CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: TEA FOR TWO

She was polite enough to knock on the front door of the manor. That should at least earn her some consideration points. Never mind that it was nearly eleven at night. Surely Lucius was still up.

"Ah, Miss Granger?" inquired Porgy at the door.

"May I see Mr. Malfoy, please?" she asked.

"Er, yes," said the elf, "just come to the drawing room, please. Is Miss Granger drenched? Shall I bring towels?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you Porgy," she said. "It's just a little rain."

"Tea?"

"Yes, please."

It was strange being brought into the manor as a guest; she had never felt guest-like while here before, especially before-before when she was dragged here as a prisoner of war (which memory provided her with a very special constant undercurrent of rage). Today, the drawing room was warm and green and mahogany with an intricate oriental rug on the floor and a crackling, comforting fire in the hearth. It made her admire house-elves for their industry, because this was the same room in which she and Luna had laid an unconscious Lucius on that first day, warily staring upon him as if he were a sleeping murderous lion. How unkempt and disused it had been then, and what life it had now! Malfoy Manor seemed to be waking slowly, like a sleeping leviathan. She had hope it might waken to benevolence, but she suspected benevolence and malevolence were inconsequential to Malfoy Manor, and all that mattered was the survival of the House of Malfoy, i.e. the line of Malfoy, mortal. Whether that meant behaving good or evil made no difference, as long as H of M was preserved.

For a moment, deposited on a velveteen couch from which all of the dust had been recently beaten, she felt very small.

"You've come back?" inquired Lucius from the doorway, pulling her out of her reverie upon his manor (or perhaps one could say the manor to which he belonged). She didn't know why, but for some reason she felt relieved to see him, standing there in his shirt-sleeves, in the light of candles, his hair pulled to the side over one shoulder, casual by his standards but not by anyone else's, and very genuinely interested in her coming response. He looked wholly comfortable standing there, within the doorframe of his manor (or the manor to which he belonged [TMTWHB]), as if his matter were made of the exact same matter of which the house was composed, or, barring that, the energy of his body was so closely aligned with that of the house that they seemed to be part of the other, indivisible, and perfectly suited in the other's company.

She gave him a wry smile and said, "I have."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she said with her best mock-noblesse non-shrug, "Convenience? Safety, perhaps?"

He smirked.

"Why?" he asked again, patiently.

She glanced down at her hands, entwined on her lap.

"I met with Thomas," she began.

"Mr. Bennett?" asked Lucius. "Has he already proven himself more useful?"

Hermione felt a shard of remorse. Why did she feel remorse? Was she feeling remorse over Thomas somehow? Because he'd kissed her? Wasn't it her right to be kissed by whomever she liked? Why was she even thinking about this right now? How did this even apply to the current situation? She wanted to punch herself in the eye.

"Yes, he quite has," she replied, wishing she could will the hesitation out of her voice.

Lucius was quiet long enough for her to decide to look up at him.

"You're acting strange," he remarked.

She let out a weird little laugh that didn't help her case at all.

"Fine, stranger than normal," he admitted. "Why are you acting stranger than normal?"

"I don't know!" she blurted out with her anxieties, and she stood, and she paced to the fireplace mantle, and she leaned on the mantle, solid, comforting, both of her arms bracing her weight, and she gathered her thoughts. "But I have information, important information, for you, and you're getting that first before anything else."

"That sounds wise," Lucius' voice said from behind her, after a moment.

She drew a breath and straightened up, turning to face him. "We think the current Minister of Magic was the man responsible for sweeping the Malfoy case under the rug, and at least partially at fault for the dismantling of your family."

Lucius' eyes widened dangerously.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

"Yes," she replied.

"I'll have his head on a pike."

"Easy, Lucius."

"I'll have his head on a pike and then his ghost's head on a pike beside that pike!"

"Lucius!"

"Oh, shut up."

She did.

Lucius paced across the rug once, then twice, bringing to mind the deliberate, threatening pace of a caged tiger. Drawing a deep breath, he let it out, letting something tense out with it, and then, with misleading calm, sat very carefully down upon the sofa and arranged himself with dark meticulation. When he finally raised his gaze to her what she saw there made the nape of her neck scream.

"Please come, sit down and tell me everything you know," he said, polite and terrifying.

"Yes," she said, sounding breathless for some reason, but moving to do so. There were just some times when you don't mess with a caged tiger.

