A Pound of Flesh

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Broken

Apparating was out of the question. Hermione knew she would splinch herself if she tried.

Instead, she ran. When she couldn’t run any longer, she walked. When her legs failed her, she leaned against the nearest building or lamp post and tried to breathe.

The people on the street paid her no attention, just stepped around her, or moved to the side as she rushed by, arms wrapped around herself and a pathetic keening coming from somewhere very deep inside her chest.

How many times she’d made this journey, from his flat to her flat, from her flat to his flat. She knew each building by name as she passed it, knew that if she walked past the Leaky Cauldron, someone might see her and stop her. So she detoured through Leicester Square, startling a flock of pigeons that had gathered around the statue of Shakespeare.

As she neared her flat, she broke into a run again, anxious to be alone somewhere where she could scream at the top of her lungs, and cry, and rage at the cruel twists of fate that had brought her to this point. The cold air hurt her tight throat, and her breaths came in choked gasps and stuttering sobs.

She had done the right thing. Draco deserved to have his life back, and he’d deserved the chance to vent his fury at her. But even though she’d known how he would react, it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Hermione ran up the stairs to her flat, then paused at her door, not sure she could face the memories within her home. She took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes for a moment as the image of Draco’s startled and astounded face swam across her vision. In one instant, she’d given him back everything of his old life that he’d longed for, while at the same instant destroying his trust in the only person who knew all of his secrets.

What was he doing, right at this moment, she wondered. Was he still sitting in his flat trying to come to grips with his past, or was he on the move already, trying to restore his old life? Was he cursing her name? She sagged against the door, opening her eyes. Of course he was. If only he’d let her explain.

She unlocked the door and slipped into her flat. The wash of memories assailed her. Draco, by the fireplace, reading aloud from a book while she massaged his feet. Or in the kitchen, sipping tea at her table while he told her about his latest courses at Ashworth. Or chasing her around the flat, dripping wet and naked from his shower. Or cuddling her close to him on the sofa while they watched movies.

The bedroom, too, was full of memories that caused her chest to ache. And Draco’s scent clung to her pillows and sheets, a cruel reminder of what she’d lost. She stripped out of her clothes and crawled under the blankets, pulling them over her head. Eventually, surrounded by the comforting aroma of Draco’s scent, she cried herself to sleep.

***

The bed was too large.

She reached across the empty space, eyes still closed. But the side of the bed so recently occupied by a warm, wonderful body was cold and barren.

He was gone.

Hermione stilled; her hand came to a rest on the pillow where he had laid his head at night.

A wave of grief so black and complete that it muted all other emotion washed over her, and she pressed her eyes more firmly closed, not ready to open them and see.

He wasn’t coming back.

She withdrew her hand and tugged the blankets up over her head. She curled into a tight ball and covered her mouth with both hands as a sob of anguish bubbled to the surface. Fresh tears leaked from the corners of her still-closed eyes.

There was no room tonight for anything other than grief.

***

The sun beat a feeble attempt on her blinds, which were closed to the day. What day was it? Hermione thought hard; she couldn’t recall. It had been a Sunday when she’d climbed into bed, but how long ago was that? One day? Two? A year?

Only yesterday, she realized.

She stared at the ceiling and took a deep breath. The air in her flat was chilly, and it felt good to her aching lungs and scratchy throat. She rubbed at her eyes, which were sticky with dried tears.

Draco.

The name was like a ragged knife on her shattered nerves. Her face crumpled and she rolled onto her side to bury her face in the pillow.

Her alarm went off. She ignored it for a few minutes, debating whether she was capable of working in her current state of mind. At last, she dragged herself out of bed and staggered to the Floo. She contacted the MLE office at the Ministry said that she needed to take a few sick days.

Then she went back to bed.

***

Hermione woke again.

In a haze, she blinked and tried to remember how many times the sun had risen and set since she’d left the bed to do anything other than use the loo and feed Crookshanks, who was perched at the foot of her bed, his amber eyes intent on her face.

Twice, she decided. She was fairly sure it was Tuesday.

