The sight of her in the stands had not been a fleeting thing. It remained a fixed point in the collective memory of the school, a jagged shape left in the wake of a moving ship. Every time she walked through the entrance hall, she felt the eyes tracking her movement. It was not the way people looked at a celebrity or a star, but the way they looked at a collision. People watched her as if she might shatter or, more likely, as if she might finally strike one of them.
"You are walking too fast," Greta said, her voice low and sharp.
Draconia slowed her pace, though she did not stop. She watched a group of Gryffindors part around her, their eyes wide and curious. They did not look at her face; they looked at the space behind her. Crabbe and Goyle were there, as they always were, walking a half-step behind her. They did not touch her, but they occupied the space with a heavy, predictable presence. They were like two stone pillars that had grown legs and learned to eat.
"I am walking at a normal pace," Draconia replied.
"You are not," Greta insisted, stepping closer to her side. "You are walking like you are trying to outrun a storm."
"It is a storm of staring," Draconia said.
"It is more than staring," Greta said. "They are talking. They are already deciding what you did in the stands."
The girls at the end of the corridor whispered as she passed. Draconia kept her chin high, refusing to look at them. She knew the look on Pansy Parkinson’s face would be the worst of it. Pansy did not just stare; she judged the quality of the air. If Draconia was a subject of scrutiny, Pansy would treat her as a specimen under a glass slide.
They reached the Great Hall for lunch, the massive doors swinging open to reveal the long tables. The chatter of the hall dipped as she entered. It was a subtle dip, a momentary lull in the rhythm of voices, but it was enough to tell her that the ripple had reached the water. She took her seat at the Slytherin table, and immediately, the two boys flanked her. Goyle sat to her left, his large frame casting a shadow over her plate. Crabbe took the seat on her right, his presence a solid, warm wall.
"Did you see them?" Pansy asked, her voice cutting through the air.
Draconia looked up from her plate, meeting Pansy’s eyes. Pansy was leaning forward, her fingers twisting a silk napkin.
"See who?" Draconia asked.
"The way they were watching you," Pansy said. "It was quite blatant. Even the Hufflepuffs were looking."
"They were just sitting there," Draconia said.
"They were not just sitting," Pansy snapped. "They were hovering. It looked... unseemly. Like they were waiting for a command."
"Maybe they were just finished with the game," Draconia suggested.
"You do not sit in the stands for a game you have no interest in," Pansy said. She turned to the rest of the table, her eyes scanning the faces of the other Slytherins. "Everyone is talking about it. It is all anyone can say."
"It is not that interesting, Pansy," Greta said, reaching for a piece of toast.
"It is interesting if you are the one in the middle of it," Pansy countered.
Draconia felt a dull ache in her chest. She did not want to be the centre of a conversation, but she felt the weight of the two boys beside her. They were not talking. They were eating, their movements slow and deliberate. Goyle reached for a pitcher of juice, his arm brushing against Draconia’s shoulder. He did not apologize, nor did he pull away. He simply continued his meal, a silent, massive presence that seemed entirely unaware of the scrutiny of the room.
"They are like your shadows," Pansy said, her voice dropping to a more confidential tone. "But shadows usually move when the light moves. They stayed there. They stayed perfectly still while the whole school watched."
"They are just being loyal," Draconia said.
"Loyalty is one thing," Pansy said, her eyes narrowing. "But this looks like an obsession. Or a debt. People are wondering what you said to them to make them follow you like that."
"I did not say anything to make them follow me," Draconia said.
"Then why do they look like they would bite anyone who looked at you?" Pansy asked.
Draconia took a sip of her pumpkin juice, feeling the coolness in her throat. She could feel the heat of the boys on either side of her. They were not just muscle; they were an anchor. If she moved, they moved. If she sat, they sat. The silence from them was not empty; it was heavy and full of a purpose she could not quite name.
"Are you going to tell them?" Greta asked quietly.
Draconia looked at her friend. "Tell them what?"
"That you like the attention," Greta said.
"I do not like the attention," Draconia said.
"Then you should learn to ignore it," Greta said. "Because they are not going to stop. They are already making up stories about you and the two of them. They say you have them under a spell."
"A spell?" Draconia asked.
"A very quiet one," Greta said.
The lunch period ended with the usual rush of students leaving the hall, but the tension remained. Draconia walked through the corridors, feeling the way the light hit the stone walls. The boys were always there, a constant, breathing frame to her existence. She felt as though she were walking through a gallery of people who were all looking at the same painting.
In the library, the silence was different, but the observation was the same. She saw a group of Ravenclaws looking up from their books as she passed, their heads tilting in unison. She saw a boy from Gryffindor nudge his friend and point toward the corner where Crabbe and Goyle stood guard.
"It is getting worse," Greta whispered as they sat in a quiet corner of the library.
"It is just a week of talking," Draconia said.
"It is not just a week," Greta said. "It is a change. People are looking at you differently. They are looking at you as if you have been marked."
"I am not marked," Draconia said.
"You are," Greta insisted. "You are the centre of a very strange circle."
Draconia opened her book, but the words blurred. She could feel the eyes of the room, the weight of the unspoken questions. Was she a leader, or was she a captive? Were the boys her protectors, or were they her keepers? She could feel the heat of their presence in the room, a silent, hulking force that demanded recognition.
"Do you think they will ever say anything?" Draconia asked.
"They do not talk much," Greta said.
"I mean the boys," Draconia said.
"They don't need to talk," Greta said. "They are making enough noise just by being there."
The week progressed with a mounting sense of unease. Every hallway was a gauntlet, every meal a performance. The whispers followed her like a scent. She saw the way the older Slytherins looked at her, their expressions a mix of confusion and mild disdain. The hierarchy was shifting, or at least she felt it was.
By the time Thursday arrived, the whispers had turned into something more solid. It was no longer just about the stands; it was about the way she existed in the world. The rumour mill had her engaged by Thursday.