The club has no name. It doesn't need one. The address passes between powerful men like currency—whispered in Ministry corridors, scrawled on napkins in private boxes at the opera, murmured over brandy in the few remaining pure-blood salons that still matter.

It sits in a narrow building off Regent Street, unmarked, unassuming. A black door. A single gas lamp. A bouncer who never speaks.

Inside, the air is thick with expensive cologne and the low hum of a wireless playing something classical. Velvet curtains. Dim chandeliers. Women in silk who know when to look and when to look away.

Tonight, the club is full.

And Draco Malfoy has just walked through the door.

Slow. Deliberate.

Searching.

The coat check attendant swallows. The nearest server dips her head and backs away. The music seems to dim, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

And then Draco's eyes stop.

At the far end of the lounge. Near the bar. A woman in deep emerald silk, pouring amber liquid into a crystal glass for a portly wizard old enough to be her grandfather. Her hair is pinned. Her shoulders are bare. Her smile is perfectly blank.

She doesn't look up.

But her hands pause—just a fraction of a second—before she sets the decanter down.