Hermione spent most of the next few days in her room, her stomach having violently rejected the rich food that she'd eaten too much of too soon. She had headaches and nausea and the healer told her she should go back to chicken soup and tea, but make sure to take her supplement potions every morning.
"Sometimes, when you finally have a moment to relax, your body gives out after being strong for so long. I suspect you'll be back to your old self in no time." Moonstone said, her tone light and friendly. "I heard you had your first...client. Did everything go ok?"
"I suppose," Hermione said, lying back on her pillow. She'd quickly grown to like the healer: her motherly quality, her speech rhythms and her gentle touch. It was a rare find in such a sharp world. "He gave me a lust potion."
Moonstone came closer, standing beside the bed, speaking softly.
"Does Mr. Malfoy know that?" She asked, her face twisted with concern. "Did you have any side effects?"
"Just a hangover. Yes, he knows. He was...angry with me. More worried I guess."
"I suspect your client will probably get a stern warning, he may be blocked from coming back entirely. Mr. Malfoy doesn't take his position as caretaker lightly. He runs a tight ship."
Although she was beginning to believe that this wasn't your ordinary wizard brothel, Hermione still snorted, rolling her eyes, a bit unnerved by everyone casting Malfoy as some sort of benevolent knight in shining armor. Moonstone caught it and gave her a disapproving look.
"I've been with him here since the beginning. Since the day he brought in his first two girls. They were bruised and beaten, malnourished like you...they'd had their money stolen, one of them had her magic stolen, wand broken and was enslaved..."
"And what happened? Are they still here?" Hermione asked, her place at the Shattered Dragon becoming more confusing rather than getting clearer.
"One of them received an offer from a client to leave with him. He bought out her contract and she quit. The other was here for years...until she got sick." Moonstone paused, her brow deeply furrowed. "We lost her. It weighed heavily on him." She finished packing her potions and books and made a few quick notes on a parchment. "You've taken her place so the constellation can be complete again."
"But why me? He hates me. Always has."
"I guess you'll have to ask him, love. But I know that he doesn't reveal much, not until he's good and ready to do so."
Theo came back a week later, approaching Draco in the bar immediately upon his arrival.
"You've got some heavy stones coming back here so soon, Nott," Draco said, draining his drink and signaling for another. "You know I'm not opposed to magical enhancements, but that you snuck her a lust potion? Fed it to her without her knowing? I should terminate your fucking membership."
"C'mon mate, it was her first night! Besides, it's Granger! I thought she was going to claw my eyes out. I'm pleased to report that wasn't the case however..."
"Don't do it again," Draco growled, looking him dead in the eye. "Nothing unexpected, nothing she doesn't know about. You know the rules."
Theo rolled his eyes and waved him off, nodding in assent before leaning in to Draco's ear.
"She's delicious. I want her again. Tonight."
"She's not available," Draco said, the lie falling easily from his lips. "As you can imagine she's in high demand. You're not the only one interested in sticking it to the class swot. Even if she were free what makes you think I would do you any favors? I wouldn't trust you with a Knockturn slag at this point."
"Oi! Take it easy, friend. Next week then."
Draco shook his head.
"Then when is she available?" Theo asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on the club owner.
Draco stood up and pushed away from the bar, taking his glass of whiskey.
"I'll let you know, friend. Until then, pick someone else."
Hermione stood in the nightly line up while four of the other girls were given their assignments. Draco was wavering on his feet, already half drunk, his eyes bloodshot, hair a mess. The girls looked at each other from the corners of their eyes, not used to seeing their boss so...undone. There was no pep talk, no cheeky speech, no jokes...just names and room numbers accompanied by times.
"The rest of you are free to go, enjoy your evening," he said, his eyes locked on Hermione with every word.
He found her in the garden sitting on one of the stone benches, looking up at the black sky scattered with stars.
"Moonstone says you're feeling better, able to eat," he said, standing in front of her, hands deep in his pockets.
There was a shock of his platinum hair hanging in front of his eye, his bow tie hanging undone around his unbuttoned collar. For the first time she could see a hint of the brand on his chest that mimicked her own.
