Organized Chaos
The dining table was an eclectic mess. Plates were mismatched, one chair wobbled precariously, and Theo had already started eating before everyone even sat down, calmly ignoring Harry’s glare. Blaise poured wine like he was hosting a dinner party, chatting amiably about everything and nothing. Ginny, ever the mediator, swatted Blaise’s hand away when he tried to steal a taste of her sauce before the dishes made it to the table. This all felt so mundane. Chaotic. The way family dinners were— not NCA gatherings.
Hermione hovered near the table, unsure of where to sit. She had spent the last thirty minutes on the couch, simply observing the comings and goings around her, trying to pin point the general blueprint of interactions. Between Blaise and Theo. Harry and Ginny. So on and so forth. But no matter the amount of mental notes she had pieced together from the sidelines since she arrived, social settings like this always knotted her stomach, the unspoken rules of casual conversation a minefield she couldn’t always navigate.
She needed to know what to say and who to say it to, at all times. This was predictable, it was safe. But without knowing everything there was to know about who wanted to hear what yet, this whole dinner situation almost felt dangerous. She knew she was safe here, Harry had promised her so and he wouldn't lie to her about something like that— not when he knew what he knew. But her brain, unfortunately, didn't seem ready to register that fact quite yet.
Her eyes flicked to the empty seat next to Theo, but before she could move, Blaise grinned and pulled the chair out for her with an exaggerated flourish.
“Mademoiselle Profiler, this one’s for you,” he said. “Don’t worry, Theo’s too busy calculating the molecular structure of his soup to bother you.”
Theo didn’t even glance up. “Soup doesn’t have a molecular structure,” he muttered, spoon halfway to his mouth. “That would imply—”
“See?” Blaise interrupted, dropping into the chair across from Hermione with a wink. “Safe as houses.”
Harry and Ginny joined them, and the chatter flowed easily, though Hermione found herself mostly observing. She cataloged each interaction: Theo’s bluntness, Blaise’s charm, the way Ginny kept the dynamic from tipping into chaos. It was fascinating, foreign—and overwhelming.
The sound of a step creaking underfoot silenced the room.
Draco Malfoy—she recognized him from the picture in his file—stood at the doorway, his pale gaze sweeping over the group with a distant air. He was taller than Hermione had expected, his posture ramrod straight yet oddly relaxed, like he didn’t need to assert authority because it was already implied. His sharp features remained impassive, save for the faintest furrow between his brows that betrayed his irritation. His blond hair was slightly disheveled, as though he’d passed his fingers through them a number of time before joining them and Hermione felt comfortable making the assumption that this wasn't its' usual state.
Her eyes flicked over him briefly—a tailored shirt rolled at the sleeves and ironed-out to perfection, a watch that looked old but expensive and meticulously kept. He radiated control, over his movements, his thoughts, his image. Even the unease he must have felt at her presence— if Theo and Blaise's assessment were to be believed— didn't seem able to shake that. He looked like the kind of person who would ooze wealth, power and precision no matter the circumstances.
She forced herself to look away before he could catch her assessing him, but her mind was already cataloging the details, unbidden.
“Ah, the prodigal son returns,” Blaise drawled, raising his glass. “We saved you a seat."
Draco ignored him and sat at the far end of the table, directly opposite Hermione. His movements were precise, almost calculated, and he didn’t so much as glance in her direction.
“Draco,” Harry said, his tone edged with warning. “This is Hermione Granger. I warned you she'd be joining the team today.”
Draco’s eyes flicked to hers, cool and detached. “So you've said. Repeatedly.”
Hermione’s pulse quickened under his scrutiny. His demeanor was cold, distant, yet strangely controlled—as though he wasn’t merely disinterested but deliberately withholding any reaction. He studied her for a moment longer than necessary, not so much out of curiosity as evaluation, and it left her feeling vaguely exposed.
“It’s nice to meet you.” she offered, her voice steady but edged with a polite professionalism she couldn’t quite shake.
Draco’s gaze flicked to her with surgical precision, pausing just long enough to acknowledge the words but not the sentiment. “Sure it is.” he replied flatly, his tone devoid of warmth.
The response wasn’t sharp, nor was it particularly antagonistic, but it was dismissive enough to make the silence that followed stretch awkwardly. Hermione forced herself not to react, aware that any attempt to counter the iciness would only lead to Draco closing off even more. That much she could easily assume from him demeanour.
“Well, that went better than expected,” Blaise murmured, loud enough for the table to hear. “Don't worry. It took him a whole week before he said a full sentence to Ginny.”
