A/N: Cheers for the feedback! I might need a stiff drink or two to write the next chapter….just sayin' :) I cannot say how many chapters to go, because I keep unintentionally lying! I reckon about a handful? Don't quote me! Aiming to end this before NYE 2016, though. That would be something. Apologies for the typos. Correcting some now...belatedly.
Waterflower20: This will be my last Dramione story. Although I was thinking about taking part in Dramione advent this year. I think it's a bit late, though.
Ginny Weasley's first week on the fleet was productively spent.
She allowed herself only three hours alone with Harry in this cabin, before throwing herself into work. Surprisingly, there was minimal grumbling from Harry about this. There was also no sex, despite the fact Ginny was as keen as ever. The joy of being reunited with him again was so acute, it hurt.
This jubilation had quickly transformed into an insatiable need to have him in any way she could manage. But alas, it was not to be. They cuddled and talked instead. No fireworks, metaphorically speaking. Oh, the horrible things she'd imagined had happened to him…the anger and resentment she'd felt because he'd once again done whatever the hell he'd wanted, without consulting her.
These were their perennial issues.
Harry was the hero and Ginny was pigeonholed into the role of hapless love interest with no real agency, good sense or say in the matter. Served him right that she'd dumped his arse no less than four times already, and this included one declined proposal for marriage.
But now, things were different. Now, the stakes were so damned high, their personal problems felt trivial in comparison. Ginny wondered if this was what it was like to be Hermione, who encompassed two and a half Harrys in terms of personal responsibility.
Harry had held her close and tight. He was depleted in energy and in spirit after he updated her regarding recent events. Ginny was strong, but she not made of stone. She'd gone through most of a box of tissues by the time he finished telling her about the horrors of the fleet prior to its liberation, and about Padma and Blaise, and about what Hermione endured at the hands of Alexander Amarov.
"Where is he being kept?" Ginny had asked, in a deceptively neutral tone. Her mind was a black-blooded swirling mess of knives, broken glass and other sharp things.
Harry gave her a canny look. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious."
A snort was his initial reply. Harry read her easily enough. "You sound about as convincing as Agent Richards when he asked the same question."
"The Cowboy is recovering well?"
"I think so. He's calling me 'kid' again."
"Almost back to normal, then," Ginny concluded.
Harry grabbed her chin so that she would look at him. "Leave Amarov be. If we were allowed to damage him further, he'd be dead by my own bare hands, already. That is, if Richards doesn't get to him first. Malfoy's already had a turn. Belikov says we need Amarov. There's a lot more work to be done on the cure."
Yes, Ginny had overheard Belikov consulting with Wallen and Professor Yoshida earlier in the day. The lab work was not going well. They'd hit a wall, Belikov said. Amarov was not shaping out to be an ideal test subject, unlike Ron had been, back at Grimmauld Place. They were having trouble simply keeping Amarov alive.
Despite the similarities in their predicament, no one spoke about Ron's role at Grimmauld Place. Ginny had long ago consoled herself with the fact that Ron would have wanted to help. That meant something. Saying they'd 'used' him would be an insult to her brave brother. He'd absolutely have insisted on contributing to the creation of a cure. Who among them would have not wanted their death to actually mean something, when so many millions had died for nothing already?
Thinking of her brother still felt agonising. The pain was physical and metaphysical. The state of the world kept her very occupied, which was why the quiet moments were the worst. If you kept busy, the grief had trouble tracking you down and overtaking you. Hermione had told her this, when Ginny had confessed her inability to deal with the fact that Ron was terminally ill. Sometimes, Ginny disliked Hermione for her practical stoicism. Harry felt the same way. It wasn't that Hermione didn't feel. She felt very deeply. It was that she made the rest of them look like self-indulgent twats in the way she managed to shove her feelings into compartments to deal with at a later point.
Thankfully there was more than enough to do. Ginny saw the strain on Draco Malfoy's face, as he pushed himself nearly to the point of collapse. She and Malfoy hadn't engaged in a single conversation since she'd joined the fleet, and this suited Ginny just fine. She didn't like Malfoy. Never did, never would. Whatever was going on between Draco and Hermione (even Harry was at a loss to explain it) was serious, however. Serious-bad or serious-good? Ginny had no idea and Harry was terrible at speculating about romantic entanglements. All she knew was that Draco and Hermione had surpassed some kind of breaking point. You got the sense that an explosion was long overdue, but was on hold because the cure was the priority. How very Hermione-like, Ginny mused, rather uncharitably. Ginny wondered if they knew they were holding back a hurricane.
Hermione was juggling her tasks in the lab while looking after a small, traumatised child. Both jobs required a level of attention and commitment that made Ginny shudder to imagine. Having children was not something she or Hermione thought about very much. It was a ludicrous notion while they'd been fighting Voldemort. It seemed no less ridiculous now. Ginny didn't know a lot about kids. This may have had something to do with being the youngest in her family. No nappies to change, no younger siblings to watch while her mother sorted out the ironing. Hermione probably had scant experience, too. However, she was good at most things and Ginny got the sense that her friend was baffled about how to handle Henry. Which was ironic because by all accounts, Henry Zabini was the world's easiest child.
