Metamorphome

Chapter Three: Searching for a Breakthrough

The next day was tense at best--Hermione moved about the house with her various chores, trying to avoid Draco all the while. This was, of course, impossible, because she was tackling each task by form, not by room, as she didn't want to get into one process to turn and start an entirely different one an hour later. Draco, meanwhile, was wrestling with the guilt of what he had said to her the previous day. Should he apologize, or shouldn't he? He didn't want her to believe that he wished to be her friend, but he didn't want her to think that he really was a priggish asshole--he really just wished to be alone. He couldn't really be an asshole...could he?

Every time these thoughts came up, Draco pushed them violently in the recesses of his mind, trying to concentrate on the process of becoming an Animagi. He hadn't yet picked his animal, and it was coming to that time. The book told him that the animal had to be something he could easily identify with, and Draco rolled his eyes at the cliché. He could imagine being any animal. The question wasn't what he could become, but what he needed to become. This had proved difficult because he could easily think of the disadvantages of every animal.

After the umpteenth time his moral uncertainties pulled him away, he finally stood and went to the kitchen. He decided to make an early lunch of linguini marinara, which they could use as leftovers for dinner, thus preventing Hermione from having to prepare dinner. Her eagerness to make spaghetti yesterday was he hoped indicative that she liked Italian food. His suspicions proved correct, because when Hermione smelt the garlic and tomato sauce from the drawing room, she entered, sniffing eagerly.

"Spaghetti?" she asked him.

"No, linguini marinara," he told her. "I thought I'd make a large batch so you don't have to make dinner."

"Thank you, that was thoughtful," she said carefully.

Draco wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face her. Taking a deep breath he said, "Sorry about yesterday--you know, what I said."

Hermione turned bright pink. "Oh! Don't worry about it. I felt bad afterwards. I sort of realized I was out of line, too."

Draco nodded wordlessly, then turned back to grounding the meat for the sauce. Hermione slipped across the kitchen and dipped a finger in the mashed tomatoes and garlic, licking it gingerly. It was wonderful. She dipped her finger in to do it again, but Draco slapped her hand with the flat of the blade of his knife. "No double-dipping," he warned her. "Besides, your hands are disgusting."

"Malfoy, if you're implying--" Hermione began hotly.

"I'm implying that you've been cleaning this nasty house all morning and would advise you to wash your hands before you immerse them in my food, Granger."

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, which he ignored, then moved around him to the sink. "If you don't mind me asking, why aren't you using your wand to cook?"

Draco said, "Sometimes it's better when you make it with your hands. I'm sure you of all people would understand that, Granger. You do, after all, love Muggles."

Hermione flushed, but bit her tongue to prevent herself from retorting spitefully. It wasn't as if he'd said anything terribly bad. She finished washing her hands, then turned to the cabinet and pulled out a couple bottles of butterbeer.

"We should probably try harder to get along with each other," she said slowly. Malfoy didn't answer. "Because we're going to be alone for a really long time," she continued. "And if we can peacefully coexist, it might even be a pleasant experience."

Malfoy snorted, but again didn't reply. Hermione took a deep breath. "Look, we have to do this, if not for the Order, than for ourselves. Malfoy...Draco." Malfoy looked up, looking somewhat annoyed. "We've been enemies since first year. And for what? A stupid feud that started before we were born? We're both on the same side, and as long as we can get along with each other, it will make things...well, easier."

Draco narrowed his eyes, then said casually, "Fine."

Hermione's voice lit up like a firefly. "You're sincere?" she asked.

"Why not?" Draco said with a shrug. "Besides, taunting you has lost its edge. You're too easy."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but wasn't distracted from her pleasure. Within the hour, their early lunch was ready, and she chattered through the entire cooking process. Draco clenched his teeth, but tried to seem polite. After what he had said yesterday (which, he thought now, hadn't been terrible), he rather deserved to be put through this incessant torture and most likely, he deliberated, potential death of boredom. Draco didn't understand how on earth she could possibly have so much to say to him. She was talking about the Order, she was talking about what they should eat, how cleaning was going, why she joined the Order, why she almost didn't join the Order, how wonderful his linguini was (this subject filled ten minutes of time, which he timed, looking at the clock with blatant incredulity), what she would do once she finished cleaning, and finally her mind turned to Christmas.

"Christmas?" Draco said blankly, not having been paying attention until he heard that word and interrupted her.

"Yes, Christmas. I realize we probably won't be spending it together, but it might help the mood to decorate a little. Don't you agree?"

