Stranded

Stranded

It was pouring hot, steaming rain, and Hermione was huddled miserably under the palm fronds, arms wrapped around her raised knees, staring out into the gray, roiling ocean. From the corner of her eye, she caught Zabini inching closer and she quickly sent him a narrowed glower. "Don't even think of coming anywhere near me," she bit out, her voice frigid.

It was his fault they were even trapped there, when she could have been far on the other side of the island, resting under the much more water-resistant tarps they'd pilfered off of the shipwreck. But no. All's fair in the dawn of a new civilization. Really, the boys were acting terribly primitive - although she did grant that Ginny was behaving in much the same manner.

Hermione, however, was under the firm belief that they would be rescued. Eventually. There was no need to start wars of dominance... and definitely no need to kidnap unsuspecting women who were merely out looking for mangos. Or coconuts. Or kiwis. Or really any sort of fruit to prevent scurvy. Hermione was knowledgeable about such things.

Sighing, she dropped her forehead onto her knees. "Look, Zabini, it's not that I don't find you... attractive," she conceded. He was a rather handsome devil, actually, with thick black locks that fell over large, light blue eyes, and a smile that could slice your heart if he put some thought into it.

But, currently, he was the 'enemy.' Malfoy's right-hand man. And, if nothing else, she didn't want to go through one of those public verbal thrashings that poor Neville had been subjected to the week before for deigning to talk civilly to Terry Boot. If anyone bothered to ask her, Ron wasn't the best choice for Leader of the Arms. He was much too rash and violent to be any good at keeping the peace.

"But...?" Zabini prompted, and Hermione started slightly, surprised to find him pressed close to her side, one arm planted on the ground behind her back, his head tilted towards hers. That's what she got for letting her mind wander.

She licked her lips. "But," she said slowly, "you can't just go around snagging eligible girls for nefarious purposes."

Zabini arched a brow. "No?"

"No." She felt a bit like she was reprimanding a naughty canine, pushing him firmly back with one palm flat against his chest. Shifting, she pinned him with her glare, watching as he reluctantly backed away. "Stay," she said firmly, once he'd retreated to a safe distance.

She didn't dare let down her guard again, and assessed him silently as the rain pattered heavily against the thick canopy of leaves. They'd all gone a bit wild in the two weeks since their ship ran aground during a fierce storm. Zabini's trousers were torn at the knees, his once white shirt sleeveless and open to the waist, pale against the golden brown tan he'd acquired from the hot island sun. Her own clothing was barely decent, the bottom of her pleated skirt shredded near the tops of her thighs. She tugged and fiddled with the hem self-consciously.

"You didn't actually capture me to procreate, did you?" she asked, overcome with sudden curiosity. While it was true that there was a shortage of females amongst the shipwrecked students, Slytherclaw - as Malfoy's band of deranged teenagers called themselves - actually housed the bulk of them, leaving Gryffinpuff with a measly five: herself, Ginny, Hannah, Parvati, and Pansy, who defected the Slytherclaw tribe after catching her boyfriend, Nott, swapping spit with Malfoy himself.

If anything, Harry and Ron should be leading raids against the other camp. Not that she condoned that sort of behavior, of course. It was all getting a little out of hand. "Well?" she prompted when the dark boy remained silent.

"Captain Malfoy's orders," he said brusquely.

"Captain?" Hermione scoffed. "Captain of what? His bloody tree house?"

It was Zabini's turn to glare, dark brows furrowed. "At least it's a sight better than your oh-so-sturdy lean-tos. What did you use to tie the sticks together? Chunks of your hair?"

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. Really, it wasn't her fault that her hair had reverted to its wildest state. They didn't exactly have ready grooming tools and a salon in the middle of the deserted tropics. "Brilliant seduction strategy, Zabini. Insult me into the depths of passion. I don't know how much longer I can hold out against such deadly charm," she deadpanned.

"I'm not trying to seduce you, Granger," he snapped.

"Really?" she asked, incredulously. "What was all that snuggling about a few moments ago, then?"

Absently sifting his long, tanned fingers through the coarse sand - gods, she was starting to loathe sand - he gave her a lazy smirk. "Malfoy seems to think we need your help."

Her mouth dropped open. "What?"

"We need you, Granger," he reiterated, grin spreading wider.

"But... why? For what?"

"What else?" he asked sardonically. "You're the heart and mind of Gryffinpuff, my dear. If we have you, your boys don't stand a chance."

She should have known. It only ever came down to two things: sex and war.

"Why on earth would you ever think I'd betray Harry and Ron?" she demanded.

"Two reasons, Granger." He held up his fingers in a V. "One, Malfoy fancies himself in love with Weasley."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Ginny or Ron?"

He cocked a brow. "Really, now. We all know which way Draco floats, don't we?"

Ron. Huh. She never would have guessed that. "And two?"

"Two," Zabini nodded, looking smug, "Millicent found your diary."

Millicent found my diary. Oh, that did not bode well. Bulstrode could be brutal, and, like any teenage girl, many of Hermione's journal entries were highly embarrassing. There was that time two months ago, for example, when she'd had that stunning crush on Ron's older brother Percy. Fodder for merciless teasing if there ever was one.

However, Zabini's plan did have a slight hitch. "How exactly are you planning on using that against me? Embarrassing, I'll grant you, but you already have it. If Bulstrode's read it, then you can bet Malfoy knows every little secret contained therein." She wasn't going to turn her back on Harry and Ron simply because of the looming threat of taunts.

Zabini gave her a scary smirk, bordering on the very edge of evil. "Really? You don't think Potter would love to know about Weasley snogging his girlfriend? And how about the incident with Longbottom and Professor Sprout last term? Oh, and let us not forget about Brown and Patil's night of drunken carousing, in which they drove Snape's car into the lake." He tapped a finger to his bottom lip thoughtfully, then went on, his tone blandly conversational, "I always suspected Potter of that, but you have to admire Patil for her daring; her sister's a bit of a stick in the mud."

What was it about the close-mouthed, know-it-all that caused all manner of students to spill their souls to her? She dropped her head back onto her knees, defeated. She wasn't about to let her friends' secrets be bandied about. "Fine," she muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said fine," she grumbled louder. "Take me to your leader."

"Knew you'd come around, Granger," he said smugly.

******

The rain had lessened to a steady drip, and Zabini led Hermione along the edge of the jungle, keeping the ocean on their right side. She willingly trailed after him, not bothering to try to flee; she didn't doubt he'd make good on his threats should she escape. A signal fire flickered on the rocks along the shoreline in the distance, and shouts ahead of them heralded their arrival at Slytherclaw.

Hermione grit her teeth and squared her shoulders.

The Slytherclaw encampment was a sight larger and a great deal more civilized looking than Gryffinpuff, due as much to the greater number of students as the planked housing - boards and nails taken from the near destroyed S.S. Hogsmeade that washed ashore. Cleverness and intelligence stretched a bit farther than loyalty and bravery when trapped on a desert island.

