In Two Minds

Her eyes fluttered open.

There was no warning. No gradual easing into the waking world. One moment, there was nothing—then suddenly, everything.

She blinked, her surroundings unfamiliar, the soft hum of air and distant murmurs of voices filling the silence. She sat up, her heart pounding with confusion, a sharp ache at the back of her head. The room was sterile, almost clinical in its cleanliness. It was white, stark white, with smooth, featureless walls. It was the kind of space that didn’t invite warmth or comfort—just function.

She lay on the floor, her feet grazing the cold, smooth stone beneath her. A slight tremor ran through her hands as she pushed herself upright, her mind lagging behind her body, struggling to comprehend the sudden shift.

Who was she? Where was she? What was she doing here?

The questions hit her all at once, crashing into her like a tidal wave, each one drowning her in confusion and fear. Her mind scrambled to make sense of the disorienting emptiness surrounding her. There were gaps—huge, cavernous gaps—where her memories should have been. Whole swaths of her life were gone, wiped clean as if they’d never existed. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, couldn’t even recall the last thing she’d done before this—before waking up in this strange place.

She searched the room, but found nothing to anchor her. There were no windows, no signs of life beyond the cold, bare walls. The only feature of the room was the heavy metal door in front of her, adorned with a small hatch. She stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of her isolation, before the hatch slid open with a soft hiss, and a golden ball of light floated into the room.

A voice, deep and smooth but oddly warm, emanated from the ball of light. "Who are you?" it asked, the words hanging in the air like an accusation.

She blinked, unable to respond, her mind too foggy to make sense of anything. The voice repeated itself, louder now, insistent. "Who are you?"

The pressure in her chest mounted, panic creeping in. She opened her mouth, but her throat felt tight. And then, an unexpected sharpness. "Who are you?" she shot back, her voice shaky but defiant.

For a long moment, there was silence. The golden light hovered in the air, and she could almost feel the weight of its unseen gaze upon her. Then, the voice returned, its tone more gentle, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry," it said. "I got ahead of myself."

She felt a surge of frustration, her heart racing. She didn’t have time for this. Ignoring the voice, she turned to the door, her hands trembling as she banged on it with all her strength.

“Let me out!” she shouted, her voice cracking in the stillness.

The voice seemed unbothered by her outburst. It spoke again, as though picking up where it had left off. "Let's try this again, shall we?" it said, calm and unfazed. "Hey there, would you like to answer some questions for me? I know you're confused right now, but I think these questions might help you feel a bit better."

Her mind reeled with a thousand unanswered questions, and yet none of them felt like they mattered. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore, let alone who this strange voice belonged to.

“Is anyone there?” Her voice cracked as she called out, her hands trembling as she pounded the door again, the sound reverberating through the cold, empty space. She could feel her pulse racing in her ears, panic beginning to crawl up her throat. Whatever this place was, whoever was behind it—she needed out. She needed answers. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore, but she knew she didn’t belong here. “Let me out!” she shouted, her words echoing, swallowed by the unfeeling walls.

The voice, calm and steady, cut through the air, almost mocking in its serenity. “Just five little questions, and then I’d be more than happy to answer some of your questions,” it said, its tone warm and strangely comforting, but somehow more unnerving for it.

She recoiled at the sound. “Who is speaking?” she demanded, feeling a new sense of resolve build up in her chest. “Open the door!”

The golden ball of light hovered just out of her reach, and she could hear the faint hum of magic crackling beneath its words. “Shall we begin with question one?” it asked, unfazed by her frustration.

“I’m not answering any of your questions!” She snapped, her voice rising in defiance. “Let me out now!”

She slammed her hands against the door once more, but there was no answer. The sound of her fists against metal filled the room, but it seemed like the walls swallowed her cries. When the anger and desperation faded, leaving only exhaustion, she sank to her knees at the foot of the door. Her body ached, her breaths shallow from the exertion. She had been shouting for what felt like hours, but nothing changed. No response, no movement, nothing.

“Shall we begin question one?” the voice repeated, its tone now almost like a lullaby, soothing but no less insistent.

