A Pound of Flesh

Chapter Twenty-Four: Things We Forgot to Remember

June 6th, 1998

He was pale, a shade of his former self. She was staring at a ghost. She had to be. Draco Malfoy was dead. But he was the most substantial ghost she’d ever seen. And ghosts couldn’t grab people, and her face still burned with the memory of his hand over her mouth.

All of this passed through her head in the split-second of time it took for her heart to stop beating and then start again.

“Help you?” Hermione gasped, stumbling back.

“You’ve got to hide me. Dumbledore said there were ways to hide people so they could never be found.”

“I should take you to Azkaban!” Hermione exclaimed, regaining her composure. She thrust her lit wand in his face, which was pale and drawn and much thinner than she’d ever seen it. Draco grabbed at her arm, his eyes desperate.

“Please, please! Dumbledore offered to hide me before – before…”

“Before you arranged for him to be killed?” Hermione spat, noting with satisfaction that he flinched visibly.

“After. At the top of the tower.” Draco swallowed hard. “I can show you the memory, if you want proof.”

Hermione didn’t need proof. Harry had already told her what happened on that tower. She knew Draco had wavered, just like she knew Dumbledore had offered him protection.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Hermione told him. She dropped her wand to Draco’s chest. She could see him taking in great gulps of air. “We’d heard Voldemort killed you himself!”

“No, Snape saved me,” Draco said.

“Snape!”

In his rush to explain, Draco stepped forward, further into the moonlight. It highlighted just how thin he’d become. “He forced Draught of the Living Death down my throat after Voldemort left me to die. I was already almost dead, but then it slowed everything down enough so that after Bellatrix – ” He spat out the name harshly. “ – delivered me back here, Mother was able to save me.”

“Hermione?”

Both turned to the sound of the voice, Ron calling her name from somewhere else in the house.

Draco spun back to her, the wild look of fear returning to his eyes. He ripped up the left sleeve of his robes, showing her a bare, unspoiled arm. “Please!” Draco begged. “I had to do what I did! He was going to kill my parents!”

“Malfoy, your mother – ”

“I told her not to, I told her not to defy him, but Father – ” Draco’s voice cracked. “Father died and it drove her mad. She was all I had left. I couldn’t even protect her.”

Something about the piteous way his face wobbled touched her. Then she blinked it away, shaking her head. She opened her mouth to respond when Ron’s voice echoed up from below. “Hermione, you should see this library!”

With a panicked look in his eyes, Draco shot a glance at the stairwell, then turned his attention back to Hermione. “It isn’t safe here. They’ll come back again. Bellatrix – ” And again, he spat the name out like it tasted foul on his tongue. “ – has already been back once and she nearly found me. I’ll go anywhere you take me.” He swallowed and forced out the next word. “Please, Granger. Anywhere but here.”

“Hermione?” Ron sounded concerned now.

“I don’t care how you hide me, please,” Draco continued, seeming to take her silence for agreement. “Anywhere that You-Know-Who can’t find me.”

Hermione remained silent, torn between the desire to make Draco pay for everything he’d ever done and the knowledge that Dumbledore would want her to hide him away somewhere safe.

“Hermione?” Ron’s voice was closer. “Where are you?”

Draco grabbed her arm. “Please, please,” he begged. “Just you, not them. Don’t tell them, please.” He darted back into the shadows as footsteps started up the stairs.

“Hermione? Are you alright?” Ron sounded to be just below her on the dark staircase.

Finding her voice at last, she answered, “I’m right here, Ron. There’s no need to yell.”

“Why didn’t you answer me?” Ron demanded as he took the last steps up two at a time.

“I didn’t hear you. I just came out into the corridor,” she lied, keeping her eyes trained on Ron, and not searching the shadows in which Draco had disappeared. “What’s the matter? Did you find something?”

“A library. It’s massive, full of really old books. You should come see it!” Ron pulled her toward the stairs. “It’s downstairs. Huge! Not as big as the Hogwarts library, but it’s enormous.”

Hermione followed Ron, her body tensed and alert. But nothing came at them, and as Ron rushed ahead, she shot a look over her shoulder into the impenetrable shadows. She would have to come back later.

***

The library was quite extensive, and chock full of Dark Arts books that the Ministry had yet to confiscate. While she rummaged through the shelves, Harry appeared, at last admitting defeat, and they left the manor. Hermione wondered, as she walked between Harry and Ron back up the curved gravel path, if Draco was standing at a window, watching them go.

Later, after Ron and Harry were asleep, Hermione stealthily slipped out of the ramshackle house outside of Godric’s Hollow and walked until she was sure the noise of her Disapparating would wake neither of them. Then she was standing outside Malfoy Manor’s gates, praying she wasn’t walking into a trap.

The moon had set, plunging the walkway up to the oppressive house into inky darkness. Hermione dared not light her wand for fear of making herself visible, and darted across the open drive to the front door. She stopped and disabled the weak alarm ward, wondering why Draco even bothered. She reset the ward behind her, not wanting to be caught unaware.

Taking a deep but silent breath, Hermione stepped inside. When she wasn’t accosted, she tiptoed around the destroyed chandelier and headed straight up the stairs to the second floor. She stopped at the landing, thinking through her next course of action. Draco had caught her unawares before, but he would not do so this time. Homenum revelio, she thought, directing her wand at the shadows. There was no trace of Draco.

Biting her lip, Hermione stepped out of the deep darkness of the landing and started down the corridor, feeling her way along the darkened path. Without the moon’s light to guide her, it was nearly impossible to see. But she refused to light her wand and expose herself.

As she made her way down the shadowed passage, she gently tested each doorknob she came across with her hand. She passed by three doors before she came to one where the knob would not turn. She knew with a certainty that she couldn’t explain that Draco was behind that door. Alohamora, she thought, hoping it was a quiet lock.

The door swung open without a sound but Hermione hung back, not trusting the ease with which the door had opened. She waited an indeterminable amount of time before she peered into the room. The only light in the room came from a dim slat of lamplight spilling through a door cracked open on the far side of the room.

