Insofar as general sex appeal went, she was assuredly middling. It was simply not a quality she had ever had the thought or time to cultivate in herself. Dwelling on how she came across sexually — it just hadn't really seemed to be of pressing importance.
It had not occurred to her that the war was going to require her to offer herself — as a mistress? Whore? War prize? — to a Death Eater.
She did not bother to fuss over her underwear or clothing as she dressed. There was no point in trying to pretend to have wiles or attributes she did not. She would undoubtedly do it poorly. Trying to undertake an additional angle might cause her to exceed her limitations and reveal her hand.
As she prepared to leave she glanced in the mirror and fingered the chain around her neck, hesitating before she pulled it out from under her shirt and stared at the amulet that hung from it. The pendant of Aset. A tiny throne rested upon deep scarlet stone, a sun-disk, fitted between two horns. It had been given to Hermione when she'd briefly studied healing in Egypt, before returning to Europe to study in Austria.
She pulled it off and slipped it into a beaded bag under her bed.
If she died, Severus would probably know what it was.
The location Malfoy had provided was in the village of Whitecroft. Moody apparated her there, and then after glancing sharply around for a minute with his magical eye, vanished again with another pop.
Feeling so viscerally abandoned that her skin hurt, Hermione walked up the gravel lane of the address, glancing around at an empty lot.
Unplottable. Or else a midpoint before she was directed to the real location.
After glancing around nervously, she swallowed hard and resigned herself to wait.
There was a stump to the side of the lane. She seated herself. After another minute, she pulled out a book, keeping her ears alert for any noise.
She had read six pages when a sound to her left made her look up sharply. The light from a floating doorway in the empty lot suddenly appeared, and with it a rundown shack began bleeding into view.
Draco Malfoy stood framed in the door.
She hadn't seen him in over five years.
She slipped the book into her bag and walked forward; her heart rate increased with every step.
He had grown taller and broader. The haughtiness of his school days had faded, replaced with a cold sense of power. Deadly assurance.
Even after she had ascended the steps, he towered over her. He was at least as tall as Ron, but he felt larger. Ron's height was always offset by his lankiness and awkwardness. Malfoy owned every inch of his stature, as though it were an additional testament to his superiority as he stared down his nose at her.
His face had lost all trace of boyishness. It was cruelly beautiful. His sharp aristocratic features were set in a hard unyielding expression. His grey eyes were like knives. His hair still that pale, white blond combed carelessly aside.
He leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe. He left just enough space for her to enter, so long as she brushed lightly against his robes. She caught the sharp scent of cedar in the fabric as she passed.
He felt dangerous. She could feel the taint of dark magic around him.
Approaching him was like walking toward a wolf or a dragon. Her whole body felt on edge as she drew nearer. She struggled against a fear that felt like it were slicing its way down her spine.
A sense of ruthlessness hung about him.
He had killed Dumbledore at the age of sixteen, and that had been only the start of his bloodstained ascent.
If an assassin's blade were made into a man, it would take the form of Draco Malfoy.
She stared up at him. Taking him in.
Beautiful and damned. A fallen angel. Or perhaps the angel of death.
Such cliches, and yet they somehow captured him. If he was complicated or conflicted, he didn't show it; he just seemed cruel, harsh, and beautiful.
“Malfoy. I understand you want to help the Order,” she said after she walked into the shack and he shut the door behind her. She fought against the impulse to flinch or turn sharply when she heard it click.
She was alone in a house with Draco Malfoy, whom she had agreed to sell herself to in exchange for information.
The Calming Draught she had taken immediately before leaving with Moody was far from sufficient relief to the nauseating terror crawling through her. She felt it everywhere; in her spine, and her stomach, and her hands, and closing around her throat as surely as if he were strangling her.
She squared her shoulders and forced herself to survey the room slowly.
The building seemed primarily composed of one large, empty room. Hardly any furniture to be seen. Two chairs. A table. Nothing else.
No bed.
“You understand the terms?” he said coolly when she looked at him again.
“A pardon. And me. In exchange for the information.”
“Both now and after the war.” His eyes gleamed with a mixture of cruelty and satisfaction as he said it.
Hermione didn't flinch.
“Yes. I'm yours from now on. Moody says he'll act as Bonder if you require an Unbreakable Vow,” she said, trying to keep any bitterness from her tone.
He gave a thin smirk.
“That won't be necessary. I'll trust that Gryffindor nobility you have if you swear it now.”
“I swear it. I'm yours. You have my word,” she said without giving herself time to hesitate.
She wished she could feel triumphant that he was leaving her a way out. But — if they won the war at this point it would be because of him. She'd owe him. They all would.
“Until we win you aren't to do anything that will interfere with my ability to contribute to the Order,” she reminded him firmly.
“Ah yes. I'll have to make sure I keep you alive until this is over.” He smirked as he looked her over.
“I want you to swear it,” she said in a tense voice.
His eyes flashed and he laid a hand across his heart. “I swear it,” he said in a droll tone, “I won't interfere with your contributions to the Order.”
Then he tsked. “My, but you're suspicious of me, aren't you? Worried this is all just a ploy on my part to get a piece of you before the war ends and you die,” he speculated. “Don't fret. As a token of my sincerity, I won't touch you — yet. After all, I've waited this long to get you as my prize, I can restrain myself a bit longer.”
He smiled wolfishly at her.
“In the meantime, I'll let you go running back to your precious Order with my information, and sustain myself with your delightful company.”
If Malfoy were trying to set Hermione on edge he was doing an excellent job of it.
As though the thought of consenting to whatever awful thing he wanted to do to her wasn't bad enough, having to keep dreading it almost felt worse.
She gritted her teeth and forced herself to breathe. She slid a hand behind her back and fisted it tightly, then forced herself to open her fingers slowly. Bracing herself. Clearing her mind.
This was better, she reasoned. The longer he waited to act, the more time she had to try to ensure his loyalty; to find a way to bring him to heel before he tired of her.
She nodded shortly.
“Alright. That's — generous of you.”
He laid a hand over his heart.
“You have no idea what joy it brings me to hear you say that,” he said with false elation.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. She couldn't understand him. His true motive was escaping her entirely. She hated how disadvantaged that made her.
“But you know...” said Malfoy suddenly looking contemplative. “Perhaps, you should give me something—”