Extracurriculars

Hermione arrived at the Ministry’s designated training room fifteen minutes early, McGonagall’s words echoing in her mind. She had always believed in the value of understanding others, in peeling back the layers to get to the truth—but with Draco Malfoy, every attempt seemed to push him further away. Yet McGonagall’s words had planted a seed of doubt, a suggestion that perhaps there was something she was missing, something hidden beneath the cold facade he presented to the world.

The room was quiet, filled with the soft glow of floating lanterns. The polished stone walls reflected the golden light, and the training dummies stood ready in the corner. Hermione busied herself with arranging the materials for today’s lesson, but her mind kept drifting to Draco. She needed to push him today—needed to break through that icy exterior he clung to like armor. They would be working on healing brute force injuries—internal bleeding and fractured bones- a delicate and demanding task that required complete focus.

She hoped he was up for it.

The door opened, and she looked up as Malfoy entered, his expression as unreadable as ever. He gave her a brief nod, his eyes flicking over the room before settling on the training dummy Hermione had set up at the lone table and charmed to mimic the wounds.

Malfoy was dressed impeccably, as always, his robes tailored and his hair neatly combed back, but his gaze was distant—cool and detached, like he wasn’t fully there.

“Good afternoon, Granger,” he said, his tone polite but emotionless.

“Malfoy,” she replied, trying to muster a genuine smile despite the knot of frustration tightening in her chest. “We’re going to be working on healing internal injuries today. It’s precise work, so pay attention.”

He nodded, his face impassive. “Of course,” he said, his voice clipped. He moved to stand across from her, his posture rigid and formal, and she couldn’t help but feel the distance between them—the invisible wall he seemed determined to keep in place. She honestly thought she might prefer it he’d just admit his hatred out loud, might prefer him to be angry or make snide comments, anything but this vast expanse of nothing.

She gestured to the faint glow hovering over the dummy. “The key here is to focus your magic inward—visualize the tissues knitting together, the bleeding stopping. It requires delicate control.”

He raised his wand, his movements crisp and practiced, and began the incantation. She watched, noting the way his jaw tightened, the almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. He glanced up at her when he’d finished the work, and for a moment all Hermione did was stare back. His eyes were glazed over with a cool, detached nothingness.

Like ice water poured down her back, the thought ran over her. She had seen it before, in others who practiced the skill: the detached gaze, the way he seemed to keep himself apart from the moment, as if afraid or rather, unable, to engage.

He was Occluding.

The realization made her breath hitch, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out of her mouth, sharp and accusing. “You’re Occluding, aren’t you?”

He froze mid-spell, the magic flickering out as he lowered his wand. His eyes, usually so carefully blank, flashed with surprise and something else—something almost like panic. “What are you talking about?” he said, his voice cold and defensive.

“You are,” she said, her voice rising. She felt a rush of anger and hurt—years of old wounds and memories she thought she had buried clawing their way to the surface. “You’ve been Occluding this whole time. That’s why you’re so cold, so distant—why you keep shutting me out!”

His expression tightened, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but he said nothing. His silence only fueled her frustration, and before she could think better of it, she blurted out the question that had haunted her ever since they started these lessons—the one fear she had never wanted to voice aloud. “Is it because of me? Is that why you can’t stand to look at me like a real person? Do you still see me as beneath you after all this time?”

His reaction was immediate. His face went white, and for a split second, he looked like he might be sick. The mask he had worn so carefully shattered, and his eyes—wide and vulnerable—met hers with a look of raw, unguarded pain that took her breath away. His wand fell to his side, forgotten, and he took a step back as if she had struck him.

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained, as if the words were being ripped from him. “No, it’s not that. It’s never been that.”

Hermione’s heart pounded, the anger draining out of her as she saw the naked emotion on his face. “Then what is it?” she demanded.

He looked away, his hands trembling slightly, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer—that he would retreat behind his walls again, maybe just walk out on her entirely. But then he took a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping, and the tension seemed to bleed out of him.

“Because it’s hard,” he said quietly, his voice raw and unsteady. “It’s hard to be near you.”

She blinked, confusion warring with the lingering sting of her own words. “What do you mean?”

He let out a harsh, bitter laugh, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe he was saying this. “Because I respect you, Granger,” he said, the words all rough and broken. “I respect you and your work, and who you are and what you represent, and every time I see you, I’m reminded of… everything I did, everything I was. After the war, I couldn’t imagine having those thoughts again—about blood, about status. You’re everything I thought I was above, and it’s been so many years since I’ve had to look you in the eyes and face everything.

She stared at him, stunned into silence. The anger, the hurt, the resentment she had carried for so long seemed to blur at the edges, replaced by a strange, twisting ache that settled deep in her chest. “I don’t understand,” she said softly. “If you respect me, why Occlude?”

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching, and for a moment he looked so young, so vulnerable, that she felt her own anger begin to crumble. “Because it’s the only way I know how to cope,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ve spent years trying to put myself back together, trying to be… different. Better. But when I’m around you, I can’t stop feeling like I don’t deserve to be here.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, a wave of unexpected sympathy and sadness washing over her. She had never imagined that he carried this—that the weight of his past, of his guilt, hung over him like a shadow he couldn’t shake. She stepped closer, her gaze softening as she searched his face, seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time.

“You do deserve it,” she said gently, her voice steady and sure. “You’re here because you want to be better, because you’re trying. That’s what matters.”

He opened his eyes, and she saw him—saw the flicker of vulnerability, the uncertainty and regret that lay beneath the cold facade. It was a brief, fleeting moment, but it was enough. He held her gaze, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“I’ll try,” he said quietly, the words unsteady but honest. “I don’t know how, but… I’ll try.”

Hermione felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest, a fragile, hesitant hope that maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something real, something that went beyond the resentment and mistrust of the past. She nodded, a small, tentative smile tugging at her lips.

“That’s all I’m asking,” she said softly. “Just try.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the air between them humming with the weight of everything unspoken. His eyes, usually so distant and cold, were clear and open, and she felt the first crack in the wall that had stood between them since they had begun.

They finished the lesson quietly, the tension between them replaced by a tentative understanding—a sense that something had shifted, even if it was only by the smallest degree. When the lesson was over, he didn’t rush to leave. He lingered, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of uncertainty and something like gratitude, and she felt a strange, unexpected warmth settle in her chest.

As he gathered his things, he hesitated, his hand lingering on the doorknob. He looked back at her, his gaze searching, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile—small and fleeting, but real.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet and sincere.

She nodded, the ache in her chest easing just a fraction. “You’re welcome, Malfoy.”