Extracurriculars

Hermione’s office at St. Mungo’s was chaotic, which, honestly had started to trend towards the norm these days. Stacks of parchment towered precariously on every available surface, scrolls filled with her hurried notes lay scattered across the floor, and several open books lay face down on her desk, marked with colorful ribbons and scraps of paper. Empty potion bottles, some still shimmering with the remnants of failed experiments, were lined up along the window ledge, catching the weak, early winter sunlight.

It had been weeks since she had first uncovered the traces of foreign magic in the blood samples, and yet she was no closer to deciphering the intention or a long term solution. Each test she ran, each diagnostic spell she cast, seemed to raise more questions than answers. The illness continued to spread slowly, insidiously, and no matter how hard she tried to identify the exact nature of the magic infecting her patients, the pieces simply didn’t fit together.

Hermione’s days were a blur of tests, meetings, and long hours spent in the hospital’s research wing. She had put together a team of the best Healers at St. Mungo’s, each chosen for their expertise in a different area of magical medicine. There was Healer O’Connell, whose knowledge of experimental potions was unmatched; Healer Albright, a young wizard who had written groundbreaking papers on rare magical diseases; and Healer Patel, whose specialty in magical contagions had saved dozens of lives during a recent outbreak in northern Ireland.

Their research room had become the center of her world. The walls were lined with charts and diagrams detailing the symptoms, progression, and test results of the mysterious illness. A series of glowing diagnostic spells hovered in mid-air, each one representing a patient’s blood sample, casting an eerie light over the room. They reviewed them every morning, discussing and debating their findings with a sense of urgency that only seemed to grow as the illness spread.

“Alright, everyone,” Hermione said, her voice carrying a note of forced optimism she didn’t quite feel. She stood at the front of the room, wand in hand, gesturing to the newest set of diagnostic spells hanging in the air. “Let’s go over what we know again. I want to make sure we’re not missing anything.”

Healer O’Connell leaned forward, her silver hair gleaming in the light as she squinted at the glowing threads of magic hovering in front of them. “We know the initial symptoms start subtly—fatigue, minor magical instability,” she said, tracing the faint line that showed the progression of the illness in Patient Zero. “It’s only after two or three weeks that the more severe symptoms appear—loss of magical control, fever, and this… strange luminescence in their blood.”

Healer Patel nodded, tapping her quill against her notebook. “But it doesn’t tell us anything about the cause. It’s almost as if the magic is… integrating itself with the patient’s own.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she listened. She had spent sleepless nights pouring over those same samples, trying to isolate whatever was causing the luminescence. “I’ve tried every separation spell I can think of,” she said, her voice tense with frustration. “But the foreign magic is so deeply woven that it’s impossible to separate. It’s like it’s become a part of the person’s natural magic.”

“Could it be a cursed object?” Healer Albright suggested, flipping through his own stack of notes. “Something they all came into contact with that’s embedding the magic inside them?”

“We’ve checked that,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “There’s no common factor between the patients—no shared location, no objects they all touched. Whatever this is, it’s designed to blend in. It’s almost too subtle to be a curse.”

Healer O’Connell frowned, her fingers drumming against the table. “What about a potion? Some kind of slow-acting magical poison?”

“I thought of that, too,” Hermione admitted. “But there’s no trace of any foreign ingredients in their system—no potion residue, nothing unusual in their diet or drinking water. It’s like this magic appeared out of nowhere, fully formed and already integrated.”

They spent the next several hours running through theories, each more desperate than the last. O’Connell brewed potion after potion, testing how they interacted with blood samples taken from the patients. Albright set up new diagnostic spells to trace the magical pathways in each patient’s body, while Patel meticulously documented every single symptom and variation in the progression of the disease. Hermione guided them all, her determination growing more intense with each failure.

It was mid-afternoon when they hit their latest dead end. One of O’Connell’s experimental potions had failed spectacularly, sending a plume of foul-smelling smoke into the air and causing the blood sample to dissolve into a mess of sludge. Hermione tried to hide her disappointment, but the frustration was clear in the slump of her shoulders and the tightness of her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” O’Connell muttered, waving her wand to clear the air. “That was a long shot, anyway.”

“It’s alright,” Hermione said, but her voice was strained. She waved her wand, dispelling the remnants of the failed experiment. “We’re learning something with every test, even if it’s not what we expected.”

She spent the rest of the afternoon pacing around the room, examining each diagnostic spell with a growing sense of despair. She could feel the pressure mounting—the urgency to find a cure, the weight of the patients’ lives resting on her shoulders. Her team worked tirelessly, but the disease seemed to taunt them, always staying one step ahead.

By the time evening rolled around, her team had dispersed to their wards, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room. She stared blankly at the hovering diagnostics until her eyes blurred, her exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket. It was late, and she knew she should go home, get some rest, but the thought of leaving felt like a betrayal—as if taking a break would mean giving up on the patients who were counting on her.

