The Insight Initiative

The room was always cold. It hurt, the way cold could hurt. But it was okay. She was good at pretending it wasn’t there.

She sat very still in the corner, knees pulled tight to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Being still was part of the game. Don’t move too much. Don’t make too much noise. Don’t make him look at you if he didn’t already want to.

He sat in the chair by the door, carving something into a block of wood. She didn’t know what it was—he never showed her, and she never asked. His knife made a soft scritch scritch scritch noise, and her chest felt tight every time it stopped.

He didn’t like when she looked at him too long. That was another rule. She was supposed to keep her eyes down unless he wanted her to look up. So, she watched his shoes instead. They were muddy today. Big boots, the kind that could stomp hard. She knew what those boots could do.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said. His voice was scratchy, deep. “What are you thinking about, little mouse?”

Her mouth went dry. This was a test. She was supposed to answer, but only the right answer. The wrong one could make him angry. Angry wasn't good. Angry meant she lost a round. She squeezed her fingers tight around her arms. She’d learned not to tell him the truth, not even the half-truth. Truth got her hurt. She had to tell him what he wanted. That was the game.

“You,” she whispered, tilting her head just enough to glance up at him. His hands were still moving, the knife glinting in the dim light. “I was thinking about you.”

The knife paused, just for a moment.

“Oh?” he said, sounding amused. Pleased. Right answer.  “And what were you thinking about me?”

She had to keep her voice steady, light, the way he liked it. Not too quiet, not too loud. Happy. She’d gotten it wrong before, and she remembered what happened when she did. She had added the rule to the list in her head then.

“I was thinking about how much I love you,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound sincere. “That I'm lucky you brought me home.”

The knife stilled completely now, and he looked up at her. She dropped her gaze fast, staring at the floor. The boards were splintered, uneven. One of them had a dark stain she didn’t want to think about.

“Good girl,” he murmured. Right answer.

She thought she remembered someone teaching her once, that lying was bad. But lying was part of the rules. She had to lie to win. Lying was the right answer. She wasn't home. This wasn't love. She didn't know what love was, but it didn't feel like that, she wanted to believe. But this was the right answer. This was the rule.

He stood, his boots heavy on the floor as he walked toward her. Her breath caught, but she stayed still, stayed small. He liked her small. He liked her scared. Happy but scared. The rules were confusing, but they were the rules. 

A hand landed on her head, rough fingers threading through her hair.

“You’re learning,” he said, his voice warm, almost kind. “That’s good. I like it when you listen.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She could feel the weight of his hand, the way his fingers curled too tightly near the roots of her hair. Closing her eyes tight and letting him touch her, it was part of the game too. He let go, eventually, and walked back to his chair, the knife resuming its slow, steady scritch scritch.

Her chest hurt. Everything hurt. But she was still here.

She leaned her head against the wall, staring at the dark spot on the ceiling she pretended was a window. It wasn’t, but if she thought hard enough, she could almost see a little patch of sky.

Soon, the game would start again. And she would have to win, again. Because losing got you hurt. Hurt... like the others.

Hermione sat across from her boss, Director Shacklebolt, in his cold, pristine office. Everything about the room was sterile—the white walls, the perfectly polished wooden desk, the bland decorations on the wall devoid of any warmth. It was meant to intimidate, to keep anyone seated here feeling small and scrutinized. Those kind of tactics didn't work on her.

She took her eyes off the wall behind him to finally look at her boss and in an instant, she saw it all. Control. Leadership. Intolerance. Point by point her brain worked through the details that made the man, his being — who he was, how he thought, what he wanted — unravelling in her head as easily as a christmas present. 

Shacklebolt sat with his hands clasped on the desk, his fingers unnaturally still. No tapping, no flexing. Just... still. Control. A man obsessed with it. A man afraid of losing it. His shoulder were squared, his posture straight, his eye contact unwavering and pointed at her in a way that left no doubt who was in charge. Leadership. A man born to lead. A man who needed to feel respected to respect himself. The sharp crease of his suit jacket, the angle of his tie—everything about him screamed rigidity. The way his fingers tensed around each other on his desk everytime Hermione lightly squinted, as if he could see on her face she was profiling him right then and there. Intolerance. A man who disliked her differences. A man who had been pushed to deal with her one too many time.

Yeah. He wasn't here to congratulate her..

He adjusted his cufflinks, his gaze piercing through his wire-rimmed glasses as he leaned forward. “Agent Granger,” he began, his tone clipped and precise, “this meeting isn’t an easy one.”

Hermione tilted her head, her mind already dissecting his choice of words. _Not easy for him, or not easy for me?_ She noted the faint downward pull at the corners of his mouth—displeasure. Subtle facial expressions weren't her strong suit but there was little subtlety in Director Shacklebolt's approach, as a rule of thumb. His issue wasn't just personal. It was bureaucratic.

“You’ve crossed the line one too many times,” Shacklebolt continued, his voice calm but unyielding. “Your instincts are exceptional, but you continue to act without approval, without protocol. The agency cannot afford another... incident.”

