The Great Hall was a riot of orange and gold, the ceiling reflecting the heavy, carved pumpkins that drifted through the air. These pumpkins did not simply float; they bobbed with a rhythmic, heavy motion that made the eyes ache if she looked too long. Harry Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, his posture straight and unyielding, his silver-blond hair catching the flickering light of the floating candles. Beside him, Pansy Parkinson was laughing at something a boy from the Hufflepuff table had done, her head tilted back to expose the pale line of her throat. The noise of the feast was a constant, low-level roar of clattering cutlery and the booming voices of hundreds of students.
Greta watched the way the candlelight hit the sharp edge of Harry’s jaw. He looked bored, his eyes tracking the movement of the enchanted pumpkins with a detached sort of scrutiny. Every time a pumpkin drifted too close to a plate, the students nearest to it would lunge back, their robes rustling against the wooden benches. The air in the hall felt warm, thick with the scent of roasted meats and the heavy, sweet smell of pumpkin juice. It was a typical Hallowe'en, yet there was an edge to the evening that felt sharper than usual.
"He thinks he can actually win a duel against you, you know," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the din of the hall. She was leaning toward Greta, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Potter thinks he's so much more clever than he actually is."
Greta turned her gaze to the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter sat. He was talking to Weasley, his hands moving in animated, jerky motions as he spoke. He looked tired, his dark hair messy in a way that seemed intentional, even if it wasn't. Harry's gaze followed hers, his grey eyes narrowing as he caught her watching the boy.
"He's arrogant," Harry said, his voice smooth and low. He didn't look at Greta, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. "He thinks the world revolves around his luck."
"A duel?" Pansy grinned, her fingers tapping a frantic rhythm on the table. "A midnight duel, actually. It’s being called in the common rooms. A challenge. Are you going to let him actually do it, or is he just going to talk?"
Greta felt the weight of the moment. The challenge had been whispered about in the corridors all day, a way for the older students to settle scores before the term ended. It was a game of bravado, a way to assert dominance. Pansy let out a sharp, jagged laugh at the thought of Potter attempting a formal duel in the middle of the night. It was a taunt, a social weapon, and Greta felt the sudden, irrational urge to be part of the friction.
"I'll do it," Greta said, the words escaping before she could weigh the consequences. She saw Harry’s head turn toward her, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp.
"Are you serious?" Pansy asked, her eyebrows rising. "You'll actually face him?"
"He needs to be humbled," Greta said, trying to sound more certain than she felt.
The conversation drifted toward the dessert, but the internal realization of her mistake began to settle in her gut. She had said yes to a duel because the social pressure of the room demanded a reaction. She had said yes because the tension in the room was a living thing, and she wanted to touch it.
The pudding arrived, a heavy, spiced custard that sat in bowls of polished silver. The warmth of the hall suddenly felt stifling. As the plates were cleared, Greta felt a strange, hollow sensation in her chest. She looked at Harry, who was watching her with a look of mild, amused suspicion. He hadn't said a word since she had accepted the challenge, but his silence felt pointed.
She watched a pumpkin drift past a high window, its orange glow dimmed by the shadows of the rafters. The feast was nearly over, and the transition from the excitement of the challenge to the reality of the midnight hour was already beginning to feel daunting. The bravado she had displayed felt thin and fragile under the weight of the hundreds of students around her.
Greta took a bite of the pudding, but the sweetness felt cloying, almost nauseating. The custard was thick and heavy on her tongue, coating her throat. She looked up at the ceiling, watching the way the enchanted lights swayed in the drafts of the hall. The noise of the hall was receding as people began to stand, the clatter of forks and plates signaling the end of the meal.
"You actually did it," Pansy said, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned in closer. "You actually agreed to the duel."
"It was a moment of madness," Greta replied, though she tried to keep her voice steady.
"It'll be a spectacular way to end the term," Pansy said, her eyes bright with the prospect of the drama.
Greta looked down at her empty bowl, the silver spoon still cold in her hand. She felt the sudden, sharp sting of regret. The thrill of the announcement was gone, replaced by the heavy, certain knowledge of what she had done.
She regrets it before the pudding.