Ginny saw the subtle despair on the faces of Kate McAllister, Professor Yoshida, Felix Wallen and Belikov. It made her once again glad that she was not a sodding genius and was not relied upon to create miracles in test tubes. Word of the failed cure was spreading fast. Many felt that the fleet should pull anchor and sail as far away from the impending fallout as quickly as possible. Others felt that the Americans needed to be reached, somehow, and reasoned with. Some actually wanted the bombs to fall. Most who felt this way were Magical, not living in the UK and did not harbour the same inherent horror and fear of nuclear warfare as the Muggles did.
In the past week, two smaller vessels were emptied, their Muggle inhabitants reassigned to other ships in order to accommodate the transfer of all of Taransay Island's mostly magical refugees. Ginny appreciated that it was a difficult time for all. Trust was a precious commodity. While the fleet was by now used to the novelty of Harry and his wand, hundreds of wand-bearing wizards and witches was another thing altogether.
Professor Belikov was the fleet's elder statesman and was in high demand, but his attention was required in the laboratory. Accordingly, he assigned Harry, an enormous former security guard who introduced himself as Anatoli, and Marina, a stern-faced ship pilot, to the task of resettling the refugees. After making sure her family was settled in, Ginny assisted however she could, whether this involved transporting supplies between ships or soothing nerves. It helped that she was female, perceived to be unthreatening and not prone to holding her wand out as if expecting a horde of rabid Muggles to attack.
The same could not be said for all the magical refugees.
"Mr Barnes, either you stash your wand or I'm going to do it for you. And you're not going to like where I put it," said Ginny, through clenched teeth. Several Muggle children and their alarmed mother were within earshot.
The man she'd addressed was clutching a carpet bag of Reduced belongings as if anticipating their confiscation at any moment.
"What if they—"
"What if we left you on Taransay?" she countered, her impatience evident. "Would that suit you better?"
He gulped. "No."
"Then stop using your wand to punctuate sentences."
Barnes stowed away his wand, still looking uncertain. Uncertainty was fine. Ginny could handle that. Mutinous was another matter.
Several of the younger wizards were not enjoying being told what to do by their Muggle peers. Minor scuffles had broken out. Nothing major. A few cases of, "Oh yeah, are you going to make me?" followed by shoving and shirt-fronting. Neville and a dozen other more level-headed wizards had volunteered to permanently remain on the refugee vessels to maintain law and order.
As tetchy as the newcomers were, they were subdued by the sheer, imposing scale and spectacle of the fleet. Ginny reminded herself that many of the magical folk had never been out on the ocean, let alone amidst such modern Muggle technology and amenities. It would take a while for everyone to get used to everything, and each other.
As always, it was the women who provided an undercurrent of stability and calm. Ginny saw their initial, goggle-eyed expressions, but they rather efficiently got on with life. Bedding was organised. Children needed to be cleaned and fed of an evening. Meals were prepared. No matter how disgruntled, the men were kept busy with tasks, asked to fetch this or do that. By the end of the first week, kids were giggling and playing tag in the corridors, teenagers were making calf eyes at each other, grandparents were tucking grandchildren into clean beds, on full stomachs. No one had been dragged off and set alight (some idiot had been spreading tales of the Salem witch trials). No one had to pay for their room and board with their own valuables. No one had been harmed or molested in any way.
And everyone had been allowed to keep their wands.
Ginny could well appreciate how anxious this must have made the Muggles. It was testament to Belikov's positive influence and leadership that such trust had been extended to the magical contingent of the fleet. It would not do to abuse this trust in any way. There had already been enough tragedy and violence.
It was sundown. Malfoy would have left his cabin to start his night shift in the labs. It was time to run a special errand. Ginny stopped by the cabin occupied by her parents and George. There were a few moist looks shared between Ginny and Molly when the small bundle was handed over, but they agreed it was the best use of Ron's wand.
Ginny delivered it to Hermione.
Henry had gone to sleep in the late afternoon, tired by a week's worth of excitement brought on by the fleet's newest residents. The fleet now housed just under a thousand children. Friendships were already forming in the midst of games and play. Oh, the resilience or children, Hermione thought, as she glanced towards Henry's sleeping form. They were a marvel, to be sure.
The Taransay ships, as the rest of the fleet were now calling them, had been filled and stocked and were now an established part of the fleet. There was a new normal and it included an almost even number of Magical and Muggle fleet residents. There'd been a few hot collars to begin with, but everyone had settled down with admirable patience.
Hermione spread a box of notes before her on the bed. Unwilling to disturb Henry's sleep, she'd only left a single lamp on. This was not ideal for reading, but her eyes had adjusted after a while. She read for hours, until a headache threatened to split her head in two. She drank some water and reached for a small packet of paracetamol in the bedside drawer. The headaches were new, as was her sudden ability to detect smells that previously had never bothered her before. But then, she paused. On the table was Ron's wand, having been delivered to the cabin personally by Ginny earlier that evening. Hermione picked up the wand and placed the tip against her temple, casting a simple pain-relieving spell.
