The Power of Dance

Chapter 2: Home

(A/N: I MystyKitty own in no way any part of this fic except the plot. And if JKR wants it she can have it. But no one else can.)

My woke-up to a headache and aching muscles, the rough fabric of the couch grated against her skin. Slowly she sat up and tried to blink the sleep from her eyes. Looking down, she still wore the denim skirt and the glittery top from the night before, her eyeliner smeared under her eyes, making the already dark bags worse. Trying to stretch the sore muscles out, My walked toward the apartment's bathroom passing through the kitchenette. Glancing at the clock on the microwave, she squinted at the numbers that winked and glowed a sickly green.

"11:00" the microwave screamed, all around her clocks seemed to appear, revealing an hour that Hermione hadn't seen since the second week she had come to live with her cousins in muggle New York. My closed her eyes and tried to rub away the headache that lingered after the night's exertions. She tried to sleep in the day, only to wake when it was time to dance. Today it was unlikely that she would ever be able to return to sleep, the cot in the corner was lumpy and painful to sleep on, and tolerable only when drunk, or so tired you are asleep before your body strikes it. Most nights, after dancing the world away, she could come back to the apartment at three or four am and pass out on the army surplus cot until it was time for the cycle to happen again. She eyed the cot and glared at it, she could transfigure it, but with the unpredictability of the new powers, she would be as likely to blow it up as to make it more comfortable. My made a huffing noise deep in her throat and stalked towards the bathroom, unhappy at the hour and her unstable emotions always on the edge.

She walked into the bathroom, seeing and smelling the remains of Mandy's night. The unflushed toilet revealed that Mandy was up, or had been not that long ago. Her own stomach churning with the smell of vomit and sour liquor, My reached up and touched an enchanted knob on the door. A whispered "scourgify" filled the bathroom, glistening pink bubbles covered every surface of the room, picking up the water, tears, sweat and bile. As the bubbles cleaned magical hands swept through the room, folding towels, putting down the toilet seat. Soon, the bathroom was set to rights, everything in its place. The spilled bottle of aspirin was back in the medicine cabinet, and the bottles of shampoo were all neatly in line. The pink bubble rose into the air and popped, leaving the crisply sweet scent of red currents and black tea. Stripping off her shirt and skirt she dropped them on the sparkling floor.

She walked over to combination bath and shower in her underwear, and grabbed her supplies from a shelf. My lined the bottles up in the order that she would use them on the pink plastic ledge. She reached and turned the handles to a scalding heat. Turning the showerhead on, she stepped under the steaming water. She let the burning water caress her skin, leaving red flushed skin in its wake. The sweet steam and the heat cleared out her head and stopped the thoughts, allowing her to be empty. Allowing her to slip into the memory of silver eyes that could see into her soul but didn't, a pair of eyes that matched her, that reminded her she was still a human.

For now.

When the water hitting her skin cooled to a tepid lukewarm My stepped out of the shower wringing excess water from her hair, and allowing water to roll down her over heated body. She walked to the locked door, and stared at her self in the full-length mirror. Her hair, wet and dripping, cascaded down her back, the curling ends tickling her tailbone. She looked at the girl reflecting back at her, and felt conflicted. Even after almost three months of trying to get comfortable in her own skin she was still use to the body that was hers. Her body was thin, almost skinny, except for the hardness of her arms legs and torso, courtesy of months of dancing, and two years of excessive running and hard battle training. She looked at her reflection, and underneath the muscles, her ribs still showed, a remnant of fifth year stress and sixth year depression.

She was always puzzled by her reflection. A petite punk. She was a petite punk that should have been taller. Hermione focused in on her face, examining it, sloping cheekbones, dark brows gracefully arched. Long dark lashes, the perfect frame form amber eyes. She avoided looking into her own eyes. She saw memories in her own eyes. Memories she was trying to escape from. The dark bags that cushioned her eyes distracted her from having to confront her past. They were large and purplish, showing sleep deprivation and stress, the only things that marred her beauty. She was beautiful, despite or perhaps because of almost six years of fighting, terror, and sorrow, Hermione Granger had become a beauty.

