A/N: Lorett, if you're reading this—I most certainly do remember you! It's been ages! :)
Two days later, Draco awakened in the home ship's laboratory/infirmary to find Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini looming over him. The child was standing on a chair that was precariously tilted on two legs. He peered down at Draco, wearing an amused expression.
"What's so funny?" Draco asked, or croaked, more like it. His throat was dry. He was also nauseous and terribly thirsty, the aftereffects of the anaesthetic Belikov had administered in order to see to his wounds.
"The Professor cut your hair. It was burned. He said it smelled bad and had to go."
"How cruel, to cut a man's hair while he's asleep," said Draco.
Henry giggled. "The Professor's not a very good hair-cutter. Do you want to see the drawing I made?"
"Of my hair cut?"
"No," Henry said, rolling his eyes. "Another thing."
Draco's eyelids were too heavy. He closed them. "Sure."
"Henry! Get off that chair before you fall off and crack your skull open!" It was Blaise. He plucked his son off the chair and set him down.
"Sorry if he woke you," said Blaise. "If it's any consolation, no one's had much sleep. The brew from the fleet's distillery has been unleashed. It's the worst facsimile of alcohol I have ever tasted, and this includes Goyle's dungeon moonshine in sixth year. I estimate about half the residents are already drunk and the other half is catching up. How are you feeling?"
"Fantastic." Draco rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead and was momentarily confused by the odd, tactile sensation. And then he remembered that both his hands were bandaged, after the excruciating process of peeling off the gloves. "How long was I out?"
"Two days, on and off."
"Where's Hermione?"
"She declined any dinner and is taking some air on the deck. It's just after seven."
Draco reached for a glass of water from the trolley beside the bed.
"Here, let me help you. You're dexterously challenged at the moment."
Blaise assisted Draco in bringing the glass to his lips, whereupon he drained the contents in three long swallows.
"How goes the new order?" Draco asked. He wiped his mouth and settled back against the pillows.
Blaise groaned. "It's a challenge, but we're already receiving expressions of interest and nominations for a representative committee of Muggles and Magicals. The Committee will oversee the rebuilding of the fleet. No more unilateral decisions. Eight ships left this morning, many of them carrying Amarov's inner circle and some of the elite guards. Good riddance, I say! One of them was the Belarus, our largest oil tanker. However, we do have spares. We have also the desalination unit, thanks to Amarov's successful field trip. You'll be pleased to know we are still resource-rich, particularly if we properly ration everything. Suffice it to say, Amarov and his cronies were living a champagne and caviar lifestyle only because the rest of the fleet was barely scraping by."
"Is he secured?"
"Tied up and locked inside one of his own vaults. Honoria and Prestin are being kept in different vaults, alongside. Did you know that posh bastard has four Picassos on this ship?"
"Speaking of art…" Draco inclined his head to Henry, who had returned with his drawing.
"Can I show the man?" Henry asked his father.
Blaise put his son on his knee. "Yes. And you can stop calling him 'the man'. His name is Draco."
"Here's my drawing," Henry said, shyly.
The two adults examined the artwork. "Oh," said Blaise, "My. Is that…."
"Honoria," Draco concluded.
Henry nodded. "The nasty woman. Did my dad tell you? I caught her sneaking!"
"Yes, I heard about that. Very clever, Henry. You'd make an excellent Auror."
"Over my dead body," muttered Blaise.
"And is that you kicking her?"
"Yes!" Henry said, beaming. He was very happy the man could decipher his drawings. His own father was often at a loss.
"What is that in your hand?" It looked like rope.
"That's her hair. I pulled some out from her head when I jumped on her. Only by accident."
Draco looked impressed. Blaise looked pained. "And we've discussed how dangerous and silly that was, haven't we? You could have been hurt, Henry."
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry."
"Go and show your drawing to Anatoli. He'd appreciate it, I'm sure."
"He would," Draco agreed, after Henry left again. He coughed, and then winced from the discomfort. "So what's the outcome of Vadim's poking and prodding?"
Blaise sat back in his chair. "Best we can tell, you scorched your lungs, you have three fractured ribs, four gashes that were deep enough to require stitches and second degree burns over the tops of your hands."
"And a bad haircut, apparently," Draco added, reaching for some more water.
"In short, you are in predictably bad shape. But by some miracle, you, Granger, Anatoli and all fifteen of those guards made it off the Morning Star alive. I'm told, by the power of persuasion."
"More like self-preservation. How is she?"
It was the way that Draco asked the question that determined how Blaise answered it. He knew what Draco was asking.
"Whatever Amarov was intending to do to her…you arrived before the worst of it."
"Really?" said Draco, deceptively mild. "After already surviving the Pit, he was strangling her when I walked into that room."
Blaise treaded very carefully now. "Which begs the question, why is he still alive? I don't think I could have held back, had I been in your position."
The look Draco gave him was bone-chilling. "Trust me, I haven't held back. What about Granger's other injuries?"
