Theories of Proximity

Late February, 4th Year

The corridor outside the library was quiet, muffled by stone and the lateness of the hour. Most students had long since retreated to their common rooms, and even Madam Pince had extinguished her lamps, the doors to the Restricted Section shut tight with wards that shimmered faintly in the dark.

Hermione adjusted the weight of the books in her arms—three thick volumes on magical ethics and inter-house education policy, plus one slim, worn copy of Ritual Spellcraft in Mixed Magical Communities . She’d tucked her notes inside the last one, ink still drying. Her satchel was digging into her shoulder, but she didn’t mind. She liked the ache of carrying something heavy. It felt like proof of movement.

She didn’t head for Gryffindor Tower right away. Instead, she turned right toward the Astronomy Tower. The air grew colder the higher she climbed. The torches along the stairwell were fewer here, their flames smaller, flickering like candle ends. Frost glazed the windows at each landing, catching the moonlight in fine webs of silver.

At the top, she slowed. There was a sound—a soft fizz-crackle of magic, subtle but familiar. Like the end of a spark charm that hadn’t quite faded. She frowned, adjusting her grip on the books as she pushed open the door to the observation deck. And there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

Leaning against the stone parapet, robes loose, one hand resting on the cold ledge. A thin stream of charmed smoke curled from the tip of his wand like a cigarette—blue-tinged and faintly luminescent, fading quickly into the night air. It smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper—lavender, maybe, or sage charred at the edges.

He didn’t startle when she entered. He just flicked his eyes toward her and said, flatly: “Granger.”

Hermione paused. Looked at him. Then at the smoke, curling upward like a question. “Malfoy.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that settled in naturally—not awkward, not tense. Just there.

She didn’t leave. Instead, she stepped forward and set her books down on the low stone bench near the parapet. Her breath fogged in the air between them. The moonlight caught the edge of her collar. Caught in his hair.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

And in the stillness, something shifted—not loudly, not with fanfare, but like a door swinging open halfway.

Hermione dropped her books onto the low stone bench with a soft thud, parchment rustling under the weight. The bench was dusted with snow near the edges, and she brushed it off with a gloved hand before sitting—close enough to share the night air, but far enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for company.

Draco didn’t say anything.

He exhaled another thin stream of smoke from his wand, watching it curl upward in a lazy spiral. The charm was subtle—controlled, but not quite right. The smoke looped once, then stuttered, flickering before it faded.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, tracking the movement with her eyes. “That’s not a standard diffusion charm.”

He glanced at her, the barest shift in posture. “No. Modified incense signature. Eastern influence. Calms the nervous system.”

“You anchored it wrong,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s pulsing instead of streaming.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Too much pressure at the base. Your intent’s being read as concentration, not continuation. You’re signaling urgency.”

He turned to face her fully now—still leaning against the parapet, but his weight had shifted, interest piqued. “Show me, then.”

She hesitated for a beat, then lifted her wand.

The smoke spell was familiar—one she’d practiced once out of curiosity and perfected because she hated not knowing things. She adjusted the angle of her wand and cast with a gentler wrist motion.

A stream of soft silver smoke unfurled from the tip, smooth and uninterrupted, curling upward in an unbroken ribbon.

No longer pulsing, flickering. Just clean motion.

Draco watched.

Hermione let the charm dissipate and lowered her wand. The smoke thinned into nothing, lost to the open sky. “See?” she said.

“Your control’s better,” he admitted.

“Your intent’s too rigid,” she countered, a small smirk tugging at her mouth. “Try casting like you’re breathing, not correcting.”

He didn’t answer at first. But then—he tried it. His smoke streamed longer. Not perfect, but better.

Hermione shifted forward on the bench, brushing a curl from her cheek as she lifted her wand again. The movement was fluid, familiar, more like a breath than a spell.

“It’s not the incantation,” she said. “It’s the movement. You’re casting outward—trying to command it. You need to anchor inward.”

She tilted her wrist slightly, adjusted her fingers around the hilt. “Like this.” She cast the charm again—quiet and intentional. Smoke unspooled from her wand like a ribbon, slow and steady, glowing faintly in the moonlight. It hovered between them, rising in elegant spirals before dissipating into the air above the tower.

Draco watched. He didn’t speak. When the last curl of smoke faded, he turned his wand in his fingers and mirrored her grip. His motions were smaller this time. More precise. His spell flared—then steadied. The smoke streamed in a smooth arc, no longer pulsing or sputtering.

