A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 4: Turning Up the Heat

At a quarter past eight in the morning, Hermione pulled her frizzy hair back into a high ponytail, cursing herself for staying out so late. She froze, seeing the purple hickey on her throat. She picked up her wand and quickly spelled it away, glad she had noticed that before going in to work.

She raced back into her bedroom and yanked open her wardrobe, pulling out the first set of lightweight summer robes she came across and throwing on her MLE robes over those.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she chanted, wondering how she planned to function on three hours of sleep.

After they’d finished their coffee, Draco had walked Hermione to the tube and saw her on the train, which was sweet, however misguided. She’d tried to assure him that she was fine walking there herself, fully intending on ducking into the first empty alley and Disapparating, but he would have none of it. At the next stop, she’d hopped off and Apparated home. Exhausted, she took a shower and fell into bed, forgetting to set her alarm.

So when Susan stuck her head through the Floo at a little past eight and started shouting to see if Hermione was home, she’d bolted out of bed, startled. One glance at the clock by her bed showed that she was late to work, and the mad scramble began.

Dressed and as presentable as she could make herself in ten minutes, Hermione practically dove through the Floo, emerging with such velocity at the Ministry that she knocked over a short, rotund witch, who squealed and rolled about helplessly, unable to regain her feet.

She tried to compose herself before she stepped into the MLE, but Susan was there at the lifts, waiting for her.

“You look like hell,” Susan observed, handing Hermione a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, taking a sip of the coffee and ignoring the insult. “I slept in a bit. It happens.”

“Not to you, it doesn’t.” Susan smirked at her. “Out late, were you?”

Choosing not to answer, Hermione made her way to her desk, which had sprouted a new pile of folders overnight.

“Happen to see anyone special?” Susan prodded.

Clearing her throat, Hermione sat down at her desk, smoothing her hair. She reached for the top file, and Susan smiled at her.

“Your silence speaks volumes.”

“What’s our first case?” Hermione answered loudly, opening the thin folder. She groaned in recognition. Mundungus Fletcher again, she saw. “It’s Dung,” she told Susan, opening the folder wide on the desk.

“Dung again?” Susan said, exasperated, peering over Hermione’s shoulder. “What’s he done now?”

Hermione stared at the file, blinking in disbelief. She forced her eyes to read the scribbled, ink-spotted report again. Dung had been detained in The Crusty Dragon, a small wizarding pub in Devon, claiming he’d seen ‘You-Know-Who’ rise from the dead once more. “Unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head in shock. “Bloody unbelievable.” She swallowed heavily, feeling slightly lightheaded.

Susan pulled the file out of her hands and scanned the report, wrinkling her brow. “Old Dung is seeing ghosts again, is he?” Susan’s eyes flickered lower and her jaw tightened. “That’s not funny,” she said hoarsely, before looking up at Hermione. “We can have this case reassigned, don’t worry about it.”

Hermione felt something icy settle in her stomach. She knew beyond a doubt that Voldemort was dead. They’d destroyed every Horcrux, and they’d burned the body to ashes after Harry had slain him. They’d sent Voldemort from this earth, screaming in anger as Harry presented him with the destroyed Horcruxes, and the ground had shaken. Red light had bathed the battlefield like blood…

“Hermione,” Susan said urgently, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Hermione stared mutely at Susan for a moment, and then blinked, shaking her head. “No, I want this case.” She sighed and began to re-read the file.

Susan looked at her for a moment but said nothing. She waited until Hermione finished reading, and then she swooped down, taking the folder over to her desk, where she sat down, chewing anxiously on her bottom lip as she read the details of the arrest.

…But what if? What if Voldemort had made more than six Horcruxes? What if there were more Horcruxes out there and it was only a matter of time until Voldemort rose again? Hermione felt faint. Maybe Susan was right; maybe they should have the case reassigned. It had been three years, but it still felt so close, too close.

Hermione stood abruptly and headed for the lifts. Susan looked up, her face showing alarm. She took one look at Hermione’s face and snapped the folder shut quickly. “I’m coming with you,” she said in a voice that left no room for disagreement.

“That’s fine,” Hermione said. “Just hurry up.” And she turned and strode for the lifts at the far end of the room. If she didn’t see Mundungus Fletcher right at that moment, she thought her skin might fly off.

Dung was tucked in a far corner of the Ministry dungeons, in the area informally known as Ranter’s Row, because they put the madmen there behind the silencing spells, just to keep them quiet. It was also, apparently, one of the few places at the Ministry where it wasn’t unpleasantly warm.