"Yes, thanks. I just needed to get used to living so well I guess," Hermione said, only adding a dash of sarcasm. In fact she couldn't remember when she'd last lived so comfortably, which would be wonderful were she allowed to leave at will.
He sat down next to her then and joined her in looking up into the darkness. When he closed his eyes, even to blink the images of her writhing under Theo came unbidden, the slack jaw, damp hair, her arms stretched over her head.
"I have a secret," he said. "I loved Divination class. I know we all thought it was a load of shit when we were there and we all made fun of Trelawney and her dramatics...but I loved the stories, the mythology, the symbols. I love astrology and palmistry and tea leaves and all of that." He took her hand and held her arm out, tracing his fingertips over the marks on her skin. "Do you know the story of the Pleiades?"
"They're seven sisters," she said. "Their father threw them into the sky, turning them to stars."
"To protect them. The eighth star, Atlas," he said, drawing his finger over the darkest, largest star on her arm. "He is their father, their guardian, watching over them to keep them safe from evil men."
The story was over but his fingers still played over her skin, tracing the blue lines of her veins up to the inside of her elbow and back down to her wrist. She was mesmerized by his gentle touch, how unafraid he was to be close to her, to be kind to her, not at all the bully and bigot she remembered from school.
"Atlas also carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, doesn't he?" She added.
He smiled and pulled away from her standing up to leave.
"You were right when you said that it isn't my fault that your side lost the war. But I certainly did my part to get the ball rolling, didn't I? And for a long time I fought on the front lines of darkness, standing up for what my father told me was right. Now I live with that guilt every day, every minute. I don't ever escape it unless I'm drunk or high or unconscious. The only thing that assuages it is taking care of these girls, keeping them safe. It's like a drop of water in the ocean but I consider the Dragon my reparations in some twisted way."
"And so why would you want to save me?" She asked, wondering if now she'd finally get an answer she could understand. "You came to the jail that day to laugh in my face, to force me into a corner and watch me squirm."
"Actually, you're right. I did come down to the jail to gloat," he said, shrugging. "I came to celebrate that I knew someone as broken as me. Schadenfreude. Instead I found that even though you were imprisoned and starving you were still standing your ground, still fighting. Dammit Hermione. Nothing breaks you!" He paused then, as if biting back anger, stopping himself from yelling, lashing out. "Maybe I wanted to see if you could be broken." He spoke quietly, his fingertips digging into the bridge of his nose.
She still couldn't be sure of his reasoning...she could never be sure of when he was sincere or just playing a game. In her time at the brothel she'd seen his different sides; sly, sarcastic Draco, gregarious, confident Draco and this one: small, exhausted, wilted Draco.
"Or maybe you wanted to see if you could be fixed by flinging another star into the sky," she said, standing up, moving close to him. "If you'd like a piece of advice, one thing I didn't do...Mr. Malfoy...was try to cover up my fear and sadness and guilt with pixiehair weed and firewhiskey. You'll never pull free of its clutches if you can't even see straight to move on."
He was staring at her, his face blank, neither angry nor grateful for her words, just...absorbing, existing.
"Too right you are. But sometimes, sparrow, I just need the silence."
His shoes crunched over the gravel as he walked away, leaving Hermione behind in the dark, once again staring up at the stars.
Three weeks went by without a visitor for Hermione and she began to wonder if Draco was rethinking his investment. She didn't mind not "working" but if it wasn't worth his while he'd already said he would send her back to the prison without a second thought. Winter had set in and even if he didn't send her back to the jail, she'd be on the streets. He knew that. He knew she was his prisoner, bound by his generosity. But the other girls had visitors at least twice a week, and on the weekends everyone was occupied but her, making her evenings long, quiet and quite lonely leaving her with nothing to do but think.
Until Draco found her.
