The Things We Inherit

Vivienne Hale's POV

The flash of cameras is violent in the quiet corner of the coffee shop.

"Vivienne! Is it true you dropped out of the West End revival?" "Why haven't you been seen in months?" "Are you in hiding?" "Did someone threaten you?"

I keep my head down, the rim of my hood low, voice steady as I say, "No comment."

But that only makes them follow harder, words slicing through the fogged London air like knives, demanding answers I'm forbidden to give. Because the truth? I've been teaching magic at a secret castle. Because the truth? I have ancient magic in me, valued but unwanted. Because the truth? I fell in love with someone who told me to leave.

I duck into the alley behind the shop, heart pounding, waiting for a sliver to leave London. 

Cotswolds.

When I land, I'm in front of a pale green door with a crooked brass handle, its paint chipped just enough to whisper age without neglect. The cottage leans slightly to one side, stone walls softened by time and tangled ivy. Lavender spills over the front step. 

A pair of boots waits just outside, as if someone left in a hurry but meant to return. The air smells like damp earth and rosemary, and somewhere inside, a kettle whistles faintly—as if the house knew I was coming.

My father opens it before I even knock. "Viv?" His eyes are soft, older than I remember. "Come in. You look... tired."

"I've been better," I say with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

He doesn't ask questions. Just pours tea the way he always does—milk first, sugar second, no fanfare—and we sit at the kitchen table with the worn wooden corners I used to doodle on when I was bored. It's quiet. Peaceful. Safe.

After a long moment, I ask, "Do you remember anything about her? Mum's mum."

His hand stills around his mug.

"Your grandmother," he says slowly, "was kind. Kind, but scared. She could do strange things—never wanted to, but they happened around her. Lights flickering. Doors locking. Once, an entire birthday cake exploded when someone made her cry."

I blink. "And mum?" He sighs, "We were going to tell you" There's regret in his eyes. For forgetting to tell me. For not getting a chance to tell me with his wife. Or for not having spent enough time with his wife. Not sure, what for but it's there.

He nods. "Didn't want a life in that world. Was raised thinking it destroyed everything it touched. Said she'd rather let people think she was mad than magical."

"She wasn't wrong," I say under my breath, throat tight. "She tried to stay out of it... and still got caught." He watches me carefully. "You're not caught, Viv. You stepped in. You chose something different."

I look out the window. The sky's gray, featureless. "I thought I could help. That maybe... teaching would be enough."

"You're not just teaching, are you?" I shake my head.

And then I say the quietest truth of all: "I miss it. The kids, the chaos, even Thorne and his stupid dramatic entrances. And..." I stop. "And him," he says gently.

My laugh is hollow. "Of course you knew."

"I was young once," he says with a wink. "We all have someone we leave and wish we hadn't."

I press my hand to the side of my cup, anchoring myself to the warmth. "I didn't just leave Hogwarts. I left him. And the worst part? I still would've walked away if it meant keeping Scorpius safe."

My dad gives a small nod. "That's how I know it's love. You didn't put yourself first."

Silence stretches. I glance at the front door.

I'd go back right now—if I thought I was welcome.

But it's not just about me anymore. I miss them. All of them. But the one I ache for—ache, truly—is him. Malfoy. Draco. .

My impossible, maddening, impossible man.

Draco Malfoy's POV

Hogwarts isn't the same without her.

It's not just me, though I feel it in my bones, in the quiet corridors and long silences after dinner. Everyone does. I see it in the way students linger outside the old classroom that still smells like paint and chalk dust and cinnamon. Some pass by slower than others, as if expecting her to swing the door open, grinning, already in costume for some absurd rehearsal that probably wasn't even on the schedule.

And it would be a lie—an unforgivable one—if I said I haven't done the same thing.

Tens and thousands of times.

Her laughter used to echo off these walls like sunlight caught in stone. Now, there's only dust. And regret.

Scorpius barely speaks to me. The only thing keeping us tethered were the strange, golden hours we spent watching her performances, helping her fix backdrops, him running lines, me pretending not to watch the way her smile lit up a stage like magic before she ever cast a spell.

When she was here, the crack between us had started to mend.

Now it's wider than ever. A ravine I can't cross.

He bursts into my office without knocking. "I want to go home for the weekend," he says. "Mum's place." I lower the parchment I've been pretending to read. "We agreed. One weekend a month."

"Yeah, well, maybe I want to renegotiate," he snaps, arms crossed like a shield. My jaw tenses. "What's going on?"

"You know what's going on!" he says, voice rising. "You sent her away!" I go still. "Scorpius..."

"She didn't hurt anyone. I hurt her. That thing hurt me. Not her. And you knew that, and you still told her to leave. You made her leave." I stand. "I was trying to protect you."

"No," he says, voice breaking. "You were trying to control everything. Like you always do."

"That's not fair."

"She's not dead," he says, louder now, shaking. "But it feels like she is. And I blame you for that."

It punches through me harder than any spell.

"I blame you for her death," he spits. "Just like I blame you for Mum."

"Scorpius—"

But he's already storming out, door slamming with a resounding finality that guts me to my spine.

I sit back down, fingers curling into fists.

I want to turn to someone. Anyone. But there's no one.

So I apparate.

I don't even think—just grab my coat and Disapparate straight to the last place I know she'd be.

London.

It's loud. Overcrowded. The press is buzzing like flies around a spotlight and she's in the center of it, swarmed again. Microphones, flashes, words I can't hear but don't need to.

She looks tired. Haunted.

But then her eyes find mine—and everything stops moving.

She excuses herself quickly, finds a break in the street, and slips down an alleyway. I follow.

We stand there in the quiet between brick walls.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, not unkindly. "I know."

"You can't just—"

"I know that, too." I breathe. "But I had to see you."

She crosses her arms, more out of habit than cold. "You sent me away."

"I know. And I was wrong."

Silence.

I take a step forward. "Hogwarts is... it's not the same. I'm not the same. Scorpius—he's falling apart. We're falling apart. And I thought sending you away would protect him, but it broke him instead. Broke us."

Her face softens, but her voice stays firm. "You said if something happened to your son, I would leave."

"I didn't mean it."

"But I did." Her eyes shine, fierce and fragile. "Because I did endanger him. Not because I wanted to. Not because I am dangerous. But because I don't belong in that world. Not fully."

"That's not true."

"It is," she says gently. "The world might be changing, Draco. But Hogwarts isn't. Not really. It will never be ready for a teacher like me—Muggle or not." I take another step closer. "Then let's make it ready. Let's make them see. Come back."

She looks away, jaw tight. "I can't walk back into a place that sees me as a threat just because I exist."

I exhale, the weight of every word she's saying pressing into my chest. I don't know how to fix this. But I know I can't leave her here.

Not again.