A Terrible Thing to Witness

Draco Malfoy's POV

I don't know who signed off on a joint class outing involving magical theory, enchanted wildlife, and four former members of the bloody Order of the Phoenix. But here we are—halfway up the craggy cliffs near the Thestrals sanctuary with students chattering, sketching, and nearly toppling over ledges while Hermione explains Thestral migration routes with the enthusiasm of someone who still believes education is sacred.

I regret this the moment we arrive.

The Hogsmeade cultural walk is meant to be educational—charms woven into architecture, historical magic sites, all that enriching rot. But it's mostly just an excuse for students to buy butterbeer, flirt behind bookstores, and gawk at us like we're on stage.

And Vivienne Hale? She thrives on a stage.

Ginny tosses me a grin as she rounds up a group of fourth-years trying to sneak a stolen Butterbeer. "You look like you're having fun," she teases.

I don't answer. Because I'm not.

Vivienne is across the field—hair pulled back in that soft way it falls just behind her ears when she's focusing, her coat slung over one shoulder, and Thorne Callahan practically breathing in her shadow. He's laughing at something she says. He's got that smug look, the one that says I know I'm handsome and I know she laughs at my jokes. And she is laughing, loud and careless, head thrown back as he pantomimes something ridiculous.

Beside me, Luna leans over to whisper, "That shade of pink she's wearing makes you look like you're in agony."

"I'm fine," I mutter. "You're clenching your jaw so hard, I think your teeth are cracking," Harry adds. "I'm. Fine."

They look... good.

Too good.

I feel a sharp jab to my ribs and turn to find Harry smirking. "I'd say you're going to break your neck if you keep glaring that hard." Ron joins in, arms crossed. "You need a new hobby, mate."

"I have one," I mutter. "It's watching Callahan fall off cliffs."

They laugh, but it's tight in my chest. Hermione walks over with her clipboard and eyebrows raised. "Vivienne's amazing with the students," she says as if I haven't noticed. "I mean, even Neville didn't get them this engaged with plant life. They're completely taken with her."

One of those enchanted deer—a lunar stag—crosses her path, and I swear it bows to her before trotting off. Of course it does.

I turn to round up a pair of sixth-years when I hear it—two kids behind me, giggling.

"I swear, Professor Callahan and Professor Hale should just get married already. They look so cute together."

"I heard they stay late to 'rehearse,'" the other chirps.

"They're always giggling. Did you see how he held her arm on the way here? He's so gentlemanly. And she kept smiling at him..."

My blood turns to steam.

I stop mid-stride, spin on my heel, and face them. "Detention," I snap. "Five weeks. Miss Bellamy." The girl squeaks. "But—Professor! I was just—" Hermione gasps behind me. "Draco. Are we giving detentions out of pure jealousy now?"

That stings. More than it should.

"I—That's not what this is." Hermione raises a brow. "No? Then maybe you'd like to explain to the rest of us why overhearing two girls talking about other professors merits five weeks of punishment." 

"I'm maintaining classroom discipline," I say flatly.

"Right," she says, walking off, shaking her head. "Jealousy it is."

Harry claps my shoulder like I'm some wounded soldier. "You could just talk to her, you know."

"I have."

"No, you've slept with her. That's different."

I exhale, sharp and shallow. Across the field, Vivienne's laughing again—this time bending forward from something Callahan whispered in her ear.

I hate this.

Worse than I hated Potter beating me in Quidditch. Worse than McGonagall giving Gryffindor House 50 points for "the power of love" in seventh year. Worse than—

Merlin, she's touching his arm again.

I grit my teeth. If someone doesn't fall off this cliff soon, it might be me.

Vivienne Hale's POV

I can't go back to sleep.

The dream still clings to me—hot breath on my neck, invisible hands at my throat, a voice that sounds like it's dragging from some deep, dark hole I've tried to board shut. I sit up, swing my legs out of bed, and curl my arms around myself.

