The Quiet Between the Curtain Calls

Vivienne Hale's POV

The classroom is still sealed off.

I stand just outside the door some mornings—hovering—like some ghost aching for the stage they once performed on. I don't go in. I can't. Not yet.

It was supposed to be a simple exercise. Channel a memory into a character, let it ripple through voice and breath and posture. But the memory I pulled... God, why did I choose that one? I should've known better.

As I moved through the monologue, her voice—my mother's voice—came through like it always does when I'm not paying attention. And when I reached the last line, the pressure behind my eyes wasn't grief—it was something darker, heavier, electric. I felt it crackle down my spine.

And then the window shattered.

Again.

I remember the way the students jumped, Thorne reaching out for me, his face frozen in disbelief. The silence after. The glass, the cold wind, the stunned eyes looking to me like I'd become something else entirely.

I didn't mean for it to happen. Not the first time. Not this time. Never.

It's been three days since. Three days of empty corridors, silent practice rooms, no echoing laughter bouncing off the walls after my class. The quiet feels like punishment. And maybe I deserve it.

But I miss it.

I miss the faces, the strange questions, the bravery they wear like second skins when they perform. I miss the way magic hums through this castle, not just from spells and wands—but from them. Their hearts. Their voices. Their stories.

I've grown used to this place. This wild, maddening, endearing place.

And there's someone else I've grown used to too.

Not that I'd say it out loud. Merlin, no. He's too observant, too sharp. He'd hear it in my voice and see it in my eyes before I even finished the sentence. So I keep it tucked behind jokes and side glances and polite nods.

Still... there's something in the way Professor Malfoy looks at me that makes my chest twist. A caution. A question. A flicker of something I don't know how to name.

I don't want to leave.

That's the part no one sees—not even me, until the train pulls out of Hogsmeade and I can't bring myself to look back at the castle through the window. Not because I don't want to, but because I know the second I see it, I'll crumble. And I've spent days building these walls again. Thick, steel-lined walls around my heart that Hogwarts and a certain blond professor managed to quietly melt.

Merlin, even thinking his name feels like a bruise I keep pressing.

I tell myself it's temporary. Just a few days away. Some press, a photo shoot or two, maybe even a brief script reading. I've done this before—left one world behind to perform in another. But never like this. Never with a silence between curtain calls that feels like mourning.

In London, the cameras are bright. The flashes louder than they need to be. The reporters toss the same questions at me over and over, like they're fishing for scandal instead of answers.

"Where have you been these past few months, Miss Hale?"

"Were you shooting in secret?"

"Is it true you've been romantically linked to someone?"

I smile like I've been trained to, flash my teeth like armor, and let my publicist shield me with her signature: "Vivienne's committed to her upcoming projects. No further comment."

But none of it feels like mine anymore. Not the roles. Not the lights. Not the applause. I walk off stage and feel hollow instead of high.

And worst of all? I miss teaching. I miss Hogwarts.

I miss Thorne barging into rehearsal in the middle of a scene because he's convinced he's dying from a paper cut. I miss students arguing over who gets to play the Hippogriff and who has to wear the squid costume. I even miss Professor Zabini and Professor Nott's chaotic suggestions that somehow made it into every play and always involved something exploding.

But more than that... I miss him.

The man who looks at me like he's trying not to. Who challenges every decision I make and still shows up to every performance, standing in the back, arms crossed, as if no one will notice he's completely enthralled.

The man who didn't stop me from leaving. The man who didn't stop me from stopping classes.

And maybe he shouldn't have.

Because the truth is—I left because being near him was starting to feel dangerous. Because I didn't know how to be in the same castle, the same room, and not reach for something that would destroy us both if we let it.

But that doesn't mean I stopped hoping he'd say something. That he'd show up. That he'd ask me to stay.

And when he didn't... I went.

Three days pass after I leave. Then four.

On the fifth, I'm in a borrowed dressing room, half in costume, half in my head, when a knock echoes on the window.

It's a delivery owl.

Two scrolls.

The first is a note from a group of Hogwarts students. Slytherins, much to my shock. Signed with shaky handwriting and ink stains and too many exclamation marks. They say the castle doesn't feel the same without their "Director Extraordinaire." They say the halls echo differently. That they echo differently.

That I made them feel something.

That they want me back.

Even if classes haven't resumed. Even if the plays stay on hold.

Even if it's just for a little while.

The second scroll is from Thorne, naturally, and contains an extremely dramatic monologue detailing how he's positively withering in my absence and might have to become a Herbology professor just to feel something again.

I laugh.

For the first time in days, I laugh.

And it's that laugh, stupid and real and mine, that makes me fold the letters and press them to my chest.

Maybe Hogwarts doesn't need me. Maybe he doesn't.

But the truth is... I still need Hogwarts.

And whether I'm there as a teacher, a performer, or just a girl trying to piece her heart back together—I think it's time I go home.

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

I'm still thinking about it—about him—when I sit down at the long staff table for lunch. My plate sits untouched. I'm not even pretending to eat. I'm just watching the students. Some are smiling. Some swaying their shoulders thinking my classes are back on.

That's when I hear it—shoes scuffling the stone floor, excited whispers.

Three second-years—two Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff—come bounding up to the table. Their faces are flushed from running, eyes bright.

"Professor Hale!" one of them blurts. "We miss your class!" My heart stutters. I blink, trying not to show how much that hit. The Hufflepuff pipes up, "You should make it up to us by teaching all day long. Like one massive performance camp."

The Ravenclaw adds, "We'll bring snacks."

I laugh—really laugh, the sound surprising even me. It spills out of my mouth like water after a drought. A few of the professors look up. I don't care. "I don't know if your other professors would be thrilled to lose you for a whole day."

"They can come too," the third student says cheekily.

And just as I'm shaking my head, smiling wider than I have in days, a quiet voice joins the group.

"I'd come back."

I look up.

Scorpius stands there, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he wasn't sure he should have said anything at all. The other students fall silent. Then, sensing the shift, they make their excuses and scurry back to their table, giggling.

Scorpius lingers.

"You really miss it," he says, softer this time. "I can tell." I nod, unsure what to say. He turns to go—but just before he does, he glances back at me.

"You made a lot of us feel something real, Professor Hale. That's not easy to do. Even if the glass breaks... it's still worth it."

And then he walks away.

I sit there, unmoving, as his words settle over me like a second skin.

He saw me. Not just as a teacher—but as someone trying. Someone human.

And suddenly, I'm not just missing the class. I'm missing me.