Chapter 10
Metamorphosis
Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. – William S. Burroughs
Pansy watched in terror as her Head of House, the man she knew as a Death Eater in the Dark Lord's service, a man she had been secretly terrified of since first year, slowly advanced on her. The wall was hard at her back, and the trauma of the evening past finally began to catch up with her.
Snape, for his part, raised an eyebrow at seeing his duplicate standing before him, and stepped forward. Pansy made a distressed squeak—or what would have been one if she'd had her normal vocal chords. It came out sounding rather disturbing. Draco stepped quickly in front of her and grabbed her arm gently. "It's all right, Pans, he isn't a Death Eater."
She stared up at him as if he'd gone mad. "Not a Death Eater? Then what's this, eh?" she yanked up her left robe sleeve and brandished Snape's long, pale arm with its glaring Dark Mark. Snape flinched. She glared at him. "Oh, so now it bothers you? What about last week, when you sat in the Dark Lord's meeting and plotted how to exploit innocent young girls for greed and bloodlust? Conveniently insane, then, were you?" it was decidedly bizarre to see Snape the Second yelling at Snape the First, who was looking more angry and guilty by the second, frowning murderously at his mirror image.
"Be silent, Miss Parkinson, and do not speak of that which you do not understand," Snape hissed, obviously reaching the end of his patience.
Pansy slumped against the wall, shaking her head and lifting a hand in a staying motion. "Just leave me alone," she said tiredly, and her voice was higher and closer to its normal tone. Her body began to shorten and shrink, and her hair regained its usual dark brown before the eyes of Draco and the three professors.
Draco stepped in front of her. "She's tired, Professor," he addressed Snape, rather sharply. "Let her rest tonight." It didn't sound like a suggestion.
Snape regarded his godson a moment with unfathomable eyes, then nodded. "The potion I am brewing for her does not yet require her presence. I will call here tomorrow morning." With that, he turned to sweep out of the room, ostensibly to return to the castle.
"Severus," called the Headmaster mildly. Snape stopped mid-stride but did not turn. "Take Miss Parkinson with you, if you please. I believe the skills of Madam Pomfrey would not go amiss in this situation."
Snape turned and scowled at this. "And announce the child's presence to all and sundry? I highly doubt that would be a sensible course of action. Sir."
"Hogwarts is rather more secure than the Three Broomsticks," chided Dumbledore. "Miss Parkinson need not be set up in the foremost cot in the infirmary."
Snape gave a long-suffering sigh. "Come along then," he gestured at Pansy. She gulped and followed, holding tight to Draco's bony wrist. Dumbledore waved them off with assurances that he would join them shortly, and Snape Disillusioned the teenagers and led them out.
-:-:-:-:-:-
Draco stumbled out of the Floo and into Malfoy Mansion's entrance hall, dishevelled and weary from his eventful night. He stopped short when he saw the impressive figure of Lucius Malfoy standing imperiously before him, arms crossed.
"Where have you been?"
Draco fidgeted with his sleeve, realizing he was still in his pyjamas, and avoided his father's gaze. "I, er… went to visit Pansy."
"In the middle of the night. In your nightclothes? Without bothering to inform us of your sudden urge to see your worthless girlfriend?"
Draco's blinked, more at the word 'worthless' than at the continued assumption on his parents' part that she was his girlfriend. "No, I… she owled me," he said dumbly.
Lucius favoured his son with an extremely contemptuous look. "She owled you."
Draco tried to make his brain function despite the absolute overload of information currently buzzing through it. He remembered that he had left the note in his room, meaning his parents had probably found it—and the fact that he had been seen by Thaddeus Parkinson and who knew what other associates of his father at Pansy's. He looked up and met Lucius' eyes. "She sounded like she was in trouble. So I went."
Lucius made a face. "How heroic of you." The unspoken jab cut at Draco, as it had been intended to. Trying to be like Potter again? His father's disdain when he had bought him a spot on the Quidditch team, second year, still smarted.
There was a long pause. Draco realized it was one of expectation when Lucius huffed, "And?"