After her eyes adjusted to the low light level, she noticed the still figure on the bed, curled into a tight ball under the covers. It was Draco, and he appeared to be sleeping.

Still not trusting the situation, Hermione eased around the room, keeping to Draco’s back. He did not stir and his breathing remained even. She reached the bed unhindered. Surprised by this, she found herself standing beside Draco’s bed, not sure what to do next. She knew what Dumbledore would have her do, though, and before she could change her mind, she whispered, “Malfoy,” but he did not stir. She tried again, louder, but he slept on. She leaned down to shake his shoulder.

Crying out, Draco bolted up in bed, fists flailing. Hermione jumped back, lighting her wand and showing him her face.

“It’s me, Malfoy,” she said.

Draco exhaled shakily, ending with a slight sob. “You came back,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Are you going to help me?”

Moving the wand away so he couldn’t see her face, she answered, “Yes, I’ll help you.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what?” Hermione asked, knowing just what he was asking.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Hermione gritted out through clenched teeth.

For a long moment, he just stared at her, his expression a mixture of doubt and relief. And then, without warning, he burst into a round of broken, body-shaking sobs. At a loss, Hermione looked away to give him a chance to compose himself. But it became apparent that he wasn’t going to stop crying, and at last, Hermione looked back at him.

His face was buried in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His back heaved with each gasping sob, and he rocked to and fro, the very picture of grief.

Hermione reached out, but then paused with her hand hovering just over his shoulder. Had he had a chance to mourn the loss of his parents before now? Or was it the relief of knowing that soon he would be someplace where Voldemort couldn’t hurt him anymore? She let her hand come to a rest on his shoulder, and she gave it a comforting squeeze. He didn’t react.

Driven by compassion, she sat on the edge of the bed and scooted toward him. He wept on. She bit her lip and watched him for a moment longer. It was heartbreaking, really. His entire life had fallen down around him, his parents were both dead, and if anyone else had found him, he’d be on his way to Azkaban. He had a right to grieve.

Feeling her own eyes wetting with unshed tears, she leaned forward and put her arms around Draco. At first he tensed, breaking off mid-sob, but then he melted into her embrace, his arms going around her and holding onto her like his life depended on it.

She didn’t offer him any comforting words. Nothing she said would help him anyway. Instead, she tightened her arms around him and drew him closer. His head came to rest on her shoulder, and his unkempt hair tickled her nose. She brushed it down, stroking his head in a soothing manner, and then rested her cheek against the impossibly fine strands of white-blond.

He was so warm. It was a contradiction. Everything about Draco had always been so cold: his words, his face, his actions. To find that he was warm and pliable under her hands was contrary to everything she knew to be true about him. Draco Malfoy was human, after all.

While he cried into her shoulder, her mind raced through the possible places she could hide him. The most logical place would have been to his relatives. Andromeda and Tonks would have taken him at once.

But Andromeda had at last listened to her daughter and left the country until the war was over. Her involvement with Muggle-borns, tenuous contacts with the Order of the Phoenix, and the fact that her sister was Bellatrix Lestrange made England a dangerous place for Andromeda Tonks.

And Tonks, who was living at Grimmauld Place with Remus, would be unable to take Draco in, not with Teddy just months old and members of the Order in and out of the house daily.

She supposed that she could turn him over to the Order and hope that Remus and the rest wouldn’t take him straight to Azkaban, but Draco had asked her, desperation in his eyes, for it to be only her, nobody else, who hid him. While it would have been the easiest thing to do, she knew it wasn’t the right thing to do.

She had to take Draco somewhere safe, but she had no idea where that would be. The Burrow was deserted since the Death Eater attack days earlier and Hogwarts was out of the question with Voldemort’s minions in charge. Hermione was at a loss.

The idea of taking him back to Godric’s Hollow crossed her mind, but the very thought of it was laughable. How safe of a place would it be for Draco if Ron was there, itching to hex him to oblivion? And then there was fact that they weren’t very safe in that house to begin with, what with Voldemort out for Harry’s blood.

As she wracked her brain, her mind drifting from implausible hiding places such as Auntie Muriel’s house to Bill and Fleur’s cottage that was so well-hidden by a Fidelius Charm that she wasn’t certain where it was, Draco’s tears subsided. He didn’t lift his head from her shoulder, however, though his grip on her loosened. After taking several deep breaths, his hands began to skim her back.

Hermione froze; her breath caught in her throat and she balled her hands into fists.

Draco inhaled again through his nose. “Have you always smelled so good?” he asked. He lifted his head and stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Like roses and fresh air and the ocean all in one go.”

“I – I…” she stammered, and she bounced to her feet and took several steps back from the bed. “I’m trying to think of where I can hide you safely. It’s difficult to do that if you insist on groping me,” she chastised.

Draco recovered enough to scoff. “Groping you? If you call that groping, clearly Weasley hasn’t been doing his job. Besides,” he added as he stood and straightened his rumpled, slept-in robes, “you were the one who hugged me.”

“Fine, but if you touch me like that again, you won’t like the consequences,” Hermione snapped, stepping further from Draco and beginning to pace.

Without answering, he turned his face away and wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his robes. The act was endearing, casting Draco in a vulnerable light. As his breath hitched, she fought the instinct to comfort him. Regret flooded her that she’d been so harsh to him. He’d lost everyone he loved in less than a week. She could endure his natural tendency toward being a git if it made things easier for him, even if it made it difficult for her to concentrate.

Hermione paced the length of the bedroom, her mind working at frantic speed. She considered the slip of paper that Moody had given her almost a year ago, and the address that had been on it. Only if they were in dire need, Moody had said. She supposed that this qualified as a dire need, and she could think of nowhere else that was safe.

Draco grabbed her as she strode past him again, startling the wits out of her as he pulled her close and skimmed his hands down her sides. He sniffed her hair. “Hmm, you really do smell amazing.”

Hermione raised her hand and slapped him resoundingly. He reeled backwards, his eyes filled with anger and pain. “I warned you,” she snapped, “not to touch me again, didn’t I?”

“Sweet fucking Merlin, Granger, do you respond to all compliments like that? Are you frigid or something?”

