Cracks Beneath the Surface

Draco Malfoy's POV

The shattered window glints like starlight on the stone floor. Slivers of glass still hang in the frame, trembling faintly as if touched by an unseen wind.

McGonagall stands at the front of the classroom, arms folded tight across her chest. "The same window," she says, voice lower than usual. "Again."

Thorne is at the far side of the room, muttering a few charms to double-check for lingering magic. Two other professors—Potter and Longbottom—stand near the door, trading cautious glances.

And in the center of it all, Vivienne Hale.

She doesn't look like herself.

The brightness she usually carries, the energy she brings to every corridor she walks through—it's gone. She's quieter, shoulders slightly hunched, arms wrapped around herself like a barrier. Her eyes track each piece of broken glass with a sharpness that makes my chest tighten.

"Are you hurt?" I ask her before I can stop myself. "Anywhere?" She blinks, startled by the question. "No. I'm fine." But she doesn't sound fine. She sounds... rattled. And that bothers me more than I'm ready to admit.

Thorne gives me a sideways look and stands a little closer to her, a quiet protector. McGonagall notices the gesture. Her eyes flick between them, sharp as ever.

"Well," the Headmistress murmurs, "nothing else seems affected. The books, the enchanted props... the wards haven't shifted."

I pace the edges of the room, wand in hand, scanning with silent spells. Everything appears stable. Still, something feels off. The way the air moves. The way Vivienne's fingers keep twitching like she's holding back a current under her skin.

She hasn't looked me in the eye once.

The silence drapes over us until it's too heavy to bear—then she speaks.

"I never meant for anyone to get hurt." Her voice is steady, but I can hear the guilt trembling underneath. "When the first window shattered a few weeks ago, I thought it was a student messing around with a wand. But this..." She gestures vaguely at the destruction. "This was different."

Thorne nods. "Felt different too. There was a shift in the room. Magic, but not cast." McGonagall's brow furrows. "You think it was an emotional reaction? From you?"

Vivienne flinches at the suggestion, but she doesn't deny it. "Maybe. I don't know. It happened right after I demonstrated something... personal. I just— I didn't think it could trigger that kind of response."

I want to step forward. To say something reassuring. But I don't. Because a sliver of doubt has lodged itself in my chest, and it's humming louder by the second.

What if she did cause it?

What if she doesn't know how strong her magic is—or worse, doesn't know what it really is?

I push the thought away. I'm the DADA professor. I've spent years studying magical responses, protective wards, hex theory. My instinct tells me she doesn't mean harm.

But I've been wrong before.

"If it helps," she says quietly, "I can pause the class. Just for a few days. See if anything changes." McGonagall nods slowly. "That might be wise."

Thorne opens his mouth to protest, but Vivienne lifts a hand, stopping him. "It's alright. If something inside me is... off, I don't want it affecting the students." She sounds tired. Not physically—soul tired. Like something she's loved is slipping away from her fingers.

I watch her as the rest begin to file out. She lingers behind, brushing glass into a pile with a broom in her hand.

She doesn't look at me until everyone else is gone.

And when she does, the light in her eyes—the one I noticed the first day in the staff room, the one that turned students into spellbound listeners—isn't there.

It's like watching a candle try to stay lit in a rainstorm.

[][][][][][]

Classes pause for three days.

I pass her in the halls once or twice, on the edge of those three quiet days. Each time, she offers a tight smile. The kind you give when people are watching, but no one's really seeing.

And I see it now—how much she misses it. Teaching. Leading. Giving the kids something to feel and believe in.

And damn it all, I miss it too.

I miss her.

On the fourth morning, the Great Hall is quiet—muted voices, rustling robes, spoons clinking against porridge bowls. I scan the staff table without meaning to, and I feel it in my gut before I register it in my mind: she's not here.

Maybe she decided to skip breakfast. I tell myself that. Convince myself, even. But when she doesn't show up for lunch... or dinner... something starts to itch behind my ribs. That irritating, hollow sort of concern that builds before your brain admits it's concern at all.

I check her classroom first. Empty. Then the old rehearsal room. Cold and quiet. Then her quarters. I tell myself it's because I need to discuss... curriculum alignment. Or the winter schedule. Or anything that sounds rational enough to cover up the fact that I'm pacing like some untrained dog outside her door.

No answer.

And that's when I hate myself a little—for noticing too much. For caring.

I find Potter in the dungeon, sleeves rolled up, burnt fingers from a cauldron mishap. "Seen Hale?" I ask, as casually as I can manage. He smirks like I just asked him to write our names in a heart on the blackboard. "Aw. Is this your way of saying you miss her?"

"Potter," I warn, my voice flat.

"No idea, mate," he says, shaking his head. "She hasn't been in the dungeons. But if anyone knows where she vanished off to, it's probably Luna."

Of course.

The other close friend Professor Hale made was Professor Lovegood.

I find Lovegood in the Divination Tower, surrounded by a group of third-years who are busy trying to summon fog from the ceiling. She smiles dreamily before I even ask. "She left," Luna says simply.

My chest tightens. "What do you mean 'left'?"

"She had a few days off, right?" she replies, adjusting a lavender crystal on her desk like it's a perfectly ordinary answer. "Went home. She'd signed a couple of films, I think. She said she might shoot one if the timing works."

A tight knot twists low in my stomach. "She left... to act?"

"She left," Luna says, looking up at me with that knowing, faraway gaze, "because we took away something she loved. You took away something she loved."

I want to argue.

But I don't.

Because deep down, I know she's right.

She was never the same after we pulled the class. No matter if she offered it first. We should've objected. I should've objected. Offered protection. Because her laughter dulled. Her voice softened. Her presence flickered like a candle caught in wind. And it's not just her absence that hangs in the air now—it's the absence of everything she brought with her.

And I don't know which worries me more—the strange cursed magic that still coils like smoke through this castle... or the fact that I care so much about what's happening to a woman I barely understand.

But somehow... she's already become part of this place. Of me. And the castle feels colder without her.