Harry Potter is dead. In the aftermath of the war, in order to strengthen the might of the magical world, Voldemort enacts a repopulation effort. Hermione Granger has an Order secret, lost but hidden in her mind, so she is sent as an enslaved surrog...
He sneered at her again and abruptly started to move. Hermione tried to follow but their knees collided. She yelped and he swore.
"Some warning before you start moving," she said in a tight voice as her right knee throbbed.
"Try following my lead," he snapped. "This is for dueling. No one is going to give you 'some warning' before they curse you. You need to have the instinct to just move."
Hermione's jaw tightened and she huffed.
"Fine."
"We'll start again."
Hermione didn't need to pretend to be clumsy when dancing with Draco. The speed at which he expected her to waltz at was nearly breakneck. He was not patient. In fact, he seemed determined to make it as unpleasant as he possibly could; probably to motivate her.
Her toes were throbbing, and she was fairly certain his dragonhide boots were steel reinforced in the toes because he accidentally kicked her in the shin, and she thought he might have fractured something.
She dropped to the ground with a howl and hugged her leg.
"You are the worst dance instructor on the planet," she snarled and jerked her trousers up to find a purple bruise already blooming across her shin.
"However shall I live?" he said dryly, without even looking down at her. "My secret ambition is crushed."
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"Are you trying to break my leg? Why are you wearing combat boots?" she said in a furious voice.
Malfoy glanced over sharply and caught sight of her leg. His expression wavered for a split second before he regained his mask of indifference. "I didn't expect you to be this clumsy," he said.
"You are a complete bastard," Hermione said as she summoned her satchel and rummaged for her healing kit.
"Yet most of your precious Order would be dead by now if it weren't for me." Draco sneered viciously at her. "By now I'm as much their savior as Saint Potter will ever be, and I own you, so you really have very little room to complain."
Hermione felt herself pale as she felt fury ripple through her chest. She hated him. She hated him. She hated him and she still wanted him, and that made her hate him even more.
But she possibly hated him most because he was right about the Order. The war in Britain was at a stalemate currently, after years of slow losses on their side. The Order was still, comparatively speaking, steeply disadvantaged, but Voldemort had had fewer and fewer victories since Malfoy had begun spying. Draco's aid had tipped the scales of the war into a balance, and he knew it.
He held the Order in the palm of his hand.
It was the most tenuous form of survival possible because they had no idea if he might someday just let go.