Her eyes filled before bitterness swept through her like a tidal wave. It was to fucking bad her mother would never get to see how beautiful her daughter grew to be, after years of telling her that she already was beautiful. Her father would never get to warn a boy against breaking his baby girl's heart, or force her into a jacket after one glimpse of her clubbing clothes. All that she had left was the glares and murmurs of jealous cousins who allowed her to sleep on a cot, in the corner of the living room, for a price. Fighting to hold back the tears that would ruin her carefully constructed façade, My straightened her shoulders and grabbed an oversized bath towel, wrapping it around her thin frame, leaving the bathroom.

She wandered the apartment finally reaching the kitchen. Looking in the refrigerator, she pulled out a nutritionist mandated breakfast. The thought of Shelia made her sigh. The confrontation or intervention hadn't been a wonderful event. She was frog walked to the hospital wing where she was faced with the concerned faces of Dumbledore, McGonagall, Vector and most surprisingly Snape. Harry and Ron forced her into a chair and stood on either side as her teachers told her they were worried about her dropping weight. They told her they understood that in times of stress girls try to control their weight. She laughed in their faces. Told them it was a virus, just forgetting to eat. They bought it.

Until sixth year.

When she collapsed in potions, when her body was so weak from starvation that it wouldn't support her ninety-pound body. When all of her bones were visible, and drinking a goblet of pumpkin juice was too much for her stomach. They had all been furious with her.

"How could the gryffindor know-it-all, the only one in this school with an aptitude for potions be so stupid."

"Miss Granger, I trusted you to be an example to the younger students."

"Hermione. You promised that you would eat. How could you betray me and Harry like this?"

"Hermione. Why?"

Worst of all had to be Dumbledore's response. He just looked down at her, disappointment evident in his eyes. He didn't say a word, just got her a counselor and a nutritionist, and all the while made her feel like a bug that was scraped off the floor. She dealt with it though.

It made her stronger, but it left her vulnerable.

Alone.

After that day she began to withdraw, separate herself from the pain.

Until--

"No." Her mind screamed. My refocused her attention on the raw vegetables and sliced fruit on the plate in front of her, she hated raw celery. Sitting down carefully on a bar stool, careful not to reveal anything private, she turned on the travel TV sitting on the countertop. Switching the channel from bad daytime soaps to CNN, she settled down to watch a story about someone else's life being destroyed or turned upside down.

A dark eyed man stared out into her summertime world with a serious expression on his face. As though he were predicting the fall of Rome, he talked about falling stock prices and the .8 increase in gas prices. The muggle news was slow this early in the day, letting her attention wander My stared at the scrolling news bar, what celebrity was dating whom, and which sports star was in prison. Then the date scrolled in front of her eyes. July 31.

The words "Harry's Birthday" echoed through her mind like a mantra. Leaving the food on the counter, she walked to the little closet she called her own. Opening the sliding metal door, she reached well into the back and groped around in the dark. She pulled out a small brown package, with the words

Harry J. Potter
Wherever he is
London, England

She knew no one would try to steal Harry's present especially since it was from her. They were all now so terrified that she would loose her temper that they stayed away. An entire ocean away if possible. Even if someone did try to open it for him, they would simply see a dirty rag that smelled like damp. The gift was for Harry's eyes only. A simple tee shirt, endowed with the strongest protection spells that she could find. Voldemort maybe gone, but Harry had become the target had become for any slime ball that wanted a chance at being the new Dark Lord. She just hoped he wouldn't be to proud or to scared to wear it. Drawing out a long thin stick from a sleeve in the back of the closet she held it over the package and flicked it, whispering "Deliverus" a handy spell when an owl was out of the question. The rush that came from using magic was bittersweet, it was kind of Dumbledore to "allow" her to use magic this summer despite the fact she was underage and because of her situation. Fudge had wanted to break her wand and obliviate her. She watched the package twinkle into the air, disappearing with a feeling of foreboding. She had no idea how Harry would react to her birthday gift. She had withdrawn from him and Ron starting after fifth year, the anorexia conversation and the death of her parents only helped to isolate her from her friends. That didn't stop her from running to their side, to help in the battle. Didn't stop her from saving their lives that awful night when everything came crashing down in a wave of--

STOP.