Draco blinked and thought quickly. "She wasn't there—I mean, not in her room, anyway. I don't know, they were acting pretty suspicious about the whole thing."
Lucius' eyes narrowed. "They? The Parkinsons?"
A thought bloomed in Draco's mind as he considered the situation. Parkinson had seen him leave with Snape, and undoubtedly would be expecting him to—"The Death Eaters."
The reaction was as immediate as it was unsurprising. "What?"
Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "Apparently they were having a meeting. Looked like the Dark Lord had been there too, or was on his way. Full regalia, and all that." He watched the older man out of the corner of his eye. Lucius looked apoplectic.
Draco jerked as Lucius grabbed the front of his pyjama shirt. "What did he say to you? What are they planning? Details, Draco!" Squirming, the young man twisted his mouth into an expression of put-upon boredom.
"I don't know, Father. Why would they tell me anything? You obviously weren't invited—" Oops. He winced. Definitely the wrong thing to say. Lucius had not needed to hear that particular truth spoken. The fist gripping Draco's clothing clenched, digging into his sternum painfully. Draco closed his eyes, bracing himself for the coming invective, but his father was silent, and he opened them again. Lucius' nostrils were flared, eyes fixed somewhere over Draco's left shoulder, his face unusually red and clashing with his white-blond hair.
Draco waited for his father to do something, his instincts of self-preservation preventing him from making any move to become noticeable again.
Finally, Lucius came back to himself, and unclenching his hand, shoved his son roughly away from him and across the slick marble floor.
He left the room with a flare of his cloak, muttering balefully under his breath.
-:-:-:-:-:-
The quiet room sectioned off behind the back storeroom of the hospital wing was dim, one dingy window letting in filtered sunlight through its narrow panes.
Pansy stirred upon the standard-issue hospital bed, her face smarting with a fierceness that had her suddenly awake, rigid and gasping. She sat up in a tangle of sheets, wincing in pain and memory, and gingerly touched the grotesque horror that marred her visage. The skin had healed, but the Mark burned with Dark Magic.
She could almost feel his slithering voice in her ear, whispering, I own you. A flick of the forked tongue. You are mine. She shuddered with remembered fear and revulsion. Little girl, he had said to her, red eyes glowing unnaturally, as he drew his smooth wand across her face in a chilling mockery of a caress.
I will fuck your pretty mortal soul, little girl.
And then he had looked into her eyes with those hypnotic, evil orbs of his and pulled her mind, and the images and sensations had assaulted her like a physical blow.
She had seen, then, the doom he had prepared for her.
Seen him clasping her in his maggoty white hands, pressing her up to his cadaverous form… felt her essence being ripped out of her very bones, spirit rent from heart… something dark and slimy and intangible rising from him, thrusting into her once, twice, again and his harsh breathing and the unbearable flashes of pain and her on the floor, shell of a body and empty eyes—and then Pansy had been running through the Dark Lord's veins, singing through his blood, screaming out in such ecstasy—
And had come back to herself, collapsed at his feet as he watched her in cold triumph, shaking with the weakening aftershocks of pain and a dark, unholy pleasure burning in her soul.
Pansy leaned over the side of the bed and vomited onto the floor.
-:-:-:-:-:-
Professor Snape brought Pansy the potion he had brewed for her the next day. It was a putrid horror of some indeterminate colour between green, brown and grey, smelling like sulphur and sweat. Pansy fought the urge to retch as she had in the night.
"What is this for?" she asked the dour man warily. Draco had explained Snape's precarious position to her as they had walked back to Hogwarts the night before, but she was still far from comfortable with the man knowing her secrets. He had, however, orchestrated her escape from the Dark Lord and her insane father, and she supposed she was grateful to him for that.
It was Dumbledore who answered her question from his position at her bedside, comfortably ensconced in a squishy magenta armchair. "The potion will allow us to alter your physical appearance, and when combined with a number of complicated transfigurations, the change will become permanent, anchored in your very bones and blood." She saw suddenly that Professor McGonagall stood slightly behind the Headmaster, tall and stern.
