A Pound of Flesh

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Last Dance

For a brief moment of time after Hermione pitched violently out of the Pensieve, she imagined it all to be some horrible dream. Draco Malfoy wasn’t working as a stripper, she hadn’t fallen in love with him, and she hadn’t been the one to Obliviate him and march him into the strip club in the first place.

It was surreal; time seemed to freeze the moment she jerked her face out of the Pensieve. Hyperaware, she had all the time in the world to observe the scene: her cluttered desk, the calendar with eleven days of October crossed out, the clock with the second hand frozen between the nine and the ten, and the massive file on Draco Malfoy, weathered from continuous reading.

She gave one hysterical laugh at the irony that she’d been chasing her own tail all this time, and then as her body went limp, she tumbled out of her desk chair. She landed on her stomach on the floor, unable to stop hyperventilating, and shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

How long she stayed on the floor, limbs too weak to move, lungs aching from overuse and the intensity of her sobs, face against the soft carpet, she couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t until Crookshanks trotted into the room, his tail bushy and ears alert, and began to wash away Hermione’s tears with his sandpapery tongue that she attempted to regain control of her arms and legs and lungs. Feeling as though she’d just run a marathon, and then been flogged by a gauntlet or two afterward, she rolled onto her side and pushed herself into a sitting position. She leaned against her desk and banged her head against the drawers.

With acute clarity, she saw all the pieces of the puzzle that hadn’t seemed to fit together, and she put them in place: the urge she’d felt to go into that strip club two months prior with Ginny, the way she just had not been able to stay away from Draco, the scan for magical residue she’d done on him that showed only her magical signature, Dearborn’s reaction to seeing her in Draco’s flat.

“Draco,” she whispered, heartbroken.

She had done this horrible thing to him. Granted, it had been with the best of intentions that she’d Obliviated him; it had been a desperate measure to protect him and make sure he would have a life if she never came back for him.

At last, she had the answer to Draco’s mystery. It had been there the entire time, through two months of research and covert spying and lying to him. Instead of becoming attached and falling in love, she could have looked in her bloody trunk and found the note she’d left for herself.

He was going to hate her. She accepted this as fact. In spite of her good intentions, and despite the fact that she would be the one to give his life back to him, he was going to hate her. How could he not?

Almost as an afterthought, she reached over her head and groped around on the desk for her wand. When she found it, she brought it down to her temple and whispered, “Meminisse Recordatio.”

Like an electric shock, the spell sank into her brain, and she could feel a small tingle at the base of her skull as the spell reversed the Memory Charm. Behind her eyelids, she could once more see herself running down the endless, soundless, black corridor; but this time, instead of the walls closing in around her and leaving her to cry in frustration because the light at the end of the hallway remained just out of reach, the brilliant radiance exploded around her, returning sight and sound and sensation. It was too much all at once.

With a startled cry, Hermione sagged against the desk and brought her hands up to cover her face. Every memory returned with brutal, cruel clarity. She remembered how hot Draco’s hand had been as he used it to cover her mouth, and how his whisper of “Don’t scream” had blown across her ear and tickled. The sound of scissor blades rubbing together echoed in her ears, and she could almost feel Draco’s hair slipping through her fingers as she cut it short. She remembered the look of terrorized realization on his face as he raised his hands to deflect her Memory Charm, and the brief flicker of betrayal that had marred his features before they smoothed into a blank canvas.

And she remembered something else, as well. She pulled herself up into her desk chair and stared at the box of memories. Then, with trembling fingers, she lifted the memories out one at a time and set them in a careful line on the desk, then removed the layer of protective wrapping. There, underneath, where it had been hidden for three years, was Draco’s wand.

How had this happened? It was all moving too fast, in spite of the fact that the second hand on the clock seemed to be frozen in place. It had started off just like any other normal day, waking up in Draco’s bed with his beautiful face looking down at her, with kisses and banter and laughter. And now she held his wand, full of memories she hadn’t known she was missing, and realized that once again, Draco’s fate was in her hands.

She wasn’t ready for this; she still wasn’t ready to let him go.

And then Draco’s wistful voice filled her ears. “It’s a prayer," he’d said. "I always say, ‘Please, dear God, let this be the last time. Let me remember so I don’t have to do this anymore’.”