-oOo—

Once she had explained everything Thomas had discovered and Porgy had brought a lovely little tray of tea and scones, she spent the next half hour coaxing Lucius into a state that didn't involve only describing Kingsley Shacklebolt's head on a pike.

"It all kind of puts Shacklebolt's reaction in Draco's memories in a different light, doesn't it?" asked Hermione.

Lucius was silent, brooding, but he acknowledged her and probably agreed. He was gazing at a petite fork with a scone speared on the end of it that she could only assume was metaphorical.

"If he was guilty, I would imagine he would barely be able to stand being in the same room with Draco, let alone be mistaken for you," she said. "I wonder how much he had to do with your … eh… current situation? It was very, very likely his wand that illegally set the muffling ward outside of your manor just before you were sent away in time by the house."

In another context, she would probably find that whole last sentence kind of hilarious-sounding. Her life was well and truly weird, now. Weirder than normal.

"He was clearly involved with something that night," she said. "We just don't know exactly what."

Lucius maintained his brooding silence, so Hermione just kept talking.

"One of the biggest problems is that Shacklebolt has been actually a quite fine Minister of Magic. He's almost universally respected for his ability to bring a previously unheard-of era of stability and peace to the wizarding world," she said. "I mean, he's not perfect, but he's been extremely effective as a Minister. It would be very difficult to bring him down."

Lucius glanced at her.

"Why would we do that?" he asked.

Hermione stared at Lucius. "Because he did something extremely illegal and horrible?" she ventured. "And who knows what other illegal and horrible things he's done in the meantime that nobody knows about? And because, as a person who does illegal and horrible things, he should be brought to justice?"

Lucius' brooding expression slowly morphed into amusement, condescending amusement, and he chuckled at what she could only assume was her expense.

"What?" she asked, baffled.

"Oh, dear, sweet, confused, completely inefficient Gryffindor," he said, and he patted her on the head. He patted her on the head. He was going to win an award for condescension at this rate. "That's adorable."

"Would you mind explaining what you are going on about?" she asked, possibly seethed, maybe embarrassed for something she knew not.

His hand moved from her head to beside her face, where he gently curled a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. It was clearly an act of fondness, and she didn't expect it, but it took at least a bit of the edge off of his blatant condescension. As he did it, he spoke:

"It does continue to surprise me, though I should have expected it, this Gryffindorian tendency to want to charge in, wands blazing, and bring everyone and everything to justice, as if that is the only way to deal with this sort of thing."

"But you've just spent half an hour talking about putting Shacklebolt's head on a pike!" she objected.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "I would quite love to put Shacklebolt's head on a pike. But do you know the problem with putting someone's head on a pike?"

"I really hope you don't know this from personal experience."

He ignored that and continued curling a lock of her hair around his finger, as he was wont to do, at this particular time, for some reason.

"It's over too quickly," he said. "Revenge is a dish best served cold, and slowly, in increments, and always to one's ultimate advantage."

"You're kind of a terrible person," she observed.

"Is this new information to you?" he asked, unrepentant as he smiled at her. Smiled. And oh, how very different was his smile than Thomas'. Like an alligator. Or a snake. Or something else that lures you in and eats you. He must have seen something on her face that gave him pause, because his countenance shifted a little and he changed tack.

"Hermione," he said, using her name, but was it intentional? Yes, it seemed as if it was. He crossed one leg over the other and turned more to face her on the sofa… and his hand, which was once ensconced with her lock of hair, rested instead behind her on the sofa back, and for the first time she began to wonder if it was wise to be here, alone with a man such as Lucius, on a sofa, at midnight. The realization made her anxious.

"Will you allow me to explain reason to you?" he asked her, shifting into 'mentor mode', it seemed.

"Reason?" she asked, believing herself to be quite good with reason already. "Really?"

"Just let me explain," he said.

"As you like," she replied, with a meaningful sigh.

"Reason is taking all of the elements you are given and coming up with the most efficient and effective solution," he said.

"I can see that," she said.

"That solution will not always be labeled 'right'," he said, watching her carefully.

She stayed quiet to see where he was going with this.

"Sometimes it might be labeled 'utterly wrong'," he said, "but not often. That happens rarely, actually. Often the most effective and efficient solutions are in a sort of grey area. Reason often lies in a grey, occasionally questionable area."

She might have narrowed her eyes at him a little, but he went on.

