Extracurriculars

Two weeks passed, and Hermione’s life settled into an exhausting cycle of lessons with Malfoy, frantic work at St. Mungo’s, and late-night research sessions that stretched into the early hours. The mysterious illness continued to spread, with new cases trickling in almost daily—each one just as enigmatic as the last. What had begun as a mysterious but seemingly mild ailment had now escalated into something far darker and more dangerous. Patients were losing control of their magic, their conditions deteriorating faster than she could keep up with.

Despite her frustration, the lessons with Malfoy progressed steadily. He was a quick study—too quick, at times. Though he remained distant and aloof, she couldn’t deny that he took the training seriously. Each week, he showed up on time, his wand ready, his focus unwavering. She had to admit that his precision with healing was impressive, but it only deepened her confusion about him. He never responded to her attempts at conversation, brushing aside her questions with curt, dismissive answers, leaving her with a growing sense that he was hiding something. Or perhaps, despite all this time, he truly did just hate her as much as he had during school.

The work at St. Mungo’s, meanwhile, became a nightmare of missed breakthroughs and mounting dread. Every diagnostic spell she cast, every potion she tried, seemed to slide off the illness like water off glass. The cases were mounting, and with each new patient admitted, her anxiety grew sharper, the feeling of impending disaster tightening around her chest like a vice.

It was a Thursday when the day began to fall apart. Hermione had just settled into her cramped office, a cup of too-strong tea steaming beside her, when Healer Althea stormed in, her face pale and lined with worry.

“Hermione, it’s happening again,” Althea said, her voice tight and strained. “Another patient’s taken a sudden turn. It’s Edgar Bones—he’s in the Isolation Ward. We need you now.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted, the tea forgotten as she grabbed her wand and followed Althea out the door, the rush of the hospital swirling around them. They moved quickly, the hurried footsteps of Healers and the muted cries of patients filling the air as they wound through the crowded halls. By the time they reached the Isolation Ward, Hermione’s pulse was racing, dread coiling deep in her gut.

The room was eerily quiet as they stepped inside. Edgar Bones lay motionless on the narrow bed, his face pale and drawn, his breathing shallow and uneven. A faint, silver light flickered around his fingertips—small, crackling bursts of magic that seemed to bleed out of him, fading into the stale air of the ward.

Hermione’s hands were steady as she raised her wand, casting the standard diagnostic spell. Silver lines of light wove through the air, illuminating Edgar’s still form, but the patterns remained as elusive as ever—flickering with vague, undefined motions that told her nothing of the deeper cause.

She gritted her teeth and adjusted the spell, but there was nothing there—just the same muddled impressions she’d seen a dozen times before. “Increase the containment spells,” she said tersely, her voice tight with frustration. “I’m going to try a different diagnostic.”

Althea moved quickly, her wand flashing as she reinforced the wards around Edgar’s bed. Hermione barely noticed, her focus entirely on the sick man in front of her. She cast another spell, a more intricate diagnostic she had developed specifically for these cases, but the results were just as frustrating. Vague impressions, nonsensical readings—the same dead ends she had been hitting for weeks.

She pulled several vials from the rolling cart stationed by his bed. With delicate care, she poured several down his throat in attempts to mitigate the outstanding ailments: one for a fever, anorher for the pain, and finally one Hermione had stewed over for the past few days- specially designed to alleviate the erratic spurts of magic seeming to escape from the body, leaving the patient weak.

Edgar’s condition was deteriorating, and she was no closer to understanding why. Finally, she dropped her wand to her side, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

“He’s stabilizing, for now,” Althea said quietly, her brow furrowed as she looked down at the patient. “But it’s only temporary, isn’t it?”

Hermione nodded, feeling the weight of failure settle heavily in her chest. “Yes,” she said softly.

Back in her office, Hermione stared down at the files that covered her desk, a sense of helplessness gnawing at her insides. She had spent hours poring over the records of each patient—Bethany Clearwater, Edgar Bones, and now several more—all of them displaying the same baffling symptoms. The patterns were there, she was certain of it, but they remained maddeningly out of reach, taunting her with their ambiguity.