And he managed to find her every night, passing her in the hallway, stumbling upon her in the garden, walking past the reading room or out by the piano. Most times he would say nothing, just sit down beside her with a cigarette or a drink, staring out into space, or he would pick up a book and start reading, maybe flip through the Prophet. Other times he would ask her if she remembered things from school; the blast ended skrewts, the time Crabbe tripped on his robes and fell down the stairs in front of everyone, the Krup that got loose on the fourth floor when a second year tried to sneak it into the Hufflepuff dormitories or the Black Forest cake they used to make on Saturdays. Of course she remembered all of those things. The early years at Hogwarts were the best years of her life...finally discovering who she was, what she could do...exercising her mind, learning new things, making new friends. How ironic that the man wanting to revisit all of these childhood stories was the one who did everything he could to make her life miserable, ruining what should have been paradise. Still, she knew better than to start a fight with him about it. And he knew better than to ask about anything after fourth year. He rarely mentioned Harry or the war and when he spoke of Dumbledore it was quick, rushing through to get to something else.
She knew what he was doing. She'd done the same thing with Hannah, huddling in their crumbling flat, scrounging together money for rent, wondering where their next meal would come from. They survived on nostalgia, the warmth of memory, a better time, an easier time. They thrived on a sense of normalcy, talking of school and friends...reciting incantations for spells and recipes for potions, trips to Hogsmeade. For a few moments they would laugh and sigh and talk about things of no importance. It was like jumping in a cool river, scrubbing off the filth. So she let Draco talk, answering his leading questions, even telling him stories of life in Gryffindor tower when he fell silent. Eventually he would cut her off or simply stop responding and tell her to go to bed...something triggering a need to get away from her, a need to be alone. Still she would walk with him to the doors of his suite, making sure he went inside before doing as she was told. It became their routine.
It was after one thirty on a night in December when he knocked on her door. Of all the places he'd managed to "stumble upon" her, he'd never actually come to her room.
"Are you awake?"
Hermione set aside her book, got out of bed and shuffled to the door. There stood Draco barefoot, wearing a pair of white cotton pajama pants slung low, too low, on his hips. His chest was bare and she couldn't help but notice the thin trail of golden hair beneath his navel as he braced himself against the doorframe with one arm, his eyes bloodshot and barely open, his stare locked on hers as if he were entranced.
"Are you high?" she asked, having seen the effects of marijuana all too often amongst the impoverished wizards who discovered it soon after the end of the war, looking for something, anything that would let them escape...if only for a few hours.
"Come with me sparrow. We haven't talked for a while. My brain is hungry for stories...or history...memories. It's empty. I need to walk." He trailed off, losing his eloquent train of thought, and turned to walk down the hall.
She followed, if only to make sure he got to bed safely, a mission she'd assigned to herself over the last month. Thinking they were going to his suite, she was surprised to see him take the stairs to the first floor, heading for the club rooms. All of the guests were gone or otherwise occupied, but she still felt uneasy. He'd told her explicitly not to go there.
"Draco...what are.."
He went behind the bar, started uncorking bottles and putting out glasses. It was a cozy room with low ceilings and dark paneling, polished wood chairs with emerald green velvet upholstery, silver candelabras dripping with white wax in the center of each table. It smelled like smoke and cedar and a mix of rich colognes.
"I don't think you need another cocktail Mr. M," she said, gently, watching him mix two golden colored drinks, topping them with a twist of lemon, ignoring her completely.
"Our signature drink – The Shattered Dragon," he said pushing a glass toward her.
"It's so late, Draco...I don't..."
"Drink it," he snapped, his eyes flashing, a bit harder, more focused. "You follow my directions now, Granger. You belong to me."
She hesitated a minute longer and then sipped at the drink – spicy, bright, heavy with firewhiskey and ginger. While he drank his own, her eyes fell to the tattoos on his chest and shoulders, all black, all obviously symbolic in their stark simplicity. There was the Pleiades Brand over his heart and on the other side of his chest were three runes in the shape of a pyramid. She recognized one as meaning forgive but memorized the lines of the others to look up later. A long, serpentine dragon crawled up his left arm in a spiral, sliced into segments, dotted with stars, its face contorted in agony. Finally, on the inside of his right wrist, a line of six black stars.
"Not quite as powerful as his, " he said, lifting his left arm to show off the scarred, darkened skin where the mark used to be. Once the war had ended and everyone had bent the knee to Voldemort, the markings' power was diluted, their tracking and summoning charms no longer needed, and with that the color had faded away.