Not that Gryffinpuff didn't have its fair share of geniuses. Hermione, for one. Although her forced change of allegiance really left only Dean and Hannah. She feared her dear friends would resort to primal grunts and loincloths without the guiding hand of reason, and only hoped those two would be loud enough to hear over the din of bloodlust. There was no love lost between Malfoy and Harry, and boys will be boys, after all.

Terry Boot offered her a hesitant smile as she passed him, but he wasn't the only friendly face among the throng of students who spilled out of the trees. Luna Lovegood sent a wave her way, as did Morag MacDougal... although the malicious twist of her lips accompanying it made it less than welcoming.

Hermione's spine was poker straight by the time they reached the middle of the camp, and she felt a bit like a wooden soldier, her movements' stiff and unnatural, frog marching to her doom.

When they came to a halt, Malfoy swung down out of a tree, landing with the agility of a cat in front of her, a feral gleam in his gray eyes. But when he placed his fists on his hips, legs set apart, a brief vision of Peter Pan came to her mind's eye, and she couldn't help but chuckle. Draco Malfoy, the boy who never grew up. He certainly was petulant enough for the part, although the whimsy was lost in the translation. Gay or not, the boy certainly wasn't a fairy.

Although, strictly speaking, Peter Pan wasn't a fairy. He just flew. And wore tights and a feathered cap. And was traditionally played by a woman.

"Think something's funny, do you, Granger?" Malfoy sneered. Captain Malfoy. Captain...

Oh, dear Lord, Hermione thought, horrified. No matter the superficial resemblance Malfoy had to Peter Pan, the situation was rapidly evolving from a bad Lord of the Flies parody to Captain Hook versus the Lost Boys. She'd crack if anyone started calling her Mum.

"Granger?" Zabini nudged her arm, giving her an odd look.

She cleared her throat. "Sorry. I'm just having a bit of trouble, ah... coming to terms with all this. I'm not exactly sure what you need me to do."

Malfoy chuckled evilly. "First things first, Granger," he said, draping an arm over her shoulders and urging her towards the crude rope ladder that led to his tree house. "Let's have a little chat about Weasley." He glanced over his shoulder. "You planning on joining us, Blaise?"

"Of course," he drawled.

"Of course," Hermoine echoed in a disgruntled mutter, ascending the ladder hand over hand. The dark-haired boy was obviously the second-in-command. Mr. Smee, if you will. Although Smee was the equivalent of a shipboard village idiot, and Zabini was... well, she wasn't exactly sure what Zabini was, but she was terribly afraid she wouldn't have to wait long to find out.

******

Ron hummed under his breath as he trolled the beach, jabbing a sharp stick into the wet sand. He couldn't remember the words to the tune, and even if he could, he wouldn't sing them aloud. Hermione always said he sounded like a dying cow when he sang, and she tended to be always right about things.

His belly let out a loud grumble and he sighed, cupping a hand over his eyes to stare off into the endless expanse of blue water. He was hungry. Damn hungry. Hermione had gone off to find lunch hours ago, but even then... he was starting to get sick of fruit. Slytherclaw didn't have to subside on fruit. They went into the jungle, trapping and hunting, roasting delicious little creatures over an open fire.

But Ron just didn't have the stomach for that. He'd tried it, of course. Hefted a small rock, eyes sharp on a fluffy-tailed mammal, bringing his arm back to lob it with brutal force... and then the fuzzy little thing blinked at him with large black-brown eyes, and he just... couldn't. Weak hearted pathetic bastard that he was.

"Having fun, Weasley?"

Ron jerked around, brandishing the stick defensively in front of him. Malfoy was perched on the end of a large log, resting on his haunches with his arms on his knees, hands dangling in between. An amused smirk was plastered across his face and his hair was uncharacteristically mussed, emphasizing his youth and giving him a mischievous air. "What do you want?" he demanded. Malfoy crossing the border into Gryffinpuff territory was a bold move, and instantly made the redhead wary.

"What makes you think I want something?" Malfoy drawled, hopping off the log and strolling lazily forward, kicking up sand with his bare feet. He came to a stop inches from where Ron stood and reached out, trailing a finger along the redhead's stick. "Perhaps I've come to offer a truce. Of sorts."

"Somehow I doubt that, Ferret," Ron said absently, eyes involuntarily dropping to Malfoy's hand, watching as the slender fingers curled around the end of the twig, thumb toying with the crudely sharpened tip. An itch started low in his belly and he rubbed a palm over his abdomen, wishing that Hermione would just show up with some damn food already. He was starving.

"Ah," Malfoy purred, moving closer, "I adore pet names. Weasel."

"What?" Ron's head snapped up, and he found himself caught by intense gray eyes, a dangerous edge to them that nearly made him shiver. He swallowed thickly. "Malfoy... are you coming on to me?"

"Of course not, Weasley," he said slowly, nodding his head in direct contrast of his words.

"Right," Ron breathed, taking a hasty step backwards, and then another. "'Cause that would be insane." Malfoy followed his retreat, a predatory bent to his... leer? Oh yes, that was definitely a leer, Ron thought, panic welling up inside him. He felt the lap of warm water against his ankles, then calves, and then the pull of the tide as it rushed out again, only to return with a stronger wave of sea water that slammed into his legs, nearly bowling him over. Instead, he lurched forward into Malfoy's chest. Neither boy was wearing much of anything on their upper halves, their school shirts torn and hanging off their shoulders. Ron was marginally successful in suppressing a hiss at the contact of bare skin.

"Careful," the blond whispered in his ear, arms wrapped around his waist to keep him steady.

This isn't happening, Ron thought desperately, his breathing rapid, the tips of his ears starting to burn. "Get off me," he rasped, sliding his hands between them to push the other boy away, biting back a groan at the feel of Malfoy's lean muscles under his palms. God, this whole encounter was just... wrong.

Malfoy nipped his earlobe. "Fair warning, Weasley," he drawled softly. "I have every intention of getting into your trousers." His hands traveled down to his arse and squeezed lightly, wringing a funny little squeak from the redhead. He chuckled and stepped back, dropping his arms from Ron's waist only to grasp his chin. "Today, though, I merely have a message. From Granger."

Ron's eyes clouded with confusion. "Hermione? What...?"

"She's decided to join with us," he said.

"Us?" Ron echoed dumbly.

"Us. The better side. The winning side," Malfoy clarified, flicking his thumb over Ron's chapped bottom lip. "Slytherclaw."

"B-but..." Ron spluttered, finally gathering enough wits about him to jerk back from Malfoy's touch, "that's insane! Hermione would never do that." His expression grew dark, ginger brows furrowing over suspicious eyes. "What have you done to her?" he demanded.

"Think of it this way," Malfoy smirked, "you've stolen Pansy from us. Fair trade."

"Fair trade?" Ron shouted, balling his hands into fists. "Do you know what that bloody twit does all day?"

Malfoy chuckled. "I have an idea."

"She sits around on her fat arse," Ron continued, pissed off at the pug-faced girl as well now, "and eats and sleeps all fucking day! She's even gotten Seamus to be her damn cabana boy, and Neville fetches her things like she's the bloody Queen."

