In Two Minds

Mr. Dawlish’s grip was firm but not bruising as he pulled Hermione down the dimly lit corridor. She had never been down this way before. The air felt cooler here, heavier somehow, as if the walls themselves carried the weight of things unspoken. They passed a black oak door with a polished brass plaque that read “Security Office.” She imagined that was where Dawlish spent most of his time—watching, waiting—but it wasn’t where he was taking her now.

She had heard whispers about the Break Room. Cormac had mentioned it before but she had never pressed him for details. He had said that was where they had taken Draco the last time Dawlish caught her in the lifts trying to smuggle something out. But Cormac had never said what happened in there.

Her thoughts flickered briefly to Draco. He had let her get taken. A small sting of betrayal flared in her chest, but it was gone just as quickly as it had come. Why should he have stepped in again? The first time, she had been wracked with guilt knowing he had taken the fall for her. Maybe this was for the better. Still… she had thought—hoped—he was on her side.

The corridor stretched on, long and unyielding, until it ended abruptly at a single door. Unlike the others, this one wasn’t polished wood or reinforced iron. It was plain. Unremarkable. And yet, it sent a shiver down her spine. The words Break Room were carved neatly into the surface, the edges of the letters slightly worn, as though too many fingers had traced over them before her.

Dawlish released her wrist, nudging her forward with a force just shy of a shove.

“In you go,” he said, his tone light, almost amused.

Hermione didn’t move.

Dawlish sighed, shifting his stance lazily, as if he had all the time in the world. “You don’t want to keep them waiting.”

Them.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides, the pressure grounding her—steadying her—as she forced her feet forward.

She reached for the handle, pressing down slowly, and the door gave way with an unsettling ease. Beyond it, she had expected a room, but instead, she was met with another corridor—this one narrow, unlit except for a single dull light at the far end. So much for the end of the path.

At the corridor’s end stood another door, and in front of it, waiting with the patience of a man who had seen this play out before, was Mr. Vance.

His arms were folded neatly behind his back, his expression unreadable save for a hint of disappointment—the kind a teacher might wear when faced with a student who had misbehaved. He looked at her as if she should have known better.

The door behind her slammed shut with a resounding thud. Hermione startled, her breath hitching as she turned instinctively at the noise. But there was no point. There would be no going back now.

She steeled herself and walked forward. With every step, the hallway seemed to shrink around her, the walls pressing in. By the time she reached him, she felt impossibly small beneath the weight of his gaze.

“I’m truly sorry to see you here, Hermione.” His voice was smooth, rehearsed.

She said nothing.

“I had hoped you’d settle in,” Vance continued, as if this were some unfortunate accident. As if she had put herself in this position.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the second door, pushing it open to reveal a small room. Two chairs sat opposite each other with a plain wooden desk between them. On the desk was a stack of papers—neatly arranged, waiting. A single quill rested beside them, still and expectant.

“Take a seat,” he instructed.

Hermione hesitated but did as he asked, lowering herself into the chair. Vance took the seat opposite her, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision before settling back.

“I know Draco has been working so hard,” he mused, tilting his head slightly, “trying to make you comfortable. Trying to make you happy.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. She kept her expression carefully neutral, but inside, her thoughts churned. Draco was trying. She wouldn’t deny that. But she wasn’t ready to submit yet—not like he had.

Because he had submitted. That much was obvious.

She wondered how long it had taken them to break him. Days? Weeks? Months? How much of himself had he fought to hold onto before they’d worn him down?

She clenched her fists beneath the desk, nails biting into her palms.

She would hold out longer.

She had to.

She wouldn’t let them win.

Hermione took a slow breath, forcing her expression into something composed. Appealing to reason felt like the only card she had left to play.

“Look,” she said, keeping her voice measured, “you seem like a smart person… a good person.” She met Vance’s eyes, searching for even a flicker of something human beneath his carefully constructed mask. “You must see how fucked up this all is. You can’t just keep—”

“Not right now, please, Hermione.”

