A Pound of Flesh

Chapter Nineteen: Prelude to a Goodbye

Hermione shifted against the brick wall as the cold seeped through her thin jacket. She’d hoped that by not seeing Draco until the end of his shift, she would have time to rid herself of the black thoughts that overwhelmed her. Unfortunately, that had not been the case. She was still in a dismal mood from her dinner with Ginny.

So she made herself comfortable in the alley across from the back door to the club and waited for him to appear through the door. During the chilly walk from her flat to Soho, the conversation with Ginny had replayed in her head again and again.

Was it possible that Draco would forgive her, after a time, for her deception? No matter how she let the scenario play out in her head, things did not bode well for her getting out of this situation unscathed. She hadn’t lied to Ginny; if it turned out that there were no more viable leads (and she had to admit, she was running out of straws to grasp at), she intended to tell Draco the truth.

A gust of wind blew her hair into her eyes and sent small bits of rubbish rolling end over end down the alley. The breeze carried the scent of rain with it, and Hermione craned her neck to look up at the sliver of sky visible above her. The wind surged through the narrow alley again, and in the distance, there was the faint rumble of thunder.

“Lovely,” Hermione said with a grimace.

As the wind picked up, the light over the back door of the club flickered and threatened to go out. There was another low roll of thunder, and then a light rain began to fall. She heaved an annoyed sigh and yanked the hood of her jacket up to cover her head.

Just as the rain became a downpour, the back door swung open. A group of men talking loudly over each other spilled out into the alley and began to complain as the rain hit them. Hermione looked for Draco’s fair head. She spied him as he paused in the doorway and pulled an umbrella from his bag. He spotted her and detached from the group, calling his farewell to his coworkers over his shoulder.

“What are you doing out here in the rain?” he demanded as he approached her.

“Waiting for you.”

“Why didn’t you come in out of the rain, you daft girl?”

“It just started raining,” she defended.

Draco reached her and held his umbrella over her head. “Why didn’t you come in before, then?”

She shrugged. “Wasn’t in the mood to. I only just got here a few minutes ago.”

A faint line appeared between Draco’s eyebrows as he paused and looked at her. “You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” she assured him.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated.

Draco hedged for a minute and then took her hand in his. As they turned left at the end of the alley and headed for her flat, he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her palm. “If something’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know.”

He didn’t look like he believed her, but he let the matter drop. He didn’t even comment when she took him the circuitous route to avoid walking past the Leaky Cauldron. Instead, he kept up a steady stream of commentary about his day which required very little response from Hermione.

By the time they reached her flat, in spite of Draco’s small umbrella, both were chilled and damp from the rain.

“Cold, cold, cold!” Draco complained as he kicked off his shoes by the door and bent to remove his sodden socks.

Hermione agreed as she mimicked his motions. Just two weeks ago, she’d begrudged the overly hot weather, but now she’d take it over the general dismalness of a rainy autumn night.

“I’m just going to go take a quick shower, and then I’ll be back,” Draco announced. “I’m all oily.”

“I’ll be here.”

Hermione waited until she heard the shower kick on before she crossed to the Floo to disable it for the evening. Then she built a cheery fire and huddled in front of it, her fingers splayed out in the radiance of heat from the flames.

She was still there when Draco emerged from the shower, smelling of fresh soap and shampoo. He sat behind her, one leg on either side, and rested his chin on her shoulder. His arms went around her waist and pulled her back to him. She leaned against him with a sigh of contentment. The last of her sour mood faded away.

What passed then was a pleasant hour in Draco’s arms, without the bother of a lengthy conversation. She was satisfied to just be with him, and he appeared to feel the same. Her mind emptied as she gazed into the hypnotic flames. There was no worry for tomorrow, or regret for the past, there was only that moment with Draco in front of the fire.

When the flames began to die down, Draco stood and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go to bed.”

Tired, Hermione agreed. She closed the grate to contain any sparks that might jump from the glowing embers in the hearth and turned the lights off on her way to the bedroom. She readied for bed, and when she came back from the bathroom, Draco was already under the covers. He smiled at her, but something in his eyes seemed off, and for the first time, Hermione stopped to wonder if maybe something was bothering him tonight, as well.

She climbed into the bed and turned on her side to face him.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

His face shifted and the dark cloud in his eyes disappeared. “I was thinking how sexy you look when you sleep in my t-shirt.”

He was hiding something again, she knew, but as she was also hiding things from him, she didn’t push it. If he wanted to tell her, he would. So, instead, she plucked at the neckline of the soft cotton shirt. “It’s comfortable, and it smells like you.” Then, with a yawn, she rolled onto her other side and stretched to turn off the bedside lamp.