She bristled. “Incident? I saved a life.”

“You disobeyed direct orders,” he countered, his tone not shifting an inch. “You engaged a suspect without backup. You ignored protocol. And yes, you solved the case, but the chain of command exists for a reason, Agent. The fallout of your decisions—”

“Was nothing compared to what would’ve happened if I’d waited,” she snapped, her irritation spilling out before she could stop herself.

This case had hit a little too close to home, and when she had slipped herself in the mind of the unsub, as easily as she'd put on a jacket, trying to piece together his M.O, where he would have gone, where he kept his victims, it had reminded her of another case. One she knew too well. So she acted. No backup, no warning. There had been no time. If she hadn't, another girl would have gotten hurt. Would have gotten killed. Just like before. She prevented that and yet this was still not enough for the agency, for Shacklebolt. A young girl was alive and still Hermione was in the wrong.

Shacklebolt gave her a long, measured look, and Hermione couldn’t stop herself from cataloging the slight tightening of his jaw, the shallow inhale through his nose. He wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t need to. This wasn’t a debate. It was a sentencing.

“This isn’t about whether or not you’re right, Agent Granger,” he said, his voice low and cold. “It’s about the fact that you refuse to follow orders. You’re a liability.”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t show it. She couldn’t. Instead, her mind latched onto the faint sound of shifting fabric beside her. Harry, sitting silently in the chair to her right, adjusted his position. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He wasn’t looking at her. His shoulders were tense, his hands clasped in his lap. He looked... guilty. Apologetic, even. She’d worked with him long enough before his new assignment to know that look. He agreed with Shacklebolt. He just didn’t have the spine to say it out loud. He knew her. Knew why this case had been important, why she had reacted. He knew how her brain worked. But that, too, wasn't enough. 

“Harry?” she prompted, her voice sharper than she intended. “You’re really not going to say anything?”

He shifted uncomfortably, his green eyes meeting hers for a fleeting second before dropping back to the floor. “Hermione, I—” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. But Shacklebolt is right. You’re brilliant, but this can’t keep happening.”

Brilliant. That word again. It always felt more like an accusation than a compliment.

Shacklebolt leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers as he delivered the final blow. “Effective immediately, you’re being reassigned.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “Reassigned? To where?”

“You’ll be working with the Insight Initiative.”

“The what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. She’d never heard of it, and that alone made her suspicious. She knew every team in the agency—every name, every case. But _Insight Initiative_ didn’t ring any bells.

Shacklebolt didn’t elaborate. Instead, he slid a folder across the desk. She glanced at it but didn’t touch it.

“It’s a specialized team,” he said vaguely. “One that operates outside the typical structure of the agency. You’ll be reporting to Agent Potter as your liaison.” He gestured to Harry, who still wasn’t meeting her gaze. “This isn’t a demotion, Agent Granger. It’s an opportunity.”

Her jaw clenched, and she folded her arms. “An opportunity to do what, exactly?" the rethorical question escaped through gritted teeth. "You’re putting me in a corner.”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Shacklebolt corrected, his voice like ice. “The alternative is suspension without pay.”

She stiffened, and the room went quiet for a long moment. Her mind raced, dissecting every word, every glance, every possible subtext. This wasn’t about her skill—it never was. It was about control. Shacklebolt couldn’t handle her unpredictability, and Harry... Harry wouldn’t back her up because he didn’t trust her not to screw up again.

Her throat tightened, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn’t let them see her crack.

“What’s the _Insight Initiative_, exactly?” she asked again, her voice quieter but no less sharp.

Shacklebolt didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured to Harry. “He’ll brief you on the way.”

Hermione stood, her movements stiff and jerky as she grabbed the folder from the desk. She didn’t look at either of them as she turned toward the door, but her mind was already spinning. She could feel the weight of their eyes on her back—Shacklebolt with his cold calculation, Harry with his muted regret.

She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “She would have died.” she said, her tone flat but laced with quiet fury. She didn't have to elaborate. This to her, was enough, even if it wasn't for anyone else.

And then she walked out.

Hermione slammed the car door harder than necessary as she climbed into the passenger seat of Harry’s government-issued SUV. Even the satisfying thunk of metal wasn't enough to calm herself after the shitshow in Shacklebolt's office. Harry slid into the driver’s seat, quiet and slouching as he started the engine.

She didn’t say anything at first, choosing instead to glare out the window as the city blurred past. She could feel the tension radiating off him, but she didn’t care. He deserved to feel uncomfortable.  They may not have been partners anymore, since Harry had been reassigned to some classified position a few months before, but they had worked together for a long time. Had been friends even longer. He was supposed to have her back, always. 

“I can’t believe you just sat there,” she finally said, her voice cutting through the silence. “Years of working together, and you didn’t say a damn thing. Didn't back me up.”

Harry sighed, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “What was I supposed to say, Hermione? That Shacklebolt is wrong? You disobeyed orders.”

“I _saved_ someone’s life,” she snapped, turning to face him. “Isn’t that the whole point of what we do?”