Hermione had her wand at his throat in an instant. “I’m the one you want help from. I’d shut my mouth and keep it closed if I were you.”

Draco eyed the wand, a contemptuous sneer on his flushed face. “You think you scare me? Do you know what that snake-faced bastard did to me? Nothing you could do to me could hurt me as much as he did. You don’t have it in you. Bloody Gryffindor nobility and all that rubbish.”

Her eyes narrowed at the challenge and she pressed her wand against his throat hard enough to leave an indentation. “I can leave you here,” she offered. “Or drop you off at Knockturn Alley without your wand.” Draco’s eyes flared. “How long do you suppose you would last there without a wand to defend yourself?”

“I hate you,” Draco whispered hoarsely.

“And I hate you, so now that we’ve settled that, let’s hide you.” She grabbed his arm, not giving him the chance to react, and spun on the spot.

Hermione appeared outside of a dark, foreboding building, and Draco fell against her, taken unawares by the sudden Apparation. He voiced his displeasure in a quiet hiss, but her attention was focused on the building, which looked like a warehouse that had been converted into several flats. A few darkened windows were open, white curtains blowing in the cool night air.

Hermione squinted at the brass numbers above the front entrance. The numbers matched the address Moody had given her. With a frown, she concentrated on the memory, letting the large block numbers sharpen and take focus in her mind. There was no mistake; this was the right place.

She lifted her wand, searching for wards and protections, and found none. Her brow wrinkled in confusion. How was this place safe? Any magic done here would be easy to find, if someone was looking for it.

Moody’s face, crossed with deep scars and battle wounds, flashed before her eyes. His mantra of constant vigilance had kept her alive this long. He would not lead her astray, and so placing her trust in the man, dead nearly a year, she started up the walk to the front stoop.

Draco remained on the sidewalk, and his hissing whisper carried through the still night air. “What, here? Are you daft? We’re surrounded by Muggles!”

“Knockturn Alley is just a few miles that way if you would prefer,” Hermione returned over her shoulder.

He lingered on the sidewalk for a moment longer, and then giving his long blond hair a slight toss, he hurried up the walk after her.

As Hermione paused at the front door and waited for Draco to catch up to her, the lamp lighting the front stoop flicked off. The pre-dawn darkness deepened, and Draco stumbled on the second step from the top and fell against Hermione again. She reached out to steady him and felt tremors shaking his body.

“You’re going to be fine, Malfoy,” she reassured him. “Nobody would ever think to look for someone who is supposed to be dead in a Muggle neighborhood like this.”

Draco snorted, not sounding convinced.

She reached for the doorknob, wand still in hand. But her hand closed on nothingness as the door swung open.

“Put that away,” a gruff voice commanded her from inside the dark building. “Do you want the Muggles to see?”

Hermione took a step back, colliding with Draco once more, who situated her between him and the square of darkness where there had just been a door.

Draco began to tug her toward the sidewalk, and he hissed, “Let’s go, Granger. I don’t like this place.”

“Shut up,” she told him.

“Granger?” the disembodied voice repeated in surprise. “Where’s Potter? Weasley?”

Feeling her heart begin to thud against her ribcage, Hermione kept her wand trained on the dark doorway. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“A friend of Alastor Moody’s. Why are you here?”

Draco’s tugs on her hand grew more determined at the mention of Moody. “Granger, let’s go. Somewhere else. I’ll even stay with the Weasleys.”

Ignoring him, Hermione strained to see the man on the other side of the doorway. “Moody told me to come here if I was in dire need of a place to hide,” she said.

“Who is that you’ve got with you?”

“May we come in, please?”

“Inside, then.” A hand reached out of the darkness and beckoned them in.

“Granger, please,” Draco pled, stepping on her heels as she pulled him forward into the dark building.

Once inside, the door swung shut behind them, and then the overhead light in the entry flickered on. Hermione winced at the sudden light, but attempted to focus on the tall, reedy man who was staring behind her in surprise. In the pallid light, she noted the details of his face and with a start, recognized him at once.

“But you’re supposed to be dead!” she blurted.

Caradoc Dearborn gave her a wry smile, looking very much like the man in Harry’s picture.

“Funny, that,” he said, nodding to the boy cowering behind her. “So is he.”

***

Inside Dearborn’s flat, Hermione sat at a small table and avoided looking at Draco as he perched on the edge of another chair at the table, a picture of misery. Dearborn sat across from him, his eyes darting from Draco to Hermione.

“So, what’s his story?” Dearborn asked at last.

“I’d rather hear yours first, if you don’t mind. You’re supposed to be dead. Moody said you disappeared during the first war.”

With another wry smile, Dearborn turned his attention back to her. “Aye, I disappeared. I just about got myself killed during a mission. Seen a lot of bad stuff. It just got to be too much, y’know?”

Hermione nodded. She knew very well.

“I told Alastor I wanted out. Out of all of it. The war, magic, everything. That I wanted to go away and hide. But he told me I couldn’t just go hide. Said I would go raving mad if I went into hiding. Said it was dangerous, if I got myself captured, that I knew too much. Told me if I went away, I’d have to be Obliviated.

“So Alastor put a Memory Charm on me and told me I ought to backpack Europe for a few years, took me to a Muggle hospital, and went back to tell everyone I’d vanished. When Harry Potter did in You-Know-Who, Alastor tracked me down and reversed the Charm. Gave me the option of coming back, or staying away. I chose to stay away. I’d had enough magic, and I didn’t miss it.

“’Course, I came home and found my mother living alone in this building. She was overjoyed to see me; ‘course, my parents being Muggles and all they never much liked the magic.

“Then the second war started. Moody came to me, said he needed my help. Told me that you and your friends might come to me, needing a place to hide out for a few days. Never mentioned anything about him, though,” Dearborn said, jerking a thumb at Draco.

Hermione shifted in her seat. “Well, he was a bit of a surprise, you see.”

“Aye, since he’s supposed to be dead.”

“I found him at his house and he asked for my help.” She glanced at Draco and he scowled at her. “I don’t know how closely you follow our news these days…”

“Close enough.”

“So you know about his parents.”