Before she could turn to face him again, Draco closed the narrow space between them and snuggled up against her back, his hot breath on her neck. A different sort of mood seemed to have taken him. His hand, hot and unsteady, skimmed against her skin as he brushed her hair to the side. She felt him lean forward – the moment stretched on with excruciating anticipation – and then the nerves at the base of her neck exploded in delight as he pressed a firm, lingering kiss there.

Hermione rolled her head forward, allowing him easier access to that sensitive stretch of skin on the nape of her neck. Draco growled low in his throat and pressed his hips against her backside. Through her thin silk underwear, she felt the long, hard length of him nestle against her. A pleasant, warm tingle start between her legs, and Hermione shifted against him, squirming.

Draco chuckled, and the throaty sound of it made the tingle between her legs spread up through her abdomen and into her chest. Draco’s breath came in fast, hot puffs against her neck, and she felt her own breathing quicken as his hand snaked down and lifted the worn t-shirt. He traced his fingers over her flat stomach and her belly button, causing her to shiver, her skin contracting at his touch.

He lifted his head and trailed feather-light kisses from the back of her neck to her shoulder, pausing when he found the spot that made Hermione moan in delight. He spent a long moment just ever so lightly skimming his fingers across her stomach and kissing her shoulder, until Hermione was trembling with desire in his arms.

Without speaking, he pulled her over so she was on her back, and he rolled on top of her. Hermione groaned in anticipation, feeling his erection against her stomach. Draco’s eyes were half-lidded, either with pleasure or sleepiness, or perhaps both. Hermione watched his succulent lips curve up and raised her head, capturing a kiss.

“This is what I needed,” Draco told her.

“Me too,” Hermione confessed. She brushed his cheek with her fingertips and marveled at the feel of his skin under her touch.

His eyes fluttered closed as she traced her hand down his cheek, along his throat, and down to his chest. She was hyperaware of every inch of his skin that met up with hers. From his muscled calves entangled with her legs, to his waist pressed against the small stretch of her stomach exposed between the bunched up t-shirt and the low top of her underwear, every nerve ending was tingling.

Draco’s hands found the bottom hem of the shirt and pushed it further up her body. She helped him pull it off over her head, and then let it fall to the side of the bed. But instead of his hands exploring the freshly bared skin as she’d expected, he laid his head against her chest and rested his ear to her heart.

She hooked her ankles together behind his back and wrapped her arms around his neck. With him in the cradle of her embrace, she rocked from side to side in a slow, soothing manner.

Outside, the rainstorm picked up steam with a rumble of thunder that shook the window panes. The wind gusted and howled around the eaves, and the curtains lit with a flash of lightning. The rattle of rain beat down outside, but inside, it was dry, it was warm.

With a hum of contentment, Draco brought his hands up, and they began to skim her sides in a way that almost tickled. She wriggled beneath him, doing her best to not giggle. The movement elicited a low groan from Draco, and he turned his head to trail his lips along her collarbone.

Draco’s hands went to her breasts, and he cupped one firmly, then swirled his tongue around her nipple, which had gone rock-hard. His other hand slipped down between them, and into the silky underwear. He paused, twisting his fingers through her dark brown curls, and switched his attention to the other nipple. Hermione gasped. The things he could do with his tongue drove her out of her mind.

He pulled her silky panties down and tossed them to the floor with the t-shirt. His boxers joined the pile a moment later.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just need to be in you.”

Hermione made an affirmative noise, and Draco eased himself in with one smooth motion. The feeling of completion swept through Hermione’s body. A desperate, needy urge to touch as much of him as she could swept through her like a flood of fire.

With roaming hands, she caressed his shoulders, his back. She reached down and ran her fingertips across the firm surface of his backside, marveling at the muscles that she felt contracting as he moved within her. She trailed her touch down his arms, up his neck, through his hair. She intertwined her legs around his and slid her foot along the inside of his calves. When she arched her back to press her chest to his, he slid his arms under her and rolled them until she was positioned over him.

She paused once she was on top, however. A flash of lightning illuminated his face. His eyes were open, sparkling in the brief flash of light. The sight of his face, and the hue cast upon it by the pale, electric radiance of lightning, sparked some deeply buried remembrance that danced just beyond the edges of her memory. But just as fast as it had come upon her, it was gone.

She repressed the urge to stop and think about what that meant. Thinking was not allowed in these situations. Only feeling was allowed. And so, she leaned forward and cupped his face in her hands. Then she kissed him, long and deep until they were both breathless and panting for air. Draco arched beneath her, and at last, Hermione began to move with him.