"Prestin took a blood sample from her after she was pulled out of the Pit. Belikov checked the results and she's been cleared of the Infection. Physically, there shouldn't be any lasting injuries. I'm not a Muggle head doctor, but she's badly traumatised. She wasn't catatonic when you brought her in, but damn close to it. Belikov couldn't get a full sentence out of her when he was treating her—Malfoy what are you doing?"
Draco was already off the bed. "You left her alone," he said. "Unwise."
"You are in no position to be traipsing around the ship! You can barely stand!"
"Already standing," growled Draco, before discovering a minor problem. "Now get me some pants or get out of my way."
When Draco found her, Hermione was sitting with her legs hanging over the edge of the empty swimming pool that was recessed into the deck of the home ship. Around them, the lights of the fleet looked plentiful and beautiful, perhaps all the more so because many fleet residents were still celebrating.
She was dressed in an oversized shearling jacket and baggy trousers. Her hair was clean, dry and French-braided. They'd found her a pair of worn sneakers to wear. She didn't look up when Draco gingerly sat down next to her, functioning at only one-third his usual speed. His ribs protested, but the pain-killers kept the worst of it at bay.
"You should be in the infirmary," she told him. While her choice of greeting was quintessentially Hermione, Draco was concerned to note the utter lack of nag in her voice.
"It's cold here. Come downstairs and have something to eat."
"I'd like to stay." She finally looked at him. Even in the low light, he could see the bruises on her face. He knew he was scowling. Not at her, but scowling nonetheless.
"Thank you for coming to get me," she said, looking down at the dark, empty swimming pool. There was a shallow, stagnant puddle at the bottom. "That's the third time you've saved my life, at great risk to your own."
"Then treat it with more care," he admonished.
Damn it. He had no idea how to go about providing her with what she needed. This was not a scientific conundrum. He couldn't hex, shoot, browbeat or intimidate this problem into submission. They—if indeed there was even a 'they'—were unchartered territory. He could not run experiments, could not waste time testing hypotheses and observing. She needed assistance and he needed to determine how best to provide that, immediately. He wanted to touch her, of course. He'd wanted to since Grimmauld Place, but right now she was the most fragile porcelain.
He saw that she was looking at his bandaged hands.
"Not your fault," he said, because somewhere over the last three months, he had at least acquired the ability to occasionally read her mind.
"Anatoli said you started that fire to save Padma and me."
"Yes. Not that it did much to help her in the end."
He instantly regretted speaking. Talk of Patil did not go down so well. She swiped the sleeve of her coat under her eyes. "I don't think I'm handling this very well. I can't sleep. I can't even manage the simplest tasks without breaking down," she told him, with a humourless laugh. "Honestly, Malfoy. I couldn't write my own name if you asked me too. My head's all muddled. Loud noises make me flinch. Even the other scientists cleaning beakers in the lab sent me scarpering. I think I scared Henry Zabini yesterday. I saw him and goodness, he's adorable, isn't he? What did I do? I burst into tears. I can't think, I can't do. It's excruciating just….being. I want to not be, just for a little while, if it's possible? If that even makes sense?"
"Granger," he began, "there is no correct way to handle this. No points for Gyrffindor to be earned here. You've been through a great deal, after already going through a great deal in the last twelve months. We all have our breaking points."
"Except for you." She stared at him, almost mutinously. It was slightly heartening. "You're not falling to pieces."
He brought up a knee and balanced his forearm upon it. "That doesn't mean I haven't got a breaking point. If I do, I'm not keen to know what it would take."
"Before you found me, I had smuggled out a broken blade from the Pit. I kept it in my boot, the boots Padma kept telling me to put on, ironically. It was in my pocket when I…when I was in bed with Amarov."
"Clever," was all he said, through gritted teeth. Because if he said out loud what he wanted to do to Amarov, she was going to scarper from him.
"Only the blade wasn't for Amarov. Before I knew the biofeedback device and the bombs were all a sham, that blade was meant for me. You see…" she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I was a coward. In the Pit, there was a moment when I was sure I was going to die, and I hoped my death would mean that they would let Padma out. They said only one of us could leave the Pit alive. The thing is, I was almost happy! There was relief, Draco. I wouldn't have to fight, worry, love, lose, any of it. Not any longer. So when Padma sacrificed herself instead, I was…" her voice broke.
He placed one of his bandaged hands against hers. Not holding it, just touching, side by side.
"….I was angry at Padma for taking that escape away from me." Hermione shut her eyes. "I didn't want to survive her loss. That makes me the most awful, selfish, ungrateful human being."
The follow up to these dark revelations was too important to risk by using the wrong words. So they sat in silence for a few minutes. Refuting her assessment of her actions was not going to be productive at that point. His reassurances would fall on deaf ears. She needed some distance from the event.
Draco had to address one specific matter, however.
"Granger, if you felt or feel anything for me, promise that you will never, ever take that option. And if you feel you might, you will tell me. Promise me."
"I promise," she said, more easily that he liked. He frowned.
"Our last conversation at Grimmauld Place was about sharing the burdens you bear. I want you to do that with me. Let me carry some of the weight. Hell, let me carry all of it."