Pansy gaped. "Permanent? But why can't—" her shoulders drooped in realization. "Of course. Because the Dark Mark is permanent."
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "That and, we can't risk you being in a transient state at any time; it would leave you vulnerable to discovery. If we were to use Polyjuice, not only would it be unpleasant and inconvenient, but—" he shared a look with Snape—"students in this school have rather less privacy than professors."
Pansy wrinkled her brow, not understanding for a second.
Ah. Crouch.
That had certainly been embarrassing for the Dark Lord. Losing his one faithful follower. Pansy had heard her father griping about his horrible mood for weeks the summer after fourth year. It had made for a rather Crucio-happy newly risen Dark Lord.
She returned her gaze to the bilious potion. "So, erm… what will I look like? Can I choose?" she looked anxiously at Snape, hoping she wouldn't be subjected to some monstrosity of a body—disguise was all well and good, but a girl had her limits.
Snape smirked at her concern, obviously amused that she could care about such vanities at a time like this. It was Dumbledore who answered her question.
"Because it does not draw on the appearance of a currently living person like Polyjuice, the Metamorph potion needs to be infused with instructions of a sort—rough guidelines that will work with your existing body structure and adjust to the new appearance using it as a foundation. Because it isn't forcing one's body into a form not rightfully its own, it is also much less painful than Polyjuice potion."
Pansy absorbed all this, nodding to show that she understood.
"So… that's what the transfigurations are for then—the guidelines?"
"Precisely, Miss Parkinson." McGonagall stepped forward, inclining her head in greeting. "I will work with you to determine how drastic a change you are comfortable with, and we will go from there."
Pansy felt a ball of nervous energy roil in her empty stomach. She had been too anxious at breakfast to eat anything, and now she was glad of the fact—she suddenly felt rather sick.
"First of all, we can only make you taller, not shorter. This is because when we stretch your bones, we will be able to add bone mass to make them strong and healthy, but we have no way to reduce bone mass."
Stretch her bones? That sounded excruciating! Pansy swallowed nervously. "Well, Professor, I wouldn't want to be any shorter anyway. I'm practically a midget." Pansy had always been small, although it hadn't bothered her before everyone had hit their growth spurts; in first year she had been almost as tall as Draco. Now, though, he was at least a head taller than her, and she didn't like it.
"All right then. Now, what colour skin will you have? Would you prefer to keep yours, or go darker? And your hair will have to change accordingly, of course."
Pansy stared. She felt like she was having some bizarre sort of beauty consultation, and with McGonagall no less – was there ever a less likely candidate for a conversation about changing one's hair colour? It was extremely odd, and for a moment she couldn't say anything. Then the import of the old woman's words sank in, and she began to think about it. I always have felt that I was too pale, she thought. She opened her mouth to speak.
McGonagall held up her hand, forestalling her. "I feel I should tell you, Miss Parkinson, that this is not an opportunity to realize all your adolescent dreams of beauty. I certainly won't make you look unpleasant, but we don't want you to look unusually beautiful either. The point here is for you to be inconspicuous."
Pansy wrinkled her nose in irritation. That was harsh, you old prune. But the woman did have a point, so she managed an almost polite, "All right, fine. What do you suggest, Professor?"
McGonagall ignored the slight sarcasm, and looked at Pansy appraisingly. "I'd say probably a darker skin colour, maybe a medium brown, and black hair. If you keep your skin tone, it might appear that you have only charmed your hair."
Pansy nodded, feeling anxious about how casually they were discussing her new body. "And my eyes? Will they have be a boring, muddy brown as well?" she asked petulantly. Like Granger's.
McGonagall's mouth twitched, and Pansy could have sworn the old professor had almost smiled. "I think we can indulge you on the eye colour – nothing too outrageous, mind you."
Pansy considered for a moment. She'd always wanted blue eyes, but she wasn't stupid enough to think that they wouldn't draw comment combined with her new features. "All right, how about a sort of hazel?"
McGonagall nodded. "That's fine. And you just made my job easier; hazel is the easiest to create, as it's a combination of colours rather than a clear, pure one. Those are much more difficult to manage properly." She stood. "Right then. Time for your potion."
