Not Nothing
Late January, year 4
The snow hadn’t stopped.
It drifted lazily from the sky in thick, quiet flakes, settling into the creases of winter cloaks and lining the edges of stone paths with a softness that made everything feel muted. Even the air seemed muffled—as though the castle itself had taken a deep breath and forgotten to exhale.
Out on the sloping lawn behind Hagrid’s hut, the fourth-years stood clustered in groups, shoulders hunched against the cold. Their boots left dark impressions in the snow as they fidgeted and stomped for warmth. Steam curled from mouths and gloved hands, and someone sneezed violently into a scarf.
Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her fingers stiff inside her mittens as she scanned the thinning line of students still arriving. Somewhere behind her, Ron’s laugh cracked like a twig, and she felt her jaw tense before she even registered the sound.
She didn’t turn.
A few feet ahead, Hagrid stood bundled in a cloak that looked like it had once belonged to an especially large bear. His breath clouded in the air as he waved enthusiastically toward the trees where faintly glowing shapes shuffled beneath the snow-dusted canopy.
“Mooncalves today!” he called, beaming. “Shy little things, but brilliant if you’re patient.”
He lifted a scroll from one of the deep pockets of his coat and unrolled it with clumsy care. “Right then—Headmaster wants a bit more cross-House work this term, so pairings’ve been assigned. Let’s have a look…”
Hermione turned automatically, expecting Harry or even Neville to step closer—but a figure moved in beside her before either of them could.
“Daphne Greengrass and Ernie Macmillan,” Hagrid called.
Across the clearing, Daphne turned without complaint. No eye-roll. No protest. She simply walked to Ernie’s side.
That, Hermione thought, felt like a shift.
“Hernione Granger and Draco Malfoy.”
Hermione blinked. “I—what?”
Hagrid didn’t look up from the list. “Temporary pairings. Inter-house cooperation. Headmaster’s idea.” His voice dropped slightly, as if he wasn’t sure how well it would be received. “Just for today.”
Hermione opened her mouth—then closed it again.
Across the way, Draco Malfoy was already walking toward her. His cloak was black wool, lined in silver, and perfectly immaculate despite the snow. His hair was damp from the cold. He didn’t look amused. Or annoyed. He looked… blank.
When he stopped in front of her, he offered no greeting. No insult.
Just a tilt of his head, cool and waiting.
Hermione squared her shoulders. “Fine.”
He arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.
They approached the nearest Mooncalf in silence. Its smooth, pale body shimmered faintly under the snowy light, big eyes blinking slowly as it chewed on something that looked like glowing moss.
The creature huffed, and snow puffed up around its legs.
Hermione crouched low, murmuring a soft reassurance, her wand ready to cast the calming charm Hagrid had demonstrated earlier.
Beside her, Draco knelt without a word, mirroring her movement, his expression unreadable.
The silence between them wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t comfortable either. It simply was.
The Mooncalves were skittish in the snow, their hooves leaving delicate, circular prints as they blinked at the students through moon-wide eyes. Their skin shimmered faintly—iridescent, like frost on glass—and their breath steamed in soft puffs into the frozen air.
Hermione and Draco approached one of the smaller creatures, its back hunched as it picked at the frost-covered ground.
Neither of them spoke at first.
The only sound was the crunch of their boots and the quiet rustle of snow falling from tree branches overhead.
Hermione raised her wand, eyes on the creature’s slow movements.
“Left flank,” Draco said, his voice low and clipped.
Hermione adjusted her stance without comment.
“Hold the charm steady,” she replied, not looking at him.
Draco nodded once—barely.
They worked in rhythm, awkward but efficient. He cast a perimeter charm around the Mooncalf while she murmured a soft incantation meant to calm its nerves.
It turned to look at her, huge eyes blinking slowly.
Then—something startled it. Maybe a sneeze from the other side of the lawn. Maybe nothing at all.
The Mooncalf jerked sideways.
Hermione jolted back—and her wand slipped from her fingers, falling with a muffled thud into the snow.
She dropped to her knees instinctively, reaching.
A pale hand got there first.
He didn’t say anything as he picked it up, brushing the snow gently from the carved vinework of the handle. The wand was warm in his fingers—familiar, but not his. He should’ve dropped it. Let it fall. Said something sharp, something easy. But her hand was already there, reaching. And somehow—he passed it to her like it was sacred. Not as a weapon. Not as a taunt—Simply handle first.
Hermione reached out. Their hands didn’t touch. But their eyes did. A flicker. A pause.
She took the wand. Nodded once. “Thanks,” she said, though not exactly gratefully . Not exactly softly . Neutrally.
He nodded back. Just once.
Then they turned back to the Mooncalf, who was watching them as if it had orchestrated the entire moment.
Hermione didn’t look at him again. She couldn’t.
It felt like something.
She pretended it wasn’t.
The snow kept falling, soft and steady, layering the field in white.