His voice was smooth, cutting through her words with effortless dismissal. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing his wand, and gave a casual flick of his wrist.

The air between them shifted.

For a moment, there was nothing. And then, like words being branded into existence, a paragrah burned its way into the empty space above the desk, glowing a soft, eerie gold.

“Please write this statement,” Vance said evenly, gesturing to the parchment in front of her. “With the quill provided.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked between him and the floating words.

It was an apology.

She frowned. “What is this?”

Vance didn’t answer the question. Instead, he simply said, “Please start writing.”

“I don’t want to.”

He sighed, patient but firm. “Start writing.”

The parchment slid closer to her with a slight push of his fingertips. There was something in his face—something colder than before. Not anger, exactly, but a warning.

Hermione scoffed under her breath. She hesitated—just for a second—and then, with reluctant fingers, picked up the quill.

The moment the tip touched the parchment, a sharp, stinging heat bit into her skin.

It wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough to make her flinch. Enough to make her breath hitch. Enough to feel wrong.

Still, she pressed on, carefully copying the words, one by one. And then she read it aloud.

“Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me, and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.”

Hermione let out a slow breath once she was finished, willing her heartbeat to settle.

Vance studied her writing for a moment, then flicked his gaze to his wand, his expression unreadable. Finally, his eyes met hers again.

“I’m afraid you don’t mean it.”

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

He gestured to the quill. “Pick it up. Start again.”

She stared at him, waiting for some indication that this was a joke. Some shift in his demeanor that would tell her he was testing her resolve, waiting for her to snap.

Nothing.

His posture didn’t change. His eyes didn’t waver.

The silence stretched thin between them, suffocating.

Hermione swallowed down the sharp retort at the back of her throat. There was no point in arguing. No point in fighting—not yet.

Instead, she picked up the quill again.

The moment the tip touched the parchment, the burning sensation returned—sharper, deeper, relentless. It wasn’t just discomfort anymore. It was something else. Something alive, sinking into her skin, weaving itself into her bones.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to react. They wanted a reaction. She wouldn’t give them one.

Letter by letter, she traced the same statement. The words blurred together, their meaning twisting into something hollow, something empty.

Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world.

The pain licked at her fingers, scorching.

None may atone for my actions but me, and only in me shall their stain live on.

Her breath was shallow now. The quill trembled between her fingers, but she didn’t stop.

I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands.

A sharp sting flared across her knuckles, as if something unseen had snapped against her skin.

All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.

She finished. Exhaled. Forced herself to sit up straighter. Then, with a voice like sandpaper, she read the words aloud.

Vance followed his usual pattern. Checking the writing. Glancing at his wand. Studying her face.

Then, with the same detached, unreadable tone, he said, “Again.”

Hermione let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Really?” she asked, voice flat.

Vance said nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t waver.

The hours stretched on. Hours, or maybe forever. Time lost all meaning.

She wrote. She repeated. She wrote again.

With each attempt, the quill felt heavier. The burning intensified, spreading past her fingers, up her wrist, into the tendons of her hand. Her voice grew hoarse, raw from repetition.

She had written the statement hundreds of times. She had said it hundreds of times. Each time, Vance checked her work. Each time, his response was the same.

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

And “again”.

It was unbearable. The pain. The exhaustion. The slow, methodical erosion of her will.

She hated it.

But what she hated more was how calm he was. How effortless this was for him.

Finally, when she spoke the words for what had to be the thousandth time—“All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.”—Vance sighed, checking his watch.

“We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Relief hit her so hard it nearly made her dizzy.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

That meant it was over—for now.

Vance stood, straightening his suit, and gestured toward the door. Hermione pushed herself to her feet, her legs aching from sitting for so long. As they walked, she flexed her fingers, rubbing at her palms, but the burning lingered.

It had settled deep beneath her skin. Like it had been branded there.

