September 2002

When Hermione returned to the shack the following week, there was no scroll on the table.

There was also no table and no chairs. The little bit of furniture that had been there before was gone.

Her stomach dropped, and she felt the doorknob rattle in her hand.

She kept staring, willing a scroll to appear. She looked around the rest of the room. Perhaps she'd overlooked something.

The furniture was gone.

She walked slowly into the room and glanced around.

Maybe he was just busy. Maybe he'd bring it in the evening, she thought nervously.

But the furniture was gone.

Maybe he'd been injured or killed. It hadn't even occurred to her until just then; he might die and she wouldn't even know. He'd just disappear, and she'd never see him again.

Surely Severus would let her know if Draco died...

Besides, the furniture was gone.

She stood in the middle of the room, wondering what to do.

Surely he wouldn't end his arrangement with the Order just because she'd bled on his second-hand furniture. He'd had his back carved into ribbons to be a spy. Trailing blood into his safehouse could not possibly be his limit.

Perhaps he'd just burned the furniture.

She turned around one last time and then started for the door. She'd come back in the evening. If there was nothing by the next week, then she'd let herself panic. She wasn't going to let herself panic yet. There might be some other explanation.

She was halfway out the door when she heard a pop. She turned and found Malfoy standing in the center of the room.

She stared at him, wide-eyed and uncertain. He looked her up and down, as though he expected her to be injured again.

"We should resume training," he said after a moment.

Hermione said nothing. She felt torn between a desire to laugh or cry. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she tried to swallow past a hard lump in her throat. Her hand shook faintly as she fought to hold in all the furious things she wanted to say.

I've been here every week. You're the one who stopped coming. I didn't even want to drink that night. You made me stay and then punished me for it. Why do you even care? Why are you here? Why are you spying for us? Why can't you make sense so I can stop wondering if you're redeemable or not? I was here. I was here and you were the one who never came back.

She didn't say anything. She just stood in the doorway.

She wanted to just turn and leave. To go and try to make sense of why she cared.

She cared. She felt betrayed.

He'd given her dire warnings, ordered her to work out, practice dueling, and be careful. He'd made her paranoid and stressed every time she ventured out to forage for potion ingredients until she could hardly breathe when she was out; until she couldn't even eat the night before because the food tasted like ash, and her stomach knotted so tightly with anxiety that she couldn't force it down.

He'd made her realise how much she didn't want to die.

She didn't want to die.

He'd told her he'd train her, ridiculed her for not being ruthless enough, and then—abandoned her.

He didn't abandon the Order.

He'd only abandoned her.

Which should have been fine. It should have been fine with her. It was always only supposed to be about the Order. But it had hurt. Every week he hadn't shown up had felt like being abandoned all over again.

Was she just that easy to leave behind?

Her chest stuttered, and her cheekbones ached from the effort it took not to cry.

She didn't do anything; didn't say anything. She just stared at him wide-eyed and kept swallowing until she stopped feeling like she might burst into tears.

"Alright," she said. "Today? Or is this just a heads up for next week."

"Today," he said. "Unless you have other commitments this morning."

She did not have other commitments. She had time. With Padma slowly taking over more and more of Hermione's work, Hermione rarely had other commitments. Unless Kingsley needed her, or there was a serious injury, she was completely at Malfoy's disposal.

She suspected he knew that.

She was a Dark Arts Healer and curse specialist. She had a Potions Mastery. She had left behind and eventually given up all her friends to become those things; to become an asset in the war effort.

But the contribution the Order most needed from her, was for her to mould herself into a femme fatale capable of emotionally manipulating Draco Malfoy into depending on her; to try to take advantage of his lack of intimacy until she owned him.

Sometimes it made her so angry she thought she'd die from it.

It was all Malfoy's fault. He'd asked for her. He'd done this to them both, but she was currently the only one paying for it.

There were moments when she resented him so much it felt like her heart might beat itself into dust within her chest.

She stepped back inside the shack and closed the door.

"When you escaped the vampire, how did you do it?" he asked after a moment.

"It had my wand arm pinned, so I stabbed it through the temple with my silver harvesting knife," she said shrugging, trying not to look at him.

It hurt—to look at him.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving her. "Do you usually have a knife on you?"

"Well, it's for harvesting, so yes, it's usually in my satchel."

"You should wear it. You keep your wand in a holster on your arm, don't you?" His gaze dropped down and ran up and down her body as though he were cataloguing her.

"Well, sometimes," she said, crossing her arms across her chest, uncomfortable under the attention. "It's almost eleven inches long. My forearms aren't that long. Wearing it restricts my arm movement. I either lose my wrist mobility or I can't bend my elbow."

She drew her wand from the pocket in her jacket and held it next to her forearm to demonstrate.

Draco scowled and rolled his jaw.