From across the clearing, Pansy Parkinson stood beneath a tree whose branches sagged under the weight of winter. She’d done the bare minimum of the assignment—drawn her wand once, flicked it lazily, and now leaned against the bark like it might collapse without her.
Her gloves were pristine. Her hair perfectly curled.
Her eyes? Fixed on Draco. Specifically, on Draco standing beside Hermione Granger, silent and watchful and not doing what Draco Malfoy usually did when he was paired with a Muggle-born know-it-all. Which was to say—he wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t snarling. He wasn’t speaking at all. He’d just handed her wand back like it meant nothing. Like it meant something .
Pansy smirked.
Then leaned over to Blaise, who had taken shelter beside her and looked more interested in his gloves than the Mooncalf in front of them.
“I give it a week,” she murmured, just loud enough. “Before she hexes him. Or kisses him. Maybe both.”
Blaise arched an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “It’s a pathetic thing.” But her voice didn’t sound nearly as sharp as it should have.
Draco heard it. Of course he did. Pansy never whispered unless she wanted to be overheard. He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. But he shifted his stance, just slightly. His next spell flickered at the edges. The Mooncalf tilted its head at him, as if sensing something unsteady.
Further down the field, Theo Nott crouched beside his own partner, half-listening to the Mooncalf’s hum as he cast a charm to measure its breath rate.
He glanced up, eyes narrowing on Draco.
Watched the stiffness in his shoulders. The edge in his jaw.
Theo didn’t say a word.
But he noticed.
And he filed it away like a loose thread worth pulling—later.
Hagrid clapped his gloved hands together, sending a puff of snow into the air that made several students flinch.
“Good work today, all of yeh! Mooncalves are tricky little things, but you lot handled ’em just fine.”
His grin stretched wide beneath his wild beard as he reached into a battered tin and began handing out gingerbread cookies—each one slightly misshapen and heavily spiced, as if the warmth was meant to chase away the frost clinging to their cloaks.
Hermione took hers with a polite smile, though her hands were too cold to properly appreciate it. The cookie’s edges were already softening in her grip.
She glanced to her left, but Draco was already walking away.
No words. No nod. Not even a final glance.
He moved with practiced ease, dark robes cutting a line through the snow as he made his way back toward the castle, shoulders square, posture unreadable.
Hermione watched him go.
Only for a second.
Then she turned the other way.
They left the field like opposite poles of a spell—separate, repelled, orbiting something they didn’t yet understand.
Snowflakes landed on her shoulders, caught in the fibers of her scarf and the stray curls that had escaped her braid. She didn’t brush them away. She didn’t feel cold. She walked slowly, the gingerbread forgotten in her hand, her wand tucked carefully back in her pocket.
It hadn’t been a conversation.
It hadn’t been a moment.
And yet—it lingered.
Like a spell just slightly out of focus.
The fire in the Gryffindor common room had burned down to glowing embers, casting the room in a soft amber hush. Shadows flickered on the stone walls, stretching and curling like they had thoughts of their own.
Hermione sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth, parchment spread in front of her, quill tapping lightly against the side of her inkpot. Her Transfiguration textbook was open beside her, but untouched. A folded leaflet sat beside it—gray, creased, and humming with the quiet weight of something not yet spoken aloud .
The Ministry’s Review of Magical Instruction: A Vision for Traditional Excellence.
She read it again, just to be sure.
The language hadn’t changed.
Behind her, Neville snored gently on one of the armchairs, a Herbology book open on his chest. Ginny flipped through Witch Weekly on the sofa, legs swinging lazily off the side. The mood in the room was soft, domestic— safe .
But Hermione’s thoughts moved sharper than the flames.
“If they’re reviewing curriculum,” she murmured, almost to herself, “that means there’s room to push back.”
Ginny glanced up, brow arched. “Push back how?”
Hermione didn’t answer immediately. She flipped the leaflet over, smoothing the back of the parchment with her palm before sketching a series of boxes and arrows.
Inter-House Collaboration Modules.
Expanded Muggle Studies Track.
Student Representation on Review Panels.
She paused. Added a small note beside the last one: With full voting privileges.
Then she sat back on her heels.
“We write a support letter,” she said. “Student voices. Policy-focused. Measured.”
Ginny made a face. “People’ll say you’re trying too hard.”
Hermione didn’t flinch. “Maybe I am,” she said. “But someone should.”
She didn’t say she wanted Slytherin signatures. She didn’t need to.
Her eyes drifted—just for a moment—toward the stack of books on the corner table where she’d seen his annotations. Where silence had sounded like curiosity and margin notes had felt like dialogue.
She chewed the edge of her quill.
Would he sign it?
She didn’t know.
But she thought about the way he’d handed back her wand like it was sacred. The way he’d looked away before she did. The way he hadn’t erased her thoughts—but had responded.
She rolled the parchment slowly, sealing the first draft of the proposal with a drop of wax and the edge of her wand. Then she tucked it into her textbook. Her hands were still but her mind raced.
She couldn’t explain why it mattered—Only that it did.