Chapter Text

“I slip from her embrace and step into the street.
In the sky, already lightening, the moon appears — finite, drawn in.
The moon is two nights old. I, just one”.
The Night/4. Eduardo Galeano, The Book of Embraces – free translated by the fic author.

Amidst smoke, soot, and the distortion of space-time, Hermione Granger let herself be carried to where she was expected to be, as usual. In the corner of her mind she wished that the emerald flames consuming her might at least burn. Anything, just to make her feel less numb.

Applause, whistles, and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’ best regards still echoed in her ears — haunting, hollow. All that forced cheer only reinforced the weight of a treason she was forced to commit and that now she must carry with a thankful smile. As she stepped out of the hearth into the cosy sitting room at The Burrow, she pretended the taste of ash on her tongue and the churn in her stomach were just side effects of Floo travel. Another lie. And like all the others, would pass unnoticed.

She wanted nothing more than to sink into the couch and surrender to exhaustion, but her unfocused eyes suddenly adjusted, registering the uncharacteristic neatness of the space. No half-finished crafts strewn on the armchairs, no colourful children’s toys scattered across the wooden floor. The silence came next, startling and intrusive like an alarm. Instinctively, her hand loosened the wand holstered at her forearm and she assumed a defensive posture. Caught between the only two moods she’d known in recent months, Hermione felt her cloak of apathy be torn away, only to find herself encased in a heavy armour of hypervigilance.

When she crossed the dark kitchen and reached the orchard on precisely placed footsteps, a roar erupted from apparently everywhere, shattering the night air and making her entire body jolt.

“SURPRISE!”

Red sparks shot from the tip of her wand, unrefrained.

Before she had time to fully take in the garden — now alight with warm lights and familiar faces — Hermione was swept into a suffocating embrace.

The scent of peppermint toothpaste, freshly cut grass and firework powder filled her lungs, slow to register, but unmistakable once she also heard Ronald Weasley’s laugh. Her muscles unstiffened just enough for her respiratory system to function again. But as soon as she managed to coordinate her arms to return the hug, Ron was already pulling away, holding her by the shoulders and pressing a kiss to her lips with great enthusiasm, yet very little care.

“My girlfriend is your boss! All of you — your boss, heh?” Ron shouted to the crowd of guests, far too close to her ear for comfort.

She flinched, but smiled as he brushed her cheeks with rough thumbs.

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” this time he whispered, bringing her close one more time.

With her eyelids tightly shut, she pressed her whole body against his tall frame, trying to catch the rhythm of his heartbeat through the soft, expensive jumper. He rested his chin on the top of her head, the newly grown copper beard tangling in her hair in a way she wasn’t yet comfortable with, but tried to get used to.

Hermione held his hand to her face, as if trying to absorb the touch, silently begging the warmth of his calloused skin to anchor her in the present. She might have stayed there, wrapped in the illusion of protection, but all too soon he let go and gently prompted her to step back, just a little.

Vulnerable, with tears dangerously clinging to her lashes, she forced herself to glance up at the circle of acquaintances gathering around them and offer a smile.

“Haha,’” she half-coughed, half-laughed. “This is– You lot shouldn’t have worried– I mean, it’s just the DMLE,” her facial muscles twitched to keep the smile in place. “And I’m the Deputy Head, not– not really the boss. But thank you! I guess. Thank you all so much!”

The surprise guests responded with a vibrant round of cheers, raising their glasses and showering her with compliments. Ron lifted her by the waist and spun her around, stealing another few kisses. Though her mouth tasted bitter, she forced herself to match his public display of affection with equal enthusiasm.

Chatter and music spread through the garden like wildfire then, conversations and laughter gaining momentum as night settled in.

There were way too many people, Hermione registered in silence, hands trembling, legs weak. She recognised a few familiar faces from the Ministry, but most of the guests were friends and family — even her parents were there, and her mother made the surprising effort to look happy. Those who couldn’t attend, Ron explained, had sent letters and presents, now stacked beside a towering three-tier cake which, according to Molly Weasley, had taken seven hours to make and ranked among her top five proudest culinary achievements.

It was too much.

The new Deputy Head of the DMLE received more hugs than she could count, but with each embrace, it felt as though something was being taken from her rather than given. The concentration required to greet everyone graciously was the only thing keeping her from slipping back into numbness, but maintaining a happy façade became nearly impossible after lying for the twentieth time about how thrilled she was over that damned promotion.

Hermione was finishing her fifth glass of veela champagne when she finally managed to slip away to a quiet corner. She sighed, taking in the scene around her. October-fairies flitted about, leaving trails of perfume in their wake. Four-year-old James Sirius was trying to teach Arthur Weasley how to ride a tiny bicycle, encouraged by Freddy and Teddy. Ron had somehow managed to gather his best friends for the first time in nearly six years and was now laughing in a tight-knit circle, surrounded by floating bottles of butterbeer and tactical projections of quidditch teams.

She felt grateful, yet far from content.

And as if sensing her unhappiness, Ginny Potter approached, carrying a tray piled high with Hermione’s favourite blueberry sweets. Her copper hair, cut just below the ears, blazed under the flickering golden lights, reinforcing her quiet contradictions: charming, yet fierce; kind, and still threatening. Watching her, Hermione found herself questioning why the rest of the world couldn’t live in that same balance. Why everything else always seemed to be one thing or the other, and by so, become so shallow. She wondered — not for the first time — if Ron were a woman, would she finally get both from him: the care and the crude, the fun and the deep.

Whatever the answer was, she actually hated herself for even asking. It was absurd to demand having it all. And if she were less greedy with her ambitions, she knew, perhaps she wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

While sitting down beside her, the Holyhead Harpies’ star Chaser said nothing. She kept her gaze fixed on the distant guests, offering as much presence as she gave space. Hermione watched her pick at the tray, but at some point, with no subtleness, she just reached for Ginny’s free hand, lacing their fingers together in quiet desperation, a silent plea for refuge she wouldn’t have the strength to utter aloud.

Ginny’s blue eyes searched hers, but Hermione turned away.

“Hey. Hey! What’s wrong, Mione? And don’t you dare tell me this is just exhaustion. You look… Miserable”, the redhead said, not without warmth in her tone. “Was the party too much?”

The new Deputy Head slumped her shoulders, resisting the need to refill her champagne glass and placing it gently on the grass. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

“The party is nice, I guess. Thank you for that, by the way. It’s just… The promotion itself, you know?” She hesitated, but the weight of that secret wasn’t manageable anymore. “It’s not a real thing, Gin. It was a scheme, a punishment, even. The Chamber of Lords just wants me out of the way, far from the legislation on magical creatures. They want me fucking tamed. Watched over and bossed around by someone like Alexander Humber, for Godric’s sake.”

“What?!” Potter snapped, making the other woman flinch, overwhelmed.

Thankfully, the outburst was swallowed by the noises of the ongoing celebration.

“What the actuall fuck?! How– why– Kingsley! Does Kingsley know?!”

Hermione gave her a humourless smile, her expression carrying a kind of weary acceptance, like a soldier who had surrendered not out of honour, but simply to survive.

Saying it aloud to someone not directly involved in the situation eased the tightness on her chest, if only for a moment. It didn’t lessen the shame of being too drained to keep fighting, nor the guilt that had built up with every sleepless week over the past few months. But it was… almost comforting — and Merlin, how she desperately needed comfort.

“Kingsley knows. He broke the news to me today, while we signed the papers,” Granger explained, lifeless. “According to him, it was either this, or the Wizengamot would approve the bill on the privatization of the entire Saint Mungo’s support network. ‘Beasts’ rights against wizarding rights, ‘a political trade-off’.”

The curly-haired witch shrugged, more to lessen the weight of it for herself than to reassure her best friend. But Ginny didn’t look convinced. She suddenly sprang to her feet, pacing as fast as she muttered a string of half-formed protests. Under the firelamps, her freckles all but vanished in a fury that flushed her cheeks the same shade as her hair. Then, without warning, she knelt down again and pulled her sister-in-law into an unexpected, deeply welcomed hug.

Hermione folded into the embrace, trembling, but still refusing to let any teardrop fall. The muscles in her throat were so stringented they felt on fire, the tension burning down through her shoulders. A nerve beneath her eyelid twitched with manic insistence, and if not for the hum of music and distant chatter, the clenching of her teeth might have been heard.

She wished she was allowed to go home, to a coup of tea, a book and old, half-blind Cruckshanks. She wished she was able to step away from a fight just to breathe and still come back without it costing her self-respect.

“Did you tell Harry? Or Ron?” Ginny’s voice was muffled against Hermione’s curls.

The question cut through the noise of Granger’s racing thoughts and through the fragile comfort she’d just begun to feel. It sounded instinctive, like the most natural thing to ask. And yet, Hermione needed a moment to gather herself, to confront her own train of thought.

How was she supposed to explain it to the boys if neither of them seemed to want to know? How to place a crisis this big into the hands of people who were just trying to stay away from any and all conflict? — Understandably so.

“No,” she said at last. “I haven’t told them anything.”

The Deputy Head of the DMLE straightened and pulled away from the hug in one swift motion, the loss of human touch sharpening the tremble that crawled up her limbs. To steady herself she folded her arms tightly around her torso, fingernails digging into her jacket, blocky heels pressing down hard on the humid grass.

She went on, not really wanting to.

“I mean, Harry’s trying to stay as far away from politics as he can, isn’t he? And Ron…” She paused just for a beat. “Well, he knows there are problems, but he gave everything he had to get out of the Department and leave the heavy mess behind. He’s a businessman now, not an Auror anymore. It would not be fair to bring him something he clearly wants distance from. And besides… you know, Ginny. This is far more delicate than they’d be able to handle.”

Ginny stood up as well, her expression dangling between confusion and frustration.

“Is it really too complicated for them, or is this just another one of those times when you can’t ask for help?”

Hermione let out a nervous laugh. She opened her mouth to reply, arms clutched even tighter around herself, suddenly feeling so exposed she might finally burst into tears. But before she could speak, the children came charging in, a whirlwind of miniature fireworks, bicycles, and small-sized broomsticks.

“Uncle Ron’s calling!”

“It’s cake time!”

“We’re cutting the cake!”

James, Teddy, and Freddy shouted over one another, their toys and tricks casting bursts of colourful light across Ginny’s worried expression and Hermione’s tearful eyes. It took the two witches a moment to get through the thick layer of tension, and when they finally moved, following the children back to the heart of the party, not a single further word was exchanged.

Hermione’s mind was racing, but her body still felt detached, as if she were walking underwater, or tripping on the faintest haze of a cannabis potion. The alcohol likely added to the unreality of it all, but the disassociation born out of fatigue was a familiar enough companion for her to know the difference. She was off. She moved between tables and guests with a smile she hoped passed for friendly, her gaze drawn repeatedly back to Ginevra, searching for that infamous question, and agonising over an answer that burned her skin just like the eight letters on her forearm still did.

Where was the line between being unable to ask for help, and being too exhausted to try? How could she ask for help when all that was expected from her was competence, cleverness, and relentless function? She was supposed to be the brightest, and that whole community made clear that if she wasn’t, she should get used to being nothing at all.

Merlin, if winning a war wasn’t enough to secure her worth, whatever could?

“...And I’m so proud of you, and of everything we’ve built together,” Ron was saying, holding one of her hands in front of the cake and the presents.

Hermione hadn’t heard the start of his speech — hadn’t even realised when she’d ended up standing there. But now, slightly more aware, she could make out the emotional, affectionate expressions on the faces watching them. Harry looked nervous, hands buried in his pockets and feet shifting restlessly. Ginny still wore that worried expression, cradling a placid baby Albus. Molly was dabbing at teary eyes with a handkerchief. And Ron…

When Hermione finally looked up at him properly, she noticed rare tears shining in the rim of his eyes. His ears were crimson-red, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the autumn chill. He was smiling like he’d never been happier, but she herself couldn’t understand where all that joy was coming from.

“This promotion’s just a tiny bit of what you deserve. Just one more step on the road to a lifetime of success. You’re brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant. You’re gonna be the best Head of the DMLE ever, and soon, the sexiest Minister for Magic in history!”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Three fat tears rolled down his cheeks, disappearing into his freshly trimmed beard. She smiled, because she thought she ought to. One of her hands remained caught in Ron’s damp palm; the other pinched the seam of her trousers at a rapid pace. He glanced towards the onlookers, as if seeking their approval. Hermione saw Harry nod encouragingly, and Ginny took a long, shaky breath.

