Extracurriculars

10
The past two weeks had been a blur of long nights and fleeting moments of frustration for Hermione. Despite every effort she and her team made, progress on the disease had been slow, almost nonexistent. Each new lead fizzled out as quickly as it appeared, leaving them grappling with the same questions they had been asking since the first case. The illness was maddeningly elusive, slipping through diagnostic spells like water through clenched fingers.

By day, she led her team of research Healers with relentless determination, poring over data, testing potions, and running diagnostics until her head spun. By night, she found herself drifting into dreams filled with hazy images of glowing blood and faint traces of magic that danced just beyond her reach. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and restless, leaving her perpetually tired. But she pushed through it, clinging to each glimmer of hope her team uncovered, however small.

Her time at Cambridge, however, had become a sanctuary amid the chaos. Twice a week, Hermione stepped away from the frenetic pace of St. Mungo’s and into the quiet, scholarly halls of the Magical Division, where she taught a small group of advanced students the finer points of potion-making. It was an intimate class, just a dozen eager faces, all captivated by the nuances of potion theory and magical chemistry. Their enthusiasm was a welcome relief from the weight she carried back at the hospital.

On a crisp Tuesday afternoon, the familiar scent of crushed herbs, simmering ingredients, and old wood mingled in the air as her students carefully prepared a series of complex healing potions. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, casting a golden glow over the rows of cauldrons bubbling away. Hermione moved between them, her steps light and sure, as she offered guidance and corrections, watching each student’s progress with a critical but encouraging eye.

“Stir counterclockwise, Claudia,” she instructed, stopping beside one girl’s workstation. “If you don’t, the dandelion root won’t bind properly with the moonstone, and the potion will lose its potency.”

The girl, a petite brunette with a perpetually anxious expression, nodded hurriedly and adjusted her movements. Hermione smiled, pleased to see the mixture in Claudia’s cauldron shift from a dull brown to the pale blue it was supposed to be. There was something so satisfying about watching her students master the complexities of potion work—a reminder of the joy that came from sharing her knowledge.

She continued down the rows, pausing here and there to adjust a simmering flame or offer a word of encouragement. “Careful, Andrew,” she said, her voice gentle but firm as she leaned over a boy’s cauldron. “Don’t let it boil too fast, or the asphodel will scorch. A steady simmer is what you need.”

Andrew, a lanky boy with a tendency to rush his work, flushed with embarrassment and quickly lowered the heat. Hermione gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before moving on, feeling a surge of pride for each of them. These moments, small as they were, were a balm to the frustration that had been gnawing at her for weeks. Here, in the quiet of Cambridge’s old stone halls, she could lose herself in the joy of teaching, of sharing knowledge, of watching her students grow.

Her students had grown used to her high standards, but they appreciated the time she took with each of them, guiding them through their mistakes with patience and clarity. She could see the focus and determination on their faces, the way they hung on her every word, and it made the stress of the past weeks feel just a little lighter.

When the session ended, the students began packing up their equipment, chatting quietly about the next lesson, and Hermione watched them go with a sense of pride and fondness. It was good to see them progress—to witness the next generation of Healers take shape before her eyes. It was, perhaps, the one part of her week that remained untouched by the strain of the disease that lingered in the back of her mind.

But the peace didn’t last. Each Thursday afternoon brought her back to the Ministry for her weekly training session with Draco. Since the lesson where she had confronted him about Occlumency, something had shifted between them. He was no longer cold and detached; the icy reserve he had once wrapped around himself had thawed, and though he remained cautious, there was a new openness in his eyes when he looked at her—a vulnerability that made her heart ache.

They weren’t friends, not yet. But the tension that had once defined their interactions had softened into something else—something less hostile, but not quite comfortable. It was like they were dancing around the edges of a fragile truce, both of them wary of stepping too close, of saying too much. Yet Hermione found herself growing used to the subtle changes in him—the way he listened more intently, the way his responses had become less clipped and more thoughtful.

What threw her off balance the most was the unexpected shift in his attitude. There was a lightness to him now, an almost playful humor that peeked out at the strangest moments, catching her completely off guard. It was as if confronting their past, and his Occlumency, had lifted some invisible weight off his shoulders, freeing him to act with a casualness that was entirely new to her.

This Thursday was no different. She had rushed from Cambridge to the Ministry, her mind still caught between two worlds, and arrived at the training room slightly breathless. Draco was already there, leaning casually against the far wall, his posture relaxed and his expression calm.

“Afternoon, Granger,” he said, his tone easy, but there was something about the way he looked at her—something knowing—that made her stomach tighten. He straightened, one hand casually brushing the fringe from his brow. That’s when she noticed it—a poorly healed cut slicing across his eyebrow, barely concealed by a strand of hair.

“What happened to your head?” Hermione asked, frowning as she took a step closer. There was no concern in his expression, but she could tell the wound was new.

