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Transcript, Interview with Victim No. 3

August 15th, 2008

Interviewer: Mr. Edward Prinwell

Others in Attendence: Mr. Harry Potter, Auror Department Head; Mr. Ronald Weasley, Auror; Miss Hermione Granger, Officer of Magical Law; Mr. Dessel, secretary to the Minister of Magic.

Interviewer: Now before we begin, would you like anything to drink? Tea? Pumpkin juice?

Victim No. 3: No, I'm fine.

Interviewer: Well then, I suppose we can get started. First, would you mind putting your wand away? Forgive me, but I feel a little uncomfortable with you fiddling with it like that.

Victim No. 3: I'm sure you'll get over it.

Interviewer: Well, um, sir, I see how you feel, but it is really very—what is that, Mr. Potter?

Mr. Harry Potter: [inaudible]

Interviewer: But sir, this is really very—no, no of course. Very well. [clears throat] Where were we? Oh yes. Mr. Malfoy, please state your name and age.

Victim No. 3: Draco Lucius Malfoy, 27.

Interviewer: You were with Astoria Greengrass during your stay at the so-called Provence Utopian Community, is that correct?

Victim No. 3: Yes.

Interviewer: And your children?

Victim No. 3: Scorpius, two years, and Cassiopeia, age six months.

Interviewer: Do you know how long you were imprisoned?

Victim No. 3: Three years, two months, and twelve days.

Interviewer: I see. How long was it until you were introduced to Miss Greengrass?

Victim No. 3: About two weeks.

Interviewer: Do you know if that was typical?

Victim No. 3: I believe it was.

Interviewer: Do you know why they timed these introductions in such a way?

Victim No. 3: No.

Interviewer: Any guesses at all?

Victim No. 3: I suppose…that they wanted us to be already despairing, and already eager to talk with someone.

Interviewer: Were you aware of why they had put you together?

Victim No. 3: No.

Interviewer: When did—I'm sorry, is the closed door bothering you?

[moving of chairs, shuffling]

Victim No. 3: No, it's fine.

Interviewer: Oh, alright then. When did you discover it?

[moving of chairs, shuffling]

Victim No. 3: I'm sorry, I'm not comfortable answering that.

Interviewer: Oh, well, I suppose we can…Um, then, can you tell me about the birth of your children.

Victim No. 3: No.

Interviewer: I'm sorry?

Victim No. 3: I'm not going to answer any more questions about my family.

Interviewer: You understand that by giving us this information, you are helping us put some very sadistic, very dangerous people in prison.

Victim No. 3: There are dozens of others who can give you the information you need. It's not going to be me.

Interviewer: May I ask why?

Victim No. 3: It shouldn't be hard to understand, even for you. I've had an extreme lack of privacy in my life for the last few years. I'd like to start getting it back now.

Interviewer: You understand that if everyone feels as you do, we will not have the strong case we need.

Victim No. 3: Thankfully, I'm sure that not all the others feel the same way I do.

Interviewer: We can only hope so, I suppose.

Victim No. 3: But if you really did want the most information, you should perhaps consider interviewing them in a more pleasant environment and with only yourself or another person present. It's quite daunting staring at a group of five people, some of whom I've never met and others whom I dislike, to talk about extremely personal matters. And I'd also consider giving them the option of speaking anonymously. I don't quite understand why that was not offered here.

Ms. Hermione Granger to Mr Harry Potter: [inaudible]

Interviewer: What is that, Ms. Weasley?

Ms. Granger: Nothing, please continue.

Interviewer: Oh, all right then, I suppose—well, I suppose that's everything for now. We'll call you in again when we've refined our list and perhaps modified our arrangements.

[Chairs scraping]

Day 1

He hadn't seen a soul for two weeks. Not even a hand had slipped through the slot in the door to deliver food. Instead, plates magically appeared on the floor in front of the door in a way that painfully reminded him of hearty Hogwarts dinners.

With nothing in his small cell but a thin mat on the floor, Draco's mind had even run out of ways he thought his captors might torture him. He still wasn't sure who exactly had kidnapped him, but he naturally assumed it was some Death Eater-hating group who had lost loved ones during the war. It was all the more frightening that they hadn't even come in to taunt him yet.

