The Art of War

“To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”
Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Failure was hardly tolerated. Draco had failed. They had lost the delegate regardless of Wood and all he had learned. It didn’t matter if the Dark Lord hadn’t been as excited about this as he had been mound builders. It would hurt. He knew it in his bones.

When eventually his dark mark had seared with the bitter call of retribution, Draco had donned his mask and put on his black robes. Soon after, he followed the pull. He recognized the location his master had come to favor as it materialized before him. He merely caught a glimpse.

“My lord,” he called, sinking to his knees. Gently seizing the hems of the dark lord’s robes, he kissed them. “I am not worthy of your forgiveness.”

He paused and let go of the fabric. “I accept whatever punishment you see fit before I propose a means of atonement.” The nose of his mask nearly brushed the ground before him.

The proper reverence from the young man saved him from the brunt of his reaction. For the moment. The Dark Lord looked down at his feet where his face nearly brushed the ground and, with a swift motion, pulled the mask from his face so it dissolved into smoke as he had to so many others, pain lacing where the mask had been ripped.

Pain laced his features as the magical component left him. It felt like the very skin from his cheeks, forehead, and chin were pulled forward with it. He held back a scream though he couldn't stifle every sound from escaping him. He didn't bother to.

"If you did not know your place, Draco, you would already have faced the punishment that anyone else would have for failing me," he hissed before he gave a flick of his wand. "Crucio."

His words were like a breath of fresh air before the inevitable. Before he could even tense, the curse was upon him, stabbing in all the right places. This time, his cries resounded without hindrance, flowing from him as freely as blood did his enemies.

It was said so smoothly, without hesitation, for the pain to lance through the boy. But he had already made him curious about what sort of plan he had for atonement. The pain would be a warning and partial punishment. If the atonement was good enough, he could be merciful. He didn't want the boy to be too damaged after all.

Draco writhed at his feet, embracing the pain. He deserved it. Deep down, he knew he deserved it. Part of him welcomed it.

Holding the curse for what likely felt like an eternity to the boy, but was only five minutes or so, he slowly released it with a bit of disinterest as he looked over the research from the boy's pet Muggle researcher.

"Speak. What atonement do you offer to me?" If it wasn't suitable, the pain would return in an instant.

Draco gasped but didn't linger on the ground. He fought every protest of his limbs as he struggled to regain his knees. With a nod, he swallowed down, uncertain of his ability to speak just yet.

"A few things have come to my attention," he began, feeling his mouth dry. "Wood has been forthcoming in the most interesting of ways," he supplied, needing to watch his delivery more than ever. "My Lord, it appears we've been mistaken about certain aspects of their hierarchy and functioning." He'd suspected something as much of late, but nothing concrete.

Looking through the book, he paused, turning a page to glance up and stare at Draco. "And how is it that their hierarchy works, son?" He prompted, wanting more of an explanation of that first. Their hierarchy had been something of an enigma to them all. Too many of those who were held up high in this little insurgency drank that blasted potion before they could get anything out of them.

Apparently, Oliver Wood was either too proud to drink the potion, hadn't brought one of them with him, or had been relieved of it before he could drink the substance.

"My Lord, I think I can turn Hermione Granger to our cause," he said carefully, bracing himself for the impact of his words.

"The Mudblood?" He questioned, voice going colder as his hand smoothed over the crease of the pages, not once looking away from the boy now. "What makes you so certain that the Mudblood would be useful to our cause if you are able to turn her? Doubtful as it is."

A shaken breath escaped him at the lack of torture. "They've been isolating the ones that have been so problematic for us. I'd dare say, even Potter is alive, my Lord..." he let the knowledge sink. "They're just hiding him, benching their symbols of hope to excuse their newfound methodologies," he drawled. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

"I believe that as it stands, she has nowhere else to go, my Lord," he offered in a drawl that was cold and calculating—a far cry from pity in any form. "In fact..." he bowed his head. "I have collected a number of thoughts you are free to peruse to explain my beliefs. It would require a bold move to ensure it, but I believe bringing her into the fold rather than extinguishing such a...powerful witch might help with...optics."

"Potter's alive," the words were a hiss of distaste and disdain. He closed the book, considering that. There were a number of ways that they could turn this to their advantage and draw out the boy. How long before he tried to get the Mudblood if he thought her in danger? If his people might have trouble containing him, that might work in their favor.

His wand was balanced between his fingers, turning in his grasp slowly with his thumb as he watched the blond. "Powerful witch. The Mudblood has been a pain in both of our sides, and you are thinking that keeping her would improve our optics?" He drawled, testing the words carefully before his mind grabbed at his, wanting to see those thoughts that made his lieutenant believe that the girl was useful. And wanting to see what this change of heart was fueled by.

Draco knew blood had only gone so far. With the losses their side had sustained, lineages were precarious things. Power certainly helped matters, and regardless of what the other side had put in Granger's head, she had been the only witch of their generation not only to match but surpass his scores in school. And she'd been at a disadvantage then.