“Eat your dinner, Zabini.” Draco said, his voice low but not harsh, his eyes rolling so slightly Hermione might have missed it.
Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, his attention shifting to his plate as though the conversation were no longer worth his time. Ginny gave Hermione an encouraging look from across the table, and Hermione exhaled quietly, reminding herself to take Blaise’s advice for what it was—a warning and a reassurance rolled into one. Draco Malfoy, it seemed, was as unhappy to see her join as she had been told, but it seemed he offered the same welcome to everyone. That was a silver lining. Somewhat.
She was still trying to find her footing, still unsure where she fit in this unconventional team. The chaotic energy of the group was, oddly, soothing in its unpredictability. Blaise’s playful remarks and constant teasing kept the atmosphere from feeling too stifling, adding a levity that coaxed her into taking deeper breaths when the tension in her chest grew tight. Ginny’s calm encouragement, so genuine and kindhearted, anchored her, offering a quiet kind of reassurance Hermione hadn’t realized she needed. Theo, though hard to read, seemed mostly harmless in his bluntness, his interactions devoid of malice even if they occasionally lacked the expected social graces.
And then there was Draco. His frosty demeanor remained a hurdle, an impenetrable wall that made Hermione’s anxiety feel all the more justified. The weight of his detached gaze still lingered in her mind, his evaluation of her leaving her with the distinct impression that she’d fallen short of some unspoken standard. It was like being under a microscope, but one held by someone who had already decided that what was through the lens wasn't what he wanted to see.
Nothing could erase the anxiety simmering under her skin, but the contrasting personalities within the team dulled its sharper edges, reminding her she had already made progress in figuring things out. Even so, the weight of her new reality pressed heavily on her. Working with just one partner in the NCA had been a challenge most days, and now she had to navigate an entire team. It felt like walking along a frayed tight rope, where every wrong step could cause the rope to snap without her foreseeing the end result.
Still, this was familiar ground in one way—uncertainty was something she’d faced before. Like every other challenge, she reminded herself, she would find her way through this. She would figure it out. She would know what was expected of her. Because that’s what she always did.
After dinner, the group dispersed in a way that felt less like winding down and more like a scattering of energies. Theo had disappeared into his room, muttering something about recalibrating a data set. Blaise lounged on the couch with a glass of wine, flipping through a book with casual disinterest. Ginny was busy clearing the dishes, waving off Harry’s attempts to help as she assured him she had a system. Draco had vanished almost immediately after finishing his meal, offering no explanation.
Hermione lingered in the dining area, unsure where she was supposed to fit into the house’s rhythm.
Ginny caught the hesitation in Hermione’s posture. “You can explore, you know,” she said with a kind smile. “No one’s going to bite.”
Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t entirely convinced. The idea of retreating to her room felt suffocating—too isolating to settle her mind, too quiet to drown out the insecurities she wasn’t ready to face. Sitting awkwardly with Blaise, however, felt like stepping into a lion’s den where she would be subjected to his sharp gaze and all the things he could see whether she wanted him to or not. That was a little more than she could chew right now.
Roaming the house, she decided, might give her some semblance of control. It had worked before; her visit to the library had not only helped her focus but also offered glimpses into the lives of her new teammates. Each space told a story, and exploring felt like her own small way of making sense of the chaos.
With that thought, she slipped out of the dining area, her footsteps soft against the wooden floors as she wandered. The house was a curious mix of organized chaos. Every room seemed to have its own distinct personality, forming a whole that ended in a mix of meticulous design and chaotic touches, as though the space itself couldn’t decide whether it was meant for function or comfort. Every corner seemed to reveal something new, small clues about the people who inhabited it. This exploration wasn’t just curiosity. Understanding the people she was living with felt, to her, like the first step in finding her place, in feeling safe.
The hallway opened into a small study she hadn’t noticed before. The desk was cluttered but not messy, the kind of controlled disorder that immediately struck her as familiar. The objects scattered across the desk were telltale markers of Harry’s personality—a coffee mug with a faded Academy insignia placed at the corner of the desk, a stack of reports held together with an elastic band that had seen better days, and a small photo tucked beneath a paperweight that she didn’t have to look at to know was of him, her, and other cadets after their last day at the academy.
