creativelymundane

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Chapter Two: To Be Certain

October, 1998

Malfoy Manor

"No fucking way!"

Draco sighed quietly and tried to keep his face neutral. It was a skill he had picked up in the last two years. He remembered a time when every feeling would be reflected in his features. It wasn't long after the Dark Lord took up residence in his house that his mother had begun training him to control his reactions. There had been a moment after the Battle of Hogwarts when he found himself picturing a life where he could smile and grimace and query without fear. That had lasted only a few days. A mere twitch of weakness was all Bellatrix needed to start casting Cruciatus left and right.

"Do you want this to be your life?" He looked Theo in the eye. His best friend was terrified, and rightly so. "It's been quiet since they took the Ministry, but you know she's going to start killing people again."

"I think my life might be much shorter if I go along with this."

"Not necessarily." Thank Salazar for Blaise. The boy's cool head had kept everyone from losing it on more than one occasion. "She doesn't trust us. We won't be in the inner circle. We won't be watched like we were before."

"Have you lost your fucking minds?"

Draco snatched his friend up by the shirt. "We have to do something! This is going to get worse. You think she's just going to forgive us for our betrayal? You parents walked out on Voldemort. Mine practically raised their wands against him. She's playing nice right now, but at some point, she'll strike back. We need to take her out. For fuck's sake, Theo! We have a chance to end this once and for all. We just need the stones to do it."

"Fine!" Theo wrenched himself away. "Contact the Order. But when we've had our skin peeled off and hung out to dry, you can remind me of your noble intentions!"

They ate a light dinner of dried beef and bread. Luna, Oliver and Hermione had chosen to eat in the living room, keeping their eyes on their captives. The prisoners seemed completely unaware of the tension, settling into the dining room and holding a very calm and polite conversation over their soldiers' rations. The six of them made their own oasis of excellent table manners and cool countenances. Hermione resented it greatly.

There were a few dishes to clean and Oliver hovered over her protectively while she worked, and then continued later as she sat down at the table. It was dark when Hermione banished him back to the living room, reminding him that she was fully capable of handling herself. He settled into the ratty old couch and started watching a Muggle movie. She could see the flickering light of the television from her seat in the kitchen. Since all the rooms upstairs were taken, he would eventually stretch out and fall asleep there. Luna preferred to sleep outdoors anyway, and had curled up on the porch swing with a book and a blanket.

Hermione remembered installing that swing four years ago after she and Luna had been rescued, after both of them had mostly recovered, and Luna had bluntly stated that not even orders from Kingsley would compel her to sleep where she couldn't see the sky. They had both laughed the kind of manic laughter that was always accompanied by tears, and then gone to the local Muggle hardware store. There was another swing on the front porch of Hermione's house back at base camp.

Hermione sat at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea, a piece of parchment and a quill. The burn on her thigh was slathered with cream and throbbing dully. Her body was aching and tired, but her mind was racing. It was a common problem. Many nights she would stare at the ceiling of her room, letting her worries and plans run amok in her head. She might drift in and out of sleep until dawn, when she would sit up and make pages and pages of notes. Sometimes it was complete gibberish, but if she failed to push the restless energy through a quill and onto parchment, she would never rest.

She was considering making Luna share her swing when the sound of footsteps intruded on her thoughts. She glanced up to see Malfoy standing just inside the kitchen. He was looking at her.

"Do you need something?" It came out raspy with fatigue—and sarcastic.

"Water." He answered after a moment.

"Glasses are in that cupboard. Water is from the tap."

He nodded and pulled a glass down. The old tumbler clinked against the faucet as he filled it expertly, as if he had been using Muggle plumbing his whole life. His shoulders were wider than she remembered and he moved with the kind of ease that came from being in good shape. She decided angrily that he always had enough to eat, unlike her people, who had to scratch for every morsel. He had grown incredibly tall in the seven years since she had seen him last. That last year at Hogwarts he had been only a few inches taller than her. Watching him take a drink, she wondered if she would fit under his chin. She shook the image away, blaming her strange thoughts on her shock at finding out Malfoy was one of the good guys.