Draco, now experienced with what Hermione enjoyed, brought her to the edge of orgasm several times before at last, the blissful release exploded through her like a thunderbolt. He joined her soon after, and collapsed against her, his skin hot and damp.

It was some time before he moved from his spot with his face buried in her neck, and then it was to roll to her side and onto his back. Hermione sighed in relief as the cool air hit her sweat-covered skin. She gazed at the ceiling, though her mind was somewhere else altogether.

This was everything she wanted, everything she needed. Couldn’t she have this forever?

Then reality found its way into her hazy, peaceful mind.

She couldn’t.

Her eyes clamped shut and she focused on the feel of his skin where he brushed against her, the tangible weight of his body on the bed next to her, the sound of his slow breaths, and the scent of his musky, comforting scent. He was here, now. She only wanted to think about that.

“Jane,” Draco whispered at last.

She rolled onto her side and rested her head on his shoulder. “Hmm?”

He paused. “Sometimes – I get this feeling like you’re trying to say goodbye.”

Her eyes shot open and she looked up at his face, shocked. So this was what was bothering him. How perceptive he was.

“I’m not,” she was quick to deny.

“But it feels like you are. Is it because you’re still bothered by what I told you in the bookshop?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m not trying to say goodbye. Wolves couldn’t drag me away. I’m not going anywhere, love.”

But inside, a small voice, just loud enough to shatter her, whispered, Yes, I am.

***

Hermione found herself in the endless, dark hallway again. She could not see the walls, which she knew would end up closing in on her; she could not see the carpeted floor which muffled her running feet; she couldn’t even be sure these things existed in the absolute dark. The only thing she was certain of was that faint slice of light at the end of the corridor which was ever closer, but just beyond her ability to reach.

She couldn’t see Draco but she heard his voice coming from somewhere in the darkness, pleading with her to help him.

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” she called out, breathless from running toward a destination that never got any closer.

And then, almost imperceptibly, the pinprick of light flared.

It was the incentive Hermione needed to force her sluggish legs to move forward. She knew that the answers to everything were to be found at that light. But just as she was sure she was at last getting closer to the light, the walls began to close in around her.

“No!” she cried in frustration as she tried to wiggle her way through the narrowing passage. “Not this time!” With impotent rage, she beat at the walls with her fists as she turned to the side and slid through the tightening gap.

And then abruptly, the scene shifted. She sensed more than saw that the pressing walls had vanished and left her instead in a cavernous room. The darkness around her became less absolute, the air less stifling and oppressive. From the murky shadows around her, she began to distinguish the outline of an ostentatious, curving staircase. The stairs circled up over her head, and she turned on her heel as she followed the curve with her eyes until the upper reaches of the staircase disappeared into the shadows overhead.

She placed a hand on the metal banister and started up the stairs. Every ten risers, a slat of blue-white moonlight cut across the darkness like the edge of a brutal knife. She shied away from the moonbeams, fearful that her presence would be discovered.

At last, the winding staircase ended, and Hermione turned to examine her new surroundings. A scream stuck in her throat as she found herself in another dark corridor. Except, there was no light at the end of the hallway; instead, more slashes of brilliant moonlight flooded in through tall, narrow windows. Her feet dragged her forward, and her eyes swept across the opulent decorations that glowed with the light that poured through the windows.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest; she stopped and sucked in a shuddering breath. The sudden awareness that she was not alone in the darkness filled every ounce of her being. A shadow shifted – pulled away from the inky blackness to her left, and an alabaster hand with slender, long fingers shot from the shadows and reached for her face.

Hermione’s eyes flew open. For a disorienting moment, she couldn’t see, until she realized that a pillow covered her head. She pulled it away from her face and took a deep breath. The cool, clean smell of her flat filled her nose and mouth, and she sighed as the last terrifying shreds of nightmare fell away from her.

A quick glance to her left confirmed that Draco slept on, undisturbed. A shaft of moonlight spilled through the crack in her curtains and splashed across his cheek, turning his tanned skin to a pale shade of silver. The memory of that disembodied, white hand reaching for her in the dark flashed before her eyes and she shuddered.

She knew sleep would not come again easily; it never did after dreams involving that sightless, endless, hopeless corridor. Her options were to remain in her bed and stare at the ceiling or the numbers on her alarm clock as they crawled forward, watch Draco as he slept and fantasize about an impossible future with him, or get out of bed and flip helplessly through the massive file of information she’d gathered on Draco over the course of her investigation.

The most attractive of her options was to pass the time memorizing Draco’s face, and so she adjusted the pillow under her head and curled onto her side to watch him sleep. And though she knew it would only cause her more heartache in the end, she allowed her imagination to steer her into a world that would not – could not – ever exist.

