At school, she learned to tune out the stares. Her mother taught her to walk purposefully, shoulders back and eyes focused on a point far in the distance. Angelina had felt the eyes on her the moment she had boarded the train for her fourth year. It was easier to pretend it didn't affect her.
She learned to parcel out her glances and how to pin someone with her gaze, how to slide her eyes past a person as though she hadn't noticed them at all. She earned a reputation: who-does-she-think-she-is; ice-queen; untouchable.
Fred saw through her act, and for that, Angelina felt his eyes more keenly than anyone's. She established an internal system of sorts: only make eye contact when he was speaking, or when he was speaking to her, or not at all. Any undue attention would expose her. Despite her rules, she still found herself catching his eye every time he climbed through the portrait hole or walked into one of their classes.
The thing about Fred was that although he spent most of his time commanding a room, he still managed to notice everything. Skipping from conversation to conversation, adding a joke here, a pointed comment there; his attention seemed fleeting, and yet when he fixed her with his narrow brown eyes, Angelina felt as though she was the only thing he saw.