Revenge by Any Other Name (Where One Begins) - Harry/Pansy - 1/99
Title: Revenge by Any Other Name
Chapter Title: Where One Begins
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry/Pansy (eventually)
Prompt: #01 - Beginnings
Word Count: 2157
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: During a war, the line between enemy and ally is blurred.
A/N: All prompts from fanfic100 will be used in order (unless otherwise stated) to create this universe. Feedback is love!
Harry unzipped his jacket as he stepped through the door of the pub. And for a split moment, he pondered zipping back up and taking his chances with the winter wind outside.
To say the place looked shady would have been an understatement in his eyes. It reminded him a lot of The Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade-- grimy floors, patrons suspiciously hunched over their drinks with their faces hidden, a barmaid who looked as if she had seen better days.
The barmaid in question, leaned against the bar, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she gave him a once-over. A head or two turned to watch him as he made his way over to the bar, taking a seat. Harry could only imagine how out of place he looked at the moment--clean-shavened, clothes tidy and hanging from his body in their proper fashion.
“S’mething to drink?” the woman asked, the cigarette bouncing against her lips as she spoke.
“No,” Harry answered as politely as he could. “I’m good for now.”
The barmaid grunted in response before walking away.
Harry frowned, casually surveying the place and the people in it, before glancing at his watch.
He didn’t venture into this end of Godric’s Hollow often. Or at all, for that matter. In the five years since he had left behind Hogwarts after Dumbledore’s death and relocated to a flat in the small muggle town, he had never thought about setting a single foot over into the most southern regions. The area was known for its crime, its criminal undertones, and yet, here he was sitting in a pub with drunks and hoodlums alike.
Leave it to a message delivered by owl to drag him out into the more sinister regions of the town.
When the owl had arrived, he had almost disregarded it. It wasn’t uncommon for him to receive “tips” from others about happenings among the Death Eaters, important information regarding the last remaining horcrux, or even supposed hiding spots of Lord Voldemort himself. But this letter had been just vague enough to pique his interest. It made no claims, no promises. Just slick cursive ink telling him to meet the informant here.
But piqued interest or not, he wasn’t going to sit here all day being sized up by the locals.
“You actually came,” said a hushed voice from over his shoulder.
Harry made a move to turn in his stool to greet the person, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him and held him in his spot. The person leaned into him, and Harry caught the faint scent of lavender even through the thick pub air. “Not here,” she--because it was very obviously a she now--spoke into his ear.
Harry nodded, and the hand on his shoulder fell away. He turned in time to see the back of the woman, her forest green cloak fluttering behind her and hood pulled up over her head, as she started further into the pub towards a staircase. He quickly slid off his stool to follow her, and he watched as she slipped the barmaid a twenty pound note before ascending the stairs.
The woman never even turned once to make sure Harry had actually followed as she continued to the end of the hallway on the upper level. Harry glanced back over his shoulder, suspicion sinking in, before turning back to see that the woman had already entered through a doorway to their right. Frowning, he pulled his wand, before following her into the room.
She stood at the far wall of the bedroom at the window, the hood of her cloak now down and allowing her long black hair to trail over her shoulders. Harry’s eyes carefully scanned the room to make sure no one else was in there with them before he felt comfortable enough to close the door. He kept his wand at the ready as he studied the woman’s back.
“No need for the wand, Potter.”
Harry frowned, noting that she could probably see his reflection in the window. His hand still clenched around the wand, he replied firmly, “I’ll decide that.”
“You were always quick to go for your wand,” the woman said with an exasperated sigh.
She turned to greet him, and Harry had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
Despite the hair now grown out of the bob he remembered, despite the lack of a pug nose (which Harry could only assume her face had finally grown to compliment), and despite not being surrounded by goons in Slytherin robes, this was most certainly Pansy Parkinson.
Only when her lips curled into a smirk did Harry realize he had been staring. “Now now, Potter,” she said, perfectly manicured nails undoing the clasp of her cloak, “it’s not very polite to ogle a woman.”
He watched her, his frown only deepening, as she laid her cloak out on the foot of the bed and smoothed a hand down the hip of her crushed velvet dress. “You’re the secret informant that can help me?” he asked, incredulous.
