A/N: An absence for more than a year is unusual, even for me. Things in RL are not great at the moment, but they're not insurmountable. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed with kind words, or inboxed me here or on Tumblr, to ask if all is well. This is a short, but necessary chapter, and will most likely be the second last in the story. I hope you are all well, and thank you for following the story.

The residents of Amarov's fleet had developed their own way of communicating between the ships. There was radio, which the Muggles preferred. Some of the smaller boats saved their battery power by simple hanging off the side of the ship and yelling out news to their neighbours.

It helped if you had any magical folk on board, of course, because then sonorous came in quite handy. There were not nearly enough wands to go around, since Amarov's magical purge. The fleet committee got around this problem by developing a wand-sharing roster, so that each vessel could see to its magical needs in a fair and consistent manner.

It said something anthropologically interesting about the social evolution of the fleet that its population had not been naturally divided into Muggle and Magical in the months following the liberation from Amarov. Rather, people seemed inclined towards affiliation with their vessel of residence. And it seemed that their overarching loyalties were to the fleet itself.

Supplies were distributed with an eye for transparency. The late Blaise Zabini's meticulous record-keeping system was maintained and made public. Squabbles were unavoidable, but were deemed to be a normal part of a healthy democracy, and provided plenty of evidence that disputes could be solved in ways that did not involve throwing people into a pit to be used for bloodsport entertainment.

The fleet was a floating, transient village, but it also had a very specific job to do - the reproduction and subsequent distribution of D.R.A.C.O X19 to as many communities as they could safely reach. In eight months, they had reached many, and had seen both the extent of the devastation wrought by the plague, and the hope that the serum brought to counter it.

With its own supply of oil and the means to manufacture it into usable fuel, the fleet did not have any such restrictions on the distances it was willing to travel. This also made them a target, but they now had wands to protect them, and it would be a foolish lot of pirates who attempted a raid. There was the constant worry that government agencies would attempt such a an attack themselves. Governments were not to be trusted in the current geopolitics, because they tended to be desperate to hold on to what little power and control they still wielded.

News of the very recent demise of Admiral Grey had caused both relief and simultaneously, more uncertainty. It was unclear if he had been running an entirely rogue operation devoid of any representation by the US Wizarding Senate. Though his execution of former Secretary Beaumont seemed to strongly imply this. Barnaby Richards no longer had a clue as to whom he needed to report to, or what his mission was since the cure had been developed. He was, in essence, a free agent. No more 'Agent' Richards. He was just Richards, or the Cowboy, which some of the fleet residents had taken to calling him.

Professor Belikov maintained his position as the unofficial head of the fleet committee. He was a naturally honest man who was not in the market of habouring secrets. As such, the residents were informed of all manner of news and forecasting pertinent to the fleet. No one vessel knew more than another, which seemed to limit suspicion and mistrust.

Thus, did the news spread quickly when Harry Potter returned to the fleet with Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. By now, these names were known by more than just the Magical folk. Foghorns were blasted. Radio chatter was at a peak. Sonorous was rampant. On one vessel, some unfortunate drunken soul attempted to light fireworks from a dinghy and ended up having to be rescued from the water.

And then, everyone went a bit silent because they were told that the next best thing they could possibly hear, if they were quiet enough and patient enough, would be the rare and treasured cry of a newborn baby over the fleet radio.

The contraction might as well have been a bucket of cold water dumped over her face. It brought Hermione back to consciousness with a sharp jolt. Her hands clawed, gripping at whatever was in the immediate vicinity. Normal Apparition was disorienting at the best of times, and Harry's long distance attempt had been anything but normal. Hermione felt like she'd been tumbled through a long, fathomless void.

There was no void, this time. Hermione's hands found purchase in the form of Ginny Weasley. This simple action decimated her already considerable pain threshold, given that her hands were still broken. She howled like a wounded animal.

"Can't you give her something?" she heard Ginny say, saw her friend's expression of concern and anger. This was followed by the sound of discussion, the pink-plonking of glass, and then the noise of wrappers being ripped open.

She had been expecting a needle, but it was the coolness of an expert charm that passed over her. Hermione sank back into the bed as the agony in her hands vanished. Tense, sore muscles began to relax. She noted that the pain relief unfortunately did not extend to the lower half of her body. The pain was lessened there, but was still acute enough to make her aware of what her body was attempting to do. Another contraction hit and it was unbearable for about half a minute. When it was over, her mind resumed taking notes.

