A/N: Hi! Welcome! This plot bunny came about after I got sucked into BONDiNG on Netflix and wouldn't leave my brain. Prepare for fluff and a whole lot of smut in coming chapters.
Beta Love to MsMerlin and Trish! Thanks for reading!
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The card was a small, narrow rectangle with a single letter inscribed into the center in an elegant script and was written on some of the finest cardstock she had ever seen. The burnt orange ink bearing a single letter 'H' was seared into her retinas, no less her soul, for how long she had stared at it in wonder. It had come into her possession, along with an ironclad confidentiality spell, several forms to complete, and a tidy chunk of her inheritance, via Blaise Zabini, and old friend with a "try anything once" mentality. While he didn't quite see this person to have his needs met, he knew another and probably several more who frequented the same circles. Apparently, it was all about who you knew and Blaise evidently knew the right people.
Well, the right people for her purposes. He certainly didn't know who to call when one needed 120 embroidered linen napkins.
Pansy turned the small card over in her fingers, the crimson varnish adorning her nails in stark contrast against the pure white cardstock. Her appointment was in three minutes and here she was, standing in her favorite set of black silk robes with her favorite patent leather pumps, trying to convince herself to pick up the floo-powder and toss the card into the hearth.
Just once. She told herself. She needed to do this just once before she was effectively trapped in an arranged marriage with a man who was certainly not going to turn her over his knee and make her arse match the color of her nails. Trapped wasn't really the best word to use as she really did love the git, but no matter how much she loved him, she knew it simply wasn't in the cards for Draco. They'd discussed it and he'd very firmly told her no along with his reasons for declining.
They were valid, certainly, and it wasn't something she would ever hold against him. She wasn't that type of person. In her youth, she may have been a bit petty and snippy but when you live through a war where people you know don't come out on the other side alive, you're forever altered.
She wasn't even certain if (when) she stepped through the floo that it would even be a man on the other side. It could very well be a woman. It wasn't like she hadn't harbored thoughts about other women—there were plenty of witches out there with shapely calves and long necks she'd like to sink her teeth into, but her fantasies had never gone further than a chaste peck on the lips with Daphne Greengrass on a dare from Tracey Davis during their fourth year. All of her other experiences with pleasure had either been thanks her own fingers or with the requisite parts belonging to a wizard. As a witch approaching thirty, she wasn't horribly experienced but she had engaged in a fair bit of mischief with men to know what liked and didn't like.
The clock chimed.
Shit.
She was out of time. With her heart thudding in her chest, Pansy plucked a pinch of floo powder from the pot and tossed it into the hearth, turning the orange flames a brilliant green. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tossed the small card into the flames and stepped in after it only to glide out of a grate a moment later into an unfamiliar, brightly lit space.
She wasn't certain what she had expected but cream furniture and fresh flowers wasn't it. Something a bit darker, maybe? The space was bright and airy with sunlight streaming in through the windows overlooking the river. She must have been in a highrise somewhere in London but then again, she lived in a world with magic and enchanted windows were a distinct possibility. A petite witch in pastel pink robes with bubblegum pink lips to match waved her over to the reception desk with an altogether too sugary smile.
"May I have your name, miss?" the witch asked, waving her wand over a register upon the desk. The text was obscured—for the receptionist's eyes only it seemed. That boded well for the confidentiality agreement she had signed. The last thing she needed was any wind of what she was about to do getting back to the papers.
"Parkinson—Pansy Parkinson."
The pretty witch's smile widened, bubblegum pink lips stretching over perfect, white teeth, her eyes alight with awe. "Of course, Miss Parkinson. I should have recognized you at once." She pointed a dainty finger towards herself, "Emmeline Fawley."
Pansy granted the witch a smile, though it was the smile reserved for garden parties, society luncheons, and other inane things her mother insisted she attend. The simpering twit probably read whatever Rita Skeeter deemed to write about her in the Prophet (ninety-two percent of it being complete and utter trash) and fancied her somewhat of a celebrity because her name graced the society columns as much as the next sacred twenty eight heiress. "A pleasure, Miss Fawley."
The petite witch rose gracefully from the chair on which she had been perched and motioned for Pansy to follow with a crook of her finger and a sway of her hips. "The consultation room is this way. I've been instructed to ask you to wait there for the moment."
She led Pansy to a non-descript door which opened into a small but comfortable space. A single cream-colored wingback faced a loveseat covered in the same upholstery while a low table sat between the two - a vase of fresh flowers sitting atop the maple woodgrain. While Pansy entered the small space, the receptionist lingered back in the doorway, one hand just brushing the frame.
"Miss Granger will be with you shortly," Miss Fawley said before she closed the door, leaving Pansy and her racing heart alone in the small, cream colored room.
It was only the training all pureblooded girls of any standing were required to attend in their youth that kept her from clawing at her own throat. She was, well, not quite trapped in this tiny, beige room with it's too-fresh flowers waiting to meet with someone to enact her darkest desires but it was the name that rolled off of the receptionist's bubblegum pink lips that gave her cause for concern.