“You catch on mighty quick there.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you’re obviously a trustful fountain of information.”
Pansy smiled, approaching him with her hands casually behind her back. “Potter, you should know as well as I do that not everyone is aligned with the side they seem.”
“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, Parkinson.”
“Zabini,” she replied simply.
Harry blinked at her, confused.
She smirked at the expression on his face. “I haven’t gone by my maiden name for a few years now, two to be exact.” She continued on as Harry tried to find his voice. “Being a wife of a Death Eater and being a Death Eater are two entirely different things, Potter.”
“You marry a Death Eater and yet I’m still supposed to believe you want to help my side of the war?”
The playful smile quickly faded as she spoke. “I want Voldemort to suffer in ways only you can deliver.”
Harry stared at her for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. “Why?”
“Because he killed Draco,” she answered without even a hint of hesitation. “And for that? I want his blood.”
Harry continued to stare, stunned to silence.
The last time he had seen Draco Malfoy they were in the middle of a battle he had never expected. Dumbledore had been killed, and Malfoy had been drug away by the Headmaster’s murderer, by his most trusted confidant. Harry never figured the other man to be dead. Sitting at Lord Voldemort’s right hand? Yes. But dead by the very hand that Malfoy had apparently worked so hard during their sixth year to please? Not so much.
“What’s the matter, Potter,” Pansy’s voice cut through his thoughts harshly. “Surprised Draco wasn’t the evil incarnate you always made him out to be?”
“When did it happen?” he finally asked.
“A little over four years,” she replied, frowning.
“And yet you come to revenge him now?”
“Don’t you dare give me that insolent tone, Potter,” the woman snapped, her dark eyes burning into him. “I would have killed the man myself if I had had the proper opportunities and instruments.” She paused with a small shrug. “And now? I do.”
“Instruments like what exactly?”
Her lips curled into a half-smile. “I’m looking at him.” She stepped away from him, returning to her spot at the window, her back to him. She folded her arms over her chest and exhaled deeply, stretching her neck slowly to the left. “Really, Potter, the wand isn’t necessary. You’d be dead at my feet already if I wanted.”
Harry frowned at Pansy’s back before slipping his wand into the pocket of his jacket. “Can’t blame me for not trusting you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “No, I suppose not, but you have yet to see me draw my wand.”
“Not as if you’d have any place to hide it,” he muttered, giving her dress a quick once-over.
“I’m up here, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes snapped from her waist to her eyes, and his frown only deepened at the amused expression on her face. “So, why exactly am I supposed to help you get revenge for Malfoy?”
The look of amusement fell away at the mention of Draco’s surname, and Pansy turned her gaze back out the window. “Because if you want to win this war? You’ll need information only I can provide.” She glanced over her shoulder at him again. “One of the perks of being married to a Death Eater.”
Harry studied her suspiciously. “Information.”
Pansy sighed and turned to him, arms still folded protectively in front of her as she closed the gap between them. “In order to win this, you’re going to need to be one step ahead of them. Ahead of every murder. Ahead of every clue towards the next horcrux.” She paused with a sneer. “This isn’t Hogwarts where you and your ragtag group of friends can save the bloody day based on pure luck.”
“So, you give me information in exchange for what?”
She shrugged and dropped her arms. “You do your job right, and I won’t need repayment. My gift comes when this is all over.”
Harry scoffed in disbelief. “You want me to believe that you want nothing in exchange, absolutely nothing?”
“You of all people should know there is no better repayment than blood for blood in these situations.”
“Fine,” Harry said after a moment, “we have a deal. You provide me information, and I’ll deliver on what I was meant to do anyway.”
“There is one thing….” she started.
Harry rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “Of course there is.”
“When the final battle comes? My life is spared.”
“I thought you weren’t a Death Eater,” he replied with a raised eyebrow.
Pansy gave a dry chuckle. “You think that as a wife to one I sit around and bake brownies all damn day? I am trained to fight, to kill, just like my husband. When the battle comes to my doorstep, I am expected to fight just like everyone else.” She stepped away from him, retrieving her cloak from the bed and fastening it back around her neck. “We have a deal or not?”
