Shifted

Waiting

"You never practice your knife throwing."

Hermione sat cross legged in front of the coffee table with her knives splayed out neatly in front of her. She dipped a rag into a cup of polish and bent over her work.

"Muscle memory." Lifting the knife to the sun, she smiled as it glinted off. "I'm talented with knives. It's not something I ever had to work hard at.

It was the first thing she'd ever been truly gifted at. Intelligence was always the trait linked to her, but learning never came easy. She craved it. Chased after it. Studied day in and day out until it became her responsibility, until the lives of people depended on what she'd learned and she had no other choice but to force it down her throat.

A part of her bristled at the thought of a world without war, where she'd never have picked the knives up. She loved them. Liked the way people's jaws dropped when she hit a moving target.

No one expected it from her. She was naturally inclined towards athletics, though it wasn't something she'd ever have realized if it wasn't for the Order training. She'd spent too much time in the library during her younger years, feeling superior for it.

The first weeks of conditioning made her realize how arrogant that mindset had been. Sore legs, aching arms. The embarrassment of grunting while walking up the stairs because the two miles they'd been mandated to run was enough to have her bed ridden.

She caught on, eventually.

She was small and it made her fast, and once she realized hand to hand was the best way to get out frustrations, it became one of her favorite ways to pass time.

Defensive magic was always Harry's thing. Ron could whip anyone at Wizard's chess.

Both of these skills transferred admirably to the war effort.

But there came a point where book smarts were no longer important. With all the horcruxes destroyed, fighters were needed more than ever. Her brain was tossed to the side, useless unless it could function in battle.

And it did. Her duel with Theo proved that more than anything. 

She glanced up at him.

The effort had been made, on his part. First for an apology, and when Hermione threw a fist into his cheekbone, he'd given her space. Even had the decency to not heal the bruise.

Then Draco had come to try and convince her.

"Theo's complicated. I thought you'd understand darkness in a time of war better than anyone else."

"I don't look down on a whole group of people and fantasize the types of torture I could make them suffer. I'm not inventing new spells to prolong their death. To draw it out so I can watch."

Draco was changing out the pillowcases as she placed a clean sheet on the bed. It was bizarre— felt much too normal for anyone in their circumstances.

"That was what he was assigned to do. Create new spells."

"That doesn't mean he has to use them," she pointed out.

Draco shrugged. "If he put the effort in—"

Hermione shoved a finger harshly into his chest. "If you defend him and his use of torture, I'll set up a pillow on the porch for you."

His hands threw up defensively.

They worked in silence for a few minutes before he tried again.

"I don't even know why I'm bothering. I was ready to kill him when I found out."

"You weren't in your right mind."