That power got him off. Hurting someone who couldn't — or wouldn't — fight back. Using what people cared about to torture and cage them and force them to do things. That he was just the same as Voldemort...
That he was just the same as Voldemort.
That was probably it. He probably regarded himself as better than his Master. Maybe he thought that if he helped the Order overthrow Voldemort that it would leave a vacuum of power that he could fill.
The thought made her insides twist.
Was that really it? Was he playing both sides against each other, thinking that he could seize power in the aftermath?
Perhaps he objected to Voldemort's reign of terror; the attacks used to frame the Order, and all the torture and experiments. Malfoy probably imagined he'd rule in a genteel manner where women were ostensibly “willing” and executions were ceremonial.
Yet — it seemed like he'd been more than just offended. His rage — the rage he carried was surely larger than merely ego or ambition.
Her wary expression seemed to annoy him. He hissed slightly and his teeth flashed.
“Suffice to say, I'm not going to hurt you,” he ground out. “So stop looking at me as though you expect me to curse you in the back.”
The words made Hermione flinch. If she weren't so desperate to ensure that he'd keep spying for them, she would have sneered and asked why he hadn't made such an allowance for Dumbledore. He seemed to see the retort in her expression and his jaw twitched.
She bit her tongue and glanced awkwardly around the shack. “I do want to finish learning occlumency.”
“Alright.”
His tone was clipped, and he appeared to have boxed in his anger. His face smoothed into that cold, indolent mask once more. But his silver eyes continued to study her. She could almost feel his gaze against her skin.
He moved toward her.
He felt simultaneously the same, and yet different. As though he were going through the same motions, but more consciously than he had in the past. There was a subtle element of over-precision.
He tilted her head back with his fingertips. When she looked deep into his eyes, she could see a bitterness that she didn't think had been there before.
He sank painlessly into her mind.
It was more of the same for the next two weeks. More occlumency and a reserved Malfoy. Conversation remained stilted, although the intelligence he provided continued to flow generously and remained sound.
Hermione berated herself internally each week as he apparated away after exchanging less than a dozen words with her.
Her psychological sketch of him had stalled. Each week, she added more questions with no answers. The list of potential motives ranged from the magnanimous to the monstrous.
She could tell that she was almost done with occlumency training. Malfoy's invasions of her mind were growing agonizingly painful and aggressive as he tested her technique and abilities.
She was tempted to ask if he still intended to train her in dueling, but she was afraid to bring up the subject.
She was beginning to feel desperate.
When she got to the shack she paced nervously, trying to come up with some way of breaking through the awkwardness. There had to be some way to get through to him. Some weakness she could find to get inside.
Malfoy appeared in front of her with an abrupt crack, and seemed to wince slightly as he straightened.
Hermione had seen that subtle expression often enough to identify it immediately, no matter how carefully concealed. Without even pausing to think, she whipped her wand out and cast a rapid diagnostic on him.
Before she could glance down for the results, Malfoy lunged forward, knocked her wand away, and had her pinned to the wall.
“What are you doing?” he snarled.
Right. He probably wasn't in the habit of letting people cast magic in his direction.
She met his eyes steadily. “You're hurt.”
He snatched his hands away from her and stepped back.
“It's nothing,” he said. “I'll have it taken care of later.”
Hermione's eyes dropped down to the colours and details surrounding her wand, lying on the floor a few feet away, reading the most obvious parts.
“You've got several fractured ribs, a concussion, and internal bruising. It'll take me ten minutes to fix it. And—“ she gave him a pointed look, “apparating will hurt even more the next time. If you leave the fractures and keep doing it, your ribs may fully break. You could puncture a lung. If there are shards, the ribs would have to be removed and regrown.”
He stared at her for several moments before rolling his eyes. “Fine.”
She knelt down and grabbed her wand. “Strip — from the waist up.”
He went still for a moment.
“I thought that was my line,” he finally said as he reached up stiffly and unfastened his cloak, letting it pool in a careless heap on the floor. “If you wanted me so badly, you only needed to ask.”
He leered at her in an overtly fake way.