She held out an unsteady hand, and the orange tabby crawled forward and rested his gnarled head under her palm. His rusty purr filled the silence of her room.

The desolation tucked away into a numb little corner of her brain, Hermione concentrated on stroking the wiry fur of her loyal old cat. He edged closer and curled himself against her side, and his paws kneaded at the bunched up blankets tangled around her.

It was hard; the bed was enormous. The far edge seemed to stretch away from her like it was hundreds of miles away. The pillows and sheets still smelled like Draco.

She sucked in a sharp breath and wondered if the pain would ever lessen.

***

The phone rang again. Hermione propped herself up and listened as the answering machine picked up. Once she knew it wasn’t Draco on the phone, she flopped down and pulled his pillow over her face. She breathed in deeply.

Where was he now? Had he already fled?

She doubted that she would see him again, and the knowledge of it socked her in the gut. With a muffled moan, she let the despair out of the cage it rattled in her heart and felt it sweep through her body.

He was gone and he was never coming back. If only she’d been able to explain. She should have forced him to listen.

She should have done so many things.

Now it was too late.

***

This time, the knock on the door woke Hermione. She jerked up and held her breath. The knock came again and she rushed through her options: answer it, or not.

What if he’d come to see her?

She flung back the covers and stumbled to her feet. The room swayed alarmingly but she put a hand against the wall and kept herself upright.

There was one more knock, and then the sound of a key in the lock. Hermione sagged in her doorway. Draco didn’t have a key.

As the front door to her flat swung open and Ginny’s concerned call carried down the hall, Hermione fell back into the bed and pulled the blankets over her head.

“Hermione?” Ginny’s voice was close now, just outside her room. “Hermione?” This time, she was inside the room.

There was a tentative touch on her shoulder. “Are you sick?” Ginny’s voice was gentle; her concern dissolved Hermione’s meager grip on her control, and she began to sob.

The bed sagged as Ginny climbed in next to her. The blankets pulled back from her face and Hermione screwed her eyes shut. She could not bear that look of worry on Ginny’s face; she could not bear to feel guilty for anything else at the moment.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?”

She wept, and though she tried to explain, the words came out garbled, unintelligible. Ginny shook her head and shushed her. Then she pulled Hermione close, and wrapped her arms around her. Hermione submitted limply, and rested her head against Ginny’s chest. The heartbeat there was foreign.

***

When Hermione woke again, the bed was once more empty. But the sounds of industry in the kitchen drifted through her open door. She didn’t have the energy to go investigate, however, and so she rolled onto her side and peered at the clock, which told her it was nearly nine. She flicked her gaze up to the window; the blinds were still closed, and the light that managed to spill through was meager. The room was shrouded in shadows.

Nine at night, then.

She needed to use the loo, she decided, and so she peeled back her covers and pushed herself up and out of bed. Her head felt funny, muddled, as if she were intoxicated, and her mouth was dry. She trudged to the bathroom, only minimally aware that she was wearing a fresh set of pajamas, and did her business.

When she paused to wash her hands, she made the mistake of glancing at herself in the mirror. Her face was puffy with sleep and tears, and faint trails of dried tears snaked down her colorless cheeks. Her hair hung in a lank and tangled mass around her head. But it was the look in her eyes that made her shudder and look away. Her brown eyes were rimmed in red, and they were sad, flat, listless.

She cupped her hands together under the faucet and bent her face into the cool pool of water she collected. The chill soothed the fire surrounding her eyes and she splashed her face again. She rubbed at her eyes and cheeks, and felt the slick saltiness of the tears as she washed them away.

Once she’d scrubbed her face clean, she ran a comb through her hair until she’d managed to undo the worst snarls, and then she gave up. What was the point?

At the bathroom door, she looked left, toward her bedroom, and then to the right, down the hall to the main room and the kitchen, where someone – Ginny, Hermione guessed – was waiting for her.

She debated for a long moment, and then at last, she directed her feet to the right.