"Let's look at the situation with Kingsley Shacklebolt using reason, not pure justice, shall we?" he asked. "What are our motives? What are we trying to reason out? What are the best outcomes… for us? I realize that I have exactly zero ideas of what your motives are, Hermione, but mine include power, influence, and security. The bottom line is, considering what we know about Kingsley Shacklebolt at this moment, we can acquire all three through using our knowledge in clever ways. Kingsley Shacklebolt is a good Minister of Magic. He does a good job. Why would we want to remove him? Why would we want to expose him and destroy his credibility? We want the Ministry to be stable and effective. He is doing what we want him to do, right now. However, if he were to fear us and our ability which we possess to destroy his credibility and remove him from office if we so desire, imagine what we could do. We have now been given a very powerful weapon, Hermione. We should use it wisely."

"But what about your revenge?" she asked, half-facetiously, finding this all a little on the nerve-wracking side.

"Revenge comes naturally in cases such as this," he said. "I am a patient man. Gradually overpowering Shacklebolt politically will be revenge enough, especially the moment when he realizes he is completely under my control."

"This is all very Count of Monte Cristo," she muttered.

"I'm not familiar with that noble line," he said. "Is it Spanish?"

"Never mind," she said, then turning to him, she lifted a hand to place over his chest. Still, it took her a moment to do it, as she was breaking through old barriers of physical contact, and that was never easy to do. "Lucius," she said, hesitating, and then her hand landing to rest upon his shirt. He accepted her touch mildly. "Lucius. Listen. Let me explain my reason to you."

He raised a dubious eyebrow, but allowed her to make her case.

"In the end," she said, "there are more important things than power, influence, and security, and those things all point towards finding something greater and of more importance than yourself; why do Gryffindors charge in, wands blazing to right that which is wrong? Why do we want justice? Because we want everyone to have the right to a good, happy life, without having to resort to machinations and grey areas to get there."

"That isn't practical," he said.

"That isn't the point," she replied. "The point is we possess hope, possibly much more hope than you, that what we do, if we keep fighting for it, can make a difference, however small, in making your type of reason less necessary."

"You chase a mirage," he said, but his hand came up to cover hers. "It is exactly power, influence, and security which allow anyone to live a good, happy life, and to think otherwise is to be naïve. If you don't have enough of all three of the former, then I am sorry to say you will not have the latter, because someone, somewhere, who subscribes to the necessity of grey will come and take it from you."

"Then I suppose we will have to agree to disagree, because where is your proof?" she asked. "Has your reason provided you with a good, happy life?"

"Has yours?" he countered effectively.

And then they experienced a shared moment like a sharp pinprick, the lack of proof for either of them striking them with sudden, existential ennui. If neither of them had found the good, happy, promised bliss by proscribing to either of their polar philosophies, then for what had they lived all of these years? Were they both wrong? If they were both wrong, if such a thing were possible, then whatever could be right? It blinded her for a moment, and when she came to herself, she realized she'd clenched his shirt in her fist and then, secondly, noticed he was holding her hand against him, preventing her from letting go.

His face was like a man in mourning, and was hers, perhaps, the same? They might have had a shared realization, but they were both too stubborn to voice it aloud, and she didn't know about him, but she felt quite unwilling to abandon the wisdom of her life's experience over one moment of hopelessness.

"You should be grateful to my reason, for it is that reason that drove me to help you," she said. "Because I believe that, no matter how awful you are, no one deserves what happened to you or your family, and it is my duty as a person to help… because I can."

His eyes darkened when she said the part about him being 'awful', and then he replied:

"Don't begin to pretend your motivation isn't self-centered."

"Lucius-," she protested, but he went on.

"You can't help but meddle in such a mysterious, clandestine mess; you thrive on it, I've watched you come alive in the process. Your intellect won't allow you not to be here, and even if you hadn't convinced yourself that this is a 'charitable cause', unconsciously you know your supposed altruism is all a lie, because you're getting what you want out of this, whatever that is, and you will continue to do so for as long as you want it," he said.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held her fast.

"At least I'm clear in my motivations," he said. "You know what I'm about."

"What are you saying?"

"Who is more honest, you or I?"

"How can you even ask that? You're a manipulative snake!"

"I may be, but I don't pretend to be anything else," he said, and implications dripped from his words.

This time she yanked her hand away, fury building inside of her, and shot to her feet. How dare he? How dare he. He let her hand go, waiting for her to reply. He wanted her anger, and he waited, regarding her with loaded patience, anticipating her fury to spill out upon him in nuclear radiance, she just knew it. It was as if he craved it. She clutched her hand to her chest and shook her head at him, because he couldn't be right; he was only saying that to make her angry, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She would not. He couldn't possibly be right. How could he say such a thing about her? She was Hermione By-Merlin Granger! She, by everything that was good in the world, was not an imposter! He was wrong! He was wrong and terrible and so very many kinds of messed up.

