In Two Minds

Hermione woke in the lift again, her eyes blinking into the same cold, sterile light—but this time, there was no Draco waiting on the other side. No familiar drawl, no half-smirk to ease her disorientation. Just the hollow chime of the lift doors sliding open. She exhaled slowly and stepped into the corridor, her footsteps echoing louder than they should.

The walk to the office felt longer without him. The endless stretch of identical walls and muted flooring made her feel smaller somehow, more alone. When she finally pushed open the door, she saw that most of the team had already arrived. The room was abuzz with its usual low-level chatter, but something felt different—subtly rearranged. It took her a moment to place it.

Some of the desks had been moved. She scanned the room, quickly clocking the changes: Cassius had taken the desk near the front—the deputy’s seat. His posture was straighter, almost self-important. Callie T. now sat a row closer, at one of the senior desks, her expression impassive but the slight tension in her jaw giving her away. Sebastian F. had also shifted forward, joining the intermediate row. His dark eyes flicked up from his paperwork briefly, catching Hermione’s glance. He offered a small, polite nod in acknowledgment.

Meanwhile, her own desk had been relocated to the back, grouped with the other juniors. She now sat beside Cormac, who greeted her with his usual lazy smirk as she dropped into the chair.

“Where’s Draco?” she asked, noting his absence with a slight frown. Her voice was quieter than she’d meant it to be, but Cormac heard her.

He arched a brow and smirked. “Missed you too.”

Before she could retort, Nell leaned over from her desk, her hands resting casually on the back of Cormac’s chair. “He should be first in, in the morning now that he’s manager,” she said, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You don’t think…”

Hermione glanced at her sharply. “Think what?”

Cormac waved a hand dismissively. “He’s probably just sick,” he said, leaning back in his chair with the easy indifference of someone accustomed to workplace chaos. “They wouldn’t get rid of him and Dorcas in the same week.”

“I certainly hope not,” a voice chimed in from the intermediate row. Hermione glanced over to see Sebastian F., who had turned halfway in his chair to join the conversation. He was in his early thirties, with deep brown skin, black hair cropped short, and a neatly trimmed beard. His expression was calm but faintly concerned.

Hermione’s eyes flicked across the room again. That’s when she realised Daphne’s desk was empty too. Her throat tightened slightly.

“Daphne’s not here either,” Nell observed, her voice quieter now. She glanced toward the door as though half-expecting her to walk in at any moment.

Before Hermione could process the sudden, gnawing concern coiling in her stomach, the low scrape of a chair being pushed back drew their attention. Cassius had risen from his new desk at the front of the room. With a clipped cough, he strolled toward the center, smoothing his neatly pressed suit.

“It’s okay, everyone,” he announced, loud enough to quiet the murmured conversations. His tone was deliberately calm, measured, as though he’d been practicing it. He gestured briefly to his new desk. “Before we left on Friday, Draco promoted me to deputy manager. I’ll be happy to fill his role in his absence.”

There was a beat of silence as the words settled over the room.

Hermione’s eyes shifted to Ishanti, who sat stiffly at her desk. Her hands were still, but her fingers curled ever so slightly against the parchment in front of her, tightening subtly into a fist. Her face was carefully neutral, but Hermione caught the faintest flicker of displeasure in her eyes—the way her gaze dropped briefly to her desk before she forced it back up again.

Cormac leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only Hermione could hear.
“She clearly isn’t happy that Draco didn’t make her deputy,” he muttered with a sly grin.

Hermione's stomach churned with unease. She glanced between Cassius’s smug confidence at the front of the room and Ishanti’s carefully neutral expression, sensing an invisible tension hanging between them. It was like the calm before a storm, the kind of quiet that always preceded an argument no one dared to have. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something in the air now—something different, heavy. She felt out of place, as if the very fabric of the room had shifted beneath her feet.

“They wouldn’t have fired him for my note thing?” Hermione blurted out, turning her attention to Cormac, who sat across from her with his usual laid-back demeanor.

