The Great Hall was too loud, a cacophony of clattering cutlery and the frantic, high-pitched chatter of students waiting for the term to end. Harry sat at the Slytherin table, watching the way the candlelight caught the silver embroidery on her robes. She looked perfectly composed, her spine a straight, unyielding line that spoke of decades of discipline. This was the rematch everyone had whispered about since the Duelling Club had grown from a novelty into a spectacle. The tension was a physical thing, a cord stretched tight between the two of them across the expanse of the hall. She was not looking at him, but he knew she could feel his eyes.
"You look like you are preparing for an execution," Pansy said, leaning toward him with a smirk. She reached for a goblet, her movements hurried and restless.
"I am merely observing," Harry replied, his voice steady despite the way his pulse hammered against his collarbone.
"You are staring," Pansy corrected him, her eyes dancing with mischief. "It is quite obvious. Even the Gryffindors are noticing."
He turned his gaze to the Slytherin table, where Greta sat with a look of intense concentration. She was not looking at the duelling platform, but at her, and her expression was one of grim, knowing sympathy. He wondered if Greta could see the way his hands felt heavy in his lap. The entire Hall seemed to have turned its attention to the centre of the room, where the duelling platform stood empty and waiting. It was a stage, a place of performance, and he felt the sudden, sharp urge to hide.
"She is going to destroy you," a boy from Ravenclaw muttered loudly from a few seats down.
Harry did not turn to look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the way she sat, her hands folded neatly on the table. She was a masterpiece of etiquette, a product of a thousand tiny, precise lessons designed to ensure she never faltered. Her mother had taught her that a woman of her standing did not simply exist; she was a curated presence. Every tilt of the head, every placement of a hand, was a calculated move in a game of social survival. He remembered the way she had looked at him in the dark, the way her voice had trembled when the truth finally broke through her composure.
"Do not look so terrified, Harry," Greta said, her voice cutting through the noise of the hall. "She is not going to bite. Not unless you give her a reason to."
"She does not need a reason," he said, finally looking at Greta. "She only needs a moment of weakness."
"You are the one with the weakness," Greta replied, her tone blunt and unyielding. "Stop trying to find it in her. She has none left."
The announcement of the duelling match brought a sudden, sharp hush to the room. The air was not heavy, but the silence was sharp, a blade held at the throat of the hall. He stood, his legs feeling strangely hollow, as if he were walking through water. He walked toward the platform, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room. The people at the Gryffindor table were leaning forward, their faces bright with anticipation. He saw Harry watching her, his expression unreadable, a look of respect that felt like a bruise.
She rose from her seat with a grace that felt almost insulting. There was no hesitation in her movement, no flicker of the girl who had broken down in the dark of the previous week. She was the polished, perfect version of herself again, the one who could endure anything without a change in her expression. She walked toward the platform, her robes sweeping the stone floor with a soft, rhythmic hiss.
"Are you ready, Harry?" she asked, her voice carrying easily to the rafters.
"I am rarely ready for you," he said, stepping up onto the wooden boards.
"Then you should have practiced more," she replied, her eyes bright and cold.
The duelling was not the frantic, clumsy affair of their first meeting. It was a dance, a highly structured set of movements that required absolute precision. She moved with a terrifying, calculated economy, her wand movements small and sharp. She was not just fighting him; she was demonstrating her superiority. Every time he tried to lunge, she was already gone, her body shifting with a fluid, practiced ease. She was not performing for the Hall, he realised with a jolt of clarity. She was not doing this to show them her skill; she was doing it to reclaim herself.
"You are overextending," she said, parrying a spell with a flick of her wrist.
"I am trying to land a hit," he countered, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
"You are trying to win a way to be seen," she corrected him, her voice calm. "You are still looking for the applause."
The match went on for several minutes, a long, exhausting exchange of spells and footwork. He felt the sweat cooling on his skin, the ache in his muscles growing. She was relentless, her technique a perfect, unbroken line. She did not miss a single beat, her movements as precise as the ticking of a clock. He felt the frustration rising in him, the desire to lunge blindly just to break her composure. But every time he tried, she was there, a shadow given substance, a wall of perfect, unyielding etiquette.
"Is this a lesson or a duel?" he asked, his voice strained.
"It is a correction," she said, and her wand flashed, a spell hitting his shoulder that sent a jolt of heat through his arm.
He stumbled back, the crowd gaslighting a low murmur. He saw the way she watched him, her eyes scanning his posture, his stance, his very soul. She was looking for the cracks, the places where the mask slipped. He realised then that she was not just winning the duel; she is was winning the argument they had been having for weeks. She was proving that she could be both perfect and real, and that his version of her was a lie.
"You're doing it again," she said, her voice dropping an octave as the duel slowed.
"Doing what?" he asked, trying to regain his footing.
"Acting as if you are the one in control," she said, her eyes narrowing. "As if you are the one who decides when the lesson ends."
The final spell was not a grand display of power, but a small, sharp movement of her wrist. It was a precise, elegant strike that caught him completely off guard. He felt the sting of it, a sharp, biting sensation that forced him to his knees. He stayed there, breathless, the wood of the platform hard against his palms. The Hall was silent, the noise of the end of term vanished into a vacuum of sudden, breathless attention.
She did not look triumphant. She looked satisfied, a quiet, deep-seated calm settling over her features. She did not gloat, and she did not offer him a hand to help him up. Instead, she stood in the centre of the platform, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed on the horizon of the room. She was not performing for the Gryffindors, or the Slytherins, or the professors. She was simply standing in the truth of her own skill.
She moved toward him, her footsteps light and deliberate. When she reached him, she did not offer a smile, but a bow. It was the bow she had been taught since she was a child, the one that signified both respect and distance. It was a perfect, flawless movement, a display of the very thing he had tried to take from her.
"You won," he said, his voice a low rasp in the silence.
"I did," she replied, her gaze meeting his with a terrifying clarity.
She bowed again, deeper thiser time, a mocking, beautiful gesture that seemed to claim the entire room. The distinction between the girl and the performer had