In Two Minds

Draco woke slowly, surfacing from the depths of another restless night. His dreams were always the same—shadows of the past woven into something inescapable. The tower, slick with rain and fear. Dumbledore’s voice, calm even at the edge of death. The drawing room at the manor, Hermione Granger’s screams tearing through the walls like something alive. The battle—endless, chaotic, painted in green and red.

His body ached with the weight of memory, but he ignored it, peeling himself from the sheets with a practiced detachment. His bedroom was dim, the heavy curtains drawn tightly shut. He preferred it that way. The outside world could wait.

He grabbed a wrinkled T-shirt from the floor and dragged it over his head, padding barefoot across the cool wooden floors toward the kitchen. His apartment was large enough—a one-bedroom flat in Knightsbridge, expensive, old. It was a place that should have felt like home, but it never had.

The walls were a soft, impersonal shade of grey. The furniture was sleek, modern, untouched. A dark leather sofa he rarely sat on. A glass coffee table with not a single fingerprint. Bookshelves lined with pristine, unread books. Pansy had insisted on furnishing it when he moved in but he had left it exactly as it was once she was finished. It was a place to exist, nothing more.

He went through his morning routine on autopilot. Turn on the coffee machine. The rich scent of espresso filled the silence. Leave it to run. He moved to the bathroom, stepping under the shower. The water was cold—just as he liked it in the mornings, shocking his body into wakefulness, washing away the grogginess that clung to him like cobwebs.

By the time he stepped out, steam curled in the air despite the chill. He ran a towel over his hair with little care, moving back into the bedroom. The windows were still covered, but a sliver of daylight bled in from the edges, casting long shadows over the minimalistic space.

His bed was unmade, sheets twisted from another night spent tossing and turning. On the bedside table sat his wand, a glass of water left untouched from the night before, and a single book—the only one that ever left its shelf. He never read past the first few pages. He wasn’t sure why he kept it there.

Moving back into the kitchen, he poured himself a coffee. He drank it black, no sugar, no milk. Just bitter.

His flat was expensive, well-kept, a place most would envy. And yet, it felt like nothing at all.

Just a space between two lives.

Draco had spent a year at Malfoy Manor after his graduation, though spent was a generous word. He tried to be there as little as possible, and when he was he would move through the grand halls like a ghost, his presence barely acknowledged by the only other occupant—his mother.

Narcissa had never forgiven him. She never said it outright—she hardly spoke to him at all—but her silence was an accusation louder than words. The weight of his father’s fate sat between them like a wall of ice. Lucius Malfoy, sentenced. Lucius Malfoy, imprisoned. And Draco, the son who had stood in the courtroom and testified against him, had ensured he would never walk free again.

For months, they lived in that cold, suffocating silence. Meals eaten on opposite ends of the dining table, if she joined him at all. Passing each other in the corridors like strangers. No acknowledgement. No eye contact. No warmth.

He endured it, at first, out of obligation. It was still his home, wasn’t it? But as time dragged on, he realised it wasn’t. The Manor wasn’t a home—it was a mausoleum, filled with the ghosts of the past, waiting to swallow him whole.

One night, something inside him snapped.

Perhaps it was the loneliness. Perhaps it was the weight of expectation—of being a Malfoy, of carrying a name so steeped in blood and sin that no amount of remorse could wash it clean. Whatever it was, he couldn’t stay there any longer.

He found the apartment the very next day. Modern, expensive, untouched by history. A place where the walls weren’t steeped in memory. He withdrew money from his account—Malfoy money, but the last he would ever use of it—and paid for a full year’s rent upfront.

Then he made himself a promise:

Twelve months. Twelve months to become self-sufficient. If he didn’t? Well… failure wasn’t an option.

For the first time in his life, Draco was forced to stand on his own. No family name to prop him up. No fortune to cushion him. Just time—ticking away, counting down until his rent came due again.

Luckily, fate intervened.

