A Pound of Flesh

Author's Notes: Well, it's official. This story is now an AU. I plan to follow canon details as closely as possible from now on, but some things will be different. I welcome any suggestions you may have for plot; leave them in a review!

Chapter 3: Meeting Damien King

Hermione spent a remarkably pleasant evening in Draco’s dressing room. After agreeing to have coffee with him, she’d offered to leave, and come back at closing, but Draco would have none of it. He insisted that she stay, and proceeded to sit her at one end of the couch, and he sat on the other end, keeping a respectful distance.

In the end, she had an inexplicable amount of fun just talking to Draco. Hermione helped him select costumes for each of his acts, but declined to help oil him up before he took the stage. They pulled his selection of favorite books off the shelves and discussed why he liked them. He couldn’t really explain why he preferred fantasy novels, he just felt an odd connection to them, he said. Hermione avoided broaching any serious issues, deciding she would gain his trust before trying to delve any deeper into his past. Even not meaning to, she accidentally brushed against topics that reduced Draco to a silence that reflected part-frustration, part-confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he excused after the third time this happened. “I can’t remember anything before a little over three years ago.”

Hermione froze, one of his books open and forgotten on her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said automatically. “What happened? Were you in an accident?”

Draco fussed with a stack of the books they’d pulled from the shelves and eventually discarded on the coffee table. “I don’t remember,” he said, his voice strained. “Apparently, one day in June three years ago, I wandered into the club with a woman and asked for a job. The woman said I’d left school, that I had just turned 18, and I needed a job. Then she left, and my first memory is being on stage, auditioning.”

Hermione could barely breathe. She wanted to ask what the woman looked like, and who had seen her, but recognized how odd those questions would sound, given everything else he’d told her. Three years ago, in June, Voldemort had killed Narcissa. Surely, there was a connection.

“So it’s amnesia?” she asked quietly, edging closer to him.

Draco looked at her sideways, tweaking the pile of books again. “I don’t even know how many doctors I’ve seen. None of them can see any physical reason why I would have amnesia, but I do.”

“Why do you think the woman brought you here?” Hermione put her hand on his knee, and felt him trembling.

“I don’t know. This is all I seem to be good at.” He leaned back and looked at her, his eyes dark. “Reading and stripping, those are my skills. I can’t do math, I don’t know anything to do with science; I didn’t even know how to use the tele or the tube when I first came here. I knew how to read, and how to get my kit off. That was it.”

“Nothing else?” Hermione asked, trying to uncover the nature of the memory charm.

“No, it was weird. Just reading and stripping.” Draco absently grabbed a paperback from the pile between them and tossed it onto the coffee table. “I tried other side jobs, but I just wasn’t good at anything. It was like I’d come from a different planet, or something.” He fiddled with the hem of his dressing gown. “Besides, the money is good here and I get beautiful women throwing themselves at me all the time,” he said flatly.

It wasn’t hard to feel sympathy for Draco, Hermione decided. He wasn’t asking for it, and it was clear that he didn’t want it, but suddenly, she was struck with overwhelming sympathy. She couldn’t imagine not remembering who she was, or where she was from, or who might love her and be missing her, or all of the great things she had accomplished with Harry and Ron. Though, perhaps if she were in Draco’s shoes, she’d be glad not to remember his miserable past.

Hermione leaned across the pile of books between them and gave him a soft kiss.

“Is that for pity?” Draco asked gruffly, looking undeniably vulnerable again.

“No,” she answered. “I just find you all the more mysterious and sexy now.”

Draco grinned weakly. A clock on the wall buzzed and Draco looked at it, looking annoyed and relieved, all at once. “I need to get ready for my next act,” he sighed. “At least it’s my last one.” He touched the back of her hand lightly. “What should I wear this time?”

Hermione did a double-take, not really believing that she’d spent the last 7 hours in Draco’s dressing room. The time had flown by, easily and comfortably. She stood quickly, going to the rack of costumes. They’d pretty much exhausted the supply, but she’d saved her favorite costume for last. It was the outfit he’d worn the night she’d seen him for the first time, minus the puffy-sleeved shirt.

This time, before he dressed, Hermione wordlessly took the bottle of oil from him, and gave him a slow, teasing rubdown. Draco watched, a silly grin on his face and an eyebrow cocked, as Hermione knelt to rub his surprisingly lean and muscular legs. After she finished oiling his arms and chest, (and deflected him when he tried to kiss her) she rubbed down his back, slipping her hands down to his ass and massaging his firm butt cheeks.