He heard steps in the hall for the first time during what he thought was midafternoon. It was hard to tell with only a high, small window. By the time they were unlocking the door, He was on his feet, his back against the farthest wall.

As soon as they were through the door, they immobilized him with a simple Petrificus Totalus. However, they didn't say a word to him and one of the guards even smiled kindly at him while they placed shackles on his hands and feet.

"These will keep you from using magic, so please don't be foolish enough to try. It will only hurt," the smiling one said.

He tried to muster up some wandless magic anyway—determined to at least try to resist, thinking perhaps of the War and how he wished he had resisted more than—and was swiftly rewarded with shooting pain up his right arm. It faded away instantly, but not before he cried out and his knees buckled.

The man was cheerfully humming, and he clucked his tongue sympathetically. "They always try, don't they? Such a waste."

The man spoke with a slight accent, and Draco tried to place it, but it was difficult with his mind racing and the memory of pain still strong on his right side.

He instead resorted to counting doorways in hopes that he could at least memorize the layout of the place in the event of an escape. Three doors down, then four, five, then a sharp corner. The guards opened a door into a large tiled bathroom. One wall was lined with shower heads while another held sinks and mirrors.

"Thought you might like the take a shower, clean up a bit," The smiling guard said. He was a rotund man who, in another setting, might have seemed friendly and might have even reminded Draco of Slughorn.

"Don't worry, we'll give you some privacy. And a new set of clothes." He promptly dismissed the other guards to stand in the hallway, and then removed Draco's shackles.

"Go on, then," He said. "Don't worry, I'll turn around." He turned on his heel so that he faced the door, away from the showers or the mirrors and sinks. As he did so, he twirled his wand, making—much to Draco's dismay—Draco's clothes vanish.

"Hurry up now, you don't want to get too cold!" The guard said, ignoring Draco's frustrated swearing and still staring at the door to the hall.

Draco irritably walked over to the nearest shower and yanked the handle. Thankfully, the water was heated, and Draco grudgingly enjoyed washing off the grime that had gathered over the last few weeks in that claustrophobic cell.

"Any chance you can tell me why I'm here?" He asked as he ran soap through his overlong hair.

"I guess you could say that it's a bit of an experiment. But I'd say it's going wonderfully."

"So sitting alone in a dirty room for weeks fit into your plans? Glad to know it wasn't a total waste."

"Oh, that was just the warm up. Don't worry, nothing too unpleasant is planned!" the man bounced on the balls of his feet jovially as he said it, and Draco didn't like the sound of that at all.

"Who are you people, anyway?"

"Well, we like to call ourselves the neo-purists. We have the utmost respect for Pureblood families and traditions, and we're only hoping we can learn from the mistakes of our international brethren and create a powerful and unified Wizarding community."

French, Draco finally decided. The man's almost nonexistent accent was French.

"I take it I'm in France then?" Draco asked.

"Ah, you are much more observant than I thought. The accent give it away?"

"It's very mild."

"Yes, I have been working very hard to perfect my English. It is a shame it is not quite right yet."

As he dried himself with the towel that had appeared for him, Draco also noticed a new set of black robes neatly folded and lying on a bench next to him.

"You are partial to black I believe?" The man asked.

Draco didn't respond but quickly slipped into the robes.

"You seem to know a lot about me."

"Of course, Draco. You are in the papers!" the man seemed to know instinctively that he could turn around again, and so he did as he spoke.

"So who are you, anyway? You seem to enjoy your job."

"I do," the man said, bouncing on his heels again. "I believe I have the happiest job in this community."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, I am in the business of placing families together. I'm very good at it," he added, his eyes twinkling.

"I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't give it, my young friend. But enough about me. You are almost ready." He snapped his fingers, and a new man walked in.

The jovial man guided Draco to a barber's shop in the corner that Draco hadn't noticed before and ordered him to sit. Draco was instantly wary, but the man put a hand on Draco's shoulder encouragingly.

