Welcome to the Freak Show
The drive to the Insight Initiative’s HQ was quiet after that. Hermione was too lost in her thoughts to press Harry further, and he seemed content to let her simmer. They had stopped by her apartment briefly to get some of her stuff when Harry had off-handedly announced she'd need to stay at the HQ with the others. She had made the executive decision not to fight him on it. It didn't matter how much she wanted to, how uncomfortable the idea made her, how ridiculous it even was to suggest from the beginning. Like everything else today, she knew the decision had been made for her and was non-negotiable.
When they finally pulled up to the house, her eyebrows shot up.
“This is it?” she asked, stepping out of the car and taking in the unassuming suburban-style home. It looked more like something out of a small-town postcard than a covert government operation.
Harry chuckled as he grabbed her bags from the trunk. “What did you expect? A bunker?”
“Something less... quaint,” she muttered.
The house stood at the edge of a quiet cul-de-sac, its cream-coloured façade and blue shutters doing little to dispel the impression that they must have the wrong house. That, surely, this place belonged to a soccer mom, her three children and pencil-pusher husband. But Harry's stride didn't slow down.
She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, letting her fingers dig into the strap as she followed him up the stone path. Her mind was already at work, assessing everything—the meticulous landscaping (likely agency-funded), the way every fake fruit displayed on a bowl on the terrace was perfectly angled (someone here was obsessively neat), the faint hum of jazz music drifting from an open window on the second floor (hinting at someone who enjoyed organized chaos).
“Relax, Hermione,” Harry murmured as he pushed open the heavy front door without knocking. “It's safe grounds, I promise.”
The warm interior mirrored the unassuming exterior. The open-plan living room stretched before her, all clean lines and tasteful furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine. But Hermione’s gaze flitted to the smaller details—the bookshelf crammed with mismatched volumes, the faint smell of freshly brewed coffee, and the sneakers kicked haphazardly near the door. It was lived-in. Clean, structured, but personalized.
She barely had time to take it in before footsteps echoed from the hallway. A tall, dark-skinned man strode into view, his smile quick and disarming as he approached. His dark eyes swept over her, sharp and perceptive, before they softened into something almost playful.
“You must be the newcomer.” He extended a hand with easy confidence. “Blaise.”
Hermione took his hand, her brain getting to work instantly. Tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest effortlessness and a subtle dark smudge under his nails. The faint scent of expensive cologne. A relaxed stance that suggested comfort in any situation. And that gaze—laser-focused and knowing. Deliberate. Aware. Adaptable.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, though her voice came out tighter than she’d intended.
“Is it?” Blaise quipped, tilting his head. His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed just slightly, as if he could read the tension in her voice like a book. “You’re not sure about that yet.”
Hermione blinked, her heart skipping. “What?”
“You’re skeptical,” he said, his tone conversational. “About me, about all of this. Understandable. You’re out of your element and trying to work out if you should bolt for the door.”
Harry groaned behind her. “Blaise, do you always have to do that?”
“Yes,” Blaise said smoothly, releasing Hermione’s hand and stepping back with a grin. “It’s fun. Also, she’s going to need thicker skin if she’s staying here.”
Hermione’s cheeks burned, but Blaise’s grin was almost infectious. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” he said with a wink. “You’ll need it.”
Before she could respond, another voice cut through the room. “The stairs creak in two places. Someone needs to fix that.”
Hermione turned to see a man standing near the base of the staircase, his arms crossed and expression impassive. Dark hair fell slightly into his face, his pale skin catching the light from the windows. Faint dark circles were visible under his eyes. He didn’t approach, didn’t smile. He didn't look rude, just... assessing, scanning her from head to toe. Homebody. Nightowl. Direct.
“Theo,” Harry greeted, his voice flat. “We’ve talked about greetings.”
“I said something,” Theo replied, his tone matter-of-fact. “That counts.” He turned his gaze to Hermione, sharp but detached. “Hermione Granger. Prodigy profiler. Expert Linguist. Born September 19. Allergic to shrimps.” he then recited.
