The Devil's Leverage
Grimmauld Place bows under the weight of the wind, its bones groaning, candlelight flickering feebly against the gloom. The night presses close, thick and stifling, rain hanging suspended in the air as though hesitant to fall. The war is everywhere—seeping through the floorboards, coiling within the forgotten letters strewn across the desk, lingering in the ghostly remnants of abandoned tea, long since gone cold. The very walls seem to inhale, absorbing the echoes of whispered strategy and grief, exhaling them back as dust in the morning light. Nothing is untouched. Even the air tastes like war—like parchment ash, like damp wool and fatigue, like something burning that will never stop smouldering.
Hermione does not sleep. Fatigue maps itself onto her, carving itself into her skin, reshaping muscle into something taut and brittle. She is thinner than she was months ago—sharp angles where softness once existed, as though the war is not only devouring time but her, too, piece by piece. The war has stretched her past the brink of exhaustion, has wound her so tight she feels moments from snapping. She presses a hand to her ribs as if to steady herself, as if to keep from unravelling entirely. But the thought gnaws at her, a relentless loop, inescapable in the spaces where reason cannot smooth it away. It circles, tightens, until it is the only thing left.
Draco Malfoy saved her life.
And she is going to use that against him.
She has turned it over for hours, weighing its edges, searching for an angle that does not make her feel like something cruel, something beyond herself. She has clawed through every alternative, stripped each possibility down to its bones, and yet—
The war is insatiable. It takes without pause, without guilt. It devours everything she has, everything she is, and demands more.
So she will give it this.
A draft shivers through the house, carrying the scent of old magic, of the past lingering too close to the present. She inhales it, steadying herself as she rises, as she lets her decision settle deep into her bones. The floorboards creak beneath her weight, a protest swallowed by the storm beyond the walls. She has made her choice. She will not unmake it.
In the darkness, she can still feel the ghost of his hand brushing against hers, the heat of his body too close in the chaos of battle. She remembers the way his breath had hitched, the flicker of something unnamed in his eyes before he moved—before he placed himself between her and death. She should not care. She should let it fade. And yet, she tightens her jaw, clenches her fists. There is no room for sentiment in war, only strategy, only survival.
She steps toward the door, toward the next inevitable moment. The house exhales around her, and she walks forward, unshaken.
She exhales, slow, deliberate, tilting her head back to trace the ceiling beams with her gaze, following the whorls in the wood as if they might lead her to something simpler, something lost. Then she rises, pulling the night around her like a cloak, and steps into the corridor.
Kingsley is precisely where she expects him. Not in bed—none of them sleep, not truly—but by the window, half-drenched in moonlight, his expression carved in shadow. He is waiting for the next name, the next absence, the next body left to rot where they cannot retrieve it.
He does not turn when she enters. He does not need to.
“You alright?” he asks, his voice settling into the space between them like a stone sinking into deep water.
Hermione hesitates. The response should be automatic—I’m fine, I’m alright, don’t worry—but the words catch, thick in her throat. She still feels the ghost of fingers brushing hers, still sees the silver gleam of his eyes in the dark, still hears the pulse of her own blood roaring as Draco Malfoy stepped between her and death.
“I’m fine,” she says at last, but the words lack conviction. They feel like someone else’s, distant and detached. Kingsley studies her for a moment but does not push.
Her gaze drifts past him, to the elongated shadows stretching across the floorboards, shifting like spirits in the wind’s restless grip.
“There were more injured this time.”
Kingsley inclines his head, slow, solemn. “Too many.” He drags a hand down his face, weariness carved into the lines of his features. “We barely got them out. If they had pushed harder—” He does not finish the thought, but he does not need to. Hermione already knows the shape of that horror.
A silence settles, thick and weighty, before she speaks again, her voice quieter now.
“We’re losing this war.”
Kingsley does not argue. He only watches her, waiting.
She straightens, shifting her stance, solidifying herself. “I have a plan.”
Kingsley lifts a brow. “Go on.”
Her fingers skim the edge of the table, grounding herself in its cool, worn surface. She inhales, knowing that once she speaks the words, there will be no taking them back.
“Before I do, I need to ask—has Harry ever told you about me and Malfoy?”
Kingsley’s brow furrows, a flicker of something—curiosity, scepticism—passing through his expression. He does not speak immediately, only watches her with measured patience. Finally, he shakes his head. “No.”
She nods, unsurprised. A sharp inhale, a shift of her shoulders, as if bracing for the weight of the past. “It was a secret,” she admits, her voice steady, deliberate. “But it happened. Fifth year. Some of sixth.”
Kingsley leans back slightly, crossing his arms. His gaze sharpens. “You and Malfoy.”