Ginny’s back was to her when she entered the kitchen. As Hermione slid into a seat at her small table, Ginny looked over from the tea kettle. “Would you like some tea?” Ginny asked.

Hermione nodded.

In a moment, a cup of steaming tea and a platter of small sandwiches sat in front of Hermione. She wrapped her hands around the teacup. The warmth felt good on her numb fingers. She looked down into the tea, not ready to meet Ginny’s worried gaze.

Instead, she asked, “Have I been fired?”

Ginny sounded confused. “Fired?”

“For not showing up to work.”

“But you called in sick, Susan said. Why would you be fired for taking sick days?”

Hermione looked up from her cup, confused. “What day is it?”

“It’s Tuesday, Hermione.”

“Oh,” she said, and she looked back into her tea. “It feels like it’s been longer.”

Ginny slid into the seat across the table and fiddled with the long plait of red hair hanging over her shoulder. “Hermione, if you want to talk – ”

“I put the charm on him,” Hermione blurted.

“You put the charm on who?”

“Draco; I put the charm on him,” Hermione croaked. “I did it.”

“Slow down. Tell me what happened,” Ginny said, her voice soothing.

“The Memory Charm. It was me. I Obliviated him.”

For a long moment, Ginny simply stared at Hermione, apparently trying to process what she’d said. Then her eyes widened and a hand flew to her mouth. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “No! It couldn’t be. That’s not possible!”

“No, it was me. I did it.” Hermione buried her face in her hands, lowering her head to the table.

“No, it couldn’t have been you. You’d have known!”

“I saw it; I watched myself do it in my Pensieve.”

“How?” Ginny stood and came to stand beside her. Her hand found Hermione’s back and began to rub in gentle circles. “Explain to me.”

“I Obliviated him.” She gave a cry of anguish. “And then I Oblivated myself to protect him in case I was captured.” She launched into the whole story before she could stop herself. She told Ginny about finding Draco at the manor, of taking him to the address Moody had given her and discovering Dearborn, of how she had been unable to find another safe place to hide Draco. When she reached the part of her narrative where she Obliviated Draco for his own good, Ginny closed her eyes and pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

“We looked for a job. We walked up and down in Soho looking for a job. I didn’t know it was a strip club when I walked into it,” Hermione said. “And once I saw what it was, I was about to turn around and leave, but they have the bar there, and I thought maybe he could work there, but then the manager wanted to put him on stage, and I was so angry and frustrated with Draco for putting me in that situation, and I thought it would be good payback for all those comments he made at school…”

“So you let him dance?”

Hermione nodded, and then continued her tale in a flat voice. “I didn’t think he’d be any good. I knew he wouldn’t be any good. But then, he was good. He was great, even. And then owner of the club came back and offered him a job. Then his assistant took him to a hospital to have his head checked, and a few days later, Dearborn stepped forward and offered him a place to live.”

Ginny chewed on her lip, her face pensive and pale. “Does Draco know?”

With a nod, she clenched her hands together and stared at them as she forced herself to remember. “I told him Sunday morning. I broke the Memory Charm and he threw me out before I could explain anything.” The facts, so baldly stated, stung, and Hermione swallowed the pain the words wrought.

“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny sighed. She held out a box of tissues, and Hermione took a handful, grateful to have something to wring in her hands. Ginny placed a hand on her knee in encouragement. “Hiding him was the right thing to do. Dumbledore…would have been proud.”

Hermione nodded in mute understanding and buried her face in the tissues.

“You were in a rough situation. You did what you thought you had to do.”

“But I left him there for three years!” Hermione wailed into her handful of tissues. “All because I couldn’t bear to look into my trunk and deal with the past.”

“What’s done is done,” Ginny told her, stroking her hair.

“He hates me. I love him, and he hates me,” Hermione whispered.

“Just give him time,” Ginny soothed. “Give him a few more days, and then try to explain.”

***

Draco stared down the empty length of his glass and waved the barkeep over.

“Might want to pace yourself, mate,” the barkeep said as he placed another vodka and tonic in front of Draco. “The night is young.”