Draco mumbled a response, which she took for yes, and she beamed at him. "I would very much like a tree, although I'm not sure if we can get one. Do you think Mrs. Weasley would send one to us?"

Without waiting for a response from Draco, she said, "Yes, she probably will. I expect she'll want to send baubles, as well. If not, we could make some, but that won't be the same will it? Oh how fond I am of Christmas," she sighed, staring off into space, and finally quiet.

Draco silently toasted to that and took another swig of butterbeer.

"I rather liked what Sirius did when we spent Christmas here," she went on, far too soon. "He had Father Christmas hats and beards on those house elves in the corridor. Lots of candles, I think. They just make everything cozy. And peppermint. We'll, of course, avoid mistletoe, as it's not really my thing, and I should think not yours, either. We will have--"

"Granger," Malfoy said loudly, standing. Hermione smiled brightly at him and said, "Yes?"

"I'm going to take some food down to Flaherty. You can resume your planning when I come back." Oh dear god, woman, please don't...

"Morrigan!" she exclaimed excitedly. "We can celebrate Christmas with her!"

Draco raised a very demeaning eyebrow. "You want to celebrate Christmas with a Death Eater instead of your friends?"

"Not really, no, but perhaps Christmas is just what she needs! If she were to experience the joy that an innocent Christmas can provide, maybe she'll come over to our side."

"Granger, I can assure you, she doesn't want your help, nor your pity."

"Of course not," Hermione sniffed. "Which is why we shall shove it down her throat." She stood, took the plate of food from Draco's hand and a butterbeer from the cabinet, chilled it, and descended into the basement. Draco smirked at her retreating back, knowing that Morrigan would chuck every pitying, condescending idea back into Hermione's well meaning, but naïve, face.

He sat contentedly in the chair, sipping at the bottle, wishing heartily for something a bit stronger if he was going to get through the Christmas season with Granger and her enormous head--filled to the bursting with ideas to make them chummy. He glowered at the idea of being "chummy" with Granger, taking another swig from the bottle. He checked his watch to make sure Hermione hadn't been down there long. It would be typical of Flaherty to trick Granger into handing over her wand momentarily. After ten minutes, Draco stood, stretching, and pulling his wand out, prepared to go after them. He took his time with this. If Flaherty managed to get a few hexes off on Granger, he wouldn't mind terribly.

Draco was at the stairs, his hand on the doorknob, when the door opened with such force, he jumped backwards a few steps. Hermione was back, her face flushed and swelled with tears. She was sobbing audibly, her hand on two identical pieces of the broken plate and an empty bottle. She threw all three into the garbage, then leaned over the counter, crying. Draco watched her then asked in what he hoped was a soothing tone, "What did she say?"

Hermione shook her head, and Draco strode forward, turning her forcibly around and shaking her shoulders. "What did she say to you?" he snapped.

Hermione shook her head and sniveled, "She's awful. It was as if she only understand how to talk nasty..."

Draco dropped his hands quickly and turned away. For some reason, Granger's tears were fueling his hatred for Morrigan, which had already been quite strong. He stopped at the basement door and said without turning, "She's just an animal, Granger. She doesn't understand anything but pain, hunger, and anger. Don't let her words get to you."

He opened the door and was gone, leaving Hermione surprised at his easy defense of her. She had known that he hadn't really been listening to her as she went on and on, but she couldn't easily share things with Ginny at the moment, and as Malfoy was the only outlet she had, she had let loose completely. She had known, as well, that his teeth were clenched through her entire speech. She thought momentarily (her parents' words echoing in her head), Oh dear, if he doesn't stop that, someone's going to be a toothless young man.

Picturing this briefly, Hermione laughed a bit, the image of a toothless Draco Malfoy--trying to smirk with the same amount of cheeky confidence required in all his smirks--prominent in her mind..

* * *

Draco stepped on the landing, his eyes landing on the sneering Morrigan on the table. A pile of linguini lay on the floor, and it appeared to be every bit that had originally been sent down there. With a growl, Draco pointed his wand at Morrigan and her pert smile evaporated. She suddenly looked passive, as if that were the default expression between rage and self-satisfaction. "Do it, Malfoy," she said, her voice low. "It will just prove how weak you are."

Draco dropped the wand to his side then strode in on her, his face angry. Her expression turned to that smug half-smile he had learned to hate over the past months. He wanted so much to destroy her at that moment. She was an abomination, a creature that should never have been created. "What did you say to her, Flaherty?"

