October 2002

The next time Hermione arrived at the shack, Draco appeared looking visibly annoyed and carrying a gramophone.

She eyed him carefully. "I think I'm missing something."

"Rest assured, Granger, if I could devise a better solution I would have." He conjured a table and put the gramophone on it. He flicked his wand, and the music began playing.

"Is this—," Hermione choked faintly and stared at him incredulous. "Are you wanting us to dance?"

"Waltz." He turned to stare at her. "You move like a penguin when you duel."

Hermione felt her cheeks grow hot.

"I most certainly do not," she snapped.

"I've spent considerably more time watching you duel than you have, and believe me, you do." His lip curled derisively. "You're slow and awkward and the only reason I don't hit you more is because I'm intentionally not aiming."

Hermione bit back a retort.

"So you think the solution is waltzing?" she said stiffly.

"I do. Aunt Bella was one of the most exceptional dancers I have ever had the misfortune of being partnered with. She dueled with equal fluidity. I know you can dance. We just need to transfer the movement to dueling."

Hermione thought about it for a moment, and then nodded as she put her satchel aside. "Alright."

Draco walked toward her with the expression of a someone who would rather be punched in the face than do what he was about to do.

He raised his left hand for her to take. Then he set his jaw rigidly and slid his right hand under her arm, placing it below her shoulder blade before pulling her closer until there were only a few inches between them. Hermione felt as though she were barely breathing.

She stared up at his face as she rested her left hand on the top of his arm near his shoulder.

They stood in position, not moving, just staring at one another. She could see the tension in his jaw and the hard line of his mouth as he almost, but not quite, sneered down at her. She could also see his eyes and, as she met them with her own, she could see his irises bloom until he abruptly jerked his chin up and stared across the room.

She felt his fingers flinch against her back before he stilled them.

"So." His voice was hard as he stared away. "The dance that best represents the speed and fluidity that I want you to develop is the Viennese Waltz. It's an extremely easy step to learn, if the female is responsive and capable of following another person's lead. Given that neither of those things are qualities anyone would apply to you, I've resigned myself that it's going to take a considerable amount of time before you manage it with so much as a semblance of grace."

He gave her a condescending smile.

Hermione felt her indignation and determination begin rising in her chest and she stiffened slightly before it occurred to her: Draco clearly did not want to be 'holding' her in his arms; he was trying to provoke her into striving hard and ending their "dance lessons" as soon as possible.

She gave him a thin smile of her own.

"I'll do my best," she said and shuffled slightly and "nearly" stepped on his toes.

"Then please don't tread on me." He sneered down at her. "I would prefer not to go to a healer because your clumsiness ends up fracturing a bone."

"I'll heal it for you," she said with mock sweetness.

He sneered at her again and abruptly started to move. Hermione tried to follow but their knees collided. She yelped and he swore.

"Some warning before you start moving," she said in a tight voice as her right knee throbbed.

"Try following my lead," he snapped. "This is for dueling. No one is going to give you 'some warning' before they curse you. You need to have the instinct to just move."

Hermione's jaw tightened and she huffed.

"Fine."

"We'll start again."

Hermione didn't need to pretend to be clumsy when dancing with Draco. The speed at which he expected her to waltz at was nearly breakneck. He was not patient. In fact, he seemed determined to make it as unpleasant as he possibly could; probably to motivate her.

Her toes were throbbing, and she was fairly certain his dragonhide boots were steel reinforced in the toes because he accidentally kicked her in the shin, and she thought he might have fractured something.

She dropped to the ground with a howl and hugged her leg.

"You are the worst dance instructor on the planet," she snarled and jerked her trousers up to find a purple bruise already blooming across her shin.

"However shall I live?" he said dryly, without even looking down at her. "My secret ambition is crushed."

"Are you trying to break my leg? Why are you wearing combat boots?" she said in a furious voice.

Malfoy glanced over sharply and caught sight of her leg. His expression wavered for a split second before he regained his mask of indifference. "I didn't expect you to be this clumsy," he said.

