The Entirely Wrong Way: Part Two
Story Notes in Part One
The Entirely Wrong Way, continued...
Draco approached the boy as he would a wounded pup. Stern, even-voiced with a firm hand that brooked no disobedience but neither threatened.
He’d followed him docilely enough once out of the Hag’s hold, dull blue eyes blinking rapidly in the bright sea light, skin so pale Draco assumed he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks or more. It was a shame, really. He’d never been much for abusing the fragile and pretty - not much sport in it, after all - and for all the boy’s aesthetic brawn, there was an aura of innocence about him that brought out Draco’s disturbing, mostly repressed protective urges.
In his cabin, an order to sit brought the redhead to his knees on the floor - an interesting position, of course, but not exactly what Draco’d had in mind. “You’re not broken, boy. I saw that anger before.” He waved to a chair at the table. “Sit like a man and tell me your name.”
Slowly, as if it pained him to move, he struggled to his feet, narrow and bare, and slouched into a chair. He rasped hoarsely, “Ron Weasley.”
“Here,” Draco said, pushed a half-filled mug of ale towards him.
After a moment’s hesitation, eyes wary as if expecting a blow, Ron tipped the heavy metal mug to his lips, tilting his head back and swallowing hastily, chugging thirstily and with little grace, causing a small smile to twitch across Draco’s face. The captain appreciated enthusiasm.
“Now, we’ve some things to discuss,” Draco drawled, resting a hip against the table and bracing one arm against the slight swell and rock of the ship. A bowl of relatively ripe fruit rested in the middle, and Draco idly popped a red grape into his mouth, chewing slowly as he stared Ron down.
Throat wet, Ron asked quietly, “Why am I here? What’s happened?”
“The reason, two rather troublesome reasons actually, why you’re aboard will be revealed in due time. The reason why you’re in my cabin should be rather obvious,” Draco said slyly, taking in Ron’s wrinkled, confused brow with perverse delight. “And as to what’s happened to the Hag, I’ve dispatched Captain Pucey and his accursed crew to Davy Jones’s Locker. It was all very satisfying. Now,” he arched a thin brow, “your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“You’re in poor shape, boy. What’s happened?” There was an edge to his tone, he knew, but the damn protective urge was back, and he thought perhaps he should’ve made Pucey die a much slower death than he had.
Ron pressed his lips together, eyes dipped and focused on the table.
“An interesting slab of wood, I’ll grant you.” Draco tapped a long finger on the now empty mug sitting in front of Ron. “Answer me.”
“Nothing,” Ron said, voice barely above a whisper.
Reaching out, Draco grasped his chin firmly and caught his gaze with his own. The boy was lying, that much was patently clear. Still, Draco thought it would’ve been uselessly cruel to push the point right then. He flicked a thumb across Ron’s cracked and chapped bottom lip, noting the flash of fire in his blue irises before they fell deliberately blank.
“I’m not particularly known for my hospitality,” Draco stated baldly. “You’ll work for your passage. For now, I’m willing to let you chose how.”
Ron blinked slowly, expression unmoved. “All right,” he said finally.
“I imagine you’d like a bath.” Draco dropped his hand from Ron’s face and straightened, then called out, “Finch, I know you’re eavesdropping, you sick bastard. Make yourself useful and bring in some heated water.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” a muffled voice shouted, and Draco shook his head.
“Not a decent pirate among them,” he groused, then watched with a dispassionate eye as Finch and young Creevey, his latest cabin boy, paced in and out of the chamber with buckets of steaming water, filling the copper tub almost to the brim.
“There we are, sir,” Finch said when they’d finished, grin wide and suggestive. “Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else?”
Draco pinned him with a narrowed gaze. “What do you think?”
Finch just grinned wider. The bilge rat had obviously been spending too much time with Blaise. “You,” he snapped, “out. You,” he waved a beringed hand at Ron and the redhead froze, a pilfered grape pinched between his thumb and forefinger, “strip.”
Finch chuckled all the way to the door, and Draco shoved it shut behind him, dropping the lock and turning to arch one brow at Ron, arms crossed over his chest.
“Well?” he queried testily, foot tapping.
Averting his eyes, Ron slowly got to his feet. He shrugged out of his tattered shirt, thumbing open what few buttons had been left down the front, and Draco bit back a hiss.
“Now I know it was more than ‘nothing,’ aye?” he drawled dangerously. Ron’s ribs and lower back were riddled with purples, blues and yellows, bruises piled on top of bruises, broken skin a raw and angry red.
Head hanging, dark red hair shading his eyes, Ron stood over the bathtub with his hands curled loosely at his sides, pausing at the waistband of his trousers.
Draco snapped his fingers. “Come on, all of it. Off.”
In profile, Ron’s jaw clenched tight, a spasm twitching along the curved delineation of bone and tendon. “No.”
Anger licked up Draco’s spine at the flat refusal. He wasn’t used to tolerating disobedience; even Blaise was hard pressed to ignore a direct order. Loosing his temper right then, though, wasn’t going to help. “Would you like me to help?” he asked in a deceptively soft tone. He let the threat hang heavy in the air, and after a few thick moments where Draco just stared steadily - really, he was impressed by his own strength of will - Ron dropped what little remained of his trousers.
Impassive, Draco growled, “Are we going to do this step by step, Weasley? Get in the tub.”
The redhead, blatantly striving for a last ditch measure of modesty, turned his back to Draco as he stepped into the bath. Normally he would’ve highly enjoyed the view of both sides, and the boy’s pale arse certainly wasn’t anything to dismiss as it slid past the rolled copper rim, but the marks on his skin served to irrationally fan his ire.
With a wordless snarl, he tossed a bar of soap between Ron’s upraised knees, then he unlatched the door and strode out into the passageway. None of his or Creevey’s things would fit the boy properly, so he shouted for Finch to give him his spare set of breeches and then went topside, breathing deeply into his lungs the salt-sting of the sea air.
***
When Hannah first spotted Ron on deck, she threw all decorum aside and leapt into his arms with a glad cry. She’d gone just a bit wild in the week or so they’d been on board the Squall anyhow, so the flash of breeze on her bare calves as her skirts shifted didn’t faze her in the least, nor did the redhead’s arms encircling her narrow waist, large hands automatically scrambling for her bum to keep her steady. Hermione harrumphed, disapproving of the display, but nonetheless gave Ron a soft peck on his cheek after Hannah slid back down to rest on her own two feet again.
“What’re you doing here?” Ron asked, dazed and faintly breathless.
Hermione eyed him critically, noting the way he hunched in on himself, the slight tightening around his expressive mouth. “You’re hurt,” she accused. “And what do you mean, what are we doing here? Do you honestly think we would’ve let that man win?” That man, of course, was Hannah’s stepfather, who’d long ago jumped to the highly erroneous conclusion that Ron and Hannah were closer than friends. Although even being friends with the stable boy placed Hannah in an unusual and socially frowned-upon position.