Draco stiffened and directed his stony gaze to his lap.

“Good riddance to rubbish, if you ask me,” Dearborn replied.

Hermione gripped the edge of the table, appalled at his callous response.

“I don’t think anyone asked for your opinion, you filthy Mudblood!” Draco snarled, shooting up out of his seat.

“Malfoy!” she admonished. Then she turned to Dearborn. “Sir, I know his family – ”

“No, Miss Granger, I don’t think you do know his family. His aunt is the one who almost killed me. And his father,” Dearborn spat, “was one of my classmates at Hogwarts. I’ve dealt with intolerant, pig-minded attitudes like his enough for one lifetime.”

“How dare you!” Draco snapped, his eyes icy grey.

“Malfoy – ”

“My father was a good man! Show some respect!” Draco’s voice was shaky, and his face flushed. “How dare you talk ill of the dead?” Hermione darted to Draco and restrained him as he took a step forward.

“Mr. Dearborn, please. He needs somewhere to hide. Dumbledore offered him protection before he died – ”

“Shame he died, then, isn’t it, boy?” Dearborn glowered at Draco.

Draco strained against Hermione, his breaths coming in shaky gulps.

“Stop,” she hissed in his ear. “Please.” He struggled against her. Though skinny, he retained a surprising amount of strength. Through the window, Hermione saw that the sky was showing the first signs of dawn’s approach. Desperate, she turned, placing herself between Draco and Dearborn.

“It’s just for a little while. Please, just let him stay until I can find somewhere else for him to go. Dumbledore knew he was dying, but he offered to protect Draco anyway. I’m just trying to respect Dumbledore’s last wishes. Please, help me hide him.”

A long moment passed where all Hermione could hear was Draco’s ragged breathing in her ear. At last, Dearborn stood from his chair.

“Fine. For a week. You’ll take his wand with you. You’ve got a week to find somewhere else for him to go.”

Hermione sagged, relieved that the situation was resolved, if only for the time being.

“Granger, no,” Draco said. “You can’t leave me here. I won’t stay.”

She turned to him. “It’s just for a week. You’ll be safe here.”

“Without my wand?” he asked in disbelief. “With him?”

Hermione looked back at Dearborn. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you? Make sure he eats? Has somewhere to sleep?”

The balding man nodded in reluctance. “But I can’t protect him if he leaves my flat. I won’t.”

“Granger, please,” Draco said, pleading. “Don’t leave me here!”

“Draco, give me your wand.” Her voice wavered as she held out her hand, and she swallowed. She knew that Dearborn would take care of Draco. She didn’t have any other options.

He recoiled as though she’d punched him in the gut. It took him a long moment to regain his breath. “I won’t. I’d rather go back to the Manor.”

Hermione swallowed again. “Fine, I’ll take you back, but if Bellatrix comes back again or the Death Eaters find you, I can’t come save you. You’ll have to fight them off yourself. And you see how well that worked for your mother.”

Draco’s pleading stare turned frosty. “I hate you,” he breathed.

“I guess I’ll just have to live with that. Are you staying or going?” Hermione walked to the door and put her hand on the knob. She turned back to look at him, and then at Dearborn. The solution was hardly ideal, as it was clear that Draco despised Dearborn every bit as much as Dearborn hated him. Draco would be miserable here, but there was no other alternative.

Draco stared her down. The ice in his eyes pierced her through. Then, in a motion so quick she didn’t have time to draw her own wand, he yanked his wand out of his robes and threw it at her. It bounced off the door next to her head.

“Fine, take it, you Mudblood bitch.” He turned his back on her.

Stung, she clenched her jaw and looked at Dearborn. His gaze was cold, but he nodded his head.

“One week.”

Hermione returned the nod. “One week.” Then she bent and picked up Draco’s wand. Without another word, she left.

***

June 13th, 1998

It was a long, exhausting week. At long last, she, Ron and Harry thought they might have found the location of the last Horcrux, but they couldn’t be sure until they found a way through the wards, traps and protections surrounding the cave. Every waking moment was spent researching Dark magic in hopes of discovering the nature of the spells protecting the cave. And at night when Hermione lay in bed unable to sleep, she wracked her brain, trying to think of where she could take Draco once Sunday rolled around again.

Again and again, she thought of her options. The Burrow – still deserted. Not even Ron could be sure where the Weasleys had gone to hide. She was certain that Grimmauld Place was still teeming with people that would as soon send Draco to Azkaban as help him. The ludicrous idea of leaving him at her parents’ empty house once occurred to her, but she knew the house had to be under Death Eater surveillance. Leaving him there would be as bad as marching him to the front gates of Hogwarts and handing him to the Carrows.

Owling someone was out of the question as owls could be intercepted. Flooing could be traced, and Patronus Charms weren’t exactly subtle. If only she had access to a two-way mirror or a telephone. Not that she knew who she would call if she did.

And quite suddenly, Hermione ran out of time. The week passed in a blur, and then Sunday was upon her, dawning in a shrouded mist of dreariness. All she could hope for was that Draco and Dearborn had found common ground, and that the older man would agree to hide Draco a while longer. It was a slim hope, at best, but all she had.

The day dragged on, until Harry and Ron, exhausted from another lengthy day of spell research, finally fell asleep. It was just before ten when Hermione managed to slip away.

Filled with trepidation, she stood on the sidewalk in front of Dearborn’s building and tried to work up the courage to go inside. If she didn’t walk up the front steps and go in the front door, if she just turned around and walked away, Draco would no longer be her problem. He’d be Dearborn’s problem.

But that wouldn’t be right, abandoning Draco like that. However he’d treated her, she’d made a promise to protect him, and she kept her promises. With that in mind, she directed her feet up the front walk, up the stairs, and through the main door to the building.

Dearborn’s door opened almost at once after Hermione knocked. Without a word, Dearborn held the door open wider, and she stepped inside.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come back,” Dearborn said. “He thought so too.”

“I had to wait until I could get away without the others knowing. Where is he?”

“Back bedroom. I had to keep him locked in there so nobody would see him. He didn’t care much for that, but he didn’t give me much choice. He kept trying to leave.” Dearborn led her down a short hallway and fished a key out of his pocket. He unlocked the door and opened it with a quiet click.