Madame Pomfrey, who'd been hovering nearby during their conversation, now handed Pansy that disgusting-looking potion she had seen Snape holding earlier. Speaking of which… she noticed with surprise that Dumbledore and Snape had left without her noticing. She was grateful they were gone, though. This – metamorphosis she supposed she could call it, was an immensely private thing. Bad enough she had these two witnessing, but her Headmaster and the Head of Slytherin? She shuddered.
Gripping the glass beaker tightly, she stared down at the vile glop with a grimace. Her mother had used to make her drink down potions quickly and get them over with, so that's what she did now. One long, stomach-turning swallow, and it was over. Bleargh.
After that there was along, exhausting battery of spells, stretching her bones in small segments (that hurt), slowly darkening her skin to the desired hue, changing the very makeup of her hair follicles to make black hair grow, and a delicate operation on her eyes. Two hours later, both Pansy and McGonagall were exhausted and sweating, and Pomfrey forced them to stop and take a rest.
Since the potion would only last so long, the matron gave Pansy an hour's worth of sleeping draught and made her take a nap. When she rose it started again, but this time the changes were to her face, something Pansy was very nervous about. So she held a hand mirror and watched the Transfiguration professor work. McGonagall was, Pansy admitted grudgingly, a master of her craft. She transformed Pansy's features so gradually that she didn't notice the incremental changes – though she was watching them – until she suddenly realized that the person in the mirror no longer looked like Pansy Parkinson.
McGonagall sat back, panting. "What do you think?" she asked gravely.
Pansy considered the face. It was longer than hers, to fit her longer body, she supposed; her eyebrows were slightly thicker and curved more; her mouth was fuller and her chin rounder. And she no longer had the nose that had caused her no end of ugly nicknames – it was long and straight, with a slight bump in the middle.
"I look like I'm related to the Patils." Although those two were raving beauties. But really, this wasn't a bad face. It was pretty in an quiet sort of way, and she liked her eyes, they were a sort of green-brown colour that went well with the rest of her face. Pansy was, frankly, quite impressed.
She looked up. "Will I grow?" she asked. After all, she was only seventeen, and not in her full growth yet.
McGonagall looked at her seriously. "You will grow," she affirmed. "But only as much as you would have in your own – well, your previous body."
My previous body, Pansy thought with a start. Does that ever sound odd. She looked up at the woman who had taught her for six years, whom she had always disparaged to her friends and been somewhat in awe of.
"Thank you, Professor."
McGonagall smiled. "You are welcome, Pansy."
-:-:-:-:-:-
Draco stared at the blank parchment before him, making absent-minded swirls with his expensive quill. Sighing, he dipped its nib in his worked-platinum inkpot, loading it with liquid. He slashed the wet point across the page, watching as the vibrant blue letters flowed out from it, spelling The Rise and Fall of Grindelwald. It looked sufficiently impressive for a title.
Draco dropped his forehead to the cool desk, feeling strangely dissatisfied. He smelled the fresh scent of the parchment and surrendered, finally, to the tangle of thoughts that had been trying to clog his mind in the few days since he'd left Pansy at Hogwarts. It had been unutterably odd to see two Snapes walking around—one sneering, one terrified—but it had been horrifying when Pansy had turned back into herself, and he'd once again seen the hideous Mark blighting her face. Draco had never seen Snape so rattled.
He'd felt ambivalent about leaving her there, the oddness of Dumbledore and Snape's partnership making him uneasy, but he had recognized that his life was already in their hands; anything else he did now would be sickles compared to the great betrayal he had made that earlier that night.
Even now, Draco shuddered to imagine Lucius' reaction if he ever found out what had transpired in the Three Broomsticks, almost a week ago. Having never directly defied his father, Draco had no idea how far Lucius' wrath might stretch; what he might be willing to do in punishment. Draco already knew, as he had admitted to Pansy, that Lucius would sacrifice him in a heartbeat for his Master's cause; and now he realized that this meant there really was no limit to what his father might do to him, in revenge for his treason.
