December 2002
Draco quirked an eyebrow as he met her eyes.
"You stole my class ranking, which was worse. I'd been tutored at home, prepared my entire life for Hogwarts. My father had my life planned for me: top of my class, prefect, Quidditch captain, Head Boy, internship at the Ministry of Magic, and eventually a member of the Wizengamot and then Minister of Magic. The ministry career he lost due to his participation in the first Wizarding war; I was supposed to do it all. But then, first year of school and an inferior little Mudblood girl managed to exceed my marks in every class."
He reached out and laid his hand across her throat. Hermione's breath caught slightly, and he tightened his hold, just enough to draw her face closer to his.
Draco's eyes glittered, and his tone was almost light, as though he were daring her to flinch. "I have to admit, I really hoped you'd die during second year when the Chamber of Secrets was opened. I did actually earn my place on the Slytherin Quidditch team before my father bought brooms for the team, but thanks to your little comment the whole school assumed my father just bought my spot." As he spoke, he slid his thumb up her throat to her jaw and then pushed against the bone to force her head back.
He was trying to force her to flinch. Hermione kept meeting his eyes. They were darkening.
The room felt warmer.
He kept talking.
"It was easy to believe that Muggles and their spawn were responsible for the problems in the world. It certainly felt that way in my life. Between half-blood Potter, whose life was an endless stream of dumb-luck and favouritism, and you, and then the impoverished Weasleys being exhibit A for what happens to blood-traitors. There wasn't any reason not to believe the Wizarding world wouldn't be a better place without you and your ilk."
"I didn't realise you thought about me that much," Hermione said.
She could feel heat slowly radiating through her body, spreading outward from his hand, but also between her shoulders, across her skin and unfurling somewhere in her lower abdomen. She shivered faintly as she kept meeting his eyes.
His mouth twitched. "My hatred of you paled in comparison to my rivalry with Potter. You were an irritant. Despite your grades at least you were ugly, socially awkward and obviously insecure." His lips curled into a faint smirk. "Beating me academically wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't been friends with Potter. He dragged you into the spotlight and needed you enough that he couldn't deny it. If Potter hadn't mattered, you wouldn't have either."
Hermione felt something in her stomach suddenly drop, thinking back to the initial suspicion she'd had; that demanding her was some kind of revenge or retaliation against Harry. She'd almost forgotten about that fear.
He smiled and leaned forward so that he was looming over her as he continued to hold her by the throat and stare down at her face. Their bodies were almost touching, and she felt a renewed awareness of how much bigger he was, how much he could hurt her if he wanted to. That she was trying to break inside a sealed vault, and she didn't know if there was anything but rage on the other side.
But it didn't matter, because it was what she was supposed to do.
Her breath caught, and she trembled faintly. Draco's eyes darkened.
He pulled her even closer. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.
It's an act, she told herself. When he was drunk, he didn't hurt her. He was trying to scare her.
His breath was hot on her face, and his voice was so low he was almost whispering to her. The timbre laced through her nerves.
"The Dark Lord doesn't actually care about blood purity, or his followers, or magic being might. You Muggle-borns just happen to be common enough to seem like a threat. It gives the Dark Lord an excuse to accumulate power and it incentivises dark beings to join his cause. He brought most of Eastern Europe into alliance that way. Romania was the first, and the rest fell in line. There are thousands of dark creatures desperate to see the Statute of Secrecy overturned and the wand ban ended. Most pureblood families are discontent with the way wizards are forced into the shadows for the comfort of Muggles. There's enough resentment-if not to recruit them to the cause-to encourage them to ignore what's happening."
Draco gave a thin smile as his face drew even nearer. "The Dark Lord wants power. He isn't particular about who he crushes underfoot to obtain it. Muggles and Muggle-borns-" she could almost feel his lips against hers, "-you... were just easy."
Hermione could barely breathe. Her whole body was taut; at the precipice of something that felt like fear. Her heart was beating rapidly. Everything around her was blurring.