She laughed in his face. "Why do you care? Does little Draco have a crush on the Mudblood? You know what I do to creatures like her?"

"She's nothing to me--but you're filth and you're not worth her pity." These words echoed familiarly in his mind, and his lip curled at his own wording, and his mind lashed out at Morrigan. He pushed her off the table in frustration, and she landed hard against the wall. "You're a brutal animal, an atrocity, Flaherty."

"Then why don't you just kill me!" she screamed up at him, her eyes wide with intense hatred. The transformation was alarming, and it would have caused grown Muggles to wet themselves. Her fingers raked the air for a piece of Draco, but he held her grasping wrists away from him.

"You will die soon, Flaherty, and then your body will be nothing but dust upon the wind. Everyone will remember you as Voldemort's pet and they will say how the only thing you knew was a single word: Crucio. They will talk about how stupid you were and how Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could have caught you wandless. How you betrayed the Dark Lord's secrets under so little a thing as Veritaserum. And then they will laugh."

"I hate you!" she bellowed up at him. Blood was spotted on her face from her hands that had clutched her head following her crash against the wall; her eyes had taken on the shape of a mad-woman's--a perfect roundness that looked alien compared to their previous almond shape; and she was foaming at the mouth.

"You are nothing but a demon, Flaherty. A hideous, ugly demon with orders and loyalty--too stupid to know when to fight or run. Too stupid to know whom to trust. And this," he said, surrounding her head with his hands, "is your self-made hell." He pushed her away from him and wiped his hands disgustedly on his robes. He cleaned up the mess of noodles and tomato sauce, knowing that the basement was already plunged in squalor and didn't need more vermin.

He climbed the stairs elegantly and tossed his head in Flaherty's eyesight.

How she hated him. All she could think of was his angry face and his strong hands.... His face though...so terrible...was he right? She tried to remember any time that she had felt anything but boredom, rage, and self-pleasure. Was there anything else? Had she ever laughed sincerely? She tried to think back to her childhood, but the memories were a blur of violence and wishful thinking. Oh god, don't hurt me, please don't touch me. Don't touch Mummy, don't hurt my mummy... A picture of a woman floated in her mind. She was beautiful, with a face very much like her own. Her hair was brown instead of black, and her skin was a crisp white, as opposed to the creamier peach of Morrigan's own. But she was so similar, and she looked so happy...until she didn't look happy, and then Morrigan had cried. She couldn't remember why this happened; it had been such a long time since she had cried. She remembered, though, that tears were supposed to be warm. Not freezing cold.

* * *

Hermione watched Malfoy exit the basement, his face tight. He looked at her momentarily, then turned away and went up the stairs. That was weird, Hermione thought.

She spent the rest of the day cleaning. Every time she finished a task, it seemed that it had only gotten dirtier. She might discover more doxies, or find a colony of dust bunnies (which looked to Hermione like they were having a lovely time procreating more little clouds of dust) in a particularly difficult place to reach. She was bitten severely on the hand by a nasty trophy for "Best Decoration with Muggle Body Parts." She assumed that it was enchanted only to bite Muggleborns, as she had seen Malfoy handle it plenty of times un-maimed.

At nine, she finally sat down to read from the Prophet, and found that it blazed an alarming front cover story, although it was short and rambling.

"Death Toll Increases"

"Ministry officials have reported Death Eater-related deaths have recently increased by fifteen percent. It was also mentioned that the Ministry knows precisely why but cannot do a thing to change. This reporter managed to discover that You-Know-Who is not feeling particularly vindictive but encouraging his followers to help find a disciple very important to his organization. It is not known who this individual is, but we can hope that some sort of resolution comes soon, before the death toll increases again. Once more the Ministry encourages that...(cont. pg 6)"

Hermione wondered why she hadn't been contacted, but realized that the members of the Order (and likewise, the Weasley household) probably believed that she had been closely following the paper, thus informing her would be redundant. Still, she thought irritably, it would be nice to have first-hand information.

Malfoy walked into the kitchen, and Hermione looked up. "Have you seen the paper?" she asked him, and he glanced down at the headline. Shrugging, she turned to the pantry, looking for the chilled linguini.

"You're just going to shrug this off?!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I expected it would happen. Flaherty may be useless in the field, but she hears a lot. I wouldn't be surprised if Potter only managed to sap half her information, as Veritaserum allows for no ambiguity."

Hermione bit her lip. "Wouldn't it be better to just send her back or kill her?" she asked him.