She gritted her teeth, fighting the exhaustion that made her want to simply give in, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t. “What do I get if I answer?” Her voice was tight, barely above a whisper, but the question hung in the air like a challenge.

There was a pause, just long enough for her to wonder if she’d been forgotten, before the voice responded. “That depends on your score,” it said. “On how many you get correct.”

She frowned, her mind struggling to keep up with the strange rules this voice seemed to be laying out. “What does that even mean?” she muttered, more to herself than to the voice. Her thoughts were jumbled—everything felt off. Her entire world was spinning out of her control, and this... this game felt like another puzzle she had no intention of solving. She didn’t care about getting questions right. She just wanted out.

Something inside her told her that answering these strange questions might be the only way to regain some semblance of control—some clue as to what was happening to her. The frantic panic in her chest still beat loudly, but she was trying to suppress it, trying to think clearly. If there was a way out of this, she needed to understand it.

She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself, as much as she could in this unfamiliar, cold space. She could feel her hands trembling at her sides, but she held them together and straightened her back. Whatever came next, she had to face it head-on.

"Fine," she said, her voice still wavering slightly but filled with defiance. She wasn’t going to break—not yet. "Ask your first question."

The voice in the golden ball of light seemed to brighten, as though pleased. “Great! Off we go. Now, to start, who are you?”

She blinked, stunned by the simplicity of the question. "That’s the first question?" she asked, disbelief creeping into her tone.

The voice answered, smooth and patient, “Just your first name will do.”

Her mind immediately went blank. She tried, desperately, to search for a name that should’ve come easily, something that should’ve felt natural. But there was nothing. Her thoughts felt like an empty abyss, the void that stretched farther the harder she tried to reach.

"I don’t..." She trailed off, a pit of confusion opening in her stomach.

“That’s okay,” the voice responded kindly, almost reassuringly. “If there’s anything you can’t answer, just say ‘unknown.’”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “What is this?” she asked in frustration, feeling utterly lost.

The voice seemed to pause for a moment before continuing, undeterred. “Okay, so question one: ‘Unknown.’ Let’s move on.”

She could hear the faint hum of magic as the voice shifted to the next question. “Question two: Name the four houses of Hogwarts.”

Without missing a beat, her mind snapped to the answer. It felt like something familiar, something rooted deep within her that she could still reach. “Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor,” she answered, her voice slightly steadier.

“Brilliant!” The voice responded with apparent approval, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of hope. She could do this.

But then came the third question. “Question three: Which house were you in at Hogwarts?”

The flicker of hope died as quickly as it appeared. Her breath caught in her throat. “Wait...” she stammered.

“Which one?” The voice asked again, relentless in its calm tone.

“I don’t know!” Her frustration bubbled to the surface. Her fists clenched in frustration. “I don’t know anything! I don’t remember!”

“Unknown,” the voice confirmed. “Question four: What is the Minister for Magic’s favourite breakfast?”

She froze. "What?" she asked, the absurdity of the question taking her completely off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I know,” the voice said, its tone a little amused now. “I never understood that one either. ‘Unknown.’”

“I’m so confused,” She whispered, her voice trembling. Her heart pounded in her chest as tears started to form in her eyes. She felt like she was losing her grip on everything, each answer pulling her farther from what she knew. “What’s happening to me?”

“Question five,” the voice continued, unbothered by her distress. “To the best of your knowledge, what is or was your mother’s eye colour?”

A lump formed in her throat as her mind spun. Her mother. Her eyes. She tried to grasp at memories, at images of her mother, but it was all a blur—fragments that slipped through her fingers like sand.

“I… I don’t know,” she choked out, the tears falling freely now. Her whole body felt heavy with the weight of unanswered questions. “I don’t remember...”

“‘Unknown,’” the voice confirmed, the word echoing in the air.

For a long moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of her own breathing. She curled in on herself, feeling small, insignificant. What had just happened? What had she just participated in? Why couldn’t she remember?