They reached the lifts, and she stepped inside, exhaling as the doors began to close.

“See you tomorrow, Hermione,” Vance said.

She gave him a sharp smirk. Smug bastard.

Then, pressing the button, she leaned back against the lift wall and closed her eyes.

A ding.

She opened them.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Vance was still there, standing exactly where he had been, looking exactly as he had a moment ago.

Except—

Her clothes were different.

So were his.

The realisation crashed into her all at once.

She didn’t get a break.

She didn’t get to go home.

Her outie did.

For her, it was seamless. There was no tomorrow. There was no relief.

She had never left.

“Good morning, Hermione,” Vance greeted, his tone eerily identical to how it had been moments ago.

She stared at him. Horror coiling in her stomach.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Vance simply smiled. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned and gestured down the hall.

“Shall we continue?”

Hermione wanted to scream. Instead, she forced her feet forward, back down the corridor, back to the room where the parchment and quill waited.

Back to her punishment.

The room was exactly as she had left it—stale air, unyielding silence, the same two chairs, the same desk, the same quill waiting for her. Even the parchment was fresh, as if yesterday’s endless pages of confession had never existed at all.

Hermione hesitated before sitting.

To her, it had only been moments. A blink. A breath.

To Vance, it had been an entire night. A full cycle of rest. And yet, as he took his seat across from her, he looked just as composed, just as unmoved.

He raised his wand.

The words burned into the air between them, the glowing letters searing themselves into her mind.

“Let’s try again,” he said.

Hermione gripped the edge of the desk. Her knuckles whitened.

“I did it three hundred times yesterday.” Her voice cracked—pleading, desperate. She wasn’t above begging. If it would make this stop, she would beg.

Vance tilted his head. Unshaken. “Two hundred and fifty-nine.”

The correction was so clinical, so detached, that something in her chest fractured.

She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to breathe.

“Again, please,” he said, sliding the parchment toward her. “Now.”

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the quill. The first stroke burned.

She swallowed, clenched her jaw, and forced herself to write.

The words were a prison, shackles binding her hands, pressing into her skin.

Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world.

Her vision blurred.

None may atone for my actions but me.

She hadn’t even noticed the tears starting, but they came quick, hard. She forced herself to keep going.

And only in me shall their stain live on.

Her breathing hitched. The ink blurred where the tears landed.

She dropped the quill. Enough. Enough.

Looking up, she met Vance’s eyes. She wasn’t even sure what she was searching for. Mercy? Humanity?

Her voice was small when she spoke.

“I really am sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

For a second—a single, flickering second—Vance didn’t speak. Had she gotten through to him? Had something shifted?

Then, calmly, without hesitation, he said, “No paraphrasing. Keep writing.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

The moment shattered.

And then—again.

She wrote. She read. He checked.

And then, finally—

"I believe you."

She froze. The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Had she meant it, in the end? Had the repetition buried itself so deep that the words had taken root?

She felt sick.

Was it over?

Vance stood, pushing back his chair as if this had been nothing more than a routine meeting. "You can return to the office," he said. "It’s just gone lunch. Plenty of time to get some work done."

The casualness of it made her want to scream.

She should have screamed.

Instead, she followed him out.

They walked in silence through the winding corridors. When they reached a junction, Vance turned toward Umbridge’s office without so much as a glance back. Hermione was left to make the rest of the journey alone.

Her hand throbbed. She curled her fingers into a fist, then released them. The burning sensation remained, the ghost of a punishment that would linger long after the ink had dried.

If I cut it off, she thought, almost detached, would the pain stop? She shook the thought away.

It was only when she reached Team C’s office that she hesitated.

The world inside was unchanged.

Desks. Papers. The quiet hum of controlled chaos. The others worked as though nothing had happened, as though she had simply stepped out for a moment rather than been dragged into a room and forced to confess until her mind and body gave out.

Only a few people noticed her return.

Among them was Draco.

