Chapter 3: The Changeling Girl

Severus Snape had always found Malfoy Manor to be unflinchingly garish. It somehow managed to encapsulate all of the ostentatious and vulgar elements of wizardry and distill them into one sprawling architectural eyesore. It knew nothing of modesty. From the frippery of the albino peacocks roaming the grounds to that damnable business with the talking gate, the manor lacked all manner of subtlety and taste.

The left corner of Snape's mouth tucked up slightly in a display that was neither smirk nor grimace but something decidedly in between. He supposed that the residence was a reflection of its owner: showy, vainglorious and given to the kind of melodrama found in the pages of cut-rate hacks such as Beedle the Bard.

Snape stood in the entry hall with his hands folded patiently in front of him. He'd been hoping to collect his charge in a reasonable amount of time so as to return to Spinner's End before nightfall. He'd left a potion brewing and while it was true indeed that a watched pot never boils, he didn't care to have his unwatched pot boil over in his absence.

A door opened and closed somewhere not too far off from where Snape stood. The sound was followed by the rhythmic tap of high-heeled shoes clacking against the stone flooring present throughout much of the manor. Within moments Narcissa appeared in the entry hall.

He'd been only partly right in supposing that the sound had been made by high-heeled shoes. She wore boots, cordovan in color, whose pointed heels struck the floor in a clipped staccato. The boots were the same rich color as her simple dress; the neck a pleasing V; waist belted in black dragon-hide; the skirt straight with a hem that barely kissed her knee.

Narcissa was a fine-looking woman, always had been. She wore things well, as if that were her purpose in life. An elegant clothes-hanger, it only made sense that Lucius had chosen her for his bride. She made poetic sense against the backdrop of the manor, and seeing her here only solidified the impression that she was perhaps the most beautiful trophy in what Lucius fancied to be his collection of rare and refined things.

"Severus," she said lightly.

"Narcissa."

"Imogene will be with you in a moment. Do say hello to her parents for us. She's been a lovely guest."

Snape nodded. He noticed that Narcissa's hands were shaking which was unexpected given her pleasant smile and the honeyed tone of her voice. She took a step closer to him and the chink in her façade became visible. Quiet desperation bled through her eyes.

"You won't forget," she said.

"I can't forget," Snape replied drily. "Duty forbids it as well as my desire to continue on in this existence."

Narcissa blinked quickly, banishing potential tears. She reached toward him. Snape took a step back in mild surprise, but still she succeeded in grasping his hand. What other promises did this woman think to extract from him? He had precious little left to give.

It seemed as if she would shake hands with him, reinforcing their tacit agreement. So it was an unwelcome shock when she ducked her head, brought his upturned hand to her lips and kissed his palm gently.

Narcissa dropped his hand and turned away. She walked back down the hall encountering Imogene on her way.

"Goodbye, dear," she said, giving Imogene a quick kiss on the cheek. "And thank you."

Hermione shrugged Imogene's shoulders and said a polite goodbye to Mrs. Malfoy before continuing toward the entry to meet Snape.

She never thought she'd ever be relieved to see Severus Snape, but after having survived an entire summer among the Malfoys he was a relative sight for sore eyes. Said sight was wiping his hand on his robes as she approached, an expression of mild disgust playing across his features.

"Professor," she greeted him.

"Miss LeCoeur."

"Thank you for coming to collect me."

"The Malfoys have arranged to forward your belongings this evening. I'm told your parents are eager to see you. If there's nothing else we'll depart."

Hermione took one last look down the empty hallway.

"There's nothing else," she said softly.

Snape's dark robes swirled behind him as he turned toward the huge entrance doors. The doors creaked open, anticipating his departure. He crossed the threshold with Hermione in tow. They walked down the drive to the wrought-iron gates which allowed them to pass through quite easily as if they were smoke.

Once outside the gates Snape stopped and handed her a cloak. Hermione took it and held it in her arms. It was a warm afternoon and she had no need of an outer garment.

"Put it on," Snape said.

"I don't need it," Hermione replied.

"When was your last dose?"

Hermione thought a moment. "Yesterday evening."

"Put on the cloak."

Hermione didn't argue further. Snape was right. The polyjuice would begin to wear off soon. She shrugged into the garment and pulled the hood over her head.

Next Snape held up a copy of the Quibbler.