"That's problematic. Where do you keep it?"

"If I have a jacket I keep it in an inner-pocket. If I don't then I have it in my satchel or in my pocket."

"That's not fast enough. If you're attacked you won't be able to draw it in time. You should at least have a knife. Your clothing is shielded now, isn't it?"

"It is," Hermione said immediately. "Everything I wear when I'm foraging has shield charms applied to them."

George and others in the hospice safe-houses who still had hands steady enough to do spellwork spent most of their time weaving shield spells into spare clothing for the Resistance fighters.

"Do you prefer cloaks or jackets?" he asked after a moment, his tone almost suspiciously casual.

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Cloaks blend in better in the Wizarding world. A jacket on a woman tends to signal that she's Muggle-born," she said.

"Alright, then," he said, drawing his wand from his wrist but then switching it into his right hand. "Let's see if you've improved since last time."

Hermione put down her satchel and warded it before entering dueling pose.

She'd improved dramatically since they'd last practiced when he'd been injured. She'd exercised to the point that her stamina was decent, and both Kingsley and Moody had drilled her several times.

She was also angry enough that she wanted to hex Draco.

He actually moved to avoid several of her hexes and she blocked most of the water he sent at her. Finally he stopped.

"You've gotten better," he said.

"I don't want to die," she said with a shrug. Her voice was only slightly bitter.

"Good," he said with a sharp nod. He stashed his wand and reached into his robes. He pulled out a scroll and then a flagon that Hermione immediately recognized as being filled with Essence of Dittany.

She gasped and held out her hands without thinking. Essence of Dittany required such vast quantities of Dittany leaves it was rare that she had any of it. They'd gotten a supply of it when the Order had raided the curse division, but she'd used most of it healing prisoners. What was left she'd used to neutralise the venom in his runes.

She hadn't been able to afford to buy or produce more after that. A single drop required a bushel of leaves. She usually made her Dittany into powder or tinctures instead. The efficacy was lower, but her foraging supplies lasted longer that way; stretched to heal more people.

"Don't go into Hampshire again," he said. "There are hundreds of vampires there. You were lucky to have survived."

She hesitantly accepted the flagon.

"Is this going to expose you?" she asked, running her hands over the glass longingly. "This is a suspicious quantity. An individual couldn't use this much in a lifetime."

He smirked dismissively. "I'm a General in the Dark Lord's armies, I can ask for anything I want. Those who question it tend to find their tongues missing."

Hermione blanched and Draco rolled his eyes.

"I'm being facetious, Granger. I have never cut out anyone's tongue. Suffice to say, I'm not going to do anything that risks blowing my cover just because of you." He sneered at her as he shoved the scroll of information into her hands.

"Keep practicing." He vanished soundlessly.

Hermione stared at the empty space for several minutes before she left.

When she got back to Grimmauld, she surreptitiously divvied the Essence of Dittany into dozens of tiny vials and hid them carefully. Most Order members were too ignorant about potions to notice or wonder if Hermione suddenly had an endless supply of it, but Padma would know. They'd been trying to invent ways to stretch their meager supply of Dittany for weeks.

Malfoy was quiet and surly when he trained her. He ignored her questions and only spoke to scold her angrily when she did something wrong.

She would have almost thought he hated her, except every time she walked in the door he instantly appeared and looked as though he were bracing himself to find her injured; his eyes ran over her from head to toe as though to reassure himself.

The dueling sessions kept getting longer and longer.

Hermione pretended not to notice.

Several weeks later Malfoy pulled out a shielded cloak. She looked it over carefully.

"All my clothing is already shielded." She held her cloak in front of herself and found that it was perfectly sized for her height.

"This is shielded with manticore blood."

She looked over at him sharply. "Does that mean you killed it?"

"No. It's surprisingly difficult to come up with a good excuse for killing them. But it seems that mine is strangely lethargic, McNair cannot understand why," he said with a smirk.

"You're bleeding it," Hermione said, looking at the cloak again.

He nodded. "They don't do well in cold climates. Perhaps it will come to an unfortunate end this winter. If I'm lucky it will mature enough to produce venom before succumbing to the cold."

"I hope you're not torturing it," Hermione said, eyeing him. "It's sentient. And even if it weren't, every living thing should be treated humanely."

"I am not torturing it. Although describing it as sentient just because it can speak is highly generous," Draco said with a faint sneer. "All it does is croon about how it wants to eat me alive."

"If you were keeping me prisoner and draining me of my magical abilities I'd croon similarly," Hermione said.

Draco laughed mirthlessly.

"Thank you, for the cloak," Hermione said after she looked it over carefully. It was beautifully made. It had temperature regulating charms woven into it so she could wear it all year round and it was lined with dozens of undetectably expanded pockets for her to stash things inside. The hem was charmed not to be tripped on. Even without the manticore blood protection, the cloak had to be worth a small fortune in craftsmanship.