A glance at the clock showed her that Draco had one act left, and he was likely readying himself to go onstage. Time started moving again, and it seemed to be speeding by at an incredible rate. She was supposed to meet him at the pub he favored, where the music was loud and the drinks were cheap, but if she made it to the strip club before he took the stage, she could save him from having to dance again.

She scrambled to her feet, wiping her face and trying to make herself as presentable as she could in the split second it took before she stepped forward, determined, and twisted on her heel.

Whether she was prepared or not, she was going to answer his prayers.

***

Hermione bypassed the front door and the line to get in and sprinted down the alley beside the club. As she skidded to a stop in front of the club’s back door, a blast of cold air gusted through the narrow space, pulling at her hair and her thin sweater. She paused a moment to regain her breath, and then she pressed the buzzer by the door and waited.

There was a short pause, and the intercom crackled to life. “Help you?”

“Jane Granger to see Damien King,” she managed to say.

The door buzzed and she pulled it open. The guard, used to her appearing at the back door by now, waved her by without rising out of his chair.

The corridor stretched out, lengthening until it seemed to go on for miles. She felt the insistent hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing in her ears and heard each breath that filled her aching chest. As she started down the corridor to Draco’s dressing room, her footsteps ricocheted off the hard floor and bounced off the stark walls. Underneath everything, she was aware of the muffled noise of the club, which was so commonplace to her now that she almost didn’t notice it.

Her feet dragged her forward, each step harder to take than the one before it, until at last she was staring at the nondescript door of Draco’s dressing room. All she needed to do was get him back to his flat. She wanted to give him privacy when he regained his memories; it would be better for him if there were no witnesses. Bracing herself, she raised her hand to knock. Then she pushed open the door and peered inside.

The lights were dimmed; a row of flickering candles lined the counter and reflected off the mirrors. The scent of lavender and the musky odor of Draco’s oil assaulted her nose, and she stopped to inhale, a willing victim. After tonight, she would never smell this again.

“Damien?” she called. She stepped through the door and looked around. The overstuffed sofa was vacant, as was the chair that sat at the counter. The door to the loo was ajar, the room dark. Her heart sank as she realized Draco wasn’t here; he was already onstage.

She whirled on her heel, staggering a bit, and ran the short distance to the darkened backstage area. As she barreled through the curtained door, the sultry drumbeats of Draco’s music started to play. She was too late.

“No!” Hermione moaned. Tears swelled in her eyes as she rushed across the backstage area, groping through the darkness. Her fingers brushed against the Mylar curtains and she stumbled to a stop.

The darkness seemed to stretch on for an eternity. On stage, she knew Draco was holding his pose, waiting for the lights to glow, waiting for the spotlight to click on, waiting for his memories to come back. Hermione covered her mouth with her hands as an anguished sob bubbled up in her throat. She’d done this to him.

The dim back lights faded up on Draco. The moment froze; Hermione memorized every detail, from the shiny buckle on his belt to the cloak held with Velcro to his shoulders, to the way his face looked in the rosy glow of the lights. His head fell back on his neck, and his eyes closed. His lips began to move, and Hermione choked back another gasp of agony.

She said the prayer along with him. “Please, dear God, let this be the last time. Let me remember so I don’t have to do this anymore.”

The music built and the spotlight snapped on. Hermione turned away, unable to bear watching Draco dance on stage. What had she been thinking – why hadn’t she turned on her heel and pulled Draco back out onto the street when she’d seen what sort of place they’d stumbled into? She’d been so desperate, and she’d convinced herself that Draco deserved a little humiliation. She’d never really imagined that he’d get the job.

On stage, Draco was dancing because it was all he knew. It was the only thing he could remember, from as far back as his memories began. It had been the only thing he’d been adept at doing, and the money kept him from having to share a flat or let a room.

But then he’d adapted and made the best out of the horrible situation she’d left him in. He knew he was destined for something else, and he’d decided to do something about it; he’d decided to make himself better at something else so he could get away from this life.

If she’d never found the note – or if she had been killed in the final battle – Draco would have been fine. In this, she had been successful. He had survived. He’d made friends, continued his education, and become a very different person. He’d learned humility and tolerance while still retaining some of his former traits. He was still clever and manipulative, at times arrogant and far too sure of himself. But now there was also insecurity, and a fear of losing the people he cared about, and that was her fault.