She wanted to bolt; she felt scared and vulnerable. She understood human anatomy and physiology, but her body was doing things she wasn't familiar with. Her physiology wasn't supposed to be confusing. She needed space to figure it out.
But-she didn't want to go; she had never felt anything like it before. Physical touch that was comforting, she understood. But this wasn't comforting. Draco's hand around her throat wasn't comforting. It was terrifying-and thrilling.
"A means to an end," she forced herself to say. "We're just a means to an end.
He pushed her back slightly. "Precisely."
She studied him. His eyes were black, and the hollows of his cheeks were faintly flushed. He slid his thumb slowly along the curve of her jaw. She licked her lips.
"Has killing us solved your problems then?" she asked.
His hand stilled. He stared at her for several seconds. Then his eyes glittered and he smiled.
"Well, you're certainly no threat to my job now, are you?" As he said it, his free hand slid firmly between her legs.
His eyes were cold and locked on hers. His fingers twisted and pressed knowingly at the apex of her thighs. It felt as though he'd electrocuted her. Sensation shot through her nerves.
She gasped.
As she did, everything crashed down on her with a sense of cold horror.
Hermione jerked away from him.
Draco's hands immediately withdrew from her, and he watched with an indifferent expression as she drew further away until she was on the far end of the bed.
She was shaking faintly. She could still feel him touching her; sliding his hand between her legs as he stared in her eyes and reminded her that he had turned her into his property. Not because he had wanted her. But simply because he could. Because it had amused him to do so when he made his offer. Because he had power, and she was a pawn.
Now he got to watch her try to whore herself to him, and anything else she could conceive of, in the hopes of becoming a possession he would at least be unwilling to part with. He didn't have to debase her further. He could sit back and watch her do it to herself.
Her cheekbones felt hollow. She felt like she might be sick.
Her hands kept trembling no matter how hard she tried to still them. She bit down on her lower lip and drew several long breaths.
When she stopped visibly shaking, she forced herself to speak. "Do you-have any information this week?"
It was almost funny to have to ask that question right then. Although-that had always been the meaning of the question. She'd just gotten used to it.
Suddenly it hurt again, and the timing was almost amusing in some sickening way. She wasn't sure if the humor would be categorised as irony or black humor. She just knew it was something bitter, something painful to think about. But somehow also cruelly funny.
Draco smirked and pulled out a scroll of parchment. He'd driven his point home; as though he'd knifed her and then broken off the hilt so it stayed. That he didn't reiterate the insult showed that he knew.
Her hand shook faintly as she accepted the scroll and stood up.
She left without another word.
It was just over week until Christmas.
When she returned to Grimmauld Place, she went and took a calming Draught. She stood in her potion supply closet waiting for her hands to stop shaking.
When her hands were steady again, she glanced around the little room wistfully. She straightened a little basket full of what looked like leather pocketbooks. The Christmas presents she'd planned that year were rather sad. She'd made emergency healing kits. Again. She made them every year. The basics, all packed together and shrunk down to be easily carried.
Hermione had no money to buy books for her friends that they would never read, nor the time to knit hats or scarves for them. So she gave them potions and hoped they'd used them rather than apparating back with easily remedied injuries. The girls did; they would ask for refills. Neville, Fred, Dean Thomas, and Michael Corner would occasionally use their kits too.
But Hermione didn't think Harry or Ron had ever even opened theirs. Every time she gave them new kits they'd sheepishly return their old ones untouched. They always either ignored their injuries or apparated back panicking over them. In that regard, Ginny had been an excellent partner for Harry and Ron; both boys tended to return in better condition when Ginny went on missions with them.
Hermione swallowed hard, pulled down vials from the shelves and started assembling an additional kit.
She had a job. How she felt about it on a particular day didn't matter.
It never mattered.
The next week when Draco apparated into the shack, he and Hermione both paused and stared at each other.