Eleven months after he left home, a letter arrived by owl. The envelope was thick, the parchment crisp, stamped with the deep purple wax seal of the Department of Mysteries. He almost didn’t open it. Nothing from the Ministry ever truly concerned him—not him, at least.

Inside, the words were flattering yet clinical. A promotion. Senior Unspeakable. The letter spoke of his contributions, of the great work he had done in the two years since his Severance. It described the respect he had earned from colleagues and management, the advancements he had made in his field, the sheer brilliance he apparently displayed behind closed doors.

The words should have meant something. They would have, once. But as he read, Draco felt only a vague sense of detachment.

This wasn’t his achievement.

His innie had earned this, the version of himself that woke up inside the Ministry and existed only within those walls. A stranger wearing his face. A ghost living in the hours he surrendered. They shared a body, but that was all.

Still, the promotion came with a generous salary. Enough to afford the apartment in Knightsbridge, his bills, even a few luxuries—not that he indulged. The money sat untouched in his Gringotts vault, accumulating without purpose. He didn’t want for anything. He didn’t want anything.

Draco wandered into the living room, his gaze settling on the coffee table where a stack of unopened letters sat gathering dust. Blaise. Pansy. Theo.

Each envelope was marked with familiar, looping handwriting, full of invitations and questions he would never answer. Come out with us tonight.Where have you been?Are you okay?Talk to me.

He never replied. Eventually, they stopped expecting him to.

Another letter had arrived on the fourth anniversary of his Severance. Another promotion. Deputy Department Manager. He had stared at it for a long time before setting it aside with the rest, unread.

It was strange, really.

By all accounts, he was thriving. Moving up the ranks. Making a name for himself. Earning admiration from people he would never meet.

But none of it was his.

None of it belonged to Draco Malfoy.

That had been nearly a year ago. And yet, nothing much had changed—for this version of himself, at least. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it?

The days bled together in an unremarkable rhythm. He woke, he dressed, he went to work, he would leave work only to check his watch, and occasionally find that the time had slipped further than expected—that he had left work later than usual. But that was it. He didn’t know who he worked with, what he worked on, or whether his innie ever laughed or cried. And that was exactly the way he liked it.

Draco exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before realising the time. Shit. He was running late.

With hurried efficiency, he shoved his crisp white shirt into the waistband of his black trousers, yanked on a tie, and slung his matching jacket over his arm before rushing out the door. He took the stairs two at a time, adjusting his tie as he moved, mind already elsewhere—until he reached the bottom floor and noticed something odd.

His landlady’s door was wide open.

Draco hesitated at the threshold of Flat 1A, his pulse beating in quiet irritation. His first instinct was to ignore it, keep walking. But a flicker of something—obligation, maybe, or the nagging voice of his mother in his head—made him pause.

He leaned against the doorframe, careful not to step inside. "Miss Weaver?"

No reply.

His gaze flicked to the grey cat curled in the hallway, watching him with unblinking yellow eyes. The creature stretched languidly before slinking deeper into the apartment, disappearing from sight. Still, silence.

Damn it.

Suppressing a sigh, Draco stepped inside. He was halfway through considering the quickest way to check for a collapsed woman without getting dragged into a conversation when she suddenly appeared.

Miss Weaver emerged from the dimly lit corridor, her round frame wrapped in a thick cardigan, wisps of greying hair slipping from the bun at the nape of her neck. Her sharp blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second before her expression softened into something unreadable.

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy!” she gasped, pressing a thin, delicate hand to her chest. “You frightened me half to death. What on earth are you doing lurking in my doorway?”

Draco exhaled, already regretting his decision. "Your door was open."

Miss Weaver blinked before following his gaze, as if only now noticing the ajar entrance. She hummed, nonchalant, before turning back to him with a warm, knowing smile. “And you wanted to check on me.” She stepped forward, closing the space between them with eerie familiarity. "Bless you. You are an angel."

She reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. The touch was fleeting, but it sent an uncomfortable jolt through him—too intimate, too familiar, too much.

