Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
The safehouse exuded the damp scent of aged wood and melted candle wax, its atmosphere thick with the residual magic of incantations long since cast. Hermione stood at the window, observing the storm as it assaulted the glass, each raindrop a sharp reminder of the passage of time. Her fingers drummed lightly against the sill, a subconscious manifestation of the tension coiling within her. The reflection staring back at her bore the marks of exhaustion—shadowed eyes, hollowed cheeks, and a mouth set into a severity that transcended mere discontent. She barely recognized herself anymore.
The operation was in motion. There was no turning back now.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her, bracing against the pervasive chill that had settled into the very bones of the house, a chill that seemed to mirror the cold calculation necessary for what she was about to do. The enormity of her actions pressed against her ribs, a slow suffocation of the choices she had made. Yet she forced herself to ignore the weight of apprehension. Doubt was a luxury she could not afford. Sentiment had no place in this. Her feelings—whatever remained of them—were irrelevant.
The only thing that mattered was that he would come.
And she believed he would. Not because of any misplaced faith in him, but because logic dictated it. The war was tilting out of their favour, but not irreversibly so. There were still battles to be won, still paths to victory that had not yet been closed off. And if there was one thing she knew about Draco Malfoy, it was that he considered every possibility, weighed every outcome. He was not a man to walk blindly into his own destruction. If he had not already dismissed the notion of their side winning, it was because some part of him needed to believe it was still possible. And perhaps, Hermione thought, he wanted it to be true. She knew how his mind worked, understood the careful calculations behind every decision he made. It was precisely why she had suggested using him in the first place. Because if Draco Malfoy saw a future where the Dark Lord could be defeated, then he would act accordingly. And that made him valuable.
More than that, Malfoy knew Harry. He had spent years at Hogwarts watching him, testing him, trying to find his breaking point. And yet, he never broke. He was stubborn beyond reason, relentless in a way that defied logic, and above all, he did not know how to quit. If the entire Order was decimated, if everyone who had ever stood beside him fell, Draco knew that Potter would still be standing, bloodied and battered, but fighting until his last breath. Surrender was not in his nature. And that was why, despite the odds, Hermione knew that Draco had never been able to dismiss the threat they posed. Voldemort might not have seen it, but Draco did. The Order was dangerous because they did not know how to lose.
And for a man like Draco Malfoy, a man who had been raised to understand survival above all else, the only intelligent move was to make sure both sides needed him. To ensure that he was indispensable, that no matter which way the war turned, someone would find him too valuable to cast aside. That was the surest way to stay alive. And Hermione knew—knew in the depths of her mind, where strategy and instinct met—that this was the very thought process that would lead him straight to her. He was running out of time, out of safe havens, out of people who would still be willing to offer him an out. And she had offered him something he could not easily dismiss.
He had been given a choice.
And what was choice, really? A door cracked open, or a trap set just well enough to look like freedom? Hermione had spent years believing in the integrity of decisions, the certainty that right and wrong could be separated by will alone. But standing here now, waiting for a man she had once ‘called’ an enemy, she knew the truth was far murkier. Draco’s choices were fewer by the day, and so were hers. She recognised the parallels between her predicament and his. She had chosen this war, chosen this fight—but had she ever truly had the option to walk away?
Had he?
She imagined him, wherever he was—pacing, debating, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, smoke curling against the damp air. She could almost hear his voice, low and tired, telling himself that he wasn’t considering this, that the war would end the way it was meant to, with or without him. But he knew better. He had to. He was a survivor, and survivors did not leave their fates in other people’s hands.
Earlier that evening, in the dim confines of Grimmauld Place, Hermione had sat opposite Kingsley Shacklebolt, his pacing betraying the concern etched into his furrowed brow. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting elongated shadows across the room, its warmth unable to penetrate the chill of their conversation. The air carried the scent of old parchment and wax, the relics of a house steeped in history and war. Stacks of documents lay scattered on the wooden table between them, each detailing failed negotiations, lost operatives, and intelligence reports that, despite their best efforts, never seemed to give them enough of an upper hand.
"You’re operating on treacherous ground, Hermione. Malfoy is a variable we cannot afford to miscalculate," Kingsley said, his voice grave.
She inhaled with measured control, anchoring herself. "I understand the risks, Kingsley. But he possesses access to intelligence we lack. He could be an asset."
Kingsley’s head shook in quiet disbelief. "And what makes you think he’s willing? Malfoy’s allegiances have always been dictated by self-preservation. His survival hinges on aligning with power. You think a man like that will risk everything to help us?"
Hermione’s gaze remained unwavering. "And that is precisely why he’ll consider it. He is dispensable to Voldemort. If he no longer serves a purpose, he becomes a liability. We are his best option."
Kingsley stopped pacing and sat down heavily, rubbing his temple. "You think he doesn’t know that? Malfoy is not an idiot. He understands the consequences of straddling the line between two warring sides. That kind of game ends in betrayal or death. Why should he trust you?"
Hermione’s voice was steady. "Because I’m offering him a chance to survive, and right now, that’s more than Voldemort is offering him."
Kingsley’s arms folded across his chest as he studied her with the intensity of a man accustomed to weighing perilous decisions. "You believe you can turn him? That he’ll choose to betray everything he was raised to be?"