The whole thing was surreal. The adult Draco Malfoy, a secret spy for the Order, was leaning against her sink. The scent of soap reached her, and she could see from his soot-free skin that he had showered. He watched her, crossing one well-dressed ankle over the other as he sipped tap water from a cheap glass. He managed to look completely out of place in the dingy kitchen—with his shiny shoes and damp platinum hair—and yet completely at home. Glaring down at the dirt under her fingernails, she was suddenly very aware of the grit in her hair; she could feel the invisible, dried sweat on her skin.

"Everyone settled?" she asked, sounding rancorous even to her own ears.

Malfoy nodded and sat across from her. He was still looking at her. She watched his eyes flicker from her hands to her face, up to her hair then back. It took a conscious effort on her part not to run her hands through her hair to smooth down the short curls she knew were standing on end. Shorter hair was less of a hassle, but the strands tended to form a halo of frizz around her head when she didn't tame them properly. She slid back in her chair and tried to match the directness of his regard, pulling a mask of indifference down over her face.

"Have I congratulated you on killing the hairy animal that used to live on your head?" he asked politely. She couldn't refrain from touching strands that now ended at the nape of her neck. "What did you feed that thing anyway?"

"How's your Dark Mark?" she retorted. "Is it just a pretty tattoo now, or has Bellatrix taken up your reins in place of Voldemort?"

Malfoy's pale face darkened. They glared at each other in silence.

"You know," she broke the silence. "When you and your family slithered back to Bellatrix after the Battle of Hogwarts, I was sure that it was the last I'd see of you."

It had felt safe. There was chaos, to be sure, but the Ministry was limping back under the leadership of Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Department of Magical Law Enforcement had assured the public that Death Eaters were being rounded up daily. It had been utterly unforeseen when Bellatrix Lestrange had led a coup within the Ministry, overtaken the Wizengamot, and established a new world order under the Legion of Blood. The woman was supposed to be dead. They had buried her in an unmarked grave. But somehow, she had swept into the Ministry, very alive and enraged, and had painted a target on the back of every member of the Order.

Not long after, the Malfoys had appeared on the front page of the Daily Prophet at Bellatrix's side. Hermione had taken it quite personally when she heard that they had run headlong back to the newly reformed Pureblood army. She had been incredibly disillusioned when she remembered the way she had defended them against Ron and Harry. She had been so sure of their new loyalties. Looking at him now, it was difficult to put aside those feelings of resentment, though she now realized they were unfounded.

"Unfortunately for me, I knew it wouldn't be the last time I'd have to be blinded by the holy light of the Golden Trio." He took another casual sip.

"So you planned to spy for the Order from the beginning?"

"The beginning. That's a rather broad concept." He cocked his head at her, as if considering whether she was intelligent enough to understand his reasoning. "It became apparent soon after my father forced my mother and I back into the arms of those insane criminals that the situation was unacceptable."

"So you've been on our side the whole time?"

"Your side?" he mocked. "Do you mean the side of Light? Of foolhardy honor and virtuous truth? I always knew you were disgustingly optimistic, Granger, but I never thought you were naïve as well."

"I hardly hold any illusions about your character, Malfoy."

"Good."

"You may have been working for the Order, but you're still a Malfoy," she spat the name out as if it tasted bad. "You never do anything that doesn't fit into your personal endgame. You still let them brand you with that symbol of evil. I've heard stories about you over the last seven years. You've done horrible things."

He looked at her impassively, but the muscle in his jaw was twitching.

"However," she continued. "You've also been relaying information about Bellatrix Lestrange to the Order of the Phoenix, at great risk to yourself. Some of that information saved lives."

"Like you said, it served my purposes. There was nothing selfless about it. And I took very little risk, if we're being honest."