The voice came back, matter-of-fact as ever. “Okay, so that’s ‘Unknown,’ You got all four houses right, ‘Unknown,’ ‘Unknown,’ ‘Unknown.”

Suddenly, the door behind her shifted. The cold metal scraped against the floor, and she barely caught herself as the door swung open. She shot to her feet, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her eyes widened as she saw a man standing in the doorway.

He was tall, blonde, and strikingly handsome, with an air of calm authority about him. His eyes locked onto hers.

He spoke with the same deep, warm voice that had been guiding her through the questions earlier. “That is a perfect score,” he said, his smile cool and detached, as though he were congratulating her on a task she hadn’t willingly agreed to. 

He extended his hand, offering to help her to her feet. The gesture seemed more formal than kind, like a mere formality in a situation she didn’t fully understand. But she didn’t take it. She pushed herself up, her legs trembling slightly, and she quickly moved to the opposite corner of the room, as far from him as possible. She needed space—space to think, to breathe.

“I think we got off to a bad start, and that’s my fault,” he said, his voice somehow more distant now, as if he were trying to make an excuse. “There was a whole thing I was meant to read before the questions, but I haven’t done this before and I... well, I guess I just got ahead of myself.”

Her mind was spinning, and she couldn’t make sense of anything. The only thing she could focus on was the raw confusion that gnawed at her every thought.

“What am I?” she blurted out, her voice thick with panic and suspicion.

The man looked at her, brows furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Am I some kind of sacrifice?” she asked, her voice trembling. Her words came out sharper than she intended, a gut reaction to the fear gnawing at her insides. “For a spell?”

He blinked at her, his smile slipping for a fraction of a second before he let out a low laugh, his expression almost bemused. “No,” he said simply, the single word dripping with reassurance that felt hollow to her. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as if he were trying to appear casual, but it only added to the unsettling vibe he gave off. “No, nothing like that. Trust me.”

But her mind was running in a hundred directions, each one worse than the last. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

“Why don’t I know anything?” she asked, the words tumbling out before she could think. Her breath came faster now, anxiety making her chest tighten.

“Well, we have this spell…” he started, his voice trailing off as though searching for the right way to explain, but she wasn’t staying to listen to his cryptic explanation. Her need to escape, to get away from this nightmare, overpowered her ability to make sense of anything he said.

She made a break for the door, her feet pounding against the stone floor as she sprinted toward the exit. Freedom. Answers. Anything.

But before she could even touch the door handle, his arm shot out like lightning, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her back with a strength that left her breathless. His grip was firm, almost suffocating, but not overly harsh—just enough to ensure she couldn’t break free. His muscles were lean but strong, and there was no escaping his hold.

“Please, let me go,” She pleaded, her voice shaking as she fought against him. She squirmed in his grasp, pushing against his chest with all her might, but it was useless. “I don’t even know my name!” The words hit her like a punch to the gut, and the full weight of her situation crashed down on her. She was trapped, confused, and she couldn’t even remember who she was.

His hold softened slightly, and he slowly released her, lowering her back onto her feet. “Your name is Hermione,” he said gently, his tone surprisingly calm now. “Hermione G.”

“Hermione?” she repeated, the name rolling off her tongue like a foreign phrase she was trying to recall from a half-forgotten dream. It felt strange—like something she should know, something that should feel like home, but didn’t. Instead, it was an empty shell of familiarity, something hovering just out of reach.

"Hermione G..." She tested the name again, her lips forming the syllables carefully, trying to mold them into something that belonged to her. But it didn’t fit. Not really. It was like putting on a coat that wasn’t hers, the sleeves too long, the shoulders too tight.

"Who am I? What is happening to me?" The questions burned in her mind, clawing at her insides.

The man in front of her let out a breath, rubbing a hand through his perfectly combed blonde hair, messing it up slightly. “Please,” he said, his voice measured, calm, “just let me finish everything I have to say before you make another run for it.”

Hermione hesitated. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. But neither had worked so far. Slowly, reluctantly, she gave him a single nod.

