A/N: This story is mildly inspired by Robinson Crusoe. As you will see, the premise is similar, and some of the symbols are also the same, but I've changed some things. For one, this is gonna be Victorian era because I can't write 18th century English to save my life (not that I can write Victorian, but I digress). Second, none of that cannibalist savagery bs. Third, there's a cat, not a dog, and the cat is not found on the island. Fourth, ending is tweaked a bit. And fifth, aesthetic of the fic is not as much rooted in rationalism.

In Draco's thoughts, I'm trying to echo Victorian ideas about life, so don't take them for my opinion (e.g. inferiority of animals and perhaps some subtle sexism here and there—I believe in neither, of course, but for the sake of historical accuracy, I do what I must).

IWSC Round 8 – Theme: Survival Muggles – School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Main prompt: (emotion) melancholia, Additional prompts: (symbol) money, (romantic pairing) Draco/Hermione

Word count: 1741

Thanks to Socks and Tiggs for betaing and helping me out with the ending of the story! You guys are awesome *hands out virtual cookies*

It was unbecoming of a Malfoy to be lost at sea, yet for no less than five years, that is exactly what Draco Lucius Malfoy had done. Draco, of course, would never have admitted to making any mistakes, not even the most miniscule, en route to a trading convention in Boston. Malfoys did not make mistakes—and as such, he had concluded that his miraculous albeit frustrating discovery of an uninhabited island was due to the omnipresent uncertainties of crossing the seas.

Miraculous, Draco had thought. He was certain his current premises would not be everlasting. When he returned to his homeland, he would offer this new piece of land to Her Majesty: the newest addition to the ever-growing British Empire. As a token of her gratitude, he could expect a knighthood, if not a lordship—which he was already expectant of, his father being Lord of Wiltshire. Yet, his predicament—five years on an island, unknown to all but him and his ever so loyal cat, Felix—had been, much to his surprise, difficult.

On his first day on the island, Draco had noted that the entirety of his ship's crew had drowned or lost their lives thereafter in the storm that brought them ashore. A heavy feeling of melancholia descended on him, one he could not quite rid himself of—not even five years later.

Yet, despite the terrible disaster that befell him on that fated day, Draco had attempted to live his life as any other man would. For as long as was possible, he lived in his private suite in the shipwreck—coming from an esteemed family of aristocrats, he was no less than an expert at hunting, which had helped him greatly in his daily endeavours. Unfortunately, he was no stonemason, nor an architect, and as such, he postponed the task of building a dwelling for as long as possible.

Of course, that predicament did not last forever—no ship was ever made to be inhabited for years. While Draco had grown fond of the cabin he had dwelled in for so long, he was aware it was high time to utilise the arithmetic skills his countless tutors had forced upon him.

With the help of Felix, Draco had erected what he would not dare call any more than a shack. Yes, it did have all essential assets—a kitchen, his sleeping chamber, a washing room, and a small salon—yet it was with great sorrow that Draco bid farewell to his ship. The ship had been his anchor to the modern world. Leaving his cabin for the last time meant his ties to his homeland had been greatly severed—all he had left to keep him hoping was his book of notes, along with a white feather quill and the remains of his ink, and some shillings he had rescued after that terrible, terrible thunderstorm.

He often thought about those shiny coins that jingled in his pockets when he sat or stood. Before becoming stranded on this strange island, Draco had never spared much thought on money; its existence had always been a given, but for the longest time, it had meant the world to him. His life, his future had depended on those small circular metal coins; money was, to Draco, perhaps even more important than God himself. Perhaps money was God himself.

However, those coins were only that, no more: pieces of metal. They were of no use on this island, as there was no one to trade with, no items to buy, no one to flaunt riches to.

It had been a sobering thought, given how Draco was such a staunch believer of capitalism. Being reminded of how feeble his superiority had been before he had become shipwrecked affected Draco greatly. He fell into a long bout of depression, his life having lost its driving power. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys had everything they wished for; yet, in his melancholic thoughts, Draco wished for nothing but emotional closure—the one thing money could not buy him.

He had Felix, but Draco was well aware that cats were not men—they could not understand human feelings.

Draco almost longed for the hours-long balls his mother used to organise every so often, even though he had distinctly remembered the staggering boredom he had always felt when attending such events, pretending to like those with whom he would converse. Even though he noted the day's happenings in his book of notes every evening to preserve his sanity, Draco realised what he missed was not talking to someone—it was being talked to. And other than his cat's occasional meowing and the natural sounds of the nearby forest he hunted in, there was no soul in sight to ease his longing for human contact.