Hermione huffed out a breath of doubt, wondering what he was trying to accomplish with this conversation. Why sit here and try to convince her that he was selfish and unrepentant? The Gryffindor inside wanted to believe that under all that derision was a heart of gold, but the cynic cautioned her against such fanciful ideas. There was no such thing as altruism in the world of Draco Malfoy. Even so, Hermione felt a flicker of relief that she may not have been entirely deceived by him. This obsessive need to be right really was a like disease, she thought.

Malfoy leaned back and cocked his head. "Tell you what, I'll try not to murder you all in your sleep, and you'll try not to let your Gryffindor heart bleed all over my shoes."

"I suppose I'll find out about your murderous past soon enough. I'll be at your debriefing."

"Think so?" He grinned at her maliciously and took a sip of water. She returned her gaze to her tea cup, not all confident in her statement. Shacklebolt might just slam the door in her face.

Malfoy's face turned serious. "How do you know my mother?"

She had been expecting the question, but the look of cold fury was a surprise. "Why don't you ask her?"

"I did. The words were very polite, but ultimately I was told to fuck off."

"That's good advice."

"I assume your relationship was of the prisoner-jailer variety, since Loony Lovegood seems to know her as well." It appeared that Malfoy had little knowledge of the time Hermione and Luna had spent at the Lestrange Mansion. It was a relief. She had no intention of speaking to Malfoy about that part of her life. Ever.

"You could always ask Luna," a small smile revealed itself when she spoke. She would love to see Luna slice Malfoy into pieces. "I'm sure she'd be happy to regale you with tales of the Legion torture chambers."

The skin next to Malfoy's eye ticked. They were both quiet for a moment.

"I was in France that year." A well-manicured fingernail tapped the side of his glass. He was no longer looking at her.

Hermione frowned at him, confused. "And what difference does that make?"

"None at all." It was said quietly.

She was intensely uncomfortable with the idea that Malfoy may have some personal regret about her abduction and imprisonment. They regarded each other in silence for a full minute before Hermione stood from her chair. She was a little shaken by the entire encounter. She put her cup in the sink, and silently left the kitchen. Luna hardly even grumbled when she snuggled into the swing with her.

A tingle on her tongue was the first clue that the Veritaserum had taken effect. A moment later, Pansy's fingers and toes were buzzing pleasantly. It was similar to that feeling she got right before she drank too much firewhiskey. Not quite drunk, but not quite sober. She took a deep breath, letting her lungs fill with air. Regulating one's breathing was the first step in fighting off the effects of the truth potion. The next step was to keep her focus on something other than the questions being asked. Pain worked quite well. Pansy quietly slipped a pin into her palm, ready to press it into her fingers if she needed a way to distract herself from the need to answer.

She was the first of her group to undergo this farce. Any Pureblood worth their wand would have built up a resistance to the potion early in life, and would know how to defend against its effects. This particular draught was quite powerful, Pansy realized as her head swam. She poked herself with the pin and the feeling faded a bit. Despite her precautions, she had little desire to perjure herself. If there was ever a time to be honest, this was it. She only hated having to appear vulnerable to Hermione Granger of all people. She hated appearing as a supplicant, as a refugee, running from the choices she had made at a young age. It felt like begging. It felt like a request for forgiveness. Her insides squirmed.

Rather than alerting her interrogator to her newly candid state, she merely sat back and studied the woman across the table. Hermione Granger had changed greatly since Hogwarts. The woman sitting across from her had cropped her bushy hair closely around her head, and it now fell in a halo of tight brown curls. She was dressed in a black short-sleeved shirt and dark green military style pants with half a dozen pockets. There was a wand holster strapped to the inside of her arm, the end of an ugly scar peeking out from behind the leather. There was another holster across her chest that kept a spare wand tight against her ribs. A rather large knife sat on her belt. The effect was entirely tactical and Pansy hated the way it made her feel ornamental and useless in her witch's robes.

