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Chapter Text

The envelope was waiting for him.

Black as ink, wax sealed with a Ministry crest that hadn’t been used in years—because it had been quietly buried. Because it whispered of darker necessities. Draco Malfoy held it between his fingers, studying it like one might study a snake coiled and patient.

He didn’t open it right away.

Instead, he placed it on the counter and made tea with slow, deliberate movements, pretending he wouldn’t. Pretending he didn’t feel the old thrill in his chest—the one that pulsed in his blood when danger didn’t come with a name, but with a calling.

But curiosity had always been his worst quality.

He opened it.

One black card. Embossed with silver runes that shimmered and rearranged themselves as he tilted the surface. They spelled out a place and a time—The House of Wind and Flame. Tomorrow. 7 PM.

No sender. No explanation. Just the weight of magic so deep it tasted like ash on his tongue.

Draco stood in the ruins of what had once been a library, now scorched and refashioned into a Ministry-controlled war base. Or a grave. The House of Wind and Flame was silent as he entered—until he saw them.

She sat at the long obsidian table, her fingers tracing the black card in front of her, completely unaware that with a single glance she had tilted Draco Malfoy’s carefully constructed world off its axis.

Hermione Granger.

The name echoed like a spell he wasn’t ready to cast.

Her hair was pinned back in a practical bun, but a few stubborn curls had fallen loose, framing her face. Draco’s eyes caught on one of them—dark and wild against the pale curve of her cheek. Her robes were Ministry-issued, but she’d transfigured them tighter at the waist. Efficient. Elegant. Irritatingly attractive.

He forced up his Occlumency shields on instinct—he’d spent years building mental walls so high even dreams couldn’t climb them—but they were already buckling under the weight of sudden detail.

Her fingers—ink-stained. He remembered those fingers. Turning pages faster than he could read. Clutching a wand with surgical precision. Now they tapped lightly on the table, and Draco couldn’t stop imagining what they’d feel like gripping his wrist.

Her mouth—pressed into a line of restrained curiosity. She looked older, yes, but not worn. Sharpened. Like a blade that had been forged in something ancient and unforgiving. Her lips moved slightly as she read something on her card, and the movement sent a jolt down his spine. He wanted to know what she was thinking. He hated how much he wanted to know.

He remembered eighth year—not the exact conversations, but the feeling of her sitting beside him in the library, breathing silence into his thoughts. The tension when she corrected him on a translation of ancient runes. The almost-smile she gave him when he got it right anyway. The way her magic had felt when it brushed against his in Dueling Club—like fire wrapped in logic.

His jaw tightened.

No.

He hadn’t seen her in four years, and it hadn’t mattered. He’d buried all of it. Buried her. This mission wasn’t about the past. He was here to survive, not remember.

So he locked it all down—clamped down on the slow-growing obsession that threatened to take root. But it was too late. The image of her curl, the sound of her breath, the phantom scent of parchment and lavender—they were already embedded.

She looked up and caught his eye. Just for a moment.

And it felt like a curse.

Hermione blinked once and looked away.

Across from her sat Harry Potter, arms crossed. Neville Longbottom, who looked tired already. And Pansy Parkinson, in all black, exuding both boredom and suspicion. Draco moved to stand near her. She gave him a nod like an unspoken pact.

And then—Ron Weasley exploded.

“Are you joking? Him? Why the bloody hell is he here?” Ron slammed his card on the table. “Kingsley must’ve gone completely mental—”

“I could say the same about you, Weasley,” Draco drawled, taking the last empty seat without waiting for permission. “You're not exactly tactical brilliance.”

“Say that again, you—!”

“Enough,” Hermione snapped, her voice cutting through the rising tension. “If we’re all here, it means we received the same card. Let’s wait.”

Draco caught her gaze again. Brief. Magnetic. And gone.

They sat in simmering silence until the doors opened with a sound like tearing paper.

Kingsley Shacklebolt entered.

But this was not the man they remembered.

His face was gaunt, shadowed by long nights and burdens none of them could name. His robes were threadbare at the cuffs, darkened by smoke or worse. There was no smile. No calm. Only the cold gleam of someone who had seen too much—and made peace with doing what others wouldn’t.

He stood at the head of the table.

"You’re here because you’ve all wanted something you couldn’t have," Kingsley said, his voice like thunder after a drought. “Power. Redemption. Truth. Glory. Restoration. And I can give them to you.”

A murmur rippled across the room.

Hermione’s knuckles whitened around her card. Harry’s brow furrowed. Pansy looked sharply interested.

Draco just leaned back in his chair.

“But there’s a price,” Kingsley continued. “There’s always a price. One mission. Top secret. Two years. No contact with the outside world. You will see things no one else has survived. And if you do survive…”

He placed his hands flat on the table, staring at each of them in turn.

“…then I will pay whatever price you ask. Anything.”

A cold silence fell.

Hermione’s eyes met Draco’s again. This time, neither of them looked away.

Chapter Text

Kingsley looked at each of them in turn—hard, measuring stares that held weight.

“You were all summoned because you each have something to gain,” Kingsley began, voice like gravel. “Something only I can provide. In exchange, I’m offering a mission. Off the books. Off the map. Dangerous beyond measure. And top secret.”

No one spoke. Not even Ron.

“You want glory,” he said, pointing at Ron. “You want money,” to Neville. “You want fairness,” to Harry. “You want purpose,” to Pansy. “And you,” he looked at Hermione. “You want your parents back.”

Her breath caught. No one else could have noticed it, but Draco did.

Kingsley turned last to him. “And you want--”

“I know what I want.  I don’t need a reminder,” Draco cut off.

The room went silent again.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Ron muttered under his breath.

“Yes, you do,” Kingsley replied evenly. “You want to be remembered. To not be the footnote in a trio. To prove you’re more than the sidekick.”

Ron's jaw clenched.

Kingsley moved around the table. “Harry, you want fairness and justice.  I’ll give you the auror department.  You’ll have full reign to do what you will when you return.”

“If we return,” Ron snorted.

Kingsley pretended not to hear.  He leveled his dark eyes on Hermione. “I know you were told your parents will never remember you.  That has to have hurt, Hermione.  I have a specialist on standby who made an unbreakable vow saying that he can in fact, restore their memories of you.”

“And Mr. Longbottom, I believe you are in need of funding for a botanical sanctuary that you have been denied thrice now?  And that brings me to Pansy Parkinson. You’re the oldest of three girls with parents locked away for life without a chance of leniency. Your only role was to marry rich.  I think you want freedom. Freedom from your name.  Freedom from your role. I can give you that.  I can give you social power.”

“You could be a decent person and just give us what we want.  What we deserve,” Hermione spat.  “We fought the war while you and everyone else sat behind their protective walls.  We did everything until the final battle.”

“I’m a political man, Hermione. I can’t just play all my cards and be left with nothing.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And what do you want out of this?”

Kingsley paused. “Answers. For all of us. But I’m willing to pay what you’re owed—tenfold, a hundredfold. If you survive.”

Pansy leaned forward, her voice laced with intrigue. “So what’s the job?”

“That,” Kingsley said, drawing a thick file from beneath his cloak and laying it on the table, “comes next.”

He let the words hang. The flickering lanterns cast shadows across his face.

Draco’s throat burned. His fists clenched behind his back.

Four years in Azkaban. The echo of a muggle’s dying gasp. Voldemort’s voice in his ear. Narcissa’s life in the balance. His hands soaked in guilt.

He stared at the others—at Hermione—and wondered if they’d still look at him the same if they knew the real reason he’d gone to prison.

He saw something in her eyes. Not pity. Not fear.

Curiosity.

Understanding, maybe.

Dangerous things.

“I'm listening,” he said.

And so it began.

Even more wards were placed on the room. Blood magic.

It smelled of dark magic that was like an old friend to Draco.

The others in the room shifted uncomfortably; not being used to being around such magic.  Interestingly enough, Hermione barely reacted compared to her pet Weasel.

A single file laid on the table once Kingsley was sure the room was even more secure.

The file lay unopened in the center of the stone table like a curse waiting to be triggered.

No one moved.

Then Hermione reached for it. Her fingers were steady, but her breath wasn’t. She cracked the seal, revealing not parchment but a stack of photographs and a single, ancient scroll.

“Top secret,” Kingsley had said. And it was.

The scroll shimmered with enchantments—protective wards layered so thick that even Harry flinched when he leaned in. The writing wasn’t in English. Not even Latin. Runes, some forgotten, some illegal.

“Where did you get this?” Hermione asked, her voice low.

Kingsley didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Ron leaned around Hermione--too close for Draco’s liking--and scrunched his nose.

“How is anyone supposed to read this junk?

“Not anyone,” Draco drawled.  “Just Granger.”

The photos told the rest of the story.

Ruins. Unmapped archipelagos. Ships not made by wizards or muggles. Structures carved into mountain faces with no visible entrance. One image, charred and ripped at the corner, showed a stone gate with a skull made of bone hanging above it.

Harry exhaled. “That’s not from Earth.”

“It might not be,” Kingsley replied.

Ron let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Brilliant. So now we’re not just off the books, we’re off the planet.”

“Off the map,” corrected Kingsley. “A place lost to time, myth, and memory. The scroll is the only known record. Until last January, we believed it to be a hoax.”

“And now?” Draco asked.

Kingsley didn’t smile. “Now we’ve lost two retrieval teams. Both vanished mid-mission. No traces. No bodies. Just a single object returned—this map.”

Hermione had already begun deciphering it.

“These markings… They’re pre-Merlinian. Proto-Atlantean, maybe. There’s mention of a gate—‘The Gate of Bone’—and something called The Hundredfold Path. ”

Pansy leaned over her shoulder. “Sounds like a cult.”

“It might be,” Hermione murmured.

Kingsley nodded. “Or a test. Some believe this path was designed by the first magical civilizations to preserve knowledge—or destroy those unworthy of it.”

Draco’s voice cut through the silence. “And what’s at the end of this path?”

Kingsley met his eyes. “Whatever you want most. But only if you survive the trials.”

A pause.

“You’re sending us to find it,” Harry said. “To finish what the others couldn’t.”

“Yes.”

“Who else knows?” asked Neville.

“No one,” Kingsley replied. “Officially, this mission does not exist. I chose each of you because you’re skilled, broken, and desperate enough to do what others won’t.”

That landed like a curse.

Ron scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re exactly who I need,” Kingsley said, unflinching.

Ron turned sharply toward Hermione. “This is mental. You can’t be seriously considering this.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened around the scroll. She was still scanning its runes, lips pressed in thought.

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly. “What do you think?”

She looked up slowly. “I think… it’s real. And if it’s real, then whatever’s at the end of this path—it could be world-changing.”

“It could be death,” Ron snapped. “That’s what it could be. And let’s not pretend this is normal. ‘Off the map?’ ‘The Hundredfold Path?’ This sounds like something You-Know-Who would’ve cooked up on a bender.”

Hermione winced. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Oh, I’m the ridiculous one?” Ron barked. “You want to go traipsing across cursed oceans because Kingsley said so? What happened to caution, Hermione? What happened to facts? You always needed evidence—”

“I have it.” She held up the scroll. “This language shouldn’t exist. But it does. This is the kind of thing I’ve studied for years.”

“It’s the kind of thing that gets people killed!”

“Then you can stay behind,” Harry said quietly.

Longbottom sucked in a breath as Hermione stood slowly, her eyes still narrowed in on the scroll in hand. Everyone else was deathly quiet. One could hear a pin drop. Draco didn’t think he had ever heard Potter say something along those lines to his best mate before. 

Ron stared at him, stunned. “You’re with her on this?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But if she says it’s worth looking into, I believe her.”

That only made Ron angrier. “You’re just going to follow her off a cliff?”

Harry looked at Hermione again. “No. I’m going to follow her into whatever this is because she never does anything without reason.”

As they argued, Pansy leaned closer to Draco and murmured under her breath, “They’re so loud. And stupid.”

Draco didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on Hermione—not the words, but the way she stood under pressure. Focused. Unshaken. Like she was already somewhere else in her mind.

Pansy nudged him gently with her elbow. “You’re not really considering this, are you?”

Draco’s voice was quiet. “I’ve already done worse.”

Pansy’s expression shifted—just for a moment. No one else would have noticed the way her jaw clenched, the way her gaze flicked briefly toward Kingsley, then back to Draco. She said nothing, but in that silence was the truth they’d never spoken aloud: he had taken the fall for all of them. Azkaban had been his price, so they didn’t have to pay theirs.

“If you go,” she whispered, “I go.”

That was all.

Neville had remained silent, but his eyes moved between the scroll and the map, tracing the etchings like puzzle pieces.

“We could do something important,” he said softly. “Something no one else could. Maybe even something good.”

Ron whirled on him. “Are you all bloody insane?”

Draco snapped then—voice like a whip crack.

“Then don’t go, Weasley.”

Everyone froze.

“You don’t have to,” Draco said, stepping forward. His voice was low, but laced with venom. “No one’s chaining you to this excursion. Let Potter and Granger play hero. You can go back to your mum’s garden and pretend you were part of something.”

Ron’s ears flared red. “What the hell do you know about any of this?”

“I know you weren’t supposed to be here,” Draco said coldly. “You’re a pity invite. An afterthought to the Chosen One and the Brightest Witch. You want out? Then get out. No one here will miss the commentary.”

“Malfoy,” Harry warned.

But Ron was already stepping forward. “Say that again.”

Draco did. “You were never necessary. Just convenient.”

Hermione moved quickly—between them—hands up. “Enough. Both of you.”

Draco’s eyes stayed locked on Ron’s. “Then make a decision, Weasley. Are you following Potter like a shadow? Or are you finally going to walk away?”

Ron’s fists were clenched at his sides. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

The room was silent again.

And Kingsley, who had watched it all unfold with eerie calm, finally said, “You don’t have to like each other. You just have to want something badly enough to survive.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, he slid a different scroll toward Hermione.

“If you agree, I think this goes without saying that you will remain here as to not be tempted to tell anyone about this.  Supplies will be delivered.  All arrangements will be taken care of. Your loved ones,” Kingsley looked over the rag tag group of people with hardly a soft look, “Whatever little loved ones you have, will be told a cover story. Your ship leaves in three days. You’ll receive coordinates tonight. Think carefully before boarding,” Kingsley said, his voice low and final. “Once you do… there’s no turning back.”

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered. “What could possibly go wrong.”

Draco turned to him, slow and deliberate. “You’re still here?”

Ron stepped forward without hesitation. Draco saw his fist, but didn’t bother moving. He allowed Weasley to get one good hit in before retaliating. 

Draco’s fist connected with Ron’s jaw before anyone could stop it. The crack of bone and flesh echoed around the room. Ron staggered, eyes wide with shock, then launched himself forward with a roar.

They collided hard, fists swinging wildly—years of hatred and war and survival boiling over at once. Harry tried to pull Ron back. Neville reached for Draco, but he shoved him off violently. The two crashed into the supply crates near the edge of the room, spells flying now—nonverbals, vicious, reckless.

“ENOUGH.”

Kingsley didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

With a single sweeping gesture, magic burst from his palm like a shockwave. Blue-gold light struck both men—

Ron was thrown backwards ten feet, slammed against the wooden railing with a loud crack . He slumped, stunned, breath heaving.

But Draco—Draco absorbed the magic. The light struck him, yes, but it didn’t fling him. It rippled through his chest like water hitting stone, slowed, and faded. He staggered slightly, but remained upright. Blood dripped from his mouth. He spat it on the floor without breaking eye contact with Ron.

“I dare you,” Draco growled. “Try again.”

His wand wasn’t raised. He didn’t need it. Murder lived in his stare.

Pansy, breath tight, took one step closer to him. Neville moved in behind her like a shadow--just in case--ever the Gryffindor.

Kingsley looked at Draco, expression unreadable. “Interesting.”

Hermione moved toward Ron, checking him with quick, clinical efficiency. “He’s okay. Bruised ego more than anything.”

“Shame,” Draco muttered.

“That’s enough ,” Kingsley said sharply. “You want to survive this mission, you’ll have to grow the hell up.”

He stepped forward and conjured a map midair—an illusion of spiraling coastlines, jagged islands, and storm-swirled oceans. “You all think this is about heroism. It’s not. It’s about precision. Obedience. Control.”

The map vanished, and in its place rose the ghostly outline of a ship—sleek and massive, with gleaming masts and sails laced with runes that shimmered like fireflies. It hovered in the air, a vision of raw magical engineering. Beneath it, the name The Astrid glowed on the hull.

Harry’s eyes widened. Hermione’s breath caught.

“This ship will carry you beyond charted waters. Beyond the edge of the world. It was built with materials recovered from the Department of Mysteries and stabilized with dragonbone and goblin-forged runes. It obeys only the Captain who’s bound to it.”

Pansy murmured, “It’s beautiful.”

“You’ll be her crew,” Kingsley continued. “But she needs a captain.”

Everyone looked to Harry.

But Kingsley’s gaze was already elsewhere.

“Draco Malfoy will lead.”

The silence was deafening.

Ron gaped. “ Him ?”

Draco didn’t react.

Harry blinked. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “Because unlike the rest of you, he knows what it means to make impossible choices and survive the consequences.”

Draco tilted his head, unreadable. “That’s a poetic way of describing a war criminal.”

Kingsley didn’t deny it. “You’re the one they’ll follow. Whether they like it or not.”

Neville gave the faintest nod. Pansy’s shoulders visibly eased. Harry didn’t speak, but something thoughtful flickered in his eyes.

Kingsley turned, eyes sweeping over each of them.

“Harry, you’ll serve as second-in-command. Your task is to keep the crew alive and politically protected. You’re the face. The symbol.”

Harry nodded once.

“Hermione,” Kingsley said, “you’re the lead arcanist. You’ll decode magical anomalies, language systems, ancient protective enchantments. Nothing moves forward without your greenlight.”

She looked pale, but firm. “Understood.”

“Neville. Botanist, healer, and combat support. You’ll help manage any environmental threats and keep our med tent operational.”

Neville gave a slow, solid nod.

“Pansy. Psychological profiling, political intelligence, and espionage. I trust you to report the truth when no one else will.”

Her mouth curled faintly. “Finally. Someone appreciates me.”

“We will need someone for divinations, codebreaking, magical cryptography, and I’m still working on finding someone for stealth operations and foreign relations.”

“I have two people in mind and if I’m the Captain--”

“You are.”

“Then I want Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini on board.”

“Done.  I’ll send for them tonight.” Kingsley agreed so easily that Draco narrowed his eyes in suspicion. 

Kingsley turned back to the group.

“And you won’t be alone. There will be one hundred handpicked wizards aboard The Astrid . Every one of them loyal, tested, and bound by magical contract. Draco will command them. You’ll be their elite unit—operating independently when necessary, together when the mission demands it.”

“But why him?” Ron asked again, quieter now.

Kingsley didn’t answer directly. He looked at Draco instead.

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

And with that, Kingsley vanished.

The illusion of The Astrid remained for a moment longer, casting its faint glow across the stunned group—then faded into the fog.

Silence again.

Then Pansy stepped to Draco’s side and said, with quiet finality, “Well, Captain . What now?”

The fog had thickened by nightfall, curling low over the Black Lake like something alive.

Hermione sat alone on a stone ledge overlooking the water, her knees drawn up beneath her cloak. She’d left the others behind at the temporary quarters Kingsley had provided—a grim cluster of repurposed Auror barracks near Hogsmeade Station. She needed the quiet. Needed the space to think.

Captain Malfoy.

The title didn’t sit right. Not yet. Not because she doubted his competence—no, if anything, that was the problem. He was competent. Chillingly so. There was something unnerving about how easily he’d stepped into command, how he hadn’t flinched even when Ron had swung at him, how the spell had hit and simply fizzled out across his chest like it had recognized him.

Her fingers toyed with the fraying hem of her jumper. She could still picture the blood he spat on the floor after his brief tousle with Ron. 

Behind her, boots crunched on gravel. She didn’t turn. The weight of the presence was familiar.

“You shouldn’t be out alone,” Harry said quietly. “Not tonight.”

“I needed air.”

He nodded, taking the spot beside her without asking. They sat in companionable silence for a while. They had gotten used to the silence between them since the day she moved in with him when she finally broke off her relationship with Ron. With Harry being a low ranking auror and Hermione continuing her education, they have spent countless nights studying and working together in silence. 

Then he asked, “Do you think we made a mistake?”

Hermione glanced at him. “Joining, or letting him lead?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Both.”

She exhaled. “Kingsley knows what he’s doing. And… Draco’s not who he was.”

Harry gave a faint laugh. “You’re calling him Draco now?”

She flushed. “Only because Malfoy sounds ridiculous when you’re planning to share a ship with someone.”

“You trust him?”

“No. But I don’t think I need to. Not yet.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He looked different, didn’t he? When the spell hit.”

“He was different.”

They fell quiet again. Hermione’s mind wandered—flashes of battle, of Draco in the shadows of the war, of a boy who had once trembled on a bathroom floor while she and Harry tried to stop him from bleeding out sixth year.

Now he stood like stone when struck by Kingsley’s magic.

“Harry?” she said, her voice soft. “Did you want to lead?”

His brow furrowed. “No. I think… I thought I was supposed to.”

Hermione turned to him. “You don’t owe the world another sacrifice.”

He smiled, tired. “Neither do you.”

Pansy leaned against the rail of the barracks balcony, a cigarette lit and nearly forgotten between her fingers. Below, the training yard lay empty. The others had gone quiet after the fight.

Inside the barracks, Theo snored softly. Blaise was reading in bed with a glass of wine that he had absolutely not been authorized to bring. And Draco…

She turned, eyes seeking him. He stood in the shadowed corner of the deck, arms folded, his jaw still bruised.

He hadn’t spoken since Kingsley left. Hadn’t moved, really. Just… stood there.

She watched him in silence, then finally spoke.

“You’re scaring them.”

His eyes flicked toward her. “Good.”

“They think you’ll snap.”

“I already have.”

She walked closer, ignoring the chill. “You didn’t have to take the hit like that.”

“I did.”

Pansy studied him. “You always were dramatic.”

There was no humor in his voice. “He would’ve kept going. I ended it.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, softer: “They don’t know, do they?”

He said nothing.

“They don’t know you went to Azkaban so the rest of us wouldn’t.”

Draco’s jaw clenched.

“Four years, Draco. You didn’t even say goodbye before you signed the agreement.”

His eyes finally met hers. “Would you have let me?”

“No,” she said honestly.

He looked away.

Pansy stepped closer. “If you give the order, I’ll follow you. Blaise will too. Theo’s too much of a coward to admit it, but he already does.”

“I don’t want loyalty,” Draco said.

“Tough. You’ve already got it.”

Ron sat with Neville in the barracks mess, nursing a bottle of something bitter. His lip was split. His knuckles were raw.

“She thinks I’m stupid,” he muttered. “That’s the truth of it.”

Neville didn’t look up. “She doesn’t.”

“I saw the way she looked at him.”

Neville stirred his tea with exaggerated patience. “Hermione looks at books like that.”

Ron snorted. “Exactly.”

They sat for a moment.

Then Neville said quietly, “He’s not what you think.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you like him now too.”

“No. But I’ve seen him a few times after his release.”

Ron scoffed.

Neville continued, “Maybe we should all be more worried about what he’s trying to prove.”

The night grew colder. Somewhere beneath the stars, The Astrid sat docked at a hidden harbor, waiting.

And each of them—somewhere across the sleeping countryside—wondered what they’d just agreed to.

And what it might cost them.

The barracks were still and heavy with silence, the kind that settles only after everyone has stopped pretending they can sleep.

Hermione had given up somewhere around two in the morning. Her mind wouldn’t shut off. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it: Draco Malfoy, standing bloody-lipped and burning under Kingsley’s spell, spitting blood and daring Ron to fight again. She saw Harry’s uncertainty. Ron’s outrage. Her own silence.

The track behind the Auror compound was cracked in places, more decorative than functional. She didn’t care. She just needed to move.

The night air bit at her lungs as she ran. She kept her pace steady, her trainers pounding the dirt rhythmically. Thoughts flickered like lightning behind her eyes—battle plans, roles, the absurdity of Draco being named captain.

And something else.

A memory she hadn't dusted off in years.

Eighth year. The astronomy tower. That final night before he left.

His mouth on hers—unexpected, desperate, wrong in all the ways that had felt right in the moment.

He hadn't even said goodbye. Just touched her cheek like it was sacred and vanished.

She rounded the track again, heart hammering.

“Insomniac or just hoping to run yourself unconscious?”

The voice stopped her cold.

She didn’t turn. “You’re one to talk.”

Footsteps joined hers. Slower, heavier. Matching pace by instinct.

Draco fell into step beside her like he belonged there.  In ways he did.  This was how they bonded during their eighth year when they were the only two to return to school. 

He didn’t look tired, but he felt it—his magic buzzing too close to the surface, like static beneath his skin. His grey shirt was dark at the collar with sweat, as if he'd tried to sleep and ended up pacing instead. Maybe he had.

They ran in silence for a full lap. Two.

Then Hermione asked, “You remember the last time we were alone?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just inhaled sharply.

“Yes.”

Another lap.

“You kissed me,” she said. Not accusatory. Just stating fact.

Draco’s jaw ticked. “Yes.”

“You didn’t say anything. You just disappeared.”

“I had to.”

She slowed to a stop. He followed suit, hands bracing behind his head as they both caught their breath.

The sky overhead was a curtain of cold stars. Hermione straightened slowly, wiping her brow, eyes flicking sideways to him.

“I didn’t get a choice in the goodbye,” she murmured.

“You weren’t supposed to be there that night.”

“I wasn’t,” she agreed. “But I was.”

Draco finally looked at her. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“But I did.”

The silence stretched between them, taut as wire.

“I wrote to you, but you never wrote back,” she added, softer now. “I went to go see you when they announced you were allowed visitors.  But they turned me away when I got there.”

“I couldn’t. I—” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing me like that.”

“In prison?”

“In chains.”

Hermione looked away, throat tight.

Another beat passed. Then:

“That night,” he said, low and rough, “I knew I was being selfish. But I kissed you anyway. I thought it would be the last thing I ever took.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

“And now we’re here,” she said.

“Now we’re here.”

Their eyes locked. The weight of old choices, old betrayals, old longing—years buried, years wasted—pressed between them like a third presence.

Hermione’s hand twitched at her side.

He noticed.

She stepped back, just once. Not far. Just enough.

Draco looked like he wanted to speak but thought better of it. His tongue ran across his teeth. There was dried blood still in the corner of his mouth from earlier.

Hermione turned away before she did something stupid.

“Goodnight, Malfoy.”

“Granger—”

She paused.

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just watched her walk away.

As she disappeared into the shadows, he whispered it anyway.

“...I missed you.”

Chapter Text

Draco stood on the raised dais beneath the open dome of the observation deck, the stars overhead like needles pricking down through the dark. Astrid loomed behind him, all sleek silver plating and layered enchantments, humming with so much magical pressure it made his teeth ache. One hundred witches and wizards stood before him in a wide arc—uniforms crisp, spines straight, eyes full of expectations he didn’t ask for.

He hated this part. The performance. The optics.

But if he didn’t say something now, if he didn’t anchor them before they left Earth’s pull, then the cracks would spread fast. In a ship this alive, doubt would sink into the wards like rot.

Draco took a breath. Let it burn through his chest like the first shot of firewhisky.

He stepped up to the rune-lit podium, let his gaze sweep the crew—Granger just to the left of center, arms crossed, brow arched. She wasn’t going to help him. Of course she wasn’t.

He didn’t need help.

Just control.

“You all know why we’re here.”

His voice carried with crisp, magical projection—amplified through the dome, steady as steel. A few crew members shifted subtly, the way soldiers did when bracing for bad news. Or truth.

“You’ve read the briefings. You’ve memorized the mission statements and signed the waivers that said you understand the risks.” He paused. “You don’t.”

A flicker passed through the crowd. Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

Good.

“You don’t understand them yet. None of us do. We’re heading into territory no witch or wizard has seen in over two thousand years. There are no maps for where we’re going—only guesses. Fragments. Myths.”

He paced slowly along the dais, hands behind his back. A borrowed posture from his father’s old Ministry speeches. But the tone—he made that his own.

“You’ve been told this is a diplomatic mission. It’s not.” He let the words settle. “You’ve been told we’ll be exploring magical lands believed to be long-lost or imagined. That much is true. But make no mistake—we are also the sword. We are the proof of magical sovereignty. If what lies beyond the Gate of Bone is a threat, then we are the first and only line of defense.” He turned to face them fully. “We are not guests. We are not tourists. We are the sharpest edge of magical Britain. If we fail, no one follows.”

There. Now they were quiet. Utterly still.

Even Theo Nott stopped twirling his wand.

Draco’s heart beat louder than he liked, but he locked his spine and forged ahead.

“You were chosen not for your politics or bloodlines or service medals. You were chosen because someone in the Ministry believes you can survive this. That you’ll make the hard call when it counts. I don’t give a damn if you like each other. I care that you can trust the person at your back.” A pause. “And if you can’t, say so now, and get off my ship.”

He waited. Just long enough for the silence to sting.

No one moved.

Cowards or believers—he didn’t care, as long as they obeyed.

“I will not lie to you. This mission is dangerous. We will lose sleep, blood, maybe more. And I won’t always be right.” He glanced toward Blaise and Theo, then—more reluctantly—toward Hermione. “That’s why I didn’t come alone. We’re here because none of us can do this alone.”

He felt it then—something shift under the words. Not quite trust, but momentum. The beginning of something sharp and electric in the air.

“There’s no protocol for what we’ll face. So we make our own. We adapt. We lead. And we don’t—ever—break.”

His voice dropped slightly, no need for magical projection now. It was just the truth, spoken plainly.

“We launch in thirty minutes. Say your goodbyes. Burn your regrets. When we lift off, there is no turning back.”

One last sweep of the crowd.

“Make peace with who you were. Because the person who returns—if you return—won’t be the same.”

He stepped down from the podium, heart still hammering, magic still burning faintly in his veins.

He didn’t look back.

But he knew she was watching.

They left from nowhere.

There was no fanfare. No platform. No visible sea.

The ship— Astrid —rose from the mist like a half-remembered dream, docked in a harbor stitched between moments in time, tethered not to geography but to ley lines older than maps. It shimmered at the edges like it didn’t quite belong in this world. Or maybe like it belonged too much.

Hermione had studied magical ships before. Academic texts, etchings, footnotes from long-dead scholars. Nothing had prepared her for this.

Three decks high. Wood that gleamed not with polish but with enchantment. Runes laced along the sails. No oars. No wheel. A vessel designed to navigate magic itself.

Their hundred waited onboard—Aurors, Unspeakables, mercenaries, and wandless exiles. Some looked like they had nothing left to lose. Others, like they were hoping to find exactly that.

Draco boarded last, his coat buttoned to the throat and his expression unreadable.

Hermione was already on the quarterdeck, a thick roll of maps under one arm, a compass of living metal in her hand.

“Captain,” she greeted him dryly.

He didn’t smirk, but she caught the faint twitch of it.

“Strategist,” he returned, with equal sharpness.

They hadn’t spoken since the track.

Harry came up behind them, Ron trailing close, already glancing sideways like he didn’t trust half the ship. Maybe more.

“Still think this is worth it?” Harry murmured under his breath.

Hermione didn’t answer. Her eyes were scanning the horizon—or what passed for it. The sky didn’t seem right . Clouds hung in shapes that shouldn’t have been able to form. A flock of birds passed above, then shimmered—flickering into something else before vanishing entirely.

“Tell me you saw that,” Ron muttered.

“Ley lines,” came a cool voice behind them.

Pansy Parkinson emerged from below deck, her dark hair braided back, her wand tapping idly against her thigh. “The ship’s not traveling on a normal plane. We’re not on water—we’re on power. The currents here don’t move like they should.”

“Did Kingsley say that?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No.” Pansy’s gaze swept the shifting sky. “He didn’t.”

Below deck, Theo and Blaise were quietly taking stock of the other crew members. The Aurors barely acknowledged them. The mercenaries watched everyone like prey.

“You see the one with the glass eye?” Theo whispered.

“I see the knife he has strapped to his calf,” Blaise replied. “Badly hidden. Intentional.”

“And the man with the Ravenclaw crest on his cloak? Wasn’t he in prison?”

“For poisoning a Ministry liaison,” Blaise said with a shrug. “Maybe he’ll make friends with Weasley.”

They both snorted.

Their humor faded as Draco passed them on the way to the navigation cabin. Theo straightened instinctively.

“You’re really doing this, aren’t you,” he said, voice just loud enough for Draco to hear. “Leading.”

Draco didn’t pause. “Someone has to.”

“You’ve got my wand,” Blaise said, tone softening. “Same as you always have.”

Theo nodded. “You didn’t take the fall for nothing.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to them. Something unspoken passed between them.

Then he disappeared inside.

That night, the ship moved without wind.

Stars blinked above them—and then didn’t. Entire constellations vanished between breaths. The moon stuttered. Something in the east howled, but there were no creatures onboard large enough to make the sound.

Hermione stood alone at the prow, clutching the compass in one hand and a quill in the other. The maps Kingsley had given them were incomplete. The ley lines shifted under their feet. She had to redraw their route every three hours.

She didn’t trust anyone else to do it--which meant she would not be getting the sleep she so desperately wished she could get. 

She heard him before she saw him.

“Any good news?” Draco asked, voice low behind her.

She didn’t turn. “The good news is we haven’t vanished.”

“And the bad?”

“We’re not on any chart I recognize. And the ship is reacting to us—emotionally, magically, spatially. That should be impossible.  But more specifically, it’s reacting to you more so than anyone and it’ll only grow.  So much that it will only react to you, Captain .”

“I take it you don’t like impossible things.”

She turned then. “I loathe them.”

He offered the barest smile. “Good. Then we’ll get along just fine.”

A silence stretched. Not quite awkward. More like a pause in a long conversation neither had admitted they were still having.

From the crow’s nest, Ron’s voice echoed down, tense. “Something just moved in the fog!”

Harry joined him a moment later, peering through enchanted binoculars. “I don’t like this. Kingsley’s holding something back.”

Hermione glanced at Draco. “Do you think he knows?”

Draco’s eyes were fixed on the swirling mist beyond. “He knows exactly what he sent us into.”

Far below them, the sea shimmered—and changed color.

Something ancient was waking.

The first anomaly came on the third day.

The air shifted all at once, like the ship had passed through an invisible wall. The temperature dropped. Lanterns flickered in unison. Somewhere in the hull, the ship groaned like it was mourning something.

Hermione dropped her quill mid-mark. The compass in her hand started spinning violently.

“Captain,” she called, already moving toward the helm.

He appeared on deck moments later, having clearly felt the shift as well. His eyes swept the horizon, jaw tense.

“What is it?” Harry asked. He’d run up the stairs two at a time, wand in hand. “This isn’t just weird fog anymore.”

“No,” Hermione said quietly. “This isn’t weather at all.”

She turned her head to the side and caught it—just barely—a ripple along the horizon that wasn’t air or sea or cloud. It was like the world had bent for a moment and tried to undo itself.

“It’s a fold,” she murmured.

Draco’s brow furrowed. “As in—”

“—in space,” she confirmed. “A loop. A knot. Something was tied here in the ley lines and then unraveled. We’re sailing through the scar.”

All around them, the fog began to churn—not drift, churn . Spiraling in perfect, violent circles that defied the natural wind. It started to scream .

Theo appeared from below deck, eyes wide. “There’s something wrong in the hold. Wards are going haywire.”

When Hermione’s eyes automatically looked towards the ship’s Captain, she could tell that Draco was thinking the same as her. It was nice not having to spell everything out and give a million reasons on why she was right. “We need a hard ward line across the deck,” Hermione snapped, taking command. “Two layers. I want each section of the crew to hold a different quadrant.”

“Already on it,” Draco said smoothly, issuing orders as his wand sketched out symbols in the air. “Zabini, Nott—seal the stern. Parkinson, take the bow.”

“On it,” Pansy called.

The ship creaked harder. The fog thickened like a wall. Then— bang —a surge of pressure hit the port side, flinging one of the newer recruits over the railing. Harry caught him midair with a Levicorpus, but the man was unconscious, his mouth covered in dark frost.

“They’re not anomalies,” Draco growled. “They’re wounds .”

“Something’s bleeding magic,” Hermione agreed, hands moving fast. “And we’re sailing straight into the open vein.”

Later, after the anomaly passed and they’d restored temporary stability to the decks, Hermione found herself on the observation deck again, the living compass slowly calming in her palm.

She hadn’t spoken to Ron all day.

The look he’d given her when Draco issued commands still lingered like something rotting.

She didn’t hear him approach until he was too close.

“I know you’re tired,” Ron began, too quietly. “But you need to stop pretending you don’t see it.”

Hermione tensed. “See what?”

“You know what .” His voice took on that old, bitter edge. “He watches you.”

She stayed silent.

Ron’s face twisted. “You think I don’t remember eighth year? I remember everything. The way he looked at you after the war. Like you were the only thing left that could still bleed. I saw it everytime Harry and I visited you at Hogwarts that year.”

“Don’t,” Hermione said, voice a warning.

He didn’t stop. “I told you then. I told you what he’d do. That you’d end up—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

Ron’s eyes darkened. “You’ll end up his whore.”

Her wand was in her hand before she even realized it.

Before she could use it, a voice cut across the deck like lightning.

“Enough.”

Draco stood in the shadow of the mast, arms crossed, eyes burning.

Hermione stepped back, her pulse sharp and high. Ron turned, scowling, but even he looked uneasy at the sight of Malfoy like this—silent, controlled, and dangerous.

“I thought you came here to protect Granger,” Draco said coldly. “But from the look of things, she needs protecting from you.”

“Don’t pretend you’re some noble bastard now,” Ron snapped. “You’ve always been a snake.”

Draco descended the steps slowly, gaze steady. “Maybe. But even snakes know not to bite the only person keeping the ship afloat.”

Hermione’s voice cut through the tension. “ Stop. Both of you.”

They didn’t.

Ron’s chest heaved. His fists were still curled at his sides. Draco, nostrils flared, tilted his head just slightly, almost daring Ron.

But before either of them could speak again, a golden shimmer crackled across the air above the main mast.

Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared, conjured in high-resolution flame and storm.

“I said enough ,” his voice boomed from the projection, sharper than wind and louder than the sea.

The ship itself seemed to shudder under the weight of his authority. All conversation stopped. Even the rigging froze mid-creak.

“Mr. Weasley. Mr. Malfoy. This is not a schoolyard. You are on a sanctioned expedition under classified conditions. There will be no more posturing, no more personal vendettas, and no more fists flying on the goddamn deck.”

Ron flinched. Draco stood straighter, impassive.

“If this happens again,” Kingsley continued, “you will answer to me. Personally.”

Then the projection sparked once—violently—and vanished.

Silence followed, sticky and humid.

Hermione didn’t wait. She turned on her heel and walked away.

The mess hall was buzzing with overlapping conversations and the occasional bark of laughter. Long wooden tables, bolted to the floor, were filled with crewmates scarfing down provisions and loud opinions. The ship groaned softly beneath them—no wind, no current, just pure magical propulsion.

Hermione sat at the end of a nearly empty table, hoping the physical distance might translate into psychological distance.

She was wrong.

“Granger, right?”

She looked up to find a tall, wiry man sliding into the seat across from her. His skin was pale, but sun-scorched at the cheeks. His eyes were sharp—a predator’s gaze in a scholar’s face. The lightning-shaped scar on his cheek made her hesitate.

“Yes,” she said carefully.

“Matthew Rook.” He extended a hand, but when she didn’t take it, he rubbed it over his thigh casually, unfazed. “Navigation team, Delta division. I’ve read your work on magical current disruption, ley fractures, and Aetheric Distortion. Honestly? Not bad.”

Not bad? Her brow twitched.

“It wasn’t meant for public dissemination,” she said coolly.

He grinned. “Lucky for me, some departments don’t lock their archives properly.”

So he’d snooped. Or worse, had clearance. Either way, Hermione sat a little straighter.

Before she could formulate a response, another man sat heavily on the bench beside her. He smelled faintly of charred wood and iron.

“Elias Flint,” he said. No smile. Thick jaw. Scar across his knuckles. “Defense team, Unit B. Former Hit Wizard. I watched your testimony during the Ministry trial for the Svalbard collapse.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened.

“That testimony is sealed.”

He shrugged. “Not for me.”

There was something unsettling about him—not malicious exactly, but like he hadn’t blinked in a while and didn’t find silences uncomfortable. She wondered if he was the kind of man who’d let his wand do the talking when patience ran out.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re both here to tell me how flattered I should be by your attention?”

A voice behind her scoffed.

“Absolutely not.”

Hermione turned as a third man sat down, legs swinging over the bench with a casual grace. He was lean, with reddish-blond hair swept carelessly back and tattooed fingers that drummed against a red apple he spun in one hand.

“Tyrell Whit,” he said. “Magi-mechanics. I break things, then fix them, sometimes in reverse order.”

He looked her over—not lecherously, but with an amused sort of curiosity.

“These two idiots are trying to impress you,” he added. “You can tell by how Flint’s gone full serial killer stare and Rook’s quoting research he didn’t understand.”

Rook shot him a look. “I understood it perfectly.”

“You pronounced Aetheric Distortion as ‘Eth-uric,’ mate.”

Hermione fought the curl of a smirk.

“So,” Whit continued, “how are you adjusting to life on the floating madhouse?”

Hermione considered her answer. The ship had only launched that week, but already it felt as if reality was slipping. Too many magical fields, too much propulsion tech, and too many unknowns. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Though I think the magical stability matrix is a bit… off.”

Rook leaned forward, tone casual. “What makes you say that?”

“There’s too much ambient discharge. The spells used to muffle deck echo are fraying at the edges. Also, the stars blinked out for a second around two a.m.”

Flint frowned. “They did?”

Hermione nodded. “You wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t watching the right quadrant.”

Tyrell whistled low. “Damn. I was watching my bunk ceiling.”

Rook smiled again, slow and smooth. “You’re sharp, Granger. That’s good. We need sharp.”

She didn’t like the way he said we . Like he’d already grouped himself with her. Like he thought proximity to her mind meant something more.

She took another bite of her rice. Chewed slowly. Swallowed.

“I’ve been through worse,” she said simply.

“Worse than this ship?” Tyrell said. “Doubtful. The lavatories alone—”

“I meant war.”

The table quieted.

Flint cleared his throat. “We all have ghosts.”

Hermione met his eyes, and for a moment she wondered what his looked like.

But then—

“You’ve got Potter and Weasley watching your back, though,” Rook said, voice too casual again. “That must be nice. All that history. All that protection.”

There was an edge to it. Not quite envy. Not quite judgment. But something flickered under the surface.

Hermione’s back went rigid. “I protect myself.”

Rook tilted his head. “Do you, though?”

Before she could answer, a hand landed on the bench beside her.

Ron.

He slid into the seat next to her, eyes hard on Rook. “Am I interrupting something?”

Flint raised his brow, but Tyrell just leaned back and kicked his boots up on the opposite bench. “Nah. We were just marveling at Granger’s brain.”

“And how did that come up?” Ron asked, his smile sharp and humorless.

Rook held his hands up. “Relax. Just a conversation.”

“Right,” Ron said. “Just a conversation with three grown men circling a woman eating lunch. Sounds friendly.”

“Ron,” Hermione said, quiet but firm.

He looked at her, then back at them. “She doesn’t need this.”

“And she can speak for herself,” Tyrell pointed out, raising a brow. “Didn’t realize she had a keeper.”

“Enough,” Hermione snapped. She was getting tired of the word. 

All three men stood—not abruptly, but with the smooth, practiced movements of people used to conflict.

“Apologies,” Rook said, still watching her. “See you around, Granger.”

Flint nodded once.

Tyrell gave a small salute with his apple and followed the others out, whistling softly.

Hermione stared at her food, appetite long gone.

Ron muttered beside her, “Don’t like those blokes.”

“I know,” she said.

“They look at you too long. Especially the tall one.”

She sighed. “It doesn’t matter. We’re stuck on this ship with them. I’ll manage.”

Ron hesitated. Then: “You always say that. You’ll manage. But I remember eighth year.”

Hermione stiffened. Ron was like a broken record. 

Her eyes met his, sharp and dangerous.

“Don’t,” she warned. She will always regret being honest with Ron and telling him about her kiss shared with Draco.  Draco made it clear that it meant nothing to him when he didn’t write her back nor when she tried to visit him.  He probably only kissed her because he knew that he would be going away for a while.

She convinced herself that he would have kissed any girl that night.

“He kissed you.”

Hermione stood abruptly. “It was a long time ago.”

Ron rose too. “And now he’s back. Staring at you like you’re the last clean thing in a dirty world.”

“I said don’t ,” she hissed.

“And you’re being an idiot if you don’t listen to me.”

They didn’t notice the shadow in the doorway.

Draco.

He stood, arms crossed, half-lit by the hallway lantern, watching them with unreadable eyes.

Before she could reply, footsteps rang out on the wooden stairs behind them.

Draco appeared at the top, hair windswept, eyes already on her.

“Navigator,” he said coolly, “navigation review starts in ten. Don’t be late.”

She nodded, then watched as he turned and disappeared into the lower decks.

Draco stood at the central planning table, arms braced against the edge, knuckles white with tension. The constellation map hovered above the surface, reassembling itself with a slow, rhythmic pulse of light that bathed the room in an eerie, celestial glow. Stars blinked in and out like nervous heartbeats—chaotic and uneven.

Much like her—Granger, damn her. Always composed, always sharp, but never still. Never simple.

He watched the points connect and scatter again, a galactic mimicry of their trajectory. Their lives. His choices. Her footsteps.

He hadn’t meant to overhear. He hadn’t even been trying to eavesdrop. But the ship—the ship was alive, unnaturally so. Its enchanted bones murmured like ghosts, carrying voices through the halls and into the corners where he lurked when sleep eluded him. He hated it. Hated how the ship breathed and listened.

Hated how it forced him to hear Ron bloody Weasley hiss venom into Hermione’s ear. Words that made something primal coil behind his ribcage.

She should have hexed him. Instead, she absorbed it like a blow she expected. Like she’d heard it before.

She probably had.

The door hissed open.

Draco didn’t need to look. He felt it. The shift in the air, the subtle hitch in the magic around them. Measured steps, light on the heel. No hesitation.

Hermione Granger stepped into the navigation room like she belonged there.

Which she did. Which made everything worse.

“Captain,” she said, clipped and cool.

“Granger,” he replied, just as tight, his voice a little lower than he intended. A reflex—like shielding a wound.

She moved to the opposite side of the table, her fingers already sweeping through the map’s projection. It adjusted under her touch like it recognized her magic. Like it preferred her.

