Without Saying So
Late March, 4th Year
The morning air in the Great Hall carried the damp sweetness of spring, as though the castle itself had exhaled after a long winter. Pale sunlight filtered through the enchanted ceiling, where drifting clouds gave way to soft blue. Outside, the trees were just beginning to bud, their branches etched with green. Inside, spoons clinked against porridge bowls, toast crackled under warming charms, and the usual low hum of conversation wove through the long tables.
Hermione buttered her toast with mechanical precision, her thoughts still half-fixed on the next round of names she planned to gather for the House Unity letter. The last few had come easily—Terry Boot, Parvati, a Hufflepuff third-year she barely knew but who’d said “It’s about time.” There was momentum now, however quiet.
Across the table, Ginny leaned into a conversation with Dean. Ron muttered something into his juice about Snape’s grading curve. Hermione didn’t respond.
Then the scrape of a chair pulled her attention.
Professor McGonagall stood.
Her posture was crisp as ever, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her expression unreadable. She waited a moment for the hall to quiet. It didn’t take long.
“Good morning,” she said, voice firm. “Just a brief note before classes. We’ll be joined today by a small delegation from the Ministry of Magic.”
Hermione looked up, mid-chew.
McGonagall continued.
“They’ll be conducting a routine facilities review. Infrastructure, interdepartmental programs, general curriculum oversight. Nothing disruptive is expected.”
She glanced down at her notes, then added, almost as an afterthought:
“Representatives will include Madame Wainscott from the Department of Magical Education and—” she paused— “Lucius Malfoy, of the Hogwarts Board of Governors.”
The name dropped into the room like ice cracking.
Hermione saw it before she felt it.
The Slytherin table stilled. Blaise Zabini lowered his fork. Pansy’s eyebrows arched, then smoothed. Theo Nott didn’t blink. Draco Malfoy—seated between them, perfectly still—froze. It wasn’t dramatic. No sharp inhalation, no dropped goblet. Just a subtle straightening of the spine. A clench in the jaw. The faintest flicker of something behind the eyes before his face went blank.
Blank, like a pane of glass.
Hermione watched him.
Draco Malfoy disappeared without ever leaving. He still came to class. Still took notes with that same precise hand. Still showed up on time, turned in assignments, spoke when called on. But whatever had shifted between them—whatever quiet thread had begun to pull them into something unfamiliar—snapped.
And he didn’t look back.
In Ancient Runes, he didn’t argue when they were paired again. But he also didn’t speak. He passed her the shared scroll without a word. Didn’t comment on her corrections. Didn’t smirk when she caught a mistranslation in his syntax. He didn’t even glance at her when she handed in their work.
Hermione didn’t ask. She told herself she didn’t care.But the silence settled heavily across the desk, pooling in the space where their quiet synergy had once lived. The absence of tension felt worse than the tension itself. At least before, there had been something alive between them. Now there was nothing.
In the Great Hall, he took a seat at the far end of the Slytherin table, back to the aisle. He didn’t sit with Blaise or Pansy or Theo. Just kept to himself, picking at his food and disappearing before dessert was served. Once, she thought he might have looked her way—but when she turned her head, he was already gone.
He left class early. Slipped out of conversations. Walked with his shoulders pulled in and his mouth set in a thin line.
In the corridor outside the Charms classroom, they passed each other—Hermione heading in, Draco heading out.
He didn’t slow. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even flick his gaze toward her. And that, somehow, was worse than all the insults he used to mutter under his breath.
She hated the way her chest tightened. Hated the flicker of heat in her jaw. Hated how something missing could feel sharper than something said.
But most of all—She hated that she noticed.
The hallway outside the Charms corridor was quiet, the class ahead still in session. Afternoon light spilled in through the high arched windows, catching dust motes in the air and tracing long shadows across the floor.
Hermione walked alone, the heel of her shoe tapping a sharp rhythm against the stone. Her bag was heavy with notes and unspoken questions.
She rounded the corner—and there he was.
Draco.
He was walking toward her, shoulders squared, gaze distant, steps too smooth to be casual. He wasn’t hurrying. But he wasn’t slowing, either. They were going to pass each other again like they had in the Great Hall. Like they had in Ancient Runes. Like he hadn’t seen her. Like she didn’t exist.
She kept walking. So did he.
And then—She stopped out of sheer, exhausted frustration.
“You really are a coward,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud. But it was enough.