Harry nodded. “Your life is spared.”
Pansy smiled and patted his cheek hard, Harry scowling at her. “Good boy.” She pulled up her hood to her cloak, her dark hair billowing out the front as it gathered around her neck. Without another word, she started by him on her way to the door.
“Wait,” Harry said, turning and grabbing her arm to halt her, “that’s it?”
Pansy glanced down at his hand before meeting his confused gaze. She smirked. “I was unaware that I was supposed to service you before I left.”
“You know what I mean,” Harry replied, his grip still firm on her arm.
“Tonight was only about establishing this relationship,” she replied seriously. “I come with nothing more right now.”
“And when exactly will our next meeting be?”
“Friday,” she stated with a nod. “I’m expected home late those nights. My absence for a few hours will not raise any suspicions or concerns.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose we’re meeting in these lovely accommodations you’ve arranged here?”
“Well, what would you prefer, Potter? We meet in the middle of the busiest district of Wizarding London? Perhaps I could walk about in the middle of the day, carrying a sign that reads, ‘Harry Potter, secret Death Eater information available now.’”
“You’ve made your point,” Harry growled in annoyance.
“Have I?” She glanced down at his hand again before giving him a very pointed look. Harry cleared his throat quietly and released her. “So, the shady part of this muggle town it is then.”
“Friday?”
Pansy nodded. “I’ll have more of substance then.” She readjusted her cloak around her shoulders before turning and starting away again. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Potter.”
Harry watched as she made her way out of the room, closing the door and leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Harry wasn’t exactly sure what he had just gotten himself into. Trusting Pansy Parkinson seemed like the worst idea he had ever had, especially seeing that she was not just the enemy but married into it as well. As much as he hated to admit it, she had seemed genuine in her need to avenge Malfoy, in her need for blood.
He wouldn’t tell the others just yet. He didn’t need their extra concerns added to his already massive list of issues with the current situation he had placed himself in, especially when he wasn’t even sure Parkinson would hold valuable information in the long run. No need to involve them if all her so-called information turned out to be useless.
He’d tell them soon enough.
Just not now.
Now, he just wanted to get the hell out of this place as it was beginning to make his skin crawl.
Chapter Title: Where One Begins
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry/Pansy (eventually)
Prompt: #01 - Beginnings
Word Count: 2157
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: During a war, the line between enemy and ally is blurred.
A/N: All prompts from fanfic100 will be used in order (unless otherwise stated) to create this universe. Feedback is love!
Harry unzipped his jacket as he stepped through the door of the pub. And for a split moment, he pondered zipping back up and taking his chances with the winter wind outside.
To say the place looked shady would have been an understatement in his eyes. It reminded him a lot of The Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade-- grimy floors, patrons suspiciously hunched over their drinks with their faces hidden, a barmaid who looked as if she had seen better days.
The barmaid in question, leaned against the bar, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she gave him a once-over. A head or two turned to watch him as he made his way over to the bar, taking a seat. Harry could only imagine how out of place he looked at the moment--clean-shavened, clothes tidy and hanging from his body in their proper fashion.
“S’mething to drink?” the woman asked, the cigarette bouncing against her lips as she spoke.
“No,” Harry answered as politely as he could. “I’m good for now.”
The barmaid grunted in response before walking away.
Harry frowned, casually surveying the place and the people in it, before glancing at his watch.
He didn’t venture into this end of Godric’s Hollow often. Or at all, for that matter. In the five years since he had left behind Hogwarts after Dumbledore’s death and relocated to a flat in the small muggle town, he had never thought about setting a single foot over into the most southern regions. The area was known for its crime, its criminal undertones, and yet, here he was sitting in a pub with drunks and hoodlums alike.
Leave it to a message delivered by owl to drag him out into the more sinister regions of the town.
When the owl had arrived, he had almost disregarded it. It wasn’t uncommon for him to receive “tips” from others about happenings among the Death Eaters, important information regarding the last remaining horcrux, or even supposed hiding spots of Lord Voldemort himself. But this letter had been just vague enough to pique his interest. It made no claims, no promises. Just slick cursive ink telling him to meet the informant here.
But piqued interest or not, he wasn’t going to sit here all day being sized up by the locals.
