Theories of Proximity

Yule Ball, Year Four

The candles in the Great Hall had begun to gutter low, dripping wax into the half-empty platters of forgotten desserts. Laughter spilled from the far corners—giddy, late-night laughter, fueled by stolen sips of spiked pumpkin juice and months of mounting anticipation. The night had delivered its magic to most.

But not to everyone.

Hermione’s feet ached inside her silver heels, but she barely noticed. She was still dancing, moving through the space on instinct, Viktor’s hand warm against her spine. He was kind—he had been nothing but kind—but her eyes kept drifting across the room, toward the Gryffindor table where Ron sat with his arms crossed and a storm cloud gathering behind his eyes.

Harry looked like he was trying to disappear. Ginny looked furious on Hermione’s behalf.

The music swelled again. Viktor dipped his head toward her ear.

“You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” she lied, smiling up at him. “Just warm.”

But when she caught Ron glaring at her like she’d betrayed him with every step she took, the air in her lungs suddenly felt too heavy to carry.

Ten minutes later, in the marble corridor just outside the Hall, the dam broke.

“You didn’t even like him until he asked you!” Ron shouted.

Hermione spun on him, her voice low and furious. “You had your chance.”

He flushed, fist clenching at his side. “So that’s it, then? Anyone who isn’t me?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were too bright now. She hated that. She hated that he could still make her cry.

“I’m not doing this,” she said, voice shaking.

And she turned—robes billowing—and walked away before he could see the tears actually fall.

The castle was quiet now, the Yule Ball reduced to echoes and glitter ground into stone. Laughter still drifted faintly through the corridors—muffled, distant, a fading spell—but out here, in the open courtyard beneath the stars, the world had gone still.

Snow fell softly over the flagstones, catching in Hermione’s curls, melting against her bare shoulders. She hadn’t grabbed a cloak. Hadn’t even realized where her legs were taking her until she was outside, breath steaming in the air, satin dress clinging to her knees.

Her heels clicked once on the stones before she sank onto a frozen bench, hands shaking as she dragged them across her face, trying to stop the tears.

They came anyway.

Mascara streaked down her cheeks. She swiped at it once, then again, then gave up. Her chest ached with the sharp pressure of it all—Ron’s fury, Viktor’s sweetness, Harry’s silence, her own confusion threading through every moment like a trap she’d walked into willingly.

And she hated that she still cared. She hated that it still hurt .

A sudden crunch of footsteps in the snow made her stiffen.

She didn’t turn.

Not Ron. Not Harry. Please not—

“Weasley’s a fool. But you already knew that.”

The voice stopped her breath cold.

She looked up, sharply.

Draco Malfoy stood just beyond the archway, cast in soft moonlight and snow, half a shadow and half something else entirely. His white dress shirt was untucked, collar open. His silver tie hung loose around his neck like an undone knot, and his jacket was slung over one arm, forgotten. He looked like he’d walked out of the Ball mid-scene, like he’d had enough of everything and nothing in particular.

She blinked at him, furious and humiliated.

“And you’re an expert on fools now?” she snapped.

A beat passed. The snow fell thicker between them.

“I’ve studied enough of them,” he said, not moving.

Hermione scoffed. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze unreadable.

“Just wanted to see if it was true.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s true?”

He met her eyes, voice quiet.

“That even Granger has cracks.”

The words landed like a stone in her stomach.

Her throat tightened, but she refused to look away. Her breath fogged between them, a silent shield.

“Get lost,” she said, voice hard.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—barely there. It looked tired. Almost honest.

“Already did.”

He turned, and the tails of his cloak whispered over the snow behind him as he disappeared into the corridor like smoke trailing behind a flame.

Hermione didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

The snow melted against her shoulders. Her dress soaked through. Her fingers were numb. But her chest stopped aching, just a little, and somehow, that made it worse.

She wasn’t sure what just happened.

But she knew it wasn’t nothing.

By the time Hermione reached the portrait hole, the corridors were nearly empty. The Fat Lady yawned and waved her off with a sleepy, “Bit late, isn’t it?” but didn’t press for a password.

Hermione stepped through and into warmth.

The Gryffindor common room flickered with the dying embers of the fireplace. A few candles still glowed in sconces near the hearth, and someone had abandoned a half-finished chess game on the floor. Everything smelled like woodsmoke and peppermint.

She almost thought she was alone—until Ginny shifted on the couch.