Hermione’s stomach flipped, somewhat uncomfortable with the amount of things they seemed to know about her compared to what little she had gathered about them. She needed to be prepared. Always. And here she clearly wasn't. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
Theo blinked, as if confused by the sarcasm. “I hacked your NCA file.”
“Right,” Hermione said, unsure how to respond.
“He’s not rude, I swear,” Blaise cut in, leaning casually against the stair's railing. “Just terrible with people.”
“I’m standing right here,” Theo said.
Hermione almost smiled, the tension in her chest easing slightly. But the moment was interrupted by Harry clearing his throat next to her, glancing at his watch with a frown.
“Where’s Malfoy?” he asked, his irritation evident.
Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. “Probably brooding in his cave. You know how he feels about strangers invading his territory.”
“He’s frowned 18% longer today than usual. And didn't eat the last biscuits at breakfast.” Theo added, his tone neutral as if the information was as pertinent as everything else he had said so far.
“Great,” Hermione muttered under her breath.
Harry shot her an apologetic glance before sighing. “I told him to be here for introductions. Of course, he didn’t listen.”
Blaise clapped Hermione on the shoulder, his grin reappearing. “Welcome to the Freak Show.”
“The what?” Hermione frowned.
“That’s what the rest of the agency calls us,” Blaise said with a shrug. “Behind our backs, of course. Insight Initiative is just the fancy, official title."
Harry gave him a warning look. "Blaise."
Blaise laughed, shrugging off Harry's stern look like it was second nature for him. As his hand lingered a moment too long on her shoulder, Hermione tried not to flinch. His warmth was oddly reassuring, but his perceptiveness and the comfortable way he had to touch her uninvited unnerved her. She could feel him reading her again, a quiet pressure on the side of her face that left her exposed despite her best efforts to keep her expression neutral. How could she play on his needs and desires if he was always one step ahead of her, knowing what she thought at a glance?
She swallowed hard, her gaze flicking toward Theo. He was watching her too, but in a completely different way—like she was a complex equation he was still solving. For a moment, the room felt too bright, the space too open, and the knot in her chest tightened again. Being the center of attention was unpleasant. It made her want to retreat into herself.
“Why don’t we find you some coffee,” Blaise suggested, as if sensing her discomfort. “Theo can... do whatever Theo does, and we’ll let Harry go hunt down our elusive housemate.”
Hermione nodded, grateful for the distraction. As Harry stalked off toward the stairs with a muttered, “I’ll drag him down myself if I have to,” Blaise motioned for Hermione to follow him.
“This way. You look like you could use a proper introduction to the caffeine shrine,” he said, leading her toward a sleek kitchen that gleamed in the sunlight streaming through a row of tall windows.
Hermione’s heels clicked against the tiled floor as she stepped into the space, her gaze flitting across the immaculate counters and the array of coffee-making equipment that could rival a barista’s setup. She lingered on the polished silver espresso machine, noting how its placement—front and center—spoke to its frequent use.
“You’re not the neat freak,” she observed aloud before she could stop herself. One button on his shirt was closed improperly, the stain on his fingertips didn't scream organized and his posture was too relaxed for the kind of rigidity neatness required.
Blaise chuckled, glancing over his shoulder as he opened a cabinet. “Good catch. That would be Draco. Everything has its place, and God help you if you put something where it doesn’t belong.”
Hermione stored that away, already filing her teammates into neat mental boxes. Draco’s rigidity, Blaise’s easy adaptability, Theo's directness—they made sense as contrasts, showed her a glimpse of who they were as people.
“Coffee or tea?” Blaise asked, pulling down a mug with a faint chip at the rim.
“Coffee, please.”
“Right choice,” he said, setting the mug under the machine and pressing a few buttons. A low hum filled the air as the machine came to life.
Hermione stood awkwardly by the counter, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She could feel Blaise’s attention flicker to her, even as he busied himself with the coffee.
“You’re profiling us already, aren’t you?”
Her cheeks flushed. “No, I—”
“You are,” he interrupted smoothly, turning to face her with that maddening grin of his. “I can see the gears turning. That’s your thing, isn’t it? You look at someone and think, ‘What makes them tick?’”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest but hesitated. Was there even a point in denying it? She had been sent to this team specifically because of her profiling experience. It seemed silly to be bashful about it now.