Treason. There was an ugly word. But Draco wasn't so naïve that he ddn't recognize his actions for just that. On some level he realized that he'd deserve anything Lucius—and by extension the Dark Lord—chose to throw at him, but he was no self-sacrificing martyr. Draco would run if things came to such an impasse, and he knew it.
His father probably knew it too.
Draco stared at the page again, and wrote the date neatly in its upper right corner.
-:-:-:-:-:-
"A Hufflepuff?" Pansy snorted in outraged disbelief.
"Hufflepuffs are known for their tenacity, their adaptability. They have strength."
"And loyalty," pointed out Pansy, as if it were something to be ashamed of. "No one could accuse me of having that particular flaw."
"There are many kinds of loyalty, Miss Parkinson," Dumbledore said enigmatically. "I believe you may find yourself in possession of the greatest of them all, before this is over."
She stared at him, not knowing what to say in the face of his complete and utter barminess. Was he challenging her? Or was this just more of that incomprehensible hippogriff-shite he was always spouting? She shifted her gaze to the polished floor of the infirmary, noticing the way it reflected the torchlight in little gleams.
"Besides," he said, some humour back in his voice, "I think it isn't just a question of which house you are suited to, but also which house would be suited to you."
Pansy looked up quickly, narrowing her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Well, you certainly can't go into Gryffindor… unless you want to, that is?" His eyes twinkled and she bared her teeth a bit. "—and Slytherin is out of the question, of course. I doubt you would be very comfortable in Ravenclaw."
She glared at him, instantly on the defensive. "Oh? Think I'm too stupid for it? My marks—"
"Are perfectly adequate," he said, cutting her off smoothly. "However, Ravenclaws are both too observant and too sceptical for any stay of yours with them to be comfortable."
She watched him warily, unwilling to let go of her tense stance yet, and his look became more serious.
"After all, Miss Parkinson, consider the circumstances—a new student, in her seventh year nonetheless, with a mysterious past and an unrecognizable name? Ravenclaws tend to be almost unhealthily curious; any mystery they encounter is taken as a literal challenge. And they are the house with the most unity and cooperation among themselves, less likely to be swayed by emotion." He smiled again. "I am speaking, of course, in the most general terms. I would not hold everyone in that house to those particular standards; however, there is a reason for the Sorting Hat's use, and it would be folly to put you in danger by ignoring such an obvious consideration."
Pansy nodded, allowing herself to relax somewhat. "I understand." But I don't have to like it, she added mutinously to herself. Looking down at her unfamiliar hands, she felt suddenly overwhelmed.
She missed the look of sympathy that creased the headmaster's face.
-:-:-:-:-:-
They set her up in one of Hogwarts' travelling guest rooms, which tended to appear and disappear periodically along its corridors, on the ancient castle's whim. Pansy was leery of making even a temporary home in such a place, but Dumbledore assured her she needn't worry.
"It will recognize its occupant, and remain here as long as you need it. Its sole function, after all, is to take care of its guests." Pansy wasn't sure what to think about this implication that the stone and mortar building was somehow sentient. He gave her the password and instructions on how to change it, as well as directions to the Great Hall from the unfamiliar location.
So she was installed in an impersonal room with tasteful if unimpressive furnishings. Pansy regarded her trunk full of new belongings and wished for home, and her own ridiculously extravagant canopy bed. She felt a stab of mingled pain and anger at the thought. She could no longer call Parkinson Mansion a home of any sort; and despite any nostalgic feelings she might have about it, she wouldn't return now even if she could. A shudder racked her slender frame as the memory of the marking ceremony crept into her mind. She forcibly pushed away the image of those lecherous red eyes.
She got up and paced the carpet, feeling caged and restless despite her exhaustion. At least she was free of that hideous Mark, her only remaining scars the invisible kind—although the price she had paid for that freedom had been painful and exacting. Pansy winced, feeling ghost pain throb through her bones, which had been so unmercifully stretched by the potion. Pomfrey had assured her that the pain was only to be expected, and would be temporary. Pansy noted that the dumpy mediwitch hadn't seemed to be able to meet her eyes when she said this, and wondered how long exactly 'temporary' meant.