Draco studied the shift in her brow—precise furrow, faint tension near her temple. She was already diagnosing something. He could almost see the equations lining up behind her eyes.

He wished he didn’t admire it.

“I recalibrated the ley compasses,” she said, pulling her wand in that sharp, practiced flick. Blue fire rippled across the table like a breath of frost. Points of light shivered, realigning.

“They were off by a fraction, but that’s enough to throw us into a blind curve.”

He didn’t look at the map.

He looked at her hands.

Steady. Capable. Slight scar near her right knuckle—dueling injury? Something from the war? He’d never asked. He wanted to.

“Sabotage?” he asked, voice low, testing her theory.

She glanced up. Cool eyes. “Incompetence. For now.”

He grunted. “Optimistic.”

“I prefer logical,” she countered, brushing a curl behind her ear without thinking.

His eyes caught the movement.

He remembered eighth year. Remembered that last night—her hair loose, mouth parted, the world pressing down on both of them like a final sentence. The way she'd kissed him back even though she wasn’t supposed to. The way it felt like drowning in the only air left.

“And if logic fails?” he pressed, stepping around the table until their shoulders nearly aligned. Close enough to feel her magic hum against his skin.

“Then we adapt. Isn’t that what you said in your pre-launch speech?”

He tilted his head. “You were listening.”

“I was half-listening. You were dramatic.”

He smirked—one of the few real ones he’d managed in days. “I’ve been told I have flair.”

“You have issues,” she muttered, eyeing the quadrant where the projection glitched again.

He studied her profile—sharp lines, tired eyes, lips pressed in focus. Hair tumbling into her face. He remembered the way it felt in his hands. He remembered the taste of goodbye.

Draco cleared his throat. Focus.

“This quadrant’s unstable. If the anomaly in the arc ley continues, we’ll have to realign and split the crew into short-distance scouts.”

Her frown deepened. “It’s too early to divide. If something is happening out there, I want eyes together—not scattered.”

“So you disagree with me.”

“No. I disagree with dividing the crew this early. If we lose communication—”

“We won’t.”

She snapped her gaze to him. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I’m not planning to fail,” he said quietly. “And because I have you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “That’s…”

“Don’t make it weird, Granger. You’re terrifyingly competent. I’m acknowledging reality.”

“You never acknowledge reality without a motive.”

He stepped in, just a little closer. “Maybe my motive is making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Her jaw tightened. “So it’s personal?”

“It’s always been personal.”

The air thickened. Her expression faltered, then hardened again. It was the same push-pull between them that had haunted every corridor in eighth year. Every shared glance across that too-silent library. Every near-touch. Every boundary neither of them dared cross again.

Until that kiss.

Hermione stepped back, hands falling away from the map’s edge.

“You saw Ron and me,” she said, voice neutral. Too neutral.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Right.”

Draco drawled, “Didn’t enjoy the part where he called you an idiot.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

Her eyes met his, hard and dark and full of all the things they weren’t saying.

He wanted to ask if she thinks about their kiss like him. If she thought of it when he stood this close. If her chest still ached the way his did when she passed without touching him.

But instead, he said: “We have a hundred under our command.”

She nodded, gaze flicking back to the stars. “And no margin for error.”

“I won’t let you down.”

She hesitated. “Don’t.”

Silence stretched again—taut and laced with every unspoken thing between them. There was nothing safe left to say. Only war ahead, and ghosts behind.

“We’re due for a command update at 0500,” she murmured, backing toward the door. “I’ll loop in Theo and Blaise.”

“And Whit,” he added.

Her hand paused on the threshold. “You trust him?”

Draco considered. “More than I trust Rook.”

Her face went still. “You felt it too?”

“His smile doesn’t reach his eyes,” Draco said, eyes narrowing. “And his eyes don’t blink.”

Hermione’s fingers curled tighter around the doorframe.

They were aligned, at least in this.

She turned to leave, her hand brushing the edge of the table in a gesture so familiar it hurt.

He watched her go.

Almost didn’t speak.

Almost.

“Granger,” he called, voice rougher now.

She didn’t say anything, only raised an eyebrow in question. Draco floundered.  For the first time in years he felt a blush start to rise on his cheeks and decided that speaking wasn’t worth the embarrassment. But when she started to leave again, he blurted out. 

“Dear Hermione,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse.

She froze and he swallowed.

“Dear Hermione,” he said again, steadier this time. “I got your letter. I read it until the edges curled and the ink blurred from my fingers. I nearly didn’t reply because I don’t know how to say thank you without sounding like a lie. I don’t know how to say I miss you without breaking. I don’t know how to write the truth without admitting that the only time I felt like I might be worth something again was when you looked at me like I was.”

She turned slowly. Her lips parted but no sound came out.

Draco stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I hate that you wrote to me,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Because it means you remembered. And I hate that I loved it. I hate that this one fucking letter is keeping me breathing in this awful place. I hate that I imagine your handwriting a hundred times a night just so I won’t forget how you speak.  Please keep writing.  Even though I hate it.  Please. Please.  Please.”

Hermione’s breath shuddered.

He was only a breath away now.

“That’s what I would have said,” he murmured. “Years ago.”

The space between them was a heartbeat. A sigh.

Neither of them moved.

And in the silence that followed, the stars on the table blinked out, one by one.

Chapter Text

The soft chime of morning magic rippled through the lower deck’s shared quarters, light threading in from the enchanted skylight above. Theo groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.

Pansy, already dressed and lacing her boots, stood with one foot braced on a trunk, hair twisted into a braid so tight it looked like it could cut glass.

“You’re disgusting,” she said to no one in particular.

“You say that every morning,” came Blaise’s dry murmur from his bunk. He was still horizontal, one hand dangling off the edge, a book half-open on his chest.

“I mean it more today.” She tilted her chin toward the far corner. “Look.”

They all turned.

At the unused worktable in the back corner of the room, slumped like a half-drowned ghost over star charts and leyline forecasts, was Draco.

His hair was a mess. There was stubble on his jaw. He was still wearing his full uniform coat like he’d passed out mid-sentence. One arm was curled around a steaming cup of now-cold coffee. His wand was balanced precariously behind his ear.

Theo sat up grinning. “Well, well. Captain Royal Arse didn’t make it back to his lavish little suite last night.”

Pansy’s eyes gleamed. “Look at him. Like a fallen angel.”

“More like a fallen bureaucrat,” Blaise muttered.

“Does he know we have beds?” Theo asked, climbing out of his own hammock and stretching. “Or was that a power move? Sleep among the commoners so we remember he’s still one of us?”

“Tragic,” Pansy said. “He's got a whole captain’s cabin with a bathtub and a bed big enough for three—”

“—or one Gryffindor,” Theo added sweetly, voice lilting.

Pansy made a delighted noise. Blaise smirked without lifting his head.

Theo nudged a chair aside and leaned against the table, looking down at Draco with a pitying shake of his head. “He could be having scandalous late-night duels of wit with Granger over scrolls and soul-crushing trauma.”

“Instead,” Pansy said, “he’s spooning a coffee mug.”

Draco stirred with a grunt, blinking like a man who’d just been forcibly resurrected.

“Fuck off,” he rasped, not moving.

Theo grinned wider. “Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you have a romantic evening with the navigation charts, or were you too busy writing love poetry to ley lines?”

Draco sat up slowly, hair flopping into his eyes. “I was working.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Blaise said, finally sitting up, voice velvet-dry. “Because I saw the Granger-shaped shadow trailing you out of the comms room last night.”

“She walked out first,” Draco muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Draco,” Theo said seriously, “as your emotionally stunted but occasionally insightful friend, I need to say this before the sea eats us or Hermione finds someone who doesn’t hesitate: Make. A. Move.”

Draco shot him a look. “She’s a colleague.”

“And I’m a centaur,” Theo said.

Pansy crossed her arms, amused. “She’s been trying not to stare at your mouth all week.”

“She literally broke my nose as a kid.”

“Foreplay,” Blaise offered, standing and stretching with infuriating grace.

Draco dragged a hand down his face. “You’re all exhausting.”

Theo leaned down conspiratorially. “You know who’s not exhausting? Hermione. You just think she is because you haven’t shagged the control out of her yet.”

“Merlin,” Draco hissed.

“Oh, please,” Pansy drawled. “She’d bite first.”

Blaise nodded sagely. “And he’d like it.”

A beat.

Even Draco cracked a reluctant smirk.

Then the proximity bell chimed—a low, haunting note none of them had heard before.

They all froze.

Theo’s hand went to his wand. “That wasn’t on the schedule.”

Draco stood, shoulders squaring, exhaustion forgotten. “Everyone topside.”

“Playtime’s over,” Blaise murmured, already heading for the hatch.

As they moved, Pansy leaned close to Theo and whispered, “You think he’ll ever tell her?”

Theo snorted. “No. But he’ll bleed for her first.”

And then they were gone, shadows moving toward the sound.

Toward the sea that whispered.

Hermione stood near the aft rail of the ship, arms folded tightly over her chest, chin tucked into her collar against the salt-sweet wind.

She had already triple-checked the anchor enchantments, recalibrated the ship’s magical hull resistance, rewritten two communication contingency plans, and run diagnostics on the map chamber’s stabilization runes. Every checklist had been ticked, every variable accounted for.

There was nothing left to do.

Which meant she was left alone with her thoughts.

Her gaze swept the deck out of habit more than curiosity. Theo and Blaise stood near the main mast, deep in discussion over tactical perimeter spells. Theo gestured animatedly, wand in hand, while Blaise responded with a single brow raised — amused, unbothered, always three steps ahead in a way that made Hermione itch.

Closer to the front of the deck, just past the bow artillery, she spotted Crewman Rook with his sleeves rolled high and his shoulders squared. He was laughing with Whit and two other men from the mess hall — Trass and Deverill. All three looked at ease, but only two seemed honest.

Hermione’s eyes lingered.

Whit moved like a trained soldier, precise and efficient. His expression, though — flat, unreadable. And Rook... something about the way he tracked others when he didn’t think anyone was watching set her teeth on edge.

Trass, meanwhile, was smiling with too many teeth and Deverill had a nervous twitch he couldn’t seem to shake.

Noted.

She tucked away each observation like she might catalog ingredients in a brewing cabinet. She didn’t yet know which were toxic.

“Stalking people now, Granger?” came a voice at her elbow.

Hermione startled — just barely — and turned to find Pansy Parkinson stepping up beside her, impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place even though the wind was playing tricks on them.

“You move quietly,” Hermione muttered, going back to scanning the deck.

“I was trained by snakes and shadows,” Pansy replied. “And a mother who said silence was the most powerful weapon a woman could wield.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Oh, it was. But useful.”

Pansy propped her elbows on the railing and gave her a sly sideways glance. “You’ve been frowning at Whit and his friends for the last five minutes. Something I should know?”

Hermione didn’t answer at first. “Just… watching. Getting a feel for things.”

“You mean getting a feel for who’s likely to stab us in our sleep.”

Hermione sighed. “If you already know, why ask?”

Pansy hummed, pleased. “I enjoy making you admit things.”

A gust of wind shifted around them, and the sails groaned faintly overhead.

Out near the central platform, Draco’s voice cut through the wind, sharp and commanding.

“Rigging on the port side is listing. Get it tight now or we lose lateral balance.”

Another order followed. Then another.

Hermione’s eyes — traitorous, treacherous things — flicked toward him automatically.

He stood near the helm, posture ramrod-straight, wand raised as he barked directives to the rig crew. His coat flared around his legs, silver trim catching the sunlight like polished bone. He looked every bit the captain — composed, cold, magnetic.

He was so clearly in control. So obviously meant to be listened to.

And she hated that it made her feel steadier.

“You keep staring,” Pansy said lightly, almost singsong.

Hermione exhaled slowly, keeping her arms folded tight. “I’m not.”

“You are. It’s okay. He’s got that tragic war-hero thing going on. Plus, he broods. Girls like brooding.”

“I’m not a girl,” Hermione said coolly. “And I don’t like brooding. I like rational people who don’t ignore backup protocol or bait the Minister.”

Pansy’s eyes glittered. “So, you mean you .”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back toward the open sea.

Pansy didn’t press. Not yet. She leaned forward, voice softer. “You’ve been quiet since yesterday. Quieter than usual.”

Hermione looked out toward the mist gathering on the horizon. It was thin, like pulled wool, but too still. Too quiet. She didn’t like it.

“I’m tired,” she said simply. “And I’m trying to be ready.”

Pansy studied her for a moment, then nodded.

“I get that.” A pause. “But, if I may…” She leaned closer. “Do you have your eye on anyone, Granger? It’s an awfully long voyage to go without at least one distraction.”

Hermione gave her a look that could have frozen lava. “Are you serious?”

“Always,” Pansy said brightly. “And I’m bored.”

Hermione snorted despite herself. “I have exactly zero time for distractions.”

“Mmhm,” Pansy said, unconvinced. “But if you did have time…”

“Pansy.”

“All right, all right. I’ll go back to speculating in silence. You can just give me a signal if you’re ever in the mood to gossip. Maybe blink twice if you’re thinking about throwing Theo overboard.”

Hermione allowed a small smile. “He does talk too much.”

“Doesn’t he? But he’s entertaining. Like a particularly smug crow.”

Another burst of wind curled around them. And again, Draco’s voice rang out, low and clipped.

“Granger, when you’re done gossiping, I could use your brain near the starboard rail.”

Hermione lifted her chin, not looking at Pansy.

“Duty calls,” she muttered.

Pansy smirked. “Of course it does.”

As Hermione turned and made her way toward Draco, her boots clicking steady on the deck, Pansy remained at the railing, gaze sharp as knives.

“She says she’s not interested,” she murmured to the sea. “But she walks like she’s being pulled.”

And behind them, the mist began to deepen.

The ship cut through the still water like a knife through silk, the sails unnervingly quiet as the wind thinned to a hush. Fog pooled low across the deck, clinging to boots and barrels, crawling in quiet tendrils across the floorboards.

Ahead, the sea shimmered unnaturally — a flat expanse of pale green, too calm, too smooth, as if the world had forgotten how to ripple. It looked like glass, stretched for miles in every direction.

Even the sky above seemed muted. Clouds hung like breath held too long. There was no sun, no shadow. Just a soft, glowing gray.

A quiet clink of boots brought Pansy to her side again. Hermione didn’t know how she got so lucky to have Pansy choose her to try to be her new gal pal, but the brunette who was once her bully, was constantly sidling up to her. 

“Alright,” Pansy said, brushing her hair off her shoulders. “You’ve been standing here like a statue for twenty minutes. Who is it?”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“You’re obviously thinking about someone,” Pansy said breezily. “That glazed-over, faraway look—you’ve either solved the ancient riddle of the fog or you’re fantasizing. Which is it?”

Hermione gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m observing. That’s what people do in strange magical environments.”

“Sure,” Pansy said, utterly unconvinced. “So it has nothing to do with how your eyes keep flicking to a certain grumpy blonde shouting at the crew from the helm?”

Hermione flushed but said nothing.

“Thought so,” Pansy smirked. “Also, you’ve been watching those three new guys from the mess hall. Which I approve of, honestly—tall one’s a looker, though a bit too polite, which usually means a serial killer.”

“I’m not watching them like that, ” Hermione muttered, still scanning. “I’m trying to figure out who we can trust. Half of them weren’t vetted by Kingsley directly. And this is our first real test.”

Pansy’s teasing faded slightly at that.

“You think it’ll get bad?” she asked quietly.

Hermione nodded. “It already is. You just can’t hear it yet.”

From the upper deck, Draco’s voice cut through the fog like a whip. “Formations to the helm! Now!”

Pansy gave her a look and then headed off, while Hermione turned toward the growing knot of command staff.

At the helm stood Draco, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the wind cutting across his sharp silhouette like he belonged here. Blaise was at his side, map rolled out and magically lit, and Theo leaned lazily against a barrel chewing something that was probably gum, probably stolen.

Harry arrived last, hair windswept and wand tucked into his back holster. He stepped into the circle and crossed his arms.

“We splitting the crew?”

“Yes,” Draco said without turning.

Harry frowned. “Three groups?”

Draco finally looked up. “We cover more ground that way. The fog’s pushing in. We don’t know how long we’ll be able to see more than ten feet ahead.”

“Yeah, but splitting up? With this kind of magic?” Harry stepped forward. “The whole sea’s steeped in illusion. Half the crew doesn’t know what they’re walking into.”

Draco’s jaw ticked. “Which is why each group has a balance of spellwork, combat, and terrain strategists. It’s not reckless. It’s efficient.”

Harry didn’t back off. “Efficient doesn’t mean safe. You want to cover more ground, fine, but putting people in smaller units means we can’t pull them out fast enough if something goes wrong.”

“And clustering all of us in one place means if something does go wrong, we lose everyone. ” Draco’s voice rose. “We’re not playing chess, Potter. We’re in it.”

“Yeah, and I’d like all the pieces to survive, ” Harry snapped.

The tension cracked.

Theo let out a low whistle and stepped slightly to the side. Blaise didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked between the two of them.

Draco took a breath, then another, running a hand down his face before speaking again—calmer, but edged.

“I didn’t assign the formations lightly,” he said. “Group One takes the western sweep—me, Nott, Rook, and Deverill. We’ve got shields and tracking, and Theo can map the ley activity in real-time.”

He turned to Hermione. “Group Two will go north—you, Zabini, Whit, and Longbottom. Strong spellwork, grounded magic, and Blaise can anchor a perimeter if it gets messy.”

Blaise gave a lazy two-fingered salute.

“And Group Three?” Harry asked.

“Eastern path. You, Weasley, Vesper, and Mareen,” Draco said. “Combat-heavy. The Weasel’s used to reacting under pressure, and Mareen’s been running fog wards since the early planning stages. You’ll be fine.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “Alright.”

“Trust me,” Draco said.

Harry studied him for a long moment, then finally—reluctantly—nodded. “I’m trying.”

Theo clapped Harry on the shoulder with more force than necessary. “Aww, it’s touching when the ex-Gryffindor and ex-Death Eater learn to cooperate.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

Hermione, watching all of this, crossed her arms. “We should go soon. The longer we wait, the thicker the enchantment will grow. It’s already started whispering.”

Theo tilted his head, listening. “I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s because it doesn’t want you to yet,” she said flatly. “It waits until you’re alone.”

A heavy silence followed.

Draco spoke again, voice crisp. “We’ll tether each team magically to the ship with anchor wards. If you lose visual contact, follow your internal tether and retreat. No heroics. If you start hearing voices—”

“Block them,” Harry finished. “Silencing charms, protective runes, whatever you’ve got.”

Blaise rolled the map up. “We anchor in five minutes.”

Everyone began to move, splitting off toward their assigned teams but Theo and Blaise. Both men stood their ground, albeit, in lazy stances to stay with Draco.

Draco caught Hermione’s eyes as she passed. Just for a second. A flicker. She gave him the barest nod before continuing toward the foredeck.

He turned back to the wheel, fingers tight around the edge, heart heavy with a thought he couldn’t say aloud.

I should have kept her with me.

And Draco hated it. Hated every part of that decision, even though it was the correct one. He couldn’t justify keeping her in his group without it sounding like favoritism — without Pansy’s voice mocking him in the back of his mind.

“If you’re so worried about her, maybe you should just climb into her bunk and stay there.” 

Pansy had casually said that to him the night before, as if Draco hadn’t secretly had the same thought himself.  But that was crazy.  He had no right to Hermione.  He had to claim.  Merlin, he forced a kiss on her four years ago, and then he never wrote or saw her again...until now.

Well…that wasn’t exactly accurate.  

She hadn’t seen him in four years.  He saw her.  He saw her every time he smelled lavender and vanilla.  He saw her every time she made it into the Newspaper. He saw her anytime he drank a black cup of coffee and thought of how much he despised the drink, but she was the one to get him to drink it in eighth year.  

Guiltily, Draco saw her anytime he closed his eyes and he sought a moment of self pleasure.  There wasn’t much to do in a small jail cell besides trying to stay warm without losing your mind.  And so Draco found himself picturing the Gryffindor swot more times than he could count. 

He savored the memories he had of her.

Coveted them like a man possessed. 

He clenched his jaw and sighed like a man thrice his age.

Draco hadn’t slept properly in days. Not with the weight of every soul on this ship resting squarely on his spine. Not with Hermione weaving in and out of his peripheral vision, untouchable and too present all at once.

And now she’d be navigating through a fog-laced illusion field without him.

Draco was excellent at hiding discomfort. He’d had years of practice. But Blaise knew the twitch in his brow. Theo, standing just behind Hermione, noticed too.

“You sure you don’t want to swap me and Granger?” Theo said lightly. “I’m good under pressure, but she’s prettier than me, and you might want someone pretty on your flank in case the Sirens show up.”

Draco glared.

Blaise muttered, “Please stop talking.”

Theo smirked. “Worth a try.”

The sky had gone quiet.

Not still—quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed into eardrums like a curse. Even the enchanted sails had stopped humming. The ocean ahead shimmered silver-blue, unnatural and perfectly smooth, like the surface of a memory too painful to touch.

The crew gathered on the main deck under the half-light of dusk, tension hanging between them like suspended breath. Wands were holstered. Shields tightened. Every face held the same flicker of dread.

Draco stood on the foredeck, back ramrod straight, gloved hands clasped behind him. His captain’s cloak snapped in the rising wind. Behind him, the Sea of Whispers stretched out like a graveyard. A mist curled just above its surface, whispering not with voices, but with intent.

Draco cleared his throat. His voice, when it came, was measured steel.

“We’ve made it to the first gate. The Sea of Whispers. Don’t let the name fool you—it’s not poetic. It’s a trap. We’re splitting into three small formations which will allow us to place these anchors in a wide triangular formation around the ship. They will stabilize the ship’s internal wards and will allow us to recalibrate the ship’s ley-guidance system. We have no choice but to go through this.”

No one spoke. Even the usual banter from Blaise or Pansy was absent. They were listening.

“Centuries ago, the sea ahead was cursed by the Sirens of Elaris—beings who don't sing with sound but with thought. Regret. Longing. Grief. They slip inside your mind and use your past against you. Your worst moment becomes a lullaby.”

A murmur passed through the crew.

Draco pointed to the map hovering midair beside him, a glowing projection of twisted currents and pulse-points.

“We’re not equipped to recalibrate the ship’s core mid-voyage. So we adapt. We hold the line. And we go through.”

Hermione stood a little off to the side, watching him with careful eyes. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not when he was doing everything in his power to keep his voice from shaking.

“When we cross the threshold, the mist will find you.  It will offer you a dream you think you deserve.  A past you want to rewrite.  Or a person you lost.  It will fuck with your mind and make you see your worst regret and offer you something it thinks is better.  You’ll be tempted to stay.  Or worse, to act on it.”

He let that hang in the air.  The wind had died completely now.

Harry took a step forward. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”

Draco met his eyes. “Yes.”

There was a tense pause. Harry nodded slowly. “Then we go.”

Draco turned back to the crew.

“Your only job is this: stay anchored.  Trust your team.  Stay in formation.  Don’t run.  Don’t follow anything that speaks to you from the mist.  It’s not real.  It’s never real.”

Theo called from the mid-deck, dry as ever.  “Lovely, just what I wanted--collective psychological collapse at sea.”

“Good,” Draco called back, no humor in sight.  “Then you’ll feel right at home.”

Some tight laughter broke out.  Draco’s mouth twitched but never quite smiled.  He took a slow breath. “Look, I’m not here to give you some noble speech about courage or resilience.  You don’t need a pep talk. You need to know this: you will want to give in.  The magic wants you to.  That’s how it wins.  That’s how it keeps the ley lines protected and the rest of the world out.”

He met Potter’s eyes and saw the concern there. Draco would never admit this in a million years, but in that moment he pictured what Potter would say to keep morale up. 

“But we’re not the rest of the world.  We’re the ones who were chosen to reach the end of this map.  So we face it.” Draco paused.  “Together.  As one crew.  No exceptions.”

Draco drew his wand and tapped it twice against the rail.  He felt the magic before his wand even connected with Astrid . 

It was like Astrid was becoming a part of him. 

Blaise smirked. Theo cracked his knuckles.

Draco exhaled.

“Form up.”

A murmur of footsteps followed as a crew began to disperse.  Pairs whispered to each other.  Others look to Harry for reassurance.

Draco lingered at the railing, eyes fixed on the mist.  Hermione couldn’t help it.  It was like he was the sun and she was orbiting him. 

She stepped up beside him.

“That was almost motivational,” she murmured. Hermione’s eyes strayed towards his pink lips,watching as they quirked.  It was as if he wanted to smirk, but then his lips thinned out again in all seriousness. 

“Don’t tell anyone.  I have a reputation.”

He was looking out into the fog rather than at her.  Draco leaned so casually against the railing, his shoulders relaxed.  But his fingers tangled together and she watched as he twisted his rings. 

“You’re worried.”

Draco didn’t deny it.  Hermione found that she liked when he was honest. 

“We all should be.”

She nodded, quietly.  “And if someone breaks formation?”

Draco didn’t look at her.  Instead, he sucked air into his mouth through his teeth, bracing himself for something.

“Then we pull them out.  Or we leave them behind.”

Hermione stilled. “That’s harsh.”

“It’s realistic.”

And then the first ripple of fog crept onto the deck, cold as breath, and the whispers began.

Fog curled through the trees like smoke from an old wound, coiling around boots, shoulders, and breath. Group One had reached their anchor point deep within the Sea of Whispers, and the air was soaked in an eerie silence — like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Rook bent low, planting the enchanted glyph beneath a cluster of gnarled roots. The runes sparked gold, then shimmered out of sight.

“Anchor set,” he confirmed.

Deverill grunted in approval, stepping back with his wand raised, scanning the mist with sharp, darting eyes.

“Well,” Theo muttered, stretching dramatically, “we’re not dead yet. That’s something.”

Draco didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the edge of the mist, where shapes flickered — branches, probably. Maybe.

Theo sidled up beside him, nudging his arm. “You know, for someone who insists he hates everyone on this ship, you’re awfully intense about making sure they stay alive.”

“Merlin, Nott—”

“Especially one cheeky brunette in particular.” Theo smirked.

Draco didn’t even look at him. “She’s a liability.”

“She’s literally the reason we’re all still alive.”

Draco stopped, turned slightly. His tone was cold, clipped. “She’s emotional. Predictable. Can’t compartmentalize.”

Theo’s grin widened. “You’re talking about her or yourself now?”

“I'm talking about the fact that I was right to tell her I'd leave anyone behind. That kind of clarity makes things simple. Makes things quiet.”

Theo gave him a long, sidelong glance. “But you wouldn’t leave her.”

“I should.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

Draco turned his head sharply, as if about to snap back—but the words didn’t come.

The silence between them stretched.

Finally, Draco exhaled through his nose, voice quieter. “She’s the only one I wouldn’t.”

Theo blinked, the teasing slipping from his face.

Draco stared ahead, into the fog. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Then—

A sound.

Soft at first. Frayed. A thread being pulled.

Then clearer. Shrill. Real.

A scream.

Female.

Close.

Theo straightened instantly. “Did you—?”

Another scream, unmistakable now.

“Draco?”

Draco had already moved.

He strode into the mist with his wand drawn, chest clenched. The air grew heavier, colder, like the world was shifting around him.

Branches became marble. Fog thickened into stone walls. The air smelled like fire and blood.

He was in the manor again.

And she was there.

On the floor.

Screaming.

Chapter Text

The forested cliffs were unnaturally silent.

Ron Weasley didn’t like it. He trudged over a tangle of roots, wand out, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular, and muttered under his breath, "Should've bloody well let Malfoy take this route. Might've done the git some good to get lost in a fog."

Harry didn’t answer at first. He walked a few paces ahead, scanning the terrain for any signs of the leyline. His expression was tight, purposeful—but Ron knew that look. It was the same one he wore every time he didn’t want to deal with whatever Ron was saying.

"Don't pretend you haven't noticed," Ron pressed. "How he's always hovering near Hermione like he's her personal bloody shadow."

"Ron, don't," Harry said without turning around.

"No, seriously. It’s weird. He’s always looking at her. Always." Ron snapped a twig with his boot. "Like he's waiting for her to say something or fall into his arms or some dramatic nonsense."

Harry kept moving.

Ron wasn’t done. "You ask me, he's still a Death Eater. That tattoo might be gone, but you don’t just erase that kind of thing. He's still got that look—like he’s measuring everyone up, waiting to see who’s worth saving and who’s not. You saw what he was like in the war. Cold. Cruel. The way he stood by while people got hurt—while Hermione got hurt."

He kicked a rock off the path, scowling. "I bet he still dreams about the old days. About blood purity and dark marks. You can dress a snake in robes, Harry, but it’s still a snake."

A sharp, heated voice sliced through the stillness.

"Watch your tongue when you speak about our Captain."

Ron startled. The speaker was a lean, scarred man with storm-gray eyes named Vesper. One of the two soldiers assigned to their formation, he moved with a lethal grace that suggested years of battlefield command and personal sacrifice.

Vesper stepped into view, pushing back his cloak to reveal the ragged mark on his forearm—a jagged brand over where the Dark Mark once lived.

"Not everyone had the luxury of choosing which side they were on," he snarled. "Some of us were raised with chains around our throats. Some of us got this burned into our skin before we were old enough to know what rebellion was. You think it's that simple, Weasley? That people like Malfoy got to decide who they became? You think surviving Voldemort came without cost?"

Ron opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Mareen, the quiet woman walking beside them, adjusted the clasp of her satchel without looking up. Her voice was calm, but carried weight. "Captain Malfoy isn’t here because of who he was. He’s here because of what he’s done since. And I trust that more than I trust your mouth running unchecked."

Harry finally stopped and turned. His voice was calm, but firm. "Enough. All of you."

Ron huffed. "Fine. Whatever. Just explain to me why we’re out here placing anchors in the middle of nowhere while Malfoy’s off..."

"Malfoy is risking his life in his own formation, same as the rest of us," Mareen said coldly. "So let’s focus."

Ron threw up a hand. "Alright, alright. Just—can someone tell me what this trial’s even for? What are we proving, exactly?"

Mareen knelt by the edge of a large boulder and began tracing a rune into the dirt. "This place—the Sea of Whispers—is a spiritual convergence point. Leylines twist unnaturally here. We don’t know why, but they do. The magic here amplifies thought, emotion... memory."

Ron frowned. "So why the name?"

"Because the place talks back," Vesper answered darkly. "Not in words. In echoes. In regrets. It whispers the worst of you until you start to believe it."

Ron swallowed. "And the sirens?"

Mareen looked up. "They’re drawn to the whispers. Maybe they’re made from them. No one’s sure. They take shape from your mind. From what you fear, what you grieve, what you’d give anything to change. They lure you into the fog and keep you there."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Placing the anchors helps stabilize the leyline energy temporarily. Enough that we can pass through. Each formation sets a point. They have to be placed simultaneously and sustained by magic to keep the corridor open for the ship."

Ron still looked doubtful. "And we just happen to be risking our lives so the damn boat doesn’t implode the second it floats through?"

"Pretty much," Vesper muttered.

"Brilliant. Bloody brilliant."

Mareen adjusted her fog ward. "Better we anchor the nightmares than let them bleed into the real world."

Ron glanced at Harry. "Please tell me that made sense to you."

"More than I want it to," Harry muttered. "Just stay focused. Don’t let anything pull you under. And if it does... we'll pull each other out."

Ron hesitated. Then gave a reluctant nod.

They moved forward together.

Not knowing what waited in the mists.

“So we just wait now?” Ron frowned dubiously. 

Their formation made it to their checkpoint with little to no issues.  After Mareen’s dry explanations, Ron half expected one of them to be tempted to bleed in with the mist, but it was rather boring after everyone’s explanations.

“We just wait,” Harry confirmed.

Mareer took a seat on the ground, crossing her legs with the anchor stationed in her lap.  Her hands rubbed it as if it were a magic lamp. Vesper took a stance behind Mareen, glancing over her shoulder down at the forged obelisk.  

Ron didn’t think it looked like it was anything special.  It was maybe 6 inches tall.  The shape was narrow, tapered spire with angular runes etched down each side--some in Latin and others in an ancient magical dialect that made Ron’s head hurt. It was deep black, like glass touched by shadow, and looked cold. 

“I can feel the power thrumming,” Mareen murmured, her eyes closed and her face tilted up to the sky.

Ron gave Harry a look that said Is she mental? .  All Harry could do was shrug and adjust his glasses.  The fog was messing with his sight.

“So how do we know when to place this anchor?” Ron asked impatiently after a minute.

“Do you not use your eyes?” Vesper asked sardonically as he motioned around them.

Ron nearly jumped out of his skin.  Since when was the fog red ?!

“I started changing the fog color the moment we got here.  When we see Green we will know Captain is ready.  When we see gold, we’ll know Zabini is ready.”

“And if we see them both?” Ron asked.

“Then we’ll know to place the anchor and get the hell back to the ship.”

Before Ron could say or ask any more questions, a ringing sliced through the air. 

“Harry?”

“I hear it.”

Mareen hummed. “Block it out. Whatever you two hear, block it out.”

Vesper stood straighter, hand on the hilt of his dagger.

“What is it?”

The ringing turned to a scream.

Not just any scream.

Hermione’s scream.

“It’s not real, Ron,” Harry whispered with conviction, but his voice wavered.

The screaming continued. 

A scream.

Female.

Close.

Theo straightened instantly. “Did you—?”

Another scream, unmistakable now.

“Draco?”

Draco had already moved.

He strode into the mist with his wand drawn, chest clenched. The air grew heavier, colder, like the world was shifting around him.

Branches became marble. Fog thickened into stone walls. The air smelled like fire and blood.

He was in the manor again.

And she was there.

On the floor.

Screaming.

The manor walls rose like a mausoleum around him.

Draco stood frozen in the corridor—boots silent on marble slick with old blood. His wand dangled in his hand, but it felt useless.

Hermione was screaming.

She thrashed on the floor of the drawing room, hair matted, wrists raw where the ropes cut in. Bellatrix laughed from the corner. Greyback circled her, his grin feral, yellow teeth bared like a dog anticipating the kill.

Draco’s chest squeezed.

He took a step forward—

And the world ripped .

No longer the manor. The air shifted, heavy with rot and rain.

A house—Muggle, crumbling, forgotten by time—rose in front of him. The sky was gray-black, and in the overgrown yard, Draco’s younger self stood trembling, pale, wand out.

And behind him, a shadow.

Tom Riddle. Young. Beautiful. A lie in human skin. 

Draco had seen him using Tom Riddle’s face a few times before. It was something he was secretly working on in order to dominate the world. 

“You know the cost of mercy,” the Dark Lord said, voice silken and merciless. “Your mother’s life… or hers.”

Draco looked toward the house window.

A girl. Fifteen. Brown skin. Wide, panicked eyes. She pounded uselessly on the glass from inside, bound and gagged. Terrified.

“If you don’t act,” Riddle continued, “I’ll let Greyback have her. You know what that means. You know what he likes .”

Draco flinched. “I—please—”

“She’s going to scream either way,” Riddle murmured. “You choose the tune.”

His younger self moved.

Wand lifted.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light.

She fell without a sound.

A breath later, she was at Draco’s feet. Eyes open. Lips parted like she’d almost said his name.

Draco fell to his knees.

But when he blinked—

She was gone.

And he was back in the manor.

The girl had disappeared.

Hermione remained.

And this time, it was worse.

Greyback knelt beside her, dragging a claw down the side of her face. “So much pretty in a little Mudblood package,” he hissed, breath hot and foul. “Scream for me again, sweetheart.”

Hermione whimpered, voice cracked from crying. “Draco—Draco, please—”

He couldn’t move.

“DRACO!” she screamed.

Greyback pulled her up by the hair, twisting her to face Draco’s frozen body. Her eyes were wet, red-rimmed, full of pain.

And she saw him.

“Why won’t you stop him?” she sobbed. “Why didn’t you save me?”

Draco tried to step forward, but his feet felt sunk in cement.

Greyback licked her neck, slow and gleeful. Claws traced down her body, cutting into her shirt fabric until it fell away.

Draco’s throat burned. His wand trembled.

“Please,” Hermione whispered, more broken now. “Please—don’t leave me again…”

Her voice shifted.

Softer. Silkier.

The air warped.

Suddenly, Greyback was gone.

Hermione stood at full height--which wasn’t very tall to begin with as she only came to Draco’s shoulders. The blood on her cheek was drying. Her curls hung in soft shadows around her face. Her lips trembled, but her eyes… they gleamed.

“You came this time,” she said gently, walking toward him. “You always wanted to. I could feel it… even then.”

He backed up a step.

“I wanted to help you,” he rasped. “I tried—”

“You watched,” she whispered. “And I bled.”

Her fingers traced the collar of her blouse—torn, filthy. The same finger traced the edge of her white, mud caked bra. She tilted her head as she reached him. “But you’re here now, Draco. Stay. Stay with me. It doesn’t have to hurt anymore.”

She continued to step closer. 

One step. Then another.

Now her hands brushed his chest. Cold. Like sea-water.

“Stay with me,” she whispered again, voice thick with longing. “You don’t need to fight it anymore. I’ll forgive you. I’ll give you peace.”

Her lips were a breath from his.

“I’ll give you everything. ”

Draco’s hand was shaking.

But he raised the wand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tears biting his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“Then stay,” the illusion Hermione said.

“I can’t. ”

Illusion-Hermione went to whisper against his mouth, but Draco was quicker. 

“FINITE!”

The spell shattered the illusion like glass.

A shriek rose around him—high, inhuman, furious.

Then silence.

Fog rushed back in. Wet, cold, mercifully empty.

Draco collapsed to his knees, gasping, heaving, like the weight of both lifetimes had just landed on his shoulders.

Behind him, he heard Theo shouting his name, crashing through the underbrush.

But Draco didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

The only thing he could hear was her voice.

Still whispering.

Still blaming.

Still bleeding.

Draco stayed on his knees.

The fog curled around him like cold fingers. Damp leaves clung to his palms, his breath shuddering as he tried to pull himself together—but the silence only made it worse.

He could still hear her voice.

“Stay with me.”

His wand hand trembled.

He pressed it to the ground.

He had done it again.

Watched. Frozen. Useless.

He had watched the muggleborn girl die. He had let her death stain his wand. He had listened to Voldemort speak about his mother’s suffering like it was a chess piece. He had chosen—no, obeyed —to avoid pain at the cost of someone else’s life.

And now, even in illusions, even in hallucinations , he had watched Hermione bleed.

Beg for her life.

He’d seen Greyback leer. Had smelled the blood. The fear. Her helplessness.

And still, his feet hadn’t moved.

The worst part wasn’t the magic. It wasn’t the trickery. It was how real it had felt. How easy it had been to hesitate.

How part of him—just a sliver— hadn’t wanted to break the illusion.

Because in it, she had looked at him like he mattered. Like he could be her savior. Her choice.

Even if it was built on a lie.

He clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose. Wetness clung to his lashes. He didn’t wipe it away.

This was the Sea of Whispers.

And it was working.

He didn’t know if he’d earned the right to crawl out of it.

Because crawling out meant survival. It meant getting to walk back to the ship, back to the others, as if he were still whole. As if what he’d done—and what he hadn’t done—was something he could just keep burying deeper under titles and orders and clever strategic maneuvers.

He had killed someone. A girl. Young. Terrified. Barely older than they had been at school. She hadn’t even fought back. Her wand had been on the floor. She’d been sobbing. Pleading. And he’d done it anyway, wand shaking, Voldemort’s hand on his shoulder and his mother’s fate dangling like a knife above them both.

He had told himself it was mercy. That killing her quickly meant sparing her from worse.

But mercy had nothing to do with the fact that he hadn’t even looked at her face when it was over.

He didn’t deserve forgiveness for that.

And then there was her .

Hermione, broken and bleeding under Greyback in the manor’s dining room, magic sizzling through the air like barbed wire.

In the illusion, he hadn’t lunged forward. He hadn’t screamed her name. He’d frozen, like he always did when it mattered most. Watched the worst happen—again.

He knew it hadn’t been real.

But it didn’t matter. Because a part of him—the hollow, selfish part that had survived a war by hiding behind walls— had let it happen .

Had waited.

Had listened to her voice shift from agony to seduction, and it had tempted him .

That was what haunted him most.

Not the horror. Not even the guilt.

But the crack in him—the fracture—that was still drawn to a version of her that needed him more than she hated him. The part of him that wanted that illusion, even if it came wrapped in blood.

How could someone like that walk out of the mist and pretend he hadn’t faltered?

How could he wear the uniform of a captain and ask others to follow?

He didn’t know if he could forgive himself.

He wasn’t sure he should.

Leaves crunched behind him.

Footsteps.

Then: “Draco?”

Theo’s voice. He was panting, like he was out of breath.

Draco inhaled, deep and steady, trying to find the steel in his spine again.

“I’m here,” he muttered.

Theo emerged from the mist, breath harsh, clothes damp with fog. “Bloody hell, you’re lucky I’m used to you disappearing like some tortured phantom.” He knelt beside Draco, not pressing—just there. 

“I heard her,” Draco said quietly. “I saw... too much.”

Theo’s expression didn’t change. But his hand settled briefly on Draco’s shoulder. “We all saw things, I think. That’s the point of this place, isn’t it? To rip us open and see what we bleed.”

After a beat of silence, Theo whispered, “I heard my mother. That was the scream I heard.  Rook had to pull me back from the ledge….a literally ledge…like a cliff.  Nearly the same one she jumped from when I was five.  When I eventually snapped out of it, you were already gone.”

Draco didn’t respond. He was staring at the ground. Still hearing her scream.

Theo gave him a moment, then added, “Rook and Deverill are placing the anchor. We’re almost ready. You alright to walk?”

Draco nodded slowly.

Theo stood and offered a hand and Draco took it.

As they moved through the mist, Theo stopped, eyes narrowing. “There—look.”

Above the treetops, a plume of smoke rose.

Twisting. Crimson and gold. The signal.

Draco followed Theo’s gaze, chest tight.

“One trial down,” Theo said.

“And four more to go,” Draco murmured.

The mist shifted again—quieter now. Less clawing. But the chill remained in his bones.

The Sea had seen him.

And it wasn’t finished yet.

The fog had begun to thin by the time Draco’s formation emerged from the cliffs and saw the outline of the ship through the wavering grey. The fog ward pulsed—low, pulsing beats from Mareen’s work—vibrating softly through the ground, guiding their feet like distant drums. Theo walked beside him in silence, eyes still alert, jaw tight, as if afraid the mists would try one final trick.

Behind them, Rook and Deverill exchanged no words either. Their movements were stiff, deliberate. No one wanted to admit what they’d seen.

And then they were at the edge of the cliffs—and from the trees ahead, more figures appeared.

Harry’s group emerged from the eastern path, Ron dragging behind him, pale and visibly shaken. Mareen had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were still somewhere else entirely. Vesper’s face was unreadable—but his hands trembled faintly, his wand gripped too tight.

The third group came from the northern slope—Longbottom helping one of their companions limp forward, Blaise unusually quiet at his side. Blaise had blood on his sleeve but didn’t seem to notice it.

They all converged at once, twelve souls regrouping like exhausted puzzle pieces.

Draco’s eyes scanned them automatically, cataloging wounds, posture, gaze—anything that would suggest a break in sanity. Some looked hollowed out. Some older. Haunted, sunken in the way grief ages people overnight. Others wore the stubborn mask of denial, pretending they hadn’t seen what they’d seen.

But his eyes snagged on her .

Hermione stood a few paces behind Longbottom, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her shoulders rigid with invisible weight. The braid she'd started the day with had half-unraveled, strands of chestnut hair clinging to her temples where sweat had dried. Her boots were mud-caked, her robes damp from the waist down. She looked like she’d been pulled from a battlefield. They all did. But Draco couldn’t stop looking at her.

He didn’t look at her like a man looking at a woman.

He looked at her like a man searching for confirmation that the bloodstained memory wasn't real.

His eyes moved slowly—painfully—tracing every inch of her from a distance, cataloging the minuscule details like a list he was too afraid to forget. He started with her face: pale, drawn, but unmarred. Her mouth wasn’t split. Her cheeks weren't streaked with blood. Her eyes were ringed with exhaustion, yes—but they were hers. Intelligent. Focused. Present.

He let his gaze drift downward, inch by inch, as if expecting to see the torn, ruined version the sirens had shown him.

Her neck. Her collarbone. Smooth. No bruising. No hand prints.

The fabric of her robes clung to her form, but not from violence. Just moisture and mist. No slashes across her chest. No bite marks. No torn seams.

Her hands were clenched at her sides—but there were no manacles. No splinters. No blood beneath her nails.

He dared a glance at her legs. Steady. Her knees weren’t bent from pain. She was holding her weight. She was not on the floor.

She was standing.

She was alive.

She was not the Hermione he’d just seen on that cold manor floor, broken and screaming and gasping his name through crimson lips.

Still—his stomach twisted. Because for a moment, part of him expected her to open her mouth and say something only the illusion would say. Something too cruel. Too seductive. Too lost.

Then her eyes met his.

And it wasn’t the siren.

It was her .

He had to look away—fast, like it hurt.

Because it did.

Because the only way to be sure she was safe was to watch her suffer again in his mind, and he couldn’t afford to drown in that just now.

Harry led the ragtag group of twelve back onto the ship. 

Draco was the last to follow. 

The moment his boots hit the deck, a sound exploded—cheering. Clapping. Someone let out a shaky whoop. Theo actually grinned and clapped him on the back, and others followed.

“We did it,” someone muttered near the mast. “The first one. We actually did it.”

It rippled through the ship—the unspoken terror morphing into fragile relief. People began moving again, shouting names, checking on each other. Hugs. Laughter. Nervous energy releasing all at once.

And Draco stood there in the middle of it all, wet boots on the boards, watching it unfold.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t smile. Just nodded faintly as crew members passed him, some clapping him on the shoulder, others muttering “Captain” with a kind of reverence that made his throat tighten.

They were celebrating too soon.

The trial wasn’t over.

The anchors had been placed, yes—but now they had to sail through the Sea of Whispers. If the magic didn’t hold, if the leyline corridor faltered, they’d be scattered—across dimensions, across time. Lost.

But he didn’t say that. Not yet.

Not when their hands had stopped shaking.

Not when Hermione’s gaze, across the deck, still hadn’t fully steadied.

He kept the storm to himself.

And ordered the crew to set sail.

Chapter Text

The fog churned like smoke around the ship’s hull.

Draco stood at the bow, one hand clutching the polished railing, the other stretched out over the sea. His wand hummed faintly, but it was the pull in his chest—tethered to the anchors now hidden deep within the forested cliffs—that guided him. The air shimmered faintly in front of him, a veil of warped magic rippling like a curtain in the wind.

“They’re ready,” came Mareen’s voice from behind, breathless but certain. “The anchors are holding.”