Draco eyed the man with contempt, and then took a deliberate swallow from his drink.

The balding man stared back, unfazed. “Girl trouble?” he prodded.

Draco snorted, feeling somewhat fuzzy around the edges from the three drinks he’d sucked down in the last hour. If only girl troubles were his biggest concern.

“You have no idea,” he grumbled.

He didn’t know what do to do. Thinking clearly had been a challenge the last few days as he wandered from bar to bar in Soho, drinking himself into a blissful stupor. If he didn’t drink, he knew he’d be forced to face his memories – all of them, even the ones of his nightmares that propelled him out of bed, screaming in terror.

It was as though he was trapped in limbo between Draco Malfoy and Damien King. Which one was who he was?

Draco Malfoy was like a stranger inhabiting his body, bringing his memories with him. He no longer existed in the wizarding world. And Damien King had a life, and a home, a job and income. Draco Malfoy would have spent the rest of his miserable life in Azkaban, and Damien King had an acceptable life, where he stripped while he tried to educate himself enough to pursue another equally lucrative career.

There was no question about whether or not he could be Draco Malfoy again.

Draco Malfoy was dead.

He thought about his grave at Malfoy Manor, remembered the night he’d gone wandering the back gardens and discovered his tombstone tucked away in a corner of the family cemetery. He sat there for hours, staring at the dates that were the entire story given to his life. He sat through a miserable, misting rain, the ground around him growing muddy as he stared at his grave. Sometime just before dawn, he crept back inside to continue his existence as the ghost that haunted the second floor.

He knew his mother had to keep up the charade that he was dead, but Lucius, who had never known that his son hadn’t died that night at the Dark Lord’s feet, was the one who had chosen to locate the grave in such a place of dishonor.

And then Lucius was killed during the failed attack on the Weasleys’ hovel.

And then his mother died after her own sister sold her out for declaring herself no longer to be a follower of the Dark Lord.

And he’d been alone, the ghost of Malfoy Manor, foraging food from the kitchens, which had been emptied of elves, and sleeping in fear that he would not see the dawn of another day. He didn’t know what else to do. The food began to run out, and he knew that Bellatrix would keep coming back to steal his family heirlooms. Desperation had driven him to reveal himself the night Potter and his friends had inexplicably come to the manor.

He picked up his glass and took a shallow sip. He knew which thought was coming next. His brain had been on a circular loop for the last three days, with one thought leading to another, and another, until he was back to where he started, more depressed and drunk than when he’d started.

Hermione.

A brief flare of anger accompanied the image of her tear-streaked face. Hermione Granger, the girl who had been taking advantage of his missing memories for months, who was the one who had stolen his entire life from him and then left him to flounder in the darkness for three bloody years.

The anger churned in his gut, a dark and malevolent creature with claws. Thinking about her hurt.

He’d asked her to hide him, not erase him. He’d thought she’d stick him with the Weasleys or some other trusted Order member. He shook his head, now frustrated with how naïve he had been. She couldn’t possibly have taken him to anyone involved in the war. That would have been too risky. A neutral party, then; someone who had knowledge of the wizarding world. She could have left him with her Muggle parents, but even as he thought it, he recognized that even if she had tried to, he never would have stayed with Mudblood Granger’s parents.

He remembered being so relieved to see her after his hellish week trapped in Dearborn’s small guest room. He’d despised the man, and had been eager to be anywhere else. She’d said there was nowhere else she could take him, that Dearborn would keep hiding him, but only if he earned his rent. Which required a job, as any activity in his Gringotts account would have alerted the authorities that he was still alive. And he knew, being the snot-nosed git he’d been three years ago, he never would have deigned to work.

How was it she could not find anywhere else for him to go? That her only option had been to erase his memories and make him think he was a Muggle named Damien King? How was it she had been so completely unable to find somewhere else for him to go?

No, he concluded, there had to have been another option. There had to have been.

He just couldn’t think of what it was.

He sipped on his drink, lost in his thoughts, and remembered that she’d cried when she’d cut his hair.