If someone were to draw a stark comparison between herself and this woman, Pansy imagined she would come up short. Hermione Granger was a warrior, a leader of the rebel cause. Pansy was the daughter of a very rich man who had paid handsomely to keep his family out of the clutches of the Death Eaters during the Second Wizarding War. She had never seen a battle field, never had to raise her wand in self defense. Draco had tried to explain the horror of Voldemort and his followers, but it wasn't until Bellatrix took over that Pansy truly understood. Suddenly, paying was no longer an option, and Culpeper Parkinson had been forced to take the Mark and the Parkinson's home had been turned into another base of operations for the Legion. Bellatrix became a family friend, along with several other evil and violent wizards. She survived the best way she knew how: by acting stupid and staying out of the way. It seemed cowardly now that she was face to face with her old school enemy.

Even Loony Lovegood had been changed. She was leaning against the kitchen counter behind Granger, idly flipping one of the five knives she had strapped about her person. She was dressed the same as Granger, but with bright red trainers instead of boots. Her long blonde hair, almost as pale as Draco's, was pulled back from her face in hundreds of tiny braids and tied together with what appeared to be a shoelace. Years of living around temperamental wizards with homicidal tendencies had sharpened Pansy's ability to read people. The same dreamy amusement still hovered around mouth; she still walked with a skip in her step, but it was her eyes that made Pansy shift in her chair. Lovegood's huge, blue orbs stared at her, unblinking.

"Feeling alright?"

The solicitous question from Granger burned right through Pansy's stomach like acid. She felt the magically induced desire to answer.

"Quite."

The former Gryffindor pulled the wand from her side and spoke into the tip. It lit up with purple light, indicating it had started recording. She picked up a quill and scratched at the paper in front of her after laying the wand on the table between them.

"Veritas session with Pansy Parkinson, as requested by Kingsley Shacklebolt. Order member Hermione Granger interviewing, witnessed by Order member Luna Lovegood."

Brown eyes looked up.

"Thank you for agreeing to this, Ms. Parkinson."

Pansy remained silent. Fuck off, she thought.

"Are you a member of the Legion of Blood?" Granger began.

"No. But I did argue against that rather unfortunate name."

Granger raised her eyebrows at Pansy's flippant tone, but did not object.

"Are you intending to spy on the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Not if it requires sneaking around. Afraid I haven't packed my sensible shoes."

"Do you wish to harm any member of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"No, thank you. Sounds rather messy." Though a black eye might compliment Granger's ridiculous outfit rather well.

"Tell me why Purebloods are superior to Muggle-Borns."

Now they were getting to it.

"It has to do with culture," Pansy decided to be honest, figuring Granger would instantly mistrust anything too kindly said. "There's obviously no inferiority in magical ability, no matter what zealots like Bellatrix like to scream. Muggle-borns are given a wand just weeks after discovering that magic exists. Purebloods are raised with magic, we are steeped in it. Most Purebloods understand the basics of magic before we even get on the Hogwarts Express. There is a fear of magical power in Muggle-Borns because they are raised to think such things are childish and maybe even shameful. Purebloods feel easy and have a way with magic that you will never see with a Mudblood."

Lovegood had shifted at the slur, but Granger didn't bat an eye. "Oh excuse me," Pansy apologized facetiously. "Habit."

She realized she was probably pushing her luck, but the Veritaserum was making it difficult to keep the rancor out of her voice. If they wanted the truth, then by Salazar they would get it.

"So should Muggle-Borns be subjugated?" Granger continued.

"Why bother?" Pansy sighed. "It seems like an awful lot of trouble for something so completely insignificant. Purebloods had most of the money and a good chunk of the power before Voldemort started this horrible crusade. Besides, if we killed every Muggle-Born and Half-Blood there would be few witches and wizards left."

"Why did you leave?" she continued. "Your father is a highly respected Death Eater. Your family is wealthy and lived comfortably."

"Comfortably?" Pansy hissed. "You don't know a damn thing."

"Enlighten me." Granger was watching her carefully. Pansy realized she was probably giving herself away. The Veritaserum nudged her to answer. She hesitated, pressing her thumb into the needle, letting the pain distract her brain.

"Anything you say here will only be heard by me, Luna, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. I understand your reluctance, but you must answer the question."

