Greta sat at the long table in the Gryffindor common room, watching the way the firelight caught the edges of the silver goblets. She knew that most of the people in this room saw a war between two people, a constant battle of wits and sharp tongues. They saw the way the girl used her voice like a blade, cutting through the tension of a classroom to make a point. It was easy to watch the spectacle from the outside and judge the way a person chose to defend themselves. Greta had watched her friend for years, seeing the layers that the rest of the school missed because they were too busy staring at the drama of it all.
The room was loud with the chatter of students finishing their evening tea. A few people were moving between the sofas, their footsteps muffled by the heavy rugs. Greta sipped her pumpkin juice, feeling the warmth of the hearth on her skin. She remembered the moment in the common room just a few days ago, the way the air had seemed to freeze when the words left her mouth. It had been a public thing, a jagged piece of verbal armour she had thrown at a group of sixth-years to shield a man who didn't seem to want her shielding at all.
"She did it again, didn't she?" a girl whispered nearby, leaning toward her companion.
Greta kept her gaze fixed on the flickering flames, pretending she could not hear the gossip. She knew the girl was talking about the way her friend had turned a moment of defence into a moment of sheer, unadulterated filth. It was a habit, a way of reclaiming power when she felt too vulnerable. If she could make them laugh or make them gasp, she was the one in control of the room. She was the one who decided how the conversation went.
"It wasn't even an insult, really," a boy muttered from a few seats down, his voice full of amused disbelief. "It was just... blunt."
Greta smiled to herself, a small, private movement of her lips. She knew the truth of it. Her friend was not a person who did things halfway; she was a person who lived in the extremes of everything. When she loved, she loved with a ferocity that terrified people, and when she fought, she fought with a wit that could dismantle a person's entire reputation. The way she had used that line in the common room was a perfect example of her struggle. She had meant to say something kind, or at least something supportive, but her instinct was to strike first so no one could see her heart.
She thought about the way the man looked when she spoke that way. He was a man who lived in shadows and silence, a man who seemed to thrive on the unspoken. To someone like him, her loud, colourful, and often scandalous voice must have been a shock to the system. She could see him in her mind, standing there with that look of startled, quiet devastation, his dignity wounded by the very thing she used to keep him close.
"Do you think they actually hate each other?" the girl asked, her voice rising slightly above the murmur of the crowd.
"They don't hate each other," Greta said aloud, deciding to join the conversation. She didn't want to be a silent observer any longer. "It's just that she doesn't know how to be soft. Not when there are people watching."
The two girls turned to look at her, their expressions a mix of curiosity and mild scandal. Greta didn't mind the attention; she was used to being the one who saw through the smoke and mirrors of their social circle. She knew that the tension between them wasn't born of dislike, but of a desperate, clumsy sort of affection. It was the kind of affection that required a mask of iron and a tongue of fire.
The common room felt warmer as the night progressed, the heat from the fire settling into the stone walls. Greta watched the way her friend moved through the room, always poised, always ready for a confrontation. She saw the way the girl looked whenever he was in the vicinity, the way her eyes would catch his for a fraction of a second before she turned away with a sharp remark. It was a dance of avoidance and attraction, a constant circling of a centre that neither would admit to.
"She's just being herself," Greta continued, her voice steady as she looked back at the fire. "She's defending him in the only way she knows how. It’s a messy way to do it, but it's hers."
The conversation around her drifted away, the people returning to their books and their whispered jokes. Greta felt a sense of fatigue, the kind that came from watching someone you care about fight a war against themselves. She saw the way her friend was losing the battle to be understood, and the way she was winning the battle to be feared. It was a lopsided trade, a high price to pay for a bit of armour.
She thought about the way the girl’s voice changed when she thought no one was looking. The edge would drop, the sarcasm would melt, and there would be a glimpse of something bright and aching. But as soon as a single eye turned toward her, the mask was back in place. The wit was back, the innuendo was back, and the shield was raised high. It was a brilliant, exhausting way to live.
Greta stood up, smoothing down the front of her robes. She felt the need to move, to step out of the bubble of observation and actually exist in the moment. She walked toward the corner where her friend was sitting, watching the way the light hit the sharp lines of her face. The girl looked tired, though she would never admit it. The weight of her own cleverness seemed to hang heavy on her shoulders.
She reached the edge of the table and paused, waiting for a break in the conversation. Her friend looked up, her eyes bright and guarded, ready to launch a verbal assault if anyone dared to approach. Greta didn't wait for a greeting. She didn't offer a platonic smile or a polite enquiry about the evening. She simply stood there, a witness to the internal storm she knew was raging.
"You're doing it again," Greta said, her voice low so the others wouldn't hear.
The girl blinked, her expression shifting from a practiced smirk to a look of genuine surprise. "Doing what? Being brilliant? It's a heavy burden, Greta, you know that."
"You're making a scene to avoid being seen," Greta countered. She stepped closer, ignoring the way the girl'iously stiffened. "You're using that voice of yours to keep everyone at arm's length, even when you want them to come closer."
The girl opened her mouth to make a joke, to throw a witty retort that would end the scrutiny, but the words died in her throat. For a moment, the armour was transparent. The cleverness failed her, and she was just a person who was tired of fighting the very thing she wanted most. Greta saw the flicker of frustration in her eyes, the way she looked ready to both laugh and cry.
Greta reached out, her hand hovering near her friend's arm before she pulled it back. She knew that a touch would be too much, too intimate for the public eye. Instead, she just watched her, seeing the way she was bracing herself for the next imaginary blow.
"It's exhausting to watch you," Greta said softly, her voice carrying a weight of certainty. "You're happy. Stop fighting it, you idiot."