A Pound of Flesh

Chapter Thirteen: Something in the Air

Hermione bounced up the stairs to her flat, an absent smile on her face. Susan said it looked like she was glowing, and that’s how she felt: like she was glowing. Susan was wise enough not to push for the reason behind Hermione’s sudden unusually good mood, but that didn’t stop the other girl from sending her knowing looks. Hermione didn’t care. She was happy.

As she stopped at her door, she heard the phone ringing, and she pulled her wand from the holster on her wrist and unlocked the door. She rushed into her flat and ran for the phone, kicking off her work shoes as she went. “Hello?” she answered somewhat breathlessly.

“Hello, Hermione.”

“Mum!” she squeaked, surprised and confused. She and her mother had barely spoken more than three words to each other in the last year, which was three words more than they’d spoken the year before that. “How are you?”

“I was reminded that your birthday is coming up soon,” her mother answered coolly.

“Not for nearly three weeks yet,” Hermione answered, confused. She shrugged out of her work robes and looked around for Crookshanks.

“Yes, I know, so imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from Carol Lamprey saying she saw my daughter celebrating her birthday in a strip club two nights ago.”

Hermione swallowed heavily, and there was silence on the other end of the phone. “I – I don’t – ” She swallowed again. “It wasn’t like it looked,” she tried.

“You, on stage, practically having sex with the stripper?”

Hermione winced, and then remembered with vivid fondness that afterward, she actually had had sex with the stripper, and a lot of it, too.

“But he’s my boyfriend,” she blurted.

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone. When her mother spoke again, her words were clipped, and it sounded as though she was speaking through clenched teeth. “So I’ll just explain to my friend, then, that it’s alright that my daughter was onstage, in a strip club, in Soho, in front of hundreds of women, practically having sex with a stripper, who also happens to be my daughter’s boyfriend?”

“Thanks, Mum, yes, he is a lovely bloke, and he really does care about me, and I actually am quite happy. Thanks for asking and not worrying about your sodding reputation,” Hermione spat back, angry.

“You’ve got a smart answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Well, you raised me to be smart. What do you think?”

“If you were smart, you would go back to Ronald, and ask his forgiveness for whatever you did wrong – ”

“Goodbye, Mother,” Hermione interrupted. She hung up the phone. She stared at it for a moment, and then she threw it across the room as hard as she could. It shattered into pieces against the far wall, and Hermione sank to her knees and sobbed.

***

“Just wait out here a minute. It’s a wreck in there.”

Draco nodded agreeably and leaned against the wall in the corridor outside her flat. Hermione fidgeted with her keys; her hands shook slightly as she fitted the correct key into the lock and turned it. Part of her knew this was a horrible idea, but another part of her was thrumming with the thrill of bringing Draco back to her flat.

She opened to door to her flat and slipped through. She paused, her face in the doorway. “Just a minute,” she repeated. Draco nodded and continued to lean indolently. He looked relaxed and calm, but she noted the tenseness in his shoulders that meant he was nervous too.

She shut the door and turned back to her flat. She took a deep breath. She hadn’t intended to invite him back to her flat, but then again, she hadn’t really intended to go to the strip club earlier either. She’d been restless after the phone call from her mother, and the idea of spending a Friday evening alone in her flat with Crookshanks was a lonely one. Before she knew it, she was standing in the alley next to the club. After his last act, Draco had invited her back to his flat, but the night was particularly hot and Draco’s air conditioning was still non-functional. So she’d suggested her place.

Hermione rushed around, charming the pictures to be stationary ones of her parents and cousins instead of moving ones of Harry, Ginny, and all the rest. She hid her books on spells and charms with a flick of her wand and then glanced around the room. Not for the first time, she was glad of her Muggle upbringing. A Pureblood would never be able to hide their magical life this easily. She ran into her bedroom and repeated the process again, and draped a blanket over her trunk in the corner. Then she rushed back into the main room, stowed her wand in the drawer of the table by the door, and yanked the door open.

Draco jumped up, his eyes wide, and then he laughed. “That was fast.”

