Extracurriculars

The familiar twisting sensation of Apparition faded as Hermione’s feet settled onto solid ground. She took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp autumn air, tinged with the earthy scent of damp leaves and the faint, familiar aroma of the Forbidden Forest. Hogwarts lay ahead of her, bathed in the golden afternoon light. The castle’s silhouette was softened by the gentle glow of the sun, and the leaves on the ancient oaks and beeches that lined the path were a riot of amber, crimson, and gold.

It was a sight that never failed to fill Hermione with a sense of calm and belonging. The years since the war had not diminished her love for the castle that had been her sanctuary and second home for so long. Even now, years later, it still felt like a refuge—a place where the world slowed down, and the worries of the outside world could be set aside, if only for a moment.

Adjusting the strap of her satchel, she began the familiar walk up the winding path to the front gates. The sound of distant laughter echoed across the grounds, and she couldn’t help but smile as she passed Hagrid’s old hut, its chimney puffing a thin trail of smoke into the cool air. She could just make out the towering pumpkins growing in the patch nearby, ready for the Halloween Feast that was only a few weeks away.

The castle doors loomed ahead, and they creaked open as if anticipating her arrival. Warmth immediately enveloped her—the scent of wood polish and freshly baked bread wafted from the Great Hall. The familiar hum of life within the castle surrounded her, the echoes of laughter and chatter drifting through the corridors like a comforting blanket.

As she moved deeper into the castle, she spotted Professor Sprout bustling past with an armful of herbs, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Hermione!” she called out, beaming. “Lovely to see you, dear. You must come by the greenhouses later—I have a new breed of magical mint you’d be fascinated by.”

Hermione returned the smile, feeling a pang of nostalgia. “I’d love to, Professor. I’ll try to stop by before I leave.”

Sprout waved her off with a cheerful nod, disappearing around the corner, and Hermione continued on her way, her footsteps echoing on the worn stone floors. Everything felt so familiar, yet there were small changes—the portraits on the walls seemed to have shifted positions slightly, and the suits of armor were polished to a high gleam, standing more rigidly at attention than she remembered.

“Professor Granger!” a young voice called, and Hermione turned to see a cluster of wide-eyed first-years hurrying toward her, their robes slightly askew, eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. They were Muggle-born, still adjusting to the strangeness of the wizarding world, and she felt a rush of affection for them—the same nervous excitement she had felt when she had first walked these halls.

They were the whole reason she was here. Hermione had begun mentoring muggleborn first years a few years after the war. She knew what it felt like to be thrust into a world completely foreign with little guidance.

“Hello, everyone!” she said warmly, kneeling down to greet them properly. “How are you finding your first month at Hogwarts?”

“It’s brilliant!” a small girl with bright red hair exclaimed, grinning so widely that her freckles seemed to dance. “But… the staircases keep moving, and we can’t find the classrooms half the time.”

Hermione chuckled, her eyes twinkling with understanding. “Oh, I know that feeling. I got lost in the castle at least once a week when I was in my first year,” she admitted, which earned a few surprised giggles. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it. Just remember to keep an eye on the portraits—they can be quite helpful if you’re polite to them.”

Hermione continued fielding questions and she led the small group towards the open study hall they typically met in.

“Is it true the library has books that scream if you open them without permission?” asked a boy with wide brown eyes, clutching his textbook to his chest.

“Only if you try to sneak into the Restricted Section,” Hermione said with a conspiratorial wink, which made the children gasp. “But Madam Pince has a way of knowing, so I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She spent the next hour guiding them through the basics of life at Hogwarts—how to navigate the moving staircases, how to handle Peeves’s mischief, and the importance of visiting the library. She explained how the food appeared on the tables, the house-elves’ magic ensuring that every meal was a feast fit for a king. All the little details about living with magic that were so intrinsic to those born in this world but so foreign outside.

Their awe-filled faces reminded her of why she loved mentoring them so much—why this work, though small in the grand scheme of things, mattered. She answered questions, shared stories of her own Hogwarts days, and offered tips on surviving the eccentricities of magical life, all the while feeling a warm glow in her chest. It was comforting to see the wonder and excitement in their eyes, and for the first time in weeks, she felt the gnawing frustration of her research begin to fade into the background.

After guiding them to their afternoon classes, Hermione made her way up the marble staircase to the Gryffindor common room, taking her time as she moved through the corridors she knew so well. The portraits greeted her with friendly waves, and she couldn’t help but smile as she passed the familiar suits of armor and enchanted tapestries. It was as if the castle itself was welcoming her back, wrapping her in a comforting embrace.

She stood for a moment outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, who eyed her with curiosity and a touch of recognition. “Oh, Miss Granger!” the Fat Lady said, her painted cheeks flushing with delight. “It’s been far too long! Are you here to visit the tower?”

“Just passing by,” Hermione said with a smile. “But it’s good to see you, too.”

The Fat Lady gave her a conspiratorial wink. “If you get a chance, dear, stop by for a chat. I have a new tale or two to tell.”

“I’ll do that,” Hermione promised, feeling the warmth of the castle fill her like a soothing balm.

The afternoon passed quickly, and as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the stone floors, she found herself heading toward Professor McGonagall’s office, as she always did on these visits. It was tradition—a chance to catch up with the Headmistress over tea and discuss Hogwarts, the students, and, inevitably, the state of the wizarding world.