"You are a complete bastard," Hermione said as she summoned her satchel and rummaged for her healing kit.

"Yet most of your precious Order would be dead by now if it weren't for me." Draco sneered viciously at her. "By now I'm as much their savior as Saint Potter will ever be, and I own you, so you really have very little room to complain."

Hermione felt herself pale as she felt fury ripple through her chest. She hated him. She hated him. She hated him and she still wanted him, and that made her hate him even more.

But she possibly hated him most because he was right about the Order. The war in Britain was at a stalemate currently, after years of slow losses on their side. The Order was still, comparatively speaking, steeply disadvantaged, but Voldemort had had fewer and fewer victories since Malfoy had begun spying. Draco's aid had tipped the scales of the war into a balance, and he knew it.

He held the Order in the palm of his hand.

It was the most tenuous form of survival possible because they had no idea if he might someday just let go.

"I'm trying," she said in a shaking voice as she spread bruise paste across her skin. "If you had given me some warning, I would have gotten a book and practiced the steps before I came. It's not like I'm intentionally not trying. I don't know them. You could try communicating a bit more."

He glared at her for several moments before looking away. "Well, now you know. So practice."

He vanished with an angry crack.

Hermione stayed behind. She pulled her shoes off in order to check her toes for fractures and mull over what an unbelievable arse Draco was. She sighed and buried her face in her hands.

The worst part was that she didn't really blame him. If someone were doing to Hermione what she currently was doing to Draco, and apparently succeeding, she would be hard pressed not to resent and want to hurt them too. It must be eating at him to know she was manipulating him emotionally and still feel drawn to her. It was a viciously cruel thing to do to someone.

Especially him.

Everything she learned about him made her feel more guilty about it.

She swallowed her guilt. Draco Malfoy was a double-edged weapon, just as poised to cut down the Order as to aid it. Unless she leashed him, he was a threat.

It wasn't as though she was enjoying it. Surely he must know that too.

She wasn't lying. She wasn't being insincere. That was why it was working. Having him know her motive didn't negate the genuine connection they'd somehow forged. That was why it was so awful. It was real, but she was weaponising it.

She left the shack and apparated to a bookstore to find a book that explained how to Viennese waltz.

The next week Draco was equally surly, but he had the courtesy to wear different shoes. When Hermione arrived, she sat down in front of him and proceeded to transfigure her foraging trainers into a pair of low heels.

"Planning on wearing heels when dueling too?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he stared down at her. His lip curled condescendingly.

"The book I read said I'm supposed to be on my toes. It's easier to get used to the step and fluidity if my feet are already in the right position. I'll switch back to trainers again once you think I have a semblance of grace," she said, lifting her chin.

"You need better shoes. Those Muggle things you wear are useless," he said with a sneer.

Hermione flushed. Most of her clothing came from muggle donation bins. Good shoes in her size were difficult to find. She'd been maintaining her current pair with reparos.

Draco Rich Wanker Malfoy probably didn't even know how much a pair of dragonhide boots cost.

"They work," she said in a tight voice. "That's all I care about.

She stood up.

"If you don't mind, if you start more slowly and then pick up speed, I think I'll be able to follow better," she said.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine."

He didn't even look down at her as he held out his hands and she stepped into them and into position. She was ready when he stepped forward without warning. She drew her right foot back and did a short, quick step as she allowed herself to be pivoted on one foot and he then took a long step back, and she followed him with her left foot.

It was, as he had said, an extremely easy step technically. The difficulty was the speed and trusting Draco's lead; forcing herself to relax enough to follow him instinctively rather than reactively.

Following him wasn't difficult in theory; he'd clearly been taught to dance. He had a excellent carriage and frame and moved with the fluidity of a cat. Unfortunately, he was also an arse who was intentionally trying to make dancing with him as unpleasant as possible, while she was trying to adapt to a new step that involved them rotating as a couple in clockwise circles and moving counterclockwise around the room.

He stepped on her toes eight times within twenty minutes, and Hermione rather thought several of the times had been intentional.