Granger looked back at Ron, unsettled by the raw nervousness etched into his body language. Slowly and once more, like a soft tide creeping through her curls and down her spine, the numbness gave way to hyperawareness. All her senses firing up, and not much brain capacity to process them at time. She wanted to pull her hand back, but his cold, sweaty grip wouldn’t allow it.

“We all know you deserve all this and much more, but– Blimey, I– What I want to know–” his voice faltered, face impossibly red now.

He puffed out his cheeks and plunged a hand into his pocket. Like someone diving into a bottomless well, Ronald Weasley closed his eyes and sank to one knee.

Only then she understood.

“What I want to know, Hermione Jean Granger, is if I deserve to be your husband.”

The ring gleamed so brightly it seemed to set its immediate surroundings ablaze. Never truly stilled, it captured the light and returned rainbows with the slightest movements of Hermione Granger’s hand. Even amidst the expansive decoration of that Level Five office, with Nigerian tapestries and Czech glass sculptures, she and the jewel stood out. Excessive. Out of place.

The rose gold band was so thick it bit into her palm whenever she closed her hand; the diamonds, though polished, repeatedly grazed the sides of her little and middle finger, making the skin raw. As she gripped her inked quill, a blister began to form under the knuckle of her ring digit. A twenty-four-carat nightmare.

With a growl, the bride-to-be yanked the piece off and dropped it onto the heavy desk before her. The object was still spinning, casting sparks of light, when the door behind her opened.

“Is fifteen minutes the standard waiting time to get your autograph now?” Granger asked, a half-smile playing on her lips.

“I shouldn’t even have turned up,” came the deep, even reply, delivered with the same teasing lilt. “To let you die out of boredom in here is the bare minimum after not being invited to your little party."

The tall man stepped up beside Hermione, and she had to lift her chin high to meet his gaze properly. He was Black like her, but while her skin bore a burnished mahogany tone, his resembled polished ebony, smooth and spotless. As Granger rose to kiss his cheeks hello, she couldn’t help but wonder why, after every reunion, she allowed him to become a stranger again. The answer, though not unknown, was something she refused to admit — she was a Gryffindor, after all, and liked to believe that no amount of disapproval could ever strip her of the courage to nurture a real friendship.

He was patting her arm in a comforting way as she confessed, ashamed.

“I didn’t know it was going to be an engagement party. Or a promotion celebration. Or whatever the bloody hell it turned into by the end. I’m sorry, Blaise.”

“Don’t worry, pretty girl. The only person who still believes I could possibly mingle with your little circle is you. Well — you and Minerva, maybe. Merlin knows the poor thing still keeps our photo from that final year in her office like a community-rebuilding propaganda poster.”

Blaise Zabini stepped back, adjusting the dark green-black suit that already looked immaculate. Once on the other side of the desk, properly seated, he took his time to study her image with more attention, one brow arched, his face still adorned with that ever-ironic glint.

“Sweet Circe, aren’t you glowing?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and sat back down. She picked up a quill just to keep her hands busy, and when the silence stretched on for too long, she finally spoke, rubbing at the fresh blister forming on her palm.

“It’s just exhaustion. The mental preparation for all this has been… brutal.”

“Well, as for the ‘promotion’, no one’s ever truly prepared for a blow that low. But giving you space in the DMLE? This will be proven a mistake of epic proportions. I predict you’ll be making unexpected changes, H.G.. Soon enough.”

Blaise spoke with such certainty it stirred her curiosity. She looked up, ready to ask what his “predictions” were based on, but he dismissed the question with a wave and pointed at her instead, almost accusingly.

“Now,” Zabini narrowed his charcoal-lined eyes, “what actually worries me is something else.”

He ignored the stack of paperwork awaiting for his signature beneath the header of “Undersecretary for European Union Affairs” and reached for the ring resting on the desk, holding it at arm’s length with theatrical disdain.

After nearly a full minute of analytical silence, he delivered his verdict.

“This has nothing to do with you.”

Hermione shrugged, feigning indifference.

“Maybe. But it’s… memorable.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Blaise nodded several times, still focused on the ring. “Every line of Skeeter’s three-page article was worth it. But–” he slid the object back across the table towards Granger, as if it personally offended him, “how can it have nothing to do with you? Isn’t it your engagement ring?”

She had to suppress the urge to recoil — and silently scolded herself for the instinct. A low, persistent buzzing had begun in her ears, gently shoving her towards that all-too-familiar state of hypervigilance. She felt cornered, even in a safe space like this.

Granger cleared her throat, aiming for composure.

“It was a gift. A surprise.”

“Another absurdity, with all due respect.”

There was nothing remotely respectful in his tone. Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself not to bark back.

“It’s not absurd. I mean, the proposal itself wasn’t a surprise. I told you he was giving me hints about it back in the spring. Maybe you should spend less time criticising and more time listening.”

“I am listening, sweetheart,” he said with genuine softness. “I remember what you said — and you said you weren’t exactly thrilled by the idea. So what changed? That carriage-wheel of a ring?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Well, if nothing’s changed, let’s just hope that when you two divorce, the Goblins agree to melt down that monstrosity and line half of your vault at Gringotts with it.”

“Harry, Ron and I haven't really been allowed to have individual vaults at Gringotts since 1998,” Hermione said without even thinking, her eyes fixed on the ring.

Blaise’s laughter made her blink out of her trance.

Flushed to her collar, she finally snapped.

“That’s very rude of you!” For two seconds she felt like her eleven-year-old self, freshly off the Hogwarts Express, brows arched and the know-it-all tone borderline unbearable. “Just because you don’t think it suits me, doesn’t mean it’s a terrible ring! It’s mine. My engagement ring. So be nice, for Godric’s sake!”

“Oh?” He raised his hands in a mock surrender gesture. “So you actually loved all the sixteen fucking diamonds?”

“Of course not! It’s just–”

Zabini narrowed his eyes again — sharp, perceptive. He let the silence stretch just long enough to push her forward. Hermione followed the loose thread of her own thoughts, certain that whatever she said next would be used against her.

“Ron needs grand gestures to feel like he’s done something right,” she said, her voice unsteady, one leg bouncing, sad rather than critical. “And a few years ago, Harry gave Ginny a ring with seven diamonds, so he probably thought–”

Blaise’s resounding laugh made her flush crimson again, and without thinking, Hermione shot to her feet.

“That’s enough!”

His laughter faded slowly. She covered her face with both hands, rubbing her eyes just to avoid his disappointed expression — as if he were the one entitled to feel let down.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, her anger ebbing into something quieter, bitter. “The ring, what I expected, what actually happened– none of it matters. And even if it did, it wouldn’t be any of your concern, Zabini.”

Blaise nodded. After a calculated pause, he placed his open palms flat on the desk, presenting himself completely disarmed. When he spoke again, there was no trace of mockery or irony in his voice.

“It doesn’t surprise me that an impulsive Gryffindor might think a decision of this magnitude is irrelevant, but I must voice my concern,” he announced, pressing a hand to his chest, vowing his sincerity without having to actually swear it. “Salazar forbids me from overstating my importance, but come on… If I managed to teach you how to do your hair and find self-expression beyond whatever this wretched island calls fashion, then I can’t just stand by and let you dive headfirst into this horror show without at least trying to intervene.”

“Honestly,” he went on, “you deserve far more than a nouveau-riche redhead with an inferiority complex and small dick energy.”

Hermione laughed — humourless, and with no strength left to defend Ron from the insults. Still, the weight of her silence didn’t pass unnoticed, and the familiar, exhausting numbness crept back like punishment: quiet, but certain. A fucking rollercoaster.

“I’m not trying to be an awful person or a bad friend. Quite the opposite”, Blaise promised, as the curly-haired witch shook her head in utter disbelief.

Granger’s bottom lip was trembling. She heard his chair scrape against the floor and, eyes adrift, felt him stop beside her once more.

“Can’t you just say ‘congratulations’?” She asked in a timid whisper, defeated. “It doesn’t matter if you think it’s a bad decision. Just… pretend you’re happy.”

“H.G., love — clearly not even you can manage that at this point.”

The words froze her.

She had no sharp reply, no defensive wit.

It was simply true.

Hermione stood still, trembling in a rigid position. After a couple heart beats, her body crumbled with no warning, seeking for support in Zabini's embrace. She buried her face in his broad chest, letting her weight slump against his, knees barely functional. She couldn’t stop thinking it was the second time in less than four days she was collapsing. It was so embarrassing.

Blaise, who’d taught her how to wear the magnificent high bun she’d crafted that day, now rested his chin gently atop it, careful not to disturb a single curl, mindful to sustain the body contact as dry sobs threatened to become a muffled cry.

But there would be no tears, she decided.

They stayed like that for what felt like several long minutes. Only once Granger had stopped trembling did he speak again — gentle and soft, as if soothing a child — revealing something she hadn’t even thought to ask.

“I didn’t call you here just to sign your visa papers in person,” The former slytherin murmured. “I actually have something for you.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes as dark as Lord Morpheus’, flickering between worry and anticipation.

“As someone who cares about you, I realized it was my duty to present you with this option, especially now that you said yes to Ronald. And please, don’t take this the wrong way, but… Every time I see you, you seem more frustrated, more lifeless. And I don’t think it’s just work. Nor is it only that relationship of yours, either. I think it has more to do with…”

Blaise hesitated — something rare for him — and Hermione stiffened beneath his touch.

Despite his choice of words, he didn’t sound judgemental. Just focused, like he was revealing something deeply personal. He wet his lips before continuing, letting his arms slowly fall away until his embrace fully dissolved. Stepping completely back, he went on, cautious now.

“What happened during the war was unspeakable, for you more than for most, I’m well aware. And I understand that all that violence, all that loneliness still lingers. Merlin knows there are things this sick society doesn’t even let us admit we’ve endured, so it’s obvious we haven’t healed. We don’t know how. Not on our own, at least.”

Hermione furrowed her brow, lost at the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. Still, his words burned — in her darkened memories, in her scorched soul, and in the pain those years of savagery had left etched into her skin, quite literally.

“But what if I told you it doesn’t have to be that way?”

Blaise remained calm, though there was something new rising in the way his breath became more pronounced.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, drew his wand, and cast a subtle charm. The curly-haired witch was watching him so intently, seeking for clarity, that she only registered the drawer sliding open when she heard the wood creak. Two seconds later, a sealed envelope hovered in the air between them.

The paper and wax were the same deep, expressive red — like fresh-spilled blood, if you had to name the colour. The seal pulsed rhythmically, alive, like a tiny heart beating.

Granger felt transfixed.

“There’s a place where people can speak freely to one another: no fear of judgment, no risk of exposure,” Blaise continued, his voice quieter now, touched by the faintest trace of a shy smile. “A space where you can name your deepest desires, your most fragile needs for tenderness, and someone will be there, ready to hold them. To match them. To sate them — emotionally or physically, whatever you want.”

Hermione’s jaw slackened as realisation dawned. Her eyes stayed locked on the envelope. She shook her head to wake up out of that stupor, and when she finally spoke, her voice carried an emotion she couldn’t quite name — but for once, it wasn’t that familiar deadened fatigue, nor was it the sharp-edged alertness of anxiety.

“You’re really inviting me to a brothel?” She whispered, somewhere between mortification and intrigue.

“Not a brothel,” Blaise corrected, as if the distinction were sacred, most vital. “It’s a house devoted to the art of surrender.”

Had she not been so stunned, Hermione might have laughed.

“Sometimes, H.G., what haunts us comes from so far back, we don’t even have a name for it. And sometimes, the only thing that can release the pressure is something we’d never thought to consider,” he said, drawing two manicured fingers across the envelope as if the crimson parchment were sentient, the touch skirting the edge of reverence and obscenity.

Hermione felt her cheeks flare, but couldn’t summon a single word in response.

“You’re frustrated. And I doubt your future husband has what it takes to help you in any field” Zabini added, now with a flicker of his usual sharpness back in place. “I can see how touch-starved you are, but you’re also hesitant. Guilty even about accepting something as simple as a comforting hug from a friend. You need release, Granger. You need to let go. Even if it’s only once, before the altar.”

“No!”

The bride-to-be rasped, scandalised, suddenly unsteady, unaccountably hot.

That was a crazy idea. Something only someone as selfish and out of touch as Blaise could come up with. That was a choice reserved for crude people — crude men, mostly — and she was above the mere consideration of the proposal.

“Have you lost it? That’s– No, Blaise! Just– no!”

He slid the envelope in the air toward her with the same two fingers that had been caressing it moments before.

“Think about it. Please,” she could see the urgency and care in his eyes, both painfully sincere. “It’s in Paris. Not far from where we’ll be putting you up. Just… visit. Get to know. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. But go. With an open mind, if possible. Let yourself be cared for. Ask for it with no shame. Just this once. Right? You deserve that. You really do, love.”

