April 2002

The following Tuesday, Malfoy behaved much in the way he had the week before.

He taught her occlumency, letting her practice the forms and techniques. He didn't make it hurt. He barely spoke a word to her. He only touched her once, to tilt her head further back in order to make eye contact. And then—while he was in her mind—she could feel his hand still resting on her neck, his thumb against her throat.

He didn't need to touch her. She knew. He could easily perform legilimency on her from several feet away.

He didn't pry. Didn't poke his head into memories that she overtly did not want him in. He just let her use his presence as a sort of practice dummy for learning evasive mental manoeuvring.

When he withdrew, she stared up at him curiously.

"Where did you learn that? I'm assuming your aunt didn't use the technique."

"She did not." His teeth bared slightly as he said it. "I read about it in a book. Malfoy Manor has a large library. It wouldn't work with most people, only other natural occlumens. Even though anyone can potentially learn occlumency or legilimency to some degree, it's always either painful or so subtle they can barely even feel it happening."

He looked at her and added with a smirk "You could say I'm experimenting on you."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Did the book require physical contact too?" she said in a sweet voice, eyeing his hand pointedly.

She immediately regretted saying it.

His hand tensed slightly, just enough to shift from resting to holding. His eyes darkened as his irises expanded incrementally.

"No.That—is just because I can."

He smirked as he pulled her forwards and dipped his head to kiss her.

It was a cold kiss. His lips pressed against hers weren't wanting or passionate.

It was simply a reminder.

That he could.

That he was being restrained. That, if he wanted to, he could demand anything he desired from her and she had already consented to give it to him.

Hermione didn't respond to the kiss. She just let his cold lips meet hers without resisting until he pulled away again.

"Do you have any information this week?" she asked as his hand slid off of her and he stepped back.

He drew a scroll from his robes and handed it to her.

"Spell analysis and countercurse information for new curses from the Dark Lord's curse development division," he said. "There's a new set being taught currently."

Hermione slid the scroll open and glanced over the information listed. Severus had already given the Order all the details about the curses, but Malfoy couldn't know that. That it had occurred to him was a sign of how useful and proactive he was able to be. If they lost Severus, Malfoy was able to provide both types of intelligence.

An excellent spy.

"This is invaluable information," she said, packing it carefully into her satchel.

He shrugged.

"No, really. This will save lives. I didn't even think to ask for this. That you did—I don't know how to thank you enough."

Malfoy looked vaguely uncomfortable with the gratitude.

"Whatever. It was an obvious piece of information to provide. The death rate in your Resistance is getting noticeable."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, and he stared at her. "How much longer do you think you all can keep fighting?"

Her throat tightened. "As long as it takes or until there's no one left. There's no plan B, Malfoy. There's no surrendering for us."

He nodded. "Good to know."

Then he paused as though abruptly recalling something. "Is there a safe house involving a lot of children up in Caithness?"

Hermione blanched. "Why—why do you ask?"

His face grew hard. "It's been noticed. Someone will likely be sent to investigate by the end of the week. Don't let them find anything."

Hermione nodded sharply. "I have to go," she said, rushing to the door.

She summoned a corporeal patronus through sheer willpower. They'd become a struggle for her ever since she'd obliviated her parents. It had taken her several years to regain the ability, and they'd never fully regained the silver luminescence they'd had during her fifth year.

"Find Minerva McGonagall," she said. "Tell her to prep for evacuation."

As her otter scampered away, she cast another. The sleek, translucent creature stood on its hind legs and stared up at her.

"Go find Kingsley Shacklebolt. Tell him we need a new safe house for Caithness."

Then she apparated away to find Moody.

The process of evacuating children was slow and arduous. All of them were unable to apparate themselves, which meant that all available and easily contacted Resistance members had to be mobilised to carry them to safety via broomstick, repeated side-along apparition, or on the backs of thestrals. Creating portkeys was too time-consuming. None of the safe houses could risk having a floo connection.

The remote location had been a strategic choice. The hope was that it would pass unnoticed by Voldemort despite the presence of a great many odd children in such a small town. In retrospect, it was sheer luck they had succeeded for so long. There were few good options for trying to rehouse so many children in such a range of ages.

