The Order was running out of money. Running out of resources. Trying to feed an army with personal vaults and secret donations. It was difficult for Resistance fighters to hold jobs in the muggle world.
Hermione had nearly drained her own bank account personally paying for potion supplies as the Order was forced to repeatedly slash her budget even while the need for the healing potions increased sharply.
They weren't starving yet. But Hermione was beginning to grow suspicious about how Kingsley was accomplishing such a thing.
Sometimes she doubted that defeating Voldemort would even be enough. If he died, with the control the Death Eaters currently had, there was a good chance someone would just step in to replace him.
Her mind always went immediately to Malfoy when that thought occurred.
She had yet to really see a demonstration of his abilities, but based on everything the Order knew of him, he was considered one of the likely candidates to take over in the event of Voldemort's demise.
Moody and Kingsley were almost certain that it was Draco's true motive in spying for the Order.
According to Severus, the Dark Mark had several elements to it. It allowed Voldemort to summon his followers to him, wherever they might be. It also enabled him to locate his followers; they couldn't run. And finally, the Dark Mark prevented bearers from attacking their master. Even if Malfoy thought he had the ability to kill Voldemort, he couldn't wield magic against him, not lethally. Draco would need someone else cast the death blow.
Hermione sometimes thought that becoming the next Dark Lord was indeed Draco's motive, but — after the runes, she questioned that conclusion. There was something angrier and more embittered in him than ambition. The deadliness and cold rage felt more like desperation than pride.
When she had told Moody that Draco had not demanded an Unbreakable Vow from her, the glint in Moody's eye made her begin to suspect that he intended to use her to kill Draco at some point.
She tried not to think about it.
She couldn't think about killing him.
She couldn't stand behind him night after night, trying to heal the runes carved into him and think about murdering him when he stopped being useful. Such coldness exceeded even her capacity for strategy.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she recast the protective charms over the cuts. She'd tried using bandages but the venom reacted.
“Alright. You're done,” she said quietly as she pulled his shirt up over his shoulders lightly.
When she left, she didn't apparate immediately back to Grimmauld Place. Instead she walked down the lane and into Whitecroft.
Draco's injury was eating into her detachment. It was causing her to go off mission.
Death Eater. Murderer. Spy. Target. Tool.
She repeated the list to herself again and again. But her conviction and resolve sounded hollow.
She found a creek, and watched the moving water glitter in the moonlight as she tried to force herself to detach. She shoved her hands into her pockets, and then hissed and jerked her right hand out. She found her index finger bleeding slightly. A piece of her amulet had broken the skin. She'd forgotten about it.
She pulled the rest of the shards from her pocket and tossed them into the creek, before healing the scratch.
He killed Dumbledore, she reminded herself. He was probably just trying to become the next Dark Lord.
Death Eater. Murderer. Spy. Target. Tool.
But then she'd think of his accusation: that she knew what would happen to him. That she was only pretending to care that he was hurt. That she was probably hoping he'd die once he wasn't useful anymore. The bitterness and resignation in his tone haunted her.
Perhaps he expected her to betray him someday.
The thought made something inside of Hermione shred somewhat, as though it were mangling her internal organs.
Why hadn't he made her take a Vow?
What did he want? The mystery around him dragged her mind toward him. Obsessing over every detail. Trying to comprehend what drove all the inconsistencies of his behavior.
The push and pull he exerted over their relationship felt like a tide. His arrogance and loneliness. He disliked her, despite whatever “fascination” which had prompted him to demand her. He often seemed to wish he could have nothing to do with her.
But he was so isolated. He couldn't bring himself to push her fully away when she gave him opportunities to give in.
It was as Severus had said. She had been a miscalculation on his part. Even though he appeared to suspect her manipulation, her draw was inevitable and apparently irresistible.
Draco wasn't the only one falling into an obvious trap.
She knew he was using her. Using the Order. She knew that he was manipulative, cruel, dangerous, and responsible for the deaths of countless people. But as she tried to unravel him, he grew increasingly tragic and terrifyingly human.
She pressed her hands over her eyes and took a deep breath as she tried to clear her sympathy away.
She felt that if she could just know what his motive truly was, she'd be able to sever the sympathy; root it out from wherever it had started growing inside of her.
She didn't feel guilty for manipulating him but she wasn't sure that she had the resolve to be able to eventually kill him.
Sometimes she wondered bitterly if Moody and Kingsley regarded her as having any limits. Make her a whore, then make her a murderer. Did they just assume she'd want to?
It felt sometimes as though they were walking her down to Hell and watching as she passed through the gates. She wondered how pleased they were to have a tool who would suffer in whatever way they needed her to.
Moody was her handler. He handled her. Whatever trace of hesitation he'd had when he first asked her to give herself to Malfoy, he'd moved beyond. She was useful. An excellent pawn for the Order. The key to the piece they really wanted.
Malfoy.
Compared to Draco's value, Hermione was an acceptable loss.
If Harry and Voldemort were the Kings on each side of the board, then Malfoy was Voldemort's Queen. Gaining him was worth sacrificing almost every other piece on board. He was unrestricted and deadly. Crucial.
It made sense. Strategically, she saw the logic. She understood the necessity.
But on a personal level, it hurt so deeply she could barely breathe.
She hated herself.
She hated Moody. She hated Kingsley.
They'd take, and they'd take, and she'd be left with nothing but ashes when the war ended.
But they weren't really taking. She was offering. It wasn't as though they were requiring anything of her that she wasn't willing to do.
For Harry and Ron, she reminded herself. It will be worth it.
But something inside of her felt as though the war was corrupting her. She was twisting. Reshaping herself into a creature that felt like everything she hated.
Darkness gets into your soul, that was what Harry always said.
Never mind how irredeemable she thought Draco was for killing Dumbledore. If she sold Draco out at some future point, she imagined she'd belong in a far lower level of hell than even he did.
But she'd still do it.
Minerva had been right. Hermione was fully willing to damn herself if it meant winning the war.
She slipped down the bank of the creek, gathered up several stones, and began building them into a stack.
Her mother had travelled a great deal before marriage, and had told Hermione how in Korea the people would pile rocks up, each one representing wishes and prayers.
Mothers would build large towers of prayers for their children.