“It wasn’t a matter of winning, Hermione,” Hannah chided, then grinned brightly up at Ron. “We couldn’t let you be taken away like that, Ron.” She couldn’t imagine why her stepfather thought she’d just let that happen; shrug her shoulders and go on as normal, marry well and forget all about the redheaded best mate of her youth. He’d always held strange ideas and ideals about her, though, from the moment he’d met her mum eight years previous.
“Listen,” Hermione hissed under her breath, urging Hannah closer and leaning against Ron’s arm, shooting a wary, measured look at Boot who stood a few paces to their left, “I’m not exactly sure how to get out of this mess.”
Hannah stared at her, wide-eyed. “You said you had a plan!”
“No, no, I said we needed to sneak ashore somewhere along the Abacos, but I never specifically said I had a plan,” Hermione pointed out. “Plus, my plans seem to have a habit of putting us in grave danger.”
“Oh, so now you admit that?” Hannah wasn’t especially upset, though. After all, she’d gone along with the whole let’s-ask-some-notorious-pirates-for-help stratagem with minimal fuss.
Hermione tugged a hand through her ratted curls - past being dismayed at how utterly unmanageable the salt air made them - and gave an exasperated sigh. “Look, I know that-ow!” Twisting about, Hermione glared down at the wall-eyed old coat, Moody, toothless grin mean-edged, silver topped cane still brandished in the air, inches from her side.
“Storm’s a comin’,” he said, voice gravelly-deep with malice.
Hermione was perfectly aware that Moody hoped she and Hannah would be topside during the predicted event, preferably near the rail, and fairly close to his dull-pointed stick.
It didn’t storm, though, ‘til they were three days out from the Abacos islands - at least according to Finch, a curly-haired blond sailor with a perpetual, disturbing leer - and it hit the Squall with howling winds and splattering rain so fast that Hermione and Hannah didn’t have any time at all to duck below before getting soaked to the bone.
They weren’t thrown overboard, but Hannah found Hermione burning up the next morning, smudges under glazed eyes, lips dried and white-cracked.
***
Of the three days sail to the Abacos islands and subsequent two days at port, Hermione only remembered three things: cool, dry fingers at her temples, the sharp tang of oranges on her tongue, and a very odd conversation in the middle of a desert with her deceased elder brother, George. Of the conversation itself she recalled little beyond that her brother’s words had sounded thick, muddled, and were strangely tinged with an Irish accent.
Her entire body was sore when she blinked awake in a sun-drenched room that didn’t have the faintest pitch or sway to it, the windows swung open wide to let in breezy-hot air. A young man, short-statured and wiry, inquisitive hazel eyes shining beneath a shaggy blond-streaked fringe, was grinning down at her from beside the bed.
“You’re awake then,” he said with a cheerful Irish lilt.
“Yes,” she croaked, and he hushed her with a hand on her shoulder and a finger to his lips.
Then he slid the hand under her neck, lifting her head and tipping a glass of water to her mouth, and his eyes wrinkled up at the corners, echoing his smile. “Welcome to Blue Cay,” he went on, then rolled his eyes, “Oh, aye, ‘tis stupid, but Theodore named it, and I sometimes suspect he’s got the creativity of a codfish.” Cool water dripped heavenly down her parched throat and he pulled away apologetically after only a moment. “Sorry, lass, y’must take it slow. Been far too long under the weather, me dear. Just rest a bit more now.”
He murmured as if to himself as he puttered about the room, “I’ll send Blaise in t’keep you company. Man’s been a nuisance, worse than a mother hen…” and Hermione drifted off to his faint melodious voice
When she woke again, Zabini was at her side, a concerned twist to his mouth that instantly loosened when he noted her consciousness.
“Hell of a trick to get out of my wicked clutches,” he drawled.
Hermione barely had the energy for a glare, but she managed. He laughed off her attempt at a scowl, though, and lifted his fingers to slide over her lips, thumb coming to a rest at a down-turned corner.
She was understandably perplexed by the softness in his blue eyes. “What?” she rasped, but then the door burst open and Hannah came flying through wearing nothing but boy’s breeches and a loose shirt, and Hermione found herself half buried under her enthusiastic, ecstatic greeting.
“We thought you’d die,” Hannah whispered, warm cheek pressed against hers.
Hermione smoothed a shaky hand over Hannah’s hair. “That would’ve been a stupid thing to do.”
“Aye.” Hannah pulled back, grinning broadly, knees apart on the bed next to her hips, and Hermione dragged an incredulous gaze over her indecently clad body.
“What are you wearing?” she demanded hoarsely.
Clasping the top of her shirt closed at the neck with one hand, throat and cheeks flushing, she said sheepishly, “Millie’s showing me how to be a pirate.”
“Millie?”
She nodded, brown irises shining. “And Ernest’s got me climbing the rigging, and I’m teaching Viktor to read English, and you know it turns out he isn’t surly and rude like I’d thought at all; he’s German.”
“I…see.”
Zabini chuckled. “Miss Abbott’s been very busy.”
“And how’s Ron, then?” She played idly with the light covers, folding them over and over between her fingers. Hannah was learning to be a pirate. The girl’s mother would surely tan Hermione’s hide for it.
Hannah frowned thoughtfully. “He’s been spending an inordinate amount of time on the beach since we got here.”
Zabini’s hand crept forward to cover hers, stilling it against the mattress, and Hermione glanced at him questioningly.
“He’s fine. Draco’s watching him,” he said, which was odd and really not all that reassuring, but Hermione gave him a wavering smile.
Hannah was more animated than she’d been since she’d turned ten and been forced to abandon the stables for the parlor, scrabbling up trees for a dull afternoon of stitching and petty gossip. Her high color was as much from the sun as from mild embarrassment, and Hermione knew without having a single word said about it that Hannah wanted to stay. Stay aboard the Squall, perhaps stay on Blue Cay.
But Hermione, pathetic as it seemed, missed her mare, Whittier, and missed her garret bedroom with the ice-blue molding, and missed her mum, cool blonde and soft and steely-voiced with sharp brown eyes. She even missed her father and his horrendous singing, and she wanted to be back in time to drag the Yule log home through the first snow, the hounds snapping playfully at her heels and her father seasoned, rum-warmed, and caterwauling Good King Wenceslas at the top of his lungs.
And she was still so very tired and worn out and it felt like forever since she’d breathed easy. “I want to go home,” she said softly, and Zabini squeezed her hand.
“All right.”
***
“You are precisely as dumb as you look,” Draco drawled, hands clasped behind his back and stance wide-legged as he gazed off down the stretch of sand. Ron was a speck in the distance, bright head a beacon against the foaming waves, the aqua blue rolls under the sun. “I always suspected as much.”