“Wasn’t as messy as I thought,” Hermione explained. She held the door open and beckoned Draco in. His face was fixed in an easy-going smile, but his eyes glistened with excitement. He stepped into the flat, pausing to trail his hand lightly across her back, and looked around, the eagerness showing at last. Hermione laughed. “Go on, have a look around.”

Draco walked to the middle of the room and pivoted on his heel. He spun slowly, and an odd expression grew on his face. Hermione glanced around, fearful she’d forgotten something. But no, everything was as Muggle as could be.

“Your flat,” Draco drew out, “is amazing. I mean, it feels…” He shook his head helplessly.

Oh… He felt the magic, then, Hermione realized. That was the odd look on his face. She hadn’t thought about that, but then again, she’d long ago grown used to the feel of everyday magic.

“Amazing,” Draco repeated. He stepped closer to the picture of her parents, which she had taken of them shortly before she’d Obliviated them and sent them on their merry way. “Your parents?”

She nodded.

“Your mom is pretty. You look just like her.”

“Thanks,” Hermione answered, making a concerted effort not to clench her teeth. If Draco noticed, he didn’t point it out.

He wandered to her bookshelf and scanned her titles. With a noise of surprise, he pulled out a book and shot her a look. “H.G. Wells?”

Hermione left her spot by the door and went to see which book he’d taken from the shelf.

“The Invisible Man,” he mused. “I’ve been wanting to read this.”

“You can borrow it if you like.”

Draco quirked a smile in her direction. “Bet you know how I felt first time you came to my flat.”

“Amused by my bookworm tendencies?”

Draco laughed and put the book back on the shelf. “I’ll borrow it another time. Show me the rest?”

Hermione reached out her hand and Draco took it. She pulled him into the kitchen, which was rather average as kitchens went: crisply white, blue tiled countertops, towels with daisies on them hanging on the towel racks, and a small bowl of lemons on the spotless dinette table. The sink was against one wall, the refrigerator opposite of it, and the stove sat alone at the end of the kitchen, situated between two windows.

“Kitchen,” Draco observed.

“You have amazing powers of observation,” Hermione teased.

She led him to the two windows and pounded on the frame of the one on the left side of the stove. Then she lifted the sash and leaned out into the night. Draco followed her lead.

“Wow.” He climbed through the window after her and came to stand on her small balcony. Baskets with flowers tumbling over the sides hung overhead, and two large planters in either corner were home to two thriving rose bushes. And from four stories up, it was easy to look down on the expansive courtyard garden beneath. A small fountain sat in the middle, the splash of water barely audible over the sounds of the crickets and other night bugs. A meandering path wound through the garden, and benches were scattered here and there. “Wow,” Draco said again.

“It’s a community garden,” Hermione said as she stood at the railing and looked down with Draco. “Sometimes, in the summertime when I can’t sleep, I’ll go sit next to the fountain and read.”

“It’s so peaceful. Like a different world.”

Hermione agreed. She perched on the edge of one of her plastic lawn chairs and watched his face as he looked down. After a long moment of gazing down, his face grew confused. But then he blinked and shook his head almost imperceptibly. He turned around and leaned against the railing. He smirked, and Hermione controlled the urge to wipe that smirk from his face.

“Ready to continue the tour?” she ventured. His smirk widened and Hermione’s hands twitched. Kissing the smirk from his lips was enjoyable, but he seemed to be learning that by giving her that look, he was guaranteeing himself a thorough snog. So she contained herself and stepped through the window into her kitchen.

Once Draco was inside, she shut and latched the window. He took a deep breath and his eyes fluttered shut. “God, I don’t know what it is about your flat…” he whispered. “There’s this feeling in the air. Do you feel it?”

Hermione shrugged. “No, but I live here, so I’m used to it,” she said. “What does it feel like?”

Draco paused, thinking. His forehead wrinkled with concentration and he took another deep breath through his nose. He licked his lips and opened his eyes, looking at her in wonderment. “I don’t know. Like the air is charged.” He shook his head. “No, it feels…” Stumped, he spun slowly in the kitchen as if the answer would reveal itself to him. “I don’t know. Like being alive, I guess.” He looked back at her. “Does that make any sense?”