He stood, wordless, and crossed the room to the kitchenette. Hermione watched as he opened the freezer compartment—something she hadn’t even realised was there—and pulled out an ice pack.

He walked back to her, offering it without preamble.

"How many times?" he asked.

Hermione swallowed, gripping the ice pack and pressing it against her raw, burning skin.

"One thousand and seventy-two."

Draco exhaled sharply, but his expression barely flickered. "Not bad," he murmured, before turning back to his desk as though that was all there was to say.

Hermione made her way to her own desk, where Nell and Cormac were waiting.

"They can’t be allowed to do that to us," she said, her voice hoarse.

"It never gets any better," Nell said quietly. "But I’ve only been in a handful of times."

"I was in there once a week for my first few months," Cormac added with a smirk, like it was a badge of honour.

"Guys," Draco called from across the room. His voice was firm, but not unkind. "You know we’re not supposed to talk about the break room."

"Yeah, sure thing, boss," Cormac shot back, all false innocence. Then, without missing a beat, he turned back to Hermione. "All you’ve got to do is trick the spell into thinking you’re telling the truth."

Hermione blinked. "What?"

Cormac grinned. "You just have to think of something you’re actually sorry for. Me? I like to imagine my outie’s made love with a MILF or two, which is obviously badass, but I do pity the husbands."

Nell snorted. Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, too.

But Draco had already started walking over.

"The break room sucks," he said flatly, crossing his arms. "But that's why we have protocols and procedures. So we don’t end up there."

Draco’s gaze flickered to Hermione.

“You’ll learn,” he said, quieter now. “I promise.”

Before she could respond, a knock came at the door.

The room tensed as it pushed open, revealing a woman—slim, short, perhaps in her late fifties.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said.

Cormac was on his feet instantly, his chair gripped in both hands as if he was ready to hurl it at the intruder.

Callie stood as well, but her reaction was different.

“Frankie,” she greeted, a note of surprise in her voice.

Hermione recognised the name. This was the woman Callie had mentioned the other day—the one from Team A.

“We met the other day,” Callie reminded the room, her gaze moving to Draco, then to Hermione.

“Hi, Callie,” Frankie said, offering a small wave.

Cormac, still holding his chair like a weapon, narrowed his eyes. “And how exactly, in the wet fuck, do you know where this office is?”

Draco sighed, moving quickly to wrestle the chair from Cormac’s hands before he could do something regrettable. Hermione doubted he would have actually thrown it, but Draco wasn’t taking chances.

“Cormac!” Nell scolded.

Frankie, unfazed, lifted a scrap of paper. “One of our team’s seniors says he’s been here before. He had directions.”

Cormac folded his arms. “Then why don’t you do us all a favour and give us a copy—but reversed?”

Draco placed a steadying hand on Cormac’s shoulder, silently urging him to calm down. “Let’s take it easy, yeah?” he said before turning back to Frankie. “How can we help you?”

Frankie hesitated, glancing briefly at Callie before speaking.

“Well, I…” she began, “Callie mentioned the other day that you haven’t had any shortbread in your kitchenette for a while. She said how much she enjoys one with her morning tea, and, well—this morning I noticed we had an extra packet in ours, so I thought I’d bring them across.”

There was a moment of silence before Callie exhaled, clearly touched.

“Oh, Frankie…” she murmured.

“Careful, Cal,” Cormac warned. “They might be poisoned.”

Frankie ignored him, continuing, “I also wanted to extend an invitation. I know you all work so hard, and if you ever wanted to take a stroll to the Memory Garden, or even come visit our office—I’d love to personally escort you.”

Her gaze flickered back to Callie.

“Any of you, of course,” she added, belatedly, as if realising she should make it sound less pointed.

“I would like that,” Callie responded warmly.

Frankie walked over, setting the packet of biscuits on Callie’s desk along with a small card.

“That’s the directions to our office,” she explained. Then, glancing at Cormac, she added with a small smirk, “Reversed.”