"I have a Christmas present for you," she said after a minute. "Well, it's not really. But I suppose contextually it is."
She pulled out the small leather case and held it out to him.
"It's-it's an emergency healing kit. I give them to all my friends."
Draco quirked an eyebrow and sighed faintly as he plucked it from her hands; as though accepting it were a favour to her.
"If you're not going to go to a healer, you should at least carry this." She was speaking quickly, trying to say it all before he cut her off and flung it back in her face. "If you let me teach you a few spells, you'll be able to heal most basic injuries yourself."
He flipped the case open and scanned the contents. "You realise I can buy most of these."
Hermione's mouth twitched. She hadn't expected him to be grateful; she'd braced herself that he might not even accept it.
"Then you can easily refill any you use." Hermione forced herself to step closer and ran her finger along, pointing at the various vials.
"They're all labeled. There's the potion for concussions; any type of blow to the head and you should use a diagnostic to check. Murtlap essence for minor skin abrasions or small bruises. The bruise cream is for deeper and more serious hematomas. The Essence of Dittany is a trump card for most injuries. Unless it's a cursed wound, Dittany can help with most severe external injuries, werewolf bites, splinching. Unless it's the eyes or a brain injury, in which case you'll need to call a specialist. Don't even think about apparating or any other kind of displacement transport if you injure your eyes or have any type of wound that punctures the skull. The pressure will do irreversible damage. This antivenin will counteract venomous bites or stings unless it's a class XXXX type beast or above. The antidote here can counteract the anticoagulant properties of vampire bites."
Draco snorted faintly.
Hermione continued doggedly. "Calming Draught. Blood replenishing potion. This here is for internal organ damage, kidney contusions and the like. I'll teach you a diagnostic to check for things like that. And this one, it's an analgesic for the acid boil curse. I'm assuming you know the counter-curse. The analgesic will neutralise it completely and it cuts the pain. You'll still need to have all the bones removed carefully and then regrown. But it will reduce the recovery times by several days and decrease the likelihood of nerve damage. And a chocolate bar, for dementors. When you pull the items out of the case they'll assume their proper size. I shrank them so the kit wouldn't be too large to carry."
Hermione didn't mention that she had expanded Draco's kit far beyond the basics that she gave to everyone else. In the case of her friends she could count on them to come to her if they had an injury. It was not an assumption she could make with Draco. If he wasn't going to trust healers anymore, at least she could equip him enough to deal with more injuries by himself.
Draco snapped the case shut. Hermione stared up at him seriously. "Just-keep it with you. Let me teach you a diagnostic, so you can tell if you're dealing with anything serious."
"I know how to perform a diagnostic charm, Granger." His expression was slightly offended.
"Probably not the one I want to teach you. It's a bit unusual. More obscure. Better for war injuries. The basic ones are household charms, for diagnosing fevers or infections and daily injuries. Most medical textbooks will teach a general diagnostic with the assumption that the healer can then narrow their focus progressively. But if you're using a diagnostic, it's probably going to be after a raid or duel. So you can focus on detecting curses and physical injuries, there's no need to look for dragon pox or check whether there's any partial Transfiguration."
She demonstrated the diagnostic by casting it on herself.
"See? The spell is simple. What's complex is reading it, but we'll just stick to the basics. The colours and locations are indicative. I'm not cursed or injured so the reading is rather boring. The way I tilt my wand can bring various areas into a focused reading. Everything is a healthy sky blue. If it starts turning turquoise, that indicates a dangerous level of blood loss or drop in body temperature. If it's royal blue, that's a fever. It reads from the head down. The brighter the color, the more minor the injury. If it's black, even the slightest trace of black, it's potentially a mortal wound. Red indicates an external injury. Purple is for internal injuries. If there's purple on your head, that indicates a concussion; on your torso that means you should take the potion for internal damage. Lime green would indicate a minor hex but viridian means curses; get to spell damage or call your healer. Yellow is for poison or venom. Fractured bones will show up pale orange, broken and displaced is more pumpkin-toned. If it's a fracture you should heal it yourself. It's an easy spell, I'll teach it to you."