The breeze pulled at Blaise’s black hair, tugging it out of the messy club at the small of his nape. He swiped a hand over his forehead and didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what Draco was speaking of. “She wouldn’t be happy.”
“And this matters how?” Draco asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the hunched figure on the beach to arch an inquiring brow at Blaise.
Blaise smirked. “Weasley gave you an absent half-smile yesterday and your eyes lit up.”
“That is a horrid lie, Blaise,” Draco denied crisply. “A horrid, hurtful untruth.”
“Of course.”
“And utterly beside the point, at any rate,” he went on insistently.
Amused, Blaise bobbed his head. “If you say so, Captain.”
Draco shot him an irritated sneer. “You haven’t even tried, you imbecile,” he accused, then spun on his heel and stalked down into the hot white sand towards Ron.
The boy was a trial; a test of his wills. He was a horrible sailor, unsteady on deck, green at the gills on heavy swells. He was all thumbs at the sails, hopeless with the rigging, and yet he was obviously trying so hard to get everything right. Draco would’ve possibly found it amusing and admirable if he hadn’t known that the boy thought the alternative was beyond anything he could endure.
It was more than a little insulting.
Ron’s eyes cut to him and hastily away when he came to a stop at his side, the flash of life sapped out of them in an instant; shoulders, the line of his back, every muscle tensing. It always happened when Draco got too close.
“I’ve never hurt you, have I Weasley?” he snapped harshly. Ron flinched and tried to pull back, but Draco reached out and snatched one of the boy’s curled fists, the fingers thicker and blunter than his own. “You could flatten me with one swing, aye? So stop acting like a bloody coward around me.”
“I’m not a coward.”
The boy’s voice was barely audible, and Draco gave the captured hand a slight shake. “What was that?”
Ron swallowed hard, eyes sliding closed. “I’m not a coward,” he whispered.
Draco leant in, mouth hovering by the redhead’s ear, and hissed, “Louder.”
“I’m not a fucking coward,” Ron said, and his blue irises caught Draco’s gray, steady, fear simmering just behind fierce determination. “I’m not.”
The fist in Draco’s hand loosened, and he squeezed it once, lightly, before releasing it with a soft,” Aye, you’re not.” Then he turned away, watching the tide as it gently lapped the beach, foam running up the dark wet sand before falling back on itself. He could feel Ron’s gaze on him, curious now, and he let out a deep sigh.
“Miss Granger,” Draco started, “has expressed a desire to return to England, and I’ve suddenly been placed in a position of indulging her.”
He got no reaction from Ron beyond a slight shifting of his stance, and Draco wondered at the heat radiating off the boy as he drew subtly closer.
He slanted him a sideways look. “For some ridiculous reason I find myself wanting to see you happy.” It was a large admission for Draco. A large, embarrassing admission for Draco, and he drawled, “You tell one soul I said that and I’ll-” He cut off mid-threat, but Ron didn’t move away, didn’t freeze up, though he was clearly poised to run, weight on the balls of his feet.
Ron never used to run from anything.
He’d been born with an unfortunate temper, and Pucey, with his black eyes and mockingly jovial laugh, had taken it upon himself to try and beat it out of him. What pissed Ron off most was that he’d chiefly succeeded. He couldn’t help the wariness, couldn’t completely turn off the jittery panic in his belly, the bile that crawled up his throat despite any reassurances of his safety, and it was only half because he’d grown up on tales of the dread pirate Malfoy’s exploits.
The captain was an imposing sight in person: tall and lean and quick on his feet, slice of his mouth openly cruel, eyes as sharp as the curve of his jaw and cheek. The difference between him and Pucey, Ron surmised, was that Malfoy was honestly brutal - no faux happy spirits.
On some level, Ron realized that anything the blond captain shouted at him, hissed at him, whispered in his ear, was as true as his ruthlessness. He held no pretense of niceties, yet he’d never laid a hand on Ron when he was vibrating with anger, either.
Pucey had watched him cough up blood with a cheerful grin and a table set for tea.
He gazed at Malfoy with conflicting emotions settling in the base of his throat, blocking any words he might’ve said at the round-about offer to take him home. He’d spent the better part of the four months he’d been aboard the Hag wishing he was dead, and the only thing he was sure of anymore was that he hated the sea. Hated it with a biting passion and a sickening clenching of his stomach. Hated the roll of the planks under his feet and the flapping sails high above his head.
Yet, “Going back to England won’t make me happy,” he finally managed, then held steady Malfoy’s gaze when he turned a questioning look his way. Back there, he’d hated working in the stables. Hated Lady Hannah’s stepfather, Townsende, hated being the youngest son of the village’s absent-minded blacksmith.
“You can’t prefer to stay with the Squall,” Malfoy rejoined blandly.
No, of course he didn’t. He shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “Seamus said I could stay here.”
He’d become fond of the salt air and the sand beneath his feet, between his toes, the warmth of the sun beating down on his upturned face. And Seamus was a friendly little Irishman who kept a neat pub, the only thing of any worth in the small inlet of Blue Cay, the safe port for the Squall. Ron suspected the land had been a gift from Malfoy, and one of the sailors, a dark, swarthy, silent man named Nott, had hardly left Seamus’ side since they’d rowed ashore.
Ron started but held still when Malfoy slid a hand around his elbow, calloused yet elegant fingers catching at the skin bared by his cuffed sleeves.
“Do what you want,” he advised, and Ron blinked at him, slightly incredulous.
No one had ever said that to him before, not even Lady Hannah, and the words sounded especially odd coming from Malfoy.
“What?” the captain snapped, head cocked to the side.
“Nothing.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a horrendous liar, Weasley. Worse than Mac, and Lord knows that puppy can’t get through a fib without giggling his arse off.”
Ron found himself grinning at the pirate, and Malfoy’s entire countenance brightened.
“Well now, aye. You should stay here if that smile is the result,” he spilled out, then his lips twisted like he’d bit a bitter citrus, nose wrinkling. “I’ll deny those words ‘til my dying breath, boy, so-”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Ron cut in, faint amusement still painting his pale face.
“And since we’re suddenly in such a good mood,” Malfoy went on, hands fast on Ron’s arms and spreading upwards, sliding into his thick hair, curling around his nape and tugging him downwards so slickly that Ron was too surprised to pull away. His thumbs dug into the hinges of his jaw, fingers splayed over his skull, and his lips were dry and firm on Ron’s, upper pressing into the seam, lower warm on the patch of skin above his chin. And then Malfoy’s tongue was out with clever, slow licks, and jolts of pleasure sang down Ron’s arms, the flexed muscles of his back, the tightness in his upper thighs and groin. A groan welled up out of his throat, forcing his lips apart, and Malfoy drew back, mouth red and knowing, gray eyes simultaneously bright and dull with desire.