They had no backup safehouse for so many. The children had to be split up throughout dozens of safe houses. Ferrying them in small groups to other parts of the UK and then re-settling them, expanding rooms and transfiguring new beds.

Hermione made three trips. After she returned from the last one, she slumped against a wall with exhaustion. She'd apparated several toddlers all the way to Northern Ireland. They had vomited, and screamed, and sobbed with each progressive apparition. She'd been forced to stop and console them until they would hold still enough for her to safely apparate again without splinching anyone.

Minerva appeared and stopped in front of Hermione, her expression conflicted.

"Your information?" Minerva asked quietly.

Hermione nodded, "Moody's going to tell anyone who asks that he learned about it while interrogating a snatcher."

Minerva gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement and pressed her lips together, staring at Hermione for several seconds.

"You are a good girl; I hope that's never doubted by anyone. Are you—alright?"

"He hasn't done anything to me." It was all the reassurance Hermione could give.

Something untwisted itself in Minerva's expression. She nodded sharply and then swept away to help take down the wards and shrink the furniture.

Hermione glanced at the time. It was a full moon that night and she needed fluxweed.

She stood up and walked out of the manse until she reached the edge of the anti-apparition barriers. Then she began the series of jumps back towards London.

She stopped in a large field she often started foraging at near the Forest of Dean. Holding her wand out, she cast a point me charm and followed it in search of the weedy plant.

The bright light of the moon cast the sea of grass in sharp shadows. The clustered trees nearby rose up like a black curtain against the bright night sky. As Hermione slid down a small slope, a gust of wind shifted across the field, rippling the grass so that it whispered softly. As the sliding, shifting sound faded, a low howl emerged from the trees downwind of Hermione.

She froze.

A werewolf.

There had never been werewolves in the area before. She had been so tired and distracted she hadn't even thought to take any precautions.

Then another howl emerged. Further away. To her right.

And another howl.

There was a pack of werewolves in the Forest of Dean.

She almost apparated away but paused, hesitating. She needed fluxweed. If she didn't get it that night, she wouldn't be able to get any until the next month. She had to make the potion. Severus would not offer advice or take the time to invent potions unless it were urgent.

She bolted down the hill in the direction the locator spell was indicating.

Another howl. Closer.

She whipped the silver knife from her pocket and began slicing sections of fluxweed as fast as she could without affecting the potency. There wasn't enough.

She recast the locator spell and ran in the direction her wand sent her. As she did so, she looked up to see the sharp elongated shadow of a werewolf sauntering down the slope towards her.

She skidded and nearly fell as she reached a spot with several fluxweed and cut them down in seconds.

The werewolf was less than twelve feet away and crouching into a lunge when she finally spun on her heel and apparated to the closest place she could think off.

Hermione reappeared on the steps of Malfoy's unplottable shack. Gasping for air, she dropped down onto the top step and sat panting as she tried to recover her breath.

She leaned against the door and closed her eyes as her heart continued pounding violently.

She was terribly out of shape. She couldn't believe how quickly she'd tired out from running. Her oesophagus burned, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain through her lungs every time she breathed in.

Aside from tromping through the countryside in search of potion ingredients, Hermione didn't engage in any physically strenuous activities. After she'd been pulled from fighting, she hadn't had time to drill or practice or even worry about her physical endurance.

Merlin, she was useless. If she ever found herself on a battlefield again, she'd probably be cut down in seconds.

Her breathing had evened, but she remained in place for another minute as she tried to will her heartbeat into slowing.

The door behind her abruptly wrenched open, and she toppled backwards into the shack.

Her head banged into the wood and stars flashed before her eyes as she discovered Malfoy staring down at her, enraged.

"The fuck, Granger, what are you doing?"

"Malfoy?" she said, staring up at him in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" He snarled. "You activated the wards. I assumed you needed me for something."

"Oh," Hermione said, heat staining her cheeks. "I didn't realize the monitor ward extended beyond the room. I didn't mean to bother you."

