Regret sat in her stomach like a stone throughout the rest of the feast. Harry Malfoy was a boy who understood the art of the public slight, and she had allowed herself to be caught in his orbit of ridicule. Pansy Parkinson had laughed so hard at the suggestion of a duel that Greta felt her cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the enchanted pumpkins. It was a stupid thing to agree to, a reckless bit of bravado that had escaped her before she could weigh the consequences. Now, she sat at the Slytherin table, picking at her plate, wishing she could retract the verbal contract she had signed in the heat of a moment.
The Great Hall felt too large and too loud for her mood. A dozen voices rose and fell around her, a cacophony of laughter and clinking cutlery that grated on her nerves. Harry sat a few feet away, looking far too pleased with himself. He was not even looking at her, which felt like a second insult; he had achieved his goal of making her look foolish, and now he was simply enjoying his dessert. He did not need to gloat overtly when his silence did the work for him.
"You look like you are contemplating a funeral, Greta," Pansy said, leaning in close. Her voice was a low murmur meant only for her ears, cutting through the noise of the surrounding students.
"I am merely contemplating why I opened my mouth," Greta replied, trying to keep her voice level and cool.
Pansy grinned, her eyes bright with mischief. "It was a good laugh. You shouldn't be so sensitive. It was only a challenge, not a blood oath."
"It feels like a blood oath when he looks at you like that," Greta muttered, though she knew it was a lie. He hadn't looked at her much at all since the announcement.
"He is just being a Malfoy," Pansy said, reaching for a piece of pumpkin tart. "Everything is a performance with him. He wants you to be rattled. If you act like it didn't matter, he loses the upper hand."
Greta watched the way the candlelight caught the pale line of Harry's jaw. He was a boy of sharp edges and deliberate movements, a person who lived by a set of unwritten rules that everyone else was expected to follow. He did not do things by accident, and he certainly did not do things without a purpose. If he wanted a duel, he would have a duel, but he would do it on his own terms, in his own time, and with his own set of rules.
"He is going to be insufferable about this," Greta said, staring at the golden rim of her goblet.
"Maybe," Pansy conceded, "but at least it will be interesting. The Hufflepuffs are all far too polite to actually fight him. It will be a proper scrap."
The conversation drifted as the feast progressed, moving from the quality of the pudding to the upcoming Quidditch fixtures. Greta tried to engage, but her mind was stuck on the way he had looked at her when she said yes. It had been a fleeting glance, a momentary flicker of recognition that he had actually caught her off guard. He had expected her to stam lunge back with a witty retort or to blush and look away, but she had simply accepted the challenge. That was her mistake. She had given him a foothold.
By the time they were dismissed to the common room, the regret had settled into a dull, pulsing ache. She walked through the stone corridors, the dampness of the castle air clinging to her robes, feeling the weight of her decision. The Slytherin dungeons were quiet, the green-tinted light of the lake filtering through the high windows to cast long, shifting shapes across the floor.
She reached her dormitory and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the dark canopy above her. She knew he would not reach out to her directly. Harry Malfoy did not simply walk up to a girl in the corridor to ask for a date or a duel; he used intermediaries, he used notes, and he used the distance of his own reputation to keep people at bay. He was a boy who controlled the space around him through a series of carefully constructed barriers.
A soft knock sounded on the door a few hours later. It was not the heavy, rhythmic knock of a prefect, but a light, insistent tap that sounded almost delicate. Greta stood, smoothing down the front of her nightgown, and opened the door to find Pansy standing there. The girl was holding a small, folded piece of parchment, her expression unreadable.
"He sent this," Pansy said, handing the note over.
Greta took the paper, her fingers brushing against Pansy's. "Did he say anything else?"
"Just that it was from him. He didn't want to be so obvious, as if he's worried about being caught." Pansy rolled her eyes, though there was a hint of a smile on her face. "Typical Malfoy. He wants to be seen, but only if he's the one who decides when the lights go on."
Greta retreated back into her bed, the parchment feeling heavy in her hand. She sat in the dark for a long time, the silence of the dormitory pressing in on her. The note was small, the paper expensive and thick, the kind of stationery that felt out of place in a school setting. She unfolded it carefully, her heart beating a quick, nervous rhythm against her ribs.
The handwriting was elegant and precise, a series of sharp, slanted letters that looked as though they had been carved into the page. There was no greeting. There was no preamble or explanation of why he was sending a note in the middle of the night. There was only a time and a location.
*Midnight. The entrance to the trophy room.*
That was it. No signature, no name, just the command. It was a classic Malfoy move, a way to assert dominance without having to endure the vulnerability of a conversation. He was setting the terms of their encounter before it had even begun, defining the boundaries of the duel and the interaction. He was making sure that when she arrived, she would be walking into his world, under his rules.
Greta felt a surge of irritation. It was so incredibly arrogant of him to assume she would simply show up at a time of his choosing. She could have stayed in bed; she could have ignored the note entirely. But the thought of him sitting there, waiting, a smug expression on his face, made her want to go. She wanted to prove that she was not intimidated by his precision or his silence.
She waited until the breathing of the other girls in the dormitory had become deep and regular. The castle was never truly silent, but the movements of the night felt more deliberate, more purposeful. She stood up, her feet cold on the stone floor, and began to dress. She chose a set of dark, sturdy robes that would allow her to move easily, and she tied her hair back so it would not fall into her eyes.
She moved through the corridors with a sense of heightened awareness. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward her, and every distant drip of water echoed in the stillness. She reached the entrance to the trophy room, her breath hitching as she saw a figure standing in the dim light of a single torch.
He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked perfectly composed, as if he had been waiting for hours rather than minutes. The light caught the silver of his tie and the pale sheen of his skin, making him look almost ethereal in the gloom.
Greta stopped a few feet away from him, her hands clenched at her sides. She felt the urge to say something clever, something to show him that his note had not rattled her, but the words died in her throat. The silence between them was not awkward; it was a deliberate, constructed thing.
"You're late," he said, his voice a low, smooth velvet that seemed to