The Insight Initiative

The auction venue exuded an intimidating atmosphere that even Hermione found hard to ignore. Carved stone columns stretched toward the sky, lit by strategically placed golden lights that gave the entire façade an ethereal glow. The grandeur of it all was almost dizzying and more than a little frightening for someone who was as unused to formal settings as her. The sound of hushed conversations and muffled laughter spilled out from the entrance, blending with the occasional clink of glasses as sharply dressed attendees mingled outside. For a moment, Hermione hesitated at the edge of the carpeted walkway, her polished heels stubbornly glued to the cobblestones nearing the entrance.

"Relax, beautiful." Blaise murmured from her side, offering his hand with a teasing grin. The tailored lines of his charcoal suit emphasized his natural ease, the emerald green of his tie subtly matching her dress.

Hermione accepted his hand briefly, the warmth of his fingers anchoring her to the moment, preventing her thoughts—her  anxiety— from taking roots at a time where all her wits was needed. "Easy for you to say," she replied dryly. "You look like you belong here."

Blaise laughed softly, his eyes glinting under the venue’s lights. "And so do you. Trust me."

She wasn’t convinced, but she appreciated the sentiment. Adjusting the neckline of her dress slightly, she moved forward, her posture carefully composed even though her heart was racing and she felt more than a little out of place. Around her, men in impeccably tailored suits and women in gowns that dripped with jewels seemed to float effortlessly across the space, sliding from one corner to the other like butterflies socializing with their kaleidoscope. The entire scene felt meticulously curated, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel like an interloper.

Draco’s voice cut through her thoughts, low and clipped. "Stop dawdling."

He strode past her, the sharp cut of his black suit accentuating the precision of his movements. His silver tie caught the light as he adjusted his cuffs, his expression unreadable. Hermione caught herself watching him for a second too long, noting the way his gaze flicked toward her briefly before snapping forward again.

"You’re making a habit of that." Blaise said quietly, his tone amused.

Hermione scowled, her cheeks warming as she shot him a glare. *She was doing no such thing*. "Let’s just focus."

They approached the gilded entrance together, where an attendant greeted them with a polite smile. Theo’s meticulous preparation had ensured their names—or more so their aliases—were on the guest list, and the trio passed through without issue. As they stepped into the main hall, Hermione’s breath caught.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their warm glow reflecting off the polished marble floors. Ornate gold accents lined the walls, and towering floral arrangements punctuated the space. Waiters in crisp uniforms moved through the crowd, offering trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The air hummed thinly veiled tension, money and an edge of formality that dripped from every conversation around them.

“Subtle.” Hermione muttered, her voice barely audible over the din.

Blaise chuckled beside her. “Welcome to the world of high-stakes art. It’s all smoke and mirrors, really. Just remember, you’re the belle of the ball tonight.”

“Focus.” Draco said sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He didn’t even glance back, his gaze already sweeping the room with a practiced coolness that Hermione envied.

Hermione straightened, forcing her mind to settle. Blaise gave her a quick wink before adopting his own air of charm, sliding effortlessly into the role of the wealthy collector. Draco hung back slightly, his movements calculated as he navigated the room with silent precision. Everything in his posture, his demeanour, proved that what Blaise had said before—the Draco came from money— had more credence than Hermione had first believed.

Blaise led her to a cluster of attendees near the bar, engaging them in easy conversation about the featured pieces in the auction. Theo had compiled all the information they'd need to appear has true collectors and they had all spent a fair share of time memorizing the inventory for tonight's auction, knowing this would be the focal point of most conversations. 

His voice carried just enough enthusiasm to be convincing, but Hermione’s focus remained elsewhere. Her eyes darted between the guests, her profiler’s instincts kicking in as she catalogued behaviours and subtle cues. A nervous shift here, a pair of second-hand shoes there—each detail added another piece to the puzzle.

Across the room, Draco was deep in conversation with a serious-looking man in a navy suit. Hermione’s gaze lingered on him again, taking in the way his posture radiated authority. His jaw tightened slightly as he listened, the faintest crease forming between his brows. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but his sharp focus made it clear he was gleaning something important. For a second she swore his eyes glided to her, but in a blink his entire focus was back on his interlocutor like she imagined it altogether. 