Later that day, Hermione Granger left the office of the Undersecretary for European Union Affairs with a stack of freshly signed papers. Her grotesque engagement ring drew so much attention to her free hand that no one in the Department of International Magical Co-operation noticed the blood-red envelope in the other — its seal still pulsing between her fingers.

Beneath the orange sweep of sunset, her fingers drifted over the contours of the crimson wax, enjoying the steady rhythm simulated by the anatomically perfect heart. Her brown eyes shimmered with an amber hue, lost in the view beyond the window. Paris’ dusk was poetic, and it bid Hermione Granger farewell with colours, curves, and scents that stirred in her an unwelcome romantic yearning. She had fought hard to suppress it over the past week, but hadn’t been entirely successful.

She savoured the final sip of her delicious white Muscat, teasing the condensation on the glass as the liquid slid over her tongue, sensually. When she reached to pour another dose, her gaze finally snapping back into focus, she realised the elegant bottle was already empty.

Although the Beaumes-de-Venise had vanished without her even noticing, its effects became particularly evident when Granger stood to tidy her mess. Her luggage was already packed by then, but the table remained cluttered with other wines, cheeses, chocolates, and stacks of books waiting to be stowed away. Postcards, souvenirs, and at least three miniatures of the Eiffel Towers were piled atop her carry-on, so they wouldn’t be forgotten when she left.

Slowed by the wine’s haze, Hermione sifted through used papers and empty wrappings, laughing to herself as she found the thick stack of receipts documenting the very insolent expenses of the past seven days — all to be paid in full by the British Ministry of Magic.

The consolation prize, practically imposed by Kingsley Shacklebolt, could never compensate for the disruption to her political and professional trajectory. Still, it had brought her cultural adventures and gastronomic excursions that she genuinely savoured, alongside with a much-needed pocket of solitude to process everything that had happened those past few months.

The trouble, however, seemed to be precisely that. She had allowed herself to get lost among centuries-old libraries and haunted ruins, but her mind had struggled to let the Parisian architectural splendour and cultural richness really sink in. Her head was simply overcrowded with thoughts. And thinking — about the reasons behind the trip, about her engagement, about Blaise Zabini’s filthy invitation — had made all those experiences taste like dirt to the newly appointed Deputy Head of the DMLE.

As she filled her magically extended suitcase with her most recent luxury editions of French-English translated literary classics, she felt herself souring again. It was more than frustrating to realise that every memory built in that Enlightenment dreamscape would always be stained by a vignette of anxiety.

She knew that when she returned to England the following afternoon, she’d be met with a different reality — one filled with marriage preparations and the technicalities of the enforcement of magical law. In all honesty, those could be her last moments of peace and self-satisfaction until she adjusted to her new life. It was likely that tonight represented the final glimpse of lightness until the expectations and obligations that came with the title of “the Brightest Witch of Her Age” settled into something more bearable, habitual enough to endure without so much inner pain. And as realization sunk in, the part of her that was exhausted from being exhausted, and that longed to stop feeling so anxious, suddenly started to beg, almost deliriously, for her to savour what remained of that rare stretch of privacy, indulgence, and carefreeness.

Feeling trapped in that hotel room, Hermione Granger understood clearer as her breathing grew shallow, that more than anything, she wanted to stop weighing cost and consequence. She wanted to clear her mind, dissociate, surrender — even if only to craft a single, specific memory of what freedom felt like.

Across the room, the envelope’s seal began to pulse more intensely, as though feeding on her distress. The blood-red parchment glowed like a beacon, calling to her, presenting the way. Before she even realised she’d moved, Hermione was at the desk again, her fingers once more tracing the wax mound, the throbbing mirroring her own heartbeat and the grown urgency she felt. Her face was bathed in the carmine light that radiated with every artificial beat, and her pupils reacted to that at a very disturbing pace, contracting and dilating.

There was fear and hesitation as Granger broke the seal; the wax split with a soft crack, brushed away by the faint gasp that slipped from her lips. The room was so dark now that the curly-haired witch doubted she’d be able to read whatever Blaise’s gift had to reveal; truth be told, she could barely hold the parchment straight because her hands were trembling too much.

Twilight had poured a heavy darkness into every corner, creeping in as quietly as the desperation for release had slid inside Hermione’s body. When she finally drew out the invitation, golden letters shimmered against the gloom. At that moment, everything was filled — the rest of the room, by night. And her, by utter desire.

The door was monumental, and it definitely hadn’t been there three days ago. Or three years ago. Or fifteen. Hermione Granger had never seen that place before, despite all her previous wanderings through the City of Light.

Unlike Diagon Alley — encapsulated in the heart of London and neatly sealed off from the Muggle world, save for its access points —, the magical community on the Île Saint-Louis was seamlessly interwoven with its non-magical surroundings. Charms and illusions kept Muggles away, confused or disinterested, as they passed by the many potion shops, grimoire libraries, and museums of magical creatures scattered across the tiny island rising from the Seine, older even than Paris itself.

Hermione had never set foot on the island after dark, and now she understood the changes: in the absence of daylight, structures, entrances, and passageways emerged from thin air and took form within the living fabric of the city. For the first time then she stood before that grandiose building at the junction of Rue Le Regrattier and Quai d'Orléans. Everything around fell quiet and slowly became desert.

Standing beneath the great stone archway that framed the entrance, Granger felt her entire body shake. The massive door had been carved from red wood, a deep, vibrant hue that matched exactly the colour of the invitation that had brought her here. The shade was so hypnotic it seemed to stir her pulse into a quicker rhythm, and whether it was the psychology of colours or a good old-fashioned spellwork, the truth was that it left her breathless with anticipation for whatever laid beyond.

There was no doorknob, no knocker, no bell to announce her arrival, only an iron lantern hanging from the apex of the arch, casting a warm light on the stone beneath, marking the place where a visitor should stand.

As she waited, uncertain of what to do, the rational, functional part of her mind began listing — alphabetically and by degree of seriousness — all the reasons why she should walk away while she still could. Just as the absurdity of the situation reached a high enough point to convince her that the very consequences she was so desperate to ignore would be the cause of her downfall, the slightly crumpled invitation tucked in her coat pocket began to pulse again. Even with the seal broken, it throbbed so strongly that not even the layers of wool and cotton she wore could muffle it.

Her stomach turned; her hands were wet. Hermione drew the enchanted pass from her pocket, and while she searched for a slot or scanner to show it, the parchment lifted from her hand and hovered in the air, just inches away from her face. The instructional paragraphs, printed in gleaming gold, lit up once more. With a high, ethereal hum, the words, written in both French and English, vibrated against the paper, rearranging themselves into a new message that was projected outwards.

The light struck her face first, but before she could react, the parchment surged forward, offering no time to move. Granger let out a startled gasp and stumbled backwards, feet scraping the pavement, hands flaring for balance. The envelope hit her head-on, curving around the soft bridge of her nose and moulding to the contours of her face. Yet, instead of pain or discomfort, and apart from the scare-jump, the impact only gave way to a delicate tickle of luminous red particles; the invitation simply dissolved into something like glitter, drifting over her skin in a gentle breeze.

As the sparkling cloud faded, the doors of the manor swung open. The golden words that had just reflected off her face still burned behind her eyelids: Welcome to Maison de l’Abandon.

Her heart pounded at the base of her tongue; blood surged loud in her ears. No one stood beyond the threshold to greet her, and if it weren’t for the intoxicating sensation of being truly excited for the first time in months, Hermione might have finally given in to the impulse to turn around and pretend none of this had ever happened.

She had no idea what to expect as she took her first steps inside. The corridor wasn’t narrow, yet she felt enclosed by something palpable. When the door clicked shut behind her, the house itself seemed to inherit the pulse once held by the invitation, a heartbeat in sync with her own, rapid and exhilarated. It throbbed through the walls, beneath the floor, and most vividly in the crimson-glowing lamps that panted along the passage, showing her the way.

With her wand loosely holstered but within reach, Hermione pressed forward.

The low, blocky heels of her boots made no sound; her fingertips, curious, slid over the wallpaper without a whisper. The space absorbed everything, even her breath, which dissolved into the stillness the moment it left her lips.

It was much warmer inside than it had been out. The coat and turban she’d deliberately chosen to conceal her unmistakable curls were quickly becoming excessive, suffocating, even. Beads of sweat had already begun to form beneath her breasts by the time the corridor ended abruptly at another door, which, like the first, opened without anyone present to welcome her.

And she hesitated. The room beyond was brighter, and its light spilled outward like a promise, the climax to the mystery that had drawn her this far.

Granger knew there would be no turning back: to cross that threshold meant that whatever laid beyond would be final. Entering was a choice made in defiance of every expectation that had shaped her life since the war — even before it. Taking that step meant breaking rules. And while rule-breaking wasn’t exactly new to her, it now carried a different weight, different recoupment.

When she stepped forward, she did it with her eyes shut.

The young witch exhaled slowly as the door clicked shut behind her. Here, the air moved, and sound dispersed rather than absorbed. Tentatively, she parted her eyelids, as if afraid that seeing the room might make her presence in it too real. What she saw, however, forced a breath of astonishment from her chest, leaving her trembling even more.

On the wall opposite to the entrance, three enormous mirrors hung, reflecting the space in ways that distorted its proportions, making it seem larger, disorientingly so. But what truly disturbed Hermione was her own reflection. Her face, which she’d expected to be dusted with the glitter left behind by the dissolving invitation, was instead concealed behind a mask.

The witch furrowed her brow, stepping closer to the mirrors, lifting an uncertain hand to her cheeks. Her fingers found nothing but skin, yet her reflection wore a striking garment, adorned with embossed golden filigree and shifting shades that went from black to the same deep navy-blue as her turban and trousers. It was a captivating glamour. “Welcome to Maison de l’Abandon,” an androgynous voice coming from nowhere declared in French, sending a shiver through Granger’s body as she recoiled away from the mirrors.

“It is always our pleasure to receive a true devotee of the art of surrender.”

Turning in search of the voice, she noticed that the centre of the room had been furnished with a round table and a rich armchair. Atop the dark glass surface, several papers, a pot of ink, and a quill had been conjured, followed in turn by various other crafted, fancy items.

Once again, her heartbeat quickened until she could feel it in her fingertips — though this time, the rush stemmed from sheer awe instead of self-doubt.

A wandless, quiet and faceless charm whisked her overcoat from her body, reappearing it moments later on a hanger beside a carved wooden minibar, stocked with alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, snacks, and elegant handheld fans.

Hermione was still absorbing the sensation of her bare shoulders meeting the charged air when the disembodied voice resumed, outlining the “visit protocols.” She couldn’t help but smile a little shyly at the announcement that her stay had been “entirely covered by her patron,” and that she was free to enjoy everything the Manor had to offer without spending a single Florin — or Galeon, because they were “able to exchange foreign currency, upon due taxing”.

The visiting witch was informed that all rules of conduct and anonymity guidelines were detailed in the documents on the table, and that entry would only be granted upon full consent to each clause, no exceptions. Granger felt a surge of relief as she realised that anyone who signed the forms would be magically bound to silence regarding anything that happened within these walls, save for a few clearly stated, reasonable judicial exceptions.

Eyes narrowed, body leaning slightly forward, she followed the narration point by point, captivated. Though the process might have seemed bureaucratic or even tense at first glance, the atmosphere kept her pulse racing and her muscles lax, maybe thanks to another charm, or maybe due to the distinct, intoxicating scent that seemed to steam from the walls. The ambient music started so softly it went initially unnoticed, but now it pulsed with deep beats and languid brass, reaching her almost like a feather touch.

It was like everything in the room was alive, including her — finally, finally her.

“In the glass case marked with a Hermes’ Shield, an enchanted needle awaits to ensure your health is in perfect condition, safeguarding both you and all Artists within this House,” the voice instructed, just as she reached for the object, inspecting it with wide-eyed fascination. Did Saint Mungo’s had something like this? Was it a patented object?

“Prick your finger until it bleeds, and allow at least one drop to fall onto the crystal surface. If approved, your full results may be collected upon exit or delivered by owl to a designated address, should you prefer to be informed of the content.”

Hermione completed the blood test, torn between her desire to absorb each unfamiliar magical detail and her need to pay attention to the ongoing instructions.

“To determine your match scope for potential partners, please complete the form enclosed in the red folder. Once all data has been processed, your control collar will manifest. Through it, you’ll be able to identify individuals whose interests most closely align with your own. Please note that interacting with Artists outside your match group is not forbidden, but may lead to mismatched expectations or to the disruption of formerly established personal limits.”