He loosed his hold on Ron’s neck, one hand smoothing long fingers along his jaw, the other pressed lightly on his breastbone. “Still in a good mood?” he asked, hoarse voice betraying his level of want.
Ron inclined his head slowly, feeling the narrow fingers slip over his skin, pads brushing the corner of his nose, mouth, and then Malfoy dropped his arms completely and stepped away.
***
Sir Harry was a drunkard.
Tragedy in his formative years had honed him into the sort of man who was a terribly depressing sober person, so he stayed mostly drunk and jovial and everyone in his acquaintance was far happier for it. Three years previous he’d been picked up on accident by the Squall’s crew when they’d boarded a French pleasure cruiser, and, much to Draco’s eternal annoyance, he’d taken up residence at Blue Cay without so much as a please or thank you. He had a room on the third floor of Seamus’ house, but most nights he simply passed out in the parlor, too sotted to maneuver the stairs.
Seamus stocked his favorite rum when he could, which meant that Draco had to haul it grumbling from Barbados, but with precious little to do on Blue Cay besides laze about in the sun and cater to the occasional random ship, the blond captain didn’t begrudge the Irishman the company.
Besides, Nott’s stewing jealousy was always a boon.
Already well in his cups before noon, he pressed a thumb under the tip of his chin and nodded at Blaise, head wobbly on his thin neck, irises locked blearily on the dark-haired pirate. Drink made Sir Harry seem much older than his thirty-three years, but Blaise often marveled at how young his eyes were, serpent green and largely set in his red face. “You’re a pirate,” Sir Harry said, hardly a slur to his voice.
“How astute of you,” Blaise drawled wryly, swirling a bit of amber in his glass without drinking it. It was far too early in the day for him to consume any alcohol, yet Sir Harry thought it the very height of rudeness not to drink when someone else was imbibing in your presence. He held the strangest logic, but then he was never really in his right mind.
“Yes, and she’s a maid,” he continued blithely.
Blaise’s brows peaked over his nose. “Aye.”
“And for some inexplicable reason-”
Inexplicable. Blaise was amazed the bloke could wrap his mellowed mouth around the word.
“-you’re giving her a choice in the matter. And!” He jabbed a finger in the air, leaning forward in his seat, half-filled glass sloshing liquid over the rim. “You haven’t even shown her what she’d be giving up - wink-wink, nudge-nudge and all that. I quite like Ron.”
Blaise blinked at the rapid switch of subject. “What?”
“He’s sweet,” Sir Harry flapped a hand, “for a lad.”
“He’s Draco’s,” Blaise pointed out.
Sir Harry’s face fell. “Ah. Pity.” He gazed wetly into his glass, then took a large gulp and swallow. “Right, right. You,” finger up and out again, this time waggling at Blaise, “need to be more of the rogue I know you are. And I,” he licked his lips, “need more to drink.”
***
Hermione felt nearly naked in the loose linen top and the lightweight skirt Seamus had found for her to wear. The heat of the day had been oppressive, though, so she was thankful for the freedom, and she twisted her hair up in a topknot as she stepped into her bedroom, hoping to cool her nape as well.
The room was covered in shadows, golden-gray with the dying light, and Hermione collapsed on the bed, one arm flung over her eyes. She’d been out on the Squall for most of the afternoon with Hannah, and the girl’s boundless energy was exhausting. Though, to be honest, moving was still a bit tiring for Hermione, the fever having left lasting aches under her skin.
“How are you feeling?”
Hermione jumped with a yelp and tumbled off the side of the bed.
A match flared to life, held to a candle, and then Zabini’s head materialized overtop of her prone figure. “Sorry,” he offered, blatantly unrepentant.
He stretched a hand out to her, but she ignored it, climbing to her feet on her own steam and demanding, “What are you doing in here?”
“I’m a pirate,” he said, grin toothy.
Hermione gave him a wary scowl. “Obviously.”
“And you’re a maid.”
“All right.” Hermione wasn’t sure if she liked where the line of conversation seemed to be going.
“Do you know what pirates do to maids?” he asked, voice dangerous and low and eyes glittering with a wicked leer.
She didn’t particularly want to know. Or rather she did want to know, and that realization was fairly startling, so she cut off whatever his next, no doubt suggestive words were with a bright, “Teach them how to swim?”
All smarminess dropped from his expression. “What?”
“I have no idea how to swim.” She gave him an encouraging, though almost entirely wooden smile.
“You… you’re off your nut,” Zabini laughed - a deep, belly laugh, head tilted back and one hand pressed over his lean abdomen.
Hermione’s smile relaxed somewhat into something genuine at his infectious mirth, then she let out a small, highly mortifying squeak when he caught his arms about her waist and tugged her up tightly against his chest, large hands settling on shoulder blade and bum in an amazingly affectionate hug. She fit neatly tucked under his shoulder, top of her head brushing his chin.
“I could love you some day,” he murmured into her mess of curls.
She felt her face heat up, flattered and embarrassed in equal measure. His hand was on her bum.
“I’m not letting you go.”
“You’re going to have to eventually, you know. Otherwise, this could get awkward,” she pointed out, voice muffled, purposefully misunderstanding him.
“I’m not taking you home,” he clarified.
Bringing her hands up, she clutched the front of his shirt and dared to lean back, pinning him with bland amber eyes. “I didn’t think you ever would, actually.”
He looked honestly affronted. “Why not?”
Hermione arched a brow. “Pirate.”
“Ah,” he nodded sagely, blue irises twinkling, reminding her of the hot sun reflected on the Caribbean blue. “There is that.”
***
One entire side of Blue Cay was cliffs and shear rock faces, making the harbor difficult but not impossible to find. Hannah, one arm curled around the mast aloft in the narrow crow’s nest, grinned wildly into the wind as she watched the island grow smaller and smaller in the distance. She fancied she could still see Hermione and Ron, tiny pinpricks of color against the gray. They’d stood on the very top of the steepest climb, waving as the Squall had sailed past, with Seamus bolstering the slaughtered Sir Harry up by his elbow behind them, all smiles and laughter.
The scrabble of the crew below her was somehow familiar and new and different and easy all at once - the shouts and curses, the creak and pull of the rigging, the low hum of ditties being passed along in time with second-nature motions, the spray of waves against the hull as they cut swiftly through the sea - and Ernest had told her it’d been the exact same for him. Like he’d stepped aboard and was home.
They may’ve gone about it the entirely wrong way, Hannah thought, but everything certainly seemed to have turned out all right in the end. Though she was fairly sure Mad-eye was plotting her demise, just waiting for the opportune moment on deck. And Viktor might be under the mistaken impression that she’d be sharing his hammock. And, of course, she’d ambushed Millie with a kiss that morning, leaving the larger girl startled and stunned and, quite possibly, irate.