"Consider it my thanks for healing my back," he said without looking at her.

She looked over at him and he stared determinedly out the window. "Are they—," she hesitated. "Did the scar tissue set properly? I—you—you never came—when I came to check on them."

"They're fine," he said in a stiff voice. "Physically, I can barely feel them. I had no need for further attention."

His jaw was rolling slightly, rippling as he clenched it. Hermione stared at him for a moment before dropping her eyes back down to the cloak.

"Well, that's good," she said. "I—hadn't ever done the procedure to that extent before. I was worried—"

"Don't be! I have no need for the concern of someone like you."

Hermione stared at him wide-eyed. He balled his hands into fists as he stared at her.

"I just meant—,"she started.

"Just back off, Granger," he said in hard voice. He wrenched a scroll out of his robes and dropped it onto the ground before vanishing.

Hermione picked up the scroll thoughtfully, tapping her chin after she stashed everything in her satchel.

She left the shack and walked toward the creek deep in thought.

What had he said about the influence of the runes?

" They don't countermand my own behavior, but it's as though new elements have been written in. It's easier to be ruthless. Somewhat harder to dissuade myself from impulses. Not that I had much distracting me before, but now, everything else feels even less consequential."

She had the runic vow memorised, she'd spent so many evenings staring at it. Unhesitating, cunning, unfailing, ruthless, and unyielding; driven to succeed....

But what he was driven to succeed in was unstated; left to his discretion.

He wanted her.

She was almost certain of it. He was currently torn between his determination to push her away and a desire to have her.

That was why he had been so enraged that she had been injured.

He couldn't dissuade himself to the point of not caring if she died, but he was determined not to give into wanting her and compromising himself. The Malfoys were possessive like dragons, Severus had said.

He knew what she was doing; what she had been sent to do. She could see it in the resentful way he stared at her. There was a vicious rage in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

But he'd become cornered by the realization that she would likely die if he didn't train her. The vampire attack had been remarkably good luck. If she'd tried to stage it it couldn't have come out better.

If she kept him near her, it was only a matter of time before he'd finally slip; he'd want her too much to keep holding back. The runes would assure it.

When that happened...

Hermione sighed.

When that happened she'd own him.

Unless he was so desperate to free himself of his obsession that he killed her.

In some moments, when she felt his eyes on her as they were dueling, it felt like a coin toss between the two. As though he were constantly weighing the options.

Confident as she had become in his attention, she wasn't confident enough to say whether she would survive it. There was so much about Draco Malfoy that she did not know or understand. When she looked at him, she could only wonder whether he was the type of person who destroyed the things he loved.

Whatever it was he wanted—his motive for spying—he'd killed countless people already to try obtaining it. If he thought she was in the way...she might be next.

Unhesitating, cunning, unfailing, ruthless, and unyielding; driven to succeed....

Hermione twisted the strap of her satchel as she stood thinking.

She needed to prioritise training Padma during any spare time she had.

Padma had a decent aptitude for healing, she stayed calm under pressure and had a good head for memorising all the spells and variations. She did have trouble with the precision needed in certain healing wand-work, and she tended to rely on rote memorisation rather than embracing the creativity necessary for inventing counter-curses. But Hermione hoped that, with Poppy's help, Padma would be able to replace Hermione sufficiently.

Hermione had started taking Padma foraging with her. Someone else needed to know how to gather the local potion supplies; with winter approaching they needed to try to stock up. But Hermione was careful not to let Draco know she had a foraging partner. If he found out, he'd probably stop training her.

She foraged with Padma on Thursday mornings. Tuesdays she still went alone, but more cautiously.

Hermione needed to have everything in place before she tried to progress things further with Draco.

She watched the water sliding beneath the bridge and wondered if she was stalling.

She didn't want to die.

The past few weeks she'd found herself thinking about dying almost as much as she thought about Draco.

After feeling the vampire's fangs sinking into her shoulder, she was abruptly confronted with the fact that on primal level she had an absolute determination not to die. She hadn't realised how overwhelming the drive was.

Rationally she had always regarded dying as something she could face. For a good reason, she would gladly die.

But the instant she felt the terror of hands pinning her to the ground and teeth sinking into her flesh, the instinct to fight her way free and kill anything that got in the way had swallowed her mind. She hadn't realised how her survival instinct would superseded everything.

She hadn't realised how much she didn't want to die.

But if it came down to her and Draco, she probably would die. He could kill her so easily. Another corpse for his body count. She'd probably bleed together with all the rest of his dead after a while.

She smiled bitterly to herself as she thought about the contrast between them.

Hermione's body count was a representation of her failures. Everyone she hadn't saved.