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small ring-bound book. It was well-worn, the edges of the pages slightly curled, as though it had been flipped through countless times. He held it with both hands, turning to a page near the front and began to read in a voice that sounded practiced, like he was reading from a script.

“Thank you for answering our questions. I can sense you are feeling afraid or disoriented,” he recited, his tone even, steady. “The good news is that this is an orientation. You see, you’ve been hired to a position in one of the Severed Departments of the Ministry of Magic.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “One of the what departments?” she asked sharply, suspicion lacing her tone.

He hesitated, flipping a few pages forward as if searching for something more specific. “I understand you’re confused about severance. Before we get to that, let’s talk about something I know you’ll have heard of: confidentiality—”

She didn’t let him finish.

Before he could say another word, she yanked off one of her shoes—a sleek black high heel, the kind with a thick, sturdy heel meant for long days of standing—and hurled it at him with all the strength she could muster.

The shoe struck him square in the forehead with a thud.

He let out a surprised grunt, stumbling back as the book slipped from his fingers.

Hermione didn’t wait to see the damage. She turned and bolted for the door, her footing uneven as she half-limped, half-ran with only one shoe on. Get out. Get out. Get out.

She reached for the handle—

The door shut before she could reach it, locking with an ominous click.

“Fuck,” the man groaned behind her.

Hermione spun around, her breath coming fast, her heart slamming against her ribs. He was clutching his forehead, fingers pressing against a small but steadily bleeding cut. Her shoe lay on the ground next to him, looking perfectly innocent despite the damage it had caused.

He bent down, picking it up with a grimace, then walked toward her, extending it in offering. “You threw this at my head,” he said, sounding less angry and more… mildly exasperated, like someone who had just had their morning coffee knocked over.

Hermione ignored him, her hands flying to her dress. She was dressed in all black—a fitted pencil skirt, a sleek blouse. The outfit felt professional, intentional. But none of that mattered. She was searching for something.

Her wand.

She didn’t remember having one, didn’t remember holding it before, but she knew she should have it.

“You don’t have one,” he said simply, realising what she was looking for. “We’re not allowed them down here.”

The words sent a fresh wave of panic crashing over her. No wand? No magic?

Hermione’s hands curled into fists. Her mind screamed at her to fight, to do something.

But the man was still standing there, watching her, holding out her shoe like it was some kind of peace offering.

“You threw it pretty hard,” he said, motioning to the blood dripping down from his temple. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting that.”

Hermione’s breathing was still ragged, her body taut like a wire about to snap. But something about the casual way he spoke—the way he didn’t retaliate, didn’t rush to subdue her—made her pause.

“Take it,” he said, shaking the shoe slightly. “You’ll need it. Trust me, it’s a pain walking around barefoot.”

Hermione didn’t move.

The man sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’ll just put it down here,” he said, setting the shoe gently on the floor between them.

As if coming to a decision, the man crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door. His posture shifted from that of an authority figure to something more casual, less rigid. It was a silent signal that he wasn’t going to force her into anything.

“Look,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “Clearly, this isn’t working. So let’s try something different.”

She watched him warily, still poised like a cornered animal, ready to lash out or bolt again if she had to.

“My name is Draco,” he continued, his voice measured but not unkind. “And five years ago, I woke up in a room just like this one. A ball of light asked me who I was—” He let out a short, humourless laugh. “—nineteen times.”

Something in Hermione shifted.

Nineteen times.

That meant he hadn’t known either.

She wasn’t alone in this.

“And when I realised I didn’t know the answer,” Draco went on, his expression flickering between amusement and something darker, “I told the voice that I would find him and kill him.”

His lips curled slightly, like he found the memory absurd now, but there was an edge to his words—something raw beneath the humour.

Silence stretched between them.

Hermione swallowed. “Did you?” she asked hesitantly. “Did you kill the voice?”

Draco tilted his head, considering her reaction carefully. “No,” he admitted. “That voice was Mr. Vance—our assistant head of department.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his gaze flickering downward for the briefest moment as though debating how much to say. Finally, he sighed. “And, well… I learned that he only wanted to help.”

