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.”