Malfoy was begrudgingly cooperative and even seemed slightly intrigued at times. Hermione determinedly plowed through as much training as she thought she could get away with and got him to demonstrate that he could do them all himself.
He had a knack for it. She had thought he probably would. A natural occlumens with a razor-edged focus carved into him; the precision would come naturally to him.
She suspected he knew a bit about the theory of healing. She almost asked him why, but his cooperativeness felt highly conditional. She stifled her curiosity and just kept rattling off tips for healing.
"Anyway, those are the basics," she finished at last.
He glanced at his watch. "You realise you've been talking for almost two hours straight."
Hermione blushed. "It's still very basic."
There was a pause, and Hermione realised she'd moved so close to Draco their shoulders were brushing. She could smell the scent of oakmoss that clung to his skin. She looked up at him, and their eyes met.
For a moment everything between them ceased to be so tense and resentful; as though the war faded away for a moment, and it was just them. She almost smiled at him. Because he could be kind to her when he wanted to be, and she was so tired that day.
She tried not to think about how pathetic that made her.
Then Draco pressed his lips into a flat line, and she saw his jaw clench. His eyes flashed, and she watched them sharpen; like a gaze of a bird of prey, they began to grow cruel.
She stepped back and dropped her eyes. "Happy Christmas, Draco."
He stared at her contemplatively. His expression was unreadable. She felt her heart rate increase. She was never quite sure what he might do.
She tried not to let her fingers fidget.
He rolled his jaw. Hermione felt cold and almost hollow inside as she braced herself.
"I have something for you," he said, reaching into his robes.
He pulled out something that was rolled up in oilcloth and held it out toward her. She accepted it and unrolled the cloth slowly to reveal its contents. Inside lay a set of beautiful and deadly daggers, sheathed in delicate mesh holsters.
"They should be small enough to keep one strapped to your forearm. The holsters are acromantula silk dipped in manticore blood; they'll resize to you and won't restrict your movement at all. You should wear the other dagger on your calf." He looked visibly awkward as he relayed the information. His eyes were avoiding Hermione, but they kept sweeping back to watch as she studied the daggers.
"Are these Goblin-wrought silver?" she asked after a minute.
"Yes. They're dipped in manticore venom, as a matter of fact."
She looked up at him sharply. "Does that mean-"
"It died. Tragically." The corner of his mouth quirked slightly. "The inclement weather, I suspect. I filed all the paperwork and turned the corpse over to McNair yesterday."
"But not before you harvested some venom," Hermione said, pulling one of the daggers out of the sheath and staring at the razor sharp edge, capable of cutting through almost anything. The blade would slide through a shield spell or protective wards as though they weren't there.
"Not much, or it would have been suspicious. But enough for a handful of weapons and an extra vial for a rainy day."
Hermione began mentally running the numbers on Draco's gift. Two goblin-wrought silver knives: at least a hundred galleons each. Manticore venom: another hundred or so right there. Acromantula silk holsters: another hundred galleons.
Draco's Christmas present for her was worth a small fortune. She wasn't even sure if he knew that or not.
Hermione was obsessive about her budget and her resources. She had to be. She cut every corner and saved every drop of potion and Knut she could. There was a corner of her mind that was endlessly trying to think of new ways to save or conceive of untapped resources.
It staggered her, the casual way in which Draco could hand her an enchanted shield cloak or a set of knives collectively worth more than her annual hospital and potion budget for the entire Resistance.
She would sell them. At least one, possibly both. On the black market she could probably get a decent return, enough to buy more acromantula venom or Essence of Dittany, or to restock some of the other hospital supplies. Or maybe it would be better to turn them over to Moody or Kingsley; they would get good use from knives like that. She might be able to use the daggers to negotiate a permanent budget increase.
"Thank you," she said, resheathing the blade she was holding and slipping everything into her satchel.