Hermione realised that her hair was wet from a recent washing, and that her entire person was clean and smelling pleasantly of disinfectant soap. She was quite naked under a thick blanket. There were other people in the room, and indeed, it was a room. Reasonably appointed with very familiar medical facilities. Although anything would have been preferable to the military base she had lived on for eight months, or the recent vulnerability of Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch.

She was back on the home ship. Harry had done it. He'd gotten them back safely. Not all of them had returned, of course. Amarov's blue gaze flashed briefly in her memory. She remembered his resigned expression just before Draco had shot him.

"Ginny?"

"Here I am," There was Ginny's freckled face again, hovering above her. "And more importantly, here you are. You've been unconscious since Harry brought you back." The youngest Weasley's expression telegraphed reassurance and happiness. "They're both fine, by the way," Ginny told her. "As per usual, Harry is a bloody legend."

"They'll sing songs about him," Hermione agreed.

"I reckon they'll sing songs about Malfoy, too."

Hermione snorted. "Any songs they sing about him will have to come with a parental guidance warning..."

Ginny stepped away for a moment, allowing an enormous woman in a white smock to loom over Hermione, all but blocking out the overhead fluorescent lighting. Hermione's hands were duly examined.

"Aye, these hands are a right mess," the woman clucked. "Just as well I'll be catchin' the bairn. You just do the pushin', lass." And with that pronouncement, she swept back the blanket that covered Hermione's lower half, uncaring that Hermione was naked.

"I beg your pardon," said Hermione, with a Malfoy-esque coolness that made Ginny cough. "You could at least introduce yourself first."

"You'll be beggin' for a lot more than pardons before we're through today!" the woman said, with a warm chuckle, "My name's Rhona. I'm tellin' you now that we're out of all the strongest doodahs I usually offer my mothers to help with the pain. Luckily, we're well stocked in whatever it is your lot can provide." She pointed haphazardly to another nurse standing nearby. A mediwitch, Hermione noted, given that she was carrying a wand. "Now, then. Spread your legs and I'll have a wee look, shall I?"

"The head's engaged, right as rain," Rhona informed all and sundry. "Fetal heartbeat is nice and strong. Baby's in position and in quite the hurry! Of course, all that running around you did before you got here would have helped! I always say, gravity is midwifery's friend!" Rhona turned to Ginny. "You should go and fetch the da, if he's willing to be present?" she asked.

"I imagine he would be," Ginny said. She patted Hermione on the arm when another contracted arrived.

"Where is he! Why is he not here?" Hermione hissed out through gritted teeth. Damp curls were plastered against her sides of her face. There were two high and bright spots of colour on her cheeks.

The assisting mediwitch laid a hot water bottle against Hermione's lower back. Hermione had many colourful things to say about the complete inadequacy of this addition to her pain management.

Rhona responded by offering Hermione a puff of pethidine from a gas mask. Hermione swatted her hand away. "I'm having a baby extracted, not a sodding tooth!"

"Which one is he, again?" Rhona asked. "The peely wally one with the glasses, or the tall, posh one that looked and smelled like he'd been dipped by the ankles into a barrel of fish guts?"

"Fish guts," Ginny said, by way of confirmation.

"Go on and get him, will you?" Rhona whispered to Ginny. "It's getting close."

Ginny nearly collided with Draco Malfoy as he exited the elevators at the end of the corridor. He'd washed, but he looked like he'd completely skipped drying himself off, before pulling on borrowed clothing that had achieved the dishevelled trifecta of being unzipped, unbuttoned and back to front. The man looked like he was currently held together by a network of cuts, bruises and exhaustion. Ginny rather suspected he needed to be lying down in a hospital bed of his own.

"How is she?" he asked. He practically shouted the question seeing as he had run past Ginny without stopping.

She hurried to run alongside. "Baby's coming."

"No complications? She's been through recent hell."

"None that the midwife has mentioned. It's all very textbook-like since she woke up. Belikov and the rest of the team are waiting downstairs...just in case there are any issues."

On that sobering thought, Malfoy said, "And Potter is still being treated?"