Draco’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A bit of bad luck on a raid last night,” he said, almost dismissively. “A stray hex. It’s nothing.”

She hesitated, thrown by the casual way he brushed it off. “That’s barely healed,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “You didn’t go to St. Mungo’s, did you?”

“No,” he admitted, his gaze steady. “Didn’t seem worth the hassle. I took care of it myself.”

Hermione’s irritation flared. “Obviously not well enough,” she said, folding her arms. “Sit down. I’m fixing it.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. But then he gave a small nod and slid onto the table without protest. “As you wish, Healer Granger,” he said, the faintest hint of irony in his tone.

She ignored the way his words made her heart skip. “Hold still,” she ordered, feeling suddenly unsure, as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet. Hermione brushed away whatever ridiculous nerves were tangling in their stomach and chose to grumble at Malfoy instead, “Honestly, Malfoy. I’ve been teaching you basic healing skills for weeks now and this is your best effort? Private tutoring, time out of my schedule, weeks of practice and you show up here with a half arsed attempt.”

She reached for her wand, glancing up at Malfoy, actively choosing to ignore the entertained look on his face.

A soft, golden light flared at the tip of her wand, and she guided it carefully over the wound, watching as the torn skin smoothed and sealed, the harsh line fading to a light mark that stretched over his skin. Her breath caught as she leaned closer, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint rise and fall of his breath.

Hermione muttered something about idiocy of ignoring an injury and there wouldn’t even be a scar if he’d just acted responsibly.

Draco stayed perfectly still, his gaze locked on hers, and she found it impossible to look away. There was something disconcertingly intimate about the moment—the closeness, the way he didn’t flinch as her magic did its work. She had expected him to make some snide comment, to break the silence with a quip that would put distance between them, but he said nothing, and the quiet felt heavy with something unspoken.

“There,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. She lowered her wand, but her fingers lingered near his brow, hovering for a fraction of a second too long. The world seemed to narrow, and for a brief, dizzying moment, it was just the two of them in the room—the closeness of his body, the warmth that radiated from him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard it. There was no sarcasm in his tone, no teasing edge—just sincerity, raw and open in a way that left her feeling strangely vulnerable.

Hermione nodded, swallowing as she stepped back, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding. She turned to place her wand down, busying herself with putting a few stray items back in her bag, anything to distract from the awareness that had settled between them like a live wire. But she could still feel his gaze, steady and unreadable, as if he were studying her, trying to read her thoughts.

She felt the urge to break the silence, to shatter whatever strange tension had grown between them, but words failed her. Every comment she considered felt insubstantial, and the usual light banter they’d slowly began to share seemed hollow in the weight of the moment. Finally, she forced herself to look up, hoping to find some sign of the usual Draco—the one she had grown accustomed to, the one she could handle.

But he didn’t look away. His eyes remained on hers, intense and focused, as though he could see the flickers of uncertainty she tried so hard to conceal.

“You know,” he said finally, his voice soft, almost thoughtful, “it’s strange. You and I, here like this. It’s something I would have never imagined… not back then.”

She hesitated, taken aback by his words. It was rare for Malfoy to mention the past, rarer still for him to acknowledge the chasm that had once separated them. She searched his expression, seeing no trace of the Malfoy she remembered from school—the boy who had been so determined to live up to his family’s expectations, to play the part he thought he was destined for.

“No,” she replied quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have imagined it, either.” She thought back to those days, to the battles and grudges, the years they’d spent on opposite sides of the same war. It seemed like a lifetime ago, yet somehow, here they were, standing in the same room, bridging the same gap that had once felt so impassable.

For a moment, the weight of everything unspoken between them hung in the air, thick and unyielding. Hermione’s mind was racing, caught between her memories and the present, between who they had been and who they were now. She wanted to ask him something—anything—to understand how he’d come to be this person, to understand the journey that had led him here.

But before she could gather the courage, Draco gave a small, almost self-deprecating smile, breaking the silence himself. “It’s a bit unsettling, isn’t it?” he said, his tone lighter, though there was a hint of something unsteady beneath it. “Finding yourself shoulder to shoulder with someone you once barely tolerated.”

Hermione blinked, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“You disagree?”

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she looked at him. “I think ‘barely tolerated’ is putting it mildly, don’t you?”

Draco gave a low chuckle, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room. “Alright, fair enough,” he admitted, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Maybe it was a bit more than that. But you have to admit… you were insufferable back then.”

“Me? Insufferable?” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “That’s rich, coming from the boy who made a sport of taunting everyone who didn’t share his precious blood status.”

Draco’s expression flickered, a hint of something pained passing over his face, but he quickly replaced it with a smirk. “Touché,” he murmured, crossing his arms as he leaned back, watching her. “I suppose I deserved that.”

They fell into silence again, the air between them charged with the weight of old memories and recent revelations. She could sense that he wanted to say more, but something held him back—a hesitation she hadn’t often seen in him. It was as though he was testing the boundaries of this fragile new connection, feeling out how much honesty they could afford with each other.