She didn’t flinch. "I believe he’s already contemplating it. I believe that the fear of his father’s mistakes, of what awaits him if he fails, is already gnawing at him. He’s running out of options, Kingsley. And when a man is desperate, he starts looking for exits. I’m giving him one."
A heavy pause followed before Kingsley exhaled sharply. "This is reckless. Dumbledore trusted Snape, and it cost him his life."
The words struck, but Hermione steadied herself. "And if Dumbledore had not trusted Snape, we would have lost everything long ago. We must capitalise on every advantage we can seize. Malfoy is one."
Kingsley’s gaze darkened. "And if you’re wrong? If this is a trap?"
Hermione exhaled, pressing her palms against the wood of the table. "Then I’ll handle it."
Kingsley scrutinised her for a long moment before conceding, "Be cautious, Hermione. We cannot afford your loss."
She had nodded, knowing this was the closest thing to approval she would receive. When she left the room, the weight of her decision settled heavily on her shoulders. But she had already made her choice.
Their meeting place was not the abandoned pub of their last encounter but an alleyway behind a derelict tailor’s shop, a pocket of the city abandoned by all but shadows and silence. The streetlights flickered weakly in the drizzle, their dim glow fractured by the rain-slick cobblestones. Hermione pulled her hood up, scanning the darkness.
She had taken every precaution, doubling back twice, ensuring she hadn’t been followed. The Order’s trust in her did not extend to reckless abandon, and she knew Kingsley’s concerns were not unfounded. Malfoy was a liability until proven otherwise, and liabilities could quickly become threats. She wasn’t sure which he would be yet.
He arrived soon after.
Draco stepped from the shadows with the same guarded poise as before. Even in the half-light, she discerned the tension in his frame—the way he carried himself like a man perpetually bracing for a blow.
"You came," she remarked evenly.
Draco shook the rain from his cloak, his expression impassive. "I wanted to hear what you had to say."
Her brow arched. "Curious, considering you seemed determined to walk away last time."
A ghost of a smirk played at his lips, devoid of humour. "And yet, here we are."
She refused to let him divert the conversation. Stepping closer, her arms crossed. "You still came, Malfoy. You knew what this was about. Why not ignore it? Unless—" she let the thought linger in the air between them.
His smirk vanished. "Don’t flatter yourself."
"Then answer the question."
Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through damp hair. "Perhaps I wanted to witness the extent of your delusion before you get yourself killed."
"And yet, here you stand, in the middle of the night, speaking to me instead of safely ignoring me from whatever hole you’ve crawled into," she countered.
His jaw tightened. "Tell me how you intend to guarantee my pardon."
She did not hesitate. "I have influence. People who matter—Harry, Kingsley. If I vouch for you, they will listen."
Draco let out a dry chuckle. "And what stops them from disposing of me the moment I cease to be useful? Or throwing me into Azkaban regardless?"
Hermione met his gaze without wavering. "You think I would allow that?"
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rain whispering against the pavement. Draco’s gaze flickered with something indecipherable before he asked, "And what is it, exactly, that you want?"
"Intelligence. Access. We need insight into Voldemort’s inner workings. You, whether you wish to or not, are still privy to information we lack."
Draco’s breath came sharp through his nose, a trace of derision in his expression. "You believe it’s that simple? If I’m caught—"
"You won’t be," she interrupted. "Not if we execute this properly."
He studied her then, scrutinising every facet of her face as if determining whether she truly believed her own words. Finally, he spoke. "And if I refuse?"
Hermione’s voice was steady. "Then you walk away, and I find another way. But you and I both understand that refusing me places you at greater risk. Voldemort does not abide loose ends."
A muscle in his jaw twitched at the name, and for the briefest of moments, she saw the fear he fought to bury.
Draco’s fingers curled into a fist before releasing. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. "What exactly are you expecting me to do?"
She inhaled slowly, choosing her words carefully. "Feed us information. Selective, controlled. Just enough to keep us ahead."
Draco scoffed. "So you want a double agent."
"I want you alive. And if you help us, that’s what you’ll be."
The words settled between them like something tangible, heavier than they should have been. The rain had slowed to a soft patter, pooling in the cracks of the stone beneath their feet, but neither of them moved. The silence stretched long, not empty but brimming with things unsaid, questions neither of them dared to voice.
Draco looked away first. His breath was slow and measured, but his hands betrayed him, fingers curling briefly into fists before he forced them open again. "And what if I say yes? What happens then?"
Hermione hesitated, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because saying it aloud felt like crossing another line neither of them could uncross. "Then we plan. We set up ways for you to pass us information without getting caught. We make sure you have an exit, if you need one. And we make sure—" her voice softened, "—we make sure they know you're on our side."
A humourless chuckle escaped him. "And what side is that, exactly? The side where I’m hunted no matter which way I turn? The side where I’m one wrong move away from being dead in an alley like this one?"
She didn’t look away. "The side where you don’t have to be alone."
Draco inhaled sharply, as if the words had struck something raw in him. His jaw tensed, and for a moment, she thought he might laugh, or sneer, or say something cruel just to put distance between them again. But he didn’t. He just stood there, rain dripping from his cloak, breath shallow, watching her like she was something he couldn’t quite figure out.
Finally, he exhaled, slow and deliberate. "I’ll consider it."
Hermione nodded, though she understood that in reality, his decision had already been made.
Draco Malfoy never entertained a proposition unless he already knew the answer. And Hermione knew that better than most.