Her mind screamed. Forbidding her to remember the event in the crystal caverns deep in the forbidden forest. Forbidding her to think about them, knowing the students, faculty and the scar on her chest and tattoo on her back wouldn't allow her to forget. She ran a thin tapered finger along the slightly raised skin between her shoulder blades. Ron and Harry had gone with her to muggle London during the Christmas break, getting their phoenixes etched in their upper arms. Dumbledore's quiet acceptance of the groups meaning gave the trio new strength and resolve that they applied to their school work, and towards any obstacles that stood in their way, like Malfoy, Snape and the vicious jokes of the Slytherin house.

My's eyes closed at the thought of Malfoy. Draco meant Lucius, and Lucius reminded her of that awful night, of what she had become. She raised a hand and placed it over the raised burn directly over her heart. Just like the phoenix on her back, a phoenix stood out on her chest, a shiny reminder of that night. Touching it, she could feel the fire that burned just below the surface, threatening her sanity.

The sounds of vomiting in the bathroom broke her reverie and made her realize that she was sitting crouched in the middle of the hall in a bath towel. She stood and stared at the clothes in the hall closet, hoping that Mandy would be done, she need to fix her damp hair. While it was no longer the bushy hair of her youth, without care it could still curl unpleasantly if she wasn't careful. My reached out and grabbed a pair of jeans and a black tank top. Since she was awake and hated the stillness of the apartment, she decided she needed to get out, there was so much that she didn't know about the city in daylight. She walked past Court's room and heard moans and the telltale squeak of a mattress.

"Hmmm-- she must have found a really nice one, or a really good lay," My thought to herself. Court never brought her hook-ups back with her, unless of course they made it worth her while. She walked into the now empty bathroom, once again trashed and smelly. My sighed and hit the enchanted knob, the room cleaned itself and this time the scent of lemon and lime citrus filled the air. She carefully placed her cloths on the closed toilet seat and walked to the sink. She started performing morning rituals that hadn't been done in nearly two months. It was difficult to do morning absolutions when you slept until night when you go out, and then sleep right through the morning.

She smeared a mask over her face letting it dry as she combed conditioner and detangler into her hair. Washing off the mask she applied layers to her face, moisturizer, sun block, foundation and pale pressed powder. In a country of sun-worshiping beach bunnies tanned to a crisp, she maintained the alabaster skin of her years in the library. Knowing that as a witch she was going to live well into her second century, she planned to force her youth to stay as long as it possibly could. Next she smoothed a cherry lip stain over her full lips, and looked at her self clinically in the mirror. It was a very different image from the bookworm of her fourth and fifth year. She pulled on the tight jeans; tiny flame embroidery at the cuffs and pockets made the designer jeans her own. The tank top fell around her, caressing every curve revealing her athletic body. The person in the mirror didn't belong in Cornwall, or in a dingy apartment building in Manhattan. She belonged on a glossy page. She was a figment of an editor's imagination, a girl on the pages of a fashion magazine. She looked like the girls in magazines that Lavender and Pavarti giggled over, Witch Weekly and the Seventeen magazines that Dean brought them.

Thinking about her roommates made her nervous. A month left to go before she returned to England. One month left to dance away the pain. Most of the time she could forget the looming September first date, the absence of the letter was helpful. The letter that told her what books to buy, robes to bring, and any school announcements helped her to ignore the looming school year. She didn't mind lessons; the quest for knowledge was always something she looked forward to. No the problem was dancing. The idea of no dancing until Christmas was too much for her to bear. Dancing was her drug, her mind number, without it she would have to think about her parents, Harry, Ron, and that night. The fact that she was a murderer.

A murderer, the words flooded her brain.

A murderer.