“Not really,” she lied. “Finish the tour?”

Draco nodded and she pulled him out of the kitchen and down the hall. “Bathroom,” she told him, pointing. “Guestroom, but it’s empty. My office,” she continued, pointing to a third door. “And this…” She paused and leaned her back against the door. She looked up at Draco, feeling suddenly unable to breathe. “Is my bedroom.”

Draco’s face remained passive, and he nodded politely. All of his normal tells were gone, which was telling all on its own. Hermione fumbled for the knob, still facing Draco, and pushed the door open. The room was dark except for the street light spilling through the blinds.

“Dark,” Draco observed.

Hermione flicked on the overhead light, which bathed the room in a soft, warm glow. She backed into the room. Her gaze remained fixated on Draco’s face, waiting for his reaction. But he did not look around beyond a cursory glance. His eyes were focused on her, and a fire grew steadily hotter in his fathomless grey orbs.

“Nice bed,” he commented without looking at it.

Hermione found herself unable to respond; her words froze in her throat. She felt caught, almost trapped, in the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly, she remembered the first time she’d seen him on stage. Like a panther – dark, dangerous, and wild – he advanced on her. She backed away. In her chest, her heart thrummed eagerly, rattling against her ribs and making it impossible to take a deep breath. Nearly panting, she felt the back of her legs make contact with her bed.

He took another step closer and Hermione fell back on the side of the bed – Ron’s side. Draco climbed onto the bed, pushing her down until she was gazing up into his molten, mercurial eyes from the flat of her back. Draco’s lips curved up in a wicked smile, one that promised a long and satisfying night.

***

Startled out of a sound sleep, Hermione jerked up, her heart in her throat. For one brief moment, she placed her hand over her heart, unable to hear anything over the pounding of it in her ears. Something had awakened her, and for that one moment, she was still too incoherent to figure out what.

A low cry came from the man in bed next to her, and she looked down at him. His face was contorted in fear, and he moaned again in his sleep. His head thrashed on the pillow, and pale strands of hair clung to his sweaty forehead. “Mother,” he whimpered. “Please, no.”

“Wake up.” Hermione shook his shoulder. “You’re having a nightmare.” Except, she knew, it wasn’t a nightmare. He was remembering. But what was he remembering? Was he begging his mother not to leave him at the strip club? Or was he remembering her death?

Draco shook his head side to side rapidly, as if in denial. “No, no, no,” he cried. “Let me out.” He raised his hands and began to beat at the air sluggishly.

“Dra – Damien, wake up!” She leaned closer to him, avoiding his flailing hands, and shook him with more force. With muted dark humor, she realized this would be the most inopportune time for Draco to regain his memories. Wouldn’t that be awkward to explain to him.

His eyes flew open, wide and terrified, and his gasp of “Mother!” died on his lips. He bolted up in bed, panting heavily. He cast a wild-eyed gaze around the room, stopping when he caught sight of Hermione. “Jane,” he whispered in relief.

“I’m here.”

“Jane,” he said again, as if reassuring himself. He nodded to himself, and turned his gaze to his lap. “Just a dream.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Just a dream.” He clenched his fingers in the damp locks of sweaty blond hair at the nape of his neck and dropped his head forward.

Hermione rubbed his back. “Bad dream?” she ventured.

Draco nodded mutely. “But I can never remember it. I’m already forgetting it. I just remember a woman, and I think she’s dead, and there’s a lot of blood and someone is trying to get into the house I’m in and I know I need to hide.”

“Sounds scary.” Hermione reached for the water glass beside her bed and offered it to Draco. “You think it was your mother?”

Draco shook his head as he took a drink. “I don’t remember. Why?”

“No reason,” Hermione replied as she settled herself behind Draco and wrapped her arms around him. She cradled him in her legs and held him. She could feel his heart fluttering like a tiny wild bird in his chest, and he was covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat.

