A/N: There was a crucial bit which I neglected to include in Chapter 35 (basically, I forgot to make sure that Hermione knew about the bombs hoax). I had to go back and add it. You may wish to re-read the previous chapter. Or not :)

WARNING: Trigger warnings apply for this chapter (i.e. non-con). PLEASE TAKE NOTE.

Hermione's exhaustion had long since passed Fatigue, arriving at a previously undiscovered destination called Wakeful Delirium. Each blink felt like it was happening at half-speed. She regretted not accepting food from Prestin. Some sugar in her blood might make a crucial difference. It hadn't mattered earlier, when all she had to worry about was her own resolve, but now it certainly did. She had to think fast and be fast.

"What's on your mind?" Amarov asked her, his voice sleepy. "You look troubled."

"Do you think about her?"

He knew to whom she was referring. "Every day."

"What was she like, your fiancée?"

Amarov considered the question. "The opposite of you, actually."

"Tall, blonde, good-looking?"

He smiled, caught her hand and kissed her wrist. "Dependent, spiteful, spoilt. But we got along very well. She understood me." He began running a finger across her collarbone, and then lower, tracing the parting in the robe.

"Did Honoria understand you?" Hermione asked, forcing herself not to flinch away.

"Yes, I believe she did, which is why she sensed blood in the water as soon as you came on board."

"How do you mean?"

Amarov began to undo the knot in the belt of her robe. "I like…unusual things. I enjoy being challenged, but only if it ends with my winning. Or with acquisition." He sat up, parting the edges of the robe until Hermione's body was fully exposed to him. His breathing began to pick up. "I don't like to lose."

He ran his palm over the skin of her belly, stopping just above the dark pink scar tissue of her gunshot wound; the same wound Amarov had caused and Draco had sewed up. "Pity about the ugly scar."

His right hand slid under her hair as he pressed her face to his, kissing her. This was very different to their last kiss. This kiss was a prelude to something serious. How odd that after three years without kissing anyone, with only a moody, on-again, off-again unworkable relationship with Ron, she'd been kissed three time in the last three months and all three occasions had been with 'the enemy'.

Amarov's kiss was not aggressive or angry like Draco's had been in the Hogwarts' library. This was designed to lull and convince. He was a salesman, after all. She felt his hand on one breast, and then the other, before it slid lower down her body.

It got difficult at this point—staying still, acting receptive, and resisting the urge to cocoon herself in all the sheets on the bed. His mouth left hers, running down her neck to where his hands had just been.

"You're beeping," she pointed out.

"I think we can do away with this thing now. It's been such a trial." He reached up a hand to punch in a code on the inverted number pad of his biofeedback device.

It turned off. Just like that. So easy. This was the lie that had held an entire fleet of people in a terrified thrall.

Presently, he sat up to pull his jumper over his head. Hermione slipped her arms out of her robe, but was careful to still remain lying on the garment.

"You are so beautiful," he told her. "Perhaps I haven't come away empty-handed today, after all."

And then he lay on top of her. Hermione glanced at the gun on the bedside table. It was close, but on the wrong side of the bed. She would have to roll over him and at this point, she was unwilling to provide any incentive for Amarov to find an opportunity to remove his trousers. Instead, she reached down with her right hand, finding the robe and dragging it upwards until the pocket was within reach. She slipped her hands into the pocket and gripped the machete blade tightly, using her thumb to drag down the toilet paper that was wadded around the tip of the blade, exposing it.

Timing was everything. And also nothing, considering she was essentially about to be raped. Her panic was held in check by the flimsiest of threads. Any more of this and she was going to scream.

Amarov was kissing down her shoulder just as she tried to stab him in the side of his neck. The blade absolutely would have met its mark, had Amarov not been expecting it. He caught her wrist in a punishing grip, squeezing the bones in between his thumb and index finger. Hermione cried out, dropping the shard to the carpeted floor.

"Beautiful and deadly, it seems," he smirked down at her. "Turns out I owe Honoria an apology."

"Get off me!"

"After I'm done."

She let the panic out, bucking, hitting, scratching, before he cuffed her in the side of her face. Pain exploded across her cheekbone. It hurt. The right side of her vision was rendered fuzzy for a moment.

