Chapter 6

Pansy's house had always been deliciously dark. Sumptuous carpets, gilded accents and black lacquer. It was a beautiful house, one built to impress in a much more recent era than Malfoy Manor. If Draco were to build a house, he would definitely draw on this style. It couldn't help but to impressive. Unfortunately, he didn't have the time or inclination to go out an gather the things that made up a room like this, but he could appreciate the effect.

The murmur of the crowd was light, but he knew full well that not everyone felt light and happy in Pansy's salon. This very much was a shark tank. A drink tray was offered to him and he took a glass of champagne even as he felt like something much stronger.

The finely dressed crowd was before him, and he surveyed the room and catalogued the differing hopes and objectives of the people there. It was the one thing he needed to know about people—their agenda. It made them ridiculously easy to understand, and some of their objectives were ludicrous. There were those who merely wished not to be thought of badly or be seen as part of the crowd, and those who wanted to be seen as more than they were. More interesting were the ones who sought to achieve something, and that was more rare than one would expect.

"Darling," Pansy said as she approached him with an outstretched hand. As obliged, he kissed her on the cheek. "I'm so pleased you came. We were starting to wonder what's happened to you."

"Nothing's happened to me. I've just been busy."

"Too busy for your friends," she chided.

Friends. What a curious word. This was not a gathering of friends. Alliances more than friendships. People protected themselves in alliances. It had always been that way with Slytherins. This game had always been. A game of domination, but in a less honest way than eviscerating each other with swords. A game he'd won. His family had won. They'd even conquered Voldemort.

"Never too busy for you. You look wonderful." Of course she did. Her appearance was very considered, and today she wore fitted black satin robes and hair that fell in waves around her head. Fine jewelry that looked new. Pansy might have a new admirer. She collected them. Knowing of Pansy's affairs wasn't something he delved into, but her agenda in that regard was searching for power. It had always been her core driver.

"We have cards tonight, if you care to play," she said.

"I might," Draco replied and let his eyes roam the room. Cards were a diversion and a proxy of the competition that happened in this room. It wasn't just the game, but what you gambled.

"Well, try not to destroy anyone. Crying just brings down the mood of the party," Pansy said chidingly. There had been a time or two when he'd showed no mercy when people had made stupid decisions, even disastrously stupid ones. It was fair to say he'd felt little sympathy. Stupidity made him angry and when he was angry, empathy wasn't something he was always capable of. It was something he'd learned about himself. Looking back, he wasn't sure that had always been there or if it had been something he'd developed. No, there had been moments of empathy, some of them seared into his mind. But that had been a long time ago.

"I will behave. I promise."

"Liar," Pansy said and slapped on him the arm. Then she grew more serious. "I do worry about you, you know."

"Whatever for?" This was a departure.

"You seem to be withdrawing, and I don't understand why."

"As I said, my time is being taken by practicalities."

She didn't look convinced as she searched his eyes. At times he did feel that there was a part of Pansy that actually cared, but it fleeted in and out around her ambition.

"Something has changed."

"I changed jobs." That was literally the only things that had changed about him. "It requires more travel."

"Of course," she said in a lighter tone. "Go play. I'll even forgive you if you misbehave, a little. Tabitha Wallstone is here, she is always welcoming of a little misbehavior on your part, if you interest is so inclined."

The last thing he wanted was Tabitha Wallstone hanging on his arm hopefully. The young beauty had just made her entrance into society and she'd set her eyes on him. Which returned to the conversation of stupidity, not to mention self-deluded arrogance, but he simply couldn't be bothered. Beauty had limited applications. Granted, there were many who were ensnared by her beauty, and she could turn her attention there. She wouldn't though, beauty was not a tool to deploy on those already ensnared.

Walking to the cards room, he took a seat at one of the tables. Cormac McLaggen, Felix Rosier and Barnaby Lee. "Gentlemen," he said as he sat down and was dealt in.

"Malfoy, good to see you," McLaggen said. "I hear you are making real changes in your department."

"I'm not here to discuss my department," Draco said firmly.

"I fold," Barnaby said and left.

"We haven't even started yet," McLaggen complained. "He's shit at cards anyway."

Draco surveyed his cards and as he did, chatter died down completely. The room was silent and as he looked up, he saw the salon was silent too.

"Marcus, how lovely to see you," Pansy said in the other room.

It was silent for a few seconds more and then chatter started again, but subdued. Now why would Flint's entrance have such an effect? Something had happened, and it must have to do with Hermione, because Flint on his own didn't quiet a room. Perhaps this was about the purchase. Maybe people know he'd stolen her from out of Draco's grip and this was the first time they'd seen them in each other's company. Delicious anticipation was had by all. Dull.

But as Flint appeared at the door of the gaming room, the reason for the noted entrance became apparent. He'd brought her.

Hermione stood in what could only be described as a gown. Red velvet. Her wild curls were tamed and she wore gloves, one tucked into the crook of Flint's arm. This was all a site Draco couldn't comprehend. First of all, Granger dressed like that was ridiculous, secondly, Flint had a pleased look on his face, thirdly, Granger looked better than he'd expected after a war and years of servitude. The Ollivanders clearly hadn't starved her. Her skin was milky white and displayed with the low neckline of the dress. Granger was capable of tanning, but she hadn't seen a great deal of sun lately. Perhaps that was a mark of the servitude she'd endured.

Her eyes were large and she looked passive. Her eyes connected with no one, but she took in the room and its content. At no point did she look at him, not even remotely.

Flint brought her forward. This was part of Flint's play. He was showing off his prize.

Biting his lip, Draco leaned back in his chair. This was a blatantly a powerplay on Flint's behalf and he wasn't even bothering hiding it. This was fun for Flint. Entertainment perhaps. A show of how Flint bested him by stealing away what he wanted, then flaunting her like a prize.

"Malfoy," Flint said as he reached the table. "Losing tonight?"

"The game hasn't started."

"Well, then, I'm in luck."

"Lee just buggered off, so you can take his seat," McLaggen said, indicating to the spare seat. Slipping out of Hermione's grasp, Flint took the seat and she moved to stand behind him. This was what she'd been directed to do. Her eyes were on the card table and there was no expression on her face whatsoever.

McLaggen's attention was on her too. He'd had a thing for her back at Hogwarts, but it had never been reciprocated. As housemates, he should acknowledge her, but he didn't—he couldn't. Her status made her below regard, so Flint trussing her up like a Christmas tree and parading her around was… extraordinary.

Now he had to pay attention to his cards, because this was not a game to lose. The affront of all this was distracting—exactly as it was meant to be. This had been done to unnerve him, which, of course, would never happen.

His initial instinct was to deny this meant anything, but that was a juvenile reaction. Flint had literally stolen from him. That could not be forgiven. If nothing else, that was an affront that needed to be dealt with.

As the game proceeded, no one approached her or spoke to her. She was an object, an accessory, and not given the treatment of a guest in this salon. She'd hate every moment of this. This was Hermione confined by circumstance, reduced to little more than an object. But she stood with her back straight and her head held high, never moving. This had to be killing her. Saying that, he didn't know. So much had happened in the intervening years.

Even so, this escape into Flint's custody had the trace of her hand in it. Ollivander wasn't devious enough. How did Flint know he was seeking to acquire her? Flint wasn't obsessed enough to spy on him—merely an opportunist seeking a bit of fun at his expense. This transfer had been set up, and Draco would bet she'd had a hand in it. This was what she'd bought herself.