He leaned back in the chair he was restrained in and opened his knees. His expression was taunting, as though he was the one in power.
She wanted to stun him.
She was supposed to leave them conscious when she healed them. It was part of the psychology that Kingsley employed.
She flicked her wand to perform an unbuttoning charm then reached out and opened his trousers.
Gabrielle had used some type of fine blade to carve words into the shaft of his penis. Hermione couldn't read the French through the ragged incisions and blood. She had a brief moment of gratitude that they weren't runes.
Then she got to work.
She was determined to try not to touch him which made the wand work more elaborate. She banished the blood and cast a mild cleansing charm.
The young man moaned in pain for the first time. Then she siphoned out essence of murtlap from a vial and applied it magically. It was less precise and gentle but Hermione refused to let herself care.
Hermione murmured the necessary healing charms and cast a second diagnostic. He had a lot of alcohol in his system. It was probably part of how Gabrielle had gotten close. Hermione pulled out a sobriety potion and poured it down his throat. He recognised the potion because he didn't struggle the way she expected him to.
Then she stepped back and appraised him.
He stared up at her as she reached into her bag and pulled out a hangover relief potion and offered it to him.
After he swallowed it, he sneered at her.
“Patching me up for round two?” he guessed. “And here I thought you were all bleeding hearts with a no-kill policy.”
Hermione gave him a thin smile she had learned from Malfoy.
“We're not going to kill you.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked out. As the door shut behind her, she stood for a moment collecting herself.
She felt like a fucking bitch.
She had lied to Malfoy the first time she'd been drunk; she had no shreds of decency left. The war had ripped them all away.
The only thing she had left was her determination to save Ron and Harry. To win the war.
She would climb over tortured bodies, sell herself, and tear out Draco Malfoy's heart if it was required to achieve it.
When her friends were safe, she would stand quietly beside Kingsley and Moody, and swallow her damnation without a murmur.
Flashback 17
August 2002
Hermione sat on a rock on the beach while she waited for Kingsley to call her back to administer the Draught of Living Death. As she sat, she kept replaying the previous night over and over, looking for anything she might have missed.
She had concluded upon further review of the night that Draco was attracted to her at some level. Afterall, he had called her lovely, compared her to a rose in a graveyard, and claimed he was blindsided. She snorted faintly and wondered if he would ever have admitted such a thing if he hadn't been on his third bottle of firewhisky.
He lacked intimacy in his life. Whether or not she met his general standards for physical appeal, he was emotionally vulnerable to her.
She had also determined that it was probably for the best that they hadn't had sex.
His current interest was like a kindling flame; too much fuel and she'd smother it. Now that it seemed undeniable that she had his attention, she'd have to move cautiously. The key would lie in carefully cultivating it into something uncontrollable for him; something he couldn't stop himself from wanting more than anything else.
It would take time.
Draco was patient. He was willing to lie and manipulate and murder and climb as far as necessary to get what he wanted. The revenge — atonement, or whatever his alliance with the Order was based on — was something he was willing to wait to get; he'd suffer and sacrifice for as long as it took.
To try to direct his ambition and insidiously obsessive nature toward herself was a terrifying risk. As Severus has said, she was as likely to destroy the Order as save it.
She could feel herself panicking at the thought. Her chest tightened, and it felt as though the ocean wind was stealing her breath. She dropped her head between her knees and forced herself to inhale slowly.
She could do it. She could do it because she had to do it. Because there was no other way to win the war.
The very notion of being able to control him had felt delusional and theoretical up until then.
The idea that she could buy the war with her — emotional intimacy had seemed fundamentally absurd until she felt herself dipped into the deep undercurrent of Malfoy's unrestrained attention.
He was so controlled, even when drunk. Even when he had kissed her. He hadn't rushed or been over-eager. His passion hadn't been explosive. It was a smoldering fire; the kind that grew secretly, like a ground fire deep in the earth, spreading and waiting before rising up, destroying the world above. She suspected he burned for things more deeply than even he was aware of.
She laid out her campaign carefully in her mind.
He would be more careful the next time he saw her. He would probably try to force her away and recreate the distance. Perhaps that would play to Hermione's advantage.
After all, there was no greater temptation than the forbidden fruit. The more he was thinking about her; about being careful around her, about how he shouldn't have her, the more she'd consume him. The more he'd want her.
The fact that she wanted him back…
Hermione swallowed and nibbled nervously on her thumbnail.
She would use that too. If the tension was real on both sides, it would make it harder for him to resist. She didn't know how to fake it anyway. She was too inexperienced. The sense of longing she felt would be included in her repertoire.
She smiled bitterly to herself.
She'd prostitute her soul to win the war. Using her feelings as currency should be even easier.
Should be...
Somehow rationalising things didn't always stop them from hurting.
The sharp sound of crunching rocks caught her attention. She turned and found Bill approaching.
“Kingsley sent me to find you; he's finished,” Bill said.
Hermione stared up at him. The war had aged the oldest Weasley boy. The jaunty, cool Curse Breaker had been ground down into a hard and pensive looking man.
Bill had been the one on a mission with Arthur when Arthur had been cursed. The guilt had smothered something in him. He was cold and reliable and mechanical in his work, and his work was all he did. Hermione consulted with him sometimes over curse research. There was never any small-talk; no jokes, or off-handed remarks. Even Severus was more conversant.
Hermione stood and followed him. As they walked down the beach, Bill abruptly stopped and looked at her.
Hermione waited.
“Gabrielle—,” Bill started and then hesitated. “Fleur's worried.”
Hermione didn't say anything. She had no idea what she could say about the girl.
“What exactly is she doing?” Bill asked.
“She intercepts messengers that Tom sends to other parts of Europe,” Hermione said carefully.
“I know that. But how?”
“She hasn't told me,” Hermione said. “You'd have to ask her or Kingsley.”
“I think she's fucking them,” Bill said abruptly. His entire face seemed carved from stone. “I think she fucks them and then when they're asleep she ties them up and tortures them.”
Hermione pressed her lips together and didn't say anything.
“I don't know,” Hermione finally said after a long pause. “I only heal the targets brought in. I'm not informed about methods.”
Bill clenched his jaw visibly. “A lot of healing?”
Hermione shifted and brushed at her nose.
“Nothing permanent,” she said quietly.