Extracurriculars

The quiet click of Hermione’s boots echoed through the empty corridor of the Ministry. The late afternoon sun, filtered through the enchanted windows and cast long shadows across the tiled floor as she approached the small meeting room. It had been another grueling morning at St. Mungo’s, a blur of injuries followed closely by a flurry of paperwork, and though she had only just managed to snatch a hurried lunch, she still felt the strain of the day pressing down on her.

This was not how she had imagined spending her precious few free hours—locked in a small room with Malfoy, of all people, attempting to teach him basic healing spells she really thought he and the rest of the DMLE should have learned long ago. But she had made a commitment, and if there was one thing she prided herself on, it was seeing things through.

Professional, she reminded herself. He was just another headstrong auror, like Harry or Ron, full of act-first-repercussions-later impulses. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind her. The room was plain, just a simple wooden table and two chairs shadowed under the dim ministry lighting. She moved quickly, setting out the small jars of basic potions ingredients, a well-worn textbook, and a notebook filled with her meticulously prepared lessons.

There was no time to waste in second-guessing herself. She had prepared diligently for their training, though the content was so intrinsic to her she could likely teach it asleep. Slight adjustments had been made to her teachings to adapt to field work, on the go, quick methods of patching injuries to give an auror enough time to get to the nearest trained healer. She hoped it would be a simple, straightforward session.

She checked her watch—three minutes to six. With a deep breath, she settled into the chair closest to the door and waited, drafting up ideas of packback she could request from Tonks.

The door creaked open, breaking her train of thought. Malfoy stepped inside, his face a mask of cool indifference. He looked much the same as he had a few days ago, his Auror robes neatly pressed, dark ministry-mandated emblem on the upper left glimmering dimly. The only hint of disarray being his slightly windswept blond hair.

She subconsciously pressed her hands down her wrinkled healers robes, attempting to smooth the fabric. Her hair was likely a tangled mess of a braid and she suddenly wished she’d taken a moment after work to run a few charms over the locks.

Malfoy nodded once, an acknowledgment rather than a greeting, and slid into the chair opposite her.

“Granger,” he said, his voice clipped and neutral. There was no sneer, no mocking edge—just a detached professionalism that made her skin prickle with irritation.

“Malfoy,” she replied in kind, keeping her tone level. “Let’s get started.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. She wondered if he found her as puzzling as she found him, but there was no hint of curiosity in his gaze—only a blank, guarded look that gave nothing away.

“We’re going to start with the most basic diagnostic spell,” she said, shifting in her seat and sitting a little straighter. “Revelo Vulnus. It’s used to detect surface-level injuries—bruises, cuts, minor fractures. When cast correctly, it should create a soft glow that outlines any visible injuries. It’s one of the most commonly used spells in the field because of how quickly it can be performed.”

He nodded again and Hermione continued, “You said you’ve used this spell before?”

“A few times,” he replied evenly.

“It’s rather simple,” she said, drawing her wand and aiming generally towards herself. Hermione guided her wand through the familiar motions, clearly articulating the spell. The diagnostic shimmered distinctly to her left, generally positive coloring showed she didn’t have any active cuts or injuries; a small shading of orange let her know there was a light bruise on her upper arm.

“There,” she settled, “Like I said, really quite basic. Why don’t you give it a go and then we can discuss the details of deciphering the reading.” Hermione dismissed her own diagnostic with a quick wave of her wand.

He lifted his own wand facing Hermione. “Revelo Vulnus,” he said quietly, and a soft, pale blue light shimmered in the air between them, forming a faint outline that hung in the space between them. It was a decent first attempt. She’d garner this wasn’t a spell he used with any frequency before today.

“Good,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she studied the faint glow. “But it’s a little too broad. In the field, you won’t always have time to be so careful. Your diagnostic needs to be more focused. Try again, and this time, shorten your pronunciation, focus on your intentions.”

He didn’t argue or hesitate. Instead, he nodded and adjusted his stance. He cast the spell again, this time with a sharper flick of his wrist, and the blue glow narrowed,the outline becoming clearer and more detailed.

“Better,” she said, feeling a flicker of satisfaction. “But you can go deeper. You’ll need to adjust the spell to scan for hidden injuries—bruises beneath the skin, fractures that aren’t immediately visible. When you cast the spell, focus on this intention, know what you’re looking for.”