"Don't worry, friend. Why would we clean you up only to slit your throat now?"

"Yeah, very comforting." Draco said, still backing away towards the wall.

"We only want to give you a haircut," the man said, clearly humored. "I had heard you would be skeptical. I did not realize we had done so little to let you know how welcome you are here!" He laughed apologetically.

"Two weeks in a room the size of a closet—no idea why I wouldn't be suspicious, huh?" Draco said sharply.

"Ah, I see," the man said. He sighed and looked deeply ashamed of himself, as if he was a child who had been caught in mischief. "You are right, we have been very poor hosts. However, you will see that we are eager to make up for it!"

Draco still didn't move and pulled away from the man's hand.

"I am sorry, friend. I would love to take more time to convince you, but I have other appointments." He turned to the new man, who now stood silently by the barber chair, wand out. "John?"

John nodded.

"Apologies, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps next time we meet, you will forgive me?" And without waiting for a reply he said, "Imperio."

Draco suddenly felt warm—elated even. All he had to do was go and sit in the chair. This thought had not fully formed in his mind before he found himself walking towards it and sitting down. The elated feeling continued as John placed a smock over his new robes and began hurriedly snipping off bits of hair with his wand.

The jovial man was still there, now smiling benignly down at Draco as though he were a particularly charming and obedient child. Draco felt a strong urge to smile back.

"Next time, friend, you will know that we only mean the best."

John finished with Draco's hair and moved on to shave Draco's very scraggly-looking face. John's boss lifted the Imperious curse just as John gave a finishing pat of aftershave. He felt the warmth and elation drain away, instead giving him a nauseous feeling of having lost control—not a feeling Draco treasured remembering in these days after the war.

The last two weeks had been full of it.

"Once again, my apologies for the presumption, but we are very short on time. Shall we go, then?" And the man stepped back and swept his arm towards the now open door without any hint of remorse or any hint of annoyance at Draco's refusal to cooperate.

Draco did not get up and move to the door. Instead, he sat rigid in the chair trying his best not to panic wondering what they were going to do to him.

The man sighed again. "Jasper," he called into the hallway, and a thin sour-faced man entered the room.

The two of them conferred silently for a while, as Jasper seemed to be disagreeing about something. After a while, the jovial man sighed, said something that Draco still couldn't hear, and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Jasper lazily flicked his wand towards Draco, and shackles appeared on his hands and feet again.

Grabbing hold of Draco's arm, he pulled roughly on Draco so that he stumbled out of the chair. Jasper didn't give him any time to recover his footing and instead continued hauling Draco towards the door. Draco found that he was suddenly exhausted and incapable of resisting—an effect of the shackles, he guessed—and resigned himself to stumbling along down the hall.

They didn't return him to the tiny cell. Instead, they turned towards a new hallway that Draco hadn't seen before. Once up a small flight of stairs, they passed one, two, three doors before stopping at the fourth.

Now on the outside of the door, Draco saw that the doors contained a maze of rods and cogs that you couldn't see from the inside. The guard tapped his wand where the handle should be, muttering something Draco couldn't hear, and a door handle sprung into existence as the cogs and wheels turned to unbolt the many locks that lined the frame.

Pulling the door open, the first guard stepped aside so that Draco and Jasper could walk through.

This room, Draco could instantly tell, was a definite upgrade from his previous cell. A large, actual bed stood in the corner of the room. There was a shallow wall hiding a small toilet, sink, and bathtub. A rickety-looking table and chairs stood against the wall, too.

Also, he wasn't the only occupant. A girl with dark brown hair and fair skin was standing against the back wall, looking as afraid and confused as Draco.

After placing Draco in the center of the room, Jasper raised his wand, immobilizing both Draco and the girl, and making Draco's shackles disappear. As soon as the door shut behind him and the others, the spell lifted and both prisoners were free to move around.

The room held just the two of them.

The girl didn't relax at all at finding herself alone with him, but she looked at him curiously.

"Did they get you all cleaned up, too?"

Draco shrugged.

"What was your room like?" she asked.

"Small and dirty," Draco replied. "Yours?"