Ginny wished he would slow down to a brisk jog. It was difficult to run and speak at the same time. "Yes. He'd be here now, only Belikov gave him something that would knock out a centaur."

They reached the delivery room, and Ginny grabbed Draco's arm just before he entered. It was like trying to stop a moving locomotive. "Right then, this is where I make my official handover."

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you stayed," he said.

"It should be just the two of you now. Well, before it's the three of you," Ginny said, with a grin. "I'll be waiting with the team. Hell, the whole fleet's waiting. Good luck, Malfoy. Merlin knows you both deserve it." With shining eyes, she hugged him, uncaring that it was awkward and stiff and entirely unreciprocated. "Thank you for bringing them back to us. Thank you for all that you did to keep the fleet safe. I don't know what I would have done if… I'm..." She turned her chin up to look at him, wondering if she could perhaps see something of what Hermione managed to see in the man on a regular basis. "Just, thank you."

Draco watched Ginny Weasley walk away. He took a slow, deep breath, and then pushed the doors open.

Upon noticing his arrival in the delivery room, the assisting mediwitch immediately held out a smock for Draco to step into, and gloves for his hands. Once prepared, he nudged apart the screens beside the bed using his elbows, and went to Hermione.

She stared at him as if he was pain relief personified. Unlike the fleet, their communication left much to be desired. Draco did not speak a single word to her, nor Hermione to him.

"Her blood pressure looks low," he declared, somehow managing to convey his contempt for Rhona's professional capacities in a single, clipped sentence. "What pain relief have you administered?"

Rhona was wholly occupied seeing to the delivery. "Perhaps a soft word or two might be of better use at the minute!"

Draco gave her a look that would have withered a less resilient individual. "How far along are we?"

"If you'd like to step over here, young man, you're about to see for yourself! Oh, well done lass, keep going!"

Draco took his position beside Rhona, his face registering no other emotion apart from clinical concern.

"One big push, Hermione, that's it! I can see the head!" Rhona turned to the assisting mediwitch. "Bring the mirror so she can have a look." A mirror was positioned, and Hermione lifted her head to see her progress for herself.

"The head is through! Stop pushing just for a moment, my dear. Small quick breaths before the next contraction. That's it!"

Ever the star pupil, Hermione did precisely as instructed. Rhona cast a glance at Draco, who was a shade of white not often seen outside of a blizzard. "Mind you don't fall into the sterilised equipment."

"Madam, I am medically trained. I do not faint."

"Pardon my saying, but you look like a harsh word could knock you out. And pray how many bairns have you delivered, eh?"

"Three." And there was just a little something in his voice that made Rhona's eyes narrow.

"Foals," he belatedly clarified.

The midwife guffawed. It was an odd sound, given the context. She beckoned for the other nurse to hand Draco a small, pre-warmed blanket. "Be at the ready, my lad."

Hermione's entire body tensed as the next contraction came. "Hermione," Rhona said, her voice calm and clear as a bell, "we're going to get the bairn's shoulders through now, alright? You're almost done."

It was unclear whether Hermione heard or not. Nevertheless, she screwed her eyes shut and was already bearing down with an enormous, focused push. The baby's shoulders came through, followed by the rest of him.

A pair of scissors and a hemostat was presented to Draco, who stared at these implements mutely for a moment, before managing to find his voice. "Can we give them a few minutes before we cut the cord?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Aye," Rhona agreed. Seeing as he did not appear to know what to do with the baby blanket, she took it from his slack hands, and gently wrapped the child.

The baby had started up a loud, reassuring wail. Smiling and cooing down at the infant, Rhona wiped the face, cleared the tiny nose and mouth, before handed the squirming bundle to his father. Her next instructions were delivered more gently. "Why don't you introduce your son to his mum, while we clean her up a bit? There's a good lad." It was unclear as to which 'lad' she was referring.

Draco handled the baby as if the boy was made of the most fragile glass. He took his son to Hermione, placing the child in her arms. He then pushed aside the edges of the blanket so they could both get a better look at the little boy who had chosen to arrive after one of the most difficult and eventful of days.

"Goodness," Hermione said, gazing down in wonder at the tiny, puckered, pink face. She stared up at Draco with wide brown eyes. "Oh my goodness."

"Yes," was all Draco could manage. And then he fainted, for the second time in his life.