Draco slopped some linguini in a bowl. "No. This is a victory over the Dark Lord, whether he begins killing more or not. To send her back would be admitting defeat, and to kill her would make us too close to them. We just allow them to believe she's never coming back. Then we put her in prison for the rest of her life."

"Still, is there any way to prevent the sudden increase of deaths?"

Draco shrugged, taking a bite of linguini and swallowing. "No. He was talking about upping the attacks anyway, before we left. That was why he had us on the Potter mission."

"Uh huh. That makes sense how?"

Draco sighed audibly and put his fork back in the bowl. "He's getting tired of the war. He wants to get Potter, and kill as much resistance as possible, as fast as possible. He wants Flaherty because he thinks that first--she has information that could be dangerous. And second--that she might be able to help him kill Potter. Flaherty has never screwed up. Never. It makes her sound too extreme to be possible, but the Dark Lord places high esteem in Flaherty because she's never questioned his word, or said the wrong thing, or betrayed him in the slightest. Plus, she's got everything he values." Draco began counting on his hand. "Unquestioning loyalty, absolutely pure blood, steadfast knowledge of magic, the utmost ability for neutrality, and limited understanding of the light."

"But wouldn't some of those hinder her ability to be completely faithful to the Dark Lord?" she asked.

Draco furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Her knowledge, you said, was steadfast. But if she was smart, she might remember the wrong thing and become a liability."

"Ah, yes, which is why most his favorites aren't known for their common sense. The Dark Lord changes favorites like he changes socks--if he wore them, that is. He probably would have gotten bored with Flaherty in time because she never gives him any reason to change his attitude for her--she's as steadfast as the sunrise in her loyalty. The Dark Lord loves change. It's been his constant friend for many years."

"Oh," Hermione said shortly, then summoned a bowl and the linguini dish. Both landed in front of her gracefully, and she scooped some linguini for herself. She heated it up, and then slurped thoughtfully for the rest of the meal. Draco hovered some leftovers down the stairs afterwards to Morrigan, then shut the door on her, leaving her alone in the dark with her thoughts and new emotions.

Hermione continued. "And with her penchant for neutrality, does that mean she's a good Occlumens?"

"She's exceptional," Draco admitted. "I don't know where she learned it. Still, she's not perfect. As I've said, she's terrible in the field. She can't think on her feet. Everything requires some amount of thought. And she wasn't made for battle. She was made for the enforcement of power. She's a perfect little toy for the Dark Lord. He says sit, she sits; he says stand, she stands; he says jump, she asks how high."

"If she wasn't such a hateful thing, I might pity her."

"Don't," Draco told her shortly. "She chose her life, and now it's too late for her. She's so far gone--and I mean that she's insane--it's impossible for her to change."

* * *

Draco Malfoy hated to wait. It was one of his least favorite pastimes. And right now, he was waiting for the Department of Human Transfiguration to approve his request to become an Animagi. He had finally settled upon the red fox, although the snow leopard and wolf had been mightily tempting. He had reasoned that no matter how awesome, a snow leopard was in no way practical for his life, and wolves weren't nearly as independent as he himself was. However, the time the Ministry would take to process his request would be double that of a normal citizen--mostly because of the war and his reputation as a former Death Eater.

So, with no more to study about Human Transfiguration, Draco fell into boredom, going about the house and looking for something to do. This proved, of course, difficult, because all books had been donated to Hogwarts' library, thanks to some noble notion of Potter's, and all the interesting Dark Arts objects had been safely locked away for awhile, due to the Order's tendency to attract victims for the said objects into the house. Draco was now devoid of entertainment, besides watching Granger clean, which was boring anyway, as well. If she had any sort of figure, he might find it amusing to watch her, but she still had the body of a prepubescent teenage girl.

By the third day of this tedious boredom, Draco went down at lunch to give Morrigan her food. Since the incident three days prior, he had been levitating her food down the stairs, too disgusted to look at Flaherty. With nothing better to do than have a go at her ego, he went down into the underground prison with a plate of sandwiches. Morrigan didn't even speak to him as he handed her food to her, but instead ate the food quietly and meekly, with none of the confidence she had when usually around him.

"I--I want to tell you something," she muttered, her voice emotionless.

Draco looked at her through critical eyes. What could she possibly have to tell him?

"I want to tell you where I came from," she whispered, and Draco reeled mentally. She was volunteering information? What on earth had happened those three days?

"Alright," Draco said, sitting on the stairs and looking expectantly at her. She sat on the table, her hands beneath her legs, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began to speak.

