No. I'm not giving up Speak of the Devil. This is me. . . taking a needed break from it. I need a break from reading a whole bunch of romantic poetry from the 1700s for that fanfic.
Additional Note: Forgive me for making any odd errors. I am typing this on my iPad instead of my laptop. Stupid laptop isn't working properly. Also, I have no idea if they had stripper poles a near century ago, but I'm going to assume so. Shut up, historians.
She is proud but not proud enough to starve to death.
In an unfamiliar time and an even more unfamiliar world, she is a person with no background and no history. She is not reckless like Harry, and she isn't that stupid enough to go around and deliberately change the timeline. It is too dangerous. Besides, they had won the war. She doesn't dare to break the laws of time to create a better, or worse, timeline.
The truth is that she needs money. And she doesn't want to be traced or written anywhere in the history books. The only people who would hire her are of. . . dubious nature.
She comforts herself with the fact that no one would recognize her. There is no one here that would know her name, and if they somehow see her in the future, they would not connect the bushy-haired bossy girl with a limber and provocative stripper they had seen in the past.
Dressed in a men's black wool overcoat, she struts to the center of the stage with ease. An announcer screams out her deliberately chosen stage name, Chasity, and begs her dozen or so audience members to give her a very warm welcome. Hermione glances away from the blinding lights and plants her foot on her chair. The music begins, sleazy and slow. Kicking away her chair, Hermione throws her hat to the audience.
She rolls her head with the laziness of a cat. Pushing up her sleeve, she sings, "I promised Daddy." She pauses as the drum strikes once. "I promised Daddy."
Her gloved hands unbutton the wool coat to reveal a frilly white dress that covers everything except for her arms and shins. In white heels, she continues singing in one of the worst songs she has ever had the fortune to learn. Tapping her heels against the floor, she clutches the stripper pole with a hand and walks around it.
"But he doesn't know! Oh, he doesn't know. He doesn't know what his little girl is doing now." Hermione lets go of the pole and reveals her back to the audience. Slowly, she pulls down the zipper of the white dress to reveal a white one piece. It shows no more than what a swimsuit would show, and for that, she admits that she is thankful it doesn't go any further. Slipping off her dress, she grasp the pole and circle around the pole once more. She turns her back on the men and bends her head back.
Looking around, she assesses the audience. Some of them are her regulars. Some seem to be from bars, and their glassy looks in their eyes tell her it all. But there is one particular pair of dark eyes that seem to stand out. Sitting with a blond man with expensive taste, the owner of those eyes is sitting in the corner with an untouched glass in front of him. He looks completely bored, and perhaps by chance, their eyes meet. They are. . . commanding, dark, seductive. . . There are a thousand other adjectives she could use to describe the sheer intensity of his gaze. And the there is his beauty.
If she saw him on the street wearing those wizarding robes, she would turn around and ask herself, who the hell is that?
Pulling herself back up, she clutches the pole and spin herself twice. She continues singing and moving, but she could feel his eyes on her.
For a grand finale, she pulls out her wand and turns her costume into charred black fabric. The illusion is in burning it. The she would exit stage left, seemingly devoid of any apparel. She is always surprised by how much she draws in tips just for doing that.
She may be able to find herself an excellent retirement at this rate.
In the dressing room, one of the other dancer run up to her and say, "Chasity, you have a request. For a private show."
"How much?"
"Lots."
She nods. She can just think of all the books she can buy.
"Room 14." The the girl floats away.
In a white one piece with layers that could be stripped away, Hermione enters the private room. There is two men. One strangely reminds her of Draco Malfoy while the other. . . She swears that she will always recognize those eyes.
Nervously, the blond stammers, "I notice you looking at her, so I. . ." He swallows hard.
"Abraxas, leave."
The blond obeys without question.
Before Hermione can interrupt, the man asks, "What is your name?"
She gives him her stage name.
He shakes his head. "No, not that. Your real name."
Trying for the flirty but shy approach, she asks, "No." She ignores his look of brief shock. "What is your name?"
He appraises her with amusement. "Tom."
Hermione is taken aback. Her eyes dart to where Malfoy once sat. The pieces come together. "Riddle?" she blurts out.
The cool, flippant look disappears from his face.
It is him. Bugger.
This can't be possible. Spinning on her heel, she Apparates away. Damn the money. She is not going to dance for or deal with the future Dark Lord.
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