Draco’s eyelids fluttered as he dreamed, but the gentle upturn of his lips told her it was a good dream, and not one of the nightmares that had been occurring with alarming frequency in the last few weeks. His face was relaxed; it was often easy to forget how young Draco was until he was asleep and the years added from the stress of his life smoothed away. There was vulnerability there in that unconscious smile that left her unable to look away.

The idea that he could possibly love her too was the only thing that gave her hope. Perhaps he’d be able to overlook her terrible transgression and forgive her, if only he loved her enough.

Sometimes, she swore she saw it there in his eyes when he looked at her. Other times, she felt a tenderness in his touch that could only mean love. It was everywhere, in the light pressure of his hand on her back as he guided her through doorways, in the caress of his thumb across her knuckles when they held hands, in the warm glow that lit in his eyes when he saw her after being apart all day.

The hope that he loved her in return was dangerous. But it was all she had. So while the majority of the time, she managed to rein in her runaway imagination, at times like this, she allowed the hope to explode from her chest and well into every fiber of her being. Otherwise, she knew she would never be able to continue to look for a way to give his memories back, not when she knew what waited for her if she succeeded.

After almost an hour of watching Draco’s peaceful repose, however, she was no closer to sleep. At last, restless, she left the bed and tiptoed into her office. After easing the door shut and locking it, she sat at her desk and stared at the file she’d taken from Dr. Thomas’s office. It had been a bitter discovery to realize she’d pinned so much hope on the doctor’s files, and to have that hope so thoroughly crushed.

Of course, there were instances of memories and blurbs of recollections that the doctor dismissed as bad dreams or confusing fiction with reality. When it came down to it, though, there was no new real information to be gained.

It would have been a complete wash, if not for the fact that Dr. Thomas had copies of the hospital records and police reports from the night Draco had appeared, sans memories, at the strip club. Though Hermione had noted from Louie’s memories that Draco had appeared to be in good physical health the night he arrived at the strip club, it was reassuring to her that a thorough exam had not indicated any internal or external damage to him. At least whoever had taken Draco from Malfoy Manor after Narcissa’s death had not abused him as she’d feared.

The hospital had kept Draco for three days, and they ran a battery of tests on his head to determine any reason for his absent memories. During that time, no missing person reports had come in, and nobody had stepped forward to claim Damien King. At last, the day after he was discharged and moved into a group home, a man named Cary Dearborn had come forward and offered the boy with no past someplace to live.

Hermione mused that Draco had probably jumped at the opportunity to escape the group home. The doctor’s notes indicated that Louie from the strip club had stayed in constant contact with Draco, and the same day that Dearborn offered the flat, the same day Draco moved into the barebones place, he’d gone onstage that night at the strip club, and had worked there consistently since then.

Three days gave whoever had Obliviated Draco plenty of time to seek out Dearborn and enlist his help in watching over the wayward boy. But it also meant that whoever had done the deed had prior knowledge of Dearborn.

“Circles,” Hermione gritted out between clenched teeth. Everything took her in circles. And it never took her closer to answering the question of who the perpetrator was. Instead, the list of who couldn’t have Charmed Draco grew longer and longer.

There was one avenue she had yet to explore before she gave up, and then she would be out of leads and ideas. Perusing the doctor’s files had reminded Hermione that she still needed to check the duty rosters to see who had investigated Narcissa’s murder, and by extension, who might have discovered Draco.

So, two mornings later, Hermione slipped into the archive before her shift started, determined to finally find something that would help her restore Draco’s memories, however much she didn’t want him to remember.

She headed to the now familiar ‘M’ section of the archives. She bypassed Malfoy, Draco, in favor of Malfoy, Narcissa. The Malfoy matron’s file was thin; she had no criminal charges. Her only damning crime was being married to Lucius Malfoy.

The cause of her death was undetermined, but Hermione shuddered as she recalled the pool of blood in the carpet of the room where Narcissa had been murdered.

She settled back into a chair and held the file open on her lap. The Ministry had been alerted to the presence of the Dark Mark in Wiltshire, and had dispatched Aurors to investigate. Narcissa’s body had still been warm when the Aurors stumbled onto the crime scene.

A thorough search of the manor revealed it to be deserted. Not even house elves remained on the premises. The house sustained a great deal of damage in the fight, but nothing appeared to be missing.

Narcissa’s body was removed from the scene. Her sister, Andromeda Tonks, came forward to identify her, and had her buried in the Black family plot.

The Aurors signing off on the report were Kingsley Shacklebolt, Richard Dawlish, Ebenezer Proudfoot, Honoria Leavenworth, and Nymphadora Tonks.