“From the moment you put on the collar, the glamour concealing your identity will be bound to it. You and solely you are allowed to remove it and reveal your identity, should you wish to do so. Voluntary unmasking is permitted and remains protected under our Non-Disclosure Vow, but must be approached with care.”

The form was alarmingly thorough and became increasingly discomforting as the questions progressed. She was asked not only to clarify her intentions for being there, but also to specify which eventual sexual practices she would feel comfortable engaging in. But was she willing to actually engage in sexual practices at all? The prompts put her on a brief pause, eliciting doubt on whether she truly had the courage to see it all through.

In a sudden flicker of panic, attempting to reassure herself that this was, at its core, a rite of release, necessary and justifiable, Hermione hesitated over the field requesting the genders of her prospective partners.

It was true that whatever happened within those walls would remain there; none of that would ever cross the Channel to haunt her in England. But she wouldn’t be Hermione Granger if she weren’t already drafting a damage control plan, just in case she ever needed to confess this… experience to Ron.

Silently, she considered: although in practice it changed nothing, she knew Ronald would feel less betrayed if her encounter involved a woman rather than a man, especially if it were to end up in sex. Furthermore, it wasn’t as if she had never wanted to be with a woman before. Merlin knew she and Alicia Spinnet had shared more than just classnotes in Hermione’s fourth and fifth years. And it would certainly be easier to feel more comfortable talking and laughing and dancing and… touching a woman.

Still, her lack of practical experience beyond the occasional frantic kisses or heated gropes at Hogwarts dark corridors made the whole plan feel, at best, naive, and at worst, something she might later come to regret. In any case, though, avoiding a man’s company seemed a subtle present — and it sealed it off, then.

With a flicker of unexpected boldness, Granger marked an X beside “women only.” And once everything had been made clear, she had to concentrate to catch the final instructions through the rush of blood defending her senses.

Reluctantly, the witch left her wand along with any personal items she didn’t wish to take “into the Gallery”; they would be locked away in a vault that only her collar could open.

The collar in question materialised the moment her belongings were secured. It was a round, golden pendant, inscribed with a blend of ancient and modern runes, arranged so intricately that even with all her training, she couldn’t decipher them. The enchanted piece matched her outfit perfectly, highlighting the mask designed to complement her turban. Her reflection evoked a reborn Egyptian goddess. And for the first time in what felt like ages, Hermione Granger felt irresistible.

The moment something clenched low in her abdomen, the lights dimmed, the side mirrors dissolved like smoke, and the central one condensed into an open passageway, draped with heavy velvet curtains that begged to be touched.

Just before she pushed the fabric aside and stepped into the deepest red light she had ever seen, Hermione heard, from somewhere distant:

“Maison de l’Abandon wishes you a delightful night.”

And at first, she felt disoriented.

When the crimson haze finally lifted and her eyes adjusted to the new surroundings, Granger stood motionless for a few moments, needing time to take it all in.

She found herself at the edge of something resembling an amphitheatre. The space was vast and oval-shaped, lined with marble staircases and columns that marked the perimeter, supporting and granting access to elevated galleries where the lighting was even more subdued than on the main floor. The chandeliers and candelabras were mostly decorative, because the true illumination seemed to pulse from the walls themselves, which decided, as if sentient, how much light to reflect or absorb. Everything was bathed in a reddish-orange glow, as though she had slipped into a parallel universe smouldering within a candle flame.

There were no windows; telling the time was impossible. Fabrics hung from the vaulted ceiling, so delicate and light they swayed with the subtle, perfumed currents drifting in from nowhere. The air carried the scent of incense, sweat, and decaying flowers — faint, yet inescapable. She couldn’t spot any speakers or musicians, but the music throbbed so near it felt as though the percussion was reverberating from within her own body.

And all around her there were, undeniably, many bodies. Not as many to form a crowd, but enough to fill the sunken atrium below with a stirring intimacy. A few dozen descending steps separated Hermione from the other “Artists”, who moved in a sort of gentle stupor, dancing, talking, embracing, kissing, weeping in each other’s arms. Unlike Hermione, most of those still dressed had chosen lighter garments, likely accustomed to the sultry warmth despite the autumn chill beyond these walls. Their masks complemented their clothing, many of them transfiguring with each movement — from where she stood, she could glimpse a moon shifting through its phases, rose petals falling and firing into sparks, and droplets of water cascading without dampening those nearby.

Still uncertain, but far too enchanted to feel out of place, she moved at a contemplative pace toward the bar. With each step, the floor beneath her revealed whatever flowed within the stone — crimson veins threading the dark marble, pulsing in places, carrying magic in a heartbeat through the very foundations of the building. Hermione had never entered a structure so utterly steeped in magic and so unafraid to show it.

Seated at the bar on the eastern edge of the atrium, Granger was handed the menu by a worker wearing a shimmering white silk robe and a mask made of pure smoke — shapeless, ever-shifting. He sported a seductive gentleness that made her blush, despite the purely professional tone of his words. She was still trying to settle her hormones while deciding on her first drink of the night when her collar warmed with the faintest vibration. Her instinct was to glance down at it, but the pendant sat too close to her throat to be seen. She touched it lightly, unsure whether that might trigger some enchantment, and had just begun turning back toward the worker when something stopped her mid-motion.

A striking figure emerged from the sea of clothed, semi-clothed, and naked bodies. A tall, blonde witch was ascending the steps from the atrium toward the bar with a kind of elegant purpose, completely ignoring the man at her side, who hovered like an irritating insect, doing his best to walk sideways just to stay in her line of vision.

Her mask resembled lace, delicate and soft, save for the dark gemstones stitched in floral patterns along the hidden contours of her face. Hermione bit her lower lip, heat spreading across her face as she took in the witch’s body. Her long, slitted dress looked like leather, yet nothing about her movements felt stiff or restrained. On the contrary: she walked with the slow, deliberate grace of a jaguar on the hunt, dangerously beautiful.

Granger hurried to look away, trying to temper the flood of sensation. She didn’t want to be the next prey! Though she wouldn’t exactly mind if it happened.

Her collar grew more insistent. She’d been trying to dampen its reaction, but when she felt a clear directional push under her fingers, she released it. The pendant rose on its own, stiffening mid-air and pointing unmistakably at the woman in the lace mask.

Hermione flushed deeper. She was certain that the impulse in her jewel meant one of her potential matches for the evening was close, or at the very least it confessed to the outer world her type of attraction. Wanting to hide it until she had the courage to act, she caught the pendant and pressed it flat against her chest, resolute.

It wasn’t insecurity. She felt amazing, more confident than she could remember ever being, but something in the blonde’s stride sent a shiver through her. It made her feel bare.

Hermione turned back to the bar to finally place her order: a mojito with two measures of Goblin rum and lots of sugar. She waited in such tension that, from a distance, she might’ve looked petrified. After a minute, inside her crunched fist, the pendant shifted again, this time pulling insistently to her side.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blonde now standing at the opposite end of the bar. She watched, breath caught, as the woman calmly explained that her collar was responding to someone other than the insistent man following her. He tried to object, but whatever she said in return silenced him immediately.

And then Hermione saw where the magic jewel pointed: directly at her, in response.

Their eyes met for the first time that night, and Hermione’s heart tripped over itself in pure euphoria. The lace mask left the blonde’s full lips visible, just as Hermione’s own heart-shaped mouth remained uncovered. Their smiles appeared in unison — sensual and composed on one side, hesitant and tender on the other.

She let go of her pendant, allowing it to stretch hungrily toward the other woman. Her teeth caught her lower lip again. Her clothes, once empowering, now felt suffocating — far too much fabric in far too much heat. Beads of sweat gathered at the small of her back and beneath her arms. Good Godric, she could only hope her perfume was holding its ground.

They lingered like that for a few breaths, watching one another, the pendants surging toward each other like magnets. Then, finally, the blonde raised one hand — a polite, silent question: ”May I join you?”

Hermione nodded immediately, a touch too eagerly. In any other setting, she might have chastised herself for the excess, but here, now, she was too captivated by the woman’s every movement to care.

The worker behind the counter set her drink down at the precise moment the stranger took the seat beside her. Both pendants stilled at once. Hermione’s gaze followed the sweep of the other woman’s collar, and she had to stifle a breath of delight at what she saw.

The blonde’s dress rose from the elegant curve of her breasts, cloaking her chest before tapering into a triangle that ended at her throat. There, five thin and firm hastes — fabric-covered and jointed like slender bones — curved into the shape of a delicate, spectral hand, resting lightly around her neck. It felt like a promise.

“I will have a Jacques Selosse. The Substance. Please,” the woman in the lace mask asked the worker, though her eyes hadn’t left Hermione since they first found her.

Her voice was low — not husky, but composed by an opaque weight, slightly nasal, delivered with a soft, deliberate friction. She spoke English with a clear accent, the syllables slipping across her lips like an offering. Hermione was a little dazed, and had to summon every ounce of her Gryffindor courage to hold up that gaze — blue eyes, piercing even from afar.

“I would also like a sip of your mojito, if that is not too bold of me.”

Hermione smiled more freely at the request. She used the pause to steady herself, to hush the thundering rhythm of her heart. Then, lifting the glass, she took a sip through the straw and passed it across to the woman — who, without breaking eye contact, drank from the same spot without hesitation, unfazed by the faint print of Hermione’s soft brown lipstick.

“Now you owe me a taste of… whatever it is you ordered.”

“Champagne,” the witch replied, still holding the glass. Her restrained smile loosened slightly, and the corners of her eyes crinkled in the subtlest of ways. “Although I might add, I’ve heard somewhere that good actions do not require reciprocation. It is called altruism. Are you familiar with the concept?”

Her tone was ironic, flirtatious. The way she brought the straw to her lips again held Hermione’s gaze for far too long — long enough that she only realised she should reply when the blonde tilted her head, waiting.

“The whole point of good deeds is that they’re a cycle,” said the curly-haired witch, aiming for the same teasing tone. “We learn to do good precisely because we’ve received good things before.”

“So I am to assume we will be exchanging favours all night long?”

The blonde crossed her legs, shifting her torso just so in the counter's direction, serving Hermione with a glimpse of her completely bare back. The dress resumed just two fingers above her coccyx, and the sight made Granger’s nostrils flare.

She had to blink a few times. Her own blue-navy trousers clung tightly enough to leave little to the imagination, but she suddenly wished she’d chosen something more revealing. She wanted to show off as well.

The champagne arrived, and her companion finally returned the mojito. After taking her first sip, the blonde lifted the flute towards Hermione with an expectant, though moderate smile.

Granger went for a tentative sip of the sparkling wine, immediately scrunching her face at the taste.

“Do you always choose such dry drinks?” She asked, handing the flute back, repulsed.

“I suppose I prefer saving sweetness for other contexts,” the blonde replied, raising her glass in a provocative toast.

“Unless the sweetness in question is my mojito, of course,” the turbaned witch shot back, seizing the cocktail to underline her point, draining nearly half of it in an attempt to wash the bitterness from her tongue.

The other witch’s lips twitched, the corners tightening as she swallowed with deliberate slowness, clearly suppressing a laugh. At the sight, the Gobblin rum in Hermione’s drink hit just so.

“I am adaptable. Inflexibility is a rather limiting trait, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hm... And to what else do you extend your flexibility to?” Hermione asked simply — and the laugh that slipped from beneath the lace mask made her shiver.

Granger glanced towards the rows of bottles behind the bar, unsure how to handle that sound — low, subtle, almost a purr, but more dangerous than cute. It set her skin alight, a warning disguised as delight.

“I guess what I’m trying to ask is–” she began again, pushing herself to meet the blonde’s eyes. “Are you... used to this sort of thing?”

“Do you mean the nudity or the orgies?” the blonde replied, gesturing lazily toward the atrium below.

Granger shook her head, amused by the elegant tone the other witch had chosen to answer such a question with. And without realising it, she leaned in slightly, resting an elbow on the bar.

“I mean all of it. The whole Maison de l’Abandon thing — are you a regular, or is this your first time?”

“I’ve been here a few times before, yes, but never alone.”

“So you are used to the orgies,” Hermione teased, arching her brows suggestively, even if they remained hidden beneath the glamour.

“Do you think I’d fit in?” The blonde fired back, her tone disarmingly sincere, lips grazing the rim of her glass as though expecting something.

“I think you’d fit wherever you pleased,” was the most honest thing Granger could bring herself to say, and it seemed to be enough.

The woman in the lace mask smiled and took another sip of her champagne, the movement of her throat beneath that sculpted hand making Hermione’s mouth water.

“What’s it like being here on your own, from someone used to coming with company?” The turbaned witch asked, forcing her gaze away from that pale neck.

