The next time Hermione arrived at the shack, Draco appeared wearing only trousers and a shirt. She stopped and stared in surprise.
He quirked an eyebrow and looked down at himself. “I didn't fancy getting you tangled in my robes,” he said with a suggestive drawl.
He stared at her for a moment with narrowed eyes before gesturing her forward.
“Given that you aren't necessarily training for skirmishes, we need to expand your combat abilities,” he began in a clipped voice. “Vampires, hags, or harpies won't have wands, but they're experienced when it comes to attacking Wizarding folk. They go for close attacks that are difficult to fight off. Most wizards study defense against them assuming distance, but a smart hag will get you within arm's reach as quickly as possible. They know combat spells are difficult to perform close range. Werewolves may have wands, but most that run in packs prefer physical combat. You're — small.” Hermione snorted, and Draco glared at her mildly. “You're going to be at a disadvantage in any fight. You need to defend yourself creatively.”
“Alright.” Hermione gave a sharp nod.
Draco's eyes glittered, and he loomed over her. “Now, suppose I'm a vampire. I'd be targeting the side of your neck. You don't have a dueling partner to cover for you. While you're fighting off a gytrash, I've closed in.” He stepped closer until their bodies were touching. “What would you do now?”
Hermione whipped her wand upward, but Draco was too close for her to perform the wand motion for most defensive spells. Before she could back away and cast, his hand shot out and struck her wrist sharply. Her wand flew from her fingers and slid across the floor. She turned to dive after it, but Draco's hand closed around her wrist, and he jerked her back.
“Wandless too. Your move, Granger.” He started leaning down toward her throat as though he intended to bite it.
Her left hand shot up to shove him away, but his other hand closed around her left wrist. She tried to wrench her arms free, but his grip was relentless.
“A word of advice,” Draco said conversationally as she continued to try to tear herself free. “Don't leave your wrists open. Once I have you by the wrist, I have a considerable advantage; this a much easier hold for me to maintain than for you to escape from. The same goes for your feet. Be careful kicking above the knee. If you get grabbed by your ankle, you'll be on the ground in seconds. Stomping or kneeing is much better than kicking. Stomping utilises your weight. Stomp hard and go for the feet, ankles, or the side of the knees. Disabling your opponent is the key. A knee to the groin works on everything: wizards, vampires, werewolves — even hags hate it.”
Hermione tried to knee Draco, but he used his hold on her wrists to twist her away and easily sidestepped her leg.
“See, once your arms are trapped, your options are limited, and mine are nearly endless depending on what I want to do to you next.”
His lecturing was getting annoying. Hermione stomped on his foot and kicked him in the shins. He hissed faintly.
“Better. But if I were a vampire, you'd be drained by now. You clearly lack aptitude for fighting dirty.”
He released her abruptly, and Hermione tore herself away and faced him. He stared at her seriously.
“Granger, if you are attacked, you will be outnumbered. Even if you aren't outnumbered, physically speaking, you will never be as strong as most Dark creatures naturally are. They will do whatever it takes to kill you. The fight will be stacked against you in every possible regard. Do anything you can to get away.”
Hermione gave a short nod.
“Fight smart,” he said coldly. “Be devious. When your opponent is stronger than you, it is crucial to use it against them. You will never be stronger than a werewolf, but they get lost in bloodlust and attack predictably. If you utilise that knowledge, you may be able to survive it. Also,” he shot her a look, “pull your punches; this is a practice fight.”
He returned her wand to her and attacked her again. And again, and again. He was relentless, and annoyingly conversational. He'd disarm her without even using a spell, and then proceed to trip her, or twist an arm behind her back and force her into a helpless position, while relentlessly drawling what she could have done better.
Hermione grew progressively more and more irritated with him, which he noticed and seemed amused by.
“I'm a hag,” he announced with a smirk before attacking her for the twentieth time. Hermione shot off a series of stunners as she tried to stay out of his reach, but he rapidly dodged them and closed in. She tried to dive to escape him, but he caught her by the ankle. She whirled and tried to hex him, but he snatched her wand out of her hand and tossed it into a corner, and then proceeded to sit on her hips. “I would probably slit you open and start eating your organs at this point,” he noted casually, sliding a hand over her stomach. “You're worse at this than you were at dancing, and you were an abysmal dancer.”
“I've never done this kind of fighting before,” Hermione said mutinously as she tried to wriggle free. “Do you have any idea how many kinds of hand-to-hand combat there are? I browsed through dozens of books, but I had no idea what type of fighting I was expected to learn.” She glared and added, “I could stab you with one of my knives now.”
He stared at her thoughtfully and then nodded. “We should use practice knives. I'll bring a set.”
Hermione studied him in bewilderment. “Why are you in such a good mood today?”
Months of enduring his cold rage, and suddenly he was cheerful and conversational for no apparent reason.
He looked at her for a moment and then smirked. “Joie de vivre, I suppose. Or maybe I'm just unexpectedly fond of sitting on you.”
Hermione eyed him dubiously and wondered if he was high on something.
He stood up and offered her a hand. She blinked in surprise and accepted it. Then she studied him.
He was strangely happy — borderline affectionate-seeming. Hermione was not. She felt on the verge of a breakdown just looking at him.
A month. She had a month. A month to find a way to control him.
Control him. Even if she could, she had no idea how she was possibly going to demonstrate it.
“After all, what exactly is he getting from having you? You aren't sleeping with him. He's teaching you to duel, he taught you occlumency. What benefit are you providing him?”
“What would you even say you are to him?”
Hermione felt as though she were going to have a panic attack. She stared at Draco in despair.
“Don't be afraid to use your elbows,” he said. “When you're fending off close range attacks, punching won't have much force. Elbows are hard and ideal for close attacks. Better than something as ineffective as slapping.”
“Slapping worked rather well on you,” Hermione retorted.
Draco snorted faintly. “If you're attacking a thirteen year old, by all means, slap him.”
Hermione scowled.
“Again,” he said, after she had caught her breath.
He lunged toward her. Rather than try to bolt, she moved toward him and then side-stepped at the last minute. He pivoted and turned back, but she'd already hit him with a stinging hex and caught his ankle with a leg locker. He was too close for more spellwork. She tried to leap away but he grabbed her by the arm, knocked her wand away and dragged her to the ground with him.
Hermione kicked, scratched, and snarled as she tried to fight free, but he weighed at least fifty pounds more than her. She tried to wrench herself away, but in a minute she was entirely pinned beneath him.
“If I were a werewolf, I'd already have ripped your throat out,” he said in a low voice. His mouth was near the base of her neck, and Hermione became abruptly aware that the length of his body was pressed against hers. His breath was brushing against the sensitive skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. His legs were between hers, and as she kept trying to get free, she kept bucking her hips against his.