“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.