"Summer reading?" Hermione asked puzzled.

"Hardly. It is a portkey, Miss LeCoeur." With that Snape tossed her the magazine. She caught it and felt the familiar pull behind her navel as she was whisked away from Malfoy Manor.

OOO

Hermione stood in the middle of the dark, dusty sitting room. Its walls were lined with books which were somewhat comforting, but even friends of the spined and leather-bound variety did little to ease her trepidation at having been delivered by portkey to a location that she didn't recognize.

Just as a sense of panic was beginning to close off her throat, Snape appeared, having apparated with next to no sound at all. At his arrival the lamps in the room flared to life and a fire struck up in the fireplace of its own accord. Snape shrugged out of his cloak and with the merest flick of his wand sent it floating over to an ancient wooden coat rack by the door which neither one of them had used.

It occurred to Hermione that this was Snape's home. She'd never thought of him as having anything as prosaic as a home. She had always assumed that he lived in the dungeons of Hogwarts and most likely slept standing up without any need for pedestrian objects such as a bed or a chair or even a house.

Hermione drifted over to the rows of books lining the walls. She reached up to run her fingers over several of the titles.

"Do not touch those," Snape said.

There was no question that this was indeed his home. Having proven her theory Hermione backed away from the books.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Spinner's End," he replied. It appeared to be all the answer that she was going to get.

"I thought you were going to take me to my parents."

"What I said is that your parents were eager to see you. I did not say that I would take you to them. Your parents are in hiding for their own protection as you well know. They believe that you have spent the summer at the Weasley residence. I am to deliver you to platform 9 ¾ tomorrow morning."

" So, I'm to spend the night…here?"

"It wasn't my choice, but I can't very well deliver you in your current state." Snape made a small gesture with his wand and a dusty hand mirror drifted out of a drawer and came to hover in front of her. Hermione wiped the mirror with the sleeve of her cloak clearing away a thick layer of grime. It was clear that Snape never used the mirror for anything and she couldn't blame him. If she'd had to spend her days walking around with his hair and wardrobe, she'd rather not come into contact with her reflection. As it was, at least Imogene was somewhat attractive or so she'd been told.

Hermione pushed back her hood and peered into the glass. The sight that met her eyes would have been funny if it had been someone else's reflection. No such luck. It was her own. She was the changeling girl in the mirror with one black eye and one brown. One thin, dark brow had lost its twin, and found a thicker, lighter partner. The straight black strands of Imogene's hair began to twist and curl, writhing into a more familiar texture and shade.

Hermione turned away from the glass and Snape returned the mirror to the drawer. She didn't want to see anymore. She would be happy to have her old face back.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room unsure of what to do with herself. Snape had opened a door that she hadn't noticed before and was preparing to mount a staircase.

"Professor, where should I stay?"

Snape stared at her as if the answer were obvious.

"Here," he said.

"I mean, is there some place for me to sleep?" The way he looked at her she thought that her theory about his sleeping standing up might actually turn out to be true.

"Other than the cupboard?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. His eyes drifted slowly to a large cabinet under one of the bookshelves. Hermione blanched. "There is a guest room, Miss…," he studied her a moment in order to select the most accurate reply, "Granger. It is at the top of these stairs to the right. Now, if there's nothing else I have a potion brewing."

"There is one thing. If it's not too much trouble, I was wondering if I might fix myself a cup of tea."

"It is not time for tea yet. We shall take it at the usual hour," he snapped. Snape stepped on to the first stair and Hermione watched as the subsequent stairs tumbled from the air transforming an ascending staircase into a descending one. Snape walked down the steps, his head sinking as he moved out of sight.

OOO

The guest room had turned out to be just as dusty as the sitting room. When she sat down on the bed dust rose from the sheets in a thick cloud causing her to sneeze. It appeared that Snape didn't have many guests. From the looks of it this room hadn't seen a body in at least a hundred years. The furnishings were ancient. There was a single lantern on a clumsy wooden table by the narrow bed, a three-legged stool and a small chest of drawers all covered in a layer of grime that appeared to have taken decades to accumulate.

Hermione whipped out her wand, a cleaning spell on the tip of her tongue. Then she remembered the Ministry Howlers and thought better of it. She'd performed enough underage magic for one summer and if Draco hadn't taken her punishment, she would've suffered for it.

Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts. She heard movement downstairs and wondered if it were tea time yet. She'd puttered around the tiny guest room for a while and lost all track of time.

She walked out into the upstairs hall and descended the stairs to the sitting room. The staircase hadn't shifted at all for her so she assumed that it was charmed to respond only to Snape.

The sounds she'd heard were coming from another room, but she was hard pressed to determine where that room was located since there were only two doors in the sitting room, one which lead outside and another which led to the duplicitous staircase. She heard a kettle boiling, followed by the clattering of dishes. Within moments a tray carrying a tea kettle, two rough-hewn stone cups, saucers, and assorted other tea things soared out into the sitting room through the staircase door. The tray settled on a low table between two threadbare armchairs.

Taking her cue from the tea set, Hermione dropped into one of the chairs, doing her best not to lean back against the dingy antimacassar which lay over the chair back. The tea kettle steamed impatiently. Several minutes went by and still there was no sign of Snape. The kettle's lid trembled in frustration. It puffed three jets of steam through its spout, each accompanied by an annoyed whistle. At this Hermione heard footsteps at last and Snape emerged from the lower level of the house, the stairs having shifted once again to lead him to the sitting room.

He stalked toward the vacant armchair and Hermione couldn't help but stare. He looked positively sloppy. His robes were gone. He wore a pale shirt with rumpled sleeves pushed clear up to his elbows. The collar was unfastened and wrinkled as if it hadn't been properly starched. His shirttails had come clear of his trousers which oddly enough reminded her of Ron. He was always un-tucked, especially after a last minute sprint to class. Sweat beaded across Snape's brow and his hair lay damp and stringy around his face.

He caught her staring and Hermione could only guess that he'd experienced the same sense of impropriety that she had, for he quickly summoned his cloak from the coat rack and settled into it. He took the empty armchair as the kettle huffed indignantly.

"Forgive me," he muttered drily, and Hermione knew that he wasn't talking to her. The kettle proceeded to pour two cups of tea. The creamer and sugar cubes hovered in front of Hermione prompting her to dress her tea.

"May I ask—?"

"—you may not," Snape said, cutting her off. He eyed the plate of tea sandwiches on the tray and it rose in front of him. He made a selection and sent the plate over to Hermione. She picked out a sandwich, turkey curry she guessed, and the plate returned to the tray. "You will not ask questions. You will merely answer them. Truthfully."

Hermione stiffened. The tone of Snape's voice was not pleasant. There was tea but there would be no sympathy. She took a deep breath.

"Where would you like to begin?" she asked.

"Apparently with a reminder that you are not asking the questions." Snape let that sink in as he took a sip of his tea. "There was a day about a fortnight ago when my studies were interrupted by rather inconvenient post from the Ministry. I spent the entire morning tracking and destroying warnings from the Improper Use of Magic Office."

Hermione sipped her tea, partially hiding her face behind the heavy stone cup.

"The warnings were suitably vague given the complications of the polyjuice and the manor's cloaking ability, but dangerous nonetheless. They may have prompted Lucius to subject your wand to Prior Incantato or hadn't you considered that?"

Hermione waited, assuming that this particular question was rhetorical. Snape's face was impassive but the annoyance in his voice was clear. "What was it you cast that pricked Mafalda Hopkirk to action?"

"You mean your spies didn't tell you?" Hermione was taking a risk answering him like that, but she couldn't help but bristle at his treatment of her. They were supposed to be allies, both working for the Order. There was no need to interrogate her in such a manner as if she were indeed one of the Death Eaters she'd been sent to gather intelligence about. Her assignment required that she masquerade as a pureblood witch with a curiosity about and perhaps even sympathy for the Dark Lord. But that was merely a convenient fiction. Snape should know personally about such fictions and their uses. He needn't turn his disgust on her.

"Miss Granger, I believe you have asked yet another question."

"I'm known for my curiosity," she answered coolly.

"I will give you another opportunity to answer my question and remind you that I am a skilled Leglimens as I'm sure your friend Mr. Potter has informed you. If you do not answer me I will simply sift your memories." He stared at her, eerie and unmoving. "What did you cast?"

He was threatening her and her temper broke. They would never be allies. "I don't recall," she said stiffly.

"You have chosen unwisely."