"Don't look so distraught. I'm not a monster. You'll enjoy this. I assure you I've had no complaints before."

Hermione pulled her knee back to kick him, but he caught her ankle, ran his hands up her calf and flipped her, bodily, onto her stomach. She screamed. He straddled her, locking her arms behind her back and pushing her face down into the mattress until she couldn't breathe.

"There will be no fighting and no screaming, my dear. That would be counterproductive to our mutual enjoyment, wouldn't it?" Still holding her arms in place with one hand, he used his other hand to undo his belt buckle.

"I must confess I've never had a witch quite like you before. The others have all come along willingly when provided with suitable incentives. What about you, Hermione? Are you going to behave?" He lifted her face off the mattress by sharply pulling back on her hair. "Are you?"

Hermione's eyes were screwed shut. There were bed sheet creases over her face, the right side of which was already swelling up. "Yes," she winced.

"Excellent." He flipped her over again so that he was straddling her stomach this time. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think I couldn't guess? I must say, the blade is a nice touch. I was sure you'd go for the gun."

His knees were pressing on her chest. Hermione felt like her ribs were about to break.

"Do you people think that just because you have the gift of magic, it somehow makes you more valuable than me? Better than me? I hate you," he spat. "All of you."

"I know," she replied, sorrowfully.

Her sincere response surprised him. For a moment, it looked like he was experiencing a moment of self-doubt, but it was so fleeting Hermione thought she might have imagined it. "You are different, you know that? You make me want to care about you. You're as dangerous as Honoria claims."

He shifted away from her. They'd moved closer to the bedside table and he wasn't holding her hands down any more. The gun was so close….so very close. There was nothing for it, he was probably going to kill after he was done with her, anyway. Hermione lunged for the gun, almost crying out with joy when her hand wrapped around the handle. She aimed it at face and did not hesitate for a second.

She pulled the trigger.

Click.

He'd been bluffing. There was no way he'd leave a loaded weapon near her, even if it was meant to be a taunt. The man was a psychopath.

"That's my girl," he smiled at her, and then he wrapped his hands around her throat and began to squeeze.

Amarov's elite guards were, as crews went, rather motley. Some were former thugs for hire with no family attachments to make them vulnerable. They had survived the worst of the Infection's early days because of their prior training and access to illegal weapons than the average suburban family had no chance of acquiring. In the zombie apocalypse, the meek did not inherit the earth. They got eaten.

Other guards had once been gangsters or petty crooks. Three of them had been Amarov's personal bodyguards. Before the Infection, their jobs were reasonably cushy. It mainly involved driving Amarov to work, to restaurants, to nightclubs and back, manhandling occasional paparazzi and ensuring that his lady friends were discreetly exited from his residences, the morning after. They did not work for Amarov due to some sense of innate loyalty. Theirs was a loyalty that could be bought with money or the promise of rewards, or disrupted if a better deal presented itself.

It was also safe to say that all of these men knew their way around a firearm and were more than capable of defending themselves against the Undead. Zombies were terrifying, but they did not shoot back. The fact was that surviving a zombie outbreak also entailed surviving other survivors. People were unpredictable. They were capable of extraordinary acts of heroism (and conversely, stupidity). They lied. They formed alliances.

They walked onto the bridge of the Morning Star to face fifteen armed guards, all of whom drew their weapons simultaneously. Draco stood at six feet, two inches, but still looked somewhat dubious holding on to Anatoli, who was twice his bulk and three heads taller. It helped that Anatoli's hands were tied behind his back and a pistol was pressed to his neck.

"Drop the gun!" ordered one of the guards.

Draco looked almost offended. "I don't think you know how this works. You see, this man is my hostage. I caught him, fair and square. If you want him back in one piece, I ask that you listen to my proposition. I've killed quite enough of you tonight. No one else needs to die."

There were a few chuckles. "There's only one person drying here tonight."

"Who is this fool? Is he from the 'Peia?"

"He's Alexander's scientist—one of the wizards from London."

"You are crazy, wizard!"