"She's a darling, isn't she?" Malfoy commented, one lip curled up in perverse amusement. "And you've entirely lost the point. Granger isn't coming back to you." He leaned towards Ron again, his stance slightly threatening and only minutely suggestive. "She's ours now."

Stunned, apprehensive, slightly sick to his stomach, and, admittedly, more than a little turned on, Ron watched in silence as Malfoy gave him an over-lascivious wink and sauntered off down the beach towards Slytherclaw.

Hermione had switched sides. Malfoy had practically propositioned him. Seamus and Neville were half in love with Parkinson, of all girls.

The world just didn't seem to make sense anymore.

In a daze, Ron stumbled back to camp, only to nearly trip over Harry as he lay sprawled and sweating, a make-shift palm frond hat shading his eyes. The redhead muttered an apology, and dropped down next to him in the sand.

Harry gave him a worried look. "All right, Ron? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Ron rubbed a palm over his forehead, shoving his fringe back, the salty dampness from the sea making it stick straight up. "Hermione's gone."

"What?" The dark-haired boy sat up quickly, hat tumbling to his lap. "Hermione's what?"

"Gone. Defected. Fled. Betrayed us," he elaborated morosely.

"Betrayed?" Harry gave him an indulgent smile. "Come on now, Ron. Hermione wouldn't ever betray us. Why don't you tell me exactly what happened?"

"Don't patronize me, Harry," Ron snapped, and Harry winced perceptibly.

"Sorry, but..."

Ron sighed and rolled his eyes, heaving himself to his feet. He didn't feel like explaining the whys and hows and whos. Mainly, of course, because he really didn't want to get into Malfoy and all his inappropriate touching, but also because, well... he wasn't entirely sure of Hermione's betrayal anyway. Since when could he believe a word Malfoy said? "I'm taking a party to Slytherclaw," he stated finally.

Harry nodded. "Excellent. Take Seamus, will you? He's driving me batty."

******

Seamus was, indeed, making everyone just a little bit crazy. And after watching him bat his eyelashes coquettishly at Smith, Ron recanted his earlier estimation of why Seamus willingly stripped down to his skivvies to fan a reclining Pansy. There was a whole other level there that Ron just didn't want to dwell on. He didn't even bother suggesting that the Irish boy shrug on his tattered trousers as he gathered together his loyal Men at Arms.

He was taking three teams of two into enemy territory. Seamus and Parvati would wait, visible, at the edge of the Slytherclaw beach boundary. Ernie and Dean had orders to hide in the thick stand of trees, fifty or so steps behind Ron and Ginny. And the two Weasleys themselves were going to brave Slytherclaw alone.

A stone-faced Goyle met them at the sentry point, bulging forearms crossed forebodingly over his chest. "Weasels," he acknowledged gruffly.

"We're here to speak to Hermione," Ginny growled, and Ron really had to hand it to her. She'd taken to the primitive conditions extremely well.

She looked the part of an Amazon, strips of her shirt binding her breasts, her long hair tangling down her back, her shoulders straight and unforgiving, her expression vicious and slightly blood thirsty. He noticed that several Slytherclaw males were eyeing her speculatively and he glared at them, brotherly protectiveness taking on a ten-fold severity in their stranded state. Why else would he carry around a sharp stick for? Ernie, in particular, had earned himself several painful jabs over the past two weeks.

As Goyle stared at them, unmoving, Blaise Zabini strolled over, hands casually stuffed in what was left of his trousers. "Can we help you?" he asked, one brow arched as he roved his eyes appreciatively over Ginny's revealed form.

"We're here," she started again, her lips pursed, "to speak to Hermione."

"Ah, yes," he said, amusement lacing his voice. "I should have guessed. Goyle," he turned to the large boy and tapped his arm, "mind going to fetch Granger?"

Goyle grunted, gave one last disapproving look at the Gryffinpuffs, and then ambled off into the trees.

"Won't be a minute," Zabini smiled winningly at them.

Ron didn't like the smarmy cut of his jib. Scowling darkly, he really wished he'd thought to bring his pointy stick with him.

Moments later, Hermione rushed towards them, face pale and hair a ratty mess, worrying the few buttons left on the front of her oxford. "Oh gods, Ron, I'm so sorry," she cried, stepping forward to hug him tightly.

"What's going on?" he demanded, pulling away from her and grasping her upper arms to look her full in the face. "Are you all right? Have they..." he swallowed, his expression pained, then went on quietly, "tortured you?"

She shook her head vehemently, slanting a quick look towards Zabini. "No. No, really, Ron, I'm fine," she insisted. "I just..." she trailed off, grimacing.

"You just what?" he shouted, more hurt then angry. "Decided we weren't good enough for you? Decided that bloody Malfoy was your new best mate? That we'd all just be better off if that blond bastard ruled the world? Well?"

"Well, you see, I'm... uh..." she glanced around frantically. "I'm... desperately in love with Zabini. I mean Blaise. Blaise Zabini."

The redheaded boy's eyes went wide. "You're in love with that... smarmy pirate?" He gestured over to Zabini, who had a disturbing twinkle in his eyes. "The git who stole your knickers last term, and charged a pound each for first years to see them?" he asked incredulously. "The arsehole who dyed Crookshanks red and green for Christmas two years ago?"

"Um... yes?"

Ron groaned pitifully and pressed a palm to his forehead. "I was right. We've all gone mad."

******

"So," Zabini drawled, eyes glittering, "you're in love with me. Can't say I'm surprised."

"Stuff it, Zabini," Hermione ground out, watching desolately as Ron and Ginny stalked away. She couldn't believe the mess she was in now. Harry was sure to hate her.

"Oh, no." The dark-haired boy shook his head. "You said it, Granger. Now you have to live with the consequences."

Hermione turned to him, eyes wide as his words slowly sunk in. "What?"

"Consequences, my dear know-it-all," he said, and suddenly Hermione realized the boy was practically on top of her, chest pressed up against her arm. His leer was decidedly smarmy, Ron was right about that.

"Look, Zabini," she said chidingly, taking one giant step away from him - really, the boy had a serious problem with respecting personal space - "I wasn't telling Ron the truth. Do you honestly think I'd ever fall in love with you? We've hated each other since first year, when you stuck that wad of gum in my hair." He'd thought it hysterically funny, too, and laughed his arse off when the professor had to clip off the tangled mess, leaving her lopsided and frizzy and angry as a spitting wildcat.

He shrugged. "You only torture the ones you love."

"That trite nonsense doesn't float with me. Prat." Hermione scowled at him, hands on her hips. Her dislike of the dark-haired boy had absolutely no underlying fondness, as she didn't play those sorts of games. The whole situation was completely ridiculous, really, and she had to wonder if Ron hadn't had the right of it. They were all losing their minds on this godforsaken isle. Even, apparently, her.

Why else would it suddenly occur to her how wonderfully bitable Zabini's tanned throat looked, the tempting shadowed dips at his collarbone just begging for her tongue to taste. She narrowed her eyes in self-disgust. "Stay away from me."