"For the record, you are not allowed to sell them or give them to anyone else."
Hermione's hands stilled, and her eyes darted guiltily up to Draco's face. His eyes were locked on hers, and the silver in them glittered.
"Is that clear, Granger?" His tone was ice.
She gave a begrudging nod.
"I will expect you to wear them every time you forage. I will look for them."
She tensed and swallowed hard with irritation. "Fine."
His expression softened marginally. "Well, this has been delightful. I cannot even remember how many times I've wished I could spend Christmas Eve getting lectured on how to read a diagnostic charm." He smiled insincerely. Hermione said nothing. There was a pause, and then he added, "Per your request, here's a warning. I'm going to start teaching you hand-to-hand combat starting next week."
Then he reached into his robes and pulled out a scroll of parchment. "My latest installment for Moody." As she accepted it, he smirked at her. "I have to say, you've ended up being quite expensive, Granger."
He vanished without a sound.
On Christmas Day, Hermione had the morning hospital shift. Angelina had been badly cursed during a raid in Muggle London the night before; she'd been hit in the knee with the acid curse, and while she was down, a Death Eater had added on an additional internal organ destroying curse. Fred had managed to grab hold of her and bring her back to Hermione before Angelina died in his arms.
The final repair work was too complex for Padma or Poppy.
Hermione sat in the quiet hospital ward and slowly reconstructed the tissue and tendons in Angelina's knee. "Alright, I need you to bend it, and see if the tissue formed properly. Regrowing bones for injuries like this doesn't always work properly."
Angelina bit her lip. Her skin was grey from pain, but she moved her knee as requested.
"Ugggghh." She gasped faintly and stopped. "Inside. It hurts inside-like it's grinding."
Hermione cast a diagnostic and studied it. Due to the urgency of saving Angelina's organs, the acid curse had been overlooked for several minutes before being countered. It had destroyed most of the bones in Angelina's knee and left huge pockets of lost tissue. It was difficult to repair when there was so little of the original tissue left to build from. Hermione had initially feared she'd have to amputate it, but there was just enough intact after the bone regrowth for it to be healable.
"I see the problem. I'm going to stun you. You don't need to be awake for this part."
Angelina nodded and closed her eyes.
It took nearly four hours before Hermione rennervated Angelina.
"Alright, try moving it again."
Angelina lifted her leg and bent it slightly. "That's better. It twinges a little." Her colour seemed much healthier.
"You'll need to stay off it for at least a month, but I think you'll be able to walk on it. It will hurt, particularly on cold days. You may limp a little. You'll always feel it. But you can still fight, if you want."
"I'm not leaving the fight," Angelina said firmly.
Hermione nodded, unsurprised, and began massaging a potion into Angelina's new skin. As Hermione worked, she became aware of Angelina's intense stare. Hermione glanced up and met her gaze. "What?"
Angelina tilted her head, still studying Hermione. "Sometimes I try to remember you from before the war, and I can't see that person anymore."
Hermione's jaw tensed. She tried to restrict her advocacy for the Dark Arts to Order meetings, but her position had become known in the wider Resistance over time. Members of DA regularly took it upon themselves to evangelise to Hermione about the power of Good and the evil of the Dark Arts.
She could tell, by the expression on Angelina's face, that she was about to be subjected to a new lecture.
She forced her voice to stay even. "Who is it you thought I was then?"
"I don't know. Loud, forward, positive. Rather abrasive, to be honest. When you organised DA, you were a bit ruthless, but there was a honest sort of righteousness to it. Now, when you're not in healer-mode, you just seem ruthless. You're so quiet most of the time, but there's this rage around you that I feel sometimes. Like the war turned you into someone else. I feel like you let it."
The corner of Hermione's mouth twitched, and she felt her eyes narrow. "War is a crucible. Do you think any of us will come out on the other side the same as we were?"