Hermione Granger.
If she had expected anything at all from this encounter, it was that she would be meeting someone with whom she was not acquainted, not someone with whom she had attended school and had seen at least once per year for the last ten or so. She was as much of a celebrity as Pansy was and for a much better reason than being born into society.
Hermione Granger regularly attended charity benefits, always on the arm of Potter, Weasley, or another piece of eye candy, using her status as a heroine of the war to draw others in, attending simply to get a glimpse of "The Woman who Orchestrated the Dark Lord's Defeat" before spending galleons upon galleons on this cause or that.
Like many others, Pansy's mother fawned over the young muggleborn, if only to keep in her good graces but Pansy's interactions with the witch were rather minimal. A quiet conversation about new curriculum at Hogwarts, a passing society-acceptable smile between glasses of champagne, a brief floo-call to confirm her presence at this year's benefit for war orphans and widows. There had been a few meaningful conversations over the years, but their interactions had certainly kept to safe topics.
Much safer topics.
Her stomach was slowly tying itself in knots, her hands decided that being clammy was perfectly acceptable, and her heart was beating a thunderous tattoo against the walls of her chest.
This had to be some sort of a joke. Perhaps Blaise was taking the mickey out of her in some curious, sadistic way—tricking her into submitting to Hermione Granger who was really someone in polyjuice. She didn't think he would stoop that low but he had gone to elaborate lengths for a prank before.
No. This had to be real. She doubted even Blaise would set up something of this magnitude when he knew how important this was to her. When he knew how much she needed this. When… he knew.
Moments ticked by, denoted only by the pounding of Pansy's heart as she waited in the small space, every possible reason why she shouldn't be here running through her mind—her fiance finding out she was even seeking out an arrangement like this, her name ending up in the Prophet and getting dressed down by her mother, no less her grandmother… she needed to leave.
A moment later she was reaching for the door handle to leave when it began to turn. Pansy quickly drew a breath, perched herself on the sofa, and donned the most neutral expression she could manage. It was too late to escape and she held the words she held to berate Blaise on the tip of her tongue, no matter how far fetched that idea seemed now, Pansy knew absolutely anything was possible.
The woman who entered was nothing like the woman Pansy encountered at the once-a-year society functions. The one she saw at the charity benefits was mild-mannered and almost mousy with brown, semi-frizzy curls and dress robes that looked as if they were designed for someone else. She very much resembled the girl Pansy had known at Hogwarts—swotty, intelligent, always gunning for a cause. The one who entered wore a tailored navy-blue suit that could have easily been featured in the pages of Witch Weekly, sharp black-leather heels, a collared cream silk blouse open at the neck, and a delicate gold chain disappearing into her decolletage. Her hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon, the unruly curls tamed into submission at the back of her head. She carried a simple, black leather folder with just a hint of white parchment peeking out from it's edges.
She was radiant with confidence.
This was real.
"It's lovely to see you again, Miss Parkinson," Hermione said warmly, one hand outstretched with the black folder tucked against her body in the other.
Pansy took her hand with a delicate yet firm grasp (just as her mother had instructed) and nodded, murmuring a quiet, "and you as well," before they settled into their respective seats across from one another.
While Hermione opened the black folder with the crisp white parchment stacked therein, Pansy took a moment to observe the witch. She was perched in the chair in an easy manner with one leg crossed over the other as though this were the most natural thing in the world to her.. Where was the girl she saw once a year? Was she lurking somewhere in this highly professional, ridiculously confident shell? In any case, Pansy was desperately interested - if only to attempt to solve the mystery of Hermione Granger.
Hermione's fingers held a muggle pen and she briefly scribbled something on the paper before turning her attention back to Pansy. "Would you like to tell me why you're here, Miss Parkinson?"
"I…" the words died on Pansy's tongue. It was one thing, putting her desires down on paper in tidy checkboxes. It was entirely another speaking about them outloud. She could almost hear her mother's voice echoing in her ears that well brought up young ladies simply didn't speak about such things. She'd been fighting that stigma her entire life.
"I see," Hermione scribbled another note on the paper before she lifted her warm, brown eyes to meet Pansy's. "Everything you say in here is bound by the confidentiality spell and while I've read over your file, I would like you to tell me why you've sought out this… experience." The final word rolled off of her tongue like a smooth, well aged scotch and Pansy was suddenly desperate for a drink.
Pansy sat up a little straighter, refolding her hands and focusing her gaze on the crimson tips of her fingers rather that at the witch in front of her. "Just once… I need to see these," the word was on the tip of her tongue, though she struggled to force it out, "fantasies of mine made real." Her eyes lifted a fraction of an inch, just high enough that she could see the flourishes of Hermione's pen as it flowed over the paper.