A beat of silence stretched between them before she tilted her head, gaze intent. "Are you well, Draco dear?"

Draco stiffened. He knew that tone, the one wrapped in false concern, the one that suggested she already knew the answer.

“I wouldn’t ask, of course,” she continued, smoothing down the sleeve of her cardigan in that slow, deliberate way of hers. “You know I don’t like to pry. But that young lady was here again last night. Asking after you.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, already guessing who it was. Pansy.

She had a habit of trying to catch him, of knocking at the wrong times, hoping she’d find him between distractions. He had been otherwise occupied last night, wrapped in the company of a girl he had met in a bar a few weeks ago—one whose name he had already let slip from memory.

"I'm fine, thank you, Miss Weaver." His voice was smooth but firm, already shifting away. "I'll speak to Pansy."

She nodded, watching him with something unreadable in her expression. Then, with a saccharine smile, she stepped back. "Of course, of course. I do go on, don’t I? You must think me an old fool."

Draco forced a polite smile. "Not at all. But I am late for work."

Her smile lingered. "Then don’t let me keep you, dear."

Miss Weaver shut the door before he had even turned away.

Draco didn’t linger. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and strode toward the street, the cool morning air biting at his skin. The grey light of dawn had given way to the pale wash of early morning, and the city was already moving—car horns blaring, cyclists weaving through traffic, pedestrians marching forward with singular purpose.

He moved quickly, cutting through the steady stream of people heading toward the tube station. This was his ritual. He could have used the Floo Network, shaving precious minutes off his journey, but he preferred this—the rhythmic shuffle of bodies, the familiar rumble of the train beneath his feet. It grounded him.

By the time he descended into the depths of the Underground, the station was packed, a sea of black suits and briefcases. He slipped between them with ease, his practiced efficiency making him indistinguishable from the countless other businessmen heading into the heart of London. The routine was comfortable. Predictable. Safe.

By the time he arrived at Whitehall, the streets were congested with tourists, their slow meandering making the final stretch of his commute more of an obstacle course than a simple walk. Draco moved through them with quiet impatience, dodging oversized maps, selfie sticks, and the occasional lost family arguing over directions.

He barely slowed as he reached the unobtrusive staff entrance to the Ministry of Magic, slipping through the door with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before.

At first, when Severance was still in its early testing phases, the entrance to the Ministry itself had been the boundary between the severed and unsevered. But it hadn’t taken long to realise that the staring was a problem.

Unsevered workers would watch their colleagues step through the threshold, eyes tracking them as they went from whole to something… less.

Some described it as unsettling, others as fascinating, but the Ministry saw it as a liability.

The solution was segregation. They had tweaked the spell, shifting the boundary to the lifts that led to the severed floors.

Draco moved through the crowd of Ministry workers, weaving past witches and wizards engaged in quiet conversation, some clutching morning coffee, others flipping through copies of the Daily Prophet.

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly reckless, he tried to guess who among them was severed. Who did he work with every day without knowing it?

But today, there was no time for such thoughts.

He was running late.

He quickened his pace, eyes fixed ahead as he neared the lifts. The entrances were staggered to ensure severed workers never ran into each other—one every few minutes, no overlap.

As Deputy Department Manager, he was the second to arrive and the second last to leave.

There was only one person ahead of him.

Draco stepped into the waiting lift, watching the golden grilles slide shut with a quiet clang. The runes embedded into the walls flickered once, the magic recognising him.

And then, in the space of a single breath—

Everything shifted.

He blinked.

The lift doors opened.

And he stepped out, not as Draco Malfoy, but as Draco M.

His Innie had just arrived for work.

_______________________

The severed floors bore little resemblance to the rest of the Ministry—not that Draco had any real basis for comparison. As far as he was aware, this was all there was. Smooth stone walls stretched endlessly in all directions, their pale, unblemished surfaces bathed in the sterile glow of enchanted lights. There were no portraits, no windows, no personal touches to break the monotony. Just corridors upon corridors, identical and twisting, so precisely constructed that without an innate understanding of the layout, one could wander for hours and never find an exit.