"I don't want your understanding," Pansy spat. "I don't need your pity."

The curly haired woman straightened her back and glared. "Good! Because I don't feel sorry for you at all. You're my enemy until you prove otherwise, and frankly, I'd rather send you back to Bellatrix than have another mouth to feed, especially an ungrateful one. If Malfoy had not made your lives the condition of his rescue, I would have left you all there to rot. But since I chose to take you instead of stunning him and Apparating out, we must now go through this horrible invasion of privacy. The sooner we can be done with this, the better. So answer the damn question."

Pansy wanted to vomit, to purge this horrible feeling. It would be better if Granger was a raging bitch, if she treated them like dirt. They had all expected it, and now being faced with the compassionate eyes of an old enemy, Pansy wasn't sure what to do. She decided to tell half the truth.

"My father recently decided to arrange a marriage for me."

Blank looks greeted her pronouncement. She rolled her eyes.

"In Pureblood society, a witch's virtue is highly valued. She's expected to be—intact—for her husband. I've been, shall we say, less-than-virtuous. And no matter how much my betrothed claimed to love me, I decided I'd rather not face his wrath when he found out I've been popped. Nobody crosses Amycus Carrow."

Granger's eyes shot to Lovegood's when the name of her betrothed was spoken. The crazy blonde stared back as if frozen, and then stalked out of the room.

"Know the name, do you?" Pansy laughed humorlessly as her interrogator returned to her notes. "Have you seen the Peeling Curse in action?"

Her golden skin turned green. "Anthony Goldstein was caught by that one," she said, swallowing. "I had to pick his wand out of the pile of flesh."

"Why the fuck would you do that?" Pansy demanded, disgusted. "Some kind of Gryffindor memorial ritual?"

"We don't have a wandmaker anymore," Granger explained. "And it's hard to go shopping in Diagon Alley these days. We collect every wand we can."

Pansy shook her head to dispel the image. "Well, that was his invention. If that's not enough, I've seen what he does to his prisoners. When Draco told me what he was planning I didn't need to think twice. I told him it would never work, but he said he'd rather be roasted by Bella than leave me behind."

The quill scratching along the parchment stopped short. That last part had slipped out of Pansy's mouth unintentionally. Shit. Draco was going to kill her.

"Don't give her anything more than you have to," he had said. "And don't talk about me at all. I want to keep that ugly swot in the dark for as long as possible."

She stabbed her thumb again. Get it together.

"Are you willing to undergo a Level One Legilimancy Exam upon arrival at our base?" Granger was continuing.

"Of course." The lie rolled of her tongue. That's better. She would do it, but she was far from willing.

"You will be required to submit to the exam readily and without the protections of Occlumency, of which I assume you have some talent."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I never did have a knack for that particular type of magic." Another lie. Purebloods were taught occlumency from infancy. "Too honest I suppose."

Despite her fib, she had no intention of trying to fake the exam. She doubted she could hold out against a skilled Legilimens, so trying to occlude her mind when her future hung in the balance seemed counterproductive. Granger looked at her, as if sensing her deception.

"That concludes the interview."

Granger touched her wand and the light dimmed.

"Just so we're clear," she continued, shuffling papers. "A level one exam will only explore memories of your actions directly related to the Order, and only over the past few years."

Pansy was surprised to feel tension leak out of her body. Apparently she had been somewhat anxious about it.

"Nothing deeper is required to ascertain your loyalties, in my opinion." Granger stood and shoved the sheaf of parchment into a portfolio. She attempted a smile but it manifested more as a grimace. "We all have memories we'd rather keep to ourselves, yeah?"

Merlin's balls, she hated Hermione-Fucking-Granger.

Pansy heard the buzz of low voices coming from the garden, so she headed out the back door. The day was warm, but pleasant, with a light breeze that rustled the trees surrounding the property. The Muggle safe house was nearly invisible through all the vegetation, but Pansy could just spot the bricks of another home behind them. It was strange to walk into a back garden and not feel the whisper of wards. She felt exposed here, with no magical protections and no wand. Her mother was seated on the swing just outside the door, flipping through a magazine.