Once she began, it was like ripping off a plaster and miraculously, the words flowed a bit easier. "I'm not certain what you know about pureblood culture, Miss Granger, but our marriages are often arranged with little chance at love. I'm fortunate in that my betrothed and I share love between us but I also know that he is unable to provide anything remotely resembling what I want… need."
What she needed. Since when had a want become a need? When had desire morphed into something much more powerful? When had her little private fantasies become something she craved outside of the sphere of her own imagination?
Pansy shifted slightly on the sofa, the air around her grew warm, her core tightened, and her thighs clenched.
"You're looking for a singular experience, then?" Hermione asked, lifting her eyes from the folder to meet Pansy's once more.
Just once. Hadn't that been Pansy's mantra all along as she worked to set up this encounter? "I believe so, yes."
With a nod and another warm smile that was meant to set Pansy at ease, though it managed to make her insides turn into a giant pile of flobberworm mucus instead, Hermione set the pen aside and closed the dossier, placing a single sheet of paper atop the black leather. "Thank you, Miss Parkinson."
Hermione placed it into Pansy's hands, her fingertips just brushing against the thin, pale skin covering her knuckles. "Based on the questionnaires you completed, I've curated this particular experience with your needs and interests in mind. While it does not go into detail as the scene is meant to be anticipatory and somewhat surprising, it does address the specific types of activities in which we may engage. Should it meet with your requirements, we can arrange a mutually agreeable date and time."
The business-like manner with which Hermione approached their transaction set Pansy at ease. She knew how to deal with those who offered services for money, be it a florist, a caterer, or apparently a dominatrix. There was a niggling thought at the back of her mind that if she scheduled a second encounter, would it also be this formal or would it be more spontaneous? She pushed the thought from her mind reminding herself that this was to be a singular experience… just once … and proceeded to review the tidy list written on the paper in a delicate script.
It was a simple list of activities from the checklist she had completed, no additional information was provided. She felt her cheeks pink with the understanding that this could very soon be her reality as she read down the page. Words like "spanking" and "bondage" jumped out at her and made the pixies in her stomach flutter their wings with rapid precision, evidently churning whatever flobberworm mucus that was left from last brush with discomfiture to dust.
"It appears satisfactory," Pansy affirmed allowing her socialite training to calm her nerves as she passed the sheet of paper back to Hermione. She was all but certain that if she hadn't participated in such training when she was younger she would be a quivering mass on the floor at this very moment. "But I have a question."
Hermione seemed pleased with this. Her eyes took on a curious glint and her mouth quirked up in a bit of a mischievous smile, quite unlike the warm, business-woman smile she seemed to have perfected. This smile-almost-smirk was even worse than the other one which made Pansy thankful her black robes were thick and wouldn't show any residual fluids that might be leaking from her core. "Good. One should never accept anything at face-value. Ask your question please, Miss Parkinson."
"Will it be you or someone else?" Pansy knew the words rushed from her lips and before she could stop herself, more tumbled out. "You see, I've… well, I've never been with a woman."
Quick as a flash, Hermione took Pansy's hand within her own as she leaned across the small table between them. Her thumb rubbed small circles just below the crest of Pansy's knuckles making Pansy's breath hitch in her throat. "Should you find yourself uncomfortable in my presence, Miss Parkinson, I can, of course, make other arrangements, but I'd like to ensure you are aware that my gender, at this point in time, is wholly irrelevant. Of course, if you are more comfortable submitting to a man, I can make arrangements."
Pansy's breathing quickened as the thumb ghosting across the back of her hand slipped up towards her wrist and with the fingers below, applied gentle pressure. She knew if she pulled back the witch across from her would release her wrist without another word, but Pansy didn't want to pull back and she certainly didn't want to be released. She was suddenly desperate to remain in this moment forever with her violet eyes locked on the warm brown orbs belonging to Hermione Granger.
"Pansy." The use of her first name made Pansy aware of just how long she had been staring. She knew the blush staining her cheeks was deep but it was the words Hermione spoke next that calmed her racing heart, subsequently increasing her desire.
"This experience is about embracing the very best, most secret, parts of yourself in a safe space with someone specifically trained to bring such things to fruition. It allows you to be feminine and weak without having to worry that someone will catch you in your moment of vulnerability because you were strong enough to relinquish that control into another's hands." Hermione's thumb swirled over Pansy's pulse point. "I can offer you a release unlike any you have had before. The question is—are you ready to submit?"
The world could have been spinning entirely too fast or may have stopped spinning at all for Pansy was so caught up in Hermione's words she would not have noticed either way. She was tethered to the world merely by the touch of Hermione's fingers on her wrist, holding her in place, making her feel safe and validated in her desires. Her mind was coated in a thick fog and her thighs were pressed together to quell the ache within though her knickers were surely ruined by a simple touch and a few words from a witch Pansy didn't know she so desperately needed.
The word tumbled over her tongue and escaped her crimson coated lips before she could stop it.
"Yes."