All eyes were on him.

This was the moment they’d gambled for: a path through the Sea of Whispers—brief, fragile, and forged entirely by their own will. If they failed now, the sea would collapse in on them, swallow the ship whole, and cast their minds into a madness none would return from.

Draco inhaled, shut his eyes, and let go.

He let the magic thread through his bones, from his fingertips into the ship’s enchanted wood, into the runes engraved along its keel, and down, down, into the anchor points humming miles apart. They answered—three pulses in quick succession, like heartbeats, syncing to his own.

A groan rumbled through the vessel as if it, too, were holding its breath.

Then the fog parted.

Not cleared—but folded. As though an unseen hand was drawing aside two halves of an ancient curtain.

And the ship moved forward.

Cheers erupted behind him—first scattered, then overwhelming. He heard Neville’s startled laugh, Ron clapping Harry hard on the back, someone cackling in disbelief, and Theo shouting over the din that he owed Blaise a bottle of something aged and probably illegal.

But Draco didn’t smile.

He kept his hand on the railing, watching the whispering sea shiver and twist around them, trying and failing to reach them.

It was over.

They had made it through.

Only when the last tendril of mist dispersed and the sun broke faintly over the horizon did Draco lower his hand.

He turned.

The crew was already dissolving into movement—hugging, laughing, grabbing each other’s arms with relief and disbelief and giddy adrenaline. A crew member slapped a barrel with a spoon and shouted, “We bloody survived ! That’s a party if I’ve ever earned one!”

Pansy was already halfway up the stairs to the music alcove, calling over her shoulder, “Someone get those floating lanterns lit! And if I don’t see champagne by the time I come down, I swear on Salazar—!”

Hermione, standing with a group near the helm, turned just slightly—just enough to catch Draco’s eyes across the deck. She looked at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle, her brow faintly furrowed. Everyone else was jubilant.

He wasn’t.

She knew.

She always knew.

Draco turned away before she could speak.

Behind him, laughter and music began to rise as the sun stretched fully into the sky.

The crew had survived their first trial.

And now, they were ready to forget.

If only for a night.

The sun set low and golden across the open water, casting long streaks of orange across the deck, where lanterns flickered to life and soft music from enchanted instruments began to echo over the ship.

Tables were pushed back. Barrels became makeshift seats. Someone conjured glowing orbs of light that bobbed above their heads, and Pansy—true to her word—had uncorked the first bottle of champagne with a flourish and summoned more with a smirk.

“It’s not Dom Perignon, but it’ll do,” she’d declared, handing out goblets like royalty. When she set her sight on Hermione, the other witch barely felt the woman’s magic as the clothes she wore transformed into a breezy summer dress.  “Perfect for dancing in,” Pansy declared with a smile.

Hermione didn’t want to dance.

She said as much, at least three times, before Pansy rolled her eyes and grabbed her wrist.

“Oh, don’t be so Hermione ,” Pansy teased, dragging her to the center of the deck where music drifted with a rhythm that was soft, swayable, and sweet. “You survived being mentally flayed by whispering sirens. You can survive a dance.”

Before Hermione could protest again, Pansy spun her under the stars, and laughter broke free from her lips—reluctant but real.

It didn’t take long for Hermione to keep drinking the drinks offered to her and keep accepting dance after dance.

She had forgotten how good it felt to feel free and she leaned into the feeling without abandon. 

Draco saw the whole thing.

He leaned near the ship’s railing on the upper deck, flanked by Theo and Blaise, a mostly full drink in his hand and an entirely unreadable look on his face.

“You know,” Blaise said casually, watching Hermione twirl, “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen her look like she’s not thinking one hundred steps ahead of the enemy.”

Theo took a sip of his drink, eyes following her too. “Yeah. I’d almost say she’s… having fun. Better make your move, Draco, before she dances her way into someone else’s bunk.”

Draco didn’t answer.

Theo elbowed him lightly. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re waiting for the next near-death experience to confess your undying love.”

“I’m not—”

“Sure you’re not,” Blaise said, raising a brow. “That’s why you’re currently holding your drink like you’re imagining it’s Rook’s neck.”

Draco’s jaw tensed.

Below, the party had picked up. A cluster of crew—Rook, Deverill, and two other men—stood in the shadows beside the lower masts, drinks in hand, eyes not-so-subtly trained on Hermione as she danced.

“I mean, damn ,” Rook murmured under his breath, “if Granger moves like that at a party, imagine what she’s like when—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Deverill said, but he grinned anyway.

Another crewman chuckled. “She’s got that fire in her. Bet she’d burn you alive and kiss you after.”

“I wouldn’t mind the burn,” someone added.

Draco didn’t move.

But the railing beneath his fingers groaned faintly as the wood warped under his grip.

Blaise and Theo went silent.

“Easy,” Theo said gently, eyeing Draco’s white-knuckled hand. “No need to snap the ship in half.”

Draco exhaled slowly. Astrid could handle his anger.  His possessiveness. 

But even as he released the railing, the magic still moved—coiled, unbidden, through his chest and into the vessel that had so intimately bonded to him. Below deck, unnoticed, the ship shifted. Rooms slid along enchanted tracks, rearranging gently with the current.

Hermione’s cabin came to rest directly beside his.

The music surged, and Hermione laughed again as Pansy twirled her into a dip that was more showy than graceful. She stood straight, flushed and breathless, brushing strands of hair from her cheeks.

Draco watched the way her chest rose and fell, the sweat at her temple, the soft curve of her smile—and the way her eyes, just for a flicker of a moment, drifted upward.

To him.

Their gazes met.

Hermione’s brow creased slightly, as though she were trying to read something in his expression. Something he wasn’t showing. Something she somehow still saw.

Blaise leaned in, his voice just loud enough for Draco to hear.

“You can kill all the leering bastards later,” he said. “But maybe dance with her first.”

Theo raised his glass. “To irrational jealousy and emotionally stunted ex-war criminals.”

Draco didn’t laugh.

But his fingers relaxed from the wood, and for the first time all night, he looked away from Hermione not because he had to—but because he wanted to look again.

Differently.

Deeper.

Beneath him, the party spun on.

Above him, the sun started to sink lower and lower until the stars started to appear one by one.

And below deck, the ship quietly obeyed the heart of its captain.

By nightfall, the ship had transformed.

What had been an austere, formidable vessel built for war and endurance now shimmered like a floating ballroom. The crew—young, battered, and buzzing with adrenaline—leaned into the sudden taste of freedom. Music poured from a self-playing fiddle and a set of bewitched drums. Lights floated in the air like fireflies, each casting a soft golden glow across faces flushed with laughter and drink.

In the corner of the upper deck, a group had gathered around a battered crate now serving as a makeshift bar. Whit, sleeves rolled up and wand tucked behind his ear, was lining up glowing green shots that smoked faintly.

“This one’s called Inferno’s Kiss ,” he declared proudly, handing a glass to Rook, who accepted it with a skeptical look.

“Does it explode?” Rook asked, sniffing it.

“Only emotionally,” Whit grinned. “Unless you’re a coward. Then, yes, it explodes.”

Rook threw it back. He coughed. His eyebrows smoked. The others roared in approval and shoved shots into their hands.

Across the deck, the storytelling had begun.

“—and then I leapt off the boulder,” Ron said, dramatically kicking one foot up onto a crate. “And I grabbed the siren by her hair—slimy, awful stuff—and I said, ‘Not today, sweetheart,’ before I plunged the anchor into the leyline.”

“You leapt ?” Mareen deadpanned, raising a brow from where she nursed her drink.

“I did! Ask Harry!”

Harry, who had just returned from below with a fresh bottle of wine, gave a noncommittal shrug. “He... may have tripped forward into the mud and the anchor just sort of wedged itself where it needed to go.”

Harry continued on his way, nearing the dance floor. He didn’t want to stick around and listen to Ron twist the story.

Ron waved him off. “Semantics.”

Mareen snorted into her glass. “You mean gravity .”

Nearby, Pansy and Neville sat on a barrel together, sharing a plate of dried fruit and nuts. Pansy had abandoned her heels long ago and swung her feet lazily.

“I would’ve thought you’d be over there with your Gryffindors,” she said, popping a candied fig into her mouth.

Neville shrugged, cheeks flushed from drink. “After sharing a dorm for sixth years with some of them, I’m fine. And I’m enjoying not having to fight my subconscious right now.”

Pansy eyed him. “You really weren’t scared?”

“Oh, I was terrified,” Neville admitted cheerfully. “I just don’t mind fear anymore.”

Pansy tilted her head, then lifted her drink. “To fear.”

Neville clinked his cup against hers. “And to surviving it.”

Down on the deck, Hermione laughed as Harry dropped the wine he was holding and pulled her into a fast-paced spin. The music had shifted into something playful, and for once, she didn’t resist. Her hair whipped around her face, her eyes shining with amusement as Harry danced like an awkward professor at a wedding.

“You’re terrible!” she laughed, breathless.

“You’re not wrong,” Harry huffed, trying to keep up. “But look! I haven’t stepped on you once!”

“That’s because I keep dodging.”

Suddenly, Whit appeared between them, eyebrows raised. “Mind if I cut in?”

Harry paused, unsure. Hermione gave him a small nod—it was only dancing—and Whit, ever the gentleman, bowed with exaggerated flair before pulling her into a slower rhythm.

Draco watched from the railing, unmoving.

Theo, next to him, nudged a full drink into his hand.

“Should’ve moved faster.”

“She’s dancing,” Draco said coolly, though his jaw ticked. “Not getting married.”

“With Whit ,” Blaise said. “He still calls her Granger .”

Theo snorted.  “We call her Granger.”

Blaise continued like Theo didn’t speak, “--like we’re in fifth year. I give him ten seconds before he asks her if she wants to see his wand collection.”

Below, Hermione laughed politely at something Whit said, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

On the far end of the deck, a crew of younger men and women had started an impromptu game of truth hex , laughing wildly as someone failed to answer and got hit with a spell that made them speak only in poetry for five minutes. One man was on his knees now, passionately reciting an ode to Mareen’s left boot.

A few feet away, a couple danced closer than the music required, their hands greedy, their laughter sharper. Someone had conjured a spark fountain. It sputtered above them, casting shadows that kissed and clawed across the planks.

Still others played cards by lantern light, betting chores and rations with reckless abandon. “If I win,” said a crew member, “you have to clean the magical bilge drain with your toothbrush.”

That cleared the table fast.

It was loud, wild, alive.

It was the most human the crew had felt since the mission began.

And above it all, the moon glowed full and watchful.

On the railing, Draco’s eyes returned to Hermione. She moved with grace, but not ease. Her eyes darted occasionally—not searching, but aware. She was relaxed, but never fully at peace. Not yet.

His fingers twitched around the glass. His magic, still humming faintly through the ship, responded—attuned, sensitive, alert. The ship loved its crew. But it belonged to him.

The sea was calm. The sky was clear.

But storms didn’t always start with clouds.

Sometimes, they started with the things left unsaid.

Blaise had vanished somewhere below deck with a smirk and three glasses of amber liquid. When Draco asked where he was headed, he merely lifted a brow toward the corner where Pansy was leaning against a barrel, her ankle crossed lazily over Neville Longbottom’s knee as they shared a quiet conversation and a slow sip of something honey-colored.

Theo had leaned over to mutter, “I swear to Merlin if they end up in a triad, I’ll be both confused and weirdly impressed.”

Now, it was just Theo and Draco leaning against the stern railing again, side by side, nursing drinks and brooding with completely different intensities.

“You know,” Theo said, casually flicking a toothpick over the rail, “you’re making this harder than it has to be.”

“I’m not making anything ,” Draco replied tightly, his eyes fixed down below.

“Yes, you are. You’re making it a Greek tragedy. There’s pining, suffering, and entirely too many meaningful glances. I’m two seconds away from writing a chorus to narrate your longing.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. “She’s dancing.”

“She is ,” Theo agreed, angling his head to follow his gaze. “With Whit. Still. And it’s been forty minutes.”

Draco sipped his drink.  “Forty-four,” he corrected as if he hadn’t been sitting with Theo and making a list of seven different ways he could remove Whit’s hand for even daring to touch Hermione while dancing whilst still making it look like an accident.

Down below, Hermione moved with Whit like she’d finally given up resisting the rhythm. The music had shifted—bass-heavy, pulsing, something tribal and charged. It wasn’t vulgar, but it wasn’t innocent either. Her hips moved in tandem with Whit’s, swaying back into him, her hand casually on his shoulder, his hovering just at her waist.

Draco’s grip on the glass tightened.

“She’s smiling,” Theo said.

“She smiles at everyone.”

“Not like that.”

Draco didn’t reply.

Behind them, footsteps padded over.

“Are we still being dramatic?” came Harry’s voice, dry as dust. He held a half-empty bottle in one hand and looked entirely too smug.

Theo lit up. “Perfect. Potter , tell your best frenemy here that if he doesn’t make a move, Whit’s going to ask her to examine his wand—and I mean that in both ways.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t noticed? The man’s been circling her like he’s two firewhiskeys from a mistake and one charm from confidence.”

“She doesn’t like him,” Draco said flatly, still watching.

“She’s dancing with him,” Theo said.

“She’s being polite,” Draco snapped.

“She’s rolling her hips against his thigh,” Theo returned.

Harry whistled. “Well, she is. Not saying that means anything. Hermione once did a tango with Kingsley at an awards gala because she felt bad he was being ignored.”

Theo leaned over, mock whispering, “If she does the shoulder roll , that means it’s over for you.”

“She did it three seconds ago,” Harry whispered back.

Draco turned away from them with a growl, stalking a few paces down the railing.

Harry glanced at Theo. “Has he told her?”

Theo shook his head.

Harry sighed. “Typical.”

“You Gryffindors think bravery is charging into danger, Potter. We Slytherins believe in calculating odds before emotional suicide,” Theo said.

“He’s Draco Malfoy . Former prince of purebloods, current war hero with a jawline that could cut glass. He looks like heartbreak in silk,” Harry said, deadpan. “And you’re telling me he’s afraid of Hermione ?”

“You’re not afraid of her?” Theo shot back.

“Touche.  But still.”

Theo grinned. “He has been pining after her since about fourth year…possibly third.”

Draco shot them both a deadly glare. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Then hear this: she could do a hell of a lot worse than you.”

That stopped Draco cold.

Harry shrugged. “She could. You’re not perfect—believe me, no one here thinks that—but you’ve changed. You’re good to her. You listen. You don’t ask her to make herself smaller. And you’ve earned more forgiveness than you allow yourself to believe.”

Theo added, softer this time, “You’ve already been through the worst of it, mate. Maybe it’s time to stop surviving and start... reaching.”

Draco’s throat worked silently. He looked back down.

Hermione was laughing again, her head tilted back, hair a mess of curls. Whit’s hand had slipped a little lower, but she didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she did and didn’t mind.

And yet, there was a flicker of something. The way her eyes flicked over Whit’s shoulder—twice—like she was looking for someone.

Like she was looking for him .

Draco didn’t move. But his magic did—spooling slowly into the ship’s bones again, quiet and watchful.

He wasn’t done. Not yet.

Draco’s gaze never left her.

Her hair had come loose from the updo she'd started the night with, a few curls brushing against the bare skin of her shoulder as she laughed again—carefree, radiant, and entirely unaware of the inferno she sparked behind his ribs.

She moved like she didn’t know she was being watched.

She moved like she wasn’t burned into his dreams.

And Whit—smug, golden, charming Whit—was soaking in every minute of it.

Theo kept talking. Harry said something else. But Draco no longer heard them.

He didn’t hear the music either, or the occasional bark of laughter from the other side of the deck, or even the clink of bottles from below.

All he heard was the pounding of his own heartbeat and the roar of a voice that sounded suspiciously like his younger self—bitter and cold and cowardly.

She’s too good for you.

You don’t deserve this.

You never did.

But then—

Draco reached out and snatched the bottle straight from Harry’s hand.

Harry blinked. “Rude.”

Draco didn’t reply. He tipped the bottle back and drank. Hard. Firewhiskey scorched down his throat, warm and ugly and alive .

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared down at Hermione again.

Then he let the voice in his head speak—really speak, for once.

You’re twenty-five. You’ve survived Azkaban trials, sirens, and the Dark Lord. You are not going to die because a girl might say no.

She’s not just any girl, another voice argued.

No. She wasn’t.

She was the only one who’d ever looked at him without flinching. Who challenged him without cruelty. Who offered friendship without agenda.

She was fire and intellect and aching softness all wrapped into one maddening contradiction—and he could not keep pretending that watching her from the sidelines was enough.

Not anymore.

Get off the godsdamned railing, Malfoy. Go be twenty-five. Go be a man. Go take what you want.

He exhaled.

Then pushed off the railing, heart hammering, boots steady.

Behind him, Theo and Harry went silent.

Draco didn’t look back.

His eyes were locked on one thing, and one thing only.

Her.

The music shifted again.

Low and sensuous. A rich, pulsing beat threaded with strings and slow drums—something meant for closeness. For heat.

Hermione swayed into it almost instinctively, letting Whit guide her with confident steps and well-practiced charm. He was a fine dancer. Too fine. Too perfect. Like he’d done this before with too many women.

And yet…

Something in her pulse kept stuttering.  Not from the dancing. From the watching.

She felt it again—that sear of a gaze.

Burning. Possessive.

She could feel it.  Like the heat sliding across the nape of her neck.

Her eyes flicked upward--past Whit’s shoulder, past the clusters of bodies weaving and laughing, pust the flickering lanterns strung from the masts--and here he was.

Draco Malfoy.

His gaze.

Standing at the end of the deck, hands at his sides, platinum hair glowing under the light.  His eyes were locked on her with the kind of focus that made her forget her own name.

He was drinking her in like a man who hadn’t had water in days.

Something primal tightened in her chest.

She liked it.

Hermione’s step faltered.

Whit noticed.  “You alright?”

She liked the way it made her skin feel too tight, her breath too shallow. She liked the thrill of it, of being seen like that. Not with admiration, not with casual curiosity.

“Fine,” she murmured, even as her eyes stayed tethered to Malfoy’s.  His gaze didn’t drop.  Didn’t blink as he grabbed a bottle of alcohol from Harry.

Merlin help her, she liked being watched by him. He looks…dangerous.

His expression didn’t waver. His eyes were sharp and dark and wholly unbothered by the people around him. He watched her with the kind of intent that made her feel like the only person on this ship. The only person in the world.

And then—he moved.

Purposeful. Smooth. Each stride more confident than the last, like he’d finally made up his mind.

Her mouth went dry.

Whit turned, blinking in surprise as Draco stopped beside them.

“May I?” Draco asked, voice low, almost bored—but his gaze burned.

Hermione barely heard Whit’s teasing remark, “Well, aren’t you bold tonight.”

Hermione looked up at Draco.  Really looked.  His jaw was tight.  His eyes--steel and storm and something else--never left hers.

Her lips parted.  “Yes.”

She barely felt Whit release her.

She could only see him .

Whit stepped back with a slight smirk, hands raised in surrender.  “She’s all yours, Captain.”

And then they were dancing.

It started simple—Draco’s hand at her waist, the other brushing against her palm. But within seconds, his hand slid—firm, commanding—to the small of her back. The contact sent shivers all the way up her spine.

He pulled her closer. Closer still.

Until her back pressed flush to his chest, and they were no longer dancing beside one another, but with one another—moving as one body, one rhythm, one breath.

Her heartbeat thundered. Her thoughts scattered.

He was solid behind her. All lean strength and heat. Every motion of his hips guided hers, every subtle turn of his palm steered her, commanded her, owned her.

His breath brushed her neck.

“You like being watched,” he murmured, lips just barely brushing her ear. “Don’t you, Hermione?”

She exhaled a shaky breath, but didn’t deny it.

“I saw you,” he continued, voice a velvet rasp, “looking for me while he had his hands all over you.”

She swallowed. Her skin was burning where he touched her. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

She felt his fingers curl slightly at her hip, pressing her closer. His chest rose and fell against her back, and her body responded—fluid, pliant, betraying her every secret.

“You’re playing with fire,” she whispered.

“Then burn me.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

His lips hovered near her temple. “Say the word, Hermione. Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this.”

She didn’t answer.

“I need to know,” he said, lower now, voice thick and barely held together, “because I’m already coming undone. And I’m not good at playing pretend. If you don’t want me…”

His hand slid slowly, almost reverently, up her side. “Tell me now. Before I make a fool of myself. Before I start thinking I might have a chance.”

She turned her face slightly toward his, their noses nearly touching. His breath caught.

She didn’t say no.

She didn’t pull away.

Their hips were already moving in tandem—Hermione’s back molded to Draco’s chest, her curls brushing against his jawline with every breath. The sensual rhythm of the music throbbed around them, but it was nothing compared to the thrum beneath her skin.

She could feel him everywhere—one hand splayed across her stomach, the other braced possessively at her hip, guiding her with subtle, unrelenting control. His breath hit her ear in shallow, hot pulses, and when he leaned in—mouth barely grazing the shell of her ear—she nearly melted on the spot.

“You feel what this is, don’t you?” he rasped, voice like smoke. “You have to.”

Her only answer was the arch of her back, pressing herself further into him. Her head fell slightly to the side, granting him access—and that’s when he moved.

His hand slid up, fingers grazing her ribs, her sternum, her throat—until he cupped her jaw and turned her face toward his.

His eyes were feral. Burning. And then his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t polite.

It was a claim.

His lips crushed hers, demanding entry—and she gave it, without hesitation. His tongue swept in with heat and hunger, coaxing, tasting, devouring. He kissed her like he was trying to erase every man who had ever touched her, like he needed her to remember only this— only him .

Hermione clutched at his shirt, fingers fisting the lapels as his mouth moved against hers—urgent, searing, possessive . He tasted like heat and salt and something sharp, like fire whiskey and sin. Her knees wobbled, and he held her up with one arm tight around her waist, pressing her to him so firmly she could feel every inch of him against her.

Draco was warm, and hard, and feral. His length rubbed the front of her dress, the thin material of his pants and her dress doing nothing to stop her from grinding against his thigh.

His teeth grazed her bottom lip—just enough to sting. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound greedily, groaning low in his throat like he’d been holding it in for far too long.

She couldn’t think. She didn’t want to.

This was dangerous.

This was Draco.

And she was drowning in him.

His hand slid up her spine, pulling her tighter, angling her jaw to deepen the kiss even further. Her fingers tangled in the fine strands at the nape of his neck. Their noses brushed. Their breathing was ragged.

Her chest pressed flush to his—he moved them both like he was orchestrating it, every shift of their bodies a purposeful, choreographed descent into chaos.

“You taste,” he growled against her mouth between kisses, “exactly how I thought you would.”

She shuddered. “How—how did you think I’d taste?”

His lips moved to the corner of her mouth, then down to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, breath scorching. “Like want. Like trouble. Like mine .”

And just as her hand gripped his shoulder and she tilted her chin to kiss him again—

The ship lurched.

A violent jolt shattered the moment. Cries of surprise rippled across the deck. Hermione stumbled, but Draco caught her, instinctively pulling her close as crew members crashed into one another, bottles toppled, and laughter turned to alarm.

“What the—?” Theo’s voice rang from somewhere behind them.

Another tremor—sharper this time. The floor tipped just enough to send a few of the dancers sprawling. Glass shattered.

From the crow’s nest, a lookout shouted: “Port side! Something’s in the water!”

Draco’s head snapped toward the rail. Hermione followed his gaze.

The ocean had gone unnaturally still—and then, almost as if in warning, it began to shimmer.

But not moonlight. Not leyline glow.

This was darker. Redder. Thicker.

A glowing mist bled from the sea, curling like smoke across the waves. Tendrils slithered along the surface, flickering with unnatural light. In the center of the glow, something breached—slender and tall, like a fin made of bone. It slipped back beneath the waves as quickly as it appeared.

Harry appeared at Draco’s shoulder, breathless. “That wasn’t a sea serpent.”

“No,” said Mareen, stepping up from the helm, face tight with alarm. “I think we opened something else when we stabilized the leylines.”

Another surge of motion knocked several barrels loose. They rolled across the deck and slammed into the lower rail, but Astrid held.

From above, red smoke flared—an alert from the upper decks.

“Helm’s resisting,” a man called out. “Astrid's fighting to stay on course—but the path’s shifting.”

Draco could feel it. His connection to the vessel—thin as a whisper since the anchor ritual—was vibrating with unease.

“It’s not attacking,” he muttered. “It’s testing us.”

From the sea, a new sound—low and pulsing—throbbed like a heartbeat made of stone. Hermione leaned over the rail, eyes scanning.

“What is it?” she breathed.

Theo was at her side, eyes wide. “It’s not just a sea creature. That’s magic. Ancient. Predatory.”

A deafening crack split the night. The ship bucked again—this time accompanied by a massive splash as something slammed into the hull. Wood screamed. Crew members screamed louder.

From overhead, smoke flared red—an emergency flare spell.

The hull groaned dangerously as the sea foamed higher.

Draco glanced toward Hermione. Her eyes were locked on the water, wide with disbelief.

“I need you below deck,” he said, low and firm.

“No,” she snapped. “I’m not—”

“Please.”

That word—please—made her flinch.

But before she could answer, a screech unlike anything they’d ever heard sliced through the night. It was metal, and thunder, and ancient grief all at once.

From the sea, a claw rose. Enormous. Jagged. And it crashed back down—right toward the ship.

“BRACE!” someone screamed.

And then—

Impact.

The world went black.

Chapter Text

He surfaced into consciousness like a body rising through water—slow, heavy, breath caught somewhere between panic and silence.

Draco's first sensation was weightlessness.

Then cold.

The world glowed blue.

His eyes snapped open. It wasn’t the deck beneath him—it was smooth coral, faintly pulsing. Above, shadows swirled behind a thick membrane of water. Strange flora waved gently, as if stirred by a current that didn’t exist.

He was underwater.

And somehow, breathing.

It was as if where he was being kept was in a bubble of air under the surface of the ocean. 

A cough on his right broke Draco out of his thoughts as he took in his surroundings. 

They were in cells.

The realization struck like a thunderclap. Not all together—scattered, ten to a cell, separated by glowing grates of rune-covered coral. The material was too organic to be metal, but it felt like iron.

Draco pushed himself up, chest still aching. Harry lay nearby, blinking groggily. Theo was pacing already, inspecting the cell walls. Blaise crouched beside a dazed crew member, whispering something in low, soothing Italian.

“Where—?” Harry rasped, coughing. “What the hell happened?”

“We were attacked,” Draco said, voice low and bitter. “Something in the water. The ship went under.”

“And we’re not dead?” Theo asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Not yet,” Blaise muttered grimly.

Outside their cell, the others were coming to as well—Hermione among them.

Draco’s breath caught.

She was in the women’s cell. All ten of the female crew members had been herded there, some barely conscious, some awake and tense. Hermione sat near the center, arms wrapped around her knees, curls the color of ink. Her eyes scanned the room with quick, calculated focus—but even from this distance, Draco saw the tremor in her jaw.

He felt a sudden, wild urge to break the coral bars.

But then the water stirred again.

A shadow, massive and slow, glided past the outer wall. A single glowing eye watched them from the dark. It had tentacles longer than Astrid itself, lined with sharp, spined suckers and runes that shimmered when it turned.

The beast that attacked them.

Not wild.

Controlled.

The chamber vibrated with power—and then a voice filled it.

Not with sound.

With feeling.

Cold. Vast. Penetrating.

“Who dares breach the Deep Ley?”

The water before them split—not physically, but spiritually—and something rose from the shadows like a nightmare.

He was tall, nearly skeletal, but not fragile. His skin shimmered with an oily black-blue hue, and fins arced from his spine like the ribbed sails of deep-sea fish. He didn’t walk—he flowed , serpentine, his bottom half long and coiled like an eel. Bioluminescent light glowed faintly from the hollow bone crown atop his head, and his fingers were long enough to wrap twice around a throat.

His eyes had no whites. Only darkness. No reflection. No end.

“Fear not, little humans. Let Thalassor take care of you.”

He was the deep’s cruel god, and they were intruding in his temple.

Cells across the chamber went deathly still.

Thalassor passed each of them slowly, his presence like pressure on the mind, a headache swelling into nausea. He didn’t speak aloud, but they all heard him.

“Your vessel shattered the leyline gate. You desecrate a crossing that does not belong to land-dwellers.”

His voice deepened, a growl wrapped in silk. “Especially not to your kind.”

His gaze cut to the women’s cell.

And lingered.

A clawed finger traced the glowing bars, dragging slowly in front of Hermione. She tensed, spine straightening. But she did not flinch. She met his gaze.

Draco stepped forward.

“Don’t touch her.”

Thalassor stilled.

His head tilted toward Draco. A smile unfurled slowly across his inhuman face—something between mirth and hunger.

“And who,” he whispered without moving his mouth at all. It was unnatural. “Are you?”

“I’m the Captain of this crew.”

Murmurs broke out in some of the other cells, but Draco didn’t break eye contact.

Thalassor’s grin widened. “You trespass. You bring war-magic. You bring witches.”

He slithered closer to Draco’s cell.

“Then you shall dine with me, Captain. Bring your seconds. We will negotiate your passage... as tradition demands.”

The bars before Draco dissolved into salt and silence.

He stepped forward, flanked immediately by Harry, Theo, and Blaise. They were at his back without question—solid, steady, eyes hard. But Draco didn’t move yet.

Because his eyes were on Hermione.

She was already standing at the bars of her cell, curls drifting around her face like a halo of shadows. Her hands were clenched white-knuckled around the glowing coral, but her expression was calm. Alert. Fierce.

Draco’s fingers twitched at his side.

He wanted her beside him. Needed her voice, her mind, her spine. She was the only one who ever made sense of impossible puzzles. Of political landmines disguised as polite dinners. Of monsters who wore courtesy like a mask.

She should be there.

And yet—

That thing’s eyes had lingered .

Its gaze had slithered over her skin with the precision of a scalpel. She didn’t flinch, but Draco had seen it—how her shoulders tensed, how her breathing stilled. The bastard had marked her.

And Draco was now dragging her to its table?

The debate exploded behind his ribs.

If she’s with me, I can protect her. If she’s with me, she’s under my eye. Under my wand.
But if I bring her, I confirm her value. I parade her in front of a predator. I risk showing my weakness.

And she was his weakness.

Merlin help him.

He turned toward Thalassor, whose expression remained impassively amused, as though watching a young predator make its first critical mistake.

“Anyone else, young Captain?”

Draco looked again at Hermione, and for the briefest second, her eyes softened—just for him.

He made his decision.

“No,” he said, voice tight with command. “No one else.”

A flicker of fury passed over Hermione’s face. Draco held her gaze.

“Absolutely not,” she said sharply, her voice louder than it should have been. “If this is a diplomatic meeting, I should be there. If there’s—”

“No,” Draco said again, cutting her off, this time with steel in his voice. “You’re more valuable here.  Stay, Granger.”

The others looked between them, but no one spoke.

Hermione’s mouth pressed into a furious line—but she didn’t argue again. Not because she agreed, Draco knew, but because she understood what it cost him to say it. At least that’s what he hoped. 

The bars reformed behind them.

Theo clapped a hand on his shoulder as they followed Thalassor down the glimmering, coral-lit corridor.

“Smart call,” Blaise muttered lowly.

But Draco didn’t answer.

He just kept walking, fury coiled behind his ribs like a knot of thorns. Because he hated the message he’d just sent Hermione: You’re safer in the cage.

But it was the truth.

And if it kept her out of the sea god’s reach—even for one more hour—he’d bear her anger a thousand times over.

Hermione didn’t realize she was still gripping the bars until her knuckles throbbed.

Her hands had gone numb. Her jaw, tight. Her chest, hollow.

Draco was gone. Just like that. No room for argument.

No room for her .

The final echo of his footsteps faded into the bioluminescent corridor, swallowed by silence and sea-glow. She let go of the bars slowly, her fingers tingling back to life.

She told herself it was fine.

It made sense. Tactically. Strategically. Rationally.

So why did it feel like a slap?

She stepped away from the bars and sat on the cool coral bench lining the edge of the cell. The other women—Pansy, Mareen, and a few other crewmates—hovered in various states of tension. No one said a word for several moments.

Hermione dropped her face into her hands and tried to breathe.

He didn’t want you there.
He didn’t think you could handle it.
He didn’t trust you enough.

Or worse.

He’s trying to protect you… because you’re a liability. Because they want you. And he saw it.

This was just like with Greyback when she was tortured by Ballatrix and the werewolf. Only this time, Draco was doing something about it.  He no longer stood on the sidelines watching. 

The memory of Thalassor’s stare made her skin crawl. It had been consuming . Cold. Calculating. Almost amused.

She shivered.

Thalassor was worse than Greyback.

She could still feel the weight of Draco’s gaze before he turned away—the fire behind the ice, the war raging in his eyes. He hadn’t been indifferent. He’d been furious . Controlled. Final.

But not cruel.

Never cruel.

“You’re shaking.”

Hermione glanced up.

Pansy sat beside her now, closer than usual, her knees drawn up and one arm resting lazily on her lap. Her voice was softer than Hermione expected—still sharp, but without venom.

“I’m fine,” Hermione muttered.

Pansy scoffed. “You’re furious. And hurt. Which is... fair.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

Pansy tilted her head, watching her. “You think he doesn’t want you there.”

Hermione let out a dry laugh, bitter as sea salt. “Well. He said it, didn’t he?”

“He said you were more valuable here,” Pansy corrected. “Not that you weren’t capable. Not that you were weak. Not that you’d embarrass him.”

“But he left me , Pansy. He walked away.”

“Yeah. Because he’s trying not to lose his mind.”

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Honestly. You’re supposed to be the brightest witch of our age. Try applying that genius to the bleeding obvious.”

Hermione stared.

“He’s obsessed with you,” Pansy said simply. “Which, frankly, is annoying, but predictable. You’ve got that ‘save the world and wear cozy jumpers’ appeal that Slytherins seem to find irresistible once they’ve been properly traumatized.”

“That’s not—”

“He is traumatized,” Pansy said, sharp now. “We all are. But he’s… brittle. Holding everything together with sheer force of will. He’s already made himself responsible for all of us. Now imagine the one person he cannot afford to lose is being invited to a monster’s dinner party.”

Hermione swallowed.

Pansy’s voice dropped. “If he brought you, it’d be an admission that he can’t let you out of his sight. That you’re his . And that thing out there? That monster? It would see it. Smell it. Exploit it.”

Hermione looked down at her hands.

“So he made a call,” Pansy finished. “To keep you hidden. Not because you’re weak, Granger. But because you’re his Achilles’ heel.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

His Achilles’ heel.

The words curled inside her like smoke.

“I just wish he’d said something,” she murmured. “Anything. Not just—‘stay.’ Like I was a dog.”

Pansy shrugged. “He’s emotionally constipated. And terrified. Give him a minute.”

Hermione let out a long breath.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked quietly. “Out there?”

Pansy’s smirk faded. “He has to be.”

And somehow, despite the weight in her chest, Hermione believed her.

Because if Draco Malfoy was one thing—it was relentless .

The corridor leading to the villain’s hall was smooth and seamless, carved from some obsidian-colored coral that shimmered beneath the ever-present glow of phosphorescent moss. The water shifted above them, viscous and humming. They could breathe now—though none of them truly understood how.

Draco had a theory: it was magic, ancient and invasive, filling their lungs with something denser than air, something that tasted faintly metallic and bitter. Like blood.

Or betrayal.

They were flanked on both sides by guards—eight of them, sinewy and pale, with translucent skin stretched over eel-like muscles and webbing between long, sharp fingers. None of them spoke. Their eyes, bulbous and black, followed the four wizards with an intensity that scraped down Draco’s spine.

He walked at the front.

Harry beside him, quiet and grim.

Theo and Blaise followed behind, less composed. Theo wore a scowl so deep it looked carved into his face. Blaise looked bored, but Draco could see the tension in the way his shoulders sat too still.

The corridor opened into a domed chamber so grand it belonged in a fever dream.

The ceiling arched high above, carved from giant shells fused with pearl and bone, glowing faintly blue. Schools of ghostly fish drifted above the dome, occasionally flashing silver as they twisted and turned like nervous thoughts. Long, waving tendrils of kelp trailed down like chandeliers. The whole place smelled of salt and rot and something faintly floral.

And then—

The women.

They stood in two perfect lines on either side of the long dining table, their heads bowed, their eyes hollow. Barefoot. Silent. Each one impossibly beautiful—skin like marble, bodies sculpted, with delicate features and haunted expressions. They didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Some had bruises on their wrists, others welts across their shoulders, like decorative ribbons of pain.

Theo muttered a curse under his breath.

Draco didn’t look at the women. He couldn’t. The sight twisted something low and hot in his gut—rage, disgust, the frantic urge to grab Hermione and get the hell out of here.

They were led to the table.

It was made of carved stone, slick and dark, like it had risen from the seabed itself. The chairs were ornate, lined with shimmering scales and spined coral. The table was already set—with golden plates full of strange meats and glistening, coiled fish. Blue-black wine sat in obsidian goblets, sloshing thickly despite the water.

At the head of the table sat Thalassor.

He was regal in the way a serpent was regal—terrifyingly still, head high, eyes the color of a dying star. His face was angular, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut flesh and skin that shimmered with a faint blue tint, like algae kissed by moonlight. His robes clung like oil around his frame, made from sea silk and armored in thin plates of pearlescent bone.

He smiled slowly as Draco approached.

"Captain," Thalassor said, his voice silky and resonant. His mouth moved now, no longer just a sound in their heads. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

Draco didn’t sit yet. He kept his gaze steady. “Didn’t realize it was optional.”

Thalassor’s smile widened. “Ah. I like you already.”

Draco sat. The others followed. The women—slaves, really—drifted closer, beginning to pour wine, replace plates, brush too near.

Draco leaned away from the one that approached him. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave her made her flinch back—then glance toward Thalassor with something like fear .

Harry tensed beside him.

Draco sat stiffly across from Thalassor, flanked by Harry to his right and Blaise and Theo just across from him. The three men were tense, unreadable, but beneath the surface of their stillness was a wire-tight readiness. They were in enemy territory, surrounded by serpentine guards, cloaked courtiers with razor-teeth smiles, and strange music that vibrated in their bones.

Thalassor, on the other hand, reclined like a king at home. His long, eel-like tail curled around the throne carved from petrified sea-beast bones. His skeletal hands toyed lazily with a goblet of pulsing liquid.

“You've made quite the entrance,” Thalassor said with a slow, amused hiss, his gaze lingering on Draco. “The ship… the magic anchors… the defiance. Bold, for surface-breathers.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He knew posturing when he saw it. Knew what it meant when a predator toyed with its meal.

Harry leaned forward slightly. “If we’ve trespassed, it wasn’t intentional. We didn’t know this was sacred water.”

“Saaacred?” Thalassor drawled. “Not sacred. Possessed. Guarded. Controlled. You didn’t ask to enter… and you brought witches.” His forked tongue clicked. “And one of them—” he paused, eyes flashing with amusement, “—shines brighter than the rest.”

Draco’s jaw flexed.

Blaise leaned back, lounging like a bored noble. “If it’s hospitality you're offering, you’ll forgive us if we pass on the glowing fish guts.”

A few of the sea courtiers laughed—a high-pitched, fluttering sound, like kelp rustling in the current. But Thalassor didn’t blink. “Do you mock our generosity?”

“I mock our imprisonment,” Blaise replied coolly.

Theo, eyes narrowed, finally spoke. “This whole dinner is a performance. Let’s stop pretending it isn’t. What do you want, Thalassor?”

The sea king finally smiled. It was all teeth and hunger.

“I want a price,” he murmured. “For passage. For your lives. For your precious witch.”

Draco’s spine straightened. “What kind of price?”

Thalassor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured with one long finger—and two of his soldiers slithered forward through a side tunnel, dragging a beautiful servant girl behind them, her limbs too thin, her eyes hollow.

She was shaking.

Thalassor stroked her hair. “Surface-blood is delicate. Fragile. But it breeds such exquisite pain. And pain, little Captain…feeds us.”

The room dropped into silence, the tension as thick as saltwater.

Harry’s voice was gravel. “You want blood.”

“I want suffering. Yours. Hers. It doesn’t matter. But you, Captain… must choose how it is delivered.”

Draco said nothing. His fingers curled around the edge of the coral table, knuckles white.

“You could give us five of your women,” Thalassor said, almost idly. “Pretty things. Especially the one with fire in her voice. The one your magic keeps following like a tether. What’s her name?” He clicked his claws, but it would be a cold day in hell before Draco ever uttered Hermione’s name around Thalassor. When it was clear the question would be answered, Thalassor merely shrugged, “I’m sure I’ll learn it soon enough.”

Theo’s voice cut in coldly, “What’s the other option?”

Thalassor smiled. “Or,” he added, gaze sharpening, “you can take their pain for them. One lash per crew member. One hundred lashes. Ancient magic, blood-for-passage.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. His heartbeat slowed to a thunderous, controlled rhythm.

But Thalassor only smiled wider.

“You see, Captain. I am generous. You have the privilege of choice.”

The room grew colder.

Blaise’s jaw ticked.

Theo inhaled sharply. 

Harry muttered, “Fuck.”

Blaise looked to Draco with wide, deadly eyes.

But Draco didn’t flinch.

He stared at Thalassor, expression unreadable. “You want to trade flesh or suffering.”

“Yes.”

Draco didn’t answer.

“Your women would be well-treated,” Thalassor offered, as if sweetening the deal. “They would be worshipped. Cherished. Bred, of course, but protected once they were broken in. Or... you can bleed.”

Draco stood, slow and deliberate.

The weight of his decision hung in the water like a noose.

The silence had returned, thick and cloying, broken only by the dull hum of the enchanted barrier sealing them inside.

Hermione sat on the stone bench, Pansy still beside her, the other witches pressed to the walls, listening for anything.

Then—

Voices.

Outside.

Male. Raspy. Slurred like they were breathing through water, though they spoke English with a slick, unnatural precision. Two of the aquatic guards—scaled, broad-shouldered, wearing tattered armor woven from seaweed and bone—had stopped in front of their cell.

They didn’t seem to know the charm had carried their words inward.

Or maybe they didn’t care.

“Did you hear what the Lord’s offering them?” one hissed, his webbed fingers twitching on the haft of his trident.

“The trade?” The second snorted. “Oh, I heard. A hundred lashes or five breeders.”

“Breeders,” the first guard repeated with relish, like it was a delicacy. “They’ll scream either way.”

Hermione’s spine went rigid.

Pansy shot her a glance, sharp and silent.

The guards didn’t notice.

“They won’t pick the lashes,” the second said. “Not when they can hand over those soft little witches.”

His gaze slid directly to the cell—through the warding—and landed on Hermione.

“Especially her ,” he added. “That one’s ripe. Magic’s strong in her. She’ll carry well.”

Hermione’s skin crawled.

Pansy stood up immediately, a dangerous smile pulling at her mouth. “Say that again, fish boy. I dare you.”

The first guard grinned, revealing teeth filed into jagged points. “Temper, pretty thing. You’ll like it, after a while. We’re gentler than the Lord— if you survive him.”

The second guard leaned in, closer to the bars. “Once our master’s had his turn, we’ll have ours.”

Several witches surged to their feet.

Hermione’s magic bucked against her skin, raw and immediate. If the barrier hadn’t been in place, she’d have blasted both guards into the next trench.

But the guards only chuckled and moved on, muttering something in their own tongue as they vanished down the corridor.

The silence left behind was more jagged than before.

Pansy turned to Hermione slowly. “I’m going to kill them.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her mouth was dry. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Five breeders.

Or one hundred lashes.

And she had no doubt what Draco would choose.

Hermione sank back onto the bench, hands shaking slightly in her lap. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry.

She had a horrible, gut-wrenching image now. Draco on his knees, blood staining the ground, and the guards watching from above— laughing .

The door hadn’t even closed behind him, and she already knew what decision he’d make.

“He’s going to take it,” she whispered.

Pansy nodded grimly. “Because he’s the only one insane enough to think he can bear it.”

The room seemed to still after Thalassor’s pronouncement. The sentence echoed like a curse across the coral-carved walls, absorbed into the bone-white pillars of the underwater banquet hall.

Draco didn’t move.

The four humans sat at the table, surrounded by golden plates of untouched food and wine that shimmered like liquid rubies. Above them, jellyfish chandeliers pulsed lazily, casting eerie light over the stone floor beneath their boots.

One hundred lashes.

Or five women.

“Surely—” Harry began, leaning forward, voice taut. “There’s another way. We can negotiate. Name your price. We can offer magical weapons, knowledge, healing—”

Thalassor laughed. It was a low, slithering sound. “We have no use for metal or your pitiful medicines. We live on pain. We feed on it. We are sustained by suffering. You cannot buy your way past us with trinkets.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “You want us to believe you’ll release us after the… trade?”

The sea king smirked, his kelp-like hair drifting like a halo in the current. “I give you my word. One life’s pain—or five wombs. The ship will pass.”

Draco didn’t speak.

His fingers curled around the silver goblet in front of him, knuckles white.

Then—

The doors at the far end of the hall opened with a heavy creak.

Draco turned just as five figures were dragged in by two guards each.

His heart plummeted.

Hermione.

Pansy.

And behind them—Marin, Aisha, and Cora, all of whom had proven themselves fearless and competent on Astrid. Each of them looked disheveled, furious, but very much alive.

Their eyes found the table.

Found him .

Thalassor stood slowly, a predator in motion. “I thought you might benefit from seeing your options… and perhaps, hearing from them directly.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to Draco’s. He froze. His mouth went dry.

No. No, no, no.

She looked exactly like she had in the hallucination.

Vulnerable. Terrified. But trying not to show it.

Thalassor prowled toward the group of witches, clasping his clawed hands behind his back. “Let us ask them, shall we?”

He paused before Cora. “Would you take the lashes in his place, girl?”

Cora spat at his feet. “I’d kill you if I could, fish-face.”

Thalassor smirked and moved on.

Aisha’s eyes were steel. “Touch me, and I’ll break your neck.”

Marin bared her teeth.

Then he came to Pansy.

“Proud one,” he murmured. “Do you think the boy captain should choose the whip? Or spare himself and give you to us?”

Pansy, despite the guards holding her arms, stood taller. “He wouldn’t choose us. That’s why he’s worth following.”

Finally, he turned to Hermione.

She didn’t flinch when he stepped close.

Draco stood.

He didn’t realize it until Theo grabbed his sleeve under the table and yanked him back down.

“Don’t,” Theo whispered. “Don’t move. You’ll trigger something.”

Thalassor tilted his head, studying Hermione like a rare pearl. “And you, witch. What say you? What would you have your captain do?”

Hermione’s gaze never left Draco’s.

Not even for a second.