She rolled over and stood up.

Malfoy looked her up and down.

"What were you doing?"

"I needed fluxweed harvested under a full moon," she said, finding that she was still panting slightly. "And there were werewolves. I couldn't wait until next month. So I had to run away and try gathering as I went. But I'm not very fit anymore. It winded me. This was the closest place to apparate to. So I was trying to get my breath back."

"Where were you getting fluxweed?" His tone had an edge to it.

She gestured over here shoulder. "There's a field near here, in the Forest of Dean. It's one of the places I usually go to find potion ingredients."

"Usually—"

There was a pause.

"You wander the countryside at night. Foraging?" His expression had become frozen.

"Yes." Hermione nodded, eying him. "I mentioned this."

"No... You said you were getting potion ingredients. I assumed that meant you had a supplier." His expression was growing hard and his eyes were accusing as though she'd lied to him.

Hermione stared at him with disbelief. "I'm a terrorist. It costs a small fortune to buy potion ingredients off the black market. I'm not going to waste my budget when I can get it for free and at better quality by doing the work myself."

"So you're traipsing about the countryside of magical Britain, at night, to gather potion ingredients? Alone?"

"Obviously," Hermione said, sniffing. "That's why we meet on Tuesday mornings after I finish."

There was a long silence.

"You cannot." He announced it in a tone of finality. "You will stop. You will stay inside whatever sad little safehouse they keep you healing in, and you will not go foraging again."

Hermione stared at him indignantly for several astonished seconds. "I will most certainly not! You don't control what I do."

His expression hardened, a predatory glint appearing in his eyes. "I do, actually. Have you forgotten? I own you. If I tell you to sit in this room and stare at the wall until next week, you gave your word that you'd do it."

Hermione felt rage bloom through her. "No, I wouldn't. Because you gave your word not to interfere with my work in the Order. Foraging is part of my work. It's non-negotiable. If you want to control everything I do, you'll have to wait until we win. You gave your word too."

Malfoy stood glaring at her, his eyes calculating. Then he abruptly changed the subject. "So, you outran werewolves?"

She flushed.

"No. I mean—they weren't very close until the end. I only ran maybe a hundred yards at most."

"And you're still panting from that?" he said sceptically.

"I—I don't really do any fieldwork aside from foraging. There's not much of a need to work on my stamina," she said, drawing herself up defensively.

Malfoy's mouth suddenly dropped open; he snapped it shut and dropped a hand over his eyes for several seconds as though trying to compose himself. Then he dragged his hand away and stared at her.

"When exactly was the last time anyone drilled you? I assume you practise basic duelling, given you're so important they won't let you fight anymore. Surely, since they let you go out, alone, in the middle of the night; your defence must be second to none."

Hermione dropped her eyes and fidgeted with the strap of her satchel. "I'm very busy. Part of the reason they pulled me from combat is because there are a lot of other things I'm needed for."

"How long has it been, Granger?" His voice was hard.

She glanced around the room. The stupid place didn't even have anything she could pretend to be looking at. She focused on a knot in the floorboards.

"It's—probably been about two and a half years," she said quietly.

He dropped his face into his hand and was silent, as though he couldn't even bear to look at her.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Well, I'll be going then," she said at length in a crisp voice. "Sorry I bothered you. It won't happen again."

"I'm training you," Malfoy said abruptly, straightening and glaring down at her.

"What?" She stared at him in confusion.

"I'm going to train you," he said slowly. "Since getting you to stop is apparently not an option. I won't waste my time dealing with a new contact in the Order because you aren't smart enough to stay in fighting condition. Given the way they all fight, I'm sure anyone else I got would be shite at occlumency and likely to eventually be picked up in a skirmish."

Well, Malfoy's Slytherin self-preservation instinct was certainly still strong. Hermione sighed with irritation.

"It's really not necessary. I don't fight. There are rarely any issues when I'm foraging. You needn't worry that you'll be inconvenienced by losing your precious war prize."

