A/N: Enjoy my new story! I've had a blast writing it and will be posting chapters every week.
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters do no belong to me.

Part I: Somewhere off the coast of Brazil
Prologue

Ten years.

He could see the years bunched around his sunken gray eyes as he stared into the shard of mirror. Much had changed over the years but not those eyes. Dead to the world. Or at least playing the part.

He tore his gaze away, reminded by the early morning commotion outside that he couldn't dawdle. As he did every morning, he made a mental note to fix this mirror. But by the time he passed through the heavy metal door, the note had vanished, just like it did every morning.

The sun was just peeking out over the tops of the buildings in front of him. The sky was already a crisp light blue, not a cloud in sight though he took note of the receding red skies from the sunrise and left his home grateful that the heat would be broken later tonight.

He started down the dusty dirt road toward the far end of town, heading east toward the docks. His mind wandered as he took the same path he took every morning. He passed by the couple of food carts preparing for the onslaught of workers who would descend on their menus sooner rather than later. He failed to notice the small brown mutt, yawning by the curb of the road, roused by the noise of motorbikes as the town came alive. As he crossed the main street, the buzz of broken Portuguese crescendoed as small shops and bars began to open for the day.

But his mind wandered and so these sights, sights which he had once taken great pains to survey, no longer registered on his daily commute. It had been ten years after all.

Ten years of running.

Ten years of hopping from one island to the next, of settling down, of learning a new language when necessary, of finding work, of blending in. And, eventually, after he felt his guard go down and his mind wander, of leaving and starting over on a new island.

But it had been ten years and Draco Malfoy was tired of running.

He approached the docks, the numerous fishing, sailing, and dive boats bobbing steadily in murky water as the tide slowly came in. He removed his plastic ID card and waved it to João who nodded in greeting and went back to watching the game that played above his security desk. Draco stopped when he reached the cork board just outside the entrance and scanned the sun bleached papers for the day's date.

Five boats today. All standard concerns and requests. It would be a long but meditative day. He allowed himself a small smile and walked over to the first of the five boats, a Bermuda rig new to the dock and likely owned by a visitor. It was sleek and even with the sails down he could tell she was built for speed. He'd come across a few others like her during his time here but it was rare to see a racing boat like this one. There must be a regatta in the area.

"Bom dia mate!" a rough Australian accent broke Draco from his thoughts. He turned to see a large, middle aged man making his way down toward the boat, paddling along in his Sperry's and holding a bucket of fresh fruit.

"Sir," Draco replied, bowing his head briefly before looking up into the older man's deep blue eyes. "I'm here for the work request."

"Ah yes! Well, didn't expect a Brit to be slavin' away on her today. But good to have you and the extra help. I'm Lincoln, the proud and broke captain of this marvel." He laughed at his joke and gazed lovingly up at the ship. Draco studied the man while he listed off what needed to be done for the day. He gazed down briefly at his pockets and waist band, failing to see the outline of a wand, and tentatively reached out with his mind to test the Aussie. But there was nothing. The man kept prattling on, oblivious to Draco's testing.

Muggle.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief but kept his guard up none the less.

"What did you say your name was mate?"

"I hadn't. But you can call me Harry." Lincoln smiled broadly and patted him on the back. Draco inwardly cringed, never having appreciated the almost fatherly relationship he found most older men eased into around him.

"Well then Harry, let's get started."

The next few hours progressed in relative silence while Draco made his way steadily around the boat with his tool box and Lincoln kept to the galley, hunched over nautical maps and occasionally adjusting the frequency of his radio. Even as Draco worked he kept an eye on Lincoln. The man appeared engrossed in his work but Draco would not be caught off guard. Even if he was a muggle. The Ministry had sent muggles after him before. He rubbed the raised scar stretching across his right shoulder and prickled at the memory of the last time he let his guard down around a muggle. So while he worked he studied Lincoln and committed his looks, his ticks, his mannerism to memory. Just in case.

"That'll be it for me Sir." Draco announced from the entrance of the galley. Lincoln looked up from his maps and smiled. He reached into his back pocket to fish out a wad of Brazilian reais and made his way over to Draco.

"Fast work you do Harry. I'll have to remember you next time I'm on the island." Draco smiled back, bowed his head, and accepted the meager wages. As he left for boat number two he found himself hoping there would be a next time but acknowledging that his departure from the island may be fast approaching as well.

The rest of the day kept Draco too preoccupied to worry about Lincoln or his future on the island. The other boats were regulars and he knew their captains well. The work was laborious and by the end of each job he had to ring out his sweat rag over the pier and reapply sunscreen to the few parts of his exposed body.

Sometime in the afternoon, before he made his way over to this last job, he stopped by the washroom. It was one of the few places Draco frequented that had a decent mirror and it always surprised him to see his full reflection staring back.