Angelina looked down at her knee and shrugged. "I'll carry scars inside and out, but deep down I'm always going to be the same person." Angelina looked back at Hermione. "But I don't know if you're the same and I just never saw it, or if you've really changed that much. I feel like you've let go of yourself."
Hermione's hands stilled, and she sat back. "Let go?"
Angelina shifted and looked uncomfortable. "I guess I'm worried about you. Fred said, when he was visiting George here, that it seemed like something happened to you. Like the last bits of the old you just-disappeared one day. And I've been watching you lately, all I see is this-I don't even know what it is. Sometimes I think it's rage. Other times I think it's despair. But it's as though you're lost in it."
Hermione's mouth felt dry, and she swallowed repeatedly, buying herself time by recorking vials. She gripped the glass so hard her hands shook faintly.
"This war has eaten me, Angelina," she finally said slowly.
Before she could say anything else, Hermione found herself abruptly jerked forward with a mouthful of hair in her mouth as Angelina pulled her into a tight hug.
"Oh, Hermione. Don't let yourself start thinking like that. You have to be able to visualise victory. Feel it. Fight for it. See yourself on the other side of the war. If you let go of that hope, you're going end up somewhere dark. Light always wins over Darkness. But you have to believe it."
Hermione felt something inside her stiffen. She pulled herself away from Angelina, shaking her head, her mouth curling. "That's not enough to win a war. I'm not going to bet this war on my or anyone else's ability to believe in victory."
"You still want us to use the Dark Arts, don't you?" Angelina stared at Hermione with the expression of a disappointed parent.
Hermione struggled against rolling her eyes as she nodded.
Angelina's shoulders drooped slightly. "If we lose ourselves to win, is it really winning? If we poison ourselves to get it and become the monsters we're fighting?"
Hermione clenched her jaw, as she fought against the urge to shake Angelina. "What exactly do you think will happen if we lose?"
"We'll die." Angelina shrugged faintly.
Hermione suddenly understood why Draco hated Gryffindors so intensely. She couldn't stop herself from scoffing.
"Do you really think we'll just die? Angelina, they're not going to shut down Sussex when they win the war. We're livestock. You didn't see the prisoners they brought from the last curse division. They were-" Hermione's voice shook. "They were dissolving, rotting, skinned and still alive, there were things crawling inside them-" her voice broke off. "The ones that could still speak begged me to kill them."
Hermione hissed between her teeth. The choking sense of frustration rose as she was forced to face, once again, the perpetual optimism of Resistance fighters. The stress and despair inside her felt toxic, like acid eroding her slowly at a cellular level. "If we lose-They'll round us all up and use the Resistance fighters as lab rats or whatever else they want to until they run out of us. After we blew up the last curse division, they just made a bigger one. The war isn't supposed to end with the Resistance. The Death Eaters are supposed to conquer the Muggle Europe next. That's the vision. The deal. All the Dark Beings allied with Tom because he promised them that. I don't know if he's insane enough to think he can do it, but that's his claim. And he'll probably at least pretend to."
Hermione felt like she might start hyperventilating just thinking about it. Her chest was stuttering and jerking and she kept drawing short, quick breaths.
"But, Hermione," Angelina laid her hand across Hermione's, "we're winning."
Hermione froze and blinked slowly as she stared at Angelina in disbelief. She almost laughed but then realised with horror that Angelina was entirely serious. "We're-what?"
"Winning." Angelina's jaw jut out, and her expression grew defensive. "We are. Think of all the prison raids. We got hundreds of people out since the spring. We've successfully countered hundreds of attacks this year. Staying true to the Light is paying off. The war is favouring us now. Soon the wizarding world will start to realise that. That's how hope works. It takes a spark."
Hermione felt as though she'd been struck sharply in the head; as though she were mildly concussed and it explained the surreal world she abruptly found herself in. She stared wordlessly at Angelina, who gave Hermione an encouraging smile. "You aren't out there so you probably don't see it. I know things were dark for awhile, but it's always darkest before the dawn, and I'm pretty sure, we're at dawn now."