Hannah was definitely game for a little adventure.
Fin.
The Entirely Wrong Way, continued...
Draco approached the boy as he would a wounded pup. Stern, even-voiced with a firm hand that brooked no disobedience but neither threatened.
He’d followed him docilely enough once out of the Hag’s hold, dull blue eyes blinking rapidly in the bright sea light, skin so pale Draco assumed he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks or more. It was a shame, really. He’d never been much for abusing the fragile and pretty - not much sport in it, after all - and for all the boy’s aesthetic brawn, there was an aura of innocence about him that brought out Draco’s disturbing, mostly repressed protective urges.
In his cabin, an order to sit brought the redhead to his knees on the floor - an interesting position, of course, but not exactly what Draco’d had in mind. “You’re not broken, boy. I saw that anger before.” He waved to a chair at the table. “Sit like a man and tell me your name.”
Slowly, as if it pained him to move, he struggled to his feet, narrow and bare, and slouched into a chair. He rasped hoarsely, “Ron Weasley.”
“Here,” Draco said, pushed a half-filled mug of ale towards him.
After a moment’s hesitation, eyes wary as if expecting a blow, Ron tipped the heavy metal mug to his lips, tilting his head back and swallowing hastily, chugging thirstily and with little grace, causing a small smile to twitch across Draco’s face. The captain appreciated enthusiasm.
“Now, we’ve some things to discuss,” Draco drawled, resting a hip against the table and bracing one arm against the slight swell and rock of the ship. A bowl of relatively ripe fruit rested in the middle, and Draco idly popped a red grape into his mouth, chewing slowly as he stared Ron down.
Throat wet, Ron asked quietly, “Why am I here? What’s happened?”
“The reason, two rather troublesome reasons actually, why you’re aboard will be revealed in due time. The reason why you’re in my cabin should be rather obvious,” Draco said slyly, taking in Ron’s wrinkled, confused brow with perverse delight. “And as to what’s happened to the Hag, I’ve dispatched Captain Pucey and his accursed crew to Davy Jones’s Locker. It was all very satisfying. Now,” he arched a thin brow, “your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“You’re in poor shape, boy. What’s happened?” There was an edge to his tone, he knew, but the damn protective urge was back, and he thought perhaps he should’ve made Pucey die a much slower death than he had.
Ron pressed his lips together, eyes dipped and focused on the table.
“An interesting slab of wood, I’ll grant you.” Draco tapped a long finger on the now empty mug sitting in front of Ron. “Answer me.”
“Nothing,” Ron said, voice barely above a whisper.
Reaching out, Draco grasped his chin firmly and caught his gaze with his own. The boy was lying, that much was patently clear. Still, Draco thought it would’ve been uselessly cruel to push the point right then. He flicked a thumb across Ron’s cracked and chapped bottom lip, noting the flash of fire in his blue irises before they fell deliberately blank.
“I’m not particularly known for my hospitality,” Draco stated baldly. “You’ll work for your passage. For now, I’m willing to let you chose how.”
Ron blinked slowly, expression unmoved. “All right,” he said finally.
“I imagine you’d like a bath.” Draco dropped his hand from Ron’s face and straightened, then called out, “Finch, I know you’re eavesdropping, you sick bastard. Make yourself useful and bring in some heated water.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” a muffled voice shouted, and Draco shook his head.
“Not a decent pirate among them,” he groused, then watched with a dispassionate eye as Finch and young Creevey, his latest cabin boy, paced in and out of the chamber with buckets of steaming water, filling the copper tub almost to the brim.
“There we are, sir,” Finch said when they’d finished, grin wide and suggestive. “Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else?”
Draco pinned him with a narrowed gaze. “What do you think?”
Finch just grinned wider. The bilge rat had obviously been spending too much time with Blaise. “You,” he snapped, “out. You,” he waved a beringed hand at Ron and the redhead froze, a pilfered grape pinched between his thumb and forefinger, “strip.”
Finch chuckled all the way to the door, and Draco shoved it shut behind him, dropping the lock and turning to arch one brow at Ron, arms crossed over his chest.
“Well?” he queried testily, foot tapping.
Averting his eyes, Ron slowly got to his feet. He shrugged out of his tattered shirt, thumbing open what few buttons had been left down the front, and Draco bit back a hiss.
“Now I know it was more than ‘nothing,’ aye?” he drawled dangerously. Ron’s ribs and lower back were riddled with purples, blues and yellows, bruises piled on top of bruises, broken skin a raw and angry red.
Head hanging, dark red hair shading his eyes, Ron stood over the bathtub with his hands curled loosely at his sides, pausing at the waistband of his trousers.
Draco snapped his fingers. “Come on, all of it. Off.”
In profile, Ron’s jaw clenched tight, a spasm twitching along the curved delineation of bone and tendon. “No.”
Anger licked up Draco’s spine at the flat refusal. He wasn’t used to tolerating disobedience; even Blaise was hard pressed to ignore a direct order. Loosing his temper right then, though, wasn’t going to help. “Would you like me to help?” he asked in a deceptively soft tone. He let the threat hang heavy in the air, and after a few thick moments where Draco just stared steadily - really, he was impressed by his own strength of will - Ron dropped what little remained of his trousers.
Impassive, Draco growled, “Are we going to do this step by step, Weasley? Get in the tub.”
The redhead, blatantly striving for a last ditch measure of modesty, turned his back to Draco as he stepped into the bath. Normally he would’ve highly enjoyed the view of both sides, and the boy’s pale arse certainly wasn’t anything to dismiss as it slid past the rolled copper rim, but the marks on his skin served to irrationally fan his ire.
With a wordless snarl, he tossed a bar of soap between Ron’s upraised knees, then he unlatched the door and strode out into the passageway. None of his or Creevey’s things would fit the boy properly, so he shouted for Finch to give him his spare set of breeches and then went topside, breathing deeply into his lungs the salt-sting of the sea air.
***
When Hannah first spotted Ron on deck, she threw all decorum aside and leapt into his arms with a glad cry. She’d gone just a bit wild in the week or so they’d been on board the Squall anyhow, so the flash of breeze on her bare calves as her skirts shifted didn’t faze her in the least, nor did the redhead’s arms encircling her narrow waist, large hands automatically scrambling for her bum to keep her steady. Hermione harrumphed, disapproving of the display, but nonetheless gave Ron a soft peck on his cheek after Hannah slid back down to rest on her own two feet again.
“What’re you doing here?” Ron asked, dazed and faintly breathless.
Hermione eyed him critically, noting the way he hunched in on himself, the slight tightening around his expressive mouth. “You’re hurt,” she accused. “And what do you mean, what are we doing here? Do you honestly think we would’ve let that man win?” That man, of course, was Hannah’s stepfather, who’d long ago jumped to the highly erroneous conclusion that Ron and Hannah were closer than friends. Although even being friends with the stable boy placed Hannah in an unusual and socially frowned-upon position.