He looked up at her for a moment, his expression half-amused, half-serious. “Nah. No way,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug, as though the idea itself was laughable. “He did his stint in the break room.”

“In the what?” Hermione asked, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. She hadn’t heard anything about a “stint” in the break room, and the more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Was it some kind of punishment? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned it to her?

Before Cormac could respond, the door to the office swung open with a sharp clack, and Mr. Vance walked in, his usual brisk, no-nonsense manner filling the room. His sharp gaze swept over the team, his mouth pulling into a thin smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Good morning, Team C,” Mr. Vance announced, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to command. His fingers adjusted the silver-framed glasses perched on his nose as he surveyed the room, his sharp gaze lingering over each of them. “As you may have noticed, Draco and Daphne are absent today. I’m relying on you all to rally in their absence. Cassius W. will be filling in as manager until Draco returns.”

A ripple of murmurs followed his announcement, and Hermione found herself glancing around, sensing the weight of the news. Draco’s absence still felt strange, like a gap that was hard to ignore.

“Are they okay?” Hermione found herself asking before she could stop the words from tumbling out. She wasn’t sure what prompted the question—perhaps it was the unease gnawing at her, or maybe the fact that she still couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something more going on behind the scenes.

Mr. Vance didn’t seem fazed by the question. “Yes, they are fine,” he replied, his voice curt but reassuring. “Draco’s outie is unwell, and Daphne’s outie has had a family emergency. They both expect to be back at work tomorrow.”

His answer was direct, but Hermione noticed the slight emphasis on the word outie, as though it explained everything, and nothing at all. She wasn’t entirely sure how much she believed it. The phrasing seemed off—too rehearsed, almost like a cover-up. But there was little she could do to press further without raising suspicion.

“Now, there’s a lot to be done,” Mr. Vance continued, straightening up as he prepared to move on with the day’s agenda. “I’ll pop in again just after lunch to check on you all.”

________________

The hours stretched on, dragging like a heavy fog around Hermione’s mind as she stared at the letters in the file before her, the ink on the pages blurring into an unrecognisable mass. The task was endless, the meaning of it all elusive. She tried to focus, hoping for a breakthrough, but the words remained stubbornly opaque, like a code she couldn’t crack.

“Nothing scary yet,” Hermione muttered to herself, hoping it would bring some clarity. Her voice was a whisper of frustration as she leaned back in her chair, staring at the page again.

Cormac looked over from his desk, eyes still glued to his work. “Keep looking. Once you see it, you won’t be able to unsee it,” he said, his voice carrying the kind of dry assurance that came from experience, though Hermione wasn’t sure if she wanted to see it.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the rhythmic scratching of quills against parchment and the soft hum of their collective concentration filling the air. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as Hermione stared at the file, trying to make sense of the letters and numbers in front of her. She was on the verge of losing herself in the monotony when, all of a sudden, her hand shot up, and she let out a dramatic gasp.

“Oh God, a P!” she cried out, her voice exaggeratedly panicked as she pointed at the file, eyes wide in mock horror.

Cormac didn’t even look up, but his voice was sharp. “Don’t fuck around, Hermione.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle at his annoyance, but the tension in his posture told her he wasn’t entirely joking.

“Just be patient, Hermione,” Nell called out from across the room, her eyes never leaving her own work. “It took me weeks before I could see it. You’ll get there.”

Hermione’s fingers drummed against the desk in an exaggerated show of uncertainty as she glanced at the others. “What do the numbers even mean?” she asked, her voice filled with feigned frustration. “I mean, are we making magical shopping lists here or actually doing something important?”

“My theory?” Cormac said, now more animated, leaning back in his chair with an air of someone revealing a grand revelation. “We’re making new spells, like lethal ones.”

“Lethal spells?” Hermione echoed, her eyes widening in disbelief. “But... why would we be doing that?”

Cormac shrugged. “Think about it. What could we be doing that’s so dangerous, they have to split us into two different personalities?”