“If he gives us up, he’s not the man I thought he was,” she said softly, clearly. “And if he chooses the pain… I swear I’ll hate him for it.”

A murmur went around the table.

Draco’s heart was a storm.

Hate me for saving you?

Or hate me for breaking instead?

The silence that followed was long and punishing.

The words struck harder than any physical blow Draco had taken in his life.

His hands curled into fists beneath the coral-wrought table, heart stammering with the force of her gaze—because she wasn’t saying it lightly. Her eyes burned with conviction, but beneath the fire, there was something else. Pain. Desperation. Pleading.

Don’t do this for me, she was trying to say.
Don’t break yourself apart for all of us. Not for me.

She had watched too many people martyr themselves for the cause. Harry. Ron. Dumbledore. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Her parents, even—taken from her by the war. Lost pieces of herself she never got back. Hermione knew what came after the noble sacrifices: blood and guilt and never enough of yourself left to feel like a person again.

She wanted Draco whole.

Not because she was in love with him. Not yet. But because he was already cracked porcelain barely stitched together, and if he shattered, she wasn’t sure anyone could put him back.

And because it would be her fault.

If he bled for her, she’d never forgive herself.

But Thalassor’s predatory smile only widened.

“My, my. Quite the speech, little witch.” He drifted toward her like a shark sensing blood in the water. The guards at her sides kept a firm grip on her arms, but Hermione didn't flinch. She stood her ground, chin tilted up even as her curls billowed around her like storm clouds in the current.

He circled her slowly, voice turning silken and venomous. “So brave. So articulate. So… powerful.” He leaned in near her ear, and Draco nearly leapt across the table. “I can feel it—your magic. Ancient. Potent. Primal.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stepping back.

“You’ve been dipped in war,” Thalassor continued, trailing a webbed finger along her shoulder, “but not ruined by it. You burn, girl. You blaze.” His dark eyes flicked up to Draco. “This one would make a fine offering.”

A new silence fell—this time, horrified and sharp.

Harry stood abruptly. “Absolutely not—”

But Thalassor only held up a hand, amused, darkly delighted by the outrage. “No need to be dramatic. Let her choose.”

He turned to Hermione once more, and the guards holding her stepped back just slightly.

“Would you, witch?” Thalassor asked softly. “Would you take the captain’s place? Would you suffer for them, instead?”

Hermione blinked.

Her throat tightened.

Hermione didn’t need to think. She already knew with one look at Draco and Harry and Pansy.

And before any sound could pass her lips—

“NO!”

The word cracked like a whip across the banquet hall.

Everyone stilled.

Draco was on his feet. Chair overturned. Breath heaving. Silver eyes blazing.

He didn’t even realize he'd used wandless magic until the massive goblet in front of him exploded into shards beside his fist, the stone table trembling under the force of his outburst.

Using magic shouldn’t have been possible with where they were, but Draco’s rage knew no bounds. 

“You don’t touch her. You don’t talk to her. You don’t look at her,” he snarled, every word coated in venom.

His voice dropped, furious and wild.

“She is not for trade.”

Even Thalassor raised a brow, intrigued, almost entertained.

The villain moved closer to Draco now, robes trailing like shadows, water swirling with magic. “Interesting,” he murmured. “So she matters to you.”

Draco didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His throat had closed around the rage, the possessiveness, the terror that she might offer herself for him. That they might take her. That she would let them.

Theo swore under his breath.

Blaise, as pale as Draco now, said nothing.

And across the room, Hermione’s hands trembled—but not from fear.

From something else.

Something darker.

Something dangerously close to understanding what she meant to him.

“It seems, Captain ,” Thalassor purred, “That we are back where we began. What will you choose?”

There was never a choice.

Draco knew it the moment Thalassor spoke of lashes. One for each crew member. A hundred in total.

His bones had known it before his brain did. Before his mouth could form the words.

Even as the cursed dinner dragged on, even as Thalassor preened and prowled and played with his food like a cat with a caged bird, Draco had clung to one final thread of hope—that something might shift. That someone—Harry, Theo, Blaise, even Hermione—might find a loophole. That the villain might offer a third door. That the tide might turn.

But it didn’t.

It never would.

There were only ever two choices: Pain or sacrifice.

And from the moment Hermione had been dragged into that cavern, luminous and brave and trembling with fury, there had only been one answer.

His.

He didn’t flinch as he stood there under hate filled eyes.

Didn’t look to the side where Blaise had gone still, lips pressed white. Didn’t glance toward Theo, whose knuckles were braced on the table, fury trembling under his skin. Didn’t meet Hermione’s wide, frantic eyes. If he looked, he would shatter.

So he didn’t.

He faced Thalassor instead, spine iron straight.

“I’ll take the lashes,” he said, voice low and clear.

A hush rolled through the chamber like thunderclouds gathering.

Thalassor tilted his head, almost as if he were… disappointed. His long fingers tapped the edge of his coral goblet as his eyes slid briefly to Hermione, and his smirk faded into something colder.

Pity.

“A shame,” the villain murmured, swirling the liquid in his cup. “I rather liked the idea of keeping her.”

A muscle jumped in Draco’s jaw, but he didn’t rise to it. He didn’t need to.

“Only one condition,” Draco said. “Only he —” he nodded toward Harry, “—is present when it happens.”

That made Thalassor blink, and then smile.

“Your second?” he asked lazily. “Charming. Agreed.”

He flicked a hand, a casual wave that held the force of finality.

“Take the rest back.”

The guards surged forward.

“ Wait— ” Blaise snapped, rising.

“No,” Draco barked, voice like steel cutting through glass.

The look he gave Blaise and Theo stopped them in their tracks. Cold. Commanding. Irrevocable.

Theo’s jaw locked, eyes burning, but he didn’t speak again.

Blaise shoved the table back and muttered a string of creative curses as a guard grabbed his arm.

Hermione was not as composed.

“No! No—Draco— don’t do this! ” she screamed, trying to twist away from the two guards who gripped her arms. Her curls flew wildly, lips trembling as she struggled against them. “There has to be another way! There has to be—Harry, please—don’t let him do this—”

Draco’s eyes remained fixed on the floor in front of him.

Another way? No. There was no other way.

“ DRACO! ” Hermione sobbed as she was pulled back, her voice cracking. “ TRADE ME! I’m not afraid— just trade me! ”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because if he did—if he looked at her—he’d break apart completely.

As the guards dragged them out, her voice echoed behind her like a ghost in a collapsing cathedral.

“ There has to be another way! ”

There wasn’t.

There never had been.

As the stone doors sealed, and he was left alone with Harry and the shadow of what was to come, Thalassor leaned back in his throne of bone and coral and grinned.

His gaze slid to where Hermione was dragged away, still screaming Draco’s name as she was pulled backward, her curls wild and her hands clawing at the guards. Then he looked back at Draco with a slow, satisfied smile.

“You bleed for her now, little captain… but we both know she’s the one who’ll suffer when your spine finally snaps.”

Chapter Text

The metal steps of Astrid ’s deck were cold under Hermione’s boots, but she hardly felt them. Her legs moved as if on borrowed will, disconnected from her mind, which was spinning and shattering in tandem. The water from the cavern dripped from her curls in heavy strands, mingling with the salt on her skin. Every footstep felt like a betrayal — like her body was going forward while her soul stayed behind with Draco.

With Draco.

Her stomach churned at the name. She’d left him there.

She hadn’t fought as hard as she could. She hadn’t even screamed loud enough. Her voice had cracked like parchment when it mattered most.

The others were talking — Ron, Neville, Theo — their voices rising in muffled chaos around her as they stepped aboard Astrid . Crew members surged forward, asking questions, confused by the commotion, but Hermione could barely hear them. She felt as though she were underwater again, drifting through pressure and shadow and something unbearably heavy that sank into her chest.

All she could hear was that final word, over and over in her head.

No.

Draco’s voice.  Harsh.  Unyielding.  Final.

He’d said it to Thalassor.  He’s said it for her . 

Her lungs ached with a breath she hadn’t taken, and the salt wind that hit her face felt like knives dragging across skin already raw from guilt. Her eyes stung.  Her chest was tight.  Her legs didn’t feel like they belonged to her.

He’s going to take a hundred lashes . 

The thought came sharp, like a hook catching beneath her ribs.  She almost stumbled if it weren’t for Astrid . It was as if the ship knew what was to happen and was preparing for it. Hermione surely would have fallen, but a random piece of railing sprang from the floor, supporting her, before slithering back to its place.

“Granger.” Theo’s voice was low, near, cautious. “Hermione, what do we do? Say something.”

She stared past him.

One hundred lashes.

Her hands trembled at her sides. One for every crew member. For her. Because of her.

If he didn’t… feel something… if there weren’t some claim, some unbearable tether between them, he wouldn’t have stopped her from taking his place.

She could’ve done it.

She should’ve.

Maybe he’d still be bleeding, but she would be the one shackled to that post. Not him. Not—

Her mind wouldn’t stop replaying the moment: Draco’s eyes as he’d looked at her--wild, protective, resigned . The way he’d shouted to stop her before she could say yes to Thalassor.  She’d seen that look before in battle, in death, in the brief, agonized moments when someone had already accepted they wouldn’t survive.

Hermione clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. 

“Hermione,” Ron snapped. “Do you know where we are going next? We need to be ready…Merlin’s tits, say something.”

But Hermione couldn’t look at him.  Couldn’t answer.

Because her mind wouldn’t stop showing her--

Draco shackled.
Draco baring his back.
Draco silent, bleeding, undone.

“I think she’s in shock,” Neville murmured, somewhere off to her right. His voice was dry with fear. “Look at her eyes.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered. 

“We’ve got to go back—” Pansy said.

“We don’t go back.  We can’t.” Blaise interrupted, stepping onto the deck from the shadows. He walked with the certainty of someone already ten steps ahead. “We’re not going anywhere yet . We wait for Draco and Potter. Then we sail.”

“Wait?” Pansy barked. “Wait? He’s being tortured and who knows if these monsters will even honor their end of the deal!”

“And you’d like us to do what, Pans?” Blaise snapped, the weight of the crew’s eyes fixed solely on his shoulders. “Swim through an underground maze into a city where they breathe water and feed off pain? No one’s saving him by getting emotional.”

His tone was final. Ruthless. And right.

Hermione still didn’t blink.

What if he doesn’t survive it?

Blaise’s voice dropped as he turned to Neville, tapping him on the shoulder. “Infirmary. Prep everything. I want every healing potion, every salve, every drop of dittany and every wand-charged stitch spell ready. We need him breathing and conscious.”

Neville hesitated, then nodded, his face pale. “I’m trained in restorative spells, but I… I’ve never handled this kind of trauma before. Not after a hundred lashes.”

“Then you’ll need help,” Blaise said softly, eyes flicking sideways.

Hermione didn’t notice his gaze land on her until Pansy stepped into her line of sight.

“Hermione,” Pansy said gently, firmly, hands outstretched like one might approach a wild animal. “We need you. Not in a week. Not tomorrow. Now. ”

Hermione’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes finally blinked once, twice, but the image behind them wouldn’t fade — the gleam of light on wet stone, the sickening ripple of Thalassor’s voice, the way Draco’s eyes had locked on hers before they were torn apart.

Pansy reached out and touched her arm. “If you can’t do it for Neville, then do it for Draco. He can’t do this alone.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Hermione finally whispered, voice hoarse and cracked. “I… I don’t know how to—how to think right now.”

Blaise turned, his voice quiet and stripped of sarcasm. “Then breathe, Granger. Just once. Breathe like you’re going to save him. Because you might be the only one who can.”

That was when Hermione broke.

Not with sobs. Not with screams.

But with purpose.

She inhaled.

Shaky. Slow. But it was something.

And as she did, she pictured Draco again — not in agony this time, not beneath the lash, but the way he’d looked when he danced with her: fierce, tethered, dangerous. Alive.

She exhaled and turned to Neville. “Get the medical books from my trunk. The black one on Advanced Spell Restoration. I’ll meet you in the infirmary.”

Neville turned immediately and ran. 

Hermione turned to Blaise, her voice still quiet, but iron beneath it now. “When will they be back?”

Blaise tilted his head toward the horizon. “Soon. Maybe an hour. But judging by how much Thalassor loves a performance, we’ll hear them before we see them.”

Hermione clenched her fists.

Then we prepare, she thought grimly.

We make sure he has something to come back to.

The echo of inhuman voices bounced off the jagged walls like a drumbeat of doom.

Draco sat motionless on the cold, glistening stone floor, his back pressed against a slick wall of black coral. A small iron brazier crackled uselessly in the far corner, casting flickering shadows that twisted across the room like sea serpents.

Across from him, Harry stood with his arms folded, jaw tight, eyes burning holes through the barred entrance of the cavern. The flickers of torchlight caught in the lenses of his glasses, making his expression unreadable—but the fury in his stance was unmistakable.

The sounds outside were growing louder.

Drums.
Laughter.
That deep, reverberating voice—Thalassor, no doubt—calling out in some underwater tongue that made Draco’s skin crawl.

A slow chant followed, rhythmic and guttural, accompanied by the unmistakable roar of a crowd.

“A show,” Harry muttered darkly. “This is entertainment for them.”

Draco didn’t answer.

His chest ached—not from fear, not yet—but from how tightly he was holding himself together. The rage coiled beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. Not rage at Thalassor.

Rage at himself.

He had hoped— prayed , even—that someone would find another way. That Blaise would come up with a plan. That Hermione would shout something brilliant and solve it all.

But in the end, there’d only been the truth.

It was always going to be him.

Draco Malfoy.
Son of war.
Leader of a cursed crew.
Marked from the beginning.

“You don’t have to do this,” Harry said suddenly, more gently now, as if reading something in his silence. “We can fight. We’ve fought worse. You know that.”

Draco’s voice was dry. “Can you fight an army of monsters underwater with magic that barely works? Can you fight pain as sustenance? Suffering as currency?”

Harry didn’t respond. But his fists clenched tighter.

The chanting grew louder, closer.

A small, hollow laugh escaped Draco’s lips. “You know, it’s funny. I spent my whole life watching people bleed for me. For my family. For a cause that never asked questions.” He lifted his head and looked directly at Harry. “Feels almost poetic, doesn’t it?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Poetic would be you not dying at the end.”

“I’m not dying.” Draco’s voice came sharper than he intended. “I’m—” he hesitated, then exhaled. “I’m surviving. So the others can, too.”

There was a long pause.

Then Harry walked over and crouched beside him.

“They’ll never forget this, you know,” he said. “Blaise. Theo. Hermione.”

Draco winced at the last name. He closed his eyes.

“She blames herself already,” Harry added. “I could see it in her face. Like she’d caused all this by… existing.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “I didn’t do it for her. ” But it was a lie, and they both knew it.

Harry studied him for a beat, then asked quietly, “Why me?”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“You asked for me to be here. Not Blaise. Not Theo. You’re closer to them. So… why me?”

Draco’s lips parted, but it took him a moment to answer. When he did, his voice was lower, rawer.

“Because Blaise and Theo…” He shook his head. “They’d try to stop me. They’d make it harder. They’d look at me with grief and pity and love , and I don’t think I could’ve borne it.”

Harry said nothing.

Draco’s eyes flicked to his. “But you? You already saw me at my worst. Sixth year. That bathroom. You gutted me.”

Harry flinched slightly, but Draco pressed on.

“I lived through that. I lived through you. I know you’ll stand there and watch, and not fall apart. I need that. I need… strength, not softness.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “That’s grim.”

“That’s life.”

Another shout came from beyond the cavern. The bars groaned open with a screeching wail, and two of Thalassor’s eel-armed guards slithered in, their glassy eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“It is time,” one of them hissed, the words dragging like seaweed through the air.

Harry helped Draco to his feet.

Draco didn’t stumble.

Didn’t shake.

But as he stepped forward, toward the corridor bathed in blue and shadow and bloodlust, his breath hitched just once— just once —as he imagined her face. Hermione, screaming his name. Reaching for him.

There was never a choice.

The dome pulsed with a sickening anticipation. Outside, the water surrounding it glowed a faint, ethereal blue, eerie in its beauty, hiding the violence inside. The air was stifling in the enclosed space. Draco stood stripped from the waist up, wrists shackled high above his head against a jagged pillar of coral-stone. His spine arched in the cold, muscles drawn taut in anticipation. His silver-blonde hair clung to his temples, damp with sweat from fear more than heat.

A thousand glowing eyes watched from above, layered in concentric circles carved into stone.  The crowd was ravenous--chanting, thrashing, their voices a guttural hum that vibrated the very floor of the ocean.

Harry stood a few feet behind him, silent but seething. His hands clenched at his sides, jaw locked. The floor beneath them was not stone, but bone—polished vertebrae from creatures long dead. Around the dome’s rim, Thalassor’s followers had gathered, hissing with anticipation, their slick bodies shifting with excitement. Thalassor himself stood at the forefront, grinning like a devil carved from salt and nightmares.

"Let the trade begin," Thalassor commanded.

The first lash came without warning.

The whip cracked through the air with a high, keening sound—and then it landed.

Draco didn’t cry out.

The first lash sliced across his back, peeling skin from muscle like parchment from a scroll. A crimson line bloomed instantly, blood dribbling down the ridges of his spine. He grit his teeth so hard Harry could hear them grind.

The second lash tore the air from his lungs. 

The pain wasn’t linear. It was exponential. The salt that filled the air stung the open wounds like acid, burrowing into him with every fresh gash. 

By lash ten, Draco’s breath came in shallow bursts, each strike blooming open old wounds, flaying him slowly. Blood ran in rivulets, a slick sheen glistening across his back. His hands clenched the chains above, white-knuckled, and he still said nothing.

Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.

By thirty, his legs began to tremble, and his knees buckled only to be yanked straight by the cruel chains.

By fifty, he was no longer silent. Each lash was followed by a hoarse grunt, a strangled gasp. His head hung forward, hair plastered to his face, his mouth open but too dry to scream. His body was a mess of reds and purples, flesh open and oozing.

Draco’s head hung forward, long strands of platinum hair limp with sweat and blood. His breath came in rattling gasps, each inhale a prayer he couldn’t remember how to finish. HIs lips were blue.  His ribs heaved.

Forty-five. Fifty.

He didn’t scream. He wouldn’t.

He had one job: to endure.

Harry had gone pale. His wand was still in his hand, twitching slightly, as though some part of him could not understand why he wasn’t using it. His green eyes locked on Draco, whose skin now hung in ribbons.

At seventy, Draco began to moan softly, broken things, whispers of his mother, of Hermione, of a ship named Astrid. He blinked blood from his lashes, then squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t keep her face in focus anymore.

At seventy-five, Harry snapped. He surged forward, wand raised, but four guards tackled him to the ground with brutal speed. They didn’t kill him.  That wasn’t the point. They just made him watch. 

At eighty, he bit his own tongue to stop the scream—bit so hard that blood ran from his lips.

Then came lash ninety.

The whip sliced lower this time, crueler, ripping not just skin but striking a raw nerve.

Draco screamed.

It wasn’t a human scream. It was ragged, primal—ripped from the depths of a soul unraveling.

It carried beyond the dome, through the strange acoustics of the oceanic cavern, out into the water.

It reached Astrid.

Crew members froze.

Hermione was on her knees at the railing, head lifted like an animal catching a scent, her eyes wide in horror. Her mouth trembled, and then she sobbed, a sound that cracked through the quiet of the ship.

Neville dropped a potion bottle. Theo swore under his breath. Blaise went still.

Inside the dome, the torturers paused for a moment—just a beat—awash in the echo of that scream.

Draco hung limp, breath ragged, chest shuddering. His face was grey, bloodless, his back unrecognizable as human.

Thalassor finally said, voice oily and amused. "Ten more."

Draco lifted his head—barely—and hissed through cracked lips, "Get on with it."

Harry turned his head, eyes stinging. He couldn’t look away. He wouldn’t. Not now. Draco had chosen him for this. To witness. To remember.

The final ten lashes were slower, deliberate, designed for spectacle. Each one jerked Draco’s body like a puppet strung on agony. At ninety-nine, he gave no sound.

When the final lash fell--the hundredth stroke--it sliced open what was left of him like the last petal of a dying flower.  It arched from shoulder to hip, exposing bone in places flesh had long since surrendered. And yet, through it all, he didn’t make a sound during the last round.

He slumped forward, barely conscious, barely breathing.

Thalassor hovered above, eyes glowing with grotesque admiration. “Let the humans go,” he announced.  “The toll has been paid.”

The dome, for the first time, fell silent.

Draco’s vision swam with red.  He felt Harry’s hands catch him as the coral bindings released.

And then--

Nothing.

And Thalassor smiled.

The sound of Draco’s scream still echoed in Harry’s head as he hauled the broken body of the man who’d once been his enemy--now something far more complex--through the stone corridors and up the transport chute. The magic tether hummed between them as the sea-formed dome shimmered and gave way, depositing them in a flash of blinding white light directly onto Astrid’s deck.

Harry blinked and felt the pull of a strange sort of apparition. 

Astrid had moved him and Draco to the infirmary. 

Hermione was already waiting, wand out, face pale but eyes sharp with clinical precision. Neville stood beside her, sleeves rolled, his expression twisted into grim determination.

“Here!” she barked as Harry stumbled forward, blood already dripping from Draco’s slack form and pooling on the planks. “Ley him flat. Neville--salves, gauze, anything that will help with flesh knitting.”

Harry barely managed to lower Draco without dropping him.  He hadn’t realized just how much blood was coating his hands until Hermione began slicing away the shirt that was haphazardly thrown on Draco in a haste to leave and the open wounds came into view--raw, glistening, and ravaged down to muscle in some places. 

Draco's body convulsed as Harry laid him down.

“Hold him down,” Hermione ordered, though her voice trembled despite her best efforts to sound detached. “We have to stop the bleeding before he loses more—Merlin, there’s too much—Neville, now.”

She and Neville set to work with desperate efficiency, their hands and wands a flurry of movements.  They didn’t talk much, didn’t even look at one another--only at Draco, and only when absolutely necessary. It was like slipping into the shell of professionalism was the only thing saving them from breaking.

At some point, as Harry melted into the wall, Theo, Pansy, and Blaise all stood next to him. No one said a word.

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione breathed, but she didn’t allow herself to stop as she wiped sweat from her forehead, smearing Draco’s blood across her skin without a second thought.

But Draco didn’t register her voice, not truly.

To him, the ship wasn’t the Astrid. It was the stone wall in the cavern again. The water dome. The lights flickering above. The eyes of Thalassor and his followers watching. And pain—always the pain.

He screamed and thrashed. “No—NO! Don’t touch me—get your hands off—” His voice, hoarse and broke, cracked through the night as his back arched involuntarily. The moment Hermione’s wand passed near the deeper lash points, his body jolted like it had been struck by lightning.

Neville recoiled briefly before forcing himself back in. “He's not seeing us. He's somewhere else. The pain’s too much.  His nervous system is--bloody hell, look at his spine, Hermione!”

“Just hold—dammit—Draco, it’s me, it’s Hermione,” she said urgently, trying to find some thread of recognition in his expression. “You’re safe, you’re on the ship—look at me!”

But Draco’s fevered eyes flicked wildly, not seeing her, or seeing something else entirely.

“Don’t take her,” he slurred suddenly, eyes full of horror. “Please—don’t take her. She’s not part of this. Take me. It was supposed to be me.”

Hermione froze.

Neville looked up, alarmed. “He’s talking about you.”

“Focus,” Hermione snapped, though her voice cracked with strain. “We don't have time to panic. Theo, come take over for me for a minute.”

Theo didn’t hesitate.  He grit his teeth, rolled up his sleeves, and continued stitching with his magic.

Hermione swallowed. Her hands were already shaking, but now she clenched her jaw to keep from breaking down.

“We’re here, Draco. I’m here,” she said softly, cupping the side of his blood-slicked face. His skin burned beneath her touch. “You did it. You saved us.”

Draco screamed again, the sound guttural and ripped from a throat already scraped raw.  It was inhuman. Astrid trembled beneath them, reacting to the pain of its captain as though the ship itself were a living, grieving thing.

“Knock him out!  Give him a draught!  You’re torturing him,” Pansy choked out--the first words she’s said since Draco was brought back to them.

“We can’t!” Neville barked back.  “His magic is too unstable right now. Anything that tampers with his consciousness could cause a magical rupture. It could kill him.”

“Then what can you do?” Blaise asked steadily.

“Hope that the pain is too much for him so that he knocks himself out naturally or wait until he’s more stable and then give him a sleeping draught.”

Draco whimpered. “Granger—run—tell Potter to get you out—he’s coming—he’s coming for you—”

Hermione looked down and realized he was trying to lift his hand—toward her. Toward her face. But it fell limply, the muscles too torn to move. His head jerked back and he howled again, spine bowing in agony.

“Merlin, he’s going into shock,” Neville said, already pulling another salve from the emergency kit.

And then Draco’s voice dropped, soft and horrifying: “Don’t let him touch her. Don’t let them breed her—please—I’ll take it again, I’ll take it again—just leave her alone—”

Hermione covered her mouth.

It was like he wasn’t even there with them anymore—he was trapped in the lashing, in the shame and the helplessness, in the fear not for himself, but for her.

She couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t breathe.

Because even now, even now, he was still protecting her .

Neville pressed a palm to Draco’s chest. “We need to cool him down. He’s burning up from magical overload. Hermione—I need your help again. I can’t do this alone.”

Hermione nodded, snapping herself out of it. She tried not to hear the next fevered murmurs—her name, whispered in a voice so full of pain it broke something inside her.

“’Mione… beautiful… don't go... stay—stay, please…”

She cast the cooling charm again, and again, fingers trembling. The back was beyond repair by spellwork alone. She was sewing together strips of destroyed muscle like quilt patches, praying his magic would eventually catch up and take over the rest.

Hermione didn’t respond.  Her jaw was clenched so tightly she thought her teeth might shatter. Her hands were slick with blood--his blood--and she could barely feel her own arms anymore, trembling from exhaustion.  She whispered spell after spell, forcing every bit of her magic into the task.

Still Draco screamed.

Still he thrashed.

Still tears leaked from the corners of his blood-crusted eyes.

Then came the moment that cleaved through them all.

Lash ninety.

It was the same scream they all heard from before that shook Astrid.

And all Harry could do was collapse into a corner, watching as the boy he once hated--now respected--was torn apart in front of him.

Astrid must have sensed it.  A shimmering sound like glass cracking echoed softly, and a metallic bucket materialized beside him. Without hesitation, Harry lurched forward and vomited, violently and repeatedly.  His body shook, bile rising with each retching sob, and even after he’d emptied his stomach, he kept heaving, dry and broken.

“I should’ve stopped him,” he rasped.  “Bloody hell, I should’ve stopped him--”

But neither Hermione, Neville or Theo responded to Harry.

Hermione couldn’t look up.

She was too busy holding Draco together with her hands and her magic, desperate to keep the man she couldn’t stop thinking about from disappearing right in front of her. 

Hermione had to finish. She had to be strong—for him.

But her fingers shook as she began the last of the incantations, and Draco's body convulsed again, this time not with pain but exhaustion.

Somewhere in his mind, he saw her—whole, untouched, brilliant. In white. And dancing.

And he smiled, even as the blood ran down his cheeks.

Chapter Text

August 31, 2005

Hermione Granger hadn't left Draco Malfoy's side in thirty-six hours.

She hadn’t counted the hours at first. She only noticed the passage of time because the ship told her—quietly dimming the lanterns at night, humming low beneath her feet, the way Astrid always did when the crew should be resting. But Hermione didn’t rest. Not when every few hours a wound would split back open. Not when the fever came and went like crashing waves. Not when Draco whimpered in his sleep and she alone could soothe him.

She had been the one to see every lash mark. Every jagged tear. Every splinter of flesh that had to be charmed back into place or magically stitched closed. It wasn’t only about pain management or bandages anymore. His body had been filleted, shredded beyond recognition. Hermione performed every healing spell she knew, her voice going hoarse. When the gashes wouldn't close, she sewed him up with trembling hands. She bathed his temples. She cooled his skin with enchantments. She ran her fingers through his damp hair when he cried out in his sleep.

He never woke. Not once. But he responded to her presence. She knew because when she left, even for a moment, his face twisted into silent agony.

So she stayed.

Sept. 1, 2005

Pansy Parkinson poured another shot into her tin mug and leaned on the railing.

"You and Granger won't let us see him."

Neville, beside her, just nodded. "He's not in a state anyone should see."

Pansy exhaled smoke through her nose, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "I hate this fucking ocean."

“Just let him stabilize a bit more and then he can have visitors.  It’ll be good for him.”

Draco’s skin was mottled with spells and salves, a web of deep, cruel scars refusing to fade. He hadn’t stirred since the lashing. His breathing was shallow, skin feverish beneath Hermione’s palm as she pressed another cooling spell into him.

She sat beside him now, eyes red-rimmed, voice trembling.

“You’re a bloody idiot, Malfoy.”

She didn’t even try to soften it.

“You should’ve let me take your place. Or Blaise. Or anyone. But no, you had to play the martyr. The tragic, noble git.” She laughed bitterly. “You think it was bravery, but it wasn’t. It was stupid. You nearly died. ”

Draco didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“I hate you for not letting me make that choice,” she whispered. “I hate that you decided I wasn’t worth risking.”

Theo stared at the captain's quarters door, a full mug of coffee in his hand, then set it gently outside the room without knocking.

Inside, Hermione barely noticed. Draco's breathing had grown shallow again. She adjusted the cooling runes under his mattress. She whispered to Astrid to help.

The ship trembled in response.

September 2nd, 2005

Hermione was curled into the chair beside Draco’s cot, one hand wrapped gently around his fingers, the other brushing hair from his sweat-damp forehead.

“You remember that morning in eighth year,” she murmured, “when you helped me find my History of Magic notes?”

Her eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw.

“I thought it was strange. You, suddenly helpful. And then there was that time you corrected my translation— perfectly, I might add—and then tripped over your own feet the moment I smiled at you.”

She gave a breathy chuckle, barely there.

“I should’ve known then. You weren’t an arse anymore, just… socially inept and trying to flirt.”

She rested her head beside his, forehead nearly touching.

“I think I fell for you somewhere between your seventh smirk and your third bad excuse to sit next to me in study hall.”

Ron Weasley stormed into the galley, slamming his tray down. "She hasn't eaten. Not once."

Harry gave him a pointed look. "Neither have you."

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?" Harry snapped. "You love her, don't you? Then maybe trust her to take care of the person she—"

"Don't."

The word silenced the room. No one finished lunch.

Blaise stood on deck, watching the enchanted compass spin, holding the navigation logs in hand. He looked every inch the Second.

"We set course for The Isle of Thalorai," he told the crew calmly. "It’s about a three week sail to the second trial."

Neville burst into the medical greenhouse below deck, throwing on his gloves.

“Woah, Longbottom,” Theo drawled as he finished shucking off his gloves. Ever since Hermione holed herself up with Draco it has taken himself, Pansy, and Potter to cover what her jobs were around Astrid. “Where’s the fire?”

“These plants aren’t growing fast enough, Nott.”

Theo blinked slowly, “Which means what exactly?”

Neville looked at Theo, really looked. “It means we’re estimated to run out of medicinal supplies in approximately forty hours.”

Fuck.

She curled her knees into the edge of the cot where Draco lay unmoving, her voice barely above a whisper. The healing spells were humming low under her breath, automatic now. Her fingers, stained with salve and blood and tears, rested gently on the side of his bandaged arm.

“You know,” she murmured, half to herself, “when you wake up, we’re going on a date.”

She paused, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his pale, gaunt face—ghostlike in the dim lantern glow.

“Not a pretend date. A real one. With pressed clothes and eye contact and menus we can’t pronounce.”

She smiled faintly, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead.

“You’ll pick me up on time — you seem like that sort — in something crisp and stupidly tailored. And I’ll be wearing that little black dress you definitely noticed during Eighth Year. The one with the slit. Don’t think I didn’t catch you looking, Malfoy.”

Her smile grew bolder, more mischievous, a spark behind her eyes as if conjuring heat to warm the space between them.

“We’ll go somewhere elegant. Somewhere that still serves dinner by candlelight. There’ll be oysters — not because either of us like them, but because they’re decadent, and we’re allowed to be decadent now, after all this. You’ll order some obscenely expensive Bordeaux. Dry. Deep red. The kind that tastes like smoke and secrets.”

She reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of his wrist, careful not to jostle the raw skin.

“You’ll pretend to be indifferent, and I’ll pretend not to notice that you’ve memorized every word I say. We’ll argue about something philosophical—like whether time travel should be legal—and you’ll make me so angry, I’ll lean across the table to tell you off. That’s when you’ll smirk. That infuriating smirk. And I’ll realize you’ve been pushing my buttons on purpose because you love how I bite back.”

Her voice softened, threads of ache laced between each syllable.

“And when we leave, you won’t take me home. Not at first. You’ll apparate us to the top of some ridiculous cliff or tower where we can see the stars. That’s when you’ll kiss me like you mean it. Like I’m not the brightest witch of my age, or a war hero, or your equal — but like I’m something holy to you.”

She took a shaky breath. Her fingers now rested lightly over his, not laced, just present. Grounding.

“And I’ll let you. Because I’ll want that. I’ll want you. I won’t flinch when your hand finds the curve of my hip or the back of my neck. I’ll lean into it, into you. Because by then, I’ll know it’s not just the wine or the thrill or the novelty. It’s something real. Something hard-won. Something worth surviving for.”

Her eyes dropped, following the rise and fall of his battered chest—slow and shallow beneath the bindings.

“And then…” she whispered, the tips of her ears flushing pink even in solitude, “if you kiss me again, and your hands are careful but insistent—if you look at me like you did back in the Undercavern before all this pain—I think I’d let you go further.”

She swallowed.

“I’d want that. I know I’m... well, you always thought I was a good girl. And maybe I am.” A breathy laugh, nervous and tender. “But I could be a little bad. For you. Just for you. I think I’d like that very much.”

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead gently to the edge of his cot, eyes fluttering shut.

“So when you wake up,” she breathed, “don’t be a coward. Ask me out. Kiss me stupid. And then ruin me in every possible way that doesn’t involve bleeding.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—his fingers twitched.

Just a flicker. A subtle, minuscule tremor beneath hers.

Hermione gasped and lifted her head, wide eyes searching his face. But his eyelids didn’t flutter. No breath hitched. No second twitch came. He was still.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard, wiped her cheeks, and shook her head with trembling determination.

“Right,” she whispered, voice raw. “Back to healing, then.”

And without another word, she turned her focus to the wounds again—casting spell after spell like lifelines, steady hands trying to hold him in this world until he could finally ask her for that date himself.

September 3rd, 2005

The ship had an intelligent magic of its own, and in times of trauma, Astrid adapted.

Beds warmed and cooled as needed. Blankets thickened. Lighting dimmed to reduce sensory overload. Food was delivered on silent trays. Doors only opened when visitors meant no harm.

Astrid also alerted the crew when emotional unrest spiked too high. Blaise once said she had a "heartbeat of her own." She breathed with them. She knew when they were in pain.

And she knew Draco was in agony. Which meant Hermione was too.

And that was why, even now, as the crew went about their tasks, Astrid hummed beneath them all—aching with the rhythm of their wounded captain's breath.

The longer Draco slept, the more Hermione worried he wouldn’t wake up.

His body, already flayed and broken, began to deteriorate under their care. The first day, he merely moaned. The second, he stopped even that. On the third, his fever spiked so high that Neville had to cast cooling charms every ten minutes, and Hermione soaked cloth after cloth in enchanted water to lay across his forehead, chest, and wrists.

“His wounds aren’t closing anymore,” Neville whispered to her that morning, his voice cracking like he was afraid to name it. “They keep reopening… like his skin’s lost the will to knit.”

Hermione just nodded. Her eyes were dry but hollow. She hadn’t cried since they’d brought him back aboard. Not once. But she hadn’t smiled either.

She sat by Draco’s side as she always did, pressing fresh gauze into torn, angry welts as his chest heaved erratically. His skin burned beneath her fingertips, pulsing heat like a furnace. His body convulsed once—twice—and then he lay still again.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

Without a word, Hermione stood from the bed, shoved past Neville, and bolted up the stairs.

The wind bit against her cheeks, but Hermione didn’t care. She stormed straight toward the carved frame bolted to the mainmast—Kingsley’s enchanted portrait. The painted version of the Minister stood inside, arms crossed, his expression typically calm.

Hermione stood in front of it, seething.

“Talk to me,” she said.

The portrait didn’t react.

“Talk to me!” she yelled. “I know you can hear me! You enchanted this thing to watch us! To report back!”

No response.

Hermione’s wand was in her hand before she realized it. Her voice cracked the air with spell after spell— Reducto. Confringo. Incendio. Nothing touched the portrait. The wood didn’t splinter. The canvas didn’t catch fire. The protections on it were impeccable.

“Coward!” she screamed, throwing the entire force of her magic behind a Depulso —but the energy simply dissipated into the air.

Ten minutes passed. She panted, sweating, trembling.

And then—he moved.

Kingsley’s portrait tilted its head. “Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes flooded with tears she refused to let fall. “He’s dying. He saved us—he saved all of us—and he’s dying. You said we would be supported. That we’d have resources.”

“I said the mission came first,” Kingsley said coolly. “And it does. There is a chain of command for a reason. Malfoy is not irreplaceable.”

“You bastard,” Hermione whispered. Her wand shook in her grip.

Behind her, footsteps echoed across the deck. Harry’s voice, ragged and sharp, followed: “Take that back.”

Kingsley’s eyes cut toward him. “Potter.”

“You saw what he did.” Harry’s voice cracked on the edge of rage. “You heard it. He gave himself up for every single one of us.”

“Emotions don’t win wars,” Kingsley said.

“Then you’re on the wrong side of this one,” Harry spat.

And with that, the portrait blinked—once, slowly—and vanished from the frame. Gone. No help. No supplies.

Nothing.

Hermione didn’t remember climbing back down to the infirmary. But when she entered, the silence was overwhelming. Draco hadn’t made a sound in hours, and now his breathing was shallow—so faint it barely stirred the bloodstained linens covering his back.

Neville and Theo looked up, helpless.

“We’re out of healing salve,” Theo said softly. “I scraped together the last of the dittany.”

Neville was flipping through a crumbling, leather-bound text. His hands trembled, eyes scanning the page as if salvation were hidden in ink.

“There’s one place,” he finally said.

Hermione turned to him. “What?”

“I read about it once,” he murmured, tapping the page. “It’s not a guarantee. Not even close. But there’s a mythical island... Aegir’s Rest. Ancient magical healing properties. It’s dangerous—uncharted. Most think it’s a myth, but some Herbologists swear by it.”

Theo leaned forward. “We’re not far off course. Maybe two days sailing, tops, if we push hard.”

Hermione looked at them both, her breath hitching.

“We’re going,” she said. “Even if we have to fight through another sea beast to get there.”

Theo nodded grimly.

Neville exhaled. “Then we better move now.”

As they all turned toward action, Hermione cast one last glance at Draco’s unconscious form.

Please hold on. We’re coming back for you.

The lanterns flickered as Hermione, Neville, and Theo stood before Blaise and Harry in the cramped chamber just outside the navigation room. The air was thick with salt and silence.

Blaise sat with his elbows on the table, knuckles white where they curled together. Harry stood nearby, arms folded tight across his chest. He hadn’t slept, not really, and the skin beneath his eyes was dark and hollow.

Neville broke the silence first, setting the old book between them. “Aegir’s Rest. It’s real.”

Blaise’s eyes snapped to the page, then to Neville’s face. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Neville said honestly. “But it’s a chance. And we don’t have many of those left.”

Theo spoke next, low but urgent. “There are plants there—ones that don’t grow anywhere else. Healing properties stronger than any stock we brought. Ones that could… that might still save Draco.”

Hermione was quiet, but the way she stared at them all—daring them to argue—carried its own weight.

Blaise sat back, exhaling through his nose. “So we reroute. But you realize what that means? We’re adding time, adding risk, exposing ourselves again—if we’re attacked a second time…”

“I know,” Hermione said tightly. “But he took one hundred lashes for us. We can survive two days for him.”

There was a long pause.

Then Blaise turned to Harry. “You’re the acting Captain. It has to come from you.”

Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked like he’d rather face a Dementor barefoot.

But he nodded, squared his shoulders, and headed for the deck.

The crew assembled quickly. The tension on Astrid was thick—grief, horror, exhaustion—and the whispers hadn’t stopped since the screams from the lashing echoed into the sea.

They stood in a loose half-circle as Harry stepped up beside the wheel, the wind tugging at his hair. His voice carried even though it shook.

“We’re setting course for Aegir’s Rest.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Harry continued. “We don’t know exactly where it is. We’re going off records, myths, and the knowledge of one of our best minds. But if we don’t try… we lose him.”

Some nodded immediately—Mareen, Whitt, the twins from Ukraine.

But then—

“Are you serious? ” Rook spat from the back. “Aegir’s Rest is a bedtime story. It’s a sailor’s myth. You want us to gamble our lives chasing a plant that might not even exist?”

Flint crossed his arms, sneering. “This is blind loyalty. We all owe Malfoy something now, yeah? But this? This is suicidal.”

The crowd shifted uneasily.

Hermione stepped forward from behind Harry.

“If you think this is about loyalty,” she said, voice sharp and crisp as glass, “then you’ve already missed the point.”

The crew stilled.

“This is about humanity. About compassion. About saving the person who sacrificed everything for you while you hid in a cell.”

Rook opened his mouth, but Hermione cut him off. “If you’re too much of a coward to stomach that, then feel free to throw yourself overboard now. You’ll only slow us down.”

A heavy silence dropped over the deck.

Rook and Flint said nothing more.

Hermione turned sharply and stalked off below deck, not sparing another word.

There was a pause—and then a slow, quiet whistle from the crowd.

Pansy leaned over to Neville and whispered, “I think I’m in love with her.”

Several people chuckled, a spark of warmth in the tension.

Blaise stepped beside Harry, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Well,” Blaise said with a small smirk. “That went better than expected.”

Harry stared after Hermione, still pale. “She scares me more than Voldemort did.”

Pansy shrugged. “She’s got better hair.”

September 4th, 2005

Theo wandered in with a book under his arm and a bottle of something strong in his hand.

He dropped into the chair across from Draco and rested his boot on the edge of the cot. “You look like shit,” he said lightly.

He didn’t expect a reply.

“I figure you’d appreciate someone talking to you who doesn’t cry every five minutes.”

Theo exhaled and stared at the ceiling. “We’re headed to some myth island now. All because you couldn’t just take a nap or fake an injury like the rest of us. Typical.”

He paused, the grin sliding off his face.

“If you die, Granger’s going to become a terrifying dark queen of vengeance. Blaise and I have a bet going on what kind of wand she’ll use. I’ve got blackthorn. He says vine.”

Blaise took the late shift while Hermione finally went to eat.

He dragged a chair beside Draco and folded his arms.

“I don’t know if you’re in there,” he said, voice low. “But you better be. Because we have work to do. You’re the only one who knows how to fly Astrid through those cursed reefs, and Hermione’s not going to make it another day watching you suffer.”

He rubbed his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to be the hero, you prat. That was always Potter’s thing.”

His voice broke slightly. “Come back. She needs you.  We need you.”

Pansy brought in some potions and then sat quietly for a long time before speaking.

“You know, I used to think you’d never grow out of your self-righteous tendencies. And then you did something so idiotic and noble I could kill you.”

She set the vials down with practiced hands.

“I’ve never seen Hermione look at someone the way she looks at you.”

She smirked to herself.

“Don’t tell my mother, but I’m pretty sure I’m half in love with her.”

Hermione sat beside Draco again, her fingers grazing the bruises on his hand, the stitched welts across his back.

“I miss your voice,” she whispered.

She leaned closer.

“You’re not allowed to die, alright? I’m not finished falling in love with you yet.”

September 5th, 2005

Hermione sat beside Draco again, the tip of her wand gently guiding a spell along the curve of his collarbone, mending a raw edge where skin had split open again. The glowing thread of the incantation weaved through layers of magic and flesh. Her movements were precise, practiced—but her eyes, bloodshot and aching, flickered with exhaustion.

“I was such a fool,” she said, her voice hushed. “Eighth year was staring me in the face.”

She dabbed a cloth across his brow.

“You were always just there. Lurking around corners, arriving to class two minutes after me, standing exactly two shelves away in the library.”

She half-laughed, half-sighed.

“I thought it was a coincidence until the sixth time you needed a reference book from the exact section I was in.”

Her fingers grazed his, brushing lightly across the back of his hand.

“And then there was that morning when my books fell down the moving staircase and you caught them all without magic, as if you’d been waiting there just to catch my pride.”

She tilted her head, voice growing quieter still.

“I kept wondering what had changed. I think… it wasn’t that you changed. It’s that I started looking.”

A soft knock echoed against the frame of the infirmary doorway.

Hermione didn’t look up. “Neville, if this is about the potion schedule, I already handled—”

“It’s not Neville.”

She turned. Harry stood there, hair even messier than usual, dark circles bruising the edges of his eyes.

“Hermione,” he said gently. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t slept more than an hour in three days. You’ve barely eaten.”

She turned back to Draco. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.” Harry stepped inside and crossed his arms, gaze flicking to Draco and back to her. “He would, too.”

“He’s not awake to care.”

“He will be.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, still not facing him. “What if he doesn’t wake up? What if he doesn’t remember anything? What if this ruins—”

“Then you’ll fix what is broken. You’re good at that,” Harry said simply.

She went silent.

“I’ll stay,” he continued. “He won’t be alone. I promise.”

After a long pause, Hermione finally stood. Her joints cracked with the motion. She turned to Harry, brushing her wild curls off her face. “Fine. But only for a few hours.”

She looked back at Draco, reaching out to smooth a lock of hair from his temple.

“By the way,” she said with a quiet, breathless laugh, “I know you moved my room next to yours. You think I wouldn’t figure that out?”

She leaned closer, almost like she might kiss his cheek—but instead whispered, “We’re not done talking about that, Malfoy. Not even close.”

And then she walked out.

Harry sank into the chair Hermione had vacated and watched Draco in silence. The air was heavy with spells, healing potions, and too many unspoken things.

“You really screwed us up,” Harry murmured.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“She’s wrecked over you, you know.”

Draco didn’t stir.

“I think the worst part is… you didn’t do it for glory. Or to prove something. You did it because you thought she deserved to be protected.”

He swallowed hard.

“I hated you for a long time, Malfoy. But what you did… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hate you again.”

He looked away, voice quiet.

“I don’t think she can either.”

The light filtering in through the stained-glass porthole barely kissed the corners of the room, casting muted sapphire and gold shadows across the bed. Hermione sat beside him, perched on the very edge of the cot, her hand wrapped lightly around Draco’s limp one.