Dung was asleep when Hermione stopped in front of his cell. He was wrapped in a bundle of rags that resembled the doxy-infested curtains from Grimmauld Place, and was snoring loudly and contentedly.

Hermione wrinkled her nose; an unpleasant odor surrounded him, something familiar but something she couldn’t quite place. Susan skidded to a halt by her side, panting slightly. “Thanks for waiting,” she gasped sarcastically.

Without looking away from Dung, Hermione replied, “You’re part of the MLE. You ought to be in better shape.”

Susan snorted, and instantly, Hermione felt better. It was Dung after all, the same Dung who had impersonated an Inferius trying to burgle someone. The same Dung who had darkened their doorstep every other month since his release from Azkaban three years ago, with some ridiculous claim of seeing this dead person or that walking down the street, plain as day, thank you very much. The same Dung who claimed that the questionable goods he was trying to peddle on the streets of Diagon Alley were artifacts from Voldemort’s castle, though Hermione knew quite well that Voldemort had never lived in anything that remotely resembled a castle, and more to the point, the place had been torched following Harry’s triumph.

Feeling her panic die down, Hermione rattled the metal bars, and Dung’s head shot up.

“Ah, Dung, what did you do now?” she asked in exasperation.

At once, Dung was awake. He rolled off the bed, the stench from his robes growing stronger as he moved. “I seen ‘im!” he gasped. “‘e was horrible! Flashy red eyes, nasty laugh. Made my skin crawl, ‘e did!”

“Calm down, Dung,” Susan said. “Why don’t you tell us what happened, from the top?”

After a rather hysterical interview with Dung, Hermione couldn’t help but cast a thorough Scourgify on his robes, which reduced the odor a bit. It turned out he was wearing the doxy-eaten curtains, sewed roughly into a cloak, and at last Hermione placed the scent. He smelled like the little home Kreacher had made for himself in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. They gave him a plate of food and left him to sleep, and then dutifully headed to where he’d supposedly witnessed Voldemort’s resurrection.

She and Susan approached the hot field cautiously, and in spite of herself, Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her sweaty neck stand. A great deal of activity had apparently happened here; the tall grass was trampled down, brittle in the sweltering summer sun.

“Can’t they ever do things inside, preferably in places with central air?” Susan groused, looking sweaty and hot.

“We can get the dementors to come back and breed for a while, if it’s too hot for you,” Hermione shot back grumpily, feeling her lightweight robes grow moist as they clung to her skin. Susan sent her a look. “Sorry,” she said, shrugging.

They directed their wands down, searching for traces of magic amid the baked knee-high grass. At once, the air began to glimmer with traces of spell-fire.

“There’s magical residue all over this field,” Susan said lowly, her wand ready. Hermione nodded and followed her partner into the trampled grass. The wind picked up, blowing a stray curl into Hermione’s eye, and she pushed it out of the way. She was reminded of another time, in seemingly another life, when by moonlight she’d crossed a field just like this, with Ron and Harry, after uttering that exact phrase to them. And here she was again, doing the exact same thing.

Sometimes, Hermione wished she’d accepted the job as a Curse Breaker when Bill had offered it.

A piece of paper, caught in the wind, fluttered against her leg and stuck to the sweat there, and Hermione bent down to read it.

You may have missed it the first time, but here’s your chance
to be a part of a historical moment! Play as our savior, Harry Potter;
everyone’s favorite best friend, Ron Weasley; the brilliant and beautiful
Hermione Granger; or as Harry’s leading lady, Ginny Weasley. Or
pretend to be the wickedest villain of all times, You-Know-Who, or one
of his followers, as we replay every month during the new moon, the final
momentous battle between two of the most powerful wizards of our time!

Caught between hysterical amusement and disbelief, Hermione closed her eyes for a long moment, finally settling on disbelief. Without a word, she handed the slip of paper to Susan, and stepped forward to check for magical residue.

Susan barked out one shocked laugh, and then she called across the barren field to Hermione, “Can you believe there are people insane enough to – ”

“Yes,” Hermione answered shortly, finding only traces of harmless Stinging Hexes and Stunners present. Over the years, many witches and wizards who had shaken her hand had expressed a profound disappointment that they couldn’t be there on the battlefield when they finally took Voldemort down. Hermione was quite sure if they’d actually been on the field that day and listened to the screaming and the laughter, that they’d feel very differently.

And now people were recreating the battle, just for a chance to be there.