While his gray eyes had stayed the same over all these years island hopping, not much else had. His once platinum blonde hair was now streaked with darker strands of caramel and ash, giving him the appearance (and indeed, the credibility) of a day laborer. He ran his calloused hands through his hair, pushing the longer strands back and getting a brief glimpse of the boy he once was back in England: slicked back hair, aquiline features, a devil may care attitude. But as his hands progressed over his scalp and his wavy dirty blond hair fell back into its natural position, he changed from that naïve boy into the hardened man he'd grown to become.

He preferred to have his hair cover more of his face—in part to hide his once infamous features but also because it gave him the cloak he needed to go undetected when he surveyed his environment or the people in front of him. His skin, though still fair by island standards was tanned by the years in the sun and freckles he'd never seen in England seemed to have grown overnight across his cheeks and shoulders. He was bigger as well, though running from place to place and surviving off a seafood diet had kept him lean. His forearms and thighs were certainly larger than before likely due to all the sailing.

Draco gave himself another once over, partly pleased to see that he didn't look anything like the frightened boy who had fled England once upon a time. But those eyes. They would always give him away.

Well, that and the Dark Mark.

He instinctively rubbed the tattoo on his left forearm grateful yet again for long sleeves. He didn't need to go around advertising his mark even if the town was devoid of a magical community. Tattoos always raised questions. And that was true whether he was a wizard or a muggle.

As he made his way over to his last job of the day, he refilled his canteen at the bar with the slightly salty water he'd grown accustomed to savoring over the past six months. It had been the longest amount of time he'd ever spent in a single location and that thought alone had him anxious to get moving.

The afternoon wrapped up and he smiled at the heavy pockets of his khaki shorts, already thinking of what to grab from the evening market for dinner. But before he called it a day he made his way towards the end of the dock and the Varne 27 that sat patiently in the water. He caught the name of the ship, Onward, as he easily jumped aboard. After some time checking over the rigging and the sails, he set off from the dock. Once they reached the open ocean, away from the small marina, he prepared the sails.

Nothing could have prepared Draco for the sheer pleasure that sailing his own boat would bring him. In these moments, his mind was focused, present. He wasn't haunted or running from his past, concerned about his future, or simply going through the motions of living. When he sailed on Onward, he was alive. Nothing else mattered except his next move. He couldn't remember a time he'd ever been so focused and attuned to his body and its movement through the world around him. It was in moments like these he was reassured he'd made the right decision. That leaving everything behind—his crimes, his family, his life—was worth the anxiety of living day to day on the run. If he could have moments like this one he would do the same thing all over again.

That evening, as Draco wandered through the fisherman's market and collected the ingredients he'd need for his dinner, he made the effort to stop and talk to all the familiar faces that he passed by. In only six months he had created a community here. They knew enough about his past to talk more about the day to day and they kept him anchored to his life on the island. Because even though he knew, and it wasn't even buried that deep, that he would have to leave one day the connection to this community was healing wounds he hadn't realize remained opened and salted all these years.

It was as he reflected on these thoughts, making his way home through the town's center that it happened.

Even looking back on this fateful day, years later he'd never be able to pinpoint what it was that caught his attention first.

Sometimes he thought it was the familiar pull of magic that broke through his lazy thoughts. That needling feeling that started in your back and seeped through your bones. That feeling of being watched but not by human or even creature eyes, but by the very essence of magic itself. Like it called out and clung to the bodies of those already infected.

Other times he would swear it was the smell that first alerted him to her presence. That strange, slightly hypnotic smell that only foreigners brought with them. This time it was a dampness, almost cool in the way it smelled if that were possible. As if a northern wind and blown through and brought with it the promise of spring showers, moist earth, and a homey fire. It was both intoxicating and jarring.

But whether it was the recognition of magic or the inkling that one his kinsmen was nearby, Draco couldn't deny that what his eyes saw next triggered that laser focus.

Her bushy hair was wrestled into a long braid, trailing her petite back and the white linen blouse she wore. A pack, deceptively small in appearance, sat patiently beside her as a tan, long leg clad in white tenis shoes gingerly scratched the other. With one hand on her hip, and the other gesticulating to the hotel's receptionist, she looked every bit the flustered tourist.

Draco turned sharply, his back to the familiar witch and crossed the street at a leisurely pace so as not to draw unwanted attention to his actions. He stepped into the bodega and set his own pack down while he hurriedly picked up a packaged sweet on the shelf nearest to him. Without turning his head, he shifted his gaze back over to the opposite side of the street and to the island's newest arrival checking into her hotel.

Her back was still turned to him but already his breathing had quickened. It couldn't be her. He was paranoid, that was all. It was some random witch on vacation. It couldn't be her.

But even as she turned to pick up her pack and time seemed to come to a painful stop, Draco knew the truth. He wasn't being paranoid. His ten years has honed his instincts and save for a few hiccups along the way, they were never wrong. This wasn't a random witch.

Draco's breath hitched as the witch bent forward and then straightened, looking out in his direction.

Ten years had gone by and while everything had changed in Draco's life, he was now more confident than ever that one thing never would: the dangerously inquisitive eyes of Hermione Granger.