Butterbeer and Bitter Thoughts

Draco Malfoy's POV

Hogsmeade looks exactly the same, and yet I feel older just standing here.

The air is crisp, filled with the scent of Honeydukes fudge and wood smoke, and students are already scattering in every direction like blast-ended skrewts. I should be enjoying the relative peace. Should be grateful I've been pulled from castle paperwork and tedious lesson plans. But the moment I spot her—in a long burgundy coat and black boots, laughing as a group of third years swarm her—I realize peace is not something I'll have today.

She walks like she belongs here. That's what gets me, I think. How easily she's carved herself into Hogwarts life, how effortlessly she makes it look like she's always been part of this world. She tilts her head back, tossing her hair over one shoulder, and one of the girls offers her a candy cane like she's some kind of celebrity. 

Which—of course—she is.

I roll my eyes and sip the steaming coffee I've conjured. Patrolling. That's all I'm doing. Watching the kids. Maintaining order. Not—absolutely not—watching her.

"Professor Malfoy," a voice chirps beside me. It's Coach Weasley. She raises an eyebrow, catching the direction of my gaze. "You're the worst at pretending not to be interested," she says, biting into a chocolate biscuit.

"I'm supervising a school trip, not attending a bloody play," I mutter.

She laughs and walks off before I can shut her up properly.

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

Half an hour later, I see her again outside Honeydukes. Her arms are full of chocolate frogs and sugar quills, and she's surrounded by students. Even Scorpius is next to her, snorting over some joke she's just made. And he's smiling—wide and unguarded.

I can't remember the last time I saw that.

A time that was before Vivienne Hale.

Before I can stop myself, I'm walking toward them. "Having fun, are we?" I say as dryly as possible. Vivienne turns, her eyes lighting up. "You do speak. I was beginning to think you were part of the stonework."

"I've been told I'm excellent at blending in."

"Not today," she says, smiling—damn her—and I'm too slow to respond.

"Sir," Scorpius adds, suddenly awkward. "We were just heading to the Three Broomsticks."

Of course they are.

"I'll accompany you."

Vivienne doesn't say no, but her smile changes. Warmer. Less teasing. And I hate that I like it.

The pub is packed, but we manage to find a table in the corner, shielded from the cold draft near the door. Madam Rosmerta waves us in like old friends.

Scorpius and his mates head off to grab drinks. That leaves me and her, side by side in a booth that's a bit too tight. "This your first time in Hogsmeade?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, eyes scanning the snow-dusted window. "Well, in the daylight and under the snow, yes. It's like something out of a painting. Or a dream." I snort. "You've been to Paris, New York, Milan, and you think this little village is a dream?"

"It's not about how big or famous a place is. It's about how it feels." Her gaze flicks to the students laughing nearby. "And this feels... kind."

I'm quiet for a second too long.

Then she adds, "Even you're warming up, Professor Malfoy."

"You're imagining things."

She leans closer, lowering her voice. "No. But I've always had a talent for seeing what others don't."

Before I can ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, a group of students stop by to ask for her autograph. She signs them all graciously—on napkins, chocolate frog cards, even one boy's forearm—and I feel a tightness in my chest I can't explain.

When they leave, she sighs. "I thought I'd left all that behind."

"Apparently not."

She looks at me then, something unreadable in her expression. "You're not like the others."

"Good."

"I didn't say it was a compliment."

I scoff. "Careful, Professor Hale. You're dangerously close to flirting."

She smirks. "If I were flirting, you'd know."

Later, when the kids are gathering outside for the walk back to the castle, I watch her help a first-year zip up her coat and hand her a peppermint. She doesn't see me staring. But I think about what Ginny said—about the way I watch her.

I think about how I want to watch her.

And I think about the fact that for once, Scorpius looked happy.

Which might be more dangerous than anything Vivienne Hale could ever be.

Vivienne Hale's POV

The snow crunches beneath our boots as we head back toward the castle, the sky dimming into soft lavender twilight. Most of the students are ahead, bundled in scarves and chatting between mouthfuls of Honeydukes loot. I linger near the back. Not for any specific reason, of course.

Except maybe one.

Draco walks beside me, hands deep in his coat pockets, gaze trained on the winding path. He's silent, but not unapproachable. It's a strange balance with him—like standing too close to a fire that hasn't decided whether it wants to warm you or burn you alive.

"So," I say, trying to sound casual, "you survived an entire afternoon surrounded by screaming children, overexcited sugar highs, and me." He glances sideways, mouth twitching. "It's been... informative."

"Informative," I echo, amused. "Now there's a glowing review." He hums, and for a second, we walk in sync, our shoulders nearly touching. I smirk. "Careful. You're dangerously close to flirting."

He lifts his chin, repeating my words. "If I were flirting, you'd know." And then he steps closer—too close—his hand catching the curve of my waist like it belongs there. His breath brushes my cheek, warm against the cold.

"Oh, Vivienne," he murmurs, voice low and steady. "You'd know if I was flirting." I swallow. My brain forgets what words are. But just as I'm about to test how close we can push this before the ice breaks—

"Professor Hale!" Thorne's voice crashes through the quiet like a rogue Bludger. "We're starting rehearsal prep tomorrow. I need to run you through the student list tonight." I blink. Draco's hand disappears. The moment splinters.

"Right," I say, throat dry. "Of course."

Draco doesn't look at Thorne. He's still looking at me.

And maybe I imagine it, but there's something in his eyes—like he's daring me to say what we both know.

But I don't. Not yet.

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

It's ridiculous how excited I am to be in the theater wing of Hogwarts. The space is unused and dusty, hidden behind a panel of enchanted curtains on the fifth floor. But the moment I walk in, it feels alive.

Like magic is humming beneath the floorboards. Or maybe that's just me.

I've got my parchment, a list of students—including at least two surprise Slytherins—and a casting plan that will probably be thrown out the window by the end of the week. Thorne walks beside me, annoyingly smug with his clipboard.

"I assume you have a vision?" he asks, flipping through pages like we're auditioning for the West End. "I always have a vision," I say, turning toward the small group of students gathering in the corner.

One of them is Scorpius, who waves. Next to him is Rose Weasley—perfect posture, analytical stare—and a Gryffindor third-year with dramatic eyeliner and zero stage fear.

I clap my hands. "Alright, stars of tomorrow, welcome to The Winter's Grasp. We're doing something different. Something haunting. Think: poetic ghosts, war-torn castles, and forbidden love. Also, no one is allowed to die dramatically without approval."

Some students giggle. Some look terrified. Perfect.

As I lead warm-ups, I notice Draco in the corner of the room. Leaning against a wall, arms folded. Watching. "Didn't realize Defense Against the Dark Arts included interpretive dance," I call to him.

He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't realize Advanced Performance included lecture hall espionage."

Touché.

An hour later, we're deep into blocking a scene when I call for a break. Students scatter toward water and snacks. I lean against the back of a bench, panting slightly from demonstrating a particularly dramatic fall.

Draco's still there. Of course he is.

"You planning to steal my students?" I ask, teasing. "Not unless they're cursed," he replies coolly. But then he adds, "They like you."

"They're theatre kids. We feed on praise and live for applause."

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. It throws me more than it should.

There's something soft blooming here. In the laughter. In the way he lets his eyes linger a little too long on my mouth when I laugh. Something I'm scared to name. Something that makes me feel like I'm finally being seen—not for the roles I've played, but for the person I've become.

And for the first time since arriving at this castle, I think: Maybe I'm not just pretending anymore.