Hermione shook her head, fists clenched at her sides. “Why are we here?” she demanded, her voice tight with frustration.

Draco didn’t answer right away. Instead, he bent down, picked up the small ring-bound book again, and flipped to a specific section. When he spoke next, his voice had taken on the same rehearsed tone he’d used before, reading from the manual.

“Confidentiality is a vital component of—”

“AHHHHHHH!” Hermione screamed, cutting him off. Her patience snapped like a brittle thread as she whirled around, slamming her fists against the door. “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” she bellowed.

Draco winced but didn’t react otherwise. Instead, he closed the book with a snap. “Ask to go home.”

The sudden change in his tone threw her off. She turned back, chest heaving. “What?”

“If you specifically ask me to go home,” Draco said slowly, watching her carefully, “I have to let you.”

Hermione stared at him, trying to find the trick, the catch, the loophole in his words. It felt too easy.

“…Draco?” she tested, still unsure about the name, tasting it like something foreign on her tongue. He didn’t correct her.

She took a breath, steadied herself. “I would like to go home now.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, nodding. “Alright.” He flipped through several pages of the manual, then read aloud in a monotone voice, “I understand you don’t feel happy here at the Ministry. While I’m disappointed, I wouldn’t want to keep you somewhere you don’t want to be.”

He snapped the book shut and slid it back into his pocket. Then, with an almost weary sort of patience, he gestured toward the door.

“So,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The door swung open with a soft hiss, revealing a small, dimly lit observation room. Two chairs sat side by side, facing a monitor mounted on the wall. The screen displayed a live feed of the room they had just left, its sterile walls and harsh lighting making it look even more claustrophobic from the outside. Between the chairs was an old-fashioned microphone, its metal casing worn from years of use.

One of the chairs was empty. In the other sat a man, perhaps in his early forties, with a short brown haircut and a bored expression. His fingers tapped idly against his knee as he glanced up at them.

Draco spoke first. “Cassius,” he said, his tone clipped but familiar. “Hermione G. is going home. Inform Mr. Vance, then return to the office.”

Cassius gave a short nod, saying nothing as he stood and exited through a door on the other side of the room.

Hermione lingered for a moment, her eyes flicking between the monitor and the microphone. She had the unsettling feeling she had been watched this entire time.

Draco didn’t give her time to dwell on it. He stepped through the same door Cassius had used, and with no other choice, she followed.

The corridor stretched endlessly before them, a maze of identical off-white walls and low, enchanted lit lights. The air smelled sterile, like parchment and something metallic. Hermione kept pace with Draco, her heels clicking against the floor as she tried to absorb everything he had told her.

“How many of us are there?” she asked, her voice quieter than before.

Draco didn’t hesitate. “We don’t know.”

She frowned. “How can you not know?”

He turned a corner, not even checking if she followed. “Our department—the Department of Mysteries—was the first to go completely severed. There are ten of us in our team, including you. We think there are multiple teams, but we rarely interact.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “And the other departments?”

Draco’s expression darkened slightly. “Because of our ‘success,’ other departments have begun implementing the same system. We don’t know how many, or which ones, but they always say there are plans to expand.”

She shivered. “Is that what I was supposed to be?” she asked. “An expansion?”

“No,” Draco said, slowing slightly. “You’re a replacement.”

She stopped walking. “A replacement for who?”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he pressed forward, his posture tightening.

The hallways twisted and turned in a way that made no logical sense. Hermione tried to keep track of the path they were taking—left, then right, then left again—but it was impossible. It was like the corridors were shifting around them, rearranging to make sure she could never find her own way back.

Finally, Draco stopped.

“Down there are the lifts,” he said, gesturing to a set of sleek metal doors at the far end of the hallway. “Just step inside, press the button. They’ll take you up.”

She hesitated. “You’re not coming with me?”

“I’ll go up at the end of the day.” His tone was neutral, but something in his expression made her uneasy.

Hermione inhaled deeply. She had no reason to trust him, but she had even less reason to stay.

“Well,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel, “this was nice.”

Draco didn’t reply.