“Better,” he admitted.

Hermione didn’t gloat or smile. She simply nodded, eyes still on the thread of magic. “It’s still inefficient,” she said softly. “You’re losing stability after ten seconds.”

Draco exhaled. Not annoyed— resigned. “It lasts long enough.”

There was no bite in it. No performance. Just truth. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. They sat together, not speaking, not moving, the only sound the soft hiss of snow melting on the parapet behind them and the subtle breath of magic curling between their wands. Twin spirals of smoke rose, twined, and vanished into the stars.

Neither of them looked away.

Below the Astronomy Tower, the lower courtyard was hushed, the snow muffling the sound of footsteps and wind. The castle exhaled quietly around it—lamplit windows glowing in the dark, chimneys trailing thin ribbons of smoke into the crisp winter air.

Albus Dumbledore moved slowly across the stones, his cane tapping gently beside him, though he hardly leaned on it. His breath fogged in the cold, but his face was calm, contemplative.

As he passed the shadow of the east wall, something made him pause.

He turned his gaze upward.

The high silhouette of the Astronomy Tower stood dark against the pale sky, stars flickering above its stone crown. At its edge, two figures stood—or sat—near the parapet. Small. Still.

Smoke curled between them—two thin arcs of charmed magic, faintly glowing silver, rising and dispersing like whispered spells.

Dumbledore watched them for a long moment. His eyes softened and then he continued walking.

Later that night, Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room just before curfew, arms full of books and parchment. The fire had burned low, the room quiet save for the rustle of pages and the occasional pop of a log shifting in the grate.

She dropped her things on the desk near the corner window, tugging off her scarf with one hand and flipping open her notebook with the other.

Something slipped out from between the pages.

A small square of folded parchment.

She unfolded it.

There was no seal. No heading.

Just a single line, written in a familiar, looping hand:

Understanding is the first step toward peace.
—A.D.

Hermione stared at it for a moment.

Then tucked it back into the middle of her draft letter.

The common room was nearly empty by the time Hermione settled into the corner armchair closest to the fire. A few students lingered by the hearth, murmuring over chess boards or half-finished essays, but the buzz of the evening had faded.

Outside, the snow had returned—soft against the high windows, tapping faintly at the glass like a reminder.

Hermione unfolded the draft letter for the third time that night.

The parchment was creased now, the edges smudged faintly from handling. Her script ran neat and precise down the page, carefully structured into three short paragraphs. She adjusted a sentence—then another. Crossed out a phrase. Rewrote a clause. Every word mattered.

To Whom It May Concern,
We, the undersigned students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, write to express our support for the Magical Culture & Perspective elective initiative...

Her quill hovered over the bottom. She added her name.

Hermione Granger.

Then she set the quill down and exhaled.

The next morning, she found Luna Lovegood already seated at the Ravenclaw table, buttering toast and reading The Quibbler upside down.

Hermione approached slowly, the letter pressed flat inside a folder against her chest.

“Luna?”

Luna looked up, dreamy as ever.

“Yes?”

Hermione hesitated for only a second, then handed her the parchment.

“Would you read this? I’m trying to gather student signatures—just for support. I’d value yours.”

Luna accepted the paper with both hands, turning it sideways first, then upside down. She read it quietly, nodding here and there as if it were confirming things she already suspected.

When she reached the bottom, she plucked a quill from behind her ear and signed in long, looping letters that nearly drifted off the page.

“Thank you,” Hermione said.

Luna handed it back. “I liked the second sentence,” she said. “It has gravity.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s… thank you.”

Later that morning, Hermione found Dean Thomas seated on the low stone ledge just outside the Charms corridor, a sketchbook balanced across his knees. Charmed charcoal floated above the page, shading itself into the folds of a Quidditch banner mid-design.

He set it aside when she approached.

“Student letter?” he asked, already taking the parchment.

“For the new elective,” she confirmed.

Dean read it through, brow furrowed. When he finished, he tapped the edge of the page.

“Who’s reviewing the letters once they’re collected?”

“I’ll forward them to Professor Vector and Professor Sinistra,” Hermione said. “Then McGonagall.”

Dean nodded. “Good. Keep it academic. Makes it harder for them to ignore.” He signed his name in clean block letters.