“I guess, for once, Dung thought he was telling the truth,” Susan mused, handing the flier back to Hermione, who tucked it into her pocket.

Still disgusted, Hermione turned with her partner and headed back to the office, out of the hot summer sun.

*****

A few evenings later, as she stood in the relative coolness of Madam Malkin’s with Ginny and Luna, having the final alterations done to her bridesmaid gown, she handed Ginny the slip of paper she’d taken from the field.

Ginny read it quietly, first her face going pale, and then flushing red. “Are you kidding me?” she asked, looking up at Hermione.

“I wish I was,” Hermione answered, tugging with unnecessary force at the low-cut neckline of the dress.

“This is sick,” Ginny spat, her eyes scanning the flier again. “Does Harry know about this?”

“I haven’t told him.”

Luna, emerging from the folds of her dress, looked over with a look of vague interest on her face. Ginny handed her the piece of crinkled parchment. Luna looked completely unsurprised, which could mean anything, as far as Hermione was concerned.

“My father is writing a story about this group,” she said mildly, handing Hermione the advertisement.

“You knew about this?” Ginny asked incredulously. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why? It upsets you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but…” Ginny trailed off, looking bewildered.

“My father says the Americans do something like this too, reenacting their civic war, or something like that.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ginny dubiously, chalking it up to another one of The Quibbler’s odd ideas.

Madam Malkin appeared just then, tape measure at the ready, and Hermione clamped down her urge to talk any more about it.

The seamstress had finished on Ginny’s final adjustments and had moved on to Hermione, when Ginny asked innocently, “So, Hermione, been doing any research lately?”

Turning so quickly that Madam Malkin squawked in surprise, Hermione gaped at her friend. “Ginny!” she hissed, shocked.

“Should I take your blush as a yes?” Ginny asked dryly.

“What are you researching, Hermione?” Luna asked, peering at Hermione with her eyes wide with interest.

“Susan said you were late to work the other day,” Ginny continued, sliding her gaze to the side to give Hermione a knowing look.

“I overslept!”

“You never oversleep,” Luna pointed out, matter-of-factly.

“Well I did!” Hermione huffed, submitting as Madam Malkin forced her to resume her previous pose, standing up straight with her back to her friends. She felt her cheeks burning traitorously and saw Ginny smirk at her in the mirror’s reflection.

Later, after they parted ways with Luna, who enthusiastically offered to help Hermione in whatever secret project she was researching – an offer that had made Hermione nearly choke from the effort not to laugh – Ginny took hold of her arm, a serious look on her face.

“You know what you’re getting into, don’t you?” Ginny asked quietly.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione said lightly, forcing herself not to remember just then that she’d actually had a very nice conversation with Draco, long after they’d finished their coffee.

“I know,” Ginny answered, looking for all the world like she didn’t believe it for an instant. “Just – be careful.”

*****

Saturday morning, Hermione sat in front of the television in her pajamas, watching the news program and eating a bowl of cereal. Crookshanks lay next to her, his chin resting on her knee, and she scratched his head gently, grateful for his company.

The weather man popped onto the screen, and Hermione smiled as he delivered the weather for the day, looking pleased to announce another day of record-breaking heat. It had been the hottest August in recent memory. Whereas a few years ago, the confused Muggles had lamented the dementor-induced chill, now they were bemoaning the sudden spike in temperatures.

Feeling pleased herself, Hermione stretched her sock clad feet out in front of her, thoroughly enjoying the air conditioning of her flat. Continuous Cooling Charms were just too taxing, but air conditioning was a hassle-free luxury, and one of the few she allowed herself.

Thus, when the Floo roared to life, Hermione squawked in dismay and alarm. Her cereal bowl wobbled dangerously on her lap and she set it on the occasional table in front of the sofa. Ginny’s head appeared in the flames, and she blinked, looking sweaty and uncomfortable.

“Hermione?” she asked irritably.

“I’m here,” Hermione sighed, getting down on her knees in front of the roaring fire.

“Oh, thank Merlin. Listen, can you come watch Victoire?”

“Where, at the cottage?” Hermione asked hopefully. Fleur was a master of Cooling Charms, and their cottage by the sea was always quite comfortable.

“No, here at the Burrow. George was supposed to watch her – ”

Hermione scoffed at that image, and Ginny smiled ruefully.

“Yes, well, one of his experiments made his bones go rubbery, so he’s at St. Mungo’s trying to get his bones solidified, and Bill and Fleur are in Egypt, and Mum and I are supposed to be having brunch with the man who will be marrying Harry and I, and Harry and Ron are at Quidditch practice…”

“Ginny,” Hermione cut in, “it’s fine.”