"They're beautiful though," she said, hoping he wouldn't notice that she'd only had half of her drink.
He stepped out from behind the bar and stood in front of her, his head tipped to the side, studying her face through glassy eyes.
"You think so?" He said, taking her hand in his. His fingers were warm, his movements slow and she watched closely as if keeping an eye on a coiled snake.
"Yes. The dragon especially. His face, so lifelike."
"Touch it," he said, his voice coming out more cracked and hoarse than demanding, a hint of desperation.
He pulled her hand towards his arm closing her fingers around it, his eyes fluttering closed. She traced the lines of the tattoo from tip to tail, listening to his shallow, shuddering breaths as he stood perfectly still. Her fingers trailed down lower, stroking over the remains of his mark, then to the slashing angled scars across his torso from the Sectumsempra he'd suffered sixth year. Upon closer inspection there were other scars: a thick, darkened brand near his hip – the letter V, and straight lines, nearly invisible, across the insides of both of his elbows. She didn't ask for an explanation and he didn't offer one. Instead he leaned in closer to her, his lips hovering near hers for a breath before he moved to rest his forehead on her shoulder.
"Sometimes, I just want to turn everything off. Is there a spell for that? Magic? Every thought, every feeling, every ache. Just...nothing."
Without thinking, she put her arm around him, hugging him close, nothing how he stiffened beneath her embrace.
"I'm so tired," he whispered.
Hermione stood and took his hand, starting her ritual of making sure he got to bed. They didn't speak as she lead him up the stairs, but once they were in the suite he held fast to her, his voice low and even, a bit more clear headed than he'd been earlier.
"Stay here. Sit here. Just a few minutes longer," he said. "You stayed before...once...and I fell asleep. I stayed asleep."
He pulled her toward the couch and sat down. There was a bottle of red wine and little, half smoked joint in a crystal ashtray. She made a point of pushing them both out of reach.
"Sixth year. That awful year. Advanced fucking potions." He paused. "Do you know what Amortentia smelled like to me?" He asked, his head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed.
"Wine and weed?" she asked. He smiled.
"Polished cherry wood, raspberries and Sleekeazy's Hair Potion."
He curled onto his side then, his head in her lap, and within a minute she knew he was sound asleep. The clock above the fireplace said two thirty and her own exhaustion overtook her – the warmth of the fire, the soft sofa, Draco's low, even breathing on her lap. She adjusted her position and pulled a throw pillow over to prop behind her head. While falling asleep she remembered, quite suddenly, that for her birthday sixth year her mother had given her bubblebath, an expensive bottle with a silver shimmer and a cap that looked like a giant diamond. It had been heavily scented with raspberry.
She woke later to his whimpering, desperate pleading in his sleep, his arms twitching, head thrashing from side to side.
"Please. Please no. Stop!" His back bowed, brow furrowed in pain. In sleep his teeth chattered, crashing together as he writhed.
Hermione grabbed his arms to hold him still and at her touch he woke suddenly, pulling from her grip, jumping up from the couch. The room was dusky with pre-dawn light, the fire reduced to embers. She looked at the clock – six forty.
"What is this? What are you doing here? Why are you here?" He growled, storming out of the room.
"You asked me here Draco," she called out, making her way to the door, uninterested in enduring his abuse. Her body ached from sleeping sitting up and she stretched her neck as she walked. "And I wouldn't dare disobey orders. I belong to you now, after all."
He came back out from the bedroom pulling a black t-shirt over his head. Before she could get the door open all the way he slammed it shut, hovering behind her, caging her in with his arm.
"What happened here?" He asked, and she could tell he was struggling to keep his composure...to keep his voice even, but still she shivered at the sound of his voice near her ear. "What did I do?"
He sounded frantic, nearly terrified, and her blood boiled at the sound of it. The idea of being alone with her, touching her must have made him sick. Without turning to face him she said,
"Nothing you need to worry your precious pure blood about, Mr. Malfoy."
She yanked the door open and without waiting for an explanation, she was gone.