Hermione furrowed her brow. “Death spells?” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone in particular, trying to wrap her mind around the implications. “This is the leading theory?” she asked, clearly skeptical of Cormac’s suggestion.

“I think we’re deciding who gets magic and who doesn’t,” Nell said matter-of-factly, her tone calm despite the chilling nature of her words. “We decide how much magic they get. The intermediates determine whether they’re going to be light or dark magic users. Then if the seniors decline a file… that’s a squib.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “So you think we’re in charge of magic allocation?” she asked, her voice trembling with the weight of what was being suggested.

“No,” Ishanti interjected sharply, walking over to their group with a look of disbelief. She crossed her arms, exhaling with a slight scoff. “That’s stupid, and Nell said it stupid. Who gets magic or not is determined by nature. We’re just categorising it for the Ministry’s records.”

Hermione blinked, trying to absorb the explanation. “Categorising magic?” she repeated slowly, still uncertain. “But what does that mean? For the Ministry’s records?”

“Exactly,” Ishanti continued, her tone steady and authoritative, as she leaned against the desk with her arms crossed. “We’re not deciding who gets magic. We’re tracking it—figuring out which Muggle families might be more likely to have magical children. It’s all about documentation and categorisation for the Ministry. They want to keep a record of it all, nothing more.”

Hermione nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of the conversation. “So, it’s more like census data for magic…”

“Precisely,” Ishanti said, her eyes narrowing in thought. “It’s all about control. They need to know where the magic is so they can keep it in line.”

The tension in the room seemed to hang in the air for a moment, murmurs of contemplation swirling around them. Then, suddenly, a loud, sharp scream sliced through the silence.

“No! Please!” The sound came from Callie’s desk, causing everyone in the room to freeze. Callie T., an older woman in her sixties, who was generally friendly but a little forgetful, was now clutching her head in distress. Her face was pale, and her eyes were wide with alarm.

Nell immediately shot up from her desk, hurrying to Callie’s side with a look of concern. “Callie, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

But before Nell could reach her, Cormac, ever the one to throw in a jab, couldn’t resist. “Napping on the job again, Cal?” he said, his voice laced with mock amusement.

Callie, flustered, quickly wiped away the tears that had gathered at her eyes and began to apologise, her voice shaky. “Oh my, I’m so sorry, everyone. I—I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

Before anyone could respond, the door to the office opened, and Mr. Vance’s sharp voice echoed across the room. “Callie T.,” he called, his eyes scanning the room before settling on the distressed woman at her desk.

Callie’s face flushed with embarrassment as she stood, trying to compose herself. “Oh, Mr. Vance, I’m so sorry,” she stammered, wringing her hands.

Mr. Vance didn’t offer any sympathy, his voice cool and professional as he spoke. “We’ll be deducting the time you spent napping from your outie’s paycheck. But what will be harder to fix, Callie, is my trust—and Ms. Umbridge’s trust—in you.”

The room grew quieter, the air thick with tension. Callie’s face crumpled in mortification, but she quickly apologised again, her voice nearly a whisper. “I’m so sorry, sir. I really didn’t mean to.”

Mr. Vance softened, but his expression remained calculating. “Don’t worry. No one’s rushing to throw you in the break room just yet. We’ll do a wellness check and go from there. All right?”

Callie nodded meekly, her hands shaking as she stood to follow Mr. Vance out of the room. “Yes, Mr. Vance. I’ll come with you.”

As the door closed behind them, the room fell silent. The weight of the situation lingered, and everyone returned to their desks with more caution than before, the mood now heavier than it had been that morning. Even Cormac didn’t dare make a joke.

________________

The next hour crawled by with excruciating slowness. The absence of Callie, combined with Draco and Daphne still being gone, made the office feel noticeably emptier. The usual quiet hum of activity was muted, and the lack of conversation only made the droning scratch of quills against parchment feel louder. Hermione kept her eyes down, thumbing through the endless pages—letter after letter, all of it still meaningless to her. Her eyes were starting to burn from staring at the same indecipherable patterns.