“It’s... a force of habit,” she admitted quietly, although the truth wasn't quite as simple as that.
Blaise leaned against the counter, his expression softening in a way that made her stomach twist, like he had seen something on her face she hadn't said aloud. “Fair enough. But just a tip—Draco’s not going to like that. He doesn’t exactly enjoy being ‘figured out.’”
“I'm not—”
“You will,” Blaise said, cutting her off again. He handed her the steaming mug of coffee and gave her a knowing look. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. It’s just that Draco’s a bit... prickly about people digging too deep. Especially new people.”
Hermione took a cautious sip of the coffee, grateful for the distraction as her mind scrambled to process the advice. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Anytime.” Blaise’s grin returned as he gestured toward the open doorway. “Now, come on. You might as well see where you’ll be sleeping— unless you want Theo to start rummaging through your bags at some point.” he added with a nod towards the bag abandoned at the door. "He'll do it, you know. Nothing stops that guy's curiosity, least of all boundaries."
She let him grab onto the bags with one hand, muscle tensing under his skin and followed him through the house, the knot in her chest loosening slightly with every step. The warmth of the cup between her hands helped her to center herself. The quiet hum of the place, punctuated by Blaise’s lighthearted commentary, also helped to make the situation feel less overwhelming.
They passed a library, and Hermione wanted to press further, to step to the left to explore the room but she held back, afraid to waste Blaise's time who had only offered to show her her room. Instead, she followed him up a narrow staircase to the second floor.
Blaise gestured to a door at the end of the hallway. “That’s yours. Fresh linens are already inside. Theo insisted. Something about 62% of women being soothed by the smell of laundry detergent, or something.”
She nodded, stepping toward it but hesitating at the threshold.
“You’ll be fine,” Blaise said, his tone softer now, putting the bags down at her feet in the doorway. “We might be a dysfunctional lot, but we don’t bite. Except maybe Draco, but only if you provoke him.”
Hermione huffed a quiet laugh despite herself.
“See? This is a better look for you.” he added with a wink before heading back down the stairs.
Hermione watched him go, the knot in her chest loosening just a fraction more. Finding herself alone for the first time since stepping into this house, she finally let herself breathe. She closed her door behind her, letting the quiet settle over her like a blanket.
Blaise was nice, the kind of person that could be enjoyable to have around. But she didn't know him yet. Didn't know how to slip in his mind to figure out what to say and what to do around him when he had been the one spending more time reading her thoughts than the other way around. If she couldn't do or say the right thing, she'd be vulnerable. Vulnerability was unsafe.
Her room was modest, sparsely decorated but clean, with a bed tucked into one corner and a desk by the window. A small bookshelf stood against the wall, empty except for a single, brand new copy of The Social Animal, by Elliot Aronson, one of her favorite reads. She stared at it for a moment, unsure if its presence was deliberate or just a coincidence.
Her fingers itched to unpack, to give herself something to do, but her mind wandered back to the introductions. Blaise, with his easy charm and maddening insight. Theo, precise and methodical, almost clinical. And Draco... absent, and apparently unhappy with her intrusion.
The thought sent a ripple of unease through her chest, a faint, familiar flutter that she worked hard to suppress. Anxiety was an old companion that had lived by her side since she was a child, one she managed well enough most of the time, but new environments and new acquaintances had a way of poking holes in her armor.
Abandoning her half empty cup on the desk, she ran her fingers through her curls, smoothing them back as if that might help settle her nerves. Unpacking could wait. She was too restless to stay alone here, staring at empty walls. She needed information. She needed a baseline. She needed to learn how this place worked, what were its' rules. Exploring, that might help ground her.
The hallway was quiet as she stepped out, her footsteps soft on the polished wood floors. She traced her way back to the library she had seen earlier, its' pull still intriguing her.
The air inside was thick with the scent of old paper and ink. Books were crammed into every available space, some in English, others in dead and alive languages from all across the globe. The messy stacks on the central table caught her attention.
Next to them laid sheets upon sheets of lose paper, covered in scribbles— intelligible notes written in a quick, slanted handwriting, like whoever took notes couldn't quite jot down their ideas as fast as their brain was dishing them out.