“Not fair,” Draco growled, reaching for her again.

“You’ll get me all oily!” she protested, dancing out of the way.

“You can’t do that to me and then not let me touch you back!” he retorted.

Hermione held up the costume between them. “You need to get ready,” she reminded him. “The sooner you go on stage and do your act, the sooner we can go get coffee.” His stomach growled. “And maybe some food.”

There was something erotic about watching Draco dress. He would not let her touch him again, so she sat back and looked on as he pulled on the skintight leather pants. He turned his back on her as he pulled them up, and she swallowed heavily, trying once more to not become aroused. Next he donned a slick black button-down in place of the puffy-sleeved shirt and slipped on the slightly ludicrous velvety red waistcoat. Finally, he swirled the cape around and using the Velcro straps, attached it around his neck. It was bittersweet watching him twirl the cape around, looking so like his old self.

But his old self would rather spit on you than look at you, she reminded herself.

“Will you watch from backstage this time?” Draco asked, holding out his hand to her. Hermione nodded, taking his hand, and Draco looked somewhat surprised that she was finally accepting the invitation. Every other time he’d asked her to watch that evening, she’d declined, saying she didn’t want to get in the way or distract him. But with the memory of the smoothness of his skin still tingling on her hands, she knew she couldn’t miss this act.

Hand in hand, they left the pleasant warmth of his dressing room. Before they reached the door that led out into the club, which sounded like it was full of caterwauling women, Draco pulled her through a narrow, curtained entry she had not noticed before. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, a naked man ran off of what she assumed was the stage. She averted her eyes and Draco chuckled. The man, still quite naked, walked over to them, holding a pair of black trousers similar to what Draco wore in his dressing room.

“Watch out for the lot in the front, Damien. The bint with the frizzy blonde hair tried to pull me off the stage.”

Hermione blinked, confused, but kept her eyes averted until the man slipped on his trousers and exited through the curtain behind them. She realized Draco was staring at her, and she looked at him, feeling foolish and slightly defensive, until she saw he was grinning.

“You’re adorable, you know that?” he said, leading her to a spot beside the stage where she could watch from between a pair of Mylar curtains. “Here you are, at a strip club, confronted by a man who was just on stage being ogled by perhaps a hundred or more women, and you won’t look at him.”

“Didn’t seem polite to look, is all,” Hermione muttered. “Damien?” she asked, her curiosity winning out over her embarrassment.

Looking amused, Draco leaned in and said, “You didn’t actually think my name was Xavier, did you?”

“No, I guess I hadn’t thought about it,” she pondered. “So, your name is – Damien?”

A large man in black clothes swept past them, coming offstage with a handful of clothing tucked under his arm. “You’re on, King,” he said gruffly, ignoring Hermione.

“Damien King, pleased to meet you,” Draco said hurriedly, giving her hand a light shake. Then he disappeared into the darkness through the part in the curtains.

Hermione, her head swirling, waited in the darkness as the familiar tribal beat music started to play. The lights at the back of the stage began to glow, and from this angle, she could see Draco’s face. His eyes were closed and lifted skyward, and he seemed to be murmuring something.

The roar of the audience grew louder as the spotlight clicked on, framing Draco in a halo of light. His eyes snapped open and he whirled around, sending a look into the wings at Hermione before he took his running slide at the audience. Her breath caught in his throat as she watched his cape billow behind him like a dark cloud. From her spot in the dark, she could see the woman in the front with frizzy blonde hair reach out and grab a hold of Draco’s cape.

Unflustered, Draco pulled it free and let it fall on her. She tossed it over her shoulder and reached again, but Draco had rocked to his feet and had retreated back a few paces, twisting in time to the music. He glanced into the wings again, and Hermione swallowed, feeling her breath catch in her throat from the smoldering look in his eyes. Not only was Draco good at what he did, he seemed to get a real thrill from it.

He returned to the front of the stage, but kept a distance from the overly enthusiastic woman. With one hand, he undid the fasteners to his waistcoat, and he slid it off one shoulder, and then the other. He tossed it into the wings, and Hermione caught it easily. Before she thought about what she was doing, she brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. She smiled as she caught the aroma of Draco’s body oil.