“It wasn’t a matter of winning, Hermione,” Hannah chided, then grinned brightly up at Ron. “We couldn’t let you be taken away like that, Ron.” She couldn’t imagine why her stepfather thought she’d just let that happen; shrug her shoulders and go on as normal, marry well and forget all about the redheaded best mate of her youth. He’d always held strange ideas and ideals about her, though, from the moment he’d met her mum eight years previous.
“Listen,” Hermione hissed under her breath, urging Hannah closer and leaning against Ron’s arm, shooting a wary, measured look at Boot who stood a few paces to their left, “I’m not exactly sure how to get out of this mess.”
Hannah stared at her, wide-eyed. “You said you had a plan!”
“No, no, I said we needed to sneak ashore somewhere along the Abacos, but I never specifically said I had a plan,” Hermione pointed out. “Plus, my plans seem to have a habit of putting us in grave danger.”
“Oh, so now you admit that?” Hannah wasn’t especially upset, though. After all, she’d gone along with the whole let’s-ask-some-notorious-pirates-for-help stratagem with minimal fuss.
Hermione tugged a hand through her ratted curls - past being dismayed at how utterly unmanageable the salt air made them - and gave an exasperated sigh. “Look, I know that-ow!” Twisting about, Hermione glared down at the wall-eyed old coat, Moody, toothless grin mean-edged, silver topped cane still brandished in the air, inches from her side.
“Storm’s a comin’,” he said, voice gravelly-deep with malice.
Hermione was perfectly aware that Moody hoped she and Hannah would be topside during the predicted event, preferably near the rail, and fairly close to his dull-pointed stick.
It didn’t storm, though, ‘til they were three days out from the Abacos islands - at least according to Finch, a curly-haired blond sailor with a perpetual, disturbing leer - and it hit the Squall with howling winds and splattering rain so fast that Hermione and Hannah didn’t have any time at all to duck below before getting soaked to the bone.
They weren’t thrown overboard, but Hannah found Hermione burning up the next morning, smudges under glazed eyes, lips dried and white-cracked.
***
Of the three days sail to the Abacos islands and subsequent two days at port, Hermione only remembered three things: cool, dry fingers at her temples, the sharp tang of oranges on her tongue, and a very odd conversation in the middle of a desert with her deceased elder brother, George. Of the conversation itself she recalled little beyond that her brother’s words had sounded thick, muddled, and were strangely tinged with an Irish accent.
Her entire body was sore when she blinked awake in a sun-drenched room that didn’t have the faintest pitch or sway to it, the windows swung open wide to let in breezy-hot air. A young man, short-statured and wiry, inquisitive hazel eyes shining beneath a shaggy blond-streaked fringe, was grinning down at her from beside the bed.
“You’re awake then,” he said with a cheerful Irish lilt.
“Yes,” she croaked, and he hushed her with a hand on her shoulder and a finger to his lips.
Then he slid the hand under her neck, lifting her head and tipping a glass of water to her mouth, and his eyes wrinkled up at the corners, echoing his smile. “Welcome to Blue Cay,” he went on, then rolled his eyes, “Oh, aye, ‘tis stupid, but Theodore named it, and I sometimes suspect he’s got the creativity of a codfish.” Cool water dripped heavenly down her parched throat and he pulled away apologetically after only a moment. “Sorry, lass, y’must take it slow. Been far too long under the weather, me dear. Just rest a bit more now.”
He murmured as if to himself as he puttered about the room, “I’ll send Blaise in t’keep you company. Man’s been a nuisance, worse than a mother hen…” and Hermione drifted off to his faint melodious voice
When she woke again, Zabini was at her side, a concerned twist to his mouth that instantly loosened when he noted her consciousness.
“Hell of a trick to get out of my wicked clutches,” he drawled.
Hermione barely had the energy for a glare, but she managed. He laughed off her attempt at a scowl, though, and lifted his fingers to slide over her lips, thumb coming to a rest at a down-turned corner.
She was understandably perplexed by the softness in his blue eyes. “What?” she rasped, but then the door burst open and Hannah came flying through wearing nothing but boy’s breeches and a loose shirt, and Hermione found herself half buried under her enthusiastic, ecstatic greeting.
“We thought you’d die,” Hannah whispered, warm cheek pressed against hers.
Hermione smoothed a shaky hand over Hannah’s hair. “That would’ve been a stupid thing to do.”
“Aye.” Hannah pulled back, grinning broadly, knees apart on the bed next to her hips, and Hermione dragged an incredulous gaze over her indecently clad body.
“What are you wearing?” she demanded hoarsely.
Clasping the top of her shirt closed at the neck with one hand, throat and cheeks flushing, she said sheepishly, “Millie’s showing me how to be a pirate.”
“Millie?”
She nodded, brown irises shining. “And Ernest’s got me climbing the rigging, and I’m teaching Viktor to read English, and you know it turns out he isn’t surly and rude like I’d thought at all; he’s German.”
“I…see.”
Zabini chuckled. “Miss Abbott’s been very busy.”
“And how’s Ron, then?” She played idly with the light covers, folding them over and over between her fingers. Hannah was learning to be a pirate. The girl’s mother would surely tan Hermione’s hide for it.
Hannah frowned thoughtfully. “He’s been spending an inordinate amount of time on the beach since we got here.”
Zabini’s hand crept forward to cover hers, stilling it against the mattress, and Hermione glanced at him questioningly.
“He’s fine. Draco’s watching him,” he said, which was odd and really not all that reassuring, but Hermione gave him a wavering smile.
Hannah was more animated than she’d been since she’d turned ten and been forced to abandon the stables for the parlor, scrabbling up trees for a dull afternoon of stitching and petty gossip. Her high color was as much from the sun as from mild embarrassment, and Hermione knew without having a single word said about it that Hannah wanted to stay. Stay aboard the Squall, perhaps stay on Blue Cay.
But Hermione, pathetic as it seemed, missed her mare, Whittier, and missed her garret bedroom with the ice-blue molding, and missed her mum, cool blonde and soft and steely-voiced with sharp brown eyes. She even missed her father and his horrendous singing, and she wanted to be back in time to drag the Yule log home through the first snow, the hounds snapping playfully at her heels and her father seasoned, rum-warmed, and caterwauling Good King Wenceslas at the top of his lungs.
And she was still so very tired and worn out and it felt like forever since she’d breathed easy. “I want to go home,” she said softly, and Zabini squeezed her hand.
“All right.”
***
“You are precisely as dumb as you look,” Draco drawled, hands clasped behind his back and stance wide-legged as he gazed off down the stretch of sand. Ron was a speck in the distance, bright head a beacon against the foaming waves, the aqua blue rolls under the sun. “I always suspected as much.”