"Same."

They stared at each other for a while.

"How long have you been in here?" he asked, taking a glance around the room.

"Just this morning."

"Are we staying here?"

"I don't know. I guess so. What did Gerard say?"

"Who?"

"Gerard," the girl repeated, as if that was the clearest thing in the world. "The man who kind of runs things, it looks like. Who's always smiling."

"Ah," Draco said, annoyed that the man had refused to tell him his name. "He didn't say much. Said this was an experiment, and something about how we're guests and we don't need to worry."

The girl pursed her lips, and Draco was glad to see that this comment irritated her as much as it had irritated him.

"Malfoy, right? You were in Potter's year at Hogwarts."

Draco felt the familiar twist of anger in his stomach at being known as "someone in Harry Potter's year," but fought down a sarcastic reply. Instead, he tried to place her. She looked familiar, but—.

"Astoria," the girl offered, now allowing herself to come away from the wall a little. "Greengrass. I was two years below you. You were friends with my sister, Daphne, I think."

"Right," Draco said.

There was silence again.

"How long have you been here?" Draco asked.

"Ten days. You?"

"Fifteen. You see anyone else here?"

"No. Just Gerard this morning. And whoever that skinny one was—you know, the one who always looks angry?"

"Jasper." Draco offered, spitting the name out and still smarting from the humiliating way he had been dragged into this room.

Astoria nodded. Both of them fell silent.

"Is there anything to do in here? I'm bored out of my mind." Draco asked.

"There's a stack of cards on the shelf," Astoria said, nodding to the bookcase behind him. "And then a few books. Most are on blood purity. So it looks like we're with some faction of a new Death Eater group."

Draco had already turned around to face the bookshelves. "Idiots," he muttered.

"What was that?" Astoria asked. Draco thought her voice sounded a touch more strained.

He looked back at her, and it hit him that she might think he was a part of the group. "I said that they're idiots. No one will allow a faction of blood purists to gain any sort of power in government, not after the show in England."

"Yes but—"

"And we're not in England. Did you know that?"

The color had drained out of her face, and Draco was annoyed that she seemed to be more afraid of him now.

"Can't you hear the accent in Gerard's voice?" He asked impatiently. "And he said something about 'learning from our international brethren.' I think he was talking about Death Eaters. We're in France."

Astoria looked confused now, and opened her mouth to say something, but Draco cut her off.

"This isn't a group of Death Eaters. This is some collection of Frenchmen who are obsessed with blood purity. I don't think they are trying to raise up the Dark Lord again."

Astoria nodded, but knit her brow, thinking.

"And if you think I'm working with them, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not really in anyone's high graces right now, in case you can't remember."

Astoria nodded again, looking uncomfortable. Draco silently picked up a book and sat at the table to read it.

Eventually, Astoria sidled far enough away from the wall to perch on the bed, still watching Draco intently. It was getting really annoying.

Draco had gotten 30 pages into his book, doing his best to read the book slowly so that it would last longer. But it was difficult to read at all when Astoria kept staring at him.

"Can I help you?" he finally said.

"Why do you think we're here?" she asked.

"I don't know. Like I told you, Gerard—or whatever his name is—said that this was an experiment."

"Do you think they'll do testing or anything? I've read about muggles doing that with people groups—"

Draco shuddered at the idea, thinking, too, about the class he had to take on muggle studies after the war, and how an organization called the Nazis had experimented on their prisoners. He took two deep breaths, trying to relax the tension in his shoulders. Looking down, his knuckles were white as they held onto the book's edges. But he worked hard to keep himself together, and though he lacked conviction, he cleared his throat and said, "No, they wouldn't do that. Not if they are serious about blood purity. We're the same as they are."

Astoria stared at him, obviously not missing his anxiety. "What if they don't believe that? What if they think they're better than us because they're French and we're English? That is possible, isn't it?"

Draco's throat was dry. "Not likely," he rasped out, almost failing to sound casual.

"Well, why else are we here?"

"I don't know, ok?" he said hotly. "Do you have any theories you'd like to share? Because this is all perfectly new to me, too."

