He stepped on her toes eight times within twenty minutes, and Hermione rather thought several of the times had been intentional.
“For heaven's sake, Draco!” Hermione kicked him sharply in the shin after he crushed her right foot particularly painfully. “We'll spend considerably less time dancing together if you'll just give me a chance to get used to the step. It will take longer if you break my toes.”
“Is there anything you know how to do but complain?” he said with a sneer as she bent down to look at the injured appendage.
”I don't know. Is there?” she said coldly, standing up and squaring her shoulders. She met his eyes as she lifted her arms into waltz position before he could.
His expression flickered and he baulked momentarily. She smirked tauntingly at him, and his expression grew briefly murderous as he pulled her into his arms and against his chest. She looked up at him.
“Unless there's some reason you can't, perhaps we could try Viennese waltzing normally,” she said in an even but slightly needling tone. “After all, this was your idea. The sooner I master the fluidity the sooner we can get back to hexing each other.”
“A consummation devoutly to be wished,” he said with a cold expression.
He moved more slowly. Hermione was not actually a terrible dancer, just extremely out of practice and in the arms of someone physically distracting and personally spiteful.
After an hour she was able to follow him at full-speed without either of them injuring each other.
Finally he stopped.
“Good enough. Start thinking about how to use the fluidity when dueling,” he said, shoving his hair out of his face and rubbing his forehead.
“Right. I'll just waltz around in the practice rooms, I'm sure no one will notice that,” Hermione said acerbically in between panting breaths. She was sweating and she could feel her shirt clinging to her back between her shoulders. Strands of her hair were plastered against her neck.
Malfoy looked cool as a cucumber. He probably had temperature regulating charms in all his clothing. Although he still seemed to be perspiring slightly.
Hermione tugged at her shirt to make it stop sticking to her torso and cast a cooling charm before conjuring a cup and some water.
“It's your life,” he said coolly, then he pulled out a scroll. “The Dark Lord is growing frustrated with all the rescues. He has Sussex working on something to prevent it. I don't have much access to that building, but the Order should begin preparing for the eventuality that they may not be able to save people for much longer.”
Hermione swallowed hard.
“I didn't realise Dolohov was so multi-talented,” she finally said.
“He's not,” Draco said, conjuring his own glass of water. “Now that most of Europe is in hand, the Dark Lord is able to bring together quite a number of ambitious scientists with few ethical lines. You know Sussex is expanding beyond curse development. It's remarkable the magi-scientific advancements that can be achieved when scientists can do anything they want with their test subjects.”
Hermione felt as though something inside her had collapsed and left a void. “I see...I suppose that's hardly surprising. Similar things happened during the second muggle World War.”
Draco nodded and looked tired. More than tired; it was as though his soul were shining through his silver eyes, and he was almost transparent inside.
“How do you know about World War Two?”
His eyes glittered hard as diamonds. “As previously mentioned, I can read. Why wouldn't I study it? It's obviously the playbook the Dark Lord is drawing from. The propaganda runs parallel. The same tactics. He learned from Hitler's mistakes; he's not wasting any resources on Russia, and he's being careful to avoid outright provoking MACUSA for as long as possible. Although, I don't know what they intend to do if he tries to overthrow the Statute of Secrecy.”
Hermione nodded. “We've tried to reach out for aid, but apparently genocide isn't enough of a reason to intervene. Other countries need to sort out their own problems, you know; MACUSA isn't the world's aurors. They won't even take our refugees. Not without at least a few years to vet them. Even the children. Apparently there's too much risk of bringing Europe's extremism to their soil, and we don't have any legal records for most of the youngest ones...”
Her voice trailed off. She looked up at him seriously. “Do you think we can win, Draco?”
She wanted to hear the answer from him more than she wanted to hear it from anyone else. Ron, Harry, Fred, even Kingsley or Moody… they'd all lie, or choose to take an optimistic view of things. But Draco Malfoy would not lie about it. For some reason she felt certain of it. He would tell her what he really thought was possible.
He sighed and leaned against the wall. “Does it matter what I think?”
“I live among idealists, but all I see are more and more bodies. I want to hear from someone who actually knows what it's like out there and doesn't believe that optimism somehow improves the odds.”
“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.