* * *

Morrigan's mother was named Cliodhna, and she was one of the fairest women the world had ever seen. She married early in her life, secure in her beauty and perfect pedigree. Her husband loved her and they conceived a daughter--Morrigan. Morrigan's father worked for the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Mysteries. His dangerous job led to his disappearance in a Romanian forest two months before Morrigan was born.

Heartbroken, Cliodhna left the wizarding world with her daughter in tow and returned to Ireland. Without a job, and only her looks, Cliodhna turned to a Muggle man named John Fisher for a living. At first he had seemed perfect. He loved Cliodhna with such a fierce love that neither could be without each other's company for more than a week. Cliodhna hid her wand for her love and never spoke of magic to John, who was avidly Catholic and thought of witchcraft as "heathenish" and a blemish upon God's green earth. Even though he didn't believe in magic, he did believe that some people practiced this pagan art still, and they should be punished in the harshest means possible.

Horrifyingly, Morrigan started to show extreme promise as a witch at the age of four, causing things to hover at eye level with some concentration, unaware the significance of her abilities. John Fisher immediately beat his adopted child, telling her never to do that again. Morrigan, unsure of what was wrong with something she barely understood, began to do accidental magic so often that Cliodhna often hid her daughter when John Fisher was within the house.

After two months of anti-magic hell, Cliodhna finally broke down and told her husband that it wasn't Morrigan's fault that these things were happening--she was a witch by birth, despite Cliodhna's attempts to ignore her daughter's power. John Miller asked Cliodhna if she had always been aware of Morrigan's "freakish capabilities." Ashamed, Cliodhna admitted that yes, she did, and had known from conception that it was nearly impossible that Morrigan wouldn't become a witch, since both her parents had been magic-wielders.

Furious, John Miller began to beat his wife enthusiastically, with little Morrigan watching wide-eyed in a corner. Suddenly John Miller rounded on her, screaming about how she was the devil's child and that she didn't deserve to live. He hit her, as well, giving the girl quite a scare and inducing an eternal fear of the man. She didn't understand why her father, who had always seemed to love her despite her "problems," could treat her in such a way.

Instead of kicking mother and child out of his house, John Miller insisted that they stay so that he could purge them of their disease. He began a strict regime of discipline, pain, and degradation. Cliodhna should break her wand. Morrigan should get a burn on the back of the hand for each time she did accidental magic. Perhaps if her conscious wanted it enough, her subconscious would stop making her do the bad things. But whenever Morrigan was extremely angry or sad, the electricity would flicker, or the light bulbs in the house would pop simultaneously.

John Miller would punish Cliodhna frequently, making Morrigan watch and telling her that if she ever became like her mother, this was what would happen. "Don't hurt Mummy!" Morrigan would scream. "I'll be normal! I'll be normal!" But she couldn't stop it; she couldn't stop her magic, no matter how hard she tried. In fact, the harder she tried, the more it seemed to act up.

At the age of five, Morrigan had learned to fear her adoptive father. But even more, she had learned to hate him. Her father was the best example for these things. His fear of her magic and his hatred of her power formed a mirror image in her own understanding--a fear of the back of his hand and a hatred of his power over her. More than ever she wished she could go back to the days when he protected her and her mummy, but now he couldn't protect her from himself. And her mummy had let him do it to her. She hated her now, too.

One night she slept fitfully in her bed and there was screaming from her parents' bedroom. And then it stopped. A man entered the room. Morrigan screamed loudly, and the windows shattered with a crash. The man dropped his mask, and he revealed an ancient man with silver hair and bushy eyebrows. "Hush, child, I'm to take you to Dirving."

And to Dirving he took her. Dirving turned out to be a wizard's school specializing in the Dark Arts--hidden and extremely secret. The teachers were cold and calculating, quick to dole out punishment, and they insisted that the students refrain from any type of frivolity. "Holiday" and "crush" were alien phrases at Dirving. The students (all of one hundred) spent their time from ages five to fifteen developing a thorough knowledge of the Dark Arts. Students needed to aptly use the three Unforgivables and properly duel before graduation at fifteen. After fifteen, they went home to their parents, who put them to work.

Being the only orphan, Morrigan had no prospects at all when she turned fifteen. Then she heard of a community for those who wished to serve under a man that meant to bring Purebloods back to power. Unsure of whether she would be accepted, Morrigan went to her mentor and savior from her house, Professor Knickl. He told her for the first time that her biological father had worked under the same man she wished to learn about. In time, the Dark Lord might accept her as a follower, if she proved herself and told him her true surname.

