The Beat Between
May, 4th Year
The corridor outside the Transfiguration classroom was loud with late-morning energy—second-years weaving between classes, their voices bouncing off stone walls, books tucked under arms, wands flicking a little too confidently. The windows were propped open for the first time in weeks, and warm May air drifted through the halls, carrying the scent of grass and sun-warmed stone.
A small group clustered near the far archway, clustered around a levitation exercise: charmed plates made of etched, rune-inscribed stone, used to simulate weight variation and spell feedback. The spell was simple enough—Wingardium + Recalla—float and retrieve.
Hermione passed by with her satchel slung over one shoulder, mind already on her next essay for Arithmancy, when she heard the tone shift.
“Watch this!” one boy said, grinning, his wand raised too high.
The spell he used wasn’t the one they’d been taught.
Hermione’s head whipped around just as the rune-stamped plates—six of them, stacked precariously—shot upward, one spinning loose from the center and slicing a diagonal path through the air.
A crack echoed off the walls.
One plate was headed straight for the boy’s face. Another arced toward the corridor’s edge, its carved edge sparking with the unstable remnants of improperly grounded spellwork.
Hermione didn’t think.
Her wand was still in her bag.
She yanked it free, fingers fumbling—
And cast.
“Protego!”
So did someone else.
“Redirecta!”
The spells collided mid-air—not against each other, but with each other. One flared gold, a shield forming like a sudden wall; the other snapped blue and clean, redirecting the dangerous arc of the enchanted plate with a force that absorbed, not repelled.
The magic held.
There was a sizzle of energy as the shield caught the edge of the plate, glowing bright for a flash—and then it was over.
The stone clattered harmlessly to the floor.
The second-year who’d cast the original spell stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale. His wand dangled uselessly from his fingers.
The corridor had gone utterly still.
Hermione’s heart thundered once—then stilled, her wand still raised halfway.
She turned.
So did he.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment that stretched longer than it should’ve, they didn’t move.
Just the shared awareness of what they’d done—together.
Silence followed the clatter.
Draco lowered his wand first, slow and deliberate, his posture slipping back into something composed.
Hermione mirrored the motion a second later, though her fingers tightened briefly around the hilt before letting go.
Their eyes met across the distance—neither guarded, neither open. Still.
The look held.
Too long to be nothing. Too quiet to be called something.
For a moment, the corridor was only them—breath caught in the space between reflex and recognition. As if some part of their magic hadn’t fully settled yet.
Then—
A soft cough.
The sound broke the tension like a pin to glass.
Professor Flitwick stood just a few feet away, robes slightly askew, his gaze flitting between the second-year, the still-smoking stone plate, and the two older students who hadn’t quite remembered to breathe.
He said nothing. He didn’t need to because just behind him, another figure had appeared—quiet as snowfall, hands folded neatly behind his back.
Dumbledore.
His eyes twinkled, yes—but not with amusement. With clarity.
“Well matched,” he said, voice mild but unmistakably pointed. “In more ways than one.”
Neither Hermione nor Draco responded. They couldn’t. The moment had already moved past them.
Dumbledore offered no further comment. Just turned, as if he’d never been there at all, and disappeared down the corridor with the ease of someone who’d seen exactly what he needed to see.
The hallway began to breathe again.
Voices rose—tentative at first, then tumbling quickly back into place. Second-years whispered, shifting from awe to embarrassment as Professor Flitwick herded them into a loose formation, launching into an impromptu lecture on magical restraint and overextension.
The spell plate was swept away with a flick of his wand. The air still crackled faintly.
Draco was already gone.
He didn’t wait for thanks nor did he linger. Just turned and walked off without a backward glance, his robes trailing the last shimmer of the spell they’d cast together.
Hermione didn’t follow. Her feet stayed rooted. Her wand remained in her hand. She told herself she had no reason to say anything. No question to ask. No answer she’d want if he gave one.
But still—she stood there.
Listening to the quiet settle around her, wondering when silence had started meaning more than noise.
The library was nearly empty by the time Hermione left.
The lamps had dimmed, casting the shelves in a soft amber haze. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstones as she stepped into the corridor, a single book hugged tight to her chest—one she’d selected more out of habit than intention.
She barely made it past the first stair when a familiar voice called her name.
“Miss Granger.”
Hermione turned.
Professor McGonagall stood a few paces away, arms folded, her expression unreadable but not unkind.
“An impressive bit of spellwork today,” she said. “The hallway incident.”
Hermione nodded once, the motion small. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to feel proud or exposed.
“It was just—reflex,” she offered.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow.
“Funny,” she said, more to herself than to Hermione, “how well you two work together.”
That landed harder than expected.
Hermione frowned. “It was just instinct.”
“Instinct,” McGonagall replied, “can be telling.” She gave a slight incline of her head—half approval, half dismissal—and turned down the hall, her footsteps fading into the quiet.
Hermione stood there for a moment, still holding the book. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to feel. Gratified, maybe. Defensive. Something with edges.
But mostly, she just felt still.
That night, tucked beneath the hangings of her bed, she opened her notebook and flipped to the day’s spellwork log.
She recorded the event in neutral terms.
Spontaneous dual-casting response to magical misfire.
Outcome: successful.
She didn’t include a name, but she underlined the word instinct.
Once.
Then again.
And again.