Hermione stared down at the file.

Tonks.

Images of violently pink hair morphing into Weasley red blinded Hermione for a moment. Of a petite nose changing into a pig’s snout to make her and Ginny laugh. Of a musical voice becoming scratchy and elderly.

If anyone could disguise herself properly, it was Tonks. Tonks, who didn’t even need to wave her wand to change her appearance. Tonks, who was related to Draco and might have felt a sense of familial duty to hide him. Tonks, whom she’d suspected before. Tonks, who was dead.

Hermione closed her eyes and bowed her head over the file. A wave of fresh grief washed over her as she thought of Tonks and Remus, and Teddy, who would never know his parents.

She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks and focused on the file again. If Tonks had taken Draco out of Malfoy Manor, where had she kept him for a week? And why had she placed him at the strip club afterward? And how did Dearborn tie into it?

With a calming breath, Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated. Perhaps Tonks had hidden Draco for as long as possible, but with the war raging toward its violent conclusion, it had been impossible for her to keep him safe any longer. Perhaps that was when she sought out a most improbable hiding spot for Draco, close enough to Diagon Alley so that if anything happened to her, someone would eventually stumble across him.

But again, Hermione came back to Dearborn. Try as she might, she could not find a connection. Again, she considered the possibility that Dearborn taking in Draco had been a twist of fate and nothing more.

Where would Tonks have hidden her wayward, supposedly dead cousin?

Hermione’s eyes flew open wide.

Andromeda.

The pieces of the puzzle continued to fall together. Of course Andromeda would have gladly kept Draco hidden in her house. But in the last days of the war, even she had had to flee as her associations made her a supporter of Muggles. Perhaps that was when Tonks had moved Draco to the strip club. And Andromeda, while not active in the first war, would have known about a man named Caradoc Dearborn.

Her breathing quickened. Finally, after all this time, she had an answer to the puzzle that seemed plausible. But how was she to question Andromeda, her friend, a woman who was now like an aunt to her, without accusing her outright of harboring a war criminal?

The opportunity came just two days later, when she stopped by the Burrow to visit with Ron, Harry and Ginny.

Hermione and Ron were attempting a civil conversation, which was nice if not awkward, when Andromeda appeared through the Floo, a squirming Teddy in her arms.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, Harry,” Andromeda sighed as she set Teddy on his feet. The small boy made a beeline for Harry and jumped into his lap. “He’s been eager to see you all day.”

Harry listened to Teddy, rapt, as the toddler spoke in some half-English that only Harry really understood, and Mrs. Weasley fetched Andromeda a cup of tea. The matron sank into a chair near the low fire and sighed in relief.

“I’m far too old to be doing this.” But Andromeda smiled at her grandson as his story grew to include wild hand gestures. Hermione felt her eyes mist up as she watched Harry interact with Teddy. She was aware she wasn’t the only one, as the conversation lulled. Everyone stopped to watch the two orphaned boys as they spoke to each other in a way nobody else could understand.

There were equal parts of Remus and Tonks mixed in Teddy’s ever-changing face. He also looked like Andromeda, with the proud nose and high cheekbones. Hermione remembered Sirius, too, had worn these strong Black traits. As did Draco.

The sudden vision of Draco, hiding at Andromeda’s house and bent over his baby cousin’s crib, flashed before Hermione’s eyes. Quite distracted, she lost track of her surroundings, and the conversation around her faded into the background, muffled.

But then Fleur, looking as impeccable as ever, stepped out of the Floo with Victoire in a chest sling. Hermione blinked away her daydream as Teddy squirmed off Harry’s lap and went to sit next to Victoire on the floor. He started his story over, and his hair morphed to strawberry blond. The little girl clapped her hands in glee.

“Luna told me there’s going to be another write-up on that group in the Quibbler.” Ron’s voice captured her attention. He was talking to Ginny. From what she’d gathered, he had developed a bit of an obsession with finding a way to get the reenactment group to cease and desist.

“The New Mooners?” Hermione clarified.

Andromeda’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What’s that – the New Mooners, you say? That name sounds familiar.”

Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but Harry interrupted.

“These geniuses – ” Harry nodded toward her and Ginny. “ – decided to go to a reenactment of the final battle.”

“Someone reenacts the final battle?” Andromeda asked, horrified.

“The New Mooners. They recreate the battle on the night of the new moon,” Hermione explained. “Once a month.”

“They do that every month?” Harry ground out, clearly surprised by the information. He gripped the edge of the table, ashen.

Ginny winced as she gazed at Harry, and Hermione was filled with sympathy. She doubted that living with Harry for the next few days was going to be any fun at all.