Hermione braced herself for the incantation. She'd read a great deal about both Leglimency and Occlumency with Harry having divulged as much as he could regarding his own attempts at the latter. If she could compartmentalize her memories, lead him through a maze of distractions, she could ward him off, perhaps even bury him in the mundane and girlish minutiae of her daily existence. Hermione realized however, that as she was formulating her strategy he had already begun. She'd only managed to distract herself while he had gone in through the backdoor of her subconscious and headed straight for those thoughts that her conscious mind sought hardest to suppress. Snape was brilliant. He was also ruthless.

Her fingers dug into the threadbare fabric of the armchair, nails dragging on the surface as she fought to defend herself. A quick glance at him revealed that his eyes had slipped closed and though his lids obscured his eyes, their rapid movement was visible beneath the surface of the skin. His breath came shallow and quick. His thin lips hitched slightly to the left, the faintest whisper of a smirk.

Too late she realized her error. The memory that she sought to withhold, the answer to his question, was well protected. Relative to her other thoughts it was too well protected. She imagined her mind as a house full of halls lined with locked doors that guarded her memories. Some doors were easy to reach; some were only accessible through dark, labyrinthine corridors. Some had simple key locks; others sturdy padlocks. There was one door at the end of a particularly dark and twisting hall however, which stood out from the rest due to the sheer number of locks and protections that it bore. In this way it stood forth like a beacon, telling Snape exactly where to go and how to get there.

He was kicking the doors in one by one as he made his way down the hall. It wasn't necessary. He knew they weren't the memories he sought, but he also knew that she was unprepared and that it would weaken her. The doors buckled and memories escaped floating to the front of her consciousness at a dizzying, sickening pace. It was too much information for her to process at once.

Hermione began to feel nauseous. She felt her control slipping. He'd reached the end of the hall and the heavily locked door stood before him. She winced in anticipation of what was to come. He would break down the door, throwing himself against it again and again until it gave. It was a terrible shock then when he drew up short and simply knocked on the door. The locks dissolved and the door opened of its own accord, no force necessary. It was in this way that Hermione learned she had surrendered.

The memory rushed forth as easily as if it had been stored in a Pensieve for the purpose of examination. And just as easily she found herself tumbling back into it.

The golem materializes inside of Draco's room. She wears nothing but a simple white shift; the material thin, filmy, uncomplicated. Her eyes are of little use until they adjust to the absence of light. She uses her other senses to explore. She listens to the quiet of the room. It is thick, nearly impenetrable save for the soft sound of his breathing. The rhythm of his breath keeps time for her as she moves silently on bare feet. Her toes creep through the plush carpet which lines the ancient stone floor. Her hands trace the walls, the furniture, the window panes discerning the shape of things.

His breathing shifts. He wakes. She makes herself a shadow. He does not see her. In the end he returns to sleep.

She is curious about him, but begins to fade. She does not want to leave. She wants to know. She will not leave. She will not leave until she understands.

Her eyes adjust. They see him clearly. She walks to the bed, climbs, sits, settles herself above him. Her fingers reach out. They tangle in his hair. It is short, soft, in spikes. The ends prick her fingers gently. It is pale, his hair. In the absence of light, it seems to have almost no color at all.

Her fingers move to his face. They skim his eyebrows and circle lower testing the fringe of his lashes. He stirs but does not wake. She does not stop. She smoothes the underside of his jaw. The skin there is different, rough with what remains of the hair shaved close to his skin. It is a fine jaw, angular and fraught with texture which rasps against her fingertips.

Hermione is in her room, her fingers alive with the feel of him. She calls the golem but it ignores her. She cannot close off the link between them. The golem is a conduit. It transmits. Hermione receives. She absorbs the texture of his skin.

Her cold fingers trace his collar bone. He is bare beneath the thin sheet which separates them. Her hands curl in the sheet and draw it down. She sits back across his hips and rucks the sheet low past his navel.

She leans forward, her hair brushing his skin. Her hands meet at his breastbone and spread across his chest. There is muscle beneath her palms, lean and sinewy. Her fingers find a pale, flat nipple. She runs her palm over it and he stirs again, his torso rising instinctively to meet her palms. He does not wake.

Her hands rise, palms lifting so that only her fingers remain in contact with his skin. She curls her fingers so that her nails find his flesh. She drags them down his chest and past the tight ridge of muscle over his stomach. The skin there is taut. It shifts with his slow breath. He makes a sound. It is low, closed in his throat. She closes her eyes.