So, fifteen minutes later, Hermione stepped through the Floo at the Burrow, finding it, as usual, in chaos. In spite of her breakup with Ron, the Burrow still felt very much like home to her, and she called a greeting to Mrs. Weasley, who stopped what she was doing to give Hermione a bone-crushing hug.

“Have you lost weight?” she asked, feeling Hermione’s arms. “You’re too thin!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione laughed, spotting Victoire sitting in her high chair, her wide blue eyes observing the mad rush going on around her. She swooped down on the toddler, swinging her above her head. Victoire’s small face split with a wide smile and she laughed delightedly, her hands reaching for Hermione’s hair.

“Thank you so much, Hermione,” Ginny said, appearing out of nowhere, looking flustered. “She’s already had her breakfast and her bath, so she’ll just need her lunch, and then Mum and I should be back…”

Hermione put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Ginny, it’s fine. I have watched Victoire in the past, you know.”

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just been really crazy here this morning.” Ginny brushed her sweaty hair off her forehead. “And it’s so hot.”

Hermione agreed, feeling a sweat breaking out where she held Victoire against her. Ginny and Mrs. Weasley thanked her again and then hurried through the Floo, and suddenly the Burrow was as quiet as she’d ever heard it. She took a deep breath and looked at Victoire, who rubbed her eyes sleepily.

“Minnie,” Victoire mumbled.

“Minnie,” Hermione agreed, brushing some of Victoire’s fine strawberry blonde hair off her sweaty forehead. “You look sleepy, little Vicki,” she said, readjusting the toddler on her hip and heading for the bedroom on the first floor.

Once Victoire was settled in her crib, Hermione shut the windows and the door and cast the strongest Cooling Charm she could muster. Immediately, a cool breeze filled the room, ruffling her damp hair, and she sighed in relief. Victoire gurgled happily, and Hermione peered into her crib.

“Better, little one?” she asked. Victoire yawned, kicking her legs happily, and Hermione smiled faintly.

After Victoire drifted off to sleep, Hermione sat down in the chair by the window and looked out at the back garden. She watched the garden gnomes as they tussled over some of Mrs. Weasley’s carrots, observed the chickens as they scratched at the dirt, and thought about the invitingly cool pond back in the woods.

She slumped in the chair, and forced herself to think of something else. There was nothing in that cool pond but memories, and she didn’t want to remember them at this moment. She looked around at the room, which had been redone as a nursery, and tried to entertain herself. Above the crib, a mobile spun quietly, and the walls were lined with shelves of books and toys and moving pictures.

Hermione decided she should have brought a book. She stood and peered at Victoire, who had fallen asleep, and made up her mind to go downstairs and grab a book from the sitting room. She slipped out of the room quietly, feeling a sweat break out on her upper lip from the heat in the hallway.

She paused at the landing, her hand on the railing, and turned her face to the stairs leading up. Just up two flights of stairs was Ron’s room, with Ron’s things. After he’d left, he’d moved in with Harry, but as Ginny was about to move in permanently, he’d moved out and hadn’t found his own place yet, so he’d returned to the Burrow.

Hermione never thought she’d miss all of Ron’s Quidditch posters, or his chess set, or even his dirty clothes strewn across the floor, but in the months since he’d taken it all and gone, she realized she’d give just about anything to see one of those flaming orange Chudley Cannons posters on her walls again.

She turned and started up the stairs, figuring she would just open the door and look inside for a moment, but the oppressive heat in the stairwell drove her back down. Defeated, she went down to the sitting room and picked up one of Mrs. Weasley’s romance novels, and returned to Victoire’s cooled room. She settled into a chair and began to read.

She’d made it halfway through the thin book when Victoire stirred again, and Hermione glanced at her watch, realizing it was time for lunch. She carried the toddler down the stairs, and was about to step into the kitchen when she heard the noise of someone moving around. Her heart sank into her stomach and she paused, knowing it could only be one person.

Sure enough, when she reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner, she saw Ron’s tall, gangly frame, still in his Quidditch uniform, his back to her as he fixed himself a sandwich. Victoire squirmed in her arms and called, “Wan!”

“Hey, Vicki!” Ron said, and then he turned, his smile freezing on his face. “Hermione.”

“Ron,” she returned, hesitating for a moment before walking across the room toward him and putting Victoire in her seat. Ron turned back to his sandwich, and after taking a deep breath, Hermione fetched a bottle for Victoire. She sat down at the table, trying to ignore the silence that was stretching on between her and Ron. She nearly jumped out of her skin when he opened the dish cabinet and rattled among the plates and glasses.

