Chapter 1: Somebody Order a Strippergram?

"The night's not over yet, birthday girl!" Luna hooted through a hiccup. "We have one more surprise for you."

Hermione would have thought that the last surprise was seeing Luna Lovegood very, very drunk, and that was less of a surprise than it was a scary prospect. But she smiled weakly, a little flattered by all the attention. For her 40th birthday, she hadn't wanted to make a big fuss, but her girlfriends insisted that they celebrate her, that she needed some tender loving care. After the events of the past year, Hermione was inclined to agree, if only to herself.

She and Ron had divorced six months ago. The private rowing - which had been on an unnoticeable, but still steady, incline since the start of their marriage - had reached an untenable boiling point. The demands on each of their respective careers, Hermione's in particular, hadn't helped. They had filed citing irreconcilable differences, while publicly maintaining a civil facade for the sake of their children. Rose was fifth year at Hogwarts and Hugo was third, and though it certainly hadn't been the best time to put them through a parental divorce, Hermione's babies were getting on as best they could.

The emotional journey for Hermione, however, had taken its toll, and she had made the difficult decision to step down as Minister for Magic. Still on the job hunt, she had to admit that when Luna had come up with the idea to throw a party - a girl's only party - the former Mrs. Weasley had been grateful for the break... and also the guarantee that there would be no awkward small talk with her ex. Ron was the father of her babies - for that she would always love him - but it would be some time yet before they could be in the same room together like normal people. Family summits at the Burrow were still taking some logistics (and creative seating arrangements).

Hermione's other girlfriends - Susan Bones, the Patil twins, Lavender Brown - squealed excitedly. The birthday girl felt her stomach clench. Uh oh... this surprise wasn't... a set up for a blind date, was it? Hermione had never been on a date since she became single again, nor would she want to for some time yet. Not that there wouldn't be any takers. Hermione was still a remarkably beautiful woman... and a woman still had needs. She certainly wasn't past her peak, as she heard the doorbell ring and Luna excitedly hurrying to answer it. Lovegood, what are you up to...?

"Here he is!" Luna trilled, swaying back into the room and collapsing in an easy chair. A man strode in clad in an overcoat that was not quite yet appropriate at all for September weather and faced Hermione. She cocked an eyebrow in surprise. Oh... oh my...

There was a collective gasp as Dudley strode into the room, and he allowed himself a smug grin behind the folds of his muffler. At a couple inches over six feet, with wide shoulders and a dramatically swirling coat, he had learned how to make an impressive entrance.

His first glance was always to the empty bottles. Here he found a measure of relief. If they'd started the night here, then he had arrived at the golden moment. They'd had just enough alcohol to divest them of most of their self-consciousness, but not so much as to extinguish all inhibitions, good sense, dignity, or consciousness.

Next, he looked for his quarry. A woman in a blue jumper and jeans had jumped to her feet in alarm. Her thick hair was indeed a rather nice, warm shade of brown, and it frothed around her shoulders like caramel-coloured candy floss.

The blondie sitting next to her laid a placating hand on her arm. "It's alright, Hermione. He's here to strip for us . . . for you." She smiled brightly.

"He's a stripper?" Hermione gaped at Dudley as though he had claimed to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he wondered if he should be offended that the idea of him being a stripper apparently stretched her credulity beyond its limits. In any case, she had to thank Merlin that Ginny, her ex-sister-in-law, had been unable to make the party. Then she continued, "That's . . . objectifying—it's degrading! It takes a person and reduces him to, to a thing to be ogled and drooled over. It's like the subjugation of House—" She choked off the rest of that sentence. "In any case, it's wrong, and I'm not having it."

Shit. This was new. He'd stripped for a few women whose friends had obviously not realised that they possessed some serious moral objections, but none of them had ever had the balls to actually stop the proceedings. They'd sat there, pale and grim-faced, as he did his best to pretend that he was enjoying his work. This would require a slightly more proactive approach.

Dudley approached her, trying (with little success) not to loom intimidatingly. To her credit, she held her ground, even as he took off his hat and caressed the side of her face with its brim, leaning down and whispering in her ear, "Look, I'm sorry this isn't what you wanted for your birthday, but if my clothes don't come off, I don't get paid."

Her fierce glower softened, and she unclenched her fists. He'd always been good at reading people and choosing an appropriate strategy to get his way.

"You don't have to report it, do you?" Her voice lacked conviction.

"You'd ask Luna to lie to her boyfriend?" She was wavering, so he added reassuringly, "Don't worry, I keep my boxers on."

When he'd first applied to the agency, he'd been hopeful. The advert had said that there was a bonus for scars. Finally, after all these years, he could collect on that hairy giant's pain in the arse. Dudley had spent an embarrassing minute in the back office with his bare bum on display, only to have Dennis grumble that he'd have to change the wording to qualify that the bonus was for sexy scars only. His contract (on the whole, a humiliating document detailing aspects of his body he'd never wanted to think of, much less see in writing; it would have put him completely off the idea except for the fact that he couldn't continue to put up with his flatmate stashing substances and girls of dubious legality in their shared living space and needed the promised money to move out on his own) specified that he could only work as a pants-on performer.