“You also put yourself in unnecessary danger,” Harry countered, his voice calm but firm. “You acted alone, without backup, and left the rest of the agency scrambling to clean up the mess.”

Hermione scoffed, crossing her arms. “You’re starting to sound like Shacklebolt.”

“Maybe because, for once, he’s not wrong,” Harry said, his tone softening slightly. “Look, I’m not saying you’re not brilliant. You are. But you don’t always think about the bigger picture. About how your actions affect the rest of the team.”

The words stung more than she wanted to admit, and she turned back to the window, her jaw tight. “So, what? You just agree with him that I should be exiled to some mysterious team I've never even heard of instead?”

Harry hesitated, and she could feel his eyes flicker toward her briefly before returning to the road. “I think... I think it’ll be good for you.”

“Good for me?” she repeated, her voice laced with incredulity. “Being reassigned to do god knows what because I saved someone's life is supposed to be  _good for me_?”

“For someone like you,” Harry said carefully, and Hermione’s head snapped toward him.

“Someone like me,” she repeated, her tone flat. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly trying to find the right words. He didn't need to talk, she could see the truth all over him. She always had. Not just him but everyone else too. “I mean... someone with your instincts. Your abilities.”

Hermione studied his profile, the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly, the way his jaw worked as if he were chewing on the words he wasn’t saying. _Abilities,_ she thought bitterly. As if that’s all he meant.

But she knew better. He wasn’t just talking about her instincts or her brilliance. He was talking about the way her mind worked—or didn’t, depending on who you asked. About the way she’d always felt a little out of sync with everyone else. Too much and never enough, all at the same time. Defective.

“Right,” she said finally, her voice clipped. “Because someone like me clearly can’t be trusted to work within the system.”

Harry flinched at her tone but didn’t argue. Instead, he exhaled deeply and changed the subject. “The Insight Initiative isn’t a punishment, Hermione. It’s a group of people who are... well, like you.”

“Brilliant but insubordinate?” she shot back, her sarcasm razor-sharp, using the word they all so loved against him. 

Harry huffed a small, humorless laugh. “Brilliant, yes. But also... unconventional. They don’t operate like the rest of the agency. They work behind the scenes, solving cases in ways no one else can.”

She frowned, her curiosity piqued despite herself. “And who exactly are _they_?”

Harry glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the road. One of his hand let go of the steering wheel long enough to tap his finger twice against the brown folder on her lap. The one Shacklebolt had given her. As he opened his mouth, she slid the folder open. 

“You’ll be working with three others. They’ve been with the Initiative for years. Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini.” he nodded at the file without looking. "That's what I've been assigned to 4 months ago."

Just like Harry said, the folder contained files with each of those names attached. Her eyes lingered on each picture for a few seconds before moving on to the next, ignoring the text accompanying them for now. Pictures were harder to profile. Not impossible, just harder. 

Hermione frowned. “Never heard of them.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Harry said. “The Initiative is kept under wraps for a reason. They’re... unique. Like I said, unconventional.”

“And what do they do?” she pressed.

“Malfoy’s a cryptography and puzzle-solving expert,” Harry explained. “He can spot patterns no one else sees, decode any kind of ciphers in seconds. He's got some kind of mind palace, like in that TV Show. You know the one?" he looked at her sideways before focusing on the road, and on his explanation again when he no-doubt realized she had no interest in encouraging his small talk.  "Nott’s the tech wizard. He’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of just about everything and handles all the technical and digital aspects of their cases. He's a little... socially inept, spends more time with machines than people. And Zabini... he’s a behavioral expert. Can read anyone like an open book. He always knows how anybody is feeling with just one look, it's... disconcerting.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “So, a cryptographer, a techie, and a human lie detector. We have agents trained in all those things at the agency too.”

“Not like them." Harry shook his head, eyes on the road. "They didn't have to be taught, it's just... in their nature. Instinctive. Like you." he shrugged. "They're geniuses. The best at what they do."

She leaned back in her seat, processing his words. A savant cryptographer, a reclusive tech wizard, and an invasive behavioral expert. And now her. A profiler and linguist with a knack for pushing boundaries.

“Why haven’t I heard of them before?” she asked after a moment.

“Because they’re not exactly... well-loved within the agency,” Harry admitted. “They don’t follow the rules any more than you do. Shacklebolt doesn’t like them, but they get results. That's the only reason he hasn't pulled the plug on their division yet.”

Hermione couldn’t help but feel a flicker of intrigue despite her lingering resentment. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with them?”

Harry smirked slightly, a flicker of his old self shining through. “You'll figure it out soon enough.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t push further. Instead, she stared out the window, her mind racing. She didn’t trust Shacklebolt, and she wasn’t sure she trusted Harry anymore either. She didn't think hiding her away with other people who were too different for not fitting Shacklebolt's — or the agency's — mold could lead to anything good. And yet the idea of being able to use her brain without the limitations she had been shackled with so far... it was tempting, even if she’d never admit it out loud.