When he turned, she was surprised to see two plates, and he put one in front of her before sitting down across from her.

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely shocked by the kindness.

“’snot a problem,” he mumbled, looking down at his plate for a moment before taking a large bite of his sandwich.

The silence stretched again, broken only by Victoire’s slurping noises as she took her bottle, and Ron, as he chewed. It was ridiculous, really. She and Ron had been great friends for many years, and now suddenly, they were out of things to say to each other.

“So, er… how was practice?” Hermione asked, startling herself. Ron froze for a moment, mid-chew, then swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“It was good,” he answered. “Cannons might actually win this year.”

“Oh, well, that’s good,” Hermione replied lamely. She didn’t think that was likely, even with Harry Potter on the team. They hadn’t finished last during the previous two seasons, and that was an accomplishment all in its own right, but they had a long way to go.

“So, I hear you’re seeing someone, a Muggle,” he said flatly.

Hermione looked down at her plate and closed her eyes, really not wanting to have that conversation at the moment.

“Where’d you hear that?” she forced herself to ask.

“Heard Ginny telling Luna.” Ron took a long drink from his bottle of butterbeer. “So, you really are seeing someone?” he asked incredulously, looking up at her, his eyes piercing.

Something about the accusatory way he said that caused a bubble of anger to rise in her chest. “What’s it to you if I am?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he muttered, finishing his sandwich in two bites. He stood and put his dishes in the sink, and grabbed his drink on his way to the stairs. “Not like I care anyway,” he said as a parting shot before he hurtled up the stairs.

“No, I don’t reckon you do,” Hermione said softly, watching him go.

When Ginny and Mrs. Weasley got back from their meeting, Hermione mentioned as casually as she could that Ron was back from practice and was upstairs. Ginny shot her an apologetic look, but Hermione brushed it aside. She kissed Victoire on the cheek, said her farewells, and went home to cry into her pillow.

***

That evening, Hermione paced around in her flat, half-dressed and halfway convinced that meeting Draco for drinks was a thoroughly bad idea. She’d cleared her Saturday night, though, and she didn’t fancy sitting home alone in her empty flat, eating ice cream and watching movies with Crookshanks.

Not anymore, anyway.

She glanced at the clock and saw it was nearing the time when she was supposed to be meeting him, and she wasn’t quite sure where she was supposed to be going, to begin with. Growling to herself, she reached into her closet and pulled out a skirt, barely looking at it before slipping it on. It was an article of clothing she never wore; Ginny had picked it out for her some time ago and told her she needed one good pub crawling outfit, even if she never went pub crawling in her life.

She slipped on her boots, pushed her hair off her face, and was halfway to the door before she stopped in the middle of the main room.

“What am I doing?” she asked herself, turning to go back to her bedroom and get out of the uncharacteristically tight clothing. But she’d no more than started to pull off the skirt when her eyes wandered to Ron’s side of the bed, and she thought about his parting words earlier that day.

Not like I care, anyway.

She pulled the skirt back on and headed for the door.

Draco had arranged for them to meet at a pub close to the club, and he was coming straight from work. Hermione was early, in spite of her last minute doubts, and found herself a seat in the crowded bar. It was very loud, quite warm, and claustrophobic, but years of meals in the Burrow’s kitchen had prepared her for situations like this, and at least she didn’t have to worry about George slipping some random concoction into her pumpkin juice.

She was well into her second drink when she felt a hand on her back. “I must be asleep; it’s the woman of my dreams,” a voice said in her ear.

“That may be the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard,” she replied with a smile as she turned to find Draco next to her.

“It was rather pitiful, wasn’t it,” he reflected, looking thoughtful. Then he brightened. “But it made you smile, so I guess it wasn’t all bad.” He took a moment to look her up and down, and his brows rose in appreciation. “You look stunning,” he told her, leaning in to give her a lingering kiss that made her feel slightly heady. As he pulled away, he took a moment to look into her eyes as though he were searching for something in them, and then he smiled and looked down the bar for the barman.

Unable to stop herself, Hermione leaned closer, inhaling his scent. He smelled of shampoo and body oil. The aroma settled into her muscles and she felt herself relaxing for the first time since lunch. She examined his profile, eyes roving over his clean-shaven jaw, and his hair, which looked just ruffled enough that she couldn’t tell if he’d spent a great deal of time making it look just so, or if it was a happy coincidence. He was wearing a black button-up, the collar undone and the sleeves rolled up.

