The Art of War

“Begin by seizing something which your opponent holds dear; then he will be amenable to your will.”
Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Seven years had passed before it happened again. A member of the Golden Trio was finally caught, and this time, they would die. There was no room for interpretation— even less for failure. Where they might have spent more time extracting every ounce of information from the lot of them they had caught, time was of the essence. Rebellions strove on hope, and there could be none of that.

Ronald Bilius Weasley hadn’t even been the one with the biggest bounty.

It was embarrassing, really. At least Potter would have sent a message. Granger would have made for a decent opponent.

Protocol was protocol. Ron Weasley had been tortured. He’d held out longer than even he would have expected. It was all for her in the end. This entire situation had been meant to lure her. Hermione Jean Granger. She was his target. Not the ginger whose hair was darkened with blood, spitting up on the floor of the Malfoy Manor dungeons in defiance. The man that had thought he could withstand the techniques of as many death eaters as there had been hours in a day. No quarter, no mercy. Those had been the orders.

He would break.

Eventually, they all broke— or died.

Death would be a mercy. One he hadn’t wanted to make public, but it wasn’t personal. He owed her for the silver cut healing on his cheek, and she hadn't bothered to come on a rescue mission. It would fade, but until then, it merely fueled his silent rage that coiled and clouded his stormy gaze.

A statement had been issued by the Ministry to encourage the insurgents to resurface a few days before the event. They could come in any number they wanted. It wouldn’t change the outcome. The deck was stacked against them. Death awaited any soul that would dare attempt to reverse the fates of the prisoners.

Hogwarts had been the pivotal battle. The one that had allowed for everything to happen. Pius Thicknesse was an excellent puppet— saying all the right things at the right time and ignoring the ravage that had overtaken modern London. The violence that bled outside of the city, the country, the British Isles. Once they'd repealed the Statute of Secrecy, things had escalated on a global scale.

After the previous week's raids, their morale had taken a hit. The public execution of their third wheel was a reminder to those who might be inclined to take arms of what came in store.

The man wasn’t alone to be executed that day. One of five. All from the same year. They’d all been caught together in the latest raid, and they would die together. There'd been more of them, but as many of the insurgents lately, the others had given themselves a fatal potion rather than give themselves up. It was almost commendable. If only they all did so. It would make life a lot easier for him.

With the sun making its descent, they had to go on with the show. Not many showed up in the middle of the square. They knew better. It wouldn't matter, the execution would be on the cover of every paper. It would be broadcast. The Dark Lord had stopped coming to these, it was beneath him. Like most of the important work, Draco Malfoy stood at the helm. One of the few times he was in view for all to acknowledge. His features had grown sharper with time. Long gone were the days of long unruly blond hair, favored for something short and easy to maintain. One thing that hadn't changed was his style. He remained in crisp, pristine robes. Black on black.

Hands in his pocket, he was the vision of nonchalance as he looked from the small gathering to the prisoners. His gaze never seemed to truly fall upon them. His sneer said everything his words did not. They weren't worth his time. Not in this setting. The fact that they were here meant their value had declined. Now on their knees, barely held if not by the magical chains that kept them propped for their deaths. It was more than they deserved. Slowly drawing out his wand, he conjured a knife for each that hovered in the distance.

There were no last words.

Only a statement of crimes— terrorism, names— Turpin, Patil, Jones, Hopkins, and Weasley.

Only two had raised their heads to watch the silver points promising a quick end. A final relief to the days of torture they had endured, as if such a vision would inspire others to risk their lives for a cause that was all but hopeless.

Silently apparating in, Hermione Granger had a few of the "insurgents," as they were now called, appearing around the perimeter with her. Her hair was tied back from her face severely, her hood over her frizzy hair. They hadn't had many moments in the safe houses they had established lately and they had had to purge any safe house that had been in Ron's head that he could have potentially told them about.

As much as she wished her childhood friend could keep the information to himself, she was rather certain that he couldn't. Not under their torture. The thought of it had her rubbing at the scars on her forearm with narrowed eyes at the Death Eaters on that dais. Malfoy's face made her want to punch him all over again like they were thirteen again. When she got her hands on him, she would make sure that was how she ended him. With her hands. After all of the suffering he and his ilk had caused, she wanted him to suffer. And to know that a 'Mudblood' had been the one to do it.

The five people with her all knew the job. Capture as many Death Eaters as they could to question, to execute, and to get information from. But she was on this mission because You-Know-Who's lieutenant was out and about again. Doing the execution. They couldn't stop the execution, and for that she was sorry. Especially as she saw their eyes darting around the square. Her stomach was in knots but she shoved it away, schooling her expression into cool indifference. She'd avenge Ronald. She'd make sure of it. The Malfoys were hers to deal with after Wood and Bell took out Bellatrix with Molly.