He rocked back on his heels, wicked amusement making his light eyes dance. "Should be a bit hard to do, since Draco gave me full rein to do what I must," his voice lowered to a dangerous pitch, "to keep you in line."

Hermione took a deep, calming breath, and, not for the first time, wished Professor Binns, the daft man, had never come up with this trip to begin with.

Binns was probably the only person alive - past tense now, though, as he regrettably hadn't survived the wreck - who could make pirate lore boring, even out on the open seas. She should have known nothing good could have come of their supposed three-hour tour, and she strongly suspected that the crew of the S.S. Hogsmeade had fallen into a Binns inspired coma, veering the ship severely off course and landing them in the middle of a tropical squall.

Tragic, improbable, and completely expected, what with the way her life had been heading since joining Ron and Harry's tight group of friends. And Malfoy, the crazy bugger... This sort of thing was right up his alley. Honestly, she thought a match between him and Ron inevitable, if imperfect and prone to explosions.

Hogwarts was definitely a school of oddities, and she would have felt like a sensible, skeptical outsider if she hadn't felt so strangely at home right off the bat in the Scottish castle. As if all her life had been leading up to that first moment she'd stepped through the heavy, wooden doors, and breathed in that damp, stale air.

And now she was stuck on an island with two dozen or so sex-crazed half-wits, and one almost-as-clever-as-her wolf in boy's clothing.

"I hardly think I'll need you watching over me, Zabini," she said scathingly.

"On the contrary," he flashed his teeth in a wide grin, "we can't have you sneaking off to let Potter and Weasley in on our plans, can we?"

She cocked her head to the side. "And what plans are those? The ones that include Malfoy getting into Ron's trousers? I'm pretty sure he spilled the beans on that one when he visited Gryffinpuff this afternoon." So far, besides the information on Ron that Malfoy eagerly gobbled up, she really couldn't see any practical reason for them to keep her captive. And even that was arguably helpful, since the blond had known her friend for a much longer period of time than she had, having been mortal enemies from the womb.

"Really, Granger, the mere thought of you 'willingly' joining our ranks creates an irreparable crack in Gryffinpuff's defenses." He smirked.

Furrowing her brow, Hermione had to concede the boy might be right. They'd most likely feel betrayed and angry, vulnerable and provoked. Bad combinations all around.

She'd always been held in high esteem by the other Gryffinpuffs, often deferred to in matters of food and diplomacy. It wouldn't be too farfetched to claim that she'd single-handedly kept the boys at bay, discouraging them from declaring all-out war with the Slytherclaws. Because, in all honesty, they didn't stand a chance against them.

Gryffinpuff had a smaller amount of students, and little to no sense of strategic planning. Attacking head-on could only result in disaster, and their temperaments weren't exactly conducive to stealth.

In that respect, his reasoning for keeping her under lock and key was quite valid. Out from under his watchful eye, she would jump at the chance to clear her name, perhaps even act as a spy of sorts. She tugged at the ratty hem of her skirt. "All right," she huffed. "So I'm stuck with you."

"Yes, you are." A smug smile hovered around his lips, and Hermione found it thoroughly annoying.

"Well then," she said on a sigh. "I hope we're not going to just stand about all evening."

"We're on a deserted isle, Granger," Blaise pointed out. "There's not much to do."

Hermione scowled. Bugger. He was right.

******

Ron couldn't believe Hermione's betrayal. Over love, of all things! He nearly spat in the sand in disgust, but he wasn't much for spitting, really, so he simply kicked a dead palm frond with his foot and grumbled some mild obscenities.

"What shall we tell Harry?" Ginny asked.

"That Hermione's lost her mind. What is she thinking?"

Ginny shrugged. "He's handsome. Mind you, that isn't much of an excuse," she said, cracking her knuckles. "What do you think of Goyle?"

"Er... what now?"

Goyle wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box, but there was something to be said for brute strength. Ginny fancied he could sweep her clear over his shoulder with one thickly corded arm, and the thought sent a shiver of delight down her spine. "He's a bit... rough around the edges, isn't he?" she asked breathily.

Ron grimaced. "Gin, please..."

She could picture his dark, broody scowl in her mind's eye, and decided Hermione was perfectly justified in defecting for love. Hell, she was strongly considering it simply based on lust. Goyle's school clothes really never did the boy justice - sleeves were nearly criminal on such a finely-muscled beast. "You can't deny he's got a certain raw appeal, Ron."

"Of course I can," he groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes. Mad. Everyone was barking, bloody mad. And, well, he just wasn't going to stand for it. "Get Harry, Gin, and tell him to gather everyone by the fire." He wasn't going to step aside and let sodding Slytherclaw win.

Malfoy. Malfoy always seemed to get the best of him, with his smug smirk and sharp, agile tongue. The taunting tilt of his stone-gray eyes. The cool breeze demeanor and knowing swing of his arse.

Ron wasn't at all adept at games of seduction. He was smart enough to realize that, sooner or later, Malfoy was going to get his way. But he wasn't about to make it easy for the git.

And Hermione... At the thought of her desertion, rage bubbled inside of him. It just wasn't right. It had always been him, Harry and Hermione against the world. They were supposed to grow up together, live in sin together; have some sort of wild, illegal three-way polygamous union together. Blaise Zabini was seriously ruining his lifetime goals!

By the time the rest of the Gryffinpuffs joined him by the bonfire, Ron was significantly lathered up; a hasty, desperate plan lodged in his brain. "Hermione's been corrupted by Slytherclaw," Ron shouted to the group of students. "We attack at dawn!"

"Don't you think--" Hannah started, only to be cut off by a narrowed glare from the redhead.

"No," Ron spat out, "I don't think." Dean snickered, and Ron turned his ire on the tall, dark boy. "What are you laughing at, Thomas? Think this is funny, do you? Think Hermione loving a Slytherclaw is fucking hilarious?"

"Calm down, Ron," Harry said, patting his best mate on the arm.

"I can't calm down," the redhead yelled. "The love of my life is with bloody Blaise Zabini!"

In the stillness that followed Ron's remark, only his harsh, panting breaths could be heard amid the crackle and pop of the open flames. Finally, Parvati offered a tentative, "Er... aren't you gay?"

Ron's face heated up and he sputtered, "Ah... well..." It wasn't his fault that Malfoy was such a persistent, sexy bastard. It didn't mean he was gay. Just rather... gayish.

"Ever hear of bisexuality, Parv?" Smith called out from the other side of the fire.

Yes, that was it. He was bi. His gaze shifted warily around his blatantly skeptical friends. Seriously, he was fond of girls as well. Hadn't he snogged Lavender last term? Although they'd both been just this side of drunk at the time, and he definitely remembered retching afterwards. However, none of that had anything to do with Hermione, and what was clearly Meant-to-Be. "This is all beside the point," he stressed, drawing himself up to his full height and taking a deep breath, intent on one of his famous Weasley rants. "Those bas--"

"All right, Ron," Harry cut in with a heavy sigh.

"We'll attack at dawn?" Ron asked, fairly dancing with glee. He'd always wanted to attack at dawn.

