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Aithne felt like she was going to die!
Sure, it was dramatic—but how could she not be? There were multiple reasons for her to feel like she was on the precipice of death. The first being Dumbledore's opening speech. They always lasted painfully long, and when she had been hearing the same speech since her first year, it was easy to grow bored of it. There was always something about the opening feast that made Dumbledore incredibly garrulous. He was like a songbird who never got bored of its tune.
The Great Hall pulsed with the warm glow of floating candles, their light swaying with the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the deepening purples of the September sky. Golden plates gleamed under the soft flicker as the year's first feast unfolded. Her gaze drifted across the hall and landed on Jeanie, a splash of yellow and black in the sea of faces.
Jeanie raised an eyebrow, a silent "when will this be over?" passing between them, and Aithne barely managed a weak smile in return. The second reason for her to believe she was approaching the end was her death grip on the edge of the table as if the solid wood could anchor her spiraling thoughts. The weight of the Head Girl badge seemed heavier than it had when she first pinned it on, a constant reminder that this year was going to be different.
A few seats away, James Potter sat at the Gryffindor table, looking far too comfortable for someone who was supposed to be in the same boat as her. His unkempt hair and easy grin seemed to mock the seriousness of their new roles. How could he look so relaxed? Aithne didn't trust him—he was too reckless, too arrogant. Yet, here they were, supposed to lead the school together.
As if sensing her gaze on him, James glanced over, his expression shifting almost immediately—flicker of something hard to read before he quickly turned away. Aithne felt a prickle of unease creep down her spine. His jaw was set, his posture tense, nothing carefree like she was used to seeing. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the table, the wood digging mercilessly into her palms as she forced herself to breathe. Of course he didn't trust her—no one ever did, not with her last name.
She barely heard the rest of Dumbledore's words until the familiar shift in his tone cut through her haze.
"And now, I'd like to take a moment to congratulate our new Head Boy and Head Girl: James Potter and Aithne Greengrass."
Her heart stuttered as whispers spread across the hall, heads turning in her direction. She hated this already. Aithne clenched her jaw, eyes fixed forward, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. Across the room, James looked like he had just been sucker-punched. His hand ran anxiously through his hair, a small, sharp breath escaping him as the Gryffindors cheered.
Dumbledore's voice rang out again, a smile tugging at his lips. "They will, of course, be sharing quarters," He said offhandedly.
Aithne blinked in disbelief, her breath catching. Sharing quarters? Her pulse thrummed loudly in her ears as she hesitantly spared a glance towards James. His eyes had widened, clearly surprised. His shoulders then stiffened as though he had just been hit with the same weight that has settled over her chest.