It's stupid, really. Just a dream.

Except it isn't.

I toss on my coat and boots, dragging a knit scarf around my shoulders. I know exactly where I need to go.

The Astronomy Tower is still as quiet and peaceful as the first time I snuck up here my second week at Hogwarts. The stone beneath my boots is cold, but the sky is blushing at the horizon—pink melting into lavender, the kind of beauty that doesn't care if anyone's awake to witness it.

Except I'm not alone.

There's a silhouette at the edge of the balcony, coat open, hair a soft mess from sleep or frustration or both.

Draco.

Of course.

I should turn around. But I don't.

"You couldn't sleep either?" I ask, my voice gentler than I expect it to be. He glances over his shoulder, unsurprised. "You have a habit of showing up in places I used to think were mine alone."

I smile faintly, stepping up beside him. "Careful, Draco. That almost sounds like a compliment." He hums, low. "Hogwarts still has a few places to catch the best sunrise."

I lean against the railing next to him, close but not touching. "Hogwarts has a lot of nice things," I say, nudging his shoulder with mine, just a brush. "Even the people. Some of them, anyway." He turns, eyes scanning my face like he's trying to guess what version of me is here this morning.

I glance out toward the light breaking across the valley. "You know," I murmur, "punishing students over what you won't admit is a terrible habit. Not very Head-of-House of you."

There's a pause—just long enough to feel the heat rise in the space between us.

His jaw flexes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I scoff under my breath. "Sure you don't. And I suppose you gave that girl detention yesterday because she violated some unspoken rule about... observational accuracy?"

"She was being inappropriate."

"She said I looked good with someone else."

"She was wrong."

I look up at him, and there it is again—that fire behind his eyes that never quite burns me but always comes so close. "Why does it bother you so much?" I ask, quieter now.

He doesn't answer. Just looks at me like I've set something dangerous in motion.

Maybe I have.

But the sunrise paints the side of his face gold, and for a second, I don't feel tired anymore.

He doesn't answer my question.

Not with words, anyway.

Instead, he shifts his weight, and the space between us feels smaller. Like the sunrise is pushing us together. Like the cold air is a string, pulling tight around our spines and drawing us forward.

His eyes flicker to my mouth. Just once. Just long enough to make it hurt.

And I hate that I do the same.

Neither of us is moving—but we are. There's that slow, invisible gravity, the kind that only exists when you're standing too close to someone you shouldn't want this badly.

"You shouldn't look at me like that," I whisper, but my voice betrays me. It sounds like I want him to. "And how exactly am I looking at you?" His voice is quiet. Velvet wrapped around steel.

"Like you're about to ruin me."

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A struggle. "I've already done that, Professor Hale." He exhales. The kind of breath a man takes before falling into something he can't crawl back out of.

And then—his hand lifts. Hesitates. Finds my waist. Just enough pressure to keep me from floating away.

We lean in, both of us, drawn like planets orbiting the same star. I can feel the ghost of his breath. The warmth of it brushing over my skin. My hands find the lapels of his coat without thinking.

I close my eyes.

This kiss, I know, won't burn like the last ones.

It will brand.

No games. No fury. Just the truth of it—whatever this is.

And just when we're there—just when I'm sure the world has narrowed down to the space between our lips—

"Professor Hale?"

I jerk back like I've been slapped.

A second-year Ravenclaw stands sheepishly in the doorway at the bottom of the tower stairs, clutching a rolled-up parchment and blinking between the two of us like he's interrupted something sacred.

Because he has.

I step back, fast. Too fast. The chill rushes in where Draco's hand had been.

"Sorry," the student mutters. "I was supposed to give this to you before breakfast. From Professor McGonagall." I clear my throat and force my hands to my sides. "It's alright. Thank you, love."

The boy leaves. The silence that follows is brutal.

Draco doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

Because if we do—if we admit what just almost happened—it will be real.

And I don't think we're ready for real.

Not yet.