Greta sat on the stone bench near the entrance to the dormitory stairs, her legs crossed at the ankles. She watched the movement of the common room, tracking the way people shifted in their seats and the way eyes drifted toward the fireplace. The tension in the Slytherin house had changed since the window seat incident. People were no longer just whispering about Draconia and the Gryffindor; they were watching for the way she reacted to the very idea of him. Greta knew the hierarchy of the house better than most, and she saw the way the younger years looked to the older ones for a cue on how to feel.
The girl next to Greta tapped a quill against a piece of parchment, the sound sharp and rhythmic. Greta did not look up from her book, but she listened to the way the footsteps approached the staircase. It was a heavy, purposeful tread that did not belong to a Slytherin. It was a sound of someone who did not care about the etiquette of a quiet common room. She knew it was him before he even rounded the corner. Harry was a clumsy presence in a house that prided itself on grace, yet his presence felt increasingly natural to the people who lived here.
"He is coming this way again," a girl whispered from a few feet away.
Greta turned a page of her book, her expression remaining neutral. "He is allowed to walk, is he not?"
"Not here, not like this," the girl replied, her voice pitched in a way that suggested she was making sure others could hear.
Greta looked up then, catching the eye of a third-year who was staring pointedly at the stairs. The girl looked away quickly, pretending to be deeply interested in her own feet. Greta felt a strange sort of satisfaction in the way the atmosphere tightened whenever he approached the vicinity of the dormitories. It was not just about him; it was about the way Draconia held her ground. If Draconia was the one who had opened the door, then the people around her were the ones who had to decide whether to slam it shut or let him in.
The stairs were a narrow transition point, a place where a person could be caught or cornered. Greta decided she would be the one to manage the flow. She stood up, smoothing the front of her robes, and moved a few inches closer to the base of the stairs. She wanted to be a physical barrier, a person who could signal the intent of a visitor before they reached the higher levels. It was a small, silent way to be a bodyguard without ever calling herself one.
A group of boys drifted toward the entrance of the corridor, their voices low and conspiratorial. They were heading toward the direction of the stairs, likely hoping to catch a glimpse of the commotion or perhaps a glimpse of Draconia herself. Greta stepped slightly into their path, not enough to be rude, but enough to force them to acknowledge her presence. They slowed, their eyes darting to her and then back to the corridor.
"Are you waiting for someone, Greta?" one of the boys asked, his voice lacking any real warmth.
"Just enjoying the air," Greta said, her tone flat and unyielding.
The boy snorted, but he did not push past her. He waited a moment, then moved a wider arc around her. Greta watched them go, noting the way they glanced back over their shoulders. They were looking for a sign, a moment of weakness or a moment of scandal, but Greta gave them nothing but a steady, watchful gaze. She was the gatekeeper of this small, private stretch of the castle.
A few minutes later, the sound of his footsteps returned. This time, it was not a heavy tread, but a hesitant one. Harry looked as though he were walking through a minefield, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of an ambush. He saw Greta and paused, his shoulders dropping an inch. He looked tired, the kind of tiredness that came from carrying a secret that everyone was talking about.
"The stairs are quite clear," Greta told him, her voice loud enough to carry but not so loud that it sounded like a herald's cry.
Harry grinned, a small, lopsided thing that reached his eyes. "I was hoping for a challenge, but it seems you have them under control."
"They are under control because I am sitting here," Greta said. She gestured to the space behind her, the way the path led upward toward the dormitories. "Go on. Nobody is looking at you. They are all too busy looking at the empty space where you should be."
"Is that a compliment?" Harry asked, stepping closer to the stairs.
"It is an observation," Greta replied. "If you want to get up there without a dozen people judging your every step, you should move quickly."
"Thanks, Greta," he said, and he moved past her with a quick, grateful nod.
She watched him ascend, the way he didn't look back, the way he moved with a singular purpose. He was not a ghost in this house; he was a person, and she wanted him to be treated as one. She saw a couple of the older girls at the table near the fireplace watching him go, their expressions unreadable. They were waiting to see if he would linger or if he would disappear into the shadows of the upper floors.
Greta sat back down, her hands resting in her lap. She felt the weight of the room’s scrutiny, but she did not let it unsettle her. She had spent the last few days observing the way the house reacted to the changes in Draconia, and she knew that the stairs were the most vulnerable point of contact. If the boys from the other houses wanted to reach the girls' dormitories, they had to pass through this specific corridor, and they had to pass through her.
The evening wore on, and the common room grew quieter as the late hours approached. A few people drifted away to their rooms, leaving the fire to burn low and the green lamps to cast long, soft light across the furniture. Greta stayed in her spot, a silent sentinel at the base of the staircase. She saw the way the shadows played against the stone, and she heard the distant, muffled sounds of the castle settling for the night.
A group of fourth-years approached the stairs, their voices hushed and frantic. They were clearly trying to be quiet, but their excitement was palpable. They stopped a few feet from Greta, exchanging looks that were far too knowing for a Tuesday night.
"Do you think they are still up there?" one of them whispered, her eyes wide.
"They are always up there," Greta answered, not moving an inch.
"Do you think he'll come back down?" another asked, leaning forward as if to get a better view of the corridor.
Greta looked at them, her expression cool and unimpressed. She saw the way they were trying to be subtle, but they were as loud as a thunderstorm in the quiet of the night. They wanted to be part of the story, to be the ones who caught the moment of truth. But Greta was not about to let them have it so easily.
"If he comes down, you will hear him," Greta said. "And if he doesn't, you'll just be standing in the dark feeling foolish."
The girls retreated a few steps, looking slightly embarrassed by their own eagerness. Greta felt a sense of triumph. She was not just a student in this house; she was a part of its pulse. She understood how the social currents worked, and she knew how to steer them. She knew that if she stood her ground, the others would eventually follow her lead.
She watched a shadow move near the corner of the hallway, and for a second, she thought she saw a flash of a Gryffindor tie. Her heart gave a small, unexpected thud of excitement. She waited, her breath held, but the shadow passed and the corridor remained still. It was a quiet victory, a small one, but it was hers.
A boy