“I haven’t had that one in a really long time. I’m sorry.” Draco leaned back into her embrace, his naked back pressing against her bare breasts.

“Don’t apologize,” Hermione soothed. She kissed his cheek and rocked him back and forth slowly.

She had no doubt as to what he was dreaming of. He was remembering his mother’s murder, which meant that he had still been at Malfoy Manor on the fourth of June. He had lost both parents a day apart, a day before his birthday. Happy birthday, Draco Malfoy. He would never be able to enjoy celebrating his birthday again.

Focus! she chided herself.

If Draco was still at the Manor the day Narcissa was murdered, that removed her as a candidate from the list of people that might have delivered Draco to the strip club. Not that Hermione had ever really thought that Narcissa Malfoy would dare leave her precious son in such a place. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like punishment; whoever had left him, Obliviated, as a stripper in the Muggle word, was someone who either had no idea what such an establishment was really for, or (and she thought the second more likely) someone who knew too well just what such an establishment was for.

Hermione considered her list again. Snape had moved to the top of the list, but he would do her no good, considering he was long dead, killed by Voldemort for his treachery in the final days of the war. Bellatrix was also on the list, but Hermione didn’t think Bellatrix would have been able to hide the memory of dumping Draco unless she had Obliviated herself, as well. Tonks was another candidate, but that didn’t explain Dearborn, unless that was just all an extremely lucky coincidence. And as Hermione wasn’t a big believer in coincidences, she was almost certain that Draco and Dearborn had been Obliviated by the same witch or wizard.

Gradually, Draco’s shudders subsided and Hermione nuzzled his neck with her cheek. To distract him as much as herself, she told him, “I told my mother you’re my boyfriend.”

Draco turned his head slightly, a smile on his face. “You did?” He sounded pleased, almost childlike.

“Yeah. I was spotted by one of her friends and she was inquiring as to whom the handsome bloke was that I was nearly fucking on stage.”

Draco laughed sympathetically. “Somehow I doubt the conversation went down quite like that.”

“Not really, but it doesn’t matter. I told her you were my boyfriend.”

“So does that make you my girlfriend?”

In for a sickle, in for a galleon, she thought. “I suppose it does.”

***

After a night of restless sleep, Hermione rolled onto her side and gazed at Draco in the light of morning. He slept on. It had taken him some time to fall asleep again, and she was sure he wouldn’t wake for a few more hours. She, however, was wound up tightly, and she slid from the bed.

She shrugged on a thin dressing gown and tiptoed across the hallway to her office. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. A large desk dominated the small room. One corner of the desk was occupied by her laptop, and the other was home to an overflowing file folder. In the middle, her blotter, a calendar, was nearly filled with red X’s. She eased herself into her desk chair and pulled a red marker from her lap drawer. She carefully crossed out the last day of August.

After she replaced the marker, she leaned over and opened the bottom drawer on the left. The filing cabinet was brimming with case files, and for the first time, Hermione considered that perhaps she brought home too much work. However, this morning, she was only interested in one file, and she pulled Draco’s thick folder from the drawer. She spread it open in front of her and added her latest findings to the lengthening list.

-Obliviated
-Left at club by a woman he can’t remember
-First thing he remembers is being on stage
-Lives in building owned by C. Dearborn (Obliviated)
-Possibly Obliviated by same person who Obliviated Dearborn
-Feels connection to fantasy stories
-Has dreams that are really memories
-Is seeing a psychiatrist
-Is on medication for depression
-Has nightmares about his mother’s murder
-Must have been in hiding in Malfoy Manor
-Was not left at club by Narcissa
-Must have been removed from Malfoy Manor between June 4th and June 6th.

Hermione read over the list again. Draco must have been taken by someone in the hours following Narcissa’s death on the 4th, and before she had gone into the Manor with Harry and Ron in search of a Horcrux on June 6th. That left a very narrow window of time. Briefly, Hermione considered the idea that Draco might have still been in the Manor when she’d searched it with her friends. After all, he hadn’t shown up at the club until June 13th, according to his journals.