“Every month, yes,” she said. Then she turned to Andromeda. “It is a fairly accurate representation of the final battle. I think it’s mostly all witches and wizards who wished they could have been a part of – that – and so they recreate it so they can experience it for themselves. Ginny, Luna and I all went, but…”

“They didn’t handle it well,” Ron interjected. “They came home in a right state.”

“How did you find out about this group, Hermione? Is it the one I read about in the Quibbler?” Andromeda asked.

“That’s the one, actually. But that’s not the first I heard of them. Mundungus Fletcher stumbled across them last month and thought it was the real deal. He raised a huge fuss and had to be detained. Susan and I always get his cases, so we went to investigate. We found an advert for the group on the site of the reenactment.”

“Poor Dung,” Mr. Weasley sighed.

His wife shot him a disbelieving look.

“What?”

“Poor Dung?” she echoed. “He’s the reason Moody – ” She cut off what she was going to say, but Harry’s face went from ashen to pasty, and Ginny left her seat to come sit on his lap. As she began to whisper words of comfort in her husband’s ear, Andromeda steered the conversation away from dangerous territory.

“You always get Dung’s cases?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Hermione shot Andromeda a grateful look. It would be very easy now to bring up Draco, and it was even better that Ginny was distracted by Harry. “He has this nasty habit of seeing dead people once a month when he runs low on rent money and Tom kicks him out of the Leaky. Raises a big stink somewhere and gets detained. He spends the night sleeping in our cells and then Susan and I have to go out and investigate his claims.” Blandly, Hermione added, “Last time, he thought he’d seen your nephew.”

Andromeda sat up straighter. “Who, Draco?” There was nothing but pure interest in her voice, no guilt or misdirection.

“Yeah, Dung thought he’d seen him leaving Diagon Alley.”

Andromeda heaved a sorry sigh. “If only.”

“My partner pointed out that they never found his body…” Hermione trailed off. She hoped her open-ended sentence would draw Andromeda to the correct train of thought.

“Actually, when I was doing my annual inspection of the manor a few weeks back, I found his grave.”

Hermione blinked. “Really?”

“It was in the far corner of the family cemetery, behind an overgrown tree. I left it be, though. The boy chose his path that night, and he deserved better than to be buried next to the likes of his Malfoy relatives.” Andromeda’s lip curled in disdain.

Thoughts muddled, Hermione blinked again. This conversation was turning out quite differently than she’d expected. “You never thought about moving him to the Black family plot to be next to his mother?”

Andromeda’s face tightened, and Hermione faltered. Sometimes, the family resemblance between Andromeda and Bellatrix was more noticeable than other times, and it was most often when she was trying to mask her emotions.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said as she remembered that her sisters were a sore spot for Andromeda.

After a moment, the older woman’s face cleared, and the resemblance faded. “I did consider it. It is what Narcissa would have wanted, I’m sure. Perhaps I’ll have him moved in the springtime.”

Mr. Weasley was the one to redirect the conversation this time. “I heard there was some trouble with vandalism at the manor recently.”

“Well, a group of young wizards thought it would be a spot of fun to break in so they could go back to Hogwarts with some stories to tell, but the security wards caught them before they ever stepped foot inside.” Andromeda shook her head. “I don’t understand what the fascination is with the place.”

“Seems a shame, that big place sitting there empty,” Ron said. “Why don’t you and Teddy go to live there? Surely you’d enjoy having more space than you do now.”

“I would never want to live there. My sister was murdered there.” Andromeda took a shuddering breath. “I’m just keeping it for Teddy, when he grows up.”

After that, Ron, showing an unusual amount of tact, steered the topic toward the upcoming start of the Quidditch season, and the mood in the room lightened. But Hermione only half-listened to the banter as Andromeda teased Ron and Harry about their team. Her mind was elsewhere, on an empty grave in an overgrown garden behind an abandoned house.

***

Draco wasn’t expecting her to stop by the strip club tonight, and so once she parted company with her friends at the Burrow, Hermione Apparated to someplace she’d only been once in her entire life, one June night three years ago.

Even from a distance, Malfoy Manor was oppressive. Filled with a sense of foreboding and unable to shake the sensation that she was being watched, she pulled her wand from her pocket and stepped through the gates that had been twisted and hanging at odd angles from their hinges last time she’d passed through them.

The hedges had been trimmed too. The house in her memory was surrounded by knee-high grass and ivy that climbed indiscriminately over any stationary surface. The house she remembered was one that suffered from neglect as its occupants had been too concerned with not dying to bother with the gardening.