"I'm crazy?" Draco scoffed. "I'm not the one who's about to sail off with limited fuel and no supplies. You had a nice thing going here and it doesn't have to end just because the good guys have taken over the fleet. You did hear the broadcast made by my people, didn't you? There were never any explosives. It was all a ploy to convince you that Amarov had the upper hand, to control you and everyone else in this fleet."

One among the men stepped forward. "Even so, it doesn't matter. You're outnumbered, here, wizard. This will not end well for you. We'll shoot you, with or without Anatoli in the way."

"I told you," Anatoli muttered.

"Be quiet," snapped Draco. "How was Amarov paying you?" he asked them. "In rations, correct? How do you think he's going to continue rewarding you for risking your lives every single day, now that my people have all his resources?"

As Anatoli had confirmed for Draco, this was a very germane concern among the guards. The only reason they were still active in their roles was due to inertia. They hadn't considered their options post-Amarov. Not yet, anyhow.

"We don't want any more killing. Not here, not in the prison hold or in the Pit," Draco looked at each of the men. "There's been quite enough of that already. I'm proposing a peaceful surrender. Give me Amarov and I promise you amnesty. You can re-join the fleet and share in our shelter, food, water, medicine."

"How do we know we can trust you or your people?"

"You don't, but the alternative is worse. If I'm telling the truth, you stand a chance of carving out a reasonable standard of living within the fleet. With Amarov, you'll be adrift on the ocean, or you'll run aground within a week. Do you know what an unpaid servant is called? Because that's exactly what you all are."

Doubt spread like a virus. It was almost visible in real time. Some of the men whispered to each other, some argued and cursed. One man eventually came forward, dropping his weapon at Draco's feet. The rest fell like dominos after this.

"I'd like a berth on the Normandy. It's one of the oil tankers. I used to work on one, a long time ago."

"There's a girl on the Istana…she'll be happy to see me again."

"Please, I need medicine for my lungs."

Common sense prevailed. The guards abandoned the bridge without a single shot fired. They were told to wait on the deck for further instructions. After Draco untied Anatoli's hands, the large guard pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the perspiration on his brow.

"In English, how do you say it? My pants? They are brown."

"Thank you, Anatoli. That's lovely."

"You are welcome, Weezard."

A detail belatedly occurred to Draco. "Prestin wasn't here."

Anatoli picked up one of the abandoned rifles. "My pleasure to find that rat man."

"Wait," Draco stopped him. "Don't kill him. He's currently the fleet's only qualified doctor. We'll put him to work."

"Fine." Anatoli swapped the pistol for Draco's tranquiliser gun. "This OK?"

"Better. Radio Blaise and tell him to send two boats."

"Why two?"

Draco dropped his other rifles, taking only a single handgun. "One for the guards. Another to transport Amarov and Prestin. I don't want everyone on the same transport vessel."

"Good idea. After that, do you want me to go with you?"

"Not for this next bit," said Draco and then he was sprinting down the corridor in the direction of Renauld's quarters.

The pressure was agonising. Hermione felt like her eyes were going to rupture from their sockets. Her fingers clawed at Amarov's hands, trying desperately to pry them lose. But she could not dislodge him. Her vision began to grow fuzzy again.

And then suddenly the pressure released. Blood roared past her ears, which was probably why the sounds of the door opening or Amarov being flung across the room didn't immediately register. Hermione rolled over to her side, coughing violently as her bruised throat struggled to let air in. To her utter amazement and relief, Draco was suddenly above her, though she could barely see him through bleary, tear-logged eyes. The hands at the side of her face were the most gentle she'd encountered in the last twenty-four hours. She grabbed his wrists and squeezed them to reassure him. Merlin knew she had no voice to use at the moment.

Hermione felt him pull the sheets around her before he was gone. Still gulping in air, watching from a foetal position on the bed, she saw Draco stalk Amarov across the room. Amarov was shirtless, dishevelled and panicked. It was amazing how small and slight he looked, now that all his power was gone.

Draco, in contrast, was enormous in his cold fury. He was holding a single gun and looked like he was about to rip Amarov limb from limb, but in a controlled, methodical manner.

"Not so brave without your threats, your guards or your guns, are you?"

Amarov turned to the weakest link in the room. "Hermione, listen to me. It doesn't have to be like this… I apologise for hurting you, I was angry. I was defending myself…"

"Do not speak to her."