Theo, she thought. It fit him—the controlled chaos, the focus on content over presentation. She picked up a book at the top of the pile, its title stamped in gold: Advances in Quantum Physics.
“Figures,” she murmured to herself, setting it back down carefully.
Her gaze shifted to a corner of the room where a leather armchair sat by a small table. A glass tumbler rested there, a faint smudge of condensation on its rim. Next to it, two books stacked neatly on top of one another sat side by side with a folded piece of paper, the sharp crease cutting it in its precise middle.
Draco. It had to be. The tidy precision, the lack of any excess. It didn't fit Theo's constructed chaos or Blaise's nonchalant behavior. He was a neat freak— or so she had been told. This could fit his profile to a T.
She stood there for a moment, studying the space, trying to imagine him sitting there with a book or perhaps a puzzle in hand. The only image she had to go off of was the picture she saw of him in Harry's file, but that was enough to form the scene in her mind. Controlled gestures, slow breaths, unwavering focus. She could imagine it all clearly just from this.
But the thought was fleeting, and she quickly forced herself to move on, wandering deeper into the room and, ultimately, on a small balcony connected to it by a large windowed door.
Outside, a small table sat surrounded by two plush chairs, the declining sun casting shadows and orange hues upon everything in the horizon. Her eye caught on sketchbook laying haphazardly on one of the table's edge.
Objectively, she knew snooping in other people's belongings was wrong. It was a fine line she sometimes struggled with, tossed between her factual knowledge of boundaries and her inherent need to assess everything and everyone for safety, no matter the mean. Ultimately, curiosity got the better of her again, and she flipped it open to a random page.
A small charcoal pencil stub rolled out, clicking against the table softly. On the page, a drawing stared back at her—a figure caught mid-motion, the lines raw and kinetic, brimming with life.
“You're an artist...” she whispered to herself, brushing her fingers just shy of the page, the dark smudges on Blaise's fingers now finding their place in the mismatched profile in her mind.
“Was. It's really more of a hobby now.” a voice drawled from behind her.
Startled, she snapped the sketchbook closed as she spun around to see Blaise leaning casually against the doorframe, his hands tucked into his pockets.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, her face heating.
“Don’t be.” He nodded toward the book. “That one’s a mess anyway.”
Hermione frowned, glancing back at the closed sketchbook. “It’s not. It’s... alive. Beautiful.”
Blaise’s expression softened, just for a moment, before his usual smirk slid back into place. “Careful. Someone might start to think you're already warming up to us, you know.”
She huffed, shaking her head and prying her eyes from the sketchbook to glance his way once more. “You’re all right so far. Jury’s still out on the others.”
“Fair enough.” Blaise chuckled. He tilted his head toward the inside of the house. “Harry came back down from his quest. Royally unsuccessful of course.” his smirk widened, clearly amused by the annoyance that she imagined— without a shadow of a doubt— Harry had demonstrated. "Gigi should be home any minute with food though. I thought you might wanna join us for dinner? I promise, she's a peach compared to any of us. "
Hermione smiled despite herself, watching as he wiggled his eyebrows at her in question. He was genuine, that much she could tell from his posture, his demeanor, the way he had so far tried to accommodate her gently. His piercing gaze still made her uncomfortable, knowing he could figure her out all too easily. But maybe it was how others had always felt around her too.
"Gigi?" she asked with a nod, following him back inside the library. Hermione didn't remember seeing any other names but his, Theo's and Draco's in the file. Nor did Harry mention anyone else.
"If you don't mind, I'll let her introduce herself." he laughed. "Otherwise she might 'forget' my share of dinner." Blaise looked at her, a theatrical air of fear marking his features. "I'm not joking, she's like a food tyrant. You'll see soon enough."
The low hum of activity in the house had quieted since Hermione had last stood in the kitchen. Harry was sitting in the corner of the living room, grumbling under his breath when she and Blaise made their entrance. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was directed at someone in the room, at himself, or at the still-absent Draco.
“He’ll show up,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Dinner. Can’t avoid it forever.”
Hermione had just opened her mouth to ask if it was really worth the effort, Blaise silently snickering next to her, when the front door opened with a loud thunk.