The cheering of the women in the club penetrated her haze of guilt, and she hastily wiped her eyes with her palms. Tonight would be the last night he would have to dance.

As the music built to a crescendo, Hermione retreated from the stage. She went back to Draco’s dressing room to wait. She pushed the door closed behind her and stood in the middle of the floor, looking around. In the dim candlelight refracting off the mirrors, everything blurred together at the edges.

She circled the room, trance-like, and lingered by the bookshelves. She trailed her fingers along the worn spines of Draco’s much-loved books, wondering if he would come back for them once he knew, or if he would leave everything behind. Unaccountably, her breath hitched in her chest and she swallowed around the hard lump in her throat.

Would he come back for anything he’d loved in this life?

The door opened with a quiet click, and Draco pushed through, clad only in black trousers, his eyes closed. He rubbed at his temple and groaned.

Hermione watched him, her heart in her throat. Standing so close to him now, knowing what she’d done and what she was going to do, filled her with shame, and with terror, and a faint sense of relief. The awful waiting was soon to come to an end; it was just her certainty of his reaction that left her dreading the final confrontation.

“Damien,” she said.

His eyes flew open as he took a startled step backward. Then, with a slow smile, he started toward her. “Bloody hell, Jane, you scared the shite out of me.”

She closed the distance between them and flung herself into his arms. He caught her in his warm embrace and pulled her close.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she murmured against his bare shoulder.

“Me too,” he said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to meet me at the pub.”

“I know, but I didn’t want to wait. I just wanted to see you.”

“There was no need to worry. I’m fine.”

“I – I know,” she stammered. “I wasn’t worried. I just – ” She broke off, not sure what to say. I just wanted to tell you I’ve been lying to you all this time, or I just wanted to reverse that pesky Memory Charm I put on you, or I just want to spend the rest of my life in your arms, please forgive me. “I just wanted to see you as soon as I could.”

Draco smiled down at her. “Well, I’ll just go get dressed, and then we can head to the pub.” He released her and headed for his folded pile of clothes at the far end of his dressing counter.

“No,” Hermione said. “Let’s just go back to your flat now.”

“Why? Don’t you want to go have a drink with me?” he asked as he hopped into his boxers.

“I’d rather just go back to your flat.”

Draco turned to look at her fully, an indecipherable look on his face. “What’s the matter, Jane? I didn’t want to say anything, but you look awful. Have you been crying?”

“I promise, I’ll explain everything if you will just come back to your flat with me.”

“What’s at my flat that’s so important?”

“Nothing. I just – need to tell you something.”

Looking worried, Draco grabbed hold of her hands and pulled her down onto the sofa with him. He kissed each of her palms and then looked up at her. “Tell me here.”

Hermione stared down at their joined hands. “I – I can’t. Not here.”

Small wrinkles appeared between Draco’s brows as he frowned. “Does it have to do with this morning?” he asked, something in his voice off.

Determined not to lie to him any longer, she nodded.

A sudden look of understanding crossed Draco’s face. He blinked and lowered his gaze for a long moment. He nodded to himself, a bitter smile on his face. When he looked up, the understanding was replaced with a raw hurt. Hermione didn’t understand. She hadn’t even said anything yet.

“Just one more night,” he said, his voice tight. “Please, Jane.”

“What?” she asked, confused, but he scooted closer to her on the sofa, a fervent look of desperation on his face. He placed a finger to her lips, silencing her.

“Whatever it is, just pretend for one more night that everything is alright. Just one more night. Whatever it is, tell me tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t understand – ”

“Jane,” he said. “Please. I just want one more night, just like this. If you mean to leave me, I want to have these memories.”

And then Hermione understood. Draco thought she was breaking up with him, that she was saying goodbye because of what had happened in his flat that morning. She closed her eyes, rendered breathless. She wanted these memories too. Everything that had happened today had been too sudden: the memory Draco had experienced that morning, her realization that Dearborn knew her, finding the memories and then discovering that she’d been the one who had Obliviated Draco. She longed for just one more night as well, but she owed Draco the truth. After all this time, he deserved to know who he was.

Would he hate her for one more night? More than he would hate her for three years? Did it matter? She couldn’t possibly hate herself any more.

“What do you say, Jane? Can’t we just have tonight, and deal with it tomorrow?”

“I’m not going to leave you,” she whispered. “You’re going to leave me.” Her head drooped on her shoulders, but Draco tipped her chin up with a trembling hand.