Draco turned to say something, and caught her in her scrutiny. He smiled at her and asked, “So, what do you think?”

Flushing slightly, Hermione leaned closer and said, “You look amazing in black.” He always had, actually, she admitted to herself, even when he was a stuck-up prat relying on his father’s name and money.

“Well, thank you, Jane,” he said, and his face grew slightly pink. “But I meant, what do you think of the pub?”

“Oh,” Hermione said, feeling silly. “It’s quite loud.”

“They have a tendency to be that way,” he replied, paying for his drink and turning to face her fully. He looked down at her legs, and she crossed them the other way, showing him more thigh, and he looked up at her coyly, his lips curved up slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so sexy. Will you dance with me?”

“Dance?” Hermione said, surprised. She stalled desperately. “Aren’t you a bit tired of dancing for the night?”

“Not when it means I get to dance with you,” he answered, tugging her toward the dance floor.

“But, I – I don’t dance,” she protested weakly.

Draco didn’t appear to hear her as they approached the noisy dance floor, and she followed helplessly. He led her into the middle of the crowd, and paused a moment, listening to the music. Then he smiled and pulled Hermione against him, and began to move in time to the fast music. Stiffly, Hermione followed his lead, and he suppressed a smile.

“Relax,” he told her, and he leaned in to kiss her. She tasted his drink on his lips, and smelled his aftershave, and felt desire beginning to build down low in her abdomen. “That’s better,” he murmured against her lips. “You ready?”

Hermione finished her drink and handed it to the passing barmaid. “Ready,” she said bravely.

Draco put his hands on her hips and pulled her close. “Just do what I do,” he said. She put her hands on his hips, momentarily breathless as he shook them side to side in time to the beat. She looked down at his feet and began to mimic his movements.

“That’s right. Now move your hips like this,” he instructed, putting pressure on her hips and pulling her closer. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes and remembered the Yule Ball so many years before, and willed her body to move. The song sounded familiar; the horns and piano had a distinctively Latin flare, and she knew she’d heard it somewhere, but she couldn’t place it. It was catchy, and she felt her body grow loose as Draco guided her movements.

She opened her eyes when he stepped back from her, and saw him intently watching her hips shake.

“What do you mean you don’t dance?” he asked incredulously. “Look at you!”

Bolstered by his admiration, Hermione threw her arms up over her head and gave herself over to the music. She moved in time to the drums, and watched the other women around her as they danced. She studied them for a moment and then began to copy their movements, eliciting a surprised laugh from Draco, who stepped back to watch her. He didn’t stay away long though, and gathered her into his arms again, situating one leg between hers as they moved in time to the music. She let him lead as he gyrated against her, and she leaned back in his arms, shaking her shoulders and her chest.

“Holy – ” Draco breathed, pulling her up to kiss her forcefully. She laughed against his lips, caught up in the music. “You were just playing with me before, weren’t you, about not dancing.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she denied breathlessly.

“Let’s see what you do with this,” he challenged, dipping her low in his arms and grinding his hips against hers. Then he jerked her upright and spun her around so that her back was to him. He put his hands on her hips again and danced against her. Hermione laughed and continued to move to the music. Draco’s hands began to wander up and down her sides, over her stomach, following her arms up into the air, and she felt his hot breath on her neck.

When the song ended, they paused on the dance floor, unable to move. Then the next song started and the spell broke, and laughing, Hermione turned to face Draco, who was looking at her in amazed admiration. “That was incredibly sexy,” he told her above the music.

“That was a great song!” she exclaimed, wiping perspiration from her brow. “What was it?”

Draco looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Are you mad? That’s ‘She Bangs’ by Ricky Martin. Where do you live, under a rock?”

“Yeah. Big one, lots of bugs there,” she answered, trying to cover her slip.

“I can’t believe you’ve never heard that song.”

“I’ve heard it, I just didn’t know what it was called,” she answered weakly, but he seemed to accept that, and they started to dance again.

Dancing with Draco, Hermione decided, was definitely better than sitting at home eating ice cream and watching movies with Crookshanks.

---

Author's Notes: You have no idea what I put myself through in order to write this chapter. I can't even tell you how many times I listened to 'She Bangs' to get the right feel of the song. Also, I apologize for the slightly Mary Sue-ish moment at the end of the chapter, but I admit, inspiration is starting to run low. I've got the end already written, it's just the middle part giving me trouble.