The courtyard was too bright, the sun hitting the stone floor with a sharpness that made the glare uncomfortable. Pansy sat near the fountain, her robes perfectly pressed and her expression one of bored contentment. Harry sat beside her, his posture relaxed, though he did not quite lean into her when she shifted. A group of older boys stood near the arched entrance, their voices carrying over the sounds of the fountain as they waited for the afternoon classes to begin. Everything felt too loud, the clatter of plates from the distant dining hall and the scraping of feet on stone creating a cacophony that grated on her nerves.
"You should probably watch your step, Harry," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the noise of the courtyard. "The stones are uneven near the east walkway."
"I am perfectly capable of walking, Pansy," he replied, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere above the fountain.
"He is just being dramatic," a voice called out from the group of boys, and the laughter that followed was loud and jagged.
Harry looked up, his eyes narrowing as he watched a tall boy named Cormac approach the table. Cormac was a boy who took up too much space, a person who believed that a loud voice was a substitute for a sharp mind. He was walking toward the center of the courtyard, his gait uneven and arrogant, and he caught her eye as he passed.
"Watch it, Harry," Cormac said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Don't let the favour-girl trip you up on your way to lunch."
The silence that followed was not the heavy kind, but a sudden, sharp vacuum where the conversation had been. Pansy been watching the exchange with a look of mild amusement, but she saw the way Harry’s jaw tightened. He did not react immediately, which was his first mistake. He simply sat there, a statue of offended dignity, while the rest of the group began to snicker.
"A favour-girl?" Cormac repeated, turning to his friends to milk the reaction. "It is a funny name, isn't it? A little girl who does favours to get what she wants."
"That is enough, Cormac," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Is it?" Cormac grinned, stepping closer to the table. "It is just a bit of sport. Everyone knows the term. She is a favour-girl, after all."
The name was a weapon, blunt and unrefined, and it landed with a dull thud in the middle of the courtyard. It was a term that had been circulating in the whispers of the corridors, a name that stripped her of the precision of her lessons and replaced it to the grace of a transaction. She felt the heat rise in her neck, but she did not let it reach her cheeks. She stood up, the movement fluid and controlled, and stepped toward Cormac.
"You are being quite loud, Cormac," she said, her voice steady and cool. "It is a pity the volume is not matched by the intellect."
"Oh, don't get cross," Cormac laughed, though he stepped back a fraction. "It is just a joke. A bit of fun."
"It is a poor joke," she replied, her fingers twitching near the wand tucked into her robes. "And you are standing in the sun too long. It has made you dim."
"You think you are so clever," Cormac snapped, his face reddening as the laughter of his friends died down into uncomfortable murmurs. "Just because you can perform a few bows and pretend to be a lady."
"I do not pretend to be anything," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "I simply am."
She did not wait for him to respond. She did not give him the satisfaction of a long-winded-rebuttal or a dramatic display of temper. Instead, she flicked her wand in a short, sharp motion, a movement so small it was almost invisible to anyone not looking for it. The spell was a simple one, a jinx designed to cause a sudden, sharp discomfort, but she had added a layer of her own precision to it.
Cormac’s eyes widened as his feet suddenly felt as though they were made of lead. He stumbled, his balance vanishing as if the ground had tilted beneath him. He let out a strangled yelp as he tripped over his own feet, landing hard on his hands and knees on the stone floor. The sound of his impact was a dull thud that echoed in the sudden stillness of the courtyard.
"Watch your step," she said, her voice devoid of any actual malice. "The stones are uneven."
The courtyard erupted into a different kind of noise, the laughter this time directed entirely at Cormac. Pansy was smiling, a small, sharp expression that reached her eyes, and Harry was looking at her with an expression that was impossible to read. He did not look embarrassed for her, nor did he look angry at the boy. He looked as though he were watching a play of which he had only seen the first act.
"Are you alright, Cormac?" one of the other boys asked, though he did not move to help him up.
"She did that on purpose," Cormac muttered, scrambling to his feet and brushing the dust from his robes. "She is just a favour-girl, after all."
"A favour-girl with a very sharp tongue," Pansy remarked, her voice light and mocking.
She sat back down, the movement as elegant as if she had done nothing more than adjust her skirts. She felt the eyes of the courtyard on her, the weight of the name Cormac had thrown at her. It was a name that was meant to diminish her, to make her a thing of exchange, a person defined by the transactions she had struck in the dark. But as she sat there, she realised that the name did not stick. It was a clumsy, heavy thing, and she was light.
"That was unnecessary," Harry said, though he was not looking at Cormac.
"It was a correction," she replied, her gaze turning to him. "He was out of line, and he needed to be brought back to the center."
"You are very good at that," he said, his voice a low murmur. "The timing of it."
"Precision is everything, Harry. You of all people should know that."
"It was a bit much, was it not?" Pansy asked, glancing at her. "A bit of sport for the sake of sport?"
"It was not for sport," she said, her voice firm. "It was for clarity."
She watched him as he watched her, the way he traced the line of her jaw with his eyes, a way of looking that was far too observant for a casual acquaintance. He was seeing the girl who had performed the bows, the girl who had the rules and the discipline, but he was also seeing the girl who was willing to strike back when the name was used.
The lunch hour continued around them, the conversation of the other students resuming its normal, easy flow. The moment of tension had passed, the name of the favour-girl relegated to a footnote in the afternoon's events. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction, a quiet triumph that had nothing to do with the spell she had cast. She had not been humiliated; she had simply corrected a mistake.
Across the courtyard, near the entrance to the Great Hall, a group of Gryffindors was moving toward the stairs. Harry was among them, his hair messy and his eyes scanning the crowd with a restless energy. He stopped for a moment, his gaze snagging on the table where they sat. He saw the way the laughter had died when she cast the spell, and he saw the way she sat, perfectly composed and unbothered.
He did not join in the laughter of the Slytherins, nor did he offer the mockery that Cormac had given. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable and intense. He saw