Draco slept, curled into a ball on a cot in the tiny room. A small, lit lamp next to his bed cast a warm glow on his sleep-flushed face. His fair hair spread across the pillow like a halo. He looked almost angelic.

“Ironic,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

Draco did not stir, and she could hear the faint noise of each of his sleeping breaths. He looked well, though there were still dark circles under his eyes. He wore Muggle jeans and a t-shirt, and a pair of scuffed black shoes. He clutched a pillow to his chest, and his fingers curled into the soft fabric. He looked fragile and very small.

Feeling as though she was intruding on a private moment, Hermione dropped her eyes and examined the floor of the room, the worn carpet littered with discarded clothing and books. On the small table at the foot of his bed sat a half eaten plate of food and an empty mug.

Dearborn motioned her out of the room and she followed him into the hallway. He pulled the door closed and then raised an eyebrow with an unspoken question.

In a hushed tone, she said, “I’m sorry to ask, but would you be able to hide him a while longer?”

Deraborn frowned and looked away. “Granger, I told you a week. We’re both miserable with this arrangement. I can’t hide him any longer.” He strode back to the main living area and dropped into a chair at his worn dining table.

Hermione followed and eased into an unsteady chair across from him. “I know, but there’s just nowhere else. It isn’t safe. I’ll come back and get him after the war is over, I promise.”

“You promise you’ll come back after the war is over,” he said, his voice flat.

“Of course, yes. Once we’ve… done what we need to do, I’ll come back for him.”

“Have you given any thought to what would happen to him if something happens to you?” Dearborn asked, pinning her with a sharp look.

Hermione shook her head and swallowed. It was too frightening to think about.

“Understand, I don’t have any other contacts in the magical world and I don’t want any. I prefer being dead there. I don’t do magic any longer. I don’t even own a wand. If something were to happen to you, what would you have me do with him? Pass him off to a relative and have him tell the world that I’m still alive after all this time?”

“No.”

“No, certainly not. So, what then? Turn him out onto the street to fend for himself? Even I’m not that heartless. No, I’d have to keep him locked in this flat until he could fend for himself and live like a Muggle, because let’s face it: he can never go back to your world if he wants to be a free man. I’d have to keep him locked up in that little room so he wouldn’t be discovered, Granger, to keep him hidden and safe. He’d be miserable; I’d be miserable.”

She inclined her head in understanding and bit her lip to keep from crying.

“That is why I can’t keep hiding him. Alastor understood this; that’s why he Obliviated me and sent me away instead of letting me hide away somewhere. He knew I’d have a better life living as a Muggle with everyone thinking I was dead, instead of living locked up in some house, unable to go outside, unable to be free. And I did. It was better not knowing and being free.”

The image of Sirius, pacing the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, his eyes full of frenetic, caged energy passed unbidden before her eyes. She understood. She’d known then that the act of keeping Sirius safe was driving him half-mad, and that would be Draco’s future if she was captured or killed. She would be dooming him to a caged life in a closet-sized room.

“I don’t know what to do,” Hermione admitted in a small voice, balling her hands into fists.

Dearborn leaned across the table and put his scarred hand on her clenched fist. “You do know, Granger. You know what you have to do. Alastor knew it. So do you.”

She knew what he was suggesting, and it made her sick to her stomach as she considered it. “But if I Obliviate him, where can I send him? He would be lost in the Muggle world.” She considered another flaw. “And what happens to him if he crosses paths with someone who knows him, and he has no memory? He’d be at their mercy.”

Dearborn pursed his lips as he considered her questions. Then he gave a short, barking laugh. “Well, I’ve got an empty flat upstairs he could have, but he’d need to pay rent. I could watch over him, help him get used to the Muggle world and keep him safe until you come back.”

“You would do that? But you hate him.”

With a sinister smile, Dearborn said, “I reckon it’ll be worth it to see Lucius Malfoy’s boy living like a Muggle.”

At that, Hermione stood and began to pace. She shook her head in vehement denial. “No, this is absurd. I can’t do that to him.”

“But letting him live locked in a tiny room if you die, that you can do to him? At least this way he’d have his freedom if you don’t come back. And if you do come back, you can just reverse the charm and take him away. It’s just temporary.” Dearborn looked over his shoulder and down the hallway to the bedrooms. “But, Granger, consider that you might be doing him a favor. That boy has seen things and been through things that cause him to wake up at night screaming. Forgetting them might be a blessing to him.”

Deflated, Hermione sank into the chair she’d abandoned. “You would really let him have the flat? And you’d watch out for him in case – in case I… don’t come back?”

“Well, I wouldn’t just let him have the flat. He’d have to pay rent just like anyone else. If he’s going to live like a Muggle, he’ll need a job.”

With a garbled, choked laugh, Hermione shook her head. “What sort of job can he have? He doesn’t know anything about how Muggles live. He’ll have no history and no background. Who’s going to give him a job?”

“It’s Soho, Granger. I’m willing to bet if you went out there right now, you’d find him a job before midnight.”

With wide eyes, Hermione stared at the man sitting across from her. “Me? Go out into Soho with him? You are aware that there’s a bounty on my head, dead or alive, preferably dead?”

Dearborn laughed long and loud. “D’you really think there’s going to be any Death Eaters wandering around in this neighborhood? With the Muggles? Trust me, you’ll be perfectly safe so long as you stay in Soho and away from the Leaky.”

Not quite believing that she was considering this desperate plan, Hermione asked, “And Draco? Will he be safe wandering the streets?”

Dearborn nodded. “Aye. Nobody is going to be looking for him. Everyone thinks he’s dead. We can cut his hair and dress him up like a Muggle and nobody will even look twice at him.”

This idea was insane, she knew. But she was out of options, and out of time. And she could see the logic behind Dearborn’s plan. She needed to think long-term, just in case. If she could be certain that she was going to live through the fight against Voldemort, she could ask Dearborn to hide Draco until they’d managed to defeat the Dark wizard, and then she’d turn Draco over to his relatives.