It felt like heaven to use magic once more. Prickly, electric, heaven. She wanted to bathe in the feeling, to curl into a ball and quietly soak up the kaleidoscopic feelings that travelled from her hand, up her arm, across both arms, to her body, seeming to rush back to her core and then expand outwards again, connecting with something in the ether and awaiting her mind to focus on another spell.
After Ginny had left, Hermione tried almost a dozen spells, feeling gluttonous and delirious. Of course, Ron's wand felt like Ron, so all the spell casting culminated in a few minutes spent sobbing into a pillow, as a rush of emotions assailed her like a rugby tackle. And then, she'd put the wand away and resumed reading the notes. Occasionally, she'd come across Draco's beautiful, slanted writing, running a fingertip over the words.
Abnormalities in catecholamine and cortisol levels (Mercer to confirm), he'd written down.
Decreased release of noradrenaline impairing uptake of Re-Gen. Did G account for this?
'G' stood for Granger, she assumed. And yes, G had accounted for it. In the very first version of ReGen, injections of noradrenaline were administered in the event of a severe drop in blood pressure of the Infected person. This provided a more optimal environment for ReGen to work its magic, so to speak. Later versions didn't require this intervention.
McAlister needs reminding.
What of? Hermione wondered. The next line hinted at an answer.
Whiskey had been jotted down in a series of different fonts, which included bubble writing. Hermione had to smile.
And soberingly, right next to that, was a bullet-pointed list of experiments they had never got a chance to run.
Project Christmas' resident Guinea Pig, he'd called Ron.
Hermione swallowed. It hurt to read that. She pushed aside the folder, wondering why she was even bothering, telling herself that she needed to be able to rationalise her decision. It didn't take a review of the notes to help her make up her mind. She'd known what she'd needed to do days ago.
She packed up the folders, putting them back neatly into the box and pushed the box just under the bed. One last check on Henry, who was sound asleep. She smoothed back his hair, kissed him gently on the forehead and climbed into bed, leaving the lamp on. The time on the digital bedside clock told her it was 4:13am. Hermione made sure to turn off the alarm. There was a chance Draco would not even return to the cabin, choosing to sleep on the futon in the lab instead.
But she had gambled on poorer odds than that.
At 5am, thirty minutes before the start of Hermione's shift, the cabin door opened. As always, Draco moved silently across the room. On most nights, she would not even realise he had returned until the clock alarm—always set to a low volume—woke her up. As was his wont, after pulling clean clothes from the drawers, he headed directly to the bathroom for a shower. When he emerged, he would sleep on his end of the lounge.
Hermione waited until she could hear the water. Feeling calmer than she'd thought she'd be, she rose from the bed and walked across to Henry to tuck his bare feet under the covers. It was amazing how children slept. Some mornings, his head would end up where his feet had been at the start of the night. Satisfied that he was still in deep sleep, she proceeded to the bathroom door. Pausing just outside the door, she pulled off all of her clothing – pyjama pants, jumper, t-shirt, thermal singlet, socks and underwear. She thought about just leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor, but then gave in to the urge to fold the lot and place it on a chair beside the dresser.
At the dresser mirror, Hermione caught a quick glimpse of her reflection, and was instantly wary. She had an embattled relationship with her reflection that entire year. Terrible things tended to precede and proceed her mirror-assisted ponderings. If you were a Sybil Trelawney-type, you tended to be careful around mirrors.
This time was different, however. Backlit by the low golden glow of the bedside lamp, Hermione saw a woman who carried tangible and intangible scars. Physically, the scars marked her as unique, more than anything else superficial. There was nothing particularly special about her. She was not tall, nor was she tiny. She was not particularly fit or unfit. Not beautiful and not unattractive. She wondered if her breasts were any bigger. They didn't look it, but they were definitely more tender. She was smart, but her reflection could never advertise that. Unless you looked in her eyes, perhaps? She touched the shrapnel wound in her upper thigh, and then ran her fingers across the puckered scar at her abdomen where a bullet had tried its best to rip through her insides. She realised her hair was still in a braid. Hermione pulled the braid apart with her fingers and then spread her curly hair over her shoulders. It was so long now that it nearly reached her waist. There was the scar at her forehead that Padma had told her not to feel embarrassed about. She didn't. She looked at her body, flatteringly lit as it was, and thought about the tangible and intangible things that had shaped her that year. She placed a hand at her still-flat belly, turning so that she could view her profile in the mirror.
She felt a strange, uplifting sensation. Sometimes, there was such power in acceptance.
Hermione padded across to the bathroom door and opened it. There was no lock. Amarov had not permitted one when Draco had been kept in the room and no one had seen a reason to install one now.
Thank goodness for small mercies.