His fingers were still warm—burning, actually—from fever that Neville was struggling to get under control. Spells cooled his skin in waves, but the wounds ran deeper than magic alone could reach. Flesh had tried to knit itself back together over and over again, only to tear when he shifted, when he groaned, when his body remembered the agony it had endured.

She’d sat through all of it.

Now she would leave.

She hated this. Every part of it.

Hermione brushed a damp strand of hair from Draco’s forehead and leaned forward, close enough that her breath stirred the fine strands of his lashes.

“I have to go,” she whispered.

Draco didn’t stir.

She imagined his voice then—haughty, firm, ridiculous even in its worry. “No. I forbid it. You’re not gallivanting off into the fog with just Nott as your babysitter. I don’t care if the ship’s on fire.”

She smiled, bitter and fond. “You’d say it just like that, wouldn’t you? Bossy as hell, even now.”

Her thumb traced the edge of his knuckles.

“You’d tell me it’s too dangerous. That the myth could be fake. That we’re walking into another trap. And that it should be someone else… anyone else.”

She blinked fast. Her throat was tightening.

“But it can’t be. You know that. You’d know that.” She paused, voice trembling. “And you’d say something stupid like, ‘Let someone expendable go.’ And I’d hit you for that. Because none of us are expendable. Not anymore. Not after what you did.”

She leaned her head gently to rest on his shoulder—careful not to touch the raw skin or disturb the runes shimmering faintly beneath layers of bandages.

“I’m going, Draco. I have to. I’m the one who can read the runes if the island is real. I’m the one who can barter, negotiate, manipulate if I need to. Theo will protect me. And Neville…” she pulled back, voice softening, “Neville will take care of you. He’s good at this. Better than he believes. And I know you hate feeling vulnerable. I know you hate that it’s me leaving. But…”

She squeezed his hand.

“You’d let me go. You’d argue and sulk and throw a fit—and then, maybe, if I looked at you the right way, you’d sigh like the melodramatic aristocrat you are… and tell me to be safe. And ruthless. No Gryffindor recklessness, Granger, you’d say.”

She chuckled under her breath, but her eyes filled with tears.

“I’ll come back. With what you need. With everything you need.”

She pressed her lips to the corner of his temple, lingering there, breathing him in like a promise.

“I’ll come back to you.”

And then she rose, slowly, as if parting from something holy.

When she left the room, she didn’t look back.

If she did, she might not leave at all.

It began with a rasp of breath—barely louder than the whisper of shifting parchment. Blaise leaned forward first, elbow slipping from where it had been propped on his knee.

“Did you hear—?”

“I think—” Neville squinted toward Draco’s face. “I think he said something.”

“Mate,” Harry muttered, stepping forward, “say that again.”

Draco's mouth moved, cracked lips barely parting. It sounded like: “Hur-mh—”

“ Hermione? ” Pansy guessed.

“Could be ‘Hermione,’” Neville said, tilting his head. “Or ‘hurts me.’”

“Oh,” Blaise said flatly. “That’s helpful.”

“Could be ‘Hurl, maybe,’” Harry offered, rubbing his temple. “Which is fair, considering he’s been on potions for days straight.”

Draco’s throat rasped again, and he managed—barely—an audible, slurred: “Her…”

Everyone froze.

Harry moved to the bedside, kneeling slightly to Draco’s level. “Hey. You’re awake. You’re safe.”

Draco’s head lolled slightly toward the voice. Pain clouded every inch of his pallid expression. He was drenched in sweat, cheeks sallow, the torn edges of his skin around his shoulders wrapped tightly in gauze and spell-tethered stitching. A rune-glow shimmered faintly over his spine.

His voice cracked like dry bark. “Hurts.”

“Yeah,” Blaise said quietly, no sarcasm in his voice for once. “We figured.”

Pansy’s tone was softer than usual, though her arms were still crossed in practiced indifference. “I suppose we should go. Granger wouldn’t like all of us crowding around, would she?”

Neville offered a sheepish smile. “She’d definitely tell us we were overwhelming him. Probably threaten us with scalp-boiling hexes, or something gentle like that.”

“She’s not here though,” Pansy muttered, brushing an invisible thread off her sleeve. 

Something dark flickered through Draco’s bloodshot eyes. A sharpness returned to his face for the first time since the lashings.

His voice was gravel, cracked and dangerous.

“Where?”

It was Harry who answered. The others glanced to him, and he sighed, resting a hand briefly on the edge of Draco’s cot. “We’re anchored near the coordinates Theo and Hermione charted. Somewhere in the Veiled Strait. She left a day ago. Took Theo with her.”

Draco tried to rise and nearly blacked out from the pain. Someone whimpered and it wasn’t until Draco was completely flat again that he realized the sound came from him.

Blaise leaned in and pressed him back, shaking his head.

“Don’t. You’re still half dead.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “She shouldn’t have gone.”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Harry said. “We’re running low on… everything. If another trial hits and someone else gets injured—”

Neville cut in, guilt weighing down every word. “It should’ve been me who went. But we need someone here who can handle your healing. I’ve got the best grasp on anatomical spellwork, after Hermione.”

“Besides,” Blaise added lightly, trying to soften the tension, “Theo begged for the chance. Apparently, he thinks it’ll impress her.  Some bonding shit or something like that,” Blaise tried to tease. 

“Bloody idiot,” Draco rasped.

The others smirked, a shared beat of humor cutting the heaviness.

“But,” Harry added, more serious now, “we don’t even know if this place is real. It’s just a myth, some ancient island hidden past the mists of the Veiled Strait. But we had to try.”

He hesitated, watching Draco’s face.

“You gave yourself up for all of us. We’re just trying to make sure it wasn’t for nothing.”

Draco’s breathing had grown heavier again, the small burst of fury draining him. He turned his face away, shutting his eyes against the light.

But as he drifted again—shallow and broken—he mouthed her name once more, so faintly that only Pansy noticed.

She didn't tease. 

She only looked toward the door Hermione had disappeared through a day before and whispered, “Don’t worry, Malfoy. She’ll come back with a miracle.”

Chapter Text

The rowboat slid gently onto the shore of the island like a whispered secret. It was almost too easy—no storms, no sea monsters, no enchantments barring their path. Just gentle waves and a quiet breeze that carried the scent of something ancient and sweet. Magic paddled them to land with lazy, effortless strokes, but both Hermione and Theo remained tense, wands within reach.

The island itself was stunning.

Towering trees with thick, spiraling trunks burst from the rich soil, their leaves a shimmering silver-green that refracted light like cut glass. Vines hung like garlands, blooming with brilliant blossoms in hues Hermione had only seen in illustrated herbology books. Moss cushioned every footstep. In the distance, a waterfall cascaded into a crystalline basin, glowing faintly with magic.

Hermione’s sketchbook was already open in her lap, quill scribbling notes beside each drawing with the help of a dictation spell. “That one,” she said, pointing to a yellow-leafed bush with thistle-like bulbs, “is Lunacress . Excellent for reducing inflammation, if paired with wormwood. And that—!” Her eyes lit up as she crouched low near the edge of a mossy outcrop.

Theo followed, curiosity piqued. “Please don’t tell me we’re stopping every five feet. I already regret volunteering.”

Hermione ignored him. “This—this might be Somnifructus . There are rumors… very rare… it’s said to induce a deathlike sleep, no pulse, no breath. Just…” Her voice dropped, reverent. “Sleep. But not normal sleep. A magical one—where you face your worst fears before you can awaken.”

Theo leaned in to peer at the low, purplish flowers with curling black veins. “That sounds like the worst tea ever brewed.”

“It’s powerful,” Hermione murmured. “I’m not even sure if this is really it, though. It’s almost mythical. No one has survived it intentionally.”

Theo gave her a look. “And yet you sound like you want to chew a handful of the petals just for research.”

“I said almost .” She straightened, brushing dirt from her hands. “But if it is Somnifructus, it could be used as a sedative for magical surgeries or trauma treatment. There’s real potential here.”

“Real potential to die , Granger.”

“Technically, not die. Just seem dead.”

“Oh well then, by all means, pluck away.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile. Theo had that effect on her—a walking contradiction of absurdity and sincerity.

They continued further up the path that led into the forest, their bags growing heavier with clippings and notes. The air was warm, rich with the scent of loam and crushed petals. Birds—not quite avian, not quite fae—fluttered past in streaks of sapphire and violet.

“I’ll admit,” Theo said as he swatted at a hovering blossom that tried to lick his ear, “this place is stupidly beautiful. If it weren’t for the whole ‘desperate mission’ thing, I’d say this is almost romantic.”

Hermione snorted. “You’re not charming enough to distract me from the fact that we’re one mistake away from death.”

“I don’t need to be charming. Just better company than Blaise.”

“I’d say it’s a low bar, but Blaise actually makes for excellent company.”

“Ouch.”

Before Hermione could quip back, a thunderous boom rippled through the forest, silencing the birds and shaking the ground beneath their feet.

Theo gripped his wand. “Please tell me that was you.”

Hermione’s wand was already out. “Definitely not.”

From the forest edge ahead of them, two massive figures emerged.

One was male—tall enough to brush the treetops, with skin the color of storm clouds and a silver beard like woven kelp. He wore a tunic fashioned from sea serpent scales, and his eyes glowed with a gentle gold. The other—his wife from the looks of it—was slightly shorter but no less formidable. Her skin gleamed obsidian-black, her hair braided and threaded with coral. Her gaze was sharp, unimpressed. Dangerous.

“Aegir,” the male boomed, thudding a fist to his chest. “And this—” he nodded to his wife “—is Rán.”

Hermione and Theo stood frozen.

“Mortals,” Rán said slowly, her voice like the deep crack of ice shifting. “Always meddling.”

“But curious,” Aegir said with a smile. “And perhaps kind.”

“Or foolish,” Rán countered.

Aegir stepped forward and offered a surprisingly gentle bow. “Come, break bread with us. We will hear your tale before we decide what comes next.”

Theo glanced at Hermione. “Do we trust giants who can crush us like pinecones?”

Hermione hesitated, then tucked her wand back into her robes. “We don’t have a choice.”

And so, side by side, they followed the giants into the woods, toward the dinner table that could change everything.

The interior of the great stone hall was warm with firelight, lit by braziers carved into coral columns. Everything was scaled to fit the giants: the massive wooden table stretched half the length of the room and was carved from a ship’s hull, its legs still bearing the runes of a long-lost crew. Fish hung smoking above the hearth, and the scent of herbs, brine, and something slightly metallic permeated the air.

Hermione and Theo sat on hastily conjured chairs, their legs dangling like children’s off the edge. Before them were two towering figures: Aegir, warm-eyed and silver-bearded, whose voice rumbled like the tide, and Rán, statuesque and still, her hair a silken net that shimmered like moonlight on water.

Aegir passed them goblets filled with wine so cold it frosted. “Drink,” he said cheerfully, “to the tides that bring us together!”

Theo raised his goblet. “To not drowning.”

Hermione elbowed him.

Rán sat beside her husband but did not lift her goblet. Her glacial eyes observed them with a predatory calm.

Throughout the meal, Hermione sat stiffly beside Theo, her hands folded tightly in her lap as Aegir and Rán settled into their places. The food spread before them was simple but regal: dark, fire-charred fish with citrus and herbs; thick, honeyed bread; a stew that smelled suspiciously like sea urchin and fennel. Goblets glistened with icewine.

But it wasn’t the food that held Hermione’s attention. It was Aegir.

He served his wife first—always first. A perfectly carved piece of fish, drizzled with oil from a crystal vial he uncorked with practiced care. A hand resting lightly on her shoulder when she didn’t reach for the bread right away, as if checking without asking. He didn’t interrupt her silence or fill it with needless chatter, but whenever Rán so much as looked toward something, he was already reaching for it. No grand gestures. Just consistency. Reverence.

He’s in love with her, Hermione thought. Real, fierce, constant love.

And Rán—though she hadn’t smiled once—leaned ever so slightly into him when they spoke. She didn’t flinch at his booming laughter, didn’t recoil when he brushed a lock of her black hair back behind her ear. She tolerated nothing from others, but from him... she softened, in her own way.

Hermione’s chest ached.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even envy. It was longing.

Is this what it could be like, she wondered, if two people had seen each other’s worst and still chose to stay? If they trusted each other enough to be gentle, even when the world wasn’t?

She blinked and looked down at her goblet, the stem heavy in her fingers. I wonder if Draco would have been like that—with me. If he had the chance. If I’d let him.

Theo elbowed her gently under the table.

“Are you going to drink or just analyze them into eternity?”

Hermione startled slightly. “I wasn’t analyzing.”

“You absolutely were. You’ve been watching that poor man like you’re writing an essay titled ‘The Domestic Habits of Intimidating Giants: A Study in Quiet Romance.’ ”

She fought the blush rising to her cheeks. “He’s attentive. It’s rare.”

Theo’s voice dropped to a teasing murmur. “You want a man who pours your wine and brushes your hair behind your ear, noted.”

Hermione sipped to hide her smile. “I want a man who listens,” she said quietly. “And chooses me. Not when it’s convenient. When it’s hard.”

Theo sobered just slightly. “That’s fair.”

The goblets were too large for human hands, so Aegir wordlessly waved his hand and a smaller, golden pair materialized in front of Hermione and Theo. He filled hers with care, a wine the color of liquid dusk, and offered her a nod.

“Your hands are steady,” Aegir said kindly, watching as she reached for her fork. “That is rare in a guest.”

Hermione looked up, surprised by the compliment. “Thank you.”

Theo snorted beside her. “She holds everything in her fingers. Worry, affection, unspeakable judgment. Very expressive digits, our Hermione.”

Hermione elbowed him beneath the table, and Aegir let out a laugh like a low tide crashing over rocks.

“You speak as if you’ve known her long.”

Theo leaned back in his chair like he was born to dine with giants. “I’ve known her long enough to know she alphabetizes her potions, over-explains everything, and pretends not to like being the smartest person in the room.”

Hermione gave a tight smile. “Theo is what you’d call a charming menace. Emphasis on the menace.”

Aegir chuckled again, and Hermione found herself relaxing in the warmth of his presence. “You are very different,” he said, smiling at them both. “That is good. The best pairings often are.”

“Who said we’re paired?” Theo asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Who said you weren’t?” Aegir replied, eyes twinkling.

Hermione flushed and opened her mouth to protest, but Theo beat her to it.

“Well, now we have to pretend to be in love,” he whispered theatrically. “At least until dessert.”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione hissed under her breath.

“You wound me.”

“You deserve it.”

They both reached for the same slice of bread at the same time, and Theo theatrically retracted his hand like she’d burned him. “See? True love.”

Aegir’s rumble of laughter was joined by the soft clink of his wineglass meeting his wife’s. “You remind me of the sea,” he told Hermione after a moment.

That made her blink. “The sea?”

“Yes. Capable of destruction, but more often a giver of life. Not easily tamed. Constantly shifting. The sea does not beg for permission to be what it is. It just is.”

Hermione swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. “That’s… one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me.”

Theo, of course, couldn’t let a moment be sincere for more than five seconds. “Aegir, be careful, you’ll make her blush—and when she blushes, she gets ideas. Then she builds you a six-point plan on how to fix your life.”

“I do not—”

“You absolutely do. Step one: tell your wife you love her more often. Step two: plant something. Step three: emotionally regulate your nightmares—”

“Shut up , Theo—”

“Step four: donate to magical nonprofit institutions for underprivileged children—”

“THEO.”

Aegir wheezed a laugh, waving a hand as he chewed on a bone that might’ve belonged to a shark. “You would do well among our kin.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “This is actually my hell.”

“Your hell has very good wine,” Theo said, tipping his goblet toward her.

Then—

“You sail strange waters.”

The shift in the room was immediate. The air cooled. The flickering flames of the sconces dimmed just slightly. Rán hadn’t raised her voice, but it sliced through the table like a blade through silk. Both Hermione and Theo turned to her.

The giantess sat impossibly still, her eyes like moonlit steel. She hadn’t spoken much during dinner, letting her husband fill the silence with jovial hospitality and gentle jokes. But now, she stared at them with the eerie intensity of someone who saw too much and trusted too little.

Theo smiled lazily. “Oh, you know. Just a little nautical detour. Nothing nefarious. Unless you’re counting my moral compass, which admittedly points south.”

Hermione closed her eyes briefly in frustration. Please, for once, just let us be normal guests.

Rán did not look amused. “Your tongue is silvered and strange. I do not like riddles at my table.”

Theo’s smirk faltered, just slightly.

“We’re not here to trick you,” Hermione said quickly. “We came only because we were desperate. Our crew... someone important to us is hurt.”

Rán’s gaze flicked to her, unimpressed. “Many suffer. That is not reason enough.”

Hermione hesitated. She could lie. She could offer some vague story about a shipwreck or a lost expedition. But she’d seen Aegir's hand brush his wife’s shoulder. She’d seen the way her stony face softened when he quietly filled her goblet without asking. She had seen love, and for the first time in days, it felt like the strongest card she had.

Hermione put down her goblet with a soft clink. Her fingers were shaking.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t want to burden you. We didn’t come here to beg or manipulate. But you asked, so here it is.”

She took a breath.

“The man we’re trying to save...he took one hundred lashes for us. For me. For the crew. Because a creature demanded either his pain or five women in trade.”

Aegir stopped chewing.

Hermione went on, voice raw but unwavering. “He chose the pain. And I—” She swallowed. “I’ve been healing him every day since. But we don’t have the right medicines. His body is...failing. And I’m terrified. That I’ll lose him.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Rán’s eyes, pale and piercing, studied Hermione. “And this man. He’s your lover?”

Hermione hesitated. “Not yet.”

Rán arched a brow.

“But I think I could love him…someday soon,” Hermione said simply. “So yes. I suppose he is.”

Aegir reached for Rán’s hand. His massive fingers laced delicately through hers. “A worthy cause,” he murmured.

Rán didn’t look at him. Her gaze was still pinned to Hermione. “Yes. She speaks from the heart. I feel it.”

Theo leaned in slightly, sensing the shift. “So… does that mean you’ll help?”

Rán’s eyes flicked to him, and the warmth vanished.

“She is worthy. Her offering is clear. But you?” Her tone was sharp, slicing. “You spoke only in riddles. Why should we give our sacred reserves to someone who hides behind charm and banter?”

Theo opened his mouth. Closed it. He actually looked stunned.

Hermione, surprisingly, smirked. “Told you your mouth would get you in trouble someday.”

Aegir chuckled again.

“We will help,” Rán said, her voice like ice breaking. “But only if you follow our ways. Nothing in this world is free. There must be an offering.”

The word offering echoed in the silence.

Theo’s expression sobered immediately. “What sort of offering?”

Rán didn’t answer.

She only smiled.

The room was too much.

It was carved into the cliffside, high above the churning sea, as if the ocean had grown tired of crashing against the rocks and instead chosen to cradle this one place gently. Gilded walls shimmered with opalescent stone that glowed faintly from within, like veins of moonlight trapped under glass. The furniture looked sculpted rather than crafted—driftwood twined with bleached coral, upholstered in thick silk the color of seafoam and pearl. Everything smelled like lavender and salt and luxury.

And Theo was losing his mind in the middle of it.

“Okay. Okay. This is fine. Totally, completely, categorically fine, ” he muttered as he made his fifth furious lap across the room. “Not like I was planning to live or anything. No, of course not. Why would I want to not be in the presence of ancient sea gods who require human-sized sacrifice rituals disguised as casual diplomacy?”

He spun in a circle, hand tugging at the roots of his hair. “You said ‘gather supplies,’ you said. Just a quick jaunt, you said-- You didn’t say sacrifice by ledge-dive was on the bloody itinerary!”

“It’s going to be--”

“No, I’m not done!” Theo exclaimed. He paused to throw his arms in the air. “AND IT’S NOT LIKE I’M GOING TO BE MURDERED IN MY SLEEP BY DRACO SODDING MALFOY FOR THIS!”

Hermione, perched calmly on the edge of the grand, sea-glass bed, barely glanced up from double-checking the contents of her travel satchel. “You’re being dramatic.  Once I jump, please make sure you gather everything in this book.”

“ Dramatic?! I am being prophetic !” Theo pointed a finger at her as if casting judgment. “I’m going to die. Not from this insane ritual, mind you--no.  I’ll survive that, only to be strangled in my sleep by your twitchy, overprotective, six-foot two blonde psychopath of a not-boyfriend.”

Hermione didn’t even blink.  “He’s six-one, actually.”

Theo made a noise like he’d just been mortally wounded.  “I KNEW IT! You’ve memorized his stats like a Quidditch card!  Bloody hell, I am so dead.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “That was always a possibility.”

“ You’re not helping .” Theo shouted.  “You don’t understand, Hermione.  He’s going to turn me into a garden gnome.  Or a chair.  Or one of those sad little silverware sets that screeches every time someone uses it--”

“I’d rather hope he doesn’t waste his energy enchanting cutlery.”

Theo spun in a circle, hands pulling at his short, clipped curls. “You think I’m being absurd, but you haven’t seen him when someone else touches his tea cup. And you-- you’re going to leap off a sacred cliff in a sacrifice of undying love ?!  Hermione.  He’s going to hold me responsible!”

Hermione finally looked up, expression perfectly dry. “Theo, you’re not responsible.  You don’t have that kind of influence over me.  You barely have control over your own wardrobe.”

He opened his mouth to argue--paused--and then narrowed his eyes.  “That’s unfair.  I wear coordinated robes.”

“And then immediately spill Firewhiskey or ink down the front.”

Theo pressed both palms to his face.  “This is not the point!  The point is--Draco adores you.  He loves you. He will kill for you! He’ll kill me! He stares at you like you’re the bloody moon. And if he wakes up and finds out that while he was unconscious, I let you throw yourself off a magical cliff into some divine oceanic hellmouth--”

“It’s probably not a hellmouth.”

“He’s going to flay me alive and then ask you to help organize the skin samples by shade.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching.  “Would I get to use labeled jars?”

Theo dropped onto the nearest chaise like he was fainting.  “I hate you.” 

“Theo—”

“No! No ‘Theo’!” He pointed at her with a wild look in his eyes. “You’re too calm. Why are you always this calm? You’re about to perform a sentimental death-plunge ritual , and you’re just—sitting there like you’re about to have tea with McGonagall!”

Hermione blinked at him, still seated on the edge of the oversized bed. “I wasn’t always calm. I used to cry before every mission. Once, I hyperventilated so badly, Harry had to carry me onto a broom.”

That made Theo freeze mid-pace. “What?”

She shrugged. “You just didn’t know me then.”

He stared at her. “Okay, no. That’s sweet and all, but you’re still doing the thing. The calm, saintly, Gryffindor-martyr thing. And I— I can’t breathe right now, and you’re just—” He waved his arms helplessly. “ Not freaking out enough. ”

Hermione finally stood, smoothing her palms down her trousers even as her fingers shook slightly. “I am freaking out.”

Theo’s mouth opened to argue—but then he stopped. Because the tremble was real. So was the crack in her voice when she added, “I’m just doing it quietly.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“I’ve been pretending,” she continued. “Pretending to be unshakable. Because if I fall apart… who’s left to hold this together?”

Theo let out a slow breath. His shoulders sagged, all the tension unraveling at once, as if she’d pulled the wind out of him with those words.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said again, much softer now.

“Yes, I do.”

“But why you? Why does it have to be you jumping?”

Hermione stepped toward the large, arched window and looked out at the black waves below. The cliffs descended into a frothing abyss, and just beyond the southern ridge, where the moonlight broke over a natural stone arch, was the sacred ledge.

“It’s not about me, specifically,” she said at last. “It’s about devotion.”

Theo blinked. “Devotion?”

“Aegir and Rán only accept offerings of truth. Of value. The most sacred thing in the world to them is devotion. You can’t fake it. You can’t trick it.” She turned to face him. “They want someone to jump who would do anything for someone else. And apparently… that’s me.”

He looked at her like she’d just turned into a unicorn. “You volunteered because you’re in love with Draco Malfoy.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

Hermione’s smile was tight. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s Draco Malfoy.”

“And yet.” She folded her arms. “If someone jumps with hollow intentions, the sea won’t return them. But if the offering is true—if the devotion is real—the sea will catch them. Cradle them. Return them.”

“To where?”

“No idea.”

“That’s a problem!”

“I know.”

“And you agreed anyway?!”

She turned to face him.  “If I don’t jump, we leave empty-handed.  Draco has a very high chance of dying. The crew deteriorates.  You know we’re almost out of potions. The wound paste is gone. The restorative charms are failing. I don’t like the terms of this offering, but I accept them. Because I have too.”

Theo rubbed a hand down his face. “Why can’t I do it?”

Hermione softened. “Because you care deeply… but you don’t love like that. Not yet. Not for anyone. And that’s not a fault, Theo. It just means you’d never make it back.”

There was a long pause.

Theo stared at her. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of too many unspoken years. And for once, the humor drained from his voice.

“You know, I used to think he wasn’t capable of love. Not real love. Not the deep, gut-wrenching, soul-tethering kind. But then…” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at her. “Then I started paying attention.”

Hermione blinked, thrown by the unexpected tenderness.

“It started fourth year,” Theo went on, voice quieter now. “He watched you. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy, but mostly just…curious. Like he was trying to figure out how the hell someone like you existed. You were brilliant and brave and so bloody irritating to him. And he couldn't stop looking.”

Hermione swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“Fifth year, he got weirder about it. The insults he threw at you—if you listened close, like really close—they were half-strangled compliments. You’d say something clever and he’d sneer, but then he’d go dead silent the rest of the class, probably spiraling because you’d outwitted him.”

He gave a half-laugh. “That was the year I realized he didn’t hate you. Not really. He just didn’t know how to speak your language, so he stuck with the one he'd been raised to use—sharpness and pride and disdain.”

Hermione stood, utterly still.

“And then sixth year came.” His voice shifted, heavier now. “Everything fell apart. His whole world collapsed, and he shut everyone out. Even me. Even Blaise. But you? You, he kept an eye on. No matter how far he sank, he still lingered where you were. Not close enough to talk. Just close enough to keep you in view. Like even then, some part of him still saw you as light.”

The silence stretched, long and thick with things unsaid.

“And now,” Theo said, standing up, stepping closer, “after all these years, after all the rubble and wreckage and blood, I’m standing in some giant’s private palace while you— you —prepare to fling yourself off a ledge for him.” He let out a laugh that bordered on disbelief. “Hermione bloody Granger, smartest witch of our age, offering herself like some ancient sacrifice.”

She looked down at her hands, then back up at him.

“You care about him,” Theo said.

Her eyes didn’t waver.

Theo’s expression sharpened into something steady, final.

“Then jump.”

Chapter Text

This was not how he thought his week would go.

Aegir’s Rest had sounded like a nice enough place—quaint, secluded, magically bountiful. He’d imagined some foraging, a bit of sun, maybe a brush with ancient magic. Nothing too life-threatening.

And now here Theo was, standing on a sacred ledge that looked like something out of a cursed fairytale, watching Hermione Granger prepare to yeet herself off the edge in a sacrificial white dress.

Brilliant.

The dress floated around her legs like mist, sleeveless and ceremonial, gifted by Rán herself. And Theo was 99% sure it was enchanted to make Hermione look even more ethereal and selfless and gallantly noble—which was just insult to injury. Because if she died, how the hell was he supposed to explain this to Draco?

He was already planning his obituary.

“Theodore Nott, last seen alive at Aegir’s Rest, died brutally via enraged Malfoy after allowing Hermione Granger—Draco’s undisputed favorite person and the only thing keeping him tethered to the mortal realm—to leap off a myth-soaked cliff into the unknown.”

Theo groaned into his hands.

“Will you stop muttering like you’ve lost your mind?” Hermione asked calmly.

“I have lost my mind,” Theo shot back, pacing furiously behind her. “And my will to live. And, any shred of plausible deniability in case Draco ever finds out about this—which, for the record, he will , because you’re going to tell him, and he’s going to kill me slowly. Or hex me infertile. Or both.”

She didn’t laugh. Which made it worse.

Because Hermione always had a soft chuckle for his theatrics.

Instead, she stood there, wind curling through her curls, the hem of that ridiculous dress fluttering like some tragic prophecy. Her face was calm. Peaceful, even.

Which was more disturbing than anything.

“Why are you so calm?” Theo demanded. “You're about to jump off a bloody cliff! That’s not normal behavior, Granger!”

“I’m not calm,” she said gently. “I’m terrified. But fear isn’t an excuse to do nothing.”

Theo hated that she was wise. He hated that she was brave. He hated—

Oh hell.

“What are you doing?” he asked suddenly, eyes narrowing.

Hermione had knelt and was tying something around her upper thigh. Theo squinted, then froze.

It was fabric. Torn. Mainly black, frayed at the edges, stained with blood.

Draco’s shirt.

Harry must’ve brought it back from the lashes.

And she was wrapping it around her skin like it was armor.

Theo swallowed hard. “You’re not even pretending you don’t care anymore, are you?”

Hermione didn’t answer. She just stood again and adjusted the sash of the white dress, eyes scanning the horizon as if memorizing it.

Giants were gathering now.

Tall, silent figures rising like trees along the edge of the cliff. Watching. Witnessing. Not speaking. Not breathing.

Theo took an instinctive step closer to Hermione. Not that he could protect her from a single one of them if things went sideways—but still. It felt wrong to let her stand alone.

“You’re going to have to follow the list in the black book,” Hermione said suddenly, as if they were discussing grocery shopping and not soul-bending sacrificial rites. “Every item, Theo. Especially the Salix Bloom and the Mortari Root.”

“I know the list,” Theo muttered. “It’s burned into my brain. Along with the image of you cliff-diving into ancient oceanic magic while I play bag-boy.”

“You’re not just collecting,” she said quietly. “You’re watching. You’re remembering. In case something happens—”

“Stop.” He snapped, harsher than intended. “Just…don’t.”

She looked at him.

He exhaled. “You’ll be fine. You’re always fine. You’re Hermione Bloody Granger. The sea’s lucky to have you.”

From the shadows, Rán emerged—regal, unimpressed, eyes gleaming like knife points.

“You sail strange waters,” she said once more, voice like waves slamming into stone.

Theo flinched. Hermione didn’t.

“Fall willingly,” Rán said next, “and the Sea will catch you.”

Hermione turned to him one last time. Her expression soft, her voice barely audible over the wind.

“If he wakes up, tell him I didn’t regret it.”

Theo could barely speak. His throat was full. His heart was pounding.

She stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. “And tell him you took good care of me.”

Theo smirked through the emotion rising in his chest. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll let him know I stood here like a total dumbass while you walked off a cliff. Very protective of me.”

She smiled—barely.

Then she stepped forward. And jumped.

Theo’s hand jerked up, too late to grab her.

The wind swallowed her in an instant.

He froze.

Everything was still.

Then—

A giant hand settled on his shoulder. Theo turned his head and saw Aegir, kind-eyed and steady as ever.

“There is no devotion without risk,” the sea god murmured. “And no faith without surrender. You were brave to let her go.”

Theo stared out at the churning blue below, the echo of her fall still ringing in his bones.

“I’m not brave,” he whispered.

“Then you are loyal,” Aegir said. “And that, too, is sacred.”

Theo had no idea how long he stood there after Hermione disappeared beneath the sea. A minute? An hour? Time didn’t exist properly when your best friend, yes she was now his best friend, had just jumped off a sacrificial ledge in front of a semi-divine audience of ancient giants and was now somewhere—hopefully not dead—beneath churning water.

It was Aegir who gently nudged him back into motion.

“Come,” the sea giant said, his deep voice warm with something dangerously close to fatherly affection. “She will return when the Sea is done with her. Until then, there is work to do.”

Theo nearly laughed. Or cried. Or keeled over.

Instead, he nodded and muttered, “Sure. Work a good distraction while I repress catastrophic emotional collapse.”

To his surprise, Aegir accompanied him as he foraged through the rich island forests. The man—god? demigod? eldritch ocean husband?—was disturbingly pleasant. Full of light chatter and helpful commentary, he pointed out plants and enchanted fungi with surprising enthusiasm, explaining uses, properties, and histories Theo didn’t ask for.

“Ah, that one,” Aegir said, gesturing to a glowing blue bloom nestled in a thicket of brambles. “Moonvine. Encourages mental clarity. Good in tea. Even better in battle.”

“Great,” Theo muttered, scratching a note into the black book Hermione had given him. “A war-brewed Earl Grey. We’ll make that a Tuesday tradition.”

He gathered the Mortari Root, the Salix Bloom, ground herbs that only grew under moonlight. Aegir helped him bundle and label the trickiest ones. He even conjured an enchanted satchel that sorted ingredients by use—healing, combat, defensive wards, and “miscellaneous needs,” whatever that meant.

When Theo finished packing the last bundle, Aegir clapped his enormous hands together and summoned a sleek little transport skiff that glimmered with runes and sea-magic. Theo wasn’t sure if it had a mind of its own or if the ocean listened to Aegir’s commands, but when the boat drifted down the beach, Aegir tossed the satchel into it with effortless aim.

“It will reach your ship,” the giant said. “The Astrid, yes?”

Theo nodded slowly. “You sure it won’t detour to the Mariana Trench?”

Aegir chuckled. “The Sea keeps its promises.”

That was when Theo saw it.

A shape. Still. Barely a silhouette in the tide-washed distance, half-concealed by a cluster of pale seaweed and lapping foam.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing.

Please no.

His feet moved before his brain did, splashing through the shallows. His boots were soaked in seconds, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even register Aegir calling after him.

Because the body wasn’t moving.

And the dress was white.

And—

“Bloody hell, Hermione ,” Theo whispered hoarsely as he reached her, collapsing to his knees.

She was there, curled slightly on her side where the tide had deposited her like a gift. Her curls were soaked and tangled with bits of kelp. Her skin was pale. Lips blue. Dress clinging to her in a way that made Theo glance away for half a second before concern overrode decency.

He pressed a trembling hand to her shoulder. “Hermione—Granger— Oi —come on.”

No response.

But—

Breath.

She was breathing.

Barely.

Rhythmic, slow. Almost too slow. But there.

Theo nearly sagged in relief, before panic rose again like a new wave.

Because she wasn’t waking up.

He skimmed his hands gently over her arms, shoulders, neck—searching for bruises, gashes, burns. Anything that would give him a clue. But there was no blood. No visible wounds. No broken bones. It was like she’d gone into the water, faced the wrath of the sea—and the sea had simply... returned her. Changed, maybe. But whole.

And sleeping.

Not unconscious.

Sleeping.

“The Sea will catch you,” he muttered to himself, Rán’s voice replaying like a curse. “Yeah, but will it wake you up ?”

He glanced down at the wet, clinging dress. The sacrificial white fabric was nearly translucent now. Theo quickly tore off his cloak and draped it over her.

“You're going to murder me if you ever find out I saw you like this. And Draco? Oh, he’ll kill me first and resurrect me just to do it again.”

He laughed, but it cracked in the middle.

He touched her cheek.

“You did it,” he whispered. “You actually jumped. Gods, Granger. What if you don’t wake up?”

The tide lapped quietly nearby, like an answer he didn’t want to hear.

Behind him, the boat had already disappeared into the horizon.

Theo curled himself next to her in the sand, damp and cold, eyes scanning her face like maybe, just maybe, he’d catch a flicker of awareness.

She didn’t stir.

But her fingers twitched.

Barely.

Theo leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Don’t make me swim you back to the ship alone,” he whispered. “You’re too stubborn to go out like this. Wake up. Come on.”

He let the silence settle again. It wasn’t peaceful—it felt poised. Waiting. Like even the air knew something sacred had passed through and wasn’t quite done.

He didn’t flinch when Aegir appeared beside him.

The giant stood quiet for a while, his massive presence casting a shadow over both of them as he looked down at Hermione’s sleeping form. His gaze was reverent, as if watching someone who had walked into death and made it blink first.

“She will rise when the Sea is finished with her,” Aegir said gently, his deep voice low and solemn. “Not before.”

Theo swallowed thickly. “You’re sure?”

Aegir only nodded. Then he lifted his arms and murmured something in a language that made the tide retreat and curl back again. A moment later, their original rowboat—the one they had arrived in, barely big enough for two people and whatever they'd strapped on—came gliding into view across the sand as though pulled by invisible ropes.

“You can rest here until you are ready,” Aegir said. “The Sea does not rush its miracles.”

Theo blinked up at him. “You conjured our crappy little boat?”

“I called it home,” Aegir said, amused. “It came. All that comes from the Sea answers when it is named.”

Theo almost smiled. “Right. Of course. That makes perfect sense. Magic rowboats. Talking giants. Ocean sacrifices. Totally standard field trip.”

Aegir placed a hand—huge and careful—on Theo’s shoulder. It wasn’t heavy, but it grounded him all the same.

“You were not born to carry her,” the giant said, “and yet, here you are. That is devotion, too.”

Theo stared at him.

Then, finally, nodded.

He watched as Aegir turned and walked away, the giant’s enormous footprints already being swallowed by the incoming tide.

Theo returned to Hermione’s side, arms crossed over his knees. He glanced at the boat, waiting just beyond the tide.

“Take your time, Granger,” he muttered. “But not too much. You owe me five years of therapy for this.”

She didn’t reply, of course.

Didn’t even twitch this time.

Theo closed his eyes for a moment, then stood.

He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Alright then.”

He bent down, gathered her into his arms, and rose slowly. She was heavier than she looked—sodden and limp and utterly silent—but he didn’t complain. Not this time.

“If you’re busy carrying the weight of the world,” he murmured as he adjusted her gently against his chest, “then someone’s gotta carry you.”

He stepped toward the boat, her curls damp against his chin, and started the long walk back.

Theo huffed and puffed during the walk, tripping over his feet only twice. “Aegir couldn’t have summoned our boat closer ,” he hissed under his breath. “Because that would be too easy.”

Blaise stood outside the door to Draco’s room, arms crossed over his chest, posture carved from stone. Neville had deemed it safe enough to move Draco to his room from the infirmary once Draco had first opened his eyes days ago. The corridor was quiet, but tense—the kind of silence that thrummed beneath the skin. Harry joined him moments later, his face pale from exhaustion, eyes shadowed with concern.

"Still no word?" Harry asked.

Blaise shook his head. "Not yet. It’s been four days."

"Hermione wouldn’t fail," Harry muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"No," Blaise agreed. "But it doesn’t make the waiting any easier."

They stood like that for a moment, the weight of everything heavy between them.

"Neville and Pansy are with him now," Blaise said. "He’s awake. Off and on. Fever’s back, and Neville’s worried about infection. Says if we don’t get some kind of restorative soon, he could lose full use of his back."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "And if we don’t get that plant Hermione and Theo went for—"

"It might not matter that he survived the lashes," Blaise finished grimly.

Harry leaned back against the wall. "You know, it’s taking three of us to manage what Hermione was doing alone. Neville’s doing the spellwork, Pansy’s handling potions, I’m tracking inventory. She was doing all of it. By herself. Not to mention all the prep she does for each trial that’s coming. I’m knackered."

"That’s because she’s a menace with a martyr complex," Blaise said fondly. "But the best damn one we’ve got."

A low creak sounded from the door, and the two of them stepped inside.

Pansy looked up from Draco’s bedside and subtly shook her head. Not good.

Draco was awake—barely. His skin was pale, lips cracked, dark bruises blooming under his eyes. Sweat clung to his brow, and though his breathing was even, it was shallow and tight.

"You should try sitting up if there isn’t too much pain," Neville said gently, adjusting a gauze bandage near the base of Draco’s spine.

Draco didn’t seem to hear. Or maybe he was ignoring him. His gaze flicked to Blaise and Harry, then to Pansy, sharp as broken glass. "Well?"

The croak of his voice startled them all. He sounded wrecked, gravelly and raw—but it was still very much Draco Malfoy.

They didn’t answer quickly enough.

Draco’s hand twitched on the blankets, and he growled, “Speak."

Whit burst into the room, panting. “There’s a rowboat sighting—off the starboard side."

Harry’s head jerked up. "Hermione? Theo?"

Whit hesitated. Just for a second. But that second was too long.

Draco's voice was a hoarse snarl. "SPEAK, dammit!"

Whit flinched. "Empty. Just magical supplies. No people aboard."

The silence that followed was deafening. Draco collapsed back into his pillow, breath ragged.

"He needs that plant, Harry," Neville said quietly. "There’s no more time. Without it, the damage might be permanent. Infection’s already setting in. Fever’s spiking again."

Pansy dabbed Draco’s forehead with a damp cloth, trying to ease the heat from his body.

Harry exchanged a look with Blaise. They both knew what came next. They had to prepare the crew.

And they had to pray Theo and Hermione were still alive somewhere.

Neville worked like a man possessed. The moment the enchanted row boat docked and revealed bundles upon bundles of rare plants, his breath caught. Everything on the list. And more. As if Hermione and Theo had predicted what they might need for even the worst-case scenario.

He crafted the paste with trembling hands—murtlap, powdered mandrake, and the plant whose name was whispered in ancient tomes only once. The result was a luminescent green salve that shimmered like liquid moonlight.

Applying it required precision. Draco flinched, whimpered, teeth gritted as the paste burned its way into his torn flesh, igniting every shattered nerve before dulling them. Cooling spells, calming draughts, and gentle magic poured over him in waves.

Pansy and Neville took shifts.

Hermione’s absence hung like fog over his bed.

The sky above Astrid had turned to copper—sunset bleeding into the bruised ocean clouds. The storm had passed, but a different kind of pressure weighed down on the ship.

Draco hadn’t moved in hours.

Neville stood nearby with a concoction of green, glowing salve in a deep ceramic bowl. Pansy leaned against the wall, her expression caught between impatience and worry.

“You need to sit up, Malfoy,” Neville said gently. “We need to reapply the salve and stimulate circulation.”

Draco didn’t respond. His jaw clenched as he stared at the empty space where Hermione should be. The wall between their rooms was gone now—an act of Astrid’s sentience. The ship had simply… shifted, tearing down the separation with a low groan the morning after Theo and Hermione left.

It had meant something. And now… she still wasn’t back.

“She’s not back,” Draco finally rasped, voice dry as stone. “So none of this matters.”

“Don’t be a git,” Pansy muttered, stepping forward. “You’re going to end up with nerve damage, and then what? Hope you can still duel lying on your back?”

“Let him sulk,” Ron said as he entered the room, arms crossed. “Let him rot.”

Neville blinked. “Ron—”

“No,” Ron snapped, striding closer to the bed. “You don’t get to sit here wasting away after what she did. Hermione gave up days of her life for you. You think she'd be proud to see you lying here, too pathetic to try?”

Draco’s eyes flicked up, glinting with fury.

“Good,” Ron growled. “Get angry. Do something besides give up. She didn’t risk everything for you to throw it away.”

Draco let out a low, guttural growl—and then, with a trembling arm and gritted teeth, he sat up fully for the first time since the lashes. The effort was monumental. Neville rushed forward. Pansy steadied the salve.

It wasn’t much.

But it was everything.

An hour later, Astrid moved.

The groan of the ship was subtle at first, like the creaking of ancient bones. Then, gently, unnaturally, Draco’s bed began to slide toward the upper deck—guided by unseen magic and the will of the ship herself. Neville and Pansy hurried to stabilize him, protesting, but Astrid would not be denied.

“I think,” Neville said slowly, “she wants him to see.”

The top deck opened like a blooming flower, revealing the sea awash in fading sunlight. And then—

A ripple.

The water near the ship surged, parting like glass. The Sea responded—not just with tides, but with intent. A glowing current twisted upward, forming a glimmering pathway of water. A rowboat floated along it, carried not by rope or spell, but by the Sea itself.

At the center of the boat sat Theo Nott.

And in his arms—

Hermione.

Draco’s breath caught painfully in his chest.

Theo looked like he’d fought and lost a battle with the gods. His skin was scorched and weather-beaten, lips cracked, his robe torn and soaked with brine. His normally sharp features sagged with exhaustion. But his arms never loosened their grip around the woman he held.

Hermione was limp. Her skin glowed faintly, water slicking her curls and soaking the white sacrificial dress that clung to her like second skin. Beneath the thin fabric, just above her knee, was a torn piece of Draco’s bloodstained shirt, tied there like a sacred promise.

Draco’s stomach twisted.

The Sea laid the rowboat at Astrid’s side like an offering. A soft wave lifted them gently. No ropes. No pulleys. Just intention.

The deck exploded into motion.

Ron, Harry, and Blaise rushed forward as Theo, still seated, let out a low cry of effort and lifted Hermione higher. The moment her feet touched wood, Theo collapsed beside her, a hand still gripping her wrist.

“What the hell happened?” Harry demanded.

“Is she breathing?” Ron asked, crouched by Hermione’s head.

Theo’s voice cracked. “Stop shaking her. Stop. She’ll wake—”

“When?” Draco muttered.

Everyone turned.

Draco had pulled himself forward, one hand on the rail of his conjured bed, pale and shaking. Pansy held him steady from behind.

“When will she wake?” he asked again, voice sharper.

Theo looked up from the deck, eyes rimmed red. “When the Sea’s done with her.”

Silence fell.

A beat later, Astrid shifted again—wood groaning, floorboards rearranging. The space outside Draco’s quarters warped with magic. Walls moved. Foundations bent. The ship physically joined Hermione’s quarters and Draco’s bed into one seamless room. As if Astrid was just waiting for Hermione to return to finish her remodel completely.

“What happened, Nott?” Harry demanded as he rearranged Theo’s robe that was hiding Hermione’s body from view.

Draco would kill anyone who looked at Hermione when she was in such a vulnerable state of dress.

“She jumped,” Theo rasped. “She jumped.”

Draco closed his eyes. The pain in his back was nothing compared to the fire in his chest.

She was back.

Hermione was within arm’s reach.

And here she was, unconscious, draped in white, smelling of salt and magic and smoke and Theo.

He gripped the bed rail so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“I will kill anyone,” he rasped, “whoever makes her do something like that again.”

No one said a word.

And the Sea, vast and watching, whispered softly beneath them.

Neville, cautious but steady, directed the magic of Astrid to lift both Draco and Hermione from the deck and guide them gently back toward the now-unified Captain’s Suite. The room had expanded subtly, walls moving and adjusting to accommodate them both—just as it had done before in anticipation of something only Astrid seemed to understand.

Pansy, Harry, Blaise, and Theo followed, silent, each cast in varying hues of disbelief, guilt, and dread. The room they entered was too much. Plush rugs, velvet curtains, a magically flickering fireplace despite being aboard a ship. It looked like a private villa tucked away in the countryside—except they were deep in the heart of the sea. Harry snorted, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Looks like a bloody honeymoon suite,” he muttered.

Theo, still breathless and trembling, lowered himself into a chair near the fire. He looked gutted. Hollowed out. Haunted.

“I tried,” he said, voice hoarse. “I tried to talk her out of it.”