The door to McGonagall’s office was already ajar, and Hermione knocked lightly before stepping inside. The room was as she remembered it—filled with old books, magical trinkets, and a sense of timeless wisdom that only McGonagall seemed to possess. Sunlight streamed in through the tall, arched windows, casting soft pools of golden light across the floor. A cozy fire crackled in the hearth, and a steaming pot of tea sat on the desk, accompanied by a plate of freshly baked shortbread that sent a warm, buttery scent wafting through the room.

“Hermione, dear,” McGonagall said, looking up from a stack of parchment with a warm smile. “Come in, come in. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said, her voice softening. She moved to the comfortable armchair across from the desk and settled in, the warmth of the fire chasing away the last of the autumn chill. “It’s so good to be back.”

McGonagall poured the tea with a practiced hand, the delicate china cups clinking gently as she handed one to Hermione. “I hear you’ve been quite busy,” she said, her keen eyes studying Hermione’s face with the same perceptive gaze that had seen through so many of her excuses as a student. “How are things at St. Mungo’s?”

Hermione hesitated, cradling the warm cup between her hands, the steam rising to brush against her cheeks. She felt the weight of everything she had discovered settle heavily on her shoulders, but McGonagall’s kind eyes seemed to invite honesty, so she took a deep breath.

“Things are… complicated,” Hermione admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at the fire, the flames dancing in the hearth, before turning back to McGonagall. “There’s something happening at St. Mungo’s. We’ve had several patients come in with the same strange symptoms—symptoms that don’t match any known magical illness. I’ve been working day and night to figure it out, but nothing’s adding up. And then… I found something.”

McGonagall’s expression grew serious, her teacup poised halfway to her lips. “Go on,” she said quietly.

Hermione swallowed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I discovered traces of foreign magic hidden in the blood samples—old, hidden spells designed to look natural. It’s not a mutation or a disease. Someone did this, Professor. Someone created this illness and unleashed it, and I don’t know why. I don’t know who.”

McGonagall’s eyes widened, her mouth tightening into a thin line. She set her teacup down with a soft clink, her gaze fixed intently on Hermione’s face. “That is… deeply troubling,” she said, her voice laced with concern. “Have you brought this to the Ministry?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her hands tightening around the cup. “I spoke to Tonks earlier today. She’s going to launch an investigation, but… I don’t know if it will be enough. Whoever did this, they’re using magic that’s far beyond anything I’ve seen—magic meant to blend in, to mimic a natural illness. It’s terrifying.”

McGonagall’s gaze softened, and she reached across the desk to place a gentle hand over Hermione’s. “You’ve done everything you can, dear,” she said, her voice warm with reassurance. “And you’re right to bring this to the Ministry’s attention. But don’t carry this burden alone. There are people who will help, who will stand by you.”

Hermione managed a small, tight smile, her heart swelling with gratitude at the older witch’s words. “I just… I can’t let it go,” she said quietly. “I feel like I’m missing something, like I’m on the edge of figuring it out, but it’s always just out of reach.”

“You will find the answers,” McGonagall said firmly. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the warmth of the fire and the soft clinking of china filling the room. But the conversation wasn’t over—not yet. Hermione hesitated, then cleared her throat, feeling a flicker of irritation spark in her chest as she thought about Malfoy.

“There’s something else,” she said slowly. “I’ve been assigned to train Draco Malfoy—teach him healing spells as part of the Ministry’s new initiative. And it’s… difficult.”

McGonagall’s brow arched, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “I had wondered how that arrangement was going.”

Hermione briefly wondered how McGonnall knew of the arrangement, but she dismissed the thought, “He’s cold,” Hermione said, frustration creeping into her voice. “Dismissive. He barely says a word to me unless he absolutely has to. And then today, I saw him at the Ministry, laughing and joking with the other Aurors as if he were a completely different person. It’s infuriating.”

McGonagall’s smile deepened, her eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. “You’re not the first to find Mr. Malfoy a bit… challenging,” she said gently. “But I assure you, Hermione, there’s more to him than what you see. He’s not as cold as he appears.”

Hermione frowned, skepticism clear on her face. “He certainly doesn’t act like it around me.”

“People have layers,” McGonagall said softly. “Some are simply more guarded than others.” She paused briefly as if debating to share a piece of delicate information, “Draco has been meeting with me regularly for the past several years—ever since the end of the war, in fact. He comes back to Hogwarts once a week, every week, without fail.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, shock rippling through her. “He… he does? Why?”

McGonagall’s gaze turned contemplative, a quiet sadness passing over her features. “For guidance, mostly. He seeks advice, reassurance… a place to reflect. I think Hogwarts is the only place where he allows himself to let his guard down. He’s been carrying a great deal, more than most realize.”

Hermione was stunned, struggling to reconcile the image of the cold, distant Malfoy she knew with the young man McGonagall described. “I… I had no idea,” she said slowly, her voice tinged with disbelief. “He never shows any of that with me.”

“Perhaps,” McGonagall said, her tone thoughtful, “he simply doesn’t know how. Or perhaps he’s afraid to. Give him time, Hermione. I think you’ll find that there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

Hermione was silent, her mind racing as she processed this new information. The idea that Malfoy had been coming back to Hogwarts, seeking guidance from McGonagall of all people, was almost impossible to believe. And yet, she knew McGonagall wouldn’t lie to her—wouldn’t sugarcoat the truth.

“I’ll try,” Hermione said finally, her voice quiet but determined. “I don’t know if it will make a difference, but… I’ll try.”

“That’s all you can do,” McGonagall said with a gentle smile. “And remember, Hermione—people are rarely what they seem, especially those who have been through great pain.”