"Let's just think about this," Hannah stately firmly, moving closer to Harry. "What would Hermione do?"

Ernie stabbed the air with a fist. "She'd slice 'em to pieces and feed 'em to the sharks!"

Several hearty shouts of assent followed, and Ron shot Hannah a smug grin. They both knew that the girl would do nothing of the sort, but majority ruled. He resisted the urge to rub his palms together and cackle maniacally.

"This is going to be a disaster," Hannah declared, nodding sagely.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his bare heels. "Yep."

******

A monkey was staring at him. The small, dark, round eyes were fixed on his and, for the most part, it was greatly disconcerting. Not that he had anything against monkeys, really. They were quite cute and entertaining, if a bit vicious at times and... well, come to think of it, that sounded like he was describing Malfoy. If he added annoying, arrogant and painfully blonde.

Ron smiled and the monkey blinked, chattered, and hopped onto a lower branch.

It was near dawn, pale gray lines of light edging into blue on the horizon, the dark waters shimmering with a bare dusting of distant sun. Today, the struggle for the island would finally be decided.

Harry groaned awake beside him and Ron poked his side. "Time to get up, mate. It's a glorious morn for a battle."

Rolling his eyes, Harry pushed up on his elbows. "Ron, we don't even have weapons."

"Minor technicality. Besides, they don't have weapons either." He scratched his head. "Least I don't think so."

The monkey dropped to the ground in between the boys and Harry yelped, pulling back and staring stunned as the creature scurried up Ron's arm to perch on his shoulder. "Good gods, what the...?"

Ron sat perfectly still. "Erm. Good monkey? Nice monkey. Harry," he said desperately, hoping the thing didn't have rabies, "is there any mango by you?"

Silently, the dark-haired boy groped through their stockpile of food and handed Ron a piece of fruit, careful to keep his arm out of what he figured was biting range.

"Thanks," he breathed, then bit into the tangy skin, ripping it away from the juicy insides before offering a morsel to the monkey. With nimble little fingers, the creature grabbed the fruit and took off for the trees, a happy sound emanating from its tiny throat.

"That," Harry said, green eyes wide, "was odd."

Agreeing, Ron got to his feet and brushed the sand from his bum. "I'm off to wake the others."

Harry watched Ron stalk towards the center of camp, then slumped back onto the ground, staring up at the palm fronds above. They didn't stand a chance. There wasn't even a tiny, itty bitty possibility of besting Slytherclaw. But really, what else was there to do on a deserted isle?

His smile was wide with anticipation, excitement jumping in his bones. No matter the outcome, it was going to be one hell of a good day.

When he finally wandered out to the bonfire, Ron was already organizing his troops. They were invading in groups of three, with Ron, Ginny and Ernie heading straight for Malfoy's tree house first. If they could sneak in and capture the king, the rest would, presumably, fall. Although with Slytherclaw, who Harry often thought were likely to eat their young, you never knew. They could end up happily sacrificing their captain for their own survival.

Harry and his team, Seamus and Susan, were in charge of finding Hermione and immobilizing Zabini. Parvati, Finch-Fletchly and Smith were to keep sight of any sentries, and all the others had orders to attack, as stealthily as they could manage - which really wasn't much - anyone they came across. It was set to be anarchy at its very best.

******

Hermione woke up in the most embarrassing position possible; face down on a warm collarbone, mouth slightly parted, with suspicious remnants of drool sticky around her lips, one hand tucked into the waistband of a pair of trousers, palm flat against a lean abdomen.

Cautiously, she blinked open her eyes, taking in the expanse of dark skin underneath her, and, with growing horror, realized she was sprawled across Blaise Zabini. How on earth had that happened? She clearly remembered starting the night off entirely on the other side of Zabini's hovel, and... was that his hand on her breast?

"The natives are restless."

Hermione's head snapped up and she managed a squeak before Zabini rolled over and pinned her to the rough, wooden slats of the floor, pressing a palm over her mouth.

He leaned in close, his lips nearly touching her ear, and said, "Your boys are here."

Her eyes went wide. Harry and Ron? In Slytherclaw? Lying perfectly still, she could just barely hear the rustling of leaves and faint voices in the distance.

"Not very stealthy, are they?" he whispered.

A low growl rumbled in her throat, vibrating against his palm.

Blaise chuckled and leant back, grinning down at her. "Are you going to be a good girl and stay quiet?" he asked, a patronizing lilt to his voice.

She glared at him, and contemplated biting into his flesh.

"You can't warn them, you know, without rousing the rest of the camp," Blaise pointed out, one brow arched.

Damn it. He was right. The bastard was always right. Wasn't that supposed to be her calling card? She huffed in disgruntlement, but managed a slight nod and Zabini removed his hand, shifting to sit back on his haunches.

"What are you going to do?" she hissed in a low voice.

"Have a little bit of fun."

Hermione didn't particularly like the maniacal gleam in his eyes, and the morning shadows gave the impression of sharp incisors winking in his grin. "Er..."

"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand and hefting her to her feet. "Let's wake Millie."

"I'm already up," a hushed voice came from the doorway.

Hermione's head swiveled to gaze at Millicent's statuesque form silhouetted in the pale dawn light. Her dark hair was slightly red-tipped, wild and just as ratty as Hermione's, which made the Gryffinpuff feel minutely better about her own appearance.

"Couldn't sleep through all the racket. Do they honestly think they're being sneaky?" Anticipation rippled just beneath Millicent's words. "Potter's mine."

Hermione blanched. Poor Harry. Or rather... perhaps... well, he might not be entirely over that slight crush he'd harbored the year before, when Millicent had grown into her curves and started sporting a tremendously enviable chest. In which case...

"What's the smile for, Granger," Zabini asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing. I'll just wait here, shall I?"

"Don't think so, my dear," Zabini said, urging her towards the door. "You're one of us now."

She dug in her heels and tried to wiggle out of his grasp. "Not from my own choice," she murmured. "I won't be any help at all, you know. I'll sabotage all of your evil and nefarious plans. You might as well just leave me."

Her struggles didn't do any good, though, and soon she found herself on the jungle floor, Zabini's hand wrapped around her arm, Millicent hedging her in on the other side, with a sleepy Nott lounging just in front of her, a thick stick resting across his left shoulder. And then there was a muffled roar in the distance and several sharp shrieks, followed by a series of yelps, crashes, bangs, and finally, Harry Potter running headlong into Nott and tackling him from behind.

It was all over so quickly, Hermione really couldn't be sure it'd actually happened in the first place.

******

Ron wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong. He had a pretty good idea it'd had to do with Goyle's fist, and Ernie's girlish screaming, but there was a period of time that he couldn't quite... remember.

He regained consciousness slowly, opening his eyes to the novelty of worried silver irises gazing down at him, with muddled assurances that "Gregory" had been punished for his "impudence." It all left the redhead more than a little bewildered.

"Wha...?" He lifted a hand to a compress of seawater that cooled the side of his face, and his head swam a little as he shifted into a sitting position. "What's going on?" he managed thickly. "Where's m'shirt?"

"There was an amazing amount of blood."

