The Great Hall felt cavernous without the frantic energy of hundreds of students to fill the gaps between the stone walls. Floating candles drifted through the upper reaches of the room, casting uneven circles of light across the long, wooden tables that stood in silent rows. Greta walked along the perimeter of the Slytherin table, her footsteps echoing against the flagstones. Everything was too still. The school had emptied only yesterday to prepare for the coming war, leaving the castle in a state of suspended animation.
She reached the centre of the hall where the Slytherin victory trophy sat. It was a heavy, glinting thing, a testament to seven years of dominance. The silver caught the light of the flickering tapers, casting long glimmers across the polished surface of the table. Greta stood before it, her hands curled into her fists at her sides. The metal was cold and hard, a stark contrast to the soft, aching hollowness in her chest. She had spent years fighting for this glory, yet the prize felt hollow now that the air was empty of chatter and clatter.
Harry Potter was not in the hall, but his absence felt like a physical weight. Every time she looked at the empty seats, she saw the places where people should be sitting. The silence was not a peaceful thing; it was an aggressive, heavy presence that pressed against her ears. She wondered where Harry Potter was at this exact moment, whether he was staring at a ceiling or a map or a different kind of silence. He was always the centre of every storm, and even in his absence, the centre of the room seemed to revolve around the memory of him.
Greta moved closer to the Slytherin table, tracing the edge of the wood with a single finger. The wood was grain-heavy and old, much older than her own life. She felt small in the vastness of the hall, a single point of existence in a room built for grandeur. The candles above her bobbed in a non-existent breeze, their flames dancing without a source of movement to guide them. It was unnerving to be in a place of such profound stillness when her mind was a riot of noise.
"You shouldn't be wandering the corridors alone," a voice said, breaking the stillness.
Greta turned to see Harry Potter standing a few feet away. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes darker than they had been a week ago. His robes were slightly rumpled, making him look less like a hero and more like a man who had forgotten how to sleep. He did not move toward her, but stayed rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the trophy.
"The castle is empty, Harry Potter, so there is no one to tell me to be careful," Greta replied.
Harry Potter stepped into the light of a nearby floating candle. He looked at the trophy, his expression unreadable. "It looks different when no one is looking at it. It looks like a piece of metal instead of a victory."
"It is just a cup," Greta said, though she knew she was lying. "It is just a piece of silver to prove we were better than everyone else."
"Is that what you want to be?" Harry asked, his voice low. "Better than everyone else?"
Greta looked at him, really looked at him, noting the way his hair fell over his forehead. He looked as though he were bracing for a blow that had not yet landed. "I want to be someone who survives," she said. "Is that a valid ambition?"
Harry Potter let out a short, dry laugh that had no warmth in it. "Survival is a very high ambition in a year like this."
"You say that as if it is a common thing," Greta said.
"It is the only thing that matters," Harry replied. He walked toward the table, his footsteps heavy on the stone. "The war doesn't care about the house cup, Greta. The war doesn't care about Slytherin or Gryffindor."
"But we should care," she insisted, her voice rising slightly. "If we don't care about the things we fought for, then we have already lost."
Harry Potter reached the table and stood beside her. He did not touch her, but the warmth radiating from his body felt like a hearth in the middle of a cold room. "The things we fought for are changing. The rules are changing."
"You always sound so certain," Greta whispered.
"I am rarely certain," Harry admitted. "I am just tired of being wrong."
The silence descended upon them again, but it was different now that he was standing there. The two of them were an island in a sea of empty benches and vanished students. Greta watched a candle drift higher, its flame stretching thin and bright. She felt the urge to scream, to shatter the stillness with a single, sharp sound, just to prove that she still existed within these walls.
"Do you think it will be different when we leave?" Greta asked.
Harry Potter looked up at the ceiling, where the enchanted stars were dimming. "I think it will be different because we won't be here to see it."
"That is a bleak thought," she said, her heart thudding against her ribs.
"It is an honest thought," Harry replied.
Greta turned back to the trophy, her eyes tracing the intricate carvings on its side. The silver was perfect, unblemished and bright, yet it felt stagnant. She wanted to reach out and grab it, to feel the weight of it in her hands, to prove that the victory was real. The emptiness of the hall was a vacuum, pulling the breath from her lungs. She felt as though she were the only living thing left in a world of stone and shadow.
"Everything is so quiet," Greta said, her voice trembling.
Harry Potter turned to her, his eyes catching the light. "It is the kind of quiet that precedes a storm."
She wanted to tell him that the quiet was deafening. She wanted to tell him that the stillness was a lie, a temporary mask worn by a world that was about to break. She felt the tension in her jaw, the way her breath hitched in the hollow space of her lungs. The castle had never been this quiet and she had never been this loud.