Come to Play

The clinical quiet of Hermione’s private consulting room was broken only by the soft tick of a charmed clock. It was a space designed for comfort—warm wood, soft lamplight, shelves of benign-looking texts on mental theory. It was also a stage. Her stage.

Harry arrived precisely on time. He looked better than he had the previous week. The shadows under his eyes were less pronounced, and his smile came easier.

“You look well,” Hermione said, gesturing to the plush, high-backed chair opposite her own. It was deeper, more enveloping than the one at Grimmauld Place.

“I feel better,” he admitted, sinking into the chair with a grateful sigh. “Slept through the night twice this week. First time in… Merlin, I can’t remember. Whatever you did, it’s working.”

Wonderful, she thought, the word tasting of victory. It’s only the beginning.

“I’m so pleased to hear it,” she said aloud, her voice a gentle, professional balm. She took her seat, the polished maple rod already cool and familiar in her hand. “Today, we’ll go a little deeper. We’ll strengthen that connection to your own sense of peace. Are you ready?”

“More than ready.” His trust was a palpable force in the room, thick and sweet as honey.

“Then let’s begin. Just as before. Find a comfortable position. Focus on the tip of the rod. Let everything else… fade.”

She lifted the rod. The silver spiral bloomed from its tip, lazy and mesmerizing. Harry’s gaze locked onto it instantly, his breathing beginning to even out within moments. He was already conditioned. Eager for the descent.

“That’s it,” she murmured, her voice dropping into that rhythmic, melodic cadence that was becoming his personal siren song. “Down you go. Deeper with every breath. Into that safe, quiet space. Where my voice is the only thing that matters. Where my words are the only thing you feel.”

She watched the last vestiges of tension melt from his frame. His head lolled slightly against the headrest. Blank. Receptive. Hers.

“Can you hear me, Harry?”

“Yes.” The flat, empty tone. Perfect.

“You are in a trance. You will remain so until I say awaken and clear. You feel safe. You feel relaxed. But most of all, you feel… good. A warm, heavy, pleasurable goodness that starts in your mind and spreads through your entire body. And this feeling, this goodness, is tied to my voice. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“My voice is the source of this peace. My words are the key to this pleasure. When you hear me speak, in this state, it amplifies the feeling. It makes it richer. Deeper. It’s a gift only I can give you. This profound, quiet goodness.” She let the concept hang, imagining it seeping into the porous substrate of his subconscious. “You will dream of this feeling. In your sleep, your mind will wander, seeking it. It will show you… possibilities. Paths to feeling this good. And all paths lead back to my voice. To these sessions. To me.”

A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped his lips. His expression was one of serene bliss.

“Now, I want you to open your eyes, Harry. Keep your body perfectly relaxed, but open your eyes and look at me.”

His eyelids fluttered open. His green eyes were glassy, unfocused, yet fixed on her face. He was under, yet awake. A puppet with its strings held loosely, awaiting instruction. The sight sent a jolt straight through her core.

“You see me,” she said, her voice low and firm. “You are still deep in trance. You can hear me perfectly. And you know, in this state, that you cannot disobey a simple instruction from me. You have no desire to disobey. Because if you were to try… that beautiful, warm, good feeling would begin to fade. It would drain away, leaving you empty. Cold. You don’t want that. You want to feel good. You want to obey. Because obeying me is what feels good. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” His voice was a whisper, utterly devoid of will.

“Good. Nod for me, if you understand.”

His head moved in a slow, deliberate nod.

“Excellent. Now, I want you to lift your right hand. Just lift it, slowly, and hold it in the air.”

Without hesitation, his right arm rose, his hand hanging limply at the wrist. He held it there, perfectly still. No questioning. No resistance. Just pure, effortless compliance.

“Very good, Harry. You’re doing perfectly. You can lower your hand now.”

His arm sank back to the chair’s armrest as if pulled by a gentle gravity.

“This feeling of obedience… it feels right, doesn’t it? It feels natural. It feels good. It’s easy. It’s peaceful. And it is linked, now and forever, to the sound of my voice. When you are in trance, my voice is your comfort. My voice is your pleasure. My voice is your command.”

She let the silence stretch, watching him watch her with those blank, beautiful eyes. The power was not a rush now, but a steady, thrumming current in her veins. This was control. This was creation.

“Now, close your eyes again, Harry. But remain deep in your trance. Deeper still.”

His eyelids slid shut.

“You will remember none of these specific suggestions. They will be truths buried deep, guiding you. You will only remember that this session was profoundly relaxing. That you feel a strong, compelling desire to return. That when you think of our next session, a sense of anticipation will build in you. A need to feel this good again. A need to hear my voice, guiding you down. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“When you awake, you will feel clear, refreshed, and… hopeful. You will count the days until our next meeting. It will be all you can think about. The thought will bring you a quiet, constant pleasure. This is your new truth.”

She waited, letting the post-hypnotic suggestions weave themselves into the fabric of his mind. Obedience. Pleasure. Her voice. The need to return.

“On the count of three, you will awaken. One… feeling so good. Two… so calm. Three. Awaken and clear.”

Harry’s eyes opened. He blinked, a slow, languid motion, then focused on her. A wide, genuine smile spread across his face. He stretched, rolling his neck with a soft crack.

“Wow. That was… even better than last time. I felt like I was floating. Just… pure quiet.” He looked at her, his green eyes bright. “Your voice is so calming, Hermione. It’s like… I don’t know. A lifeline.”

Exactly, she thought, her own smile soft and knowing.

“I’m glad it’s helping,” she said, setting the rod aside. “How do you feel about continuing? Same time next week?”

“Are you kidding?” He laughed, a real, easy sound. “I’d come tomorrow if you let me. I already can’t wait.”

The words were a validation that sang in her blood. It was working exactly as planned. The conditioning was taking root.

He stood, looking more energized than she’d seen him in years. “Thank you, Hermione. Seriously. This is… it’s everything.”

“It’s my pleasure, Harry,” she said, the double meaning a secret thrill on her tongue. “Truly.”

He left her office with a spring in his step, whistling a tuneless melody. Hermione didn’t move from her chair until the sound of his footsteps had completely faded. She stared at the empty chair where he had been, her mind already racing forward.

Obedience. The foundation was laid. The association of her voice with primal, sensual pleasure was established. The need for more was planted.

Next time. Next time, she wouldn’t just have him lift his hand. She would introduce touch. A simple, clinical touch of her finger on his skin, paired with a suggestion of heat. A tingle. She would build the feedback loop—her command, his physical response, a wave of pleasure, reinforcing the need to obey.

She picked up her maple rod, tracing a slow circle in the air where his face had been. The silver light left a faint, fading trail.