The breeze pulled at Blaise’s black hair, tugging it out of the messy club at the small of his nape. He swiped a hand over his forehead and didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what Draco was speaking of. “She wouldn’t be happy.”
“And this matters how?” Draco asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the hunched figure on the beach to arch an inquiring brow at Blaise.
Blaise smirked. “Weasley gave you an absent half-smile yesterday and your eyes lit up.”
“That is a horrid lie, Blaise,” Draco denied crisply. “A horrid, hurtful untruth.”
“Of course.”
“And utterly beside the point, at any rate,” he went on insistently.
Amused, Blaise bobbed his head. “If you say so, Captain.”
Draco shot him an irritated sneer. “You haven’t even tried, you imbecile,” he accused, then spun on his heel and stalked down into the hot white sand towards Ron.
The boy was a trial; a test of his wills. He was a horrible sailor, unsteady on deck, green at the gills on heavy swells. He was all thumbs at the sails, hopeless with the rigging, and yet he was obviously trying so hard to get everything right. Draco would’ve possibly found it amusing and admirable if he hadn’t known that the boy thought the alternative was beyond anything he could endure.
It was more than a little insulting.
Ron’s eyes cut to him and hastily away when he came to a stop at his side, the flash of life sapped out of them in an instant; shoulders, the line of his back, every muscle tensing. It always happened when Draco got too close.
“I’ve never hurt you, have I Weasley?” he snapped harshly. Ron flinched and tried to pull back, but Draco reached out and snatched one of the boy’s curled fists, the fingers thicker and blunter than his own. “You could flatten me with one swing, aye? So stop acting like a bloody coward around me.”
“I’m not a coward.”
The boy’s voice was barely audible, and Draco gave the captured hand a slight shake. “What was that?”
Ron swallowed hard, eyes sliding closed. “I’m not a coward,” he whispered.
Draco leant in, mouth hovering by the redhead’s ear, and hissed, “Louder.”
“I’m not a fucking coward,” Ron said, and his blue irises caught Draco’s gray, steady, fear simmering just behind fierce determination. “I’m not.”
The fist in Draco’s hand loosened, and he squeezed it once, lightly, before releasing it with a soft,” Aye, you’re not.” Then he turned away, watching the tide as it gently lapped the beach, foam running up the dark wet sand before falling back on itself. He could feel Ron’s gaze on him, curious now, and he let out a deep sigh.
“Miss Granger,” Draco started, “has expressed a desire to return to England, and I’ve suddenly been placed in a position of indulging her.”
He got no reaction from Ron beyond a slight shifting of his stance, and Draco wondered at the heat radiating off the boy as he drew subtly closer.
He slanted him a sideways look. “For some ridiculous reason I find myself wanting to see you happy.” It was a large admission for Draco. A large, embarrassing admission for Draco, and he drawled, “You tell one soul I said that and I’ll-” He cut off mid-threat, but Ron didn’t move away, didn’t freeze up, though he was clearly poised to run, weight on the balls of his feet.
Ron never used to run from anything.
He’d been born with an unfortunate temper, and Pucey, with his black eyes and mockingly jovial laugh, had taken it upon himself to try and beat it out of him. What pissed Ron off most was that he’d chiefly succeeded. He couldn’t help the wariness, couldn’t completely turn off the jittery panic in his belly, the bile that crawled up his throat despite any reassurances of his safety, and it was only half because he’d grown up on tales of the dread pirate Malfoy’s exploits.
The captain was an imposing sight in person: tall and lean and quick on his feet, slice of his mouth openly cruel, eyes as sharp as the curve of his jaw and cheek. The difference between him and Pucey, Ron surmised, was that Malfoy was honestly brutal - no faux happy spirits.
On some level, Ron realized that anything the blond captain shouted at him, hissed at him, whispered in his ear, was as true as his ruthlessness. He held no pretense of niceties, yet he’d never laid a hand on Ron when he was vibrating with anger, either.
Pucey had watched him cough up blood with a cheerful grin and a table set for tea.
He gazed at Malfoy with conflicting emotions settling in the base of his throat, blocking any words he might’ve said at the round-about offer to take him home. He’d spent the better part of the four months he’d been aboard the Hag wishing he was dead, and the only thing he was sure of anymore was that he hated the sea. Hated it with a biting passion and a sickening clenching of his stomach. Hated the roll of the planks under his feet and the flapping sails high above his head.
Yet, “Going back to England won’t make me happy,” he finally managed, then held steady Malfoy’s gaze when he turned a questioning look his way. Back there, he’d hated working in the stables. Hated Lady Hannah’s stepfather, Townsende, hated being the youngest son of the village’s absent-minded blacksmith.
“You can’t prefer to stay with the Squall,” Malfoy rejoined blandly.
No, of course he didn’t. He shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “Seamus said I could stay here.”
He’d become fond of the salt air and the sand beneath his feet, between his toes, the warmth of the sun beating down on his upturned face. And Seamus was a friendly little Irishman who kept a neat pub, the only thing of any worth in the small inlet of Blue Cay, the safe port for the Squall. Ron suspected the land had been a gift from Malfoy, and one of the sailors, a dark, swarthy, silent man named Nott, had hardly left Seamus’ side since they’d rowed ashore.
Ron started but held still when Malfoy slid a hand around his elbow, calloused yet elegant fingers catching at the skin bared by his cuffed sleeves.
“Do what you want,” he advised, and Ron blinked at him, slightly incredulous.
No one had ever said that to him before, not even Lady Hannah, and the words sounded especially odd coming from Malfoy.
“What?” the captain snapped, head cocked to the side.
“Nothing.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a horrendous liar, Weasley. Worse than Mac, and Lord knows that puppy can’t get through a fib without giggling his arse off.”
Ron found himself grinning at the pirate, and Malfoy’s entire countenance brightened.
“Well now, aye. You should stay here if that smile is the result,” he spilled out, then his lips twisted like he’d bit a bitter citrus, nose wrinkling. “I’ll deny those words ‘til my dying breath, boy, so-”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Ron cut in, faint amusement still painting his pale face.
“And since we’re suddenly in such a good mood,” Malfoy went on, hands fast on Ron’s arms and spreading upwards, sliding into his thick hair, curling around his nape and tugging him downwards so slickly that Ron was too surprised to pull away. His thumbs dug into the hinges of his jaw, fingers splayed over his skull, and his lips were dry and firm on Ron’s, upper pressing into the seam, lower warm on the patch of skin above his chin. And then Malfoy’s tongue was out with clever, slow licks, and jolts of pleasure sang down Ron’s arms, the flexed muscles of his back, the tightness in his upper thighs and groin. A groan welled up out of his throat, forcing his lips apart, and Malfoy drew back, mouth red and knowing, gray eyes simultaneously bright and dull with desire.