Hermione really wanted to get to her feet, but she was worried her legs would collapse beneath her. Draco did not need that kind of distraction. Where was everyone else; the so-called rebels? Surely he wasn't here by himself?

Amarov turned his attention back to Draco, staring at him as if he'd only just see him. He backed up until Renauld's armoire was behind him, holding up placating hands.

"Let us discuss this like civilised people."

Draco's chuckle was low and sinister. He didn't advance on Amarov, but paced back and forth in front of him. "Oh, you and I are far from civilised."

Something snapped in Amarov. Hermione had never seen him so angry. She supposed it was fitting for him to lose his cool now, when all control had already been stripped from him. As for Draco, Hermione could be forgiven for believing she was looking at Lucius Malfoy.

"Do you know who I am!"

"Yes," nodded Draco. "You're the fool who's managed to make a Death Eater want to kill you. You may have heard of us? We make your pathetic attempts at genocide look like a playground spat."

"Oh, I know all about your kind!"

"I doubt it," Draco said. "You don't look anywhere near worried enough. Allow me to remedy that." He grabbed Amarov by his neck and hauled him up higher, until both men were eye to eye. Draco spoke quickly and precisely. "I served one of the most powerful sorcerers to walk this plane of existence. He showed me many things, Mr Amarov, dark, malevolent, otherworldly things that would haunt you behind your closed eyes. You are absolutely correct to fear and distrust us, because to my former Master, you people were less than animals. You were a stain on the surface of a world that ought to belong to my kind." Draco slammed Amarov against the armoire and stood over him.

"As you can see, I don't need my magic to kill you. But had I my wand, I would hurt you in ways you could scarcely imagine. I'd make sure you survive this. I'd turn you into something unrecognisable, twisted, hideous and in ceaseless pain. I'd root you into the ground for all to see. You'd remain there for as long as I wish it. Suffering. In misery and in abject humiliation. You would remain like that as testament to what happens when you cross not the best of my people, but the absolute, unmitigated worst among us; the darkest the magical race has to offer. That's wizards like me, Mr Amarov."

"Hermione…please. "You're not a killer." Amarov tried to look at her again, but was thwarted when Draco grabbed his hair to hold his head still.

"You will never see her or speak to her ever again, you son of a bitch. And she doesn't need to be a killer," Draco said, before pistol-whipping Amarov. "She has me."

The next steps Draco took were less steady. He stared at Hermione, walked to the bed, faltering slightly, but reached it in time to catch her as she launched herself at him. They held on to each other, unspeaking. Hermione buried her face into Draco's neck, releasing great, wracking sobs that ran through her entire body. Concerned that he was going to drop her, Draco turned them around so that he could sit on the bed.

Hermione was wrapped in a sheet and curled up in Draco's lap when Anatoli found them in the room. The guard noted Amarov slumped over in the corner.

"Oh, good. You're alive," said Anatoli. "It is done, then?"

"Nearly. Did you find Prestin?"

"I did. I put three darts in him. One to stop him, two more because I don't like him."

"And no one else remains on the ship?" Draco asked. He kept his voice very low and quiet.

Anatoli took Draco's que, lowering his voice. "No one still breathing. Is she OK?" he asked, frowning at Hermione. Her eyes were open, but she seemed uninterested in what was transpiring. There were deep bruises forming around her throat and it looked like she was on her way to developing a black eye.

Draco shook his head, subtly. "She needs Belikov to look at her. I'd like to get her back to the home ship immediately." He turned to look at the unconscious Amarov. "And him, too."

"Zabini has sent for the transport boats already. There is one other thing you might like to know. Good news on the radio."

"Good news?" Draco said, wearily. His right hand was rubbing slow, concentric circles into Hermione's back. "I think I'd forgotten what that even sounds like. What is it?"

"They caught Honoria. She disguised herself, tried to pass off as a prisoner when they were being transferred across to the Cassiopeia."

"How was she discovered?"

Anatoli broke out into a huge grin. "Zabini's little boy. He was standing on the 'Peia's deck, welcoming the new arrivals when he spotted her. Zabini says the boy was on top of her in a flash."

A/N: Reviews are love! Chapter 37 will be posted within the next few hours.