Resilient. Pragmatic. Loyal. Everything in this space reinforced what she already knew about Harry. The few articles framed on the wall spoke volume about his resilience— slightly yellowed and faded, they told a story of countless cases, long nights, and Harry’s ability to endure while others might have faltered. The carefully stacked reports reflected his pragmatism, each one precisely aligned despite the worn elastic band barely holding them together. Harry always did what was necessary, no more and no less, finding efficiency even in chaos. And the picture, so old it had been folded over and over, leaving a deep crease in its center. It portrayed the fierce loyalty she had first admired him for. He’d always been someone who carried the weight of his connections, who valued the people in his life enough to keep their memories close, even in a setting as impersonal as this study.
There was a spare practicality to the space, yet small, almost unintentional touches of sentimentality betrayed the otherwise austere setup. A dog-eared book on investigative techniques lay open, its spine creased from years of use. Hermione smiled faintly; she’d seen Harry pour over that very book countless times during their early days at the NCA.
This was Harry’s space, his only retreat in a house where he otherwise came and went only when was needed. It grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected, the familiarity of him a small island in the sea of uncertainty that surrounded her. For a moment, she lingered, letting herself take in the room before turning back to the hallway, a little steadier than before.
The next room she stumbled upon was clearly meant for the team’s operations. It was larger than the study and unmistakably designed with collaboration in mind. A long table dominated the center, enough to seat all of them comfortably. Around it, chairs were haphazardly arranged, some pushed in neatly while others were left askew. Against one wall stood a corkboard, already covered with pinned notes, photographs, and red strings connecting points of interest—likely from a previous case. Opposite it, a blank white screen hung from the ceiling, its edges faintly smudged from frequent use with a projector that had been expertly fastened to the ceiling.
Hermione took a tentative step inside, letting her fingers trail lightly over the edge of the table. The room felt lived in, almost buzzing with the collective energy of the team’s minds at work. A faint smell of coffee lingered, and a stray marker lay uncapped on the table, its blue ink smudging a discarded piece of paper beneath it. She imagined this room during a briefing: Theo scribbling equations too quickly for anyone to follow, Blaise lounging in his chair while tossing out insightful quips, Ginny sitting on the briefing just to ensure nobody could jump at each other's throat, and Draco… Well, she wasn’t sure where Draco would fit, but she could already picture his icy gaze cutting through any unnecessary chatter.
This room, she realized, was the heart of the team’s work—a space where all their quirks and individual talents collided to solve problems. It was overwhelming, yet oddly reassuring. Here, the chaos wasn’t just noise; it had a purpose, a direction. It was the kind of environment where Hermione knew she thrived. She had always been fantastic at her job—not just competent, but extraordinary. She could take threads of evidence, scattershot and incomplete, and weave them into a cohesive picture. She had a knack for making crimes make sense, for slipping into the minds of criminals and victims alike until every disjointed piece fell into place.
Standing in this room, she could almost see it happening. Her mind buzzed with the possibilities of how this space would come alive during a case: the corkboard filling with connections, the table crowded with ideas overlapping in real-time. It was daunting, yes, but it was also familiar in the best way. She might not understand the people she was working with yet, but the process? That she could understand, control even. For the first time since stepping into this house, she felt a spark of confidence. If she could figure out the puzzles left by strangers—the twisted motives and fractured psyches of the people she hunted—then surely, she could figure out how to fit into this team.
You’re not going to fit in, idiot, the voice in her head whispered, insidious and sharp. They’ve been doing this for years. They have a rhythm, an unspoken language you’ll never understand. You’re just here because they had no choice. You're just not smart enough to make it out.
Her chest tightened, a familiar wave of doubt cresting over her. That voice was always there, ready to sabotage her, to convince her that being the outsider wasn’t just awkward—it was dangerous. Not understanding the rules, not knowing how to navigate this new place and these new people. She could almost hear her mind warning her that if she couldn’t find her footing, she’d be exposed, vulnerable. Being on the outside wasn’t just uncomfortable—it wasn’t safe.
She clenched her fists, nails pressing into her palms as she forced herself to take a deep breath. This wasn’t new. She’d fought this before, and she would fight it now. She needed to step out of her own head, to ground herself in something tangible. The house, the work, the team—they were puzzles she could figure out, step by step. Slowly, the tension in her chest began to ease, the voice retreating into the background as she reminded herself: she didn’t have to solve everything at once. For now, all she had to do was keep going. One step at a time.
Hermione wandered back toward the common area, expecting it to be empty now that the night was fully underway. The living room was quiet, faintly illuminated by the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. To her surprise, Blaise was still on the sofa, sprawled out as if he’d been waiting for her. A glass of red wine rested loosely in his fingers, and for a moment, he didn’t look up, his gaze fixed on some unseen point across the room.
