There were fewer and fewer people in the common room. Some returned to their dormitories, some used the library as an excuse, and some said nothing at all, merely rose to their feet and left in silence. The flames in the fireplace sank lower, the dark-red coals flickering amid the ashes like an eye slowly closing.
Harry leaned back in his chair, Draco's palm still warm in his right shoulder. The warmth had already faded, but that spot remembered it. Draco's words kept turning over and over in his mind.
"When you're with me, do those useless idiots from your House still dare talk loudly?" One by one, the faces of those Gryffindors passed through his mind—Seamus's flushed face, Dean's evasive eyes, the sight of Lavender hurrying away arm in arm with Parvati, Neville's hesitant half-step where he stood.
It was not that they had stopped talking. They simply did not talk in front of him anymore. They talked behind his back, after turning away, where he could not hear them. And when Draco stood beside him, they did not even have the courage to talk behind his back.
Not because Draco was stronger than them—though perhaps he was—but because behind Draco stood Crabbe and Goyle, Slytherin, and the Pure-Blood Alliance, which even the Ministry of Magic had to show some respect.
And behind Harry, there was nothing. No Dumbledore, no McGonagall, no broad enough shoulder to shield him from those rumors.
Ron stood to his left, Hermione to his right. They were brave and resolute, but they could not block those stares. The stares were like water, seeping over their shoulders, beneath their arms, through the gaps between their bodies—damp, cold, clammy, and everywhere.
Harry closed his eyes, and Draco's voice rang through his mind again.
This time, there