The castle felt too large for the few people left inside its walls. Greta stood at the edge of the Great Hall, watching the floating candles flicker in the draft. Most of the students had already departed, leaving the corridors of Hogwarts feeling hollow and stripped of their usual-life. The movement of the world had slowed to a crawl, a sluggish transition from the frantic energy of the term to the grim stillness of the coming war.
Pansy Parkinson was near the Slytherin table, her fingers tracing the rim of a silver goblet. The girl looked polished and brittle, as if she might shatter if someone spoke too loudly. She was not looking at the empty benches, but rather at the empty space where her own future used to reside. Greta watched her for a moment, noting the way Pansy’s jaw remained set in a hard line.
"You should be packing your things, Pansy," Greta said, walking towards her.
Pans de la Vega turned her head, her expression unreadable. "My mother sent a house-elf with my trunks two hours ago. There is nothing left to pack."
"The Ridge is quite beautiful this time of year," Greta remarked, seated herself on the bench beside her friend. "The air is clearer up there, away from the damp of the dungeons."
Pansy nodded, though her eyes remained fixed on the Slytherin crest. "My father expects me at the Manor by nightfall. He says the family needs all its strength now."
"It sounds like a permanent arrangement," Greta said, keeping her voice steady.
Pansy finally looked at her, a small, sharp smile touching her lips. "Everything is a permanent arrangement these days. We are simply moving from one set of rules to another."
The conversation drifted toward the mundane, the sort of chatter people used when they were afraid to speak of the blood being spilled in the distance. Greta watched a single candle drift too far to the left, its flame wobbling in the void. She thought of Harry Potter and the way he seemed to carry the weight of the entire sky on his shoulders. He was often seen in the corridors, a shadow moving through the light, always looking as though he were searching for something he had already lost.
"Have you seen Harry Potter since the last feast?" Pansy asked, her tone casual.
"He was near the library a moment ago," Greta replied, not wanting to name the way her own heart stuttered at the thought of him. "He looks tired."
"He always looks tired," Pansy said, standing up and smoothing the front of her robes. "It is a heavy thing, being the centre of everything."
Greta watched her depart, the girl walking with a purpose that felt rehearsed. Pansy was heading to her family, back to the safety of names and old magic, but there was a stillness in her gait that suggested she was leaving her childhood behind in the stone of the castle.
The movement of the cast was a slow-motion exodus. Greta moved through the entrance hall, passing the portraits that were too tired to even pretend to be awake. She saw Severus Snape standing near the entrance to the dungeons, his black robes blending into the stone. He was not talking to anyone, standing as a sentinel between the school and the world that waited outside. He looked at the Great Hall one last time, a look of profound, quiet finality in his dark eyes.
"Professor," Greta called out as she passed him, her voice echoing in the wide space.
Snape turned his head just enough to acknowledge her presence. "Go to your dormitory, Greta. The time for wandering is nearly over."
"Are you leaving tonight as well?" she asked, stopping her pace.
"I am going to the other side," Snape said, his voice a low, controlled murmur. "To the side that requires a different kind of vigilance."
"It sounds dangerous," she whispered.
"It is a different kind of life," Snape replied, and he turned away to descend the stairs.
Greta felt a sudden chill as she realized he was not just moving to another room, but to another side of a line that had already been drawn in the sand. He was moving toward a destiny that felt as inevitable as the tide. She continued her walk, her boots clicking rhythmically against the floor. The castle felt less like a school and more like a tomb, a grand, stone vessel for memories that would soon be forgotten.
She reached the grand staircase and paused, looking up at the ceiling. The stars were visible through the enchanted canopy, distant and cold. She thought of the way Harry Potter had looked at her during the final examinations, a glance that lasted a second too long to be accidental. He was a man of action and scars, a man who had survived the impossible only to be swallowed by the inevitable.
"Are you still awake, Greta?" a voice called from the landing above.
It was a boy from her year, his face pale in the dim light of the torches. He was clutching a small satchel, his knuckles white from the grip.
"I was just thinking," Greta said, looking up at him.
"The Ridge is already full of people," the boy said, his voice shaking slightly. "My father says the Ridge is the safest place for the unattached."
"It is a beautiful place to hide," Greta agreed.
The boy nodded, but he did not move toward the stairs. He stood there, caught in the transition between the castle and the world. He was leaving the school, but he was not yet anywhere else. Greta felt a strange sensation of vertigo, as if the floor were tilting beneath her feet.
She turned her gaze back toward the Great Hall, where the empty benches sat in long, silent rows. The House of Slytherin had won the cup, and now they were winning the exit, retreating into the shadows of their families and their traditions. The world was shrinking, narrowing down to the few people who remained, and the people who were leaving were leaving pieces of themselves behind.
"You should go," Greta told the boy, though she did not know why she felt the need to urge him on. "The carriages will not wait for the hesitant."
"I suppose not," he said, and he turned to go his separate way.
The silence of the castle was a physical thing, a weight that pressed against her skin. She realised then that the departures were not just physical movements, but structural shifts in the world. People were moving into positions of power, or into positions of exile, or into roles of service. No one was simply going home.
Greta watched the empty spaces where people used to be, feeling the void grow larger with every passing minute. The castle had never been this quiet, and she had never been this loud in her own thoughts, tracing the lines of where everyone was going. She saw the ghosts of the people who had already left, and the ghosts of the people who were still standing there, pretending they were not saying goodbye.
Every goodbye in this chapter was a goodbye, and two of them didn't know it.