The floors had been built five years ago, just before the first wave of Severed workers arrived, designed to be functional, efficient, and inescapable. Draco had walked these halls so many times that he could navigate them on instinct alone, his feet carrying him toward the office before his mind had even caught up.

To him, it had only been a second since he’d stepped into the lift to leave for the day. The transition was seamless—one breath taken outside, the next inhaled here, with no recollection of the hours in between. But after five years of this, he had learned how to trick himself. To compartmentalise. To carve his days into neat, separate pieces, so they didn’t bleed into one endless stretch of time.

The silver plaque on the dark wooden door ahead read:

DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES: C

Draco pushed it open, fully expecting to see his manager, Dorcas R., seated at her desk at the front of the room as she always was, her sharp eyes already scanning over morning reports. Instead, the office was empty.

He hardly reacted. Work was predictable, structured—a machine that ran without deviation. If Dorcas wasn’t at her desk, it wasn’t his concern. Her outie was likely ill or away on holiday, a circumstance that had no bearing on the world inside these walls. Without hesitation, he strode toward his desk, his routine uninterrupted.

The office was laid out like a classroom, three rows of identical desks arranged neatly in three lines. The front row was reserved for Senior Unspeakables, where Draco sat as the Deputy Manager —the rightmost desk, closest to the wall. The middle row housed the intermediates, while the juniors occupied the back. At the head of the room, Dorcas’ imposing mahogany desk overlooked them all, a silent authority even in her absence.

Draco shrugged off his blazer, draping it over the back of his chair before rolling up his sleeves. The air felt thick, warm. Either it was a hot day outside, or he had been in such a rush this morning that the heat and sweat still clung to his skin. Either way, it was irrelevant.

He settled into his chair, fingers automatically reaching for the stack of reports awaiting him. Another day. Another puzzle to solve.

And, as always, no memory of the night before.

Every five minutes, the heavy wooden door creaked open, admitting another of Draco’s colleagues in their usual silent procession. They moved with the same mechanical efficiency as always, filling the desks around him in order—first the seniors, then the intermediates, and finally the juniors.

Cassius W. and Ishanti P. took their places beside him in the front row, both composed, unreadable, already setting to work. Behind them, Daphne G., Callie T., and Sebastian F. settled in, their movements practiced, precise. At the very back, Nell D., Ambrose F., and Cormac M. entered in turn, each taking their designated seat without a word.

No greetings. No hesitation.

Nine workers, nine severed minds, each locked into the only reality they knew.

The day had begun.

Draco knew little about the inner workings of the Department of Mysteries. His team was designated Team C, which suggested the existence of Teams A and B, but beyond that, the structure of the department remained deliberately obscure. How many other teams worked in these halls? How many others had undergone Severance? These were questions without answers—questions he had long since learned not to ask.

The last of his colleagues had only just taken their seats when the door swung open again. The rhythmic clatter of work quills stopped as every head instinctively turned toward the figure standing in the doorway.

Mr. Vance.

The assistant head of the Severed Floor.

Vance was tall and lean, with neatly combed brown hair and a thick-set pair of glasses that magnified his ever-watchful eyes. His smile—broad, unwavering, just a little too wide—was his signature. He always looked pleased, always radiated an unsettling warmth, like a host welcoming guests into his home rather than a man overseeing one of the most secretive departments in the Ministry.

"Good morning, Team C," he greeted, voice smooth and bright.

A chorus of polite "Good mornings" echoed back to him. The room settled into stillness, waiting.

Vance's eyes flicked toward Draco.

"Draco, can you come with me, please?"

A beat of silence. No one reacted outwardly, but Draco could feel the shift—his colleagues were listening.

"Of course," he said smoothly, pushing back his chair and reaching for his jacket. He shrugged it on, straightening the lapels with practiced ease before stepping around his desk and following Vance out of the room.

