A Dance of Secrets
The rain descended in relentless torrents, transfiguring the cobbled streets into a labyrinth of gleaming obsidian, each stone glistening like fragments of shattered glass. Water pooled in the crevices, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamps in fractured constellations. The air was thick with petrichor, the scent of wet earth and stone, laced with something metallic, something that reminded Hermione of the inevitability of war.
Under the awning of a decrepit shopfront, she stood motionless, her cloak drawn tight around her, its sodden weight inconsequential against the cold that no longer reached her. Cold was transient. Cold was nothing. Not after everything. Not after the screams that had carved themselves into the marrow of her bones. Not after the choices that had left blood on her hands, visible or otherwise.
Across the street, a figure moved through the mist, slow, deliberate. Draco.
She recognised him instantly—his silhouette carved against the dim glow, shoulders squared beneath the heavy drape of his black cloak, his movements precise, almost rehearsed. He walked with the illusion of certainty, the careful choreography of a man who could not afford to falter. But Hermione understood the artifice. She knew him in ways he would rather deny. She had studied him—not just his words, but the spaces between them, the way his silence held weight, the way his body betrayed him when he thought no one was looking.
Underneath the precision of his steps, beneath the veneer of power and poise, there was something fracturing. Hesitation. Doubt. An erosion of conviction so subtle it could almost be mistaken for indifference. Almost.
Conviction she was about to exploit.
A gust of wind cut through the rain, sharp and unrelenting, sending a shiver through her, though not from the cold. Anticipation pooled in the hollow of her stomach, a slow, steady pulse of inevitability. The world had narrowed to this moment, to the weight of unspoken history pressing against the night.
And Hermione, steadying herself, stepped forward into the storm.
Kingsley’s voice echoed in her head, a reminder of what was at stake. "Play this carefully, Hermione. Malfoy’s dangerous, but he's not invincible. Get close. Make him question things. We need him to break."
She took a steadying breath, forcing down the flicker of something far too close to hesitation. There was no room for that now.
Draco reached the entrance of a small, abandoned pub—their designated meeting place. A place chosen carefully, strategically. She followed, her boots making no sound as she crossed the wet pavement, stepping into the darkened doorway behind him.
The interior exuded decay, its air thick with dust, the damp scent of rotting wood saturating the silence. He was already seated in the farthest corner, watching her. His gaze was sharp, dispassionate, but Hermione discerned the undercurrents. The scrutiny. The silent dissection of intent.
She matched his composure. "Malfoy."
His lips twisted, a ghost of something too insubstantial to be amusement. "Granger. I see the Order hasn't yet succumbed to complete destitution. Still affording basic hygiene, I take it?"
Hermione's brow arched, unimpressed. "Evidently. Though you appear determined to disprove the notion."
He leaned back, regarding her with an air of feigned nonchalance. "Punctual as ever. I was beginning to suspect you’d lost your nerve."
She slid into the seat opposite him, her tone devoid of amusement. "I don’t lose my nerve."
His smirk was slow, deliberate. "A claim few can make truthfully."
She studied him, assessing the tension coiled beneath his exterior. "And yet, here you are."
"Here I am," he echoed, voice a shade softer, laced with something indiscernible. "So tell me, Granger, what urgent matter necessitates a clandestine rendezvous in this charming establishment?"
Hermione exhaled, shifting slightly. "Would it trouble you to engage in conversation before we move to the heart of this? Or has prolonged association with your compatriots eroded your capacity for small talk?"
A flicker of something crossed his features, an unreadable shift in his expression. "By all means, Granger. Let’s indulge in pleasantries."
Draco’s gaze flickered to her cloak, damp from the rain, then back to her face. "I can’t decide if you look worse or better than the last time I saw you."
Hermione tilted her head. "I didn’t realise you spent so much time thinking about my appearance."
"I don’t," he said smoothly, but something in his voice—too quick, too deliberate—made it feel like a lie.
"Shame," she said, shifting in her seat. "I was almost flattered."
He smirked. "How’s the war?"
"Persisting," she said, tone clipped. "Yours?"