"Really?" he said, his voice airy as he stepped toward her. "You don't want to? Because you'll be done learning occlumency shortly. I would think you'd prefer to fill your time with duelling practice rather than some of the other activities I could demand you participate in."

Hermione glared at him.

She doubted he had any intention of following through with his thinly veiled threat given that he'd shown no particular inclination. If he wanted to teach her duelling, there was no harm in it. She certainly would prefer it. She needed to keep spending time with him. She wouldn't be able to succeed in her mission if they weren't spending time with each other.

"Fine," she snapped, her expression twisting in faint derision.

"You look so bitter," his expression was vicious with mockery. "You'd think I just demanded you fuck me rather than not. Disappointed?"

"Only in your dreams," she said, shooting him a glare.

"Every night."

She rolled her eyes.

"Do you buy all your company?" she said, her voice sweet and her expression condescending. He didn't even blink.

"I enjoy professionalism," he said blandly, staring up at the ceiling as though he were reciting a mantra. "Clear lines. No drama. I'm not obliged to pretend that I care."

He sneered at the last word, as though caring were the most offensive concept known to man.

"Of course. How very you."

"Quite," he agreed with a thin smile.

There was a silence. Hermione wanted to tell him he was vile, but she was certain he already knew. She felt tired and it made her want to be cruel.

"Do you talk to them and cry, telling them about how sad and lonely your life is? Or just bend them over without a word?" she asked, her voice lilting with the taunt.

His eyes flashed.

"Want me to show you?" His voice was sharp and cold as a splinter of ice.

Hermione's near run-in with the werewolves had the adrenaline still spiking through her. She was used to the high stress of the hospital ward, but it was always someone else's life. She felt high on the rush from her near brush with death. She understood Harry suddenly. She felt like she could do anything.

A sudden thought came to her at Malfoy's threat.

She stared up at him, raising her chin.

"You won't."

His eyes got cruel, but before he could respond she continued. "It would be too real for you. Doing it with someone you know. Someone you'd see again. It would mess with those clear lines."

"Testing me, Granger?" His voice was low and caressing.

She stared at him.

"I suppose I am," she said coolly, but her heart was beginning to pound at the realisation of what she'd just done.

He leaned down, his eyes hard, until his face was centimetres from her own.

"Strip."

Hermione didn't waver and neither did he, so he stepped slowly closer until she shuffled back. He loomed over her. His eyes glittered.

"It's killing you, isn't it? Wondering. You expected me to do this to you right off. So waiting—trying to guess when I might get around to it—that bothers you more than the thought of actually having to fuck me."

He sneered. "Well—you have my attention. Strip."

Hermione stared up at him, feeling her face grow hot even as the rest of her body became increasingly cold.

"You don't even want me. Why did you include me in your demands? What is the point?" she asked. Her voice was angry and confused.

He smirked. "You're right. I don't want you."

It shouldn't have hurt to hear him say it, but somehow it did. Especially set with the vindictive mockery in his expression as he stared down at her.

"However, owning you is never going to get old. 'Now and after the war.' I can't wait to see how bitterly I can make you regret those words. So, strip." His voice dropped low. "Or did you want me to do it for you?"

Hermione's hands went up to the collar of her shirt and she gripped it defensively. She was terrified and enraged to the point she thought she might start crying. He did own her. She'd agreed to it. Her jaw trembled and her hands started shaking.

"Power gets you off, doesn't it?" Her voice shook with rage as she forced herself to unfasten the top button on her shirt. "Hurting someone who can't—or won't—fight back. Using what people care about to torture and cage them, and force them to do things. You are just the same as Voldemort."

The malice in Malfoy's expression abruptly vanished and he paled. The check on his rage suddenly disappeared and darkness and magic poured off of him in waves, filling and writhing through the air.

The ice-cold fury that appeared in his expression was staggering. His eyes turned black, his lips curled in a snarl, and he kept getting paler and paler as he stared at her.

Hermione's eyes widened in terror and she cringed away, bracing herself.

There was a tidal wave of fury rising up around him.

"Get out!" he snapped.

She stared at him, unmoving. Like an animal petrified by fear.