He made no motion to hide anything. The way she had seduced him, knowingly slipped into his bed. Every time, she'd failed to kill him. And then what he'd plucked from Wood's very mind.

"I wish to make her mine, my Lord," he concluded simply, making it as impersonal as possible. Hadn't society asked when he'd settle down? Perhaps he wasn't much better than some of her beaux, but he certainly had no plans to kill her fire when it could consume her. "Willingly or not, her place will send a clear message..."

Those thoughts were things that he picked up as well. The purebloods were rare indeed—half-bloods, more common, like himself or Severus. Power was what he wanted, and he had it. Allowing his lieutenant to claim something he seemed to want, if only because he wanted that fire from the witch, almost had him chuckle.

"And you wish to give her the opportunity to kill you in your own bed?" It was a cold and almost taunting comment. He wanted her. To make her his. It would certainly send a message if their insurgency saw her on his arm. The girl couldn't make a deadline. She was chasing feelings, losing her inspiration. Perhaps inspiring her to a new cause might work in their favor.

Watching Malfoy coldly, he narrowed on him. "And is that all you want? To make the girl a message to her former allies? I'm sure Lucius and Narcissa would be so pleased by your plan."

All tests. To see how badly the boy wanted this. If his family would sway him, or if the vision he saw for their cause meant more than whatever his own family would. But he needed to know how committed he was to flipping the girl. To make sure that she didn't get into his head either. He was sharing things, pushing them really, it made him tempted to dig even deeper into his mind.

"I hardly plan to have her sleep in my bed," he drawled. Why have entire wings with bedrooms and waste it sharing blankets with a Mudblood? His own parents hadn't slept in the same chamber, and he had no delusions as to what such a thing would lead to.

"And there are ways to ensure she doesn't get the chance..." he continued. They were more permanent, but then, wasn't his fate about to be as much? "Of course, that will go both ways," he recalled carefully. If he did push as the sorcerer before him suggested, to make his family reach a greater disdain, then he was all in.

Their side could use a crushing blow to their enemies. "I'll flip her or forfeit my life."

That deal was something he could take. Something that would be amusing to watch unfold. And if the boy lost? It made his own goals all the easier if his life was forfeited by his own hands. Perfect. Utterly perfect.

"Once you have her in hand, you have one month. If you can't flip her enough to get her to start falling into step by then, then you'll both die." He didn't feel any sentimentality from Draco. But just in case there was any, threatening the witch would aid in that.

He gave a dismissive hand gesture. "Leave. Get your plan in motion. And be prepared to do whatever else I require while you attempt to break your little witch."

A smile curved Draco's lip. Death was something he'd stopped fearing several years back. "I won't disappoint, my Lord," he bowed deeply, ready to take on this next challenge.

They were coming to her this time. It was nerve-wracking. Her bags were packed, the mirror hidden among her things. If she was getting sent away, she was getting sent away and still able to do something rather than being as locked down as Harry. She'd dispose of the damn thing later when no one was around to witness what she had done.

The peacock was somewhere in the damn shack of a safe house. Wandering around and staying out of trouble. Every so often, she could have sworn she saw it circle back to check that she was there before it wandered around again. Perhaps she had spoiled it by keeping it inside. But she wasn't about to cast a bunch of spells to keep the creature outside, secure, and warm or cool.

Sitting at the small dining room table, her two charmed bags were on the expanse of wood, her reports written in triplicate before her. With her hair pulled back from her face, and she sat patiently waiting. Silently. Her face void of any emotion even as she felt her stomach twisting in knots as she tried to think of silver linings. If she was tucked away, perhaps she could actually catch up on sleep. She'd be able to read some of the books that she had wanted to reread from Hogwarts. But she'd be stuck in her head even while others didn't go poking around inside of her own.

But she couldn't see an alternative. She was getting tucked away as surely as Harry had. A strategic move to keep their symbols of hope alive and well but also making sure they couldn't screw up. Like she had, she'd done so well for seven years, but that bastard had bested her at every turn. Perhaps it was evening the scales from school when she had bested him in every class.

Closing her eyes, she lifted one hand to rub at her temples, holding back a groan of disappointment.

“Don’t forget that damn bird,” Amos burst into the room. To say he was angry was an understatement. “We have one chance at recuperating one of our assets, and I’ll be damned if you're taking that aggravating avian work against us.”

After this, she would be onto the next place, and Amos Diggory had no desire to deal with the likes of Hermione Granger ever again.

“Portkey leaves in five,” he warned.

She grimaced as Amos burst in but whistled, the damn peacock coming into the room and seeming to hiss at Amos Diggory as it strutted over to Hermione. The damn thing was confounding, and she had no clue what to make of it. She scooped up her two bags, pulling one over her shoulder and one attached to her belt.

"Yes, sir," she said simply. She wasn't sure what he was going on about. Was she helping with an extraction before they dropped her off wherever in the hell they decided to place her? Regardless. She kept a hand on Petrus and led the bird with her over to the portkey.