Cormac gave her a faux smile. “Hard pass.”

Frankie turned to leave, but Callie’s voice stopped her.

“Are you free now?”

Frankie blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “Umm—yes, of course.”

Callie grabbed her cardigan from the back of her chair and moved toward the door.

Draco frowned. “Callie—look, I’m all for building inter-team relationships, but we have Ambrose’s retirement party this afternoon.”

“I won’t be long,” Callie assured him. “I’ll be back by half two.”

The two of them left, the door clicking shut behind them.

There was a beat of silence.

Cormac leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily.

“And that’s the last we’ll ever see of Callie.”

Nell rolled her eyes and gave him a playful tap on the arm.

“You are so ridiculous,” she said.

The office hummed as everyone returned to their tasks. Hermione settled at her desk, shifting the ice pack against her palm with a sharp inhale as the cold bit into her raw skin. She flexed her fingers, testing their movement, watching as they trembled despite her efforts to steady them.

At the desk next to her, Draco finished a brief exchange with Cormac before making his way over. He leaned casually against the edge of her desk, arms crossed, gaze flicking to the ice pack in her hand.

“You’re holding that ice pack like it personally offended you,” Draco remarked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Forgive me for not being thrilled about physical contact right now.”

Draco hummed, tilting his head. “Shame. I was going to offer to kiss it better.”

Her fingers tightened around the ice pack. “Excuse me?”

Draco’s lips twitched like he knew exactly what he was doing.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. “That’s because you’re standing in front of my desk. Hovering.”

“Hovering?” He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “I was checking on you.”

She scoffed. “You? Checking on me?”

Draco leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just for her. “Believe it or not, I don’t particularly enjoy watching you get hauled off to the Break Room.”

Something about the quiet intensity in his tone sent a shiver down her spine.

She held his gaze, searching for something in his expression. “You didn’t stop them.”

For the briefest moment, something unreadable crossed his face—guilt, maybe—but it was gone just as quickly. He let out a slow exhale, then smirked. “I’ve taken the fall for you before. Maybe I thought it was time you understood exactly what that meant.”

Hermione parted her lips, the instinct to argue bubbling up—but for once, the words wouldn’t come. Because, deep down, she knew he wasn’t wrong. And that was the most infuriating part of it all.

Draco’s gaze flickered to her hand again, and before she could react, he reached forward, his fingers brushing lightly against her wrist as he adjusted the ice pack. His touch was warm, steady—deliberate. The contrast sent a sharp jolt through her, though she kept her expression neutral.

“Keep that on a bit longer,” he murmured, his grip lingering just a second too long before he pulled back. “You’ll need your hands to be functional. I imagine you’d be devastated if you couldn’t complete any more files.” His lips curved into something infuriatingly smug. “Especially if you still have any hope of beating my record.”

Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes. “Please. If I ever decide to dethrone you as the Ministry’s resident overachiever, you won’t even see it coming.”

Draco’s smirk deepened, and he leaned in just enough for her to catch the teasing glint in his eye. “Oh, Hermione,” he said smoothly. “I see everything.”

The way he said it—low, knowing—made something flip in her stomach. Hermione swallowed and forced herself to focus on repositioning the ice pack, suddenly feeling far too warm.

“Must be exhausting,” she shot back, tilting her chin. “Being that insufferable all the time.”

Draco chuckled, stepping back with an infuriatingly casual shrug. “What can I say? Some of us have a reputation to maintain.”

Hermione shook her head, fighting the smirk threatening to form on her lips. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as impossible as she thought.

Then, he straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Anyway,” he said, “try not to get yourself thrown back in there. You’re not nearly as fun when you’re miserable.”

Hermione scoffed, shaking her head. “Are you always this charming?”

He smirked. “Only for you.”

And with that, he walked back to his desk, leaving her gripping the ice pack a little too tightly—and fighting the traitorous warmth curling in her stomach.