"For heaven's sake, Draco!" Hermione kicked him sharply in the shin after he crushed her right foot particularly painfully. "We'll spend considerably less time dancing together if you'll just give me a chance to get used to the step. It will take longer if you break my toes."

"Is there anything you know how to do but complain?" he said with a sneer as she bent down to look at the injured appendage.

"I don't know. Is there?" she said coldly, standing up and squaring her shoulders. She met his eyes as she lifted her arms into waltz position before he could.

His expression flickered and he baulked momentarily. She smirked tauntingly at him, and his expression grew briefly murderous as he pulled her into his arms and against his chest. She looked up at him.

"Unless there's some reason you can't, perhaps we could try Viennese waltzing normally," she said in an even but slightly needling tone. "After all, this was your idea. The sooner I master the fluidity the sooner we can get back to hexing each other."

"A consummation devoutly to be wished," he said with a cold expression.

He moved more slowly. Hermione was not actually a terrible dancer, just extremely out of practice and in the arms of someone physically distracting and personally spiteful.

After an hour she was able to follow him at full-speed without either of them injuring each other.

Finally he stopped.

"Good enough. Start thinking about how to use the fluidity when dueling," he said, shoving his hair out of his face and rubbing his forehead.

"Right. I'll just waltz around in the practice rooms, I'm sure no one will notice that," Hermione said acerbically in between panting breaths. She was sweating and she could feel her shirt clinging to her back between her shoulders. Strands of her hair were plastered against her neck.

Malfoy looked cool as a cucumber. He probably had temperature regulating charms in all his clothing. Although he still seemed to be perspiring slightly.

Hermione tugged at her shirt to make it stop sticking to her torso and cast a cooling charm before conjuring a cup and some water.

"It's your life," he said coolly, then he pulled out a scroll. "The Dark Lord is growing frustrated with all the rescues. He has Sussex working on something to prevent it. I don't have much access to that building, but the Order should begin preparing for the eventuality that they may not be able to save people for much longer."

Hermione swallowed hard.

"I didn't realise Dolohov was so multi-talented," she finally said.

"He's not," Draco said, conjuring his own glass of water. "Now that most of Europe is in hand, the Dark Lord is able to bring together quite a number of ambitious scientists with few ethical lines. You know Sussex is expanding beyond curse development. It's remarkable the magi-scientific advancements that can be achieved when scientists can do anything they want with their test subjects."

Hermione felt as though something inside her had collapsed and left a void. "I see...I suppose that's hardly surprising. Similar things happened during the second muggle World War."

Draco nodded and looked tired. More than tired; it was as though his soul were shining through his silver eyes, and he was almost transparent inside.

"How do you know about World War Two?"

His eyes glittered hard as diamonds. "As previously mentioned, I can read. Why wouldn't I study it? It's obviously the playbook the Dark Lord is drawing from. The propaganda runs parallel. The same tactics. He learned from Hitler's mistakes; he's not wasting any resources on Russia, and he's being careful to avoid outright provoking MACUSA for as long as possible. Although, I don't know what they intend to do if he tries to overthrow the Statute of Secrecy."

Hermione nodded. "We've tried to reach out for aid, but apparently genocide isn't enough of a reason to intervene. Other countries need to sort out their own problems, you know; MACUSA isn't the world's aurors. They won't even take our refugees. Not without at least a few years to vet them. Even the children. Apparently there's too much risk of bringing Europe's extremism to their soil, and we don't have any legal records for most of the youngest ones..."

Her voice trailed off. She looked up at him seriously. "Do you think we can win, Draco?"

She wanted to hear the answer from him more than she wanted to hear it from anyone else. Ron, Harry, Fred, even Kingsley or Moody... they'd all lie, or choose to take an optimistic view of things. But Draco Malfoy would not lie about it. For some reason she felt certain of it. He would tell her what he really thought was possible.

He sighed and leaned against the wall. "Does it matter what I think?"

"I live among idealists, but all I see are more and more bodies. I want to hear from someone who actually knows what it's like out there and doesn't believe that optimism somehow improves the odds."