Much to Dudley's relief, Hermione yielded with a curt nod and returned to her chair. The muffler and coat were winter-wear, and he was beginning to sweat underneath—he needed to shed them as quickly as possible to avoid unsightly wet patches.

He unwound the muffler with care (he had discovered the hard way that trying the trick he used with his belt only led to an ignominious strangulation) and looped it around the shoulders of a blushing blonde. It wouldn't do to push his luck too early with Hermione. Besides, keeping the rest of the audience engaged, while not strictly part of his professional obligation, made the whole experience considerably easier.

Without a pause, Dudley began to open his coat, using his thumb to thrust each button suggestively through its hole. (The second most difficult thing about being a stripper was not laughing. Toying with his clothing in a way that hinted at sexual activity was just— No, if he let his mind continue down that path, he'd dissolve into giggles, breathing exercises or no. He needed to focus.) He let the heavy fabric slide slowly down his shoulders, then shrugged his arms out of the sleeves and let it fall. He didn't need to look to know that it had landed in an artful heap behind him. It had taken nearly an hour in front of a mirror to perfect that manuever.

Hermione's mouth compressed into a moue of disapproval.

Dudley quirked an eyebrow and grinned. He'd convinced her to let him perform—persuading her to enjoy it would be easy.

He had massive hands to match his stature. He always scrubbed them after work, but traces of the grease in which the machines were packed lingered in the fine lines of his calluses. They were a positive feature in the complicated reckoning of his pay. (The shifting reckoning of his pay. Dennis gave him a printout of how each night's paycheck was calculated. Sometimes his cauliflower ear wound up in the credit column, but more often in the debit; sometimes being clean-shaven was favorable and sometimes not; but his hands always were listed under credit.) He used those hands to good effect now—picking up the coat, shaking it out, and smoothing it down with inordinately sensuous caresses before carefully draping it over the back of an unoccupied chair. His suit jacket went the same way, and Hermione's lips hinted at a smile.

Dudley's focus had been on the birthday girl (woman, really), yet his brain had registered the rather abrupt silencing of the appreciative murmurs and salacious giggling.

Serious gig it might be, but that didn't mean that all (or even most) of the audience would enjoy the show.

Jealousy had been a constant companion of his childhood and even now reared its ugly head more frequently than he would have liked (it was funny how he'd grown to loathe the sour taste rising in his mouth). A familiar, grudging envy of his colleagues in the mainstream branch of the agency now stole over him. They rarely had to put up with the sort of shit he usually encountered (not that they had it easy, by any means, but at least they didn't often have to strip under hostile stares).

In any case, there was work to do, so he slipped on his hard-won mask of confidence as he began the slow unbuttoning of his shirt cuffs.

In a corner, their chairs set slightly apart from the rest, Lavender jostled Luna's arm with her elbow and hissed in a low whisper, "I hope you get your money back."

Luna's gaze didn't flicker from the show. "He seems to be earning it well enough."

"But he's not what we asked for!"

Luna smiled benignly. "He's exactly what I asked for."

"What?!" The shrill yelp attracted the attention of all in the room, so Lavender forced her voice back to a whisper. "What do you mean?"

"You told me to find someone big with muscles—and he's not a redhead. I think he fulfills your criteria rather well."

Dudley had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms. He calmly bent over Susan, maintaining eye contact with her even as she tried to burrow through the back of her seat. He dropped his large hands to the arms of her chair, which he gripped and attempted to wiggle, as if testing them. Then, without a word, he crouched and—lifting from his thighs—hoisted the chair into the air, his bulging biceps threatening to burst the seams of his dress shirt.

Susan squealed, and the rest of the women held their breath until he had carefully revolved in a slow circle and replaced the chair exactly where it had been standing a few moments previous.

Lavender grudgingly conceded that his muscles were beyond questioning. "But he's—" her voice dropped even further, "—fat."

"Of course he is. He's Hermione's birthday present, not yours."

"Who could—"

Luna clapped a delicate hand over Lavender's mouth. "You wouldn't want to spoil Hermione's birthday by finishing that question." She paused and withdrew her hand. "She could probably ask the same about muscle-bound Quidditch stars."

"That's not the same," Lavender objected mutinously.

"He's not my type, either, but what's wrong with someone else finding him attractive?"

Dudley released the straining buttonholes of his waistcoat to reveal a shirt held taut by equally straining buttons.

Lavender's fingers found the scars on her cheek as she muttered bitterly, "Life's not some children's story where everybody has someone out there who loves them just the way they are." Hurrying to head off a remark that Luna had no intention of making, she continued, "Besides, Hermione?"

In answer, Luna inclined her head in their friend's direction.

Dudley took a vicious pleasure in the slightly squeamish expressions on most of the faces in the room. He traced the outline of his belly with luxuriant strokes, cradling it where it sagged over his belt and finishing with a jiggling flourish.

Dudley the man could do what the boy never could. If he couldn't please every member of the audience, at least he was in control of the reaction he elicited.

