Quiet Suspicions

Draco Malfoy's POV

He isn't eavesdropping.

Not intentionally, anyway.

He's walking toward the staff table when the laughter—Vivienne's laughter—bounces off the walls like it has every day since she arrived. Only now, it's rare. A flicker instead of a flame.

She's surrounded by a few students, second-years from the look of them, practically buzzing with admiration. It's harmless. Expected, even.

But then I hear it.

"I'd come back."

I slow. Half a step, no more. I watch from the side, just beyond the pillars.

Vivienne's smile dims, softens. She doesn't speak. She just watches my son like he's someone she sees. Really sees. "You really miss it," Scorpius says. "I can tell."

The silence between them is full. Not awkward, not strained—just full. Like it's saying more than either of them is aloud.

And then Scorpius adds, "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." My chest pulls tight. He doesn't move. Can't. 

I have never seen him speak so freely. About how he feels. Whether it's about his favorite professor or a girl or anything. Never after she died.

He walks away with a little more weight on his shoulders but a little more honesty on his face, too. For the first time in what feels like months, I see emotion where there's usually armor. Scorpius never says what he's feeling—not to him, not to anyone. But he just did. To her.

And Vivienne just stood there, glowing like someone had cracked her open and reminded her who she used to be.

I don't know whether to be grateful or afraid of that.

I don't mention the conversation. Not to Scorpius, not to anyone.

But it sticks with me.

Which is why, a few hours later, I find myself in Professor McGonagall's office, pacing in front of her fireplace like I'm seventeen again and waiting to be scolded.

"She's good with the students," I admit. "Especially Scorpius. He... responds to her." I admit. Out loud. To someone. And definitely, to myself. McGonagall looks over her spectacles. "But?" I stop pacing. "But I don't know what she is."

There's a long pause. The headmistress folds her hands.

"You don't trust her," she says plainly.

"I want to," I answer, and it's the truth. "But there have been two magical incidents in her classroom—both unexplainable. She says she's a Muggle, and yet magic reacts to her in ways it shouldn't. She claims she's never held a wand, but something broke in that room, and it wasn't just glass."

McGonagall's eyes narrow slightly. "You think she's dangerous?" 

"I think... she could be. Whether she means to be or not."

"She was vetted thoroughly by the Minister herself." I frown. "Sometimes I think Granger's judgment is too easily swayed."

McGonagall raises an eyebrow. "And sometimes I think yours is clouded by grief and guilt." She pauses, "Your son is hurting, and he's found someone who helps him. That should count for something."

I don't reply.

Because it does count for something.

It also doesn't explain why the hairs on the back of my neck rise every time Vivienne walks into a room. Not in fear. Not even suspicion. It's something else. Something wrong.

"I just want to keep the school safe," I say eventually.

"And how do you plan to do that?"

I hesitate.

"I'm going to start observing her classes."

"Draco—"

"Quietly. Unofficially. I'm not accusing her of anything. Yet."

McGonagall exhales, long and tired. "This isn't a duel, Draco. You're not Auror Malfoy anymore."

"No," I say, jaw set. "But I am a father. And I'm going to find out what she's hiding—before someone gets hurt."

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

Saturday night at The Three Broomsticks is a rare miracle. Not because of the overpriced Firewhisky or the off-tune wizard jukebox playing Celestina Warbeck covers—but because none of us are grading.

No lesson plans, no detentions, no snot-nosed first years begging for extensions.

Just us. A circle of professors pretending, for a few hours, that we aren't slowly losing our minds inside a castle filled with hormonal wand-wielders.

Luna's feet are tucked beneath her in a ridiculous armchair she conjured herself—out of hay, apparently, for "better aura flow." Potter's already had two pints and is arguing with Longbottom about whether Devil's Snare counts as "undead." Potter's coach wife signs some autographs for her fans from her Quidditch days. Zabini is sipping wine like he's too good for us, and Weasley is halfway through a basket of onion rings and butterbeer, looking perfectly content.

