Malfoy was begrudgingly cooperative and even seemed slightly intrigued at times. Hermione determinedly plowed through as much training as she thought she could get away with and got him to demonstrate that he could do them all himself.
He had a knack for it. She had thought he probably would. A natural occlumens with a razor-edged focus carved into him; the precision would come naturally to him.
She suspected he knew a bit about the theory of healing. She almost asked him why, but his cooperativeness felt highly conditional. She stifled her curiosity and just kept rattling off tips for healing.
“Anyway, those are the basics,” she finished at last.
He glanced at his watch. “You realise you've been talking for almost two hours straight.”
Hermione blushed. “It's still very basic.”
There was a pause, and Hermione realised she'd moved so close to Draco their shoulders were brushing. She could smell the scent of oakmoss that clung to his skin. She looked up at him, and their eyes met.
For a moment everything between them ceased to be so tense and resentful; as though the war faded away for a moment, and it was just them. She almost smiled at him. Because he could be kind to her when he wanted to be, and she was so tired that day.
She tried not to think about how pathetic that made her.
Then Draco pressed his lips into a flat line, and she saw his jaw clench. His eyes flashed, and she watched them sharpen; like a gaze of a bird of prey, they began to grow cruel.
She stepped back and dropped her eyes. “Happy Christmas, Draco.”
He stared at her contemplatively. His expression was unreadable. She felt her heart rate increase. She was never quite sure what he might do.
She tried not to let her fingers fidget.
He rolled his jaw. Hermione felt cold and almost hollow inside as she braced herself.
“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his robes.
He pulled out something that was rolled up in oilcloth and held it out toward her. She accepted it and unrolled the cloth slowly to reveal its contents. Inside lay a set of beautiful and deadly daggers, sheathed in delicate mesh holsters.
“They should be small enough to keep one strapped to your forearm. The holsters are acromantula silk dipped in manticore blood; they'll resize to you and won't restrict your movement at all. You should wear the other dagger on your calf.” He looked visibly awkward as he relayed the information. His eyes were avoiding Hermione, but they kept sweeping back to watch as she studied the daggers.
“Are these Goblin-wrought silver?” she asked after a minute.
“Yes. They're dipped in manticore venom, as a matter of fact.”
She looked up at him sharply. “Does that mean—“
“It died. Tragically.” The corner of his mouth quirked slightly. “The inclement weather, I suspect. I filed all the paperwork and turned the corpse over to McNair yesterday.”
“But not before you harvested some venom,” Hermione said, pulling one of the daggers out of the sheath and staring at the razor sharp edge, capable of cutting through almost anything. The blade would slide through a shield spell or protective wards as though they weren't there.
“Not much, or it would have been suspicious. But enough for a handful of weapons and an extra vial for a rainy day.”
Hermione began mentally running the numbers on Draco's gift. Two goblin-wrought silver knives: at least a hundred galleons each. Manticore venom: another hundred or so right there. Acromantula silk holsters: another hundred galleons.
Draco's Christmas present for her was worth a small fortune. She wasn't even sure if he knew that or not.
Hermione was obsessive about her budget and her resources. She had to be. She cut every corner and saved every drop of potion and Knut she could. There was a corner of her mind that was endlessly trying to think of new ways to save or conceive of untapped resources.
It staggered her, the casual way in which Draco could hand her an enchanted shield cloak or a set of knives collectively worth more than her annual hospital and potion budget for the entire Resistance.
She would sell them. At least one, possibly both. On the black market she could probably get a decent return, enough to buy more acromantula venom or Essence of Dittany, or to restock some of the other hospital supplies. Or maybe it would be better to turn them over to Moody or Kingsley; they would get good use from knives like that. She might be able to use the daggers to negotiate a permanent budget increase.
“Thank you,” she said, resheathing the blade she was holding and slipping everything into her satchel.
“For the record, you are not allowed to sell them or give them to anyone else.”
Hermione's hands stilled, and her eyes darted guiltily up to Draco's face. His eyes were locked on hers, and the silver in them glittered.
“Is that clear, Granger?” His tone was ice.
She gave a begrudging nod.
“I will expect you to wear them every time you forage. I will look for them.”
She tensed and swallowed hard with irritation. “Fine.”