A fresh round of exciting screaming brought her attention back to the stage, and her legs went weak as she saw Draco, now shirtless, on his back, thrusting his pelvis in the air. Then he rolled over lithely and began to prowl on all fours. From this angle, Hermione could see the muscles in his back working, and her mouth went dry. Draco Malfoy was sexy; there was simply no denying it. He crawled out of her line of sight, and a few moments later, the women in the crowd gave a mighty, unified scream of delight, and when Draco spun back to the middle of the stage, he was down to his thong.

After a rigorous bump and grind that left Hermione nearly panting, Draco spun away from the audience, ripped off his thong, and tossed it into the wings. Again, Hermione caught it with one hand. The warmth radiating off the fabric made her fingers tingle. From where she was standing, in the moment before the spotlight snapped off and left the stage dark, Hermione clearly saw Draco’s raging erection.

The complete darkness was disorienting, but a moment later, Draco’s body collided with hers, pushing her away from the stage and into a corner. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight to him. His lips mashed against hers hungrily, and Hermione responded, trying to stay upright as her legs threatened to give way. In the darkness, he fumbled for her hand, and brought it down between them, pressing his shaft into her palm. Then he slipped his hand up her shirt, cupping her breast.

Hermione wrapped her fingers around him, and pumped her hand up and down. He gasped against her lips, and staggered a bit. “You’re bloody amazing,” he murmured before trailing a line of nearly painful bites down her neck. He rubbed his thumb across her nipple, and Hermione squeezed him in response. He groaned, thrusting his hips against her fist. The sudden sense of power she had over him was overwhelming, and it made Hermione nearly heady.

Sending him a wicked look he wouldn’t be able to see in the darkness, Hermione knelt, eliciting a moan of anticipation from Draco. She lightly blew on the tip of his shaft, and he shuddered, falling against the wall. Before he recovered, she wrapped her fingers around him and began to pump her fist again. She used her other hand to cup his balls lightly. He gasped out a laugh which turned into a moan as Hermione flicked out her tongue and lapped at the end of his cock. He thrust his hips at her face.

“Ah, ah, ah!” she chastised quietly. “You just stay where you are.”

“Evil woman,” he gasped.

Grinning, Hermione pumped her hand up and down the length of him twice more, juggling his balls in her other hand. Then she wrapped her lips around his shaft and took as much of him into mouth as she could.

“Ohh,” Draco breathed, sagging against the wall. Score another one for the Muggle-born, Hermione thought suddenly, gleefully. She drew away and blew a breath of air across his moist shaft, which she could now faintly see in the darkness. It twitched gently and Hermione attacked once more, and Draco groaned in appreciation. She felt him growing harder against her lips, and she swirled him around inside her mouth, drawing him in and then pulling away.

Draco shuddered, panting and groaning quietly, and then he grabbed handfuls of her hair as spasms shook his body. Hermione tasted the hot saltiness as he came, and she swallowed it, sucking on him as he bucked against her. Just when she thought his legs might give way, she released her grip on him and looked up at his face, which she could now see in the darkness.

“Evil?” she asked.

“Lovely,” Draco corrected breathlessly. “Amazing, brilliant, wonderful.”

With another grin, Hermione rose from her knees and handed him the black trousers she’d been holding for him. “Well, come on, then. You owe me coffee.”

“Coffee!” Draco said, sounding shocked. “Woman, I owe you a lot more than coffee.”

Suppressing a giggle, Hermione watched as he hopped into the trousers, still slightly shaky from his release. “Fine, then. Some cake as well.”

Draco shook his head in disbelief and grabbed her hand, pulling her forcefully back to him. He kissed her fiercely, bending her backwards from the pressure. Hermione submitted to the manhandling, and pressed her body against his still mostly naked self. Pulling her upright again, Draco ended the kiss by seductively licking her upper lip with his tongue.

“You’re sexy as hell, you know that?” he asked.

“I know,” she answered carelessly, trying not to blush.

With a laugh, Draco led her away from the stage and back toward his dressing room. They passed another man on his way to the stage, and he eyed Hermione contemptuously.

“You know we aren’t allowed to bring guests to the stage, King,” he said haughtily, adjusting his black bowtie pompously. For one brief, hysterical moment, Hermione was reminded of Percy, but it passed when the man sniffed, “What’s that, four girls this week?”

Draco’s hand tightened around her fingers, and Hermione blinked, confused as to why she should care enough to feel hurt, as she did now. She didn’t, after all, care for Draco. She was simply trying to gather enough information to discover who had placed a memory charm on Draco, and who had hidden him there, and why he was alive when he was supposed to be dead. But as the man smirked knowingly at her and breezed past them, Hermione felt the urge to rip her hand away from Draco, run out into the chaos of the club, and never come back.