In the end, though, no amount of preoccupation with staying alive could save the eldest members of the household. The story had shown up in the Prophet the day after Narcissa’s body was discovered by Aurors. It was then that Ron had learned of the early morning attack on the Burrow two days prior, and that his oldest brother had been severely injured in a fatal duel with Lucius Malfoy but would make a full recovery. It was then that they’d learned of Narcissa’s brash declaration of defiance, and the lengths Voldemort would go to punish a wayward follower.

And it was then that Harry had decided that a thorough search of Malfoy Manor was a nice change of scenery from roaming the countryside around Godric’s Hollow in search of a Horcrux that continued to evade them. Perhaps Voldemort had moved it, Harry had reasoned.

But now, the yard was well-manicured, if haunted by a feeling of lifelessness. The small sliver of moon was high in the sky, and the trees and hedges were iced with faint blue light. The house itself was quite dark; Andromeda did not bother with illumination charms as nobody occupied the house at the moment. But Hermione wasn’t interested in the inside of the house, and she was even more certain that she didn’t want to get caught in any of the hefty security wards that had been recently reinforced, and so she cut across the lawn, keeping her back close to the hedge.

The family cemetery was located a good distance behind the house, and was closed in by an ostentatious stone wall topped with spikes of wrought iron that curled outward. Hermione pushed open the gate and almost jumped out of her skin as it wailed in protest. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she pulled her coat tighter around her neck, wondering if her sudden shivers were from chill or fright.

The shadows were deeper in the graveyard. Large, ancient trees flanked the burial ground, massive limbs stretched out to meet in the center of the sky, creating a leafy canopy. A breeze that she had not noticed outside the cemetery knocked the branches together.

Unable to withstand the darkness any longer, Hermione whispered, “Lumos.” The warm glow of light spread around her like a protective bubble. Her nerves still on edge, she began searching at once for the place Andromeda had mentioned. Another time, she might have stopped and examined each stone with more care, but tonight, her only goal was to find the grave marker for Draco Malfoy.

She stepped carefully, not wanting to tread over someone’s final resting place, and did not stray far from the cobblestone path that wound through the middle of the enormous burial plot. Andromeda had said it was in a far corner, behind an overgrown tree. Towards the back then, Hermione decided, where the shadows were impenetrable.

The path ended before she reached the end of the row of graves, and so she took a deep breath and stepped into the grass. Her heel sank at once in the soft earth, and she jerked her foot back, stifling a scream. Nothing was going to jump out of the ground and grab her. The people in these graves were not going to spring forth like the zombies in a bad Muggle movie.

The air did not move in the back of the graveyard; it felt like it hadn’t been disturbed in ages. It was colder, and it smelled of rich, loamy earth. She swallowed convulsively. Draco Malfoy was alive. He was not buried in this graveyard; he had not dug himself free.

At last, she found the overgrown tree Andromeda had mentioned, and there it was, far removed from those of his relatives, the grave marker for Draco Malfoy. It was a simple slab of marble, much plainer than the ornate stones that marked generations of his ancestors. Engraved in the pale surface was his name, the date of his birth, and the date of his supposed death, seventeen years and two days after that of his birth. There was no epithet, no hope that he rest in peace, no mention that he was a beloved son, taken too soon from the world. His entire existence had been reduced to his name and two dates.

Hermione swiped her fingers across her cheeks, not sure why she was crying over an empty grave. But she thought it might be because Draco deserved better. His parents had placed this marker here for him as if he had died, but they had banished him to the far corner of the graveyard, as though they were ashamed of him.

Had he spent any time here, among the dead? Had he sat at his own grave and grieved for the life that he’d lost?

The life that he’d lost… the life she could give back to him.

And then the irrational urge gripped her to excavate the grave, just to be certain that it was empty. It was ludicrous and mad. Of course it was empty. Draco was alive.

But in the bleak chill darkness of the family cemetery, she began to doubt her sanity. The man she was in love with was Draco Malfoy, wasn’t he? If he wasn’t… if she dug into this grave, would she find the true owner of that name?

Had she been running in circles, trying to restore memories to a dead man?

Choking back a sob, Hermione bolted to her feet and ran as fast as her legs could take her away from the grave. If she didn’t go now, she would dig it up. The ancient grave markers and stone statues fell behind her in a blur. Out the gate she’d left ajar, along the dark, looming hedge, and out through the massive front gates, she ran until there was a stitch in her side, and she kept running in spite of it.

Once she was out of the sinister shadows, and the manor was far behind her, she stumbled to a stop and rested her palms on her knees. She gasped deep, chilly gulps of air into her aching lungs and wiped her streaming eyes.