Her eyes open. His flesh beneath her hand is damaged and bruised. She grips her wand tightly in her free hand but is unable to move. There is a wand point pressed painfully into the base of her skull. She is in the forest kneeling beside Draco. He is unconscious on the ground. There is a voice.

"I'll thank you not to heal him." It's Lucius. He's found them in the woods. In the distance the raid continues. She can hear the sounds of it through the screen of the trees. Hermione acquiesces. She tucks her wand into the folds of her cloak.

Lucius moves. He withdraws his wand from the back of her head. The threat is less but still present. Lucius kneels beside her and grabs her wrist. He grabs Draco's arm with his free hand and disapparates pulling them both through space.

They apparate at the manor. Lucius flicks his wand and Draco's unconscious body rises into the air. He takes his son to his room. Hermione follows. At the threshold of Draco's room she catches a mere glimpse of him; the boy unconscious on his bed, his father standing over him. Lucius lifts a hand, palm held up facing her. The gesture is simple but the consequence is not. The door slams shut in her face.

She sits with Narcissa in the drawing room. She has not seen Draco for three days. He has fallen ill they say. He won't see anyone. Hermione is well acquainted with his "illness." It is a chronic condition and it is called Lucius. Narcissa frets. Her eyes are red-rimmed as she sits across from Hermione.

Hermione knows what Narcissa will not allow herself to know. A lesson is being taught. A lesson in suffering. Lucius is a stern teacher. He would walk his wounded son through the woods in circles to test his strength and provide him an opportunity to murder. He is an uncommon father filled with common hate.

Hermione has tried to enter his room but it is sealed. It is complex magic which keeps it so. It is Lucius's will. Lucius is formidable, but there is one thing that even his power cannot trump.

Hermione sits across from Narcissa in the drawing room. She sets down her cup and saucer. She meets the woman's eyes. Hermione rises and leaves the room. It is not until she mounts the stairs that she hears Narcissa behind her. She is following at a distance but she follows nonetheless.

She leads Narcissa to his door. She tries the handle knowing that it won't turn. Narcissa sees but says nothing. She approaches her son's door. Hermione backs away, melts into the distance. She stops in an alcove to observe.

Narcissa draws her wand. She does not use it. She sets it apart from her on the floor. Her shoulders hitch and Hermione realizes that the woman is crying softly. She rests her blond head against the door and the sound of a sob escapes her. At the sound light stabs through the frame of the door illuminating its outline.

Hermione blinks wondering if she has imagined it. She hasn't. The door falls open with a soft click. Narcissa dashes the tears from her eyes. She touches a hand to the door and steps inside.

As it was with Lily Potter it is with Narcissa Malfoy. She is a common mother filled with a mother's uncommon love.

OOO

Snape was slamming doors shut, retreating from her mind. A sense of quiet and order settled over her consciousness. At last he withdrew leaving her shaking and balled up in the armchair. He was sweating, but seemed to have regained control of his breathing. All in all he was none the worse for wear.

Hermione, on the other hand, slouched over the arm of the chair and heaved the contents of her stomach onto the floor.

OOO

It was late when Hermione stumbled shivering into the guest room. There was a soft glow coming from the hurricane lantern by the bed when she entered. The light was by no means brilliant, but it was bright enough to reveal that the room had undergone a palpable change. The layer of grime, so conspicuous earlier, had been removed. There were clean sheets on the bed and in the corner a washstand had been added. It bore a bowl of warm water and a soft face cloth. Her things were nowhere to be found, but on the bed was a simple white shift; thin, filmy, uncomplicated.

Hermione hunched over the washstand and splashed water on her face. Her head ached. Her eyes ached. The space behind her eyes ached. She wiped the cloth across her face and looked into the mirror. There was a mild sense of shock. So this was her face. She hadn't seen it for months. She shouldn't have been shocked by the face she'd been born with, but she realized that she'd grown very used to looking in the mirror and seeing anything but what she expected.

Hermione had the unsettling suspicion that her face had somehow changed, but she couldn't be sure. Maybe it was just unfamiliar. Maybe she was unfamiliar to herself; this girl who had worn a Death Eater's cloak and spent a summer among purebloods; this changeling girl.

OOO

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