Shadows and Curses

Vivienne Hale's POV

He's everywhere.

I see him at lunch. In the corridors. Walking by my classroom. Standing just beyond a pillar. I swear, if I turn fast enough, I'd catch him mid-glower with that signature Malfoy stoicism, arms crossed, like he's memorizing my every movement.

It's not paranoia. It's math.

I see Professor Malfoy more than I see Thorne. And that's saying something, considering Thorne appears in my doorway nearly every free period under the pretense of "making sure the window behaves this time."

There's no confrontation. No accusations. Just... presence. Watchfulness. As if he's waiting for me to crack open, for something wrong to leak out.

I'm not sure if I'm flattered or afraid.

So, just for fun—purely for fun—I join one of his classes. I've sat in a few others before, early in the year, but this time, I choose to stay a little longer. The kids light up the second I slip in the back.

"Professor Hale!" one of the fifth-years beams. "You're not replacing him, right?" Professor Malfoy doesn't even blink. "She wouldn't survive the owls if she tried."

The class laughs. I laugh, even though I know that was mostly directed at me.

I sink into the last row. I'm just another shadow in the back. Or so I hope.

He's lecturing on cursed objects today. The table at the front of the room holds a modest spread of artifacts—some cracked, others suspiciously pristine. Nothing obviously threatening.

Nothing ever is.

"That's the danger of cursed objects," he explains, voice smooth but grounded in something deeper. Experience, maybe. "They don't scream that they're dangerous. Most of them are clever. Ordinary. Familiar."

The class leans in.

"They respond to interaction," he continues. "To energy. Sometimes, to magic. Sometimes..." He pauses. Just for a beat.

"...to non-magic."

My stomach drops.

His gaze flicks to me.

It's brief. Calculated. But there.

My fingers tighten around my notebook. I didn't come in here to be targeted—I came for curiosity. And, alright, maybe to prove something to myself. That I'm not scared of the Defense professor. That I'm not afraid of what he might be thinking.

But now I'm not so sure.

"Cursed objects don't always react violently," he adds. "Sometimes they wait. Observe. Learn their environment before striking."

He turns back to the table and gestures toward a delicate mirror with faint cracks down the center. "This one looks ordinary. But the moment someone with a secret steps in front of it... it shatters."

Another glance.

This time, it lingers.

I fold my arms. So he is watching. He doesn't even bother hiding it anymore.

The students don't notice. They're captivated. Spellbound, even. I can't blame them. He's a brilliant professor. Composed. Commanding. Sharp.

But there's something else in his voice today. Like his words aren't just for the class. Like they're meant for me.

I hold his gaze when he looks again.

If he's testing me, I won't flinch.

But somewhere beneath the calm exterior I wear like armor, my pulse stirs uneasily.

Because I'm starting to wonder if he sees more than I mean to show.

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

The classroom empties slowly. A few students linger to ask questions, to show him their notes, to just be around him. It's always the same with Malfoy—people want to orbit him, even when they don't understand why.

I wait. Quietly. Pretending to organize a stack of papers I don't need. Until the last student finally slips out and the door creaks shut behind them.

Then it's just us.

"You've been following me," I say simply.

He doesn't even turn from the table where he's packing away the cursed mirror. "Have I?"

"Yes," I insist. "You're everywhere. Corridors. Dining hall. Outside my classroom. Inside my classroom." He chuckles—light, dry. "Maybe you're the one following me."

My jaw clenches. "Don't gaslight me."

Finally, he turns. His expression is maddeningly unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—spark with something deeper. Something restless. Something dangerous.

"I'm not hiding," he says smoothly. "You just keep seeing me. Maybe it's luck." I narrow my gaze. "You don't believe in luck."

"No," he says, stepping closer, voice low. "But if I did, I'd say luck has terrible taste. Always pulling us closer." I blink. "So you admit it?" He shrugs. "I didn't say that."

"You're infuriating."

He smirks. "Better me than Callahan, don't you think?"

That does it.

I slam my notebook shut, too loud, too sharp. "You're hiding something, Malfoy. You say it's luck, but I know there's more."

"I don't owe you an explanation," he replies, cool as ever.

"And yet here you are. Watching me like I'm cursed myself."

He doesn't answer. I don't wait for him to.

I storm out.

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

A day passes. I keep to myself. Avoid the Great Hall. Decline Thorne's company for once. I need space to think. But I get no peace. Because as I round the corridor outside McGonagall's office, I hear the unmistakable voices of the Headmistress and the Minister of Magic.

"I'm just saying," Draco's name floats through the door in Hermione's voice, "if he's this suspicious, it's probably better to bring it out in the open."

"And if he's wrong?" McGonagall counters. "Then he needs to stop watching her like she's a ticking bomb."

That's all I need to hear.

I find him in the Astronomy Tower. Of course he's here. Where else would a man go when he needs distance but still wants to look down at everything?

He's leaning against the railing, wind mussing his hair, looking every bit the brooding professor cliché. I climb the stairs hard, boots echoing like thunder. "You want to explain what that was?" I snap.

He doesn't turn. "You'll have to be more specific."

"You know exactly what I mean," I hiss. "Spying. Suspicions. Whispering to the Minister of Magic about me."

He finally turns, face unreadable. "I'm concerned. That's all."

"Concerned," I repeat, crossing my arms. "So concerned you followed me for weeks like a ghost with a grudge?"

He steps forward. "You've had two magical incidents in the same classroom. You're not trained for this world. I need to know if Hogwarts is safe."

"I've never hurt a student—"

"I know."

"—and I've done everything this job has asked of me."

"I know," he says again, quieter now.

"But you still think I'm lying about who I am?"

"I don't know what to think."

"You better figure it out fast," I say, voice hard. "And while you're at it? You better take care of your eyes—because those are the only balls you have."

I turn, furious.

But he grabs my wrist.

Spins me back into him.

His mouth crashes onto mine before I can even exhale.

And it's not soft. It's not kind.

It's hot. Rough. Unforgiving.

And I don't stop him.

I don't want it to stop.

Because maybe he's been watching me.

But I've been watching him too.