“I would never,” he told her, his voice firm. “Why would you think I would do that?”

Taking a shuddering breath, she looked into his concerned eyes. “I’ve done a horrible thing.”

“And you think I won’t forgive you?”

“I know you won’t.”

“What have you done that is so horrible?”

“I can’t tell you here.”

“And it has something to do with what happened this morning?”

Hermione nodded, miserable.

“But you won’t tell me what it is unless we go back to my flat?”

She nodded again.

Draco cast his gaze down at their joined hands, where his thumbs were rubbing circles in her palms. After a long moment of silence, he stood and finished dressing. Then he returned to the sofa and pulled her up.

Quite unexpectedly, he crushed her in a warm hug. She clung to him, desperate to memorize the feel of his arms around her, his hands rubbing her back and caressing her hair, the scent of him. She wanted always to remember the sensation of his lips on her cheek, making their way to her mouth.

The kiss left her lightheaded. It seemed like Draco put everything he had into that kiss, as though with that one kiss he was trying to convey every emotion and desire he felt, and how much he loved her.

Her head reeling, she sagged against him. As she panted, trying to catch her breath, she buried her face in his shirt and inhaled his musky aroma. Draco’s hands skimmed up and down her back, comforting and reassuring.

“Whatever it is, Jane,” he whispered in her ear, “nothing could be bad enough to make me want to leave you. But just the same, I can’t deal with any more insanity today. Tell me tomorrow.”

Hermione clutched at his shirt, twisting handfuls of fabric between her fingers as she struggled to hold back her sobs. “Tomorrow,” she agreed, her voice thin and strained.

“It’ll be alright,” he continued in a soothing whisper. Then he extricated himself from her grip. “C’mon, then. Let’s go.”

She nodded numbly. She concentrated on the feeling of Draco’s hand around her hand, the gait of his walk as he strode for the rear entrance of the club. She wanted to remember it all, every detail. His blond hair gleamed in the light over the entry, and his normally tan skin looked pale, as pale as he’d looked when she’d found him in Malfoy Manor.

Instead of heading toward his flat as she expected, he pulled her down to the other end of the alley and cut across the intersecting street, then turned at the next corner.

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked, confused.

“The pub, Jane. We had a date, and I want to dance with you.”

It was warm inside the pub, much warmer than outside. It wasn’t until Draco put his arm around her as he led her inside that she realized how cold she was in her thin sweater. Belatedly, her teeth began to chatter as tremors shook her body. But even after her skin warmed, she continued to shake.

Draco ushered her to the crowded dance floor and spun her into his arms. Miserable, she let him lead and did her best to keep up, but he noticed her apathy and stopped dancing. They stood in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by writhing bodies, pounding music and careless laughter, and stared at each other.

“I’m sorry,” she said, ducking her head as the tears she’d been holding in escaped at last.

Draco stepped closer and put his finger under her chin. She tipped her head up to meet his searching gaze. “Please don’t cry tonight, Jane. I want to see you smiling.”

Her heart breaking, Hermione’s insides seized up with a strangled sob, and she struggled to not show her anguish on her face. But Draco saw and he brushed away her tears without a word.

“I’m – I’m so scared,” she gasped.

“Don’t be scared. It’ll be alright.”

“How do you know?” Hermione blinked to clear her eyes of tears and searched his face for an answer. “Maybe you’ll remember things – things you’d wish you hadn’t. Maybe…” She felt her breath hitch in her chest. “Maybe you’ll hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?” he demanded. He cupped her cheek with his hand, and she felt tears pooling against his fingers. “Whatever it is you’ve done that you think is so horrible, know this: I could never hate you. I love you.”

Before, hearing him say those words would have loosed delightful swooping emotions in her stomach. But now it left a bittersweet ache in her chest. She knew better. He said he’d never be able to hate her, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know that tomorrow by this time, he’d have every memory back, including every spiteful, hate-filled remembrance he’d ever had of her. And in spite of the more rational part of her mind that discounted his certainty that nothing she could do would change how he felt, deep inside, a small part of her held a spark of hope that maybe he would be able to forgive her, even if it took him some time to get there.

“Besides,” he continued. “How can you be so sure I’m going to remember anything? If you hadn’t noticed, I’m losing my mind.”

