This was written for Transfiguration. Again.
I had to write about someone that uses Polyjuice Potion for good, canon or otherwise. Well, meet Simon. Ordinary Muggleborn. Uses it to live. Is that for good? I would like to think so.
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Spoils Of War
They were coming.
He tried to make his hands stop shaking, to ignore the screams echoing around him. Everyone was running – well, everyone that was a Muggleborn/Mudblood like him; that was.
But he was prepared.
"You can't work in the Ministry nowadays without a back-up plan." His friend had said. "Especially with you, er… Being a… er…"
"You can say the word Tomas." He had laughed. "If there was a Taboo on the phrase, all the Death Eaters would have been locked up by now."
"Muggle-born then." Tomas had admitted, after a pregnant pause. "Just promise me that you'll have a back-up plan Simon. Promise me."
Then he had laughed again, shrugged it off quickly. Tomas would be fine. He was a Pureblood, and an ex-Slytherin. Probably the safest person in the Wizarding World right now, apart from You-Know-Who and the guys locked up in Azkaban.
Which was funny, because no one that mattered was in Azkaban. Bit ironic.
His mingling thoughts did nothing to steady his hand, and it seemed to shake even more as he produced the single, unknown hair from his pocket (he knew it came from a Death Eater, well, that was what that old cobbler had said) and dropped it into the sludge-like mixture.
His Polyjuice Potion turned a bright green colour, and it took him three wasted seconds of dithering to gather the courage needed to down the mixture in one.
Simon Dearborne's face morphed painfully, shaping and modelling like clay beneath his cold, quaking arms. He could see pale blonde hair out of the corners of his peripheral vision, growing from his temples. Shit.
And, when he could straighten up, he was staring back at Lucius Malfoy, in the glass from one of the shattered picture frames. Luckily his standardised Ministry robes were black as well, and he didn't look conspicuous. He hoped. Simon crossed his fingers, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, before forcing himself to hold his head high and walk past the running employees like he was better than them all, like he was and always would be the winner.
Then, almost on a whim, he spun and shot a jet of gold light at the back of a running employee, and watching with dread as they fell, face-forwards, on the ground.
What had he just done?
Then he ran.