Just as she was beginning to consider giving herself a break, the door creaked open softly. Everyone glanced up, and Callie slipped back into the room, moving carefully as though she were trying not to disturb anything. Her face was slightly flushed, her hair a little disheveled, but she offered a small, polite smile as she crossed toward her desk.

“Callie!” Nell’s voice rang out, breaking the tension as she shot out of her seat and hurried over.

Callie’s eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting the enthusiastic welcome.

“How was wellness?” Hermione asked, standing as well, her curiosity outweighing her hesitation.

Callie hesitated for half a beat, her lips quirking into a wry smile. “Oh, just wonderful,” she said,. “Very relaxing. I feel positively renewed.” She waved her hand vaguely, but her eyes twinkled slightly, and there was a warmth in her expression that hadn’t been there before.

She slid into her chair, flipping open a file, clearly attempting to move on. But then, with deliberate nonchalance, she added, “I met someone from one of the other teams.”

The casual remark landed like a Bludger to the face. The entire office seemed to freeze. The faint scratching of quills stopped. Every head turned.

“What?” Cormac asked sharply, his chair scraping against the floor as he spun to face her.

“Who?” Ishanti added, her voice low with interest.

Callie’s lips twitched into a small, private smile, clearly enjoying the attention. She glanced down at the papers in front of her, fiddling with them as though she were debating whether to answer. Then, she shrugged lightly and said, “Frankie. She’s the deputy for Team A.”

“Team A?” Cormac repeated, his brows drawing together. “I’ve heard they’re assholes.”

“Cormac!” Cassius’s voice cut across the room, his tone sharp with disapproval. He shot him a warning glance, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Callie chuckled softly, but Cormac wasn’t done. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk as he stared at her with an odd intensity. “How long did you talk to her?” he asked.

Callie’s smile faltered slightly, her expression turning confused. “What’s with the twenty questions?” Nell cut in, frowning at Cormac. “I think it’s nice that we can meet other people. It’s not like we get a lot of opportunities for socialising in here.”

“I’m only asking for the safety of our team,” Cormac insisted, sitting up straighter. His voice was clipped and defensive now, his eyes fixed on Callie. “We don’t know what the other teams are like. They might be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Callie repeated with a bemused arch of her brow. “She wasn’t exactly brandishing a wand at me, Cormac. We had a cup of tea whilst we waited for our wellness appointments.”

“She could’ve slipped you Veritaserum,” he shot back.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes. She crossed her arms and gave him a withering look. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Cormac shook his head sharply. “No, I’m serious. You ever notice we’re kept completely separate from the other teams? There’s gotta be a reason for it. They’ve got us divided for a reason. What if their objectives are different? What if they’re watching us?”

“Oh, yes, Cormac,” Nell cut in dryly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure Frankie’s a double agent on a mission to seduce Callie for classified intel over tea and biscuits.”

Callie snorted, finally cracking a genuine smile, but Cormac didn’t look remotely amused. His gaze was still fixed on her, suspicious and wary.

Hermione shook her head slightly, exhaling sharply. She turned to Callie with a reassuring smile. “Ignore him. What’s she like?”

Callie’s lips parted slightly, a softness coming over her expression that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her eyes briefly dropped to the stack of parchment in front of her, her fingers fiddling with the edge of one sheet. When she looked back up, she was almost shy, her voice quieter.

“She’s... funny,” Callie admitted, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Dry sense of humour. Smart. Like—really smart. She was talking about some of the theories Team A is working on, and I didn’t understand half of it, but she made it sound fascinating.”

Nell’s face split into a delighted grin. “Oh my God. You like her.”

“I do not,” Callie said quickly, her tone entirely unconvincing. She ducked her head slightly, her face now fully red. “We just had a nice conversation. That’s all.”

Cormac, meanwhile, remained stone-faced, clearly unimpressed with the sudden camaraderie. He leaned back in his chair with a deliberate slouch, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the easy laughter being shared between Callie and Nell, his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

Slowly, he shook his head and muttered under his breath, loud enough for them all to hear, “You’re all being idiots.”