He loosed his hold on Ron’s neck, one hand smoothing long fingers along his jaw, the other pressed lightly on his breastbone. “Still in a good mood?” he asked, hoarse voice betraying his level of want.
Ron inclined his head slowly, feeling the narrow fingers slip over his skin, pads brushing the corner of his nose, mouth, and then Malfoy dropped his arms completely and stepped away.
***
Sir Harry was a drunkard.
Tragedy in his formative years had honed him into the sort of man who was a terribly depressing sober person, so he stayed mostly drunk and jovial and everyone in his acquaintance was far happier for it. Three years previous he’d been picked up on accident by the Squall’s crew when they’d boarded a French pleasure cruiser, and, much to Draco’s eternal annoyance, he’d taken up residence at Blue Cay without so much as a please or thank you. He had a room on the third floor of Seamus’ house, but most nights he simply passed out in the parlor, too sotted to maneuver the stairs.
Seamus stocked his favorite rum when he could, which meant that Draco had to haul it grumbling from Barbados, but with precious little to do on Blue Cay besides laze about in the sun and cater to the occasional random ship, the blond captain didn’t begrudge the Irishman the company.
Besides, Nott’s stewing jealousy was always a boon.
Already well in his cups before noon, he pressed a thumb under the tip of his chin and nodded at Blaise, head wobbly on his thin neck, irises locked blearily on the dark-haired pirate. Drink made Sir Harry seem much older than his thirty-three years, but Blaise often marveled at how young his eyes were, serpent green and largely set in his red face. “You’re a pirate,” Sir Harry said, hardly a slur to his voice.
“How astute of you,” Blaise drawled wryly, swirling a bit of amber in his glass without drinking it. It was far too early in the day for him to consume any alcohol, yet Sir Harry thought it the very height of rudeness not to drink when someone else was imbibing in your presence. He held the strangest logic, but then he was never really in his right mind.
“Yes, and she’s a maid,” he continued blithely.
Blaise’s brows peaked over his nose. “Aye.”
“And for some inexplicable reason-”
Inexplicable. Blaise was amazed the bloke could wrap his mellowed mouth around the word.
“-you’re giving her a choice in the matter. And!” He jabbed a finger in the air, leaning forward in his seat, half-filled glass sloshing liquid over the rim. “You haven’t even shown her what she’d be giving up - wink-wink, nudge-nudge and all that. I quite like Ron.”
Blaise blinked at the rapid switch of subject. “What?”
“He’s sweet,” Sir Harry flapped a hand, “for a lad.”
“He’s Draco’s,” Blaise pointed out.
Sir Harry’s face fell. “Ah. Pity.” He gazed wetly into his glass, then took a large gulp and swallow. “Right, right. You,” finger up and out again, this time waggling at Blaise, “need to be more of the rogue I know you are. And I,” he licked his lips, “need more to drink.”
***
Hermione felt nearly naked in the loose linen top and the lightweight skirt Seamus had found for her to wear. The heat of the day had been oppressive, though, so she was thankful for the freedom, and she twisted her hair up in a topknot as she stepped into her bedroom, hoping to cool her nape as well.
The room was covered in shadows, golden-gray with the dying light, and Hermione collapsed on the bed, one arm flung over her eyes. She’d been out on the Squall for most of the afternoon with Hannah, and the girl’s boundless energy was exhausting. Though, to be honest, moving was still a bit tiring for Hermione, the fever having left lasting aches under her skin.
“How are you feeling?”
Hermione jumped with a yelp and tumbled off the side of the bed.
A match flared to life, held to a candle, and then Zabini’s head materialized overtop of her prone figure. “Sorry,” he offered, blatantly unrepentant.
He stretched a hand out to her, but she ignored it, climbing to her feet on her own steam and demanding, “What are you doing in here?”
“I’m a pirate,” he said, grin toothy.
Hermione gave him a wary scowl. “Obviously.”
“And you’re a maid.”
“All right.” Hermione wasn’t sure if she liked where the line of conversation seemed to be going.
“Do you know what pirates do to maids?” he asked, voice dangerous and low and eyes glittering with a wicked leer.
She didn’t particularly want to know. Or rather she did want to know, and that realization was fairly startling, so she cut off whatever his next, no doubt suggestive words were with a bright, “Teach them how to swim?”
All smarminess dropped from his expression. “What?”
“I have no idea how to swim.” She gave him an encouraging, though almost entirely wooden smile.
“You… you’re off your nut,” Zabini laughed - a deep, belly laugh, head tilted back and one hand pressed over his lean abdomen.
Hermione’s smile relaxed somewhat into something genuine at his infectious mirth, then she let out a small, highly mortifying squeak when he caught his arms about her waist and tugged her up tightly against his chest, large hands settling on shoulder blade and bum in an amazingly affectionate hug. She fit neatly tucked under his shoulder, top of her head brushing his chin.
“I could love you some day,” he murmured into her mess of curls.
She felt her face heat up, flattered and embarrassed in equal measure. His hand was on her bum.
“I’m not letting you go.”
“You’re going to have to eventually, you know. Otherwise, this could get awkward,” she pointed out, voice muffled, purposefully misunderstanding him.
“I’m not taking you home,” he clarified.
Bringing her hands up, she clutched the front of his shirt and dared to lean back, pinning him with bland amber eyes. “I didn’t think you ever would, actually.”
He looked honestly affronted. “Why not?”
Hermione arched a brow. “Pirate.”
“Ah,” he nodded sagely, blue irises twinkling, reminding her of the hot sun reflected on the Caribbean blue. “There is that.”
***
One entire side of Blue Cay was cliffs and shear rock faces, making the harbor difficult but not impossible to find. Hannah, one arm curled around the mast aloft in the narrow crow’s nest, grinned wildly into the wind as she watched the island grow smaller and smaller in the distance. She fancied she could still see Hermione and Ron, tiny pinpricks of color against the gray. They’d stood on the very top of the steepest climb, waving as the Squall had sailed past, with Seamus bolstering the slaughtered Sir Harry up by his elbow behind them, all smiles and laughter.
The scrabble of the crew below her was somehow familiar and new and different and easy all at once - the shouts and curses, the creak and pull of the rigging, the low hum of ditties being passed along in time with second-nature motions, the spray of waves against the hull as they cut swiftly through the sea - and Ernest had told her it’d been the exact same for him. Like he’d stepped aboard and was home.
They may’ve gone about it the entirely wrong way, Hannah thought, but everything certainly seemed to have turned out all right in the end. Though she was fairly sure Mad-eye was plotting her demise, just waiting for the opportune moment on deck. And Viktor might be under the mistaken impression that she’d be sharing his hammock. And, of course, she’d ambushed Millie with a kiss that morning, leaving the larger girl startled and stunned and, quite possibly, irate.
Hannah was definitely game for a little adventure.
Fin.