She didn't say anything. Draco turned back to his book, but he hadn't even focused on the page when something sprang into existence on the table, causing him to swear and jump back in alarm. As soon as he was standing, however, he saw that it was only two identical plates of food.

"A little jumpy, hm?"

Draco glared at Astoria as she moved to sit across from him at the table.

"I finally believe that you're just as stuck here as I am, though. So you've got that in your favor." And she pulled a plate towards her and picked up a fork.

"Aren't you worried they might put something in your food?" Draco asked.

"Already thought about it. I tried starving myself, but they imperiused me so that I ate anyway, and it doesn't look like it hurt me at all. And I'd rather die on a full stomach, I think." She looked up from her food. "Why? What did you do for the last two weeks?"

"I agree with you. Just curious after all your talk about experimentation."

Astoria shuddered. "Let's not talk about that now."

They ate in silence.

"So, where were you working when they picked you up?" she asked, once they had finished eating and their plates had vanished.

"I was doing some investing, traveling around for my father, that kind of thing."

"He's still under house arrest, isn't he?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Yes," he said tightly.

A small blush started to creep over Astoria's face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—."

Draco nodded and looked across the room, bored. "What about you? What were you doing?"

"Well, I had just returned from a few years abroad. Studying new potion techniques in America. And," she hesitated for a split second as a blush colored her cheeks, "I got engaged. About six months ago." She held up her left hand to show off her ring, smiling a bit idiotically.

"Oh," Draco said. He hadn't expected that, and the idea that was just beginning to form in his head on how their little roommate arrangement was going to work vanished like smoke.

"Do you know Eric Heartwood? Probably not...he's from my year." She said, almost more to herself than him. The sparkle in her eyes died out as she remembered that Eric was probably a thousand miles away with no idea where she was.

"Where did they pick you up?" she asked.

"Right outside the Ministry of Magic, of all places. You'd think their doorstep would've been safe."

"I know what you mean. I was just coming home from dinner at the Leaky Cauldron. They must have known where I lived."

To both of their delight, steaming cups of tea and a slice of pie now appeared on the table. Astoria doctored her tea with cream and sugar while Draco drank his plain, both genuinely pleased for the first time and relaxing just a fraction.

"I was just thinking that such a nice room would only be made better if they gave us tea. Even in America I could find good British tea!" Astoria said, sipping hers. "What did they give you before?"

"Just bread and an apple, mostly. And water." Draco said, taking a bite of pie. This was the best he felt in days.

"Me too," Astoria said, and they finished eating in silence.

The single bed was the first problem they faced as the lamp flickered, and Astoria informed Draco that it was a signal that they had just a few minutes before all the lights went out.

It wasn't that the bed was small—it could easily fit both of them. It was that they would have to either face the uncomfortable decision of who would get the bed or the awkwardness of sharing it. However, a day with Astoria and the relief of having another person to talk to made Draco feel chivalrous, so they decided that they would alternate nights—Astoria got the bed the first night while Draco took a pillow and blanket and slept on the floor. The next night they would switch.

Day 2

They both woke early the next morning, tired of sleeping and bored. Astoria had picked up one of the books only to set it down in disgust seconds later. She had just done so when plates of food appeared on the table, steam rising up from a small pile of eggs and potatoes. A teapot and two mugs had also appeared.

Both of them were starving after weeks of living off hardly any food, so they both immediately aimed themselves at the table.

Feeling more sociable and desperate for something new to talk about, Draco asked, "What's Daphne up to these days?"

"Oh, you know she married Theo Nott a few years ago. You were at the wedding weren't you? No? Oh, sorry. Forgot. Anyway, they just had a little girl."

It didn't take long to exhaust the topic of Daphne, so they briefly touched on Draco's parents before talking more extensively about Astoria's parents and their recent travel plans. Then they talked about Astoria's time in America.

In reality, Astoria talked about her experiences in America, and Draco listened. He wasn't sure he'd ever seem someone quite as animated as she was. She would stop occasionally, asking Draco a question, and he would deflect it as best he could. He wasn't very good at talking to people any more. He was sure she noticed, but she didn't seem to mind.