“‘Unimpressive’ is the word I’d choose — though I suppose the prospects have changed.”

She punctuated the sentence with a delicate flick of her tongue across her lips, chasing the last trace of that sour champagne. Granger felt her pulse spike, shifting in her seat to resist leaning any closer.

“And what actually made you come alone this time?”

“I have work to do in England soon, and I wanted to leave Paris certain that I had the full experience the city has to offer.”

Hermione lingered on the “full experience” part, wondering what that meant for the blonde. If she had been assigned as her possible match, then sex couldn’t have been her only goal there — even if it wasn’t entirely off the table; even if it was becoming more desirable with each passing second. But Granger had been clear in her application: she wanted real connection. Stimulating, open conversation. She wanted to surrender first her mind, the impossible expectations of the outside world. Whatever came after, or during, would be welcome, but never the point. Was the other woman in the same state of mind?

She drew a breath deeper than necessary, nudging the conversation forward before her overthinking could sabotage the easy, playful rhythm they had found.

“So... heading back home, I assume. That’s nice.”

“Is it, really?”

Despite the mask, Granger could almost see her expression — a wrinkled nose over pursed lips, a fleeting fracture in the polished composure she had worn so far. And perhaps sensing Hermione’s curiosity, or feeling too exposed beneath her gaze, the blonde quickly added:

“What are you doing in a place like this, so far from…” She seemed to consider, blue eyes roaming Hermione’s figure with a mix of intrigue and appetite. “Hampstead Garden? Is that right?”

The turbaned witch’s jaw dropped just short of theatrically, but she was unable to hide her awe. She pulled back in surprise, then immediately leaned in again, dragging her stool a few inches closer.

“How?! Are you some kind of accent specialist?”

“Among other things,” the blonde replied, winking beneath the lace — and everything below Hermione’s waist seemed to ignite as if the small gesture was a spark.

“Amazing,” she breathed, barely audible. But the way the woman looked at her brought that earlier question rushing back to the surface.

Clearing her throat, Granger tried to recover, though the words snagged as unruly thoughts stirred beneath her composure — the fucking reality outside that place still existed.

“I’m here on a work trip,” she offered, then winced, realising how unprofessional that sounded. “Well, not exactly. I’m in Paris on a promotional trip. The invitation to the Maison was a gift from a friend.”

“Oh, my! Congratulations!”

It was the most open smile her companion had revealed so far. Her teeth were beautiful — square, broad, perfectly fitted to those full lips. Hermione felt herself pulled even deeper by that detail.

When the woman spoke again, her voice had dropped in a sultry contrast to the burst of cheer seconds earlier, “You must be a good girl, then.”

The assumption and the tone made Hermione’s mouth fall open once more. Her gaze faltered, unable to hold those burning blue eyes. As she laughed awkwardly, her attention drifted again to that graceful neck, cradled by the elegant claw — ready to be squeezed by hands as delicate as those, if she allowed it.

The woman’s earrings were distracting and silvery. They dangled from her dainty ears and seemed to obey her will, never tangling with the artfully loose strands escaping her high ponytail. Both the jewellery and those wayward tendrils framed her face — and for the first time, though certainly not the last, Hermione found herself desperately wishing she would drop the glamour.

“Is it allowed to ask what one does for a living here?” Granger prompted, trying to regain some ground in the conversation despite still feeling breathless.

“Allowed, yes. But not recommended,” the blonde explained gently. “We can always guess, though. And judging by how eager you are for information, I would say… Law enforcement. And yet…”

She studied Hermione again for a few thoughtful seconds. The way her gaze moved, flicking over the young witch’s hands to the crossing of her ankles, felt both flattering and unnerving.

“Your smile is far too gorgeous for something so… mean-spirited.” The pause wasn’t hesitation, exactly, but more a moment of rhetorical restraint, as if she had thought of a harsher word and chosen mercy instead. “A teacher, then,” she concluded. “Or a university professor.”

She missed the truth as she tried to fix it, but the comment softened Hermione instantly. This monumental woman thought her smile was gorgeous! More than that, she saw her as intelligent, curious, someone worthy of the noble act of teaching.

Not that Hermione was trying to impress anyone.

The whole point of being here was to shed expectations. But it was impossible to deny that being seen as an intellectual soothed her ego. It made her feel safe.

Smiling shyly, eyes fixed on the bar, she murmured a delicate, “Maybe.”

The blonde placed a hand on the counter, near Hermione’s, directly beneath the spot the young witch had been staring at to avoid being distracted by her gaze. Her fingers were long and slender, adorned with three rings on one hand, each one more expensive than the next. Her voice suggested she was older than Hermione, and the soft veins on her palm confirmed the suspicion — nothing dramatic, perhaps fifteen years at most. There was no way she was over forty-five, witch or not.

“Go ahead,” her companion encouraged, her voice dropping again to that rich, low murmur. “Don’t you want to try me as well?”

Granger shivered once more. Eyes now fixed on those short, neatly filed nails coated in sheer, translucent polish. The agitation inside her traveled downward, until muscles deep in her lower belly clenched so abruptly she had to exhale loudly, stifling a moan.

“Now I’m taken aback,” the turbaned witch whispered, confident she’d be heard, if only because she felt those eyes fixed directly on her lips. “I may be eager for information, but I don’t want to pry.”

“Don’t worry.” The blonde’s hand left the counter and drifted toward Hermione’s thigh. Her slender fingers hovered so close that Granger could feel the heat through the fabric, though the touch itself remained purely suggestive. “Here we reveal only what we feel comfortable bearing,” she finished, her voice as soft as the promised caress.

Hermione was grateful for the mask hiding her face — the blush climbing her chest and stinging her eyes would have been comical if exposed.

Her tongue felt clumsy now, as if the mere possibility of being touched by that unknown woman had stripped her of the ability to form complete sentences. The seductive atmosphere of the Maison surely involved some kind of enchantment, something that heightened desire, amplified yearning — either that, or she was experiencing a level of arousal so unlike anything before that her body had no reference to rely on, and therefore didn’t know how to behave.

She wetted her lips to make them move, the lipstick suddenly cracked and stiff against her sensitive skin.

“Well… You speak like aristocracy. But you said you have work to do,” Granger offered, thoughtfully. “A politician, maybe? The poise and rhetoric are on point.”

The blonde smirked, her hand still hovering just above Hermione’s leg.

“Hm. A good girl indeed.”

Hermione bit her lip to suppress her triumphant grin, but it escaped anyway.

“So I guessed right?” She asked, hopeful, almost needy.

“Do you like that? Being right?”

“Who doesn’t?” Hermione laughed at the obviousness of the question.

And in an abrupt but fluid movement, the blonde withdrew her promised touch. Before Granger could mourn the loss, however, the woman beckoned her closer with a curl of her index finger, turning away from the bar and toward the atrium, offering her attention to something else for the first time since she sat down.

Hermione mirrored the shift in posture. Her already racing heart skipped so hard it nearly made her choke. A shiver crawled from the base of her throat down to the deepest part of her stomach. So much anticipation.

Facing the lowered gallery, Granger leaned subtly toward the other witch, now close enough to catch her scent — patchouli, definitely, but partnered with something sharper.

The hand that had nearly caressed her now pointed vaguely toward the couples and groups in various stages of surrender. That previous smile had acidified into something more ironical, almost a sneer.

“If you ask around, you will find plenty of people who enjoy being told how wrong they are,” the blonde clarified, her index and middle fingers tracing languid shapes in the air, weaving nothing and everything at once. Hermione watched, enchanted.

“They will beg to be called stupid. They will relish on being stripped of their dignity. Some people love to feel worthlessness.”

“Is that your case?”

Hermione had no idea where the question had come from.

Perhaps the woman’s tone — deep, intense, overwhelmingly sensual — had peeled back her inhibitions. But now, as she turned to meet those burning blue eyes, sensing, even without seeing, the offended arch of her brows, Hermione realised her mistake in even entertaining the thought.

This wasn’t a woman who allowed herself to be diminished. Not even in bed — especially not in bed.

“No,” the younger witch rushed to correct herself, somewhat relieved to see the corners of the blonde’s mouth twitch with suppressed laughter yet again. “Obviously not. Never mind.”

The woman in the lace mask turned fully toward her again. Something in the dynamic between them had shifted, and Hermione was burning to discover what came next.

“That could never be my case, no. I want to be good just a little too much.”

Granger found the courage to reach out and let her fingers brush lightly against the other woman’s. The contact made her so giddy that when she spoke, her voice came out hoarse.

“I guess we’re a real match, then.”

The blonde tilted her head languidly to one side, the fabric fingers on her neck straining the marmoreal space under her jaw. She lifted her free hand — the one not touching Hermione’s — to graze the magical collar hanging at the younger witch’s throat.

“We could be,” she whispered in return, letting her fingers trail along the cords of the pendant, and, in doing so, caressing Granger’s bare, feverish skin. “Would you like to go somewhere more private?"

And the truth was, she definitely would.

So they moved hand in hand through the entire Gallery, their bodies close to avoid the many others around them. The woman in the lace mask led her upstairs to a room that opened at the mere presence of her collar. It was far cosier and intimate than Hermione had expected, and nothing like the blend of motel and sadomasochistic dungeon she’d half imagined.

It was just a spacious room, with all kinds of sofas, a fireplace, a minibar, and a balcony — whose view Hermione couldn’t quite tell if was real or enchanted, but it suggested that the night was already deep, dark, and thick. Perhaps because she’d made it clear that sex wasn’t her priority tonight, they hadn’t offered them a bed, and the absence of that particular piece of furniture felt more like a relief than a letdown. She was certain about what she was doing, and still, she didn’t want it smeared all around like a prelude for the upcoming, unavoidable regret.

The blonde looked even more beautiful in this lighting, Hermione decided. The tones in the room weren’t entirely warm, and the pale hues of night slipping in made the atmosphere feel less frantic. She was still raw, burning from the inside out, but now it was as if she could take her time to appreciate the warmth. She could notice, for instance, the way the crescent moon spilled across the pale skin of the stranger’s back as she moved through the room like she owned it. And it was perfect, enticing.

There was music here, too — Hermione realised it as she was pulled closer, a delicate hand sliding to her waist to help her find the rhythm. The style of whatever was playing was mostly unfamiliar. She could make out the quick beats of Afro-Latin percussion and a breathy instrument that might’ve been Middle Eastern, but there were also classical European sounds, and the whole blend simply took hold of her body, vibrating through places that shouldn’t be so easily reached.

Maybe it was the amount of alcohol she’d had that night, but Hermione felt as though she were floating, moving with the melody as if the notes had been stitched into her memory. It came easily, being this close to the other woman. They moved in sync, their legs brushing as once-calculated, seductive smiles melted into freer, unguarded giggles.

Granger felt herself being spun, her back suddenly pressed against soft breasts as a slender arm wrapped around her waist. She bit her lip to hold back a low moan, her knees weakening slightly. The magical lace of her partner’s mask grazed the delicate fabric of her turban, then slid across her ear, down to her neck. The height difference between them wasn’t dramatic, but the woman’s heels added a solid ten centimetres to it, giving her the upper hand in a position like this.

Their fingers intertwined as Hermione’s hips rolled deliberately with the song. The older witch’s other hand gripped the side of her thigh, pulling her even closer — though at this point, the only thing separating them was the fine layer of fabric still clinging to their bodies.

Laughter rose from deep in Hermione’s chest, swelling with the music, vibrating through her ribcage as if it were part of the harmony itself — rhythmic, almost a chant. She was covered in goosebumps, even the tiniest pores of her chest now raised and unmistakable to the naked eye. And the blonde seemed to like the sight. She dipped her head until her lips nearly brushed Hermione’s skin, her breath warm and slow, making each tiny shock along that sensitive surface flare with new intensity.

“Is this magic? What this music does to people, I mean.” Granger asked, lifting a hand towards the other woman’s lace-covered face, trying to keep her close enough to hear her properly.

“Yes,” her partner replied, gently brushing the touch aside before it landed, turning her so they stood face to face once more. “It’s a newly imported spell, based on the mechanics of sub-Saharan enchantments.” Her ring-addorned hands slid down Hermione’s back, short nails grazing the damp nape of her neck, then circling around to her collarbones. “It transforms waves into particles. So when the sound hits you…”

With two fingers, the blonde pressed lightly on the rim of Hermione’s off-shoulder bodysuit, right between her breasts. “It penetrates.”

Hermione felt on the verge of a short circuit. The sensory input was overwhelming — she could swear she felt every ridge of the woman’s fingerprints as they travelled across her skin. And yet, the clinical, rational part of her mind clung to the information, stunned by the casual offering of knowledge.

