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
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.