Then he shook his head, not wanting to continue the path of his thoughts. But it was impossible. The progression was as natural to him as breathing.

He recalled her behavior since her birthday, since the first time he’d told her that he loved her. It had been the first time he’d ever told any girl that he loved her. He hadn’t even said those words to Pansy.

After that morning, there had been the constant feeling that she was trying to say goodbye to him, and then never following through. How much sense that made now. The guilt must have been incredible.

Good, he thought viciously. He was glad it had hurt her to keep up the charade. He hoped it had hurt a lot.

How remorseful she’d seemed. Her tears and memorization of him made sense. It was almost enough to convince him that perhaps, during the course of whatever twisted plot she had inveigled him in, she had made the mistake of actually falling in love with him. But regardless of what she was feeling, she’d known. She had anticipated his reaction, even while he was declaring nothing she could do would be bad enough to make him hate her.

She knew him better than he knew himself.

She claimed that she’d Obliviated herself to protect him, and Draco grudgingly admitted it made sense. She had been fighting a dangerous war, and if she were captured, they would have discovered her memories of him, alive and well and completely unaware of the danger to himself.

But only completely unaware because she had made him so.

Even if he accepted that she’d hidden him and then Obliviated herself, he could not understand why she had not come back sooner to reverse the charm, nor could he answer the question of what she had been doing with him for the last two months. Why she had not told him sooner. He could remember now that she had said his name more than once, that she’d confessed all while he’d been half-asleep, that she’d attempted to tell him the morning before she reversed the charm, but he could not figure out why she had lied to him for two months.

And if he could maybe – one day far in the future – absolve her for the last three years, he doubted that he could be so forgiving for the last two months.

Forgiveness, Draco thought with a sardonic snort as he fiddled with his drink and kept his head down over his glass. That was a big ‘if’.

It wasn’t as though the Ministry would grant him the same privilege.

With an angry huff, he finished his drink and slammed the glass down on the bar.

And again, he was back at the beginning. He didn’t know what to do.

***

The next morning, still groggy and hung over, Draco set out from his flat with no destination in mind. He wandered through Soho, his stomach queasy, and avoided the cafés and pubs.

He was ruining Damien King’s life, and he knew it. He had not returned to the strip club, had not called, had not answered the phone. He did not go to his classes at Ashworth, did not study for his upcoming examinations, did nothing but drink away the money in his bank account. There was still a sizable amount left, though. Stripping paid well. It was why he hadn’t tried too hard to seek out another job.

He drifted, wandering without destination in mind. And it wasn’t until he was standing a block away from The Leaky Cauldron that he realized his feet had been taking him to Hermione. He drew back and stared at the wizarding pub. Two wizards sat on rickety chairs on the front stoop, while over their head, the pub’s sign swung in the cold breeze.

It made sense now, the roundabout way Hermione had of making the trek from his flat to hers. She’d been shielding him from discovery.

Lightheaded, Draco tried to swallow the ringing in his ears. But sweat broke out on his forehead, and inside his chest, his heart thundered. The pub was calling a siren’s song to him, urging him forward, to take his rightful place as a wizard. He reached into his pocket and caressed his wand. He could disguise himself and just walk through. He could find out how the war had ended, perhaps discover what had become of his estate. Nobody would need to know Draco Malfoy was walking in their midst.

The witch on the pub’s sign stirred her cauldron, and the two wizards burst into laughter.

I am a wizard. That is where I belong, he thought, feeling as though someone had grabbed hold of his chest and was tugging him forward. But first, he backtracked to a nearby alley to disguise himself. Glamours were difficult to accomplish, but he managed to darken his skin and hair. He even transfigured a broken bottle into a pair of eyeglasses. When he stopped to glance at his reflection in a window, he still recognized himself, but he doubted anyone else would. After all, why would they be looking for someone who was dead?

He did not recognize the two wizards on the stoop, but they tipped their hats to him as he passed through the door. Inside, the pub smelled as it always had, and the lighting was dim, with warm circles of light radiating away from the fireplaces. Tingles coursed through his body, and he at once recognized the sensation of magic; it was the same feeling he’d experienced in Hermione’s flat.