It was quite nice hearing about her adventures in America, Draco thought. He could almost see the towering skyscrapers of Chicago or the moss-covered trees of Louisiana, and he could almost smell the way the potions lab reeked of rotten eggs after a bad experiment.

They talked more equally about potions, which was still a subject that Draco appreciated. And it wasn't personal, so he didn't feel the need to deflect questions. Astoria seemed to pick up on this, so they spent a good hour or two talking about the newest articles in Potions Today, and how they modified their various recipes in school for the best results.

They were still talking—this time Astoria had got him to talk about when he were younger, before Hogwarts—when the lunch dishes appeared, carrying two sandwiches. He was telling her how his father had got him his first broom when he was five, and how he would occasionally dare to ride it over the pond when his father wasn't looking.

This topic certainly fell into the category of the personal and possibly the vulnerable, but in the moment Draco didn't mind. After all, he was just carrying a conversation. He used to do this all the time. And Astoria had just told a story of her first time in a broom and how her father had to rescue her from a tree.

And then the conversation took an unpleasant turn as Astoria informed him—as if the entire world didn't know—that Potter and the Weaselette's son was now a year old. The media had spent a week fawning over his first year pictures.

Astoria spoke reservedly about Potter and his friends, as though unwilling to be unkind to them but aware that she couldn't speak of them highly in present company. And when Draco had scoffed at the attention they drew and called Ginny "Weaselette," she had reproached him.

"I think it's very brave what she did that last year, standing up to the Carrows like that. Maybe it was different for you—being older and in Slytherin. But some of my friends were really scared, we didn't know what to do, and she and her friends made us feel like it wasn't over and we weren't alone. She even helped me and some others escape the dungeons one night when we'd been late to our Dark Arts class."

The ease and unguarded feeling Draco had enjoyed through breakfast and lunch evaporated and turned immediately into irritation. But something about the reverent way she spoke about Ginny and the others made Draco feel ashamed of himself.

"I mean, you can't help but be grateful for what they did, can you? I mean, they ended it—Ginny, Harry, Neville, and everyone."

Grateful was a strong word for Draco, so instead he said, "Of course I was relieved. That whole year was hell for me, too. And no, it didn't make a difference being older and in Slytherin—" He was still being more honest with her than he was with anyone else, he noticed ruefully— "But—"

He checked himself at the look on Astoria's face. He sighed, rankled to be talking about Harry Potter, and irritated by Astoria's reproachful look and genuine gratitude for the Gryffindors.

"What house were you in anyway?"

"Hufflepuff."

Draco snorted. "No wonder I didn't recognize you. How'd you end up there?"

Now Astoria's otherwise gentle brown eyes blazed, too. "The hat said I valued loyalty and truth above all other things. Not something I'd expect you to understand too well. You were too busy soaking up Tom Riddle's power philosophy."

Perhaps it was the truth of this statement, or maybe it was that he hadn't expected her to be capable of anything near a biting remark. Whatever it was, Draco winced.

Astoria winced, too. "I'm sorry, I—I just—" she sighed. "People are always underappreciating Hufflepuff. But forget I said anything. What about—How about we—" She was starting to play with her ring nervously. "Exploding snap."

"I—What?"

"We should play exploding snap. I'll get the cards."

They didn't talk much during exploding snap, but maybe that was because Astoria said her throat hurt. Thankfully, whatever awkwardness had been at the table slipped away again as soon as they moved to play on the floor.

Exploding snap is a pretty interesting game anyway, and Draco found that he felt comfortable—relaxed even—sitting in silence and across the cards from Astoria. It's funny how six hours of conversation helps you feel like you've known a person all your life.

That night, Draco got the bed and Astoria took the floor. As they lay there in the dark, Astoria giggled.

"It's funny, today felt more like a sleepover."

It really hadn't been a bad day, all things considered, he thought. But still. "Worst sleep over I've ever been to."

"Then apparently you've never spent the night with Pansy Parkinson."

Draco smirked at this, remembering several not-so-bad nights with Parkinson, but didn't say anything.