The door shut behind them with a quiet, final click.

Draco fell into step beside Vance, the sound of their polished shoes echoing softly against the pristine stone floors. The corridors of the Severed Floor stretched endlessly in every direction, identical in their clean, clinical sterility. No portraits lined the walls, no windows offered glimpses of the outside world—only the cool glow of enchanted sconces and the ever-present hum of magic running beneath the surface.

“What’s this about?” Draco asked, his voice even, controlled.

Vance didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he continued walking at a measured pace, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his ever-present smile curling just a fraction wider.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been to Miss Umbridge’s office, hasn’t it, Draco?” he mused, tone light and conversational, as though he were commenting on the weather.

Draco’s steps faltered for half a second. Not enough to be noticeable—but enough for him to feel it.

Umbridge.

Of course.

He should have expected this. The head of the Severed Floor rarely summoned employees without reason, and the last time he had been in her office... well, he couldn’t remember the details, but he recalled the uneasy feeling that had followed.

Vance, still smiling, glanced sideways at him, clearly enjoying the moment.

“She’s recently had it redecorated,” he continued. “I know she’d be just delighted if you made a comment about the décor.”

Draco didn’t reply. There was no point.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, schooling his expression into something neutral, unreadable. Whatever awaited him behind Umbridge’s door, he’d deal with it when he got there.

At the very end of the hallway stood a door unlike the others. It was heavier, darker, with a brass nameplate gleaming under the enchanted light:

DOLORES J. UMBRIDGE
HEAD OF THE SEVERED FLOOR

Draco forced himself to breathe evenly. The unease coiling in his stomach was familiar now, a warning his body had learned to give him over the years, though he could never quite remember why.

Vance rapped twice on the door before pushing it open without waiting for a response.

The office beyond was pink.

Not just pink—overwhelmingly, suffocatingly pink. The kind of pink that clung to every surface, swallowing the room whole. Draco had only been here a handful of times before, but if this was the redecorated version, he struggled to think what it had looked like before. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed. The walls were still draped in pastel brocade, the furniture still upholstered in cloying floral prints, and the ever-present decorative plates lined the shelves, their enchanted kittens blinking down at him with eerie synchronisation.

The air was thick with the scent of sugared tea and something artificial, powdery—like old perfume attempting to mask something rotten beneath.

At the center of it all, seated behind an ornate mahogany desk, was Dolores Umbridge.

She looked just as he remembered—short, round, dressed in an absurdly frilled cardigan that matched the soft blush of her painted nails. She was sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, her lips pursed in a way that made it impossible to tell if she was smiling or simply tasting something bitter.

"Ah, Draco," she said, setting down her teacup with a delicate clink. "How lovely of you to join us."

Draco didn’t respond right away. His gaze flickered to the chair positioned across from her desk—a clear invitation. He stepped toward it, moving to sit.

"Don't," she said, her tone light, almost pleasant. "This won’t take long."

He halted mid-motion, straightened, and instead stood behind the chair, his hands slipping into his pockets.

Vance remained by the door, hands still neatly clasped, his ever-present smile fixed in place, as if painted on.

"I like what you've done with the office," Draco said, his tone neutral.

"It's the wrong shade of pink," Umbridge replied flatly. "They'll be repainting it back to the proper colour this weekend."

She folded her hands atop her desk, her sharp gaze locking onto Draco with the kind of scrutiny one might reserve for a specimen under a glass slide. The silence stretched just long enough to feel purposeful before she spoke again.

"Are you well, Draco?" she asked, her voice syrupy sweet.

"I believe so—"

"I should inform you that the Wizengamot will be joining us remotely today," she interrupted, pulling out her wand. With a quick flick, a small orb of white light emitted from its tip and hovered just above her head.

"I have Draco M. at my desk," she announced to the orb. No immediate response came, but she continued to watch Draco, expectantly.