He inhaled as though trying to draw the sensation deeper into himself. Yes, he decided. Magic felt like being alive.

The pub was not crowded so early in the day. A few witches and wizards he did not recognize sat at the tables, enjoying an early lunch, but nobody paid any attention to him. He made his way to the rear of the pub, and stepped out into the courtyard. He had only twice before entered Diagon Alley through the brick wall, and it took him a few tries to tap the right brick to gain entrance.

Then, at last, the wall opened up onto the bustling, cheerful wizarding street. How little things had changed in the many years since he’d last walked along Diagon Alley, he mused. To his left, a witch in a pointed purple hat haggled with the proprietor of the cauldron shop, her arms wrapped possessively around a shining brass cauldron. To his right, he spotted a group of children too young for Hogwarts playing Gobstones just outside of the Apothecary.

He took a few cautious steps on the cobbled street, and he swallowed the overwhelming surge of relief that bubbled up like a sob in his throat. He was home.

There was so much to look at. So very much to see. Bright orange leaves rattled on the trees and blew down the street, tumbling in the wind and catching on the cloaks and robes of the witches and wizards who milled about on the street, looking into windows or standing in small, chatting groups.

His feet carried him forward, and nobody looked twice at him as he passed by, every nerve tingling in alert excitement. Magic. Oh, how he would have missed it, if only he’d remembered he had it.

A group young wizards in Muggle clothing gathered outside of Quality Quidditch Supplies, gaping up at the newest broom in the window. Draco paused, staring with longing at the broom, a Lightning Wave 3000. What he wouldn’t give to fly again.

As he passed Eeylops Owl Emporium, he thought of his family’s eagle owl, and wondered what had become of the bird. Perhaps it was still at the manor. Though, the owl had been his mother’s familiar – Draco swallowed the lump of pain in his throat – so it might have gone its own way when she died.

Draco took a deep breath and walked past the shop, where owls in cages slept with their head under one wing. He passed the stationary shop and then found himself stopping in front of Flourish and Blotts. A sign in the window proclaimed a buy one get one free sale on clearance books, and beneath the signs, stacks of colorful books stood on display.

Draco made his way to the door of his destination. If there was anywhere in the world where he could find out what had happened in the last three years, it would be in the bookshop. The sense of coming home grew stronger as he paused just inside the shop. The scent of magic mingling with new ink on parchment washed over him and sank into his bones. He took a deep breath and smiled.

The bookshop glowed with muted lamplight, and the sun made a feeble attempt to shine through the front windows. He glanced up at the three levels of books overhead and the enormous glass chandelier that hung level with the second floor. He’d once dared Vincent Crabbe to jump out onto the chandelier, and only the timely appearance of Mrs. Crabbe had kept the bulky boy from attempting the feat.

He wondered what had happened to Vincent, and Greg, and the rest of his classmates. Had they fought for Voldemort and died or been imprisoned? Or had they had the sense he had lacked to stay out of the fighting and leave the country?

A sudden yearning for his old friends had him taking the stairs two at a time up to the History section on the first level. If they had been involved in the war, they would be mentioned in one of the many books that had no doubt been written about the conflict. There had been dozens and dozens of books written about the first war, so he didn’t see why this time would have been any different.

The stacks were closer together on the first floor than he remembered, and the shelves were so crammed that piles of books littered the ground at the end of each aisle. There were books on the Founders’ time, the plagues of Dragon Pox that had almost obliterated the wizarding population, the Goblin Rebellion, the conflict with Grindelwald, and the First War with Voldemort. However, he could not find a single book about the Second War.

Perplexed, Draco walked up and down each aisle, but to no avail. He stood at the end of the last aisle and decided the books must be in a different section, but he had no idea where. Just then, he spotted a woman pushing a cart full of books at the other end of the aisle, her head bent low and her long hair obscuring her face.