But she knew her chances of dying were just as good as her odds of surviving, and if she died without making long-term preparations for Draco – if she died and they lost the fight against Voldemort – Draco would be doomed to a miserable life in a closet. Perhaps in time, he and Dearborn would get along enough that he wouldn’t have to be locked in the room any longer, but how long would it take that to happen?

She reminded herself that she could end up living through the impending fight, and then she would come back for Draco and turn him over to his relatives. Obliviating Draco would just be a temporary thing, a few weeks at best, perhaps a month or two.

It was just in case.

At last, she nodded her head and took a deep breath. “Alright, I’ll do it.” With that, she stood and headed once more to the small bedroom at the back of the flat. She pushed the door open.

Draco stirred in his sleep, and one eye cracked open. Then he bolted up in bed.

“You came back,” he said as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

“I told you I would.”

“Where are you taking me? I’m ready to go.” He stood at once.

Hermione looked from Draco to Dearborn, who stood in the doorway behind her, and back again. “Well, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Draco motioned her toward the open door. “What’s there to talk about? It’s been a week. Wherever it is, it’s better than here.”

She cleared her throat. “I couldn’t find anywhere else for you to go.”

Draco’s pale face lost all color before two red splotches spread across his cheeks, and his grey eyes flashed in anger. He took one deep breath, which seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and then just when Hermione thought he was going to explode, he exhaled in a long, drawn out hiss. “What?”

“So you’re going to stay here. Well,” she amended, “in a flat upstairs.”

“What?”

“You’re going to have to pay rent, though, so you’ll need a job.”

“A job?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you mad?”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll go out and find you one right now.”

Draco interrupted, “There’s still Death Eaters out there, Granger. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but they want me dead.”

“They already think you’re dead, Malfoy. Nobody is going to look for you. Especially not living as a Muggle."

“I’m not going to live as a Muggle. I’m not going to work. I’m a Malfoy,” he sneered. “This is ludicrous.”

“I’m sorry, Draco. It’s all I can do for you. It’s only temporary.” As much as she hated doing it, she raised her wand. Her hand shook and she steadied it, taking a deep breath. It was temporary, and for his own good, and he would be taken care of; he would have a life if something happened to her. She was doing this for him. “This is for your own good.”

Fear stirred in Draco’s eyes as he stared down the length of the willow wand. “What are you doing, Granger?” he asked, wary.

“I will come back for you, I swear it,” she promised him, hoping that she could keep that promise. “You won’t remember a thing.”

“Won’t remember a thing?” he echoed, his brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hating herself. “Obliviate.”

Draco’s eyes widened in alarm and he raised his hands to shield himself. But it was too late.

***

Once she’d Obliviated him, Hermione borrowed a pair of scissors from Dearborn and cut Draco’s hair. As the long strands of pale blond fell at his feet, she cried. Draco submitted meekly, his eyes vacant as he sat on the edge of the bed and let her cut his hair.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered repeatedly.

Once his hair was cropped into a presentable hairstyle, Hermione rummaged through Dearborn’s clothes and found a pair of black trousers and a white button-down for Draco to change into.

After he dressed, he asked her his name. Still staring at strands of pale blond on the ground, she found his name on the covers of two of the books on his floor.

“Damien King,” she told him. “You’re Damien King.”

“Damien King,” he repeated, rolling the syllables around on his tongue. “Who are you?”

“I’m nobody you need to remember,” she told him. Then she took his hand and went to find him a job.

***

Hermione pulled Draco into another smoky, noisy bar, exhausted. It was nearing midnight and most reputable places were closing for the night, or had been closed for hours. One restaurant and shop after another had turned them away, saying the manager that handled hiring would be able to help them in the morning, or that they weren’t hiring. This was the last bar on this side of the street, and then they would have to try somewhere else.

Draco followed behind her, his movements still slow and sluggish. His eyes were empty and he looked around, confusion marring his features. She almost didn’t recognize him with his new, short haircut and the lack of permanent sneer on his face.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dance club lighting, but then a flash of skin caught her attention and she rocked on her heels as she spotted the half-naked man dancing on a brightly lit stage. She turned at once, ready to tell Draco that they were leaving, but then she saw the crowded bar area and figured it couldn’t hurt to see if they needed another barkeep.

“Now, Damien,” she said, “you need a job. You need it tonight.”

Draco nodded in understanding and without question. He knew this; she’d told him each time they’d gone into a bar or restaurant or shop.

“You have no other options. This is your last chance, understand?”

Draco nodded again. He did not look afraid or worried. He looked around, but his face was devoid of curiosity, of recognition, of any emotion. There was no spark in his eyes, and Hermione hated herself anew. How had she let Dearborn talk her into this mad plan?

“You here to audition?”

The voice came from right behind her shoulder, and startled, she whirled to face the speaker, her hand groping inside her jacket for her wand. The huge man took a step back, his expression wary, and Hermione smiled in apology. She dropped her hand to her side.

“Well, he’s here to look for a job. Barkeep, or whatever.”

The large man shrugged as he glanced toward the bar. “Not hiring anyone for the bar, but he’s always looking for new talent.” The large man raised a beefy hand and pointed to a table near the stage where a man in a gaudy green jacket and matching hat sat, holding a half-smoked cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. He looked utterly bored. Next to him was a woman, taking notes on a clipboard.

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat. No matter what Draco had done to her, she wasn’t sure she could do this to him. But a job was a job. She glanced over at him. He was watching the man on stage, impassive.

“Come, Damien,” she said, drawing his attention again. “You’ll ask about the bar first.”

The man at the table said there were no jobs at the bar. “But I bet he’d be incredible on stage,” he suggested, his deep-set, dark eyes roving up and down Draco’s body.

The larger part of Hermione was ready to grab Draco’s hand and head for the door, but she stood rooted to the spot, knowing this might be her only chance of finding him a job and getting back to Harry and Ron before they realized she was gone. And it was only temporary; she’d come back for him just as soon as they’d defeated Voldemort. Unless she was dead. She swallowed and looked over at Draco, who was watching the stage, his eyes narrowed.