“Careful.” Blaise’s voice interrupted her thoughts, his tone laced with amusement. "You’ll give him ideas."

Hermione blinked, quickly redirecting her attention. "I was observing."

“Of course you were.” Blaise replied with a grin. "Shall we continue, then?”

Hermione nodded, though her mind still lingered on Draco’s expression. She followed Blaise to another group, letting him take the lead in conversation while she continued her observations. The room buzzed with subdued energy, and Hermione’s discomfort gradually gave way to focus.

As the evening progressed, her attention was drawn to a middle-aged woman with silver hair pinned in an elaborate twist. The woman’s movements were stiff, her smile brittle as she declined a glass of champagne. Hermione watched as the woman adjusted a bracelet on her wrist, her fingers trembling slightly. Blaise noticed too, leaning toward Hermione with a whisper.

“She’s hiding something. Watch her hands.”

Hermione’s gaze followed the woman closely, noting the way she avoided eye contact and kept glancing toward the far side of the room. Her body language screamed unease, and Hermione felt a flicker of recognition—the woman was protecting something, or someone.

“Think she knows about the manuscript?” Blaise asked.

“Possibly,” Hermione murmured. “Or she’s afraid someone else here does.”

Their conversation was cut short by a soft chime signaling the start of the auction. The crowd began to move toward the grand hall, their footsteps echoing faintly against the marble floors. Blaise offered Hermione his arm, which she accepted with a quiet nod. Draco fell into step behind them, his sharp gaze never wavering.

“Stay alert.” he muttered. “If someone here knows more than they’re letting on, now’s the time they’ll slip.”

The auction hall was a masterpiece in itself. Rows of plush seats faced a raised platform, framed by ornate gold trim and heavy drapes. As the guests settled in, Hermione scanned the room, her heart racing as she tried to piece together the threads of what she’d observed. The silver-haired woman took a seat near the front, her posture as rigid as ever.

The auctioneer took the stage, his voice smooth and practiced as he introduced the first item—a rare painting that drew murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. The theatrical presentation continued, but Hermione’s attention remained fixed on the woman. She barely reacted to the pieces being presented, her gaze flitting occasionally to the far side of the room.

Then Hermione saw it: a door partially hidden behind a velvet curtain. The woman glanced toward it, her lips pressing into a thin line before she rose from her seat and slipped through. Hermione’s pulse quickened as she turned to Blaise.

“Hold down the fort.” she whispered.

Blaise’s brow furrowed. "Hermione, wait—"

But she was already gone.

Hermione stepped cautiously into the dimly lit corridor, her heels clicking softly on the polished marble until it abruptly transitioned into rough stone. The faint light barely illuminated the path ahead, the flickering glow from the auction hall disappearing behind her, swallowed by the shadows. The air was cooler here, tinged with a metallic tang that set her nerves on edge. The uneven ground beneath her heels amplified every sound, each scuff echoing faintly in the suffocating quiet. She winced at the noise, pausing to steady her breath, and that’s when she heard it—a low, rhythmic hum, barely perceptible at first. It wove itself into the stillness, growing louder with each cautious step she took. The sound wasn’t just noise; it was a pattern, a cadence that seemed to scratch at the edges of her mind, pulling her forward despite the growing unease in her chest.

It wasn't just noise— she quickly realize as her steps grew closer to its' source— it was a language, a chant of sort. She activated her phone’s recording app, slipping the device into her clutch as she walked. The language was guttural and fluid, unfamiliar but infuriatingly close to something she could understand. Her linguist’s brain worked furiously, trying to latch onto the cadence and pattern, searching for a root or structure that might make sense later. It felt ancient—a language that had lived and died long before the most popular dead languages, but its echoes seemed similar to something she could almost, almost grasp. 

The flickering glow of candlelight spilled from the room ahead, casting long, erratic shadows on the stone walls. She pressed herself against the cool surface, taking a steadying breath before peering cautiously around the corner. Her heart stuttered at the sight before her.