"You're well aware that I think your Order is largely moronic." His expression was bitter. "Although I have noticed that Shacklebolt and Moody do make the occasional strategic choice when they can get away with it."

He gave Hermione a pointed look, which she returned without blinking.

"I don't see how you'll win with the continued policy against using the Dark Arts. Then again, Potter is an idiot who is still alive. He has the most unnatural talent for survival I've ever seen; power too, if he were willing to actually use it. If it comes down to a duel between the Dark Lord and Potter, I'd give the Order one in four odds, on the basis of Potter's continuously improbable luck. But if the war is about more than that—" he rubbed his forehead. "the odds are considerably longer. To put it mildly."

"Why aid us then?"

He quirked an eyebrow, and his expression became reserved and mocking. "Don't you think you're worth it?"

"Oh yes, your rose in a graveyard." She glanced away, snorting faintly, and straightened her clothes. "Get those runes for me?"

His eyes flashed for a moment, and then he shook his head.

"Why then?" she asked as she studied him.

He stared at her and his expression flickered. He looked bitter. Wounded. His eyes were calculating for several seconds as he looked at her, then his expression became closed again.

"It doesn't matter."

Hermione started to open her mouth. She wanted to argue, to point out that it did matter; that if he would stop being enigmatic she wouldn't be forced to manipulate him. But she couldn't say that, and he already knew. Whatever his motive, he didn't trust the Order not to use it against him.

They both knew the Order would.

"I suppose not." She sighed and then sat down to transfigure her shoes.

She prepared to leave but looked back at Draco when she was at the door. He was leaning against the wall, his eyes darted away from her as she turned.

"Don't die, Draco."

He stared at her for a moment before smiling.

"Only because you asked, Granger." His tone dripped with sarcasm.

He was still leaning against the wall when she closed the door behind her.

Their Tuesdays came to be comprised of the odd combination of dancing and dueling. Draco determinedly drilled her until she could fluidly dodge and move the way he wanted her to. He had been right; dancing and dueling involved a similar type of reactive ability and Hermione picked it up quickly.

It unnerved her slightly when she realised that her movement and techniques were indeed growing reminiscent of Bellatrix's.

She would have almost thought she was getting decent, but Malfoy never used his left hand. She wondered how he dueled when he was really trying.

He arrived with noticeable injuries sometimes but coldly refused to let her heal him.

The amount of time they spent together grew longer and longer. Dueling practice developed breaks every half hour to cool down and rehydrate. Hermione tried to talk to him, but he mostly ignored her, and when he did answer her questions, he seemed to lie.

Occasionally Hermione got called away abruptly following a skirmish, but Death Eaters weren't prone toward early morning attacks.

The tension of the war felt endlessly strung out, as though the fragile balance would snap at any moment. The tension between Hermione and Draco felt similar.

By December she felt as though the very air between them vibrated when they were together. Angry. Resentful. Desperate.

There was an edge developing to him; as though he were eroding slightly from stress. She wasn't sure whether it was simply the stress of war or if she were contributing to it.

He arrived one day looking pale, with blood dripping from his left hand. He'd nearly bitten her head off the last time she tried to heal him, so Hermione attempted to ignore it. When it failed to stop bleeding after half an hour, she finally spun around him as she dodged a hex and cast a diagnostic charm on him. She stared at it for less than a second.

"You idiot!" She was forced to retreat across the floor and throw herself into a somersault in order to avoid the angry, rapid succession of stunners he sent after her. "You can't ignore vampire bites."

She shot half a dozen tripping jinxes at his feet and while he was avoiding them, she whipped her wand up and managed to catch him in the forehead with a stunner.

He dropped and she stared in astonishment, half expecting him to suddenly sit up. She was shocked she had actually managed to strike him. Then it occurred to her that the success probably had more to do with his blood loss than her dueling talents. She hurriedly cast another diagnostic on him.

He had lost a concerning amount of blood. He had been bitten somewhere on his upper arm, had internal bleeding and an open wound on his side.