He snarled with rage. Suddenly the door to the shack slammed open so violently the hinges snapped and it plummeted to the floor.

"GET OUT!" he roared.

Hermione did not need further invitation. She bolted for the door and apparated the second she felt herself clear the wards.

When she got through the door at Grimmauld Place, she collapsed onto the floor of the foyer, shaking with terror.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She berated herself, trying to force herself to breathe. She felt like she was having a panic attack.

She couldn't understand what had prompted her to try provoking him. If it weren't the middle of the night she would have banged her head into the floor with frustration over her idiocy.

After all the countless times she had scolded Harry, warning him about the consequences of his stupid thrill-seeking; she might have him beaten.

She was an idiot.

She pressed her hand over her pounding heart and dropped her face into the crook of her elbow. She whimpered quietly.

Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus.

Except she hadn't tickled a sleeping dragon. Her actions appeared to have been more in the realm of waltzing up and smacking it upside the head with a beater bat.

They needed Malfoy. They desperately needed him, and a bit of adrenaline made her lose her head.

He was right, she couldn't handle the dread. The constant anticipation. Exhausting herself wondering about what it was he wanted. What he intended to do to her. Constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was eating her alive.

If he was going to hurt her or fuck her, she just wanted to know and have him do it.

Going to him every week, uncertain of what he might do to her next—

It was breaking her to pieces.

She bit down on her lip as she huddled against the door. She tried not to burst into tears as her rush of norepinephrine lost its hold on her, and she found herself sharply dropped low. She was awash in horror and despair.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed quietly.

Her anxiety had quite possibly just cost the Order the war. Or at least countless lives.

She had to find a way to fix it.

She wrapped her arms around herself, and tried to calm down and think.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

When her chest finally stopped stuttering, she stood up and brushed away the tears.

She made her way up to her potion supply closet, she stored the fluxweed and spent several minutes trying to organise her thoughts and force her hands to stop shaking.

She went on to her room.

The door was ajar. Which was odd, because both she and Ginny were generally fastidious about keeping their door shut and locked. Grimmauld Place wasn't broadly accessible to the Resistance, but there were occasionally nosy individuals with little respect for privacy or personal possessions.

Hermione peeked in and then jumped back in surprise.

Ginny and Harry were half-naked and, if they weren't already, they appeared mere seconds from shagging.

Hermione cast a quick privacy charm on the door and hurried away. On the landing of the steps she paused and hesitated. Grimmauld's rooms were crammed currently. A number of the older children from Caithness had been brought there.

The parlour downstairs was currently occupied by all the insomniacs. There weren't many places left to sleep.

She was so tired. Her bout of crying left her feeling internally hollow.

She crawled into a window seat and tried to drift off, but her mind wouldn't quiet itself. She kept replaying her conversation with Malfoy. Fretting over the potion she needed to brew. Re-living the moment all the rage poured off Malfoy and he roared at her.

He hadn't hurt her.

He'd had every opportunity and more than sufficient fury, but he'd held it back and driven her off instead.

A murderous Death Eater with some sort of moral code. An oxymoron if ever there were one.

It had to be connected to his motive for aiding the Order.

What did he want?

It aggravated her deeply that she couldn't figure it out.

After tossing about on the window seat for half an hour, she sat up with a sigh. She didn't want to try brewing Severus' potion until she was rested. She clambered up and went to the uppermost floor of the house. There was a practice room there.

She looked in and found it empty.

She made her way into the middle of the room and, drawing her wand, began making her way through some of the duelling poses.

When she'd returned from her healer training throughout Europe, she'd only participated in two small skirmishes before the Order decided the pull her permanently from combat. After the years away she'd gotten rusty, far less proficient in duelling than anyone else in her age group. The rest of DA were fast and cast powerful spells, dodging and weaving while maintaining excellent precision even from a distance.

Healing was subtle. It almost always required holding back. Close work with attention to tiny details.

Trying to duel again was such a reversal in the technique that she'd been awful.

Ron and Harry devoted quite a bit of time trying to help her catch up, but before she'd managed to do so, Kingsley advised pulling her entirely from combat. No one made so much as a murmur in disagreement.