“That’s brilliant,” she managed, breathless, her eyelids heavy, legs trembling. “There’s a Muggle scientific theory that works with a similar concept.”

The blonde nodded, flashing a grin that made Hermione want her all the more.

“Something, something, quantum mechanics.”

All the What?!’s and How?!’s got stuck in Hermione’s throat, because the woman’s fingers had risen to her face, gently brushing away the sweat trickling beneath her turban.

Blushing, Hermione looked away. “Stupid outfit choice, I know.”

Flicking the droplets from her fingertips, the other witch corrected her softly: “I would say the whole combination is stunning. But if you were to be more comfortable with fewer layers, I am definitely encouraging it.”

The blonde leaned in, almost as if to kiss her, and Hermione’s lips parted in anticipation. But the woman’s mouth drifted past hers, heading to her ear to whisper gently: “I can help you put everything back in place after we finish, if you ask politely.”

The younger witch swallowed hard. Her hands itched to hold the woman’s waist, to run her fingers along the curves of her torso, to trace the ridges of her ribs in search of the kiss she now craved with maddening intensity. Instead, she found herself untying the royal knot of her turban, letting her many, many curls fall over her shoulders, finally free, as she massaged her scalp, sore from the strain.

Granger, eyes shut to better savour the moment, couldn’t hold back the soft groan of relief, old insecurities about her hair long forgotten. When she parted her eyelids again, her knees nearly buckled at the way she was being looked at — a mixture of burning desire and quiet awe.

“Magnificent,” the blonde whispered, pulling her close again, now so much so that Hermione simply wrapped her arms around her neck.

They danced a while longer, swaying gently, very sensually, bathed in the pulse of the music, more hips and waists than anything else. They talked about spells and technologies, about fashion and hair care, about turban wraps, fabrics, and the transfiguration of particular materials. Hermione wanted to ask which house she’d been in at Hogwarts, what was her favourite Quidditch team, whether she played or followed the sport. She wanted to know her stance on the rights of beasts and beings, her views on elf liberation, how much she knew about the outrageous restrictions placed on centaur lands.

But she kept to safer topics, with an effort that felt mirrored. Inevitably, some thread in those exchanges would tug on something deeper, something too revealing, and they’d lock eyes, uncertain, before the blonde usually shifted the subject to something lighter.

They watched the street, the moon, the Seine; talked for what seemed hours about astronomy, constellations and star behavior. There were more flutes of champagne, at least a couple of them for each, and before long, Hermione’s boots had been left behind, because the two of them had curled up on one of the sofas, legs drawn close.

Merlin, she felt so at ease that from moment to moment she caught herself asking why couldn’t this be the natural state of her mind on an everyday basis.

The witches shared more laughter and quiet touches, the space between them shrinking with each new topic they explored. Hermione realised she liked talking to this stranger, maybe due to the wonder instigated by novelty, and maybe because she was simply wit. She seemed genuinely interested in what Hermione had to say, not to mention the seemingly endless store of information she could pull from no matter the subject. That was the meaning of real intellectuality; not necessarily books or formulas, but grounded, connected knowledge. It was beautiful. She was beautiful, Hermione was certain, even if she couldn’t see her face — and Good fucking Godric, that mouth was far too inviting to be appreciated only through conversation.

She couldn’t stop looking at the older witch’s lips, and the way the woman’s fingers were now gently tracing her folded thighs wasn’t helping her focus. She was still warm, burning, actually, and part of her didn’t want to let the chance to feed that fire slip away.

The sky to the east was beginning to lighten when Hermione finally drifted into thought, caught on the image of those perfectly shaped lips moving, the pale, elegant throat rising and falling with every swallow. Before she could think twice, her fingers were already tracing the outline of the artificial claw wrapped around the woman’s neck. The blonde cut herself off mid-sentence, exhaling sharply — something between surprise and pleasure, Hermione could clearly tell.

“It’s mesmerising,” Granger sort of explained, wetting her lips. “Distracting.”

“Not my usual choice,” the blonde replied. She made no move to stop or push her away. “But it suits the aura of this place, don’t you think?”

“What would be your usual choice?”

“Something more discreet, certainly.”

“Oh,” Hermione laughed, pulling slightly out of her daze, lifting her gaze to meet hers; they were close enough now that she could feel her breath. “A politician. I almost forgot.”

“I never confirmed that.”

The curly-haired witch could practically see a perfectly arched blonde eyebrow lifting behind the lace mask.

“Neither have you denied it.”

They exchanged muffled giggles and suggestive smiles. Hermione’s fingers ached to leave the neckline and trace that hidden face. She wanted to see her — to understand who was on the other side of all this admiration, who was responsible for all this wanting.

She bit her own lip, hungry for the taste of hers, but didn’t lean away.

“You do seem more gallant now,” the blonde pointed, giving her thigh a soft squeeze. “Is it the alcohol?”

“I’m just feeling more comfortable,” Granger shrugged, honest.

“So you’re not altered in the slightest?”

The way the older witch tilted her head made Hermione’s fingers slide down her throat. They both sighed.

“A little tipsy” she admitted, straightening up, lowering her hand and drawing a deep breath — not because she was actually drunk, but because otherwise she’d end up grabbing the woman’s neck out of sheer, aching want.

“But I’m also feeling more grounded than I have been in months,” Hermione confessed further. And then, trying not to make it too emotional for her own sake, she added with a sheepish laugh, “You don’t have to worry, though. Alcohol’s mostly harmless for me: it either makes me weepy or it makes me horny.”

“There is no wetness on your face. Should I be looking elsewhere?”

They laughed — properly this time. The sound of the blonde’s laugh, so unrestrained and alive now, was bewitching. Hermione leaned in even closer, trying to feel that sound physically, like it belonged to the enchanted music still thrumming around them. And without a moment’s hesitation, the other woman met her halfway, so close their noses brushed, though it felt more like grazing the lace of her mask than the likely softness of her skin.

“You’re funny,” Granger whispered, almost able to feel her lips against her own.

“I suppose I enjoy the sound of your laugh,” the blonde replied, her hand now pressing more deliberately into Hermione’s thigh. “But if you allow me to be honest, I am more interested in other types of sounds I can get out of you.”

Hermione shivered, swallowing the excess of saliva on her mouth. Her hand trembled as she reached for the leather claw again, tracing its pattern just briefly before moving to the woman’s sculpted chin — then, gently, boldly, to her lips. Smooth, pillowy, far too inviting.

Nothing could have prepared her for what came next, however.

When the blonde simply opened her mouth and let Hermione’s index and middle fingers slide in, brushing against soft skin and smooth teeth to be finally welcomed by a warm, wet tongue, the younger witch didn’t even try to hold back the sound that escaped her. A moan loud and breathless, unashamed and helpless resounded through the room, travelling down her own body, announcing her very much needed, completely earned fall.

She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to actually witness the scene, too afraid of how her body would react. Her whole frame slackened at the touch, aggravated even more by the soft hand that was resting on her tight but now slid up to her abdomen, suggestive, so, so tempting.

The humid sound the masked witch made as she drew Granger’s fingers from her mouth was as obscene as the way her tongue had moved between them — circling, licking, nearly sucking.

Still holding her wrist, the woman leaned in and whispered, breathless: “Can I kiss you?”

And all Hermione could do was moan a delightful, absolutely defeated “Please.”

Granger didn’t want to admit that she had never been kissed like this before — but she hadn’t. There was urgency when their lips met, especially on her part, but there was also a kind of reverence that took her entirely by surprise. She didn’t know how to receive it, and didn't know where to place it.

The blonde slid her free fingers up between Hermione’s breasts, over her chest, and into her curls, cradling the back of her head. She held her carefully, deepening the kiss, parting her lips with delicate insistence and coaxing Hermione’s tongue out with a soft, patient invitation. When their tongues touched, the older witch let out a breathy sound of approval, swallowing Hermione’s startled moan like it was hers all along.

Granger was trembling from the inside out; her heart pounded so violently it must have echoed in the woman’s mouth during that magnificent exploration. Her wavering hands ached to touch. The moment the woman in the lace mask released her wrist, she found her throat again, her fingers pressing just enough to be felt — to be wanted. Beneath her palm, she felt the other witch swallow thickly, and the silence between them was broken only by a soft whine from Hermione’s own lips.

She wrapped her free arm around the woman’s waist as best she could, trying to draw her closer, pleading wordlessly for their bodies to mould together. The blonde broke the kiss, gasping faintly as Hermione tugged her forward, just enough to disrupt her poised stance. Her legs uncrossed from their elegant arrangement, and perhaps by instinct, her grip on Hermione’s curls tightened, just slightly. That was all it took. Hermione, blinking drowsily through half-lidded eyes, let them fall shut entirely, surrendering, crying at the subtle increase in pressure. It wasn’t a tug, not even the hint of erotic roughness, but the assertion of presence, of thoughtfulness, stitched into every kiss, every caress, every reverent gesture. It was heaven.

The older witch’s lips were parted, damp and slightly swollen as the two of them paused to breathe, adjusting to one another’s rhythm. In the dim light, she looked unreal. That mouth — full enough to make Hermione ache with want — seemed to glisten. She didn’t want to lose that kiss. She wanted more of it. As much as she could take. To be kissed like this, undone like this, again and again.

She sought her out again with an audible gasp, moaning softly as their mouths met once more. Every needy sound Hermione gave was devoured by the stranger as though she was hungry for them. Her mouth — soft, commanding — pressed to Hermione’s with such lush intensity that she felt devoured. There was something maddening in the way they moved together, in the feel of her lips caught between the other witches’, so warm, so plush. It awoke something inside the young woman, raw and blind, like a fire rolling out through her limbs, sending deep spasms through her belly with such force that her heart lost its cadence.

When the kiss left them breathless again, the blonde only pulled back a fraction. One hand remained tangled in Hermione’s curls, the other settled firmly on her hip. One of her legs slipped through the slit of her leather dress, draping across Hermione’s thighs with quiet possessiveness, and Granger growled in response.

“Should we get rid of this?” the woman whispered beneath her lace mask, her fingers now tracing the high waist of Granger’s trousers as she kissed along her lips in slow, lingering pecks.

Hermione stared at her through heavy lids, her chest going up and down loudly. She nodded, but didn’t let the stranger’s frame stray far. Her hand slid from the woman’s neck to the couch, giving her just enough room to act, but refusing to break the contact between her trembling fingers and that sculpted waist on the other end.

She watched, biting her lip, as the older witch undid her buttons and zipper. She slid her hand between Hermione’s thighs over the fabric, provoking unbearable heat with the lightest, most deliberate touch. And Hermione gasped, parting her legs further, arching her hips just slightly, her breathing so quick she felt she might faint before even getting naked.

“May I use magic on you? Just to remove the trousers, I promise,” the blonde murmured against her chin, her warm lips lowering, searching her neck.

Hermione whispered a breathy “yes” while part of her functioning mind questioned the other woman’s ability with wandless magic. The word, however, dissolved into a moan as her trousers vanished without a single voiced incantation.

The blonde’s warm, confident hand found the fastening of her bodysuit and she whined. The woman also let out a sound of approval, though far more restrained than Hermione’s.

“How do you like to be touched?” She asked, her mouth finding the inside of Granger’s neck. She licked gently at the sensitive skin there, her lips closing around it as if reluctant to let go. She sucked, lightly, delicately, perhaps trying not to leave marks, though clearly tempted to taste.

Hermione felt her heart slam against her ribs — thudding just as hard beneath the woman’s lips as under her fingers. That pressure, the wool of her bodysuit subtly rubbing against her wetness, everything was delirious, but it was also so soft that it seemed more a destabilisation than a direct touch.

It took her a few moments to think straight, even longer to form words, especially because part of her didn’t know how to answer. The ways she’d been touched over the past decade had rarely matched her real wants.

And apparently her hesitation said it all. The air between them shifted — the heat of pleasure giving way to something quieter, more tender. The blonde paused, pulling back slightly, her gaze steady and free of mockery. There was no pity in those blue eyes. Still, Hermione couldn’t meet them for too long.

“I meant how you touch yourself,” the masked woman clarified, her tone calm, anchored. Her fingers, however, were anything but idle; she was already deftly undoing the poppers between Hermione’s thighs. “Can you show me?”

Hermione breathed in and out a few times before daring to look up again. She found her gaze, then let her eyes drop to that mouth — slightly chapped now, still impossibly inviting. Her legs trembled. The cool air against her exposed skin made her feel wetter, more open. Her cheeks burned beneath the mask. And for the first time, she felt out of place at the Maison de l’Abandon.

