But also — hope — maybe. Insomuch as it was possible to feel hopeful after essentially agreeing to sell herself to a Death Eater as his war prize.
Hermione hadn't felt hopeful in a long while.
Somehow, up until Dumbledore died and even for a bit afterward, she had thought the war would be simple and short. Harry had escaped death so many times in school. He, Ron, and she had beaten so many impossible odds.
So, she had thought that being clever, being good — that friendship, and bravery, and the power of Love were enough to win the war.
But they weren't.
Being clever wasn't enough. The goodness in her was being ground to dust under the weight of all those lives lost or ruined with nothing to show for it yet. Friendship didn't stop someone from dying screaming in agony. Bravery didn't win a battle when your enemy had a multitude of methods for removing you permanently from the war, and you were trying to beat them with petrification hex. Love hadn't yet defeated Voldemort's hate.
Every day the war stretched on seemed to make the odds shrink a bit more.
Harry was breaking under the pressure and guilt. He was so thin and exhausted she was afraid he'd crack any day.
He kept withdrawing, further and further into himself. The death of Dumbledore so shortly after the loss of Sirius seemed to have knocked him off kilter in a way he never fully recovered from. Every death and injury among his friends seemed to prod him a little closer to a precipice she wasn't sure he could come back from.
Harry was clinging to the hope that somehow the war would end in such a way that life could be normal afterward. It was that impossible belief that continued to carry him forward.
He was the one who insistented most adamantly that the Order and the Resistance never use dark magic. If they did that, he argued, there would be no going back. They'd be tainted by it for the rest of their lives. No better than the Death Eaters.
So Hermione was forced to watch the Order and most of the Resistance side with him. And then watch their friends die in her hospital ward. They were relying on Harry. If he despaired, he'd break altogether and give up.
The Order was in desperate need of an edge. A bit of information. To know before a raid hit. Where vulnerabilities lay. Anything.
Malfoy could give them that.
He'd been personally trained by his Aunt Bellatrix before she'd died alongside his mother. He'd climbed high.
Now he'd made an offer they couldn't refuse.
That
Clearly he knew, acting like a king demanding a tribute.
Because he was fascinated with her...
She mulled over it.
If Severus hadn't corroborated it, she would never believe such a thing.
To avenge his mother. For a pardon. For her, both now and after the war. Which was the true motive? Were any of them? Or was there another angle he was playing?
His mother had been dead for over a year, in a freak accident alongside Bellatrix Lestrange when a Death Eater tried to stop Harry and Ron from escaping Lestrange Manor. It wasn't really either side's fault that she had died. If her death had ended Malfoy's allegiance, it would have happened then. Not a year later. Not after he'd used the void his aunt left to climb into an even higher position of power.
However — wanting a pardon seemed odd. Unless there were some incredible odds she wasn't aware of, the likelihood that the Order could win seemed slim at best.
So, because of her? Perhaps he had hated her more than she had known. Or lusted—
She shuddered with revulsion, and tried to shove the thought away before catching herself and forcing herself to stop and consider it.
If wanting her was his motivation...the opportunity rested on more than merely her consent. Once he'd had her once, or maybe a few times — if it was just fueled by revenge — he'd get tired of her.
Perhaps it was just a game to him.
Play spy for a little bit, get a chance to bring her to her knees. Knowing she'd crawl for him if it meant saving Harry. Saving the Order. And then — once he had what he wanted — he'd turn back. Cast her aside and watch them all die.
Her throat contracted, and she felt like she might be sick. She forced away her horror and ignored the wrenching, twisting sensation in the pit of her stomach.
She had to find a way to fascinate him. To hold his attention and interest.
Would it even be possible?
She drifted out of the room, feeling frozen, and went back to the hospital ward. The room was still silent.
“Poppy, do you need me right now? Or is it alright if I go out?” she asked quietly.
“Of course, dear. You should go rest. You've been on your feet for twelve hours now,” Pomfrey told her gently. “If anything happens I'll call for you.”
Hermione fidgeted the bracelet on her wrist. It carried a protean charm that the Order used to summon her to the safe houses where she was most urgently needed.