The Art of War

“The absurd does not liberate; it binds. It does not authorize all actions. "Everything is permitted" does not mean that nothing is forbidden.”
Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Wiltshire had been quite the trek from Godric's Hollow. Of course, even he knew the Dark Lord wanted to keep things at a distance. Returning a damaged and barely responding Nott to the Manor had been more than a chore, and by the time he had made it in, he hadn't quite had it in him to go straight to the runner-up prize of the night. Wood could rot in his dungeons a while longer. He needed to ensure his friend was safe. Theodore Nott was one of his oldest friends. Certainly, their positions hadn't allowed for the most bonding to occur unless one counted torture and the occasional night of debauchery. After the last, he wasn't keen on bothering to join the next one, regardless of how it came across. Nothing would quite match that night, nor would any witch sate his desires.

"I need a healer," he called out, and the manor came to life.

Two of his men appeared and just as quickly vanished. A house elf appeared first, taking over, while a second assured on a squeak that all would be well. When his men returned, it was with one of the rotating private Healers they kept on payroll in the nearby village. They were paid well enough not to ask questions, and their work was often short of miraculous.

Draco needed a shower. Needed to wash off his evening. The blood of his friend, how aroused he'd been only moments before with the brunette wriggling beneath his hips. What had Theo even been thinking?

Safe in his wing, away from prying eyes, he punched the wall. And then again. By the time he stopped, each knuckle had a small garnet circle.

Eventually, he emerged and got dressed again. Black trousers, a white shirt. He had every intention of calling her through the mirror, allowing her to glimpse a taste of what she'd wrought.

Though he could easily have apparated through the mansion, Oliver Wood wasn't worth the waste of energy. Instead, he ambled through his ancestral home. It was a long way down into the dungeons, and he took a moment to pause in the wine cellar. A dry bottle of red seemed appropriate to go along with an evening of torture.

The tongue-lashing she had just received from the pickup point was enough to make her blood boil as if she hadn't tried her best. Despite everything, their words were starting to echo in her head. Was she able to do this? She could have hit him with a killing curse when he wasn't paying attention, but the small bit of honor she still had made it so she didn't want to have an underhanded win. And the fact she had clung to those morals had resulted in Wood being taken.

She had been told to head back to the safe house she was staying in, and when she got there, she knocked things off her desk and tried not to scream. She was failing. Failing each time, she attempted to take him out. Something was wrong with her. Perhaps the war had been taking its toll on her, and she didn't want to be the one to deal with any more death. But each time she saw that smug face she wanted to hit him.

And then there was how her body had started to react to his despite the precarious situation. After a cold shower, she brushed through her frizzy hair and sat at the desk. The peacock was contained in one of the spare rooms. She'd have to either kill it or send it back to Draco sooner or later. She had no clue what to do with it. Though it didn't try to bite her anymore, so there was that.

Pouring herself a glass of whiskey, she leaned back in her chair and downed it for the burn. The box with the mirror inside of it was on the desk, the galleon next to it.

He reached for that galleon when he had gotten enough from the insurgent operative. They had used it to communicate. She had used it to summon him. He had to believe he could do so. How many nights had he spent studying it? Holding it in his palm, he considered it. For it to be effective, it had to be simple. With a breath, he pushed a single thought through. Now. He would have her attention now. If she looked upon its scalding surface, she would see the date and hour matching the moment.

As she poured herself another glass of whiskey, her eyes fell on the galleon, noticing the numbers change. Shit. Looking it over, she chewed at her bottom lip. If she didn't look in the mirror, would whatever was happening to her friends be worse? If she did grab the mirror and anyone found out, she'd be in even more trouble for harboring the item that could have gotten them more intel.

The witch only deliberated a few more moments before taking another pull from her glass and opening the box. She set up the mirror so that she could be seen and crossed her arms over her chest with the glass of whiskey in hand.

Draco sipped his glass of red and watched her unimpressed. "Now, now, don't make a face, I had bigger fish to fry...nothing personal," he chose to acknowledge her feelings as being left without a second thought when word of Wood's capture had come along.

Raising a brow at that, she scoffed. "You think I'm upset that you disappeared? The only reason that would upset me is I didn't get to plunge that knife into your side and twist." She stated coldly, her eyes still filled with hatred.

A chuckle left his lips. "Even Wood isn't convinced you can," he looked down at his feet where a groaning mass lay. "I will say delving into his concussed mind has been most uncomfortable," he drawled, cursing Wood again if only to hear that scream.

The scream made her wince slightly before cool indifference settled back on her face. "Considering how many times I've failed? Can't say I blame him. Sure, your side is rather vexed. You haven't killed me yet."

If she showed any further emotion for Wood, she'd only make it worse for him. And she didn't want to do that.

“His savior complex is almost cute,” he met her gaze in the mirror—Wood groaning and writhing on the floor. Releasing the pain, he felt like he was living two moments in time. “Your voice is like a trigger,” he smiled, eyes glimmering as knowledge showed through.

Wood's mind was almost too easy. And the more he dug, the more he wanted to harm the Irishman.

"Naughty boy that Oliver," he gritted, returning his gaze to the brunette. "Nightcaps, huh," he scoffed. "You stupid, foolish witch," he shook his head.

"Savior complex?" She asked with a raised brow, trying not to focus on poor Oliver. Her fault. Her fault that it was worse than it could have been. And then Malfoy had to say that.

A hint of pink colored her cheeks. She'd wound up in Oliver's bed more than Krum's. Finding solace with him when they survived or endured a particularly bad job.

"Stupid? And how is that stupid, Malfoy?" She couldn't help the question. Her curiosity needed to know.

Draco looked at her. "Because you failed to see the warning signs," his jaw was more clenched. "Despicable," he cursed Oliver more firmly. Too hard. There was silence. He sighed.