"Muggle fashion plates are so tedious," the older woman said. "These stationary pictures are useless. How can they fully appreciate a frock if the model doesn't move about?"

Pansy hummed in agreement as she descended onto the gravel path. Blaise and Theo were seated in chairs around a small table near the steps. They were playing a game of what looked like chess, except the pieces had to be moved by the players instead of responding to commands.

"All right?" Theo asked, moving his rook. "How was it?"

"Tiresome."

The Malfoys were also seated, facing each other on wide garden benches over a pot of tea. Draco leaned back with a cup in his hand, his foot on the opposite knee and his arm across the back of the bench. Narcissa was seated upright with her hands in her lap. They looked at ease, except that Draco was tapping the porcelain with a fingernail, and Narcissa had not touched her cup at all. Pansy stopped next to Blaise and listened.

". . . won't tell me how you know them."

"I hardly know them, dear—"

"—don't prevaricate, mother. Hermione Granger thinks she owes you something and I need to know what the bloody hell she's talking about. Obviously you've a shared history of some kind."

"I've answered as best I can."

"Was it at the Mansion? Did you interact while she was being kept there?"

Narcissa sent her son the kind of icy glare that had stopped lesser men in their tracks. Draco didn't take the hint.

"If you are hiding something that could harm my ability to negotiate with these people—"

"I hope you are not implying that I don't understand the gravity of the situation in which we find ourselves. I would never intentionally keep something secret that would harm anyone here."

"I don't know if it could be harmful if you don't tell me. If you've done something in the past—"

"Done something?" Narcissa interrupted sharply. "How dare you think that I hurt those girls in any way!"

Draco looked down at his cup.

"It is not my tale to tell, Draco. If neither Miss Lovegood nor Miss Granger wishes to speak about it, then it's not my place to do so."

"I just don't want to go into enemy territory without all the facts."

"Enemy territory?" Pansy broke in. "I thought they were the good guys."

"Well they aren't friends, are they? They don't think of us as allies and until we know where we stand, we'll treat them as potential enemies."

"Do you really think she's that devious?" Blaise spoke up. "Why go through the trouble to rescue us if she only intends to unveil some horrifying secret about your mother later on? If she wanted us dead she would have left us at the manor."

It made perfect sense to Pansy. Draco shook his head, still seething.

"Once we're on their turf, we won't have many choices if they decide to get aggressive." Theo moved his knight. "Check."

"Exactly!" Draco exclaimed. He was losing his composure and it made Pansy very nervous.

"Just how worried should we be?" she asked.

"Did you think this would be easy?" Draco leaned forward, glaring at her. "I'm a Death Eater. We are all part of the Legion as far as they're concerned. Until they decide to trust us, we need to step carefully and stick together."

Pansy wondered if she had left the prison of an arranged marriage to a psychopath for an actual prison. When she thought about it, a stone cell was still preferable.

"Would you like some tea, Pansy?" Narcissa asked. "I'm afraid it's quite cold."

Had she been reduced to drinking cold tea? A warming charm tickled the tips of her fingers and she rubbed them together. There many spells she could cast without a wand these days.

"We also need to follow the rules." Draco had noticed her twitchy hand and looked at her unsympathetically. She huffed, sat down next to Narcissa and drank her cold tea

"How did it go?" Draco pierced her with his grey eyes.

Pansy sighed. "Well enough. She didn't immediately clap me in irons, so I guess I passed the test."

Draco scoffed. "Of course you passed."

Lovegood trotted down the stairs then.

"It's your turn, Blaise," she said, all evidence of her former agitation gone. Blaise stood up and offered her his arm as if they were courting. She smiled absently at him and declined.

"I'm afraid I have an aversion to touching strangers," she said.

Blaise was momentarily paralyzed at her candor, but he recovered in time to follow her back into the house. He shot a look of confusion over his shoulder. Were all Order members so hideously blunt or was it just the mad ones?

"Absolutely mental," Theo muttered.