Her vision began to blur and she turned away the instant she realized unplanned tears were currently trying to make her life even more miserable, and the hallway seemed the right place to be right then, yes, it was a much better place to be, she realized after getting there, and maybe, oh, that was a door out onto the colonnade, yes, that was perfect, she could get out of this place, which suddenly filled her with a baking claustrophobia and a rising panic.

Outside, beneath the leaking, ancient colonnade, Hermione leaned over an edge and gasped to regain the breath she had been holding, and if a few or a thousand tears left her she would never let him know it. The rain drove angrily, beating the colonnade's roof, and water worked against stone where cracks become crevasses and then, someday, crumble.

It had, at that moment, become too much, but the terrible thing was, she knew she was caught. Lucius now knew enough about her and what she had done and what she knew that he could use it, and he would use it.

But she could use what she knew.

As she leaned back against a column and gazed out into the rain, she contemplated the idea of betraying Lucius, turning him in, and being done with it all. Done with the whole mess. Everyone would believe her. She was the girl-who-stood-next-to-the-boy-who-lived, after all.

Better yet, she could go to Kingsley Shacklebolt and strike a deal. Promise to keep his secrets if he'll keep hers, and allow him to sweep this one under the rug, too.

Oh, mercy, the very idea just made her shudder. How could she even consider having a person 'swept under the rug', even if that person was the most awful person she'd ever known? How could she live with herself? She couldn't. She just couldn't, and that's when she knew. She wasn't Lucius Malfoy. She wasn't like Lucius Malfoy. For her, the reasonable thing to do was not the most advantageous thing to do; it was the right thing to do. If she were in this for her own benefit, she'd have been extorting Lucius from the moment she'd recognized him. The realization seeped through her consciousness like healing water.

Upon returning to the drawing room Lucius was still there, still on the sofa, and he hadn't even tried to follow her. Had she really expected he would? He was, however, instantly attentive when she returned.

So maybe she hadn't fully mastered her tears yet. She wasn't sure when she would be able to, because they kept coming, but by that point she didn't care.

"Lucius," she said to him as he rose to face her, "you're wrong."

She felt dual tears fall on her cheeks, but she knew they weren't tears of sorrow or anxiety, but tears of relief.

"You're wrong about me," she said, meaning every note and nuance. He was wrong, and she knew it, and he would never manipulate her again into thinking otherwise.

Lucius seemed not to know what to do with her, tearful and obstinate as she was, nor how to respond. Perhaps she had finally locked the gears of his mind with a new, unfamiliar cog, and maybe he would have to learn to use it properly.

"Don't try to pretend like you understand me," she began.

"I don't," he admitted, as if this was old news.

"Or my motivations," she insisted.

"I don't," he said, helpless.

She wiped a tear from her cheek.

"I said I didn't want to fight with you," she said. "I don't like it."

"I know," he said.

"Then stop being selfish!" she exclaimed.

Lucius looked pained for a moment, then he moved closer, and began one of those strange moments when he became a kind, affectionate person, as if it was a switch he could turn on and off inside his psyche whenever it suited his purpose. He pulled her hand away from her face and gently wiped her tears himself with his thumb, his hand lingered, his fingertips pressed into her jawline and he coaxed her to look up at him.

"Is this another form of manipulation?" she asked him as another tear fell, one of frustration. "Are you only doing this to get me to do what you want? To achieve to your best advantage? Is this you or is it just a calculated move? How can anything you do ever really mean anything?"

At her words, his controlled veneer crumbled to sadness, and he moved away.

"How familiar," he said, his voice soft, and perhaps weak. He turned and called for Porgy.

What was familiar about it? Had someone else said that to him? Could it have been Narcissa? Was she closer to understanding the terrible nature of their marriage than she realized?

"Yes, master?" inquired a sudden Porgy.

"You will prepare the Blue Room for Miss Granger immediately," he said, certainly not asking her first if she wanted to stay at the manor. Sure, it was late, and sure, it would also be much more convenient, but he really could have asked her first! When she stared at him, he looked at her and added with strange humility, "Please."

He asked with such penitence she couldn't object.

-oOo-

A/N: I just got Fallout 4 so ... see you in 6 months? Just kiddin'. But maybe.