What am I missing? she thought, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. She picked up the most recent file and flipped through it, her gaze drifting to the series of blood samples she had collected over the past weeks. Each vial was carefully labeled and cataloged, but none of them had revealed anything useful when she’d sent them to the labs.

She stared at the most recent vial—Edgar’s blood—her thoughts racing. She had tested the samples for every known magical illness, every dark curse she could think of, but they had all come back negative. What if I’m looking at this wrong? she wondered suddenly, her fingers tightening around the glass.

The thought sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. She grabbed her wand and cast several detection spells, layering each one like scales on a snake. The room seemed to hum with energy as she worked, the air crackling with the force of spells and for a moment, nothing happened. The magic simply poured over the sample, as the conjured reading hovered unhelpfully above it.

But then—a flicker. A faint, almost imperceptible glow within the reading, a trace of magic so deeply buried that it was nearly invisible. Her heart skipped a beat, and she leaned closer, narrowing the parameters of the spells to isolate the source. There was something there—something foreign, tangled within the very structure of the blood.

Her breath quickened, and she adjusted her incantation, her wand moving with frantic precision. The light grew stronger, coalescing into a thin, silvery thread that twisted through the blood like a shadowy vein. It was faint—so faint that she would have missed it if she hadn’t known exactly what to look for—but it was there.

This isn’t a natural borne illness, she realized, a cold chill washing over her. This was put here. This was done on purpose.

The implications hit her like a physical blow, her hands shaking as she sealed the vial with a protective charm. This wasn’t a new illness, some unexpected magical mutation. It was deliberate—someone had planted this, hidden their work so carefully that it had taken weeks of relentless searching to uncover the truth.

A sense of dread settled heavily in her chest, tightening around her lungs like a vice. Whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing. They had created an illness that mimicked natural symptoms so closely that no one would suspect foul play—not unless they began looking for the source, rather than the cure.

This is an attack, she thought, her mind racing with the implications. Someone targeted these people.

Her instincts screamed that she needed to tell someone. But before she went to the Ministry, she knew she had to report to Roberts. This discovery was too dangerous, too alarming to keep to herself. With a deep breath, she grabbed her bag, shoving the vial and her hastily scribbled notes inside, and hurried out of her office.

Healer Roberts office was at the top of the hospital, tucked away behind a set of heavy oak doors that were charmed to muffle noise. Hermione’s footsteps echoed on the stone floors as she made her way up the winding staircase, her mind racing. She reached the door and knocked sharply, her knuckles stinging against the wood.

“Come in,” a muffler voice called, and Hermione pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Healer Roberts was seated behind a large mahogany desk, his expression one of surprise as he looked up from the reports spread out before him. “Hermione,” he said, his brow furrowing. “What brings you here? You look… troubled.”

“I am,” Hermione said, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She felt a wave of nerves crash over her, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, her voice steady despite the anxiety bubbling in her chest. “I’ve discovered something about the illness. It’s… not what we thought.”

Roberts eyebrows pulled together, his frown deepened, and he gestured for her to sit. “Go on,” he said, his tone careful. “What have you found?”

Hermione didn’t sit. Instead, she pulled the vial from her bag and set it on his desk, the protective charm shimmering faintly around it. “It’s not natural,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “The illness—it’s not a mutation or a natural-born disease. Someone planted it. I found traces of foreign magic hidden in the blood.”

For a moment, Roberts said nothing, his eyes fixed on the vial as if it were a ticking time bomb. Then, slowly, he looked up at her, his face ashen. “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Absolutely,” Hermione said, her throat tightening. “I’ve run the tests half a dozen times. The traces are faint, but they’re there. Whoever did this knew what they were doing—they used old magic, something designed to blend in, to mimic natural symptoms.”