She walked toward the lift, pressed the button, and stepped inside. The doors slid shut with a quiet click, and the lift began to move.

Then, suddenly, it wasn’t.

Hermione blinked, feeling the stillness around her. Confused, she reached out and pressed the button again.

The lift whirred to life, the sensation of movement unmistakable.

But when she opened her eyes, she was exactly where she had started.

The doors slid open. The corridor was the same. Draco was still standing there, watching her.

She frowned. “Draco?”

He stepped forward. “Yes?”

“The lift is broken,” she said.

“No, it isn’t.”

She scowled. “It is. I pressed the button twice, and I didn’t go anywhere.”

Draco tilted his head slightly. “You did, you just came back.”

Her stomach twisted. “No, I didn’t.”

Draco sighed, removing the watch from his wrist and handing it to her. “Take this,” he said. “Try again.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but took the watch. It was heavy in her palm, the ticking loud in the quiet hallway.

She stepped back into the lift, pressed the button, and felt the familiar lurch of motion. As she did, she glanced at the watch—10:30.

She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the lift to stop. When she opened them, she was standing in the exact same place as before.

Draco was still there.

She looked down at the watch. 10:34.

Her breath hitched.

“What—” She pressed the button again, desperately, trying to make sense of what was happening.

The lift moved.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

When she opened them again, Draco was still there. The corridor was the same.

She looked at the watch. 10:42.

Hermione felt a cold dread settle in her stomach.

She stepped out of the lift slowly, her movements hesitant, as if the ground beneath her might shift at any moment. “Am I dead?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco shook his head. “No.”

“Then why can’t I leave?” she demanded, frustration creeping into her voice.

Draco exhaled, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You did leave,” he said evenly. “And then you chose to come back.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “I wouldn’t have chosen to come back.”

Draco met her gaze, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “Maybe you wouldn’t,” he said. “But your outie did.”

She felt dizzy. “My what?”

Instead of answering, Draco turned on his heel and gestured for her to follow. “Come on,” he said. 

___________________

Hermione stood in the garish pink office, feeling like she had been placed in some strange, disorienting dream. Draco stood behind her, leaning casually against the wall, a paper towel pressed against the cut on his head a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. Another man—Mr. Vance—stood opposite, his hands clasped in front of him as though waiting for some sort of formal cue. Behind the desk, the woman Draco had introduced as Miss Umbridge—the Head of Department—watched them all with a mixture of amusement and something darker.

"Weaponising clothing on your first day," Umbridge said, her voice sugary sweet but with a sharp edge. "You're going to be a fun one." She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her stomach as though thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. "Look, I understand you haven’t had the best start here," she continued, "and while I’ve wanted to hit Draco many times, I have to restrain myself as his manager." Umbridge’s eyes glinted with something that could have been a warning, but it was quickly masked by a sickly sweet smile. "He is your manager now, so you’ll have to do the same."

Hermione glanced back at Draco. He met her gaze with a slight, almost smirk, and she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of frustration rising within her. 

"Now, luckily for us," Umbridge said, her voice brightening again, "there’s only one part of your orientation left—a part that even Draco can’t mess up." She stood up from her desk, the movement almost deliberate, as if each step was carefully measured. "Follow me, dear," she added, gesturing toward the corner of the room.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, glancing at Draco again before following Umbridge. The corner of the room was slightly dimmer, the harsh pink light somehow softened here. In the middle, a large, shallow bowl of water sat, its surface smooth and undisturbed. As Hermione approached it, she caught her reflection in the water.

She wasn’t sure what to think of what she saw. Her brown hair was slightly frizzy, as though it had a life of its own, and her fringe fell in a soft curve over her forehead. Her brown eyes stared back at her, almost vacant, as though trying to grasp something she couldn’t quite remember. A scattering of freckles dusted her nose, giving her a slightly youthful appearance, but still, she felt as if she didn’t know herself at all.