So what if they were evil bigots. They had families, they had been alive and after her, they weren't. They were dead. The moans from down the hall grew louder and louder until it was obvious that one of the couple had reached a climax. A man's voice crying out "Cookie." The cry broke through My's heartache. She looked to her left and saw the base of toilet, at some point she had crashed to the floor, rocking back and forth, refusing to let the tears fall. She roughly pushed herself off the floor and brushed off her pants. She left the apartment and headed towards the living room, she knew that she couldn't sleep, and staying in this apartment with the silence was out of the question. The quiet got to big, and the tendency to retreat into her mind was too strong. Her mind, thoughts, and feeling were the enemies. Grabbing a CD player and a handful of money from the tin, she left the apartment, checking to make sure she had everything she would need to get back into the building. Pulling the headphones on over her ears she left the building. The steady beat of a strange mix of trance, techno and rap flooded her ears, blocked out her emotions. Hidden behind music she was safe.

My wandered down the Manhattan streets swaying a little bit, her feet and hips moving in time to the beat of the music. Always dancing, she walked straight ahead, avoiding other pedestrian's eyes. The smells of New York food had never before sparked her interest, even the faint odor of it made her ill. Today though, today something was different. The smell of New York style cheese pizza and pretzels perked her hunger in a way that raw broccoli and apple slices never could. Walking past a café filled with twenty-something executives, My floated over to a vendor. She got her pizza and her pretzel and sat on the clear corner of the bench. Away from the pigeon excrement and the putrid garbage. As she ate her food, her lips curved into a half smile, her head counting time for the music. She was unaware of the stares of predatory males and jealous females.

Drake was tired. His mind, body, and soul were tired. He had returned to his one room flat after Pulse at four in the morning. All of his thoughts and feeling bent on one image, one single face. Her face. He wanted to see her again, he wanted to sink into her amber-gold eyes and drown. He wanted to weave his fingers in her waves of hair and never let go. He craved the feeling of their bodies moving together, point and counterpoint, melody and harmony. He shook his head tiredly. Even now he couldn't shake her from his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that she was important to him. She completed him.

The beep of his watch brought Drake back to his surroundings. The spread of papers in front of him was daunting. Muggle tax forms and transfer of ownership papers filled with hidden clauses. Drake rested his head on the table; white blonde hair fell around his face, soft and light. He cursed his father for dying, it was his last year at school, and instead of a summer of freedom and quidditch he was trapped in America. Muggle America no less, trying to transfer his father's hodge-podge business dealings into his own name. At eighteen years old he had to reconstruct the toppling tower of enterprise that his father had allowed to slip in the last four years.

Drake sipped his coffee, re-reading the stock agreement with Mi-cro- soft, for the fourth time trying to understand the almost foreign language it was written in. He rubbed his eyelids carefully. He had no idea that muggle lawyers could be so bloody incomprehensible. He wanted to return to the wizard world so badly. Yet after a month as a muggle, he also had a grudging respect for them, which was combined with a growing anger at Dumbledore for refusing to allow a grant of magic use in a foreign land.

The words of the contract floated in front of his eyes. He just couldn't seem to concentrate. The muggles that surrounded him were distracting. The pretentious sounds from the men and women all around him made him think of My. A muggle, a dancer, perhaps a soul mate. A girl he met by chance and would never see again.

A man sitting a the table next to him whistled loudly and turned to Drake, the only male close to him. "Damn kid, check out that ass. I'd like to tap into that." Drake's insides twisted at the blatant lust and crudity in the man's voice. How could anyone be so vulgar? Then he remembered some of the "parties" his father hosted, his pale cheeks heating, but by force of will kept his expression stony, his gray eyes flinty and cold. HE refused to allow the muggle to affect him adversely.

He followed the disgusting man's stare and took in a sight he never thought to see. Delicate heeled sandals strapped to tiny feet, tight jeans and a tiny tank top. Eyes traveling up her body Drake took in soft shiny chocolate hair streaked with red. It was her. She was sitting in front of him, her foot counting out the beat of the music pumped into her brain. Her eyes were closed as she ate the pretzel and bobbed her head to the music flowing from the headset.