"Renervate," he hissed towards the man. "I'm not done with you, you..." his words were muffled as he stood out of the frame to take his anger out on the former quidditch player.

The silence had her heart seize in her chest. The fact that he moved out of frame had her tense further.

"What warning signs, Malfoy?" She snapped, trying to get his attention back to her rather than on Wood.

The screams came faster, words coming out in unintelligible spurts—anything to make it stop, to make him stop. Wood was beyond cracking. He was useless. At least as he was.

When Draco returned to the frame, he was colder.

Hearing Wood babble actually had that cold emotionlessness crack. There was genuine concern in her expression for a moment. Something she tried to school as soon as he came back into frame.

"Was that truly necessary, Malfoy?" Her gaze slid past Malfoy, looking at Wood on the floor.

Malfoy looked at her. He could see those chinks in her armor now. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, but then again, you like a little monster in your men, don't you?" he drawled.

Raising a brow at that, she poured herself more of the whiskey. More for her nerves than anything. "I like a little noble intentions in my men. Makes them slim pickings these days. Monster? Never." Lie. She could remember how he felt against her. Despite knowing she shouldn't like toxic, narcissistic, controlling men, here she was. Her body betrayed her every time they were pressed close together.

Taking a seat, he took his glass of wine back, ignoring the blood on his shirt. He needed to just take a breath. To not rise to her quips.

"Come on then, tell me how you faked it," he drawled. "I like the way you flush when you lie."

She rolled her eyes. She didn't flush when she lied. Not unless someone called her on it in a way that made it...worse. Sipping at her whiskey, she let the burn soothe her as she noticed the blood on his shirt. Poor Wood. Was he even still breathing over there?

"How I faked it? You want to know how I pulled information from listening to the witches that typically work there and how they interact with their partners? How I imagined someone else to help me react?" She lied smoothly enough, keeping her arms loosely crossed over her chest.

Draco gave a chuckle, making the garnet liquid in his glass swirl. "Definitely weren't pulling from Wood," he met her gaze. He didn't have to say just how much he'd seen. He was confident she could see it in his gaze.

"Naughty Wood, listening in on you and Krum," he continued.

The way he looked at her, almost like he looked through her, had her almost grimace. Though at that tidbit of information, her gaze moved from him to Wood and back again slowly.

She hadn't even been that loud with Krum. It was nice. But not enough to make her scream like Malfoy had been. Something was seriously wrong with her. "The safe houses have thin walls." She stated simply, not rising to the bait despite it turning her stomach.

"Wood made that abundantly clear," he flicked his gaze between them, calculating what to share and what to conceal. Why was he even talking to her? What did he truly want to pull from it? "Just like how on very thin ice you've been," he continued.

"Did he?" She didn't want to know. She didn't want to know. But she might need to know. What had she missed with Wood that could have been concerning? Savior complex. Did he think he could save her? Keep her safe? No one could do that. Not even herself. A chill went through her at that comment, and she put her glass down, glaring at him. "Like you care. I'm sure you'd love knowing that I'm this close," she indicated with her index finger barely above her thumb. "to being taken out of the field."

“Mostly, I’m offended,” he set his glass down, nearing the glass to look at her. “I had half expected whoever contracted to kill me would be higher up,” he hissed.

"And yet you haven't killed me either. If I'm so beneath you," she hissed right back. "So either I'm much more capable than you give me credit for. Or you're playing around so you can keep toying with me. Because you are obsessed," she accused simply. There was no jovial tone this time. A statement of the two options as she saw them.

Was she daring him? She was. He could feel it deep in his bones. Of late, he hadn’t wanted to kill her. Not truly. Even he knew as much, but now, now he couldn’t help but feel a bubbling feeling within. A sensation of warmth and mirth that reminded him of the singular drop of felix felicis they’d been entitled to in their sixth year.

“If you’re not dead, it’s because I want you alive,” he gave her in an equally flat tone.

"Is that right? And what could possibly compel such a reaction to you wanting me alive?" She couldn't help but ask, no coldness to the tone—just distance. Clearly expecting him to say something horrible rather than something that could make her feel confused.

It was concerning. She should take this mirror straight to her higher-ups. She could claim it fell out of his pocket on the mission.

That look, the shift in her tone. He had many reasons to keep her alive; this latest was weighing on his mind.

“I much rather keep that to myself a little while longer…”

"Shouldn't be surprised. You're not exactly one to share things," she drawled, looking away from him and back to Wood on the floor.

She saw him take a breath. He was alive. Unconscious at this point. But alive. Looking back at Draco, she shrugged. "Well. This has been an enlightening conversation. Apparently, you enjoyed digging through his mind to learn more about me and whatever else you needed to learn. Now that you've had me listen and watch, are we done here? Have to make sure your damn bird hasn't destroyed the other room."

Which just had her admitting she hadn't killed the damn thing. Damn it.

Death was a kindness. It brought an end to suffering and pain. Wood didn’t deserve that end. Not when he was still much more valuable alive. Just as she was much more valuable alive.

“You’re right, I don’t like sharing,” he agreed. “You can always return, Petrus,” he added nonchalantly.

"You could always return Crookshanks." She countered just as quickly. She missed her cat. His absence made all of this harder somehow. The bird didn't help. Even if it had stopped attacking her. She wasn't sure whether it was from survival or if the thing just liked her at this point.

“Perhaps.”

He had every intention of reuniting cat and owner, though he highly doubted she would enjoy his methods.

A sigh left her lips as she looked him over in the mirror. "....We're done here. You got the reaction you were looking for."

And soon, she'd be as locked away as Harry was. Unable to do a damn thing. She reached for the mirror, grabbing the cloth that she typically wrapped it in.