She conjured a bed and levitated him onto it. She only hesitated for a moment before she sat down on the edge beside him. Even unconscious, Draco looked tense. She reached out tentatively and touched his cheek. Then she brushed her fingertip between his eyes, trying to banish the stress from his expression.

She cast a spell to unbutton his robes and shirt and then, with a practiced partial-levitation charm, she pulled him up so that he was leaning against her and pushed all the clothing down off his shoulders and arms. His head dropped against her shoulder, and she couldn't help but notice the scarring from the runes. They had set well into silver scars across his shoulders. She ran her fingers lightly over them and felt the magic; cold and implacable. Carved into his being. The magic shivered faintly under her touch.

His skin was worryingly cool.

She eased him back down onto the bed and looked him over. He'd gotten bitten on his bicep, two deep punctures which were easily healed. The more serious issue was his torso which was mottled with deep bruising which Hermione suspected were from a close range Expulso hex, possibly from a skirmish with the Order that had occurred the night before. He had a gash on his side that looked to be several days old but had started bleeding again due to the vampire bite.

She summoned her satchel and pulled out her kit. She poured several potions down his throat and then set to repairing the injury in his side.

He was an idiot, and she felt cold with worry to realise he wasn't getting his injuries attended to. In the past he'd been in excellent physical condition when she'd healed him.

He had numerous scars on his arms and torso that hadn't been there before. She could tell by studying them that he had just ignored them and left them to heal on their own rather than going to a healer.

Perhaps he'd fired his previous healer after they had offered no relief for the runes. Even if the magic was obscure, no qualified healer could have been so ignorant as to pretend there were no options unless they'd been willfully negligent.

He'd said he had a new healer. Whenever she'd offered to heal him he'd insisted he had someone who would take care of it.

He was being intentionally careless.

Perhaps he was doing it to punish himself. If she was making him waver from his—atonement, or whatever it was. Hermione bit her lip. Perhaps he was intentionally neglecting his physical well-being in order to focus himself. Or—possibly, he was trying to test his limits.

She tried to not to dwell on that possibility.

She pulled out a bruise paste and spread it across his torso and then muttered charms over all his scars to help them heal and fade somewhat.

She cast another diagnostic and studied it carefully to make sure she hadn't overlooked any injuries.

Once she was sure there was nothing else to tend to she took his hand, entwined her fingers with his and then pressed the back of his hand against her cheek. Waiting as his skin slowly started to warm as the blood replenishing potion took affect.

She brushed his hair off his face and stared at him, tracing along his features with her eyes and watching colour slowly come back.

When he was undeniably warm she withdrew her hands away and cast cleaning charms on his clothing and redressed him. His robes had a taint of Dark Magic in them, as though it had become woven into the fabric.

She wavered over whether she should stay where she was or go across the room before rennervating him.

She stayed.

She'd barely finished speaking the spell before he sprang up, grabbed her by the throat, and slammed her down onto the mattress before she could even scream with surprise. His hand stayed on her neck, and she could feel several of her hairpins stabbing into her skull as he pinned her down. His eyes were disoriented, but his expression was enraged. Their faces were mere centimeters apart.

She watched his expression ripple as he recognized her and realised he was on the verge of strangling her. His hold immediately loosened.

"What the fuck, Granger?" He glanced around them and looked more confused as he realised they were in a bed together.

She stared up at him, her heart pounding. It hadn't even occurred to her that he might attack her like that. "You were hurt."

He jerked his hand away from her neck and his expression grew furious. "I nearly killed you. You meddling—"

She interrupted him. "It's possible you are somehow unaware, despite the fact that I have specifically told you, but vampire venom is an anticoagulant. You had some minor internal damage from the skirmish last night. You were bleeding to death inside and out."

"I would have had it taken care of in due time," he said, but his eyes didn't meet hers; they were lower, on her neck. His hand slid forward and she felt his thumb brush along her throat.

She shivered faintly and felt her skin prickle as his fingers ran along her neck. "Really? Just who was going to heal you? Because I must say, based on all the new scars littering your body, I think that the new healer you keep mentioning is a fraud."

His hand stilled. "You removed my clothes?"