A group of masked figures stood in the centre of the room, golden masks semi-hidden under crimson red cloaks and gleaming faintly in the candlelight. They swayed in unison, their chanting rising and falling in hypnotic waves, their bodies forming a circle that was almost too perfect. In their middle, another figure stood, imposing, their cloak a perfect white. Their arms were outstretched to the sky, palms up, golden mask devoid of any emotion. They seemed to be the one leading the chanting and its pace.

But it wasn't all.

At their feet lay a body—a girl, no older than ten, her arms stretched out as if in offering. The white dress slumping around her body—once pristine—was smeared red right at the centre of her stomach, like a long gash dragging up. Strange symbols were etched around her, crude yet deliberate, their dark substance glinting wetly. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, her stomach twisting violently.

“Fuck.” she whispered before she could stop herself, the word barely audible but heavy with horror. The sight hit her like a physical blow, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The girl’s lifeless eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, and something deep within Hermione splintered. Her mind raced to compartmentalize, to analyze—the symbols, the arrangement, the purpose—but a wave of nausea threatened to overtake her. 

Her earpiece crackled to life, shattering the oppressive quiet.

“Granger? Where the hell are you?” Draco’s voice was low and urgent, edged with irritation and something else she couldn’t quite name.

She pressed a trembling hand to her ear. “Not now,” she managed to whisper, her voice barely audible and shaky.

“Not now?” Blaise’s sharper tone cut through, his worry unmistakable. “What the hell does that mean? What’s going on?”

The chanting faltered. One of the masked figures tilted their head sharply, their gaze snapping toward the doorway as if they’d sensed her presence. Hermione’s heart slammed against her ribcage as she flattened herself against the wall, her pulse roaring in her ears. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to breathe as silently as possible.

“Granger, talk to me!” Draco demanded. “What’s happening?”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her clutch. She couldn’t answer—not yet. The figure took a step closer, their movements deliberate, their masked face tilting as if trying to catch a sound or a shadow. One breath ticked by. Two. Three. And then the chanting resumed, softer now, but the tension in the air was palpable. She knew she needed to move, to get out, but her legs felt like lead. She managed a few stumbling steps deeper in the corridor she just came from, but she couldn't manage more. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She couldn't stop seeing her. 

Suddenly, a hand clamped around her arm, firm and unyielding. Hermione spun, her breath catching in her throat, fear of being caught suddenly sparking every nerve in her body back to life, only to meet Draco’s stormy gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his grip on her arm was steady and grounding.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her away from the doorway, his movements swift and purposeful. She was grateful—as much as she was capable in her state— that he had the foresight not to raise his voice before dragging her out of there. A few steps further, a few decibel louder and they would have both been caught.

Hermione followed silently, her mind still reeling from what she had seen. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly as Draco led her back toward the main hall, his hand never leaving her arm. The faint hum of voices from the auction grew louder, a stark reminder of the world that was still going on around them, just a few strides away from its' own dark underbelly, from the nightmarish sight she had just left. How could this place, this entire room be so bustling of life and full of people, without a single one of them knowing what was going on barely a few doors away? It made her want to be sick all over again, right there on the marble floor.

When they emerged into the glittering opulence of the auction room, Hermione blinked against the sudden brightness. Blaise was waiting in a quiet alcove near the entrance, his usually composed demeanour unravelling at the edges. The moment he saw them, he strode over, his gaze locking onto Hermione.

“Cara mia...” he murmured, his hands finding her cheeks as he searched her face. “Are you okay? What happened? We heard noises.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but the words refused to come. The image of the girl’s lifeless body was seared into her mind, and every time she tried to speak, her throat tightened painfully. Her hands trembled at her sides as she looked between Blaise and Draco, their faces etched with concern.

“We need to go.” she said finally, her voice just on the verge of breaking.

Blaise’s brow furrowed, his hands sliding down to her shoulders and tightening slightly around them. “Hermione, talk to me. What did you see?”

