Chapter 4: The Skeptical Friend
The scent of sandalwood clung to his robes, a ghost he couldn’t shake. Draco moved through the club’s back corridors the next evening, the memory of Hermione’s quiet breathing in the silent room a persistent echo beneath the low thrum of bass from the main floor. He needed his office, a report for St. Mungo’s, and an hour of silence.
He didn’t get it.
Pansy was already in his chair, her boots propped on his polished walnut desk, a glass of his best firewhisky in her hand. The green liquid caught the lamplight. She didn’t look up from the file she was pretending to read.
“You’re in my seat.”
“And you’re in my business,” she said, her voice a dry rasp. She finally glanced at him, her dark eyes sharp as flint. “Shut the door.”
He did, warding it with a lazy flick of his wrist. The sounds of the club vanished, replaced by the heavy silence of the room. “Get your feet off the desk, Parkinson. That’s eighteenth-century walnut.”
“It’ll survive.” She swung her legs down anyway, placing the glass on a coaster with precise condescension. “Sit. We’re talking.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re reminiscing,” she corrected, standing and gesturing to the chair she’d vacated. “You’ve got that post-session haze. It’s pathetic on you. Sit.”
He exhaled, a short, irritated sound, but he took his chair. It was still warm from her. She perched on the edge of the desk, leaning into his space. The musky amber of her perfume warred with the sandalwood on him.
“The Granger situation,” she stated.
“There is no ‘situation’.”
“Bullshit. You spent three hours in the red room with Hermione Granger. War heroine. Ministry golden girl. The brain that solved the Decryption Conundrum of ’08.” Pansy ticked the points off on her fingers. “Her face is on pamphlets for inter-departmental cooperation, Draco. She’s not some anonymous witch from the continent looking for a thrill. She’s a headline waiting to happen.”
Draco leaned back, steepling his fingers. “She came to the club. She passed the vetting. She signed the forms. She used the safeword system perfectly. What’s your point?”
“My point is risk assessment!” Pansy snapped, her composure cracking for a second. “If this gets out—if she has a moment of guilt and runs to the Daily Prophet—they won’t just crucify her. They’ll burn this place to the ground and salt the earth. Our clientele, our reputation, our freedom… it’s all built on discretion. She is the opposite of discreet. She’s a fucking monument.”
“She’s discreet enough to have found us, isn’t she?” Draco’s voice was calm, too calm. “She didn’t arrive with a press escort. She came alone. She wants what we offer.”
“And what did you offer her, exactly? A beginner’s flogging and a cuddle? Be specific.”
He held her gaze. “An introduction. Sensory. Impact. Restraint. Aftercare. The standard protocol.”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. “You’re leaving something out.”
He was. He was leaving out the way Hermione’s defiance had felt like a gift, the sharp delight of her comebacks, the stunning moment of her surrender that had felt less like a defeat and more like a revelation. He was leaving out the hollow, quiet ache in his chest when he’d closed her door.
“She submitted,” he said finally, the words simple and heavy. “Not just her body. Her mind. She fought me for every inch, intellectually, verbally… and then she let go. Completely. I haven’t seen that in… years. Possibly ever.”
The silence that followed was different. Less hostile, more considering. Pansy picked up her glass again, took a slow sip. “You like her.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“It’s the most relevant thing in the world, you stupid ponce.” She shook her head. “Fine. She’s a brilliant sub. A natural. The holy grail. That makes her even more dangerous. What happens when she gets bored? When she decides this was a fascinating experiment but she has a career to maintain? Or worse, what happens when she falls for you, and you do your usual emotionally constipated disappearing act? The fallout wouldn’t be pretty.”
Draco felt a flicker of real anger, cold and sharp. “I wouldn’t have started something if I intended to ‘disappear.’ I’m not sixteen, Pansy.”
“Aren’t you?” She softened, just a fraction. “Look. I’m not saying send her away. I’m saying manage this. Let me talk to her.”
His head jerked up. “No.”
“Yes. Not as your friend. As the club’s safety monitor. It’s in the charter. Any high-profile client, or any client involved with a primary owner, gets an independent check-in. We both signed off on it. It’s not about trust. It’s about optics and safety nets.” She arched a perfect brow. “Unless you think she’ll fail?”
He knew what she was doing. Boxing him in with his own rules. He hated it. He also knew she was right. “What would you ask her?”
“The usual. Her headspace. Her understanding of the power exchange. Her intentions. Whether she felt pressured. Whether you used your big grey eyes to manipulate her.” A faint smirk. “I’ll be nice. I’ll even be charming.”
Draco stared out the window at the dark London street below. He saw his own reflection, pale and severe, superimposed over the rain-slicked cobblestones. He saw the ghost of Hermione’s tear-streaked face from the night before.
“One conversation,” he said, turning back. “You report any concerns directly to me, and only me. No notes in the main file.”
“Deal.” Pansy slid off the desk, straightening her tailored jacket. “And you? What are you going to do while I vet your new obsession?”
“I’m going to wait,” he said, his gaze drifting to the blank wall as if he could see through it to the private rooms beyond. “And see if she owls.”
Pansy paused at the door, her hand on the knob. “She will,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically lacking its usual edge. “The way you described it? She’s already drafting the parchment in her head.”
She left, the wards resealing behind her.
Draco remained in his chair, the silence now a tangible thing. He picked up a quill, rolled it between his fingers. He thought of Hermione’s sharp chin tilting up in defiance, the intelligent fire in her eyes moments before it guttered into trust. The club felt different now. The air itself felt charged, waiting. He wasn’t just a curator of experiences anymore. He was a participant, standing on the edge of something vast and uncharted, and for the first time in a very long time, the sensation wasn't of control, but of freefall.
He put the quill down. He would wait.