She sat back as a sudden chill gripped her. Then she shook her head. She was certain the Manor had been deserted. The Ministry had searched it thoroughly after Narcissa’s murder.

Which meant, someone from the Ministry could have stumbled across him. She shuddered as she considered some of the smarmy characters that had been in the MLE in those days, and what one of those people might have done to him if they’d discovered Draco.

Feeling somewhat nauseated, Hermione thought about the week that was still missing from Draco’s timeline. Anything could have happened to him then. Whoever took him could have abused him, and then grown tired of him and decided it would be a spot of fun to abandon him in the worst possible circumstances: homeless, without identity, and with no clue who he was or that he might be in danger.

But then, how did Dearborn tie into it? Hermione chewed her lip and considered the flaw in her reasoning. She was thinking as though Draco had been left at Dearborn’s front step, not in a strip club. Perhaps it actually had happened as Dearborn said: he’d read the newspaper and felt sympathy for Draco, and offered him a place to live.

Hermione sifted through her notes until she came to her to-do list. She added Check duty roster for Malfoy Manor search underneath her note to visit Draco’s psychiatrist.

She set both lists to the side. A copy of Draco’s file from the Ministry was next in the stack, but Hermione set that aside as well. The rest of the stack was made up of the copied pages of Draco’s journals. She glanced at the top sheet.

June 17th, 1998

Dr. Thomas says I need to keep a journal…

She flipped to where she’d marked her place in the stack.

I hate my life, she read.

I hate my flat, I hate working as a stripper, and I hate women touching me like they own me. I hate having to see a shrink, I hate not knowing who I am, and I hate the fact that obviously, nobody misses me enough to come looking for me. What kind of person was I that there isn’t one single person who cares enough to wonder where I suddenly got off to?

It’s like a bad joke. Who just leaves someone in a strange place with no idea who they are? Someone out there knows where I am, and even if she comes back, I wouldn’t recognize her since for some reason, I can’t even remember her face.

I want to do something else. I’ve signed up for GCSEs which ought to be a laugh considering five months ago, I didn’t even know how to make toast. I don’t want to be a stripper the rest of my endless days. If my memories never come back, I’ll just have to make a new life for myself.

Hermione exhaled shakily and flipped the folder shut. She pressed her palms to her forehead. She could end it right now – go into that bedroom, wake him up and tell him who he was in hopes of triggering his memories – but she knew that if he remembered he was Draco Malfoy, he would also remember she was Hermione Granger, and Draco Malfoy hated Hermione Granger. The thought of him hating her was painful to consider, almost unbearably so.

Then, too, was the fact that telling him everything might not bring an end to the charm. Without knowing the nature of the charm, she could tell him who he was until she turned blue in the face; meanwhile, he might sit there and stare at her as if she were insane.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione looked up. The two books on Memory Charms she’d purchased at Flourish and Blotts were on the bookshelf next to her desk, and she selected the thicker of the two. She flipped it open and began to read.

Not until Crookshanks found his way into the office and wound around her feet to remind her that he was hungry did Hermione glance up from the book. The clock over her desk told her she’d been reading for nearly two hours. She rubbed her eyes and then marked her spot before she shut the enormous book. She’d hardly done more than put a dent in the seemingly endless amount of information within its pages.

Stiff and sore from another exhaustive but enjoyable night with Draco, she unfolded herself from the chair and stretched. After she checked in on Draco, finding him still sound asleep, Hermione slipped into the kitchen.

She set a pot of water to boil for the porridge, readied another pan for the bacon and eggs, and fetched some bread and marmalade for toast. She figured after all the man in her bedroom had been through, he deserved breakfast in bed.

Draco, however, stumbled into the kitchen just as Hermione was starting the eggs. He was a welcome sight – hair tousled, cheeks still flushed with sleep, and dressed in just his boxer shorts and a white tank top that had somehow managed to escape damage the night before. “Hey,” he yawned.

“Good morning.”

“Not nice to leave a bloke on his own to wake up in a strange place.”

“Aww, I’m sorry, love. But I’m making you breakfast – does that count for anything?”