Draco’s steps faltered—only slightly. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. But his hand, hanging loose at his side, curled tightly around his wand. The motion was small. Sharp. Controlled—but not quite.
She saw the tension in his shoulders. The flicker of something behind his stillness, but he didn’t stop. He kept walking. Past her. Down the corridor. Around the corner.
Gone.
Hermione stood still watching the empty hallway and said nothing else.
The fire in the Headmaster’s office burned low, casting long shadows across the edges of polished shelves and darkened portraits. The scent of bergamot and old parchment hung in the air, cut only by the sharp, bitter steam rising from the untouched teacups on the desk between them.
Lucius Malfoy sat with impeccable posture, gloved hands resting lightly on his cane, legs crossed with the poise of someone who was rarely, if ever, contradicted. His expression was composed. Unreadable. Even in the flicker of candlelight, he gleamed like a polished coin.
Opposite him, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled just below his chin. His eyes—bright, knowing, endlessly tired—did not waver from his guest.
They had been speaking for twenty minutes and said almost nothing.
“Of course, there’s concern about the influence of recent initiatives,” Lucius said smoothly, not bothering to hide the disdain behind the word. “Curricular innovation is a noble goal. But ideology, particularly when unvetted, can erode structure.”
Dumbledore nodded once, slowly. “Structure is indeed important,” he replied. “But so is curiosity. And compassion.”
Lucius smiled—sharp and thin. “Discipline is not the enemy of compassion, but children are easily led. Especially by those who mistake defiance for progress.”
The teacups remained untouched. The air between them hummed with unspoken things. Ten minutes later, the door opened with a soft click.
Lucius swept from the room without raising his voice, his footsteps silent on the winding staircase.
Dumbledore didn’t move. He sat still for a long moment, watching the door where Lucius had gone. Then he stood, slowly, and reached for his cane.
In the corridor outside the faculty wing, he found Minerva McGonagall waiting by a window, arms folded tight beneath her tartan shawl. She turned at the sound of his approach.
“He didn’t stay long,” she said.
“No,” Dumbledore replied quietly. “He rarely needs to.”
She looked at him, brow drawn. “Did he say anything useful?”
Dumbledore paused. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”
He adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching a brief flicker of the afternoon sun.
“The boy is drowning,” he said softly. “Let’s hope he learns to swim before the tide turns.”
The message arrived just before lunch, sealed with the silver-green insignia of the Astronomy Department. At first, Hermione thought it was another set of lecture notes from Professor Sinistra—she had asked a question in last week's lesson, something about spell frequencies and house-based learning cohorts. But when she unfolded the parchment, her breath caught.
Regarding your letter on inter-house curriculum support:
The language that followed was clinical. Sanitized.
“The Board has reviewed your proposal and determined that, while thoughtful, the timing is inadvisable given current Ministry evaluations.”
“There is insufficient inter-house consensus at this time to warrant further action.”
“Some concern was expressed regarding potential overreach by student-led initiatives.”
Hermione stared at the page.
Her hands didn’t shake. Her heart didn’t pound.
She just froze.
Professor Sinistra had delivered it herself, tucked neatly between two star chart reproductions, her face unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Hermione looked up. “Did they even read it?”
“One of the governors made a strong recommendation against it,” Sinistra said quietly.
“Lucius Malfoy?”
“I didn’t say that.” Sinistra hesitated. “But he has influence. And some members… aren’t ready for what you’re asking.”
Hermione held her gaze. “Are you?”
Sinistra didn’t answer.
She sat in the common room long after most students had gone to lunch, the rejection notice resting atop her closed folder, its words heavy and hollow on the page. She didn’t cry. Didn’t tear the letter into pieces or storm off to McGonagall’s office or write a new draft fueled by anger. She just sat there, elbows on the table, fingers steepled over her mouth, and let the silence fill the space where hope had lived for the past few weeks.
Had he known? Had Draco said something? Had he said nothing? Had he watched the Board table as his father spoke, and stayed quiet? Had he seen the letter in his bag and walked away from it?
She didn’t know. And that not-knowing throbbed like a bruise. Because if he hadn’t known—then the silence between them was cowardice.
But if he had—Then maybe it was betrayal.
That night, Hermione returned to her dormitory, opened her folder, and placed the rejection notice beside her original draft.
Then, carefully, she picked up her quill.
She crossed out the final sentence.
Not because she no longer believed in it.
But because she was no longer sure who she’d written it for.