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze intent on the floating outline. She thought she saw a flicker of uncertainty, but it vanished so quickly she wasn’t sure it had been there at all. He raised his wand again, his movements precise and controlled, and the reading in the air deepened, richer in color. Hermione didn’t have any active injuries that the spell would reveal so the diagnostic shimmered positively.

“That’s it,” she said, surprised at the warmth in her own voice. “You’ve got the depth right. Keep practicing until you can do it without hesitation.”

He nodded, his face still blank, and repeated the spell several times with the same efficiency. She studied his expression as he worked, noting the concentration that furrowed his brow, the tightness in his jaw. There was no satisfaction in his eyes, no hint of pride at getting it right. It was as if he were merely completing a task, detached and distant. She didn’t think he’d said more than a few words to her since they sat down.

“Why don’t we move to the next spell,” she suggested, noting his growing ease in casting the first. “Revelo Profundus. This spell goes beyond surface injuries to detect internal damage—things that might not be immediately visible. It’s a bit more challenging. I’ll demonstrate first.”

She stood, lifting her wand with a smooth, practiced motion. “Revelo Profundus,” she said, her voice steady. The tip of her wand glowed a deep, steady blue, and as she directed the spell into towards herself, a new, more complex pattern of light shimmered into existence. Faint lines wove together, depicting clear, positive readings.

“Your turn,” she said, stepping back to give him room.

He rose, his movements fluid and confident, but there was something almost mechanical about the way he repeated her actions. “Revelo Profundus,” he said, and the light that flared from his wand was slightly weaker, less certain. He hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing as he adjusted his grip, and the light in the air flickered. Hermione watched carefully, noting how the lines shifted, not quite settling into the defined pattern she had shown him. He seemed to be struggling to stabilize the glow, and after a tense few seconds, he let out a frustrated breath and released the spell, the light fading abruptly.

“You’re hesitating,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “The spell is sensitive to doubt. You need to focus on the intention—on the injuries you’re searching for. Don’t think about getting it perfect, just concentrate on what you’re trying to see.”

He shot her a quick glance, something unreadable passing through his eyes, but said nothing. Instead, he raised his wand again, his movements slower this time, more deliberate. He took a steadying breath before repeating the incantation, and this time, the light in the air was steadier, the glowing lines more defined. The pattern hung between them, faint but visible, the details clearer than his previous attempt.

“Much better,” Hermione said softly, nodding in approval. “You’re getting there.”

Malfoy said nothing, his jaw tight as he studied the glowing pattern. He was too focused to acknowledge her praise, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he even heard it. His expression was carefully neutral, but she sensed something else beneath the surface—something tense and tightly controlled, like he was holding back more than just his magic.

“Now let’s try adapting it,” she said, pushing forward. “In the field, you won’t have the luxury of time or space. You need to be able to perform a diagnostic quickly, with as little movement as possible. The incantation is shorter, and the wand motions need to be smaller, more compact. Watch.”

She lifted her wand and demonstrated the field version of the diagnostic spell, her movements tight and precise, the light in the air flaring almost instantly. “Revelo Brevis,” she said, her voice calm and focused. The pattern appeared in the air, sharper and more concentrated, the details clearer and more efficient than the original version.

“Your turn,” she said, stepping aside to give him room.

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on the glowing lines still hovering in the air before raising his wand. “Revelo Brevis,” he said, his voice lower, and his wand moved in a swift, economical arc. The light that flared from his wand was strong but flickered at the edges. Hermione’s brow furrowed, watching him closely as the light wavered and settled into a slightly blurred pattern.

“Not bad,” she said, her tone encouraging despite the imperfections. “But you’re holding back. You need to let the spell flow, not force it.”

His eyes flashed with something—annoyance, maybe frustration—but he didn’t respond. He merely reset his stance, adjusting the grip on his wand with a practiced motion that suggested years of training. He repeated the spell, and this time, the light was steadier, the lines sharper and clearer.

“There,” Hermione said, nodding with satisfaction. “That’s what I’m looking for. You’re starting to understand the balance between control and intent.”

He lowered his wand, and for a moment, she thought she saw the faintest flicker of a smile—barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He gave a single, curt nod, his face still as impassive as ever.

“Good,” she continued, feeling an odd mix of triumph and frustration. “We’ll keep practicing that. The key to diagnostic work in the field is speed without sacrificing accuracy. You need to be able to read injuries at a glance.”

He said nothing, his silence almost challenging, and she felt a strange urge to push him further, to crack that icy exterior and see what lay underneath. She had never known him to be so quiet, so contained, and it both intrigued and irritated her. He wasn’t the same arrogant boy from Hogwarts, but he wasn’t showing her anything else, either—just a blank, unreadable mask.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked, trying to prompt a reaction. “Is there anything you don’t understand about the spell?”