Harry was safe. As long as Harry was safe, they could still kill that monster and all the others that had aided them over the years. Her hand was in her pocket as she lingered in the shadows, waiting for the signal to strike with her hand on her wand as she watched with narrowed eyes. A scar laced down her collarbone and disappeared beneath her blouse. Her cloak was fastened around her neck and despite how hard things were, she made sure to try and blend in wherever she went. Transformation. It was part of what had left her alive. McGonagall would be proud, if she were still around.

She had been executed three years ago.

As the knife drew across their necks, the other Patil twin lashed out first, aiming at the platform. "Bombarda!"

The explosion cracked and chaos descended as the six of them rushed through and started incapacitating Death Eaters. It was brutally efficient, with the purpose of maiming and knocking them unconscious not so that they could be ransomed, but so that Hermione could go digging through their minds to get whatever intel was of use before executing them and leaving them in obvious locations for the enemy to find. She had long since gotten used to their brutal methods.

Draco had barely had time to fall back, the blast hitting so close to him. His ears rang, vision blurry, and with a flick of his wand, he shielded himself from the flames that came next. In school and dueling club, no one ever truly exposed speed and accuracy for what they were. The live-or-die situations that had magic leaving through one’s conduit without words, forced by nothing more than will and a healthy dose of sheer dumb luck.

Protected, he forced the runes to obey. There was no way out through magic. No apparition and disapparition. Not for his men and not for the insurgents. It wouldn’t matter. He had operatives in the crowd, on top of the buildings. He didn’t bother with the faces he vaguely recognized from a life he had put behind him for this. Instead, his only focus was on her. Finding her.

She was his target. This had all been staged to lure her to him. The slightest smile perked his lips as he swore he could taste her on the wind. Eventually, they locked eyes through the chaos, and he turned, wanting to draw her away from the fray. No, he wouldn’t risk losing her to friendly fire. She was his. Her death would be at his hands, and this was just the beginning of their song and dance that spurred their encounters. Few gave him the thrill she offered. How many times had they found themselves at a stalemate? A knife at one’s throat, a wand on the other. Circling the inevitable.

Hermione quickly dispatched a few Death Eaters, ones she didn't recognize as potential targets and were likely just canon fodder for their enemies, with the Killing Curse. She no longer hesitated in her strikes, always following through with a threat and wanting to make those pay for what they had done to others. And she didn't let her gaze linger on her former lover and best friend. It was bad enough that blood dripped from the platform. Where the hell had he gone?!

The Malfoys were hers. The scar on her arm had to be answered for and every atrocious thing they had ever done. The fact that they could have stopped Draco so much sooner, but it had been her that had thought he was just a victim of circumstances. How much he seemed to revel in all the bloodshed and pain proved her wrong encounter after encounter. She wanted to wipe the mistake of leaving him alive off of her ledger for good. It was one of her biggest mistakes.

As her gaze met his, hers burned with such an unfiltered hatred that she took off after him without hesitation, throwing a few wordless curses at him, knowing he'd likely be able to dodge them. This dance had been done so many times, but always one of them slipped away from the other. Damn him. Damn him to the depths of hell.

"Morrigan!" The surviving Patil twin called after her.

She waved her hand behind her. "I can handle it," she barked over her shoulder before picking up the pace, a few strands of hair falling out of the neat braid as she dodged a hex from a Death Eater that went down with her own shout of the explosion spell as she pursued Draco. You Know Who was losing a lieutenant. Today, if she had anything to say about it. And he was going exactly where she hoped he would.

A small alley lead to a small open area with a fountain. A courtyard of sorts that was just out of the reach of his wards. Their games had always been all out. He didn’t want to hold either of them back. Wand in his gloved hand, he kept his face to her. With a swift move his boot came back to fall into a more proper stance. She had followed; he knew she had, and he was ready. A bloody knife in hand and his wand in the other. After her, he likely wouldn’t have to lift a finger against Potter.

The Dark Lord’s Lieutenant and the Princess of the Insurgents. How fitting.

Her lips were curled into a hateful sneer as she looked at him once she got to that open area outside of his wards. She could feel when she could actually cast and move around. Now she knew what she had to do. Draw him in enough that he'd follow her. Cat and mouse. she could afford to let him think he was the cat a bit longer. But not long. After years of clashing with him, of him getting in the way of her jobs, he was dying. And she was getting what intel she could for him.

Without a hesitation, she continue to approach, a flick of her wand, using water from the fountain to try and grab Draco and drag him into it. She'd used her environment before, and after Harry told them of what happened in the Ministry between You Know Who and Dumbledore, she was prepared to use anything to her advantage. Anything at all.