“We need to go.” she repeated, her voice firm, despite the unmistakeable shake in her tone. “Now.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press further. He could've, she was—for all intent and purposes—telling them to abandon ship in the middle of a mission they had spent days preparing and that wasn't even remotely finished. Instead he simply tilted his chin towards the exit. 

“Let’s move.” he said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He guided Hermione toward the exit, his hand once again finding her arm, firmly encircling it, like he worried she might run off again if he didn't, as Blaise flanked her other side.

The night air hit Hermione like a wave as they stepped outside, its coolness a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the hidden room. She drew in a shaky breath, her mind racing as they made their way to the car. Blaise opened the door for her without a word, his movements brisk but careful, and she slid into the passenger seat. Draco took the driver’s seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.

The ride back to the house was silent, the weight of what Hermione had witnessed hanging heavily in the air. She stared out the window, her thoughts a whirlwind of horror and confusion. The rhythmic chanting played on a loop in her mind, the guttural syllables refusing to fade. She had recorded it, but the thought of listening to it again made her stomach churn.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Draco’s voice broke the silence, his tone sharp and unforgiving. “Running off like that?”

Hermione didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the darkened landscape outside. Blaise shifted uncomfortably in the back seat, his usual charm replaced by quiet tension. The rest of the drive passed in strained silence, the weight of the night—and the unspoken things Hermione had yet to convey to the others— pressing down on all of them.

The house was eerily silent when they returned, the soft click of the door closing behind them marking the start of an uneasy calm. Hermione’s heels tapped against the floor as she moved into the living room, her movements mechanical, almost disconnected from herself. Her mind was still reeling, the images from the hidden room playing on a loop, each detail sharper and more horrifying than the last.

Theo looked up from his laptop, his sharp eyes immediately narrowing while he took in their expressions. “What happened?” he asked, his voice as direct as ever.

Draco’s hand lingered on Hermione’s arm for a moment before he stepped away, his jaw tight. “She went off alone and found something we weren’t prepared for.” His tone was clipped, every word laced with unspoken frustration. "She wouldn't tell us what, but given her reaction, it's nothing good."

Blaise moved to Hermione’s side, his hand brushing against her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Cara mia, sit down,” he murmured, guiding her to the couch. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Hermione sank into the cushions, her hands trembling as she smoothed the fabric of her dress over her knees. “I—” she began, but her voice cracked, and she had to swallow hard before continuing. “I found a hidden room. There were masked figures… chanting in an old language. And a girl… a child.” Her breath hitched, and she pressed her hands against her face, as if trying to block out the memory.

Working for the NCA, she had seen more than her fair share of bodies. Death, in itself, wasn’t what shook her. It was the fact that the body she’d seen was a child—a little girl. Something about that struck her deeply, cutting through the walls she’d carefully built to compartmentalize the horrors of her job.  Of her past. It wasn’t just another scene to analyze; it was something profoundly human and raw.

Theo’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, his usual efficiency stalled by her words. “A child?” he repeated, his tone softening slightly.

“She was dead.” Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper. “There were symbols… etched into the floor around her. It looked ritualistic.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of her words pressing down on all of them. Theo’s hands moved hesitantly over his keyboard—the only hint that the new had struck him in any way— as he began pulling up references, his focus shifting entirely to the details she had provided. Blaise’s usual playful demeanor was absent, his brow furrowing deeply, casting a worried glance at Hermione, his hand still resting lightly on her shoulder. Draco, on the other hand, remained by the window, his back stiff, but his jaw tightened visibly at her words. The tension in his stance spoke volumes, as if he were waging an internal battle with himself, trying to suppress something unspoken.

“You recorded it.” Draco said suddenly, his voice breaking through the quiet. It wasn’t a question.

Hermione nodded, fumbling with her clutch. She retrieved her phone, her fingers shaking as she unlocked it and handed it to Theo. “I started recording as soon as I heard the chanting,” she said. “The language… it’s not one I recognize, but it felt familiar.”

Theo took the phone without a word, plugging it into his laptop. The audio file began to play, the rhythmic chanting filling the room like a ghostly presence. Hermione’s stomach twisted as the guttural sounds reverberated through the air, each syllable scratching at her fragile composure, luring her to remember the scene.