Umbridge noticed her gaze and smiled, though it was not a kind expression. She reached into her pocket, her fingers dancing over the fabric until she pulled out a small, glass vial. Inside, a strange, silver substance seemed to shimmer and shift, as though it didn’t quite belong in the world. Umbridge twisted the top off and tipped the vial over the water. The liquid inside slithered into the bowl like smoke, dissipating with a quiet hiss that made Hermione shiver.

"In you go, dear," Umbridge said, her tone soft but insistent.

Hermione stared at the bowl, confused. "What is this?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite herself.

Umbridge’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. "You need to learn to follow instructions." she said.

Her mind spun. There was something in her that screamed to refuse, to question, to run—but she didn’t know how. Her legs moved of their own accord, and before she could fully process what was happening, she found herself leaning over the bowl, her face just inches from the surface.

As she lowered her face to the water, a strange pressure built in her chest, as though she were being pulled in. The reflection in the bowl blurred, rippling with the movements of the liquid, and Hermione felt an almost magnetic pull, as though something beyond the surface was calling her in. She couldn’t resist. The sensation was too overwhelming.

As the sensation of falling intensified, Hermione felt as though she had been yanked from reality itself. The world twisted around her, colors bleeding together, the cold pressure in her chest tightening until she could hardly breathe. The sound in her head—static, whispers, the faint echo of her own thoughts—grew to a deafening crescendo before collapsing into absolute silence.

And then, abruptly, it was over.

She was standing in a room. It was eerily similar to the one she had awoken in, but there were two chairs this time, facing each other. One was empty. In the other sat a woman.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as recognition set in—she was looking at herself.

The other Hermione sat upright, composed, holding a small white card in her hands. But there was something different about her. A shift in posture, a subtle steeliness in her gaze. This version of her—her Outie, the word came to her unbidden—radiated a quiet certainty that felt utterly foreign.

Hesitantly, Hermione sank into the empty chair, her eyes locked onto her own reflection. She didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure she could.

Then, the other Hermione lowered her gaze to the card and began to read. Her voice was calm, deliberate.

“My name is Hermione G. I am reading this roughly two hours before this memory will be shown to myself. I have, of my own free accord, elected to undergo the magical ritual colloquially known as Severance. I give consent for my perceptual chronologies to be split, separating my memories between my work life and my personal life. I acknowledge that, henceforth, my access to my memories will be spatially dictated. I will be unable to access outside recollections whilst on the Ministry’s Severed Floor, nor retain work memories upon my ascent. I am aware that this alteration is comprehensive and irreversible. I make these statements freely.”

Hermione felt her stomach churn. Freely?

She watched as the other version of her carefully folded the card and placed it on the floor besides the chair. Then, without hesitation, she stood.

Hermione wanted to stop her, to demand answers, but her throat was tight, her limbs frozen.

She could only watch as her other self walked away, each step measured, purposeful.

And then, just like that—she faded into nothingness.

A sharp gasp tore from Hermione’s lips as she was wrenched back to reality. It was like breaking the surface of an ice-cold lake, her body shuddering, her breath coming in desperate, ragged gulps.

The sensation of drowning lingered as she blinked against the pink glow of Umbridge’s office.

Draco stood nearby, still holding the bloodied paper towel to his forehead, his expression unreadable. He turned without a word and walked out of the office.

Umbridge merely gestured for Hermione to follow.

Her legs felt shaky as she stepped out into the corridor, falling into step beside Draco. The silence between them was thick, but Hermione couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“So I’ll never leave?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

Draco didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even look at her.

“No,” he said, simply. “You’ll leave at five. It just won’t feel like it—not to this version of you, anyway.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Do I have a family?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ll never know.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs. “And I have no choice?” she asked, a sharp edge creeping into her voice.

Draco exhaled through his nose, stopping in the hallway. He turned to her then, his grey eyes searching her face, weighing something unseen.

“Look,” he said finally. “The best way to think of it is this—every time you find yourself back here, it’s because you—” he pointed upward, a small but deliberate gesture, “chose to come back.”

Hermione stared at him, her mind spinning.

The words from her other self echoed in her ears. I make these statements freely.

Did she?

Would she ever?