It was the first time she’d seen him like this. Alone, without the energy of the group to buoy him, Blaise seemed quieter, more subdued. There was an air of exhaustion about him, or maybe sadness—a weight that wasn’t present when he’d been teasing and charming earlier. It made her pause in the doorway, her curiosity piqued. Who was the real Blaise Zabini? The easygoing charmer who could read her emotions like a book, or this faraway figure, sitting in silence with a faraway look on his face.
His eyes flicked to her then, and the shift was almost imperceptible. The hint of melancholy faded, replaced by a small, knowing smile that was more reflex than genuine.
“Done snooping?” he asked, his tone casual but softer than usual, as if he hadn’t quite shaken the moment she’d caught him in.
“I wasn't snooping.” she lied, perching on the armchair across from him.
Blaise smirked, tilting his head. “You know, you’re a terrible liar. It’s refreshing, really.”
Hermione bristled. “Excuse me?”
“You don't even realize it but everything you feel is right there.” He waved a hand lazily toward her face. “The slight furrow in your brow, the way your eyes dart around the room like you’re cataloging every corner. You’re nervous, second-guessing yourself, and wondering if you’re out of your depth." The corners of his lips tilted up some more. "You're uncomfortable I can figure you out so easily. You don't want me to. You're wondering if everyone else can see what I see." he added a little shrug, as if he had been reciting tomorrow's weather to her, not reading her innermost thoughts. "You're freaked out and yet, here you are, trying to act composed. It’s... fascinating.”
Her cheeks heated, and she crossed her arms, more out of self-defense than anything else. He was right, and she hated that he was right. She hated how easily Blaise could see through her because how was she supposed to make herself appear exactly as they needed her to be if he could strip away the mask she relied on? His perceptiveness wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was dangerous. For as long as she could remember, Hermione had learned to mold herself to the expectations of others, to blend in, to fit. It had been her shield, her way of staying safe. But here was Blaise, slicing through her carefully constructed facade like it was paper, exposing her uncertainty and leaving her vulnerable.
"Or maybe you feel the need to point out everyone else’s emotions because it keeps them from noticing your own,” she shot back, tit for tat.
It was a gamble, a shot in the dark based solely on that fleeting moment when she’d seen something more subdued, even tired, in him before he noticed her. Still, the way his smirk faltered ever so slightly was enough to tell her she’d struck closer to the truth than she’d expected.
Blaise laughed softly, a deep, easy sound. “Touché. But fair warning: I can’t help it. It’s what I do. Just like you can’t help...” He trailed off, his lips quirking up again, knowingly.
“Can’t help what?” she challenged, though the knot in her stomach told her she already knew.
“Profiling everyone,” Blaise said, his smile softening into something almost kind. “You’ve been doing it since you walked through the door. Assessing, analyzing, filing us into neat little boxes so you know where you stand.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself. He wasn’t wrong. He had noticed it before so there was no point in her lying about it now.
“It’s not—” she started, but Blaise interrupted her gently.
“It’s not personal. I know,” he said. “It’s survival.”
That quiet truth landed harder than she expected, and for a moment, she could only stare at him. Until now, no one had truly understood that it wasn’t just a quirky habit or an annoying tendency to be a know-it-all. Profiling wasn’t about being clever or showing off; it was a matter of survival—a skill honed from necessity, from learning early on that understanding people was the best way to stay safe. Her mind never stopped analyzing, breaking people down into patterns and motives because it was the only way she knew how to feel in control.
And the unsettling part was that Blaise’s observation wasn’t just accurate—it seemed to come from a place of familiarity. The confidence oozing from him when he named it, the ease with which he had figured out her coping mechanism, made Hermione realize something else. He knew this because he used his gift the same way. Blaise’s ability to read emotions so effortlessly wasn’t just a party trick—it was his armor. He wielded it as a shield, a way to deflect attention from himself and ensure he always had the upper hand. The realization sent a ripple of curiosity through her. This kind of coping mechanism came from damage. Trauma. She knew that from experience. That thought, as much as it unsettled her, also made her wonder just who exactly was Blaise Zabini, and what kind of life had led him here.
“See?” he added, gesturing at her face. “There it is again. Written all over you.”
Hermione glared at him. Was it even possible for her to have a single thought in his presence that wouldn't be out there for him to see? Blaise’s ability to read her left her flustered and infuriated, seen to a degree she wasn't used to. She needed to leave before she could think about anything else and make a complete fool of herself.
"I'm going to bed,” she muttered, the words rushed and clipped as she stood abruptly.