Unable to resist Drake stood up, leaving his papers and meal on the table. He walked towards the girl, not even hearing the crude man shout.

"Get your groove on boy."

Drake walked over and sat next to My on the bench waiting for her to open her eyes and notice him. Hoping she would remember him, feel something for him.

My sat on the bench enjoying the warm sunshine and her pretzel. The sun heated her pale face and lit the inside of her lids a warm red. Suddenly the light was cut off, the red behind her eyes faded to black. Turning her still closed eyes in the direction the object that blocked the light came from she cocked her head and opened her eyes only to find herself staring into a pair of silver eyes.

"Drake?" Her voice was quiet, astonished to see him, "Are you real? Sitting next to me?" The almost pathetic hope in her voice shook Drake to the core. All he wanted to do was to pull her into his arms and tell her everything was all right. What could have happened to her to make her doubt her own mind? He wanted to find out what happened, and possibly hurt whatever or whoever caused her so much pain. He placed a hand on her cheek and willed her not to flinch as he tried to regain eye contact.

The feeling of his hand on her cheek forced her from the daydream she played in. The dream where he came and rescued her, whisked all of her troubles away. My straightened and focused her attention on the silky hair that covered his head. The silky sheet fell straight to his shoulders, a visible halo marking him as her angel. She smiled at this ridiculous vision, and flashed him the traditional "sorry things are uncomfortable" half smile. When he didn't respond, her mind began to scream warnings at her. She was to close; he seemed to see right in her soul. Don't let anyone in; they will hurt you just like Ron and Harry. The loudest voice screamed "blonde hair," "he has blonde hair, just like Lucius-- beware of the blonde haired men." She shoved them back under her consciousness; she didn't want her twisted mind to destroy her angel. Yet My knew if she didn't leave soon, the voices would return with a vengeance, and another fantasy would be destroyed.

"I-- ah, I have to go Drake. Maybe I'll see you again. I hope so." Her voice was desperately quiet at the last sentence but the small smile on her lips filled her haunted eyes and magnified the beauty she had, but didn't notice.

"If you're out, I'll find you," Drake meant it. He wasn't going to loose her again. They had a purpose together. The heat in his eyes made her shiver, it was love and lust and protection. All of the things that she craved. At the same time underneath all the trauma of last year the old Hermione snapped up her bushy head and glared at the arrogance and superiority in his tone. My tried to silence her, My wanted to bask in the safety of his expression. The old Hermione refused, and exerted the whole force of her personality. His arrogance was familiar, his identity buried deep inside of her mind, familiar but unknown.

My rose from the bench and twisted her heavy hair into a knot on the top of her head. The tank top rode up slightly to give Drake a glimpse of flat smooth skin. Looking down at Drake, My stared at him with all of her old superiority, the superiority that she hid from herself and from the world in the last few months. She reached out her hand and stroked his cheek with her fingertips, nails gently rasping over his jaw line.

"I am out every night. Lets see if you can find me." With that she turned on her heel and replaced the headphones, unconsciously dancing away.

Drake squinted his eyes and watched as she drifted away. In a moment his innocent muggle, so scared and haunted, showed a level of haughtiness that a pureblood witch would be proud to call her own. The only person that even came close to that level was Pansy or even the blasted Granger girl. Dismissing thoughts of Pansy and Granger, Draco's eyes devoured My's form as she walked away. Then a flash of red on her back caught his eye. Looking closer, he realized it was a tattoo, a red phoenix in flight, rising from the ashes. It was familiar, like so many things about My. Some voice deep in his brain screamed at his stupidity. The familiarity was important, the tattoo important. He was missing something very important. He watched her walking eyes full of her presence. He watched as the knot her hair was tied in came undone and tumbled down her back, just as she stepped into a rare sunbeam that the tall buildings allowed to get through. It lit her up, made her glow a warm light, a beam of hope for him.

At that moment Drake's life hit a turning point. He fell in love. Fell in love with an Americanized muggle. He didn't care about the beliefs he had grown-up with, had beaten into him. His father was dead and he was in love. He would have her, he would find her, and she would heal his soul.