Draco was alive. Of course he was. His parents put the marker up for show. And of course, to keep up their Death Eater appearances, they would have placed the grave in a place of dishonor.

Draco was alive. She was sure of it.

But ten minutes later, she stepped into the strip club, just to see with her own eyes that he was alive. Feeling more at home with the pounding music, flashing lights and glimpses of flesh than she knew she ought, she made her way to the bar, where she ordered a double whisky.

“Xavier?” she inquired.

“Twenty minutes,” the barkeep replied as he placed the glass of clear amber liquid in front of her.

The minutes dragged, and before the twenty minutes had passed, she was cursing that wouldn’t Draco have thought to put her on the guest list for the night. All the same, she made her way over to the men guarding the door, hoping that they would recognize her by now and let her pass, name on the list or not. But as it turned out, Draco had put her name on the list, something that confused her but filled her with relief at the same time.

The guard that escorted her back turned at the curtained entrance to the stage. “He goes on next. Wait here for him to come off stage.” Then he returned to his post at the door. Hermione had no intention of waiting and ducked through the curtain the moment the guard looked away.

The darkness was disorienting as always, and Hermione stretched her arms out to avoid running into anything or anyone. She fumbled forward, able to hear people in the darkness but unable to see them. Then her fingers brushed against the Mylar curtain and she stopped.

From back here, the booming voice that introduced Draco was distorted and hard to understand, but then the lights faded up and she saw him. Hermione was minimally aware that the crowd of women out in the audience roared with delight to see their favorite in his signature starting pose, for there Draco stood, eyes closed and faced turned up. His lips moved with his pre-routine mantra as new music began to play. But all Hermione cared about was seeing him, his angular face, white-blond hair, those glacial grey eyes, all the things that were Draco Malfoy.

She did not want to watch him strip. It felt wrong to watch him strip after having knelt at his grave and wept. Once Draco turned and started dancing to an unfamiliar song – the new routine he’d mentioned last week – Hermione backed away from the curtains and ducked back into the hallway. Then she made her way to the back door, where the guard looked at her oddly but nodded in recognition as she stepped out into the alley.

From there, she made her way home.

Long into the night, far past midnight and the time Hermione knew Draco would be off work, she sat in her small office, hunched over her desk with Crookshanks asleep in her lap. She looked at the mass of information she’d gathered on Draco. Every lead had a dead end, every possible witch or wizard who could have dropped Draco at the club was dead or as good as.

She decided it was time to face facts. Unless they’d meant to leave him there forever, whoever placed him there must have meant to go back for him. And the fact that nobody had retrieved him meant that it was likely that whoever had put him there was dead.

Had it been Snape? Snape had known Draco was alive, and would have known that he was alone after Narcissa was murdered. But would Snape have left Draco in such an unsavory place? Hermione didn’t think so.

Or Bellatrix? Had she discovered Draco alive at Malfoy Manor and not had the heart to kill her own blood? Not likely, Hermione mused.

Someone from the Order, perhaps? Someone who knew that Dumbledore had promised to hide Draco in an effort to keep him safe, someone like Remus?

Or could it have been Tonks, during the recovery of Narcissa’s body, who had discovered Draco and felt a sense of familial duty to protect him? Had she placed him at the strip club so near Diagon Alley so that someone would find him in case something happened to her?

Logically, this last scenario made the most sense to Hermione. It was what she would have done, she decided, if faced with hiding a Memory Charmed wizard. That or leave a note behind in a safe place for someone to find.

She closed the folder and stared at its cover. If whoever had Obliviated Draco and put him at the club was dead, then there was no hope of reversing his Memory Charm the easy way. The only option that remained was for someone to trigger his memories somehow. And that someone was going to have to be her.

But she wasn’t ready yet. It was selfish of her, but she didn’t want to lose him. She wasn’t really foolish enough to believe he’d forgive her for keeping the information from him, for lying to him all this time, no matter what her hopes. Even if Draco did love her – and here again, she choked on her hope – there were some things that love just couldn’t forgive. She certainly couldn’t forgive herself.

She would tell him. He deserved to know the truth. But not yet.

She knew, though, that the longer she waited, the harder it would be for the both of them in the end.

After her birthday, she decided. She’d tell him after her birthday.

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Author's Notes:
We're finally getting to my favorite part of the story. I am looking forward to hearing your predictions and thoughts. Reviews are love! And finally, if you haven't joined yet, swing on over and check out my yahoo group for exclusive mini-previews of each chapter before they're posted, updates on the story, and soon-to-be posted outtakes from earlier chapters.

Shout out to Avanell, who beat me AGAIN! Thanks for being such a dedicated reviewer!