Draco’s head snapped toward him with such force it made Pansy flinch.

Theo continued, eyes flicking between Hermione’s unconscious form and Draco’s tensed frame. “She said she had to. That she had to save you. Aegir and Rán, they require offerings—not of wealth or magic, but of intent. Of devotion. And she—she made herself the offering.”

The room stilled. Even the fire dared not crackle.

“She jumped,” Theo said, choking slightly. “Off a sacred ledge. Wearing white. Said it had to be her. I tried, Draco. I tried to stop her, but she—”

“YOU LET HER JUMP?”

The words exploded from Draco’s throat like a curse, like a howl torn from his very marrow. The windows around them shattered—glass raining in delicate, glittering shards as the ship groaned, reacting violently to its captain’s anguish.

“Draco—” Theo started, rising from the chair.

“Don’t.” Draco's voice was raw. A rasp dragged through broken glass. “You let her jump. You let her throw herself into something ancient and dark. You let her—”

Theo flinched, shame flooding his face.

Draco was shaking, trembling so violently that the bedsheets beneath his fingers were twisting into frayed ropes. “She was supposed to be safe. Here. With me. She was supposed to be the one thing in this godsdamned world that wasn’t ripped apart!”

Silence.

Astrid’s light dimmed.

Theo didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. He bowed his head.

Draco looked toward Hermione, his voice breaking into near-incomprehensible fragments. “And now she’s not even awake. What if she doesn’t wake up, Theo? What if—what if I never get to tell her—?”

He couldn’t finish. His voice cracked down the middle, and what came next wasn’t words. It was grief.

Grief like a storm.

Draco wasn’t angry because Hermione had jumped—he was angry because she hadn’t waited for him to catch her.

“If she wakes up, she’ll never forgive me. If she doesn’t… I’ll never forgive anyone."

Chapter Text

Draco was up. He was walking. Barely.

Sitting beside Hermione’s bed — always.

His legs still trembled with every step, the tendons in his back still screaming despite Neville’s poultices and salves. But the purple bruises were slowly yellowing, the lash marks knitting themselves together stitch by agonizing stitch. He drank broth now. Ate crackers when someone forced him. Swallowed tonic after tonic without complaint.

But he would not leave the room.

Hermione had been unconscious for nearly thirty hours. And it was killing him.

Harry came in twice a day now, reporting to Draco with the quiet respect of a soldier speaking to his superior — though he was, for now, acting Captain. Maps laid out on the desk. Updates on morale, maintenance, forecasts. Draco barely nodded as his hand, always, returned to Hermione’s fingers where they lay motionless atop the quilt.

The cabin — the Captain’s suite now altered by Astrid — felt unnervingly like a honeymoon lodge. Pansy had snorted something crude about the rug and firelight the day before, but even she hadn’t stayed long. No one did. Not when Draco was sitting beside Hermione with eyes like broken glass and patience strung tighter than harp strings.

Neville had been walking Draco through stretches in the mornings and evenings — gentle, guided motions. He said the healing was good, but there would be weeks of tightness, phantom pain. Recovery would take work.

But today, Neville was on the infirmary deck preparing for the second trial. And Pansy had been called to handle a disagreement between Rook and Dererill in the ship’s lower levels.

Which meant Theo had drawn the short straw.

And was now standing in the doorway, very aware of how his own footsteps echoed in the room like warning shots.

“Hey, mate,” Theo said with forced cheer, already sweating through his shirt. “Figured I could, uh, help you stretch? Longbottom said just the arms today.”

Draco didn’t look up.

Theo cleared his throat. “You don’t even have to say anything. I’ll just—grab the stool and—”

“I’d rather rot,” Draco muttered.

Theo froze. “Right. Got it. Totally fair.”

The silence stretched. Theo inched closer.

Draco finally turned his head, just slightly, and Theo wished he hadn’t.

There was fire in his eyes. Fury and fatigue and something worse — grief that had been smothered by rage and was now curling into something dangerous.

“You let her jump,” Draco said, voice so low it barely scraped above air. “You watched her walk to that edge. You let her fall.”

Theo’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “I tried to stop her—”

“I don’t care.”

That silenced Theo. But he didn’t leave.

He dropped the stool anyway, sat on it beside Draco’s injured side, and murmured, “Then hate me later. Right now, you need to lift your arm. Five times.”

Draco’s hand twitched toward his wand, which was resting beside Hermione’s pillow. His fingers hovered above it.

Theo went pale. “You could duel me later too. I’d probably lose. But Longbottom said this matters.”

Draco didn’t move.

Theo continued, quieter this time. “If you don’t stretch, your tendons could bind. You might not hold a wand steady next time. You might not catch her if she falls again.”

Draco’s face remained unreadable.

Then, slowly, he lifted his arm, the tendons in his back pulling like hot wire.

Theo helped, gentle but firm. They sat in silence. The only sound the soft drag of breath and Hermione’s still quiet, steady inhales.

After the second lift, Draco spoke again — a whisper, like a knife pressed to Theo’s ribs.

Draco looked at Hermione again — her body too still beneath the covers, skin too pale beneath the flicker of firelight.

His jaw flexed. His voice dropped even lower, dangerous and steady.

“If she doesn’t wake up,” he said, “if she doesn’t open those eyes soon, I swear to you, Nott… I’ll burn down every realm of this cursed voyage to bring her back.”

Theo didn’t move.

Draco turned to face him fully now, his grey eyes glinting — half-mad, wholly resolute.

“And if I find out you could have stopped her from jumping… if I so much as sense hesitation in your memory of it—” He leaned forward, one trembling arm holding his weight. “—then I won’t need a wand. I’ll take you apart with my bare hands.”

Theo blinked. Swallowed.

Draco leaned back, exhausted but seething.

“Now help me finish the damn stretches,” he muttered. “Before I change my mind.”

Theo exhaled shakily. “Right. Arms first. Then death. Got it.”

But even his forced humor couldn’t hide the way his fingers trembled.

And behind them, Hermione slept on — silent, still — as if the Sea hadn’t quite let her go yet.

The cabin was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the enchanted fireplace and the rhythmic patter of rain tapping against the windows. Candles hovered midair in soft clusters, casting golden light across the lush, oversized bed where Hermione lay—still and silent.

Draco hadn’t moved from his place beside her.

He sat slouched in a velvet armchair he’d dragged from the corner. A book lay unopened in his lap, long forgotten. His hair was damp at the ends, his healing shirt loose across his scarred back. A wool blanket had slipped from his shoulders sometime in the last hour, but he hadn’t noticed.

All he did now was watch her.

Her chest rose and fell. Her skin had regained its color. Her pulse, steady. But her eyes remained closed. Her hands, unmoving.

Draco leaned forward, brushing his fingers gently along the inside of her wrist as if begging her to twitch, to shift, to do something . He'd whispered her name countless times, but this time it came out hoarse, cracked like something dying.

“Hermione,” he murmured.

And that’s when her fingers moved.

A flicker. A breath.

He stopped breathing.

Her brow knit. Her nose twitched. Then her lashes fluttered.

Draco lurched forward so fast pain shot through his ribs. His voice was nothing but a rasp.

“Hermione—”

She blinked up at the ceiling. Dazed. Unfocused.

“Hermione.” He said it again, sharper this time, like it might anchor her to him.

Her lips parted. “Dra…co?”

He nearly broke.

She turned her head toward the sound of his voice, brows drawing together like she was trying to place him. Then her eyes met his—and clarity bloomed.

“You’re here,” she whispered.

“I’m here,” he breathed. His hand was already cupping her cheek, the calluses of his thumb brushing her temple. “You came back.”

“I…” She swallowed, voice rough. “Did it work?”

Draco choked on a laugh. “Yes, you absolutely brilliant, idiotic, asinine, stubborn witch, what you did fucking worked!”

“Are you—your back—?”

He shook his head. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Her fingers moved again, this time reaching for him. He caught them in his own, kissing the back of her knuckles like he needed to taste proof of her existence.

“I saw…” she started, voice trembling. “I saw something. The Sea showed me things.”

“I know.” His voice cracked again. “I know. Theo told me everything.”

“I had to,” she said, chest hitching. “I had to do it. For you.”

Draco let out a sound like a sob strangled into silence. He leaned forward—his body still aching, still healing—and pressed his forehead to her sternum, curling slightly as if she were the only thing keeping him alive.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

Her hand threaded through his hair. “You didn’t.”

“I was ready to burn this fucking ship to the sea floor,” he whispered, raw. “Do you understand that? I was going to raze every wave until I found you. I would’ve given up everything.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I would have hated that, but I know.”

He trembled. It wasn't just the strain of injury—it was the unraveling of everything he had kept so tightly coiled.

“I keep seeing it,” he confessed, voice muffled against her. “The rowboat. The way you looked. You didn’t even look hurt, you just— weren’t there . You left me. If I were awake I would have told you not to—”

“I had to,” she whispered again. “I had to be the one who jumped.”

She wrapped her arms around his head, cradling him. Rocking, gently.

“You’re such a bloody idiot ,” he muttered.

“I’ve been told.”

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at her, and there was something wild in his expression.

“You don’t get to throw yourself off sacrificial ledges without running it by me, Granger.”

“You would’ve said no.”

“Damn right I would’ve.”

She smiled. “Then I was right not to tell you.”

He snorted, half-laugh, half-sob.

Her eyes scanned his face, taking in every hollow, every scratch, every bruise and freckle and line of pain.

“I missed your face,” she said.

“I missed yours more,” he whispered. “I thought I’d never get to see it again. Never get to—”

He cut himself off.

She squeezed his hand. “I’m here.”

“You’d better not try anything noble again. I swear, Hermione, next time—”

“You’ll what? Tackle me mid-jump?”

“Watch me.”

They smiled, strained and broken and raw. But real.

Then—

“Draco,” she whispered. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He looked up.

She leaned in. “That room shuffle stunt you pulled? Moving mine next to yours?”

Little did she know, her room no longer was just next to his. Draco can’t wait for that conversation. 

His lips twitched. “I was delirious.”

“Right.” She arched a brow. “We’ll talk about it.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“And one more thing.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not done saving you.”

His hand rose to cup her cheek. His mouth hovered close to hers.

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep surviving.”

It was Hermione who pulled Draco's face closer and kissed him. He was like a fresh of breath air.

The moment their lips met again, it was hesitant—soft and exploratory, like two people finding each other all over again after too much darkness. Hermione’s fingers threaded through Draco’s hair, gently tugging, coaxing more of him forward, and he gave in willingly.

He cradled her jaw like she was made of spun glass. “Tell me this is real,” he whispered against her mouth, voice hoarse with disbelief. “Tell me you’re not a dream.”

Hermione shook her head, breath catching. “I’m here, Draco. I’m here.”

That was all it took.

The kiss deepened. No longer gentle but burning, urgent. Draco’s mouth moved over hers with purpose, claiming, savoring. His hands traced down her arms, over her ribs, until they found the straps of her dress. One slip of his fingers and the fabric fell from her shoulder. Then the other. Hermione gasped as cool air kissed her bare skin, but it was quickly followed by Draco’s touch—warm, reverent.

“I’ll never let you go again,” he murmured, forehead pressing to hers. “Even if the whole damn sea tries to take you. I’ll fight it. I’ll fight anything.”

Hermione’s hand found his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart under her palm. “Then fight for yourself, too,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll heal. You’ll rest. You’ll let me stay. I want to stay.”

His voice broke. “You already have me.”

He bent his head, brushing kisses down her neck, over the swell of her breast, before lifting his face again. “You’re mine, Hermione.”

“And you’re mine, Draco.”

She let out a breathless laugh as he guided her back onto the bed, her dress pooling around her hips. But before either could go further, there was a knock at the door—then another—and neither noticed.

The door creaked open.

“Well, shit.”

That was Blaise.

“Bloody hell!” came Harry’s shocked, half-panicked yelp.

“Oh gods, I’m blind—” Theo’s voice cracked as he immediately turned around and buried his face in his hands.

Draco, flinching, jerked back and instinctively wrapped his arms around Hermione’s body protectively, while she dove beneath the covers in a squeal of embarrassment.

The magic in the room surged—candles flaring, the hearth roaring—and one of the picture frames on the far wall shattered from the intensity of Draco’s barely-leashed fury. His eyes, glassy with fatigue, narrowed at the trio.

“You idiots better have a damn good reason for barging in,” he growled, voice dangerous and low, “because as you can see, we’re not decent .”

Hermione’s voice muffled under the sheets, “Honestly, do none of you knock?”

But it was Harry who stepped forward, grinning like an idiot as he launched himself at the bed. “You’re awake,” he breathed, voice full of wonder as he gathered her into a hug—even through the covers. “You’re really awake.”

Hermione let out a surprised laugh as she hugged him back. “Harry!”

Draco raised an unimpressed brow. “Yes, yes, Potter, the princess lives. Can we move on before you suffocate her? Not to mention, let her put clothes on first before you touch her again?”

Next came Theo, eyes shimmering, face blotchy as he approached hesitantly. “I know I’m not supposed to get close, and I know you’re probably going to hex me again later, Captain, but—” He grabbed Hermione into a hug too. “Thank Merlin.”

Draco glared. “You’re still sleeping with the grunts in the barracks, Nott. And you’re washing everyone’s dishes the muggle way.”

Theo pulled back, defeated. “See, Hermione? I told you he’s particular about his teacups.”

Hermione giggled, burying her face into the pillow to stifle the sound.

Draco scowled at the two of them. “Oh lovely, now they have inside jokes. Bloody perfect.”

Harry, still standing awkwardly, cleared his throat. “So… now that we’ve made a dramatic entrance, should we, er… give you two some privacy?”

Draco glared, completely deadpan. “You think?”

Hermione peeked out from the covers, eyes still full of warmth. “Don’t be too hard on them. They were worried.”

“They can be worried from the other side of the door next time,” Draco muttered, already tugging the blankets higher over her bare shoulders.

As the three of them backed out of the room, Blaise shook his head with a smirk. “Ten galleons says they won’t make it to breakfast before jumping each other again.”

“Get out,” Draco snapped, voice a growl, and the door shook as if saying let’s go, boys.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered again, still hovering awkwardly near the bed, eyes flicking between Hermione’s flushed face and Draco’s dangerously narrowed ones.

Blaise, ever the calmest in chaos, slowly raised both hands like he was being held at wandpoint. “Right, I’m going to go inform Neville that Granger’s awake. You know—actual healing stuff. Since no one’s entirely sure what happened to her after she took a dive off a bloody sea cliff and came back asleep like some mythic heroine.”

“I’ll let Pansy know too,” Theo said quietly from beside Harry. He was still pale, still looked like he’d seen war, but his eyes were glassy with relief. “She was beginning to get snappy with people. And not in the fun, terrifying way she usually does. She’ll want to see you, Hermione.”

Draco tensed, still seated behind Hermione with his arms caging her to his chest like he might lose her if he didn’t physically anchor her in place. “Everyone,” he said with that deadly-calm tone that made grown men nervous, “get the hell out.”

Theo blinked. “We’re going—”

“I said, out ,” Draco snapped. “My girl doesn’t have a shirt on, and if I have to watch one more of you take in so much as an accidental glance, I’ll burn your retinas and mount your eyeballs on the wall like artwork.”

Blaise gave a low whistle. “Well, that escalated.”

Harry stifled a laugh behind his hand, and Theo, sensing Draco wasn’t entirely bluffing, ducked his head and moved to the door.

Hermione turned her head slowly, one brow arched as she gave Draco an unimpressed look. “Your girl?” she murmured, both amused and slightly skeptical. “Possessive much?”

Draco met her eyes evenly, unapologetically. “Don’t act surprised. You were always going to be mine. I decided that eighth year.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a blush rising on her cheeks. “You’re lucky I’m still half-bare and emotionally exhausted, or I’d hex you for being this arrogant after nearly dying.”

Blaise, pausing at the threshold, leaned in just enough to call, “If she hexes you, Malfoy, I’m charging admission. Gold only.”

“Out,” Draco growled again.

They finally left, the door clicking shut behind them, but not before Harry muttered, “Next time, we knock harder.”

The moment the door was closed, the room fell silent again except for the soft flicker of the hearth.

Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and tucked Hermione closer under the blanket.

She glanced up at him with a smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “You know, I’m not sure if I’m more flattered or annoyed that you threatened your best friends because I wasn’t wearing a shirt.”

His response was to dip his head and press a kiss to the curve of her neck. “Both can be true.”

Neville entered their room a short while later, knocking first out of courtesy before stepping into the now-lavishly merged Captain’s suite. His eyes scanned the romantic décor—ornate fireplace crackling with enchanted blue flames, thick rugs underfoot, and one enormous bed dominating the room—before he sighed and shook his head.

“Right, let’s get this over with,” he said, dragging a small medical satchel behind him. “Though it’d go much faster if someone wasn’t draped over the patient like a bloody weighted blanket.”

Draco, who had one arm looped loosely around Hermione’s waist and the other running idle fingers up and down her spine, barely lifted his head. “Touch her and you die, Longbottom.”

“I’m literally here to make sure she doesn’t keel over, Captain ,” Neville deadpanned, pulling out his wand. “If you could just refrain from growling while I check her heartbeat, that’d be lovely.”

Blaise and Harry knocked loudly on the doorframe, Blaise kept his smirk as he flopped elegantly into a nearby chair. “Leave him be, Neville. There’s no use trying to change Draco when he’s in a mood like this. And honestly, you did say he needed more movement. All this posturing and repositioning to stay wrapped around her is practically physical therapy.”

“Permission to enter?” Harry asked, still from the doorway.

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione laughed. “We are fully clothed now.”

“Yes, Potter,” Draco drawled. “Even you and your horrible vision can see that.”

The room was unusually quiet for once. Morning light filtered through the enchanted glass overhead, dappling the lavish Captain’s quarters in gold and soft blue. Hermione sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, a thick wool blanket pulled modestly to her collarbones, one of Draco’s shirts hanging off of her like she was wearing a giant’s shirt.. Draco sat next to her—well, more like on her—one leg draped over hers, an arm slung across her waist like a man daring fate to pry her from him.

Neville stood at the edge of the bed, expression unreadable as he opened his small field kit.

“This would be a lot easier if Malfoy wasn’t looking at me like he’s planning to murder me in my sleep,” Neville muttered.

Draco didn’t miss a beat. “Good thing I don’t mind making things difficult,” he said silkily. Then, with a slow wink, “And if I did murder you, Longbottom, it wouldn’t be in your sleep.”

Neville exhaled slowly through his nose and gave a theatrical smile. “Charming. Very reassuring. Now—Hermione, I’m just going to cast a diagnostic charm and run a few tactile checks. If your guard dog can manage to not bite my hand off.”

Hermione chuckled softly. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Draco scowled but shifted slightly, his hand now simply resting against her ribs. Barely.

Neville raised his wand, casting diagnostic charms with quiet precision. Lines of glowing script scrolled across a shimmering screen above her chest—vital signs, residual magical activity, and neurological activity levels.

Blaise and Harry were as quiet as mice. Harry was just happy Hermione was awake and relatively healthy. He gave a little wave when she caught his eye.

“You’re stable. Remarkably so. Magical exhaustion, yes, but no dark traces or lingering spell damage.” Neville flicked his wand upward, eyes tracking the rune rotations. “Whatever happened on that island, your body processed it cleanly. Your magic’s steady again.”

Hermione grinned. “More like... resilient.”

“She jumped off a bloody cliff,” Theo muttered from the armchair across the room, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. “Resilient is putting it mildly.”

Neville nodded. “You’ll need rest, slow reintroduction to spellwork. But nothing life-threatening. Unlike some people in this room who tried to argue with me about standing.”

Draco, already holding Hermione’s hand again, offered his most sarcastic smile. “Not standing. Looming menacingly. There’s a difference.”

“Right. Well, menace from the mattress a bit longer,” Neville said, packing up.

As Neville cleaned up, Harry finally spoke. “Right. Malfoy. Updates.”

Draco’s entire demeanor shifted. He adjusted in the bed, pulling Hermione’s blanket up a little higher as though that would somehow guard her from stress. “Start talking.”

Blaise stepped in, tapping his mug with one finger. “We’ve done daily drills, rotating formations, and continued training. Most of the crew has been surprisingly disciplined. Though Rook still thinks this is a cruise, and Flint nearly set the galley on fire yesterday trying to make ‘real breakfast.’”

Hermione snorted. “What was he making?”

“Bacon. Just bacon. That’s it.” Theo rubbed his temple. “Somehow he still nearly exploded a frying pan.”

Harry nodded. “Trial Two’s almost upon us. We were two weeks away, but with this stop, we are now about seventeen days out. We’ll pick up speed if the winds are right though. We’ve mapped the closest approach to the island. We’ll have to anchor about a quarter-mile out. Storms surrounding the place are magical and won’t let us too close.”

“And the crew?” Draco asked, eyes sharp now.

Blaise leaned against the wall now. “Better. Morale was low, but news that Hermione and Theo made it back with a mountain of supplies boosted spirits. People are eating more, training again. Weasley’s keeping people in line with training. Surprisingly adequate for what we need. There’s even a game of enchanted cards going around.”

“There was almost a mutiny over sugar rations,” Harry added. “We had to convince Whitt to stop trying to distill alcohol from mana leaves.”

Hermione giggled. “You left him unsupervised?”

“Clearly a mistake.”

“What about Trial Two?” she asked, more serious now.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “What do we know?”

Harry pulled a scroll from his pocket and unfurled it. “Trial Two is called The Bleeding Labyrinth . It’s a shifting, sentient maze on a deserted island. It feeds on fear.”

“Literal fear?” Hermione asked, instantly sitting straighter. “Like it detects and grows from it, or just metaphorical feeding?”

Blaise threw up a hand. “See? Not even conscious for a week and she’s already ten steps ahead of us. Asking the questions we should have been researching.”

“Don’t get us wrong,” Harry added. “We’ve tried deciphering the runes Kingsley gave us. Blaise even looped in some of the Ravenclaw crew, but the phrasing is archaic. And we think it’s written in a dialect that merges Latin with Old Norse.”

Hermione hummed. “Let me see it.”

Draco lifted an arm to let her shift, clearly displeased that she was doing something that wasn’t resting, but said nothing. Harry passed over the scroll.

She skimmed it once. Twice. “The third rune isn’t Norse—it’s Old Runic Avaric. It’s not ‘labyrinth of the bleeding mind,’ it’s ‘labyrinth that bleeds the mind.’ Small difference. Big consequences.”

Harry blinked. “You got that in... what? Twenty seconds?”

“Seventeen,” Blaise muttered, deadpan. “I counted. I hate it here.”

Hermione looked up, brows furrowed in thought. “It’s not just a maze. It’s going to create illusions. Trick us. Pull fears from our subconscious. Possibly pit us against each other.”

“So just another Tuesday then,” Theo muttered.

Neville groaned. “Perfect. That’s exactly what we need after a week of emotional trauma.”

Draco tightened his hold on Hermione again, jaw clenched. “If this maze touches a hair on your head—”

“It won’t,” Hermione cut in firmly, looking up at him with steel in her eyes. “We’ll plan. Strategize. Everyone will make it through.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Speaking of—once Neville clears you, we’ll brief the rest of the crew. But I’m not sending anyone into a fear-fueled illusion pit unless our top strategist is cleared for duty.”

Hermione beamed. “Permission to strategize from bed?”

Blaise groaned. “She’s going to outthink this trial from under a blanket, Malfoy. Just let her.”

Draco smirked. “Only if I get to hold her quill.”

Neville rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. “I’m leaving before you two start conjugating verbs in a suggestive manner.”

Pansy poked her head in. “Good, because I have tea and gossip. Hermione! Welcome back from the abyss. You missed Rook trying to hit on three different women and falling off the observation deck.”

Hermione laughed, bright and clear.

Draco leaned in, brushing his nose against her temple. Soft. Quiet. So no one else would hear, he whispered, “You came back to me.”

She turned just enough to whisper back, “Always.”

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, the room felt whole again.

Chapter Text

The last few days had fallen into a rhythm—steady, almost eerie in its calm. After the chaos of the underwater lashings, after the wounds and sacrifices, and Hermione and Theo’s desperate journey to the island of Aegir’s Rest, Astrid had returned to something like order.

The crew, though still cautious, moved with sharper steps now. Navigators worked in shifts. Weapons were inspected nightly. Supplies had been inventoried twice over. And though Draco had not officially resumed full duties, the ship had slowly begun to bend back around his will--not that Astrid stopped listening to Draco in the first place, but Harry was feeling the shift, and that was just fine in his opinion. He was tired of playing the role of Captain.

Now, on the seventh morning of their seventeen-day approach toward Trial Two, Astrid was cloaked in a thick, rolling fog. A magical kind, Hermione had muttered to herself earlier. One that muffled even the most determined sound, made sunlight feel like a rumor, and set nerves slightly on edge. The crew had enchanted the sails with soft wards for protection, but Hermione had taken a more direct approach with training.

She stood near the portside railing, eyes flicking between a line of ten crew members—all varying ages and specialties—and a rune-etched slab of sea-scarred wood propped between crates.

“Trial Two is a labyrinth,” Hermione said, her voice calm but commanding. “A sentient maze. Which means it won’t respond to brute force or charm work the way you’re used to. We’ll need anchors. Inscribed runes, magically charged, that can act as guideposts or safeguards. Especially if we get separated.”

Someone muttered nervously, and Hermione heard it: “If.”

She let it pass. “I don’t care if you’re on med team, security, or just swabbing decks. Everyone who enters the labyrinth will carry at least two of these rune anchors. And I need to trust that you can activate them under stress—without wand flourishes or perfect conditions.”

A few people shifted in place. She walked slowly down the row, eyeing each person. “Carve as if your life depends on it. Because it might.”

She turned to the nearest practice slab, conjured from charmed stone. “Now—before we even begin the first rune—I need to explain what an anchor is . Some of you have asked. Some of you are probably assuming.”

She raised her wand and with a flick, three runes appeared in mid-air, glowing faintly.

“Anchors come in three kinds. First: mental anchors. These are personal. A thought. A memory. Something that keeps you tethered to yourself when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.”

She paused, letting that sink in. “The maze will feed on fear. It’s not just illusions—it’s manipulation. Psychological. If you can’t remind yourself what’s real, you’ll lose your grip. I recommend keeping an object with you—enchanted or not—that ties to your anchor. A photo, a note, a pressed flower. Whatever reminds you of why you want to survive.”

She pointed to the second rune. “Second: magical anchors. These are what we’re practicing today. Runes you can trigger when magic around you becomes unstable. Most places in this trial won’t respond to standard casting. The air itself might bend your spells. Anchors—carved, enchanted, and placed properly—can help you regulate that. Think of them as magical stabilizers.”

She flicked to the third. “Last: spatial anchors. The maze moves. Paths shift. You may get separated. These runes can help you retrace your steps, find your partner, or even mark a safe zone. If done right, you can leave a breadcrumb trail that no one but you can see.”

A few of the crew looked uneasy now, but more looked focused.

“Every pair will be expected to use all three types. We’ll go over mental and spatial anchoring tomorrow. Today—we carve.”

The previous markings vanished, leaving fresh space. “Let’s begin with the basic tracking rune. Salla, you first.”

The young witch stepped forward, hands shaking as she took the iron stylus.

“Steady,” Hermione murmured. “You’re not dueling. You’re building something that will find you in the dark.”

Salla swallowed and began carving.

Behind her, leaning against the main mast and partially veiled by shadow and fog, Draco watched in silence. He’d been there for most of the lesson, arms folded, sharp gaze never leaving the group. His shirt hung slightly looser than usual—his strength still returning—but he looked more like himself than he had in weeks.

Hermione didn’t need to look to know he was there. She felt him in her spine.

After Salla finished, Hermione nodded at the result. “Good. Again. This time faster.”

The crew reset. Hermione tilted her chin slightly toward the mast. “Captain Malfoy. Since you’re clearly invested, why not contribute?”

A slow breath from the fog. Then, “Granger, I’m wounded.”

“You’re recovering. Not blind.”

He stepped forward, the sea mist curling around his boots. The fog made him look carved from moonlight and defiance.

“I’m here for moral support,” he said dryly.

“You’re about as supportive as a hexed corset.”

That got a small ripple of laughter from the trainees.

Still smirking, Draco walked up to her and took the stylus from her hand with unnecessary flourish. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Inverted bloodline ward.”

He blinked. “Bit illegal, isn’t it?”

“Illegal in four countries. We’re not in one.”

Draco rolled his eyes and began carving on the second panel. The stylus glided in steady arcs, his hand practiced, confident. The onlookers watched, impressed. Hermione allowed herself the brief indulgence of watching too—how his fingers curled, how the cut of his jaw flexed when he concentrated.

When he finished, he stepped back and offered her the stylus. “Satisfied?”

Hermione took it with a hum. “Moderately.”

Draco leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed. “Please, Granger. Your voice said ‘moderately,’ but your eyes screamed ‘that was the best rune carving I’ve seen in weeks.’”

Hermione ignored him—pointedly—and gestured to the next person. “Rowan, you’re up.”

Training continued. The group cycled through the rune drills again, and though Hermione technically resumed instruction, Draco didn’t drift away. He stayed. Occasionally correcting someone’s grip. At one point, he even conjured a glowing overlay of a rune to demonstrate curvature technique—a clever twist Hermione hadn’t seen done like that before.

She hated how attractive it was.

Draco was…good. Focused. Crisp with his words. He didn’t dominate the space, didn’t upstage her, but moved like someone who understood command.

Hermione felt her stomach tighten. The good kind. The damn-it-Malfoy-why-are-you-hot-when-you-teach kind.

When one young crewman fumbled his carving, Draco stepped beside him and murmured, “The trick is not to muscle it. Treat it like a negotiation. Runes respond better to persuasion than force.”

Hermione’s lips quirked as she watched the trainee nod, try again—and succeed. She crossed her arms, not to project authority, but to keep herself from visibly fanning her face.

Bloody hell, he was competent. That was… a problem.

An hour later, Hermione glanced at the enchanted pocket watch clipped to her belt. “Alright, break for lunch. Be back in forty minutes. And don’t touch your practice boards until I say so.”

The trainees filtered out with murmurs and tired smiles. Hermione waited until the last of them had gone before turning toward Draco, who hadn’t moved from the post.

“You stayed,” she said softly, brushing stray curls behind her ear.

Draco shrugged. “You kept the lesson mostly tolerable. I stayed to ensure no one exploded.”

“Appreciated,” she replied dryly. “But that rune overlay? That was brilliant.”

He smirked, but there was a note of warmth beneath it. “Coming from you, Granger, that’s practically a love letter.”

Hermione rolled her eyes—but her smile gave her away. She reached into her satchel, pulled something from the inner pocket, and crossed the short distance between them.

“I made something for you,” she said, opening her palm.

A small, silver medallion lay there—delicate, inscribed with precise, compact runes that shimmered faintly with enchantment. Draco's brow furrowed.

“It’s spelled to track your vitals,” she explained. “Magical fluctuations. Heart rate. Breathing. I’ll get an alert if anything spikes.”

Draco arched a brow. “So, I collapse mid-trial, and you get a magical notification to come scold me for being dramatic?”

“Something like that.”

He studied the medallion for a moment longer, then—wordlessly—slipped it into his palm and tucked it beneath his shirt.

The gesture was simple. Quiet. But Hermione’s heart did a slow, foolish lurch.

Draco’s mouth twitched.  Not into a smirk, but both sides of his mouth, Hermione noticed, twitched up, as if he were fighting a smile.

“I think I found my first anchor.”

Hermione let that settle in, touched beyond belief that out of all the possessions Draco Malfoy owned, he would use the medical tracker she created for him as his anchor to reality. 

He glanced at her, eyes unreadable. “You do realize this is bordering on excessive. Monitoring me like a prized unicorn.”

“You are a prized unicorn,” she quipped. “The rare, sarcastic kind that terrifies my friends and refuses to drink water.”

“Damn right,” Draco murmured.

They stood close now. Closer than they probably should have. The fog clung around the edges of the deck, the sea below gentle and steady for once.

Hermione reached out and brushed imaginary lint from his shoulder. “Thank you—for helping. I didn’t expect it.”

Draco caught her wrist lightly, his thumb grazing her pulse point. “You’re not the only one who wants the crew ready.”

For a beat, neither of them moved.

Then Hermione, her voice softer: “We still need to talk.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to hers. “I know.”

She let out a breath. “Later?”

“Later,” he agreed, though the word felt like a promise.

Hermione stood alone in the strategy room, half-empty tea in one hand, ink-stained fingers flipping through pages of the rune compendium Kingsley had given her. It had been ten days since she’d resumed active duty on the Astrid, and her routine was starting to find shape again—if barely.

Outside, the fog that hugged the ship was beginning to thin. They were still about a week from the island that housed Trial Two, and time was moving too quickly.

Her eyes scanned the runes again. She’d been poring over this sequence for hours, the one tied to the entrance of the Bleeding Labyrinth, and something had clicked in the last few minutes. The pattern wasn’t just an entry ward—it was a lock. A cipher keyed not by magic, but by presence. By number.

She stepped back, frowning.

They didn’t need all 100 people to enter.

But everyone had to exit in order to move onto Trial Three. 

Which meant she needed to triple her rune training rotations. No exceptions. Everyone would be trained in runes.

She muttered a curse and reached for a fresh page to sketch the revision. That was when the door opened and Blaise strolled in, tray balanced in one hand, far too smug for someone with so much jam on his toast.

"I brought sustenance, per your lover’s request," he said, striding toward her with theatrical reverence. The tray was elaborate—far too much for one person—and included hot tea, fruit, fresh bread, and smoked fish.

Hermione arched a brow. "He called me his lover?"

Blaise set the tray down. "No, he called you 'Granger who sneaks out of bed before I can talk to her in the morning.' Although with a bit more crude language with his anger directed at me instead of you," Blaise winked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, cheeks tinged pink. She still wasn’t used to everyone knowing she and Draco were… whatever they were. Not quite a couple. Not just teammates. Astrid hadn’t given them much choice in the matter when she magically reconfigured their rooms into one.

"You could’ve just said you missed him," Blaise added with a wink.

"I do. Sometimes. When he’s quiet. And asleep. I’m trying not to let his ego get too big."

But her sarcasm was weak. The truth was harder. Hermione hadn’t known what to expect after the lashing, after the island. After her jump.

Draco hadn’t spoken much about it. He hadn’t asked her to, either. Some nights he reached for her—mouth on hers, hands tracing every inch of skin like a promise—but during the day, it was different. They kissed. They brushed hands. He pulled her close in the dark, whispering her name like it tethered him.

But they didn’t talk . Not about the things that mattered. Not about how he sometimes woke up screaming, clutching her like she might vanish. Not about how she still sometimes shook herself awake, breath shallow, recalling the moment her body hit the water.

Hermione forced herself to focus. She turned the open book around and tapped the rune set she’d just annotated. "I’ve cracked it. Trial Two isn’t just a maze—it’s a keyhole. Every trial is. We pass each one, and we’re granted something—though not something we can carry. A lesson, a growth, some kind of moral gain. I don’t know the final destination yet, but this—"

She tapped the parchment. "—this means we can’t skip any of them. They build on each other. The fifth one might be the only way to reveal what Kingsley actually sent us here to find."

Blaise blinked. "So… we’re basically on a moral scavenger hunt with trauma as the tour guide."

"Exactly," she said, rubbing her temple.

He grinned. "Gods, you’re terrifying when you’re brilliant."

"More terrifying when I haven’t slept."

"You might get to nap. Eventually."

She shook herself and reached for her notes. “I need to triple the rune lessons. All crew. Not just main formation.”

Blaise arched a brow. “Even logistics and kitchen staff?”

“Especially them,” she said grimly. “This maze feeds on fear. We’ll need every anchor we can cast.  Now, I have already started training some unconventional crew members, but really, that was just for back up, but…at this point, it’s all hands on deck.”

He nodded. “Understood. I’ll help sort the assignments.”

Hermione reached for the tea, but Blaise stopped her with a sly flick of his hand, holding out a note instead. It was folded, crisp, and sealed with a familiar press of wax—the sigil Draco sometimes used.

"Also came with the tray," he said. "Figured I’d stick around for the reaction."

Hermione opened the note, and immediately flushed.

Granger—

Dinner. Our quarters. 8pm. Don’t be late.

—D.

P.S. This is not a request. Wear that little black dress. The one from the Eighth Year Halloween Dance. Short, tight, completely backless. You show up in anything else, I’ll assume you want me to rip it off. Or wear nothing at all. I’m not picky.

Her mouth dropped open. "He’s absolutely shameless."

"Shameless and specific. Impressive memory, though."  Blaise leaned over her shoulder. “‘Wear the black dress from the Halloween dance, or nothing at all.’” His voice was dry. “Classy. Subtle.”

Hermione flushed from the collarbones up. “He remembered that dress?”

“I have questions,” Blaise said. “Mainly about this dance.”

She cleared her throat, rolling the parchment closed as if that might still put the genie back in the bottle. “I have no idea why you would have questions.”

“Did you two dance?”

“Not together.” Her answer was automatic.

Blaise’s eyebrow rose. “But you wore a little black dress.”

Hermione waved him off. “We’re not discussing this. Go.”

He only grinned, raising both hands in mock surrender as he walked out the door. “You better wear the dress, Granger. You don’t want to know what ‘nothing at all’ means to a Malfoy.”

Hermione exhaled once the door closed. Then she glanced back down at the rolled parchment in her hand and whispered, “Neither do I.”

Draco had faced nightmares. War. Torture. Greyback. His aunt. Azkaban. The lashings. Voldemort. But nothing quite unraveled him like the pressure of this one dinner.

It was ridiculous. Objectively. He'd been the youngest Death Eater to survive the Second War. He'd killed a girl to save her from Greyback and Voldemort disguised as his old Tom Riddle young self. Made it through Azkaban with only his own demons haunting him still. Was captain of a ship bound for hell—or worse—and had endured a hundred lashes while keeping his jaw clenched…mainly.

And yet, he couldn't stop checking the table.

He had envisioned this date many times.  Because when one was left to rot in Azkaban for a few years, there was really nothing else left to do but think.  And think Draco did.  He thought about Hermione and the black little slip of a dress she wore for the last dance he attended at Hogwarts. He had to miss the Yule dance on the account that Lucious had finally passed away alone in his jail cell.

Draco didn’t even know if one could call it a dress. It was completely backless, letting everyone know that she wasn’t even wearing a bra. He had hexed a few randy seventh year Hufflepuffs early at the dance for making bets on who could catch a glimpse of her hardening nipples through the silk like fabric.

And although Draco hexed the boys, he spent the whole night glancing, hoping he would be the lucky one to catch a glimpse. 

After the dance he felt awful for such thoughts. They were not romantically involved. He had no claim on her. But yet, they were friends…sort of.  She had stopped rolling her eyes at him three times a class period.  She willingly sat by him in potions.  They even spoke softly when no one was listening. He had even almost managed to ask her to Hogsmeade that weekend, but backed out at the last minute when he couldn’t get her alone that week.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt for the fifth time.  It still felt too tight even though that was nearly impossible after not eating properly for weeks.

Draco exhaled sharply and stared at the door.

She was behind it.  Hermione Granger.  Or at least, she should be soon.

And he was about to go on a date.  A real one.  Draco could hardly remember the last time he went on a date that made him nervous…fifth year maybe?  And that was really only for practice if Voldemort failed and he was able to ask Hermione on a real date.

The silverware was arranged with precision. The wine—fire-rich and aged by elven crafters—glinted in cut crystal. Candles floated above the conjured balcony on Astrid's upper deck, their flames dancing in a breeze that didn’t exist. The air smelled of salt, citrus, and faintly of lavender. Her scent, he realized.

He’d thought about this night at least a thousand times.  No---more.  It had been an anchor.  A delusion, maybe. A fever dream in which he wasn’t locked away and rotting from the inside out.  He would imagine it in detail--down to the glassware. 

Draco used to picture Hermione across a candlelit table, eyes rolling at his sarcasm and wit, lips tugging into a smile she didn’t mean to give him. She’d wear her black dress to tease him--maybe even others as well--and Draco would make a mental list of all the blokes who eye fucked his little witch. He would later go back to them and carve out their eyes.  He would deliver them on a platter to Hermione, like some romantic bloke. 

And Merlin, the things he’d do to her if the night went well.

His Azkaban daydreams didn’t stop at dessert.

Sometimes, when the silence got too loud, he’d imagine her dragging him into her flat after dinner. Kissing him against a wall. Peeling his clothes off with that impatient little noise she made when her hair got in the way. Sometimes she’d take the lead, wicked and confident.  Other times, his favorite times, although every time would be Draco’s new favorite, she’d go soft and pliant in his hands, looking up at him like he was worth something. 

He’d wanted it all.

But now?

He was sweating like a bloody sixth year before a Yule Ball. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching; wanting to do something useful with them. His magic was jumping under his skin like it knew she was near. 

He didn’t know if he could do this.

What if he fucked up?  Said the wrong thing? What if she asked questions he didn’t know how to answer? What if she finally saw the wreckage of him and realized the fantasy wasn’t worth living out?

He closed his eyes.  Swallowed hard.

“You can survive dinner with a girl,” Draco muttered to himself.

But she wasn’t just a girl.  She was the girl. The one who haunted him.  Who’d saved him without even trying. The only one who ever made him want to be better. Not for redemption.  But for her . 

There was a knock on the door.

Draco took one last steadying breath, turned the handle, and stepped into the metaphorical fire.

Then she entered.

Draco forgot what oxygen was.

The black dress hugged Hermione in ways that made his knuckles ache. He kept his hands glued to his sides in fear that he would reach out and push her straps down to reveal more skin. The hem flirted with indecency, stopping just above mid-thigh, and the neckline was cut low enough to tempt madness. Her curls were swept into a bun, with defiant wisps escaping, like the wind couldn't resist touching her either.

She gave him a slow twirl, the edges fluttering along her golden thighs. "McGonagall would be appalled if she knew that I was putting her lessons to good use for this dress. Not bad though, right?"

He swallowed. "You came to kill me."

Her smile tilted. "Not tonight."

"That dress should be illegal."

He nearly swooned at the blush that appeared on Hremione’s face. If it were anyone else, Draco was sure that he would be making fun of them for preening under a girl’s gaze, but this was Hermione Granger, the girl Draco has been pining over since his body started reacting to the opposite sex. 

“Shall we?” Draco asked, motioning to the table he had set up. 

Their dinner passed with warmth. A strange, easy thing, layered in flirtation and too many stolen glances. He watched the way she nibbled the edge of her glass as she sipped slowly, the way she curled her toes when she laughed, bare feet tucked under her chair.  Her three inch heels were placed somewhere in their shared room, forgotten.

She watched him too. His hands. His smile. The way his tongue darted out to catch wine from the corner of his mouth.

It was domestic. Dangerous.

And then she asked it.

"What are we, Draco?"

He faltered.

The moment snapped taut, silence humming between them.

"People who share food and nightmares?"

"Draco."

He looked at her. No sarcasm. No charm. Just her. Waiting.

This was the fire he was willing to let burn him alive if it meant he got to keep Hermione. 

"Fourth year," he said hoarsely. "You in that periwinkle dress. I wanted to claw my own eyes out. I didn’t know what to do with the want. I definitely knew that I wanted to eviscerate Krum, but alas, I lacked the knowledge on how to dispose of bodies discreetly at age fourteen, so Krum got to live for another quidditch season."

Her breath hitched.

"Fifth year, I followed you in the halls. I made up new taunts for Potter and Weasley just so I could be near you. Maybe you would notice me.  Maybe I would be so lucky for you to come to your friends’ defenses and put me in my place again. It would have been worth it.”

Draco took one last sip of his wine before continuing, “Sixth year, I started drawing you in margins of essays. Obsessive. Pathetic. But I told myself it would pass. That I hated you. That I should hate you."

Hermione didn’t interrupt.

“Seventh year I was back at Hogwarts for the first term and I kept expecting to see you in the hallways or the classrooms; raising your hand like the swot you are.  But you weren’t there and as far as I could find, no one knew where you were. I couldn’t follow you in the halls but I could follow Longbottom and Lovegood.  Merlin, I even followed the Weasley girl before she caught on and sent a bat bogey hex my way. But it didn’t seem your friends even knew where you were either.”

Draco looked down at his empty plate, feeling Hermione’s deep, brown eyes on him, soaking into his skin. 

“I wasn’t allowed to return after Yule. Voldemort--Tom---whatever the fuck you want to call him, he kept me home. Said it was time to truly start my training. My father failed him in his eyes, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t--not if I wanted my mother to stay safe.  Greyback was living on the manor grounds, Bellatrix was hovering close by, and it was my turn to step up.” Draco lifted his eyes, startled that she was still looking at him and not running for the hills yet.  “I sat through every single meeting, listening for your name.  I would catch snippets of a ministry break in, a quick sighting in a forest, but nothing too concrete.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair now, a dark chuckle escaping even though this conversation was anything but funny. “I had a dream that if you were ever caught, I would whisk you away and we would run off to France.  We would get new identities and if you were really nice, I would even allow you to bring Potter and Weasley.  You would hate me. I knew that.  But you would be safe while hating me.”

“Draco,” Hermione whispered, voice hoarse and full of emotion.

“No,” Draco muttered, “I’m not telling you this for you to feel sorry for me or pity me.  I’m telling you this because I need to be honest with you.  If we’re going to do this.  A relationship.  Then you need to know everything because I’m not going to hide parts of myself from you.”

Hermione was silent, but actions spoke louder than words. Draco nearly jumped as her small, warm hand, grabbed his own across the table and squeezed. I’m not going anywhere . That’s what she was saying.

Or at least that’s what he hoped the gesture meant.

“When you were brought in by the snatchers and Greyback, I nearly collapsed on the spot. That was the day after Voldemort took me out for the first time--just the two of us. Greyback had found a muggleborn girl in hiding with her family and her parents had been killed by Greyback earlier in the evening, but Voldemort thought I was ready to kill the girl so he saved her for me.”

Draco put up such harsh mental walls in his mind that he gave himself a headache. 

“It was either I kill her or Voldemort would allow Greyback to play with her first. I had seen Greyback with his luckier victims, but I had also seen the aftermath of his not so lucky ones. I didn’t want to do it.  I didn’t.  But my mother was at home playing house with Death Eaters to save face, my father was useless, and Voldemort kept talking and talking about how if I didn’t do it then…”

It was like Draco was back at Trial one and could see the choice he made. 

“I chose to kill her to save myself. I became this monster.  I was finally just like all the other death eaters out there.”

Hermione didn’t argue with him.  She didn’t ask questions. Draco honestly didn’t know what she was thinking.  He could guess. 

Monster…Monster…Monster .