But she reminded herself why she was here — to surrender, to let go of expectations and the weight of a self that no longer served her. So Hermione slid a single finger — her middle one — along the soft, short hair at her mound. Her eyelids fluttered, breath catching, as the blonde’s mouth parted in something between reverence and raw hunger. She was wet enough that her finger simply glided between her labia, the contact pulling a weak, desperate moan from her throat.

The masked woman’s left hand, still buried in Hermione’s curls, began to massage her scalp with her nails, tugging now and then, just enough to draw another shiver. Her other hand travelled down to where Hermione’s was, following the patient move as she trailed up and down her inner lips, from the slick folds to the edge of her entrance, then back again.

The woman didn’t really touch yet, just hovered, and Granger didn’t rush, just lingered.

“I—I…” Hermione tried, voice catching as her own light touches made her quake. “I like it slow.”

“Do you?” the blonde murmured, her hand still following that sensual ministration. “And do you like it soft, or with pressure?”

The question was punctuated by a delicate push against her fingers. Hermione moaned aloud.

“Both. A-alternating,” she managed, opening her legs wider. She let her hand fall away and gave herself over completely. She let the stranger take control. She let her touch her properly.

“All right,” the older woman said, voice low and steady, her fingers pressing in with intention now. “I promise I will get it right.”

Her pupils were blown wide, vivid against the deep blue of her irises. Like Hermione’s, her eyelids drooped with lust. Her mouth hung slightly open, breath quick and uneven. Her neck and shoulders were flushed pink, and Hermione had to reach for her — sliding a hand from her forearm to the firm bicep, feeling the heat of her skin beneath fingers still sticky with arousal, knowing she was leaving a mark.

“I’m going to do it so right that you will ask for more,” the blonde whispered, eyes fixed on the motion of her hand, her voice low and rich, reverberating through Hermione’s chest like a second heartbeat.

“Please,” Granger breathed, letting her body respond on instinct, her hips rolling eagerly into the touch, with countless more pleas swelling just behind her teeth.

When the woman’s gaze lifted from the slick space between Hermione’s thighs to her burning eyes, the young woman muffled a whimper — involuntary, charged with adrenaline. The blonde leaned in again, tugging gently at her curls, tilting her head back as her index and middle finger traced slow, scorching paths beside her clit, never quite touching, never giving her the pressure she craved.

“I told you I wanted to hear those sounds from you, didn’t I?” The older witch teased, biting at her chin, dragging her teeth down her throat. “You can be vocal. You can be as loud as you wish.” She punctuated the words with a firm press, a soft squeeze, and Hermione nearly came apart.

“Fuck!” She moaned, spreading her legs even wider, as if more space might solve the delicious agony she was trapped in.

Her nails dug into the woman’s shoulders, only half-aware of the force, while her other hand slid down the bare back revealed by the leather dress, following the dip of her spine, trailing over the faint, probably-too-fair-to-see hairs rising beneath her touch.

“Fuck– I– I need–” Hermione stammered between sobs and needy little gasps. The blonde’s mouth on her neck, at her ear, nibbling her collarbone, made speech nearly impossible, but what she meant to scream was I need you inside me. What came out instead was a high, trembling: “Inside, hm– Please, inside!” Her voice cracked at the end, right as the woman’s fingers finally gave in, circling her clit in full contact, alternating between firm pressure and feather-light tease.

“So soon?” There was a provocative smile in her voice. “Are you sure?”

Granger couldn’t answer. In truth, she wasn’t even sure she could speak. The way the woman touched the swollen, slick nub between her legs, shattered whatever fragile mental scaffolding she’d managed to keep. She’d found Hermione’s rhythm with amazing ease, and somewhere in the aching fog of her mind, the young woman remembered all the times she tried to teach this rhythm. The pressure. The patience. All the failed attempts that ended in silence and compromise.

But the only thing she was giving up now was her self-control. And she did it loudly. She moaned with growing abandon, every shred of shame long gone. Her hand slipped further down the woman’s back, stopping at the fabric’s edge, desperate to dip under and feel her.

The strange witch was breathing hard against her face, kissing her in bursts, sucking her lower lip, losing the rhythm of her fingers whenever Hermione sucked and bit back. Sensing her hesitation, the older woman murmured against her mouth, voice rough and slow, “You can go ahead.”

Hermione clung to those words. They grounded her enough to move. Her sweaty, uncertain fingers slipped beneath the low backline of the dress, and she gasped, dazed and reverent, when she discovered the other witch wasn’t wearing knickers.

Starved, Granger deepened the touch, cupping her arse with trembling hands, gripping the soft, round flesh like she was claiming it, memorising it. The stranger shivered, sighing into the contact. She smiled — slow, indulgent — licking her lips with intention before purring, “Good girl.”

She swallowed Hermione’s tongue into her own, kissing her wet and deep, and finally — mercifully — slid her fingers to Hermione’s entrance as if to reward her properly. She circled the rim gently, easing the silky resistance while the heel of her palm rocked rhythmically against Hermione’s clit, coaxing gasped, choked whimpers from her mouth.

Hermione wanted to scream; she almost did — babbling half-coherent pleas, grinding down for more: more friction, more pressure, more everything.

“I’m going to fuck you slow and deep, until you lose control,” the blonde promised. She released Hermione’s curls for the first time since their kiss, brushing damp strands away from her flushed face. “Is that what you want? Is that what you came here for?”

Granger nodded frantically, far past caring how needy she looked. Her hand slid from the woman’s shoulder to her forearm, gripping, urging for her to keep her word. She wanted to be wrecked, to be filled and held, to let go without having to gather herself back again.

“Please,” she begged, clutching the woman’s elbow as her fingers teased, hovering. “Please, please.”

The young witch's eyes were misted over, her breath so fast she was nearly choking on it. She could faint from all that waiting, from all that wanting. Her companion frowned beneath her mask, blue eyes taking on an even more emphatic lewdness, making Hermione's own roll back in response.

And it did feel like a blackout when the woman’s middle finger — long, slender — finally pushed inside. Hermione’s strangled moan was swallowed by the stranger’s full lips, which curved into a smile as she whispered: “Breath. Tonight you will get everything you wish for.”

It was more. So much more than she had ever dared ask.

With long, slow thrusts, the witch whose identity did still a mystery but whose voice was already etched in Hermione's subconscious, moved in and out of her, steady as a heartbeat. Her mouth danced between grounding kisses and low praises murmured hot against her ear. Granger could hear that forever.

You are so warm. So tight. You feel just perfect. You are taking it so well. So fucking good for me. The best. Simply the best.

The second finger came without warning, no hesitation, no need for easing in. Some faint, critical part of Hermione’s mind blushed at how readily her body received it — but that part vanished almost instantly. She stopped trying to guide anything. Covered her eyes instead, undone by the sheer intensity of it. Her hand pushed her own face away from her partner, severing the kiss — and in response, the masked woman kissed down her neck, her collarbone, then licked a slow, deliberate line along her sternum, collecting the beads of sweat there before blowing cool air over the path she'd traced.

The young witch convulsed, a new wave of pleasure washing through her like a spell.

“I can barely see your face as it is,” the blonde whispered, curling her fingers inside to press deep — knuckle-deep. “Please, do not hide your eyes.”

And between that plea and the angle that stroked her clit from inside — Merlin! —, Hermione spasmed with a ragged, relentless tremor. A prelude. A promise of release so potent she couldn’t fight it if she tried. Her hips jolted forward, desperate for more of that unbearable precision.

Almost unconscious with wanting, she let her arm fall. That surrender came at a cost: vulnerability, and she wanted to be equanimous on the matter. So she reached up, found the woman’s jaw, cupped it with shaking fingers — and whimpered, frustrated to feel only lace. Still, she held her like something sacred. That much pleasure could not be mundane, even if it was magical, on some level.

Her eyes fluttered open, heavy and brimming, as each deep stroke wrecked her further. The burning blue embraced her, and it was utter, unconditional bliss.

Granger tried to kiss the stranger again, but her own moans kept tearing through. She pressed their mouths together anyway, chasing the taste of her breath, the roughness of her tongue, craving anything she was willing to give. Her own spit trickled from her chin, and the image — feral, filthy — shattered what little restraint she had left.

She threw her head back as the climax rose, too sharp to delay. The woman’s fingers moved a little faster now, but never lost that devastatingly tender rhythm. Hermione trembled all over, her thick thighs on the verge of cramping, wide open, offered fully. Her hips rolled and slipped against the couch, soaking the fabric without a care.

Through slitted eyes, she caught the blonde watching her like worship. Even behind the mask, her expression was one of pure rapture. It poured from her gaze — the way those blue eyes narrowed and stayed fixed on Hermione’s slick movements, the way her mouth parted, then pressed shut again as if to keep a sound from escaping. She was just as aroused as Granger herself, and that knowledge alone nearly tipped the young woman over the edge.

She wanted to warn the other witch. Wanted to speak — something, anything —, to say she was close. But the final thrusts that sent her crashing over actually stole her voice.

Hermione let go of the woman’s jaw and clutched her forearm instead, guiding her, pleading silently for more, for her to go deeper, until her knuckles pressed hard into Hermione’s thigh, until it bruised just a little. The sound she made was guttural, a scream caught halfway in her throat, but barely registered in her own awareness. What she felt, above all else, was the way those fingers moved inside her: shallow, precise, relentless, turning each of her nerve endings into live wires that electrified every inch of her body.

She didn’t even realise she was crying until the older witch leaned in to kiss the corners of her eyes, collecting her tears with the tip of her nose before they presumably vanished under the mask. The murmurs that followed — It’s all right. You are all right. — were barely audible beneath Granger’s ragged sobs and the thunder of her heartbeat, pounding in her ears and pulsing between her legs. Her swollen, hypersensitive clit throbbed against the heel of that still-moving hand. Even the smallest shift sent her reeling again.

She only began to return to herself when the woman fully withdrew, her soaked fingers trailing upward through the young witch’s trimmed curls, toying absently with the damp strands as she admired her work: Hermione undone, legs spread, cunt shining with release, wetness glistening down the curve of her arse.

Granger’s whole body was boneless, every muscle aching and used. She was still sobbing — not in pain, but from the sheer release —, overwhelmed, exposed, too emptied out to even blush. Opening her eyes fully took real effort. She felt submerged, adrift in warm water. Her body had slumped into an awkward, twisted angle across the unforgiving couch, but she didn’t care; she was cozy, comfortable. Good Godric, she was unburdened.

“Do you want to rest before getting dressed?” The blonde asked softly, still stroking her, slow, steady, between her legs.

Hermione frowned, disoriented. She tried to shift, limbs heavy, and only barely managed to sit upright.

“I… I can’t touch you?”

The blonde blinked slowly, as though weighing the question. With Hermione’s movement, she had leaned back just enough that the younger woman’s hand — still clenched around her arse almost possessively — shifted against her, making itself present.

“You want to?” The stranger whispered, drawing her damp fingers from between Granger’s legs to her parted lips.

“So much,” Hermione confessed.

She opened her mouth, now being the one to take the fingers in, moaning softly as her own taste bloomed across her tongue, another ripple of pleasure jolting through her. She was ready to hold her partner's wrist, to put on a show and illustrate what she was capable of, but the blonde simply removed her digits away in a fluid motion.

“Very well.”

Precise, deliberately, the woman in the lace mask stepped away. Unlike what she’d done for Hermione, she used no magic to undress herself. She reached for an almost-invisible zipper along the seam of her dress and drew it down, slow but unfaltering.

She stopped just above the knee. The fabric loosened at once, folding forward, baring the curve of her back — still turned away from Hermione.

Granger straightened on the couch, aching but alert now, every sense sharpened by anticipation. Her core throbbed, renewed and insistent; even her lungs seemed pressed forward.

The only thing still holding the dress in place was the leather claw clasped on her throat, and the blonde undid it in one single gesture. The fabric fell to her feet the same way Hermione’s restraint had moments before. Still seated, the curly-haired witch could only moan as her hands clutched the couch for balance. Her mouth watered, and other parts did too.

The sight was divine — perfect, even in its imperfections. Her breasts, soft and full, held their shape beautifully. The nipples weren’t pink as Hermione had imagined, but a soft caramel-colour, mingling with the milky tone of her skin in a delicate degradè, begging to be touched, to be licked. In the pale light filtering in from outside, faint stretch marks shimmered across her flat stomach. Although her hips were narrow, her thighs were sculpted, shaped intentionally, from what it seemed. She was bare between her legs, not a single hair, and from where Granger stood, she could see arousal glistening, inviting.