She sighed bitterly and dropped onto the bed. She was so tired—almost too tired to sleep, and definitely too edgy. She wished for Draco, for the comfort of his familiar presence and his entertaining sarcasm, the way he always irritated her with his comments, that bloody smirk that drove her up the wall, and meant home.
Home.
There was that bloody word again.
She rolled over on the cotton duvet and buried her face in a pillow, vainly willing sleep to come.
-:-:-:-:-:-
Draco stared in disbelief.
His gaze flicked back and forth between the parchment in his left hand and shining metal badge gripped tightly in his right.
Head Boy.
But—
"That will no longer be necessary, Mr. Malfoy."
The Headmaster's words skittered around in his head, mocking him. Was it possible he has misunderstood Dumbledore's words? Could he have meant the opposite of what Draco had assumed?
He recalled the timing of the statement, after he had spilled the Dark Lord's secrets to the leader of the opposition. He had asked when his headship interview would take place, and the old man had answered in the negative, dashing his hopes.
Could it be that Draco had gained this position on his own merit? That his actions, rash and spontaneous and selfish, had changed the Headmaster's opinion of him?
Head Boy.
It certainly seemed so. The realization stunned him.
A slow smile spread over his narrow face. He shouldn't have felt so pleased by the approbation, especially considering its source—Lucius would be livid if he knew—but he couldn't help himself. Much as he had always derided Dumbledore's ideas, most of his disdain had stemmed from his upbringing, and the fact that he knew the old man considered Draco to be rather below his notice. The fact remained, however, that Albus Dumbledore was arguably the most powerful wizard of the age, perhaps paralleled only by the Dark Lord, though Lucius tended to conveniently brush this fact aside, calling him an old fool, mocking him to his face.
Draco scowled. Lucius. It was his own bloody fault if Draco felt validated by this appointment, which he had earned himself (himself!)—after all, it wasn't as if Lucius had ever praised his son for independent thought or action. No, the only time Draco had ever gotten even a glimmer of approval from his father was when he'd been acting the part of Little Lucius.
He shook off these bitter thoughts, refusing to brood. He wouldn't let them interfere with his moment of triumph. And oh, what a triumph indeed… the very idea that he, Draco Malfoy, had beaten out Potter for the head boy position, chosen by Dumbledore, who favoured the golden boy as if he was his own son! The thought sent Draco into paroxysms of almost indecent joy. He smirked at Potter's imagined reaction, and that of his two hangers-on—
Ah, yes. The Mudblood.
He grinned. How he would enjoy rubbing her face in this. She'd be utterly shocked, he knew, indignant even. That sour little mouth of hers would narrow into a disapproving line, and she'd be channelling McGonagall out her ears. She would be Head Girl, of course (self-righteous swot), but he was expecting that—he had one up on her.
Granger, on the other hand, would be absolutely gobsmacked at his appointment. No way the fluffy-headed bint would ever expect Draco Malfoy to be her counterpart. She didn't see him as even her equal, let alone defer to him as she should, and that had always infuriated him. But now…He sighed happily. He'd been wanting to put her in her filthy place for ever so long.
This was definitely going to be his year.
Author's Note: Sorry for the LONG delay! I've had this mostly written for a while now, but I was stuck on some parts for a while, plus I've (idiotically) started a new fic. (If you like Penelope Clearwater, go to my author page and check it out.) And I started university, which is taking over my life.
I wanted to show in this chapter that although Draco cares about Pansy a lot, he is still a pretty selfish person. He doesn't think about her too much once he leaves her, and when is very wrapped up in his own concerns. But he is growing up – it just doesn't happen overnight.
Also, tell me what you think about the scene with Pansy and Voldemort? Too intense? Too lame? Too silly? I want feedback!
Next chapter: Hermione, Harry and Ron's mission to find Lucius - just how badly does it crash and burn? Who do they find there? What about the owl that came for Hermione right after they left? Stay tuned! (I don't know exactly when this will ba done, since I have midterms next week, but it'll definitely be after those.)
And as always, thanks for reading, guys.