She was curled under a blanket, knees pulled to her chest, a steaming mug in her hands. Another mug waited on the side table. Without a word, she reached for it and handed it over.

Hermione took it. Wrapped her fingers around the heat.

She didn’t say thank you. Ginny didn’t expect her to.

They sat like that for a while. No questions. No noise except the crackle of the fire and the occasional hiss of snow melting against the outside windowpane.

Hermione sipped slowly, eyes fixed on nothing. The hot chocolate was spiced—cinnamon, maybe clove—and she could taste honey at the bottom, the way Molly always made it.

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry again. She’d run out of that in the courtyard.

Eventually, Ginny broke the silence.

“Malfoy saw you, didn’t he?”

Hermione flinched—just slightly—but didn’t turn.

“I don’t know what he saw,” she said.

Ginny didn’t reply right away. Just took another sip, watching the fire.

Then—

“You looked like a spell trying not to break.”

Hermione exhaled, and it almost turned into a laugh.

“That’s poetic,” she said softly.

“I’m a Weasley. We hide it well.”

They didn’t say anything after that. There wasn’t much to say.

But Hermione stayed on the couch long after her cocoa went cold, and Ginny stayed too.

Not watching her. Just… being there.

The castle had gone still.

Long after the last students had crept back to their dormitories, long after the final strains of music from the Great Hall had faded into silence, Albus Dumbledore walked the stone corridors like a shadow dressed in moonlight.

He passed no one—save one.

Severus Snape stood outside the Hall, his arms crossed, expression as unreadable as ever.

Dumbledore stopped beside him, the hem of his robes whispering across the floor.

“Miss Granger left the Ball early,” Snape said, without preamble.

“So did Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore replied, his voice quiet, almost pleased.

They said nothing for a moment, letting the hush of the corridor speak in their stead.

Fawkes, perched just beyond the window, ruffled his feathers and tilted his head, listening.

Finally, Dumbledore murmured, as if to himself:

“Some truths are best discovered in the quiet moments.”

Snape gave a soft, dismissive sound at the back of his throat.

“You’re meddling.”

“Always,” Dumbledore agreed cheerfully. “But sometimes, Severus… sometimes even snow can bloom if given the right light.”

He walked on.

Behind him, Fawkes let out a single, low note—something between a sigh and a promise.

Snow still dusted the windowsills as the students filed into the Great Hall the next morning, cheeks red from the wind, hair damp with meltwater. A faint fog hung over the enchanted ceiling, swirling in lazy spirals of pale gray clouds.

The aftermath of the Yule Ball lingered in stiff shoulders and tired eyes. Slippers instead of shoes. Bruised egos and whispered rumors.

Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, her fork idle beside her untouched porridge. Her gaze was unfocused, drifting over a stack of toast, past Dean’s butter dish, and toward nothing in particular.

Ron slumped across from her, grumbling into his pumpkin juice.

“Don’t see why they need to shove policy in our faces at breakfast,” he muttered.

Hermione blinked and followed his glare toward Professor McGonagall, who stood at the front of the Hall, glasses perched on her nose, a neat stack of papers in her hands.

She cleared her throat once, sharply, and the room fell silent.

“Good morning,” she began. “The Ministry has asked Hogwarts to participate in an upcoming review of educational standards and inter-house cooperation practices. You’ll find flyers distributed to your tables. Please review them at your leisure.”

With a flick of her wand, the stack lifted and began sliding down each row, parchment whispering against wood.

As the flyers reached the Gryffindor table, most students gave them a passing glance and shoved them aside.

Hermione didn’t.

She picked hers up carefully, reading every line.

Ministry Review of Magical Curriculum & Conduct Standards.
Improving Unity. Ensuring Tradition.
Your Voice Matters.

Her brow furrowed slightly.

“Sounds like propaganda,” Ginny said, reading over her shoulder. “You’d think they’d hide it better.”

Ron rolled his eyes and crumpled his into a ball, tossing it across the table.

“Load of rubbish. Just another excuse to check if anyone’s cheating in Potions.”

Hermione smoothed the corners of her flyer.

She didn’t say anything. She just folded it once, then again, with quiet precision, and tucked it into the front cover of her Transfiguration textbook.

Outside the enchanted windows, the snow kept falling.

Soft. Steady. Silent.

A layer of stillness over a castle that—already—was starting to shift.