“You actually came,” said a hushed voice from over his shoulder.
Harry made a move to turn in his stool to greet the person, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him and held him in his spot. The person leaned into him, and Harry caught the faint scent of lavender even through the thick pub air. “Not here,” she--because it was very obviously a she now--spoke into his ear.
Harry nodded, and the hand on his shoulder fell away. He turned in time to see the back of the woman, her forest green cloak fluttering behind her and hood pulled up over her head, as she started further into the pub towards a staircase. He quickly slid off his stool to follow her, and he watched as she slipped the barmaid a twenty pound note before ascending the stairs.
The woman never even turned once to make sure Harry had actually followed as she continued to the end of the hallway on the upper level. Harry glanced back over his shoulder, suspicion sinking in, before turning back to see that the woman had already entered through a doorway to their right. Frowning, he pulled his wand, before following her into the room.
She stood at the far wall of the bedroom at the window, the hood of her cloak now down and allowing her long black hair to trail over her shoulders. Harry’s eyes carefully scanned the room to make sure no one else was in there with them before he felt comfortable enough to close the door. He kept his wand at the ready as he studied the woman’s back.
“No need for the wand, Potter.”
Harry frowned, noting that she could probably see his reflection in the window. His hand still clenched around the wand, he replied firmly, “I’ll decide that.”
“You were always quick to go for your wand,” the woman said with an exasperated sigh.
She turned to greet him, and Harry had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
Despite the hair now grown out of the bob he remembered, despite the lack of a pug nose (which Harry could only assume her face had finally grown to compliment), and despite not being surrounded by goons in Slytherin robes, this was most certainly Pansy Parkinson.
Only when her lips curled into a smirk did Harry realize he had been staring. “Now now, Potter,” she said, perfectly manicured nails undoing the clasp of her cloak, “it’s not very polite to ogle a woman.”
He watched her, his frown only deepening, as she laid her cloak out on the foot of the bed and smoothed a hand down the hip of her crushed velvet dress. “You’re the secret informant that can help me?” he asked, incredulous.
“You catch on mighty quick there.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you’re obviously a trustful fountain of information.”
Pansy smiled, approaching him with her hands casually behind her back. “Potter, you should know as well as I do that not everyone is aligned with the side they seem.”
“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, Parkinson.”
“Zabini,” she replied simply.
Harry blinked at her, confused.
She smirked at the expression on his face. “I haven’t gone by my maiden name for a few years now, two to be exact.” She continued on as Harry tried to find his voice. “Being a wife of a Death Eater and being a Death Eater are two entirely different things, Potter.”
“You marry a Death Eater and yet I’m still supposed to believe you want to help my side of the war?”
The playful smile quickly faded as she spoke. “I want Voldemort to suffer in ways only you can deliver.”
Harry stared at her for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. “Why?”
“Because he killed Draco,” she answered without even a hint of hesitation. “And for that? I want his blood.”
Harry continued to stare, stunned to silence.
The last time he had seen Draco Malfoy they were in the middle of a battle he had never expected. Dumbledore had been killed, and Malfoy had been drug away by the Headmaster’s murderer, by his most trusted confidant. Harry never figured the other man to be dead. Sitting at Lord Voldemort’s right hand? Yes. But dead by the very hand that Malfoy had apparently worked so hard during their sixth year to please? Not so much.
“What’s the matter, Potter,” Pansy’s voice cut through his thoughts harshly. “Surprised Draco wasn’t the evil incarnate you always made him out to be?”
“When did it happen?” he finally asked.
“A little over four years,” she replied, frowning.
“And yet you come to revenge him now?”
“Don’t you dare give me that insolent tone, Potter,” the woman snapped, her dark eyes burning into him. “I would have killed the man myself if I had had the proper opportunities and instruments.” She paused with a small shrug. “And now? I do.”
“Instruments like what exactly?”
Her lips curled into a half-smile. “I’m looking at him.” She stepped away from him, returning to her spot at the window, her back to him. She folded her arms over her chest and exhaled deeply, stretching her neck slowly to the left. “Really, Potter, the wand isn’t necessary. You’d be dead at my feet already if I wanted.”