Besides, she rationalized, it wasn’t as if these people would actually hire Draco. He didn’t know how to strip. And if nothing else, she could call this audition revenge for the way he’d treated her in school. “What does he need to sign up?” she asked.

***

Backstage in the costume room, Draco’s eyes started to swim with a faint awareness. He listlessly flipped through the spare costumes until he found a black cape. He pulled it off the rack. “I don’t know how to dance,” he said, his voice flat.

Hermione remembered the Yule Ball, Draco at the periphery of her vision as she danced with Viktor. It was impossible to miss his fair head as he spun around the dance floor, his cape flaring out around him as he moved in suggestive ways to the music. If she was sure of nothing else, she knew that he could dance.

“Yes, you do. You dance all the time. This will be easy for you,” she told him. “And if you need any ideas, just watch the blokes that dance before you.”

“If you say so,” he said, dubious.

She pulled a red waistcoat off the rack and handed it to Draco, who had added a white shirt and a pair of black trousers to his armload of clothing.

“What’s the point of putting on all these clothes if I’m supposed to take them off out there?” he asked as she handed him a belt.

“That’s exactly the point. It’s like showing yourself off. You make them want to see you naked. You tease them and then give them what they want until you’re out of clothes.”

While Draco changed into his costume, Hermione kept her back turned until he asked for help. “What is this stuff for? It keeps getting all snagged up,” he groused.

Hermione peeked over her shoulder and saw him struggling with the black leather trousers, which were tear-away. He held the two sides together, but she still caught a glimpse of his black underpants. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to help him.

“It’s Velcro. It makes it easy for you to pull these off.” She knelt in front of him and helped him fasten the two edges together. “I guess you just give it a yank and they come right off.”

Draco experimented with the trousers until he got the hang of them, and Hermione turned away, flustered. It was disturbing to see how easily he learned it.

At last, his voice almost haughty, he said, “Very well. then. I’m ready.”

They went into the darkened backstage area and waited for Draco’s turn. He watched one man, and then another, strip down to nothing, and his eyes were calculating. He moved his hands in feet in mimicry, a look of intense concentration on his face.

Then, as he watched the man onstage roll across the floor, almost nude, he asked without looking at her, “Why can’t I remember anything?”

Knowing she was going to have to modify his memory again so he wouldn’t remember her, she answered, “Because it’s better if you forgot everything.”

“I forget your name.”

“It’s alright. You won’t remember me anyway.”

“I don’t remember me, either,” Draco said, and for the first time, he sounded frustrated. “Do you know me?”

She was glad for the dark, which hid the lie that would have been so plain on her face in the light. “No,” she told him. “I don’t know you.”

From the lights bleeding into the wings from the stage, she could see his frustration growing. He turned to look at her at last, piercing her with his stare. “I want to remember. Don’t you know anything?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t know you. I’m just trying to help you out.”

“How do you know my name?”

“You told me.”

“When?”

“Before.”

“But I don’t remember!”

“I know.”

Stumped, he exhaled in annoyance and returned his attention to the man who strutted around the stage in a tiny thong. Hermione averted her eyes.

A man dressed all in black approached them from the darkness. “Damien King?” he asked.

“That’s me, apparently,” Draco answered, his voice caustic.

“You’re next.”

“Right,” he responded, and the look of intense concentration returned to his face.

In the darkness before Draco walked onto the stage, Hermione grabbed his arm. “I’ll be here waiting when you’re done,” she told him.

Instead of responding, he walked away from her, out into the inky blackness on the stage.

To keep herself from running after him and pulling him off the stage, she thought hard about every derogatory comment he’d ever hurled her way, about the way he’d tried to do his level best to make her time at Hogwarts as miserable as possible, and how without him, the Death Eaters never would have gotten into Hogwarts in the first place, and Dumbledore might have lived long enough to help Harry locate all of the Horcruxes. A lot of good people who had died might still be alive.

Thus, when the lights faded up on Draco as he stood center stage and stared out at the crowd, Hermione felt a small thrill of justice. But it only lasted a moment, as Draco chose that moment to trail his hand down his face and spin away from the crowd with a swirl of his cape. She thought he was going to storm from the stage and demand to know what she was thinking, but instead, he spun on his heel and strutted to the edge of the stage, where he began to dance.

At first, the dancing was innocent enough, reminiscent of some of his raunchier dance moves at the Yule Ball. But then Draco became bolder, and he began to gyrate his hips.

Hermione’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

As the women in the audience cheered him on, he sank to his knees and rolled his body in undulation, ending with a sharp thrust of his pelvis. The screams of the women grew louder as he fumbled a bit with the cape’s fastenings before ripping it off and letting it fall to the stage floor.

Unable to tear her eyes away, Hermione watched as Draco shed the waistcoat and then his shirt, all the while moving his body in ways she’d never imagined he could. The backstage area grew warm as Draco ran his hands down his body, and with a sudden yank, he pulled the leather trousers free and tossed them to the side. The crowd screamed in unified delight.

A tremor ran through Hermione, and she wiped her sweaty palms off on her shirt. Flustered anew, she refused to acknowledge that watching Draco Malfoy get his kit off was in any way arousing. She backed away from the stage area, easing into a dark corner behind a rack of costumes and away from the sight of Draco sashaying across the stage in only his underpants. She needed to get herself under control again before he came off the stage.

But before she could calm her racing heart, the lights from the stage faded to black, and peering around the edge of the rack of clothes, she saw Draco’s faint outline as he ran off the stage. He looked around in the darkness, searching for her.

“Hey,” he called, out of breath. “Where’d you go?” He stretched his hands out and groped in the darkness. “Hey… girl? Where are you?”

She gave herself a good shake, ready to emerge from her hiding spot, but just then, the manager of the club pushed aside the curtain that blocked off the backstage area from the hallway. A brilliant swath of light cut across Draco’s body, reminding her of how he’d looked in the moonlight when she’d discovered him. His scarred chest heaved as he tried to regain his breath.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

The manager, Louie, was quick to offer Draco a job, which he accepted with a reluctant nod of his head. Simultaneously relieved and appalled, Hermione hid behind the costumes and waited for Louie to leave so she could retrieve Draco and take him back to Dearborn’s flat. But instead of leaving, Louie directed his assistant to take Draco to the hospital to have him checked out.