“Excuse me,” he called after her. She paid him no attention but continued on her way. Perturbed, Draco ducked into the next aisle and saw her pausing to stuff a handful of books onto the shelves. “Excuse me, miss,” Draco said, louder.

The woman heaved an annoyed sigh and pushed her hair out of the way as she turned to glance at him. “What?” she demanded.

For a short moment, Draco was speechless, but then his mouth began to work again. “Pansy?” he stammered, stunned.

She glanced at him again, her face set in a sullen expression as she continued to place books on the shelf. “Do I know you?” she asked.

“I – no,” he said, something cold and hard settling in his stomach. “I guess you wouldn’t remember me.”

“Apparently not.” Pansy turned her back on him and pushed her cart to another section of shelves.

“I don’t mean to disturb you,” Draco said, keeping up with her. “But, you work here?”

She glared at him in outright condescension. “You think I’m doing this for fun?”

Draco shook his head and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said again. “It’s just surprising to me. In school, you were well-off.”

“A lot changed since school,” she muttered. “Courtesy the Ministry.”

“What?”

Pansy pressed her lips together in a thin line and shook her head. “Never mind. Was there something you needed?”

Draco, still reeling from the surprise of finding someone who had been so dear to him, tried to recall what it was he wanted. Pansy, meanwhile, raised one delicate eyebrow at him and crossed her arms in an impatient gesture.

“Well?” she asked.

Draco remembered his purpose and drew himself up straight, an old habit. “The Second War. I’m looking for a few books on the Second War.”

Pansy’s lips once more drew into a thin, tight line, and her eyes narrowed. “Think you’re being funny, do you? Someone put you up to this? Pop on over to Flourish and Blotts and mock Pansy Parkinson, her dad is rotting in Azkaban for fighting for You-Know-Who?”

Draco wanted to yank her into a more secluded section of the shop and drop his glamour, but Pansy wheeled about on her heel, and abandoning her still half-full cart of books, stormed toward the stairs.

“I will not be mocked!” she shouted over her shoulder as she started down the stairs. “Leave me alone!”

Brow wrinkled in confusion, Draco gaped at her back. A handful of older wizards in traditional robes who had been perusing nearby shelves stared at him, and feeling very exposed, he nodded to them once and started to ease back into the nearest aisle.

“Second War is in Special Interests, second floor,” the oldest wizard, a stooped man with tufts of hair sticking out from under his black cap, told him.

“Thank you,” Draco said, the response automatic.

“And don’t feel bad about the Parkinson bint,” the wizened wizard continued. “Her family lost more than most, and the younger ones like to tease her about it.”

Draco nodded again and slipped into the narrow aisle, wanting to hide. He slumped against the shelves, his heart racing and cold prickles of sweat breaking out over his forehead. For a long moment, his most pressing concern was remembering to breathe.

What had just happened? One moment, Pansy was right there in front of him, with the same familiar eyes and nose and mouth, and all he’d wanted to do was hug her from happiness at seeing her, and the next, she was in a rage over an innocent question and storming away from him.

The cold feeling in his stomach spread to his chest. What had happened to the world while he’d been gone? He had a sudden, horrible suspicion that he didn’t really want to know what had happened to his friends, after all, as whatever had happened to them would be what happened to him if he decided to come back to life.

Dark curiosity propelled him up the stairs to the second floor, which was much more open than the first floor, with tables and plush chairs lining the railing that overlooked the great chandelier. And there, taking up one corner of the entire floor, was the section of books dealing with Voldemort’s second siege on the wizarding world.

There were biographies on Potter, on the Weasley family, even on Hermione. Draco lingered over one thin book written by Rita Skeeter, entitled Granger: Gryffindor Golden Girl, which bore a picture of a pensive Hermione on the front cover. It was harder than he’d imagined it would be to see her face, and he put the book back on the shelf after having a brief debate with himself over the foolhardiness of buying it.

He found two promising books, titled The Final Days of Tom Riddle and Pureblooded: Picking Up the Pieces. Less confident than ever that he wanted to know any of what had happened in his absence, he tucked the books under his arm and headed for a table in the dimmest corner of the shop.