Harry frowned at Pansy’s back before slipping his wand into the pocket of his jacket. “Can’t blame me for not trusting you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “No, I suppose not, but you have yet to see me draw my wand.”
“Not as if you’d have any place to hide it,” he muttered, giving her dress a quick once-over.
“I’m up here, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes snapped from her waist to her eyes, and his frown only deepened at the amused expression on her face. “So, why exactly am I supposed to help you get revenge for Malfoy?”
The look of amusement fell away at the mention of Draco’s surname, and Pansy turned her gaze back out the window. “Because if you want to win this war? You’ll need information only I can provide.” She glanced over her shoulder at him again. “One of the perks of being married to a Death Eater.”
Harry studied her suspiciously. “Information.”
Pansy sighed and turned to him, arms still folded protectively in front of her as she closed the gap between them. “In order to win this, you’re going to need to be one step ahead of them. Ahead of every murder. Ahead of every clue towards the next horcrux.” She paused with a sneer. “This isn’t Hogwarts where you and your ragtag group of friends can save the bloody day based on pure luck.”
“So, you give me information in exchange for what?”
She shrugged and dropped her arms. “You do your job right, and I won’t need repayment. My gift comes when this is all over.”
Harry scoffed in disbelief. “You want me to believe that you want nothing in exchange, absolutely nothing?”
“You of all people should know there is no better repayment than blood for blood in these situations.”
“Fine,” Harry said after a moment, “we have a deal. You provide me information, and I’ll deliver on what I was meant to do anyway.”
“There is one thing….” she started.
Harry rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “Of course there is.”
“When the final battle comes? My life is spared.”
“I thought you weren’t a Death Eater,” he replied with a raised eyebrow.
Pansy gave a dry chuckle. “You think that as a wife to one I sit around and bake brownies all damn day? I am trained to fight, to kill, just like my husband. When the battle comes to my doorstep, I am expected to fight just like everyone else.” She stepped away from him, retrieving her cloak from the bed and fastening it back around her neck. “We have a deal or not?”
Harry nodded. “Your life is spared.”
Pansy smiled and patted his cheek hard, Harry scowling at her. “Good boy.” She pulled up her hood to her cloak, her dark hair billowing out the front as it gathered around her neck. Without another word, she started by him on her way to the door.
“Wait,” Harry said, turning and grabbing her arm to halt her, “that’s it?”
Pansy glanced down at his hand before meeting his confused gaze. She smirked. “I was unaware that I was supposed to service you before I left.”
“You know what I mean,” Harry replied, his grip still firm on her arm.
“Tonight was only about establishing this relationship,” she replied seriously. “I come with nothing more right now.”
“And when exactly will our next meeting be?”
“Friday,” she stated with a nod. “I’m expected home late those nights. My absence for a few hours will not raise any suspicions or concerns.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose we’re meeting in these lovely accommodations you’ve arranged here?”
“Well, what would you prefer, Potter? We meet in the middle of the busiest district of Wizarding London? Perhaps I could walk about in the middle of the day, carrying a sign that reads, ‘Harry Potter, secret Death Eater information available now.’”
“You’ve made your point,” Harry growled in annoyance.
“Have I?” She glanced down at his hand again before giving him a very pointed look. Harry cleared his throat quietly and released her. “So, the shady part of this muggle town it is then.”
“Friday?”
Pansy nodded. “I’ll have more of substance then.” She readjusted her cloak around her shoulders before turning and starting away again. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Potter.”
Harry watched as she made her way out of the room, closing the door and leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Harry wasn’t exactly sure what he had just gotten himself into. Trusting Pansy Parkinson seemed like the worst idea he had ever had, especially seeing that she was not just the enemy but married into it as well. As much as he hated to admit it, she had seemed genuine in her need to avenge Malfoy, in her need for blood.
He wouldn’t tell the others just yet. He didn’t need their extra concerns added to his already massive list of issues with the current situation he had placed himself in, especially when he wasn’t even sure Parkinson would hold valuable information in the long run. No need to involve them if all her so-called information turned out to be useless.
He’d tell them soon enough.
Just not now.
Now, he just wanted to get the hell out of this place as it was beginning to make his skin crawl.