“No,” he said, his voice clipped. “It’s clear.”

She bit back a sigh. “Alright. Let’s try it one more time, but I want you to do it faster. Imagine you’re in a high-pressure situation—a duel, an emergency. You have to see the injuries and react in seconds. Go.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a spark of something—determination, maybe, or irritation—but he only nodded and raised his wand again. He took a breath, his jaw tightening, and cast the spell. This time, his movements were sharper, more confident, and the light that bloomed in the air was clear and precise. The pattern of injuries hung suspended, glowing bright and steady between them.

“Better,” she said, unable to hide her approval. “Much better.”

He held the spell for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the glowing lines, and she wondered what he was thinking—if he was feeling any sense of accomplishment, or if he was as indifferent as he seemed. When he finally lowered his wand, the light faded, and he stepped back with a quiet, controlled exhale.

“Good,” she said, meeting his gaze. “That’s what I need to see. Keep practicing that until you can do it instinctively.”

He nodded, and she hesitated, the words hovering on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to ask him why he was so distant, why he never seemed to react—why he was so different from the boy she remembered. But the cold, reserved look in his eyes stopped her, and she swallowed the question, pushing it aside.

“Let’s take a short break,” she said instead, her voice steady. “We’ve covered a lot already, and I want you to be fresh for the next part.”

Malfoy said nothing, just set his wand down on the table and leaned back in his chair, his posture still rigid. She busied herself with tidying the notes in front of her, feeling the silence stretch uncomfortably between them. She hated it—this constant dance around whatever lay unspoken between them. It was as if they were both afraid to acknowledge the past, the shared history that hung like a shadow over the room.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence with an effort to sound casual, “how often do you use diagnostic spells in the field?”

“Not often,” he said shortly, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere above her left shoulder. “Most of the time, we’re dealing with curses. By the time we can stop and assess, it’s usually too late.”

“I see,” she said, feeling a pang of frustration at his vague response. “That’s why these lessons are important, you know. Being able to diagnose injuries quickly, even in the middle of a crisis, can make a huge difference.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I know why I’m here, Granger.”

Her irritation flared again, but she forced it down, keeping her expression neutral. “I’m just making sure you understand the importance. It’s not about memorizing spells—it’s about learning how to adapt them to real situations.”

“I understand,” he said, his tone curt, and she felt the conversation hit a wall.

“Alright,” she said, hiding her frustration behind a professional mask. “Let’s move on.”

She stood, gesturing for him to do the same, and he complied without a word. They continued through the rest of the lesson, practicing the diagnostic spells over and over, adapting them for various scenarios she described—dark corridors, smoke-filled rooms, tight spaces where speed and accuracy were crucial. He followed her instructions perfectly, his movements precise and controlled, but there was never a hint of emotion, never a crack in the cool facade he wore so effortlessly.

By the time they finished, the room felt heavy with unspoken words, and Hermione could feel the tension settling in her shoulders. She closed her notebook with a decisive snap and turned to him, forcing a smile that felt stiff and unnatural.

“You did well today,” she said, and she meant it. “You’re learning quickly.”

“Thank you,” he said, but there was no warmth in his voice, no sense of gratitude. He gathered his things with the same mechanical efficiency he had shown all lesson, his face as closed off as ever.

“Practice what we covered,” she said, slipping her notes into her bag. “We’ll build on this next week.”

“I will,” he said, his tone cool and formal. He paused for a moment, his eyes flicking briefly to hers, and she thought she saw a flicker of something—hesitation, maybe—but then it was gone, and he turned away, heading for the door.

“See you next week, Malfoy,” she said, her voice betraying none of the confusion churning inside her.

“Next week,” he echoed, his back to her, and then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

Hermione stood alone in the empty room, staring at the spot where he had been, a mix of frustration and curiosity swirling in her chest. She didn’t know what to make of him—this distant, cold version of Draco Malfoy who seemed more like a stranger than the boy she had known at Hogwarts. There was something off about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and it bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

Does he still hate me? she wondered, feeling the weight of the question settle heavily on her mind. Or is it something else?

She gathered her materials, shoving materials haphazardly into her bag, her mind already churning with thoughts of next week’s lesson. As she left the room and walked back down the dim corridors of the Ministry, the echo of her footsteps the only sound, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something—something important.