Ron blinked at the blond crouched in front of him. "Malfoy?"

Gingerly, the Slytherclaw reached out and touched Ron's face, trailing a light finger over his cheek. "Hurt much?"

"Uh..." Ron was pretty sure he'd somehow been knocked into an alternate reality. "Malfoy?"

"Yes, Weasley," Malfoy said, impatience threading his voice. "That is my name."

"What the fuck happened?" Ron groaned.

Draco sighed and caught the redhead's hands in his, slowly wrapping a length of frayed rope around them. "You and your idiot friends tried to attack us." He arched a slim brow. "Not at all a smart move; however, I suppose it was to be expected."

Face sore, head pounding, Ron gazed dumbly down at his now bound wrists. "My head hurts."

"I know, love," Draco crooned, smoothing back Ron's fringe affectionately. "Gregory is a born pugilist."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ron knew this was all horribly twisted and wrong, but everything was just a bit foggy and Malfoy's palm felt soothing on his forehead, and so he let himself be lowered back onto the rough planks, his head cradled in a warm lap. And then he tugged on his binds, puzzled. "Why are my hands tied, Malfoy?"

Draco absently carded his fingers through Ron's red strands. "You're my prisoner, Weasley," he explained with a hint of mocking. "Would you rather I lock you up with the others?"

Ron bolted straight up, blue eyes wide, a growing anger spiraling up from his stomach. "What?"

"Honestly," Draco chided, letting his hand slide from Ron's hair to curl around his nape, "what did you expect? Can't have unruly Gryffinpuffs running free. Not when they dared to try and overthrow me." He licked his lips, a sly smile pulling at the corners, and splayed his other hand over the redhead's bare chest. "You're mine now, Weasel."

The pure possessive drawl caused Ron to swallow convulsively, his throat bone-dry. "No," he rasped.

"Oh, yes." Wicked amusement twinkled in Draco's gray eyes. "I caught you fair and square, Weasley." His palm slid over Ron's ribcage, pale, slender fingers playing along his leanly muscled side, forcing him closer. "Spoils of war and all."

"Malfoy, you can't." Ron wriggled backwards and kicked out with his feet, hitting the blond solidly in the upper thigh.

Draco hissed, his eyes narrowing, and he shoved Ron onto his back, grabbing his bound wrists and looming over him with a tight smirk. "I can do anything I bloody well please," he growled, pressing the redhead's hands above his head, knuckles digging into the uneven boards.

The boys were of a like size, Ron having only a slight advantage over Draco with height and weight. However, not only was the redhead bound and slightly headachy, he was... well, fuck it all, he was turned on. Immensely.

Ron had the sudden and overwhelming compulsion to give in, but he figured fighting only added to the friction. Arching up, he bit Malfoy viciously on the neck, and the blond moaned and ground his hips down in retaliation, causing a broken whimper to slip past Ron's lips.

He was hard, shit was he hard, and Draco grinned an infuriatingly smug grin down at him. "Enjoying yourself?" he taunted, smoothing a hand in between their bodies to cup the outline of his erection.

Ron's hips bucked involuntarily into the blond's warm palm. "Fuck."

"Mmmm..." Draco's fingers stilled on the button of Ron's trousers, his breath warming Ron's lips as his mouth hovered millimeters above them. "Are you going to be a proper little pet?"

"Hell no," Ron growled.

Draco's voice was practically a purr. "I was hoping you'd say that."

A hot, open mouth latched onto Ron's throat as Malfoy ripped open the front of his trousers, a hand snaking inside to curl around his bare length, giving a firm jerk that sent a starburst of intense pleasure radiating out from his stomach to coil around his heart.

"Ah, Draco?"

Both boys froze, and Ron barely stamped down a whine as he spotted Crabbe shifting nervously in the doorway, a pained apologetic look on his face.

"What?" Draco hissed.

"Er..." The large boy rubbed the back of his neck and chuffed. "Blaise said to fetch you."

Dropping his forehead onto Ron's chest, Draco muttered, "Blaise must die," but forced himself back onto his haunches and ran a sweaty hand through his hair. "Has everyone been found?"

Crabbe shook his head. "Greg and Theo took off after the little Weasley, and the Abbott chit, Hannah, knocked Boot out and disappeared."

"But we've got Potter?" the blond asked, getting to his feet and adjusting himself, the throb of arousal still coursing through him. Damn it.

"Aye."

"Good." He gazed down at Ron sprawled wantonly across his tree house floor, face flushed and clothes undone, bare chest heaving slightly with harsh pants. He wanted nothing more than to lick and bite every inch of the redhead, but duty called. "Come along, Weasel."

Ron growled and struggled up, bound hands making his movements awkward. "Bastard," he snarled.

Draco chuckled and hauled the redhead to his feet, then caught the pretty pink lips with his own, swiping his tongue along the seam languidly as his hands slid around to curl into the small of Ron's back. "Oh, I'm going to love having you under my thumb," he whispered against his mouth before pulling back abruptly.

The Gryffinpuff shivered at the sudden loss of contact, silently berating himself for his quick and brazen capitulation. Had he no sodding control of his body at all? No shame? Although... he was a teenage boy. Control wasn't something he often practiced. And, he reasoned with himself, Malfoy was damned hot.

Not that he wasn't going to fight the prat tooth and nail. He could take that 'pet' rubbish and shove it up his arse.

******

Flight had been instinctual. Thinking back on it, she realized it'd been futile to try and get away, when she'd eventually have to make her way back to the shelter of Gryffinpuff, and several Slytherclaws would no doubt be waiting there for her. So she retreated to a tree, her breath caught in her throat as the crashes through the jungle behind her got louder and louder, and then Goyle was standing beneath her, puffing with labored breath.

"Sodding little Weasley," he muttered, scanning the brush.

Ginny clenched her teeth in irritation. "I have a name, you know," she snapped.

His head jerked up and he narrowed his eyes. "Weasley?" he queried, stepping closer to the tree and placing a hand on its rough bark.

She scowled down at him. "My name," she said tightly, "is Ginny."

"Come on down, Weasley," Goyle said, mock pleasantly, lifting an arm.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Pulling her legs up, she edged further out on the limb, avoiding Goyle's reach. Damn the boy was tall. And broad. And those blunt, square hands of his were reaching for her ankles. Everything about the Slytherclaw was ruggedly sexy, and Ginny wasn't quite sure why she was still eluding him, except for perhaps her innate Weasley stubbornness.

Which was perfectly ridiculous.

"All right, Goyle," she yielded, scooting closer to him. He stared up at her dumbly and she rolled her eyes. "You're going to have to lift me, you arse."

"Oh, uh..." He hooked a hand around her calf and she leant forward so he could settle his other on her upper thigh. "Just, um... fall forward a bit, will you, Weasley?"

"Ginny," she hissed, then held out her hands, biting her lip as she allowed herself to drop down into Goyle's arms. Her breath came out in a whoosh as her stomach hit his shoulder, her palms sliding down his back to rest at his waist.

One of his big hands slipped up to splay against her bum. "I know your name," he said simply, hefting her weight more firmly in his hold.