The silence of the hospital was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of footsteps in the hallways. She was still staring at the floating images when a faint knock sounded at the door. She glanced up, blinking, and her heart lifted slightly when she saw Harry standing there, his face lined with concern.

He was dressed in his Auror robes, the dark fabric rumpled and stained with what looked like soot, and he had a tired but gentle look in his eyes as he stepped into the room. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he took in the state of the room. “I was told I’d find you here. I thought I’d check on you. You didn’t show up for dinner, and… well, Ginny said you’ve been here almost every night this week.”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged, and she managed a tired smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Harry waved her apology away, moving closer and leaning against the edge of her cluttered desk. “No need to apologize. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You look… exhausted.”

“I am exhausted,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “This disease—this thing—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, Harry. I’m going around in circles, running the same tests, and finding nothing. It’s maddening.”

Harry’s brow furrowed in concern, and he reached out to gently squeeze her shoulder. “You’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice filled with the quiet confidence that had always been his greatest strength. “You always do. I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge, no matter how impossible it seems.”

“I know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But this is different. I’ve tried everything. I can see the traces of magic, I can feel it when I’m running diagnostics, but it’s like… like trying to catch smoke. I can’t isolate it, and I have no idea how it’s spreading.”

Harry listened, his green eyes steady and focused, and she felt a small, comforting warmth spread through her chest. Harry was her best friend—the one person who had always believed in her, no matter how desperate or hopeless the situation seemed. She knew he had his own burdens to carry, his own investigations and missions that kept him awake at night, but he had come to check on her, to make sure she was okay.

He paused for a moment, his expression growing more serious, and leaned a little closer. “Actually… there’s something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice low and hesitant. “I’ve been working with a team of Aurors on this. On what you found—the magical signature.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, surprise and curiosity flaring within her. “You have? Since when?”

“Since the day you came to the Ministry,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tonks put together a small team to investigate it discreetly. She didn’t want to make a big deal of it until we had something concrete, but… well, it’s been slow. Almost as frustrating as what you’re dealing with.”

He pulled out a small scroll from his pocket, and Hermione’s breath caught as she recognized the seal of the Auror Office. “This is everything we’ve managed to gather so far,” he said, handing it to her. “But it’s not much. We’ve been tracking any known cases of unexplained magical contamination, cross-referencing it with the signature you found, but… nothing matches. It’s like whoever did this vanished without a trace.”

Hermione unrolled the scroll, scanning the list of incidents, dates, and magical readings with a growing sense of disappointment. There was no pattern—no hint of who might be behind the strange illness, or why. She let out a long, shaky breath, her frustration mounting. “I was hoping you’d have found something,” she said, her voice thick with exhaustion. “Anything.”

“So was I,” Harry admitted, his expression mirroring her frustration. “But whoever’s behind this, they’re good. They’ve covered their tracks well. It’s like they knew exactly how to hide from the Auror Office, how to keep us chasing our own tails.”

They sat together for a while, talking quietly about everything from the latest findings to the pressure they both felt. Harry didn’t try to tell her to take a break or rest—he knew her too well for that. He simply sat with her, offering his presence as a steady reminder that she wasn’t alone in this.

Eventually, he pulled a small, wrapped package from his work bag and set it on her desk. “I brought you a sandwich,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “From the Leaky Cauldron. Figured you’d need it.”

Hermione’s tired smile widened, and she felt a sudden rush of warmth for him, her best friend who always seemed to know exactly what she needed. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said, unwrapping the package and taking a grateful bite. The taste of fresh bread and roasted vegetables was like a balm to her frayed nerves.

“I try,” Harry said, his eyes crinkling with affection. He reached over to shuffle a few of the papers on her desk, raising an eyebrow at the haphazard stacks of notes. “You know, I remember you being a little more organized back in school.”

“Ha, ha,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s called working under pressure.”

He chuckled, but the lightness in his voice faded as he glanced down at the vials of blood and the stack of medical reports. “Just… don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay? I know this is important, but you can’t run yourself into the ground.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, though the words felt hollow. She could see the worry in his eyes, the concern that had always been there, and she reached out to squeeze his hand again. “I promise. I’ll figure this out.”

He nodded, his expression softening, and they sat together a while longer, talking quietly about other things—the latest Ministry gossip, Ginny and the kids, a recent Quidditch match they’d both missed. For a few precious moments, the weight of the world seemed to lift, and she allowed herself to laugh, to feel something other than frustration and worry.

But when Harry finally stood to leave, giving her one last, lingering look of encouragement, the weight settled back onto her shoulders. She watched him go, feeling a pang of loneliness as the door clicked shut behind him, and then turned back to her work, her resolve hardening.

She picked up her wand and cast the diagnostic spell again, watching the faint glow flicker over the latest sample of blood. There had to be a pattern she was missing—something that would unlock the truth. She just had to find it.