Her cheeks were burning now, and she could feel his eyes on her even as she refused to meet them. His low chuckle followed her as she left, making her feel like he’d already won whatever unspoken game they’d just been playing.
The kitchen was quiet the next morning, the kind of silence that came only before the house woke fully. Hermione had always liked mornings like this—when the world felt softer, as if it were holding its breath before the day began. There was a tranquility in being the first to rise, a momentary illusion of having the world to herself before the inevitable noise and chaos returned. These were the hours when she felt most herself, when the pressure to mask and mold faded, leaving just her and the gentle rhythm of her thoughts.
She moved through the familiar motions of making coffee, savoring the warmth of the mug in her hands as the rich aroma filled the room. She liked her coffee strong but not bitter. The dim light from the window cast long, soft shadows across the countertops, and for a moment, Hermione allowed herself to feel grounded, steady.
The spell was broken by the creak of a step on the staircase behind her, startling her out of her reverie. Turning, she found Draco stepping through the doorway, his stride only faltering when he seemed to notice her presence. The quiet felt heavier with him there, as though the room itself had taken on his tension.
“Morning,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.
“Granger.” he replied, his tone clipped, sleep still colouring his voice.
He moved past her to the counter, retrieving a mug and filling it with coffee. His movements were precise, controlled, almost rigid, as though every action had been carefully rehearsed. Hermione found herself observing him without meaning to, her mind already piecing together details: the sharp lines of his posture and the carefully pressed shirt, surprising so early in the morning, seemed to hint at someone who rarely let himself relax, even in his own home. The faint shadows under his eyes made Hermione feel like he may not have slept well and the way he had hesitated, like taken by surprise, when he had found the kitchen occupied, told her he was used to being the first one awake, to having this sliver of calm before the house came alive.
It struck her then that she might be intruding on his space, his own version of her cherished mornings, and the thought left her feeling slightly awkward.
“Do you always stare at people like that?” Draco’s voice cut through her thoughts harshly.
“I wasn’t staring...” Hermione said quickly, though her blush betrayed her.
“You were.” he said, turning to face her fully. His pale eyes were sharp, assessing her with a precision that rivaled her own.
“It’s not—” She hesitated, unsure how to explain something so ingrained in her. “It’s just... habit.”
Draco’s gaze didn’t waver. “Well don’t.”
The single word was firm, leaving no room for argument.
Hermione straightened, bristling slightly but holding back the sharp retort that came to mind. Blaise’s warning from the day before echoed in her thoughts—analyzing Draco was a line she shouldn’t cross, at least not openly. Instead, she forced herself to respond carefully, keeping her tone even. "Fair enough," she said, reaching for her mug and taking a deliberate sip of coffee as she tried to suppress her irritation.
Draco’s gaze lingered on her for a beat longer, sharp and unyielding, as if waiting for her to press the matter. When she didn’t, he turned his attention back to his coffee, his posture remaining stiff. The silence between them stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
"You don’t like being observed," Hermione said finally, her voice quieter now, not probing but matter-of-fact, "but clearly this kind of thing happens a lot around here." she added, thinking about Blaise and the way he had done this very same thing with her the day before.
Draco’s shoulders tensed slightly, but he didn’t immediately respond. When he did, his words were clipped and deliberate. "It’s one thing to work together. It’s another to have someone think they can map out everything in my head. Don't poke your nose where it doesn't belong, and I'll return the favor."
His words landed with a weight she hadn’t expected, and Hermione resisted the urge to react visibly. Instead, she nodded once, letting her thoughts race silently. His discomfort wasn’t just about her observing him; it was about control, about keeping whatever he carried beneath the surface firmly under wraps. It wasn’t her place to pry
"Noted," she said softly, setting her mug down and stepping toward the door.
As she passed him, she glanced up briefly, catching a fleeting shift in his expression. It wasn’t regret, exactly, but something close to it—a crack in his frosty exterior that made her wonder, just for a moment, what it was he worked so hard to keep hidden. By the time she glanced back, his face was a frozen mask once more, and she turned toward the doorway with more questions than answers.
She didn’t make it far. Harry appeared in the hall, his brow furrowed but his expression otherwise calm.
"Good, you’re both here," he said, stepping into the kitchen and glancing between Hermione and Draco. "We’ve got a new case. Briefing room in ten minutes."
Draco exhaled softly, setting his mug down with a deliberate motion, while Hermione nodded, her curiosity sparking immediately. Whatever tension hung in the air between her and Draco since last night, it was a problem for another day. For now, Hermione couldn't wait to finally delve into something she was actually good at: solving crime.