With a wave arced before him, air seemed to flow around him like some tornado. It was far from it though. Every droplet vanished in an impressive feat of magic. As though he were pulling a vacuum around himself, his own personal black hole.

On the way back his wand pulled bricks from every nearby building, hammering her.

She wanted him dead. The feeling was mutual. Just seeing her toy with him, it had a sneer on his lip. He pushed forward, forcing her footing, making her fall back. This ended here.

As soon as she saw the bricks getting thrown, she casted a wordless shielding charm that she had perfected with years. The bricks lodged in the shield, slowly obscuring her from view before she sent the shield out with a blast back towards him in a hail of bricks as she moved around, nearly stumbling from the force he pushed at her.

Sneering at him, she flicked her wand, casting the very spell that Harry had thrown at him back at Hogwarts. The spell his own Godfather had created. She no longer cared about using Snape's spells, and would use them against him if she ever saw him again as well. Nothing was too far for her at the moment. The Gryffindor that clung to her rules was gone. The bravery remained however.

"Your Master getting tired of me getting away, Malfoy?" She sneered, her voice much colder than it had ever been before the Battle of Hogwarts as she took a few steps back, towards the opposite end of the square, going to make him chase her this time.

“Why you looking for a new cause?” he jeered, meeting her ice with his own.

Of course the Dark Lord grew tired of this dance, but Draco Malfoy had made assurances. He had time, and even his master didn’t dislike it when these games between them lead to destruction, to obliterating the slivers of hope that still mistakenly existed in some of the ranks of these insurgent scum.

She was impressive, but nothing more than a worthy adversary.

When she rushed, he followed. They had only begun, and he refused to have her disappear again.

As soon as the Prophet had released where the execution was to be held, she had set her own trap carefully. One that would hold him contained and allow her own magic to continue. Studying ancient runes had certainly come in handy. There were quite a few things that Hogwarts had taught her that she kept going, but her resilience was probably the most hard won lesson.

"Absolutely not. I'll look for another cause when my blood runs cold. Or yours does," she sneered right back, casting a tried and true stunning spell. Those never landed. But they seemed to irk him. As if he thought she was going easy on him. Which amused her just a touch. Clearly someone wasn't pleased with how smoothly some things were going now.

But she carefully strode backward as she casted, smooth steps that were leading her back to an intersection between alleyways. With a cold smirk, she darted down one of the alleyways. "How many more times will he let you fail, I wonder?" She called out, her voice echoing a little before she slipped into an abandoned building. As soon as he came in, she could slam that door closed and then all she'd have to do is get him to stand just so to hold him still.

All those secrets he likely held were going to be hers....and she was going to make sure that she was able to hurt him for all of the pain he had caused. Fair play was gone. The need for revenge almost burned through her now.

There she was tooling with him. “That can be arranged,” he gritted, bringing down his wand to parry her stun. It vanished like the water and he continued after her.

That was the question wasn’t it? How many times would he pay for his sins? His failure to bring her in cold. Warm was preferable, but either worked. When she holed herself into a nearby home he suppressed a smile. How terribly common. Slowly, he ascended the stairs and pushed the door open with magic.

“I do so enjoy your choice,” he called, making his way down the hall. “At least I can torture you first,” he let his voice carry.

Once he was in, the door slammed, and he smiled. Perhaps she was finally taking this seriously. And by the time he felt it, he knew he’d given her too much time to plan. Two days had seemed short, but then again, he just needed to hold on long enough.

His gaze looked around, trying to peer the runes. It’d been some time since he’d had to deal with such things. How inconvenient.

“Hopefully you don’t disappoint,” he jeered, rearranging the grip on his knife and holding his wand at the ready. He strengthened his mental shields. He knew she was quite the occlumens, but couldn’t trust she hadn’t learned some tricks. Every encounter had brought forth a new facet of her. “You only get one chance.”

She lurked in the shadows, fiddling with a charm that hung on her bracelet that shrouded her in shadows as she heard him approach. She could hear the screams of the Muggles that had fought against the Death Eaters in her mind. Could see the bodies of friends that had been left for them to find. Could see the faces of the Order losing faith in the Trio. Allowing them to help, knowing they were symbols of hope, but they weren't allowed to call the shots again. Even if Kingsley did allow her to help with planning more than he didn't.

Torture was the very reason that she wanted him to come up those steps and enter this room. She held her breath and funneled power into those runes as soon as the door slammed. She didn't have as much time as she wanted, but she should have more than enough. As he tried to fortify his mind, she knocked him back into a chair, using ropes to bind him to it and making him drop the knife as she glared at him.

Despite his readiness, she was one with the shadows. Too soon he felt himself to down, down, down.

"I only need the one chance," she sneered from the shadows, murmuring the spell under her breath as she stepped out of the shadows. His secrets were going to be hers.