"Then eighth year came, and I knew. I knew I’d fall for you if I let myself, but by then I already knew I was sentenced to Azkaban the day after my last final.  So I tried to stay away. I kissed you once and ran. Because I killed a girl to stop Greyback from hurting her, and that makes me the villain, doesn’t it?"

Hermione’s eyes were glossy.

She exhaled, long and slow, as if she were trying to steady the air between them. Her fingers were still wrapped around his, warm and firm, grounding him in the present.

She didn’t speak right away. She looked at him—really looked at him. The way his posture screamed tension even as he tried to hide it. The way his shoulders hunched like he expected her to pull away. The way his eyes, sharp and glassy, wouldn’t quite meet hers.

“I don’t see a villain,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “I see a boy who was forced to grow up in a world designed to break him. I see someone who survived hell, and then chose to build something better from the ashes. Someone who still thinks he's undeserving—of love, of peace, of even being forgiven—but who keeps showing up anyway. That’s not a villain, Draco. That’s someone brave.”

He flinched. Not at her words, but at the softness of them.

Hermione leaned in, her other hand reaching to touch his cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw. “You keep saying you chose to kill her. But from where I’m sitting, you chose to save her from something far worse. You didn’t kill her to gain power, or out of hate. You did it because the world gave you two doors and both of them led to hell—and you tried to walk through the one with less fire.”

She blinked quickly, gathering herself. “You don’t get to decide how I see you. You don’t get to call yourself a monster just because it’s easier than believing someone could still care for you.”

Draco’s breath shuddered.

Hermione’s voice dropped even lower. “You think I didn’t notice how you avoided me eighth year? How you kissed me and vanished? I was angry, yes. Hurt. But deep down, I knew something was holding you back. Something heavy.”

She swallowed hard. “And I didn’t fall for you back then just because of one kiss. I fell for the way you looked at me like I was the only person in the room. For how you listened to me, even when you pretended not to. For how you fought against every cruel part of your past just to be a little bit better.”

Her fingers tightened in his. “So no—I’m not walking away. You don’t get to push me away because you think you’re too broken. I’ve fought wars too, Draco. And I know what it means to come back from them.”

Draco stared at her. And for a moment, he looked like he might break.

But not in the way he feared.

Draco didn’t expect it—one moment Hermione was seated across from him, the soft candlelight flickering against her cheeks, and the next, she was crawling gently into his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t pause.

She just came to him.

He caught his breath as her weight settled against him, as her arms slid around his neck and her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder. She was soft and warm and alive in a way that didn’t feel real. Not after everything he’d told her. Not after baring the darkest pieces of himself.

He expected rejection. Or worse—pity.

Instead, her fingers found his hair. They combed through it slowly, gently, like she was trying to soothe every broken shard inside him. And Draco… melted.

His hands hovered at her waist, unsure, reverent. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not with his throat closing up like this. So he didn’t. He just breathed her in. The scent of parchment and lavender and sea air. The scent of Hermione.

“I was seventeen,” she whispered into his neck, her voice trembling. “When I obliviated my parents.”

Draco froze.

“I didn’t even tell them goodbye. Just… waved my wand while they were drinking tea. Took away every memory of me. Gave them new names, a new history. Sent them to Australia.”

Her hand kept moving through his hair. Steady. Then shaky. Steady again.

“I thought I was protecting them. I thought, if they forgot me, Voldemort couldn’t use them. That they’d be safe.”

Draco shut his eyes. Her words settled like stones in his lungs.

“After the war, I found them,” she continued. “It took weeks. I was so sure that I’d fix it. I studied for months. Dug into ancient memory restoration rituals, counter-charms—everything.”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. Her eyes were glassy.

“But it didn’t work. I’d used a spell that was… too powerful. Too complete. There’s a reason it’s illegal to use memory magic on someone unwilling. The mind fights it. Splinters. Loses its footing.” Her lip trembled. “Every time I tried to bring them back, they grew more confused. Agitated. I took them to doctors. Healers. Specialists. I begged them to let me try again.”

She swallowed hard.

“And one day… my mum looked at me and said, ‘Please stop. You’re hurting us.’” Her voice broke. “They didn’t know who I was. They looked at me like I was a stranger.”

Draco could hardly breathe.

“So I let them go.  I ran, essentially, and haven’t looked back.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I had to. I erased myself from their lives, and I knew that if I tried again, I might destroy what was left of them.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks now, and she didn’t wipe them away.

“I made a choice, too,” she whispered. “One that shattered me. One that no one talks about. One that I still wake up from, screaming into my pillow.”

Her forehead rested against his, and her hand cupped his jaw.

“So don’t talk to me about being a monster, Draco Malfoy. Don’t you dare. Because I’ve been there. I’ve made the hard, horrible choice and I’ve had to live with it.”

His heart thundered in his chest.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she murmured, brushing her lips over his. “You just have to be honest. And I’ll be honest with you…”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Then let’s stop wasting time,” he whispered into her hair. “Let’s live like we’ll survive.”

She nodded once, fiercely, and when he kissed her, it wasn’t tentative. It was a slow unraveling, like thread pulled from a taut spool—tender, reverent, dizzying.

Promises whispered. Fingers memorizing. Breath stolen.

It deepened quickly. Draco’s hands found her hips, slid to the small of her back, pulling her close. Her fingers threaded through his hair.

She whispered against his lips, "No more running."

He kissed her again. "No more silence."

Hermione’s fingers slipped from his hair to the nape of his neck, then into the collar of his shirt.  His pulse kicked hard, almost painful.

But then their kisses turned molten. Desperate. She adjusted in his lap without shame. Draco’s hands found her hips, pulling her closer until she was straddling him, her thighs bracketing his, that tiny black dress riding up, teasing the edges of his control.  His mouth slanted over hers again and again--hungry, reverent, like he was trying to drink down everything he’d missed, everything he thought he’d never have.  Her breath hitched as he kissed down her throat, his teeth grazing the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her collarbone. 

Her lips brushed his ear. "I want you. All of you."

His breath hitched. He slipped the dress strap down her shoulder with his teeth..

"Say it again,” Draco demanded.

“I want you,” Hermione panted into his mouth, dragging his mouth back to hers as if she were starved. 

“You’re not real,” he muttered, lips brushing against her skin. “You can’t be.  This feels too fucking good.”

Hermione let out a quiet gasp as he pushed the second strap of her dress down, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed. “I’m very real,” she whispered, fingers threading through his hair again.  “And I'm here.  With you.”

She was heat and promise and everything he’d convinced himself he couldn’t have.

Draco’s mouth found her breast, her dusky pink nipple pebbling from the cool nighttime air.  He wasted no time in wrapping his lips around her pink bud while his other hand supported her back.  She arched into him like it was instinct, like they were made to fit this way.  She moaned his name --low and broken--and Draco groaned at the sound, hard and aching beneath her now. 

He definitely needed to hear her moan his name like that again.

Draco wanted to be slow, to savor this.  But fuck, she was warm and willing and writhing in his lap, and he was only a man. The feel of her against him was wrecking him. Her hips rocked against his, searching for friction, and he cursed under his breath, pulling her dress up over her waist, breasts, and head.

Draco’s heart stopped. 

Not once in all his time in Azkaban could his dreams have lived up to the real thing of having Hermione Granger completely naked in his lap. 

But fuck, he didn’t want to think of Azkaban.

“No knickers?” he asked hoarsely, dragging his lips back up to her ear.

“I said I had to transfigure something into that little black dress, didn’t I?” she said breathlessly.  

He nearly came undone right there.

No bra.  No knickers.

The whole fucking dinner.

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath. “You let me prattle on about my feelings when you were bare underneath the whole time?  Witch,” he rasped, voice wrecked with want. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Not yet,” she teased, kissing the corner of his mouth, her hand slipping between them to undo his trousers.  Her fingers brushed him, and his head thunked back against the chair with a groan.

Taking a stuttering breath, Draco summoned every ounce of blood he had left in his body that wasn’t currently south, and willed it to his brain so he could concentrate.

Using wandless magic, he made his hastily unbuttoned shirt, trousers, and pants disappear.

The only thing left on Draco was his anchor that Hermione created for him.

Hermione shifted, lifting herself just enough to guide him to her entrance.  They both paused--breathing hard, eyes locked.

“You sure?” He asked, jaw clenched, barely holding on.

“Yes,” she whispered, voice trembling with need.  “I want this.  I want you.”

She sank down on him in one slow, torturous slide.

Draco’s vision went white, but not before he tried to take in everything about Hermione in that moment. 

Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing flushed cheeks.  Her lips parted with a quiet gasp, soft and utterly unguarded.  There was something devastating about it--how she looked overwhelmed and beautiful and his all at once.  Like she was made to take him, like this moment had lived inside her as long as it had in him.

And then she opened her eyes.

Their gazes locked--and the earth might as well have stopped turning.

She looked at him like she could feel him in her soul . 

And Merlin help him, Draco felt the same. Felt her in every aching corner of himself, in every ruined inch.  Her brow furrowed slightly as she adjusted to him, like the sensation of being filled so deeply was both too much and not enough, and Draco’s hands shot to her waist on instinct--possessive, reverent, grounding them both.

She wasn’t a fantasy anymore.  She was real.  Warm and flushed and wrapped around him in a way that made him feral.

“Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes tracing every flicker of expression on her face.  “You look like sin and salvation.”

Hermione smiled--slow, dazed, and wicked.

“Good,” she breathed, rocking her hips ever so slightly.  “Because I plan on being both.”

Draco nearly finished from just her words.

Hermione was tight, hot, wet, and the feel of her surrounding him was so fucking perfect it hurt. They clung to each other, gasping, trembling, adjusting to the new depth between them. 

She kissed him again, deep and languid, her body rocking with a rhythm that made his toes curl.  Her name was a prayer on his lips, again and again, as he thrust up to meet her movements, his hands roaming every inch of skin he could reach.  Her back.  Her breasts.  Her hips.

“You’re mine,” he said against her mouth, possessive and tender. “Say it.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I’m yours,” she panted.  “Only yours.”

Their rhythm quickened--her moans falling into gasps, his control fraying with each snap of her hips.  He kissed the corner of her eye, tasting salt.  She was close.  

So was he.

That was a problem.

He didn’t want it to end.

Draco stood in one fluid motion, lifting her with him. His back screamed in protest.  He’s sure Longbottom will have some choice words to say to him the next day.

Fuck, don’t think of Longbottom now.

Hermione yelped, clinging to him, legs around his waist, hands in his hair again. He crossed the room with unhurried confidence, until the glow of the blue fire painted them in shades of smoke and heat. 

Draco sank to his knees on the plush rug, laying her down gently beneath him. The flames crackled behind her like a halo of sapphire.

For a moment, he just looked at her.

Draco snapped his fingers once and her very loose bun sprang free. He swept hair from her flushed cheeks.  “You’re unreal,” he whispered.  “You’re…bloody sorcery, Hermione.”

She traced the edge of his jaw, eyes soft and earnest.  “And you're a menace.”

He grinned, nipping her finger with his teeth, before soothing it with his lips. “Takes one to know one.”

What followed was slow.  Intimate.  Deliberate.  A dance in firelight and shadows, a tangle of limbs and whispered names.  His touches were reverent, then teasing.  Her sighs were soft, then desperate.  It was a rhythm of confessions, of vulnerability wrapped in pleasure, of letting go and holding on all at once.

And when it was almost too much, when the fire seemed to curl around them in tandem with their breathless urgency, Hermione clung to him like she was anchoring herself in a storm.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.  “I’ve waited too long for this.”

“So have I,” he rasped.  “Merlin, so have I.”

Watching Hermione come undone was nothing short of transcendence.  Her head tilted back, lips parted, in a breathless cry, curls tumbling wild down her back like a crown of fire.  Her body arched against him, gripping him like a vice, and Draco felt claimed . Not just in the physical sense--but soul-deep, ancient.  Her pleasure wasn’t just beautiful--it was his , and it hit him like a curse and a blessing all at once. That he could do this to her , pull those sounds from her throat, see that raw, blissed-out glow in her eyes--it shattered something cold and coiled inside him.  

He would chase that expression to the ends of the earth.  

He would burn down kingdoms for it.

“Draco…”

He would never admit it.  Not in a million years.  But just hearing her say his name, had him following Hermione over the edge.

When Draco finally stilled, forehead pressed to hers, something sparked--an unseen current, a breath of magic--and all at once, the lights across Astrid went out. Every enchanted lantern blinked into silence, plunging the ship into darkness save for the dancing blue fire that cast their bare skin in ethereal flame.

Hermione blinked up at him, flushed, glowing, breathless.

Draco’s voice was low.  “I think we just short-circuited a warship.”

She laughed--a soft, trembling thing--and pulled him closer, wrapping herself around him again.

In the hush that followed, they stayed tangled on the rug, hearts pounding in unison, wrapped in warmth and firelight and everything unspoken.

Theo was elbow-deep in maps, squinting at a scrawled set of coordinates that looked like they’d been written by a drunk centaur, when the lights on Astrid flickered once—then promptly died.

Total darkness.

A pause.

Blaise muttered something obscene and reached for his wand, casting a dim lumos that lit the war table in a faint halo.

“Well,” Harry said, tapping the map with the end of his quill, “either the ship's core enchantment finally collapsed… or someone just shagged so hard they knocked out the wards.”

Theo didn’t even look up. “Ten galleons says it’s Malfoy.”

Blaise made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh. “You think he’s got it in him after almost dying?”

“I think Hermione Granger just climbed into his lap wearing that dress from eighth year.” Theo raised a brow. “He probably passed out halfway through, but not before short-circuiting every rune on this floating tin can.”

Harry snorted. “Should we be concerned that we’re navigating toward a sentient, fear-eating maze with no lights?”

“I’m more concerned about who’s going to fix the mood lighting after those two finish using the fireplace as their personal honeymoon suite.”

“Not it,” Blaise muttered quickly.

Theo finally looked up, eyes gleaming with faint amusement under the glow of his wand. “This is why I drink. Malfoy’s libido is apparently a Class A magical threat.”

A pause.

“I’m going to go reset the enchantments,” Blaise said, sighing as he stood.

Harry leaned over the table and squinted at a small rune etched into the map’s corner. “Let’s hope the maze doesn’t mind us arriving with half a power grid and a ship full of hormonal post-war romantics.”

Theo gave a mock salute. “To love. And certain doom.”

And somewhere below deck, in the softest hush of magic and mischief, the fire still crackled—utterly unbothered by the chaos they left behind.

Chapter Text

The fire burned low, casting lazy golden light across the floor of their cabin. Draco lounged casually and unashamedly against the pillows, one hand tucked under his head, the other trailing absentmindedly across Hermione’s bare back. His chest was bare, his pants and trousers disappeared somewhere the last hour, but he didn’t care. How could he when he had Hermione by his side?

She was sprawled on her stomach beside him, as naked as he, tangled in the sheets, skin still flushed from earlier, a satisfied glow softening the sharp focus in her eyes. The cream colored sheets Astrid provided their bed draped low on her hips, her bare back glowing from the low lit fire of their room.

Hermione turned her head, resting her chin on her folded arms. “Be honest,” she said with a smirk. “Did you imagine this would go well?”

Draco arched an eyebrow, slow and indulgent. “Define ‘well.’  Define ‘this.’”

She rolled her eyes. “You can be a prat sometimes, you know that? Come on, Draco, you know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted her wrist to his mouth and kissed the inside of it. Slowly. Savoring her taste.

Hermione’s laughter cracked the stillness. “You’re such a menace.”

“You love it when I’m like this,” he said, his voice smooth like velvet. When he dropped her wrist, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. His fingers trailed her back, her spine, learning every dip and space she was showing him. “And you’re not denying it,” he teased.

But then she shifted closer. First, her leg draped over his waist. Then, she lifted up, the sheet dropping lower on their bodies so it was a tangled mess at their ankles. Third, she slid her torso along his body, draping herself across Draco with practiced ease. They sank into each other, into a kiss that deepened until the line between breath and want dissolved completely.

“Do you trust me?” Draco breathed.

Hermione pulled back and for a fraction of a second, Draco thought this was it, this was the moment she would rip his world apart with just one word. But she didn’t look away; she didn’t look ashamed.  

“Yes.”

His smirk unfurled lazily, thinking of how he wanted to take her.  How he wanted to treat her.

“Lean down on the bed then.  Just like how you were before.”

Hermione’s breathing hitched. “From behind?” She asked.  Draco was usually good at reading her, but he couldn’t decipher if she was anxious or scared to be in this position…with him. 

When he was a teenager, he wished he never overheard Pansy and Daphne having ‘girl talk’ in the common room their sixth and seventh year, but he did and he can’t unhear their conversations about what girls like and what they don’t like in explicit detail. What’s really good and what separates the men from the boys. 

Draco had imagined Hermione this way before.  But he wasn’t sure if his good girl would be willing to be this vulnerable with him. Daphne had said some girls didn’t like this. Pansy, on the other hand, preferred it. 

Something about being open and exposed and unguarded.

Her belly, followed by her breasts and then her head, lay face down on the cloud like bed, and Draco guided her arms to stay splayed out to the side. Her fingers automatically gripping the sheets beneath. 

“You’re perfect, love,” Draco groaned.  He was twitching with the full-on need to be inside of her. And not so slowly, either.

But he didn’t know if she was sore.

Merlin, he didn’t even fucking ask her how it was the first time.

What the fuck?  This wasn’t his first time. He should know better.

Draco leaned in, pressing himself into her behind as his hands glided up her smooth back and across her shoulders. He lightly caressed the back of her neck and kneaded the sides of her torso, feeling her shiver and relax under his touch.

Bending down, he took the supple skin at her waist in his mouth and trailed kisses up the side of her rib cage. Sweet Salazar, how many mornings during eighth year did he run alongside her to burn off energy and imagine doing this exact thing? How many mornings did she wear her tight little black leggings with a top that she claimed was ‘athletic’, whatever the hell that meant, but really it only covered her supple breasts that all straight men fantasized about in the castle, and he imagined removing the clothing with his teeth?

Hermione arched her back, moaning, as he ran his tongue up her spine, and then sunk his teeth gently into her shoulder.

It was like her neck was symmetrical now. One bite on each side from both times he’s taken her. 

Draco couldn’t help himself.  

He loved seeing his marks on her.

That would tell all 98 other crew members to stay the fuck away from Hermione Granger.

“Please,” Hermione whimpered, shifting her body impatiently beneath him. 

“You ask so prettily,” he smirked, gliding one hand up and down her back while the other slipped down between her legs to her undeniable heat.

Hermione immediately bucked with a gasp and then a moan. 

Draco ran his fingers the length of her, swirling and caressing, but he didn’t go right for the end game yet.  He wasn’t trying to make her come.  No, not yet. 

With gentle fingers, he rubbed inside her folds and around her clit, feeling her tense but then relax.  Her nub was hard, and she was already so goddamn wet. 

“Hermione,” Draco clenched his teeth, feeling her arse pushing back against him.  She was trying his patience, trying to reach her high when he wouldn’t touch her exactly where she wanted him too.

It’s not that Draco wanted to get flashes of Hermione as a kid right now, but he still couldn’t believe that they were here. This was the girl who Draco called a ‘mudblood’ second year and then promptly threw up when no one was around. The girl that beat him in every single class but Potions fourth and fifth year. The girl who would walk first and second years back to their rooms fifth year because of Umbridge and her unjust rules. The girl who Draco hid so well in his mind sixth and seventh year that not even Voldemort could find Hermione Granger in Draco’s subconscious. The only girl Draco ever wanted to be with.

He was going to fuck her on their bed and then make her come as many times as he blushed eighth year when she would just look at him.

Twenty-two times.

That’s how many times Draco caught himself blushing like a first year because Hermione Granger smiled at him eighth year. 

He might have to spread those orgasms out though.

He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Lay your knee on the bed, love.” Draco helped her bring her leg up and lay her inner thigh flat on the bed while her other foot stayed pinned to the floor.

Fire spread below his stomach and a swirl of lightning shot down between his legs. 

Draco wanted to capture this moment for the rest of his life.  

Where was a pensieve when he needed to relive this?

Without meaning to direct Astrid, she popped a wizarding camera next to Draco on the bed. Hermione lifted her head to see what the sound was, but Draco directed her back down. He squinted at the object, knowing that Astrid couldn’t just make things out of thin air.  There was always a give or take; or if Draco was correct, she just took Whit’s camera that he had been playing around with in his limited free time.

“Draco, what was that?  That sounded like apparition.”

He wanted to capture this moment to savor it later. 

He might not live past these trials, but Merlin, he wanted this moment of trust between them to last lifetimes.

“Do you trust me?” He asked again, holding the camera in his hands; weighing his options. 

Fuck, she was spread for him, her opening right at the end of the fucking bed, and he was dying for her.

“Of course I do.”

He got behind the lens and smirked. “Good answer, Hermione.  Now no matter what you hear, stay just like that for me, baby.”

Draco focused, licking his lips, and crouching to get the right angle. He watched her quiver, flutter, shake…

He blew air on her opening, wanting to bury his mouth in her slick, but instead, he pressed the button and held the camera steady.

Click

“Draco--”

“Stay still, baby,” he reprimanded lightly as she turned to look over her shoulder.

He watched her get wetter; her muscles clenching on air.

His good girl liked the attention.

Placing the camera nearby, he wasted no time and knelt down, burying his mouth in her hot center.

His lips found her clit and sucked.

“Draco,” she gasped and squirmed, and he pulled back to lick her length. 

“You taste so good,” he breathed against her and then sucked her in again between his teeth. 

With all the blood left in his head, he directed the camera wandlessly to the head of the bed, placing it so the angle captured Hermione’s ruined form perfectly--or at least he hoped.  He wasn’t a photographer but it was something he could learn if given the right motivation.

Hermione’s breathing intensified, and her body moved like she was in the best kind of pain. He let the camera snap again as he sucked and licked, feeling her need growing.  Feeling her body come apart in his mouth.

And then he finally plunged his tongue inside of her; after years of dreaming.

“Draco, please.” She threw her head back and cried as Draco took another picture.

And fuck, he was ready too. 

Standing up, he pressed just the tip of his cock into her and kneaded her hips. “Tell me what you want, Hermione.  Please.  What do you want from me?”

“I…Draco…” she fought for words, her breath was gone and her need was off the charts.  Just like his. 

Her curls tumbled down her back, she pushed up on shaky arms, her back arching as he slipped out once more that he nearly hissed in dissatisfaction, until…holy shit. There was no fucking way.

His good girl was on her hands and knees, back arched perfectly. 

Her body was calling to him like a damn siren. His fingers tentatively reached out, stroking the length of her slit before he brought the same damp fingers to her other hole.

She flinched and Draco got his answer, but he wanted to hear her say it.

“Have you ever…?”

Hermione breathed shakily. “No...Captain.”

Fucking…fuckity….think of anything but Hermione making his insides clench.

They will definitely be discussing that soon. 

“Merlin, you’re so beautiful.” Draco took his hand away, tasting her cum on his fingers. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Tell me.  What do you want from me?”

Sweat glistened in the dip of her spine, and the room felt on fire.  Their soaked skin, the taste of her on his lips, everything created this new world that Draco never wanted to leave.

Hermione’d be lucky if he let her out of bed long enough to train his crew.  Their crew , he corrected in his mind. 

Her lips quivered and she bowed her head, as if she were suddenly shy around him.

He didn’t want her hiding. Draco wanted Hermione loud and proud. 

She shouldn’t be embarrassed about what she wants. He would give her the damn world if that’s what she asked for. 

“What do you want from me?” He growled, jerking her back into his groin again. 

“Hard,” Hermione cried out. “Do it hard.  I can handle it.  I promise, Draco.  I can.”

And his heart jumped into his throat.

Grazing her skin, he slipped his finger back inside of her to make sure she was wet enough. She’d be sore after this round, and he wanted to make sure she could take what she was asking him for.

“You’re so wet,” he teased, bringing her slick to his mouth once more. Could he bottle her taste? Or is that more of a third date type of thing?

Letting out a ragged breath, he grabbed her at the hips and plunged inside of her.

Snap …the camera went off once more.

Hard.

“Holy shit,” he groaned under his breath.

So tight.

“Draco,” she whispered.  “Yes.”

Draco’s heart was racing a mile a minute, and it took him a few seconds to calm down. He’d never felt anything so good as having her like this.

He dived into her wet, hot sex, but the heat spread over his entire body.

Her right foot wrapped around the back of his thigh, pressing Draco into her, and he couldn’t wait anymore.

She wanted it hard, but it was only the second time they had sex, and he didn’t want to hurt her.

“Hard?” He wanted to make sure.

Her whimper begged, “Yes.”

So he rocked into her, slow at first and then faster. Before long, he was grasping her hips, pushing inside of her until he couldn’t go any further. His fingers held on tight, bruising her sides in the best way possible. 

He would kiss it better later. 

But she wasn’t just content to just lay there and get taken, either.

Not Hermione.

She pushed up on her hands once more, and he almost fucking came right there.

Fuck.

Her palms were flat on the bed, holding her torso upright, and her back was arched once more. He stared in awe at her posture in front of him as she took more control and backed into Draco as he slammed inside of her.

Snap

Hermione.  Hell, yes.

Every second, the pace and pressure increased, and gooddam, she was wet.  He held her hips, wishing like hell he could get his hands everywhere, but he needed to hold on.  Hermione was pushing harder and harder into him.

She was a handful. 

Draco leaned down into her back, keeping his pace steady, and cupped one of her breasts, wanting one in his mouth.

Snap

Draco kissed her neck, licking and biting at the marks marring her body. He pressed his tongue to taste her salty skin. His hand glided over her stomach and then dived between her legs where his fingers circled her clit again. Merlin, it was so hard and swollen now.  He wanted to wrap his arms around her and feel every shake and spasm as she came apart in his arms.  He wanted to be inside her head and body, knowing what it felt like when he made her fucking crumble.

“Draco, you feel so good,” she whimpered unsteadily as their bodies slammed together time and again. “I can feel you everywhere.”

“Yeah, it does,” he breathed in her ear.  “Because it’s you and me, Hermione, and no one takes this from us.”

“Draco!” She threw her head back and screamed.  “Oh, God…”

And then she stopped breathing.

Snap

Snap

Snap

She came like the thunder that surrounded the ship outside, tightening around Draco and sending him over the gooddam edge, too.

Fire and pleasure poured through his body, and he came right after her, collapsing on her back as they both fell back down to the bed…and Earth.

They laid there panting, too spent to even move.

But Draco had one more picture he wanted.

“You’ve been so patient, baby.  Just a minute longer.”

He called the camera to him, carefully pulling out.

She sucked in a breath through her teeth.

Instead of closing her legs, Hermione lifted her bum, and-- 

Snap

Draco captured the moment his spend leaked from Hermione Granger. 

“You planning on sharing with the class?” Hermione teased with playful eyes and a lazy grin. 

“Let me develop these.” Fuck it, he didn’t even ask. But it was too late now to backpedal. “We’ll look at them together.  If there are any pictures you aren’t okay with, we destroy the whole lot. I promise.”

“Whit’s not going to like that you have his camera,” she said.

Hermione didn’t say no .

“Let me deal with Whit.”

Draco definitely didn’t like her saying another man’s name, surname really, in bed with him.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.  On one condition.”

Draco stopped breathing and waited.

“I get to take pictures of you sometime.”

“Deal.”

He sealed his promise with a kiss. 

  Later—sated and tangled again—Hermione lay with her head on his chest, drawing lazy circles across his skin. Draco's fingers combed through her curls, and she could feel the tension in him ebbing away slowly.

“Let’s play something,” she murmured.

Draco gave her a suspicious look. “Like what? Don’t say chess. I’m too knackered to have you annihilate me. Losing to Ronald Weasley was enough blow to my ego last week.”

“Twenty Questions.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are these questions designed to embarrass me or arouse you?”

“Yes,” she said sweetly. “To both.”

Draco sighed dramatically, rolled his eyes, and settled back. “Fine. But I go first.”

She raised a brow. “Alright.”

“Who,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “was the first person you ever touched yourself to?”

Hermione nearly choked on air. “You can’t just ask that!”

“Of course I can. You said yes to the game. That’s how it works.”

“But that’s…I can’t…I haven’t…”

“Hermione, I’m not interested in knowing superficial things about you. I know your favorite color, book, food, ect…really anything that’s a favorite of yours--I know. I want to know who you thought about first.”

Flushing, she buried her face in his shoulder for a moment before admitting, “Fifth year. You.”

Draco’s heart slammed in his chest.

“You were coming in from Quidditch practice. I was walking back from the pitch with Ginny. You lifted your jersey to wipe sweat off your forehead and I saw—” She trailed off with a groan. “Your abs. The start of them, anyway.”

Draco grinned like a man gifted an entire vault of galleons. “So I’ve been plaguing your thoughts since fifth year. Noted.”

“Your turn,” she challenged.

“Third year,” he said without hesitation. “Fantasy detention. You had me scrubbing cauldrons with a scourgify spell, and every time I slacked off, you bent over the table, whispering rules of conduct. But you weren’t wearing your uniform properly. Skirt a bit too short. Mouth a bit too bossy.”

“Merlin,” Hermione breathed.

“I had no idea what I was doing,” he said with a grin. “But I knew it involved you.”

She bit her lip, both horrified and… intrigued. “Okay, next one. Who did you lose your virginity to?”

“Fifth year. Pansy,” he said, casual but not proud. “It was... fine. But I said your name halfway through. That was the last time Pansy let me near her.”

Hermione blinked. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Mortifying. She hexed my arse and walked out mid-thrust. Can’t blame her.”

Hermione snorted. “Oh my god.”

“Your turn.”

Hermione hesitated. “Summer between fifth and sixth year. I travelled to visit Viktor for a week and one thing led to another. It was nothing to write home about.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He just pulled her closer.

“Your turn,” Hermione encouraged quietly.

“Why did you and Weasley break up?” he asked gently.

Hermione sighed. “After my eighth year, we tried to go back to what we were before the war, before the drama, before all the life and death situations. I was done with Hogwarts and starting on my Mastery, he had a steady job at the Ministry, and we both thought it was time to give us a fair shot. But we weren’t those people we thought we were before being on the run. I was still grieving my parents. Somedays I would be fine--most days actually--but then there would be a day or two during the month where I wasn’t fine, and he wanted me to be fine. He couldn’t… hold the grief with me.”

“Git,” Draco muttered.

She gave him a small smile. “It wasn’t his fault. But I needed someone who didn’t flinch…I also told him that you kissed me at the end of eighth year and that definitely opened a can of worms Ron and I weren’t prepared to face together. At first he was okay with it--at least I thought he was.  But then we would have moments where we would disagree and he would bring it up randomly. He would use it against me. Try to make me feel bad about it. It wasn’t healthy.  We both recognized that.  So we broke up.”

They were quiet for a beat.

Hermione ran a finger along the line of his jaw. “Next question. Were you responsible for Malcolm Avery’s hands being bandaged after the Halloween Dance eighth year?”

Draco looked smug. “That tosser spun you twice. Then tried to pull you close during a slow dance. I might’ve used an overheated hex disguised as a spill.”

“You set him on fire.”

“Small one. Controlled burn.”

“You are unhinged.”

“Possessive,” he corrected. “And your favorite sex position?”Draco asked as if it were so natural a follow up question.

“Honestly?” she said, flushed. “You on your knees behind me, telling me to be louder.”

Draco swore under his breath and flipped her over.

She laughed, breathless, caught between amusement and arousal. “I thought we were still playing.”

“We are,” he growled, sliding down her body. “I’m just adding a bonus round.”

Just as his mouth found the apex of her thighs, Hermione laughed, “Wait. What about you?”

“Any,” he murmured against her skin, “where I can watch your face as you come.”

Hermione made a high, undignified sound.

“We’re done now, Hermione,” he whispered against her inner thigh. 

The ship groaned softly beneath them, still rocking in its steady rhythm as the early morning light barely filtered through the enchanted curtains. The only sounds were the ocean lapping against the hull and Draco Malfoy's soft, even breathing beside her.

Hermione lay in the tangled sheets, hair mussed, skin pleasantly sore, heart stupidly full.

Last night hadn’t been a dream. Her body could still feel him. She turned slowly onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow to look at him.

Draco slept on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, his hair a mess of pale strands against the linen. The sheet barely clung to his hips, revealing the exquisite line of his back, the smattering of bruises still faint along his shoulders, and the dark mark on his left forearm. It shifted when he breathed, and for a long moment, she just watched it.

She should probably let him sleep. He had a crew to lead. A trial to survive. But instead, her hand slid beneath the sheet.

Hermione shifted down, brushing a kiss to the center of his spine, smiling against his skin when he stirred slightly. Luckily, he rolled over onto his back. She was careful, slow, kissing down his lower stomach, letting her hand wrap around him before taking him in her mouth with aching patience.

Draco groaned in his sleep, a soft, rough sound. When she flicked her tongue along the underside, he shifted. Then froze. Then hissed.

“Fuck… Hermione…?”

His voice was still raspy with sleep, the kind of broken sound that made her feel drunk.

She didn’t stop.

He pushed himself onto his elbows, breath catching as he looked down at her under the covers. “Merlin—fuck. That’s… that’s one way to wake me up.”

She hummed in response, letting her mouth slide deeper.

Draco's hands fisted the sheets. His hips bucked involuntarily.

“Bloody—fucking—hell, Hermione… you trying to kill me?”

She pulled back just long enough to smirk up at him. "Not this time."

His laugh was cut off with a gasp as she took him in again, deeper this time. His head fell back, throat arching, every muscle in his body strung tight. 

It didn’t take long. The way he groaned her name, low and wrecked, just before spilling into her mouth, made her thighs clench with want. When she slid back up and pressed her lips to his cheek, he was breathless, stunned, and still.

“Morning,” she whispered.

Draco grabbed her waist and rolled her under him. “You’re the worst. I was going to make breakfast.”

She laughed, breathless. “We have cooks.”

He kissed her hard, tasting himself on her tongue. “That’s not the point.”

“And what is the point, Captain?”

“The point,” he said, pinning her wrists gently to the mattress, his voice going rough, “is that I’m never letting you wake me up like that without a chance to return the favor."

“Good man.”

A sharp knock rattled the door.

“Malfoy! Hermione!” Harry's voice, amused. “We come bearing updates! Also, we really hope you're decent!”

“We’re not,” Draco muttered.

Another voice joined in. Blaise. “I’ll take a guess and say that light show from Astrid shutting down last night had something to do with this room.”

Draco dropped his forehead to Hermione's shoulder with a groan. "I hate everyone."

Hermione giggled under him. "Time to face your people, Captain."

He sighed, then kissed her again. "Later. This isn’t over."

"It never is," she whispered.

“Five minutes!” Draco shouted toward the door, voice muffled slightly by Hermione’s shoulder, where he had just buried his face with a long-suffering groan.

“Five? Is that five minutes to get dressed or five more rounds?” Harry called back through the door.

Blaise’s voice chimed in. “Should we be timing you? Do you need a wand countdown? You know—three, two, wand’s out?”

Hermione choked on a laugh and shoved at Draco’s shoulder. “Up. Go. Get presentable.”

Draco didn’t budge. He nipped at her collarbone and muttered, “They’re ruining the afterglow. I hate your friends.”

“They’re your friends too.” Hermione managed to wriggle out from under him, giggling as she snapped on a black, delicious bra with matching panties and began rummaging through a small trunk for clothes. “Now get up.”

“Fine.”

Draco, fully naked and completely unbothered, sprawled on the bed like a prince with no plans to move. “You’re cute when you scurry. Come back and crawl over me again.”

Hermione laughed and tossed a sock at his face. “You’re impossible. And you promised you’d get dressed.”

“I lied. Sue me.” He finally rose with a stretch, clearly enjoying himself as he walked around her, naked, deliberately brushing her with his hands at every opportunity. She squeaked, slapped at his arm, and tried not to smile.

“Still naked,” she pointed out.

“Still smug,” he retorted, grabbing his pants from the floor.

From the hall, Blaise called out cheerily, “Whatever you two are doing in there, it’s loud, obscene, and I highly approve. But I’m giving Astrid permission to open the door in thirty seconds!”

Hermione gasped and yanked a sweater over her head. “Don’t you dare!”

But it was too late.

Astrid, ever helpful and entirely shameless, swung the door open with a magical hum. “Good morning, darlings. Visitors have arrived.”

Hermione let out a small yelp and ducked behind Draco just as Blaise and Harry sauntered in.

Harry averted his eyes instantly. “Bloody hell. You could have warned me. That’s basically my sister in only knickers and a jumper.”

“Turn around.  Now.” Draco growled. The lights in his cabin flickered from his anger.

Harry and Blaise didn’t need to be told twice as Hermione grabbed her fitted black trousers and shimmied into them. 

“You can relax now, Potter,” Draco drawled. “She’s fully clothed. I’m the only one traumatizing you.”

Blaise, on the other hand, gave Draco an appreciative once-over. “Honestly? I’ve seen you naked before, but it’s still impressive. Granger, respect. Also—if you two ever want a third, I’m just saying, I’m flexible.”

Hermione’s cheeks turned scarlet. “Blaise!”

Draco growled. “You so much as breathe near her with that tone again, I will hex your bollocks to the top deck.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “This is worse than I expected.”

“Anyway,” Blaise said, all amusement, “updates. Theo’s going to help Hermione train the rest of the crew in runes and anchors today. He volunteered.”

Draco’s jaw tensed. “Did he.”

Hermione shot him a sharp look. “Draco.”

He crossed his arms. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You glared it. He’s trying to help. And you’re going to have to forgive him eventually.”

“He pushed you off a cliff, Hermione.”

“He didn’t. I jumped.”

Blaise raised a hand. “And I, for one, am glad you did. You came back with enough supplies to heal the entire ship and make enough potions to last six months. Now, are we ready to start the day?”

Hermione turned to Draco with a meaningful look. “I need to go. People are expecting me.”

Draco kissed her forehead, reluctantly releasing her. “Don’t overdo it. And if Theo tries to show off—”

Hermione cut in with a wink. “I’ll remind him I’m the better duelist.”

Harry was already at the door. “Great, now that we’ve all seen far too much of each other, let’s go.”

The second and third men in command exited with varying degrees of grumbling and smirking, leaving Hermione to gather her things—and Draco watching her every step, already plotting how to steal her away again later.

Chapter Text

The deck of the Astrid shimmered under the afternoon sun, runic chalk dust glinting faintly in the air as Hermione paced along the row of trainees. The rune boards were spread like a field of glyphs—some neat, some crooked, some barely legible under nervous sweat. Hermione barely noticed the heat. Her mind was elsewhere, already running through every worst-case scenario Trial Two could offer.

She gestured to the large rune slab at the front, where she’d just drawn the fourth variation of the tethering sigil.

“Let’s go over this again,” she said, projecting her voice clearly. “Anchor runes are your emergency lifelines in the maze. You’ll be carrying two—minimum. One for use if you get separated. One as a fallback. This variation”—she tapped the glowing sigil—“is a fail-safe tethering rune. You’ll bind it to your own magical identity, and it will signal your presence even if you’re unconscious or disoriented. Think of it as a flare for the ship.”

Several crew members were nodding along, copying it onto their personal slate boards.

“You must carve it with intent and identity, ” Hermione continued. “If you don’t focus, if your magic falters, if you rush it—this rune becomes as useful as a wet napkin in a hurricane. Now—again.”

The styluses scratched against slate.

Theo, lounging against a crate nearby, twirled his stylus lazily before stepping forward. “Allow me,” he said with a dramatic bow that earned a few eye-rolls and snorts from the crew.

He drew a lightning-fast shortcut version of the rune Hermione had demonstrated, weaving in a secondary binding loop with just three strokes instead of five. The final effect shimmered with energy—and a distinctly smug flair.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione muttered, hands on her hips.

“Efficient and aesthetically pleasing,” Theo said, stepping back with a little flourish. “I’ll be signing autographs later.”

“You skipped the inner tether curve,” Hermione said, though a small, reluctant smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, but I replaced it with a spiral channel. Same magical intent. Slightly more flair. And way more fun to draw.”

Several crew members chuckled, watching as Hermione rolled her eyes—but didn’t correct him further.

“Theo,” she sighed. “We’re moving onto small group rotations. Take the left row and walk them through stability variations.”

Theo gave her a mock salute and started organizing the crew into clusters. As they worked, Hermione stepped aside to the edge of the deck, tugging a cloth from her belt and wiping sweat from her brow. Her eyes scanned the boards as she passed, nodding at progress, gently correcting grip or angle when needed.

Theo drifted beside her again, murmuring under his breath, “How about this for a rune? One symbol carved into the Captain’s door: ‘Let Theo out of dish duty before he hexes a fork into someone’s eye, and oh yeah , give him back his original room with Pansy and Blaise!’”

Hermione didn’t look up. “Still mad about the bunk situation?”

“ Still ?” Theo gasped. “Hermione, it’s a war crime. I’m sleeping in the barracks with four snorers, one sleepwalker, and a guy who mutters names in his sleep that I’m certain are his exes. One of them is a goblin name, Hermione. Not to mention, one of my bed mates is the one who likes to carry around a dagger the size of my arm!  You try sleeping like that.”

She tried not to laugh but failed.

“And the dish duty,” he went on, mournful now, “I’ve developed a permanent prune-fingered state. Do you know what that does to my handwriting?”

“I’m sure if you just talk to Draco then--”

“Have you ever tried to ‘just talk’ to Draco when he thinks you pushed the love of his life off of a damn cliff?”

Hermione felt the blush start low on her cheeks.  Theo was just dramatic.  Calling her the love of Draco’s life might have been a little too over the top, even for him.

“Why am I even asking you?” Theo moaned. “All you have to do is think of something you want and Draco magically just does it.

Hermione raised a brow. She hoped people didn’t think that.  She didn’t want special treatment. 

“Okay, too far. But come on, Hermione. You’re the only one he listens to when he’s brooding. Put in a good word for me?”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “Maybe. If you get through today’s training without sabotaging the rune boards again.”

Theo offered a bright, innocent smile. “Sabotage is such a strong word.”

Hermione nudged him back toward his group with her stylus. “Teach them. And remember—flair is only helpful if it doesn’t get someone killed.”

He saluted again. “No flair fatalities. Got it.”

She watched him return to his group, the lightness in his step belying the sharp way his eyes scanned the trainees. For all his theatrics, Theo was a damn good teacher.

But her smile faded just slightly as her gaze swept toward the far edge of the deck—where Flint and Rook stood near the rigging, not even pretending to be subtle as they watched.

Not ogling. Not leering.

Just… watching.

Hermione frowned.

And for the first time since they’d left Trial One behind, she felt the back of her neck prickle.

Hermione turned back toward the crew just in time to see Mareen accidentally flip her stylus out of her hand and into someone else’s runic board.

“Try again,” Hermione said gently, waving her hand to reset the glyph with a flick of cleansing magic. “Slower this time. Precision matters more than speed.”

As the older witch tried again, Hermione felt the weight of a gaze shift behind her.

Not Theo.

Not Flint.

Rook.

She didn’t have to glance to confirm it. The feeling was unmistakable—like pressure on the back of her skull. She turned just enough to spot him leaning against one of the deck’s mid-masts, arms folded, his black uniform half-shadowed by the sail above him. Pretending to be casual. Not even pretending to help.

“If you’re going to loiter, Rook,” she called, keeping her tone light, “at least carve something useful.”

A few nearby crew members chuckled.

Rook pushed off the post slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Runes aren’t really my thing, Granger.” His voice was a low drawl, amused. “I stick to what I’m good at.”

He held up one finger and mockingly traced a lazy, spiral rune in the air—wrong direction, incorrect pattern, and absolutely no intent behind it.

Hermione raised a brow. “So not artistry, then.”

That got a laugh from Theo’s group.

Rook only smirked, eyes glittering with something unreadable. “I fight. I don’t decorate.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but Theo stepped up beside her then, not looking at her—only watching Rook. His arms crossed, casual, but the air around him felt sharper somehow. Less theatrical.

Rook gave Theo a slight, mocking nod before turning and walking off toward the upper deck stairs—still not participating, still not helping. Flint hot on his heels like a lap dog. 

Hermione exhaled and went back to Mareen’s board, but beside her, Theo muttered just low enough for only her to hear:

“He’s watching too closely. That wasn’t casual.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “He was probably just taking a break from whatever duties Draco assigned him for today.”

Theo grunted. “Break, sure. But he doesn’t look at anyone else like that.”

Hermione didn’t comment further on Rook.

Not because she dismissed Theo’s observation—he was rarely wrong when it came to reading people—but because there was only so much she could hold in her mind at once. Trial Two was approaching like a tidal wave, the crew still didn’t grasp runework the way they needed to, and she was functioning on four hours of sleep and a magically-heated canteen of espresso. Suspicion would have to wait.

“Alright,” she called out as Theo reset the practice boards with a flick of his wand. “Last round—fail-safe tethering rune. This is your anchor. It tracks identity and intention. You carve it wrong, or you rush it, and the maze might think you’re someone else.”

One crewman laughed nervously. Hermione didn’t.

“Seriously. If the maze thinks you're someone else— you will think you’re someone else.”

A ripple of unease passed through the group. Theo whistled low.

“Friendly reminder,” he said, grinning with mock cheer, “identity-based runes are like marriages—make sure you know who you are before you sign on the line.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “You are never teaching alone.”

Theo winked at her and turned back to his group. “Spoilsport.”

They moved in a fluid rhythm now—Hermione guiding and correcting, Theo offering shortcuts that were clever but still effective. He’d grown sharper since Aegir, more focused. Still cocky, still irreverent, but the kind of irreverence that meant he cared too much, not too little. 

Rune drills finally wrapped. Hermione cast a preservation charm on the carved boards, then let out a long breath. Her arms ached from gesturing, and sweat clung to the back of her neck.

Theo tossed her a canteen. “You’re terrifying when you’re in command. Have I said that yet today?”

“Only twice.”

“Well, three times then. Terrifying.” He paused, tipping his head as they walked toward the next training deck. “Also impressive.”

She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “You’re just trying to get off dish duty.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Guilty. But I meant it.”

They passed through one of Astrid’s side corridors, opened a hatch onto the portside sparring deck, and emerged into organized chaos.

Ron was leading a duel between two wiry crew members, shouting instructions as red and blue spellfire zipped past his ears. Blaise stood to the side, hands on hips, giving sarcastic commentary with all the seriousness of a Quidditch announcer.

“Now see, that’s a classic overcompensation move,” Blaise was saying. “You shout louder when your shield work is crap. Try grunting less and casting more.”

Harry was leading a group through defense against the dark arts basics. He barked out quick, clear commands, then nodded his approval as one woman expertly took her partner’s wand.

Theo let out a low whistle. “Should we tell Ron he looks like a Weasley-shaped traffic cone in that training vest?”