“Jane,” Draco said, tugging on her hand. She realized she had stopped moving, and they were standing in the brightly lit hallway, just beyond the curtained opening to backstage. She turned to face him, still blinking. “It isn’t like that,” he said quickly.

“It isn’t?” she repeated dumbly.

“Don’t listen to that wanker. He’s hacked off at me for not being a bloody poofer like he is.”

“Uh huh,” Hermione breathed. She tried to tug her hand free but Draco held on.

“Jane,” Draco said emphatically. “Listen, I’m sorry. You couldn’t think that you’re the first girl I’ve ever brought back here.”

With that Hermione yanked her hand free, wiping it off on her shirt. “No,” she answered honestly. “And I’m probably not the first girl you’ve ever made feel this cheap.”

“Wait, Jane, wait!” he implored as she turned and rushed for the door to the club.

Idiot, fool, moron, she cursed to herself. What were you expecting from a stripper? Her eyes began to blur with tears. She felt Draco’s fingertips brush against her back as she exploded out into the overwhelming noise and motion of the club.

“Jane!” she heard him yell, but she charged on, not looking back, hoping he wouldn’t dare to come out into the club dressed only in silky pajama bottoms. She struggled through the crowd, working her way towards the door.

Hermione shoved her way outside, and gasped a breath of humid, August air. Without stopping, she hurried to the alley beside the club, thoroughly annoyed with the single teardrop that rolled down her left cheek. She ducked into the alley and wrapped her arms around herself, leaning against a stack of discarded packing crates.

“I don’t care,” she told herself. “I don’t care,” she repeated, wanting to mean it. At the same time, she heard the man in the bowtie ask again, What’s that, four girls this week? “I don’t care,” she ground out, clenching her teeth. “I was just here for work, anyway.”

She wiped at her mouth, suddenly feeling dirty all over. She reached into her boot for her wand, thinking how good a boiling hot shower in her bath would feel. But just as she made to pull out her wand, the back door to the club slammed open, further down the alley, and Draco bolted through it, still clad only in his silky black trousers.

“Bugger,” Hermione spat, ducking down behind the packing crates, praying he hadn’t seen her.

In a moment, however, Draco appeared from around the packing crates, looking contrite. He looked absolutely pitiful, standing half-naked in a dirty alley next to a strip club in Soho. The old Draco would have turned his wand on himself before letting it come to this, Hermione thought.

“That was really awful of me, just now,” he said, leaning closer to be heard over the noise of the traffic on the street.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re a stripper. I should have known better,” Hermione said shortly, not looking him in the eye.

Draco recoiled slightly. “You’re different,” he said after a moment of measured silence. “I do bring girls back from time to time, but it hasn’t been four this week. It’s been you, twice.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione brushed him off, still staring out at the busy street.

“It does matter,” Draco insisted vehemently. “Since I met you – ” he paused, and Hermione, in spite of herself, looked at him. He was staring at the ground, a look of intense concentration on his face. After a moment, he looked up and met her eyes. “Since I met you, I feel different… more alive, not like I’m some stupid stripper who can’t do anything else.” He took a step closer, and reached out for her hand, which she let hang limp in his grasp. “All the other girls come in for a fuck and then they leave. But you wanted to talk about my books, and me, and… and… I don’t know. It was like you were interested in me, and not just my johnson.” He rubbed his thumb along her knuckles, and said, pleadingly, “Give me a chance to buy you a cup of coffee.”

Hermione observed him, slightly unnerved. The Draco Malfoy of former days, his snobbery, his coldness… it all seemed to be gone. He was like a blank slate with the faintest imprint of what was written there before. He was uncharacteristically sweet, and vulnerable, and surprisingly appealing. Had he had these characteristics before, and she’d just never seen that side of him, being someone he distained as beneath him?

After a moment, she nodded haltingly, and Draco sighed in relief.

“Will you come back in and wait while I get dressed? I don’t want to leave you out here in the alley,” he implored, pulling lightly on her hand. She let Draco lead her back into the rear of the club, and to his dressing room. He grabbed his clothes off the rack and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Hermione to wander his dressing room pensively.

He popped out of the bathroom less than a minute later, dressed like a regular Muggle. Hermione noted that he looked good in jeans, and the tight white t-shirt he was wearing underneath a light jacket.