The silence dragged on, uncomfortable and heavy. Eventually, Draco cleared his throat.

"Erm... hello to the members of the Wizengamot," he said carefully. "If this is about me filling in for Dorcas, I’ve done it before—"

"Dorcas R. is no longer with the Ministry of Magic," Umbridge cut in.

Draco blinked. "I’m sorry?"

"As of this morning, Dorcas R. has stepped down from her position as Manager of the Department of Mysteries: Team C."

He frowned. "There should have been some kind of notice. What happened?"

"I'm afraid we are unable to disclose any information regarding another employee," Vance chimed in smoothly. "That wouldn’t be fair to Dorcas R.’s innie or her outie."

Draco exhaled sharply, struggling to process the abruptness of it all. No warning. No farewell. Just… gone. The emptiness of it unsettled him, but then again, what had he expected? This was how things worked here.

Across the desk, Umbridge stood with a slow, deliberate movement, smoothing out the front of her sickly pink robes.

"Draco M.," she began, her voice as light and practiced as ever. "With the blessing of the Wizengamot, I am delighted to offer you the role of Manager of the Department of Mysteries: Team C."

She said delighted, but there was no warmth in her voice, no trace of genuine pleasure—just the carefully measured cadence of someone fulfilling a bureaucratic obligation.

"Should you accept, your outie will be made aware via letter this evening."

Silence stretched between them.

"Do you accept?" she asked, tilting her head just slightly, like a predator sizing up its prey.

Draco swallowed, steadying himself. "Yes. I do."

"Good."

She clasped her hands in front of her, pausing for a beat before adding, "A handshake is available on request."

Draco hesitated, unsure what possessed him to even consider it. A moment of normalcy? A test? Or maybe he just wanted to see if she'd actually go through with it.

"May I have a handshake?" he asked, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

Her lips pressed together into something that wasn’t quite a frown, but wasn’t approval either. Then, with deliberate slowness, she extended her hand.

Draco took her hand. Her fingers were thin and cool, her grip firm but dismissive, as though the action was more a formality than a gesture of genuine acknowledgment. The touch was brief, clinical, and devoid of any warmth. It lasted only long enough for Draco to recognise it for what it was—a cold formality—and then she pulled her hand away, as though the entire exchange had been a chore she could barely tolerate.

Without missing a beat, Umbridge slid back into her seat, her posture stiff and unaffected, as though the handshake had been nothing more than an inconvenient interruption.

"Mr. Vance will provide you with the necessary paperwork," she said briskly, her eyes already flicking down to some paperwork of her own, signaling the end of the personal exchange. "You have a new Junior Unspeakable starting today. I know you haven’t led an induction before—an oversight on Dorcas’ part—but if you follow the handbook, you’ll be fine."

She paused, her gaze rising to meet his once more, her expression unreadable.

"You’ll need to decide which of your seniors will become your deputy, which intermediate will become a senior, and then which junior will become an intermediate." She continued, her voice never changing, as though this was all part of the daily grind. "Inform Mr. Vance of your decision by the end of the week."

Draco said nothing. His mind was still reeling from the whirlwind of events, the sheer unexpectedness of it all. His hands gripped the arms of the chair a little tighter as he fought to regain his bearings, but all he could do was nod in response.

Umbridge, clearly not expecting a reply, turned her attention to something else.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” Vance chimed in, his voice warm but still too impersonal. “If you need anything—”

"No," Draco interrupted, his voice clipped, sharp. "Thank you. And thank you to the Wizengamot for this honour." His words felt hollow, rehearsed, but they were all he could muster in the face of what was unfolding.

“The Wizengamot won’t be contributing to this meeting beyond their presence,” Umbridge interjected with a pointed glance at the floating ball of light. It flickered momentarily before dimming, eventually vanishing altogether as if it had never been there.

For a long moment, the silence that followed was thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

"You can return to your team now," she said, her tone clipped, dismissing him with the same indifference she had maintained throughout the entire conversation.