Roberts leaned back in his chair, his face pale and drawn. “This changes everything,” he said quietly, his gaze flickering to the sealed vial. “If what you’re saying is true, then we’re not dealing with a disease—we’re dealing with an attack.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, her voice taut with urgency. “And it’s spreading. We have to alert the Ministry—this is too dangerous to ignore.”

He was silent for a long moment, his expression one of deep, conflicted thought. Then, finally, he nodded. “I’ll contact the other department heads,” he said slowly. “But you’re right—the Ministry needs to be involved. Take this to the DMLE. Tell them everything you’ve found.”

Hermione’s heart pounded as she picked up the vial, her fingers tightening around the cool glass. “I will,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ll go straight to Tonks.”

“Be careful, Miss Granger,” Roberts said, his eyes dark with worry. “Whoever did this—they’re playing a dangerous game.”

The Ministry was a blur around her as she hurried through the Atrium, her bag clutched tightly against her chest. She barely noticed the curious stares of the witches and wizards she passed, her mind too focused on the enormity of what she had found. She took the lift up to the Auror Office, her breath shallow and fast as the floors ticked by.

The doors slid open, and she burst out into the Auror department, her eyes darting around the room until they landed on Tonks. The Head Auror was leaning over a cluttered desk, her lavender hair a bright shock of color against the dark wood, but she straightened immediately when she saw Hermione’s face.

“Hermione?” Tonks said, her expression shifting to concern as she stepped forward. “What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Tonks we need to speak privately.” Hermione left no room for questions and Tonks took it in stride, abandoning her paperwork and leaving them further into the department to a quiet conference room.

Hermione threw up several privacy and silencing charms against the walls before speaking openly. Hermione gave quick brutally honest details about the ongoing cases at St. Mungos, explaining its oddities and unusual, incurable behaviors.

“It’s not natural,” Hermione concluded hurriedly, her words tumbling over each other. She pulled the vial from her bag, holding it up with shaking hands. “This illness—it’s not a mutation or a disease. It’s magical. Someone planted it. I found traces of magical signature hidden in the blood. It’s an attack, Tonks—someone’s targeting these people, and I don’t know why.”

Tonks’s eyes widened, and she reached for the vial, her expression turning grave. “Are you certain?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Positive,” Hermione said, her voice steady despite the fear tightening in her chest. “I tested it myself. Whoever did this is using old, hidden magic—something designed to mimic natural illnesses. It’s been spreading for weeks, and I’ve just now uncovered this. We have to stop this before it gets worse.”

Tonks’s face hardened, and she slipped the vial into her own pocket with a nod. “Alright,” she said, her voice firm. “We’ll start an investigation immediately. Hermione—thank you for bringing this to us.”

Hermione felt a flicker of relief, but it was swallowed up by the cold dread that refused to leave her. “Please,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “We have to find out who’s behind this. I’m afraid… I’m afraid they’re not finished.”

Tonks met her gaze, and for the first time, Hermione saw a flash of uncertainty in the other woman’s eyes. “We’ll find them,” Tonks promised, her voice rough with determination. “Whatever it takes.”

Hermione nodded, her hands still trembling as she stepped back, her breath hitching as the weight of what she had done settled over her. She had uncovered the truth, but it felt more like the beginning of something far darker—something she couldn’t yet see.

As she turned to leave the Auror Office, the adrenaline from her discovery still coursing through her veins, Hermione’s gaze was caught by a familiar figure standing down the hall. She paused, her eyes widening in shock. It was Malfoy—leaning casually against the wall, surrounded by a small group of Aurors.

He looked completely at ease, his posture loose and comfortable, his arms folded across his chest. The harsh, formal lines of his usual expression had softened into something almost unrecognizable—relaxed, even amused. There was a half-smile playing on his lips, his eyes bright and alight with a warmth she had never seen directed at her. It was the kind of expression that made him look younger, more approachable, and—dare she think it—almost charming.