Hermione grinned, scanning the deck—then her breath hitched.

Draco.

He was standing at the far end of the sparring area, shirt slightly untucked, several buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, and wand tucked into the back of his belt. His hair was damp from exertion, but he moved like it didn’t matter—adjusting someone’s stance, correcting another’s footwork with a short gesture. There was no performative edge, no arrogance—just focus and the weight of command in his shoulders.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

But someone else had seen him.

A young woman—one of the ship’s younger mechanics, Hermione thought—stood not far from Draco, biting her lip as she twirled a strand of hair around one finger. Her eyes didn’t leave him. Not once. Every time he shifted, she angled her body subtly toward his. When he touched another trainee’s wrist to adjust a posture, the woman gave a small, breathy laugh as if she were the one being touched.

Theo leaned closer. “Is that… fluttering eyelashes I see? I thought that only happened in badly written romance novels.”

Hermione forced a neutral expression. “She’s just… observing.”

Theo’s brows lifted. “Mmhm. Should I bring her a fan? Or a bucket of cold water?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she quietly stood by the sparring ring, arms folded, trying to appear unbothered as she watched Draco work.

She told herself it was fine. She trusted him. She had nothing to be insecure about.

But when the younger woman leaned forward just a bit too far while laughing at something Draco hadn’t even said—and when Draco reached out to steady someone else’s elbow, only for that woman to beam like she’d just been knighted—Hermione’s rational thoughts faltered.

Theo nudged her elbow. “Want me to drop a hex on her shoe? Just a little boil-growth charm. Totally harmless. Mostly.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “No.”

He tilted his head. “You’re lying.”

“I’m practicing restraint.”

“Might want to workshop that one.”

Before she could reply, Draco looked up. His eyes met hers instantly—like he’d already known where she was. He took a step towards Hermione, but the young woman blocked his path. Hermione couldn’t see what the blonde was saying, but she saw Draco’s eyes narrow slightly, his mouth twist in confusion, before he took a small step back. 

Draco’s eyes glanced Hermione’s way one more time. 

She didn’t smile, but her arms relaxed slightly.

He held her gaze for a beat. Then his eyes flicked once more, briefly, toward the mechanic. Draco said something low, pointed—not cruel, but final—and the woman’s shoulders fell. She nodded and walked off, clearly dismissed.

Hermione swallowed. Okay, then.

Draco strode across the deck with an easy gait, rolling his shoulders once as he approached. His shirt was damp at the collar, and he hadn’t bothered to tuck it back in. The sharp line of his jaw was flushed from exertion. And yet, his hair—Merlin’s damn gift to that man—still looked like it belonged in a cursed magazine spread.

“You missed all the fun,” he said, voice low and dry as he reached her side.

“I didn’t realize watching Ron yell was considered fun.”

Draco smirked. “I’ve learned to adjust expectations.”

Theo gave them both a mock bow and wandered off toward Blaise and Harry, who were now engaged in a very animated debate over whether wandless sparring counted as a "real" win.

Draco watched him go, then said, “By the way—you and Theo aren’t exempt. If you’re training everyone else in runework and anchors, it means you’re not sparring, which means you’re going to run laps and drills under Weasley.”

Hermione raised a brow. “Oh? Captain Malfoy making demands now?”

He leaned in, voice pitched just for her. “Think of it as caring oversight. And payback for putting me in front of that many nervous rune carvers the other day.”

She rolled her eyes. “You were a hit.”

“I was harassed. Someone asked if I’d always had that vein in my forearm. Another wanted me to carve shirtless so they could ‘better appreciate rune flow.’”

Hermione fought a smile. “And here I thought you liked attention.”

“I like your attention. The rest can get hexed.”

Her lips curved, despite herself.

Draco glanced back toward the others. “And Blaise, Potter, and Weasley aren’t off the hook either. They’ll need to run your and Theo’s drills before we hit Trial Two.”

Hermione’s smile faded slightly, remembering just how close that deadline was. “We’re only a few days out now.”  She studied Draco’s profile for any indication on how he was feeling. He was so good at masking his thoughts and feelings about certain things that sometimes it was like he was a brick wall. But Hermione saw the way his eyes crinkled at the edges and the way his mouth pressed into a thin, firm line. A bead of sweat traveled down his neck.  “You’re worried,” she murmured.

“I’d like a little more time,” he said, not denying her comment.

“We’ll get through this,” Hermione encouraged. She knew it was probably her Gryffindor heart saying the words while his typical Slytherin self-preservation was kicking in. 

He brushed a knuckle down her arm, gentle and brief--effectively ending their conversation. “Come on. Walk with me before someone else tries to flirt with me mid-disarm drill.”

Well, Draco just confirmed the mechanics flirtation. 

Would it be appropriate for her to set her hands on fire?  Draco did it eighth year and they weren’t even a thing , she reasoned with herself. 

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to reply, Ron’s voice rang across the deck, crisp and commanding.

“Alright! Time for hand-to-hand combat drills. Everyone, to the mat!”

Hermione turned, eyebrows raised. Ron Weasley—who had once nearly wept at the suggestion of a light jog—now sounded like he’d been born in military boots.

Draco groaned under his breath. “Fantastic. Can’t wait to watch people trip over their own feet.”

They made their way to the central sparring area, a large enchanted mat stretched over the deck with glowing perimeter runes. Most of the crew clustered around quickly, dropping into loose, eager circles. Ron waited near the center, wand drawn but not raised.

“As promised,” he called, “no magic for this portion. We’re running reflex work and escape maneuvers. This is about instinct, speed, and control—not who can throw the best right hook.”

Hermione stepped up beside Draco, just as the lithe young woman in tight black cargo trousers and a cropped training top peeled away from the crowd. The mechanic sauntered forward with the easy confidence of someone who had sparred before—and knew she looked good doing it.

“Let me guess,” Pansy drawled as she appeared on Hermione’s other side, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “This is the part where the overly eager mechanic pretends she’s never done this before and just accidentally lands a leg around the Captain’s waist.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Let me guess: you brought snacks to watch the carnage?”

Pansy smirked. “Obviously. Blaise’s idea.”

Ron gestured to the young woman. “Vera. You’re up first. Let’s walk through the basic wrist hold reversal.”

Vera. Of course her name was Vera.

Vera stepped forward, stretching dramatically. Her top rode up slightly, revealing the bottom hem of her sports bra she was surprisingly wearing—and she definitely clocked the subtle glance from someone in the circle. Not Draco. But that didn’t stop her from locking eyes with him as she spoke.

“Wouldn’t it be better,” she said sweetly, “if I demonstrated with the Captain? That way everyone can see what proper form looks like against someone actually skilled.”

Draco blinked. His lips parted.

Hermione beat him to it.

“I’ll do it,” she said, stepping forward before her brain could catch up. Her boots hit the deck with more force than necessary, and she didn’t miss the momentary flicker of amusement in Draco’s eyes.

Vera turned, blinking.

Hermione smiled tightly. “As tempting as that sounds, I think we should let the Captain conserve his strength. Someone already wore him out last night… multiple times…and I hear there might be a repeat performance tonight.”

That earned a splutter from Ron, a low whistle from Blaise, and a visible choke from Harry, who had just taken a sip from his water flask. Theo had to thunk him on the back to get him to breathe properly again. Pansy cat called in encouragement while eating popcorn. 

Draco, for his part, didn’t even flinch. He just smirked, that slow, crooked thing that always made Hermione feel like he’d just peeled back her skin and read everything underneath it.

She hated how smug he looked. She hated how warm her cheeks were. She hated that she’d said it out loud.

But she also hated how she loved when Vera’s face dropped just slightly, her mouth twisting as she stepped back from the mat and murmured, “Of course. Whatever’s best.”

Satisfied? Hermione asked herself. She didn’t know. Maybe. Not really.

Because as she moved to the mat, stretching her arms, she couldn’t stop thinking about how foreign this feeling was. Jealousy was something she had rarely dealt with. Not when she’d been with Ron. Not even when Viktor Krum had gained attention from other girls. But this—this thing with Draco—it was different.

Because he mattered.

And that terrified her more than any duel ever could.

“Remember,” Ron said, “ Basic wrist hold reversal.”

Hermione stepped onto the mat, rolling her shoulders. Draco, to her left, gave her a look that was half pride, half possessiveness, and one-hundred percent turned on.

Off to the side, Hermione could see Theo collecting bets.

She rolled her eyes at this.

“Five on Vera,” Whit deadpanned. “No offense, but Granger’s small.”

Pansy flicked a coin at Theo. “Granger’s going to win. And she’s going to hate herself for enjoying it. Ten on Hermione. Also ten on Vera ending up with a black eye.”

Harry groaned, “Is this what it’s like having a sister in a bar fight? Because I hate it.”

“Granger’s brain won’t help when her face is in the dirt. Vera’s ex-military,” Flint nastally said. 

"Five on Hermione.” Neville quietly joined in, “I’ve seen her hex a student for stepping on her parchment. She’s got rage in the bones."

Hermione ignored them all and continued to shuck off her buttoned top, revealing her black sports bra underneath. She didn’t need the extra layers on her when Vera could use her baggy shirt against her.

But one voice did cut through the betting that made Hermione’s pulse race.

Draco.

“Fifty on Granger.” He spoke as if that were pocket change. His grey eyes didn’t look at anyone but her. His lips curved as he spoke, “I’ve seen what she can do when she’s motivated. And I made sure she was very motivated last night.”

Ron clearing his throat with slight force broke Hermione’s stare from Draco. 

Vera looked her up and down with undisguised skepticism. Hermione did the same back. The mechanic was tall, muscular, and dressed in fitted gear that clung like second skin. She smiled like she’d already won.

Hermione’s mouth twitched. Oh, darling.

She expertly gathered her hair in a bun and used the hair tie on her wrist to keep it in place. 

Was she jealous? No. Of course not.

Okay. Maybe a little.

Maybe a little jealous of the way Vera had looked at Draco like she knew every inch of him. Maybe a little irritated by the way Draco had supposedly dismissed Vera before, but the blonde didn’t get the memo. And maybe—just maybe—Hermione had been waiting for a chance to remind the crew, and herself, that she wasn’t just brains and battlefield strategy. She was also stubborn, fiercely competitive, and had just spent the past week watching Draco run the bloody crew ship without so much as a stutter. 

She liked competent men, so sue her. 

Hermione dropped into a ready stance, one foot slightly behind the other, arms loose at her sides. Vera cracked her knuckles and smirked, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Around them, the crew circled in, sensing blood in the air.

The moment Ron gave the signal, Vera lunged.

Hermione barely sidestepped the jab, catching a glint of steel in Vera’s eyes. Fast. Flexible. But reckless.

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: “Don’t try to overpower them, Hermione. Outsmart them. You’ve always had the mind for it.”

Vera swept low, aiming to knock Hermione’s legs out from under her, but Hermione sprang back, landing lightly on the balls of her feet, breath steady. This wasn’t the library, and it sure as hell wasn’t Hogwarts dueling club. This was pure, dirty hand-to-hand.

And Hermione had trained for this.

The summers before every new school year came back to her in snippets—her dad waking her up at 6 a.m. for self defense lessons, rolling his eyes when she pouted about needing sleep, telling her she’d thank him one day when the world didn’t play fair.

"Focus, Granger," she muttered to herself.

Vera came at her again, this time with a fake-left and sharp elbow to the ribs. It connected—just barely—but enough to sting. Hermione growled, feinted a right, then twisted her torso and landed a clean palm strike to Vera’s collarbone.

The crowd gasped.

Vera stumbled, surprised. Hermione didn’t wait. She closed the distance, ducked under an attempted grab, and slammed the heel of her hand into Vera’s jaw. Quick, brutal, efficient. Her legs were moving before she thought, sweeping Vera’s knee out from under her.

They went down together, bodies colliding in a tangle of limbs and sweat. Vera snarled and tried to pin Hermione, but Hermione twisted her hips, leveraged her weight—and flipped them. She straddled Vera, panting, arm pulled back for a final hit.

“Yield,” Hermione hissed.

Vera’s chest rose and fell, glaring up at her—but she nodded.

The crowd exploded.

Hermione climbed off, wiping the sweat from her brow. Her muscles were aching, but she felt electric. Alive.

Her breath was still ragged as she stood over Vera’s collapsed form, heart pounding in triumph and adrenaline. A long bruise was already blooming on her ribs, and her arm would ache by nightfall, but she had won. Not with brute strength or practiced form, but by being scrappy, clever, and just a bit mean. The way her father taught her, all those summers ago. “You don’t always need to hit hardest,” he’d told her. “Just first. And smart.”

Her eyes locked on Draco.

He was standing at the edge of the sparring ring, arms folded, unreadable expression on his face. But his eyes… his eyes were burning with heat and something far more dangerous.

Before anyone could say a word, Hermione strode toward him, still breathless, chest rising and falling. She reached him and, without hesitation, grabbed the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was possessive. Fierce. A claim.

She pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing his. “I want a label.”

Draco stared at her like she’d just challenged the sea to a duel. Then, slowly, he smirked.

His hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “You’re mine, Granger. You’ve always been mine. Might as well make it official.”

Then his voice dropped low, only for her. “So yes. You can call me your very loyal, occasionally homicidal, painfully smitten boyfriend.”

Hermione blinked, lips parting. A laugh slipped out of her—sharp, breathy, shocked. It felt like her heart was breaking open.

Behind them, Blaise groaned dramatically. “If I have to watch you two make out again before dinner, I’m throwing myself into the sea.”

Harry added with a cough, “Seconded.”

But Hermione didn’t care. She leaned in again and kissed her very loyal, occasionally homicidal, painfully smitten boyfriend with everything she had.

The last few days had passed in a rhythm of breath and blade, chalk and charm, as if the entire crew had collectively decided to become the sharpest version of themselves before whatever came next.

Hermione had practically lived in the training decks, coordinating daily rune drills, anchor carving, and situational ward theory. Her hair was always tied in a knot with a wand shoved through it, and her fingers bore ink smudges and shallow rune-carving cuts she barely noticed. In her quieter moments, she curled up in the strategy room poring over ancient maps and spellwork fragments, determined to uncover any clue about the Trials ahead. The more she deciphered, the more convinced she became: this mission was less about exploration and more about transformation—and they wouldn’t all make it to the end unchanged.

Draco sparred daily with Ron and Whit, scowled at anyone whose grip was even slightly off during rune work, and only softened—slightly—when Hermione came near. Their relationship was still something unspoken to most, but not unseen. People noticed the way he always found her in a crowd. The way his hand sometimes brushed hers when no one else was watching. The way the Captain smiled—not smirked, but genuinely smiled—only when she was around.

Theo had finally been reinstated in his private quarters and paraded the fact like a badge of honor. His rune shortcuts were now a thing of legend, and the crew had started affectionately calling him Professor Light-Hand . He assisted Hermione during anchor drills, usually by making sarcastic commentary loud enough to make her roll her eyes but not loud enough to stop her smile.

Harry and Blaise, leading combat drills alongside Ron, kept the rest of the crew sharp. Harry, ever the strategist, pushed the team on defensive maneuvers, while Blaise worked in feints and deception tactics—and gratuitous shirtlessness, for some reason. Ron had risen into his role as dueling lead with surprising confidence. The shy, uncertain boy who once shadowed Harry was now barking commands and teaching footwork with all the intensity of an Auror.

Everyone was training. Everyone was focused. And that made the silence now feel suffocating.

The fog thickened as the Astrid glided forward, slower now, as if the sea itself was warning them to stop.

Hermione stood near the bow, her fingers gripping the railing, knuckles pale. Beside her, Ron adjusted his wand grip and muttered, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Harry didn’t disagree.

Theo appeared at her shoulder, eyes narrowed against the mist. “We’ve stopped moving.”

“We’re here,” Hermione murmured, heart thudding.

A cold wind rolled in, bitter with something metallic—blood, she realized with a shiver. The fog parted in fractured strands, revealing jagged black stones rising from the sea like broken ribs. And beyond them: an island. Or what might’ve once been one.

The Bleeding Labyrinth.

Its cliffs pulsed. That was the only word for it. They pulsed , like a living thing. Veins of red light throbbed beneath the rock’s surface, illuminating strange glyphs and runes that twisted before the eye could settle.

Even Draco, silent at her other side, took a cautious step forward.

The sea surrounding the landmass had stilled completely. Not even a ripple. As if the water were holding its breath.

“Bloody hell,” Blaise whispered behind them. “It’s alive.”

A low sound—somewhere between a groan and a heartbeat—echoed across the water. Hermione felt it in her teeth.

“Anchor coordinates set,” called Rook from above. “But the Astrid’s refusing to move closer.”

Hermione’s lips parted. “She’s protecting us.”

“No,” Draco said, his voice low and grave. “She’s warning us.”

Theo glanced warily over the rail. “Why’s it called the Bleeding Labyrinth again?”

Hermione answered quietly. “One legend says it drinks from you. Not just blood. Whatever you fear most, whatever you carry deep… it finds it. It feeds on it.”

Silence.

Blaise muttered, “Fantastic. Can’t wait. I swear you find a new terrifying way to describe this trial everytime someone asks you about it.”

Draco reached for Hermione’s hand, closing his fingers around hers. “We stay together. No matter what.”

Hermione nodded, not having words to speak. Her Gryffindor bravery wavered now that they were face to face with this very real trial.

The crew slowly gathered around them, drawn by the eerie stillness. Even the sails had stopped fluttering. There was no wind now. Only the heavy, blood-scented air. And that sound—slow, steady, ancient.

Like a beast sleeping just beneath the surface.

A sudden flare of red lit the sky. The glyphs along the cliffs brightened in tandem. For one terrifying moment, it looked as though the entire landmass was bleeding.

Someone—maybe Whit—breathed, “So this is Trial Two.”

Draco stepped forward, gaze sharp. “Everyone off the top deck. Now. We brief in ten.”

Hermione didn’t move. She couldn’t. The air seemed to press against her lungs, thick with magic and memory.

This was it. The maze that judged fear. The one that wouldn’t just test them—it would unravel them.

She glanced once at Draco, who met her gaze with a calm she knew was practiced.

And still, he reached out. Not for her hand, not this time.

But for the hidden chain around her neck that had his ring strung on it. She could have worn it on her finger.  Afterall, he did give it to her the night before, but she thought it was more symbolic to have it around her neck just like the one she gave him. 

Draco had told her the night before that she gave him his anchor; something to come back to--something that would remind him of who he was.  He wanted to return the favor. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

And ahead of them, the mist finally parted—revealing the entrance.

Chapter Text

The fog was thicker than expected.

Draco shifted his pack higher on his shoulder, boots crunching over a patch of brittle roots as the entire crew made their slow, steady ascent toward the Bleeding Labyrinth. The sun hadn't broken the gray veil above, and the cliffside trail carved a narrow, jagged line toward the black mouth ahead. The terrain reminded him of something ancient and hungering. Something waiting.

A fitting metaphor, really.

He kept to the front, just behind Potter and Hermione. Potter was busy quizzing Hermione on runes; as if this were a test that he was studying for the night before. Weasley and Blaise flanked the outer edge of the line, running ward detection as a precaution. Theo was two rows behind, casually charming his way through tension like he always did, while Vesper made a series of crude jokes to some of the younger security squad. Most of them laughed—nervous, too loud.

But Draco wasn’t listening to any of it. His mind was ticking through plans.

Four pairs per section, spread twenty paces apart now as they hiked to the entrance. They weren’t sure if there were creatures or people, magical or non-magical, present on this island as well. Each crew member had a partner to check in with, a pocket medallion keyed to Hermione’s rune circuit, and a fallback protocol that only five people on the ship knew in full. Himself. Hermione. Harry. Blaise. Theo.

Still didn’t feel like enough.

His thumb brushed over the circular press of metal beneath his undershirt. Hermione’s medallion. He could feel the faint pulse of magic woven into the bronze—the living signature of her magic there, warm and humming. It brought a sense of calm to Draco, yet, he knew that if the roles were reversed and he could sense her health whenever he felt like it, the medallion might prove to be a big distraction that he wouldn’t be able to afford.  He hoped Hermione had better control than him and wouldn’t be checking his health in lieu of being vigilant of her surroundings. 

He touched it again, this time slower. Then, subtly, his other hand slipped into the hidden seam of his trouser pocket for his second anchor.

She didn’t know he brought it—the photo.

It had been slipped into his hand with a smirk and a murmur against his throat the previous night, long after the laughter faded and they’d collapsed into each other again, flushed and aching. Her legs had been wrapped around his waist then, her breath hot and wild. She’d said, “You’re going to need a visual if you get separated.”

And then she'd handed it to him. A moving photo, of course. Just for him. Hermione, sprawled on her stomach, naked and flushed, arse in the air, legs spread wide and teasing, her expression one of wicked, knowing satisfaction as she glanced back over her shoulder and mouthed his name. This had been taken from their first time together. The moan it had pulled from him hadn't been quiet.

It was indecent. It was dangerous. It was absolutely his.

He swallowed hard, keeping his face passive as the trail curved again, revealing the final rise of rock before the jagged slope dipped into the valley where the Labyrinth stood waiting—massive and silent like a monument built for sacrifice.

Draco made sure to charm the photo for his eyes only. If anyone were to look at it besides himself and Hermione, all they would see was a quidditch playing card.

Hermione turned slightly, checking on the group behind them. Her curls were tied high, the nape of her neck exposed beneath a thin sheen of sweat. Draco could see a hint of a purple bruise peeking out of her collar. Her sleeves rolled to her elbows and wand strapped against her thigh. A commander in every way that mattered.

Mine, Draco thought, the word sharp and sure. Not in the way he'd once thought about property or power. Not in the twisted, boyish way he'd wanted to possess her. This was different. Earned. Trusted.

He tucked the photo deeper into his pocket. Not because he was ashamed. But because if he looked at it again, he wouldn’t be able to think of battle strategy. And right now, getting everyone out of this maze alive mattered more than what her body looked like wrapped around his.

He didn’t just want her. He needed her to survive this.

Because if he lost her now—after all they’d fought for, after all the moments they hadn’t spoken of yet—he didn’t know if he’d make it to the end.

The wind shifted. A rustling hum moved through the valley below.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the blackened spires of the Bleeding Labyrinth rising from the mist.

“Formations!” he barked.

Hermione didn’t flinch. She just turned, eyes meeting his. Her nod was brief. Trusting.

They stepped into the metaphorical dark together.

The mouth of the Bleeding Labyrinth loomed ahead—jagged, wet stone formed the opening like some terrible maw, the red fog within pulsing faintly as if alive. The crew had gathered at the outer edge of the valley, falling into hushed lines of two as instructed.

Hermione had just reached for Draco’s arm when the first creature appeared.

It teetered out of the mist with the odd shuffle of a creature not entirely used to its body—rough bark-covered skin, squat legs, a hunched, gnarled torso, and glowing red lines etched into its sides like bleeding cracks. Its eyes were knot-holes. Its mouth stretched unnaturally wide.

“Pairs,” it rasped. The sound was like wet branches snapping. “Chosen.”

They’d planned for pairs. They had planned triads.  They had planned groups of four.  They had planned any number of people groups one could think of. Hermione had even drawn rune-linked communication glyphs that Draco had personally approved, only for the first of the bark-covered bastards to shuffle forward like a drunken Ent on holiday. 

More began to emerge—dozens of them, from the surrounding bramble and rocks. They moved with staccato shuffles, surrounding the crew in loose circles, humming low and vibrating the air around them.

Hermione tightened her grip on Draco's arm.

“Is that a sentient stump?” Blaise whispered from behind.  “Because I didn’t pack bug repellent for that.”

Draco didn’t answer him.  He was too busy squinting at the creature.

Its eyes were sap-black hollows, its limbs cracking as it moved with the grace of a tree learning how to walk. It made an odd squelching hiss and stretched a long, clawed limb toward them.

“We planned the pairs,” Draco said coolly, stepping forward as more creatures moved into position. “They’ll follow—”

And then it whipped him.  On the leg.  Hard.

“What the fuck ?” Draco yelled, stumbling backward.

“Not your choice,” hissed one creature beside him. It slapped a knobby, bark-covered hand to Draco’s chest once more.

A jolt of pain lanced through his ribs, hot and shocking, like being hexed and stabbed at once. Draco staggered back, chest heaving, eyes wild. The medallion Hermione made for him pulsed red-hot.

“Draco!” Hermione shouted, reaching for him, but two more bloody stumps barred her way with crossed arms.

Another creature appeared--this one smaller, with what looked like runes scorched into its limbs.  It smacked Harry.  Then Theo.  Then Pansy.  They were being herded like livestock.

“I’m going,” Blaise insisted.  “I don’t really want to be smacked,” he told the small stump. 

“We pair,” one growled.

“Brilliant,” Theo groaned, rubbing his calf from where he was hit. “Magical root gremlins just whipped me like a naughty schoolboy.  Not exactly my fantasy.”

“I paid for this exact treatment once in Prague,” Blaise said idly. “It cost more and smelled better, though.”

Another lash.

“For fucks sake!” Blaise yelled.  “It was a joke….mostly.”

A chorus of curses followed as the creatures--Draco refused to call them anything dignified--began to yank and push people toward partners.

“Great,” Draco muttered. “We’re being sorted by aggressive shrubbery.  Someone remind me to call these bastards the Branch Bouncers .”

“You can come up with a better name than that, surely,” Harry said, ending up next to Draco. Before Draco could respond, a flash of red rune-light erupted from the gnarled fingers of one creature.  It slapped its palm against Harry’s collarbone.  A glowing rune shimmered and sealed into his skin.  “Hey!--owwww!”

“You two--together,” the shrub said.

“Oh, hell no ,” Draco growled, turning--

WHACK.

Draco bristled. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Another strike—this time to his back. He gasped, biting down a snarl as the bark-skinned creature left a welt of scorched magic. His wand hand twitched, but the creatures made no move to attack further. Just hovered. Humming. Waiting.

Hermione’s eyes were wide with alarm. “Draco—are you—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, straightening, rage simmering under his skin. But the realization settled in quickly: the maze wasn’t just sentient. It was deciding . Who entered. Who with. Why.

Harry rubbed at his brand. “Guess it wants to pair the traumatized war veterans. Cute.”

Two of the creatures moved forward and placed their hands—disgusting, sap-stained claws—on Draco’s neck. A sickly red light glowed beneath their palms.

Pain flared again—Draco hissed, his eyes closing briefly as it pulsed over his collarbone like being branded in Azkaban again. When he opened his eyes, he found a rune seared into the edge of his collarbone, just under his neck.

Great, he and Potter had matching brands like lovebirds .

“Motherfuckers,” Draco breathed.

“They branded us,” Harry muttered, tone dry. “You know, just in case you were wondering if this was going to be fun.”

“Next pair,” one of the Branch Bouncers called, scanning the crew.

Draco watched Hermione stiffen. Draco reached instinctively for Hermione, but she was already being yanked by the arm towards--

“Ron?” she breathed, slight surprise in her tone. 

Weasley blinked.  “Er.  Hi?”

Another lash snapped through the air, pushing her to Weasley’s side.  The shrub’s arms elongated to reach their necks. A rune lit up on their skin; matching--identical. 

Hermione turned toward Draco.  Her face was red, livid with frustration.  She mouthed, This wasn’t the plan .

He gritted his teeth.  His whole chest was tight.

That fucking matching brand better vanish when they pass Trial two. 

Blaise was practically laughing now as he was shoved toward Vera.  “Oh come on, at least let me bribe you first!”

Theo was trying to sidestep toward Hermione.  “Switch with me, Hermione.  I’ll take Weasley.  You get Whit--he’s probably more pliant anyway.”

WHACK. WHACK.

They were marked with glowing rune-pairs and corralled with increasing force.

Neville landed beside Pansy, who looked surprised but oddly relieved.  “Could’ve been worse,” she muttered, eyes darting toward Vera.

“Much worse,” Neville agreed with feeling.

Finally, the Branch Bouncers clunked back, forming a semi-circle of stumps and runes and damp moss, herding the newly-marked pairs toward the jagged entry of the maze.

Hermione stared at Draco, trembling slightly, though it was hard to tell if from fury or nerves.

He stepped close, cupped her face with both hands.

“Listen to me,” he murmured, low and rough, letting the others fade out for a moment. “They don’t get to decide what we are.  Not some maze, not Kinglsey, not this crew.  You’re mine , Hermione.  And I’ll come back with fire in my fists if I have to, but I”m coming back to you .”

She nodded, eyes glistening.  “Then I’ll be here.  Fighting my way back to you.”

He pressed his lips to hers—hard, fast, desperate.

Then came the shove.

The Branch Bouncers pushed him and Harry through the threshold first, the rune-burn on his skin flaring in recognition as they passed through. Draco twisted to see Hermione one last time.

The stones groaned.

The labyrinth sealed.

A sharp line of moss and rock rolled shut like a mouth devouring its first meal.

The air shifted.

A new entry point began to open to the right, forming a jagged, dripping corridor for the next pair.

The Bleeding Labyrinth had begun.

It sealed behind them with a sound that could only be described as smug.

Draco stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim red glow bleeding from the carved walls. It pulsed like a heartbeat. A slow, taunting rhythm.

"Well," Harry said beside him, his voice echoing faintly. "This isn’t creepy at all. Not like we just got swallowed by the world’s most sadistic womb or anything."

Draco exhaled slowly. “Brilliant imagery, Potter. You ever consider writing poetry for those Ministry pamphlets? ‘Ten Ways to Die in a Magical Maze.’ Very informative."

Harry gave him a side glance, lips quirking. “You’re just mad you’re stuck with me instead of your girlfriend."

Draco tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was far too smooth for someone surrounded by pulsing walls. “Not mad. Just recalibrating my expectations. Instead of passionate snogging, I get to spend the next few hours listening to your voice. Constantly."

"You say that like you don’t secretly like it."

Draco arched a brow. “I have a very specific list of things I enjoy, Potter, and your voice lands somewhere between being hexed by Pansy and a root canal without potions."

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re adorable when you pretend not to have emotions."

Draco gave a noncommittal grunt and touched the medallion at his chest, fingers lingering. It was warm against his skin, pulsing with the steady energy Hermione had imbued it with. Anchors and fail-safes. Of course she’d thought of everything. Because she always did.

He didn’t have to pull the photo out of his pocket. It was already branded into his memory. But still, he let his fingers drift to it—a secret, shameless indulgence. Just a glimpse of her, caught in that private pose she'd gifted him with: her arse lifted, legs spread, wild curls spilling over her shoulder as she looked back at him, flushed and laughing.

“You’re smiling,” Harry said, tone wary. “That can’t be good."

Draco blinked. “Was I?”

“Yeah. You’ve either remembered a particularly vicious curse or you’re fantasizing about Hermione.”

Draco shrugged, letting his hand fall. “Why not both?”

They walked on, the corridor twisting and tightening until they were shoulder to shoulder.

“This place reminds me of the Triwizard maze,” Harry muttered.

Draco grunted. “Let’s hope this one doesn’t end with you cradling a corpse."

Harry gave him a sharp look, but there was no heat behind it. Only the weight of memory.

They kept walking. The air grew colder. The walls closer. Somewhere ahead, a howl echoed. Not a creature’s. A human scream.

Draco drew his wand. “That was either Blaise being overly dramatic or someone just died."

“Fifty-fifty shot,” Harry agreed, already moving forward. “Either way, we should probably go play heroes."

Draco smirked. “Or we let them sort it out while we find a shortcut and a bottle of firewhisky.”

“You’re the worst fake hero I’ve ever met.”

“And yet here you are. Holding my hand in hell.”

Harry sighed as the red glow deepened. “This is going to be a very long maze."

Draco hummed. “Indeed. But at least if we die, we can haunt this place together. I’ll monologue and you can whinge.”

“Oh good,” Harry said. “My afterlife nightmare."

And they stepped into the heart of Trial Two.

The air inside the Labyrinth didn’t just hang—it pressed . Thick, damp, and cloying, it clung to skin and fabric alike, stealing breath and leeching heat from bones. The path twisted with no logic, doubling back without warning and narrowing until even Harry, with his wiry frame, had to squeeze sideways.

Draco swore under his breath as his boot caught on another jut of obsidian root. This maze had teeth—both metaphorical and literal. At one point, they'd been chased down a corridor by a cluster of what looked like carnivorous snails the size of kneazles--one of Potter’s nightmares that supposedly no one knew about. Their gelatinous bodies had made an obscene squelching sound as they flung themselves forward with impossible speed. Harry had ended that particular nightmare by hurling a Blasting Curse over his shoulder, setting the corridor walls vibrating with leftover magic and pulverized mollusk flesh. The maze had retaliate and whipped them so hard with thorny vines that they both had bruises, cuts, and lacerations.

They’d fought off vines that hissed when touched and spat venom into their eyes, requiring them to rinse their faces with conjured water spells while blind and panicking--another one of Potter’s fears. There was the wall of screaming portraits that had mimicked the voices of people they’d failed--once again, Potter’s fear. And, of course, there had been that room—just twenty minutes earlier—where the Labyrinth had conjured a tiny, cobwebbed cupboard under the stairs and locked Harry inside in complete darkness.

Draco had never heard Potter scream like that. Not even during the war.

He hadn’t asked. Instead, he’d blown the cupboard door apart with a spell strong enough to char the edges of Harry’s sleeves and left it at that.

Now, they moved slower.

Draco’s shirt clung to his back with sweat, his wand hand cramping from hours of holding a constant defensive posture. Harry limped slightly, a clean gash running down his left forearm. Blood trickled through the tears in his sleeve, dripping intermittently onto the stone beneath them. Neither spoke for a while.

“I’ll say it,” Harry finally gasped, sucking in a breath as they rounded a bend. “This place is worse than Umbridge.”

Draco gave him a side glance. “She did make us write lines in our own blood. The comparison’s not terribly far off.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Except this place smells like death and armpit, and I’m fairly sure those last vines tried to cop a feel.”

“They seemed to prefer you,” Draco said dryly, flicking his wand to cast another quick protective charm ahead of them. “Can’t imagine why. Must be your charming personality.”

Harry snorted, but then hissed in pain and cradled his arm.

Draco paused. “You need to rest.”

“No time.”

“We’ll make time.” He grabbed Harry’s good arm and pulled him toward a slightly wider alcove carved into the wall. “If you pass out, I’ll be stuck dragging your unconscious Gryffindor arse through this horror show, and I assure you, nobody wins.”

Harry sank against the cool wall gratefully, wincing as he sat. “Merlin. I forgot how bossy you are when you’re not trying to hex me.”

“I’ve always been bossy. You just never used to listen.”

“Still don’t,” Harry muttered, but he let Draco tear the sleeve open and press a conjured cloth to his arm.

Draco didn’t comment on the blood. Or the slight tremble in Harry’s hand. Instead, he pressed the cloth firmer, muttered a sterilization charm, and said, “This is going to scar.”

Harry looked at him. “It’s a good look. Chicks dig scars.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’ve clearly been spending too much time with Blaise.”

“Or you.”

A beat.

Draco smirked. “Touché.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, catching their breath. The faint echo of wind—not natural wind, but some magical draft conjured by the maze itself—howled low and mournful beyond the bend.

“I reckon we’re about halfway,” Harry said quietly. Draco didn’t ask Harry how he figured that, but he continued anyways. “You think the others are okay?”

Draco’s jaw clenched, his hand instinctively brushing the medallion at his chest before taking out the picture Hermione gave him. 

“I hope so,” he said, the humor gone from his voice.

Draco let the thought of Hermione--his girl--steady him. He could do this.  He could make it out of this hell maze.  He was even willing to face one hundred more of Harry’s bizarre fears if he had to. 

“A quidditch card?” Harry snorted.

Draco scowled and put it back in his pocket. “Piss off, Potter. I was just starting to kind of tolerate you.”

They kept walking.

Every step felt heavier. Not physically—though Draco’s muscles ached—but magically. The air itself grew more weighted, like each breath carried the guilt of a thousand confessions.

“This better be your bloody fear,” Harry muttered, breaking the silence. His wand was glowing faintly, casting eerie shadows on the slick, mossy walls. “Because so far we’ve only had to endure my fears and I’m starting to think this place plays favorites. I swear to Merlin, if the next corridor features me naked in front of the Daily Prophet office again, I’m out.”

Draco opened his mouth to make some dry remark—but the next step didn’t land on stone.

It landed in ash.

He froze.

Draco’s boots crunched ash as he stepped into the new corridor.

He knew before the heat licked at his skin, before the sky above turned crimson-black, before the charred scent of home filled his lungs—he knew this one was his.

The world had twisted.

Malfoy Manor lay in ruins ahead of him. Its grand archways broken. The rose garden, where his mother once took tea, now a wasteland of thorns and bone. A fine gray snow fell, but it wasn't snow—it was ash. Coating everything. Layering guilt over grief.

“Finally,” Harry muttered beside him. “This better be your bloody nightmare, Malfoy. I’m tapped out of trauma for today.”

Draco didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His entire body went still.

Figures moved through the ash like smoke. His mother, eyes sunken. The girl he killed. His father. Malcolm Avery--the boy’s whose hands he set on fire. Dozens of them.

“You chose me,” the muggle born girl whispered.

“You let me die alone,” Narcissa said.

“You should have died instead,” Lucius spat.

“Stop,” Draco muttered, taking a step back. “This isn’t—this isn’t real.”

And then she appeared.

Hermione.

His Hermione. Except she wasn’t.

Her posture was stiff, regal, not the woman who curled into his side and teased him to distraction. Her eyes weren’t warm—they were glassy, calculating. Cruel.

“You thought this was real, didn’t you?” she said, her voice a velvet blade. “You thought I could love you.”

Draco’s throat closed. His hands opened helplessly.

“I never could,” she sneered. “You were easy to manipulate. I knew about your stupid little boy crush— everyone did. Pathetic. I pitied you. It was all a game to see how far you’d bend before you snapped.”

“No,” he whispered.

“Oh yes,” she said, circling him slowly. “Do you want me to list the reasons I could never love you, Draco Malfoy? Because I made a list. Would you like to hear it?”

“You are a monster,” she said, quieter now. “A pathetic, broken monster who thinks love will save him. But it won’t. Because I never wanted you . I pitied you. That was all.”

The world tilted. He was on his hands and knees, scrambling to grab onto his medallion, but he was too late. 

“No,” Draco croaked. “No, you—”

“One,” she snapped, stepping behind him. “You let a girl die because it was easier than disobeying.”

A crack echoed through the Labyrinth—sharp, violent. Draco’s back arched in pain. A lash bloomed across his spine. Speckles of blood appeared. 

“Two. You stood silent while muggleborns were tortured in your family’s drawing room.”

Crack.

“Three. You set a student on fire because he touched me.”

Crack.

“Four. You only kissed me in eighth year to see if you could. Not because you deserved to.”

Crack.

On and on she went, her voice rising over the sound of the whip. Each count a sin. Each word another weight against his soul. Draco fell to his knees, his hands digging into the ash-covered ground, shaking with agony.

“Ten. Because you’re a coward,” she hissed, stepping in front of him. “Because you’ve always been a coward hiding behind wealth, bloodlines, and excuses. And deep down—you know it.”

The whip raised again, her eyes ablaze with fury. “Eleven—”

But she never landed it.

A blast of blue light exploded from the side, knocking the false Hermione backward and shattering her illusion into swirling smoke.

Harry stood there, wand out, chest heaving.

“Get away from him, you twisted bitch ,” he growled. “What the fuck is with the lashings?!”

He knelt beside Draco, who was trembling and slick with sweat, crumpled in on himself.

“Listen to me,” Harry said, voice lower now, urgent. “This isn’t real. She’s not real. That wasn’t her .”

Draco barely responded. His entire body was seizing, trapped in the cycle of punishment.

“Dammit—hold still,” Harry muttered.

He yanked Draco’s shirt open and used the tip of his wand to carve a rune into the center of Draco’s chest—Hermione’s rune. The one for identity. The one she taught during anchor training. For returning to yourself. For knowing who you are when everything else is trying to rewrite you.

The rune flared, not red, but a soft, steady blue.

It seared into Draco’s chest—and then everything stopped .

The hallucination evaporated. The heat died. The screams faded.

Draco gasped in a breath like it was his first in years.

Ash still clung to his skin. The lashes still burned. But he was here . He was himself again.

Harry sat back, wiping his brow. “So. You could’ve chosen Voldemort. Azkaban . Your dead parents .”

He looked at Draco with equal parts pity and dry exasperation.

“But no. Your greatest fear is Hermione telling you she never could love you . Merlin’s saggy balls, Malfoy. You’ve got it bad.”

Draco’s smile faded just slightly. “It’s not her . It’s… losing her. Letting her see the worst of me and—watching her walk away. ”

Harry stared at him, mouth open slightly.

“Well.” He clapped Draco’s back. “That’s… uncomfortably human of you.”

He didn’t respond. How does one respond to something like that?

Instead, Draco pressed his back against the cool stone wall, still panting, his head tipped back and eyes closed as the branded rune on his chest pulsed faintly beneath his shirt. Sweat glued the fabric to his skin, and every muscle ached as if he’d been flayed inside and out.

Harry crouched nearby, cradling his arm where the cut from earlier had reopened. His wand glowed faintly as he sealed the edges of it with a healing charm that looked more like a battlefield bandage than anything Madam Pomfrey would have approved.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Draco finally broke the silence. “You ever going to mention that again?”

Harry glanced over, unimpressed. “Only every day for the rest of your miserable life.”

Draco gave a weary, bitter laugh. “Figured as much.”

Another beat passed.

“You didn’t have to—” Draco gestured toward where the illusion of Hermione had stood. “That wasn’t your fight.”

“I don’t care if it wasn’t my fight,” Harry said. “You're part of the crew. She— that thing —was torturing you. That’s not how this works. You don’t get to drown here alone.”

Draco blinked at him, caught off guard.

Harry shrugged. “Besides,” he added dryly, “if you die in here, I have to explain that to Hermione. And I really don’t feel like dying next.”

They shared a look.

It was tense. Wary. But not unkind.

Draco stood with a wince, brushing ash from his trousers. The rune on his chest still hummed, but it had settled from an inferno to a dull ache—a tether, he realized. An anchor.

“I think I owe you a drink,” he said gruffly.

Harry grinned. “You owe me a bloody bar , Malfoy.”

As they continued forward, the Labyrinth shifted again. The floor cracked and moved beneath them, forming a narrow bridge over what looked like a canyon filled with swirling black mist. The path was only wide enough for one at a time.

“Of course,” Harry muttered. “Nothing says ‘hell trial’ like death bridges.”

Draco glanced down at the abyss, then back at the crumbling walls lined with pulsing red veins. The maze wasn’t just testing their fears—it was feeding on them. Growing darker with each step.

“Go first,” Draco said.

Harry snorted. “What, so if it collapses, I break the fall?”

“So I can shove you if you make any more jokes about my love life,” Draco muttered.

Harry stepped forward with exaggerated caution. “For what it’s worth,” he called over his shoulder, “I don’t think it’s pathetic. Being afraid she can’t love you. That’s… real.”

Draco hesitated. “It is pathetic,” he said quietly. “Because a part of me believes it. Always has.”

They walked in silence for a few more paces—Harry balancing carefully on the shifting stones, Draco following.

“But,” Draco added, “it’s also why I won’t fucking quit.”

Harry glanced back. “What, love?”

“No,” Draco said. “ Her. ”

The path widened again as they reached the next bend, and Harry held out a hand without thinking to help Draco up from a lower ledge. Draco took it—begrudgingly—but he didn’t let go right away.

“There’s more coming,” he said.

Harry nodded grimly. “Of course there is.”

Together, they turned toward the next stretch of twisting, pulsing corridor, their breath shallow, their wands lit. Whatever came next—Draco had Hermione’s rune pressed against his skin.

And he would need her courage for this next part. 

The air was thick, warm like breath, and lined with a smell both sweet and rotting. Like flowers dying in a closed casket.

The passage was round, and massive—easily a hundred meters wide—with a black stone floor etched in deep grooves that curved like tree rings. The ceiling was lost in shadow, but something shifted up there—creaking, rustling, like wind through skeletal branches.

Harry drew up short. “Tell me I’m not the only one who hears that.”

“You’re not,” Draco said sharply, his wand up.

They took a step forward, and the floor moved —not visibly, but Draco felt it underfoot. As if the room were breathing.

Then they came—tall, bark-skinned figures uncoiling from the walls like shadows peeling off a nightmare. They were human-shaped, but wrong —their limbs too long, faces featureless save for slits where eyes should be. Veins of red light pulsed beneath their bark-like flesh. Draco counted five… then seven… then twelve.

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered, raising his wand. “Branch Bouncers, but bigger.”

“They’re not branches,” Draco murmured. “They’re mimics . Shapeshifters. They’re using wood as camouflage.”

As if summoned by his words, the nearest one rippled—and changed .

Suddenly, it was Hermione. His Hermione….again, because of course it was her. It would always be her. 

The one who had whipped him into madness moments ago.

Behind her, another form twisted into Ginny , red-haired and bloody. Then one became Harry , eyes dead and robes tattered. One even shifted into Lucius , sneering and silver-eyed.

“Right,” Draco snapped. “I hate it here.”

“Malfoy,” Harry hissed, pointing his wand at the mimic-Hermione, “what are they waiting for?”

A voice echoed across the chamber. But it didn’t come from any mouth—it came from the walls .

“Only one leaves. One must be sacrificed. One must be chosen.”

The groove-carved floor glowed crimson. Magic prickled across their skin like acid.

“Great,” Harry muttered. “A choose-your-own-bloody-death trial.”

Then the floor cracked open—two pits yawning beneath them, glowing with dark, swirling energy. A single stone bridge stretched between the two pits, leading toward a raised stone altar with a brand-like rune glowing in its center.

“Step forward. Choose. The one who brands the stone will live. The other… will be taken.”

The mimics closed in, surrounding the edge of the ring.

A narrow bridge appeared, barely wide enough for one person to cross.

The mimics stepped back in eerie synchronicity, watching.

Harry looked at Draco.

Draco’s jaw was tight, lips pale. “So it’s one of us. Obviously.”

“You’re not seriously considering—”

Draco’s stomach dropped.

His mind ran through plans. Escape routes. Alternate spells. Portkeys. But none would work here—he could feel the labyrinth pressing in on his magic like a vice. No portkey. No Disapparating. He’d have to play the game.

Harry was watching him warily. “Draco?”

Draco didn’t speak. Not yet.

He stepped forward instead. Slowly. Deliberately. Every movement rehearsed in his mind before it happened.

Play the part. Don’t look back. Let them hate you if they must. Hate is survivable.

His hand brushed the inside of his shirt—where Hermione’s medallion rested near his chest. The anchor rune pulsed faintly. His fingers ached to clutch it. But he didn’t.

“Draco?” Harry’s voice came again, sharper now.