Draco hesitated for only a second then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, his movements measured, controlled. Vance stepped aside to let him pass, the ever-present smile on his face unwavering, as if nothing about this meeting had been remotely unusual.

Draco didn't look back.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, but the sound reverberated in his mind like a closing vault door. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to shake off the weight of the interaction. He had barely sat down at his desk before being thrust into something new, something unexpected—something he had never asked for. And yet, it had happened all the same.

Dorcas was gone. He hadn't even liked her, but there was something unsettling about the way she had disappeared without a word.

The corridors of the Severed Floor stretched before him, identical, clinical, endless. The same as they had always been. But somehow, they felt different now. He was different now.

As he walked back toward his team’s office, his mind ticked through the logistics. A new Junior Unspeakable. Promotions to decide. A new title, a new responsibility, a new shift in a life that was supposed to be predictable.

He reached the door to Team C's office, pausing just long enough to take a steadying breath before pushing it open.

The moment Draco stepped inside, the room stilled. Eight pairs of eyes turned toward him, their expressions neutral, expectant. There was no murmuring, no immediate reaction—just quiet observation, as though waiting for a cue on how to respond.

They had no idea what had just happened.

He walked with measured steps toward his desk, collecting the few personal items he had: his name badge, the small, Ministry-issued five-year service plaque, and the single enchanted quill he preferred to use. The weight of these objects in his hands felt oddly symbolic, as if physically transferring them from one desk to another made the shift in his role real.

Dorcas’ desk was positioned at the head of the room, unlike their standard, uniform workstations, her desk was larger, grander—not by much, but enough. Enough to make it clear who was in charge.

As he set his things down, Ishanti spoke up. “You don’t need to sit at Dorcas’ desk if you’re just filling in for the day.” Her voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity, of calculation.

Draco straightened, exhaling through his nose. “I’m not filling in—” he began, but then stopped.

No. Better to just say it outright.

He took a step back from the desk and turned to the room, straightening his shoulders. “Actually… Can I have everyone’s attention?”

There was a quiet rustle as a few of them shifted in their seats, but all eyes remained locked on him.

“This morning, I was informed that Dorcas has stepped down from her position.” He kept his voice steady, factual. No speculation. No concern. Just the facts. “The Wizengamot has asked me to take her place as Manager of Team C.”

A beat of silence followed his words, not quite long enough to be uncomfortable, but just long enough to be noticeable.

Then, Cassius W., one of the other senior Unspeakables, leaned back slightly in his chair. “Just like that?”

“Yes,” Draco replied. “Just like that.”

Ishanti’s brows lifted, and Callie T., one of the intermediates, exchanged a glance with Daphne G. The juniors—Nell, Ambrose, and Cormac—stayed quiet, their expressions unreadable.

No one asked what had happened to Dorcas.

That was how things worked here. People left, and no one questioned it.

“Well.” Ishanti was the first to break the silence. She gave a short nod, as if recalibrating her expectations. “Congratulations, I suppose.”

A few others murmured their acknowledgments, though none sounded particularly surprised. Promotions were just another cog in the machine—expected, inevitable.

Draco lowered himself into his new chair, rolling his shoulders back as he settled behind the desk. The weight of the position pressed against him, but he refused to let it show.

“All right,” he said, voice even. “Let’s get to work.” His gaze swept the room. “With my promotion, there will be movement at every level. If you believe you're ready to step up, prove it. I’ll be watching.”

A brief silence followed, a charged pause as his words settled over them. Then, he shifted his attention. “Cassius.”

Cassius looked up, his expression neutral.

“We have an induction today for a new Junior Unspeakable. I want you to assist me.”

Cassius gave a short nod, offering no argument.

Draco turned his focus to Ishanti next. “Ishanti, you’ll be in charge of the office while we’re gone.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him, before inclining her head in acknowledgment.

That was it. No further questions. No hesitation. Just quiet acceptance of the new order.

Good. That was how it needed to be.