Hermione laughed tearfully, and Draco wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. She leaned into his embrace, acutely aware of every inch where her body touched his. His scent filled her nose and she inhaled deeply, filled with a sense of crushing sorrow.

They swayed slowly, though around them, the music pulsated and bodies undulated and the world went on. But all Hermione was aware of was the feel of Draco’s hands on her back, her forehead resting against his cheek, the gentle throbbing of his heart against her chest.

***

Draco kept one arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her tight against him as they walked back to his flat. In spite of the warmth of his body next to her, she broke out into violent shakes, which didn’t stop even after he whipped off his jacket and draped it around her. He tried to quicken their pace, but now that Hermione had been granted a reprieve until the morning, she dragged her feet, eager to make the time last as long as she could, even if she was cold.

But then they were turning the corner onto his street and walking past the café where they’d eaten so many times, and up the front walk of Dearborn’s building, and through the front door. As Draco guided her up the stairs, Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the landlord’s door.

Why couldn’t Dearborn have found some sort of way to contact her? He followed the news of the wizarding world – or at least he had three years ago – so he would have known she’d survived the war. An anonymous note in the post would have sufficed. If he’d only written to her, alerted her to the fact that Draco was waiting for her to come back and restore his memories, he could have saved everyone so much heartache.

But then none of this ever would have happened. And even if – when – it ended badly, Hermione was grateful she’d been allowed two stolen months with Draco.

He ushered her into his flat and down the short hallway to his bedroom. There, they undressed each other in near silence. Then he took her hand and led her to the bathroom.

She shampooed his hair first, his back to her as she carded his wet and soapy locks through her fingers. He returned the favor, and she ducked her face into the streaming water, hiding her weeping eyes. He didn’t comment as he turned her back to him to wash her face; instead, he kissed the tears wetting each of her cheeks and then, with gentle fingers, massaged the cleanser onto her skin.

When it was her turn to wash his face, she ran her fingertips across his cheekbones and over his brows, and then stood on her toes to replace her fingers with her lips. Draco submitted to her touch, his eyes closed. She brushed the tip of each thumb against his wet eyelashes and swiped at the corner of each eye, where there quivered a wetness she knew had nothing to do with the shower.

“You’re scaring the hell out of me,” he admitted.

“I’m sorry,” she told him.

After the shower, Draco guided her back to the bedroom. Hermione paused beside the bed, a twinge of conscience keeping her from pulling back the silver and green bedding and climbing in.

The room went dark as Draco flipped off the overhead light, and she felt him come to a stop behind her, his breath hot on her neck.

“Jane,” he whispered.

Anguished, she spun and flung herself at him. Draco caught her in his strong arms and met her trembling lips in a soothing kiss.

“It’ll be alright,” he said, his mouth brushing against her lips. “It’s going to be alright.”
Then his hands cupped the back of her thighs, and he lifted her from her feet and brought her to the bed, where he lowered himself next to her.

For a long moment, he leaned over her, searching her face for something, and then with deliberate slowness, dipped his head and captured her lips once more. The kiss was sweet, and tender, and familiar. She felt the tantalizing pressure of the tip of his tongue sweep over her lips, and the sensation of it caused her toes to curl in pleasure. What began as slow and sensual grew in intensity until the kiss was plundering and needful. She felt his desire, and she took it into herself, arousal growing painful between her legs.

But she wanted this to last, and he wanted these memories, so she put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him away. Panting, he pulled back and nodded in agreement. Hermione kept the pressure on his heaving chest until he rolled onto his back. She knelt beside him and devoured the image of his swollen lips, his skin flushed with need, and wanted to remember this moment for the rest of her life.

She started at his toes, massaging each one individually, and then ran her hands up and down both of his feet. Her hands continued their mental inventory up each muscular calve, stopping to tickle the backs of his knees before wandering up his sculpted thighs. She lingered at his hips, where his erection stood hard and ready. She looked up from her memorization and caught Draco’s intense gaze following her every motion.

“Memorizing me?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She didn’t answer, nor did she look away as she ran one hand up over his smooth stomach, following the subdued ridges of his abdominal muscles. His skin was hot under her hands, and soft like silk. She didn’t need to memorize his every curve, plane and hollow; she’d long ago learned every inch of his body, but she needed the chance to touch it one last time.