"Just your shirt. Don't look so astonished, I'm a healer, Draco. It's not as though it's the first time I've seen you shirtless."

His eyes flashed with rage. "Do not heal me without permission." His voice was a low growl.

His fury was overt, but the intimidation of it was ruined by the fact he was simultaneously turning her head gently, checking to see if he'd bruised her at all.

Hermione felt the corner of her mouth quirk slightly as she watched him. He was leaning over her, his fingers pressing along her jaw as he kept turning her head from side to side and running his thumbs lightly across her skin.

Her heart was beating harder than it had when he'd abruptly pinned her down.

"Try not to be dying in my presence and I won't feel like I have to. I don't want you training me when you're hurt. You already know that." Her hand went up and closed around his wrist to still him. His eyes flicked up and met her own, and she studied him seriously. "Get a healer, Draco. A good one. Put them on retainer, and call them when you're hurt. Please. Please get a healer."

He just stared at her, and it felt like her heart stalled from the intensity. Her pulse thrummed under his fingers and she watched as his pupils slowly expanded, swallowing the silver of his irises. The heat of his skin was bleeding into her, and she could feel his breath against her face.

His face drew infinitesimally closer. Her heart was beating so hard she wondered if he could hear it. Her breath caught, and her fingers tightened around his wrist. Everything was warm, and they were so close. He was so close.

He dipped his head lower, until their lips were almost touching. Then he laughed.

He jerked his hand free of hers and sat up. His expression was cold as ice, and he sneered down at her.

"Did you really think I'd kiss you?"

Hermione stared at him.

He tilted his head back and chuckled bitterly. "You know, it amazes me that someone like you has managed to stay friends with Potter and Weasley for so long."

Hermione flinched. "Someone like me?"

He stared down at her and quirked an eyebrow, his expression was impassive, but she could see the resentment in his eyes. "Someone with no lines they won't cross. With Potter and Weasley's righteousness, I would have expected it to end things for you by now."

Hermione stared at him and her mouth twitched. She pressed her lips together hard. He smirked and cocked his head slightly. "What? Did you think I was referring to your blood?"

She dropped her eyes. Yes, she'd go with that. No good would come from admitting that he was right; her ruthlessness had essentially ended her friendship with Harry and Ron.

She sat up and reached back to adjust the pins holding her braids. "You were the first person who ever called me Mudblood."

Draco shook his head in faint disbelief. "Surely you at least know this war isn't about blood purity."

"I know that it isn't." She jutted her chin up. "But most of the Wizarding world doesn't appear to have noticed that."

He straightened his robes and shrugged. His mask was dropped back into place; his expression was indolent and aristocratic. Hermione stared at him, trying to absorb the profound contradiction that was Draco Malfoy. Assassin. Order Spy. Pureblood heir. Muggle philosophy and history hobbyist. Death Eater General.

The more she knew of him, the less she understood him.

He leaned against the headboard of the bed and eyed her. "War requires easy extremes. Otherness. When I say my name is Malfoy, I immediately contextualise myself within history. The Malfoy name has nearly a thousand years of traceable history in England. People know who my parents are, my grandparents, and my great-grandparents. We have entire history books and hallways of sentient portraits to carry and maintain the legacy. But you—your family history is as muddied as a creekbed. No one knows who your parents are or what kinds of genetic disease you may carry or what your magical potential may or may not be."

He tilted his head to the side and ran his eyes over her from head to toe as though he were appraising a horse.

"It's easy to be suspicious of people those you know nothing about. When something is frightening it's easy to hate. Muggle-borns with odd clothing, and electricity, and rumors of your strange weapons. Your parents are the reason the Wizarding world has been forced to live in the shadows of secrecy for hundreds of years. Yet the moment a Muggle shows a hint of magic ability, we're expected to welcome them into our world so they can violate our traditions and steal our jobs."

Hermione snorted and turned herself so that they were closer to each other once again. Draco's eyes widened for a moment before he stifled his surprise. Hermione closed the space between them and stared up at him.

"Is that why you hated me in school, Draco, because I was going to steal your job?"