“Yes.” The word is clipped, small, yet it lingers in the air, heavier than it should be. “And I imagine you can guess why it ended.”
A long pause. Then Kingsley exhales, tilting his head in thought. “Because of sixth year. Because of the war.”
She nods. “Because of who we had to become.”
Kingsley’s silence is weighted now, deliberate. “Why are you telling me this?”
Hermione tightens her grip on the chair back. “Because he saved me,” she says. “In battle.”
The admission hangs between them, a stone cast into still water.
Kingsley does not look surprised.
“And that made me think,” she continues, voice even, measured. “Maybe we can use him.”
His arms remain crossed, his stance unreadable. “How?”
“We manoeuvre him,” she says. “We make him question. We push him until he gives us what we need.”
Kingsley’s frown deepens. “You think he’ll turn? He’s been killing our people, Hermione.”
She meets his gaze, unwavering. “I think if it’s me who tries, he’ll listen.”
Kingsley watches her. The wind howls through the chimneys, a low, hollow wail. Finally, he nods once. “And what do we give him in return?”
She tightens her grip. “A full pardon. His mother’s safety. His estate untouched. Everything the Malfoy name stands for, still his, unscathed by the war.”
Kingsley exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He does not speak immediately, only studies her, his expression shifting—strategy layered with something else, something heavier.
“This could kill him.”
The words settle between them like dust, refusing to be brushed away. Hermione feels their weight, but she does not let it show. Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, her fingers curling tighter against the chair.
“I know,” she says, and her voice does not waver.
Kingsley’s gaze sharpens. “And if it does—can you live with it? Knowing his death was your doing?”
She exhales, slow, deep. “It will be an easier burden than losing one of ours.”
A beat of silence. Then Kingsley nods, slow, measured.
“Then let’s make a plan.”
And Hermione exhales, knowing she has set something in motion that cannot be undone.
*Hermione's Room*
The room was silent, save for the steady tick of the old clock on the wall and the rustle of parchment beneath Hermione’s fingertips. The candle beside her flickered weakly, its glow casting long shadows across the worn wooden desk, across the papers scattered before her. Plans, maps, lists—everything meticulously arranged, every possibility considered.
And yet, her mind kept straying.
To him.
Hermione pressed the tip of her quill against the paper, her fingers tightening around it until the nib threatened to snap. She couldn't afford to think about Draco Malfoy in any way other than the means to an end. He was a weapon, a liability to exploit, a loose thread she needed to pull until the entire tapestry of Voldemort’s army unravelled.
That’s all he could be. That’s all he was.
But even as she told herself that, her chest ached with something she refused to name. Something that belonged to another time, another life—one filled with stolen glances in shadowed corridors, with words spoken in hushed, breathless tones, with things that never should have existed between them. Things she’d buried. Things she had to keep buried.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her hands against her temples. The war had taken so much from her already—her warmth, her kindness, the very things that once defined her. And now, it wanted to take this too. Whatever remnants of Draco Malfoy lingered in her mind, whatever fragile thread had once tethered them together.
She let it.
Because she couldn’t afford sentimentality. Not anymore.
She thought of him now—the way he looked in battle, his movements precise and ruthless, his wand an extension of something far darker inside him. He was Voldemort’s right hand, a symbol of everything she stood against, and yet...
She had seen the flicker. The hesitation.
It was barely there, but she knew him well enough to recognize it, to feel it. There was doubt buried deep beneath that mirage, beneath the cruelty he wore like a second skin. And doubt could be shaped, could be used.
Her plan was simple in theory—lure him in, feed his uncertainty, make him believe there was still something in him worth saving. Make him trust her again, the way he once had. And when the moment was right, she would break him apart from the inside, turn him against his master, against everything he thought he was fighting for.
It was manipulation. Cold, calculated.
And it had to work.
Hermione closed her eyes, her breathing shallow. Could she do it? Could she look him in the eye, pretend, deceive, use his fractured humanity against him? Could she wield his past feelings—her past feelings—like a dagger aimed straight at his heart?
Yes. She had to.
Her fingers traced the edge of the parchment before her, her mind cataloguing every possible outcome, every risk. The war had left her with no illusions about right and wrong anymore. There was only winning and losing, and she refused to be on the losing side.
Even if it meant destroying whatever fragile thing had once existed between them.
Even if it meant destroying him.
The candle guttered, and Hermione opened her eyes, staring at the reflection of herself in the windowpane. She barely recognized the woman staring back. The girl who once believed in second chances was gone, replaced by someone colder, sharper. Someone who knew that sometimes, the only way to win was to become something unrecognisable.
And if Draco Malfoy had to be her sacrifice, so be it.
With a final breath, she picked up her quill and began writing.