A woman strode in, red hair pulled into a loose bun and cheeks flushed from the cool air outside. She balanced two large grocery bags in her arms, a phone tucked between her ear and shoulder as she rattled off a list of items she’d apparently forgotten to buy. She kicked the door closed behind her and sped past them before anyone could move to help or greet her.
“No, I’ve got the pasta,” she said. “But somebody didn’t write down parmesan, so now we’ll have to make do.” She dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter with an audible sigh. "Okay. Yeah. I'll come by tomorrow then. Bye."
Harry leaned back in his chair, waiting for the newcomer to end her phone call before speaking up. “Ginny. Meet Hermione. The new profiler I mentioned?”
Ginny raised an eyebrow, glancing over at Hermione from behind the counter, as if she hadn't noticed her— or anyone else— when she first entered. “Ah, so you’re the one coming to shake things up.” She shuffled her way back to the living room and extended a hand, her grip firm but warm. “Ginny Weasley. Officially, I’m the team’s logistical coordinator. Unofficially... I'm the glorified babysitter."
“Nice to meet you,” Hermione said, feeling a small wave of relief at Ginny’s easygoing demeanor.
Ginny snorted, back behind the counter before Hermione could blink and already picking up one of the bags and unpacking its contents. “Don’t let the whole 'genius' thing intimidate you. They’re all a mess in their own way. It’s like wrangling toddlers, except the toddlers know how to hack government systems and solve cryptic murders in their sleep.”
“You’re not part of the team?” Hermione asked, watching as Ginny efficiently organized the groceries. She seemed like she knew where everything went without looking. Her outfit was casual, practical but still pretty and a smile never seemed to leave her face. Efficient. Jovial. Siblings.
“Not the genius part,” Ginny replied cheerfully. “I’m here to keep them alive and out of prison. And to report back to Harry or Shacklebolt if anyone starts getting... creative.”
"By creative she means she's here to tell on us if one of us causes trouble and does something new to piss off the agency" Blaise chimed in from over her shoulder before sauntering away and gracefully plopping himself on the couch.
"Incorrect." Theo's voice boomed from a doorway on the other side of the room. "Statistically, it's 43% more likely for Blaise to be causing said trouble, compared to Draco or me."
Hermione frowned slightly. “That seems... exhausting. Doesn’t that get awkward?”
“Oh, all the time,” Ginny said with a laugh. “But I’ve been here just a little bit longer than Harry, and I’ve figured them out pretty well. Theo is easily overwhelmed by people, he responds better to facts and structure. Blaise just needs someone to remind him he's being a douche from time to time. And Draco...” She paused, pulling out a block of cheese and setting it on the counter. “Well, Draco takes a little more finesse.”
Harry chuckled darkly. “Draco needs a boot shoved far up his arse is what Draco needs.”
Ginny smirked. “Let me guess—still holed up in his room?”
“Refuses to come out,” Harry confirmed.
“Typical.” Ginny grabbed a pan from the cupboard and started prepping dinner with practiced ease. “But he’ll come down. Food’s the one thing he can’t sulk through for too long.”
Hermione leaned against the counter, watching Ginny work. “You really seem to have this all under control.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Ginny said lightly. “It took me months to figure it out. And even then, there’s no controlling them. It’s more like steering a really stubborn horse—you just have to know when to pull the reins and when to let them run.”
A small smile tugged at Hermione’s lips. “I guess I'll have a lot to learn from you.”
“Oh, don’t worry, it won't take you long to figure them out.” Ginny replied with a wink. “Now, go sit. Dinner’s in half an hour, and I need to focus before Blaise over there invades my kitchen and starts picking apart my seasoning choices.”
Harry waved Hermione toward the living room, but she hesitated, lingering for a moment longer. Ginny’s presence was unexpectedly grounding—a normalcy that contrasted sharply with the chaotic, intense energy she had felt from the others so far. At first glance she was so completely different from Theo or Blaise and yet she seemed to have found her place just fine in the middle of them.
It made Hermione wonder if, in time, she might find her own rhythm here too. Or if she'd stay an outsider like she had always been in the NCA.