Hermione gave him a small, watery smile, crawled forward towards him and surprised him by kissing him on the mouth. She kissed with fierce desperation, taking his face in her hands, careful of the cut above his left eye, running her fingers up through his uneven hair and clutching at the front of his jumper like she was trying to claw something out of him. For the second time in two days, she was in his lap, this time with her legs wrapped around his hips. He slid his injured hands down her back, cupping her backside, pulling her closer because it felt indecently good… and so few things had felt this good in such a long time.
He bore the brunt of her gentle assault, but soon, concern for her started to overwhelm his baser urges. She had not even begun to recover from Amarov's attack. This was not the place for this and this was most certainly not the time.
It wasn't until the kiss began to turn decidedly carnal, until she began to softly moan into his mouth and grind into him, did Draco understand the depths of her distress. This was not authentic Hermione. This was Hermione struggling to find a distraction, a drug, something powerful and heady to transport her away from the present. Her small, questing hands worked their way under his jumper and the t-shirt beneath, testing and kneading the muscles of his chest, brushing past the bandages that bound his injured ribs and the cut along his side. They dipped lower still. He gently caught them when she began to tug at the waistband of his trousers.
She pulled her mouth away, her lips red and glistening, her face flushed. "No?" she asked, looking so painfully young that Draco wanted to go downstairs and rip Amarov's fucking head clean off his shoulders. He responded perhaps a little too gruffly, grabbing her around the waist and with impressive strength, lifted her off his lap.
"You don't want to…?"
Had she still been sitting on him, she wouldn't be asking such a question. It was amazing that his body apparently felt there was enough blood to spare, after losing so much of it recently.
"You need time," he said, with a voice like gravel turning in a metal bucket. Damn it, all. He could still taste her. He sucked in a slow, deep breath.
"I don't want time," she said.
"What do you want?"
"You."
Draco thought he might understand this, too. He represented everything she could not have allowed herself in the past; the freedom to choose (wisely or not), indulgence, instinct and want, not duty and obligation.
The first two toggles of her shearling jacket had come undone. With hands that were clumsy from more than just bandages, Draco fastened the toggles and then almost hesitantly, he pushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "In the meantime, what else can I do to help you?"
"I want to go home." It was said so softly he might have missed it if he hadn't been listening so hard.
"To Grimmauld Place?"
She shook her head. "No, not Grimmauld Place. I don't want to do any of this anymore. I quit. I want to go home."
He could have kicked himself for not working it out earlier. It was very bad, then. She didn't even want to see Potter. Not yet, anyhow.
"You want to go to your parents, in Australia."
She nodded, biting her lip. "But even though I'm not able to work right now, how can I possibly leave the research effort? What could I say to everyone?"
"Easy. You say you quit. You leave it behind and I take you with me."
"But how can I—?" This was the source of her conflict, the crippling, soul-flaying guilt.
"You can and you will," he told her, emphatically. "Come with me. And when or if you feel up to it, I'll bring you back."
"What about Project Christmas and the end of year deadline?"
"If London burns, then it burns and no one can say you didn't try your best to prevent that in the face of adversity that would have destroyed lesser people. We've made considerable progress. And Zabini will bring Potter and the staff from Grimmauld Place to continue working on the cure."
"Leaving all of them is cowardly."
"Not for you. You cannot help them right now."
"But what about you? They need you."
He got to his feet and pulled her up. "Belikov and his team will more than make do with Wallen, Yoshida and McAllister. The complete D.R.A.C.O. formula is here for them. As for me, haven't you learned anything at all? After Hogwarts, I bloody well do what I want."
She gave him a quiet, heavy look. "And what do you want?"
He sidestepped the question, posing one in return. "Do you think staying here would be good for you? If you honestly do, then we'll stay."
Draco could see how much she wanted to lie to him, and for them to both believe her lie. But she could not bring herself to say it. She looked beyond him, at the fleet in the distance. "No," she said.
He was proud of her. For probably the first time since she arrived at Hogwarts, she was putting what she wanted above what she was expected to do.
"But how would we even get to Australia? The International Floo network is dismantled."
"If we go, it'll be by Portkey."
Her look of wide-eyed incredulity was endearing. It occurred to Draco that the problem with wearing your heart on your sleeve all the time was the likelihood that it could get squashed. "You have a Portkey?"
"No, but I know exactly where to find one."
A/N: PTSD is a hell of a thing :(
Ten points to Slytherin if you can guess where Draco might be able to source a hidden Portkey.
Side note: I think kids' drawings are the funniest things. I think adults attempting to makes heads or tails of kids' drawings are the second funniest things.
Next chapter: The fate of Amarov and Honoria, Blaise loses his shit at Draco, and a journey home. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten magic and Grimmauld Place (poor Harry). We'll come to that soon.
Reviewer responses: Waterflower20, that's sound advice! However, I'm on a mission to get this story completed before the end of the month. Hence the erratic updating. If I was planning on writing for another six months, I'd do as you suggest and space out the updates more evenly. Thanks for your understanding, though. It's really nice hearing that from readers.