"Then use it," she said, then added primly, "and put me down."

"If I put you down," he reasoned, his timbre deep and stolid, "then you'll just run. And I don't want to use your name. Weasley."

Ginny's mouth gaped, appalled. Was the lummox taunting her?

"Greg? Greg!" a voice shouted, accompanied by more crashing and several curses, and then Theodore Nott stepped into view, his lips pursed in annoyance. "Oh, there you are. Good, you've got the little Weasley."

"Yes."

Goyle was certainly a laconic bastard, wasn't he? "Put. Me. Down."

"No," Goyle replied, tone impassive.

"Damn it, Goyle, put me down!" She kicked out her feet, only to have the boy tighten his already steel-like grip on her legs.

Nott's brows rose. "No use trying to shout your way down, Sweet Pea. Greg's immovable when he sets his mind to something." He flicked a strand of her hair, giving a cheeky grin.

Ginny growled, and a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle rumbled deep in Goyle's chest before he started off back through the jungle, Nott trailing behind them.

The center of Slytherclaw was near chaotic, indignant shouts of captured Gryffinpuffs mixing with jeers and taunts and laughter. Goyle dropped Ginny to her feet next to a smug Malfoy, her brother scowling darkly at his side, his hands tied and a purple-red bruise marring his cheekbone.

"Excellent work, Gregory," Draco said curtly. He glanced Ginny up and down, a speculative gleam in his eyes. "Feel free to keep her, if you wish."

"What?" Ginny cried.

Draco waved her away imperiously. "See that she holds her tongue around me."

"You crazy bastard!" She leapt towards him, fingers curled into claws, only to be caught about the waist and hauled backwards. "Hold my tongue? I'll slice your throat, you fucking albino. And keep your sticky paws off my brother!" she shouted, and then Goyle lifted her off her feet entirely, his dark face for once showing blatant amusement.

She cursed and struck out with her fist, but he snatched it easily before it even came close to his nose, his meaty fingers eclipsing her own.

"Fine. Fine!" she screamed as Goyle carried her off, urging her up into one of the varied tree houses. "You're all fucking mental! Just wait 'til we get back to Hogwarts!"

Draco rocked back on his heels, whistling. "Sister's a bit excitable, isn't she?"

Ron was just a little stunned over her behavior himself. "Uh..."

"Must be all the fresh air," he theorized, nodding. "And the lack of structure. Give them an inch and they'll take a mile, you know."

"That's a bit sexist of you, Draco," Pansy chided absently from her position in between Crabbe and Morag. She was being treated marginally better than the others, since her role in the attack had been half-hearted at best.

"I was speaking of Gryffinpuffs," he clarified, arching an amused brow at Ron.

The redhead merely narrowed his eyes, and thought strongly about reconsidering his stance on spitting.

******

Harry circled the edge of the dim hut, eyes warily intent on the brunette across from him. "Now, Bulstrode..."

"Relax, Potter," she said, cocking a hip jauntily and crossing her arms under her considerably stupendous - in Harry's opinion, at least - breasts.

"I don't know what you've got planned, but..." I hope it's something naughty and sweaty and deliciously strenuous. God, he was such a sucker for strong, big breasted women. It was somewhat pathetic, really. Lavender was going to kill him when he got back, but he couldn't stop himself from being almost giddily happy that she hadn't taken History this term.

Millicent grinned. "You can't fool me," she said, one brow arched, then she crooked her index finger and ordered, "Come here."

A shiver rippled through his body. "No."

Her smile didn't falter, but curved a bit more wickedly. "Come here," she reiterated firmly.

"And if I don't?" he asked, testing the waters.

"Now, Potter," Millicent shook her head, "do you honestly want to find out?"

Harry bit back a grin. Oh, he definitely wanted to find out.

*****

"I'm..." Hermione trailed off, watching the proceedings with an incredulous air. The Slytherclaws had given up any pretense of holding the Gryffinpuffs against their will, and if it was at all possible to have a drunken revelry without the alcohol, then this was it - Seamus was basking under the combined attentions of Nott and Corner; Parvati was snuggled up to Terry Boot, nibbling on the pad of his thumb; Lisa Turpin was petting Ernie's golden locks affectionately; Ron was... well, Ron was sitting obediently at Malfoy's feet as the blond 'captain' held court over it all with a self-satisfied visage. "I'm..."

"Amazed?" Blaise supplied.

Insane. Everybody was incredibly, deeply, irreparably insane. And, she decided, she was washing her hands of the entire thing.

Zabini was standing somehow cool and contained in the nearly oppressive heat of mid-morning, a slightly superior smirk on his face, and she gave him a long, assessing glance. Tall, dark and leanly muscled. Thin, mobile, occasionally cruel mouth. Eyes almost aqua, reflecting the hot island sun. Bone structure that would have been haughtily perfect if not for the knot on the top of his nose, and...

Funny how she could recall exactly when he'd acquired that imperfection; how he'd gotten into a 'friendly' brawl with Pucey and Flint two years prior over some random, slutty fourth-year girl. Odd creature that he was, Zabini had been particularly fond of his slightly crooked nose ever since.

She could be stuck with someone worse, really. And the quirky Slytherclaw seemed to have some sort of strange affinity for her, even though she wasn't quite sure why.

"All right, Zabini."

His brows shot up. "All right what?"

"I give up."

"You," Blaise's expression turned puzzled, "give up?"

"Let's go, pretty boy," she said, turning on her heel and stalking off towards Zabini's hutch. Glancing over her shoulder once, she spotted the bemused face he was sporting, but he trailed after her dutifully.

She resolutely climbed the rope ladder, stepping into the dim, slightly moldy smelling shelter with a sigh. When she started to methodically slip the buttons loose on her tattered shirt, Zabini gave a choked groan.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stepping close and catching her hand to still it.

Tilting her head back, she regarded him with solemn eyes. "What does it look like, Zabini? I'm taking off my clothes."

There it was again; that weird, barely suppressed sound in his throat. The catch of his breath. "Granger, this isn't about sex." At her arched brow of disbelief, he amended honestly, "Well, all right, it's a little about sex. But, to be frank, you're being a bit too... stoic about it for my tastes."

Hermione couldn't help but feel insulted, although she knew it was true. She felt stoic.

He took a deep breath and shifted his gaze to stare into a dark corner, a foreign tightness at the edges of his eyes. "This is about you and me, and how I've been half in love with you for years."

"You have not," she automatically protested, resisting the urge to smack his arm. The nerve.

A smile pulled at his lips. "You've been over-thinking this entire adventure," he said softly.

"Well," she harrumphed defensively, "someone has to."

The blue eyes he turned on her were softened with something akin to aggravated affection and he shook his head slowly, as if he thought she was crazy, but wouldn't have it any other way...

And time suddenly seemed to slow down to match the sticky island heat, and Modern English started up in the back of Hermione's mind, lazily drawling Melt With You, and she thought, perhaps, it was the single most cheesiest moment of her young life.

And she realized she'd been half in love with Zabini for years as well. Damn it.