No one paid him any mind, which only seemed to annoy him further. He straightened slightly, leveling them with a pointed look. “I’m serious,” he added, his voice laced with mock gravity. “When Team A inevitably comes storming through that door to overthrow us and claim the office for themselves, I will not be saving you. Any of you.”

Nell let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, clutching her chest in mock distress. “Oh no!” she cried dramatically, slumping back into her chair as though she might faint. “Betrayed by Cormac! However, will I survive?”

Hermione chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Don’t worry,” she said with a wry smile, glancing at Nell. “I’ll be sure to protect you when the Great Team A Uprising begins.”

“Don’t mock me,” Cormac muttered, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’ll all be begging for my help when they turn out to be violent psychos. Mark my words.”

Hermione let out a quiet snort. She glanced at Cormac, unimpressed, and arched a brow. “Violent psychos?” she repeated, her tone flat with disbelief. “Over tea, I’m sure.”

Cormac shot her a sour look, but Hermione just smirked and turned back to Callie. She caught the subtle warmth still lingering in the older woman’s eyes—the faint flush on her cheeks, the dreamy sort of haze that hadn’t quite left her since she returned from ‘wellness.’

The tension of the day, the lingering unease of Callie’s earlier outburst, and the ever-present weight of the unknown suddenly seemed a little lighter. At least, for now.

With a small, genuine smile, Hermione nudged Callie’s arm gently with her elbow. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice warm. “For what it’s worth? I think she sounds nice.”

Callie’s eyes flicked toward Hermione, startled by the sudden gesture of kindness. For a brief moment, she looked almost unsure, as though she wasn’t used to being seen with such sincerity. But then, her lips parted into a soft, almost bashful smile. Her gaze dipped briefly to her desk, and when she looked back at Hermione, her eyes were warmer, brighter—grateful.

“Yeah,” she said softly, her voice almost shy but steady. The corner of her mouth tugged upward in the faintest trace of a smile. “She is.”

The tenderness of the moment lingered for only a breath before the spell was broken. Slowly, they all began to file back to their desks, the atmosphere gradually slipping into its usual rhythm. Quills scratched softly against parchment, papers shuffled, and the occasional chair creaked. The quiet hum of work resumed.

Cormac, however, still hadn’t let go of his earlier bitterness. He plopped down heavily in his chair, arms crossed, muttering under his breath. The occasional word slipped out—“traitors,”“Team A psychos,” and something that might have been “tea of death,”—but no one paid him any mind.

Hermione exhaled softly and lowered herself into her chair, bracing herself for another few hours of staring at meaningless letters. With a tired sigh, she flipped open the file and let it fall on a random page, her eyes half-focused, prepared to skim through another block of gibberish.

But as her gaze fell on the page, something shifted.

The pit of her stomach tightened unexpectedly, a faint but unmistakable weight of dread settling there. She blinked and stared, expecting the sensation to pass, but it didn’t. The letters seemed…off. Her vision didn’t blur, but there was a strange, uncomfortable sharpness to them, as though they were pressing forward from the page. The longer she stared, the more it felt like they were staring back.

Her throat tightened slightly. She could have sworn—just for a second—that the ink on the page pulsed faintly, as if the symbols themselves were alive.

Her hand twitched slightly where it rested on her quill.

“Uh… Cormac?” she called out softly, her voice unsure, unable to take her eyes off the page.

“What?” he snapped irritably, still sulking, not bothering to look at her.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers curled slightly into the edge of the parchment. “I think the letters are… doing that thing you said they would,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, a little breathless.

That caught his attention.

The scowl on his face vanished instantly. His chair scraped against the stone floor as he shot up and strode over to her desk, leaning over her shoulder to peer down at the file.

“Yep. Okay.” His voice was suddenly sharper, more alert. He nodded quickly, clearly recognising what she was seeing. “Alright, grab your quill,” he instructed, his tone firm but calm, “and start grouping off the letters that are making you feel that way.”