Draco's body count was an illustration of his achievement. Everything he was and why he was valuable to both Voldemort and the Order.

Their relationship—whatever it was and wherever it was headed—felt like some cruel form of irony. It was as though they were the reverse of each other.

Yin and yang. They circled inexorably.

Somehow the war had tied them together

She apparated back to Grimmauld Place and went to find Kingsley.

Generally she spoke solely to Moody, but Alastor was in Ireland training new recruits with Remus and Tonks.

Kingsley was standing in the war room, staring at a map on the wall. Hermione knew he was aware of her presence, but he didn't immediately acknowledge her.

"Kingsley," Hermione said as she closed the door softly, "could I have a word?"

He turned with a sharp pivot, his robes fluttering around him and cast several privacy wards on the room before he spoke.

"Granger," he said, "new information?"

Hermione unbuckled her satchel and handed the scroll to him. Kingsley unfurled it and ran his eyes across it for a minute before stashing it inside his robes and looking at Hermione again.

"Do you need to speak with me about something, Granger?"

Hermione stared at him for a moment. Ever since Draco had demanded her, Kingsley had stopped using her first name. She had noticed. He referred to Harry and Ron and most of the other members of the Order by their first names, but he always used her surname to address her. To impersonalise her to himself, she had concluded.

"I think Severus has spoken to you and Moody, about his concerns regarding Malfoy," she said.

Kingsley nodded, his expression betraying nothing. "Yes, we've spoken."

Hermione nodded. "The way things are going... I'm beginning to think there's at least a chance Malfoy may kill me."

Kingsley looked at her squarely and straightened his robes. "Are you asking for us to pull you out, Granger?"

Hermione looked away and stared at a still life painting on the wall. "No. We need the information. We'd probably all be dead by now if not for Malfoy. I just—I want to know what I should prioritise while I'm training Padma to replace me. She doesn't have two years like I did, and there is still too much basic healing she needs to learn before I can teach her advanced Dark Arts healing. And then there's potions and foraging. I'm just not sure—She's not as driven as I was. I know she wanted to stay in the field with Parvati. So I need to know what you and Moody regard as the highest priorities."

Kingsley was silent for a minute.

"I'll speak with Alastor and look over the hospital's reports. Perhaps make a list of what areas we have no redundancy in. I'll have an answer next week."

"Alright," Hermione said, nodding. Her voice sounded stilted and mechanical.

"Granger. Tell me, what exactly is the strategy you're trying to employ?"

She looked back over at Kingsley and felt tired.

"He wants me. He's obsessive, and he wants me. But he knows what I'm doing. I can tell, by the way he looks at me, that he knows. I still don't know what his long term goals are. He doesn't ever say anything that gives it away. If I keep drawing him in, and it turns out I interfere with his original ambition, he may resort to killing me. But, if he doesn't kill me—according to Severus the Malfoys tend toward being both obsessive and possessive. I don't think he'll abandon the Order at that point. Willingness seems critical, and he knows that mine is conditional on the Order's survival. "

Then she shrugged. "Or I could be wrong and he'll turn on the Order, which is what Severus fears. I honestly don't know. This is not—I don't know how to use people like this."

Kingsley was silent.

"If he's growing obsessed with you—That's more than I had expected," he said, glancing over at the table and resting his fingers on the edge and tapping thoughtfully.

Hermione felt as though she should have some kind of reaction to the words; offense or satisfaction or—something. But she felt nothing. It was as though her heart were slowly compacting inside of her chest, growing smaller and harder day by day.

"I'm not—," she started and then paused and pressed her lips together. She twisted her head slightly as she felt tension in her neck begin radiating down her shoulders. "I'm not lying to him, Kingsley. I'm not being insincere. The emotional connection between us is real."

Kingsley's fingers stilled, and he studied her with slightly narrowed eyes. "I hope you're not becoming compromised by him, Granger. The Order is depending on you to stay on mission."

Hermione nodded stiffly. "My loyalty will always be to the Order first."

Kingsley's expression did not ease. "Harry—you know I can only keep him away from the worst fights if I know which ones they'll be."

Hermione flinched. "I know. I'm doing everything I can, Kingsley. I am doing the very, very best that I can. I'm not—I'd never do anything that would risk Harry."

"Keep it up then," Kingsley said, turning back to the map on the wall.

Hermione stared at his back for several moments before she turned and rested her hand of the doorknob; as she gripped it, she laughed quietly.

"Something else you want to say, Granger?" Kingsley's voice had a slight edge to it.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder. His back was still to her.

"I was just realising," she said in a low voice, "If I succeed—you'll use me to control Malfoy the same way you're able to use Harry to control me. It—it almost makes me feel sorry for him."

Kingsley was silent for a moment. "Well, he'll deserve it considerably more than you do."