"Precarious. But then, you already know that, don’t you?"
She held his gaze. "Perhaps."
His fingers tapped against the table, measured, idle. "Then let’s dispense with pretense."
The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge woven into the air between them. Finally, she spoke, voice tempered, intentional. "I have an offer."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. She could see the flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps. Or suspicion. Likely both. He had always been impossible to read when he wanted to be, but she had spent enough time watching him, studying him, to recognise the subtle shifts. "Do you?"
Hermione inclined her head, her voice measured, deliberate. "It is becoming evident that we are losing this war. Not irreparably, not yet. But soon. The tide is shifting, and if we do not take decisive action, it will turn against us completely. Every battle we fight chips away at what remains of our forces. Every loss cuts deeper. And it isn’t just the numbers—it’s the morale, the belief that we can still win this."
Draco remained still, but she could see the way his throat bobbed slightly, the way his fingers tensed on the table. He was listening.
“The Order is desperate. We don’t have enough numbers, enough resources. Every day, we lose more people, more ground. The Death Eaters are closing in, and if we don’t do something soon, there won’t be anything left to fight for.”
She exhaled slowly, letting the weight of her words settle. “We need someone who understands the enemy. Someone who knows their weaknesses, their plans, their strategies.”
Draco exhaled sharply, the sound caught between amusement and exasperation. "And you think I care?"
"I think you care more than you admit. I think you have spent too long trying to convince yourself of your convictions, and I think it is failing you."
He regarded her in silence, his jaw tightening. "You’re either astoundingly perceptive or a fool."
“And you…” She hesitated, letting the moment stretch between them. "You need a way out."
A shadow passed across his features. For a brief moment, she thought she had pushed too far, too fast. But then, a slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "You think I want out?"
“I think you’re tired,” she said quietly, tilting her head, her voice laced with something that wasn’t quite sympathy, but something close.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re deluded, Granger.”
Hermione pressed on. “I came here of my own accord, Malfoy. Kingsley doesn’t know. No one does. I—” She took a breath, lowering her voice. “I know you could help us. I know you could help me.”
A slow smirk pulled at his lips. “You expect me to believe this isn’t an Order mission?”
“I don’t care what you believe.” She met his gaze without flinching. “I need your help”
He tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. "And what is it you think I can do for you?"
She leaned forward slightly, voice low. "I need information. I need an opening. And you… you need a way out."
A shadow flickered across his expression. "You’re very certain of yourself, Granger."
"I’m certain of you," she murmured. "I’ve studied you long enough to understand when certainty is merely an illusion."
Draco’s gaze darkened, something unreadable coiling in his expression. "And what do you propose in exchange for my supposed defection?"
"A lesser sentence," she said, watching him carefully.
He scoffed, shaking his head. "How generous. A few years in Azkaban instead of a lifetime?"
Hermione exhaled through her nose. “Your manor and vaults will remain yours. When the time comes, you’ll be free, with your wealth intact.”
His expression barely flickered, but she could see it—the flicker of hesitation, the briefest twitch in his fingers. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. He stood abruptly, shaking his head. “Not interested.”
Hermione hesitated, then delivered her final card. "What if I could offer you a full pardon?"
That caught him. He stilled, his entire frame rigid with something she couldn’t yet name. "A full pardon."
She nodded. "Your record expunged. No trials. No prison. You walk free."
He stared at her for a long time, searching for deception. Searching for the catch. “And how, exactly, do you plan on securing that?”
“Let me worry about that,” she said. “You just have to decide if it’s worth it.”
He glanced away, staring at the cracked wall for a long moment before speaking. “You really think I’d betray the Dark Lord?”
Hermione didn’t hesitate. “I think you already have.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. The weight of everything they weren’t saying hung between them. A lifetime of history, of war, of things neither of them could take back.
Draco studied her, gaze searching, stripping every layer for deceit. Silence stretched, heavy and absolute. Then, at last, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "This is a mistake."
"Perhaps," she murmured. "But it’s the only one that makes sense."
And in that moment, Hermione knew—he was already falling. All that remained was ensuring he landed precisely where she needed him to.