While Draco disappeared to redress, Hermione made short work of Louie’s and his assistant’s memories of her. Then she followed as the assistant took Draco to a nearby hospital to have his head examined for trauma.

As Draco sat by himself in the empty hospital room before the late-shift doctor arrived to examine him, Hermione eased into the room, disguised as a nurse. With another quick Obliviate, she removed his memories of her from that evening.

Halfway through his examination, which she watched from a window she’d Charmed to keep anyone inside the room from seeing her, Dearborn arrived.

For a long moment, he observed the scene inside the examination room without a word. Then at last, he said, “I expected you’d bring him back to the flat, not the hospital.”

“This wasn’t my idea,” she said. “The manager at the… at the All-Male Revue had his assistant bring him here to get examined. They were concerned about whatever caused his memory loss affecting his health.”

“The All-Male Revue?” Dearborn asked, startled. “You took him to a strip joint?”

“I didn’t think they’re actually give him a job,” she said weakly.

Dearborn shook his head but didn’t ask any more questions. “Thanks for ringing me up. I was starting to wonder where you two had gone off to.”

“You didn’t have to come here in the middle of the night. I just wanted you to know where he was.”

“Aye, I know.”

Hermione felt her throat tighten. A sense of self-loathing filled her as she watched the nurses and doctors circle around Draco, looking in his eyes as if they could find the source of his memory loss within those haunted, empty grey pools.

“He can pay rent now,” Hermione said, keeping her voice quiet, careful not betray the emotions churning inside.

Dearborn nodded. “Aye, that he can.”

“I’ve been gone too long,” Hermione managed. “Harry and Ron will be waking up soon. I need to go. And I can’t come back until it's over. We’re too close.” She stepped away from the window, feeling her eyes burn. “You will watch out for him, come back for him, won’t you? You said you would.”

“Get that thing away from me!” Draco snapped from inside the room. A nurse, who had been shining a light into his eyes, stepped back as if he’d kicked her.

“That pleasant young man in there?” Dearborn smiled, jerking his head. “How could I not come back for him?”

“Please,” Hermione began, turning her face away so Dearborn wouldn’t see the tears quivering at the corners of her eyes. “I promised to protect him.”

“Aye, Granger, I’ll come back for him. Tomorrow or the next day, whenever they put something in the papers about him. They won’t let me have him at first, not until they’re sure no relatives will come forward, but when they let him out, I’ll take him.”

Two tears slipped down her cheeks as she observed Draco, looking terrified, bewildered, and haughty all in one, as he recoiled from the doctors who would not be able to find anything wrong with him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll come back once it’s over and safe for him.”

“Granger,” Dearborn said as she turned to leave. “What happens if you’re captured and they find your memories of him and me?”

“They won’t,” she told him. “I’m going to forget this ever happened.”

Then, not looking back at Dearborn or Draco, she fled the hospital, making it back to Godric’s Hollow just as Harry and Ron began to stir.

***

That night, Hermione placed the last memory into a vial, then sealed it with care. Five vials of silvery memories sat in a neat row in front of her, each labeled with the number that dictated the order in which they should be viewed. Hopefully she would be the one viewing them, but there were no guarantees that she would survive the final battle, which she knew was drawing nigh with horrible inevitability.

She tucked each vial into a padded box with slow movements, praying these precautions were all for naught, and once the final battle was over, she’d sort out her trunk and see the note she’d left for herself in the book about Lockhart’s memory loss. With luck, Draco would be forced to live the miserable existence she’d created for him for only a short time, though if it ended up being longer, she supposed he deserved a little humiliation.

Harry and Ron, worn out from searching for a way into the cave all day, were already asleep. Hermione exhaled in relief. It saved her from having to Stun them. Once disguised, she slipped out of the house and ran a good distance away. Then she Apparated, almost tipping backward as she landed on the bottom step leading up to Gringotts.

It was nearly closing time, which suited Hermione well. The bank should be nearly empty. One glance around confirmed that Diagon Alley was all but deserted. Without further ado, she took the steps two at a time, and stepped into the bank just as the clock began to strike the hour. The goblin manning the desk took one look at her disguise and snorted in disgust. “I need to open a new vault,” Hermione said without preamble. “Quickly.”

The goblin said nothing more about her disguise, though he grumbled about her untimely arrival as he set about sorting out a new vault for her use. Shortly, she was standing inside the small vault, her head brushing the ceiling. It looked and felt like a tomb, and Hermione closed her eyes, shuddering at the comparison. She was all but burying Draco Malfoy down here.

Shaking off her morbid thoughts, she deposited the box containing the memories in the middle of the floor, and stepped out of the vault. The goblin, just as anxious to be gone as she was, hurried her back into the cart.

Once on the street, Hermione glanced back once at the bank, the doors now shut and locked tightly. Then she pulled her cloak around her shivering frame and Apparated away.

Ron and Harry were sleeping soundly when Hermione slipped back into the house. She’d been gone for half an hour, but it felt like she’d aged years since she’d left. Her stomach roiled with nausea as she thought about what she was about to do. But there was nothing for it. If she was captured in the final battle, she could not have those memories of Draco rattling around in her head. And if she was killed, she only hoped that someone, someday, would find the note in her trunk, and retrieve Draco from where she’d hidden him.

Concentrating on the memories she’d pulled out of her head, the image of Draco’s terrified face, the strip club, and Dearborn’s flat, she raised her wand to her temple. Just before she said the incantation to rob herself of those memories, she whispered a small apology to Draco. Then there was a blinding flash of light, and everything was gone.

---

Author's Notes: At last! Two years to the day after this story was started, I'm finally able to post the chapter that explains it all. I've been agonizing over this one, eager to post but thoroughly concerned about what everyone will think of the plot. I hope you like it.

I'm willing to bet there's a bunch of you out there bouncing up and down in your seats screaming, "I KNEW IT!" To gloat, to discuss, to theorize on what's going to happen now, visit my yahoo group. And of course, reviews = love.