One of the Aurors—a tall, red-haired woman—said something to him, and he threw his head back with a laugh, the sound carrying down the corridor. It was a deep, genuine laugh. He looked… happy.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen him laugh like that—not once in the two months they had been working together and truthfully not even at their time at Hogwarts. She felt as if she were seeing a completely different person, someone who had been hidden behind the cold mask he wore around her. Her feet seemed rooted to the floor, unable to look away as he continued talking to his colleagues with an ease and familiarity that felt entirely alien to her.

He was charming them effortlessly, making jokes and drawing them into conversation with a natural charisma that left her stunned. His usual aloofness had vanished, replaced by an easy confidence that set him apart from the quiet, reserved man she had been teaching for several weeks. His smile was wide, his voice carrying a note of warmth that she had never heard directed at her.

She had done everything she could to be fair, to remain professional. She had praised him when he succeeded, offered help when he struggled, and maintained a cordial, neutral tone even when he remained distant. And yet, he had given her nothing in return—no warmth, no familiarity, nothing beyond the cool civility of a student tolerating his tutor.

But now… now he was different. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she watched him, irritation sparking in her chest. She had seen flashes of this confidence in their lessons, glimpses of his intelligence and skill, but he had always kept her at a distance—aloof, detached, unwilling to engage beyond the boundaries of their lessons.

He had never laughed with her, never relaxed or joked, never even hinted that he was capable of the kind of easy camaraderie he now displayed with his fellow Aurors. It was as if she were seeing a stranger—a stranger who had chosen to hide his true self from her and her alone.

A burst of laughter echoed down the hall, and she saw Malfoy smirk, a quick, teasing comment leaving his lips that had the red-haired woman giggling and swatting him playfully on the arm. Hermione’s stomach twisted, a strange, sour feeling settling deep in her gut.

Her irritation sharpened into something closer to anger, a hot flush spreading up her neck. She had done nothing to warrant his disdain—nothing except be professional, patient, and, perhaps, a little stern when he had needed it. And yet, he reserved his warmth and wit for others, leaving her with only the detached, impersonal Malfoy who responded to her questions with clipped answers and cool, indifferent looks.

Hermione’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She wanted to march over to him, to demand an explanation for why he was so different with her—why he kept her at a distance when he was capable of this kind of warmth. But she knew it would be pointless. Whatever his reasons, he clearly didn’t think she was worth the effort of even a single smile.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she forced herself to look away, her eyes stinging with frustration. She had more important things to focus on—far more pressing matters than Draco Malfoy’s inexplicable behavior. The vial of blood felt heavy in her bag, a stark reminder of the truth she had uncovered and the danger that lay ahead.

This doesn’t matter, she told herself fiercely, but the words rang hollow in her mind. She turned away, her steps brisk and purposeful as she moved toward the lifts, her back straight and her chin lifted. She would not let him see how much his indifference bothered her—how deeply it cut to see him so warm and easy with others while he remained a cold, distant figure in her life.

She was being ridiculous honestly, they weren’t friends.

But even as she walked away, her heart pounding with a mixture of anger and confusion, she couldn’t shake the image of his smile—the relaxed, open expression that had softened his sharp features and made him look, for a fleeting moment, like someone she could almost trust.

The sound of his laughter followed her as she disappeared into the lift, echoing in her ears long after the doors had closed.

The lift jolted as it began its descent, the walls closing in around her as the soft hum of magic vibrated beneath her feet. Hermione closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples and willing herself to focus. She had a job to do—a mission that went far beyond her complicated and frustrating feelings about Malfoy. There was a threat out there, hidden in the shadows, and she had taken the first step to uncovering it.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite banish the image of him standing in the hallway, laughing, his eyes alight with an emotion she couldn’t name.

This is only the beginning, she reminded herself, but the reminder felt distant and cold. She had stumbled onto something dark and dangerous, and she would see it through to the end. No matter what—or who—stood in her way.

And if Malfoy wanted to remain a mystery, if he wanted to hide behind his mask of indifference while showing the world a different face, then so be it. She didn’t need his approval, didn’t need his friendship.