He abruptly tore himself away from her and stood up glaring. His jaw rolled slightly, and his eyes were black.
“If you're ever fighting off a werewolf, I would not recommend doing it that way,” he said in a tight voice as he pulled out his wand and removed the leg locker jinx on his ankle.
“How should I do it?”
“Use your head to break his nose, and when he lets go of your wrists, tear his eyes out,” he said stiffly. “Go for knees, groin, eyes, ankles. As previously mentioned, you're trying to disable your assailant.”
“Right.” She picked herself up of the floor and stared wistfully at him.
“Again,” he said. He attacked her again.
By the time Hermione apparated away, she was covered in bruises. Draco had knocked her down again and again as he'd lectured her on hags', vampires', and werewolves' preferred methods for attack.
She hid in the bathroom when she got back to Grimmauld Place and rubbed Murtlap Essence all over her body. She studied self-defense. She reviewed all her notes on Draco.
She didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to control him. She didn't know how to prove that she could.
She didn't know what he wanted. Her. In some way — for some reason — he wanted her. But she interfered with whatever else it was that he wanted.
She sorted through her memories exhaustively: turning them over, organising them, trying to find something to unravel.
She lay in bed at night and wondered if she were risking the war effort. Maybe she was compromised. Unreliable. Maybe Severus was right, and Draco was better off dead. Maybe if he was such a centralised figure in Voldemort's army, getting him killed and leaving a power vacuum would be the most effective use for him.
But she couldn't reconcile it. She refused to believe it.
She curled into a tight ball and felt as though she might die from the sense of despair she felt.
Each successive week when Draco trained her, she was distracted. She went through the motions, but she was uncommitted, and Draco noticed.
“Is there any point in my training you if you aren't even paying attention?” he asked, his expression irritated.
Hermione's mouth twisted, and the corners of her eyes ached. She looked away from him. “I just don't really see the point anymore.”
He stared at her for several seconds, looking faintly aghast. “I thought you didn't want to die,” he finally said.
“If I'm ambushed by a pack of werewolves, I doubt I'll survive it. If I do, I'll be in so many pieces I doubt it would even matter,” she said quietly.
He shifted back and stared at her as though he were reevaluating something. “What's wrong?”
“I'm tired,” she said, staring at the floor. “I am tired of this war. I'm tired of trying to save people and watching them die anyway, or saving them and then watching them die later. I feel like Sisyphus, trapped in a cycle for eternity. I don't know how to get out, and I don't know how to keep going anymore either.”
Draco was quiet for a moment. “What happened to doing everything for Potter and Weasley?” His tone was tinged with disdain.
“The price keeps getting steeper. I don't know if I can keep paying it.”
His expression tightened. “I suppose even martyrs have limits.”
Hermione gave a listless smile. “Or bad days, at least.”
She looked up at Draco, studying his reserved, mask-like expression and the intent way he watched her.
Give in. Give in. She urged him. She could see it in his eyes, he was so close.
But he refused to cross the line. To concede it. Whenever she tried to beckon him across it, his malice surfaced.
He was cruelest when he was vulnerable.
Perhaps if Hermione were more dogged, she could find a way to push through the pain, but he seemed to always know where to cut to hurt her most.
Whatever was holding him back — she didn't know how to sever it.
Her fingers curled, and she almost reached for him before pulling back. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to squash her despair and focus on the situation at hand.
“Right. I'm done moping,” she said, straightening.
She grabbed her wand up off the floor and got into position. He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment before suddenly lunging toward her.
She sidestepped and shoved him past her, but he caught himself and spun back. His hand caught her wrist and forced her to drop her wand. She shoved her elbow into his ribs, wrenched herself free, and dove for her wand.
She snatched her wand up as she jumped back to her feet and managed to hit him several times before he closed in again. He grabbed her by the arm and tore her wand out of her hand again. She attempted to hook her foot behind his ankle, but he swept back and dodged it as he twisted her arm behind her. She jerked it loose with a quick lunge, and felt a flash of triumph before realising he'd let her go. Using the force from her escape, he spun her, caught her ankle with his own foot, and slammed her to the ground.
Hermione twisted, trying to wriggle free, but he had her wrists locked in his hands.
Hissing slightly with frustration, she stilled while he knelt over her.
“You're still trying to win by being quick rather than by being clever,” he scolded.
He released her wrists and stood.
“Again.”
Hermione was getting tired, but she still managed to last longer. She knocked him down twice, but she couldn't outlast him. As he tried to pin her down, she spun to the side using his momentum, and they rolled across the floor.
He still ended up on top of her in the end.
She nearly cursed with frustration.
“Better,” he said, panting.
His face was less than an inch from hers, and he was staring down at her. His hands were wrapped around her wrists over her head.
She could feel his heartbeat.
It was January 21st. Next week would be the last time, and she was due to hand her memories over to Kingsley.
Draco, who worried about her more than anyone else did. Who had devoted time he couldn't possibly have trying to train her and keep her alive. Because he just wanted her to be alive.
Since he'd told her she could say no, he had never actually asked for anything from her. As he looked down at her, his expression was closed, but his eyes were intent; as though he were memorising her. Then his expression flickered, a flash of familiar bitterness.
And she knew.
He was waiting for her to betray him. He knew that she would. That she would always choose the Order first.
That was the thing that had always held him back.
He'd anticipated it since the very beginning, before the possibility had occurred to her. And he'd trained her anyway.
She couldn't understand it. What was the point to any of it if he expected to be killed by the Order? By her?
She stared at him. She didn't need a book to tell her what the expression on his face was. She could feel it, it was a heat in her abdomen, a catching sensation in her chest, and a thrum in her veins. The intensity with which he studied her. His fingers were wrapped around her wrists, and his thumb slid subconsciously along her inner arm as he looked down at her.
He drew closer. She held her breath. Then his expression hardened. He pulled his hands away and started to get up.
Hermione's hands shot out, she grabbed hold of his shirt, dragged him back and pressed her lips against his.
It was not a slow, sweet kiss. It was not a kiss caused by alcohol or insecurity.
It was borne from rage, despair, and desire so hot it threatened to burn her into oblivion.