Morrigan left immediately for Parselart, and found that the Dark Lord Voldemort indeed encouraged youth to join him, although he refused to brand them until they came of age. Morrigan insisted, time after time, on showing him her worth. Voldemort doted upon her, for she was in awe of his power, his similar hatred for Muggles, and his understanding of her past. At the age of seventeen, she offered her service, and went through the most painful of initiations conceived.

Morrigan stood before Voldemort, who looked down on her with little interest. "You're too young."

"I am stronger than any of your followers, My Lord," she told him, her voice firm but obedient.

"That well may be, but your youth is not forgotten."

"No, My Lord."

"If you may prove yourself, then I will consider the matter."

Morrigan looked up at him, her eyes thoughtful. "The greatest test of devotion," she blurted, and his eyes widened slightly, understanding immediately what she meant.

"You cannot do it. No witch with so little discipline as yours could possibly do this."

"I can, My Lord. My soul is loyal entirely to you."

"If you fail, your fate will be worse than death. Insanity is the only other alternative."

"I will do it," she told him firmly, and she prostrated herself, her nose pushed to the marble of the floor, her eyes squeezed shut.

Voldemort paused, then said with terrible force, "CRUCIO!"

Morrigan's entire body clenched in horrific pain, the likes of which she didn't know possible. She grit her teeth and closed her vocal cords, clenching every muscle. She would not scream, she would not scream, she would not scream, she would not scream....

It went on for what seemed years, and suddenly it was done, and Voldemort reached down to pick her up. "You have done well, child. Welcome..."

Her lack of emotion and dull rage helped her in a way the passion most Death Eaters possessed couldn't, and she quickly rose through the ranks with her dispassionate ability to murder and torture. Although Voldemort would never waste her on the battlefield, he certainly used her to dispose of particularly irritating nuisances. Never before had Morrigan felt quite this sure of anything. The Dark Lord knew how awful Muggles were, how they treated their kind. He knew that the world ought to be purged of them and their descendants. Morrigan turned down that road and had never looked back.

* * *

At the end of her story, Morrigan watched Draco's reaction carefully. Her current state was, although inexcusable, comprehensible. How she had managed to turn that far down the path of evil, he hadn't the slightest idea. Surely every human was born with certain defaults of emotion...? Potter had the same lot in life--uncaring, abusive Muggle relatives. But he had understood that not all Muggles could possibly be bad. Still, it sounded like Morrigan had remained unexposed to the truth of things for her entire life--resulting in a simplistic, childlike mind that could only register one emotion at a time. Morrigan had never been consciously happy beside instinctual satisfaction. She didn't know what made her happy, or what made others happy. How could she possibly distinguish between right and wrong?

Malfoy was obviously disturbed, but he nodded to her, knowing that despite her ability to narrate, she couldn't possibly understand the implications accompanying the details.

"Malfoy?" Morrigan said, her voice soft. "Can I come up for Chris Mass?" she asked, her voice stumbling over the syllables and misinterpreting the meaning. Draco looked doubtful, but she said, "I will be good. I just...I want to get out of this wretched basement. I want to breath healthy air and see another face. And if it means being nice to that girl, and apologizing, I'll do it."

It didn't sound very sincere to Draco, but he figured Hermione would take an apology when given. He shrugged and said, "I'll talk to her." He stood, leaving Morrigan frozen to her seat with relief.

Draco closed the door behind him and entered the kitchen, rather numb. Hermione was at the sink, mixing soap and water for dishes. "You were down there for a long time," she noted. "Did she go wild or something?"

"No," Malfoy said tonelessly. "She apologized to you, and she wants to join us for Christmas."

Hermione turned and stared at him like he was insane. "Are you crazy?" she snapped. "There is no way I'm wasting my Christmas for an ungrateful wretch."

Draco put his hands up. "Look, I learned some very interesting things down there, like why she acts the way she does, and she doesn't know any better. Besides, she's an eager learner. She finished her magical education at fifteen."

Hermione was unimpressed.

"Look, regardless of whether you're going to do it or not, I'm going to urge you to consider it for a moment, or go talk to her, or at least try her out on it. She's pathetic, and a monster. But I have a feeling that if wanted to, you could change her."

Flattered, Hermione squeaked, "Really?"

"Yes," Draco snapped, annoyed at her girlishness. "But good god, don't overwhelm her. And I am to be in no way involved."

Hermione smiled and said, "We'll see."