******

"It's just sex, Weasley," Draco panted, lying on his back, one hand curled possessively around Ron's freckled bicep.

Ron snorted into the rough plank, but didn't roll over, feeling entirely too naked. Well, he was naked, so... "Sure, Malfoy," he said finally, voice tired.

"Bloody good sex," he stressed, "but that's all."

"Fine." Geez, the fucker was chatty post-coital. Ron himself was a sweaty, sated mess, his chaffed wrists still stinging, and he just wanted to drift off; to blissfully relive Draco's un-Malfoy-like pleas and throaty groans.

"Fine? That's it?" Draco questioned petulantly, rolling up to jab Ron with his index finger.

Ron lifted his head minutely, frowning over at him, brows furrowed in slight confusion. "What d'you mean? Of course that's it. Did you think I was going to argue with you about it? Protest? Declare my undying love?"

The blond's lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout.

"Oh." Ron blinked. "Oh." And then a chuckle slipped past his lips, and he curled onto his side, reaching out his long limbs to hook around Draco's waist and bring him closer, laughter still bubbling up from his stomach. He buried his face in the Slytherclaw's throat, amusement making his shoulders shake.

"Stop it," Draco said stiffly.

But Ron couldn't stop. It was just too bloody funny. "W-what happened to," he wheezed out between guffaws, "'you're my bitch, Weasley.'"

With a low growl, Draco tried to shimmy out of his grasp, hands flat against Ron's chest. "Pets must be kept in their place, Weasel, no matter the amount of affection their master has for them," he bit out, glaring down at Ron's ginger, sun-streaked head.

And, of course, that just made Ron laugh harder, lips bumping against the crook of the blond's warm, salty neck. When he finally lifted his mirth-wet eyes to Draco's face, a wide, sincere smile stretched his mouth. "Malfoy, it wasn't just sex."

"Of course it was," Draco huffed, but his hard expression melted a bit, mollified, and he settled down into the redhead's arms, letting Ron drag his fingertips up his spine.

******

Hannah spotted the ship as she crested the dune and her breath caught in her throat. She'd been on her way back to Slytherclaw because, well... because it was rather lonely at the now-empty Gryffinpuff encampment.

And now... Now they were rescued. Or fairly close to it.

She let out a whoop of joy and stumbled down onto the beach, waving her arms and laughing into the whipping, salty wind. God, she couldn't wait to get home; she couldn't wait to hug her evil little brother and tell her mum that under no circumstances would she go to Barbados for Christmas, and that she never, ever wanted to go out into the sun again. She'd become a British Boo Radley and live in the root cellar. Well, if they had a root cellar. Which she was fairly certain they didn't.

But it didn't matter, because they were rescued and she was going to give the moldy old boulders of Hogwarts a huge, wet kiss when they got back to school. She was going to smile into the spitting, ice-cold, grim-gray Scottish sky and welcome winter with open arms. She was going to stay far, far away from the ocean and any sea-going vessels.

And everything was going to go back to normal.

She'd go back to being a Hufflepuff. Separate. Loyal. Only brave because the people she loved wanted her to be brave, and not because she damn well had to be. When she didn't have a choice about the matter. That sort of bravery was for mule-headed Gryffindors.

She stood rooted to the spot, her eyes trained almost painfully wide on the inflatable raft being lowered into the water, watching as the tiny form of what looked to be Professor McGonagall settled into the bow, and she clutched her hands to her chest, feeling so much unadulterated joy in her belly that she thought if she moved, even an inch, she'd throw up all over the hot white sand.

Vaguely, she heard the startled shouts of her fellow stranded students as they spilled onto the beach a good distance down the way from her, and she thought, viciously, I saw it first, it's mine.

And she realized nothing would ever be normal again.

******

Hermione was never much for handholding. But, she reasoned, the castle was always a little over-chilly and her rings slipped off her fingers when they grew cold, so she let Blaise squeeze her palm and bring it close to his chest.

Besides, she knew Ron wasn't much for handholding, either, and he was practically in Malfoy's lap at the head of the table. She wasn't worried about appearances.

"They think we've cracked," Blaise said, gesturing at the large number of students who hadn't been stuck on a deserted isle for two weeks. Sneers and confounded looks from the house-segregated populace were commonplace, even after ten days.

Dean leant back in his seat, grinning. "We have, mate. We have."

Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Headmaster Dumbledore had somehow, impossibly, set the entire thing up just to shake apart the school's innate house enmity. And - she cocked a brow at Hannah, the blonde girl's fork held threateningly towards Seamus, who'd made the mistake of reaching past her for a biscuit - to possibly bring out the previously hidden backbones of Hufflepuffs.

Of course, that theory didn't make much sense at all, since one of the professors had died on the trip, and that could have easily happened to any number of them as well. But still, the old man was being quietly sly about the whole thing.

And there was a disturbing twinkle in his eye.

Hermione watched him suspiciously, sitting snug at the teachers' table beside Binns' conspicuously empty seat, and Harry nudged her arm.

"I know what you're thinking," Harry said, bobbing his head agreeably, "but he'd have to be some sort of wizard to pull something that," he gestured widely with his hands, "big off."

"Yesh," Ron said around a lump of potatoes, earning a glare from Draco. He swallowed hastily, then added, "He's a bit bonkers, but he's not magic. There's no such thing."

"But," Blaise cut in, "if there was, you can bet Dumbledore'd be the first one in on it."

They all followed Hermione's line of vision, heads turning and bodies swiveling in seats, to narrow their eyes at the enigmatic Hogwarts' Headmaster. The wizened old man winked at them behind his half-moon glasses, and tipped his teacup in acknowledgement.

"He wears entirely too much tweed to be normal," Malfoy quipped lightly.

Everyone's attention firmly shifted to the blond Slytherin.

"What?" he asked petulantly in response to their stares, then went on emphatically, his index finger pressing into the table, "Tweed."

Harry pulled a disgusted face and went back to his dinner, mumbling, "Fucking Malfoy," but without much rancor.

"Elbow patches!" Draco nearly shouted.

"You got some weird clothing-based Tourette's?" Ernie asked, poking him in the side.

Malfoy growled, but lately Hannah could pull off a more menacing sound than the previously hated Slytherin prat. He'd been steadily losing his iron-clad grip of fear on Hufflepuffs in general, as well as his own coveted House Leader position in Slytherin. He blamed it on Ron, naturally, and the redhead merely laughed at him and whispered something suitably naughty in his ear. Draco decided he'd rather have naughty whispers than weeping, soggy Hufflepuffs anyway. And he could still kick any Slytherin's arse, if he really wanted to.

"It doesn't matter in any case," Ginny said, slicing an apple neatly with her knife and sliding the pieces onto her boyfriend's plate. "The damage is done." She didn't seem particularly disheartened as she smiled fondly up into Greg's face.

"All for the best." Seamus patted Hermione on the back, while grinning suggestively across the table at Theo.

Blaise leaned over, nuzzled the crook of her neck and whispered, "You're over-thinking again, love," and Hermione decided that Seamus was right. Alls well that ends well.