a lack of sleep? Or is it just the sheer exhaustion of having everyone's eyes on me?"
"It is the way you look at the doors," Pansy said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Every time a door is mentioned, or every time a key turns in a lock, you react as if the world is ending. You don't even try to hide it anymore. You used to be so careful about where you went, but lately, you act like you are waiting for someone to catch you."
Greta turned away, staring into the dying fire. She thought of the way Harry's hand had felt over her mouth in that silent room, and how the cold stone of the landing had felt against her skin. She had thought she was being so clever, so careful to keep her transgressions and her longings tucked away behind locked doors and whispered incantations. She had thought the secrecy was her shield, but it was actually her neon sign.
"You act as if it is a grand mystery," Pansy continued, her tone softening just a fraction, though the edge of teasing remained. "But it is quite simple to see. You have been different since the start of the term. You are not just walking the corridors; you are searching them."
"I am not searching for anything," Greta lied, her voice trembling slightly. "I am simply navigating the castle. There is no mystery to solve, Pansy. There is no hidden meaning in my movements."
"There is," Pansy insisted. "You are so busy trying to be invisible that you have become the most visible person in the room. You think you are hiding behind those doors, but you are actually making a noise every time you close one."
"A noise?" Greta asked, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What sort of noise?"
"The noise of someone who wants to be found," Pansy said. She stood up, smoothing her skirt, her expression turning more serious. "You think you are the only one who knows how to read the map, but the rest of us have been watching you trace the lines for a long time."
"It isn't that complicated," Greta whispered, feeling a sudden, fierce urge to weep from the sheer frustration of it all. She wanted to be a mystery, not a predictable pattern.
"It is not complicated at all," Pansy said, reaching out to briefly squeeze Greta's hand. The contact was warm and grounding, yet it felt like a finality. "You've been obvious since first year. We just like you."