Hermione swallowed hard as she struggled against the temptation to scream. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears and a migraine rapidly manifesting.
They weren't winning.
They were surviving. The Resistance was balanced on a knife edge held in place by Draco. Using intelligence Gabrielle Delacour used her body to tear out of Death Eaters. They were using it to maintain the Resistance while the Order struggled vainly to find Horcruxes that could be anywhere in Europe.
They were not winning. They were not anywhere close to winning.
Angelina was staring at her hopefully.
"Yes..." Hermione heard herself to say. "I-I suppose you're right. I'm not out there, so I don't see it. I-didn't realise that we're-winning."
Angelina nodded and hugged Hermione again. "The problem is that you're too isolated. Pomfrey goes and spends her time with the Hogwarts professors, and Padma has Parvati to keep her in the loop. But you hardly leave this house except to get potion ingredients. I know Harry and Ron aren't around that much, but you have other friends.You need friends. When everything feels lost-that's what's going to carry you through and help you hold on. The rest of us, we talk about this. I know you're really smart, Hermione, but when it's things like Good and Evil you can't expect to get the answer from a book. It's something you have to feel. Like flying-well, I reckon that's a bad example to use with you-but, you have to be able to believe it will catch you. It's all part of the journey, hitting the bottom so you can spring up. Good takes sacrifice. I hope, once the war is over, that you'll be able to see that. That's how Light and Darkness work."
"Of course." Hermione said dully, avoiding Angelina's eyes. "I guess I've just been too lost in my own world."
"It's alright. You don't need to feel bad about it. It can happen to anyone. I was in a pretty dark place after George and Katie both got hurt. It's an easy place to go during a war. But then Harry gave everyone in DA a pep talk. He talked about how Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald. And he talked about the Order during the First Wizarding War, how bad things were. Everyone thought Tom was going to win then; the Ministry was using Unforgivables, but the Order held out. There was death and betrayal but Love and Light always shine brightest in those moments. That's why they always win. We just have to trust in them. Right after Harry said all that, I think it was that same month even, we had our first successful prison raid."
Hermione stood up sharply. She felt as though she couldn't breathe. She needed-air. Cold. She needed a Calming Draught. "I need something from my supply closet. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Hermione's made her way dazedly toward her supply closet.
She stumbled down the hall and shoved the door closed behind her as she shakily uncorked a vial and downed a dose of Calming Draught. As the potion took effect, Hermione gave a sharp gasp and burst into tears.
She stood there sobbing for several minutes before leaning across the worktop. She buried her face in her arms and tried to come to terms with the conversation she'd just had.
She hadn't realised-it hadn't even occurred to her how the shift in the war would come across to the Resistance. Of course. Of course, to them nothing had changed. They all thought that by sticking to their convictions about Good and Evil that the war had simply shifted out of inherent inevitability.
They had no idea that Death Eaters were being tortured for information, or that Hermione had sold herself to Draco in order to earn most of it.
Hermione had unwittingly proven their mythos and in the process turned herself into Cassandra giving unheeded warnings at the gates of Troy.
Hermione gave a gasping sob and tried to breathe slowly through her nose as she struggled to think.
She had to move forward with Draco.
Padma was-passable for potion making and healing. Kingsley had looked over all Hermione's notes and somehow recruited a backup casualty healer. She wondered how long he'd been holding that piece back.
She'd compiled all her notes on the counter-curses she'd developed over the years and instructions explaining the curse analysis techniques.
Moody seemed to be growing somewhat frustrated by the lack of progress she was reporting week after week. There had been a shift in both his and Kingsley's recent behavior when she reported to them about Draco, a newfound skepticism, as though she were falling short of expectations.
Now she understood. They needed Draco under control.
Draco's information was still excellent, but he had set the terms from the very beginning. It was a balance of power they were unwilling to trust and eager to shift.
They wanted him collared.
Hermione was stalling.