As her hands roved further up his body, his grey eyes fluttered shut. She dropped her mouth to his stomach and kissed each faint, white scar left behind by Voldemort, and traced the path of each across his tan skin. Her hands roamed over his chest, her palms brushing against his small, hard nipples. The sensation caused him to whimper. Without a word, she threw a leg over his hips and straddled him. His erection throbbed between them.

His shoulders passed under her hands next, tense and drawn tight. She paused to massage each until she felt the tension diminishing beneath her probing fingers. Then her hands slid down each arm, tracing the defined curves of his biceps and triceps. She brought his hands to her face, and she kissed each finger, and then his palms. He cupped her face with his fingertips and let his hands rest there.

She touched his neck next, and then her fingers were tracing the line of his chin, the curve of his cheekbones, the regal slope of his nose, and the suppleness of his lips. He kissed her fingertips and opened his eyes to regard her in solemn silence.

Without a word, he sat up, drawing his legs together around her bottom like a cradle. She hooked her ankles together around his back and sat in his lap. As his arms encircled her, she finished mapping his body by drawing her fingers through his glorious, soft hair.

She rested her forehead against his shoulder as his hands rubbed her back in sensual circles. Then he nuzzled her cheek and she let her head fall back to grant his lips access to her neck.

Draco reached one hand between them and fondled Hermione’s breasts, and his warm hand sent a shock across the tender expanse of flesh. She arched her back with a moan of delight, and he ducked his head to give each nipple a teasing suck.

The burning at her center felt like it was going to engulf her, and she whispered, “Yes,” as Draco’s hand wound down between them and aligned his erection against her tingling core. She moaned in quiet relief when she felt Draco's hard length slide into her. He let out a muffled noise of agreement and tilted his face up to give her a breathy kiss.

“I love how you feel around me,” he whispered, motionless beneath her. “This is the best feeling in the world.”

Hermione pressed herself against him, wanting to feel him go deeper, until he was buried as far into her as he could go. With a soft moan, Draco at last shifted inside her, and started a slow, steady rhythm.

When the tears came, Hermione couldn’t stop them, but Draco wordlessly wiped away each one that streaked down her cheeks. They rolled onto their sides, legs entwined and bodies meeting at the middle, and then over so that the warm weight of Draco’s body pressed her into the soft sheets with each thrust.

His hands were everywhere on her body: in her hair, then caressing a leg, then skimming along her sides, and then gripping a hip. She supposed he was memorizing her as well.

“Jane,” he uttered, his voice thick with need. “Jane, Jane, Jane. I’m going to come.”

“Hermione,” she begged, almost delirious in her aroused state. “Call me Hermione.”

“Hermione,” he moaned, and it was like a wave crashing against the beach, drowning her and stealing her breath. The sound of her name on his lips sent her spiraling over the edge, and she came hard against him, bucking her hips up to meet his pounding force.

“Draco,” she cried.

He let out a noise that was part sob, part exhalation of release. “Yes!” he shouted, and then he shuddered against her and came.

Hermione’s chest ached and tingled, and there was something massive trembling inside, making her whole world shake as she clung to Draco and imagined the life where he could call her Hermione and she could call him Draco, and then they could fall asleep together without repercussions.

Draco sank down upon her, his body relaxing. “Yes,” he whispered into her hair. “Yes.”

She kissed his cheek, and then his mouth when he turned his face to meet her, and ran her hand through his hair.

How she would miss him. He was more than she deserved. Two months and two days was more than she’d ever been entitled to.

He rolled to her side and onto his back, pulling her across his chest. “Sleep now, my love,” he told her. “We’ll deal with the rest in the morning.”

But she didn’t fall sleep, and from the sound of his breathing, neither did he. But he didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. Finally, when she heard the birds calling their early greetings to the impending dawn, his hold on her grew lax, and his breathing grew deep and slow with sleep.

As the curtains betrayed the first hint of morning, Hermione clung to Draco and wept bitter tears. And then, at last, she drifted into a restless slumber plagued by unfocused, frightening dreams.

---

Author's Notes: This chapter was a nightmare to write, and I'm still not entirely 100% sold on it. I'd really welcome your thoughts or words of encouragement. Reviews = love. And I promise not to stay away so long next time. On the plus side, the next chapter, "Tomorrow" is just about finished.

How do you think this will end? Do you want a happy ending or one dripping angst? Stop by my Yahoo! group and join the discussion.