Putting on a brave face, Hermione asked, “So where do you go in Soho this time of night for a cup of coffee?”

*****

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione stood in a quaint little shop, with a latte in one hand and a plate of chocolate cake in the other. She looked around, astounded by the walls, which were plastered with posters and artwork. Draco tugged on her elbow lightly and led her back outside, to the tables on the sidewalk in front of the shop.

The street was still extremely busy and loud, even being as late as it was. Draco scooted his chair closer, leaning in and lightly touching the inside of her wrist. Willing herself not to twitch, Hermione took a careful sip from her latte and looked out at the street. Muggles in colorful, tight clothing walked in groups, and gathered in clusters outside other establishments that were still open at this time of night.

“You look a little shell-shocked,” Draco said.

Hermione lowered her latte and shook her head. “I’m not familiar with Soho, so this is a little different for me, but believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Draco looked intrigued. “Is that so?”

“It isn’t as interesting as you might think,” Hermione said quickly, not up to another round of lying.

“Try me. I don’t know anything about you.” He closed his hand over her fingers on the table between them and began to caress her knuckles.

“You know plenty about me,” she answered automatically, suppressing the shiver that ran down her spine at his touch.

Draco laughed. “I don’t even know your last name.”

Hermione took a long sip from her latte, which burned the roof of her mouth. A fierce internal battle raged inside of her as she debated giving him her real surname, or creating one. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to give him her last name.

“Granger,” Hermione told him, wrapping both hands tightly around her paper cup. “Jane Granger.”

Draco looked thoughtful, and slightly puzzled. “I swear I must have met you in another life. I absolutely thought that was what you were going to say.”

“Weird,” she offered, nursing the burns in her mouth. She made a mental note to heal them the first chance she got.

“Jane Granger,” he mused. He looked at her carefully. “Have you always gone by Jane?”

Not at all liking where this was going, Hermione asked as casually as she could, “Why do you ask?”

Draco was silent for a moment, pressing his lips together and staring at her with his eyebrows drawn together. “Alright, but don’t laugh.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Do you remember the other night? How I said I see you in my dreams sometimes?”

Hermione nodded slowly.

“In those dreams, your name is Hermione.”

“Weird,” she said again, feeling gooseflesh break out on her arms. “Maybe you met someone who looks a lot like me, named Hermione.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “I guess that could be it. It isn’t nearly as fun and mysterious, though.” He smiled at her. “How often does a bloke get to say he met the girl from his dreams?”

A long moment of silence passed, and Hermione picked at the piece of cake, staring at the crumbs collecting on the plate. Draco shifted and reached for her hand again.

“I should explain about what happened at the club,” he said quietly.

Immediately tense, Hermione let go of her coffee cup before she smashed it in her fist. “You don’t need to explain. It was really stupid of me to not realize I couldn’t possibly be the first girl you invited to your room. I don’t have any right to be annoyed.”

Draco opened his mouth, but Hermione jumped in before he could speak. “Honestly, it wasn’t my place to be upset, and I overreacted, and I’d really rather just forget it.”

Draco closed his mouth, looking utterly confused. After another long moment of silence, he said, “Listen, remember how I said stripping and reading were the only two things I was good at?”

Hermione nodded, perplexed, but relieved, by the sudden change of topic.

“And I wasn’t any good at Maths or science, or even using the tele?”

She nodded again.

“I also wasn’t any good at social interaction. I was an immense wank, so they tell me,” he added, looking rueful.

“You were – what?” Hermione stuttered, not in the least bit surprised that even with his memory wiped, Draco had been every bit as snotty as he’d been when he knew who he was.

“When I first started here, I sort of had this attitude that I was a badass, and that all the other dancers were beneath me, and this in spite of not knowing who I was or why I couldn’t remember anything.” Draco grimaced and his hand clenched against her fingers for one painful moment. “That didn’t last long.”

“Why not?”

Draco smirked grimly, readjusting his grip on her hand. She wiggled her fingers slightly, suppressing a wince. “The others gave me an attitude adjustment. Beat the bloody pulp out of me, they did. After that, I worked really hard on not being a wank. But it still pops out from time to time, so I’m sorry you had to be witness to it.”

“Oh,” Hermione answered softly, turning her hand over in his, gripping his fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m really presenting myself as a miserable case tonight, aren’t I?” Draco sighed, shaking his head.

With a smile, she said, “All the more mysterious.”

And when Draco leaned in to kiss her, a pleased smile on his face, she met him halfway.