“I reckon you can be forgiven then.” Draco planted a kiss on her cheek and flopped gracefully into one of the chairs at her small table.

“How charitable of you,” Hermione teased, leaning over the porridge. A cloud of steam rose up as she stirred the contents of the pot. She turned to glance at Draco when he didn’t respond. He was staring at her, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Déjà vu,” Draco answered.

Hermione stepped back from the pot at once.

“That was so weird,” Draco continued, a faraway tone in his voice. He shook his head. “I saw you standing over some sort of strange pot with blue mist or smoke – or something – coming out of it, but you were wearing… it looked a witch’s costume.”

Hermione looked at him, barely breathing as he tilted his head to the side and looked at her searchingly. Was this the moment he would remember? His memory triggered by something so innocuous as a pot of steaming porridge?

“I think I must be remembering some strange dream I had about you after reading one too many of my books,” he said at last, chuckling slightly.

Hermione laughed and turned her back to fetch plates and bowls. She closed her eyes momentarily and breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t ready yet for this to end.

After they finished breakfast, Hermione asked, “So what are your plans for the day?”

Draco sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand through his hair. “If you don’t mind,” he began, “would it be alright if I took a shower?”

“Of course.” Hermione stood and began to gather their dishes.

“Thank you.” He grimaced and touched his hair again. “I’m covered in oil. I can’t believe you let me sleep in your bed with me being so oily.”

“I like you oily.”

“Well, I don’t.” Draco smirked and Hermione turned her back quickly.

“Feel free to use whatever,” Hermione offered. Draco sidled up behind her and put his hands on her waist. He spun her around.

“Join me?”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she teased.

“You said I could use whatever,” Draco countered. He swooped down and picked her up. “I could use someone to wash my back.” He carried her, giggling, to the bathroom.

***

Hermione slipped out of the shower when the water turned cold; Draco lingered to finish bathing. She donned her dressing gown and was in the process of toweling her hair dry when she heard the Floo roar to life. Her heart skipped a beat. She’d forgotten to lock the Floo.

“Fuck.” She darted out into the main room just as Luna’s head appeared.

“Hermione? Are you home?” Luna’s head swiveled as Hermione rushed to the fireplace.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Hermione hissed, glancing over her shoulder.

“Oh, there you are,” Luna said mildly.

“I can’t talk right now.”

“It’ll just take a minute.”

“No – ”

“I got that information from Daddy that you wanted – about the New Mooners, remember?”

“Where are your spare towels?” Draco called from the bathroom.

Luna’s eyes grew round and her mouth fell open.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder again. “In the – in the linen cupboard in the hall. I’ll bring them!”

“It’s alright, I’ll get them myself.” The shower turned off.

“Is that your Muggle?” Luna whispered.

“Yes, so I can’t talk now, Luna. I’ll talk to you later.” Hermione heard the shower curtain slide back.

“When can I meet him?”

“Luna, please!”

“Alright.” Luna’s head disappeared from the flames just as the bathroom door clicked open.

Hermione charged down the hall and whipped open the linen cupboard, which effectively blocked the view into the main room, and the still fading green flames in the Floo. Draco stepped out of the bathroom just then, very naked and dripping wet. For once, Hermione didn’t really notice. “Here you go,” she told Draco as she handed him two thick, fluffy towels.

“Thanks.”

Hermione locked the Floo once Draco had retreated back into the bathroom, and then she quickly dressed. As she pulled a light blouse over her head, she prayed that Luna wouldn’t tell Dean what she’d stumbled across. The last thing Hermione needed was that bit of gossip spread around. Ron would be even more intolerable than ever.

She stopped, shirt halfway over her head. Why should she care? She finished dressing. It was no longer her concern to worry about what Ron thought. Especially given his performance the week prior at the wedding. No, Hermione decided. She hoped Luna did tell Dean about the man in Hermione’s flat. She had nothing to hide.

Except for the fact that the man in her flat was Draco Malfoy.

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Author's Notes: Have a theory? Join my yahoo group and take part in the discussion.