“I know I was… different back then,” he said finally, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear him. “And not in a way I’m proud of. There are things I did, things I believed… I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t see past them.”

The admission caught her off guard, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected him to address his past so openly, nor to acknowledge the way it had shaped the distance between them.

“I won’t pretend it didn’t matter,” she said carefully, searching his face. “But… people can change. I believe that.”

Draco’s gaze softened, a glint of relief mingling with something else—something she couldn’t quite place. “You’re a better person than most, Granger,” he said, his voice tinged with something close to admiration. “If it had been the other way around, I’m not sure I would’ve given you the same chance.”

Her chest tightened at his words, a rush of emotions flooding through her—empathy, understanding, and something deeper, something that unsettled her. She wanted to dismiss his compliment, brush it off as part of their usual banter, but it was impossible to ignore the honesty in his eyes.

“People like us don’t get through a war without a few scars,” she replied softly. “Some are just… more visible than others.”

He held her gaze, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of vulnerability, raw and unguarded, in his eyes. But just as quickly, he looked away, clearing his throat as if to break the spell that had settled over them.

“We should get on with the lesson,” he said, his voice back to its usual clipped tone, though there was a subtle warmth there that hadn’t been before. “I assume you have more injuries for me to patch up.”

The shift in tone threw her off balance, and she found herself nodding, still reeling from their exchange. She had intended to start the lesson right after healing his cut, but the weight of their conversation lingered, making it difficult to slip into the familiar roles of teacher and student.

“Right,” she managed, pulling herself back into focus. “Today, we’ll work on more advanced healing spells—blunt force trauma to the head, particularly in the field and how to evaluate if any damage has been done to the brain.”

Draco nodded, moving with a grace that came naturally to him. She watched him, trying to reconcile the person he was now with the memory of the boy she had once despised. The war had changed them both in ways she hadn’t fully realized until now, and though it felt strange to admit, she was beginning to understand that the distance between them wasn’t as vast as she had once thought.

As they moved through the lesson, Hermione found herself caught off guard by Draco’s progress. He cast the spells with a focus and precision that spoke to hours of practice, his concentration unwavering. She watched him, surprised at how easily he adapted, how quickly he caught onto the nuances of each incantation.

“You’ve been practicing,” she observed, unable to keep the note of surprise out of her voice.

He glanced at her, a faint smile curving his lips. “Is that so shocking?”

“A little,” she admitted, feeling a warmth creep into her cheeks. “You’ve come a long way.”

Draco shrugged, but she could see the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “I take my training seriously. And you’re a good teacher, Granger.”

The unexpected compliment caught her off guard, and she felt a rush of warmth in her chest that she quickly tried to squash. “Well,” she said, trying to sound casual, “let’s see if you can keep it up.”

They fell back into the routine of spellwork, Draco listening intently as Hermione demonstrated a series of complex diagnostic and healing spells. But the words felt more significant than they had before, their familiarity laced with something new—a sense of shared understanding, unspoken but present in the quiet moments between their conversation.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Think about what?”

“Those days,” he said, his gaze distant. “When everything was… different.”

Hermione hesitated, a pang of sadness tugging at her chest. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But I try not to dwell on it.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve been different, if I had… chosen differently.”

The rawness in his voice surprised her, and she searched his face, sensing the depth of regret he rarely showed. She wanted to tell him that he wasn’t alone in his regrets, that they all carried pieces of the past they wished they could change. But the words felt too heavy, too personal, and she found herself hesitating.

“You can’t change what’s already happened,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. “But… you can decide who you want to be now.”

He held her gaze, something indefinable flickering in his eyes. “And who do you think I am, Granger?”

The question caught her off guard, and she felt a rush of uncertainty. She didn’t have an answer, at least not one that made sense, not one she was ready to admit even to herself. But the way he looked at her, the intensity in his gaze, made her feel as though he was asking more than she could put into words.

“I think… you’re still figuring that out,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco’s expression softened, and for a moment, she thought she saw the beginnings of a smile. But he didn’t press her, didn’t ask for more, and she felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.

They continued the lesson, the air between them thick with unspoken words and lingering glances. By the time they finished, the tension had settled into a quiet understanding, a fragile truce that felt both comforting and precarious.

As they packed up, Hermione felt a pang of something close to regret—a sense that they were leaving something unfinished, that there were things she still wanted to say, questions she wanted to ask. But the moment had passed, and she knew better than to push.

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly as they finished, his voice sincere. “For… everything. The lesson. And… for listening.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, the words simple yet laden with meaning.

They exchanged a brief, lingering look, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile connection they were building, one step at a time. And as she turned to leave, Hermione felt a strange sense of anticipation, a quiet thrill that made her heart beat just a little faster.

Because, despite the uncertainty, she couldn’t deny that something had shifted between them—and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to resist it or let it unfold.