Then Vivienne speaks.

"So," she says, cradling her glass of elderflower fizz, "how'd you lot end up as teachers, anyway?" The question hangs lightly in the air. A simple thing. But her voice has that curious lilt to it, the one that makes you want to answer honestly, even if you didn't intend to. "And isn't it wonderful, you were friends in the same school and now professors?"

Zabini snorts first. "Friends is a big word for what we were back then. And Malfoy forced me."

Everyone laughs.

"I did not," I mutter.

"You did. You said, and I quote, 'Zabini, if you're going to loiter around the castle like a decorative statue, you might as well make yourself useful.'"

"Reasonable logic," I say, sipping my drink.

He raises his glass to me. "I thought I'd hate it, but turns out, I like being the reason teenagers finally figure out how Astronomy actually works. Like it's not all stars and shit" Luna chimes in dreamily. "The Wrackspurts told me I needed to be closer to the enchanted ley lines of the Highlands."

Weasley chokes on his butterbeer. "The what told you what?"

"The Wrackspurts," she repeats. "And I missed the castle. I thought I'd teach Divination until I found the next great conspiracy. Which I have not. Yet."

"I came back because Hermione gave me a book," Ron says suddenly, wiping his hands on a napkin. Everyone turns to him. "A book?" I ask, arching a brow.

"Yeah. 'A Concise and Unbiased History of Goblin Rebellions.' Which was, in fact, not concise or unbiased. It was awful. But it made me realize how badly it needed fixing. And I don't know. I started reading more. Got kind of... into it."

Vivienne tilts her head. "So, you came back to rewrite history?"

"I came back to make it make sense," he says. "Also, don't tell Hermione I said any of this. She'll start crying or plan a parade."

There's soft laughter again.

And then silence.

For a moment, it stretches—comfortable, but expectant.

I look at her.

Her eyes are on the rim of her glass, fingers tracing slow circles around it.

"Hale?" I ask, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be. "Why did you start teaching?"

She looks up.

And when our eyes meet, something flickers there.

"I was five," she says finally. "And I'd line up all my plush toys on these tiny little desks my dad made—he actually built them from spare wood. Just for me. Even carved names into them. 'Mr. Bearbert.' 'Professor Snuffles.' I'd give them spelling quizzes and make up stories for History and pretend we had end of year exams."

No one interrupts her.

She's smiling, but it's not the usual kind. It's softer. More fragile.

"I didn't want to be famous. I mean, I loved acting, loved the thrill. Grew up on Shakespearean stories. But the first time I directed a play at the community center—I was twelve—I realized I didn't care about being in the spotlight. I wanted to create something with people. For people. I wanted to help them believe they could be something."

Her voice catches. Just slightly.

"And then my mum died. And I stopped everything. For a long time. Until I found my way back. To acting. Because to be the best director the world has yet seen. I needed to make my name as an actor first. And I realized I should do what I do best too. Teaching. And when Hogwarts offered me the position—I don't think I've ever said yes to anything faster."

Something punches me square in the chest.

Not her story. Not even the grief I see lingering behind her words.

But the way she tells it. Like she's sharing a secret.

Like we matter enough to know it.

"Anyway," she says quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and blinking away whatever nearly escaped her eyes, "your turn, Malfoy." I blink.

"What?"

"Why you started teaching."

"Ah," I say, clearing my throat. "Simple, really. I enjoy watching teenagers cry when I give them failing grades."

More laughter.

But she's still looking at me.

And beneath the candlelight, I realize something.

She doesn't look like a performer now. Not like the confident woman who lights up a stage or the clever professor who commands a classroom.

She looks real.

And I wish I knew what to do with that.

"You don't need to cast a spell to believe in magic," she says suddenly, raising her glass again. "Sometimes, you just need a stage."

And for one terrifying moment, I think maybe the woman I barely understand, understands me far more than I'd like to admit.