The younger witch reached out, hesitant. It was the other woman who closed the distance, however. Still in heels, she stepped over the discarded dress and stood before her partner, her fingers immediately seeking Hermione’s curls again, stroking them with a quiet devotion. Granger met her skin with a sound that was somewhere between relief and rapture, not aware until she was making contact that she yearned for that touch so much.

The older woman’s body was velvet, so soft Hermione suddenly ached to rub herself entirely against it. Her fingers skimmed along the delicate waist, the bony hips, the strong thighs. She tilted her head up, locking eyes with that impossible blue — which looked nearly grey now in the moonlight. She wanted to watch her. To read her. But the scent rising from her body was dizzying, impossible to ignore.

Hermione never thought about herself as someone so carnal; she had cravings, yes, and lately her sexual drive was making her mad from the lack of proper fulfilment. But she had never experienced this kind of thirst. It ached. That hunger, that deep desire, was akin to a fever state, a strong hallucination. Maybe it was the place, all that sex magic embedded in the walls — or maybe she had never been in a situation where she wanted to be inside someone in so many ways.

Maybe this was what lust really meant all along.

She would be desperate by the realization if she could think about anything other than to ravish that woman.

So as the blonde cradled her scalp without disturbing a single curl, Granger buried her face between her ribs, inhaling deeply, committing her scent to memory for reasons she couldn’t name. She could feel her heartbeat, even without resting an ear directly against her chest. Her breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her breath, and Hermione’s lips trailed slowly down the length of her stomach.

She kissed her reverently, sucking gently but with unmistakable hunger every inch she could reach. When she could reach no further, though, she simply slid off the couch and sank to her knees.

The older woman let out a low “oh”; it was restrained, like all her responses so far, but it definitely made Hermione grin.

Knelt at the precise height where her mouth met the apex of the masked witch’s thighs, Granger cupped one of her legs, lifting it slightly, more a suggestion than a guidance. Voice catching in her throat, she dared to whisper: “May I taste you?”

The blonde responded not with words, but by placing one stilettoed heel on the couch, granting Hermione full view and access.

She hadn’t expected to feel such an overwhelming need to bury her face there, and before she could dwell on how to actually proceed, her lips were already pressing in, her tongue gliding across soft skin, gathering the moisture waiting for her. Hermione moaned as the woman shivered. She gripped her arse with profound eagerness, squeezing hard to gain more leverage.

The stranger tugged her curls more insistently now, a demand in the gesture — deeper. And Hermione obeyed like a good girl. She stretched her tongue lazily, searching with the patience of someone crafting her magnus opus. The older witch’s clit was smaller than hers, more hidden by her pinky hood — but when she found it, the rush of pleasure that crashed over the woman’s body might as well have been her own.

The blonde exhaled in trembling, broken waves. Granger adjusted her angle, pulling her closer, massaging her arse as her tongue circled the delicate bundle of nerves with growing confidence. She was the best at learning, and she wanted her partner to know that.

Beyond the velvety slickness, it was the taste that struck her most. Salty, yes, but not sharp, not stark like it might have been with a man. It was subtle, bittersweet, almost citrusy, like the woman’s scent. Hermione breathed deeply, letting herself sink into it, exploring each fold, each hidden place, before descending to the entrance that fluttered under the lightest stroke of her tongue.

Despite the poor angle, Hermione gave herself over to the task of mapping the contours of that wonder. But after a few exploratory strokes inside the tight entrance, the blonde tugged her hair gently, signalling a preference for a different kind of exploration. Obediently, then, Granger returned her tongue to the soft small lips.

The older witch let out occasional moans — low, discreet — so delicate that Hermione had to pace herself, to listen carefully to be sure she was truly hearing them. The muscles in her thighs and arse tensed and released in sync with the subtle pull of her pelvis, silky, slick folds pulsing under Hermione’s mouth.

And Granger was panting. Sweat trailed down her nape, even though nearly half her hair was still gripped tight in the other woman’s guiding hand. She felt such longing, such desperate need to devour every trace of arousal gathering there, that without meaning to, she nearly unbalanced her partner.

With a breathy laugh, the masked woman braced herself on the back of the sofa to stay on her foot. The movement pressed a knelt Hermione back into the cushions, presenting the woman’s intimacy further and a little harsher into the curly-haired witch’s mouth, and earning a delirious, delighted growl.

Her hips began to roll with intent then, slowly at first, allowing herself to take control of the rhythm, to regain the dominance she seemed to enjoy — not that she ever lost it, Hermione silently laughed to herself, thrilled to be the subject of such authority.

The blonde’s fingers found Hermione’s, which were still wrapped around her raised thigh. And whether it happened too quickly or just in time, the other woman’s movements began to falter — more frantic, less measured. Her breath came ragged, each exhale followed by long, dramatic pauses. The hand in Hermione’s curls clenched tighter, pulling her closer still, warning, confessing.

Granger herself was moaning — because the approaching climax felt like hers just as much. Between her own trembling, aching thighs, she throbbed, clenching around nothing, soaking with unheard-of desire. And with every sound she made, the anonymous woman above her responded, reaffirming the sway of her hips in a breathless, escalating rhythm. Until her balance was lost; until, at last, she let out a long, muffled moan. It was low and sensual like her laughter, and it made every hair on Hermione’s body rise.

As the older witch rode down her climax, thighs and arse strained with aftershocks of release, Granger gently eased the rhythm without stopping entirely, waiting until her partner was steady again to do anything. Her tongue still moved purposefully to gather whatever had spilled between those legs, trying to satisfy herself with the remnants so she wouldn’t return, ravenous, the way she wanted to, to the source. But before she could finish, the blonde tugged her back by the hair — not harshly, but with just enough care to make the curly-haired witch relent.

She looked up with a wide, wet smile, licking her lips to reclaim whatever trace still lingered. The older woman chuckled softly, guiding her back to the sofa and, fluid as a dream, settling into her lap, legs parted, their sexes close enough now to share heat.

Hermione couldn’t help but stare at the place where their bodies almost touched, her thoughts wild, wicked, rushing through her faster than she could process — let alone feel shy about. Her hands moved on their own, finding the blonde’s arse again, gripping the place she just got access to but couldn’t bear to let go of.

Then the woman lifted Hermione’s chin, raising her attention with a push of her fingers. They held eye contact for a prolonged instant before they kissed. It was slow, salty tongues caressing each other, playing with the thick saliva in a very alluring way. The stranger’s deliciously full lips enveloped Hermione’s with the same deep devotion as that first kiss, both soothing and commanding. They paused now and then to laugh, as absurd as it seemed to do so in such a moment, and the light sounds melted into moans or sighs whenever one of them moved, brushing places far too sensitive.

The older witch trailed kisses down to Granger’s chin, tasting herself on the young woman’s skin with no shame, driving her mad without even realising. Her delicate hands slid to Hermione’s waist, squeezing more possessively than before. It was her time to look down at their pressed bodies, but instead of locking eyes with their joined, wet cunts, she actually fixated on the place she was touching so intently. That pulled from her one of her most audible moans yet.

Blood thumping loud, Granger grinned, realising her partner might be particularly fond of that curve.

With calm, precise fingers, the blonde tugged up her partner’s leotard, peeling it from her body until they were both completely naked. They exhaled in unison when Hermione’s breasts were finally revealed, and the older witch’s hand, still covered in Hermione’s pleasure, rose as if by instinct to trace the dark-brown, crinkled nipples with unmitigated reverence.

Hermione bit her lip and reached to touch her lover’s face.

And then, as if the room was struck by lightning, something shattered.

The blonde gasped — a sharp, horrified sound — and scrambled out of Hermione’s lap with a clumsiness unlike any movement she’d made before. She slid away along the sofa, then lurched upright on those impossibly high heels, dazed, panicked, her wide, terrified blue eyes fixed on Hermione.

“W–what happened?!” Granger felt her own heart beat at the base of her throat; the look on the other witch’s face was one of pure despair. “Are you alright?!”

The stranger stretched out one of her arms, her other hand seeking blindly for something to hold on to. Apparently not able to speak, she stated an order of distance anyway, keeping Hermione at bay with only her body language. Without mouthing the spell, she summoned her dress and clutched it to her chest, as if now she was feeling mortified to be seen naked by Granger.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Hermione tried again, sitting up straighter, resisting the instinct to reach for her own clothes. “Are you feeling alright? You’re scaring me a bit.”

“I—I need to go,” the older woman stammered, fumbling with the dress — but she was shaking so badly she couldn’t even figure out how to put it on.

Her panic was suffocating, almost contagious.

Granger felt the bite of cold air on her skin, the swell of confusion and fear filling up her guts. But she had to force herself to stay calm, to not turn that dream into a nightmare. So she rose from the sofa with slow, deliberate caution, arms slightly outstretched in a conciliative posture, voice gentle despite the ache in her throat.

And that was when she saw it.

Where the woman’s frightened gaze had landed.

On her right arm.

On the brown-purpleish word etched there forever. Pride and fucking prejudice. A slur, a curse that defined and deranged her. Eight letters that would hunt and guide her for life.

Mudblood.

The tears clung at her eyelids — helpless, humiliating, but secure. They wouldn’t fall. They wouldn't.

It didn’t make sense, though. They had talked for hours about Muggle culture, Muggle technology, Muggle science. They had laughed together over non-magical jokes, discussed Einstein and Schrödinger, debated the many-universe theory. So why…?

“Are you disgusted?” Hermione ridiculed herself by asking.

“Of course not,” the blonde cut in quickly, her grip tightening on the crumpled dress, her eyes refusing to meet Hermione’s, or her scar.

“Then what?! Are you a blood supremacist, or–”

“No, Miss Granger, I—”

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, reeling as if struck. The sound of her name spoken in that voice made her stumble back, dizzy. Her heart pounded so hard she thought she might vomit. Her ears rang. Her skin burned. Her mind was screaming a thousand things, all of them boiling down to the same, unbearable truth: this had clearly been a terrible idea.

But how?

For years, Hermione hadn’t shown that arm without makeup, custom enchantments she’d developed herself, or sleeves long enough to hide the scar. Only her closest friends knew. Not even the sleaziest tabloids had ever published it — whether out of decency or fear of being branded prejudiced she didn’t know, but what mattered was that her secret was safe. Or at least she thought it was.

None of that made sense. Which only terrified her more.

“Who are you?!” Hermione demanded, more angrily than she intended. “How do you know–Who–How–?”

The witch in the lace mask had finally managed to get the dress over her frame and was now fumbling with the zipper, her hands visibly trembling.

“It is not a good idea for you to know who I am. But I am truly sorry, I never thought–”

“‘Not a good idea’ my arse!” Granger snapped, only now becoming fully aware of her own nudity, blushing from both, abashiness and fury. “This isn’t right, I—I feel violated! I need to know who you are. It’s an ethical issue, don’t you see?”

The blonde was nearly dressed now — though the clasp at her neck sat crooked and her ponytail was hopelessly ruined.

She still couldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes. The flush that had once lit her pale skin was gone, replaced by a greyish pallor. She looked like she might faint. And maybe she would, judging by how tightly she clung to the back of one of the armchairs.

“You can’t leave without telling me. It’s not right, I—”

“Miss Granger, please—”

“Stop using my name if you won’t fucking give me yours!” Granger clutched her leotard, trying to cover the body that, just moments ago, had been worshipped by the same woman that now repelled her. “Come on. Please. It’s not fair that you know who I am and I don’t. I’m a public figure, for Merlin’s sake.”

“I will not use this against you — you have my word.”

“To the bloody hell with your word! Just—please.” Hermione’s eyes burned. Her voice cracked, fury ashing down into desperation. “Please. I’m at a disadvantage. My life– Merlyn, my career! This could ruin me!”

The blonde shook her head, eyes shut now, her posture stiff — unrecognisable from the woman who’d just come undone on Hermione’s lips.

When Granger whispered her third please in a row, raw and breaking, the woman raised a visibly trembling hand to the pendant at her throat — the one controlling the glamour of her mask.

She hesitated. But then pulled.

The mask dissolved in smoke and shimmer. And the face that emerged was the last one Hermione could have imagined.

Reality buckled beneath the curly-haired witch. Her stomach dropped, her balance vanished, and the breath inside her lungs turned into poisonous smoke, consuming her rational mind, burning through her veins. She stumbled back to the sofa and simply sank there. Not a rendition, but a collapse, her vision spinning, body cold and tingling.

The tears she’d barely held back poured down her cheeks now, certainly hot, but unfelt. There was only static, and silence where a scream should’ve been placed if she ever was a decent person.

“I am truly sorry–” Lady Narcissa Malfoy tried, but her one-night-stand lover wouldn’t allow it.

Eyes as lost as her dignity, Hermione Granger whispered:

“Get out. Right now.”