He noticed Hermione growing increasingly uncomfortable—not with him, but on his behalf, unless he was badly mistaken. (It made him think fondly of Piers, who used to go a bit mad when people pointed and stared at Dudley and whispered ugly things.) She vacillated between staring raptly at him and frowning at her friends in chagrin.

Shoes (fastidiously untied, rather than carelessly toed off) and socks (rolled neatly and tucked into his shoes) were followed by his trousers. Dudley carried enough of his weight in front of him that he had to make a slight effort to curl around his belly, but he'd lived in this body for so long that it was more an elegant embrace than anything awkward.

Bending also lifted his shirttails to reveal the light blue silk boxer shorts that Dennis claimed brought out the blue in his eyes. Dudley doubted that there was much examination of his eyes once the boxers came into view, but it was easier to humour his boss than to argue the point (and possibly end up wearing something far more objectionable).

The glimpse of his boxers seemed to resolve Hermione's unease. She stood again, stepping forward with such a determined set to her jaw that Dudley stood aside without even thinking.

"I am touched by the . . . thought with which this evening was planned. However, I also am aware that most of you do not share in my predilections. I don't want to spend my birthday making people uncomfortable, so I think that the best course of action is for you," she nodded to her friends, "to withdraw to my bedroom while our guest finishes up. You can find something to watch on the television if you want."

Definitely Piers. In their third year at Smeltings, some of the older boys had declared Dudley's tits to be bigger than those of any girl of their acquaintance and had made it a game to grab them whenever adult supervision was lacking. Dudley hadn't been fast enough to evade them or clever enough to talk them out of it or strong enough to fend them off, so he took to skiving off lessons to use the toilet in peace and learned that he could send his mind elsewhere during those encounters and settled for kicking the firsties around a bit. Not Piers. He had burned incandescently with rage and used his knobbly Smeltings stick in the character-building manner for which it was allegedly intended, developing such a savage skill that it was confiscated by the Christmas holiday to prevent further concussions and his impending expulsion.

The next year, Dudley had taken up boxing.

"Telifishing?" Parvati's interest in Divination had precluded her from taking Muggle Studies, and she hadn't had the inclination to investigate the subject in her spare time.

With a quick finger to her lips, Hermione nodded in Dudley's direction.

"It's in the corner. You can watch a show on it while you're waiting," she said firmly.

Padma looked at her with a shrewd, assessing expression. "But that shouldn't work here, with all—"

Hermione patted her sleeve, flashed a smug smile, and said, "And yet, it does."

Satisfied that her audacious plan appeared to be well on its way towards bearing fruit, Luna quickly led the rest to leave before Padma could start quizzing Hermione about the use of electricity in the presence of magic.

"That one wanted to watch," Dudley observed after the last woman—still wearing his muffler—reluctantly passed through the doorway, taking one final, longing look as she closed the door behind her.

Hermione sighed. "I know. Her husband has been working very hard to lose weight, though. It's not fair to either of them to get her all worked up and then send her home."

"What about you? Is it fair to get you all worked up and then just leave you here?"

It was a risky thing to say. This job was all about making promises with his body that he had no intention of keeping, but the lie was mutually understood (in theory, at least); deviating from the script and even hinting at an actual proposition was strictly forbidden under the terms of his contract.

Her lips twitched. "I've been in worse circumstances. I think I'll live."

"Ah. Good." He could've smacked himself on the forehead. There was a reason another part of his contract stated that he was not to be hired for jobs that required speaking. Not only did he have a pretty undistinguished voice, but he also couldn't rely on his brain to produce witty repartee suitable to the occasion. He fumbled with his collar.

"I'm sorry about my friends."

Dudley's fingers paused on the second button. Seriously? She wanted to have this conversation now? "Eh. They were pretty polite about it."

Hermione looked to be on the brink of another morally outraged outburst. "You mean sometimes it's worse?"

It was really not what he wanted to be thinking about as he removed his shirt, so he shrugged and continued unbuttoning. "At least I get paid for it."

She bit her lip and watched his fingers work another button loose.

"Look, no one else is here. You don't have to finish. I won't tell Luna."

"Do you not want to see me naked?" He didn't think that he had misread her this badly.

"No! If I were into . . . . watching strangers undress, you're exactly the person I'd pick. I just—" She was getting genuinely agitated. "I've never taken my clothes off in public, but I know what it's like to have people disparaging me for what I look like, what I say, how I say it, what I like . . . . People can be cruel, even when they don't exactly mean it, and getting naked would be the last thing I'd want to do after facing down this lot. You shouldn't have to—"

Dudley felt a strange burst of affection for the woman squirming in her chair out of empathy for him. "I appropria— erm, app—appreciate your concern, but I can— I don't— It's all right."

The poor bloke couldn't get his clothes back on fast enough, blushing and stammering in a rather adorable way before pelting out of there. Hermione only hoped that the Muggle constables didn't see him running out of her house in that seasonally incorrect outer clothing and mistake him for a thief.

Glancing around the now-empty living room, she sighed and began to clean up all the red solo cups and beer bottles scattered around her flat...