“That’s old...” Theo murmured, his eyes narrowing as he typed rapidly. “Very old. The structure… it’s similar to early proto-European languages, but there’s something off about it. I’ll need time to cross-reference.” Hermione nodded at his observation. She had thought as much herself.

“We might not have time.” Draco said, his tone harsh. He turned to Hermione, his grey eyes colder than usual. “You shouldn’t have gone off on your own. That was reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.”

Hermione’s head snapped up, her exhaustion giving way to a spark of defiance. “I didn’t have a choice.” she shot back, her voice trembling but firm. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it. If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t know about the ritual or the girl.”

“And you could’ve gotten yourself killed.” Draco countered, his voice rising. “Do you think this is a game, Granger? Running headlong into danger without backup? Without thinking?”

Blaise stepped between them, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright.” he said smoothly. “Let’s take it down a notch. Hermione’s here. She’s safe. Let’s focus on the facts.”

Draco glared at him but didn’t respond, his chest rising and falling with barely contained frustration. Hermione sank back into the couch, her earlier defiance fading as the weight of the night settled over her again.

“The girl...” Theo said, breaking the tension. “Did you notice anything else about her? Anything specific about the symbols?”

Hermione closed her eyes, forcing herself to recall the scene despite the nausea that swirled in her stomach. "The symbols were… geometric. Intersecting lines, circles. Some of them looked familiar, like ancient runes, but others…" She shook her head. "I’ve never seen anything like them before. Do we have something I can use to draw on?"

Blaise, who had been leaning against the arm of the couch, straightened slightly. "I think I left one of my sketchbooks on the coffee table." he said, gesturing toward the small stack of notebooks and pens he had abandoned earlier. He reached for it and pulled out a charcoal pen, offering both to Hermione.

She took them with a murmured thanks, the weight of the materials grounding her slightly. As she sketched, her hands trembled, the lines coming out uneven at first. Slowly, she began to recreate the symbols she remembered, her voice quiet as she described them. "This one was near the girl’s head..." she said, her charcoal moving steadily. "It felt… significant, like it was anchoring the rest of the pattern. And this one—it was repeated several times, almost like a border."

When she finished, she held up the page, her throat tightening as she handed it to Theo. "That’s what I can remember for now." she said softly. "Maybe it’ll help."

“Were they carved into the floor?” Theo asked, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

“No,” Hermione said softly. “They were drawn. With…” She hesitated, her voice catching. “With blood. Her blood, I think.” It took all her strength not to let bile rise in her throat at her own words.

The silence that followed was deafening. Blaise’s hand found her shoulder again, his grip firm and grounding. “We’ll figure this out,” he said quietly. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”

Draco turned away, his shoulders tense as he stared out the window. “This isn’t just an art theft anymore... I'm not sure it ever was.” he said finally, voicing something she had thought as well, but not processed yet. “This is something else entirely.”

“A cult.” Theo said, his voice grim. “It has all the hallmarks. Rituals, chanting, sacrifices. We need to tread carefully.”

Hermione nodded, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress tightly. “I’ll help with the language,” she said, her voice steadier now. She had to be. She had to help. She couldn't let herself falter. Not again. “If we can figure out what they were saying, it might give us a clue about their intentions.”

Theo nodded, already pulling up more reference material. Blaise glanced between Hermione and Draco, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “This could be more dangerous than anything we were prepared for with this mission. We need to be on the same page moving forward.” he said. “No more solo missions. Agreed?”

Hermione hesitated—knowing she had made and broken this promise more than once before—but finally nodded. “Agreed.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately, his gaze still fixed on the darkness outside. When he finally turned back, his expression was guarded, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something Hermione couldn’t quite place.

“We move as a team from now on.” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. His eyes turned to her and there was no doubt his words were pointed in her direction. “No exceptions.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of the night pressing down on all of them. Hermione leaned back against the cushions, her exhaustion finally catching up with her. The images from the hidden room lingered in her mind, but she pushed them aside, focusing instead on the task ahead. They had a mystery to solve, a life to avenge, and she couldn't let fear dictate her life. Not again.