Hermione’s hands were steady despite the chill creeping up her spine. She did as he said, pressing her quill to the parchment and slowly drawing circles around the clusters of letters that made her feel uneasy. The ones that felt…wrong.

She moved with precision, her focus narrowing. The neutral, innocent symbols were left untouched—harmless background noise—but the disturbing ones she surrounded carefully, her quill dragging deliberately over the paper. With each loop, it felt as though she was caging them in, as though the ink itself formed a protective boundary keeping them from causing any harm.

The sensation was strange—like fencing in shadows.

She kept going, pausing only to glance at Cormac occasionally, who gave her short, reassuring nods of approval. The circles grew across the page, until eventually, she was certain she had contained them all.

Finally, she placed her quill down on the desk and exhaled, her hand slightly cramped from the steady, repetitive motion.

“Done?” Cormac asked, his voice calm but expectant.

“I think so,” Hermione replied, glancing at him, her fingers brushing over the parchment lightly.

He nodded again, leaning slightly over her desk. “Alright,” he said, pointing toward the page. “Now, look at the groups you’ve got. Just the ones you’ve circled. Don’t overthink it—just stare at them and see if a number comes to mind. Go with your gut.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly, but she did as he instructed. She let her eyes roam over the clusters, letting her gaze soften slightly, not trying to make sense of it—just feeling.

And then, before she even realised she was moving, her hand reached for the quill again. Without hesitation, she wrote a bold, sharp 4 at the bottom of the page. The number spilled from her hand as though it had been waiting there all along.

Cormac’s eyes flicked to the bold, inky 4 she had scrawled at the bottom of the page. For a brief moment, his gaze was thoughtful, studying it with a sense of quiet approval. Then, his lips curled into a lopsided grin, and he leaned back slightly, crossing his arms with an air of satisfaction.

“Boom,” he declared, the word sharp with triumph. With a brief, congratulatory smack, he clapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Fucking categorised.”

The tension in Hermione’s chest loosened slightly at the note of casual praise in his voice. Her lips parted in something that was almost a smile—half-exhilarated, half-relieved. She exhaled slowly, the adrenaline still lingering faintly in her limbs.

“Well done, Hermione!” Nell called out from her desk, her voice warm and encouraging. She glanced over her shoulder with an approving nod, her eyes glimmering with genuine pride.

Hermione let out a soft, breathy laugh and shook her head slightly. She flexed her hand, the muscles still slightly stiff from the repetitive circling. “The letters were scary,” she admitted, the faintest trace of disbelief in her voice. She glanced at Cormac, her expression slightly sheepish, but her eyes were wide with newfound understanding.

She got it now. The thing that had seemed so ridiculous when they’d first explained it to her—the irrational dread, the feeling of menace from nothing more than ink on parchment—was no longer absurd. It was real.

“Yep,” Cormac replied, his grin widening slightly as he dropped heavily back into his chair with a satisfied huff. He propped his boots up on the lower rung of the desk across from him, arms loosely folded behind his head, looking altogether too pleased with himself.

“Now you’re getting it,” he added, casting her a lazy, knowing smirk. “Only another hundred pages or so to go in that file.”

Hermione blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she stared at him in mock horror.

“Another hundred?” she repeated, incredulous.

Across the room, Nell snorted softly at the exchange, while Sebastian—who had remained mostly quiet throughout the interaction—muttered dryly from his desk, “Don’t worry, it only feels like a hundred. It’s probably closer to ninety-eight.”

Cormac shot him a playful glare but chuckled under his breath.

Hermione, still catching her breath, glanced back down at the page she had just categorised. She ran her finger lightly along the edge of the parchment, feeling a strange mixture of pride and disbelief. Despite the daunting prospect of dozens more pages, she felt something click into place—an odd, grim satisfaction at having crossed the threshold.

It was no longer just nonsense on a page. It was real.

And she was part of it now.