Hermione understood the rationale, but years later the decision still hurt. She'd felt as though she'd failed somehow and was being shunted off—away from everyone else.

The original DA had become a tight-knit combat unit that she was not a member of.

Hermione bit her lip and cast a protego as powerfully as she could. The shield bloomed in front of her.

She sighed in relief as she withdrew the spell. At least she could still manage that.

She cast a series of hexes at the dummies across the room. Half of them hit their targets. None of them precisely.

She flushed and tried again. She was somehow worse the second time.

Hermione berated herself. She was standing still. Not on a battlefield. Not while having any spells directed back at her.

She was shite.

In the unlikely event that Malfoy trained her, he would tear her to pieces for how inept she'd become.

She squared her shoulders and tried again.

She cast a few more complex curses.

Well, she could manage that.

It wasn't a lack of proficiency when it came to combat magic. She was simply terrible at the actual combat aspect.

That was some consolation.

Well, not really.

She kept going until she was so tired her hands were shaking from exhaustion. Then she dropped onto one the training mats and fell asleep.

"Hermione, bloody hell? Why are you in here?"

Hermione squinted the next morning and found Ron standing over her, flanked by Ginny, Neville, Dean, Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, Padma, Fred and Angelina.

She sat up with a groan and rubbed her eyes.

"'My bed got taken in the rehousing shuffle," she lied, shooting Ginny a look. "I came here to sleep."

"Oh," said Ron. "Well, we're going to be practising an attack formation before Neville and Seamus have to head out on that recon mission. So—we need the room."

Hermione nodded and stood.

"Can I watch?" she found herself asking.

Ron furrowed his forehead and stared at her.

"Sure. I guess. If you have time for it. Just—keep a shield up. Lot of hexes will be going.

Hermione backed into a corner and watched Ron lay out the strategy. She couldn't track all the terms they used. It wasn't traditional combat terminology, rather a sort of shorthand that had evolved among the fighters over time. Their own language.

As they scattered across the room, she cast a shield around herself. Ron activated one of the wards on the room with a charm, and then everyone started casting a series of hexes toward the walls.

The spells bounced off and ricocheted back and forth across the rooms. Soon the room was full of flying magic.

Hermione watched as the DA members began running through the attack formation. Their spells were all precise. Their shields powerful. None of them even got nicked by the flying spells. It was instinctive for them. They knew when their shields needed to be renewed. They knew how everyone else fought; who would cover for them. They fought closely and cast nonverbally.

Their combat skills were vastly superior to her own. It would take a miracle for her to catch up.

She watched them run through the formation twice before she turned and slipped out of the practice room.

She went to her potion supply closet, gathered up the ingredients, and got ready to begin brewing.

The following Tuesday she apparated into Whitecroft and approached the location of the shack slowly.

She wondered if Malfoy would be there. She prayed that he would.

She had no idea how to fix things if he refused to even appear. She could only hope that whatever was causing him to spy was sufficient motivation that her actions couldn't dissuade him.

If he weren't there, she would wait.

If he was there—she hoped he would just punish her and get it over with, rather than force her to continuously dread it.

The door had been repaired. She braced herself and pushed it open.

Empty.

After waiting for a minute she went over to the chair by the table. Her stomach was twisting itself in dread, and she tried to distract herself by reciting arithmancy formulas while she sat there.

She just needed to stop thinking about what might happen next.

Suddenly there was a sharp crack and she stood and turned sharply as Malfoy appeared. He stood staring at her, his expression indecipherable.

Hermione didn't say anything. She just looked at him. She was relieved she wasn't trembling.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. That needle-like sensation of terror began lacing through her spine. She suddenly felt cold. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as she braced herself.

She could see his jaw clench and he glanced away from her.

He was apparently not intending to speak first.

She took a deep breath. She needed him. He was clearly still furious with her but she had to fix it. Whatever it took.

"I'm sorry," she said desperately. "I lost my head and crossed a line. I'm sorry. Whatever I need to do to make it up—I'll do whatever you want. Just let me fix this."