“Parvati asked me if you’re planning to run for Minister one day,” he added, grinning.

 Hermione blinked.

 “I think she meant it as a compliment,” he shrugged.

She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or panic.

“Cheers,” he said, waving goodbye.

Hermione tucked the parchment back into her satchel, now warm from being carried against her side all morning. The signatures carried more weight than she'd expected—steadying, not burdensome. Like ballast.

Near the stacks on spell theory, a low but urgent voice caught Hermione’s attention.

“…but that’s exactly the point,” a Ravenclaw was saying. “If the framework favors one tradition over another, how is that neutral?”

A Slytherin boy—sixth-year, sharp-jawed, arms crossed—tilted his head. “It’s not favoritism. It’s foundation. You can’t teach wandless casting before stabilization.”

The tone wasn’t angry. It was precise. Measured. Like a duel waged in syntax.

Hermione slowed as she passed, catching the undercurrent. Not hostility. Not performance. Just disagreement sharpened into discourse. No insults. No hexes.

Maybe, she thought, this was unity too. Even if it didn’t look like it.

She sat back down at her table and touched the folded edge of the letter with her fingertips. Two names. Two people who saw it the way she did. She exhaled—and for the first time since she’d begun the draft, she let herself feel something close to momentum.

Dinner in the Great Hall hummed with its usual noise: the clatter of cutlery, the low swell of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter echoing from the Hufflepuff table. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling shimmered with scattered stars against a bruised-purple sky. The scent of roast chicken and warm bread lingered in the air.

Hermione sat near the end of the Gryffindor table, her plate half-full, appetite absent.

The letter was in her bag—folded neatly, tucked between her Transfiguration notes and a spare quill. It had two signatures now. One dreamy and sprawling, the other measured and square. Both meant something.

More than she’d expected.

She reached for her goblet, then paused—her gaze drifting across the hall, toward the Slytherin table.

Draco.

He sat between Theo and Blaise, posture relaxed but a little too still, like he was performing disinterest. A book lay open beside his plate, untouched food pushed to one side. He wasn’t talking. Just reading.

Pansy leaned across Theo to whisper something—Hermione couldn’t hear what—but Draco didn’t react. He turned a page. Slowly. His fingers tapped once against the table. Hermione reached into her bag without thinking. Her hand found the letter.

Paused.

The parchment was smooth, warmed from being carried all day. Her fingertips brushed the edge, hovered over it.

He hadn’t mocked it. Not once.
He’d listened, up in the tower.
He’d let her correct his spellwork.

Her eyes flicked back across the hall.

Still not talking. Still reading, but he was listening. She could tell. Her fingers curled around the parchment. Then released it.

Not yet.

That evening in the library, Hermione spotted Theo Nott at a table near the far window. He was alone, half-shielded by a stack of Magical Law journals, a quill in one hand and a copy of The Daily Prophet folded beneath his elbow, but it wasn’t the Prophet he was reading.

It was the letter. Her letter.

The parchment lay flat in front of him, the header unmistakable. He didn’t annotate. Didn’t scoff. Just read. Quietly. Deliberately.

For a moment, his eyes lifted, met hers, and didn’t look away.

Later, tucked into the crease of an abandoned Transfiguration textbook on a nearby shelf, Hermione found a crumpled draft of the House Unity proposal. At the bottom corner, almost invisible—his name.

Theo Nott.

Faint. Erased. But not entirely.

Enough to recognize the hand that wrote it—and just enough to know he hadn’t meant for her to miss it.

Later that night, back in the quiet of the common room, Hermione sat cross-legged at the corner desk beneath the window. The letter lay unfolded beside her, along with a blank sheet of parchment she’d turned into a names list.

She began writing.

Luna Lovegood.
Dean Thomas.
Parvati Patil.

The crease in the parchment was softer now—pressed down not by her hands, but by others. She’d seen a copy pinned to the Hufflepuff noticeboard. Another tucked into the corner of a Ravenclaw study carrel, half folded. She hadn’t put them there, but they were there all the same.

Her quill hovered.

Theo Nott.

Another pause.

She dropped to the next line. Stared at the empty space. Then—almost—she wrote: Draco Malfoy. But the ink never touched the parchment. She set the quill down. Folded the list. Slid it into her journal. She didn’t cross his name out.

The smoke from the tower had long since vanished.