The loneliness, along with the existential trauma Draco was forced to face, was what made him depressed. He lived a bountiful life with all the natural beauty the island could offer to him, but he could not enjoy his solitary confinement, precisely because it was solitary—because it removed him from the society he now oh-so longed for.

Draco survived, but with great difficulty.

Until another fated day, one similar to, yet so different from the day he had become shipwrecked. It had begun with an innocuous morning. Draco had awoken, broke his fast, and went hunting. When he returned, however, he noticed something suspicious in the distance—a ship. A real, moving ship, presumably with living occupants. Immediately, Draco decided to draw attention unto himself. He started a fire; the grey-black smoke rose high to the skies as Draco hoped against hope the captain would notice and instruct his crew to anchor on the island.

Much to his relief, the captain must have done exactly that, as the ship docked safely on the island just as the sun had begun to set. Draco waited, though his patience was fast dissipating, for a person to descend from the deck. Soon enough, his wishes were heard, and a person came walking towards him.

Draco noted with no little surprise that the person was a female. Yet, she did not wear female clothes—she was dressed in a proper captain uniform, in trousers with a blue jacket and a similarly blue hat. She had the curliest brown hair Draco had ever seen, the locks falling on her shoulders in a mess, not proper and very unladylike—something Draco was not used to, having grown up in the presence of his mother and her female friends.

He supposed he should have found the sight revolting, as it was not normal. A lady was not supposed to dress in such masculine clothes, and she was not supposed to walk in such a brisk fashion, with such confidence-inspiring steps. For a man like Draco, the encounter should have been an opportunity to assert his superiority, for a woman dressed like that must not have had the social standing of the likes of Draco.

However, he found the woman beautiful, rather than revolting. Her appearance alone was so out of the ordinary that, for a brief moment, Draco forgot his mother's teachings about etiquette and greetings as the woman came to a stand in front of him. Before he could properly introduce himself, however, the woman spoke.

"I never thought I would see Draco Lucius Malfoy alive in my lifetime," the woman said, nodding towards Draco, who was, to say the least, shocked. Not only did this woman recognise him, she also had a blatant disregard for properness, it seemed.

"For the heir of a family of such esteem, I would expect more senseless chit-chat. You surprise me," she continued. "I am Captain Hermione Jean Granger, and it is a great pleasure to meet you." She extended her right arm, as though expecting a handshake. Draco, not quite certain how well she meant, placed his right hand in hers, followed by a surprisingly firm shake. "Now, I am delighted to say my crew and I will graciously allow you on board; however, I must say we are exhausted, as we have been sailing for over a week. Mr. Malfoy, would you mind if we had a night's sleep before we embark again?"

"Not at all," Draco answered with whatever politeness he could muster.

Flabbergasted, he concluded. Flabbergasted was the most accurate word to describe his state of mind. Not only was he taken aback by the tone, he was also frightened, almost outraged, by the lack of subtlety of the woman's—Captain Granger's—speech. More frightening, however, was that he felt a hint of what he recognised as attraction to the bluntness of her words and her disregard for societal norms. His father would be murderous if he found out.

"Thank you." Captain Granger nodded. "Now, my crew would very much like to hear about your adventures over a cup of tea, if you would oblige."

Etiquette dictated that Draco agree, so that is exactly what he did. Over a cup of Earl Grey tea—something Draco had not tasted for five years, and was perhaps a little too excited to taste again—he spoke of the tragedy of his ship and his life as a survivor. His nobility stopped him from indulging in the finer details, especially with respect to his emotional trauma, the melancholy, and his fearful realisation of the arbitrariness of everything material, but he piqued the sailors' intrigue nevertheless.

Draco, though, had eyes only for the captain with the most beautiful brown locks he had ever seen. As he recounted how he had hunted for exotic animals, he eyed Captain Granger, gauging her response, which was no more than a raised eyebrow. When he expressed his wish to return to the art of trade and resume his long-missed life on the British Isles, Draco heard a faint, feminine snort. It seemed as though his plans to impress her had been unsuccessful—something he was not used to.

After a long night's sleep, interrupted only by his nagging plans of seduction, Draco departed the island he had begun to call home, on the ship of an intriguing yet inconceivably attractive captain. When the ship sailed away, Draco was left feeling strangely melancholic, yet restless—he was sorrowful to let his home go, but he knew it was for the better.

And perhaps, if his plans worked, he would charm the lady of the ship.