"You know," she said, her voice soft and certain, "it is better to say nothing at all when the words are not worth the breath."
The silence in the common room had been a gift, a rare moment where Greta and Harry were simply two people existing in a shared space without the jagged edges of expectation. Now, that silence was a memory, replaced by the sharp, jagged edges of a dozen whispers trailing through the Slytherin dormitory. It was not the heavy, obvious gossip of Pansy Parkinson, which usually felt like a blunt instrument to the face. This was different. This was a subtle, stinging thing, a rumour that had been peeled of its obviousness and served as a weapon.
Greta sat in the corner of the library, her fingers tracing the edge of a heavy parchment. She could feel the eyes of the younger students on her, their gazes darting toward her and then away when she turned her head. The rumour was simple and vile; it suggested that her recent lulls in temper were not a sign of maturity, but a symptom of a broken spirit, a weakness she had cultivated to garner sympathy from Harry. It was a clever lie because it used her own growth as a point of contention.
"She looks far too serene for someone who has lost so much control," a girl whispered from two tables over.
"It is a performance," a boy replied, his voice low but carrying perfectly in the quiet of the library. "Harry Potter must be the reason. She is playing the martyr to keep his attention."
Greta felt a prickle of heat at the base of her neck, but she did not let her expression change. She knew that if she reacted, the rumour would win. She had spent her life learning how to hold her chin high when the world expected her to tilt it toward the floor. To be insulted was one thing, but to have her very character dissected and reassembled into something pathetic was an insult to her intelligence.
Harry appeared from behind a bookshelf, his hair more dishevelled than usual. He looked at her with a furrowed brow, his eyes searching hers for a sign of the distress the whispers implied. He did not need to ask what was happening; he could feel the tension in the air. Harry was always too observant for his own good, noticing the way the atmosphere shifted whenever she was the subject of a conversation.
"They are talking again," Harry said, sliding into the chair across from her.
"Let them talk," Greta replied, not looking up from her book.
"It is not just talking, Greta. It is a consensus. They are saying you are using your silence as a weapon against me. They say you are pretending to be fragile so that everyone will feel the need to protect you."
"Is that what they say?" Greta asked, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. "That my stillness is a facade?"
"Pansy is leading the charge, but it is not just her," Harry explained, leaning forward so his voice was barely a murmur. "It is as if they have decided that your silence is a form of manipulation. They think you are making yourself small so that they have to look closer."
Greta felt a flash of irritation, not at the students, but at the absurdity of the accusation. She was not small. She was not fragile. She was simply choosing her battles, and the battle of explaining herself to a group of bored teenagers seemed entirely beneath her. She thought of her father, a man who never deigned to correct a person unless they had truly lost the right to be heard. He had taught her that a person's worth was not determined by the chatter of the crowd, but by the steadiness of their own hand.
"If they want a spectacle, they should look elsewhere," Greta said, her voice cool and level. "If they want to believe a woman is weak because she chooses not to scream, let them. It is a very simple thought for a very simple people."
"You cannot keep defending yourself like that," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave. "The more you defend your silence, the more they think you are hiding something."
"Then let them think it," Greta replied. "The truth does not require their consensus to exist."
The lunch hour was even worse. The Great Hall was a cacophony of clinking cutlery and the low hum of a hundred different conversations, but the subtext was unmistakable. Every time she moved, a hush would fall over a small cluster of students, only to be broken by a stifled giggle. It was a coordinated strike, a way to isolate her by questioning her very nature.
She saw Pansy sitting with a group of girls, her eyes bright with a cruel sort of satisfaction. Pansy was not just spreading a rumour; she was weaponising it, turning the idea of Greta’s supposed 'vulnerability' into a point of mockery. It was a calculated move to strip Greta of the power she had worked so hard to reclaim.
"You are being too quiet, Greta," a boy from her house said as she passed. "Are you feeling quite alright? You seem so... delicate today."
Greta stopped in her tracks. She turned to the boy, who was looking at her with a patronising tilt of his head. She did not scowl, and she did not blush. Instead, she gave him a look of profound, weary pity.
"If you find my silence delicate, it is likely because you are used to the noise of a crowded mind," Greta said, her voice clear and steady. "It must be exhausting for you to live in a world where every thought must be shouted to be valid."
The boy blinked, his smug expression faltering as the table went silent. Harry, who was sitting nearby, suppressed a grin. He watched the exchange with an intensity that made Greta's skin prickle. He was waiting to see how she would handle the blow, and she could see the admiration in his eyes, even as he felt the need to defend her.
"That was a good one," Harry murmured as she sat back down. "But they are not going to stop just because you insulted their intellect."
"They will stop when they realize the insult does not stick," Greta said.
The afternoon was spent in a state of heightened awareness. She felt as though she were walking through a field of tall grass, where every movement caused a ripple that drew eyes. The rumour had grown; it was no longer just about her silence, but about her supposed intention to use that silence to manipulate Harry's feelings. It was a way to make her agency seem like a trick.
She found herself in a corridor near the library, where the air felt stagnant and heavy. She was alone for a moment, or so she thought, until she heard the footsteps of a group of Slytherins approaching. She knew it was them; she knew the rhythm of their gait and the way they moved in a pack.
"She really is quite something, isn't she?" one of them said, her voice loud enough to be intentional. "The way she acts so poised, as if she is above us all. It is a very clever mask."
Greta leaned against the stone wall, closing her eyes for a second. She felt the familiar urge to snap back, to use her words to cut them down, but she remembered her father's advice. To react was to validate. To stay still was to remain untouchable. She opened her eyes and faced them, her expression a mask of cool indifference.
"If you have finished the play," Greta said, her voice cutting through their chatter like a blade, "some of us actually have things to do."
The group stumbled, their momentum broken by her sudden, sharp directness. They looked at her, startled by the lack of warmth in her voice, and then hurried past, leaving a trail of embarrassed whispers in their wake.
She watched them go, a sense of frustration bubbling beneath her skin. She had spent so much time building a version of herself that was strong and independent,