In the first book, he discovered the war had ended just six days after he’d started his new life as Damien King. He clenched the book in his hands with such force that the binding gave a protesting creak. Swearing under his breath, he tossed the book to the side. He would have kept hiding at the manor if he’d known he only needed to last two more weeks. If only he hadn’t put his trust in Hermione to protect him.

It was too late to change that now, though. Still seeing red, Draco pulled the other book toward him and flipped to the index to search out his surname. When he turned to the chapter in which his family was mentioned, he discovered that a woman named Andromeda Black, who was his mother’s disowned sister, now controlled his estate. He lost track of all time as he stared at the page, which blurred as his eyes filled with tears. For some reason, seeing it in print brought home the reality that he had no home, that everything that was his was gone.

Feeling sick to the point of being lightheaded, Draco closed the book and shoved it to the side. Then he rested his forehead in his hands and took several deep, cleansing breaths. When he was confident he wasn’t going to pass out, he ventured into the shelves again, still clinging to the hope that he could come back and reclaim what was his, if only the Ministry would give him a chance.

Between Dumbledore’s Army: The Hogwarts Student Revolution and The Rise and Fall of Darkness, he spotted The Downfall of the Death Eater by T. Davis. Taking a fortifying breath, Draco pulled it from the shelf and stared at the white mask on the cover. It was straight out of his nightmares. He took the book back to his dark corner and sat down.

For the next two hours, he read, growing more horrified with every page he turned. He now understood Pansy’s bitterness, and her comment about the Ministry. The Wizengamot had been without mercy during the persecution of Voldemort’s followers, imprisoning every suspected Death Eater that came before them. Not only that, but then the Ministry seized the estates of each imprisoned wizard, leaving their families a pittance for survival.

Twenty-one of his father’s associates and his own friends were spending the rest of their lives in Azkaban. His aunt had suffered the Dementor’s Kiss and was a rotting shell sitting in a maximum security cell. Theodore Nott and Vincent Crabbe had followed their fathers into prison, and Gregory Goyle had met a foul end during the final battle.

Draco closed the book and stared again at the white mask on the cover. He wrapped his hands around the edge of the table, afraid if he let go, the world would pitch him sideways and upside down. He had been foolish – stupid, even – to even think about coming back. He’d known it before Hermione had Obliviated him, known it through his three-day bender, known it even as he walked into Diagon Alley and felt once more at home in his own skin.

If he came back, he would go to Azkaban. Draco Malfoy was dead, and he had to stay that way.

With his heart thundering, blood roaring in his ears, and spots clouding his vision, Draco staggered to his feet, his chest constricted and tight. The homey, comfortable bookshop grew dim and dark and malevolent. He imagined the Aurors closing in on him from behind each shelf, eager to add another prisoner to Azkaban.

He made his way down the two flights of stairs, gripping the handrail so hard that his knuckles stood out white against his tanned skin. He forced himself not to run; running would arouse suspicion. He saw Pansy behind the counter, ringing up a customer’s order, and he felt his mouth go dry. He had foolishly almost revealed himself to her.

The door to the street seemed miles away, but Draco put one foot in front of the other, his face bearing the mask of careless indifference until he was outside in the weak sunshine. Then, keeping his head down, he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron and out into Muggle London.

He only looked back twice.

He walked for a long while, putting as much distance between him and Diagon Alley as he could. He wound up in his own neighborhood, just down the street from his flat. Keeping his glamour firmly in place – it wouldn’t do to get caught now – he ducked into a pub. He needed a stiff drink.

---

Author's Notes: Another obscenely long wait, and I do apologize. The end of this story is much harder to write than I anticipated. However, I pushed myself through it to get this chapter out today in celebration of Draco's 29th birthday. Happy Birthday, Draco!

If you haven't joined my yahoo! group, please consider doing so. There are a wide variety of outtakes for this story posted there, and I almost always post a cookie a few days before the next chapter goes out.